Mind of a Killer

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Bastards,’ Ramsey snarled. ‘We should hang them all.’

  ‘Entertainers?’ asked Peters, startled.

  ‘Reporters!’ snarled Ramsey. ‘I mean the damn reporters! They encourage the lower classes to expect better than they deserve. They disclose secrets they’ve no business knowing in the first place. And they constantly get in the way of investigations and then tell us how to do our jobs! If this brain-thief was putting reporters in here, I wouldn’t lift a finger to stop him.’

  ‘Steady on, sir,’ said Leonard, shocked. ‘I find them irritating, too, but they’re only doing their jobs.’

  ‘And I have occasionally found them very helpful,’ said Peters. ‘They can offer a fresh perspective and have the advantage of gaining access to people and places denied to us.’

  ‘You are a fool if you trust them,’ declared Ramsey, breathing hard. He made an effort to bring his temper under control. ‘Now listen, Peters, because I have an avenue I want you to explore. I’m giving you a pointer here.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I was in India for some years, so I am acquainted with the methods of Eastern criminals. I believe these murders might have been committed by a Malay or some other low-class Asiatic, of whom there are many in London. Mutilations are Eastern habits intended to express insult, hatred, and contempt. But there has never been an instance of murder and mutilation of this kind by an Englishman. So I think that some Asiatic man has taken the lives of those he holds guilty of injuring him in some way.’

  ‘There’s no evidence—’ began Leonard, but Ramsey forged on.

  ‘Thousands of them live in London, speak English, and dress in normal clothes. Such a man would be quite safe in the haunts of his fellow countrymen. Unless caught red-handed, being polite and even obsequious, he would be the last to be suspected. But when the villain is primed with opium or gin, and lustful for slaughter, he’ll destroy his victim with the ferocity and cunning of a tiger. And past successes will render him even more daring. So we might face the terrors of this wily Asian again and again, unless he has joined a crew of Lascars on a steamer leaving the country.’

  ‘I’ll bear this insightful observation in mind, sir,’ Peters said flatly.

  ‘Good man. But don’t dither, as there are more important matters to take up our time. For example, the Prince of Wales was almost blown up at the Court Theatre on Friday night, and there are rumours that the Fenians did it.’

  ‘Those rumours are false,’ said Leonard. ‘The report from the Fire Brigade said that faulty gas pipes were responsible.’

  ‘Gas!’ spat Ramsey. ‘The new miracle fuel! It won’t last. You mark my words. No one wants a substance in his home that’ll kill him just as easily as light his rooms.’

  Before Ramsey could rant further, Bradwell walked in, to report what he had already told Peters and Lonsdale: that someone had removed Yeats’s skullcap, sliced out the cerebrum, and concealed his work by carefully arranging the victim’s hair. Ramsey responded with an interrogation, quizzing the pathologist about his methods, and even going so far as to intimate that Bradwell might have mutilated Yeats’s corpse himself, as a ploy to increase his budget. When Bradwell’s expression became murderous, Leonard suggested that he and Ramsey should leave so as not to be late for their next appointment. Ramsey glanced at his watch, his eyebrows shot up, and he hurried from the room without another word.

  ‘I’m sorry, Peters,’ Leonard said before he followed. ‘But he’s right – Yeats and Donovan must take priority. Forget about the prostitute.’

  ‘Walker also deserves justice,’ said Peters.

  ‘And she’ll have it – as soon as you’ve caught the maniac who steals brains,’ said Leonard, and hurried after Ramsey.

  ‘Bastard!’ muttered Bradwell, as Lonsdale stood and emerged from his hiding place. ‘Did you hear him accuse me of being the murderer? How dare he!’

  ‘It was no more bizarre than his suggestion that the culprits are thuggees from India,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘I’d be careful, if I were you, Lonsdale,’ said Peters. ‘When there’s pressure to solve a crime, Ramsey usually responds by arresting someone, regardless of guilt or innocence. It could be you.’

  ‘I admire your fortitude, Alec,’ said Milner, as he and Lonsdale entered the Victorian Embankment Gardens for a moment’s peace late that afternoon. They sat on a wooden bench that was soft with rot, and watched a flurry of pigeons squabbling over a bag of crumbs emptied out by a man in a bowler hat. Dark clouds massed overhead, promising rain, and the wind that sliced up from the river had a keen edge to it. ‘To choose Hulda to help you, when Stead offered you the choice of all of us.’

  ‘She’s meticulous and perceptive. If anyone can find links between past murders and these current ones, it will be her.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘By looking in The PMG archive. Stead has given us his blessing to spend as much time there as need be, so now I’m just waiting for him to give us the key.’

  ‘An interesting approach,’ said Milner. ‘And if that’s what’s been dominating your thoughts, then I needn’t ask about Emilia’s sister. If you meet a woman and all you can think about is murder …’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Lonsdale, recalling the fair, pretty features of Anne. ‘We got on rather well.’

  They walked back towards Northumberland Street, where Hulda was waiting. She brandished a key. ‘You’re late,’ she said, although Lonsdale did not recall setting any particular time. ‘I suppose you were talking about sport.’

  ‘Sport?’ he echoed, bewildered. ‘Why would we be talking of sport?’

  ‘All men do,’ she replied authoritatively. ‘They can’t help themselves. It is a male obsession – whether they would rather shoot birds or mammals; whether they want a shotgun or a rifle; whether foreign animals are as enjoyable to kill as homegrown ones. The scope is endless.’

  ‘Don’t take a gun of any description into the archive with you, Alec,’ warned Milner as Lonsdale prepared to follow her down the stairs. ‘You might be tempted to use it on The Friederichs, confined as you will be.’

  The Pall Mall Gazette archive was a claustrophobic basement room with a low ceiling, stone floors, and walls lined with metal cabinets holding copies of most London dailies. The filing was performed irregularly, which, in combination with reporters casually borrowing copies and tossing them back without regard for organization, meant that many were misfiled or lost altogether. It was also exceedingly noisy, as the two Marinoni presses turning out The PMG were located only a thin door away.

  After only a few minutes on Tuesday morning – his first full day in the archive – Lonsdale felt filthy. Clouds of dust swirled when he shifted the piles of papers to get at those further back. The lighting was from a single hanging lamp that was inadequate, so Hulda was obliged to fetch a storm lantern from the reporters’ room. The dry mustiness of the air and the oil fumes combined to make Lonsdale’s head pound. It was a depressing place, and he could not rid himself of the notion that he was incarcerated in an Egyptian tomb.

  By late afternoon, they were obliged to drink multiple cups of tea to stay awake. He had not realized what a daunting task he had given them – ploughing through each of six London morning dailies, five major evening papers, five quality Sunday publications, and numerous weeklies, including sensational gazettes that specialized in crime. Even with Hulda’s help, he realized that he was going to have to spend days there.

  However, he did feel they were making some progress. The more he read, the more he became sure that he had led Morley astray regarding the so-called Irish connection. It was true that Jamie’s friends, along with Donovan and Yeats, had Irish names, but that was not to say they were Irish themselves. It was coincidence, although he and Hulda agreed to keep that to themselves, lest Morley took them off the case again.

  ‘It’s almost seven, and you’ve been down here all day,’ came a voice from the door. ‘Come to the club for dinn
er.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hulda, standing from where she had been kneeling on the floor. ‘I should be delighted.’

  ‘Hulda!’ gulped Cook, The PMG’s youngest reporter. ‘I did not realize you … I thought you’d gone home.’

  ‘We’ll go to the Oyster Bar,’ said Lonsdale, and because he did not want Hulda to begin a rant on the injustice of women being barred from gentlemen’s clubs, added, ‘We won’t be allowed in unless we change – we’re filthy.’

  Hulda nodded acceptance of the offer and they abandoned the dungeon with relief. Milner joined them, too, and they aimed for Fleet Street together.

  Its convenience to the offices of numerous newspapers meant that Craig’s Oyster Bar was always packed with reporters. It was open from midday to midnight, and the bustling, deadline-driven nature of its customers gave it a hectic, noisy atmosphere. Most newspapermen were well dressed, wearing clothes that were as suited to the Houses of Parliament or research in the British Library, as to visiting the scenes of accidents or conducting interviews. One man was different, however – a burly fellow wearing a dirty cloth cap. Lonsdale supposed he was an informant, instructed to meet a reporter there.

  Hulda, Lonsdale, Milner and Cook ordered oysters for a shilling a dozen, washed down with warm, sweet stout. They talked about Prime Minister Gladstone’s announcement that day of the release of Irish nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell from gaol, speaking loudly over the ear-shattering yells of other patrons and the crash of crockery and glasses from inside the bar.

  When Hulda went to powder her nose, two reporters from The Standard joined them, changing the discussion to the explosion at the Court Theatre. They were openly jealous that Lonsdale had been on hand to see the Prince of Wales taking charge. They pestered him for details. Then one of them suddenly leapt to his feet, dragging his colleague with him, and headed for the door. Before Lonsdale knew what was happening, he felt a hand drop on his shoulder with considerable force.

  ‘Glad I’ve found you lot,’ boomed Harris, and sat uninvited. He grabbed a beer that one of The Standard men had abandoned, drained it in a single swallow, and wiped his sleeve over his lips. ‘I received an official reprimand from the Garrick because of you, Lonsdale.’

  ‘Have you?’ asked Lonsdale, not surprised, given his unpleasant interaction with Dr Wilson in the Garrick’s reading room.

  ‘They won’t say why,’ said Harris, ‘but a number of people have suddenly taken against me. All I can think is that you misbehaved when you were my guest.’

  ‘You don’t think you’ve done anything yourself, then?’ Cook asked mildly. ‘Clubs do like a certain air of gentility and elegance.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ replied Harris unabashed. ‘Which is why I can only think Lonsdale must have done something wrong.’

  ‘We need to be at the House of Commons in half an hour to hear the Opposition’s responses to Parnell’s release,’ lied Lonsdale, aiming to escape, although he was aware that would leave Hulda with the man when she returned. ‘Are you two ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Milner with relief, despite having only eaten half his food.

  ‘You don’t want these then?’ asked Harris, nodding to the oysters Milner had left on his plate.

  ‘No, but neither do you,’ said Milner. ‘I think there’s something wrong with them. They taste off.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ declared Harris, hauling the plate over to where he was sitting. ‘Waste not, want not, as they say.’

  ‘We should go,’ said Lonsdale, starting to stand.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Harris, as he forked an oyster into his mouth. ‘Mr Northcote, the Conservative leader, won’t speak for at least another hour. You’ve plenty of time to enjoy more of this warm beer you English love. And I want to talk to you anyway.’ Butter dripped down his chin.

  ‘About what?’ said Milner, gaping in astonishment as Harris leaned across the table and helped himself to Hulda’s stout.

  ‘Wilson – the zoo director,’ replied Harris, pushing his hat onto the back of his head and taking another crustacean. ‘He told me not to let you near him ever again. I want to know why. Is there a story I should know about?’

  ‘There is,’ said Hulda, who had returned unnoticed. She reclaimed her stout, but did not drink it. ‘However, it’s a secret. Can we trust you not to run with it first?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Harris, eyes gleaming. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Apes,’ replied Hulda. ‘Several hundred have escaped recently, and have been hired to work in Shoreditch by the East London Waterworks Company, which likes them because they accept lower wages. Obviously, Dr Wilson doesn’t want to be accused of flouting employment laws, so he’s keen to keep a low profile.’

  Harris gazed at her. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Completely,’ said Hulda without the flicker of a smile. ‘Go and check for yourself. However, please promise not to report it before The PMG. We don’t want to lose such a scoop.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Harris, scrambling to his feet. ‘Good evening to you, ma’am.’

  ‘What?’ asked Hulda when he had gone, aware of the others’ raised eyebrows. Then she allowed herself a small smile. ‘Well, he’s been asking for it for a long time.’

  ‘Men like Harris make me worry about what is in store for the press in the future,’ said Milner, as he and Lonsdale strolled at a leisurely pace along the Strand together. Cook and Hulda had gone to their homes in different directions. Gas lamps threw insipid pools of light onto the pavements, and there was a damp, chill feeling that suggested more drizzle was in the offing.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘That, before long, we’ll all be ordered to climb up drainpipes to spy on public figures and their illicit loves, or fight each other for statements from the bereaved at the scenes of accidents.’

  ‘The press will never sink so low,’ said Lonsdale firmly.

  ‘It will,’ insisted Milner. ‘Reporters will become jackals, feeding off the famous and the infamous, grubbing about in the gutters for ever more vile and filthy tales.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Lonsdale. ‘You’re in a melancholy mood tonight.’

  ‘Your current story is a case in point,’ Milner went on. ‘Stolen body parts and murdered prostitutes. It’s all too horrible. It will create an appetite for ever more sordid stories, and we will descend into the pit of sensationalism.’

  The two men walked in silence for several moments.

  ‘Are you interested in what Hulda and I found in our search today?’ Lonsdale asked. ‘Or will it be too horrible?’

  Milner sighed. ‘Probably – but proceed anyway.’

  ‘She found several items in the February papers,’ said Lonsdale, pulling his notebook from his pocket. He strained to read aloud in the poor light:

  An inquest was held yesterday concerning the deaths of Frederick Kempster, aged twenty-eight, and Edmund Corlett, aged twenty-six, who were burned to death on Tuesday morning at a fire that occurred in Southampton Row, Holborn, on the premises of Messrs Morson and Sons, manufacturing chemists. Mr Kempster was the manager of the retail department, and Mr Corlett the first assistant.

  ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that every fire in London has a sinister motive?’

  ‘Just listen.’ Lonsdale read on:

  The evidence indicated that the only explosive upon the premises was benzoline, of which not more than ten gallons were kept at a time, and that was stored in a vault. All the fires were put out the previous night, a gas jet being the only light left on the premises. When the fire was discovered it had full command of the premises. No explanation could be given for its origin. Both men were badly crushed by the collapse of parts of the building, obliging the bodies to be identified by the keys in their possession.

  Milner stopped walking and looked at Lonsdale. ‘You think they are victims, too?’

  ‘There’s more. According to The Daily Telegraph, a similar fire occurred a week later at the Thornycr
oft shipyard in Chiswick, where one person’s head was mutilated beyond recognition. And shortly after that, several papers carried accounts of how the entire upper body of a workman disappeared in a violent explosion at a vinegar works in Peckham.’

  ‘Four other cases?’ breathed Milner.

  ‘Possible cases,’ corrected Lonsdale. ‘But those are only the ones we’ve found so far. There may be others. Many others.’

  ‘Then you are right to pursue it,’ said Milner grimly. ‘Vile it may be, but if you can catch the perpetrators and save lives …’

  Before they had walked much further, both Lonsdale and Milner were assailed with a great feeling of weariness. A hansom drove near, and Lonsdale hailed it. ‘Pimlico,’ he told the driver, pushing Milner into it. ‘Fifty-four Claverton Street.’

  He waved at the disappearing cab and looked for another. But most hansoms were engaged, because the theatres were just letting out. After several unsuccessful attempts, he decided to walk towards Oxford Street in the hope that the area away from Trafalgar Square might have fewer customers for the cabs. As soon as he turned from the colourful bustle of the Strand and its amber gaslights, everything seemed colder and less friendly. Despite being used to traipsing around the city at night, Lonsdale felt that St Martin’s Lane seemed black and sinister, and he could not shake off the sense that he was not alone. But each time he glanced behind him, he saw nothing amiss. The gradual lessening of the traffic noise as he moved away from the main thoroughfare made his footsteps echo, and once or twice he thought he heard a second set behind him. He began to doubt the wisdom of his decision to leave the main streets.

  He glanced behind him again, abruptly. There! A shadow flickered briefly at the periphery of his vision before fading into the darkness of a doorway. There was indeed someone on his heels. He walked faster and, when he came to a particularly dark section, ducked to one side. Then he waited, heart thudding, to see what his pursuer would do. He was not disappointed. Seconds later, a shadow slipped past, and he heard a litany of ripe curses as his stalker saw he had been given the slip. Lonsdale’s arm shot out of the gloom and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.