The Head in the Ice

by Richard James

  His patience was rewarded with a pulling back of the curtain at the doorway as Hardacre threw what looked to be a bundle of bloodied rags to the floor by the brazier. Upon closer inspection, Treacher saw that it was Fogg, and he was not in a good way. Blood was caked on his skull and hair, his face was bloated and bruised. His eye sockets shone black and his jaw and nose were crooked. As Treacher leaned closer, he could see Fogg’s chest rising and falling with shallow, desperate breaths but no sound at all escaped his open mouth.

  “Will someone take this bag of bones and dump it in the Thames!”

  Hardacre’s voice was enough to rouse Hobbs from his sleep. He opened a lazy eye, annoyed at the interruption. “Aye,” he mumbled as he shifted to a more comfortable position. “Throw him in the Thames, along with the other turds.” With that, he fell again into his slumber with a lazy cackle. Jabez Kane, his mind filled with opium-fuelled fantasies, stared unseeing at his companion, but even he in his addled state allowed an uneven smile to spread across his face. Fogg had got his just deserts, that was all.

  As Hardacre lumbered back into his room to gather Fogg’s spoils from the floor, Treacher sprung into action. He carefully wrapped Fogg’s shattered body as best he could in the few oily blankets he could find on the floor around him, then lifted him up and over a shoulder. Steadying himself against a sooty wall, Treacher carefully picked his way across the room with his load then, pulling the makeshift door away from its frame, stepped gratefully out into the cold, bright glare of the morning sun.

  The passing crowds on Blackfriars Road seemed unconcerned at the sight of Treacher and his grisly load slipping in the mire that had started to accumulate on the side of the road. Had Hardacre been watching, he would have seen Treacher step out onto the highway but then, instead of turning right to Upper Ground and the Thames embankment where he had been instructed to throw Fogg, turning left towards Stamford Street. It had never been Treacher’s intention to follow Hardacre’s orders. Such insubordination would have ordinarily led to a severe beating at the gang master’s hand but, in this instance, it didn’t matter. Treacher had no intention of facing Hardacre and his gang again. At least, not alone. He quickened his gait as he got within striking distance of his final destination. The crowds were pressing against him as he cut into the side streets and made his way through Paris Garden and Meymott Street onto Waterloo Road. The busiest thoroughfare this side of the river, it was a throng of carts and carriages. Stalls had been set beside the road selling everything from flowers to fish. The scents which greeted Treacher’s nostrils swung between the exotic and the repugnant. Twice he was pushed into the road by the shoulder of a careless passer by, and had to steady himself and adjust his load before continuing, just turning away in time from an oncoming dray about its business. Omnibuses clattered past, painted brightly in their company livery, bells ringing. The horses kicked dirt and sludge into Treacher’s path but he set his face into a mask of grim determination. With Fogg’s body seeming to gain in weight with every step, he was glad to reach the corner of Mepham Street and York Road. He raised his eyes to read the sign above the building before him; “Waterloo Station”.

  Surrounded by slums and ramshackle stalls, the terminal’s many entrances were an indication of the haphazard nature of the station within. Around the Central Station from which departing trains left the city southwards, were a network of platforms given incongruous names; the Cyprus Station for suburban lines and the Khartoum Station for services to Windsor and the west. Each station had its own ticket office and concourse, and these were home to as disparate a collection of London life as any visitor was likely to see. Beggars and vagrants took their chances with the hoi polloi of London society, bankers from the suburbs spilled out from the platforms, traders sold food of uncertain origin and quality and, everywhere, the air was thick with the cries and shouts of a thousand people. The screech of a whistle would periodically announce the arrival of another service. The acrid smell of steam hung in the cavernous space beneath the roof. It was into this cacophony that Treacher stepped, his already ruddy face red from the effort of his journey. Despite the cold, beads of sweat stood out on his brow as he paused to undo the buttons on his ragged coat. Stopping beneath the great clock at the station’s heart, he lowered Fogg’s body from his shoulder and laid him gently on the ground. As he did so, he heard a sound escape from Fogg’s blood-caked lips, the first such noise he had made since his beating. “Don’t worry, Fogg,” Treacher breathed in his ear, “You’re quite safe now.” Reaching into his waistcoat, Treacher’s fingers sought out a hidden pocket. Pulling out a silver whistle, he held it to his lips and blew, long and loud.

  The effect in the station was immediate. Even in the hubbub of the concourse, the shrill, piercing whistle could be heard from one side of the station to the other. Passers by broke their stride, twisting their heads to look around and discover the source of the noise. Stray dogs pricked up their ears, whining in reply. A mess of startled pigeons made for the roof. Treacher let the whistle drop. Through the stillness came the sound of running feet as two young constables approached, smart in their uniform; top hat and tails. Treacher fumbled for his papers; official documents which denoted his position in the Metropolitan Police Force.

  “Inspector Edmund Treacher,” he said by way of introduction.

  The taller, fresher faced of the two men nodded in response. “Constable Baker,” he said, “This is Constable Roache.” Treacher noticed that Roache, who looked the older of the two, was out of breath.

  “Constable Baker, help me carry this man to a hansom, and Roache, tell Sergeant Williams to meet me at Bow Street in one hour. I’ve no doubt you’ll find him lunching at the Criterion. See if you can tear him away.”

  With a curt nod, Constable Roache turned on his heels and ran back to the main entrance of the station, mopping his brow with his sleeve. As Constable Baker bent over to help lift Fogg, Treacher lent over again to whisper in his ear. “It’s all right son, we’ll soon have you shipshape.” Fogg murmured something in response, his eyes opening briefly to blink in the light. “What was that?” Treacher put his ear closer to Fogg’s mouth, the better to hear his response. Propping himself up painfully on one elbow, Isambard Fogg pushed his face closer to the inspector’s, his mouth set in an expression of resolve. With a great, rattling breath, Fogg drew upon all his remaining strength to deliver his response, and spat squarely in Treacher’s face. Chuckling painfully to himself, his head rolled back as he sunk once more into oblivion.

  VI

  A Deal With The Devil

  In the time that Bowman and Graves had eaten their lunch, the sky had turned. Grey clouds that had lain brooding on the horizon now advanced across the expanse of blue, plunging the city into a sudden gloom. With a subtle rise in the temperature the softest snow had begun to melt and, as they stepped from The Silver Cross Inn, the two men found themselves walking in a cold, slushy mess. Inspector Bowman had sat aghast for the previous half an hour, watching as Graves devoured his steak and kidney pie almost whole. His appetite, it seemed, had been quite unaffected by the events in the Charing Cross laboratory.

  “Not eating, sir?” Graves had enquired through a mouthful of pastry.

  Bowman had looked down at his own bowl of rustic pie and pushed it away, reaching for his tankard to take a draft of ale.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then, do you mind?” Not waiting for a reply, Graves had reached over to Bowman’s bowl and pulled it towards him. Bowman had waved his assent and watched as Graves scraped the last of his food onto his own plate. He frequently envied Graves’ ability to wander through life untouched by the horrors around him. He had a childlike exuberance for his work quite at odds with Bowman’s more measured approach. Bowman’s brows were knotted into their usual, deep frown as he thought over the morning’s events and considered how best to proceed. Wiping the porter from his moustache, Bowman turned to Graves as he embarked upon his second pie.

  “
It’s about time we made this investigation official, Graves. Could I charge you with a visit to the commissioner after your pie? If you wouldn’t mind turning your attention to the paperwork, I’d be grateful.”

  Bowman had noticed the disappointment in Graves’ eyes, but his colleague recovered quickly enough.

  “Of course,” he had spluttered. “I suppose someone’s got to do it. What are your plans for the case?”

  “We need to identify the young lady as a matter of urgency.”

  Graves had washed a particularly stubborn piece of gristle down with a swig from his ale, then wiped his mouth with the back of his coat sleeve. “At least Doctor Crane was of some help. The eyes will be the clincher, I’m sure.”

  “I’d also like you to check the inventory for the last three days, see who we’ve had banged up since the twenty-ninth. Might as well start discounting everyone we can. You’ll need to get onto Bow Street, too.”

  “Will do,” the young sergeant had replied, cheerily. He would rather have been out and about with Inspector Bowman, but at least an afternoon in the office at Scotland Yard meant he would be warm. “And what about you?”

  Bowman had stared down into his tankard, swilling the dregs of his porter as he thought. “I’m off to make a deal with the Devil”.

  After settling up the bill, the two men had gone their separate ways, Bowman turning up his collar as he turned right onto The Strand, Graves whistling gaily as he made his way back towards Northumberland Avenue and the imposing building that was Scotland Yard. The streets were a mess. The passing of successive cartwheels had served to stir the snow and ice in with the dirt and manure of the road. Several times, Bowman’s coat was splattered with mushy detritus by a passing cab, the driver neither knowing nor caring that he was the cause of the inspector’s muttered oaths. The lamps burned again in the half-light. Ahead of him, Bowman could see the lamplighters at work on their ladders, igniting the gas in the lanterns with their tapers. It was barely past noon, but already the daylight was retreating fast. Bowman glanced up at the glowering clouds as he arrived at his destination. Stepping off the main road and knocking the sludge off his shoes by the door, Inspector Bowman pushed open the door to the offices of the London Evening Standard, and stepped warily inside.

  Jack Watkins was a ferret of a man. Tall, thin, with a long, bewhiskered face and a fine head of red hair, he sat at his desk tapping out a rhythm on his typewriter. The stump of a cigar was clamped tight in his teeth. If he had noticed that it was periodically dropping ash onto his waistcoat as he smoked, Watkins certainly showed no sign of caring. His fingertips and trim moustache were stained a sickly yellow, the legacy of a lifetime as a smoker. His office was on the second floor, and his window afforded a fine view of the comings and goings on The Strand below. Around the room, shelves groaned with books, atlases and newspapers. Not an inch of space was left unadorned. Tables and maps lined the walls and even the floor was strewn with books. Watkins sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves. A single lamp burned next to him and this, together with the fire burning in the grate behind him, was sufficient to light the room. He had barked a sharp “Come!” at Bowman’s knock, and now the inspector stood, awaiting an audience with the editor of the city’s most influential daily newspaper. His patience wearing thin, Bowman tore a page from his notebook and slid it over the desk into Watkins’ field of vision.

  “Watkins, I’d like this in The Standard tonight.” Bowman stood awaiting an answer, toying with his hat in his hands. He knew the game Watkins was playing, and wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of rising to the bait. The editor of The Evening Standard didn’t even raise his eyes, indeed he gave no indication of even being aware of Bowman’s presence in the room, but carried on mechanically tapping at his typewriter. His cigar tip glowed a fierce orange as he took another draw. Bowman fought back the urge to cough as he was enveloped in the choking smoke. Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he saw that it was stained an unhealthy, brownish-yellow colour and he couldn’t help but wonder at the state of the editor’s lungs. He had seen enough dead bodies opened up to know the damage wrought by many things considered harmless, tobacco chief among them. For this very reason, Bowman had forsworn tobacco with the zeal of an evangelist, but couldn’t help coming into contact with it in the course of his professional duties. Sensing that Watkins was content to play his game for as long as it pleased him, Bowman tried a different tack.

  “It is a matter of urgency and great importance. I thought it warranted an expert hand.” His remark had the desired effect. At once, Watkins stopped typing, his lean, yellow fingers poised in the air above the keys as if he had been captured in a photographic portrait.

  “Flattery is a useful device, is it not Inspector Bowman?” Taking the cigar from his teeth, he crushed it in an already overflowing ashtray upon his desk and held the note under the lamp, the better to read its contents. “A woman in the Thames?” Watkins’ eyebrows rose almost comically upon his forehead as he read the details of the case or, at least, those details that Inspector Bowman was willing to divulge at this moment. “And you want me to run this this evening, you say?” Bowman gave a shallow nod. Watkins, knowing all the cards were in his hands, threw himself back in his chair and crossed his feet nonchalantly on his desk. There were other chairs in his office, but not once during the course of the interview would he offer Inspector Bowman a seat. This too, was all part of his game. He sucked air in through his teeth as he contemplated Bowman’s request. “It won’t be easy. We go to press at four o’clock.”

  Bowman’s thin lips rose into a wry smirk that almost passed for a smile. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he said in a measured tone.

  Watkins swung his legs back down from their elevated position and, pushing his chair back from the desk, got up and walked to the window. He stood staring at the street below, his hands clasped behind his back like a general inspecting the field of battle. “Look at them, inspector. Hundreds upon thousands of them pass my window every week.”

  Bowman stood his ground. If the price to be paid for Watkins’ cooperation was to be held a veritable hostage and lectured to for a while, then so be it.

  “They’re vulnerable,” continued Watkins. “All of them. They unwittingly place themselves in harm’s way at every step. Pickpockets, murderers, rapists and thieves may pass among them quite unnoticed, until they strike. Then they cry out as one, “Who will protect us? Where were the police? How can these dreadful things happen?” No one understands, you see, what Scotland Yard actually does.” He turned back into the room. “Forgive me, inspector, but to a lot of people on that street, you and your Metropolitan Police Force are an irrelevance. If only they understood.”

  Bowman held his nerve. He was beginning to realise where Watkins was heading.

  “If only they could see you work,” continued Watkins, warming to his theme. “They would understand that you are their servants, dedicated to keeping them safe. If they knew the nature of your duties, how you toil in their interests, I am certain you would win their respect. Each and every one of them would look at you, Inspector Bowman, and your men in a new light.”

  Bowman looked pointedly at the clock on the wall and cleared his throat. “Watkins, what exactly are you suggesting?”

  Sure that he had Bowman in his sights, Watkins walked back from the window to sit again in his studded leather chair. Resting his elbows on the desk, he turned his eyes to meet the inspector’s in an unblinking gaze.

  “Let me in, Inspector Bowman. Let The Evening Standard be the people’s eyes and ears in the Force. Let me follow your investigation into this woman in the Thames from the inside, and I’ll make sure that Scotland Yard is given the chance to shine.”

  “What use is that to Scotland Yard?” asked Bowman, his features set into an attitude of quiet defiance. Watkins took another cigar from a box at his side and struck a match. Puffing vigorously at the cigar as he lit it, he quickly filled the air with its pungent smoke.

  “
I realise you’re in a difficult position.” Watkins blew on the match to extinguish the flame. “You are the public’s servant and their master. You must both police them and answer to them; a difficult line to tread. Here is an opportunity to show them how you tread that line. How you spend their money wisely in upholding the law of the land. An opportunity to show them you are professionals, not amateurs, and that you are far from irrelevant.”

  Now it was Bowman’s turn to pause. A lot of what Watkins had said was true. The public was still loath to trust the fledgling police force, many considering them a drain on public resources. Bowman had heard the word “amateur” levelled at him and his fellow officers many times before. Perhaps Watkins was right. Perhaps Scotland Yard should take the lead, show the public what they do. Justify themselves.