The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914

by R. N. Morris

  If we cannot understand ourselves, what hope do we have of understanding one another?

  The gateman in the next carriage returned to pass on a message to their own gateman. Whatever the news was he seemed little inclined to share it with the passengers, and carried on a gloomy exchange with his colleague.

  One of the pushier examples of the City type demanded to know what was going on.

  The gateman turned to him with a sour, almost insubordinate eye. Weighing up his options, which for a moment seemed to sit between personal insult and social revolution, the gateman at last remembered the uniform he was wearing and touched the peak of his cap in deference. He sniffed noisily, deeply, as if the shifting of snot in his nose would imbue his words with more authority. ‘We’re being held at a signal.’

  From another quarter came the question, ‘Why did the lights go out?’ To which he merely replied, ‘They’re back on now, in’t they?’

  How easy it was for him to say that, thought Quinn. He had not nearly killed a man in the darkness.

  To forestall any further interrogation, the gateman took himself back out on to his platform.

  At last, the train lurched back into motion. Before long it was pulling into the next station. After the darkness of the tunnel, even the subdued platform lights appeared dazzling. Quinn rose to his feet. It was not his stop. But he could not bear the thought of sitting in the same carriage as that face for a moment longer.

  FIVE

  Quinn switched carriages at Knightsbridge. At Piccadilly Circus, he took the Bakerloo Railway south. He was not aware of anyone following him.

  When he emerged into the daylight at Charing Cross Embankment station, the sensation of being followed returned.

  Quinn paused at the entrance to the station. The man emerged from the lift after the one Quinn had taken. If he was following Quinn, he was doing so in a manner that was both haphazard and conspicuous. It was far more likely that there was nothing to it.

  Quinn waited for the man to pass him. If the man betrayed no sign of emotion or interest as he did so, and went purposefully on his way, it would show that Quinn had been mistaken. He would be able to dismiss the stranger’s earlier fixed stare as mere eccentricity. Perhaps the man had stared at Quinn as he might stare into space. The bitterness of his expression was entirely unconnected to Quinn. And how did he know, really, that it was bitterness that was written in those features? He could not look inside the man’s heart. Perhaps that was simply the expression his face assumed when in repose.

  But as the man reached the threshold of the Tube station, he turned decisively towards Quinn. His face was lit up in the cold glare of the sun. That same bitter expression was in place, as if it had been sculpted into his features. There was no mistaking it. This was a deliberate provocation. Quinn felt the heat rise in his face. Who was this man? What did he want with him?

  He noticed the man was wearing brown leather gloves. For some reason the detail struck him as sinister. It was not a particularly cold day. To his policeman’s mind, the only reason a man might don gloves on a day like today was to commit a crime.

  He watched the man cross the Embankment and then lost sight of him behind a London plane tree. The only possible conclusion was that he was hiding – waiting for Quinn to make a move before following him.

  Quinn conjured up an image of the man’s face and mentally ran through the archive of his memories to see if he could find a match. He could only think that the man had some connection to one of his old cases. His age would suggest a case from the distant past. The bitterness was consistent with long years wasting away behind bars.

  Quinn tried to deduce his way to the man’s identity. He had obviously not received a capital sentence, which meant he was not a murderer. Some lesser but still serious crime. Manslaughter, perhaps. The gloves, perhaps, were worn from habit: the habit of the professional housebreaker. And yet the peculiar ravage of his face suggested a ruined reputation. Was he, perhaps, the perpetrator of serial frauds? Something snagged, an emotional memory that went back further than Quinn had expected, to a time before he had become a policeman. But he could not translate it into a precise recollection.

  What he ought to do was confront the man. But all at once a strong sense of repugnance came over him. Whatever it was that had carved that expression on to the man’s face, it was not something Quinn wanted to get to the bottom of.

  He set off down the Embankment towards New Scotland Yard, his gaze fixed steadfastly ahead of him.

  Sunlight flooded the cramped attic room. Quinn squinted and turned his face away from the dazzling square in the window. The wall opposite was blank. The photographs and sketches from the previous case had already been taken down.

  He took off his bowler and hung it on the coat stand. There was no sign of DCI Coddington’s Ulster.

  Detective Sergeant Macadam looked up from the journal he was reading. ‘Morning, sir.’ Quinn detected a boyish excitement in his sergeant’s fidgeting. It seemed likely that Macadam was in the grip of a new enthusiasm.

  ‘Good morning, Macadam. Is himself about?’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Coddington.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him yet, sir. At least not in the department. I think I did catch sight of him on one of the lower floors earlier.’

  ‘So … he is in the building?’

  ‘I believe so, sir. Unless I was mistaken. However, his herringbone Ulster is very distinctive.’

  ‘His herringbone Ulster?’

  Macadam frowned, presumably at Quinn’s peculiarly pointed tone.

  ‘I was the first Scotland Yard detective to wear a herringbone Ulster, Macadam. Coddington copied me.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I’m not wearing it today, of course. No need for it on a day like today.’

  ‘You can never tell at this time of the year though, sir, can you? Granted, it’s fine now.’ Macadam looked out of the window dubiously, as if he suspected the weather of malicious designs. ‘But it could change like that, sir. It’s the sort of thing you have to bear in mind if you wish to make a kinematograph.’

  Quinn thought it best to make no comment on this cryptic pronouncement. He sat down at his desk and sorted through the correspondence that was waiting for him. One envelope drew his attention. It was addressed to ‘Quick-Fire Quinn of the Yard’. The form of address provoked a feeling of sour dismay in Quinn. He was tempted to throw the letter away without opening it. But from the envelope, it did not look like the work of a crank. The address was typewritten, on business stationery. The symbol of an eye was embossed on the back, beneath which was printed: VISIONARY PRODUCTIONS.

  Inside was a card:

  You are cordially invited to the world premiere of

  THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER

  The latest moving picture drama from VISIONARY PRODUCTIONS, of Cecil Court

  With scenes of unprecedented MYSTERY, SENSATION, HORROR & EMOTION

  Astonishing visual presentation

  Featuring MADEMOISELLE ELOISE, the international star of the silver screen,

  in the role of

  THE LOVED ONE

  Written and directed by the renowned maestro KONRAD WAECHTER

  The world premiere of THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER will be screened at

  PORRICK’S PICTURE PALACE, Leicester Square

  On Friday, April the 17th, 1914, at 7 p.m.

  Before an audience of specially invited celebrities

  Handwritten in the top-left corner in green ink were the words: Quick-Fire Quinn and guest.

  So. This was what it had come to. He was a celebrity. He supposed he had The Daily Clarion to thank for that. He wouldn’t go, of course. It was beneath his dignity. And if Sir Edward ever found out, there would be hell to pay. The Special Crimes Department was meant to keep its head down, a creature of the shadows. Sir Edward Henry, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force who had created the department, was far from happy with the notoriety Q
uinn had already attracted.

  Quinn put the invitation to one side and shuffled the rest of his mail. As it happened, there was a memorandum from Sir Edward’s office. The brief typewritten note exercised a peculiar hold. He thought of the person who had typed it. He was tempted to sniff it to see if he could discern a trace of her scent.

  ‘You’re probably asking yourself, why on earth should I wish to do that?’

  Quinn was startled by Macadam’s voice. He looked across to see his sergeant brandishing the journal he had been reading.

  ‘But have you considered that the kinematograph could be a valuable aid to policing?’

  A cheery whistling on the landing inhibited Macadam. He hurriedly put the journal down as Sergeant Inchball stooped into the room.

  ‘Mornin’, guv’nor. Whatcha got there, Mac?’ Inchball didn’t miss a trick. He leaned over and read the title. ‘The Kinematograph Enthusiast’s Weekly? What the bloody ’ell you readin’ that for? You thinkin’ of leavin’ us and goin’ into the moving picture business?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m looking into it to see if we could incorporate it into our investigative techniques.’

  ‘What the …? I’ve ’eard it all now!’

  ‘Think of the evidence-gathering possibilities. We already use photographic cameras. A kinematograph is merely taking that technology one step further. Imagine if we could record a kinematograph of a criminal in the very act of committing a crime.’

  ‘Don’ make me laugh! What villain’s gonna consent to have himself filmed?’

  ‘I am talking about secret filming, of course. It could be used in a surveillance operation.’

  ‘Secret filmin’? ’Ave you lost your bleedin’ mind? ’Ave you ever been on a bleedin’ surveillance op?’

  ‘Yes, of course I have.’

  ‘Day or night?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Ever see anything naughty?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘And was that during the day or during the night?’

  Macadam hesitated before answering, his head dipped in embarrassment. ‘Night-time, mostly.’

  ‘’Ow you gonna film in the dark? Won’t those big bleedin’ lights they use give the game away? And besides, why you filmin’ this geezer when you could be nicking ’im?’ Inchball appealed to Quinn. ‘’Ave you ’eard this, guv?’

  Quinn nodded distractedly and rose to his feet, in the process cracking his head on the sloping ceiling. He rubbed the back of his head. ‘Sir Edward has asked to see me.’

  Inchball exchanged an ominous glance with Macadam.

  ‘I shall be back forthwith.’

  The two sergeants looked far from certain, united at least in their concern for their superior.

  He stood watching her from the other side of the room, reluctant to make his presence known. If she knew he was there she would lose the heedless, charming ease with which she held herself as she worked at the typewriter. She would become angry and angular and awkward. It was true that she seemed a little harassed as he watched her, but beautifully so. Innocently so. And the thing of which she was innocent, he realized, was him. He was the thing that spoilt her.

  How would she feel if she knew he was watching her? Angry, of course. She would say he had no right to spy on her. He could well imagine the look of implacable reproach she would turn on him.

  He would never forget her stinging words, or the force with which she had insisted upon them: ‘I can’t ever, ever love you!’

  But in those words, in the utter denial of hope that they represented, hope had paradoxically been born. Until that moment he had never imagined that she could contemplate such a circumstance, even if only to dismiss it as an impossibility.

  It was ridiculous, of course. A man like him, brutal and contaminated, a man whose business it was to delve into the darkest, vilest recesses of the soul, to dip his fingers into the filth of human psychology. A man besmeared in gore, who knew himself to be capable of far worse a crime than any committed by the villains he hunted down …

  He was aware of figures moving between them, intermittently blocking her from his view. Clerks and secretaries, the civilian staff of the Metropolitan Police Force. Perhaps occasionally one of these busy people would stop and glance inquisitively at him, before following the direction of his stare and then, taking it all in, move on, perhaps with a sly smile of understanding.

  At last she looked up and saw him. The colour rushed to her cheeks. Her eyes stood out in indignation.

  He hastened to her desk.

  ‘Sir Edward asked to see me.’

  ‘What were you doing?’ Her tone was sharp and suspicious.

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything. Sir Edward asked to see me,’ he repeated pointlessly. ‘I wondered if he was free. His door is closed, I see.’

  ‘You were looking at his door? Is that it?’ Scepticism was etched in the curve of one eyebrow.

  ‘Y-yes.’ Quinn flashed a glance towards the door, as if to prove it. ‘Who is in with him? Is it … DCI Coddington?’

  ‘I am not obliged to tell you.’

  ‘But I will see them. When they come out.’

  ‘It is not DCI Coddington.’

  ‘But DCI Coddington has been to see him?’

  ‘If Sir Edward wishes you to know the answer to that question, then I am confident he will divulge it himself.’

  Quinn nodded. ‘I wasn’t …’ He had intended to say, ‘I wasn’t spying on you.’ But, of course, the denial was a lie. ‘I wasn’t sure you had seen me.’ That was true, but meaningless.

  She frowned in distaste, recoiling slightly from his suddenly intimate tone.

  ‘You looked so … busy.’ Not the word he had wanted to say. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you. I was hesitating because I thought my intrusion would be unwelcome.’

  ‘As you have pointed out, you have an appointment with Sir Edward. Therefore you have an excuse, I suppose.’

  The door to Sir Edward’s office opened. So surprised was Quinn to see the tall, frock-coated gentleman who came out that he could not help saying his name: ‘Sir Michael Esslyn!’

  Esslyn paused and contrived to look down the length of his patrician nose at Quinn.

  Quinn held out his hand. ‘It’s Quinn. Detective Inspector Silas Quinn.’

  Esslyn frowned as though the name meant nothing to him. He ignored the proffered hand.

  ‘I interviewed you in the course of a recent investigation. The case of the exsanguinated renters.’

  Esslyn’s frown deepened. At last he shook his head, as if he was shaking off the memory of an unpleasant dream. He brushed past Quinn without a word, though his step quickened eloquently.

  Quinn glanced at Miss Latterly. ‘He cannot have forgotten. It was only …’ But Quinn had no sense of how long ago it had been. A matter of days, or a lifetime. He could not say.

  Miss Latterly had resumed her typing with the heavy, overdetermined energy that she always used when she knew she was being observed.

  Quinn presumed he might go in now.

  Sir Edward Henry, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had his head bowed over a file. Quinn recognized it as that he had just submitted on the House of Blackley murders.

  ‘Please be seated, Quinn.’ Sir Edward did not look up until he had finished reading Quinn’s report. Of course, Quinn understood that this was for effect. Sir Edward would have already acquainted himself with the contents of the file. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Coddington. You needn’t worry about him any more. I’ve had him transferred back to … wherever it was he came from.’

  ‘South Kensington, sir.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Sir Edward winced suddenly. The old wound troubling him, no doubt.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘What? Eh? Oh … Don’t thank me. The man was a bloody idiot.’

  Quinn was taken aback by the force of Sir Edward’s language. It was more the commissioner’s style to indulge
in a bland biblical homily than a profanity when moved.

  For some reason, Quinn decided to supply the shortfall. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I’m a bloody idiot too, Quinn?’

  ‘It’s from the Bible, sir.’

  ‘Is it, by Jove?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t blame you, if you did. I put him in charge, after all.’

  ‘I know you had your reasons, sir.’

  Quinn kept his satisfaction under restraint. Victories were only ever temporary. Vindication, a provisional state. If it wasn’t Coddington, it would be someone else. There was always someone, or something, set against him, or to set himself against. ‘Was that Sir Michael Esslyn I saw leave your office, sir?’

  ‘What? Eh?’

  ‘Sir Michael Esslyn, sir. I saw him outside. The strange thing was he pretended not to know me.’

  ‘Know you? Why should he know you?’

  ‘He was involved in the renters case, sir, if you remember.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he knows you.’

  ‘I interviewed him, sir. Several times.’

  ‘Dear God, Quinn. You presume to think that that entails a man like Sir Michael Esslyn’s knowing you? There is a vast, yawning gulf between you and him. A chasm of immeasurable expanse. If he appears to look at you from the other side of it, you must understand that what he is seeing is a tiny speck. I had not thought it would be necessary to explain such things to you, Quinn.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Of course, he is a horrid man. I do not approve of him. I suspect him of being a Satanist.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘Or at the very least, a pagan. But he is very important in the Home Office. He has the ear of the Home Secretary, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I remember your mentioning it once before. May I take it, sir, that I have command of Special Crimes restored to me?’

  ‘I’m not putting anyone else in over you, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I have been thinking, sir. While Coddington was in charge, the rank of the commanding officer of the Special Crimes Department was Chief Inspector.’