Читать книгу An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London - J. Durham J. - Страница 7

Pilgrim tucked into his breakfast: bloody pork chops and coddled eggs. Freshly shaved and wearing a suit, he was almost unrecognisable as the man who, less than five hours earlier, had apprehended the murderer who would be dubbed ‘The Hackney Cab Killer’ by the second editions of the newspapers. Pilgrim’s scarred face was shocking in the morning light; the skin of the lower half of his chin and neck as pitted as orange peel.

He sat apart from the younger, uniformed officers that also boarded at the barracks, letting their banter wash over and around him, like waves around a rock. The dining room was functionally furnished, with no comforts beyond the long scrubbed table and benches, and a motto painted on the wall: ‘Be sure your sin will find you out’. Pilgrim eyed it as he chewed. If only it were true, it would save him a world of trouble.

‘There you are, sir.’ Adolphus Williamson bounced over to sit beside him, carrying his own tray. Pilgrim smothered a smile. Dolly Williamson, with his smooth, scrubbed features and pink cheeks, looked exactly like the toy he was nicknamed after. Pilgrim knew that appearances were deceptive, however: beneath Dolly’s cherubic appearance lay a will of iron.

‘Sorry we were too late this morning to be of any assistance, sir.’ Dolly continued, taking up his knife and fork. ‘I said we should have come as we were, in our nightshirts, but Sergeant Tanner wouldn’t hear of it. Wish I’d been with you when you stopped that cab, sir.’

‘He didn’t put up much of a fight, if that’s any consolation.’

‘Not really.’ Dolly pulled a face, and bent to feed a ginger tomcat a piece of his own chop. ‘Any scrap’s better than none at all. What do we have on this morning?’

‘Whitehall, but I need to call in at the Chronicle first, to see if there are any rooms to rent.’

‘You’re moving out of the barracks?’ Dolly raised his eyebrows. ‘You can’t do that, sir, you’re a fixture here, just like old Thomas.’

Pilgrim studied the cat that glared back at him with its single remaining eye. He avoided it whenever he could, for it had the temperament of a Glaswegian stevedore.

‘Did you know the neighbours have been complaining about him?’ He said to Dolly. ‘Apparently he’s turned cannibal. He’s been eating their pet kitty cats. If I don’t get out of these barracks soon I might start to do the same.’

‘Nonsense.’ Dolly bent to stroke the cat, but his gaze remained on Pilgrim. ‘You’re an old softy, aren’t you?’

There were only five detectives in the new detective division of Scotland Yard – two sergeants and two constables – headed by Chief Inspector Charley Field. They all shared an office, apart from Field, but it was empty when Pilgrim and Dolly finally arrived, after a fruitless visit to the offices of the Chronicle.

The furnishings reflected the fact the division was newly created: all four desks and chairs were mismatched, gleaned from elsewhere in the force, and a sofa – strictly for visitors – borrowed from Customs and Excise. A map, divided into sections with thick blue ink, hung on the wall: Cross’s New Plan of London, published earlier that year. There was nothing else in the room to betray its function: no housebreakers’ tools, silverware, luggage, or other unclaimed stolen goods, no disturbing drawings of criminal physiognomy. To all intents and purposes it was indistinguishable from an office of shipping clerks. Pilgrim knew it was a source of disappointment to Charley Field, who would have liked something more dramatic to show visitors.

As Pilgrim took off his overcoat, Constable Wainwright lurched through the doorway, shouldering a large mail sack.

‘You’re here, sir!’ he gasped. ‘I have your monthly delivery for you, from Mr Dickens’s journal.’ Wainwright heaved the sack onto Pilgrim’s desk and upended it with a flourish. ‘It’s the biggest yet.’

Pilgrim scowled at the pile of letters. ‘Did you have to put them there?’

‘But they’re from well-wishers, sir.’

‘Well-wishers? People demanding that I find their missing cats, or jewellery. Or husbands. For some reason they believe everything Dickens writes about Sergeant Pilchem, but he has nothing to do with me.’

‘Go on with you, sir,’ said Dolly. ‘There’s no need to be modest. Everyone knows it’s you.’

Pilgrim scowled. ‘I wish the Inspector would stop encouraging Dickens.’

‘Hear bloody hear!’ The words were spoken by Dick Tanner, the other Detective Sergeant, who stood in the doorway. A powerfully built man in his thirties, he had a head like a bullet and hands made for heavy labour. He glowered at Wainwright. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ He tossed a file onto his desk.

Wainwright flushed. ‘To Household Words, sir. Inspector Field sent me.’

Tanner glared at the pile of mail on Pilgrim’s desk. ‘Waste of time, puffing up egos when there’s proper work to be done.’

‘Couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Pilgrim.

‘Egos that are big enough already, if you ask me.’

Pilgrim ignored the aside, and bent to retrieve some paperwork that had fallen from Tanner’s desk. It was a mortuary sketch of a young woman. ‘Did you do this, Wainwright?’ he asked.

‘Sir?’

‘This drawing; it’s very good.’

Dolly moved to stand behind Pilgrim to inspect the drawing for himself. Wainwright relaxed under their evident approval.

‘Inspector Field says I have a gift.’

‘He’s right,’ said Pilgrim.

The young woman in the drawing looked as if she could be asleep, her eyes closed, freckled face relaxed, and lips slightly parted. The gash across her throat had been cleaned of blood, and Wainwright had faithfully recorded each layer of skin and muscle, the seam of subcutaneous fat, and the section of vertebrae that was visible through the incision.

‘Who is she?’ asked Pilgrim.

Tanner took the drawing from him. ‘Another sorry slapper gone to meet her maker. Found on the floor of her lodgings on the Waterloo Road.’

‘What’s her name?’

Tanner didn’t reply. Pilgrim had to prompt him. ‘She did have a name?’

‘Eliza Grimwood.’

‘You got the killer?’

‘No one saw or heard anything.’

Dolly grinned. ‘Business as usual, then.’ He wandered to Pilgrim’s desk and picked up one of the letters. ‘Aren’t you going to open these, sir? I can give you a hand, if you like.’

Pilgrim was saved from having to answer by Wainwright.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Sergeant Pilgrim, sir, Inspector Field has asked to see you and Constable Williamson. Right away, he says. He’s getting his photograph taken at present, but says as you’re to go straight in.’

A flash greeted Pilgrim and Dolly as they entered Charley Field’s office. When their vision cleared, they could see the Inspector standing in the middle of the room, fists on his waist and legs akimbo.

‘Be with you in a minute, boys,’ he said. ‘You can’t hurry art, you know.’

A barrel-chested figure, in his early fifties, with a ruddy face and military air, he was generally a man of action, unable to stay still for more than a moment at a time. At that particular moment, however, he had no choice, for his head was gripped by a photographic brace.

The legs of the photographer were visible beneath the camera cover, as well as one arm, which was holding aloft a smoking tray. He emerged from under the cover, his hair sticking up in spikes.

‘I think we might have that last one.’ His tone spoke more of desperation than conviction, and his hands shook slightly as they replaced the plate in the back of the camera with a fresh one. ‘Now we’ll try a different pose.’ He released the springs holding Field’s head.

Field shook himself like a dog. ‘All done?’ he said. ‘Capital!’

‘But we … ’

‘Nonsense. I’m sure you’ve got what you need.’ Field grabbed the camera tripod. ‘Let me help you with your equipment.’

As the photographer rushed to rescue his camera, Field also scooped up the photographic plates. ‘These are yours, aren’t they? And this? We wouldn’t want you to forget anything.’ He bundled up plates, camera, vice, photographer and all, and practically threw them out into the corridor.

Closing the door on the confusion, he turned back into the room and signalled for Pilgrim and Dolly to take a seat.

‘Newfangled nonsense,’ he said. ‘Making people stand about like cattle. It’ll never catch on. Still, we have to keep the newspapers happy.’ He settled himself in the chair behind the desk, and turned his knowing gaze from Pilgrim to Dolly, and back again. ‘I have to say, you don’t look at all well, boys. I’ve seen more colour in gallows-meat. What you need is a spot of country air.’

Before they had a chance to respond, he jumped up, strode back to the door, and disappeared through it.

Dolly looked at Pilgrim. ‘What … ?’ he began.

But Field was already back, towing a bespectacled man in his wake. He pulled up another chair, and pushed the man into it.

‘This is Chief Constable Moxton. Head of the Essex Constabulary and an old friend of mine. He needs our help.’ Field turned to Moxton. ‘Now, George, tell my boys all about your problem. If anyone can help you, these two can. They’re the city’s best. Even Mr Charles Dickens will tell you so.’

Chief Constable Moxton’s eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘Quite a recommendation.’

Pilgrim sensed the barb beneath the words.

‘Indeed it is.’ Field swallowed it.

‘How can we help you, sir?’ asked Pilgrim. He nodded at Dolly to take out his notebook.

Moxton took off his spectacles and wiped them. ‘Last Friday morning, a little after noon, a large trunk was delivered to the Reverend Bonwell, of Great Barrow …’

‘Is that one ‘l’, sir, or two?’ cut in Dolly. ‘In Bonwell?’

Moxton turned his gaze on the constable, replaced his spectacles, and continued as if he had never spoken. ‘The trunk contained the body of a young boy, aged about four years old.’

Pilgrim felt Field’s gaze flash over him, but kept his own firmly on Moxton.

‘Our initial examination,’ continued Moxton, ‘showed that the boy died of unnatural causes.’

‘Did the Reverend know him?’ asked Pilgrim.

‘No. I have given Inspector Field all of our notes to date. Everything is in the file.’ Moxton stood up. ‘The investigation is in your hands now, Field. I wish you luck of it.’

Pilgrim and Dolly, taken by surprise at the brevity of the briefing, were slow to rise.

‘Adolphus,’ said Field, ‘would you be so good as to show the Chief Inspector out?’ He jumped up and pumped Moxton’s hand. ‘We will keep you abreast of developments here, George. You may count on it.’

Pilgrim and Field watched as Dolly followed Moxton out and closed the door behind them. Pilgrim turned to look at Field.

‘Sour old bastard,’ said Field.

Pilgrim sat down again. ‘So what’s the real story?’

Field went to the decanter and splashed some port into a glass. ‘Join me?’ he asked.

Pilgrim shook his head.

‘Sorry, I forgot.’ Field carried his drink back to his seat and propped his feet on the desk. ‘The Reverend Bonwell, in his wisdom, burned the wrappings on the parcel. But not before the housekeeper had noticed from where the carriage had been paid, God bless her soul. “Euston Square Station”. She said as much in her interview.’

‘Which made it a Metropolitan case.’

‘Exactly so. George wasn’t pleased. They don’t get many murders in Essex.’ Field looked at Pilgrim, his eyes sharp and serious. ‘I must be straight with you, Harry, I wasn’t sure if I should put you on the case.’

Pilgrim’s features smoothed. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

‘Don’t be disingenuous. The boy’s not much younger than … ’

‘I don’t have a problem with the case,’ cut in Pilgrim, ‘but the same can’t be said for Moxton. You’re making enemies, Charley.’

‘You can’t make custard without breaking eggs.’

‘Do you want me to keep Moxton abreast with developments?’

‘Do I hell! The old goat can roast as far as I’m concerned.’

Pilgrim stood. ‘Thank you for putting Adolphus on the case. It will help to have two pairs of eyes and ears at Great Barrow, and Dolly is sharp, even though he pretends not to be.’ Pilgrim smiled. ‘He reminds me of someone I used to know, years ago.’

‘The boy will go far.’ Field grinned and finished off his port.

Pilgrim nodded and made for the door.

Field stopped him. ‘I forgot to congratulate you on your arrest of Johannes Appler last night.’ At Pilgrim’s blank look he was forced to elaborate. ‘The man in the cab? Quite a task you left for the poor Desk Sergeant, with all those stinking packages to tag and record.’

‘You’ve interviewed Appler?’

‘Briefly. He claims he was transporting the packages for an acquaintance.’

Pilgrim frowned. ‘Of course, he would say that …’

‘But … ?’ Field eyed him. ‘I can sense a “but”.’

‘There was something about his expression, just before I hit him.’

‘Surprise, I should imagine!’

‘Something else too. Or, rather, something that wasn’t there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Fear of discovery.’

Field stared at Pilgrim for a moment, then shook his head. ‘You’re chasing shadows. We couldn’t have caught Appler more red-handed. However,’ he rubbed his nose, ‘if you’d like to speak to him yourself?’

Pilgrim nodded. ‘If you think it might help.’

The holding cells were on the ground floor. The Desk Sergeant, an ex-soldier by the name of Phelps, had charge of the keys.

‘Pity I was off shift last night, sir. I hear you had quite a time of it. Would you like me to come in there with you?’

‘No thank you, Sergeant, I can handle it.’

‘So you can, sir, so you can.’ Phelps handed the keys to Pilgrim with a gap-toothed grin.

When Pilgrim entered the cell Johannes Appler sat up on his cot. A sickly bruise spread from under the whiskers on his jawbone, right up to his cheek.

‘Do not come any closer.’ The young man gave Pilgrim a look of frank dislike. ‘In Amsterdam I would be charging you with brutality. And I would be permitted to have a lawyer present.’

‘You’re not in Amsterdam.’ Pilgrim drew up a stool, which was the only other piece of furniture in the cell. ‘Would you tell me how the packages came to be in your cab?’

Appler rubbed his eyes. Pilgrim realized that he had been crying, for all his apparent self-possession.

‘I have already told your Chief Inspector everything. He made notes. What is the point in my repeating it? All I seem to do is to incriminate myself further.’

‘You say you didn’t kill this girl.’

‘I certainly did not.’

‘The surest way to prove that is to help us catch the real killer.’ Pilgrim persisted. ‘Tell me about the packages.’

Appler sighed. ‘I agreed to take them to the East India Dock. To repay a debt.’

‘To whom?’

‘I do not know his name.’

Pilgrim lifted an eyebrow.

‘I know it does not look good. I met the man at a gambling club on the Brompton Road, and lost a sum of money to him. He agreed to write off the debt if I took a delivery to the Docks.’

‘He brought them to your house?’

Appler nodded. ‘Yesterday afternoon. And told me to expect a cab at midnight.’

‘What did you think was in the packages?’

Appler shrugged. ‘I did not consider it my business.’

‘Weren’t you at all suspicious? Couldn’t you smell them?’ Pilgrim hadn’t been aware of the stink himself, but it had been much complained about when he had brought them into the station.

‘I have a head cold.’ Appler took a handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose extravagantly, as if to emphasize the truth of it. He sighed. ‘I guessed the delivery was dishonest in some way. But I chose to … how do you say … turn an unseeing eye? The debt was considerable.’ He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘I swore to myself that I would not gamble again, that once I had repaid the debt I would go back to Amsterdam.’

‘You’ve given a description of the man to the Chief Inspector?’

‘He was a young man, but there was nothing about him that stood out.’ He hesitated. ‘I do not think he was British.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He had an accent.’

‘French? German? American?’

Appler shrugged. ‘It is hard for me, een Nederlandse, to say.’

Pilgrim gave him a pen and a sheet of paper. ‘Write down anything else you can remember. Anything at all. And make a note of all your engagements on the day of your arrest and the four days previous to it.’

As Pilgrim went to the door of the cell, Appler stood up.

‘My parents,’ he said. ‘They do not know I have been arrested. They live in Amsterdam, in the Pijlsteeg.’

‘Write down the address and I’ll telegraph them.’

Appler stopped him before he went out of the door.

‘Could you please try to be as tactful as possible? They are simple, God-fearing people.’