He supposed, too, that he could have accepted a few of the numerous bribes he’d been offered over the years, but he knew that if he’d succumbed he would have found it impossible to hold his head up high ever again. He hadn’t even been able to force himself to take the money that the Russian agent, Vladimir, had offered him—ten thousand pounds, with no strings attached—because even though it would merely be a reward for having done the right thing—the honourable thing—he’d sensed that in accepting it he would cease to be his own man.
So, looking into the far-from-distant future, there were only two alternatives beckoning—death or the workhouse. And he had already decided that, of the two, he would much prefer death.
But he was neither dead nor infirm yet, he reminded himself, as he strode purposefully up to the workhouse gate. He was still employed, and still vigorous—and he had a job to do.
The man who opened the door was stocky, and in his late forties. He had hard, shrewd eyes, and an unyielding stance. He was, in other words, the kind of man who’d been employed as gatekeeper since the beginnings of history, and would continue to fulfil that role until the world came to an end.
Blackstone showed the porter his warrant card, and then produced a pencil sketch which the police artist had drawn from Constable Quail’s description of the man who’d bribed him.
‘Yes, I’ve seen the bloke,’ the porter said, after studying the picture for a few seconds. ‘He’s been here as a “casual”.’
‘When?’
‘Must have been three nights ago, which means he will have been put back out on the street again yesterday morning.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’ Blackstone wondered.
The porter shrugged. ‘Because that’s the way the system works,’ he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
‘Explain the system to me,’ Blackstone said.
‘We let them in here at six o’clock at night, though they’ll have been queuin’ up for long before that.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s only so many places to be had, and on a busy night—especially when it’s cold or wet—we have to turn dozens away.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, once they’ve been admitted through this door, they’re taken straight to have a bath—an’ believe me, some of them really need one. Then they have their supper, an’ are sent to bed. They’re got up early the next morning, given their breakfast, then they’re set to work.’
‘What kind of work?’ Blackstone asked, knowing it was probably irrelevant to the case, but feeling a kind of morbid fascination anyway. ‘Cleaning? Kitchen work? Things like that?’
The porter chuckled. ‘They should be so lucky,’ he said. ‘Cleanin’? Kitchen work? Them’s the plum jobs that are reserved for the regular inmates. The casuals are usually set to pickin’ oakum.’
Picking oakum! Blackstone repeated silently—and with a small sense of horror.
Unravelling rope, so that the separated strands could be used as part of the waterproof lining for boats. What a truly soul-destroying job!
‘They have their dinner, then it’s more work, then supper an’ then bed. On the third day, we give them their breakfast, an’ they have to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s the policy. An’ they’re not allowed readmission for another two clear days after that. That’s policy again.’
‘Where would any of us be without policy?’ Blackstone pondered. ‘How could any of us live our lives without the arbitrary rules which are imposed on us by people who never have to feel the effect themselves?’
‘Exactly!’ the porter agreed, missing the point.
‘You’re sure that the man in the sketch was actually one of your casuals?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Positive.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Because some of the paupers draw attention to themselves, whether they mean to or not.’
‘And he did?’
‘Yes. That’s what I’m sayin’.’
‘How did he draw attention to himself?’
‘It was durin’ the search—’ the porter began.
‘What search?’ Blackstone interrupted.
‘Before they’re admitted to the workhouse, they have to be searched,’ the porter explained.
‘Why?’
The porter shook his head at Blackstone’s amazing ignorance. ‘We’re lookin’ for two things when we search. The first is money—because if they got more than four pence on them, they can afford to pay for lodgin’s somewhere else, so they’re not allowed in.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘Cigarettes, tobacco and pipes.’
‘Why should you be looking for anything like that?’
‘Because if they’ve got some, we take it off them.’
‘Fire regulations?’
The porter shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Then what’s the reason?’
‘Because most of them enjoy a good smoke.’
‘I’m not following you,’ Blackstone admitted.
‘You’re not meant to enjoy yourself in the workhouse,’ the porter said. ‘That’s the whole point of it. The Guardians don’t want anybody treatin’ it as a soft option, so they make it so unpleasant that only them as is really desperate will ever think of tryin’ to get in.’
Maybe, just before I’m due to hand my pistol over to the police armoury for the last time, I’ll use it on myself, Blackstone thought.
‘I was tellin’ you about searchin’ this bloke in the picture,’ the porter reminded him, seeing he was lost in some kind of reverie of his own.
‘Of course you were,’ Blackstone agreed, as his brain shifted from thoughts of a grim future to thoughts of the grim present reality.
‘The first thing I do, before I get down to searchin’ them, is ask them where they slept the night before,’ the porter said. ‘They all say “nowhere”, because they’re afraid that if they say anyfink else, it’ll jeopardise their chances of gettin’ in. An’ that’s just what this bloke said—“Nowhere, sir.” That’s when I started to pay him particular attention.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, for a start, it really seemed to stick in his craw to call me “sir”. An’ then there was the fact that he didn’t look tired.’
‘Why should he have looked tired? It was only six o’clock in the evening, wasn’t it?’
‘Them as has been sleepin’ rough always look tired,’ the porter said. ‘They never get a good night’s rest on the street, because the police is always movin’ them on. An’ even if there’s no coppers around, they’re frightened to fall into a deep sleep, because if they do, they’ll more than likely wake up in the mornin’—if they wake up at all—without their boots.’ The porter paused. ‘But I’d probably have forgotten him, even with them two things, if it hadn’t been for the search.’
‘What did you find when you searched him?’
‘Nuffink. He had threepence ha’penny in his pocket, an’ not a trace of smokin’ equipment.’
‘Well, then?’
‘But it was more how he reacted to the search than the search itself. The regular casuals are well used to it. They don’t particularly like it—who would?—but, on the other hand, they don’t actually mind it too much, neither, if you see what I mean.’
‘Yes, I think I’m getting the picture,’ Blackstone said.
‘They try to hide their tobacco from me, an’ I try to find it,’ the porter continued. ‘If I don’t find it, then they consider that they’ve got one over on me this time. An’ if I do find it, they fink that’s fair enough. It’s what you might call a game we play.’
‘And this one didn’t like the search?’
‘He pretended it didn’t bother him, but you could see that it did. At one point, he almost pulled away, then he bit his lip an’ let me finish. Shall I tell you somefink else?’
‘Please do,’ Blackstone said patient
ly.
‘His clothes were old an’ tattered enough—even some of our paupers would have turned up their noses at wearin’ them—but they were very clean. An’ that’s not usual. Most folk who live on the streets find it almost impossible to keep clean, even if they want to.’
‘He could just have been to the public bathhouse, couldn’t he?’ Blackstone asked.
The porter shook his head, almost pityingly, as the full extent of Blackstone’s ignorance continued to reveal itself. ‘Why would he spend some of what little money he had at the public bathhouse, when he knew he’d be gettin’ a bath here for free?’ he asked.
‘So he wasn’t what he seemed.’
‘That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you.’
‘And what did you do about it?’
‘Do about it?’ the porter asked.
Blackstone sighed. ‘You knew for certain that he wasn’t your typical pauper, didn’t you?’
‘Yes?’
‘That, in all probability, he wasn’t even a pauper at all?’
‘Yes?’
‘So what did you do about it?’
‘Nuffink. This place runs smoother than any factory I’ve ever heard of—paupers in, paupers bathed, paupers fed, paupers bedded. There’s no time for what you might call “investigation”. If he’s got less than fourpence in his pocket an’ he hasn’t been to St Saviour’s for the last two days, then any man what wants to come in can come in.’
‘If he’d had a gold guinea on his person, would you have found it when you searched him?’ Blackstone asked.
The porter laughed. ‘If he’d had a gold guinea to his name, he’d probably have booked in at the Ritz instead of here.’
‘That’s a very interesting observation, but could you just please answer the question?’ Blackstone said firmly.
‘You’d be surprised where these paupers hide their stuff,’ the porter said. ‘Some of them have hidden pockets, but I’m on to that trick. Then again, there’s some who stick their pipes an’ tobacco up their backsides.’
‘And you find that, too?’
The porter laughed. ‘The workhouse don’t pay me anyfink like enough to go searchin’ up there,’ he said.
‘So you didn’t give him an anal examination?’
‘I most certainly did not. An’ I didn’t go lookin’ up his bum, neither. But even if I had, it’s unlikely I’d have found a gold guinea, now isn’t it?’
The porter was probably right, Blackstone thought. But if the man hadn’t had the money when he entered the workhouse, he’d certainly acquired it three days later, by the time he appeared at the scene of the fire.
7
The tall Inspector and his slightly dumpy Sergeant were walking down the Embankment towards their office in Scotland Yard. Blackstone had no idea what was on Patterson’s mind, but his own was starting to fill up with memories of his days soldiering in India.
All that the old India hands had talked about on the long, gut-churning journey across the two choppy oceans which divided Southampton from Calcutta had been their destination.
‘It’s a land of contrasts,’ they’d repeated endlessly. ‘A real land of contrasts.’
And young Sam Blackstone, who—with the arrogance of youth—thought he knew the answer to nearly everything, had replied, ‘But isn’t every land a land of contrasts?’
The old sweats hadn’t bothered to argue the toss. They’d simply laughed at him and said, ‘Just wait till you get there, young feller-me-lad. Just wait till you see it all for yourself. It’s not like anywhere else in the world, and nowhere else in the world is anything like it.’
He hadn’t been in India long before he knew exactly what the men on the ship had been talking about. There were displays of wealth which would have made the London rich go green with envy, but at the same time there was poverty which was beyond the imaginings of even the most oppressed British pauper. Temples of incredible beauty existed in a sea of squalid slums which made the slums of the East End seem like palaces.
Ah, India! India! The days had been pure hell. But the nights—the nights—had come close to being paradise.
The nights hid the ugly side of the country. They were cool, so that—for a few hours at least—a man could live in peace with his own skin. The night air had been filled with smells—exotic spices, wood smoke, jasmine—all melding together into a richness which intoxicated.
London, at night, was an entirely different creature. It was during the hours of darkness that the vicious side of the capital emerged—that the great beast of criminality, having rested for most of the day, crawled out of its den and claimed the city as its own.
Most of the murders in London were committed at night. And not only the murders. Most rapes and burglaries were night-time affairs—as were virtually all arson attacks!
The Inspector looked up at the sky. If the firebug did intend to strike again soon, he had only a few more hours to wait.
*
The room had no windows, and his captors had not considered it necessary to leave him with any kind of artificial lighting. Thus, for hours on end, the prisoner existed in almost complete darkness.
They fed him three times a day, and while he ate, his jailer stood in the doorway, the illumination from his oil lamp giving the prisoner just enough light to see his plate.
Perhaps he wasn’t given food three times a day at all, he thought. It was impossible to gauge time in this dark universe which had become his home. So possibly the meals came only a couple of hours apart. Or possibly a couple of days. Perhaps, even, two were brought close together, and then there was a considerable gap before the next one was delivered.
He did not feel particularly hungry whenever they brought him his food, but then that was no guide at all to the time between meals. He had done nothing—could do nothing—to work up an appetite, and when he did eat, it was only in order to keep up his strength—in case the chance of escape should present itself.
But escape wasn’t possible. He knew that deep in his heart. They were too careful—too rigid in their routine.
If only he knew why he was being kept there, he agonised. If only he knew what he had done wrong—or what they planned to be his ultimate fate.
He had never been a particularly good man, he reminded himself. In truth, he had done many things of which he was ashamed. Worse than that, he accepted that if he were eventually released from his captivity, he would probably do those things all over again.
But surely, whatever he had done or not done, he had done nothing to justify this!
He was constantly replaying the last few precious hours of his freedom in his mind.
Had there been any indication then that this was about to happen?
He did not think so. He did not think that even his captors had envisaged this fate for him at the time.
So what had happened to suddenly change everything—to turn his world upside down?
Was it something he had said?
Something he had done?
It had to be—though he could not imagine what that something was.
He heard the heavy steps of his jailer in the corridor outside his cell. It was time to eat again.
He suspected that they were drugging his food, but he ate it anyway. Because if life was such hell with drugs, he could not even begin to imagine what it would be like without them.
*
They were almost at the gates of Scotland Yard when Blackstone turned to his assistant and said, ‘I’d like your opinion about what I discovered at St Saviour’s Workhouse.’
‘I think it’s odd,’ the Sergeant replied.
‘Odd?’ Blackstone repeated, almost incredulously. ‘It’s odd when Sir Roderick Todd smiles at us. It’s odd when it doesn’t rain on public holidays. I think all this goes a little beyond odd.’
‘Then it’s very odd,’ Patterson conceded. ‘Most odd. Extremely odd. Odder than a gorilla in a convent.’
Blackstone grinned. ‘I think that�
��s taking things a little too far,’ he said. ‘But it’s certainly a puzzle. If the porter is right, and the man he admitted to the workhouse is the same one who gave Quail the guinea—and I’m almost sure he is right—then we have to ask ourselves who the bloody hell that man was. And why the bloody hell he chose to stay at St Saviour’s at all.’
‘Clean clothes, wasn’t over-keen on being respectful to a mere porter, not used to being searched—the bloke was obviously not what he was claiming to be,’ Patterson said.
‘Brilliant!’ Blackstone said dryly. ‘And do you think you could be just as helpful on my second question?’
‘You mean, what drove him to seeking admission in the workhouse?’
‘Exactly.’
‘He was in hiding.’
‘From whom?’
‘From us, I should think. That’s who most people who go into hiding are actually hiding from.’
‘That would make some kind of sense if he went into the workhouse after the fire,’ Blackstone mused. ‘Then he might have had a reason to hide. But before the fire we weren’t looking for him. Why should we have been, when we didn’t even know that he existed?’
‘It’s a mystery, all right,’ Patterson said. ‘But then, if it wasn’t for mysteries, we’d both be out of a job.’
‘Very philosophical,’ Blackstone said. ‘I appreciate a bit of philosophy now and again.’
‘Yes, I think it’s always a good thing to take a slightly wider—’ Patterson began.
‘Especially when I’m trying to solve one of the most difficult cases it’s even been my misfortune to have to deal with,’ Blackstone interrupted. ‘Philosophy can be very useful in situations like that.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘I can’t help thinking I missed something vital at the workhouse.’
‘Like what?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’ve absolutely no bloody idea.’
‘Then maybe you didn’t actually—’
‘But I’ve got this nagging feeling that there’s something I should have said—or something I should have done.’ Blackstone took a drag of his cigarette. ‘It’ll come to me,’ he said, without a great deal of conviction. ‘How are your own inquiries going, Sergeant?’
Blackstone and the Burning Secret (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 4) Page 4
