“But she can’t hold the Queen responsible,” said Graves, aghast.
“The Queen sits at the centre of her empire just as the Kaiser sits at the centre of hers.” Bowman shifted the throttle and the engine idled as they steered to the steps. “She’s going to do more than kill the Queen, Graves. She’s going to inflict a mortal wound upon the Empire itself.”
Graves stared at the bridge for a moment, his mind reeling at the thought. His reverie was interrupted by a bump. Seeing the river wall beside him, he lunged for a rope to tie the boat off at a mooring.
“Forget that,” Bowman boomed as he leapt from the deck to the steps. “Time is of the essence!”
Graves let go the rope and followed the inspector, leaving the tug to drift behind them. Bowman sprinted towards the approach to Tower Bridge. Drawing his revolver as he ran, he called over his shoulder to his companion. “Keep back, Graves, we’ve no idea if they’re armed!”
Graves slowed his pace in response. He noticed the tide was receding already, leaving a watery shadow on the wall as an imprint of its presence. Turning onto Shad Thames, Graves noticed Bowman suddenly slow. As he rounded the corner he saw the inspector had stopped, his revolver stretched out before him. Tracing his aim, Graves saw a woman at the bottom of the steps to the bridge, her eyes wide in surprise. She was wearing a long, hooded cloak over her clothes.
“Hello, George,” she was saying. “What are you doing here?”
“Stay where you are,” Bowman commanded.
“Sure, I will,” Alma purred. “But please, could you put that thing away?”
Bowman swallowed hard. “Miss Beaurepaire,” he began, blinking furiously, “you should know that you are under arrest.”
Alma held her long arms wide, subtly shifting her weight forward onto her front foot. “For what?” Improbably, she was smiling.
“For the murder of Jonas Cook and for being an accessory to the murders of Harry Pope and Kitty Baldwin.” Bowman fancied he heard Graves catch his breath at the mention of her name. “And for acting with intent to harm the Crown through use of an explosive device or devices.”
“I would love to see your evidence for those charges, George.” She looked him square in the face with that easy confidence he had got to know so well.
“I have evidence enough,” Bowman gulped. “Both Chief Inspector Callaghan and I received notes written to the effect that we should meet in the Tower Subway at noon today.”
“Well, how lovely,” beamed Alma. “A tryst.”
Bowman was unnerved at her calm demeanour. “Both notes were written in your hand on paper from your ledger at Bermondsey police station.”
“Is that so? How extraordinary.” Alma had her eyes locked on Bowman now, and he fought to read her intention. Was she going to give herself up?
“And you were with Jonas Cook at The Sisters Of Mercy,” he continued. “You murdered him and threatened the other patients to keep their silence.”
“Did I really?”
Bowman blinked. Was she toying with him?
“Sir!” Graves had taken a step towards Bowman’s shoulder, hissing in his ear. “It’s the Vic And Albert, sir. The Royal Yacht. It’s just rounded the bend at Limehouse.”
Quite involuntarily, Bowman whipped his head round to look downstream. There, indeed, he could see the twin funnels of the Royal Yacht steaming down the centre of the Thames, its long, sleek lines lying low against the water. He could see the Royal Standard fluttering from its forward mast.
“Pretty thing, ain’t she?” There was a strident tone to Alma’s voice that brought Bowman up short. Turning quickly to face her, he saw that she had drawn a small pistol and had it aimed squarely at his head. “We’ve got, what, five minutes before she’s with us?” Alma was moving slowly towards the river wall as she spoke. “A lot can happen in five minutes.”
Bowman fought to make sense of it all. “Why?” he asked, simply.
“I’ve built an Empire of my own, George!” Alma looked triumphant.
“And given yourself a new name,” Bowman breathed. “A corruption of your mother’s maiden name; De Keyser.”
“The Kaiser suited me well. A signal of my opposition to the Empire.”
“The Empire gave you a home.” Bowman’s eyes narrowed. He had caught a glimpse of something on the bridge above and, as Alma spoke, he fought to focus in the fading light.
“The Empire forsook me, George,” Alma spat. “My father was transported and left to rot. He fell prey to a harsh regime that branded him with a sign of ownership.”
“Just as you branded your prize fighters.” Bowman heard Graves speak up behind him, but his eyes were on the object above. There, parked close to the heavy balustrade that guarded the road from the steep drop to Shad Thames, was Bracewell’s carriage. The carriage that had driven into his wife on Hanbury Street. He even recognised the horses from his journey to Greenwich, two handsome-looking dark chestnut mares. Bowman felt a lurch in his stomach.
“Your friend is very quick, George,” Alma laughed. She trained her gun on Graves. “How would you like to join your little girl?”
Graves gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to swing for her. He took a breath. “The records show your father married and made a life for himself upon release.”
“The governor was a monster and released him a broken man,” Alma hissed. “And he was abandoned.”
Bowman was breathing heavily now. It was the cruellest trick of fate that Bracewell’s brougham should be here now. If he looked closely, he fancied he could even see the stitched fabric in the canopy where his bullet had penetrated not a year before.
“That coach - ,” he began, but Alma was in full flow now.
“He was abandoned by his queen and country. And so was I.”
Graves could see Alma moving almost imperceptibly to the river wall, but why? He had to find a moment to disarm her. His eyes flicked to Bowman. The inspector was standing stock-still.
“Both my parents were in the grave by the time I was five.”
“That coach,” repeated Bowman, his mind reeling back to Hanbury Street. He was standing again by the workhouse as the carriage sped towards him.
“I was left in the care of the prison governor.” Graves heard a catch in Alma’s voice. “You will never know how ill he used me as I grew, nor how I know he kept a portrait of Her Illustrious Majesty on his bedroom wall.” She spat the words.
“Here they come,” Bowman heard Williams whisper in his ear. “Be ready now.”
The brougham’s wheels kicked up the sludge as it rounded the corner. Bowman felt every muscle in his body tense as he watched it approach the kerb and slow just outside the workhouse. He saw the carriage door swing open and a man reach out. As the carriage passed the line of urchins waiting at the workhouse door, its occupant leaned further out into the road, the better to reach his quarry.
Bowman could see him now. The very angle of his shoulder was unmistakeable. As the inspector’s eye rose up the man’s neck to his face, he seemed frozen in an instant of time, his arm reaching out, his jaw clenched. A single bead of sweat rolled from his forehead. Bowman gave an involuntary gasp. He suppressed the urge to retch. Cornelius Bracewell had been the man in that coach, and he was operating under the command of the Kaiser.
“You!” he breathed.
Alma’s eyebrows rose at the interruption. “Are you quite well, George?” Still she edged closer to the river wall.
Bowman was suddenly struck with a dreadful realisation. Only two days before, he had shaken the hand of the man who had been in that coach as his wife fell beneath its wheels. More than that, he was now holding a gun to the head of the woman who had overseen the entire operation. Bowman squinted down the barrel of his revolver.
“You killed my wife.”
Alma blinked, innocently. “Really?” she gasped in mock surprise. Graves saw her reach into the pocket of her robes as she spoke.
“Sir,” he cautioned.
; “You killed my wife!” Bowman repeated fiercely. He advanced on the woman in front of him, gripping the handle of his revolver all the tighter. His finger squeezed against the trigger as he spoke, his voice thick with emotion.
“Your so-called Empire has led to many deaths,” he was blinking furiously now. “My wife among them.” The muzzle of Bowman’s gun was just inches from Alma’s forehead. Graves marked how eerily calm she remained in the face of Bowman’s onslaught. She had even lowered her gun.
Bowman shook his head. As he blinked, his vision blurred. His hand was shaking uncontrollably now. He had no idea how the explosives had been primed. If with a timer, then he must get to the bridge to disarm it. He knew he had to shoot. Bowman felt suspended. The blood raced to his head.
There before him, stood Anna. Her eyes were smiling in their familiar greeting. Bowman realised with a start that he had his gun trained upon her.
“Sir!” Graves was calling, as if from far off. The whump of the Victoria And Albert’s engines seemed to beat inside the inspector’s chest, a heavy, rhythmic thump.
Bowman squeezed at the trigger again. He knew he had to fire. But, Anna. She took his breath away. Tears pricked at his eyes as he scanned her face. Her skin was flawless and seemed to glow in the half-light. Her eyes caught the sunset and burned a deep, passionate red. “I can’t,” he heard himself say and he let his gun fall to his side. As Bowman stood panting in defeat, he saw a flurry of movement from Alma’s hand, and an improbable flash of light.
“Step back!”
Bowman felt Graves barge into him from behind. It was enough to send him reeling to the ground, and bring him to his senses. There was a sharp crack and Bowman saw Alma drop to the dirt, her hand reaching to contain the spurt of blood at her shoulder. Confused, Bowman looked to the flagstones by the river wall. There, he saw a length of fuse that ran up the stairwell to Tower Bridge above. A match lay just inches from the fuse, its flame guttering in the evening breeze. Lifting himself onto his elbows, Bowman looked around for his companion to see him lunging towards Alma where she lay, writhing in the mud. Beyond him, he could see the source of the bullet that had wounded her. With his back to the River Thames and the Royal Yacht as it steamed unhindered beneath the bascules of Tower Bridge, stood Chief Inspector Callaghan. His top hat was back on his head, his grey eyes blazed, and the smoke from his revolver twisted about him into the evening air.
XXIX
Coda
A church had stood on the site for almost a thousand years. The Parish of St John’s in Hampstead sprawled away to the south, whilst to the east rose Parliament Hill. The church had room for over a thousand devout souls, but Bowman was ashamed that he had only twice stood beneath its vaulted roof; firstly at his wedding ten years before, then again at Anna’s funeral. The two most important and defining moments in his life were intimately bound up in the church’s tall copper spire and red brick buttresses. The brightest of blue skies greeted him as he walked solemnly along Church Row from Fitzjohns Avenue. It had been warm enough for Bowman to leave his coat at home. Even in the shade of the fine town houses that lined the wide boulevard, he felt the need to catch his breath. He stood for a while at a lamppost to contemplate the church in all its grandeur. Ivy clung to its lower reaches, tenacious and destructive, while the spire reached high into the cloudless sky.
Plot number Forty-One was marked with a simple enough stone. It stood in the shadow of Frognal Hall to the west and amongst the cheeriest collection of crocuses that Bowman had ever seen. He slowed his pace as he approached, his head bowed in apology. He had never before been to visit her grave. He felt suddenly ashamed. The grief consumed him as he raised his eyes to her gravestone, and he felt the surge of tears.
“To The Memory of Anna May Bowman,” the inscription read, “Of Belsize Crescent, Hampstead, born 13th January 1860, died 19th May 1891, aged 31 years. In The Midst Of Life We Are In Death.” It was one year to the day. For all he could see, there was no sign of there having been any other visitors. No remembrances or memento mori adorned her grave. Bowman sank to his knees.
Leaning to clear some weeds from the grave, he stopped to lay his hand upon the warm stone. For a moment she was alive again, his hand at her face. He imagined her reaching up to smooth the frown on his forehead. Hearing someone approach from behind, Bowman wiped his face of his tears and stood.
Graves found Bowman patting his wife’s headstone in an oddly affecting gesture. For the longest time, the two men stood in an easy silence. An audacious magpie landed on an adjacent stone, its head cocked in interest. Bowman allowed himself a wry smile.
“One for sorrow?” he said as he turned to his silent companion. He was surprised to see that Graves too was weeping quietly. Bowman was filled with a sudden sense of guilt. In all these months, he had never once considered the burden that the young sergeant must carry.
“I’m sorry, Graves,” he whispered. He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Callaghan’s taking credit,” Graves said when he had recovered himself.
Bowman looked up to the sky. “Of course he is,” he said simply. “He is a driven man, Graves. He will rise through the ranks if it kills him, no matter who gets in his way.”
“But there was no Fenian plot,” Graves complained, recovering his usual tenacity.
“Not this time, no.” Bending for a last touch of Anna’s gravestone, Bowman turned his feet to the path and gestured that Graves should follow. “Callaghan was pursuing the only truth that made sense to him. Which of us has not been guilty of that?” He swung his jacket over his shoulder as he walked. “Where is Miss Beaurepaire?”
“In the cells at Bow Street for now,” Graves answered as he ducked beneath the bough of a sprawling cedar. “She’ll hang, for sure.”
“Oh, no doubt,” Bowman concurred. “But that does not mean we shouldn’t feel a little sympathy for her plight.”
Graves shook his curls in disbelief. “How so, sir? She’s been operating as the Kaiser for years. We’ve evidence of her running rackets in the West End, and we know she wasn’t above kidnapping, extortion and murder when the occasion demanded.”
Bowman nodded sadly. “We’re all the sum of our experiences, Graves,” he replied, meaningfully. “She more so than others. To be so used at such a tender age is a terrible thing.”
“Well, she’ll pay the price, no doubt,” said Graves, unconvinced. The two men walked in silence a while.
“Does the commissioner wish to see me?” asked Bowman at last.
“He does, sir,” Graves nodded, sadly. “First thing tomorrow morning.”
Bowman rubbed at the beard on his chin. “Then perhaps I should go home and make myself a little more presentable.”
Graves threw the inspector a cheery look and clapped him on the back. “Yes sir,” he said with a smile, his blue eyes dancing in the morning sun. “Perhaps you should.”
Bowman offered the sergeant a smile by way of reply. As they said their goodbyes, Graves hailed a cab back to Scotland Yard and Bowman turned towards his rooms on Belsize Crescent. He realised with a start that, for the first time in many months, he was happy to be going home.
End Note.
It could be argued that the British Empire owed its existence to trade. Spanning a quarter of the Globe, it had a voracious appetite. At its heart – or stomach – lay the Port of London. The docks here enabled goods and produce to be landed on the shores of the Thames from all around the world. Destined for the mills of the north or the markets in the home counties, this produce required ever larger vessels which, in turn, required ever larger basins in which to unload. The early docks at the Isle Of Dogs and Blackwall were soon superceded by the much deeper waters of the Royal Victoria and the Royal Albert docks. The larger workforce was soon make its muscle felt as dockers campaigned for fairer pay and conditions. The London dock strike of 1889 saw the Port of London capitulate entirely to the dockers’ demands, including a fairer wage and better pay for over
time.
Although female police officers with the powers to arrest weren’t sworn into the Force until the early twentieth century, the Metropolitan Police Force was already employing women in police stations as matrons. Their role was limited to the care of children and women who had been detained, and they had no real powers to investigate or arrest. It wasn’t until Edith Smith was enrolled into the Grantham Police Force in 1915 that women began to play a far larger role in policing.
The Fenian threat to the UK was very real. Campaigning for an Ireland free from British rule, they instigated the Dynamite Campaign between 1881 and 1885. Targets included military barracks at Salford, Liverpool Town Hall and the Tradeston Gasworks in Glasgow. Two bombs were exploded in the London Underground at Praed Street in Paddington and on London Bridge. The latter explosion resulted in the deaths of three members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.Queen Victoria herself was the subject of eight assassination attempts during her long reign. The perpetrators ranged from a disgruntled farmer, an unemployed bricklayer and an Irish dissenter. Following the last attempt upon her life – a failed attack at Eton Station thwarted by some schoolboys with umbrellas for weapons – Queen Victoria wrote; “It is worth being shot at to see how much one is loved.”
Richard James, March, 2020.
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