Murder in Belgravia

by Lynn Brittney

  The porter pointed to a cupboard in the corner and Tollman ripped open the doors. There were dozens of white packets in a box.

  “Where do you get these?” he shouted.

  “The woman brings them every month! When she collects the rents! I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  Tollman grabbed Miller’s neck in a fury. “Wrong!?” He was apoplectic in his fury. “Wrong? There’s a lad upstairs who has been whipped within an inch of his life and you’ve been selling him drugs! I suppose you would call it charity, would you!” He let the man drop from his grasp. “You disgust me! There’s one thing turning a blind eye to a molly shop above your head. What’s going on up there is beyond all that. It’s unnatural brutality.”

  “I didn’t know!” Miller protested.

  “You heard the screams every week. You saw the state of him. He looks like a walking ghost! You sold him drugs.”

  “These people live in their own cesspit!” Miller almost spat at Tollman in his righteousness. “You’re right. I don’t care if they live or die. They do what they want of their own choosing. This is just a place to live and money in my pocket. If you don’t like what’s going on here—take it up with the owner!”

  “I will, don’t you worry,” responded Tollman through gritted teeth. “And you—if you want to avoid a very long prison sentence—will do as I tell you until we put this miserable landlord and every one of the men who take advantage of these boys behind bars.”

  Miller stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “The customers of this place are too high and mighty for you to touch … ‘Detective Sergeant.’ ” He emphasized Tollman’s rank as though to remind him of how lowly he was in the scheme of things. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Aristocracy … maybe even royalty … who knows. I may not see their faces but I’ve looked under that door and seen the finest handmade shoes go past. You try and prosecute any of them and you’ll come a cropper … Detective Sergeant.”

  Tollman turned on his heel and left with Miller calling after him “the finest handmade shoes!” by way of emphasis.

  By the time he had ascended the stairs again, his rage had turned into cold, hard resolve. Someone would pay. He would make sure of that.

  George was lying face down on the bed, stripped to the waist while Billy worked on his wounds. He was softly moaning but had already descended into a drugged stupor, which dulled the pain. Michael was holding the bowl of salt water but turned his head away as Billy deftly sliced the razor blade into the infected stripes and they oozed pus. As he wiped away the infection with salt water, George cried out quietly but with no great anguish.

  Tollman began to question the friend. “There are how many of you in this house … eight?”

  Michael nodded.

  “How many of you have ‘patrons?’ ”

  “About four. The rest seek clients where they can.”

  “What clients? From where?”

  Michael shrugged. “St James’, the Turkish Baths, the Officers’ Club, the barracks at Chelsea …”

  Billy snorted and looked at Tollman. “Told you.”

  “… the Lily Pond …” Michael continued.

  “The Lily Pond?” Tollman interrupted “Where’s that?”

  “It’s what we call the far end of Lyons’ Corner House in Old Compton Street. The waitresses reserve tables for us, where we can meet our clients.”

  Tollman realized, with a start, that that was where he had sent Mrs Ellingham. He had quite forgotten about her up until now.

  “This young man’s ‘patron’—this David—how often does he come here?”

  “Twice a week.”

  “When is he due again?”

  “Tomorrow, I think. Yes, tomorrow.”

  “Tell me about this man. What does he look like? How old is he?”

  Michael looked at the floor. “I’ve only seen him twice. We all try to keep to our rooms after seven in the evening, unless we have to go out to find clients. I don’t have a patron so I go out. Once I passed him on the stairs. He was about fifty years old, I suppose, dark hair going silver at the temples. He was elegantly dressed. Expensive overcoat, shoes, carrying a hat and silver-topped cane. Wearing pinstriped trousers. I assumed he was some high-up Civil Servant or something. I smelt Bay Rum on his hair.” There was a small pause while Michael struggled with his memories. “The … the second time I saw him was after … he had visited George. I sat and listened to George screaming … it was hard for me but he … George … had asked me not to interfere. But then I couldn’t stand it anymore. I came out of my room because the screaming stopped and I thought, perhaps, the patron had gone. But he hadn’t. He was still in the room—washing his hands in the basin and … smiling. George was lying on the bed … naked and bloody … the man told me to get out. I refused and said I needed to help George. He just said, ‘Please yourself,’ put his coat and hat on and walked out.”

  “What was his voice like?” Tollman urged him on. “Any accent or unusual speech defect?”

  “No. Upper-class English through and through.” Michael’s face contorted into misery and he looked straight at Tollman. “I begged George to leave. I offered him the money to go somewhere else and get away from this man but he just said he had nowhere else to go and, anyway, he didn’t care about being whipped. He felt it was just punishment for him being … the way that he is.”

  No one in the room said anything. Pity hung in the air like fumes from a gas lamp. Billy looked down at the young man’s back, now clean and free from blood and pus.

  “How long has this been going on?” he asked quietly. “I see old white scars on his back.”

  “Not long. Those scars are from the beatings his father used to give him,” Michael said matter-of-factly, then he laughed hollowly. “Trying to beat some manhood into him apparently. Most fathers can’t cope with their sons being queer. Mine couldn’t. He threw me out. Said I disgusted him. I was nineteen. But George was younger than that when he came here. He was eighteen.”

  Tollman could feel his blood pressure rising but he took a few breaths and tried to control his temper.

  “And how did his patron find him?” he asked after a while.

  Michael shrugged. “George never said. Through the network, I suppose. George was soliciting on the streets and word probably got around that he had scars on his back. If someone is looking for a molly who can take some punishment, they only have to ask around and one of our own kind will tell them where they can be found. There’s precious little brotherly love in this trade,” he added bitterly.

  “Iodine,” said Billy, holding out his hand for the bottle. “And you can put down that bowl now and hold him down. When I put this stuff on it’s going to hurt like the blazes. Not even heroin is going to spare him from it.”

  Michael nodded and obeyed, climbing up on the bed and pinning down George’s shoulders. Billy poured the iodine in a livid orange stream over the wounds, deftly wiping the liquid over the entirety of his back. George tried to arch upward but Michael held him firmly down. Billy waited for George’s screams and tears to subside.

  “You got any bandages anywhere?” Billy asked.

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about a clean sheet we can rip up?”

  Michael released George’s shoulders and stroked his hair. “In that drawer over there.” He pointed at the dresser by the window.

  Tollman rummaged through the drawers and produced a sheet. Then he produced a penknife from his pocket and began to slash two-inch slits along the edge and rip the sheet into passable strips for makeshift bandages.

  “Right, let’s sit him up,” Billy instructed. “You hold him to your chest, so I can wrap these bandages round him.”

  Billy and Michael struggled with the dead weight of the boy, who was by now almost unconscious. Eventually, Michael was holding George to his chest and Billy began the process of winding the bandages around the lad’s torso tightly until he was co
vered from armpits to waist and the iodine began seeping through the layers, making patterns on his back. Then they laid him gently down onto his front and left him to recover.

  Tollman laid a hand on Billy’s shoulder and said softly, “Well done, Billy, that was a grand job you’ve done there.”

  Billy smiled grimly. “It’s a lot more difficult to patch someone up with shells exploding round your ears, Mr Tollman.”

  “Thank you,” added Michael. “I never expected policemen to be so kind. It’s rare in our world. Are you going to prosecute us?”

  Tollman sighed. “I should, by rights, but I have bigger fish to fry here. I would like to lock up every one of your clients but I fear they may be too powerful and well connected for me to touch. Besides, locking up you and the other lads isn’t going to make you change your natures, is it?”

  Michael looked strangely at Tollman for a second, then said, “No. But I am tired of this place. So are the others. And maybe we’ll leave soon … after we’ve … settled up.”

  Something rang a warning bell in Tollman’s head when Michael looked at him but then he got distracted by Billy saying, “The lad should go to hospital. Those wounds need regular attention—proper nursing—or he’ll die from an infection.”

  Tollman agreed. “You two get him dressed and I’ll call an ambulance from the phone in the pub.” Then he remembered what Michael had said about leaving and he turned back to him. “Michael, can you do me a favor? We need you and the other lads to conduct business as usual until after tomorrow. We want to keep a watch on the place and see if we can arrest this ‘David’ when he comes for his regular visit. None of you must breathe a word about George being taken to hospital. Just carry on as normal. We don’t want word getting out among your clients that anything has changed. As far as they are concerned, we were never here. Understand?”

  Michael nodded. “And whatever happens, you will let us go? We won’t be dragged through the courts or imprisoned?” His eyes pleaded with Tollman.

  Tollman hesitated and looked at Billy.

  “We’ve got bigger fish to fry, you said,” Billy reminded him.

  Tollman was torn. “I shouldn’t do this. The law’s the law and I should uphold it at all times.” He paused then nodded his head. “But sometimes you have to compromise. You help us with an arrest or two of your clients and we will turn a blind eye if you disappear. Miller downstairs will give us chapter and verse on the activities in this house, in return for a reduced sentence, I expect. Frankly, I don’t know. I’m struggling between the King’s laws and natural justice. I only know I want to make someone pay for the treatment of this young man.”

  Michael stood like a statue, displaying no emotion, and he simply said, “Then we are agreed.”

  Once George had been loaded into the ambulance, it was decided that Billy would go with him and report to the hospital that he had been beaten by his father. He would stay until George woke up and then tell him to say nothing about what had happened and to maintain the fiction that he was a victim of family violence.

  Tollman went back into the house to impress upon the porter that he was to keep his mouth shut and go about his business until the end of the week, until everything was wrapped up. Tollman implied that the house would be watched day and night, so Miller had no hope of running without being immediately caught. In reality, Tollman was just crossing his fingers and hoping that everyone would co-operate as he did not want to draw on any extra manpower from the Yard. The fewer people who knew about it, the better—especially within the police force. There had been two occasions in his career where high-ranking police officers had been tipped off that there were to be raids on brothels and thus escaped the embarrassment of being caught patronizing their regular haunts.

  If Miller was correct about the “quality” of the anonymous clients at the molly shop, Tollman was not about to sabotage an opportunity to arrest them, whatever their standing in society. He hoped that Beech would be persuaded of the justice of this, as he realized that he had deviated somewhat from the task of finding Dodds’ killer. Yet, somehow, in the back of his mind, he was convinced that the events of today, and the characters he had encountered, were inextricably linked with the murder but there were no facts or concrete evidence to tie them all together. Tollman was a man who liked fact-based results and he was unsettled by his behavior. He’d been moved by his emotions rather than his intellect today.

  As he entered Lyons’ Corner House, he braced himself for a ticking-off from Victoria Ellingham but, to his relief, he found her surrounded by empty cups of tea and engrossed in the newspaper.

  “My apologies, Mrs E,” he said, removing his hat, “events overtook us. I truly did not mean to be so long.”

  Victoria smiled. “No need for an apology, Mr Tollman! As you can see, I’ve been thoroughly reading the newspaper and drinking endless cups of tea.” She leant forward conspiratorially, “And I’ve been secretly watching the comings and goings of a group of very effeminate young men over in the corner. It’s been fascinating.”

  Tollman looked over to the far wall of the cafeteria. “Yes, Mrs E. I’ve just found out it’s called The Lily Pond.”

  “The what?” Victoria was astonished.

  “The Lily Pond. It’s where male prostitutes meet and pick up their clients. Apparently, the staff of this establishment aid and abet them by reserving that area.”

  “Oh.” Victoria looked concerned. “Shouldn’t the police be doing something about that?”

  Tollman looked resigned. “I expect they should but then they would just move on and gather somewhere else. They don’t appear to be bothering anyone else and at least it’s better than soliciting on the streets or in public conveniences.”

  Victoria looked nonplussed. “That’s very … er … broad-minded of you, Mr Tollman. Somehow not the reaction I would expect from …”

  “An old-school copper like me?” volunteered Tollman helpfully.

  “Well, yes.”

  “It appears, Mrs E, that I am not too old to learn new philosophies, as the events of this day have proved.”

  “I’m intrigued. Are you going to tell me what has transpired during the last couple of hours? I feel that I have earned a detailed account of your activities,” Victoria gently chided him.

  Tollman smiled wearily. “I shall certainly tell you everything—perhaps leaving out a few of the more graphic details—but not here. Shall we return to Mayfair and await the return of PC Rigsby? Then we can make a full report.”

  “Of course. Where is PC Rigsby?”

  “Gone to the hospital,” Tollman replied but immediately leapt in with a reassurance that Billy was not in need of medical attention himself but merely escorting a witness.

  “I do hope that PC Rigsby did not cause the witness to be in need of medical attention,” Victoria said, in alarm.

  Tollman shook his head and said, with satisfaction, “No, Mrs E. Quite the opposite, in fact. Billy Rigsby patched up a quite badly damaged boy in an efficient and impressive manner. Doctor Allardyce would have been proud of him. In fact I’m proud of him. Today I have acquired a new respect for young Rigsby that would normally take me about twenty years to acquire for another man.”

  Victoria was beside herself with frustration at not knowing about the momentous events that had caused such a transformation in both policemen.

  “Well, we must get back to Mayfair post-haste. I’m not sure I can bear waiting any longer for a detailed account of what happened this morning but I sense that I shall have to. As a punishment for making me wait so long, Mr Tollman, you can pay for my many cups of tea. Here is the bill—” she presented a bemused Tollman with the slip of paper “—which you can settle while I avail myself of the ladies’ facilities. Endless cups of tea do rather put a strain on the bladder!,” and she swept grandly away in the direction of the “facilities,” leaving Tollman chuckling to himself.

  CHAPTER 18

  The consulting rooms of Dr McKinley at f
orty-two Harley Street were an oasis of privilege and calm. Tasteful flowers were arranged in the waiting room beside the deep chesterfield sofas and the latest editions of London Illustrated News, The Lady and the Tatler were available to read.

  “I’m guessing that the good doctor’s patients are mainly female,” Beech murmured quietly to Caroline as they entered. The nurse at the desk looked up in surprise as they approached. Caroline noted that she was wearing a great deal of make-up.

  Surely not suitable for the nursing profession, she thought to herself, but then she shrugged as she decided that she had no experience of the hallowed practices of the Three Streets—Wimpole, Wigmore, and Harley.

  There were almost four hundred physicians, surgeons, and optometrists in the grand houses of those streets and they were all male. Such a world was closed to a female doctor, no matter how highly qualified. Perhaps it’s a requirement of these “eminent” men that their nurses should look like actresses. The contempt she felt only reinforced her opinion of Dr McKinley. He was no better than a quack, she had decided—a peddler of drugs to keep the upper classes happy.

  “May I help you?” the nurse asked, her brows knitted together in concern.

  Beech smiled and flashed his warrant. The nurse’s eyes showed alarm.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell Doctor McKinley that Chief Inspector Beech desires to speak with him.” Beech was charm personified.

  “Is he expecting you, Chief Inspector?” The nurse appeared immune to Beech’s charm and she sounded rather cross.

  Beech retaliated. “It is not a common habit for the Metropolitan Police to request an interview in advance,” he answered briskly. “Kindly ask the doctor to receive us. At once,” he added firmly.

  That seemed to do the trick and it made the nurse flustered.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Dr McKinley has a patient with him at the moment, and I am not allowed to enter the consulting room unless summoned. If you would be so kind as to wait over there—” she indicated the waiting room “—he will be finished very soon and should be able to see you. He has no further appointments for an hour.”