He was brought up sharp by a sound. Some distance away, he could hear doors opening. For a moment, a chink of light filtered under a doorway in the farthest wall. So it was daytime, at least. Crouching low, he sunk into the shadows as best he could, settling his large frame against the wall. His breathing slowed. His hearing alive to every sound, he heard the clink of keys and the releasing of a lock. There was a scratching, scuffling sound at the ground by the door. It swung open, sending funnels of dust whirling before it. Tam cast his eyes feverishly about him, looking for anything that might aid him in his escape. If this was one of the two men who had attacked him last night, he reasoned, he now had the advantage of not having a sack over his head. The door was closed. Footsteps echoed around the empty warehouse as a figure drew nearer. But there was something else. A low, guttural sound. The growling of a dog. As it stepped into the fierce, red light of the brazier, the figure took on a shape that Tam could distinguish. It was wearing a long, loose coat that hung about the ankles and a cowl pulled over its head to confound any attempt at identification. The dog stood obediently at its side, its squashed nose sniffing at the air. Tam recognised it as a bull terrier, a breed with which he was familiar from the many dogfights he had attended. He knew them for a vicious animal and would never have wished to face one in such a position. For a while, the figure stopped, regarding Big Tam in an eerie silence.
“What d’ya want?” Tam rasped, his great Scottish voice echoing off the wall’ “You’ll kop it when I pull myself free.” To demonstrate just how dire a threat that was, Tam pulled at his chain with a roar.
The figure tipped its head to one side in a gesture that caused Tam’s heart to race. Terrifyingly, it was a look of amusement. The figure turned under Big Tam’s gaze and walked to the brazier, the dog sitting patiently to one side. Its tale was wagging with excitement, its tongue lolling from one side of its mouth. Tam crouched on his haunches, the sweat on his torso glistening in the red light. “What d’ya want from me?” he pleaded.
The hooded figure was at the brazier now, reaching forward with a gloved hand to take hold of a long metal rod resting within. The coals spat and sparked as it was pulled from the blaze. As the figure turned, it held the rod at arm’s length. The tip was aglow from the heat of the fire and fashioned into a shape. As it danced in the air before him, Tam could see it was a circular design like a simple face, with slits for eyes and horns protruding from the top. With a lurch, he realised he was to be branded with the sign of the Devil. The panic rose within him and he pulled at the chain again.
“You’ll have to get near me first,” he spat, swinging his free arm wildly in front of him.
As if in response, the cowled figure reached into the folds of its coat and drew out a heavy cudgel. The dog was on its feet now, salivating wildly. Tam kicked and thrashed in desperation, his eyes wide in an animal fear. The figure was crouching low, weighing the balance of the cudgel and the brand in either hand. In silhouette against the brazier, it shifted its weight on its feet, swaying in anticipation of the right moment. As Big Tam swung again, his free hand bunched into a fist that seemed to whistle through the air, the silhouette seized the moment. Tam was caught off guard and off balance. As his arm swung wide in front of him, it was met with the crack of wood on bone. The cudgel had been slammed down against his forearm. Tam roared at the pain as it travelled up his arm to his shoulder and neck. The dog joined him in his wailing, lifting its head to howl and bark. As he looked down to his shattered forearm, he was met with a kick to his face. Precisely placed, it cracked his teeth. His head snapped back instinctively, and Tam felt his old wound throb as it made contact with the wall behind him. He fell to his knees with a thud that seemed to shake the ground, his breathing laboured. Finally, the cudgel was pushed against his chest and Tam fell back, a heap of shattered bones. His vision was fading and his head felt split with pain. He knew now what must come. His fervent hope was to lose consciousness before the deed was done. The dog was quiet now, almost in anticipation of the inevitable. The tip of the branding iron swung before him; a glowing, disembodied head in the darkness. Then, ominously, it dipped out of view.
He smelt it first. It was a smell he had known before at the farms and charnel houses where he had found employment in his youth. It was the smell of burning, blistering flesh. As the steam rose before his eyes, he suddenly felt the pain. The figure seemed unmoved, uncaring as it busied itself about its work. Even as Tam screamed, it seemed unconcerned whether he would be heard, or if he was heard, whether anyone would care. It was a torture meted out with impunity. The dog threw its head back again, the sound of its howling a grisly chorus to proceedings. As Big Tam fell into a feverish oblivion, his final thought was that he would never be saved, and he would never be missed.
XI
Clutching At Straws
“Anarchists!” Hicks bellowed to anyone who would listen. That the bluff inspector was so forthright in his views was bad enough, thought Bowman. That he was sat in Bowman’s favourite chair by the fire was worse. The Silver Cross was busier than he had ever seen it. The booming construction works in the city had seen an influx of labourers who all, much to the landlord’s delight, needed feeding and watering. Harris was even offering lodgings in his upstairs rooms, Bowman had heard. The workers were happy enough to share three or four to a room, and Harris was happy enough to take their money. Casting an eye through the smoke to the bar, Bowman could see Harris busy at the pumps, his long, lank hair plastered to his forehead with the sweat of his toil. He had never looked happier. There was barely any room to be had in the small saloon area of the inn. Men were pressed five deep at the bar. Tankards and jugs of beer were passed over heads with practised aplomb. Bowman could see one man already in his cups, the only thing keeping him upright being the crush of men about him. Alarmingly, he seemed to be in the midst of a deep, drunken sleep, supported as he was by his fellow men. Bowman shifted his weight. His legs were feeling stiff from standing so long at the fireplace.
“Anarchists!” chimed Hicks again from Bowman’s chair, his pipe clamped between his teeth. Bowman turned to face the bloated detective. “They’ve become emboldened,” Hicks was musing, surrounded by the detritus of his dinner. “Too many European revolutionaries have sought refuge here and we’ve been daft enough to give it them. They care nothing for the law, or the Empire.”
Bowman ignored the remark.
“According to The Standard,” Sergeant Graves interjected, his blue eyes shining in his enthusiasm, “It was the Fenians.” He pulled a newspaper from his pocket, shaking it flat to hold up in the light. The whole of the front page was given over to the explosion at St. Katharine Docks. Above several columns of typically alarmist newsprint screamed the headline, ‘IRISH BOMBS AT LONDON’S HEART’.
Bowman smoothed his moustache with a finger. “The dock master was convinced it was not a bomb at all.”
“Not a bomb?” roared Hicks, unaware or unashamed of the beery froth that clung to his moustaches. “We heard the blast from Drury Lane. Anarchists, Bowman, you mark my words.”
Bowman raised his voice to be heard over the surrounding mayhem. “I would caution you to wait until you are in full possession of the facts before coming to a judgement.”
“Never stopped him before.” As Graves raised his beer, a sudden shout came from the bar.
“Put that filth away, will ya?” It was delivered in a broad, Irish accent. The hubbub died away to an uncomfortable silence. “I said, put that filth away before I pitch it into the fire.”
The crowd in the saloon parted to reveal a short, wiry man in scruffy clothes. His skin had the appearance of one who leads an outdoor life, and Bowman noticed his hands and fingers were swollen with blisters and calluses. A threadbare kerchief hung at his neck and at least half the buttons were missing from his waistcoat. Most incongruous of all, however, was the wooden peg leg that extended from the man’s right knee. Bowman recognised him as the disgruntled workman from Tower Bridge.<
br />
Sergeant Graves gulped in sudden realisation that the man was addressing him.
“I was merely reporting the day’s news,” he explained, gathering the paper from the table as he spoke.
Harris had made his way through the hatch at the bar and stood behind the man, his body tense. With a hand at his shoulder, he attempted to calm the labourer.
“Steady now, O”Brien,” he soothed. “These men are from Scotland Yard.”
“I couldn’t care less if they’d come from Buckingham Palace,” O’Brien jeered, shrugging his way from beneath Harris’ appeasing hand. “If Victoria herself stood before us there with that filth in her hand, I’d say the same.”
The drinkers at his back laughed and clapped at his remarks. Harris threw Bowman an apologetic look.
“We built this Empire with our own hands,” continued O’Brien. “Aye, and I know some who gave their blood for it, too. You’d do well to remember that before you show such a thing to your friends.” With a gnarled finger, he pointed at the folded newspaper beneath Graves’ arm.
“It’d be just like an Irishman to build a thing then blow it up for spite,” shouted a voice from the crowd. There was more laughter at this, and some raised their glasses in agreement. O’Brien turned to face the mob.
“Me and my lads are building you your precious bridge. And who do you think raised old Nelson on his column?” He was having to shout to be heard above the cheering now. “Who laid your roads?”
“Who drunk our whisky?” called the voice again. At this, the room became a roar.
Detective Inspector Hicks rose up from his chair and spread his arms wide. “What of the Underground Railway bombs of Praed Street and Charing Cross?” His booming voice brought the room to a quiet stillness. Bowman rolled his eyes.
“And I suppose Britain is a land of saints?” O’Brien replied, his chin jutting forward in defiance. “With the Commissioner of Scotland Yard as its patron?”
All eyes were on Hicks now. He rubbed his hands together, blinking furiously as he searched for a response. “You can ask him yourself when the Special Irish Branch comes knocking at your door.” This brought a smattering of applause.
“I’ve no fear of Scotland Yard or its detectives,” drawled O’Brien, daringly.
“Ireland would be in a better fix with a law keeper or two.” Hicks held his lapels in a vain attempt to appear intelligent. He succeeded only in looking pompous.
“Didn’t you hear? St. Patrick himself had all Scotland Yarders banished,” O’Brien was stamping his wooden leg on the floor to punctuate his words. “Along with all the other snakes!”
The crowd at O’Brien’s back took up a chorus of hisses in response, then laughter erupted again. Like the breaking of a squall, the collective mirth cleared the air. Sensing the storm had passed, Harris pushed his way through the crowd back to the bar. With fresh calls for drink, his hands were soon busy at the pumps.
“Inspector Hicks,” began Bowman once he sensed all eyes were off them, “I would caution you to have a few more facts at your disposal before you engage in such sport.”
“The Evening Standard says it was Fenians. I say it was Anarchists.” Hicks leaned forward conspiratorially, as if he was to impart some ancient wisdom for Bowman’s ears alone, “Perhaps it was Fenians and Anarchists!” With that, Hicks whipped his empty tankard from the table and waddled to the bar.
Bowman sighed. It was unfortunate that the editor of The Evening Standard was seeing fit to whip up a public panic before the facts were known. It was dismaying that a detective inspector from Scotland Yard should be complicit.
“The man’s a menace,” Bowman growled.
“He is that,” agreed Graves. “And he’s never knowingly bought a man a drink. Which makes him the worst of men in my book.” Graves sported a wide smile that Bowman couldn’t help but find disarming.
“What news from Drury Lane?” Taking advantage of Hicks’ absence, the inspector was lowering himself into the recently vacated chair by the fire.
“A mauling by a hound, that much is clear.” Graves took a slug of his ale. “The wonder is he didn’t make himself and his predicament known to the police. Drury Lane is thick with them on account of the pickpockets and cutpurses.”
Bowman sighed. It was a sad fact that, even with the advances of recent years, the police were still not trusted by the public at large.
“We’re yet to identify the man but there are certain pertinent details which may be of help,” continued Graves, hitting his stride. “We are to telegraph all stations and divisions in London to check against missing persons records.”
Bowman shook his head. “If such records exist.”
“It’s a start.” Graves flashed his smile again. “Doctor Crane suggests the man might be a boxer. That’s bound to narrow the field.”
“Then I would concentrate your efforts on the East End, Graves. They have a surfeit of boxing dens; some legal, some less so.”
Graves nodded enthusiastically. “Just my thinking too, sir. If they could help with the poor man’s fingers it would be a boon.”
Bowman held his tankard halfway to his mouth. “His fingers?” His frown cut into his forehead.
Graves nodded. “There was a yellow powder beneath the poor man’s fingernails. Doctor Crane professed it to be a spice. Turmeric, he said it was. How might a man get turmeric beneath his nails?” Graves drank from his glass, clearly at a loss to explain.
Bowman was on his feet now, all action. “If such a man worked at the docks he might.” He snatched his hat and coat from the hook by the fireplace and headed for the door.
“How’s that, sir?”
Bowman turned. “I was witness today to an event which was presented as an accident. I have my doubts. The man in question had a yellow powder beneath his nails and on his fingertips.”
“Might he be connected with my man at Drury Lane?”
“He might well be, Sergeant Graves.” Bowman was shrugging on his coat. “But I won’t know until I ask him.”
“In a hurry, Bowman?” Hicks had returned from the bar, his tankard dripping with a beery foam.
“I must to the docks.”
“Ah, security matters?” Hicks threw him a condescending wink.
“More spiritual than material, Inspector Hicks. I am to see The Sisters Of Mercy, and a man they have in their care.” With that, Bowman breezed through the door, his hat on his head and his coat buttoned up against the evening chill.
Inspector Hicks turned to Graves, uncomprehending. “Well now, that is a shame,” he bluffed. “I was just about to buy the man a drink.”
XII
A Night At The Theatre
Sergeant Anthony Graves pulled his coat around him as he stepped from The Silver Cross. He left Inspector Hicks to his beer and his opinions and rounded the corner onto Trafalgar Square and The Strand. Looking up at Nelson on his column, the young sergeant couldn’t help but wonder of the things the admiral might see from so lofty a position. Trafalgar Square was busy with people. Children ran and played amongst Landseer’s lions, ladies in long dresses promenaded around the fountains, some arm in arm with smart young men in formal coats. Hawkers and sellers displayed their wares at stalls or on trays. Soft, dimpled oranges and rosy apples were offered alongside roasted chestnuts and liquorice root. Match sellers sang out across the square, their rough melodies rising high into the air where Nelson himself stood in judgement. Graves had learned to see through the surface appearance of things. As an insect might skate upon the water of a pond oblivious to the threats that lay beneath, so many people, he thought, lived their lives without the appreciation of the danger just below the surface. There in the corner of the square, a group of ruffians were gathering, their eyes alighting keenly on the rich pickings about them. Purses were carried with abandon, pockets were left agape. A swift hand could cheat the eye and a lady may be robbed in a moment. Looking up towards St. Martin’s Church, he saw several drunks spilling into the
road, fighting amongst themselves over a bottle of gin.
“You all right, dearie?”
The Devil in the Dock Page 7
