“You,” he grunted.
Treacher gave a nod of greeting. “Inspector Treacher, Bow Street.”
“Filth, eh?” Hardacre could barely disguise his contempt. “Well, you looked the sort. I was told this place was clear.”
Even in the low light afforded by the lamp, Hardacre could tell Treacher was smiling.
“The small boy with the red hair?” he chuckled, “I don’t know what you promised him, Hardacre, but it wasn’t enough.”
So, young Thomas Crowley was a snitch. He’d pay, thought Hardacre. No matter if they hanged him, he had ways of punishing those who let him down. Isambard Fogg had found that to his cost, and so one day would Thomas Crowley.
“And what’ll you do with me now, filth?”
Inspector Edmund Treacher reached forward to take the lantern from Hardacre’s great hands. Lifting it high, he peered into the gang master’s fearsome face.
“Well now,” he said. “That’s rather up to you, isn’t it?”
The journey back to Scotland Yard found Bowman in a disconsolate mood. As the wide boulevards of St John’s Wood gave way to the meandering alleyways of Mayfair and Victoria, Bowman stared from the cab at the blur of the outside world. He let his mind wander over the last few minutes of his interview with Doctor Henderson.
“Are you certain?” the inspector had asked ridiculously, regretting it almost as soon as the words had left his mouth.
“That I don’t have a daughter?” Henderson had replied, his steel blue eyes barely concealing his amusement at the question. “As certain as any man can be.”
Bowman had squirmed awkwardly in his seat.
“But, Mrs Bessom - ” he had begun.
“A drunkard, Inspector Bowman,” Henderson had concluded by way of explanation. “And nothing more.” He had sighed in an expression of weary resignation. “Dismissal was my only option. I should imagine that this is some ill-advised attempt at revenge.”
In the pregnant pause that had followed, Bowman felt Henderson’s eyes boring into his head. The ticking of the infernal clock on the mantel grew ever louder. Eventually, Bowman had found his voice again.
“I am very sorry,” he had offered.
Doctor Henderson, he could tell now, had enjoyed Bowman’s discomfort as he called Pollard to show him to the front door.
“Not at all, inspector. I can only apologise that I can’t be of further assistance. Now, if you would excuse me, I have the good fortune to be a very busy man.”
Pollard had seen him out with a look even haughtier than that which he had used to welcome him. Now, as his cab passed through Constitution Hill, Bowman could only hope that Doctor Henderson was not the sort to speak directly to the press or, as no doubt a man with connections in high places, the sort to file an official complaint with Scotland Yard. Bowman’s mind ran through the morning’s events again and again. He had slipped up badly, that much was clear, but there was something that troubled him more. As he had been shown from Doctor Henderson’s residence, he was sure he had heard something from an upstairs room. Something that had sounded for all the world to Bowman like a woman crying. At the edge of the park, Bowman ordered the driver to bring the cab to a halt. He alighted to continue his journey on foot, making good use of the fresh January air to clear his thoughts.
Sergeant Williams had had no compunction about throwing Hardacre in the darkest, dampest cell beneath Bow Street police station. With nothing but a bench and a bucket for company, Hardacre had stood motionless as Williams sat watching from a stool beyond the bars. A single lamp on the table beside him was the only light source in the gloom. Williams was writing in a notebook with a small pencil attached with string. Keeping his eyes cast down, he could almost sense Hardacre’s shoulders rising and falling slowly beneath his great coat in his cell. As Williams wrote, a low growl began deep in Hardacre’s throat and then, in full cry, he turned and threw himself at the cell door. Gripping the bars like a caged bear, he threw his whole weight against them and roared in frustration. Great beads of spit flew from his mouth.
“What’s the charge, filth?” he snarled, shaking the door on its hinges for good measure. “You can’t hold me without a charge. That much I know.”
Williams declined to look up from his work and replied with an affected and well-practised nonchalance. “I’m compiling a list that will be presented to you in good time.” He continued scratching at his notepad.
“A list?” With a final rattle of the bars, Hardacre turned back into his cell, kicking the empty slops bucket in his rage.
With a sigh, Williams put down his pencil and stood to stretch his legs. “In the three weeks Inspector Treacher was a part of your company Hardacre, he heard gossip enough to compile a list of charges as long as the Devil’s arm.”
Hardacre still had his back to him. “You’d rely on the words of villains and gypsies?” he rasped, “You can’t hang a man on gossip alone, filth.” With that, he spat on the filthy straw at his feet.
“Isambard Fogg will be enough.” Williams leaned against the wall near Hardacre’s cell. He was wise enough to keep out of reach, but positioned himself close enough to gauge the gang master’s reactions. “He died in that very cell across the way. If you care to look, you may still see his blood on the straw.”
Hardacre turned with a sneer of disdain. “Fogg?” He gave a hollow laugh. “Vermin! You might as well charge me for stepping on a rat in the alley.”
“Then there’s the matter of a woman’s head found yesterday in the Thames,” continued Williams in measured tones. “Inspector Bowman suspects one of your acquaintance and no doubt believes, as I do, that you had a hand in it, too.” With a studied indifference, Williams sauntered back to his stool, picked up his pencil and continued his work. “All in all, I think you’ll find we’ve got enough to be going on with.”
Hardacre launched himself at the door again, his great paw swiping ineffectually for the sergeant on his stool. With a final, angry push at the bars, he turned once more and sat on the up-turned bucket in his cell. Minutes passed in silence until, once he was sure Williams’ attention was on his work, Hardacre slowly fingered a jewel set into a ring on his finger. With a barely discernible flick, the jewel was removed to reveal a tiny white pill beneath. With a strange smile playing over his lips, Hardacre tipped the pill into his other hand. Slowly, silently and unobtrusively, he raised it to his mouth.
XIV
A Chink In His Armour
The brief walk having done nothing to clear his mind after all, Inspector Bowman was in no better mood as he passed under the arch at the entrance to Scotland Yard and climbed the steps to the door. As usual, the lobby was a hive of activity. Police sergeants and constables struggled to contain their charges or walked briskly this way and that to deliver evidence and paperwork to one of a seemingly endless number of offices. Bowman nodded in acknowledgment as he caught the eye of one or two other inspectors he knew, and made his way to the front desk. Women and men of uncertain professions and abodes sat on benches that lined the walls. In one corner, Bowman could see a drunkard rolling about the tiled floor, moaning in his delirium. As his footsteps echoed about the cavernous space, his eye caught that of a fresh-faced young lady dressed in black. She was taller than average, slim-waisted and elegantly poised. Her head was inclined slightly in an expression of friendly interest, and Bowman couldn’t help but return a smile.
“Good afternoon, Inspector Bowman.”
The voice belonged to Matthews, the young duty sergeant who stood behind his desk like a sentry at his post. His hair was parted neatly in the middle and plastered down with pomade upon his head. He was clean-shaven and Bowman noticed the buttons on his uniform seemed to shine just that little bit brighter than any others in the room.
“Matthews, were you on duty here this morning?” Bowman leaned his elbow on Matthews’ desk.
“Yes sir, since five o’clock, sir. And a brisk morning it’s been, too.” Matthews nodded down to his logbook that
Bowman could see included many fresh entries for the day.
“Do you remember sending a Mrs Patricia Bessom to my office?”
Tracing down a column of entries with his finger, Matthews located the name the inspector had given him. “Ah yes, Mrs Bessom. Large lady. I do indeed remember sir, at five and twenty past nine to be precise. It’s all down here.”
Bowman strained to read the entry upside down. “Including her address?”
Matthews swallowed a little uncomfortably. “She declined to leave it with me, sir. To be honest she seemed a little nervous, and I didn’t like to press her for it.”
Bowman let his elbow drop. “Well, you should have.” The duty sergeant held his gaze. “In future, Matthews, I want full particulars to be taken before anyone has access to my office.”
“That’s not standard procedure, sir,” blustered Matthews.
“Hang procedure!” The note in Bowman’s voice was enough to silence the room, and Matthews was suddenly aware that all eyes were upon them. Even the drunk in the corner was now giving Bowman his full attention. The detective inspector swallowed hard. The thought occurred to him that there were many in the room who may have heard of his incarceration at Colney Hatch. How far along the ranks had the rumour spread? Did Matthews know? Accusatory eyes glared across the room. There was insinuation in every look. Bowman felt his hand begin to quiver involuntarily. He held it in the fist of his other hand, squeezing it hard. The young sergeant shuffled nervously from foot to foot behind his desk.
“I’m sorry, Matthews,” Bowman offered. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“It’s not I who should be embarrassed by such behaviour, sir.” Matthews had regained his composure quickly and turned his attention back to his log book, a gesture that was intended to put an end to the affair.
Looking around him, Inspector Bowman again caught sight of the young lady in black, now sitting on a bench beneath a large, barred window which gave out onto the busy street beyond. Almost instinctively, he removed his hat to smooth down his hair.
“Matthews?”
“Yes, sir?” Matthews declined to raise his nose from the book.
“Who is the young lady beneath the window? With the umbrella?”
Reluctantly, Matthews followed Bowman’s gaze across the room. The young lady, now very much aware that she was the focus of attention, looked demurely away. The officious duty sergeant made a point of consulting the book on his desk before replying.
“A Miss Elizabeth Morley sir,” he replied. “She’s the daughter of the garrotting on the South Bank yesterday. Come to claim some belongings from Sergeant Graves.” At last, he raised his eyes to Bowman. “I neglected to get her address.”
Bowman offered him a conciliatory look. “No matter, Matthews. Thank you.”
Matthews returned to his business with an almost indiscernible smile as Bowman crossed the room. As he neared the woman on the bench, she raised her eyes to meet his and he slowed his step. The smile that played across her delicate features seemed to light the room, or at least the corner in which she sat. She raised her eyebrows expectantly as the inspector approached. Bowman resisted the urge to clear his throat.
“Miss Morley? May I be of assistance?”
Elizabeth Morley stood and smoothed her dress about her.
“Sergeant Graves?” she enquired.
“I am Detective Inspector Bowman. I’m afraid my colleague is busy on other duties.”
Elizabeth flashed another smile, and Bowman could swear she looked him up and down.
“Then, Detective Inspector Bowman, you will have to do.”
Inspector Treacher examined the paper before him. Torn from Williams’ notepad, it included a very thorough list of charges that might be brought against the man in cell number nine.
“Very good, Sergeant Williams.”
Williams drew deep on his pipe, the smoke hanging lazily in the cold as he acknowledged the inspector’s praise.
Treacher looked up. “The magistrate will be pleased at this.”
His Welsh accent becoming more pronounced in his excitement, the sergeant placed a heavy hand on Treacher’s shoulder. “There’s enough work here to keep him busy until the next New Year.” A broad smile spread across his wide, pock-marked face.
“There is that,” Treacher beamed in satisfaction.
“And more besides if we can find the evidence.”
Treacher nodded, his eyes twinkling knowingly. “There’s always evidence, sergeant. It’s just a question of looking - ”
Treacher broke off as the sound of a heavy thump came from Hardacre’s cell. As he spun round on his heels, Treacher stuffed the paper into his pocket. A stifled cry reached his ears and he shared a startled look with Sergeant Williams. Motioning him to unlock the door, Treacher manhandled the sergeant closer to the cell, following directly behind him, lantern in hand. Williams fumbled for the keys on his belt and quickly unlocked the door.
“Careful now,” Treacher cautioned, holding the lantern higher to help illuminate the scene. “Easy does it, Williams.”
The sergeant was inside now, and approached Hardacre’s prone body with care. He had seemingly fallen where had sat, brooding on his upturned bucket. He was lying, sprawled on the floor at Williams’ feet with not a sound coming from him.
“Hardacre?” he entreated. “We’ve got your number, Hardacre. If you’re trying something - ”
Williams knelt slowly to shake the man gently by the shoulders. When there came no response, he shook harder, eventually rocking him with such force that Hardacre rolled over onto his back. His heavy arms came to rest ungainly by his side.
“Is he - ” Treacher hardly had time to finish before Williams had placed his head on Hardacre’s chest, listening for any signs of life. His exasperation rising, he held one lifeless hand by the wrist to feel for a pulse then placed an ear at the prone man’s mouth. Nothing. Letting Hardacre’s hand fall lifeless to the floor, Williams stood and rubbed his hand across his face. He turned to Treacher who stood motionless by the door, a look of bemusement across his face.
“This is turning into one of those weeks,” he said.
The properties room at Scotland Yard was tucked away at the back of the building. Inspector Bowman led Elizabeth Morley through the maze of corridors, slowing his pace to let her keep up. After some small talk concerning the weather, an easy silence fell between them as they walked. Bowman fumbled for the key in his pocket and swung the door open for Elizabeth. She gave a gasp at the sight that greeted her, and involuntarily put her hand to her throat in what Bowman considered a most beguiling gesture. The room was filled, from floor to ceiling, with sturdy wooden shelves arranged so as to make cramped walkways up and down its length. Each shelf groaned with wooden boxes, trays and cartons and these in turn were full to their brims with documents and personal effects. As Bowman led her through this warren of wood, Elizabeth noticed that each shelf was tagged alphabetically. Furthermore, every box or tray was marked with smaller labels giving tantalising details as to what might lay within. As she passed, she craned her neck to read a few; ‘Anderson, W, Theft in Knightsbridge’, ‘Chelsea Nov 14th, Goods Recovered’, ‘Chesterton, B, Personal Effects’. Elizabeth caught her breath again.
“But this is awful!” she exclaimed.
Inspector Bowman was fetching a ladder from a corner. “I beg your pardon, miss?”
“Do each of these boxes represent a death? A murder like my father’s?” Elizabeth looked around her, wide eyed.
“This is where we store lost property,” Bowman informed her as he set his ladder at a particular shelf. “Recovered goods from stolen hauls and, yes, clothing and properties of the unfortunate deceased.”
Quite unexpectedly, Elizabeth gave a little laugh. “The unfortunate deceased?” She lifted her hand to her throat again, but this time in a gesture of mock distress. “How grim.”
Bowman had seen such odd behaviour before. He had often noticed how, under circu
mstances such as this, the mind sought refuge in frivolity. Once, he had delivered the news of a young boy’s accidental death to his mother. Quite unexpectedly, she had not broken down into tears as Bowman would have expected, but rocked back on her chair and laughed. Her reaction had seemed an indication of guilt to the young Inspector Bowman. He soon realised that, rather than confront harsh reality, the poor woman’s mind had instead decided to treat the whole thing as a joke; a jape dreamed up by her husband as a tease. Even at the funeral she wore a knowing grin, as if she were in on the charade and sure that her son would present himself at any moment. He would have to tread carefully with Miss Elizabeth Morley.
“Miss Morley,” he began quietly, “Have you seen your father?”
Elizabeth looked him squarely in the eye, a look of puzzlement on her face. “Of course. I identified the body at the scene.”
Bowman paused. “Then you will know that he did not die a peaceful death.”
Elizabeth cocked her head. “But he is at rest now.” Heeding Bowman’s expression, she laid a hand upon his arm. “You are concerned for me, I can tell, inspector. You no doubt find my manner somewhat frivolous.”
Bowman could feel his temperature rising beneath his collar. “I know that grief can manifest itself - ”
“Grief?” Elizabeth interjected. “Piffle! Why grieve for a man in Paradise?” She withdrew her hand now and wagged her finger at Bowman in admonishment. “No. If I grieve at all I do so for myself.” She broke Bowman’s gaze and looked away, suddenly tearful. “For having lost so wonderful a father.”
“I am sorry,” Bowman began as Elizabeth reached into her sleeve for a plain, cotton handkerchief. “Please forgive my impertinence.”
Elizabeth dismissed the remark with a wave of her hand. “Death is all around us, inspector,” she sniffed through her handkerchief. “You, above all others, should know that.” Bowman’s heart quickened. Was she alluding to Anna? Elizabeth Morley was clearly a woman of the world and most certainly a keen follower of the news. Bowman’s story had been expounded upon in great detail by the newspapers at the time. If she had read it, Bowman was certain she would remember it. Having calmed herself, Elizabeth let a smile play over her lips. “Father lived life to the full, and died a quick death. There is little to grieve in that.”
The Head in the Ice Page 12
