by Giles Ekins
A brewer’s dray trundled slowly down the road, the heads of the heavy shire horses nodding together synchronically as they pulled their open wagonload of barrels. The driver, who had just made his last delivery of the day at the ‘Golden Falcon’ at the corner of the next street took a keen interest in the activity on the pavement beside him, leaning sideways from his bench to get a better view.
Collingwood shouted to him to stop. Cursing his own nosiness, the drayman considered ignoring the command, but the presence of uniformed police persuaded him that the order was lawful and reluctantly he did so, ruing the delay to his round.
‘Are any of those barrels empty?’
‘All of ’em, squire, all done and drained, ready to go back to the brewery.’
‘I need one, quickly, get one down and bring it here. Gutteridge, Banks, Allen help him get it over here, quick as you can.’
Between them, the drayman and the police trundled the empty wooden barrel across the street, the drayman considerably more dextrous at keeping the barrel rolling than the police. The iron rim of the heavy oak keg rolling over the granite cobble setts echoed along the road like approaching thunder. Upending the barrel by the wall, Collingwood and Banks climbed up, not without some difficulty, onto the barrel and between them were able to drag Gimlet and his jacket up and off the spikes. With a heavy tumble, Gimlet dropped to the ground, rolling over in the leaf-strewn earth of the border.
With a groan, he stiffly got to his feet, unbuttoned his jacket, and rubbed cautiously at the flesh beneath his armpits where it had been abraded by the cloth during his suspension. Had his jacket not been fastened, he would have been able to slip his arms out through the arms of the jacket without difficulty, as it was he had been trussed up tighter than a chrysalis in a silk cocoon. He then rubbed at the small of his back, then at his elbows, and after shaking himself briskly like a terrier with a rat between his teeth gingerly hobbled over to the gates, slipping the heavy bolts to open the left hand leaf. The hinges creaked softly as the heavy timber gate swung open.
Collingwood and the other policemen streamed through the gate.
‘Shut it behind us Gimlet,’ Collingwood ordered, ‘Allen, you stay here, make sure nobody slips out’. Only then did Collingwood enquire after Gimlet, but the little sergeant quickly shrugged off his aches and pains or any suggestion that he should remain behind.
‘Ere, what about my barrel,’ the drayman shouted, his cry muffled by the closing gates but he had already been forgotten as the four policemen began to slowly walk up the gravelled driveway, all their senses concentrating on what might be before them.
Collingwood and Gimlet were to the left of the driveway, Gutteridge and Banks to the right. The street noises, the rasping CAW of the crows in the trees, the hum and buzz of insects in the air, the distant anger of the drayman, all receded from Collingwood’s mind, hearing only the crunch of gravel beneath his feet as they crept forward, bent forward in the stalkers crouch.
The driveway curled round to the left before opening out to a gravelled yard in front of Blackwater House, a well-proportioned double-fronted buttery-coloured sandstone building, set central about a porticoed entrance porch. The ground floor windows to either side of the porch were bay windows whilst those above were set flush.
The pitched roofs were steep, with the gable windows of the servant’s rooms glowering blackly in the slate tiling like hooded eyes. Five steps ran up to either side of the entrance porch. Heavy curtains, with a dark lining, navy blue or black, appeared to be drawn at all the windows. Ivy all but covered the right hand flank of the house, an upstairs window peeking shyly through a bridal-veil of greenery.
Across from the yard, to the left hand side of the main building, stood a stable block and coach-house, also ivy clad. The stable block had a white painted timber dovecote straddling the ridge of the roof. A pair of grey doves circled the dovecote as if unsure which of the arched openings was their allocated nest. Then both birds suddenly decided, wheeled about and glided gracefully down to their abode, twitching their rumps saucily as they hopped into the nest.
Motioning caution with his hand, Collingwood and the others slowly made their way closer to the drive. Gimlet tapped Collingwood on the elbow and pointed. A black coach stood before the house, horses in harness, seemingly unfazed by the approach of four strangers. Collingwood nodded to indicate that he had already seen it. ‘Looks like somebody’s ‘bout to leave.’ Gimlet said quietly.
‘Percy,’ Collingwood stage-whispered, his voice carrying clearly to Gutteridge across the drive, ‘You go and take hold the horses, hold onto the bridle, whatever you do, don’t let anyone get away. Make sure you have the reins so that no one can drive away.’
‘Sir.’
‘Banks.’
‘Sir?’
‘I want you stationed by the front door, as soon as Sergeant Gimlet and I are inside the house, the door is yours. No one comes in or out except we two. Understand?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Good, in the event of problems you can assist Gutteridge in preventing escape, but otherwise you hold fast by the door. Gimlet, you stick by me.’
‘Like glue Guv, like the best boiled-bones glue as there ever was.’
As they approached the house, the front door opened with a suddenness that made them all start back a pace. PC Banks’ hand jerked towards his truncheon. A tall man, dressed entirely in black, stood imperiously on the top step, staring down in disdain at the approaching police. Another heavyset man, black bearded, short and squat but with the apparent strength of a wrestler also came to the step. The second man glowered fiercely at the intruders, as if his very stare could drive away.
‘This is private property,’ the tall man in black shouted, even at distance, Collingwood could feel the malevolent glare from the man’s eyes burning into him, as if Sinistrari, if indeed that was who it was, had already singled him out as the leader. ‘This is private property and you must leave forthwith. Avram will escort you to the gate. Do not return.’
‘Edward Sinistrari? Are you Mister Edward Sinistrari?’
The man at the doorway neither confirmed nor denied Collingwood’s question, but turned to go back into the house.
‘Police, Mister Sinistrari, I am Detective Chief Inspector Collingwood of the Metropolitan Police. I have a Warrant to search these premises and I fully intend to do so.’
‘I neither recognise you or your warrant, policeman. Avram will see you out; I am busy and cannot be disturbed. You must leave. You will leave this very minute.’
‘The hindrance of the Police Force in the pursuance of their duties is a serious offence, Sir. I have a legally executed search warrant and I will search, I will search. It will be far easier for all us if you permit that to happen with the least interference.’
‘I think not.’ Avram and Sinistrari said something in a language that Collingwood could not recognise. Avram ran lightly down the steps, making rapidly towards the coach. Sinistrari looked ready to follow.
‘Percy,’ Collingwood shouted, pointing at Avram and the coach. ‘Stop him. Do not let them get to the coach.’ Gutteridge nodded, keeping a tight hold of the bridle and reins of the near side horse as Avram, a face full of heavy malice, tried to wrest it from him, grasping hold the bridle from the other side so that the unfortunate horse’s head was jerked back and forth between the two men.
‘That’ll do my lad, ‘Gutteridge grunted, his face reddening with effort of fighting off the barrel-chested Avram. Suddenly Avram reached into his jacket, down to his belt and before anyone could react plunged a long dagger into Gutteridge’s chest, the blade flashing swiftly in the bright sun as he raised it to strike. Sinistrari might have shouted but Collingwood could never be sure. Gutteridge groaned deeply once, clasping his free hand to his chest as Avram drew the knife back to strike again.
This time Sinistrari did shout and Avram slowly lowered the bloody knife to his side. Blood seeped out between the stricken constable’s finger
s, staining the dark blue material of his uniform even darker. He groaned a last time, ‘Oh Lord, Maud,’ and sank slowly to his knees, the fingers of his right hand still wrapped tightly around the black leather straps of the bridle. His legs buckled and he slumped to his face, the weight of his fall dragging down the head of the horse almost to ground as even with his dying strength PC Percy Gutteridge refused to relinquish hold. Collingwood ran across to him, every step seemed to be a mile and even though from the moment of the fatal strike to Gutteridge’s death could only have been a matter of seconds, time dragged still. He felt as though he was running through glue, the irreverent thought that crossed his mind was Gimlets phrase a few moments earlier – ‘like the best boiled bones glue as there ever was.’
With roar of rage, PC Banks also ran across towards Avram, truncheon raised high, he was without rational thought, only the thought that a fellow officer was down, an officer he knew from his own station and Banks smashed his truncheon down with all his strength onto Avram’s forearm. The crack as Avram’s ulna and radius bones broke under the force of the blow echoed around the confines of the yard like a gunshot. The knife felt from his hands, but even though his face paled from shock, not a sound escaped from Avram’s lips. He sucked in heavily, raised his broken arm and held it to his chest with his other hand, his eyes dark and fathomless. He slowly turned his master, nodded slowly as if to acknowledge that he had somehow made an error in a way that he did not fully understand and resumed his still repose beside the horse and PC Gutteridge. Blood seeped out from under the body, redly staining the crisp white limestone gravel.
The horse, his head still held tight in the dead policeman’s hands, tried to jerk free, but such was the dying grip of Gutteridge’s last action, the horse could not free himself, tossing his head and down in short, jerked movements, but still held fast in the grip of death.
Collingwood bent down to take Percy Gutteridge’s pulse, a futile gesture, the brave man was dead, no doubt about that but some reactions are instinctive. Gimlet, meanwhile, perhaps acting more rationally that anyone else, had sprinted up the porch steps and before Sinistrari realised it had handcuffed Sinistrari’s left hand to his own right wrist. Sinistrari raised his hands as if to strike Gimlet down, his eyes flaring in hatred, a malignant yellow, lips drawn back from his teeth in a rictal snarl. Then he seemed to think better of it, calm settled across him like the still muffled aftermath of a heavy snowfall, as if he had another idea that would be ultimately more rewarding. He closed his eyes and slowly lowered his arm, breathing out deeply through his nose as he did so. ‘Pitiful fools,’ he said at last, his voice full of disdain. ‘You have no idea of the forces you are dealing with. But you shall. That I do promise you. You shall.’
Collingwood stood up straight, absently wiping Gutteridge’s blood from his fingers onto his coat front. Without taking his eyes from Avram’s immobile face, he called out to PC Banks. ‘Banks, your whistle.’
‘Sir?’
‘Your whistle, man! Blow your whistle. Get Allen up here, we need more men.’
‘Sir.’ Banks pulled his chrome whistle from out of his tunic pocket, put it to his lips and after taking a deep breath blew three sharp blasts, the high-pitched marbled sound shrill and piercing. Both horses, their hearing so much more acute, tossed their heads violently back in alarm, but still the near side horse could not break Gutteridge’s grip but jerked his body up and down like a badly co-ordinated marionette. The crows took to the air again, once again filling the sky with their raucous imprecations.
‘Again, Banks. Again.’
PC Allen came running; the sound of his boots crunching rapidly into gravel preceded him by some thirty seconds or so. He looked dishevelled, the tail of his blue shirt protruded suggestively through his half buttoned flies and Collingwood realised he must have been relieving himself when the alarm whistle blew. ‘Get yourself dressed, for heavens’ sake man and then get back down to the station. Stop any carriage or cab in the street but get there fast. Tell them there’s an officer slain. Bring the Black Maria and the Police Surgeon. Tell them PC Gutteridge has been murdered. Now man, move to it.’
PC Allen looked down at the body on the ground before him, as if seeing it for the first time. He paled and shook violently, as if he were about to be sick. ‘Oh Lord, Maud,’ he muttered, unwittingly echoing Gutteridge’s last words.
‘Get a hold of yourself PC Allen. There is work to do before we can grieve.’
Allen straightened. ‘Yessir. Of course, sir,’ and he turned away and quickly marched off down the driveway again, fastening his clothing as he did so.
‘PC Banks, handcuff this… gentleman,’ Collingwood ordered, nodding at Avram. ‘Avram, whatever your name might be, I am arresting you for the wilful murder of PC Percy Gutteridge. I will see you hang for this.’ Avram said nothing, staring blankly before him, his injured arm still cradled to his chest. Whether he heard or understood what had been said, Collingwood cared little. Avram did not wince as Banks took his left arm to handcuff it, allowing his broken arm to fall limply to his side. ‘Put him inside the coach, Banks, find something handcuff him to, a bracket or handle, something.’
He looked up with angry eyes towards Sinistrari, who stood nonchalantly on the steps, as unaware that Gimlet was handcuffed to his side. A wryly-amused smile played across his face, as if the events in the forecourt before him were a slight amusement put on for his delectation, a pantomime perhaps or a music hall farce so beloved of the peasant classes. He looked as at ease as if he were in the lounge of an exclusive gentlemen’s club.
‘As for you sir, if indeed you are Edward James Sinistrari and even if you are not, I arrest you for complicity in the murder of PC Gutteridge.’
‘How remarkably foolish of you.’
Chapter 13
BLACKWATER HOUSE
IT WAS A TABLEAU FROZEN IN TIME.
Banks and Avram at the coach, Avram seated inside, handcuffed to the D of the door handle, the coach door half open-PC Banks standing alongside – Gimlet and Sinistrari stood at the top of the steps beneath the portico of the porch, handcuffed together, Sinistrari smirking as if to a private joke – Collingwood, after prising Gutteridge’s death-clenched fingers away from the bridle, standing in honour guard over the slain policeman, bitterly accusing himself for bringing a good man to his unnecessary death.
The pair of doves, having done whatever it was that doves do in their nest fly out again, cooing softly to each other. Percy and Maud? Collingwood thought, and then berated himself for the triviality of the notion in the face of such tragedy.
The doves came back and once again settled themselves into their nest, still billing lovingly to each other, oblivious to the death and drama below them.
THE BODY OF PC GUTTERIDGE HAD BEEN REMOVED, drawn away in the police ambulance. The Black Maria had transported Sinistrari and Avram away to be held in Maxton Road Police Station for interview and charge. The angry policemen who had bundled them into the back of the Maria had been none too gentle with Avram, pulling and jerking onto his broken arm as they pushed him back and forth, from one bench to the other, but he remained impassive; not crying out once, not wincing, seemingly oblivious to pain no matter how brutally his captors treated his injured limb.
As Gimlet, still handcuffed to Sinistrari, led him down the steps, Sinistrari had suddenly reached across with his right hand, took hold of the chain separating the two cuffs and snapped it clean through with the strength of his fingers and thumb, as if the chain were no more than a stray thread hanging from the sleeve of his jacket.
He smiled in amused triumph, playing his own games to his own rules. He made no attempt at escape. Even as he was triple cuffed, the scornful smirk remained.
Superintendent MacRae, senior officer at Maxton Road, together with his deputy, Chief Inspector Wheedon, had made their anger known, a CID officer from Scotland Yard, a stranger from outside the Division, had brought about the death of one of their own. Collingwood would be he
ld responsible. No matter that Avram had actually dealt the fatal blow to Gutteridge, it was Collingwood, the outsider, who had brought him to this place of death.
Collingwood and Gimlet remained behind; a Search Warrant had still to be executed.
Superintendent MacRae had refused a request for Banks or Allen to remain in assistance. ‘They have a murdered colleague to greet over, Collingwood,’ MacRae had said, his gutteral Glaswegian accent still strong after thirty years in London, ‘And ye’ll no be welcome at the station.’
‘I have a prisoner there.’
‘No, Collingwood, you do not. The murder was here, in my Division. He’s mine. You can send me your statement by messenger. As I say, you’ll not be welcome. Good-day to you.’
AS DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR CHARLES COLLINGWOOD entered into the gloomy front hall of Blackwater House a sense of the most malign evil oozed over him like a noxious gas. There was no particular smell, no particular sound, no particular sight that could account for the feeling, but even so he could feel the short hairs at the nape of his neck rising like the hackles on a rabid dog and he shivered with a sudden ripple of terror. Most certainly, he did not want to discover whatever vile secrets the house might hold. The entire fabric of the building seemed permeated with malignancy. He sniffed again at the air, taking a deeper breath, there was something there, a lingering trace of a sweet sickly incense, patchouli, or jasmine, underlaid with the merest hint of … corruption, decay, the soft taint of foulness.
