The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  With a sigh, the commissioner turned to gaze out the window. The afternoon sun glinted off the white Portland stone of the government buildings around him. He had spent all his adult life in the service of his country. Indeed, he mused, he bore more scars than most because of it. He picked absently at his empty sleeve with his remaining hand. Following his military career, he had sought ways to continue to serve and had accepted the post of Metropolitan Police Commissioner gladly. Now, as he stared into the streets beneath him, he had his doubts. As a military man, only one thing had concerned him; the pursuit and destruction of the enemy at all costs. He had laboured under the luxury of having a clearly defined adversary. Often, even their location was known. In his position at The Force, however, he was denied such comforts. Looking out across the roofs of London, Sir Edward Bradford knew the enemy could be anyone and anywhere. Fighting crime in this city was like trying to hold water in his one remaining hand.

  “You will know,” the commissioner began, ‘that Chief Inspector Callaghan, in his position at the Special Irish Branch, has been investigating the possibility of a Fenian cell in operation at St. Saviour’s Dock.” Bowman could sense Sir Edward picking his way carefully through the matter. “He has a man implanted among them whose duty has been one of careful cooperation, that he might gain their trust.”

  “Yes,” Bowman nodded. “One Ichabod Sallow. I have had dealings with him and believe him guilty of murder.”

  Callaghan threw his hands up in despair. “For God’s sake, man! He is a detective sergeant with the Special Irish Branch!”

  Bowman turned calmly to meet Callaghan’s gaze. “Does that fact alone preclude him from investigation?”

  The commissioner had turned back into the room. “Inspector Bowman, you were placed at St. Saviour’s to provide security. It seems you have strayed from your remit.”

  Bowman sat forward in his seat, eager to explain. He was suddenly aware that a tiny muscle was twitching beneath his left eye. “It was in the pursuit of those duties that I came across Sallow. I believe he is implicated in the injury and subsequent murder of a fellow dockworker, Jonas Cook.”

  Callaghan puffed out his cheeks at the accusation. “Why would Sallow do such a thing?”

  Bowman took a breath. “He either is, or serves the Kaiser.”

  There was a silence in the room. Bowman’s words seemed to hang in the air. Suddenly, the commissioner threw back his head and laughed. “The Kaiser?” he boomed. “Preposterous! What should the Kaiser want with meddling on the south bank? I should imagine he would have enough on his plate with Bismarck at his back.” Even Callaghan allowed himself a smirk.

  “He calls himself the Kaiser and he holds much of London in his thrall. I have evidence he might even have influence over the local constabulary.”

  “Tread carefully, Detective Inspector Bowman,” the commissioner breathed. “You have been brought here to give an account of yourself following an incident that could have led to the loss of one of my most prominent men,” Callaghan looked smug at the description, “Not to cast unfounded aspersions and innuendo at those who would serve in the Metropolitan Police Force.”

  Bowman swallowed hard, his neck beginning to itch beneath his collar. “It was Ichabod Sallow who wrote the note to you, was it not, chief inspector?”

  “Of course,” nodded Callaghan. “It was he whom I was due to meet.”

  Bowman reached into his pocket and took out the note he had received the day before at St. Saviour’s Dock. “My note was written in the same hand.” He placed it, unfolded, on the desk before him. “A note suggesting I might meet the Kaiser at noon today in the Tower Subway.”

  The commissioner slid the note to his side of the desk. Balancing a monocle at one eye, he read its contents, carefully. “Chief Inspector Callaghan,” he began, slowly, “can you confirm this to be Sallow’s hand?”

  Callaghan gave the note a cursory glance. He already knew his answer. “I cannot,” he said, quietly.

  “How useful has Sallow been to you, chief inspector?” Bowman asked in all innocence.

  “Detective Sergeant Sallow has been instrumental in the instigation of Operation Vanguard. He has my total confidence and authority to proceed as he sees fit in the case.” Callaghan sat back, his arms folded resolutely across his chest.

  “Including murder?” asked Bowman simply.

  “Inspector Bowman, just what evidence do you have to implicate Sallow in this man’s death?” The commissioner was clearly losing his patience.

  Bowman responded daringly. “I would ask Chief Inspector Callaghan just what proof Sallow has provided in connection with a Fenian plot?” He looked at the chief inspector, his eyebrows raised in the expectation of an answer.

  “Sallow has provided several papers from the dock master at St. Katharine Docks. They appear to place him at the centre of their financial systems.”

  “And why would he place a bomb at his own dock?”

  Callaghan cleared his throat. “I believe the explosion was the result of an accident.”

  The commissioner turned to the chief inspector. “An accident?”

  “Explosives are notoriously unstable,” Callaghan continued. “Clearly the blast was as a result of careless handling. He might even have lost some men of value in the blast.”

  “Tremont tells me the papers were planted.”

  “You have spoken with Tremont?” Callaghan’s tone of voice betrayed his incredulity.

  “Such a thing would be wholly irregular,” warned the commissioner, sternly.

  Bowman shifted his weight under the commissioner’s gaze. “I have visited Tremont in the cells at Bow Street.” He could sense Callaghan shaking his head in wonder. “He is certain the papers were placed in his safe to implicate him.”

  “And the explosion?” The commissioner sat heavily on his chair, his remaining hand rubbing his chin in thought.

  “Set by the Kaiser as a warning.” There was an audible sigh in the room. Callaghan was pinching the bridge of his nose. Bowman continued. “Tremont told me of regular payments he had been forced to make. The blast was in response to his recent refusal to continue.”

  “Tremont is lying!” Unable to contain himself any longer, Callaghan stood to address the commissioner. “Just how long must we suffer this litany of half-baked theories and questionable untruths?”

  The question remained unanswered. Bowman resisted the urge to tell more. He reasoned he had nothing to gain from pressing the matter further. Graves’ stories of Sallow’s meddling with the turmeric at Corder’s Wharf would remain unspoken.

  “It was Sallow who told you of Tremont’s papers?”

  Callaghan nodded. “And Bracewell organised some men to retrieve them.”

  Bowman rose from his chair to look the chief inspector in the eye. “I believe Sallow has gone native.”

  Callaghan puffed his cheeks out in despair. “I have known the man for five years,” he implored, turning to appeal to the commissioner, “I have the utmost confidence in his conduct in this matter.”

  “Then how do you account for his behaviour?”

  “Operation Vanguard is a delicate matter, Inspector Bowman,” Callaghan hissed, his grey eyes blazing. He turned to the commissioner. “Sir Edward,” he began, “I believe the evidence we have obtained is enough to continue with Operation Vanguard.” He threw his arms wide in exasperation. “Can we afford not to?”

  A silence followed. Bowman was aware of a tremor in his right hand, his index finger twitching against his palm. Folding his arms to hide it and fixing the chief inspector in his gaze, the inspector summoned the strength to pose a question.

  “Just what,” he asked simply, “is Operation Vanguard?”

  Callaghan met Bowman’s gaze. He was breathing through gritted teeth. A vein pulsed on his forehead. With a growl of anguish, he shook his head and collapsed heavily into his chair, clearly unwilling to speak any further in the matter.

  “Her Majesty The Queen has bee
n on a sojourn to the continent.” Bowman turned. The commissioner was tracing the gold leaf inlay at his desk with a finger as he spoke. “From April,” he continued, ‘she has been painting in Hyeres in the south of France and, for the last week, visiting friends in Darmstadt. She is due to return tonight.”

  Callaghan was breathing heavily where he sat, clearly angry that such sensitive information should be divulged.

  “Chief Inspector Callaghan’s investigations have led him to believe an attack upon Her Majesty by the Fenians is likely. He has been coordinating a response. Operation Vanguard.”

  Bowman’s mind reeled at the news. Clearly, Sallow and Bracewell had been leading Callaghan in the wrong direction. But to what end?

  “She is due to cross the channel tonight, then travel by train to Dartford. From there she is to sail up the Thames aboard the Victoria And Albert to Custom House. Having been away, she is keen to see the progress of Tower Bridge for herself.”

  Bowman had often seen pictures of the craft in the London press. Her Majesty’s Yacht Victoria And Albert was a twin-paddled steamer of impressive proportions and luxurious design. He nodded slowly in understanding. In truth, an attack would not be unlikely. Since the beginning of her exalted reign, Her Majesty had been subject to half a dozen assassination attempts. What better way to promote one’s cause than to attempt the death of the sovereign? It had been more by luck than judgement that, so far, all attempts had failed. But if Ichabod Sallow was no Fenian, what would be his cause? If he was the Kaiser, as Bowman believed, what could be gained from so audacious a plan?

  “Then I may have some pertinent information with regard to your operation,” Bowman offered. Callaghan sat up in his seat. “What are the specifics of the plot against Her Majesty?”

  The commissioner turned to Callaghan. “Well, chief inspector?”

  Callaghan cleared his throat. “Only that an attack will be made at Dartford train station as Her Majesty’s train arrives. That will be at seven of the clock this evening.”

  “And that is where you are to concentrate your resources?” Bowman was thinking fast.

  “My men have been there since first light.”

  Bowman sat, smoothing his moustache between thumb and forefinger. “And just who gave you that intelligence?”

  Callaghan paused. A small smile flickered across his lips. He knew just what Bowman was implying. “Ichabod Sallow,” he said slowly.

  “Commissioner Bradford,” began Bowman, his expression severe, “I am not convinced.”

  “It does not matter if you are convinced,” growled Callaghan. “You were sent to St. Saviour’s to check the locks on the doors.”

  Bowman let the jibe go. Swallowing hard, he addressed the commissioner. “Yesterday, I sent Sergeant Graves undercover at St. Saviour’s.”

  “You did what?” Callaghan was on his feet again, this time with his fists clenched. If the commissioner had not been present, Bowman was sure the Chief Inspector would have swung for him.

  “Such a thing is most irregular, Inspector Bowman,” the commissioner barked, holding up his hand to soothe the fractious chief inspector. “You had no authority for such an action.”

  “I believe that Sergeant Graves’ investigation into the body discovered at Vinegar Yard and my investigations at the dock are linked.”

  “This is not your investigation!” Callaghan was at the window now, running his fingers through his hair and breathing deeply in an attempt to keep calm.

  “That is shaky ground indeed, inspector.” The commissioner shot him a warning look. “And what did Sergeant Graves find there? I should hope such a foolhardy enterprise at least bore fruit?”

  “It did,” Bowman ploughed on. “In the course of the day, Graves became party to certain information concerning a delivery at the dock.”

  “A delivery? What sort of delivery?” The commissioner placed his elbow on the desk, leaning forward to rest his chin upon his hand. Even Callaghan turned from the window.

  “That, I do not know,” Bowman admitted. “But it may be connected with recent efforts by the Kaiser to raise funds.”

  “How so?”

  “Graves witnessed a bare-knuckle fight at Butler’s Wharf. Funds were raised as people placed their bets. The fight was fixed, of course.”

  “A fight between whom?” The commissioner was intent on hearing the details.

  “Two men that I believe were kidnapped by the Kaiser for just such a purpose. They were put to work at the dock and made to fight for money. They both bore the same mark as the body in Vinegar Yard. A brand to the chest in the shape of the Devil.”

  Callaghan harrumphed.

  “There is a legend that tells of the Devil collecting the dead from a gibbet at St. Saviour’s Dock,” Bowman explained. “The Kaiser has adopted the symbol as one of ownership.”

  “This is all supposition!” roared Callaghan.

  “Nevertheless,” interjected the commissioner reasonably, ‘this business with the delivery might well benefit from further investigation.”

  “You would take the word of a madman?” Callaghan stood by the window, his eyes burning with accusation.

  Suddenly lost for words, Bowman felt his face flush. “Sergeant Graves is more than reliable,” he stammered. “If my word is not enough then perhaps his might be.” Bowman swallowed. “It is his evidence that points to the delivery,” he continued, quietly. “Not mine.”

  The commissioner rose from his seat to defuse the situation. “Chief Inspector Callaghan, I wish you to accompany Detective Inspector Bowman to St. Saviour’s Dock for the next high tide this evening.” Bowman could tell Callaghan was fighting the urge to speak. “You are to offer him all assistance in searching the shipment for any signs of nefarious activity.”

  “But Vanguard – ” began the chief inspector.

  “Vanguard will continue,” rounded the commissioner. “I shall personally take charge of proceedings at Dartford.” Callaghan gave a curt nod, holding Bowman in his gaze across the room. The commissioner continued. “As far as this delivery goes, your investigations will put an end to the matter, one way or the other. Isn’t that what you want?” The commissioner raised his eyebrows.

  There was silence.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Callaghan hissed through gritted teeth at last.

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector Callaghan.”

  With a last look at Bowman, Callaghan gathered as much dignity about him as he could, and strode from the room.

  The commissioner turned to Bowman as the door swung shut behind the retreating chief inspector. “I am a reasonable man, detective inspector, and I can see when a man has a scent of something.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bowman mumbled, standing to leave.

  “You will still have to answer for your unauthorised investigations at St. Saviour’s Dock,” Sir Edward continued. “And your sending Sergeant Graves to do your dirty work.” Bowman nodded in understanding. “Now, inspector, you have six hours before high tide. Get yourself home, have a shave and get some sleep.”

  XXVI

  Transported

  The Silver Cross seemed infinitely more appealing. Even Harris the landlord was surprised at the usually more abstemious Inspector Bowman ordering both a glass of porter and a brandy at this time of day. “Night off, Bowman?” he leered, his dank hair hanging over his eyes.

  “Quite the reverse, Harris,” said Bowman enigmatically as he threw his change onto the bar. He downed the brandy in one draft and wiped his lips on the back of his sleeve. Looking around the inn, he could see it was emptier than the last time he had visited. London was at work. The labourers would be busy transforming the skyline. His eye landed on the chair by the fireplace and, picking up his hat from the bar, he made his way over to take his place. Hanging his coat on a hook on the chimneybreast, Bowman slipped into the chair with a sigh and sipped at his porter. Looking out the window, he saw people coming and going about their business, their silhouettes warping through t
he glass. He imagined each one of them going about their daily lives. The businessmen and the vagrants, the housekeepers and the stallholders, the craftsmen and the labourers. Each with secrets of their own. With such a propensity for darkness at the heart of every man, Bowman visualised a tide of crime sweeping the city. Like the Dutch boy with his thumb in the dyke, the Metropolitan Police Force stood between a civil society and the deluge. Sometimes, it felt a hopeless task.

  Just how far did the Kaiser’s influence reach, Bowman wondered as he settled back with his glass. He was troubled by the implication of Hicks’ report in his office. The Kaiser had been kidnapping men to work at the dock using a black brougham. There was something about that detail that troubled him. As he sipped from his porter, his mind drifted back to the events on Hanbury Street, almost a year ago.

  Sergeant Williams had uncovered an operation to kidnap vulnerable children from the streets to send north for labour in the mills and factories. He had requested that Graves and Bowman accompany him as he was sure force would be needed to detain the perpetrators. And he had been right.

  Williams, Bowman and Graves had lain in wait in a doorway across the road. A line of young children was waiting in the cold to be admitted to the workhouse. Wrapping their rags around them, they hopped on their bare feet in a vain attempt to keep warm. Some were even singing to keep their spirits up; a plaintive tune in the face of their adversity.

  “Here they come,” Williams had hissed as a black brougham carriage hove into view from Deal Street. “Be ready now.”

  Bowman could hear the hooves thundering towards him. He could see the dirt kicked up behind them. Williams held his hand high to ready his men as the brougham edged closer to the kerb by the workhouse. As Bowman watched, his hand tight around his revolver handle, he saw the door to the carriage swing open. As the brougham approached the kerb, an arm reached out and plucked a small boy from the waiting line. Kicking and screaming, he was held aloft for a moment, then pulled into the carriage. Bowman shifted his weight forward to peer closer at the figure in the brougham. There was something about the slope of its shoulder and the briefest glimpse of its profile that seemed familiar. He reached for it in his mind, straining to conjure the image of the man in the carriage. And suddenly it was gone.