When a bonneted woman walked into the shop shortly afterwards to enquire about a mantel clock in the window, she found the place completely empty. Only a sharp, sulphurous pall remained.
SIX
The prisoner lay sleeping on his mattress at Giltspur-street. He turned frequently and murmured indistinct words. Were we to enter his head and observe his feverish dreams, what would we see?
It is murky in the oneiric theatre of his mind. One has to stoop and fumble to find one’s way in the darkness. There is a foetid stench of damp wood, tar and verminous bilge water. As our eyes become accustomed, we see double ranks of bunks astride a narrow aisle. There are dozens of faces and a reek of sour humanity. All is in motion and the very ground rises and falls precipitously like the sleeper’s chest. It is a nauseating and claustrophobic place full of fear and foreboding. A boy can be heard crying . . .
He awoke with a start. He was again alone in the cell, lying prostrate and perspiring on the mattress. It was the day after the Lambeth murder, though he knew nothing of it. Just below his window, the street was going about its business, carrying the sounds and smells up to him: horse hooves and ironbound wheels; snatches of speech as people passed on the pavement; a dray pulling up and a consignment of rattling beer bottles being delivered to the gaol. The smell of the horses twitched at his nostrils and, as he cast his eyes towards the sky, he could see the tower of St Sepulchre raking the clouds. The mournful windows of its east wall looked blankly back at him. At the whimsy of the breeze, the bestiary of Smithfield market would, on Mondays, bring the mingled cries of innumerable sheep, cattle and swine to the cell on a hot wind of manure.
He cast a glance at the iron slat in the door. It was closed and there was no sound in the corridor outside. He reached for one of his cork-soled shoes and pulled firmly against the sole until it began to part from the leather. Between the two was secreted the means to communicate with the outside world.
He stood and clasped the cold iron bars of the window in his hands. They were sturdy and unmoving. The street was directly below him and he observed that the people passed by without casting a glance upwards. He might have been invisible, observing them so. It was common enough knowledge that the solitary cells of Giltspur-street gaol faced the street, but few people were bold enough to stop and converse with a criminal in daylight. Better to pretend that no eyes lurked there behind the bars, and to instead affect an animated conversation as one passed.
Someone, however, was looking. A street-sweeping boy on the corner with Skinner-street, too lackadaisical to attend to his labour, twirled his broom and looked into the windows of the solitary cells. His shoes were rags of leather about his feet and his man’s jacket an oversized cloak around his bony shoulders. As he observed, a prisoner’s arm extended through the bars and beckoned. The sharp-eyed lad could not help but notice a sovereign glinting between the fingers.
Nor was he the only sharp-eyed observer on the street. Inspector Newsome had stationed men about the gaol with exactly this sort of occurrence in mind. Detective Constable Bryant and the civilian-clothed PC saw the street-sweeper lean his brush nonchalantly against the wall of the gaol and set off west along Skinner-street.
Inspector Newsome had promised them traffic duty on London-bridge if the boy was lost, and, though such a Draconian punishment was not likely, failure would certainly have grave consequences.
As a denizen of these streets, the boy moved quickly and assuredly towards the thunderous noise of upper Farringdon-street where the confluence of traffic from Field-lane, Holborn-hill and Skinner-street swirled in a deafening maelstrom of hooves, iron-bound wheels and the cries of drivers. Only one born on the streets would attempt to cross the thoroughfare on foot, risking mutilation and death under the goods wagons and omnibuses.
Indeed, even as the two policemen attempted to follow the boy, a lurching omnibus caught the corner of a goods wagon and a wheel was wrenched loose with the fracturing crack of a falling tree. The wagon keeled over, one of its horses stumbled and a wave of oranges poured into the road. In a moment, the fruit was pulped beneath the traffic and a heady citrus tang filled the air. Pedestrians gasped and dashed recklessly between horses’ legs to grasp the precious fruit. Pandemonium set uniformed police screaming at drivers, who in turn screamed at each other.
Through all of this, the boy slipped determinedly through, pausing only to stuff an orange in each voluminous trouser pocket. Then he was across the cacophonous gulf and up Holborn-hill, paying no heed to the inns, the saucy words of street girls and a staggering guardsman bringing his scarlet tunic into further disrepute. Whatever the boy was doing, wherever he was going, he had a great sense of purpose.
Along Holborn he strode, that conduit between east and west which might equally stand as a border between nations, dividing the tree-dappled shade of western squares and the grim masonry labyrinths of the east. On and on he walked, undistracted by the traffic or the shops. On and on, down on to Broad-street on the periphery of St Giles, where every dark alley holds an opportunity for sin or death, then up High-street and into the very aorta of the city’s circulation: Oxford-street.
This pulsing artery of top hats and bonnets, carriages, cabs and omnibuses is London vivisected. See here the beggar with his pitiful card reading ‘Lord help my poor soul’, the liveried footman waiting patiently at the shop door, the seller of spaniels beneath the streetlight, the policeman dissuading fights between drivers, and the advertising men with boards on their backs telling interested passers-by that Ross & Sons, Perruquiers of Bishopsgate-street, have in stock the latest toupees and perukes.
But the purposeful boy walks on, distracted not by the smell of leather goods, or of meat pies, or of hot sugared confections from the doors he passes. Neither by the crack of the horseman’s whip, or the cries of ‘All right!’ from the omnibus driver, of the dung flicked against his calves by those other boys of his trade – for he has a sovereign tight within his fist and stands to earn another when he reaches his goal, and yet another when returning to Giltspur. It is his fortune and he will yam meat pies until he grows a pig’s curly tail.
Behind him, the two policemen hurry to keep pace and lift their hats to wipe away sweat with their sleeves. In the rush of humanity, as the boy passes frequently from sight, they are forced to push past and through knots of people to follow him. And as they pass the chaos of Oxford-circus, the youngster, who is no doubt illiterate, is oblivious to the tapestry of signs and advertising hoardings that assault the eye and call for attention.
Almost lost amidst the noise, the lone voice of a running patterer shouts news of the latest scandal – one so new that he has not yet procured the printed sheets to sell: ‘Hideous murder in Lambeth! Two-headed monster slain by killer! House of horrors in our midst!’
Finally, the boy turns right up Duke-street and on to Edward-street, a more sedate thoroughfare in the environs of Portman-square: a street of milliners, of Lazenby and Sons’ famous fish-sauce warehouse, and, for those of the inclination, Miss Prince’s Academy of Dancing. But he does not stop here – rather, he continues into Manchester-square: a small oasis of calm away from the cacophony of the city. It is the kind of place one might find the residence of an eminent physician, writer or composer.
And it was here that the boy approached a black door on the south side and knocked. It was answered by a Negro man. He listened as the boy explained something at length, nodded and took a coin from his pocket for the boy, who then set off back towards the east.
‘And then I sent the PC in pursuit of the boy while I attended to the house. Nobody has entered or left the property as I waited for your arrival. I have made enquiries hereabouts as to who occupies the house and have received conflicting reports. One neighbour maintains that a writer lives there; another says he is a businessman. All say that he is a quiet and unassuming man. All remarked on the peculiarity of his Negro manservant – and I’m sure you will recall that it was a black man who attacked PC Wiseman of Stepney. Both have li
ved here for about four years.’
Inspector Newsome, who had just arrived at Manchester-square by police carriage, nodded to himself and answered:
‘Very good, Mr Bryant. The boy returned directly to Giltspur-street, where he received another coin. I admit I have no idea from where the prisoner produced these coins – he was thoroughly searched in his cell. I have ordered him searched again. Well, I wonder if this is our prisoner’s address. Have you elicited any further information from any of the neighbours?’
‘A strange thing, sir – none can agree on a name. One knows him as Henry Matthews, another as William Smart. Yet another has heard him called Harold Smith.’
‘I see. I am not particularly surprised. Now – I intend us to enter the house and search it for anything that might throw light on our mysterious prisoner. Evidence of stolen goods would also be beneficial to our cause, though I do not expect to find it. If we are fortunate, the secret to the enigma will lie herein.’
Together, they crossed the road and Mr Newsome used the brass knocker to rap three times on the door. The Negro man who had answered previously opened it now. He was of a singular appearance:
There was no stock about his neck and the two policemen saw a quite horrific scar there, the skin evidently having been stretched and torn as if he had been hanged and survived it. His left eye was also damaged, presenting an opaque film to the world. His build was that of a bare-knuckle boxer, an assumption reinforced by the flattened nose and scar tissue about the temples, but his manner was attentive. Mr Newsome saw him looking at their clothes and demeanour as closely as they were reading him. Evidently, he knew who they were before they spoke, though it did not seem to alarm him.
‘I am Inspector Newsome of the Detective Force and this is Detective Constable Bryant. We are investigating a crime and must enter this place to seek evidence. You are obliged to permit us entrance, or risk being arrested yourself.’
The Negro said nothing. His hand moved to the scar tissue at his neck and he scratched absently at the skin there. He did not move from his position filling the doorway.
‘Is your master at home?’ enquired Mr Bryant.
The Negro shook his head.
‘When do you expect him to return?’ asked Mr Newsome.
Again, there was no answer, only a blank stare that might have been malevolence or indifference.
‘Speak, man! We are officers of the law!’ expostulated Mr Newsome.
And here the Negro smiled as if mocking the agitation of his interlocutor. He opened the mouth of large ivory teeth and pointed within. The two detectives, utterly perplexed, could not help but look where they were bidden, and observed the glistening stump where a tongue had once been. The man was a mute. Inspector Newsome could not contain himself.
‘Aha! Now I respect our prisoner even more. We follow the clue and it leads to a man who cannot speak even if compelled to! No doubt this dusky fellow is illiterate as well, Bryant. His secrets are hidden and locked inside that fuzzy head as securely as in a safe.
‘Is there anyone at home but yourself, sir?’ he said to the Negro. ‘Nod or shake you head accordingly.’
The dark head shook.
‘I believe that your master is currently in a cell at Gilt-spur-street and that he has just sent a message to you . . . But I see from your expression that you already know this. Now – we aim to enter.’
And enter they did, to discover an abode of admirable décor and taste. The furniture was of good quality, the carpets clean and unworn, and the curtains seemed to be regularly dusted. Ornaments in the parlour suggested foreign travel, or at least an interest in it. Mr Bryant picked up an ornately carved club from the mantel and noted an amulet of jade hanging around a lamp, while Mr Newsome was taken with a slender sword that must have originated from the Far East. Though examples of weaponry, these trinkets were clearly not for use in the cracksman’s profession. Was this indeed the home of the prisoner, or of an absent benefactor?
The Negro watched the two intruders with barely suppressed amusement as they walked deferentially about the room randomly handling objects that meant nothing to them. It was clear to him that they had no idea whom or what they were looking for. Inspector Newsome caught the glance of their observer and scowled, addressing his fellow policeman.
‘What we are looking for, Mr Bryant, is not something hidden. What we are looking for is what lies in plain sight. A man’s home says much about the man and his habits, his past and his acquaintances. What does this house tell us about our mystery prisoner? Look, and tell me what you see.’
Together, they combed through the house: from the basement kitchen to the bedrooms, in drawers, upon shelves and in cupboards. The absence of female accoutrements and the lack of female hair in the bathrooms, on the seats or in the beds suggested that the gentlemen – and a gentleman he appeared to be – was a bachelor and did not entertain ladies at home. Swatches of old newspaper used to light the fire told them that the resident was a regular reader of the Times. Indeed, everything about the place bespoke a tenant of means and intelligence.
The book-lined study would not have disgraced a scholar. Its shelves held books on chymistry, biology and anatomy, as well as classical history, literature and poetry. Mr Newsome stroked his fingers along the leather spines of Demosthenes, Lucretius, Herodotus, Aristotle and Cicero. Framed maps of the South Seas and Antipodes adorned the walls and a handsome oak desk sat at the window, from which vantage point the writer might look down to the street. No letters, either sent or received, could be found apart from those necessary communications with tradesmen about the city, and among these the recipient was listed variously as Henry Matthews or William Smart. A letter from a costume maker of Hay-market was addressed to Harold Thackeray.
A number of wide drawers of the kind found in museums or libraries lined one wall of the study. They attracted Mr Bryant, who set about pulling each one to discern its contents. From one, he extracted a large map of London. A number of red points had been marked on both the Middlesex and Surrey sides, each appended with a date on a personally annotated legend attached to the map. Beginning in 1829, the dates ended in that very month of 1844 with a red point at the western end of Fleet-street.
‘Sir, I think you should see this,’ he said.
Inspector Newsome approached and gazed upon the map. He pointed to the most recent point. ‘What happened at this location, Mr Bryant? And what does it have in common with these other points?’
‘A fire, sir? I recall a fire in a milliner’s on that date in Fleet-street.’
‘Yes . . . yes, let me see.’ The inspector traced a finger over the map and found a red point at each location he sought. ‘Fires, Mr Bryant. Each red point represents a fire. Here we have the infamous warehouse blaze of Deptford, and here the brewery fire of Battersea. There is the Fenning’s Wharf fire of 1838, the Horselydown and Rotherhithe fire of two years ago that destroyed three warehouses and fifteen dwellings. Are we dealing with an incendiary here, do you think?’
‘He does not seem the type, sir. Though one can never be sure.’
‘That is true. He has made his money somehow, and he does not strike me as a working man.’
Throughout all of this, the Negro butler, whose name was Benjamin, watched impassively. Like his friend imprisoned at Giltspur-street, he had learned from hard experience when to act and when not to act. The wise man holds his tongue (when he has one) and restrains his fist when silence is the better strategy. Nevertheless, his brooding presence was an unnerving influence on the policemen, who were no nearer to their goal.
The policemen even searched his quarters at the top of the house. His room was small but pleasantly appointed, with a level of comfort far beyond that of a typical servant’s quarters. Indeed, it seemed as well furnished as the lower rooms and there were a number of personal possessions. An etching of a river steamboat hung on one wall and there were books on the shelves. Inspector Newsome read the title of one: A Voyage to the Indies by
Captain Percival Hubert.
‘So, you are not the dumb animal you appear,’ remarked the inspector, almost to himself. ‘There is something we are not seeing here, Mr Bryant. All of this silence – the silence of the prisoner and his man – disturbs me. They are hiding something. It may be criminal; it may not be, but I will not have something hidden from me, by G—! I maintain that there is something in this house that will provide a key to our man. If I have to look between every leaf of every book, I will find it.’
‘Sir – I was thinking . . .’
‘Well out with it! It’s no use inside your head, is it?’
‘Sir. If the prisoner had a policeman’s uniform, might he have other such clothing to hide his identity?’
‘Indeed.’
‘So I was think— We have looked in his wardrobes but not yet examined his actual clothes.’
‘You are correct, Mr Bryant. Let us descend.’
Mr Bryant opened the double doors of the large wooden wardrobe and beheld a fine selection of clothes that bespoke a man of the city who could afford good tailoring but who disliked ostentation. Upon further searching, the policeman withdrew a suit of base corduroy fabric that seemed at odds with its neighbours.
‘What have we here?’ remarked the inspector. ‘That suit is more fitting for a costermonger than a gentleman. Keep looking.’
Searching further, Mr Bryant turned up the canvas attire of a sailor, a threadbare ensemble suitable for a beggar, and another policeman’s tailcoat. At the foot of the wardrobe, behind a row of polished shoes, was a pointed staff like that used by the rag-picker, a basket that a pure-finder might use, and a walking stick which concealed a slender sword.
‘Well, we have uncovered a veritable masquerade warehouse here, haven’t we, my dusky fellow?’ said the inspector to Benjamin. ‘Does your master like to dress up when he goes out?’
Benjamin stared back with that unnerving milky eye and made no sound or gesture.
The Incendiary's Trail Page 6
