The Head in the Ice

by Richard James

  “Very good, Graves,” said Bowman above the din, “You obviously have a talent in - ” he searched for the word. “Performing.”

  “Why thank you, sir,” the young sergeant beamed, oblivious to any hint of cynicism in Bowman’s tone. “I try my best!”

  As he sat, the two men were joined by Harris the landlord. Graves was delighted to see he carried another pair of tankards, each full to the brim with the inn’s distinctive brew. Harris had been the landlord at The Silver Cross for over thirty years, and his very skin seemed stained with the place. His leathery face might have been made from dried tobacco leaves, his hair hung lank to his shoulders.

  “These are on the house, sergeant,” he said, placing the tankards on the table before them. “Business is never better than when there is entertainment.”

  Graves’ smile grew ever wider and he turned to the crowd behind him. “I’ll drink to that!” he cried, to cheers from his grateful audience.

  Bowman eyed his second jar with caution. He was never one to drink more than was seemly, and felt another pint might be one too far. As he was about to make his excuses and leave, the two men were joined by another visitor to their table. She was rather more comely than the last, and placed a hand on Sergeant Graves’ shoulder.

  “Hello, deary. What a performance you gave us tonight. Very professional, I’d say.” Her eyes flicked across the table to Bowman. “And I see you’ve brought a friend.” The woman glided across to Bowman’s shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you too,” she purred. “What d’you think of our star pianist?”

  As she leaned flirtatiously to Bowman’s ear she afforded the inspector a glimpse of her ample cleavage. Bowman was not convinced it was entirely accidental. The inspector took the opportunity to look at her in more detail.

  As she moved into the pool of light cast from the lamp on the wall, flashing him a knowing smile, it was clear she was not as young as she had first appeared. In the hazy half-gloom of the saloon, she had presented herself as a young lady, smooth-skinned and elegant. In a closer light, however, it was apparent that she was closer to fifty than thirty, that her mouth had once enjoyed more teeth and that her skin had been the victim of one too many encounters with the pox. A heavy, sickly perfume hung about her in an almost visible haze, but this did nothing to mask the faintly musty aroma of her clothes.

  “I think he has excelled himself,” Bowman finally agreed, making a mental note to never visit this establishment in the evening again.

  To Graves’ evident amusement, their guest had pushed her way onto Bowman’s bench beside him and the inspector now found himself the subject of many a wink and a nudge from those at the bar. As Bowman considered his next move, Harris appeared again at the tableside.

  “Annie,” he began, “I think you’d better move along.” He took the woman gently by the elbow, attempting to steer her away to a more appropriate area of the room. “This is Inspector Bowman.”

  The introduction certainly had an effect on Annie, but perhaps not the one Harris had intended. She turned, eyes wide, to regard the inspector again. “Bowman? So, you’re looking into this woman in the Thames, ain’t ya?”

  Annie’s question pulled Bowman up short, and even Sergeant Graves stopped mid-sip to hold his tankard suspended in the air. The two men shared a look.

  “I read about it in the paper. Or rather, I had it read to me.” She gave a cackle.

  “Come on, Annie,” Harris tried one more time. “Let’s leave the gentlemen in peace.”

  “It’s all right Harris,” said Bowman amiably. There was something about Annie’s manner that seemed suddenly serious. Bowman was keen to know what she had to say, however it might look to the men at the bar. “What of it?” he asked of her.

  “She was one of us, deary.” Annie shook herself free of Harris’ grasp. After taking a moment to assess the situation, the old landlord decided he had other, more pressing duties to perform and moved away, leaving Inspector Bowman with an apologetic look.

  “One of us?” Bowman ventured, though her meaning was clear enough.

  “You still wet behind the ears? She plied her trade with the rest of us. Catch my meanin’?” Annie stood with her arms crossed in front of her.

  “Did you know her?” asked Graves, tentatively.

  Annie slid onto the bench next to the sergeant, this time giving Inspector Bowman cause to raise a wry smile at Graves’ predicament. “Well, that depends on what you’ve got in that there pocket for me.”

  To Graves’ evident alarm, Annie reached over to pat his trouser pockets. Graves squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “I beg your pardon?” he spluttered.

  “Don’t worry deary, I’m not on duty any more than you are. I only meant that a little payment might refresh my memory.”

  Bowman could barely contain his amusement as the young sergeant rolled his eyes to the ceiling. In spite of himself, the inspector was suddenly beginning to enjoy his evening. Graves pulled a coin from his pocket and held it up before him.

  “So, how can you be sure you knew her?” he asked Annie. Whilst he was well aware of the import of the conversation, Graves was also relishing the playing of the game.

  Annie snatched the coin from Graves’ fingers and put it quickly in a purse secreted in her stocking tops. It took all Graves’ self control not to stare. “Saw her picture in the paper, didn’t I?”

  Bowman leaned forward on his elbows. “And you’re saying that she was a - ” he fumbled awkwardly.

  “Go on, say it love. I’m not ashamed.”

  Sergeant Graves came to his companion’s rescue with a cheery smile. “You’re saying she was a prostitute?” he asked, a touch too loud for Bowman’s sensibilities.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. One of Hardacre’s girls, like me.” Bowman and Graves shared a look at the mention of the name.

  “Hardacre?” Bowman repeated for clarification, “Jeb Hardacre?”

  “Our lord and master,” sneered Annie, her voice loaded with sarcasm, “He who must be obeyed. She was one of his, and had been for a good three years.” As the two men took the news in, Annie reached for Graves’ tankard and took a long draft. “Such a shame, she was a lovely girl.”

  “And her name?” asked Graves, “Do you know her name?” He felt the thrill of an imminent discovery course through him. Casting a nervous glance across the table, he could tell from his expression that Bowman felt the same.

  “O’course I know her name,” Annie replied as if it were the most ridiculous question she had ever been asked, although Bowman guessed she had been asked far stranger in the course of her work. “Only me memory’s fadin’,” she added mischievously. “What was it now?”

  Shaking his head but secretly harbouring an admiration for her tactics, Graves presented her with another coin from his pocket.

  “Yes, we’re almost there,” said Annie as she weighed the coin in her hand. “It’s becoming a little clearer.”

  With a sigh, Sergeant Graves stood to empty the contents of his pockets onto the table and motioned that Bowman should do the same. Soon, there was a small pile of currency on the table, from which Annie took her pick.

  “Do you never give anything for nothing?” asked Graves.

  Annie flashed him a knowing smile. “Sorry, love. It’s just not in my nature.”

  Her reward collected from the table, Annie closed her eyes as if deep in thought. Bowman was now enjoying her performance much more than he had previously enjoyed Sergeant Graves’ at the piano, although he would never have admitted as much to his companion. Annie snapped her eyes open dramatically and held a finger in the air.

  “Yes,” she exclaimed, “That’s it. I’ve got it now.”

  Holding her head in an expression of triumph, she looked Inspector Bowman straight in the eye. “Henderson,” she said simply, “Mary Henderson.”

  With that, she deposited the remaining coins into her purse and moved away into the room, determined to pick up her night’s trade where she
had left off. Casting a look behind her, she couldn’t help but laugh at the two Scotland Yarders staring at one another across their table, sharing a look of utter confusion. She smiled to herself as she moved into the throng by the bar. She had rather liked Inspector Bowman. There was a vulnerability about him that she had immediately found attractive. As she found her place by the counter the better to scan the room for trade, her eye fell across a face she knew. Even with his old, felt hat pulled over his eyes, there was no mistaking Albert Hobbs. Annie’s heart leapt to her mouth. He had plainly overheard every word.

  It took some time for the two men to gather their thoughts.

  “It’s too late to do anything more, Graves,” said Bowman, having found his voice at last.

  “Agreed,” said Graves, downing the last of his beer. “But that’s just about put a kibosh on the evening for me, sir. I’ve lost the taste for it.”

  The two men rose from their seats and shrugged on their coats.

  “Any further plans tonight, sir?” asked Graves as he wound his scarf around his neck.

  “Only getting home as fast as is practicable, Graves. No doubt I will see you in the morning.”

  Graves offered him a cheery “G’night” as they stepped from the inn and went their separate ways. The air was sharp now and Graves was in no doubt that there would be a frost in the morning. The paths would be treacherous. Above him, the sky was a clear, velvet black studded with bright stars. As he rounded the corner onto The Strand, a newspaper seller, keeping warm by a brazier, caught his eye. With almost impeccable timing, the boy took up his cry. “Standard! Late Extra! Read all about it!”

  Graves lengthened his step, the quicker to be out of the cold.

  “Scotland Yard in bungled ambush!” the boy cried, in full voice now.

  Graves stopped mid-step and turned on his heels, in hopes he had misheard.

  “Constable dead!” the boy brayed. “Read all about it!”

  Digging in his pocket for what small change he had left, Graves reached out for a paper. “I’ll take one, boy,” he said.

  The boy unfolded a copy from the pile on his arm and put Graves’ coins in a leather pouch tied round his waist. “There you go, sir.” He gave Graves a friendly, well-practiced wink as he handed him the paper. “Mind ’ow you go, sir. There’s some bad’uns about.”

  Graves nodded, sagely. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll bear it in mind.” As the sergeant leaned against a nearby lamp to scan the paper’s front page, the boy took up his cry again.

  “Evenin’ Standard! Late edition!”

  A mob of passers by poured from the nearest underground railway station. Many of them stopped to buy their evening news, jostling Sergeant Graves as he read the headline in despair; “INSPECTOR ADMITS TO BOTCH - CAN WE TRUST THE YARD?”

  Folding the paper beneath his arm, Graves turned swiftly away and walked down The Strand towards home, hissing just two words under his breath.

  “Jack Watkins...”

  XVII

  Behind The Veil

  Inspector Bowman was feeling the cold. As he walked through Trafalgar Square to St Martin’s Lane, he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and buried his head further into the collar of his coat. This case was proving difficult. Bowman was used to dealing with a lack of solid information. Much of a Yarder’s professional life was spent scrabbling in the dark, but contradictory evidence was never welcome. What was he to make of Annie’s statement? Was she lying? Was Doctor Henderson lying and if so, why? If it were not for the detail of the eyes, he would be tempted to think there might just be another Mary Henderson, but Doctor Crane’s observations made that unlikely. Everything pointed to the deceased being Mary Henderson.

  Shaking his head to clear it, Bowman felt the sharp edges of a card in his coat pocket. Drawing it out as he walked, he saw it was the card that Elizabeth Morley had given him in the property store at Scotland Yard. He read it aloud to himself as he turned into Long Acre.

  ‘THE EMPIRE ROOMS present

  by arrangement with MADAM ROSE

  a spectacle from beyond the grave.’

  Bowman’s natural instinct was to disregard the information, but he couldn’t help but admit his curiosity had been piqued. Or was it that he wanted to see Miss Morley again? The address was printed in gold lettering along the bottom of the card and, with a start, Bowman realised he was just a five minute walk from the venue. Almost without thinking, he turned his step towards the Empire Rooms at Covent Garden.

  In the lamplight, the central piazza of Covent Garden looked a romantic place. The stallholders were packing away the last of their wares as Bowman approached, but still the air was suffused with the earthy scent of heather and holly, the winter foliage sold by the garden traders in their covered market. As the empty crates were loaded onto waiting drays, their impatient horses – old nags and great Shires alike – pawed the ground. Apprentices sluiced the cobbles with steaming water and scrubbed them clean. Wandering tradesmen sold the last of the day’s bread to passers by and chestnuts were roasted by scruffy young boys, eager to make an extra shilling before being moved on by the local bobbies. Even in the cold, Bowman saw couples out to take the air; the youngest of them stopping to catch a kiss beneath the lamplight, the oldest of them stopping to catch their breath.

  Cobbles glistening beneath his feet, Inspector Bowman walked to the southern side of the covered piazza where he knew he would find the Empire Rooms, the venue for the evening’s Spiritualist meeting. Having always considered himself something of a rationalist, he could scarcely credit the fact that he was going to such a meeting willingly. Several times the thought had entered his head that he should turn back and go home. Each time the thought was dismissed and he had walked on all the quicker.

  Cabs rattled past as Bowman reached the Empire Rooms, a modest building tucked away from the main thoroughfare. The discreet entrance was marked only by a board propped up against the wall. It bore the same text that Bowman had read on his card, promising a ‘Spectacle From Beyond The Grave’, and written in the same antique font. Bowman hung back, watching from the shadows as the occasional pedestrian turned their feet to the door. Urchins ran between them, no doubt looking for easy pickings in the gloom. Bowman stamped his feet and blew on his hands to relieve the cold, when his attention was drawn to a smart brougham drawing up directly opposite. As the door swung open, Elizabeth Morley stepped from the footplate, bending to smooth her skirts before turning to thank the driver. Bowman slunk further back from the light, his mind a quandary. Should he make himself known now? Should he make himself known at all? Looking about herself, Elizabeth crossed the road with care and made her way through the entrance. As the brougham rattled away, Bowman stood in silence. Not for the first time, a question resolved itself in his mind, a question to which there would never be an answer. He whispered it aloud to the very air around him, as if that would elicit a response. “What would Anna think?” He felt like a child, lost in the night. Finally, and with a deep breath and a look of despair at his own actions, he followed in her footsteps, pushing open the door to the Empire Rooms.

  The counter in the lobby was a hive of activity. Situated on the first floor, it afforded fine views of the market by day. As Elizabeth made her way up the stairs, she was greeted by the smell of burning incense and the hubbub of an expectant crowd. Behind the counter stood Elias Goldoni, proud proprietor of the Empire Rooms. Goldoni was of circus stock, his family being a clan of itinerants who roamed the country in more clement weather to entertain the masses. As a boy he had been trained in the many disciplines of the Big Top. He had in his time walked the wire, swung from the trapeze and entered the lion’s cage. He could juggle and breathe fire if the occasion demanded but now, in his middle age, he had eschewed a life on the road for something a little more permanent. His skills as a showman had proved invaluable in putting the Empire Rooms on the map, and he was very much the public face of the establishment. And what a face it was. A broad lantern
jaw was perpetually adorned with a whiskery shadow no matter how close he shaved, and a luxurious moustache hung down over a generous mouth. A monocle clung to his left eye, though whether this was due to necessity or affectation it was never known. His dark hair was neatly parted in the middle and smoothed on either side, and a fine pair of mutton chop sideburns adorned his face. In his tails and white tie, Goldoni was the very model of efficiency as he checked tickets, took coats and attended to all enquiries.

  Goldoni assumed a sombre look as Elizabeth approached from the stairs. He fussed his way from behind the counter to take her coat. “Miss Morley, how grieved I was to hear of your father.” Goldoni affected a hint of an Italian accent as he spoke, yet it was common wisdom that his lineage could be traced no further than the seaside resort of Margate. “You must accept my condolences.”

  Elizabeth accepted the platitude with grace and let Goldoni take her coat to the closet behind the counter. “Mr Goldoni,” she continued as he returned to take her ticket, “We both know that death is only a door to another room.”

  Goldoni clasped his hands together in a gesture of heart-felt sincerity. “And perhaps tonight will bring you some comfort.” Punching her ticket with a ticket inspector’s hole-punch, Goldoni returned the piece of paper with a bow. “Have you seen Madam Rose before?” he asked.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I have not. Although I’ve heard all about her.” She leaned in closer to Goldoni to whisper, conspiratorially. “And her Native friend.” An almost visible thrill seemed to pass through her.

  Goldoni removed his monocle to clean it on a pristine white handkerchief. “Mr Khy? He is a peculiar beast. From the Amazon basin, I believe. The sole survivor of a lost tribe.”