The Incendiary's Trail

by James McCreet

  Mr Williamson was tired as he returned home for the first time in what seemed like days. The fire in his grate had been cold for a long time and he shovelled some coal into its white ash. His home was simple but clean. A frame above the mantel in the parlour contained a piece of embroidery that faded year after year despite being under glass. A clock ticked methodically.

  He made a pot of tea and ate a meat pie he had purchased from a street vendor, then sat in one of two chairs facing the flames. The other chair had not been sat in for some years. He thought of Noah and Lucius Boyle, of Inspector Newsome and Commissioner Mayne and their expectations of him. It was a difficult case – perhaps the most difficult he had ever dealt with.

  First, the murder of Eliza-Beth by Mr Bradford, himself a tool for a greater criminal in the form of Boyle. That man was an enigma, his emotions and motivations lost entirely in the fumes of rumour and supposition surrounding him. Until the murder of Mr Coggins, the nature of Boyle’s crimes was ambiguous. Rather he was Crime: lurking unseen in every unknown face and rank alley.

  By the time the fire had burned to nothing, the detective was asleep.

  When he was awoken in the early hours of the next day by a wild knocking at his door, his first thought was one of foreboding. He stumbled to the door.

  ‘What is it that cannot wait until morning, Constable?’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant. I was sent on the orders of Inspector Newsome. He said it was most urgent that you accompany me as you are investigating the case.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘There has been another murder.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I was told is that I should fetch you and escort you to St Giles’s Church. The carriage is waiting.’

  St Giles’s Church. Its spire was an inverted arrow marking a part of the city that could boast squalor unchanged since medieval times. It was one of the few buildings in the parish that was not decaying, decrepit and overloaded with stinking humanity – an island of holiness in a tumultuous sea of sin.

  The slate-grey sky was just beginning to lighten into a smoky dawn as Mr Williamson arrived, its clatter a startling awakening call to that crapulously slumbering locale.

  A handful of people had gathered around the lofty masonry gate leading to the graveyard and the church steps. Two constables were holding them back from satisfying their curiosity, and they seemed relieved to see the detective.

  ‘Good morning, Constables. What have we got here?’

  They directed their lamps at a shadowy presence just inside the gate. The body lay face down, half on the church steps and half on the ground as if in supplication at the foot of the building. A trail of blood had flowed down from its cut throat to pool around the legs, soaking into the dirty black robes where they touched. The Reverend Archer, in death, appeared a frail old man – all vigour and righteousness gone and his emaciated frame lost in the folds of his only clothes.

  ‘Murdered on holy ground, sir,’ said one of the constables. ‘Who would do such a thing, even in this area?’

  ‘One who has no fear of Divine or mortal observation.’

  Was Boyle there at that moment? wondered the detective. Was he watching from a window, or loitering in the guise of a beggar? He looked around, not expecting to see any sign of the man. Of late, it felt as if the incendiary – the murderer – was everywhere, seeing everything. It should have been he who was hidden away in fear of police scrutiny.

  ‘Have you touched the body, Constables?’

  ‘Not we, sir. But there was a man bending over him as John here was passing on his beat. The gent ran off as I set my rattle going.’

  ‘Has Dr McLeod been sent for?’

  ‘As soon as we found the body, sir.’

  Have you looked around the church for a weapon?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But it was dark and we couldn’t see everything with our lamps. The church itself is locked up tight as you like.’

  ‘Good. We will be able to move the body shortly and you shall be relieved.’

  ‘Who is it, Detective, that is killing all these people? Is it him who killed the cove at the execution – Red Jaw?’

  ‘Is that what they are calling him now? “Red Jaw”?’

  ‘Aye, on account of his jaw. ’

  ‘Thank you for that, Constable. In truth, we do not know who committed this crime. It could have been anyone, especially in this parish.’

  ‘But the gent’s throat was cut. That was the method with Mary Chatterton. And the murderer of her had his face covered to hide his face. Why would he hide his face but to hide his red jaw?’

  ‘Perhaps you have a future as a detective, Constable. Mr Coggins, however, did not have his throat cut. How do you explain that?’

  ‘A pistol is better than a razor, is it not?’

  ‘That rather depends on the intentions of the killer. Be mindful of these loiterers at the gate. We do not want the body disturbed further.’

  Mr Williamson turned back to look once more at the pitiful aspect of the clergyman. The man had done nothing more than glimpse Boyle and had been killed for it. Only for that reason? Or as a message to the investigating detective: to show him that no one was safe and that the pursuers were the pursued? If this was the case, his own life (and that of Noah) were equally under threat.

  He was unafraid. Rather, he was grievously fatigued. The following day’s newspaper headlines would be damning; the police would be further humiliated and more pressure would be exerted from above. In this game, the rules were constricting – and those who broke them could be the victors. Men like Mr Dyson and Lucius Boyle were rule-breakers. Men like Mr Williamson trailed them almost blindly, the marked path being the safest and the most moral.

  These thoughts were disturbed by the rattle of an approaching carriage conveying the police surgeon.

  ‘Morning, Mr Williamson.’

  ‘Good morning to you, Doctor. It is a murder, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So I see . . . and quite a recent one from the looks of the blood. Here, help me to turn him over. Ah, yes – a slashed throat. Very likely a razor. There is some damage to the face, perhaps from falling – or from fists. It is difficult to be sure in this light.’

  ‘Wait. What is that in his left hand?’

  ‘Why, yes. It is a piece of paper.’

  The doctor carefully extracted the paper, unfolded it and read the contents. He seemed to pale a little, though the sickly dawn light made all look cadaverous.

  ‘I think it is intended for you, Detective.’

  Mr Williamson took the scrap of paper and saw the black copperplate writing, most likely done with a steel pen. Its message was brief:

  I am watching. You will do my bidding.

  ‘Is it he?’ asked the doctor. ‘The impertinence of the man is breathtaking.’

  The detective held the note in his hand and resisted the urge to crumple it tightly in his palm. He looked at the two constables, who were frequently looking over their shoulders to remember as much detail of the scene as possible. Tonight, they were part of a criminal legend and this would be part of their anecdotes for years to come.

  ‘Constable! Yes, you who saw a man bending over the corpse. Come here.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What did he look like, the man you saw?’

  ‘His face wasn’t covered if that’s what you mean. Though I was too far away to see if his jaw was red. It could have been, though I can’t swear to it.’

  ‘That was not my question.’

  ‘Well, he was tall, sir. Burly and big about the shoulders. That’s all I can say. He might have been Red—’

  ‘Thank you, Constable. You may go back to your duties.’

  ‘Do you know the man he speaks of?’ the doctor asked Mr Williamson.

  ‘It could be anyone. Will you oversee the formalities with the body? I will look about the vicinity in case there is anything to be found.’

  Mr Williamson began to walk around the church,
among the cold grey tombstones and with the dew dampening his boots. The first chimneys of the day were now billowing smoke and he smelled the coal on the morning air – a smell that had become to him like that of coffee or freshly baked bread to other inhabitants of the city. Before that hour, London seemed to retain some ancient innocence; after it, all innocence was burned.

  The ground at his feet was littered with the expected detritus: an empty bottle (no doubt tossed there that very evening), a recently deceased dog (starvation the evident cause), a piece of sodden newspaper carried by the wind some days previously. He was about to return to the gate when he saw another small piece of paper.

  It was the size of a letter, and folded as if it had been kept in a pocket. The dew had made it damp, but the writing was legible: copperplate writing in black ink, probably with a steel pen. With feverish fingers he held it under a gas lamp and read its contents:

  Mr Hawkins

  You are to follow these instructions to the letter and report back to me personally that they have been carried out as I say.

  First: You will locate the Reverend Josiah Archer – you know his face. I have intelligence that he frequents the low drinking dens of St Giles on this night to preach his doom-saying. Discover if he knows anything of me, or if he has spoken to anyone about the time he saw me at the Lambeth house. Then dispose of him as you see fit. I have enclosed a slip of paper within the folds of this note. Insert that slip into the palm of the deceased.

  Second: Seek out Detective George Williamson. The best place to find him will be the very same place you leave the body of the clergyman (so choose your time and location carefully). See to it that he understands the importance of not pursuing me too closely. Make clear to him that it would be easy enough for him to procure a disfigured body from the river or a fire and claim it as mine. Be certain that he understands his life depends on these things.

  Should you learn the whereabouts of Noah Dyson, act on that knowledge before returning to me.

  That is all.

  Mr Williamson looked rapidly around him, suddenly aware that he was out of sight of the other policemen. He felt for the truncheon that he had started carrying and held it tightly in his hand as he walked around the gate where the doctor was overseeing the removal of the body.

  ‘He is here, Doctor McLeod. The murderer is here at this very moment.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose. Though it hardly seems likely—’

  ‘No – he is here. Look, I have found this note. He must have dropped it. Be on your guard. Constables! Be alert – the burly man you saw before is close by.’

  The two constables withdrew their truncheons in readiness, and the handful of observers looked fearfully about them. Although the surrounding streets were still empty, the sense of threat was suddenly palpable to the few gathered there.

  ‘Have you considered, Mr Williamson, that this note was left purposely to unnerve you and hamper your investigation?’ asked the doctor, who was holding the piece of paper. ‘The murderer could be miles away and is hoping to keep you here chasing his phantom. Only a fool would let such a piece of evidence drop from his pocket.’

  ‘Are not most criminals fools? I think he is here.’

  ‘So let us ride away together in the carriage. You will be quite safe.’

  ‘If the man is here, I will take him and question him.’

  ‘Unless he attacks you first, as he is bidden to. If he is this Hawkins, he has little compunction about following his instructions to the letter.’

  ‘No. I will not leave this place. You should go, Doctor, and take the body where you can examine it in more detail. Take the letter also, and see that Inspector Newsome receives it. The two constables should be relieved and I will linger here alone. A greater number of people may deter Mr Hawkins from his duties.’

  ‘You go gladly to your death, Mr Williamson. Allow one of the constables to remain at the corner there. He will be unseen in the shadows and may come to your aid.’

  ‘I will not die. I will speak with the man, and perhaps arrest him. An appointment with Mr Calcraft might be just what he needs to focus his loyalties.’

  ‘Mr Williamson . . . George, this is not a man to debate with. This is not an area to stand alone. Please, return with us. We have evidence and we can search out this Hawkins fellow.’

  ‘Why seek him when we know where he will be?’

  ‘Then let one of the constables stay out of sight . . .’

  ‘If that will persuade you to leave me, I agree. Now – go quickly, for the murderer may be close.’

  And so, with much foreboding – but in acknowledgement of the detective’s stubbornness – the doctor left Mr Williamson there, standing at the gate of St Giles. A constable waited in a dark alcove at the corner, his fingers twitching with nervousness and excitement at his part in the drama.

  The sound of wheels and hooves receded and silence settled over the area. Lights were appearing in some windows, but it was still not quite daylight. Mr Williamson clenched the truncheon in his hand and waited.

  Presently, a coster lad pushed a trolley of produce along the road, its wooden wheels clattering so that the detective could not hear any possible footfalls. He looked around him until the lad was out of earshot and he was once more alone. At least, he assumed so.

  ‘Good morning, Detective.’

  The calm voice came from behind him. He turned and saw the crushed nose and looming figure of Henry Hawkins, who had evidently approached through the graveyard.

  ‘Mr Hawkins, I presume.’

  ‘Have you seen me fight?’

  ‘No, but I found the slip of paper in the clergyman’s hand, and your note from Lucius Boyle, your master.’

  At this, the fighter paled and felt in his trouser pocket, discovering the detective’s words to be true. A meaty palm was held out.

  ‘I’ll thank you to return that note to me, Detective. Now.’

  ‘Alas, I do not have it. It was taken from here by the police surgeon and will be in the hands of Inspector Newsome in no time. That is unfortunate for you, as your name is on it – along with instructions to kill the Reverend Archer. I perceive from the blood on your sleeve that you have carried out that instruction.’

  ‘You are very calm, sir, for a man in your position.’

  ‘I have the power of the law on my side, Mr Hawkins.’

  ‘Stop using my name like that, by G—!’

  ‘Are you familiar with the Royal Proclamation of October 1843? It was circulated in the Times.’

  ‘You are alone here. Only you have seen me.’

  ‘Not quite alone, Mr Hawkins.’

  ‘Are you thinking of the constable over there in the doorway? The one lying unconscious with his scull bashed in?’

  Mr Williamson darted a glance at the doorway and perceived two legs jutting from it. The passing coster lad must have covered the sound. Mr Hawkins gave a predatory grin.

  ‘Hmm. Hmm. In that proclamation, Mr Hawkins, Her Majesty promises that, “any person or persons who shall discover and apprehend, or cause to be discovered and apprehended, the authors, abettors, and perpetrators of any such incendiary fire . . . so that they, or any of them, shall be duly convicted thereof, shall be entitled to the sum of five hundred pounds for each and every person who shall be so convicted, and shall receive our most gracious pardon for the said crime.” In short, Mr Hawkins, there is five hundred pounds for you if you help bring Mr Boyle to justice for even one of his fires – and a pardon for you if you were involved.’

  Henry Hawkins smiled. Then he began to laugh his glutinous bass-note laugh. His eyes showed little mirth. It was at that moment that Mr Williamson realized the depth of his miscalculation and truly felt the inadequacy of his own diminutive stature next to the brawn and sinew of his interlocutor. And he felt the first tremors of fear.

  TWENTY

  Inspector Newsome sat at his desk in Whitehall, his head in his hands. The note that Mr Williamson had found in the gravey
ard of St Giles’s was on the desk before him, as was the slip of paper from the dead clergyman’s hand – both supplied by a concerned Dr McLeod.

  News of Mr Williamson (and that of the wounded constable) had arrived shortly after eight o’clock that Wednesday morning. The other constable had returned to the church when he had gone off duty and found a group of people surrounding the prone figure of the detective, bloodied and immobile in the very same place where the Reverend Archer had lain.

  Shortly before this, intelligence of another body had arrived: that of a man known as Razor Bill, a petty criminal who had had his throat cut in Hanover-square. Mr Newsome recognized the name from Mr Williamson’s most recent report: the drunken interviewee who had made mention of a certain ‘General’. That ‘General’ was almost certainly the murderer, blackmailer and incendiary Lucius Boyle, who had largely carried out his promise to ‘break the connections’ between himself and the pursuing police. The others, though safe in their respective hiding places, were quite useless in aiding the investigation further. Only their status as murder victims in waiting made their concealment necessary. The police could hardly sustain more damaging newspaper coverage.

  ‘What are we to do now? He has disabled our detective, murdered our witnesses and made a mockery of the police. This is no longer a matter of a two-headed girl and Mary Chatterton. It is a matter of our abject humiliation. Do you realize that the future of the Detective Force could be at risk – not to mention our good names?’

  The question was addressed to Sir Henry Wilberforce, who was sitting in a leather armchair by the fire and smoking a pipe. His grey hair looked a little whiter in the light from the window.

  ‘The situation is bleak,’ he replied. ‘The whole of London – indeed, the entire nation – is now talking about this “Red Jaw”.’

  ‘D— the man! Had I been waiting there at St Giles, I can assure you that I would not be the one left on the ground. No doubt Williamson tried to explain the finer points of law to this Hawkins even as the blows rained down!’