Mind of a Killer Page 8

  ‘There’s nothing to see,’ said Hulda, surveying the damage from the door. ‘Come out; it isn’t safe. The roof will go at any minute.’

  ‘I need to examine the front door,’ said Lonsdale, extricating his foot and resuming his journey. ‘Stay there.’

  When he reached the door, he was not surprised that Donovan’s neighbours had been unable to break through, as a heavy chest had been placed across it. The box had been opened by looters, but the unburned floor underneath when he tugged it away suggested he was the first to move it since the fire.

  So either Donovan had put it there after raising the alarm, or someone else had done so with the intention of preventing anyone from trying to rescue him. The first solution made no sense. The second, along with the rear door being secured, fitted Lonsdale’s suspicion that someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to hide the fact that Donovan’s death was no accident.

  ‘Lonsdale!’ yelled Hulda suddenly as there was a groan of tearing wood. ‘Look out!’

  Lonsdale could only cringe against the wall with his arms over his head as several roof tiles slipped from one of the sagging rafters and hit the ground with ear-shattering explosions. Then the beam itself fell, thumping down next to him in a cloud of choking, black dust. Before anything else came down, he scrambled over the beam and aimed for the back door. There was another creak, directly above. Instinctively, he glanced up, and then fell heavily as his foot caught in the hole he had made on his way inside.

  The creak grew louder, and Lonsdale struggled to stand, but his foot had snagged on the jagged wood and he could not pull it free. Then strong hands grabbed his collar, the charred floorboards flew away from his foot, and he was hauled forward. There was an almighty crash as more of the roof collapsed, right where he had been lying, and for a few moments he could see nothing but swirling ash and cinders. The hand tightened on his collar, and he was assisted, none too gently, into the garden. He bent, hands on knees, as he struggled to clear his lungs of the suffocating dust.

  ‘I warned you,’ said Hulda tartly, relinquishing her hold and brushing herself down. ‘I told you it wasn’t safe, and you put me in danger by forcing me to come to your rescue.’

  ‘Not so!’ he wheezed. ‘I told you to stay outside.’

  ‘Ungrateful wretch! Next time, I’ll just stand and watch! You could at least say thank you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lonsdale, realizing he had been ungracious. ‘I mean it.’

  She sniffed to acknowledge his capitulation, and tried to brush some of the ash from his clothes. She was still dusty herself, but to reciprocate was more than his life was worth. When she deemed him presentable, they made their way to the front of the house.

  ‘You do realize we are being watched,’ she whispered.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Number twenty-seven,’ said Hulda. ‘And now she’s coming out.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded a harsh female voice. ‘There’s nothing left to steal. This is a respectable neighbourhood, so why don’t you leave us alone? Oh, it’s you.’

  It was the wife of the railway guard whom Lonsdale had met on the day of the fire. He recalled her name was Mrs North. He smiled and tipped his hat, while she continued to regard him suspiciously.

  ‘We haven’t come to loot,’ he explained. ‘My wife and I are thinking of moving into number thirty-five. I came the day before yesterday to look around the area. I’m an accountant you see – and I need to be near my work at the zoo.’

  The woman’s manner softened somewhat, although her eyes remained wary. ‘I remember – I suppose you saw more than you bargained for, then?’

  ‘You could say that,’ agreed Lonsdale. ‘And my wife is anxious. Was it an accident, do you think, this poor gentleman’s death?’

  ‘Of course it was an accident!’ exclaimed Mrs North. ‘What else could it have been? This is a respectable …’

  She stopped abruptly when Hulda astonished her and Lonsdale alike by giving a groan and pressing her hand to her stomach.

  ‘It’s the baby,’ she whispered, in a remarkable change to the local accent, while giving Mrs North a weak little smile.

  Horrified, Lonsdale took a step away.

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ exclaimed Mrs North, rushing to Hulda’s side. ‘Don’t duck away from her like a cornered rat! Help her into my house.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly impose …’ said Hulda weakly.

  ‘Nonsense,’ declared Mrs North. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Everyone feels better after a cup of tea.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Hulda with pathetic gratitude. ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Bring her inside,’ instructed Mrs North, treating Lonsdale to an admonishing glower. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, dragging her here when she should be at home with her feet up.’

  Lonsdale slipped a cautious hand under Hulda’s elbow, and escorted her into Mrs North’s best room, a cluttered parlour at the front of the house. The wallpaper had a dark red floral design on a chocolate background, and the floorboards were polished to a treacherous shine. An enormous pair of brass candlesticks dominated the fireplace, and every available inch of space was crammed with knick-knacks and silver-framed sepia photographs.

  Once Hulda had been settled on a lumpy horsehair sofa, and furnished with a plate of Bath Oliver biscuits and a cup of tea, Lonsdale tried to restart the conversation.

  ‘You said the other day that Mr Donovan raised the alarm about the fire, then ran back inside his house,’ he began, intending to ask whether she had noticed any visitors before his final appearance.

  Mrs North’s lips pursed in annoyance. ‘I’ve already told you all I know about poor Mr Donovan. It isn’t seemly to dwell on it, and I strongly disapprove—’

  Again, the intended tirade was interrupted by a timely groan from Hulda.

  ‘Men!’ snapped Mrs North, pouring her more tea and glowering at Lonsdale. ‘Your poor wife is carrying your child, and you’re more concerned with gossip than in her well-being. You don’t deserve her.’

  ‘That’s certainly true,’ muttered Lonsdale.

  ‘I’m much better now, Mrs North,’ said Hulda, with the smile of a martyr. ‘And my husband doesn’t mean to be callous – he’s just concerned that we choose the right house, so our child can grow up with respectable, God-fearing folk.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t choose better than Wyndham Street,’ averred Mrs North. ‘Bert Evans next door is a clerk for the Board of Works, and earns thirty-five shillings a week, while his daughter brings home another twelve as a waitress in the Royal Hotel. And then there’s my Harry. He makes almost thirty-three shillings, while my oldest boy earns ten as an apprentice railwayman, even though he’s only fifteen.’

  She paused to acknowledge the murmured approvals of her two guests, then continued.

  ‘Mr Donovan worked in Salmon and Eden, the gentleman’s outfitters, and must have been earning at least forty shillings a week. More, probably.’ Her voice dropped reverently, and Lonsdale could see she was deeply impressed by such heady finances.

  ‘Was he a drinking man?’ asked Lonsdale.

  Mrs North’s eyes widened in shock. ‘No! What gave you that idea?’

  ‘You did,’ replied Lonsdale, unruffled. ‘Two days ago, when you said he seemed intoxicated when he ran into the street shouting.’

  ‘Did I?’ she asked, frowning. ‘Perhaps I did. He sounded different, you see.’

  ‘Different in what way?’

  She gave a shrug. ‘Hoarse – although I suppose that could have been the smoke. I don’t know why I said he’d been drinking. He’d never done it before.’

  ‘Was he married?’ asked Hulda, sipping her tea.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs North. ‘He wasn’t the type. Don’t get me wrong – there were few gentlemen as respectable – but he was shy.’

  At that moment, there was a tap on the door, and the sound of someone entering the house.

  ‘That’s Molly Evans from nex
t door, come to find out who I’m entertaining,’ said Mrs North. ‘We’re all good friends here – always in and out of each other’s houses. In a neighbourly way, of course.’

  ‘Except Mr Donovan,’ said Hulda, regarding Mrs North with wide, innocent eyes. ‘Because he was shy.’

  ‘Front parlour, Molly,’ called Mrs North, not happy at being caught in an inconsistency.

  Lonsdale glimpsed Molly Evans smoothing her hair down in front of the hall mirror, before entering Mrs North’s parlour.

  ‘This nice couple are thinking of moving into number thirty-five,’ explained Mrs North. ‘So I’ve been telling them all about us.’

  ‘Are they?’ asked Molly, surprised. ‘The agent told my Bert just yesterday that it’s been let to a family from Wales – a Mr and Mrs Rhys.’

  Mrs North’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Lonsdale wondered whether she would demand recompense for all the biscuits Hulda had scoffed.

  ‘Yes, but the agent prefers us,’ said Hulda with remarkable aplomb, reaching for another Bath Oliver. ‘Because of our references – from the vicar of St Alfrege’s and Sir William Stead, my husband’s employer.’

  ‘A vicar, and a knight of the realm!’ breathed Mrs North.

  Hulda nodded. ‘Whereas Mr Rhys is a rag-and-bone collector, and only earns fifteen shillings a week. The agent said he was afraid he’d get behind with the rent.’

  ‘A rag-and-bone man?’ echoed Molly aghast. She exchanged a look of horror with Mrs North.

  ‘He plans to run his business from behind the house,’ continued Hulda relentlessly. ‘He has three ponies, two carts, and three of his four sons work for him. All want to move here with him.’

  ‘Four sons?’

  ‘And five daughters, two of whom are unmarried with children. Moreover, one of the sons has a police record. What was his crime, Alec? Was it robbery with violence or arson?’

  ‘Is there any more tea?’ asked Lonsdale, to stem Hulda’s flow of lies. The two women ignored him and gaped at Hulda. Molly was positively white.

  ‘You must tell the agent the people on the street favour you,’ gulped Mrs North. ‘You won’t find a better neighbourhood in London. And with the exception of this dreadful business with Mr Donovan, the police have never been here.’

  ‘Poor Mr Donovan,’ said Molly. ‘He was such an upstanding gentleman. He polished the church brass every Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘He was too set in his ways to marry,’ said Mrs North, to ensure that her guests read nothing untoward in the fact that Donovan was a bachelor. ‘But then, he looked after his father until the old man passed away last year.’

  ‘Did he have no other relations?’ asked Hulda.

  ‘None,’ replied Mrs North. ‘After his father died, he was quite alone. I said he could come over for tea any time he felt lonely. Of course, he never did.’

  ‘He loved his work,’ put in Molly. ‘He left every morning at seven-thirty, and was never back before nine. Other than church, his only pastimes were books and walks in the park.’

  ‘It seems a terrible thing to happen to such an upright, Christian man,’ went on Mrs North. ‘I’d give anything to live Thursday over again, and prevent him from running back into his house.’

  ‘I doubt you could have stopped him,’ said Lonsdale kindly. ‘But we mustn’t keep you. You’ve been very kind.’

  ‘Please consider number thirty-five,’ begged Mrs North, reluctant to let them go without some assurance that they would deliver her neighbourhood from the sinister presence of the ominous Rhys family. ‘I can’t stress enough how respectable we are.’

  ‘You can’t let Mr Donovan’s accident put you off,’ added Molly. ‘It was the chimney sweep’s fault, after all.’

  ‘The sweep?’ asked Hulda, while Lonsdale recalled that Mrs North had mentioned the chimney being cleaned before.

  ‘The firemen said the flue was blocked, and that’s how the blaze started,’ explained Mrs North. ‘Kendal’s getting too old. He left a brush up the chimney, and that was that.’

  ‘I shan’t have him again,’ said Molly firmly.

  ‘Nor will I,’ declared Mrs North.

  ‘That poor woman,’ said Lonsdale as they walked away, Hulda remembering to take his arm as a pregnant wife might do. ‘She’s appalled at the prospect of having your rag-and-bone man in her street.’

  ‘Serves her right for being such a self-righteous bigot,’ said Hulda, chin in the air and regular accent firmly back in place. ‘What makes her think she’s better than a man who earns only fifteen shillings?’

  ‘But now she’ll race off to the agent, and learn you’ve spun her all manner of lies. And we won’t be able to question her again. How could you prey on someone’s kindness like that, pretending to be pregnant and eating all her biscuits?’

  ‘Because if I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have given us the time of day,’ replied Hulda, snatching her arm back as they rounded the corner. ‘Your questioning was clumsy, and she had taken a dislike to you before we’d even started.’

  ‘But surely you didn’t have to be quite so inventive?’

  ‘Molly was about to reveal us as a pair of frauds,’ said Hulda unrepentantly. ‘I saved the day and inveigled all the information we needed. And the disguise was your idea, so don’t get at me for embellishing the theme. You’d better lose those scruples if you want to succeed at The PMG. You won’t do it by being prissy and squeamish.’

  ‘We can bicker later,’ said Lonsdale, aware that people were looking at them, ‘but if we want to speak to anyone else, we must do it now, before Mrs North finds out we’re imposters. Can you bring yourself to act the part of a respectable woman again?’

  Seldom had Lonsdale been treated to a look of greater malevolence than that with which Hulda favoured him. He was grateful she was not armed, or there might have been another murder in Wyndham Street.

  With Hulda coldly rigid at his side, they spoke to several other neighbours, but none had anything more to add. All said kind things about Donovan, but no one had really known him. Furthermore, there was nothing in his life that warranted being singled out for such a brutal attack. If he had been fond of the taverns, or had gambled, Lonsdale would have known how to proceed, but there was nothing.

  ‘I can only see one curious thing in what we’ve been told,’ he said to Hulda later, as they sat in a dingy chophouse at the Great Western Railway Terminus. She was the only woman present and was attracting the interested gazes of several men. Lonsdale was considerably more uneasy about it than Hulda, who treated the admiring glances with contemptuous indifference, concentrating instead on cleaning the greasy cutlery with a scrupulously white lace handkerchief.

  ‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘Salmon and Eden must have closed by eight o’clock, so why did Donovan never reach home until after nine?’

  ‘No,’ said Lonsdale, who had not thought of this. ‘I mean, yes. He lived alone, so perhaps he ate out before going home so he wouldn’t have to cook. But, I was thinking about something else. Everybody has told us that he left for work every morning at half-past seven. But he died mid-morning on a Thursday. Why was he at home when he should have been at Salmon and Eden?’

  ‘By God, you’re right!’ exclaimed Hulda, slamming her hand on the table. ‘That is good thinking, Lonsdale. How could I have missed something so obvious?’

  ‘We should visit his shop,’ said Lonsdale, choosing to ignore her condescension. ‘We can ask his colleagues why he stayed at home – if he took a day off or was ill.’

  ‘Right,’ said Hulda, downing half a glass of stout at an impressive rate, and leaping to her feet. ‘Off we go, then. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Near Oxford Street. But we should go to the office first to tell Stead what we’re doing. And can we finish the chops?’

  ‘No,’ said Hulda briskly. ‘I suppose we should see Stead, but there is another lesson you should learn – you will never make a good reporter if you stop to eat.’

  Had Hulda known w
hat was awaiting them at Northumberland Street, she would have been less willing to return there. The moment they looked through Stead’s doorway it was apparent that all was not well.

  ‘Ah, my happily married couple,’ he said in subdued tones. ‘I hope you’ve solved your crime, because you may not have another opportunity.’

  Lonsdale raised his eyebrows questioningly, while Hulda glowered in a way that would have been intimidating to most people.

  ‘We’re on our way to conduct more interviews,’ she said firmly. ‘Shall we tell you what we learned at Wyndham Street?’

  ‘Yes, and Mr Morley will be interested, too,’ said Stead. ‘He returned today, rather earlier than expected. You know he’s been at home, writing a biography of Richard Cobden—’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Hulda.

  Lonsdale and Stead regarded each other uncertainly. ‘The economist and politician who helped found the Anti-Corn Law League,’ said Lonsdale. ‘One of the most influential figures of his age.’

  ‘He sounds tedious in the extreme,’ declared Hulda. ‘I’m not surprised Morley has given up.’

  ‘Well the issue of the moment is not his book, but this,’ said Stead, handing Lonsdale a piece of stationery, which, in Morley’s firm hand, read:

  My dear Stead,

  Your editorial of last night turned my hair grey. In fact, the entire first six pages were crammed with stories that strike me as downright unseemly, and smack of – dare I say – sensationalism. I find that I must return to once again put a chilly frost on your exuberance.

  Hulda glowered anew. ‘But sensational stories sell newspapers. Unlike biographies of economists.’

  ‘I know,’ said Stead soberly. ‘But Mr Morley is the editor, and if he doesn’t like our work, we must change what we do. And I’m afraid that he doesn’t want you to look into the Donovan case. Unfortunately, no power on Earth will interest him in such matters – he says they “only excite the British tomfool”. He told me to take you to him the moment you arrived.’