The Strings of Murder (6 page)

‘On second thought … I do not want to know,’ I whispered, and then left her.

She still had another very nasty surprise reserved for me, but it would take me a while to discover it.

That very morning, oblivious of what was coming upon me, I had had a prestigious job that kept me active and passionate, and a sweetheart who made me feel like I could fly … Overall, I’d had a bright future to think about … Yet before suppertime I had lost everything but my overblown pride.

I climbed the steps to my house and swiftly produced my keys.

‘Jesus …’ I mumbled.

The door was already unlocked; ajar, actually, allowing anybody to walk inside. I swallowed painfully and instinctively felt for my pistol, only to remember that I had unloaded the weapon in the afternoon since I was no longer on duty.

From outside it appeared that all the rooms were in darkness, so I decided to draw the gun anyway. At least I would not look defenceless.

I kicked the door open as I called in a loud voice. ‘Joan!’

No reply.

The street lamps cast weak rays of yellow light into the entrance hall, just enough to illuminate the way for two or three yards. With cautious steps, I made my slow progress into the shadows.

I stopped for a moment, while my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and then my heart stopped as I
made out the crouching figures of at least five men along the corridor.

I roared. ‘
Don’t move, or else
–’

Then a cold hand grabbed me by the shoulder and I heard the door slamming mightily. I turned around, my heart pounding, and pointed my gun firmly at the broad shadow of a man. I could see only a pair of small eyes fixed on me, maliciously, as the intruder spoke.

‘Come on, Frey, I know you have no bullets.’

5

I hesitated, feeling a drop of cold sweat rolling down my temple and hearing the men around me approaching. For a moment I could not believe my ears.

‘Is that … Salisbury?’

The man sighed and lit a match. The little flame revealed a bushy beard and the most piercing stare; he indeed was Britain’s prime minister. I lowered my gun immediately, utterly puzzled.

‘Yes, Frey,’ he said, lighting up the nearest oil lamp with the remainder of the match. ‘Although it is
Lord
Salisbury to you, my man.’

I looked around and found that the other men in the house were the guards I had seen next to him that very morning – none of them was wearing uniform.

It was bizarre beyond expression, being suddenly forced to bow low to the man who had broken into my home. ‘Of course. My apologies, but Your Lordship will surely understand my astonishment –’

‘Why, I am the astonished one. I did not expect a senior inspector to occupy such small lodgings …’ My father would have had a stroke had he heard the prime minister delivering such remarks.

‘And keeping only one servant, who finishes her duties in the middle of the afternoon!’ said another familiar voice – the last I would have expected to hear.

Walking into the light came the plump figure of Sir Charles Warren. I had to shake my head at the picture: two of the most prominent men in Britain, whom I thought would be the fiercest of enemies, were breaking into my home in a joint enterprise! The whole situation felt like an odd dream.

‘Sir Charles!’

‘We do understand how untoward this is,’ he said, ‘but we have to deal with the most urgent matter … urgent enough for us to lurk in the night like common thieves. Can we speak in private?’

I quickly examined Warren’s face. His gaze did seem worried, and Lord Salisbury’s lips were so tense that they looked like a twisted line.

‘Follow me, please,’ I said, leading the way to my small study.

The prime minister nodded at the officers and all the men remained behind. A few puzzled stares fell on me, telling me that they themselves ignored what was happening.

We entered my studio, and when I lit the desk lamp I found a note from Joan. Using preposterous spelling and nearly impenetrable dialect, she told me how the dark streets scared her out of her wits, and then apologized for leaving the house early. Surely she had read the descriptions of the last Ripper’s murder with too much attention.

I crumpled the piece of paper and threw it aside. ‘Have a seat, gentlemen.’

Sir Charles looked outside, making sure that the men were away, and then indicated that I could close the door.
Both men sat in front of my desk; Warren rather let himself fall onto the chair, his legs apparently exhausted.

‘I will go straight to the point,’ Lord Salisbury began, snorting and grunting in one of my armchairs like an uncomfortable bull. ‘Sir Charles has told me that you know about the situation in Scotland. Is that correct?’

‘The murdered musician? Yes, My Lord.’

‘This is no ordinary murder. The man …’ Salisbury seemed more and more uncomfortable. ‘Do you have brandy? I decidedly need a drink.’

I drew my best bottle from a shelf and poured three measures. The PM gulped his down and shook his bulging cheeks, looking utterly invigorated.

‘At least you do keep good spirits! As I was saying, the victim was an old virtuoso in Edinburgh – Guilleum Fontaine. I understand your family is versed in music, perhaps you have heard of him.’

‘I have not,’ I admitted, ‘but perhaps my brother has.’

‘Well, there is no apparent reason for his murder,’ Sir Charles intervened. ‘The man was a widower leading a peaceful life. He had been teaching in Scotland for the last thirty years and from what I’ve heard the he was praised among his peers.’

‘But …?’

‘He was killed most viciously; throat cut open, then they ripped apart his belly and mutilated his innards.’

Lately I had become rather used to hearing such descriptions, but they still nauseated me.

‘That does sound like something the Ripper would do,’ I said.

‘Precisely,’ Sir Charles nodded with sudden vehemence.
‘It has to be some sadistic wretch that is aping the Ripper’s work. Fontaine died just hours before Many Jane Kelly; it is impossible for anyone to travel from Edinburgh to London in such a short time.’

‘Of course we have kept this in the utmost secrecy,’ Salisbury added. ‘If this case goes to the press, those fiendish journalists will feast on our flesh. Only a handful of men know the details of the murder and we cannot let it spread any further – even that damn fool Monro does not know all the particulars! As always, it takes only one man to start things before a brainless flock follows. Can you imagine what would become of the British Empire if we suddenly had a Ripper in every county?
Panic!
Bloody, sheer panic everywhere!’

I shuddered at the picture; the British Isles in an utter state of fear, with similarly ghastly murders committed every week all around us. No wonder they were so worried; the actual death of the man might not be crucial for them, but the context in which it had occurred made it dangerous in the extreme.

‘And you want me to investigate,’ I murmured. In fact it sounded like a very exciting assignment; one of those that can make or break a career. Unexpectedly, my heartbeat quickened in anticipation, but the thrill would not last.

‘Indeed,’ said the prime minister. ‘I remembered your name this morning, as you probably noticed. The reports of your pursuit of that blasted black widow made most amusing reading on Sunday mornings.’

No wonder. The case of Good Mary Brown had hit the papers as one of the most spectacular arrests in recent years. The woman had lived in five counties, from Lincolnshire
to Devonshire, using a different name with each new husband she decided to poison. Gathering sufficient evidence to prosecute her had cost me blood, sweat and tears.

‘I need one of our best men up there,’ Lord Salisbury continued, ‘but with the Ripper case at its worst, the CID cannot spare any big name without causing suspicion. Monro’s dislike of you provided me with the perfect alibi; nobody in London will suspect of you being transferred to Scotland in an official capacity – not after Sir Charles, your mentor and Monro’s arch-enemy, has resigned.’

I noticed Sir Charles squinting at the coldness with which the end of his career was being discussed. The prime minister was undoubtedly very good at scheming.

I savoured a sip of brandy. ‘I presume we will have to craft some excuse for my presence in Edinburgh.’

‘We already have,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You will assist a new special subdivision led by Inspector McGray.’

I arched an eyebrow. ‘I had not heard of new subdivisions being created.’

‘This is a particular case,’ said Lord Salisbury. ‘Inspector McGray has championed the creation of a team devoted to investigating … erm … apparitions.’

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room.

‘Apparitions,’ I repeated. ‘Do you mean apparitions … as in –?’

‘Apparitions as in apparitions!’ Salisbury spluttered, with a slight colouring in his cheeks. ‘Ghosts, goblins, witches … that kind of thing. We are using McGray’s new subdivision – in fact, we are
creating
it – as a smokescreen. Assigning the case to such a … bizarre agent will keep the eyes of the “respectable” reporters safely away.’

It took me a moment to recollect what he’d said. It sounded incredibly foolish … but that was precisely what would make it work.

‘If that is where we stand …’ I said, my mind swiftly analysing the circumstances, ‘to the rest of the world I would just be going to Edinburgh in absolute dishonour after being downgraded by Commissioner Monro … Am I correct?’

Sir Charles sighed heavily and Lord Salisbury replied in a monotone. ‘That is correct, Frey. Officially, we never came to see you, it was Monro alone who decided you were to go to Scotland, and you were more than willing to take on the assignment rather than being permanently dismissed.’

My chest felt like it was boiling. I had a flashing memory of my father’s endless ranting against the Scots. I could almost see him, his mouth covered in crumbs, spitting pieces of buttered bread and yelling ‘
Edin-bloody-burgh
!’

‘I hope I have been clear enough,’ Salisbury said, ‘and I certainly hope you understand the seriousness of the situation. I have assigned Sir Charles to monitor your progress, since he will have the free time; you will keep in constant communication with him and report any advances as the case develops. Also, I will have Monro send you all the “official” paperwork dealing with your transfer. I will leave you now to arrange the details between yourselves.’ As he stood up, Sir Charles and I jumped from our seats. ‘Leave the formalities for quieter days, gentlemen, I know the way out.’ He opened the door, but before leaving he cast me one last stabbing stare. ‘Do not disappoint us, Frey. I had a tête-à-tête with Her Majesty today and she is utterly distressed!’

He then stepped out and I could hear his group of guards swiftly leaving the house. Again I had the feeling of witnessing a dream.

‘He did not even ask whether I accepted the task or not!’ I said after a brief silence.

Sir Charles chuckled after a sip of brandy. ‘He doesn’t have to; he is the prime minister. Besides, you would be a fool not to take on the case. There is a good chance this will redeem your career: more than one Frey will be glad to know that you have been given an assignment by the PM himself and … who knows? If you do well, maybe that will also change the mind of a certain Miss Ferrars …’

The name came so unexpectedly that I blushed like a ripened tomato. ‘
How do you – how do you –’
I cleared my throat, realizing how high-pitched my voice had come out. ‘Sir Charles, that is horribly forward. Even my father does not know yet!’

Sir Charles grinned. ‘I have far-reaching ears, Frey … and many!’

‘It only relieves me to have you on my side …’ I gulped the rest of my brandy and sat properly behind the desk. ‘I will be reinstated in London if I succeed, will I not? I would expect at least that!’

Sir Charles turned his head towards me. The gaslight accentuated the deep creases on his face; he seemed terribly tired. ‘That depends solely on Lord Salisbury, Frey. Even though he asked for my help, I am afraid I have no power to help you any more. You must do as instructed and hope for the prime minister’s favour.’

I cackled sardonically. ‘Let me evaluate my situation: I
must go in shame to Scotchman-swarming Edinburgh, pretend to be part of a pathetic subdivision led by a hare-brained wretch that believes in fairies, break my back and brains chasing an elusive imitator of Jack the Ripper, all in utter secrecy … and if I succeed I may,
may
be able to come back … and if I am terribly lucky, resume my life at the point it had reached yesterday …
Barely break even!
’

A deep silence followed. Sir Charles fiddled around with his empty glass, and I could only bite my lip at the unfairness of the situation.

‘It is a paradox,’ he said darkly, ‘that some of the most brilliant, noble people must struggle their entire lives just to keep the scum of humanity in line … those parasites with neither scruples nor brains that only live to suck from society like leeches. And in the end, even if our job is done at its best, the world will not have gained anything … only the chance to keep rolling on with its other usual troubles.’