‘Never! O! I never have!’
‘I perceive from your vehemence that that is not the truth. Your mistress has been slain and you are no longer bound by any oath you may have sworn.’
‘I have never been there! I know nothing of the murder.’
‘Which murder? The one sitting here before us? Or the one at the house where you delivered your letter? Yes – I know about it. I also believe that you were also sent to collect a letter. You were seen. Cease your crying, boy – you are not suspected of any crime, but you might be able to illuminate one, and you might help to catch Mary’s murderer if he is the same who murdered young Eliza-Beth. Tell me the truth.’
The boy fidgeted as he stood. His eyes watered afresh and he chewed his bottom lip. He rested his hand on the chair opposite Mary. Then he slumped upon it, staring at his feet. ‘I . . . I did go there with Mary two nights before the murder, but I waited outside. She had an audience with the curiosities. The next day I was sent there with a letter for ElizaBeth.’
‘Is this the letter?’ Sergeant Williamson extracted it from a pocket and handed it to the boy.
‘I didn’t read it, but it is her writing and looks like the paper she uses. But how did you—?’
‘No matter. So it was Monday that you were to collect a letter – the same day of the murder?’
‘Yes, last Monday morning. I approached the house just before dawn but saw a number of people there. I was under instructions to collect the letter in secrecy and didn’t want anyone to see. They told me that a murder had been committed and I returned here empty-handed. Mary was angry with me and said I could not be trusted. She said she would send someone more faithful. I was faithful . . . but I couldn’t tell her about the murder when I learned the victim because . . . I feared her reaction. She had such a terrible temper and I only wanted her happiness. I did!’
‘Quite, quite. Stop your snuffling, boy. Did you see anything suspicious as you loitered about the house? The murderer exited the house mere minutes before you arrived.’
‘O! I am sorry for my tears . . . no, I saw no murderer. Only the people standing outside the house. I do not know them. To my eyes, everyone in that area looks like a murderer.’
Mr Williamson made a note in his book and consulted his watch. The discovery had been made barely half an hour previously. The murderer had left perhaps half an hour before that and was walking the streets or riding in a coach somewhere in the vicinity at that very moment, unseen and undetectable.
‘Can I go, sir? I feel quite faint again.’
‘Tell no one else to enter this room. I must speak to anyone else who may have entered since the killer left.’
‘There is no one, sir.’
‘All right. Leave me.’
Alone again, the detective looked about the room and inhaled its feminine scents. Strange how a woman’s room always had a scent and a sense of its own, as if her spirit remained even when she was absent. He walked to a large mirror and saw his sombre, pockmarked face reflected in a surface more used to beauty and gaiety. A brush with strands of red hair lay nearby, and he noticed a carelessly discarded letter that began ‘My dearest Mary, I burn for you . . .’ He did not read further. Instead, he once again extracted his notebook and attempted to assess the scant evidence:
Victim: Mary Chatterton, bon vivant and woman of dubitable virtue.
Location: A back room in her Night Rooms.
Clues: Burned hair, matches, broken door, footprints, man with hidden face.
Suspect: The murderer of Eliza-Beth (disguised)? An ex- or spurned lover?
Weapon: Fire, a blunt instrument and a knife/razor.
Motive: To glean information? Revenge? Jealousy? Theft of a letter?
The nature of the murder was certainly curious. Nothing appeared to have been stolen, though the room was full of jewellery. Had the killer known about the ‘lovers’ door’ and that Mary’s attendants would leave him to complete his work in privacy? The fact that the door had been smashed indicated that Mary did not know, or at least was not expecting, her visiter. That, and his insistence on wearing a hat and scarf to cover his face while inside. And why had he maltreated her so before delivering the final blow – unless he was attempting to elicit information by force? That would explain the positioning of the chairs. The use of fire, in any case, was highly unconventional and unnecessarily cruel when the man in question already had his fists and a razor.
It was possible, of course, that the murder was completely unconnected with the Lambeth Murder. Mary was – or at least had been – a notorious grande horizontale. She held the secrets of many who would welcome her perpetual silence, though she was not reputed to be a blackmailer.
Nevertheless, the parallels with Lambeth were too clear to ignore: the broken lock, the razor, the seated victim and the lack of discernible motive. Mary was one of the last people to converse with Eliza-Beth, and the letters were a crucial link. Another question was why Mary’s hair had been burned off. Was it pure malice? Then there was the murderer himself: careful to cover his face lest he be identified. Because he was known to Mary or the bar staff? Or because there was an obvious distinguishing mark on his face – a scar, for example?
All was supposition. With his experience, and his detective’s mind, Mr Williamson knew that the truth of the case may prove to be something else entirely.
All he could say with certainty was that the murder of Eliza-Beth was at the centre of some larger pattern.
ELEVEN
It is some time since we heard of Bully Bradford, the murderer of Eliza-Beth. Had he followed his sponsor’s advice, he would have been biding his time on the continent or in Scotland. But, true to character, he had not left the insalubrious streets of his youth. In fact, he could be found most nights in the close, smoky atmosphere of the penny gaff, his conspicuously scarred face reddened with gin and merriment. Let us enter that place unseen and watch him in his native environment.
An audience of a hundred or so people are gathered shoulder-to-shoulder on a wooden floor baptized with a sticky layer of beer and gin. The band plays a frenetic dance and four ladies stamp enthusiastically on the small dais, lifting and twirling their skirts so that the men in the audience can quite blatantly see their legs. Cat calls of ‘Prime pins!’ and ‘Go on, girls!’ ring out from men and boys alike, whose faces shine with the heat and intoxication of the place.
As for Mr Bradford, he shows no trace of remorse or sadness for the crime committed just four days previously. He jigs from foot to foot with a carious grin and loops an over-familiar hand around the waist of a woman beside him. The police could walk in at any moment and apprehend him, except that the police constable is not permitted to enter such a place. Even if he was, this unlicensed gaff, a recently abandoned shop, is located in the Minories, a sump of criminality drawn from all the nearby docks and river industries. A uniformed officer entering this place after dark was either an exceedingly brave, or a foolhardy, man.
And yet there was one man watching the bully. Towards the back of the heaving crowd, near the street entrance, the sometime bare-knuckle fighter Mr Henry Hawkins loitered. His countenance showed none of the grinning idiocy of the drunk, for he was at work on the orders of his employer. A hooked iron bar was secreted down one trouser leg, though one of his prodigious fists would have been sufficient to dispatch any victim, should that be his purpose.
As the girls left the ‘stage’ with their bonnets askew and hair in disarray, a portly man with a too-small top hat stepped up, causing an instant roar of approval with his ejaculation of ‘B— h—, me eyes have steamed over!’ He was a ‘comedian’ whose patter seemed to consist of little more than uttering expletives, each of which stimulated the crowd to greater laughter. Bully Bradford himself was weeping tears of mirth that ran down the channel of his scar and into his gin.
Henry Hawkins, however, was not laughing. He was observant and patient. Indeed, so intent was he on observing Mr Bradford that he had not noticed
another man watching both himself and the bully. This man was also laughing along with the crowd and had the same glowing face, although a careful look at his eyes would have shown that he was neither intoxicated nor amused. Nor did the rough corduroy jacket and knee breeches represent his usual attire. He had followed the bully into the gaff an hour or so previously and then, very quickly, noted the presence of Mr Hawkins at the door.
With a final flourish, the band put down their instruments and reached for their glasses of ale as the proprietor shamelessly attempted to expedite the exit of one audience in favour of the next: ‘Come along now! Out you go! There are others waiting!’ And indeed there was a large gathering waiting at the street door to enter the hot fug for the third encore of the evening.
The bully emerged with the flow of people and, after some noisily cordial leave-taking among his friends, immediately turned south in the direction of Rosemary-lane. The street was alive at that time with the noise of public houses and girls in over-tight bodices asking gentlemen if they’d like to retire for a warming brandy. Vendors shouted their wares from the kerb: ‘Coffee! Get yer coffee! . . . Kidney pies, good and ’ot! . . . ’Am sandwiches as thick as yer ’ead – get ’em fresh!’
Thus with a meat pie in his hand and a clay pipe at the side of his mouth, the bully ambled along unsteadily past the glaring light of shops and coffee houses. Here, he was among his kind: the bawdy dredgers, ballast heavers, coal-whippers, watermen and sailors who were quick to drink and quicker to fight. Pipe smoke replaced the common air and hid the stench of the gutters.
The bully’s footsteps were filled just a few feet behind by Mr Hawkins, still utterly oblivious that he himself was being followed. His pursuer appeared to be staggering under the influence of the gin he had not drunk, and to the casual passer-by he was one of the many working men of the neighbourhood enjoying an evening out in such a conventional manner that he might well have been invisible.
But as the bully turned the corner on to Rosemary-lane, Mr Hawkins’s pursuer changed his gait and posture, standing more erect and affecting alertness. Now he appeared a late-night shopper at the marine stores and second-hand clothing emporia. Gazing into windows and handling the hanging garments, he remained as inconspicuous as he had before.
Henry Hawkins, however, was known to many of the residents from his time in the fights and, even in this area, he radiated a threat of violence that repulsed people for yards around him. All, that is, except for one bleary-eyed ‘fancy’ lover who called out:
‘Butcher ’Awkins, is that you? Look! It’s ’Awkins of the fancy!’
Mr Hawkins looked malevolently at the man who had called attention to his presence. But it was too late to maintain anonymity and Bully Bradford had turned round on hearing the name. His eyes met those of Hawkins and filled with justifiable dread. He turned quickly, hoping perhaps to give the impression that he had not seen his nemesis – though his increasing velocity demonstrated otherwise. Hawkins, too, quickened his pace.
The bully cut rapidly down Cartwright-street, puffing heavily at his pipe and perspiring freely. A prostitute would later report seeing him rush past her in a most agitated state, pursued first by a ‘big bruiser’ and then shortly after by ‘a man of no particular distinction’. The bully turned into a cul de sac and waited there, panting, in the vain hope that his pursuer had lost him. It was a stinking and forgotten alley of the city, rank with the corpse of a rotting dog and alive with rats scuttling away from his approach.
‘Good evening to you, Mr Bradford,’ said a smiling Mr Hawkins.
‘Why yer following me? What d’yer want?’
‘I have a message from the General.’
‘Do yer? I’ve ’ad enough on ’im. What’s ’e want?’
The ex-fighter reached forward and grabbed Mr Bradford by the stock, jerking him within range of his fearsome breath. The clay pipe fell from the bully’s mouth and crunched under Hawkins’s boot.
‘General says your existence is no longer required.’
‘Did ’e? Well . . . well . . .’
‘Short of insolence now, aren’t you, maggot?’
With his spare hand, Hawkins extracted the iron bar and raised it above his head to smash the bully’s scull like a boiled egg. Its descent was halted only by the voice of the third man – he who had been following Mr Hawkins.
‘Henry Hawkins! Put down that bar.’
Hawkins turned, Mr Bradford’s throat still in his fist. ‘Who the — are you? A detective? Be on your way, or you’ll also be found in the river tomorrow.’
‘I told you to set him free. I am taking him.’
‘We’ll see about this,’ said Hawkins. He shoved the bully towards the end of the alley, where he stumbled and fell to the muddy ground. Then the fighter turned fully to face his challenger, a man of a much slighter build than he. ‘You may have heard of me, if you follow the fancy.’
‘I have heard of you. And I tell you once again to deliver Mr Bradford to me. You need not fight about it.’
Mr Hawkins adopted the pose of the fighter, fists held high, and approached his opponent.
‘I have no interest in harming you, Hawkins.’
Hopping from foot to foot now as if he were in the ring, Mr Hawkins snorted at the idea that any man could hurt him, but noted with some surprise that the stranger evinced no alertness of danger. Nor did the man raise his fists to fight. Somewhat insulted by the lack of fear he was inspiring, he lunged with a formidable right . . .
But the man was not where his fist had aimed. Instead, the fighter felt a stinging blow to the side of his head that made his eyes flash and his ears ring. He had not seen where it had come from and did not know whether it had been a hand, a foot or a weapon. He flicked around and saw the man standing behind him, hands empty.
Again, the fighter lunged with a prodigious punch. His combatant did not move his feet. Rather, he deflected the approaching arm away from him at the elbow and aimed a staggering blow to Mr Hawkins’s throat with the edge of his hand. The latter clutched his neck in agony and stumbled, gurgling and frankly stunned. As he knelt struggling for air, the heel of the other man’s hand connected solidly with his forehead and he fell quite unconscious to the muddy ground, where a well-placed kick at his upper abdomen seemed to empty all of the air from his body.
‘Come with me, Mr Bradford, if you wish to live longer, ’ said the stranger.
‘’Ow d’yer know me . . .? Yer bested Butcher ’Awkins!’ replied Mr Bradford, clearly dumbfounded.
‘And I will do the same for you unless you accompany me immediately.’
The bully approached his saviour in wonder, uncertain whether to be afraid or amazed. At this point, a pair of handcuffs were locked deftly about his wrists.
‘Oi! What’s this? Are yer a buzzer?’
‘I am not. But you are under arrest and I have some questions for you. Do not try to resist or I will be obliged to injure you considerably.’
The two men walked back towards the busier streets, not noticing another – a fourth man – who had observed the whole proceedings from the shadows, and who was following them now back towards Rosemary-lane.
Mr Bradford looked nervously around him for a chance to run, or perhaps for a friend to free him.
‘You are captured now. Your fate is known,’ warned his ‘saviour’.
‘Yer not a detective. Let me free and we’ll both profit. I ’ave money.’
‘What happens to you is of no concern to me. The police will discern if you are guilty of the Lambeth murder.’
The gin-addled brain of Mr Bradford struggled to comprehend his situation. ‘I . . . ’ow do they—? No one saw . . . It weren’t me! I was made to do it!’
‘By whom?’
‘I . . . I cannot tell. ’E’d kill me sure as a dog kills a rat. Or set light to me, more likely. ’
‘Stop. What did you say?’
‘Why, that ’e’d kill me sure as—’
‘You said he would set l
ight to you. Why did you say that?’
‘Nothin’. Just, ’e plays with lucifer matches—’
‘What is his name?’
‘What’s it worth to yer? If I’m in a position to—’
‘It is worth your miserable life to tell me directly. Nobody need know that I have found you tonight. I could snap your neck like a twig and toss you in the river without a sorrowful feeling. It will be no worse than your appointment with Mr Calcraft.’
‘Yer won’t know ’im. They call ’im General, though I’ve ’eard others call him Mister Ball or some such . . .’
‘Where? Where have you seen him?’
‘Well, to tell the God’s ’onest, I don’t often see ’is face—’
‘Where?’
‘Last was at the marine store jus’ off Rosemary. Use to be “Wilson’s”.’
‘I know it.’
‘Will yer set me at liberty now?’
‘No, you will certainly hang. I am taking you to the nearest watch house. In the meantime, you will tell me everything you know of this man and you might survive the journey. ’
They continued along the night streets, Mr Bradford occasionally being pulled by the handcuffs like a recalcitrant ass.
The reader will have no doubt surmised that in this latter scene Henry Hawkins’s conqueror and Mr Bradford’s apprehender can have been none other than Noah Dyson. It will be necessary, therefore, to fill the lacunae.
Noah had indeed been presented with his letter from Sir Richard (an occurrence occasioning unprecedented rancour at Scotland Yard), and seen Benjamin freed to his satisfaction. Then he had been informed of the conditions of his release by Inspector Newsome:
‘Mr Dyson, we are to engage you as a species of detective in the pursuit of a murderer. You have perhaps heard about the case in Lambeth from the turnkeys? It is he. The details of your arrest, and our investigations into your life, have led us to believe that you are a man of some resource—’
‘Albeit a criminal in your eyes.’
The Incendiary's Trail Page 10
