The Architect of Murder

by Rafe McGregor

  The Architect of Murder

  Rafe McGregor

  © Rafe McGregor 2017

  Rafe McGregor has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2009 by Robert Hale.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1. A Vision in Violet

  2. The King’s Detective

  3. Henry Marshall, Esquire

  4. Murder in Bohemia

  5. The Penang Lawyer

  6. What the Boy Said

  7. Colonel Frank Rhodes

  8. Doctor Morgan Drayton

  9. Lieutenant Francis Carey

  10. Confession of Faith

  11. Hugh Armstrong, Esquire

  12. Death by Misadventure

  13. Agent Provocateur

  14. Intrigue at the Zoological Gardens

  15. The Holme

  16. The Doctor’s Revelation

  17. The Maltese Tiger

  18. Devil’s Acre

  19. The Colonial Secretary’s Accident

  20. The Shikari’s Lair

  21. The Russian Connection

  22. Monument

  23. Empire Day

  24. Rendezvous in Shad Thames

  25. The Empire Loyalist League

  26. Cat-and-Mouse

  27. Supper at Simpson’s

  28. A Riverside Duel

  29. The Seventh Conspirator

  30. Doctor Leander Starr Jameson

  Epilogue

  1. A Vision in Violet

  I’m not sure why I decided to return to London when I did.

  I learned of Ellen’s accident the day before the Boer surrender, more than a week after her death. I resigned my commission forty-eight hours later, but by the time I boarded the Union and Castle steamer in Cape Town, it was already six weeks after her funeral at St James’ Church, in Piccadilly. There was no practical reason to come back, and certainly no need to have left in such haste. Perhaps it was because I was sick of the war and wanted to get as far away from it as possible. No matter my motivation, the two day delay at Freetown had been intolerable, and I couldn’t wait to disembark at Southampton. Now, on my second morning in London, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.

  After an early breakfast, I was toying with yesterday’s Times, rereading Mr G.E. Buckle’s call for ‘officers’ diaries to shed further light on the military operations of the war’. My finances were in a dire state, and even though I’d selected a modest establishment in the Windsor Hotel, I would shortly require an income of sorts. What with my Victoria Cross at Ladysmith, and the lengthy service of my adopted regiment, I was sure Mr Buckle would accept a submission. He might even offer a small advance, which would be most welcome. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to talk about the war, let alone have my experiences laid bare before hundreds of thousands of readers.

  A knock at the door interrupted my contemplation.

  I opened it to find the hotel’s upper-attendant accompanied by a smartly attired young woman about ten years my junior — nineteen, or twenty at the most. She was pretty, with fair hair a shade darker than mine, a pert mouth and a button nose. Very pretty, actually.

  “Excuse me, sir, but you have a visitor. Miss Paterson is the lady’s name.”

  “Thank you, Green.”

  He left us and Miss Paterson stepped forward and offered a gloved hand. “Captain Marshall?”

  I took it gently, but she squeezed very tight. “Yes, I’m Alec Marshall. Miss Roberta Paterson?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “No, the pleasure’s mine, Miss Paterson. I only arrived in London yesterday and I intended to call on you this afternoon to thank you for your kindnesses. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the hotel parlour?”

  “I would not.”

  A New Woman, just like Ellen. “Then please come in and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some refreshment?” I asked as she entered my small sitting-room.

  “No, thank you.”

  I admired her violet tailored suit and velvet hat with a black feather as she arranged herself in an armchair with small, prim movements. I closed the door and sat in the other chair. “Thank you very much for the telegram — and the letter that followed.”

  “I’m so sorry to have had to resort to such an impersonal, brutal method, but I thought you’d rather know as soon as possible.”

  “There was nothing brutal or impersonal about it at all. You did receive my reply? It took a while for the wire to reach me; I was on patrol in the veldt.”

  “Yes, I did. But there was something I didn’t tell you in the letter. Something that I need to tell you in person.”

  Her creamy complexion became flushed, and despite the painful subject matter, I couldn’t help noticing how attractive the sudden display of emotion made her look. “Then please tell me now.”

  She sat up very straight, and took a deep breath to steady herself. “I think Ellen was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” I was completely dumbfounded.

  “Yes, well, maybe… no — oh, I don’t know! It was all wrong. It should have been referred to the police. What happened wasn’t… it wasn’t right… that’s all I can say.”

  “You have some evidence of this?”

  “I knew you were going to say something like that. It’s so typical of a man, all intellect and no intuition. Have you any idea how accomplished a rider your sister was? You may take that as your first piece of evidence if you insist.”

  “When Ellen visited me in Natal the last year before the war, she rode better than me. I take it she didn’t ride side-saddle in London, either?”

  “Certainly not. And you are perfectly correct, she rode as well as any man — better than most. That’s why I can’t believe she fell off and broke her neck — it’s balderdash! She loved animals, and she knew everything there was to know about horses. Ellen was a veterinary surgeon, after all.”

  I still wasn’t sure what to say, so I held my tongue and nodded, hoping not to offend Miss Paterson by my lack of commitment.

  “It doesn’t make any sense, Ellen falling off while cantering in Regent’s Park. Nonsense, utter nonsense.” She shook her head so vigorously, I feared she’d dislodge her hat.

  I said nothing for a few moments, choosing my next words carefully. “One of my men, Sergeant Dicks, was with me for the last eighteen months of the war. He was in the thick of it at Groenkop, Kalkkrans, and a dozen skirmishes — maybe more — all without a scratch. Five days after the Treaty of Vereeniging was signed his horse was startled by a snake. It reared up, he was thrown, and the fall broke his back. Dicks had spent his whole life in the saddle. These things… they happen.” I tailed off.

  She bridled instantly. “Captain Marshall, you are speaking to me as if I were a child. I am quite twenty-one and I know much more about life than you give me credit for.”

  I raised my palms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s the last thing I wish.”

  “Well, you have. And you didn’t let me finish. It’s not just Ellen’s proficiency in the saddle that makes her death suspicious, it’s who she was with when it happened.”

  “Lieutenant Francis Carey?”

  “Yes, exactly!”

  She spoke as if it ought to mean something to me, but it didn’t. Yesterday, out of curiosity, I’d looked him up in Who’s Who. Born in ’sixty-eight in Charlestown, Nevis; he’d served with the West India Regiment in Africa, been mentioned in despatches in Gambia in ’ninety-two, then left the army to hunt professionally. Carey was renowned as the most successful heavy g
ame hunter in the Empire, he was a Fellow of the Zoological Society of London, and frequent donor to the Zoological Gardens. Ellen had been the assistant to the veterinary surgeon at the zoo, so I’d assumed that was where she’d made his acquaintance. “The shikari?” I asked.

  “You don’t take him seriously either, do you?”

  “I can’t see how Carey is significant to Ellen’s accident, no. Is he?”

  “Yes, of course he is. Lieutenant Carey may be an officer, but he’s no gentleman. The man’s a complete blackguard. A rake, a criminal, and it’s even rumoured a traitor as well.”

  “Really?”

  She added gesticulation to her nodding, becoming more impassioned as she continued. “Yes, yes! You wouldn’t know, living in the colonies, but Lieutenant Carey has a dreadful reputation in London. He’s very secretive about his family and it’s said he worked on an illegal slaver as a youth. He’s believed to sell his skills as a shootist to anyone who’s unscrupulous and wealthy enough to employ him. He’s even rumoured to have worked for the Russians in Afghanistan — Lord Curzon expelled him from India.”

  If any of that were true then he obviously wasn’t the sort of man I’d like my sister to have passed the time of day with, but it was hardly enough to suspect him of murder. “No, I knew nothing of his character,” was all I could say.

  “You don’t think it’s relevant?”

  “I…why would he want to kill Ellen? I assume — I hope — they weren’t close.”

  “Of course they weren’t — and what’s that got to do with the price of tea in China!”

  “Unless he’s possessed of some sort of homicidal mania, he would need a reason to murder. If he is a lunatic, he’s unlikely to have killed in a manner so subtle as to evade detection. Assuming he isn’t, he therefore must have stood to gain from Ellen’s death. Cui bono is the first rule of a murder investigation. The second is that most people are murdered by relatives or close friends rather than strangers.”

  “How horrid. No, Ellen certainly wasn’t close to Lieutenant Carey. He’s a Fellow of the Zoological Society, that’s where she met him. He captures wild animals for the zoo.”

  “Had Ellen been riding with Carey before?” I asked.

  “Once, I think, some time ago, but this was the first time they had been out alone. He asked Ellen the day before, on the Wednesday.”

  “She told you this?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Ellen was amused. She thought he had an ulterior motive, but couldn’t work out what it was.”

  “Not that he had… intentions… honourable or otherwise?”

  “Well, they were hardly likely to be honourable with Lieutenant Carey. I’ve already told you the man is a Lothario.”

  “So why did Ellen accept?”

  “Isn’t that obvious? She was curious.”

  I wasn’t convinced there’d been any foul play, even if Carey was the Devil incarnate. “Miss Paterson, I know Ellen was your very dear friend, but — ”

  “I’m not finished yet,” she declared. “The inquest was incredibly quick. Ellen died on Thursday evening; the coroner’s court was on Monday. He recorded a verdict of death by misadventure on the same day.”

  “I’m surprised there was even an inquest. My father has a considerable amount of money and influence, and I’d have expected him to exert himself in order to avoid any hint of a scandal. Not that I’m suggesting there was anything untoward, but if Carey has such a poor reputation, then I don’t expect my father would’ve wanted it known that Ellen was alone with him.”

  “It was your father who insisted upon the inquest.”

  I doubted it. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “Did Carey give evidence?”

  “Yes, he was the only witness.”

  “In Regent’s Park, on a May evening?”

  “They were riding in the grounds of The Holme. Ellen had permission to ride all over the park. She was so popular; everyone knew she was the real surgeon, not that disgusting Mr Gibbs. People even called her Doctor Marshall out of respect. She was a celebrity in her own right… such a lovely… ” Miss Paterson faltered and her eyes misted. She dabbed them delicately with a handkerchief and continued. “It was twilight when she — when he killed her.”

  I sat back in the chair and stroked my moustache, thinking aloud. “You want me to do something about this?”

  “Really, Captain Marshall, your attitude is disgraceful! I was under the impression you loved your sister.” She jumped to her feet. “You ought to be ashamed. Ellen spoke of you every single time we met. The day your Victoria Cross was announced was the happiest of her life, even more than her qualification as a veterinary surgeon. You were the world to her, and I’d expected you to display at least a modicum of brotherly love in return. Good day, I shall see myself out.”

  “Wait!” I stood up and she turned back to face me.

  “I’m not accustomed to being spoken to like a servant.”

  I noticed that her eyes were a very dark blue. Exactly the same as my own, except they were burning with a fierce intensity where mine seemed to have lost their lustre of late. I looked down into them without saying anything, but she held my gaze defiantly. “Please accept my sincere apologies. I was only considering how best to set about my inquiries.”

  Her demeanour changed instantly. “You agree with me! You think the lieutenant murdered her?”

  “I haven’t formed an opinion yet, Miss Paterson, but from what you’ve told me it’s obvious that I need to find out what happened for myself. You may rest assured I’ll pursue the matter until I discover the truth. So, once again, please accept my thanks.”

  “I don’t suppose I can ask more than that.”

  “Please sit down. Won’t you have a cup of coffee — or tea?”

  “No thank you. I’m on my way to work. That’s why I called so early.”

  “How did you find me so soon?” I’d been meaning to ask for some time.

  She smiled, and was beautiful with it. “I’m a journalist, Captain Marshall. It’s my job to find things out.”

  “A journalist?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “You disappoint me, sir. I expected you to be at ease with professional women. Do we intimidate you?”

  “No, I’ve met several lady journalists, just none who are ‘quite twenty-one’.” She coloured again. “And, while it’s very kind of you to address me as ‘captain’, I don’t use my rank anymore. I’m not in the Reserve or on half-pay, I’ve left for good. May I show you out?”

  “You may.”

  We descended the stairs. “With your permission, I’ll call on you tomorrow. You’re in Wimpole Street in Marylebone, aren’t you?”

  “Why not telephone instead?”

  “Er… yes, I shall. How will I find your… number?”

  “In the London telephone directory.” She pointed at the reception counter. “There’s one over there.”

  I’d not used a telephone before, but I didn’t want to reveal my ignorance. “Would you like me to hail you a cab?”

  “That won’t be necessary, I instructed my driver to wait.” She held her hand out again, and we shook. “Good morning, Mister Marshall, we’ll speak tomorrow.”

  “Good day, Miss Paterson.”

  I watched her leave. She hadn’t convinced me that Ellen had been murdered, nor even that Carey was a rogue. I imagined it would be very easy to acquire an evil reputation in the stifling formality of London society — particularly if one was used to the relative freedom of the colonies, as I was. There was only one fact that didn’t ring true, and that was my father’s conduct; requesting a public inquiry was completely out of character for him.

  I took out my watch: a quarter to nine.

  I’d spent the whole of Tuesday attending to the routine matters that must naturally accompany a return to one’s native land after an absence of eleven years, including a visit
to Ellen’s solicitors; she’d appointed me her executor, but I’d been told that the earliest I could be accommodated with an appointment was next Wednesday. I’d made every excuse to put off a visit to my father, and was relieved at another reason to procrastinate; in any event it was too late in the morning to find him at home as he’d probably already be on his way to the City. My only other plans for the day involved placing a fresh bouquet of flowers on Ellen’s grave, but I decided it was time Carey and I met.

  I knew he kept rooms off Grosvenor Square and was a member of the Travellers Club. I was wondering which address would be the better to leave word for him when I noticed the telephone directory and thought I should familiarise myself with — what was for me — the latest technology. I approached the counter at the same time as another chap, a tall man with a fine set of moustaches.

  As I picked up the directory, the stranger spoke to Green. “Good mornin’, I’m lookin’ for Major Marshall. I’m — ”

  “I’m Marshall.”

  “Good day, sir,” he saluted. “I’m Sergeant Lamb, from Scotland Yard. Superintendent Melville sends his compliments, and requests the pleasure of your company.” He produced a card from his coat pocket and handed it to me. It read: William Melville, Superintendent, Criminal Investigations Department.

  “And when would Superintendent Melville like to see me?”

  “As soon as is convenient, sir. He instructed me to wait.”

  “You mean now?”

  “If that’s convenient, sir,” he said with a grin.

  I removed my homburg from the hat-stand. “It is. Lead the way.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  What could the King’s Detective possibly want with me, I wondered.

  2. The King’s Detective

  Lamb had a hansom waiting outside; apparently everyone did this morning. We set off up Victoria Street, our progress extremely slow in the heavy traffic. The first thing I’d noticed upon my return was how much more crowded the streets were than in the summer of ’ninety-one. It was the noise that alerted me to it, the continual clatter of hooves and wheels on the granite sett. I was sure there were more omnibuses, carriages, and carts competing for the same space. The second thing I’d noticed was the dirt. Not so much the filth on the streets — they were in fact cleaner than I remembered — but in the air. I felt as if I could taste the dust and the smoke of kitchen and factory fires in the close, cloying atmosphere.