‘I will make my confession, gentlemen. I study phrenology, together with its relationship to the ancient ape-like creatures that were our ancestors.’
Thomas stared at her in surprise. Her bizarre statement left him flabbergasted.
She continued. ‘In short, gentlemen, I’m attempting to categorize and predict human behaviour by studying the shape of people’s skulls. Phrenology has its doubters but I firmly believe it is scientifically valid.’
‘How did this result in you hurting Wilf?’
‘Ha. He has been telling you quite a tale, hasn’t he? The little scamp.’ Jo tasted her sherry. ‘Delicious. Well, I promised Wilf a shilling if he would let me shave his head. You see, I wanted to take detailed measurements of his skull. I also asked if he would consent to having a plaster of Paris cast made of his head. The shilling appealed to him so much he agreed. I shaved away the hair, made the measurements – in the presence of a chaperone, I should add. All went well until I started applying plaster of Paris to his forehead. He believed, mistakenly, that I’d cover his face with the stuff and choke him. He panicked. Got plaster of Paris in his eyes, which meant he couldn’t see. Even so, he tried to dash from the cottage. Instead, he ran into the door, and ended up with two marvellous black eyes. He’s never forgiven me.’
‘I see.’
‘I gave him a shilling for the examination and another shilling in compensation. But he still thinks I plan to asphyxiate him with plaster of Paris. Now, will you arrest me, Inspector Abberline?’
‘That won’t be necessary, miss.’
‘Ah, then let’s celebrate my escape from justice with another sherry.’
The moon shone on the trees that grew thickly on the island. Thomas Lloyd lay on the bed, gazing through the window. The moon tended to be reddish and bloated in London, due to the distorting effect of smoke pouring from a million chimneys. Here, in the clear air, the moon burned with a hard, bright light, as sharply delineated as a new silver coin.
Thomas replayed the events of this evening in his mind. He’d gone along with Inspector Abberline to watch the archery contest. Jo had revealed how she’d hurt – accidentally hurt, that is – Wilf, the boy whose job it was to clean boots at the palace. Jo had revealed something surprising. She studied the science of phrenology. Or, more accurately, that should be the discredited science of phrenology. Abberline, now fast asleep in the next room, had declared quite forcefully on the walk back to the cottage: ‘Why on earth is an intelligent woman like that wasting her time on crank ideas? Phrenology is nonsense. No scientist or doctor worth their salt believes in that foolishness anymore.’
Thomas tried to muster up what he knew about phrenology. A German doctor in the 1700s had developed a theory that the human brain developed bumps and protrusions according to the personality and intelligence of the owner of that brain. In effect, the brain moulded the shape of the skull, just as a foot moulds the shape of a leather shoe. According to phrenologists, a cruel person would develop a bony ridge beneath the skin above their ear. An especially charitable person would produce a bulge at the top of their brain which, in turn, would form a corresponding bulge in the top of the skull. In effect, phrenology supposes that the brain possesses a geography like a country, and just as towns, hills and rivers can be drawn on a map, so the human traits of kindness, jealousy, religious zeal, friendship and so on can be mapped out on the human head. Phrenologists could, or so they believed, determine an individual’s intelligence, personal characteristics and intellectual abilities (or lack thereof!) by measuring the head, and by running their fingers over the bulges, ridges and curves of the skull.
Thomas gazed at the shadows of tree branches thrown onto the wall by the moonlight. He agreed with Abberline. Jo demonstrated a keen intelligence. She brimmed with confidence and sheer gusto. A human whirlwind. Nevertheless, even though she had succeeded in becoming a member of the academy, she had, for some peculiar reason, decided to study a subject as bizarre and absolutely worthless as phrenology.
He found himself picturing Jo running her fingers over the heads of her fellow islanders. Carefully mapping out skulls, assessing people for their artistic and intellectual abilities as well as their emotional geography. Thomas wondered how it would feel if she mapped his own skull. What would her fingertips feel like as they explored the surface of his head? What could she divine about his personality? Would she revise her estimation of him as a man? Did he have qualities that she’d admire?
He closed his eyes and her smiling face filled his mind’s eye, growing bigger and brighter, until he drifted away to sleep, and he dreamt of them both standing on a beach where they waited for a ship that would take them away forever.
The local phrase for it was ‘first on’. Wilf always liked to be ‘first on’ the beach as the tide went out. The thirteen-year-old crept through the cottage, which he shared with other boys who worked in the palace or the stables. Quietly, not wanting to wake the others, he pulled on his boots and a big cap that almost covered his eyes, and lifted the latch on the door. Outside it was dark beneath the trees. The moonlight couldn’t penetrate the masses of branches.
When it was low tide Wilf baited hooks and attached them to boulders with lengths of string. The tide would return, submerging the hooks in five feet of water. All being well, a few fish would hook themselves there and Wilf could collect them. He had to do this quickly when the tide retreated, leaving the fish high and dry, otherwise gulls would eat his catch.
Wilf moved through the darkness beneath the trees. Every so often a shaft of moonlight would pierce the branches to light a little patch of dirt ahead of him. He saw mice scamper. Once an owl flashed by his head, startling him.
Wilf headed through the darkness in the direction of the beach. Soon he realized that something, or someone, followed him. A foot scrunched on dry earth. Wilf knew only too well that people had been murdered on the island. He walked faster. Behind him, there was a rustle of bushes. Whoever followed him now walked faster. Wilf began to run. Footsteps thudded behind him, becoming quicker and quicker. Wilf raced along the path; however, he couldn’t see in the dark. A twig caught his cap and flicked it off his head. He didn’t pause. He ran faster. The next second, the toe of his boot caught a fallen branch and he fell forward, sprawling.
He glanced back. And there, passing through a beam of moonlight, was a hooded figure with eyes that burned at him. The face was covered with a white cloth. When he saw the figure raise its arms he realized that it had no hands. Instead, metal hooks protruded from the sleeves – the hooks were sharp. Murderously sharp.
Wilf scrambled to his feet and pelted along the path towards an iron gate. Beyond the gate lay the beach. He seized the gate in order to swing it open. The instant he touched the iron bars there was a blue flash. Sparks. A loud crackling sound. Pain flashed along his arm. Wilf screamed. The next thing he knew he was falling backwards … after that, he knew nothing. Nothing at all.
A youth of around sixteen years of age usually brought containers of hot porridge to the cottages. This morning he didn’t arrive at all. Thomas Lloyd stepped out into the garden. Birds sang in the trees. Clouds floated across a deep blue sky. He reached the end of the garden path, and all the while his empty stomach told him it was breakfast time. What had happened to the boy who delivered the porridge and fresh milk?
Just then, William Feasby hurried along the lane. His eyes were bright with tears. The little man, who was over eighty years of age, moved with astonishing speed.
‘Mr Feasby,’ Thomas called out, ‘‘is anything wrong?’
‘Oh, Mr Lloyd. Dreadful news! The boy who does the boots. Young Wilf Emsall. I found him lying out in the wood last night. Quite still. Eyes closed. Oh my …’ He hurried along the path to his own cottage. ‘It’s murder. I’m sure it is.’
‘Wilf has been killed?’
‘I found him. I’d been out counting foxes and badgers – plotting their nightly toing and froing. I tripped over Wilf’s body.’
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‘Mr Feasby, Inspector Abberline will need to hear about this.’
‘Oh, another murder, Mr Lloyd. It has brought back what happened to my own dear brother. I am most upset.’
‘I’ll fetch the inspector.’
‘No, sir. I cannot be interviewed. I’m much too distressed.’
Tears were pouring down William’s face. He threw open the door to his cottage before vanishing inside. Thomas rushed back indoors to find Abberline lacing up his shoes – the very shoes that Wilf had polished yesterday.
Thomas heard the tremor in his own voice as he said, ‘Inspector, Wilf has been murdered.’
Thomas Lloyd and Inspector Abberline hurried in the direction of the palace. Barely five minutes had passed since Thomas had heard the news of another death from William Feasby. Abberline decided that rather than trouble the distressed man now he should visit the king and discover what had happened from him instead.
Thomas saw Ludwig standing at the door of a cottage in the palace yard. The man rubbed his forehead as he stared at the ground, clearly deeply worried.
Abberline approached him. ‘Sir. I’ve just heard that there has been another murder.’
‘Wilf,’ Thomas added, his heart pounding as the horror took hold.
Ludwig took a moment to emerge from what seemed nothing less than a prison of his own anxiety. ‘Oh? Mr Feasby told you?’
‘Yes, he said he found the body last night.’
‘Wilf is in the cottage.’
Abberline said, ‘I must examine the body immediately.’
Then Ludwig did the strangest thing. He smiled. ‘Examine the body? You may do more than that, Inspector. By all means, go talk to him. He’s eating his breakfast.’
‘Mr Feasby said that Wilf was dead.’
‘So we all believed. We brought the boy back here and laid him out on a bench in the barn. After that, Mr Feasby rushed off in a state of distress. He’d no sooner gone than Wilf gave a loud shout and sat up.’
‘Thanks goodness!’ Thomas sighed with relief. ‘The thought of a child being murdered … ‘
Abberline frowned. ‘Do you know what happened to the boy?’
‘Fainted. That’s my guess.’ Ludwig shrugged as if the subject had already become irrelevant. ‘Boys sometimes faint,’ he added vaguely. ‘They outgrow their strength. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have letters to write. I’m striving to persuade Britain’s universities to recognize my academy. Unfortunately, they regard us as mere hobby artists and dabblers in science.’ He shook his head. ‘Please do call on Wilf. I’m sure he’ll be excited to receive visitors.’ King Ludwig swept back across the yard.
Thomas glared at the man as he vanished into the palace. ‘He was worried about his academy, not about the boy’s health.’
‘I don’t see there’s any harm in wishing the lad a speedy recovery.’ Abberline walked towards the cottage.
‘You think that Wilf might have been poisoned, like Mrs Giddings?’
‘It would be a breach of my professional duty if I didn’t check on him.’
Abberline knocked.
A voice rang out from inside: ‘Why don’t you come in? Stop knuckling the bloody wood!’
Abberline entered the cottage. Thomas followed. Wilf sat at the kitchen table, spooning in great mouthfuls of porridge. Milk dripped down his chin. When he saw who it was he jumped up, startled.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Abberline. I swore because I thought you were Bertie tapping on the door to annoy me.’
‘Why would Bertie do that?’
‘He keeps pretending to be the Grim Reaper, sir.’
‘That’s a cruel joke of Bertie’s, especially after what happened to you last night.’
‘He pretends to be the Grim Reaper, coming to throw me into the fires of hell.’ Wilf shrugged. ‘Bertie’s only ten. I’m thirteen so I should be able to bear his ribbing.’
‘That’s very adult of you,’ Thomas said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘A bit shaky in my legs and arms. You might say that I’m …’ He tried hard to find the right word. ‘Tremulous.’
Abberline gestured for Wilf to sit down. ‘Don’t let your breakfast get cold.’
Wilf was soon spooning the porridge into his mouth again. Thomas realized that if his appetite was that good then it was unlikely he’d been poisoned.
Inspector Abberline smiled. ‘Can you remember what happened?’
‘Yes, sir. Well, some of it.’ He used a sleeve to wipe milk from his chin. ‘I was going to the beach to check my fishhooks. I thought I heard feet behind me, chasing me. So I ran.’
‘Did you see who chased you?’
‘A monk. The ghost of a monk! He had his hood up. I saw big, staring eyes. And I knew the ghost wanted to kill me.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Though I think the monk must’ve been in a dream I had after I fell down.’
‘Did the monk hit you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you feel poorly or sick before you fell?’
‘I was all right. Never better.’
‘Do you know why you fell?’
Wilf gazed into space, trying to remember. ‘I reached the gate at the end of the path, just before the beach. I tried to open the gate. Then I started hurting. I fell onto the ground and that’s all I can say. When I woke up I found myself in the barn.’
‘How did you feel?’
‘Shaky. And tremulous … very tremulous. My tongue was sore because I’d bitten it. Look.’ He opened his mouth. Somewhere amid smears of milk and oatmeal a cut in the tongue could be made out.
Abberline stepped closer. ‘Do you mind if I take a closer look at you?’
‘Look as much as you want, sir. You know, your shoes could do with a polish.’
‘Call round later, Wilf. You can do Mr Lloyd’s boots at the same time. Now, tilt your head forward. Thank you. Would you pull back your sleeves, so I can see your arms? Thank you.’
‘I feel all right now, sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Wilf. People were worried about you. How did you come to burn your fingers?’
Wilf stared at the small blisters at the ends of his fingers in surprise. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember getting them burnt.’
A loud knock sounded on the door. Following that, a voice boomed: ‘Wilf … Wilf Emsall. I’m here to take you to hell.’
Abberline opened the door to reveal a tiny boy in a brown jacket. ‘You’ll be Bertie. Or should that be the Grim Reaper?’
The boy’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
‘Don’t be harsh with him, Mr Abberline,’ said Wilf. ‘He’s only ten.’
‘I’m sure I played tricks like that on my friends when I was ten.’ Abberline smiled. ‘Off you go, Bertie.’ The boy fled. ‘Wilf, try and rest. We’ll let Mr Feasby know that you’re alive and well.’
‘Mr Feasby was very upset,’ Thomas told him. ‘He really did think you were, well …’ That was a sentence that didn’t need completing.
‘Thank you, sirs. It was nice that you came to see me.’
‘Oh.’ Abberline paused in the doorway. ‘Will you tell us where we can find the gate where you fell?’
They walked along the path until they reached the iron gate.
Thomas said, ‘Inspector, you don’t think that Wilf simply fainted, do you?’
‘He may have done. I’d like to take a closer look where he passed out.’
‘And he mentioned a monk that pursued him.’
‘Which he then dismissed as something from a dream.’ Abberline tapped the gate’s bars. They gave a metallic ring.
Thomas examined the ground. ‘There is nothing I can see. The ground’s dry. There aren’t even any footprints. Nothing but grass and leaves.’
Abberline walked along the fence. Occasionally, he stooped down in order to brush stalks of grass with his fingers. At a distance of perhaps ten feet from the gate he picked up a stick, prodded an area of grass then sniffed the end of the stick.
Abbe
rline beckoned Thomas. ‘What do you smell?’ He offered Thomas the stick.
Thomas flinched. His eyes prickled. ‘Some chemical … acid?’
‘I think so, too. See the mark in the grass? Probably an acid burn.’
‘You believe that Wilf was attacked in some way?’
‘Yes, and left for dead. Fortunately, the murderer made a mistake this time.’
‘Ah … Wilf had burn-marks on his fingertips. Those were caused by acid?’
‘No.’
‘Oh?’
‘Something else entirely.’
Thomas scratched his head. ‘But you think the killer of Feasby and the two sisters somehow forced Wilf to swallow acid?’
Abberline shook his head. ‘Look at what’s here, Thomas. An acid burn in the grass. Grass stalks have been broken alongside the fence. Now examine the gate.’
‘It’s an iron gate. An old one, covered by rust.’
Abberline shook his head again. ‘Look closer. Examine specific details – don’t just gaze at the gate in its entirety.’
Thomas focused his eyes on the ironwork that comprised the gate. Most of the iron was covered by orange rust. However, he noticed three places where the metal shone bright silver.
Thomas glanced up at Abberline, wondering if this is what he’d seen. ‘The metal has had the rust filed away in three places. Here on the top bar of the gate near the hinge. Then here, where people grasp the gate to open it, and again there on the edge of the gate.’
Abberline nodded. ‘So you see what happened to Wilf last night?’
This time Thomas shook his head. ‘No, not for the life of me.’
‘Someone set an electric battery down there on the grass ten feet from the gate. A few drops of acid spilt out, burning the grass. Wires were then run along the side of the fence. The killer pushed the wires down into the grass so they’d be out of sight.’
‘Breaking grass stalks in the process.’
‘For electricity to pass from the wire to a metal surface it should be clean and free of rust. That’s why the killer took a file and scraped away the rust down to bare metal. The wires were attached at both sides of the gate.’