The Last Watchman

by Kevin Partner

  He regarded me for a while, as if sizing up my reaction to this prospect. Then he produced the revolver from within his jacket.

  “Or you can take this weapon and let its first duty in your service be to despatch that bottle. If you do so, and agree never to partake again, then you may choose to aid me in my mission and it will be all the more likely to succeed. I need a sober assistant, John, not the half-human vagabond that Valentina rescued yesterday.”

  The revolver sat in his hand as it rested on his lap and my gaze switched from it, to his face, to the bottle on the table.

  “My choice, then,” I said, finally, “is to take the bottle and drink myself to oblivion in the hope that you succeed, or to destroy it, deny myself the only pleasure I find in life and join you upon some desperate and terrifying mission that will likely end in a painful death.”

  He grunted, then gave a shrug. “The choice might be seen that way, though I suggest that, if you take the bottle, it will end in a painful death in any case. But I would not suggest this course if there were no hope, John. I see this as a means to your rescue and rehabilitation, but you must take the first step yourself and willingly. I could not blame you if you choose to hide here.”

  “Frankly,” he continued, “I care not which you choose to do or, indeed, if you decide to leave this place and take your chance on the streets. Perhaps you could hide within the multitudes of London for a time. Perhaps. But I have no use for a sot. If you wish to aid me and perhaps seek redemption, then you must stand by me and not the bottle.”

  He sat back in his chair and his features relaxed. It was as if he'd finished a speech long prepared and was now waiting to see which way fate would take me.

  Sitting here as I write this diary, an old man weary from battle, I can barely recognise the woebegotten young fool that sat wavering between two evil futures under the apparently calm gaze of Grimes. Truth to tell, I was close—very close—to picking up the bottle and stalking back to my room to await the end, one way or another, but it was his final sentence that swayed me, and one word in particular. Redemption.

  I was likely to die whichever course I took, but when I stood before my creator, I would wish to do so with something to balance the scales a little in my favour. By choosing what seemed like the hard course now, I could perhaps make amends for a life of privilege that had thus far been utterly wasted. And in that moment, I realised with pin-sharp precision that, by taking the hard road, I would be setting a precedent, for it had been the easy option that had brought me, inch by inch, to where I was now, facing this choice.

  I drew in a deep breath, leant forward, took the revolver from his open hand, swept round and fired. And hit the wall. A vase fell from the windowsill, shattering on the floor amid a cloud of plaster dust.

  I fired again and this time the bottle exploded, sending liquid and glass splashing against the walls and onto the ceiling. And as I heard feet thudding on the staircase, Grimes and I began to laugh until, without knowing when it happened, my laughter became tears and I hugged myself, rocking back and forth, while he watched me.

  Pitt

  The casual observer on that brisk London morning would have acquired quite the wrong impression of us. I strode confidently along the street towards Scotland Yard dressed in my newly purchased suit looking every inch the upper middle class civil servant or banker. Grimes shambled along beside me as if he were a beggar on a promise. He wore a battered Homburg beneath which his greasy grey locks flowed to rest upon his shoulders. His black coat was made of leather and almost reached the mud-swimming streets. It was much patched and barely covered corduroy-trousered legs that ended in filthy, hobnail boots.

  And yet I was the apprentice and he the master. He cared not what others thought of him and made no concessions to public taste. He wore what he found comfortable and what he could acquire cheaply and was thus a time capsule of the fashions of a decade before if the observer could see beyond the dirt.

  He was like the bow of a ship cutting through the sea of pedestrians as I struggled in the wash.

  It was with some relief that we arrived at the entrance to the impressive red-bricked building—one of several that housed the Metropolitan Police Force.

  The change in my companion's demeanour as we entered the building was astonishing. Gone was the beggar and in his place strode an eccentrically dressed man of command. The clerk at the desk inside the entrance took one look at the card Grimes flashed and waved us in. I struggled to keep pace with my companion as he passed confidently inside.

  “Mr Grimes!”

  A voice hailed us from a small corner office.

  “Pitt,” Grimes grunted in reply. “Bad times, old fellow, bad times indeed.”

  The inspector, who’d been examining papers through a magnifying lens, looked up from his desk and nodded. “Yes, Mr Grimes. Ah, and your latest companion. Mr ...”

  “Makepeace, John Makepeace,” I responded gruffly.

  “Ah yes, I remember. Please, gentlemen, sit down. But would you first close the door, Mr Makepeace?”

  I pushed the door shut and sat beside Grimes in front of the desk. The room was musty and dark with a small grimy window adding little to the single electric light that hung from the ceiling.

  “I would say thank you for the intelligence that led to the discovery of poor Williams' body, but...”

  “Yes, it was not pleasant for anyone concerned, especially the poor devil himself,” Grimes said.

  Pitt put down his lens and sat up straight. “Do you have a theory?”

  “A partial one.”

  “Would you care to share it with me?”

  Grimes shook his head. “I cannot at present.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “Whichever you please,” Grimes responded. “You may take your pick since they amount to the same thing.”

  Suddenly, Pitt brought his fist down on the table. “Damn you, Grimes! What should I tell the man's widow? Or my officers and superiors?”

  Grimes shrugged. “That we are investigating and will bring the perpetrators to justice.”

  “We are investigating?” Pitt snapped. “You are not the official police force! Who in God's name do you think you are to say you are investigating?”

  “Who am I? I am your best hope of ensuring that Williams is the last unexplained death in your case book,” Grimes snarled. I stared at my companion, shocked at the sudden change that had come over him. Gone was his cool reserve and, in its place, barely concealed rage.

  I put my hand on his arm in an effort to calm him. “My dear fellow,” I said, marvelling at the pent up energy I could feel vibrating through him. It was as if he were a barrel of gunpowder at the moment of eruption.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the madness departed. He sagged in the chair and let out a long breath. “I am sorry, Inspector. I am not unaffected by what I have seen, and I feel that precious time is passing as we sit here and argue; time that should be spent tracing these animals to their lair and destroying them.”

  Pitt gave a brief nod before walking over to his door and opening it a little. “Wiggins, tea for three. Sharp as you like.”

  He returned to his seat and looked from one to the other of us. “I get the impression that there is much more to this than a sadistic murderer who is targeting officers of the police.”

  “And ladies of the night,” I added.

  “Indeed,” he acknowledged, reddening a little. “I have been your liaison within the Metropolitan Police Force for a little over a year now, Mr Grimes, and I was given only the sparsest of briefings when I took over from Inspector Jenkins.”

  Grimes was now, to all appearances, the cool and controlled man I thought I'd come to know. “Richard was a good officer,” he said, “and a brave man.”

  “A brave dead man. Death seems to follow you around, Mr Grimes, but only touches your associates; never yourself.”

  For a moment, I thought the rage had returned as Grimes bristled. B
ut then he shrugged. “I cannot deny it. I go into dark places and fight against the things I find there. It is a dangerous calling.”

  “Will you not tell me more of this calling? I'm certain I could be of greater assistance if I understood it better.”

  “You have been told that my mission is vital to the safety of Londoners,” Grimes responded in a half rhetorical tone.

  Pitt nodded.

  “Then let that be enough for now.”

  I watched Pitt keenly. I knew more than enough of Grimes' mission for the sake of my own comfort and yet I yearned to know what his theory was for these attacks. I could only imagine the frustration a naturally curious and intelligent man such as Pitt must have been experiencing. But he evidently decided that he wouldn't win the battle of wills today, so he sighed and gestured at the papers strewn across his desk.

  “Very well, then. Perhaps you would care to examine these reports. I am attempting to discover a pattern.”

  Grimes and I leaned forward to examine the papers. They were hand-completed forms such as the police used in those days to record crimes and to transpose their notebooks. “It has been a particularly bloody few days,” Grimes concluded after a few minutes' examination, “though little of this has been reported in the papers.”

  “In the main these are the petty crimes of the lower classes,” Pitt said.

  “And therefore, of little interest to the press,” I added, unable to hide my anger.

  Pitt looked at me with surprise in his eyes and I realised how, in my city clothes, I must have appeared to be the archetype of the sort of gentleman reader The Times wrote for. But I had lived on the other side of society's divide and, indeed, still abode in the heart of it. Bow was, at that time, the worst part of London: at least by the yardsticks used by the better classes. But, by living there, I had learned about its inhabitants and come to sympathise with the poverty and class system that entrapped them.

  Grimes was riffling through the papers. “Mugging, burglary, drunken brawls, street knifings. Over what period, Inspector?”

  “These are the reports from the past two days.”

  “Good grief,” I exclaimed, “are there usually so many crimes in such a short period of time?”

  Pitt gave a non-committal shrug. “It has been a busy few days, certainly, but not exceptional.”

  “Six million people live in our great city, John,” Grimes said as he continued to examine each report sheet in order, “and where there are so many, crime is inevitable. You are aware enough, I think, of the assaults and robberies that take place on our very doorstep.”

  “I am, but I considered Bow to be singular.”

  He shook his head. “It is the rule rather than the exception, my friend. Here now, what's this?”

  Grimes had exhausted one pile of papers and was examining another.

  “I doubt you'll find anything amongst those, Mr Grimes,” Pitt said. “That is my discard pile containing the pettiest of the reports. Nothing but minor scuffles and the like.”

  Ignoring the inspector, Grimes handed me the slip. “What do you make of it? You're an educated man, after all.”

  The paper recorded a burglary from a greengrocer in Archibald Street in which two crates of lemons were stolen. “But Grimes, surely the inspector is correct? This is just petty villainy.”

  Grimes gave a disappointed grunt. “You really must learn to have a more open mind. We are living in unusual times and are therefore looking for anything out of the ordinary whether it seems trivial or not. Why would lemons be stolen?”

  “Well,” I blustered, “I'm sure I can think of a dozen reasons.”

  “Name one.”

  Of course, I couldn't. It was possible that this was nothing more than an opportunistic theft, but he was driving at something and I desperately wanted to rise to the challenge. “Was anything else taken?”

  “Bravo!” To my utter astonishment, Grimes leapt to his feet and took my hand, shaking it with much excitement. “That is the right question, John. The docket records no other missing items. Is this officer known to you, Pitt? Is he reliable?”

  The inspector took the paper from me and examined it. “Constable Bowyer. Yes, I know him. A bit of a plodder, but thorough enough. If he records no other missing items, then you may rely on it that there were no others. What is it?” Three sharp raps on the door and it opened to admit a young officer with a flushed face.

  “Come quickly, sir, there's been another murder.”

  We sat in the police growler as it was driven at pace through the streets of London. Pitt was opposite us with a constable beside him. Grimes hunched over the dockets he'd liberated from Pitt's office.

  “What are you doing, Grimes?” the inspector said, his usually courteous manner abandoned. “A man has been murdered and you have your nose in a stack of inconsequential reports.”

  Grimes continued to squint at the papers in the fading light from the windows. “You did not think them inconsequential an hour ago,” he said without looking up. “They were strewn across your desk.”

  “I was clutching at straws!”

  “And what information do we have about this latest attack?” Grimes asked, glancing across at the policeman.

  Pitt shrugged. “Very little. We know that the victim is a respectably dressed man and that he was found on the corner of Atlantic Road.”

  “And that's all we have to go on?”

  “Yes, we'll learn more when we arrive.”

  Grimes gave a derisive grunt. “Then, in the meantime, I shall occupy myself with your inconsequential paperwork.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Pitt looked across at me, as if seeking support. “Isn't Atlantic Road in Lambeth?” I asked.

  “It is,” Pitt responded. “We shall be there shortly.”

  “An odd place for a respectably dressed man to find himself.”

  I lurched sideways as Grimes punched me on the shoulder. “Well done again, John!” he said. “We shall make a detective of you yet.”

  I flushed warm with pride, but dropped my eyes when I caught sight of Pitt's expression. He seemed as pent up as the boiler of a steam train with no valve to vent his frustration. I understood. People were dying on his watch and he had no answers.

  I attempted to engage him in conversation. “How long have you been an inspector, Mr Pitt?”

  “A little over two years,” he said, seeming to deflate as he spoke.

  “You must have been one of the youngest to be promoted to such a rank.”

  Now he smiled. Pride, it seemed, trumped fear and frustration. “I was and am. And no help from my background, either. No public school or rich family behind me. I earned my rank the hard way.”

  It was my turn to tighten up now. Here was a man who had made his way in his chosen profession despite his station, whereas I had been incapable of achieving anything significant even though I'd had every advantage.

  “We've arrived,” Grimes said as the carriage swung around a corner.

  “How can you tell?” I asked. “Does Atlantic Road have a distinctive road surface?”

  Grimes glanced across at me. “No, I looked out of the window and saw the street sign.”

  I flushed, though in truth I was almost certain that he'd done no such thing. Sure enough, the growler came to a halt and rocked as the driver jumped down to open the door.

  We followed Pitt onto the street and towards the group of constables gathered around the entrance to an alleyway. An old gas streetlamp illuminated no more than the first few feet of the alley, so we allowed one of the constables to lead the way holding aloft a brass spirit lamp whose light swung from one filthy wall to the other as he walked.

  The body was hanging upside down; its feet tied to a rusty hook embedded in the wall and hands tied behind its back. It was a man dressed, as reported, in well-made city clothes. His face was black with congealed blood that had poured from the gash in his throat.

  We stood silently taking in this horrific scene until
a man in plain clothes stepped from the shadows.

  “Ah, Detective Hargreaves,” Pitt said. “What do you have to report?”

  Hargreaves—a middle-aged man with a large circumference and close-cropped grey beard—pulled a notebook from his waistcoat and opened it.

  “The body was discovered today at 3:30 post meridiem by a Mrs McKluskey who lives and, ahem, works locally. Sir.”

  “Do we know the identity of the unfortunate victim?”

  McKluskey shook his bowler-hatted head. “No, sir. Standing orders are to leave the scene untouched and await the arrival of more—ahem—qualified and senior officers.”

  “And yet you saw fit to refasten the man's trousers,” Grimes said.

  Even in the paltry yellowish illumination of the police lamp I saw the face of Hargreaves colour. But when I glanced at the hanging figure, I could see no sign of any interference with his dress.

  Grimes stepped forward, took the lamp from the constable and pointed at the victim's waist. “See here and here, the waistcoat dips under the belt which, yes, has not been fastened in its customary place.” I screwed my eyes to see what he was indicating, having no wish to stray any closer to the dead man than was necessary.

  “The hole beneath the buckle is wider than the others,” Pitt said. “Yes, I see it. Explain yourself, Hargreaves.”

  The older man drew in a deep breath. “It's like this, sir. This man, he's died a most 'orrible death but he's clearly a respectable person and I didn't want his reputation to be tarnished.”

  “So, his trousers were unfastened when you found him?”

  Hargreaves nodded.

  “And did you find anything else on him? Anything you would have wished was not discovered?” Grimes asked.

  Sighing, Hargreaves pulled a small packet out of his pocket and, holding it by one corner, handed it to Grimes who showed it to me:

  Vulcanised Rubber Prophylactics, E. Lambert and Son.

  “He came prepared, then,” I said.