The Architect of Murder Read online

  It would probably have been as quick to walk the short distance rather than drive it, which fact led me to suppose that Melville was concerned to make a favourable impression. This, in turn, made me conclude that he wanted something from me, though I couldn’t imagine what. Eventually, we passed my old school, in Dean’s Yard, and then the gothic grandeur of Westminster Abbey. Our progress was further impeded by the workmen erecting covered stands next to St Margaret’s Church in preparation for the coronation, three days hence. We passed the Palace of Westminster — the secular match to the sacred Abbey, juxtaposing it across Old Palace Yard — and turned right, as if to cross Westminster Bridge. Before we reached the bridge, however, the driver stopped opposite the clock tower and Big Ben struck nine as we alighted. New Scotland Yard, distinctive with its stylish brick corner towers, stood in front of us.

  I followed Lamb into the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force.

  William Melville had been one of the most famous policemen in the British Empire when I was growing up. He was one of the original Special Irish Branch, established to counter the Fenian bombing campaign, and had played a part in foiling the Jubilee, Balfour, and Walsall Plots. He’d also been personal bodyguard to the Prince of Wales, the Shah of Persia, and the German Kaiser. It was claimed that while anarchists and nihilists traditionally regarded London as a safe haven because of the British government’s reluctance to repatriate them, ‘Melville’s Gang’ was so effective that the violent extremists had all left for greener pastures.

  Lamb led me through a labyrinth of corridors and staircases until we reached a door with Melville’s nameplate. He knocked twice and we entered a compact office with a pleasant view overlooking the Embankment. There was a display consisting of two revolvers and two truncheons above a walnut mantelpiece; the only other decoration was a large framed photograph of King Edward the Seventh. Two upholstered easy chairs were arranged in front of the large pine desk, and a third — occupied by Melville himself — behind it. The desk was cluttered with umpteen piles of paper, four speaking tubes, and a telephone.

  “Major Marshall, as requested, guvnor.”

  “Thank you, Lamb, that’ll be all for now.”

  “Guvnor, Major,” Lamb took his leave.

  Melville rose and approached me. He was in his early fifties, above average height and portly. His ash blonde hair was receding, and he had a fleshy face with a thick, grey moustache that made me think of a walrus. His movements were crisp and his eyes sharp as he extended a large flipper. “I’m William Melville,” he said in a faint Irish brogue.

  “Alec Marshall.” We shook. His grip was strong.

  “Do make yourself comfortable. May I offer you some refreshment, a cigar? No? Please accept my apologies for your perfunctory summons, and my thanks for your swift response. I wasn’t sure if you would honour me with your presence at all.”

  We both sat. I noticed he moved quietly for a big man. “How could I refuse a request from the King’s Detective?” I smiled.

  “Quite easily I’m sure, Major.”

  “In truth, sir, I’ve been an admirer of yours since I was a boy. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re probably one of the reasons I decided to become a policeman. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

  “You flatter me, but if that really is what brought you here, I’m delighted, because perhaps you’ll lend an old man a sympathetic ear. I’d hoped to appeal to you as one policeman to another. I know you arrived from Cape Town yesterday. Might I ask what your immediate plans are?”

  “My sister died in a riding accident at the end of May. I came back to put her affairs in order and — well, that’s why I’m here.”

  “My condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you return to Africa once you’ve completed your fraternal duties?”

  “No.”

  “May I assume you’ll be seeking employment of sorts?”

  “I have a testimonial from General Broadwood, under whom I served in the closing phase of the war. He suggested that if I present it to the commanding officer of his old regiment, the Twelfth Royal Lancers, my application for a commission might be favourably received.”

  “Is this what you intend to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I know you resigned your commission, Major, so it doesn’t take a detective to deduce that you’re tired of soldiering.”

  I’m not accustomed to sharing my innermost thoughts with strangers, but Melville was a man I’d admired from afar for some time, and he spoke as if the regard were mutual. “I am. I’m tired of killing men with whom I have no personal quarrel.”

  “I believe I construe your meaning, but — if you’ll forgive me for saying so — you seem to be rather good at it.” He shuffled several of the sheets of paper on his desk. “Major Alec Marshall VC, Natal Mounted Rifles. Elandslaagte; wounded at Ladysmith; volunteered for the Natal Composite Regiment; wounded again at Groenkop; Kalkkrans; South Africa Medal with two clasps; honourably discharged thirtieth of June 1902.”

  “You know a great deal about me, sir.”

  “You’re right, I do.”

  “Not many people know about the VC.”

  “No, it was misprinted in the London Gazette as ‘Lieutenant Alexander Marshal’ wasn’t it? They amended it in a subsequent supplement, but no one ever reads amendments. You spoke of coming back to London, but you are not an Englishman, are you?”

  “No, sir, I’m Scots.”

  “And I Irish, which doesn’t make either of us any less loyal to his Britannic Majesty, or either of us less at home in London. And I don’t even want to blow any of it up.” He chuckled. “How would you feel about doing some work for me while you make up your mind, Major?”

  “Doing what, sir?”

  “Do you know what my job here is?”

  “Not exactly, but I know you were in the Special Irish Branch, and that you keep watch on the anarchists and protect the Royal Family.”

  “That’s right, my men do all of that, and also protect visiting royalty and heads of state when they’re in England. My problem at the minute is that I have precious few men, and a surplus of royalty — not to mention the colonial premiers. Sir Edward, the commissioner, has already recalled more than five hundred pensioners for service. Pensioners, can you believe it!” He laughed again, his cheeks wobbling. “That’s how desperate we are for men to police the coronation. And what do you think happened a week ago? Well, I suppose if you knew, I wouldn’t be doing my job very well! The Home Secretary, the Right Honourable Mr Akers-Douglas, instructed me to keep an eye on a certain Dr Drayton.” He paused for effect.

  “Dr Morgan Drayton?”

  “The very same, private secretary to Dr Leander Starr Jameson. I don’t have to tell you of all gentlemen that Dr Jameson was the intimate friend and confidant of the late Mr Cecil John Rhodes, the most substantial man in the Empire. Mr Rhodes was very particular as to what happened to his money after his death, perhaps because he had so much of it. As a matter of fact, he was so particular that he made seven wills and several dozen amendments to them by codicils. You’ll know that Mr Rhodes died on the twenty-sixth of March, shortly after your promotion. In the two weeks before his death he made two amendments to his final will, and there have been some… irregularities… which have resulted in the delay of its execution. Do you follow me, so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good fellow. Because of these irregularities, all the witnesses to the last two amendments have been summoned to appear and confirm various details before the will can be executed. By the time these irregularities became apparent the two gentlemen in question, Dr Drayton and a young bank clerk by the name of Eric Lowenstein, were already both in London. Instead of returning to Cape Town, as you’d expect, they both remained here.

  “At the end of May, Lowenstein disappeared, and Drayton has been conspicuous in his attempts to find him ever since. A missing person naturally concer
ns the police, especially so in this case, as it’s believed some harm may have come to the fellow. Up until last week, however, it didn’t concern my section. Now, with my meagre resources stretched well past their limit, I’m told to put a man on the job. What man?” He lifted his arms in a show of exasperation.

  “But then I hear that one of our war heroes is on his way back to London. I’ve dozens of war heroes to choose from, if I wish, but this one spent eight years as a policeman, and the last three of those as a detective with Superintendent Alexander in Durban. In addition, he is already acquainted with Drayton, was once even close to him. How could I not avail myself of the opportunity, Major?”

  “What do you require of me?”

  “I would like you to renew your friendship with Drayton, and find out what in God’s name is going on.”

  “Drayton and I met in Pitsani,” I responded, “in the Bechuanaland Protectorate. He arrived as the new locum a few months after I was commissioned in the Border Police. We often worked together and quite naturally became friends. We had only one major difference of opinion between us; the British South Africa Company. Drayton approved of Rhodes and Jameson, and the extension of their rule by whatever means necessary — I did not. By the time Drayton and I shared digs, Rhodes’ dominion was already larger than any other colonial territory in the world. He boasted that if he could reach the planets, he would colonise them as well, and named a country after himself. I thought the man was a megalomaniac, Drayton thought him visionary.”

  “You do not approve of the Empire?” Melville asked.

  “I did not approve of Rhodes’ private empire. The man was a law unto himself out there. Manicaland, Gazaland, Mashonaland, Matabeleland… he and Jameson took their Company Police, conquered first, and asked permission from the Crown afterwards. Rhodes served himself, not the King.”

  “An interesting observation. Please continue.”

  “The Jameson Raid was the end of my tenure in Bechuanaland. Rhodes pressurised the high commissioner in Cape Town to cede the eastern part of Bechuanaland to his Company so that Jameson could use Pitsani to launch his unauthorised invasion of the South African Republic. My squadron of Border Police was incorporated into the Company Police. I resigned and left Bechuanaland for Natal; Drayton went to work for Jameson. That was just over seven years ago, and I’ve not seen him since. We did not part on friendly terms.”

  “Yes, ‘Jameson’s dash into the Transvaal’ was a fiasco. It rather caught the popular imagination though, however rash and unlawful it may have been.” Neither Melville’s face nor his voice betrayed any emotion, and it was impossible to discern his own opinion.

  “I don’t doubt it, and yet here we are with 20,000 soldiers from all corners of the Empire lying dead in the veldt. All, I suspect, so that men like Rhodes and his ilk can take possession of Paul Kruger’s gold mines.”

  “You may be right, but you haven’t answered my question. Are you prepared to renew your acquaintance with Dr Drayton?”

  “It appears that I’m uniquely qualified for this particular service to His Majesty,” I looked up at the photograph, “so I’ll gladly undertake the task.”

  “Good fellow!” Melville was up in a flash, pumping my arm again. “Let’s have a cigar to mark the occasion, they’re Henry Clay.”

  “I prefer my pipe, but I left it at my hotel in my haste.”

  “Never mind, they’re very smooth on the palate.” He continued as he cut the two cigars with his penknife. “I don’t expect you to find Lowenstein. Official and private detectives have already spent more than two months without success. What I would like you to ascertain is Drayton’s opinion of the reason he disappeared. When our men asked the doctor, he claimed it was a mystery. Find out if that’s true. More important, however, I’d like to know why Drayton is still in London. Both he and Lowenstein are required in Cape Town to prove the will; with Lowenstein missing, it’s all the more imperative that Drayton return. Find out why he hasn’t. While he’s here, it’s my business and my problem — and I’ve more than enough of both to contend with already.” He passed the corona and matches over to me.

  “Thank you.” I lit the cigar and drew gently on it. It was a little strong for my taste.

  “Here’s a thought! If you can’t find anything out, put him on the next Royal Mail packet and we’ll let the Cape Town police worry about it!”

  Melville had an energy and enthusiasm that made one feel as if one were the most important thing in the world to him. I was overwhelmed by his charisma. It seemed — it was — a privilege to work for him. But that wasn’t why I agreed to his proposal so quickly. Nor was it my loyalty to the Crown. The real reason was Miss Paterson. The young, brazen, ravishing Miss Paterson had sown a seed of doubt in my mind and I wanted to find out more about the circumstances of Ellen’s death.

  As a police agent, I’d be in the most practical position to do that.

  3. Henry Marshall, Esquire

  Five hours later I was sitting in Granges in Piccadilly, enjoying my first pipe of the day. The straight-stemmed meerschaum had survived the war and I was smoking an aromatic mix of blended, spicy Turkish tobacco from Astleys in Jermyn Street, milder and smoother than Melville’s cigar. The tobacconist had been recommended to me by a young lieutenant from the Queen’s Bays called Forsythe, five months ago. It was the last thing he said to me before a Boer sniper blew the back of his skull off. We didn’t know one another very well, but I haven’t forgotten him or his tobacconist. There are a lot of things about the war I haven’t forgotten. Thinking about Forsythe and the bouquet of pink roses and lilies I’d placed on Ellen’s grave recalled a host of distressing memories I’d rather have avoided, but I had little else to occupy my mind.

  The day had been eminently unsuccessful.

  My maiden use of the telephone had proved inauspicious, and I’d had to be content with speaking to Carey’s valet. I’d left a message requesting Carey contact me as a matter of urgency, and then returned to the reading room of the London Library in St James’ Square. All that my further researches into the shikari had revealed was his most recent addition to the Zoological Society’s Gardens: a pair of young giraffes.

  Melville’s dossier on Drayton yielded the intelligence that my former colleague was residing at Devonshire House as the guest of His Grace, the Duke of Devonshire. Spencer Cavendish was the recently-appointed Leader of the House of Lords, and the not-so-recently appointed Lord President of the Council and President of the British Empire League — amongst numerous lesser titles. An extremely influential individual. I’d wanted to surprise Drayton so I’d risked calling without an appointment. He was out and I’d not even managed to gain entry into the grounds, let alone the house. I left my card, and thus immediately lost the initiative. In a vain attempt to regain it, I’d tried the Savoy and the National Liberal Club, his regular haunts according to Melville.

  The sum total of my investigations lay on the table in the form of two newspapers, each containing a single item of interest. I’d decided on The News of the World, recalling it as a prohibited publication at Westminster. I believe my English master had referred to it as ‘the worst example of the gutter press’. He may have had a point, but Sunday’s issue revealed that Lieutenant Francis Carey was engaged in a torrid affair with the only daughter of Baron de Staal, the Russian ambassador in London. Apparently the baron wasn’t known for his tolerance, and it was speculated that despite the likelihood of Carey having worked in their employ in Afghanistan, the Okhrana — the Tsar’s dreaded secret police — might terminate his courtship permanently. It was also alleged that Carey was a former lover of Lady Curzon, wife of the Viceroy of India. Probably nine-tenths humbug, but there was certain to be a kernel of truth.

  The Times made somewhat more factual reading. A paragraph dated yesterday, Tuesday August the fifth, read:

  Mr Rhodes’ will has been proved at the Master’s Office in Cape Town. Letters of administration have been granted to Mr L.I. Mitchel, ri
ght being reserved to the absent executors to prove later on. The delay has been due to legal complications consequent on the fact that all the executors are not domiciled here.

  Melville had been explicit that the will couldn’t be proved until both Drayton and Lowenstein had returned to Cape Town. I wondered if there was some sort of cover-up in progress, but eight years of police work had taught me the value of Occam’s razor: the simplest solution to a problem is usually the correct one. Given that the late Mr Rhodes was one of the wealthiest men in the world, it was hardly surprising that there were complications and that the execution of his will was taking some time.

  I finished my pipe, dropped some coins on the newspapers and strolled down Piccadilly. As I approached the corner of Green Park, I turned up Berkeley Street, alongside the curtain wall of Devonshire House. There were fewer pedestrians here and the road was much quieter. The estate continued for several hundred yards until Bolton Row, where I passed the gardens of Lansdowne House before entering a residential square. The middle of the square comprised an elliptical green, which sported a Pre-Raphaelite sculpture, and was lined with dozens of plane trees stretching high into the heavens. The road ran around the green, a prosaic barrier between the unpretentious grace of nature and the ostentatious stone of the great dwellings. I found 40 Berkeley Square, a Georgian townhouse with a massive frontage.

  I took a deep breath and pressed the electric bell.

  A few seconds later it was opened by an immaculate butler, complete with spotless white gloves. “Good afternoon, sir, how may I be of assistance?”

  Determined to succeed where I’d failed at Devonshire House, I snapped an air of command into my voice. “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Mr Marshall.”