by Joan Lock
By the same author
Non-Fiction
Lady Policeman
Reluctant Nightingale
The British Policewoman: Her Story
Marlborough Street: The Story of a London Court
Tales from Bow Street
Blue Murder? Policemen Under Suspicion
Dreadful Deeds and Awful Murders: Scotland Yard’s First Detective 1829–1878
Scotland Yard Casebook: The Making of the CID 1865–1935
Fiction
Dead Born
Death in Perspective
Dead Letters
Dead End
Dead Fall
Dead Loss
Dead Centre
Chapter One
When it happened it was that quietest of times when the night is nearly done and most people are as removed from daily cares as they are ever likely to be.
When it happened, those nearby were catapulted from the depths of their slumber by a thunderous roar and a shudder which could be heard and felt twenty miles away. In a darkness more dense after the blinding flash which had accompanied the terrible noise, houses rocked and started to collapse around their terror-stricken and confused occupants.
Those who were able rushed, panicking, on to the streets, convinced that it must be an earthquake or even the end of the world. For some, it was.
Faces lit up at the sight of her as she hurried towards the park that early October evening in 1874, not only because she was porcelain pretty in her pale-blue ensemble, but also because of the light in her eyes and her eager step. Later, people were to remember seeing her and smiling with pleasure.
In her right hand, she held a blue and white striped parasol which served more to ward off the soft mist of autumn rain than to protect from the waning evening sun. In her left, she carried a small, plaid carpet bag.
Strictly speaking, she knew she should not have brought the bag. Strictly speaking (given the beginnings of a seasonal nip in the air) it would have been more sensible to wear her warmer, chestnut-brown ensemble. But blue made the best of her and the style was extremely becoming, with its severely straight front and froth of frills and flounces spilling out behind her as she hurried towards the canal bridge. Such an occasion demanded such a dress.
Further east down the canal, narrow-boat steerer, Charles Baxton, was wearily contemplating the stack of goods waiting to be loaded on to his craft at the City Road Wharf. His garb was of the style common to many of his fellow boatmen: grimy corduroy breeches, short canvas smock, neckerchief, and heavy, Blucher boots. He was far from elated by the prospect of what stretched before him that evening: the loading of sacks of sugar, currants, nuts and beans; drums of benzoline, bundles of boarding and barrels of gunpowder – making sure he got them in the right order. Heaviest things in first. Each customer’s orders kept together as far as possible to aid fast unloading. Speed was essential on the fly boats.
As she neared the meeting place the girl in blue spotted the smart young man waiting for her. He was leaning on the railings of the canal’s most handsome bridge, his head down, watching idly as a black-and-white-liveried boat glided beneath him. He seemed to be frowning. Did he think she wasn’t coming? She called out to him but her breathless voice failed to carry.
Why did he look so serious? Had something gone wrong? Not just serious, she realized as she came closer, but also intense – almost angry in fact. In fact, when he finally turned around, he looked quite ferocious. Then his expression softened rapidly into a welcoming smile. Was that just how he looked when deep in thought, she wondered? Or had he really been angry? They had a lot to learn about each other. She smiled back and ran towards him joyfully.
It was ten minutes past nine at the still-bustling, gas-lit quayside. Baxton and company load checker Joseph Minchin were surveying the now fully loaded Tilbury with some satisfaction. It did sit rather low in the water, that was true – hardly surprising given its twenty-ton cargo. But it was all clothed-up with a spanking new tarpaulin and ready to go at last. They were not to know that all their efforts were to be in vain. Nor that their toil would later be picked over and analysed by men who had not done a day’s physical work in their lives.
It was raining lightly when, just before midnight, Baxton’s boat slipped out of the City Road basin, turned left into the Regent’s Canal and entered the first of the five locks he had to negotiate before they came to the long and peaceful stretch of canal which wandered through Regent’s Park. Then he would be able to get tucked up for a while.
Once through that first lock, the Tilbury became one of a chain of five fly boats hooked together – to be pulled along by the Ready, a busy little steamtug already puffing away and lighting up the darkness with its firefly-spray of sparks. Baxton’s boat was the central bead in this mobile necklace, and his chief task was to prevent his craft from colliding either with the canalside bank or the other boats in the chain. Not easy in the dark.
The darkness also robbed the work of one of its few compensations – the variety of the passing scene. But the lack of visual diversion threw into relief the sounds and smell of the night-time canal. The splash of steering poles, the rustle of rats, and the pungent smell of compost heaps and smouldering autumn-leaf fires from the gardens of the big houses in Noel Road which hung above them to their right.
Too soon, came the long, narrow, Islington Tunnel. Pit dark with foul air and as silent as death. Once in there, the only sound to break the eerie stillness was the occasional splosh of sludge dropping into the water from the slimy ceiling. The glow from the narrow-boat cabin fires and oil lamps seemed to add to the oppressive atmosphere rather than relieve it – throwing sinister shadows on to the dank brick walls.
‘In the sweet by-and-by, we shall meet by that beautiful shore,’ sang out a lone voice from a boat up ahead. The refrain was picked up by William Taylor, Baxton’s ebullient assistant, and then gradually the rest of the line joined in until their song reverberated all around them, warming them like a cloak. They often sang their way through the tunnel. American revivalist hymns were favourites, their throbbing melancholy seeming somehow most suitable.
‘Gather with the saints at the river, that flows by the throne of God!’ shouted Taylor encouragingly when silence overtook them again. Soon they were back in full and glorious song, but, as the end of the tunnel drew near, they remembered to tail off to a whisper. The cottagers who lived just by the exit did not feel the same need for the Lord’s comfort in the early hours. They might complain again and company jobs were precious. As it happened, most land-bound folk regarded canal boatmen as Godless and immoral. But, if hymns are any help in gaining entrance to the Kingdom of Heaven, they may have eased the way of some later that night.
The Islington Tunnel behind them, the little fleet glided silently by the towering warehouses huddled around the Battlebridge basin and approached the lair of their arch rivals – the railways. Here, the lines of the Midland went both under and over the canal and the railway goods yards were all around them – enemy country. It was starting to rain again as St Pancras double lock and basin came into view. A hive of activity day and night, this was where the railways and canals pretended they were not engaged in a deadly war and exchanged goods for destinations only served by the other.
Some of the smells wafting towards Baxton’s boat were pleasanter now: newly sawn timber, rich and cloying brewery malt and the peculiar sweetness of curtains of macaroni hung out to dry, which intermingled with less attractive odours from the canal itself and the reek of benzoline from their own cargo.
Soon be time for breakfast. Baxton smiled in anticipation at the thought. Meanwhile, the lad was brewing up. At one time there had been talk of banning their small fires and lamps but common sense had prevailed. How could
they operate without them? They needed the light to see what they were doing and to brew up – never mind give them a little warmth in the cabins on the damp and bitter nights. Their life was hard enough already.
Additional little fireflies of light emanated from boatmen’s pipes, but 35-year-old Baxton had never been a smoker. Now that Mary and the kids were living on land, he needed all his money to help keep them there. Charlie and Lizzie were actually going to school and it was the image of Lizzie reading aloud to him from a Sunday school tract that helped keep him going on this endless trail. His children would be able to read. Anything would be possible then. No narrow-boatman could wish for more. That, and breakfast soon.
An easy and quiet section of canal led up to Kentish and Camden Towns’ timber yards and foundries and the hardest part of the night’s work; a triple set of double locks. These they entered two by two, giving the crews the chance to have a gossip on the quayside between tasks.
They were making good time was the general opinion. Loads were discussed and compared and the cussedness of the City Quay loaders deplored. It was clear who had the heaviest load – Baxton. Good thing his boat was in the middle. Edward Hall, the dashing skipper of the Limehouse, asked William Taylor, Baxton’s cheerful second man, whether he had noticed the stunned look on the face of the foreman of the railyard when he saw how heavy-laden they were? Taylor said he had and both men laughed at the memory. Typical landsman. Typical railway man. Thought he knew better.
On their way again, the convoy was soon riding a long curve north-westwards. Baxton, Taylor and the lad took it in turns to man the tiller and eat breakfast. A rapid succession of bridges looming darkly overhead as they did so: the Southampton, the Gloucester Avenue, the Grafton and, finally, Water Meeting Bridge.
Water Meeting Bridge was the scene of their trickiest manoeuvre. The Ready led its string of narrowboats into a sharp right turn as they entered the wider canal which curved around the north side of Regent’s Park.
‘That’s a mighty heavy load, there,’ remarked a policeman to his fellow constable as the middle bead of the necklace emerged from beneath Water Meeting Bridge. The steamtug was already out of sight around the corner so, the PC was later to state in evidence, he was unable to confirm whether it was puffing out showers of sparks at the time. He did notice, however, that smoke was issuing from the cabin chimney of the Tilbury.
The tricky right turn negotiated, the steerers, or the captains as they liked to call themselves, drew a collective sigh of relief. Shoes off, time to take breath. No more locks for a while, no tricky turns, just the peaceful, almost rural, surroundings of Regent’s Park. At sparse intervals, the footbridges of the Outer Circle passed overhead and only the occasional animal call from the Regent’s Park Zoo broke the night silence. The captains began to look to their bunks.
Indeed, just before it happened, Edward Hall, captain of the Limehouse which rode just behind the Tilbury, had already undressed and was snuggling down on his straw pallet.
Patients at the nearby Hospital for Nervous Diseases were fast asleep, as were most of the rich and famous in the elegant St John’s Wood villas which overlooked the park and canal – among their number the well-known poisons expert, Professor Alfred Swaine Taylor, and many of ‘The Wood’ artistic colony. Not at home, however, was the colony’s flamboyant and enormously successful leader, Lawrence Alma-Tadema, who painted lightly clad maidens reclining in Roman bath-houses in a manner which encouraged wealthy Victorian males to take a sudden interest in all things ancient. He was away in Scotland, quite unaware of the calamity about to overtake his appropriately Pompeian-style villa.
Just before it happened, the night gatekeeper of the North Lodge adjacent to Macclesfield Bridge (quite the most handsome on the Regent’s Canal) went off duty. The son of the lodge-keeper, however, was lying on his bed fully clothed having got up too early for his task of taking the park gardeners’ morning roll call.
Just before it happened, there appeared to be some problem on board Baxton’s boat. A flash of light, shouts, fire, smoke.
Then it happened.
With a blinding flash and a roar so loud it was heard in Bermondsey, Peckham Rye and even faraway Chislehurst, Baxton’s boat exploded.
For a mile around, the shock waves caused beds to rock to and fro, doors and shutters to burst open, glass to shatter, ceilings to fall, plaster to fly and the panic-stricken occupants to rush into the streets, fearing an earthquake – or the end of the world. Fortunately, The Times was later to report, when it happened most people were lying down ‘in the position which soldiers are taught to assume to avoid the force of explosives’.
As Baxton’s boat exploded, it was passing under Macclesfield Bridge – not only the most handsome on the canal but also quite the most sturdily built. Slabs of stone-facing, decorative iron railings and ten fluted, cast-iron columns were hurled into the air. With them, went the cargo of Baxton’s boat, kerbstones and fencing from the towpath, canalside trees and portions of the roof and wall of the North Lodge which then smashed down on the nearby buildings. In particular, they smashed down on Holford Park, a huge mansion on the south side, and, on the north, the villa of Mr Alma-Tadema with its Latin greeting Salve inscribed on the lintel.
Like Mr Alma-Tadema’s servants and children, the other narrow-boat captains had been lying down in a blast-avoiding manner. That of Jane, which led the procession, suddenly felt his sons crashing down on him, while the master of the Dee found himself in the water. Edward White, the captain of the Limehouse, was knocked out of his bed against the stove and, as his craft sank beneath him, lost consciousness.
At the zoo, The Times later reported, the monkeys appeared to have successfully avoided the falling glass. But the giraffes were found huddled together in terrible fear while the elans, true to their timid nature, ‘suffered very much from their panic’.
Much of what had been hurled into the air by the violent explosion had come straight down again to land in the canal and on what remained of Baxton’s boat. Once there, the earth and debris acted as a dam, cutting the canal into two separate stretches of water. Perched crazily on top of the 20-foot-high pile of wreckage were the fluted iron columns, spilling out their brick fillings.
At dawn, boatmen and firemen were to be seen poking about with poles and grappling hooks in the now shallow water around the sunken Limehouse and the fragments of Baxton’s boat.
Hundreds of sightseers peered down on the scene from the high canal banks and over the raw edges of what had once been a bridge. Some held umbrellas to keep off the slanting rain which, along with the steady spillage from a fractured water-main and drainage pipe, was turning the piled soil into a muddy, slippery morass. Flames shooting from a broken gas main added a mournful glow to the grey, early morning scene.
Policemen and guardsmen from the nearby barracks tried to keep the growing crowd in check and out of danger as they craned forward so as not to miss any part of this terrible scene.
The almost holiday atmosphere abated momentarily and the crowd grew silent as rescuers staggered uncertainly up the slope supporting two covered stretchers carrying the bodies of William Taylor and the lad. Of skipper Baxton there was no sign. It wasn’t until four in the afternoon, just as the rain eased a little, that the searchers came upon a solid object trapped beneath the remains of the Limehouse: the mangled body of Charles Baxton. A gruesome bonus for those who had braved the rain to keep watching or had just arrived on one of the special Regent’s Park Explosion omnibus outings.
Now that all the victims had been accounted for and there was only merchandise to be retrieved, the work proceeded with less urgency. The gathering dusk slowed it further and some helpers began to call it a day.
It was then that they found the fourth body.
Chapter Two
Sergeant Ernest Best of the Detective Branch contemplated the bodies lined up on marble slabs and exclaimed, ‘What do you mean, you don’t know who they are! They worked for you, didn’t
they?’
‘Only the captain,’ said the Grand Junction Canal traffic manager shaking his head. ‘He takes on his own crew.’ He shrugged his gaunt shoulders. ‘All we ask is that there are at least three of them.’
Best sighed. That made things very difficult. How was he going to begin on identifying the extra body if no one knew who the bona fide corpses were? It seemed ridiculous. ‘But surely the other bargees know who they are?’
‘No, not really.’ Thornley paused, then corrected Best carefully, ‘The boatmen come from all over the place.’ The Sergeant said nothing and waited. The man looked unhappy, as if suspecting that much of this trouble was going to come right down on his head. ‘They meet up here and there at the locks.’ He tugged at the stiff collar constraining his scrawny neck. ‘But don’t necessarily get to know each other’s names.’ He paused before adding, ‘Well, not their real names anyway. Sometimes, just their nicknames.’
‘Because they’re on the run?’
Best knew that, like the railway construction sites, the canals had a reputation for giving sanctuary to men who had good reason for forgetting their real names.
‘No, not necessarily.’ The traffic manager looked mildly offended. ‘There’s not as much of that as people think, you know. A lot of them are good family men. It’s just, well, it’s just their way.’
They were in the mortuary of the Marylebone Workhouse which Charles Dickens had described as ‘a kind of crypt devoted to the warehousing of parochial coffins’. The mournful Thornley looked right at home in such bleak surroundings but Sergeant Best did not. It was not so much the vividness of his black hair or his extraordinary greeny-grey eyes and immaculate clothes, but the strong feeling of life emanating from him – despite his serious concentration on police business. Despite even the deep sadness at the heart of him.
