They shook hands and Dan went back to Borough High Street. He had passed the watchmaker’s on his way to Union Hall without noticing it. It was a modest place flanked by a chop house and a cheese shop, the windows shuttered for Sunday closing.
While Dan stood on the opposite side of the road taking this in, he thought over the information Reeves had given him. With it, Kean’s note made some sense: 14 B&C 1/9: Division Fourteen of the London Corresponding Society, Boatswain and Call, 1 September – the day Kean died. Had he gone to an LCS meeting? If so, why? And how was Broomhall, the President of that meeting, connected to Dawson and his gang?
He thought about going into Broomhall’s shop and questioning him. The problem was, he had too little to go on. If Broomhall did know anything about Kean’s death and Dan asked the wrong questions, he would only succeed in putting him on his guard.
He needed more information. He had to persuade Sir William Addington that there was a case to be investigated, and that he was the man to do it. And with two men in Newgate charged with Kean’s murder, that might not be easy.
On Monday morning Dan stood in front of Sir William’s desk waiting for him to finish reading Kean’s note. He had managed to catch the chief magistrate as he was about to go downstairs to hear the morning’s cases. The old man’s initial impatience had vanished as Dan outlined his findings, such as they were. By the time he had finished, Sir William had forgotten that he was running late for court.
“So you are suggesting that Kean’s death could somehow be connected to this man Broomhall of the London Corresponding Society?”
“Yes, sir. There’s the link to Dawson –”
Sir William held up his hand. “There’s no need to go through it all again, Foster. I do understand. But why should we re-open the case when we already have two men in Newgate charged with the murder?”
“Men who don’t know anything about how or when or where the murder was committed. Nor do we have any evidence that they have the wherewithal to cut up a corpse.”
“And all you have is Kean’s note. It could mean anything. It doesn’t prove he was at an LCS meeting in Southwark.”
“Not in itself, no. But I think we should take a look.”
“Absolutely out of the question. Any investigation into the London Corresponding Society falls into Sir Richard Ford’s remit.”
“If it was connected with their political activities, yes. But this is a criminal matter. A murder. That’s not something Sir Richard’s Home Office spies would want to handle, is it?”
“No, too far beneath them. Solving crimes is for lesser mortals like us, who don’t have their own chambers in the Home Office, or number the Home Secretary amongst their personal friends.”
Dan said nothing to this, though it was common knowledge that the Duke of Portland, who was Home Secretary, and magistrate Sir Richard Ford were close friends. Sir William could work himself into a jealous fury without his help.
“Surely, sir, we have enough to at least make a few enquiries? The note suggests that Kean was at Division Fourteen in Southwark shortly before he died; his corpse was anatomised; Dawson runs a body snatching business in Southwark; Dawson is connected to Broomhall, the President of Division Fourteen. It seems like a lot of coincidences.”
“But what was Kean doing getting himself mixed up with the LCS?” the magistrate demanded. “By God, if Sir Richard Ford has been employing my men without my agreement I’ll have something to say about it. It’s bad enough that I have to hand over my officers whenever he decides the safety of the realm requires them. I’ll not have him poaching them behind my back.”
“But why would he use Kean? He had no experience in such matters. He was a good, dogged investigator, though. Maybe he was looking at Dawson and his body snatchers, and found out Broomhall is mixed up with them. But whatever he was on to, it got him killed.”
“Dammit, Foster. I committed Reynolds and Wallace myself. Are you saying I was wrong?”
Dan knew better than to answer yes. “Of course not, sir, not on the basis of the evidence you had at the time. Now we have new evidence – evidence I know you won’t ignore.”
Sir William did not seem heartened by Dan’s faith in him. He put the note on the desk and smoothed it flat. “This isn’t enough to go on, Foster.”
“It isn’t much, sir, but I don’t believe there’s an officer here who wouldn’t agree with me that we should follow it up.”
“Have you said anything to anyone else about this?” the chief magistrate asked sharply.
“Not yet, sir. I thought it best not to until we knew something definite. It would only cause more upset.”
Dan stared innocently in front of him, leaving Sir William to work out the implications of that for himself. If word should get out that the chief magistrate had been less than thorough in the pursuit of a colleague’s murderer…Sir William frowned.
“What is it exactly you propose?”
“I should follow Kean’s lead. Get myself into Division Fourteen and find out what it was that drew him there.”
“If he was there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir Richard will have to be consulted. I’ll go through the Home Secretary first. If I can secure his approval, there’s nothing Sir Richard can do about it.”
Dan remained silent. It did not do for a principal officer to involve himself too directly in his superiors’ rivalries.
“The Home Secretary won’t be pleased, Foster. He wanted a quick conviction to send a message to the criminal fraternity.”
“And if the real murderer gets away with it, what message will that send?”
Sir William handed the note back to Dan. “Say nothing to anyone else about this, and take no further action until I’ve given you authorisation. Make sure you stay close to the office tomorrow to be ready when I send for you.”
It was ten o’clock the following morning when Sir William returned to Bow Street and sent for Dan, who was in the clerks’ room writing up some reports. When Dan went into his office, the chief magistrate was calming his nerves with a brandy.
“Foster, if you ever come up with an idea like that again, keep it to yourself.”
“The Home Secretary won’t let me look into it?”
“I did not say so. He was so appalled when I raised the doubts about Reynolds and Wallace, I would have let the matter drop there and then. Having committed myself to it, I had no choice but to press on. His Grace insisted on sending for Sir Richard, who played hell and the devil when he found out about Kean. Turns out he has a man in Division Fourteen, and Kean’s clod hopping, as he put it, could have jeopardised this man’s cover.”
Sir William paused to take another sip of his drink, giving Dan the opportunity to say, “Then his agent would know if Kean had been there! All we have to do –”
“– is ask if he ever saw him. Yes, Foster, the Home Secretary and two magistrates did manage between them to work that out for themselves. When Sir Richard calmed down, that is precisely what we did. After waiting half the night while Sir Richard’s team tracked down a spy so valuable no one could remember his name or where he lived, we at last learned that Kean had been going by the name of Scott and had been attending Division Fourteen meetings for some weeks.”
“Then I was right!”
“I wouldn’t make that a cause for celebration just yet. The Home Secretary was most put out, but he did eventually acknowledge that there is no point in hanging the wrong men. Sir Richard has agreed, perforce, to your investigation. Of course, he refused to give me any details of his agent and he has stipulated that you are to make no attempt to discover or have any contact with him. Says he won’t have you interfering with his vital work for the nation.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
“He also said, with no little satisfaction, I would add, that since the passin
g of the Treason and Sedition Acts, the radicals are cautious about admitting strangers to their meetings. You won’t be able to stroll in off the street.”
The two Gagging Acts, as Dan had heard them called, had been passed a couple of years earlier. They limited the size of political meetings to fewer than fifty attendees, and curbed what could be said at such meetings by extending the definition of treason.
“I told him that wouldn’t be a problem,” Sir William continued. “Though I don’t know how you’re going to do it.”
“By going straight to the top,” Dan said. “I’ll strike up an acquaintance with President Broomhall.”
Sir William let himself be reassured by Dan’s confidence. “Then you’re to make an immediate start. I want this kept between us until we know whether or not it’s taking us anywhere. The trial of Reynolds and Wallace will be discretely delayed in the meantime. You’ll report directly to me, but not here. Sir Richard has, for a miracle, put some of his resources at our disposal. There’s a house he uses for meetings with informers, hiding witnesses and so on where we can meet – number five, Butcher Hall Lane. I’ll be there after dark next Monday to hear your first report. If anything significant happens before that, you can send me a message from that address. Carry on, Foster.”
The cupboard where Dan kept a few overnight things was next to Tom Clifford’s desk. Never one to mind an interruption, the clerk known to the officers as Inky Tom lifted his pen from the neatly ruled page of the Watch Book into which he had been copying the descriptions, serial numbers and makers’ names of timepieces filched over the weekend. His sandy hair was piebald from his habit of running his ink-stained fingers through it.
“Going somewhere, Mr Foster?”
Dan ignored this. He took his razor case out of his bag and put it in his pocket. A good blade was the one thing he could not do without even when working undercover, but in the places where his work took him it was the sort of detail that might arouse someone’s curiosity. So the expensive blade was set in a cheap, cracked handle and nestled inside an old case. He bundled up a couple of clean shirts; he would buy whatever else he needed. He put his tipstaff in the bag and locked the cupboard.
“I’m handing in my weapon,” he said, placing his Bow Street pistol on Tom’s desk.
“What shall I say if anyone asks for you?”
Dan was already moving to the door and ignored this too.
He left the office and headed to Monmouth Street at Seven Dials, the centre of the ready-made clothes trade. Sellers ranged from street hawkers pushing barrow loads of rotting, flea-filled garments to shops with goods displayed in sparkling bow windows where smart assistants measured and fitted their customers as if they were the nobility. Avoiding both extremes, Dan fitted himself for the part of an out-of-work servant to people in the middling rank of life. He bought, new, some breeches and black stockings, and to these he added a second-hand coat of reasonable quality in dark grey wool. The shop assistant found him a smart green-striped waistcoat and a small-brimmed black hat to top it off.
That done, Dan purchased some more expensive items, the sort of things servants with a desire to ape their masters might adopt: a smart muslin neck cloth; shoes with plated buckles; a couple of linen shirts. He said he needed a greatcoat, hat and scarf for travelling, and chose everything in black.
He took the clothes to the gym at Cecil Street and waited in the little parlour while Noah finished a training session with a young man fresh out of Eton. The boy was resplendent in white breeches with a satin sash, silk stockings, and hand-made pumps. Someone should have told him that his fancy togs would not last long in the gymnasium.
Noah came in and poured himself a coffee. “What’s in the parcel?”
“Servant’s garb. I’m going after Kean’s killer. I need an unmarked gun.”
Occasionally Noah turned his gym into a shooting gallery for clients who required coaching, and kept a few weapons and ammunition in a locked chest. He placed his cup on the table. He knew better than to ask Dan any questions about his assignment; if Dan could tell him where he was going, he would.
Instead, he said, “Have you been home?”
“No. I don’t have time. Will you tell them?”
“It’s only round the corner from the office.”
“I’m not going back to the office.”
Noah let Dan’s excuse lie between them for a moment before reciting the familiar arrangements. “You don’t know how long you’ll be; Caroline knows where your will is kept; if there’s anything urgent we can get word to you via Bow Street.” He hesitated. “Any messages?”
Not for Caroline, and whatever Dan longed to say to Eleanor must remain unsaid. He stood up.
“Can you take my clothes home for me?”
“Of course.” Noah sorted through the clutter of odd gloves, old sporting papers, unpaired hand-weights and smeary bottles of embrocation on the table until he found a bunch of keys. “You get changed and I’ll go and get you that pistol.”
Chapter Nine
By late afternoon Dan was walking along Gainsford Street in Southwark. Ships’ masts spiked the sky above the tenements and warehouses that lined the lanes down to the wharves. Much of the river’s mud had made its way onto the road, turning stretches of it into a quagmire churned by heavily burdened donkey carts and horse-drawn wagons. Most of the premises were devoted to sea-going trades: chandlers, rope makers, shipping agents and the like. There were butchers and bakers, and cheap eating houses where the windows ran with condensation so that the diners in their short sailor’s jackets seemed to be sitting at the bottom of a tank.
Ahead lay the filthy slums of Jacob’s Island with its vermin-ridden houses, brothels, taverns, cockpits and gambling dens squatting over a sewage-filled creek. Dan did not intend to look for lodgings there and turned back. Close to the quays there was no shortage of rooms to rent. He settled on a back parlour in a small house in Thomas Street, furnished with a bed, table, chair and wash stand. It was not the dirtiest room he had ever seen, and the landlady was not the most slatternly. She was sharp, though, demanding a week’s rent in advance while her son, a hulking great youth, stood by to make it clear that any breach of the rules and he would be the one to deal with it. But there were not many rules. She could not tell sailors they had to be in by ten, or that they could not bring women back. So long as they paid and did not break anything, the landlady did not take much notice of her lodgers.
Dan gave her a week’s rent plus the extra for sheets, towels and candles, and she left him to settle in. It did not take long to unpack his few belongings. There was a closet, but when he opened the door it let out such a gust of musty, mousy air he decided he would rather fold his clothes over the chair. This done, he went out.
The fruit and vegetable market on Borough High Street was still open, and the inns and restaurants were doing a brisk early-evening trade. Dan walked past Broomhall’s shop, taking care not to be seen by anyone on the inside. A selection of new clocks and watches was set out in the small bow window on one side of the door, a display of second-hand goods in a similar window on the other. The new pieces were at the cheap end of the market, but there were one or two of silver and gold which would appeal to sailors fresh off a ship with their pockets full of wages. When their money ran out they had only to cross the shop to the counter where goods could be pawned or sold back at a reduced price.
Dan bought a couple of sausages with a few roast potatoes at one of the food stalls. Munching on these, he settled down on the opposite side of the busy road. After a while the traders started to pack up. A young fair-headed man bearing a lamp appeared in Broomhall’s window and took out the trays of merchandise. A few minutes after the display had been reduced to empty shelves and the goods locked away somewhere in the interior, the front door opened and the young man stepped out into the street to close the shutters over the windows. He was a slight fi
gure in a dark blue coat, brown breeches and an eye-bruisingly garish waistcoat of red and yellow stripes. When his work was done, he went back inside for a few moments, then re-emerged, turned left, and set off at a moping pace along the High Street.
Now, Dan thought, with any luck Broomhall will be coming out to get his own dinner. Dan would follow him, strike up a conversation, bring it round, as men often did in taverns and coffee houses, to politics…
The lamplight moved about the ground floor for a short time before disappearing. A minute later it reappeared in an upstairs window. An hour later it was still there.
The stalls were empty, the boxes and baskets of produce gone, and most of the stallholders with them, when Dan noticed a ragged boy grubbing around the gutters. He was barefoot and bare headed, with a ring-wormed face, sores around his lips and red eyes crusted yellow at the corners. Dan recognised the boy’s look of concentration. He had worn the same expression himself when he hunted for market scraps: fruit that was only half rotten; lumps of meat the dogs had not found first; trodden-on pieces of bread with a few cleanish bits still left on them. Not that the dirt stopped you eating it. The boy was not collecting it all for himself. The filthy sack he carried bulged, but still he slunk along the street, keeping well out of the way of the few remaining traders’ cuffs and kicks.
Another quarter of an hour went by and Broomhall did not budge. There was nothing to be learned by staring at a window. Dan would come back tomorrow and go into the shop, pretend he wanted to buy one of those pinchbeck watches.
The boy had scavenged all along the street, and was heading back towards London Bridge. The sight of him gave Dan an idea. He pulled up his coat collar and started off after the urchin. He occasionally lost sight of him amidst the throng of men and women going about their business or pleasure, but a little ducking and dodging brought him back into view again.
Just before London Bridge, the boy turned left into a dark lane lined on either side with unlit, narrow-fronted buildings, their walls and windows encrusted with grime. At the top of the lane the boy turned right into an alleyway. Dilapidated warehouses loomed overhead, blocking out what little light the moon might have given.
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