The Villain Of The Shakespearean Mask
Lorient Montaner
'There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn't true; the other is to refuse to accept what is true.'—Søren Kierkegaard
I have had many fascinating cases before, none as fanciful in nature as the remarkable case of The Villain of the Shakespearean Mask—yes, the great patron of English literature. The year, I recall, was 1895, and I was in London at the St James's Theatre in King Street. I was attending that night, by invitation, the premiere of Oscar Wilde's latest play, the comedy The Importance of Being Earnest, when I was summoned by the London Police to assist in a shocking murder of a nobleman by Piccadilly Circus.
The suspicion was that the murder was linked to a mysterious secret society, perhaps. Because I had previously dealt in London with the infamous Cult of Death, it was presumed naturally that I would be the best suited to solve this significant case. It was a renowned affair that I accepted as one of the highest accolades of supererogation, since it involved the supposed likeness of the death mask of Shakespeare.
My name, you ask, is Jack Cauvain, a dedicated and proficient Chief Inspector from London. Jolly England would be terrorised and intrigued by the startling mystery that bound Shakespeare and murder. It would require extraordinary perception, intuitive action on my part, and absolute resolution to solve the enigma behind this case. I was highly determined to unravel it, and to conclude with irrefutable evidence that the case was entirely soluble.
Regrettably, I was unable to finish the play and had been notified of the vicious murder. Immediately, I departed the theatre and was escorted by Hansom cab to Piccadilly Circus. I arrived shortly afterwards and was kindly met by Officer Hopkins, who proceeded to inform me of the disconcerting incident involving the deceased aristocrat. He also mentioned the few clues retrieved at the corner shop near the scene and escorted me to the crime site.
At first, it seemed the murderer's intention was not mere thievery, since the evidence disproved that rational presupposition. It was logical to surmise that the nobleman’s death stemmed from his encounter with the murderer and his wealthy status; yet I discovered that nothing of value was stolen. This anomaly was not to be overlooked.
The pressing question that intrigued me then was: who was behind this horrible murder and possible connivance? The investigation had to commence effectively, beginning with the victim and the hour the murder had transpired.
This macabre detail was paramount in establishing the chilling sequence of events that followed. Once I deduced the likely time of the crime, I began connecting it to the circumstances surrounding the deed.
‘Officer Hopkins, it seems the murderer or thief was very precise in executing his meticulous plan. However, there is one small but substantial detail—his knowledge of the area. From my understanding, Piccadilly Circus is close to Oxford Street and Regent Street. Therefore, the culprit had access to an escape route in the West End. The area is affluent; he could have fled into those neighbourhoods, assimilating easily if dressed as a dapper gent. Or he might have escaped into the perennial East End if he were poorly dressed. Either way, he must have been masterful in his plan, and both routes of escape were feasible. Did the victim know or even plainly see his aggressor? Another possibility is that the criminal had been observing and following the victim from the beginning’, I stated.
‘From what is known, this area isn't much associated with serious crime, inspector’, Hopkins replied.
‘I did not think so. Nevertheless, we must explore that discrepancy. It is necessary that we speak to any witnesses’.
His response was: ‘Witnesses? There were none, save for one. A shopkeeper from a nearby premises found the victim dead on the ground’.
‘Then the shopkeeper is whom I need to speak with forthwith. Where is he now?’
‘Presently, he is in the shop. I shall summon him at once’.
When the shopkeeper arrived, I questioned him. ‘Mr Banfield, you told the police that you saw the criminal?’
‘Yes, inspector!’
‘Please tell me what you saw’.
‘What I saw was horrible. If you must know, I shall recount it the best I can. The memory still haunts me—it is fresh. I was in the shop when I saw, through the window, a stranger passing by. I thought it odd, since it was unusual to have anyone out at that hour near the shop. The few visitors we do have are known customers who understand the closing hours. By mere coincidence, the victim—Mr Hayward, a customer—had stopped and knocked on the front door. I was going to step out to address him, but he was viciously attacked from behind by the killer who had returned. I did not imagine such a horrendous scene. The murderer scurried away—but not before I saw his appearance. I cannot forget his unique guise so easily’, he related.
‘Can you give me an accurate or even broad description of the culprit?’ I asked.
‘As I said, his guise was unforgettable. He was tall and imposing, dressed in all black with a long black cape. His shoes were so polished that the lustre was visible’.
‘Were you able to see his countenance clearly?’
‘No,’ he muttered.
‘Why not?’ I enquired, with concern.
‘Because he was wearing a dark black mask—but it was not an ordinary mask. It was a mask of Shakespeare, I tell you!’ He said, emoting passionately.
His description of the black mask was indicative of the peculiar essence of this case. Mr Banfield remained visibly shaken, as evidenced in his recounting. Indeed, his concern for the victim was understandable, given their rapport. It was such an intimate area, where the inhabitants knew each other well. The shopkeeper’s statement in its totality was compelling, yet many questions remained unsolved. From the information gathered afterwards, I began to surmise the sequence of the victim’s death.
First, the murderer had followed the victim, dressed in eccentric clothing and wearing a revealing mask, like a duplicitous thief. Second, he attacked the victim at a time when the streets were relatively empty. Third, the murderer had calculated his escape with precision. Fourth, the only solid clue was the shopkeeper's description of the assailant.
This clue—the villain’s distinctive appearance—was the most compelling and the reason the London Police summoned me in the first place. The connection to a cult was not confirmed by this murder; it might just as well have been committed by a madman. I leaned towards the latter and began to reflect on the evidence.
I pondered his unusual mien and the operative intelligence he must have possessed. How could he execute such a plan with almost perfect precision? I also conjured in my mind the murderer’s behaviour, predisposed to violence if necessary. It was likely we were dealing with a planned murder and a cunning, furtive villain. What was evident was that the victim had been targeted. This could not be dismissed as a random act—the evidence did not support that conclusion.
The case progressed, and I was compelled to determine, with acumen, the culprit’s whereabouts. The chief clue remained his unusual appearance. It was reasonable to assume that the Shakespearean mask served as a distraction, allowing the criminal to evade discovery. A thorough inspection of the vicinity was imperative, as generally the criminal leaves behind other incriminating clues not initially detected. That I would have to wait for until morning, when there was adequate light.
The next day, I went to the crime scene to confirm my assessment of the incident and continue the investigation. Hopkins was already waiting for me there, by the closed-off area in front of the shop. Piccadilly Circus was not closed off for the investigation, as it was a main thoroughfare in the West End.
If I had thought I would discover more clues in the morning, I would have been sorely wrong in my bold assumption. The shopkeeper, Mr Banfield, had decided not to appear at the shop. Perhaps he did not want unwanted publicity and had stayed home. His absence was regrettable because I had hoped to converse with him about any other pertinent facts that had been disregarded before. I would have to wait until he returned to the shop.
The ascertained details were more than enough to justify proceeding. I quickly realised that it was impossible to find any visible impressions left by the soles of the villain's shoes at that hour, with all the active wagons and carriages bustling about. The ongoing commotion also hindered our attempt to determine precisely the escape route of the murderer. It did, however, prompt us to search for clues elsewhere.
From my preliminary conclusion and report, the strange Shakespearean mask described by the shopkeeper seemed to be the key clue, and it was what I focused on afterwards. Although it was difficult to be analytical, as the reference to the Bard seemed too imaginative to fathom, I had heard of and worked on cases involving masks before, but this one was of a particularly revealing nature.
I went to the headquarters of the London Police, where I was immediately informed of a suspicious letter that had been sent to them by an unknown individual, whose address remained unidentified. The anonymous letter was addressed to me personally. I had not been expecting any letters, least of all from the culprit.
When I opened the letter, I read it with cautious and attentive eyes. I examined each word with magnifying precision. The style of the writing indicated a sense of proficiency, not a hurried or illegible scrawl. After reading the letter slowly, there was no doubt in my mind that it had been sent by the culprit. This audacious act of direct communication added suspense to the case and confirmed one of my previous assumptions: that a cult might be behind the murder. The following is the content of that letter:
26 October 1895:
'Dear Inspector Cauvain,
There is no need for trivial formalities nor wearisome circumlocutions that are pointless. Therefore, let us address ourselves as sir to sir, within the gesture of cordiality granted amongst men of our influence and stature. Allow me the gracious privilege to correspond with you respectfully.
I am certain that you will reciprocate and be receptive to that petition. There is no need for a pompous introduction, except by inclination. As for the murder, it was a splendid manifestation of execution. I would be remiss if I did not mention the murder. There is no need to be sordid in the details, except to say that I have delightfully enjoyed this game of cat and mouse.
Naturally, I am the cat and the victim, the mouse. Soon, you will know more of my tendencies for death. Since you are a very inquisitive fellow, the name that you will know of me is written on the bottom corner of this letter.
Yours truly,
Shakespeare
Hitherto, discretion was warranted, and I could not afford to dismiss his machinations. The letter was a confirmation of his chicanery and supposed madness, though it was too early to conclude that madness was the cause.
Perhaps it could be attributed to his dauntless pretensions and charm. After all, there is precedent for such irremissible acts of depravity being linked to an irresistible desire for recognition and exposure, irrespective of the cause. The criminal gravitates to the spotlight, just as an actor does to the scene of a play.
This, I had attempted to avoid to the best of my ability, with my punctilious and officious inspection of the criminal's mind. His pertinacity had to be my perseverance, and that had to be a salient point with regard to the method of killing he used in his perversion.
In spite of the courtesy expressed in the letter towards me, I was not inclined to forget that I was dealing with a cold-blooded murderer. I found his propriety to be less impressive than his studious persuasions. I had assumed that his proclivity for fame had superseded his brutal actions. I would not have to wait long to learn of his next unpredictable move.
That late night, the culprit struck again, and the murder was in the West End, on St James Street. This time, it was another wealthy merchant who met his untimely death. The victim was Mr Glover, whose shop was located on Piccadilly Circus. As with the previous murder, the victim's neck was slashed from behind, and the killer was able to escape with few, if any, witnesses who could fully recognise his appearance. The only actual witness who provided substantial evidence was a peddler. He saw the criminal's guise and noticed the direction in which he fled. What he disclosed was explicit and portentous.
Profound consideration was required in interpreting and extrapolating the ordeal, as understanding the extent of the crime was imperative. It was an opportune detail that could not be dismissed, based on what we had already gathered. The descriptive reference to the death mask of Shakespeare was consistent with the shopkeeper's account from the previous night.
Two murders in the West End of London, yet no arrest had been made. Once again, he had eluded capture, putting on a stellar performance of stealth. There was a possible lead to explore in the East End. The dilemma that presented itself was the night, and this could not be neglected.
The East End's environment was dreadful, characterised by its dreary slums. The homogeneity of its squalid tenements housed the dregs of London society. It was there that you mostly found the social misfits, gathered in the accretive buildings—ex post facto. The London Police’s priority was to seize the criminal immediately, whilst I pondered his next move like a pawn in a chess game. This analysis was not to be equated with any conciliatory overtures.
I anticipated the criminal’s next course, and I was correct: another letter was sent to me. So popular had this criminal become that he was becoming a celebrity, due to the attention his crimes were garnering and the bold mask he wore to commit his heinous acts.
The London newspapers had scandalised and sensationalised the murders, calling the case 'The Villain of the Shakespearean Mask', which I found absurd and unfounded. It was a typical example of false insinuations and prefabricated rubbish, based on partial evidence. I discredited the validity of their reports. When I awoke the next morning, I was handed another letter from the culprit.
27 October 1895:
'Dear Inspector Cauvain,
I am certain that if you are reading this letter, you are aware of my last victim. Once more, I shall not bother you with graphic details, except to say that with each murder, my craving appetite intensifies, as does my uncontrollable ego. I shall not stop until I have satisfied my irrepressible urge completely and my need for vengeance.
Yours truly,
Shakespeare
P.S. 'Think of me as your inspiration, inspector!'
I noticed this particular letter was shorter in content and verbosity, as if it had been abridged intentionally. Did the criminal intend to write it in this manner, or was he under time pressure due to some hastily imposed circumstances? If there was a definition for his characteristics, the agreeable notion would be that he was unhinged, yet influential in his self-presentation. That would imply a responsible insinuation, based on the aggregated facts of the case already. This would pale in comparison to a new clue that had emerged.
In the bottom portion of the letter, below the signature, there was a singular and unmistakable representation of a cult. The symbol was a hexagram: two triangles, a Tiphareth of seven planets, with an intimidating snake swallowing its tail at the centre that drew my attention. This could indicate the involvement of a cult or simply that the criminal was a former member.
The likelihood of this being true had to be deliberated carefully. A pattern was becoming evident, one that was becoming more aligned with the events, and a visionary conspiracy emerged of the murderer. He was not acting impulsively in his murders; his ultimate duplicity was evident.
The investigation into the mysterious symbol could offer some relief from the burden I had carried since the first murder. A brief moment of examination had allowed me to consider the oddity. However, it did not change the fact that we still had no presumed suspect in custody.
His brazen hubris was a superior part of his personality, adapting to the perverted game he sought to play. Consecutive thoughts were necessary to guide my thinking, and I could not falter in my determination. This case did not exceed the usual nature of a murder I had encountered before.
I was accustomed to deciphering the irrational agendas of murderers and the driven propensity for violence. These factors were always present and vital in establishing a criminal profile. My commitment and duty compelled me to find a resolution to this case.
I instructed Hopkins to return to the crime scenes in the West End, whilst I visited the East End. I was aware of the notorious reputation of the area, but I needed to uncover all the critical information I could about the murderer.
The East End was in stark contrast to the West End. When I arrived, I noticed the heavy mud that lined the carriageways and the air filled with filthy soot and smoke. The blocked drains and amassed cesspools beneath the houses, with poor wives pouring buckets of water from the fourth-storey tenements, were washing from standpipes provided by landlords.
The Old Nichol, a notorious slum in the East End, epitomised the chronic misery of loafers, miscreants, and Irish and Jewish immigrant labourers. It was the perfect place for a killer to hide comfortably, but it was also an ideal place to seek witnesses.
Such infinite despair and misery were to be found in the East End, but I did not come for a social gathering. I began to search amidst the children of dire inanition, the elderly infirm, and the weary prostitutes. I was received by the local inhabitants with reluctance and somewhat indifference at variation. The precarious ambience did not discourage me at all from enquiring. I had asked several persons within the adjacent neighbourhoods of the area, but few offered any valuable information.
As I was strolling the slums, I noticed that a stranger was following me. His guise was too vague, since he was distant, and his eyes were obscured by the pince-nez spectacles that he wore. What was transparent was his stature. He was tall, as per the description given by the few witnesses who had seen him.
When he perceived my awareness of his presence, he immediately disappeared into the mist that had agglomerated since he had followed me. The distraught mist had clouded my vision, and I did not know with certainty where he had disappeared.
I knew clearly that Clerkenwell Road and Theobald's Road were arterial roads linking the West End and East End. The question was, which of the two did he escape? That was the predicament to be resolved. If the stranger was the criminal, then he was stalking me with tenacity and observation. That was a disturbing admission to concede so plainly. I had to take the risk of endangering myself in exposure, but my occupation demanded resolution.
As I was standing in the middle of the street with the fog around me, a fair-to-middling man approached me and began to speak. I was not certain if I was dealing with a quidnunctious fellow, but his disclosing words would be of importance and provide me with another clue of the criminal to grasp firmly. I would have to apply the maximum concentration of thought if I was to connect the crime with the criminal.
'You are looking for the man with the Shakespearean mask, aren’t you, mate?' The man asked.
'What can you tell me about him? You saw him? Where did he go?' I enquired.
'He vanished into the mist. However, I’ve seen him before at Brick Lane, Inspector Cauvain'.
'Brick Lane, you say? How do you know who I am?'
'Even here in the East End, inspector, we are cognisant of your doings in the newspapers.'
'Your name?'
'I am Mr Powell, and what I know is that he has been busy in the East End'.
'What is his name, Mr Powell?' I asked curiously.
'His name, that I do not know. What I do know is that he travels about the West End to the East End', he replied.
That was the extent of the information provided by Mr Powell. In the end, it was not that relevant, except that the criminal was deft and calculating. I realised that the East End led to the West End. Was he a resident of the East End or the West End? The logical conclusion would depend on a careless action of his unmodulated discretion afterwards.
The diversity of the slums in the East End had renewed my perception of the villain's access in the confluence of the London streets. I had to trap him like a hound does with a hare, amidst a vast concourse of commoners. I had to remind myself of his perceptive foresight.
I left the East End and returned to the London Police to speak to Hopkins, who had attempted to interview the shopkeeper, Mr Banfield, from the first murder. When he spoke to me, he mentioned that the shopkeeper was still absent. I thought his absence queer, since the area was a lofty place of business. I had this intuitive feeling that could be construed as an unabated presentiment regarding the whereabouts of the shopkeeper. Soon, my suspicion would result in suspense and terror.
I had Hopkins accompany me to the home of Mr Banfield, and when we arrived at his residence, we discovered a dead body in the patio, bearing a pale complexion, amongst the bushes. Apparently, someone had murdered an individual and disposed of his body in the thicket of thorns nearby. The dead body was not Mr Banfield. The signs all pointed to an evident murder. He appeared to have had his neck slashed. This form of execution was similar to the modus operandi used by the killer in the West End.
Thereafter, the body was taken to the mortuary, along with the other deceased bodies. Certainly, the criminal had killed the man to perhaps maintain his silence—or without me knowing, he was stalking him as the next victim. The victim appeared to be a simple labourer. There was no clue, but I sensed the brash murderer was swift.
Perhaps, he did not have much time to commit the crime.
This murder also denoted the capacity of the criminal to go from one place to another without much detection. His range was extended, but from the murdering pattern deduced, it did not extend beyond the area of the West End. He could have easily killed in Westminster or Soho, but he did not—or chose not to.
This led to the conclusion that he was after merchants or men of wealth. If so, then what was the reason for this obvious selection? Was it for a subversive purpose gone astray? It was clear that whatever had caused this spree of murders was aligned with some form of rational thinking.
Could a madman have the superlative and ratiocinative ability to be conscious enough to distinguish between what is right and wrong? The answer was twofold. If I was going to apprehend him, then I would have to thoroughly investigate the mysterious symbol and maintain more vigilance in the West End and East End.
A strict curfew was afterwards imposed upon the manifold Londoners. I had wanted to avoid the scandalous newspapers, but it was clearly impossible to handle this case as a pair of insignificant murders any longer. I realised that despite their nuisance, I had to solicit their service, and it would happen when I received the following letter sent by the criminal, which contained an abstruse and intricate cryptogram attached to it.
The murderer was callous, but his plot was not obtuse in nature. The odd cryptogram was an elaborate and convoluted conundrum that required profound rumination of miscellaneous symbols. They were written in clever cryptograms in English, and numerals. The letters added were in Hebrew.
The letter also contained his demented agenda as usual. His rhetoric was becoming more and more unstable and erratic in composition. I explained to Hopkins the need to publish an article in the newspaper, asking the public for assistance in solving the cryptogram's message. The content of the letter I divulged with a measure of discretion.
28th of October 1895:
'Dear Inspector Cauvain,
You are so shrewd and persistent in your diligent investigation, but I am more pertinacious in my resolution to achieve my objective. If you are wondering who I am, you will never discover my actual identity. I am amongst the Londoners, and my true guise is reflective of any Londoner nowadays.
This game of death thrills me more, with illimitable passion and accretion. The murders will continue, and to entertain you more, I have designed a very brilliant cryptogram for you to decipher at will.
Yours truly,
Shakespeare
'This man is no man at all, inspector, but a monster!' Hopkins had responded.
'No, Hopkins, he is a man, not a monster as you believe. The truth is that he is no ordinary man—for he is a calculated deranged fellow', I rejoined.
After exchanging our thoughts, we waited days for a response, and the murders continued without abeyance. The enigma had intensified, along with the increasing number of victims. Panic and preoccupation gripped the West End, and caution was indispensable. The periphery of London had become the focus of attention, with a death reported in Soho, attributed to the killer.
The letters continued, as did the cryptograms. Amidst the miscellany of London, where was the clandestine lair of the murderer? Unfortunately, the answer was not forthcoming. The Shakespearean mask was not merely intrinsic in identifying the culprit—it was also a cunning pretext devised by the killer.
The mention of the killer's preternatural prowess was deceptive and redundant in the end. It did not take long before we received an immediate correspondence from an individual who was willing to assist us with the case.
His name was Mr Attenborough, and he was a professor from the University of London. He was a studious man, and his disclosure of the cryptogram would be both shocking and relevant. It would authenticate my dreadful intuition of the involvement of a cult. He began to describe the nature of the cryptogram and the origins of the cult after examining the letters.
'Inspector Cauvain, have you ever heard of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn—‘Ordo Hermeticus Aurorae Aureae’ in Latin?' Professor Attenborough asked me.
'I am afraid I have not', I answered.
'It is a pagan group devoted to the study and practice of the occult, metaphysics, and paranormal activities. The cult focuses on theurgy and spiritual development. It is possible that the author of this cryptogram and letter belonged to the Secret Chiefs, the highest level of the organisation. The Cipher Manuscripts are sixty folios containing the structural outline of a series of magical initiation rituals corresponding to the spiritual elements of earth, air, water, and fire. They are written in cryptograms in English and numerals. The letters are in Hebrew, such as the cryptograms I have perused before'.
'Good God, how many members are there?'
'There are roughly a hundred members in the Victorian society, such as Yeats, Machen, Underhill, Crowley, and Mr Hastings, who are suspected to be members of this progressive group', he confirmed.
'These famous individuals are all at the heart of the avant-garde of contemporary English thought'.
'Yes, that is true! But it does not mean they are involved'.
'What can you tell me of the phrase, "think of the killer, as your inspiration?"'
'It could mean many things, inspector!'
'Indeed!'
Apparently, the cryptogram had revealed the entirety of the cryptic message and, at last, exposed the hidden agenda of the murderer. There was another incredible revelation: the murderer was a well-established man, who could have been a merchant, a politician, a magistrate, or an artist. The troubling message of the cryptogram was that the next victim would be a member of Parliament. I instructed Hopkins to inform the Palace of Westminster of this astonishing possibility immediately. Soon, the vigilance of the palace and the politicians were heightened. This meant the killer would strike in Westminster. Could he be so bold as to attempt such a maniacal act and expose himself to capture?
Professor Attenborough had achieved an outstanding feat in deciphering the cryptogram. The culprit had to be held accountable for his despicable actions. There was no sign of irresolution in Attenborough either, as the murderer’s lethal course of action seemed irrevocable.
I began to seriously consider the imperceptible clues that had once been unclear, but I discarded the illustrious Shakespearean mask. Where could I truly find substantive evidence on the history of the mask? I had an expert in Shakespeare appear at the London Police—Mr Winham. This kind gentleman was also a professor.
He described the death mask discovered by Ludwig Becker in 1849, later disproved because of the bony structure of the forehead. The staring eyes, the heavy face, the small sharp nose, and the elongated upper lip. He mentioned the Droeshout engraving, too, describing the head as clearly too large for the body. The forehead appeared bulbous, almost hydrocephalic. The whiskers of the moustache and goatee were unconvincing. The left eye was strange, with a bump around the outer edge of the eyebrow.
The Janssen bust, by Gheerart Janssen, was also discussed. In the end, I had requested the sculptor to create a bust of the Shakespearean mask that resembled the one used by the killer. When he finished the bust, it was impressively exact, almost indistinguishable from the murderer’s mask. The sculptor had so efficiently shaped it that the bust mirrored the contours of the vizard completely.
That day was spent in surveillance and protection of the Palace of Westminster. It was inconceivable that he would devise such a deliberate concoction to murder a member of Parliament. All our attention and resources were concentrated in the adjacent area of Westminster. We waited and waited, yet there was no evident sign of the murderer.
At around eight o’clock, the large clock in the tower of Big Ben struck, and, unbeknownst to us, another murder had been committed in the West End by the culprit. He had deceived us into believing he would kill a member of Parliament when, in fact, his intention was in the West End.
It was indeed a masterful plan carried out with exceptional precision. The scoundrel had outwitted me, but it would be the last time he did. The victim in the West End was another shopkeeper, who had met the grim reaper. As for clues, there was the familiar description of the mask and little else of substance.
Another letter was sent by the killer, along with another cryptogram. This time, the killer made one fatal mistake that was obvious upon closer inspection: he left a partial seal on the letter that initially appeared to be a smudge.
After further examination, the seal was legible, and it belonged to a company by the name of Simpson’s Textile Company. This particular company, once discovered, changed the course of the investigation. This recent development was a favourable boon to be capitalised upon. Certainly, the chance of solving the case had increased with this potential breakthrough.
Immediately, I instructed Hopkins to locate the address of the company. Fortunately, he found the address in the East End, on Wentworth Street. While Hopkins was busy handling this vital assignment, I went to pay a visit to Professor Attenborough from the London Police and have him answer an enquiry that was puzzling me.
I shall not reveal the content of the last letter sent, except for one key piece of evidence. The reference to Professor Winham. The daring villain had mentioned him and criticised him harshly for his ineptitude. What I found peculiar was that no one knew of the professor’s involvement in the case, except those directly involved. This implied that the killer must have known Professor Winham.
I knew he imparted classes at the University of London too, and I began to ponder the possibility that he and Professor Winham were acquainted. I was informed upon my arrival at the university that he was not present. I was given Professor Attenborough's address, and I headed there with intrigue. He lived in a prominent area of the West End, close to the junction of the West and East End. Prudently, once at the house, I knocked several times before he answered the door.
His reaction was one of surprise, and the expression upon his face was bemusement. I had the impression he was not expecting my unannounced visit. He invited me inside the parlour, where I sat down on a settee. He offered me tea, and during my wait, I noticed an eerie aura prevailing over the house.
I was unsure what it was exactly, until I looked at a peculiar bust placed there. It was the bust of Shakespeare—the very same bust the sculptor had made so magnificently at my request. I rose to my feet to observe the statue, and Professor Attenborough saw me standing in front of it.
'Genuine artistic beauty, is it not?' Professor Attenborough uttered.
'What? I did not hear you come', I replied.
'The bust, inspector. I am referring to the bust'.
'Indeed, it is a remarkable bust. Where did you acquire it? It looks like a replica of the bust the sculptor made for the case'.
'That is very simple to explain. You see, Professor Winham is an old acquaintance, from the university days as a student. He had mentioned to me that he was assisting on a case. He did not expound on the matter. He had recently been given a sculptured bust of Shakespeare, when I visited his home. I was captivated by this masterpiece that I asked him, if I could purchase the bust. I paid him handsomely then. I must admit we have had our moments of disagreements many times', Professor Attenborough related.
'Interesting! I was not aware of that acquaintanceship.
The reason why I came to see you, Professor Attenborough, was the latest letter by the killer making a reference to your persona, and it is not flattering', I had said as I handed him the letter.
He read it and responded, 'I understand. How would the killer know of my involvement in the case?'
'Unless the murderer was aware of your involvement'.
'Are you implying that the killer knows me?'
'Perhaps!'
'That is a bold assumption, inspector'.
'I would accept that more, as intuitive thinking'.
I had left his residence, but I left with serious doubts. One of those doubts was the accuracy of the story of Professor Attenborough. If he was an old acquaintance of Professor Winham, then why would Professor Attenborough be so amicable with a man who had criticised him? There was a unique mystery behind this new revelation of the professor.
I had decided to visit the residence of Professor Winham. Could Professor Winham know the killer, or worse—was he the murderer? I had not even contemplated that eventuality. Professor Attenborough had been so kind to give me his current address. When I had reached his home after knocking, he was not at his house. The servant had informed me of his absence. Because he was not present,
I had returned to the London Police.
Hopkins was inside waiting for me. He had told me that Professor Winham was in the corridor, waiting to speak to me, but before I went to have a conversation with the professor, he gave me a list of the names of the benefactors of Simpson's Textile Company. There, amongst the names listed, was Professor Winham. Was this a mere coincidence or his involvement in the horrid murders—be it a willing accomplice? I had entered the corridor to speak to Professor Winham.
'Professor Winham, just the man I was looking for', I said.
He was extremely nervous, as if something was troubling him, 'Inspector Cauvain, you have to help me. The killer is after me. He is stalking me!' Professor Winham had asserted.
'Could it be because you are a member of The Heremine Order?'
His reaction was not of culpability and resignation, 'I don’t know what you are alluding to?'
'Then you don’t need my protection?'
'Yes, it is true, I am a member of that organisation, but I am no killer!'
'Professor Winham, what is your relationship with Professor Attenborough?'
'Professor Attenborough you say? I have not spoken to him in years'.
'You did not sell him a bust of Shakespeare?'
'No. I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding'.
I had realised that if Professor Winham was telling the truth, then Professor Attenborough was the murderer. What if Professor Winham was lying and he was the murderer? Perhaps they were both in collusion. This, I would have to solve at once, before another murder was perpetrated.
I had to devise a plan in which I could not only trap the murderer but unveil his true identity also. This was the only way I could decipher the mystery. Thus, I had Professor Winham assist me in solving this case, as the necessary decoy. Judging from the description of the murderer, the professors both could resemble the killer; even though there is a tendency amongst witnesses to exaggerate or be wrong in their assumption.
The location for this experimental trap was the East End. I had a strong omen that I would find the murderer there. It was late in the evening, when we had waited in the area. Hopkins was abiding in the junction between the West End and East End. At around midnight, the murderer had appeared in Brick Lane.
He was wearing the familiar black polished shoes and long black cape that Mr Banfield, the first shopkeeper, had described earlier. Professor Winham was standing at the corner of the street, when a stranger had appeared from afar. It was Professor Attenborough, except he was not wearing the mask. Then, from behind us came a black brougham that rode with a rapid gallop, through the darkness.
The intention of the driver was to murder Professor Winham and Professor Attenborough. I saw the guise of the driver, and he was wearing, as well, the black polished shoes and the long black cape of the culprit. There was one distinctive impression, and it was the horrendous Shakespearean mask.
There was no doubt, he was the absolute killer. I had ordered the driver of a carriage that was passing, to follow the mysterious carriage of the murderer. Like a madman the killer drove his carriage, as my driver had followed. Because Hopkins was waiting at the West End, with the London Police, the murderer was forced to take a road that had led towards the marsh embankment by the River Thames. There, his carriage hit a large rock and flipped over, throwing him on the ground. He was badly hurt, as he had attempted to escape, but he did not get far, and when I reached him, he stopped and confronted me.
'Think of me as your inspiration, inspector', said the murderer.
'It is Inspector Cauvain, Mr Banfield. I know everything. Give up!' I had replied, as I held a gun to him.
'How?'
I had explained to him, 'You almost fooled me and got away with not only the murders, but the large sum of money, you would have inherited with the others dead and the complete dominion of the order too. The phrase of “think of me, as your inspiration, inspector”, was a deceptive intimation employed, but extremely effective. I noticed that from your declaration that you had seen the culprit's shoes that were muddy with the soil outside, but you were inside the shop. When I had noticed your shoes, they were polished. This was impossible, if you had been walking the streets that night. Then there is mention of his height. Both Professor Attenborough and Professor Winham are tall like the killer, but so are you. You seem shorter, because you pretended to have a limp, when you don’t have one. I had noticed that afterwards with the footprints, but did not pay attention to that precise detail. Then there was the list of benefactors of Simpson's Textile Company that had included your name on the contract. You were behind the letters and cryptograms, along with the jactitation. As a member of the order, you knew of the involvement in the case of both of the professors. The seal was the definite answer to solving the case. You were prevalent to every little detail, except that you underestimated my intuition. Now, remove your mask and put your hands up. You are under arrest'.
'Clever, you are, inspector, but you forget one thing, a criminal never lies to confess', he retorted.
He had attempted to flee, but I shot him after he tried to shoot me. He died instantly, as his body had lain in the Thames River. When Hopkins had arrived, we removed his floating body and mask. When we did, it was indeed the face of Mr Banfield. Hopkins was informed of my plan, but he did not know that Mr Banfield was the murderer. As for Professor Winham and Professor Attenborough, they were arrested and charged with conspiracy and collusion. They had received a sentence of ten years in prison.
The members of the Hermetic Order Of The Golden Dawn that did not participate were not charged, but the group's illicit activities were stopped. The damage to the order was not enough to dissuade its followers, because not all of the sundry members were involved in the crimes committed.
The case had settled for now. Mr. Banfield’s arrest had provided answers to many of the questions that had plagued me for weeks. The shadow of the Order seemed to have lifted, and yet something gnawed at the back of my mind. Banfield, though a key player, was not the mastermind. There was more to uncover, something I had missed.
It was late one evening when I received a visitor—an unexpected one. The knock at my door was soft, almost hesitant. When I opened it, I found a man in a plain coat, his face obscured by the brim of his hat.
‘Inspector Cauvain?’ He asked, his voice low and tentative.
‘Yes, that’s me. What is it you need?’ I responded, eyeing him carefully.
He hesitated before stepping forward, glancing over his shoulder as though afraid of being followed. ‘I have information regarding the Order', he whispered. ‘There is more you need to know. The Professor… he didn’t act alone. He was just a deliberate puppet. The true architect is still out there’.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, narrowing my eyes. ‘What do you want?’
‘My name is Cedric. I used to be part of the Order, but I left when I realised the full extent of their plans,’ he replied, his voice trembling. ‘I’ve been watching you, Inspector. You’re the only one who stands a chance of stopping what’s coming’.
I studied him for a moment, then gestured for him to enter. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
‘Start talking,’ I said, settling into my chair.
Cedric began to speak in hushed tones, revealing unsettling details. The Order was not just a clandestine society of wealthy individuals seeking power. It was an ancient group, with roots reaching back centuries, and its true aim was not political control, but something far darker—a ritual to awaken an ancient force hidden beneath the earth.
‘Banfield was a part of this,’ I said, piecing the information together. ‘But Attenborough… he’s the one who set this all in motion, isn’t he?’
Cedric’s face paled. ‘Attenborough was the one who thought he could control it. But he didn’t know what he was dealing with. None of them did. The power they sought is older than time itself, and it’s more dangerous than anything we’ve ever known’.
I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. If Attenborough had been only a cog in the machine, then the real threat was still out there. I needed more answers, but where could I find them?
The following days were a blur of investigation. Cedric had provided useful information, but there was still much to uncover. The pieces of the puzzle shifted and scattered like a mirage every time I believed I was closing in. The Order had operated in secrecy for so long, its roots entangled in forgotten corners of society, that every thread I pulled led to more knots than answers.
I pored over the materials Banfield had left behind—his journals, scribbled annotations, and cryptic marginalia written in inks of varying age. There were references to concealed gatherings, esoteric rituals, and coded correspondences signed only with the sigil of the Order. One entry, however, caught my attention more than the rest. It detailed a series of hidden compartments built into various locations throughout the city—homes, public buildings, even disused warehouses—places where important artefacts or documents were said to be stored.
Amongst these, one location stood out: an old tailor's shop in Whitechapel, long boarded up and forgotten. The entry was brief, almost dismissive, but the phrase “vault beneath the cutting floor” was underlined three times.
The shop sat on a narrow, soot-stained lane, its windows blacked out with grime, the sign above the door long faded and illegible. I forced the lock, careful to avoid drawing attention, and slipped inside. The air was thick with dust and the bitter scent of mould. Shelves lined the walls, still holding the remnants of their trade—thread spools, rusted scissors, and bolts of moth-eaten cloth.
I moved to the centre of the room, where a patch of rotting floorboards groaned beneath my weight. Remembering Banfield's note—“beneath the cutting floor”—I dropped to one knee and began to search.
It didn’t take long. One of the boards was loose, its nails rusted through. I pried it up to reveal a narrow trapdoor, stained with oil and nearly invisible in the gloom. I hesitated only a moment before lifting it and descending into the darkness below.
The cellar was cramped and cold, lit only by the weak beam of my torch. But what it revealed made my breath catch. Shelves lined the stone walls, stacked with boxes and aged folders, each bearing the Order’s sigil—a circle pierced by three jagged lines. Some were sealed with wax, others had already been broken, perhaps by Banfield himself. In the centre of the room stood a table, and upon it, a single object: a black leather-bound book, its surface etched with symbols that shimmered faintly when the light hit them.
I approached cautiously. The air around the book felt heavier somehow, charged with a strange static. I opened it.
Inside were records—detailed logs of meetings, financial transactions, and names. Dozens of names. Some were already familiar to me—judges, academics, industrialists. Others I recognised only vaguely from whispers and newspaper clippings. But one name, scrawled in a different hand and ink, chilled me to the core.
Attenborough.
Not as a member. But as an informant.
I stared at the page, unable to look away. If this was true, it changed everything.
I stared at the page, unable to look away. If this was true, it changed everything.
Attenborough hadn’t just been a figurehead or a disciple—he’d been feeding information to someone. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but desperation. Blackmail, maybe. Or regret. Whatever the reason, it meant the Order had cracks in its foundation. Cracks I could use.
I turned the pages, scanning for more. There were brief notes beside his name: ‘Met at bridge. Gave warning. Watched by Ellis.’ Ellis—I remembered him. A quiet man with sharp eyes, always a little too present in the background.
Attenborough hadn’t acted alone. He’d passed secrets to someone outside the Order’s core. Someone who may still be out there.
I folded the page and tucked the book into my coat. I couldn’t trust anyone with this yet. The next step was clear: find Ellis. Follow the trail backward. Because if Attenborough was an informant…there were likely others.
And some of them hadn’t been uncovered. Not yet.
I had received a letter, but this time, from an anonymous author thanking me for apprehending the criminals, and for not equating all the members of the order as criminals. I was even given a copy of his newest novel. I shall not disclose the name of this famous author mentioned. The names of the other members that were not revealed had intrigued me. As for the mask of Shakespeare, it was destroyed, but I did keep the bust in my hall, as a token reminder of the brilliance of William Shakespeare.
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