The Solitary House (28 page)

Charles starts. It takes him a moment to recognise the voice, though he has known it all his life. Stornaway has gone and Maddox is watching him quietly from the other side of the hearth. The long dark shadows cast by the low firelight give his face an austere, almost classical air.

“Are you intending to tell me what has happened to you, or am I required to guess?”

Charles struggles to sit up, forgetting—but not for long—that he can’t put any weight on his right hand.

“I was—waylaid. By Tulkinghorn’s hired henchman.”

“You are sure of that?”

“As sure as I can be. He’d been sent to warn me off. He took a little personal memento with him to make sure I took the point.”

He holds up his hand.

Maddox raises an eyebrow. “A rather brutal tactic, but without doubt an effective one. There is no infection?”

Charles shakes his head. “Molly is a very efficient nurse. The wound is clean, and I know what to look for.”

Maddox nods, reflectively. “I, too, lost many things in the course of my career. My faith in my fellow men, my freedom on occasion—albeit temporarily—and once, and once only, something more important than either of those things. But I never suffered a loss quite so tangible as yours. Your
sangfroid
, if I may say so, is admirable.”
And he is, indeed, looking at Charles with an expression in his eyes his nephew cannot remember seeing before.

Charles shrugs, though his new-found self-possession is clearly not quite all Maddox believes it to be, for there are hot tears prickling his eyes. He’s spent so much of his life managing for himself and expecting nothing from those around him—so long without a mother, in the coolness cast by a distinguished but distant father—that kindness always comes to him as a shock, and it’s kindness that has undone him now, not pain, however intense, or self-pity, however justified.

“At least I know now that I’m not wasting my time,” he says eventually, and then explains, as concisely as he can, what he discovered at the Graham Arms.

“But you have no clue as yet as to what this package contained?” says Maddox thoughtfully, when he has finished.

“No,” says Charles, “but whatever it was, it terrified Cremorne enough to get Tulkinghorn involved—and Boscawen killed. This, my dear uncle, is no ordinary case of petty blackmail. There’s something base and corrupt at the bottom of all this—something Cremorne absolutely cannot afford to have come to light. It’s no coincidence I was attacked as soon as I left the rat-killing. I’ll bet this thug has been following me for days and knew exactly what Milloy was going to tell me.”

“No doubt.”

They are silent; the only sound the prim ticking of the ornate French clock on the mantelpiece.

“There’s something else—” begins Charles tentatively. He’s been wondering whether to mention this—in fact, ever since he saw the butchery done to Lizzie’s ravaged body he’s wanted to talk to Maddox, get advice from Maddox, elicit from Maddox some part of the unparalleled insight he has into man’s inhumanity to man. But in the two days since the murder, the Maddox he needs has been all but gone. Now, at last, the great Regency thief taker has returned, and the flailing madman who took his place is stilled.

“What is it, my boy?”

“Do you remember the police coming here yesterday?”

Maddox frowns. “No—or at least—”

He stops, and the old terror creeps back into his face—the terror of knowing how much he no longer knows—of how black the blank spaces are becoming, and Charles realises his mistake.

“No matter, Uncle,” he says quickly. “It was just—”

“—but I
should
know—if there are officers of the law in this house—
my
house—then
I
should be the one to—”

Maddox’s voice is catching that slightly hectic edge that Charles knows he must at all costs avoid. Not just for his uncle’s sake, but his own.

“Really—it is no matter, Uncle, I doubt they even crossed the threshold. They were merely enquiring as to my whereabouts the previous evening.”

Maddox looks sceptical. “And why should they wish to know that?”

“Because I discovered a body yesterday. A girl I know—a whore—was murdered.”

“There is nothing so very extraordinary about that, I fear.”

“The point is not that she was killed, but
when
she was killed, and how.”

“Go on.” Maddox’s voice is clear again and his gaze steady; his mind has teetered but swung back from the shadow.

“I saw her a few days before. The only reason I found the body at all was because I’d arranged to meet her there. She was going to tell me something—something about Sir Julius Cremorne. I don’t know what, but I’m guessing it had something to do with what I found out at the Argyll Rooms. Because despite Cremorne’s public reputation for high principles and a happy family life, he’s been regularly debauching a whole host of young women.”

“That, I am afraid to say, is not so very unusual either. At least among those of Sir Julius’s class. But I admit it is hardly something a man in his position would want bruited abroad.”

“But this girl wasn’t just killed. She was
slaughtered
. With the same
skill, and no doubt the same knife, that opened William Boscawen’s throat, and was subsequently used on me.”

The details are soon given: first Boscawen, then Lizzie. The scene in Agnes Court plays again, reel by reel, through Charles’s head. For some reason he finds himself recalling more than he remembers seeing at the time, but it’s not so much the horror of it now, as the utter banality. The clothes folded neatly on the chair. The boots placed by the fireside. Maddox is all silent calculating attention as he talks, his eyes half closed, nodding now and then. When Charles has finished, Maddox does not respond straightaway. Instead, he takes a deep breath and stares into the fire. After a few moments—just when Charles fears he may have lost him once again—he starts to speak.

“Did you find your finger?”

The question is so ludicrous—so darkly black-comical—that Charles doesn’t know how to react. Is this his uncle’s infamous wit? Or is it just another example of his inability, so frequent now, to tell the acceptable from the offensive?

“Well, I—” he stammers.

“It is a perfectly serious question, Charles. Did you find your finger?”

Charles gapes at him. “I can hardly say I
looked
for it!”

“But it was nowhere obvious—nowhere about you when you came to your senses?”

“No—but the rats may well have had it by then. You know what it’s like on the City Road.”

“All the same,” says Maddox. “And you are sure that some of this unfortunate girl’s internal organs were missing?”

“Most of them were lying in pieces about the room, but I was told later at the police-station that the heart was definitely absent.”

“And the breasts were also removed?”

“Both of them. One was lying by her feet, along with what appeared to be her liver. Though there was so much disembowelled flesh I cannot really be sure.”

Maddox nods. “You perceive the pattern?”

A pause, then, “No, Uncle, I cannot say that I do.”

Maddox sits back. “Men such as this—men attracted to the point of compulsion by violence so extreme it violates every natural instinct or moral constraint—they are very rare, but they do, in my limited experience, exhibit very similar characteristics, both as a sub-species and as individuals. By the latter I mean that each murderer will have his own habits, and his own preferences, whether it be weapon, setting, victim, or some other little ritual or attribute which may elude the eye of even the most experienced of detectives. As to the former, I have encountered more than one instance—like the present one, indeed—where the perpetrator has felt himself compelled to take something from the victim, not so much a
memento mori
as a
memento delectare
—a way of reviving the illicit excitement generated by the crime long after the actual deed has passed. You will recall, I am sure, our conversation about the Ratcliffe Highway killings, and the watch that was taken from the body of the landlord of the King’s Arms—an obvious instance of an otherwise meaningless piece of pilfering that can only be explained by the murderer’s need to retain a material keepsake. But I am sure that you, as a scientist, are at least as well-qualified as I could be to venture an opinion on this subject.”

Charles, perhaps unsurprisingly, is in no state to offer an opinion on anything of the kind—if Maddox is correct, even the pieces of the puzzle he thought resolved will need to be put back together in a new configuration. He’s been assuming all along that Tulkinghorn hired some Cockney bludger to do his dirty work, but is it possible that Cremorne committed these crimes
himself
? He could have found out from Tulkinghorn where Boscawen was lodging, and he could just as easily have followed Lizzie home and slipped into the courtyard unseen in the small hours. And he could—equally easily—have followed Charles to the Graham Arms. But was that really the voice he’d heard when he was lying face-down in the dirt? It didn’t sound like a man of Cremorne’s age—or one of his rank, for that matter—and Charles is certain there was no stammer. But his recollection is fragmentary at best, and the voice never much more than a whisper.

Maddox, meanwhile, has settled more comfortably in his chair. “Perhaps I might join you in a brandy, Charles?”

“Of course, Uncle,” says Charles, getting quickly to his feet. He pours the brandies and when he hands Maddox the glass his grasp is firm.

“I agree,” Maddox resumes, “that it is a reasonable hypothesis to presume, until contradictory facts intervene, that these killings were each the work of the same perpetrator. Our next task, therefore, is to ascertain what these crimes tell us about the man who committed them. There is one fact, of course, that obtrudes immediately on our notice.”

He looks at Charles, who takes a sip of brandy in an endeavour to buy time. Maddox smiles, and continues, placing his fingertips carefully together.

“Perhaps
fact
was too strong, since the available evidence is not extensive enough for a robust deduction, but I posit that the individual with whom we are dealing is a swift, skilled, and ruthless killer. Of
men
. He is, by contrast, a slow, cruel, and utterly depraved murderer of
women
. A man who takes his time to inflict the utmost pain and degradation on his female victims, and who clearly derives an intense and degenerate gratification from so doing. That, to me, suggests a man who has—to say the least—an unhealthy relationship with the fairer sex. A relationship founded on the desire to dominate, and humiliate. Further investigation of Sir Julius’s habits and history might, therefore, be instructive, especially as—”

He stops, and frowns, then waves a hand quickly back and forth in front of his face, as if swatting a fly. But it is winter, and there are no flies. Charles sits forward and puts a hand on his arm. “Uncle? Is everything all right?”

“I was about to say something, but it is eluding me.” He raises his hand again and covers his face, as if the light is dazzling him. “What was that? Who’s there—I know there’s someone—show yourself—damn you—
show yourself—
”

He reaches blindly for his cane and makes to seize it, but Charles
forestalls him, then moves quickly to the bell and rings for Stornaway. By the time he arrives, Charles can barely keep Maddox in his chair. The old man is kicking and biting and bawling profanities so disgusting Charles can hardly believe he ever knew such words, far less used them. He’s almost embarrassed to have Stornaway hear all this, but apparently with no reason: He’s either heard it all before, or can dissociate it entirely from the man he has served and revered for over half a century. It’s a lesson, of a kind, and despite being in no fit state to fend off the vehemence of his uncle’s blows, Charles does what he can to help, and they finally manage to bring Maddox back to some sort of calm. Stornaway silently motions Charles away and kneels down in front of his old master.

“There now—is that better for ye? Would ye like me to bring ye anythin’? Some water perhaps?”

Maddox eyes him with a leering look, then nods and slips his gaze away. Stornaway looks up at Charles. “I’ve noticed he’s allus worse as the day draws on. But I think we’ll be a’right now, Mr Charles, if ye have other things to do.”

It’s the gentlest, most courteous dismissal you could ever devise, but it’s a dismissal all the same. Charles nods and is turning to go when Stornaway calls to him.

“Mr Charles, ye’ve dropped some’at here.”

“I don’t think so, Abel.”

Stornaway bends down behind Maddox’s chair and hands Charles a slip of twisted paper. It’s in his uncle’s handwriting. Not, alas, the confident flowing hand of his maturity, but the weak looping scrawl that’s a sad gauge of Maddox’s deteriorating grasp—both of his pen and of his mind. This scrap certainly seems to have been written from a clouded place: As far as Charles can see it’s nothing more than a string of random numbers and letters.

“Do you know what this means, Abel, if it means anything?”

Stornaway takes the paper and looks at it, then nods. “Aye, it does. It’s a reference to one of the newspapers in those boxes downstairs. He devised a system a his own for organisin’ ’em. He’d have me file
anythin’ as might prove to be useful. And many’s a time it was.” He sighs. “There’s a pile down there I never got round to doin’. Don’t suppose I ever shall now.”

“Can you find it for me—this newspaper?”

“I’ll do me best, Mr Charles, but it looks to me that there’s some’at missin’ here. There should be seven figures, not six. But I’ll go see if Billy’s back and can sit with the boss, and then I can get to it right-away.”

Narrowing the reference down to one of the boxes in the office proves to be fairly straightforward; working out what, in all the solid stack of newsprint it contains, Maddox wanted Charles to see, is quite another. Stornaway can give him no further guidance, beyond saying that the papers have not been logged in chronological order, but according to the nature of the crime as Maddox defined it. Charles is left with the prospect of a dreary evening that may, in the end, lead him nowhere. Nonetheless he has the fire lit in the room, and asks Billy to bring up a decanter of wine and his dinner, when it’s ready. Then he brings down a more comfortable chair from the drawing-room and settles himself by the oil-lamp to read.