While the doctor was talking to another customer he glanced through the dark blue bottles. There was thousand-leaf oil for digestion, distillation of milkweed for torpor, chamomile essence for hysteria, but no sign of anything containing tansy.
‘Looking for something in particular?’ the doctor, now free, said, his eyes narrow.
‘My mother bought some of your tansy oil,’ Titus said, ‘and she said it didn’t work.’
The man glanced around nervously, as if to check no-one was listening.
‘What did she want it for?’
‘Ummm . . . a baby . . . she wanted another baby . . . Another boy.’
The doctor shook his head.
‘It’s not meant for that. If she’d told me she wanted that I’d’ve given her red clover. Tansy’s for long life. This stuff, was it?’
He lifted up a bottle labelled ‘athanasia’. Titus hesitated, then nodded.
‘Athanasia’s Greek for immortality. You sure she’s not ill?’
‘Umm . . . I dunno . . .’
The doctor looked uncomfortable.
‘Listen, son, often people use tansy when they’ve got . . . a tumour. If your ma’s that sick she doesn’t want you knowing, well . . . Here, take this, it’s for pain.’
Titus took the little bottle and thanked him.
Back at the station, the men were delighted with the respite from meat puddings, but Pilbury did not join them so Sergeant Samson sent Titus to his office with a hunk of bread and cheese. Without looking up from his work, Pilbury told Titus to have it.
In the doorway Titus hesitated. What he had seen at the Rancers’ place might be important. But how could he tell the Inspector without arousing suspicion or seeming to be impertinent? Perhaps Pilbury already knew and was following other leads. He almost turned and went back to the kitchen, but something stopped him.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Pilbury raised his head and Titus was shocked to see just how thoroughly exhausted he looked.
‘I was walking back through the Acre last night and I saw something curious.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was passing Judas Island and I happened to notice a light coming from St Mary Rouncivall. I couldn’t resist a look, you know, see what the old witch was up to.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Her neck was huge, and she could hardly move and she was moaning a lot and, well, sir, I think she’s ill. Too ill to . . .’ He tailed off.
Pilbury looked at him for a long time. When he finally spoke his voice was very low.
‘Tell me, Titus, last night, at the Rancers’ place, did you happen to see . . .’
Titus waited. The Inspector swallowed hard.
‘. . . me?’
Titus blinked at him. Had Pilbury been there after all? Was he being told off?
‘N . . . no, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I’m sorry if I interfered with your investigation, I was just passing and . . .’
‘Not at all, Titus.’ Pilbury gave the ghost of a smile. ‘You know, it’s the most peculiar thing, but I meant to go there last night myself, and then, this morning, I simply can’t remember if I did or not.’
Titus gave Pilbury as watery a smile as the Inspector’s own.
‘It sounds as if she’s deteriorated considerably since we last saw her,’ Pilbury continued.
‘She couldn’t walk and she stank of sickness. She can’t have long left. She was collecting a herb: tansy. It’s used for tumours, I think.’
This time Pilbury gave the approximation of a real smile.
‘Quite the detective, aren’t you?’
‘I thought it might help, sir.’
‘On the contrary, boy, it gives me a very big problem indeed,’ Pilbury’s voice lowered until it was barely audible, ‘for if she isn’t responsible, then . . .’
He tailed off. Titus stayed for a moment then went back to the stables.
Pilbury kept his door shut for the rest of the day. Titus peeped in the window now and then and saw a map spread out on the floor, marked with circles and shaded areas. Pinned to the walls were photographs, scraps of material, notes and drawings. Pilbury paced around the room like a caged wolf, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds. Two people were allowed in: Doctor Hadsley and the dredgerman who had found Charly’s body. They both emerged, pale and unhappy, some time later.
It brought Titus out in a cold sweat to think his information might have led Pilbury to discount a suspect. By six o’clock he could stand it no longer. What did he know anyway? Perhaps the old woman’s behaviour had all been an act for his benefit.
He knocked on Pilbury’s door with his heart in his mouth. When there was no reply he quietly turned the handle, assuming the exhausted policeman was dozing at his desk. The room was empty, but for the faces gazing down at him from the walls.
Titus could not tear his eyes from them. Some were chalk white, others were nearly black or had dark patches on one cheek or the forehead. Some were preserved and wax-like, others damaged from the water; some seemed to have been gnawed by rats or eels. A note attached to one picture said, Uncharacteristic mutilation, possible keel strike? Titus lifted it to look underneath then wished he hadn’t. In one or two of the photographs it was possible to see a notch in the hairline, where a clump of hair had been cut away. These areas had been circled.
He read some of the witness statements, from the various boatmen or mudlarks who had come upon the bodies. One boy had been found under a boat beam by an old man collecting coal.
Tis a blessed spot, his statement read, where two rivers join; the Thames and the Tyburn. That’s why I does me larking there. Once I found a ruby ring and lived on it for nigh on a year.
He had signed it with an X. Pilbury had noted next to it – Was the body deliberately wedged beneath the beam to keep it in this ‘sacred spot’?
Titus’s eye was drawn to the desk by a splash of bright red. The tin he had seen previously was now open. Inside, a red ribbon was woven into a peculiar corn dolly sort of thing: made not with corn, but with hair. It was the size of Titus’s hand and was shaped almost like a crucifix, except that the top part was an open oval. It had been intricately knitted, and woven into the hair were ribbons and stretches of twine and rags. But for those it would have been quite beautiful. The hair was exceptionally fine and fair, like spun gold. The lid of the box lay nearby, labelled Exhibit A: St Mary Rouncivall, October 21st 1866.
And then his eyes strayed to a letter, open on the desk. In the top right-hand corner, written in a rough, spiky hand, was the address: 9 Blake Gardens, Fulham, and that day’s date.
And then the door banged open. Titus had been caught in the act. Pilbury stood there, carrying a plate of boiled eggs and toast.
Titus stammered and blinked, trying to think of what to say. The original reason for his visit just sounded like an excuse for spying. Pilbury’s face was as hard as stone, his eyes dull.
‘I am sorry to intrude, sir,’ he managed finally, ‘but I need to talk to you about the old woman.’
‘Out of my way.’
His voice was slurred and rasping. He thrust Titus to one side and sat heavily on the chair behind the desk, where he proceeded to attack the eggs. Titus hovered nervously. Was he drunk? Certainly drink had always given his father an appetite. Yellow egg yolk was drooling down Pilbury’s beard and onto his shirt. He must have been working very hard indeed, as he smelled strongly and entirely uncharacteristically of dried sweat.
Titus moved away from him and went to stand on the other side of the desk. His fear was subsiding: the Inspector seemed to have entirely forgotten he was there.
Sergeant Samson walked past the door, then stopped and came back.
‘Four eggs, is it?’ he cried. ‘Good to see you enjoying a healthy supper for once, sir!’
Pilbury did not look up but Samson strode away beaming nevertheless.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, sir, but I reckon I might have been too hasty when I said as how she seemed too ill
to hurt anyone. I know I said she was dying but perhaps Mrs Rancer is . . .’
Inspector Pilbury’s head snapped up.
‘Huh?’
‘Umm . . . Old Mrs Rancer.’
Titus told him of his fears, and suggested that Pilbury might want to verify the old woman’s state of health for himself.
When he had finished Pilbury did not seem to know what to say. His tongue crept into the corners of his mouth where the butter from the toast still glistened.
‘So, er, I just wanted to tell you. And I’m very sorry for wasting your time.’
The policeman made no response.
‘Mr Pilbury, sir, are you quite well?’
Pilbury grunted, his eyes glinting, darker than Titus remembered them. He turned and left the room, the hairs on his back bristling with the awareness of being watched.
As the sun sank and the fog crept in Titus watched the policemen leave one by one, until there was just a skeleton staff of beat officers and the duty sergeant. By seven o’clock the beat officers had departed on their rounds. It was a real pea-souper tonight and the courtyard was a dark sea of fog between the stables and the main building. Titus sat in the shadows, just able to pick out the fuzzy black square of Pilbury’s window. Though the lamp wasn’t lit he knew Pilbury was there. Every now and then a face would swim up to the window before submerging again into the darkness. Finally, when the horses were dozing and Titus’s own eyelids were sinking, the kitchen door opened silently. Titus had never before seen the Inspector wearing the voluminous waxed overcoat the beat officers wore on bad nights. The collar was high enough to conceal his entire face and left just the merest sliver of shadow between it and the brim of his hat. For a moment two pinpricks glinted in that shadow and Titus kept very still, but they passed over him and Pilbury made for the gate.
There was every chance, of course, that he was heading straight home to bed.
Pilbury used his own key to unlock the gate, looked left and right, and then disappeared into the night. Titus scrambled up and went after him, then swore as he found the gate locked, and had to run back to fetch his key. By the time he had closed and locked the gate behind him, Pilbury was nowhere to be seen.
He might have gone to the river to look again at the site where the body was found, or he might be making for the Acre, either to the Rancer place or to interview witnesses. Titus was pretty sure the tide was in, meaning that the beach would be submerged, so at the end of King Street he took a right into Broad Sanctuary and then left into Great Smith Street, which would take him around the eastern edge of the Acre. It was a good job he knew his way around because the fog was too thick to see to the other side of the road. The carriages crawled down Broad Sanctuary, wheels scraping along the kerb and bad-tempered passengers complaining they would be late.
The first pub he came to was the Horse and Groom. He recognised a man and his son standing outside.
‘Seen any coppers out?’ he called to them.
‘Can’t see much at all tonight,’ the man said. ‘Why? What you been up to?’
‘Nothing I wouldn’t tell me mother,’ Titus called, moving on, and the man laughed.
At the corner of Great Peter Street Titus turned and entered the slum.
As he moved through the alleys he became lighter on his feet, his hands curled into fists and his eyes catching every movement. He missed Hannah’s presence at his side, comforting and worrying him in equal measure. It struck him that this was the first time he had thought of her in days.
He heard a child’s voice calling and, as he turned into St Anne’s Lane, he came upon a girl who had lived a few doors down from them in Old Pye Street. Her face was drawn with hunger and anxiety.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked her.
‘I’ve lost me brother. I only went round the back of the pub for a pee and when I came back he was gone.’
Titus could think of no words of reassurance.
‘I’ve come from the east and I never saw him,’ he said quickly. ‘You go up Perkins Rents and I’ll keep going along the Lane.’
She nodded and they were about to split up when a piercing scream cut through the night. The girl’s hands flew to her mouth and Titus set off at a run in the direction of the cry.
They found the child squatting in the gutter, his arms folded across his face. The girl flew to his side.
‘What’s the matter, Silas? Are you hurt?’
He was sobbing so much he could barely get the words out.
‘A rat . . . pinched . . . me carrot . . .’
Her eyes widened in astonishment, and then she wrenched her little brother’s arms down and used them to shake him until his whole body waggled like a Jack-in-the-box.
‘What did I tell you about stayin’ where you was? I’ve a good mind to drown you meself! An’ where did you get a bloody carrot from anyway . . .?’
Titus left her cussing him and their voices were quickly swallowed by the thick air.
He was just beginning to lose his bearings when he came upon the higgledy-piggledy line of houses that led down to Judas Island. It soon narrowed into the claustrophobic alleyway he had walked with Inspector Pilbury, and he was just about to step out into the square when he saw a figure standing motionless a few yards from him. The overcoat made him look larger, but it was definitely Pilbury. His gaze was fixed on St Mary Rouncivall.
Why did he hesitate? Why didn’t he go straight down and see her for himself?
Pilbury stepped forward one pace, then stopped and gave a low whistle. For a few minutes there was silence. And then the whistle was answered.
The policeman turned and walked straight towards Titus. For some reason he felt a stab of fear. He scrabbled back along the greasy brickwork of the passageway until his hands found a door: locked. Pilbury was in the passageway now, he could hear the rasping of the older man’s breath echoing off the walls.
He slid past another door, then a window. Pilbury was close enough that Titus could smell his sweat in the stale air. Then suddenly he toppled backwards. The glassless window frame had crumbled behind him. The wood was so rotten it barely made a sound as he somersaulted through, to land flat on his stomach on the other side.
The flapping of the Inspector’s overcoat as he passed by was like the wings of a bat.
Titus lay on the earth floor, breathing heavily. Had Pilbury confided in a colleague after all: the one he had whistled to and who he’d now left waiting on the other side of the Island to keep tabs on the old lady? This should have reassured Titus, but it didn’t. It must have been the peculiar acoustics of the Island, but the second whistle sounded muffled, as if it was coming from low down, perhaps even below ground.
He got to his feet, keeping to the shadows away from the window. After a minute or two’s silence from the alley outside, he crept over and peered out. It was empty. He threw his left leg over the sill, which disintegrated beneath him to leave just the crumbling bricks. As he lifted his right leg over his body swung round and he found himself looking into the room in which he had hidden. It was filled with people, crouching in the darkness. A baby crawled towards him – no, not a baby, babies were plump, this was a tiny old man – the bones jutting from his buttocks. He reached into his pocket and found the bread and cheese Pilbury had given him, but as he drew it out the sea of faces advanced and the baby was engulfed. He left them fighting over it and went after Pilbury.
He’d imagined it would be easy to get back on the Inspector’s trail, knowing the streets so well, but there was no sign of him, almost as if the policeman knew the Acre better than he. He ran as fast as he could, his head snapping left to right, catching flashes of empty alleys and yards where men leaned and children played in the dirt. And then suddenly he was back where he had come in, outside the pub. He nodded to the man and his son and ran on, planning to cut back into the Acre at the junction of Old Pye Street.
‘You still looking for coppers?’ the boy called after him.
‘Yeah.’
‘I seen one not five minutes ago, tall feller in a big black coat. He was heading thataway.’
He waved an arm in the direction of Broad Sanctuary and the river. Titus thanked him and struck out in the direction he pointed.
The fog was getting thicker. On Broad Sanctuary the carriages had stopped altogether and the drivers were huddled in little groups, smoking. More than once Titus stumbled into walls or off the kerb. Approaching the bridge from the northern side he saw a dark shape moving quickly along the opposite side of the road. It was tall enough to be Pilbury, and the speed with which it approached the bridge marked it out from the rest of the night’s traffic. Most of the pedestrians crept carefully, or had simply abandoned their plans and settled into the nearest pub to sit out the worst of the smog.
The shadow was growing larger and darker now as it crossed the street, heading for where Titus stood.
He paused at the corner to let it pass and start descending the steps to the beach. As he did so the figure turned slightly and Titus faltered a little. Perhaps it wasn’t Pilbury after all. This person seemed to be very fat.
Once he had heard the man’s feet on the pebbles below he went down after him. Stepping off the last rung he heard a peculiar high-pitched mewling that seemed to be coming from beneath the bridge. It sounded almost exactly like the squeals of the dying rat at St Mary Rouncivall, and he wondered if the man was a rat-catcher checking his traps. It was a funny place to set one, but at least he would be certain of corpses to use in attracting trade.
He followed the direction of the sound, keeping his hand in contact with the slimy wall so as not to lose his bearings. As he drew closer he could hear a voice, deep and guttural: not Pilbury’s, he was sure. He almost turned to go, but the mewling sound disturbed him.
Holding both hands out in front of him, Titus stepped away from the wall and into the swirling fog. Beneath his feet the pebbles turned to sand, and then sludge.
He stopped.
Not six feet from him the figure stood by the water. He had removed the overcoat. The epaulettes on his shoulders glowed silver in the darkness.
The Hanged Man Rises Page 11
