The Red Hand of Fury

by R. N. Morris

  Silas let out a deep sigh. ‘The square is the slate tile he had me punch. Yes, Henry is right. There will be blood on it. That will prove that I did not sustain this wound …’ He held up his splayed hand. ‘Pounding Ince to death, for all that I might have liked to.’

  ‘It proves nothing,’ insisted Coddington desperately. He must have sensed he’d lost his audience. From their mutterings, even the local coppers were turning against him. ‘You and this halfwit are in cahoots, that’s obvious.’

  With that, he proved how badly he had misjudged the mood. For all their burliness and brusqueness, the policemen had been moved by Henry’s evident distress. They showed a level of human sympathy that DCI Coddington lacked. His authority over the other coppers drained from him in that moment.

  Silas Quinn was there to assume it, even though he was barefoot and dressed in the brown corduroy suit of an asylum inmate. He cradled his beard in one hand, thoughtfully, as if he were weighing its value. He showed his authority by voicing the one question that needed to be asked. ‘Where is Timon Medway?’

  The question was addressed to no one in particular. And no one answered it.

  FORTY

  Wilfred George Portman looked down over the side of the Grahame-White Type XV at the rolling land below. The mighty Gnome 80 HP pusher engine clattered and roared behind him.

  It was hard to think with that din going on. But in truth, he had done all his thinking already.

  Now was the time for action.

  He felt curiously numb. Emptied of emotion.

  He felt an icy chill inside him. It was colder than the blast of wind on his face. His bones vibrated. It could have been the thrum of the engine. Or it could have been he was shivering at his own cold-bloodedness.

  He had laid the groundwork over the years. Cultivating a correspondence, feigning a friendship even, with that man. The man he hated more than any other.

  It was arguably the greatest work of fiction he had produced. At times, he had almost believed it himself. That he, W.G. Portman, was such an exemplar of socialist, free-thinking principles that he would forgive – and even befriend – a man like that.

  The man who had murdered Wilfred.

  Portman had read the news that morning, 5 August, 1914. England had declared war against Germany.

  It seemed fitting, somehow. If he got out of this alive, he would volunteer as a pilot. He had no doubt there would be a need for men with his skills.

  The truth was that before now he had not given any thought to what he might do after today. Today had been the end point of all his plans.

  For the first time, he was flying solo. He missed having Claude Grahame-White in the seat behind him. The firm touch on the shoulder, reassuring him of his mentor’s presence.

  But today, he was on his own.

  Severed from human contact, a thousand feet above the nearest hope of fellowship.

  With only the wind whipping around him and the engine’s drone for company.

  ‘Where do you think he is, guv?’

  It felt good to be called ‘guv’ again. Especially by Inchball. Quinn shook his head. ‘He could be anywhere. We need more resources.’

  A pair of shoes had been found for him. He was walking the entourage of coppers around the asylum, a guided tour, as if they might be interested in taking up residence there. Leaming and Pottinger were also in tow, though they were somewhat subdued, not to say sheepish.

  The visiting party went from bathroom to day room, to ward, to dining hall, to dormitory. Medway’s bed showed no sign of having been slept in.

  At last they came to the door of Leaming’s treatment room. Quinn paused, before turning on Leaming. ‘Where did you hide him? For the purposes of the therapy?’

  ‘The room above this one. The floor has been modified – a two-way mirror sunk into it.’

  ‘Take us to it.’

  Leaming led them at a run. The room was bare and curiously unprepossessing, hardly sinister at all. There was just the oddness of the window on to the room below. If Medway had been there, he was no longer. Quinn took the opportunity to peer down at the oversized mechanized chair in which he had experienced such strange sights and sensations. He half-expected to see himself naked there.

  On his way out of the room, he said to Leaming: ‘You will answer for this. In due course.’

  ‘You won’t know this, Inspector, but according to this morning’s newspapers, war has been declared. The War Office has already confiscated all my papers. They sent someone round first thing. My work is protected by the Official Secrets Act. You will be made to sign. There will be nothing you can do. There’s nothing I can do. Even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Four men died,’ said Quinn. ‘Five if you count Ince.’

  ‘That was never the intention.’

  ‘No. You intended many more to die. And I have no doubt they will.’

  Leaming offered no denial.

  ‘Where to now, sir?’ wondered Macadam.

  ‘The pump house.’

  Something began to intrude on Quinn’s consciousness with each patient they rushed past. The curious excitement that he had detected among the male inmates was still there. Only now, instead of cradling their right hands, they were openly showing them to him. It was a signal. And when he realized what they were signalling, his heart began to pound.

  ‘Look! Look at their hands!’

  He went over to one patient, a scrawny, bent-over man weakened by poverty, drink and destitution. The man allowed Quinn to take his hand and hold it up. There across the knuckles, a bloody graze not dissimilar to his own. He pointed to another man. ‘There! He’s the same. They’re all the same. Dr Pottinger, how many male patients are there in Colney Hatch?

  ‘Around nine hundred.’

  ‘Exactly! I want the exact number.’

  ‘I shall have to consult the registry. I believe it’s around nine hundred. Eight hundred and fifty, something like that.’

  ‘And when you discount those who are permanently incapacitated? Or in secure confinement?’

  ‘I would have to check.’

  ‘Seven hundred and sixty-three perhaps? No, I should think the exact number is seven hundred and sixty-six. And when you deduct three – myself, Henry and Medway – you get seven hundred and sixty-three. That’s how many blows he said it must have taken to kill Ince. Don’t you see? He had every available male patient hit Ince once. They all played a part in killing him!’

  ‘How could that be?’ wondered Dr Pottinger.

  ‘Ince was already sedated. No one blow was the death blow, so in that sense, no single man is guilty – except for Medway, who used them all as a weapon. But they all hated Ince equally. And each one had an equal hand in his death.’

  ‘How could you allow this to happen?’ one of the police demanded of Pottinger.

  ‘It’s impossible to keep an eye on everyone. And, if they are not causing trouble, then we tend to leave them to their own devices. We are woefully under-resourced here, I will have you know. We do the best we can.’

  Quinn offered an alternative explanation. ‘Perhaps you knew, and turned a blind eye?’

  ‘No!’ The vehemence of Pottinger’s denial was undermined by the evasiveness of his gaze. ‘We gave him too much latitude, I will accept that. Sometimes, in here, it is possible to … I will not say overlook … but to make allowances for the terrible things that our patients have done outside. We begin to trust men whom we should not. He is a very persuasive man, you know. And quite engaging, in his own way.’

  ‘He is a child murderer. Never forget that. I made that mistake myself.’

  They had reached the pump house when the buzz of an aircraft engine had them swivelling their heads back towards the main building.

  The flimsy two-seater craft looked like it was constructed out of a number of large boxes glued precariously together. It was making a sharp descent. They could be forgiven for thinking the pilot was intent on crashing into the asylum.

&n
bsp; Just at the last minute they saw something unfurl from the side of the cabin. A rope ladder now trailed in its wake.

  It was then that they saw him. The figure on the roof. Medway, it could only be.

  He was clambering towards the highest point, the dome above the main entrance. Following some repair work after the recent storm, a workman’s ladder had been left in place. Medway manoeuvred it to the side of the dome and began to climb.

  Quinn held his breath as he watched.

  Medway clung to the side of the dome, and then somehow turned himself around so that he was facing out. He wasn’t able to reach the summit, but this was undoubtedly high enough.

  The aircraft was flying dangerously low now. Just a score or so feet about the roof tops. The pilot steered a course towards Medway. Medway held out one hand to grasp the rope ladder as it brushed past him.

  Despite his hatred for Medway, Quinn could not help admiring the daring of the act. A part of him even wanted it to succeed, just because he knew that there would never again be an opportunity to witness something so athletic and outrageous.

  The ladder was within an arm’s reach now. Medway swung out and held on.

  And was borne aloft.

  He climbed a few rungs before waving triumphantly to those watching him below.

  The pilot put the aircraft into a steep climb. The engine strained under the additional load.

  Quinn’s admiration of a moment before turned to an icy despair, as he realized that Medway was escaping.

  But then, at a height of around three hundred feet, the rope inexplicably detached itself from the aircraft.

  And Medway plummeted, his arms and legs flailing in a desperate attempt to fly.

  FORTY-ONE

  Sir Edward Henry observed him across his desk with a look of silent reproach. The commissioner’s face was drawn and colourless. Quinn thought he detected a slight tremor beneath the eye.

  ‘You sent for me, sir?’

  Sir Edward’s jaw shook as he spoke. ‘You … are quite something, Quinn.’ Knowing Sir Edward as he did, Quinn was under no illusions. This was meant as the fiercest invective.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It was unforgivable – unforgivable! – of you to involve Macadam and Inchball in your preposterous plan.’

  ‘It wasn’t preposterous.’

  ‘Were you investigating me? Is that why you kept me out of it?’

  ‘I didn’t trust Sir Michael Esslyn. I still don’t. I believe I have been vindicated in my suspicions.’

  ‘You have no idea! You have simply no idea, I tell you.’

  ‘What will happen to me, sir?’

  ‘I ought to send you back into that place.’

  Quinn gave a measured sigh.

  ‘There’s a war on now, of course.’

  ‘I was thinking of volunteering.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. You’re in a reserved occupation, don’t you know that? We’ll need men like you even more in the coming days.’

  ‘What will happen to Leaming?’

  ‘Write a report. File it. Then put it out of your mind.’

  ‘Nothing will happen.’

  ‘The programme has been closed down, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Well, yes. They don’t have Timon Medway any more.’

  ‘It’s not for the likes of you or me to understand these things, Quinn. We must trust the experts.’

  ‘Men died.’

  ‘But who can say what advances their sacrifice enabled?’

  ‘They didn’t make a sacrifice! They were sacrificed.’

  ‘Mistakes were made. The government acknowledges that.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Do you want me to say sorry, is that it?’

  There was a long moment of silence before Quinn said: ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘What about the pilot? Have you tracked him down?’

  ‘W.G. Portman, the writer. It turns out he was the father of Wilfred Thomas, Elena Thomas’s son, who was murdered by Medway. We have him in custody, while we decide what to charge him with.’

  ‘It sounds like premeditated murder to me. Motive: revenge.’

  ‘It could have been an accident. He may have been trying to help Medway escape.’

  ‘Is that what he says?’

  ‘He has been advised to say nothing. We must interpret the events as best we can.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you. Just get rid of the beard, will you. It makes you look like an old testament prophet.’

  Silas weighed the beard absently in one hand. ‘I hadn’t thought.’

  ‘I don’t think Miss Latterly likes it.’

  ‘Miss Latterly?’

  ‘Go away, Quinn. I have had enough of looking at you.’

  He paused on his way out beside Miss Latterly’s desk. He considered for a moment saying something about his beard, specifically her alleged dislike of it. But he had the sense to realize this might put her at a disadvantage.

  ‘Yes?’ she said sharply, without looking up from her typing.

  ‘I was only wondering,’ he began. He hadn’t known until now what he was going to say. ‘If you would be interested in accompanying me to a concert perhaps, or a tea dance, or a moving picture show. Or perhaps we could go for a walk one evening along the river.’

  At last she stopped what she was doing and looked at him.

  ‘About bloody time,’ she said.