Читать книгу An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London - J. Durham J. - Страница 10

Police detectives were only supposed to enter Whitehall through the rear entrance, the stable yard grandiosely called Great Scotland Yard. There was nothing great about it. In the summer it heaved with horses, cabs, and carriages, with ostlers, Horse Guards, and equestrian messengers whose job it was to make the wheels of government turn more smoothly. Any pedestrian who wanted to make his way through the arched thoroughfare from the main street was forced to risk life and limb. In the winter it was little better, for when the temperature dropped below freezing the cobblestones of the yard turned glassy with horse piss, treacherous to man and beast alike. As a consequence none of the detectives ever obeyed the edict, but entered instead through Whitehall Station, the headquarters of A Division, which had its imposing entrance on Whitehall Place.

Pilgrim made his way across the reception hall. As usual, it was thronged with the uniformed police of A Division and their belligerent charges. He spotted a glum-faced Constable Wainwright, coming down the staircase towards him, whose neat appearance was only slightly undermined by a splash of blood on his collar from where he had cut himself shaving.

‘Dolly says you have a visitor, sir,’ he said to Pilgrim as he passed. ‘She won’t talk to anyone but you.’

Pilgrim made his way up to the office with a growing sense of unease.

A young woman got to her feet as he walked through the door. Tall and clean featured, with red hair piled under a feather-trimmed bonnet, she carried herself proudly, despite the cheap shawl and low-cut bodice that proclaimed her profession.

Pilgrim glanced at Dolly. He was seated at his desk, his eyes round with curiosity. ‘Give us a moment, would you?’

‘Sir.’ Dolly tried to mask his disappointment as he left the room. Pilgrim closed the door behind him.

‘Frances,’ he said.

‘Uncle Harry.’

He motioned for her to sit down. ‘This is a surprise … a pleasure, of course.’

‘Don’t flannel me.’

He flushed. ‘You’re … ?’

‘Well, well enough.’ She took a deep breath, and looked him squarely in the eye. ‘You must be wondering why I’m here. Truth is, I’m wondering why myself. I have a friend. A good friend, Martha Drewitt. She went missing, over a week ago. I’ve looked for her everywhere I can think of …’

‘Frances…’ he tried to interrupt.

‘Martha would never just up and leave, without telling me. I know, I know that something has happened to her.’ She thumped her chest. ‘I can feel it, here.’

‘I can’t help you. Even if I had the time …,’ he tailed off. ‘Finding missing women isn’t my speciality, as you know.’

‘You’ve still had no news of her, then?’

She was no longer talking about Martha Drewitt. He shook his head. ‘You?’

‘Not a word. When Ma died last year I thought she might have heard, might have got in touch, but … ,’ she stopped, and her expression hardened. She stood up. ‘Well at least I can say I tried. For Martha.’

He watched her walk to the door, his expression betraying no hint of the struggle inside. He wanted to help her, but common sense and self-preservation argued against it. She had her hand on the doorknob when he spoke.

‘I don’t suppose you have a photograph of Martha?’

‘As if!’

‘Could you give us a description?’

‘Will it help? Does that mean you’ll look?’

He nodded, common sense smothered into silence. ‘Wait here.’

He found Wainwright in the main hall, helping Sergeant Phelps process a couple of burglars. Wainwright was writing a list, as the sergeant pulled various items from the thieves’ pockets.

‘… three gent’s watches, one pinchbeck necklace, six, no, seven, silk handkerchiefs.’ He placed them on the counter, next to a paper packet. Pilgrim peered into it.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘It was gingerbread,’ said Wainwright dolefully. ‘My landlady gave it to me, but I made the mistake of bringing it down here.’

‘Don’t look at me, lad,’ sniffed Phelps. ‘I never touched it, I’m sure.’

‘Can I borrow the constable for a little while, Sergeant Phelps?’

‘Be my guest, Detective Sergeant.’

‘Bring your sketchpad, Wainwright.’

‘Of course, sir, certainly, sir.’

The young policeman’s eyes lit up with curiosity.

Curiosity turned to embarrassment when he was introduced to Frances. His long face flushed so hard that even the tips of his ears went pink.

‘This is Wainwright,’ Pilgrim explained to his niece. ‘He has a gift for capturing a likeness. Describe your friend to him as best as you can.’

Wainwright stared at Frances. ‘I don’t know as how I’d call it a gift, precisely,’ he stammered. ‘And I’m used to having the subject plain in front of me.’

‘Just do your best.’ Pilgrim felt a flash of irritation. ‘Why not sit at Tanner’s desk, by the window? The light’s better there.’

Wainwright nodded and did as he was told, pulling Tanner’s chair out for Frances to sit on. He drew up another chair and opened his pad. He pulled out a piece of charcoal, fidgeted indecisively with it, and then took a deep breath. ‘I might as well just start then, shall I? With the shape of the face. You can put me right as we go along.’

Pilgrim nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

He went out and closed the door, then leaned against it. He felt the weight of eyes on him immediately, however, and turned to see Dolly watching from the other side of the corridor. ‘I thought you were going to visit laundries with that vest?’ he snapped.

‘I’m on my way now, sir.’

‘Then go.’ Pilgrim hesitated. ‘No. On second thoughts, stay here and keep an eye on that door. If Sergeant Tanner comes anywhere near it, find an excuse to send him in the other direction.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Pilgrim found an empty office, went inside, and closed the door. He leaned against it and shut his eyes. Frances was a shock. The last time he had seen her she was a skinny eleven year old, with missing teeth and scabbed elbows. The intervening years had been kind, in one way at least, transforming her into a beautiful young woman. An uncanny replica of her aunt: his wife, Bess. When he had seen Frances in his office he had thought for one heart-lurching moment that Bess had come back to him. He took some deep breaths, and went back out into the corridor.

A group of men had gathered at the office door. Dolly was standing in the path of Tanner and Charles Dickens, blocking their way.

‘You really don’t want to go in there, sir,’ he was saying to Tanner.

‘Why not?’

‘There’s a terrible … smell.’

‘A smell?’

‘The most dreadful smell of …’ Dolly cast around for a suitable scent.

Tanner pushed him to one side.

‘Stop wasting my time.’ He threw open the door and strode into the room. Dickens followed him.

Pilgrim lengthened his stride. As he reached the door, Dolly turned to him with a mute apology.

‘What’s your sort doing in here?’ said Tanner, inside the room.

Frances and Wainwright, who had been sitting with their heads close together over the sketchbook, got to their feet.

‘What sort would that be?’ asked Pilgrim.

Dickens glanced from Pilgrim to Tanner and back again, and stepped between them. ‘My dear Sergeant Pilgrim! What a pleasure to see you. Sergeant Tanner was just acquainting me with the details of the Grimwood case.’

‘Was he?’

Tanner’s face suffused with blood. ‘You’re not the only Detective Sergeant on the force.’

Pilgrim ignored Tanner and turned to Dickens.

‘This is my niece, Frances.’

‘Delighted to meet you, my dear,’ said Dickens. He beamed at Frances.

‘She’s giving a description of a missing friend to Constable Wainwright,’ said Pilgrim. ‘He helps out on occasion in the mortuary, as an artist.’

‘An artist, eh?’ Dickens took the sketch of Martha Drewitt from Wainwright. It showed a young woman, a little too round cheeked and heavy browed for beauty, but with a graceful neck and an abundance of hair. ‘Is it a good likeness?’ he asked Frances.

‘If it ain’t, it ain’t my fault,’ muttered Wainwright. ‘I’m used to drawing from life, in a manner of speaking.’

‘The features are right,’ said Frances, ‘but it lacks Martha’s vitality.’

‘That’s something I ain’t had a lot of practice at,’ said the artist, glumly.

‘Even so,’ said Dickens, ‘this is excellent, most accomplished. But I’m afraid you artists will very soon be out of a job, if photography takes off the way people say it will.’

‘It’ll never happen, sir. Oh, that photography’s all very well for takin’ images of corpses, and suchlike, but it ain’t art. When it comes down to it, it’s not much more than a ruddy fairground trick … beg your pardon, Miss.’

Everyone fell silent.

‘The gloves,’ prompted Dickens, ‘you were going to show me the gloves, Sergeant Tanner.’

‘Yes, sir, of course. They’re right here in this drawer.’ Tanner took out a pair of opera gloves and showed them to Dickens. ‘See, they have letters inside them, a “T” and an “R”.’

‘So they do.’ Dickens took one and sniffed it. ‘Sulphur and rosin. These have been cleaned recently, if I’m not mistaken. You might want to continue your investigation with glove cleaners, Sergeant Tanner. I’d say there can’t be above eight or nine regular glove cleaners in the city.’

Pilgrim took the sketch, and steered Frances by the elbow towards the door. ‘Thank you, Wainwright.’

‘A pleasure, sir,’ said Wainwright, ‘and I’d appreciate the chance to take your likeness, Miss, if you’re ever back here. I’ll do it gratis.’

Frances nodded at him, and then at Dickens.

‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Dickens.

Pilgrim guided her out of the room, aware that the men’s eyes – even Dickens’s – were drawn to her backside under the tight skirt. As they passed, Pilgrim put his mouth close to Dolly’s ear. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Williamson.’

Pilgrim and Frances paused at the top of the main staircase, obliging other people to step around them.

‘You can reach me at Gloucester Street,’ she said.

‘I can’t promise anything.’

‘I’m only asking you to try.’ She started down the stairs.

‘Frannie,’ he stopped her. ‘I miss Bess too. I know it’s my fault …’

‘Yes,’ she cut across what he was going to say, ‘it is.’

He watched her make her way down the rest of the stairs, not taking his eyes from her graceful figure until it passed out of the main doors and melted into the crowds on the street.

Then he turned and headed to the reception desk.

‘I need the keys to the cells, Sergeant.’

‘Right you are, sir.’ Phelps stooped to get them from the hook under the counter, and sighed. ‘They ain’t here. If I’ve told those youngsters once, I’ve told them a hundred times – bring the keys back to me. One of the buggers will have them in his pocket. It’s a good thing I have a spare set.’ He disappeared into the cubbyhole that served as an office, and emerged a moment later with a heavy bunch of keys.

‘I’ll come with you if you don’t mind, sir. I’d better check the keys haven’t been left in one of the locks. I’ll have someone’s bleedin’ guts for garters.’ Phelps sailed through the barred doorway to the cells on a wave of indignation. Pilgrim followed. Phelps’ gaze swept the locks as they went down the corridor. When they reached Appler’s cell, however, he stopped, and his face took on a strange expression.

‘What?’ asked Pilgrim.

‘Is it Mr Appler you want to see, sir?’

Pilgrim nodded.

‘I think you’d best let me go first.’ Phelps unlocked the door, but before he could open it, Pilgrim moved him firmly out of the way.

Appler lay in the centre of the cell; face down in a pool of blood, one arm stretched above his head. There were great smears around his arms and legs, where he had thrashed about in the gore, and a cut-throat razor lay a few inches from his outflung hand. The blade was black and clotted.

When they had caught their breath, Pilgrim pulled Phelps back out into the corridor. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

‘The blood, sir. I could smell it. I spent long enough on the battlefields of Afghanistan to know it anywhere.’

Pilgrim swallowed. Somehow Phelps’ revelation that blood had its own scent was even more appalling than the carnage in the cell.

He cleared his throat. ‘You’d best fetch Inspector Field,’ he said, ‘but make sure Mr Dickens is off the premises first.’

Phelps shot away down the corridor, and Pilgrim went back into the cell. He looked around. There was a bowl of water on the chair beside a mirror, a shaving brush, and a towel. Prisoners were generally permitted to shave, unless they were considered a risk to either themselves or their gaolers. With Appler, there had been no reason to think either was the case. Pilgrim put a finger into the water in the bowl. Stone cold. As he wiped his finger on his shirt he noticed a crumpled ball of paper lying on the cot. He picked it up and smoothed it out, recognising the notepaper he had given to Appler. He had evidently started to list his movements on the days prior to his arrest, and had written a few lines – ‘5th February – Rose late. Paid a call on Bookmaker – P. Beddowes of Turk St at 11 o’clock’. But there was nothing else, save a single word scrawled across the page: ‘verloren’. Pilgrim knew no Dutch, but had a little German. He recognized the word: ‘lost’.

What had made Johannes Appler surrender to despair? Guilt? The realization that the evidence against him was overwhelming? Or the shame of having to face his parents? Whatever the reason, no one would know it now. Appler was lost indeed.

Pilgrim pushed the paper into his pocket.

He met Field and Phelps halfway down the corridor.

‘Has Dickens gone?’ asked Pilgrim.

‘I sent him packing.’ Field’s face was grim. ‘This is an ugly business, Harry.’

‘You haven’t seen the half of it yet. We need to find out who brought Appler the shaving bowl, and when.’

‘I can tell you that, sir,’ said Phelps. ‘Young Anderson was on slops duty. He must have taken it in about eight this morning. Can’t imagine why he never went back for it, though.’

‘Find out,’ snapped Field. ‘But play it close to your chest, for now. I don’t want everyone and his ruddy dog knowing.’

‘I hear your Hackney Killer has topped himself,’ said Tanner. ‘Good riddance.’

Pilgrim ignored the comment. There was no point asking Tanner how he knew. They had tried to remove Appler’s body and clean his cell as discreetly as possible, but policemen were incurable gossips. No doubt it was also common knowledge that Constable Anderson had been prevented from going back into the cell for the shaving bowl by a sudden attack of the flux. The delay had given Appler more than enough time to pluck up the courage to kill himself.

Tanner was alone in the office. There was no sign of Dolly, who had presumably taken himself off to the laundries with the vest. Pilgrim pushed his pile of fan mail aside to sit on his desk, and scrutinised Wainwright’s sketch of Martha Drewitt. It didn’t improve his mood. He glanced sideways at Tanner, who was trying to pick a lock on a small travelling valise covered with decorative luggage labels.

‘How is your investigation on Eliza Grimwood coming on?’ asked Pilgrim.

‘Well enough.’

Pilgrim got up from his desk, and took the lock pick from the other man. He opened the valise with a twist of his fingers. ‘Have you asked Ben Thompson at the Spreadeagle whether he saw her that night?’

‘Of course I have. Don’t try to teach me to suck eggs.’ Tanner looked into the valise. A collection of spoons and three goblets nestled in cotton wadding.

Pilgrim picked up one of the goblets, engraved with a heraldic design, and weighed it in his hand. ‘Silver,’ he said. He looked at the valise. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘Anderson found it on a stairway at the back of the Old Mint. Some fence’s stash, probably.’

‘Probably.’ Pilgrim tossed the goblet back into the valise, and handed Tanner the sketch of Martha Drewitt. ‘I have a girl missing from the Waterloo Road.’

‘So?’

‘Is it possible there’s a connection between her and Eliza Grimwood, or the killer?’

‘Possible, but not likely.’ Tanner faced him with a sneer. ‘What would you have me do; keep an eye on every slack cunny in the East End? The silly drabs go missing all the time.’ He thrust the sketch back at Pilgrim. ‘Tell you what, Sergeant Pilchem, why don’t you keep it? I know you have a soft spot for a trollop like that.’

Pilgrim punched him.