The Architect of Murder

by Rafe McGregor

  There was a very faint impression where the grass had been trodden recently.

  The constable saw me. “Good evening, sir. Would you be with the inspector?”

  “I am indeed, Constable. Major Marshall.”

  “Very good, sir.” He threw up a salute.

  “Did you pass this way?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Aitken sent me to secure the rear of the premises.”

  “What size boot do you take?”

  He blinked his incomprehension, and then discipline took over. “Size eight, sir.”

  “Thank you.” As I’d suspected, the footprints were his. The ground was too hard to retain impressions visible to the naked eye, and the blades of grass would have resumed their positions had the track not been very recent. I kept my eyes low as I made my way to the far wall, but found nothing else. I observed the premises from the rear, but there was nothing of immediate significance, except that I realised an intruder would have to have entered through either the front or the back door. A climb was out of the question. The kitchen door would be the obvious choice, and had been used according to Mrs Curran’s evidence. I looked over the rear wall into the alley, also without result.

  I retraced my steps and stopped next to the dustbin. It was a large metal receptacle fastened with a catch, but unlocked. I opened the catch and lifted the lid. Inside, on top of the ash, was a heavy, black stick of the kind known as a penang lawyer.

  The rounded silver grip was covered with dried blood.

  6. What the Boy Said

  I took out my handkerchief and used it in lifting the stick, holding it at a point about three inches from the grip. It was heavy, with a flattened silver knob for a handle, and an iron ferrule at the bottom. The wood was from the stem of a miniature palm, hardened by fire and polished smooth. I blew some of the ash from the upper part. The silver had an ‘A’ embossed on it, and the ferrule was worn. I twisted my hand to and fro and examined the wood immediately under the head. There were two fine black hairs stuck in the blood. There was also evidence that the head had been removed — probably to hollow and weight the stick with melted lead — and replaced. I estimated the total length at just over thirty inches.

  I closed the dustbin and took the penang lawyer upstairs to Aitken, requesting he look after it until Truegood was ready. Then I went back down to the first floor and entered the Ilyins’ sitting-room, which was just like Lowenstein’s. The Russians were in their late thirties, both grim-faced and haggard; Mr Ilyin wore a black beard and thick spectacles, and the extreme pallor of Mrs Ilyin’s skin was heightened by her pitch-black hair. Truegood was standing in front of the fireplace, while they sat huddled together on the sofa.

  “That’s what I said. I’m not interested in the Autonomie Club, or your leaflets, or any of that. I want to know what happened here last night.”

  “But we know nothing of this,” said Mr Ilyin.

  “You don’t seem to understand, Lischinsky. I’m not interested in you and your anarchist friends at the moment — but that could all change if you don’t cooperate. I’ll make life very difficult for you and your mates — you know I don’t make idle threats. I might start with that printer’s in Little Goodge Street, or maybe even the grocers in Charlotte Street. The one where your sister works.”

  Mrs Ilyin — or Miss Lischinsky, or whoever she was — turned to Lischinsky and rattled off a short tirade in Russian. The only word I recognised was ‘Melville’.

  “On the other hand, I might just speak to a pal of mine in the Okhrana. We all know they have men in London, and how difficult it is to protect those enclaves that refuse to co-operate with the police… ”

  The Lischinskys looked at one another in fear, and the brother said to Truegood: “We live here because we know we are safe from the Tsarist oppressors, Chief Investigator. We have no wish to bring trouble upon ourselves. Both my sister and I slept soundly last night. We did not hear anything. We did not know anything of the murder until this evening.”

  “What about you?” Truegood pointed at the woman. “What have you got to say?”

  She shook her head, and when she spoke her accent was much thicker than her brother’s. “Nothing, sir. I know nothing of what happened.”

  “You never spoke to Mr Isaacs?” Truegood stabbed at Lischinsky.

  “No, sir, I did not. He was a private individual. My sister and I respected his privacy, and did not encourage any conversation beyond common courtesy.”

  “Right, make sure neither of you leaves here without a forwarding address. Got it?”

  “Yes, I have got it.”

  Truegood jerked his head towards the door and I left. He joined me on the landing. “I found the murder weapon in the dustbin. A penang lawyer, weighted with lead. It’s upstairs with Aitken.”

  “Just like that, in the dustbin?”

  “Take a look for yourself. The silver head is covered in blood, and there are hairs stuck in it. Black hairs, which I’m sure analysis will show to be Lowenstein’s.”

  Truegood was unimpressed.

  At that moment Lizzie came running up the stairs. “Harry’s here. He’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  “We’ll get back to the stick.” Truegood followed the girl. A scruffy lad of about twelve was waiting in the kitchen with his cap held in both hands.

  Truegood smiled for the first time since I’d met him. “Young Harold?”

  “Yessir. Good evenin’, sirs, Lizzie said youse wanted a word with me.”

  Truegood took a shilling from his pocket and began rolling it over the back of his thick fingers. Harry’s head moved forward, his eyes transfixed by the progress of the coin. Truegood suddenly closed his fist over it. “Harry!”

  “Yessir!”

  “You did for Mr Isaacs, the gentleman who lived on the top floor, didn’t you?”

  “Yessir. ’e sent me out to get ’is things for ’im twice a week. Mostly twice a week, but sometimes only once.”

  “Where did he send you?”

  “The tobacconist’s, the chemist, and the post office, sir. I got ’im whatever ’e asked for, sir.”

  “How often did you go to the post office?” I asked before Truegood could say anything.

  “Er… five times, sir. I thinks.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “I posted ’is letters for ’im, sir. Is it true ’e were murdered, sir? It’s a right shame, cos ’e were a real gennelman — always gave me a good tip, ’e did.” He was talking to me, but looking at Truegood’s fist.

  I removed a shilling from my own pocket. “Harry!”

  “Yessir!”

  “You said Mr Isaacs sent you to the post office five times?”

  “Yessir.”

  I kept the coin visible between thumb and forefinger. “Can you remember when he sent you, and what you posted for him?”

  “Nossir. Yessir. I can’t remember when, except that the last time were about three weeks ago. But I know what I posted.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Just one letter, sir.”

  “One letter on each occasion?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Can you remember any of the names or addresses on the letters?” Unlikely, but worth a try.

  “Yessir. Nossir. I can’t remember the addresses, but I can remember the names on all of them.”

  “All of them?” Perhaps my second shilling hadn’t been such a good idea.

  “Yessir. It were the same name on all of them, and I remembered it cos it were funny.”

  I tossed him my coin. “And what was it?”

  “Road, sir. It were road, just like the road what we walks on. But it ’ad lots of letters before and after it, what I didn’t understand. I don’t read so good since I left school…”

  Truegood was weaving the shilling through his fingers again, but didn’t appear to have reacted to the boy’s statement. I took out my notebook and pencil, found a blank page, and wrote: Col. F.W. Rhodes, D.S.O. “Did it look a
nything like that?”

  “Yessir. That were it exactly.”

  “Colonel Frank Rhodes,” I said to Truegood. Rhodes’ oldest brother, Francis William, was also a celebrity. I’d met him in Ladysmith, during the siege, at the beginning of the war.

  Truegood nodded and tossed Harry the second shilling. “We might want to ask you some more questions later, Harry. Where do you live?”

  “Across the street, sir. Number twenty-one.”

  “Off you go then, son.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir.” He dashed from the room, banging the front door closed as he left the house.

  “Time to get back to the Yard,” Truegood said, “so you better show me this stick.”

  We went up to the top floor, passing Collins en route. He was heaving his equipment down the stairs on his own. “All done, sir. Do you want them sent to your office when they’re ready?”

  “No, you’d better send them direct to Mr M.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  Aitken and the constable had begun their search. Truegood took only a quick look at the weapon before placing it inside one of his paper bags. He secured it with a piece of string and attached a label to it. He gave Aitken several more instructions, confirmed that Lowenstein’s money was in the Gladstone, and took the bag and the covered stick with him. The two attendants from the mortuary entered the house as we walked out into the night. A short walk brought us to Tottenham Court Road, where I hailed a cab. Truegood was silent throughout the journey. The driver stopped on the Embankment; we alighted, and I paid and dismissed him.

  Truegood said, “We need to talk,” and stomped off into police headquarters. It was after ten o’clock and, except for two guards, the building was deserted. Truegood had to unlock several doors and switch on electric lights as we went. Our destination was an office about the same size as Melville’s, but apparently shared by at least four detectives.

  I pulled out a chair as Truegood made space on his desk, set down his bag, and removed the penang lawyer from its covering. Then he took an unlabelled bottle of whisky and two dusty glasses from a cabinet. He poured us each a generous measure, resumed his seat, and took a long swallow.

  “Mr M obviously trusts you, Marshall, and you seem to know what you’re doing, so I’ll agree to pool our resources at the moment.” He raised a cautionary finger. “Only because I haven’t got the men I need to investigate this…and because of Mr M.”

  I took a sip of the whisky. It wasn’t bad.

  “Tell me what you deduced from the crime scene,” he asked.

  “Lowenstein was obviously in fear for his life, very possibly in connection with Rhodes’ will. Three months ago he went into hiding. He adopted the name Isaacs and never left the house — not even to go to the tobacconist’s, even though it was only next door. His murder shows his fear was justified. He took three months lodging in Mrs Curran’s anonymous establishment, and sent letters to Colonel Rhodes — perhaps for assistance of some sort. Whatever his plan was — if he had one — it obviously didn’t work, because he found himself there for longer than the three months.”

  I paused to take another sip of whisky.

  “Yesterday, someone caught up with him. Perhaps the murderer or a private detective making inquiries. Somehow the man discovered where Lowenstein was. The girl could have given it away, or he could have seen him at the window from the back — it doesn’t matter. Early this morning, the murderer gained access to the premises. Again, I’m not quite sure how, but he entered and went up to Lowenstein’s room without disturbing the household. Not only was he known to Lowenstein, but the clerk didn’t consider his visitor a physical threat — he would have tried to raise the alarm in either case. At some point the murderer hit him in the temple with that.” I pointed to the stick. “He must have made a search of the rooms to find Lowenstein’s papers and money, although he was apparently not interested in the latter. You haven’t told me what those documents were, or how much money there was.”

  “Thirty-seven pounds, eight shillings, and four and a half pence. I haven’t examined them in any great detail, but the documents appear to be a letter of appointment from a manager at Wernher, Beit and Company dated 1896, and correspondence with a Miss Crawford beginning two years ago. The most recent was a letter from his parents, who live in Kimberley, wherever that is. It was dated the end of March, and mentioned Rhodes’ death.”

  “Kimberley is a diamond mining town in the Cape Colony. It’s where Rhodes made his first fortune. Were the letters all addressed to Lowenstein in Cape Town?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know he went into hiding in the first week of May, but remind me when he arrived in England,” I asked.

  “The end of April. Hold on.” Truegood rummaged through the folders and papers on his desk until he found the right one. “Yeah, the twenty-sixth of April.”

  “He wasn’t here very long before he went into hiding. To return to the crime: the murderer found the money and documents, and possibly removed one or more of the latter. Then he left the house by the back door, decided he didn’t want to walk the streets with a bloodied stick, and deposited the weapon in the dustbin. He probably hopped over the wall into the back-alley, and made good his escape on foot. Unless that’s what we’re meant to believe, and it was in fact the Ilyins — the Russians — who manufactured the scene of the offence to lead us astray.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with Grigor and Varya Lischinsky.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re anarchists, on our watch list.”

  I shrugged. “Lowenstein could have taken a liking to the lady, and the brother might have been jealous. Most murders are committed by friends or family of the victim —”

  “I’m well aware of criminal procedure and theory, thank you,” Truegood cut me off, “but it’s bloody unlikely. We suspect them of being Okhrana agents, planted to infiltrate the expatriate anarchist community. I doubt they would draw attention to themselves like this. Not unless they wanted to end up the same way, either at the hands of the nihilists or their colleagues.”

  “But when you mentioned the Okhrana — ”

  “It’s called double bluff, Marshall. The purpose of the part of the interrogation you heard was to reassure them that I didn’t know they were Okhrana agents.”

  He obviously wasn’t as stupid as he looked. “Is there anything else I should know before we continue?” I asked.

  “I’m not going to tell you any more than necessary. Right now, that’s it. Where would you start looking for the murderer?”

  “Two places. Drayton and the weapon; Drayton has been looking for Lowenstein. Perhaps he — or an agent in his employ — found him. And the stick is a good place to start.”

  “Is it?” Truegood was sceptical.

  “Yes. The stick tells us several things about the murderer: he is shorter than you and I, he received it as a gift some time ago from someone he was attached to and he leads a dangerous lifestyle.”

  “Even if you’re right, it hardly narrows it down, does it? You and I are both tall, so all you’ve identified is a man of average height. The stick is worn, so he’s had it a while. He had it weighted rather than change it for another one, so it has sentimental value to him and he needs a weapon he can carry unobtrusively. Obviously he needs a weapon, he’s a bloody murderer, isn’t he? What about the letter engraved on the head?”

  “Either his own initial or that of the person who gave it to him.”

  “You’re doing a great job, Marshall. Come on, drink up, let’s go and feel the killer’s collar now!”

  I wondered how long I was going to have to put up with this. “So you don’t think that finding the murder weapon is any use?”

  “It’s only use is in court, once we’ve already got hold of our villain. It won’t lead us to him.”

  I was starting to get angry. “What will? What do you intend to do?”

  “I’ve three leads to follow. Drayton first,
then the fella that was nosing about. It sounds to me like he might be a Family man.”

  “A family man?”

  “Local criminal fraternity. Could be Hoxton, Westminster, or the East End. I’ll send Lamb round first thing tomorrow to see if he can get any more from the Currans. We’ll go and see Drayton together, so you can renew your acquaintance. But before we do that, I’ve a job for you.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The third lead, Colonel Rhodes.”

  “Do you want me to wire him?”

  “No, I want you to visit him.”

  “I’m not going back to the Cape on some wild goose chase.”

  “No, you’re going to the Langham Hotel.”

  “What for?”

  “Colonel Rhodes is there. He arrived with Viscount Kitchener last month. He’s in the Prince of Wales’ procession on Saturday.”

  7. Colonel Frank Rhodes

  I breakfasted even earlier on Thursday morning, in the hope of finding Colonel Rhodes before he left his hotel. Truegood had arranged an appointment with Drayton at Devonshire House for noon, and Carey had invited me to dinner at the Travellers Club for eight. I’d not intended to do anything so cordial as dine with Carey, but it seemed the most expeditious method of securing an audience. Before I left, I telephoned Miss Paterson, who very kindly agreed to meet me at Ellen’s house tomorrow. I took the first cab in the queue, instructed the driver to take me to the Langham, and flicked through the morning’s Times. I read of the King’s return from Cowes, and the restoration of his health on the Isle of Wight following his emergency operation at the end of June. After waiting so long to ascend the throne, Albert — or Edward, as he chose to be crowned — had been required to delay his coronation while he convalesced.

  There was no further mention of Rhodes’ will.

  Our progress was slow, a phenomenon I was quickly coming to expect of any horse-drawn journey through London, and my thoughts turned to Colonel Rhodes.

  He’d been commissioned in the First Royal Dragoons and served with distinction in several campaigns in India and Africa. He’d also invested in diamonds and gold with his brother, and conspired in the illegal invasion of the South African Republic — more commonly known as the Jameson Raid — in the last week of 1895. Dr Jameson and Sir John Willoughby had led a column of five hundred British South Africa Company Police — which included the recently incorporated Bechuanaland Police contingent — and eight Maxim guns into the SAR. Meanwhile Colonel Rhodes had led an uprising against Paul Kruger’s Boer government in Johannesburg. Four days later, after a small skirmish, Jameson surrendered. Colonel Rhodes hung on for a few more days then also capitulated, completing the farce.