Inspector Feather was the first to arrive after a hospital porter had been sent out with Abigail’s urgent messages.
‘My God, Abigail. The killer was here?’
‘Trying to smother Daniel with a pillow,’ said Abigail. ‘I’d only left this room for a moment to go to the toilet. He must have been watching and waiting.’
‘Did you catch a look at his face?’
‘No. He had a scarf wrapped round the lower part of his face and a cap pulled down over his eyes.’ She held out the scrap of cloth she’d managed to grab. ‘I got this. It must have torn off his scarf.’
Feather took it, looked at it, then sniffed at it.
‘It’s got some sort of scent on it,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s not one I’m familiar with.’ Then she stopped. ‘Yes I am. I’ve smelt it before, but I can’t remember where.’
There was the heavy tread of footsteps from outside, then the bulky figure of Chief Superintendent Armstrong thrust his way into the room. He looked down at Daniel and asked: ‘How is he?’
‘Still the same,’ said Abigail. ‘A doctor has checked on him since the attacker fled and says there’s no change.’
‘He tried to suffocate him, you said in your note.’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘He’d have succeeded, too, if I’d been a moment longer.’
‘And we have no idea who it was?’ asked Armstrong.
‘No, but I managed to tear off a piece of his scarf,’ said Abigail.
Feather offered the piece of cloth to Armstrong, who put it to his nose, and then looked at it in distaste. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘Detective Sergeant Rowbotham! He used to spray his clothes with this. We were glad when he left.’
‘Lemon and bergamot!!’ exclaimed Abigail suddenly.
‘Yes, that’s the stuff,’ said Armstrong. He looked at Abigail, curious. ‘How did you know?’
‘Daniel mentioned a detective who used to wear this scent when we came across the smell before in Simon Anstis’ studio.’
‘Simon Anstis?’ said Feather. ‘The one who damaged Sickert’s painting?’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘He’s our mystery rich man, the killer.’
‘Artists aren’t rich,’ said Armstrong doubtfully.
‘His father is,’ said Abigail. ‘Lord Yaxley.’
‘Right,’ said Armstrong determinedly. ‘We’ll find this Anstis and bring him in. But, in the meantime, just in case he tries anything again, we’ll arrange a police guard outside this room. I’ll fix that with the hospital authorities. And I’ll also arrange for a cot bed to be brought in here. If you’re going to be here all night, you’ll need to get some sleep once the duty officer arrives to be on guard.’ He turned to Feather. ‘Wait here with Miss Fenton while I deal with that, Inspector. When I come back, I’ll take over while you arrange for a rota of police officers to be on guard here until we catch this bloke.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather.
He waited until the chief superintendent had gone, then he produced a long black wooden stick from his inner pocket and gave it to Abigail. ‘A standard issue police truncheon, Abigail, just in case Anstis comes back. I promise you, this’ll stop him in his tracks. I’ll also come back in the morning to check on things.’
‘Thank you, John.’
‘With the cot coming, once the police guard is on duty, you can put your head down.’
‘I doubt if I’ll be able to sleep.’
‘You’ll be surprised. After the kind of shocks you’ve had, you will.’
It was three o’clock in the morning before the police constable reported for duty. He informed Abigail of his presence, then took up his position outside the door. Abigail checked on Daniel who was still unconscious, and then lay down on the temporary cot the hospital had provided. I’ll just grab a half-hour, she promised herself; but it was half past six when the arrival of a nurse to check on Daniel woke her.
Abigail left the nurse to her duties while she went to the convenience to splash water on her face, and then went in search of a cup of tea.
She returned to the room, found the nurse was still at work, cleaning the wound in Daniel’s back and checking his life signs, so she told the constable she would be going out to get something to eat and would return shortly.
There was a small cafe close to the hospital that served breakfast to mainly working people. She ordered and ate a fried breakfast ravenously, aware that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday lunchtime before she and Daniel had left for the National Gallery. That done, she bought some newspapers from a street vendor and took them back to Daniel’s room at the hospital. She’d hoped the nurse would still be there so that she could ask about his condition, and whether he was showing any signs of improving, but the nurse had gone. Determined to ask the next nurse who appeared, she ensconced herself in the chair beside Daniel’s bed and began to read the papers. The banner headline on the front page of The Telegraph was ‘Museum Detective Shot’.
Her eyes filled with tears and she thought: I can’t cope with this at this moment, and she put the newspapers down and just sat, her eyes on the unconscious Daniel, which is where Fred Abberline found her when he arrived and knocked on the door of the room just after nine o’clock.
‘I see you’ve got a police guard,’ he said. He showed her the newspaper he was carrying with the banner headline. ‘I came as soon as I saw it.’
‘I was going to send you a note to tell you. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right, you’ve had other things on your mind.’ He looked at the police truncheon lying on the bedside table. ‘I see you’ve got a billy club, as we called them.’
‘Inspector Feather gave it to me after Daniel was attacked here last night.’
‘Attacked? Here, in the hospital?’
‘Yes. I went to the toilet and while I was out of the room the killer came in and tried to smother Daniel with a pillow. I came in and caught him, but he got away. But at least we know who he is.’
‘Who?’
‘Simon Anstis. He’s a would-be artist. The police are looking for him.’
‘Well, if he comes back and you give him a swipe with that he’ll know it. Lignum vitae. The hardest wood in the world. I’ve still got my old one. Did you know that when a copper retires from the beat he takes his truncheon with him? I bet Daniel’s got his stashed away in a cupboard somewhere. It’s a tradition because it’s his own very personal weapon. Many coppers decorate their truncheons, paint it or put studs in it to mark it as theirs.’ He looked at her, concerned. ‘Did he hurt you badly? I can see the bruise on your cheek.’
‘It was mainly my pride that was hurt because I let him get away. But, yes, he did punch me and it still hurts.’
‘Have you read the papers?’
‘I can’t, not just yet.’
‘I know how you feel,’ said Abberline. He settled himself down on the temporary cot. ‘I was the same when one of my colleagues got shot. We were chasing after some tearaway who suddenly pulled this gun out and bang! Bert went down and that was it. I couldn’t look at a paper for two days after.’ He looked at Daniel. ‘Have they said how he’s doing?’
She shook her head.
‘The nurse came to check on him, so I left him to her and went out and had a bite of breakfast. By the time I came back, she was gone.’
‘I can ask, if you’d like.’
‘I don’t know if they’d tell you. They’re very close about saying anything, even to next of kin. I’m going to ask the next one who comes in to look at him.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thanks for offering. Now there’s a police guard on the room I feel all right about going out to get a bite of food or something.’
‘What are the police doing to find this Anstis character?’ asked Abberline.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Abigail. ‘Whatever the usual procedures are, I suppose. Checking where he lives, people he knows.’
‘I should be out there with them,’ said Abberline. ‘Armstrong doesn’t like me, but in this case, I’d hope he’d let me be part of the search team. I’m still a good detective. I’m dogged. I’ll keep going till I find Anstis.’ Abberline took out his notebook and a pencil. ‘So let me know everything you’ve got on him. Description. Addresses. Places he hangs out.’
Abigail gave him everything they knew about him along with the address of his studio. ‘He murdered Joe Wallace in the privy of a pub called The Flower Pot in Seven Dials, so we assume he knows that area well. And his father is Lord Yaxley. I’m afraid I don’t know where Lord Yaxley lives.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find out,’ said Abberline.
‘Also, he’s armed,’ warned Abigail. ‘He’s got a gun.’
‘So have I,’ said Abberline, and he patted his inside pocket. ‘And it’s licensed.’ He got up. ‘I’ll be back whether I’ve got news or not.’
‘I’ll be here,’ said Abigail. ‘I want to be here when Daniel wakes up.’
Abberline made his way to Scotland Yard, where he asked for Inspector Feather. The desk sergeant was new to Abberline, but one who obviously recognised the name when Abberline wrote it down for him on the visitor form.
‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir,’ said the desk sergeant. ‘Would you allow me to shake your hand?’
Abberline held out his hand and shook the desk sergeant’s hand. ‘Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?’
‘John Richardson, sir.’
‘Then it’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sergeant Richardson.’
The sergeant sent a message up to Feather’s office, and shortly afterwards John Feather descended the stairs and walked across the marbled floor of reception, a welcoming smile on his face.
‘Fred,’ he greeted him, and the two men shook hands. ‘Have you been to the hospital?’
‘I have.’
‘How’s Daniel?’
‘Still alive, thankfully. But still unconscious. Although that may be for the best for him at the moment, after what he went through.’
‘And how’s Abigail?’
‘Bearing up. She’s strong.’ He looked towards the stairs inquisitively. ‘Is the chief superintendent in?’
‘No, he’s gone to see the home secretary to make his report. I think he was glad of the opportunity to be able to give him some good news on this case for once: that we know who committed the murders and have a manhunt out for him.’ His face looked sombre as he added: ‘It’s a pity it’s at Daniel’s expense. Do they think he’ll pull through?’
‘All they’ll say is that the surgeon is the best man there is, and if anyone can save him, he can.’
‘Mr Heppenstall,’ nodded Feather.
‘A former chief suspect,’ said Abberline. ‘I’m glad he never found out he was in the frame. So, what’s happening at the moment? Any leads?’
‘None that have paid off,’ admitted Feather. ‘We’ve tried all the places where Anstis is known to hang around, in addition to his studio, but so far nothing. He’s gone to ground. The problem is he obviously has contacts in places like Seven Dials, and if he’s hiding out somewhere like that it’s going to be hard. Especially because he’s obviously got money, so he’ll be bribing people who can smuggle him out of London and maybe on board a boat.’
‘Does he have money?’ asked Abberline thoughtfully. ‘Abigail told me about his studio, which doesn’t sound very luxurious, and where it is I remember as being a bit rundown.’
‘It still is,’ agreed Feather.
‘So where does this Simon Anstis keep his carriage?’
Feather stared at Abberline, stunned. ‘Fred,’ he said, ‘you are a genius.’
‘No, just a plodding old ex-copper. But it struck me that he has to keep this mysterious carriage of his somewhere. And then it struck me, maybe it’s not his.’
‘His father’s,’ said Feather. ‘Lord Yaxley. Who’s a very doting father by all accounts, who seems happy to provide everything his son wants to be an artist. Maybe he’s also happy to let him borrow his carriage and drive it whenever he wants.’
‘Have you called on Lord Yaxley?’ asked Abberline.
‘Yes, it was one of the first places we thought of. He told us his son wasn’t there.’
‘How did he react to you asking for his son?’
‘At first he was indignant, but then when we told him why we wanted to talk to him, he got defensive and looked unsettled.’
‘So you didn’t see him on your own?’
‘No, the chief superintendent came with me. When it’s someone that high in society, you need clout.’
‘You told him you wanted to talk to him about the murders?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘That was when he got most defensive.’
Even with the chief superintendent in attendance, their visit to Lord Yaxley’s house had been short and their reception definitely nasty. It had begun with the butler opening the door a long time after they’d rung the bell. The butler had been dressed in a dressing gown thrown over his pyjamas, and his opening angry words had been: ‘Do you know what time it is? It’s the middle of the night! Why are you waking us at this hour? Who the devil are you?’
‘Chief Superintendent Armstrong from Scotland Yard, and this is Inspector Feather. We wish to see Lord Yaxley.’
‘At this hour? Out of the question! His Lordship is in bed.’
‘This is a murder enquiry. Please rouse his Lordship.’
‘I will do no such thing.’
‘Then you will tell us whether Lord Yaxley’s son, Simon Anstis, is here, or has been here tonight.’
‘What’s going on, Purkiss?’ drawled an elegant voice, and a second man appeared, in his sixties, tall and thin, also wearing a dressing gown over pyjamas.
‘Police, my Lord.’
‘Police? At this hour?’
‘Lord Yaxley, I presume,’ said Armstrong, and he introduced himself and Inspector Feather again. ‘We are in search of your son, Simon Anstis.’
‘For what purpose?’ demanded Yaxley coldly.
‘We wish to talk to him regarding a series of murders.’
‘Murders?’ repeated Yaxley incredulously. ‘Are you mad? This is my son we are talking about.’
‘Is he in this house at this moment?’
‘No, he is not. Now I will trouble you to leave. Purkiss, shut the door.’
‘Yes, m’lord,’ said the butler, and the front door slammed shut.
Feather looked at the chief superintendent. ‘What do we do now, sir?’
‘We leave,’ grunted Armstrong. ‘Without a warrant there’s little else we can do.’
Now Feather was back at Lord Yaxley’s house, this time with Fred Abberline in tow. The same butler, Purkiss, who’d opened the door to Feather and Armstrong during the night opened it again. This time he was dressed in a long frock coat over a striped waistcoat and dark trousers. He glared out at them.
‘Remember me?’ asked Feather. ‘I was here before, along with Chief Superintendent Armstrong.’
‘Who is it, Purkiss?’
As before, the tall elegant figure of Lord Yaxley hoved into view, and the butler opened the door wider so that Yaxley could see who was on his doorstep.
‘The police again,’ scowled Yaxley. ‘What do you want? If you’re still looking for my son, he’s not here. And no, I don’t know where he is. I would also suggest you are wasting your time looking for him in connection with any murders. My son is an eminently respected artist.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Feather. ‘But actually, we’re here to look at your carriage. I assume you have one?’
‘My carriage?’ repeated Yaxley in bewilderment. ‘What on earth for?’
‘Pursuant to the same case, sir.’
‘These murders you keep on about and had the audacity to wake me up in the middle of the night over? This is an outrage.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, this is a murder enquiry.’
‘I don’t care what sort of enquiry this is. Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, sir. Lord Yaxley.’
‘A man with considerable influence in political circles, including many in the Cabinet.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather, calmly but doggedly. ‘May we look at your carriage?’
‘No you may not!’
‘May we talk to your carriage driver?’
‘Again, no you may not. Now leave my property, and I must warn you that I shall be taking this unnecessary harassment up with the authorities, including my close acquaintance, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.’
With that, he stepped back and the butler shut the door firmly.
Feather sighed. ‘We won’t get anywhere here without a warrant.’
‘Did you notice the painting in the hallway?’
‘Which one? There were loads of them.’
‘The portrait of Lord Yaxley sitting in the driving seat of a four-wheeled carriage with four horses.’
Feather looked at him, worried.
‘You’re not suggesting … ?’
‘Why not? If he can handle four horses, he can handle one. And he’d obviously do anything for his son.’
‘Even this kind of murder and butchery?’
‘Abigail said that Daniel told her Lord Yaxley hates Sickert. I think a search warrant might prove useful.’
Feather shook his head.
‘We’ve got nothing to base it on. No evidence, none that will convince a magistrate. The fact that our suspect is Lord Yaxley’s son means nothing, nor does a portrait of him driving a carriage, however much we think it helps our case. We need something concrete.’ He gave a growl of frustration. ‘We need to get hold of Simon Anstis.’