The White Feather Killer

by R. N. Morris

  ‘I know of no reason to stop you,’ said Quinn.

  Adam Cardew gave a brief nod of gratitude and turned away.

  Quinn looked nervously towards Mary. He saw her bite her lip, uncertain of the meaning of what she had just witnessed, but somehow sensing its significance.

  It seemed at first that Mrs Ibbott’s face had been set to anger, and she had made up her mind to scold her daughter. But upon seeing Mary there on the doorstep, she was helpless in the rush of relief and joy and, yes, love that swept over her. The instinct to forgive, to hold on to what had been so nearly lost prevailed over the idea of reprimand.

  Tears, there were tears of course, big, blubbering hot tears as she pulled her daughter to her and held her as if she would never let her go again.

  Did she feel the change that had come over her daughter as she clutched her to her breast? Was she smaller, bonier, softer, more sinewy or more intractable in her arms? Or was it still, essentially, the same girl that she had always held? Older and wiser, perhaps, but such changes were not apparent to the touch.

  The mother led the daughter into the drawing room and Quinn signalled that he would wait in the hall. Then the sharp, high, piercing wail behind the closed door told him that Mary knew about Timberley now.

  This was not something that could be cried out quickly. More than simple grief, it would be grief compounded by guilt. Quinn knew that there is no more biting sorrow than that.

  He thought about slipping away. But something kept him there. The sense that they needed him.

  At last the door opened and Mrs Ibbott emerged. Her eyes were raw but she was composed and dignified. Her daughter’s collapse had brought out her strength.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘It has shaken her badly. She did not imagine that something like that might happen. None of us did.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Mrs Ibbott braved a smile. ‘I have kept your room for you, you know. And now … well, he is certainly not coming back here. I have made it clear to Mrs Hargreaves that she may stay, if she wishes. I consider her an equal victim in all this. But she has made the decision to leave. That is her choice, though I pray that she has no intention of joining that scoundrel. At any rate, with both of them gone, I see no obstacle to your return.’

  ‘I would like that … very much.’

  ‘That’s settled then. Mr Appleby has gone now, you know.’

  ‘Appleby?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s in the army now.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So, everything is changing. Nothing will be the same again. I think we should, those of us who are still here, I think we should stick together. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Ibbott. I do.’

  ‘Please, if I am to call you Silas, you should call me Edith.’

  ‘Very well, Edith.’

  ‘It will be good for Mary to have some stability in her life. You are something of a father figure to her, you know.’

  ‘I?’

  Edith Ibbott looked away from his embarrassment with a discreet, understanding smile. She held the door open for him to join them in the drawing room.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The following Monday, as Quinn walked across the floor of the CID room, he was aware of heads lifting and turning to watch him on his way. It was always unnerving to feel yourself the object of other men’s attention, but now, at last, he allowed himself to believe that the hostility and suspicion had gone from his fellow officers’ gazes.

  And if he still expected to hear passing references to Colney Hatch, he trusted that they might be made with a certain grudging respect, and even pride. As if to say, yes, our governor might be mad, but he’s a damn good detective and he’s our governor.

  This much he had earned.

  He was wearing his trusty ulster raincoat and a new bowler hat, which he had purchased that Saturday to replace the one destroyed by Coddington. Let them see him in that, restored to his former glory, as it were; and let them draw their own conclusions.

  He hung the bowler and ulster on the handstand in the office that now belonged to him, and sat down at his desk.

  A moment later, as if he had been waiting for Quinn to arrive, Leversedge came in, brandishing a brown folder. ‘Do you want to see this?’

  ‘I don’t know. What is it?’

  ‘It’s the report from the forensics chaps. On the milk bottle and bowl found in Felix Simpkins’ den. They rushed it through over the weekend.’

  ‘What does it say?’ But Quinn already knew, from Leversedge’s fastidiously neutral tone. He was working hard to keep either glee or despondency out of his voice. Working hard to present himself as a loyal lieutenant.

  Leversedge opened the folder and looked down at the report. It was a charade, of course. He knew perfectly well what it said. ‘They found no match. Between the prints on those items and Pastor Cardew. And they were able to take definitive prints from Cardew’s body. Of course, it doesn’t prove that Cardew didn’t kill his daughter. But it rather suggests that it wasn’t him who helped Felix. They found Felix’s prints, as you would expect. And one other set, as yet unidentified. So your instincts were right, guv. Just that …’ Leversedge trailed off. But Quinn knew what he had been about to say. Just that you got the wrong man.

  ‘Of course, with Cardew being dead,’ continued Leversedge, ‘this will never come to trial, so there’s no danger of a defence brief blowing a hole in your case. The only question is, are you content to let it rest, or should we be looking for someone else?’

  Quinn held out his hand to take the folder. ‘As you say, it doesn’t prove he didn’t kill his daughter. There is enough other evidence to suggest his guilt. I’m content.’

  Quinn did not look at Leversedge, but he could well imagine the moue of surprise that the other man was putting on.

  ‘Can’t help wondering whose the other prints are, though,’ said Leversedge.

  Quinn did not offer an opinion.

  ‘So, Quinn, it seems you have done it again.’ Sir Edward’s brows clashed together like fighting birds let loose upon each other. The sternness of his expression contradicted the apparent compliment that he had just paid Quinn. Quinn took it as a compliment, at least. Sir Edward went on to voice his unease: ‘It’s never easy … never easy when one of your own turns out to be a wrong ’un.’

  Quinn frowned at Sir Edward’s uncharacteristic lapse into the demotic. ‘The Force is better off without the likes of Coddington.’

  ‘Indubitably. Indubitably. Even so, it would have been better for all concerned if that German butcher had been the culprit, after all.’

  ‘Not better for him.’

  ‘No? I suppose not.’ Sir Edward made the concession with a regretful sigh. ‘And so, you are satisfied that Cardew killed his daughter?’

  ‘I am satisfied that Pastor Cardew was responsible for the death of Eve Cardew.’

  ‘But there’s no note, I believe? It would have tied things up nicely if you could have found a note.’

  For one insane moment, Quinn contemplated forging a note and ‘discovering’ it somewhere in the Cardew’s home or the church. If a note was what people wanted, if it was what they needed to accept that the case was solved, then he would give it to them. ‘In my experience, suicides do not always leave a note.’

  ‘Ah yes, I was forgetting …’

  ‘If you are referring to my father …’

  ‘I did not wish to bring it up.’

  ‘In his case, there was a note.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘Shame. Guilt. Remorse. Such feelings often play a part in the decision to take one’s own life. And there are some acts of which one may be so ashamed that one baulks at putting them in writing, even in a suicide note.’

  ‘I suppose you are right. You think this is the case with Cardew?’

  ‘I am certain of it.’

  ‘Well, yes … his own daughter.’

  ‘He could not face the possib
ility of his crimes coming out. And now he does not have to.’

  ‘Kell has been very impressed with you, you know?’

  ‘Kell? Really? I am surprised. I have not delivered the outcome he wished for.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter to Kell. What matters is you stuck with it and cracked the case. You eschewed the obvious. You resisted the pressure that he put on you to go down a certain route.’

  ‘He was testing me?’

  ‘Everything we do is a test of some kind, is it not? You proved yourself impervious to such pressures. That makes you a man he can use, he tells me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And so, Kell has proposed, and I agree, that we reinstate the Special Crimes Department, with you in command. Its terms of reference will be somewhat different from before. You will report to Kell rather than to me. In addition, I have approved an increase in resources. You may have two additional men.’

  ‘May I choose them myself?’

  ‘Whom do you have in mind?’

  ‘DS Willoughby and DI Leversedge.’

  ‘Interesting choices. Let me see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Edward.’

  ‘“In due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” Galatians, chapter six, verse nine.’

  Quinn recognized the note of finality that often came with one of Sir Edward’s biblical quotations. The interview was over.

  Quinn stood on Victoria Embankment, looking down at the restless surface of the Thames. The day was borne up on the river, crisp and clear-eyed, with a chill in the air that presaged autumn. Quinn studied the fleeting patterns made by the surge and play of the agitated peaks, willing them to form into a stable pattern that he could hold on to. He was looking for something to be revealed to him. A meaning, or perhaps a validation. But the river would not yield its secret counsel.

  His body felt as if his internal organs had been replaced with stones. He imagined throwing himself into the river and sinking like a sack of stones to the bottom, never to be seen again.

  He was thinking about Adam Cardew.

  He now acknowledged that when Adam Cardew had approached him at Liverpool Street Station, he was trying to confess to his sister’s murder. Quinn knew that he had sensed this at the time, but had refused to accept the confession.

  Perhaps he had known all along that Adam was the killer. He was the one who had found Eve. He knew where to look for her.

  Certainly Quinn had accepted that conclusion by the time of his interview with Sir Edward. The absence of his father’s fingerprints had clinched it. And yet he had said that he held Pastor Cardew responsible for Eve’s death. A clever distinction, worthy of a lawyer. Unworthy of a police detective.

  There was a good reason for the physical depression he was experiencing. He had discovered some uncomfortable truths about himself. He was as bad as Coddington. Only moments ago he had actually considered forging a suicide note to silence his critics.

  Once he had come to believe that Pastor Cardew had killed his own daughter he had blindly pursued a false trail, disregarding any evidence that was not consistent with his pet theory.

  And the real killer had escaped justice.

  Except that the penalty Adam Cardew could expect from the justice system – death – would now be meted out by a German sniper. Quinn had no doubt that Adam meant to carry out his threat of getting himself killed. Quinn accepted too that Adam had killed his sister out of love. That did not make it any less of a crime, of course, and it was not for Quinn to mitigate an offender’s crimes. That was the job of his legal defence. A clever lawyer might be able to argue that Adam had not meant to kill her, but merely to silence her. Perhaps he might have got off on a charge of manslaughter. If Quinn had prevented him from boarding that train, he might have saved his life.

  The ceaseless churn of the river tide continued.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  He turned to where Lettice was standing at his side.

  ‘I was thinking where I should take you for our second …’ Quinn hesitated as he tried to think of the correct word for what he was proposing. ‘Outing.’

  She wrinkled her nose at his choice of word. ‘And where did you decide?’

  ‘Do you like toasted teacakes?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Well then?’

  He held out his arm. It was possibly a little bold of him, her angled head and arched brow seemed to suggest. But her smile as she took his arm lifted the weight from his spirit.