Читать книгу An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London - J. Durham J. - Страница 8

The journey to Great Barrow was as slow and unpleasant a trip as was possible, considering it was no more than forty miles and the weather mild. But a cow on the line at Brentwood, and the fact that Great Barrow itself wasn’t within walking distance of Chelmsford, made it well past noon when Pilgrim and Dolly climbed down from the pony and trap in front of the Great Barrow Police Station. It was a neatly kept building with flowers in a tub outside. Inside, the well-swept reception hall was empty and silent. No police officers. No lawyers. No sheepish-looking thieves or carousing drunks. No sign of life at all, in fact, except for a moth-eaten gun dog sleeping by the counter that didn’t even lift its head as Pilgrim strode to the desk and rang the bell. There was a scuffle on the other side of the door, and it opened to reveal a uniformed Desk Sergeant, with the stiffest, most extravagant handlebar moustache the detectives had ever seen. Dolly stifled an exclamation of awe.

‘Sergeant Pilgrim and Constable Williamson,’ said Pilgrim. ‘We’re here on the Bonwell case.’

‘Aye, you’re expected. Thought you’d be here sooner.’

He came out from behind the desk, stepped over the dog, and headed out of the door.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Pilgrim.

‘You’ll be wanting to see the lad’s body, won’t you?’

They followed him along the main street, which was thick with mud, dodging a pair of geese that cut across their path, and into a ramshackle coaching inn that occupied the corner. With its red pantiled roof and mullioned windows the inn looked idyllic, but the impression was quickly dispelled by the interior. The corridor was dark, low, and smoky, carrying the sounds of eating and drinking from the main taproom. The whiskered sergeant led them away from the noise, towards a stout door at the other end of the passage. He stopped outside it and gave Pilgrim a key.

‘He’s in here,’ he said.

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

The sergeant had the grace to look sheepish. ‘The guv’nor wouldn’t have him at the station. “No room” he said. He twisted old Frobisher’s arm, that’s the landlord, to keep him here.’

Pilgrim caught Dolly’s eye as he took the key.

‘You’ll bring it back when you’re done?’ asked the sergeant.

Pilgrim nodded, and he stomped away along the passage.

The door opened into a small airless room, obviously a storeroom of some kind, with a high barred window and stone floor. It was cool, but not cool enough. Dolly clapped his hand to his nose. On the table lay a shape, covered with a sheet.

‘I can’t believe they put him in here,’ said Dolly. ‘Can you really not smell him, sir?’

‘No. You can leave him to me, if you like.’

Dolly shook his head. ‘No point me being here if I don’t help, is there?’

Pilgrim drew back the cover on the table. The boy who had been delivered to the Reverend Bonwell lay underneath it, his eyes open. He was dressed in a smock and a spotted neckerchief, with a straw hat resting on his chest. With his wispy hair and round cheeks still unaffected by death, he was obviously little more than a baby. Younger, certainly, than Moxton’s estimate. Pilgrim’s guess was no more than three years old.

‘Help me undress him,’ he said.

They started at the bottom. Dolly unlaced the thick-soled shoes and inspected them, one at a time, while Pilgrim peeled off the stockings to look at each of the boy’s feet in turn. He turned the small feet gently in his hand. They were rimed with dirt but otherwise unmarked, without blisters or calluses. The flesh was spongy under his fingers, well past the stages of rigor mortis and bloat, and into active decay, which meant the boy had been dead for quite a few days. But not, thought Pilgrim, as long as a week.

He passed the stockings to Dolly, and moved on to the hands. He inspected the fingers one by one, scraping the dirt from under the fingernails and peering at it. There was nothing out of the ordinary: no blood, or any tissue. He turned his attention to the stockings and shoes, noting the darns on the stockings, and the worn soles of the shoes.

‘You’re going to have to help me with this, sir.’

Together they eased the boy’s coarse smock over his head.

‘There’s our cause of death,’ muttered Dolly.

Black and yellow bruises ringed the boy’s throat, obscene against the white skin. Pilgrim brushed his fingers against them.

Dolly investigated the smock minutely, while Pilgrim removed the boy’s vest and drawers.

Pilgrim looked down at the corpse, naked on the table, and felt reality slip. For an instant he was no longer standing in the storeroom of the inn, but a sparse living room with a fireplace. The boy laid out on the table was bigger, the limbs just starting to stretch into childhood proper, his head not fair, but a mop of brown. Pilgrim could see every hair etched clearly, every freckle on the skin. The features were so familiar, so sharp, he could reach out and touch them. The vision was merciless in its detail, robbing him of breath.

He glanced at Dolly, but the constable was oblivious, engrossed in his examination of the smock. As Pilgrim reached for the vest, he noticed his hand was shaking. He stilled it by sheer force of will. This was not the time for sentimentality. He stared at the vest for a moment without really seeing it. Then he peered closer. ‘That’ll do,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Laundry mark.’ Pilgrim showed Dolly a faded symbol, drawn in ink on the seam.

‘Looks like an “F”,’ he opined.

‘We’ll keep this.’ Pilgrim was gripping the vest so hard his knuckles were white. ‘And the neckerchief. Let’s finish here, and find somewhere to wash up. We have to pay our respects to the clergy.’

In the fading afternoon light St Margaret’s rectory looked like a child’s drawing; four-square and perfectly symmetrical, with five windows to the front and a big black door.

Pilgrim pulled on the doorbell for a third time, and glanced at Dolly, who was sniffing the lapel of his jacket.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘I still smell, sir. We both do.’

‘Can’t be helped now.’

The door opened.

‘Yes?’ An old woman with skin like a lizard peered at them.

‘Detective Sergeant Pilgrim and Detective Constable Williamson, to see the Reverend Bonwell.’

‘You’d better come in.’ She ushered them through the hallway into a parlour, without taking their coats. ‘I’ll tell the Reverend you’re here.’

‘And Mrs Bonwell, if you please,’ said Pilgrim.

She threw them another dark look, then went out and closed the door behind her.

‘Anyone would think we were after the silver,’ muttered Dolly. He took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs.

After a glance around the room, Pilgrim strolled to a side table crammed with photographs. They showed stiffly dressed, hatchet-faced, people in formal poses. It was difficult to imagine a less amiable group of people. He picked up one – a family grouping. The Reverend, identifiable by his collar, was seated in the centre, with a woman, presumably Mrs Bonwell, standing behind him. They were flanked by two children: girls of about five and three. Pilgrim studied the photograph more closely. There was something odd about it. The children were not quite to scale, either with their parents or each other, and their figures were paler, their features blurred. The effect was disturbing, ghostly.

He spotted a large family bible, and was about to open it when he heard footsteps approaching the door.

‘Follow me,’ snapped the housekeeper.

Her eyes narrowed as she saw the bible in Pilgrim’s hand. He replaced it on the table and followed her.

They were met in the study by the Reverend and his wife, positioned exactly as they had been in the photograph: the Reverend seated and Mrs Bonwell standing behind him. Bonwell had a lantern jaw and thick black hair. He met Pilgrim’s gaze directly, unlike his wife, who stared down at the carpet. Pilgrim and Dolly took the seats indicated by the housekeeper – two chairs directly in front of the Reverend. As Dolly pulled out his notebook he couldn’t resist another sniff of his jacket.

‘I understand you are from the constabulary.’ The Reverend Bonwell had a deep voice, suited to sermonising.

‘We are from the Metropolitan Police, sir. As you know, the trunk was sent from Euston Square Station.’ Pilgrim turned to the woman. ‘Mrs Bonwell took delivery of it, I understand?’

‘She did,’ said the Reverend.

‘Can you describe the wrappings, madam? Or the label?’

‘I would be grateful if you could address your questions to me,’ said the Reverend. ‘My wife’s nerves are not strong. As I have already said, at some length, to the other police constables, I myself removed the paper from the package. There was nothing remarkable about it.’

‘And the handwriting on the label?’

‘Unremarkable.’

‘I understand you threw the label away? Did you not think it might have provided valuable evidence?’

‘My wife disposed of it. She has many qualities, but the ability to think like a policeman is thankfully not one of them.’

Mrs Bonwell flushed, and pulled her sleeves over her bitten fingernails.

Pilgrim considered her. ‘Do you know anyone in London?’ he asked.

‘No one at all,’ replied the Reverend.

Mrs Bonwell swallowed so hard that Pilgrim could see the movement of her Adam’s apple above her collar.

‘Perhaps, Mrs Bonwell, you have friends or family …’

‘My wife has no family: none living. Address your questions to me.’

Pilgrim obliged. ‘You really have no idea why someone might have sent the boy to you?’

‘My dear Constable … ’

‘Detective Sergeant,’ corrected Pilgrim.

‘My dear Detective Sergeant, how can I possibly begin to imagine what goes on in the mind of such a person? The criminal classes are so far below me, both in understanding and sensibility that I am at a loss when dealing with them. A complete loss. But of course, a man such as yourself, a police constable … ’

Pilgrim flushed. ‘A man like myself, a Detective Sergeant, finds it hard to believe that someone completely unconnected to you would send the boy for no reason at all.’

‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’

Pilgrim curled his lip.

If the Reverend was aware of his disdain, he gave no sign. He smiled and rose. ‘If that is all? I was about to go out. Parish business, you understand. I really cannot help you further.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Why I should be the target of such an outrage is a mystery.’

Pilgrim and Dolly nodded to Mrs Bonwell and followed the Reverend into the hallway, where the housekeeper helped the Reverend into his coat and opened the door.

‘Good day to you.’

The detectives followed the Reverend out, and watched him stride off down the lane.

Dolly flipped open his notebook and sighed at the still blank page. ‘Well that was time well spent.’

‘I think so.’ Pilgrim tugged his hat back on, his expression serene. ‘We need the boy on the same train as us. You might have to grease the Station Master’s palm to make sure of it.’

‘But … ’

‘I can’t do it,’ said Pilgrim. ‘I’ve lost my pocketbook.’

Dolly managed to secure a berth in the luggage carriage of the train, although he was obliged to be economical with the truth when it came to the actual contents of the large packing case he stowed there. He made sure all the straps were secure, and the lid well nailed down, before making his way to the First Class passenger carriage.

Pilgrim glanced at him over the top of his Evening Chronicle as he entered. A steward was lighting the gas lamps, bouncing buttery light off polished wood and brass. The train guard on the platform blew his whistle, and the steward went out, leaving the detectives alone.

‘I’ve never travelled First Class before,’ said Dolly. The whistle blew again, and the train gave a jolt as it began to move. Dolly reached into his pocket. ‘Before I forget, sir, I’ve been meaning to give you this.’ He handed Pilgrim a piece of paper. ‘My cousin is taking in lodgers. She’s a widow. Very respectable. And she lives in Holborn, so it’s only a hop and a skip to Whitehall.’

‘Your cousin?’

‘Mrs Charlotte Piper.’

‘Thank you.’ Pilgrim put the paper in his pocket without looking at it, and passed the Chronicle to Dolly.

Dolly opened the newspaper, and gasped.

‘Will you look at that! It’s the Chief Inspector! This must be the piece Mr Dickens was writing.’ Sure enough, Charley Field straddled the page like a colossus, under a headline that bellowed ‘New Detective Force Foils Hackney Cab Killer.’ ‘Shall I read it to you, sir?’ Without waiting for an answer, Dolly cleared his throat and began to read.

The mutilated body of a human being, stated to be that of an adult female, was discovered in a Hackney carriage on Saturday night in the West End of the City. The shocking circumstances were outlined to this journalist by none other than our very own Detective Chief Inspector Field:

‘On Saturday night Detective Sergeant Henry Pilgrim, of the Metropolitan Force had reason to stop and search a four-wheeled cab leaving residential premises on the east side of Curzon Street. The vehicle contained only a single passenger, and a number of parcels. When Sergeant Pilgrim respectfully requested the man to reveal the contents of the parcels, the smallest was found to contain the decomposed head of a woman. The remaining parcels, which were larger, had in them the trunk of a woman, apparently about 20 years of age, and two arms and legs. The murderer has given his name to the police as Johannes Hendrik Appler, 26, residing at 14 Bolton Street. He is charged with having in his possession the mutilated body of an adult female, at present unknown, which has been unlawfully killed by him. The mutilated remains were removed by the police and handed over to the coroner’s office. They are now lying in St Bartholomew’s Mortuary.’

This deed of unprovoked savagery on behalf of Mr Appler that would scarcely be effected by a bestial horde of Red Indians, or the Maoris of New Zealand, is abhorrent in an age as civilized as ours. How inconceivable then, that such a crime could be carried out in the heart of our own comfortable Metropolis, and how reassuring that we may now rely upon that most admirable Instrument of Justice, our new Detective Police Force.

When he reached the end, Dolly grinned at Pilgrim. ‘That’s grand. You’re famous, sir. Properly famous. Mr Dickens has used your real name this time, not Sergeant Pilchem, like he does in the Journal.’

Pilgrim stared out of the window, but could only see the blur of his own reflection.

Dolly frowned. ‘Don’t you like Mr Dickens? He’s much admired, generally.’

Pilgrim sighed. ‘I have nothing against him. As a novelist. But I do take issue when he starts mixing fiction with fact.’ Pilgrim paused. ‘What if, for the sake of argument, our Hackney Cab Killer isn’t?’

‘Sir?’

‘What if we have the wrong man?’

‘But … ’

‘Appler claims he was transporting the packages for an acquaintance. Someone he owed money to.’

‘Cock and bull. He’s just trying to wriggle out of the noose.’

‘But what if he’s telling the truth? What if the letter Dickens passed on to us was from someone trying to frame Appler? Appler hasn’t gone to trial yet, his jury hasn’t been chosen. But now, thanks to Mr Dickens, he’s as good as hanged.’

Dolly subsided onto his seat, the newspaper forgotten.

‘Dickens has it wrong, Dolly. We’re not an Instrument of Justice – that’s up to the judges. It’s our job to discover the truth, to discover what is hidden, and drag it into the light. Nothing more.’ Pilgrim sighed. ‘God knows that can be hard enough, without help from novelists.’