Blood Tribute (The Lucas Gedge Thrillers Book 1)

by Andy Emery

  For the first time, the youth’s expression changed from a sarcastic smile to a snarl. He lunged towards Hoyte, who backed away further, banging into the optics behind the bar. Creek grabbed the gin bottle, smashed it on the bar and jabbed the jagged edge towards the barkeep. ‘Now, get whatever money you’ve got hidden in this stinkin’ hole! And if it’s short of what you owe, we’ll take the rest by way of your stock.’ He gestured at the drinks bottles behind the bar.

  ‘Alright! It’s upstairs. Please, gentlemen. Don’t break anything else. Please leave me my stock.’

  ‘Never mind that. Seth, you take him up there, make sure he brings the cash, and careful for any funny business. Even a dozy bastard like our mate Hoyte might have a cosh or a derringer hidden up there.’

  Hoyte and his shadow left the room and could be heard heading upstairs, while Creek started to knock back drinks at the bar. Gedge did his best to maintain the appearance of being drunk and insensible. But he realised that it was no good. He was going to have to act. He’d noticed Frank sneaking a glance at him; a mute appeal for help. It was almost as if he knew what Gedge was capable of. But surely he couldn’t. Nobody around here knew that.

  Suddenly, the other customer—an old man who had downed several glasses of gin himself—lost his balance and toppled out of his chair. He crashed to the floor and lay there, snoring loudly, but otherwise dead to the world. Creek turned and stared at the prone figure with a look of disgust.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ His face broke into a broad smile and he toasted the snoring inebriate with his latest glass of gin. ‘Welcome to London, the centre of the glorious bleedin’ British Empire. Cheers!’

  At that moment, Hoyte and the other thug returned. ‘Here, Creek. Old Hoyte had the money all along, stashed up there under his bleedin’ mattress, if you please. What he owed and a bit more besides.’ Seth held up a leather bag.

  ‘We’ll take it all, for our trouble. Here’s something for you to think about, for trying to hold out on us. Just make sure you remember next month’s payment, Hoyte, and there won’t be any more unpleasantness.’

  Creek slammed his fist into Hoyte’s stomach, doubling him up and sending him crashing to the floor, winded and spewing blood. Gedge’s fingers gripped the edge of the table.

  The two thugs jeered at the prone barkeep and turned towards the exit, only to be confronted by one of the supposed drunkards, who was was standing tall and blocking the door. They froze. Creek stared, a look of bewilderment crossing his baby-like face. He smiled again.

  ‘Sobered up pretty quick, eh, mate? Or are you not drunk? Just bonkers. A dishevelled old bugger like you must be nuts to stand in the way of a couple of strapping lads like ourselves. We don’t take prisoners, you know.’ He wagged a mocking finger at Gedge and Seth chuckled.

  ‘You’re not leaving with Mr Hoyte’s hard-earned cash,’ said Gedge. ‘Tell Bacchus to look elsewhere for his protection money. I appreciate you’re young and know no better, so if you’ll just set the money down and be on your way, we’ll say no more about it.’

  Creek locked his gaze with Gedge. ‘Say no more about it? You are a nut-job! We’re gonna have to teach you a lesson. Eh, Seth?’

  The blade of a knife glinted in Creek’s hand. Seth reached into his coat and pulled out a cosh.

  Creek lunged at Gedge, his blade slicing through the air. Gedge stepped aside, and chopped at Creek’s elbow from below. A cracking sound, and Creek screamed in pain, as the knife clattered to the floor.

  Seth came at Gedge, flailing with his cosh. Gedge barged him aside, but he was grabbed around the legs and they both went down. Gedge was stronger, rolling on top and bouncing his opponent’s head off the floorboards. Seth came back at him. The cosh—which must have been weighted with lead—careened painfully off Gedge’s right shoulder. Gedge slipped inside the swinging arm and drove his forehead into the side of Seth’s cranium, behind the left eye. The thug’s eyes rolled upwards and he toppled unconscious to the ground.

  Gedge staggered back, breathing hard. He felt some kind of cord tightening around his neck.

  ‘Bastard!’ hissed Creek. ‘You’ve done for my mate, but now you’re the one who’s buggered!’

  Stupid, stupid! Too slow! How had he allowed one of these morons to get the drop on him? Struggling for breath, Gedge managed to lever one finger under the garrotte as Creek desperately wrenched him to and fro, trying to tighten it. He knew that Creek’s right arm must be badly damaged so the power he could apply would be limited, yet his own energy was starting to run out.

  Another finger under the cord. He flailed at Creek with his other hand, but was rewarded only with a sharp pain from his own injured shoulder.

  Another finger, and the garrotte began to loosen, easing the pressure on his neck. He could feel his opponent getting weaker. Out of the corner of his eye, Gedge made out a large pewter jug on a table. Just reaching it with his left hand, he grabbed it and swung it behind him in one movement, catching Creek a solid blow on the head and sending him gasping to the floor.

  Gedge stood up and retrieved the money bag.

  ‘I suggest you get out while the going’s good.’

  Creek struggled to his feet and followed Seth, staggering towards the exit. In the doorway, Creek turned defiantly.

  ‘I nearly had you, old man. You’d better watch yourself. I see you again…’ He drew a finger across his throat.

  ‘I always watch myself, son. On your way.’

  The chilly night air again entered the pub as the thugs left, and after permitting himself a brief smile, Gedge turned back to Frank Hoyte.

  ‘How is it?’

  Hoyte struggled to a sitting position. ‘I’ll be alright, Lucas. Wind well and truly knocked out o’ me. A few bruises and that, but I’ll be alright. Injured me pride mostly, those bastards. But blimey, you were pretty handy with the rough stuff. Learn that in the army, did you? You’re a useful bloke to have around.’

  ‘I won’t be making a habit of it, Frank. And the boy was right. He was quicker than me for a moment. It could have been all up for me.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m a regular at the boxing. Bit of a devotee you could say. Sometimes even take in a less than legal bout, if you know what I mean. I’ve never seen some of the moves you showed just now.’

  ‘Sorry, Frank, but you’re not going to draw me on the details of my military career. I just want to settle down, do something a bit more… normal, I suppose. But what about this Bacchus? Is he a local troublemaker?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose you could call him that. New in these parts. He’s been putting the squeeze on pubs and some other businesses in the last few weeks. He’s less than twenty himself. I can’t see him lasting against the established gangs, but he’s causing a lot of trouble. Old Sid Boxall over at the Bell in Stepney: half a dozen of these oiks smashed his place up, robbed him of crates of booze. Now he’s payin’ up weekly. Anyway. Listen, Lucas. I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. Will you have another drink on the house?’

  ‘I’ll take up your offer another time, Frank. It’s been a long old day, and I just want to go up to my room, put my head down and get a good night’s sleep. Hopefully tonight’s little to-do might put Bacchus off, for now at least. But keep your ear to the ground and let me know if you hear anything. I’ll be off now. You clean yourself up, clear away that broken glass. The regular punters will start arriving soon.’

  Feeling slightly nauseous and with his left hand shaking and right shoulder throbbing, Gedge gathered up his coat and headed upstairs. On reaching his room in the eaves, he collapsed onto the bed and was asleep within minutes.

  Early next morning, just as Gedge was dressing, he was startled by a sharp crack, as something small but hard struck the window pane across the room. If someone had thrown a pebble, it must have been an accurate shot. He opened the window and looked out. Sure enough, a small boy was standing in the street outside, staring up at him. On seeing Gedge at the window, he shouted in a high, piping voice—‘Me
ssage for Mr Gedge!’—and flourished something in his hand.

  Gedge ran downstairs, still shirtless. The boy, scrawny but healthy-looking, doffed his cap and held out a card. As Gedge took it, the lad turned and ran before he had a chance to ask how he knew which window to aim at.

  It was a business card, and, as Gedge had hoped, was from Claude Rondeau. On the reverse, in a hand with an elegant flourish, was written:

  Mr Gedge,

  Please join me at 9am this morning, or as soon thereafter as you can, and we will discuss how we can be of assistance to each other.

  Regards, Claude Rondeau

  9

  Rondeau lived only about half a mile to the north of the inn. White Lion Street was straight and narrow, and the terraced houses were small but elegant looking, as though they belonged to a more gracious age. Number 14 had vivid red shutters and a red-painted door. Gedge lifted the knocker, rapped three times, and stood back from the step. As he did so, his attention was caught by a curious object mounted above the door: a vertical rod with discs at each end, the whole being about a foot in length.

  Gedge was startled, as the door opened sooner than he’d been expecting. An elderly white-bearded gentleman wearing a frayed burgundy smoking jacket stood in the doorway. He was tall and held himself unusually erect for his age. He regarded Gedge with piercing green eyes.

  ‘It is a spool. The sort they used in the silk-weaving industry, or a representation of one.’

  Gedge was nonplussed. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The object up there that you were looking at. A spool. It is there because the houses on this street were built by the Huguenots when they emigrated here a hundred and fifty years ago. They were great silk weavers. You are Mr. Gedge?’

  Gedge smiled. ‘Yes indeed, sir. And you must be Claude Rondeau.’

  Inside, Gedge followed Rondeau along a wood-panelled hallway, past a kitchen and into a room that was somewhere between a drawing room and a study. The interior of Rondeau’s house was extraordinary: a mishmash of Georgian and more modern styles; deep colours and rich textures; wooden panelling and plush fabrics; and books and papers everywhere. In the drawing room alone, fitted bookshelves covered one wall, floor to ceiling, and there were additional free-standing bookcases, also full to bursting. Piles of books and other documents littered the floor and covered several tables, desks, and a number of chairs.

  As Rondeau busied himself clearing two wing-backed chairs and an occasional table, Gedge studied the room further. The walls not obscured by bookcases were adorned with shelves bearing a range of objects, including trophies, awards and several photographs showing Rondeau with various other men. There were also several maps of London and parts of Europe. A warming fire blazed in the grate, and the floor was covered by a colourful patterned carpet, a little threadbare in places. They settled into the chairs.

  ‘I know it’s early, Mr Gedge, but will you partake of a small glass of brandy with me? The weather encourages it.’

  ‘I will, Mr Rondeau. Thank you very much. By the way, no doubt Darius told you about the boys who accosted us in the street, nearly giving the horse a heart attack with their firecrackers. It seemed to be a warning to you.’

  ‘Yes. He told me, Mr Gedge. I am sorry your arrival in the city was disturbed in that way. Although I try to keep my activities quiet, I inevitably attract attention sometimes. I do not know who they represented, but I cannot allow such concerns to affect me. Now, I feel I owe you an explanation for my asking you to come here. I knew poor, deluded Felix Bellhouse, your commanding officer in Simla. I say “knew”, because it is some time since I talked properly to him, and I fear he was losing his reason somewhat. Although you would know more about that than me. But in his last letter to me, he praised you to the heights. He described you as a specialist, a hybrid of soldier and spy. The sort of agent the world’s governments don’t even know they need yet.’

  ‘That sort of talk unsettles me. I was just doing my duty. I didn’t even know that the things Bellhouse was ordering me to do weren’t sanctioned.’

  ‘And therefore you are not to blame for the scandal that was provoked. Nevertheless, you were extremely effective in performing those tasks. A unique soldier. I believe I would be correct in saying that, unlike your activities, most of the tales of derring-do we hear coming out of Afghanistan and the so-called “Great Game” relate to rich young officers seeking excitement?’

  ‘The “shooting leave” nonsense? Yes, I wasn’t popular with that crowd.’

  ‘No matter. Of course, I followed the fall of Bellhouse and his court martial, and the fact that you were put out to pasture. How have you fared since?’

  ‘I was devastated to be told that the killing wasn’t necessary, because the Russians never had any intention of invading India through Afghanistan. It had all been a lie. And that was on top of some nasty experiences I’d had when I was working undercover. I was captured by the Russians’ Afghan allies, and tortured. I get nightmares about it every so often. Anyway, I spent some time travelling through India to the coast, and I’ve taken my time travelling over land and sea, all the way back here.

  ‘During that time I’ve come to terms with what happened, and I’ve decided that what I need is to become what I have never been. A father to my daughter. That, and to have nothing more to do with killing and violence.’

  ‘Quite so. Now to the reason I have asked you to come here. Apart from the fact that you sound like the sort of man that I would like to work with, you have a connection with something I am currently looking into. Did you come across this story a few years ago?’

  Rondeau picked up a set of newspaper cuttings, and passed them to Gedge.

  ‘The Pall Mall Gazette, five years ago. It’s headed “The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon.” I may have heard something about it when I was abroad.’

  ‘There was controversy over the sexual abuse and trafficking of girls, often very young girls. As well as being exploited in our own fair city, many were sold into effective slavery and taken to the brothels of Brussels. Incredibly, much of this was legal, and the journalist WT Stead made it his mission to expose what was going on, and used his sensational reporting style to excite popular opinion against the traffickers. It is a pity he got himself put in prison, by using the kidnappers’ own tactics to show what was going on. But his exposé, in the form of these articles, led to the passing of a bill which outlawed these activities.’

  ‘What’s the significance of that title? Why “Maiden Tribute”?’

  ‘It’s quite clever, actually. Babylon is the biblical city which, although a powerful capital, had also become corrupt and immoral. There’s an obvious parallel with the London of today, if you look beneath the surface. And the “maiden tribute” refers to the Greek legend, whereby the people of Crete offered up an annual sacrifice of young maidens (and male youths, too) to the minotaur, in its labyrinth lair. The hero Theseus slew the minotaur.’

  ‘Ah! The minotaur being a monster with a bull’s head and tail? My schooldays are coming back to me.’

  Rondeau brought out a briar pipe and proceeded to light it. ‘Very good. A myth of course, but the labyrinth could be said to represent today’s criminal underworld, and the minotaur either the criminal mind behind the crimes, or the corrupt system that allows it to flourish.’

  ‘I like that. It seems to me that what’s missing is a Theseus to do the slaying.’

  ‘Yes. It’s possible that Stead thought of himself like that, but it looks very much like the modern minotaur is far from slain. Unfortunately, making an activity illegal does not always stop it, especially when there is a lot of money involved.’

  Gedge cut in. ‘Are you saying that this sort of thing is going on again?’

  ‘In reality, it never stopped. Of course, it’s carried out in a more clandestine way. There are some differences to what went on back then. The girls are older, since the age of consent is now sixteen. But yes, to summarise, this is the problem I am looking
into.’

  ‘And what is the connection with me?’

  ‘A young journalist called Harry Frowde has been investigating the recent disappearances of young girls for me.’

  ‘Ah. I saw a piece of his in Lloyd’s Weekly.’

  ‘The latest edition? Yes, that is one of the articles he has written about the goings-on. He hasn’t revealed much in the articles, you understand. Not yet. But he has found out that one of the ringleaders of this current gang is someone you came into contact with eight years ago.’

  ‘In ’82? I was in Egypt then, seconded to an internal investigation. Allegations of atrocities involving British troops.’

  ‘One of whom was called Roland Ackerman.’

  ‘Ackerman. Yes, I’d almost forgotten. My god, the man was an animal. He was a sergeant. A fearsome fighter, but totally without morals. It was in the aftermath of the battle at Tel el-Kebir. Not content with murdering Egyptian soldiers who had already surrendered, his squad raped and murdered native civilians as well.’

  ‘Court martials took place. You were the one who brought him in, helped to gather the evidence against him.’

  ‘True. So, he’s resurfaced? But why are you looking into it? What about the police?’

  Rondeau shook his head. ‘There is little they can prove, and so far they have shown little interest.’

  ‘I begin to wonder if there are any of our institutions that one can still look up to. If people can’t rely on the police to protect them from this sort of criminality, some might lose hope.’

  Rondeau took a long puff on his pipe. ‘Do not believe that all policemen are venal and wicked. Many are the stout upholders of law that we believe them to be. But these are hard times for the police force. Their failure to identify, much less catch, the Ripper, along with numerous scandals in which they have either been complicit or blissfully ignorant, has led to derision from every stratum of society. And in such an atmosphere, it may be all too easy for the weaker-willed to turn a blind eye to criminality, or worse, seek to supplement their meagre wages by aiding the evil forces they should be battling. I am afraid it is but one example of the injustice that currently exists in the world. The sort of injustice that I seek, in some small way, to bring to an end.