The Architect of Murder

by Rafe McGregor

  “There was something about — ”

  “There certainly was. I’d stake my life on it that they were inflicted post-mortem.”

  17. The Maltese Tiger

  I stumbled out into Leicester Square in a daze, bumping into people and wandering without any clear purpose or direction in mind. Maycock’s observations shouldn’t have shocked me, but they had. My head was suddenly pounding with the alcohol and noise, and I had the sickening sensation of an abominable truth waiting to be stripped bare. Maycock said the bruises were inflicted post-mortem; I struggled to keep a ghastly image at bay. Eventually I found my way back to Whitcombe Street, fell into a cab like a drunk, and mumbled the destination to the driver. I closed my eyes tight shut and saw everything — saw exactly what had happened to Ellen in The Holme. Pictures played through my mind in a relentless theatograph, just like the visions of war that wouldn’t stop.

  Carey had reined in. He had called to Ellen and dismounted. She had dismounted and gone to his assistance. When she was vulnerable he had struck, broken her neck, and watched her expire. He’d waited a short while to make sure she was dead, then he’d remounted, galloped off to The Holme, and raised the alarm. He’d returned to Ellen’s corpse long before anyone else had arrived. He’d looked at Ellen, perhaps trying to imagine what the police would see, and realised that there should be more damage to her person to verify his story.

  Then he had beaten her dead body.

  Not just beaten it, but beaten it hard and repeatedly. Maycock had explained that while molecular life remains in the tissues it is possible to produce a slight degree of blood extravasation, but only if considerable force is applied. Carey couldn’t risk using his boots, they would have left scuff marks. So he got down on his knees and punched Ellen’s corpse. Punched her arms over and over again until bruises were produced. Bruises that would show some attempt by Ellen to protect herself as she fell from the horse. Once he was satisfied, Carey had stood by the body with the horses and waited for the servants from The Holme and the police.

  He hadn’t taken the abrasions into consideration — and why should he? He probably had less medical training than me, and I hadn’t thought about them. He hadn’t taken Roberta’s persistence or my return to London into consideration either. He’d committed his murder, performed for the police and the jurors, and then resumed his efforts to find a patron for his accursed expedition. An incompetent or idle coroner had done the rest for him. I was a fool; I’d let him charm me. After our meal at the Travellers Club, Carey must have thought he was finally safe from the law and justice.

  He was wrong.

  In times of crisis I’ve always found it useful to do something — anything — because concentrating on the action forces the fear and shock aside. I now knew that Carey had killed Ellen, but I still didn’t know why, and I wanted to find out who his employer had been. Carey may have been the instrument of Ellen’s death, but I was positive there was someone else behind it. The resolve that followed my realisation sharpened my senses, and when I alighted from the cab the driver probably thought I’d sobered up in the fresh air.

  I double-checked the message from Armstrong with the attendant, went straight up to my sitting-room, and removed Ellen’s last journal from my coat pocket. I placed it on the desk. It was after eleven, but I wasn’t going to allow myself to sleep until I’d found something that gave me a clue as to the motive for her murder. I stripped to my shirtsleeves, poured a glass of water from the carafe, and prepared my pipe. The routine of packing, lighting and smoking a pipe is a form of ritual, something like the Japanese tea ceremony. Like many rituals it serves as a calming interlude, concentrating the mind on a mundane task and sequence. The ritual gave me a temporary respite from the horror and once the meerschaum was drawing well, I found it a little easier to focus.

  I opened the journal at the last entry:

  Wednesday, May 21st, 1902.

  What a week this is turning out to be! After Monday’s oddity and my meeting with Mr Salt still to come, Lt Carey has asked to join me on my evening ride tomorrow. We have met thrice before, through the ZSL, but never in private. He has a frightful reputation where ladies are concerned, and I have heard rumours that he has ruined many women of all classes. Despite his rakish exploits, I’ve always found him interesting, for while he affects an air of insouciance, he is actually a very serious zoologist. Even though I take pride in eschewing the hypocrisy with which our society regards women, I must be careful where Lt Carey is concerned. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was foolish enough to find him attractive, or be thought of as ‘one of his women’, though I alone knew it to be false. If practicing veterinary medicine and sitting astride a horse is a part of what it means to be a New Woman, then so is keeping men like Lt Carey at a respectable distance.

  I’ve read all three of his publications and attended half of a dozen (I think) of his addresses to the ZSL, and found them all stimulating. He seems to possess a knack for combining scholarship with adventure and I can certainly see why so many women find him alluring. On all three occasions we met, however, he treated me as a fellow scientist rather than a woman, which was as unexpected as it was refreshing. Though I shall guard against it, I am quite sure his interest in me is not amorous. Which leads me to my main reason for agreeing to meet him: I am curious. Why should he suddenly want a private interview?

  I know he seeks a patron for an expedition to the Karakoram Mountains, and has sought funding from the ZSL. He tried to secure sponsorship by claiming that he’ll bring back several exotic species, including a Snow Leopard, Marco Polo Sheep, and an Ibex. Perhaps he wants my support, although he must realise I’ve little influence. I know he is an extremely competent hunter, but I’m sure the most the Gardens will ever see of a Snow Leopard is its pelt.

  Not that it matters. If he hasn’t done so already, Mr Bartlett is sure to raise objections that the expedition will waste valuable resources which could better be directed to the Gardens. Sometimes I feel he must either be bent on the destruction of the Gardens or embezzling vast sums of money. Those are the only two motives I can imagine for his gross mismanagement. Lt Carey may have more luck with the Duke of Bedford, who often seems more keen on increasing his own private collection than looking after the public Gardens.

  I won’t go on about the unpleasant aspects of work, I’ll only depress myself.

  After our few conversations and reading ‘In Search of the Maltese Tiger’, I think Lt Carey has become obsessed with the animal, and it wouldn’t surprise me if that was the real aim of his Asian expedition. A blue tiger? It’s quite possible, of course. White tigers have been documented in the Bengal subspecies and we call black leopards ‘panthers’, so there’s no reason why there shouldn’t be a blue tiger, but I expect it will remain his very own chimera. Regardless, he will be sorely disappointed if he expects the ZSL to sponsor him.

  That was all for the final entry.

  I’d never heard of a Maltese Tiger, but I assumed it was either very rare or extinct, and obviously blue in colour. I puffed on my pipe and considered what I’d just read. Had I missed anything on my first, hurried, reading in Ellen’s study? I didn’t think so. Ellen knew Carey from their common fellowship of the ZSL and his interest in the zoo. Ellen wasn’t sure why he wanted to see her, but guessed it might be something to do with the expedition — which still seemed to be the focus of his energies. There was nothing new here.

  The entry for Tuesday was confusing, involving the interaction of three individuals — Jim, Tom, and Bill — with a crowd of onlookers. When I read of Jim and Tom eating a broom, I realised that the former two names referred to Indian Rhinoceroses, and the latter to their keeper. Bill’s practice of delighting onlookers by feeding the beasts brooms, shovels, and buckets had brought him a reprimand from Ellen twice before. On this third occasion she had gone to see Bartlett to request the man’s dismissal, but had been unable to find him and reported the matter to Sclater instead.

  Later
in the afternoon, while attending to the cubs at the Lion House, she’d been wounded by ‘little Horatio’. After treating the wound herself, she’d gone to see her own doctor, Dr Hall, whose practice in Harley Street was only a short distance away. Hall had cleaned and dressed the wound and told her to rest for the remainder of the day, but she and Roberta had spent the evening at the Women Journalist’s Club in Henrietta Street. Ellen had been pleased to meet Miss Flora Shaw, soon to be Mrs Frederick Lugard. Miss Shaw had addressed the ladies on the subject of overcoming the barriers faced by women journalists, one for which she was conspicuously qualified. Afterwards, Ellen and Roberta had enjoyed a discussion with her over a cup of tea.

  I knew of Flora Shaw by reputation. She was probably the most famous lady journalist in Britain. She had travelled widely, was an acknowledged expert on colonial affairs throughout the Empire, and had been appointed as the first Colonial Editor of the Times. At the age of fifty she’d recently announced her intention to retire from journalism and marry Lugard, who held some official position somewhere in West Africa. Shaw was also a close friend of Rhodes — the only woman in his very masculine circle — and there was much speculation as to her role in the Jameson Raid.

  Some said she’d been as complicit as Rhodes and Chamberlain, and others that she’d actually been the driving force behind it, egging Rhodes on until he launched the invasion. I doubted the latter, myself, because I didn’t think Rhodes needed any encouragement when it came to annexing new territories; it was his life’s work. At the very least, however, Shaw had covered up the official sanction of the raid by destroying a series of telegrams implicating Rhodes, Chamberlain, and Mr G. E. Buckle, The Times’ editor. Whatever the truth, no one believed her innocent. Shaw had appeared before the same committee of inquiry that investigated Rhodes and Chamberlain. Like them, she’d given evidence and been exonerated, but then most people accepted the committee as a farce, regardless of whether they approved of the raid or not.

  In the last two days of her life Ellen had mixed with dangerous people, although there was still no indication as why any of them would want her dead. I turned to Monday’s entry:

  Monday, May 19th, 1902.

  I did not go to work this morning after my exertions at the weekend, and visited Father instead. I know how queer he can be at times, but even so, there was a most peculiar occurrence, after which he brought my call to an abrupt end. I have tried to make sense of what happened and can only think that my words must have triggered some recollection, or that his memory just happened to recover at that particular instant. I have been very concerned over Father’s mental health of late, though he will not brook any discussion on the subject. I shall set down what occurred.

  Knowing how much Father stands on ceremony, I telephoned after breakfast to see if my visit would be convenient. I didn’t speak to him, but Cammidge told me Father would receive me at half-past ten. On arrival I was shown into the parlour by Anderson (a new servant, a footman I think). The door was left open and a few minutes later I heard Father descending the stairs with another gentleman, whose name I didn’t hear and whom I didn’t see. The gentleman mentioned Alfred Lyttelton, the famous sportsman who’s now with Lord Milner in South Africa, and Father wasn’t very pleased with whatever he said. Then the gentleman said something about the chamberlain at the Liberal Club on Saturday, and Father bade him a very curt good day.

  I heard the front door close and a moment later Father stuck his head around the parlour door. When he saw me he expressed his surprise at my presence and asked who had let me in. I told him and asked him about Mr Lyttelton (thinking I might be able to secure an interview for Roberta when he returns to England) and the strangest thing happened: Father denied mentioning him. I told him that I knew all about Mr Lyttelton because he was the only man to represent England in both football and cricket, but Father changed the subject to one of his new business enterprises. We had only been speaking for a few minutes (he hadn’t even rung for tea), when he suddenly went as white as a sheet, told me he had an urgent matter to attend to, and dismissed me! It was not even twenty minutes to eleven when I left.

  Sometimes I wish I’d been like Alec and cut all ties with Father, for his callousness since Mother died hurts me so deeply. I have resolved not to visit him again for at least three months unless he sends an apology (which he won’t). I read in the newspapers today that delegates from the Boer army met Lords Milner and Kitchener in Pretoria yesterday. At last it seems as if the war will really be over. I do hope nothing happens to Alec while they are negotiating the peace treaty. It would be so ironic, after his having already been twice wounded and contracting enteric fever. Please be safe, Alec, my thoughts are with you constantly! I shall say an extra prayer for him tonight.

  I watched a drop of water splatter on the page and realised I was crying.

  I closed the journal and paced up and down the room awhile, thinking about Ellen and I, and our early life together. I didn’t feel as if I could face any more of her diary at present, but I must somehow find the strength. The pain was my penance for not making more of our short time together while Ellen was alive. I continued my pacing until after one, when I sat in an armchair, exhausted by the day’s events…

  I woke to a loud hammering. I was still in my shirtsleeves in the armchair.

  “Marshall, open this bloody door!”

  “Hold your damned horses!” I bawled back, thinking that they’d wake the whole bloody hotel. I rose from the chair, my joints aching, and staggered to the lamp, which I’d left on. Ellen’s journal was on the desk with my watch. I fumbled for it and saw the time: five minutes past four. I stormed to the door and threw it open. “What the hell do you want at this hour!”

  Truegood’s muscular frame blocked the doorway. “You. Get dressed, we’ve found Rose. He’s in a public house Devil’s Acre.”

  I froze, realised what the news entailed, and rushed into my bedroom.

  From the sitting-room I heard Truegood say, “Make sure you’re armed.”

  18. Devil’s Acre

  Despite the auspicious day ahead, I decided to forgo Sunday best in favour of a brown worsted suit. I took my homburg, but not my stick. Ten minutes after Truegood had rudely awakened me, we marched out of the Windsor together. “No cab?” I asked.

  “We’re not going far.” He strode up Victoria Street at a brisk pace.

  Aside from the streetlamps, there was the faint half-light of false dawn, but we were the only people abroad. “Any news about the Russians?” I asked.

  “No. Neither of them were in, so I decided to have a little nosy about. With the landlady’s permission, of course. I didn’t find anything to do with Lowenstein or Carey, but I did find a coded communication. I made a copy and gave it to Chief Inspector Quinn — he’s got a fella that can decipher the Russian ones — but that won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest. Probably Monday.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Otter’s Pocket. It’s a thieves’ den, Murgatroyd uses it as his headquarters. As suspected, Rose is one of his adams. Lamb found him late last night.”

  “Did you say this Murgatroyd is some sort of criminal boss?”

  Truegood gave me one of his characteristic scathing glances. “Yeah. He’s the Family man that runs Devil’s Acre. All the fences, captains, ponces and bawds pay him a portion of their earnings. Or he makes sure they’re no longer fit to practice their trades. He’ll have some tough customers at the Pocket, and something tells me he won’t come quietly. This way.” Truegood steered me right into Strutton Gardens, then left into Old Pye Street.

  The change in surroundings was unbelievable, given that we were only yards from Victoria Street, one of London’s busiest thoroughfares. All of a sudden we were in a dark, narrow road overflowing with a crowded mass of filthy, ramshackle houses, separated by ginnels and alleys so narrow they looked like tunnels. Many of the low-pitched hovels had rags or newspapers instead of panes of glass, others were almost roofles
s. Beggars lay snoring in doorways. Within a few steps, we were approached by two tired and bedraggled prostitutes. Truegood waved them away, and growled at a third who accosted us immediately after. Fifty years ago, we would’ve been unlikely to return from what Charles Dickens coined ‘Devil’s Acre’ alive on a ramble such as this. By the time of the great writer’s death, however, the Metropolitan Board of Works and the American banker George Peabody had begun to clear the slums and build affordable housing. The area had improved dramatically in my lifetime, but it was still best avoided by those who wished to keep a hold of their purses.

  “I’ve spent all morning trying to assemble a squad of constables. I eventually managed to rustle up some of the A Division night shift; let’s hope they bloody turn up.” We passed a house leaning so far into the road that its collapse seemed imminent. Opposite, a pawnbroker’s was chained and locked, with iron bars over broken windows. A dingy courtyard brought us to an intersection with a wider, cleaner road, where we halted. Truegood stood under a streetlamp and turned towards Victoria Street. “New Pye Street; they’d better be here.”

  He waved at nothing in particular and we were rewarded with the sound of a low whistle. A Black Maria emerged from the shadows, the horse’s hooves striking like bells on the street surface. A constable and a sergeant sat atop the police carriage and another six constables trooped along next to it. I noticed that all the policemen wore cutlasses, something I remembered from my schooldays, but hadn’t seen since my return.