The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  “Thank you, Miss Beaurepaire,” he was saying silkily. “I shall show Inspector Bowman the ropes.”

  Alma shrugged her shoulders and threw Bowman a disarming smile. “See ya later,” she chimed. Gathering her skirts, she walked carefully from the dock. Watching her go, Bowman saw her turn at least twice to see that he was looking. Both times, he felt his face flush and his neck burn beneath his collar. He turned away quickly so as to avoid her eye, but not so quickly that he didn’t see a mischievous smile play about her lips.

  “Each clipper carries in eighty tons of tea and similar quantities of spice or opium,” Bracewell was intoning, clearing his throat to catch the inspector’s attention. “They unload here twice a day when the tide is at its highest.”

  Bowman turned to face him. The loading officer was standing tall, conveying as best he could the sense that he was master of all he surveyed. Bowman noticed a bead of sweat escaping from his hairline.

  “What will be my duties here?” Bowman asked.

  “Your presence alone is valuable to us, inspector. We lose stock by the day to thieves.” He motioned that Bowman should join him as he walked up Shad Thames. All around them, the unloading of the clipper continued at a pace. Men shouted to each other or passed sacks along a line. Carts were loaded and wheeled away. Spillages were swept up as if every grain or leaf was precious.

  “The owners make these wharves as secure as they can, but still they hold precious cargo. This one here, for example.” They had stopped outside a tall warehouse. Men came and went through its open gate, pushing sacks of produce on ramshackle carts. “This is Crown Wharf. At this very moment, it holds within its walls over thirty thousand pounds’ worth of coffee, saffron and turmeric.” He pointed back at the clipper as it rose and fell with the swelling tide. “The tea in this shipment alone will be worth some one hundred thousand pounds. It makes us quite the target.”

  They had reached the end of the dock now, and the two men turned back from Tooley Street to view the scene before them.

  “Of course, if I had my way, we’d hang ’em all.” Bracewell turned to the inspector. Bowman wasn’t sure if he was smiling or not.

  “They’d hang pirates on this very spot, inspector. The river here is called the Neckinger on account of all the hangings. It means the Devil’s neckcloth.”

  Bowman looked about him with fresh eyes. St. Saviour’s Dock was evidently once a barbarous place.

  “Are there devils here, Mr Bracewell?” he asked, pointedly.

  “Look around you, Inspector Bowman,” Bracewell held his arms wide as if to encompass the whole of the dock. “You’ll certainly find no saints.” He threw his head back and laughed at the very idea.

  Bracewell’s mirth was interrupted by the arrival of another man. The constable was a tall, angular man, and Bowman couldn’t help but notice the heaviness of his brow and the prominence of his nose. “Ah, Constable Thackeray,” Bracewell was leaning in to shake his hand. “I trust you can show Inspector Bowman round the wharves? He is in charge here now.”

  Bowman thought he saw a flash of something pass across the constable’s eyes. What was it? Annoyance? Resentment? “Of course,” the man replied, bobbing his head in deference.

  “Perhaps you could show him your itinerary?” Bracewell prompted.

  “We use the Customs House as our base,” the constable explained. “We could start there.”

  As Bracewell made his retreat, Bowman saw him take a fob watch from his coat to study the dial intently. Snapping it shut, he stopped at the mouth to the Thames to gaze absently out to the far shore.

  Thackeray led Bowman down the opposite side of the quay to the Customs House. As they walked gingerly through the maelstrom of activity, Bowman couldn’t help but notice the constable glancing at the clock on the wall of the rice mill behind them. Finally, they turned off the dock into an alley. A plain and weather-beaten door stood back from the passage with a sign nailed to its peeling exterior; ‘St. Saviour’s Dock, Customs House’. As the constable unlocked the door to admit him, Bowman felt him pause on the threshold.

  Away from the hustle and bustle of the dock, the little room in which they found themselves seemed an island of calm. A shelf groaned with papers, files and ledgers, while a simple table and two chairs stood at its centre. Charts and maps lined the walls. The room seemed to ring with silence.

  And then it was broken.

  A thump and a crack echoed from across the river, the sound glancing off the sheer walls around it. Bowman felt it in the pit of his stomach. There were shouts and cries from the dockside and the sound of running feet. Thackery ran from the room, Bowman sprinting after him in hot pursuit. Coming to a halt on the bank of the Thames, the two men stood breathing hard as they stared out over to the far shore. All around them, the dockworkers jostled for the best position from which to view the spectacle. They pointed, shielding their eyes against the sun, trying to make sense of the scene. Across the water, Bowman could see a ball of smoke rising to the heavens. Even at this distance, it was possible to make out the figures of men running in fear. Flames licked at their ankles as they fled. One man, set alight from the blast, threw himself at the mercy of the River Thames. Smaller explosions came like afterthoughts and it was possible to see buildings falling in on themselves. Great plumes of smoke belched into the sky until it was a smudge of dirty grey to rival the river.

  “St. Katharine Docks!” one of the men was shouting. “It’ll be flattened!”

  His heart in his mouth and his mind reeling at the thought of what he might find there, Bowman knew at once that he had to get to the north bank.

  IX

  Inferno

  As he approached Tower Bridge from Shad Thames, Bowman knew it was his only option. Even if Bracewell had secured him the services of an oarsman, to row the river would take too long. With St. Katharine Docks aflame, it was even doubtful they would find a safe mooring once across. The nearest crossing upstream was the Tower Subway. Bowman knew that would put at least another twenty minutes on his journey so he stood, breathless from his exertions, on the approach to Tower Bridge. The hammers were silent. Carts of material and tools had been abandoned. The explosion on the north bank had aroused much excitement and interest amongst the workforce. Almost to a man, they crowded to the east side of the bridge to stare agog at the unfolding scene. As Bowman picked his way swiftly along the bridge, he looked around at the spoils of construction. Great lumps of steel lay ready to be lifted into position by ropes and pulleys. His progress was punctuated by piles of masonry and vats of grease. Barrels of steaming pitch bubbled and popped. The road surface - such as it was - was strewn with rivets, hammers and debris. Above him, men swung from their footholds to gaze across the river, calling out to each other from their great height. Bowman threw his eyes ahead, focusing beyond the span of the bridge to the north shore. A fire was raging at the heart of St. Katharine Docks. The flames leapt from warehouse to warehouse, further explosions rattling across the Thames as their contents combusted. Already, Bowman could see measures being taken to try and subdue the conflagration. Hoses and pumps had been turned on the fire and great flumes of water arced through the air.

  “Hey! Watch yer step!” The cry caught Bowman mid-step. Up ahead, he could see a blustering foreman with his hands on his hips. “What do you think you’re doin’ here?”

  Bowman fumbled for his papers. “Detective Inspector Bowman, Scotland Yard,” he called, holding his identification before him.

  “Oh?” sneered the man, his filthy face alight with mischief. “And I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  “I need to get to St. Katharine Docks.”

  “Putting on quite a show for us, aren’t they?” The foreman twisted his head over his shoulder to gaze at the blaze on the north bank. The acrid tang of smoke hung in the air.

  “Who?” Bowman squinted against the sun to size the man up. He was dressed in tattered work clothes and heavy boots, a grubby hat jammed on a thatch of greasy hai
r. As he turned back to face the inspector, Bowman could see he had several missing teeth and a scar that cut across his mouth.

  “The Fenians, o’course,” he rasped. Several workers turned to nod their heads in agreement.

  Quickening his pace, Bowman strode past the man. “I am hoping a man may cross this bridge in safety?”

  “A man may,” replied the foreman with a knowing grin to his comrades. “I don’t know about a detective inspector.”

  The men at the makeshift balustrade had turned now, the entertainment on the bridge proving to be of more amusement to them than that on the riverbank.

  “Send ’em ’ome to Ireland when you catch ’em!” called one to a resounding cheer from his fellow workers. “I’ve a sack o’ potatoes at home I’d gladly send with ’em!” The men around him fell about at this and clapped him on the back, their shoulders heaving with laughter. Further up the bridge, a knot of scaffolders and labourers spat on the ground. Their faces were flushed with anger.

  “Keep your ruddy potatoes, Fraser,” shouted a man with a peg leg and a broad Irish accent. “You’ll be needin’ ’em for when the revolution comes.”

  Leaving the two groups of men squaring up for a fight, Bowman ploughed on with half an eye on St. Katharine Docks. As he proceeded across the bridge, he heard the plaintive cry of the foreman behind him; “Stop ya gawpin’! This bridge won’t build itself!”

  The inspector found himself in the middle of the bridge now, where the two leaves of the bascule met. The river was clearly visible through the unfinished surface beneath his feet. At one point, the road narrowed to the width of the three or four girders that were slung below him. He slowed his pace, not daring to look too closely at the swollen Thames beneath. The wind whipped about his coat as he lifted his gaze to the end of the bridge.

  And there she stood. Diffuse as smoke at first, she soon seemed as solid as the steel and stone around her. Bowman stopped, his heart racing. Shaking his head, he fought against the feeling of suffocation. Trying to call her name, he felt the word catch in his throat like a barb. There was a ringing in his ears. He looked behind him at the construction workers. Surely someone else could see her? They continued with their work, seemingly oblivious to the woman in yellow only yards away, the only distraction to their labours being the belching smoke on the north bank. As he lifted his head again, he saw she was beckoning him. He fell to his knees, the rough, unfinished surface of the road chafing at the skin through his clothes. The yellow of her dress was blinding now, and he had to raise his hand to shield his eyes.

  “Hey, watch yer step!” the foreman shouted from behind. Bowman summoned his strength, trying to see beyond the apparition. He shut his eyes tight and willed her away. A sudden blast tore through the air. Looking to his right, Bowman could see the whole of the central warehouse had been torn apart. Shards of wood and glass spiralled to the ground, narrowly missing the stevedores as they ran for safety. Ahead on Tower Bridge Approach, Bowman could hear the bells of an approaching private ambulance. A carriage drawn by two horses rounded the corner and turned into Upper East Smithfield, its driver urging the team on with a crack of his whip. The commotion had brought Bowman to his senses. Standing again, he focussed on the way ahead. There was no sign of her now. Lucid once more, Bowman mused how he could be so convinced of her appearance when in the thrall of a manic episode, yet appreciate its sheer implausibility when free from it.

  Stepping from the bridge, he inspector took the shortest route to the docks. Taking the steps down to Little Thames Street two at a time, he followed the river round to the dock entrance and the locks that kept the Thames at bay.

  He was confronted with pandemonium. Men were running from place to place, shouting orders or crying for help. Bodies and body parts lay scattered about the warehouse precincts. Casualties lay dazed on the walkways awaiting help. Their faces and limbs were burned and blistered. Charred corpses floated in the water in a slick of blood. Ships of various sizes bobbed on the water, caught in the middle of discharging their loads. Cranes had been abandoned and carts neglected in the melee. Steam fire engines sprayed water pumped straight from the Thames. With the East and West Docks either side of the warehouse, the flames were being held at bay. In the midst of it all, a chubby man in a grubby waistcoat and corduroy trousers was conducting proceedings. Bowman could see another ambulance joining the first. It was to him that the drivers turned to be directed to the casualties that most needed help, and so it was to him that Bowman directed his feet.

  “Inspector Bowman, Scotland Yard,” he announced, squinting through the smoke.

  The man gave a look of exasperation. “Heaven save us!” It was not the reaction Bowman had hoped for. “What I want is ambulances!”

  Looking behind the man, Bowman could see another private ambulance rattling into the dockyard, its two horses whinnying in alarm at the scene. Bowman ran to give assistance, taking bedding and dressings from the ambulance and looking around for who he might help first. All around, men were returning to their injured colleagues as the flames were beaten back.

  “Mr Tremont, sir!” called one. The chubby man in the waistcoat wheeled round to face him. “It’s Sheridan, sir. He’s alive, but won’t last without help.” Bowman ran to the man’s side, calling for others to render assistance. As three others approached, their hobnailed boots skidding on the walkway, Bowman took command.

  “Strip him to the waist, but carefully. You,” he pointed to the man who had first called out, “take off your neckerchief.” As the man removed the kerchief from his neck, Bowman ran to the dockside, grabbing a bucket from a pile of discarded equipment. He filled it at the waterside and ran back, kneeling beside the wretch on the ground. He was shivering violently now, screaming as the men removed his shirt.

  “It must be done now,” explained Bowman, “or it will only be done later, and that will be the worse for him.” Bowman took his companion’s kerchief and rinsed it in the water. “Press this to the burn,” he ordered. Lifting his face to the wind he called to those around him. “Any man with a burn must be cooled. We are surrounded by water, so use it!” Several workers left their injured colleagues to find a receptacle and run to the water’s edge. Bowman could see the ambulance workers were loading men onto the back of their carriages, but with so many injured their removal was likely to take time.

  Bowman walked back to Tremont. He noticed he was looking out across the Thames to the south bank, a haunted look on his face.

  “Mr Tremont,” began Bowman, “Do you have any idea what happened here?”

  “This will ruin us for sure,” uttered Tremont, his face a picture of dejection. “Things have been bad enough with Tilbury, but this’ll put a cap on it, you mark my words.” He looked wildly about him. He had the look of a scared man, thought Bowman.

  “What was in the warehouse?”

  “Nothing beyond comestibles and building materials,” Tremont shook his head. “No explosives.”

  “Might a man have gained access with a bomb?” Bowman chose his words carefully, looking for any reaction on Tremont’s expressive face.

  “He might,” he began, wringing his hands in desperation. “But why might he do such a thing? I’m of the opinion it was only an accident.” Tremont hollered to a fire engine to redirect its hose to the roof of another warehouse.

  “I saw the blast, Mr Tremont. That was no accident.” Bowman wiped his face with a hand and noticed it was covered in a skein of ash and grime.

  “Then you know nothing of a docker’s trade, Inspector Bowman.” Tremont turned to the inspector, a look of indignation on his face. “We handle explosive material as a matter of course. Accidents are but a hazard of the trade.”

  “You said the warehouse contained nothing beyond comestibles.”

  “And such material is prone to combust. Sometimes with no external aggravation.”

  Bowman stroked his moustache, doubtfully. “I find that – ”

  “It was an accident, Inspect
or Bowman, and that is that.” Tremont pulled himself up to his full height. “It is my job now to care for my employees and their families as best I can. What is yours?”

  With that, he strode purposefully away, leaving Bowman to stare thoughtfully across the Thames to St. Saviour’s Dock on the south side.

  X

  The Mark Of The Devil

  The blast had woken Big Tam. He lay in a confused state at first, trying to make sense of his surroundings. A dull fog lay behind his eyes. A sharp pain throbbed at his head. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he realised he was looking at his own hand, curled in a fist on the ground before him. Shifting his weight to restore feeling to his arm, he flexed his fingers with a tremendous effort, first one then another. Then he realised he had been stripped to the waist. The floor felt hard and cold at his shoulder. He winced as he rocked himself onto his back, his head pulsing in pain at the exertion. He tried to lift his hands to his head but found his right hand was secured by a chain to the wall behind him. He pulled at it hard, but succeeded only in chafing his wrist on the metal cuff that held him. Lifting his feet, he shuffled closer to the wall that he might rest his back against it. The sound of his boots scuffing against the floor resonated in the space around him. Tam had the impression he was in a large, empty room. He felt a stab of pain and set his teeth against the agony. As he sat, gasping for breath, he squinted into the gloom. A fierce, red glow lit a far corner. Blinking the sweat and dirt from his eyes, he saw it was a brazier, its coals throwing heat and a little light into the vast room. Lifting his eyes, he found the ceiling was too high to see. Instead, a black gloom hung where the roof should be. Looking around him now, he saw nothing but shadows. The floor was covered in grease and dirt and the walls that he could see were streaked with grime. Next came the smell. It was an industrial stench, metallic and sharp. Big Tam had been in enough warehouses to know how they smelt. Slowing his breathing, he turned his mind to the question of how he had got here. A strange collection of memories jostled in his head; drinking at The Three Daws, setting out to walk by the river to Ordnance Road, a dog and then? Darkness. Pain. And then he was travelling in a cart. He had come too just once on the journey, he remembered now, but only to vomit his guts up in the sack they had placed back on his head. He had no idea how long the journey had been, nor in which direction. In short, he realised with a flash of despondency, he could be anywhere. Using his free hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow and felt round to the back of his head. His hair was a matt of blood. Feeling beneath the clot, he could discern a split in his skin. The whole area felt tender to the touch and Tam winced in pain. Struggling to focus again, he lowered his hand and noticed a puncture wound on his forearm, just above a vein. That would explain the fog in his brain, he thought, and the parched feeling in his mouth. With a mighty effort, he rocked to his knees. The chain on his arm was long enough to allow him to stand, but not much more. Gripping it tight between both hands, he tugged furiously at the tether. It was fastened good and strong. Bracing a foot against the wall, he levered all his eighteen stones against it. Still, there was no movement. His eyes accustomed to the gloom now, Big Tam looked around for tools. In a corner maybe twenty feet away stood a large pedal lathe, its metal parts reflecting a fiery red from the brazier. On it lay a hammer. In order to escape the chain Tam needed that hammer, but in order to reach the hammer he would have to escape the chain. Even in his befuddled state, Big Tam still found it within him to let out a dry laugh at the dreadful contradiction.