The Art of Murder

'Don't look round, but we have rather a decent turnout today,' Archibald said matter-of-factly.

I gave him a puzzled look.

'Quite a broad spectrum of the great and the good. Over there is Henry James the novelist.' And Archibald nodded discreetly to a point beyond my left shoulder. 'Oh, and Henry Irving the actor. Overrated if you ask me. And, well, well, well, what a surprise… there's Dilke.'

I gave him another puzzled look.

'Charles Dilke? The politician?'

I nodded and looked down at my menu.

'I'm astonished the man has the cheek to show his face so soon after the scandal. Oh, well. And… oh, goodness.'

I looked up and frowned. 'Who now, Archibald? The Queen?'

'Almost, Harry. Gladstone. God, he looks positively prehistoric.'

I turned at this and saw a very old man sitting at a corner table, two much younger men accompanying him. He was eating a bread roll with such tiny bites I could not imagine how he would ever finish it, let alone make it to the soup course. When I looked back, Archibald was still staring. I gave a brief cough and he broke away.

'Why have you invited me to lunch?'

I asked. He was about to reply when the waiter appeared to take our orders. The wine waiter then topped up our glasses, and Archibald raised his. 'To fortunate meetings,' he said, and there was a silence for a moment as we savoured the fine claret. 'A bit too sharp at the top end,' Archibald said judiciously. I searched his face for a moment, thinking he might be making a joke, but he was perfectly serious. I felt a sudden wave of nausea, took another sip of my wine, and it passed.

'I appreciate the gesture,' I said. 'But why did you invite me here?'

'To offer you a job of course, Harry.'

I was genuinely surprised, and Archibald laughed. 'Is it really so improbable?'

I shook my head slowly.

'Let me explain,' he went on. 'I want my newspaper to be modern.' He almost hissed the last word. 'These fellows,' and he waved a hand towards the famous men seated around the room, 'most of them are yesterday's men. They are rooted in the nineteenth century, while I am a man of tomorrow. I'm already thinking like a man of the twentieth century, Harry.'

I studied his face in silence. I was not interested in a single word he was saying, but I had lost none of my ability to fool others.

'I intend to be radical,' he went on. 'Not so much in the political sense, although my convictions do lean that way, I'm thinking more about the style of the Clarion, Harry. The way we report. I want my paper to epitomise the coming age, not pay lip service to an era that is passing.'

'Forgive me, Archibald,' I said. 'But I don't understand what that has to do with me.'

The first course arrived as he was about to reply. It did not slow him down. Between mouthfuls, he ran on. 'I've seen your work. I like what you do. You have guts. You're not afraid to represent reality. I want you to be my number one illustrator.'

'But you already have artists.'

'I do. But none of them has your eye.'

'I'm flattered,' I lied.

He looked at me eagerly, with that ridiculously enthusiastic expression of his, and I felt like retching again. 'All right, Harry. Let me make it clear. This city…' And he paused, wiped his mouth and swept out one hand to encompass the view visible through the windows. 'This city is a most wretched place. Every day we report at least one terrible murder – vile acts from every level of society. I want to let our readers see the reality. I'm tired of pussyfooting around with euphemism and innuendo.'

'But you must have rules and guidelines to follow?'

'We do, but there is leeway, my good fellow. The written word is one thing, but I want to capture the true nature of our modern world using the skill of men like yourself. All my artists are competent draughtsmen, but none of them has your sense of realism.'

I was not sure what to say. I studied Archibald's face and realised for the first time that the man was most probably insane, or at least heading along the road to insanity. He was perfectly able to function and may yet have much to offer the world, but he was becoming unbridled, losing track of himself.

'What about photography?' I said after a long silence. 'Surely that's the modern way to proceed?'

He exhaled loudly and shook his head dismissively. 'Have you seen how long photographers take to set up their equipment? And have you seen the quality of their work when they have? No, Harry, the future is all about ideas, not gadgets. It's like that damned telephone, it's a gimmick. No, it's up here,' he proclaimed, tapping his forehead, his cheeks flushed with excitement and claret. 'It's up here. That's where the future is made. Ideas, Harry, ideas.'

I was about to point out to him that gadgets came from ideas, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. Archibald turned, a puzzled look on his face, and then his expression relaxed. The head waiter appeared at our table. Beside him was a young man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. He had a light fuzz of hair in the middle of his chin, very pale skin and small brown eyes.

'Sir, this fellow says he has a message for you.'

'Yes, thank you, Cartright,' Archibald said, standing up. 'Please leave us.'

The man took two steps backwards and then turned with a flourish, called over an underling and strode towards the kitchen.

'Harry,' Archibald said to me, returning to his seat and indicating to the young man that he should sit for a moment, 'this is one of my lads from the office – James Shallworthy.' He turned to the young man. 'What is it, Jim?'

'I'm sorry to…'

Archibald waved his hand again. 'Just get on with it.'

'Sir, there's been an 'orrible murder.'

Archibald shot me a glance, then fixed the messenger with a stern stare. 'Where?'

'Just down the road in Charin' Cross, sir.'

*

It was a double murder. You must have read about it in the newspaper, dear lady; your husband's newspaper, in fact. It was not an incident to be easily forgotten. A double killing: of the actor Donald Peters and his lover and co-star Mildred Nantwich. The murderer, Mildred's estranged husband Norman Nantwich, was imprisoned the same evening when he turned up at Charing Cross Police Station to confess to the murder, his hands, face and coat still covered with blood.

Archibald sent his assistant back to the newspaper office and hailed a hansom on Pall Mall. We were at the murder scene within a few minutes. The deed had been done in Donald Peters's dressing-room at Toole's Theatre on William IV Street. There was a hubbub in front of the venue with police escorting away theatre-goers who were angrily waving tickets for the cancelled matinee performance.

'We'll take the back entrance,' Archibald said as we alighted from the cab. 'I know the owner, John Toole, very well.'

Archibald also evidently knew his surroundings, because within a few moments we were inside without a single person preventing us. He led the way through a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs. At the top a corridor led to the actors' dressing-rooms.

We could hear sounds coming from one of the rooms on the left, and then two policemen emerged. Immediately behind them appeared a tall, well-built man with a massive handlebar moustache. He was heavily jowled and greying. 'But this is preposterous!' I heard him say, his voice little more than a growl.

Archibald strode along the passageway towards them. I stood where I was, just watching, intrigued.

'Toole, old chap,' I heard Archibald boom.

The two policemen and the theatre-owner turned as one.

'Thomson?' the man responded. 'What the devil…?'

One of the policemen stepped forward with his hand held out to prevent Archibald's approach. 'I'm afraid, sir…'

'Oh really, officer,' he snapped. 'I'm a newspaper editor.'

'I don't care who…'

'Look here, Thomson. This really isn't the time,' Toole interrupted.

'There has been a murder here, has there not?'