“Mary!”
Bowman could barely see through the ghosts. Anna stood before him, about to step from the curb to the Women’s Refuge across the road. If he stretched his arms to their full extent, he fancied he could touch her clothing, her face. And still the hooves approached.
Henderson screwed his eyes up against the memory of his daughter. “We met in my usual place. The lockup, away from prying eyes. And at first, in the dark, I did not recognize her. But she knew me. Her own father.” Henderson reached out as though he could see her before him. “I lifted the veil she wore over her head and there I saw the face, the eyes, of my daughter.”
Bowman was moving between two worlds now, the past and present. He flicked his eyes to the edge of the bridge, but there was still no sign of Sergeant Graves. He could feel the cobbles of Hanbury Street beneath his feet. Anna was stepping into the road now. The sounds of Whitechapel broke through the tumult of the river below. Bowman knew this was his chance. He had to act or risk losing her forever.
Henderson bent at the waist and let out a sob of pity, though whether for himself or his daughter it was difficult to tell. “She broke into a frenzy, lashing out like an animal. She threatened to run, to betray me.” The sobs stopped suddenly and Henderson looked out across the city with a cold, hard glare. “I knew she could not leave alive.” Shifting his feet on the ledge, Henderson gazed down into the depths of the swirling morass beneath him.
Bowman had moved slowly to the edge of the bridge. Stealing a furtive glance at the girders beneath, he spied Sergeant Graves making his way stealthily to where Henderson stood. Just a minute more and he would be there. Bowman panicked. He didn’t have a minute more. The carriage was almost upon them, its driver slumped forward, dead at the reins. With an effort of will, the inspector forced himself into the present.
“Your only thought was your reputation,” he spat.
“She screamed and screamed such that I feared discovery.” Henderson lifted his hands before his face. “I put my hands to her neck,” he was quiet now, almost whispering, “and I squeezed the life from her.” He looked to Bowman, “But still she accused me.”
“You murdered your own daughter.”
Henderson was manic now, his voice and body quivering as if wracked with pain. “Even as she lay dead on the floor, I could hear her. She reproached me as a man and a father. I cut out her tongue.” As if in disgust at himself and his actions, he looked away. “A terrible thing, but it wasn’t enough. Still she accused me.”
Bowman finally understood. “So you struck her head from her body.”
“And finally, she was quiet.”
“A clean cut, struck like a butcher.” Bowman’s confused mind was drawn back to his revelation in The Silver Cross and the butcher’s window across the road.
“No, inspector.” Henderson drew himself up to his full height. “Like a surgeon.”
Below them both, Sergeant Graves was now in position. Listening to their conversation with ever-greater disbelief, the young sergeant considered his next move. Clinging to the girders beneath the main span of the bridge, he thought a sudden strike his best option. The only question was, when? Too soon and Henderson might be spooked, too late and the river might have him. Graves craned his neck for a better view of proceedings, but found his line of sight blocked by masonry and ironwork. Listening intently, he knew he would have to judge for himself when the time was right.
Above him, Bowman continued in his attempts to keep the doctor talking. “And then you ran to Hardacre.” He swallowed hard. Time was running out, he was sure, but to move any closer would be to risk Henderson jumping. “But he was not to know she was your daughter. To him she was just another girl.”
“He sent a boy to the lockup to dispose of the body.”
Bowman nodded. “Isambard Fogg.”
Henderson gave a dry, mirthless laugh. “He buried her body too shallow. And then the floods came.” His teeth were gritted in anguish. “I had to make things right. It was fortunate that Fogg was already dead, killed like a dog by his master. Hardacre evaded me for a while, but eventually he came to me like a wasp to honey. Kane was easy enough. As luck would have it, inspector, I think you fired the fatal shot yourself.”
Bowman thought back to the altercation in the alley just two nights before. So he had mortally wounded Kane. He couldn’t find it within himself to feel sorry.
“And so I thought myself free from implication. Clearly I was wrong. The whole story is one of misfortune, don’t you agree, inspector?” Henderson gave a wry smile. “I had everything within my grasp at first. A model wife, a promising career.” For a moment, his face seemed to soften. “Ah well,” he said simply, “The best laid plans…”
As his eyes glanced down once more to the river, Henderson caught a movement. Below him, Sergeant Graves swung into view in an attempt to climb onto the bridge, his hands grasping for purchase on the stonework. As the young sergeant found a foothold on the masonry and struggled to haul himself up, Henderson gave a cry of alarm and kicked furiously at his hands, attempting to loosen his grip on the bridge. Graves’ voice rang like a bell through the air.
“I have him, sir! Don’t move!”
But Bowman was hurling himself towards the doctor, his eyes blazing with a manic light. In his mind’s eye, he was back in Whitechapel. Before him stood his wife, her hands reaching out, her eyes alive and dancing in greeting. The hooves were louder now, bearing down upon him as he clutched at her clothing.
“Keep back, sir, I have him!” Sergeant Graves had Henderson by the ankle now and was attempting to prevent the doctor from falling. A few passers by had reached the south side of the bridge and were standing like spectators at some great contest. With a look and a wave of his arm, Graves cautioned them to come no nearer. Time slowed.
Bowman’s boots skidded across the flagstones as he barrelled into his wife. Her expression changed from one of confusion to fear as she looked beyond her husband to see the approaching carriage. “No, George, no!” she was shouting. Bowman knew he was putting himself in harm’s way. It was as it should be. Just one push and she’d be safe.
Henderson looked around to see Bowman hurtling towards him. From below, Graves thought he caught something in the doctor’s eyes. What was it? Surprise? Fear? Bowman piled into him, the full force of the blow tipping him off balance.
“No sir, no!” Graves felt Henderson’s ankle slip from his hand. Looking behind him from his foothold, the sergeant watched helpless as Henderson pitched towards him. The doctor let go a scream, his hands flailing at the air.
Bowman shook his head. The scene around him cleared. He felt the ground beneath his feet. Turning, he saw Henderson’s coat tails billowing around his shoulders as he fell. Someone screamed. Instinctively he reached out, clutching at the doctor’s coat as he tipped from the balustrade. With some force Bowman pulled him back, every sinew straining to prevent the doctor’s fall. Henderson became a dead weight, hanging limp and heavy from the bridge. Bowman could feel him slipping from his grasp. With a cry of anguish he tightened his grip. Suddenly, he felt the weight easing. Henderson was being dragged back over the balustrade by a force from behind. Bowman turned to see Sergeant Graves had joined him on the bridge. With a grimace of effort, he was pulling Henderson’s limp form over the balustrade and to the ground. The sergeant collapsed upon him, his breathing laboured.
“He’s alive,” Graves was saying. “Just out for the count.”
Bowman could feel himself slipping away. His vision was clouding. Dropping heavily to his knees, he felt his senses failing. The sky was pressing down upon his back and the ground was rushing up to meet him. He heard a crack. Somewhere, he had the thought that it might have been his head making contact with the ground.
Bowman felt the pressure of his cheek against the dirt. He stretched his face and forced his eyes to open. The ringing in his ears subsided. Had he saved her? He must have saved her. He dared to look behind at the oncoming brougham,
but saw nothing. The streets of Whitechapel had dissolved. Lambeth Bridge stood cold and bare before him. Sudden realisation dawning, Bowman staggered to the opposite side of the bridge and leaned against the balustrade. He remembered colliding with Henderson, but there was no sign of him below. Had the river claimed him already?
Sergeant Graves had joined him at the bridge’s edge, panting for breath after his exertions. “We got him sir, we got him.”
Bowman could say nothing. Looking to his right, he saw two constables dragging Henderson from the bridge, his feet bumping across the flagstones behind him. His head rolled from side to side.
For a while, the two men stood in silence, the blood rushing furiously in their ears. Beneath them the swollen, foaming Thames continued on its course to the city, unknowing, uncaring. Bowman gazed to the distance. “He was right, Graves,” he said in a small voice.
Graves took a deep breath. “How’s that, sir?”
“The best laid plans. They all come to nothing.” The inspector looked wildly about him. “I’m sorry, Graves. I’m sorry.”
Tugging his hat down over his eyes and pulling up the collar on his coat, Bowman took a breath and turned to walk away. His gait was unsteady. There was a tremor in his hands. Sergeant Graves watched him leave, his eyes wide with confusion, then turned to disperse the crowd.
XXV
Coda
Sergeant Graves sat in Bowman’s chair, his feet resting on the inspector’s desk. Gazing around the office, his eyes fell upon the map of London on the opposite wall. Chewing on his lip, he mused how the events of the last few days had all occurred within a stone’s throw of each other. From the discovery of the head beneath Westminster Bridge to Hardacre’s Southwark den to Henderson’s final stand at Lambeth, the whole affair had taken place within the radius of a mile. How many other crimes might even now be being committed within that small area on Bowman’s map, he wondered. Might they never be brought to light? Graves shook his head to clear the thoughts from his mind. Most unlike me, he thought. Perhaps the job is getting to me.
Startled by a sudden noise from the corridor beyond the office, Sergeant Graves swung his feet from the desk and moved to stand by the window. A second later and he would have risked a disapproving look for his slovenliness. Within moments, the door had flung open to admit Inspector Bowman, his brows knotted in their customary furrow.
“Inspector Hicks has been reprimanded for jeopardising the success of our case.” Bowman walked to his chair. Seemingly reluctant to meet Graves’ gaze, he made great play of removing some dirt from his desk, left there by the sergeant’s shoes. Graves cleared his throat, guiltily.
“I take it Watkins was good enough to speak against him?”
Before Bowman could reply, Inspector Hicks himself joined them in the room. His eyes blazed with a ferocious defiance as he wrenched the smoking pipe from between his teeth.
“The man is nothing but a weasel and I’ve thought so all along,” he thundered. Shutting the door behind him, he turned to spread his great hands wide in an appeal for support. “There’s just no trusting some people.”
Bowman shared a look with Sergeant Graves and was about to reply when he was cut short by a knock at the door. Rolling his eyes at the interruption, Inspector Hicks took it upon himself to grant admittance to Bowman’s office. “Come!” he barked. Not for the first time, Inspector Bowman marvelled at Hicks’ complete disregard for the social graces. The door swung open to admit a tall, young woman with a slim waist, sharp eyes and a subtle cleft at her chin. She held herself with a poise that was unmistakable.
“Miss Morley!” Bowman swallowed hard and felt suddenly awkward. He moved towards her, his hand outstretched in a clumsy attempt at a greeting. Elizabeth returned the gesture with amusement.
“Inspector.”
Bowman was at a loss. Desperately, he looked to the other men in the room for support or inspiration. Sergeant Graves stood with his arms crossed. Inspector Hicks left Bowman to his discomfort for an inordinate length of time before finally breaking the silence with a salacious grin.
“I shall leave you to your business, inspector,” he leered. With a look to Elizabeth and a ghastly wink at Bowman, Hicks sauntered from the room with an affected swagger. Bowman swung around his guest to shut the door before Hicks could change his mind, then motioned to Elizabeth that she should sit in the leather wing-backed chair before his desk. Sergeant Graves took a step closer to the window and feigned a sudden interest in the view below. Bowman sat at his own chair, facing Elizabeth across the desk. He marvelled at how the sun from the window was playing about her hair.
“How may I be of service?” Bowman smoothed his moustache between his finger and thumb in a vain attempt to calm his nerves.
“How formal!” laughed Elizabeth. Bowman threw a look to Graves’ broad back at the window. Elizabeth took his meaning and acquiesced but the faintest smile still danced about her neat lips. “I have come to thank you, inspector.”
Bowman cleared his throat. “For what?”
“For accompanying me to the meeting last night.”
Bowman flinched at the memory. “Did you stay long after me?” He thought he saw Sergeant Graves shift uncomfortably at the window. Perhaps he was regretting not leaving the room with Inspector Hicks when he’d had the chance.
“Yes,” replied Elizabeth. “All night. After the initial disturbance, the evening proceeded as planned.” Bowman was surprised. That the event had continued at all after such a disruption seemed hardly credible. Elizabeth leaned forward across the desk. Inspector Bowman could smell her perfume. “And I spoke with my father.”
“I see,” replied the inspector, quietly. He felt nothing but pity for the elegant creature before him. To bear the loss of one’s father in so gruesome a manner would be hard enough, but to then fall victim to such shameless bunkum as he had witnessed the night before seemed a double cruelty.
“Yes, and he is well.” Elizabeth’s eyes shone. “His death was quick and he says he did not feel a thing. It was of great comfort.”
“I’m pleased for you.” Elizabeth noticed Bowman’s moustache twitch. After studying his face for what Bowman thought to be an age, she rose.
“And what of you, inspector? Where will you find your comfort?”
Feeling suddenly very uncomfortable indeed, Bowman contrived an interest in the gold inlay of his desk, picking at it with his fingers in a studied attempt at nonchalance. “Not here,” he murmured, not daring to meet her gaze. “Not in London.” He could almost feel Graves’ eyebrows rising in surprise behind him. Elizabeth could not conceal her disappointment.
“Then, where?”
“Who knows?” Bowman cleared his throat and summoned the courage to look up. “I have just resigned my place here at Scotland Yard.” He knew that Graves had turned to face him at his place by the window.
“Oh.” Elizabeth was crestfallen.
Bowman nodded, warming to his theme. “I am to move to a provincial force, although it has yet to be decided where. I am hoping for the West Country. It is very pretty there.”
“London too can be pretty, inspector. In the right company.”
Now Inspector Bowman stood at his desk, his face softening. “I am sure it can, Miss Morley. But I do not care for the rats.” Rather stiffly, Bowman extended his hand.
Elizabeth nodded slowly, sensing their meeting was over. “I see. Well, I shall wish you good day. And thank you again.” Removing a glove, Elizabeth reached for Bowman’s hand. The inspector noticed how soft her skin was, and how small her hand.
“Thank you,” he said simply, swallowing hard. They stood for a while as if they were the only two people in the room. Then, slowly, Elizabeth Morley turned and walked from the room.
“Sergeant Graves, would you be so good as to see Miss Morley safely home?”
“Of course.” Graves moved to the door but then faltered, puzzled. “You’re not really leaving us, are you sir?”
“No, Graves
. I am not.”
“But - ”
Bowman sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Graves noted that Bowman looked the saddest he had ever seen him. “Life is complicated enough,” he said.
Acknowledging the point with a rueful smile, Sergeant Graves moved to leave the room.
“Sergeant Graves,” Bowman called after him. “Anthony.”
Graves stopped sharp at the use of his Christian name. It was the first time he could remember Bowman having ever used it.
“We’ve never spoken about Whitechapel,” the inspector continued. Graves shuffled nervously on his feet. “About Anna.”
“I wouldn’t think there was much to say, sir,” Graves said, cautiously.
Bowman nodded slowly. “I’ve never thanked you. It has been remiss of me.” His eyes were cast down at the floor. Graves turned to face him square on.
“No thanks are needed, sir. I did what I thought I should.”
“It was for the best,” muttered Bowman none too convincingly. “You saved my life. You have my gratitude.” An uneasy silence hung in the air. Bowman took a breath. “And yesterday, on Lambeth Bridge.”
“Yes, sir?”
Treading carefully, Bowman struggled to find the appropriate words. “I was somewhat… overcome.”
Graves nodded, “Yes, sir. I should think you were.”
“Will my behaviour be recorded in your report to the commissioner?”
The Head in the Ice Page 22
