Strike a Match 3

by Frank Tayell

  “Emmitt’s lying,” Riley said. “He learned a little about you from Simon Longfield, and now he’s trying to sow confusion in your mind.”

  “But why, what does he gain?”

  “The obvious answer? He wants help trying to escape,” Riley said.

  “He thinks that I might break him out of jail?” Ruth asked.

  “He’s awaiting execution,” Riley said. “That’s the definition of desperate, but maybe he wants your unwitting help. He’ll tell you that the secret is in a box sealed with a combination lock. You’ll be instructed to bring it to him.”

  “And inside is a gun?”

  “Or a key,” Riley said. “Or something less obvious but which will enable him to escape. Remember, he had his appeals worked out in advance, so he has to have a plan for when those appeals fail.”

  “Mister Mitchell thinks he’s going to trade information for his release. Maybe information on who he really works for.”

  Riley shook her head. “They would never release him. He’d buy a few days, maybe a few weeks, but nothing he could say would win him his freedom.”

  Ruth stoked the fire. “I wish I knew.”

  “Knew what?” Riley asked.

  “Everything,” Ruth said. “Anything. Every time I think I’m getting close to an answer, another question comes along. It’s not just Emmitt, it’s… well, I just want some certainty in my life.”

  “You and me both,” Riley said. “But there’s no such thing. I was certain that I’d be a police officer, and that, having returned to the rank of sergeant, I’d be a captain by spring. I was certain I’d be married by this time next year.”

  “Married? I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  “Precisely,” Riley said. “Do you see a get-well card, the bunch of flowers? I haven’t heard a word since I was shot. Certainty? No, all my certainties vanished in an instant of pain. I’m left with only the determination that I will walk again.”

  That put Ruth’s own fears into sharp perspective. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been going on. I should have made more time to ask you how you’ve been doing.”

  “Today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow will be better still,” Riley said. “That’s about as much certainty as I have right now. Are you going back to Dover tomorrow? Or today, I should say.”

  “I think so,” Ruth said. “We don’t have many leads. Adamovitch won’t talk. Not to me, anyway, and I don’t think Weaver will let me near him. Mrs Foster’s description of Mr Squires is too vague to be of use.”

  “Though it’s too big a coincidence for a man with a limp to have rented that cottage and to have picked up the message that came from Dover,” Riley said.

  “Maybe,” Ruth said. “Sometimes coincidences do happen. Either way, the only solid lead we have is that someone sent that message from Dover. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do that Sergeant Kettering can’t, but at least I’d feel useful.”

  “Agreed,” Riley said decisively. “Come on, then.” She wheeled the chair backward. It banged into the grate. “Damn. Push me into the kitchen. I’ll make us some breakfast while you pack for us both.”

  “For both of us? You want to come to Dover?”

  “The principal advantage of having the person who runs the railway in a wheelchair is that she made sure the trains and platforms were accessible,” Riley said. “Give me a push, and do it quietly. I don’t want to wake your mother. You’ll have to tell me how you managed to live with her without going mad. Seriously, she’s driving me crazy. I can’t go a metre outside without her tagging along. I’d—”

  There was a knock at the door. Riley had a gun in her hand before Ruth had turned her head. The knock turned to a loud hammering.

  “Push me into the hall,” Riley whispered. “Quietly!”

  Ruth did, and only then remembered her own weapon was in the holster in the living room.

  “Pull the door open, then stand flush against the wall,” Riley whispered.

  Ruth opened the door, stepping back as Riley levelled her gun, but it was a uniformed constable outside, one Ruth recognised from the courthouse.

  “I’ve got a message,” he said. “From Captain Mitchell. You’re to come immediately.”

  “Where to?” Riley asked.

  “The courthouse,” the constable said. “It’s on fire.”

  Ruth hadn’t realised how many potholes there were in Twynham, but the wheels of Riley’s chair managed to find each one. It took an age to push the sergeant through the night-time city, but the fire still blazed when they got to the courthouse. The three-storey red-brick building was engulfed. Smoke billowed up through the roof. Flames licked up the walls, then burst from a second-storey window, spraying glass onto the fire crew below. They didn’t even pause as they changed the aim of their hoses, but even Ruth knew it was too late for those weak jets.

  “There, Mister Mitchell,” Riley said, pointing towards a solitary silhouette a little distance from the frantic fire crew.

  Ruth wheeled Riley towards him. Mitchell glanced around, then turned his attention back to the blaze.

  “Did everyone get out?” Riley asked.

  “There are a few burns and other minor injuries,” Mitchell said. He gestured to the group of grey-clad prisoners sat on the grass verge near the board where the day’s judgements were usually displayed. “There’s only two who aren’t accounted for.”

  “Who?” Ruth asked.

  “Adamovitch and Emmitt,” Mitchell said.

  “They escaped?” Ruth asked.

  “No,” Mitchell said. “The fire chief is certain that the blaze began on the floor that their cells were on. She’s also certain the fire didn’t begin close to the stairs. That’s as far as she was willing to go. Literally and figuratively. The heat was too intense for her to get beyond the bottom step. Only two of the cells were occupied. Those belonging to Adamovitch and Emmitt.”

  “What about the warder on duty?” Riley asked.

  “Abed Khan,” Mitchell said. “He got a telegram at midnight, one that had to be signed for in person. He went upstairs, and was gone for less than ten minutes. When he returned, the blaze was well underway. He’s been taken to the hospital with first-degree burns. He tried to get to the prisoners, but couldn’t. He did say that there were flames coming from both Emmitt’s and Adamovitch’s cells.”

  “What was in the telegram?” Riley asked.

  “The truth lies in the past,” Mitchell said. “Sound familiar?”

  “That was on the coins we found,” Ruth said. “Commissioner Wallace had one, and so did the Ambassador’s assistant. But I thought they were a lie, a joke that Emmitt dreamed up.”

  “Right, but that was what Emmitt told us. Can we believe it? I don’t know. I think that message was for us. We’re being taunted.”

  “Do you think the warder was involved?” Ruth asked.

  “I doubt it,” Mitchell said. “His brother-in-law is a judge, and he’s training to be a solicitor in the spare time he doesn’t spend working at the soup kitchen. The guards for those cells were chosen because they were dependable.”

  “And if he was involved, why send the telegram?” Riley said. “He was only gone for ten minutes?”

  “If that,” Mitchell said. “I thought the murderer would try to shoot Emmitt. We had more guards outside, and we kept the other cells empty. Only truly trustworthy officers were allowed near Emmitt. After Adamovitch was brought here, we had some of the trials moved just to limit the number of people in the building. It turns out that didn’t matter because I didn’t expect this.”

  “What do you mean?” Ruth asked.

  “It happened too quickly,” Mitchell said. “The blaze has taken and spread to the entire building. They must have hidden accelerant inside the walls or under the floors. That would have taken time. Months, maybe. Maybe longer than that. After all, if Emmitt was making plans in case he was incarcerated, then surely someone else might have made their own plans for that
eventuality. All that was needed was the opportunity. With Adamovitch in the cells, too, that opportunity was too great to pass up.”

  “But how did it start?” Ruth asked. “Didn’t any of the guards notice someone sneaking in?”

  “That’s the point,” Mitchell said. “I think it was started remotely.”

  “How?” Ruth asked.

  “There are plenty of old-world triggers if you know where to look,” Mitchell said. “And the first place I’d look would be an armoury where you’d find ammunition and assault rifles. Failing that, there’s more than enough raw materials if you know how to make one. A lot of people did. Emmitt and Adamovitch. The Luddites, and the smugglers. They’re loose ends, and Emmitt was the loosest of them all. This sniper is cleaning house. The deaths of Wallace and Longfield have left a vacuum. Someone is trying to fill it, but knew they couldn’t while Emmitt lived.”

  “But why not kill Adamovitch when he got off the train?” Ruth asked. “Why wait until tonight? Or why not wait until Yanuck was in one of the cells, too.”

  “If Yanuck hadn’t been shot, he and Adamovitch would have been taken to Police House,” Mitchell said. “But you raise a good question, why didn’t the sniper kill Adamovitch at the train station. Why not kill him and Yanuck in Dover? And I’ll give you another. Why were the Luddites killed, but Mrs Foster wasn’t? Why has no attempt been made on Ned Ludd? Jameson was murdered, but his killer, Pollock, wasn’t. Everything that has happened has been done for a reason, so what is the reasoning behind killing some, but leaving others alive?”

  “Maybe it’s not as complicated as that,” Riley said. “Maybe it’s just a matter of opportunity. After all, that fire will have destroyed a lot of records, a lot of evidence. Maybe that was the real goal.”

  “Not if the fire began in the cells,” Mitchell said.

  “Or maybe,” Ruth said, “the fire is to ensure that people know there’s been a fire, that Adamovitch and Emmitt are dead. I mean, there’s no way this can be hushed up. If someone wanted to take over, it’s not enough just killing Emmitt, you need everyone to know it, too.”

  “Maybe,” Mitchell said, but in a tone that said he disagreed.

  “Someone sent that telegram to the warder,” Riley said. “And someone in Dover sent that telegram to the killer. The telegraph is the answer. We’re narrowing in on them.”

  “But too late,” Mitchell said.

  It was too late. Ruth hadn’t believed anything that Emmitt had said, but she’d wanted to. Now there would be no way to confirm the truth in his words, no way of learning if he really knew something of her parents.

  “I’ll see you later,” Ruth said.

  “Where are you going?” Mitchell asked.

  “The railway station, eventually,” Ruth said. “But there’re a few hours until the first train. I want to clear my head.”

  “It might not be safe,” Mitchell said.

  “Sir, frankly, if whoever did this wanted us dead, they could have killed us tonight, or yesterday, or whenever. They don’t want us dead. We’re too useful. After all, we just gave them Adamovitch and Emmitt.”

  Ruth made her way through the thin crowd gathered near the police rope. She paused to stare at the faces, searching for a middle-aged man with a beard. She saw none, but beards could be shaved. With no destination in mind, she headed away from the inferno.

  Her mind turned to the crime. Begin at the beginning, she thought, but where had it begun? Longfield’s death, Emmitt’s arrest, or Mr Wilson’s murder? Mr Wilson… Thinking back on his crime scene, she realised how poorly it had been staged. The coroner had spotted it in an instant. So had Sergeant Kettering. Even Ruth had sensed something had been wrong before the sergeant had coaxed out specifically what. Therefore Mr Wilson had died in order to lay a trail that led to Adamovitch. It had guaranteed that Adamovitch and the smugglers had been on that train. The death of Yanuck had guaranteed that Adamovitch had been in the cells. And there he’d died with Emmitt, but why? Why did they have to die together?

  “Excuse me, Officer,” a wiry man leading a milk cart called out to her. “What’s going on up there?”

  “The courthouse is on fire,” Ruth said. There didn’t seem any point lying.

  “A fire? How?” the man asked.

  “Investigations are continuing,” Ruth said, deciding the vague question deserved an equally vague answer.

  “Are the roads closed?”

  “Only around the courthouse,” Ruth said.

  “Typical,” the man muttered. “And it would have to be on a delivery day.” He clicked the reins and led the horse down a side road. His muttering kept up as he led the cart on a detour, but Ruth ignored the words, and watched the man walk. He didn’t seem to be limping. She shrugged, and turned her mind back to the crime.

  If the goal, or part of it, was to get Adamovitch into the courthouse jail, did that mean the butler had nothing to do with Mr Wilson’s murder? She ran through the confrontation at the cottage again, stopping when she absently stepped into a puddle. She swore. Above, from an open window, came a loud tut-tutting, then a louder slam as the window was shut. Ruth glanced back towards the courthouse. She was at least a quarter mile away, at the edge of the more affluent part of the city. The reflected glow of the fire on the clouds was barely visible, but the acrid smell of the inferno was a thick blanket coating the city.

  Why kill the five Luddites, but not the farmer, Mrs Foster? There was an obvious explanation. Mrs Foster had given a vague description of a bearded man with a limp. Beards were easy to grow and shave, a limp easy to affect. At some point, a bearded corpse would turn up in the morgue. When identified it would be discovered that the man had a limp. They would assume it was Mr Squires, and have no way to prove otherwise. Yes, that was an obvious explanation, but it didn’t mean it was the correct one.

  She shook the water from her foot, and continued on. Why kill Adamovitch in the cells rather than at the railway station? The only answer was that there was something else going on. Something that would tie together all the loose strands. She had no idea what it was.

  She paused by a shop window with a display of Christmas ornaments. A row of Santa Clauses were identical to ones she’d seen in Dover, though the prices were twice what she’d have paid further east.

  The sun was rising, casting enough light to distinguish between smoke and cloud. There were more people up and about now, and most were looking towards the inferno if not heading directly towards it. She headed in the opposite direction, vaguely angling towards the sea. She stopped as a shop assistant moved a sandwich board out onto the pavement. It advertised a ‘Breakfast Special’, and that only reminded Ruth of how long it had been since her last meal.

  “Morning, Officer,” the shopkeeper said. “Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Just a fire,” Ruth said, and kept walking. Stopping for breakfast would only bring questions, and she had enough of those as it was. Her stomach offered a growl of protest. She glanced back at the shop, and as she did, caught the shadow of a figure moving into the lee of the alley. Ruth faced ahead, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

  She sauntered down the next turning, picking up her pace immediately after. There were no handy alleyways in which to hide, but there was a house with an overflowing and overly tall hedge. She snuck through the gate, and ducked down behind the mottled leaves. She waited… waited… waited… waited until the figure walked by at a brisk clip. It was a man wearing a dark tailored coat, a scarf wrapped around his neck, and a Panama hat pulled low over his ears. His left hand swung in time with his legs, but his right was buried deep in a pocket.

  Ruth already had her hand on her holster. She drew the pistol as she bounded out of the front garden. She rammed the revolver into the man’s back.

  “Woah!” he exclaimed, turning around. In his hand was a tablet, not a gun, and on his face a mildly surprised, slightly amused, and very familiar smile. “You can put that away,” Isaac said.

  “Why do
people keep following me?” Ruth said, holstering her gun. “I swear, the next time, I’ll shoot first.”

  “It’s not safe for anyone to be out on their own,” Isaac said. “When Mrs Zhang called to say you’d been summoned, I thought I should follow. I thought we’d be safer together.”

  “Mrs Zhang? Isn’t she watching Ned Ludd?”

  “I’ve put Kelly on that,” Isaac said. “I had Mrs Zhang watching you.”

  “Right. First Mitchell follows me, then Mrs Zhang, then you. Why not try talking next time?” she grumbled as she walked away from him. “Try saying, hi, Ruth.” She stopped. “Except it wasn’t Mitchell first, was it?” she asked turning to face a bemused Isaac. “You followed me before, didn’t you?”

  “Did I?”

  “Weeks ago,” she said. “I was following that barman.”

  “So?” Isaac asked.

  “So that man had a limp,” Ruth said. “The man who paid for the cottage in which we found the five Luddites had a limp.”

  “Mr Squires. Henry told me,” Isaac said. “But as far as leads go, that’s more than just tenuous.”

  “It’s better than wandering the streets aimlessly. Do you know where the barman lives?”

  “You want to question him?” Isaac asked. “This smacks of desperation.”

  “Then give me a better lead,” Ruth said. “Give me something, anything. You said you know what’s going on, then you know what’s going to happen. This killer is going to strike again, and soon. All we’re doing is collecting the bodies, waiting for the next to fall. Give me a lead, a clue, anything, or tell me where the barman lives.”

  “You know, you remind me more of Henry than you do your mother,” he said. “But,” he added, “I can’t tell you the address. I don’t know it.” He looked up and down the street. A couple stood in their front garden, ostensibly examining a drainpipe but clearly eavesdropping. “Over here,” Isaac said. He led her down the road and into an alley that abruptly ended at a neat pile of rubble.