Blood Tribute (The Lucas Gedge Thrillers Book 1)

by Andy Emery

  Martha dissolved into tears again. She took out a tissue and wiped her eyes.

  Polly reached out and took her hand.

  ‘It’s alright, Martha. Take your time. You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to. We’re sorry to have made you dredge all this up again.’

  ‘No, I’ve got to go on. If it’ll help you to stop the people behind this.’

  She composed herself and started again.

  ‘That was it, that night. I probably could have backed out then, but I didn’t know what was coming. As it was, they’d got me trapped. I woke up on the carpet next to the couch. Light was coming in through the windows, so I knew it was morning. Elise was lying partly on top of me, with her arm around me, snoring loudly, and we were both naked. The gowns were draped on the couch. I felt terrible. I had a dreadful headache and I knew I’d got myself into something horrible. I pushed Elise off and she flopped over, still snoring. I couldn’t believe I’d been there all night. I stumbled to my feet, wrapped one of the gowns round me and looked about for my clothes. Just then, Abernathy came in, and said, “Awake, are you? Looking for these?” He dropped my clothes on the couch. I stared at him and asked the time. “It’s 10.30 in the morning,” he said. “You’ll probably be wanting to get away. I’ll see you in a week’s time.”

  ‘Of course I told him I was the very last person he’d be seeing again, and started raging against how he’d treated me. But then he took a large buff envelope from the top of one of the cupboards and offered it to me. He said, “I think these will change your mind on that score.” As you’ve probably guessed, the envelope contained photographs. Not just the ones I knew about, but more that had been taken while I was asleep, or unconscious. He’d developed them overnight. The pictures were of Elise and me, posed to suggest the two of us doing all sorts of disgusting things. There were a dozen or so. He didn’t need to say any more. I knew I couldn’t tell anyone. Who would believe me? And if anyone I knew saw any of those pictures… I had to go back the next week, or my secret would be out.

  ‘So that’s how they got me involved. I ended up going to that house a dozen more times over the next few months. I can’t go into all the details, I just can’t, but…’

  The tears came again and Polly hugged her close. Gedge got up from his chair and walked over to the fire, staring into it and shaking his head. But Martha still had a little more to say.

  ‘I was a virgin, see. And for some of them that was a big attraction. Some of the other girls said there’s a common fantasy among men. Doing it with their daughters. At that house they provided the next best thing. You become hardened to it after a while. It ceases to shock. The depravity. It wasn’t only girls, either. Boys as well. And sometimes it got violent. Some of the screams I heard. I got hit a few times, but I was lucky compared to some. And then towards the end, something different happened. I overheard Abernathy talking to some other men. He said they were winding up the business, because it didn’t do to keep tempting fate. Eventually someone would cotton on to what was happening. Then he spoke about their friends over the channel and how they’d be ready to welcome his “little chickens”. And a boat that was to leave one of the wharves at Wapping the next Sunday. I didn’t add it up then, but I realised something bad was going to happen. It sounded like they were going to take us away, for god knows what. Of course later on, I read about it. I realised they’d been taken abroad. I hate to think what happened to those girls. I wish I’d warned them and we’d all got away.’

  Gedge knelt down in front of Martha, and spoke gently.

  ‘Martha, I have a few questions. Are you up to it?’

  She sniffed and clung to Polly, but nodded.

  39

  Ackerman stared down into the Thames, as it lapped around the medieval wharf at Wapping. The river gave off a particular odour here: a stomach-churning cocktail of the city’s detritus. Rotting garbage, industrial effluent, human and animal faeces. All mixed in with the stench of death. He reflected that the depositing of dead bodies into the river was normal, historically speaking. Nothing to get worked up about. It wasn’t the first time those who’d crossed him had been consigned to the currents.

  Vera stood next to him, shivering.

  ‘She is taken care of, I presume?’ said Ackerman.

  ‘Yes, sir. Trussed up good and proper. Tied to the bed, gagged. A guard will stay outside the room all the time, just in case.’

  ‘Seems a waste of manpower, but I can’t afford to lose any more of them. She’ll pay for what she did to Jeb when she gets to the auction. I’ll make sure she goes to the most sadistic bastard there.’

  Vera pulled her thin coat tight around her, as two of Ackerman’s men lifted the long oilskin-wrapped package between them and stepped out on to the jetty, grunting and straining.

  ‘Jeb wasn’t that big,’ said Vera. ‘What the devil’s he weighed down with?’

  Ackerman smiled. ‘Very observant. That package is larger than you might have expected because it contains two bodies, not one. Forgive me for not telling you, but the other girl, Esther, didn’t get the opportunity to inform on us after all. It was our good fortune that an associate of mine, name of Naseby, encountered her just as she turned the corner from the house. He’s got a gammy leg, but he’s quick on the uptake. Realised where she was from and tripped her up with his stick. Unfortunately for her, when she fell, she cracked her head on the pavement. Stone dead.’

  Vera gulped.

  The two henchmen with their heavy load shuffled past the gibbet, last used in the dark ages, but kept as an ineffective warning against modern crimes. They reached the end of the jetty and looked back at Ackerman. He nodded, and they lowered the package as far as possible, to reduce the sound of the splash, and then dropped it into the oily water. It sank immediately. As the two men made their way back off the wharf, Ackerman turned to his associate.

  ‘Do you ever wonder about the dead, Vera?’

  ‘I try not to, Mr Ackerman. But what do you mean, exactly?’

  ‘Leaving our old mate Jeb in the tender care of Old Mother Thames is part of an ancient tradition. Poor sod. Killed by a lucky slash with a sharp piece of crockery. You never know how you’re going to go, do you? Most of the inhabitants of London don’t know that hundreds, maybe thousands of corpses are dumped in here every year. Often, at low tide, bits of bones get washed up. Scavenging kids sell ’em on to doctors, archaeologists and the like.

  ‘And that’s just part of it. All over London, there are mass graves, plague pits. From the bronze age, through Roman and medieval times, right up to today. Churches like the one in Spitalfields are built right on top of them. Every time they do any excavation for one of their grand projects, they turn up skeletons, skulls. It’s almost as if the very soil of London, and the river itself, is crying out for more souls.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Ackerman.’

  ‘Didn’t think I was a philosopher, eh, Vera? Well, I’m not usually, but tonight’s a bit different. I can’t say I’m not disappointed by this afternoon’s events. But we’re going to complete this job and get paid a king’s ransom into the bargain. Nobody’s going to stop us. If anything, I’m in a good mood. But still, I think I do hear this old river crying out, you know. It wants another soul. It wants yours.’

  He saw her wide eyes dart to his face. In one movement he slipped behind her, pushed her chin up with his left hand, and with the dagger in his right, sliced her throat from ear to ear.

  Briefly, he held her twitching body close, the blood gushing across his hands and arms, before pitching her off the dockside and into the water.

  40

  ‘Alright,’ said Gedge. ‘First, how did you actually get away from the gang? And how long ago was that?’

  Martha composed herself. ‘I just told myself that although they had the pictures, I couldn’t let that stop me from getting away. I wrote to my uncle in Hastings. We hadn’t seen each other for years, but he agreed to take me in. He’s a grumpy old sod a l
ot of the time, but I thought that would be a good place to hide, right out in the sticks. One day, about six months ago, I just upped and left. I heard later that Mr DuPont was sent a couple of the pictures to discredit me, but I’d already let him know that I would have to pack in the job for “personal reasons”. I still hated the idea of him thinking I was some sort of tart, though. Other than that, I assumed I wasn’t that big a fish in their pond, and they didn’t go to much trouble to find me.’

  ‘They underestimated you,’ said Polly. ‘They thought that because of the pictures, you would always do just what they wanted. Probably a lot of girls from poor backgrounds would be trapped in that situation. Thank goodness you had a way out. Were all the girls able to come and go, like you?’

  ‘No. I’m sure some stayed in that house and never left. And there were one or two boys, as I said. I reckon they used drugs as well as drink to keep us obedient. He must have put something in my drink that first night.

  ‘By the way, you’re probably wondering why I’m here in Dungeness. This place actually belongs to a woman who runs a café in Hastings. She only uses it occasionally. One day I just got so worked up at the prospect of one of those evil bastards coming to find me, I decided to take up her offer and come and stay here for a while. And I couldn’t stand my uncle much longer, anyway. Three weeks was enough.’

  ‘It certainly seems to be remote from any danger,’ said Polly. ‘But aren’t you very lonely?’

  ‘Oh, I hate it now. You’re right, it’s so bleak.’

  ‘So,’ said Gedge, ‘when you left London six months ago, you thought all the trouble was coming to an end? It looks like it’s either started up again or it never really stopped.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve managed to exchange a couple of letters with my old friend Vic since I came down here. He reckons it’s started up again. Mostly I try not to think about it.’

  Polly sighed. ‘We’re sorry to make you relive all of this, Martha. But there are two more questions we need to ask you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Firstly, the big house you were taken to. You said it was near Victoria Park. Can you be more exact? And could they still be using it?’

  ‘It was next to the Regent’s Canal, just across from the park. At the junction of Sewardstone Road and Bandon Road.’

  ‘Ah, that rings a bell. That big chest hospital’s just round the corner, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. The house was owned by some bloke with a double-barrelled name. The story was that the gang had something on him. He was more or less forced to let them use it. I can’t believe they’d still be using the same place.’

  ‘Martha, this is very important,’ said Gedge. ‘Can you remember the house-owner’s name?’

  ‘Fox-something. I remember the first part because I love foxes. I sometimes used to see one wandering along our road. The second part of his name… something quite common… Williams! That’s right. Fox-Williams.’

  Gedge smiled. ‘Well done, Martha. We should be able to find out something with that information, even if they’ve moved somewhere else. Just one last thing. Vic said there was another man, someone who was in some way “above the police”. He said that you know who he is. He was a man who dealt with the clients, the people who preyed on the girls. Including you.’

  She nodded, and looked down at her lap. ‘I don’t know his name, but he was horrible. He walked with a limp, and he was Irish. Didn’t see him much, but when I did, he always seemed to be skulking about, with this sarcastic smile on his face. To think that he was encouraging those toffs to do whatever they wanted with us…’

  ‘But what about this “above the police” stuff?’ said Gedge. ‘Was he or wasn’t he a policeman?’

  ‘Not really. But that’s what I meant. He was more important, it seemed, than the usual coppers. Plain clothes. Secretive. He was part of the special something-or-other.’

  Gedge sat up. ‘Was it Special Branch?’

  ‘Yes. Have you heard of them?’

  ‘I have. And do you remember, Polly, your father telling us that there are some Special Branch officers stationed at Leman Street?’

  She nodded. ‘Inspector Cross told him that.’

  ‘Coincidences do happen, but I suspect not in this case. We can check with Cross whether that description fits any of his unwelcome house guests.’

  Polly turned back to Martha. ‘You’ve been a huge help. You can’t appreciate how much. We may finally be able to return to London and sort this mess out. It’s too late for us to get back there tonight. If it’s alright with you, can we sleep on the floor here? At least it will be company for you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’d appreciate the company. Or you could try to sleep in the chairs.’

  ‘That’s settled then. And tomorrow, I’d like you to think about coming back with us, and staying with my father and myself in Spitalfields. I know it’s near to the danger, but we can keep you safer than if you were on your own here or in Hastings.’

  Martha looked worried at the prospect, but was too tired to protest. She pulled out spare blankets from a cupboard, and Gedge and Polly settled down for an uncomfortable night.

  Just before nine the next morning, Gedge stepped out of Hope Cottage and stood on the wooden walkway. For a change, there was a hint of brightness in the sky, a welcome relief after the grey monotony of the last couple of weeks. Gulls wheeled in the air above. He stretched and touched his toes, trying to assuage the aches he felt after a fitful night in an uncomfortable chair.

  He stared out to sea. Had this trip provided the breakthrough they needed? It was certainly possible. But now they had to get back to London, and take the fight to the enemy.

  Right on time, he thought he could just about make out their wagonette, still a speck, heading towards them along the road from the north.

  IV

  41

  Gedge, Polly and Martha arrived back at Victoria railway station in the middle of the afternoon, and took a hansom to Spitalfields. It was now nearly six days since Hannah had been taken.

  At 14 White Lion Street, Martha found herself smothered by Rondeau’s concern. He insisted that Darius prepare the guest bedroom immediately, and Martha retreated for some rest and privacy. A little later, Polly went up to check and found her sound asleep, curled on her newly made bed. Polly and Gedge took the opportunity to retell Martha’s story, for the benefit of Rondeau and Darius.

  ‘Clearly, two important pieces of information have emerged,’ said Rondeau. ‘One, the house that was the centre of their operations when Martha was involved; and two, the confirmation that this Special Branch officer is a key figure. If he can be apprehended, both the gang and their clients will face justice.’

  ‘If he talks,’ said Gedge.

  ‘That, I think, will be the responsibility of the police to ensure. And on the subject of the forces of law and order, I must hasten to Jack Cross with this news. He will be able to put a name to the limping figure. But, regarding Mr Fox-Williams, I believe we should investigate immediately. Ourselves.’

  ‘But how?’ said Gedge. ‘Search the house agents to check whether Fox-Williams still owns it? Or can we find the man himself directly?’

  ‘Fortunately, the latter. You see, when you mentioned that name, I recognised it. I could not for the life of me think why, but then I realised there was a connection with the Grenadier Guards, Ackerman’s former regiment.’

  Rondeau paused to take a sip of water, and Gedge noticed Polly smiling. She was no doubt used to observing her father’s brain moving through the gears; starting slowly, but plucking facts out of what seemed like thin air, and connecting the pieces into a web of information that made perfect sense.

  ‘The connection is from a scandal that happened last year. You will not have heard about it, because none of the usual papers carried the story. They were either scared to do so, or warned off, because the affair involved some of the highest officials in the land. Or so it is claimed. The only paper that did feature
it was The North London Press, a radical weekly that I happen to subscribe to.’

  ‘Imagine!’ said Polly, with a mischievous grin. ‘You being interested in radical matters, father.’

  Rondeau ignored her and continued. ‘In essence, a male brothel at Cleveland Street in Marylebone was using telegraph messenger boys to lure customers. Of course, homosexual acts and related procurement are illegal and punishable by prison sentences and possibly hard labour. The high and mighty who were implicated were desperate to avoid these measures, and several of them escaped to the continent. One of these was a certain Jonathan Fox-Williams, twenty-two years of age at the time. He was one of the less prominent visitors to Cleveland Street, but The North London Press had found out a lot about him, including the fact that his father Arthur had fought for the Grenadiers, winning medals for gallantry twenty years ago.’

  Gedge gave a little clap. ‘Thank goodness for your memory, Claude. So, it’s likely that Ackerman knew, or at least had heard of Fox-Williams, from their shared military background, and then somehow used his knowledge of his son’s disgrace against him, in order to use the property near Victoria Park.’

  ‘That is a fair summation. I imagine Ackerman must have some form of extra leverage than mere knowledge of the affair. Our more immediate concern is contacting Arthur Fox-Williams. I do not know where he lives now, but he is a member of the Military Club, on Albemarle Street. If all goes well, I should be able to find out more this afternoon. Now I really must get going. It is a pity that you were out in the wilds, otherwise a letter or telegram would have allowed us to act earlier.’