The Art of Murder (21 page)

‘What about photography?’ I said after a long silence. ‘Surely that’s the modern way to proceed?’

He exhaled loudly and shook his head dismissively. ‘Have you seen how long photographers take to set up their equipment? And have you seen the quality of their work when they have? No, Harry, the future is all about ideas, not gadgets. It’s like that damned telephone, it’s a gimmick. No, it’s up here,’ he
proclaimed, tapping his forehead, his cheeks flushed with excitement and claret. ‘It’s up here. That’s where the future is made. Ideas, Harry, ideas.’

I was about to point out to him that gadgets came from ideas, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. Archibald turned, a puzzled look on his face, and then his expression relaxed. The head waiter appeared at our table. Beside him was a young man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. He had a light fuzz of hair in the middle of his chin, very pale skin and small brown eyes.

‘Sir, this fellow says he has a message for you.’

‘Yes, thank you, Cartright,’ Archibald said, standing up. ‘Please leave us.’

The man took two steps backwards and then turned with a flourish, called over an underling and strode towards the kitchen.

‘Harry,’ Archibald said to me, returning to his seat and indicating to the young man that he should sit for a moment, ‘this is one of my lads from the office – James Shallworthy.’ He turned to the young man. ‘What is it, Jim?’

‘I’m sorry to …’

Archibald waved his hand again. ‘Just get on with it.’

‘Sir, there’s been an ’orrible murder.’

Archibald shot me a glance, then fixed the messenger with a stern stare. ‘Where?’

‘Just down the road in Charin’ Cross, sir.’

*

It was a double murder. You must have read about it in the newspaper, dear lady; your husband’s newspaper, in fact. It was not an incident to be easily forgotten. A double killing: of the actor Donald Peters and his lover and co-star Mildred Nantwich. The murderer, Mildred’s estranged husband Norman Nantwich, was imprisoned the same evening when he turned up at Charing Cross Police Station to confess to the murder, his hands, face and coat still covered with blood.

Archibald sent his assistant back to the newspaper office and hailed a hansom on Pall Mall. We were at the murder scene within a few minutes. The deed had been done in Donald Peters’s dressing-room at Toole’s Theatre on William IV Street. There was a hubbub in front of the venue with police escorting away theatre-goers who were angrily waving tickets for the cancelled matinee performance.

‘We’ll take the back entrance,’ Archibald said as we alighted from the cab. ‘I know the owner, John Toole, very well.’

Archibald also evidently knew his surroundings, because within a few moments we were inside without a single person preventing us. He led the way through a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs. At the top a corridor led to the actors’ dressing-rooms.

We could hear sounds coming from one of the rooms on the left, and then two policemen emerged. Immediately behind them appeared a tall, well-built man with a massive handlebar moustache. He was
heavily jowled and greying. ‘But this is preposterous!’ I heard him say, his voice little more than a growl.

Archibald strode along the passageway towards them. I stood where I was, just watching, intrigued.

‘Toole, old chap,’ I heard Archibald boom.

The two policemen and the theatre-owner turned as one.

‘Thomson?’ the man responded. ‘What the devil …?’

One of the policemen stepped forward with his hand held out to prevent Archibald’s approach. ‘I’m afraid, sir …’

‘Oh really, officer,’ he snapped. ‘I’m a newspaper editor.’

‘I don’t care who …’

‘Look here, Thomson. This really isn’t the time,’ Toole interrupted.

‘There
has
been a murder here, has there not?’

‘Well, yes, but …’ the theatre-owner blustered.

‘Sir,’ the policeman said again. He stepped forward and placed a restraining hand against Archibald’s chest. The newspaper man simply looked down at it and then gave Toole a hard look.

‘If you want an accurate report on this incident written by a friend, John, I would suggest you let me in.’

Toole gazed back at him. From where I stood, I could see the lines of strain on the theatre-owner’s face, and his eyes looked wild. He was clearly
struggling to contain his panic. I could sense the fear in him. It was quite a heady sensation, actually.

‘Officer,’ Toole said, ‘the gentleman has my permission to remain.’

‘That’s not really the point, sir,’ the policeman began, but Archibald was already in the room. In all the commotion, I too approached the door to the dressing-room, completely ignored, and stepped inside.

I shuddered and must have made a sound because Toole noticed me then.

‘And who the hell are you?’ he snapped.

‘He works for me,’ Archibald interceded.

I ignored them all, intent on soaking up the scene. It was a beautiful thing to behold. Both victims had been stabbed. The woman lay over the dead man. A knife was still embedded in her back. She was wearing a petticoat stained red. The walls were splashed with blood, the mirror over the dressing table was crimson-spattered, as though an artist had taken a brushful of paint and flicked it randomly. It took me only a moment to record the entire scene in my mind, every detail noted.

Toole was shaking his head. ‘All right, Thomson,’ he was yelling, ‘that’s quite enough, old chap.’

One of the policemen grabbed me by the arm and I saw the other take a grip on Archibald’s shoulder.

‘You really should talk to me, John,’ Archibald insisted as he was turned towards the door.

I caught a glimpse of Toole as I was escorted through the doorway to the corridor. He had
lowered himself on to his haunches in the corner of the room, his head in his hands, sobbing quietly.

It was growing dark by the time I reached my lodgings on Wentworth Street. I lit the single gas lamp, moved my table directly beneath it and began to sketch.

I was so absorbed in my work that I completely lost track of time. When I pulled out my watch and looked at it, I was amazed to find that it was past midnight. It was only as I returned to the real world that I realised how cold and hungry I felt. But I was indifferent to my own condition. Staring into space, I relived the delicious scene at Toole’s Theatre. The sketches of it were very good. I was pleased with them. And then I began to think about Archibald, and our conversation at the Reform Club. Suddenly it all seemed to fall into place. What glorious serendipity it had been that I should meet your gracious husband, dear lady. What delectable good fortune that he should have seen my sketches from the Pav, and liked my work. What a splendid coincidence that he should want to have an artist working on his newspaper in the way in which I worked. He had unwittingly put me in the perfect position to facilitate my plans. For, during the course of the two days between meeting Archibald and going to lunch with him, I had drawn up my list of victims. I had catalogued their movements; ensured that they would each be suitable models for my work. And now, thanks to my new friend, the
half-mad newspaper proprietor, I had a perfect excuse for being at the scene of any murders that might – by pure chance, of course – start occurring in and around Whitechapel. What a splendid prospect that was.

London, Monday 26 January, evening

The theremin concert was held in one of the smaller halls of the Barbican. It was sold out. Pendragon had been secretly sceptical before the event, but after a few minutes he found himself enjoying it. He had heard of the theremin, though he knew very little about it. He remembered reading once that it was the only instrument played without any physical contact being made between the musician and the instrument itself. Instead, the performer moved their hands close to a pair of antennae, which modulated both sound and volume. But, not wishing to seem ignorant, he had done his homework in a spare five minutes at the station, reading what Wikipedia had to say about the instrument – how it had been a spin-off from a Russian government-funded experiment into proximity sensors. The instrument had become quite popular in the 1930s then fallen out of fashion, though Robert Moog, inventor of the synthesiser, had attributed his youthful fascination with the theremin as a key influence on his own innovation.

Tonight’s theremin player was the leading proponent of
the art, a French woman named Françoise Guillaume. It helped that she was strikingly beautiful with long blonde locks and what was obviously, even from eight rows back, a magnificent figure. But the repertoire was also brilliantly eclectic – versions of Mozart, Grieg, Miles Davis and Jimi Hendrix, which were all perfectly recognisable but cleverly altered.

Leaving the theatre, Jack said nothing. He waited for Gemma to break the silence, but she seemed to be lost in thought, only turning to him when he suggested a drink at a little wine bar he knew on Beech Street. Outside, it was freezing and they pulled their collars up against the biting wind and strode through the car park and on to the main road. The wine bar was busy, but they found a quiet corner away from the theatre crowds where they could at least hear each other speak.

‘So, what did you think, Jack?’

‘I have to confess, before it began I was sceptical, but I really enjoyed it.’

‘Good. It’s healthy to push yourself outside your comfort zone occasionally.’

Pendragon nodded and took a sip of his wine. ‘When you get to my age, it’s all too easy to play it safe.’

‘Listen to you! “When you get to my age”! You’re what? Early forties?’

‘Yes, Gemma,’ he mocked.

She looked at him, serious-faced.

‘Actually, it’ll be my birthday in a few days. I’ll be forty-seven … God!’

‘Well, you look very well preserved.’

He smiled and inclined his head in thanks.

‘As an artist, I’m all for people staying young – mentally, anyway.’

‘You live for art, body and soul, don’t you, Gemma?’

She looked a little surprised, but admitted, ‘Well, yes, I do.’ She drank some wine and added, ‘Quite simply, it’s the most important thing in the world.’

‘I once knew a painter,’ Pendragon said. ‘An old girlfriend actually … at Oxford. She said to me that if she could choose between a Titian or the invention of the wheel, she would pick the Titian.’

Gemma sipped her wine and placed the glass back on the table. ‘I’m right there with your old girlfriend on that,’ she said. ‘No question. The thing is, the wheel provides the world with a practical advance, but the Titian feeds the soul.’

‘Fair enough, but if you can’t eat, you can’t appreciate art. And if the wheel had not been invented, we wouldn’t have got far as a race, now would we?’

‘So what? It’s a chicken and egg situation with technology. Humans invent the wheel and so civilisation evolves. Life becomes more comfortable. Then more people come into the world needing food and transport. And so on it goes. Art is above all that.’

Pendragon looked at her thoughtfully and swirled the wine in his glass.

‘It’s all about Truth-seeking,’ she went on. ‘Whatever form of art we’re talking about, it only has value if the creator is trying to represent Truth. Ninety-nine per cent of what’s created is worthless because it is not honest, it’s just entertainment. Think of all the horrible pop songs you hear, with their fake sincerity and ersatz
emotion. Art isn’t about painting cute kittens, nor is it about romantic stories in which the heroine is swept off her feet by a tall, dark stranger who treats her mean. None of that is Truth. Titian is Truth. Dylan is Truth. Dostoyevsky is Truth.’

‘All right,’ Jack responded. ‘But what about the ego of the artist? There’s always that to consider, is there not? There must always be that element of the individual putting themselves into what they create.’

‘Naturally, Jack. We’re talking about human beings. Artists are rarely anything else!’

He laughed. ‘Fair enough. But there’s a thornier problem. Truth can’t be pure because the way it is perceived by the artist or the creator is not necessarily faithfully represented by them, is it? Theirs may be a distorted vision of the Truth. Which means that, sometimes, the end result is pretentious rubbish, no matter how honest the artist is being.’

‘Sure,’ Gemma agreed. ‘But that’s because of the other imperative of the artist.’

He gave her a puzzled look.

‘The need to innovate. An artist has to seek Truth, but also represent it in a new way.’

‘Which is what the Surrealists were doing, for instance?’

‘What all real artists have done, down through the ages.’

‘Yes, but I was thinking specifically about the case I’m working on now and the artists who have been imitated.’ And he caught himself gazing into space. ‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘Talking shop … thinking out loud.’

Gemma smiled. ‘I think we need more wine.’ And she held up her empty glass.

Brick Lane, Tuesday 27 January, 7.30 a.m.

Pendragon was sitting in silence watching Superintendent Hughes flick through his latest report on the investigation. After a few moments she lifted her head, placed her interlocked fingers over the pile of paper and let out a pained sigh.

‘So, we have a potential murderer who’s been dead for over fifteen years? Excellent. An arrest should be easy.’

Pendragon met the superintendent’s eyes, his face expressionless.

‘Theories?’ she enquired. ‘Anything at all?’

‘Oh plenty of theories, Super,’ Pendragon responded. ‘But they are just that – theories – unsubstantiated by anything like a single fact.’

Hughes looked at him, keeping her silence, forcing Pendragon to talk on.

‘There are three possibilities for us to consider. One: there was some mistake with the DNA. But Dr Newman assures me that is not an option. There are so many matching markers that it is a six billion to one chance the DNA does not belong to the deceased Juliette Kinnear. Two: the woman isn’t in fact dead. We got on to Riverwell
in Essex straight away. They emailed over a single sheet of facts and dates. Turner did some additional checking. Juliette Kinnear drowned during a hospital excursion to Maldon. The incident was witnessed by a Riverwell nurse, Nicolas Compton. The body was found two days later and identified by a family member. The girl was cremated. Full police records are extant.’