The Incendiary's Trail Page 3

  ‘Very well. Eliza-Beth had received a letter concerning her parentage. You may not realize, m’lud, that many of us here have no knowledge of our origins. At our birth, our aspect was such that our own parents rejected us, leaving us at the church or the hospital or the ash-heap. We are raised without the bonds of love – only the curious stare of the crowd. Eliza – poor, misguided girl – believed that her parents would one day return for her.’

  ‘And the letter was from her parents?’

  ‘From her mother. She said that she had followed ElizaBeth’s history since her birth and had never once stopped thinking of her. Doubtless she had come to see the show at Vauxhall and determined finally to approach her daughter after all these years. No date was given, but Eliza-Beth was in an ecstasy of joy at the prospect of once again meeting her mother.’

  ‘Was there a return address?’

  ‘I did not see the letter. Eliza-Beth kept it close to her heart at all times lest somebody take her one valuable possession. Rather, her second valuable possession.’

  ‘Her second possession?’

  ‘Why, yes. She wore a locket about her neck in which she treasured two locks of hair: one from her father and one from her mother – or so she believed and maintained. It was gold, but its value would have been equal to her had it been fashioned from lead.’

  ‘I saw no locket about Eliza’s neck.’

  ‘They took it in turns to wear it, so jealous were they of its significance.’

  ‘Neither was Beth wearing a locket.’

  ‘Then the murderer took it, or it is lost in the house, for Eliza-Beth was never without it and would not yield it except in death. Even Mr Coggins was unable to get his hands on it, much as he tried.’

  ‘I understand that Eliza-Beth was writing a letter when she was killed. Do you know how she was planning to send this letter if she had no return address?’

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps she did have an address, or perhaps someone was going to collect it; we have many visiters here. Indeed, it was a visiter who delivered it here. Perhaps she was writing it merely for her own fancy. ’

  ‘Who delivered the letter?’

  ‘I did not see the gentleman. He brought it to the street door and gave the boy a penny to bring it upstairs.’

  ‘And where is this boy now?’

  ‘If he is not downstairs at this moment, I have no idea.’

  ‘Hmm. You spoke of visiters. What visiters do you have in this place?’

  At this moment, however, the questioning was interrupted by the return of Mr Henry Coggins. A commotion was heard from outside the door and the baritone of PC Cullen insisting, ‘No admittance here!’ A scuffle of feet was heard, and the repeated phrase, ‘This is my abode! Let me through!’

  ‘I apprehend that Mr Coggins is returned,’ muttered Mr Hardy. A flutter of reaction went through the group. Then the man himself burst into the room, hatless.

  He was a diminutive figure whose immediate identifying characteristic was the preposterous blond peruke that sat askew on his head, perhaps knocked that way by the scuffle outside. He was perspiring freely and clearly still under the influence of alcohol, swaying slightly. Sergeant Williamson’s first thought was that the face resembled something one might see on a butcher’s block – and a particularly cheap and disreputable butcher at that.

  ‘What in d— is happening here?’ yelled the bewigged fellow. ‘Hardy! What is this b— circus? Hardy, where are you? I can’t see you. Step out from where you are, man – you’re no bigger than a cat for G—’s sake! Must I look under the tables?’

  ‘I will thank you to remember, when you speak so, that ladies are present,’ remonstrated Mr Williamson in an even voice as Mr Coggins stared wildly about him for his tiny employee.

  The bleary eyes of the self-styled ‘Dr Zwigoff’ settled upon the now standing Detective Williamson. He reached up to the hat he had evidently lost while on his debauches and instead set the peruke level with an air of authority. His clothing – a suit that must once have been expensive when made for its original owner – was in a state of disruption and he reeked of pipe smoke and gin.

  ‘And who in the name of C— might you be, sitting at my kitchen table as if you owned it and telling me how to speak to my own employees? I have a mind to knock you down, sir . ’

  Mr Hardy jumped down from the chair he was occupying by the fire:

  ‘This is Sergeant Williamson of the Detective Force, Mr Coggins. He is here about the murder of Eliza-Beth. He has been ques—’

  ‘Murder? Did you say murder, Mr Hardy?’

  Williamson raised his voice: ‘Mr Coggins. The lady called Eliza-Beth has been murdered here this night and lies at the mortuary as we speak. I have been waiting for you to return so that I might—’

  ‘Eliza-Beth dead? It’s not possible.’

  ‘I understand that you are shocked at this loss, but—’

  ‘“Loss”, you say? You understand it right! Of all my “anatomical curiosities”, she was the biggest draw among the crowds, not to mention private showings. I shall be ruined! Do you realize how rare such a specimen is, constable? Ruined, I say!’

  ‘I am not a constable. I am Detective Sergeant George Williamson and I hold the power to have you taken directly to the nearest watch house and incarcerated for drunkenness and unreasonable behaviour if I so choose. At the moment, however, I would like you to accompany me upstairs so I might speak with you away from these good people. I perceive that they are ill at ease in your company.’

  ‘Ill at ease? Why, you d— scoundrel! They positively revere me, I’ll have you know. And if I wasn’t feeling so unsteady on my feet on account of the early hour, I would knock you down.’

  What followed was brief and efficacious. PC Cullen was requested to enter the house and escort Mr Coggins upstairs, which journey was occasioned by some accidental violence to his person on account of falling a number of times against the constable’s fist. He thus found himself somewhat more sober and attentive when forced into a chair in his own room for the interview with Mr Williamson. The peruke had again been disturbed from its customary situation, though he was insensible to it.

  ‘Now, Mr Coggins. I will be brief because I see you are emotional after your night out. I know that you have been absent since around ten o’clock last evening, so you are not a suspect. At least, not yet. The lady Eugenia told me that you have a number of visiters at this house. Who are they and why do they come?’

  Perceiving that his testimony was of some worth to the detective, Mr Coggins adopted a coyness not native to his character: ‘Well, Mr Williamson. There are a number of people who visit, but I cannot recall directly who they were.’

  ‘Perhaps your memory might be aided by a trip to the gaol, escorted by PC Cullen. I assumed that you have already formed a close acquaintance.’

  ‘He’s a bully, that man. Hmm. Well, if you insist on this course of questioning . . . We generally receive the same kind of people when we are in London. The doctors are great ones for measuring and sketching, of course. You wouldn’t believe how many of them have offered me money for the skeleton of Eliza-Beth on her eventual passing – not that I would consider such a thing, you understand.’

  ‘Have any doctors visited since you have been appearing at Vauxhall Gardens?’

  ‘Just one. A strange cove, he was, too. He didn’t make sketches like they usually do. But he gave me a card that said he was a doctor of Harley-street. I have the card about the place somewhere if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘What do you mean that he was a “strange cove”?’

  ‘Well, I have met a good many doctors and they are all alike. This man was certainly educated and he knew a lot of medical words like “skeleton” and suchlike. But there was something I just couldn’t place. He wore a scarf to prevent him breathing mephitic air, he said. Still, he paid what was due . . . Oh, you needn’t look at me that way – I can’t live on air alone.’

  ‘I will ask to see that ca
rd.’ The detective made a note. ‘Who else has visited?’

  ‘We had a writer fellow who said he was preparing a book on the “underworld” of London. The “underworld” if you like! Do I seem like the underworld to you, detective?’

  ‘I could not say. What did this writer want to research?’

  ‘Oh, he asked my employees about their origins, where they were born and if they recalled their parents. He wrote it all down in a strange hand – Greek perhaps. He had a terrible chest on him, poor fellow – the consumption I suspect. And he took great interest in me and my business. We travel all across these isles and my name is well known across the land, as “Dr Zwigoff” of course. It is my little conceit – it sounds more theatrical than “Coggins”, you understand.’

  ‘Quite. Did the writer also leave a card?’

  ‘He did, and paid, too. More than the clergyman, at any account. He gave me nothing.’

  ‘The clergyman?’

  ‘Oh yes! An odd one, he was. “Apocalypse” this and “Revelation” that – a veritable walking scripture! He didn’t want to talk to the ladies and gentlemen, only to look at them. I couldn’t tell if he was incensed or ecstatic as he condemned us all. He called me – what was it? – the “Devil’s minion” or some such nonsense. Quite coddled in the head, as my grandmother used to say. There was a real smell of fire and brimstone about him! He left no card, but I recall his name: Reverend Josiah Archer. I’m told he preaches on street corners.’

  ‘I believe I know of him. Does this conclude the series of visiters?’

  ‘No, there was another – though I must insist that my revelation of her name remains a strict secret between us because she is well known about the Haymarket.’

  ‘I am a sergeant of the Detective Force, Mr Coggins – not a fellow you might happen to meet in a public house. We are not making conversation but conducting a murder investigation.’

  ‘Does this mean I am not to receive my customary fee for an interview?’

  ‘Indeed it does. I may, however, be inclined to offer you your freedom.’

  ‘I see how it goes with you, Detective. Well – the lady in question was none other than Mary Chatterton, she of the Night Rooms at Haymarket. She was here just two nights ago.’

  ‘You surprise me, Mr Coggins. I understand the other vis-iters’ motives, but why would Mary Chatterton visit this house?’

  ‘I admit I was also surprised. She said she had seen the show at Vauxhall and felt a great pity for the performers. She spoke to Eliza-Beth and to Eugenia particularly. She was once a great beauty was Miss Chatterton: quite the courtesan. I’ve heard that the nights at her suppers can be quite “warm”, as they say. Not that I know of such things personally, you understand.’

  ‘Naturally. Did any of the visiters pass a letter to ElizaBeth?’

  ‘Ah-ha! The letter! You are a sharp one, Mr Williamson! I was very curious about that letter. It was delivered the same night that Mary came, only much later. I saw Eliza-Beth reading it just the other day and tried my best to get a look at it, but she kept it tightly in her bodice. I couldn’t even get it while she was sleeping . . . not that I tried. But even if I had wanted to—’

  ‘Who delivered it?’

  ‘That I cannot tell you. I asked her about it, but she was a secretive one . . . or I should say two. In truth, she was two people: Eliza the quiet one and Beth the natural performer. I have seen one of them sleeping while the other spoke. In my job, you see some curious things, detective, I can tell you. Have you seen the dog-child? I paid a pretty penny for her. Lord knows where she comes from – she cannot speak a word of any human tongue. She just barks like a dog. Still, the public love her! You should see the shock when they behold her!’

  ‘Tell me something, Mr Coggins. Do you feel no guilt about your work?’

  ‘Guilt? Why? I am the protector of these poor people. I give them a home and a retreat from the prying eyes of the public. Without me they would surely be dead.’

  ‘And do you share the profits of your show with them?’

  ‘I feed them and clothe them. I provide their accommodation and transport.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, I think have finished with you for the moment. I will need to spend some more time at the scene of the murder when I conclude my questioning downstairs. I have had the door to the room securely fastened and you may not enter.’

  ‘I am paying the rent for this property—’

  ‘You will not enter until my investigation is complete.’

  ‘But—’

  At that moment, the voice of Mr Hardy echoed up the staircase:

  ‘Sergeant Williamson! I think we have unearthed a clue.’

  The detective left Mr Coggins looking quite ill in his chair and descended to find Mr Hardy and Eugenia apparently conversing with the dog-child. At least, the child was making a variety of canine noises: panting, barking, whimpering and growling. Even in her present company, she was a singular specimen: completely covered in fine hair but for her eyes and the palms of her hands.

  Mr Hardy turned to Williamson: ‘The little girl says she saw the murderer!’

  ‘How do you know this if the child cannot speak?’

  ‘True, she cannot speak, but she can communicate and we have learned to understand many of her utterances. Eugenia particularly has been able to fashion a mode of language with her. It seems she was watching and saw everything as the man entered the room. He walked quietly and held some manner of weapon. He approached Eliza-Beth and apparently became transfixed by her appearance. He recoiled, cried out, and then leaped forward to strike her. ’

  ‘You have understood all of this from the child’s bestial noises?’

  Eugenia spoke: ‘We have raised her and know her almost like a daughter.’

  ‘Has she provided a description of the man? Can she illustrate him, perhaps?’

  A piece of paper, a steel pen and some ink were produced from Mr Coggin’s room (as he complained of the cost) and the child was encouraged to sketch the murderer. Throughout the process, Eugenia cajoled details in her quasi-canine tongue and pointed to various aspects of the depiction. Not for the first time that day, Mr Williamson wondered at the oddness of the situation he found himself in.

  Though extremely rudimentary, the result gave some impression of the man in question. He wore knee breeches and flat-soled shoes, a cloth cap, a waistcoat and a jacket. About his neck was a stock. It could have been a labouring man of almost any profession. Only the shoes were anomalous: Williamson would have expected boots to complement the working-man’s ensemble.

  ‘What is this line on his face here, from the forehead down to the chin?’ asked the detective.

  Eugenia grunted to the child in a strangulated yet vaguely interrogative fashion and indicated the line. The little girl then raised a tiny, hairy finger to Williamson’s own pox-scarred face. Despite himself, he blushed.

  ‘A scar? He has a scar down his face?’

  The facts were checked and the child concurred: the killer had a scar crossing downwards over the left eye. Under the circumstances, the detective was fortunate to have elicited so much information from the girl – if it could be trusted. Anything subtler would surely be more difficult to procure.

  Williamson was musing thus on the facts of the case when PC Cullen escorted a panting constable into the room: a messenger.

  ‘Sir – I am come directly from Giltspur-street and am directed to tell you to report there immediately. A carriage is waiting.’

  ‘I am in the midst of an investigation here, constable. The blood is still fresh and I must look over the crime scene once more now that it is light. I will come to Giltspur-street in my own time. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Please, sir, I was sent here by Superintendent Wilberforce and Inspector Newsome. They are waiting there now and told me that you should return with me as matter of exceptional priority.’

  ‘Their exact words, I assume.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I wrote it down.’


  ‘Hmm. This is highly inconvenient. Constable Cullen – I am placing you in charge here. You are to prevent anyone from entering the room upstairs, with force if necessary. Direct the constables outside to begin arresting the gathered people if they do not disperse. The situation is becoming ridiculous. Tell them also to say nothing to the journalists who will inevitably descend. See that the description of the killer is distributed to all watch houses. Someone is sure to know that face. And also send out word that the wandering clergyman is to visit me at this address today. I will return as soon as I may. ’

  ‘Yes, sir! And Mr Coggins? I fear he will make trouble.’

  ‘You are empowered to make more for him than he makes for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  And with that, the detective put on his hat and walked out to the carriage.

  FOUR

  Standing at the very core of penal London, Giltspur-street Compter presents a rusticated Portland stone façade. Close by, one will find the Old Bailey, the infamous Newgate gaol (termed ‘the Stone Jug’ by its familiars) and the now closed Fleet prison. To the criminal classes, these are streets to be avoided – except perhaps on the day of an execution, when the distracted crowds present an opportunity too good to be missed.

  The innocent man rides past in his carriage or cab; ladies stroll by arm in arm; children clutching coins hotly in their palms run past on their way to the bakers for a treasured meat pie. Do such people give a thought to the faceless hundreds confined behind the anonymous walls? The drunk, the destitute, the violent and the condemned are accommodated there: out of sight, but indisputably present – out of common society, yet still invisibly within it.

  Shall we, in fancy, leave the light and bustle of the street to ascend the steps and pass through the stone arch into the dim interior of the compter on that day? Therein, the cold scent of imprisoning stone was all about; the echo of bolts and the voices of the confined replaced the intercourse of the free. Escorted by a burly turnkey, Mr Merrill, we pass through heavy doors to the song of the lock and approach a solitary cell in which a singular prisoner was being remanded. Exceptionally, he was in the company of two of the highest-ranking officers of the Metropolitan Police’s Detective Force.