‘Yes,’ said Lonsdale. ‘It may be something to change the world.’
Fleetwood-Pelham’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‘Then I sincerely hope you will keep your distance! Claims of that sort of outcome are rarely for the good and you’ll likely find yourself embroiled in something unpleasant. Personally, I think you should warn the police. If it is innocent, no harm will be done, but if it is not …’
‘I will,’ promised Lonsdale. ‘Of course, the Garraway’s reputation isn’t pristine either – four of its members are dead in mysterious circumstances.’
Fleetwood-Pelham regarded him coolly. ‘Not so! We were informed officially today that they all died of natural causes.’
‘But you know Dickerson didn’t,’ said Lonsdale. ‘You saw his body.’
‘There did seem to be rather a lot of blood for a natural death,’ conceded Fleetwood-Pelham. He glanced around to make sure no one else was listening, then spoke in a low voice. ‘I won’t lie to you, Lonsdale. The consensus at the Palace is that he, Tait, Bowyer and Haldane were involved in something untoward. But let the police handle it: they’ll get to the truth.’
‘How will they, if the deaths have been deemed natural?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘The truth will be buried along with the victims.’
‘What the police say and what they do aren’t always the same,’ cautioned Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘Remember: we’re talking about the Archbishop of Canterbury, two prominent lawyers, and an esteemed man of science, so the police will investigate, you can be sure of that. But they’ll do it discreetly.’
‘Superintendent Hayes is their best detective,’ argued Lonsdale. ‘But he wasn’t given the Bowyer or Haldane cases.’
‘Of course not,’ said Fleetwood-Pelham. ‘He’s so well known that a discreet enquiry by him will be impossible. I imagine Henderson has appointed a man who can move without being recognized by the press – perhaps someone who is investigating all four murders without his colleagues even knowing.’
But Lonsdale did not believe that Henderson would commission a secret enquiry and remained certain that some dark force was at work to ensure the murders were never properly explored.
‘Speaking of members of the press, is William Ingram here?’ he asked, changing the subject because Fleetwood-Pelham seemed like a decent man, and he had no desire to tell him that his faith in Henderson was recklessly naïve.
Fleetwood-Pelham smiled. ‘He’ll be in the reading room. Follow me.’
The reading room was more of a dozing room, because every man who occupied a chair was fast asleep, and the air rang with snores and heavy breathing. Fleetwood-Pelham left Lonsdale to it, and went to talk to Señor d’Atte, who wanted to discuss some music the club was organizing for the Christmas period.
Lonsdale had met Ingram several times through Morley, who knew him well. He was a dark-haired, bustling man in his thirties. He had a copy of his own newspaper folded across his paunch, as if advertising it to fellow members. Lonsdale sat opposite him, and when Ingram did not stir from his slumbers, he contrived to poke the fire noisily enough to wake him up.
‘Lord!’ muttered Ingram, blinking stupidly as he came to. ‘What’s the time? I promised to be home by ten o’clock. My sister Ada will be worried about me. But dropping off after dinner is what happens when one has too many late nights and spends too much time racing across the city like a hansom driver.’
‘Doing what?’ asked Lonsdale curiously.
‘Oh, this and that,’ replied Ingram, scrubbing at his face to render himself more alert. ‘I didn’t know you were a member, Lonsdale. I invited Morley to join, but he said he was too busy.’
‘He is busy,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Which is why he sent me here on his behalf. He’s concerned about the four members who died in mysterious circumstances.’
‘Then you can tell him that there’s nothing to worry about. There were rumours of foul play, but the police say those are false. I’m not surprised – they were decent men, not the kind to attract murderous attention. Especially Dickerson. I knew him well, and a gentler, kinder man never existed.’
‘And generous,’ said Lonsdale. ‘He treated his Kumu to cricket matches, tea and light operas.’
‘Did he?’ asked Ingram, suddenly furtive.
‘He did, and you went with him.’ Lonsdale raised his hand before Ingram could deny it. ‘Tim Roth told me.’
‘The young fool!’ snapped Ingram angrily. ‘Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut?’
‘Are you writing a story about the Kumu?’
For a moment, Lonsdale thought he would deny it, but then Ingram sighed resignedly. ‘I thought our readers might be interested in how visitors from another culture see our great city. But then they disappeared, so I decided to abandon the project.’
‘Or did you abandon it because you can hardly publish the opinions of people who might be murderers?’
‘The Kumu didn’t kill Dickerson,’ said Ingram firmly. ‘No one did – ask the police. He died of natural causes.’
‘I saw his body,’ persisted Lonsdale. ‘It was hacked with a machete-like weapon – a panga, perhaps.’ He showed Ingram the sketch he had made. ‘His death was most certainly not from natural causes.’
‘Even if you’re right, the Kumu aren’t responsible,’ said Ingram. ‘First, Dickerson was like a father to them and they adored him. Second, if they had killed him, they’d have sampled his flesh as a mark of respect, but the pathologist saw no evidence of cannibalism whatsoever. And third, they wouldn’t have used that style of panga.’
‘Roth agrees with you,’ acknowledged Lonsdale. ‘But do you know where they are? If so, please tell me. They’re in danger as long as they’re out and unprotected. They need the police—’
‘The police believe them guilty,’ interrupted Ingram harshly. ‘So they’re a lot safer in hiding than trusting in the criminal justice system. However, I’ve no idea where they went. Nor do I want to know. All I can say is good luck to them.’
He stood to leave, but before he reached the door there was a sudden commotion in the hallway outside – a lot of shouting and shocked gasps. Lonsdale inched forward in an attempt to find out what was going on.
‘Samuel Gurney!’ Señor d’Atte was shrieking in dismay; his English was heavily accented. ‘He is dead! Dead! Another of us snatched away before his time.’
‘Who’s Samuel Gurney?’ asked Lonsdale of Ingram.
‘A banker,’ replied Ingram, shocked. ‘A nice chap. Liked to attend All Saints, Margaret Street, because it’s so High Church as to be almost Roman Catholic, but I never held that against him.’
‘What is happening?’ wailed d’Atte at no one in particular. ‘Police say the other deaths were natural, but this makes five men dead. It cannot be mere happenstance. It just can not!’
Lonsdale was sure of it.
SIX
Lonsdale woke the next day with an uncomfortable sinking feeling in his stomach. He felt time was running out, and he had no clear notion of how to solve the mystery surrounding the deaths of the four – or perhaps now five – members of the Garraway Club. There were six days until Christmas Eve, after which he would become office-bound and the entire investigation would grind to a halt. He would have failed Morley and Peters, who wanted the killer caught, and Stead, who wanted him to find and protect the Kumu.
It was still dark, and would be for at least another two hours, given that it was nearly the shortest day of the year. Dawn also arrived later in smoky, fog-bound London than the rest of the country, and there were some days when it was barely light at all.
He washed in lukewarm water – another nasty failing in the servants that Emelia had vowed to correct when she was mistress of the house – and rasped a razor over his stubble. He walked downstairs, where he found it was too early for the morning papers, so all that was available was the weekly Illustrated London News – Ingram’s paper – now two days old. As he had had no time to read it over the weekend, he took it to the breakfast ta
ble, and leafed through it while he waited for the maid to bring him some tea.
Jack appeared a few moments later. He wrinkled his nose when he saw what Lonsdale was reading.
‘It’s full of pictures of Archbishop Tait’s funeral and the aftermath of that terrible fire at the Alhambra Theatre,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Printing such images is in poor taste.’
‘You should tell Ingram,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Still, at least he believes the Kumu are innocent, which is something in his favour.’
‘So is the fact that his sister’s married to Monkey Hornby,’ said Jack, smiling suddenly. ‘The greatest sportsman of our age. But I can’t imagine why people would want to see pictures of a funeral – unless someone hopes to spot himself among the mourners.’
‘Humbage might,’ said Lonsdale. ‘He’d cut it out and keep it, to prove he was once in company with the highest-ranking churchman in the country, even if Tait was dead at the time.’
‘I’m beginning to wish Em had a different family,’ sighed Jack. ‘Other than Grandmama Gertrude, who’s a gem. Humbage has grown pompous now he has friends at the Palace.’
‘Friends who have to be reminded who he is,’ muttered Lonsdale, and told Jack about his visit to the Garraway Club. ‘He despises me for being a reporter, but that’s more respectable than fawning over people who barely know he exists.’
‘He has become obsessed by appearance and convention. Last week, he forbade me to accept pro bono cases, lest they bring me in contact with criminals and he becomes tainted by association. He’s terrified of what your work will embroil him in.’
‘Then he shouldn’t have agreed to me marrying Anne.’
‘He wishes he hadn’t! Apparently Gertrude contrived to get him tipsy before Anne begged his permission – if he’d been sober, he’d never have allowed it. Em did her best to stop it, but she was no match for Gertrude. I’m sorry Em’s taken against you. I wish you could be friends.’
Lonsdale did not think that would ever happen and was sadder than he could say that his favourite brother would marry a woman who would sour their relationship with her insidiously poisonous tongue.
‘Did you know Samuel Gurney?’ he asked, to change the subject from one that was so profoundly painful.
‘Only by reputation. He’s honest, upright, and as dull as ditch-water. Why?’
‘He was a member of the Garraway, like Tait, Haldane, Bowyer and Dickerson. And news arrived last night that he’s dead. I don’t know how – yet.’
Jack regarded him in alarm. ‘Another suspicious death? This is becoming dangerous, Alec! I urge you to step away. And think of Anne – she hates you risking yourself for a story.’
‘It’s not for a story,’ objected Lonsdale. ‘It’s because something wicked is unfolding, and the truth needs to be discovered.’
Jack remained concerned. ‘Then don’t let Humbage know what you’re doing. He’ll force Anne to break off the engagement if you’re drawn into anything unsavoury.’
‘Then I’ll sue him for breach of contract,’ said Lonsdale hotly. ‘Let’s see how being the defendant in a lawsuit sits with his lofty opinion of himself.’
‘Well, don’t ask me to represent you,’ said Jack. ‘But to return to these Garraway deaths, do you think it has anything to do with the case you solved earlier this year – that someone has decided to resume the dubious research that you exposed?’
Lonsdale shook his head. ‘These attacks are frenzied – angry – using an unusual weapon. I suspect the motive is rage, rather than dispassionate execution. Yet none of the victims were men to excite that sort of reaction. Everyone who knows them describes them as decent.’
‘With one or two annoying habits that prevent them from being saints,’ mused Jack. ‘Such as Tait’s fanatical religious opinions, Haldane’s meanness and Bowyer’s cruel tongue. So what are your plans for today?’
Lonsdale rubbed his eyes. ‘The office first, to report to Stead and Mr Morley. Then Bradwell, to see what he can tell me about Gurney. Then I’ll visit the families of Haldane and Bowyer, to ask if they know why the police declared the deaths natural – and what they think about it. Tomorrow, I’ll travel to Surrey to talk to Tait’s daughter …’
‘That should keep you busy.’
‘I should visit Broadmoor as well,’ Lonsdale went on, ‘to find out what suggestions Dickerson made to the medical superintendent. I also want to ask about Voules – he denies visiting Broadmoor, and I’ve no idea if he’s telling the truth.’
‘He won’t be,’ predicted Jack. ‘You say he’s been following you around – that’s not the action of an innocent man. He may well be involved in this affair.’
‘I’m not entirely sure Ingram was telling the truth either. He knows more about the cannibals than he’s willing to admit – and perhaps more about Dickerson, too.’
‘Speaking of cannibals, here’s Voules’s latest offering,’ said Jack in distaste, as Sybil, the maid, finally brought the morning papers. They included The Echo – despite Lonsdale having asked her to keep it downstairs. ‘They’re still at large, a danger to honest Londoners.’
‘So are dinosaurs,’ said Lonsdale, leaning over his shoulder and laughing. ‘Brought to life by electricity. I can’t believe the editor let Voules publish this!’
‘Why not?’ shrugged Jack. ‘It makes for an amazing tale, even if there’s not so much as a shred of truth in it. There’s a paragraph on Maclean as well.’
‘And the whole thing ends with a question,’ said Lonsdale, and read it aloud. What is most deadly to the innocent Englishman: marauding cannibals, rampaging dinosaurs or escaped lunatics? Lord, Jack! How can anyone take this seriously?’
‘Alarmingly, people do,’ said Jack soberly.
It was raining as Lonsdale hurried to Northumberland Street. The Pall Mall Gazette building appeared gloomy and unprepossessing in the semi-darkness, the outside only partially illuminated by the street’s gas lamps. There was a pile of soggy leaves near the door, and Lonsdale jumped in alarm when it shifted, thinking it was a person. He forced himself to relax. Being followed by Voules and Bowler Hat – who might be Maclean – was getting to him.
Inside, the building was brightly lit and busy, as the paper’s employees went about the frenetic process of writing, typesetting and printing sixteen pages of news, reviews, and advertisements. There was a hum of concentrated activity that never failed to stimulate him, and he found himself thinking how fortunate he was to be a part of it.
He walked up the stairs, and learned that Morley had been there all night, because of major developments in the hunt for the Phoenix Park assassins. Two men had been arrested, which would mark the beginning of the resolution of the horrible affair.
Needless to say, he had no time for Lonsdale, but Stead, who had arrived early, called him in as he passed. The wheelbarrow was now upside down, being used as a rack to dry the assistant editor’s wet shoes. The room reeked of wet feet, soggy leather and the hurled carrots that were quietly decomposing in and around the bear’s head.
Stead was eating what appeared to be raw Brussels sprouts, taking them from a paper bag and tossing them into his mouth like sweets. Lonsdale politely declined a handful, feeling they were considerably nicer cooked. Stead listened intently while Lonsdale outlined all he had learned since they had last met.
‘I suppose you’d better continue exploring these murders and this Watcher business,’ he said unhappily, ‘although we can’t talk to Mr Morley about it, because he’s immersed in this Irish business. I daren’t interrupt. However, you mustn’t forget the cannibals. I want them found and brought here, where they’ll be safe.’
‘You want to house cannibals here?’ blurted Lonsdale, startled.
‘Why not?’ shrugged Stead, chewing a sprout. ‘They lived in the Natural History Museum all those weeks. At least here they can look out of the windows.’
Lonsdale glanced out of Stead’s. The view was that of a dirty, disused warehouse, and did nothing to
raise the spirits.
‘We can protect them,’ Stead went on, popping another sprout into his mouth, then lobbing the next one at the bear’s head. ‘We won’t allow them to be arrested for a crime they didn’t commit.’
‘Perhaps that’s what Ingram’s doing,’ suggested Lonsdale. ‘There was definitely something he wasn’t telling me last night.’
‘No, he’ll be using them for a story, which is unethical and must be stopped – it’s exploiting vulnerable human beings for monetary gain. Besides, where would he put them? Not in his Lincolnshire home – his wife would never allow it – and they won’t be in his London residence, because his sister and her husband Monkey Hornby are living there.’
‘The Illustrated London News office?’ suggested Lonsdale. ‘It’s quite large – bigger than our building.’
Stead’s eyes blazed. ‘Then you’ll have to search it and rescue them.’
Lonsdale laughed. ‘And how do I do that? Ingram’s unlikely to let me in.’
‘The resourceful Miss Friederichs will find a way,’ averred Stead. ‘And, while she does, I suppose you can interview the families of these dead men.’
Lonsdale eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You’re not happy about us exploring the murders, are you?’
‘I don’t think it’s as pressing as saving the Kumu,’ replied Stead. ‘Yet the business is worrisome. You saw Dickerson’s mutilated body, and it’s common knowledge that Haldane suffered a grisly end in the Royal Courts of Justice. Not even a Commissioner of Police should pass those off as natural.’
‘Do you think Henderson is trying to lull the killer into a false sense of security?’ asked Lonsdale. ‘Fleetwood-Pelham thinks a little-known detective will be appointed, one who can investigate quietly, without fuss.’
‘It’s possible, although it sounds too clever an idea to have come from Henderson. But let’s consider what we know of the victims. First, Archbishop Tait – an attack on the Church. Next Haldane – an attack on the legal system and publishing, as he owned a newspaper. Next Dickerson – an assault on a national museum. Then Bowyer – the legal system again. And last Gurney – an attack on a financial institution.’
Watchers of the Dead Page 14
