Death Dogs

by Andy Emery

  On Grosvenor Road, Pimlico, the postman approached EA Hawthorne’s house, his bulging bag swinging at his hip.

  A short fellow wearing a drab-coloured cape with a hood trudged in the opposite direction, and as he got to the postman, he seemed to trip and barged into him, sending the bag flying. A cascade of letters spewed onto the pavement.

  ‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Oh dear, my good man. I’m so sorry! I must have been daydreaming and caught my foot on that loose paving slab.’

  ‘What loose slab?’

  ‘I couldn’t help it. Listen, let me help you. We’ll have these collected up in no time.’

  The two men squatted on the ground and packed the letters back into the bag. The postman didn’t notice Herbert Greatorex slip several of them into a poacher’s pocket in his cape.

  ‘I’ve got to hear it from Sally’s mouth,’ said Polly. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s the only thing that keeps me going, with all the stress of my so-called father coming back.’

  Gedge said nothing. He just kept forging ahead.

  Under leaden skies, with a stiff northerly breeze picking up, they wove their way through the gravestones. Gedge was in front, Polly in his wake. The long, wet grass whipped at his trousers and her stockinged legs.

  Gedge glanced back. ‘I’m just thankful that Jack Cross found an entry for her father’s grave in the cemetery records. Otherwise we’d have had a hard job finding the right graveyard.’

  ‘Let’s just hope she’s there. And Mr Levitt. I’m worried about him. What if they’ve decided he’s served his purpose?’

  ‘Look!’ Gedge motioned for Polly to duck down as he pointed through the rows of stones. There, by the rickety far fence of the cemetery, stood a gnarled old yew. Its trunk was perhaps eight feet across, and twisted, as if a pair of giant hands had tried to wring all the moisture out of it. They could just make out a scattering of poisonous red berries among the evergreen foliage.

  And below the tree’s canopy, a woman was bent on her knees in front of a crumbling headstone. She was bedraggled, her black hair clinging around her face and shoulders. A few yards away stood the unmistakable form of Theodore Levitt, his shoulders stooped as he looked at Sally O’Riordan.

  Gedge raised a finger to his lips, and he and Polly moved away from their concealed position and approached the odd pair.

  Polly drew alongside Gedge. He reached over and squeezed her hand. She nodded at him, but her face was set in concentration on the kneeling form. They could hear Sally muttering under her breath as they got nearer.

  ‘So, you’ve found me, eh?’ She didn’t turn around. ‘It was only a matter of time, I suppose.’

  Polly stepped ahead of Gedge. ‘Sally, you don’t know me, but you briefly came into contact with my father.’

  Sally looked up, stared at Polly with a blank expression. ‘No need for introductions. I know just who you are. I killed him.’

  Polly stiffened. Sally turned her gaze to Gedge. ‘And you’re the father of one of the girls Ackerman was going to sell. Funny, eh? Three fathers, two of ’em dead. Three daughters, all still alive.’

  Polly moved in closer. ‘I needed to hear you confess to Claude’s murder. I thought you wouldn’t want to do it. I thought that we’d have to force you, somehow. But you’ve just come out and admitted it.’

  Sally shook her head. ‘Admitted it? To me, it was just a natural thing to do. He was trying to stop me gettin’ away. He’d already shot that toffee-nosed Gunther bloke who’d been at the auction.’

  ‘Only because he was attacked.’

  ‘You weren’t there. For all I know, he’d have shot me. In my world, it’s dog eat dog. Him or me. If he wanted to play in that world, he should have known that. Same goes for you.’

  Sally got to her feet. She was bent over and looked ill, but her eyes flashed defiantly between Polly and Gedge.

  Polly nodded at the grave. ‘At least you seem to understand the pain of a lost parent.’

  ‘Ha! You know nothing about my dad. I’m finished talkin’ to you.’ In a flash, she leapt forward and gripped Polly’s forearm with one hand and pulled a long carving knife from her coat with the other.

  Gedge held up a hand. ‘Sally! No!’

  But the black-haired girl pulled Polly closer and raised the blade to her throat.

  ‘Keep back! Stay away from me! All my life I’ve had people telling me what to do. Well, no more!’

  Gedge edged closer. ‘Come on, it’s time to give up. Don’t harm her.’

  She gave a low, sardonic laugh. Her hand twitched.

  At that moment, Levitt, who had been stock still all this time, apparently transfixed by the scene in front of him, looked at her, and his eyes widened. ‘Sally! No!’

  Gedge launched himself forward.

  Sally jerked the knife up in a slashing motion. But a pink spray issued from her own throat, not Polly’s.

  He caught hold of Sally and pulled her away. She made a gurgling noise as she collapsed into Gedge’s arms and the blood-soaked blade fell to the ground.

  A huge wound had opened up in her throat, with blood bubbling and foaming.

  ‘Lucas!’ Polly ran forward and helped Gedge to lower Sally to the ground. She placed her hands on the girl’s neck, attempting to staunch the bleeding. Hot crimson liquid poured through her fingers, over her hands and the sleeves of her coat. Sally’s skin seemed to grow paler as they watched. But through it all she wore a thin smile.

  In a few seconds, it was over. Sally’s body went limp and the pulse stopped. Gedge leant over and gently pulled Polly’s hands away, blood still flowing out of the wound, more slowly now.

  For a moment the only sound was that of Levitt throwing up on the other side of the yew.

  Gedge sighed. ‘There was nothing you could do.’

  Polly looked at him. Her eyes were blank. ‘Just like with Claude. Should I feel joy that she’s got what she deserved? Or anger that she was able to take her own life rather than have someone take it from her? I don’t feel either of those things. I just feel empty. Emptier than I’ve ever been.’

  43

  A couple of hours later, Gedge and Polly were back at White Lion Street. The police had taken statements, and Levitt had gone with Jack Cross to be examined by a psychiatrist, this time a professional who would treat him gently and with understanding.

  Polly sighed as the house fell silent. ‘It’s alright, Lucas. You can leave me. I’m fine, really.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. I hope that in time you’ll find some sort of closure in what’s happened.’

  She shrugged. ‘I hope so. But I don’t feel like that yet.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to have to go. I said I’d drop in on Cotter and Ruby. And I’ll check with Jack. I want to get some reassurance that Levitt will get better treatment than he had from Demeter. You will let me know, any time, if you need anything, or just want to talk?’

  ‘I will, of course. Thank you so much, Lucas. I’ve been letting the housework slip recently. I’ll busy myself with chores around here for the rest of the day.’

  Later that evening, Polly had dusted and cleaned the whole house, baked some bread, and put some washing through the wringer. As she dried her hands, she heard a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door knocker.

  She opened the door to reveal Volkov standing on the step. ‘You! You’re still hanging around, then? Well, there’s no point. Not on my account.’

  ‘Polina, please hear me out. I was foolish to think that you would not despise me after abandoning you here all those years ago. I don’t blame you. It’s true that my desire to free my country is the biggest thing in my life. But still, I want to try to mend what I have broken. I know that you yearn to help the oppressed peoples of the world. Let me at least tell you something of my struggles. Just for a while. I have little time left before I must leave.’

  ‘Running away again?’

  ‘I have big plans. For so many years in the Sib
erian camp I wondered how I would be able to strike a blow against the Tsarists, and now it is clear what I must do. Please come with me, just for a few hours, and I will explain. I will tell you about myself and what I intend to do. You have nothing to fear from me, Polina. And if you really want to experience the revolutionary life, it will be an education for you.’

  She wavered, caught between spitting more defiance at him and finding out what he had to say. ‘Just give me an idea of what you’re going to do.’

  ‘Of course. It sounds fantastic, but I have engineered the theft of a very valuable item, and with the proceeds of its sale, I will wreak havoc back in the old country.’

  ‘Really? This item must be something very special.’

  ‘It is. Especially to those who are obsessed with ancient Egypt.’

  Her eyes locked onto his. ‘Oh? Go on.’

  ‘I can show it to you, if you like. It is a magic book. What they call a grimoire.’

  ‘You already have it in your possession? Alright, Nicolai. It does indeed sound interesting. Don’t get any ideas, but I will go with you. But as you said, just for a few hours.’

  ‘Assuredly. I will bring you back here later tonight. I am so glad you have agreed.’

  Her mind was whirring. So they had been right! He was indeed behind the theft of the grimoire, his motive financial. And he was also the man who kidnapped and terrified Miss Fowler. Anger welled up inside Polly, but she kept it in check. If she could find out where he had the grimoire and what his plans were, then they stood a better chance of foiling him. She just needed to play along.

  She got her coat while Volkov waited in the hallway. She edged towards a drawer in the kitchen to find paper to leave a note for Gedge, but Volkov blocked her way.

  ‘If you are really coming, we must go. Time is pressing.’

  She nodded and he ushered her out of the house, closing the door behind her. A black hansom was waiting for them at the kerbside a few yards away.

  Gedge was getting worried. Polly had been away for hours. She’d been out of sorts for a while, but Sally’s suicide seemed to have sunk her into a depression. He just wanted to get the grimoire business sorted out so they could get back to normal, but where was the blasted book?

  A hammering on the door knocker. Gedge opened the door, and there was Cotter, a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘Lucas. Here, mate. It’s a note to us from Greatorex, the old geezer from the Soane. He’s obviously still around. That attendant Beamish brought it round to my place. But I took a look at it myself. You’d better get your skates on!’

  Gedge snatched it from him.

  The Lykopolis Grimoire will be sold. The transaction will take place in the British Museum Reading Room at 3PM today.

  --- Herbert Greatorex

  Gedge looked up at Cotter. He shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Darius! Get the hansom ready. We’ve got to go now!’

  He leapt out of the cab on Great Russell Street. ‘Darius, wait here. We might need to get away quickly. With Polly, I hope.’

  The bulk of the British Museum loomed before him. There were two huge flanking wings, and between them the entrance was protected by a colonnade formed by towering limestone columns and topped by a carved pediment.

  He ran between the wrought iron entrance gates and across the museum’s forecourt, dodging between milling groups of sightseers, then up the steps, between the columns and through the main entrance door.

  He slowed to a hurried walking pace as he approached the Reading Room. At the entrance, a clerk at a desk checked entrance tickets. Gedge brought out Claude Rondeau’s ticket, hoping the man didn’t know Rondeau personally, but the functionary merely nodded, and next moment Gedge was inside.

  He scanned the chamber. It certainly was an impressive space. Light flooded in through windows set into the huge dome above their heads. The circular room was lined with shelving for books on three levels. At the centre of the floor area, several arcs of racking held journals and newspapers, and the desks for readers radiated out to the edges of the room, both in the form of linear benches and standalone tables, all topped in green leather.

  He knew that this place was a magnet for the capital’s intellectuals, writers and anyone else who needed a sheltered place for research or just to while away an hour or two reading. Claude Rondeau had been a regular visitor, as had the Russian intellectual Karl Marx, for several decades earlier in the century.

  On this occasion about half the seats were taken. Better than the place being packed, but there were still a lot of people around who could be put at risk by whatever took place in the next few minutes.

  It didn’t take Gedge long to spot them. The Russian’s large frame, black hair and beard were easily spotted. Polly was next to him. They were sitting at a bench near the centre of the room, both apparently reading newspapers. But Volkov was snatching a furtive look around every so often; he was waiting for something. And Polly was rubbing her neck in that particular way that betrayed her apprehension.

  Gedge saw Volkov’s gaze fall on something and stay there. He lowered the paper. He was looking at a man who had just passed Gedge, having entered the Reading Room after him, and was walking across the room towards where Volkov and Polly were sitting. The man looked like another clerk. Slim, middle-aged, greying at the temples.

  The man approached Volkov, who stared at him intently all the while. The Russian stood up and greeted the man with a handshake. His face became animated and his eyebrows raised. He was asking a question. The man spoke, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing with the palms of his hands upwards. But the Russian didn’t seem to like the answer. His face darkened, and he barked a reply at the man.

  Gedge decided it was time to intervene, but before he’d had time to get a few paces towards the confrontation, matters escalated. The man took a step away from Volkov, but the Russian came around the desk and punched him in the face. As the man fell heavily to the floor, Polly let out a yelp, and several nearby readers looked up wide-eyed: shocked yet restrained from protesting.

  Volkov snatched up a leather satchel and took hold of Polly’s arm. He muttered something to her under his breath and propelled them towards the exit.

  Gedge blocked his way. Polly gasped as she saw him.

  ‘Volkov. Or should I say, Captain Frei? The game’s up. Let Polly go. You’re trapped.’

  Volkov glanced from Gedge to Polly and a smile replaced the scowl.

  ‘Mr Lucas Gedge. What a nice surprise. I have heard much about you. But how am I trapped? Do you have help? Will a dozen police constables spring up from the ranks of these placid readers to surround me? I think not. You are alone.’

  Polly broke in. ‘Lucas! He’d heard about you from your encounters with the Death Dogs at the bookshop and the auction room. He saw you with me, and thought he could kill two birds with one stone. Me and the grimoire.’

  Volkov scowled. ‘Crudely put, my dear, but reasonably accurate. Now Gedge, move aside.’

  Gedge pulled his revolver from out of his coat pocket. ‘I don’t think so. Now, do as I say and release Polly.’

  ‘Aside from the fact that this young lady is my rightful daughter and therefore what I do with her is none of your business, I’m afraid your power over me is less than you think.’

  He looked down and Gedge’s eyes followed. Volkov was holding a black spherical object about three inches across, with a stub of fabric sticking out.

  ‘You know what this is, I think?’

  ‘A grenade. But you haven’t lit the fuse, and you only have one hand free.’

  ‘Yes, but this grenade is a little special. You see, its explosive contents are inherently unstable. A problem with the manufacturing process. This will go off if it suffers any sudden impact, such as being thrown with any force at all, or even being dropped from a foot or two onto a hard surface, such as the floor here. So if I were you I wouldn’t shoot me, unless you want to kill not only father and daughter, but yourself and anyone else i
n the surrounding few yards. Now, step aside.’

  Gedge moved to let them pass, his revolver ready but lowered to his side. Volkov could be bluffing, but he couldn’t take the chance.

  As they went past him, Gedge spoke to Polly. ‘Are you alright? He hasn’t harmed you?’

  ‘No, Lucas. I’m alright. Really.’ But the strain in her voice was clear.

  At the door, Volkov called back. ‘Gedge, I don’t want to see you until we’ve crossed the forecourt. If you emerge from the entrance before then...’ He gestured with the grenade.

  Gedge raised his hands in mock supplication, and waited for them to go outside. He turned and ran back to the man who had spoken to Volkov. He was still on the floor, nursing his jaw.

  ‘Please tell me who you are, and what you said to Volkov.’

  ‘My name is Arthur Handley. I work part time for Mr EA Hawthorne. Secretarial work, administration, correspondence with all the learned societies he belongs to. Mr Hawthorne asked me to bring a message to the Russian gentleman.’

  ‘What was it? Please hurry. I need to get after him. That was my friend he has hostage.’

  ‘Of course. I was to convey that Mr Hawthorne no longer wished to purchase the old book, the grimoire, from Mr Volkov.’

  Gedge nodded. ‘Presumably they had agreed a high price for the fabled item?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A huge amount. Mr Hawthorne wouldn’t tell me exactly how much, but he is extremely wealthy, and he did very much covet that book. But he’d heard stories about murder and tragedy occurring wherever the grimoire goes, and he seems to have suddenly taken fright.’

  ‘He is at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And does Volkov know where he lives?’

  ‘Why, yes…’

  Gedge jumped up and sprinted for the exit.

  44

  Gedge came running through the portico at the Museum’s entrance, just in time to see Volkov bundling Polly into a hansom cab on Great Russell Street, seventy yards away across the forecourt. There were several more hansoms pulled up waiting for trade, and Darius backed his trusty horse, Cinnamon, out of his position in the queue, ready to give chase.