A Philosophical Investigation: A Novel (35 page)

But I feel there is one more murder of artistic merit which is worthy of mention, and that is the murder, in 1955, of David Blakely. He was the lover of Ruth Ellis who, having murdered him, was the last woman to be hanged for murder in England.

Blakely and Ellis had been lovers for two years. It was a turbulent, jealous relationship, with many infidelities on both sides. One night, Blakely left the Magnolia public house in Hampstead and found Ellis waiting for him with a revolver. She did not hesitate and shot Blakely several times at point-blank range. The artistic merit of this murder stems from a number of factors: the unfeminine choice of weapon, the unusual determination of the murderer herself and, of course (and most important of all), the singularity of the female artist. Just as it is difficult to find a female composer to rank alongside the likes of Mozart and Beethoven, or a female painter who stands as tall as Titian or Goya, so with the art of murder, there is a dearth of talent among the gentler sex.

Of course recent neurological research has revealed the true reason for this absence of murderous instinct among women; and only time will tell if other aspects of creativity find similar explanation. But let us recognise a real contribution from a woman when one does occur and praise it accordingly.

You will recall that earlier on, I posed the question: Has the twentieth century witnessed a renaissance in the art of murder? Let me now answer this question.

There has been such a renaissance, but it is only one such as Walter Pater might have recognised in that I am describing a temperament, an inwardness of response that is in itself a new form of perception. This temperament declares the weightlessness of modern men and the precariousness of their prejudices. It recognises that all knowledge is merely provisional and that there is no essential truth save death itself. Anything is permissible which might reveal the soul of the artist, including murder.

This renaissance, this outbreak of the art of murder, identifies not the fruit of experience but, given its awful brevity, experience itself as an end. It breathes an atmosphere of absolute uncertainty, of continuous change, of new opinions, of a refusal to acquiesce in some facile orthodoxy. As Victor Hugo says, we are all under sentence of death, but with an indefinite reprieve. Therefore, with this particular renaissance, what we are seeing is an appetite for a quickened sense of life, a multiplied consciousness.

Writing in 1891, Oscar Wilde attributed the commonplace character of literature to the decay of lying as an art. More than a century later I feel I can celebrate a century’s worth of literary and artistic excellence and attribute it to the renaissance of the murder as an art, a science, and a social pleasure.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, in conclusion, let me pass over the usual toasts to the Old Man of the Mountains, Charles the Hammer, the Jewish Sicarri, Burke and Hare, the Thugdom in all its branches, and give you my next victim, for I see that he is now abroad and so I must be about my business.

‘A
BSOLUTELY NOT,’ SAID Jake. She stared at Mark Woodford and Professor Waring with a mixture of surprise and contempt. ‘No way. I’m sorry.’

‘The Minister thought it was a good idea,’ Woodford said smoothly.

Jake shook her head firmly. ‘The Minister’s not investigating this case. I am, and I think it stinks.’

The meeting took place several days after Mr Parmenides had come to the Yard with Wittgenstein’s
A-Z,
in the Minister’s rooms at the Home Office, overlooking St James’s Park. Grace Miles was not present, as she was opening a new police station at her constituency in Birmingham.

Jake sat back in her chair and glanced uncomfortably around her. She wondered about the incongruity of the room’s sleek, modern furniture, the cheap green china, and the pair of elephant tusks that were mounted on one of the beige-coloured walls. She thought this last item rather tasteless given that the elephant was now all but extinct, the few remaining kept in private zoos and safari parks. It was her favourite animal. She thought it ought to have been every policeman’s favourite animal, on the basis that an elephant never forgets. And here were these bastards asking her to do just that. To forget all about catching Wittgenstein.

Mark Woodford sighed and avoiding Jake’s eyes, inflated his lips thoughtfully. ‘Normally we pretty much go along with the constitutional separation of powers,’ he said, feigning some awkwardness. ‘Legislative, executive ...’

‘Spare me the constitutional lecture,’ said Jake. ‘I know what they are.’

‘All right then,’ he said. ‘But there are circumstances in which the legislative function might feel obliged to interfere in the workings of one of the other governmental functions.’

‘I think what you’re trying to say,’ said Jake, ‘is that you’ll have me taken off the case. Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ said Waring.

‘Go ahead and try,’ said Jake. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to try my hand at journalism.’

Woodford smiled placatingly. ‘There’s no question of that surely, Chief Inspector.’ He leaned across the table and folded his hands impatiently. ‘Look, I don’t understand what your objection is. Professor Waring’s suggestion might solve all of our problems.’

‘Everyone except Wittgenstein’s.’

Woodford shrugged. ‘I can’t say I care much about his problems,’ he said. ‘The last victim, Hegel, makes it twelve people he’s killed, for God’s sake.’

‘Maybe so,’ said Jake. ‘But he’s still got some rights. There is still a proper way of doing things. And even if it could work, which I doubt, your way would just sweep it all under the rug. What is more, if it didn’t work, he might break off contact with us altogether. Go underground for a while and then start this business all over again in about two years’ time. Worse still, you’ll end up making a legend out of this man, just like Jack the Ripper became a legend when he disappeared.’

‘Look, just listen to the professor explain the idea to you himself,’ Woodford insisted. ‘Hear him out, please.’

Jake shrugged. ‘Go ahead. But I can’t see that it’ll make much difference. Saint Francis could explain this to me and it would still smell like shit.’

Professor Waring glanced questioningly at Mark Woodford, who nodded at him as if to say that he ought to give it a try anyway. Woodford opened a file in front of him and started to turn the pages.

‘From a reading of all the transcripts of your telephone conversations with Wittgenstein, and from everything we know about him, I have formed a very distinct impression of the kind of character we are dealing with.

‘In many ways, he is like patients I have met before, in custody. My own clinical research has revealed that his type is commonly suicidal. His placing no value on the life of others, makes it probable that he places little value on his own.’

He cleared his throat as he approached what Jake knew to be the more delicate part of his thesis.

‘In this particular case, I’m certain of it. And given the killer’s identification with or delusion that he is Ludwig Wittgenstein, I see no reason why we may not turn his aggression against society towards himself. After all, one of Wittgenstein’s brothers committed suicide and he himself had suicidal tendencies. I think that it is entirely feasible that Sir Jameson Lang might successfully maintain an argument for the killer to take his own life.’ Waring shook his head uncertainly.

‘As to the moral-judicial issues that the chief inspector mentions, I think we must keep before us the very real danger to society of allowing him to remain unchecked. Naturally, as a doctor I have reservations about recommending this particular course of action. It might be argued that it runs counter to my own Hippocratic oath. But that oath is worth nothing if it allows an even greater loss of life. And really, Chief Inspector, don’t you honestly think it would be better to kill yourself than to be sentenced to a lifetime’s punitive coma? I know which option I would prefer.’

‘That’s rich,’ Jake sneered at him, ‘considering that you were on the Home Office Select Committee that recommended implementing coma as a viable punishment.’

Waring frowned and looked at Woodford. ‘Perhaps the chief inspector is concerned that without an arrest at the end of her investigation, her career progress might be held up.’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ she said quickly.

Woodford smiled thinly and helped himself to a rich tea biscuit. ‘Look, I understand what it must be like for you,’ he said. ‘You’ve given everything to this case with a very definite end in mind. And now we come along and suggest a different sort of goal. Well, I can see how it would be very frustrating. Nobody expected you to be happy about it.’

‘You’re damned right I’m not happy about it. Look, you people can do what you like, but I still intend going after Wittgenstein in my own way.’ To that end, Jake had already decided to say nothing of how Parmenides had brought her Wittgenstein’s list of targets, and of how these were being kept under permanent watch.

Woodford shrugged. ‘Well we certainly can’t stop you doing your duty,’ he said.

‘And what about Sir Jameson Lang?’ she asked. ‘What does he have to say about your little scheme? He doesn’t strike me as the type to go along with what you’re proposing. Technically speaking, this is a conspiracy to commit an unlawful homicide.’