by Andy Emery
Gedge was fast on the draw, and he suspected the accuracy of Mullan’s weapon would be poor at best.
Gedge shrugged as if to admit defeat, but a moment later, he threw himself down and to his left, bringing the revolver up. He’d have a fraction of a second in which to fire before he hit the floor.
He felt the rush of the bullet from Mullan’s gun, heard the cracking sound it made, as his finger squeezed his own trigger.
As he hit the ground, already rolling and preparing to fire again, he saw the big man toppling off his throne with a puff of smoke gathering around him. There was a wound in his shoulder that must have been Gedge’s bullet. There was also a corona of black burns across his chest, and his face was red and bleeding. There was no sign of Mullan’s gun, except for a few wooden splinters which fell to the floor as he crashed down. So much for the prisoners’ home-spun weapon: it had exploded in his hands.
Gedge jumped up and leant over Mullan. The man was still alive, but probably not for long.
‘If you can hear me, answer this. Did Yallop have any visitors in the last few days?’
Mullan coughed and spluttered. ‘Young girl. Long black hair. Couple of days ago. We chided him about that, but he wouldn’t say what she wanted.’
Gedge heard a commotion coming from the entrance to the wing and ran to investigate. It was Inspector Cross and two constables. The fire had spread, and flames were now licking up and down the staircase.
‘Lucas! Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. Still no fire engines. We’re going to have to abandon the asylum.’
‘Can you get a couple more bobbies up here? There are five men who I’ve put out of commission, but we can’t just let them die up here. You’ll find the last warder in there as well. He’ll be alright. And there’s Levitt...’ He turned and sprinted back, past the groaning bodies of Brand, the Cokers and Mullan, and flung open the door to Levitt’s cell.
There was nobody there. He peered round the dim space. Everything appeared the same as when they’d visited Levitt. Had Mullan lied? Were Levitt and Yallop in one of the cells that he’d just run past, hiding and staying silent?
It was then that he noticed the one thing that was different about Levitt’s cell: the window above the bed. It was small, and made to seem smaller by the two metal bars across it. The bars had been there on his last visit, but now they were gone, with the cut-away ends standing half an inch proud of the stonework. A bedsheet was knotted around them and hung down outside. Gedge realised with a groan that the space was just big enough for a human body to pass through, certainly one as thin as Levitt, and no doubt Yallop as well.
Cross ran into the cell. ‘I got six more constables. We’re hauling your victims down now. No sign of Levitt? We’ve got to go!’
Gedge nodded at the window. ‘What’s on the other side of this wall?’
‘We must be on the north side of the asylum here. It’s a service road leading to Liverpool Street railway station. Goods wagons and the like.’
‘Levitt has escaped. But with some encouragement, I suspect. Yallop, one of his fellow prisoners, used to work for the Banshees, and a woman resembling our friend Sally O’Riordan visited him the other day. Put that together with O’Neill overhearing Cotter’s pillow talk about the grimoire, and what appears to be a riot looks more like a prison break.’
29
As usual, the letterbox at number 14 White Lion Street rattled at 7am. There were several more deliveries during the day, but the greatest quantity of mail always came with the first post.
Polly wiped her hands on her pinafore and picked up the wad of letters, looking over the envelopes as she wandered back to the kitchen. Among them was a small package, about six inches by three. She dropped the letters on the table and started to unwrap the package, but stopped dead as she turned it over and saw the address label. It was handwritten, clearly by the same anonymous hand that had penned the other recent notes.
For a moment, she considered dumping the unopened packet in the rubbish basket, but her curiosity caused her to carefully pull apart the brown wrapping. She opened a layer of tissue paper to reveal a carved wooden object: a bear. From pictures she had seen, and how she imagined them to look, it was an accurate rendition. The creature was standing and looking up with what seemed a quizzical expression. The wood was pale, and she could make out the marks of whatever instrument had been used to whittle the fine details around the face and the texture of the fur around its flanks.
It was a beautiful object. But who had sent it? There was no note.
She jumped as the door knocker rapped out a staccato beat. What now?
She tucked the wooden bear into a drawer and opened the door to find a man beaming at her. He was tall and spare, with unkempt hair, grey whiskers and a stubbly beard, and was wearing a moth-eaten brown overcoat and a spotted scarf. He’d dumped a bulging portmanteau on the step. Something about his dishevelled appearance made her think of an older Gedge. An alert-looking fox terrier was straining at a leash in his hand. It let out a loud bark and reared up towards her.
She laughed and leant down to pet the dog, as his owner spoke, in an educated and enunciated voice. ‘For pity’s sake, Crichton. Leave the poor young woman alone!’ He addressed Polly. ‘Good day. I assume you are Miss Polly Rondeau? I am Doctor Howard Raistrick. It is a pleasure, my dear.’ He bowed deeply.
‘Please. There’s no need for such formality, Doctor.’
‘As you know, I treated your friend Mr Lucas Gedge at my home down in Sussex. He suggested I come up to Spitalfields at some point and, well, here I am. I hope it’s not too inconvenient?’
‘Oh no, not at all. Lucas was talking of you only this morning. Please come in. And you, Crichton.’ The terrier bounded inside, peering around.
Inspector Jack Cross looked through the bars of the cell at the Death Dog they’d captured during the auction room robbery. He was an evil-looking type, with a hatchet face and scar. He was the same one whose mask Gedge had torn off at the esoteric bookshop. But he wasn’t talking. Cross was considering using methods that were less than legal; the cult were causing mayhem and he needed answers.
But now the thug was ill. A doctor was convinced it was a real ailment, having been vomited over during his visit. Was it the jail food?
He lay curled up on the narrow bed, his body jerking spasmodically, then rolled over and faced Cross. There was something on the floor next to the bed.
Cross unlocked the cell and crept in. He stayed alert, just in case the Death Dog was faking it. He bent down and peered at the brown fragments on the concrete. Certainly organic. Some were papery, disintegrating to dust. Some were more fleshy. Dried plant material?
He picked up the larger pieces and turned them over in his hand. Flattish segments, ridged and fluted on one side. They reminded him of something. But what?
Then it hit him: these were the dried fragments of mushrooms. Or perhaps in this case, toadstools would be a more apt description.
‘Sergeant! Get that medic here now! We’re going to have to pump this bugger’s stomach out!’
30
Central London
23rd February 1891
Volkov rubs the sleep from his eyes. He gets up, goes to the window and pulls back the faded curtains. Outside, four floors below, there is the early morning clatter of Cambridge Circus as first light brightens the eastern horizon. A team of men erect a set of posters for the new show on the frontage of the Palace Theatre. A dray cart stands outside the Cambridge public house, the horse munching on straw while the beer barrels are unloaded. Directly below, there’s a scratching sound as a lamplighter extinguishes another street light.
Six months after escaping from his prison transport in Siberia, Volkov is in London. This spartan room has been made available to him for the night by an acquaintance of a friend of a contact in the murky European radical network. No questions asked. He will vacate it in an hour to start pursuing the twin goals of his journey: the acquisition and su
bsequent sale of an item that will raise tens of thousands of roubles for the revolutionary cause, and to find his long-lost daughter. After his years of incarceration, he relishes the idea of moving freely in a foreign capital, developing his schemes under the very noses of the so-called authorities.
The dray moves off along Charing Cross Road. Volkov feels a pulse of pain from the brand on his shoulder. The mark consists of the letters KAT, for katorzhnik, or penal labourer, then the letter A, for the Akmolynsk Province where the Omsk Penal Fort is situated, and finally the year of his detention, 1882. Many of those who escape or are released after their sentences view the brands as shameful and go to extraordinary lengths to remove them. Some use acids to eat them away. Some make incisions in the brand and allow the flesh to putrefy, so that the rotted skin eliminates any sign of the dyed characters. But, despite the regular throbbing pain that’s still with him after all these years, Volkov considers the mark to be a badge of honour. It shows he has survived the worst the regime has to throw at him, short of execution. He doesn’t want to forget his years in Siberia. Far from it. They are now part of who he is.
He dresses, and considers the first stage in his plan. He must infiltrate a secret organisation, and to do that he will adopt another personality. He takes the German guidebook and the slim volume on archaeology from the bedside table and packs them in his knapsack. He needs to head east again, but only a distance of a few miles, to London’s East End, to the streets and alleys of Whitechapel and Spitalfields.
After completing his packing, he looks out of the window again for the last time. He smiles as he looks down at the little people scurrying about below, with their ridiculous, insignificant concerns. He is made for bigger things. He will be the very saviour of his country. He sees a spider on the window frame and squashes it with his fingertip.
31
I’ve been feelin’ like a weak little fool, Ruby.’
‘Oh, come on, Leo. You need to lighten up a bit. We’ll be alright, you’ll see.’ She entwined her arm in his, nestled her head on his shoulder. They were walking home down Brick Lane, after a late supper.
Cotter pulled free and looked at her, shaking his head. ‘It’s no good, Rube. I’ve got to do something.’
‘But what? They’re dangerous, the Flynn gang.’
‘I know that better than anyone. But I told you, I know Seamus Flynn. I’ll bet O’Neill’s up to something. He’s a right chancer. And Flynn’s got this strange vein of morality runnin’ through ’im.’
She shook her head. ‘So he robs and murders, but he’s choosy about how he does it?’
‘Summat like that. The point is, I’ve gotta get back at O’Neill. He’s got something on me, and I can’t stand it.’
‘It’s too bloody dangerous. Their thugs’ll ruin those boyish good looks.’
Cotter winced. ‘Rube, you know I hate that baby face talk. My mind’s made up.’
They walked the rest of the way home in silence.
The next night, Cotter put his plan into action. He’d told Ruby he’d have to spend the next few evenings developing some important pictures. He knew she didn’t believe him, but as luck would have it, those few nights corresponded with a lucrative modelling job she’d been offered, south of the river. All above board, clothes kept on, and ferried back home by hansom afterwards, albeit not until one o’clock in the morning. What Ruby didn’t know was that her employer was doing a favour for his mate Leonidas Cotter.
Over the last few weeks, Ruby had let slip the names of several pubs and other joints that were connected with O’Neill. Cotter had an excellent memory, and he regurgitated a list of these places onto a piece of paper and made sure he memorised it.
The first night he chose the one pub that she’d mentioned twice: The Bell over in Stepney. On a freezing cold night, he lingered around street corners around the pub, avoiding bobbies wandering by, occasionally swinging past the picture windows of the establishment to double-check that O’Neill wasn’t there. After three hours, there was still no sign of him.
Cotter wondered if he should go in and ask if anybody had seen the Irishman, but decided that was too risky; he couldn’t chance word getting around that someone of his description had been asking after O’Neill.
The next night, he went to a gambling den just off the Whitechapel Road. A dozen variations of card game, hundreds of chances per night of losing your shirt. He had a comfortable perch this time: a mate of his lived just across the street, and he sat in a first floor bedroom window with the light off and the curtain open just a crack. He sat like that from eleven at night until the remaining gamblers were chucked out at six the next morning. Again, no sign of O’Neill.
It was tempting to think he’d never spot his quarry. But policemen he’d known who’d kept suspects under surveillance had told him their job was mostly tedious waiting around, so he knew what to expect. Tomorrow there’d be another location, more waiting, more looking, another stiff neck.
The first two nights had been almost humdrum, but the third was much more interesting. The Black Boar was a pub with a reputation. A bad one. A few streets away from the docks in Shadwell, the place was renowned as a hangout for petty criminals of every kind, and the roughest sailors of a dozen nations. The innkeeper, a rangy, tattooed brute called Maynard Cain, was reputed to be as vicious as some of his clientele. And he was also said to funnel a large proportion of his takings to the Banshees in exchange for protection.
Cotter wore a shapeless coat and a cloth cap that cast a shadow over most of his face as he hung around fifty yards from the pub, well away from the glow of the nearest gas lamp. He lit and pretended to drag on a succession of cigarettes.
His heart missed a beat when, after twenty minutes of waiting, O’Neill’s green hat appeared from out of a side street. He was with two other men, and the three of them entered the Black Boar.
Cotter crossed the road, and despite his eagerness to see what the Irishman was up to, forced himself to amble towards the pub.
The sounds of piano music and ribald laughter surrounded him as he peered through the stained glass window, trying to discern O’Neill among the shadowy human forms within.
No luck. As he hesitated outside the door, Cotter realised the stakes had raised. He was no longer standing around hoping to spot his target, perhaps secretly relieved that he did not. Now, the man was in there, the second most influential figure in one of the biggest gangs in London. The hairs raised on the back of his neck.
He waited until four stout lascars came waddling down the road, appearing already half cut, and thrust open the front door. He slipped in behind them, head down, surreptitiously scanning the room.
Cotter almost let forth a hoarse cough as the smoke-filled atmosphere hit his lungs. His eyes stung. The place was packed. An obese woman in a brown-stained excuse for a dress played the piano, bawling at the top of her voice what he could only guess was an approximation to a music hall ditty. Appreciative customers huddled around tables roaring their approval and downing glasses of cloudy beer. They were a mixture of white Europeans and sailors who, for all he knew, could have originated from the Middle East, India or Southeast Asia. In one dimly lit corner of the room, he could make out a group of Chinamen or their ilk. Several of them were hunched over a table, engrossed in some activity. As his eyes passed over the table, one of the group who was facing Cotter lifted his head and inhaled deeply, his eyes lifting to the ceiling, his body subsequently being racked with some sort of spasm.
Behind the bar, the man with a cropped head and bare sinewy arms adorned with tattoos could only be Maynard Cain. He grinned as the group of new customers approached to order their drinks.
Cotter saw O’Neill, disappearing through a door into a back room. The Irishman and his two friends had been joined by another man. The green hat passed through the doorway, and the door closed behind him.
‘What’ll you have then, mate?’ Cain addressed him with raised eyebrows.
Cotter had
to buy some time, think what to do. He obviously couldn’t just go barging into the back room. So he did his best to sound confident, and ordered a beer.
‘First time in here?’
‘That’s right. Heard you have a lively establishment. Thought I’d take a look.’
Cain’s eyes assessed Cotter. ‘Is that right? I tend to think of the Black Boar as something of a local secret. Still, won’t do any harm if our fame’s spreading.’
It was hot in the bar and Cotter loosened his collar with a finger. His attempt at small talk had fallen flat and clearly Cain already had him marked out as a stranger and an oddball; someone to keep an eye on. Just what he didn’t want.
He took himself to the far end of the bar and was relieved when another set of newcomers arrived and took Cain’s attention. After sipping his drink for a few minutes, he thought of something: the land rose up behind the pub to a ridge that ran parallel to the river. The side streets either side of the Black Boar went uphill, which suggested that any rooms at the same level as the ground floor, but at the rear of the property, would effectively be in a basement. He rubbed his chin for a moment, downed the last of his pint, got up and left the bar.
He could feel Cain’s gaze burning into his back as he left.
He turned right up the side street and, indeed, the ground level rose by about eight feet behind the building. At the rear, an alley ran along the back of the pub. At the corner, a set of steps led down to what he could see was the door to the kitchen. Lights were on and he could see pots and pans and, vaguely through the steamed-up windows, an old man drying dishes. Cotter tiptoed past the top of the steps and, a few feet further on, saw what he was looking for. The top few inches of a sash window sat above the ground level, with the rest lying below. Over most of its length, the window gave onto a brick wall about six inches in front of it. But from above, he could clearly see into the first few feet of the room at the rear of the pub.
