At first glance, however, it was tempting to assume that the fire had begun at Number 7, probably as the result of a commonplace household accident – an upturned lamp or an ill-made fire. Yet in the light of the recent fire in Hale’s Warehouse, the presence of a cotton warehouse two doors down from this fresh conflagration could not be ignored.
Having ascertained from the Brigade Superintendent that it was safe for him to approach, he went to the door of the warehouse. The front door was firmly locked, as he would have expected, but the handle was hot to his hand. Just as he was trying it, a man called out behind him, “You there, what do you want?”
Giles turned and saw a man striding over to him. Clearly agitated, he had a bunch of keys in his hand.
“This is your property, sir?” Giles said.
“Yes. And you are?”
“Major Vernon from the Constabulary, Mr...?”
“Cartwright. I only just heard. I live out at Barbury but you’d think the company would have sent someone given the money I put down for insurance –” He gazed up at the façade of his warehouse. “But it looks sound enough, thank God.”
“After what happened at Hale’s the other day?” Giles said.
“Thank the Lord, yes,” said Cartwright. “That was a business. Do they know why that started yet?”
“It has still to be determined. Perhaps this case might help us. Do you have a night watchman, Mr Cartwright?” said Giles.
“Of course!” said Cartwright, unlocking the door.
“He may be a useful witness,” said Giles, following him into the darkened building.
“He should be about,” said Cartwright. “He has a hut in the back yard. I wonder he didn’t send someone to me, come to it! You cannot trust anyone to do what’s right these days.”
While Cartwright sought out the watchman, Giles lit a candle stub in a lantern to augment the grey light of dawn, and looked about him. There were no immediate signs of fire, though the air was thick with smoke.
“Noakes! Noakes! Where are you?” Cartwright was shouting in the yard, as Giles climbed upstairs.
It seemed to him that the smoke was far thicker here, and he went warily. This was where the stock was kept – rows of raw cotton bales – a tinderbox that had, by some good grace of the fates, remained untouched by the fingers of the fire. It could be, he supposed, orientating himself to the street, that the solidity of the bank building had protected the warehouse and that the fire after all had its origin in Number 7.
Yet Cartwright was still shouting for his watchman, and it seemed strange to Giles that he should not be about at such a crucial time.
Then he noticed the form of an old fireplace in the wall, hidden behind a pile of hemp sacking, clearly not in use. However, it was the wall adjacent to the bank, and Giles wondered where the chimney went, and indeed how thick the wall that divided the properties was. The warehouse building seemed about the age of Rooke Court, where Emma had given a fine demonstration to Sir Morten of the flimsiness of such walls, inviting him to poke his fingers into a crumbling partition.
He pushed away the sacking and crouched by the old hearthstone, lighting another candle to help him see better, convinced now that this chimney was the source of the smoke that was making him cough and splutter. He was not mistaken. He could feel the heat; venturing to look up the chimney, he saw that its contents were glowing ominously, for it had been stuffed at some point with waste material.
He backed away, taking a scant moment to glance at the base of the chimney where the fire would have been laid. There was a heap of cinders, the remains of a material he could not at once identify. The chimney made an alarming crack and groan as if from pain at its smouldering innards, and he judged it best to get out of there as soon as he could.
The quickest way out was down an external staircase leading to an irregularly shaped yard, where the watchman’s hut lay suspiciously empty. Cartwright met him at the foot of the stair, anxious to go up.
“You can’t, sir,” said Giles. “There is a blocked chimney burning away up there. We need to get the brigade in here at once before your stock goes up.”
Cartwright needed nothing more to persuade him, and went running back to the street. Giles was about to follow him but noticed a scrap of white cotton material lying on the floor of the yard: a carefully cut strip, like a ribbon. He picked it up; it was greasy with lamp oil.
~
“So you think the fire was set deliberately?” Felix said, examining the strip of cotton.
“It looked to be the case,” said Major Vernon, “as far as I could see in all that smoke. My examination was necessarily rather cursory. Perhaps once the fire is out, we will get a better idea.”
“Perhaps,” said Felix.
“And there may be witnesses. The young man from the bank – how is he doing?”
“Not well. We are trying a new treatment involving the irrigation of burns, but it may come to nothing. He is very weak.”
“Do we know who he is?”
“Yes, the old woman from Number 7, Mrs Sedley, whom he brought out of her house, says he is Frederick Pierce, the son of one of the bank’s directors.”
“And what was he doing there at midnight?” Major Vernon said.
“Do you think he may have something to do with it?” Felix said.
“It’s very late to be at work.”
“Not for you,” said Felix.
“True,” said Major Vernon.
At this moment a lady and gentleman came into the entrance hall of the Infirmary.
“My son, Frederick,” the man said, “I am told he has been brought here.”
“Mr Pierce?” Felix said.
“Yes, and this is my wife. What has happened? Is he –”
“Perhaps you would come this way,” Felix said. “Mr Harper will explain everything.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mr Pierce looked at Major Vernon. “Major Vernon, is it not? Is this police business?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Major Vernon. “But that can wait. You must talk to Mr Harper. My best wishes, sir, and to you, ma’am.”
Mr Harper had the gift of a supremely reassuring manner, but in the circumstances there was little comfort for Mr and Mrs Pierce. The grave extent of the injuries could not be concealed, and although the young man was not conscious, there was no serenity in his oblivion. The pain of his wounds made him thresh about as if in a fever; the constant cooling and dampening of the affected areas would no doubt have a good effect later, but in the short term the scene was distressing. His breathing was also painfully laboured, for he had undoubtedly inhaled a great deal of smoke. As his mother sat holding his hand, Mr Harper said, “If he had not acted as he did, it is clear that the occupants of the house would all have perished. He seems to have gone in quite without any concern for his own safety – only for the welfare of others. You have much to be proud of.”
“That is so typical of Fred,” said Mrs Pierce. “And although I know it is selfish and wrong of me to say it, I wish he hadn’t been so brave.” She seemed to be on the verge of a complete breakdown, and then she got control of herself, rose from the beside, and went to Mr Harper. “What can I do? My daughter and I, we are ready to do what we can. I have some experience in nursing.”
“Then you are more than welcome to stay, ma’am,” said Mr Harper. “Your presence will be excellent for him.”
“John,” she said to her husband, taking off her bonnet, “will you go home and get Margaret? I suppose you will have to go into the bank, though –”
“Yes, yes, I will,” said Mr Pierce.
“What was he doing there so late? That is what I do not understand,” she said, turning back to the bedside. “I assumed he had gone out to see Mr Gray, when he was not home for supper. He did say something about going there. What was he doing at the bank?”
“I asked him to stay and look over some figures for me, for some companies we were looking at as prospective investments for our depositor
s,” Mr Pierce said. “I never expected him to stay so late. I expected him home for supper, of course, but you know how conscientious he is, my dear.” He turned to the others. “Frederick has a brilliant actuarial mind, you see, and once he is engaged on an analysis, he will not let it go.”
“Oh, my darling,” Mrs Pierce was murmuring at her son. “How you do like to please everyone, how much good you like to do, and now this...”
“Mr Gray, is that the clergyman at Raythorpe?” said Mr Harper. “The famous cricketer?”
“He has taken Fred up,” said Mrs Pierce. “Fred is a good cricket player, but it is certainly not just about the cricket. Mr Gray is forming an association for all the young men in the city, a sort of guild, to encourage them not to fall into vice, but to do good works, educate themselves and help one another, and so forth. He had picked Fred out as one of his officers.”
“I am not sure I like Gray’s ideas. It all seems a shade too radical for me. But...” Mr Pierce sighed heavily and went to the door. “I will go and get Margaret. And I shall be back as soon as I can. I do not know what I shall find at the bank, though!”
~
The smouldering chimney of Cartwright’s warehouse had been successfully doused by the time Giles returned to the scene, but they had almost run out of water in the process. The river was low because of the season and there was little to spare. The exhausted brigade men were staggering about, waiting to be dismissed, while those who worked in Jebb Street arrived to find everything changed. Giles spoke to the chief bank clerk who showed him upstairs where there was some damage to an empty storeroom in the attic. They were just examining the extent of this when Mr Pierce arrived.
“It’s a miracle, sir,” said the clerk, “when you think what might have happened. But how is Master Fred?”
“I cannot say. It does not look good,” said Pierce, looking around him.
“I shall pray for him, sir,” said the clerk. “But he is in good hands at the Infirmary. They say that Mr Harper is the best in the country. We are lucky to have him here!”
“Yes, certainly,” said Mr Pierce. “You had better get things in order downstairs, Brown. Business as usual, if you please!”
“Yes, of course, sir.” The clerk went away, and Pierce looked over the damage.
“It was a near thing,” he said at length.
“Yes, given that the fire seems to have been started on the other side of this wall,” said Giles.
“And you think it was started deliberately?”
“It’s possible,” said Giles. “What do you know of Cartwright and his business dealings?”
“He is perfectly sound, as far as I know,” said Pierce. “He is not a customer of ours, though, but I have not heard any complaints about him.”
“He had a watchman called Noakes whom we have not been able to locate. Do you have any knowledge of him?”
“Yes, I did see him about. A dirty, low person. Not one to whom I should have given such a responsible job, but I suppose he was cheap, and a man like Cartwright will always be thinking of his margins. Cotton is such a volatile business.”
“Unlike banking?” Giles said, thinking of the recent provincial bank failures which had caused great alarm and distress.
“There are banks and there are banks, Major Vernon,” said Mr Pierce. “And Wytton’s Bank is of the soundest sort. We cannot even be touched by the hand of fire, you see!” he added, tapping the scorched plaster. “Your money is safe with us.”
“Do you know why your son was here so late?”
“He was looking over some figures for me. He is a conscientious boy, unfortunately. I wish I had not asked him to do it now, as you may imagine.”
Chapter Four
Noakes was easily found, not far away. There was no sense of flight or concealment. He was heavily intoxicated and in no state to be interviewed. Major Vernon had him put into a cell to sober up.
“The barmaid said he was being free with his money and that he had a pocketful of shillings,” Major Vernon explained to Felix. “He doesn’t now – you can only wonder how much he drank.”
“Or someone filched the rest off him,” said Felix, who had come from the Infirmary to join the Major at the Northern Office.
“More than likely. The barmaid herself, perhaps? However, the point is that he was not accustomed to having such largesse.”
“Then it was a bribe to make him stay away?”
“It does seem that way. In the meantime, Coxe is looking over Cartwright’s books. He was more than willing to surrender them to us, which suggests he has nothing to hide. I don’t think he has any part in the fire, but I may be wrong. I am told that account books can conceal all sorts of interesting situations. How is young Pierce doing?”
“You won’t be able to interview him for some time – if ever.”
“From what the other witnesses said,” Major Vernon said, “he showed extraordinary courage. There is no doubt that all the occupants of that house would be dead if he had not acted as he did.”
“And there is no clearer picture yet of why the fire took hold there?”
“The building was old and in a poor state compared to its neighbour the bank. My feeling is that a spark, or a piece of burning matter from the chimney fire at Cartwright’s warehouse – perhaps one of those oil-soaked ribbons – was blown across and landed on the roof of Number 7 where it flourished unchecked. Does that sound plausible?”
“So entirely accidental?”
“Yes, in the sense that Number 7 was not the target for our fire-setter.”
“Who intended to burn down Cartwright’s?”
“Perhaps,” Major Vernon said. “It seems the likely target, but why? If Cartwright is solvent, what benefit is there for him? Every bale of cotton in that warehouse is spoken for, he told me. A fire would have been a disaster for him.”
“Then he has an enemy. An old employee with a grudge?”
“That may well be. Fire-setting often goes hand in hand with revenge. Greedy farmers find their hayricks going up when they cheat their labourers of what is due to them. We shall have to look into that. And then there is the matter of Wytton’s Bank. Given where the fire was started, we cannot ignore the possibility that the bank may have been the target, not the warehouse.”
“Or it may be that it is simply a coincidence, and the easiest available place to set the fire,” Felix pointed out. “Have you heard a rumour about Wytton’s? With all these banks going under, I suppose it is a question that must be asked.”
“I have not,” said Major Vernon, “and that will not be our first area of investigation, but it is worth bearing in mind. I’m still curious about what young Mr Pierce was doing in the building so late – his father tells me he was doing some work for him.”
“Mrs Pierce was wondering about that too,” Felix said. “And Mr Pierce said the same thing to her. But he seemed a little confounded, to tell you the truth.”
“It won’t hurt to enquire a little more closely about what exactly he was doing,” Major Vernon said.
“But in the first instance this is a grudge gone wrong?” Felix said. “Executed by someone reasonably competent, but not entirely so?”
“And someone unlucky,” said Major Vernon. “That may help us a great deal, for either they may attempt to do it again, or when the full story of the damage gets about, their conscience may get the better of them. If they hear that a man is dying in the Infirmary it may bring them to their senses. I’ll have Tom O’Brien put out the details in The Bugle.”
Felix nodded.
“And you should go home,” Major Vernon went on. “Mrs Carswell will be wondering what has become of you.”
~
Felix arrived at Hawksby, which did not yet feel like home. One night’s sleep there in a strange bed, with nothing yet unpacked let alone arranged to his satisfaction, could not qualify it as such; but as Felix climbed out of the carriage and looked up at the commodious white-walled house, he felt the pleasu
re of return. Eleanor considered the house woefully ugly and lacking in any romance, and he had been inclined to agree with her, but there was much to be said for comfort and convenience, especially after such a morning.
An enquiry of a servant whose name and face he did not yet recognise told him his wife was in the tea-house in the garden. He made his way there, remembering it well from one of his previous, strictly-supervised courtship visits. He and Eleanor had taken shelter there for as long as they dared, stealing kisses and a little more. That she was there today filled him with pleasure, and the sight of her, sitting on the long bench under the thatched eaves, made him run towards her, calling out that he was back again.
“I have a full two hours,” he said, sitting down beside her. “And then I must go back.”
“Only two hours?” she said, laying down her book.
“One hundred and twenty minutes,” he said, and gathered her into his arms and kissed her. “How are you feeling? I hope I didn’t disturb you too much when I left this morning. Did you get back to sleep?”
“Yes, I did. I am only just up. I feel very... oh, this business is wretched, Felix – it is so unfair what women are made to suffer!”
“It certainly is,” said Felix. “But in a day or two more you will be free of it.”
“Yes, but it is called the curse for a reason. It makes one feel so... stupid. I so wanted to ride.”
“You could drive me back to Northminster later,” said Felix, “perhaps? Those new ponies of yours could do with a showing.”
“Perhaps,” she said, with a smile.
“What are you reading?”
“Oh, your shocking anonymous novel.”
“What do you make of it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’m hoping it will be extremely scandalous,” said Felix, taking it from her and beginning to look through it.
“You are wicked,” she said. “I don’t think it can possibly be that sort of scandalous, or that bookseller in Edinburgh would never have dreamt of stocking it.”
The Echo at Rooke Court Page 3
