persuasion, scurrying away pressed to the wall. The man with the gun grabbed her arm as she passed him. The prostitute caught a glimpse of a pair of dark eyes over a scarf covering his mouth and nose. He was wearing a bowler hat pulled down low over his brow. ‘Say one word and I will find you,’ the man hissed, then let the woman go. ‘Turn,’ he snapped at Bettleman.
The Englishman started to and the man hit him across the left temple with the butt of the gun. Bettleman collapsed in a heap.
He awoke, moved his head, and a sharp pain shot across his forehead. He lay spreadeagled, tied by ropes at his ankles and wrists. He could just see that he was on some sort of platform or oblong table. The room was large, with a high ceiling. It was lit by tall candles on stands positioned at the corners of the room. He could just see in the far wall a massive window, and a glimpse beyond of slender, tall buildings beneath a sky lit by the bright orb of the moon.
‘You must find it strange to be in the submissive position, Mr Bettleman.’ The voice was coming from behind him, but he could not turn far enough to see who was speaking. Yet, there was something about that voice he recognised.
‘You don’t mind my calling you Mr Bettleman, do you? To me you were William Sandler. I know that with others you have used different pseudonyms.’ The man took a step closer and Bettleman suddenly knew who this was.
‘Oglebee! What the hell are you doing?’
‘Very good, Francis. In Oxford, I affected an accent to disguise the American vowels of my youth. Being back here, in the place of my birth, I seem to have slipped into old ways.’
‘Untie me, man,’ Bettleman protested, trying to turn and identify Magnus Oglebee, the mysterious figure from the soiree at Boars Hill.
‘Now why would I do that?’ he replied, and walked slowly into view. He was wearing an immaculate dark suit with a gold watch chain hanging over his waistcoat. His shirt was wing-collared, slightly old-fashioned, and he had donned a grey cravat adorned with a large sapphire pin. His head looked disproportionately small above the starched collar, almost as though his head had shrunk. His tiny black eyes revealed a dark amusement with the situation.
‘What is this all about?’ Francis Bettleman said. He could not disguise the acid tinge in his voice. ‘Is it one of your entertainments, Oglebee?’
‘Yes, in a way, it is,’ the man replied, perching himself on the edge of the table. ‘But there’s also a less frivolous side to it.’
‘Would you care to explain? Only I’m beginning to grow a little irritated.’
‘Oh, are you now, my friend?’ Oglebee mocked.
‘I’m not your friend,’ Bettleman spat, unable to contain his anger any longer. ‘I don’t take kindly to being hit over the head and then bound like an animal.’
‘No, I can empathise with that,’ Oglebee responded. Then he gave a small shrug, pushed himself off the table and walked towards Bettleman’s splayed feet. ‘I’ve closely followed your exploits in London,’ he went on. ‘I have to say “Bravo”. It was quite a performance. And …’ he produced a vague smile ‘… I feel proud that you took my advice. That I was perhaps a source of inspiration to you. I always knew you had talent.’
Bettleman took several deep breaths to calm himself. ‘Oglebee, can you untie me, please? I’m happy to chat, but this is not exactly …’
‘No. I can’t do that.’
Bettleman started to struggle but only succeeded in making the cords cut into his flesh. ‘Oglebee!’ he shouted. ‘Let me go! Or I swear …’
Magnus Oglebee appeared at his side again. ‘I take no pleasure in hurting you,’ he said. ‘But you of all people should understand that it is sometimes necessary. This is not some silly revenge I’m exacting. Far from it. I think your work has been fine. It’s just that … well, time marches on, and what you’ve been doing is a little … how should I put it? … old-fashioned.’
Bettleman stopped struggling and fixed Oglebee with consternation in his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Let me explain, Jack. May I call you that? I think it’s a good name for you — you chose it in good humour.’
Bettleman glared at the man, his fury almost palpable.
‘When I met you in Oxford — goodness, it feels like ancient history, but it was only six months ago … you told me you were searching for meaning, and then you found it in your creations. First you thought, naively, that you had to paint the murders you committed. Only later did you realise that a far higher art form would be to envision the collective acts of murder as, in themselves, the creation. It was a bold and intelligent step forward.’ He paused for a second and drew close to Bettleman’s face. ‘I have to admit, I was a little jealous of your fecundity. I have never had any artistic talent and, as I explained to you in Oxford, had given up trying to express myself through murder. But then I made a most profound discovery.’
Bettleman was staring straight into Oglebee’s tiny face, a strange feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Look, old boy,’ he said, his voice surprisingly calm, almost melodious. ‘Can we not discuss this sensibly? Man to man, over a brandy, perhaps?’
Oglebee ignored him. Straightening up, he began to walk back towards Bettleman’s trussed feet. ‘And, you know, although there is nothing new about the practical nuts and bolts aspects of what I’m doing, the principles, the concept … Well!’ And he tapped his head with a flourish. ‘
‘What are you talking about?’ Bettleman screamed.
‘The best form of explanation is action,’ Oglebee said, and clapped his hands.
He disappeared for a moment. Bettleman tried craning his neck, but was pinned down on the table too tightly. Then the other man reappeared a few feet behind his head. Bettleman could not see him properly, but could just make out a dark boxy shape on spindly legs. It took him a few seconds to realise it was a camera being positioned on a wooden tripod.
Then he felt a current of air move close to his body. Twisting his head, he saw white shapes. Four women appeared around the table. They looked similar to the girls he had seen at the house in Oxford — willowy, tall and blonde. Their hair hung to waist-level and each of them wore a slender coronet of white flowers. At a signal from Oglebee the women took a step forward, so that they were all ranged close to Bettleman, two of them to each side of him.
Oglebee stood to the left of the camera, making a small adjustment to the contraption. Then he picked up a flash on a wooden pole. ‘You see, Jack, I could never paint. But thanks to the technology of photography, I can capture moments, just like you do. And with this technology, I, like you, can express myself. I thought I would add a little humour to the piece. Four girls, one for each of your subjects in London. A nice symmetry, don’t you think?’ Then he walked round to the rear of the camera, made a final modification to one of the legs of the tripod, straightened up, and with the flash held out at arm’s length, parallel with his head, took a deep breath. ‘Ladies,’ he said.
The girls turned slightly to look at Bettleman. He tried to focus on them, terror and confusion ripping through him, his stomach churning. He felt vomit rise up in his throat. He did not see the girls’ hands move, did not see the blades until they were raised over his body. He made to scream, but nothing emerged, his muscles had seized in shock.
‘On three,’ Oglebee announced. ‘One, two, three …’
And the flash burst, casting a white radiance across the room.
Chapter 55
Stepney, Sunday 1 February
Jack Pendragon felt more relaxed than he had been in a long time. If he had, during the previous week, found
