The Art of Murder (20 page)

Dr Newman saw Pendragon’s disappointed expression. ‘However, I am nothing if not dogged,’ she said quickly and raised her eyebrows. ‘I contacted a senior colleague at Cambridge University who has a Level Three Civil Service clearance, and owes me one. He had the identity of our restricted individual within half an hour.’

Pendragon exhaled loudly through his nose. ‘Okay. Who is it?’

‘A former female patient at Riverwell Psychiatric Hospital in Essex.’

‘Former? When did she get out?’

‘Depends what you mean by “getting out”, Inspector. Number 3464858r died in 1996. Her name was …’ and she flicked through three pages of notes on her desk ‘… Juliette Kinnear.’

To Mrs Sonia Thomson
14 October 1888

I have to admit, dear lady, that your husband Archibald always did his best to be a most entertaining companion. He seemed to take an immediate shine to me. He told me all the things about himself that you would, of course, know already: his middle-class upbringing in Shropshire, his reading English at Cambridge, and his earliest forays into the world of journalism. He described how, by the age of forty, he had become the editor of the
Daily Tribune
, and had then made the momentous decision three years ago to set up a paper of his own, the
Clarion
, in partnership with a fantastically wealthy patron named Lord Melbourne.

‘My vision, Harry, is to drag newspapers into the modern era. I think journalism should be stronger, more graphic. And I would love to use photography, though it’s all so damn complicated, and expensive,’ he told me the evening we first met, over that
promised drink which he bought me in a seedy pub called the Duke of Lancaster.

I had spun an interesting background yarn for him. I told him my name was Harry Tumbril – you’ll have to forgive me; this little touch of black humour came to me on the spur of the moment. As Harry, I was an artist from South London. I had, according to my tale, just recently returned from France and a spell living in Paris. I was currently living in Whitechapel to prepare the sketch for a commission I had received from an English family who now lived in Lyons. It came to me as I said it, almost as though the words and story had materialised in my mind from some external source. Archibald did not question it, and why should he have?

‘Can I see some of your sketches?’ he asked.

I handed him my pad, filled with images of scantily clad prostitutes and music-hall performers, and he flicked through it. Stopping only to order another round of drinks, he turned the pages and studied my work with care. ‘Very good,’ he said slowly, without lifting his eyes from the page. Then, looking up, he added, ‘You are
very
talented.’

I smiled and offered him a nod of thanks.

‘You could make some money from these, you know, Harry. I have contacts in some of the less salubrious areas of the publishing business.’

I plucked the sketchpad from his fingers. ‘Thanks, but no.’

‘Well, if you ever change your mind.’

I stared at him, and for the first time really
studied the man. I have no need to describe him to you, of course, but as I write this I can’t shift from my mind a very clear image of him as he was that first night we met. Archibald was a big, beefy fellow, was he not? Not fat, just chunky, with a huge head, a mop of brown-grey curls, ruddy cheeks, and what I earlier called those dog-like eyes. He was dressed quite ordinarily as would befit a trip to the Stew, and was a little dishevelled from our eventful escape from the Pav. He had lost his hat and his jacket was covered with dust at the shoulders.

I immediately had the feeling with Archibald that he too was something of an actor. Not in the way I performed, of course, but I couldn’t help thinking that he led something of a double life. As I have already said, you, dear lady, probably saw just one side to him, I the other. He was, to a large extent, what I would call a man’s man, and was immediately open to expressing his own vision of the world. At home he was almost certainly a perfect gentleman, but I saw straight away that Archibald was a man who took his pleasures very seriously.

I declined his offer of a third drink, but he ordered three more for himself in quick succession. Meanwhile he talked, not a word of it slurred, his mind remaining focussed and sharp. He told me of his love of sex, and of his adventures in the opium dens of London and elsewhere. He was perfectly frank about these things and, oddly, I did not find myself repulsed as I had previously been by the carnal and hedonistic impulses of the sheep milling
around me everywhere I went. Perhaps it was because no one had ever really talked to me with such honesty before, or perhaps it was simply that I saw Archibald as in many respects superior to the dullard masses with whom I shared the fetid air.

Archibald was intelligent … no, he was
very
intelligent … ambitious, probing, inquisitive, acquisitive and energetic. I can’t say I ever liked him, I don’t really understand the word ‘like’, but I found I had an odd, grudging respect for him. He was almost seductive, in a funny sort of way. He was a man in love with the world; a man completely at home within his own skin and in the city in which he lived. Archibald Thomson was what Mr Darwin would describe as a creature that had found its niche.

But, you know me. After we’d waved goodbye on the corner of the street, I forgot all about him. Returning to my lodgings, I spent a few quiet moments cleaning my knives and oiling the saw, then I flicked through the sketches I had made earlier that night.

It was with some surprise that when I arrived at the Pav the following evening, I found myself accosted by a young servant who ran up and handed me a cream envelope with the name ‘Harry Tumbril’ written across it in an elegant, but obviously masculine, hand. It was a brief note from Archibald, inviting me to lunch the next day at the offices of the
Clarion
, Pall Mall.

No more than six miles from my new home in Whitechapel, Pall Mall was a different world entirely, more reminiscent of the one I had visited with my father years earlier. It was as though all the wealth and sophistication, all the things that people consider clean and virtuous and wholesome, had been sucked out of the East End and deposited on the western side of the city, to form an atmosphere of cloying smugness.

Even the sun had come out after days of overcast weather. God truly is a capitalist, I thought, as I turned into the newspaper office’s doorway and pulled on the bell next to a pristine, freshly painted scarlet door. A servant ushered me in and led me up a broad staircase. I could hear sound spilling out from the rooms above: urgent, self-important voices, bells ringing, the stamping of feet. We emerged on to a sun-splashed landing and I followed the servant through a door, along a corridor and then through another door, whereupon I found myself in a large room packed with men sitting at desks.

The air was filled with the clatter of typewriters, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, and constant shouting as news flew around the room like some real, corporeal thing batted from man to man. Without breaking his stride, the servant marched towards another, smaller room. It was walled in glass, though the door was closed. I could see Archibald on the other side of the glass. He held a strange contraption against his ear. Turning
towards us, he beckoned me in. The servant bowed and vanished.

Archibald indicated a seat but then, ignoring me, started to speak into the contraption held close to his head. Then I realised what it was. I had read in
The Times
about these things. Of a sudden he was finished. With a curt, ‘goodbye’, he replaced the device, a cylindrical black object, on a squat rectangular box in front of him on the desk.

‘Damned accursed things,’ he said, standing up and offering me a hand. ‘Alexander Graham Bell should be taken out at dawn and shot,’ he went on. ‘A telephone, Tumbril. Seen one before?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Can’t hear a damn thing most of the time. And when I do, all I get is demands from my financiers. We’re the only people who have the bloody things … millionaires and harassed newspaper editors! Still, I suppose that’s progress for you. I’m told that one day every home will have one.’ And he laughed. ‘Come on then, Harry. Let’s go to lunch. I’m famished. Reform Club all right with you?’

It was a short walk. Archibald marched along as though the seconds were passing faster than they actually were and he was trying to fit more into the day than was possible or reasonable. At the Reform Club, he nodded to the doorman and slipped him a shilling before ushering me into the cool, cavernous interior.

As we ascended the grand marble staircase, we could hear voices coming from one of the rooms on
the first floor; a peal of laughter followed by the clink of cutlery. A waiter in white tie and tails met us at the top of the stairs and led us into a vast room with huge windows offering a view over St James’s Park. We sat at a table to one end of the room close to the windows and Archibald ordered a bottle of claret. ‘It’s not half bad here, Harry,’ he said. ‘Quite a decent wine list.’

I gazed around me at the opulence and inhaled the scent of wealth and privilege. I was used to such things, had mixed with company far beyond my social standing at Oxford, and there was nothing the Reform could offer that I had not previously experienced at the Oxford Union or High Table at Christ Church. I could tell, though, that Archibald was enamoured of it all. He was a clever, educated man, but had only recently come into money after working his way up the slippery pole to mix with those who ran the country. He confessed to me once that at Cambridge he had been forced to keep to himself and had got by on a meagre allowance because his father was struggling financially at the time.

‘Don’t look round, but we have rather a decent turnout today,’ Archibald said matter-of-factly.

I gave him a puzzled look.

‘Quite a broad spectrum of the great and the good. Over there is Henry James the novelist.’ And Archibald nodded discreetly to a point beyond my left shoulder. ‘Oh, and Henry Irving the actor. Overrated if you ask me. And, well, well, well, what a surprise … there’s Dilke.’

I gave him another puzzled look.

‘Charles Dilke? The politician?’

I nodded and looked down at my menu.

‘I’m astonished the man has the cheek to show his face so soon after the scandal. Oh, well. And … oh, goodness.’

I looked up and frowned. ‘Who now, Archibald? The Queen?’

‘Almost, Harry. Gladstone. God, he looks positively prehistoric.’

I turned at this and saw a very old man sitting at a corner table, two much younger men accompanying him. He was eating a bread roll with such tiny bites I could not imagine how he would ever finish it, let alone make it to the soup course. When I looked back, Archibald was still staring. I gave a brief cough and he broke away.

‘Why have you invited me to lunch?’

I asked. He was about to reply when the waiter appeared to take our orders. The wine waiter then topped up our glasses, and Archibald raised his. ‘To fortunate meetings,’ he said, and there was a silence for a moment as we savoured the fine claret. ‘A bit too sharp at the top end,’ Archibald said judiciously. I searched his face for a moment, thinking he might be making a joke, but he was perfectly serious. I felt a sudden wave of nausea, took another sip of my wine, and it passed.

‘I appreciate the gesture,’ I said. ‘But why did you invite me here?’

‘To offer you a job of course, Harry.’

I was genuinely surprised, and Archibald laughed. ‘Is it really so improbable?’

I shook my head slowly.

‘Let me explain,’ he went on. ‘I want my newspaper to be modern.’ He almost hissed the last word. ‘These fellows,’ and he waved a hand towards the famous men seated around the room, ‘most of them are yesterday’s men. They are rooted in the nineteenth century, while I am a man of tomorrow. I’m already thinking like a man of the twentieth century, Harry.’

I studied his face in silence. I was not interested in a single word he was saying, but I had lost none of my ability to fool others.

‘I intend to be radical,’ he went on. ‘Not so much in the political sense, although my convictions do lean that way, I’m thinking more about the style of the
Clarion
, Harry. The way we report. I want my paper to epitomise the coming age, not pay lip service to an era that is passing.’

‘Forgive me, Archibald,’ I said. ‘But I don’t understand what that has to do with me.’

The first course arrived as he was about to reply. It did not slow him down. Between mouthfuls, he ran on. ‘I’ve seen your work. I like what you do. You have guts. You’re not afraid to represent reality. I want you to be my number one illustrator.’

‘But you already have artists.’

‘I do. But none of them has your eye.’

‘I’m flattered,’ I lied.

He looked at me eagerly, with that ridiculously
enthusiastic expression of his, and I felt like retching again. ‘All right, Harry. Let me make it clear. This city …’ And he paused, wiped his mouth and swept out one hand to encompass the view visible through the windows. ‘This city is a most wretched place. Every day we report at least one terrible murder – vile acts from every level of society. I want to let our readers see the reality. I’m tired of pussyfooting around with euphemism and innuendo.’

‘But you must have rules and guidelines to follow?’

‘We do, but there is leeway, my good fellow. The written word is one thing, but I want to capture the true nature of our modern world using the skill of men like yourself. All my artists are competent draughtsmen, but none of them has your sense of realism.’

I was not sure what to say. I studied Archibald’s face and realised for the first time that the man was most probably insane, or at least heading along the road to insanity. He was perfectly able to function and may yet have much to offer the world, but he was becoming unbridled, losing track of himself.