A Thief in the Night (13 page)

‘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 recalled 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.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘We will have to bend the law a little. You need to play the part of a medical chap … and you have to visit Colonel Dacre at Knightbridge barracks. I’ll write down instructions.’ He took his notebook and wrote some guidance for the task. Harry took it, read it through and laughed. ‘Oh what fun! I always meant to be on the stage, you know. Fancy asking me to investigate degenerates!’

‘What did you say – degenerates?’

‘Why yes, they’re all talking about it in Cambridge … a new book, but it’s in German. The title translates as
Degeneration
. There have been pieces in the papers and journals. It’s all about how the human race is going down, old man. We’re sinking, morally! Gives us something to talk about in the Senior Common Room. Written by a man called Nordau.’

‘Harry, the first “Jack” letter had that word.’

‘Why bless my soul, so it did!’

‘Our jockey is very up to date. He reads and he thinks indeed. Enjoy your little play-acting!’

Harry turned, a twinge of pain reminding him of the Rossiter Manform Retainer.

Godfrey Russell was writing dinner invitations to his friends in the Atelier Society when his maid announced, ‘Detective Inspector Carney for you Sir’ and showed Eddie in.

Russell was elegantly dressed, wearing an old-fashioned frockcoat with a rose in the lapel. His moustache was spiked and waxed, and his raven hair fell to his shoulders. His bright blue eyes sparkled, and the smile on his face welcomed Eddie into his cluttered sitting room.

‘Detective! What on earth brings the law into my little artist’s den? Have I transgressed in some way?’ He held out a hand and Eddie shook it before taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk to Russell.

‘You find me writing invitations … I’m celebrating the completion of that portrait over there.’ The artist pointed to a painting, held on a very large easel. ‘Come and have a closer look, tell me what you think.’

‘I’m not exactly well-informed about art, Mr Russell, but I’ll gladly take a look.’ Eddie walked across and scrutinized the picture, Russell standing behind him. It was completely familiar, showing a white, almost cadaverous face of a young man, leaning with his elbow on a side-table, a large open collar to his shirt and a glass of wine in hand. There, at the bottom, was the signature, ‘GWR’.