The Incendiary's Trail Read online

  And with this, the commissioner left the room colder than when he had entered it. The two remaining men returned to their seats in defeat, but not entirely surprised by the conclusion.

  ‘Fear not,’ said Mr Wilberforce. ‘There will be another case like that of Daniel Good or Miss M’Farlane. We are at the mercy of the newspapers when such things occur. Though he may aver otherwise, Sir Richard is highly sensitive to public opinion and he may have to make a choice: further humiliation or a bending of the regulations.’

  ‘I hope you are right. Our hands are currently as securely manacled as those we arrest. I abhor the criminal as much as any policeman, but if I can use him to solve a greater crime, I will do so.’

  ‘Then we must wait and – dare I say it? – hope for an occasion to approach Commissioner Mayne again.’

  ‘And to apprehend a cracksman at work.’

  ‘That, I believe, is the greater challenge.’

  Having left their mysterious prisoner to consider their words, Superintendent Wilberforce and Inspector Newsome now sat in a secluded room at Giltspur-street Compter. The old soldier Wilberforce, lighting a briarwood pipe, displayed a more excited demeanour than was his habit as they prepared to play their accustomed game.

  ‘He is quite an enigma, is he not, Mr Newsome? What do you adduce from the evidence at hand?’

  ‘Well, the tattoo suggests he’s a seaman, or associates among them. This might point to an address off Ratcliff Highway or about the docks. Similarly, the flogging scars bespeak the discipline of a ship, and the dagger is something the sailor is seldom without.’

  ‘Hmm. I concur he may once have been a sailor, but nothing about his clothes or gait suggests that he is one still. And the dagger is not typical of a sailor’s knife – it is more like the thin-bladed knives carried by some Italians or Corsicans. In addition, there is an intelligence to his face that one does not see among the seafaring class. Do you know much of phrenology?’

  ‘No, I am sceptical of it, but there is undoubtedly some native wit in his countenance. One would expect little less from an experienced cracksman.’

  ‘If he is a cracksman.’

  ‘We have the tools, Mr Wilberforce. Why else would he be carrying such a package? And then there is the diamond – a large and exceptionally high-quality specimen.’

  ‘That, as you well know, is the weakest point of the evidence against him. The diamond was suspended about his neck on a steel chain that had clearly been fastened there. It was not possible to pull it over his head. And the diamond itself was suspended inside a steel capsule on the chain, the strength and quality of which being such that we had difficulty cutting it free. All of which leads me to conclude that the necklace and capsule was made for strength alone – not show. In short, I believe it belongs to him.’

  ‘What you say is true, Mr Wilberforce, but this in turn raises the question of why a man would carry a large diamond about his neck inside a steel capsule.’

  ‘For the purposes of bribery, of course. When the cracksman is caught away from his base, he is lost. He necessarily trusts no one and may even eschew the company of women in order to protect his anonymity. What does he do when trapped and cornered like a fox? He uses his one bargaining piece: the valuable diamond that cannot be pulled from his neck by force. The only way to obtain it is to lead the cracksman to his freedom.’

  ‘Or to decapitate him, which would not discommode a number of criminals I have known. Nevertheless, you make a good argument and I admit it is a quite brilliant piece of forethought on the part of the prisoner, if our reasoning is correct.’

  ‘Indeed, most everything about him shows remarkable ingenuity, from the cork-soled shoes to the reversible tailcoat. Tell me, was the number on his collar a genuine one?’

  ‘Yes, I have checked it. It belongs to PC Wiseman of Stepney Division. He lost his jacket in a fight with a Negro man a number of weeks ago – a most unusual event, in fact. The constable was accosted while on his beat and knocked unconscious. He woke to find his head supported on a rag and his tailcoat missing. Not a word was exchanged during the brief assault.’

  ‘Curious.’ Mr Wilberforce puffed at his pipe, which had already filled the room with its fragrant smoke. ‘What do you make, then, of his silence? Could it be that he is mute?’

  ‘I think not. It is the masterstroke of his strategy. We know nothing about him, and can discern nothing. He knows this and is certainly hiding something from us. Of course, we could arrange for some of the turnkeys here to persuade him to speak, but I suspect he has experienced worse treatment and would not break his silence until almost dead. The scars about his wrists and ankles would suggest a period of worse incarceration.’

  The two men contemplated the facts in silence for a moment. The sound of a fight erupted from somewhere within the prison walls and echoed along endless passages to where they were sitting. Outside, the great city of London was about its criminal activities: cutting purses, picking pockets, burgling houses, counterfeiting and plotting. Somewhere, a murderer was lurking.

  ‘Is he the man we are looking for, Mr Newsome?’

  ‘He may be. The question is if he can be turned to our purposes. It may require some deception on our part.’

  ‘Of what are you thinking?’

  ‘Most likely he knows nothing of PC Wiseman. If our prisoner is implicated somehow in the theft of the uniform – or even if he is not – we could tell him that the PC in question is dead. He is in possession of the “dead man’s” uniform and a dagger. On this evidence alone he could hang, especially if he persists in his silence.’

  ‘It is a cruel deception.’

  ‘We already have him for burglary. I feel sure there is a resident within range of the arrest who will readily admit to having lost a large diamond. Thus, transportation is likely a further bargaining wedge. As with those tools of his safe-breaking trade, we may apply them to the tiny fissures of his resolve and crack the cracksman.’

  ‘I am sure you are correct, though there is no call for the services of such a man at present. Sir Richard would not permit it for the whimsy of our experiment.’

  ‘The time will come, and if we engineer it correctly, our man will be waiting still.’

  A knock at the door interrupted that thought as it drifted with the tobacco smoke. A turnkey entered.

  ‘Gentlemen – Sergeant Williamson is arrived.’

  FIVE

  And as Sergeant Williamson laid forth the details of the crime to his superiors, its perpetrator was walking the streets a free man, dressed exactly as the dog-child had portrayed. He could have been a costermonger or a dock-labourer if the hour had been different. In fact, he was that species of sub-criminal known as a ‘bully’: the man who, in concert with a base street girl, plays the role of the outraged ‘husband’ to extort money from her client – or simply clubs the unfortunate fellow insensible for his watch and wallet. Accordingly, he was known as ‘Bully’ Bradford.

  His face, red and broken-veined with excessive drink, was that of the common labouring man: a blank slate, animated only with slyness and suggestion. No knowledge but that of the lower social strata showed in his muddy eyes, and no kindness that could not be priced. As many of his ilk, he was short and stocky – born for a lifetime of hauling cargoes.

  Walking now with his hands in his pockets, he looked behind him at every other step and navigated a zigzag course through alleys and across courts familiar only to one who had grown among them. It was a low area in the environs of Rosemary-lane, with the smell of the river and of the docks hanging in the air as palpably as the strings of washing across narrow passages. The familiar perfume of rotting wood, bilge water and the foetid compost of the gutter seeped behind the peeling plaster and mouldy brickwork of the slowly decomposing streets that he called home.

  Presently, he approached a ramshackle marine store with a jumble of rain-tainted furniture before its grimy windows. With one final glance behind him, he entered.

  Th
e dim interior of the shop was empty of people. He looked around him at stacks of mildewed books, coats hanging on hooks, brass hearth-ware, stopped clocks and smoky glass. A smell of oakum, furniture wax and sulphur pervaded all. The place was a metropolitan Sargasso, where the flotsam and jetsam of the larger ocean finds dead water and settles. Currents and winds move all about, but it remains undisturbed, uncharted, undiscovered – a seeming lake in a limitless sea.

  A lucifer match flared in a dark corner of the shop filled with leaning shelves of books.

  ‘General? Cast a glim, won’t yer – it’s precious dark in ’ere.’ The bully squinted in that direction of the flame.

  The flame moved to an oil lamp on a table and an arm appeared briefly in its guttering light. Then the arm withdrew into the shadows and a chair creaked. He was there somewhere among the books, looking out through their spines but hidden by cracked leather and winking gilt inscriptions. When he spoke, it was with an even and intelligent tone:

  ‘Is it done?’

  ‘Yes, General, I ’ave it. Alas . . . there was difficulties.’

  ‘Speak. Do not make me ask.’

  ‘Well, I found the paddin’ ken jus’ as yer directed. I went jus’ afore dawn as yer said. The door was no o’stacle for me and I made me way upstairs quiet as a cat with them special shoes yer give me. It were tarry dark. I was like a groper in that place. A piece of luck – they was all asleep. All but someone sittin’ writin’ at a desk by candle. It were two young girls sittin’ close by each other and one on ’em was the one yer described. I crept quiet as you like to nab the letter. But the d— floor began singin’ like a canary. One of ’em turns and I sees that it weren’t two girls – it was one. With two ’eads! You didn’t tell me nothing about no queer lully, General!’

  ‘I told you what you needed to know. Continue.’

  ‘Well, I fair screamed when I saw. I got out me blade, for they was a monster. I went to grab the letter but they covered it. One of ’em looked like she would scream so I cut her. Then I grabbed the letter and I ran. The second started up yellin’ even as the claret was pourin’ from the other and I was runnin’.’

  ‘Where is the letter?’

  ‘I must tell yer, General, that there was more in this than what I bargained for. I had to kill one on ’em and now there is a rope ’bove my ’ead. I ’eard the bobby settin’ off his coffee grinder and now I ’ears there’s a prime fuss. I’ll need to leave the city for a good while.’

  ‘You are asking for more money.’

  ‘It’s only fair. I’ve risked me neck for yer.’

  ‘That business is your own idiocy. Where is the letter?’

  ‘Shall we say twenty pounds?’

  The man among the bookshelves leaned slightly forwards into the light so that his countenance was illuminated briefly by the lamp. His eyes were vitreous orbs of swirling grey smoke. He stared into the muddy eyes of Bully Bradford as if reading the smudgy text of his mind. Then he leaned back into writhing shadow. He sighed.

  ‘Mr Hawkins!’

  An unseen door opened and heavy footsteps entered the room. The man was easily six feet tall and hugely built about the shoulders. His nose was a mess of fractured and re-healed cartilage and one ear seemed a deformed fungal growth.

  ‘Are you familiar with Henry Hawkins?’ asked the voice from among the books. ‘You might know him as “Butcher” Hawkins if you are one for “the fancy”. Have you seen him fight, Mr Bradford?’

  The bully attempted to puff his chest and stand taller. ‘Aye, I’ve seen ’im fight. Pretty ’andy with his mawlies, too.’

  ‘Henry is a good fighter because he fights with his head as well as his fists.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve seen ’im use his ’ead in more than one fight.’

  Here the bare-knuckle fighter spoke. It was a voice bubbling from the bottom of a two-storey gin barrel: ‘There’s no more of that now we’ve got the New Rules . . . though I make the occasional exception, heh-heh!’

  ‘Mr Bradford is asking for more money, Henry. What do you think about that?’

  ‘I have the letter here, General,’ answered the bully. ‘I ’ave not read it meself—’

  ‘Because you cannot read. Place it on the table beside you there.’

  ‘And if I ’ave somethin’ else to offer?’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Well, it depends on what it might be worth, don’t it?’

  ‘Mr Bradford, my patience with you is exhausted. Show me what you have directly, or Mr Hawkins here will gladly instruct you in the finer points of bare-knuckle fighting, preferably that variety untamed by the New Rules.’

  ‘I’m not a man to be threatened, General. Nor am I afraid of Mr ’Awkins.’

  ‘Brave, but thoroughly dishonest. Give it to me.’ ‘It’s a locket – the one what she were wearin’. It’s bloody, as I grabbed it while she were sprayin’ the claret.’

  ‘I will give you five pounds for it and you will accept my offer.’

  ‘There may be another as would give more.’ ‘Mr Hawkins, retrieve that locket from Mr Bradford.’ The bully rapidly extracted the locket from his trouser pocket. ‘I accept yer offer, General.’

  ‘As I expected you might. Give it to Mr Hawkins. He will pay you for all. Good. Now – I suggest that you go to ground. That scar on your face is like a bell to identify your movements. If anyone saw you in Lambeth—’ ‘Not a soul, General.’

  ‘If anyone saw you, the constables hereabouts will recognize the description in a moment. You will be in Newgate before you can draw breath, and we do not wish that on any man. Go to the country, or to Scotland. Wherever you go, stay there for at least six months.’

  ‘I will, General. Yer talk good sense.’ ‘Go. You have been here too long as it is.’ The door clattered behind Mr Bradford and Mr Hawkins spoke:

  ‘Should I follow him, General?’

  ‘No – there is no need. To be sure, he will not take my advice. He could no more venture from these verminous streets that he could from his own skeleton. In one hour he will be in the gin palace or the bawdy house.’

  ‘You should have asked me to get the letter.’

  ‘No, you are too valuable for me to risk you on such a venture. Mr Bradford is expendable, especially now that the imbecile has committed a murder. The police will not shed a tear when his body is dredged out of the Thames or found stiff in an alley. ’

  ‘I should kill him?’

  ‘The time for that will come. For now, I would like you to return to the house in Lambeth. Watch it and report to me who enters and leaves – discover their names if possible. I want to know who is investigating the case and what they know. Give me that locket before you go. Good.’

  Alone now in the dust and detritus of the shop, the ‘General’ moved closer to the light and turned the necklace in his hands. It was the same one he had seen about the neck of the girl: a simple and unadorned oval of gold, worth very little of its own accord but invaluable to those who could read its contents correctly. He opened it and saw two differently coloured locks of hair – nothing other. That made him smile. Had Mr Bradford also opened the locket and did he know what was inside? That would soon not matter.

  He turned his attention to the bloodstained letter. It was written in an ornate hand, most likely with a steel pen. There was no address on the reverse and the paper seemed odourless apart from the faint metallic tang of blood. The whole text was legible:

  Dear Parent

  We believe we may begin so after receiving your letter. You say we have met and spoken while we are in London, but we have met so many visiters at the house and at our shows that the numbers are bewildering. Nevertheless, we feel that we know in our heart who you are because we saw an uncommon sympathy in your eyes among the many that have gazed upon us. And we share a striking similarity (or rather a family trait if our assumptions are correct)!

  We have kept the locket you allude to from our earliest memory and know that the Lord Himself has prevented
it being taken from us in our childhood. Surely He always intended for us to be united again after our trials. We have hoped for nothing less in our prayers.

  You write that the time will soon approach when you will make your true identity known to all and reclaim us from the unpleasant Mr Coggins (who has much to answer to when the Day of Judgement arrives). We anticipate that day with joy and . . .

  The letter ended thus. That cretin Bradford had taken the wrong letter: the reply rather than the original. Still, it was valuable in its way. He flicked a match with his thumbnail and watched the flame dance. No jewel was more attractive to him. He watched the flame work its way along the wood until pinched extinct by his calloused fingers. Then he opened the locket once more, taking out one of the curls of hair and holding it closer to the light, turning it about between thumb and forefinger to examine its colour and texture.

  What he had intended as a theft – a minor and irrelevant occurrence that would interest nobody – had become a murder thanks to Mr Bradford and his ready razor. Now everyone would be looking at what was previously under his gaze alone. And it would be virtually impossible to gain access to the house to search for the original letter. Worse still, the investigation might – however inconceivable it might seem – lead back to him. Mr Bradford would be the first to be silenced. But not here, and not at this exact moment. Better to arrange for him to meet his end elsewhere, and in a manner more fitting his habits.

  The shop door opened and a man in a broad-brimmed hat poked his head inside.

  ‘The body of the girl is now at Bart’s. The surgeons are arguing over her bones. I have not been able to learn anything more.’

  ‘Very good. There may be a letter about her person. If you can obtain it, there will be five pounds for you. That is all.’

  ‘Gen’l.’ The man touched the brim of his hat and was gone.