A Thief in the Night

by Stephen Wade

  ‘Well, Carney, the poor man was cracked from behind with a hard object – a hammer, or a tool of some kind. You’ve heard of him then?’

  ‘Yes, comes of mixing with some literary gents I know. Mr Dockray was one of the most promising young artists of our time, I believe.’

  ‘Hmm. Now, I’ve had a close look. As you see, he is naked and was found that way. But the strangest thing, Carney, is here … see these pricks here, on his side? They’re on the other side too.’

  ‘What are they – spur marks? As if he was being ridden?’

  ‘Exactly. Therefore we have to conclude that he was not simply killed, by a burglar for instance, who wanted him out and quick, but by someone who tormented him, played with him, shall we say.’

  ‘A maniac then, Sir?’ It was the constable from downstairs.

  ‘Who are you, constable?’ asked Carney, frowning.

  ‘PC Telfer, Sir.’

  Eddie nodded and walked around the room. ‘Has anything been moved?’

  ‘Well Sir,’ the constable continued, ‘the brother downstairs says he took a lot of paintings off the body. I was the first officer here Sir, as I was on Victoria Road, round the corner, when the lady shouted for me. His brother and sister was weeping over him.’

  ‘It’s a hellish mess …’ Eddie said, striding around, taking in all the detail. ‘So this brother threw all the paintings over there, constable?’

  ‘No, I piled ’em there Sir. They was in a right mess. That last one is grim … I seen the name on it, GWR – like the bloomin’ railway Sir!’ He laughed, but stopped when he saw Eddie’s serious stare. Eddie noticed that the young officer had some teeth missing at the front and he covered them as he laughed.

  ‘Yes, grim indeed … some kind of scene depicting a man with a face almost deathly! Hardly a portrait anyone would want.’

  Eddie asked for the doctor’s notes and copied the salient points into his own notebook. He then went downstairs to talk to the brother and sister, who sat with a woman who gave her name as Mary Medd.

  ‘I lives here Sir … knew Mr Dockray a little bit, though he kept to himself. He would be painting day and night, he would, said to me once that he had to make a name, be the best portrait painter in London! That’s what he said. I’ll make you a cup o’ tea shall I Sir?’

  Eddie thanked her and turned his attention to the two people on the sofa. The brother remained silent, but the girl said, ‘I’m Jessie. Willy was the youngest, and he lived alone, but we’re not far away, though we didn’t see him often.’ She started to sob again and her brother held her.

  The tea arrived. ‘It’s nice and sweet Sir … here.’ The others declined. Eddie sipped the hot liquid and watched them, then asked the obvious question: ‘Do you know if your brother had any enemies? Any professional enemies, perhaps? Was anyone jealous of his success?’

  Charlie spoke for the first time: ‘No, officer, not at all. He was the friendliest, most affectionate person … no one hated him, I would swear to that.’

  ‘But you saw little of him, so you’re guessing?’

  ‘Well, I suppose … but I know … I mean, I knew my own brother.’

  ‘Very well. The constable has your address so I’ll perhaps speak to you again. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Medd.’

  ‘Pleasure, Sir,’ she said, before continuing. ‘He was quiet, but had friends … oh yes, I mean, only last week there was that soldier round. You know, Sir, he was lonely. Terrible thing, loneliness. The city’s full of lonely people … only there’s nobody to ’elp. No doctors for it, like.’

  ‘Soldier?’

  ‘Why yes, he told me once he liked to paint military men. I s’pose the soldier was a model … they get paid don’t they? Gives ’em a bit of drinking money, I would say.’

  ‘Did he have many soldiers round to visit, Mrs Medd?’

  ‘I couldn’t say … but there was another … some time a few months back. I asked him who he was painting, you know. Whether he liked painting soldiers. I mean, stands to reason don’t it? All that colour, that brass and shine! Everybody likes to look at soldiers marching and that.’

  A story was forming in Eddie’s mind. It was a story in which a lonely young artist was the protagonist.

  At the police station on Hyde Park, part of A Division, Sergeant Duff, near retirement, settled at his desk and grunted at the pile of mail handed to him from his duty constable. Duff had had enough of police work: after twenty years on the streets, and before that a stretch in the army out in India, he was looking forward to some time growing potatoes. He was thinking this as he opened each letter, glanced at it and then opened another. Some were the usual – complaints about the dangers of Hyde Park at dusk. These middle-class upright types, they moaned all the time about drunks and people generally having a lark.

  But then he saw something different. It was a letter written in red ink and in capital letters, and it brought a shiver to his body, as it immediately made him think of Whitechapel just two years back. ‘Constable,’ he hollered, ‘get Detective Carney right now!’

  Carney was shouted for, and he came quickly, and he and Duff studied the words together in silence:

  TO CARNEY, OLD CHARMER

  I’M RIDDING THE WORLD OF POUFS, LIKE THAT ATIST

  DEJENERITS WILL DOOM US ALL

  JACK THE JOCKEY

  ‘Oh no, please, not again! It’s a Bedlam case, surely, Mr Duff?’ said Eddie.

  Duff shook his head and his double chin wobbled. ‘He knows about the painter, Sir. It’s not been in the press yet.’

  Carney was troubled. He took a few steps towards the window. From here he could see the Knightsbridge barracks. ‘Time for me to take a walk over there, Mr Duff. Could you have a note taken to the Septimus Club, please?’ He wrote a short message to Harry Lacey.

  At the barracks Carney asked to see the Commanding Officer and he was shown by the orderly to the officer’s room. As they walked along a long corridor, the orderly – a short, upright man, with a full moustache and greased hair parted down the middle – spoke abruptly. ‘You’re a detective Sir?’

  ‘Yes, based just over the park here.’

  ‘Hope some of the boys have not been thievin’ again Sir. It’s beneath a soldier to steal.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr, er …’

  ‘Corporal Dignan Sir, 3rd Battalion Grenadiers. Just back from Sudan, Sir.’

  ‘Oh, dangerous.’

  ‘Was for General Gordon, Sir. We let him down greatly. He was a saint, Sir. Now here’s Colonel Dacre.’ He opened a door, took a step forward, saluted, and announced Inspector Carney.

  The colonel stood up from behind his desk and shook hands with Eddie. ‘Take a seat Inspector. I think I know why you’re here … the incident the other night … the men can be on rather a short fuse when they’re back from active service.’

  He was youthful for a senior officer, moving animatedly, flapping his arms and making grand gestures.

  ‘No, it’s not about any drunken business Sir …’ Eddie said, sitting back in a chair and folding his greatcoat over one knee. ‘I want to ask you about something rather delicate. You will be reading about a murder in the evening paper, Sir, and I have to tell you, in confidence, that the suspect may be a trooper.’

  ‘Now, Inspector Carney, as you are fully aware, these impressive new barracks, they are not simply stone and mortar of the best quality … no, they are composed of flesh and blood as well, the cream of the British bloodstock in fact! Our men are the best. They may be involved in trivial scuffles from time to time, but they are not murderers …’

  ‘I always understood that you military men were … well, paid to kill.’

  ‘Ah, you’re being light and easy with me, Inspector. You know very well what I mean.’

  ‘The fact remains that soldiers have been seen on more than one occasion visiting the house where a young artist was murdered, just a short walk from here. Consequently I have to have a certain level of suspicion.’

  T
he colonel sat back and pressed his palms together. Eddie thought he was repressing an angry reaction. ‘Inspector Carney, my men pay visits to civilians on all kinds of occasions. Surely this artist chap had lots of other visitors?’

  ‘There were certain details at the crime scene which lead us to believe that the killer may have been a horseman.’

  ‘Hah! There you are … the park is streaming with people on horseback. My battalion is a cavalry one, yes, but they are surrounded by horsemen all the time! You appear to have no real evidence, Inspector Carney. Now, I do have rather a lot of paperwork to do …’

  ‘Very well. I’ll show myself out. But I may return with more questions.’

  The colonel stood up and gave a curt bow. ‘Of course.’

  On the way out, Corporal Dignan stood to attention and then asked, ‘Any progress, Sir? There are some poor excuses for humanity about the park at night, of course … not all men in uniform.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Eddie, and walked away, full of thought.

  That night as Eddie walked into the Septimus Club to meet Harry, half a mile away on the edge of the Serpentine a young man was staring into the water as dusk invaded the early evening. He was muttering to himself but looked up when a movement caught his eye. A tall soldier in a red coat stood next to him. ‘Oh, good evening. Very quiet tonight,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, I was enjoying a cool walk, as, I see, were you.’

  ‘Yes, I was talking to myself … sorry about that. I’m quite sane. Merely thinking of a poem.’

  The soldier came nearer. ‘Ah, a poet! I never met one before, but in the army, of course, a poet is of singular value … when it comes to writing home to loved ones, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  The soldier slipped his arm through the young man’s and beamed at him. ‘Well, young poet, would you like some company?’

  The poet nodded and patted the soldier’s hand, then they walked into the falling darkness.

  ‘Here’s the note, Harry. I’m hoping it’s a damned idiot with a frenzied imagination,’ Eddie said, as he sat with Harry Lacey in the library at the Septimus Club. But matters were awkward: Harry was seemingly in considerable pain. He moved slightly and grimaced as if something was stabbing him.

  ‘Now Harry old friend, are you ill?’

  ‘Oh damn the thing!’ said the Professor. ‘It’s a little personal, Eddie. I’m at war with my extending paunch, as you know … and, well, the truth is, I’m wearing the new Rossiter Manform Retainer.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s a kind of corset that holds in any excess rotundity. It’s hellish. Whalebone and steel, I think. I’m struggling to breathe.’

  ‘Harry, here I am with a new Ripper to deal with and you’re, well, having female problems!’ He couldn’t resist jabbing his friend in the ribs, causing yet another moan of pain.

  ‘I shall persevere – it does trim the figure somewhat, you have to agree,’ winced Harry.

  ‘Yes, right, well gather yourself and read this.’

  Harry screwed up his eyes and adjusted his pince-nez. It took him a while to register what he had read. ‘Oh really! This is surely some childish prank! You must have received a multitude of these letters since Jack?’

  Eddie frowned. ‘The thing is, Harry, the man who wrote this knew of the death of William Dockray.’

  ‘Ah yes … here’s the report in today’s Times. Clearly you told them very little. Most of the piece is about the real Jack, terrifying the populace.’

  ‘What I want is Professor Lacey the critic’s report on this please – some thoughts from the student of language!’

  Harry scratched his nose and then pulled his professional face, the one he put on when discussing the themes of Shakespeare’s late plays. ‘First, this spelling is surely false – artificial. This infantile mind is trying to echo Jack himself. He’s read the Jack letters in the press, and he’s teasing you rather. My intuition tells me that he’s well educated and is revelling in this guise.’

  Eddie blew his nose. He had a cold coming on and his head throbbed. ‘Harry, that’s very impressive, in spite of your Rossiter!’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll get into my files and report back, perhaps write you a response after I’ve had more time to think.’

  The Detective Inspector was glad to get home to his comfortable chair and his wife’s tender care.

  The next morning, the landlady of Reston Buildings, Queens Gate, took a poached egg up to her young lodger. She tapped on the door and walked in; what she saw was enough to make her start and the tray and its contents flew into the air. Staring at her from the floor was the dead face of her lodger, who was lying naked on the carpet.

  When Carney arrived he had plenty of questions for the landlady.

  ‘What did he do, the deceased?’ he asked.

  ‘He was a writer, Sir. Poetry … and I think he wrote a novel too, just came out last month. He had a good many friends – writers, I mean.’

  ‘Had anybody been with him last night?’

  ‘Yes, there was someone, but I only heard them go out. I heard the outside door shut … about eleven it was. I never disturbed him when he had any friends up there with him.’

  ‘Madam, I’d like to know if he had any military friends? Did you see any soldiers here?’

  ‘Soldiers? I don’t know … it’s difficult you see, Sir, as I let him answer the door and let his friends in. He used to tell me when they was expected, so I kept out of the way. I think he liked to be thought independent.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She smiled. ‘Well, I think I mothered him a bit … made him feel like a child I reckon. Once I was a bit too strong on the mothering bit when he had this editor round, and we had words … but I understood. He was a grown man after all.’

  Eddie thanked her and took a walk around the area. At the end of the street he could see Hyde Park, and he thought again of the barracks. Someone had been there, and had left quite late.

  Later that day, Eddie met Harry at the Copper Pot coffee house near the Yard. Harry had been busy with his files and with his own enquiries. He saw that Eddie had a heavy cold and plied him with hot coffee and a shot of whisky. It was a noisy place, but they were used to talking in the hubbub of the city.

  ‘Harry, the pathologist tells me that the weapon used in both killings was a hammer. There was a parallel red mark on one shoulder, and that, he tells me, was almost certainly made by a claw hammer.’

  ‘We’re dealing with a madman – this man enjoys taking life … he doesn’t rush it.’

  Before they could say any more a young man approached. ‘Why, Mr Dockray,’ said Eddie, surprised. ‘You wish to see me?’

  ‘Yes, I went to Scotland Yard and asked for you. They sent me here. I’ve come about my brother’s death.’

  ‘Please, do sit down with us. Harry, this is Charlie, William Dockray’s brother. Charlie, this is Professor Lacey.’ Charlie nodded at Harry and found room to sit down at the table.

  ‘I was very sorry to hear about your brother’s death. I too have lost siblings,’ said the professor.

  Charlie looked down at his hands, then gathered himself and addressed Eddie. ‘Inspector, Jess and I have been talking … and we brought to mind Godfrey Russell. He’s a painter and is … was a close friend of Willy’s. In fact, we all know him, and we spent time together … trips up the Thames or to the theatre, you know. He’s a colourful character.’

  ‘Colourful?’ Eddie enquired.

  ‘Inspector, he’s an aesthetic type, you know.’

  ‘Walks around with a lily, ready to faint at the sight of beauty?’ smiled Harry.

  ‘Not far off the truth. He is thirty-five … never married.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman who likes the company of other men … artists, writers, that kind of person?’ Eddie was tactful.

  ‘I think I know what you’re suggesting, Inspector. Perhaps you are right. Anyway, the point is, we recalle
d that he and Willy had rowed recently.’

  ‘Rowed? About what?’

  ‘Something about Willy having an exhibition. The thing is, Godfrey, well, he’s not exactly successful.’

  ‘And your brother was a member of the Royal Academy, of course,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Yes, quite. There was a degree of envy, though I’m not saying that Godfrey could have … you know. We simply felt that you should know.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Thank you for the information. I will need Mr Russell’s address.’

  ‘Ah, now, Inspector … please say you’re not going to charge him.’

  ‘No, no. We simply have to cover every line of enquiry.’

  ‘Very well; it’s number two, Redcliffe Square, Brompton. I must ask you not to mention my name, or my sister’s.’

  ‘Of course. We policemen rarely say more than we have to.’

  Charlie Dockray left and Harry, ordering a second muffin and pot of coffee, reported one more item of interest. ‘I checked in all my reference material, Eddie. There was something … merely a paragraph – our Mr Dockray was assaulted. He was involved in a confrontation in Hyde Park, but it never led to any police involvement. Apparently, a writer for the Morning Chronicle saw a scuffle and wrote a report. His editor obviously cut it down to a snippet. The Yard would have no records, of course.’

  Before anything else was said, a constable rushed in through the doorway and handed Eddie a note. ‘It’s him, Sir. Thought you needed to see it sharpish.’

  ‘Thank you Iveson. You can get back to the desk. Yes, here we are. It’s our man, Harry.’ He handed the note to Harry, who was tucking into the muffin. It read:

  INSPECTOR CARNEY, SCOTLAND YARD.

  THERE GOES NUMBER TWO LADYBOY.

  GET BUSY SON. NEXT I’M HAMMERING A BANDSMAN

  JACK THE JOCKEY

  ‘Hmm. Interesting,’ said Harry. ‘No spelling errors this time. I’m quite sure this man is well educated – and he writes ‘son’. That almost certainly means that he is young, and is trying to hint that he is older than you, would you say?’

  ‘Perhaps. He has also given us a clue – he’s challenging me. But I have to visit Mr Russell. Will you help later, Harry? I need someone to attempt a delicate task, and you have the man-of-the-world neck to do it.’