The Ring

by M. J. Trow

  ‘No, Matthew.’ Batchelor grabbed his arm and held him back. ‘Not yet. Wait.’

  The beat bobby weighed in with his professional view. ‘He ain’t worth it, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve got enough to hang him twice over.’

  Grand stepped back, but his fists stayed clenched.

  ‘And then,’ Byng whined, ‘it all started to go wrong. Grand and Batchelor poked their noses far further into it than I wanted them to go. I’d only gone to them to give the kidnapping some kind of verisimilitude. Going to the actual police would have been insane, but a pair of hopeless amateurs … perfect. If necessary, they would testify to my heartbreak and the hopelessness of my situation; that I had done all I could in the dreadful circumstances. They went round to the address I’d given that nosy old bat Auntie Jane.’ He took on a singsong falsetto on the name and the men listening knew that he was mimicking his dead wife. Their stomachs turned over with revulsion. ‘But I was ready for them. I knew it was empty, that’s why I used that address. It’s some stupid case of an unproved will, or something. Anyway, I went round to the agent and pretended to be a lawyer and they gave me the keys. People are just so stupid. I hired some furniture on sale or return, and a butler, some actor who needed a few extra pounds in his pocket. Grand and Batchelor, bunglers that they are, took so long about it that they were almost still there when the men came to fetch the furniture back. It was touch and go, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘It was, too,’ Batchelor muttered. He still woke up sweating with the sound of the harness jingling in his ears.

  ‘That actor would be a useful witness,’ said the constable, promotion glittering above his head.

  Grand rummaged in his pocket and passed over a slip of paper. ‘Here’s his name and the address of his lodgings,’ he murmured. ‘We called on him at the theatre on the way here.’

  The policeman had heard some harsh words about enquiry agents, but he couldn’t help but be impressed. Of all the actors in London, how could they have possibly known which one it was?

  ‘Emilia got difficult, though.’ Byng whined like a toddler told he couldn’t have a second helping of trifle. ‘She wanted to know where Molly was, she wanted to go home. She was useless at cooking and we were living on bread and cheese. I couldn’t afford another month in the cottage and we couldn’t go back to the mews where we had been living. We’d been evicted from there while she was still in Eastbourne. So …’ he slumped further so his head was on his knees. ‘So …’

  ‘So?’ Knowes knew the score. He had often extracted information from people, though they were usually less forthcoming than Byng. He knew it was important to get every little detail; afterwards, when they calmed down and had a bewigged lawyer in tow, would be too late. ‘Hamish.’

  Hamish stepped forward and without preamble pressed the glowing end of his cigar to the exposed back of Byng’s neck. The man writhed and screamed. ‘There was no need for that!’ he screamed. ‘I’m telling you, aren’t I? So … I killed Emilia. I waited until she was asleep. She had wanted to … you know … when we went to bed, so I did it for her, one last time.’

  Knowes couldn’t help a yelp of disgust.

  ‘Well … it wasn’t fair. I was tired. But I did it anyway. Then, I strangled her. She was asleep, though. She wouldn’t have known anything about it.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Grand said. ‘That’s just about enough. I’m going to kill the bastard.’ He stepped out from the shadows and called. ‘Byng. Byng, you monster. Come and take your medicine, like a man.’

  Byng looked round, startled, and struggled to his feet and shambled over. ‘Oh, Mr Grand,’ he whimpered. ‘Look what these men have done to me. Look.’ He bent his head forward to show the burn. ‘Is that a policeman? Arrest these men. They’ve been making me say all sorts of horrible things. I don’t feel well. I feel sick.’

  ‘So do we, sir,’ said the constable, reaching for his notepad and pencil. ‘I’m afraid I am going to have to arrest you for the murders of …’

  ‘Arrest me?’ Byng was outraged. ‘Arrest me? What about arresting these four? They are in it together, I see it now. They have tried to extort ten thousand pounds from me, as well as assault my person.’

  The policeman looked around mildly. ‘What ten thousand pounds would that be, sir?’

  ‘There,’ Byng said. ‘There, in that bag.’

  The policeman raised his eyebrows. ‘I see no bag, sir,’ he said, calmly.

  Byng spun on his heel and looked, aghast, at where the bag had been. The flagstones stretching down to the river were innocent of anything or anyone. The bag, Knowes and Hamish had all vanished as neatly as if they had never existed.

  ‘But … but you must have seen those men,’ he blustered. ‘That huge one in the tweed suit. The one in the … The bag with …’ He took the constable by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Come on, man. You are a tool of justice. You must have seen them, surely.’

  The bobby was not the quickest of thinkers, but he knew what was best for him. Ratting on Richard Knowes and the infamous Hamish was as good as breaking your own kneecaps and cutting out the middleman. He shook his head. ‘No, sir. I just saw you, behaving rather strangely, if you don’t mind my saying so, shouting and raving. You even went to the lengths of burning yourself with a cigar. Mr Grand, Mr Batchelor and I got quite concerned about you and called you over. That was when you made some rather strange remarks. Also, if you don’t let go of me, I must add assaulting a police officer in the pursuance of his duty to the list of misdemeanours of which you stand accused.’

  Grand leaned across to Batchelor. ‘Good choice, James. When I think of all the others you could have chosen …’

  Policemen they had known and come to despise wandered in a ragged line before their eyes.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Batchelor said, ‘but it wasn’t a choice so much as the only one available. Hold on, though, he’s off!’

  Byng, letting go of the policeman, had turned and was running for the edge of the dock. Slipping on the wet stones, he sped away, heading for the warehouse of Sillitoe, Byng and Son, which was within easy reach across a small culvert taking waste water from the road on the far side of the buildings.

  ‘Don’t let him get into his own warehouse,’ Grand shouted. ‘He’ll easily lose us there. Spread out!’ Batchelor and the bobby took the water’s edge and Grand twisted to his left, hoping to head Byng off before he could jump the culvert.

  Although Byng was not what could be called fit, he had the element of surprise and even more so when he suddenly swung back the way he had come and disappeared down the side of the warehouse of Durand’s timber and disappeared into the dark. Grand was right behind him, so much so that it was easy for Byng to take him by surprise when he thundered up the alley into a dead end. As he shook his head to clear it, Byng stepped out from the alcove only he knew was there and grabbed Grand from behind in a choking hold across his throat.

  ‘Not a word, you Yankee,’ Byng said. Grand was outraged at the slur but couldn’t say a word. He could hardly even breathe. ‘Now, we are going to walk out of here, like gentlemen. Can you feel this?’ Grand felt a knife prick him just above the waist. ‘I may be just a timber merchant, but I know where a man keeps his kidneys. Try and cry out, I kill you. Struggle, I kill you. And when we are free and clear, well, I’ll probably kill you. It won’t bring me any pleasure. I quite like you, Mr Grand. But I don’t see I’ll have much choice. For now, we are going to take a walk round between these buildings, and I am going to let myself in to Sillitoe and Byng. Forget the son; father will have that painted out by close of business. I’m going to get us a carriage harnessed up and then I rather fancy a boat to France. What about you? Don’t bother to nod. Just walk.’

  Batchelor and the policeman had suddenly realized that there was no longer anyone to chase and they turned in time to see Byng and Grand sidle out from the side of the warehouse.

  ‘Don’t come any nearer,’ Byng shouted, ‘or he’s a dead m
an. Stand back.’ He brandished the knife, so they could see he meant business. ‘Further. Further. That’s it. Now, don’t move and he’ll be all right.’ Then, whispered in Grand’s ear, ‘Perhaps.’

  Grand’s feet skittered on the cobbles. It was hard to keep his footing on the slimy stones, without having to worry about catching his next breath and keeping the knife away from his kidney. He was an optimist by nature, but he was beginning to think this might be his last ever walk. He wished it could have been through a meadow of primroses with his best girl, a lark singing its head off in the blue sky overhead, but perhaps this end was pre-ordained when he started his career as an enquiry agent. Lights were flashing behind his eyes and his chest hurt. His legs were feeling rather weak and rubbery. In fact, his thoughts tried to muster but he wasn’t listening, in fact, it might be simpler just to lie down and go to sleep.

  His next breath was suddenly easier. The lights stopped but, in the background, there was splashing and shouting. A hand, small but hard and calloused, brushed the damp hair from his brow. Soft lips kissed his cheek and warm salt tears washed his face. He struggled to open his eyes, bruised and swollen from the pressure on his throat. A face swam into focus.

  ‘Maisie?’ he rasped. ‘Maisie? What are you doing here?’

  She laughed when she saw he was alive, then cried some more. ‘I follows you sometimes, Mr Matthew, on my evening off. I worries about you, you see. So, when you showed me that note, I knew nothing good would come of it. That man’s a lunatic, Mrs Rackstraw says. So … I followed you. It wasn’t hard but I had to run sometimes, to keep up with the cab.’

  ‘You ran after the cab?’ Grand tried hard to swallow. His throat felt as if it was on fire.

  ‘Well, I can’t afford to take one, not on my wages,’ she said, affronted.

  ‘No, I see that, but … where’s Mr Byng?’

  ‘I pushed him in the culvert. He knocked his head, but Mr James and that busy are getting him out.’ Her face clouded over. ‘Mrs Rackstraw ain’t half going to be wild at me, Mr Matthew. Can you have a word with her?’ She looked so worried, he couldn’t help but try a small chuckle.

  ‘Maisie,’ he said, ‘Maisie, Mrs Rackstraw won’t ever shout at you again, I promise.’ They both knew that was a promise no one could keep, but she knew he meant well, and that was enough for her.

  NINETEEN

  The three of them wandered the bank of the river that October morning, the brown water more wreathed in mist than was usual for the time of the year.

  ‘I read Constable Watkin’s report,’ Daddy Bliss said, his hands in his pockets, a wistful expression on his face. ‘Pity you had to go out of Thames Division in this instance.’

  ‘I thought you’d have been more concerned about our rather unconventional use of friend Knowes,’ Batchelor said.

  ‘That would be the friend Knowes who’s not mentioned anywhere in the report?’ Bliss checked.

  ‘That’s the one, but I’m guessing Byng will bring it up at his trial,’ Grand muttered, ‘muddying the waters, so to speak.’

  ‘His brief won’t use that,’ Bliss assured him. ‘He’d be laughed out of court.’ He looked at the men on each side of him. ‘Don’t worry, gentlemen, I think I can assure you that Mr Byng will keep his rendezvous with old Calcraft.’

  ‘I heard a rumour he’s retiring any day,’ Batchelor said. ‘Hanging up his ropes, or whatever retired hangmen do.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bliss said. ‘I heard that too. Let’s hope he holds on for Byng, though, eh? One last bungle, for old times’ sake? Nothing like slow strangulation to make the great British public think justice has been done. Tell me, what made you suspect Byng in the first place?’

  ‘That business of the actor-butler,’ Grand said, ‘and the price tag still on that whatnot at his house. It was false, the whole thing. That and the fact that Mrs Rackstraw, our housekeeper, had him down for a lunatic from the very first day she clapped eyes on him.’

  ‘I just don’t think either of us thought that anybody could stoop so low,’ Batchelor said. ‘No wonder his old man couldn’t stand him.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Bliss nodded. ‘So, just to keep the record straight. We’ve got one count of impersonating a policeman,’ he narrowed his eyes at Batchelor, ‘Sergeant Spinster. One count of co-operating with a known felon, to whit, Richard Knowes and the use of menaces to extract a confession. And I haven’t even started on … what’s that?’

  Whatever he was talking about and whoever he was talking to, Daddy Bliss’s eyes rarely left the surface of the water. All his adult life, he had policed it, watched it, listened to it. More than Mrs Bliss and the little Blisses, more than Bridie O’Hara who might have been, it was the river Daddy Bliss loved.

  Grand and Batchelor followed the man’s pointing finger. Bobbing out near the centre stream, rolling a little as the eddies took it, was an arm. It was pale and sodden and very probably came from a woman. Bliss looked up-river to where the bulk of the Royalist rode at anchor. He could see the tiny figures milling about on deck.

  ‘Gosling!’ he bellowed. ‘Crossland! Brandon!’ He paused. ‘No, not you, Brandon! Get over here, now!’

  He rolled up his jacket sleeve and grabbed an oar from a skiff bobbing at the water’s edge. ‘Give me a hand, here, gents,’ he said to Grand and Batchelor. ‘Gents?’

  But the mist that was wreathing the riverbank, or perhaps two clean pairs of heels, had turned the enquiry agents invisible.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Ring is based on the series of actual murders that took place along the Thames between 1873 and 1889. A total of eight women died. The case remains unsolved.