Summon Up the Blood (28 page)

Macadam now set to work to undo the gag. It was a laborious operation. The knot was tightly tied. And once that had been slipped, the cotton handkerchief had to be pulled from Inchball’s mouth.

‘You took your fucking time.’ Inchball’s voice quivered hoarsely, little more than a cracked whisper. His throat felt as though he was swallowing needles as he spoke. But still, it was important for him to get the first quip in.

‘Yes, well, we were enjoying the peace and quiet,’ said Macadam.

Inchball looked deeply into Macadam’s face. He cursed as he felt himself begin to weep. When Inspector Quinn strode into the room, the sobbing took him over.

Now restored to his feet, and his usual gruff calm, Inchball handed back to Macadam the glass he had just drained of water. He shook his head forlornly. ‘I bloody wet myself.’

‘That’s all right, Inchball,’ said Quinn. ‘Perfectly understandable.’

‘When I get hold of that fucking queer . . . I suppose he’s scarpered?’

‘There’s no sign of anyone,’ confirmed Quinn.

‘He’s gonna regret getting on the wrong side of me.’

‘Can you tell us what happened?’

‘He brought me some tea. It must have been drugged.’

‘But why would he drug you? Why imprison a police officer? It’s a very serious crime. Had you discovered something?’

Inchball rubbed his forehead tensely as he tried to remember. It left a blotchy imprint, which seemed to emphasize his sudden vulnerability.

The look of deep confusion gradually lifted. He glanced questioningly at the escritoire against one wall. He walked tentatively over to it and opened the drawer. ‘Gone. I might have known.’

‘What was it?’

‘There was a scrapbook in here. He didn’t want me to see it. Shut the drawer when we came in. But I did. I saw it while he was making the tea.’

‘And?’

Inchball shrugged. ‘Hard to say. There was a lot of stuff about queers in there. And murders. Jack the Ripper. Oscar Wilde. And mugshots that looked like they’d come straight from the Yard.’

‘Do you think this Fanshaw feller’s our man, sir?’ asked Macadam dubiously.

‘’Course he is!’ cried Inchball. ‘Why else would he knock me out like that?’

‘It could be because he is the murderer and he thought we were on to him,’ said Quinn. ‘Or there could have been some other reason. He clearly didn’t want you to have this scrapbook and was prepared to commit a serious crime to prevent it.’

‘If we could find a photograph of him, sir, I could take it back to my chandler pal and see if it’s the fellow what bought the rope. In the meantime, I could have Charlie Cale take a look at Inchball’s bindings to see if it’s the same as the others.’

‘Excellent idea, Macadam. I would also suggest that we circulate Inchball’s description of this man to the ports. It may be his intention to leave the country.’

‘If that’s the case, then you are probably too late already,’ said Inchball gloomily. ‘He must have made a run for it last night. He’ll be in France by now. I hear they welcome queers over there. If I’d done what he done, that’s where I’d go. And I wouldn’t hang about neither.’

‘Undoubtedly the reason he drugged you was to buy himself time,’ said Quinn. ‘He could have killed you, you know. But he chose not to.’

‘Are you saying I should be grateful?’

‘I’m merely trying to put myself in his shoes. He has committed what he may have considered the minimum necessary crime.’ Quinn caught sight of the pile of greengrocer’s crates. ‘Are those pomegranates?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How interesting. Like Persephone, you partook of Death’s fare and sojourned in Hades.’

‘Persephone? He mentioned her, you know.’

‘It’s a classical allusion.’ Quinn thought back to the imaginary line he had imposed on the map of London. ‘It may be that he considers his work here not yet done. In which case, he will not have left the country, or even the capital. He will simply have gone to ground.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir. When you say his
work
?’

‘The murders, Macadam. I have the feeling that there is a very specific point to these crimes, given the similarities between the victims. However, I would remind you that we have not yet established beyond doubt that Fanshaw is the killer. To that end, let us search the house for photographs and anything else that might cast light on this man. I noticed some mail on the doormat as we came in. Perhaps I will begin with that.’ Quinn frowned as he cocked his head. The electric bell had not stopped ringing since they had broken in. ‘That’s rather annoying.’

‘I can fix it,’ said Inchball. He looked down glumly at himself. ‘If only I had a clean pair of trousers.’

A
s Quinn bent down to pick the letters up off the mat, he noticed a pair of eyes peering through the broken pane in the door.

‘You?’ The voice was familiar. So was the loutish laughter that came as the eyes disappeared from view.

Quinn unconsciously drew a hand protectively up to his nose before pulling open the door. ‘Tommy! Don’t run away.’

In truth, Tommy Venables showed no intention of moving from the front step. His bowler was pushed back at an insouciant angle, a sign of his lack of concern at seeing Quinn again. ‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere. So what’s this all abou’? We had a break-in?’

Quinn gazed distractedly at the shimmering silk scarf that Venables had around his neck. It was a moment before he recognized it as the cloth he had bought at the draper’s, which Venables had stolen from him. ‘
We?
Do you mean to say that you live here?’

‘That’s not what I said at all. Sometimes I pop over to see if any of my friends will put me up for the night. Is the Right ’Enrable in?’

‘The right what?’

‘
Hen
-rable. Henry. That’s what I call him. The Right Henrable.’

‘Henry Fanshaw?’

‘That’s right. The Right ’Enrable.’

‘Henry Fanshaw is in serious trouble. He drugged and imprisoned a police officer. We had to break in to release him. Fanshaw is missing.’

‘Bloody ’ell!’

‘So any information you can give us as to his whereabouts would be gratefully received. We think he may have had something to do with Jimmy Neville’s death. You knew Jimmy lived here. You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you’d told me this that day when we met.’

‘But you wasn’t straight with me, was you, Quentin. Dint tell me you was a rozzer. Not straight away. I din’ know what you was up to.’

‘There have been three more deaths. If you’d told me what you knew, those boys might still be alive.’

‘You carn’ lay that at my door.’ Tommy Venables’ face was suddenly drained of colour. He took out the silver cigarette case that Quinn had seen that day outside the bookshop. ‘Everybody’s talking about it. They’re saying there’s a madman on the loose.’ Venables lit a fat yellow cigarette and pocketed the case again. ‘They’re saying we should stay off the streets. It’s hard enough anyway, what with all the rozzers there are about the place. London’s crawlin’ with ’em.’

‘It’s for your protection. For the protection of men like you. We have naturally increased the police presence on the streets.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s no business to be had no more. Not for love nor money. Which means I don’ eat no more and I don’ get the change for a night’s lodgin’. That’s why I was comin’ over ’ere to see if anyone would give me a bunk up for the night.’

‘This may well be the very worst place you could have come to.’

‘You’ve got it wrong again, Quentin. ’Enry din’ have nothing to do with them murders, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. ’Enry’s a sweet man. Bit of a nutter, I’ll give you that. But ’armless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. An’ he certainly wouldn’t hurt another queer. He thought we all had to stick together. Look out for one another. It was a crusade with him. A war, you might say. In his head, there was a great army of queers marching against the rest of the world. A brother’ood. That’s what he called it. I bet that’s why he done what he done. To the rozzer, like. The police was always the enemy to ’Enry.’

‘But we’re trying to catch the man who has committed these terrible crimes against homosexuals. We’re on
your side
!’

‘Thass wha’ you say. ’Enry wouldn’t see it like that. He was always tellin’ us to watch out for the Ole Bill. He probably thought the rozzer had come to round up the brother’ood.’

‘Then he’s a very stupid man. Do you know anything about his scrapbook?’

‘I seen it, like. Borin’, if you arsk me.’

‘Was it anything to do with this brotherhood?’

‘Everything was to do with the brother’ood. And ’Enry would have done anything to protect it. Except the crazy thing was . . . It din’ exist. There was nothing
to
protect. It was all in his ’ead.’ Venables looked over his shoulder nervously. His habitual stance of cocky defiance had lost some of its conviction. When he turned back to Quinn, there was a look of open appeal in his eyes. ‘Listen, can’t I come in, Quentin? I got nowhere else to go.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re conducting a search of the premises.’

‘I’ll stay out of your way, honest I will.’

Quinn hesitated before standing aside. ‘Very well. You may come in, but on the condition that you go only where I say you may. And you must promise to answer any questions I put to you.’

‘Whatever you say, Quentin.’

‘You’d better not call me Quentin either. It’s Inspector Quinn from now on.’

‘Quentin Quinn? Cor blimey, your parents were having a larf, weren’ they?’

‘That need not concern you.’ Quinn looked down at the letters in his hand as Venables walked past him into the hallway. He noticed that most were addressed to one
H. Fetherstonhaugh, Esq.
He remembered the name from the list of members of the Panther Club.

‘So, where do you want me?’ asked Venables pertly. His usual coarse laughter was not long in coming, prompting an inquisitive appearance from Macadam.

Quinn dismissed his sergeant with a nod. To Venables, he said: ‘Less of that, do you hear me? If you don’t behave yourself, you’ll be out.’

‘A’righ’, Quentin. Keep yer ’air on. I mean, very well, Inspector Quinn. Whatever you say.’

‘Now, besides Henry Fanshaw, do you know any of the other residents of this house? This man, for instance?’ Quinn showed Venables one of the envelopes.

‘That
is
Henry! That’s how he spells his name. It’s the nobs’ way of spellin’ Fanshaw. Did you not know that?’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yeah, we used to josh him about it. He dint mind. He thought it was funny hisself.’

‘I see. Did he, Fetherstonhaugh, own a motor car, as far as you know?’

‘Nah – you jokin’, ain’t yer? The Right ’Enrable in a motor? He dint trust ’em. Used to cycle everywhere.’

‘Show me that cigarette case, will you?’

‘Yer what? Why you so bothered about my fag case?’

‘All the victims were found with a silver cigarette case on them.’

Venables’ expression was once again stripped of any pretence of arrogance. ‘Wha’ are you sayin’?’

‘I am saying that the murderer appears to mark out his victims by giving them cigarette cases very similar to the one you have on you.’

Venables looked for a moment as though he was considering a smart riposte. But something about Quinn’s expression evidently deterred him. He reached again into his jacket and handed over the cigarette case.

Quinn pressed the catch. The aroma of unlit Set tobacco that was released stirred a pang of something like nostalgia. He inhaled deeply and held his breath, as if he was trying to hold on to the unnameable thing that he had lost.

There was an inscription on the inside of the lid:
Dearest Thomas, Keep this always next to your heart, as I shall keep you always next to mine, Your Devoted Pinky
.

‘Pinky,’ said Quinn. ‘Devoted Pinky.’

‘It don’t mean he had anything ’a do with these murders. Lots of gentlemen give their friends cigarette cases as presents.’

Quinn clicked the cigarette case shut and handed it back to Venables. ‘Perhaps you’re right. However, there is something here that must be looked into. What is Pinky’s real name?’

‘Francis . . . Percy . . . Arundel. The Marquess of Roachford.’ Venables drew himself up as he uttered Pinky’s names and title, as if he believed they somehow conferred honour on him; or perhaps something more: invulnerability.

Q
uinn pinned the map of London to the wall. The locations at which bodies had been found – the London Docks, the Tower of London, the Bank of England and St Paul’s Cathedral – were shown with red pencil crosses. With a blue pencil, Quinn had marked Lincoln’s Inn, the British Museum and Lords Cricket Ground. A black cross indicated the location of the Panther Club.

The photographs of the four victims sprawled out around the map. When Quinn was concentrating on the map, he felt their peripheral presence like a dark contagion seeping out from the city. In some way, his aversion to confronting the horror they represented focused his mind on the case as an abstract intellectual puzzle. The map was rational and organized. The photographs were insane and chaotic. It was understandable that he would prefer to concentrate on the former. And yet he had a sense that he would only find the solution when he found a way to contemplate both aspects of the case at once.

Quinn opened the tin of Set cigarettes. There were only three left now. He took one out and lit it. He considered the glowing tip as he retained the first lungful of smoke.

‘What are they like?’ Inchball’s voice was suspicious. And yet the mere fact that he was asking the question betrayed his curiosity.

Quinn held out the tin. ‘I find them both stimulating and soothing. Try one. It may help you to recover after your ordeal.’

Inchball leant back, recoiling from the proffered cigarettes. ‘I don’t need them. I’m right as rain. With respect and all that, sir.’ It was certainly true that Inchball’s spirits had revived since he had been able to change into clean trousers and underwear.

Quinn did not withdraw the tin. He smiled and gave a half-shrug. ‘You’re afraid they will turn you queer, is that it?’