But, dear lady, forgive me, I digress again. I seem to have something of a penchant for it, do I not? Let me get back to the point. There were two very important consequences to my sojourn along Whitechapel Road and my trip to the Pav. First, it led me to the women I was later to slaughter. And second, it was the place in which I was to meet your husband, Archibald, a man who ended up playing a significant role in the events which were to unfold during the late summer and autumn of this year.
I’ve not mentioned Archibald before this point. This was not, of course, due to any desire on my part to save your feelings. You must know me better than that. But now I come to the part of my story when Mr Thomson makes his first appearance.
No doubt you knew one face of the man. I knew several. We would doubtless agree that Archibald was a hard-working, intelligent, industrious and quaintly ambitious fellow. These things will be said at his funeral. Goodness, I wish I could be there! But there were other aspects to your husband, about which I imagine you had little inkling.
The Pav, that wonderful establishment, was not merely a music hall. The owners earned a tidy sum from all the four-penny pieces handed over at the admissions desk and the half-penny a pint they charged for the slops they passed off as beer, but they, like all of us, were greedy men who knew a captive audience when they saw one. Imagination not being their forte, the theatre owners turned the floor above it into a brothel.
I discovered this on my second visit to the Pav and was thrilled by the revelation. I had spent all of twenty-four hours in Whitechapel, and in my mind had already started to sketch in the details of my planned endeavour. I had decided that there would be four women. Why four? Symmetry perhaps. Four suits to a deck of cards? Four sides to a square? Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Actually, none of these ideas crossed my mind. Some, I understand, after the event, tried to find connections between my work and the doings of the Freemasons, the Anarchists, even members of the Royal Family, for Hell’s sake! None of these things were in my mind in July. I admit, I played around a little, leaving false clues, but these were for my own amusement and had no foundation in political or, the Devil help me, spiritual reflections. So why four? It just felt right.
Four women. I had given some thought to the methods and procedures, but had yet to select my candidates. And I did feel the need for structure here, some element of form. Because all art has form, no matter how loose it may be. When I learned of the brothel above the Pav, some of the pieces of the jigsaw fell into place. I now had a fitting source for my human materials.
Now, dear lady, you may already have surmised an important fact about Yours Truly. That is, I have no desire for women. Indeed, I have no sexual drive whatsoever. I don’t know why this is, and I don’t care. It is not something I ever dwell upon. I know that for generations to come learned men will postulate and ponder, they will probe what they believe to be my mental make-up. But they will not know me as I know myself, no matter how clever those men may be. They will suggest all manner of sexual aberrations, but really, you have to believe me, there is nothing to that theory. And, quite frankly, I could not be more pleased, for what a terrible waste of energy sex is. What purpose does it serve? If you gain no pleasure from it, it is merely an act of procreation, and the last thing the world needs is more children. So I was not in the brothel for the usual reasons. I was there to paint, and to select.
Soon after I stumbled upon the existence of the brothel above the Pav, I made it my business to explore the place. Exploration is key to what I do, an essential discipline that enables me always to keep one step ahead of the police. Careful not to draw attention to myself, I rapidly learned how the upper rooms were laid out and how some of them interconnected. I soon discovered a clever little network of secret passages and escape routes built into the shell of the building.
Now back to Archibald. I met him some two weeks after arriving in Whitechapel. I had been making nightly excursions to the Pav and its brothel. To the girls, I was known as ‘The Painter’, and they all seemed to like me because I never touched them, just sketched. It was a Friday night, growing late. My model was becoming impatient, even though I had paid her twice her normal fee and all she had to do was recline decorously on a chaise. I too began to tire, not of work, but of the woman’s sighs and restlessness. Dropping my pencil on the sketchpad, I tossed her the robe she had arrived in and told her to get out. Angry now, I put the pad and pencil on to the bed and lit a cigarette. Pulling myself up from the chair and shaking my head irritably, I paced over to the door, stepped out on to the broad landing and leaned over the balcony. I could hear the noise from below, every note of the penny opera. It lurched to screeching halt and the Master of Ceremonies bellowed to the crowd: ‘What now, ladies and gentlemen? What now?’
I had seen and heard it all before, of course. I could picture the scene. The Pav’s favourite, Marie Lloyd, would be ready in the wings. I could hear her entrance music. I could picture her striding on to the stage with her umbrella. It would jam and she would declare: ‘Oh, Gawd! I ain’t ’ad it up for ages!’ And there, on cue, came the roar of laughter from the baying crowd. Oh, what simple things can please.
Then I heard a succession of new sounds. A crash, a scream, the blast of a whistle … a police whistle. Peering over the balcony, I caught a glimpse of two constables charging through the main door to the theatre. I turned on my heel and dashed for the door to the room I had rented. Except, in my startled frame of mind, I went for the wrong one and fell into the room next to mine.
I picked myself up and received another surprise when I saw the figures on the bed. Yes, one of them was your beloved husband, my dear lady. He was unaware of the commotion below, lost in his own lusts. But when I charged in, I made such a noise he jumped up, a look of horror on his face. The stupid trollop on the bed, one of the girls I knew, Catherine Eddowes, pulled a sheet up over her scrawny frame.
‘What the hell!’ Archibald blustered.
Ignoring the pair of them, I dashed across the room. Reaching the wall to the right of a small window, I felt along the cheap, lumpy wallpaper. Archibald pulled on his trousers and plucked at his jacket.
‘What’s going on?’
I didn’t even turn round. ‘Coppers,’ I hissed.
‘Oh, fuck!’
Crouching, I found the leading edge of the hidden door in a notch in the skirting. Running one finger up to waist-height, and, a few inches to the left, I found the latch, tugged it and let the door swing out. In a flash, I had crawled into the opening and was about to shut the door again when Archibald pushed himself in after me, almost crushing me against the back wall of the narrow concealed passageway behind the bedroom wall. He just managed to yank the door shut before a loud bang told us the police had reached the landing outside.
In the dark, behind the door, we held our breath. Then, using for cover the noises coming from the room — the door crashing open and the squeals of the prostitute — I groped my way along the hidden corridor. Three steps on, I reached a stone wall and felt the rungs of a short ladder screwed to the masonry. I pulled myself up in the darkness and with my left hand felt above my head for the escape hatch. My hand touched rough wood and I recoiled as a splinter slid under one fingernail. Ignoring the pain, I pushed on the trapdoor and levered it up.
Pulling myself through the opening, I found myself on the roof, the cool night air very welcome after the stifling, airless escape route. I slumped back, panting, against a sloping section of tiles. Archibald’s stocky form appeared, silhouetted against the light from a yellow half-moon. I had forgotten he was behind me. He stumbled upright and took two steps towards me before leaning back against the same section of the incline and pulling a silver cigarette holder from his trouser pocket. I could see his face in the moonlight: round and sheened with sweat, and those black dog-like eyes of his. ‘I think I owe you a drink,’ he said.
Chapter 26
Stepney, Saturday 24 January, 2.30 p.m.
St Aloysius’s
Church on Buckhurst Street, just north of Mile End Road, was a modern concrete building. Pendragon sighed as he stepped out of the car and glanced up at the irregularly shaped stained-glass panels in the window over the entrance. He tilted his head slightly in an effort to understand what the images represented. Giving up, he glanced over at Turner. ‘Not exactly Rheims, is it, Sergeant?’
‘If you say so, sir,’ Turner replied.
‘But isn’t it odd how our ancestors could construct wonderful buildings to honour their God, while today we get monstrosities like this?’ The DCI waved one hand at the church.
‘All about money, I expect, guv.’
‘Yes, Turner. And, of course, the Catholic Church is so poor.’ He shook his head and walked under the low concrete canopy that projected from the bunker-like facade, through a set of double doors and on towards the central aisle. He could see a gaggle of people standing close to the altar, and the door to the vestry stood open inwards. Inspector Towers appeared as Pendragon and Turner arrived at the altar.
‘Another weird one, sir,’ he said.
‘Who are these people?’
‘Members of the Church Council, sir.’
There were two men and two women in the group. The women were sobbing and one of the men was comforting the elder of them. The other man saw Pendragon and stepped forward.
‘I’m the Churchwarden,’ he said. ‘Malcolm Connolly.’ He was a tall, slender man in his fifties, bald but for the tufts of white hair to either side of his head. He was wearing a checked shirt and a brown tie under a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He smelled of pipe tobacco. Connolly offered Pendragon his hand, and the DCI introduced himself. ‘I found the body, with the Old Father,’ the Churchwarden added.
‘The old father?’
‘Sorry. Father Lionel Ahern, retired. He was parish priest here before Father Michael.’
Pendragon nodded. ‘I see. Well, if you could wait here a moment, I would like a word after I’ve seen the crime scene.’
The room was no more than three metres square, wood-panelled and windowless, with two ornate wall lamps illuminating the space. It smelled of incense and the mustiness of the recently deceased. The chair in which the dead priest had been propped up stood in the centre. Mackleby and Vickers were to one side. Dr Jones was leaning over the victim, shining a small torch into the dead eyes.
‘Another fetching tableau to add to the collection,’ he said, without even looking round. ‘Study after Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, I do believe, Pendragon.’
The DCI stared at the corpse. ‘This is getting repetitive,’ he said quietly. ‘So now we have a Francis Bacon to add to the list of dead Surrealists. Marvellous.’ He took a step closer. ‘What have you ascertained?’
‘What? In the ten minutes I’ve been here, Pendragon?’
‘Yes.’
Jones exhaled through his nostrils. ‘Victim is male, aged about fifty-five … sixty. He has a mark on the back of his neck, same as the others.’
‘Time of death?’
‘At least twelve hours ago.’
Pendragon turned to Towers. ‘What’s the victim’s full name?’
‘Father Michael O’Leary.’
‘He’s been dead for twelve hours. How come? When did that chap Connolly get here?’
‘He was only found an hour ago by the retired priest, Father Lionel Ahern, and the Churchwarden.’
‘Where is Father Ahern now?’
Sergeant Mackleby stepped forward. ‘He’s in hospital, guv.’
Pendragon gave her a blank look.
‘He’s in his eighties. Turned up this morning to have his weekly coffee with Father O’Leary but found the vestry door locked. He also noticed that the chair,’ she nodded towards the throne-like seat in which O’Leary’s body was arranged ‘… was missing from its usual place outside. It took him a while to get help from the Churchwarden. He had a spare set of keys and together they found the priest.’
‘And the old man?’
‘Collapsed on the spot. Heart attack. Rushed to the London Hospital.’
Pendragon shook his head. ‘This is turning into a farce,’ he said, exhaling loudly. ‘Okay, Sergeant. I’ll talk to Connolly now.’
Turner and Mackleby interviewed the other members of the Church Council while Pendragon led Malcolm Connolly to one of the pews. ‘Talk me through finding the body,’ he began.
Connolly wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief he had pulled from the top pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This is all a bit of a shock.’
Pendragon grimaced. ‘I understand.’
‘Er, right. Father Ahern knocked on my door about midday. He was in a confused state, the poor chap. He had turned up here at ten, apparently. He has coffee once a week with Father Michael. It’s been a regular date for years, since the new parish priest arrived in 2004. Anyway, he found the vestry locked and noticed that the chair had been moved. He loved that old chair. It was presented to him back in the fifties. He brought it with him to his new church.’
Pendragon nodded.
‘Well, the Old Father is getting on. He went home and sat in front of the fire for a while, trying to work out what had happened and what to do. Eventually he called on me and we came back here together.’
‘I see. You keep the spare keys, I take it?’
‘Yes. Look, Inspector, what is this all about? Michael O’Leary was a good man. He never hurt a soul. Why would anyone do such a thing to him? And why this way? What does it mean?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t yet know, Mr Connolly. But I can assure you, we’ll do everything in our power to find whoever did this.’
Connolly said nothing, just stared at the crucifix hanging above the altar.
‘How long had you known Father O’Leary?’ the DCI asked.
‘Since he arrived here. I started as a Churchwarden at St Aloysius soon after it was built in the late eighties. Moved here from Hong Kong with my late wife. I worked in the Civil Service over there.’
‘Would you say you knew Father O’Leary well?’
‘I suppose so. We saw each other almost every day. I’m retired so I devote a lot of my time to the church. Father Michael was very popular here. Everyone liked him. That is what I find so bizarre. It couldn’t have been an opportunistic murder, could it? This was planned. Father Michael was picked out.’
Pendragon nodded but refrained from comment. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Connolly. My officers may need to ask you a few more questions once they’ve had a chat with the others on the Church Council.’
‘And you will keep us informed, won’t you, Inspector?’
‘We will,’ Pendragon said, and walked back to the altar where Mackleby and Turner were still questioning the three other members. He turned as Jones emerged from the vestry.
‘Usual thing, Pendragon,’ the pathologist said. ‘Get him over to me as soon as the lovely Dr Newman has finished dusting and poking around.’ He nodded and slumped off down the central aisle.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Pendragon said, cutting into Turner’s questions. The sergeant was talking to a short, ginger-haired man with very pale skin and a face spattered with freckles. ‘Sergeant, I’m heading back to the station now. When you’ve finished questioning everyone, come and find me in my office. I have a feeling there’s a long paper trail ahead of us.’
Turner nodded. ‘Okay, guv,’ he said, and carried on with his next question. Pendragon spotted Inspector Towers and called him over. ‘Check out the car park and the main road for any CCTV. You never know, God may send us a miracle.’
Ken Towers gave him a smirk.
‘I want a full report on my desk by four o’clock,’ the DCI added, and the inspector’s face fell.
Pendragon walked slowly towards the main doors. The voices of those standing at the altar reverberated around the room, amplified by the acoustics of the place, but they were nothing but a jumble of disconnected words.
He tuned out and tried to focus on the new facts that had presented themselves. He was so lost in thought that as he emerged from the doors of the church into the car park he almost walked straight into a man wearing a greatcoat and a Chelsea FC bobble hat.
‘DCI Pendragon, no less,’ the man said.
Pendragon looked up, startled for a second, and sighed when he saw the face of the journalist Fred Taylor, his would-be nemesis from a local rag, the Gazette. He was a short, tubby man with a naturally ruddy face coloured further by the cold. He had a large nose that today was also tinged red and he wore round tortoiseshell-framed spectacles. Six months earlier, when Pendragon was dealing with his first case, a serial killer at large in Stepney, Taylor had taken an instant dislike to him and had done everything he could to discredit and embarrass the new DCI, including running a near-libellous piece about how Pendragon’s wife had walked out on him. It had also delved pruriently into the fact that the DCI’s own daughter, Amanda, had disappeared five years before. Beside Fred Taylor was a taller man in an expensive-looking leather coat buttoned up against the cold. He had a Nikon digital camera on a strap about his neck.
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