Inspector Abberline and the Gods of Rome

by Simon Clark

  However, there was so much to do before leaving for Scotland he could dispel some of his gloom with activity. He told his landlady that he’d be away for a few days. When he explained that he’d be travelling to Scotland, she fluttered her hands and said, ‘Goodness gracious! Such a long way! I’ve heard they have snow in July. Be sure to take your warmest clothes, Mr Lloyd. I shall parcel you up some Madeira cake for the journey.’

  After thanking her, he took the underground train to Fleet Street where he met his editor. The editor glowed with pleasure when he read Thomas’s dramatic account of the investigation of Sir Alfred’s death, and the conclusions that Abberline had drawn. He was especially interested in the apparatus constructed from string and a pistol that detonated the keg of gunpowder. ‘Fiendish,’ the man had murmured, his eyes getting wider by the moment. ‘Fiendish and astonishingly cunning.’ Thomas had also produced a brief outline for his next report, concerning the discovery of the hidden shrine and its subsequent destruction by a foreign stranger in a yellow coat.

  The editor leaned back, exhaling loudly through his bushy moustache. ‘I wish we could publish this now, Thomas. We’d increase our circulation and make the other papers green with envy.’

  ‘Inspector Abberline insists that we don’t print these reports yet. He doesn’t want to alert the killer of Sir Alfred Denby that the death is now considered to be murder.’

  ‘Damn.’ The editor’s sharp eyes fixed on his young journalist. ‘You admire Abberline, don’t you, Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s a fine detective. A very decent man, too, if I may say so.’

  ‘By all means, portray him as a hero in your newspaper stories, but always remember these facts: Abberline is a policeman, you are a journalist. He will always put the interest of the police force before you, Thomas.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Abberline will keep information from you. He’ll withhold interesting aspects of the case.’ A fly crawled across the desk in front of the editor. The man slammed his hand down onto the insect crushing it. ‘Don’t permit Abberline to conceal juicy titbits from you that will interest our readers. They don’t want dull accounts of police procedure, they demand excitement and dramatic chases, such as you’ve written up here.’

  ‘Then I’ll continue to do exactly that, sir.’

  ‘But you could only write about such a thrilling pursuit because you were there and took part. What if you aren’t around when Abberline makes a discovery, or interrogates some scoundrel?’

  ‘You want me to spy on him?’

  ‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Observe the great detective in action. Do that openly with his blessing. And do it secretly without him knowing. Give me great stories, Thomas. Help me boost the circulation of our newspaper to new heights.’ He scraped the remains of the fly off the palm of his hand with a pen. ‘If you help me do that, Thomas, I will put in a word for you. Who knows? There might be promotion waiting just around the corner.’

  ‘Inspector Abberline has been open about his methods; he has shown me friendship.’

  ‘So he will … until you are of no further use. He still believes that the Press portrayed him as incompetent for failing to catch Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘I don’t want to lie to Abberline; neither does my conscience allow me to spy on him.’

  ‘Remember what I said about promotion, Thomas. I know you’re engaged to a young lady and plan to be married. Isn’t that the case?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I don’t see how that is relevant to what we’re discussing now.’

  ‘You can hardly provide a decent home for a new wife on your salary, can you? However, if your stories vividly reveal Abberline as a fascinating human being, flaws and all, then we shall sell more newspapers, you will be promoted, and your salary will be raised to such a level that you can marry Miss Bright. Now, what do you say to that?’

  Thomas Lloyd returned to his rooms. Inspector Abberline had told him that he would collect Thomas by hansom cab at six, and that they would go on to Kings Cross Station where they would board a train for Scotland. Meanwhile, the sky darkened. Thunder clouds loomed over London’s rooftops. The threat of a storm made horses out in the street fractious. The sound of their whinnying grew louder. Their drivers shouted louder, too, to keep the animals under control.

  Thomas checked that he had everything he needed for his journey. He added a fresh notebook and more pencils to his bag. He was determined to write the best possible report of Inspector Abberline’s investigation, yet he felt troubled, too. Thomas’s editor wanted him to resort to underhand methods. The man had ordered Thomas to spy on Abberline. When Abberline read about the Denby case in the newspaper he’d realize that Thomas had betrayed their friendship. However … however … Thomas sighed. If his employers were pleased with the stories, he would be promoted. He knew full well that he didn’t earn enough to keep Emma in a comfortable home when they married (if and when she came back from Ceylon!). Thomas suspected that in the coming days he would strenuously wrestle with his conscience. What’s more important? Thomas asked himself. Abberline’s trust and friendship? Or money?

  The clock on the mantelpiece struck four o’clock. Thomas had just started to polish his boots when a thunderous knock on the door startled him. He opened it to find Abberline standing there.

  ‘Thomas, there’s been another death: Thaddeus Denby has been killed.’

  *

  Thomas had to run to keep up as they rushed from the house. A hansom waited at the side of the road. The horse seemed to sense Abberline’s urgent manner: it swung its head and took steps forward. The driver had to rein the animal back, while making repeated cries of ‘Whoa … whoa, there!’

  The driver’s seat was fixed behind the cab, some six feet above the ground; even so, he deftly leaned forward and opened the twin doors at the front of the vehicle. Abberline indicated that Thomas should climb in first. Abberline followed. The doors clunked shut in front of them as they settled on the upholstered bench that faced the front of the cab. Then – away! Soon they entered the vortex of London traffic: horse-drawn carts, rumbling omnibuses, mules carrying bundles of firewood – and, dodging through this maelstrom of horses and vehicles, men, women and children.

  Black clouds gathered, threatening a deluge. The streets were growing darker by the minute as thunderheads marched ever nearer.

  Abberline thrust a piece of paper at Thomas. He had to speak loudly over the clatter of wheels: ‘A telegram from the head of CID in Edinburgh. At noon today, Thaddeus Denby took a stroll around his house. He was shot clean through the heart. The identity of the killer is unknown.’

  ‘So another of the Denby brothers has been slain?’

  ‘This time there’s been no attempt to disguise the attack as an accident.’

  ‘Was the gunman seen?’

  ‘That I have to ascertain.’ The hansom lurched violently. Abberline gripped a leather strap that hung down from the roof to steady himself. ‘As you’ll see from the telegram, details are brief.’

  ‘Are we to take an earlier train to Scotland?’

  ‘I am, Thomas. You will be going directly to Wales. I’ve told the driver to get you to the station as quickly as possible.’

  Quickly as possible turned out to be an alarming dash through crowded streets. Thomas heard the rumble of thunder. A storm was coming; the sky grew ominously dark.

  Abberline handed Thomas an envelope. ‘That’s my letter of introduction for you to hand to Mr William Denby.’

  ‘I’m to call on the balloon man?’

  ‘Indeed you are … if you are willing, that is?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. I absolutely want to be part of this investigation.’

  ‘Good man. The Welsh police have been alerted to the fact that there appears to be a plot to execute the Denby brothers.’

  ‘What will be my role?’

  ‘At the start of all this, you asked if you could become my shadow. Now I should very much li
ke you to become my eyes and ears as well. The Denby estate outside Porthmadog is vast and sprawling. It encompasses hills, forests and valleys. William Denby took over the running of the estate when his brother, Joshua Denby, died three years ago. You will recall that Joshua was the only brother to die of natural causes at home. William Denby conducts balloon experiments from his land there.’

  ‘I’ve read something of his work. He has accomplished some astonishing feats. Once he ascended to the height of two miles – ice formed on the rigging. Last year, he rode in a balloon all the way from England to Russia, a journey of three days.’

  ‘The man is also in danger. There are only two brothers left alive here in Britain: Victor Denby at Fairfax Manor and William Denby at Newydd Hall in Wales.’

  ‘Might the man in the yellow coat be the killer?’

  ‘Possibly. We know the foreign gentleman is as violent as he is determined. After escaping from you he could have caught the train back to London then travelled on to Scotland.’

  Thomas frowned. ‘But no doubt you had your officers question railway staff at stations that the stranger might have used. A man in such a distinctive yellow coat would be memorable.’

  ‘Indeed he would be. Yet if he was able to change from the yellow coat to an everyday brown or grey, which we see by the thousand, then our suspect, to all intents and purposes, becomes invisible.’

  ‘If the man can change his appearance, and knows how to use the rail network to his advantage, then he might already be on his way to Wales?’

  ‘That’s a very real danger. William Denby might be the next to die.’

  ‘But he’s been warned? And the police will protect him?’

  ‘William Denby is even more fortunate than that. Because his work for the army is of such importance, a detachment of soldiers are stationed at Newydd Hall. As well as helping him launch his balloons, which require plenty of manpower, they also act as guards.’

  A man carrying a tray of loaves dithered in front of the hansom cab. Their driver cursed the ditherer with such fluency that the man gawped in shock. Meanwhile, the storm grew closer. A terrific clap of thunder caused horses in the street to flinch. One white stallion reared up, kicking its front hoofs. Other horses pawed the ground, or lurched forward. Suddenly, there were cries of: ‘Whoa, there!’ ‘Hold your nag!’ ‘Easy, girl!’ Drivers struggled to rein back their animals. A huge dray horse, tethered to a railing, stamped its hoofs so ferociously that sparks shot outwards – flashes of blue fire.

  Abberline shook his head. ‘There are more than half a million horses in London. At the best of times, they’re jittery and unpredictable due to the sheer volume of traffic. I must admit I’ve wondered what would happen if there was such a violent clap of thunder that it made all those hundreds of thousands of horses bolt at once. It would be a catastrophe of Biblical proportions.’

  Thomas hung tight to the handle: the motion of the cab was akin to that of a small boat on a stormy sea. ‘You have quite an imagination, Inspector.’

  ‘Imagination be damned. I’ve seen so much misfortune, and calamity, and downright evil in this city that I don’t have to use one atom of imagination.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I only have to remember. And, as I’ve already told you, I am blessed – or should that be cursed? – with an unusually tenacious memory. I once saw a delivery cart catch fire. It was loaded with kegs of lamp oil. The horse bolted. For all the world, it looked as if a fiery comet went speeding through Piccadilly Circus. Flames spewed out everywhere, setting men and women alight. Burnt human flesh, Thomas.’ He shook his head. ‘The smell of burning wouldn’t leave me. It never has. I only have to catch the acrid smell of burnt bacon and I’m back there again … in the midst of hell.’

  Thomas glanced at the man’s eyes, which were fixed into one of those unseeing stares that suggest a person looks inward into recollection, not outwards at their immediate surroundings. Those eyes had seen so much that was violent and cruel. They had also gazed on the victims of Jack the Ripper. They truly had seen hell on earth.

  The hansom pulled up outside the entrance of Euston Station, and the driver briskly opened the cab’s doors. After dropping Thomas off here, Inspector Abberline would continue on to Kings Cross Station where he’d board his train for Edinburgh.

  The detective said, ‘As soon as I’ve completed my work in Scotland I’ll come back down to Wales and join you there.’ They shook hands, but, as Thomas started to climb down from the cab Abberline caught him by the arm. ‘Thomas, you aren’t a policeman, so you aren’t permitted to interview the domestic staff. But I’d be grateful if you would –’ Abberline gave a slight smile, ‘– chat with them. Perhaps lead them to certain subjects.’

  ‘Such as the Gods of Rome?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Abberline touched the brim of his hat. ‘God speed and be vigilant. There is a dangerous stranger out there. They won’t hesitate in hurting anyone who gets in their way. Beware, Thomas. Beware.’

  Friday evening. Thomas Lloyd sat in a carriage packed with men and women as the locomotive hauled the train northwards. The thunderstorm that had begun in London followed the train out into the countryside: bolts of dazzling blue flashed from the clouds. An elderly man sitting opposite Thomas smoked a black cigar, puffing out clouds of the foulest, bitterest smoke that Thomas had ever smelt. Ladies fanned their faces with their hands while exchanging annoyed glances with their travelling companions. Meanwhile, a pair of gentlemen in top hats energetically discussed the merits of investing in gold rather than silver. Thomas Lloyd’s seat was a hard one. For some reason, it bulged peculiarly and Thomas shifted constantly, trying to avoid a hard protrusion behind the upholstery that dug into his spine.

  He would have preferred to write up his account of the day while it was still fresh in his mind. Especially Abberline’s dramatic appearance at Thomas’s home to inform him that the Denby brother, who was laird of an estate in Scotland, had been shot dead by an unknown assassin. I wonder if Abberline is enjoying a more comfortable ride than this one, he wondered as what felt like a bony finger jabbed into his back. He suspected a nail had come adrift from the seat’s woodwork and that it poked him through the fabric.

  The man smoking the evil-smelling tobacco grunted and muttered, ‘Blessed thing keeps going out.’ He pulled out a match that was as big as a pencil, struck it against the carriage floor, and relit the cigar. All the ladies coughed. One of the men in the top hats declared loudly, ‘Gold. Gold will never betray the shrewd investor.’

  Lighting flashed. For a split-second the meadows turned blue, and thunder crashed so loudly that the sound hurt the passengers’ ears.

  ‘The handclap of doom,’ declared the cigar-smoker with relish. ‘Memento Mori. God, Himself, reminding us that we are mortal, and that one fine day we will expire.’

  Thomas closed his eyes. The train swayed as it rumbled along its track. As he often did, when alone, he found himself dwelling on certain memories. Barely a day went by when he didn’t picture his grandfather’s face. Owen Lloyd was a Welshman who had found work in a Yorkshire coal mine and, just as Thomas had been fond of his grandfather, the man had adored his bright-eyed, intelligent grandson who loved to read books. Thomas wished he could speak to the old man again. He’d tell him he was on a journey to the man’s homeland. What would his grandfather make of Thomas writing newspaper stories about Inspector Abberline, the greatest detective of the age? He pictured the old man’s surprise when he heard that his grandson’s words would be read by millions of people throughout Britain and the far flung lands of the Empire.

  Thomas’s eyes remained closed as he pictured the loveable old fellow’s smile of delight. What Thomas wouldn’t give to spend another hour in his grandfather’s company, but the man had been laid to rest beneath the soft grass of a country churchyard for ten years now – the words Thomas longed with all his heart to speak would forever remain unsaid.

  Meanwhile, the rhythm of the train’s wheels became almost melodic, an
d Thomas Lloyd gradually fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  He woke to find himself alone in the carriage. Night had fallen. He could see nothing of the world outside other than the lights of houses rushing by. The train must have made several stops and his fellow passengers had alighted, including, thankfully, the man with the pungent cigar. He checked his pocket watch. Eight o’clock. Another four hours remained of his train journey to Porthmadog in Wales. Inspector Abberline would, at this moment, be travelling northwards to Scotland.

  Finally, Thomas had an opportunity to write up his notes. He moved to a seat by the window: a comfortable one that wasn’t armed with a sharp object to irritatingly prod his back. He pulled out paper and a pencil and set to work. He’d no sooner begun writing when a shiver ran down his spine. Nothing less than a revelation had all of a sudden struck him. The man in the yellow coat knew that we’d discovered the hidden shrine. That means the stranger had been keeping watch on the workshop. Had he been spying on us when we opened the secret door? Thomas closed his eyes again; this time to visualize a possible sequence of events that started before the stranger’s assault on the gamekeeper and the photographer. Picture this, Thomas thought, the stranger keeps watch on the manor. He sees the arrival of Abberline and myself, and observes us from a distance. When he realizes that we have found the shrine in the workshop he chooses his moment to steal one of the carvings. To do this, he knocks both the gamekeeper and photographer unconscious. I give chase. He escapes. The man has anticipated this eventuality and has hidden an overcoat in the forest. The police searched for a man in a striking yellow coat, not an inconspicuous brown or black one. Therefore, the man vanishes as if he’s evaporated into thin air.