The Incendiary's Trail

by James McCreet

  SEVENTEEN

  Mr Hardy lowered the newspaper from which he had been reading aloud to the gathered ‘performers’ and folded it neatly into his lap. Though his feet did not reach the ground in the adult-sized chair, and though the opened newspaper had stretched his arms to their limit, he maintained an air of dignity and authority that was much needed under the circumstances.

  A muffled sobbing came from Miss Eugenia and the dog-child nuzzled her considerable thigh, oblivious for the time being to the situation. It was only the emotion she sensed with her anthropocanine intuition. The fire crackled in the grate and lamps cast their flickering illumination upon the group, even though it was daylight beyond that curtained room.

  ‘We are lost. What is to become of us?’ sniffed the giant lady. ‘Mr Coggins may have been a vile, despicable man – but he provided us with a life. We are at the mercy of the mob. They will be here at any moment to crash down the door!’

  The dog-child whimpered in response to the tone of her mistress.

  ‘Nonsense, Eugenia,’ replied Mr Hardy calmly. ‘We must reflect rationally on our situation. We hold in our very bodies the means to live profitably. Once this case is solved and the perpetrator caught, we may venture out once more. All we need is someone to organize the shows and protect us from the common gaze.’

  ‘You can do it, Mr Hardy.’ The basso profundo voice was that of the giant man, folded as usual upon too small a chair. ‘You are the most “normal” of us all.’

  ‘I thank you for that, Edgar, but I am afraid the majority of citizens would disagree. No, we must find another sponsor.’

  ‘We must leave this city! We must leave now or else we will all be killed,’ wailed Eugenia.

  ‘Now, now – there is no need for such histrionics. Why would we all die?’

  ‘He . . . he will come for us. The doctor man.’

  ‘Why, what on earth are you talking about, Eugenia?’

  ‘Do you not recall how Missy responded to his presence?’ The giant lady felt for the hirsute face of the dog-child and stroked her nose. ‘She growled and bared her teeth something terrible . . . and when he glared at her, she whimpered and ran to hide. Have you seen her behave so on other occasions?’

  ‘I hardly think you can—’

  ‘She knew he was evil, I tell you. She has a heightened sense for these things, like a real dog. And she sees spirits.’

  ‘That is really enough nonsense for one evening, Eugenia. I am sure—’

  A knock stopped him. All heads turned towards the door. Then another three knocks came in rapid succession, followed by a further single knock: the signal they had agreed with those who helped them. Mr Hardy jumped down from his chair and made a series of rapid little steps to open the door.

  ‘Sergeant Williamson! Welcome. I was expecting a visit from you. Come in, come in. Take my seat there by the fire and you will be able to speak to everyone.’

  The group shuffled uncomfortably at the intrusion, even though they had met Mr Williamson before. The sunken-faced man reached instinctively for his hat and pulled it low over his brow, while Missy, the dog-child, ventured tentatively to smell the detective’s trouser leg – an action that occasioned him some mild embarrassment.

  ‘Ahem . . . I apologize for disturbing you all, but I have a number of questions I would like to ask.’

  ‘It was the doctor!’ shrieked Eugenia.

  ‘Hush! This is serious business!’ admonished Mr Hardy, taking a seat. But the sudden look of attention upon the detective’s face stopped him from going further.

  ‘What of the doctor? Tell me everything you know, ’ urged Mr Williamson.

  ‘He made Missy growl.’

  ‘Why did you not speak to me before about this doctor?’

  ‘Why, because you didn’t ask me, Constable.’

  ‘Hmm. Why do you say that he was evil?’

  ‘It was in his eyes. They were not human. I have seen many eyes look upon me, Constable. More eyes than you have felt – but this man looked through me as if my life was worth less to him than a pinch of salt.’

  ‘Was his face covered the entire time?’

  ‘Yes. To protect against the bad air, he said. I think he meant my wind—’

  ‘Eugenia!’ warned Mr Hardy, ‘let us avoid vulgarity.’

  ‘Did he speak to each of you in turn?’ enquired Mr Williamson to the group in general.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Mr Hardy, ‘we all spoke with him, but I believe he expressed greater interest in Eliza-Beth and spoke to us, I believe, only out of courtesy. We may be “monsters” but we perceive human nature as well as any other – perhaps better.’

  ‘Of what did he speak to you?’

  ‘Oh, the usual things: whether our parents shared the same features, whether we knew our parents, if we felt pain and where – it was almost as if he was following a script. Certainly there was nothing especially sinister or suspicious about him, excepting his medicinal scarf.’

  ‘Was that the extent of his communication with you? Did he speak further with Eliza-Beth?’

  ‘I do not believe so.’

  A suppressed moan came from Eugenia, who appeared to be in a state of some inner turmoil. Missy wheedled and pawed empathetically at her mistress’s leg.

  ‘Miss Eugenia, have you something to tell us?’ asked Mr Williamson. ‘I must inform you that I have discovered things about Eliza-Beth that you may not know – shocking things. Anything you can tell me may help to trap the murderer, who is assuredly not a doctor. Indeed, the man you spoke to – if you have not already surmised – is the same man who murdered your Mr Coggins at the hanging of Mr Bradford.’

  A flutter of muttered comment passed through the room as the performers reflected on the fact that they had entertained a murderer in their midst. Eugenia let forth a blubbery sob and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘And not only Mr Coggins. Your “doctor” is also wanted for the murder of Mary Chatterton. Indeed, all of you find yourselves by coincidence or pattern at the centre of a series of murders that has no precedent in the annals of this city – a series that, I fear, is not completed. Though you may not realize it, you may hold the key to catching this man.’

  The performers sat in silence, contemplating what they had heard.

  ‘Sergeant Williamson, I am sure we are all eager to help you,’ responded Mr Hardy, ‘but I cannot think that we can tell you more than we have already revealed. It is we who are the objects of observation, such that we often become blind to those who view us.’

  ‘I would like to speak with Miss Eugenia alone, if I may. Mr Hardy, would you be so kind as to escort your fellows to the kitchen for a cup of tea. And the dog . . . I mean, little Missy, also.’

  ‘Certainly, Sergeant. I understand. I will listen for your call should you need me.’ The tiny man glared briefly in warning at the giant lady, then jumped down from his chair.

  And the performers shuffled away to the kitchen, muttering to each other about the situation they found themselves in.

  ‘Miss Eugenia. Forgive me for my frankness: Eliza-Beth was a whore – and you know very well that was the case.’

  ‘She was not! She was the purest, most gentle girl you could care to meet, but that . . . that gutter-filth Mr Coggins sold her to the young gentlemen who were curious. Yes, she told me – only me. I was her confidante. Oh, the shame! The shame of that poor, poor child! She was not a whore.’

  ‘Calm yourself. Here, take my handkerchief.’ The detective handed Eugenia his kerchief and took out his notebook as she was attending noisily to her face.

  ‘She was not like those girls you see on the street, sir. She was pure of heart but defiled of life.’

  ‘I have no doubt. Tell me – was this Dr Cole one of her “visiters”? Do not keep anything from me or you tarnish her memory. I am sure she acquitted herself with honesty and morality.’

  ‘She did! And he was . . . but how did you know?’

  ‘I surmised. Tell me of it.’
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br />   ‘He was an odd one. He took her after our show at Vauxhall and returned her to the house later that night – that was how they arranged it. He did not want to use her as the other men did, though. He wanted only to talk to her. He took off his scarf and showed her his face – terribly red, it was (that’s when I knew he was the murderer). He tried to tell her that they were alike in their difficulties, can you imagine!’

  ‘Of what did they speak?’

  ‘He asked her more about her family, but of course she knew nothing. He asked about some important gentlemen, but she had not heard of them. He said that he knew many people in society and that he could help to discover her true parents if only she could give him some clue. She told him about the letter she had received, but did not show him.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Certain, for he became quite violent in manner when she refused to show him the letter or reveal how she had come into possession of it.’

  ‘What “important gentlemen” did he speak of?’

  ‘I cannot recall. The names were unfamiliar to Eliza-Beth and unknown to me. I have forgotten them completely.’

  ‘Could it have been “Archer” or “Askern”?’

  ‘I cannot recall . . . I . . .’

  ‘Could it have been a “sir” or a “lord”?’

  ‘You are confusing me now! I do not know these names!’

  ‘What else did they speak of?’

  ‘I believe Eliza-Beth may have told him that her parents were important people. It was always a dream of hers – long before she received any letter. Is it not the dream of us all?’

  ‘Hmm. Did the other performers here know of ElizaBeth’s shame?’

  ‘They might have guessed. They knew she was escorted by gentlemen after the show . . . they knew Mr Coggins. It does not take a schoolmaster to understand. But she spoke of it only to me – of that I am certain. She would not speak to a gentleman of it.’

  A knock was heard at the street door: three rapid raps. The kitchen door opened and Mr Hardy appeared there below the handle.

  ‘Sergeant Williamson? That is not the code.’

  ‘Do not be concerned, Mr Hardy. I am expecting someone. Perhaps Edgar could answer the door. That way, any idle visiter is likely to be dissuaded. And I think we can have everyone back together now.’

  The giant lumbered from the kitchen, half bent to pass through the doorway, and moved to the street door. When he opened it, Mr Williamson saw Noah standing there. The sight of the huge man before him did not seem to startle or unnerve him. Indeed, he smiled. ‘Good day – I have arranged to meet Sergeant Williamson here.’

  ‘Come in!’ called the detective. ‘We are in the sitting room.’

  Noah walked into the room and cast his eyes across the curiosities gathered there. He had seen them at Vauxhall Gardens, of course, transmogrified by make-up and theatrical illumination into greater monsters than they were. In this be-curtained room, however, they seemed fragile specimens, cowering away from the world. Missy began to sniff loudly from her accustomed place beside Eugenia, and let forth a guttural snarl at the newcomer, baring her teeth in an alarming way. Unafraid, Noah walked slowly towards the child and held out a hand, whereupon she sniffed the fingers and began to lap at them. The performers could not help but be amused.

  ‘Did anyone follow you?’ asked Mr Williamson of Noah.

  ‘It would be a formidable pursuer who could have traced my steps here,’ answered Noah, now stroking Missy’s head. ‘I came along the Strand, cut up Drury-lane, took a cab through Long-acre – then I walked here, seemingly wearing a different coat than before I entered the cab. It is double-sided, you see?’

  At this, the performers remarked amongst themselves upon the odd design of the coat, which was indeed green on the outside and dark blue on the inside – both materials featuring the buttons and accoutrements of an exterior.

  ‘Well, that is enough of fashion. Shall we proceed?’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘Is he arrived yet?’ asked Noah, taking a vacant seat beside Eugenia.

  ‘No.’ The sergeant consulted his pocket watch. ‘But he will be here shortly. I sent him a message to arrive here with clothes enough to be away from home for some time. I think we agree that he cannot return home until this business is finished?’

  ‘Assuredly. Have you informed these good people of your intentions?’

  ‘I will do it presently.’

  By now, the performers appeared quite confused and were exchanging glances of dubiety. Their spokesman, Mr Hardy, felt compelled to speak:

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but what is going on here? Who is this man, Mr Williamson, and why does he speak of your “intentions” for us?’

  ‘I apologize, Mr Hardy. This is Mr Dyson, a . . . an associate of the Detective Force. He has been working with me on the pursuit of the man who killed Eliza-Beth. We arranged to meet here on another matter, but I am also obliged to inform you that I intend you all to move.’

  A general clamour arose.

  ‘Mr Williamson!’ ejaculated Mr Hardy, ‘I do not know if you realize the upheaval we experienced at the last move. Why, just moving Eugenia is no easy task. And there are those among our number who experience great distress when exposed to the possibility of being surrounded by a braying mob. Our isolation is our solace . . . we are shepherdless without Mr Coggins—’

  ‘I understand completely. But if you stay here, you are all in danger of imminent death. The same man who has killed so many now appears to be seeking out any who can identify him. Since you have seen him, albeit half-concealed, you know about him and he cannot leave to chance that you may see him again.’

  ‘O! We are to die!’ wailed Eugenia. ‘Are our unhappy lives to have no respite!’ And Missy again began to whine.

  ‘Fear not,’ said Noah with a firm voice that stilled the tremulous mood. ‘There are places in the city where not a soul will see you, and where you will be safe. If your nemesis’s power lies in his anonymity and stealth, you must use the same methods against him. You will be safe.’

  ‘Mr Dyson is quite correct,’ added the detective. ‘You will be moved this evening and there will be no more Vauxhall shows until this matter is resolved. That is the end of the discussion.’

  ‘But who is this man you speak of who will come here?’ enquired Mr Hardy.

  It is a question the reader must also have been asking, and which some will no doubt have answered with the identity of Mr Henry Askern, the writer. His letter to the police had proved to be the elusive clue they had been seeking. Mr Williamson extracted it and handed it to Mr Hardy (I make no apology for the style of the letter – these writers of ‘literature’ are prone to prolixity):

  Dear Sergeant Williamson,

  On the very same night that we spoke together, I was about my researches in the environs of Oxford-street and spoke to a common pickpocket about his life. He was quite inebriated on account of having visited a ‘gin palace’ and so his tongue was loosened perhaps more than it usually would be – a state of affairs I encouraged by plying him with brandy and water.

  On the subject of crime, he spoke of a man he knew only as ‘the General’ – a man who pays sundry men of the pickpocket’s ilk to run occasional errands and to do diverse jobs about the city. Though he claimed personally to have been such an employee, my interviewee had never seen ‘the General’ in person. He averred, however, that the man was the single greatest criminal mind of London and had been for many years. It is said that he knows more, and sees more, of what goes on in (and beneath) society than the police or the politicians or the newspaper writers.

  It may, of course, have been hyperbole, but I was told that this ‘master criminal’ is seldom seen by anyone and trusts only a handful of men he has known from childhood. He is apparently feared even by those criminals who know him and execute his will. Indeed, even in the depths of his drunkenness, my interviewee evinced great apprehensiveness about speaking of ‘the General’ on th
e grounds that ‘the walls has ears’.

  I wonder if this General fellow is the mythical ‘master criminal’ you were alluding to during our meeting. It would be exciting to think so, and I would value the opportunity to hear your thoughts on the subject.

  If you would like to discuss the matter further, please pass your reply to me via the same man who has delivered this. He will wait, and can be trusted.

  Respectfully yours,

  Henry Askern Esq.

  ‘So this “General” is the same man who is to murder us, I presume?’ enquired Mr Hardy.

  ‘I do not know. That is why I have arranged for the gentleman to come here where all of those most closely acquainted with the case reside.’

  ‘At least, those still living,’ added Noah, with macabre precision.

  ‘Quite. Mr Dyson here has . . . has special knowledge of the case and, together, we will attempt to take the greatest advantage of this new avenue. It may lead us to another cul de sac – we will see. Until the gentleman in question arrives, I have some more questions for the people here.’

  ‘We are happy to help,’ said Mr Hardy, jumping up to his accustomed perch on the chair.

  ‘Then tell me – did the doctor visit more than once?’

  ‘Let me think . . .’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ Eugenia flapped her arms like an immense chicken. ‘That evil man was here another time. When he returned Eliza-Beth from their “carriage ride”. He did not enter, but I remember the writer gentleman was leaving about the same time – maybe a little before. They may even have seen each other.’