Summon Up the Blood

by R. N. Morris

  ‘I will not disabuse you.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  ‘But does it not occur to you that the same individual may be both a policeman and a sod?’

  ‘Good God! How dare you say such a thing? It’s bad enough having to come here and take statements off you buggers. It’s more than my job’s worth to take your insults too.’ Inchball was conscious of the impulse to rise to his feet in rage. But however much he tried to do so, he was unable to wrench himself out of the seat. The weight of exhaustion that he had earlier felt in his legs was spreading up through his torso.

  ‘Believe me, it was not meant as an insult.’

  ‘I’ve a good mind to box your ears.’ But no matter how much he might desire to put his threat into action, Inchball found that his arms resisted any attempt on his part to move them. He excused himself by adding: ‘Though I fear you would enjoy it too much.’

  ‘From childhood, we are taught that the only possible physical contact between males is expressed through violence, or at the very least through the rough and tumble of the sports field. I have often thought it ironic that the Marquess of Queensberry was a great patron of boxing. In boxing, you see, the unacknowledged male-to-male attraction is sublimated and turned into aggression. The natural desire to possess another man sexually is perverted into an unnatural desire to beat him to a pulp.’

  Inchball tried to speak. But he found he did not know where to begin voicing his objections to the speech he had just heard. He formed the intention of saying: ‘You have your natural and your unnatural all mixed up.’ But the words that came out from his mouth did not sound quite right, even to him.

  The weight that had spread from his legs to his torso was now squatting on his tongue. He felt it pulling his head down.

  The last thing he heard before he hit his head on the table was: ‘But do you not think it strange that Queensberry had not one but two sons who were Uranians?’

  A Meeting of Minds

  Quinn stood at the window in Sir Edward Henry’s office. The view faced east, towards the cluster of cranes and scaffolding that squatted like an infestation of giant angular spiders on the opposite bank of the Thames. This was the site of the new County Hall building, which as yet existed mostly as a network of girders, and stacks of glistening stone ready to be put in place. There seemed to be no work going on today. Indeed, the project grew in fits and starts, with extended periods of apparent inactivity followed by bursts of frenzied construction.

  A little like the progress of an investigation, it occurred to Quinn.

  The river was low. A barge was beached at the bottom of the embankment wall, beneath the suspended arm of a crane. To Quinn’s imagination, it seemed as though the crane was groping for the barge, which was hiding out of view and out of reach. But then he dismissed the idea as fanciful. His sense of metaphor had taken over from his grasp of reality.

  He turned as he heard the door to the office open. Sir Edward came in with three men, one of whom was Bittlestone.

  ‘Ah, here we are,’ said Sir Edward. ‘May I introduce you gentlemen to Inspector Quinn? Quinn, this is Mr Lennox, owner of the Daily Clarion.’

  ‘Good day to you, Inspector.’ The short, middle-aged man offering Quinn his hand spoke with a soft Irish accent. ‘So, this is the famous Quick-fire Quinn! What a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘The less said about that, the better,’ cut in Sir Edward. ‘And this is Mr Finch, the editor.’

  White-haired and wily-eyed, every bit the Fleet Street old hand, Finch avoided Quinn’s gaze as he nodded a curt greeting. ‘Inspector.’ His evasive eye glanced about the room, looking for titbits.

  ‘And Mr Bittlestone I think you already know.’ Quinn experienced a frisson of revulsion when he looked at Bittlestone that he had not experienced before. It was perhaps informed by his reading matter of the previous night.

  His dreams had been peopled by vampiric homosexuals and he did not feel easy about it.

  Sir Edward gestured to the circular meeting table. ‘First may I say how grateful we are to you gentlemen for coming in so promptly to see us?’

  ‘One does not refuse an invitation from the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,’ said Harry Lennox smoothly. ‘Especially when the gentleman in question is a fellow Irishman.’

  ‘My parents were Irish, yes,’ said Sir Edward. A fond smile animated his face. For a moment it seemed that all the pain of his old gunshot wound had left him and he was a boy again. ‘But I was born in Shadwell.’

  ‘Shadwell! Then you come from humble origins too,’ said Lennox with a sly smile. ‘All the more impressive that you have scaled such heights in your career.’

  ‘Not really. My father was a doctor there.’

  Quinn’s surprise at this revelation caused him to blurt out: ‘My father was a doctor too!’

  ‘What? Eh?’ Sir Edward’s brows contracted in impatience. ‘Shall we get on with business? I understand that Mr Bittlestone approached Inspector Quinn with information that has proved useful in an investigation that is currently under way. It seems likely that he has confirmed the identity of a murder victim.’

  ‘I more than confirmed it,’ said Bittlestone. ‘You had no idea who he was.’

  ‘We certainly appreciate the contribution made by Mr Bittlestone,’ said Sir Edward. ‘And are willing to offer some tangible acknowledgement of our appreciation. Now that we know the victim’s identity, we feel the time is right to make the story public.’

  ‘But surely the time to do that would have been before you knew his identity?’ said Finch, his gaze flitting wildly around the room. ‘Then, perhaps, someone would have come forward and identified him sooner?’

  Quinn and Sir Edward exchanged a glance. Sir Edward went on: ‘Not every crime that is committed finds its way into the newspapers, as you well know.’

  ‘But a murder?’

  ‘Not even every murder. There were aspects of this case that we were anxious to keep from the public. This was a decision taken at the very highest level, you understand.’

  ‘What aspects?’ asked Finch.

  Quinn noted with interest how it was the editor who had taken on the role of negotiating with Sir Edward. Clearly, Bittlestone was deferring to his superior. For the opposite reason – to maintain his elevated distance from the proceedings – Lennox also held his peace. Quinn was sure that the three men had carefully agreed their strategy before they came into the building.

  ‘The body was found in Whitechapel. You’ll be aware that Whitechapel was the location of a series of sensational crimes some years ago. Now I shall be frank with you: the press coverage of those crimes left a lot to be desired. Then, as now, there were certain details that it was necessary to keep out of the public domain. But the public’s hunger for information had to be fed. And so, the newspapermen of the time, deprived of the true facts, decided to fall back on their powers of imagination. The wildest rumours were elevated to the status of undeniable truth. Baseless nonsense was peddled. It was not a glorious time for your profession, gentlemen.’

  ‘The police must take their share of the blame,’ said Finch in vague retaliation. ‘If you had been open from the start, none of that would have been necessary.’

  ‘That is certainly one way of looking at it,’ said Sir Edward. ‘The view that was taken by my political masters was that the mistake lay in telling the press anything. It was decided that if any future crimes were ever perpetrated of a similar nature, we would keep the press and the public in the dark for as long as possible, allowing the police to get on with their very important work of catching the perpetrator. Given the information that has fallen into Mr Bittlestone’s hands, it is no longer possible to maintain press silence. The story will break, whether we will or we won’t. We accept that. That is why we have called you here today, to lay before you the full particulars of the case and to seek your cooperation in controlling what goes before the public.’

&nbs
p; ‘You cannot censor a free press!’ cried Bittlestone.

  ‘What? Eh? I have no intention of censoring you. I merely wish to be allowed to present my case to you and to ask you to consider the full implications of whatever you publish.’

  ‘You are inciting us to censor ourselves, which amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘Quiet, Bittlestone,’ said Lennox. ‘Let the grown-ups talk.’

  Sir Edward tactfully made no comment on this exchange, which had drawn a crimson blush to Bittlestone’s face. ‘I don’t pretend to know anything about the economics – or the ethics – of newspaper publishing. I suspect the former is the determiner of the latter, but that is by the by. I know you gentlemen have a newspaper to publish, and to succeed, you need to sell more copies than your rivals. And one way to do that is to be in possession of more accurate – and let’s be frank, salacious – information. That is what I am offering you. That and the enduring gratitude of the government.’

  Sir Edward was canny enough to exchange a glance with Harry Lennox, whom he knew to be the only proprietor of a major newspaper without a peerage.

  ‘All I am asking you to do is exercise responsibility which, when I think about it, is clearly a superfluous request, because I am sure that is what you would do anyway.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Lennox.

  ‘So, what do you have for us, Sir Edward?’ demanded Finch.

  ‘The body of a young man was found in the East London Docks, near the Dewar Whisky sign on the eighteenth of March. His throat had been cut and . . . the blood drained from his body.’

  ‘Good God!’ cried Lennox.

  ‘That’s . . . sensational,’ said Bittlestone, his eyes wide with wonder.

  ‘I hope it is not that that you are asking us to suppress?’ said Finch.

  For the moment, Sir Edward let the question go unanswered. ‘Mr Bittlestone has provided us with an identity of the victim, which as we speak is in the process of being confirmed by one of Inspector Quinn’s men. But we are confident that the dead man is James Albert Neville.’

  There was a knock at the door. Sir Edward winced as if he had taken a bullet. ‘I do apologize. I gave strict instructions that we were not to be disturbed. Come in!’

  The door opened minimally. Somehow Miss Latterly managed to slip through the gap. She whispered something into Sir Edward’s ear. Sir Edward’s eyes started from his head and his complexion flooded with colour. ‘Good heavens.’

  He rose from his chair. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have to take this telephone call.’

  As soon as he and Miss Latterly were out of the room, Bittlestone began the speculation as to what had called him away. ‘There’s been another one.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Quinn’s denial was immediate and instinctive. But he knew that Bittlestone was right. The look of horrified indignation – as if whatever had happened was a personal affront to him – on Sir Edward’s face was unmistakable. ‘It could be any number of things. Sir Edward has more to deal with than this one case. He is often called to deal with matters of national security. The seat of government falls inside his patch, after all.’

  ‘No. Bittlestone’s right. It’s another murder,’ said Finch decisively.

  The door opened and Sir Edward returned. They watched him in silence as he took his seat again, his eyes squeezed tight against pain; whether emotional or physical pain, it was clearly savage.

  It seemed to Quinn that in the interval he had been out of the room, Sir Edward had aged perceptibly.

  Bittlestone was remorseless. ‘There’s been another one, hasn’t there?’

  Sir Edward buried his head in his hands. Then sat up to look Bittlestone in the eye. ‘No, Mr Bittlestone. There have been another three.’

  Mr Finch is Detained

  ‘Three!’ cried Finch, almost gleefully. ‘This is sensational!’

  ‘And here we are! The Clarion, right at the heart of things, just as the story breaks!’ exulted Lennox. ‘This is one in the eye for Rothermere!’

  ‘It’s better than that,’ said Finch. ‘We are part of the story! We must turn this into a crusade.’

  ‘Tremendous idea, Finch!’ cried Lennox. ‘I can always count on you to come up with the goods. Incidentally, what are we crusading for – or against?’

  ‘It’s usual in these cases, Mr Lennox, to be against the incompetency of the police,’ said Finch. ‘That’s generally held to be a safe position.’

  Lennox gave a hearty laugh before remembering himself. ‘Apologies, Sir Edward. We mean nothing by it, of course. You can count on us. We’ll be stalwart in your defence.’ If he didn’t quite give a colluding wink to his editor, he may as well have.

  Of the three newspapermen, only Bittlestone seemed chastened by the news.

  Quinn was stunned. He could see Sir Edward’s grim countenance grow increasingly dark and threatening. He was clearly disgusted by the editor and proprietor’s cold-blooded delight. It went some way beyond schadenfreude. And their open contempt for the police did nothing to endear them to him.

  ‘What of the victims, Sir Edward?’ said Quinn. ‘What do we know of them?’

  Bittlestone’s glance was appreciative. The question needed asking.

  ‘We have no details about them yet. As before, there are no clues as to their identity. But they are all male, aged between sixteen and twenty-five.’

  ‘Are they . . . renters too?’ asked Bittlestone.

  Finch was quick to pick up the hint. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Jimmy Neville was a renter,’ said Bittlestone quietly.

  ‘Please! Kindly show more respect to the dead!’

  Quinn recognized Sir Edward’s sudden outrage as a ruse to throw Bittlestone off the scent.

  ‘But it’s true,’ insisted Bittlestone.

  ‘A lot of things are true, Mr Bittlestone,’ said Sir Edward, ‘but they are not always relevant. For his sake, and for the sake of his family, I think we need not dwell on this. As for these three new victims, so far as I know, there is nothing to suggest they shared his lamentable occupation.’

  Bittlestone was unconvinced. ‘So far as you know,’ he echoed sarcastically. Then a new idea seemed to dawn on him. ‘There is a chance I might know them.’

  Sir Edward said nothing. But he gave Quinn a look that acknowledged the plausibility, as well as the interest, of Bittlestone’s remark.

  ‘Do you want me to see if I can identify the bodies?’

  ‘Excellent idea!’ cried Finch enthusiastically. ‘You can help them with their enquiry. Our Man in the Met! That’s how we’ll bill you.’

  ‘Now now,’ said Sir Edward discouragingly. ‘There will be no need for that. Indeed, this strikes me as an example of precisely the kind of wild supposition that I was afraid of. There is absolutely no reason to assume that Mr Bittlestone will know the victims.’

  ‘But if it is someone I know . . .’ Bittlestone persisted. He seemed to have been struck by a dawning horror.

  ‘It’s different when it’s someone you know, isn’t it?’ said Quinn quietly, to Bittlestone alone. ‘It’s not just a story any more.’

  ‘I would ask you all, gentlemen, to remember what we were discussing earlier. Responsibility, that is. Until we know the details of these bodies, I would implore you to limit your reporting to the bare facts. In particular, I would urge you not to indulge in wild speculation. And, one more thing: what I told you earlier, about the blood, was not intended for publication.’

  ‘But this changes everything, Commissioner,’ said Finch flatly. ‘All deals are off. There will be no keeping this out of the papers, with or without our cooperation. Don’t delude yourself. There are too many disgruntled, underpaid coppers with half a dozen hungry kids already, and the missus up the duff with another one. Who can blame them if, every now and then, they meet a friendly hack over a pot of ale for a gossip and a bundle of banknotes tied up with string. I used to run several such “Met Pets” myself when I was a reporter. If one of these enterpris
ing officers hasn’t yet come in contact with one of your – what is it now? – four dead bodies . . .’ Finch grinned in amazement, ‘. . . well, they very soon will. Then all Hell will break loose, I can tell you. So, you had better tell us everything you know, and get Bittlestone over to the mortuary right now so that he can begin writing his story without further delay.’

  ‘Inspector Quinn,’ said Sir Edward calmly, ‘arrest Mr Finch.’

  ‘Have you gone insane? You can’t arrest the editor of a major newspaper.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether you are the editor of a major newspaper or the vendor of a minor one; you have just confessed, in front of witnesses – one of whom is the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force – to corrupting the authority of a police officer. It is a criminal offence which I personally take very seriously. Inspector Quinn.’

  Quinn stood up and bowed to Finch. ‘Mr Finch, sir, I am arresting you on suspicion of corrupting a police officer. You have the right to remain silent.’

  ‘No, no, no! You don’t understand! If you arrest me, you’ll have to arrest every editor in Fleet Street. And half the Metropolitan Police Force!’

  ‘Is there not some way out of this, Sir Edward?’ said Lennox. He was no doubt distressed at the thought of losing his editor, but Quinn suspected it was the prospect of a peerage slipping away from him that really rattled him. ‘I am sure that Mr Finch was in fact engaging in a little harmless braggadocio. Seeking to impress you, one might almost say bamboozle you, or possibly browbeat you into complying with his wishes. It was empty boasting. He didn’t mean a word of it – did you, Finch?’