“Surely the cleaner …”
“Had never seen the like! I assume the writing was the first symptom of the mania that brought him to kill himself.”
“But what brought it on?” I thought back to our previous conversation. “You say he received some post on the Wednesday —what was it?”
He checked his notes again while I walked around the entrance hall, reading the daubs on the wall. “A parcel of aluminium phosphide …”
“Rodenticide,” I said. “Any sign of traps around the place?”
“Everywhere. According to Mrs Bradley, he was obsessive about them.”
“Terrified of animals,” I said. “Given his history, that would make sense.”
“Indeed it would.” Mann closed his notes and wandered to the window. It was clear this wasn’t a thought that had occurred to him. “Maybe he saw something—a rat or mouse perhaps—through the window. An animal could have been his trigger, you think?”
“If it was then it’s surprising he survived so long.”
Mann turned and raised an eyebrow. Then nodded. “Living out here he must have come across all manner of creatures,” he agreed. “If he were that fragile a flock of Old Brandon’s sheep would have been enough to have him reaching for the acid cabinet.”
“Any other post?”
“A religious pamphlet, a chemistry journal and a copy of
“He was a subscriber?”
“I presume so. To be honest I didn’t check. You’re wondering whether someone sent it to him specifically?”
I shrugged. “If someone were trying to get a message to him, or intimidate him somehow then that could be a method. Of course, it all rather depends what was in the paper.” The obvious thought occurred to me. “Anything about the mutilated bodies found in Rotherhithe?”
“I would have thought so,” he said. “What paper isn’t filling its column inches with that story? You telling me there might be a link?”
“There might at that,” I agreed. “Though I’m probably not allowed to say more.” The look on his face was not favourable. “I know,” I said, holding my hands up in a placatory fashion, “I have no wish to be secretive, but Holmes and I have been employed in a governmental capacity and I genuinely don’t know how much I should say.” The minute the words were out of my mouth I found I was regretting them. Mann was clearly a decent fellow and I had no doubt he would be trustworthy. But then that was hardly my decision to make.
“Policemen do not take kindly to being kept in the dark, Dr Watson,” he said. “It’s inimical to their profession.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “And if it were up to me …”
“Aye, well, it seems to me that, as you’re a private individual, I shouldn’t even be letting you in here.” He looked at me pointedly. “But I made an exception.”
I sighed. It was extremely tempting simply to unburden myself on the man. But, aside from my gut instinct, what did I really have to go on? I had met him on only two occasions, and on both of those occasions he had seemed a capable officer and a reliable fellow. But that was hardly enough when I had been sworn to secrecy by one of the highest figures in the country.
“I understand how you feel,” I said eventually. “And if I have to leave, then so be it. But I really can’t say more for now. I have been sworn to secrecy and I cannot break that vow, however much my personal estimation of you insists it would be safe to do so. It is not my secret to keep and therefore the decision as to who knows and who does not is not mine to make.”
He nodded and, after a moment, smiled. “Don’t twist yourself in knots over it. I suppose I should be glad of the fact that you won’t betray a trust so easily, it proves that I was right to share police information with you. Doesn’t mean it’s not extremely irritating, mind, but let’s forget it …”
I was relieved and said so.
“It won’t be the first time a simple copper from the countryside has not been privy to the same information as everyone else,” he said. “In fact it happens so often you’d think I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.”
He led me through into the next room, a small library and office that betrayed the state of its owner’s mind as clearly as the entrance hall had. Books were cast all over, paper thrown everywhere. It was as if a small stick of dynamite had detonated in there—indeed, some of the pages were burned, which only increased the illusion. Of course the dynamite in this case had been none other than Edward Prendick, a man whose moods had clearly been easily combustible.
“It’s hard to tell whether he was trying to destroy something in particular or just on a rampage,” said Mann. “The rest of the house is in a similar state.”
I stooped down to look at some of the papers; for the most part they were chemistry text books, Prendick’s own notes and part of what must have been an obsessive collection of old newspapers and magazines. “He was certainly a hoarder,” I said, rummaging through a pile of yellowing newspapers. “There are what must be a year’s worth of copies of
“For a man who disliked society so much,” said Mann, “it seems strange he took such an interest in it.”
I could see his point, but it seemed more likely to me that Prendick’s motivations had been different. I didn’t think he was monitoring current affairs out of general interest. Rather he was monitoring the news for mention of something in particular. If he had been as shaken by Moreau’s work as had clearly been the case, was it not natural that he might look for evidence of it? Perhaps another scientist might stumble upon the same methods, or the creatures he so feared might make their way off their island and come in search of new pastures. Prendick’s fear was all-consuming. If he hadn’t been mad when they lifted him off his makeshift raft in the ocean, then he had certainly become so during the years after.
The question remained though: was it suicide or murder? All the evidence pointed to the former but there was still a big part of me that sensed the hand of another—someone who might have driven Prendick to the chemistry supplies and a lunatic urge to destroy himself. I was convinced the answers must lie in the last-known postal delivery.
“I don’t suppose you still have the mail he received?” I asked.
Mann nodded. “We haven’t the space out here to keep all our evidence ad infinitum, but we haven’t cleared anything of Prendick’s out yet. Given the court’s ruling, you can help yourself to what you like. I’ll have no use for it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
We continued our tour around Prendick’s cottage, but there was little else I wanted to see. It was a broken and depressing place, somewhere a fractured mind had been left to burn white-hot during its last few hours. The damage was extensive, the explanations few. My hope was that worthwhile answers might be found in the evidence store of the local constabulary, as it was conspicuously lacking here.
We left the cottage and walked back into town. Mann had appeared to dismiss all of his previous irritation over my secrecy. As we walked, he chatted about his time on the force and how long he had lived here, as well as listing a number of the more colourful citizens. He painted a picture of a comfortable, pleasant career, albeit one that he felt was incapable of stretching his abilities. I wondered how long he would manage compromising one part of his life for the satisfaction of another. To hear him talk it was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to ignore his need to shine as a detective. His frustration—and the frequent comments about how rural policemen were perceived— showed how heavily it weighed on him and I had no doubt that we would see him in the city before long.
Constable Scott greeted us once more as we entered the station, uttering his words around the thick obstacle of a mouthful of sandwich.
“Lunch on duty, Scott?” Mann asked, though he appeared not in the least concerned.
“Constable Wright’s off sick, Sir,” Scott explained. “So I’m on my own today. It don’t bother me if it don’t bother the glorious public.”
“I’m sure they’ll have seen worse, Constable, carry on.”
Scott did so, chasing a pickled egg around his lunch pail with a gleeful look on his face.
