As if by Magic (16 page)

Old long before her time, she had spent the last three years of her life being cared for by the nuns of the convent of St Germain-des-Prés, Mantes, who specialized in such cases. The first that Mr Marchbolt knew of Rosemary Belmont's death was a letter from the Mother Superior of the convent, detailing what the Reverend Mother knew of their patient's life and the fact that Mrs Belmont had been incapable of any form of rational communication for the last year she spent in their care. The Reverend Mother believed, she added, that Mrs Belmont had no living family. Certainly she had had no visitors. Her only possessions had been a cardboard box full of letters, old theatre programmes and invitations. A letter from Marchbolt's, dated 1902, confirming the drawing up of the new will, was the reason why the Mother Superior had written.

‘Blimey,' said Jack, when Rackham told him the results of the interview on the telephone later on. ‘You're sure that letter – the one from the Mother Superior, I mean – was genuine?'

‘It certainly was,' said Rackham, recalling the spidery French of the Mother Superior's communication. ‘I can't see Marchbolt's being on the fiddle either, Jack. I mean, if they were, Mr Marchbolt wouldn't have given me all that information.'

Jack let his breath out slowly. ‘At this rate I'm going to convince myself that George claimed the money then forgot all about it. That's a joke, by the way. But where do we go now, Bill? If the information didn't come from Rosemary Belmont and Marchbolt's are squeaky-clean, how the dickens did anyone know that there was any loot in the offing? Did the nuns know she was rich?'

‘The Mother Superior was aware that she'd been married to an artist but all she knew about him was that he'd killed himself with absinthe. She certainly didn't know Mrs Belmont had a small fortune tucked away. That was obvious.'

‘Then it has to be the solicitors,' said Jack. ‘There's nowhere else the information could have come from.'

Rackham's voice was doubtful. ‘What can I do? I've seen Mr Marchbolt and he's convinced the firm acted properly. On the evidence he has, they're in the clear. I suppose I could write to the South African police.'

Jack sounded unimpressed. ‘That'll tell us what, exactly? That a George Lassiter stayed at the Faulkner Hotel, Cape Town, about two years ago? I suppose it's worth doing but I can't see it's going to get us much further.'

‘Neither can I,' admitted Rackham, ‘but you never know.'

Rackham, without much hope of success, wrote to the South African police and there, for the time being, the matter rested.

At eight o'clock that evening, Jack was standing by the bar in the Heroes of Waterloo. He looked up with a smile as Bill Rackham came into the snug. ‘Ah, Bill. I've only just arrived. I've nabbed a table by the fire. Can I get you a drink?'

‘Thanks,' said Rackham, tersely, taking off his hat and unbuttoning his coat. He didn't smile back but rubbed a weary hand over his freckled face. His eyes had shadows underneath them and he looked, thought Jack, whacked out. ‘I'll have a pint of Young's, thanks.' He looked round the oak and brass interior of the pub, saw the table Jack indicated, walked across the room and sank gratefully on to the wooden settle. Jack picked up the two pewter mugs and carried them across to his friend. There was obviously something wrong. When he'd spoken to Bill earlier that day, he'd been fine. Now he looked washed out and, more than that, angry. Jack put the drinks on the table and sat down.

Apart from a group of young men who looked like bank clerks and were cheerfully and loudly analysing Arsenal's performance on Saturday, they had the snug to themselves. There was no danger of them being overheard. ‘What is it, Bill?' he asked quietly.

Rackham heaved a deep sigh and took a long drink. ‘You were right,' he said simply.

Jack frowned. ‘What about?'

‘You were right about him,' said Rackham. ‘Culverton,' he added bitterly. ‘The big boss, the big cheese, the friend of cabinet ministers and just about the worst eighteen carat gold-plated swine it's ever been my fortune to run up against.' He shook his head. ‘I said you were good at guessing. What did you say? That Culverton was unpleasant? You took one look at those pictures in his office on Friday and you had him nailed.'

‘What did he do?' asked Jack. He knew he hadn't been mistaken about that face in the pictures in Culverton's office. He put his cigarettes on the table and waited for Rackham to speak. He had never seen Bill look so grim.

Rackham gave a shudder, ran his hand through his ginger hair and took a cigarette from the case, tapping it on the table. He was obviously finding it hard to put his thoughts in order. A burst of laughter came from the group of football supporters and Jack suddenly wished that he, too, had nothing more to think about than the everyday pleasures of life. Whatever Rackham had to tell him, it had clearly shaken his friend.

‘Culverton,' said Rackham eventually. ‘Let's take the public man first. He seems to have had genuine ability. Gilchrist Lloyd admired him. He's been with him from the beginning. During the war Culverton set up a transport company, buying and repairing old commercial vehicles and selling them to the government at a very healthy profit. And, of course, with any vehicle, however clapped out, being shipped to France, he finished the war a great deal better off than when he started. He sold out just before the Armistice and got a huge price on the deal. As soon as the Armistice was declared he started nosing around after old aeroplanes and dropped lucky. He bought two aircraft for next to nothing and spent some money in fitting them up. Then, as soon as civilian flying was permitted again, he was there. He made a real killing. He got married at the end of 1919 and, with Mrs Culverton's money behind him, went from strength to strength.'

Rackham rolled his cigarette between his fingers. ‘He was a big personality, Jack. I've got to give him that. I've had a long talk with Mrs Culverton today and she found him overwhelming. He could charm, too. It was his energy, she thinks, that really attracted her.'

‘So what went wrong?' asked Jack.

‘He did. You know that rosewood box you found in his desk? Well, after I'd been to Marchbolt's this morning and spoken to you, I was able to examine the contents. You know you thought he might have caused trouble with the female staff? That box proved it. It contained a couple of packets of grubby photographs – the sort you get offered in Paris – a few newspaper cuttings and three letters from a girl called Katherine Forrest. After I'd read the letters I went round to see Gilchrist Lloyd, as it was obvious that Katherine Forrest had worked for Culverton at one time. Gilchrist Lloyd remembered her. She was a pretty, amiable girl who'd been Culverton's stenographer about three years ago. She wasn't, thought Lloyd, outstandingly bright, but she was pleasant enough. She resigned and Lloyd had no idea what had happened to her.'

‘I presume Culverton had an affair with her,' said Jack. ‘Did she land up in trouble?'

‘Yes, she did.' Rackham took a deep breath. ‘And if that was all, it would be bad enough but that's the way of things, Jack. No, it was everything else that turned my stomach. You see, Culverton didn't merely get the poor girl pregnant.' He leaned forward, his voice low. ‘He also gave her syphilis.'

Jack stared at him. ‘The bastard.'

‘Absolutely.' Rackham looked at him with hooded eyes. ‘The last letter was a plea for help. It would have melted a heart of stone. It was written from Charing Cross Hospital. I went to Charing Cross and got the whole sorry story. The baby was stillborn and Katherine Forrest died shortly afterwards. By that stage, you see, the disease was far too advanced to be cured.' Jack made a noise in his throat. ‘The hospital,' continued Rackham, ‘said that she seemed to have no friends or relations. He left her to die, Jack. How anyone after reading those letters could leave the girl to die without offering a single shred of comfort, I don't know.'

Jack covered his eyes with his hand. It was a long time before he spoke. At the other end of the snug the bank clerks were talking, drinking, smoking and laughing, swapping stories, being happy in ordinary, everyday ways. Why the hell – why the bloody
hell –
couldn't Culverton have been happy like them? There must have been some reason Culverton kept those letters. He had made no move to help the girl and, given that the letters were with a packet of obscene photographs, they hadn't been kept as a goad to his conscience. No; they were a record of one of his conquests. ‘What then?' he asked quietly.

‘I went back to the offices on Cooper Street. Lloyd had told me that Mrs Culverton would be there this afternoon and I wanted to see her.'

‘You didn't tell her about Katherine Forrest, did you?' said Jack, startled.

‘I did, Jack. I was angry, you see, blisteringly angry. I don't think I've ever felt like that before. Mrs Culverton had never heard of Katherine Forrest. She was appalled.'

‘Well, she would be,' said Jack. ‘How d'you expect the poor woman to react? What on earth did she say?'

‘It helped that she'd been a nurse.' Rackham took a long pull at his cigarette. ‘That meant I could state things clearly without beating around the bush. She was shocked – disgusted might be a better description – but she wasn't surprised.'

Jack looked up sharply. ‘No?'

‘No. She knew what her husband was like. However, she didn't realize he'd had syphilis. Not that she doubted it, mind you. “I should have known,” she said. “I should have guessed.” She remembered him going to Maguire for treatment. Culverton told her he was suffering from overwork but the symptoms fitted those of syphilis. We checked the dates with his old appointment diaries. Culverton had been seeing Maguire for some time when Katherine Forrest joined the firm. I saw Maguire to confirm the dates and the diagnosis. He said he'd warned Culverton about the importance of not passing the disease on.'

Jack nodded. ‘Of course he would.'

‘Maguire treated him with a course of intramuscular injections of mercurial cream and, apart from an enlargement of his aortic valve, a common side-effect of syphilis, Culverton made a good recovery. One fact that Mrs Culverton found significant with hindsight was that it was about then Culverton complained of heart trouble. She also said that his personality began to alter and that, too, can be a symptom.'

‘How did his personality alter?' asked Jack. ‘He doesn't sound any great shakes to begin with.'

‘He doesn't, does he? However, he had some good qualities, if you count all that shrewdness, energy and charm as good points. She says that she went from being charmed to being wary but then – and the dates fit his treatment from Maguire – she started to be afraid. I know we've only got her word for it but I was convinced she was telling the truth. Things came to a head the morning of Wednesday, 31st October. What she found in his room terrified the life out of her.'

Jack looked a question.

‘Culverton was up in London, of course,' said Rackham, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another. ‘Mrs Culverton went into his dressing room. It was a room which, according to her, she rarely entered. Culverton's valet looked after his things and she never had occasion to go in, but the Richmond Red Cross were having a jumble sale and she'd been asked to look out some old clothes. While going through Culverton's wardrobe, she saw there was a loose panel at the base. The wardrobe had a false bottom and tucked into it was a folder containing yet more obscene photographs and a bundle of newspaper cuttings.'

Rackham stopped and looked at Jack. ‘There were newspaper cuttings in the rosewood box in his office. These were on the same subject.' He paused. ‘You seemed to have a good idea what he was like, Jack. You seemed to have him pegged right away. I don't suppose you can guess what these cuttings were about, can you?'

Jack leaned back. Images and sensations jumbled together in his mind. A cold-eyed predatory face, the sensuous luxury of Culverton's office, a dying girl, a terrified woman, the obscene photographs, a string of unsolved murders, the intrusive memory of a Holbein portrait, and an imaginary but oddly convincing picture of a bundle of newspaper cuttings gloated over in private. It was huge leap but he was going to make it. He took a deep breath. ‘He's the X man. He's your Jack the Ripper,' he said quietly.

Rackham brought his fist down on the table.' You've got it.
That's
what the cuttings were about. They were all accounts of the murders and when Mrs Culverton saw them hidden away under the bottom of the wardrobe she said she felt sick. All of a sudden, all sorts of details, all sorts of comments and, most of all, her growing feeling of terror seemed to make sense. She's utterly convinced of it.'

‘Was she going to tell you?' asked Jack.

Rackham splayed his hands out in a questioning gesture. ‘How do I know? After she found the cuttings she had no thought beyond getting out of the house and to the safety of her own flat. She says she felt paralysed. She had no proof, only conviction, and was terrified that if she did approach the police Culverton would find out what she'd done. To be honest, I think she was nerving herself to come to us when she got the letter from Lloyd to say he was missing. After that . . .' He shrugged. ‘What was the point? Culverton was dead and she couldn't help his victims.'

‘Is there any proof?' asked Jack, suddenly cautious. He would have preferred Rackham to argue the toss with him, to point out all the reasons why he could be wrong, to test his sudden insight against hard fact. ‘I mean, it's all very well us swapping nightmares with each other but is there any evidence?'

Rackham raised his hands and let them fall. ‘No. No, there isn't and if we can't find any, this will never be made public. What sort of evidence could there be? I'm going to look, believe me I'm going to look, but I wouldn't be surprised if the X man murders are never officially solved. The Assistant Commissioner is going to interview Mrs Culverton but he told me there's no real doubt in his mind that we've got the truth.'