In five minutes, Emily and Becker walked up the street to join him.
“They were reluctant to answer the door,” Becker said. “If not for Emily’s presence, they probably would have suspected me of being the killer.”
“Brookline does live there,” Emily confirmed.
De Quincey felt his pulse quicken.
“He never gave his last name, but he matches Brookline’s description, and he insists on being called ‘colonel,’ ” Becker added.
“Of course,” De Quincey said. “Brookline’s mother was a riverbank scavenger. He rose far beyond that. He couldn’t restrain himself from demanding to be addressed by his hard-earned title.”
“A distant man, one of the servants calls him,” Emily continued. “There are signs that he’s planning to move.”
“Oh?”
“Yesterday and today, coaches took away objects wrapped in blankets.”
“Indeed?”
“But why would he live in a house where you found shelter more than a half century ago?” Becker wondered.
“I hope to discover that.”
De Quincey stared at his laudanum bottle, wishing he could finish it and an endless number of other bottles until he could sleep and pretend that this waking nightmare didn’t exist.
“Father, this boy appears to be wearing your clothes,” Emily said in confusion.
De Quincey looked where she pointed down the street.
He smiled with genuine enthusiasm. “Joey. How good to see you, my fine lad.”
As the boy hurried toward them, Emily and Becker tried not to frown at the smallpox scars on his face.
“Those are your clothes, Father.”
“I was told you wanted to see me,” Joey told De Quincey. “I came here as fast as I could.”
“Did you catch a glimpse of Colonel Brookline entering and leaving Lord Palmerston’s mansion?”
“An hour ago when the church bells rang. A dustboy is followin’ Brookline on a donkey’s cart.”
“And someone else is watching the mansion now that you’re here?”
“Yes. But I don’t think the guards’ll let ’im stay in the park too long in his rags.” Joey tugged at the coat De Quincey gave him. “I don’t feel proper in this.”
“Then you won’t be disappointed if I need to exchange garments with you again?”
“Disappointed? I can’t breathe in these.”
“Then by all means, we shall allow you to breathe.”
Five minutes later, they returned from a nearby alley, De Quincey wearing his clothes again while Joey looked comfortable in his rags.
“Constable Becker,” De Quincey said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever—”
“Constable?” Joey asked in alarm.
“Not at the moment,” Becker assured him.
“A friend,” De Quincey said. “This man intends you no harm.”
“That’d be a new one, a peeler meanin’ me no harm.”
“Becker, have you ever acquired instruction in manipulating locks?”
“Picking them, you mean?” Becker asked.
“In a word.”
“I’m trained to keep locks secure, not force them.”
“I feared as much. Joey, in your endeavors, have you learned to manipulate locks?”
“With a peeler in front of me, you want me to admit I—?”
“Mr. Becker, turn away and put your hands over your ears,” Emily said, pointedly avoiding the word “constable.”
“Do what?”
“To make Joey feel at ease.”
Becker hesitated, then awkwardly did what Emily requested, putting his hands over his ears.
“Joey, have you ever picked a lock?” De Quincey requested.
“Once or twice,” the boy admitted. “Usin’ a nail.”
“Then go over to that door and knock on it. Can you read numbers?”
“I learned a little.”
“The number on the door is thirty-eight. Knock loudly. If people are in residence, I want them to hear you and open the door. The absence of chimney smoke on this cold day suggests that the house is unoccupied, but we need to be certain.”
“What if someone does answer?”
“Beg for bread. For a pence. Anything whoever answers can spare. And while you’re waiting, study the lock. Meanwhile we’ll step into this alley. If someone answers, I don’t wish us to be seen.”
While De Quincey, Becker, and Emily waited in the alley, the sound of Joey striking the knocker on the door reached them. The sound persisted.
Two minutes later, Joey rejoined them in the alley.
“Nobody answered.”
“And the lock?”
“Never saw a keyhole shaped that way. No way can I pick it with a nail. It don’t even have a doorknob.” Joey looked suspiciously at Becker.
“Then it appears I need to ask you to demonstrate your specialty,” De Quincey said.
“But I already tried to beg and nobody answered.”
“You normally beg in a particular way.”
Joey began to realize what De Quincey was talking about.
“That’s correct, Joey. You’re an acrobat.”
AS DE QUINCEY, Becker, and Emily watched in the alley, Joey gripped a drainage pipe and climbed. The pipe was made of cast iron and gave his fifteen-year-old hands ample room to grip it. Sometimes he found niches where mortar between bricks had fallen away, providing a place for him to wedge the toes of his worn-out shoes. Wanting to show off to the attractive young lady, he climbed as quickly as possible, although he had another reason for climbing quickly—the December cold made his hands ache against the metal. By the time he crawled over the eaves trough and positioned himself on a pitched tile roof, he needed to blow on his fingers to return sensation to them. If anyone noticed him on the roof, he wouldn’t arouse suspicion because it was common to see ragged boys on roofs, cleaning chimneys.
Soot made the tiles slippery. The breeze didn’t help. Twice Joey was forced to pause and steady his nervous breathing. But at last he reached the peak of the roof, from which another slope descended, one to the front, the other to the rear of the stretch of adjoining buildings. Straddling the peak, anchoring himself in the breeze, he briefly surveyed the magnificent expanse of London. Then he focused his concentration and squirmed past ten chimneys until he came to the part of the roof that De Quincey had told him about.
“I resided here many years ago,” the little man had said. “Searching for a blanket to give me warmth at night, I climbed the stairs to the top floor and found empty servants’ quarters. In a closet, a small staircase led to a space beneath the pitch of the roof, and that tiny space contained only a metal hatch that provided access to the chimney. The device allowed chimney sweeps to exit the chimney after their task was accomplished. It prevented them from needing to exit on the roof, from which a number of sweeps had fallen. I remember the hatch because it was unusual for the designer of a building to care about the welfare of sweeps. You are thin enough to descend into the chimney. The hatch will no doubt be secured on the other side. But Constable, I mean, Mr. Becker will loan you a knife. With its blade, you should be able to pry between the chimney bricks and the hatch, lifting the swinging bolt that secures it.”
“You want me to go into a bloomin’ chimney?”
“Only for what I judge to be eight feet. If you cannot open the hatch, you can easily return to the top of the chimney and make your way back across the roof.”
“Easily? And didn’t you say sweeps fell from this roof?”
“No doubt they lacked your acrobatic skills.”
“What will I get for this?”
“As I promised, food. Plenty of food. Lord Palmerston will be extremely grateful to you.”
“Well, Lord Cupid weren’t too grateful to you, judgin’ from the handcuffs I first saw you in.”
“Father, the boy deserves more than food,” the beautiful young woman objected.
Joey enjoyed looking at he
r. “Believe me, miss, I won’t turn my back on food.”
“Would you turn your back on going to school?”
“School?”
“And receiving your food there?”
“Such things are possible?”
“I will do everything in my power to make it so.”
“If this young lady promises something,” the man who claimed not to be a constable assured Joey, “I have yet to see her not gain her way.”
The woman looked at the tall man as if she wasn’t sure that what he said was a compliment.
Now Joey felt proud that he had been able to count the ten chimneys. He looked toward the opposite side of the street, where the tall man nodded, confirming that Joey was at the correct chimney. The man returned to the alley.
Joey stared down the chimney and verified that there wasn’t any smoke drifting up. He also determined that there weren’t any obstacles and that the chimney had a standard width, allowing access. The constable’s knife sheath was strapped to his left arm, where he could reach it as he descended. He took a deep breath, knowing from experience—he had been a chimney sweep four years earlier—that a cloud of soot would be dislodged when he squirmed into the chimney.
When Joey had been a sweep, his employer had forced him into the bottom of the chimney and then lit a fire under him, compelling him to climb as quickly as possible, thus allowing for the maximum number of chimneys to be cleaned each day. Joey had held a bag above him to collect the ashes and emerged from the top of the chimney with his skin and clothes totally black, coughing, weighed down by the heavy bag.
By comparison, this particular job wasn’t difficult, but Joey had made a fuss anyhow, trying to learn what else he could get for his efforts, although so far he hadn’t received anything. To this point, his only reward was that the little man amused him and the man’s daughter had a pleasant smile and treated him kindly.
The trick was to brace his knees against one side of the chimney while he shoved his back against the other side, easing down. Unfortunately, the rough texture of the bricks would create more holes in what he wore. Trying not to breathe, he slowly descended into the cramped darkness. Soot immediately floated around him, covering his hands and face. The sharp smell stung his nostrils. He paused, let the dust settle, inhaled shallowly, and descended farther. Sunlight no longer reached him.
Unable to see, he needed to feel along the bricks in search of the metal hatch. He squirmed down farther, pressing his back harder against the bricks, but he still didn’t feel the metal plate. Perhaps it had been removed in the many years since the little man had lived in this house.
Almost choking on the soot, Joey descended even farther. A portion of a brick broke away, plummeting and crashing. Joey grimaced and increased the pressure on his shoes to keep from falling. He grimaced for another reason also—if anyone was in the house, the noise would have warned that person about what he was doing.
Lungs aching, Joey slid lower. His heart raced when he touched the metal hatch. It didn’t budge. With care, he removed the knife from the sheath strapped to his arm. Feeling the edges of the hatch, he identified the side that had hinges and inserted the knife on the opposite side, between the hatch and the bricks.
The knife was too thick to pass through the narrow gap.
Light-headed, Joey scraped the knife against the bricks, working to widen the gap. Forced to breathe, he felt soot irritate his throat. All the chimney sweep boys he had worked with had died from lungs filled with soot. Blind, he subdued a gagging sensation and kept scraping at the bricks as more soot covered him.
Slowly the knife penetrated the gap. He shifted the blade up, felt resistance, raised the knife with greater effort, and felt the bolt swing away. His lungs were so starved that he didn’t care if someone waited for him on the other side. All he wanted was to breathe. Pushing the hatch open, he squirmed through the narrow space and sank onto the floor of a dark compartment so small that it barely had room for him.
In absolute blackness, Joey took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm the pounding of his heart.
His shoes dangled over an open space, which he discovered was a narrow stairway. Not daring to rest, he eased sightlessly down the stairs and came to a door that wouldn’t open. Desperate, he felt around the doorknob but didn’t feel a keyhole. Gently, he pushed at the door and heard a rattle on the other side, as if a board were positioned across the door, held in place by hooks.
Although this top part of the house was extremely cold, sweat trickled down the soot on Joey’s face. He felt around the door and touched splinters where nails had been driven into the wood on the opposite sides of the door, securing the hooks that held the board. Choosing the area near the doorknob, he dug the knife into the splinters. He twisted and gouged, prying away wood, exposing the nails. Working the knife’s tip harder, he created a deeper hole.
When he pushed at the door, it moved a little. He dug deeper with the knife, continuing to excavate the wood around the nails, and the next time he pushed, the door shifted enough for him to see a wedge of pale light. Now he pried at the wood with fierce resolve, and suddenly the board fell loudly.
Anyone in the house couldn’t have failed to hear him. Caring only about leaving the house, he shoved the door fully open and charged into a small, empty room that was illuminated by a tiny, barred, soot-covered window. Holding the knife, ready to slash with it, he yanked open another door, saw a dim hallway, and hurried downstairs. On the next level, the stairs continued, leading toward the front door.
Frantic, Joey raced down. Frowning when one of the stairs felt soft, he heard a sudden noise behind him. At the same time, something punched his back, taking his breath away. Overwhelmed by pain, he rose into the air and hurtled down the stairs.
DE QUINCEY CALCULATED THAT Joey would need fifteen minutes to cross the roof, squirm down the chimney, free the hatch, and hurry downstairs to the front door. Rather than attract attention by loitering on the street in front of the house, he remained in the alley with Emily and Becker. Since none of them could afford a pocket watch, he marked the time by walking in place, counting each relentless step as he relieved his nervousness and his need for laudanum.
Becker tried to make the time seem to pass less slowly by noting, “Not far from here is Broad Street, the center of the cholera epidemic three months ago. Ryan helped a local physician, Dr. Snow, make a map of where the victims lived. The map showed that the public water pump was at the center of the contamination. Turns out a cesspit is buried next to it.”
Preoccupied, Emily nodded, pretending to be fascinated by Becker’s discussion of a cesspit while De Quincey kept counting his paces.
When he reached fifteen times sixty, he emerged from the alley and approached the house. It took a further minute for the three of them to arrive there, so Joey now had sixteen minutes in which to accomplish the task.
But the door wasn’t open a few inches, the way Joey had been instructed to leave it as a sign that they could enter.
“Maybe the chimney gave him more trouble than he expected. Or else the hatch,” Becker said. “Or the lock.”
A typical lock in 1854 London wasn’t recessed within a door. Instead, it was screwed onto a door’s surface. The metal slot into which the bolt slid was attached to the doorjamb, in plain view of anyone on the inside. There wasn’t a lever with which a door could be locked and unlocked on the inside. A key needed to be used. Without a key, the only way to open a locked door from the inside was to unscrew the slot attached to the doorjamb. Joey would require another few minutes to use the knife to do that.
“Yes, perhaps the lock.” De Quincey couldn’t bring himself to say what he was thinking.
But Emily did. “Or else Brookline is inside.”
De Quincey reminded himself to breathe. “All Joey needs is a little more time,” he tried to assure them.
But another minute passed—and then two.
“We’re bound to be noticed, just standing here
staring at the door,” Becker said.
At once the door budged, only a little, so tiny a movement that De Quincey needed to ask his companions, “Do you see that? Is it real?”
“Yes, it’s real, Father.”
They shifted toward the steps in front of the door.
The door opened slightly more.
“Joey?” Becker asked.
A hand appeared at the edge of the door. The hand was covered with soot.
De Quincey started up the steps. “Joey?”
As the door opened wider, a figure staggered into view. Rags and face were dark with soot, except for Joey’s eyes, the whites of which bulged with pain, and except for Joey’s left shoulder, which was crimson with blood.
“Joey!” Emily raced up the stairs.
Entering, she grabbed the boy, holding him up, as De Quincey closed the door and Becker looked around warily, on guard against a threat.
“What’s this in his shoulder?” Emily exclaimed.
As she and De Quincey lowered the boy to the floor, they were forced to set him sideways because a foot-long shaft projected from where his shoulder met his neck. The tip had barbs. The rear had feathers.
“From a crossbow,” Becker said. “If he’d been taller, it would have struck him full in the back, just about where a man’s heart would be.”
Continuing to scan the area, Becker focused on the stairs, the middle section of which was obscured by thick shadows.
Joey moaned.
“We need to stop the bleeding!” Emily cried.
Becker crept up the side of the stairs, keeping close to the banister. His weight pressed a stair down. Something clicked under the stairs. Wary, Becker stooped and found a hole in the wood between one stair and another, a hole large enough for a crossbow to fire.
“Here,” Becker said. “A trap. There are probably others. Be careful what you touch.”
“He’ll bleed to death,” Emily said.
“You heard me mention Dr. Snow.” Becker jumped to the bottom of the stairs. “He lives the next street over, on Frith Street. Ryan sent me to him on Saturday night.”
Becker scooped up the boy as if he weighed nothing. “Quickly. Before Brookline comes back.”
Murder as a Fine Art Page 31
