Summon Up the Blood (19 page)

S
ir Edward’s eyes started from his head as if he had just taken a bayonet to the kidneys. At first Quinn thought his pained expression was a reaction to his old wound making itself felt. But then he wasn’t so sure. ‘And so you are saying that the press have found out about this affair, after all?’

‘Yes, Sir Edward.’

Now the bayonet had been twisted. ‘I find that highly regrettable.’

‘With respect, Sir Edward, it was bound to happen sooner or later. You cannot stop people talking.’

‘What? Eh? I blame you, Quinn. You wanted it out in the first place and now you’ve got your way.’

‘That’s hardly fair, Sir Edward. When the journalist in question came to speak to me, I denied any knowledge of the matter. The story could have got out at any time, and in any way. The dockworker who found the body could easily have spoken to a journalist.’

‘Dockworkers and journalists? In what social sphere do they rub shoulders?’

‘You know how journalists like to delve in all sorts of warrens for their stories.’

‘But if they don’t know there is a story to find in the first place, how do they know where to go looking? What took this journalist to the dockworker’s hovel?’

‘I’m not saying that the dockworker was the source. Only that they could have been. It could just as easily have been the caretaker at Poplar Mortuary, who incidentally struck me as being of very dubious character. However, I believe I know how this journalist got his information. He is . . . he . . .’

‘Come on, man, spit it out.’

‘He is an invert himself, sir. He uses male prostitutes. And the fact that I . . . that a policeman was making enquiries about the dead man was common knowledge amongst these people.’

‘I knew it was your fault, Quinn.’

‘But, with respect, sir, how am I meant to conduct an investigation without asking questions? I concocted a cover story. However, to gain someone’s trust, you have to be honest with them. I chose to be honest with one young man.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Isn’t it more the issue what he told me?’

‘What did you tell him, Quinn?’ insisted Sir Edward.

‘Merely that the man I was looking for had been murdered. I said nothing about the circumstances of the murder. Apart from the fact that he had had his throat slit. Naturally, I omitted to mention the exsanguinated state of the corpse.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. You know what the press would make of that. It would not be long before the word
vampire
was bandied about. You can imagine what would ensue. The last thing I want is a moral panic on my hands. Once we know the facts, then we can decide what we tell the public. In consultation, I might add, with our masters.’

Quinn turned his head sharply away from Sir Edward. He briefly considered mentioning his discovery of Sir Michael Esslyn’s name on the list of Panther Club members. And yet he found himself strangely reluctant to do so. He told himself that he did not wish to burden Sir Edward with a detail that would almost certainly turn out to be irrelevant. ‘I’m sure it would be possible to keep the question of exsanguination out of the papers.’

‘Don’t count on it. The press is like a wild beast. Once you have released it, you cannot control it. And besides, this case is utterly distasteful from whichever angle one considers it.
But the men of Sodom were wicked and sinners before the Lord exceedingly.
Genesis, thirteen, thirteen.’

Quinn nodded sharply. ‘My only intention, Sir Edward, is to do my job as well as I can. But I do think it may be necessary to get this journalist on our side. What if there is another murder? Will we keep that a secret too? Remember Jack the Ripper. There are certain particularities about the state of the body that suggest a ritualistic aspect to the crime. The draining of the blood. The careful cleansing of the corpse. There is every likelihood that he will strike again, and again, until he is stopped. How will it look if it comes out at a later time that we suppressed information that might have helped prevent future murders?’

‘What? Eh? Are you trying to frighten me into agreeing with you, Quinn?’

‘I am merely laying all the facts as I understand them before you. I should perhaps add that Bittlestone wants an exclusive arrangement when the time comes.’

‘Is that all?’ The question was sarcastic. Sir Edward drummed his fingers. ‘The problem is, Quinn, he will want something from us. We may have to be completely frank with him in order to win his confidence. We may have to trust him.’

‘I understand how alarming a prospect that may be, Sir Edward, really I do. However, I think it is a risk we are going to have to take. We have been caught out before, have we not? Whenever we have tried to conceal information from the public it has backfired on us. The press will either invent stories that are far worse than the reality, or they will not stop their probing until, by foul means or fair, they hit upon something close to the truth, which inevitably reflects badly on us. Our caution has only succeeded in provoking their hostility.’

‘But we cannot tell them everything, Quinn. For one thing, it will jeopardize the investigation. In addition to that, as I believe I mentioned before, there is the question of national security.’

‘Begging your pardon, Sir Edward, but I am afraid I fail to grasp the aspect of this case that touches upon national security.’

‘Neville made his living by charging ghastly men for the dubious privilege of doing abominable things to him. He was a renter, in other words. It is this aspect of the crime that we are particularly desirous to withhold.’

‘But why?’ Quinn frowned. His focus, as always, was on solving the case; he had neither the time nor the inclination to consider the wider, political ramifications that disturbed his superiors. Sometimes that left him feeling hopelessly naive for a man in his position. He suspected this would be one of those occasions.

Sir Edward regarded him with a sharp grimace of pain. ‘It is understood that the dissemination of information about such activities has a demoralizing and frankly corrupting influence on the populace at large, even when the information is communicated in terms of the severest disapprobation. As I have had occasion to point out to you before, Quinn, these are uncertain times, internationally. At home, the Irish problem looks likely to draw us into a civil war at any moment. There could be no worse time to shine the spotlight on degenerate practices at the heart of the Empire. Not only would it sap the morale of our young men, it would give strength and succour to our enemies. To put it bluntly, the Home Secretary is very keen to play down the queer angle.’

‘There is the chance that Neville was killed
because
he was a queer,’ said Quinn.

‘What of it?’

‘Therefore is there not also the chance that his killer will target other men who share his predilection?’

‘We don’t know that. As yet there has been only one death.’

‘Even so, do we not have a duty to issue a warning? To encourage such men to modify their behaviour?’

‘Such men are perfectly capable of desisting from their vile practices whenever they wish.’

‘Perhaps there is some way, some coded way that will not offend public morality or give our enemies encouragement, some way we may deliver a subtle warning to these men?’

‘What do you have in mind? Will any man who is fond of the colour lilac and the Ballets Russes kindly dress more soberly and seek out more masculine forms of entertainment?’

‘No, sir, I can see that wouldn’t work.’

‘If we do cut a deal with this fellow Bittlestone – and I say
if
– there will be no mention of the victim’s degeneracy. I would rather give him the exsanguination than the degeneracy.’

‘Of course, Sir Edward. Although, as you know, Bittlestone himself is an invert. And he already knows that James Neville was a renter.’

‘But he does not know that it may be significant to the case, and will have no reason to include it in any account. As far as he and the public are concerned, this fellow Neville was just some unlucky wretch who fell victim to an unknown monster.’ Sir Edward sighed and stretched, only to flinch back from the sudden reminder of pain. ‘I suppose there is no other way?’

‘I fear not, Sir Edward. At least this way we will have one channel through which we can feed all the information we wish.’

Sir Edward winced. ‘Very well. Arrange a meeting for us with this journalist and his editor. Here at the Yard. That will give us the initiative. We had better have the proprietor along too. It does no harm to get the top man on board. What paper did you say he writes for?’

‘The
Daily Clarion
.’

‘Ah, then that’s Lennox. I’ve dealt with him before. Bit of an upstart among the proprietors, which means he’s keen to make his mark. He should be flattered by the attention. If there is any problem, any question of this journalist fellow stepping out of line, we can throw the book at them all. Speak to Miss Latterly on your way out. She has my diary.’

‘Very well, sir.’

‘I warn you, Quinn, if this blows up in our faces, I shall hold you personally to account.’

It was Quinn’s turn to wince. Apart from anything else, Sir Edward’s choice of words brought to mind the passage he had read from the book
Profession of Shame
.

Quinn came out of Sir Edward’s office and stood by the side of Miss Latterly’s desk, waiting to be noticed. Once again, she was occupied in the operation of a typewriting machine. Quinn admired her upright posture and the speed of her fingers.

He admired, too, her powers of concentration. He had no doubt she knew he was there. As before, her determination not to acknowledge his presence was absolute. There was no break in the fluid ripple of her fingers over the keys, no tremor of hesitation. She appeared so supremely unconscious of him that he began to doubt, if not his own reality, then at least their mutual existence in the same universe.

‘Miss Latterly?’ he ventured at last.

As he knew she would, she continued typing for a moment, before turning a puzzled frown on him.

‘Sir Edward has requested that I speak to you.’

At first, she clearly found it difficult to countenance this startling information. But her expression quickly turned to one of horror. ‘You’re not going to talk to me about murderers, are you?’ she cried.

‘No. Sir Edward wishes to arrange a meeting. He says that you keep his diary and that I should consult with you.’

She closed her eyes and gasped in relief. ‘Oh, if that’s all . . .’ Miss Latterly wheeled back on her chair and opened a drawer in the desk.

‘It’s what I do, you know,’ said Quinn, stung to defend himself. ‘My occupation. It’s as natural for me to talk about it as it is for another man to talk about his day at the office pushing pieces of paper around.’

She had heard enough. ‘I have Sir Edward’s diary.’

‘I am sorry that I said what I did the last time I was here. I don’t normally ever say anything about my work to anyone. Least of all to . . . well, to a young lady. It was unforgivable. I cannot think what came over me.’

‘Let us say no more about it.’

‘You will understand, I think, that this places a certain strain upon one. It makes it hard for one to be . . . well, to be in polite company. And to be honest, I have never found that an easy thing. Even before I chose this occupation.’

‘Please, you need not explain yourself to me.’

‘Oh, but I do need to. I have offended you, I know. I am sincerely sorry. I had no right. I made the mistake of thinking that, because you work here, in the Yard, that you would be inured to such talk.’

She inhaled sharply and regarded him with a hostile, peevish glare. ‘Really? That is all there was to it? It was merely that you were too stupid to realize that your conversation was distasteful to me? It was not that you deliberately sought to cause me distress?’

‘How could you attribute such malicious motives to me?’

‘I am sorry, I am sure, if I impugn your motives. I only know that that was how it seemed to me at the time. As if you wished to punish me for something.’

Quinn felt the heat rise to his face. It was shaming but true: he
had
wished to prick her demeanour of self-contained superiority; he
had
found her indifference provoking.

‘I feel sorry for you, Inspector Quinn. It is clear that you are a woman-hater. Perhaps my very presence here in New Scotland Yard is what offends you. Let me tell you, I am here to stay, and your bullying will not shake me. I can see that I have hit a nerve.’

Quinn took it that she was referring to the colour he imagined his face to have now turned. He remembered that the reverse of her phrase – man-hater – had suggested itself to him when he had last been to Sir Edward’s office. ‘I am mortified that you think so badly of me.’

‘Why should my opinion of you matter to you at all? I am surely so far beneath you that I am not worthy of the least consideration.’

There was something not wholly convincing about this abject self-negation. Quinn could not help but smile. ‘I confess that once I imagined you had a similar opinion of me. That
I
, a mere plodding policeman, was so far beneath
you
as to be unworthy even of your contempt.’

‘Why should you think that?’ The question was harsh-edged with impatience.

‘Oh, no reason.’

‘I had imagined that you were making some attempt to be frank with me, Inspector. Therefore I consider it poor form for you to have recourse to evasions now.’

‘Very well. Because I believe you have made quite a show of ignoring me.’

Miss Latterly’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you so conceited that you imagine every woman must look at you the moment you wander into view? It may have escaped your notice that I am kept very busy by Sir Edward.’

‘So now I am conceited. A conceited woman-hater. And what else was it?’

‘A bully.’

‘If it is your view that I have been less than frank with you, Miss Latterly, then I apologize. However, I do not think anyone may accuse you of a similar failing.’