I was particularly interested to learn of a case Knifing famously solved; a series of killings in which female victims were hung by their feet and drained of blood, in much the same manner that I understand the first Cambridge victim was killed. I asked my contacts for more information about the matter, and they provided me with accounts that differed on significant facts.
First of all, there was some dispute as to the location of the events in question. A lawyer I know who defends violent criminals with some regularity believed that the killings occurred in Grimsby, but a traveling magistrate who often hears criminal matters recalled such a trial being held in Chelmsford. There was also some disagreement as to whether the man convicted of the crimes was a miller or a bricklayer.
My colleagues are fastidious, even with their gossip, and they are not likely to get their details mistaken, so I began to suspect that the differences between their accounts of the blood-draining case Knifing was renowned for solving suggested there were, in fact, two distinct events with similar facts.
I was able to contact the judge who presided over the Grimsby case at his home in London. While he could not confirm that there had been a second, similar incident involving Mr. Knifing, he assured me of the location of the trial; there could be no mistake, since he’d never visited Chelmsford.
However, my friend who was certain that the killings had, indeed, occurred in Chelmsford gave me the name of the lawyer who had unsuccessfully represented the accused in that case. It turned out he’d perished from fever some six months ago, but his law partner was able to find notes on the case, and shared with me a few details that were not protected by privilege.
Those records confirm that Archibald Knifing arrested and testified against a miller in Chelmsford in relation to the killings of three local girls there whose corpses were drained of blood. The defense lawyer had unsuccessfully tried to introduce as proof of his client’s innocence the facts of a similar case in the town of Blackpool, two years before, involving killings with a similar method, and in which Knifing had also arrested a commoner with a previously unsullied reputation in the community, and with no known violent tendencies.
The judge in Chelmsford refused to consider this evidence, deeming the Blackpool matter settled and unrelated, since a man had already been convicted and executed there.
I find it deeply peculiar and suspicious that Archibald Knifing has orchestrated the arrest and prosecution of three different killers in separate cases involving identical crimes of a peculiar and specific nature. The investigator is the only common thread I can identify among those disparate incidents, and the conclusion I must draw from the facts I’ve collected is that Archibald Knifing is the killer, and he has used his reputation and expertise as an investigator to manufacture false evidence that suggests the guilt of other men.
I urge you most vehemently to disentangle yourself from this unsavory affair and flee at once for the safety of Newstead Abbey. If you wish me to, I will present the information I have uncovered to a magistrate here in London, once you have made your escape from Cambridge.
I await your further instructions.
Faithfully,
John Hanson, Esq.
Chapter 37
Though like a demon of the night
He pass’d, and vanish’d from my sight,
His aspect and his air impress’d
A troubled memory on my breast
All the houses in Angus’s ramshackle section of Cambridge looked the same, so I banged urgently on a few wrong doors before I found the right one, and I severely frightened several townsfolk in the process. It was two in the morning, my clothes were soaked through with sweat, and I was so drunk, I could barely feel the aches in my wrists or my ribs or my shoulders anymore.
My face was swollen and bruised, my hair was quite disheveled, and I’d left my greatcoat on the floor in my parlor, so I had nothing covering the two pistols harnessed to my back. If anyone had been out to see me, they might have been quite shocked by my appearance.
When, at last, I found the right place, Angus answered his door holding a lantern in one hand and his musket in the other. I could see his young daughter standing in the doorway behind him, and the constable took great care to physically interpose himself between me and the girl.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I thrust the letter at him, and he set down the gun to take it. He read slowly, and moved his lips as he sounded the words out in his head. After a couple of minutes, I seized the papers from his hand and read Hanson’s news to him aloud.
“The only thing I don’t understand is how he could have hit Dingle with that rifle,” I said. “He’s got only one eye.”
“I think you only need one eye to sight a rifle,” Dingle said. “You aim down the barrel.”
This fact seemed familiar to me; I didn’t know why I had failed to remember it previously. Knifing had accused me of having a deficiency of observational skill. But Knifing was a deranged murderer, so his opinions were of little relevance. “We have to go get him before he kills again.”
“Why don’t you go home and let me handle this?” Angus said. “You’re very drunk, and you’ve had a lot of excitement today.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I must be on hand to take him into custody. It was my discovery that established his guilt.”
“It was your lawyer’s discovery.”
“Exactly. My lawyer, acting on my behalf. So it’s my discovery.”
“You’re wounded and manic and intoxicated. You’re in no condition to confront a killer right now.”
I thought about this. “You’re right. We shall wait until morning. They’re weaker in the daylight.”
I pushed past him into the house, ignoring his stammered protests. He shooed the girl into the back room, keeping his body between me and her until the door was bolted. I found a comfortable-looking cushioned chair positioned against the wall, and I wondered as I sat down in it where Angus could have obtained such a fine thing. Just before I fell asleep, I realized he had made it with his hands.
Angus roused me an hour before sunup. I ached from my wounds and from the after-effects of the liquor and laudanum I’d had, but my head was clear, or at least, clearer.
Angus was already prepared for battle. He was dressed in a clean blue military-style uniform shirt that his daughter must have made for him. His hair was damp and combed neatly. He had a pistol on his side, and his musket slung over his shoulder.
“It’s time to go ask Mr. Knifing some questions,” he said.
“I can only hope he’s committed no more murders while we rested,” I said.
Angus knew, from previous conversations with Mr. Knifing, that the investigator was lodged at the Burning Tyger Inn; at the junction of Emmanuel Street and Elm Street, so we journeyed back east, and past Trinity College. Here, Angus remarked that I could have slept in my rooms instead of passing the night, uninvited, in his home. I did not speak to disagree with him, but the truth was that I was hesitant to return to my empty residence. I didn’t want to be alone with my recollections of the horrific events that had recently occurred there.