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

by R. N. Morris

  ‘That’s good. I will have to ask you to come into the Yard at some point so that we may take your fingerprints, in order to eliminate them from our forensic examination.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be able to do that on Monday?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘Thank you. However, Lord Dunwich, it was not on account of this object that I have come to see you.’

  ‘It is not?’

  Quinn could not see Dunwich’s face but he heard the nervous apprehension in his voice. ‘There has been another attack. A young woman associated with Waechter’s film – and therefore with your friend Hartmann – has had one of her eyes forcibly removed from her head. In this case, unfortunately, the injury resulted in her death. She was found this morning.’

  ‘How terrible. But what has this to do with national security?’

  ‘The victim was last seen leaving the party at Visionary Productions in Cecil Court in your company, Lord Dunwich. The dead woman is Dolores Novak.’

  Quinn heard the sharp inarticulate cry of shock. Followed by a softer murmuring of her name: ‘Dolores-s-s-s!’ The final sibilant fragmented into uncontrollable sobs.

  ‘Sir. What happened last night, after you left the party?’

  It was some time before Dunwich could answer. ‘We went to Dolores’s … to their … to a room. Dolores and I … well, we are both adults … we both wanted the same thing. As far as I could tell, her husband took a … let’s say a modern attitude to marital fidelity. I even got the impression he encouraged it. At any rate, the husband, Novak, came back and kicked up an awful fuss. I say, you don’t think he …?’

  ‘If you have any information about his whereabouts …’

  ‘No. I left, naturally, soon after he turned up. You might try that Porrick fellow. He was with Novak.’

  ‘Porrick? But I have already spoken to Mr Porrick. He said nothing about this.’

  ‘I dare say he was trying to be discreet. Novak has a motive, doesn’t he, Quinn?’

  ‘How was he when you left him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say he was in a jealous rage, if that’s what you mean. I’ve been thinking about what happened. I think he knew that he would find me there. I think he came purposely. In order to blackmail me. He did not try actively to extort money from me, but he put me in a position where I naturally offered him money. Which he was happy to accept. I dare say that other fellow was there to get what he could out of it too. The only innocent party was Dolores. Quinn, what do you say to this? Dolores and Novak argued after I left. She wanted nothing to do with the blackmail affair and reproved him over his behaviour. It was this that enraged him. Influenced by the example of the film we had just seen, and by what happened to that poor girl in Cecil Court, he attacked her in the manner you have described.’

  ‘It’s more likely that she was in on it too. On the blackmail I mean. I observed them before the screening. They were working together.’

  ‘No. I will not accept that. What Dolores and I had, though brief, was … genuine. Good God, man. I would have done anything for her. She had no need to get mixed up in a sordid blackmail business. She knew I would have taken care of her.’

  ‘Would you have left your wife?’

  ‘What conceivable necessity would there have been to do that?’

  Quinn let the question go unanswered. ‘Who saw you in her company?’

  ‘I don’t know. Everyone there, I suppose.’

  ‘When news of her death comes out, your name …’

  ‘My name will be kept out of it. Not on my behalf, you understand. But for the good of the country.’

  ‘You were very indiscreet, Lord Dunwich. Are you aware that not only was there a newspaper journalist present, there was also a newspaper proprietor there?’

  ‘Yes. Harry Lennox. Of course. I think we can trust Lennox to do the right thing.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I know he’s Irish, but we can count on his support in this, I think. Harry Lennox always acts in accordance with Harry Lennox’s own best interests. And I think I can persuade him that his interests in this case are best served by keeping my name out of his newspaper.’

  ‘But there may be others – your friend Hartmann, for example – who would wish to use the threat of exposure as a lever to ensure your cooperation in their own enterprises.’

  ‘I really cannot accept that Hartmann is anything but … a friend to our country.’

  ‘And I find it hard to understand your faith in him.’

  ‘Let me just say that in the past, he has proved himself in this capacity.’

  ‘He has supplied you with secrets regarding German military intentions or arrangements?’

  ‘He has proved himself to be a friend.’

  ‘Is that not an excellent way to earn your trust? Which he may hold in reserve until such time as he may employ it to the greatest effect?’

  ‘Do you not have any other theories?’

  ‘Theories that are not based on evidence are merely wild speculation. We know that you were sent an object that has the appearance of an eye. Subsequent to that, two women were attacked in a similar manner that seems related to the object you were sent. That is to say, their eyes were gouged out. One of those women is dead. The other has disappeared.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. One of the victims can be linked to you. The other – well, I have not asked you about her, Lord Dunwich. Did you see the woman who was attacked in Cecil Court?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her.’

  ‘And … how may I put this? Have you ever had relations with her of a similar nature to those you had with Dolores Novak?’

  There was a pause before Lord Dunwich answered: ‘I had never seen her before last night.’

  Quinn was unable to see Dunwich’s face. Hard to know, from his voice alone, whether he was telling the truth.

  ‘Where do we go from here, Quinn?’

  ‘In the interests of public order, I would request that Waechter’s film is withdrawn from exhibition.’

  ‘That is a matter for the Home Office. You will have to apply to them. I dare say Sir Edward will arrange it for you. But, if I may say so, is that not rather a case of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted?’

  ‘Two women have been attacked already. Both are connected with the film, one as a spectator, the other as an actress performing in it. If there is another attack, we will be criticized – and rightly so.’

  ‘But do you really think it’s possible that watching this film could prompt someone to carry out these attacks?’

  ‘As yet we don’t know what the attacker’s motivation is. And so, we have to proceed with a general, widespread caution.’

  ‘But if the attacker is the person who sent me this, and the attacks are related to this – then he formed the intention to carry out the attacks before he saw the film, unless …’

  ‘Yes, Lord Dunwich.’ Quinn completed the thought that Dunwich had balked from saying: ‘Unless he is connected with the production of the film in some way. The most likely suspect at the moment is Konrad Waechter himself.’

  ‘But why would Waechter initiate a series of attacks that might lead to the banning of his film?’

  ‘Like all those of an artistic temperament, Waechter labours under the burden of an immense arrogance. This blinded him to the possibility that his acts might have a consequence that he could not control. At the same time, he is driven by an obsession that is rooted in his disordered psychology.’

  ‘An obsession?’

  ‘He is clearly obsessed by eyes. In particular, by the idea of removing them. It is possible that his actions have no logical wellspring. No motivation that you or I would understand. That he is mad, in other words. I intend to study his previous films to understand his psychology more fully.’

  ‘Are you qualified to undertake such an operation?’

  Now it was Quinn’s turn to p
ause before replying: ‘There are resources outside the department that I can draw upon. In the meantime, I will have my men keep a close eye on him.’

  ‘Very well. If there is nothing more to discuss …’

  Quinn felt Lord Dunwich’s fingers probe his eye. ‘I say! Have a care!’

  ‘I do beg your pardon, Quinn. I’m trying to find the blasted door.’

  It was up to Quinn to grope the pitch-black infinity behind him until he teased an opening out of it.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mika Novak waited out the day in a cheap hotel near King’s Cross station. He knew that they would be looking for him. Night was the best time to move. He had had the foresight to bring with him his case of theatrical make-up. The day had been spent experimenting with different facial hair styles and colours. He decided also to bulk out his body shape by strapping the shrunken musty pillow from the bed around his torso.

  The disguise would serve a dual purpose. It would enable him to evade capture by the police. It would also mean that he could slip out of the hotel without the inconvenience of having to settle his bill.

  There’s nothing wrong with killing two birds with one stone, thought Novak.

  So Dolores was dead. Or Gladys, to give her her real name. No doubt he ought to be more upset about it than he was. If anyone had been able to look into his heart, they might have been surprised to see how little feeling there was for her there. Poor little bitch, was about the extent of the regret he could summon up on her behalf.

  He smiled as he thought of the sight that would greet this imaginary spy into his heart: blackness. Utter blackness. The image of a rotten, wizened lump of gristle came to mind. Of something charred and empty.

  No doubt it was all very wrong and all that. But he couldn’t make himself feel what he didn’t feel. And all he had to go on were his feelings.

  Like fear. The healthy fear that prompts self-preservation. That was why he had run from the room on Dean Street. A sensible enough move, taking everything into account.

  Of course, the police would try to pin it on him. They always blamed the husband. That was a laugh, though. Him and Gladys had never got married. There’d never been any talk of it. Nothing could have been further from either of their minds.

  Theirs had been entirely a business relationship. Though of course that hadn’t stopped him sampling the merchandise from time to time. Just to make sure it was up to scratch. Quality control, you might call it.

  And now, due to unforeseen circumstances, their business dealings had come to an abrupt end. Regrettable perhaps. But Novak had little use for regrets. Regrets were dangerous. You made a mistake, the thing was to move on.

  No point crying over spilt milk. Wasn’t that what they said?

  And besides, what had happened to Gladys, that wasn’t for him to regret, was it?

  The police wouldn’t see it that way, though. They’d try to pin it on him, for sure.

  Still, they’d have to catch him first.

  Novak pulled back the greasy curtain. The air was thick with smoke the colour of French mustard. He could taste the nearby station through the dirty panes, and the gasworks and the factories along Regent’s Canal, the airborne scum of industry lining his teeth. The factory chimneys pierced and sanctified the murk like giant fingers pointing heavenward. From his third-storey room, Novak had a view over the rooftops of the closely packed houses in the surrounding streets. Or rather of their chimney pots, lying like ruined battlements over a smoking ground.

  The settling dusk freighted the smoke with a ponderous gloom. Soon the darkness would be deep enough to encompass him.

  He had the money that Dunwich had given him. It was enough to get him across London and out of the country. Once he was on the continent, he’d make his way to Serbia. Look up some distant cousins and put all this behind him.

  He could see the future as if it had already happened. The past … the past was nothing but a smear on the grimy, cracked window.

  Keep moving, that was the thing. Always, ever, forwards.

  He was glad to leave the hotel behind, though the darkness outside was choking. Invisible particles clogged his throat. For a man of his habits and lifestyle, Novak was in many ways a fastidious individual. Paradoxical as it might seem, it was even possible that this was the driving impulse of his character. The need to leave it all behind, the detritus and the waste. The dirty, peeling walls, the flea-ridden bed, the palimpsest stains of previous occupancy. The filthy air. The dead and discarded business partner.

  He kept moving through the shrouded streets. But didn’t hurry. It was important to keep his step steady and consistent. No shrinking from the beam of a passing vehicle. No cowering from doorway to doorway. And if there was a street lamp ahead, his step wouldn’t waver or deviate.

  You see, it wasn’t just a question of donning false whiskers, dying his hair and stuffing a pillow up his shirt front. He had to become the character. And for that he needed a new walk. He had experimented with a stoop, and then a limp, but rejected them both as too obvious. They would only draw attention, when what he wanted was a walk that would render him invisible.

  Novak looked upon it as an acting challenge, although his objective was exactly opposite to an actor’s. An actor wanted to be noticed, to steal the scene if possible. The audience couldn’t love you if it didn’t see you.

  And so it took some self-control to tone down his walk, to draw it organically from the character he was seeking to create. To imagine a man, and then imagine how he would move.

  Of course, Novak congratulated himself on understanding all this. There were few actors he knew who would be able to pull this off. They were all such show-offs.

  His first real test came at the end of Albion Street. A policeman, held in a cone of yellow light from a street lamp, bobbing on the balls of his feet (Was that why the limeys called them bobbies? he wondered), flexing his wrists against interlocked fingers. Looking for trouble, up and down the street, with one eye larger than the other. They always had one eye larger than the other.

  The thing was not to panic. Hold steady. Trust the whiskers. Trust the padding. But most of all, trust the walk.

  He passed the bobbing bobby without provoking anything more than a courteous nod of greeting. To which he responded with a more deliberate bow, in keeping with the character that his walk imposed on him. He was careful, at any account, to look the policeman squarely in the eye. The golden rule.

  It was all a question of timing. Don’t hold the gaze for too long. That would seem bold, provocative. As much a sign of guilt as shifty evasion. Keep it natural, that was the thing.

  Oh, he was good. There was no point pretending otherwise. He didn’t even allow himself a small smirk of triumph once he had left the bobby in his wake.

  He heard the chug of trains and the screech of steam whistles. A moment later he saw the looming shadow of King’s Cross station ahead of him.

  As he stepped out of the churning smog into the flux and bustle of the station concourse, it occurred to him that perhaps he needn’t be in such a hurry to leave the country. His experience with the policeman had given him confidence, and the beginnings of a new plan. As long as he had his theatrical make-up and his talent, he could go anywhere he pleased.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The house was in darkness when Quinn got home. He had remained at the department for as long as possible. Not because there was much that he could usefully do, more because of a reluctance to return home. This, he knew, was connected to the arrangement he had established with Mrs Ibbott concerning Miss Dillard’s rent.

  His mouth stretched into a private grimace as he closed the door behind him.

  He was surprised to see Mrs Ibbott coming towards him with a candle in her hand. ‘Oh, Mr Quinn. I’m afraid something has happened to the electricity supply. Mr Timberley and Mr Appleby are looking into it for us. They think it is something to do with a fuse.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for telling me, Mrs Ibbott.�
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  ‘We never had this problem with gas, I have to say.’

  ‘That’s true. But there are other advantages to electricity, are there not? It is cleaner and safer, I think.’

  ‘It’s all very well when it works, Mr Quinn. Would you like a candle for your room?’

  ‘I believe I have some candles, thank you, Mrs Ibbott.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Quinn. I shall light your way upstairs for you.’ Mrs Ibbott turned and then hesitated. ‘Oh, Mr Quinn …’ There was an ominous tone to her voice. Quinn recognized an old detective’s technique, to begin the conversation with something inconsequential, before dropping in the main thing on your mind, as if as an afterthought. ‘I’m a little worried about Miss Dillard.’

  Quinn said nothing. He felt a weight of dread settle inside him. His feet dragged to a halt behind her.

  Mrs Ibbott still had her back to him. ‘I’m afraid she found out about your generous offer.’

  ‘She found out? Mrs Ibbott, I asked you not to tell her!’

  ‘I did not. I did, however, tell my daughter, who must have let it slip to the Misters Appleby and Timberley. I fear those two gentlemen may have conducted some indiscreet banter on the subject, which Miss Dillard somehow overheard.’

  Quinn groaned.

  Mrs Ibbott at last turned to face him. ‘She has practically kept to her room since, although Betsy saw her coming out of the kitchen earlier. She seemed to be hiding something, according to Betsy. We wondered whether she had stolen something to eat. The silly woman, she knows she only has to ask. At any rate, no one saw her at dinner. I do not believe she has any gin left to consume, or money to buy more.’

  ‘I truly wish you had not said anything to anyone about our arrangement.’

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Quinn. I do regret my indiscretion.’

  ‘What is to be done?’

  ‘Perhaps we might … look in on her … together. You and I. As concerned friends.’

  ‘Is it not rather late?’

  ‘I do not think Miss Dillard has been keeping regular hours recently. I do feel that it would be better to have everything in the open, if we are to move to the arrangement you suggested. I feel Miss Dillard has a right to know who is paying her rent. And why.’