Walnut Island—that was the case described in the clippings that Lenox had pulled from their oak filing cabinet in St. James’s Square before they left for the Challenger.
The six articles were spread from across three days: three on the first, April 5; two on the second; and one on the third, only the Telegraph pursuing the story into the morning hours of April 7.
It had perhaps passed through the newspapers so quickly because, despite having several sensational elements, it had produced no clues, no leads, no identifications: nothing to add to the splashy first accounts.
Did that make it a perfect crime?
The most reliable of the three newspapers that had reported on the matter was the Times. Their piece had appeared on the first page of the densely typeset newspaper, datelined to London.
Thames Mystery
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Inspectors Sinex and Exeter charged with investigation
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Identification considered difficult; public assistance sought
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The body of a woman was found early Thursday morning by Jacob A. Schoemaker, charman of Randall House, a residence situated upon the small islet near Twickenham known locally as Walnut Island. Schoemaker reported to police that he had discovered a sailor’s trunk among the rushes near the island’s east end, heavily sodden, apparently fetched there by the tide.
The trunk was clasped but not locked. Inside was the body of a woman, estimated in age as being between 20 and 40. The trunk had no identifying marks and the body was unclothed. The cause of death was strangulation. The deceased had long black hair, a prominent brow, and well-kept teeth, according to Inspector Sinex of Scotland Yard.
These and other details match no known missing person for whom the London police are actively searching, Sinex confirmed to the Times.
He added that the Yard is pursuing several promising leads. Inspectors Sinex and Exeter will jointly handle the matter going forward.
Descriptions matching those of the deceased may be forwarded either to the Times or to Scotland Yard. No statement was released by Sir Winston Kellogg, owner of Randall House, previously home to the Randall family. Sir Winston and his family are presently in Scotland.
No reward has thus far been offered.
“‘Several promising leads,’” Lenox quoted angrily as he and Graham read over the article together again, heads huddled, on the way to the Yard.
It was a fairly common kind of article. London had birthed babies and buried bodies beyond counting since its foundation. Once every two or three days, it produced an unidentified corpse. Some of these corpses caught the public imagination, but few of those that involved foul play were ever solved.
On the other hand, this was the body of a young, or relatively young, woman, which was the sort the press liked to dramatize. The mention of her teeth was also a subtle indication that perhaps the police believed her to be wellborn—not a prostitute, that is, the most usual victim of violent crimes, alas.
There was also something macabre in her discovery on Walnut Island that might easily have stimulated the public imagination. It hadn’t caught, however—it just hadn’t. So it went.
The other five articles offered variants of the same information, none so thorough as the Times. The final one, in the Telegraph, volunteered only that Inspectors Sinex and Exeter had fielded several public visits.
Before their visit to Mr. Kennington at the Challenger, Lenox and Graham had combed carefully through their files from the week preceding and following March 2. There were numerous crimes contained across these 150-odd articles, including a dozen murders, but most of them had been solved, and only one other, an odd stabbing in Romford, presented features of unusual interest.
In their hansom cab on the way to the Yard, Lenox said, thoughtfully, “April fifth. A sailor’s trunk is buoyant. So we may assume that it was floated down the Thames—in other words, would not need to have been dropped anywhere near the island. In fact, could have floated for days before it arrived at Walnut Island.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“On the other hand, such a trunk floating downriver wouldn’t be likely to survive the small fry for longer than a quarter of an hour.”
There were hundreds of skiffs and other flat-bottomed boats, perhaps thousands, that floated daily upon the Thames, serving every purpose imaginable. Some ferried sailors between the huge corvettes and brigs anchored near the docks. Some sold meat pies, rum, blue pictures, newspapers, anything of imaginable interest to these same sailors. Some were after river fish.
Some were merely pickers—trawling the great waterway, scavenging what they could sell, down to paper at a halfpenny per ten pounds.
“Perhaps that indicates that it was placed in the river the night before, sir. Darkness would have given the murderer cover, and the trunk a better chance of remaining undiscovered.”
Lenox nodded. “My thought too.”
“After midnight best of all, sir.”
“Our fellow is a nocturnal soul. Slipping letters under doors at four in the morning, dropping trunks in the river after dark. Very well, then. It is dawn of April fifth that Mr. Schoemaker discovers the body.”
They looked at each other, both knowing what this meant. Lenox felt sick.
“Yes, sir.”
“Today is the second of May. Which means that the anniversary of the murder itself could well be tomorrow.”
“At the latest, the next day, sir.”
A second victim might already be dead, Lenox thought. “Yes.”
“Optimistically, we could hope that it was the early morning of April fifth, sir,” Graham said. “The trunk might have floated only a very short while.”
Lenox nodded soberly. “Yes.”
But in his heart he knew there was every chance they were already too far behind. He had never worked on a murder, and the stakes felt too high, too high.
Their hansom stalled, and Graham peered out through the window. “Two carriages stuck, passing too close, sir,” he said.
Lenox pulled his notepad from his breast pocket, forcing himself to slow down and think. “Who is the murderer, Graham?” he said. “Let us assume that the letter is real—let us assume that the Walnut Island trunk is his perfect crime—who is he?”
Graham, who had been looking at the mix-up in traffic, turned his attention back to Lenox. “Why, it could be anyone in the world, sir,” he said.
Lenox, brow dark, shook his head. “No, that’s quite incorrect.”
“Well, in London, I mean to say, sir, anyone in—”
“No,” said Lenox again, forcefully. “We know a great deal.” He looked through the window, and then said, under his breath, “Move, damn it all, move.”
Their only hope was getting to the Yard as quickly as possible and forcing someone there to listen to them.
He tried not to think at all the jollity they had had at his expense in the last seven months—a relationship he had hoped at first might be collegial, then at least neutral, but which had proved more comic, to the inspectors there, than anything else.
Partly his own fault. If he wanted to be one of them badly enough, he would have applied for a job there. But his family could never, ever have countenanced that—and nor could he have, in fact. That was the shameful truth, that his pride came before his desire to work. So that he had become a running joke among the inspectors of the Yard, even the constables, all of whom could no doubt intuit his condescension; the gentleman detective who hung around the building, hoping to catch word of some crime he could poke his unwelcome nose into.
They would have to listen to him now. That was all there was.
“What more is it that we know about this criminal that I have missed, sir?” Graham asked curiously.
Lenox inhaled deeply. “Well. We have two sets of facts from which we may draw conclusions. The contents of the letter, and the physical object itself, which Mr. Kennington was kind enough to show us. If only he had run it earlier, a great—but anyhow.”
“Sir,” said Graham.
Suddenly the hansom lurched forward. They both looked through the window—the traffic had cleared. Fifteen minutes to the Yard, twelve with a rub of luck.
Lenox went on. “The question becomes where the two things line up, the letter and the letter. Leave the trunk to the side for a moment. Every letter sent in the history of the world could be traced to a single author, of course, were we only brilliant enough to untangle its minutely telling signatures. Each of us leaves a dozen on any random note of thanks, I’ve no doubt.
“As it is, we can do a rough job.” He took that morning’s clipping from the Challenger out of his breast pocket. “Examine the language: I would characterize it in the main as—what is the exact word? Pretentious, I suppose. And more dangerously, in my experience, grandiose as well. Take this line, about how murder is treated in England. ‘Too seriously, if we are honest with ourselves about the numerousness and average intellectual capacity of our population.’ Then there is the false modesty of ‘my own small effort.’
“Look at the pride in that line, too. ‘The generally sluggish energies of England’s press and police.’ In the signature, further false modesty—‘A correspondent.’
“The picture seems clear enough to me.”
“A pretentious person, sir, then,” said Graham.
“Even more than that. The author of this letter thinks himself far, far above the average run of man. That is confirmed, of course, by the letter’s leading piece of superciliousness—this claim about a perfect crime, that he has committed a perfect crime, and will commit another.
“But lay that against the letter itself. Cheap paper. Cheap ink. Pencil lines erased underneath his lettering. That peculiarly admirable penmanship—I would reckon there was a prize for that at some moment in this fellow’s past, perhaps second prize for penmanship in his free school, a Latin primer the prize, handed to him by someone he disdained—a minor cleric at prize-giving day, you know the kind of thing.”
Lenox was gaining steam. “Because he has had hatred in his heart for a long time, our murderer. That is who we are looking for: a man of very high intelligence, very low station, and very, very great anger, Graham.” Lenox shook his head, and speaking almost to himself, added, “It is a dangerous, murderously dangerous combination, that.”
Graham tapped the window. “We’re here, sir.”