Mind of a Killer Read online

  ‘Scotland,’ said O’Connor, making it sound more sinister than Hades. ‘And Manchester. And let’s not forget High Wycombe, that vile pit of filth and corruption.’

  ‘Let’s not,’ agreed Lonsdale, struggling not to smile.

  Bradwell returned to the blackened corpse. ‘What I imagine happened was this: your man Donovan was killed, his cerebrum removed, and then his skull smashed so that it would appear as though it had been crushed by falling rubble – a ploy designed to prevent a busy, underpaid police surgeon from looking any closer.’

  He picked up a knife and investigated further, while Lonsdale watched, his mind teeming with questions. O’Connor busied himself at a sink. While Bradwell worked, Lonsdale studied him covertly. The tiredness in his face, his inexpensive clothes, and his harried air suggested he was a poorly paid hospital physician, forced to undertake additional duties as a police surgeon to make ends meet. He had mentioned a wife, and might even have children to support. Regardless, Lonsdale felt certain that his mortuary work resulted from necessity rather than choice. Eventually, Bradwell straightened up.

  ‘If Donovan died from smoke inhalation, there would be soot in his lungs. There isn’t.’

  ‘I knew there was something odd about this,’ said Lonsdale, more to himself than the doctor. ‘Right from the start.’

  ‘And I’d have missed it if you hadn’t been here with your ten shillings,’ said Bradwell. ‘I had seven post mortems to do today – this makes eight – and I’m expected at St Bartholomew’s Hospital for the night shift. I don’t have time to waste on the obvious cases. Lord help us! I wonder how many others I’ve missed?’

  ‘How many fatal fires have you had recently?’ asked Lonsdale, thinking without enthusiasm about exhumations.

  ‘Five or six.’ Bradwell brightened a little. ‘But I can quite safely state that none had a crushed head, and I’d have noticed if someone had taken a slice from the top of a complete one.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’ asked Lonsdale.

  ‘I inform the police about my findings, and you tell them why you suspected Donovan’s death was not all it seemed. Then they investigate.’

  Lonsdale regarded him for a moment. Yes, he would tell the police what he knew, but he would also meet Cath Walker tomorrow night. There might be credence to her claims after all.

  Lonsdale was woken the next morning by the customary tap on his door, which preceded the entry of Hillary, the older, primmer of the household’s two maids, with tea and toast. She placed the tray beside the bed and opened the curtains. Lonsdale pulled the sheet over his head to avoid the daylight.

  While Lonsdale groaned and muttered his way into wakefulness, Hillary bustled about, brushing ash from the fireplace and lighting a fire. She then went to draw his bath, knowing that, although he invariably grumbled immediately upon awakening, soon he was bursting with energy. Thus, before long, Lonsdale had bathed, dressed, breakfasted, and was striding towards the offices of The PMG.

  He had intended to spend the day investigating the Donovan case, but life as a reporter was never predictable, and he arrived to learn that one of the sub-editors was ill – and as the first liner through the door that morning, he was assigned to replace him. Lonsdale considered objecting, but not for long – he would not win the contest for a permanent post if he questioned orders. Then followed a day that was so hectic that he had scant time to even think of the man in the mortuary with the mangled head – other than when he took ten minutes to talk to the policeman who came to take his statement at noon.

  Late in the day, Stead called to Lonsdale, who stepped into the assistant editor’s office.

  ‘You have fifteen minutes,’ said Stead, while standing with his back to the door, warming a glass of stout on some exposed hot-water pipes.

  Lonsdale regarded him blankly. ‘For what?’

  ‘To be at the Garrick Club, where Harris will be waiting. So go – Voules can finish here.’

  Lonsdale did not need to be told twice, as he would need to shift if he did not want to be late. ‘You spoke to him?’ he asked, brushing off his coat and grabbing his hat.

  Stead nodded. ‘He is expecting you. Can I assume that you will be meeting Miss Walker afterwards?’

  ‘Most definitely,’ said Lonsdale, nodding in a gesture of farewell and making for the door.

  The Garrick Club occupied a handsome, twenty-year-old Italianate building near Leicester Square. The area was not the usual venue for such establishments – most were located near Pall Mall and St James’s Street – but gentlemen’s clubs were becoming increasingly popular, and more were being founded every few years. The Garrick was known for a membership that included actors, journalists, and barristers.

  When Lonsdale arrived, Harris was waiting at the porter’s lodge. ‘You’re late,’ he said irritably, as he wrote their names on the thick cream paper of the visitors’ book.

  Harris was a stocky American, who possessed a wide jaw filled with a set of vast gleaming teeth that Lonsdale was certain were false. He had a long-standing bet on the matter with Hulda, who maintained that no one would spend good money on a set of dentures that looked so patently unreal. Several attempts by both had been made to find out the true status of the teeth, but Harris had so far eluded their efforts to solve the mystery.

  ‘I appreciate your invitation,’ said Lonsdale pleasantly. ‘It’s good of you.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Harris gracelessly. ‘And you can expect me to call on you for a return favour some day. You and Stead.’

  Lonsdale raised his eyebrows. Reciprocation went without saying, so it was in poor taste to mention it. He fought down his dislike of the man, although something Hulda had said came unbidden into his mind – that Harris had a reputation for getting young, gullible reporters drunk, then stealing their ideas. Such behaviour – as well as his lack of subtlety and his natural tendency to boorishness – was part of why the American was unpopular among London’s press fraternity. But the dislike went deeper than his personal qualities or the natural rivalry between reporters. Harris was seen as the embodiment of The New York Herald, a paper with a huge circulation and power in the United States – and that could even be purchased in London. But it was also a newspaper that most of the members of the English press considered to be, as one of Morley’s friends wrote, ‘cheap, filthy, false, and extravagant … appealing to the basest of instincts, with sensational stories about romance, rape, murder, suicide, and improbable tales from exotic lands.’

  Despite his reservations about the man, Lonsdale followed Harris inside. The Garrick boasted the same elements as most clubs: a sizeable drawing room lit by tall windows; a more formal, panelled morning room; and a variety of other facilities, including a library and a billiards hall. On the walls of its impressive staircase was a magnificent collection of artwork, said to be the finest of any club in London. On the first floor there was a reading room, a coffee lounge, and a dining hall to cater for men who chose not to return home for an evening meal.

  ‘Wilson will be in the reading room,’ said Harris, pointing to a door. ‘I’ve got better things to do than spend an evening in the company of that crusty old buzzard, so I’m off to eat. You can sign yourself out.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lonsdale, thinking he would never let Harris loose in his club. Moreover, as Lonsdale was about to pester Wilson in the one place normally considered a haven from such encounters, Harris leaving him to his own devices was rather rash, as there were likely to be repercussions for the man who had let him in.

  Lonsdale entered the reading room and immediately saw Wilson dozing near the fireplace, chest covered by a copy of that morning’s Standard. He sat for a moment on a leather chair across from Wilson, to study his prey. The director of the Zoological Gardens possessed an ample belly, wild black eyebrows that looked as though they were trying to escape from him in any direction possible, and a bald crown circled by unruly tufts that had been rumpled into miniature horns. In the midst of his thick-fe
atured face, blubbery lips quivered each time he breathed.

  The reading room was almost empty. An elderly gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers muttered to himself next to the window, disturbing a thin gentleman who was trying to read a newspaper, while a third sat and gazed blankly into space. He sat so still that Lonsdale began to wonder if he was dead. Then a waiter arrived with a large glass of brandy and a box of cigars, and the man stirred to avail himself of them. Almost immediately, the pungent stench of the cigar filled the room; Lonsdale had seldom smelled anything quite so rank, even at the mortuary, and wondered why the fellow elected to choose such a brand.

  Wilson awoke from his nap choking. ‘Good God, man!’ he gasped, flapping at the air in front of him. ‘What are you burning this time? Nettles soaked in lion urine?’

  ‘An interesting notion,’ called his colleague cheerfully. ‘Nettles are easy to come by, although the lion urine might prove a challenge. I don’t suppose you could procure me a drop?’

  Wilson glared at him, then produced his own case of cigars. After a moment’s hesitation, he offered one to Lonsdale, who declined.

  ‘These will help cover up the smell of Deacon’s foul concoctions,’ he said, before stopping and studying Lonsdale with a hard stare. ‘I haven’t seen you here before, although you do have a familiar look. Are you a new member?’

  ‘A guest of Ambrose Harris,’ replied Lonsdale. He proffered a hand. ‘Alec Lonsdale of The Pall Mall Gazette.’

  Wilson’s handshake was firm enough to hurt. ‘Scurrilous Liberal rag! I have argued not to take it at the Garrick. Much better to have an honest, Conservative evening paper like The St James’s Gazette.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ said Lonsdale, more calmly than he felt was warranted after such an insult. ‘Few newspapers offer more insightful political reviews than The PMG.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ retorted Wilson. ‘“Liberal” and “insightful” are mutually exclusive concepts. By the way, I’m Dr Oliver Wilson, secretary of the Royal Zoological Society and director of the Zoological Gardens. No doubt you’ve heard of me?’

  ‘I’ve visited the zoo a number of times recently,’ replied Lonsdale carefully. ‘You’ve done an admirable job with the great apes.’

  ‘We expect a renewed interest in apes over the next few weeks,’ said Wilson, paring off the end of his cigar with a silver pocketknife. ‘Darwin’s death will resurrect the fascination with them that we had in the sixties.’

  ‘People looking for their great-grandfather?’ mused Lonsdale.

  Wilson leaned back in his chair and eyed Lonsdale through a pall of smoke that was every bit as foul as Deacon’s. ‘Not a believer in natural selection? That’s unusual in a man of your generation. They usually leap to defend modern science against us older, wiser fellows.’

  ‘I accept most of Darwin’s theories,’ said Lonsdale. ‘But only in nature. I can’t agree with Herbert Spencer and those who apply Darwin’s ideas to humans. If natural selection is operating in us, then why are there so many poor and sick?’

  ‘Because our society has transcended the principles that apply to nature,’ replied Wilson with unexpected vigour. ‘We are godlike compared to the rest of the beasts, and we have used our powers to bypass natural selection. Now we need to use that knowledge to force natural selection to operate once again, for the benefit of our species as a whole.’

  ‘How?’ asked Lonsdale, not at all sure what Wilson was telling him.

  ‘By not allowing the lower classes to breed indiscriminately, like animals – because we are not animals. We must decide who produces offspring, and who does not.’

  ‘An unnatural selection, you mean?’ said Lonsdale coolly. He had heard such arguments before, and considered them unethical and impractical.

  ‘On the contrary, what could be more natural than man using his intellect to improve his race? The greatest minds of all time have supported the notion. Plato’s Republic idealized a society with constant selection for the improvement of human stock. And the Old Testament makes positive references to such concepts.’

  ‘I’m not sure most experts on the Bible would agree,’ countered Lonsdale. ‘And those examples don’t speak to the reality of today.’

  Wilson was becoming angry. ‘In savage societies, the weak in body or mind soon die, so the ones that survive are stronger, healthier, more vigorous. But we, the “civilized” society, interfere with this process. We build hospitals for the sick, asylums for the imbeciles, and homes for the maimed. We try to extend life for every moment possible, which means the weak have been allowed to propagate. Anyone who has bred animals will tell you that this is highly injurious to the race of man.’

  Lonsdale wanted to ask who, in Wilson’s scheme, would decide which individuals were allowed to reproduce, but as he could not use such a frightening interpretation of evolutionary theory in his article, he decided he had better steer the conversation to something less controversial.

  ‘Do you think—?’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ Wilson interrupted, leaning forward with the gleam of the fanatic in his eyes, ‘that the high birth rate among the poor is a threat to our very civilization. You see, morals and criminal behaviour are linked to specific physiological types. If a person possesses these physical features – which are much more common in the lower classes – then it’s likely that his behaviour will soon degenerate into the criminal or the immoral. Because both behaviour and physiological types are inherited, these people must be prevented from producing offspring. Then we’ll have what we all want – a world with no crime and no sin.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that,’ Lonsdale objected.

  ‘I’ve applied such methods in the zoo. I isolate the weak and ugly animals, and only allow the strong and attractive to breed. You must have noticed that all my monkeys are powerful, handsome beasts?’

  ‘But people don’t live in monkey houses,’ Lonsdale pointed out. ‘How do you propose to prevent human beings from breeding – short of putting them in our already overflowing prisons?’

  ‘Something must be done, and it will be done,’ replied the director. ‘You’ll see, soon enough.’ He raised his paper to indicate that the discussion was over. It most certainly was not closed for Lonsdale, however.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded, clenching his fists to prevent himself from hauling the newspaper away from Wilson’s face.

  The paper was lowered impatiently. ‘Exactly what I say. We can’t go on as we are. Our cities can’t provide for a population that continues to increase, and the lower classes – which breed at such a ghastly pace – won’t sit idly by and accept the division between rich and poor forever. Disraeli gave them a vote. Gladstone and his cronies gave them education. So now they have aspirations, and if we don’t control them, they’ll revolt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must bid you goodnight.’

  He tossed his newspaper to one side, and stalked out. Watching him leave, Lonsdale realized that the encounter had left him with nothing he could possibly use in his article.

  The visit to the Garrick Club had not only been unproductive, it had made Lonsdale late for his meeting with Cath Walker. The bells had long since finished chiming eight and the light had almost faded when he reached the Gloucester Gate entrance to Regent’s Park. He headed toward the huge drinking fountain on the Broad Walk – the wide but poorly lit road that traversed the park from north to south.

  As Lonsdale neared the fountain, which was illuminated by its own lamp, he slowed and became more cautious. The path that led to the bandstand, a short distance west, appeared to be deserted. He peered into the darkness, and could just see the outline of the bandstand, eerie in the deepening shadows. He had not realized how few lights there were and how dark the park could be; a lone, unarmed man was an easy target. But he told himself that his experiences in Africa – which had taught him more than a modicum of self-defence – combined with having boxed at Cambridge, made him capable of defending himself reasonably respectably.<
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  He approached the bandstand warily. It had a conical roof supported by wrought-iron pillars and was surrounded by waist-high railings. The chairs on which the band sat were piled in the middle and covered with a tarpaulin. There was no one to be seen.

  He was reaching for the railing when a rustle brought him to a standstill. Away to the right was a row of bushes and trees, a pleasant, shady area for those who did not want to sit in the sun to listen to music. Had the noise come from there? He took several steps towards it.

  ‘Miss Walker?’ he called softly. For several moments, nothing happened, then there was a dull thud behind him. He had spun round before realizing with disgust that he had fallen for an old trick: someone had thrown a stone behind him to make him turn, so he could be attacked from behind.

  He had barely started to whip back around when he was knocked from his feet. He went sprawling onto the wet ground, feeling sodden grass against his face. He rolled, aware that his attacker was already bearing down on him. Against the dark grey sky, he saw something glint before it plunged down.

  He squirmed sideways and kicked out, catching his assailant across the backs of his legs. There was a grunt as the man tumbled to the ground, but as Lonsdale struggled to his knees, someone else grabbed him from behind. A detached part of his mind acknowledged that Jack had been right – Cath had enticed him to an isolated spot where he could be robbed. Anger at his own gullibility spurred him into action.

  He jabbed his elbow backwards into the groin of the man behind him, putting every last ounce of his strength into it. There was a satisfying howl of pain, and the man doubled over. The man with the knife circled, a dim silhouette in the dark. Lonsdale feinted to his left, and then followed with a right cross that connected with the man’s jaw with a loud crack. The man went down as though poleaxed and lay still.

  Lonsdale swung round quickly, sensing that the knifeman’s accomplice had recovered and was preparing another attack, but a well-aimed rock hit him squarely on the eyebrow, making bright lights explode inside his head. He struck out blindly to deter the man from coming too close, but when his vision cleared, he did not see his assailant advancing on him but disappearing into the night. He had fled.