Murder as a Fine Art

  Ryan stared at him for several seconds.

  “I’ll do it,” the detective said.

  De Quincey showed no reaction when Ryan produced his knife from a scabbard under his right trouser leg.

  Ryan gently picked at the hair and blood, taking care not to scratch the metal.

  He frowned at what he uncovered. “A pattern like this?”

  De Quincey’s blue eyes narrowed intensely.

  “Yes. An imperfection that resembles a lightning bolt. Exactly the same. In all probability, this is the mallet that was used in the original killings.”

  The kitchen became silent.

  De Quincey pointed toward a white cloth on a chair. “What’s this?”

  “A smock that the killer used to keep blood from spattering his clothes,” Ryan answered. “I made inquiries. It’s ordinary. No store clerk would remember who purchased it.”

  De Quincey held it at arm’s length, studying the blood pattern on it. “Ordinary? No. You might not be able to find a clerk who remembers selling it, but the smock itself has a special purpose. It’s an artist’s smock.”

  Now the kitchen seemed colder.

  “Murder as a fine art,” Becker murmured.

  “These killings were committed less for the pleasure of slaughtering the victims and more for the dramatic way they would be discovered. Forty-three years ago, the Ratcliffe Highway deaths spread a wave of terror throughout the country. But they were amateurish compared to these. Five corpses instead of four. Two children instead of one. An artistic arrangement of bodies. The same murder weapon. What an improvement!”

  “Improvement?” Ryan asked in dismay.

  “Tomorrow when the newspapers report what happened and the telegraph instantly spreads the news, the killer will receive the artistic satisfaction he craves. Pity and terror. Terror throughout England, even more than forty-three years ago. And as for pity, we’ll receive none from the killer when the next set of murders happens. We need to pity each other and hope that God pities us all.”

  “The next set of murders?”

  In the front room, Emily screamed.

  AS THE SCREAM PERSISTED, Becker charged from the kitchen. Desperate to reach Emily, he raced down the hallway and into the shop, where he froze at what he encountered.

  The rapid footsteps of Ryan and De Quincey joined him, those men also halting in astonishment at what they faced.

  The door was open. Fog drifted in, hovering around a man whose features had the color and grain of mahogany. He was extremely tall—taller even than Becker. He wore an oddly shaped head cover, gray, that Becker took a moment to remember from a drawing he’d seen in a newspaper. A turban, he thought it was called. Despite the cold night, the newcomer’s only garments were a long, billowy shirt hanging over equally billowy trousers. Of Oriental design, they too were gray. Other than in the Illustrated London News, Becker had never seen anything like them. Apart from diplomats and military personnel stationed in India or other parts of the subcontinent, almost no one in England had ever encountered them.

  Emily stood to the side of the shop, lowering her hands from her face. “I’m sorry. The door suddenly opened. When he appeared, I didn’t know what was happening. I’ve never seen…”

  “A Malay,” De Quincey said.

  “You know this man?” Ryan asked in amazement.

  Outside, constables hurried through the fog to form a wall behind the exotic figure.

  “It can’t be.” De Quincey kept staring. “After so many years.”

  “Then you do recognize him?”

  “No.”

  Baffled, Ryan turned to the newcomer. “What do you want? How did you get past the constables outside?”

  “We heard a shout down the street, like someone being attacked, Inspector,” a policeman said.

  “But while they ran to investigate, I stayed,” another policeman said. “I wasn’t twenty feet away. He couldn’t have passed me.”

  “Of course he could,” De Quincey said. “He’s a Malay.”

  “What do you want?” Ryan repeated to the newcomer.

  The only response was a puzzled narrowing of the intruder’s dark eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” Ryan insisted.

  The man shook his head in confusion.

  “I don’t think he understands English,” Becker said.

  “The Malay I met many years ago didn’t understand English, either,” De Quincey said.

  “Many years ago?” Ryan asked.

  “A man who looked like this man once came to my home in the Lake District,” De Quincey explained. “His sudden appearance was astonishing. It was as if he’d arrived from the moon. I tried Latin and Greek, with no effect. When communication failed, he lay down on my kitchen floor and slept. After an hour, he rose abruptly and walked down the road, vanishing into the countryside. The experience was so unreal I had many dreams about him. But that was so long ago, he can’t possibly be the same man.”

  “… omas,” the man said.

  “What’s he trying to say?” Becker wondered.

  “… omas… incey.” The Malay seemed to have memorized words without understanding them.

  “Thomas?” the Opium-Eater asked. “De Quincey? Is that what you mean to say?” He pointed toward himself. “Thomas De Quincey?”

  The Malay nodded. “… incey.” He reached under his shirt.

  Becker quickly stepped forward and grabbed the Malay’s hand, making certain that he wasn’t withdrawing a weapon. Instead what the Malay produced was an envelope.

  De Quincey grabbed it and tore it open. As he read the message, his face became pale.

  “What is it, Father?” Emily asked.

  His hand trembling, De Quincey gave her the piece of paper.

  Emily read the message aloud, her voice becoming as unsteady as her father’s hand.

  To learn what happened to Ann, to find her, come to Vauxhall Gardens at eleven tomorrow morning.

  “Ann?” Ryan asked. “You mentioned that name when we met you returning to your house. Who’s she?”

  “My lost youth.”

  “What?”

  “There is no such thing as forgetting.” Although De Quincey stared at the note in Emily’s hand, his blue eyes seemed to focus on something far away. “When I was seventeen and starving on the streets of London, I fell in love with a streetwalker.”

  Ryan and Becker looked amazed by De Quincey’s frankness. They weren’t shocked only by his reference to a prostitute—and in front of his daughter. Almost equally surprising was that he expressed an emotion as personal as love. Candor of this sort, especially in public, was unimaginable.

  “I promised to meet Ann at a certain hour on a certain street, but unavoidable circumstances prevented me from being there.”

  Haunted, De Quincey pulled out his laudanum flask, taking a long swallow from it.

  “When I finally managed to arrive on a later day, Ann wasn’t waiting, and I never saw her again, no matter how many years I spent searching for her. I never would have come to London now if I hadn’t been promised that I’d be told what happened to her.”

  “Who promised you this?” Ryan demanded.

  “I have no idea, but he also arranged for the rent of the townhouse where Emily and I are staying. I was lured here to be connected with the killings. Am I the murderer’s audience? For certain, he’s been following me.”

  “Following you?”

  “How else could he have known I was here tonight so that he could send the Malay to deliver the message? And then there’s the matter that he chose a victim who came from Manchester and whose last name was Hayworth.”

  “You thought that was important earlier, but you didn’t tell us why,” Becker said.

  “I was raised near Manchester. My family home was called Greenhay.”

  “Greenhay. Hayworth. It’s a coincidence,” Ryan told him.

  “No.”

  “You’re seriously suggesting that the killer chose the s
hop owner as his victim because you both came from Manchester and his name is similar to that of your family home?”

  “It’s not a coincidence that these killings occurred a month after my latest publication. Detail by detail, they match what I wrote in the postscript to ‘Murder as a Fine Art.’ To make the association with me more perfect, the killer selected a victim with echoes to me. He connects me with his crimes. God help me, how else does he plan to involve me in his butchery?”

  7

  A Garden of Pleasures

  IN 1854, THE BRITISH EMPIRE was the largest the world had ever known, far greater than Alexander’s conquests or that of the Romans. Its territories encircled the globe, including Canada, the Bahamas, Bermuda, Gibraltar, Malta, Cyprus, a third of Africa, and a significant portion of the Mideast as well as India, Burma, Malaya, Singapore, Hong Kong, Borneo, New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Fiji, Samoa, Australia, New Zealand, and portions of Antarctica.

  The man at the center of it, arguably the most powerful man on earth, was Henry John Temple, known officially as Lord Palmerston. For almost half a century, beginning in 1807, Palmerston had developed an expanding, profound influence in the British government, first as a member of Parliament, then as secretary at war (nineteen years), secretary of state for foreign affairs (fifteen years), and currently the home secretary, a position that put him in charge of almost everything that happened on domestic soil, particularly with regard to national security and the police. Most observers were confident that Palmerston would soon become prime minister, but prime ministers came and went, whereas a man who had a lifetime of influence in the War Office, the Foreign Office, and the Home Office in effect controlled the government. Prime ministers and even Queen Victoria herself frequently summoned Palmerston, demanding to know why he enacted policies that neither Parliament nor the prime minister had authorized.

  At nine o’clock Monday morning, Ryan sat in front of this great man in his Westminster office. Palmerston was seventy years old, with long, thick, brown-dyed sideburns that extended all the way to his strong chin and framed his dominating gaze. His age had affected neither his energy nor his ambition. His office was decorated with a large map of England and another of the world, with every British territory colored in red and stuck with a pin of the British flag.

  Palmerston’s wealth was manifest in his garments, their cut and their stitching of such obvious quality that Ryan felt poorly dressed, even though he had put on his only fine clothes: the expected gray trousers, matching waistcoat, and black coat that came down to his knees. In keeping with fashion, straps attached to the bottom of Ryan’s trousers were looped under his boots, applying tension to prevent the trouser legs from wrinkling. The tightness of the legs, especially when sitting, made Ryan wish for his loose, comfortable street clothes.

  Seated next to Ryan was Police Commissioner Mayne. In a corner, taking notes, sat Palmerston’s male secretary. Next to the office’s closed entrance stood Palmerston’s protective escort, retired colonel Robert Brookline. Years earlier, Palmerston had been shot by a would-be assassin. He had resolved that it wouldn’t happen again. Brookline, a twenty-year military veteran with battle experience in India and China, was more than qualified to protect him.

  “I was in the cabinet when the first Ratcliffe Highway murders occurred,” Palmerston told them. “I remember the fright that spread through the nation and how the Home Office bungled controlling it. On my watch, I won’t allow that fright to happen again.” He pointed toward a stack of newspapers on his desk, the five dozen that were published in London. “The hysteria of these reports is bound to lead to more incidents like the riots after the murders on Saturday night. Inspector Ryan, I understand that you were involved in both those riots.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship. At one point, the crowd decided I was a suspect and turned on me.”

  “Indeed.” Palmerston glanced at Ryan’s red hair.

  “Then it turned against someone else. We stopped him from being seriously injured and possibly killed.”

  “I haven’t heard you mention him, so I gather that the mob was mistaken.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship. He isn’t the killer.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Definitely.”

  “How refreshing to hear someone say he is definite about something. What about the Malay?”

  “He appears not to be able to speak English, Your Lordship, and despite the best efforts of the Foreign Office, we haven’t found anyone who speaks Malay.”

  The reference to the Foreign Office, which Palmerston had once controlled and which, it was rumored, he continued to control, made His Lordship’s eyes even more alert.

  “We have the Malay in custody,” Ryan added, “but his foot size doesn’t match the prints at the murder scene. I’m inclined to think that he wasn’t involved, except as a paid messenger.”

  Palmerston shook his head impatiently and turned his withering attention toward Commissioner Mayne. “What’s being done to assure the population that the streets are safe?”

  “Your Lordship, all detectives and constables are working extra hours. All rest days have been canceled. Patrols have been doubled. A witness says she was suspicious about a tall man with a yellow beard. The man wore a merchant sailor’s cap and coat.”

  “What sort of witness?”

  “A prostitute.”

  “A prostitute,” Palmerston said, unimpressed.

  “We searched our card catalogue at Scotland Yard to determine if any criminals have that color of beard.”

  “And?”

  “The only criminal who matches that description died three years ago,” the commissioner replied.

  “A sailor with experience in the Orient might know how to speak the Malay’s language,” Palmerston granted. “He would also know which ships arriving in London might have a Malay working on them. But if the killer is indeed a sailor, he might be at sea again by now.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship,” Mayne responded. “Our constables are making inquiries at the docks. If anyone remembers a sailor who matches that description, we’ll send a message via the next ship to warn the authorities at the suspect’s destination.”

  “Which could take weeks or even months, by which time the suspect could be on another ship,” Palmerston responded with greater impatience.

  “Yes, Your Lordship. Without a transocean telegraph, our options are limited.”

  “At the moment, I wish the telegraph hadn’t been invented. Colonel Brookline, what’s your opinion of it?”

  The strong-featured man who stood at military ease replied, “It’s been of immense help in the Crimea, Your Lordship. Commanders are able to communicate orders with remarkable speed.”

  “It didn’t stop those idiots Raglan and Cardigan from perpetrating that disaster with the Light Brigade. If I still controlled the War Office, I’d have relieved them of their command. Raglan sends an imprecise order. Cardigan gallops off with his cavalry, not certain where his objective is but determined to be a hero. After nearly destroying the Light Brigade, he has a champagne dinner aboard his yacht in a nearby harbor. Thanks to the telegraph, everyone instantly knows what happened thousands of miles away, and the government might fall because of the bungling of the war. Forty-three years ago, it took three days for mail coaches to spread throughout the country. But yesterday the telegraph sent reports of Saturday’s murders to every town in the land even before the newspapers could be put on trains. People are huddled in the streets. Many have pistols. My informants tell me the sole topic of conversation is how everyone plans to leave their places of employment early so they can hurry home before the fog returns. It’s not only in London that this is happening. The whole country’s terrified, and I’m the one responsible for reassuring everybody.”

  “Your Lordship,” Ryan said. “There’s another possibility that we’re investigating.”

  “You have my attention, Inspector.”

  “The footprints we found did not have hobnail
s in the soles, suggesting that the killer is not a laborer. The razor I found is almost certainly the second murder weapon. Its handle is well-crafted ivory. Its steel is high quality. Very expensive. That too suggests the killer is not a laborer.”

  “Stop using negatives, Inspector.”

  Ryan felt heat rise to his cheeks. “Your Lordship, we need to consider the possibility that the killer might be someone of means and education.”

  “Consider…? Good heavens, man, that’s inconceivable. The razor must have been stolen. Someone with means and education couldn’t possibly be responsible for these hideous crimes. Their extreme violence makes that obvious. Only a common person could have committed them. Or else a drug abuser.”

  “A drug abuser, Your Lordship?”

  “The Opium-Eater is everywhere in these newspapers. A month ago, he wrote in lengthy, bloody detail about the original killings. It’s as if the murderer used the Opium-Eater’s essay as an instruction manual. Or could the Opium-Eater himself be responsible for the murders?”

  “Your Lordship, he’s barely five feet tall. He’s sixty-nine years old. It would have been physically impossible for him to have killed all those people.”

  “Whether he’s innocent isn’t the point. Someone whose faculties have been corrupted by a lifelong opium habit is an obvious suspect. Arrest him. Make certain that the newspapers know about it.”

  “But…”

  “If we put him in prison, the public will breathe easier, convinced that we’re doing something. I do not wish to be argued with, Inspector. Arrest him.”

  “Your Lordship, I merely want to point out that, if the pattern holds true, there’ll be another multiple killing. If De Quincey’s in prison when the murders occur, it’ll be obvious we arrested the wrong man.”

  “In twelve days, Inspector. That’s when the next murders occurred forty-three years ago. Twelve days ought to be enough time for you to find the madman responsible. It had better be, or else you won’t be a detective any longer, and that’ll be the least of your worries. Meanwhile, De Quincey’s arrest will prove we’re doing something. Putting him in prison will make the population feel safe.”