The Architect of Murder Read online

  “The sportsman turned politician?”

  “Yes, famous as a footballer and cricketer, and now Chamberlain’s protégé. Two years ago Chamberlain sent him out to the Cape as his head of the committee for the reconstruction of South Africa after the war. Of course, like the rest of those who wanted the war, Chamberlain had no idea it would take so long to win. In the interim Lyttelton has impressed not only his patron, but also Milner. With the pair of them at loggerheads, Lyttelton is probably one of no more than two men who can still boast the support of both. He’ll go far, mark my words.

  “The other man who enjoys such esteemed friendship is one of the middle-aged men, a Canadian gentleman by the name of Dr George Parkin. Unlike the other doctors involved, Parkin’s title is academic, and he’s a schoolmaster at Upper Canada College, Toronto. Like so many of the characters who keep cropping up, Parkin is an Oxford man. Twenty years ago he was one of the founders of the Imperial Federation League; ten years ago he became Milner’s mentor. He’s an associate of the late Mr Rhodes, Dr Jameson, and Mr Chamberlain, and a very influential figure in Canadian and British politics. As to the identity of the seventh man at that meeting, I can only guess... I’m sure you can too.”

  I ignored this last statement. “How on earth do you know all of this?”

  “It is my job to know things that others do not, but seeing as we might have a future together, I’ll break my first rule and tell you a secret you do not need to know.” He paused and I leant closer. “The telephone.”

  “The telephone?”

  “Yes, a wonderful invention, don’t you agree?”

  “I do. I don’t know how I’d have managed without it today — the whole week, actually. The potential for subterfuge hasn’t been lost on me, but I still can’t see how you’ve come by all this intelligence.”

  Melville lowered his voice. “It is possible to eavesdrop on conversations from the exchange.”

  “Good God! It…it’s so obvious, of course.”

  “Yes, like all the best ideas, it is dead simple. And like so many of the best ideas, it has been overlooked by almost everyone. Make sure that stays between the two of us, by the way; it’s one of my most successful methods of information gathering, and there very few who know about it.”

  “This telephone has great potential for crime fighting, doesn’t it?

  “In a word, yes. Amongst other things it enabled me to confirm that Miss Shaw is currently acting as Lyttelton’s agent. Combined with your intelligence about the inauguration of the League at the Liberal Club — here comes our dessert.”

  The waiter placed our final course on the table, and we interrupted our conversation again as we set about the fare. Afterwards, Melville ordered coffee and cigars. As I’d no pipe tobacco left, I joined him. We both opted for Havanas, an H. Upmann for Melville, and a Sancho Panza for me. Our small clouds of aromatic smoke wafted upwards, thickening the haze over the dining room.

  “I find a concentrated atmosphere facilitates mental concentration. I read that somewhere recently, but I can’t think where,” said Melville

  “I never thought of it like that myself.”

  “Now, to the business at hand. How did you establish that Drayton was in Vine Lane?”

  “I’m not sure how to describe it without sounding absurd,” I replied.

  “Try.”

  “From Carey’s papers it was obvious he’d researched Drayton comprehensively. Similarly, Drayton had followed Carey; he needed to if he was to implicate him in a murder, and then kill him. Carey kept two other sets of rooms, one in Hoxton and one in Southwark. When Lamb told me where Vine Lane was… I just knew it. Intuition, maybe? Or perhaps because I know Drayton so well? I could be wrong; he might not be one of the occupants your men have seen.”

  “He’s there all right, and it’s probably a little of both where you’re concerned. There’s nothing wrong with intuition bred of experience, but combined with a personal knowledge of the suspect, I’d say it’s conclusive. You have score to settle with Drayton, don’t you?”

  Once again, Melville was probing at knowledge I wasn’t prepared to share. “Yes.” I drew on my cigar and changed the subject. “That reminds me: did I mention that Armstrong offered me a place in Milner’s kindergarten?”

  “No. Do tell!”

  “Apparently I’m just the sort of man Lord Milner wants — hardly a character reference, I’m afraid. Anyway, Armstrong presented a very convincing argument for Milner’s control of the Empire via his kindergarten. Also, he has apparently outmanoeuvred Jameson as far as the will is concerned.”

  “So even if Drayton were to board his ship tomorrow, all is lost?”

  “If Armstrong was right. But it doesn’t do to underestimate men like Jameson and Drayton. Jameson may have another card up his sleeve and Drayton is at his most lethal when he’s desperate. I’ve seen it first hand in Bechuanaland. Drayton may be on the run and wounded, but that will only make him more deadly.”

  Melville withdrew his watch. “Speaking of which, it’s eleven minutes past midnight. We’ve just time to finish these excellent cigars, then we must be off to Carey’s crib. In about twenty minutes Hughes and his men will take up their positions. We’ll wait at the back of the house with Lamb and Macaulay. When the uniforms go in… ”

  “Drayton and Murgatroyd will come out the back, straight into our arms.”

  Melville chuckled. “That’s the idea. You’re armed, of course?”

  “I have my Mauser.”

  “Good. I have a black scarf for you — to cover your face and shirt — and a hansom waiting outside. Hughes will launch the raid at one o’clock precisely.”

  Five minutes later we left Simpson’s and boarded the hansom. The lower part of the driver’s face was wrapped up, but he grinned and tipped his hat.

  “Are you ready?” Melville asked as he pulled the leather curtain closed.

  “I am,” I replied, similarly obscuring the view from the window at my side.

  “Vine Lane it is, then.” Melville lifted the trap door above us. “Let’s go, Lamb!”

  28. A Riverside Duel

  Our passage along the Strand was slow and tedious. Lamb was an accomplished cabby, but there were throngs of people admiring the brilliant illuminations, and they took possession of both the pavement and the road. After what seemed an interminable interval, we eventually passed the turrets and arches of the Royal Courts of Justice, crossed Temple Bar, and entered the City. Whereas the Strand literally blazed with lights of all colours, the buildings in Fleet Street were adorned with lanterns that glowed a soft yellow. As the lights became dimmer and fewer, Lamb picked up the pace. I could tell Melville was impatient, for although he said nothing, he fidgeted in his seat. When we approached London Bridge, Lamb slowed once again. The bridge shone with muted gaslight and a host of revellers were enjoying the views of the City, Blackfriars Bridge, and Westminster.

  Melville muttered under his breath, removing his watch anxiously. We crossed to the South Bank and entered Borough High Street. Melville muttered again as he replaced his watch, and seemed to notice me at his side for the first time since we’d started. The strain in his face eased and he smiled. “There’s a lesson for us both: always leave plenty of time when you’re trying to get anywhere in London. You’d think I’d have learned that by now, after policing the place for thirty years. Thirty years exactly, in two months’ time. Never mind, the next turn brings us to Morgan Lane, which is two streets behind our destination. We still have ten minutes.”

  “Thirty years, that’s a long time. No thoughts on retirement?”

  “Retirement! What in God’s name would I do with myself?

  “I don’t know. I just thought you might fancy a rest from all this. I reckon you’ve earned it several times over.”

  “Very good of you to say, but I don’t want a rest. What would I do? Lurk about the house and annoy Mrs Melville, or become a private detective like Littlechild and Moser? Not on your life, old
fellow, it’s not for me. And there’s plenty of fight left in this old dog.” He patted my arm.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I answered.

  Lamb turned off Tooley Street and we found ourselves on the riverside, at the western end of Pickle Herring Street. The wharf was dimly lit and deserted. A few hundred yards ahead the lights on Tower Bridge cast a pallid gleam, but the area in between was murky. There were only two lampposts to dispel the darkness, and their beams were obscured by wispy tendrils of mist rising from the river. Across the water, the Tower of London sat stately and solid. I was conscious of the racket we made as we rattled along in the hansom, and grateful when Lamb halted.

  We all alighted and two figures emerged from the gloom, silent and sinister.

  “Come along,” said Melville. “That’s Stoney Lane, the rear entrance.”

  The men were police constables, both very tall, and both wearing cutlasses. They saluted Melville, and he ducked down the narrow lane. I was about to follow when I glanced at Tower Bridge once more, and saw a man making haste towards it. He was on the opposite side of the road from the gas lamp, but I caught a brief glimpse of him before he disappeared into the night. He wore a bowler hat and his build was slim. He carried a valise in one hand and a cane in the other.

  And he was limping.

  “Melville — that’s Drayton! He’s heading for the bridge!” I gave chase.

  “Lamb, stay with Hughes! Cobb, come with me!”

  I drew my Mauser as I sprinted along the wharf. I reached the light of the lamp — Drayton was gone — there was an alley off to the right. I dashed into it. I was just in time to see a shadow flit from light to dark about fifty yards ahead.

  I charged headlong — arrived at a ginnel — realised too late that I was bathed in lamplight…

  I dived across the mouth of the alley as a shot rang out into the night.

  I tumbled, rolled, and staggered to my feet. I switched the Mauser to my left hand, thrust it around the corner, and fired three times without aiming. Suppressing fire, we called it in the war.

  As I fired the third shot, I ducked down low, switched the pistol back to my right hand, and darted into the ginnel. I bounced off a wall — the coal alley was only a few inches wider than my shoulders — and looked for a target as I crouched on my haunches. There were high walls on either side, their tops covered with creeper plants and illuminated by lights from the warehouses beyond.

  No Drayton.

  I kept low, turned slightly to my left, and ran as fast as I could in such an awkward position.

  Another lesson from the war came to me as I ran: I remembered to take stock of my ammunition. I had seven rounds left.

  There was more light ahead — the alley turned left — I was expecting Drayton to appear and fire at any and every moment.

  He didn’t.

  I slowed, knelt, had a quick look around the corner. Nothing, but the alley turned sharply again — to the right. I continued for a few more paces. I repeated my performance and found myself on another lane running between Tooley Street and Pickle Herring Wharf.

  I saw Drayton’s back — raised the Mauser — fired once.

  I missed.

  The bullet pinged off the corner of a brick building as Drayton ducked into yet another alleyway.

  I had six rounds left.

  The blood pounded through my veins and the familiar rage of battle consumed me. Drayton must be stopped. It was just me and him, man to man.

  I forgot all caution and stormed into the alleyway.

  It was wide, turned to the left, and opened out onto the riverside. Tower Bridge soared above and to the right; ahead, in the distance, the Tower itself. Twenty yards in front of me there was a gap in the wall, with steps leading down to the river.

  I made for it.

  A bowler hat popped up from the steps, a pale face beneath it. The face was obscured by a hand holding something metallic. Face and pistol disappeared in a flash of flame.

  I kept charging forward.

  I heard the buzz of the bullet pass my left cheek. I don’t know how Drayton missed me at such close range.

  I reached the stairs. I heard footsteps behind me — turned and raised the Mauser — one of the constables, cutlass drawn. “Come on!” I shouted.

  Below, Drayton lurched towards a skiff that was landing on the dirty stretch of shingle. There were two men in it, but I ignored them and took aim at my quarry.

  I fired — he slipped on the smooth stones, dropping to one knee — missed again.

  Five rounds left.

  I started down the stairs, felt myself sliding on the slime, and made a jump for the beach. I landed heavily, rolled to my right, and leapt up. Drayton threw his valise into the boat as a giant anthropomorphic silhouette appeared above him. The titan pointed at me…

  A streak of metal flew through the air.

  I dodged — heard a cry and thud from behind.

  I looked back: the harpoon had impaled the constable clean through and stuck fast in the stone behind him. He twitched and gurgled on the steps, dropping his cutlass with a clatter. His legs crumpled, but he remained upright, pinned to the wharf like a dead butterfly.

  The gentle splash of the river was drowned by a roar and the titan jumped ashore and charged towards me. He was the biggest the man I’d ever seen. He was bare-chested, and his massive muscles swelled as he ran. His face and torso were covered in what looked like woad, or blue tattoos, and he wielded a whalebone club. I absorbed all of this in less than a second, and realised he must be a Maori. I’d never met one before, but their reputation as a warrior nation was legendary throughout the Empire, greater even than that of the Zulus.

  He bore down on me, Drayton following behind.

  I raised the Mauser, aiming for the centre of the Maori’s chest. Even if my shot went wide, it was bound to hit him somewhere.

  I fired.

  The Maori kept coming.

  He was ten yards away; it was impossible I’d missed.

  I fired again.

  The Maori was five yards away.

  I fired twice in rapid succession — his chest twitched, but he stepped forward and pulled his flat, edged weapon back to strike.

  I lifted the Mauser higher.

  The whalebone club descended towards my head, enough strength behind it to hack my skull in half.

  I squeezed the trigger — shot the Maori directly between the eyes.

  He jerked back, staggered, and dropped to his knees.

  I turned the Mauser on Drayton — cursed — cast it aside.

  Drayton smiled, his thin lips cruel under his perfect moustaches. He gripped his ebony stick by the silver skull handle and slid out the sword. The steel sang, thirsty for blood.

  I looked down for the Maori’s club, but it was attached to his wrist by a leather thong. I saw a shimmer of reflected light — the constable’s cutlass — and picked it up instead. It was a clumsy weapon, a couple of inches shorter than Drayton’s sword-stick, but sharp and heavy.

  I stepped back as I raised my guard.

  The Maori, still kneeling, bawled his death rattle. Drayton kicked him in the back and stepped over him as he pitched forward. He raised his sword in salute, keeping the hollow cane in his left hand as a second weapon.

  Drayton was wounded, but he’d studied under an Italian master at Livorno, and taught me almost everything I knew about fencing. Added to which, I’d not wielded a blade since before the war. This was not likely to end well, but my blood was up. I found the knuckleduster in my pocket, and slipped my fist through it. If nothing else, it would protect the fingers of my left hand.

  “This is about seven years overdue, my friend,” he said. “I should not have allowed your perfidy to go unpunished.”

  We both felt betrayed: me, because he’d joined Jameson, the man who’d appropriated my Border Police squadron for his private army; him, because I’d refused to accept Jameson’s leadership and left for Natal. We despised each other all the more be
cause we’d once enjoyed such a close friendship. Brotherly love had turned to hate, and the duel was to the death. He was right, it was long overdue.

  “We should have fought in ’ninety-five. If I’d killed you then, Ellen might still be alive.”

  “You’ve worked that out, have you? I’m pleased.”

  “Come on, Doctor! Come on. Leave him!” I heard from the skiff.

  Drayton sprang forward and cut a figure of eight in the air.

  I retreated, and he pressed the attack home, his blade a blur. I stepped back again, raising the cutlass in attempt to guard my face and chest.

  He feinted with a moulinet from the left, whipped his blade under mine, and thrust for my heart.

  I turned my blade down, parried, and raised my left arm as the cane sailed towards me.

  “Come on, Doc! Last chance, I’m leavin’… damn you to hell!”

  Drayton stabbed at my head — I pushed the blade to the right — the cane caught me on the scalp. Blood cascaded down my face. I’d no time for fear as the sword was pulled back and thrust at my chest. I deflected it to the left — not enough — felt the tip of the blade pierce my skin.

  Drayton hesitated for a second, confused at my invulnerability.

  I slashed at his face.

  He parried — riposted — I lifted my blade — felt his part my hair. For an instant I was inside his guard. I ducked under the cane and punched him in the face with my left fist. The blow hit him above the right eye, the brass knuckles doing their work.

  He dropped the cane, spun around, and slashed wildly with a backhanded cut.

  I pulled away and then thrust as his blade flew past my head.

  Drayton leapt to the right, flicked his sword up, and very nearly sliced my throat open.

  I jumped back, slipped on a stone — lost my balance.

  He cried, “Avança!” and stamped his foot in anticipation of running me through. The move is called ‘appel’ in fencing, is often accompanied by a shout, and is used to distract an opponent. It can be very effective, but is not recommended when one’s thigh has recently been opened by a Bowie knife. If Drayton’s head hadn’t been ringing from the contact with my brass knuckles, he would’ve realised that.