The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  Breathing hard, Denton closed the door behind him and leaned against it. He tore at the paper with his nimble fingers to reveal the note within, pulling it gently from the folds of the envelope. It was written in the same spidery hand that he had come to know so well. It was a simple instruction that he knew he must obey or face a dreadful cost. ‘BERRYCLOTH MUST GO FREE,’ the note read. ‘HE IS THE KAISER’S MAN’.

  Denton staggered back to the drawing room, the blood rushing to his head. There, he calmed his nerves with a steadying hand upon the mantelpiece and poured himself another large glass of wine.

  “Thank you for coming at so late an hour, doctor.” Mrs Fenwick was a fat lady with very few teeth. She stood in her apron at the door, beckoning Doctor Hayes over the threshold. He was, indeed, much perturbed at having been roused at such a time of night, but the address the boy had given at his door assured the good doctor that there would at least be money to be made. He had dressed quickly but properly in a sober waistcoat and charcoal trousers and now stood, Gladstone bag in hand and top hat on head, on the doorstep to Number Twenty Three, Bridge Road, Hammersmith. The house was one of the most elegant in the row, a three-storey building with high sash windows and a smart front door. Inside, however, it was all dark furniture and heavy curtains. What small light that was permitted through the heavy drapes from the lamps outside fell upon a slight figure lying, sweating, upon a daybed in the parlour. He was swathed in blankets, yet still he shivered. Doctor Hayes noticed the sheets were damp and stained. A cracked china bowl sat on the floor by the daybed, dangerously full of a thin, brown fluid. A noxious stink hung in the air.

  “He’s been this way for three days, doctor,” Mrs Fenwick was explaining. “He took ill on Tuesday after his fish supper and could not even make it up the stairs to his room. I’ve done my best for him.”

  The doctor did not doubt it.

  “You would do well to open a window.” Pulling the curtains aside, he threw up the sash to admit some night air. Moving to the patient, he knelt at the daybed and reached into his bag. Drawing out a small case, he snapped it open to reveal a thermometer. “He has not eaten since?”

  The housekeeper shook her head, “Nothing.”

  Pulling the blankets from the patient’s face, Doctor Hayes gave an almost imperceptible look of alarm. He knew this man. Despite his pallid skin and red, quivering lips, he was clearly Aaron Thurlow, a marketeer at Covent Garden. Doctor Hayes had good cause to recognise him. Some months earlier, he had treated a fellow trader at the market for injuries sustained during a beating. The unfortunate victim had been reticent to go to the law as the perpetrator, one Aaron Thurlow, held great sway over the stallholders. He demanded regular payments with menaces and often threatened grievous repercussions if they were not made. A recent spate of fires at Covent Garden had proven him true to his word. The tiniest of smiles played about the doctor’s lips.

  “He is plainly near death, Mrs Fenwick,” he lied. “Could I trouble you for a little hot water?”

  The fat housekeeper gave a little sob and crossed herself. Bobbing in a ludicrous curtsey that amused Doctor Hayes more than it should, she left the parlour for the kitchen, mouthing a silent prayer under her breath as she went.

  Doctor Hayes looked again at his patient. He was all but certain he was suffering from nothing more than food poisoning. Given time he would be back on his feet and back at work, but that was an eventuality to be denied him. The doctor reached beneath the man’s head to retrieve his pillow. It was wet with sweat and stained with Thurlow’s saliva. As his head rolled back, the poor man’s mouth gaped open to emit a reeking stench. His breathing came in fits and starts. As the doctor lifted the pillow high above the man’s head, his patient’s eyes snapped open. Thurlow took a moment to focus on the doctor’s face as it hovered before him. He gasped and tried to call for help, but no sound came. He lifted his hands to claw at the doctor. The last thing Thurlow saw was his assailant’s terrible grin, and then he felt the pillow on his face. The doctor leaned against it hard. Even in his delirium, Thurlow put up quite a struggle, his arms and legs thrashing under the blankets as he fought for breath.

  “Shhh,” the doctor soothed as he put his whole weight against the pillow. Slowly, the struggle subsided. Thurlow’s chest ceased its rise and fall and, after a final spasm, all was quiet.

  The doctor sat back, pleased with his night’s work. Wiping his face with a sleeve, he snapped his bag shut and stood to await the return of the housekeeper. He would deliver the sad news with a practised, solemn expression. He would then offer her his invoice, exit the house with a tip of his hat and send word to the Kaiser that as Aaron Thurlow was dead, Covent Garden Market was theirs.

  St. Saviour’s Dock was between shipments. The Thames limped past at its lowest tide. The chophouses and inns had long since discharged their last customers. Some complained loudly as they staggered through the streets to their beds. The wharves loomed over the narrow alleys in the darkness. Stray dogs took the opportunity to scavenge amongst the piles of filth ejected from the tanneries and mills.

  Rats ran for cover as the old nag limped down Shad Thames, pulling Finnegan’s cart behind it. Finnegan was a sour-faced man, his mouth perpetually drawn down in a look of disdain. He had reason to look so embittered. A life lived on the fringes of crime had left him shouldering much of the responsibility but receiving little of the profit. The meagre hand-outs he had received from those he served through the years had brought him little more than enough to feed his horse every week. He supposed, he reasoned soberly, he should count himself lucky to have lasted so long. As he rounded the corner with his cart, clicking his tongue to coax his horse across the cobbles, Finnegan saw Ichabod Sallow standing by the door to Corder’s Wharf. A half spent cheroot dangled from his lips. At a signal, Finnegan pulled his cart to a stop, his horse flicking her tail in a show of lazy indifference.

  Ichabod’s men worked quietly, opening up the doors to the wharf in near silence. As he lounged on the road smoking, they loaded sacks of tainted turmeric onto the wagon.

  “Where’s this lot headed?” one man asked of the driver.

  “Bristol,” came the reply. Finnegan leaned over and handled a parcel to Sallow.

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” said Sallow with a chuckle, counting through the bundle of notes.

  The sacks loaded onto the cart, he gave the horse a smack across the rump for its pains. With a whinny, the old nag started on its weary journey to Paddington. There, the load would be transferred onto the morning train to the West Country. Sallow had made less than the market price for the spice, but half of it was flour. By any reckoning, it had been a good sale.

  And so it was throughout the metropolis. All through the night, and every night, crimes were committed in the name of the Kaiser. Threats were made and money was collected. Stolen goods were passed on, those in authority were compromised. The whole of London lived in thrall to the devil in the dock. The city had become a chessboard. The pawns, bishops and knights were all in play, and soon the final move would be made.

  XXIV

  An Appointment

  Sergeant Graves looked a troubled man. He cut a forlorn figure as he sat in Bowman’s office, the morning light streaming through the window. Bowman could see he had taken Kitty’s death hard. His eyes were cast down to the floor and his whole demeanour spoke of a man in conflict with himself.

  “I have spent the morning with a Mr Thomas Baldwin of Ladbroke Grove, consoling him on the death of his niece.” Graves sunk even lower into the leather wing-backed chair.

  “She lived with her uncle?” Bowman sat on the opposite side of the desk, eyeing his sergeant carefully. His usually cheery countenance had been replaced with a look of consternation.

  “She had no family but him,” Graves continued. “A stonemason by trade, much in demand. He took the news very ill.”

  “I hope you assured him we will do all we can to catch her killer?”

  “I did, sir, a
nd he showed great confidence in us.”

  “Then, Sergeant Graves, we must not let him down.” Bowman was suddenly aware that his hand was shaking. He moved it below the desk so as to be out of Graves’ sight.

  “What do you propose, sir?” Graves looked up.

  “Sergeant Graves, I would have you go to the Home Office on Whitehall and ask to see the transportation and prison records for New South Wales. Do you have your notebook with you?”

  Graves reached inside his coat to pull out his tattered notebook and the stub of a pencil. Bowman scratched some details on the page.

  “Tracing your family tree, sir?” the sergeant winked, determined to lighten the mood in the office.

  “Report back to me this afternoon,” said the inspector plainly, as he passed the notepad back, “Then we might formulate a plan.” He walked to the map on his wall, his fingers tracing the route of the Thames through the city. “I mean to shed a little light in the darkness.”

  “How’s that, sir?”

  Before Bowman could answer, there came a knock at the door. It was a knock of such force and impact that it could mean the arrival of only one man.

  “Come!” Bowman turned back into the room. The door was flung open on its hinges and there stood Ignatius Hicks. He was dressed in a full-length coat that brushed the floor as he walked. His waistcoat was a garish yellow and an ostentatious cravat struggled to escape from beneath his huge beard.

  “Ah, Bowman,” he boomed, clearly unaware of the noxious fumes that rose from the bowl of his ever-present pipe. Bowman coughed pointedly, but to no avail. “I see you’ve started the day late.”

  In truth, Bowman had been here since the small hours. Unable to sleep, he had caught a cab to the river and walked to the Victoria Embankment from Lambeth Bridge. The few people that were abroad at so late an hour gave him a wide berth, and so he had wandered unmolested, deep in thought. Occasionally his hand would go to his pocket to close around the note he had discovered in his waistcoat. The message it contained and the visions he had had precluded any sleep despite the Madeira, and so he had set out upon the streets to clear his mind. The note could have been pressed into his pocket at any time during the previous day, but most likely when he had discovered Kitty’s body at St. Saviour’s Dock. There had been such a press of men and women that it could easily have been planted in the throng.

  “What do you bring us, Hicks?” Bowman asked. “Aside from the smell of your favourite tobacco?”

  Hicks waved a paw in the air to disperse the fug that had accompanied him and pulled a sheaf of papers from the folds of his coat. “Reports from the provinces, Bowman.” He slammed the papers down on Bowman’s desk, upsetting a bottle of ink in the process. “It seems your gang of kidnappers have been busy.”

  Bowman moved to the desk to leaf through the documents. It was a collection of telegraphed communications from various police stations around London, from Gravesend in the east to Isleworth in the west.

  “Those reports contain the details of almost twenty disappearances that could be ascribed to the same perpetrators,” Hicks drew on his pipe.

  “Twenty?” Bowman’s moustache twitched.

  “These reports stretch back over a year.” Hicks blew smoke from his nostrils. If Bowman looked carefully, he could see the inspector’s moustaches had become discoloured by the practice. “They each concern the vanishing of healthy young men,” Hicks continued, oblivious to Bowman’s gaze. “And they each coincide with the sighting of a black brougham in the vicinity.”

  Bowman raised his eyebrows.

  “Hardly a strange sight on the streets of London,” exclaimed Graves from his chair. “One may see twenty such carriages in a day.”

  “But,” rounded Hicks, triumphantly, “these kidnappings took place at night, when such a thing is more conspicuous.”

  Hicks strode to the map at the wall, a fat hand reaching up before him. “A labourer taken in King’s Cross last June.” He indicated a narrow street near the station. “A black brougham was seen nearby in Cheney Street at two in the morning.” His arm swung through the air to land at a point just north of the Thames. “A Spanish rat catcher from Fulham.” He tapped a street on the map. “Taken on Hestercombe Avenue in September. A black brougham spotted at three in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Inspector Hicks.” Bowman’s voice was thick with emotion. The very thought of the black brougham called back his visions of the night before. He walked to the window to gaze out across the river, his hand closing around the note in his trouser pocket.

  “And what news from The Sisters Of Mercy?” Bowman grumbled.

  “Very little news.” Hicks shrugged his great shoulders.

  Bowman turned his gaze upon him. “Inspector Hicks, Sister Vincent came to me with news of a violent murder in her infirmary. I had hoped you would return with more than very little news.” The tone in Bowman’s voice was enough to still the room. Graves and Hicks shared a look that brought Bowman up sharp. Would this meeting appear in their reports to the commissioner? Bowman remembered Graves’ expression of concern at his demeanour the previous day. With a start, he realised he had omitted to shave again. Was every innocent gesture to be examined and interpreted?

  Hicks cleared his throat awkwardly. “There is very little news because barely anyone would say a word.”

  “You spoke to the patients?” Bowman was speaking softly, deliberately.

  “They all swore they had seen nothing, despite Jonas Cook so obviously having been strangled in their midst.”

  Bowman nodded. “Fear is a powerful tool.” He looked up to see his two companions regarding him closely. “Inspector Hicks,” he continued, “I should like you to join Sergeant Graves back here this afternoon. I have a matter to attend to first, which may shed more light on proceedings.”

  “Care to elucidate?” Hicks held his arms wide, expectantly. Sergeant Graves leaned forward on his chair.

  With a dramatic flourish, Bowman produced the note from his trouser pocket and pressed it flat against the desk. Graves rose from his seat as the inspector continued.

  “This was hidden about my person at St. Saviour’s Dock.”

  Graves’ eyes widened as he read the message. Hicks puffed his cheeks out almost comically. The paper was torn from a large book, its left and bottom edges ragged. In a rushed, spidery hand, could be read the words; ‘COME ALONE TO THE SUBWAY AT NOON AND THE KAISER SHALL BE KNOWN.’

  Bowman looked from Graves to Hicks, nodding slowly at their silent enquiries.

  “It is an appointment I intend to keep.”

  A glass or two of brandy had served to quell the tremor in his hand. Alone in his office, Bowman took the revolver from his gun cabinet beneath the bureau where his decanter stood. The Kaiser had said come alone, he thought grimly. He had not said come unarmed. Shrugging on his coat and jamming his hat on his head, Bowman hailed a cab from Scotland Yard’s front gate. The streets were full of weekend traffic and those simply out to take the air by the Thames. The great embankments that ran the length of the river were something of a draw to tourists and Londoners alike, and the spring sun had roused many to walk their wide esplanades and spend time in their gardens. The cabbie drove at quite some pace. They were soon rattling under the great bridges of London; Hungerford, Waterloo and Blackfriars, before turning away from the river to traverse Upper Thames Street to the east. The wharves and tightly packed slums of All Hallows The Less and St. Magnus The Martyr soon gave way to more impressive buildings. The traders at Billingsgate Market were packing away their wares for the day, whilst lines of businessmen queued to gain access to Custom House, an august building of Palladian pillars, porticos and Portland stone.

  Soon, the carriage was ejected onto Great Tower Hill. A wide promenade opened up as it slowed near Trinity Square and the cabbie joined a rank of traps awaiting their next fare. Paying his driver, Bowman slipped from the hansom and stood to gather his resolve. The Tower Of London stood, imperious and impregnabl
e before of him. Crowds of tourists fought for space and the opportunity to buy some roasted peanuts from a street seller, or have their portrait sketched in charcoal by a bohemian-looking man at an easel. Rough-looking children ran between the legs of hapless tourists as they stopped to marvel at the crenellations and towers above them. The stronghold at the heart of the palace precincts stood proud against a clear blue sky. Its clean, white stone glinted in the sun.

  Bowman swallowed hard and reached instinctively to feel the gun in his pocket for reassurance. There before him, squat and unassuming, stood the entrance to the Tower Subway. It was an innocuous brick building, broad and cylindrical, with the appearance of a truncated tower some twelve feet high. Improbably, a perfectly ordinary looking door stood ajar to admit entry, framed by heavy stone pilasters and a lintel.

  Bowman pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time and joined the short queue at the door. It was fifteen minutes until noon. The note had not specified a location beyond mentioning the subway. It would be impossible to discern which entrance was meant, reasoned Bowman, either on the north or south bank, so it was a logical assumption that he should head beneath the Thames into the subway itself. The inspector’s eyes flitted between his fellow pedestrians as he passed through the door into the gloom beyond, flipping his ha’penny toll to the attendant. Any one of them, he thought, could be the Kaiser.