Again, Benjamin made his curious language of signs.
‘No. The police business is over as far as the detectives are concerned. They have their murderer and we have our letters. The case is closed. The only good thing to come from it is that it brought me closer to finding him. Indeed, I was think—’
Noah was interrupted by a decisive knocking at the street door. He peered down from the window and saw the stovepipe hats of two policemen.
‘G— confound them! It is the police, Ben. No Sabbath for them. Be good enough to let them in. Evidently, they want more value from me.’
The two officers entered the room with their hats in their hands and waited patiently for Noah to bid them sit. He did not do so, leaving them instead to stand as he scrutinized them from his stance at the window. He recognized Mr Newsome, of course, but the other man was a stranger to him.
Assuredly, the man was a policeman – his posture was unmistakable. He looked like a man who might have grown up among the barrows and barges, the gin shops and chandlers of the city as Noah himself had. But he had risen above them. Whoever he was, he was making a detailed examination of the room as if gauging what kind of man might inhabit it. His voice was quiet, but carried authority:
‘I perceive you seek to make us uncomfortable by not asking us to sit. I expected nothing less. My name is Sergeant George Williamson. I will not shake your hand because I do not shake the hands of criminals.’
Noah nodded to himself and smiled slightly. ‘Sit, gentlemen. I await with interest the reason for your presence here, especially since I have a letter from your commissioner naming me as an innocent man.’
‘The case is not over and you know it,’ said Mr Newsome, sitting on a large leather sofa. ‘We may have Mr Bradford in custody, and the public may think the crime solved, but you know there is more to it.’
‘I know nothing of the sort.’
‘Did you question him when you arrested him?’ enquired Mr Newsome.
‘I had little time. Another man was about to kill him, as I’m sure he has told you. I rescued him and took him to the nearest watch house. I returned here afterwards, exhausted after my ordeal at your hands.’
‘You did not discuss the circumstances around his committing the murder?’ enquired Mr Williamson. ‘You did not venture to a marine store off Rosemary-lane once you had delivered our prisoner?’
Noah looked again at this detective who had delivered what were evidently rhetorical questions. Sitting there beside Mr Newsome, he did not seemed cowed by the decorous surroundings, by the books and furniture of a gentleman. In his eyes, Noah was a cracksman: a criminal, albeit an uncommon one. If Mr Bradford had been questioned carefully (and the murderer was not a man of strong will), the police would know what had passed between him and Noah. What Mr Bradford couldn’t know for sure was whether his ‘rescuer’ had actually gone to the marine store they had discussed. Either the detective was guessing, or . . .
‘I did not go to the store, though I did discuss it with the man.’
‘Hmm.’ Mr Williamson appeared to smile. ‘So you will know what we know: that although we have the murderer in our custody, the man behind the crime remains at liberty.’
‘Indeed, but he has committed no crime himself. Your case is closed, as is my involvement with it.’
‘He has benefited from the murder, or at least from Mr Bradford’s primary intention in visiting that address.’
‘And what was that?’
‘That is no business of yours.’
‘Is it not? Why, then, do I have two detectives sitting in my study telling me that the murderer is to be hanged but that I am still involved in some way?’
Inspector Newsome observed with evident satisfaction the verbal sparring of these two men whom he had planned to put together. They reminded him of two dogs that will cease fighting only when – bleeding and exhausted – they perceive they have met their match. But turn those two dogs on a third fierce creature and they will together bring it down decisively. He addressed their host:
‘Mr Dyson, you perceive correctly that we have not finished our business with you. Let us lay pretence aside for a moment and address the issue: the man you seem to have been seeking for some years past is very likely the man we also seek. You know much about this man that we do not, and we know things you do not. I would like you to work with my colleague Sergeant Williamson to bring this man to justice. It is in all our interests to have this man at the gallows.
‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. I leave you together to discuss how you are going to collaborate. This man must be caught with all haste. I trust Benjamin will see me to the door?’
After a brief glance of enquiry at Noah, Benjamin escorted Mr Newsome out of the room. The two remaining men heard the street door close and appraised each other in silence. An awkwardness settled, as when young gentle-people of opposite genders are left alone together for a moment. It being Noah’s own house, he had the advantage of home territory.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Detective? Benjamin has just poured one for himself, but you are welcome to it.’
‘No, thank you. And I am surprised that you take tea with your servants.’
‘He is not my servant, and I am not his master.’
‘Hmm. He is certainly a curious specimen. I perceive that he has been hanged, a fate that may one day befall you. Only, you will not survive the ministrations of Mr Calcraft.’
‘You do not like me, Mr Williamson. May I call you George?’
‘You may not.’
‘I see. You do not like me, but you know nothing about me.’
‘I know that you are a cracksman—’
‘You know nothing of the sort. You know only that I was arrested in possession of a cracksman’s tools. No stolen property has been discovered in my possession. Nor can there be any provable link between that uniform of mine and the one stolen from the unfortunate constable.’
‘PC Wiseman.’
‘Indeed. Such items can be bought at any shop along Rosemary-lane, or made by a tailor. In short, you must know as a detective that, however dubious the circumstances of my arrest, there is no proof of my guilt.’
‘You mean that we have not yet discovered it.’
Noah smiled and sipped his tea, noting that his guest had elected not to drink his cup. ‘Do you play chess, Detective?’
‘I prefer draughts . . . Mr Dyson, may we omit this delicate conversation and proceed to the heart of the matter. I am obliged to cooperate with you and I do not relish the opportunity. There is a criminal behind this crime and we believe you know who he is.’
‘Why do you believe so?’
‘You have been searching for a man who is likely an incendiary. The man described to us by Mr Bradford goes by the name of ‘Lucifer’ Ball, or Boyle, named for his odd attraction to the eponymous matches. We also have other evidence that the man who initiated this chain of crimes is—’
‘What other evidence?’
‘That is none of your concern.’
‘You said we were working together on this case. If so, we are both compelled to collaborate against our will, so you need not maintain your injured air, or that of superiority. I already know – as you must – that the bully was sent to Lambeth to obtain a letter, and that the subsequent murder was the result of fear rather than malice. There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamed of in Mr Bradford’s philosophy.’
Mr Williamson pursed his lips in distaste. He did not perceive the origin of the literary reference – merely that it was one. His fingers worked unthinkingly at the brim of his hat. ‘So you know as much as we do.’
‘I may know more, Detective. I know what was inside the locket.’
‘Hair. Mr Bradford revealed that to us.’
‘Of two colours: red and brown.’
‘Quite. But you know nothing of the letters.’
‘Lett-ers, plural? I know only of one letter: the one that Mr
Bradford took from Eliza-Beth, but which he could not read. We can assume that Boyle has read it.’
‘Indeed he has, much to my regret. I discovered the second letter myself, inside the pillow on Eliza-Beth’s bed.’
‘What were its contents?’
‘Let us proceed with less haste. Before I reveal to you the secrets of the Detective Force, I would like to know – indeed, I demand it – why you seek this man and what his capture means to you.’
‘He once did me an evil turn, which I promised I would avenge. That is all. Now – to the matter of this second letter.’
‘What was the nature of this evil turn?’
‘What were the circumstances of your disfigured face? I presume it was the smallpox.’
Mr Williamson’s face reddened and showed all the signs of rising anger.
‘Forgive me, Detective, but I seek only to illustrate that some things are best left unspoken. Our subject is the case at hand – nothing more. I pursue this man for personal reasons; you seek to enforce the law. Now – the contents of that letter.’
The detective clenched his jaw. ‘It appears to be from Eliza-Beth’s absent mother. No name was appended, and no return address given. It was delivered by hand, by the same person who was to collect the reply. I have it here.’
He handed the letter to Noah, who smelled it and then rapidly read the contents. He thought for a moment.
‘So the red lock of hair in the locket belonged to the writer of this letter, the mother. I have seen Dr Zwigoff’s show at Vauxhall and seen the girl for myself. Her hair was flame red . . . Wait – you spoke of other evidence.’
‘A number of people visited the house during the period of the Vauxhall shows. I have been contacting them to see if they can shed any light on the case. One of them has recently been murdered – an occurrence which cannot be attributed to coincidence.’
‘Because Mary Chatterton was red-haired. Yes, I have read of it. I presume she is the victim you are referring to. She was one of the visiters to the house . . . and the writer of the letter. Tell me, how was she killed?’
‘Quite horribly. The full details are known only to a few. She was beaten, burned about the body and the head, and then her throat cut. Our surgeon, Dr McLeod, tells me that none of the burns were fatal in themselves, and that the burning of her hair and scalp most likely took place post mortem . . . it means “after death”.’
‘I know what it means. How do you know that the bully did not commit the crime?’
‘Mr Bradford denies all knowledge of it, except what he has heard in the street. I am inclined to believe him.’
‘Yes, I feel sure it is the man you seek. His name is Lucius Boyle. The bully may be a killer, but he does not have the stomach for torture. And only Boyle would use fire in such a way. It fascinates him. But why—’
‘Why would he kill her? I have my own ideas but I would like to hear yours.’
‘She was a singular woman. She could have angered him so much that . . . But, no, he would not lose his temper. He would not have murdered her if he wanted to blackmail her over the maternity of Eliza-Beth . . .’
Noah lapsed into contemplation, playing out different scenarios in his mind. For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the distant clatter of hooves and wheels. Despite the closed window, the pungent smell of Lazenby’s fish-sauce warehouse found its way into the room, adulterated occasionally with the infernal ferrous tang of the Panklibanon foundry over at Baker-street.
‘Which other people visited the house, Sergeant?’
‘A clergyman named Josiah Archer.’
‘Ha! The man is quite insane. I am surprised he is not yet preaching at Bedlam.’
‘Quite. He visited to satisfy himself that the performers were correctly fulfilling the predictions of the Apocalypse. Then there was a doctor, whom I have not yet been able contact. He is teaching in Edinburgh. And a writer by the name of—’
‘Henry Askern?’
‘Do you know of him?’
‘He is often to be found about the rookeries and the low public houses. I understand he is researching a new book on the underworld of London. I have seen him on my peregrinations about the city. Which of these have you spoken to?’
‘Mr Archer only. I am to meet Mr Askern this afternoon.’
‘And which of these do you suspect is the father?’
‘What . . .? Ah, very good, Mr Dyson! I see that you have followed the same pathways of my own thoughts. There is no reason to believe that any of them fathered Eliza-Beth. I am sure that each has his legitimate reason for visiting the place. Our only indication that the father is close by is Mr Boyle’s seeming interest in the poor girls’ parentage. He evidently believes that the man can be found, whomever and wherever he is. Our goal is the same as our quarry – but only he knows where to look.’
‘If Mary told him. If indeed Mary knew. She was quite a phenomenon in her youth.’
‘If she knew, no mortal would have withstood the treatment he dealt her. I believe he knows the father’s identity and will act on the information.’
‘What is your plan, Sergeant?’
‘What do you suggest? You have been searching for this man for many years, with no apparent success. Why have you been unable to find him?’
‘He is a child of the city and knows it like few others. I believe he wears disguises. There may be men who live side by side with him and do not know his true identity . . . why do you smile?’
‘You have described yourself.’
‘Mmm . . . What knowledge have you gained from your witnesses?’
‘One of Mary’s boys said that he was covering his face with a scarf and hat. Mr Bradford said that he has only ever seen the man in shadow or with a face-covering of some kind. It would seem that he is unwilling to be seen even by the people he converses with. Such a mania for anonymity seems odd, does it not? Unless he has some highly recognizable facial feature that he wishes to hide. You have seen him – is this the case?’
‘The truth is that covering one’s face is likely to attract more attention—’
‘You have evaded my question, Mr Dyson. We are sharing information and you are attempting to retain some of yours, no doubt to give yourself an advantage in the pursuit. If I apprehend the man, he will hang. Is that not revenge enough for you? Our aim is the same. Do not treat me as a fool.’
Noah smiled stiffly, acknowledging his opponent’s insight whilst simultaneously resenting it. It was true that the entire apparatus of the police was indeed his best chance thus far of locating his enemy . . . although Boyle would never be – as he had not yet been – caught by a mere policeman.
‘I capitulate, Sergeant Williamson. Boyle’s lower face is disfigured by a birth defect. His skin is violently red, hence his scarf. I do not know why he wears a low hat – it could be that he has acquired further distinguishing marks in the intervening years. His eyes are grey, the light grey of wood smoke.’
‘Thank you. This information may prove invaluable in our pursuit.’
‘I do not see how. He has remained entirely unknown to the police for years, and I – who know the man by sight – have been unable to find him. How do you intend to locate this man who has evaded the notice of the authorities for a lifetime?’
‘I see a few possibilities. Firstly, he will make a mistake and be apprehended quite by chance as you were—’
‘I was not committing a crime, Sergeant. Nor am I a murderer.’
‘The second possibility is that we will divine his actions with sufficient foresight to be waiting for him when he acts again, although you have failed singularly in this for some years.’
‘They are both slim possibilities.’
‘Indeed, but I see a third. Is it not plausible that Mr Boyle will overextend himself in theatricality? There have been murderers who became intoxicated with public attention as if by gin, and trapped by that perceived glamour.’
‘Not Boyle. He is too clever for that. Anonym
ity is his protection. How do you imagine he has escaped the notice of the police since his criminal childhood?’
‘You know of his childhood?’
‘I know him.’
‘And I would wager that he would know you if he saw you. Or if your presence was made known to him. Would he, I wonder – knowing that he was being pursued by one who knows him, one who may know his secrets – make an uncharacteristic error?’
‘What are you suggesting, Mr Williamson?’
‘Mr Bradford will be hanged on Monday, as you know. I will be there, and Mr Boyle may also make an appearance. You know that a hanging brings out the entire criminal fraternity for entertainment, and he may want to satisfy himself that this fragile link to his identity is finally deceased. How would it affect Mr Boyle to see you standing beside me near the gallows? Would he recognize you?’
‘Frankly, I cannot say. We have not looked each other in the eye for . . . for many years. I might have passed him in the street a dozen times . . . but . . .’
‘But if you saw him, you would know him.’
‘If I could see his face uncovered – or even his eyes – I am certain, yes.’
‘And I think he would know you. Moreover, a hanging is an exceptionally suitable occasion for our purposes.’
‘How so?’
‘Think on it. Just before the prisoner is hanged, the entire audience removes their hats – supposedly out of respect, but in actuality to provide an unobstructed view. All faces are turned on a single point: the rope and the neck within it. For us, situated on or near the gallows, a sea of twenty or thirty thousand faces presents itself. Would we not notice – in such a crowd – a man with a scarf about his face and a hat pulled over his eyes? Or a man with a highly visible red mark? He cannot possibly hide his features in such a crowd. Were he to try, he would become eminently visible.’
‘Which is why it would be pure foolishness on his part to attend. And discerning one face in a multitude is no easy task. I see no reason why he should be there.’
The Incendiary's Trail Page 12
