by R. N. Morris
There was no one there, of course.
But his heart was beating faster. And the shifting shadows seemed to be charged with a familiar pewter gleam.
SIX
It was in the nature of their work in the Special Crimes Department that there would be periods of intense activity, followed by long stretches when nothing much seemed to happen at all. The bursts of activity might last an hour or less, but they would be filled with a lifetime’s worth of incident and drama. It takes less than a second, after all, for a bullet to fly from the barrel of a gun into a man’s heart and kill him.
It might be argued that any subsequent lulls were necessary to allow the officers of the SCD time to recover from the more stressful moments. But Inchball, Macadam and Quinn were not such men as to relish sitting around on their backsides. If anything, they found the longueurs in their routine more stressful than the calls to action. Especially Inchball, who became jumpy and bad-tempered if he did not have criminals to chase down and preferably wrestle to the ground.
Macadam was quite capable of occupying himself with some book or journal that would furnish a gobbet of knowledge that might prove useful in a future investigation. That said, he was currently busy compiling the dossier on known pacifists, which he did mainly by scouring the newspapers for any accounts of recent pacifist meetings, making a note of the names of all those attending.
It was largely to allay his sergeants’ restlessness that Quinn had set them to their various tasks.
Given his somewhat vague brief, Sergeant Inchball was rather more at a loss as to how to proceed. Last night he had spent a couple of unsatisfactory hours lurking outside a notorious Fenian pub in Holloway before finally, and unadvisedly, venturing inside. His attempt to order a pint of Guinness in an Irish accent was still more ill-advised, and had drawn the attention of a number of large, threatening gentlemen whose accents were rather more convincing.
One fella had got his face right in Inchball’s, his massy beard specked with the froth from his stout. ‘Are you a copper?’
‘A copper, I? I not be a copper. Oh, to be sure, to be sure, not. I not be that. A copper, that not I be.’
‘You look like a copper. You sound like a copper. And you smell like a copper.’
Inchball’s accent entirely abandoned him at that point. ‘I, ee, arrr, I, oh …’
It was not in his nature to run from a fight. But he saw little point in getting himself killed for the sake of one of the guv’nor’s whims. Because yes, that was what this whole ‘watch the Irish’ thing was, he knew. And so he had made a dash for the door. Fortunately, there was no one blocking his way. It seemed the regulars of the Horse and Groom had no more desire for trouble than he had. He heard their raucous laughter as the door slammed behind him. Soon after, a fiddle started up in a lively rendition of ‘The Minstrel Boy’.
Invited to give a progress report of his investigation, Inchball related an abridged version of the previous night’s adventure. He left out the bit about his bad Irish accent, only saying that the Micks had rumbled him. ‘Well, I can’t show my face there again, can I?’ he complained. It was typical of Inchball that he managed to make it sound as if his misfortune was someone else’s fault. He cast a particularly recriminatory glance in Quinn’s direction.
Quinn sighed but offered no comment.
‘We need a real Mick to go undercover for us. They’ll see right through me if I try that again.’
‘I have a cousin who is Irish,’ volunteered Macadam. ‘Several, in fact.’
‘You and your bleedin’ cousins,’ muttered Inchball. ‘Let’s say you have. Can he be trusted?’
‘He’s an Ulsterman. Of the Protestant sect. He hates the Fenians with a passion.’
‘But could be pass for one?’
Quinn cut the discussion short. ‘We will not involve any amateurs in our operations. It’s too risky.’
‘When war comes, everyone’s involved,’ observed Macadam darkly. ‘Amateur or not.’
‘We’re not at war yet.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, guv, this whole thing is a waste of our time. You mean to tell me that the Secret Service ain’t already got its spies embedded in Fenian cells? There’s a real danger I could go blundering into one of their undercover ops and blow the whole thing wide open. They won’t thank us for that. If you ask me, we’re better off leaving all these political shenanigans to the experts.’
Quinn decided to overlook the fact that he had not asked Inchball. ‘I don’t need to remind you, Sergeant Inchball, that the strategic direction of the department is not decided by you. Nor, indeed, by me. But by our superiors.’
‘Henry told you to do this, did he?’ Sir Edward Henry was the commissioner of the Police of the Metropolis. It was he who had set up the Special Crimes Department; Silas Quinn reported directly to him.
Inchball’s tone was sceptical. Quinn’s response, evasive. ‘He gave me a broad directive, which I am interpreting.’
‘What was it, this broad directive?’
Quinn answered the question with a distracted frown, and a glance towards the window, as if he had heard a noise he could not identify coming from outside. He trusted Inchball knew enough not to press him any further.
There were times when Inchball’s characteristic bluntness came close to insubordination. But Quinn knew he meant no disrespect by it. If called upon, Inchball would lay down his life for the man he called guv. When it came to it, there would be no more questioning, no more grumbles. He would blindly, unhesitatingly put himself in peril at Quinn’s command. Quinn knew this, because Inchball frequently had.
His loyalty was absolute.
It was just that he was in one of those moods. Quinn put it down to frustration, and the loss of face he had suffered the night before.
They needed a case, something tangible to work on.
‘Well, now, here’s a queer thing. A decidedly queer thing.’
Both Quinn and Inchball turned their heads eagerly towards their colleague. Quinn realized that Sergeant Macadam – unconsciously or not – quite often slipped into the role of mediator between himself and Inchball, diffusing tension and providing a way through any impasse by distracting them from their own positions.
Macadam’s voice was brimming with promise.
‘You remember that fellow I was telling you about? The one who got mauled to death by the polar bear. Well, there’s been another one.’
‘I’d say London Zoo need to sort out visitor safety arrangements for those new bear terraces, and pronto!’ commented Inchball. ‘But I still don’t see …’
‘No, no. This wasn’t at the zoo.’
‘There’s a polar bear on the loose?’
‘It wasn’t a polar bear.’
‘What kind of bear was it? A grizzly?’
‘It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t any kind of animal. This one threw himself off Suicide Bridge in Archway.’
‘What the hell are you blathering on about, man? First off, what possible connection could there be between a man throwing himself off Suicide Bridge and a mauling at the zoo? Second off, what possible interest could either be to us? A man kills himself at Suicide Bridge. It’s hardly an unusual incident. The clue is in the name. Suicide Bridge. They called it that for a reason.’
‘There are certain details linking them. Both men were naked, having just discarded their clothes.’
‘That doesn’t mean—’ But Inchball broke off. Perhaps it did mean something after all. ‘Well, so what? They were obviously both lunatics.’
‘But the curious thing, the really curious thing, is that the clothes that were discarded were, as far as I am able to ascertain from newspaper reports, identical. Before they disrobed and killed themselves, both men were apparently wearing brown corduroy suits and grey shirts.’
Quinn heard a strange strangled noise, halfway between a groan and a cry of protest, and only realized that it was he himself who had made it when both of his sergeants turned towar
ds him at the same time.
SEVEN
The first of the bodies, that of the man mauled by the bear at Regent’s Park Zoo, was held at the mortuary of the Bloomsbury Coroner’s Court near High Holborn. This was a purpose-built brick construction on an acute corner, the effect of which the architect had sought to soften by truncating the angle with an extra face. Presumably he did not want the building’s plan to resemble too much the blade of a scalpel.
The court was located close to a council school. Quinn could hear the echoing cries of children at their play. The teacher’s bell calling them back to their lessons began to toll as he entered the building.
He had declined Macadam’s offer to drive him here. He did not want either of his sergeants with him when he confronted his suspicions.
Quinn recognized the court official who greeted him, a man whose face was contorted into a permanent wince, revealing wide gums and poor teeth. Quinn remembered him as being something of a stickler for procedure and so showed his warrant card.
The official hiked up his wince, when Quinn had explained the purpose of his visit. ‘He’s not a pretty sight.’
‘I don’t want to look at him. Particularly.’ Quinn never ruled out entirely the prospect of viewing a corpse. ‘I wish to see his effects.’
‘Ah, yes.’
The official led him upstairs to a landing with three doors. One bore the sign: MORTUARY. The next: POST-MORTEM ROOM. The third, more prosaically: STOREROOM. It was this last that they entered.
It had the air of a lost property office where nothing would ever be reclaimed. The cubby holes were here and there veiled with cobwebs.
An elderly attendant in a brown overcoat sat behind a mahogany counter reading the latest Sexton Blake serial in the Union Jack.
‘The bear attack, Pardew. Inspector Quinn wishes to examine the deceased’s effects.’
A moment later, Pardew returned from the back of the room with a cardboard box, which he placed on the counter. Quinn felt his mouth go dry. His heart began to hammer. He was unsure whether he would be able to lift his hands to open the box.
‘Has anyone come forward to identify him?’ Quinn heard the tremulous quiver in his own voice.
‘No,’ said the official.
‘And there was nothing found on him to indicate his identity?’
‘Nothing was found on him at all. He was completely naked.’
‘I meant, nothing was found in his clothes?’
‘Everything is in the box. There were some papers. But the coroner was not able to draw from them any definite conclusions as to the deceased’s identity. His face, as you will see if you examine the body, was partially eaten away. And so it was impossible for us to release a photograph, or to compare his features to any known missing persons. None of the witnesses to the event were able to offer any reliable confirmation of identity. The transcript of the inquest is available for you to read should you so wish.’
‘I will take it with me if I may.’ Quinn noticed resistance in the official’s demeanour. ‘I’ll sign a receipt for it. Now if Mr Pardew could open the box for me, I would like to have a look inside.’
The cloth of the suit was visible immediately. Quinn recognized the shade of brown, the coarse corduroy ridges.
He closed his eyes and felt his body sway.
‘Inspector Quinn? Is everything all right?’
‘Please, Mr Pardew, could you take the items out for me?’ For the moment, nothing could induce Quinn to handle that suit himself.
The jacket, waistcoat and trousers were laid out on the counter, together with a shirt of grey calico as Macadam had said, and as Quinn knew it would be. The undergarments were as he remembered them too.
‘It’s hardly a bespoke suit,’ said the official. ‘Quite crudely made, in fact. Almost homemade in appearance.’
‘It’s not homemade,’ said Quinn.
‘There are no labels in any of the garments. No sign of commercial manufacture. The coroner was rather flummoxed by that. It would have constituted what I believe you police detectives call a lead.’
‘You mentioned some papers?’
‘Pardew?’
The papers were kept in a separate file, together with the inquiry transcript, post-mortem report and various photographs of the Mappin Terraces and the corpse.
Quinn picked up a folded pamphlet printed on flimsy yellow paper.
RESIST THE EVIL OF WAR!
Do not be deceived by corrupt Imperialist warmongers! War will benefit no one, except for armament manufacturers and the rapacious despoilers of the Earth.
The headlong rush to conflict must be resisted!
It is every Christian’s duty to refuse war. It is every worker’s demand to resist war. It is every mother’s prayer to reject war.
THEIR CAUSE IS NOT YOUR CAUSE!
A war in Europe will bring death and misery to millions. It will be on a scale that has never before been witnessed. Untold horrors will be unleashed.
Do not allow the greed and militarism of the governing classes to drag you into a war you do not want, to which you have not consented, and in which you may likely die. Their cause is not your cause. They do not deserve your sacrifice.
STAND TOGETHER FOR PEACE!
Already, by secret agreements and understandings of which the democracies of the civilized world know only by rumour, steps are being taken which may fling us all into the fray. We therefore call upon all citizens to stand together for peace. Combine and conquer the militarist enemy and the self-seeking Imperialists to-day once and for all.
There is no justice in the wholesale destruction upon which the enemies of mankind are bent. War is Hell. War is Madness. War is Death.
JOIN US!
We are an open brotherhood – and sisterhood! – of peace. We proclaim that for us the days of butchery and plunder have gone by. We protest against the greed and intrigue of militarists and armament-mongers. We are the Fellowship of the Gracchi. Join us to-day!
‘This Fellowship of the Gracchi … did the coroner’s inquest look into it?’
‘It’s not a secret organization. Its leaders are well-known. Some are even respected members of the upper classes, and, uh, celebrated literary gentlemen. A number were called upon to give testimony. It has long expounded principles of a pacifist bent, which may be lamentable but is not illegal. These pamphlets are handed out freely every Sunday morning at Speaker’s Corner. The fact that the deceased had one in his possession was thought not to signify. There was also found a music hall advertisement. Similarly, there is nothing to say that he attended the music hall in question or that, if he did, his attendance there is at all associated with his death.’
Quinn found the handbill in question. It advertised a show at the Camden Empire, the acts listed in type of diminishing size:
MISS BELLE SWANSON
MISS ANNETTE TINKLEY
LITTLE JIMMY AND LITTLER JOHN
THE FABULOUS FLYING FORTESCUES
PROFESSOR PANDAEMONIUM
DON CLIFFORD AND HIS DOGS
THE LEGS-ELEVEN DANCING TROUPE
CROSS-EYED AL
The official winced emphatically. ‘The only item that can with any certainty be connected to his death is his ticket of admission to the zoo.’
Quinn found the zoo ticket. He turned it over several times before surrendering it dejectedly.
‘The coroner’s verdict was death by misadventure. Nothing found in his pockets contradicts that.’
‘Not even this?’ Quinn now held up a card depicting a crudely printed illustration of a red hand. It was the size of a cigarette card, but there was no indication of any brand or maker. On the reverse of the card was written ‘F.J.S.U.’ in black ink. Beneath that, the number seven.
‘You will have to read the coroner’s report yourself. I am sure he addresses the card in that.’
Quinn nodded. ‘I will. I would like to take the whole file away with me, along with the box of his … effects.’
‘Very well. Will that be all?’
‘While I am here …’ Quinn cocked his head in the direction of the mortuary.
EIGHT
For Quinn, there was always a moment of theatre before a body was uncovered on a mortuary table. He had never been present at the unveiling of a work of art, but he imagined that the sense of anticipation must be similar. Except that there was nothing artificial about this tableau. It was the truth to which all art aspired.
He had to admit, he had seen worse: corpses that were even more badly mangled. This was still recognizably a man’s body. It held its shape. All its limbs and extremities were still attached.
At the same time, it was also recognizably the remnants of a meal.
The hair was seemingly untouched, when viewed from the front at least. Close cropped and the colour of iron filings, it was that thick, superabundant type of hair that held its own in any situation.
The face, as the court official had said, was completely eaten away. The skin was missing, except for shredded tatters on the forehead. The nose and cheekbones were crushed to splinters in a dark pulpy mince, giving Quinn some inkling of the size and power of the animal’s jaws. One bite, he suspected, was enough to create this carnage.
It was strange, perhaps, that the bear had chosen to feast here, when, considered as prey, the body must have offered more rewarding morsels elsewhere. But it was unlikely that the biting was done for the purposes of feeding. The animal was presumably well fed. And there was something desultory about the wound. Quinn imagined that the man must have been screaming as he faced up to the bear. He imagined the bear’s confusion, and the gradual stoking of that into rage.
The face was not the only part of the body that had been savaged. The throat was a scooped-out glistening hole. Much of the torso was flayed. Strips of skin hung off, ribboned by the beast’s claws. The stomach was ripped open, as if the bear had gone rooting for jam sandwiches there. One forearm was gnawed.
Other less severe wounds appear to have been sustained in the animal’s casual discarding of a thing it had tired of: abrasions picked up as the man’s body skimmed and bounced along the rough concrete of the Mappin Terraces.
