by M. J. Trow
FIFTEEN
Mrs Rackstraw was still vibrating with righteous indignation when Grand and Batchelor left the house to call in at the police station. Although the Morfords were clearly rather challenged in the ‘what belongs to who’ department, the enquiry agents felt that they probably weren’t malicious, simply rather single-minded. The housekeeper, however, was of the opinion that flogging was too good for them; hanging, with optional drawing and quartering, was the very least they deserved. With empty promises to make sure that the pair received the full punishment the law allowed and then some, Grand and Batchelor made good their escape and headed towards E Division Station, just along the road from their house.
‘Afternoon, Mr Grand, Mr Batchelor.’ The desk sergeant was an old friend of theirs, who had often earned an extra half a crown or so by putting dog owners in distress their way. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Mr and Mrs Henry Morford,’ Batchelor said. ‘I believe they were brought here a little while ago. Can we see them, do you think? Also, I think we need to make it clear we won’t be pressing charges.’
The sergeant brought his palms down on the desk with an audible crack and sucked his teeth regretfully. ‘I’m very sorry, gents,’ he said. ‘I am afraid that the miscreants in question are answering to a higher authority.’
‘They’re dead?’ Batchelor was horrified. Whatever could have happened? Could they both have fallen down the stairs?
‘Dead?’ The sergeant was perplexed. ‘Oh, no, I see what you’re thinking there. No, not that Higher Authority. I just mean that Mr Williamson’s had them away to the Yard. I’m not sure what you gents have done to annoy him, but all stations north of the river – and south, for all I know – have had a memo to say that anyone who has any connection with you two must be sent direct to the Yard.’ He raised his hands and let them go again. Grand wondered how the desk could stand the constant pounding. ‘So, off they went. They should be there by now.’
‘But … they shouldn’t be under arrest …’ Batchelor began.
‘Sure they should,’ Grand interrupted. ‘They tried to burgle our house.’
‘Burgalries,’ the sergeant said. ‘Bane of modern living, in my opinion, burgalries. String them up, like in the old days, I say. My old granddad was hanged for stealing a loaf of bread,’ he said, ‘not that I tell everyone that, o’ course. But those were the days, all right. Riots in Hyde Park, bloody Fenians blowin’ things up. Mind you, Mr Field always had them on the run.’
‘Did he?’ Grand somehow doubted that.
‘Yes. Holy terror was Mr Field. I had the honour of serving under him in Lambeth. Trassenos the length and breadth of the manor were terrified of him. Look at him funny; he’ll have you. Not like today. Today it’s all about helpin’ old ladies across the road. That Mr Whicher went mad because of it. I tell you – and I know I’m speaking against myself here – they don’t make coppers like they used to.’
‘Amen,’ Batchelor smiled.
Scotland Yard in Whitehall Place always put the willies up James Batchelor. He had no idea why. Despite his calling, he had never really gone even close to the wrong side of the law but, even so, he always felt that a heavy hand was about to descend on his shoulder and consign him to the hulks – Australia or somewhere equally horrendous. True, they’d abolished all that after complaints from the Australians, but Batchelor felt they might bring it all back, just for him. So he kept quiet and let Grand do all the talking. He had managed to get past the desk sergeant on the door, the desk sergeant on the first floor and also on the second, but was having difficulty with the custody sergeant. He was spinning ever more fantastic tales when a voice they knew rang down the corridor and Batchelor almost jumped out of his skin.
‘Mr Grand! Mr Batchelor! How very fortuitous. This saves me from having to send a constable to bring you here. Such a nasty thing to happen to gentlemen in your position, don’t you think? To have the police knocking on your door.’
The two turned round slowly. Williamson stood in the door of his office, beaming like a nightmare borne of the pen of John Tenniel. He beckoned with an implacable forefinger and they walked slowly to his door and were reeled inside like unwilling salmon caught by a cunning fly. The inspector closed the door behind them, the smile still in place.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ he said, his tone friendlier than usual. ‘I was wondering if either of you had any skill with cyphers.’
‘What happened to amateurs and professionals?’ Grand simply had to ask it.
‘Ah-ha, Mr Grand. Perspicacious as ever, of course,’ Williamson beamed. ‘But as well as my perfectly sound beliefs in that quarter, I also believe in horses for courses, and we just don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this … let’s call it “document”, for the moment, shall we? And I know that Mr Batchelor was once a journalist and also that he is endeavouring to write the Great British Novel …’
‘How the …?’
‘Now, now, Mr Batchelor. Let’s keep this civil. So, I thought to myself, here’s a literary gent, who may be able to help me with this little problem.’ He leaned down and pulled a small, green-covered book from a drawer in his desk. ‘This is the diary of the late Gabriel Verdon. We found it in his office, hidden inside a copy of Barnaby Rudge. The pages of the bigger book had been cut out to accommodate this one and, in our experience, no one does something as fiddly as that except for a very good reason.’ He didn’t hand the book over, but took his seat behind the desk, tapping the diary on the pile of papers in front of him.
Grand and Batchelor tried hard not to look too eager, but failed.
‘Many of the entries are quite straightforward, meetings and so on. But others are more …’ He smiled at Batchelor, a disquieting experience for the enquiry agent. ‘Is “arcane” the word I am looking for?’
‘It could be,’ Batchelor said. He reached out a hand. ‘If you let me look through it, I could tell you.’
Williamson suddenly threw the book at Batchelor, who, to his own surprise, caught it deftly. ‘Howzat,’ Williamson said, softly. He watched as Batchelor scanned the pages, frowning from time to time. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’ he asked, after a moment or two had passed.
‘This is quite a simple cypher,’ Batchelor said. ‘It is just a matter of transposition of letters.’ He held the book out to Williamson and pointed. ‘See, here, there are only so many letters in English that occur in pairs. For instance, you don’t often have two “kays” and I can’t think of a single example of two “aitches”. So you can discount that. E is the commonest letter, so that transposition is easy to work out … hmm … do you have a piece of paper and a pencil, please?’
Williamson pushed over a pad and a pencil. Batchelor got to work, occasionally biting the end of the pencil and humming to himself. Grand watched proudly, as a parent might when their child first learns to walk. He was himself adept at cyphers – most civil war officers had come across them back in the day – but had decided early on in their partnership to let Batchelor be the official expert. Finally, Batchelor put the pencil down and sat back, prepared to read out his results.
‘Quite a lot of this is … personal, shall we say. Mr Grand and I have met some of Mr Verdon’s conquests, or at least have heard about them, and so I think we know who it refers to.’ He turned to look at Grand. ‘I think if I just say I am no longer surprised that Miss Caroline Moptrucket fainted when she heard of Gabriel Verdon’s demise, you will understand what I mean.’
Williamson and Grand nodded sagely. Williamson had never heard of Caroline Moptrucket, but the implication was clear enough.
‘But there are some other references here which are not as obvious. “FC came to see me again this afternoon. He is very insistent and offered violence if what he requires cannot be done.” And here, “I fear that FC is having me followed. I was buffeted violently in the GR station today …” GR? It could be RG, I suppose …’
‘Gloucester Road,’ Williamson said. ‘It was on his way home
, certainly.’
‘Right. “… the GR station today and was nearly hurled on to the track. I begin to fear for my life.” This final bit sounds desperate. “Told FC that I cannot do the impossible. He hounds me night and day. I fear he is mad, or close to mad. If this does not end, I will do something desperate.” And that’s the last entry.’
Williamson and Grand sat, thinking. ‘FC?’ Williamson spoke first. ‘Frederic Chapman, for my money. We know that he and Verdon often clashed. In fact, the locks had been added to the office doors because they had had words.’ He jotted a note. ‘I’ll send someone round to escort the gentleman in for a few questions.’
‘We’ve discovered that Dickens … ow.’
‘Mr Grand, did you just kick Mr Batchelor?’ Williamson wanted to know.
‘Cramp,’ Grand said, smoothly, as Batchelor rubbed his shin.
‘You’ve discovered that Dickens …?’ Williamson looked penetratingly at Batchelor.
‘Dickens just had a stroke,’ Batchelor said. ‘After all our work, too. But enquiring doesn’t always come up with the answer the client wants.’
‘So you can stop following us now,’ Grand ventured.
Williamson’s eyebrows rose. ‘Following you?’ he said. ‘I haven’t been following you.’
‘Not you, not personally,’ Grand persisted. ‘But your men. There’s someone behind every tree. To be honest, Chief Inspector, it’s starting to get us down.’
Williamson leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, solemnly, ‘on my mother’s grave, God bless her, I swear I have not followed you, nor have I had you followed. And, for avoidance of doubt, I do not plan in the future to have you followed. Unless you give me cause, of course.’
The detectives looked at him. He wasn’t an easy man to read, but he seemed to be sincere.
‘Boulton and Park gave you cause, though.’ Batchelor felt he had to raise the subject. ‘You had them followed.’
Williamson’s smile vanished. ‘I cannot discuss other cases, gentlemen,’ he said.
‘They’ll go down, though, surely?’ Batchelor wouldn’t let it go.
‘The law is a funny thing,’ the chief inspector mused. ‘The late Mr Dickens said it was an ass and I can see his point. Messrs Boulton and Park offend society’s sensibilities, but there is actually no law against men wearing frocks. Sodomy, now, that’s different.’
‘Is that what they’re guilty of?’ Grand asked.
‘That’ll be up to a jury to decide,’ Williamson shrugged.
‘But the problem was Arthur Clinton, wasn’t it?’ Batchelor asked. He watched the chief inspector carefully. There was no twitch of the jaw, no flicker of the eyes, but this was a seasoned copper, hard as nails, crafty as a fox, and a whole raft of similes that Batchelor had never thought of.
‘Oh?’ Williamson said. ‘In what way?’
‘The Boultons and Parks of this world are cannon fodder,’ Batchelor explained, ‘but Lord Arthur Clinton could cock a snook at the law. And the upholders of the law. You.’
‘Is that why you killed him?’ Grand asked.
For a moment, a thunderous silence held sway on the third floor of number 4 Whitehall Place, then Williamson roared with laughter. ‘It is easy to become a little nervous, in your profession, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Start seeing crimes and criminals where there are none. If you take my advice,’ he said, coming round from behind his desk and laying an avuncular hand on each man’s shoulder, ‘I should take a nice holiday by the sea. Breathe in some of that lovely fresh air.’ He hadn’t removed the hands, which seemed to weigh a ton. ‘And, meanwhile, I shall let your American friends go. Shortly. It won’t do light-fingered Beulah any harm to spend an hour or so behind bars; although I fancy she isn’t a stranger to the setting.’ With a final pat which nearly broke their collarbones, he ushered Grand and Batchelor to the door; before they had reached the top of the stairs, had a couple of constables on their way to Chapman and Hall.
‘Wait up, Mr Grand, Mr Batchelor.’
The enquiry agents turned at the mention of their names. The light was failing across Whitehall Place as they left the Yard and the July days were still long in the land.
It was a very different – and diffident – Henry Morford who had called to them and he and Beulah looked the model of American tourists abroad, albeit ones who had narrowly escaped a prison stretch.
‘The desk sergeant explained,’ Morford said, ‘that you guys intervened on our behalf and refused to press charges. That’s mighty New York of you.’
‘Our pleasure, Mr Morford,’ Batchelor said. ‘You may have to finish Edwin Drood on your own now.’
‘Oh, I intend to, I intend to,’ Morford grinned. ‘Anyhow, it’s time I made an honest woman out of Beulah. Now, honey, give Mr Batchelor his watch back.’
Instinctively, Batchelor felt his pockets. The watch was still there.
‘Just joshing, Mr Batchelor,’ Beulah said. ‘I say, Henry was just joshing.’
There were awkward chuckles all round. The arrival of a Black Maria pulled by sweating, snorting horses turned Morford’s thoughts again to his recent ordeal. ‘I knew about Scotland Yard, of course,’ he told Batchelor, ‘but I wasn’t ready for Chief Inspector Williamson. That guy is one helluva bastard, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, he is that,’ Batchelor had to agree.
‘Especially when Chief Inspector Field had said there was no harm in our little pursuits.’
‘Who?’ Grand blinked.
‘Charlie Field,’ Beulah said. ‘He’s a big friend of Charles Dickens’s.’
‘He is indeed,’ Grand said. ‘What he is not is a chief inspector.’
It took most of the next day to find Chief Inspector Field. And they did it by a rather circuitous route. Kelly’s Street Directory in the Westminster Public Library threw up the current address of Ignatius Paul Polliak, consulting detective, and he was still at 13 Paddington Green. The dapper little man with the waxed side-whiskers and thick Hungarian accent by way of north London, had not seen his former colleague Field in years, but he knew where he could be found of an evening; he’d be feeding the ducks in St James’s Park.
A solitary copper wandered the rhododendron bushes, the bullseye lantern at his waist sending odd shafts of light darting into the shrubbery. He saluted the portly gentleman sitting on the park bench, throwing breadcrumbs to the squawking mallards, and by the time Grand and Batchelor had joined him, the copper had moved on at his stately two and a half miles an hour.
‘Well, well,’ Field said. ‘Didn’t expect to see you boys among the Park people.’
‘Park people?’ Grand was unfamiliar with the term.
‘Maryannes,’ Field explained. ‘Shirt-lifters. The name won’t mean anything to you, Mr Grand, and it might not mean much to you, Mr Batchelor, but the first example I heard about was Lord Castlereagh.’
‘Foreign Secretary—’ Batchelor had worked for the Telegraph once upon a time and some information had stuck – ‘under Lord Liverpool. Committed suicide in 1822.’
‘Before my time,’ Grand sat alongside Field.
‘Mine too,’ Batchelor agreed and sat on the other side. There wasn’t much room on the bench.
‘Ah, but not before mine,’ Field chuckled. ‘You could say it was the revolting crimes of Lord Castlereagh that put me in uniform in the first place. I was a mere lad at the time, had my heart set on a career on the stage. Then I read about Castlereagh.’
‘“I met murder in the way,”’ Batchelor quoted. ‘“He wore a mask like Castlereagh.”’
‘Castlereagh was a killer?’ Grand checked. They had their shortcomings, it was true, but Grand couldn’t think of a single American Secretary of State who actually murdered people.
‘Figure of speech.’ Field lobbed the last of his bread on to the troubled waters and the ducks flapped madly. ‘No, Castlereagh’s crime was of engaging in unnatural activities with a man dressed as a woman, here, in this very park. Oh, those were different days, o
f course, and we all have to move with the times. Actually, I find the Park people very helpful.’
‘You do?’ Grand asked.
Field checked his hunter in the gathering gloom. ‘Jingling Janet will be along soon. One of my narks, Mr Grand. I’m sure your American policemen have them too – a mine of information, I assure you.’
‘Sure our American policemen have them,’ Grand said, ‘but the point at issue here is that you’re no longer a policeman, are you? You’re a private detective, just like us.’
Field chuckled. ‘I’m nothing like you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘When we exchanged confidences,’ Batchelor said, ‘when we told each other how our Dickens investigations were going, you failed to mention the Morfords.’
‘Did I?’ Field smiled. ‘How remiss of me.’
‘You told them,’ Grand took up the tale, ‘that it was fine to burglarize premises at will and that the police would turn a blind eye.’
Field was outraged. ‘I did no such thing,’ he said.
‘You posed as a serving officer,’ Batchelor went on. ‘Not the first time you’ve done that, it’s true. But now it’s starting to get in our way.’
‘Your way?’ Field heaved his bulk upright. ‘Listen, sonny. I was sorting crimes and bagging murderers before you were born. The Manor Place Murders; the Daniels – Good and McNaghten; James Greenacre; Frederic Muller … and don’t get me started on the bloody Fenians. They’re my collars – mine. And if anybody’s going to get the bastard who killed Charles Dickens, it’s going to be me.’
Field was on his feet now and the ducks had gone. ‘So, let’s put all this another way, shall we?’ he said. ‘No more co-operation. No more exchange of information. And the next time I see some Irish bastards kicking the shit out of you, I’m just going to walk on by.’
‘I don’t appreciate it, sir.’ Frederic Chapman was on his high horse. ‘I don’t appreciate it at all. I am dragged from my home by your blue-coated oafs and dumped in a cell. Me. Chapman, of Chapman and Hall. I’ll have your badge, Mr Williamson.’
