The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  “I am pursuing my enquiries in my duty as a police officer.”

  “Your duties do not include the scuppering of a delicate investigation, inspector!” Callaghan had raised his voice in an unguarded moment.

  Throughout all this, Cornelius Bracewell had been busy at his soup. Cleaning the last dregs from his bowl, he dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his seat, content.

  “Just how is your investigation proceeding?” Bowman demanded.

  The chief inspector took a moment to regain his composure. “Mr Bracewell here,” he began, “has been of particular assistance.” Bracewell gave a humble shrug. “He has enabled us to detain a Mr Tremont, the master at St. Katharine Docks, under suspicion of collusion.”

  Bowman found that difficult to believe. “You think Tremont guilty of bombing his own warehouses?”

  “I do not deal in beliefs, inspector, but facts.”

  Bracewell sat forward, his wide face looming towards Bowman as he explained himself. “I know many men on the north bank,” he said. “Indeed, many of them are my men, too. Work is at a premium at the docks, inspector, and the smart man will make himself known both sides of the river.”

  As he spoke, an efficient, young waiter in dress jacket and bow tie cleared away the empty bowls. Bowman motioned that he should take his too, gesturing that he had no inclination to finish it.

  “I have men in particular,” continued Bracewell, flecks of soup appearing at the sides of his mouth as he spoke, “who have attained such a position that they have been granted access to Tremont’s offices and effects. Under the guise of going about their business, auditing accounts and so forth, they have been able to acquire certain documents from Tremont’s belongings.”

  “These documents complete the case against Tremont for being a Fenian sympathiser and responsible for the deaths of many.” Callaghan looked pleased with himself as he concluded his case.

  “To what end?” demanded Bowman.

  Bracewell cleared his throat, “My men found evidence to indicate Tremont has benefited financially.” Bowman turned to his dining companion, eyebrows raised. “We believe him guilty of false accounting. His records have revealed several financial anomalies which might bear more investigation.”

  “You believe him guilty?” echoed Bowman, pointedly. “I thought you dealt in facts.”

  “Subject to due process, of course.” Bracewell gave a supercilious smile.

  “They indicate that Tremont has been concealing the origins of illegal Fenian funds,” continued Callaghan, eager to take control of the conversation.

  “How so?” Bowman was picking his way through the implications.

  “The Fenians need money to fund their activities, buy their equipment, rent property and so forth. And in large amounts, too. These funds are attained through criminal means, but must be presented as legitimate when spent so as not to arouse suspicion.”

  “The papers taken from Tremont’s office indicate he has set up a complex web of financial and commercial systems through which this tainted money may be processed,” added Bracewell. “And then he takes his share.”

  Bowman nodded. “I should like to see this evidence.”

  Callaghan fixed him with an unnerving gaze. “Inspector Bowman, I have brought you here to insist you interfere no further in the work of my department, not to ask your opinion on the matter.”

  Bowman was troubled. Tremont had not presented himself in any other way than as a victim of horrible circumstance during their interview at the docks.

  “Where is Tremont now?” asked the inspector.

  Callaghan sat back as his next course was presented before him. An older waiter placed a plate on the table, covered with a silver cloche. It was removed with a flourish to reveal a pile of vegetables arranged around a small, roast bird. “We have him in a cell on Bow Street,” Callaghan continued, apparently unconcerned at the prospect of the waiter hearing. “There to remain while we build our case against him.”

  “It does not seem to me that your case is robust,” said Bowman, boldly. “I have spoken with Tremont, and he gave every indication of being at the mercy of events rather than the master of them.”

  “A subterfuge, Inspector Bowman,” said Callaghan through a mouthful of partridge.

  “Why would Tremont plant a bomb in his own warehouses?”

  “To place a strangle hold around the city’s neck?” Callaghan conjectured. “To spread fear?”

  “These are mere suppositions,” blustered Bowman, indignantly.

  “At any rate, inspector, I must insist you confine your investigations to matters of security as the commissioner willed it. If you do not, the consequences would be grave for you.”

  “What do you - ”

  “Leave well alone, Inspector Bowman!” Callaghan banged the handle of his knife on the table by way of punctuation. His grey eyes were glaring with a ferocity that betrayed him. Bowman sat stock still, his moustache twitching in the face of such bellicose behaviour.

  “You should know, inspector,” continued Callaghan, an eerie calm to his voice, ‘that I hold some sway with the commissioner.” Bowman narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure he would be very interested to hear of your confrontation with Sallow and his men on Willow Walk.” Callaghan swallowed his food and lifted his glass to his lips, keeping his eyes fixed on Bowman all the while. “I think he would be interested to learn of your eccentric behaviour following the encounter.”

  Bowman’s neck itched beneath his collar. He felt his palms begin to sweat.

  “Your man Sallow is quite the informer,” he said quietly.

  Callaghan paused at his meal, resting the knife and fork on the plate as he spoke. “It is hardly a secret, Inspector Bowman, that your behaviour has been somewhat erratic. I understand the commissioner is unsure how to deal with a man of your sensibilities. You present him certain challenges.”

  Bowman glanced to his side to see Bracewell was staring at him with renewed interest, a look of bemusement on his face.

  “I am fulfilling my duties as an inspector.”

  Callaghan scoffed. “Barely. Your career sits on a knife-edge, inspector. I must ask you again to tread carefully at the docks, lest the commissioner be informed of your irregular behaviour.”

  “The commissioner takes advice from others more infinitely qualified than Ichabod Sallow,” spluttered Bowman.

  “You refer of course to Athol Wilkes.” There was a weary tone to Callaghan’s voice. “The superintendent at Colney Hatch?”

  Bowman’s shoulders sunk in defeat. “You know Wilkes?”

  “I make it my business to know everyone, Inspector Bowman.” Callaghan was at his meal again. “Wilkes dines here once a month with benefactors to your lunatic asylum.” Bowman bristled. “I know him well enough to have his ear on matters pertaining to The Force. I think he would be easily swayed. A word or two should suffice.”

  Bowman felt trapped to the left and the right. He had no doubt Chief Inspector Callaghan had sway over the commissioner, and if he were to influence the superintendent’s report, Bowman’s position at Scotland Yard would be untenable.

  “So, I make this final appeal to your better judgement,” Callaghan poured a little more gravy from an ornate jug on the table. “Steer clear of St Katharine Docks and it will be the better for you.” The chief inspector added a little salt to his food. “If I were you, I would stick to matters of security.”

  Beside him, Bracewell was at work demolishing the bird on his plate. A waiter approached with Bowman’s meal.

  “Now, inspector, you must either join us for dinner or I shall have Mr. Bracewell’s man drive you home.”

  Bowman sat, dejected, in the back of the smart brougham as it rattled through the dark streets of Greenwich. He had made a hasty retreat from the Trafalgar Club, eschewing Callaghan’s offer of dinner. The concierge had returned him his coat as he left, holding it at arm’s length as if it might expose him to some dreadful contamination. Bowm
an had given instruction to the driver to take him to his rooms in Hampstead and now the carriage approached the Woolwich Ferry, the means by which they were to cross the river.

  The Gordon was a side-loading paddle steamer of some five hundred tons. Painted in a red and green livery, she could carry twenty vehicles on her broad upper deck and a thousand foot passengers besides. Her use, alongside two other such craft, had necessitated the building of approaches and pontoons for the benefit of those living within the eastern reaches of the Thames. Opened some three years since, it provided a free service to those who lived far from the great bridges of London, offering opportunities for passengers and trade on both banks of the river.

  As they traversed the gentle swell of the Thames, Bowman sat with his thoughts in the back of the brougham. A gentle rain fell against the window, smudging the lights of the north bank and running in rivulets down the glass. Following his conversation with Chief Inspector Callaghan, several questions had persisted. If Ichabod Sallow was a Special Irish Branch agent, why had he put Cook in hospital? Why was Callaghan so insistent that Tremont was responsible for the bomb at St. Katharine Docks? And exactly what was Bracewell’s part in the investigation? It was not unheard of for the police to involve the public in their operations, but Bracewell seemed to have unprecedented knowledge of proceedings.

  As the carriage disembarked and began its journey back along the north bank to the city, Bowman had the distinct feeling that he was being played. By whom and to what end he couldn’t tell, but the evening’s events had left him feeling out of sorts. Whichever way he pursued the arguments, one thing troubled him above all else. None of this could adequately explain why at precisely eight o’clock, the very moment the bomb blew, he had seen Cornelius Bracewell staring across the river towards St. Katharine Docks, as if in expectation of the event.

  For the first twenty minutes, the journey had been uneventful. Bowman had finally relaxed into the rhythm of the wheels on the road, determined to put his thoughts to one side for the night. His eyes ran over the interior of the cab as he fought to calm his mind. A stud, he noticed, was missing from the leather upholstery. His fingers ran absently over some stitches in the canopy fabric where a hole had been mended. He had gazed out the window, trying to make sense of the streets as they flashed by. The weather had kept many indoors, he noticed. As a result, the roads were emptier than usual and progress was swift. Soon they were passing through Canning Town and over the Isle Of Dogs. Staring blankly through the glass, Bowman noticed the street names flashing passed. As they turned onto Commercial Road, he caught his breath. He knew exactly where they were. His mouth dried. His heart raced. Bowman tapped on the roof to bring the carriage to a halt. His breathing returned, but quicker now and irregular. His head swam. Opening the door, he staggered from the brougham. The driver, supremely indifferent to Bowman’s condition and evidently pleased to be relieved of his duties, cracked his whip at once, steering the carriage away from the main road and off into the distance.

  Bowman stood alone in the rain. Turning his feet to Adler Street, he found himself walking in familiar territory. The wet, narrow streets glistened in the lamplight. The silhouettes of well-known buildings loomed above him. Passing into Brick Lane, Bowman’s blood ran cold. The air became thick and viscous. His legs were heavy as lead. His progress had slowed, each step seeming to require a huge effort of will. He blinked rain from his eyes and felt it drip from his hat down the back of his neck. Bowman turned a final corner and lifted his head to read the sign affixed to a corner wall. The very words struck dread to his heart and he fought for a moment to keep his balance. Quite by accident, and almost a year after events there had seen him locked away in a lunatic asylum, he found himself back where it had all began.

  XVI

  Hanbury Street

  Bowman held his breath. All around him, the streets were quiet. The buildings were bathed in the soft, sickly glow of lamplight. The air was a prickle of energy. He felt both there and not there. Feeling the comfort of the ground beneath his feet, he fought to anchor himself in the present. His head was reeling. There was a ringing in his ears. He looked fearfully around for help but the narrow streets were empty. He opened his mouth to call for assistance but his throat, dry as it was, made no sound. Leaning back against the damp wall behind him, Bowman knew he had no choice but to submit to the mania, as one resigns oneself to being caught in a storm.

  He could hear her now. Her soft, plaintive voice was calling his name. He screwed his eyes up against a sudden pain in his head, lifting his fingers to press at his temples. Her voice came again, stronger and close to his ear. And he could smell her scent. He opened his eyes slowly, expecting to see her standing next to him. Improbably, she stood further down the street. The rain was heavy now and Bowman could hear it slapping against the road. It stung his hands as he reached out to her.

  “Anna.”

  But she couldn’t hear him. She seemed frozen in time, her foot suspended above the ground as she stepped from the kerb to the street. He could see the Women’s Refuge set back from the pavement opposite and knew he was to relive the events of her death again.

  Then he heard the hooves. Time was in flux and Bowman passed between the now and the then. Moments before, he had watched as the carriage had swerved close to the kerb by the workhouse, a line of urchins waiting to be admitted for their day’s work. The driver was muffled against the cold in a thick scarf that would also thwart all attempts to identify him. As the carriage clattered closer to the pavement, a door had opened and a man leant out, his coat trailing perilously close to the wheel. With an outstretched arm, he had plucked a young waif from the queue. The child had kicked and screamed, but all to no avail. In a matter of moments he was gone, the door to the carriage snapping shut behind him. The driver cracked the whip and the carriage had rattled away.

  “Here they come,” said a voice behind him. “Be ready now.” Turning on his heels, Bowman saw Sergeant Williams had joined him, just as he had on that fateful night. His voice was low. His thick, Welsh accent gave his words an edge of urgency.

  Bowman glanced to Anna and saw she was still caught mid-step between kerb and road.

  Impossibly, Sergeant Graves was at his side too, his body poised for action, his muscles tensed. He looked to Bowman with a serious expression.

  Bowman heard the hooves get louder, accompanied now by the rattle of a carriage. He turned to confront what he knew he must see, but saw nothing. Where the carriage should be was only empty air. Bowman was moving in time, fading between present and past. He was aware of the now, of the buildings and the rain, but cognizant also of that dreadful moment from the past, unfolding before him.

  “Halt!” Williams was screaming.

  The sound of the wheels clattered away down Spital Street. Bowman felt his heart racing. He blinked the rain from his eyes. Involuntarily, he felt his right hand close around his revolver. The handle was warm to the touch. He curled his finger round the trigger, lifting the gun to take aim.

  As he squinted down the barrel, Bowman saw with horror that his sight was trained on his wife. This wasn’t right, he told himself. This wasn’t how it had happened. Graves was standing beside him now, a look of encouragement on his face. Williams was shouting into his ear. “Stop that carriage!” Bowman felt locked in position. Try as he might, he couldn’t shift. He felt his finger tighten. He gritted his teeth, trying to resist the urge to fire.

  Anna was moving now, slowly crossing the street to the Women’s Refuge. She was intent on her journey, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe to come.

  Then Bowman saw the carriage. Hooves thundered on the cobbles as it rounded the corner back on to Hanbury Street. The horses strained against their harnesses. The brougham swayed dangerously out of control, its driver slumped at the reins.

  “No sir!” cried Graves, a look of alarm on his face. “It’s too late!” This was all out of sequence, thought Bowman as he tried to avert his hand. Still, his finger squ
eezed at the trigger. Still, Anna was in his sight. Events were beyond his control now. He felt at a remove from proceedings, as if he watched another in his place. He squinted down the smooth, cold barrel of his revolver.

  Anna had seen him. Her eyes were open wide in expectation, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “George,” she was mouthing. Her face lit up at the sight of him, and Bowman felt tears prick behind his eyes. Two words were caught in his throat. He had been hiding from them for the best part of a year. If the words were said, he knew, they would unleash a torrent. He had leaned against them for months as one leans against a door. They were pushing back against him now, and he knew he would have to relent. He found his voice as his finger tightened.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. And he fired.

  The scream of a train’s whistle brought him to his senses. He was on his knees in the rain, his coat tails dragging in the road around him. It was impossible to know how long he had been there, but he saw that he was several yards away from where he remembered standing. He pressed a hand against the road and caught his breath. The ringing in his ears was subsiding. Staggering to his feet, he saw a young man standing, watching from a doorway. He had a look of alarm on his face. Bowman held up a hand to indicate he was well, but the man took to his heels. Casting his eyes around, the inspector got his bearings. Soaked to the skin and with a heart heavier than it had ever been, Detective Inspector George Bowman pulled himself up to his full height, wiped the rain from his face and shuffled off into the night.

  XVII

  A Course Of Action

  Overnight, April tipped into May and the morning brought clearer skies. The streets around Whitehall came slowly to life as Bowman watched from his office window. Looking down onto Victoria Embankment, he could see a woman feeding the pigeons with seed from her pocket. She was wrapped in a large, dirty coat that had clearly once belonged to someone else. Bowman noticed she had no shoes upon her feet. She swore as a young lad ran past, upsetting the birds and causing them to fly up and over the river to Westminster Bridge and beyond. Bowman peered beyond the buildings of state that clustered for safety around Whitehall and off towards Trafalgar Square and the West End. What villainies had occurred overnight, mused Bowman. What discoveries would be made today in the filthy alleys and dark corners of the city? Only just in view, Nelson’s Column rose in the thick of it all. The morning air was so clean and Bowman so high, he felt he could reach out and touch it. His eyes were drawn momentarily to his own reflection and he saw with a start what a picture he was presenting to the world. He had neglected to go home last night, but rather found himself wandering the streets of Whitechapel until dawn. As the streets had woken around him, he had been subject to many strange looks and suspicious glances and so had resolved to find a hansom cab to Scotland Yard. Peering at his image in the glass, he could see the consequences of having spent such a night with no rest. His eyes were bloodshot. His hair hung lank upon his head. He smoothed his moustache between his finger and thumb in a vain attempt to appear more presentable. He succeeded only in noticing he had neglected to shave. Bowman sighed and raised the glass of brandy to his lips. He knew it was perhaps too early to drink, but he needed a restorative after a night on the streets. Turning to replace his glass at the bureau that stood across the room, he was surprised to see Sergeant Anthony Graves standing at the open door. How long he had been there, he could not guess.