Blood Tribute (The Lucas Gedge Thrillers Book 1)

by Andy Emery

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘Knew him well, perhaps. We were at Cambridge together. Got up to all sorts then, of course. I was a shadow of my current self in those days.’ He patted his tremendous stomach. ‘Even then, Felix had unusual political ideas. I wasn’t interested in that, and these days it pays not to express thoughts in that area, one way or the other. Not in my profession.’

  ‘I’ve been led to believe that your true calling isn’t actually the sale and repair of clocks.’

  ‘Oh, I love the inner workings of these beauties. But obviously I have other interests as well, or you wouldn’t be here. I’m in the business of reconditioning. In particular, small arms for the private market. You can of course buy guns widely, and licence them for use outside the home, but I offer a more eclectic range, all from military stock, for the more discerning buyer. I take it you are looking to buy?’

  ‘That’s correct. My immediate need is for a reliable pistol for general use. Looking further ahead, I’d also be interested in a sniper’s rifle, one that will be accurate to at least eight-hundred yards.’

  ‘Intriguing. For the pistol, might I suggest this.’ Gideon opened one of the display cabinets, which contained multiple housings for handguns. He brought out a short-barrelled revolver. ‘It’s the Webley Mark 1, as you can see, ex-British Army. But as you know, the characteristics of the individual weapon can be more important than the make and model, and for that reason I can assure you that the actual guns I am showing you are superb examples of their kind. Of course, if you are not satisfied, you can bring them back for exchange, but I am sure you will not need to do so.’

  Gedge tested the weight and handling of the pistol, then checked the loading procedure, and took it apart, confirming that all parts were clean.

  ‘It looks like a fine weapon. I’ll take two cases of bullets with it, please.’

  ‘Certainly. They are .455 calibre. Now to the rifle. Especially for a marksman’s weapon, my remarks about the quality of the individual weapon are even more important. And this one is a beauty.’

  He turned to another of the cabinets, this time with a series of vertical slots for rifles, and pulled one out. ‘This is a Mauser Infanterie-Gewehr 71. It’s actually the 1884 adaptation with an eight-round magazine. Although the model isn’t generally known for distance work, this particular example has superb build characteristics and rifling. To get to the longest ranges, you will need this.’ He pulled out a telescopic sight made of brass, and attached it to the top of the rifle.

  Gedge again sized up the weight and feel of the weapon, or as much as he could do in a cramped basement.

  ‘Mr Gideon, they both feel like grand weapons. I’ll need to test the rifle out in live firing, as you realise, but I’m sure it will all be ideal. I value your expertise.’

  Gedge handed over the cash for both weapons, and took the revolver and ammunition with him. He would pick up the rifle at a later date, when he had time to subject it to some rigorous testing.

  31

  Gedge caught the return bus, and was back in the East End by 11 o’clock. He alighted at a stop on Bethnal Green Road that was overshadowed by the imposing bulk of the Bethnal House lunatic asylum. Skirting around the institution, he walked down Ann Street, and spotted the railway arches as he came around a bend in the road. He knew that the arches supported the main line between the Liverpool Street terminus a mile-and-a-half to the west, and the city of Norwich, more than a hundred and fifty miles northeast.

  The three brick arches that faced onto Ann Street each seemed to be occupied by businesses. One was a repair shop for hansom cabs. A cab minus its horse was sitting outside, and the noise of hammering issued through the open door. Another arch bore a sign for J. Gold & Sons, Import-Export, although there was no sign of life.

  Gedge’s interest was in the central arch; the nerve-centre of Bacchus’s operations, according to Hoyte. It was anonymous-looking; the frontage consisted of a wall of wooden planks, all peeling paint that may once have been green. Set into the frontage were double doors that would allow small wagons in and out of the premises; and, to the side, another smaller door, permitting access to foot traffic. This door was ajar.

  Gedge had timed his approach in order to coincide with the passing of a commuter train that had departed Liverpool Street a few minutes earlier. He saw the plume of steam and heard the train’s whistle. As the locomotive passed a point about a hundred yards away from where he stood, he dashed across the road behind a lumbering cart bearing stacks of wooden telegraph poles. He flattened himself against the wooden frontage of Bacchus’s den as the train passed overhead. He felt the structure vibrate. This was the time, with the noise permeating through the arches themselves, to enter.

  He opened the door a few inches and peered through. The interior of the arch reminded him of caves he had once explored in India. The roof with its smooth, uninterrupted curve, and patchy illumination provided by a few spluttering gas sconces.

  The centre of the space was occupied by piles of crates and barrels. On the face of it, the lifeblood of honest trade, but Gedge knew this was more likely to be the product of criminal extortion and theft. Around these piles and against the walls, racking had been fitted, containing tools, coiled ropes and other trappings. Immediately opposite the door, an iron staircase led to an upper floor gallery, containing a small office against the far wall, which occupied part of the apex of the arch. He could see a figure pacing about through the windows of the office. Red hair, cut severely. Goatee beard. Budding gang boss Matthew Bacchus.

  Gedge absorbed the scene within a couple of seconds. With the train still thundering above, he thrust the door open, closed it behind him, and made for the stairs.

  Another man walked around from behind one of the stacks of crates. He looked up, and saw Gedge. It was Creek, the loudmouth Gedge had bested at The Admiral Jervis. He snarled, spat something Gedge couldn’t hear above the din, and ran at him. This time, Gedge was ready for the youth, and as he launched himself, Gedge stepped to the side, whipped out a cosh, and rapped Creek on the temple as he lurched past. The boy dropped to the floor, unconscious.

  With the noise of the train receding, Gedge knew he had to act quickly to retain the element of surprise. He raced up the stairs two at a time, keeping the figure above in view as he did so. As he reached the top, Bacchus emerged from the office and leant over the railing, looking down into the warehouse below.

  ‘Creek! Where are ye?’

  Gedge smiled. ‘Your friend Creek’s having a little snooze, Mr Bacchus.’

  Bacchus whirled around, his eyes momentarily widening in surprise. But he regained his composure almost instantly, jutting out his jaw in defiance. Hoyte had described him well: aged nineteen at most, thin as a rake, with a natural arrogance. And he evidently fancied himself as something of a dandy, wearing a three-piece suit in a gaudy ginger-brown check.

  ‘Don’t tell me. The bloke from the Jervis? I knew there was more to it than Creek let on. Give ’em a bit of a whipping, did ye?’

  ‘That evening’s history now, Bacchus. It’s just a shame you didn’t take the hint and back off.’

  ‘Soft spot for old Hoyte? Well no, I’m a bit more resilient than that. And you’re threatening my business. Nobody gets away with that.’

  ‘Big words for a youngster. Make much more noise and you’ll attract the attention of the real players in the gangster world around here. The Flynns, the Kaplan gang. They’ll snuff you out in a moment.’

  ‘Maybe that’s my plan. Attracting ’em. Those boys appreciate talent. My chance to better myself. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘So I imagine it would be pointless appealing to your better nature?’

  ‘Completely pointless, mate.’ At that, Bacchus picked a vicious-looking object off the railing. It was an ‘s’-shaped metal implement about two-feet long, with a hook at one end. Gedge imagined it was used in the butchery trade. And now Bacchus was seeing him as a side of mea
t. He advanced on Gedge, swinging his weapon in an arc.

  Just before Bacchus came within flailing range, Gedge pulled the Webley from his pocket and aimed it at the youth’s chest.

  ‘Drop it!’

  Bacchus charged him. He’d guessed correctly that Gedge didn’t want to use the gun. But Gedge had decades of experience in hand-to-hand combat, and he was feeling more confident than he had at the inn a few weeks ago. He didn’t retreat or sidestep, but moved inside Bacchus’s swing and rammed the revolver flat into his opponent’s face.

  He heard the crunch as the cartilage in Bacchus’s nose ripped. The metal hook clanged down on the walkway. Gedge dropped his gun, gripped Bacchus with both hands, and thrust him back against the railing, forcing the breath out of his lungs.

  He released the limp body, and Bacchus slid down onto the gantry, violent spasms contorting him as he fought for breath.

  ‘Your little adventure’s just come to an end,’ said Gedge. ‘The only criminal masterminds you’ll be impressing are those already in jail, where you’re heading.’

  Gedge pulled Bacchus, blood flowing from his nose, down the iron staircase. Then he went to fetch a coil of rope from the racking.

  Half an hour later, a worker wandered out of the cab repair shop, lighting a cigarette. He took a puff and watched as a charabanc passed on the road. As it went by, he noticed one of the passengers look over. Her mouth opened and she said something, causing the other passengers to turn and gawk, some standing up to get a better view. Their attention was directed to the front of the next arch along. He followed the gazes, and dropped his cigarette.

  The entrance doors to the adjoining premises were open, and two men were tied up, one to each doorpost. Rope secured their arms, chests, and legs, and they were gagged. Of the two, the red-haired individual was wriggling feebly, his eyes blazing. Dried blood stained his face and chest. The bound figure on the other side was dark-haired and was staring at the ground, making no attempt to break free. Hanging around the necks of both men were signs written on large pieces of card. The sign attached to the wriggling man read:

  Mr Bacchus:

  Gangster and extortioner.

  Evidence inside.

  The other man’s label was in the same hand:

  Mr Creek:

  Henchman of Mr Bacchus.

  Looking inside the arch, between the two men, the worker could see what looked like a king-sized white sheet, tied across a big pile of boxes and barrels. Written in huge letters on the sheet, was the message:

  Proceeds of extortion and other criminal activity.

  Stock stolen from The Bell Inn in Stepney, Admiral Jervis pub in Spitalfields and other legitimate establishments, by Mr Bacchus and associates.

  The workman ran his hand through his hair. He’d need another cigarette, and he’d smoke that while fetching the nearest police constable from his fixed point two streets away.

  But then he noticed that very officer already hurrying towards him from the Liverpool Street direction.

  32

  Hugh Garland had been puzzling over who else was keeping an eye on Rondeau and Gedge, and neglecting his own duties in that direction. His thoughts had turned to the Special Branch officer Garrett Naseby. And now, as he signed the register at the front desk in the Queen Anne’s Gate office, he saw the Irishman limping down the stairs, and making for the desk himself.

  ‘Hello, Naseby.’

  The Special Branch man was startled, evidently concentrating on other things.

  ‘Major Garland. What a nice surprise. You coming in, me going out.’

  ‘Are you still working with us?’

  ‘You know how it is in this game, Major. I can’t tell you much. Just briefing the Colonel on a rather delicate matter.’

  ‘As I’ve bumped into you, can you confirm that your men are no longer involved in surveilling Lucas Gedge?’

  ‘I can. Yes, we stopped watching him when the Colonel handed you the reins. Any luck re-recruiting the rogue warrior?’

  ‘Not yet. It’ll have to be handled with care. Especially after that cock-up at the zoo.’

  ‘Indeed. Still, I’m sure you’re just the man for such a delicate operation, Major. Well, I must be going. I’ll be leaving London in a couple of days.’

  ‘Really? Back to the Emerald Isle?’

  Naseby laughed. ‘I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be a good idea for me at the moment. Somewhere on the continent, I expect. But again, can’t say much, old chap.’

  He signed himself out and took his leave. Garland stared after him. He found Naseby’s whole manner objectionable, but there wasn’t anything in what he’d said to heighten his suspicions. But as soon as Naseby had passed through the door into the street, the desk clerk, a young officer called Oliver Greenaway, spoke.

  ‘Sir…’

  ‘Yes, Greenaway? What is it?’

  ‘What he said there, sir. Well, it isn’t quite true. Sorry to listen in on your conversation.’

  ‘Not at all. What do you mean? What isn’t true?’

  ‘The part about no longer being concerned with that man Gedge.’

  ‘What the devil do you know about that?’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, but my cousin’s a trainee detective over at Leman Street station. Inspector Naseby is based there, too, with several other Special Branch men. They’ve taken over an office for themselves. Nobody there really knows what they’re up to, skulking about…’

  ‘I’m not interested in police gossip, Greenaway. Please get to the point.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. The point is, my cousin overheard him talking to one of his men about changing shifts, about keeping watch on someone. And the names Gedge and Rondy came up.’

  ‘It’s Rondeau, but go on.’

  ‘That’s it, sir. My cousin only took notice because those men are careful to stay tight-lipped. Don’t even pass the time of day with the regular bobbies, or the detectives. It was the only time anyone had heard them let slip anything about what they might be doing there. When I heard Inspector Naseby mention the name Gedge just now, I thought it might be significant.’

  A broad smile broke out on Garland’s face. ‘You might just be correct about that, Greenaway. Tell me, you’ve worked in the records section down below. Do we have files on the troubles with the Fenians some years ago, and more specifically the efforts to undermine them?’

  He looked excited. ‘You mean the Special Irish Branch, sir? Yes sir. I could—’

  ‘No, Greenaway. I’ll take it from here. It’s our good fortune that your cousin overheard what he did, and that you connected it with what you in turn picked up just now. You seem to be a family of snoopers! But in this case, that’s a good thing. Now, I need you to keep this strictly to yourself. Do not on any account mention this to anyone else, even your cousin. Do you hear me?’

  ‘No, sir. I mean yes, sir. I hear you. I won’t breathe a word.’

  ‘You’ve done well, and after this business is over, I’ll make sure those upstairs know it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Garland walked away from the desk, the smile returning to his face. As he took the stairs leading down to the basement, he muttered under his breath.

  ‘Naseby, you bastard.’

  33

  It had been a busy and rewarding day for Gedge, so far. Young Simeon had been handy in alerting the police to the trussed-up villains at the railway arch. He had little doubt that they would find ample evidence—both in the form of the goods stored there, but also in office paperwork—to send Bacchus to jail for quite some time. Of course, the redhead was a rank amateur in comparison to London’s real underworld bosses. But the termination of his activities had been smooth and effective, and it was the first time since setting foot in the capital that Gedge had felt pride in a job well done.

  But he couldn’t rest on his laurels. What Gedge had heard about Vic Musgrave hardly gave him confidence, yet he was the single tenuous thread that connected to Hannah. If Musgrave didn�
��t agree to the meeting at 7 o’clock tonight—as requested in the note he’d been left—Gedge would have to go looking for him.

  He took lunch at The Admiral Jervis and told Frank Hoyte about his encounter with Bacchus. The innkeeper, suitably relieved, offered to waive Gedge’s rent for the room, but he refused.

  Back at White Lion Street, Gedge reported on his morning’s activities, receiving much acclaim for dealing with his landlord’s tormentor.

  ‘We had a visitor here this morning,’ said Polly. ‘Inspector Cross.’

  ‘About Frowde’s death?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rondeau. ‘I don’t like having to lie to him. Pretending that Harry’s death was news to us.’

  ‘It wasn’t really lying, father,’ said Polly. ‘Just not volunteering the truth.’

  ‘That is too fine a distinction for me. But it was necessary, I know. He is also suspicious about the dead body in the window, from your previous visit to Bethnal Green, Lucas. Still, he can’t be sure that the man you bested was one of Ackerman’s thugs. I am afraid he sees this mess spiralling out of control.’

  ‘We can’t afford to tell the police about Musgrave,’ said Gedge. ‘They might scare him off.’

  Rondeau clasped Gedge’s shoulders. ‘I know, my friend. Do not be concerned. I retain my fortitude.’

  34

  It was mid-morning. They had been brought their meagre breakfast and it had been collected again. Hannah felt it was unlikely they would get another visit from their captors for a while, and she decided to use the time to probe the trapdoor.

  Quietly and carefully, she used her nail file to scrape away at the crack, gradually working her way round the rectangle. There was no doubt she was making the outline of the trapdoor more obvious, and if any of their captors took the trouble to look up when they entered the room, the game would be over.