Murder on the Short List (5 page)

“Did he, the rotter?”

“You don't seem overly concerned.”

“He left no will. As his nearest and dearest I'll inherit everything he ever owned, including this house.”

“Not if you're hanged for murder, madam.”

“
What?
” For the first time in all this sorry business, she looked alarmed.

Father Montgomery raised his hands to urge restraint on both sides. “Before we go any further, Inspector, why don't I show you what I discovered in the den?”

Emily Flanagan, muttering mild expletives, followed them into the room where the body had been discovered. The priest pointed out the bullet hole in the books and remarked that it was unlikely that the victim had held a gun to his head and missed. “I suggest that someone else was holding the gun, someone who waited through the small hours of the night for him to come in and then pointed it at him and brought him in here and sat him at his own desk, where it would look as if he chose to die. I suggest there was a struggle and he deflected the first shot, but the second was fired with the gun to his head.”

“A crime of passion, then,” said the inspector.

“No. Let me show you something else.” He rolled back the carpet and revealed the copy of
John Bull
. “You can pick it up,” he told the inspector. “Take note of the number seven scribbled on the top right corner. The magazine was delivered to this house as usual. It was Mr Russell's copy, but Patrick Flanagan grabbed it the day it was pushed through the letterbox and hid it here. Now turn to page thirty-eight, headed
Bullets,
and look at this week's thousand pound winner.”

The inspector read aloud, “
Mr PF, of Teddington, Middlesex
. That's Patrick Flanagan. No wonder he was out celebrating.”

“But Patrick didn't do the Bullets!” said Mrs Flanagan in awe.

“Right, it was your father who provided the winning entry. Being unable to walk more than a few steps, he relied on Patrick to post it for him. Patrick ripped open the envelope and entered the competition under his own name. I dare say he'd played the trick before, because the old man was known to have a flare for Bullets.”

“They're second nature to him,” said Mrs Flanagan.

“Patrick delayed paying in the cheque. I'm sure we'll find it in here somewhere. He hid the magazine under the carpet so that your father shouldn't find out, but the old chap managed to get hold of a copy.”

“He sent me out to buy it.”

“And when he saw the competition page, he was outraged. The main object of his life was to win that competition. He'd been robbed of his moment of glory by a shabby trick from his son-in-law. So last night he went to the study and collected the gun and lay in wait. The rest you know.”

The inspector let out a breath so deep and so long it seemed to empty his lungs. “You're clever, Father.”

“A man's soul was at stake, Inspector.”

“Not a good man.”

“It's not for us to judge.”

Mrs Flanagan said, “What was the winning entry?”

“Well, the phrase was ‘A Policeman's Lot'.”

“‘A Lawfully Big Adventure',” said the murderer with pride, entering the room.

C
onstable Thackeray gripped his skirt and managed a few more steps towards the next lamp. Then he tried glancing over his shoulder, as women of that profession do. Difficult. He was wearing a leather collar that was meant to protect his throat. This was the most worrying assignment of his long career.

“It's simple,” Sergeant Cribb had told him. “You're a decoy. We dress you up as a streetwalker, fit you with a padded leather choker and invite Razor Bill to slash your throat.” Regardless that Thackeray looked nothing like a streetwalker and anything but inviting. “In a bonnet and skirt on a foggy night, you'll do famously. Our man isn't too particular.”

In that harsh winter of 1882, Razor Bill was the Yard's top priority. Four prostitutes had perished on the streets of Pimlico, throats severed from ear to ear. Not much detective work was needed to tell that the murder weapon was a razor; not much editorial work from the press to give the perpetrator his nickname. Newspaper sales shot up.

Thackeray sniffed meat-pie as he passed an eating-house. No use thinking of supper. He was under constant surveillance by Cribb and a handful of B Division detectives disguised as revellers across the street. The minute the attack came, they would pounce, so they said. All he had to do was grab some part of Bill's anatomy and hang on.

Hang on with what? He could barely feel his fingers. He was hungry, cold and miserable. Cribb had insisted his beard came off – five years' magnificent growth. “What are you griping for? It'll grow again.”

Worse, they'd got to work on his pale face with paint and powder. In the end he'd submitted to the whole boiling: petticoats, skirt, blouse, boots, feather boa, wig and a large plush hat. His first concern wasn't Razor Bill. It was being recognised by someone he knew.

Around two p.m. Chelsea Bridge Road started to empty. All the activity of the last hour dwindled to an occasional cab. This was when Bill was most likely to strike. One unfortunate creature in Lupus Street. One in Turpentine Lane, behind the railway depot. Another where Denbigh Street crossed Belgrave Road. The fourth in Buckingham Palace Road. No witnesses. Someone said they'd heard a scream in Lupus Street. Nothing exceptional in that.

“One moment, young lady.”

As yet, Thackeray hadn't fully identified with his role, so this enquiry from behind passed him by.

“Young lady.” The voice was closer this time, and insistent.

He turned. Too quickly. His shaven chin rasped against the collar.

The speaker was male, average in height, wearing a top hat and long grey overcoat. His black beard was almost as handsome as the one Thackeray had sacrificed. “Are you looking for company?”

Oh, glory, Thackeray thought. A genuine client.

“Don't be shy of me, my dear.” The accent was educated, the tone kindly.

Thackeray shook his head and pointed into his mouth as if to show his throat was sore.

“Have I made a mistake?” the man asked. “I assumed – seeing you out on the street so late – that you are here for a purpose. That – not to put too fine a point upon it – you are a lady of the town.”

Thackeray shook his head and tried to move away, but the man stepped closer.

“There's no need to be afraid, my dear.” With a ceremonious air he slid his hand under the beard and revealed that he, too, was wearing a high collar, except that his was clerical. “You see? I am a minister of the gospel, the Reverend Eli Mountjoy, on a mission of salvation to rescue poor, deluded creatures like yourself from the toils of sin. I urge you now to forsake the path of wickedness and accompany me to the Terminus Wash-house in Lupus Street, where my devoted wife Lettice is waiting to plunge you into clean, warm water and wrap you in a blanket.”

“No thank you,” Thackeray said, appalled at the thought. “And after that we shall share a bowl of reviving eel-broth and speak of how you may be saved.”

“I'm not what you take me for.”

“How often have I heard the same denial from unfortunate women like you,” the Reverend Mountjoy said. “The key to the Kingdom has to be earned, you know. You must first admit what you are.”

“I'm a policeman in disguise.”

The minister felt in his pocket and put on a pair of spectacles. “Did I hear correctly? A policeman?”

“Keep your voice down, for pity's sake,” Thackeray said.

The tone altered abruptly. “I thought there was something peculiar about you. What's the matter with you, dressing up as a tart?”

“I'm on the trail of Razor Bill.”

“Oh, yes?”

“The killer. You must have heard of him. It's supposed to be a trap.”

After a pause, the minister said, “The best of luck to you, then. I'll be about my business.” He was soon out of sight.

Thackeray glanced across the street to where Cribb was supposed to be. If Eli Mountjoy had been the killer – and he could have been for all Cribb knew – the speed of the response had not been encouraging. Some people were over there for sure, but they hailed a cab and got in. It all seemed worryingly quiet now. A mist was coming off the river. The dampness increased Thackeray's discomfort. He decided to walk on a bit, swinging his hips in the spirit of the
Police Code. ‘It is highly undesirable for detectives to proclaim their official character to strangers by walking in a drilled style, or by wearing regulation boots, or by openly recognising constables in uniform, or saluting superior officers.'
No one would accuse him of walking in a drilled style. He'd already fooled the Reverend Mountjoy.

The hip-swinging became a touch less energetic when Chelsea Barracks came up on his right. It wouldn't be wise to over-excite the army. In fact, he didn't care to pass the barracks at all, so he turned up Commercial Road. Almost immediately he heard footsteps behind him.

They were steady and heavy. Male, for sure. His skin prickled. He resisted the urge to look round. With the collar strapped so tight, it would have required a complete about turn. He walked faster, trying to make the next lamp-post so as to be more visible to the rescue squad. How he wished he'd stuffed a truncheon up his bodice. “You'll have surprise on your side,” Cribb had said. Thanks a lot, Sarge, Thackeray thought. And which would you rather have on your side – surprise, or an open razor?

The steps quickened.

They were closer.

He felt a tug on his waist, but it wasn't from his pursuer. He'd stepped on the hem of the skirt and the whole thing tightened. Thrown off balance, he lurched forward. Trying to recover, he planted the other boot on the skirt. He sank to his knees like a shot stag.

The sensation of helplessness was horrible. Hampered already by the steel collar, he was dragged further down by the clothes. He struggled against them, hoping the material would give a little, but the weave was too strong and he pitched over and rolled on his back.

Before he had time to sit up, the attacker was on him, a hand thrust against his shoulder, pinning him to the pavement, strong, vicious, bent on the kill. He couldn't see who it was. There was just the gleam of the blade as it slashed downwards.

H
e had the sense to grab the arm with both hands just as the razor sliced open his collar. Thank heaven for the wad of stuffing inside. He held onto that arm, tugged it across his body and crashed the hand against the pavement. There was a yell. The razor slid away and out of reach.

Now Thackeray used surprise to more effect, rolling sideways onto the arm that had held the razor. The move caught Razor Bill off guard and toppled him sideways. Thackeray raised a knee and heard a grunt of pain as it made contact with the man's most vulnerable area. Legs flailed and the body arched, but Thackeray wasn't distracted. He'd done some wrestling in his time. That was what this was about now: all-in wrestling. He hung onto that arm, pressing down on it with his body weight.

Razor Bill struggled like an alligator, but Thackeray gritted his teeth and held on.

Thoughts tumbled into his brain. Where was Cribb?

He shouted, “Sarge!”

The only response was from Razor Bill: a vicious kick in the kidneys, followed by another. Thackeray groaned. He shifted his hip, backing hard against Bill's chest and stomach.

Bill's free hand groped at Thackeray's face and clawed his cheek, missing his eye by a fraction. This couldn't go on.

Thackeray yelled, “Police!”

They're never around when you need them. Bill cracked his fist into Thackeray's ribs. This was a strong man.

“Sarge!”

“The minute he strikes, we'll pounce.”

That vicious left hand came exploring his face again. This time he bit into the fleshy part and heard a screech.

Encouraged, Thackeray said, “Better give up, mate. You're nicked.”

For that, he took a knee in the small of his back.

Then he was grabbed and rolled aside. There was shouting. Hands grasped his arms and lifted him. Finally the reinforce-ments had arrived.

Razor Bill was formally arrested and cuffed. He said nothing.

“You all right?” Cribb asked Thackeray.

“A bit sore.”

“Could be so much worse, though. Smart of me to think of the collar, wasn't it?”

W
hen they tried to interview the prisoner at Chelsea police station, there was a snag. He refused to speak. Wouldn't even give his name.

Big and swarthy, with the coldest eyes Cribb had seen, he sat staring back like a caged bear.

“It won't help you, saying nothing,” Cribb told the man. “You were caught red-handed. We picked up the open razor. You attacked one of my men, mistakenly taking him for a streetwalker. You might as well sing now, and save us all a long night.”

They'd searched him thoroughly. He carried no papers, no pocketbook, nothing. His clothes were those of a working man. His hands had done manual work.

“You'll be hungry by now,” Cribb said. “Speak up and we'll feed you a hot meal.”

Not a glimmer of interest.

“I'm beginning to think he's stone deaf.”

“Or a foreigner,” Thackeray said.

“You could be right. He was yelling a bit when you were on the ground with him. What was he saying?”

“Nothing I remember, Sarge.”

“Weren't you paying attention? What were you doing?”

“Fighting for my bloody life.”

“There's no need for coarseness. Fetch Inspector Jowett. He speaks some French. He'll enjoy showing off to us.”

But Jowett, when he tried, made no impression, despite employing all the animated gestures of a Frenchman. “Are you certain this is Razor Bill?” he said to Cribb.