by Andy Emery
Blood Tribute
A Lucas Gedge Thriller
Andy Emery
Contents
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 2
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part 3
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part 4
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
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About the Author
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Prologue
6am, 14th September 1882
Near Tel el-Kebir, Egypt
Lieutenant Lucas Gedge approached the rear of the hut. All was quiet, aside from the clucking of chickens and the occasional bleat of a goat. Even at this hour, the heat was dampening the back of Gedge’s shirt. He’d removed his boots and socks in order to make as little noise as possible as he stepped from loose sand to the compacted dirt around the hovel. He glanced back at Sergeant Otway, flattened up against the wall of an adjacent hut. Otway gestured back: all clear.
The building was the same as all the others he’d seen in these parts, with white-painted mud walls and a conical thatched roof. The paint was flaking off and bits of thatch had come adrift and lay on the ground. A scrawny brown hen skittered across Gedge’s path and he took care not to tread on it.
He reached the wall of the hut and listened, pressing his ear up against the painted mud; cool in the shade. He could just make out a low rhythmic sound. Snoring. All to the good.
His service revolver held ready, he edged along the wall towards a tiny window. Of course there was no glass; a faded rag hung across the aperture as a crude curtain. It was torn, with a gap at one corner. He peered inside.
He could see nothing clearly, but thought he could make out a bed, and the shapes of two bodies upon it. Snoring was coming from both: the deep, rumbling tones of a man, and lighter sounds from a woman or a youth. So his target had company.
He edged further around the wall, and was now a few paces from the hut’s door, which was illuminated by the early morning sunshine.
He had to be quick. Any delay in getting through the door would be risky. He would be easily seen by someone emerging from any of the other huts, and his squad could do without a crowd of locals misinterpreting the situation and cutting up rough.
Gedge’s left hand moved to the St Christopher he always kept on a chain round his neck. He held it for a second, then signalled to Otway that he was going in. The door looked flimsy, and it responded to his kick by crashing inwards, its component planks flying off in all directions.
Light flooded into the hut, which was essentially one room. Against the far wall was a low bed, with the two human forms shaken out of their slumbers by the sudden commotion. One was clearly a native woman, her face contorted by fear as Gedge advanced, revolver in hand. She grabbed a tunic from beside the bed, covered her naked body, and scuttled to the edge of the room. She cowered there, jabbering in Arabic.
The man reacted more slowly; raising himself to a sitting position and rubbing his eyes, then fixing Gedge with a glare. His black hair and beard were matted, and his eyes told Gedge that he was still feeling the effects of drink or drugs from the night before.
‘Sergeant Roland Ackerman,’ said Gedge, pointing the pistol at the man’s chest. It was a statement, not a question. There was no doubt it was him. ‘You’re under arrest. Get up and put your clothes on.’
Ackerman didn’t move. He ran a hand over the stubble round his chin.
‘And who might you be?’
‘Captain Lucas Gedge. Not that it should matter to you. You are to answer charges including murder.’
‘Murder? These heathen scum? You must be joking! Any idea how many men I’ve killed for Queen and country? And now you say you’re going to arrest me for some indiscretion with the locals?’
‘Hardly an indiscretion. You and several of your men are charged with murdering Egyptian troops who’d already surrendered, and then raping three women in the village here. This one got off lightly, it seems. Your friends are already in the cells. You’ve brought the Grenadier Guards into disrepute, Ackerman.’
‘Being charged isn’t the same as being found guilty, Captain Gedge. I’m wondering who’ll be called as witnesses. Although if they’ve got it in for me, that won’t matter, will it?’
‘If you’re looking for sympathy, don’t bother. I’ve seen your record. You’ve been around trouble for most of your enlisted life, one way or another.’
‘It’s men like me that get the job done. I’ve been taking ground, and taking lives, for the Empire for fifteen years. Up to my eyes in blood. There’ve been no complaints up to now. Start taking the likes of me out of the equation and you won’t have an army worth the name.’
‘I’m not interested in a philosophical debate, Ackerman. It’s time to go. I’ve seen a bit of action myself, and if you’re not out of that bed and ready to leave in ten seconds, I will use this gun. Resisting arrest.’
Ackerman started to haul himself out of bed, but then reached down to grab something from the floor.
‘Don’t do it!’
Ackerman was already swinging the barrel of a shotgun up in Gedge’s direction. Both weapons were discharged, as Gedge threw himself to the right. His own bullet passed over Ackerman’s head and buried itself in the wall. Gedge felt the power of the shotgun blast as he fell, but not the pain of pellets entering his body. Instead, they peppered the wall behind where he’d been standing, dislodging great clods of dried mud. The woman shrieked and ran out of the hut behind Gedge.
He rolled over and took aim just as Ackerman came around the side of the bed towards him. He’d not had time to reload and so was wielding the shotgun like a club, apparently intent on bashing Gedge’s brains out. Gedge fired again, and hit his adversary in the right shoulder, spinning him backwards and causing him to drop the gun. He leapt to his feet and delivered a punch to Ackerman’s stomach, doubling him up.
Otway and the other two members of Gedge’s squad arrived at the doorway just in time to find him leading Ackerman out, wrists handcuffed in front, in deference to the shoulder wound.
‘The medic will need to look at that when we get back,’ said Gedge. ‘Otway, check the hut, while we take our friend here to the transport.’
The sergean
t watched Gedge and the others bundle Ackerman into the cart that would start his journey to jail, where he would await court martial.
A figure stepped out of the shadows behind the hut and approached Otway. He proffered a cigarette, and then proceeded to light it for him. ‘Good work,’ he said, although his face didn’t show much sign of pleasure. ‘But I have mixed feelings. The activities of the sort of unit you’re part of will be divisive. Ackerman’s been a thorn in my side for some time, and I felt I had to report him. But it still doesn’t seem right, somehow.’
‘I’m just a soldier following orders, Major Pullman. And it’s only a temporary assignment.’
‘Quite so.’ Pullman puffed on his cigarette and stared at the cart as it moved off, heading for the track leading out of the village. ‘That man, Gedge. Rum sort, by all accounts. Shipped over from India to be part of this witch hunt. They say he’s a bit of a loner. I suppose that’s an advantage for this sort of work. Investigating your own, I mean. Wouldn’t suit everyone.’
Otway rolled a pebble around under his boot. ‘I suppose not, sir. I think all of us would rather be fighting our enemies.’
The cart swayed from side to side as it bounced in and out of the potholes. To Gedge, the two nags hauling it didn’t look as though they would survive the two-mile journey to the embarkation point. The four men inside were crammed together. Ackerman sat beside one of the guards, and was chained to the floor as well as being handcuffed. Gedge faced him, next to the other guard. With every lurch of the cart, both pairs were thrown together.
Nobody had spoken since they left the village. The guards gazed out of the windows at the monotonous landscape of stony desert, adorned only with a few straggly shrubs. Ackerman stared straight ahead. Gedge again fingered his St Christopher, and allowed his mind to wander to his daughter, Hannah, and to what she might be doing at this moment back in England.
Suddenly, he was aware that Ackerman’s gaze had shifted: he was staring directly at the charm around his neck. Ackerman grinned, licked his lips, and then quickly looked away again, focusing straight ahead. Gedge did not speak. He joined the guards in contemplating the endless expanse outside.
Just at that moment, a young native girl—perhaps six years old—came into view, walking in the opposite direction, back towards the village. She was wearing a tattered shift dress and using a stick to prod two malnourished goats that dawdled in front. Her arms and legs were thin as reeds, her hair tousled. A wave of unwonted sympathy flooded over Gedge. She seemed so vulnerable, innocently trudging along, blissfully unaware of the harshness of the world: the bloody battle that had been fought nearby not forty-eight hours before; and, up until half an hour ago, the presence in her village of a predator like Ackerman.
With a start, Gedge realised he was still clutching the St Christopher, gripping it so tightly that the edges were cutting into his fingers.
I
1
London’s East End, Eight Years Later
The girl was shaking uncontrollably. It was a mild night: her tremors were not from the cold, but from fear. She looked back at the rear of the house, and winced. Too late, she realised that when she’d seen her opportunity and slipped out, she’d left the back door ajar. She didn’t dare go back to close it now.
She was in the cobbled yard, a bleak space enclosed by the house on one side and six-foot-high brick walls on the other three. Rubbish bins, piles of old crates and broken-down furniture were stacked against the brickwork.
And in the middle of the wall opposite the house: a wooden door.
She rushed up and tried the handle. It was locked fast, and felt more solid than it looked.
She stole another glimpse behind her. No sign of anyone or any sound from the kitchen. Yet.
Turning her attention back to escape, she could see jagged, glinting shapes on top of the walls: broken glass set into cement in order to dissuade anyone who hoped to climb over.
But there seemed to be no other way.
She piled up a few crates, so that she could clamber up and just about reach the top of the wall with her fingertips. Jamming the toes of her shoes into the soft mortar between the bricks, she levered herself up and wrapped one arm over the top of the wall, trying to avoid the slivers of glass. But she eventually had to cross over the top, where she felt several of the shards penetrate the skin of her hands, arms and stomach. Daggers of pain seared into her and she only just stifled a scream.
She looked over the other side of the wall, where a dark alley led to a thoroughfare about ten yards to her left. The road was brightly lit by gas lamps, and she could see hansom cabs and other vehicles passing along it.
Then she heard a noise from the direction of the house. She looked back and saw an upper-floor window open and somebody look out. Miraculously, this person did not seem to see her atop the wall before they ducked their head back in. But then a commotion started up from the kitchen, where she could see movement behind the window.
The door was snatched open. Now, there was no choice. She had to jump.
Pushing off to avoid snagging and tearing her dress on the sharp glass, she leapt down into the alley, landing well. She hurried towards the light from the street. The pain from the glass cuts nagged, and she could feel blood trickling down her body in several places.
She could hear voices coming from the back yard of the house, but hope—and a deal of confidence—jolted her heart. They were too late. In seconds, she would be on the street, surrounded by people and able to lose herself, never to be found again by those who had imprisoned her.
She turned into the street and was immediately accosted by a blast of sound. The alley had been so quiet, but now there were the cries of traders, the rattle and clatter of a dozen forms of horse-drawn transport, and the drone of a barrel organ thirty yards away.
Looking back, she saw the door in the wall of the alley open.
She made off up the street, towards the greatest hubbub; towards the glare of shop windows and a thicker throng of people on the pavements.
They couldn’t get to her now. She laughed out loud, yielding curious glances from passers-by. She skipped on, and, seeing an omnibus labouring along the street, an idea emerged; something that would confound her would-be pursuers and let her get away clean. At the last moment, as the bus was almost level with her, she ran out in front of it, just inches from the noses of the horses, causing them to whinny and the driver to call out in anger. Again, she laughed as she rounded the bus on the other side, and made for the far pavement.
She didn’t see the hansom which had pulled away from a stop on the other side of the road. Although the horse was not travelling at any speed, it was a heavy-set beast, more akin to a carthorse than the usual run of nags, and it reared up at the sudden appearance of the girl, kicking out with its front hooves and striking her head with a dull thud.
She was sent cartwheeling through the air and into the gutter, to the accompanying shriek of a woman bystander. The hansom’s driver leapt out of his seat and several pedestrians ran forward. The girl’s body lay in a heap, and a small crowd gathered round it.
Hanging a few yards back behind the crowd, a man and a woman stood, craning their necks, looking as concerned as everyone else. When they heard a man’s voice say, ‘It’s no good. She’s gone,’ they quietly slipped away, back towards the alley.
2
While the incident with the hansom cab was taking place in London, across the English Channel in Antwerp, an oddly matched couple were watching a tramp steamer tying up at the dockside, from their vantage point on the fourth floor of a derelict hotel. The elderly, white-bearded gentleman let out a sigh as he observed the gangplank being lowered. He was Claude Rondeau, descendant of Huguenot immigrants to England, and before his so-called retirement, a manipulator of the shadowy levers of power for both government and industry. His youthful female companion was his ward Polly, raised as a daughter by Rondeau and his late wife, from the age of five.
Polly pu
shed a stray lock of auburn hair back under her scarf and peered through a dainty pair of opera glasses.
‘Here they come,’ she whispered.
A small group of people emerged onto the boat’s deck and picked their way down the wet gangplank. There were three taller male figures, who seemed to be pushing and cajoling eight young women, each carrying a battered suitcase or boxes tied with string. At the rear of the party, another man followed at a slight distance, checking his watch and looking up and down the dockside, as if waiting for something. The group assembled and the man with the watch spoke a few words in a language that may have been Dutch.
Polly whispered again. ‘This sort of thing was really going on legally until a few years ago?’
‘Yes, until they finally passed the Criminal Law Amendment Act. But don’t be fooled. Making something illegal doesn’t always stop it. The same thing goes on still, but now it’s underground. Beyond the gaze of our police forces.’
A few moments later the group on the dockside moved off again and was shepherded through a large barred gate between two warehouses. Rondeau could just make out the dark shape of an omnibus or charabanc beyond, no doubt to take them to their destination in the city.
‘No checks, you notice,’ said Rondeau. ‘They seemed to pass straight through the dock unmolested. Bribery has obviously occurred, although that is the least of the crimes those men are involved in. From here the girls will be taken to one of the bordellos that I told you about.’
‘What do we do now, Claude? Should we follow them to see which particular establishment they are heading for?’
‘No, Polly. We must leave further investigations here to our Belgian friends. We have followed their trail from Wapping Stairs, but this disease must be attacked back at its source, in our very own East End.’
Rondeau eased himself away from the open window. Despite the late hour, it was unusually mild for November, and he hadn’t had to resort to his thickest winter coat for the trip.
