The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  Doctor Crane fixed Inspector Hicks with a hard stare, plainly disappointed at his lack of perspicacity. “Their size and location would suggest to me at least, that we are in the presence of a pugilist.”

  “A boxer?” Graves” smile spread across his face.

  “And experienced too, from the depth and quantity of the scars. This would also explain the trauma to the head and jaw.”

  “Took a beating then, did he?” Hicks had his fists raised before him.

  “I think it’s fair to say he gave as good as he got, Inspector Hicks.”

  “What do we have there?” Graves was pointing at an area of raised skin on the man’s chest. “Looks like a blister.”

  “It’s a design formed from the blistering of the skin,” confirmed the doctor. Peering forward, Graves could indeed make out a strange shape made of hard, yellowing tissue. It was a circular design representing a crude, demonic face. Its eyes were slits and two horns extended from the top. Doctor Crane pinched the bridge of his nose between a forefinger and thumb as if the effort of explaining was too much. “To put it bluntly, sergeant, this man was branded.”

  “Branded? Like a heifer?” roared Hicks.

  “Or,” interjected Graves pointedly, “like a slave.”

  “And recently, too,” continued the doctor. “Or at least within the last few weeks.”

  Graves drew a deep breath. “Anything else?” He licked the end of his pencil and held it poised midway between lip and paper.

  “Yes, sergeant, there is something else.” Doctor Crane was clearly enjoying the theatrical nature of the proceedings. “Take a look at this.” Using his tweezers again, Doctor Crane leaned forward over the body to lift a flap of skin at the throat. A bluish, grey tube protruded from the man’s neck. “Ignore that, sergeant, we’re not interested in the trachea.” As Doctor Crane pushed the ribbed tube away with his tweezers, Graves was sure he saw Inspector Hicks turning away to stare at a nondescript chart on the wall. “This is where I would direct your attention.” He was holding apart another chamber of the neck, this more red and sinewy. “The oesophagus is inflamed.” Looking about him, the doctor could tell he would be obliged to continue. “It may be caused by the fluid of the stomach extending beyond the lower oesophageal sphincter and irritating the oesophageal wall. Now, that in itself may not be pertinent. I should imagine there are many such men throughout London who suffer with a reflux, but look at this.”

  Perfectly orchestrating proceedings so as to follow a clear line of thought, Doctor Crane again lifted the man’s left hand from the table. “Might I invite you to examine his fingertips, Sergeant Graves?”

  Lowering his notepad for the moment, Graves leaned in. Hicks, too, had found the strength to peer closer.

  “They’re yellow.” Hicks’ eyes were wide.

  “Indeed they are, inspector,” purred the doctor.

  “One may see such stains on the fingers of a smoker,” mused Graves.

  “Very good, sergeant,” Doctor Crane was clearly enjoying himself now. “But these are not tobacco stains. If I might trouble you to hold this, Sergeant Graves?”

  Doctor Crane held the man’s hand a little higher, the better for Sergeant Graves to take it from him. It was cold and hard, the flesh unyielding. The doctor took a flask from the tray of instruments near the table, using a pipette to draw a small quantity of fluid. “Now, sergeant,” he instructed, his voice clear and precise, “hold the fingers up, if you would.”

  Graves held the fingers as requested while the doctor applied drops of the fluid to each fingertip in turn.

  “It’s turning brown,” exclaimed Hicks, his eyes wide in a simple wonder. Graves could see that he was right. The yellow staining beneath the fingernails in particular was turning a reddish-brown.

  “Indeed it is, inspector.”

  “What does that tell us, Doctor Crane?” Graves had the feeling the doctor was reaching the denouement to his demonstration.

  “There is only one substance that may cause inflammation of the oesophagus if ingested in quantity, turns reddish-brown in the presence of an alkaline solution,” he held up his pipette. “And has such a distinctive smell when activated.”

  Graves took a moment to smell the air about him. There was an exotic odour of ginger and orange which turned bitter in the mouth. He smacked his lips, trying to distil the scent. It had a familiar taste.

  “Is that - ” he began.

  “Yes, Sergeant Graves,” affirmed Doctor Crane, his voice rising in triumph. Lifting a finger in punctuation, he rolled the word around his mouth as if he were tasting the very substance itself. “Turmeric!”

  V

  The Clockwork Man

  The man with the heavy brow and beaked nose had disguised himself well. A shapeless jacket hung from his shoulders. A pair of filthy docker’s overalls covered a torn collarless shirt and threadbare corduroy trousers. A cloth cap was pulled down to his eyes and a neckerchief pulled up over his chin to his nose. His great hobnailed boots stomped through the dirt as he made his way to St. Katharine Docks, a large knapsack thrown over his shoulder. He knew he wouldn’t look out of place. Every one in ten men employed at the docks was dressed just so. Already, as he passed Dock House onto Upper Smithfield Street, he could hear the hiss and grind of the steam engines employed to keep the water level in the two great basins above that of the tidal Thames. Standing at the iron gates at the entrance opposite Norwich Court, he could see the docks were a bustle of activity. Around him rose the great brick warehouses and wharves, some five or six storeys high. Ropes and pulleys lifted loads from carts. Men meandered here and there with sacks of grain or spices on their shoulders. Traction engines pulled great loads of produce from the ships berthed in the East Dock, weaving their way between horses and drays laden with hops or barley. Steam rose from the Red Lion Brewery to compete with the clouds, and strange and exotic smells wafted on the light April breeze. Unnoticed and unremarked amongst the throng, the man with the beaked nose strode purposefully through the gates and past the customs sheds to his left and right. He knew exactly where he was heading. It would be a symbol, he had been told. He was to strike right at the heart of the dock.

  He crossed the courtyard and walked onto the causeway that separated the two basins, East and West. The air was full of cries, the ringing of bells and the clatter of rigging in the wind. Ducking low, he slipped into the central warehouse and swung his bag from his shoulder. All around him, shelves stood from floor to ceiling, groaning with sacks of flour and corn, bundles of timber and haphazard stacks of masonry and brick. Bobbing behind a central aisle, he set his bag down by the farthest wall. Looking through a grimy window, he saw the central basin and system of locks that gave out to the river. Beyond them, on the south side, stood Shad Thames and St. Saviour’s Dock. He knew they were in for quite the display.

  With a look of concentration on his face, the man applied himself to his deadly task, pulling at a clasp to open the bag. Reaching inside, his fingers found and removed a bundle of cylindrical sticks, each the size of a large cigar. Dynamite. There were half a dozen in all, bound together with string; five sticks surrounding a sixth. Taking hold of two lengths of copper wire that protruded from the central stick, he reached inside the knapsack to find the timer mechanism. He pulled a simple, mechanical clock from the pouch, its internal workings exposed. Attaching the wires as he had been shown, he placed the device carefully beneath the window for maximum effect. Any nearer to the sacks of grain behind him and the blast would be mitigated. Looking about him for a final time, he swung the bag back over his shoulder and walked to the main thoroughfare through the warehouse. Lifting his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he ducked back out the door into the morning. Finally, affecting as casual a manner as possible, he made his way back through the iron gates at the entrance and onto the streets beyond.

  Bowman knew he had been side-lined. His posting to the docks at Shad Thames had been a demotion in all but name. He had baulked at
the public nature of Hicks’ pronouncement in The Silver Cross the night before and had felt his face flush under Graves’ gaze. Was he the laughing stock of the Force? He was conscious of sideways looks and nudges amongst his colleagues that previously, perhaps, he would have dismissed. Since his release from Colney Hatch, however, such looks had been heavy with meaning. Did they still trust him? He cared not for Hicks, but was sad to think he had lost Graves’ respect. They had worked together well, he thought, as he ambled from London Bridge Station to Bermondsey.

  Turning at a row of ramshackle stables he entered Willow Walk, immediately lamenting his decision to walk alone in such a questionable area. The street was lined to one side by the railway depot. He could hear the railwaymen and depot workers trading obscenities beyond the high brick wall. The depot serviced the line known as the Bricklayers’ Arms Branch, and Bowman could see the steam rising from a locomotive from within. A sharp whistle pierced the air, answered by a pack of dogs that gathered in the dirt by a tannery. Bowman looked around, cautiously. A gaggle of urchins played at the corner with Alscot Road. A tall man in a threadbare suit stood plying them with matches for their cigarettes. He looked up as the inspector passed, plainly concerned to see a stranger in the neighbourhood. Bowman noticed the man seemed only to have one good eye, the other a ghastly, milky white. His stubbled cheeks were ruddy and his lips thin and cracked. Lifting his fingers to his mouth, the man gave a loud whistle that echoed off the walls. Bowman suddenly felt very exposed. The near empty street ahead seemed heavy with a nameless threat. He quickened his step, wishing now that he had hired a cab at the station. Casting his eyes to the slums to his left, he noticed windows being thrown open. At one, a shirtless man leaned out to survey the scene. At another a woman hurled her laundry water to the road, missing Bowman by mere feet. A scuffle from behind alerted him to the fact he was being followed. Turning back as he walked, he saw the gang of boys from the corner, aping his gait. They followed him, step for step, giggling amongst themselves and occasionally spitting into the street. The urchins, he could handle. A cuff to the ear and a stern word were usually enough to send them on their way. What he saw ahead worried him more. Three burly men blocked his path into Upper Grange Road. They stood shoulder to shoulder, one chewing on the stump of a cigar, one scratching at the road with his boot and the other with his hands in his pockets. None of them seemed disposed to polite conversation. From the grease on their faces and the coal dust on their hands and clothes, Bowman guessed they were railway workers. He slowed his pace. The children behind him scattered.

  “Lost?” The older of the men held the cigar end between his fingers, squinting at Bowman through mean eyes.

  Bowman swallowed hard, trying not to betray his sense of disquiet. “Not lost, no.” He felt his neck burn beneath his collar.

  “Visitin’ then?” laughed the junior of the men. “Come to pay your respects to your mama?” This last was said with a forced over-pronunciation.

  Looking down at his wingtip brogue shoes and waistcoat, Bowman felt suddenly conspicuous. He had drawn attention to himself merely by his choice of dress. He should have been more careful.

  “I am here on business,” he offered.

  “Business?” spat the man with the cigar. “The only business to be had round here is with the Kaiser.” The other two men cackled to each other.

  Aside from being the title for the German Emperor, the name meant nothing to Bowman. He doubted Wilhelm the Second had any interest in Bermondsey. “I am here on police business.”

  “Are you now?” The man took a step nearer. Bowman could smell alcohol on his breath.

  “I am expected at the police house. I believe I am close.” Bowman’s moustache twitched.

  “Oh, you’re very close. So close, you can probably smell it.” Much to the delight of his companions, the man lifted his nose to the air and took several sharp breaths. “There it is, the smell of mutton shunter.” The men shared a nudge.

  “Will you let me pass?” Bowman felt small in front of the three railway workers.

  “Filth, are ya?”

  Bowman turned. The man with the clouded eye had joined them now and, passing in front of the inspector, stood with the rest, his arms folded across his chest. Perhaps this was the Kaiser the man with the cigar had mentioned, mused Bowman. And then he caught his breath.

  Some distance beyond the men, just at the corner with Upper Grange Road, stood a figure. The image seemed to coalesce before him, still some distance away. The yellow dress and tumbling chestnut hair were unmistakable. Bowman’s heart thumped against his chest.

  “George,” she was saying. Her voice sounded so close that Bowman was convinced she whispered in his ear, yet several yards separated them.

  “Anna?” he whispered.

  The woman held her hand out to him, like a mother might to a child. “George,” she said again. Even from so far away, Bowman could see her smile.

  “Anna!” he called, oblivious to his assailants now.

  The men looked around for the object of his anguish. “What’s he up to?” said the younger of them.

  “Oi, filth! What’s got into you?” The man with the cigar was stepping back.

  Bowman was insensible to them now. His eyes were for Anna only. The breeze carried her scent towards him. Pushing his way through the railwaymen, he stumbled on the road as he pursued her. His eyes strained to keep her in sight. For every step he took, she seemed to move an equal distance from him.

  The men behind him shifted their weight uncomfortably, hiding their chagrin with bravado. One swore after him, another stooped to the road for a stone and sent it sailing past Bowman’s ear. The man with the chewed cigar simply shook his head in mock sympathy.

  “Let him go,” he jeered. “The man’s not up to dick.”

  Laughing between them, they each turned to go about their business, leaving Bowman to stagger blindly down the road towards his quarry.

  As he rounded the corner to the police house, Bowman could no longer feel his feet. There was a ringing in his ears and his vision was fading to a single, bright point. He could just about make her out in front of him, but he knew she was leaving him again. She seemed somehow insubstantial, a reflection in a mirror. He pitched forward into a man with a cart.

  “You all right, mate?” Sensing Bowman was far from being all right, the man guided him to a low wall that he might sit down. “Rest yourself there,” he soothed. “Be right as rain soon enough.”

  As the man walked on, pushing his rickety cart before him, Bowman sat with his head in his hands. His vision was clearing. Looking about him, he fought to clear the fog in his brain. Anna was gone, leaving behind her a nagging question in Bowman’s mind. How was it that, nearly a year after she had died, he had just seen his wife on a London street?

  VI

  Arrival

  Bermondsey Police Station was set back from the road, inconspicuous amongst a row of plain, three-storey terrace houses. It comprised two properties surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Steps from the street led to doors surrounded by imposing porticos. Detective Inspector Bowman slowed his step as he approached. The only thing that distinguished the police station from the neighbouring houses was a sign on a battered notice board proclaiming the property to be part of the Metropolitan Police Ambulance Service. As he stood at the bottom step looking up, two police constables ambled from the building. One straightened his hat on his head as they meandered down the road in the direction of the river. Bowman took a breath to steady himself. He had been shaken by the events of the last half hour and, try as he might, he was finding it difficult to turn his mind from them. He knew it was all the effect of his fevered brain. He also knew there was a word for it. A word he hadn’t heard or seen since first reading it on his patient record at Colney Hatch. “Prone to delusions”. There was no other explanation but that he had experienced a delusional episode. Bowman was a rational man and able quickly enough to dismiss any notion of spectral visitations.
And yet, she had seemed so real. He put a hand to his breast to steady his heart then ascended the steps to the police station.

  Inside, all was a riot. The cramped reception area was full of children. Some lounged on the deep sills, absently drawing on the windows with their fingers. Others sat patiently on wooden benches by the walls. Most, however, careered about the room at speed, tripping and pushing each other in sport. Their cries were deafening. Among them, Bowman recognised the urchins who had followed him down Willow Walk. He had to muster all his strength not to turn tail back to Scotland Yard at once. As he stood at the door trying to make sense of the scene, there came a crack. A silence descended.

  “Where is Mr Babbington?” The voice belonged to a fearsome young lady who stood at the reception desk. She held a long cane before her, just above the tabletop. She was tall Bowman noticed, perhaps as tall as him. Her lithe frame was draped in a grey pinafore that reached to the floor. Most of her hair was tied up in a bun upon her head, but Bowman noticed stray ringlets dancing about her face as she held court. On the table before her lay a ledger and her matron’s hat. “I shall ask again,” she was saying, slowly. “Where is Mr Babbington?”

  The boys sniggered. One of their number, clearly the bravest among them, walked carefully to a cupboard door. Reaching out with a grubby hand, he turned the key to release the lock. With a flourish, he pulled the handle and sprang aside to let the door swing open. There stood Mr Babbington, his face flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead with perspiration. He was a man in his fifties but old before his time. White bushy eyebrows stood out prominently from his forehead, framing blue-grey, rheumy eyes and reddened cheeks. Bowman could see he had a drinker’s nose. As the poor man staggered out from the cupboard, it was clear the woman at the desk was trying hard to suppress her laughter. Taking their cue from her, a few boys in the room started to snigger.