The Magician's Revenge
February, 1858
Mr Robert Bernshaw walked into the Royal Oak public house in the seaside town of Bridewell and shot the landlord. Before any of the startled patrons could stop him, Bernshaw had turned the gun on himself.
The crack of the revolver snapped across the smoke-filled room, followed by the thud of Bernshaw's body hitting the unvarnished floorboards. A minute passed before the shocked patrons acted. Some began whispering nervously to each other; some sat down heavily and had to take two or three long gulps of their drinks before they began to recover. Finally the barman thought to send someone for the police and a doctor. When three police officers did arrive, some semblance of order was at last restored. One constable began taking statements whilst the other two examined the two corpses and made sure the immediate area of the murder was kept clear of people.
"Better wire Scotland Yard," murmured one officer to his colleague.
"Does anyone know who they were?" the other asked,
"The victim was the pub landlord, Simon McPherson; the other was a regular customer, Robert Bernshaw. Time of death I would place at 11 o'clock."
Meanwhile, in the village of Darting, a few miles from Bridewell, a journalist by the name of Albert Thompson was repeatedly stabbing the village shopkeeper. When he was certain his victim was dead, the journalist thrust the knife deep into his chest, dying minutes later from loss of blood.
Their bodies were not found until the following morning when a young couple out walking their dogs came upon murderer and victim. The police immediately linked the incident with that in Bridewell.
What had caused two apparently unconnected young men to murder innocent strangers and then commit suicide?
"There is nothing like the sea air for clearing one's mind," Mordecai Andrews would claim each time he and Sir Arthur Truscott-Smith went for a walk along the cliffs of Bridewell. And such was often the case, for Andrews at least. His mind, no matter what the hour or weather, was constantly turning over some new puzzle. He had a phenomenal fascination with the unknown and especially that area of the unknown that included crime. Sir Arthur had spent many a long weekend with his friend at Bridewell, hoping to relieve the monotony of city life. Whether the cliffs were washed with storm-tossed waves, or baked by the summer sun, Andrews found them the perfect place to mull over his latest mystery. Even were it nothing to do with crime, Andrews would spend hours if necessary attempting to take all the evidence and fit it together like pieces of a jigsaw.
That afternoon the cliffs were being tormented by the foulest of tempests. Sheets of rain were hurled at the scarred and battered rocks. The two solitary figures atop the cliffs were bent almost double as they fought against the storms anger.
"Does the air not freshen your mind?" called Andrews, holding out an arm to steady his friend.
"I'm sorry, but I fail to agree with you," bellowed Sir Arthur over the howling wind, "I enjoy our coastal towns as much as anyone else, but not in the middle of a raging tempest."
He barely heard Andrews' laugh above the shrill whistling that assaulted his ears unceasingly.
Finally, his companion relented and they returned the way they had come. Soaking from the spray, Sir Arthur was glad to leave the cold, exposed cliff-tops and reach the shelter of the town itself. Though the tall buildings were almost useless in providing a refuge from the whirling maelstrom of the heavens. There were few people about and no coach or carriage was to be seen.
Once the two men had reached the twisting streets of the town, they lost no time in gaining the top step of Andrews' trim little home. Inside, they discarded their saturated coats and hats and sank gratefully into two armchairs beside the fireplace, Andrews lighting the fire first. They said nothing for a time, relaxing in the warm glow of the flames and thinking of nothing in particular.
"Sir Arthur," said Andrews suddenly, "I do believe we are about to be disturbed." Sure enough, amidst the roaring wind and drumming rain, there could be discerned the sound of rapid footsteps on the pavement outside. The gate clanged noisily and was followed by a sharp, business-like rapping on the front door. In a moment Andrews had leapt up from his seat and, opening the door, ushered a bedraggled policeman into the sitting room and introduced him to Sir Arthur.
"May I present Police Constable Harold S. Burton of Her Majesty's Metropolitan police force."
Sir Arthur shook the man's hand whilst Andrews poured some brandy to take away the last of the chill. Drawing up a third chair near the fire, Andrews offered his own to Burton.
"I'm sorry to have to call on you," said Burton, once they were all seated.
"Think nothing of it," replied Andrews, "I am always at the disposal of the police."
Burton smiled, "I'm very glad to hear it, sir. You will, no doubt, be aware of the two murders that occurred yesterday and the day before yesterday."
Andrews nodded and indicated the newspaper folded neatly on top of an oak cabinet.
"Well," said Burton, "My colleagues and I can make neither head nor tale of the matter. Why on earth would these two men commit such acts? I must admit to being at a complete loss."
Andrews stared into the fire, Sir Arthur recognising that his friend was deep in thought. After some time, Andrews looked up and, beckoning his two companions to follow him, he took his dripping coat from the hat stand and opened the front door.
"I must apologise, Sir Arthur, but I must go out again. If, perhaps, you would care to come with me, I may require your assistance."
Within twenty minutes, the three gentlemen were standing by the bar of the Royal Oak. The landlord's wife had gone to stay with a friend until she could get over the shock and so the barman was acting as temporary landlord for the time being.
The room was virtually empty save for a few of the regulars. The walls were stained yellow by many years of tobacco smoke and spilt drinks. A few well-worn tables were dotted here and there but the majority of the clientele were gathered around the bar.
A brisk questioning of the gathering by Andrews failed to illicit any new information, save that the landlord had been a fine, upstanding pillar of the community.
"Well, I see we cannot find anything of further use here," said Andrews picking his coat up from the stool he had draped it over.
"Do you mean to say you are giving up?" asked Burton, his expression a mixture of despair and horror at the prospect.
"Certainly not," said Andrews, "I am only just beginning my good fellow. Have the bodies been buried yet?"
"Of course, we are not in the habit of keeping corpses at the police station."
Andrews grimaced, "What I mean to say is do you have any items that were on the corpses in your possession?"
Burton nodded, "I made sure that they were locked away in my own strongbox."
"Pray convey us there so we may continue the investigation."
The Bridewell police station was a tall, red-brick building situated in the very epicentre of the town. Its formidable structure stood stark against the dull heavens, the street lamps throwing a weak light about its feet.
The sky had grown darker as evening drew in. The few people who had been abroad that afternoon were hurrying home before night fell completely. Inside the police station, Burton showed Andrews and Sir Arthur into his cluttered little office. Shutting his door and taking a key from his pocket, Burton unlocked his battered strongbox and produced the items that Andrews wished to examine.
"One revolver, unloaded; fifty shillings; a damp letter, almost illegible; one pocket watch, stopped with a slight dent in the back. I assume that this is only from one of the men?"
"That's right," confirmed Burton, "The landlord had nothing on him at all; can you deduce anything?"
Andrews, by way of reply, looked at each item in turn. Having considered each one, he went back to the revolver and the letter. He turned the weapon over and over in his hands, sighting along its barrel, examining the trigger and the butt.
"This murder was planned in exquisite detail," Andrews announced, "Also, our murderer was infinitely confident in his own abilities as a marksman."
"How on earth can you tell that?" asked Burton,
"It's perfectly simple," said Sir Arthur, "Whilst I may not have examined the weapon as closely as our esteemed colleague, I know that what he says is true. The revolver contains no ammunition; it was therefore only loaded with two bullets. The murderer never intended to return from his mission and was certain that one shot would be sufficient to kill his victim, whereas there was no possibility of missing his own head."
Burton was dumbfounded "But we still don't have a motive for the crime."
"Were the men well-known in the town?" asked Andrews,
"Certainly, there wasn't a single soul in Bridewell who wasn't familiar with either the landlord or Mr Bernshaw."
Sir Arthur picked up the letter gingerly, "I believe I can make out a few words," he looked closer, straining to translate the soggy scrawl, "'there is no return'? What on earth can it mean?"
Andrews took the letter in his own hand and studied it intently. After some time, he tossed it aside, obviously having had no more luck than Sir Arthur in deciphering the script.
"This much I can tell," he announced, "The letter was written using a quill, hence the somewhat angular nature of the cross on the t's." He then picked up the pocket watch and examined the case, opening the back and peering closely at the workings.
"Do we know the profession of Mr Bernshaw?" he asked.
"I believe he was a scientist of some kind," answered Burton, "Though I am not entirely certain."
Andrews looked the policeman in the eyes, "We cannot allow any uncertainties. This man's profession may provide some clue as to his motive. I must insist that you endeavour to confirm what his occupation was."
Burton nodded, somewhat perplexed by the tirade.
Later that night, Andrews and Sir Arthur were back before the fire in the former's drawing room. Andrews had been quiet during the walk back from the police station and Sir Arthur was reluctant to say anything in case it should break whatever train of thought his colleague was pursuing.
Outside all was quiet save for the gentle patter of the rain on the windows, the storm having lost much of its ferocity. The green curtains had been drawn, but the lamps had remained unlit, the host preferring the dark and the guest did not wish to interrupt his friend's habits.
"May I ask what is on your mind," said Andrews, coming out of his reverie.
"I was wondering whether you had yet come to any conclusions," answered Sir Arthur,
"Have you?" asked Andrews.
"Well, I believe that Bernshaw was working alone. He wrote the letter and then committed the crime. The words ‘there is no return' indicate that the letter was an explanation for his deeds. We know that he obviously never meant to return, though I cannot see any motive."
Andrews nodded, "Excellent! Though I am afraid one possibility has eluded you; Bernshaw may have been coerced into the murder by a third party. The letter may have been some final instructions, including one that called for Bernshaw to kill himself. It is an old practice - if you wish to eradicate any incriminating evidence, you leave no-one who can give you away. Bernshaw, possible cowardly enough to obey such an instruction, was possibly in the employ of a criminal gang who had some quarrel with McPherson the esteemed landlord."
Sir Arthur was visibly taken aback by the apparent calm with which Andrews delivered his explanation.
"The next step," the latter continued, "Is to deduce who the third party is and whether they will strike again. Burton did mention a similar murder in Darting before we left, it is almost certain that the two are connected in some way."
"When do we leave?" asked Sir Arthur, his voice tinged with a hint of eagerness.
"First thing tomorrow," answered Andrews, "I'll arrange for a carriage to take us to Darting as early as possible; we shall have a long day's work ahead of us when we arrive."
At around ten o'clock the next day, a carriage conveyed Mordecai Andrews and Sir Arthur to the village of Darting, a few miles north of Tannerbridge. The place was a typical country village of stone cottages, a single church and one shop. A few minutes walk from the village lay the trim little country station that connected it with the outside world.
Neat, but drab little gardens lay on either side of the single street. Here and there stood a variety of tall trees, all greenery locked away until spring should arrive.
Andrews immediately went to the police station and introduced himself to the sergeant behind the desk. Within moments, Andrews was examining the contents of the murderer's pockets. The victim had only a few coins and a pencil, though they were all included in the process.
"Look at this," said Andrews, handing a familiar-looking piece of paper to Sir Arthur.
"It's the same type of letter," the latter announced.
The writing, however, was much clearer and Sir Arthur was able to make out the following message;
Use whatever means you think appropriate, but see that the mission is successful. Remember, there is no return.
"You were correct about the third party," said Sir Arthur, "But I don't see how we should proceed,"
"My dear Sir Arthur, that letter alone reveals much. There is no apparent connection between the victims or the murderers. However, we can tell this much: the person who wrote this letter was held in phenomenally high regard by the murderers, Thompson and Bernshaw; so much so that they were willing to kill themselves. Now, who could possibly be in such a position as to command complete obedience?"
Sir Arthur thought for some time, "Could this other person be a person of rank?"
"It is possible, but unlikely. You must remember that people of rank are not the only members of society with authority. The majority of criminal gangs are usually led by someone quite unremarkable socially, but who is characterised by ruthlessness."
His investigations at the police station complete, Andrews led Sir Arthur back to their carriage, stopping on the way to purchase a newspaper. He read it thoroughly and, when he failed to find anything useful, discarded it with a loud snort of disgust.
"What could possibly connect a sop keeper and a landlord?" murmured Sir Arthur, staring out of the carriage window, "They both serve the public, but that could hardly provide any plausible motive."
Andrews looked up, "I believe we can discount their individual professions," he said.
"Of course," answered Sir Arthur, "But surely there is some aspect of their lives that could cause someone to want them dead?"
Andrews smiled, "I believe you are becoming adept at choosing the correct lines of investigation, however I think a stroll through the news archives for the past few years should be our next step."
So saying, Andrews called to the driver of the carriage to take them to the nearest post-office. There he sent a telegram to the colleague in the public records office who had provided the odd shred of information over the years.
The next day, Sir Arthur being unable to attend, Andrews entered the musty rooms of the public records office alone and arranged for the relevant documents to be brought to him. For nearly four hours he poured over the clippings of every significant event that had occurred over the past six years. When, at last, he was almost ready to give up, Andrews' eye was caught by a bizarre headline;
            Infamous Conjuror Sentenced: Swears he shall ‘reap vengeance.'
Instantly, Andrews sat bolt upright and began to read, his attention riveted to this one piece of paper. The article told of how a well-known magician by the name of Robert Stirling had used his stage-act as a cover for a number of daring criminal escapades. Unfortunately, for Stirling, one of his confederates had been captured and betrayed the magician. According to the article, Stirling was still locked away in prison and would be for many years to come. However, the article also provided the names of the men who had formed the jury during the trial. Amongst the names, Andrews read those of Robert Bernshaw and Albert Thompson. Thus the connection between the two murderers had been found. Andrews spent the rest of the day in the archives before finally catching the night train to Tannerbridge and then a coach to Bridewell.
"By God, I have it!" cried Andrews, bursting into Sir Arthur's bedroom early the next morning.
"What on earth are you doing?" demanded the room's startled occupant, his face thrusting itself out from under the duvet.
"I have the answer, by George, I've got the solution!" continued Andrews, snapping the curtains open and bathing the opulent room in golden sunlight. He proceeded to rush Sir Arthur into getting dressed and then taking another of those walks along the cliff-top that Andrews found so invigorating. As the sea-breeze cut deep, Sir Arthur began to protest about being subjected to such treatment when Andrews would not even disclose the nature of his findings.
"This really is intolerable Andrews," Sir Arthur snapped irritably, "Whilst I might not object to a brisk stroll now and then, I certainly draw the line at being evicted from my bed for no apparent reason!"
Andrews stopped and placed a hand on his companion's shoulder, "I am sorry; I've been so wrapped up in this case that almost everything else has been banished from my mind. You know I prefer to think whilst on my feet and, as I said some days ago, there really is no better way of exercising the brain than subjecting it to a blast of sea air." Andrews then filled in the details of his visit to the Public Records Office and revealed the connection between the individuals in the case.
"It all fits together; this performing magician was found guilty by the members of the jury and is therefore attempting to exact his revenge on those men."
Sir Arthur nodded as he began to comprehend, "His incarceration apparently offers no hindrance. But how does he manage to impose his will on these people, and how does he even communicate with them?"
"It's very simple," Andrews explained, "Stirling's masterpiece was not his actual conjuring, but his powers of hypnosis and suggestion. He was assisted in his stage act by various young men and women and he obviously passed on some of his tricks to them. I assume that he managed to instruct one of these protégés in the means necessary for his revenge.
"This person, whoever they are, sought and found the members of the jury and brought them under the influence of Stirling. The magician then provided orders as to who he wanted killed and then what the unwilling murderers were meant to do after they successfully completed their missions. I was able to find out the names of the two murder victims and they were both on the jury."
"By God!" exclaimed Sir Arthur, "He's got them killing each other!"
Andrews nodded, "And we must find out who the next two victims are. I have my own theory. Bernshaw's victim was a Mr Frederick Stephens. Thompson's was Mr Simon Bertram. It is all diabolically clever. Think of it alphabetically; ‘B' kills ‘S', ‘T' murders ‘B'. We must go through the next group of names on the list of jurors and prevent them from slaughtering each other."
"But what if we are already too late?" asked Sir Arthur. "If we fail to find any of these men, then Stirling's henchman would simply melt into the shadows and we would have no evidence."
"You must not be so pessimistic," chided Andrews, "It is often why the police fail in these cases. They believe that they are simply investigating another murder. They fail to appreciate that each case has its own subtleties and therefore they await each new case without any form of eagerness."
"It sounds a most morbid practice," criticised Sir Arthur,
"But one that has its merits," countered Andrews.
They walked for some time that day whilst Andrews formulated a plan to bring the case to a successful conclusion. However, when the rain began to fall heavily once more, Sir Arthur guided his friend back down into Bridewell and the warmth of Andrews' drawing room.
"Ah!" the latter exclaimed suddenly, "Would you be so kind as to pass me that sheet of paper in the centre of my desk?"
Sir Arthur did so and sat opposite Andrews, waiting the usual revelation that he was accustomed to provide. Sir Arthur did not have to wait long.
"This is a list of the members of the jury during Stirling's trial," Andrews said, showing the slip of paper to Sir Arthur, "We know how the order of the victims has been arranged. We also know that those chosen to be the murderers are hypnotised by Stirling's confederate. The letters we found on the murderers' bodies are evidently some form of trigger that awakens the suggestion that has been placed in the victims' minds."
Sir Arthur nodded, "Then it is a simple matter of finding the next two victims and preventing one from killing the other."
Andrews shook his head, "I'm afraid it is something far more elaborate. If the intended murderer has already been brought under the influence of this confederate then there would be very little we could do. Not only must we prevent the next murder, but we must also unmask whoever this confederate is."
The next day, Andrews and Sir Arthur enlisted the aid of Constable Burton in setting in motion the process of finding the next two names on the list. The days dragged on and Andrews became increasingly concerned that perhaps it was only a matter of time before the next brutal attack was carried out. Then, just when he was in his deepest melancholia, a telegram arrived from Burton stating that the next two victims had been found and that they were safe and well, but in separate locations. He also reported that, after questioning both men, there was no indication that either had been brought under hypnosis yet.
"Thank god they were found in time," said Sir Arthur, pouring a drink for Andrews and himself, "What next; how do you propose we uncover this confederate?"
Andrews took his drink and began to pace up and down, his head bowed in thought,
"It is obvious that Stirling's confederate has an excellent knowledge of the locations of each victim. Therefore I think it is safe to assume that this person has access to an infallible information source. Now what would you believe the most accurate source to be?"
Sir Arthur thought for some time before throwing up his hands in defeat, "I honestly cannot think of anything; the Public Records Office is too obvious, and not always reliable."
"I would normally agree, except that it has always served my own purposes satisfactorily. If one has the right connections, then it is possible to learn anything. You will recall my last case at the house in Tannerbridge; I only found out that Allington was French because of one of my own associates who works in the right department. If this confederate of Stirling's has similar connections, then it is perfectly feasible that they used my own methods to discover certain items of information. I am not the only inhabitant of this nation who possesses such powers of deduction and reasoning. Also, there may be the simple matter of an accidental leak of information; such is often the case in these matters."
With that, he outlined his basic plan to capture Stirling's confederate.
Two days went by before everything was prepared, yet unfortunately, during that time, a third pair on the list were found dead. One had apparently strangled the other in his rooms, then leapt from a window, falling onto some iron railings below. Andrews was devastated by the news. Burton called often during those two days to discuss differing aspects of the operation. Finally, however, the time came for the trap to be sprung.
"You must remember," Andrews instructed Sir Arthur, "That we are dealing with an individual who has little or no respect for their fellow creatures, they will be utterly ruthless."
Sir Arthur nodded and patted the pocket where a brand-new revolver sat, the butt heavy against his side. Andrews also had a firearm, an archaic duelling pistol that carried only one shot and was not completely reliable.
They were hidden amongst piles of refuse in an alley next to the police station in Bridewell. Burton and a number of men were secreted at specific locations in the immediate vicinity, ready to spring the moment the signal was given. Across the alley from their vantage point, Sir Arthur and Andrews could see a cell window. Inside this cell was one of the two men on the list of jury members. Andrews never took his eyes from this cell, whilst Sir Arthur's gaze flitted from one direction to another, desperately hoping to spot some sign that their quarry had arrived. The clock in the market place chimed through the hours; ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, midnight. As the bells rang for half past the hour, soft footsteps echoed from the main street. Sir Arthur drew his revolver and cocked the hammer. Andrews checked the charge on his pistol and shifted into a crouch, ready to move quickly. The footsteps slowly came closer, inexorably closer until a shadowy figure emerged from round the corner of the police station. One hand was stuffed into the pocket of a body-length coat whilst the other held the remains of a cigar. The figure paused long enough to finish smoking and then, with a quick glance around, stepped lightly into the alley and towards the window of the cell. Taking their hand from the pocket, the figure held up a silver pocket-watch and whispered the name of the cell's occupant. Sir Arthur could see the white face of the occupant appear at the window, his eyes staring at the watch now swinging to and fro at the extent of its chain as its owner muttered something to his victim.
"Now!" yelled Andrews and leapt at the figure with the watch. Sir Arthur was a moment behind and, seeing that Andrews was between his revolver and their quarry, dove for the person's legs. In seconds, the figure was wrestled to the ground and was feeling the cold muzzle of Andrews duelling pistol against their temple. Burton and three policemen arrived and a light was shone on the face of Stirling's confederate.
"Good evening," said Andrews, "I trust that there is a reason for your late arrival, Burton?"
The constable nodded but said nothing whilst Andrews dragged their quarry to his feet.
"I am terribly sorry that you have been so roughly handled," said Andrews to his captive, "But it was all for a nobler cause than that of your tutor.
"Would you be so good as to tell us your name?" Andrews kept his pistol pointed at his prisoner whilst he asked his questions. However, no answer was forth-coming and Stirling's confederate was given into the custody of Constable Burton. Sir Arthur accompanied his friend back to the latter's home, all the while feeling that something was amiss with the evening's events.
"This isn't the end, is it?" asked Sir Arthur as Andrews slumped into his favourite chair by the fire.
"No, I'm afraid it isn't," Andrews answered, "The police have a copy of the list I made and they have one of Stirling's aids incarcerated. Unfortunately, however, there are undoubtedly a number of men and women who Stirling has corrupted and trained for his own diabolical purposes. Unless the police can catch them all, then Stirling shall have his revenge."
Sir Arthur was almost speechless, "You don't mean to say you're giving up?"
"I do not. However, there is nothing else I can do except keep in contact with Burton and his men until this damned affair is over with. They will have laid other, similar traps all over the country at my direction. Should Stirling's confederates attempt any more of these wicked actions, they shall find themselves incarcerated quicker than they can blink."
Neither of them was awake past two o'clock that night, though Sir Arthur managed to drag himself to his own bed before he collapsed. He awoke late the next morning to find Andrews already at breakfast. The morning paper was leant against the pot of jam and from the doorway Sir Arthur could see that the main feature concerned the capture of Stirling's henchman the previous night.
"Someone was quick off the mark," he observed, sitting across from Andrews and helping himself to a slice of toast.
"I wrote the article myself," said Andrews, "I believe that Stirling's confederates will keep watch for any news of their comrade. If my surmise is correct then they will go to ground and Stirling shall find himself without anyone to carry out his dastardly schemes."
Sir Arthur almost applauded, "It's so simple it's fantastically ingenious!"
"We shall see," answered Andrews, reaching for the honey.
For another three weeks, nothing was heard concerning Stirling's gang and Andrews began to believe that he had been successful in deterring them. However, towards the end of the month a telegram arrived from Burton.
It read:
            Stirling case concluded (stop) Last of gang rounded up (stop) Congratulations all round
            Burton.
Andrews folded up the piece of paper and settled back into his chair, sighing with understandable relief.
"I wonder how Burton managed it," said Sir Arthur, almost to himself, then raising his voice, "I thought the gang would go to ground as you said. Evidently they didn't."
Andrews looked up, "Obviously, Stirling is too rash to allow the events we orchestrated that night to deter him. Most likely Burton was simply fortunate; although his own deductive abilities are considerable, I doubt whether he really would have ended the case by his own powers alone."
Sir Arthur smiled, "I think we shall have some fine weather at last, what do you say to a walk atop the cliffs?"
Andrews Leapt up from his chair, "Certainly my dear fellow, we shall begin presently."