The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  The terrier struggled furiously in an effort to be free but the more it squirmed, the more it became entangled in the material. Bowman had thrown the beam to one side now and joined Graves in trying to subdue the dog.

  “Come on, Graves,” he panted. “Let’s get him out of harm’s way.” Unhitching the rope from the guardrail, he helped the sergeant carry his restless burden across the bridge to the pontoon. Twice the tarpaulin threatened to fall from the dog, but Graves was quick enough to pull the canvas tight around its body.

  Finally, they reached the collection of ramshackle cabins. By now, Graves was struggling to contain the beast in his arms, his face taut with the effort. Bowman had run ahead to try the cabin doors. Finally, he found one that would be secure enough to hold the beast. The padlock had been ripped from the handle and thrown to the ground in signs of a previous forced entry. Bowman guessed the hut had recently provided shelter to some vagrant. Foregoing any niceties, the inspector drew back the bolt and threw open the door with scant regard to any potential occupants. The hut, he saw, was empty. Trestle tables that had once stood around the perimeter of the room had collapsed under their own weight. Debris littered the floor. Bowman saw iron jemmies, pulleys and hooks. Coils of rope had been piled into corners or thrown carelessly across the floor to unravel.

  “Graves!” he pointed. “In here!”

  The sergeant struggled through the door, the dog writhing and snapping in his arms. Bowman stretched across him to keep the canvas taut about the dog’s head. On a count of three, they lowered him to the ground. Bowman wrapped the beast even tighter in the tarpaulin, but not so tight that he wouldn’t escape in time.

  “Get ready at the door, Graves,” Bowman panted, and the young sergeant sprang across the room. When Bowman saw his companion was ready, he reached for a heavy crate and slid it across the floor towards him. Lifting one side, he lowered it to anchor the canvas to the floor for the precious moments he needed to get to the door.

  “Ready when you are, sir,” said Graves from across the room. With a look at his companion, Bowman gave a nod and raced for the outside, his shoes scuffing at the mess on the floor. The moment he was through, Graves slammed the door shut and lowered the latch, sliding the bolt across in an almost simultaneous movement.

  The two men leaned with their backs against the wood, both breathing hard. Barely a moment had passed before they heard the dog barking from within. A moment later and he was at the door, clawing at its dilapidated planks.

  “It’ll hold him, Graves.”

  Graves had turned to the tug. “Seems empty, sir. Looks like we’re too late.”

  Bowman followed his gaze to the boat that lay bobbing silently at the pontoon’s edge. Aside from the wheelhouse and the single, gently steaming funnel that rose amidships, there was little to see. The workhorse of the fleet, it had clearly been built for utility rather than speed. There were no graceful lines, rather a snub-nosed design that gave it a solid, obstinate look. The lack of a cargo deck meant that any delivery would have been lashed to the stern. Squinting into the half-light, Bowman could see discarded ropes and a length of oiled canvas that suggested just that. The inspector was thinking.

  “Who would set a dog to guard an empty boat, Graves?”

  The sergeant answered Bowman’s question with a tilt of his head. “Shall we take a look, sir?”

  Checking one last time that the bolt was secure, the two men picked their way carefully across the gangplank to the tug. The engine was idling beneath the hatches, ticking and banging at intervals like some impatient animal. Occasional puffs of steam escaped from the safety valves and pipes that led to the drive shafts and flywheels beneath the deck. The boat was strewn with chains, tools and chests of equipment. Graves kicked at the canvas. “Reckon this is where they carried the delivery?” he called, resting on his haunches to examine the deck.

  “Almost certainly.” Bowman was approaching the wheelhouse, a small, cabin-like construction towards the bow of the tug. A dark shape was resolving itself beneath the wheel in the gloom.

  “What were they delivering?” Graves was musing from the stern. “Drugs? Equipment? Arms?”

  “Graves!”

  The note in Bowman’s voice brought the sergeant up sharp. He rose to his feet, suddenly alert. Moving swiftly to the wheelhouse he could just make out Bowman’s silhouette against the sunset, bending to something beneath the wheel. As Graves approached, he saw it was a body. It was slumped with its head on the deck as if in prayer. Bowman lifted the man’s head. Even in the failing light, Graves could see a milky, white eye staring blankly ahead, as if into oblivion itself.

  “Ichabod Sallow,” Bowman muttered in confirmation.

  “That’s why they set a dog to guard the pier.” Graves ran his fingers through his curls as he spoke.

  “Indeed.” Bowman was examining the dead man. A slick of blood emanating from a thin wound at his neck left no doubt as to the cause of his death. “To prevent the discovery of Sallow’s body, for the time being at least.”

  “Why would the Kaiser want Sallow dead?” Graves asked. “From what you’ve told me, he’s proven invaluable to their cause.”

  “So far, yes,” Bowman smoothed his moustache between his thumb and finger, deep in thought, “But just how far would you trust a man you knew to be a Special Irish Branch detective? Sallow might’ve been trustworthy so far, but he’s clearly disposable now.” A worried look passed across Bowman’s lean face. “The Kaiser must be on the verge of executing their plan.”

  “But where have they gone, and with what?” Graves stood again and looked around the deck for any clue, but Bowman’s attention was suddenly upstream.

  As the sun set lower over the Thames, the shadow of Tower Bridge lengthened across the water towards them. The horizon seemed ablaze with an angry glow, the river a sea of boiling metal. Against this dramatic panorama, the bridge seemed all the more strange and unearthly. It was an apocalyptic image, thought Bowman as he faced the sunset, as though the End of Days had come to the heart of the Empire. The clouds above him were aflame. The air was suddenly thick with heat and Bowman breathed hard to quell a sense of panic. Loosening his collar about his neck, his eye was drawn to the south bank where the approach to the bridge met the shore. If he moved his head slightly to the right of the wheelhouse and fooled his eye by focusing beyond the bridge, he could just see a single light blinking, as if being carried. He knew the bridge labourers would have ceased their work as the light faded. Perhaps the last of them was leaving.

  “Sir!”

  Graves was suddenly at his side, his hand cupped before him. Bowman realised with a sense of embarrassment that he had been muttering to himself. He rubbed at his eyes to clear his head. “What is it, Graves?”

  “Take a look at these.” Graves opened his hand to reveal what appeared to be half a dozen or so splinters, each three or four inches in length. “Cordite,” he said at last. “They were taking delivery of explosives.”

  Bowman thought quickly. “Graves, if you wanted to inflict a wound on the Empire itself, what would you do?”

  “I don’t follow, sir.” Graves was blinking into the sunset.

  “If you felt hard done by, deserted by your queen and country, and you were of a mind to exact revenge upon them, what form would that revenge take?” Bowman turned to face upstream again. “What would be your target?” Graves’ eyes widened in alarm as Bowman nodded. “The Kaiser is going to blow up Tower Bridge.”

  XXVIII

  Operation Vanguard

  Cornelius Bracewell wiped the sweat from his face with a sleeve. Even in the cool evening air, he felt hot from his exertions. His leg ached. Rubbing his shin where Big Tam had kicked him just three nights before, he cursed the Scotsman and his damned foot. Still, he had fetched a pretty penny in the ring. The Kaiser had been pleased. Looking out across the Thames from his vantage point, Bracewell allowed himself a chuckle. He was about to rock the whole of the Empire to its very core, and
he was about to make himself rich in the process. In exchange for his services, the Kaiser had promised him wealth beyond compare. It had been easy enough to mislead Callaghan. The chief inspector had been so desperate for answers and even more desperate for advancement through the ranks, that he had jumped at anything that might present itself as truth. Fenian plot indeed, chuckled Bracewell as he bent at his work, his great, wide face aglow in the sunset. A little judicious planting of evidence at St. Katharine Docks had been enough to place Tremont in the frame and throw Callaghan off the scent. There was indeed a plot afoot at St. Saviour’s, but it was not and never had been Fenian. Ichabod Sallow had been the one wild card. He had overstepped the mark with Jonas Cook. Sending him to hospital had risked the entire operation. Sallow had feared exposure if the man talked, but had chosen the wrong moment to act. To injure Cook in sight of a Scotland Yarder had been bad timing indeed, and had necessitated the Kaiser taking matters into their own hands. Cook had been despatched easily enough, he understood, and the witnesses scared into silence, but Sallow had sealed his fate with that one act at St. Saviour’s. Now, his usefulness expired, he had paid the price. Bracewell’s mind turned to the events on the tug. With the delivery made, the Kaiser had acted swiftly. Bracewell doubted Sallow had even felt the wire at his throat. He chuckled again. With Sallow gone, there would be more money to go round. Perhaps he could plead with the Kaiser for the dead man’s share. Bracewell looked up at the hooded figure working on the approach to the bridge. He knew they had made good time. The labourers had long gone and the sole guard on duty rewarded handsomely for his indifference. The bridge had been theirs for the best part of an hour, and the work was almost done.

  “Everything in position?”

  Bracewell turned to see Thackery had dropped from a gantry above. He was dressed in a loose docker’s jacket and felt trousers. Bracewell nodded. “It is that,” he said.

  “Good,” replied Thackery. “I’ve laid more in the tower and run the fuse off the bridge.”

  Bracewell nodded and stood to face his accomplice. “Where will you go, Thackeray?”

  Thackeray weighed his response before answering. “South,” he lied. He didn’t trust Bracewell any more than he had trusted Sallow. “Some sleepy Cornish fishing village would do me fine.”

  Bracewell smiled. Part of him wanted to stay to watch. To be part of the most audacious plot against the Crown and yet not be present at its culmination seemed a cruel deprivation. To be present at the scene, however, was to risk capture. With their work almost done, he knew the Kaiser would dismiss them both and it would be up to them to make good their escape.

  Moving the barrel a foot further to his left to where a steel joist met the support beneath the tower, Bracewell bent to pick up a bundle of copper wires. Handing them to Thackeray, he stopped for breath again. Blowing a bead of sweat from his nose, he allowed his eyes to roam across the skyline. How still the city slept, he mused. How peaceful and serene. How unaware of the tiger in its midst.

  Callaghan had had enough. He had upturned just about every sack and crate within the boat’s hold and found nothing beneath. Sergeant Graves, he noticed, had deserted him. He was no doubt swinging the lead on the dockside, letting his superior do the donkeywork. Wiping his hands on his trousers, the chief inspector cursed beneath his breath. He had let himself be compromised again. Bowman had led him, and the commissioner, on a merry dance. Heaving himself up the ladder, he stood on the deck of the Thistledown, looking about him. A crowd of dockers stood on the quayside. Some had their arms folded across their chests, others flexed their fists at their side. All had a belligerent gleam in their eye. Time was clearly up and they had a wage to earn. As they advanced upon the ship, Callaghan looked from man to man.

  “Where is Inspector Bowman?” he demanded, a rising note of panic in his voice. “And Sergeant Graves?” He held his arms wide, imploring.

  “Left you high and dry, I reckon!” rasped one of the men, beating his fist into an open palm. There was laughter all around.

  “The rats have left the sinking ship!” screeched another to yet more amusement.

  Callaghan saw several of the men pointing out to the Thames. Turning to face the river, he saw a small, snub-nosed tug steaming past the mouth of the dock. At its helm, stood a tall, lean figure in a long coat and bowler hat.

  “Bowman,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  “Where will you land?” Graves shouted above the noise.

  Bowman looked ahead. A battered two-man coracle was pulling away from some steps by the south bank. “There!” he replied, pointing to the vacated mooring. The inspector leaned heavily on the throttle. In their haste to effect their plan, the Kaiser’s men had left the fire burning in the coal box, and there was water enough in the boiler. It was a simple matter of opening the valves to allow the passage of steam. Bowman heard the rise and fall of the pistons and felt the screw beneath his feet begin to turn. Soon they were underway and Cherry Garden Pier receded behind them. It had seemed a quicker option than attempting the mile or so to the bridge on foot.

  “So Sallow didn’t kill Jonas Cook?” Graves was asking as the wind whipped about his curls.

  “I did not see it at the time, but there was one other perfectly placed to kill him.” Bowman had a light hold of the wheel as they flitted past St. Saviour’s Dock. “Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.”

  Alma Beaurepaire turned to Bracewell and Thackeray. She felt powerful before them. They shuffled nervously as they waited, like children awaiting the judgement of a parent. “Is all set?” she asked.

  Thackeray nodded. “All that’s left is for you to light the fuse. I have run it down the stairwell to Shad Thames. That should give you distance and protection enough.” He threw her a box of matches from his pocket. “It’s a safety fuse, impervious to wind and rain. You could drop it in the Thames and still it would burn.”

  “Why would you not let Thackeray set a timer?” Bracewell asked. He was beginning to shiver now his exertions were over.

  Alma Beaurepaire shook her head. “I want to see it all,” she replied. “I want to see her pay.”

  Bracewell and Thackeray shared a look between themselves.

  “And the money?” Bracewell asked bravely.

  “There is a jeweller’s in Covent Garden,” Alma said. “He will have your instructions in his safe. They will lead you to your money.”

  Thackeray nodded in understanding. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he would have the pleasure of seeing Frank Jolly quake before him.

  “And yes,” Alma continued in response to Bracewell’s unspoken question. “You will have Sallow’s share between you.”

  Bracewell’s eyes were glistening with tears. He held out a hand. “Thank you,” he said, simply.

  The Kaiser returned the gesture, holding Bracewell’s hand as she spoke. “You have both given me so much.” She was looking deep into Bracewell’s eyes. “The future is before us. We will bring the Empire to its knees.”

  Thackeray took her hand next. He did not care for her talk of Empire. He had never shared her fervour for its destruction. Like Bracewell, his mind was on the money and the new life it would bring him. He shook her hand. It was a suitably business-like gesture, he thought. The deal concluded.

  “Now, go!” Alma commanded. The two men paused for a moment on the bridge, the structure around them seemingly aflame in the sunset. The silence between them was palpable. And then they scuttled away, both of them walking to the south side of the bridge where a hansom cab was waiting to take them to Covent Garden. The driver, they knew, had been bought. What they could not know was that he had been furnished with a revolver and instructions to drive the two men to wasteland beyond the city, there to dispose of their bodies.

  Alma lowered her hood and stopped to gaze down the Thames. History is made of turning points, she reflected as she turned from the rail and walked towards the south bank. Feeling the weight of time upon her, Alma strode
purposefully down Tower Bridge Approach and towards Shad Thames where Thackeray had set the fuse. The streets, as she had planned, were deserted. Certain members of the local constabulary had been happy enough to see some extra money in their wages in return for closing the roads for three hours. Lifting her face to the end of the street, she could see two of their number. They did not know, of course, that by accepting the bribe, they had become complicit in the crime of the century. Smiling at the irony, Alma Beaurepaire descended the steps into Shad Thames and came face to face with the barrel of a gun.

  Graves’ curls danced in the wind as Bowman steered the tug to shore. The inspector had been briefing his sergeant on the matron at Bermondsey police station.

  “So you believe her to be the daughter that Robert Beaurepaire had with Frances de Keyser?”

  “She told me her father was the Governor of the colony in New South Wales. That he and her mother had died, leaving her alone at a young age and at the mercy of the authorities.”

  “But her father was a convict.”

  “And her mother, too. Subject to the harshest and most strict of regimes.” Bowman was steering the tug to Horselydown Old Stairs, easing back on the regulator to slow their progress.

  “But why blow up Tower Bridge?”

  “The bridge isn’t the target, Graves. We know the Queen is to return to London via her Royal Yacht this evening. The Victoria And Albert will pass along just this stretch of the Thames.”

  Graves’ gaze rose towards the hulking shadow of Tower Bridge as it reared up before him against the sun. Its raised bascules reminded him of a giant maw, red with blood. An involuntary shiver passed down his spine as he contemplated the import of Bowman’s words. “She’s going to kill the Queen?”

  “Any moment now,” Bowman continued as he brought the tug to bear, “her yacht will round the bend at Limehouse. Just a few minutes more and she will be beneath the bridge. Who better represents the power and reach of the British Empire but the Queen herself?”