The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  He was greeted by a large, cavernous space that ran the entire length and width of the wharf above. Arches and vaults supported the building, giving the space an almost sepulchral appearance. Shadows danced against the bare brick walls as the flame in Graves’ lamp guttered with the subtle movements in the damp air. Holding his light before him, he saw a row of sacks propped up beneath an arch. Placing the lamp carefully at his feet, Graves tore at the hessian material, dipping his fingers carefully into the sack. He felt a fine powder between his fingers. Rubbing them together at his nose, he felt the familiar exotic smell catch at his throat. Turmeric. Turning from the sacks, he bent beneath an arch to see a large container standing on the floor. It was a squat but substantial wooden skip. Graves could see long handled paddles leaning against its sides. Lifting his lamp to peer inside, he saw it was almost empty. A film of white powder lined the walls and even gathered into drifts at the corners. Larger sacks were stacked beyond the skip, their contents indicated quite clearly by the single word stamped onto the hessian; FLOUR. The implication was clear. Sallow had been mixing the turmeric with the much cheaper flour. Such tainting of produce was illegal. It was also extremely lucrative. Graves couldn’t help but think that the two things he had witnessed today were somehow linked. That the funds raised by the fight in Butler’s Wharf and the income derived from the tainting of spice were being used to the same ends. Just as he mused how best to proceed, Sergeant Graves heard the whistle.

  A huge crowd had gathered at Dockhead. Graves pushed his way through, eager to respond to the appeal for assistance. He was surprised to see Inspector Bowman himself with the whistle in his hand, a tall, lithesome woman standing next to him. The crowd was turned as one to focus on something above their heads, and Graves saw the inspector, too, had lifted his chin. Following his gaze, Graves beheld the object of their fascination. There, swinging from a makeshift gibbet, was the body of Kitty Baldwin.

  XXII

  Reflections

  It came as a surprise to Bowman that Graves had known her.

  “Her name was Kitty,” the young sergeant explained over a forlorn pint of porter in The Silver Cross. “She was stage door keeper at The Theatre Royal.” He had taken the chance to change out of his dockworker’s clothes at Scotland Yard and now sat downcast with Inspector Bowman in a private booth at the back of the tavern.

  “In Drury Lane?” asked Bowman, his habitual frown cutting all the deeper into his forehead.

  “She found Pope’s body in Vinegar Yard. I pitied the lass, so took it upon myself to drop by the theatre.” Sergeant Graves toyed with his glass. Bowman regarded him in silence. His usually cheerful features were cowed, his bright eyes downcast. “I offered to walk her home but she’d disappeared.”

  “You suspect that was when she was abducted?” Bowman’s features were clouded in thought as he nursed a glass of brandy in his hands. He had already finished two before Graves had joined him, and was both relieved and alarmed at how it had calmed his ragged nerves.

  Graves cast his mind back to the grubby boy with the felt cap on St. Catherine Street. “Word was got to the Kaiser that she was keeping company with a Scotland Yarder, I am sure of it.” He thought of the boy’s knowing smile as he had left the theatre.

  Bowman paused mid-sip. “You know of the Kaiser?”

  “I have heard his name both in Drury Lane and St. Saviour’s Dock.”

  “In what regard?”

  Graves pushed his still full glass away from him, clearly not in the mood to drink. “As I arrived at the Stage Door, I was told Kitty was ‘working out the Kaiser’s share’. I thought nothing of it.”

  “What business do you think he had with Kitty?”

  “That I do not know, but I saw a man leave in haste with a parcel beneath his arm. I fair near fell over him.”

  ‘”So Kitty was hanged as a warning.”

  “But as a warning to whom?” Graves’ cheeks were flushed with emotion. “To those who would speak out against the Kaiser? Or to those who would investigate him?”

  “Perhaps both,” Bowman said, sadly. “I have heard much talk of this mysterious Kaiser in Bermondsey and have directed my efforts to investigating him.”

  “She died because of her association with me.” Graves was sinking into a heavy mood. “It hardly seems fair, when you have been investigating, too.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, trying to stem the tears.

  Bowman shrugged. “There’s reason enough, Graves,” he said plainly. “I have no one.” His heart growing heavy, the inspector looked beyond the glass partition that separated their booth from the rest of the saloon. The day’s work done, The Silver Cross was filling up nicely. Harris would be pleased.

  Graves’ eyes were shining with tears now. Bowman swallowed hard. “Tell me of your day at Shad Thames,” he said by way of offering a distraction.

  Grateful for the diversion, the sergeant described the events he had witnessed in Butler’s Wharf. “The fighters bore the same mark upon their chests as Harry Pope,” he concluded.

  “And they were collecting funds at the wharf?” Bowman sat back in his chair, deep in thought.

  “I was told as much.”

  Bowman pinched the bridge of his nose. He was suddenly aware that he had not slept in twenty-four hours. “Do you not see the pattern, Graves?”

  “Pattern, sir?” The sergeant stared at him, blankly.

  “Between Drury Lane and Butler’s Wharf. I suspect the Kaiser may be running a protection racket in the West End.”

  The young sergeant followed the train of thought. “And raising funds through illegal boxing at Butler’s Wharf,” he agreed, the pieces suddenly falling into place. “And creaming profits from St. Saviour’s Dock. I found Ichabod Sallow tainting a consignment of turmeric at Corder’s Wharf.”

  “So we can assume that Jonas Cook fell foul of Sallow. By all accounts he was a pious man and would not have taken well to Sallow’s practises.”

  “Sallow must have panicked when he heard of your visit to Cook at the convent.”

  “And he made certain that Cook wouldn’t talk.”

  Graves’ face creased in thought. “Is Ichabod Sallow the Kaiser?”

  Bowman thought back to his altercation in Willow Walk. “It is possible,” he nodded, downing his brandy rather more quickly than was seemly. “He is certainly feared by all at St. Saviour’s.”

  “Then we have Harry Pope’s story.” Graves was suddenly energised. “Pope must have fallen foul of Ichabod Sallow at Corder’s Wharf and effected his escape. But he was caught at Vinegar Yard.”

  “The wonder is that he ran so far without approaching an officer of the law,” offered Bowman, his hands held wide. “Drury Lane is well policed.”

  Graves leaned forward on his seat, his eyes alert. “I may have the answer to that, sir.”

  Bowman raised his eyebrows, expectantly.

  “The man I saw at the stage door I saw again at the dock, in a police constable’s uniform.” Bowman’s jaw dropped at the news. “Perhaps he did not approach the police because he did not trust them.”

  Bowman rubbed at his forehead and smoothed his hair with a hand. “It strikes me, Sergeant Graves, that we have been working on the same case ever since you attended Pope’s body in Vinegar Yard.”

  “It’s certainly looking that way, sir.” Graves reached for his drink again and took his first sip. He never felt better than when progress was being made, and his helplessness in the face of Kitty’s death had been replaced with a hope that it would soon be atoned for.

  “I have spent some time with William Tremont in the cells at Bow Street,” Inspector Bowman was saying. “He too has felt the Kaiser’s hand. He says the bomb at St. Katharine Docks was set as a warning to him.”

  “A warning?” Graves eyes met the inspector’s.

  “He has been forced to make payments under threat of such action as we saw yesterday.”

  “And you can be sure the Kaiser is at the bottom of it?”
>
  “He mentioned the very name unprompted.”

  “This Kaiser has the whole of London in his thrall.” Graves was shaking his head at the sheer scale of the operation.

  Bowman smoothed his moustache between his fingers as he thought. “Tremont is being held under investigation by the Special Irish Branch, but I believe their intelligence is unfounded. He also mentioned he was being undercut by cheap labour being employed at St. Saviour’s.”

  “Men like Pope,” Graves nodded in understanding. “And perhaps the two men at Butler’s Wharf. They were put to work under Sallow and forced to fight to raise money.”

  Bowman’s face was a mask of concentration. He found it difficult to believe Cornelius Bracewell would know nothing of all this. Alma Beaurepaire had mentioned how much he knew of the dock’s workings. He might even have arranged the fight in Butler’s Wharf. “But why had they been branded with the Devil’s mark?” he asked aloud. “And for what are the funds being raised?”

  Graves took another sip and wiped the froth from his upper lip with his sleeve. “I can help you there, too, sir.” He shuffled his weight in his chair, looking round to be certain he was not overheard. “There is to be a shipment.”

  “At the dock?” Bowman lowered his voice.

  “Tomorrow,” confirmed Graves.

  “A shipment of what?” Bowman was thinking hard.

  Graves leant back, his palms raised in a gesture of futility. “Saturday night is all I know.”

  The trees were bloated with blossom. Great displays of pink and white stretched over the paths. It gathered in drifts at the kerbside as Bowman made his way back to his rooms in Hampstead. The wide roads were quieter here than in the city, and the inspector was grateful for the sweeter air. He had hailed a cab at Trafalgar Square. Lulled by the rhythm of the wheels on the road, he had almost fallen asleep. He tapped on the roof to bring the driver to a halt a street or two from his rooms. The cool evening air, he hoped, would revive him. Well turned-out children played hoop-and-stick in the street in between the sporadic traffic, and Bowman saw couples out to take in the evening’s sights. Smart brougham carriages stood on the roadside outside grand townhouses with immaculate gardens. Hedges had been pruned and shaped. Beds of tulips added a splash of colour to the evening.

  For all its respectable finery, thought Bowman, smart London life was always ever just a step away from depravity and decline. Indeed, much of the genteel life around him depended for its very existence on the sweat, toil and exploitation of the criminal classes. Wherever there was inequality, he mused, there was need, and wherever there was need, there was almost inevitably crime. As he turned off the main road, his legs felt as heavy as his eyes. He was looking forward to welcoming the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  Bowman’s rooms were a shambles of discarded clothes. A screen divided the living area from the dining table and even this was strewn with unwashed shirts. With the sun retreating, Bowman lit a lamp at the dresser and sat for a moment, staring at the ceiling as if he might find inspiration there. Finally, he resolved that he should shave. Heating a little water at the range, he carried it in a bowl to the table, fetching a small mirror and razor from the dresser behind him. As he made a lather from a small bar of hard soap, he took the time to gaze upon his reflection. His skin looked paler than he remembered, the dark rings beneath his eyes more pronounced. His grizzled cheeks were sunken. As he looked down at his shaving brush, he noticed the faintest ringing in his ears. The breath caught in his throat and the room began to swim. Searching for something, anything, to anchor himself in the here and now, Bowman looked up to the mirror. He saw another man looking back.

  This other Bowman was almost a year younger, and certainly healthier looking. But still, he was fearful. A hat was upon his head and his coat turned up at the collar. Bowman stared at the reflection. He felt diminished beneath his own gaze. He grabbed at the glass, raising the shaving brush to his cheek in hopes that the mundanity of the act would break the spell. The other Bowman raised a gun.

  And now he could hear the hooves. Distant at first but now distinct, they clattered on the road, pulling the thunder of the carriage in their wake. His heart beat hard against his chest. His mouth dried. He tried to blink the image away but still his younger self stared back, burning onto his retina like the summer sun. The other Bowman was turning away from the mirror now and the inspector was looking at the back of his own hat. His revolver raised, Bowman was able to stare down the barrel of the gun at the retreating carriage, just as he had on Hanbury Street almost a year ago.

  “Halt!” Williams was screaming. “Stop that carriage!”

  Bowman winced. He knew what must come next. He was looking down the barrel, the sight trained on the retreating carriage. His finger squeezed at the trigger, and he fired.

  Bowman was beyond the mirror now. He raked through the air as if he were the bullet. He saw the gun retreat into the distance and turned to face his destination. People screamed around him. Passers by jumped from the road. Now he was at the carriage and there was a crack. He had passed through the canopy, ripping through the fabric as if it were paper. And there, improbably, he stopped. Turning to examine the hole he had made he saw, just as he knew he would, a gash. It was little more than an inch in length. He knew exactly where the hole would be and how big. He knew, he realised with a start, because he had picked at its mended seam in the brougham that had taken him to the Trafalgar Club in Greenwich.

  Bowman shook violently in his parlour, upsetting the bowl of water at the table. He took great gulps of air, as if emerging from the watery depths of some unfathomable sea. The mirror fell to the floor with a sharp crack. Sitting with his fists clenched and his teeth set, he struggled with the implications of his vision. His stomach churned. His heart lurched. He realised that he had, only the day before, ridden in the carriage that had killed his wife.

  Fighting the urge to vomit, he staggered from the table to the decanter at the dresser. His legs were numb beneath him. As he raised his hand to retrieve a glass from the shelf, he noticed his right hand was twitching uncontrollably. He poured himself a large Madeira and took a grateful gulp, holding the glass still between both hands. Closing his eyes, he felt its warmth revive him. The room about him settled, the ringing in his ears retreated. He pulled a curtain roughly across the window and fell upon the chaise longue, placing the decanter on the floor beneath him. The turmoil had drained him. He felt more tired now than he ever had. He resolved to sleep there. He could not face his too-big bed. Kicking off his shoes, he poured himself another glass of Madeira and sank back into the unforgiving cushions. Stretching his legs with a yawn, he reached to undo the buttons at his waistcoat. And that’s when he found the note.

  XXIII

  The Web Of Fear

  As night fell over London, so terror was unleashed. To be out alone was to be in danger. To have money was to be a target. To be in business was to be compromised.

  As the lamplighters went about their duties in Drury Lane, a jeweller shut up shop for the night. The early crowds had dispersed into the gin houses and theatres and, besides, Frank Jolly was tired. He had had a busy day and sold one or two items of such value that he thought he might close early and be on his way. He lifted tray after tray of rings, necklaces and brooches from the wooden display cabinets he had inherited from his father, and carried them carefully to the safe in the back room of his shop. Peering over his glasses, he took a key from his waistcoat pocket. The hefty safe was another relic from his father’s time. It never failed to move Frank Jolly when he thought of how, decades previously, Frank Senior himself would be kneeling before it as he was now, his key turning smoothly in the same lock at the same safe in the same shop. The last of the trays put safely away, the jeweller turned back into his shop to pull the shutters at the windows. His face fell as he was confronted by a familiar figure.

  There, in the centre of the shop, stood Thackeray. Wearing his police constable’s uniform, he was holding a lit
taper in one hand, a large, earthenware demijohn in the other. Frank could smell the paraffin fuel through the cork. Thackeray raised his eyebrows expectantly. Frank Jolly considered for a moment what best to do. He was too old and too tired to fight. He could not call for help. Sighing in resignation, he knew he must do as he had always done. When the Kaiser demanded payment, only a fool declined. His eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped, Frank Jolly took the key from his waistcoat pocket and bent once more at his safe.

  Mr Justice Denton sat slumped in his favourite chair. He found his new Pimlico apartment most agreeable, and most in keeping with the station he had attained in life. Having shaved and changed into his finest shirt and frock coat, he was awaiting the arrival of his driver to take him to dinner at The Atheneum. Nursing a glass in his hand, he ruminated over the day’s business. Oscar Berrycloth had been presented at court as a ne’re-do-well. A pickpocket and a thief, he was also known as one who demanded money with menaces. Denton was in no doubt this was, in part, to fund his evident opiate addiction but there was growing evidence that he was working for another party. Tomorrow the prosecution would spell out their case, but Denton was already convinced as to the matter of the man’s guilt. Berrycloth had appeared before him several times and each of those times he had been sent down for his crimes. The prosecution in this instance, acting for an old widow from Mayfair, were pleading that Berrycloth should be hanged by the neck to rid the world of him for once and for all. Denton was of a mind to grant it.

  A ring at the bell broke his train of thought, and Denton downed the last of his wine. The driver was early. No matter, thought Denton. Rising from his chair, he took a moment to straighten his coat about him and admire his reflection in the glass above the mantel. He was still a handsome man, ramrod straight and in possession of a head of thick, curly hair that fell over his ears. A great, silver beard adorned his face, affording him, he liked to think, a certain gravitas and authority. Slipping into his Astrakhan coat in the hall, his eye fell to an envelope lying on the carpet by the front door. Bending to retrieve it, he saw it was addressed to him by name. Suddenly fearful, he opened the door in hopes of seeing who had delivered the envelope. Looking quickly up and down the street, he saw no one but a few passers by, some of whom tipped their hats to him in greeting.