Summon Up the Blood (2 page)

‘You’re wasting my time,’ said Jimmy, though he felt a pang of regret as he said it. Had he gone too far?

But it seemed he had judged it right. He felt a softening of the other man’s demeanour. At the same time, he felt himself regarded with renewed interest – respect, perhaps.

‘My dear boy, I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. And the fault is all mine, I’m sure.’ The toff flashed a silver cigarette case towards Jimmy. It sprung open, revealing two neat rows of fat yellow cigarettes. There was a moment as they absorbed themselves in the business of lighting up, a moment of solemnity and thrill, of hands brushing and gazes exchanged. Something was confirmed in the transaction of fire and smoke. The tips of their lighted cigarettes bobbed and sparkled excitedly. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to buy you a drink? We are but a few steps from the Criterion, which I believe is not unwelcoming to gentlemen of your class.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Merely that I have seen low renters in there before.’

‘Do you mean to insult me?’

‘Do you mean to blackmail me?’ The man held Jimmy with his empty gaze for a long moment. Then his slit of a mouth opened and a burst of savage laughter broke out in swirls of outraged smoke.

‘You’re quite a wit,’ said Jimmy. All at once he felt the man’s grip on his upper arm, tightening quickly into a band of pain.

The man pulled him towards him and whispered, ‘Whatever I ask you to do, you will do. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you know why?’

‘No.’

‘Because you are a low renter.’

The man released his grip and hailed a taxi.

‘I thought we were going to the Criterion,’ said Jimmy forlornly.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said the other. He threw his cigarette down and ground it with the heel of a shoe that was as black and glistening as a beetle.

A taxi stopped in front of them, and the man opened the door for Jimmy. Jimmy hesitated for a moment, casting a look of boundless nostalgia back towards the bright lights of the Criterion.

He thought of all the old familiar faces in there, and even of the certain party he had wished to avoid. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he had the feeling that if he got into the back of that taxi, he would never see them again. Equally hard to explain was the swell of heartache that he experienced at the thought.

I
n a room in New Scotland Yard, Silas Quinn sat and waited.

A female secretary busied herself rather self-consciously – it seemed to Quinn – in the operation of a typewriting machine. But he knew that her whole being was focused on ignoring his presence.

He searched her face for clues as to why he had been summoned, a fruitless exercise. Besides, he presumed it was the usual business; time for one of those periodic dressing-downs over methods. His last case had once again ended with the death of the main suspect. But Quinn knew that no matter what his superiors might say about his methods, there were no complaints when it came to his results. He was confident that there would be no formal reprimand.

The secretary wore a mask of impassivity. She may have been young, but she was not flighty. Prim, was the word. He could see why Sir Edward Henry, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had chosen her as the custodian of his threshold.

Stuck-up cow
, Quinn decided.

Well, two could play at that game. He turned his head away from her with what he hoped would be taken as a contemptuous sigh. Of course, he couldn’t resist a sly glance back to see how that had gone down.

You are a weak man, Silas Quinn
, he said to himself.

The little kink of a smile on her lips, a momentary quiver before the mask descended again – what was he to make of that? He really couldn’t fathom out the female species. Unless it was a question of female criminals, that is.

It had come as a shock to him when he had started out on the force. But it could not be denied: there were such creatures as women criminals. In his experience, a woman certainly had the potential to be as vile and vicious as any man. One could safely grant them equality in that.

‘Do you think Sir Edward will be long?’ He had no particular interest in the answer to the question. He simply wanted her to acknowledge him. Once she had done that, he would let her be.

‘I really don’t know.’ She did not look at him as she spoke. Instead, she gave a little shake of her head, an unconcealed gesture of impatience.

‘You’re very quick,’ said Quinn, surprising himself with the remark.

She looked up. ‘Beg your pardon?’

Quinn held up both hands and wiggled his fingers in a mime of typewriting.

The secretary smiled, though for herself rather than him, he thought. Evidently, she took pride in her speed.

Quinn thought he was on to something. ‘Do you play the piano too?’

‘No.’ Her private smile became an open smirk. She did something quick and oscillating with her eyes that fascinated Quinn. He wanted to ask her to do it again but found he had lost all confidence.

It was always the same. He could hunt down a ruthless killer without fear, but when it came to making small talk with a young, and quite possibly pretty – yes, he had no doubt, she could be considered pretty, although was
pretty
really the word? – woman . . . when it came to that he found his courage failed him.

He reminded himself that he had no interest in her in
that way
; that it was merely a question of getting her to acknowledge him. But why was he so concerned that she should acknowledge him? What was she to him, after all?

‘Lucinda Bracewell,’ he heard himself say.

‘I
beg
your pardon?’

‘Lucinda Bracewell. One of the first cases we investigated in Special Crimes. Sir Edward will remember it. Seven men, she murdered. That we know of. Her tenants, they were. Killed them one after the other. Poisoned them. Arsenic. Chopped their bodies up. Very small. And boiled the bones. Remarkable patience that woman had. It must have taken her a good while to cut them up into such small pieces. Speaks well of her strength too. She’d have to heft the bodies about, you see. I expect you’re wondering why she came under the remit of Special Crimes.’

‘I –’

‘That was on account of the penises, you see.’

‘The –?’

‘Yes. She severed the penises and sent them to various Members of Parliament. That counts as a special crime, you see.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

But the door to Sir Edward’s office opened at that moment, saving Quinn from having to explain himself.

The man who came out was unknown to Quinn. He was tall, clean-shaven, and dressed in the frock coat of a gentleman. Greying at the temples, he carried himself with a patrician air, spine straight, shoulders back, head angled up slightly: the perfect posture for looking down on lesser mortals like Quinn, in whose direction he did not, however, direct his gaze.

He was undoubtedly a very important person indeed. Even Sir Edward’s secretary seemed cowed by him. It gave Quinn momentary satisfaction to realize that this imperious being was unaware of her presence; effortlessly so, in contrast to her own determined efforts to ignore Quinn. But then, remembering his own discomfiture of a moment ago, he felt immediately sorry for her.

A grimace of pain showed on Sir Edward Henry’s silver-whiskered features. At first sight, it seemed that his pain was caused by Quinn’s entrance, with which it coincided. But Quinn knew better.

‘The old wound troubling you, sir?’

‘It’s the weather, Quinn. It always plays up in the damp.’

Instinctively, Quinn glanced towards the window of Sir Edward’s office. The unrelenting rain lashed against the panes. It was more than a week ago now since there had been a brief let-up, after which the deluge had returned with renewed force.

‘It must take you back, sir,’ said Quinn.

‘What? Eh?’

Quinn nodded towards a framed photograph of Sir Edward, wearing a linen-swaddled pith helmet. He looked out from beneath the canopy on the back of an elephant, his expression one of imperious bewilderment. ‘To India. In the monsoon season.’

‘Have you ever been to India, Quinn?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Thought not.’ Sir Edward left it at that. Distracted by another spasm of pain, he clenched his right hand into a tight fist. With his other hand he gestured for Quinn to sit down.

‘May I ask you a question, Sir Edward?’

‘Eh?’

‘Why did you speak in his defence? Albert Bowes.’ Quinn was alluding to the assassination attempt that had been made upon Sir Edward two years earlier. Sir Edward had opened his front door to a deranged man with a grudge against him. Quinn couldn’t remember the details, but it was over something ridiculously trivial, he felt sure. At any rate, the man was armed with a revolver. He discharged several shots, one of which struck Sir Edward in the abdomen. It was typical of Sir Edward that he spoke in his assailant’s defence at the trial, which no doubt went some way to reducing his sentence.

‘Alfred, Quinn. His name is Alfred. I didn’t call you here to discuss that.’

‘No. I’m sorry, forgive me. I had no right . . .’

‘
Judge not according to the appearance
. That’s all I’ll say. John, seven, twenty-four.’

‘But the man tried to kill you.’

‘A troubled soul, Quinn. Sick at heart. I do not believe he was of sound mind at the time of the incident.’

‘Nevertheless . . .’

‘I know it is not your way, Quinn.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘Come now, Quinn. You know what I’m talking about. How many is it now?’

‘How many what, sir?’

‘How many
what
, the man says! Good grief, Quinn. How many suspects have died – have
you
killed,’ Sir Edward corrected himself, ‘in the course of your investigations?’

‘You must know, Sir Edward, the people I am forced to confront are desperate, dangerous,
ruthless
individuals. They will do anything to evade capture. In all these cases, it has been a question of self-defence. Of kill or be killed.’

‘And in all too many of these cases, there has been no independent witness to corroborate your version of events.’

‘What are you suggesting? With respect, sir, I have a right to ask that question.’

‘It looks bad.’

‘But what about John, seven, twenty-four?’

‘What? Eh? Doesn’t apply to coppers. You know that, Quinn. Especially in the Met.’

‘Is this an official reprimand, sir?’

‘There’s no need to take that tone, Quinn. It’s a warning, that’s what it is. You cannot set yourself up as judge, jury and executioner.’

‘I don’t.’

‘So what is it then? Carelessness?’

‘These decisions, to shoot or not to shoot . . . One cannot afford to think about it for too long. It’s a split-second decision. You know yourself, from your experience with Bowes, how quickly a situation can turn nasty. My primary concern, always, is to minimize the danger to the public. Invariably, that requires me to close down the criminal’s opportunity for violence.’

‘By killing him?’

‘You knew, Sir Edward, when you set up the department and put me at its head, the nature of the work I would be involved in. I think it’s fair to say, also, that you were not deceived as to the approach I would take.’

‘You had form, if that’s what you’re saying.’

‘If you wish to put it like that.’

‘Please get down off your high horse. I have always supported you, and I continue to support you. However, the Special Crimes Department works best when it is noticed least.’

Quinn felt himself the object of Sir Edward’s sympathetic compassion, which, he realized, put him on a level with the would-be assassin Bowes.

‘Regrettably, your department has come to the attention of certain . . . how can I put it? Influential parties.’

‘Is this to do with the gentleman I saw leaving your office?’

‘Don’t be impertinent, Quinn. I’m not one of your suspects, whom you can interrogate at your will.’

‘Forgive me, Sir Edward.’

‘But, yes. That gentleman is Sir Michael Esslyn.’

The name meant nothing to Quinn.

‘The Permanent Secretary to the Home Office. He has the ear of the Home Secretary.’

Quinn’s rather literal imagination supplied the image of a severed ear in a velvet-lined box.

‘And in many ways, he is more powerful than the Home Secretary, because he is more permanent. He tells me that it is the Home Secretary’s view – or very soon will be – that the Special Crimes Department has outlived its usefulness. The Home Secretary is minded to close you down, to revoke the special warrant that established your department. Of course, the Home Secretary doesn’t yet realize he is so minded.’

Quinn felt the surge of a familiar emotion. It was so comforting and so at home in him that he no longer recognized it for what it was: rage.

He rose from his seat, unsure what he would do or say next. ‘I am grateful to you for informing me of the Home Secretary’s decision. Do you wish me to communicate the news to the men? I think it would be better coming from me, as their immediate commander.’

‘Sit down, Quinn. It hasn’t come to that yet. No
decision
has been made. Sir Michael made it clear that the Home Secretary is also aware, and appreciative, of the spectacular successes you have achieved. You are an extraordinarily gifted detective, Quinn. No one doubts that.’

‘It is simply a question of application, sir. I do believe in applying myself.’

‘It is more than that, Quinn. It is almost as if there is something personal between you and the criminal. You hound them out.’

‘As I say, sir, application. I do not like to think of them getting away with it.’

‘Your good work has not gone unnoticed. But then again, neither, regrettably, have these unfortunate accidents. The newspapers are beginning to make something of it. Our masters don’t like it when the newspapers get hold of things. It’s generally taken as a sign that we’re losing our grip.’

‘I don’t concern myself with what the newspapers print.’