Part of that success had been due to the dedication, courage and skill that he and his colleagues had demonstrated, Harris thought, but part of it—and there was no point in pretending otherwise—was down to pure luck.
He looked at the crowd which had gathered to watch the fire, and was being held back by a number of uniformed constables.
They were the usual bunch he would have expected to appear at that time of night. There were common prostitutes, hoping for one last customer before they returned—half-drunk—to their tuppenny boarding houses. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with them were some of those potential clients—men who didn’t care how rough—or how hurried—the sex was, as long as it was cheap. There were working men who were planning to appear at the docks before dawn, in the hope that this would be their lucky day—that the foreman would select them to unload the ships, to grunt and strain for twelve long, hard hours, in return for a few coppers. And there were the dock workers who had secured work the previous day, stayed in the pubs until closing time, and then—unable or unwilling to go home—had bedded down on the street.
Tramps and vagabonds, waifs and strays. They had all been drawn to the fire as a moth is to the candle flame, and though there was no longer a blaze to watch, they seemed reluctant to leave the scene of all the excitement and return to their own drab lives.
The crowd parted slightly, to allow a man to pass through it. He was a tall bloke, Leading Fireman Harris thought, watching his progress. Very tall—maybe as much as six feet or six feet one. He was thin, but not skinny—muscle and bone, and scarcely an inch of fat—and had a large nose and a square chin. Harris put him in his early thirties, but decided he could be wrong by at least five years either way. What was certain—from both his purposeful stride and the way that his deep eyes missed nothing—was that he was a copper.
The tall thin man came to a halt a couple of feet from the stocky firefighter. ‘I’m Inspector Sam Blackstone,’ he said. ‘Who are you, and are you the one in charge?’
‘Leading Fireman Harris,’ the fireman replied. ‘And yes, I am the one in charge.’
Blackstone looked up at the building, and Harris waited for the inevitable comment about the Fire Brigade getting there a little too late.
‘Could have been much worse,’ the Inspector said. ‘You’ve done a good job, Mr Harris.’
‘That’s not what the owners will be saying in the morning,’ Harris said fatalistically.
‘People like that are never happy,’ Blackstone assured him. The Inspector took a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket and offered it to the fireman. ‘What I don’t understand,’ he continued, when they’d lit up and inhaled the smoke deep into their lungs, ‘is what I’m doing here.’
‘You mean they haven’t told you?’ Harris asked, surprised.
Blackstone shook his head. ‘No, they haven’t. I’m like you—part of the poor bloody infantry. The brass never tell us more than they need to—and sometimes, not even that. So all I do know is that a constable knocked me up at my lodgings, and said my boss wanted me down here as quickly as possible—if not sooner. So what’s it all about?’
The fireman reached into his jacket and pulled out a buff envelope. ‘We found this on the tender,’ he said simply.
Blackstone took the envelope from Harris, crossed the road and positioned himself under the nearest gaslight.
There was an address of sorts on the envelope, written in irregular block capitals. ‘INSPEKTOR BLACKSTONE, SCOTLAND YARD,’ it read, and underneath, the writer had added ‘URGENT’ and underlined it three times.
Blackstone slit the envelope open with his thumbnail. There was a single sheet of paper inside, and as he read it, a deep frown came to his face.
The Inspector folded the note carefully, slipped it back into the envelope, and then returned to the spot where Leading Fireman Harris was still standing.
‘You said this note was found on your engine?’ he asked. ‘That’s right,’ Harris agreed.
‘When, exactly?’
‘Must have been about an hour or so ago,’ the fireman guessed.
‘And how long could it have been there before you noticed it?’
‘That’s a bit difficult to say. We were all very busy fighting the bloody fire, you see.’
Blackstone sighed. ‘How many people were already here when you arrived on the scene?’
‘There was quite a crowd. There always is at fires. It’s better than the music hall for some people.’
‘So how did you stop them from getting in your way?’
The fireman laughed. ‘They cleared out of the way quick enough when they saw our horses coming,’ he said. ‘Nobody wants to be trampled by a big shire horse, then run over by the wheels of the fire tender as an encore.’
‘But they came back, presumably,’ Blackstone said.
It was Harris’s turn to sigh. ‘They always come back,’ he admitted.
‘So how do you control them?’
‘I put a couple of my lads on the job. I can usually ill afford to spare them, but there’s very little choice in the matter.’ ‘And that works, does it? The crowd obey them?’
Harris looked down at the ground. ‘Well, you know,’ he said, almost in a mutter.
Blackstone nodded. ‘I think I do,’ he agreed. ‘What you’re actually saying is that you give the job to the toughest-looking lads you have, and if the crowd doesn’t do what they want it to, they get a bit menacing.’
‘Something like that,’ Harris admitted reluctantly.
‘And quite right, too,’ Blackstone said. ‘You can’t have civilians getting in the way of professionals, when they’re trying to do their job. So that’s what happened tonight, is it? You put a couple of your lads on intimidation duty, and the rest of you tackled the fire?’
‘That’s about it,’ Harris agreed. ‘Mind you, they didn’t have to do it for long, because your blokes got here very quickly, considering they were on foot.’
Blackstone looked at the crowd of onlookers, which was now starting to thin out a little. ‘Your lads will have kept them as far away from the engines as my lads are doing now, will they?’ he asked.
‘At least as far,’ Harris agreed.
Which meant that none of the gawpers were within twelve feet of the engine, Blackstone thought.
‘Where exactly was this note?’ he asked.
‘Wedged between the driver’s seat and the side lamp.’
‘So it was placed there, rather than thrown there?’
‘It must have been.’
‘I’d better go and have a word with a few of our concerned citizens,’ Blackstone said.
But, as if they could read his mind, the remaining spectators were already starting to make themselves scarce.
3
Dawn was just rising over the river, and the two men—the tall thin one, and the shorter, nearly stout one—stood at a coffee stall on the Thames Embankment, half a mile upriver from New Scotland Yard.
This particular stall was one of hundreds of such establishments, all of which were only open in the hours between the pubs closing their doors at midnight and opening them again at five o’clock the next morning.
And there was very good reason for the stalls’ limited business hours, Blackstone thought, grimacing at the taste of the grey-brown brew which was swilling around in his cup.
It was widely rumoured that the coffee was actually made from ground-up acorns—though he himself doubted it came from anything as wholesome as that—and no one in his right mind would have patronised the stall at all, if there’d been any other alternative.
‘What’s this so-called “coffee” we’re drinking taste like to you?’ he asked Patterson.
The chubby Detective Sergeant sniffed at the surface of the liquid in his cup. ‘I’ve had worse,’ he pronounced.
‘I’d like to know where,’ Blackstone said. He took the letter Leading Fireman Harris had given him out of its envelope, and handed it over to his Sergeant. �
��Well, since you’ve already proved that you’re an expert on coffee, I’d like to know what you make of this.’
Patterson held the letter a fair distance away from his face. He was a man who loved anything which smacked of modernity—from telephones to horseless carriages—but even his passion for technology was not strong enough to make him admit openly that he needed reading glasses.
‘NICE FIRE, AIN’T IT, INSPEKTOR BLACKSTONE?’ he read. ‘I’M REAL PROUD OF THE JOB I DONE.’
‘Well?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Give me a chance, sir,’ Patterson said. ‘I’ve only read the first two lines so far.’
‘You’d have finished the whole thing by now, if you didn’t have to squint so much,’ Blackstone said. ‘But even from the first couple of lines, you must have formed an opinion. How do they strike you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Patterson admitted. ‘It could be no more than a practical joke.’
‘So the bloke who wrote the letter just happened to be walking along Tooley Street, saw the fire, and came up with the idea of playing a joke on us, did he?’ Blackstone asked.
‘It’s possible.’
‘And he also happened to have on his person an envelope, a piece of paper and a pen? Not only that, but he also found a desk or table, with sufficient illumination, to sit down and write what is—in many ways—a carefully constructed letter?’
‘When you put it like that, sir, it doesn’t seem entirely likely,’ Patterson admitted.
‘So what’s altogether more probable, Sergeant, is that he did actually start the fire as he claims?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Which makes him?’
‘A firebug. A…what’s the proper term for it…a pyromaniac.’
‘And a very good one,’ Blackstone said.
‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ Patterson said airily. ‘If he’d been that good, he’d have burnt the whole street down.’
‘He was good enough to get into a heavily barred warehouse, and to secure it again when he’d finished his work,’ Blackstone pointed out mildly.
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘The constable who spotted the fire tried to get into the warehouse himself, and couldn’t. Which means that our man picked the lock, went inside, and locked up again when he’d finished. That suggests more the very careful mind than the wandering nutter.’
‘But you can’t dispute the fact that he really failed in what he was attempting,’ Patterson protested.
‘That’s where we differ,’ Blackstone countered. ‘I don’t think he did at all. I think he achieved exactly what he wanted to achieve.’
‘And what makes you think that?’
‘Well, for a start, there’s the place he chose to start the fire,’ Blackstone said. ‘Of all the lanes that run off Tooley Street, there’s only one—Battle Bridge Lane—which you can reach the river from. All the others have buildings standing between them and the Thames.’
‘So what?’
‘So if the fire had been on any lane but Battle Bridge Lane, the firemen would have had considerably more difficulty drawing water from the river. And it’s not only the building he chose that’s got me worried—it’s the point in the building at which he decided to start the fire.’
‘Come again?’
‘Once he was inside, why didn’t he go up a floor, to where the tea chests are stored? Tea’s very dry stuff. It burns absolutely beautifully. So why start the fire in the office?’
‘Maybe he didn’t think. Or didn’t know…’
‘He’d done a lot of thinking. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he considered every angle, even down to the timing of the fire.’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘The warehouse is on the constable’s regular beat. He goes past it at pretty much the same time every night.’
‘And what does that prove?’
‘I believe it proves that our firebug wanted him to discover the fire.’
‘Maybe he didn’t know about the constable’s beat?’
‘He knew about me, well enough to address me by name.’
‘True.’
‘And there’s another thing about the timing. It was high tide when the fire was started.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘Yes, I think it is. There was nothing random about it. It was a deliberate choice.’
‘I can’t see that,’ Patterson admitted.
‘Can’t you?’ Blackstone replied. ‘Then let me ask you this—what’s the difference in water height between high and low tide?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it. Around five feet? Or is it closer to ten?’
‘It’s twenty feet, nine inches,’ Blackstone said. ‘At low tide, it would have taken the fire crews longer to pump water up from the river. But I don’t think he wanted it to take them longer. I think he wanted to make it as easy for them as possible.’
‘But why would he want to do that?’
‘He didn’t want to make us angry, because there’s no telling what angry men will do.’
‘Then what did he want to do?’
‘To worry us.’
‘You’ve lost me again,’ Patterson confessed.
‘Read the rest of the letter, then maybe you won’t be,’ Blackstone suggested.
‘THIS IS ONLY THE START,’ Patterson read. ‘JUST TO SHOW YOU WHAT I CAN DO WHEN I CHOOSE TO. IF YOU WANT TO SLEEP PEACEFULLY IN YOUR BED AT NIGHT, YOU’D BETTER TELL THEM RICH BASTARDS IN THE GOVERNMENT THAT I SHALL WANT PAYING TO DESIST. AND HOW MUCH IS IT GOING TO COST? ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS!’
Patterson whistled through the slight gap in his front teeth. ‘One hundred thousand pounds!’ he repeated. ‘That’s a lot of money!’
‘More than you and I will ever see if we work for a thousand years,’ Blackstone agreed.
‘WHAT YOU’VE GOT TO DO WHEN YOU DECIDE TO PAY UP IS TO PUT AN ADVERT IN THE CLASSIFIED SECTION OF THE TIMES,’ the letter continued. ‘ALL IT HAS TO SAY IS THAT SAM HAS SOME SHEEP TO SELL. AS SOON AS IT APPEARS, I’LL CONTACT YOU.’
‘What do you make of the style of the letter?’ Blackstone asked.
‘He’s trying to sound less educated than he actually is,’
Patterson said. ‘He spells “Inspector” incorrectly, but he seems to have no difficulty with “peacefully”. And though he uses “them” when he should have used “those”, he has no problems putting his apostrophes in the right place.’
‘So he’s educated and he’s skilful,’ Blackstone said. ‘And we know that he’s serious, because of what’s happened tonight. All of which seems to suggest that if “them rich bastards” don’t cough up the money, as he’s demanded, there are going to be more fires. And do you think they will cough up the money, Patterson?’
‘Not a chance,’ the plump Sergeant said.
‘Not a chance,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Which means we’ve got to catch the clever little bleeder as soon as possible.’
‘If we’re put in charge of the case,’ Patterson pointed out. ‘We will be.’
‘You sound very sure of yourself.’
‘I am. First of all, our firebug has singled me out himself, which makes it almost certain we’ll be given the case. And even if he hadn’t done that, it would most likely have been assigned to us, because it’s a bastard. And why are we given the bastard cases?’
‘Because we’re the best there is?’ Patterson asked unconvincingly.
‘Try again,’ Blackstone said.
‘Because you’ve got up so many important people’s noses that we’re always going to be given the bastard cases,’ Patterson said, almost stoically.
‘Correct,’ Blackstone said. ‘So since this is going to be our investigation whether we like it or not, where do you propose we start?’
Patterson’s brow furrowed. ‘Difficult,’ he said. ‘We should start by talking to the witnesses, but according to you, they’ve all done a runner.’
‘Correct again,’ Blackstone confirmed
.
‘So we’ll just have to wait until he does strike again, and hope he leaves a clue next time,’ Patterson said gloomily.
‘Wrong!’ Blackstone told him. ‘The first thing we do is get a description of our firebug.’
‘And where do we get that description from?’
‘Either from one of the firemen who held the crowd back at first, or from one of constables who took over from them.’
‘But how will any of them know what the firebug looks like? You can’t expect them to remember everyone who was there.’
‘I don’t,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But the firebug will have done something to make himself stand out from the rest, won’t he?’
‘Will he?’ Patterson asked, sounding puzzled.
‘Pigs might fly on occasion, but generally most other things don’t,’ Blackstone said enigmatically.
A smile of comprehension slowly appeared on Patterson’s face. ‘Of course he’ll have done something to get himself noticed,’ the Sergeant said. ‘We wouldn’t be standing here now if he hadn’t.’
4
Sir Roderick Todd, the Assistant Commissioner of Police, gazed across his desk through eyes which—amazingly—managed to seem simultaneously bleary and aggressive. That’ll be the opium, Blackstone thought, hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. If a constable—or even an inspector—had a serious drink problem, he reflected, it wouldn’t be long before the man was brought up on charges and then ignominiously kicked off the Force. But when it was an assistant commissioner who was addicted to drugs rather than alcohol—when it was a man from the right background who belonged to all the right clubs—those in charge chose to look the other way. It wasn’t right—it wasn’t fair—but it was the way of the world, and there was absolutely no point in fretting about it.
Sir Roderick blinked three times, as if he hoped that might clear his head, then said, ‘You and I have not met since our little adventure in Russia, when we were investigating the case of the missing golden egg.’
Blackstone and the Burning Secret (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 4) Page 2
