The newspapers, as you well know, Sir Henry, have not yet heard of the disfigurements to the dead bodies. Coverage in the Press has been muted so far. I would, however, be failing in my duty if I did not draw your attention to the possibility, nay, in my opinion, the near certainty, that this intelligence will leak out into the public domain and will do so very soon. In my judgement there are a number of developments likely to follow from such a revelation.
One, there will be a massive hue and cry and general frenzy in the newspapers of every stripe. Nothing succeeds in terms of raising circulation and increasing advertising rates like scandal and sensation. Three dead bodies with stigmata of an unusual kind rate high in the ledgers of scandal and sensation. We are having a fairly quiet time at present in terms of major political developments. The public have grown tired of the rows between the Commons and the Lords. They are even more tired of the depressing number of strikes and the growing popularity of industrial action. They may even — would that it were so — be growing tired of rumours of foreign wars. There is, as you well know, Minister, nothing the newspapers like more than real murder mysteries. All the present one lacks is a female element, some suspicion of adultery or foreign adventuresses. If no such facts come to light, we may be sure that the newspapers will invent them.
Two, in the light of the eventualities referred to in the previous section, I should draw your attention to the likely reaction in the House of Commons. The only thing — and I know you share this view — worse than the baying of the newspaper columns is the hypocrisy and self-advertisement of various backbenchers who will attempt to get their names in the Press by asking ridiculous questions. Why is the Government not doing more to catch the culprits? How is it that the Home Secretary allowed this foreign criminal — in the minds of many, if not most newspapers, all murders are committed by foreigners — into our country and slaughter our fellow citizens?
Three, if the news emerges, as per section one, above, the most damaging charge that can be levelled at the Government is the accusation of waste and duplication. Why do we have three separate police forces investigating the murders, which are so clearly linked and the work of a foreign gang? Why should we, as taxpayers and ratepayers, have to bear the expenses of three senior detectives and their teams when one would do? Why does the Government not take control of the matter and put the investigation into the hands of one of the Metropolitan Police’s most senior officers who will, by definition, have more experience of murder inquiries than the inexperienced of Marlow and the novices of Norfolk?
Four, I fear that the Department is about to face a most difficult decision. You are caught, Minister, to use a phrase too readily invoked, I fear, by my colleagues, caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Refuse the pleas for a single man and the newspapers will hound you for taking the wrong decision. Appoint a single man who fails to solve the mystery and the newspapers will hound you for taking the wrong decision. Consistency has never been a necessary feature of the behaviour of the Press. Opportunism is all.
Sir Fitzroy paused at this point and read his memorandum back to himself. There were, he knew, many of his colleagues who would give firm advice at this point to follow a particular course of action. It was known at the Athenaeum lunch club as making the minister’s mind up for him. But that was not Sir Fitzroy’s way. It was not for him to tell his minister what to do. Not this time anyway, with such a delicate issue. His job was to marshal the arguments for and against, to make sure that the minister was fully informed about the options involved. Anything more definite, as he used to say in his introductory lecture to new recruits to the Civil Service, would be a usurpation of the functions of government.
The man they called Eye Patch stood motionless behind his curtains and stared out to sea. It was half an hour short of midnight and nothing moved on the streets and the seafront of the little town. The moon was nearly full and if he looked closely he could see the small collection of yachts moored in the harbour. The largest and most mysterious was his own. He could, had he so fancied, have looked at her through the finest telescope money could buy, permanently sited up in the top floor of his huge house, but he couldn’t be bothered to climb two flights of stairs. There were no lights on in the drawing room looking out over the waters. The man disliked the thought of being overlooked. He valued security above all else. Why else should he hide himself away like a reclusive millionaire or mad English lord who locks himself up in his hall or his grange to spend his waking hours on the collection of Lepidoptera or the stuffing of small furry animals?
Not many people alive had known the man before he acquired his eye patch and his nickname. Once he realized how useful it was to be known in this way he only used his real name when it was absolutely necessary. Friends, who were few, colleagues who were largely frightened, enemies who were numerous, all referred to him as Eye Patch because they did not know what he was christened. Some people wondered if his women or his mistresses addressed him as Eye Patch even in the most intimate of circumstances.
The wound that led to the patch had happened decades before. The circumstances also left him with a slight limp in his left leg. The man wondered often in the early years of his disfigurement if it wouldn’t have been better to have lost a leg rather than an eye if he had to lose something. He would much rather have become Long John Silver than Eye Patch but there it was. The present version of his patch, handmade by the finest tailors, was of a dull grey, which its wearer thought the most unobtrusive in his small collection. He had a black one he wore when he wanted to frighten people. There was a dark red one he wore when he wanted to impress a lady. Eye patches, he had found, had a strange fascination for the opposite sex. They always wanted to know how he came by it, if there was any hope of sight ever returning. The man would smile, refuse to answer any questions, and maintain the veil of secrecy. Over the years he had decided that his red eye patch was blessed with considerable aphrodisiac qualities. He rarely failed to conquer. He resisted the many attempts by his valet to order him a new one.
Outside, the moon passed behind a cloud. There was a faint hint of silver on the water. Eye Patch had come to this place with a mission. He was pleased with his progress so far. Very few people knew he was here. Very few people knew who he was. Groceries were delivered to his staff. No local had crossed his door. He never went out, except at night to visit his yacht, and then he wrapped so many scarves round his face that he was unrecognizable. He took a long last look at the sleeping town which looked as though God himself might have tucked it up in bed. As he climbed the stairs to his bedroom above, the man smiled as he thought of his red eye patch. It seemed to him a very long time since he had worn it. When the business was finished he would see if its seductive charms still worked. He looked out at the sea once more before he closed his bedroom curtains. His yacht was still there, the easiest means of escape if that should become necessary. She was swaying slightly in a midnight breeze. The man could not see the name painted in bold letters on the side but he knew it was there. The yacht was called Morning Glory.
PART TWO
6
All was not well in the Jesus Hospital in Marlow. The old gentlemen were restless and unsettled. The funeral of Abel Meredith had been delayed for some unaccountable reason. The residents of the almshouse liked funerals. Funerals reminded them that they at any rate were still alive. They liked singing the hymns like ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘The Day Thou Gavest Lord Is Ended’. They weren’t quite so sure about the dead man being lowered into the ground but by that stage many of them were already thinking of the wake in the dining hall that the hospital organized for its own after a funeral, with special cakes and scones and homemade raspberry jam.