He didn’t.
He stamped, stumbled, and dropped his guard.
I steadied myself and drove the cutlass straight into his sternum — as far as it would go.
He growled through grit teeth.
I twisted the blade and withdrew it, a spray of blood spattering the shingles. Drayton surged forward, swinging wildly.
I kicked him between the legs — his head dipped — I hit him in the skull with the brass knuckles again.
He dropped his sword, and I flicked it away with the cutlass.
The skiff was leaving the shore. The occupant, whom I now saw had a wooden leg, was fumbling with the oars. I started for him — stopped when I reached the water’s edge. I wanted Drayton’s valise, but the boat was too far off, and Peg Leg rowed better than he walked. I looked out over the dark, foul-smelling river, and watched him disappear under Tower Bridge. Suddenly, I felt very tired.
A shot echoed from behind me.
I spun around — blood poured into my eyes. I crouched and raised the cutlass.
I couldn’t see anything. I wiped some of the blood from my eyes with my sleeve.
Melville stood over Drayton’s body, a smoking revolver in his hand.
I dropped the cutlass and walked to him. Two uniformed policemen with rifles appeared at the top of the steps. They ran to help their wounded colleague, who was still pinned to the wall, although no longer moving.
“Are you all right?” Melville asked as he holstered his revolver.
“Just a tap on the scalp; you know how they bleed.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I couldn’t risk Drayton talking. I think you’d put paid to him anyway, but the League’s existence must remain secret, and that wouldn’t happen in a court of law. Chamberlain, Cavendish, Kitchener…it is a story for which the Empire is not yet prepared — and perhaps never will be. You’ll agree?”
“You don’t have to apologise to me,” I said, looking down at Drayton’s corpse, blood seeping from a hole in his forehead. “I would’ve shot him in the first place, but I had to empty the whole magazine at that chap over there.” I indicated the Maori as I opened my coat, waistcoat, and shirt. There was a tiny cut, about half an inch wide and no deeper, in the flesh over my heart.
Melville surveyed the scene as more policemen arrived, then turned back to me. He squinted at my wound. “Stone the crows, that was close!”
“It was. I was saved by the best advice Superintendent Alexander ever gave me.”
“What was that?”
I withdrew my notebook from inside my coat pocket. It was skewered. “Never go anywhere without your pocketbook, it’s the most important piece of equipment you have.”
Melville’s broad face shook with laughter.
I laughed with him, but not at my lame joke. It was nervous tension evaporating: I couldn’t believe I’d survived.
29. The Seventh Conspirator
Melville had been thorough. Peg Leg, whose name was John Smart, had been stopped by a police launch from Wapping. There had also been two patrols of mounted men waiting in Tooley Street. Exactly how Drayton had managed to slip the police cordon remained a mystery. The evidence indicated he’d not realised the rooms were about to be raided and had simply walked out to meet the boat on the wharf. Before he’d left Vine Lane, however, he’d been just as thorough himself: Murgatroyd and Boustred were both found stabbed to death when Melville’s men burst into Carey’s house. I wasn’t surprised; their usefulness had expired.
Melville and Constable Cobb had attempted to follow me through the warren of ginnels and alleys when I’d dashed off after Drayton. Cobb became the second police casualty of the affair after Aitken, and died before he reached Guy’s Hospital. Smart and his accomplice, the giant Maori he called Raw, were both well known to the police. They were former whalers who made a living plying various illegal services along the Upper Pool, operating from the Prospect of Whitby, a dive across the river in Wapping. All four of my shots had in fact hit the man in the chest, but his size, strength, and ferocity kept him going. If I hadn’t put the final round between his eyes, he’d have brained me with the first blow from his whalebone club.
I kept it as a memento.
Smart confessed he’d been hired to pick up Drayton in Southwark, ferry him across to Wapping, and conceal him in the Prospect. His commission would’ve been completed had he delivered him to the Royal Albert Dock in time to catch the Union and Castle steamship that was sailing at midday on Sunday. Melville planned to keep Drayton’s death quiet for a while. For twenty days, in fact. The murder of the two policemen and the death of Murgatroyd and his men would be attributed to warfare between rival criminal factions. A particularly violent example of such, but then what did one expect of the man who ran Devil’s Acre? Smart was released at seven o’clock on Sunday morning. The Crown had very little to charge him with, and even less to gain from his prosecution. On the other hand, all those who’d been in the Otter’s Pocket would face a judge and jury for being accomplices in the murder of a policeman.
Two hours after Smart’s release I was in a hansom, passing Buckingham Palace as I was ferried from Victoria to Mayfair. I didn’t have time to walk. I was still tired, but the war had trained me for campaigning, and a few hours of snatched sleep, combined with a hot bath and a shave, had refreshed me for the day’s work. The driver stopped outside my father’s townhouse. I took a deep breath to compose myself and marched to the front door. I pressed the bell and put my hand in my side pocket. A few seconds later the door was opened by one of the footmen who’d escorted me from the premises four days before.
“Good morning, sir — ” His face contorted as he recognised me.
I hit him in the chest with my left palm.
He staggered back — I slipped into the hallway — produced my service revolver. “Tell Mr Marshall I’ll be in the study.” His jaw dropped open as I trotted up the stairs.
If I’d lost touch with my father over the years, I could still predict what he’d do once he learned of my intrusion. He wouldn’t hide from me, and he wouldn’t call the police. He would deal with my insolence himself, which was exactly what I wanted. I entered his study, closed the door, and replaced the revolver — a Boer War Model Webley — in my pocket. I heard a shout, doors banging, and more shouting. Exactly three minutes after I’d forced entry into his house, the door to my father’s study burst open.
I was standing with my back to it, hands behind me, so it was obvious I’d set aside the weapon. I was examining the map of the British Empire.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing in my house!”
I waited for a second, then turned slowly.
My father, the footman, and the butler were arrayed before me. My father was wearing morning dress, but hadn’t had time to fasten his necktie or collar. The butler carried a revolver, another Webley by the look of it, and the footman a fowling piece. The footman stepped to one side and pointed the shotgun at me.
“I said — ”
“The Empire Loyalist League.”
My father stopped in mid-sentence then — quietly — said, “Get out.”
Nobody moved.
He looked at the butler. “I said, get out.”
“Sir?”
“Damn your eyes, Graham, get out! Both of you. And don’t let me catch you lurking in the corridor either. Get out this instant!”
The footman stared at the butler in bewilderment, but when the latter jerked his head, he followed without a word. As soon as they were gone, my father closed the door behind them, and turned the key in the lock. Then he stomped over to his desk, sat down, and placed his hands flat on the leather top. I could see he’d regained some of his hubris, and felt he was back in control of the situation.
“What about this Empire Loyalist League?”
I walked over to his desk and stood directly in front of him. “You’ve not heard the name before?”
He smiled, baring long, white teeth. “Not that I can
immediately recall.”
“Then you won’t be interested to know that I ran Morgan Drayton through with a cutlass a few hours ago.”
The smile disappeared instantly. “If that’s true, I’ll have you charged with murder!”
“I’m not here about the League; that was just to get your attention.”
“You’ve got it. Continue.”
I walked slowly around the room as I spoke, pausing here and there to look at the pictures and photographs on the wall.
“I came back to England for one reason only: Ellen. As you were so quick to remind me, I was a little late for that. I knew it before I left, but there are times when one must follow the dictates of one’s heart, even though they make no sense. On Wednesday I came here to ask what you knew of Ellen’s death. Your reaction convinced me — as you intended — that there was nothing more to it. Ellen’s particular friend, Miss Paterson, assured me foul play was involved. I was inclined to dismiss it all as coming from the heart, rather than the head, except for one point. Why would you want an inquest? Such a public examination of your private affairs was completely out of character for a man as cold and aloof as I know you to be. There could’ve been several reasons, but it nonetheless prevented me from dismissing Miss Paterson’s suspicions completely out of hand.”
“You’re obviously enjoying a soliloquy at my expense,” he remarked. “Is there a point to this, other than allaying your guilt at abandoning your kith and kin?”
“There is, but I want you to see exactly how I reached it, so you understand the certainty with which I speak. You may or may not have known that Ellen kept a diary. Because of the suspicion your conduct had raised, I read her later entries with a view to searching for a possible motive for her murder. There were only two singular occurrences in the last week of her life, discounting Carey’s fatal invitation. First, Ellen was due to expose malpractice at the Zoological Gardens to a gentleman from the Humanitarian League on the Friday. Second, she overheard a conversation between you and an unidentified man regarding Alfred Lyttelton, Joseph Chamberlain, and a meeting at the Liberal Club on the Saturday. I’ll admit I was preoccupied with the former when I realised that the scandal might implicate the Duke of Bedford, who happened to be the very man Carey was petitioning to sponsor his next expedition.
“I discovered a little more about Carey and visited the scene of the offence in Regent’s Park. I was convinced that he had killed Ellen, and also that he’d arranged an accident to befall Chamberlain six weeks later. I’d no clear idea of the motive for either, nor did I know if they were related. Unfortunately for you, a short while before I made my first appearance here, I was recruited by Scotland Yard to find out what Drayton was up to regarding Rhodes’ will. My next step was to make inquiries at the Liberal Club, where I discovered that Chamberlain had held a private luncheon on Saturday the twenty-fourth of May, with five male guests and a lady.”
“If you’re going to pretend you know what was discussed at that luncheon, you’re even more of a cretin than I thought. It was completely confidential.”
“It was. In fact, only Chamberlain and Cavendish were recognised by the staff; I deduced the identity of the rest from their descriptions. As to the nature of the meeting, that was quite obvious to anyone who knew the real purpose behind Rhodes’ will, and the significance of the date: Empire Day. It was equally obvious that Chamberlain acted against the wishes of Jameson and the League when he chaired the Colonial Conference. Drayton was instructed to take care of the problem and employed Carey to stage a coach accident. Then he killed Carey, yesterday afternoon.
“Why kill Carey?” I continued. “There is only one reason: he knew too much, because he was the common denominator in all three escapades.” I enumerated the points on my fingers. “He was there when Ellen died, he was there when Chamberlain had his accident, and his penang lawyer was left at the scene of Lowenstein’s murder. But Carey couldn’t have murdered Lowenstein because he was in Bedfordshire when the crime was committed. Therefore, someone had deliberately incriminated him. Once again, I asked myself why.
“What you and Drayton didn’t take into account was me. I know Drayton and his methods, and I know you — albeit that we haven’t spoken in eleven years. Drayton had to kill Carey because he’d already used him twice. Once to kill Ellen and once to scare Chamberlain. Carey was a very dangerous man who was now privy to too much information about Drayton’s private affairs. Carey’s murder also closed the police investigation into Lowenstein.”
I stopped in front of a photograph.
“You, personally, made just one error.”
“Is this where I’m supposed to beg for enlightenment?” he snarled.
“Don’t bother, because I’m going to tell you anyway. This,” I pointed to the photo in front of me, “this was your mistake. The J. Lyons and Company warehouse on Butler’s Wharf. One of your many business enterprises. You should’ve told Drayton to transact his second murder elsewhere.”
“Are you telling me that a murder was committed in one of the scores of business premises I own?”
“I am.”
“And this was — when — yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“And you think that the fact a man was killed on my premises incriminates me? You’ve come to arrest me as — what, a murderer, an accomplice — when I celebrated the coronation with a dozen or more peers of the realm! You are a disappointment to me, in all possible respects.” He laughed without humour.
“I’m not here to arrest you.”
“Then what?”
“To lay a series of conclusions before you, the results of my investigation. One, you received Drayton here on Monday the twentieth of May. Did you know that Drayton and I had shared lodgings in Bechuanaland?”
“No, he never mentioned you to me.”
“I’m sure he knew best not to, in case you mistook us for friends. Two, the servant — who was new — failed to let you know that he’d shown Ellen into the parlour. You were escorting Drayton out at the time of her arrival, and — knowing your views on New Women — I would guess you were complaining that Lyttelton had sent a lady to take his place at the inauguration of the League.”
My father’s smirk faded.
“You noticed the parlour door was open, went to close it, and were startled to find Ellen waiting for you. Unfortunately, she made the innocent mistake of mentioning Lyttelton because of his fame as a sportsman. Ellen was trying to assist Miss Paterson, who makes her living from interviewing celebrities. Finally, number three. A few minutes after you joined Ellen, you realised that if she’d heard you mention Lyttelton, then she’d also heard the details of your secret meeting. Correct?”
He said nothing.
“She wrote that you suddenly appeared as if you’d received a shock, and terminated the interview. You realised that your completely confidential luncheon was no longer so. My guess is that you communicated with Drayton as quickly as possible, even though you knew that you were signing Ellen’s death warrant. You knew Drayton would have her killed, but you told him anyway. He didn’t wait. He met Carey the next day, and Carey made arrangements to meet Ellen on Thursday evening. I wonder if Drayton selected Carey because he already knew Ellen, or if that was just propitious? It doesn’t matter. If you didn’t know before, you knew afterwards. That’s why you wanted the inquest, to ensure everything appeared above board. It was your alibi.”
I’d returned to my position in front of the desk now, hands at my sides.
“I did know Drayton was going to have Ellen killed. In fact, I recommended it.”
“You had your own daughter killed because she overheard the details a luncheon engagement?” Despite my contempt for my father, I was shocked.
“You are a damned fool! The future of the Empire was at stake, not some fucking luncheon. Rhodes laid the foundation for the expansion of the Empire to rule the globe. Do you think I would hesitate to protect that with my own life, or the lives of my f
amily? The rule of Empire demands sacrifice! Personal and public sacrifice. Much blood will need to be shed, and what sort of example would I be if I was too squeamish to allow the first obstacle to be removed? It was an unfortunate that the idleness of some worthless flunkey resulted in Ellen becoming a threat to the League, but she had to be eliminated. It was necessary.” A thick strand of saliva joined his lips, stretching and shortening as they moved.
“Sacrifice? Every time I hear someone extol the virtues of sacrifice, it seems to be from behind a desk in Cape Town, or Whitehall, or Berkeley Square. Soldiers who make the ultimate sacrifice don’t talk as if it was some sacred ideal — they just get on with it.”
“And what would you know of sacrifice for the Empire?”
I wanted to tell him about the war and all the brave men I’d seen die, but I was too disgusted by him. I had no qualms about the lies I told next.
“The game is up. You can’t be brought to trial for Ellen’s murder, but there’ll be a committee of inquiry into the Empire Loyalist League. Aside from Ellen, five others died because of it: Lowenstein, Carey, and three policemen, one of whom was an inspector. Superintendent Melville has amassed enough evidence to guarantee that Mr Balfour convenes the committee. It will be a repeat of the performance after the Jameson Raid. Jameson himself will be called from the Cape to give evidence, as will Lyttelton. Chamberlain, Cavendish, Kitchener, Parkin, and you will all be required to appear. I say a repeat performance, but that’s not quite accurate. The difference between now and then will be that this time they won’t be looking to exonerate the conspirators.”
“That’s imbecilic — all of it!” He leapt to his feet.
“The deaths of a celebrity veterinary surgeon, a famous hunter, and a police inspector won’t be swept under the carpet. Not when they happened in London, and not when the very same names from the Jameson Raid are called all over again. I happen to know that the Duke of Bedford has already been selected to chair the committee. I hear he has a reputation as a man with a highly developed sense of public duty and ducal responsibility. No doubt he’ll also want to distance himself from any involvement with Carey, who was a guest of his this week.”
The Architect of Murder Page 24
