Terror by Gaslight (11 page)

Nor did he have much to say about his ten months living rough on the Heath. He’d existed by shooting birds and rabbits with his bow, and catching ducks by the ponds; he’d learned survival techniques in the army.

But it had obviously been a time of great privation, which had finally destroyed a body already ravaged by drink, and it had eventually sent him slinking home to his wife. He acknowledged that he was lucky to be married to a saint. ‘She’s a real Christian,’ he said. Clearly she’d still felt bound by her marriage vows.

It was only when, unasked, he went back further, to his years on the stage, that Scully’s voice mustered a little strength and his mind some enthusiasm. His story differed from that which they’d heard from Charlie Challis. He averred that he had been the star, and it was jealousy that
had caused Challis to push him out. He described great audience reactions and, having checked that his wife had not yet returned, recalled colourful adventures with theatrical ladies.

These excitements tired him; his voice began to peter out and his eyes to close. He was silently enjoying happy memories as he fell asleep.

On this occasion Scully’s timing was perfect. It was as he began to produce little snuffles and snores that Madge came back with the bottle of gin.

‘Nodded off, has he?’ she said. ‘It’s best if he’s sleeping.’ She opened the bottle, replaced the stopper, put an upturned glass on top, and placed the gin on the far side of the cabinet. ‘Don’t want him reaching it too easy.’

The men rose to leave. ‘Thank you, Mrs Scully,’ said Steele. ‘Your husband’s done his best to be helpful.’

‘Well, there’s a miracle! Perhaps he’s seen the light at last,’ said Madge, as she led them out through the door and back along the passage. ‘I’ve been trying to get the parson to come in, that’s if Luke’ll see him. It’s time he made his peace.’

‘We heard you talk about rent arrears,’ Steele ventured. ‘Perhaps you’d allow us to help a little further.’ He handed Madge Scully two more sovereigns.

‘God bless you, sir, and thank you,’ said Madge, putting the coins in her apron pocket.

‘You must find things difficult. How do you manage?’

‘I’m out cleaning five days a week,’ replied Madge. ‘Nice lady I’m working for. She even give me money to have a doctor look at Luke.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Consumption. His lungs is almost gone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Steele. He meant it. What had happened to Scully was hideous.

Mason remained practical. ‘Should we leave a card, guv’nor?’

‘Oh yes. Thank you, Jack.’ Steele gave Mrs Scully one of their business cards. ‘We’re engaged in the hunt for the Hampstead Heath Maniac,’ he said. ‘We hoped Mr Scully might remember something useful from his days in Hampstead, but he wasn’t able to do so today. If he recalls anything later, would you please let us know. And if at any time you need help, Mrs Scully, you can call on us.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Madge Scully put the card in her apron pocket alongside the sovereigns, a handkerchief and a comb, which she would use from time to time to straighten her husband’s remaining strands of straggly hair.

Steele could not resist a final cautionary word. ‘Excuse my asking, but did the doctor say it was all right for your husband to go on drinking gin?’

‘He said it won’t make no difference now. He’s only got a few weeks to live. It’s best to keep him happy.’

Frankel descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and went down the three stone steps into the kitchen area. He was enjoying some pleasant anticipation, though no one would have known that from his face.

He was recalling that there had been a lot of good meat left on the lunchtime roast chicken. In particular, he was savouring an enticing mental picture of a plump chicken leg, still in place on the bird.

Three hours had elapsed since lunch, and there were three more to get through before dinner. His gastric juices, seldom idle, were starting to make their presence felt. It was time for a snack. He remembered that there were a few cold sausages as well.

He walked through the kitchen, opened the door of the spacious larder, and marched in. And then he let out a howl of rage.

A figure was already there, standing in front of the marble
shelf, cutting off a slice of chicken breast with a sharp knife: a small piece, whose absence he hoped would not be noticed.

Hearing the door opening behind him, the boy swung round, his face a mixture of terror and disbelief. This was a time when the kitchen area should normally be deserted.

Frankel grasped him by the front of his shirt, hoisted him off the ground and began shaking him violently, berating him as he did so.

‘You scoundrel!’ he thundered. ‘Wicked little thief! Vile wretch! How dare you!’

‘I’m sorry! It was only a little bit … I’m sorry!’ was all the frightened lad could say, as he was jerked about in the big man’s grasp. There was no excuse he could think of.

His words only inflamed his master further.

‘I’m sorry,
sir
!’ he shouted into the boy’s ear. ‘You’ll be a lot sorrier before this day is over! And don’t you ever speak to me again without saying “sir”!’

Then Frankel released his grip and, as his victim tottered on his feet, dealt him a fierce blow to the side of his head with a swing of his huge hand. The boy crashed to the floor. For a moment he showed a brief surge of defiance and reached out for his knife, which he’d dropped when his assailant first seized him.

Frankel saw the movement immediately, having already glimpsed the gleam in the boy’s eyes. He brought a heavy boot smashing down on the outstretched hand, and the boy let out an animal cry of pain. Frankel kicked the knife away, and the boy lay there trembling. The doctor shook his fist at him.

‘Go for your knife, would you, you cur!’ he roared. ‘So! You’d be a murderer as well as a thief!’

‘I’m not a thief,’ mumbled the boy.

‘Not a thief? Not a thief? Then why are you meddling with this chicken? Why are you in here? You know full well you are allowed in the kitchen only when you’re working. And
you should never come in this larder at all! Never! You know that! And now I catch you in here, putting your filthy hands on the meat! How dare you?’

The boy said nothing. He was fighting back tears.

‘Answer me, you blackguard!’ Frankel bent forward to fix his prey with a savage glare. ‘Why do you disobey me?’

A few words came out painfully. ‘I was hungry … sir.’

‘Hungry? You’re not hungry, you’re greedy! You cannot be hungry, when you are given two meals every day! Good meals, better than you ever had before I brought you here!’

The boy didn’t argue. It would have been unwise to protest that the black bread, bought in bulk, could scarcely be called a good meal. It was usually stale, often mouldy, and could only be consumed after immersion in the thin grey soup which was the other component in his diet. Occasionally, there would also be some poor-quality fruit, sold cheap because it was bruised or squashed. The doctor didn’t want scurvy in his household.

Frankel went back to the door and bellowed orders in a voice that would have brought down the walls of Jericho.

‘Stone! Prosser! Come here at once! In the larder! Now!’

He came back, picked up the knife, and put it in his pocket. Then he glowered down at the quivering youngster.

‘You evil, ungrateful little tyke! I rescued you from the streets of Kentish Town! Living rough with a pack of urchins! No doubt the unwanted child of some whore! I’ve fed you, given you a roof over your head and a dry bed to sleep in! And this is how you repay me!’

Again, the boy sensibly refrained from contradicting his furious master. He did not assert that the dirty old mattress on the floor of the attic, with its stuffing spilling out, was not the best sort of bed to sleep in. Nor did he point out that the roof over his head leaked when it rained and let in a draught when the wind blew. The experience of being taken to the
bedroom of one of the men was never pleasant but, on stormy nights, it was almost a relief.

Now he was prudent enough to lie still where he was. Had he got up he would have been an easy target for further blows.

The lightly built Stone responded to Frankel’s summons more swiftly than the lumbering Prosser. He quickly took in the scene: the boy cowering on the floor and his employer, red-faced and white-knuckled, standing over him. Stone’s sympathy was not with the victim.

‘Has this young lout been up to mischief, sir?’ he enquired.

‘Not just mischief, wickedness!’ Frankel declared. ‘I found him stealing food, on top of which he was insolent! And then he made to attack me with his knife!’

‘With respect, sir, I did warn you that this one was a rogue, always likely to create trouble. There’s bad blood there. We were better off with the red-haired boy.’

‘Never mind your fancy tastes! This boy is with us now, and we must teach him how to behave! He will soon learn.’

Now Prosser had arrived and was silently awaiting instructions. Frankel soon delivered them.

‘This young knave has been stealing, abusing our hospitality. He will be fined five shillings. And he’s to be locked in the coal house for forty-eight hours, with nothing but bread and water. And only the rats for company! He will be able to reflect on the consequences of disobedience.’

Stone seemed a little disappointed.

‘Is that sufficient punishment?’ he queried.

‘By no means,’ said Frankel. ‘Each night at ten I shall give him a good thrashing. He will have all day to look forward to it.’

For a few seconds the secretary’s features were slightly stirred by the hint of a crooked smile.

E
VENTS ON THE
Highgate Road were old Mrs Burnaby’s main source of daily entertainment. Her flat above the Hill Top Cafe faced squarely on to the street and, sitting in her chair by the window, she could spend all day surveying the scene.

At night, Highgate Road could be bleak and lonely, the gas-lit street lamps casting long shadows, but in daylight hours all was hustle and bustle. Hansom cabs taking businessmen to the City passed in the opposite direction to elegant carriages delivering the gentry to stately Kenwood House. Riders trotted their horses on their way to canter on the Heath. Pedestrians ambled to and from the Highgate Village shops, or headed west towards Jack Straw’s Castle, one of London’s more magnificent public houses. On a fine day some of the strollers would stop to gossip with friends, or to buy hot chestnuts from the man with the brazier.

Mrs Burnaby was used to the sight of adventurous youths risking their necks on ill-controlled bicycles: indeed, last week she had even seen one of the dangerous new horseless carriages spluttering past.

And, of course, the houses on the other side of the road were a modest source of interest too. A little further west she could spy the small forecourt and front gate of Dunblane,
from which various men emerged at different times of day. There was a large, lumbering man in a heavy cloak and dark, broad-brimmed homburg hat. He was carrying a black bag. Mrs Burnaby had heard he was a doctor but he didn’t seem very caring. Several times she had seen him barge into other people and then walk on without stopping. From the same house there sometimes came a short, busy man in a smart overcoat and bowler hat, who often had a briefcase. Occasionally there was a more shabbily dressed fellow, in cloth cap and muffler, often accompanied by a boy. There were also random male callers, whom she saw once and never again. There seemed to be no women at Dunblane.

By contrast, there appeared to be several women living at Hillside, the house directly opposite. Indeed, Mrs Burnaby had decided that there was only one man there, who must be master of the house. This was a neat, prosperous-looking man, of middle height and middle years. She saw him leave home at 7.30 every morning and march off energetically towards Highgate Station.

Later on, three ladies could be glimpsed individually leaving Hillside and returning at different times of day. Two were young and nimble, the third older and more sedate. She usually carried a shopping basket.

What currently intrigued Mrs Burnaby was the conduct of two workmen in blue overalls, who’d been admitted to Hillside three days ago, in the middle of the afternoon, and had stayed little more than an hour. They hadn’t arrived yesterday or the day before, but they’d appeared again this afternoon.

‘What sort of workmen worked only two days a week,’ Mrs Burnaby asked herself, ‘and then stayed only an hour?’ Why were they privileged to use the front door, instead of the tradesman’s entrance? And why did one of the workmen carry a silver-knobbed walking stick?

All these things were giving Mrs Burnaby food for thought that afternoon.

‘You’ve found Luke Scully?’ Clare Austin’s voice was firm, betraying no strong feeling, just polite interest. But, as before, Steele felt there was an undercurrent of emotion that the young woman was working hard to conceal.

He and Mason had discussed this before they came back to Hillside. Both sensed that there may have been some sort of friendship between the repressed and disfigured spinster and the womanizing rogue who, two years ago, must still have been virile and raffish.

Scully was now excluded from their inquiries so the two men agreed that there was no point in discussing the matter further. Revealing full details of Scully’s current situation would surely distress Clare Austin unnecessarily. They had resolved to dismiss the subject as quickly and lightly as possible.

‘Yes,’ said Steele. ‘We found him living in Lambeth. He was able to prove that he hasn’t been north of the Thames for six months. And, alas, he wasn’t able to tell us anything useful.’

‘A pity,’ said Clare. And then there was a moment’s silence.

‘He spoke very warmly of you, Miss Austin,’ said Mason. ‘He said you were the only kind member of this household.’

‘He was not well treated by my father. I tried to show him some courtesy.’ Then the young woman’s voice became brisk and businesslike. ‘So that avenue has come to a dead end.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Steele. ‘However, we have many other areas to explore.’

‘Has the American professor got to work yet?’ Clare Austin seemed intrigued by this topic.

‘Yes. He managed to catch the next boat, and is now installed in an office at Scotland Yard, using up a great deal
of paper and ink. He has four clerks on call to supply every conceivable detail of the Heath crimes and carry out errands for him.’

‘Four clerks?’

‘One for each murder. He likes to be thorough.’

‘A thorough nuisance,’ Mason interpolated.

‘As I told you, he aims to create what he calls “a profile” of the Heath Maniac, so that he can tell the police what sort of person they should be looking for.’

‘Has he made any progress?’

‘Oh yes.’ Steele allowed himself a wry smile. ‘He’s already reported that the killer is physically strong, but may be mentally unstable.’

‘Which the office boy could have told him in two minutes,’ Mason observed drily.

‘He thinks the Maniac may be a basically pathetic individual, incapable of normal relationships. In fact,’ Steele continued, ‘he did draw up an initial profile. He told the Scotland Yard boys that the culprit would turn out to be an ugly, inadequate man, with a quick temper and irrational habits.’

‘So that’s what they’ll be looking for?’

Mason came in with a quick reply. ‘No. They’ve already found him.’

‘They’ve found him?’

‘He came walking down the corridor. They realized it was an exact description of the assistant commissioner.’

For the first time in their presence, Clare laughed, a small, gentle laugh but genuine laughter nevertheless.

‘A slight distortion of the facts,’ Steele corrected. ‘As you’ll have gathered, my colleague has little faith in those theoretical studies.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Mason. ‘In my opinion, Professor Kane is a great waste of time and resources.’

‘Hmm.’ Clare was thoughtful. ‘And what is your opinion, Major?’

‘I am rather more open-minded,’ said Steele. ‘The study of the human mind is still in its earliest stages. Eventually, it may be a useful tool in crime detection. There is a doctor in Vienna who is developing mental research into a science, like medicine.’

Clare’s reply surprised him.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve read about Sigmund Freud. His work is very exciting.’

‘It certainly has possibilities,’ the major agreed. ‘Perhaps one day scientists may be able to predict human behaviour, possibly even to change it. In the meantime, Professor Kane’s work gives the bigwigs at Scotland Yard something to chatter about.’

‘There are more practical possibilities, aren’t there, sir?’ said Mason with a touch of impatience. ‘Are we allowed to talk about Strauss?’

‘Certainly,’ said Steele. ‘We need to get more people looking out for him.’

‘Who is Strauss?’ asked Clare.

‘A criminal lunatic,’ said Steele. ‘And a very dangerous one. He’s able to conceal his darker side most of the time and appear entirely normal. But he can fly into homicidal rages without warning. He was convicted six years ago of killing a business colleague who’d made a joke at his expense.’

‘A business colleague? He’s a businessman?’

‘Oh yes. Intelligent. Good appearance, we’re told. He was an executive with a pharmaceutical company. It turned out he’d done two previous murders and got away with them. He was found Guilty But Insane, and sent to Broadmoor. Two years ago he escaped.’

‘And he’s still at large?’

‘At large and undetected. There was a possible sighting
in Dover, shortly after his escape, and it was thought he fled abroad. But eighteen months ago an acquaintance thought he saw Strauss in a Hampstead street. It was just a glimpse through the window of a moving cab but it led to a big search. This failed to find him, so the hunt lapsed. Now it’s on again, because of the Heath murders. All policemen are carrying his description, and an artist’s sketch of the man.’

‘Truly, the world is a dangerous place,’ said Clare with a sigh. ‘Are there any other lines of inquiry?’

‘There are many. As always with these sensational crimes, Scotland Yard gets scores of letters from imbeciles claiming to be the killer and taunting the police. They come from idiots but they all have to be followed up.’

‘How tedious. Are you gentlemen involved in that process?’

‘Fortunately not. Mr Mason and I continue our own investigation. As you know, we are interviewing all members of the Heath Association.’

‘Do you learn anything useful, Major?’

‘We never know if anything’s useful or not until we’ve researched it, Miss Austin. For instance, Sir Charles Greenwell told us that his butler left on bad terms last year, after a fight with one of the gardeners. Now we are trying to trace the man.’

‘Have you talked to Commander West yet?’

‘Yes, I think you can say we talked to him. Actually, we mainly listened.’ Steele smiled at the memory. ‘He is a man of very strong opinions.’

‘Ah yes. Commander West is our local firebrand.’

‘He’s certainly fiery. We saw him at nine in the morning, and already he was red in the face and thumping the table.’

‘I think he puts pepper on his porridge,’ said Mason.

Steele continued. ‘He proposes that all local residents should be provided with guns, so they can walk freely on the Heath and shoot anyone who looks suspicious.’

‘Although I’m sure he’d prefer the Maniac to be taken alive, so he can be hanged on Highgate Hill,’ Mason added.

‘We had to warn him about taking the law into his own hands,’ said Steele.

‘Did you?’ For the second time, Clare seemed amused. ‘How did he take that?’

Steele chuckled. ‘How would you put it, Jack?’

‘I’d say he took it like an angry bulldog having his bone snatched away. He said he’d do what he damn well liked.’ Mason checked himself. ‘Oh. Forgive the language, Miss Austin.’

‘Of course,’ said Clare. ‘I’m sure you spared me the worst. Whom have you yet to see?’

Mason was the one with the diary in his hand. ‘We have an appointment with Dr Frankel at 4.30 this afternoon.’

The young woman looked dubious. ‘Dr Frankel? I don’t think you’ll find him very co-operative.’

‘We shall do our best with him,’ said Steele. ‘In that connection, we have to ask you a favour.’

‘You know I’ll do anything I can, Major.’

‘It would be unwise, I think, to appear at Dr Frankel’s in our plumbers’ outfits. We have our normal clothes with us.’ Steele indicated the toolbags on the floor. ‘May we have the use of a room to change in?’

‘Of course.’ Clare Austin smiled again. ‘We must find you a place where Mrs Butters won’t come upon you. She might not survive the shock. Use the conservatory here, and I will stand guard outside the door.’

‘Thank you,’ said Steele. And then a thought struck him. ‘Did you encounter the Greenwells’ butler at any time, Miss Austin? His name’s McDonald.’

‘No,’ said Clare. ‘We don’t tend to hobnob with the local aristocracy. We’re regarded as trade, you know. But Luke Scully sometimes mentioned the man. I believe that he too
had quarrelled with him. An unpleasant person, apparently. Servile to his masters, and a bully to his peers.’

‘Hmm,’ said Steele. ‘Not so servile at the end, it seems. Sir Charles says he went off swearing and shouting threats. I think we must talk to McDonald sooner rather than later.’

‘I’ve put the word around the local pubs,’ said Mason.

‘True devotion to duty,’ Steele observed. ‘We must also mention this to George Willoughby. Get the police on the job.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid this investigation has a long way to go. But we shall get our man in the end.’

And then the hall door was thrown open, and Mrs Butters came rushing in without knocking. She was breathless with excitement and waving a newspaper.

‘They’ve got him!’ she cried. ‘They’ve got him!’

‘What is it, Mrs Butters?’ Clare demanded, a little frostily. ‘What are you trying to tell us?’

Mrs Butters checked herself, suddenly abashed at her unseemly behaviour.

‘Oh. Sorry. Excuse me protruding, Miss Clare. I couldn’t wait to tell you. The evening paper’s just come. They’ve caught the Heath Maniac! It’s in the late news bit!’

Apparently at a loss for further words, she thrust the newspaper forward. Mason took it and read out the blotchy words hastily printed in the Stop Press column.

‘“A man, believed to be the Heath Maniac, was rescued by police from an angry crowd in Camden Town this morning. He was arrested and taken to Camden Town police station. More details in next edition.”’