‘I wonder what else we’ll discover if we apply ourselves with more care to the library?’ said Mr Newsome, to himself as much as to the other men. Whether he was acting upon his years of experience, or whether it was a mere guess, he was correct to think that more secrets would lie there. For where better to ‘hide’ an item than among other seemingly identical items?
And search they did, removing book after book from the shelves and checking it for inserts or false covers. History, poetry, art, biology, philosophy – all passed through the hands of the policemen, their thumbs fanning pages for secrets. Such knowledge was wasted on them; it was little more than ink on paper. But what they lacked in erudition, they compensated for with determination.
‘This is odd,’ said Mr Newsome, holding a brown leather-bound volume. ‘The spine proclaims it to be Anatomy of the Cranium by a Doctor Herbert Malham but the contents are handwritten.’ He looked to Benjamin and saw the Negro’s jaw set in mute frustration.
Upon closer inspection, the book’s entire contents proved to have been compiled by one man, and the pages loaded with sketches and maps, all of which were carefully dated. Lists of names and addresses filled pages, and there were more notes about fires. Articles from the Times that related to fires or other crimes had been cut out and catalogued. Inside the front cover was a list of men’s names.
‘What is it, sir?’ asked Mr Bryant.
‘I have no idea. The more I learn, the less I understand. The Negro showed apprehension at us finding this book, and it has a false description on its spine (a very dull one) – no doubt to deter the casual observer. We must try to discern what secret it holds. As for our prisoner, I admit I am at a loss. His address and his belongings are perplexing. Who is he? What is he? From where does he derive his income?’
‘I cannot say, sir, but I think we have enough information to start applying wedges to prise open the safe of his silence.’
‘In that, Mr Bryant, you are assuredly correct. We must talk to our prisoner further. ’
‘And the Negro?’
‘You may arrest him under suspicion of the theft of a police uniform and he can ride in the carriage with us. Let us go.’
And with that, the three gentlemen left the house. Benjamin gave no fight, but submitted to the irons with seeming calmness. The policemen cannot have known, however, what anguish the cold metal brought to him, and what anger coursed through his body. Only his benefactor could save him now.
SEVEN
Sergeant Williamson paced the murder scene in Lambeth. The pitiful performers had been moved to another address the previous day, but the house retained the atmosphere of one still inhabited. Their breath and scent remained – as did the blood.
Does a place retain a memory of a murder? When the blood is scrubbed away, when the curtains are replaced and the furniture washed, can another occupy the same room with undisturbed sleep? When we walk the midnight streets, do we feel the chill fingers of those who have perished there in fires and fights? Are their spirits a hidden population among us?
No such thoughts entered the head of Mr Williamson, who was still simmering with indignation. The meeting with his superiors had not been amicable. He had entered that room at Giltspur-street with his eyes tired from lack of sleep, and had been in no mood for excessive deference.
‘Inspector Newsome, Superintendent Wilberforce – I have been called from investigating the scene of a murder in Lambeth. The very room lies unattended as I stand here. May I enquire as to why I have been summoned?’
‘Have some courtesy in the presence of the Superintendent,’ warned Mr Newsome.
‘Forgive me, sir, but you know my methods. In cases such as these, the critical thing is to strike quickly and gather clues before they are lost. There is too much laxity in the handling of crime to allow any further opportunities to the criminal.’
‘All will be explained, Sergeant,’ said Mr Wilberforce, restocking the bowl of his pipe.
And indeed all was explained: their scheme for expediting investigations, the discussions with Commissioner Mayne, and their possible plans for the unnamed prisoner in the solitary cell. As they might have expected, they did not find a willing participant in Sergeant Williamson.
‘With respect, Superintendent Wilberforce, it goes against everything I stand for as a police officer and as a detective. The idea of working with a criminal rather than against him is preposterous.’
‘And if it allowed you to catch a greater criminal or solve a greater crime in order to protect a greater number of people?’ answered Mr Wilberforce. ‘Is it so different from the information we occasionally receive from captured criminals in order to apprehend their cohorts?’
‘A convicted criminal’s place is in gaol or, if it is absolutely necessary, on the gallows, not on the streets in companionship with a detective.’
‘I respect your opinion, Sergeant Williamson. You are one of our finest men. But if Commissioner Mayne decides that this scheme will be put into action, your consent will not be necessary. The reputation of the Metropolitan Police may one day depend upon the services of such a criminal. Should that be the case, he may be put in the charge of a trusted investigator such as you, Sergeant.’
‘I am flattered by your words, sir, but I will—’ ‘You will follow your orders to the letter, as you always have. Now, please tell us the full details of your Lambeth murder case before you return. Omit nothing.’
A group of people loitered persistently outside the Lambeth house, no doubt waiting for it to give up further secrets. PC Cullen was still on duty and in dire need of being relieved. But for his presence, they would have been inside enjoying the horror.
Nevertheless, one piece of evidence had emerged from the onlookers: shortly after the police had arrived, a stranger had been among them asking what all the fuss was about. When he heard of the murder, he fled. The locals had described him variously as ‘a toff’, a ‘west-end boy’ or a ‘foreigner’. To these people, however, anyone from across the river might well fit the latter appellation.
Sergeant Williamson cast his eyes over the mournful scene: the chair where Eliza-Beth had sat; the spatter of blood up the wall and on the floor; the beds of the performers with their still rumpled sheets. Daylight added little illumination to the place, but he had discovered some minor clues.
There were partial bloody footprints, presumably made by the killer as he stepped around the chair to grab the letter or the locket, neither of which could be found in the house. From the sole print, it appeared a curious species of shoe: completely flat (without a heel) and a little broader than typical. They had carried their taint of blood down the stairs, but become too faint to see beyond the front door. Upon close inspection, the door appeared to have been forced open, most likely with an iron jemmy. No razor had been found in or around the house.
Resorting to his usual method, he tried to reason through the little information that he had to hand, writing it in his notebook:
Victim: A two-headed girl, part of a ‘freak show’ – no known family.
Location: A poor boarding house in Lambeth – a transient address.
Clues: Shoeprints, a missing locket, missing letters, a broken lock, sundry visiters (and visiting cards).
Suspect: The scarred man seen by the dog-child and heard by Miss Eugenia; the ‘west-end boy’ seen loitering outside.
Weapon: Most likely a razor.
Motive: To steal the locket? To steal the letters? Revenge?
Such conclusions were unhelpful, even contradictory. The broken lock suggested a common burglar, while the shoes could have been the gutta-percha or cork soles utilized by highly skilled cracksmen. The killer’s attire, however, indicated that he was more probably the former than the latter – so why did he wear silent shoes if he was planning to break the lock?
Since every man owned a razor, the choice of weapon was of no great consequence: it was quick to use and easy to conceal. Moreover, the house was in a poor district and was
unlikely to contain anything of great value – unless the killer had foreknowledge of some other prize. The locket itself was worth little, except to poor Eliza-Beth, herself an unfortunate accident of nature with no other possessions of her own. Only the letters provided a possible link to some outside agency, but – until found – they appeared to be nothing more than an attempt by a parent to recommence his or her role after a prolonged period. In short, the avenues of investigation were more akin to culs de sac and the vicious murder seemed entirely unjustified.
Detective Williamson looked again at the visiting cards that Mr Coggins had given to him. The ‘strange cove’ doctor was Dr Cole of 26, Harley-street: a surgeon specializing in spinal deformities (to whom a constable had been dispatched to make an appointment for an interview). The writer was Mr Henry Askern MA (Oxon.) with an address in Portman-square. The detective would call on him presently.
Would either of those gentlemen be able to throw illumination on details of the girl’s past life that might motivate someone to kill her? The possibility was a distant one.
There was a knock at the street door and PC Cullen called up the stairs: ‘Reverend Josiah Archer here to see you as requested, sir!’
‘Send him up, Constable.’
The clergyman stamped up the stairs and into the room. He was a fearsome-looking man in his flowing black robes and cloak. His head was a glabrous egg, framed above the ears with wiry grey hair, and his eyes had the roving intensity of the insane. In truth, he had once been a respected member of the Anglican Church until his doctrine had become warped with extremism and his sermons condemnatory of his very own flock. Under scrutiny, his robes, which most likely constituted his entire clothing, were soiled with mud, grease and food. His church was now the streets and his congregation the entire population of London. Mr Williamson inadvertently wrinkled his nose at the smell of his visiter.
‘Thank you, Reverend, for agreeing to visit me here,’ began the detective. ‘I understand that this is your second visit to the house. May I ask what motivated your earlier visit?’
The clergyman spoke loudly, as if addressing a busy street corner: ‘Are you familiar with scripture, Sergeant?’
‘As well as the next man, I imagine. As to your visiting—’
‘And I stood upon the land of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy!’
‘Well, quite.’
‘The Book of Revelation, chapter thirteen, verse one. I’m sure you perceive the parallels.’
‘Frankly, no. Why did you visit this house on Wednesday last?’
‘The Book predicts the Apocalypse, Sergeant. Its warning signs are among us even now: many-headed freaks of nature, flames of fire in our midst. Babylon is fallen, is fallen that great city because she made all nations drink of the wine of the wrath of her fornication. Chapter fourteen, verse eight. London is the modern Babylon – a Sodom and a Gomorrah in one. The reek of its sin reaches Heaven Itself.’
‘So you came here to see Eliza-Beth, the two-headed girl, for proof of the prophecy? Is that correct?’
‘The beasts that dwelled here were an abomination in the eyes of the Lord! See how they multiply and mock Him. I am called to witness these things, to record them and preach them. The Redeemer is to return at any moment – the signs make it clear. Are you saved, Sergeant?’
‘Reverend Archer – a murder has been committed. The girl that you saw is dead, her throat cut in that very chair.’
Mr Archer looked towards the chair and then at the gouts of dried gore on the wall and floor around it. He paled and supported himself on a nearby table.
‘Reverend – have you been in this room before?’
‘No. My viewing of the monsters was held in the downstairs kitchen, under the supervision of Dr Zwigoff. He introduced them to me individually and described each infirmity with great relish. The man will burn as assuredly as they.’
‘Did you speak with Eliza-Beth?’
‘I spoke to none of them. My purpose is to witness, to record and to preach.’
‘Have you written a letter to any of the people you saw?’
‘A letter? To them? Why? I would sooner write a letter to the Devil!’
‘Then, did you see Eliza-Beth in possession of a letter during your visit?’
‘Are you insane? I was looking at a natural aberration with two heads! She was flanked by a giant, a half-man and a human dog. Do you think I would stop to notice a letter tucked into someone’s clothing?’
‘I suppose not, Reverend Archer. Not everyone has the observation of a detective.’
‘Quite right, Sergeant. Quite right. Now, is there anything further I can tell you? I am uncomfortable in this infernal place. It breathes the very vapours of Hell. I have witnessed; I have recorded; now I must preach.’
‘Did you see anyone loitering about the building when you visited? Or perhaps you encountered another interested party here?’
‘I believe a man was leaving as I arrived. I almost walked into him as he left the house. He did not apologize and I shouted after him that he should learn some courtesy.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Our meeting was brief. He wore something over his lower face – a scarf perhaps. Have you finished now, Detective? I am unwilling to spend time here when there are souls to be saved elsewhere.’
‘One more question, if I may. Have you any children?’
‘What an absurdity! I am a man of God! I have taken a voluntary vow of chastity in order that I may remain untainted by the sin of fornication. My mind is pure. Let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, that ye should obey it in the lusts thereof. Book of Romans, chapter six, verse twelve. Something more?’
‘Nothing more. I will seek you if I need further information. Thank you.’
And the clergyman departed, offering a parting suggestion that Mr Williamson might reacquaint himself with the New Testament that his soul could be prepared. The man was clearly deranged. He had been preaching about London for years and had never hurt anyone. It seemed highly unlikely that he had committed the murder. Of course, that did not mean that he knew nothing about it.
The detective looked around once more at the scene. One of the beds had two pillows, one laid next to the other – presumably Eliza-Beth’s bed. He walked over to it, trying to recall which head had belonged to which girl. A single strand of red hair lay on the left-hand pillow. As he reached down to take it between thumb and forefinger, he felt paper crackle beneath. The letter?
The stitching at the side of the pillow had been unpicked in order to hide the secret within. He opened the narrow aperture and delved into the horsehair to extract what he had been searching for.
The letter had no addresses, reinforcing the assertion that it had been delivered personally to the house. By her parent, or by a representative thereof? The hand was in standard copperplate and could have been written by a male or female hand. He sniffed the paper but could not identify any perfume, not even pipe smoke. Sitting on the bed, he read:
Dear Eliza-Beth
You do not know me, though you carry a part of me about your neck. It was I who left that locket with you when I shamefully abandoned you at the church door, hoping that, like Moses, you would be borne to safety.
I have followed your progress from afar, reading of your travels in the newspapers and hearing of your fame around the continent. Indeed, I have attended your shows at Vauxhall Gardens and seen the way you are exhibited like an animal. I have even spoken to you at your own abode and discovered your graceful, loving nature. Through all these years, my heart has been pierced with guilt.
In my heart, I have accepted that the time has come to accept you, regardless of my position and reputation. Very soon, I will come to claim you, even if I have to pay the rapacious Mr Coggins for the privilege.
Be patient, sweet child. You may communicate with me by passing a le
tter to the person who has delivered this. He will return early on Monday morning. I apologize for not revealing my true identity – I cannot yet have it known should the letter fall into a stranger’s hand.
I send you my love.
There was no signature. There were, however, some new questions to be answered. First among them was why the Reverend Archer, who confessed to his own poor observation, had alluded to ‘a letter tucked into someone’s clothing’ – just as it had been described by Miss Eugenia and Mr Coggins. Second was the identity of the messenger who was to visit that very morning. Was he the stranger identified by the locals? Or was the ‘toff’ an associate of the murderer come to see what was happening?
EIGHT
We will step momentarily away from the case itself to cast an eye over the sensation that the Lambeth Murder very shortly began to cause in the city. The facts of the case, like smoke from the chimney of that very boarding house, seemed to rise into the sky over the sea of rooftops. There, they intermingled with the carbonaceous effluvia of a million other chimneys: domestically burned wood and coal, the sulphurous billows of the copper manufactory, the acid clouds of the alkali works, the ferrous breath of the foundry, and the hot, malty outpourings of the distillery. They cooled, solidified, and then began to settle across the city in a fine particulate of scandal, rumour, gossip – and news. No corner of the metropolis could escape the story.
Of course, the newspapers covered every detail. But among the common man, it was the clever patterer who spread the news like a wind-borne fire through the streets. There he was at the street corner, shouting his wares with carefully emphasized words:
‘HIDEOUS and UNNATURAL MURDER in Lambeth! TWO-HEADED-MONSTER slain by razor in den of abominable DEFORMITY . . .’
Called by his words, the people approached to buy his broadsheets, which were spiced with similar linguistic bonbons to tantalize those who read them. Others who could not read listened in hushed congregations as the words were read to them, evoking the yearned-for terror of monsters and murderers in their midst. Thousands of people had already handed over their penny to see that sheet beginning, ‘An authentic account of the recent events in Lambeth and the MURDER of Eliza-Beth, a two-headed girl . . .’ Viewings of ‘Dr Zwigoff’s peculiarities had multiplied tenfold at the nightly Vauxhall extravaganza, and Mr Coggins was a deeply contented man.
The Incendiary's Trail Page 7
