‘By rights, I shouldn’t be here, sir,’ he said. ‘As far as the top brass back at the Yard are concerned, even to be seen talking to you is to be considered a capital crime.’
‘Well, you’d better bugger off then, hadn’t you?’ Blackstone said.
For a moment, the expression on Patterson’s face showed his relief at being let off the hook so easily, then his jaw set firm and he sat down opposite his boss.
‘No, I won’t just bugger off!’ he said. ‘You want to stay on the case, and I want you to stay on it. So sod the stuffed shirts who think they know how to run a police force! Sod the lot of them.’
Blackstone nodded gratefully. ‘D’you want a drink?’
Patterson glanced across at the crowded bar. ‘No,’ he said. ‘By the time they’d have pulled it for me, I’d have to leave anyway.’
‘What’s happening back at the Yard?’
‘They’re running round like headless chickens looking for your warrant card. You should have handed it over to the Super when you were suspended.’
Blackstone grinned. ‘I know I should. It must have slipped my mind.’
‘So where is it?’
Blackstone patted his breast pocket. ‘In here. And I’ll tell you something else—I’ve got my revolver as well.’
Patterson shook his head mournfully. ‘You’re not making things any better for yourself, you know, sir,’ he said.
‘I’m finished at the Yard, whatever happens now,’ Blackstone said. ‘At least this way, when I meet two or three Russians down a dark alley, I’ll be prepared for them.’ He took a sip of his pint. ‘How’s the case developing?’
‘One of the foot patrols found Thomas Grey and Molly the parlour maid in an abandoned house in Southwark about two hours ago.’
‘Dead?’
The sergeant nodded. ‘They’d both had their throats slit. It’s impossible to say for certain, but the police surgeon thinks from the nature of the slashes that they could have been killed by the man who murdered Charles Montecliffe.’
‘Well, of course it was the same man!’ Blackstone said exasperatedly. ‘And he killed them for the same reason—because they knew too much.’
‘Knew too much about what?’
‘That’s where I’m stumped,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘But whatever it is, I’m sure now that Hugo Montcliffe isn’t involved in it—and a couple of living picture photographers are.’
‘What are you going to do now, sir?’
‘I’ll probably sit here until I get a blinding flash of inspiration,’ Blackstone said. ‘As for you—you’d better get back to the Yard before you’re missed.’
Patterson glanced down at his pocket watch. ‘You’re right,’ he said, standing up. ‘See you at the same time, same place, tomorrow?’
‘Same time, same place,’ Blackstone agreed.
Patterson grinned. ‘At least I won’t have any trouble getting served tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘The pub will be empty. Everybody’ll he on the streets for the Jubilee procession.’
Blackstone watched his sergeant walk out of the door, then turned his attention back to the two pieces of paper in front of him—one which read like a schoolboy’s homework and the other which seemed like the thoughts of a real investigative journalist. They simply didn’t square up to each other. It was almost as if they had been written by two different people.
The Inspector slammed his hand down hard on the table. ‘I should have seen it before!’ he said, in a loud voice. ‘I should have bloody well seen it before!’
*
He had to visit four more public houses before he found the man he needed to talk to. It was in the Green Man that he finally tracked down Inky Harris. The old forger was sitting alone, nursing a gill of dark ale. The sight of Blackstone seemed to make him nervous, and the nervousness grew when the policeman crossed the room and sat down opposite him.
‘I ain’t done nuffink wrong, Mr Blackstone,’ he said. ‘I’m straight now—honest I am. I wouldn’t be drinkin’ ’alf pints of porter if I was still workin’ an’ money in me pocket.’
‘You might have retired, but in your time you were the best there was,’ Blackstone said, with a hint of admiration in his voice.
‘I’m still the best,’ Harris said, sounding offended. ‘If I went back into the business, there’s not one of these young blokes whose work would come up to the same standard of mine.’
Blackstone shook his head doubtfully. ‘The years do tend to take their toll, you know.’
‘I tell yer, I could be as good now as I ever was.’
‘Prove it,’ Blackstone said, slapping the two pages of Charles Montcliffe’s notes down on the table in front of him.
‘What am I s’pposed to do with these?’
‘Look at them—and then tell me something about them that I don’t already know.’
The old man bent over the sheets and read quickly through both of them. Then he began again—slowly and laboriously—to go through them line by line. Finally, he pushed them both to one side.
‘You’re meant to fink they were both written by the same bloke,’ he said. ‘But they wasn’t. One of ’em’s a forgery.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Course I’m sure. Look at the loops on them “g’s”. ‘Ere an’ ’ere —’ Inky indicated two points on the notes Lord Dalton had produced—‘they ain’t exactly the same—they almost are. An’ let’s face it, nobody’s writin’ is ever a perfect match wiv what he’s produced before—but this “g” ’ere,’ he pointed to one on the sheet Lady Emily had rescued from the fireplace, ‘ain’t even close to the uvver two.’
‘Which one is the forgery?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Can’t say for sure, but I’d put my money on the one wiv more writin’ on it. It’s a lot more painstakin’ an’ clumsy than the uvver, like the writer was tryin’ to copy somebody else’s style.’
So the sheet Lord Dalton had brought him hadn’t been written by Charles Montcliffe at all, Blackstone thought, but by someone attempting to imitate him. And suddenly, everything was starting to make sense.
Thirty
The Queen, who had been staying at Windsor, was returning to London to spend the night before her Jubilee celebration in Buckingham Palace—and London went wild. A large crowd had gathered outside Victoria Station to await the arrival of the royal train, and hundreds of thousands of other loyal subjects—perhaps even millions—lined the streets that led to the palace. As the royal coach, under an escort of Life Guards, covered its route at a slow trot, the crowd waved and cheered and shouted itself hoarse.
Sitting inside the carriage, the little old woman who ruled a quarter of the world was deeply touched. In all her sixty years on the throne, she had never seen such a show of affection. It was more like a triumphal entry than a mere ceremonial procession, she told herself.
The crowds grew even bigger the closer the coach got to the palace. In Hyde Park, ladies and gentlemen who had sat on their dignity all their lives now sat on sloping roofs of the chalets in the hope of catching a brief glimpse of their monarch. Rich and poor rubbed shoulders, and did not seem to mind—or even notice. Even the pickpockets, who had had a golden opportunity handed to them on a plate, chose to gaze in wonder at their queen rather then practise their trade.
The procession reached the palace, but Victoria’s busy day was far from over. She gave an audience to dozens of foreign princes, envoys and special ambassadors, then presided over a dinner at which to be a mere marquis was to be a lowly figure, and even some ‘highnesses’ found themselves far down the order of precedence.
As the Queen went to bed that night, it was to the sound of a muffled roar from the thousands upon thousands who had surrounded the palace, and were determined to stay there until she emerged the following morning.
*
It was nearly closing time at the pub on the edge of Little Russia. Blackstone and Hannah were sitting a
t a table near the door. They were not talking. They had not, in fact, exchanged a word in over half an hour. Blackstone was not even looking at the Russian woman. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the table.
‘What is troubling you, Sam?’ Hannah asked. ‘Your suspension?’
Blackstone came out of his musings. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s the case that’s bothering me. Do you think the idea of playing detective would amuse you?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because if it would, I might have a task for you.’
Hannah took a large slug of her vodka. ‘What sort of task?’
‘I want a man following. I thought you might do it.’
‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’
‘Because he knows me.’
‘When would you want me to do this?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘And for how long would I have to continue following him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So what you are saying is that you want me to act as your unpaid assistant, following a man who may—or may not—have committed a crime, for however long it takes for you to learn something interesting?’
‘That’s about the long and short of it,’ Blackstone admitted.
Hannah stood up. ‘I’ll get us some more drinks,’ she said.
Blackstone watched her walk over to the bar counter. She was a beautiful woman, and he had no doubt now that he was in love with her.
So how could he willingly put her at risk? he wondered. How could he even contemplate placing her within the orbit of men who had already killed several times—and would kill again without hesitation? Because, he supposed, almost without noticing it, he had turned into a police officer first and a man second.
Hannah returned with the drinks. She smiled. ‘You have made your offer so attractive that I don’t see how I can refuse it.’
‘Thank you,’ Blackstone replied, as he felt his stomach turn over.
‘When I agreed, I expected you to look much happier than that,’ Hannah said.
‘I don’t want you to do it!’ Blackstone blurted out.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it’s far too dangerous.’
Hannah frowned. ‘Will following this man help to catch Charles Smith’s murderer?’
‘There are no guarantees in my line of work.’
‘But there is a strong possibility that it might?’
‘Yes,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘And it might also uncover a great deal else as well.’
‘Then I want to do it,’ Hannah said firmly. ‘In fact, I insist that I do it.’
Blackstone hesitated. ‘You won’t take any chances, will you? If you suspect they’ve spotted you, you’ll run.’
Hannah laughed. ‘In Russia I survived two pogroms. This should be what you English call “a piece of bread”.’
‘“A piece of cake”,’ Blackstone corrected her.
‘That’s right,’ Hannah agreed. ‘“A piece of cake”.’
Thirty-One
Sitting inside her hansom cab parked a dozen yards down the road from Lord Dalton’s town house, Hannah watched the coach emerge from the mews. Perhaps Sam Blackstone was wrong about Dalton, she told herself. But just in case he was right, she had come well prepared. She opened her bag, looked down at her pistol, and wondered—dispassionately—whether she would have to use it.
Dalton’s coach was well clear of the town house now. Hannah banged on the roof of the hansom, and the driver set off at a steady pace, just as she’d instructed him to.
Hannah lit a cigarette. It had been a matter of luck that she had come across Blackstone on his first foray into Little Russia, she thought, but even if they hadn’t met by chance they’d still have met—because once she’d heard about him she would have found some way to approach him.
The coach turned south, heading towards the river, and the cab did the same. Hannah found herself thinking of another river and another capital city—the Neva and St Petersburg. She had almost died there—and would have done so willingly—but instead she had survived to fight another battle.
The streets near Lord Dalton’s house had been practically deserted, but the closer they got to the City, the more people there were around.
By the time Lord Dalton’s coach stopped at the corner of Gracechurch Street and Cornhill, there was scarcely a free inch of pavement. That was all to the good, Hannah thought. Crowds provided a cover. Even a hunted man felt safe in a crowd.
Quarry and hunter made slow progress down Gracechurch Street, but then Dalton turned on to Fenchurch Street, where there were fewer people.
If he turns round now, he’s sure to spot me, Hannah thought, putting her hand in her bag and fingering her pistol.
But Lord Dalton continued to move forward with the purposeful stride of a man who knew exactly where he was going.
Blackstone had to be right about him, Hannah told herself. A person with nothing to hide would not abandon his coach and brave the crush on the street.
Dalton crossed Philpot Lane, and came to a halt in front of a terraced house next to a butcher’s shop.
Hannah stopped too, and became suddenly very interested in the window of the haberdasher’s she had just drawn level with. As in the old days, she forced herself to count slowly to twenty before turning her head and looking up the street. When she did look, there was no sign of Dalton.
It was time for her to find a public telephone box and call Blackstone, she decided.
*
The night had been uncomfortably warm and the crowd outside the palace uncommonly noisy, but the old queen had still managed to get some sleep. When she awoke it was to the sound of tramping feet, as regiment after regiment of both colonial and British troops marched past the palace.
It was a breathtaking display of strength and number—a column so long that it was still passing after she had finished her breakfast. The Queen stood at the window for a while, and watched these soldiers—who were her soldiers, sworn to fight and die in the pursuit of her interests. She had never quite realized before the awesome weight of empire that pressed down on her ancient shoulders.
*
The proprietors of Empire Living Pictures were in the corner of the room, carrying out a final inspection of their equipment, when they heard the door click open and a familiar voice say, ‘G’day to you, cobbers.’
The two young cameramen turned to look at the man who had just closed the door behind him.
‘We never expected to see you here today, Mr Seymour,’ Dobkins said.
‘A man’s got a right to protect his investments, hasn’t he?’ Lord Dalton asked sharply.
‘O...of course he has,’ Wottle said, in a placatory manner. ‘It’s just that it came as a bit of surprise, that’s all.’
Dalton frowned. He didn’t know which of the two men he disliked the most—the stocky, abrasive Dobkins or the thin, stuttering Wottle. To think, he had had to force himself—a peer of the realm—to shake hands and be amiable to this dross. But there had been no way around it. He had needed them at one particular point in the plan, and so had forced himself to be pleasant. But now that phase had passed and he didn’t need them any more. In fact, like Thaddeus Tompkins, the pawnbroker’s clerk, they had become a definite liability that would have to be dealt with.
‘Is everything ready?’ he asked
Wottle nodded, and Dobkins just pointed to the cameras.
He would have instantly dismissed any of his servants who had acted so casually in his presence, Dalton thought—and the fact that these men did not know he was a lord didn’t make their attitude any easier to take.
He walked to the corner of the room and inspected the cameras. ‘They look heavy,’ he said.
‘It’s a bit of a struggle moving them around,’ Wottle admitted, ‘but we usually manage.’
‘Well, you won’t have to manage today,’ Dalton told him.
‘And why’s that?’
‘Bec
ause I’ve hired some men to come down and help you on your way,’ Dalton said, allowing himself a slight smile at the ambiguity of the last few words.
*
For her great day, the Queen had put on a black silk dress with panels of grey satin. It had been suggested to her by some of her advisors that she wear a crown, but she had politely refused, and chosen instead a bonnet trimmed with creamed white flowers and white aigrette. She had decided that her only jewellery should he a diamond chain, which had all the more value to her because it was a gift from her younger children. Now, examining herself in the full-length mirror while she was fussed over by half a dozen attendants, she was well pleased with the effect.
She had one more task to perform before she left the palace. An electric button—which was something that had not even existed when she’d been born—had been installed, and when she pressed it, it sent a telegram to every corner of her vast empire.
It was a simple message. ‘From my heart I thank my beloved people,’ it read. ‘May God bless them.’
And Victoria meant every word of it.
She had found the weather rather unpleasant earlier—quite dull and sticky. But as she was being assisted into her open landau, which was to be pulled by eight magnificent cream horses, the sun burst through. Fancifully, she thought of it as God smiling down on her.
The Queen looked at the carriage that already contained her eldest daughter, Vicky, and sighed. She would have liked her beloved daughter to ride with her in the landau, but precedence would not allow them to sit side by side, and as Empress of Germany, Vicky could not possibly sit with her back to the horses.
The Queen sighed a second time. It was sometimes hard being royal, she thought.
At exactly 11.15 the twenty-one gun salute boomed out—signifying the start of the procession—and the coaches began to roll forward. The greatest celebration of the greatest empire the world had ever known was beginning. A shudder—which may have been anticipation or may have been awe—ran through the crowd that was tightly packed around the palace.
Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1 Page 19
