“Empire Day.”
“Exactly. The Duke of Devonshire and Flora Shaw were present. Lord Kitchener sent a representative, Drayton stood in for Jameson, and there were two other unidentified men.”
Melville was silent. I was about to try and persuade him I was right when he said, “The Empire Loyalist League.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Empire Loyalist League. That’s what they call themselves. When Chamberlain was in hospital, he kept repeating the phrase to the constable who assisted him. He was concussed at the time and I thought he was referring to the British Empire League or the Colonial Conference. I’ve been a complete idiot, I should’ve realised — do you think one or more of these individuals had Lowenstein murdered?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It doesn’t matter at the minute, anyway. What we need now is to lay our hands on Murgatroyd, and whoever else is with him. Who have you got there with you?”
“Lamb, the duty inspector, and a detective from Borough.”
“Let them know I’ll be over to take charge as soon as I can. In the interim, I want a cordon around Snowsfields, whatever it takes. Put the duty inspector on — and thank you for letting me know.”
I found Inspector Jones and hurried back to the warehouse, where the constable on duty refused me entry until he’d summoned Lamb. Lamb introduced me to Hughes, who’d arrived with a detective constable whom he’d instructed to sketch the scene. Carey’s body lay undisturbed. “My congratulations on your offence scene work, Inspector.”
“I’ve asked Wright to draw a plan before we touch anything. Mr Henry’s a stickler for procedure these days, and I can’t say he’s wrong in many a case.”
“Melville is on his way over,” I said to Lamb. “He’s going to organise a man hunt for Murgatroyd.” I looked back and saw the bloody Bowie knife, and further behind that a top hat. “You said the suspect was dressed like a gentleman. Was he wearing a hat?”
“No, sir, he wasn’t.”
“Do you mind, Inspector?” I indicated hat, knife, and corpse.
“Not at all. If you’re one of Melville’s Gang, that’s good enough for me.”
I knelt down and examined the top hat. Carey was a practical man and the initials F.F.C. were embroidered in tiny letters in the lining. “Lamb, follow the bloodstains, but be careful not to disturb any footprints. I want you to look for a hat, probably another top hat. It may be some distance from the trail.”
“Yes, sir.”
I remained where I was. T.D. had arranged to meet Carey. Had he come himself, or sent an agent? Probably come himself, so as not to arouse Carey’s suspicions. After employing Carey on at least one nefarious enterprise, T.D. had murdered Lowenstein, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and leaving Carey’s stick at the scene of the offence. Then he decided to do away with the man who could implicate him in the Chamberlain matter and end the police investigation of Lowenstein’s murder at the same time. He lured Carey to the warehouse to kill him. What would the police think of Carey’s murder? A dissatisfied customer, the Okhrana, an underworld contact, a jealous husband; the list would be long indeed.
In front of me the Bowie knife lay in a pool of blood. Carey hadn’t been easy to kill. He was himself a hunter and killer. He’d come prepared, and managed to stab his assailant in the struggle. I replaced the top hat and walked past the knife, keeping clear of the blood. There were partial footprints in it, but they were smeared and it looked as if more than one set was superimposed over another. Some would be mine, and I didn’t think we’d be able to reproduce a clear imprint from the mess.
I tried to picture the sequence of events. T.D. had arrived first. He knew Carey would enter from Shad Thames, so he’d prepared his exit on the riverside. He’d unlocked both doors, the one he’d used to escape, and the one Lamb had used to enter. Carey arrived and the two men met where the knife lay. T.D. had attacked first, but Carey fought back. The blood was pooled in only two places, under the knife and around the corpse. The stain under the corpse was to be expected; the stain under the knife suggested a prolonged initial struggle. They had perhaps been grappling, then one of the combatants had broken away, and the fight had become fluid. It ended with Carey’s death on the other side of the stack of tea chests, where I’d found him. The trail of blood Lamb and I had followed confirmed that his killer had not escaped unscathed.
“Could you find me a large piece of cloth, please, Inspector? Or a sack or tarpaulin — there must be something in here.” Hughes nodded, disappeared, and returned with an empty burlap sack. I thanked him and spread it out over the blood next to Carey’s body.
He was lying on his back, as I’d left him. I’d heard a shot, but Carey had also been stabbed twice. The bullet had shattered his right cheekbone a couple of inches under the eye. There was no exit wound, so it had either lodged in the skull, or the scalp, possibly following the curve of the cranium. There were powder burns on his skin, so the shot had been at close range. The wound was on the right hand side, suggesting the murderer was left-handed — but that didn’t take into account his blade.
One of the puncture wounds was to Carey’s stomach, in the region of the navel. The other was direct to his heart. Inside his topcoat, in a similar fashion to the holster I wore for my Mauser, Carey had a leather rig for the sheath holding the Bowie knife. It hung upside down, under his left shoulder, with a clip over the guard to ensure it didn’t fall out. I rolled his body over and saw that the killer’s weapon had not only penetrated his ribcage, but his entire torso, causing a second — smaller — wound in his back. The blade must therefore have been even longer than the Bowie knife; longer and thinner.
I looked back to the trail leading around more of the chests and through the warehouse. I thought I could read the scene with some accuracy. T.D. had attacked Carey with a concealed sword. Carey was too quick: the first strike caught him in the stomach, wounding but not incapacitating him, and he drew his knife and struck. His blow must also have landed in a non-critical region. Realising that he was now fighting for his life, T.D. abandoned stealth and drew a pistol. He must have used his left hand, because he was right-handed — like Lowenstein’s murderer — and had his sword in his right hand. He shot Carey in the face. Carey dropped his knife, but managed to stay on his feet and grasp hold of T.D. T.D. retreated in order to create enough space to use his sword. When he succeeded, he stabbed Carey again, making sure this time by piercing his heart.
I turned to where Lamb had made his initial appearance. A trail of spattered blood ran from Carey’s body over a pile of crates. I followed. The blood led to an aisle running next to the windows, then out the door to the wharf itself. Whoever T.D. was, he was a very cool customer. By the time he’d administered the coup de grace, he would’ve realised that the police had arrived. Instead of bolting for the wharf, he’d stopped to listen, established where Lamb was, and used the second set of doors. All while Carey was gasping his last, and Truegood and I were already blundering around inside the building. Not only had T.D. taken a second to establish where his pursuers were, he’d also retrieved his hat, which had more than likely fallen during the struggle. It was an astonishing performance.
I walked out onto the wharf, to which only two small boats were moored. There was no sign of the hat anywhere and there were several different sets of partial footprints in the blood. Truegood, Lamb, and I had all contributed to the confusion while in hot pursuit. The blood splashes led along the front of the wharf into the narrow cause. I’d just entered it when Lamb appeared from Shad Thames.
“I went to the end of Horselydown, but I didn’t find anything.”
“We’re looking for a sword as well,” I responded.
“Is that what he was stabbed with?”
“Either a sword or a knife with a very long blade.” Lamb and I walked back onto the wharf. As we approached the warehouse, I had an idea. “What about the river?”
“The river, sir?”
“The hat. I’
m betting he threw his hat into the river.”
Lamb shrugged. “Maybe he wasn’t wearing a hat, sir?”
“He was. A lack of headgear would have drawn attention to him, and no murderer wants that. We’ll have to do a thorough search of the warehouse — ”
“There it is!” Lamb pointed down at the strip of shingle below us. “That’s a silk hat, sir, I’m sure of it.”
While he went to retrieve the evidence, I returned to Carey’s corpse, taking a different route this time. I found Wright sitting well away from the blood and body, smoking his pipe.
He stood as soon as he saw me. “Inspector Hughes’ compliments, Major. He’s been called back to the station and instructed me to allow you and Sergeant Lamb to finish your investigation before I arrange for the removal of the deceased.”
“That’s very kind of him. Are you finished sketching?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you searched the body yet?”
“No, sir. The guvnor said to leave it until you were finished.”
“I’m much obliged, Wright.”
“Don’t mention it, sir,” he said, resuming his perch.
I knelt next to Carey again, on the sack. My clothes were already bloody — for the second time today — but I didn’t want to disturb the scene any more than necessary. Carey was lying on his front, as I’d left him. I took off my coat and rolled up my sleeves. It was time to go through his pockets, which would be soaked with blood.
Lamb arrived with a dented, soggy, silk top hat. “I’ve got it, sir. Well done! No sign of the sword, though. It must’ve sunk to the bottom.”
“Does the hat give us any clue as to the owner’s identity? And don’t tell me it has the initials T.D.”
Lamb smiled. “No, sir, it doesn’t. All it says is, ‘by Alfred Overdale and Sons’. I know the firm, they’ve a shop in Borough High Street.”
“Then let’s hope they can remember who they made it for.”
“I’ll see to it directly.”
“You’d better wait for Melville. Inspector Jones is setting up a cordon around Snowsfields, and I’m sure your chief will want you there. Murgatroyd is our priority at the moment.”
“Of course, sir. Do you think the villain we were chasin’ is holed up with him?”
“It looks that way.”
Carey’s right hand was still bunched in a fist. I opened it and something fell out. I retrieved the object from the floor, stood, and reached for my coat. Outside, the heavens finally opened and rain poured down in a noisy torrent. “I’m going back to my hotel,” I said. “I’ll wait there until I hear from you. Look after the hat, and this as well.”
Lamb opened his palm. “What’s that, sir?”
“It belongs to the murderer.” I dropped a cufflink into his hand.
A diamond cufflink.
26. Cat-and-Mouse
It was after six when I arrived at the Windsor; the rain had eased off to a drizzle, so I was uncomfortably damp rather than completely sodden. There were no messages. I told the attendant I was expecting one shortly, and went up to my rooms. I removed my coat and necktie, hung the rig with the Mauser over the back of one of the chairs, and rolled up my sleeves. I packed my meerschaum, set the last of the tobacco and the matches in reach, and made myself comfortable in an armchair. I puffed the pipe alight, relaxed in the cloud of spicy smoke, and attempted to unravel the mystery before me.
Where to begin? At the beginning, of course. Wasn’t that what the detectives always said in magazines? The problem in real police work is that beginnings aren’t always clearly defined. Where did the story of Lowenstein’s murder begin? The inauguration of the Empire Loyalist League, the forging of the will, the Jameson Raid, or Rhodes’ Confession? I decided to start on the twenty-second of March this year, four days before Rhodes’ death.
When Jameson was sure Rhodes was dying, he faked a final codicil with the complicity of Lowenstein and Drayton. As soon as the forgery was complete, he sent Drayton to London. There could only be one purpose important enough for Jameson to risk sending one of his witnesses so far away, and that was the creation of the Empire Loyalist League itself. In which case it appeared that Jameson was the leader, rather than Chamberlain. Meanwhile, Milner and the other executors contested the forgery, and Lowenstein fled to England for fear of the consequences of being caught between his employer and Jameson.
Jameson now required a witness to confirm Rhodes’ signature. He couldn’t recall Drayton because Drayton had to remain in London on League business, so he ordered Drayton to send Lowenstein back to Cape Town. Drayton would’ve passed on the instructions in person, given the fortune at stake. Lowenstein had no intention of returning to the field of battle. He’d booked the return journey for the fifth of May to buy himself some time, and hidden himself in London’s little Bohemia. His deception probably wouldn’t have been discovered until the ship arrived in Cape Town twenty days later.
As soon as Jameson realised Lowenstein hadn’t followed orders, he wired Drayton, who hired Littlechild, Slater, and Murgatroyd to find the missing clerk. Lowenstein wrote to Colonel Rhodes, very likely begging him for advice, assistance, or both, and was very likely ignored. With Jameson in Cape Town, Chamberlain pursued his own agenda at the Colonial Conference, and Drayton had to remind him he was the monkey, not the organ-grinder. Carey performed the job with characteristic flair and skill. As soon as I saw the initials ‘T.D’, I should’ve known. They referred to ‘The Doctor’, Rhodes’ nickname for Drayton.
What I didn’t know, was why Drayton hadn’t returned to Cape Town as soon as Chamberlain had been warned, but Carey’s part in the Colonial Secretary’s accident was further confirmation that Jameson was the ringleader. A month later, Rose found Lowenstein. Drayton had obviously planned to dispose of Carey earlier, and stolen his penang lawyer in order to put the police on a false trail. Drayton then broke into Mrs Curran’s establishment, conducted an interview with Lowenstein, and killed him.
Roberta was quite right: Lowenstein was murdered by one of his own in order to keep him quiet. Drayton made sure Lowenstein’s identity would be discovered by leaving his hiding place under the floor uncovered. Jameson needed the knowledge of Lowenstein’s death to be made public, because the solicitors had to be aware that Drayton was now the only witness to the codicil. Drayton left the scene of the offence wearing the wideawake hat, and deposited the murder weapon in the dust-bin, where he knew it would be found.
Carey was Drayton’s only remaining loose end. Drayton arranged to meet him in a secluded setting, where he could kill him in relative safety, and where his corpse was unlikely to be discovered until Drayton was already out of the country. Killing Carey not only removed a potential threat to Drayton, but also ensured that further inquiry into Lowenstein’s murder would be improbable. Carey had so many enemies that the police wouldn’t have to look too far for a credible suspect. There was the Okhrana, just for starters.
Drayton met Carey this afternoon, and struck with his sword-stick. Twenty-seven inches was long enough to produce the puncture wounds I’d seen. I knew Drayton never went anywhere without his Derringer, and I’d no doubt that the post-mortem examination would reveal the bullet in Carey’s head to be a point-four-one calibre round. The pistol had a two shot capacity; the second bullet was in Truegood’s throat. Despite Drayton’s remarkable composure in action, Carey had still scuppered his plans. He was too tough to be killed cleanly, and resourceful enough to grab a cufflink from his killer when he knew he was dying.
Was it enough to arrest Drayton when he boarded his steamer tomorrow? No, not for a man under the protection of the Duke of Devonshire. If I found him tonight, his wound perhaps untreated, his cufflink missing, traces of blood on his blade… that would be completely different. Drayton would have a contingency plan for every eventuality anyway, including sustaining a wound. He wouldn’t return to Devonshire House covered in blood for fear of implicating Cavendish, so Boustred’s brothel in Snowsfiel
ds seemed a strong possibility. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but Melville was already dealing with Snowsfields, so it was logical for me to begin my own search at the home of the victim.
I put my pipe down and checked my watch: nearly half-past seven. I dressed, made sure that the Mauser was fully loaded, and left the Windsor for King Street. The rain had stopped and the streets were busy, although not as crowded as they would be shortly, when night fell and the illuminations were switched on. I made good time to Upper Grosvenor Street and opted to approach Blackburn House with caution. I was sure the Russian gentlemen would be long gone, but once bitten, twice shy. My vigilance was unnecessary: as soon as I turned into King Street, I saw a policeman standing sentry outside Carey’s rooms. I identified myself and was told Lamb was inside.
I found him on the fourth floor, in the master bedroom, spreading the contents of Carey’s safe on the four-poster bed. “Evenin’, Major, care to lend a hand?”
“Certainly, any news?”
“Yes, sir. The guvnor is goin’ to be all right. The surgeon did a fine job, aside from which Mr Truegood is built like a bull. Probably be back at work before he’s mended, knowin’ him. Inspector Hughes and the lads from Borough raided Boustred’s bawdy-house, but they didn’t find him, Murgatroyd, or the missing gentleman.”
That was unfortunate. “Drayton.”
“Dr Drayton?”
“Yes, T.D. stands for ‘The Doctor’. It’s Drayton’s nickname in South Africa.”
“If Drayton killed Carey, then who killed Lowenstein?”
“Drayton again, although he arranged the evidence to point to Carey.”
Lamb’s puzzled expression eased. “Ah, I see. That explains the stick.”
“The stick?”
“Yes, sir. You were right about the penang lawyer, it belonged to Carey. It looks like his valet has scarpered, but I spoke to the butler next door. He remembered Carey’s stick — and his floppy hat of course.”
The Architect of Murder Page 21
