Rackham frowned. ‘That’s odd, I grant you. Actually, Jack, it’s damn peculiar. He could have been lucky, I suppose, but I don’t like it.’ He stood for a few moments in thoughtful silence. ‘One part of his story that doesn’t ring true was his explanation of how Culverton died. Lassiter says Culverton hit the back of his head but Culverton didn’t have any injuries to the back of his head, only the front. I suppose he could simply be mistaken, but it’s something I want to clear up.’
‘There’s another thing,’ said Jack. ‘We worked out that Culverton must have gone back to the office, didn’t we? He’d written Paris in his diary but he didn’t know he was going to Paris before he left for the Mulciber. But David Lassiter stated he followed Culverton from the Mulciber down to the Embankment. By his account Culverton didn’t go anywhere near the office.’
‘I thought the word Paris was a code, if you remember. He’d written Paris in his diary before, when the other Ripper victims were murdered.’ Rackham stopped. ‘But there’s been another murder since then. It seems as if Culverton wasn’t the Ripper after all.’ He drew his breath in. ‘Jack, this doesn’t make any sense.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the door to the room. ‘I know people do confess to crimes they haven’t committed but, one and all, they’re off their rocker. He’s as sane as you or me. Why should he come and confess if he’s innocent?’
‘Could he be shielding someone?’
‘Who?’ demanded Rackham in a low voice. ‘Peggy Culverton? Maybe that’s the answer. She’s guilty and he’s decided to jump in and save her. He might’ve thought we knew a great deal more than we did.’
‘Perhaps.’ Jack didn’t sound convinced. ‘I don’t like it though, Bill.’
Rackham dismissed the problem with an irritated sigh. ‘I can’t say I’m crazy about it, but I’ve got to get him to the Yard. Once there I’ll go through any inconsistencies with him. However, we did think he was a likely suspect. You’ve got to remember that, Jack.’
‘We thought he had a motive. That’s a very different state of affairs. Look, you’ve got to arrest him. You have no choice about that, I know. I’d just be a bit careful about taking what he says at face value.’
‘I will,’ promised Rackham.
Jack glanced at his watch. ‘It’s twenty to eleven. D’you think it’s too late to go to Eden Street?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, someone should tell the Lassiters what’s happened and that better be George and myself. I don’t think they keep particularly early hours.’
‘I can always telephone,’ said Rackham.
Jack grimaced. ‘This sort of news is bad enough face to face. It’d be rotten for old Mr Lassiter to hear it over the phone. I’ve got to go round, Bill. Mind you,’ he added, ‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.’
The scene at Eden Street was as difficult as Jack had expected. George had telephoned before they left and both Anne and Mr Lassiter were waiting for them in the lamplit sitting room with its warm fire and comfortable chairs. Mr Lassiter sat while Anne stood beside him, their faces alive with apprehension. Anne looked at George, gave a little gasp, and ran to him, her hands outstretched.
‘It’s bad news,’ she said. ‘I know it’s bad news.’
George, suddenly unable to speak, put his arm round her shoulders and held her close.
Mr Lassiter got to his feet. ‘Major Haldean?’ he asked, his voice thin with anxiety. ‘What is it?’
Jack took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but David’s been arrested for the murder of Alexander Culverton.’
Mr Lassiter seemed to age visibly before Jack’s eyes. He blindly reached out for the arm of his chair and sank back into it. Anne freed herself from George and, crossing the room, knelt on the floor beside him, holding his hands in hers. It seemed a long time before he spoke. ‘David?’ he said in a whisper.
Anne looked at George. ‘It can’t be true,’ she said. ‘It isn’t true.’
Mr Lassiter stirred in the chair. ‘Of course it’s not true,’ he said, his voice a parody of his usual vigorous tone. ‘There’s been some ghastly mistake. We’ll get the solicitor right away and we’ll soon have the matter cleared up.’
‘David confessed,’ said George bluntly.
Jack honestly thought they were going to have another death on their hands. Mr Lassiter doubled up as if someone had hit him a physical blow. George quickly went to the cabinet and, dashing some brandy into a glass, helped his grandfather to drink it. ‘We’d better get the doctor,’ he said, looking at the old man’s colourless face and grey-blue lips.
It was over an hour later. The doctor had been and gone, and Mr Lassiter had been helped upstairs to bed with Anne and George in attendance. Jack, who had been left by himself, looked up as they came back into the room.
‘I hope he’ll be all right,’ said Anne without preamble. ‘He’s usually so strong that it’s easy to forget how old he is. I need to tell Nigel, of course, but he’s out.’ She fought back a yawn, swaying with exhaustion. ‘This has been a dreadful evening. It started off badly but this . . .’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘What happened?’ asked George gently. ‘Earlier, I mean?’
Anne put a hand to her forehead. ‘It was Nigel and David. They actually came to blows. It’s been brewing for some time but it erupted tonight. David hit Nigel.’
‘Did he?’ asked George, startled.
Jack winced. It was more evidence, as if he needed any, that David Lassiter was not a man to be crossed.
Anne nodded. ‘He shouldn’t have done, I know, but it was Nigel’s fault. He was horrible on the phone to Peggy. He swore at her and David heard him. She’d rung to tell us about Martin Ridgeway. You know about him, don’t you? Anyway, Roger arrived in the nick of time to stop a full-scale fight. I can’t face Nigel now. I’ll tell him tomorrow. I’m not waiting up for him. George, can I have some brandy? I’m so tired and yet I don’t feel as if I could sleep.’
George poured her a drink. She took the glass from him and sat on the edge of the chair. ‘I wish I hadn’t rung David that night,’ she said.
Fatigue, thought Jack, was making her talk, the words tumbling from her like a damned-up torrent.
She held on to the glass tightly. ‘I knew Peggy needed him. I thought I’d done the right thing.’ She shuddered. ‘If I’d guessed, if I’d had the slightest idea, how David would react, I’d never have telephoned him and I’d never have covered up for them.’ She fumbled for a cigarette from the box on the table, took one and tried to strike a match. Her fingers trembled and the match broke. Jack felt in his pocket for his lighter but George beat him to it.
‘Here you are,’ he said, pulling a book of matches from his pocket.
She gave a ragged sigh. ‘Thanks. D’you know, I’m not sure if that’s true. About covering up for them, I mean. I’d like to be honest. I . . . I always thought I was honest.’ She looked at Jack with wide eyes. ‘Won’t they understand? Culverton was a monster. Surely that’ll make a difference?’
‘It might,’ he said. His voice didn’t carry conviction. He glanced down, avoiding her eyes, and froze. George had tossed the book of matches on to the table. It was a black, shiny packet with an ornate C embossed on it. He’d seen those matches before. It was exactly the same sort of matchbook that Culverton had left on his dressing table, the matchbook that he and Bill had found when they searched Culverton’s office.
He picked up the matches and held them out on the palm of his hand. ‘George, where did you get these?’
George looked at him in annoyance. ‘The matches? I don’t know. What does it matter?’
‘It might be very important,’ insisted Jack. His voice was urgent.
‘I know where you got them,’ said Anne Lassiter dully. ‘They’re from the Continental. They have C on them. C for Continental.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, what are we going to do about David?’ She sat for a few moments, then took a deep b
reath and drew herself up. ‘It’s late. You’d better go.’
George reached out and held her hand in his. ‘Anne,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I don’t want to leave you like this.’
She tried to smile, an attempt so valiant it twisted Jack’s heart. ‘That’s good of you, George, but you have to go.’
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ She stood up. ‘Please come back, George. I’d be grateful.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘I wish I could do something,’ muttered George.
‘There isn’t anything. He’s confessed. That’s the end of it, isn’t it? There’s nothing to be done.’ She leaned on him as they walked to the door. ‘Thanks, George. I know you really care. It’s not just David, it’s Grandfather. I wish I knew he was going to be all right.’ Her voice quavered. ‘Maybe it’s best if he’s not.’
George looked at her sharply. ‘What?’
She brushed the hair from her eyes. ‘Wouldn’t it be best? Rather than watch David be dragged through the courts? To say nothing of . . . of afterwards. He cares more about David than anyone in the world.’
‘I know that,’ said George softly.
‘He cares about you, too. Oh, dear God, he was so happy when you turned up. It was like a miracle when you appeared out of the blue. He couldn’t get over how you’d come to this house of all houses, that night you were desperate. He kept on saying it was as if it was meant, somehow. It wasn’t just you, it was as if his son, Charles, had come back as well.’ She was very close to tears. ‘He was so happy. I knew it was too good to last. I knew it couldn’t last. I wish there could be another miracle or we could put time back but we can’t. No one can.’
Jack looked at her, suddenly thoughtful. He pulled the little black book of matches from his pocket, running his thumb abstractedly over the shiny cover. ‘Time. No, we can’t put time back. We have memories, though. Mrs Lassiter, will you remember for me? You know the night George broke into the kitchen? Can you tell me what you were doing when the policeman rang the doorbell? Please remember.’
Her forehead creased in a puzzled frown. ‘I wasn’t doing anything. Anything to speak of, I mean. Grandfather was upstairs, I do know that. I remember telling him what had happened when he came down.’
‘Was he having a bath by any chance?’
He bewilderment increased. ‘As a matter of fact he was. How did you know?’
Jack ignored the question. ‘And you? Were you reading or knitting or sorting out household accounts or anything of that sort?’
‘No, I don’t think so. What was I doing?’ Her forehead creased in concentration. ‘I was listening to the wireless, I think. Yes, that’s right. It was a story, one of A.J. Alan’s. I like him. I always make a point of listening to him. I missed the end of the story because the doorbell rang. It was the policeman telling me the area gate was unlocked and then I saw you, George.’
‘Don’t give up hope,’ said Jack. There was the oddest note in his voice, a strong, vibrant note. ‘Don’t despair. Not yet.’
She looked at him, startled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Look,’ said Jack, ‘you want a miracle. You’re wrong, you know. Every so often they do happen.’
She reached out to him, her eyes suddenly bright. ‘Major Haldean, is there hope? What can I hope for?’ Her hand tightened on his arm. ‘Will it help David?’
‘To be honest,’ said Jack, ‘I don’t know. But please – don’t give up hoping.’
‘That was rotten,’ said George once they were outside the door. ‘Telling poor Anne not to give up hope and so on. I know you meant well, Jack, but David’s confessed. You can’t get round that. I don’t know about miracles and so on but you’d need a magic wand to save him and you haven’t got one.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ agreed Jack. He paused, choosing his words with care. ‘All I’ve got is the beginnings of an idea.’
‘Will it help David?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s the point of that?’ asked George in exasperation. ‘We’re no better off, for all your talk about hope and miracles and so on.’
Jack walked back through the silent Mayfair streets beside his friend. He thought – he couldn’t get the image out of his mind – of a street magician who made a dove come from an empty wooden box. That was impossible and yet it had happened. That wasn’t a miracle; it was magic.
It was nearly two o’clock when they got back. George was dog-tired and went to bed immediately. More out of a sense of habit than because he was sleepy, Jack got ready for bed. Lying in his darkened room, the luminous hands of the alarm clock on the bedside table counting off the passing minutes of the night, he stared into darkness. He consciously tried to slow his mind down, to stop it from racing.
A black embossed matchbook; a dove in an empty box; bloody fool; lipstick on a coffee cup; forty-six thousand pounds; I think he needs a doctor; Urbis and Pegasus; the Ripper murders – dear God, the Ripper murders – and cats, lots of cats.
The confused jumble of images gradually stilled. He was standing in the corridor of a house, the Eden Street house, larger and more echoing than he remembered. There were distant voices coming from the other side of a door. It was the wireless. 2LO calling. All he had to do was push the door open so he could listen properly. The voice on the wireless was important. The voice on the wireless would explain everything.
He woke with a start, knowing that he had been on the verge of understanding. It had been so clear. Still half-asleep, he reached out, as if to physically clutch the fleeting thought, but it was gone. The luminous dial of the clock showed the time to be just after five. He groaned in disappointment. Somehow he had nearly got it. He sighed and sat up, rubbed his face in his hands and, getting out of bed, put on his dressing gown.
There was no point trying to go back to sleep. He walked to the bedroom window and looked out over the quiet, dark city. The back yard with its plane tree was a deep well of shadow. David . . . He’d be in a prison cell. He hoped David was asleep. A cat, silhouetted on the wall against the dim reflected glow of street-lights, yowled.
Cats: cats on the board-walk; cats on the balcony; cats on the brain. He shook his head. Bill was right. George hadn’t been acting normally, however generous a definition you chose to give to normal. He stiffened and swore, very softly. Cats! But it hadn’t begun with cats. It had begun with a man on a night wilder than this, breaking into an empty kitchen and waking into a nightmare.
Was that really where it had all started? Thoughts, pictures and voices kaleidoscoped in his mind then gradually settled in a sequence, glorious in its progression. Of course! All he had to do was start at the beginning and all of it – all of it – would fall into place. Paper, he needed paper. He strode out of his bedroom to his desk, reaching for a pencil. He had to get this down while it still made sense. George was the key to it all. If he concentrated on George he’d find the answer. He had thought about illusion, he had thought about mystery, he had thought about a dove coming from an empty box and there it was; he knew the answer and he’d been right; it wasn’t a miracle, it was magic.
It was gone six before he threw down the pencil and gathered up his scattered notes. With a craftsman’s satisfaction he looked at the plan he had constructed from the odds and ends of facts. It worked. He got up from the desk and lit the spirit lamp for a cup of tea, making more noise than he intended. There were sounds from the spare bedroom and a few minutes later George put his head out.
‘Morning, Jack.’ He yawned and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Why ever are you up and about at this hour?’
‘It was my idea,’ said Jack, reaching down the caddy as the kettle came to the boil. ‘The idea I said I had last night. I had a burst of inspiration earlier on.’
George looked interested. ‘What’s it all about? Will it help David?’
‘Perhaps.’ Jack hesitated. ‘I’d rather demonstrate it than simply tell you
, though.’ He warmed the pot, spooned in the tea and filled it up. ‘D’you want a cup?’
‘I don’t mind if I do.’ George settled down in the armchair, waiting in drowsy, companionable silence while Jack let the tea brew, poured it out and handed him a cup. ‘What d’you mean, demonstrate it?’ he asked after he had taken a sip.
Jack perched on the arm of the opposite chair. ‘I’d like you to come and see someone with me today. It’s a chap I know.’
‘Okay.’ George thought for a moment. ‘What sort of chap?’
‘He’s called Dr Kincraig. He’s a nerve specialist.’
Suddenly wide awake, George sat upright, nearly spilling his tea. ‘A nerve specialist? You mean a loony doctor? I don’t need to see him, Jack. There’s nothing wrong with me.’
Jack held up his hand pacifically. ‘Calm down, old fruit, I’m not saying you’re off your trolley or anything like it. It’s simply that I’m pretty sure Dr Kincraig will be able to help.’
‘He might help you, perhaps,’ said George, not noticeably mollified.
‘That’s exactly it,’ agreed Jack. ‘I need to see him and I’d like you there too. It’s important, George. I wouldn’t ask you to come with me if it wasn’t. Dr Kincraig’s all right. He’s a decent bloke.’
‘So you say. How on earth d’you know him, Jack? Don’t tell me you’ve ever needed a dingbat doctor, because I don’t believe it.’ Jack merely smiled. George looked at him with dawning and embarrassed comprehension. ‘Oh my God, you did, didn’t you?’
‘At the time it was tactfully called War Strain. I wasn’t sticking straws in my hair, I simply couldn’t whack up any interest in things. Anyway, a few sessions with Dr Kincraig put me on the right path and we’ve run across each other a few times since.’ He raised an eyebrow at his friend. ‘So, will you come with me, George?’
As if by Magic Page 24
