The House of Lost Souls - F. G. Cottam [118]
Before going for my train, I sat on a bench at the side of the river and smoked a cigarette. And I was possessed again by the odd feeling of being watched I had felt earlier on Charing Cross Road. Then it passed and I was able to enjoy my vice if not in a state of grace, then at least in the great capital’s magical state of crowded seclusion.
10 October, 1937, London, dawn
I am exhausted and yet quite unable to sleep. I reached home in the small hours after a journey I can barely remember. All I can think of is what they looked like when they caught us in our attempted escape, cold and bedraggled on the beach, lost and looking for a ferryman to pay or a boat to steal so that we could make our escape from Wight. I had given Peter my coat by then to cover the rags they kept him in and to try to keep his undernourished body warm. We had been looking, of course, for the boat beached by Wheatley. But I had not been able to find my way back to it in the sea mist that descended to wrap the island following our flight. They loomed out of the vapour, three men in overcoats and evening wear, silk mufflers around their throats and top hats giving them menacing height in the gloom. They were laughing and one of them, Crowley I think, was wearing a monocle. Smell is a very acute sense on an empty stomach and they smelled of cigars and camphor and brilliantine and the smell made me retch thin bile on to the sand. And they laughed louder, pulling my coat from the thin shoulders of the boy, throwing it at me, turning with him, taking him away for the last time.
What I have found should be sufficient to prompt an investigation, even after all this time. There may even be concrete proof, at the Fischer house, of their murderous offence. I believe it now lies abandoned. Regardless of that, I think I have uncovered sufficiently compelling circumstantial evidence to build a case against them. But the past few days have taught me that I cannot continue with this alone. I need to confide in someone trustworthy and wise. I need cool and detached advice on how best to pursue the matter. Should I go to a lawyer now? Would I be more sensible making a statement to a detective at Scotland Yard?
I am tempted, of course, to tell the Monsignor everything. He is so clever, with that fastidious cleverness that comes of being a Jesuit and a Frenchman. I no longer care that I should disappoint or disillusion him. The need for justice overrides my foolish vanity.
But the Monsignor is a Catholic and a foreigner. Neither characteristic is seen as entirely respectable. This is especially true now the country is so fraught with thoughts of war.
There is my cousin, Edwin Poole. He is younger than me, and I see precious little of him. But his career at Lloyds thrives. He is a member of all the best clubs. He takes a box each season at Covent Garden and gives lavishly, if a little too conspicuously, to good causes. The idea of a family scandal might appal him. And I know he knows Wheatley slightly. But I need to speak to someone. And a blood relative, who makes a successful living calculating risk, who depends upon discretion for his very livelihood, might not be the worst choice of confidant.
I need to go to bed. I am desperately weary. But I cannot get the smell of camphor and cigar ash out of my nostrils, or the topper gleam of beaver skin through fog, out of my