‘Why, what are you talking about, Eugenia?’ said Mr Hardy.
‘You don’t know! None of you know! Only I know. You all chose not to see what anyone could see. You are as guilty as those who spoiled that young girl!’
The large lady dissolved into bubbling sobs and an atmosphere of uneasy embarrassment settled in the room. Mr Hardy – ever the tiny gentleman – made a brave attempt to salvage some decorum, albeit without entirely convincing himself or those gathered there.
‘Well, Detective . . . I . . . I’m sure I have no idea what she is talking about.’
‘Prostitution, Mr Hardy,’ replied the detective. ‘And the series of degradations poor Eliza-Beth underwent during her short and unhappy life. She may not have told you of them, but I feel everyone here knew of them.’
‘Well, I . . . well . . .’
‘Quite.’
Silence reigned again, but for the lachrymose snuffling of Eugenia. Then Missy began to sniff, and footsteps were heard crunching outside the window. A rasping cough rattled, and then there was a rapping at the door.
‘I will answer it this time,’ said Mr Williamson to the giant Edgar, who was making to unfold himself once more.
EIGHTEEN
The reader, like the police, must be wondering about the escape and the whereabouts of Mr Lucius Boyle. In truth, there were many accustomed to reporting to him who now could not locate him in the places he usually resided. Those divers criminals of the city had of course heard about the sensation at the hanging of Mr Bradford and surmised that their ‘General’ had decided to vanish.
Stepping back a moment, we might discover what had occurred in the immediate aftermath of Mr Boyle’s extraordinary exit from the scene at Newgate. How had he made his escape and where had he ventured thereafter?
Due to the immensity of the crowd, there were many who had not seen Boyle, or the murder of Mr Coggins. They were aware only of some remarkable occurrence that quivered through the multitude as through a single organism. Thus, when the people packing the entrance to those alleys beheld an odd, red-jawed man approaching them through the crowd, they can only have been stricken by the strange and unnerving nature of his appearance. They did not know him as a murderer, even if they marvelled at the ease with which he had moved through the people in a space of his own. If he moved calmly, and if people all around him seemed to stare fixedly at him, there was nevertheless a wildness in his eyes that forbade any interaction. By the time he entered the dark and narrow lanes where printers and bookbinders toil at their labour, his face was again covered and he was part of the general exodus returning to work or to the gin shop – just another faceless city dweller about his business. From those alleys, he would have slipped easily on to Warwick-lane or Paternoster-row and thence into the nearest cab.
But he was angry. That imbecile Coggins had almost cast him into the hands of the mob – a far more serious prospect than capture by the police. After shadowing the impresario the previous evening, his plan had been to lure him to a gin shop after the hanging and thereafter dispose of him quietly. It was not advisable to let one so garrulous and acquisitive stay alive when the entire city was talking about the recent series of murders.
The commingled rage and excitement of the events boiled inside him. Killing Mr Coggins had alleviated that to a small extent, but a savage rage was burning. If he had been able to see clearly through his ire, he would have admitted that seeing Noah there on the platform had shocked him more that he cared to admit.
Though he had seldom spared a thought for his transported childhood companion over the years, he had always regarded Noah as his only equal: a boy very like himself, who had emerged from the gutter stronger and better than he had entered it. That was why he had had to betray his fellow ‘General’ – Noah was his only obstruction to unrivalled supremacy, the only threat he would be afraid to encounter. The other boys may have feared Lucius, but they admired Noah.
He thought back to those days. After his victory against Noah, his notoriety had spread . . . and his violence had blossomed. When one of his boys tried to steal from him, Boyle’s retribution exceeded all previous limits. It was his first murder. How loyal were his boys now? Would they keep his crime secret? Could they, when gossip was the currency of the street boy? Ever cautious, he did the one thing he could to save himself: he disappeared.
Such a thing is not as difficult as it may seem. Lucius Boyle’s face may have been a common feature in the environs of Smithfield, say, but a migration to Whitechapel or Stepney would have been little different to a move to the continent as far as the constables and his boys were concerned. Criminal fiefdoms and police divisions were as islands in an archipelago. Moreover, the continuous influx of people from the country, the ever-changing residents of lodging houses, and the daily ingress and egress of tradesman made a new face nothing odd. He could be at home anywhere – and nowhere.
Of course, his was no ordinary face. Its distinctiveness was a curse. He would have to become a phantasm of the shadows, venturing out mostly at night and braving daylight only with concealed features. Thus light and dark became his special concern, and fire his obsession.
Who knows what prompted his incendiarism? No doubt there are doctors of the troubled mind who could ascribe it to some impulse or other. Was it a symptom of his suppressed rage? Or was he simply insane? Whatever the cause, he found a twisted solace in the breathing of the inferno, the crackle of timbers and the inevitable collapse, with its billowing exhalations of sparks and embers cast skyward. There was beauty and drama in such a show, and he was the conductor of this symphony of fire.
And let us not imagine that he had learned nothing from his brief partnership with Noah. He had understood that brawn is all very well, but it was doubled with brains. He stole books, or had them stolen by his minions, and tried to learn. There were ladies and gentlemen at that time, as now, who sought grace through the charitable education of wretched street children. Perhaps he was one of them. Perhaps his virulent face marked him out as an especially pitiful specimen. He learned to read and write, collecting words like weapons. Had he not seen how Noah had beguiled the boys with his fancy words? They were like incantations to the unlearned. Had he taken interest in history, he would have known that the combination of rhetoric and violence are an irresistible force.
And now Noah had returned. Not only had he returned, but he appeared to be allied with the police. The coincidence was too strong to ignore: the police had somehow discovered Noah and employed him in the pursuit of his erstwhile friend. It made no difference whether Noah was a willing accomplice or not – the capture of the man who had betrayed him was the desired conclusion, presumably driven by an entire adult life tainted with the canker of unfulfilled revenge.
Such were the thoughts that crackled in his overheated mind as he returned to one of his many hiding places, there to write the letter to Sergeant Williamson that we have already seen. For a full day he remained alone, not even contacting his trusted servant Henry Hawkins. All of London was now looking out for his vermilion jaw, or for any man wearing a conspicuous scarf.
Ever the tactician, he considered what he must do. There were people who had seen him at the Lambeth house and who could link him to the case. There were people who were pursuing him and who would not cease until he was captured. There were people who might seek to benefit from their marginal knowledge of him. These people had to be dealt with, and would be. More alone now than he had ever been – excepting perhaps during those early days on the streets – he was a cornered animal facing survival or death.
Despite the even tone of the letter he had sent to Scotland Yard, he was much agitated and felt the visceral urge to destroy. It resonated in his very sinews like a maddening bass note struck upon some dark instrument, throbbing and humming interminably. Throughout his childhood and adulthood, when these unfathomable dark humours came upon him, there was only one balm to soothe his rage, only one release for the tension: fire. In those hours
spent alone, concealed, he stared into the grate and watched the coals spark and flicker, poking at them savagely with an iron bar.
On the Tuesday, Mr Hawkins arrived with food, drink and coal for the fire. He found his master in a smouldering mood.
‘I have been looking all over for you, General, lugging this coal about the city. Nobody has any intelligence of you.’
‘Do you wonder why?’
‘Well, no. I have seen the papers. I have one here . . .’
‘You were not at the execution?’
‘I thought I might be identified.’
‘That was astute of you. Tell me with certainty that you were not followed. People know of your connection to me.’
‘I was careful. I took cabs and went back on myself as you told me to. But . . . I am becoming nervous. People know my face—’
‘Your face? That is good, Mr Hawkins. No matter – I will be leaving this place shortly.’
‘Where will you go? Out of the city?’
‘That is no concern of yours. It is better that you do not know. In the meantime, there are things that you must do for me. I have made a list of instructions for you, which you are to follow to the letter. Destroy it once you have finished.’
‘Of course. General . . .’
‘What? There is something you are hesitating to tell me. Out with it.’
‘I heard talk of a man asking after you. He didn’t know your name, but he seemed to know of your reputation.’
‘Tell me everything you know.’
‘The gentleman was a writer. He said he was writing a book about the “underworld”. He was asking about a criminal “master”. It was along the gin shops of Oxford-street.’
‘Did anyone speak?’
‘I heard that Razor Bill was talking to the gent. As usual, he was half-cut, and the gent was plying him with brandy and water like it was tea.’
‘What was said?’
‘I don’t know, General. I wasn’t there. Razor Bill has never seen you as far as I know. What could he say?’
‘Enough.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Find Bill – he will be in his usual place with a glass in his hand – and enquire what was said. Find out also where I can find this writer – I believe I have come across him before. If Bill proves difficult, you know what to do.’
‘Yes, General.’
‘If he has said anything that compromises me to the slightest degree, make sure that he will never speak another word. And if you discover the writer himself, let him know in no uncertain terms that his researches are to end immediately. In no uncertain terms, do you understand?’
‘Yes, General.’ Mr Hawkins rubbed his ossified fists absently. ‘Where can I contact you?’
‘I will contact you.’
Mr Hawkins left, and Lucius Boyle opened out the newspaper to see a rather dramatic sketch of himself brandishing a gun amid the execution crowds. The artist had exaggerated his height and given him a vaguely skeletal appearance so as to maximize the sense of threat and terror. But there was his own face for all the city to see. Its hideous mark was a badge of terror that was now the discussion of London.
We should not imagine, however, that he was cowed and beaten. The cornered rat is the most dangerous. It leaps for the throat.
And as darkness fell on that Tuesday night, there were others venturing out across the city streets. The pickpockets migrating from their daytime workplace of Oxford-street and Regents-street to Haymarket’s pleasure-seeking crowd; the base bullies loitering in the shadows of Whitechapel and Rotherhithe; the street girls of various degrees walking out in the parks and the evening shopping streets. And, of course, the beat constable whose uniform and rattle might protect him from, or lead him to, a brutal death.
Among all of these gaudy characters, one also found the wretched: the rag-and-bone finders with their forked sticks and perpetually bent backs, and the destitute beggars shuffling endlessly about the city, never reaching any destination but the hoar embrace of an open grave.
Here is one of the latter now, bare head bowed and with his soles peeling away from fourth-hand boots. His ribs are occasionally visible through the rents in his greasy black topcoat and he carries a long staff to support himself. He could be Death Himself, wrapped in the rotten lineaments of the grave. As he walks stolidly through the crowds of shoppers about Regents-circus, he is no more notable than a horse or a dog. There are many of his ilk, filthy hands out for money and a guttural plea uttered so frequently that it has become an incantation. Should a man want to pass unseen through the beating heart of London, he could do no better than to be one of these ‘scavagers’ – or to adopt the appearance of one.
For this derelict man was not as he seemed. The averted eyes of others magnified the effectiveness of his own gaze, since every face he saw was one turned away either in rejection or embarrassment. The astute observer would have noticed, however, that, unlike the true beggar, he passed before the gaudily lit and steaming windows of coffee houses and the gas-flare illumination of shops without pausing to gaze longingly at their wares.
Nor was he alone in his deception. Another followed his movements from twenty paces to the rear, observing with ease the movement of his target. This pursuer understood just as well that what is invisible to the majority is highly conspicuous to the few.
Noah had ventured out from his own home at Manchester-square with the sole intention of locating Razor Bill, whose description Mr Askern had provided with sufficient clarity for Noah to recognize him. On discovering the pickpocket, he would conduct a more efficacious cross-examination. There was also the very likely possibility that news of Mr Askern’s first interview had already reached Boyle and that Noah would come across an associate of his conducting precisely the same task, albeit with greater fatality intended.
The gin shops of Oxford-street are of a different calibre to those in the East End. Here, vulgar meretriciousness is the décor of choice: gilt and crystal, gas chandeliers and polished mahogany bars give an impression of great luxury much appreciated by those who like to affect a certain sophistication as they slide into oblivion. The place where Mr Askern had seen Razor Bill, the Rose and Crown wine-vaults at the corner of Gilbert-street, was just emerging from its renovation and was a glittering example of its kind.
Noah – for it was he who was the ‘beggar’ – pressed his nose against the large plate-glass window and looked inside. The gin ‘palace’ was indeed impressive, with its Ionic columns, stucco fittings, rich burgundy carpets and large horseshoe bar. Colossal vats of spirits rose up two storeys to support a gallery of carousing spirit drinkers, while the ground floor was populated with dozens of adults and children sipping with much self-conscious enjoyment at their brandies, their gins, rums and other divers liquors.
There among them was Razor Bill, just as Mr Askern had described him: a rather rodent-faced man of slight build and with one of the tricorn hats favoured by carriage drivers. Were it not for the hat, Bill might not have spent so much time in gaol. As it was, the constables never had any trouble locating him when his description was passed on by a victim. The man’s face was flushed with heat and intoxication – and about his shoulders was the beefy arm of Henry Hawkins, who looked sober and lethal of intent.
Noah glared at the boxer. Now he knew that the hand of Boyle was at work, just as it had been with Mr Bradford, and that the incendiary was still in London manipulating events. His first urge was to enter the gin shop and deal with Mr Hawkins immediately, but his cool head triumphed.
Entering in the garb of a beggar would draw all eyes upon him, whereas outside he maintained his advantage – just another worthless, nameless, faceless member of the bustling crowd. Mr Hawkins would not attempt anything rash on the premises. So the ‘beggar’ turned his back on the bacchanalia within to face the night-time street, his grubby hand out and a sub-audible mumbled plea for alms falling from his lips.
Waiting there, he watched the ca
rriages rattle past and people visiting shops brilliant with light. He wondered, as he had many times, at the idea of the city going about its business in this way during his many years of absence. Shops had changed hands, fortunes had been made and lost, new buildings had appeared – and the show had been played out countless hundreds of times, oblivious to the torturous journey and travails of one of its sons. A man on these streets was nothing but a mote of dust to be ground under the wheels of time, and the span of a single life was but another year’s layer of verdigris or lichen on the city’s immortal fabric.
As Noah stood there lost in inward vision and absently muttering his counterfeit penury, a heavy coin dropped into his gloved hand and drew him back from his thoughts. It was a sovereign – a highly unlikely donation to a street beggar. He had not even noticed which direction his ‘benefactor’ had been walking. He looked quickly to each side, hoping to see a smiling face, but saw only retreating backs and averted eyes.
The coin seemed newly minted and flashed brilliantly against the dirty leather. And he felt the first twinges that something was amiss. Until that moment, he had been an inanimate feature of the busy street – then someone had seen him and made that fact known to him. It was too unlikely that the charity was genuine. Such virtuous gentlemen or ladies liked their ‘unfortunates’ to speak for their alms, spinning shocking tales of destitution and illness. No – he had been, or was being observed. He could feel it. And the observer was playing with him.
At that moment, the door to the gin palace opened with a billow of pipe smoke and sweet spirit fumes, and Mr Hawkins emerged with his arm around an unsteady Razor Bill. Heedless of Noah, they weaved off towards Regents-circus, knocking against top-hatted gentlemen and bonneted ladies as they went.
Noah looked around once more to see if anyone was watching. Shoppers and early pleasure seekers flowed unseeing around him. He set off in pursuit of Razor Bill, easily following the havoc they caused as they wobbled drunkenly through the ceaseless flow. Surely at any moment, they would cut left or right where a lull in the traffic and an opportune shadow would allow Bill’s neck to be snapped like a twig in Hawkins’s grasp.
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