The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (10 page)

He paused to let his voice and his challenge dissipate among the multitudinous faces before him. There was doubt in the stalls, cynicism in the boxes and a horripilating desire to disbelieve in
the gallery.

‘Who is the murderer?’ said Eldritch Batchem, pacing head down now in a soliloquizing manner and stroking at his beard. ‘Is he (or she) not the one with the wild light of
insanity in his eyes? Has he not wet, fleshy lips and dirty hair? Does he not sweat, as we are proverbially led to believe? O, we have all seen the death masks of these killers, and we fancy that
we can see their murderous intentions – even in death! – merely in the cast of their features. We see images of men in the newspapers and, because they are called
“murderer”, we
see
a murderer . . . but I ask you: could not that face just as easily be the face of a poet shaped in plaster for posterity?’

(‘I regret to admit that he makes a salient point,’ whispered Noah.

‘Hmm. Let us see how his oration develops,’ returned Mr Williamson.)

‘There are those who may say the murderer
is
a poet: an artist of the criminal world because he breaks both human law and the divine. I disagree, ladies and gentlemen. I disagree
most wholeheartedly. The murderer is a man (or a woman) like any one of us because he is
weak
. Not omnipotent, not super-human, not an aberration of morality. No, he is all
too
human.
It is his humanity that makes him murder – not because he is strong, but because he has failed to fully become a civilized man.’

Here, Eldritch Batchem paused again, staring up at the ceiling and caught in the reveries of his address. He might almost have been quite alone upon the stage and seemingly engaged in a dialogue
with his own soul. The gallery perceived his immersion and were even more spellbound. Was the man an actor to capture them so? Or did he truly have a deeper knowledge of the murderer’s mind?
The silence pleaded to be filled with more, and he timed the hiatus precisely before resuming:

‘But do not take
my
words as authority, ladies and gentlemen. I am a simple investigator. Consider, rather, some words more fitting to our venue here and let us hear what the Bard
has put into the mouths of
his
murderers. Says the first:

‘Says the second:

‘What do we make of this pair of murderers? Our first is a desperate man who cares not for his own life, who is tired and punished by fate. Are there not debtors in our prisons who might
speak so? Our second is perhaps more how we perceive the murderer of our city: a crazed and maddened figure who acts with violent impetuosity. Even in this, however, he seeks – like a child
– to anger a temperate parent.
These
are your murderers: weak fellows! And are we all not weak on occasion? Do we not all stumble briefly on the path of righteousness?’

A cough punctuated the quiet – a cough from a private box to Eldritch Batchem’s left. He looked up and beheld the commissioner of police holding a handkerchief at his mouth.

‘Sir Richard Mayne? Is that you, sir? I am honoured.’

A colossal susurration of comment rolled through the audience and three thousand pairs of eyes went to the box, where the red-faced gentleman sat with an expression carved in vermilion granite.
Fingers pointed and a ribald laughter tinkled in the gallery.

‘Perhaps our august guest in the private box there is privately saying to himself: “That is all very well, Mr Batchem, but those murderers are drawn from the fancy of a great writer
rather than from our real city streets.” Too true, sir. Too true. So I will proceed to some murderers of recent note as a means of illustration.

‘Who does not know the name of Daniel Good: this man who severed the arms and legs of his female victim, disembowelling her and burning the entrails in his fireplace? Three thousand
policemen could not find
this
gentleman as he drank at Hampstead or sat in plain view to have his hair cut at a barber’s! Perhaps you will say that
he
is the kind of murderer
you are thinking of?’

(‘If Sir Richard becomes any redder, I fear he will suffer apoplexy,’ whispered Noah.

Benjamin covered his snorting laugh with a handkerchief.)

‘I say “no”,’ continued Eldritch Batchem. ‘Daniel Good was a weak man. His appetite for the female form was uncontrolled. He had spent time in Millbank penitentiary
for killing a horse
by tearing out its tongue
, if you please! He was a suspected incendiary and a petty thief whose secret was discovered when he tried to make off with some stolen breeches.
Why, the man was an utter failure as a member of our species. It is said he was also vain, combing his hair from each side to cover his naked pate. Who would fear such a man? A weak and mortal
man.’

‘What about Greenacre?’ came a shout from the gallery.

‘Ah yes – James Greenacre. No doubt you shout his name because he was reputed to be a thinking man, an intelligent man . . . and another dismemberer. It was he, of course, who
carried his female victim’s head in a canvas bag across London – by omnibus, no less! – to dispose of it in Stepney lock. A calculating, inhuman man you might say. On the
contrary, he was a fantasist and liar, an atheist who slept in a strait-waistcoat while at Newgate lest he take his own life . . . though, of course, he protested his innocence to the last.

‘
These
are your murderers: the weakest, most venal, most hopeless, most selfish and godless of men. Any one of us here could be these men but for the love of a parent, but for the
teachings of the Church, but for the paternal hand of the law. The way of weakness leads to death and damnation, but the way of moral strength leads to salvation for all.’

Eldritch Batchem paused, his finger raised as if to punctuate the thought and his glistening eyes focused somewhere among the gilt heavens of the theatre’s ceiling. Silence reigned. Then,
slowly, he seemed to return from that sublimity to cast a smile across the thousands of faces before him.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes the first part of our evening’, he said. ‘I thank you for your ears.’

And with this, he bowed deeply, adding a theatrical curlicue of the arm.

The auditorium at first yielded but a patter of applause, as if people had not quite registered the conclusion of the address. Then the gallery stirred itself into action and the patter built
into a more thunderous response, fuelled further by no small contribution from the stalls.

‘What is your impression?’ said Noah over the noise.

‘He has said nothing we do not already know,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘But it pleases the common man to think investigation is an art rather than a science.’

‘Is it not both?’ said Noah.

‘Hmm. I leave the consideration of art to artists. I note that Mr Newsome is not applauding.’

Noah turned in his seat to peer at the sour expression upon the inspector’s face. ‘Ha! Was he not one of the men working on the Daniel Good case?’

‘I believe so. He was never keen to speak of it.’

‘Look – the theatre manager has taken to the stage once again,’ said Mr Cullen, pointing.

And the manager had indeed ventured onto the boards once again in order to shake Eldritch Batchem’s hand. When that gesture was met with blank refusal, however, a laugh went up from the
cheaper seats. Red-faced, the manager attempted instead to attain silence so that he could speak.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen, please! After the interval, Mr Batchem will speak further on the life and philosophy of the investigator, and perhaps entertain us with stories
of some of his cases. At the present time, though, he has consented to take questions from the audience. Will anybody be the first? Who will offer a question for Mr Batchem?’

The theatre rapidly took on the absolute quietude of the classroom when the master asks for a reader. Feet shuffled. There were a number of coughs. Then came a (no doubt) gin-fuelled query from
the gallery:

‘Mr Batchem – you says bad things ’bout murderers. Aren’t you afeared of being murdred yoursel?’

Laughter animated the crowd, but dissipated when it became clear the speaker was quite prepared to answer.

‘Sir – murderers often prey on the weak because they are weak themselves,’ said Eldritch Batchem. ‘Their women, their children, their inferiors. What have I to fear from
a man like Greenacre? He has no interest in one such as me.’

‘He might kill yer for yer money!’ returned the original inquisitor, again provoking mirth.

‘Ah – but then we are describing a different category of criminal altogether: not the
classic
murderer of the criminal annals, but a man who can only kill as if by accident! A
bully or common thief for whom slaughter is but an occupational hazard.’

‘It sounds like you almost revere the murderer, sir.’ (This from an earnest gentleman in the stalls.)

‘“Revere”, you say?’ pondered Eldritch Batchem with another barbate stroke. ‘Not at all – but I take an interest in the classification and study of these
malefactors. It is a fascinating subject, even if the subjects themselves are aberrations of our civilized condition. By knowing the evil of the human heart, one may better fight the
criminal.’

A preparatory cough came from that private box to the left of the stage. And a new hush came over the gathered throng.

‘Mr Batchem,’ said Sir Richard Mayne with a clear, unwavering voice, ‘you speak of fighting criminals and of investigation – but what of remuneration? You take
considerable monies for your work. Why not work for the Metropolitan Police if eradicating crime is your aim?’

‘Do you not also receive a wage for your work, Sir Richard? Do your constables and inspectors not receive a wage? I am no different in that respect.’

‘Except that you choose to investigate only robberies, blackmail cases and embarrassing private concerns,’ said Sir Richard. ‘For all your talk of murderers, you leave those
cases to the brave men of the police because there is no money in them for you.’

‘I fear you are wrong, sir. Only two days ago, I was called to investigate a very nasty incident on Waterloo-bridge – which I am sure most of our audience has read about.’

A murmur among the three thousand seated there said that yes they had indeed read of it.

‘“Suicide” you called it,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I cannot contradict because I was forbidden access to the facts of the crime. No doubt many of the people here tonight
also read of your shameless self promotion in mentioning a playbill for your show found in the dead man’s pocket. A highly fortuitous occurrence, would you not say?’

‘I certainly would
not
say that, Sir Richard!’

Sensing that the tenor of the dialogue was making the audience restless, the theatre manager stepped forward. ‘Thank you, Sir Richard, for your contribution, but perhaps we will let
another ask their question . . .’

Sir Richard smouldered and leaned back in his seat with folded arms. Eldritch Batchem appeared to smirk into his beard.

‘Who else will speak?’ encouraged the theatre manager.

‘I. I have a question,’ came an assertive voice from the stalls: Inspector Newsome.

‘Mr Batchem says that three thousand policemen could not find Daniel Good. But Mr Batchem did not find him either. In fact, Good was found in Tonbridge, Kent, by an ex-constable of
Metropolitan V Division who recognized him.’

‘Inspector Newsome is it?’ said Eldritch Batchem, peering exaggeratedly into the crowd. ‘I see you are not wearing your uniform tonight. I congratulate you on your memory, but
perhaps you are forgetting more recent events. Were you not the detective in charge of the Lucius Boyle case – that evil murderer and incendiary also known as “Red
Jaw”?’

At the name of this particular criminal, a great mutter went up among the audience. Lucius Boyle had been a murderer to make Good and Greenacre look almost angelic.

‘As I recall,’ continued Eldritch Batchem, ‘you chased
that
criminal all over the city and could not catch him even as he committed a murder among a crowd of thousands
at Newgate! Nor could you apprehend him as he sailed slowly away in a hot-air balloon. Or was that the fault of Detective Sergeant – rather,
former
-Detective Sergeant – George
Williamson? I see he has also attended this evening to learn about the art of investigation.’

Mr Williamson flushed with embarrassment as the massed audience turned to look in his direction, but did not rise to the bait. At his side, Mr Cullen felt a stab of anger at the humiliation and
threw out his own question:

‘You mock respected detectives, Mr Batchem – men who face danger every day. Perhaps you can tell us, with all your wisdom, what makes a great detective?’

‘A fine question from the burly fellow there,’ said Eldritch Batchem. ‘I will answer such things more fully after the interval, of course, but let me summarize now. A great
detective does not guess – he knows. A great detective has intuition and knowledge in equal measure. A great detective understands his fellow man and reads him as one might read a book. And,
finally, a great detective has a keen intelligence – keener, in the end, than his quarry the criminal.’

Eldritch Batchem nodded to himself, evidently pleased with the apophthegmatical nature of his answer. Mr Cullen struggled for a
riposte
and could find none.

‘Well – that is all we have time for in this first part of the eve—’ began the manager. But there was to be one more question . . .

‘Wait! I have something to ask.’

The speaker was a gentleman in a private box to the right side of the stage. His voice carried great authority, and his appearance suggested considerable wealth. He did not wait for the
manager’s permission to continue: