The Adventure of Hecate House

Chapter 35: Pandora's Box

At first, on reading what seemed tantamount to a signed confession, I was inclined to stow this letter away in an inside pocket, and leave on horseback first thing in the morning. A few moments of consideration made me more circumspect. I read through the last entry again. Unfortunately, I was able to see immediately what a defence counsel would also perceive in an instant. There was no possessive pronoun tied to the murder itself: James Castling had subdued the unfortunate girl with chloroform, but from then on, the Doctor's wretched short-hand omitted to state whether Castling or himself had performed the "gentle immersion". Raddison would be able to argue that he was no more than an unwilling accessory to the crime. I wanted the organ grinder, not the monkey.

Despite this slight drawback, I was still ecstatic with the results of my very first foray. The criminal mind is a never ceasing marvel to me. If I were implicated in a crime such as murder, I would carefully burn any scrap of evidence tying me to the crime. I would choose the quickest, most secure, least obtrusive means of committing my crime, and then set about distancing myself from it, both in body and spirit. Two failings of the criminal are forever proving his downfall: vanity and guilt. The first leads perpetrators to absurdly unsound acts, such as gloatingly recording their triumphs in writing, or keeping little trophies. The second leads the criminal to constantly suspect he is suspected, and undermine an otherwise exemplary crime by attempting to sure up his defence.

There would be more evidence. I frowned as I read through the sad tale of Veronica Bellingham again. I would prefer to locate evidence that was less likely to expose a brave young woman to scandal, even posthumously. I daresay her husband had had enough to bear without listening to evidence of his wife's inadvertent adultery and murder bandied about in a public courtroom.

I decided to scan through each file in turn. I would start with those belonging to the deceased, but would ensure I knew the details of all Raddison's dealings. I hoped for information on the other members of the gang. I wanted all of those implicated added to the bag.

I have encountered many criminals in my time, but not since the late Professor Moriarty has a body of crime astounded me so much as that which I read in that dark little room. It was the elegant variety which was so staggering.

As many villains, Raddison seemed to have started out, if not innocently, then at least no more nefariously than clever charlatanism. The files were arranged alphabetically, not chronologically, but I began to notice that the more ambitious felonies tended to have happened in the last two years. Prior to that, Dr Raddison may even have been a force for the good. I read an early entry:

"Poorly motile spermatozoa. Syphilitic chancre. Advised abstinence until symptoms wane, to avoid infection of Charlotte, if this has not already occurred. Became offensive and threatened action for slander. Excellent advice repeated. Discharged".

Other early entries were in a similar vein, and often simply consisted of providing sensible instruction to those without sense:

"Advised coitus every other Sunday was unlikely to be sufficiently frequent, if offspring are desired in near future. Suggested twice weekly was a more efficacious means of procreation"....

..."Anne appears to dislike the act of coitus, finding it uncomfortable and embarrassing. Recommended Raddison Mentholated Embrocant, and advised both partners pay more attention to the pleasurable aspects of marital relations. Suggested stay in Hecate House and suitable reading matter to achieve this"....

... "Reassured Mary that four months is far too early to panic. Recommended a timetable of marital activity based around likely time of ovulation, gave Raddison Patent Tonic, and advised waiting a year before becoming unduly concerned."

It was apparent that Raddison had considerable expertise in his field. What a pity that he had chosen the route of exploitation over that of education.

The increasing ingenuity developed malignantly over time. Raddison's modus operandi was becoming apparent.

He began with analysing the personalities and basic medical traits of his clients. In some cases, they were still treated with innocuous inert but potent tasting preparations, given a calendar and told when to act. If successful, they were encouraged to recommend Raddison to friends. I imagine it would be difficult to maintain his reputation without some success stories.

If unsuccessful, or if his technique of microscopic "semenalysis" was conclusively unfavourable, they were entered another programme – the "sub-fertile" group. Some clueless and very diffident suitors were given misleading advice, then also entered into this category. "Sir and Lady Hamish Gosford" appeared to have been entered into such a scheme; presumably Raddison intended to modify their regime in time.

Where Raddison's transcendence emerged was in the schemes he concocted for the sub-fertile group. He appeared to have a cohort of fecund young men of varying appearance, who would "squire" those wives brought to clinic whose husbands were clearly infertile. The young man who most closely physically resembled her husband was employed. This service appeared to have been offered with varying degrees of secrecy; in some cases, both spouses were aware, in others, neither, and trickery or sedation were employed. To my grim delight, these young men were named. They could be prosecuted for rape and conspiracy if anybody could be persuaded to testify.

I found the destinations of Mrs Whitney's babies, and evidence of two more "adoptions" from different institutions. James Castling certainly was the softly spoken, soft handed young man Mrs Whitney had so admired. As I had suspected, one couple had been complicit all along, and had proceeded to choose their baby. Other methods were variably clandestine. Of course, any clandestine adoption service to the upper classes was bound to command a stiff fee. The vagaries of inheritance, and family feuds honed and perfected over centuries were reason enough for silence to command a high price. However, upon two women in particular, a technique had been used that left me gasping at the audacity of it:

Raddison arranged for each of these women to take an exceedingly rich and fattening diet, with specialised drinks to supplement this, which he declared would increase her fertility. He had diagnosed each woman with "a pathologically weak cervix"; and that the time of greatest danger of miscarriage was during her monthlies. He insisted it would be necessary for her to be resident in Hecate House at these times, and for him to examine her cervix regularly. During these examinations, he secretly inserted cotton pads, and had her reclining all day upon a settle, to convince her she was not bleeding. A little nonsense about the lie of baby, and some clever corsetry to shape her fat, which she was told she must not remove, satisfied her as to the shape of the "bump" – although, to his genuine fascination, one woman was so convinced by her "pseudo-pregnancy", she even began to acquire the correct shape.

All he had to do, when the poor deluded creature came close to her "due date", was acquire a suitable new-born. He would keep her close from 38 weeks onwards, so he had plenty of time to accomplish this. He then induced severe abdominal cramps with tiny quantity of arsenic to persuade her she was in labour.

The women were told they would need to be anaesthetised with chloroform, and the babies delivered by Caesarean section. Whilst they were unconscious, a clean deep cut was made in the abdomen, then sutured closed again. The woman was awakened, and presented with the newborn on regaining consciousness. Of course, she would not manage to suckle her infant, but both women were too blissfully happy to mind this too much. I whistled silently at the fee he had claimed for this service. Needless to say, it was very, very expensive.

Despite the deception, in many respects these women were the fortunate ones, as they were allowed to believe in their good fortune. Dr Raddison had realised the richest pickings would often come from blackmail. I was quite surprised by the modesty of some of the demands, but others were closer to what I understood the market value to be. He was now an exceedingly rich man.

I had already encountered the photography. He had a sordid little production line going with this technique. He gauged his victim first, then adapted his methods according to personality, choosing the likeliest method to succeed. I saw that I was correct in assuming Robinson had performed certain favours upon the husbands. Two men were still paying for their weaknesses. One had refused to pay, and was the gentleman on Mycroft's list serving time in prison for "lewd acts" following a photographic tip-off.

Raddison also took full advantage of his patients' belief in his oath of confidentiality. One young man had broken down and made an agonised confession of his preference for men over women, the "sins" he had committed in the past and his ongoing struggle against his own nature. This honesty was rewarded with a threat to betray him to his family, unless a sizable financial payment was received. It seemed he had been unable to meet this obligation, as he was the young man upon Mycroft's list who had hanged himself. It appeared that Raddison regretted his "misjudgement". He deemed the risk of following up on his threat to inform the family unnecessary.

Evidently, Raddison had made some other "misjudgements". Emily Rangaford had been one, fleeing in terror when threatened, rather than meekly paying. I found her file, and corroboration of what she had told me. Tucked in behind her file was a note written in another hand: "R.e. photographs of E.R. and G.R. Just to remind you: there are copies". I was a little puzzled by this, as none of the other files bore a similar note. I was, however, more concerned with the fact that none of the files included photographs. They must be stored elsewhere. I sincerely wished I knew where, as they were potentially damaging for a great number of people, and I would prefer the police did not find them: better they stayed in the private domain.

I continued my harrowing, but compelling reading. Several of Raddison's victims were haplessly recruited to recommend his services to their friends, for fear of exposure. The lies, deceptions and betrayal of trust seemed interminable.

As the first, watery grey light of dawn was beginning to steal through into the consulting room, I relocked the filing cabinet and straightened my stiff back. My eyes were gritty and exhausted from the dim light, but I felt exultant. I had finished internalising the contents of the numerous files and folders. I had found the evidence I required to almost certainly place Raddison's head in a noose, without ruining any fragile reputations, and other evidence that could implicate his vile gang of abusers if the victims were sufficiently brave to confess. I would imagine that the detention behind bars of their tormentors may have a cathartic effect upon several.

I recited Mycroft's list to myself again:

Three people – two women and one man – are rumoured to have disappeared. To my relief, it appeared Raddison was unaware of their location, but he had certainly blackmailed them.

One man has been arrested for 'lewd acts'.

There have been two divorces, one for adultery.

True to the blackmailer's art, a small number of his victims had been made an example of. The hypocritical sorrow with which Raddison recorded the results of these betrayals made my blood boil – families splintered and torn asunder, for the sake of feeding this fat, quivering spider whose web they had blundered into.

There have been fourteen deaths.

Two have died in childbed – that is not unexpected. Two have had the consumption. It appeared that here, at least, Nature and not Raddison were to blame.

One man died in the street – he appeared to have had some form of seizure. His wife had confessed that she had been complicit in attempting to conceive via another man. Raddison had been in town, and agreed to the outraged husband's demand that they meet. He suffered a seizure as he climbed into a hansom. None of the passers-by had noticed the seizure began the instant his hand touched the metal of the cab. One man thought he had seen wisps of smoke, but as he was somewhat inebriated, his statement was disregarded. The coroner had noted that the shoes the young man wore were new and rather ill fitting, but had thought little of this. The cab, with its deadly electric charge centred upon the door handle, had driven away unaccosted, after the cabbie had appeared to attempt to aid the stricken victim, and had exchanged his burnt shoes for another pair.

One was thrown from his horse and broke his neck when out riding alone. He had retorted angrily to Raddison attempting to extort money in exchange for compromising photographs, refusing to comply, both hotly refuting he was ashamed of his nature and declaring he would simply deny it was him in the photographs. His greatest mistake had been threatening Raddison in return, asserting that he would find a way to expose him for the swindler he was. A wire, stretched between two trees, was the tragically simple solution to this problem.

One was killed in a shooting accident. Interesting. This man had foreseen the possibilities of this venture and had his suspicions aroused by the worn and anxious faces of certain of his friends regarding Raddison. He had done some digging, and deduced to a certain extent what Raddison had been doing. He had then attempted to turn the tables, and blackmail the blackmailer. Young men who enrage dangerous criminals should not attend upper class shooting parties.

One man and two women have died from illness. The young husband had been a heavy smoker – when Raddison had recommended he stop, his forceful wife insisted upon his compliance. In the throes of a nicotine addiction with which I entirely sympathised, the athletic youth climbed out of his window one night, thence to wander along the cliff edge and indulge his habit. He curiously investigated the cry of a baby in the outhouse, and overheard enough to apprehend that another resident of Hecate House was to be presented with this child in the guise of their own offspring – following one of the "pseudo-pregnancies". Appalled, he had confronted Raddison with the accusation, and was temporarily appeased, but Raddison guessed he remained dubious. Back home, he received a nondescript fake charity fundraising letter through the post, with a tiny sliver of razor blade incorporated into the flap of the envelope– the resultant presumed paper cut would cause no serious harm, but the aconite oil with which the blade was impregnated was lethal.

A young woman was troubled by hazy memories of her assault under sedation, and had written a suspicious letter to Raddison demanding he explain. A charity fundraising letter was her reward also.

The second man had died innocently enough of an inflammation of the lungs (Raddison had gallantly rescinded his widow's bill), but his role in the other deaths on the list was plain:

One woman drowned after apparently falling from her rowing boat. Brave Veronica Bellingham.

One man hanged himself. The "regrettable" incident of which Raddison had spoken.

One woman was run down by a runaway horse and carriage, which fled the scene of the accident. She had tearfully confessed to Dr Raddison earlier that day that she did not feel she could keep the secret she was carrying another man's child from her husband any longer.

And one woman fell from the cliff tops near Beachy Head. The inquest said accident, but I understand this was dubious. Another "regrettable incident". She had simply been unable to bear the evidence of her accidental infidelity.

That exasperating lack of pronouns was again present, but becoming irrelevant with the sheer body of evidence. The two poisonings, the shooting and the horse-riding incident all answered my secondary purpose, in that the victims had all been willing to divulge their information when they were alive, apart from the would-be-blackmailer, who did not deserve my compunction. The cases of Veronica Bellingham, the horse and carriage and Beachy Head, I would consider further.

I would need to separate this evidence into that to be delivered to the official channels, and that to keep back, either for anonymising, or awaiting consent from emboldened victims.

I was still troubled by the absence of the photographs. Where could they be concealed? I would feel happier if they were in safe hands – my own. On an impulse, I carefully examined the room. There. Lifting a picture high on the wall revealed a tiny safe behind it. I glanced nervously towards the consulting room window. I would have to be quick. The safe was a top of the range Babcock model, with the modern combination-type lock. I certainly knew how to crack it, but it would take considerable time; more than I had. However, I knew the try-out combinations issued by the seven major manufacturers. Babcock used ten different numbers. It was just possible that Raddison had not bothered to reset his own combination.

I dialled in the first combination. Nothing. Nothing on the second either. Nor the third. But on the fourth attempt, the safe opened. Stupid, arrogant man.

The safe was empty, except for one small key. I examined it closely. It was a key for a safety deposit locker at Kings Cross Station. I owned a similar one myself; often the best hiding place for sensitive items is amongst an anonymous crowd. The number upon this key had been scratched out, but I reasoned a search authorised by Scotland Yard would be sufficient to discover the corresponding lock. It would also be helpful to prevent anybody removing the contents unexpectedly. I felt in my waistcoat pocket, and removed my own, to all appearances identical, key. Substituting the two keys, I closed the safe and reset it as I had found it.

At this point, I felt a sudden, forceful tug from the twine still tied around my finger.

Oh no! I'd forgotten about Violet and her string. I do hope they're not about to get caught.....

That was a very long one, hope you're still with me. Don't worry, it livens up a bit soon!

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