‘And when Wilf put his hand on this bar to open the gate, the electricity leapt through his fingers, burning the skin.’
‘The killer perhaps underestimated the amount of electrical force needed to end a life. The battery was too weak.’
‘But it still knocked the boy out.’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Feasby thought Wilf was dead, so whoever electrified the gate might have made the same assumption. The killer quickly checked the body then made off.’ Thomas stared at the gleaming patches of metal that had conducted the electrical current. ‘Although, we should say would-be killer rather than killer. After all, they did not succeed. Thank heaven.’
‘I’ll use the word killer, Thomas. I strongly suspect that the individual who shot Benedict Feasby and who killed Mrs Giddings and her sister was responsible for this, too.’
‘So … the killer has tried to murder a boy with an electric shock.’
‘And so continues a pattern of attacking victims in such an unusual way that it’s guaranteed to attract the attention of the newspapers.’
‘A killer who’s a showman? An extrovert? Is that likely?’
‘It is, if he or she wants either notoriety for themselves, or to make this island famous.’
‘Why?’
Abberline shook his head. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Ludwig should be informed that an attempt was made to kill one of his staff last night.’
‘I agree, Thomas. The local police are still on the island. I’ll let them know what happened to Wilf. Would you call on Ludwig?’
‘By all means.’
‘Ask him to have his footmen tell everyone that they should not go out alone, either during the day or at night. People should travel in pairs at the very least.’
‘You believe the killer is still on the island?’
‘They might even be stood behind a tree listening to us. We must consider everyone on Faxfleet to be a potential murderer. And everyone is a potential victim, too.’
‘The murderer’s going to strike again soon, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. They have a mission to kill. And to kill in a bizarre and outlandish way. They are hell-bent on making the world pay attention to this place.’
Thomas started to walk in the direction of the palace.
Abberline softly called after him. ‘Take care, Thomas. Keep your wits about you. We have become prey.’
Life went on. The River Humber lapped the little island, shrinking it day by day. The sun warmed its green forest. The man in the lane copied birdsong on his violin. Professor Giddings worked on an essay, reading it aloud in grave, booming tones that stated the importance of the continued existence of the British Empire. Jo galloped by on her horse in a hurry. Her eyes were flashing diamonds. Mr Benedict Feasby sat cross-legged on the lawn outside his cottage. He plucked feathers from a dead peacock. He repeated ‘Life goes on’ softly to himself over and over. Inspector Abberline fiddled with the garden gate. He opened it, shut it. Slapped his hand down on its top rail. Scotland Yard’s most famous detective was deep in thought. King Ludwig’s gardeners went from cottage to cottage with a wheelbarrow full of bolts, which they fitted to doors. As they worked, they sang a music hall song that seemed to involve a bizarre procession of men visiting Mrs Shaddock in Shadder Alley. The gardeners’ smiles grew wider as the rhymes got ruder. Inspector Abberline closed his eyes. He stepped smartly forward to the gate and slapped a hand down upon it.
Thomas sat on the garden bench. He was busy writing about the murders here for his newspaper. However, he suspected that the slaying of Mrs Verity in London would mean that his own story would be tucked away in the middle pages. People wanted to read about the return of Jack the Ripper. Thomas’s story would be overlooked. Thomas glanced up as Abberline tried to open the gate as quickly as he could.
Thomas aired a thought that preoccupied him. ‘The killer here on Faxfleet will be in competition with Jack the Ripper for newspaper coverage. The killer will have to devise a spectacular way to despatch his next victim or he’ll be ignored by the public.’
In a dreamy way, Abberline nodded. ‘Hmm, I expect so.’
Abberline fiddled with the gate. Jo galloped back along the lane. The violinist imitated the screech of a crow. Mr Feasby stuck peacock feathers into the eye-sockets of a large fish.
Thomas gripped his pencil and wrote in large letters across a sheet of paper:
THE POPULATION OF FAXFLEET IS INSANE AND MADNESS IS CONTAGIOUS.
Thomas sighed. ‘Inspector? Does the gate bother you in some way?’
‘Ah, Thomas. Would you help me with an experiment?’
‘Gladly.’ Thomas walked along the path to the gate.
Abberline stood back. ‘Would you open it?’
Thomas opened it.
‘Stop,’ Abberline said. ‘Freeze exactly where you are.’
Thomas stood there with his hand on the part-open gate. ‘All this about the gate has something to do with what happened to Wilf last night, hasn’t it?’
Abberline raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Of course. What do you think I’ve been doing with this gate for the last ten minutes? No! Don’t move. Keep your hand on the gate.’
‘Like this?’
‘Yes. Just stay as you were when you opened the gate. Now … when you pulled open the gate, what part of your hand touched it first?’
‘The palm. Then I hooked my fingers round this section at the top in order to pull it open.’
‘Wilf would have needed to pull open the gate last night. From his side of the path it must be pulled open, not pushed.’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Trust me, Thomas, I remember which way that particular gate opened.’
‘We already know that the boy opened the gate and suffered an electric shock.’
‘But something isn’t right. If he opened the gate like you just have, the burns caused by the electricity would have been on the palm of his hand. Wilf’s burns were on his fingertips.’
‘The position of the burns must have occurred by sheer chance.’
‘No, Thomas.’ Abberline gave a knowing smile. ‘That won’t do. Wilf approached the gate in the dark. He couldn’t see it clearly. Even so, he must have walked along that path hundreds of times before. No. Wilf was running in utter panic. He wildly snatched at the gate to open it. He was in such a hurry he misjudged the distance. His fingertips came down like this on the iron gate.’ Abberline slapped his hand down in such a way that only the ends of his fingers made contact with the gate. ‘That’s why his fingertips are blistered.’
‘Then he was running from someone.’
‘It seems so.’
Thomas thought back to what Wilf had told them that morning. ‘The boy said that after he passed out he dreamt that the ghost of a monk had chased him.’
‘I doubt if it was a dream, after all. The boy was running for his life. Although he wasn’t being pursued by a ghost. No … it was flesh and blood. He was being chased by the killer.’
The post arrived, delivered by Wilf of all people. He declared he was well and asked if he could clean Thomas’s boots. Thomas agreed.
Mrs Abberline had sent a letter to her husband. He took it inside to read. Thomas received a package from Mrs Cherryhome, his landlady. It contained a slab of fruit cake and kippers. No doubt Mrs Cherryhome thought that Yorkshire food wouldn’t be enough to sustain her tenant. Although it was likely the fish that would become the smoked kippers had been caught by Yorkshire fishermen anyway, and might have arrived through the port of Hull just downstream from here. Thomas cut slices of cake for Wilf and Abberline and himself. Wilf happily munched the cake as he vigorously buffed the boot leather.
Shortly after Wilf left, and Thomas had laced up his now gleaming boots, King Ludwig arrived with his two sons – the eldest son was strong and suntanned, the youngest had a much slighter build and paler skin. The eldest son, Richard, shouldered an old-fashioned musket rifle. The youngest, Tristan, carried a wad of en
velopes. Ludwig explained that they were delivering invitations to academy members to meet with Ludwig at a given time in order to deliver a summary of their year’s work on the island. This would help determine whether the individual would continue as an academy member, or receive the disappointing news that they must leave.
Ludwig approached Abberline, who’d come to the cottage door. ‘Inspector, I hear that the boy’s injury last night was caused by an electrical discharge.’
Abberline told him that someone had gone to considerable trouble to prepare the gate. That rust had been scraped off in order to ensure a clean contact between the metal bars and the victim’s skin – this was essential in order to deliver an electric shock to the human body.
King Ludwig frowned. ‘How could the boy suffer an injury caused by electricity? There is no electrical generator on the island.’
Abberline said, ‘The electricity must have come from what might be called a chemical cell or battery. Isn’t that so, Thomas?’
Thomas nodded. ‘It is possible to make a battery, using bars of metal immersed in a glass or ceramic jar filled with acid.’
‘And that creates electricity?’ Ludwig sounded surprised. Clearly, he didn’t have much knowledge of electrical science.
‘The jar must have been a large one,’ Abberline added. ‘At least a gallon in volume. Whoever built the battery is intelligent. Yet I don’t believe they have specialized engineering knowledge, because the battery didn’t generate a powerful enough charge to kill a human being.’
‘Thank the Lord for that,’ Ludwig declared with feeling. He turned to his sons, who stood patiently next to him. ‘Richard, you best go deal with the rats. Tristan, would you post the letters?’
Richard sauntered away with the gun over his shoulder. Meanwhile, Tristan left the garden and walked up the lane, delivering envelopes to the cottages as he went. No doubt academy members would feel a pang of anxiety when they saw what those envelopes contained. They’d know the time was coming when they would be judged.
‘There’s an old mill on the beach,’ Ludwig explained, nodding in the direction of his eldest son as he disappeared into the forest. ‘That’s where Richard is heading. The place is infested with rats. I’m not concerned about the mill itself as it’s no longer in use, but rats are using it as their barracks, shall we say? They come out at night and raid your neighbours’ pantries.’
‘That old blunderbuss is quite formidable,’ Abberline told him.
‘It is indeed. Richard doesn’t even need to load the gun with shot. He merely packs the barrel with powder and discharges it point-blank into the rat holes. Blows the filthy little beasts to kingdom come.’
Abberline watched the gardeners move to the next cottage with the wheelbarrow. ‘They’ll soon have the door bolts fitted. Your tenants will feel a lot safer.’
‘I do hope so, Inspector. By the by, have you talked to the police here on the island?’
‘I have, sir. All but three constables will be returning to Hull on the evening ferry.’
‘That’s a pity. We need men here to deter the swine that’s been killing my people.’
‘Two more detectives will be arriving from Scotland Yard tomorrow.’
‘Of course, I will use my own staff to patrol the island. They’ll be armed with shotguns. We might bag the killer ourselves.’
‘Meanwhile, Thomas and I will continue our investigation.’
The king sighed. ‘I hope one of us catches the devil. I find it hard to stomach that someone would try and electrocute a child. After all, why target a boy who cleans boots?’
‘I suspect the killer isn’t targeting anyone in particular.’
‘Oh?’
‘The victim’s identity isn’t important. The killer’s intention is to take lives in a distinctive and unusual way.’
‘The man must be insane.’
‘That’s possible. Which means it will be more difficult to discover their motive. After all, a lunatic might be driven to take a life because the sky is too blue, water too wet, or his mule told him to.’
‘Indeed. Who can say what’s in a madman’s mind?’ Ludwig looked as if he had the troubles of the world on his shoulders. ‘I’ll say good day, gentlemen.’
Ludwig walked back along the lane, his head down, hands clasped behind his back.
Thomas said, ‘I didn’t realize we’d be joined by your colleagues?’
‘The island is too big for the pair of us to cover, Thomas. I’ve called on some good men, with solid years of experience. They will stay in the next cottage to ours.’
Abberline collected a paper and pen from the house and sat on the garden bench to pen a reply to his wife. The musician leaned against a tree trunk on the other side of the lane to play the violin. Mr Feasby had finished implanting peacock feathers into the eye-sockets of the fish. Thomas supposed that the feathery fish would join the man’s bizarre menagerie. Mr Feasby carried the wolf outdoors – the singular creature with the eagle wings and human-like eyes. He set it down on the ground and appeared to begin kissing its back. A moment later, Thomas realized that the man must have been blowing dust from its fur.
A tall man in a straw hat walked past the musician. The tall man carried the boxy shape of a camera under one arm. He called out to the musician, ‘Kolbaire! I say, Kolbaire, haven’t you done choking that cat yet? It’s making a devil of a screech.’
Kolbaire turned furiously on the man. ‘Have you done taking photographs of angels?’
Both paused for a moment to glare at each other with nothing less than murderous fury. After that, both men went their separate ways.
Thomas shook his head before saying to Abberline, ‘We’ve been asking ourselves who would kill the academy members? The real question should be which one in the academy would not want to kill their fellow members? It strikes me most hate each other with a passion. Come to that, nearly all of them are in … in the foothills of insanity – if not actually on the mountain of madness.’
‘Foothills of insanity? Mountain of madness? That’s a quirky choice of words, Thomas.’
‘There must be lunacy in the air.’ Thomas shook his head. ‘I think I’m catching it, too.’
‘You must be missing life in the city.’
No, Thomas thought, I’m missing Emma. Her absence in Ceylon was becoming even harder to bear. They should arrange a date for the wedding. Engrave that date in stone, if need be. And yet, lately, he found himself thinking about Jo. The remarkable woman fascinated him. When he was in her company he seemed to wear a permanent smile on his face. A happy smile. Thomas tried not to put a certain powerful feeling into words. He tried, but failed. I’m approaching a crossroads in my life, he told himself. I’m going to make a decision soon that will change everything.
The notion that destiny might be involved in his growing friendship with Jo seemed to be reinforced when he decided to take a walk along the shore. Jo sat on a fallen tree trunk near the water’s edge. Perhaps fifty yards from her stood the derelict water mill. This must be the building that the king’s son, Richard, had gone to, for Thomas heard the loud bang of a gun.
Jo sat there in her leather kilt, pantaloons, and a black jacket profusely embroidered with scarlet thread. She read pages bound in a file with stiff covers.
He lifted his hat. ‘Good afternoon. I won’t disturb your work.’
‘Oh, this? I’m just checking my report. I have to submit it to Ludwig at dinner this evening. We all do.’
‘It must feel like being back at school again.’
She laughed. ‘It does, Thomas, and I have done my homework.’ She cheerfully brandished the file above her head. ‘Twenty pages of my best handwriting, ten pages of diagrams, five pages of supplemental notes and appendices.’
‘Then I won’t distract you.’
‘Dear Thomas, I do so like being distracted by you. Here.’ She patted the log beside her. ‘Won’t you keep me company for a while?’
‘Your work? It must be imp
ortant.’
‘It is, it is! You are important, too.’ She smiled. ‘Besides, I have re-written this document again and again! It shines with perfection. I can do nothing more to improve it.’
Thomas sat beside her. ‘Do you think Ludwig will grant you another year on the island?’
‘I hope so. Twelve more months here and I’ll have gathered enough material to make a presentation to the government.’
‘Oh? The phrenology?’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Thomas.’ She spoke warmly despite pretending to be stern with him. ‘I know that many dismiss phrenology as a crackpot science. I beg to differ.’ She gazed out across the river as a paddle-steamer puffed its way eastward. ‘We live in a new world where people like your friend Inspector Abberline must protect society from an entire plague of criminality, otherwise civilization will collapse into chaos. People will be slaughtered in their beds.’
‘Police work is demanding, but improvements are being made in detection methods.’
‘Yes, but imagine if I could do this.’ She reached up and ran her fingers across his forehead. ‘Imagine if we could discover whether a person has criminal tendencies just by examining the shape of their skull.’
‘You can do that?’
‘Don’t sound so doubtful, Doubting Thomas.’ She laughed. ‘I have studied the craniums of hundreds of individuals. I can tell who is predisposed to art, or philosophy, or who will be humane by the bumps, dips and ridges in that bone that encloses the human brain. I can even identify if an individual is likely to become a thief or a murderer.’
‘But how do you know that someone will steal or kill before they actually do it?’
‘That is the essence of phrenology. It is the science of prediction. Policemen, like Abberline, can use those techniques to discover who is likely to become a criminal.’
Thomas had always enjoyed the woman’s company. But now he found her words disturbing. And not just the words. Her ironclad certainty bothered him, too. ‘Jo, it seems to me that you’re saying that men and women, whom you identify as potential criminals, should be imprisoned before they do anything wrong.’
‘That need not happen. Such individuals would be told that they have criminal instincts. Even though their actual nature cannot be changed they could be educated to resist the urge to do wrong. Also, criminal behaviour is very often passed down the bloodline to children.’