A Thief in the Night (14 page)

‘Ah, Mr Russell, I have seen one of your paintings before, but not in a gallery. No, it was over the face of a dead man, and that is why I am here.’

Russell put a hand over his mouth and gasped. ‘Oh, of course, yes, I understand your reference. My dear friend Willy Dockray. I suppose I’ve been expecting you.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I suppose you question everyone who knows the victim, do you not?’

Eddie nodded, then turned and looked around the room. ‘You are very prolific. There must be twenty paintings here.’

‘I’ve been an artist for thirty years, Inspector. I’m now almost fifty. My young friend Willy was just as busy.’

‘Yes, and I believe he was RA – is that right?’

‘Indeed, unlike myself; my work never seemed to please the Academy panel.’

His smile dropped and there was a frown. ‘Ah, I see … you have heard things. No doubt you have been talking to some who knew us … Willy and I.’

‘I have. But I deal in facts, nothing else. A detective has no time to let his imagination run riot.’

‘No, of course not. Whereas I have to allow the imagination utter freedom. But there is not an inch of hatred in me for Willy, though it must be said he was a fortunate young man. The world liked him. His face was always welcome, whereas I have to work hard simply to be remembered. I’m that strange man who does the pallid faces! That’s what the art world says.’

‘They think you have but one talent?’

‘Exactly. But they all come to my parties.’ He laughed. The smile returned. He offered Eddie a glass of wine, but it was refused. Russell walked around, looking at his pictures, and said, ‘What care I? It’s the work that matters … posterity too. I’ll be known after my death, I’m sure.’

‘Indeed. Now I have to ask about the painting found placed on Mr Dockray’s face.’

‘On his face … was it damaged?’ he asked instinctively, then realised how crass the question must seem and added, ‘I only ask because it was a portrait of him. It was a special gift for his twenty-seventh birthday.’

‘A portrait of him? Mr Russell, it was nothing like him, surely?’ Eddie was puzzled.

‘Ah, here I must explain that my portraits are not naturalistic. They deliver a vision.’

Eddie pretended to understand and changed the subject. ‘Mr Russell, I have to speak with tact and confidentiality. I must ask you a question regarding Mr Dockray’s sexuality.’

Russell positively beamed. He appeared to delight in Eddie’s struggle to introduce the subject. His reply was disarmingly direct.

‘Inspector, he was what your man in the street calls a
pouf
, as I am. But if you are moving towards asking about sodomitic assignations, then the answer is no. We are discreet, my friends and I, knowing full well the illegality of any such habits.’

‘Well, er, yes. Thank you for your candid response Mr Russell. Before I go, I have to ask about the nature of your relationship with Mr Dockray … I mean, simply your friendship, your attitudes to each other … I’m not putting this well. I’m asking if you
got on
?’

‘Got on? Oh, we had our differences. At times he lost his temper with me … I’m a dogmatic person, Inspector, and I have strong views on art. Being older and more of the world, I tended to comment and give advice.’

‘You were a sort of father figure?’

‘Good Lord no!’ Russell guffawed. ‘I wanted to be a big brother, I suppose.’

‘Mr Russell, are you able to explain why your portrait of William Dockray was placed over his face – the first one put there, with others piled on top?’

Russell was nonplussed. ‘Well, I mean, devil take it, I don’t know. Are you implying that someone … the killer … did this?’

‘Mr Russell, I’m simply wondering if perhaps you had a row?’

‘Ah, I see. You envisage my good self in a murderous rage, hating Willy for rejecting my wonderful painting, then cracking it over his head, frame and all, before I battered him to death.’

‘Of course not. But your reply tells me a great deal.’

‘What? What! I was being facetious … I was being ironic!’

Eddie thanked Russell for his time and left, with the usual reminder that he might want to speak to him again. It was always a productive little ruse to leave them hanging, uncertain, after an interview.

Days passed and inquiries were made by a number of officers, but none were so bold as Harry Lacey’s approach to Colonel Dacre, who thought his officers were listening to ‘Professor Golightley’, a statistician. The colonel had gathered a dozen officers, some orderlies and ADC’s to listen to the professor’s study. Harry had worked everything out thoughtfully, and he was in fact in his natural role – lecturing. He stood at a table in the Officers’ Mess, the men were at tables, legs crossed and cigarettes in hand, listening with either curiosity or boredom, he was not sure which.

Harry looked absolutely the image of an academic gentleman of the new breed of fact-dominated thinking. He relished the challenge of stepping into the part, and was so convincing that the colonel began to think that he ought to have educative talks more often. Harry warmed to his task.

‘Gentlemen, I hope you begin to see my purpose. We live in an age of great scientific progress. Just as your rifles and cannon and guns are being advanced every day, so the science of statistical calculation is advancing, and, in my case, I am compiling facts to help counteract the criminal activities of our day. In short, I need to understand certain social habits, tendencies if you like, of our servicemen.’

Colonel Dacre’s orderly, Corporal Dignan, asked permission to speak.

‘Of course … you have a question?’

‘What specific facts do you require, Sir?’

‘My special interest is in those military men who deviate from normal behaviour in matters of sexual preference.’ There was muttering and someone swore. But Dignan was quick to respond. ‘You mean the pretty-boys? May I speak freely?’ He looked around the room and received nods and encouraging noises. ‘Now, army men know that having carnal relations is a necessary part of soldiering. It deals with the … the natural, or sometimes unnatural physical needs, as you might say … of men with red-blooded … er, promptings of nature. Now, we are fully aware of the law, and that sodomites get a lash and time inside
etcetera etcetera
… but even in the Guards we have some human understanding.’

‘Rot man … what have you been reading?’ an officer behind the speaker retorted. ‘Professor, you can put in your statistical tables that there are no poufs in the Grenadier Guards. We would drum them out, right?’

There were murmurs of approval.

‘Very well, so of the four hundred men at present here, there are no coves with any deviant behaviour with regard to their, er, carnal desires?’

‘Well we did have that Welshman and his ruddy penchant for goats! The regimental mascots had to wear chastity belts!’ The joker provoked general laughter. At this the colonel got to his feet and declared the meeting over. The men filed out, some giving a hard stare in the direction of the professor, leaving him with the colonel and Corporal Dignan.

The colonel was already somewhat upset, having had a visit from three police constables all wanting to speak with the musicians in his battalion, as Eddie had sent a messenger to the Yard to get busy responding to Jack’s challenge.

‘Professor Golightley,’ said the colonel, ‘what exactly do you statistics chaps do with your facts?’

‘Well, we produce tabular information … percentages, columns, charts, that sort of thing. For instance, you may care to know that between 1880 and 1883 the City of London Police had a conviction rate of thirty-four per cent.’ Harry had made that up. The ‘fact’ interested Dignan. ‘Disgusting Sir,’ he said. ‘There is no wonder that the human race is thinning out, going bad … I mean, these infidels, like the savages what topped General Gordon, God rest his soul, they are not human but beasts, below the human.’

Harry was intrigued by this comment, and couldn’t help thinking about Nordau and his new book. ‘Corporal Dignan, can you read German?’ he asked.

The two military men looked at each other, puzzled. ‘What the deuce has that to do with anything Professor?’ the colonel asked.

‘Oh merely an academic interest.’

‘The answer is no, Sir. English is the finest tongue in the world and there is no cause to acquire another.’ Dignan’s answer seemed to please his superior. It was the ideal moment for Harry to leave, and as he walked across Hyde Park, he had a feeling that Dignan was lying.

Eddie, full of cold and feeling decidedly ill, decided not to go back to the Yard after his meeting with Russell. He had set things in motion protecting every army bandsman who could be located at Hyde Park, and he needed to think. The painting by Russell had been slammed over the dead man’s head with some considerable force. There was venom there. Not something that would happen in the course of a slight altercation between friends.

It was only a few minutes’ walk from the Strand by Charing Cross, to Bow Street, E Division. He strolled up towards Maiden Lane, then onto the edge of Covent Garden, where he made straight for the stalls of cut flowers, one of his greatest delights in the city in which he had grown up. The noise of the streets faded when people walked into this rich array of colour: there were roses, carnations and all hues of wallflowers. He lingered a while to take in the wonderful buildings; one place was very special: the church of St Paul’s. His grandfather’s best friend, Thomas Rowlandson, was buried there; Thomas had made a name for himself as an artist, but had been a terrible gambler, losing everything he had at the table, and then working all hours in his studio to earn more funds. Such was the precarious nature of men’s lives.

His meditation was cut short when a voice to his side said, ‘Good day to you, Inspector … Detective, in fact!’

It was his old friend, Sergeant Alfred Taylor, jolly as always. The two men shook hands and the sergeant beamed. The sergeant was an old friend whom Eddie had known for many years.

‘Hello Alf! I heard you were retiring come Christmas?’

‘Yes indeed; come, let us walk along to the station – I have to be back.’

Bow Street, the famous police station and court, was around the corner, and they were soon standing by Sergeant Taylor’s high desk in the reception foyer, with a crowd milling around. The hubbub subsided as a constable ushered some noisy costermongers outside, and as Taylor took out a duty sheet with a list of names, Eddie gave an account of his life ‘across town’, as he put it. ‘Yes, I deal with some high and mighty sorts … not quite the same level of villain as you and I were used to Alf.’

‘Aye … still doing the same paperwork … see this? You used to write these!’ He held up the sheet and Eddie read down, his eye resting on the name ‘Telfer’.

‘Hey, Alf … you have a Constable Telfer. That’s not such a common name is it?’

‘Honestly Eddie, your brain never stops questioning…’

‘Well, it’s just that there’s a Telfer at A Division … maybe they’re brothers?’

Sergeant Taylor thought for a moment. ‘Our Telfer … he’s a young man …’

Eddie couldn’t resist pressing his friend for a little more detail. It was habit with him. ‘Your Telfer, has he got all his teeth?’

‘As a matter of fact, no. He was in a fight about a month back – had his two front teeth knocked out by some drunk. Course, this list is last night’s. He’s off duty tonight.’

‘Can I have his address?’

‘Of course … just a minute.’ The sergeant went into an office and there was the sound of shuffling paper, then he came back with an address written on a sheet of note paper.

‘Alf, I know it’s been a long time,’ said Eddie, ‘and I’m really sorry, but you just gave me something I have to fasten onto like a mastiff, right now, my friend. I promise you’ll get the pint of porter I had in mind, soon as.’