“For the last year or so. This month, I refused.”
“Have you never reported this to the police? Or the Port Of London?”
“I have not. The Kaiser has men everywhere. Even, it is rumoured, in The Force.”
Bowman bristled at the insinuation.
“If it was discovered that I had run for help, things would go the worse for me. I have been told as much.”
“Then you have not told this to Callaghan?”
Tremont gave a hollow laugh, his shoulders heaving with the effort. “Bracewell has his ear, and I do not trust Bracewell.”
“You think he may be connected to the Kaiser?” Bowman was sitting up now, his mind racing.
“Intimately.”
The inspector stood as he thought through the implications of Tremont’s testimony. “How does the Kaiser make contact?” he asked.
Tremont shrugged. “Through the men who work at St. Saviour’s. They know little themselves, save the messages they are made to deliver. They are passed from man to man so the source remains undiscovered.”
“And you have made payment every month?” Bowman’s mind boggled at the sums involved.
“Every month but this, and see what a Hell I have brought upon myself.” Tremont buried his head in his hands again, his chest falling with a shattering sigh. Even in the half-light, Bowman could see tears pricking at the man’s eyes. His flabby face was flushed with emotion. Through all this, Bowman knew he must press the dock master further.
“How is the money collected each month?” he asked, softly.
“I leave it in person at a different location and time each month.”
“Have you ever stopped to see who collects it?”
Tremont gave a mirthless laugh at the very idea. “Never, inspector. I value my life too much. And so you see why my accounts might be awry. I have tried to hide the transactions as best I could but the detail is beyond me and I have betrayed myself.” It was clear Tremont was beyond hope now. “And so I languish in Bow Street awaiting my fate,” he concluded, sadly.
Bowman rose from his chair and grabbed the bars with both hands. “Mr Tremont,” he began, his voice sounding a note of determination, “I will make a promise to you. You will not face charges for this or any other crime.” Tremont looked up from his bed and Bowman thought he saw, for a moment at least, some marks of hope in the poor man’s face. “I am in the midst of an investigation which I believe will exonerate you entirely.”
XX
No Holds Barred
Big Tam woke with a start. He knew he had company again. Peering into the darkness around him, he saw subtle movements in the corner of the warehouse. Straining at his chain, he rolled onto his back and winced with pain as the skin on his chest tightened. He’d forgotten about the brand on his skin. Looking down he could see the blister clearly rising from his chest, angry and red. His head throbbed. He had no idea how long he had been lying there, and could see no clue around him. The cavernous room was still shrouded in a gloomy half-light. Rubbing at his aching jaw with a hand, he squinted to the corners. His vision was swimming but there was a definite movement by the door. Now he could hear whispering too. Readying himself for another attack from the hooded figure, Tam rocked onto his knees, gritting his teeth in expectation. “Come and get me if you want me!” he slurred, his thick, Scottish vowels guttural and raw. He blinked sweat from his eyes to clear his vision and saw two shapes moving towards him. If he had not been deprived of his sight on that night by the Thames, he might well have recognised his two assailants again.
Thackeray and Bracewell moved slowly towards their prey. They knew Tam would not put up such a fight this time. He was struggling already, his great body swaying side to side in his delirium. His breathing was shallow and his eyes darted fearfully left and right. Clearly the drug had him in its thrall. Thackeray, weighing a club in his hand, gestured to his companion to swing further out to the left beyond their captive’s field of vision. Big Tam was swinging his fist wildly before him. His arm felt heavy and unwieldy. His best chance of fighting back, he reasoned in his befuddled state, lay in getting to his feet. Grunting with the effort, he rocked from side to side, trying to get the momentum he needed. Just as he’d got his feet beneath him, he heard a noise from behind. He had been too intent on the tall man with the cudgel to notice his companion approaching stealthily at his back. Before he had time to react, he felt the sack on his head again. A heavy push from the cudgel and Tam fell back with a roar of indignation, his head meeting the flagstones with a crack. Thackeray and Bracewell stood back while the Scotsman thrashed about on the ground, his free hand smashing painfully on the hard floor. For a while he kicked his legs in frustration, but soon even that proved too tiring. He lay in a heap, his chest rising and falling in a painful effort to breathe. His torso glistened with a cold sweat. The two men approached, cautiously. Thackeray held Tam’s free hand behind his back while Bracewell snapped on a pair of cuffs. Big Tam was helpless. Unclipping the chain, Bracewell and Thackeray lifted the subdued giant slowly to his feet. His energy sapped, Tam had no inclination to resist. His hands fastened behind his back and a hessian sack over his head, he was led, resigned, to a door in the furthest wall. Bracewell held his hands painfully up against his back. He felt the cudgel at his cheek as he walked, an implicit threat that was enough to tame him.
“Wait,” Bracewell commanded, letting go his hands for a moment. Tam heard the sliding of a metal lock and a door opened. Even with his head covered, he was aware of the movement of cool air. He could smell the Thames. Daylight filtered through the rough material to such an extent that he squinted against the glare. He would have called out if he had not been certain that such an action would have resulted in a blow from the cudgel. Bracewell pushed him roughly forwards and, with a great effort, Tam placed one foot in front of the other. His breathing was laboured. His limbs were heavy and awkward. “You’ll make us a fine penny tonight,” hissed Thackeray in his ear. Tam wondered what he meant. He tried to throw the man a coarse word or two such as he had learned in his time at the barracks, but the air caught in his throat and he fell into a coughing fit that exhausted him. Just as he feared he could walk no further, he was brought to a halt. He heard the rasp of another lock and a door swing open on rusty hinges. A roar engulfed him like a wave, the sound of an expectant audience. It sounded like a hundred men were gathered in one place, each shouting to be heard over his neighbour. Tam was shoved forward and felt himself at the bottom of a flight of steps, the lower tread barking painfully against his shins. Led step-by-step up the stairs, he heard a great roar rise from the crowd. The air crackled with expectation. He had the unnerving feeling the roar was for him. The ground beneath his feet was springy and forgiving, giving Tam the impression of standing on a wooden platform some feet above the ground. He was commanded to stop. Another roar rose from the crowd and he was certain he had been joined by another, the floor bouncing subtly at their faltering footsteps. A slow handclap was started and feet were stamped on the ground in a cacophony of sound that seemed to come from all around. The clapping increased in speed until there was a wall of sound about him. Just as Tam felt he would go mad with the noise, the hessian sack was whipped from his head.
Big Tam found himself standing on a raised wooden stage in a huge wharf, before a baying crowd. At least a hundred were crushed in a mass before him, with yet more hanging off balconies and galleries around the walls. He stood, bemused, blinking into the light.
“He’s a gonna!” yelled a man from the crowd, only to be contradicted by a louder shout, “Nah, he’s a dead cert! Look at the size of ’im!” Those nearest the stage thumped on its wooden planks in the excitement, and Big Tam saw bundles of notes being held aloft. “The big man to win!” shouted the first man again and a roar of approval rose to the rafters. Many of the spectators were in their finest clothes. Gentlemen sported frock coats and silk top hats and there were even one or two ladies in their best dresses and shawls. Amongs
t the crowd, Big Tam saw men and women circulating with leather pouches around their waists. Periodically, they would stop to take bundles of money from the audience and place them in their pouches, offering a chit in return. “You know the odds!” called one as they moved about the room. “Three to one on the big man to win, two to nine on the Spaniard!”
Big Tam looked at the man beside him. He had a squat, powerful, physique and was hopping from one foot to the other in preparation. His bare torso glistened with sweat. His tanned skin glowed in the gaslight like burnished leather.
“He’s won me the best part of ten pounds already,” pronounced a fat man in the front row. “My money’s on the Spaniard!”
“He’s been lucky,” called another. “I’m backing the newcomer!”
“Then he’s a loser for sure,” came the response. “If he’s got an ounce of sense, he’ll run a mile!”
The room erupted into laughter and abusive gestures were exchanged across the crowd. The air was a fog of tobacco smoke, and Tam saw bottles of beer and gin being passed from man to man. Slowly, it was dawning on him. Even to his addled brain, it was becoming clear he was expected to fight the brawny man beside him. Big Tam fancied himself as proficient with his fists at the best of times, but he was in no fit state to fight. Every muscle, joint and limb was aching. His head felt split from the blows dealt him by the hooded figure. His jaw throbbed with a dull pain. And he was certain he had been drugged. The scene swam before him and it was all he could do to keep his balance. He felt faint from lack of food and his throat burned.
A shout came from the rafters. “Let them fight!” The call was repeated and taken up by everyone in the room, each syllable punctuated with the stamping of many feet. Tam felt the floor beneath him shaking in time.
A whistle sounded and there was a sudden silence. Tam felt his hands being released and, looking behind him, he saw Bracewell run as best he could back to the steps, the handcuffs swinging loose in his hand. Tam flailed wildly about him, causing a roar of excitement to rise from the crowd.
“He’s a feisty one!” roared a rangy man from one of the galleries. “What’ve you been feeding him, Bracewell?”
Big Tam turned to the crowd and roared. “May God damn ye all!”
“Haggis by the sound of it!” shouted the fat man in the front row as Tam’s Scottish vowels rolled to the roof. A peel of laughter rang out in response.
As the crowd hushed in expectation, Big Tam looked around the raised dais. It was ringed by a rope, secured at intervals to posts. Bracewell was hooking up the last of the ropes behind him as he exited the ring, leaving Tam alone with his opponent. Around the platform, men were placed with cudgels balanced menacingly in their hands. Tam knew he wouldn’t stand a chance if he attempted escape. All eyes were upon the two men, awaiting a signal to begin. In the silence, last minute bids were placed, the conversations taking place via a sequence of elaborate hand gestures. Tam turned to face the Spaniard. He was crouching low, his body tensed in expectation. His eyes were aflame with a belligerent menace, his fists held tight. The whistle blew again and he was upon him.
The Spaniard was quick and light on his feet, dancing this way and that. He was too lissom for Big Tam’s befuddled brain. A blow was planted on his cheek; a right hook with power behind it. Tam rolled with it as best he could but still the impact was heavy. His already bruised jaw sang with pain. Ducking away, he jabbed with his left hand, making contact with the Spaniard’s forehead. He headed for the ropes. Someone started a slow handclap. Tam’s eyes darted around the room. The Spaniard fell about him. A hail of blows connected with Tam’s head. He crouched low, bunching his hands about his face, only to be dealt an uppercut that sent him spinning backwards into the ropes. The Spaniard was a blur. Tam felt jabs to his kidneys and stomach and fell to the floor in agony. He spat shattered teeth from his mouth. The crowd roared as one, chits and money being waved in the air. Tam hauled himself to his feet. The Spaniard was at the ropes, grandstanding to the crowd, his arms raised above his head. Tam knew his only hope was his size. The extra foot he had over his opponent would give him an advantage. He knew his greater weight would work in his favour. Gathering his strength, Tam clasped his hands together and held them up over his head. Approaching the Spaniard from behind, he brought his hands smashing down on the man’s head, jumping off the ground to throw his weight behind his arms as they fell. There was an audible gasp from the crowd as the Spaniard buckled to his knees. He stayed there just long enough for Tam to deal him a fearful blow with his right hand and he fell to the floor with a thud. Tam lurched to the ropes and hung there to catch his breath. The crowd was divided. It seemed half of them were delighted by the turn of events, waving their strips of paper in the air in celebration, while the other half chanted “Get up! Get up!” The chorus was hypnotic.
As Tam spat mouthfuls of blood to the floor, he saw the fat man in the front row douse the Spaniard with beer from his bottle in an attempt to revive him. Slowly, Tam saw him move. A hush of anticipation fell in the room. Slowly, the clapping started again, increasing in volume and frequency, willing the Spaniard to his feet. Tam swore to himself as he saw his opponent rise. His best chance would be to get him quick, before he’d had the time to fully come to his senses. Tam lurched from the ropes, swaying unsteadily, his focus on his opponent. The crowd shouted in warning and the Spaniard turned just in time. Jumping to his feet, he shook the sweat from his hair and lay into the Scotsman. Tam was taken by surprise and had left himself wide open. With an almighty roar of exasperation, he swung his arms around him in the vain attempt to make contact with his opponent. A particularly vicious volley left him with a gaping gash upon his eye. The Spaniard made use of his diminutive size, landing uppercut after uppercut on Big Tam’s jaw. Tam felt the bone shatter as the blows landed. His head throbbed. The blood ran into his eye and down his face into his mouth. He spat in frustration, suddenly aware that he was losing all feeling in his legs. They crumpled beneath him as he reeled to the ropes. His head rolling feebly from side to side as he hung there, Tam felt something pressed into his hand from behind. It was hard, cold and metal. Looking down to his clenched fist, he realised it was closed around a brass knuckleduster; a length of jagged metal to be wound around the fingers of his right hand to produce a formidable and deadly weapon. He twisted his head round to see who had passed him the fatal prop, but saw no one beyond the men with their cudgels, standing menacingly behind the ropes. Slipping his fingers through the holes in the metal, Big Tam looked up at the Spaniard. He was winding himself up for a final charge at the Scotsman, his fists held before him, tensed for the denouement. With a roar, Tam raised his hands again, bringing his fists and the vicious metal smashing down on the Spaniard’s head. As his opponent fell to the floor in defeat, there was a roar of disappointment from the audience. Looking about him, Big Tam’s gaze was caught by a young man in the audience. Standing at the front, he had an open face, a mop of curly blond hair, and wore an expression somewhere between interest and alarm.
His labours finished at the dock and having worked up quite the appetite, Detective Sergeant Anthony Graves had joined some fellow workers at The Coopers Chophouse on Horselydown Lane. It was a dingy room with a low ceiling and a sticky floor. What windows there were afforded the room little light on account of the filth that lay on the glass. In a corner, a chop grill spat and smoked. The smell of burning fat mixed with the tang of tobacco and stale beer. It was just the sort of place Graves would wish to find after a hard day’s graft. Ordering himself a ha’penny plate of meat and bread, he settled by the bar to down a tankard of foaming ale.
“Sallow’s got his eye on you, then.”
Graves turned to see the stocky man with the lantern jaw who had warned him at the dock. He was tucking into a pie. He took great forkfuls at a time, chewing at the meat as he spoke.
“Saw you with him at Corder’s Wharf.”
“What do you know of Sallow?” Graves wiped the foam from his mouth.<
br />
“You’d do well to watch yer step,” the young man said through a mouthful of gravy. “Once he’s got yer, you’ll never get away.”
Graves leaned his elbow on the bar as his plate arrived. “What would he want of me?” he asked innocently.
“He’s recruitin’”.
“For what?”
“He needs men.” The stocky man looked about him, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There’s a delivery Saturday night.”
Graves chewed at his chop. It was more gristle than meat, he noted with disappointment. “At St. Saviour’s?”
The man nodded, his deep-set eyes narrowing all the more. “You’ll know soon enough if Sallow wants you.”
Graves downed another draft of ale in an attempt to wash down a particularly stubborn piece of meat. “What’s the delivery?”
His companion smiled a greasy smile. “It won’t be tea and turmeric, that’s for sure.”
“Bailey!”
The man almost dropped his pie at the shout that came from further along the bar. Graves turned to see a rough looking man with a balding head and scars on his face.
“That’s enough!” the scarred man growled.
Chastened, Bailey lowered his eyes to his plate.
“Sallow’s business is just that, and no one else’s.” The bald man shot Graves a look of warning and returned to his business at the bar.
Bailey continued his meal in silence, ignoring all attempts to engage him in further conversation. Every now and then, Graves noticed, he would glance up to the bald man at the bar, only to find himself the recipient of another warning look.
The sergeant polished off his food and decided to be on his way. There was nothing more to be learned here. Now the crowds of workers had had time to disperse, he wanted a closer look at Corder’s Wharf and, in particular, the room where he had joined Sallow about his work. Wiping the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand, he made his way to the street, purposefully avoiding the ill-tempered stare from the bald man at the bar.
The Devil in the Dock Page 14
