The Head in the Ice

by Richard James

  “No, sir!” Graves held him tight about the shoulders, but Bowman struggled against him. He had to help her. “It’s too late!” Graves breathed in his ear. And Bowman knew it would always be too late. The bullet he had fired could never be recalled.

  He was falling. He woke with a start. His heart thumped against his chest and he felt blood in his palms where he had clenched his fists too tight. Fighting his erratic breath, Bowman rose from his chair. With an almighty effort of will, he forced himself into the here and now. It was not a place he cared to be. It held nothing for him now. Falling against the mantle, Bowman took a hold of the portrait that stood there. Anna smiled from the picture, her almond eyes seeking those of her husband beyond the glass. His fingers traced the outline of her hair as it tumbled across her shoulders. He noticed a tremor in his hand. With a deep, shattering sigh, Bowman replaced the frame on the mantle and shuffled his way to an empty, fitful bed.

  XI

  An Identification

  Scotland Yard was impressive. Solid and inscrutable, the newly completed red brick building stood, fortress-like, on the north bank of the Thames. The louring sky reflected in its windows afforded it a forbidding air as Mrs Bessom pulled up outside in a hansom cab. Craning her neck through the window, she allowed her eyes to be drawn up to the full height of the building where tall, square chimneys stood to attention on the roof.

  She stepped gingerly from the footplate, placing each foot in turn carefully on the slippery kerb. Steadying herself against the woodwork of the cab, she turned to give her fare to the driver, tipping as handsomely as her modest wages would allow. The morning was overcast and, although the city had been spared any more falls of snow, the roads and pavements were treacherous. What ice there was had been churned into a brown, slippery mess. Looking around her, Mrs Bessom saw that the blanket of fog that had covered the city like a shroud the night before had condensed out of the air. It lay on the fences and lampposts in a watery skein. The river behind her was in the midst of a thaw. The channel running through its middle now flowed with some force. It grew wider with every passing hour as the ice retreated. As the day progressed, Mrs Bessom had no doubt there would be floods somewhere. Making her way down a side street to the main entrance, she could not but be impressed by the imposing solidity of the building. Half way up, the grey brick course gave way to a brighter red that stood out in cheery relief against the melting drifts of snow that lay in the shadier corners.

  The head had been discovered not two hundred yards beneath him. It was an irony not lost on Inspector Bowman as he gazed from the window in his office over the Thames below. It felt to Bowman that the head was taunting him, mocking. He realised the importance of solving such a high profile crime, both to his reputation and to that of the fledgling Metropolitan Police Force. He knew the morning papers were already full of the news, courtesy of Jack Watkins and his ilk, but he also knew this was an opportunity for Scotland Yard to prove itself. As he absently smoothed his moustache with his fingers, he mused upon Sir Richard Mayne’s statement. “The primary object of an efficient police is the prevention of crime. The next, that of detection and punishment.” He had singularly failed upon the first point. The unfortunate woman had fallen victim to one of the most heinous crimes Bowman could remember. He shuddered to imagine what sort of character the perpetrator might posses. If he had failed upon the first point however, Bowman was determined to succeed upon the second. The offender must be detected and punished. Preferably in as public a manner as possible. As he turned from the window to sit at his desk, there was a knock at the door.

  “Enter,” Bowman barked.

  The heavy door swung open with a creak to admit Sergeant Graves. Bowman could tell at a glance that Graves had none of his usual chirpiness about him. Bowman gestured to the chair opposite and the young man sat with a heavy sigh.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Graves,” Bowman offered.

  Graves lifted the hat from his head. Bowman noticed he knocked the moisture from its brim with perhaps more force than was necessary. “No sir, it is not a good morning. I have just spent an hour with Sergeant Williams from Bow Street trying to offer such solace as I could to a distraught young lady.”

  Bowman couldn’t help but feel Graves’ discomfort. The young sergeant usually took events in his stride, sometimes eerily so, but this morning’s business had taken a heavy toll. Graves toyed with the hat in his hands, turning it this way and that in his state of agitation.

  “One who has just heard,” he continued, “that her fiancée has been murdered in the course of performing his duty as a constable.”

  The words hit Bowman hard. He rose from his seat and made his way to the window, his back to Graves so his face might not be seen. As his hand fell to his side, however, he was suddenly aware that the tremor had returned. Bowman gripped his hand with the other to try and disguise the motion, but still his suspicions were roused that Graves had noticed. As he turned back into the room, the young sergeant averted his gaze just a little too quickly. Bowman slipped his shaking hand into a pocket, willing it to be still.

  “Constable Evan was to be married?” he asked, barely audible.

  Graves took a breath. “He was. To a Miss Jane Carmichael. A sweeter creature I have yet to meet. We tried to offer the lady such comfort as we could but – ” His voice trailed off and his eyes rested on the desk, immobile. Sensing Graves’ distress, Bowman turned.

  “I’m sure you acquitted yourselves admirably, Sergeant Graves. It’s a nasty business, of that there is no doubt.”

  Graves was drawn out of himself at the remark. “Me and some of the lads are talking of a fund, Inspector Bowman. To help provide for Miss Carmichael.”

  The men were interrupted in their thoughts by a further knock at the door. At Bowman’s command it opened to admit a rather large lady, clad in layers of fur and wool as protection against the bitter cold. Her face flushed with the effort of climbing so many stairs, she pulled her gloves from her hands and surveyed the room. Even through her exertions, she could tell that she had somehow come upon a sombre scene. The wood panelled room seemed heavy with grief and she wondered for a moment just what conversation she had interrupted. Her keen eye sized up the two men before her; the taller one wearing a coat, slumped in a chair, toying nervously with a hat, the other by the window, a heavy moustache accentuating a doleful expression.

  “Inspector Bowman?” she enquired.

  “And this is Sergeant Anthony Graves.” The man at the window gestured to the seated figure with an open hand. “Can we be of assistance?”

  Graves sprang to his feet, almost glad of the interruption. Offering his chair to the lady, he found himself the recipient of several scarves, gloves and a hat as she sat, composing herself. Reaching into her bag, she pulled a copy of The Evening Standard from its depths and placed it on the table, smoothing the paper with something approaching careful ceremony. Bowman could see a tear rise at her eye as she began.

  “I know her, sir. The girl they found in the river.”

  Graves flicked his eyes to Bowman as he acknowledged the remark. “You know her?”

  “Yes, sir. Her name is Mary Henderson.”

  Bowman moved to the lady to console her. “Please, Mrs - ”

  “Mrs Patricia Bessom, sir.”

  “Would you have a brandy, Mrs Bessom?”

  Mrs Bessom looked between the two men. “Thank you, inspector. I can’t pretend I don’t need it.”

  As Bowman continued, Graves moved to the ornate bureau beneath Bowman’s map of London and poured a small brandy from a glass decanter.

  “You’re certain you know the girl, Mrs Bessom?” Bowman sat himself on the corner of his desk.

  Mrs Bessom took the glass gratefully from Sergeant Graves and took small sips of brandy. The effect was to firstly fortify her against the cold that still clung about her, and secondly to calm her ragged nerves.

  “As certain as I can be from the picture and the description.” Placin
g the glass on the table in front of her, she leaned forward and peered over her spectacles, the better to read the pertinent passage. ““Most remarkable are the poor woman’s eyes which are of different colours; one blue, the other brown.” It cannot be anyone else.”

  At a look from Bowman, Sergeant Graves took a notebook from his pocket and proceeded to scratch at it with the stub of a pencil.

  “A Miss Mary Henderson, you say?”

  Mrs Bessom nodded as she folded the newspaper in front of her. The likeness staring out from the front page had unnerved her.

  “How did you know her?” continued Bowman. “Was she family?”

  “No, inspector, not family.” Mrs Bessom’s lip began to quiver at the thought. “Though she might well have been.”

  Mrs Bessom had kept her grief in check the whole morning but now, in the company of these two men, it somehow overcame her. The tears sprang readily from her eyes as, reaching into a pocket of her dress for a handkerchief, she surrendered to her sorrow.

  “Oh sir,” she continued, lifting her spectacles from her nose to wipe her eyes, “I knew her from a little girl.” She paused to compose herself.

  “I’m sorry Mrs Bessom, but I’m afraid I must press you.”

  With a deep breath of resolve, Mrs Bessom began again. “I am a housekeeper by trade, and have been for over thirty years, thirteen of them with the Henderson family at St John’s Wood.”

  From the corner of his eye, Bowman could see Sergeant Graves making careful note of the salient facts, his brows knitted in concentration.

  “Mary is,” Mrs Bessom stopped to correct herself, “Was their only child. The father was a doctor, a rather austere man who, in my opinion, paid rather more attention to his patients than his own daughter. Her mother was the quiet type, fragile you might say.”

  Bowman nodded in understanding. “You were in their employment for thirteen years, you say?”

  “Almost to the day. I began my work there on Mary’s third birthday and I left just a few days short of her sixteenth.”

  Graves looked up from his notepad. “When was that?”

  “Some four years ago, Sergeant Graves.”

  Graves looked to the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration there. “Then Mary would now be twenty years old.” He looked to Bowman. “That tallies with Doctor Crane’s estimate.”

  Bowman let that sink in. This was beginning to look like a very positive identification. For the first time in his professional life, Bowman found himself thanking the heavens for Jack Watkins. “Where might the Henderson family be now?” he asked.

  Calm at last, Mrs Bessom pushed the handkerchief back into the folds of her dress. “To my knowledge sir, they live in the same house to this day. The doctor has a surgery there.”

  Before Bowman could respond, there came the noise of approaching heavy feet outside his office. In a moment more, as a shutter might fly open in the face of a great wind, so Bowman’s door was flung aside to admit a force of nature no less unpredictable. The unexpected visitor tore the pipe from his mouth and bellowed into the room.

  “Grab your coat and waders, Bowman!”

  Bowman moved to quieten the man. “Inspector Hicks, what on - ”

  Ignatius Hicks thrust his great bearded chin at the inspector, using his pipe to punctuate his words as he spoke. “The Thames has just delivered us more of its secrets.” With a flick of his eyes, Bowman drew Inspector Hicks’ attention to the lady in the chair, a flicker of his heavy brows cautioning him to not disclose too much.

  Bowman continued, carefully. “Where?”

  With a smile, Hicks paused. More than loving an audience, he loved playing an audience. His innate sense of drama told him he had the attention of everyone in the room, and he relished the moment. “Chelsea Embankment,” he boomed with a flourish of his pipe, each word carefully enunciated and separated by a pregnant pause such as an actor would use at the theatre. Hicks clamped his pipe back in his teeth in triumph and set his mouth in a wide, self-satisfied smile.

  Bowman turned to the lady in the chair. “Mrs Bessom, would you excuse me? I should like to take that address from you in a moment.” Mrs Bessom nodded her assent and began to gather the newspaper from the desk. Bowman turned on his heel, suddenly galvanised into action. “Sergeant Graves could you please accompany the inspector to Chelsea and prevent him from jumping to too many conclusions?”

  With a knowing look, Graves jammed his hat back on his head. He functioned best when he was being of practical use and, after this morning’s solemn duties, clearly relished the prospect of being back in the fray. Bowman stopped the two men at the door as they bustled from the office.

  “And Inspector Hicks?”

  The mountain of man that was Ignatius Hicks turned slowly in the doorframe.

  “The next time you find a closed door between us, would you do me the courtesy of knocking on it first?” Hicks let a puff of noxious smoke escape his lips by way of a reply. Bowman blinked furiously against the effects of the fug and rather pointedly cleared his throat. “Sergeant Graves, take whatever you find to Doctor Crane at Charing Cross. I should like a report from you in two hours.”

  With a sharp nod of assent, Graves bundled Inspector Hicks through the door, closing it behind him with a rolling of his eyes. Bowman took a breath to clear his lungs, then turned back into the room to face a bemused Mrs Bessom.

  “Now, Mrs Bessom,” he said, walking again to his side of the desk. “The address, if you please.”

  XII

  Complications

  The passage leading to Jeb Hardacre’s squalid slum was no less imposing by day than by night. The road was strewn with rags and paper, some of which may have concealed a sleeping urchin or two, and was crowded on both sides by tall tenements. The damp walls rose high enough to block the sun from view such that, even on the hottest day, they dripped with rivulets of water. The greasy brickwork crumbled to the touch and unknown moulds competed for space on the mortar. Other than the rats that ran between the piles of human detritus that littered the pavements, at this early hour there were no signs of life in the alley. The streets beyond were awakening to another day. The cries of the sellers and hawkers echoed through the streets and plumes of smoke and steam rose into the sky as the factories and mills heaved into life.

  At the entrance to the alley stood a squat, hooded figure, scanning the rooftops as if in anticipation of some new arrival. Sure enough, there, standing out in sharp relief against the pale morning sun, a spectre appeared. Moving stealthily between the chimneys, jumping now and then between the gutters, the apparition seemed to flutter in the wind as it made its way with well-practiced movements to the alley below. Shinning down a drainpipe, it finally coalesced into the figure of a small, red haired boy, short for his age and dressed in rags. His face was grimy with soot and his hands and nails were calloused and gnarled. The hooded man turned to acknowledge him, slowly removing his cowl to reveal the nut-brown, bewhiskered face of Jeb Hardacre. Hardacre caught the young boy in his steely gaze.

  “So?” he asked.

  The boy shook his head. “Nuffink, Mr ’Ardacre.”

  Hardacre took a step forward and, for the first time, the boy could see he was hiding something under the folds of his ragged cape.

  “Nothing? You’re sure?”

  “As sure as I’m standin’ ’ere, sir. It’s all clear. I stayed for a while and saw nuffink untoward.”

  Reaching into his pockets, Hardacre swung his cape aside and revealed a cudgel tied to his belt. Straining in the early morning light, the boy could plainly see it was stained with blood and hair. He swallowed hard. Hardacre was not a man to be crossed, he knew that. He had done his job well, but still he shuddered to think how things might have gone had it been otherwise.

  Pulling his hand from a pocket, Hardacre tousled the boy’s hair playfully with the other. “Thomas Crowley, you’re a wily one and no mistake. And as you’ve done right by me, so I will do right by you.” Hardacre opened hi
s fist to reveal a shiny, silver coin.

  “Wh-what is it?” stammered young Tom Crowley, his eyes wide with wonder.

  “The most valuable coin in the world,” Hardacre chuckled. “A Dutch guilder, boy. From Holland.” Hardacre knew it was as good as worthless on the streets of London, but it looked pretty enough as he turned it in his fingers. “Go on, boy. Take it.”

  Gingerly, the boy reached out to take his prize. In all his little life, Thomas Crowley had never yet reached into the jaws of a crocodile, nor put his hand into the lion’s maw but, as he snatched the coin from Hardacre’s hand, he fancied he had a taste of a danger just as keen. He looked up into the wide, brown face that hovered menacingly above him. “Will you take me there one day, sir? To ’Olland?”

  Hardacre squatted on his haunches and stared long and hard into the boy’s enquiring eyes. Such innocence, he thought.

  “That I will, son. That I will.” Hardacre flicked his eyes up to the roofs, a signal that Tom knew well. His audience was at an end. With a curt nod and something approaching a salute, the boy turned on his heels and leapt with feline grace to the drainpipe, the gutter and finally to the chimneys above. “If you live that long,” Hardacre added with a macabre chuckle. The boy picked his way with certainty, almost dancing along the tiles and balustrades. He moved with a confidence that could only belong to a citizen of another, higher world. Hardacre watched him go then stood and turned back down the alley. Kicking the filth at his feet and swinging the cudgel at his belt almost playfully, he made his way back to his den that, thanks to the boy, he knew to be unguarded.