The Architect of Murder Read online

  “The stick. It was exactly the same length as the murder weapon.”

  “I thought you said the stick belonged to a man of average height, not a runt like him?”

  “The size of a walking stick is a function of arm and leg length. They’re proportional on most people, but I thought you might have noticed his short arms when he was poking your chest.”

  “I did.”

  “On top of which he seems just the sort that would go about with a big, heavy stick emblazoned with his own initial. I know he’s shorter than the witness said, and a weakling, but I don’t think either of those points rules him out. Armstrong is the first person we’ve encountered who matches the only physical evidence retrieved at the offence scene.”

  “Sometimes I wonder about you, Marshall.”

  “What?”

  “Haven’t you considered that cursed penang lawyer might have been put there for us to find?”

  “Planted? It’s possible, but I doubt it.”

  “Then why didn’t our murderer just wipe the gore off on his hanky or coat-tails if he was bothered about walking the streets with a bloody stick?”

  Fifteen minutes later the cab dropped me outside the Yard, somewhat less chipper.

  12. Death by Misadventure

  Melville had already left for Buckingham Palace, to make the final arrangements for tomorrow, but Constable Dawson was expecting me. It appeared the detective was the only one of Melville’s men at the Yard. He handed me a single cardboard folder with Melville’s compliments, informed me that the superintendent had asked to see me first thing on Monday morning, and showed me to Truegood’s office. I sat at the inspector’s desk, took out my pencil and notebook, and opened it to a fresh page. With a trembling hand, I unfastened the ribbon on the folder, and removed the papers that constituted the official response to Ellen’s death.

  There were half a dozen statements taken by the detective who’d investigated, and a similar number of depositions from the inquest. The detective, Sergeant Davies, was from the Marylebone Lane Station in D Division. No post-mortem examination had been conducted, but the divisional police surgeon had been asked for a second opinion as to the cause of death by the coroner, Mr Ernest Gregory, who was not himself medically qualified. This display of professionalism on his part was no doubt due to my father’s influence and Ellen’s celebrity. The inquest had been held on Monday the twenty-sixth of May in the London County Council offices at the Paddington Street Burial Ground, which was also the site of the local mortuary. Other than Carey’s, I didn’t recognise any names.

  I arranged the papers in chronological order, which meant starting with the stable hand at the zoo, who confirmed it was Dr Marshall’s custom to exercise the horses on most evenings. At seven-thirty on Thursday the twenty-second of May, Dr Marshall left the Zoological Gardens on horseback in the company of Lieutenant Carey. According to Josiah Brown, the groom of the chambers at The Holme, Lieutenant Carey arrived at nine o’clock in a state of agitation. He explained that Dr Marshall had fallen from her horse and broken her neck. He instructed Brown to call the police, and immediately returned to the scene of the accident. The police were contacted by telephone, and two footmen were sent out with lanterns to assist the lieutenant.

  At twenty minutes to ten, Davies arrived with two constables and the police ambulance. He found Dr Marshall’s corpse undisturbed, with Carey and the footmen in attendance. One of the constables had returned to the stables with Carey, where he took a statement from the stable hand. There being no witnesses to the incident, Davies and the other constable made inquiries at The Holme, where Brown’s affidavit was recorded. The corpse was removed to the mortuary. Davies took a statement from Carey the following day and spoke to Dr Hall, Ellen’s own doctor, after the latter had examined her corpse. Dr Hall’s opinion was that the injuries were consistent with the circumstances described by Carey, and the cause of death accidental. He supported Davies’ recommendation that no inquest be held.

  At the request of the deceased’s father, however, the next available date was set for an inquest and a police surgeon, Dr Maycock, was dispatched to examine the body. His examination had been external only, and he’d confirmed the cause of death, but suggested a full post-mortem examination. The coroner had decided it wasn’t necessary, and the body was removed from the mortuary by the undertakers. Carey and Brown had both given evidence at the inquest. Carey’s evidence was identical to the statement he’d given Davies, which was in turn identical to the account I’d heard at the Travellers Club.

  I have no formal medical training, but during the time Drayton and I cohabited, he taught me something of medical jurisprudence and the emergency treatment of life-threatening injuries. Ellen’s fifth, sixth, and seventh cervical vertebrae were broken, which meant that death could either have resulted from asphyxiation, or from shock if her spinal cord had been severed by the broken vertebrae. There were contusions on her neck, but no other bones were broken or fractured. There were also contusions on both of Ellen’s arms, consistent with an attempt by her to protect herself as she fell from the horse. Damage to the hands and arms are particularly useful to the detective, because the natural human instinct is to throw up one’s hands for protection.

  The only other wounds recorded were three symmetrical lacerations on her left arm, extending from the brachialis, across the cubital fossa, to the medial group of antibrachial muscles. As I understood it, the lacerations were deep at the upper arm and forearm, but superficial in the crook of the elbow, with no arterial damage. The wound was recent, but not fresh, and had been treated and bandaged. This must have been the scratch from the lion cub Carey had mentioned. If it had damaged Ellen’s forearm muscles, then it may well have affected her ability to control a horse.

  I thought it curious that she hadn’t had any other bones broken, and wondered why Hall hadn’t mentioned this. I turned to Dr Maycock’s report; he confirmed Hall’s details concerning muscular and skeletal damage, but noted that while Ellen’s arms were bruised, there were no abrasions. The absence of abrasions was curious given the circumstances of her death: the forward momentum of the horse would’ve caused Ellen to be propelled in the same direction when she fell off, and when she made contact with the ground she would’ve rolled or slid forwards. Even though there were no tears to her jacket and gloves, there would still have been abrasions to the skin underneath her clothing were the injury consistent with a fall from a galloping horse.

  Gregory hadn’t thought it necessary to call either doctor to the inquest, he merely reported that their examinations concurred — which they had, as both stated the cause of death to be a broken neck, consistent with a fall from horseback. The coroner’s courts were notorious for their inefficiency and the majority of men appointed as coroners had no medical training at all, which left them entirely at the mercy of the doctor in attendance. When I was growing up, most inquests were conducted in public houses, and the jurors — unpaid, uncomfortable, and mostly unwilling — were usually in a rush to get back to their homes or places of work. There’d been reforms in the intervening years, but the system was still flawed.

  Gregory had been unusually thorough in requesting Maycock’s opinion in the first instance, so it was to be expected that he’d only used the part of Maycock’s evidence that suited his purpose. The majority of Maycock’s report was in complete accordance with Hall, so why would Gregory make more work for himself? He’d already gone above and beyond the call of duty. Furthermore, while my father had brought his influence to bear in holding the inquest, he would want the matter closed as quickly as possible and without any hint of scandal. Gregory had recorded the verdict as death by misadventure, and his handling of the inquest was beyond reproach — officially, at least.

  I wanted to speak to Dr Maycock and question him further, however. His evidence showed it was possible that Miss Paterson was right, and that Ellen hadn’t died by accident. Carey had been riding alone with Ellen, in a private part of Regent
’s Park, close to dusk. It was difficult to imagine a more perfect scenario for a murder. He was a man of action, a soldier, a hunter, an adventurer — even an assassin according to some. He had the physical and mental resources to commit the crime. Carey could’ve either engineered the accident, or broken Ellen’s neck himself. But opportunity and ability alone don’t establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. He was a rational man, I’d established as much during our prolonged conversation, and he would need a reason to risk his liberty. Why would he want Ellen dead?

  It was the first thing I’d said to Miss Paterson on Wednesday, and I still had no answer. If Miss Paterson was correct and there’d been no relationship between Ellen and Carey, then the only possibility remaining was that he’d been employed by someone else. I couldn’t really see Carey as a gun for hire, but perhaps I was wrong. In that case, the more pertinent question was: why would anyone want to kill Ellen? I could only answer that by finding out more about my dear, departed sister. The sister I knew was the one I’d seen in ’ninety-eight. Since then she’d graduated from university and become London’s most famous vet. She was a woman making her way in a man’s world — a New Woman, at that — and she was bound to have made enemies. I needed to know more about Dr Marshall, which was exactly what I was going to do when I met Miss Paterson in Sussex Place.

  I had another look at each one of the pages to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, as I wasn’t sure I’d be granted access again. When I was satisfied with my notes, I put the documents back in order, returned them to the folder, and re-tied the ribbon. It was already after two o’clock, and my appointment with Miss Paterson was for three. Melville’s domain was something of a maze inside, but I eventually found the constables’ office, which was much like the one I’d just left, except smaller and more cramped. Dawson was in his shirtsleeves, prodding a typewriter. His tongue protruded from his lips as he made occasional stabs at the machine with his right index finger. He was the very picture of concentration and hadn’t heard me come in.

  “Excuse me, Dawson,” I said, concealing my amusement.

  He was startled, then squinted at me before recognition seemed to dawn. “Major Marshall, sir? The superintendent asked me to check up on you, but I’m afraid I’ve been trying to master this infernal machine. How may I help?” He stood and took his coat from the back of his chair.

  I handed him the folder. “Could you see this is returned to Mr Melville? Thank you. Now, I need to speak to one of your surgeons, a Dr Maycock, as soon as possible. It’s a matter of urgency, and I don’t want to leave it until tomorrow. Where can I find him?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, are you staying awhile?”

  “I have to be in Regent’s Park for three o’clock.”

  “It may take me a bit, sir, but I’ll do my best. Is there a telephone number where I can reach you?”

  “I’ll try and telephone you, but you can leave a message for me at the Windsor Hotel. Just one more thing, is there a stall nearby that sells hot food? I’ve not got time to sit down.”

  “I’m afraid you’re too late for the pie man, sir, but there’s a dealer who sells hot eels and pickled whelks next to the bridge.”

  “Thank you.”

  I strode out onto the Embankment, pleased with the results of my morning’s work, but distressed at reading about the death of one I loved. My thoughts returned to the war — as they so often did — and I started humming as I made for the bridge, the words running through my head:

  I have come to say good-bye, Dolly Gray

  It’s no use to ask me why, Dolly Gray,

  There’s a murmur in the air, you can hear it everywhere,

  It’s the time to do and dare, Dolly Gray.

  Goodbye, Dolly Gray had become the anthem of the Boer War, a merry tune that belied the death and destruction…

  “Major Marshall, Major Marshall!”

  I turned to see Dawson running towards me. “Yes, what is it?”

  “It’s Inspector Truegood, sir. He just telephoned for you. He asked if you could meet him at Piccadilly and Down Street. He said to make it quick cos he might not be able to wait.”

  “Where’s Down Street?”

  “Right at the bottom, by Hyde Park Corner.”

  The eels would have to wait.

  13. Agent Provocateur

  The cab dropped me off outside the Junior Athenaeum Club, a modern French mansion opposite Green Park. Truegood was leaning against the wall, reading Tit-Bits. As I approached he looked up. “Took your time.”

  “I take it from the urgency of your summons that you have someone under observation?”

  “Now I see why Mr M employed you — and I thought he was just desperate. Come on.”

  We crossed Piccadilly to a line of trees marking the edge of the park. I noticed the Wellington Statue, opposite Apsley House, two hundred yards or so away at the entrance to Hyde Park. It was warmer today, though still overcast, and a number of people were enjoying a late picnic luncheon. The preparations for the coronation had given the metropolis a festive air, and we would probably have had more company were it not for the increased attraction of the larger park, which had been turned into a temporary military encampment. Troops from all over the Empire were bivouacked there, including the artillery batteries which would initiate the royal salutes tomorrow. Truegood continued towards Hyde Park Corner for a few more paces, then stopped next to two lime trees, in a slight depression. I looked through the trees back across the road, trying to work out why Truegood had sent for me.

  “The Cavalry Club! Colonel Rhodes is inside?”

  “Colonel Rhodes is having lunch with his guest, Dr Drayton.”

  “What did Moser have to say?” I asked.

  “Not much — at first. Tried to hocus me with a lot of chaff until I turned the screw on him. Then he told me that Armstrong hired him to find Lowenstein on the twenty-eighth of July.”

  “He didn’t waste any time.”

  “Obviously. Moser employed an agent provocateur to find him, fella called Anthony Patrick O’Donnell, who goes by several other names as well. Said that O’Donnell didn’t find him, but found out about the murder first thing yesterday.”

  “Could O’Donnell have been the man asking questions on Tuesday?”

  Truegood looked at me and sneered. “Don’t you follow anything? That’s Rose, and I’ve got Lamb and Aitken tracking him down.”

  “I know that, but we could do with having a quiet word with O’Donnell too.”

  “Just keep an eye on the club. They went in at one, should be out soon.” Truegood removed Tit-Bits from his coat, indicating that the conversation was over.

  I turned my attention from the Cavalry Club to Piccadilly, which was part of the route along which the royal procession would pass tomorrow. There were Venetian masts with pennants aflutter, stands erected at every conceivable vantage point and electric lights hung for the evening illuminations. Omnibuses, hansoms and four-wheelers bounced along, as well as less frequent carts, wagons and bicycles. I took out my watch, quite literally passing the time. Half-past two. I was going to be late for my appointment with Miss Paterson.

  “Here we go,” said Truegood, stuffing his magazine into his pocket.

  Colonel Rhodes and Drayton appeared on the pavement outside the club. They shook hands.

  “Which one do you want me to follow?” I asked.

  Truegood gave me another scowl. “Don’t be bloody stupid, have you ever tailed someone in London before?”

  “No,” I confessed.

  “Then you wouldn’t be much good, would you? Just watch.”

  Colonel Rhodes hailed a cab. I was expecting Drayton to walk up to Devonshire House, but he made for Hyde Park Corner instead. Truegood waited a few seconds before following. The trees were a clever ruse, for there was no way he could see us even if he turned around. Once past Hyde Park Corner, however, we would have to leave cover.

  “He’s more likely to notice us if we’re together,” I
said.

  “Who?”

  “Drayton, of course!”

  “Christ, all that fresh air in the colonies must’ve gone to your head,” he said as we walked up a gentle slope.

  “If we’re not following Drayton then what the hell are we doing?” I’d really had enough of the big bruiser by now.

  “We’re following him,” Truegood pointed to a man walking about thirty yards ahead of us, “and lower your damned voice! When I approach him he’ll probably bolt, so I want you to cut across to Constitution Hill, and grab him when he comes your way. Got it?”

  “Who is he?”

  Truegood shook his head at my stupidity. “Who’d you fucking think? O’Donnell of course. Now move it!”

  I held back the reply on my lips, and marched off briskly towards Buckingham Palace Gardens. I made a note of O’Donnell’s dress as I departed: bowler, light brown jacket, dark brown trousers. He’d probably make a run for the front of the Palace, from which he’d have half a dozen options — including St James’ Park — for escape. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he couldn’t see me and then set off at a trot. As soon as I neared Constitution Hill, I changed direction to follow a path parallel to the road. I maintained my pace for a couple of hundred yards more, until I could see the Palace. Then I stopped, calmed my breathing, and stepped out onto the leafy avenue. There were dozens of people walking in both directions, so I was inconspicuous as I slowly ambled back towards Piccadilly.

  I didn’t have long to wait.

  “Police, stop!” I heard a bellow from up ahead.

  O’Donnell came flying towards me, his feet beating a tattoo on the pavement as he sprinted for Buckingham Palace. Truegood emerged from the trees fifty yards or so behind. I pretended not to notice O’Donnell as he bore down to my right. Without interrupting my stroll, I reversed my jackalberry stick, gripping the narrow end and letting the gnarled knot of a handle hang low. O’Donnell’s path would bring him less than two feet from my right shoulder. Just before he drew level, I swung the stick hard across my body.