Flight of Magpies Page 13

  Stephen went back to sleep on that thought and woke again as the clocks chimed eleven. The flat was empty now, and a note on the kitchen table informed him that Crane was with his lawyers. Stephen breakfasted, added a rejoinder to say that he was going to see the Golds, and headed out, down the front stairs. He was, he thought, rather tired of confining himself to the back ways.

  As he walked through the vestibule of Crane’s mansion block, he was almost knocked over by a man who was running in, and his protest dried in his throat as he saw Inspector Rickaby.

  “Inspector?” he said blankly.

  “Mr. Day.” Rickaby spoke with more emotion than Stephen had ever seen from him. “There you are. With me. Now. We’ve found the swine.”

  Stephen’s skin prickled with excitement. “You’ve got the painter? Newhouse? Where?”

  “Cricklewood. He was there this morning. Come on, we can’t let him go. I’ve a cab waiting.”

  “Oh, hellfire.” Stephen had forgotten for a moment. “I can’t.”

  “What?”

  Stephen made a helpless gesture. “I’ve been suspended from duty. I’ll get you someone—”

  “You’ll come right now.” Rickaby’s face was darkening. “I’ve wasted an hour this morning looking for you as it is. I’m not waiting for half a day and risking losing him again while you can’t find anyone or they have to have it explained.” His brows drew together. “Or kicking my heels while you go and lift him from under my nose.”

  “That’s not my intention,” Stephen assured him, filing it mentally as rather a good tactic.

  “I don’t care what you intend. We go now.”

  “I’m suspended,” Stephen said. “I’ve no right to arrest him.”

  “Then I damned well will. I’ve got men up there, watching the swine.” Rickaby’s voice was grim. “He’s killed three policemen already. I will not have him kill more. You come now, Mr. Day.”

  Stephen hesitated. He wanted to go. He probably wasn’t authorised to, although legal technicalities were the least of his worries. More than that, he’d promised Lucien he’d make someone else take on the case, and he needed to speak to the Golds urgently and resolve this whole Pastern business, and he’d already wasted enough of the day without some lengthy trip to the outer realms of London…

  He couldn’t let the painter kill again.

  As he hesitated, Rickaby’s face hardened, and before Stephen could voice a response, the policeman leaned closer.

  “Why do you think I’m here, Mr. Day?”

  “The painter?”

  “No, here. In the hall of Lord Crane’s building, looking for you. Hmm?”

  Stephen stared at him.

  “I could get them interested in his lordship, Mr. Day, down the station. I got a letter about him just the other day. Anonymous, it was. Had a lot to say about him, and you, and how you’re here all the hours of day and night. So I had a very interesting chat with one of the doormen, and do you know what, he said the same thing. How much investigation do you think Lord Crane is going to bear? What do you reckon all his noble friends would have to say to that?”

  Stephen reached up, hooked his little finger in Rickaby’s collar, and pulled him down so his ear was at Stephen’s mouth. Rickaby was some eight inches taller and physically far more powerful, but Stephen exerted himself, more than he needed, and the policeman bent as though he’d been grabbed by a giant.

  Stephen stared into the inspector’s wide eyes, seeing a reflected glint of the flaming gold of his own irises. “Listen to me. If you ever, ever threaten Lord Crane again, I will turn your mind inside out. I will leave you gibbering like an ape. I will strike you down.” He held on to the policeman for a second longer, ensuring there was no doubt, then released him. Rickaby lurched back, shock in his face. Stephen vaguely wondered if he had actually encountered an angry practitioner before.

  His hands were shaking slightly but he was quite pleased by the control in his voice as he spoke. “Don’t repeat that threat, Rickaby. That said, I am going to come with you.”

  “What?” Rickaby sounded a little hoarse.

  “Not because of what you just said.” That was probably the least convincing lie he’d ever told. “And don’t ever try to force my hand again. But I don’t want Newhouse to get away either. Where’s your cab?”

  Cricklewood was a small town, northwest of London proper, already being swallowed into the city’s sprawl. The cab dropped them at the corner of Cricklewood Broadway, a wide road with a line of shops on each side and narrow streets of new red brick houses sprouting off it at angles.

  “He’s taken rooms down Mora Road.” Rickaby led them towards one of those turnings. He had been silent in the cab, obviously shocked and alarmed, but he was not letting it show in his speech now. “We found him last night, made sure of it this morning. I detailed a constable to watch the front. The gardens back onto the next street’s yards, so he shouldn’t be able to get out that way. My man was ordered to stay out of sight so as not to alert Newhouse, but to follow if he made a run for it.”

  “Out of sight?” Stephen could see a bulky man halfway down the street, leaning nonchalantly against a lamp post, as unobtrusive as anyone in a blue serge police uniform could hope to be. “You may have to arrest your constable for loitering.”

  Rickaby glared at him and strode on down the road, jerking his head at the policeman when they were a little closer. “Well, Motley?”

  “Hasn’t come out, sir. Been very slow.”

  “Good. Ah—” Rickaby glanced at Stephen, who shook his head slightly. “Very well. You stay out here, in case he makes a bolt for it. We’ll go in now.”

  “You don’t want assistance, sir?” asked the constable, obviously disappointed.

  “No.”

  The constable glanced at Stephen, leaned in and asked in a penetrating whisper, “Is this one of the funny jobs, sir?”

  “That’s enough. Wait here. With me, Mr. Day.” Rickaby jerked his head and walked on a few steps.

  “Hold on.” Stephen had to half-run to keep up. Lucien had the good manners to limit his long-legged stride to Stephen’s, mostly. “Are you coming in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Inspector, you haven’t faced a practitioner before. It will probably be a lot more unpleasant and frightening than you imagine, and you are not able to protect yourself. You’d be better off waiting outside.”

  “No.” Rickaby sounded implacable.

  “I’ll deliver him to you alive. My word on it.”

  “I am getting the bastard,” Rickaby said. “Three dead coppers. And if you’re suspended then you can’t perform an arrest. I won’t have him freed on a technicality.”

  “That doesn’t usually happen with my lot,” Stephen admitted, although, considering Slee and Fairley’s relentless hostility, perhaps it might. “It’s up to you. But you do as I say in there, understand? This is my world. Charge blindly ahead and you may get someone hurt or killed, hopefully only Newhouse. And if I tell you to run, you run as if the devil was at your heels. If you can’t manage that, stay outside because you’ll just be a hindrance to me.”

  Rickaby pressed his lips together, nodded.

  “Right. Let’s do this. What number?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  Stephen led the way up the two steps to the peeling front door. He raised his hand to pull the bell, and hesitated. “It’s open.” He pushed the door slightly ajar. “Hello?”

  “Come in,” called a voice from inside the house. “Do come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  They walked through a small hallway into a large, bright room. It had enormous windows, letting the wintry light flood in. Crates and boxes and canvases were stacked haphazardly around the walls. Towards the window but in the centre of the clear space there was a large easel, at right angles to the door, with a canvas o
n it and a paper pinned above the canvas. An empty chair stood in the position that a painting’s subject might occupy. Behind the easel sat a man with wild hair and a white muffler around his throat, holding a paintbrush, concentrating on his work.

  Stephen took a cautious step forward. “Mr. Newhouse, I presume.”

  “That’s right.” The artist had a slight West Country burr to his voice. “And who are you?”

  “My name’s Stephen Day. Of the justiciary. This is Inspector Rickaby of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Justiciary,” said Newhouse, drawing the word out. “And police. Should I be honoured?” He cast a sharp look at the two men, then turned back to his canvas, brush twitching quickly.

  “Mr. Newhouse, did you murder Simon Raphael, Frederick Beamish and Alan Hunt?”

  “That’s right.” Newhouse didn’t look round. The paintbrush flicked and dabbed. “Do you know how?”

  “You painted them,” Stephen said. “You capture people, don’t you? A little part of them. Their essences. And you put it on canvas. And then you spoil the canvas.”

  “Why did you kill them?” demanded Rickaby. Stephen shot him an irritated look. Rickaby took a step forward. “Why are you killing policemen?”

  “Well, to upset you, of course.” Newhouse glanced up at Rickaby with a little smile, and that was when Stephen recognised him.

  He’d kept out of their way. It had been other people catching their attention, accosting him or Crane. The artist had been in the background. But he’d been on the Strand, day after day, sketching…

  “Don’t do anything, Mr. Day.” Newhouse raised his other hand to the painting. It held a scalpel, the sharp blade twinkling in the bright sunlight.

  “Who is that painting of?” Stephen demanded, staring at the easel. “Show me that painting.”

  “Come and see. Slowly. Don’t startle me.”

  “What—” Rickaby began.

  Stephen ignored him. He edged round, dread rising with every step, and had to shut his eyes for a second as the images came into view.

  The canvas was a three-quarter-face profile, its subject caught in thought. It wasn’t polished—the brushwork was fast and sketchy, the colours hastily applied—but of its own kind it was good, and the likeness was unmistakable.

  Newhouse had a sharp knife in his hand, a fraction of an inch from the painted face. A very full, open jar of turpentine was precariously balanced on a little ledge over the canvas, where it would fall if the easel was shaken. The image of Raphael’s corpse, those dreadful bubbles of tormented skin, flashed into his mind.

  “Don’t move, Rickaby,” Stephen said thinly. “He’s painted you.”

  Rickaby made a strangled noise. Stephen didn’t have any time for that. He was looking at the paper that was pinned above the canvas, and the pencil sketch it bore.

  The portrait had not been drawn with affection. In Newhouse’s image, Crane’s cool grey eyes held cruelty, reflected in the mocking sneer of his finely shaped mouth. He looked contemptuous and dangerous, like an aristocratic cad. It was a very good likeness.

  If Stephen killed the painter on the spot, right now, stopped his heart…

  Rickaby gave a little hiccupping noise. Stephen shot him a glance and saw blood blooming on his forehead, a little red bead. Newhouse’s scalpel had just dug into the paint.

  “Mr. Day,” Rickaby whispered. He was rigid, holding himself very stiff.

  “It’s all right. Don’t worry. Put the knife down, Newhouse.” Stephen spread his fingers gently, feeling the etheric currents roil. There was no way he could strike Newhouse down, pull him back and stop the turpentine from falling, not all at once. And the painter was tense and quivering, afraid or, Stephen realized with revulsion, excited. He did not want any sudden movements now. “Put it down. Let’s talk about this.”

  Newhouse made a face. The hand with the scalpel was shaking slightly and his breath was quick. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want you to get on your knees and cross your wrists behind your back.”

  That sent Stephen’s senses into instant alert. If he was to be bound—but Newhouse could scarcely leave his seat to bind him— He whirled round and saw another man in the corner of the room, the shreds of concealment falling away. Stephen recognised him, and gaped.

  “Who the devil are you?” Rickaby demanded.

  “What are you doing here?” Stephen added, then realised that was the least important point. “Sir, this man is a murderer—”

  “Hands behind your back, Day,” said George Fairley. He was wearing much less expensive clothing than normal, a basic sack suit. Something that could get dirty. He had thick leather gloves on his hands. A pair of iron cuffs dangled in his grip.

  Stephen stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You heard me. Keep steady, Newhouse. If he touches me, kill the policeman.”

  Realisation began falling into place, with awful inevitability. Stephen found himself groping for another explanation, though he knew there was no other. “Sir, this man murdered three police officers.”

  “I know that,” said Fairley with contemptuous annoyance. “Knees and hands, now, or Newhouse will take your policeman friend’s ear off. Or maybe his eyes. Can you paint them over, Newhouse? Blind him?”

  Rickaby’s face was grey and sweaty. Stephen could see his fear, the sick terror of a man confronted by forces he didn’t understand and couldn’t fight. He saw that expression so often. He hated it.

  “Mr. Day,” Rickaby whispered, pleading.

  “Now,” said Fairley.

  Stephen knelt, breathing out hard, bracing himself for what was coming. “I wonder what the Council will think of this,” he managed. “You can’t seriously imagine you’ll get away with it. The Metropolitan Police—”

  Fairley ignored him. He came up behind Stephen and fumbled the cuffs onto his wrists. Stephen bit his lip savagely, making himself stay silent as the airlessness closed around his senses. Rickaby was staring at them, lost in a world he didn’t understand.

  “I don’t know who you are,” he said to Fairley, with a good attempt at authority. “But I am an officer of the law—”

  “He knows. He’s on the Council. Be quiet, Rickaby.” Stephen heard his own fear, tried to sound more reassuring. “Just do what they say and it will be all right.”

  “No, I don’t think it will,” Fairley said. “Kill him, Newhouse.”

  The painter gave a little hiss of pleasure, and his scalpel seared over the portrait. It seemed to leave no mark for a frozen instant, then the two sides of the canvas opened up, and at the same instant, a dark red slash seemed to paint itself across Rickaby’s face, between his eyes, bisecting his open mouth, down through his throat. His features sagged to either side, and the blood came.

  Stephen shut his eyes, but he felt as well as heard the thud of the body hitting the floor.

  “There.” Fairley sounded satisfied. “Let’s get on now, it’s past twelve o’clock already. Don’t forget his lordship’s picture.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Crane returned to the flat on the Strand after a useful trip to Hannaford and Greene to find the place empty. Merrick, he knew, would be out dealing with some of Miss Saint’s problems today, but Stephen’s absence was a disappointment and a slight irritation. He wanted to see his lover, wanted him close by until the current threat was dealt with, and he knew they were safe.

  He contemplated Stephen’s message—Gone to the Golds—and considered.

  Back in summer, in the crazed days when giant rats had erupted amongst them and precipitated a sea change in their lives, he had had a brief exchange with Dr. Gold: Stephen’s best friend, Esther’s husband, a practitioner with a healing talent. When Gold had learned about Crane and Stephen’s relationship, and the power in Crane’s blood, he had told Crane to remember that he was a doctor who could be consul
ted in confidence. It had seemed a non sequitur at the time.

  Crane tapped his fingers on the tabletop, thinking, then set out down the stairs once more, and hailed a cab for Piccadilly.

  A second cab took him from Fortnum and Mason’s emporium, with an armful of purchases, to Dr. Gold’s Devonshire Street surgery. The usual nurse answered the door, her face changing from immediate refusal to a nod of recognition, and Crane was ushered in to see Dr. Gold, sitting in his consulting room in his shirtsleeves, dark face worn. There was no sign of Stephen, or Esther, or any patients.

  Gold gave him a quick, tired smile. “Lord Crane. Please say nobody’s dead.”

  “Not to my knowledge. May I have five minutes of your time?”

  “That makes a pleasant change. Yes, by all means. Please, sit.”

  Crane put his offerings on the desk: a bunch of hothouse flowers and the most expensive fruit basket Fortnum’s had had to offer. “For Mrs. Gold. I hope she’s well?”

  “No, she’s sick. More or less continually, which is unpleasant for her, and since she is the worst patient of my acquaintance, fairly nasty for me. I’m probably going to hide the fruit in case she throws it at me, but I’m sure she’ll like the flowers, unless the smell makes her feel nauseous, in which case she’ll doubtless let me know about it.”

  Crane had never regretted his preference for men, and this wasn’t changing his mind. “My sympathies, Doctor. I should have brought you brandy.”

  “Yes, you should.” Gold leaned forward, elbows on desk. “I assume this is about Steph.”

  “It is. Has he spoken to you about the tattoos?”

  “Yours? The ones that move? Is that the problem?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “Of course it is. Off you go. I am very tired,” Gold added before Crane could begin, “and rather worried, and in quite a foul mood, and not easily shocked, so please tell me the problem and don’t dance around my sensibilities. I think I’ve run out of those when it comes to Steph’s personal arrangements.”

  Crane refrained from asking if he wanted to wager on that. “Very well. You know that the tattoos move when I make love to Stephen. The thing is, it happened yesterday, without any intimacy. I was a couple of miles away from him and had been all day, but my tattoos went flying. They even settled in the wrong places, one on my face.”