Inspector Abberline and the Just King

  The grandfather clock struck seven. Jo! I should be there by now! Thomas rushed towards the doorway that led to the music room. At last – he’d find out what that remarkable lady had to say to him.

  It wasn’t what he expected. What’s more, there was no mention of the kiss earlier when they sat together on the beach.

  Jo stood by the fireplace. The tall, regal woman wore white muslin that shone in the lamplight. The room’s shutters had been closed and locked – all part of the makeshift fortification of the building. They were alone in the room full of musical instruments. A bust of Beethoven in white plaster stood on the grand piano.

  When Thomas breathlessly entered the room in a rush she turned to him and said, ‘I will find the murderer myself. The king has granted me permission to examine everyone in the palace. I would like you to ask Inspector Abberline to watch me at work.’

  Thomas Lloyd stared at her in surprise. No. He hadn’t expected that this would be the subject of their conversation at all.

  ‘Abberline is discussing important matters with his colleagues from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘What I will undertake tonight is important, too. Vitally important. I can find the man who killed Benedict Feasby and Mrs Giddings and her sister.’ Her voice was unusually loud and her manner had become pompous. ‘Notes will be taken. I have brought my measuring equipment.’

  ‘You mean to say,’ Thomas began in a bewildered, off-kilter kind of way, ‘that you intend to use phrenology to identify the murderer?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But, Jo, this –’

  Brusquely, she interrupted. ‘Don’t you see, Thomas? This is the perfect opportunity to test my research. For years I have studied the form and shape of human skulls. I can use what I’ve learnt to find the killer. And I’ll do so tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? But these are difficult circumstances. We are, to all intents and purposes, under siege here. For all we know the person who set those explosions this morning might throw bombs at the palace windows.’

  She walked towards him, smiling happily. ‘Don’t you see? As soon as I discover who the murderer is everyone will be safe again. You and I will have a picnic. There is a lovely little hill with perfect views across the river.’

  ‘Phrenology isn’t recognized as a legitimate science. How can the shape of a person’s head reveal that they have done something wrong?’

  ‘Soon, phrenology will be the police officer’s most important tool when it comes to identifying criminals.’

  ‘Inspector Abberline would disagree. He told me that this business of feeling the bumps and curves of someone’s head to reveal their character is ridiculous.’

  ‘Do you think my life’s work is ridiculous?’

  ‘I agree with Abberline.’

  ‘Oh, you do?’ Her eyes blazed with anger. ‘Then you agree with everything the man says. Does he pull your strings? Do you dance like a puppet whenever he wishes?’

  ‘Your theories, Jo, are worse than ridiculous. They are dangerous. Phrenology will condemn innocent men and women as criminals even though they’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You are Abberline’s puppet! I thought you were enlightened. But you are as blind to the truth as the rest.’

  She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Thomas sat down on the piano stool and shook his head in despair. He’d liked Jo so much. Now their friendship had been smashed to pieces in seconds.

  Abberline walked along an otherwise deserted corridor on the upper floor. The man was deep in thought. Clearly, he was troubled. When Thomas reached the top of the stairs and saw his friend he realized that the man despaired of finding the individual who had attacked the islanders.

  Despite his worries, Abberline smiled, pleased to see Thomas. ‘You will have an amazing story to write for your newspaper.’

  ‘If only I could bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. We have no clues. There isn’t a suspect that we can put a name to.’

  ‘You’re right. This case is a puzzle that I can’t unravel.’

  They walked together along the corridor. The sound of voices came from far away in the building. Most of its occupants would be in the refectory now, consuming the rabbit stew supper.

  Thomas said, ‘Do you see any possible motive for the attacks?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘There is intense rivalry among the members of the academy.’

  ‘But why connect a battery to a gate in order to hurt the boy who cleans people’s shoes?’

  ‘Perhaps the electric shock was intended for someone else?’

  ‘At that hour of the night?’

  ‘The killer attacked at random then. Does that suggest the person we’re searching for is a lunatic?’

  Abberline could only shrug. ‘I don’t know. In fact, this case has less clues than the hunt for Jack the Ripper. ‘

  ‘The devil has killed with an arrow, with poison, and Kolbaire’s fingers were cut off.’

  ‘And don’t forget the shots fired at Professor Giddings’ cottage.’ Abberline shook his head again. The man appeared close to absolute despair.

  They continued along the corridor in silence. Where the corridor intersected with another they found Professor Giddings at an open window. A shotgun leant against the wall beside him. The man gazed out, keeping watch, no doubt hoping to spy a shadowy figure amongst the trees. Professor Giddings turned as they approached.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

  ‘Good evening, Professor,’ said Abberline. ‘All quiet?’

  ‘As a grave.’

  Thomas said, ‘There is a distinct possibility that the person we’re looking for is already inside the building.’

  ‘Ha.’ Giddings gave a grim smile. ‘Then I should pray to be transformed into the god, Janus. I would have a face with eyes looking forward, and a face in the back of my head, looking behind me.’

  Abberline said, ‘You should get something to eat. Food is being served in the refectory.’

  ‘I am denying myself food, Inspector. This is my penance. I will keep watch all night. Every time I set eyes on Kolbaire’s bandaged hand I am mortified.’

  Abberline nodded. ‘But I must submit a report about what you did, putting the drug in Kolbaire’s drink. I will say that you acted out of character on account of your wife’s death. You may still be charged, though, and then you will face a court of law.’

  ‘So be it, gentlemen. I did wrong. I deserve to face the consequences.’ Giddings continued to gaze out as the moon rose above the trees. ‘Though I hope to continue my work, for I believe that the countries of our empire should be democratically represented in parliament.’

  Thomas said, ‘You have submitted your research to King Ludwig for his approval?’

  ‘He has a manuscript of my book.’ Giddings nodded thoughtfully. ‘If it wasn’t for Ludwig, the book wouldn’t have been written. I have no money, gentlemen. Without the king’s hospitality I would have been forced to take paid employment elsewhere and wouldn’t have had the time to write.’

  Abberline digested the information. ‘That must be the story of most members of the academy. They can only conduct their research or compose their music because Ludwig provides them with a cottage and meals.’

  ‘Ha, indeed, Inspector. You know, we academy members call Ludwig “The Just King”, because he is so fair and equitable. He strives to give us time to work in peace here and to prove ourselves.’

  ‘Then I can see why you honour him with the title “The Just King”.’

  Professor Giddings turned to Thomas and Abberline. His gaze seemed so wise and so serious. ‘King Ludwig has such good intentions. No, the best of intentions. But you know what they say about good intentions, gentlemen? They pave the way to hell.’

  There were at least fifty people in the refectory. Some sat at tables, dunking bread in bowls of rabbit stew. A woman nursed a crying baby. Children played with a ball in the far corner. It was noisy – very noisy.

  Thomas saw
Jo. She stood in an alcove. The ten-year-old boy by the name of Bertie Trask sat on a high stool. The woman ran her fingers over the boy’s head. She wore an expression of stern concentration. Every so often, she made a note on a sheet of paper that lay on a table beside her. When she saw Thomas across the crowded room, she gestured for him to approach. He felt surprise. He was convinced she’d never speak to him again after he’d claimed her work was nonsense. Thomas made his way towards her. He had to dodge a group of boys wrestling on the floor. These were the children of the fisher-folk. They were rumbustious to say the least.

  ‘Thomas.’ Jo rested her palm on the top of the boy’s head. ‘This is Bertie Trask.’

  Bertie had a pleasantly rounded face, set with brown eyes that twinkled with good humour. This down-to-earth ten-year-old, who already had a full-time job assisting the gardeners, looked as if he enjoyed nothing more than laughing and having fun in the company of his friends.

  ‘Hello, Bertie,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We have met. You were trying to scare Wilf by pretending to be the Grim Reaper.’

  Bertie grinned. ‘I did, sir. I scared the rascal out of his skin.’

  ‘Hush, Bertie. Thomas, will you pass me that, please?’ Jo pointed to the paper on which there was an outline of a human head. She’d drawn arrows to parts of the head then added notes.

  Thomas did as she asked.

  She smiled at him with warmth and affection. ‘Despite our little tiff, dear Thomas, I do intend to show you that phrenology is scientifically valid.’

  ‘Most experts would disagree.’

  ‘I will demonstrate that not only is phrenology a bona fide scientific discipline, I will also prove it’s vital in preserving civilization.’

  ‘That’s an extraordinary claim.’

  ‘It is essential that we can identify people in society who will become a threat to property and innocent lives.’

  ‘Psychologists study the workings of the human mind. That is the way forward, surely.’

  ‘Phrenology is more accurate, and much more useful. Run your fingers over Bertie’s skull.’

  Thomas stared at her. ‘I’d prefer not to.’

  Jo smiled, tolerating his refusal with good humour. She touched the boy’s forehead. ‘This bulge in the bone above the eyebrow reveals that he has a highly developed ability to befriend people. He will be a good companion later in life.’

  Bertie grinned.

  Jo continued: ‘The outward curve at the top of his head indicates good numerical skills.’

  ‘I had two bowls of stew,’ Bertie declared.

  ‘And the dip here, in front of his right ear, states quite categorically that young Bertie has a big appetite and does relish his meals.’

  ‘And cake,’ added Bertie with a delighted smile. ‘Three slices, I ate.’

  ‘You can make all these observations from bumps in his skull?’ Thomas shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What you can read by touching his skull can’t possibly predict the man he will become.’

  ‘Oh, but it does, Thomas.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Look at Bertie.’ She put her fingers under the boy’s chin and lifted his head. ‘See how angelic his face is. The big eyes. The sensitive features.’

  ‘He looks a perfectly normal boy.’

  ‘Now, if I run my fingers across the back of his head, like so, I can feel the skull dip inward, almost as if there’s a pronounced depression.’

  ‘Just a random formation of the skull, surely?’

  ‘No, Thomas, the phrenology chart identifies this inward depression of the skull as an indicator of violent criminality in the future. According to my chart, Bertie Trask will commit savage crimes one day, perhaps even murder.’

  ‘My God.’ Thomas actually felt sick. ‘This is a child you are talking about. Why on earth are you telling him that one day he will be a murderer?’

  Bertie’s eyes watered. He looked scared as he sat there on the stool with his head gripped in Jo’s strong hands.

  Jo spoke firmly: ‘Just as a thermometer tells us if a person is suffering from a fever, a phrenology chart will show us who will become a violent criminal later in life.’

  ‘That’s not only ridiculous, it’s monstrous.’

  ‘It is the scientific truth.’

  ‘Jo, there is no proof that this boy will become a criminal. He’s an innocent child.’

  Bertie pushed Jo’s hands away. ‘She’s right! I am bad, sir. I’m very bad! I put salt in Mrs Price’s tea. I hid Wilf’s shoes. I spied on him taking away that big dog! I shouted rude words at the milkmaid!’

  ‘Bertie.’ Thomas tried to soothe the child. ‘It’s all right. The lady didn’t –’

  Bertie wriggled down from the stool before running away into the crowded room.

  Thomas turned on Jo in absolute fury, but she’d already walked away, carrying her charts and notes. He couldn’t stop the thought that sped through his head: That woman is evil!

  Somewhere in the building a clock sounded the chimes of midnight. Thomas Lloyd gazed out of the window. Moonlight streamed down onto the forest. It seemed so peaceful out there. Yet the forest might conceal the murderous individual that Abberline and his men were searching for. Then again, the murderer might be in the palace, concocting another scheme to cause injury or death.

  Thomas felt confused about Jo. Yes, she was beautiful. But what about the mind that lay behind that beautiful face? Her work was nothing less than evil. Because a boy’s skull was shaped in a certain way she had condemned him as a criminal of the future. A criminal of the vilest, most brutal kind. Did she believe that Bertie Trask should be locked away in prison now? Or even hanged? Thomas was appalled. His sense of fairness was outraged. The boy was innocent. He’d done nothing wrong other than play the kind of pranks that any other child would play.

  Thomas retired to bed in the room that had been allocated to him. He’d been so angry with Jo he thought he would be unable to sleep. Yet within seconds he’d slipped into deep slumber.

  His sleep was only interrupted when the door was flung open. Daylight streamed in to reveal Abberline standing there, his face stark with worry.

  ‘It’s Bertie!’ he panted. ‘He’s vanished!’

  Chapter 11

  The search for the boy had to be one of the most chaotic that Thomas Lloyd had ever seen. From the palace cellars to the attic, people were calling out, ‘Bertie? Bertie? Are you there? Hello! Bertie!’ A man yelled Bertie’s name into the coal cellar. One of the fisherman’s children was seized by Virgil Kolbaire, who then dragged the shrieking boy to Abberline. Kolbaire loudly insisted that he’d found Bertie Trask and that the mischievous boy was merely pretending to be someone else.

  ‘After all,’ Kolbaire declared in a pompous manner, ‘has not the lady applied phrenology to prove that the wretched Trask child is a born liar and rogue?’

  Abberline freed the boy (who looked nothing like Bertie) and muttered under his breath, ‘Phrenology. That damn nonsense will kill people.’

  The only individuals who weren’t hopelessly disorganized were Abberline and his two detective colleagues. They quickly assessed that all the doors and windows remained locked. The men who had stood guard at key locations in the palace last night confirmed that no one at all had left the building. These were siege conditions. The detectives were satisfied that no one had entered the building, either.

  The palace resembled an ants’ nest that had been poked with a stick. People swarmed everywhere in their ineffectual search. The children became excited. They soon made a game of it, running up and down the corridors yelling, ‘Bertie! Bertie!’ One hooted ghostly sounds before announcing, ‘Bertie’s gone to hell! You’re all next!’ Some of the younger children ran screaming, though they were laughing at the same time.

  The butler hurried past. ‘What a headache I’ve got. My head’s splitting in two!’

  Thomas and Inspector Abberline went to the refectory where most
of the people from the fishing village had slept last night. Many of the older children were convinced that ten-year-old Bertie had told them he intended to sleep in there last night, as he had plenty of friends amongst the fishermen’s children. However, when Wilf appeared he revealed an entirely different state of affairs to Abberline.

  Wilf said, ‘Bertie told me that he’d got himself a nice warm corner in the kitchen. He was going to bed down there last night.’

  After Wilf had gone, Thomas said, ‘He sounded confident that Bertie would sleep in the kitchen.’

  ‘And Wilf’s testimony seems the most reliable yet.’

  Thomas had to ask the most obvious question of all. ‘Do you think the killer took Bertie?’

  Abberline looked worried. ‘I can’t rule it out.’

  ‘In that case, Bertie might already be dead.’

  ‘I pray with all my heart that isn’t the case, Thomas.’

  Cries of ‘Bertie, where are you?’ came from all directions. Thomas knew it had become increasingly unlikely that Bertie would emerge from some room or other with a mischievous grin on his face, saying, ‘I gave you all a scare, didn’t I? You thought I’d been kidnapped away.’ No, that eventuality became frighteningly remote. Thomas tried to keep mental images at bay of a small figure lying out there in the forest.

  At that moment, the two detectives walked briskly up to Abberline. Both had their notebooks open and pencils at the ready.

  ‘Sir,’ began Lionel, ‘we went our separate ways so we could interview as many people as possible.’

  ‘Seeing as time is of the essence in finding the lad,’ added Harry.

  Abberline nodded his approval. ‘Have you been able to find out when the boy was seen last?’

  Harry sighed. ‘Unfortunately, the witnesses tend to muddle one child with another.’

  ‘And a good many are vague about the actual time they saw Trask last.’