The Incendiary's Trail

by James McCreet

  ‘Nor I. But I have a strange intuition that he might. There is much attention on the recent murders and he is in danger of being exposed as never before. Also, we have no other options. After the hanging – if he attends and if any identification is made – we must discern the rules of the game as he sees fit to play them. He may vanish forever, or he may embark on a new course of action. I hope for the latter. ’

  ‘What do you expect him to do?’

  ‘I think Mr Boyle, like many of the “greater” criminals, has an exaggerated sense of self-regard. It is necessary for him to feel himself superior to lesser men, and to the police in general. It is a kind of game to him, an entertainment if you like.’

  ‘You speak as if you know him.’

  ‘I know his kind. The circumstances of Mary’s murder have certain curious similarities to the Lambeth case although the killer was different: the door which was broken when a man of his ability could have gained access more easily; shoes that bore a similar imprint to those worn by Mr Bradford; and the cut throat, most probably with a razor.’

  ‘Do you think he was leaving clues to misdirect your investigation? To make you think—’

  ‘I do not know. The manner of Mary’s death could not have been the work of Mr Bradford . . . unless . . . well, I am confused as to what Boyle’s intentions were.’

  ‘Perhaps that was his intention – we will discover eventually. As for our endeavours, what are we to do before the hanging?’

  ‘I am to see Mr Askern, the writer, later today. I suggest that you search out Reverend Archer and learn what you can from him.’

  ‘But you have questioned him previously. Do you suspect him?’

  ‘I think he knows more than he told me.’

  ‘On what authority am I to question him? I am not a detective; he is not obliged to speak to me.’

  ‘I will say only that you were able to glean all of the information that Mr Bradford held in that under-worked brain of his. Catching this murderer is more important to me than the outraged ravings of a street evangelist.’

  ‘So you will see the law bent, though not broken – if I understand you?’

  ‘When a man has no respect for the law, he has no respect for his common man.’

  ‘Mmm. What does the Reverend Archer know?’

  ‘If he is entirely innocent, only what has been in the papers: that Eliza-Beth was killed by Mr Bradford. I asked him about a letter, of which he denied all knowledge – while inadvertently revealing he had seen it peeping from her dress. Concerning the locket, he may have seen it but he says he knows nothing of its theft. At least, he should not.’

  ‘Can you trust this Dr Zwigoff when he says that these are the only people who visited Eliza-Beth?’

  ‘One cannot trust the man – his real name is Coggins – any more than one could trust a Haymarket bar girl to keep a secret. It may prove necessary to call on him again, this time with a more persuasive approach. I must also ascertain when the good Doctor Cole is to return from Edinburgh. We will meet again at the scaffold and compare our findings.’

  ‘Take care, Sergeant Williamson.’

  ‘I always do, Mr Dyson.’

  FOURTEEN

  Henry Askern, aged forty-two, was the writer who had visited that ill-fated house in Lambeth in the week before the murder. One would think that his education at Westminster School and Oxford University would have provided a comfortable, affluent lifestyle for this undoubted gentleman, but he had a fatal flaw: his romantic sensibility. Not for him the secure position at his father’s legal practice; no, he sought adventure (and ruin) in India and the islands of the South Seas. Returning to London was a rude awakening to disownment and the perils of having chosen a fanciful path.

  What vocation for an intelligent man of limited means? Why, the greatest of them all: to write! His plays were judged harshly by the critics and his novel was a carcase that no galvanism could revive. So he turned to journalism and found his métier in social study. You may have seen his Pieceworkers of the East End or his Street Children of the Metropolis, both of which were minor successes drawn from his fearless travels about the city’s filthier environs.

  Sergeant Williamson was escorted into Mr Askern’s study by a slightly frayed servant and saw the writer himself rising from a writing desk to extend a dry hand. The detective noted the man’s clean linen and ink-stained fingers, the prematurely greying hair at his temples and the perceptiveness behind those tired eyes. He looked a little underweight and sickly. A faint chymical smell pervaded the room and made the detective wrinkle his nose.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Askern.’

  ‘It is my pleasure, sir. My Sundays are days of rest. I must apologize for the smell – chymistry is a hobby of mine and I have been conducting experiments this morning. Well, I have heard and read many things about the men of the Detective Force. I believe that your job is very similar to mine in a number of respects.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Please – be seated.’ Mr Askern sat again at the desk as his guest settled into a wing-backed leather chair. The writer laced his fingers in his lap. ‘Yes, we both seek information. You seek it in pursuit of a crime, I in the pursuit of knowledge – for my books. We are both obliged to search the city for our subjects, and elicit answers from those who may be unable or unwilling to share them. It is a skill.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I am certain that you have observed the number of researchers about the darker streets. I myself regularly meet members of sundry charities and other writers being escorted to lodging houses or brothels as if visiting darkest Africa rather than the pre-eminent city of the entire earth. We are all detectives of a sort, are we not?’

  ‘I understand that you recently visited a house in Lambeth—’

  ‘Ah yes. Dr Zwigoff’s collection . . . or rather Mr Coggins’s. A terrible case.’

  ‘What do you know of it?’

  ‘Only what I have read in the newspapers: that the girl Eliza-Beth was murdered for no discernible motive and that the perpetrator has just recently been apprehended.’

  ‘Why did you visit the house?’

  ‘I am preparing a new book on the London underworld. Though Mr Coggins is not strictly a criminal, his business has that frisson of the macabre that readers publicly abhor and privately consume with fervour. I’m afraid I am little better than Mr Coggins in this respect, but the clamour surrounding the case is proof enough of its interest. I spoke briefly with some of his “exhibits” about their personal histories.’

  ‘And what did you learn of Eliza-Beth?’

  ‘A moment. I have my notes here somewhere . . . ah, here we are.’

  ‘May I see them?’

  ‘I would be happy for you to, but it is written in “shorthand”: a kind of code which allows the writer to rapidly transcribe. Do you know it?’

  ‘No. Mr Coggins thought it might be Greek.’

  ‘Oh? Do you read Greek, Sergeant?’

  ‘I do not. Please tell me what you learned from the unfortunate girl.’

  ‘You are right to call her unfortunate, for hers was a doleful story even in life. She was left at a church door and never knew her parents. She was raised by a succession of physicians who considered her nothing more than a study in abnormal development. Mr Coggins insinuated to me that he bought the girl. Or rather, that is what I inferred from his winks and knowing nods. The others at that house were the only family that she ever knew.’

  ‘Do you have a family, Mr Askern?’

  ‘No. I am a bachelor. The truth, Sergeant, is that I have little to offer a bride. My father saw to that. This new book might make my fortune, but . . . well, we will see.’

  ‘I wonder, Mr Askern, if you have any ideas on what might have motivated Eliza-Beth’s killer? You know more than many others about the criminal classes of the city. Do you have a theory?’

  ‘Of course I have thought about it, from the viewpoint of a writer as well as a researcher.
But I am curious at your question: you have the killer in custody and must know his motive.’

  ‘Indeed we do. But I am interested in your answer.’

  ‘Well, in that case I will satisfy your curiosity to satisfy my own. There are men – and, yes, women, too – who would kill you for your watch—’

  ‘Eliza-Beth had nothing.’

  ‘True . . . well, no, she did have a gold locket about her neck when I spoke with her, though I do suspect it was worth too little to be killed for. Then, there are also men who are quite insane, men who kill because they hear voices telling them to do so, or because they are angry, or because it is a Thursday. There is no rational explanation and perhaps not even any evil in their actions, for they are insensible to their crimes. Then again, there are men who become monsters when drunk, which accounts for most of the lower classes much of the time.’

  ‘So you are telling me that Eliza-Beth could have been killed virtually by accident, a victim almost of chance.’

  ‘You must know from your experience that such things are possible. I am sure they account for the majority of victims dredged out of the Thames . . . and I see from your nods that I am right. But let us explore other possibilities. Could it be that Eliza-Beth knew Mr Bradford in some context? Maybe they were romantically linked . . .’

  ‘I think that your creativity is getting the upper hand, Mr Askern.’

  ‘Yes, yes . . . I suppose so. Let me think. What if Mr Bradford had intelligence of Eliza-Beth’s lost parents? Being the man he undoubtedly is, he would have asked for money to not reveal the information. Perhaps they fought. She refused his price and threatened to expose him as a blackmailer. In the passion of the moment, he slashed her throat . . . Oh, I don’t know, Sergeant! Please, tell me the truth – I see from your expression that I am speaking absurdly.’

  ‘Your ideas are certainly interesting. But you are quite correct in your original suggestion. The murder was quite random. Mr Bradford was no doubt intoxicated and broke into the house to steal. He was startled and reacted with a razor instead of his mind. Now he will hang.’

  ‘A tragic waste. The girl was quite articulate, you know. At least one of them was, I forget which.’

  ‘Was Eliza-Beth your daughter, Mr Askern?’

  ‘I . . . I beg your pardon!’ Mr Askern stood as if the interview were terminated. ‘I will not accept such impudence, even if you are a detective! Did I not tell you that I have no family? Are you accusing me of being—?’

  The writer began to cough. It was no normal cough – it was the glutinous rattle of the consumptive. He leaned against the seat back and reached for his handkerchief as his body was wracked with convulsions. His eyes watered and his face became scarlet as he covered his mouth and strained for control. Presently, he managed to calm himself and looked ominously into the handkerchief, folding it with a dark look.

  ‘Forgive me. I have not been entirely well since I returned from the east. It was just . . . I was—’

  ‘I understand. My questions are not my own, but part of an investigation. Please, sit down. I am certain that you have experienced anger from interviewees in your own researches, so you will understand.’

  ‘Well . . . well . . . a gentleman is not accustomed to such questions, Sergeant Williamson.’

  ‘Indeed. Please be seated. Let us proceed. Have you ever, in your travels about the underworld, heard the name “Lucius Boyle” or “Lucifer Boyle”?’

  The writer sat, grudgingly accepting the truth of Mr Williamson’s words: questions could often cause offence – most especially those questions that the inquisitor sought answers to. ‘Mmm, “Boyle” you say? The name is not familiar. What is he?’

  ‘We cannot be sure. It may be a clue. We have heard the name. We know that he is a criminal, perhaps a master criminal with others working for him. I thought that he would be known to others of the fraternity.’

  ‘It is rare for criminals – serious, professional criminals, that is – to work together, or for others. They are too distrusting. It is true that children will work for a kidsman, but they soon escape from his authority and become independent. It is also highly likely that any “master criminal” would soon be challenged or killed by a rival. I’m afraid that the figure of the master criminal is all too often a literary conceit.’

  ‘What kind of man would be a “master criminal”, if you were to portray such a man in a book?’

  ‘Well, if we are to consider him as a character in a fiction, he would have to be uncommonly intelligent. A university education would be of very little use to him (though I suppose it would help him to enter the confidence of gentlemen). No, his intellect would be one bred by the city itself: a sly cunning, a labyrinthine mind as dark and unmappable as the streets that raised it. He would be involved in diverse criminal enterprises – theft, robbery, blackmail, prostitution – but not personally. He would have too much to risk.’

  ‘So he would have men working for him. What of loyalty?’

  ‘Well, quite. What could buy the loyalty of men whose very existence is based upon lies and deception? Any such criminal mastermind would have to inspire unwavering loyalty, and history teaches us that there is only one thing that engenders such loyalty.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Fear. Our man must be brutal in his authority, punishing the merest breach of trust with death, or something worse. But, as I say, such a man is an unnatural monster. He would have to be almost insane, and bloodthirsty to an extreme degree, in order to maintain his power for any period.’

  Mr Williamson seemed to ponder these answers for a moment, working the brim of the hat in his lap. An idea occurred to him:

  ‘Mr Askern, has any of your research focused on the attire of our city’s inhabitants?’

  ‘Your line of questioning is quite odd, Sergeant. I am not entirely sure what you require of me. Nevertheless, yes, a man’s clothing is a particular interest of mine. Indeed, it is one that I intend to write about very shortly. What is it that you would like to know?’

  Where would one find the turbulent clergyman? His peripatetic ways took him all over the city to rant at passers-by about Revelations already made flesh, and those to come. Noah was forced to agree that one merit of the Metropolitan Police was the efficacy of its beat system. No matter how ineffectual the police divisions as a collaborative whole, the individual constables knew their territories better than any other – at least, almost as well as the criminals they pursued.

  A letter from Inspector Newsome to all of the watch houses in the city had resulted in a map compiled from the knowledge of numerous beat constables. It pinpointed the Reverend Archer’s most common pulpits and when he might be found at each. Thereafter, it was merely a matter of going from one to the next in the hope of meeting the man.

  Thus, as Sergeant Williamson was quizzing Mr Askern, Noah was crossing Hyde Park Corner and passing through the Ionic columns of the triumphal arch into Hyde Park itself. Though autumn was passing into winter and it was not a Sunday, traffic in the park was plentiful. Carriages rattled through the arches and passed along parallel to Park-lane or Knightsbridge and nursemaids led excitable children across the grass. Casting a respectful glance at the colossal statue of Achilles, Noah set off towards the Serpentine.

  Even before reaching that stretch of water, its rank odour drifted to meet him. A memory shuddered momentarily through his body, stimulated by that compost of sewage and dead flesh – a memory as palpable as the scars on his back. Just as the whitened skin would sometimes stretch tightly, or itch with remembered pain, so a familiar smell would return shards of recollection to him. He fought the momentary impulse to vomit and continued.

  Children were launching their miniature barks and cutters on to the putrid waters as their nursemaids exchanged gossip on the benches. Less respectable children waded thigh deep among the mud and occasional animal corpse which had bobbed gaseously obscene to the surface. Though some called it a lung of the city, it was in that case a tub
ercular organ. The smoke of a million chimneys had laid their soot over all, and it drifted still, high above the trees.

  A familiar voice began to make itself heard to Noah. Then, as he approached, he saw the flailing black figure of Reverend Archer standing on a bench, and began to discern words:

  ‘. . . Come here and I will show unto thee the judgement of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters, with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication . . .’

  Drawing closer, Noah saw that a wide circle of people had formed around the preacher – not to listen, but to be distant from him. It was a space of fear rather than fascination surrounding him, and children’s ears were covered as the man in black robes spat forth his warnings of immanent oblivion. Upon closer inspection, he cast a sorry figure, his bony frame lost within the swirling folds and his bald head glistening red with exertion.

  ‘. . . And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication . . . !’

  Noah stood before the clergyman and watched. It was clearly the only interest the speaker had attracted all day and he paused to look back at this audience of one. He stepped down from his improvised pulpit and assailed Noah with sour breath.

  ‘The End is upon us, sir. Have you welcomed Christ into your heart?’

  ‘Christ has done nothing for me. May I speak with you privately, Reverend Archer?’

  ‘Nothing for you?’ thundered Mr Archer. ‘Nothing for you? He died for you, sir! Died for you. What manner of human are you that rejects his Lord and Master?’

  ‘I am master of myself. Jesus might have saved himself the trouble of dying for me. I have “died” many times, but have returned to life. Now, if you—’

  ‘Blasphemer!’ The clergyman’s face contorted into scarlet apoplexy. ‘The Apocalypse is upon us, sir, and you are set to burn in everlasting fire in company with the sin-soaked fornicators of this city of Babylon.’