The Architect of Murder

by Rafe McGregor

  “It is.”

  “So Rhodes was a Freemason?”

  “He was initiated at Oriel College, Oxford, on the 2nd June 1877, which is when he wrote the first draft of that, but he didn’t take his membership very seriously. The Masons were his inspiration, but the Society of Jesus — better known as the Jesuits — was the organisation he wished to imitate.”

  I didn’t know very much about the Jesuits, other than that they were a group of missionaries within the Roman Catholic Church who had a strong focus on education — which tied in with Rhodes’ colonial scholarships. “That was twenty-five years ago; did Rhodes still feel the same way when he died?”

  “Exactly, but he used the euphemism ‘Imperial Party’ instead. Once his final bid to return to the premiership of the Cape Colony failed in ninety-eight, he devoted the rest of his life to what he called ‘the Idea’, and selecting the right men to rule the Empire.”

  “An Empire that he wanted to cover the whole world?”

  “Yes. Rhodes literally wanted the entire world to be ruled by one great, big British Empire administered as a federation. He went into more detail than that,” Melville indicated the Confession with his cigar, “even suggesting that Germany and America were too powerful to conquer by force, and should be infiltrated by Empire loyalists using the scholarship system. He envisaged it would take the society two hundred years before the British Empire and the world were one and the same.”

  That was what disturbed me most about the Confession and the secret society. It was not the raving of a madman. The Idea was real. It had been logically constructed, carefully considered, and meticulously planned. “Does that mean all six of the 1899 executors supported the idea of a secret society?”

  “At the time, yes. I know Milner approves of the Idea and Jameson’s support goes without saying. I’m not sure how Beit, Grey, and Rosebery stand, but until I have evidence to the contrary, I regard them as sympathisers.”

  “Knowing what I do about Drayton, Jameson, and Rhodes, I’m not shocked by any of this. I assume the next thing you’re going to tell me is that the society was actually formed some time in the last twenty-five years?”

  “As you’ll have gathered my intelligence comes from several very highly-placed sources. This is strictly between you and me: I have been told that the Society of the Elect was established by Mr Rhodes and Lord Milner during a meeting at one of the university colleges in Oxford early in 1891. Both Mr Rhodes and Lord Milner are of course graduates of the university. I have no confirmation of the identities of any other members.”

  “Lowenstein’s murder is probably concerned with the money rather than the society.” I tossed the four sheets onto Melville’s desk.

  “Good fellow. I recruited you to bring me intelligence on Drayton. That won’t be possible for a while, but in the mean time I should like you to solve Lowenstein’s murder. Use Truegood and his resources, and your own skills. Superintendent Alexander seemed to think you made an excellent detective, so I want you to prove him right and give Truegood his arrest.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will. Now, it’s extremely late and you still have to get back to your hotel. You mentioned another matter?”

  “I’m not going to beat about the bush: you’re aware of the circumstances of my sister’s death at the end of May; I’d like to have a look at the police and coroner’s reports.”

  “You suspect foul play and you wish to make your own investigation?”

  “I’m not sure of my answer to either of those questions. Let me put it this way, I’d like to reassure myself that no one was to blame.”

  Melville placed his cigar in the ash-receiver. “Very good, I’ll have the files sent here first thing tomorrow.” I stood and he came over to shake my hand again. “Thank you again for your assistance, and good luck.”

  “Goodnight, Melville.”

  11. Hugh Armstrong, Esquire

  I rose at six-thirty, only four hours after falling asleep. The staff at the hotel were prepared for my early breakfasts, so I was sitting in the parlour with the Times when Truegood appeared just after half-past eight. I followed him to a waiting cab, remembering to take my stick today, as befitted a gentleman stepping out in town. He said nothing for the first few minutes of our journey to the Arundel, so I occupied myself with observing the final preparations for the coronation procession. All of the stands, most with canvas roofs, had been erected, but decorations were still being added. In Whitehall we passed under an arch which had been especially put up, apparently by a Canadian concern as the large letters read: Canada: Kitchener: Hero in War and Peace. There was a huge portrait of Queen Alexandra on the left and King Edward on the right.

  Colonel Rhodes had served under Kitchener at Omdurman, which was the latter’s great victory in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, directly after which he’d been created Baron Kitchener of Khartoum and Aspall. I remembered that Rhodes and Kitchener had both been awarded honorary degrees by Oxford University before the war started, and apparently become friends in the last years of Rhodes’ life. I’d met Kitchener once, when he’d pinned the VC on my chest at a parade in Bloemfontein. He’d been aloof and emotionless, much as I’d expected. Like Milner, he’d also collected a group of younger men around him, called his ‘band of boys’. Kitchener and Milner had negotiated the terms of the peace treaty with the Boers together. Milner not only wanted unconditional capitulation, but the complete eradication of the Boer cultural identity, something like the English tried in the Highlands after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion in 1745. It was Kitchener who was the more conciliatory of the two, which said a lot about Milner.

  “There’s something I want to tell you.” Truegood broke in on my thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  He leant out the cab to make sure the driver was where he was supposed to be — behind and above us — and then glanced at the trapdoor to make sure it was shut. When Truegood was satisfied, he continued. “It’s probably nothing, but if we’re working together — if you’re working for me — then I believe in sharing everything that’s relevant. But this is confidential, got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s about the wideawake hat.”

  “The one the murderer was wearing?”

  “I don’t bloody know, do I, or I’d be feeling his collar. Someone’s wideawake hat and there aren’t many people who wear them. Not many Englishmen anyway. On the seventh of July Mr Chamberlain, the Colonial Secretary — ”

  “I know who Chamberlain is.”

  “Mr Chamberlain, who was chairing the Colonial Conference at the time, was involved in an accident, just here.”

  “Where?”

  “The Canadian Arch, the one we just passed through… You know, big sign saying ‘Canada’ on it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Christ, you’re not too quick on the uptake are you? Chamberlain was in a hansom and the horse slipped and fell. He was shaken up and the window shattered, the result being he received a bad scalp wound and had to be taken straight to hospital. It was two weeks before he got back to his conference with the colonial premiers — who were all here for the coronation, by the way. At the beginning of this year we received intelligence that Chamberlain was a target for anarchist groups, because of his involvement in the war, so Mr M sent me to investigate.

  “There were surprisingly few witnesses given the location of the incident, but it all seemed above board. I spoke to the driver, an American called Thomas Stringer, who lived in Blackfriars Road. He’d only been working for the company for a fortnight, but there was nothing suspicious — until I went back a couple of days later.”

  “Why did you go back?” I asked.

  “Just a routine visit. Something I always do, you never know what you’ll find. And what do you think I found?”

  His unpleasant personality aside, Truegood was indeed thorough. “No Stringer,” I suggested.

  “Exactly, no Stringer. So I checked the referees
he’d given the Improved Cab Company and neither of them existed either. I couldn’t find any other record of the fella. He’d rented the rooms a month in advance, but only moved in shortly before taking work as a driver. Nobody knew anything about him and I was inclined to think he’d never existed. Mr M said to leave it at the time, and file it away for future reference. There was bugger all to go on, anyway, but this Stringer, he wore a wideawake hat. Had it on when the accident happened. I know, probably nothing, but there it is.” Truegood looked belligerent, as if daring me to contradict him.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Average height, average build, tanned skin — early forties according to his papers. Brown hair with a big set of mutton-chop whiskers like some old Crimea veteran. Seemed co-operative enough and there was no reason to bother him again, aside from it being my habit.”

  “Did you notice his ears?”

  “His ears, what are you on about?”

  “The ears are the most difficult part of the face to disguise.”

  “No, I didn’t notice his bloody ears. Does anyone?”

  “Not usually, no. If Stringer was an agent in someone’s employ, then I suppose it’s possible that the same man could have been used to kill Lowenstein. There are many ties between Rhodes and Chamberlain. I’ll keep Stringer in mind.”

  Truegood grunted a reply and we lapsed into silence.

  If someone adopted a disguise, one wouldn’t expect them to wear such a striking form of headgear, unless they were deliberately trying to draw attention to themselves. On the other hand, many agents and spies used the same disguises and ruses over and over again, such as keeping the same initials or first name. Stringer, or whoever he really was, probably had nothing to do with Lowenstein, but I was glad Truegood had told me about him.

  The Strand was absolutely packed, heaving and surging with horse-drawn and pedestrian traffic like a great asthmatic chest straining to draw breath. As I spent more time travelling about London, I began to notice something else that bothered me far more than the pollution in the air: the signs of widespread poverty. It wasn’t something I recalled from my youth, but then I’d not been brought up to consider the poor as anything other than too lazy or stupid to be anything else. Now, I noticed the men whose knees showed through worn trousers, and the children who went barefoot, and would continue to do so in the winter. If only Rhodes had turned his energy and ability to improving the lot of those within the Empire, rather than conquering those without; unfortunately, men like him never did.

  Eventually, we passed Somerset House. Just before we entered the territory of the Inns of Court, we turned off down Arundel Street, towards the river. The driver halted outside the hotel, and waited for us. Like the Windsor, the Arundel was a family, rather than a grand, establishment, which made a refreshing change after the Langham, Devonshire House and the Travellers Club. It was well-appointed in terms of furnishings, and the maintenance and service left nothing to be desired. A smart attendant escorted us to Armstrong’s sitting-room without delay.

  He was waiting impatiently, despite the fact that we were a minute before time. “Yes, yes, I know who they are.” He dismissed our escort. “Now what the hell do you want with me, Inspector, Major — whoever’s in charge?”

  Truegood said nothing.

  Armstrong was a short, thin young man, with fiery red hair and a long, skinny neck. He approached Truegood, changed his mind, and turned to me. “Are you deaf, man?”

  I stared down at him. “No.”

  “What the bloody hell do you want? If I’ve the courtesy to spare a vulgar policeman and an unemployed soldier my time, I expect them not to waste it.”

  “Then perhaps you should address Inspector Truegood; he’s in charge of the investigation,” I said.

  “Well?” he turned on Truegood.

  Truegood’s bulk seemed even greater, in such close proximity to the little man. He waited three seconds before saying, “I’ve some questions to ask you in relation to a murder investigation.”

  “I’ll charge you to keep a civil tongue in your head!” Armstrong poked Truegood’s massive chest. “Do you know who I am? Viscount Milner’s private secretary and Baron Rothschild’s guest, and I’ll have you walking the beat in Whitechapel if you don’t hurry up about it.”

  “I don’t care who you are. If you touch me again I’ll rip your fucking head off your pencil neck and use it for football practice.”

  “That’ll cost you dearly, Truegood, mark my words!” Armstrong was fuming, but he lowered his hands and edged backwards.

  Wisely, in my opinion.

  “That’s better. Where were you on Wednesday morning, between midnight and dawn?”

  “This is — ”

  “Mr Armstrong!” I snapped, “Just answer the inspector’s questions. Then we can be on our way and you can make your complaints.”

  He cursed under his breath and stormed off to the other side of the room, where he kept his back to us and looked out the window. “Is this about Lowenstein?”

  “Yeah,” said Truegood.

  I made myself comfortable in a chair.

  Armstrong turned theatrically, glowered at me, and said, “I was at a banquet in the Middle Temple until half-past twelve. Then I returned here alone and went to bed, as is customary in the early hours of the morning. What else?”

  “Have you been looking for Lowenstein?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It is no business of yours because it has absolutely nothing to do with his death. I know much more about your job and powers than you do, Inspector, and I know what questions I do and do not have to answer.”

  “Don’t bother, Armstrong,” I said. “We know why you were sent to London and we know why you wanted to find Lowenstein. Milner and his cronies aren’t very happy about Rhodes’ will, are they? They’ve contested the final amendment and Lowenstein and Drayton were required to authenticate the signature. Lowenstein disappeared and Drayton has been trying to find him ever since. Milner sent you to find out what had caused the delay — or perhaps in sending you he had a more permanent obstruction in mind?”

  “What do you think you are insinuating?”

  “It’s very much in Milner’s interest that neither Lowenstein nor Drayton returns to Cape Town,” I answered coolly.

  “This is libel, Major! I shall ensure that you never again hold the King’s commission.”

  “How did you know Lowenstein was dead?” Truegood asked.

  “Because I read the newspapers. Are you capable of reading, I wonder?”

  “I’m impressed, Armstrong. You must be a spiritualist, or how else did you know Otto Isaacs was Eric Lowenstein?”

  “Because I have a private agent in my employ assisting me in my search. A former police inspector himself, your superior in all sorts of ways.”

  “Name?”

  “Mr Maurice Moser, of Southampton Street, Covent Garden.”

  “Just the one?”

  “What?”

  “Is Moser the only private agent in your employ, or have you recruited others. It’s not difficult, is it?”

  “I’m going to enjoy tearing your career to shreds, strip by bloody strip. No, I did not employ any other agents. Mr Moser was conducting inquiries on the lowest levels of society — the ones with which you are familiar — I was conducting those among the respectable classes myself.”

  “When did Moser find Lowenstein?”

  “After his death.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “I will.”

  “Why do you think Lowenstein was in hiding?” I asked.

  “Contrary to your Neanderthal colleague’s opinion, I am unable to contact the dead, and have none of the intimate knowledge of Lowenstein’s character that would entitle me to an opinion.”

  “Perhaps he was hiding from you?” I offered.

  “Perhaps he was hiding from the Devil
, and the Devil found him.” His smile was full of malice.

  “How long are you going to be in London?” Truegood asked.

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “I’ll need to know when you leave, unless you want to be considered a suspect. A suspect with an alibi that’s a cock and bull story.”

  He didn’t deign to reply. “Does that conclude our interview?”

  “One more thing,” I said, “do you possess a cane?”

  “Of course I have a cane — in fact two of them!”

  “I’d like to see both.”

  He cursed again, threw the door open, and charged into his bedroom. A few seconds later he emerged and hurled a slim rosewood cane at me.

  I leapt to my feet and caught it. The stick was thin and light, with a silver fluted cross-head, and a horn ferrule. I raised it level with both hands and then placed it on the ground. “Where’s the other one?”

  “I’ve no bloody idea! Satisfied?”

  I flicked the cane over to him. He reached, fumbled, and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Truegood and I both turned to go.

  “When I see Baron Rothschild tomorrow, this little meeting will make a charming anecdote at the dinner table. I’ll be sure to mention both your names.”

  Truegood opened the door for me. As soon as I’d stepped out he addressed Armstrong. “If I return to my old beat in Whitechapel, you’d better make sure I never see you there. I know some people who enjoy a grim taste in footballs.” He closed the door behind him.

  “That went well,” I said as we returned to the hansom.

  “I don’t need any of your lip on top of that uppity cove.”

  “No, I’m being serious.”

  “I’m off to see Moser. Coming?”

  “Could you drop me off at the Yard?”

  He barked at the driver and the cab lurched forward. “Moser is another one who used to work with Mr M. Only, contrary to Mr-Carrot-Top-back-there’s opinion, he’s not as respectable as Littlechild or Slater. Not by bloody half.”

  “You think he’s capable of killing Lowenstein?”

  “Doubt he’d do it himself, but I’m sure he knows plenty who would. What you so pleased about?”