by Andy Emery
Death Dogs
The Lucas Gedge Thrillers: 2
Andy Emery
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I
1
Spitalfields, London
3.40pm, 19th December 1890
It was a blizzard; visibility ten yards at best. The snow funnelled through the narrow streets and banked up against every wall. Surely it was madness for the work party to continue their pavement clearing in these conditions?
But in truth, the dreadful weather into which they had been plunged these last few weeks had imposed a kind of alternate reality. Normal considerations held little sway. And so they ploughed on.
Lucas Gedge hacked away at the ice with his shovel. After a few minutes of prising, he managed to lift a slab, three inches thick and three feet square, and prop it against the adjacent house wall.
He stood up and stretched, his back aching after an hour of this labour. He pulled the woollen balaclava away from his eyes. Just at the edge of his vision, he could see the next man, the local postmaster Jackson, wielding his trusty axe. Gedge had noticed that a crisis would often bring out the best in people, and Jackson had certainly revealed hidden capabilities. Unfortunately, in others, the worst in their characters could be brought to the surface by a little adversity. Perhaps it was this thought that made Gedge cock his head to one side and take notice of a muffled cry, apparently coming from around the nearest corner.
Gedge shouted in the direction of Jackson. ‘There’s something happening around there. I’m going to have a look.’
No reaction. Sound was deadened in the snow. He could slog over to the other man to tell him what he was doing, but what was the point? He’d just waste vital energy. He turned and made his way to the corner, his eyes stinging.
He knew these streets. They were near the imposing bulk of Christ Church, and the houses here were not the meanest in the area; they might contain items worth stealing. So when Gedge saw two men emerging from a property that he knew to be empty, he realised they were up to no good. The family had gone to stay with relatives in the country for as long as the bad weather persisted. And those two men must be members of that hated breed: looters.
Each man carried a bulging sack and they were chattering as they slogged through the snow, no doubt excited about their ill-gotten gains. Gedge came up behind them, knowing that his movements were effectively silent.
He reached out and tapped the right-hand man on the left shoulder. They both jumped and wheeled around, eyes wide in astonishment.
‘What do you two think you’re playing at?’
‘Is that any bloody business of yours?’ said the man on the right, puffing out his cheeks in the cold.
‘Yeah,’ said the other. ‘Sod off, mate!’
‘Not acceptable, gentlemen. We both know that if I asked you to open those sacks, we’d find the property of the Allan family. You’re probably not aware of this, but they live in that house you’ve just left.’
The right-hand man scoffed. ‘You’re wrong, mate. We’ve just been mindin’ our own business, like you should. Now, get lost or we’ll give you a hidin’!’
Gedge sighed. ‘All right, you’ve had your chance.’ He was still carrying the shovel, and now he hefted it with both hands. At this, the two men lurched towards him, dropping their sacks in the snow. He swung the shovel in a short arc, impacting the first man’s elbow with the flat of the blade. A sharp crack rang out, even in that strangely muted soundscape, and his opponent shrieked, collapsing to his knees and gripping the damaged joint with his other hand.
As was always the case when Gedge entered into a violent confrontation, time seemed to slow down, and at that moment he noticed a third man in a doorway across the street. The man moved out of the entrance and took a few steps towards the fight. The only detail he could discern through the blizzard was a hat, in a bright emerald green.
The second of the looters came at Gedge, a short blade glinting in his hand.
The man’s movements would have been too slow anyway, but they were made more ponderous by the layers of clothing he had piled on to keep warm. Gedge sidestepped him and brought the handle of the shovel up under the man’s jaw, snapping his head up and landing him on his backside next to his friend.
‘Lucas! What the devil’s going on?’
The cry came from behind Gedge, and he turned to see his friend, Police Inspector Jack Cross. The inspector had taken unofficial charge of the motley collection of individuals who formed the street-clearing crew, including his own constables and any other able-bodied men who could be pressed into service.
Gedge noticed that the green-hatted man had disappeared.
‘They’re looters. I think they had an accomplice, but he’s gone. In those bags we’ll find the property of the Allan family, from number seven over there.’
The looter who was clutching his elbow looked up at Cross. ‘I need a doctor! That bastard attacked us! If you’re a copper, arrest ’im!’
Cross’s eyes narrowed. ‘As to your injuries, they’ll be dealt with. But you’ll get no sympathy from anyone around here. You’re looting scum, profiting from others’ misfortune. You’re lucky you haven’t been shot out of hand.’
The two men went back to cradling their injuries, as a couple of constables appeared out of the whiteness.
‘Here, Jack,’ said Gedge. ‘Give me a hand with the sacks of loot, and let’s check the Allan house. The locks will probably need repairing.’
Only about a hundred yards away, although it might as well have been a mile thanks to the muffling effect of the snowstorm, the man in the green hat was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his brow furrowed. Soft footsteps announced the approach of the third of his underlings, who was also carrying a bulging sack.
‘How’s it going, boss?’
‘Not as well as I’d hoped, Patsy. Some meddler’s interfered in our good works. Put our two friends out of commission.’
‘Both of ’em?’
‘Yes. This particular individual can handle himself, to say the least. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut our losses and make do with whatever you’ve acquired in that bag of yours.’
‘Who the hell is this this bloke, boss?’
‘I don’t know. But it’s something I intend to find out. Don’t worry about that.’
He is running full pelt through a dark, subterranean passageway, his heart pounding urgently in his chest. Behind him: chaos. A cacophony of shouts, screams and the occasional gunshot. But ahead, silence. Many times more terrifying. His mentor and friend, Claude Rondeau, is somewhere upstairs. He realises now his foolishness in leaving the old man on his own, placing him in mortal danger.
He turns a corner and comes across a narrow staircase. He stops and listens. And his heart sinks as he hears the sound of a young woman crying. He vaults up the stairs two at a time and emerges into a room at the top. The body of a man he doesn’t know is crumpled in one corner, but directly in front of him, Rondeau lies propped up against the base of a wall, his torso stained crimson and his head cradled by Polly, his daughter. Rondeau is whispering to her, faintly and haltingly, but somehow, despite the pair being yards away, he can hear the old man clearly. He says, ‘The man… wearing a scarab… murders… there's a connection… look in the files.
’
It is quiet for a moment, then Polly looks up from her father's stricken countenance, and lets forth a wail of grief.
‘Lucas! Lucas! Wake up! It’s alright. It’s just another of your nightmares.’
It was three days after the incident with the looters. Gedge opened his eyes, then immediately snapped them shut again, as somebody drew open his curtains, causing light to flood into the bedroom.
‘For god’s sake, Polly. You don’t have to treat me like a child. I’ll get up in a moment.’
Polly Rondeau stood by the window, hands on hips and a defiant expression on her face. Her slim form was silhouetted against the window.
‘Oh, that’s all the thanks I get, is it? Some might say bringing you out of one of those horrible dreams was a good thing. Well, I’m not closing the curtains again now, so you might as well start getting ready for work. You’ll need some breakfast. The weather’s just as bad, and you’ll want some energy inside you.’
He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘The nightmare had run its course anyway, but I suppose you’re right. I do need to face the day.’
‘I wish you’d smarten yourself up. You hardly ever shave these days. And you need to give me your washing.’
Gedge shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘Why you’re fussing about such things I have no idea. We’re in a snowbound hell, and I spend my days shovelling ice, coming home worn out and stinking. What’s the point in shaving? We’re not likely to get any invitations to society events, are we?’
‘Ha! Even if the weather was normal, I doubt you’d ever attend a “society event”. You’ve always been pig-headed. But there’s no reason not to take care of yourself. Spring is going to come some time, you know.’
Gedge looked at the floor. ‘It’s not the weather.’
‘Then what is it?’
He managed to essay a thin smile. ‘Maybe we’ll talk about it later. Now, please would you leave me alone? I need to attend to my ablutions if I’m to guzzle down one of your breakfasts. Breakfasts which, even though I am such an uncouth oaf, I have to admit are splendid affairs. See, I am taking care of myself, with your help.’
‘Mmmm. Before I go. The dream. Was it about your experiences in Afghanistan again? Nothing more recent?’
Gedge smiled. ‘Like a dog with a bone, aren’t you? Yes, it’s the same old nightmares. Once we can actually move around the country again, I’m going to get in touch with that quack doctor your father once mentioned. See if he can help in any way.’
‘That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said in days.’ She looked at him again as if she were going to say something else, but instead smiled and closed the door behind her as she left.
Gedge shook his head and sighed. He hauled himself to his feet and made for the washbasin. He didn’t feel good about lying to her, but he told himself it was for her own good; it was just a white lie. He didn’t want her to know that the dream was actually about her father’s death. It was a distorted version of what had actually happened. In reality he’d climbed the stairs slowly, carrying his daughter Hannah. And he didn't hear what Claude was saying to Polly; she’d told him afterwards.
But it wouldn’t help Polly to know that his latest nightmares were a bit too close to home. In any case, the doctor he’d referred to had been successful in treating people who were suffering the after-effects of traumatic events. With any luck he’d soon be able to put the bad dreams behind him.
2
Number 14, White Lion Street, Spitalfields
5th July 1873
Elise Rondeau fans her face with a sheet of paper as she clears detritus from the kitchen table. ‘I wish you’d be a little tidier, Claude. Especially with a guest coming.’
‘I doubt that Nicolai will be much concerned about a few crocks and papers lying about,’ says her husband, stroking his dark beard and consulting his fob watch. ‘He should be here soon.’ He reaches a hand to his throat and loosens his collar a little.
‘It’s such a warm night. I wish you’d allow the window open a crack.’
‘I know what he’s like. He’ll think spies outside will overhear our conversation. We’ll open it when he’s gone.’
‘Honestly!’ Elise sits down opposite Claude. Her eyes are cast down, as though she is studying the grain of the wood in minute detail.
‘What is it?’
‘You’re sure we’re doing this for the right reasons, Claude?’
He sighs. ‘We’ve been over this time and time again. We have to both agree, and I thought we had. I know it’s a big decision. A life-changing one, even. But both of us said we were resolved to go ahead.’
‘Oh, I know. And it is the right decision. I suppose it’s just the circumstances. They seem unbelievable.’
‘Only a man as totally devoted to the future of his country as Nicolai could act this way, putting those concerns above even his family. It’s true that many would consider it wrong, but…’
There is an abrupt rap on the door. In fact, two knocks close together, followed by another a couple of seconds later. That is the sign: it’s him. Elise retreats upstairs. She doesn’t really know Nicolai and has probably decided that her presence might complicate their discussion.
Claude opens the door to Nicolai Volkov. He is a bear of a man, well over six feet tall and broad-chested. Just as well, as he seems to think he can take on the Tsarists almost single-handed. Despite being the son of a noble Russian family, as usual he is wearing a working man’s clothes: a rough jacket and hobnail boots.
‘Kolya! Come in.’
As he crosses the threshold, Volkov nods, but sweeps off his woollen cap, to reveal the unruly jet-black curls that extend down to an unkempt beard. As Rondeau closes the door, Volkov glances to and fro.
‘The windows are sealed. Elise is upstairs. There’s no chance of us being overheard, my friend.’
‘Forgive me, Claude. I am especially wary tonight. My comrade Vanya has disappeared.’
‘The clerk at the embassy? Do you fear he has been unmasked? Can they link him to you?’
‘Anything is possible. I have brought forward my departure. I will leave tomorrow.’
‘So soon!’
‘Yes, and from a different port. I will not tell you which one, to protect you as much as anything. If Elise and yourself are still in agreement, I need to bring you my precious cargo tomorrow morning. I will forever be in your debt, you know that. You are doing something that few would agree to.’
‘Kolya, we will do what we must. But “cargo”? As I told you, we cannot be overheard. Why are you still talking in code?’
‘It is too delicate a thing. We know of what we speak, that is all that matters.’
‘But when do you think you will return? A couple of years?’
The Russian shakes his head. ‘I fear it may be decades. Make no mistake, their autocracy will fall, but it will not happen quickly. And my movements will be restricted inside my motherland. It nearly tears my heart in two, but I cannot see another solution.’
Rondeau rubs his bearded chin and looks directly at his friend. ‘Tomorrow. It’s so sudden. But don’t worry. We were ready before, so what difference do a few days or weeks make?’
Volkov grips Rondeau’s shoulder with his hand. ‘I know you will do your best. I think… Wait. What’s that noise?’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Something just outside. Men talking.’
‘People are allowed to move about outside, you know. We don’t have a curfew.’
Volkov moves to the door and puts his ear to the wood, listening. ‘The voices are receding. It was probably nothing.’
Rondeau smiles. ‘Let us hope your extreme caution will keep you safe.’
‘That cannot be guaranteed. Obviously, I will be in great danger. But I cannot let that stop me helping to free my country from its oppressive yoke.’
With that, he quietly opened the door and looked out, peering to the left, in the directi
on of Bishopsgate, and to the right, towards Christ Church in the centre of Spitalfields. ‘I will go now, Claude. I have much to prepare before tomorrow.’
‘Of course. I will see you in the morning. We will be ready.’
‘It will be before eleven o’clock. I cannot be more specific. As usual, I need to make sure I am not followed here. Goodnight, my friend.’
‘Tomorrow then, Kolya.’
Outside, a cool breeze has sprung up. As Volkov disappears from sight, Rondeau folds his arms about his chest and stands on the step for a while. Elise joins him and they embrace, both staring up at the sky framed between the house roofs, watching gossamer clouds move across the glowing face of the moon. They both know that their lives are about to change forever.
3
Alfriston, Sussex
6.30pm, 17th March 1891
Lucas Gedge stared out of the window, beads of sweat still on his brow and a mug of herbal tea in his hand. He was studying the bare branches of wisteria that covered the back wall of the house, and noting the first few flowers of early spring, pushing their way through the rough grass in the back garden. He took a sip of tea.
Doctor Howard Raistrick, his landlord for the last two weeks, padded back into the room.
‘You could probably do with something stronger after that session, Lucas.’
‘Oh, it’s alright, Howard. I know I’d have to journey to the local pub for that.’
Raistrick smiled and folded himself into one of his threadbare armchairs.
Although they’d never talked about it, Gedge estimated his host was in his mid to late fifties. Thin as a rake and with a mind as alert as anyone Gedge had met, Raistrick seemed to live the life of a hermit down here near the south coast. This morning, as often seemed to be the case, the doctor had eschewed shaving, and wisps of grey hair curled over his collar. He was wearing the usual burgundy smoking jacket, ever so slightly stained and frayed at the edges.
