The Deathday Prophecies

By Alex Binney

A string of murders in 1883 are somehow linked to another string of murders in 1908. In each case it seemed that the police had solved the mystery, and yet there were loose ends that were never resolved. When yet another string of murders in 1933 stretches the deductive powers of Scotland Yard’s best detectives to the limit – and beyond – there may be one detective who can find the missing links and solve not only the present murders but the past killings too.

Last time, the killer even sent the police a list of those he intended to kill, and, to help in the investigations, the detectives engaged the services of Monica Le Vinchy, a psychic medium with a unique ability to forecast the exact date and time of death. Surely, knowing not only who but also when the victims would die, the police could not fail to catch the perpetrator? But does Monica have a hidden agenda?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strict Publishing International
• Release date: Aug 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857793041

Alex Binney

Alex is a well established English author of murder mystery novels. He took early retirement as a manager from a major UK bank to pursue his first love of writing murder mysteries. Over the years he has devised numerous plots which he did not have chance to bring to his readership whilst pursuing his bank career. Divorced, he lives in Plymouth, Devon, UK, and you can correspond with him on Facebook.

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CHAPTER ONE: A Deadly Occurrence

Wednesday 14th February, 1883. 10 p.m.

It was a cold and misty evening when Constable Stuart Cobbins went about his beat along Gray’s Inn Road, in the London Borough of Camden.

There was an eerie feeling about the place with the cloud cover having blotted out a full moon and where the wisps of soot and water vapour eddied around the street’s gas lamps, as row upon row of houses and other buildings spewed out their smoke from the chimney pots, the result of the many coal fires thereabouts attempting to warm the dwellings within.

He could hear his heavy black boots, highly polished, resonate as they met the stony road with every step he took. He could also see the breath in front of him freeze as he made his way about the assortment of buildings along what was an elongated thoroughfare stretching from Holborn, near the Chancery Lane tube station, and reaching its way northwards and slightly west and, finally, arriving at St. Pancras.

Throughout its route, the road keeps to the higher ground, above the valley of the River Fleet to the east, and it was still being used as the principal route from London to Hampstead.

All was quiet. Hardly a soul about. Not surprising, on a night such as this.

The gin houses nearby were busy, of course, and the noise of their revelry could clearly be heard as one made progress further along the thoroughfare, the drunken voices reverberating between the cold stone walls of the buildings in that area.

Gray’s Inn Road took its name from one of the Inns of Court. Over the centuries the number of active ones has been reduced to four:

Lincoln’s Inn

Inner Temple

Middle Temple

Gray’s Inn

The Inns of Court in London are the professional associations for barristers in England and Wales. All such barristers must belong to one such association. They have supervisory and disciplinary functions over their members. The Inns also provide libraries, dining facilities and professional accommodation. Each also has a church or chapel attached to it and is a self-contained precinct where barristers traditionally train and practise. However, growth in the legal profession, together with a desire to practise from more modern accommodation caused many barristers’ chambers to move outside the precincts of the Inns of Court in the late 20th century.

None of this history, as it related then, made any sort of impact on the slow-thinking Cobbins’ brain. He considered himself lucky to hold on to his job and that was, in part, because he had seen his contemporaries regularly sacked for thieving or drunkenness on duty.

So he kept his nose clean in the knowledge that he was not the sharpest pencil in the box. As a result, he had no ambition for advancement, but was just happy to collect his humble wages each week and to live in a small terraced house in Islington with his wife, Mary, and their young child, Joshua.

In spite of the gas lamps that were regularly sited at twenty-foot intervals along the Gray’s Inn Road, the pervading mist necessitated the use of his torch, which he played in and out of doorways.

He had been on his evening beat for more than a couple of hours now, with nothing of moment to report, save for a couple of tom cats fighting, and having to move the odd drunk away from doorways.

He had got as far as Roger Street, which was a comparatively short thoroughfare to the left of him, housing a couple of pubs and several shops offering a variety of merchandise, when he espied something that stopped him in his tracks.

The first dwelling in Roger Street, standing on the corner, was The Wishing Well Inn, from which the usual noise of a busy pub could be heard.

What had caused Cobbins to stop, as he shone his torch up the street, were a pair of shoes sticking out into the road from behind the side wall of the inn.

It was clear there was still an occupant in those shoes who was lying prostrate on the ground.

As he walked up to explore the situation, the constable could see that the owner was a well-dressed gentleman in a dark blue suit, wearing a cape with his top hat and cane lying by his side.

There was blood that had oozed out of a head wound and, on closer examination, it was clear to Cobbins that the man was quite dead.

He blew his whistle excitedly to draw attention to the incident and, before long, one of the Bobbies on a nearby beat had joined him.

Derek Strang said to his colleague: I see you’ve found a dead ’un there, Stuart, me old mate.

Yes, Derek, I sure ’ave. You stay ’ere while I ’ave a word with the landlord.

Whilst Strang guarded the corpse, Cobbins forced his way past a lot of live bodies as he struggled to the bar in an attempt to seek out the landlord. He eventually located him serving one of his regulars.

The owner of this popular drinking hole was a big, stout fellow, sporting a handlebar moustache and wearing a striped apron.

Yes, officer, what do you want?

I’d like you to accompany me outside, if you please, requested Cobbins.

What for? Can’t you see I’ve got thirsty customers?

This won’t take a minute. It’s important.

Bill Plunger, the landlord, gave out a hefty sigh and lifted up a flap in the counter. Together the two men forced themselves through an inebriate throng until they made it to the street outside.

Strang was still there, having taken the opportunity to light up a cigarette.

The landlord drew back a little when he saw the body.

Has this gentleman frequented your premises tonight? asked Cobbins.

Nah, said Plunger. If he had, he’d o’ stuck out like a sore thumb.

Are you sure?

Course I’m sure. The likes o’ ’im wouldn’t ’ave come in ’ere.

The constable thanked the landlord, who returned to his pub.

Well this a fine to-do, ain’t it? said Strang. What are you going to do now? The station’s shut.

The policeman was referring to the police building housed nearby in Bloomsbury.

We’ll have to get him to the University College Hospital until I can report it in the morning. See if you can hail a cab for me, Derek, will you?

Had it been in the small hours of the morning, the constables might have found difficulty in securing transport, but as it was only 10.45 p.m. their luck was in.

Within ten minutes they had commandeered a two-horse Hackney and had bundled the body into the back seat.

Okay, Derek, said Cobbins, I’d best go with him. You’d better get back on your beat. I’ll report this in the morning, have no worry. I’ll return to my beat as soon as I’ve offloaded matey, here.

Right-o, Stuart. Good luck, me old mate.

It took the cab the best part of thirty minutes to reach the hospital and a further ten minutes to find the appropriate hospital staff who would take the body.

Where did you find him? enquired Dr. Jonathan Stephens as the porters removed the corpse.

In Roger Street, just off Gray’s Inn Road, by the side of The Wishing Well Inn, replied Cobbins.

Oh, that dive! He doesn’t look like the sort who would frequent that place.

"He isn’t – or wasn’t, I should say. I asked the landlord there. A chap called Plunger. Said he’d never seen ’im before."

Well, if it’s any consolation to you, he is definitely deceased. There’s nothing we can do for him.

I knows that, Doctor. But can you keep ’im in your morgue ’til tomorrow when our detectives will be comin’ round?

There’s no problem with that, Constable. If no one claims him, we can use him for medical purposes.

Cobbins recoiled at the thought.

Don’t you touch ’im ’til our chaps turn up in the morning, will you? said the policeman.

CHAPTER TWO: An Investigation Begins

The police station at Bloomsbury was necessarily a small one, the government budget being extremely tight for controlling law in the area. It was manned by five uniformed men, one station sergeant and two detectives of the ranks sergeant and inspector.

Cobbins was attached to the Bloomsbury office and, although he had been patrolling all night, nevertheless he reported in at 7 a.m. when the station opened.

Walter ‘Wally’ Saunders was the station sergeant and was surprised to see the policeman after he had opened up.

Hello, Stuart, he said. I thought you’d have gone home to bed my now. Fergus O’Brien has just taken over your beat.

I should be, agreed Cobbins, but somethin’ awful happened last night. Are the detectives in?

Sergeant Crabbin is, but the inspector’s not in yet. What happened?

I’ll you when I get back. I’d best see Sergeant Crabbin first.

The policeman lifted up the flap in the counter and proceeded towards a corridor at the back. Cobbins then gingerly knocked on the first door he came to on his left.

Come.

Sergeant Wilberforce Crabbin was a man of not inconsequential proportions, though he was perhaps a little challenged in the height department. A man in his mid-forties, he enjoyed the good things in life, and his girth was a good testimony to that fact. He had long sideburns and brown curly hair and sported a bushy moustache.

Ah, Cobbins, he said, when the constable showed himself. What are you doing here? I thought you’d be on your way to Islington to see that buxom wife of yours and that Joshua.

I should be, sir, but I needed to report a grave matter to you first.

Something that happened on your beat last night?

Yes, sir.

Well, go ahead then, man. Speak.

It happened last night at Roger Street, sir, beside The Wishing Well Inn. ’Twas ten-thirty or thereabouts. I spotted this body in the passage beside the inn. ’E was a City gent of some sort, sir. All dressed up in ’is finery with ’is ’ead bashed in.

So what did you do?

I blew me whistle, and Derek Strang from Guilford Street station answered my call. We hailed a cab and Derek helped me get the body inside the vehicle and then I dropped it off at the University College Hospital. At this point, Cobbins referred to his notebook. I spoke to a Dr. Jonathan Stephens there, who arranged for the body to be kept at the hospital morgue ’til you’ve had a chance to look at it, sir.

Me? Sounds like this is more a job for the Whitehall lot, Cobbins. I’ll see what Inspector Brass has to say when he comes in. Okay, Constable, you can go now. You’ve done your duty.

Yes, sir.

Had it been in the days of the Bow Street Runners, a ‘hue and cry’ would have gone up, but not now when the Metropolitan force was trying to achieve its own identity. It would only be another four years before the New Scotland Yard building came into being, and by then Crabbin’s lot would no longer be as comfortable as it was now.

Inspector Manfred Brass reported for duty at 8 a.m. that February morning, smoking a long thin cheroot. Immaculately dressed as usual in his worsted suit and wingback collar shirt with bright red cravat pinned back by a single diamond stud, he waltzed into the station expecting an easy day.

Good morning, Wally, he greeted the station sergeant. Is all correct and well?

As far as I know, sir – except that D.S. Crabbin would like to see you as soon as you come in.

Would he really? What’s he done – spilt his tea? Ha!

No, sir. I think it’s a bit more serious than that, according to Constable Cobbins who was here. I think it’s best if Mr. Crabbin tells you all about it.

Very well, Wally, I’m on my way. Organise a cup of tea for me, will you? There’s a good chap.

The inspector then advanced along the corridor that led to Crabbin’s room. He did not bother to knock, but simply barged in unannounced.

The sergeant was taken unawares as he removed his feet from his desk.

Inspector Brass, sir, he gasped. You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you…

Evidently. Saunders said you wished to see me. What does it concern?

It concerns an incident reported to me this morning by Constable Cobbins, replied Crabbin.

Go on. Brass continued to puff on his cheroot while placing one foot on the chair before him.

He was patrolling Gray’s Inn Road as usual last night. When he reached Roger Street he spotted a pair of feet sticking out from beyond the back wall that formed part of The Wishing Well Inn. Upon further inspection, he came across a well-dressed individual who had clearly been attacked.

Dead?

Yes. Cobbins summoned help from a nearby constable who was from Guilford Street station, as it turned out, and between them they bundled the body into a Hackney cab and transported it to the University College Hospital. Cobbins had words with a Dr. Jonathan Stephens who was on duty at the time, and the corpse has been deposited in the morgue there.

I see. What conclusion did you reach with Cobbins?

That in all likelihood you would refer the incident to Whitehall. It’s not the sort of thing that we get mixed up in.

Quite right. However, we must look professional about this. Before we approach those chaps, we had better have a look at the murder scene and visit the hospital. Come on, let’s hail a hansom.

When the two detectives reached The Wishing Well Inn, Crabbin was instructed to bang heavily on the front door.

It was by now 8.45 a.m.

Okay, okay! shouted a voice from within. I’m coming!

When Plunger threw open the door, he looked quite angry.

Why are you banging on my door so early in the day? he enquired of the two men in front of him.

Police, announced Brass.

Oh… it’s about that dead ’un last night, is it?

That’s right, landlord. We understand that the constable on the beat asked you to look at the body.

’Sright.

Will you show us exactly where it was lying?

Sure.

The half-dressed publican walked in front of the two men and gestured to them to follow.

There you are, he said. You can see where the blood stains are. That was where ’is ’ead was. And ’is feet was stickin’ out beyond the wall. Big bugger ’e was, and posh.

Had you ever seen him before?

Nah. We don’t get the likes of ’im visitin’ a pub like mine.

All right, Mr. Plunger. Thank you for your time.

†

Doctor Jonathan Stephens was more than co-operative when the two detectives called at his hospital forty minutes later.

You’re lucky to have caught me, he said. I was about to go off duty. I’ve just completed an eighteen hour shift.

We won’t keep you any longer than necessary, Doctor, Brass assured him. Did you have a good look at the body when it came in?

Yes. He was clearly dead. Rigor mortis was just about to set in, so he had probably been killed four or five hours previously.

What killed him?

A severe blow – several blows, in fact – to the back of his head. It was a particularly vicious attack. He had obviously put up quite a fight for survival as there were a lot of defensive wounds about his body.

Were you able to identify him?

We were. He had some business cards about his person. He was another doctor – but not in medicine, per se, but rather psychiatry. His name is Strickland. I’ve put all the personal items we found on him into a brown paper bag. If you’ll follow me…

The two men were led along a variety of corridors until they came to an opaque glass-panelled door.

This is the room we use as a morgue, announced Stephens as they walked inside.

There were several cadavers on display, all having been carefully labelled by their toes.

Stephens pulled back the sheet on one of the corpses.

This is your man, he said.

Hmmm, muttered Brass. He’s not that old. I would say he was in his mid-forties.

Here are his personal effects, said Stephens, handing over a brown bag that had been placed by the body. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I am in desperate need of respite.

CHAPTER THREE: The Men Of Whitehall

Whitehall takes its name from the vast Palace of Whitehall that used to occupy the area but which was largely destroyed by fire in 1698.

After the Metropolitan Police Act was passed by Parliament in 1829, the Whitehall site was selected for the new police headquarters. The first two commissioners, Charles Rowan and Richard Mayne, along with the various police officers and staff, took occupation of 4 Whitehall Place, which backed onto a street called Great Scotland Yard.

By the time this story opens, the Met headquarters had expanded from 4 Whitehall Place into several neighbouring addresses, including 3, 5, 21 and 22 Whitehall Place and also 8 and 9 Great Scotland Yard.

As an interesting aside, during the construction of the Scotland Yard building in 1888, workers would discover the dismembered torso of a female: the case, known as the ‘Whitehall Mystery’, has never been solved.

But now, on this February day of 1883, Inspector Manfred Brass and Detective Sergeant Wilberforce Crabbin found themselves alighting from their hansom cab and approaching the steps of 4 Whitehall Place.

Assistant Commissioner James Macfadyen had been reading a report on current crime figures in the metropolis when he heard a knock on his office door.

Yes, who is it?

Two detectives from Bloomsbury crave an audience with you, sir, announced a voice from the other side of the door.

Do they, indeed? Then you had better show them in.

Macfadyen had not come through the ranks. He had been specially recruited from the army where he had retired at the rank of brigadier after twenty-two years service. Now forty-five years of age, his military bearing was in evidence by the way he dressed and groomed himself. He still had jet-black hair, closely cropped and parted in the middle. There was not an ounce of fat on him and one could well describe his features as being gaunt. He had a tooth missing in the middle of his top layer, which he tried to hide behind his military moustache.

Sit down, gentlemen, he said to the two detectives in front of him, as he attempted to straighten out his waistcoat. What brings you here before me?

We’ve met before, sir, if you recall, the inspector reminded him. It was at last year’s Lord Mayor’s charity ball. I’m Detective Inspector Manfield Brass and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Wilberforce Crabbin. We are currently stationed at Bloomsbury.

Yes… I do seem to recall your face, Inspector. Unfortunately I meet so many police officers in my line of work that it is sometimes difficult to put names to faces.

Indeed, sir. As you say, it must be difficult, agreed Brass.

So… lay out your problem to me… that is, the reason for your visit.

Well, sir, it involves one of our constables in the name of Cobbins. While he was on duty last night and patrolling his beat along Gray’s Inn Road, he came across a gentleman who had been attacked with murderous intent. His body lay beside The Wishing Well Inn which is in Roger Street, just off the main thoroughfare.

You said ‘murderous intent’. By that you mean the victim was dead?

Yes, sir. His body now lies in the morgue at The University College hospital. It appears he is – or was – a psychiatrist of some repute, on the basis that his practice is in Harley Street. I have his personal effects here, if you care to relieve me of them.

I see. I wonder what on earth he was doing in that area?

This is the quandary, sir, and why I have referred the matter to you. I was hoping that you would charge one of your chaps in Whitehall with the responsibility of investigating this matter. As I have mentioned, I have his personal effects here if you care to relieve me of them.

Indeed I shall, Inspector. I realize this may be outside your area of expertise. I have just the man who will enjoy taking this on. He is rather good at solving cases of homicide. Leave it with me. I shall be speaking with our Inspector Railton, who will no doubt wish to discuss the matter with you at some point. Good day, gentlemen, and thank you for drawing this to our attention.

†

Well, that was easy enough, Crabbin, said Brass as they made their way back to Bloomsbury in another hansom. Better the problem lies with them, rather than with us.

Yes, sir. I must say I don’t care much for dead bodies. Give me a decent burglar to catch any day. At least you know where you are with them.

Which reminds me, Crabbin. I’m due to report to Lady Phoebe Sanderson this afternoon on the progress we are making into the theft of her jewellery.

I didn’t know we were making progress, sir.

We’re not. Brass grinned at him. But by the time I’ve finished speaking with her and have imbibed her tea, she will think we are…

On this last comment, the two men burst out laughing.

†

Detective Inspector Percival Railton was enjoying a relaxing cup of tea in his comfortable office at Whitehall when he received the summons.

Assistant Commissioner Macfadyen requests your company, guv, Bradley Curser informed him.

Bradley was one of the permanent office staff who worked on the administration side of the Met. He was a good organizer, and recognized as such. It would have been a waste to put him on the beat.

Okay, Bradley, said Railton. I’ll be along in a minute.

The inspector put down the cup he had been holding and thumbed through the handwritten notes before him. It was his final report on the Hulbert killings, a series of family homicides he had just solved with the help of his sergeant, Jethro Pitt. It had been a particularly difficult and hazardous case to solve, but solve it he had, the culprit being a long lost cousin who was scheming to inherit the family fortune by killing off his closest relatives.

He let out a heartfelt sigh and got to his feet. He brushed himself down, looked in the mirror to ensure he looked presentable, and then made his way to the assistant commissioner’s room.

Come in, Percy, invited Macfadyen, after the inspector had knocked on his door. Take a seat, do.

I am assuming you were chasing me for this, reacted Railton, placing several pages on the A.C.’s desk.

What’s this? asked Macfadyen.

It’s the final report on the Hulbert case.

Oh, yes, thank you. You could have taken a couple of more days over that. No, this is not the reason for my desire for a consultation. I have a new situation for you to look into.

Another homicide?

Looks like it.

After the assistant commissioner outlined the case to Railton, he said, There was one thing I didn’t let on to Brass, Percy. And that was that I am acquainted with the deceased.

Really, sir? Are you able to give me any background details relating to him?

Not much, except that he was damned expensive. He was the psychiatrist who was looking after my late wife before she committed suicide.

I see. I’m sorry to hear that, sir…

It’s of no consequence now, Percy. It was all of five years ago. I was angry at the time – on two fronts. Number one was that I had paid him so much money, and what was the end result? And two, the fellow made no apology to the effect that he had failed to diagnose her self-destructive urges. Still, he’s not going to apologise any time soon now, is he?

†

Railton waited until the evening before visiting the hospital, to ensure that Dr. Jonathan Stephens would be back on duty.

He brought his trusted sergeant with him who was instructed to take notes at all times.

Jethro Pitt was a tall man in his late thirties, an ox of a man. He towered over Railton who was much thinner and barely reached five foot ten inches, whereas his sergeant was all of six feet three and looked like a body builder. Both men were clean shaven, Railton being ten years older, but he still had a head full of black curly hair.

As the three men looked at the uncovered body, Railton enquired of the doctor: Would you please point out your medical observations on the injuries the deceased sustained?

Certainly, Inspector. First, let us turn him over. Would you mind giving me a hand?

Railton was not squeamish. He had seen enough dead bodies in his time. He helped the doctor to roll the body first on its side and then so that it was face down.

You see this head trauma at the back of the skull? the doctor pointed out. He was dealt some heavy blows from some hefty object like a large club of some sort. It was meant to kill.

I can see that, said Railton. With such a savage attack, how did he manage to fight back? You told Inspector Brass that there were some defensive wounds…

Yes, I was mistaken concerning that. On second sight, the injuries are more consistent with him being held down by other parties whilst the fatal blows were struck. You could call them defensive, if you like, in that the ecchymosis was sustained as he struggled to free himself from their grip.

Ecchymosis – you mean bruising?

Yes… sorry, I forgot – you’re not a doctor, are you?

The body was turned over so that the surgeon could illustrate his point. See… here… and here.

Uhuh. And because of the state of the body when you received it, with rigor just beginning, you estimated he had been killed about four hours earlier…?

Yes, and not in that alleyway either. The body had obviously been dumped there. Prior to that he had been held down in a chair of some sort before he was hit on the head.

Yes, that’s consistent with the fact there was hardly any blood near the spot where he was found, according to Inspector Brass’s report. Okay, Doctor, you can cover him up.

"In the remote chance that no one claims the body – or even if they do, you are aware that this is a training hospital, aren’t you, Inspector?" Stephens gave Railton a penetrating look.

Meaning?

"We need real bodies to work on, so that we can advance medical science…"

You mean… now that Burke and Hare are no longer in operation, eh? Railton grinned at him. Only joking, Doc. I’ll keep it in mind…

CHAPTER FOUR: One Surprise After Another

Railton saw no point in consulting Brass over the Roger Street affair as he could see little that his fellow officer might contribute further, now that he was in possession of the late psychiatrist’s personal effects.

The following morning, after their visit to the University College Hospital, his sergeant, Jethro Pitt, and he were seated in his cramped office at Whitehall as they looked over the deceased Strickland’s belongings.

Not much here, guv, declared Pitt. Some keys, a small notebook with some names and addresses scrawled down, a few pennies and some business cards. No wallet or money purse. So robbery may have been the motive…

Railton was looking at a crumpled missive that he was holding in his hands.

This is more interesting, he said. It might explain how he came to be in the area where he was found.

How so, guv? I thought the body was dumped and he was murdered elsewhere.

He probably was, but I suspect that the murder took place somewhere in the vicinity, not miles away. Notwithstanding which, this communication makes interesting reading. Have a look.

The inspector handed the crumpled note to his assistant who read:

It is most important that I see you. A matter of some urgency has arisen which I believe you should be made aware of. Please do not delay.

I shall see you at our usual meeting place.

Shall we say at 5.30 p.m. sharp?

T.M.

Yes, as you say, guv – interesting. I wonder who T.M. is?

Indeed. I think the solution to that may be found at the address of his practice. What say you that we pay that establishment a visit?

†

Harley Street is situated in the City of Westminster and is in the ownership of the Howard de Walden family.

The offices of Strickland, Horseman and Toms were lavishly furnished, and the success of the practice was reflected in the sheer opulence of the surroundings as they walked along a marble floor towards some leather-bound chairs in the reception area.

A pretty blonde, no more than twenty years of age, greeted their arrival as the two detectives approached the reception desk.

May I help you, gentlemen? she enquired, conscious of the fact they were not would-be patients.

Yes, if you please, replied the senior man. I’m Inspector Railton and this is my colleague, Sergeant Pitt. We’re from the Metropolitan police at Whitehall. We should like to speak to your senior partner.

Oh, replied the receptionist. That’s Dr. Strickland, and he hasn’t arrived this morning. I have had to turn a couple of his appointments away.

In that case, we should like to speak to one of the other partners. The matter is most pressing.

The young woman looked flummoxed. They are both with patients at the moment….

I’m sorry about that, but I shall need you to interrupt one of them. The matter is most grave.

Looking anxious, the blonde left them and wandered off down one of the corridors nearby.

Within minutes, a tall individual in a pinstriped suit approached them, followed by the blonde receptionist.

Gentlemen, he said. My name is Toms. I’m one of the partners. What is so urgent that you must interrupt me when I am with a patient?

I am sure you will appreciate why, sir, if we could have a word with you in private?

Very well. But you must make it quick. I cannot leave my patient on her own for long. Follow me.

The two detectives were led to a small interview room where they all sat down.

Now, tell me, said Toms urgently. What’s this all about?

It concerns your senior partner, sir, replied Railton. I’m afraid he’s been murdered.

What!? You’re not serious…

I’m afraid I am, sir.

When – where – did this happen?

Two nights ago. His body was found down a lane off Roger Street, which itself runs off Gray’s Inn Road.

I just can’t believe it. Who on earth could have done this to him?

Edgar Toms, as he later revealed his full name to be, looked visibly shaken. He was no more than forty years of age with blond curly hair and bright blue eyes. His brow was now lined with worry and his mouth open in shock.

That’s of course what we’re trying to find out, Railton assured him. Would you mind looking at this note we found on his person?

The inspector handed the psychiatrist the crumpled note. After gazing at it for a moment or so and shaking his head, he said, What do you expect me to say regarding this?

Well, first of all – do you know who T.M. might be?

Not a clue!

Then you wouldn’t know what T.M. considered to be so precipitous that he was desperate to see your partner most urgently?

No, I have no idea.

What about your staff? Do any of them have the initials T.M.?

The psychiatrist considered the question for a moment. No… no, we don’t have anyone with those initials.

What about any member of your staff with a surname beginning with ‘M’?

We have just one – Albert Merchant, our cleaner. He’s been with us for years.

Railton decided to give that a miss.

Was Dr. Strickland married?

Yes, Henrietta is his wife’s name. She will be most distraught.

Has she not contacted you about his absence?

No… no, she hasn’t. On reflection, it is odd that she hasn’t, if he was killed two nights ago…

We shall need to inspect his consulting room.

Of course. I’ll show you where it is. Then I must attend to my patient. If you need to speak to me again, I shall be free in about thirty minutes.

†

The consulting room was in keeping with its surroundings. The chaise longue, upon which the patients were encouraged to make themselves comfortable during consultations, was typically French and consisted of the most expensive of fabrics, whilst the framework was pure ebony. The surrounding chairs were all leather-bound and the kneehole desk in the centre of the room was a feature, having been commissioned by a predecessor and made to order by Chesterfield. In one corner were several chests of drawers, all of which were locked.

See if any of these keys fit, Jethro, will you?

Railton handed his sergeant the bunch of keys that had been found on the deceased’s body.

Pitt looked at the bunch that had been passed over to him and looked at the locks on the drawers. He then selected the key most likely to fit.

That was lucky, guv, he said almost immediately. I guessed right. He pulled open the top drawer in one of the chests after he had turned the key.

Ah, declared Railton, the patients’ files.

I’m not sure if we should be looking at these, guv, Pitt warned him.

Nonsense, Pitt. Who’s to know, as long as you lock up properly afterwards?

Right, guv. But we won’t have time to look through all of these without arousing suspicion.

"I know that, Pitt.