As if by Magic (3 page)

‘Not a thing, apart from how they earned their money and the fact that they all end up in the river downstream of Blackfriars. Which,' added Rackham, reaching for another cigarette, ‘leayes a fair old bit of London to cover. Between the two of us, I can't see how we're ever going to catch him. It's not for want of trying, I can tell you that.'

‘Five women,' said Jack. He sat for a few moments in silence. ‘Didn't the original Ripper murder five women?'

‘Yes, he did,' agreed Rackham. ‘But there, more or less, the comparison ends. We had a visit from Inspector Sagar.' Jack looked a question. ‘Sagar's a bit of legend in the force. He played a leading part in the hunt for the original Ripper back in ‘88. It's a long time ago now, but he's well worth listening to. You see, Sagar's Ripper was obviously insane. If we don't know anything else about him, we do know that. As a matter of fact, Sagar's convinced that his Ripper was a lunatic who lived in Aldgate. He was put into an asylum and the killings stopped, but from 31st August to 9th November he attacked and mutilated five women. That's a very short space of time. Now our man has been operating for eighteen months.' He took a long drink of beer. ‘Eighteen months, Jack. It was only when a bright boy from the
Daily Despatch
put two and two together about the victims being marked with a cross and screamed
Ripper!
and the rest of the press took it up, that we realized we had a series of murders on our hands. That was after the third killing.'

‘Eighteen months,' repeated Jack. ‘It's a dickens of a time.'

‘I know,' agreed Rackham. ‘It bothered Sagar, too.'

‘Could it be someone who's only in London every so often?' suggested Jack. ‘You know, a sailor or someone like that?'

Rackham shook his head. ‘We don't think so. According to the experts once this sort of homicidal mania gets hold of a man, it's like a drug. He can't stop and we'd expect a series of killings to follow him wherever he goes. There's nothing to suggest that. No. Sagar reckoned that our man – our very cautious man – isn't a lunatic at all.'

‘He must be,' said Jack, startled.

Rackham shook his head. ‘Not in the accepted sense, no. This man knows exactly what he's doing.'

Jack felt his throat tighten. ‘You mean he kills for pleasure? Like a treat?' Rackham nodded. ‘You've got to find him, Bill.'

‘How?' demanded Rackham bitterly. ‘I tell you, this bloke's sane. He doesn't leave clues. After all, we never found Jack the Ripper and he was barmy. There's damn all to go on. If you only
knew
. . .' He stopped and looked ruefully at his friend. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's just that everyone at the Yard wants this swine stopped and we haven't a clue how to go about it. That's the truth but it's hard to admit.' He blew out a mouthful of smoke with an irritated sigh. ‘Forget it, Jack. It's not your sort of case.'

Jack's mouth twisted. ‘No, thank God, it's not. If this bloke really is sane, then the only chance you've got is a lucky break and lots of police work.' He looked at his friend. ‘No wonder you're looking so done in.'

Rackham stretched his shoulders. ‘It's been tough. And, of course, I've got my naked man in the Thames.' He very nearly smiled. ‘At least they can't blame Jack the Ripper for that one. Not that that's any help, particularly. So far we haven't been able to identify him. He had his face battered in very thoroughly. At first sight it looks like the work of a maniac, so what with a possibly insane killer and a probably sane Ripper, us poor beggars at Scotland Yard have got our work cut out. All we actually know is that his body was pulled out of the Thames at Southwark Bridge steps at just gone nine yesterday morning. The doctor thinks he had been dead for about nine or ten hours at that stage, which gets us back to eleven o'clock or midnight at the absolute outside. He didn't want to commit himself any more definitely than that because of the action of the water retarding the progress of rigor and so on.'

‘Could his face have been bashed in to conceal his identity?'

‘Well, I thought of that, of course, but his hands are still intact. Mind you, we haven't got his fingerprints on record, so that doesn't help much. The odd thing about him is that the surgeon states that the beating he got wasn't the cause of death. What's even odder is that the surgeon – it's Dr Harding, Jack, and you know he's good – can't say how he did die. Apparently he had some sort of heart problem so Harding's put it down as heart failure for the time being and that's as much as he can tell us.'

‘Heart failure?' questioned Jack.

Rackham half smiled once more. ‘Technically he's correct, of course. I can't say I've come across many dead men whose hearts are still up and running. It's simply medical terminology. Harding knows as well as I do that heart failure doesn't strip a man naked and cave in his face.'

‘What about his teeth?' asked Jack. ‘Or were they too damaged to help you identify him?'

‘He didn't have any teeth. Presumably he had a dental plate but that's gone. All we can really say is that he's a middle-aged man, about five foot eleven and well-nourished, to use the usual formula. He'd eaten well before he died and was killed about eleven o'clock the night before last.' Rackham picked up his beer. ‘Oh, forget about him, Jack. He's not your sort of case, either. I imagine what'll happen is that someone will eventually notice they haven't seen so-and-so for a time and tell us about it. We'll match up the description with our Mr X and that'll be it. It's a matter of simple police work.'

‘And once that happens you can start to look for whoever bumped him off. Which might not be so simple.' Jack leaned back against the oak of the settle. ‘Haven't you had any other cases, Bill? Your bodies in the river aren't much fun.'

‘Ghoul,' said Rackham with a grin. He stood up. ‘Let me get some more beer and I'll think about it.'

When Rackham came back from the bar he looked more cheerful. ‘I've thought of something,' he announced, sitting down. ‘It happened about three weeks or a month ago now and it isn't really a case at all, more of an incident, but it made me think of you. It sounded like one of your stories. I only got to hear of it because one of my sergeants was grumbling that no charges had been pressed.'

‘What happened?'

‘A man broke into the kitchen of a house in Mayfair. He didn't steal anything, apart from a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches, which is why the lady of the house didn't press charges. He was ill, poor beggar, and we ended up carting him off to the Royal Free. The odd thing about him was that he was wearing full evening dress.'

‘He sounds a very elegant tramp,' said Jack. ‘So far, so good. That could be quite a nice point in a story. I suppose the poor devil was actually an out-of-work waiter or musician or something. I don't suppose he was remotely elegant in real life.'

‘As a matter of fact, he was – or had been, at least. According to Constable Newland, who nabbed him, the man's clothes were extremely good quality, if a bit the worse for wear. Newland worked in a gents' outfitters before he joined the force and knows what he's talking about. They were tailor-made in . . .' He frowned. ‘Now where was it?'

‘Savile Row?' suggested Jack.

‘No. It wasn't in England at all. Cape Town, that was it. His name and the tailor's name were on the label of his tail coat. Anyway, he came up the kitchen steps like a bat out of hell, more or less straight into the arms of Constable Newland. He tried to get away, Newland chased after him, blew his whistle, Constable Thirsk showed up and between them they got him. Anyway, he started gibbering away about a murder he'd seen.' Rackham took a drink and laughed. ‘He said there was a dead body in the kitchen.'

‘And was there?' asked Jack, hopefully. ‘This is getting really good.'

‘Of course there wasn't. Sorry, Jack. He was making it up. The constables knew he was, but the lady of the house insisted that one of the policemen go and look, all the same. There was nothing there, as you'd expect. However, I thought that if there had been, it would make a cracking story.'

‘It might,' said Jack. ‘I like the bit about him being in evening dress, I must say. The lady who owned the house couldn't know anything about it, otherwise she wouldn't have insisted on the police inspecting the kitchen.' He ran his finger round the top of his glass. ‘Kitchens. Who'd leave a body in a kitchen? It's a rotten place. The servants would trip over it.' He leaned back. ‘In fact, it's odd that the servants weren't there. What sort of body was it? A man or a woman?'

‘There wasn't a body,' said Rackham patiently. ‘That's the point.'

‘Yes, but he thought there was a body and by your account something must have scared him otherwise he wouldn't have done his bat out of hell impression. Hang on. Did you say he'd seen a murder? That'd scare him.'

‘He didn't see anything, I tell you.'

‘I wonder what he did see?'

‘Crikey, Jack, I don't know,' said Rackham with a short laugh. ‘Nothing but his own imagination, I should think. He wouldn't go back in the place to show them where his imaginary body was. He was frightened stiff.'

‘It must have been some vision. Was he drunk?'

‘Apparently not. He was ill, though, as I say. Look, old man, if you're that interested why don't you go and ask him? He's still in the Royal Free as far as I know.'

‘I wonder if he'd appreciate a visitor?' Jack caught Rackham's expression and grinned. ‘I know, you think I'm wasting my time chasing after some poor bloke and his vivid imagination but he does sound a bit out of the ordinary, you must admit. After all, that's why you told me about him in the first place. What's his name?'

‘I've been trying to remember. Rossiter? George Rossiter? No, that's not quite right. Lassiter, that's it. George Lassiter.'

‘George Lassiter?' Jack put down his beer and repeated the name sharply. ‘George Lassiter? From South Africa? Are you sure?'

‘Fairly sure, yes. Why? You don't know him, do you?'

‘I certainly knew a George Lassiter and he was a South African. He was in my squadron. He was a first-rate pilot and a thoroughly good sort. He got shot down a few months before the end of the war and was taken prisoner. I don't know what happened to him after that. I haven't seen him for years. I wonder if it really is the same bloke? He was a big man with sandy hair.'

‘I don't know what he looks like,' said Rackham, ‘and to be honest I don't know if he's actually a South African, but his clothes were certainly made in Cape Town so it seems likely enough.'

Jack looked at his watch. ‘I don't know what the visiting hours at the Royal Free are but I imagine I've missed them for today. Damn!'

‘Don't worry about that,' said Rackham. ‘Let me finish my beer and I'll come to the hospital with you. Even if they won't let you see the man himself, you can talk to the doctor or the matron or whatever about him. But remember, Jack, the man was apparently destitute. If you show too much interest you might end up being lumbered with him.'

Jack shrugged. ‘I suppose I might but it wouldn't be for long. He was a very independent character. And after all, he's an old friend, or he could be. It sounds as if he needs one.' He stopped, frowning. ‘What the devil made him do it? As I remember George, he was painfully honest. He must have been desperate. I'll tell you something else, too. He's the last person to suffer from an over-active imagination. He was a very prosaic sort of bloke. What the devil was he doing breaking into kitchens in Mayfair and seeing visionary corpses?'

Rackham drained his glass and stood up. ‘Let's go and find out, shall we?'

The man in the Royal Free was indeed George Lassiter, Jack's old friend, and, although Lassiter himself was fast asleep, the doctor in charge of the case greeted Haldean and Rackham with frank relief.

‘You've solved a bit of a problem for us, Major Haldean,' said Dr Garrett, showing the two men into his office. ‘Please, sit down, won't you? You see, although the patient will be well enough to leave us shortly, he has to have somewhere to regain his strength. I was attempting to place him in a suitable convalescent home but, as you can imagine, our funds are very limited. Your generous offer to take care of him couldn't have come at a better time.' He thought for a couple of moments. ‘Let me see. Today's Friday. I imagine he'll be well enough to leave us on Monday. Tuesday at the outside.'

‘What's actually been wrong with him?' asked Jack curiously. He had been shocked by the sight of the sleeping man. Poor old George, although perfectly recognizable, was thin and wasted.

‘He's been suffering from influenza and malaria.' Jack whistled sympathetically. ‘Yes,' continued Dr Garrett, ‘it's a nasty combination. Frankly, I was surprised when he pulled through. I didn't expect him to. He must have a remarkable constitution.'

‘He was always very fit and healthy when I knew him,' said Jack. ‘He grew up on a farm on the veldt, as I remember, and was always a great bloke for the outdoors. He hated being cooped up inside for too long.'

The doctor nodded. ‘That would explain his rapid progress. If you're able to provide good food and rest and he takes moderate exercise, I imagine a couple of weeks would see him completely recovered.'

‘I'll do my best,' said Jack. ‘He can either live with me for the time being or I'll see he gets into a convalescent home. It depends on my landlady to some extent, of course. I'll have to see what she says, but in any event, he'll be all right.'

‘Well, Jack,' said Rackham, as they turned out of the hospital into the Gray's Inn Road. ‘It looks as if you're going to have ample opportunity to ask George Lassiter what he did see in Mayfair.'