The Mannequin House (20 page)

The next photograph was full length. In it she was naked – more than naked, it seemed, because the wig had been removed too. The contrast with the previous image was shocking. Her ribcage was visible and her pelvic bone jutted out sharply below a sunken abdomen. Quinn had never been more aware of the skeleton beneath the skin. Thin wisps of dark hair were plastered to her scalp.

Various close-up photographs were also included. One of her throat, presumably to show the absence of a ligature mark. Another showed her mouth, with the angular lines of cracked skin at the corners that had indicated a habit of self-induced vomiting to the doctor. The associated cracks on her index finger were also represented. Somehow Quinn found these the most disturbing of all the photographs. The bruises on her thighs, shadows of a male brutality, affected him too, of course. But the emotion they stirred served a purpose: it provoked the familiar rage that would enable him to hunt down the perpetrator.

In the face of the damage that she had done to herself, he felt strangely powerless.

Quinn handed the photograph of her thighs back to Coddington. ‘Did the monkey do that?’

‘No, of course not. That’s not the point. We’re not investigating a rape. We’re investigating a death. The doctor’s report leaves the door open to the possibility that she was accidentally killed by the monkey. I don’t know what a macaque weighs, but having had sight of that particular beast, I would say it is more than seven pounds.’

‘We were not investigating a rape because we did not know that a rape had been committed. Now we do.’

Inchball took the photographs and flinched at the bruises. ‘Nasty.’

‘According to witnesses,’ continued Quinn, ‘the only male present in the mannequin house on Tuesday night was Monsieur Hugo – or Hugh Leversage, to give him his real name. And somehow I don’t see him as a rapist, do you? We need to explore the possibility that another man had secreted himself in the house that night. And the two most likely candidates are Spiggott and Blackley.’

‘Mr Blackley?’ Coddington was alarmed. ‘Steady on, Quinn. You must be careful before you go accusing a prominent gentleman such as Mr Blackley of . . .
this
!’

‘You’re right. It will do no good to accuse him directly. We must get at him through his creature. Monsieur Hugo knows more than he is letting on, I’m sure. We need to lean on him. Get him away from Blackley and he will crack.’

‘Would you like me to do the leaning, guv?’ asked Inchball, one eyebrow whipping up sharply.

Quinn deferred to Coddington. The senior officer floundered. ‘I am not sure what you hope to achieve by this. If we examine the logic of the medical examiner’s report, the girl
must
have died as a result of a freakish accident, with the monkey hanging from her scarf. There is simply no other explanation. The internally locked door and sealed window force us to conclude that no one could have escaped from that room. That she killed herself is also out of the question. The doctor made that clear. Remember
The Sign of the Four
, Quinn. “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.” What remains, in this case, is death caused by the accidental agency of the monkey.’

‘But what of the rape?’

‘The rape is not our concern here. The poor girl is in no position to make a complaint, alas, so there is little to be gained in pursuing an investigation. We can never know who raped her, because she is no longer alive to tell us. There are no witnesses to the act. We may enter the fact in the case notes, of course. But beyond that, I honestly don’t see what we can do.’

‘But if we can prove that Blackley was in the house that night . . .’

‘Blackley? This fixation with Mr Blackley does you no credit, Quinn! And do you not think that if that were the case we would have discovered it already?’

‘Not if everyone is afraid of saying so. Besides, it need not be Blackley. It could have been Spiggott.’

But Coddington did not even wish to countenance the possibility of Spiggott as the rapist. ‘Even if we do discover evidence to support such a proposition, it can only ever be described as circumstantial. No jury would convict. In the meantime we will have caused irreparable – and unjustifiable – damage to a gentleman’s reputation. For no good purpose, Quinn. Are we even certain that she
was
raped? Doesn’t Doctor Prendergast say something about mineral deficiencies and bruising? Perhaps it was just a bit of rough play that got out of hand. A bit of slap and tickle that left a mark. The bruises in themselves prove nothing. She was certainly no virgin, whatever Miss Mortimer might say about her being a
good girl
!’

‘But Prendergast was clear that on the medical evidence alone, the most likely cause of death is homicide. Homicide linked to rape.’

‘Then it falls to you to explain how the murderer contrived to escape from the room and leave an internally locked door behind him.’

‘Yes, of course. I am aware of that.’

‘Have you an explanation?’

Quinn faltered slightly before claiming, somewhat unconvincingly: ‘I have several, naturally. But whether any of them are the correct explanation, I am not yet in a position to say.’

‘Several?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pray share them with us.’

‘I am not ready to.’

‘Ah! Yes, of course. A classic ploy. Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you. Well, I must say, I have always rather sympathized with Doctor Watson when it comes to Holmes’s irritating habit of mystification. I am not Doctor Watson. So I am afraid to say that if you cannot offer up an explanation, we will be forced to proceed on the basis that it is simply impossible. Which means that we must accept the doctor’s suggestion – the
doctor’s
suggestion, I repeat, not mine – that the hapless monkey was responsible for poor Amélie’s death. I shall make my report to Sir Edward.’

‘But you cannot simply dismiss the fact that Prendergast offers three possible explanations. Self-strangulation. Accidental death caused by the monkey swinging on the scarf. And homicide. Yes, he discusses in a theoretical way the relative merits of each explanation, reaching the conclusion, I think, that none is entirely satisfactory. Knowing Sir Edward as I do, his first question will be to inquire what practical steps you have taken to prove your preference for one unlikely theory over two marginally more unlikely ones. Where is your evidence, in other words?’

‘That’s where you come in, Quinn. You have to prove it for me.’

‘Prove that the monkey killed Amélie?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how would I do that?’

‘Find the monkey. And weigh it. If it’s over seven pounds, we have a likely suspect.’

‘And if it weighs less than seven pounds? What then?’

‘You could always feed it bananas.’

The downpour had passed. Sunlight flared at the window, filling the attic with a fatuous mockery of optimism. Only Coddington seemed to fall for it. He sighed with satisfaction as he stretched back in Quinn’s chair. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go on, find the monkey!’

‘I’
d like to wring his bleedin’ neck,’ said Inchball as he and Quinn emerged on Victoria Embankment.

Quinn seemed to give the suggestion serious consideration, before deciding: ‘There’s nothing to be gained from doing that.’ He looked up at the sky. The day was far from settled. The brief show of sunlight was behind them now. Massing clouds threatened another burst of rain. But Quinn had left his Ulster upstairs. He seemed to be losing his enthusiasm for it. ‘Besides, we have to face the fact that he may, after all, be right. The monkey may have caused the mannequin’s death.’

‘You seem bleedin’ calm about it all, I must say,’ observed Inchball.

Quinn looked both ways up and down the embankment. With Macadam away in Clapton, they would have to take a taxi. There were none to be seen. The recent rainfall had no doubt increased demand. ‘It’s necessary to stay focused, despite these distractions.’

‘’Ere, have you really worked it out? More than one way an’ all?’

But before Quinn could answer, a taxi came into view.

Given the havoc that had been wrought the day before, Quinn was surprised to see Benjamin Blackley in place outside the entrance to his department store, ready to greet customers with his habitual smile firmly in place. Today, however, there were few customers for him to greet.

‘Inspector Quinn, good to see you again.’

Quinn glanced sceptically over Blackley’s shoulder into the interior of the store. ‘You’re open?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I saw what it was like yesterday.’

‘That’s behind us now. My staff worked through the night – in shifts, of course. I’m not a slave driver, no matter what you might read in the gutter press. We managed to have the store open by eleven. It’s business as usual for us.’

‘I witnessed wholesale looting – and worse.’

‘And you did nothing to stop it? You, a police officer!’ Blackley made the complaint cheerfully, with a wink for Inchball to secure his complicity in the tease.

Blackley’s apparent levity was chilling. But there was something persuasive about it too. Quinn began to doubt whether the disaster of the previous day had really happened; or rather, a small part of him considered grasping the fantasy that Blackley, with his remorseless business-as-usual attitude, seemed to be offering. The image of the baby’s perambulator falling over came back unbidden. But so too did the dream-image of Blackley, with the baby restored to life, balanced on his forearm.

‘Does it really not concern you? The destruction? The dead? Would it really be too much for you to close shop for a day out of respect?’

Blackley took a moment to consider this, but only – Quinn suspected – from a business perspective. ‘Life must go on, Inspector. And commerce . . . is life. I have, of course, instituted a fund for the child’s family, to cover funeral costs and other expenses. The old man who had a heart attack? Well, these things happen. And as for the woman who threw herself off the balcony . . . I believe, if you look into it, that you will find she had a history of madness. Mr Yeovil has already discovered that she had spent time in Colney Hatch. So as you see . . .’

‘Colney Hatch?’

‘The lunatic asylum there. Are you not familiar with the place?’

In fact, it was not because he was unfamiliar with the term ‘Colney Hatch’ that Quinn had questioned it. Quite the contrary. He had spent some weeks confined in a ward in the north London asylum during his breakdown many years ago. ‘I have heard of it,’ he said darkly.

‘Well then, as you see,’ resumed Blackley, ‘I have given consideration to these things. And upon reflection, I find that it is important that we show the world our mettle, if you will. Opening today makes a statement, Inspector. And that statement is –
Victory
! We have shown the forces of lawlessness that we will not be cowed by them. You as a policeman should understand that. We owe it to those who gave their lives to open our doors as soon as possible.’

Quinn was not strictly sure that he understood the logic of this. In what sense, he wondered, could the dead baby be said to have given its life, which implied some kind of willing sacrifice for the good of a cause?

But Blackley left him no time to formulate an objection. ‘Are you looking for something in particular? A gift perhaps . . . for a
lady friend
?’ Blackley’s expression was heightened with knowing significance. So, the Menagerie salesman had reported back to him.

Quinn knew very well what he was looking for. But he did not want to give Blackley any inkling of it. ‘Have there been any further sightings of the monkey?’

‘I’m not aware of any.’

‘You don’t mind if we ask around?’

‘Are you really here to hunt down that poor unfortunate animal?’

‘Those are my orders, Mr Blackley. I think I will start in the Costumes Salon. Any idea where I might find that, sir?’

The crowds that had been in evidence the previous day were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps shame kept them away. There was certainly a chastened atmosphere to the deserted store. In the cold light of the morning after, anyone who had indulged in such excesses would surely want to do their best to forget them. Under any other circumstances, the men and women (
mostly
women, it had to be said) Quinn had witnessed running amok would have appeared perfectly law-abiding, if not respectable citizens. Some had even struck him as well-off.

There were no obvious marks of criminality about them, unless criminality is defined as a kind of hunger. He had detected something akin to hunger in their eyes, or perhaps more accurately, the sating of a wild and previously unacknowledged appetite.

They found Hugh Leversage, in his Monsieur Hugo persona, overseeing a costume display in the centre of the department. Taking his directions was a young man with a pale face and a fragile expression. Things were not going well. The young man was slow to respond, evidently clumsy and incapable of doing as he was told. Such was the impression given by Monsieur Hugo’s bad-tempered commands.

‘
Non! Non! Pas comme ci! Imbécile. Sot!
’

The young man was not so much arranging as doing battle with an army of headless padded dummies. The more Monsieur Hugo shouted at him, the more flustered he became. At one point he tripped up over a fallen enemy torso, knocking over the few dummies that he had so far managed to wrestle into position.

‘
Mon Dieu! Incroyable!
’
Monsieur Hugo issued a stream of French oaths with impressive fluency.

The young man cowered on the floor. ‘Sorry, Monsieur Hugo. Most terribly sorry, sir. I don’ know wha’ came over me, sir. I confess I am a little tired, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Monsieur Hugo seemed to relent. Or perhaps it was Hugh Leversage who did so, for the French language was abandoned. ‘For God’s sake, Arbuthnot! Don’t let Mr Blackley see you like that! You’d be out that door faster than you could say pinafore dress with a sailor collar.’

Leversage held out his hand and helped Arbuthnot to his feet. ‘It’ll be lunchtime soon. You can get forty winks then.’ Leversage frowned suspiciously and sniffed the air in front of Arbuthnot’s face. ‘’Ere, ’ave you been drinkin’?’