Death Dogs (The Lucas Gedge Thrillers Book 2)

by Andy Emery

  Darius leaned in and studied the list. ‘Your friend Mr Cross ought to take a look at this, to see if he can pick out any names that are “known to the police”, as they say.’

  They stayed for an hour. Ackroyd kept them supplied with cups of tea while they righted the bookcase and filing cabinet, retrieved all the papers, and swept up.

  When Gedge and Darius arrived back at White Lion Street, they found Polly and Miss Fowler in a state of excitement.

  ‘Lucas! We’ve got some news! Miss Fowler’s uncovered something in Claude’s files that elaborates on what Hawthorne told you. What happened at the bookshop?’

  ‘We saved the owner Ackroyd from a gang of masked thugs, apparently known as the “Death Dogs”. They’re members of a cult that worships the Egyptian god Wepwawet. Ackroyd gave us his mailing list and we’ve just delivered it to Jack Cross. I’m sure he’ll come up with something interesting. What have you discovered?’

  ‘The revelations are Miss Fowler’s, not mine. Come along, Maude.’

  The little woman stepped out from Polly’s shadow. As usual, she appeared nervous, her eyes downcast but darting this way and that. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun.

  ‘Mostly, it confirms what Mr Hawthorne told you about the incidents at Edinburgh and Cambridge. But Mr Rondeau had looked into it a little more. He had drawn links to robberies at warehouses that store antiquities, and an occasion a few months ago when several boxes of archaeological remains were stolen at the docks almost before they’d made landfall in this country, having been sent by ship from Alexandria in Egypt.

  ‘And this business of the scarabs? I think they are actually dung beetles, by the way. Disgusting! Mr Rondeau had somehow ferreted out references in obscure police reports on papers found with scarabs drawn on them, to men acting suspiciously and wearing a kind of beetle brooch, and to evening bookings of this “Mystical Order of Wepwawet” at halls all over East London. They seem to meet every few weeks if what I’ve seen is anything to go by.’

  Gedge smiled. ‘Well done, Miss Fowler. It certainly sounds as though this was the reason for Claude’s dying words.’ He looked up at Polly. ‘He must have seen that scarab and connected the dots.’

  She nodded. ‘The scarabs seem to be their way of identifying themselves as cult members.’

  ‘Each individual incident doesn’t sound serious,’ said Miss Fowler. ‘Apart from that poor man’s death, of course. But when you put them all together, it looks very much like this group are trying to find some sort of relic.’

  Darius sighed. ‘Something that is very valuable to them.’

  Gedge looked at him. ‘The grimoire.’

  II

  15

  Cotter and Ruby huddled in a corner of the snug at the Admiral Jervis Inn. Gedge had asked Cotter to meet him there in half an hour, but it was clear Ruby was worried about something and wanted to talk about it.

  Ruby’s pretty face was illuminated by the orange glow of the nearest gas sconce. Her striking red hair escaped the confines of her demure bonnet and curled around her shoulders. In his way, he loved her, but there was a part of her he’d never know.

  He bought the drinks, and she recounted the story of her being used as a decoy for O’Neill’s strong-arming of Webb.

  ‘What worries me is where it’ll lead. It was violent enough, in the alley there. But I can see Michael wanting to go further, to get me involved in worse rackets. Shakin’ people down, he calls it. Says we mustn’t feel sorry for the well-off because they’ve got plenty and once they’ve got over the shock of bein’ robbed or whatever, they’ll be back to normal and think nothing of it. One time he said we’re like that Robin ’ood, up in Nottingham in the Middle Ages. Took from the rich and gave to the poor, he says.’

  Cotter grunted. ‘But in this case, he’s takin’ from the rich and givin’ to his gang. It’s not quite the same thing.’

  ‘And I’m not comfortable with it. Fleecin’ people. And alright, you might say I should keep those thoughts to myself if I want to run with them, but what next? I’m afraid he’s goin’ to want me to, you know, sell myself. He’s always sayin’ what a pretty face I’ve got, what a lovely body.’

  Cotter reddened. It wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to hear. He thought for a moment. ‘Rube, I know something about the Flynn gang. They’ve never been known for runnin’ prostitutes. It was something old Seamus Flynn always steered clear of. This might sound rum, but for a criminal, he’s got a strict moral code. Certain things he won’t do. Drugs is another one of ’em. Maybe it’s because he wants to stay with the old ways he knows.’

  ‘But Michael’s changed things, hasn’t he? Calling them the Banshees for one thing. Maybe he’s got things goin’ on behind Seamus’s back.’

  Cotter nodded. ‘I suppose it’s possible. But I’m goin’ to see what I can do. You see, I used to know Seamus Flynn. I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘Are you sure? If you could, it would be wonderful, Leo!’

  ‘Nothin’ to lose.’

  ‘Except getting a beating, maybe?’

  They were laughing together by the time Gedge appeared. Cotter made the introductions.

  ‘Ah, Miss Brown. I recognise you from Leo’s photograph albums.’

  She chuckled but didn’t blush. ‘A good likeness, Mr Gedge? Some of those pictures don’t leave a lot to the imagination.’

  ‘Very… artistic, I’m sure.’

  After a few minutes of small-talk, Ruby said she wanted an early night and departed, leaving the two men to talk.

  Gedge described the encounter at the bookshop and said he would liaise with Jack Cross about the mailing list. Then they drifted into small talk.

  Gedge looked wistful for a second. ‘Sparky girl, your Ruby.’

  ‘She’s not “mine”, but I am fond of her. Listen, Lucas. Something’s come up. I can’t tell you about it. Not yet. But you’ll be alright without my help for a while?’

  ‘Yes, of course. My friend Darius is always available if I need an ally. But is there something wrong? Something I can help you with?’

  ‘No. This is something I’ve got to handle meself. But thanks for asking. If things get hairy down the line, we’ll see.’

  Polly was bent over the kitchen table, scrutinising some paperwork, when the doorbell rang. A delivery boy in uniform stood on the step and held out a bunch of flowers. It was an impressive arrangement of blue and yellow spring blossoms, set off by green foliage.

  ‘My goodness! Whoever has sent these?’

  ‘There’s a note.’ The boy turned tail and hared back up White Lion Street.

  Polly took the flowers to the kitchen, trimmed the stems, and placed them in a vase. She examined the small white envelope which bore the words Miss Polly Rondeau. She tore it open, revealing a notelet.

  To dearest Polly

  From a friend

  Her breath quickened and a hand flew to her mouth. It was identical to a note she had found on the doormat not two weeks previously, before Gedge’s return from Sussex. She had half wondered, that first time, whether he had been the culprit. But she knew such games were not in his nature, so who else could it be?

  It was true she had met many men in the last few months, a lot of them paying their respects on the loss of her father. There were many possibilities, but none she considered realistic.

  She shook her head and put the note and its envelope in one of the kitchen drawers.

  Gedge retired to his bed early that evening, and fell into a deep slumber as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Swirling coloured smoke, its tendrils fingering their way towards him, worming their way inside his brain. Hypnotic, wailing rhythms, repeated endlessly, dulling some of his senses but heightening others. And above all, a tremendous heat, bathing him in sweat, pressing down on him.

  Then, through the vapours, a face emerges. A man. Blond hair cropped close to his skull. A scar across his chin. And, incongruously, smiling at Gedge, seeming to offer salvation from
the assault on his senses.

  The man speaks. He forms words, smiling all the while, but Gedge cannot hear a thing he says, above the constant ululation. The man leans closer, his smile fading. He studies Gedge’s face, staring, still speaking silently. He shakes his head and his face recedes, disappears into the smoke. Gedge wants to shout out, to call him back, to ask him who he is. But no sound emerges from his mouth. All hope has gone.

  Gedge came down to the kitchen the next morning, his head throbbing, and found Polly at the sink.

  ‘Lucas! You look awful! What’s happened? Have you had a dream?’

  ‘How did you guess? I wanted to talk to you about it. But if you’re busy with something—’

  ‘No, of course not. Tell me.’

  Gedge took his usual place at the kitchen table, cradling a hot mug of coffee. He told her about the nightmare. ‘The thing is, this one was different. This blonde man, he was at the heart of it. Previously he was on the periphery. I think my sessions with Raistrick have somehow caused my subconscious to focus on him. And I’m getting the feeling that I know more about him than I can so far remember. I think he’s a foreigner.’

  ‘Well, this was in Afghanistan.’

  ‘No, I mean he wasn’t British, and neither was he an Afghan. I’m sure there’s more about him, locked up here.’ He tapped his skull.

  ‘Does it matter who he was? You’re hardly likely to see him again.’

  ‘I know it seems ridiculous, but I’m left with a feeling of foreboding. And it’s connected with this man. I want to try to discover who he is, or was. As it happens, Raistrick has asked if he can come up to London in a few days. Now, I’ll definitely take him up on that.’

  ‘Tell him he can stay here. I’ll get the spare room ready for him.’

  ‘That’s kind.’

  Polly smiled. ‘Well, I always find medical men interesting to talk to.’

  They were quiet for a while. Polly pointed to the flowers on the windowsill. ‘You haven’t mentioned those.’

  ‘Colourful. Is there something special about them?’

  ‘Something mysterious.’ She took the note from the drawer and showed him.

  ‘So who are they from?’

  ‘That’s the point. I’ve no idea. But it’s the same handwriting as a note I received a few weeks ago. It said the same thing. From a friend.’

  ‘That’s a little unnerving. But I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’

  She sighed. ‘You’re probably right. It’s not important, with everything else that’s going on.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve just received a letter myself. But I know who this one is from. Care to accompany me down to Leman Street?’

  Gedge’s first visit to the Metropolitan Police’s H Division headquarters had been distinctly unpleasant, as he had been more or less accused of doing away with his own daughter. But relations with the Inspector had warmed considerably, especially when they had cooperated in helping to ease the borough’s weather-related problems over the winter.

  Inspector Cross ushered Gedge and Polly to his office.

  ‘Your letter said you’d found something interesting in the bookshop’s mailing list, Jack?’

  ‘Yes. I compared it to police files on convicted men, suspects, and any other names I might find interesting. As I expected, there’s a number of minor felons, some who are “of interest to the police” as we say, but there’s one other name that sticks out. A Mr Theodore Levitt.’

  Gedge leaned forward. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘We apprehended him that night in Clerkenwell. He was one of the clients of the girl-trafficking ring.’

  It was the night Gedge had rescued his daughter from the gang’s clutches; the night Claude Rondeau was murdered. Although the two ringleaders had been killed and a few lesser lights arrested, many of the customers of the gang had got away.

  ‘Is he the one you’ve mentioned before? The individual whose mind seemed to have gone? Didn’t you say he was considered mad and institutionalised?’

  ‘Exactly. And he now resides at another location well known to you. The newly reopened Farnsworth Asylum.’

  Another memory jolt for Gedge. He had been captured and taken to the old boiler house at the mothballed Asylum. An agonising fate had awaited him before Polly and her father had helped him escape.

  Polly, who had seemed uninterested up to that point, suddenly spoke up. ‘Lucas! That’s it. Don’t you see? Inspector Cross was right. There is a connection to Father’s death. If this Levitt is on that list, then he must be the one Claude saw, with the scarab, just before he died. He might know something about the girl Sally. I’m convinced she was the one who knifed Father!’

  Gedge nodded. ‘We certainly need to talk to Levitt, if we can. But I wonder if he’s in a fit enough state to answer questions, or to even understand us. Jack, how do we go about seeing him?’

  ‘I’ll approach the governor, a Professor Demeter. He’s aware of the police’s interest, of course, but he’s advised that questioning Levitt will be fruitless. As I told you before, his condition went rapidly downhill after he was arrested, and continued to do so at Farnsworth, I gather. Also, Demeter’s an awkward bugger. Not the most amenable. I’ll apply some pressure, if necessary through our government friend.’

  Cross was referring to Hugh Garland, who worked at the Intelligence Department of the War Office and had also become involved in the trafficking case back in the autumn.

  ‘Lucas,’ said Polly. ‘Both of us need to get in to see Levitt. Remember, I had dealings with Sally. I must try to find out all he knows about her.’

  Cross shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Miss Rondeau. I expect you will be able to see him, but as to how useful it will be, I would advise you not to get your hopes up too high.’

  16

  Omsk Penal Fort, Western Siberia, Russia

  1st May 1885

  Nicolai Volkov stands alone, leaning against the outside wall of the barracks. He finishes the hand-rolled cigarette and grinds it into the dirt floor of the courtyard with his boot. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and feels a dart of pain from the brand that was seared onto his left shoulder eleven months earlier. He surveys the walls of the stockade, in the faint hope of spotting a weakness that can be exploited for an escape. Despite the fact that the stockade appears to have been built in the middle ages, with little upkeep, he knows that no such weakness exists. And even if he did get out, where would he go in Siberia?

  To be alone! The experience is almost unique in this place. Volkov is mostly locked into the barracks with hundreds of other men, living cheek by jowl, sometimes in physical contact with his neighbours. He breathes in the same foul air that has passed through dozens of lungs, many of them diseased. The very fabric of the place seems to moulder before the eyes. The floorboards have given way in several places, revealing a protean ooze lurking below and presenting a leg-breaking risk for the unwary.

  In summer, the place is unforgivingly hot; in the winter, men can end up frozen to the hard planks that suffice for beds. With any wind, draughts tear through the numerous gaps in the wooden walls. And at all times except dead of night, there is a ceaseless cacophony of human activity, as each inmate indulges his private efforts to shut out the others.

  This is a rare moment for Volkov: finding himself more than three yards from any other human body. The guards have removed thirty prisoners in order to make a repair to the wall, where several planks have given way, potentially allowing inmates to tumble out into the courtyard. The chosen thirty have spread themselves around the space, silently enjoying this ‘apartness’. Double their number of guards are watching them, rifles at the ready.

  Not twenty minutes after their turfing out, Volkov hears the order to return. The guards move towards them, tightening the circle and shepherding them back to the barracks. As Volkov trudges away, another prisoner sidles up to him. His name is Smirnov, and he has some sort of disease; something that has been eating away at
him from the inside. The other prisoners know that he doesn’t have long, and avoid him because of it. He is treated like a bad luck token. He moves in close to Volkov, breathing heavily and grasping his side.

  ‘Nicolai.’ His voice is a whisper.

  A dreadful gurgling escapes Smirnov’s throat. He grabs his chest with both hands, and topples onto his back in the dirt. He thrashes about, and reaches up, grasping Volkov’s leg with both hands. But Volkov can feel he has no strength in his arms.

  The nearest guard approaches, his rifle lowered, pointed at Smirnov. ‘You, get up!’

  ‘He can’t,’ says Volkov. ‘He’s dying.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘Just pointing out the obvious, sir.’

  The guard raises his gun and points it at Volkov. ‘Shut up and get back into the barracks. It’s none of your concern.’

  Volkov shrugs and makes to walk off, but Smirnov grabs his trouser legs, holding on as best he can.

  Volkov looks at the guard for a moment, then back to Smirnov. The left side of Volkov’s face is momentarily convulsed by a muscle tremor. He wrenches his right leg free of Smirnov’s grip, and brings his boot down on the scrawny head of his fellow prisoner. He hears something crack, something break between his heel and the gravel. The guard stares at him open-mouthed, for a second lowering the gun. Blood seeps from Smirnov’s nose and mouth, and from the crack in his skull. He is silent. Volkov turns and marches back into the barracks.

  He enters the wall of noise. Nearby, one man reads from the bible, shouting out the words of the old testament to try and drown out his neighbour, who is singing a raucous show tune. Huddled on the floor, a group play cards, calling out shrill imprecations to their competitors. A tall man further away stands bolt upright, playing a mouth organ and doing a jig. A bearded fellow files away at a piece of metal and another, plainly in distress, bashes his own head with a ladle.