The Incendiary's Trail

by James McCreet

  ‘You are dithering! Speak plainly!’

  ‘Inspector Newsome – Mr Askern is dead. And my most recent resident has fled.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sergeant Williamson sat in bed with that day’s copy of the Times spread before him. His face was a gruesome sight. One eye was swollen and empurpled, while the other was barely a slit amid a circle of bruising. His bottom lip bore a congealed cut where it had been split by Henry Hawkins’s fist, and his jawline was blotched red (which struck him as ironic under the circumstances). He had lost a couple of teeth and it also hurt when he breathed, thanks to the energetic kicks of his assailant.

  All of London was now talking about Lucius Boyle and the series of murders attributed to him, though they were still referring to him as ‘the General’ or the increasingly common and popular ‘Red Jaw’. There had been only one reference to a ‘Lucifer’, in the Observer, but the name had not yet caught on. Mr Williamson squinted through puffy eyes at the letter in the Times:

  Dear Sirs

  The current situation is both unacceptable and unbearable. That a callous murderer walks free among the streets of the city when upwards of thirty thousand have seen and know his face is a matter that can only reflect upon the Metropolitan Police in the blackest manner. How many more murders must he commit before he is brought to justice? First, it was the unfortunate Mary Chatterton, then the theatrical agent Mr Henry Coggins (alias Dr Zwigoff) at the execution of Eliza-Beth’s murderer. My wife is afraid to venture out alone and doors across the metropolis are bolted even during daylight.

  What are the Police doing to catch this man? Does he not have associates? Does he not buy food and coal? Does he not have neighbours? How much longer must we live in fear of our lives?

  He smiled grimly, imagining the apoplexy of Commissioner Mayne on reading the letter. The smile made him wince. When the newspapers discovered the murder of the Reverend Archer, the scandal would reach historic proportions and the pressure upon the Detective Force would become even more impossible.

  The frustration of inaction itched under his bandages. Boyle was free. With each murder, he was rendering himself ever more invisible until the last tenuous connection to him was severed. No one was safe, not even his closest associates – something Henry Hawkins would be wise to consider. Then the man would vanish again, most likely to another town or another country.

  And what of Mr Dyson? The vacuum of information was quite infuriating. Until that night’s grievous beating, Mr Williamson himself had been the one who held all the knowledge. Indeed, his gravest concern now was what he may have revealed during the encounter with Henry Hawkins.

  He recalled falling to the floor and a heavy boot striking his stomach and ribs. He recalled the boxer’s face just inches from his own, that deep voice drifting to him through waves of pain. Noah’s name was mentioned, as was Mr Askern’s. Then more blows and he had fallen into an oblivion of agony. Had he spoken as he lapsed? Had he given a word or a phrase – spoken in his very anxiety not to speak – that had helped the criminal? He had told Inspector Newsome that he had said nothing. Only subsequent events would show if that was true.

  Police Constable John Cullen knocked at the door and entered the room with a cup of tea, which he laid on the table next to the bed. ‘Here you go, sir. A nice fresh one for you.’

  ‘Thank you, PC Cullen.’

  ‘I would like to meet him that did this to you, sir. I’d show him the mettle of the Metropolitan Police, I can tell you.’

  ‘I am sure of it, but that is not how we enforce the law. What news is there? Have you heard anything from the other men in your division? I know how you constables talk.’

  ‘A very busy night, sir. A huge fire in Oxford-street – a gin palace went up like an arsenal. A lady burned to death in an upper floor and a fire engineer was badly burned.’

  ‘Where on Oxford-street?’

  ‘A place called the Rose and Crown wine vaults – a new place by all accounts. And there was a murder: a fellow of no great consequence found at Hanover-square. Most probably a drunken brawl.’

  ‘In Hanover-square? Do you have a name?’

  ‘I am not certain. I heard the name “Bill” but it’s not someone known to me.’

  ‘Hmm. Hmm.’

  ‘Bad news, sir?’

  ‘That seems to be the only kind these days, Constable. Tell me, when is Inspector Newsome expected? I need to speak to him urgently about the case.’

  ‘He said he would come today, sir, but did not say what time.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable. You may leave me now. Please show Inspector Newsome in the moment he arrives, even if I am sleeping.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Alone now, Mr Williamson reclined with difficulty and dabbed a handkerchief to his lip, which had split again. He attempted to apply his concentration once more to what little he knew. He had been worrying at the facts since the doctor had left.

  The most pressing question was why Boyle wanted him to live when Hawkins could so easily have extinguished his life. The letter had made reference to the detective making an artifice of Boyle’s death, which would certainly have been a neat ending to the affair for the incendiary. Death was the greatest anonymity. But did the criminal really imagine that the police would believe or accept it? Such a scheme would require the collaboration of more than just Sergeant Williamson. Others would have to participate, and such a thing was quite unthinkable of Mr Newsome or Mr Wilberforce or Commissioner Mayne. Unless . . .

  A feverish thought brought colour to his face and he struggled to stand, though nausea washed over him in dizzying waves. He took off his night shirt and put on his clothes, every movement causing burning pain.

  ‘Constable Cullen!’ he called.

  The constable appeared at the door. ‘Is everything all right, sir . . . Are you sure you should be up? The doctor said—’

  ‘There are things I must do. You will accompany me.’

  ‘Yes, sir . . . but Inspector Newsome will be calling. Shouldn’t we—?’

  ‘Do not worry about that. There are more pressing matters. Here, take my arm – I am unsteady.’

  Amid all of this confusion, the reader must share the curiosity of the police as to Noah’s whereabouts. We last saw him illuminated by the inferno at Oxford-street, as consumed with frustration and anger as the gin palace was itself consumed.

  He understood then that he must do something to change the balance. Until that stage, Boyle had been leading proceedings. The police were simply reacting to his crimes and slamming closed numerous stable gates as horses raced over the brows of numerous hills. The man seemed to know more about their investigation than they did.

  So, as the smoke billowed and the fire engine crews laboured to spray water over hissing beams, Noah looked around him and saw the policeman who had been (rather clumsily) following him since the whole business had begun. And he set off walking, all pretence of being a beggar now abandoned. At the first corner, he rapidly took off the charred topcoat and reversed it, turning it from black to bottle green. He pulled out a soft cap, and, placing it low over his forehead, he immediately changed his gait and posture, and reversed direction so that he soon passed the man following him.

  Did his pursuer stop in confusion, scanning the crowds? Did he register, too late, the scent of juniper-infused smoke on the man who had passed him in the green coat and discern what had happened? No matter – Noah had been absorbed once more into the city. Nobody knew where he was.

  But nor did he know the whereabouts of Boyle or his man Hawkins. That would have to be remedied. Since he could not yet return home, he took a cab to a lodging house in the vicinity of Long-acre. There, he wrote the letter which – as we now know – the street urchin was to deliver to Benjamin the next day:

  Benjamin

  I saw him tonight at Oxford-street, and, again, I lost him. The police investigation is proving quite futile and the time has come to change strategy.

  I have
escaped that heavy-footed gentleman who has been loitering outside our house for so long. No doubt he will return there in order to await my return. I will not return. Instead, he will follow you. This is my intention.

  You will lead him a merry dance across the city. Go to the costumier that we have used before and purchase two costumes – a Greek and Moor – and two masques. Have them delivered. Then make your way to that ill-fated house in Lambeth and slip a note under the door (I enclose the text separately). After that, return home and go about your normal business.

  Naturally, you will be followed by the policeman. If my suppositions are correct, you will also be followed by one of Boyle’s men. Fear not – I will be with you all the way. Until now, it is they who have been observing us. Now I will follow them and trace them to their source. Burn this message before you leave. If challenged, defend yourself.

  Noah

  PS You will know that I am the true author of this letter when I mention the iron band you wear about your ankle.

  After negotiating the letter’s delivery, Noah followed the boy to observe the effects. Sure enough, the police dullard saw Benjamin receive the note and made a ham-handed interrogation of the boy, who no doubt recounted the message Noah had provided him with for that very eventuality. Then Benjamin put his instructions into action.

  Naturally, the policeman followed. And within a few yards, another man emerged from the glove shop on the corner of Spanish-place and took up the pursuit. It was Henry Hawkins, that increasingly ubiquitous tool of Lucius Boyle. Perturbed as he was, Noah was unsurprised. Indeed, it was exactly the outcome he had hoped for.

  To Leicester-square and Whitehall, across Westminster-bridge and to Lambeth, the trio followed Benjamin, who played his role to the letter. When they arrived at that notorious and unfortunate address where Eliza-Beth had been murdered, Mr Hawkins evidently faced a dilemma: whether to continue his pursuit or risk losing sight of his targets to acquire the note that had been posted under the door. Having lost at St Giles the letter Mr Boyle had forbidden him to lose, he must have reasoned that claiming this piece of evidence would bring him leniency. So he wasted no time in knocking down the door with a prodigious kick and grabbing the sheet of paper before hurrying after Benjamin and the policeman.

  Throughout the curious journey, Noah maintained a safe distance. He was still wearing his ‘beggar’ attire and utilized it in busier streets, adopting a shuffling gait or limp that would cause people to immediately look away lest he asked for money. As long as he was constantly ‘moving on’ to another division, the street constables would not stop him. On less frequented streets, he would revert to his usual athletic gait and modify his appearance to some degree: going bareheaded or wearing his cap, choosing black or green for the exterior hue of his coat. By these small gestures, and with slight changes in posture (walking tall or going round-shouldered), he could minimize his visibility, for – as we have already seen – a man’s appearance in the common crowd is as much a matter of rhythm and pace as colour and size.

  When the pursuit led back to where it had started, Noah took a suitably inconspicuous vantage point and saw the policeman make a report to his colleague, who presumably went off to the Detective Force with his bulletin. Noah waited. He watched Mr Hawkins return to the glove shop he had emerged from. And Noah continued to wait.

  Was Mr Hawkins still in the shop? Was Boyle himself in the shop receiving Hawkins’s account? People walked in and out of the shop, none of them lingering for a sustained period. Was one of them a messenger carrying news from Hawkins to Boyle? A curtain twitched on the first floor. Was there access to an upper floor from within the shop, from which Hawkins was watching him? Or perhaps the fighter had already left? The whole charade would come to naught if Noah ventured into the shop now. It was imperative that the details of Hawkins’s pursuit of Benjamin – and the contents of that note – find its way back to Lucius Boyle. But . . .

  He could wait no longer. Even if his police pursuer was to catch sight of him again, he needed to follow Hawkins. He strode around the square and pushed open the shop door, whose small bell tinkled his entrance. A counter of massed gloves in different colours and hides faced him, their scent filling the air. There was no one in the shop but a pretty girl in an apron behind the counter.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I wonder if you can repair a pair of gloves for me.’

  ‘Of course, sir. You live just opposite there, don’t you? You are dressed rather odd today – not your usual elegance.’

  ‘Yes. Tell me, who was that man who entered a few moments ago? It looked very like the bare-knuckle fighter Henry Hawkins. He did not exit from the same door.’

  ‘The gentleman with the scars? I don’t know his name but he was here earlier today causing no end of trouble.’

  ‘Oh? What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Well, he came in asking about repairing gloves, just as you have, but then he didn’t seem to want to leave. He just looked out into the street as if waiting for someone. Mr Jedson asked him to leave if he did not want to produce his gloves or purchase more – it isn’t such a big shop, as you see – but the man said he would beat us senseless if we spoke to him again and would kill us if we went for a constable. He showed us an iron bar. It was very unpleasant, I can tell you.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He asked if there was another exit. I told him only through the stitching room, but that was not for the public. Then he used language I will not repeat and I was obliged to show him the exit.’

  ‘Is it this door here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but it is not for the public . . . Sir!’

  Noah pushed through the door and entered an area of many tables where five or six men toiled over innumerable scraps of cow leather, suede and pigskin. They looked up from their work, but Noah was moving towards another door that stood ajar. He exited and found himself in a tiny, malodorous courtyard. Crossing this, he emerged on to Thayer-street. Hawkins was nowhere to be seen.

  Noah cursed and hailed a cab. He was satisfied, as the cab clattered off, to see his police shadow emerging from the same courtyard – too late to follow and with no other cab immediately available. The expression on the man’s face was one of extreme anger as Noah smiled broadly.

  Inspector Newsome was caught between impatience and dread of hearing more. The kindly Mr Allan seemed to regard the death of one of his residents as no more inconvenience than misplacing a cup. Commissioner Mayne would see it very differently, as would the infernal newspapers.

  ‘Did he take his own life?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘I do not think so, sir.’

  ‘Well, how did he die if not by his own hand? The room was quite secure, was it not?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Perhaps you’d better see for yourself.’

  The two men walked down to the basement room, whose door had been hacked from its jamb by Mr Allan. Splinters lay about the floor and the tools were where they had been dropped. The men entered the room.

  The writer lay pale and quite dead on his bed. In his borrowed nightshirt, he could have been sleeping but for the lack of breathing and heartbeat. There was no sign of injury to his person, no disturbance of furniture and no sign of forced access. The bars over the window were intact and the glass was unbroken. Mr Newsome tested the ironwork with a forceful pull and found it quite secure.

  ‘Did the bell ring at all during the night, Mr Allan?’

  ‘Ah, you are thinking that Mr Askern allowed access to another in the night. No – the bell did not ring. And anyone venturing downstairs would have passed my door and woken me first. I know the sounds of this house like no one else, Mr Newsome.’

  ‘Was this wedge in place when you forced the door?’

  ‘Indeed. I looked under the door before I began to dismantle it and saw the wedge there.’

  ‘Did you find anything strange on entering? Think carefully – the slightest oddity may be of note.’

  ‘Nothi
ng at all, sir.’

  ‘Think! Anything you would not expect upon opening the door. Anything at all.’

  ‘Nothing, sir. I know this house like . . . wait . . . there was a faint smell. It smelled sweet, like burned sugar, but not exactly. More acrid. I have never smelled anything like it before and I cannot smell it any longer. I have heard that a dead body can often smell sweet.’

  ‘I think not.’ Mr Newsome looked into the grate and prodded the cold ashes with a poker. There did not seem to be anything sugary that had been burned there. The window could not be opened, so the scent could not have entered there.

  ‘Did Mr Askern smoke a pipe or cigars, Mr Allan?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I suppose it is possible that Mr Askern died of natural causes, but he was a young man and seemed healthy.’

  ‘He had a terrible cough, sir. I believe he was consumptive, although I didn’t hear him coughing in the night. Indeed, I heard no sound at all from his room after dark, and I was up ’til after midnight. There was a light under his door, so perhaps he was writing.’

  Mr Newsome walked over to the simple table and looked at the sheets of paper there. The writer had evidently been making plans for places he intended to visit once he was released, for the papers showed little other than lists of streets and characters he would like to interview. Only the candle presented a curious sight: it had burned right down to its brass holder rather than being blown out. He looked again at the corpse.

  ‘He does not look like he has coughed himself into an early grave, Mr Allan. I have seldom seen a more composed cadaver. Have you sent for Doctor McLeod? Maybe he can resolve this.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Good. Now – what of this other man you say fled last night?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I heard the street door close before dawn and went to investigate. I could see no one, so I went up to the rooms and found all doors closed except the attic. The man had only been here for a few hours. He had cut the bell free from the door jamb so as to make no noise on leaving.’