by Guy Adams
I had been sure that an investigation into Prendick’s death would reveal flaws, a big enough crack that the man himself could have slipped through it. I trusted Mann’s work, though, he was astute enough; if he said Prendick was dead then I had little doubt that was so. But was it suicide or murder?
We headed back out onto the high street, the sweetness of the shop windows, the fragile, lacy appearance of a town built on grace and gentility, not matched by Inspector Mann’s conversation.
“Edward Prendick,” he said, skirting past the doorway of a fishmonger and avoiding an ejected bucketful of crushed ice, “was known to the few locals that had cause to know him at all as George Herbert. He wished to keep his identity a secret and, having been frequently quoted in the press around the time of his rescue, he felt it best to maintain a pseudonym. It wasn’t difficult given that he barely interacted with anyone from the town. If a man says his name’s Herbert who has cause to disagree?”
We turned off the main street and began to walk towards the church.
“Every town has its reclusive citizens,” Mann continued. “The rural life appeals to many different personalities but there will always be those who choose to live somewhere simply because it’s a place where others aren’t.”
Looking at the hustle and bustle of the streets, I couldn’t help but feel Mann was exaggerating. As someone who had spent time on Dartmoor I knew real wilderness when I had cause to be stuck in it.
“Of course,” he said, as if predicting such an argument, “Billericay itself is a positive circus of activity, but some of the small villages that fall within my purview are empty places indeed—collections of houses with silent, unfriendly people in them. All staring out of the windows at one another and refusing to make conversation.” He grinned. “Luckily they’re mostly so shy they don’t bump each other off either!”
Past the church was a narrow track that led out into the surrounding fields.
“Prendick had the best of both worlds as you’ll see. He bought Moon Cottage some years ago, an old farmhouse with absolutely nobody on his doorstep. He had nothing around him but fields.”
And very pleasant fields they were too, I thought, as we marched across them.
“Only two people dealt with him on a regular basis,” said Mann. “Mrs Alice Bradley who worked as a home help, cleaning up a bit twice a week and Harold Court, the local postmaster.”
“He received a lot of post?”
“Indeed, chemicals, equipment, specialist items. A lot of it needed to be signed for. Which is why Court was in a position to identify the body—he knew him well enough.”
“Had he received any post on the day he died?”
“Hard to say for sure. Bear in mind the body wasn’t discovered for some time and it was difficult to be precise as to the time of death. Normally, Mrs Bradley visits on a Tuesday and a Thursday. That week she was visiting her sister in Northampton and so Prendick would have had no visitors for ten days. We know he collected a parcel from Mr Court on the Wednesday. Mrs Bradley visited the following Thursday and found him dead. The local coroner—who’s a good man, though I know we country folk are assumed lacking by the powers that be in the metropolis …”
“Not by me,” I insisted.
He smiled. “Well, he claims Prendick could have died on the Wednesday but he wouldn’t want to guarantee it either side of twenty-four hours or so.”
We were clearing the crest of a hill and I could see a small cottage in the distance, still a good few minutes’ walk away.
“Moon Cottage?” I asked.
“The very same,” Mann agreed, leading us down the following slope.
“You’re wondering,” he continued, “whether Prendick received anything by the post that could have driven him to suicide.”
“A man must have some encouragement to consider selfdestruction.”
“Indeed he must. But remember that Prendick may already have had it. He chose this life of solitude because he feared the world and everything he found in it. That was clear enough from the report he wrote of his rescue. He was a man who had faced the most unforgiving ridicule, in fact there had been talk of his being committed.”
“He was already deeply damaged.”
“Indeed. Which is why, as grotesque as it might seem, I am inclined to agree with the court’s ruling that it was suicide.”
We had almost reached the house by now and Mann drew to a halt to elaborate his point. “I agree that acid is an agonising choice of weapon, but Prendick showed considerable signs of mania as you’ll soon see. Such people often choose to inflict great pain on themselves, a spiritual purging of some deluded sort.” He counted the points off on the fingers of his gloved hand. “Add to that the fact that the place was locked up securely from the inside; we had to put a window through to get in.”
“That could have been done simply to mislead?”
“Locked-room mysteries are all very well in fiction, Doctor, but they’re not usual in the real world. Besides, it would have been a pointless effort in this case as we would have been inclined towards suicide anyway. The state of the walls—well, you’ll see that in a minute. Finally, drinking acid may be vicious but it’s hard to force someone else to do it. You haven’t the benefit of seeing the body but it was ingested cleanly. If someone forced it down him one would expect signs of splashing, burn marks to the face and lips. As it is the damage was consistent with his drinking it calmly and slowly, incredible in itself given that it must have hurt from the moment it hit his palate.”
“Another sign of mania perhaps,” I said. “It’s amazing what the human body can achieve when the mind is damaged. I’ve seen poor, deranged people commit the most terrible acts of self-mutilation and be almost completely unaware.”
“My thoughts exactly.” We walked the last few steps to the house and Mann removed the key from the pocket of his coat. “And you’ll see just how deranged Prendick was once we get inside.”
He was quite right—the sight of the place beyond that heavy door was as chilling as any murder scene. The entrance hall was simple enough—a slate floor, a large table in its centre with a lacklustre vase of dried flowers on it. But there the normality ceased. In a band around the walls someone had written the same phrase over and over again: Fear the Law. The letters ranged from the minute, precise hand of an obsessive, to the wild daubs of a man gripped by a terrifying rage.
“I’m pretty sure he wrote them himself,” said Mann, “not only because it was a phrase that cropped up frequently in his original statement to the sailors who rescued him, but also because the words are written at the right height, and he had a habit of using a typographical ‘a’ with the curl at the top rather than the more conventional handwritten style.” He opened the folder of notes he had been carrying. “I have a number of address labels from the post office that show him using the same form. Not conclusive perhaps but as close as I need to be satisfied.”
“Surely the cleaner …”
“Had never seen the like! I assume the writing was the first symptom of the mania that brought him to kill himself.”
“But what brought it on?” I thought back to our previous conversation. “You say he received some post on the Wednesday —what was it?”
He checked his notes again while I walked around the entrance hall, reading the daubs on the wall. “A parcel of aluminium phosphide …”
“Rodenticide,” I said. “Any sign of traps around the place?”
“Everywhere. According to Mrs Bradley, he was obsessive about them.”
“Terrified of animals,” I said. “Given his history, that would make sense.”
“Indeed it would.” Mann closed his notes and wandered to the window. It was clear this wasn’t a thought that had occurred to him. “Maybe he saw something—a rat or mouse perhaps—through the window. An animal could have been his trigger, you think?”
“If it was then it’s surprising he survived so long.”
Mann turned and r
aised an eyebrow. Then nodded. “Living out here he must have come across all manner of creatures,” he agreed. “If he were that fragile a flock of Old Brandon’s sheep would have been enough to have him reaching for the acid cabinet.”
“Any other post?”
“A religious pamphlet, a chemistry journal and a copy of The Times.”
“He was a subscriber?”
“I presume so. To be honest I didn’t check. You’re wondering whether someone sent it to him specifically?”
I shrugged. “If someone were trying to get a message to him, or intimidate him somehow then that could be a method. Of course, it all rather depends what was in the paper.” The obvious thought occurred to me. “Anything about the mutilated bodies found in Rotherhithe?”
“I would have thought so,” he said. “What paper isn’t filling its column inches with that story? You telling me there might be a link?”
“There might at that,” I agreed. “Though I’m probably not allowed to say more.” The look on his face was not favourable. “I know,” I said, holding my hands up in a placatory fashion, “I have no wish to be secretive, but Holmes and I have been employed in a governmental capacity and I genuinely don’t know how much I should say.” The minute the words were out of my mouth I found I was regretting them. Mann was clearly a decent fellow and I had no doubt he would be trustworthy. But then that was hardly my decision to make.
“Policemen do not take kindly to being kept in the dark, Dr Watson,” he said. “It’s inimical to their profession.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “And if it were up to me …”
“Aye, well, it seems to me that, as you’re a private individual, I shouldn’t even be letting you in here.” He looked at me pointedly. “But I made an exception.”
I sighed. It was extremely tempting simply to unburden myself on the man. But, aside from my gut instinct, what did I really have to go on? I had met him on only two occasions, and on both of those occasions he had seemed a capable officer and a reliable fellow. But that was hardly enough when I had been sworn to secrecy by one of the highest figures in the country.
“I understand how you feel,” I said eventually. “And if I have to leave, then so be it. But I really can’t say more for now. I have been sworn to secrecy and I cannot break that vow, however much my personal estimation of you insists it would be safe to do so. It is not my secret to keep and therefore the decision as to who knows and who does not is not mine to make.”
He nodded and, after a moment, smiled. “Don’t twist yourself in knots over it. I suppose I should be glad of the fact that you won’t betray a trust so easily, it proves that I was right to share police information with you. Doesn’t mean it’s not extremely irritating, mind, but let’s forget it …”
I was relieved and said so.
“It won’t be the first time a simple copper from the countryside has not been privy to the same information as everyone else,” he said. “In fact it happens so often you’d think I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.”
He led me through into the next room, a small library and office that betrayed the state of its owner’s mind as clearly as the entrance hall had. Books were cast all over, paper thrown everywhere. It was as if a small stick of dynamite had detonated in there—indeed, some of the pages were burned, which only increased the illusion. Of course the dynamite in this case had been none other than Edward Prendick, a man whose moods had clearly been easily combustible.
“It’s hard to tell whether he was trying to destroy something in particular or just on a rampage,” said Mann. “The rest of the house is in a similar state.”
I stooped down to look at some of the papers; for the most part they were chemistry text books, Prendick’s own notes and part of what must have been an obsessive collection of old newspapers and magazines. “He was certainly a hoarder,” I said, rummaging through a pile of yellowing newspapers. “There are what must be a year’s worth of copies of The Chronicle here.”
“For a man who disliked society so much,” said Mann, “it seems strange he took such an interest in it.”
I could see his point, but it seemed more likely to me that Prendick’s motivations had been different. I didn’t think he was monitoring current affairs out of general interest. Rather he was monitoring the news for mention of something in particular. If he had been as shaken by Moreau’s work as had clearly been the case, was it not natural that he might look for evidence of it? Perhaps another scientist might stumble upon the same methods, or the creatures he so feared might make their way off their island and come in search of new pastures. Prendick’s fear was all-consuming. If he hadn’t been mad when they lifted him off his makeshift raft in the ocean, then he had certainly become so during the years after.
The question remained though: was it suicide or murder? All the evidence pointed to the former but there was still a big part of me that sensed the hand of another—someone who might have driven Prendick to the chemistry supplies and a lunatic urge to destroy himself. I was convinced the answers must lie in the last-known postal delivery.
“I don’t suppose you still have the mail he received?” I asked.
Mann nodded. “We haven’t the space out here to keep all our evidence ad infinitum, but we haven’t cleared anything of Prendick’s out yet. Given the court’s ruling, you can help yourself to what you like. I’ll have no use for it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
We continued our tour around Prendick’s cottage, but there was little else I wanted to see. It was a broken and depressing place, somewhere a fractured mind had been left to burn white-hot during its last few hours. The damage was extensive, the explanations few. My hope was that worthwhile answers might be found in the evidence store of the local constabulary, as it was conspicuously lacking here.
We left the cottage and walked back into town. Mann had appeared to dismiss all of his previous irritation over my secrecy. As we walked, he chatted about his time on the force and how long he had lived here, as well as listing a number of the more colourful citizens. He painted a picture of a comfortable, pleasant career, albeit one that he felt was incapable of stretching his abilities. I wondered how long he would manage compromising one part of his life for the satisfaction of another. To hear him talk it was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to ignore his need to shine as a detective. His frustration—and the frequent comments about how rural policemen were perceived—showed how heavily it weighed on him and I had no doubt that we would see him in the city before long.
Constable Scott greeted us once more as we entered the station, uttering his words around the thick obstacle of a mouthful of sandwich.
“Lunch on duty, Scott?” Mann asked, though he appeared not in the least concerned.
“Constable Wright’s off sick, Sir,” Scott explained. “So I’m on my own today. It don’t bother me if it don’t bother the glorious public.”
“I’m sure they’ll have seen worse, Constable, carry on.”
Scott did so, chasing a pickled egg around his lunch pail with a gleeful look on his face.
We passed Mann’s office and he led me to a door at the very rear of the station. He drew a large bunch of keys from his pocket, selected the correct one and let us in. We found ourselves in a small storeroom lined with row after row of shelving.
“Not exactly the Black Museum,” he said. “But it does for us.”
He worked his way along the rows, running a finger along the edge of the shelving as he counted off the case numbers. Finding the box he wanted, he pulled it free and carried it over to a central table.
“This is everything we have,” he said, unfastening the lid and beginning to lay the contents out on the table. “The newspaper …” He handed it to me and I glanced through it. The story about the Rotherhithe murders was certainly present in the form of a lengthy report and editorial. Though, as Mann himself had said, that in itself didn’t necessarily mean anything. It had been one of the biggest stories of recent weeks so a
ny paper of that date would be likely to cover it.
“The religious pamphlet,” Mann announced, handing me a small, cream-coloured booklet. HE is not dead, the cover announced -
HE has changed HIS shape. HE has changed HIS body. For a time you will not see HIM. HE is above where he can watch you. You cannot see HIM. But HE can see you.
“The usual intimidating scripture,” said Mann. “These people rarely seem to preach the words of a kindly God.”
“You recognise the quote?” I asked.
“No,” he admitted, “and I usually can.” He smiled sheepishly. “My father was a lay preacher and that sort of thing sticks. At one point I could probably quote the whole Bible backwards.” He looked at the pamphlet. “It doesn’t even read right,” he said. “‘He has changed his shape’?” That’s hardly biblical phrasing. They could have done their reading a little better. No doubt it’s from some nutty apocrypha.”
He returned his attention to the box. “We don’t have the poison,” he said. “Prendick had already put a good deal of it to use. Proof of his obsession, he unpacked that first! But we do have a selection of his papers. This—” he lifted out a wrapped bundle of pages that put me in mind of nothing less than the manuscript of a novel “—deals specifically with his time at sea. It makes for fascinating reading, though I can’t say I believed a word of it. I think I’d have put it down as a novel, one of those scientific romances, were it not for the fact that I could see the state of the author’s mind for myself.”
“Might I borrow some of these items?” I asked. “I know it’s a great deal to ask …”
“As far as the law is concerned the case is closed. Take what you like, if his family come chasing any of it then I’ll be in touch.”
“Are there any family, then?” I had assumed Prendick had been quite alone in the world.
