The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  “Sir?”

  Bowman woke with a start. Sergeant Graves had joined him in The Silver Cross, an expression of concern on his face. “I was told I’d find you here.”

  Bowman cleared his throat self-consciously. “I needed time to think,” he mumbled. Graves’ eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to the half-empty glass at the inspector’s table. “Will you join me in a drink?”

  Graves shook his head. “You asked me to report to your office, sir,” said the young sergeant, testily.

  Bowman rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, “Did I?” He smoothed his moustache between his thumb and finger. “I’m sorry Graves,” he said. “I’ve had quite the afternoon.”

  “How was your assignation in the subway?” Had the subject not been so serious, and Graves not so concerned to find his superior asleep over a glass of porter, Bowman was sure the sergeant would have allowed himself a wink and a smile.

  “Eventful,” Bowman replied with masterful understatement.

  Graves slid onto the opposite chair and listened, focussed and attentive. Bowman recounted the events in Tower Subway and the details of his subsequent meeting in the commissioner’s office.

  “The commissioner has instructed Chief Inspector Callaghan to accompany us on a further investigation at St. Saviour’s Dock this evening.”

  “I’m sure the chief inspector was delighted to hear it,” Graves smiled.

  “We are to intercept the shipment on this evening’s tide.”

  The sergeant nodded. “As the man in the chophouse told me.”

  “With Hicks with us, that’ll make us four. Both Callaghan and I will be armed.”

  Graves looked serious. “What do you expect we’ll find?”

  “Trouble, Graves.” Bowman sipped at his porter, suddenly deep in thought. Sunk into his chair, his shoulders slumped and his chin unshaved, Graves thought he looked a diminished man. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair dishevelled. He was turning his glass slowly in his hand.

  “Sergeant Graves,” the inspector said slowly, “I need to speak with you about Hanbury Street.” Bowman saw Graves flinch visibly.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The inspector looked pained. He was unsure how to proceed. “Was the brougham recovered?”

  Graves looked thoughtful. “No, sir,” he said quietly. “It never was. The horses were evidently halted several streets away and, amid the confusion, the occupant of the carriage took the reins.”

  Bowman nodded thoughtfully.

  “If it’s a consolation, sir, the urchin was recovered in good health.”

  “That is consolation, indeed,” said Bowman as he stared into his glass. There was a silence. Graves shifted uncomfortably where he sat.

  “I have news from the Home Office, sir.”

  Bowman started in his chair, as if drawn from some deep contemplation. “Of course.” He sat forward. “What progress did you make?”

  Graves slipped his notepad from his pocket and, licking his fingers, flipped through its pages until he found his place. “I looked into the records of the penal colony in New South Wales, as you requested, sir.” Graves lowered his voice as he leaned over the table. “The regime was strict, with many convicts dying during their sentence. That’s if they made it there in the first place. Many died on the voyage.” Graves cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “They were treated in the most appalling ways, worked into the ground and lashed for trivial offences.”

  “Let’s not forget these men were convicts, Graves,” Bowman cautioned. “They were merely answering for their crimes.” Graves nodded. “Did you find anything more about the governor?” the inspector asked.

  Graves sat for a moment, aware of the import of his discoveries. “Sir, look as I might, there was no sign of the name you gave me in the list of governors,” he said, enigmatically.

  “What?” Bowman let his glass drop to the table.

  Graves continued. “I then looked through the convict records. With such a distinctive name, I knew the search would be relatively easy. And there, in the list of prisoners transported to New South Wales aboard The Blenheim, I found him. Beaurepaire. Robert Beaurepaire.”

  “He was a convict?” Bowman’s frown cut deep into his forehead.

  “Charged and found guilty of several crimes including night poaching, battery and one of murder. He was sentenced to transportation and penal servitude in Eighteen Forty Nine.”

  Bowman reeled at the news. “Are you sure there was no Governor Beaurepaire?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  The inspector sat back in his chair, perplexed. He had had Graves investigate the matter on a hunch. There was something about Alma Beaurepaire’s story that had struck Bowman as inconsistent. The daughter of an Australian governor would not have been simply thrown upon the fates as she had described. There would have been procedures to protect her and bring her home. As a servant of Her Majesty’s Government, a governor would have been eligible for certain privileges and protections. It was unlikely his bereaved daughter would find herself on the filth-strewn streets of Bermondsey, even with her mother dead, too.

  “He must have been one of the last,” Bowman mused.

  “He was, sir,” Graves confirmed. “Transportation to New South Wales was abolished on October the first, Eighteen Fifty. Beaurepaire served his seven years and was then granted his Certificate of Freedom. His records show he was not the most compliant of prisoners.”

  “Oh?” Bowman’s eyebrows rose as Graves traced down the page of his notebook with a finger.

  “He was frequently engaged in acts of violence with his fellow inmates. He received regular floggings for subordination. He attempted escape three times and was sentenced to solitary confinement.”

  “He was lucky not to hang,” Bowman observed.

  “He was, however, branded.”

  A silence hung between the two men as Graves allowed his words to find their mark.

  “Branded?” Bowman’s mouth hung open.

  “The governor felt Beaurepaire’s three attempts at escape should be punished with a branding. That would ensure his identification if discovered beyond the prison limits again. It was not unusual.”

  “But it’s a rather telling detail,” Bowman mused.

  “There’s more, sir.” Graves was plainly enjoying the opportunity to be the bearer of so much information. “There are records of Beaurepaire’s activities after his release.”

  “In New South Wales?”

  Graves nodded. “Convicts were granted the opportunity to have passage home or stay to make a life in Australia. Beaurepaire opted for the latter.” He had reached into his pocket and drawn out a large piece of paper folded in half. Bowman was enrapt. “This is a marriage licence,” Graves continued, “issued by the authorities in New South Wales to a Robert Beaurepaire, giving permission for him to marry a fellow convict released at the same time.”

  “He married?” Bowman was enthralled by Beaurepaire’s story.

  “She had been transported for several charges of theft and breaking and entering. I think she just wore the judge down.” Graves allowed himself a smirk. “She was sentenced to three years and was released the same time as our man.”

  “Would Robert have been allowed to fraternise with her during his sentence?”

  Graves had to suppress a laugh at the euphemism. “I think the governor was alive to the benefits of such fraternisation. And alive to the fact that, following the cessation of transportation, a settlement would have to be established. Families would have to be reared.” Bowman noticed the sergeant’s eyes were twinkling gently.

  “Is anything more known of their fortunes?”

  “Only that they had a daughter before they both died.”

  Bowman sat stock still at the news. “A daughter?”

  “She was left on her own aged just five and was taken in by the erstwhile governor.”

  “Graves.” Bowman was searching for meaning in the news. “What was the
woman called? The woman whom Robert married?”

  “Ah,” teased Graves. “Now, this tops everything, sir. On April the fourth, Eighteen Hundred and Fifty Seven, Robert Beaurepaire married a petty thief and fellow inmate.” He held up the marriage licence for effect. “She is named on the licence as Frances De Keyser.”

  XXVII

  High Tide

  The evening chill had set in. Low clouds roiled across the sky as the light faded. Across the south bank, lanterns were lit in windows and lamplighters carried their poles from post to post. Once again, an exodus was in progress. With the rising tide, the populace disgorged themselves from their lodgings onto the streets, kicking the filth before them. Those who had not been chosen for the morning ritual had slept the day away. A man asleep does not need money and he does not need food. Others yet, those more lucky in their search for employment that morning, had wasted the intervening hours in the inns and taverns, spending what little money they had earned at St. Saviour’s on the morning tide. The younger among them ran to the dock, their shoeless feet treading heedlessly in the detritus on the road. One or two older men shuffled as best they could. Life as a docker was thankless. Life as an old docker was worse. Many had not worked for days. Some begged by the roadside, others sat on the kerb in a fug of cheap gin.

  This time, Graves had foregone his disguise. He walked with a purposeful stride behind Inspector Bowman down Willow Walk towards Bermondsey police station. Looking to his side, he caught a glance from one or two of the dockworkers, a faint and momentary gleam of recognition in their eyes. If they remembered him from his work at Corder’s Wharf, they said nothing. To his other side, Inspector Hicks was in a serious mood. His eyes were narrowed and his teeth clamped hard on the bit of his pipe. He swung his arms in an almost military fashion as he walked, his great beard jutting before him and his coat tails flapping around his ankles. Ahead, with Inspector Bowman, walked Chief Inspector Callaghan. He looked ridiculously out of place in his smart frock coat and top hat, like a diamond in the rough. His smart spats were already spattered with mud and the hems of his trousers were trimmed with dust. Bowman was in an introspective mood. Even from behind, Graves could tell by his demeanour that he was deep in thought. He walked with his head down, his hands deep in his coat pockets. When he did look up, it was to scan the crowds for any sign of trouble. To Graves’ relief, the dockers were more intent on their passage to St. Saviour’s than questioning any strangers in their midst. He knew the two inspectors ahead of him were armed, but to lose that advantage so early on would be disastrous.

  Turning onto Upper Grange Road, Bowman quickened his step.

  “This is madness, Bowman,” opined Callaghan, as the crowds thinned around them.

  “We are operating under the commissioner’s orders, chief inspector.”

  “Our orders were to intercept the delivery at the dock, you are taking us in the wrong direction entirely.” Callaghan was clearly at the end of his tether. He resented being placed with Bowman and would much rather have been spearheading an investigation of his own at Dartford. He trusted the men under him at the Special Irish Branch. He knew The Royal Yacht would be made safe and the station secured, but still he felt anxious to join them. Operation Vanguard was a matter of the highest import, with the life of Her Majesty herself at risk. This business with St. Saviour’s was a potentially dangerous distraction.

  Bowman bounded up the steps to the police station two at a time, a hand securing his hat to his head. A closed, wooden door greeted him and Bowman made a fist to rap against it, demanding entry.

  “Scotland Yard!” he bellowed. “Open up!”

  Graves looked around them. The crowd had thinned and it seemed their activities were going largely unheeded. Callaghan stood at the bottom of the steps, hands on hips, a surly look upon his face.

  “Face it, Bowman,” he drawled. “They’ve locked up for the night.”

  Bowman gestured to his two colleagues and Graves and Hicks joined him on the top step.

  “Inspector Hicks, Sergeant Graves,” began the inspector, “put your shoulders to the door.”

  Hicks gave a snort. “I’ll have you know, Inspector Bowman, this coat was specially made for me in Jermyn Street.”

  “Then you can bill the commissioner for any damage,” hissed Bowman. Graves suppressed a chuckle at the exchange.

  A look passed between them and the two men braced themselves against the door. Bowman closed his hand around the revolver in his pocket. At a signal, the two men rocked back then slammed their shoulders into the door. It seemed Hicks’ weight alone would have sufficed. The door gave way easily and the two policemen scrambled for purchase against the frame. Hicks stood brushing himself down pointedly as Bowman stepped into the room. Graves looked around. The desk stood deserted in the middle of the room, a great ledger lying closed upon it.

  “There’s no one here, sir,” the young sergeant said, his eyes darting to the corners of the room.

  With a curt nod, Bowman walked briskly to the back of the room. Chief Inspector Callaghan stepped through the shattered door.

  “Empty,” he pronounced, simply.

  Motioning that Callaghan should join Sergeant Graves in checking the upper floors, Bowman nodded that Hicks should accompany him to the basement. The portly inspector, already out of breath with his exertions, gathered himself to follow.

  Quietly, the two men crept down the steps, Bowman in the lead. Pulling his revolver from his pocket, he stood at the bottom of the stairwell. Cautioning that Hicks should stay behind him, he pivoted into the room. It, too, was empty. Bowman threw open the wooden lockers that stood along the far wall. Reaching up, he pulled down a bundle of clothing. Thackeray’s police uniform.

  “Hardly a surprise to find such a thing in a police station, Bowman,” scoffed Hicks, his chest puffed out before him.

  “I’m guessing,” concluded Bowman, “he has no intention of wearing it again.”

  “All clear upstairs, sir.” Sergeant Graves bounded down the stairs like an excitable schoolboy.

  “You’ve led us on a wild goose chase, Bowman, just as I said.” Callaghan had pocketed his revolver and now stood impatiently by the shattered door. “We should be at the dock investigating your precious delivery.”

  “We’ll be in good time,” Bowman retorted, walking to the heavy wooden desk that sat in the centre of the room. From behind, he could see it was comprised of deep shelves, each of which held wooden filing boxes and loose sheaves of paper. A large, well-thumbed ledger lay discarded on the desktop, slammed shut with a pen and ink well standing to one side. “It is this I have come to see.”

  He fingered the leading edge of the cover, then flipped it open to reveal the pages within. It was a large book, some ten or even twelve inches high by eight wide. The paper inside was lined and margined, with the first two thirds or so filled in with a variety of inks and hands.

  “Do you have your instruction to meet at the subway about you?” Bowman asked, turning to Callaghan at the door.

  “I do not,” the chief inspector replied with a surly look.

  Bowman lifted the pages and turned to the back of the book. Leaning in closer, he called Graves to join him.

  “Sergeant Graves, what are we to make of this?”

  His hands on the desk to support himself, Graves peered at the volume before him. Where the last page should have been, he could see a ragged margin where it had been torn out.

  “There’s a page missing, sir,” Graves said. Callaghan rolled his eyes.

  “Nothing unusual in that, surely?” boomed Hicks, his hands on his hips.

  Bowman had drawn his note from his coat pocket. “It is not the fact that a page is missing that is of interest,” he began, unfolding the paper in his hand. “It is the fact that this page is missing.”

  He laid his piece of paper flat against the inside back cover of the ledger. It was clearly the same as the rest of the book. The faint blue lines were of the same width and the marg
in the same red. Bowman’s paper was almost exactly half the height of the book.

  “I would wager, Chief Inspector Callaghan,” Bowman said calmly, ‘that your note would constitute the other half of the page.”

  Callaghan’s expression betrayed his sudden interest.

  “And look, sir.” Graves was flipping back through the pages to the beginning of the book. “That’s the same handwriting.”

  Graves was pointing at some entries on the page. In truth, there were many hands there but, amongst them, Graves had identified the same spidery scrawl.

  Bowman nodded. “Indeed so.”

  Callaghan and Hicks drew closer to the desk.

  “So someone in this police station,” Hicks began, tapping the bit of his pipe against his chin in thought, “wrote those notes?”

  Bowman turned to his fellow inspector. “It certainly narrows it down.”

  “Would Sallow have been among them?” Callaghan was looking askance at Bowman, careful not to show any signs of doubt in his man.

  Bowman’s eyes narrowed. “I would think it unusual for an undercover Special Irish Branch officer to attend to his correspondence in the local police station.”

  “Then he did not write my note?”

  “No more than he wrote mine.” Bowman slammed the ledger shut and made for the door. “Come on Sergeant Graves,” he called over his shoulder. “Time and tide wait for no man.”

  With an apologetic look to Callaghan, Graves strode after the inspector, glad to see him so invigorated.

  Bowman often marvelled how well he had got to know certain streets in the course of his duties. He had rarely found himself in Bermondsey in all his previous thirty-seven years. Now, he knew these streets as well as those around his own rooms in Hampstead. Passing down Upper Grange Road, he led his companions onto Alscot Road and across the tramway that ran the length of Southwark Park Road to Rotherhithe. Striding down Neckinger, they could already hear the hurly burly of activity from St. Saviour’s Dock. The ship’s funnel was just about visible from Dockhead as the party squeezed their way through the usual throng. Bowman could see a barge being towed into the dock. Several sacks of produce were already being thrown into the waiting arms of the dockworkers. Ropes were tied to pilings. Ramps were lowered to allow the men on board. All around, there was mayhem. The foremen were directing the dockers to their respective wharves, making a note of their names as they answered. Bowman saw the gibbet had been removed overnight. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Graves looking moodily at the hole in the dirt where it had been erected.