‘Did I give my will to the Warden when I arrived?’ asked Christy Butler, Number Thirteen, with a spill from his glass spreading slowly down his shirt. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Neither can I,’ added Colin Baker, Number Six, his wooden leg tucked under the table, staring into his beer.
The old men of the Jesus Hospital fell silent. Memory, as so often, was failing them. They were losing touch with their own past. Johnny Fitzgerald thought the evening might degenerate into melancholy and a pitiful series of complaints about time.
‘I don’t think you should worry about that,’ said Johnny cheerfully. ‘I forget my own door keys about once a month. And that’s when I’m stone cold sober. Don’t worry about not being able to remember, don’t worry at all. It happens to us all. I don’t think it makes any difference if you left your will with the Warden or not. You can still go and ask if you can have it back. If he hasn’t got it, he’ll tell you. This is what I think you should do.’ Johnny, who had followed Powerscourt’s instructions not to mention affairs at the hospital to the letter up till now, felt he had to take command of this strange company of veterans. ‘Just go in one at a time after breakfast or whenever you know he’s going to be in his office, and ask the Warden if you can have your wills back. When you’ve got them, take the wills round to the nearest solicitor’s office, every single one of them. We can meet here again tomorrow evening and decide how to proceed.’
The old men stared at Johnny as if he were some Old Testament prophet leading them out of the wilderness. They nodded and drank deeply of their beer. The barmaid popped her head round the corner.
‘Nearly closing time, gentlemen. It’ll be last orders in a minute. Is there anything I can get you?’
Johnny raised his hand. Thirteen old men stared greedily at Barbara Wilson as she pulled another round. Johnny reflected sadly that for most of these inhabitants of the Jesus Hospital last orders were not very far away.
7
The staff at the Athenaeum in London’s Pall Mall prided themselves on their knowledge of their members’ wishes, which bedroom a country member preferred if staying overnight in town, where the members liked sitting for lunch, which of them took wine by the glass at lunchtime and which took it by the bottle. By now they had years of experience of dealing with the Permanent Secretary at the Home Office. Sir Fitzroy Robinson Buller liked the corner table in the garden room for luncheon with his guests, he always ordered lamb, cooked rare, he usually took a glass or two of Pomerol with his main course and if he was in a really good mood he would have a glass of Barsac with his pudding. Now his overcoat had been safely deposited in the cloakroom and a glass of the club’s driest Amontillado was in front of him as he perused the menu and waited for his guest. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was late. His cab was stuck in traffic. Sir Edward Henry complained to himself that he was meant to be in control of traffic movements in the capital. The two men shared a political master, Herbert Gladstone, son of the famous Prime Minister of the previous century.
Pleasantries were exchanged over the soup. Light skirmishing began with the main course and the Pomerol. When his lamb was nearly over, Sir Fitzroy made his move.
‘Let me tell you in confidence,’ he began, ‘that I am seriously worried about the Home Secretary and his position in the government. Having a Gladstone in the cabinet may have been a gesture towards the glorious Liberal past, but our Herbert is a pale copy of his famous father. Having one leading institution operating on the hereditary principle might be thought strange, but to have two is surely a mistake. By now, after centuries of experience, the vicissitudes of successive monarchs should have warned us off perpetuating that system anywhere else.’ Sir Fitzroy paused for a sip of his wine. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I digress. My real concern is with these recent murders, the ones where the victims have strange markings on their chests. I fear that knowledge may seep out, and the newspapers will know that the three cases are linked. I fear there may be a public outcry. Three police forces trying to catch one murderer. What a waste of public money! Is it for this that we pay our taxes? Why do we not appoint a single man from the ranks of the Metropolitan Police to take charge of the affair? I have made this suggestion in a memorandum to the Home Secretary but I have had no reply. He sits, yet again, on the fence, Herbert The Unready, unable to make his mind up. What do you say, Henry?’
Sir Edward Henry had realized long ago that politics played as large a role in his job as policing. Over the years he had tried to maintain as much freedom of action for his force without alienating his political masters. In theory the Home Secretary could order him to do something. In practice, if he was careful, he could keep his distance. Occasional scraps had to be thrown down, apparent concessions that might keep the authorities quiet while giving little away.
‘I fully understand your anxieties, Sir Fitzroy,’ Sir Edward began, thinking about his defences. ‘I am sure you would agree that a rational man might organize our policing very differently if he were given a clean slate. Other countries have a national body which can investigate cases which cross the boundaries of separate forces. But, as things stand,’ he paused to polish off the remains of his roast beef, ‘I have no powers which would enable me to take the case over. I have a most efficient and imaginative man on the case of Sir Rufus of the Silkworkers, murdered in his own hall. But I cannot order the Norfolk Constabulary to hand over the case to one of my officers, any more than I could instruct the Buckinghamshire force to hand over the death in the Jesus Hospital. Only the Home Secretary has the power to do that. The ball, I fear, is in your court rather than mine, Sir Fitzroy.’
‘Surely you must agree that such a course of action would be the right one in these circumstances?’ Sir Fitzroy was beginning to tap the table with the fingers of his left hand, a sure sign, to those that knew him well, that he was growing angry.
‘That’s as may be, Sir Fitzroy, but we in the Metropolitan Police have long memories. People still remember the case of Inspector Whicher and the Road Hill murders half a century ago. A detective was called in from the Met. He identified the killer. He was not believed. Indeed, he had to abandon the case and his career in the police force. Local rivalries played a part in that. Only later did it transpire that Whicher had indeed identified the murderer correctly, but his theories were ignored by the local authorities. We do not look forward to a repeat of such incidents.’
‘I see,’ said Sir Fitzroy, his fingers tapping ever harder. ‘This is most unsatisfactory.’
Sir Edward Henry knew that to make an enemy of the Permanent Secretary at the Home Office was as dangerous as making an enemy of the Home Secretary himself. All kinds of minor but irritating obstacles could be put in his way, lack of cooperation over police pay, threats of public inquiries into controversial cases.
‘There is one thing I can do,’ he said finally. ‘I am very concerned about the fact that all these murders have links with the Silkworkers Company. They have a number of properties, particularly almshouses, in the London area. I propose to mount a guard over all of them round the clock until further notice. And I will send a message to the other chief constables in southern England that we are proposing to do this. I don’t think the writ of the Silkworkers Company stretches as far as Aberdeen, probably not even up to York.’