by Andy Emery
‘Really? That would be something. What Claude said to you as he passed away seemed so obscure.’
‘Yes, but it will always be imprinted on my mind. “The man… wearing a scarab… murders… there’s a connection… look in the files”. Jack said not to get our hopes up too high, but can it be just a coincidence? The note and this theft? There’s a photographer who does some work for the police. Jack’s got him to do some nosing around. His name’s Cotter, Leonidas Cotter, if you please.’ She handed over a card. ‘See? His studio’s on Fashion Street, only five minutes’ walk from here. It’s above a picture framer’s shop. He’ll be expecting you this afternoon, after two o’clock. By then he’ll have taken some pictures and got the lie of the land.’
Someone let themself in through the front door. Gedge looked at Polly. ‘Miss Fowler? Already?’
‘No. She’s not supposed to be back today. I’ll think you’ll find those heavier footfalls belong to another of our friends.’
A man stepped into the room wearing a long black overcoat. He was an impressive figure, at least six foot six, with a hooked nose and tightly cropped jet-black beard and moustache.
Gedge cried out. ‘Darius! You’re supposed to be thousands of miles away in Persia, aren’t you?’
‘Lucas, my friend. I am so glad to see you. Unfortunately, I had to abort my journey, having only reached the shores of the Mediterranean. I only returned here to Spitalfields two days ago. I will tell you about it some time.’
Gedge stood up and clapped Darius on the back. ‘You’re a reassuring presence, I have to say.’
‘If you need any aid, Lucas, Polly knows I will do anything to help find the truth behind her father’s death.’
‘Thank you, big man. I’m sure I’ll be taking you up on that.’
Darius inclined his head. ‘For now, though, I have stopped by briefly to consume a piece of bread and cheese before my next fare.’
‘You’re back in the cabbing game?’
‘Indeed. The hansom is outside. It brings in a few pennies, and I learn new things about this city on every trip. It seems to be changing all the time.’
They talked for a while, but Gedge was tired, and after an hour, he retreated to his room.
He dumped his bag on the bed and looked out of the window, across the rooftops of Spitalfields, the white spire of Christ Church dominating the skyline.
8
In Fashion Street, Gedge located the picture framer’s shop and read the brass plate next to the side door:
Leo Cotter
Photographer
Quality, Speed and Value
All Manner of Commissions Undertaken
He climbed the narrow staircase and knocked.
‘Come in, mate.’
Gedge raised his eyebrows and opened the door.
It was a small but well-appointed studio with a camera set up on a tripod in the centre. One wall was covered with drapes in various colours and designs, obviously used as backdrops. Two more walls were covered by shelving and cupboard space, filled to overflowing with boxes and accessories. A desk stood against the fourth wall, almost obscured by papers and bulging files.
Beside the desk, another door opened a crack as Gedge looked over.
‘I’m in me dark room. I’ll be out in a tick. Take a seat, will you?’
Gedge sat down on a well-worn armchair and waited. He picked up a photograph album and leafed through it. It featured landscapes of London and the surrounding countryside, formal portraits of mainly middle-class subjects, and a few excursions into still life: artfully arranged fruit, books, skulls. They all seemed well taken; the images were as sharp as any Gedge had seen.
He replaced the album and picked out another. The contents of this one were rather different. Naked women, for the most part. Mostly individuals, but some in pairs, and all in poses that varied from sedate to provocative, yet nothing overtly sexual. The images reminded him of the pornographic collections of postcards that had done the rounds in his army days. At least the models appeared to be of a reasonable age: eighteen at least. One in particular featured in most of the images: a girl with a perpetual cheeky grin, whatever pose she happened to be striking.
While the work represented in the first album would be appreciated by the more refined members of society, this latter set would raise eyebrows. Gedge mused that a daughter of the borough’s well-to-do would be shocked to find that half an hour after she had finished posing for Cotter, the photographer might be asking another girl to adopt a very different pose, wearing only a winning smile.
‘Ah, I see you’ve discovered some of my more confidential work.’
Gedge hadn’t heard the door open. He turned to see a youthful figure, of a little less than average height, in shirt sleeves and mopping his brow. He was a real baby-face: his blond hair, freckled cheeks and pudgy nose could have belonged to a boy of fifteen, but Gedge reckoned he was perhaps ten years older.
‘Every little helps, as they say. And you’ll find a lot worse down Holywell Street. That old museum you’ve come to talk about, it’s not far away from there.’
Gedge recognised Cotter’s reference to Holywell Street: it was an infamous location for the procurement of pornographic literature. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not the censorious type. Your sign downstairs doesn’t lie, though. You do take all kinds of commissions. Including those from the police, it seems.’
The photographer smiled. ‘Mr Gedge, I take it? I’m Leo Cotter.’ He held out his hand; Gedge shook it.
‘Inspector Cross speaks highly of you, Mr Cotter. But you don’t see many men of your tender years in the photography game. To me, you seem a little young to have amassed all this.’
‘That’s ’cos I work twice as hard as the others. As soon as I saw me first photograph I wanted to be the one makin’ the pictures. I badgered old man Lynam, who had the studio before me, to be his assistant. Did all the runnin’ around for him, learnt all the tricks, made contacts who’ve served me well since. I was nearly runnin’ the business by the time he got ill, and when he died four years ago, it turned out he’d left me everything in his will. He’d got no money, mind. But all the equipment and the studio came to me. Cheesed off his son and daughter. They’d assumed they’d sell it and get the lot. They got nothin’. But they never came near ’im, so tough.
‘Since then, I’ve built it up. Followed the market trends, as you might say.’ He pointed to the pornographic album. ‘There’s a lot of money in these at the moment. Won’t do to mention it to the borough councillor whose portrait I’m doin’ tomorrow, though.’ He tapped his nose. ‘And then there’s the police stuff. Doesn’t pay much, of course, but it’s interestin’ and what I learn from that I can use elsewhere. That jaunt up to Holborn earlier? The police at Bow Street say they might have some more work for me now, so Mr Cross won’t necessarily have first dibs from now on. Without wantin’ to blow me own trumpet, I’m just smarter, quicker and better than most of the old fogeys luggin’ their cameras about. That’s all there is to it.’
Gedge nodded. ‘I think you’ve just sounded a fanfare on that trumpet of yours, but can we turn to your job at the Soane Museum? There’s a possibility it’s linked to the death of a friend of mine last year.’
‘Really? Cross didn’t mention that.’ Cotter picked up a bottle and two glasses from his desk. ‘Gin?’ Gedge shook his head. Cotter poured a glass for himself and continued. ‘Weird old place, that museum. Not the kind of joint I’d normally visit. Funny architecture, and it’s full to the gunwales with ancient relics.’
‘As you’d expect.’
‘Yeah, but a bit haphazard if you ask me. Easy for things to get lost, I’d have thought. Anyway, some blokes had broken in the previous night. The back entrance didn’t look too secure to me. They’d gone to the basement. Blimey, what a creepy hole that is. Weird statues lookin’ at you from every nook and cranny. And this big old stone sarcophagus in pride of place in the middle. Egyptian, they said. Mummies and that, e
h? Well, this old boy who got knocked out, name of Herbert Greatorex, he was down there when they got in. Said they overpowered him and bashed him on the bonce. He woke up on the floor next to the sarcophagus a few hours later.’
‘Was the injury to the front or back of his head?’
‘Back. He said he was tryin’ to run away.’
‘That makes sense. Any other injuries?’
‘Just scratches. But I reckon it was his pride that was hurt most. He was supposed to be the keeper of the Egyptian collection. Something like that.’
Gedge looked around the studio. ‘You know what you haven’t mentioned yet?’
‘No, what?’
‘What were these men actually after? Something was taken, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m gettin’ to that. There was a display case to the side. The glass top was smashed and the contents all mixed up and separated from their labels. They were all small relics, like little statues of people and animals, all of ’em just a few inches tall. It was only when they counted ’em, they found one was missin’. Just that one little thing was enough for ’em to bother breakin’ in and bashin’ the old bloke.’
‘Strange. So what was this very valuable item?’
‘It was a figure of a woman, made out of a greenish stone. Translucent, they said. Just three inches tall. It’s what they call a shabti. The ancient Egyptian types put loads of these into their graves, pyramids or whatever, to do the work of the dead person in the next world. What a laugh.’
‘Did Greatorex have any idea why they took just that one?’
‘No. He said he was mystified.’
Gedge looked at Cotter. ‘You don’t believe him?’
Cotter shook his head and stroked his chin. ‘Don’t get me wrong. He’d had a bang on the head and that might have been affectin’ him. But his attitude seemed all wrong. He didn’t want to know me at all. I’m no policeman, but he just wanted to get things back to normal. I would have thought, if he’s as obsessed with his subject as they say, he’d want it following up, however small the theft. And somebody told me he shouldn’t have been there himself, anyway, not at that time of night.’
Gedge absorbed it all, nodding. ‘Anything revealed by the pictures you took?’
‘No. I’m just developin’ ’em, and I can show you later. But I can’t see anything that might be a clue. Still, going back to Greatorex, since he was bein’ no help, I asked one of the other museum blokes who else I could talk to about the ancient Egyptians and such like. The best bet is a man called EA Hawthorne. Used to be a bigwig up at the British Museum itself. And even better, Greatorex moved to the Soane four years ago, after workin’ under Hawthorne at the bigger establishment.’
‘Well done for finding that out. If he’ll agree to see us, we can ask him about Greatorex as well as his thoughts on the Soane.’
‘I hear Hawthorne’s a pompous sort. A bit keen on the sound of his own voice.’
Gedge laughed. ‘That might work in our favour. Perhaps I will have that gin, after all.’
Cotter poured. ‘The other bit of gossip about Hawthorne is that he’s absolutely loaded. Unusual for these academic types, but they say he inherited a packet from his parents. What with being an only child and so on.’
‘Well, let’s not hold that against him, alright?’
‘And there shouldn’t be any trouble findin’ his house. Looks really weird. Gothic, they call it. Beamish says it sticks out a mile.’
9
St Petersburg, Russia
12th April 1875
Volkov descends the narrow staircase from street level to the basement of a building on Nevsky Street. He has been watching the scene for half an hour, only making his move when he was sure there were no signs of the watchers: no pedestrians walking past the property more than once, no suspiciously parked vehicles, no faces at windows, no twitching curtains.
He gives the secret sign: two sharp knocks, then a pause and a third knock. He is let in by a grey-haired man who nods gravely. They walk along a dark corridor, at the end of which is a door with a sliver of light emerging underneath. Volkov opens the door and enters the warmth of a crowded room. A dozen men sit around a table, their faces illuminated by the warm light of candles. Bowls of borscht have just been dished up and a couple of bottles of vodka sit waiting.
‘Kolya! How long has it been?’ A paunchy fellow with a red beard rises and embraces Volkov, almost squeezing the life out of him.
‘Too long, Sergei. Too long. But now we will be seeing a lot of each other, rest assured. There is much to do. How do you fare?’
‘Never better. Especially since I heard you were coming back home. Now, eat and drink. Then we plan how to hit the Tsarists!’
Volkov exchanges greetings with his two cousins, Yuri and Pasha. The other men he only knows by reputation. They come from all over: Moscow, Astrakhan by the Caspian Sea, Archangel near the Arctic Circle, one from Siberia. But they have a common aim: to smash the regime.
They spend half an hour over the borscht and vodka, catching up on each other’s activities. Finally, Volkov calls them to order.
‘Brothers, this is the first time we have all met together. And, despite these humble surroundings, this may be a significant moment in the history of our country. A coordinated approach to fight back against the oppressor.’
Vigorous nods of agreement from around the table. Sergei thumps its surface in his enthusiasm.
Volkov pulls a folded map from his coat pocket, removes the bowls and bottles, and spreads it out on the table. He points to a black line running between the two major cities of western Russia.
‘The St Petersburg to Moscow railway, my friends. One of the first lines to be built in our country, and a major artery for the regime. I propose severing that artery as our first strike against them.’
The men around him erupt into cheers.
Sergei throws his cap in the air. ‘A bomb! A bomb!’
‘For pity’s sake, keep your voices down. How many times do I have to tell you not to draw attention to ourselves? Now, come close, and I will tell you how we can do it.’
10
Late in the evening, several hours after Gedge had met Leo Cotter, Ruby Brown was drinking in the Black Boar pub, an insalubrious dive in Shadwell. She was with Michael O’Neill, an acquaintance from way back, who’d only recently reappeared in London after years in Ireland. He’d lost little time in getting to know Ruby again, and she couldn’t say she minded. He was funny, with a rough and ready charm, and seemed to pride himself on being a snappy dresser, for a self-proclaimed ‘poor Irish boy’. He always seemed to be wearing a soft felt hat with a curled brim, in vivid emerald green: the colour of the old country, as he put it.
She was feeling a bit tipsy, and had just about decided to tell Michael she was heading home, when he leaned in close.
‘Ruby. See that fella just leavin’? The one with the checked waistcoat?’
‘Sure enough. The one who’s been buyin’ drinks for his mates all evening? What of him?’
‘I know him a little. I want to make him a business proposition, and I don’t know when I’ll see him next. Do me a favour, will you?’
‘What?’
‘Follow him out. Catch up with him and tell him you want to show him something. Mosey into Brickbat Alley with him. It’s just along the street.’
‘What kind of a girl do you think I am, Michael O’Neill? I’ll do no such thing!’
‘Oh, come on. I don’t want you to actually do anything. Just attract his attention. Then I’ll take over. I’ve hidden a parcel in the alley. Stuff I need to show him. It’s a doddle. You’ll see. Listen, do this for me and and I’ve got some tickets for the music hall. That show you wanted to see.’ He slid his hand into an inside pocket and revealed the corners of what might have been tickets.
Her eyes lit up. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Good. Come on. We’ve got to go now or he’ll be away.’
They left the pub
and spotted the man about a hundred yards away, walking east, towards the alley. His rolling gait suggested he’d had a few too many.
Ruby hesitated. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Smith. George Smith. Go on now, I’ll hang back a bit.’
Ruby sang out. ‘Mr Smith! Hello!’
The man halted in his tracks and turned. ‘Hello, lady. Well, you’re a fine one. You have me mistaken. My name’s Webb, not Smith. But don’t let that stop you.’ He essayed a leer.
Ruby frowned for a moment. She decided that Michael must have made an honest mistake. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I wonder, would you do a lady a little favour?’ She nodded in the direction of the alley.
‘Forward, aren’t you? Well, as far as I can see you look clean, and you speak proper, so on the whole I can see nothing wrong with your proposal.’
They moved together into the cobbled passage. Webb smiled, removed his top hat and placed it on a packing case. Three shapes loomed up behind them.
‘Mr… Webb, is it?’ It was Michael’s voice. But where had the other two come from?
Webb whirled round, grabbing his hat and pushing it back on his head. ‘Who might you be, gentlemen?’
‘It just so happens, sir, that we’re the O’Neill boys, originally from Cork, in God’s own country of Ireland. But more germane to this matter, sir, is that young Ruby is our poor and innocent cousin, you see.’
‘Really? What a coincidence. Well, she’s a fine girl.’
‘That’s true, sir. Very true. Too fine, you might say, to be taken advantage of by a swell like yourself, in this foul alley.’
‘Taken advantage of? What do you mean? It was she who suggested—’
Michael wagged a finger at Webb. ‘Now, now, sir. It wouldn’t do to be making any suggestions like that. I happened to notice in the pub earlier, that you’re a man of means, sir. Means enough to pay a little insurance against the possibility of your good name being sullied by rumours of… what? Molesting a lady?’ Michael looked to his two accomplices, who grunted their assent.
