Inspector Abberline and the Just King Read online

  ‘Would that have brought a man down, gentlemen?’

  Thomas felt his jaw drop with astonishment.

  Abberline looked at her shrewdly. ‘Yes, that arrow could have killed a man.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Now you will accuse me of killing poor Mr Feasby. After all, I have a bow and arrows, and know how to use them. Are you looking for blood on my hands, Thomas? After all, you are staring at me very strangely.’

  Abberline spoke matter-of-factly. ‘I will need to speak with you, miss, in the light of what I’ve just seen.’

  ‘Good thing, too. I approve. Of course, you must interview all the residents here. Nearly all of us own longbows. We enjoy our little archery tournaments every Sunday afternoon. The winner gets a scroll.’

  ‘Do you hunt animals with the bow?’ Abberline asked.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t kill God’s creatures with this: not for a gold pin.’

  ‘A gold pin?’ Thomas thought about the gold pin in its case back at the cottage. Was Jo hinting she was in some way connected with the Order of the Golden Pin (as he’d named the organization of mysterious strangers)?

  ‘Oh?’ She looked amused. ‘It’s just a turn of phrase. I wouldn’t do so-on-and-so-forth for a gold pin.’ She pointed at a gap in the bushes. ‘Poor Mr Feasby was found just through there. If I’m not mistaken, I can see the man you are due to meet. Good day, gents.’ She galloped away.

  Abberline turned to Thomas after she’d gone. ‘Tell me if I’m being overly inquisitive, Thomas. Why does that astonishing woman refer to you as “Dear Thomas”?’

  ‘I really have no idea, Inspector. In fact, I was just thinking the very same thing.’

  The time was precisely nine o’clock when Abberline approached a well-built man of around forty, who wore a suit of greenish tweed. The man had a broad, pink face adorned with a blond moustache that had become stained near the lips from smoking, which he did now. A black cigar jutted from his mouth.

  Abberline held out his hand. ‘Detective Constable Stainforth. Pleased to meet you. I’m –’

  He removed the cigar from his mouth. ‘Inspector Abberline. Yes, I recognize you from your pictures in the newspapers. Very honoured to meet you, sir. I’m a voracious reader of articles pertaining to yourself.’

  The big man vigorously shook the inspector’s hand.

  Abberline nodded his thanks. ‘This is Mr Lloyd. He’ll be assisting me.’

  ‘Mr Lloyd of the Pictorial Evening News. It is you, sir, to thank for those most informative and exciting depictions of Inspector Abberline’s cases. I confess, sir, I’ve cut out those stories and made quite a scrapbook from them. I read them to my children on a Sunday night, and they hang onto every blessed word.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Thomas said. ‘I’m glad you enjoy what I’ve written.’

  ‘Enjoy? It’s more than enjoy, Mr Lloyd. They inform us. They educate ordinary folk and policeman, alike, in modern detective work.’

  ‘Ah, quite,’ Abberline said. ‘Perhaps you would tell me what you know about the killing of Mr Feasby.’

  ‘It will be an honour, Inspector. Please step this way. Mind that mud. It’ll go to your very ankles. Now … see this tree? Over a hundred feet high, wouldn’t you say, sir?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps even a shade taller than that.’

  Stainforth’s face grew a deeper pink. Thomas surmised the man was excited to be in the presence of Inspector Abberline.

  Stainforth said, ‘This is absolutely the most bizarre case I have ever investigated. Normally in Hull, we deal with drunken sailors who bash each other with bottles and carve each other with knives. Feasby’s death is …’ He searched for a word that would impress Abberline with his eloquence. ‘Feasby’s death is Byzantine. By that, sir, I mean elaborate, complicated and mysterious.’

  ‘Would you tell me what you think happened? I’d value your opinion.’

  ‘You would, sir?’ Stainforth grinned with delight. Being asked for his thoughts on the case by a detective of such stature as Abberline was clearly hugely important to him. ‘In the early hours of the morning, Mr Feasby climbed that very tree. Up and up he went. As he ascended he made notes in a book about the birds’ nests he saw. He was a man who studied the natural world with … with scientific zeal. As Feasby climbed, I believe he saw a stuffed creature that had been placed up there on a branch. I suspect that the animal, which belongs to Mr Feasby and his brother, was left up there to catch his attention and draw him from the cover of the thick branches so that the bowman would have a clear shot with his arrow. So, we might picture this in our mind’s eye: Mr Feasby counting eggs in nests and noting down his findings, then he sees the stuffed creature, which he and his brother have named Sir Terror. You might have seen it, sir. It has the body of a wolf and eagle wings.’

  ‘Yes, we have, Detective. Please continue.’

  Stainforth puffed out his chest. This was obviously a proud moment for the man, and Thomas could imagine that for the rest of Stainforth’s life he would tell people about the day he helped Inspector Abberline solve a baffling case of murder.

  ‘Inspector Abberline, the arrow struck Feasby in the ribcage. He fell from the branch where the wolf thing had been fixed. He struck the ground close to that muddy patch. The depression caused by the impact is still visible. The victim died instantly, as the fall resulted in a great number of broken bones. Also the arrow point had pierced the man’s heart.’

  ‘Has the arrow been preserved?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have it here.’

  Stainforth hurried to the tree where a cardboard tube leaned against its trunk. He tipped an arrow out from the tube, and passed it to Abberline. The feather flights of the arrow were white. The long shaft still remained smeared with a reddish brown material – no doubt Feasby’s blood.

  Abberline examined the arrow. ‘The head of the arrow is missing. Do you have it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Stainforth pulled an envelope from his pocket. He gave it to Abberline.

  ‘Thank you.’ Abberline removed the arrowhead that had savagely punched through the ribs of the unfortunate Mr Feasby. ‘Ah … unusual.’

  ‘Why unusual?’ Thomas asked.

  Abberline held the small piece of metalwork up to the daylight. ‘The arrowhead is barbed. See the two sharp sections that point backwards in the shape of a letter V. Most arrows you find these days are used in competitive archery. The heads of such arrows are simply smooth points so they can be easily pulled out of the target.’

  ‘A barbed arrow is used for hunting.’ Stainforth was keen to make a useful contribution to the conversation. ‘An arrow with a barb like that might be used by a poacher hunting rabbits or deer.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Abberline returned the arrowhead to the envelope. ‘The barb means that the arrow can’t be pulled out easily if the animal runs through foliage. A barb’s designed to remain embedded in an animal’s body … or, in this case, a man’s chest.’

  Stainforth added eagerly, ‘And the killer used the stuffed creature as bait to lure Feasby along the branch and out into the open.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Abberline nodded. ‘I will make a note of your theory, Detective. I have to say that I agree with your conclusions.’

  ‘You do?’ Stainforth smiled happily. ‘I am gratified that I’ve been of help, sir.’

  ‘Has the ground hereabouts been searched?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Abberline crouched down by the patch of mud, which measured perhaps five feet in length by two feet or so in width.

  Abberline gazed at the mass of wet dirt. ‘There are hoof prints here.’

  ‘Aye, sir, I suppose horse riders follow yonder path and pass over this spot to avoid the low branches.’

  ‘The hooves must go in by a good six inches or so.’

  ‘I expect they do.’ Stainforth wiped at a trickle of perspiration running down his jaw. He looked uncertain of himself now, not sure what Abberline was suggesting.

  ‘Thomas, will you hold my coat?’ A
bberline slipped the garment off and handed it to Thomas. ‘I think it’s time I got my hands mucky, don’t you, Thomas?’

  ‘It’s proved very useful before, Inspector.’

  Stainforth wrinkled his nose as Abberline plunged his right hand into the mud. The hand squelched downwards until it vanished from sight into that brown mass.

  ‘Inspector Abberline,’ he said, ‘is that quite necessary? You’ll get yourself all filthy.’

  ‘It’s in the depths of filth where we often find vital clues.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  Abberline worked his hand through the mud; his eyes were closed as he used his sense of touch to conduct the search.

  He murmured, ‘If an object had been discarded or has fallen into the mud then a horse’s hoof could have pushed it down out of sight.’

  ‘We made a very thorough search,’ Stainforth told him, not wanting to appear lackadaisical. ‘Went over every inch of ground, we did. With a bloodhound, too. They can sniff out a human hair in a field.’

  ‘Bear with me. Ah …’ Abberline pulled a rusted bottle top from the mud. He flung it aside. ‘I think we can safely say that’s been lying here for years.’

  His hand was coated with mud. Nevertheless, he plunged his fingers into that glutinous, sucking mass of wet dirt. Diligently, methodically, he worked his way from one side to the other before moving his hand slightly and repeating the process, working across the breadth of the mud patch. He gave a sudden grunt. Quickly, he pulled out his hand. Thomas saw a bead of red appear on his fingertip.

  ‘You’ve gone and jabbed yourself with a thorn,’ Stainforth said.

  ‘Not a thorn,’ Abberline told him, pushing his hand back down into the dirt again. ‘It was this.’ He pulled out a slender object that was perhaps barely two inches in length.

  ‘What have you got there, sir?’

  Abberline snapped a dock leaf from its stem and wiped the object. ‘We shall soon find out. There.’ Abberline held up his find.

  Thomas stared in astonishment. ‘A pin. A gold pin! My good God! And is that a pearl fixed to the end?’

  Thomas Lloyd returned to the cottage where he and Abberline were residing during the course of the investigation. The local detective, Stainforth, had already left for the ferry, which would return him to the mainland. Thomas watched as Abberline washed the gold pin in the kitchen sink. The pin had come to light when Abberline had searched the patch of muddy ground near where Feasby’s corpse had been found.

  ‘There’s no way of telling yet if the pin belonged to Feasby, or the killer, or neither of them.’ Abberline dried the pin on a towel. ‘This might be a coincidental find; then again, it might be a vital clue on which the case hinges.’

  ‘William Feasby might know if the pin belonged to Benedict.’

  ‘Might?’ Abberline held the glittering object up as he examined it. ‘A solid gold pin with a pearl at one end? William and Benedict were twins. They lived together in the same small cottage. Surely William would have noticed this in his brother’s lapel?’

  At that moment, Thomas sensed a hint of suspicion in Abberline’s tone. Or maybe I’m feeling guilty, he thought, because I’ve seen a pin exactly like that before. The man in the carriage had one when he spoke to me. The stranger who followed me along the street had one. And I have the same type of gold pin as well. Thomas smiled, attempting to hide his discomfort.

  ‘You’re right, Inspector. William Feasby would have seen the lapel pin before if it did belong to Benedict. Perhaps both brothers have the same kind of pin.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh … well … the pin seems something like a badge. Perhaps worn by members of a club or society.’

  ‘You may well be right. That’s sound thinking.’ Abberline held the pin to the light. ‘I don’t see the name of a goldsmith or a hallmark.’

  Thomas pictured exactly the same kind of pin, tipped with a pearl, in its case at the bottom of his bag in the bedroom. At that moment, he grew angry with himself. If he hadn’t agreed to keep that conversation with the aristocratic stranger a secret he could simply tell Abberline he owned an identical pin. Half jokingly, he’d referred to himself being enrolled in the Order of the Golden Pin. Why, he’d even received a letter from the Prime Minister of Great Britain, praising his newspaper articles. Thomas had been honoured to receive a letter from such an exalted figure. He realized that his vanity had been flattered. Dash it all. Now he felt infuriated that he’d given his word to keep the entire damn business a secret. As Abberline studied the pin, Thomas wanted to blurt out the truth. Yet he knew he couldn’t. That letter from the Prime Minister effectively gagged him, didn’t it? If the truth came out that he’d revealed a confidence, his reputation would be shattered into a million pieces. Nobody would ever trust him again professionally. That meant his career as a journalist would be over.

  ‘Thomas? Are you feeling ill?’

  ‘No … why?’

  ‘You’re staring at this pin as if it’s going to explode.’

  ‘Ah, I beg your pardon. I was picturing how the pin might have fallen from Feasby’s clothing when he fell, and how it might have been trampled into the mud by passers-by.’

  ‘As long as you’re not unwell. Remember that unfortunate incident in the canal. I sometimes worry that I’ve rushed you back to work too soon.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Inspector.’

  ‘You nearly drowned.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern. I am fully recovered.’

  ‘I consider you my friend. I’d hate it if you weren’t your usual healthy self.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘I feel perfectly hale and hearty, and looking forward to helping you with this case.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Now … please take care of this.’ He handed Thomas the pin. ‘I’ll go to the palace to speak with Ludwig. As owner – or ruler, I should say – of Faxfleet, I will need his permission to interview his staff and the islanders.’

  Thomas watched Abberline from the kitchen window as the man hurried along the path in the direction of the palace. Meanwhile, the dilemma of whether he, Thomas Lloyd, should reveal what he knew about the gold pin churned like bad food in his stomach. He fetched the pin that he’d been presented with by the stranger and laid it beside the pin that Abberline had found in the mud. Yes, identical. Did Benedict Feasby belong to the secret society? And was Benedict’s twin brother, William, a member, too? Dash it all. More than anything Thomas longed to confide in Abberline. Surely there could be no harm in it. Thomas placed the pin that Abberline had found in an envelope and put it in a cupboard. The gold pin that had been given to him by the stranger, he replaced in its little case and tucked it away at the bottom of his bag.

  ‘By heaven,’ Thomas told his reflection in a wall mirror. ‘I’m going to tell Abberline everything, and to hell with oaths of secrecy.’

  He then paced the kitchen and rehearsed what he’d tell the man. He’d leave nothing out. He’d describe the aristocratic figure who’d spoken to him in the carriage. He’d produce the letter from the Prime Minister, which he carried in his pocket. Just then, the door burst open. Thomas started with surprise.

  Abberline stood there, panting. ‘He’s done it again. The Ripper’s back in Whitechapel. Another woman’s been murdered.’

  Inspector Abberline had rushed into the cottage with news of a killing in the East End slums of London. After that startling revelation, the detective got busy. Thomas pictured an eager hunting dog, straining at its leash, as he watched Abberline gathering case notes from the table, and pulling on his overcoat. Thomas, meanwhile, had news of his own to reveal. He’d decided to tell Abberline about the gold pin he’d received from the stranger last week. Thomas would tell the detective everything.

  ‘Inspector, the gold pin. I’ve been thinking about this, and I wish to discuss something with you.’

  ‘Thomas? Would you pass me the envelope on the shelf? The train tickets should be in there.’

 
; Thomas handed the envelope to Abberline. ‘You’re returning to London?’

  ‘Yes, this very minute. I must examine the scene where the woman was murdered.’

  ‘I’ve made a pot of tea. I rather thought we could discuss the gold pin you found.’

  ‘Ack, these are the outbound tickets. The return tickets must be in the other envelope. The one under the vase.’

  ‘Inspector. There’s something you need to know.’

  Abberline gripped Thomas’s arm – a warm and friendly gesture. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas, the gold pin will have to wait until I get back. It’s vital I make a forensic examination of the murder victim. A Mrs Ruth Verity was found with wounds consistent with those of the other Ripper victims. I need to make a judgement whether the killer is one and the same.’

  The man grabbed the envelope and checked the train tickets.

  Thomas had been determined to reveal how he’d received his own gold pin that was identical to the one found where Benedict Feasby fell from the tree. Yet the expression on Abberline’s face, which was a potent mingling of excitement and horror, deflected Thomas from speaking about the pin. Instead, he asked, ‘Your colleagues think that Jack the Ripper has struck again? After an interval of two years?’

  ‘It appears so.’

  ‘Do you wish me to go with you?’

  ‘No, please stay here, Thomas.’

  ‘I shall need to write about your investigations in Whitechapel.’

  ‘I’ll give you a full account when I get back.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘No more than two or three days. I must hurry, Thomas.’

  ‘Tell the ferry to wait.’

  ‘The ferry could wait, yes, but the tide won’t. If it drops any lower I’ll be marooned here until tomorrow. And …’ He gave a small shrug. ‘I must examine the body of poor Mrs Verity. If I conclude that she’s a new victim of the Ripper then I must launch an investigation to catch the devil. This time I will call in the army and search every building in Whitechapel.’ Abberline’s eyes gleamed – this was a man caught up in the white-hot passion of the hunt for his prey.