The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  XIII

  Visiting Hours

  Inspector Bowman couldn’t deny he felt a subtle thrill at the prospect of his inquiries. He had felt redundant at St. Saviour’s Dock until the explosion across the river. Now, he was in the throes of an investigation once more, he couldn’t but admit it made him feel vindicated. More than that, it made him feel useful. He had learned the lesson of his previous encounter on Willow Walk and had, this time, caught a hansom cab from Whitehall.

  The Sisters Of Mercy Convent was an overtly monastic building. Its high forbidding walls loomed over the road in the dark, its crenellations and spires pointing the way to heaven to any in the area who were disposed to look up. It was only fifty years since the foundation stone had been laid, but it had the appearance of a medieval building; all tapered arches, mullioned windows and buttressed walls. It stood opposite a tannery, one of several within a small radius, that belched steam and smoke into the sky at every time of day or night. The pungent smell of damp leather hung in the air.

  As the hansom rattled to a halt, Bowman was surprised to see a familiar figure striding down Parker’s Row towards him. In her long matron’s dress and mob cap, the inspector recognised Alma Beaurepaire at once.

  “Hey, George!” she called as Bowman paid the driver. “Couldn’t keep away, huh?”

  Bowman blushed as the coachman threw him a knowing smile.

  “What’re you doing back in Bermondsey?”

  “I am come to see the man who was injured at St. Saviour’s,” Bowman began by way of explanation. He was reluctant to say too much. “You said they would bring him here.” The driver cracked his whip and the hansom clattered away towards the river and Shad Thames.

  “Then you’re in luck,” Alma grinned “That’s just where I was going, too.”

  Bowman tried to hide his consternation. Perhaps it was as well to have a representative of the local police at his side during questioning, but he couldn’t help but think Miss Beaurepaire might hamper his investigations.

  The door was opened by a tiny woman in nun’s vestments. Her face was as smooth as a shiny pebble and her eyes gleamed behind little, round spectacles. She listened intently as Bowman made his introductions and gave his reason for visiting at such an unsociable hour.

  “There was a man brought here earlier from the dock,” he began.

  “Jonas Cook, Sister Vincent,” Alma interjected. “He was brought here from St. Saviour’s.” Alma was plainly known here. Perhaps Cook wasn’t the first man from St. Saviour’s to have required the sisters” ministrations.

  “Ah yes,” Sister Vincent replied. “The poor man and his leg.” She spoke with a soft Irish lilt and tutted as she led them deeper into the convent. “He is in our infirmary, but there’s not much we can give him beyond rest and prayer. We have cleaned his wound as best we can and given the poor man opium. We will see in the morning if he will keep his leg.”

  Bowman’s frown cut deep into his forehead at the news. “You mean he may lose it?”

  The sister stopped mid-step and turned to the inspector. “If it turns bad, it’ll have to come off.” The sister affected a tone more suited to reassuring a child. “With God’s blessing it will not be so.”

  As she turned to continue their journey, Bowman glanced at his companion. Alma Beaurepaire had an easy confidence about her that Bowman envied. Perhaps that came from her early life in the colonies, he mused. At any rate, she seemed well able to take any circumstance in her stride. She had been impressive on the dockside that afternoon, taking control of the situation with élan, and now she appeared equally at home in a house of God. Her eyes were downcast in an attitude of respect as she walked, cap in hand, through the dimly-lit passageways of the convent. Their footsteps echoed off the narrow walls around them and once or twice, the two visitors had to duck to pass through a doorway.

  “The sisters came here from Ireland,” Sister Vincent announced. “Our mission is to help the poor and the sick. We find enough of both in Bermondsey to keep us busy, as you might imagine.” Bowman nodded sagely in response. “Several of our sisters gave assistance to Florence Nightingale at Scutari.” It was clear that Sister Vincent was glad of the company. “But I feel there is a war to be fought here, inspector, on the streets of Bermondsey.”

  Bowman couldn’t help but agree. As the Empire stretched its arms around the world, so its eyes often missed what was happening here at home.

  “He’s in no trouble is he?” The little group had stopped before another low door and the sister regarded Bowman through her spectacles with beady eyes. “We minister to all who need it, Inspector Bowman, but if the man’s a criminal - ”

  “Jonas is in no trouble,” Alma interjected. “And he’s no criminal for ought I know.”

  “I am simply investigating the circumstances of his accident, that is all,” added Bowman, choosing his words carefully.

  “And it takes a detective from Scotland Yard to do that, does it?”

  Bowman swallowed. He couldn’t let Alma know he was investigating other matters. For all she knew, he had been posted to St. Saviour’s Dock on a matter of security. He would prefer it if she was kept still in that mind.

  “I happened to be at the scene of the accident this afternoon.”

  “Hmm,” the sister’s eyes narrowed. “How fortuitous.” Sister Vincent turned to open the heavy, wooden door before her. “He’s in here, inspector. I’m not sure how much sense you’ll get from him.”

  The first thing Bowman noticed was the smell; a pungent mix of wet, sweaty sheets and festering wounds. Someone was coughing; a painful rattling rasp. Six beds were arranged along the longest wall, each occupied by a patient. As Bowman looked along the line of patients, he saw some were plainly in worse health than others. An elderly lady lay completely still, mouthing silent words to the ceiling. Next to her, a small boy was curled up on his bed counting his fingers. Excepting the wooden crucifixes that hung above each bed, the walls were bare. Candles burning at two windows offered the only light so the room was engulfed in a stultifying gloom. Sister Vincent led them to the farthest corner, to a young man sat staring balefully at the wall opposite. His pale skin was pricked with sweat. He was evidently fighting hard to keep his eyes from closing. Periodically, he would give an inadvertent shudder, then wince with pain. The lower half of his sheet was stained with blood. As each spasm passed, he would cast his eyes up to the crucifix on the wall and offer a prayer of thanks.

  “He’s a pious man,” beamed Sister Vincent proudly. “The Lord will be kind to him.”

  “This man is in a lot of pain,” Bowman remarked, plainly.

  “Jonas,” Sister Vincent was cooing. “Jonas, there’s a gentleman here to see you. From Scotland Yard, no less.”

  Bowman felt the atmosphere change in the room. Suddenly, all eyes were upon him. The man in the bed next to Cook spat a lozenge of phlegm to the floor then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The young lad near the furthest window sat bolt upright in his bed, curious to see just what a Scotland Yard detective might look like. Evidently disappointed with the tall, slender figure with the careworn face and neat moustache, he sunk back into his pillow with a sigh.

  “Jonas, how are you?” Alma bent low over the bed, scanning Cook’s eyes for signs of comprehension.

  “I’ll leave you to your investigations,” Sister Vincent purred. “But don’t tax him beyond his capabilities.” She patted Cook on the hand, crossed herself, then walked the length of the room to the door, distributing beatific smiles to the afflicted.

  “Jonas, this is Inspector Bowman,” Alma continued. Bowman’s moustache twitched as he felt the man in the next bed glaring at him. “He wants to ask you some questions.”

  Cook’s response came by way of a scream. His eyes swivelled in his head and he clutched at the sheet with his shaking hands.

  “It’s all right, Jonas,” Alma soothed, lifting a stray strand of hair from her eyes, “He’s here to help.” Reaching down to a basin,
she rinsed a cloth in some water and applied it to the man’s forehead.

  “Jonas,” Bowman began awkwardly. “Can you tell me what happened this afternoon?”

  Cook took great gulps of air to try and settle his breathing. His words, when they came, were faint and halting.

  “I fell,” he gulped. “The cart. It ran into me.”

  “Was the cart not pushed?” Bowman inquired, softly.

  “It was but an accident.” Cook winced again as a spasm passed through his leg. He lifted it from the bed with a pained expression, grasping the bed frame until the agony subsided. Bowman caught sight of the dressing now and saw that blood had seeped through from the wound, sticking to the sheet where it touched.

  “But the ground is level there, how could it roll?”

  Cook was silent, breathing through gritted teeth in short, sharp gasps. “It was God’s will.”

  Bowman shook his head in disbelief. “That you should be harmed?”

  “He said it was an accident,” Alma was saying. “Perhaps it is best not to press him.”

  Bowman peered closely at the man’s hands. They had clearly been bathed by the sisters but, even in the dim light, he could see the man’s nails were stained a yellow colour.

  “What do you do at the docks, Jonas?” Bowman leaned in closer that he might hear the man’s response.

  “I work when I can,” he whispered, gesturing to his dry lips with a trembling hand. Alma rinsed the cloth again and put it to his mouth. He nodded in thanks, then continued. “Twice a day I join the line, most days I work. I know the men at Corder’s Wharf. They know I work hard.”

  “How long have you worked at St. Saviour’s?” Bowman was keeping his voice low.

  “Since I was a nipper. It’s all I know.” Cook gave an involuntary shudder.

  “And what do they take in at Corder’s Wharf?”

  “Tea and spices,” Cook coughed. “Lately Turmeric from India. Raises quite a stink.”

  Bowman nodded. He could tell from Cook’s face that he was struggling to remain conscious. The inspector didn’t have long.

  “Jonas,” he began, moving closer to the patient. “Who would want to see you hurt?”

  Cook swallowed hard, shaking his head. “No one hurt me, it was an accident.”

  “I don’t believe it was, Jonas. I find it difficult to explain the events that led to your injury without ascribing it to a human agency.”

  “Don’t push him, George,” Alma cautioned, placing a hand at the poor man’s forehead. “He’s hot as burning coals.”

  Bowman pressed him again. “I saw a man at St. Saviour’s. A tall, thin man with a clouded eye.”

  Cook shook his head.

  “Sounds like Sallow,” offered Alma, a puzzled expression on her face. “Ichabod Sallow.”

  “Would Ichabod Sallow want to see you hurt, Jonas?”

  “No. Why would he?”

  “You tell me.” Bowman’s heart quickened as he awaited Cook’s response. He could see hesitation in the man’s eyes. He licked his lips, bending low to deliver the question he had been building to. “Jonas, is Ichabod Sallow the Kaiser?”

  The effect in the room was immediate. Bowman felt the air thicken with a heavy silence. Alma snapped her head round, her expression inscrutable.

  “You’re pushing too hard, inspector,” she snapped. There was an edge to her voice Bowman hadn’t heard before.

  “Sister!” The man in the next bed had propped himself up on his elbows. “Sister!” he called again. The boy at the end of the row had thrown his covers over his head. Were these people scared?

  “Who is the Kaiser?” Bowman demanded of the room.

  “Inspector Bowman,” Alma had rounded on him now, her eyes burning. “Will you leave these poor people alone? If this is how you do things at Scotland Yard, it’s no wonder you’re held in such contempt.”

  The words stung. Bowman blinked, lost for a response. He appealed directly to Cook. “Jonas, I don’t believe you came by your injury through accidental means. I believe you were harmed by Ichabod Sallow. Why?”

  “What evidence do you have?” Alma asked, boldly.

  Bowman paused. He could see Cook was locked in a struggle to stay conscious. A moment more and he would sink into his own personal oblivion. As he opened his mouth to push the matter further, Bowman was interrupted by Sister Vincent at his elbow.

  “Inspector Bowman, would you have the decency to leave us all in peace and vacate this place?” Her soft round features had hardened.

  Bowman leaned his hands on Cook’s bed, desperate to get some sort of answer before the man slipped into unconsciousness.

  “Who is the Kaiser?” he hissed. “Why are the people here in thrall to him?”

  “Get this man out!” The man in the next bed was visibly angry at Bowman’s intrusion and pointed to him with a trembling, bony finger. “He’s filth.”

  Sister Vincent had him by the sleeve now and was dragging him forcibly from the room. “This is a place of God, inspector,” she was saying. “And a place of rest. The corporal works of mercy bid us welcome strangers but you have overstayed your welcome, sir.”

  The sister bundled Bowman back down the passage by which they had entered. Turning one last time, the inspector saw Alma Beaurepaire standing in the door to the infirmary, her arms crossed, her look severe.

  “I would thank you to complete your investigations elsewhere, inspector. You had no business to bring distress to my patients.”

  Bowman straightened his coat about him. “May I come again tomorrow?” he asked.

  “You may not,” the sister blustered, closing the heavy, wooden door behind her. Bowman stood alone on the grand porch to the convent, gnawing at his lip, deep in thought. With a sigh, he turned into the night and contemplated how best to effect a safe journey home.

  Pulling his collar up and his hat down, he stepped back onto Parker’s Row. He’d taken just a few steps when he noticed a smart, black brougham carriage waiting at the junction with Oxley Street. Slowing his step, Bowman looked around for any signs of trouble. The street appeared deserted. As he neared the brougham, he could see the driver perched on top. He was glaring directly at him. He was a severe looking man with a long, equine face that seemed quite in keeping with his employment. As Bowman stopped, the coachman lifted his hand and beckoned that Bowman might step nearer. The inspector hesitated. Somewhere, a dog barked. As Bowman was musing on how best to proceed, he became aware of movement behind him. Turning on his heels, he saw three burly men approaching from beyond the convent, blocking any chance of retreat. Bowman recognised them from their encounter on Willow Walk. He wondered that the man with the white eye, that he now knew to be one Ichabod Sallow, wasn’t with them. As he turned back to the brougham, he saw that its door had swung open. The coachman was gesturing to it with his outstretched hand. Without a word being said, Bowman was given to understand that he was expected to climb on board. Trying to escape would be futile, he knew. He didn’t know these streets at all and guessed the residents wouldn’t be particularly sympathetic to a Scotland Yarder. If his reception in the convent was any indication, Bowman and his type were regarded with contempt at the very least. As he stepped closer to the carriage, all the while keeping the three men in his sight, Bowman was reminded of Miss Beaurepaire’s comment upon their first meeting. This did indeed feel like a lawless town. The Outback had come to Bermondsey.

  As he stepped aboard the brougham and settled back into his seat, Inspector Bowman felt an arm reach across him to close the door. The figure tapped on the roof with his cane and, with a jerk, the carriage moved into the road. Turning to face him, Cornelius Bracewell tilted his head in greeting.

  XIV

  Presumed Missing

  Detective Sergeant Anthony Graves had no clue what was going on. In the previous hour and a half, he had watched from his vantage as a succession of bizarre characters had paraded before him, declaiming to the galleries and falling over one another in
a series of heavily rehearsed and highly improbable pratfalls and high jinks. The plot, as far as Graves could understand it, hinged on a young girl determined to marry below her station and against the wishes of her widowed father. Multiple scenes were played wherein the young man in question was hidden in cupboards and beneath furniture and even, for one particularly excruciating episode, disguised as a woman to escape the ire of his prospective father-in-law. All this, Graves noted, was greeted with hoots of laughter from the audience, in particular those who sat directly beneath him in the stalls. As the curtain fell for the interval, there was much wiping of eyes and shaking of heads amongst them and, as they headed to the various bars for their interval drinks, much re-enacting of favourite scenes from the play. The young sergeant sat for a while in the box, nonplussed. He would, he thought as he scratched his head, have been much happier with an evening at The Silver Cross. The entertainment there seemed more honest somehow, and certainly less contrived. Resolving to walk Kitty to his favourite inn at once and there spend the rest of the evening in her company if she’d let him, Graves swung his legs from the chair and ducked through the curtain to the passage outside. Unsure of the route back through the stage, he turned into the throng and headed for the foyer, his intention being to make his way out the building and round to the stage door in Vinegar Yard.