Eventually, Lonsdale left the bright shops and displays behind, and entered the shabby, impoverished area of narrow streets, dirty yards and crammed tenements on the border of Westminster and Pimlico, where Bradwell’s domain was located.
The mortuary was the most unprepossessing building of all in a run-down neighbourhood dominated by the Millbank Penitentiary and the decaying Grey Coat Hospital. It was surrounded by brick walls topped with shards of glass – in such areas, corpses were considered fair game for thieves. Bradwell had suffered so many burglaries that he had despaired, so the Metropolitan Police, who employed him, had bought him a dog. Unfortunately, ‘Ripper’ was a gentle creature who loved visitors, regardless of whether their intentions were honest or otherwise.
Lonsdale hammered on the door, and was admitted by Bradwell’s assistant, a dour man named Fox, who did not keep the place nearly as clean as his predecessor had done. The floors of both the long entrance hall and the autopsy room were stained and dirty, there were worrying things sticking to the walls, and blood had splattered on the ceilings. Lonsdale did not know how Bradwell could bear it. He said so, and the surgeon looked around in bemusement.
‘But Fox gave the whole building a good scrub-down this morning, and now it’s spotless. It has to be, or Ripper might feast on something she shouldn’t.’
Lonsdale declined to dwell on that notion, and was glad when Hulda, who claimed irritably that she had been waiting there for at least an hour, changed the subject. She was perched on a table, legs swinging in a most unladylike fashion. Lonsdale tried to imagine Anne doing the same and failed.
‘Your talents are wasted here, Bradwell,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you came back to the Metropolitan Police – they take advantage of you. Why did you decline the post in the new City of London Police mortuary?’
‘My wife asks me the same question almost every night,’ sighed Bradwell. ‘And the answer is that I enjoy what I do here. Moreover, I have a lot more freedom than I would at the City of London, and it allows me to continue my surgical work at Bart’s.’
‘I can’t imagine Bart’s pays very well,’ said Hulda. ‘Not with all the charity cases they take on.’
‘No,’ agreed Bradwell, ‘although the “charity cases” tend to be a lot more interesting than the ingrown toenails and haemorrhoids of the rich – not that I have the social connections to be let loose on those, of course. But, luckily for me, money is irrelevant, because my wife inherited a tidy little fortune in the summer. Thus, I can do what I like.’
‘So you’re a kept man?’ asked Hulda baldly.
Bradwell beamed. ‘I am, and I’m happier than I can say. Well, why not? I’ve no qualms about living off my wife, just as she had none about living off me before she became wealthy. There’s nothing to say that it must be the man who provides.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Hulda. ‘I wouldn’t mind a husband who stayed home to cook and clean while I earned the daily bread.’
Lonsdale tried to imagine Anne taking such a view, and nearly laughed aloud. Anne was not lazy, but she had firm ideas about what was socially acceptable, and a reversal of traditional roles would be anathema to her. But time was passing, and he was cognizant of the fact that he and Hulda could not sit chatting when they had just eight days to discover why four prominent men had been murdered.
‘What have you learned from the professor’s body?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, yet,’ replied Bradwell. ‘Because Superintendent Hayes told me to wait for him before beginning my examination and … hah! Here he is now, and Inspector Peters with him. Good. Now we can start.’
The superintendent looked very dashing that morning, in a well-cut suit with a sprig of ivy in the buttonhole. His grey hair was perfectly groomed, and his bearing was erect and dignified. By contrast, Peters’s coat was too big, and his boots, although carefully polished, were cheap. Hayes was not pleased to see Hulda and Lonsdale.
‘What’re you doing here?’ he asked, eyes narrowing.
‘I invited them,’ said Bradwell. ‘They found the professor’s body, and I shouldn’t like his death to be brushed under the carpet, too.’
‘Poor Archbishop Tait,’ sighed Hayes. ‘I was told you objected to the verdict of death by natural causes. It—’
‘Damn right I objected,’ interrupted Bradwell. ‘He was murdered. There was nothing “natural” about it.’
‘You can’t say that with certainty,’ cautioned Hayes. ‘You never saw the body – it was his local doctor who issued the official report.’
‘The “local doctor” was at medical school with me,’ countered Bradwell. ‘He told me about the wounds in the archbishop’s body, and about the pressure put on him to lie in his report. Moreover, two more prominent men were killed in a violent manner, and it seems to me that nothing is being done about them either.’
‘What two prominent men?’ demanded Peters at once.
‘Alexander Haldane and Sir George Bowyer,’ replied Bradwell. ‘I didn’t see their bodies either, but I heard the rumours. Both suffered serious and distinctive wounds by an unknown assailant. Neither was “natural”, and neither is being investigated.’
‘I understand your frustrations, Bradwell,’ said Hayes, while Peters was openly astonished by the news. ‘Indeed, I share them. But, we were ordered by a higher authority that no further action is to be taken, so our hands are tied.’
‘What higher authority?’ demanded Bradwell. ‘The Prime Minister? The Queen? God?’
‘God, as far as I’m concerned,’ replied Hayes wryly. ‘Commissioner Henderson – the head of the Metropolitan Police and my superior officer. I’m duty-bound to follow his orders – and his order was to ask no more questions about Tait, because the case has been discreetly resolved.’
‘Whatever that means,’ muttered Peters under his breath.
‘What about Haldane and Bowyer?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Have their deaths been “discreetly resolved”, too?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ replied Hayes. ‘Those cases have been allocated to Inspector Wells.’
‘Wells?’ echoed Peters in disbelief. He explained to Bradwell, Lonsdale and Hulda: ‘He’s one of Henderson’s favourite officers, although his record of solving crime is …’
‘Unimpressive,’ finished Hayes. ‘I doubt he’ll find many answers.’
‘Perhaps the truth will come out anyway,’ said Hulda.
‘I hope so,’ said Hayes flatly. ‘I knew all four men. They had their flaws, but they deserve justice.’
‘They do,’ agreed Peters stiffly. ‘Our commissioner must have a very strong reason for doing what he’s done.’
Hulda and Lonsdale exchanged a glance, because Commissioner Henderson had a reputation for allowing himself to be manipulated – so eager to please his political masters that he willingly did whatever they required of him.
‘I rather think the Church brought pressure to bear,’ said Hayes. ‘Tait’s opinions didn’t endear him to many of his more traditional colleagues, and it may well be that the matter was investigated by clerics who identified the culprit and dealt with him quietly.’
‘But Haldane, Bowyer and Dickerson were killed in a similar way,’ Lonsdale pointed out. ‘Which may suggest the same culprit. I doubt they offended a murderous cleric, so either the Church released the culprit to kill again or the case hasn’t yet been solved.’
‘I don’t believe the killer is a cleric,’ said Peters. ‘Lonsdale is right – it doesn’t explain why Bowyer, Haldane and Dickerson were also attacked. We need to look for some “higher authority” other than the Church.’
Hayes considered for a moment, then came to a decision. ‘Have you considered visiting Tait’s daughter?’ he asked the reporters. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but she’s still living in the Archbishop’s Palace. I heard she was livid when the decision was made to investigate no further and she might have information or opinions to share.’
‘We could speak to Commissioner Henderson as
well,’ said Lonsdale.
‘You could,’ said Hayes. ‘But you won’t learn much from him. He may be weak, but he’d never betray his political masters – whoever they happen to be.’
There was a lull in proceedings when a constable arrived with documents for Hayes to sign. Bradwell offered the superintendent the use of his tiny office, then went to begin preparing Dickerson for examination, leaving Lonsdale and Hulda with Peters.
‘So you didn’t know about Bowyer and Haldane,’ stated Hulda, the moment the three of them were alone. ‘I could tell by the expression on your face. Hayes did, though.’
Peters shook his head slowly. ‘I imagine he’s under orders not to discuss it. I like him – he’s a diligent detective and a good man. If he lied by omission, it’ll not have been his own choice. However, he feels the same way I do about Tait – that leaving his death unexplored is a travesty of justice. He’ll be pleased if you can ruffle a few feathers.’
‘We’ll do more than ruffle them,’ vowed Hulda. ‘If there really is some sinister cover-up, we’ll tear them out and expose whatever’s hiding underneath.’
Peters regarded her sombrely. ‘It’s no mean feat to convince a Commissioner of Police to suspend a murder investigation. That means whoever did it is powerful and influential – and therefore dangerous. Please be careful.’
‘Do you think our lives might be at risk?’ asked Lonsdale, ready to sideline Hulda if they were. He felt oddly protective of her, although he realized she would be furious if she knew.
‘Possibly – or you might be damaged in other ways, such as losing your jobs or your reputations. I dislike political games – they leave a sour taste in my mouth. Let’s hope you find answers quickly.’
‘Our editor has given us until Christmas Eve,’ said Hulda.
Peters raised his eyebrows. ‘Then you don’t have a moment to lose. Hah! Here’s Fox to tell us that Bradwell is waiting.’
Lonsdale was sorry to see Dickerson laid out on a slab, and even sorrier to watch Bradwell going to work on him. He glanced at Hulda. She was pale, but resolutely refused to look away. He could not imagine Anne showing such fortitude, then wondered why he kept comparing the two women, especially as Anne nearly always emerged unfavourably.
‘Not stabbed,’ said Bradwell eventually. ‘But chopped with a wide-bladed weapon. A machete-type implement, perhaps. We should keep this discovery to ourselves, though, because I’ll resign if the commissioner informs me that this was a natural death.’
‘The attack on Tait wasn’t quite so frenzied,’ said Hayes thoughtfully. ‘Just one or two wounds to his back. Trails of blood suggest he lived for some minutes after the assault and might even have survived if he’d been able to summon help.’
‘Well, Dickerson wouldn’t have lived,’ averred Bradwell. ‘One blow punctured a lung and another his femoral artery. He was beyond help, even if he had managed to call for some.’
‘So are we looking at the same killer?’ asked Peters. ‘I know you never saw the bodies of the other three, but you did say you read your colleagues’ reports.’
‘Yes – the ones they wrote before they were forced to pretend that nothing untoward took place,’ said Bradwell pointedly. ‘But those injuries and these sound identical, which suggests the same weapon was used on all four.’
‘Just because the weapon is the same, doesn’t mean the killer is,’ Hulda pointed out.
‘No,’ acknowledged Bradwell. ‘But the weapon is distinctive – not some common blade, but something longer and broader.’ He sketched what he thought it might look like on a scrap of paper, leaving bloody smears behind. ‘I’ve heard them called “pangas” in the past.’
‘It looks like something used in parts of Africa,’ remarked Peters thoughtfully. ‘The interior of the Congo, perhaps, where Dickerson’s cannibals hail from.’
‘Dickerson’s assistant swears the Kumu are innocent,’ said Hayes.
‘They are innocent,’ said Lonsdale, ‘if that’s what the weapon looks like. That’s not from the Congo, but from East or Southern Africa.’
Everyone looked at him in surprise. ‘How do you know?’ asked Peters.
‘From my time in the Colonial Service,’ explained Lonsdale. ‘That isn’t a Kumu weapon.’
‘Perhaps they took one from an exhibit,’ suggested Bradwell. ‘I saw plenty of them in the museum yesterday.’
‘We checked yesterday,’ said Hayes. ‘None was missing, and I don’t see the killer launching a ferocious attack, then calmly replacing the weapon in its showcase. Moreover, given that he used it three times – that we know of – before Dickerson, I suspect this is something he owns personally.’
‘The cannibals own pangas,’ persisted Peters. ‘They were going to use them as visual aids in their performances, but when they ran away, they took the things with them.’ He glanced at Lonsdale. ‘I know you said a Kumu panga isn’t the murder weapon, but perhaps they found one from another tribe in the basement. God knows, there’s enough stuff down there to make that a possibility.’
‘And Dickerson’s body was found in the place where they’d been living,’ put in Hulda. ‘However, why would they also have dispatched the Archbishop of Canterbury and two lawyers they’re very unlikely to have met?’
‘Yet if they did, I understand why the government would want it kept quiet,’ said Bradwell. ‘If word slipped out that cannibals had murdered four prominent men, friendly relations with our colonies could suffer a serious blow. Perhaps Henderson is right to look the other way.’
‘Is there any sign of cannibalism on Dickerson?’ asked Lonsdale, glancing at the hollow shell that had once been a living, breathing person.
‘None,’ said Bradwell promptly. ‘Perhaps he didn’t look very appetizing.’
Peters turned his mournful gaze on Lonsdale and Hulda. ‘Superintendent Hayes and I are barred from looking into the Tait murder, while Bowyer and Haldane have been given to the inept Inspector Wells. We’ll do all we can with Dickerson, but I suspect it won’t be long before we’re told to desist …’
‘Probably,’ agreed Hayes. ‘Although I aim to avoid Henderson for as long as I can – if I don’t meet him, he can’t give me orders.’
‘So the only way we’ll have answers is if you find them,’ finished Peters. ‘However, if you do decide to accept the challenge, will you keep us apprized of your progress?’
‘Of course,’ said Lonsdale.
It was late afternoon and growing dark by the time they emerged from the mortuary, the short winter day over almost before it had started. Hayes had a police coach waiting, and he and Peters rattled away into the gathering gloom. Bradwell lived in Hulda’s direction and offered to share a hansom with her; she accepted happily. Lonsdale was the last to leave, waiting until Fox had locked the gate behind them. He walked slowly, head bowed in thought as he considered all he had learned.
He had just reached the end of the road when there was a sudden frenzy of angry barking from Ripper, who had done no more than wag her tail when everyone had left. Lonsdale glanced around and saw Fox hurrying back to see what had upset her. Ripper’s din intensified, and Fox yelled in alarm as a shadow hurtled out of the mortuary yard and raced down the road, Ripper hot on its heels.
‘Stop!’ bellowed Fox, although neither dog nor shadow paid him any attention; then he spotted Lonsdale. ‘After him, sir! I think he stole something from the professor! I’ll stay here to make sure he doesn’t double back.’
Lonsdale broke into a sprint, aware that his quarry already had a substantial lead. He was quicker, however, and began to catch up. The shadow was a man – slight, short, and wearing a bowler hat. Lonsdale could hear him breathing hard, suggesting he was unaccustomed to sudden spurts of speed. The man rounded a corner and almost fell as he skidded in a pile of horse muck. Something dropped from his coat as he flailed to regain his balance. He did not notice and raced on as soon as he was upright again. Lonsdale hesitated, not sure whether to pick up what had fallen
or continue the chase.
He opted to continue the chase, but when they reached Victoria Street, an omnibus lumbered past. The man leapt on to the back of it, and Lonsdale saw him grip the handrail hard as he fought not to fall off. It was too dark to see his face, but Lonsdale thought he was more relieved by his escape than victorious. Lonsdale put every last ounce of his strength into catching the omnibus, legs and arms pumping furiously, but it gathered speed once it turned into Buckingham Palace Road, and he knew he was defeated. He staggered to a standstill, resting his hands on his knees as his labouring breath slowly returned to normal. By the time he looked up again, the vehicle was out of sight.
Once he had recovered, he trudged back the way he had come, and saw that what the man had dropped still lay where it had fallen. He bent to pick it up. It was a rolled-up copy of The Echo, in which were matches, kindling and a flask of oil. Lonsdale did not need to be told that their owner had intended to set a fire with them.
He whipped round at a sound behind him, ready to defend himself if the man had an accomplice, but it was only Fox, Ripper at his side.
‘That’s what he had in his hand,’ said the mortuary assistant, stabbing his finger at the newspaper roll Lonsdale held. ‘He was looming over Dickerson, so I assumed he was stealing it from him. What is it? Entrails?’
‘His intention wasn’t theft,’ said Lonsdale soberly. ‘It was arson – he’d have set your mortuary alight if Ripper hadn’t raised the alarm.’
‘No!’
‘And if he was looming over Dickerson, then I imagine his aim was to destroy the body and any evidence relating to how he died.’
Fox frowned. ‘He must’ve slipped inside while we were busy, and Ripper, bless her, didn’t think there was anything amiss. The rogue heard me lock the door and went about his dark business, but Ripper knew that wasn’t right, so raised the alarm. Thank God we were still close enough to hear her.’
Watchers of the Dead Page 9
