The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  “Morning, Graves,” Bowman muttered as he crossed the room to the bureau. He was acutely aware of his unkempt appearance and absently brushed at his waistcoat with the palm of his hand. As Bowman shambled across the room, Graves saw the decanter was emptier than he remembered.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” the sergeant offered, tentative.

  “Yes, sit down Graves.” Bowman was staring up at the map that adorned the wall above the bureau. The whole of London was within his gaze, from Plumstead Marshes in the east to Mortlake in the west. Narrow streets and alleys were marked and named in a neat, calligrapher’s hand. Even individual houses were indicated. Hundreds of souls could be encompassed within the span of a hand, each with their own secrets.

  “You’ll have to get a new one soon, sir.” Graves was sitting in the chair before Bowman’s desk. The inspector could tell he was fighting hard to resist putting his feet upon it.

  “How’s that?” Bowman turned to face his companion.

  “The map, sir. London’s changing at a fair old pace these days. You’re a couple of bridges missing for a start.”

  Graves was right. The pace of change was alarming. The London skyline would be unrecognisable to anyone who may have last seen it even ten years ago. Bowman moved thoughtfully to the window and rested against the sill. He caught Graves’ expression as he turned into the room and felt he was being scrutinised. Graves was clearly taking note of his dishevelled state, from his mud-spattered shoes to his creased shirt cuffs and bedraggled hair. The young sergeant had an open face that could be easily read, and Bowman could see concern writ large.

  “Sergeant Graves, I have a proposition for you.”

  Graves leaned forward on his seat, his blue eyes shining in their eagerness. “Oh yes, sir?”

  He was interrupted by a rap at the door. Looking up, Bowman saw Ignatius Hicks filling the frame with his bulk, clearly pleased with himself for having remembered to knock.

  “Yes, Inspector Hicks?” Bowman sighed.

  “Had a rough night of it, Bowman?” the rotund inspector roared as he strode into the office. Graves looked away, embarrassed at just how brazen the inspector was.

  Bowman stuttered for a moment, then considered the best way to deal with such a remark was to ignore it. “What do you want, Hicks?” he retorted.

  “I bring news,” the inspector proclaimed, holding his hands wide as if performing to an audience at the theatre. Bowman rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Sergeant Graves stifled a smile. “Specifically, news pertaining to our body in Vinegar Yard.”

  Bowman stood straighter at the window. “Your investigations have borne fruit?”

  “The ripest sort,” winked Hicks, pulling his pipe from his pocket. Graves stood to face him. “He is Harry Pope, a labourer from Chiswick. Reported missing from his place of work seven weeks ago by the foreman of works.” Hicks’ eyebrows were raised in expectation of praise for his findings.

  “What more do you know of him?”

  “Only a physical description,” blustered Hicks, tamping down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. “Came in from a station at Turnham Green. It fits our man to a tee.”

  “Right down to the tattoo?” asked Graves.

  “Tattoo?” Bowman’s eyebrows were raised.

  “He had a tattoo, more of a branding, on his chest,” explained Graves. “A strange design like the face of the Devil.”

  Hicks felt the wind being taken out of his sails. “There was no mention of his tattoo.”

  “Then he may have come by it since he disappeared,” suggested Bowman from the window.

  “Oh,” continued Hicks as he struck a match. “And he was a keen boxer, skilled too. It seems he’s just one of many men disappeared from their job of work over recent months. I’ve seen reports from all over London, and they are all of a type; large, brawny men.”

  “May I see those reports, Inspector Hicks?”

  “I didn’t think to bring them, Bowman, as you’re not with us on the case.” This last was said pointedly, marked Bowman.

  “Then, where has he been these last seven weeks?” Graves asked, scratching at his blond curls.

  “That is not for me to say,” blustered Hicks. “But to have an identification is surely progress?”

  “Progress it is, Inspector Hicks,” agreed Bowman. “And I have a thought as to where he has been held.”

  “Held, sir?” Graves turned to the inspector.

  “Almost certainly, Sergeant Graves.” Bowman turned to face the window, his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment, Graves thought he detected the inspector’s hand shaking, but then saw there was more to it than that. It wasn’t Bowman’s hand that was trembling, he realised but, strangely, the index finger on his right hand. His trigger finger. “Your description of the state in which the poor man was found ravaged,” Bowman continued, “would indicate a fugitive in fear of his life. Clearly he was running from the hound.”

  “So, he’d escaped from somewhere,” Graves said, thoughtfully. “And the dog had been set upon him.”

  Hicks was trying his best to follow the argument. “But escaped from where?” he bellowed.

  “I was, last night, in the presence of an injured worker from St. Saviour’s Dock.” Bowman was treading carefully to avoid all mention of his rendez-vous with Callaghan. “One Jonas Cook. I believe his accident was orchestrated by another. He had, beneath his nails, the same yellow colour as Harry Pope.”

  “Turmeric!” Hicks held his pipe aloft.

  Graves whistled with excitement. “That’s some coincidence,” he beamed.

  “I believe it to be more than coincidence, Graves.” Bowman sat at his chair and placed his elbows on the desk. “I believe our two cases may be linked.”

  “What case?” boomed Hicks. “I understood you were to be on security detail, not pursuing your own enquiries.”

  “This investigation was born out of my position at the docks. A man was injured at the quayside. He had about him some marks similar to Harry Pope. I would suggest the two are linked.” Bowman was leaning forward. “And furthermore, that Pope was either pressed into service at St. Saviour’s Dock or held there.”

  “But Turmeric may be found elsewhere. A man might buy a quantity at the market.” Hicks clamped his pipe between his teeth.

  “But not in such amounts as to stain so heavily, Hicks.”

  Graves was thoughtful. “Then what do you propose?” he asked, his eyes wide in anticipation.

  “Jonas Cook worked at Corder’s Wharf. They take in tea and spices.” Bowman sat back to survey the room. “I need someone on the inside.” Graves’ ears pricked up. “I am known at St. Saviour’s and would no doubt find many doors closed to me.”

  “And as we’re now effectively working on the same case,” continued Graves, rubbing his hands, thoughtfully.

  “I am sure there can be no objection to me requesting your services,” Bowman concluded, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I suppose there can be no harm,” began Hicks, puffing eagerly on his pipe. “I shall relish the chance of providing some assistance.” Already, his eyes were alive with the prospect of going under cover.

  “I was not thinking of sending you, Inspector Hicks.”

  Hicks looked suddenly downcast, but recovered sufficiently to object. “You cannot send Graves alone. You suspect this chap Cook has been the victim of something other than an accident. Things could get sticky.”

  “Sergeant Graves is more than capable of holding his own.” Bowman chose his words carefully. “And is less likely to draw attention to himself.”

  Hicks gave a harrumph of disappointment and jammed his pipe in his teeth in protest, whilst Sergeant Graves sat back in his chair, eyes twinkling.

  With Graves preparing for his investigations on the south bank, Bowman resolved to walk to Bow Street and speak with the desk sergeant there. With a few well-chosen words, he was sure he might be permitted some time with Tremont. Bowman still found it diffic
ult to see how the dock manager could be wrapped up in a Fenian plot, besides which, Callaghan had failed to offer any adequate reason as to why he should want to bomb his own dockside. Having despatched Hicks for a list of those who had been reported missing around London, Bowman descended the stairs from his office to the great reception hall at Scotland Yard.

  As ever, it was a bustle of activity. Footsteps echoed off the tiled floor and the hubbub of conversation rose up to the high ceiling. Ladies and gentlemen found themselves waiting on benches alongside the very lowest in society. Drunks and vagrants mixed with bankers and shopkeepers as they awaited their turn at the central desk. Here and there, police constables stood with their charges, some in handcuffs. The occasional drunken cry would pierce the air. As Bowman stepped from the stairs, he was certain that even the nobility were represented in the room. A thin, elderly lady with grey eyes and translucent skin sat stock still beneath a window. Her hands were folded over the handle of her cane, and her nose was lifted into the air in an attitude of superiority. A smile played about Bowman’s lips as he allowed himself to imagine the purpose of her visit. Money was involved, no doubt. And probably a maid, too. The inspector took solace in the fact that the citizens of London were finally coming round to the idea of a professional police force standing ready and waiting to give assistance. Just as he was tightening his coat around him in anticipation of the keen May wind, he heard a voice rise above the hubbub.

  “There he is!” it cried. “That’s the very man.”

  Bowman recognised the voice, and particularly the soft Irish lilt, at once. Casting a glance at the reception desk, Bowman saw Sister Vincent gathering her skirts. The desk sergeant threw a questioning look to Bowman and the inspector waved his hand to indicate his assent.

  “Sister Vincent,” Bowman began, “I trust all is well at The Sisters Of Mercy?”

  “No, inspector, it is not,” the sister replied, matter-of-factly. In her wimple and spectacles she reminded Bowman of a small mole, blinking in the light of the high windows that graced the walls. “I came as soon as I could.” She was breathless. Bowman led her to a bench and motioned that a young man in a funeral director’s coat should make way for her.

  “What is ailing you, sister?”

  “I should have listened to you, inspector. I see it now, but I was concerned that you were disturbing the peace of the convent.”

  “What has happened?” Bowman sat slowly next to her, imploring her with his eyes to continue.

  “Oh, Inspector Bowman, it’s Jonas Cook.” Bowman swallowed hard. He felt his hand begin to twitch involuntarily, so held it in a fist to hide the tremor.

  “What of him?” he asked, already sure of the response.

  “He’s dead, inspector.” The sister’s pronouncement was enough to draw the eyes of those on the bench around her.

  “I am sorry to hear of it. You said yourself that he was very ill.”

  “And so he was, inspector. But he did not die of his injuries.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?” Bowman asked slowly.

  “That he was murdered in the night as he slept.”

  Bowman swallowed. “Can you be sure?”

  “As sure as I sit here, inspector,” Sister Vincent blinked. “I am no doctor, sure, but I saw the marks on his neck this morning as he was carried to the chapel.”

  Bowman shifted his position on the bench, suddenly aware that they were conducting the conversation in a very public place.

  “Marks on his neck?” he repeated.

  “He was strangled, Inspector Bowman, no doubt about it.”

  Bowman thought back to his visit to The Sisters Of Mercy and the patients he had seen in the infirmary. It would be difficult to effect such a murder with so many witnesses present.

  “Who would have access to the infirmary?”

  “Only the sisters and any visitors we may have.”

  Bowman rubbed his chin with his hand, suddenly embarrassed at the stubble he felt there. “Are your doors locked overnight?”

  “Never,” declared the sister, her eyes wide. “That would be to bar the way to strangers.”

  Bowman nodded slowly. “Then did you see anyone enter at any time?”

  “I did not. Miss Beaurepaire left some time after you and from that time there were no more visitors.”

  The inspector raised his eyebrows. “How long did Miss Beaurepaire stay after me?”

  “Just long enough to settle the patient. She was concerned you had taxed him overmuch with your questions.” Sister Vincent fixed him with an accusatory stare. Bowman looked away. “I let her out myself.”

  “And did you then look in on your patients?”

  “I did,” the sister nodded. “But they were all asleep or nearly so.”

  Bowman thought. Was it significant that Ichabod Sallow hadn’t been with the three men on Parker’s Row? If word had got round that Cook was speaking with the police, perhaps Sallow would want to quieten him for good. None of which sounded like the actions of a Special Irish Branch officer.

  “Sister Vincent,” he soothed, “I am going to send Inspector Hicks to see you at the convent. Show him the infirmary and tell him of your suspicions.” Bowman blanched at putting Hicks in any position of authority, but he had other plans for the day. “He will then report directly back to me.”

  As Bowman showed the sister from the building, he wondered at the events of the last two days. The commissioner had clearly wanted him out the way. He had been sent to St. Saviour’s Dock in the belief that he would come to no harm. It seemed, however, that the commissioner had, quite unwittingly, placed Bowman in a web of intrigue.

  XVIII

  Corder’s Wharf

  Sergeant Graves had to admit he was enjoying himself. He had spent the previous hour being briefed by Bowman, then had availed himself of some suitable clothes from Scotland Yard’s lost property room. Anything that had been held for six months or more was considered fair game, so Sergeant Graves had chosen a pair of baggy corduroy trousers, a collarless shirt and a red cotton neckerchief. He had even toyed for a while with a pair of spectacles with a cracked lens. It fell to Inspector Bowman to remind him that, as he was not known at the docks, he was not in search of a disguise, but rather an appearance that would not mark him out from his fellow workers. Graves had thrown a threadbare jacket over his waistcoat. A pair of over-sized boots was retrieved from a shelf. Inspector Bowman chose him a hat to complete the look and sent him on his way to Shad Thames.

  The journey to Bermondsey had been without incident. Graves had thought it prudent to catch a cab to London Bridge Station, then walk from there. Now the sergeant sauntered down Queen Elizabeth Street, part of the throng of dockworkers anxious for employment. Looking around him as he walked, Graves saw men of every age and size, but all in a dishevelled state. Their faces marked with expressions of grim resignation, they marched to the dock in a relentless rhythm. Almost to a man, they held pipes or cigarettes between their teeth and the smoke rose in a noxious cloud down the length of the street. The houses, little more than slums, were tightly packed along the road. Dilapidated doors swung open on rickety hinges to reveal sparse parlours and bedrooms for four or more men. Rags hung from broken windows in a vain attempt at privacy. Damp clothes hung between buildings on lengths of string to dry.

  Sergeant Graves had no difficulty in blending in. Few of the men spoke amongst themselves, and Graves guessed they would be used to strangers in their number. The docks drew desperate men from across London and beyond in search of paid labour. The sergeant surmised that any number of strangers could appear on any given day quite unremarked. He felt part of a tide of humanity, sweeping towards the docks.

  At last, he found himself on Shad Thames. He was surrounded by wharves, warehouses, mills and factories. Steam rose into the air from tall chimneys. The tang of exotic spices assaulted the senses. Animal hides were scrubbed, degreased and soaked before being hung to dry. Grain was milled into flour between great s
tones turned by hand or by horse. Coopers bent wood into barrels for use at the docks. Looking up, Graves saw great metal gantries spanning the width of the road, connecting the upper storeys of the wharves together. Lines of carts traversed them from one side to the other, some empty, others groaning under the weight of their loads.

  Turning to run parallel with St. Saviour’s Dock, the sergeant looked up at the painted letters adorning each wall. Corder’s Wharf stood just a few yards from the mouth of the dock and it was towards its forbidding walls that the detective turned his feet.