The Incendiary's Trail
Page 29
Noah smiled slightly at the classical reference. But it was a cold smile. He could not take his eyes off the other balloon and its lone occupant. The two of them might have been satellites – but which revolved around the other? Whose gravity was strongest?
‘Will you kill him, Noah?’ asked Mr Williamson.
Noah made no answer.
‘You had the chance at Vauxhall. You had your knife – you could have sprung at him and sliced his throat as he sliced Mary’s. And yet you did not. Why? Surely you were not dissuaded by the presence of the police.’
Again, Noah made no answer. Instead, he stared out across the chill air to the other balloon.
‘Have you decided, perhaps, that killing him will not solve anything?’
‘I have decided nothing,’ answered Noah.
And Lucius Boyle? He was more Antaeus than Daedalus; he derived his power from contact with the ground, where shadows and solidity hid his presence. Up here he was exposed and in full view. He was no aeronaut. Though the barometer told him his altitude, the thermometer the temperature and the compass his direction, he was still powerless. He continued to rise and the policemen continued to follow him according to the immutable laws of science.
Having read of such flights in the newspapers, he knew as much as the rest of the public about guide ropes, gas and ballast. Nevertheless, the chill of altitude and the dizzying effect of ascent were almost as unnerving as being in full view of the moon’s objective eye.
His ascent was slowing. Had Mr Lyme been there to explain, Lucius would have known that this was due to a partial equalization of pressure within and without the balloon, combined with increased atmospheric moisture adding to its weight. At the same time, his linear progress also ceased. The effect was that the other balloon – travelling in another stratum of air – began to move directly underneath.
Lucius Boyle looked down upon the netted globe and understood what he must do. He picked up one of the smaller ballast bags – sand or gravel inside a coarse canvas bag – and retrieved an ever-present box of lucifers from beneath his robes. He struck a match and held it to a corner of the canvas until flames began to lick at the material, then he leaned over the edge of the car and dropped it.
The burning bag plummeted towards the other balloon and connected with the outer curve, bouncing off the surface with a shower of sparks.
‘My G—! What was that?’ shouted Inspector Newsome.
‘I believe it was a flaming bag of ballast,’ said Mr Lyme. ‘He is attempting to set us alight.’
‘Can he do that? How secure is the surface of this machine?’
‘It is nothing but silk coated with liquid gum. It will burn quite readily if one of those bags settles on the surface. There may be one there now. We must descend.’
‘We must not.’
‘Mr Newsome, would you rather flutter burning to the ground hundreds of feet below us?’
‘Descend if you must,’ said Noah. ‘He will still be visible to us on this cloudless night. We can follow on the ground if necessary. Descend, Mr Lyme.’
‘Mr Dyson – you have no authority—’
The inspector’s sentence was cut short by Noah’s dagger glinting in the moonlight.
‘Inspector – tell me: what have I to lose? You say I am guilty and will go back to gaol when we land. What is to stop me cutting your throat and tossing your body over the edge? Who knows you are in this balloon? Who knows that I am?’
‘Sergeant Williamson knows. Sergeant – speak to this man. Tell him. Mr Williamson? Detective? That is an order!’
Mr Williamson looked impassively between the two men. A second flaming bag of ballast sailed past the car, trailing a tail of sparks.
‘Take us down immediately, Mr Lyme,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Or I will have Noah here deal with you as he would deal with Inspector Newsome.’
‘Think carefully what you say,’ warned Mr Newsome.
Mr Williamson made no answer. The aeronaut quickly attended to the valve and the acrid stench of coal gas began to fill the car. At first, there was no discernible change in height, but the balloon of Lucius Boyle soon emerged above them, moving across the moon in a dark eclipse. It diminished in size as they descended.
‘Throw out the guide rope,’ said Mr Lyme, now all business.
Noah tossed the coil and watched it unravel into the void. They had left the city behind and the earth below was now a blanket of darkness punctuated infrequently by light. As they moved lower, the hedges and trees of rural Middlesex became distinguishable in the moonlight.
‘Can we not fasten the valve once more and follow from a lower altitude?’ asked Inspector Newsome, half covering his face to avoid breathing the gas.
‘That depends on whether there is an ember currently burning atop the balloon, sir,’ said Mr Lyme. ‘If there is, we may all die shortly. Would you like to test that hypothesis?’
The question was rhetorical, as the treetops were growing closer and the guide rope was now trailing among them.
‘Be ready with the grappling iron,’ Mr Lyme warned Noah.
Now that the features of the ground were clear and able to give scale to their height, Mr Williamson once again became tense. A collision with a treetop could tip them out into space. They seemed to be moving much faster than they had in the upper aether.
‘Brace yourselves, gentlemen! Throw out the iron there!’
The hook sailed over the edge and all four gripped the edges of the car. Below them, the land anchor struck soft earth and ploughed a furrow, jumping and skipping along the surface. It leaped at a stone wall and pulled the first two layers down after it. Then it snagged through a patch of thorns and caught upon an exposed root. The car jerked violently and was pulled to the ground by the tautened rope, where it connected roughly, rocked over on one edge and finally settled upright.
‘Everybody out!’ shouted Mr Lyme.
The four clambered frantically over the edge and made some distance between themselves and potential explosion. But the balloon just wobbled limply in the moonlit field it had landed in, apparently undamaged by its unorthodox flight.
The silence – to the two policemen who were used to the unsleeping city – was uncanny. They looked about them warily, as if set down upon the shores of an undiscovered continent. No streets here to guide their paths; no spires by which locate oneself; no passing omnibus; no advertising posters adorning walls. Even the scent was something otherworldly: a curious aroma of damp earth and leaves untainted by smoke. Was this how London had once smelled?
‘There is no burning bag! We could have stayed in the air!’ raged Inspector Newsome.
‘The benefit of retrospection, sir,’ said Mr Lyme.
‘Look. He is descending beyond that hill,’ said Noah.
And, indeed, the other balloon was a dark shape against the sky. Noah set off across the field, his Homeric hero’s boots rapidly becoming soaked by the clinging grass. The others followed less sure-footedly uphill and over unfamiliar terrain until all were panting and sweating freely. As the fittest of them all, Noah raced ahead until his lungs ached and his legs throbbed with the heat of effort. Lucius Boyle’s balloon had descended out of sight on the other side of the hill.
Then, as Noah approached the crest, a false dawn blossomed before him. A ball of fire and smoke rose into the night sky and cast his martial silhouette against its redness so that he appeared almost a statue to those following.
Reaching the peak, he looked down to see the ruptured and burning remains of the balloon. Flaming tatters were falling around the car, itself half-consumed in the conflagration.
‘The gas! He must have ignited the gas with all that fire play. Any breach of the skin could have set it off,’ said Mr Lyme, the first to catch up to Noah.
But Noah was not there to hear. He continued on to where the car lay upright and crackling. From a distance, he could make out a form slumped over its edge: a body evidently consumed in its attempts to escape.
The flame-scarred eyeballs of the corpse mocked him even in death and he felt an urge to strike the face. The dagger was clutched furiously in his hand.
‘So, he has met his end,’ said Inspector Newsome from behind. We can all be happy, Noah. Justice has been done.’
Noah did not reply. Nor did he turn away from the face of the incendiary. He threw the dagger into the ground so that the blade buried itself in the soft soil.
TWENTY-SEVEN
NOTORIOUS MURDERER KILLED IN BALLOON DESCENT
The man sought by police for the murders of Mr Henry Coggins and Miss Mary Chatterton, and wanted in connection with the murders of the girl Eliza-Beth, of Reverend Josiah Archer and of a certain ‘Razor’ William Barley, has been killed in a balloon accident, his body burned almost beyond recognition owing to ignition of coal gas.
The gentleman, previously known as ‘Red Jaw’ or ‘the General’, and now identified as Mr Lucius Boyle, had been lured to Friday’s Bal Masqué by officers of the Metropolitan Police. There, it was surmised, he would try to silence by murder those few remaining who might know his identity, viz. the performers of Mr Coggins’s theatrical troupe.
Inspector Newsome of A Division lay in wait with a group of constables for the murderer to appear and confronted the man with his crimes, whereupon Mr Boyle extracted a pistol (the same used to kill Mr Coggins) and shot Edgar Grimes, the man-giant of the show, killing him. In the mêlée, Mr Boyle made his escape and purloined one of Mr Charles Lyme’s two balloons, rendering an aeronaut unconscious and grievously injuring him the process.
Inspector Newsome gave chase in the second balloon, taking Mr Lyme himself as pilot and navigator for the flight. There followed a heated pursuit across the skies of London, followed by many inhabitants on that clear, moonlit night. During the pursuit, Mr Boyle attempted to destroy his pursuers’ balloon by dropping flaming ballast bags upon it, but Mr Lyme evaded these and managed to land safely.
Owing to the extreme volatility of the gas, and the inexperience of the pilot, Mr Boyle’s balloon was subsequently brought down by a fire that destroyed both it and the pilot. His burned body was discovered and identified by Inspector Newsome.
Information given by an associate of Mr Boyle’s, a bare-knuckle fighter named Henry Hawkins (now in police custody and charged with murder), has revealed the former’s complicity in the murder of Eliza-Beth and the Reverend Josiah Archer, in addition to numerous documented cases of incendiarism.
CLEAR CASE OF SUICIDE – Dr Alexander McLeod, esteemed surgeon to the Metropolitan Police, was discovered dead by a coal deliveryman early on Saturday morning. He had died by his own hand, taking an overdose of opium. No letter was left to be discovered.
The deliveryman arrived to discover the street door open, and, knowing this to be strange and knowing the doctor to be a careful man, called inside to ask if there was any problem. Alarmed by the smell of smoke, he entered the corridor and followed the scent to the parlour, whereupon he found the body of the doctor sitting in a high-backed chair. The smoke had been caused by documents being burned in a metal urn. A doctor was called and pronounced Mr McLeod deceased. The police do not suspect foul play.
‘Good news and bad news,’ said Commissioner Mayne solemnly, putting down the newspapers with their circled articles. ‘I am glad that this lamentable tale has finally come to an end. You are to be congratulated, Inspector Newsome, though the result has been tardy.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Dr McLeod was unmarried, is that correct?’
‘Indeed. He was a bachelor and lived alone without domestic help.’
‘Do we know why he might have killed himself? What is this about the burned documents?’
‘Frankly, we have little idea. The documents were burned to ash and quite illegible. Evidently he did not want anyone to read them, and he has succeeded in that.’
‘Do you think there is any connection to this case? I would like to be certain that all loose threads are neatly severed. I do not want to be reading about further atrocities in a few days’ time. Are you absolutely sure that this was not another subtle murder like that of Mr Askern, or that those documents do not have darker implications?’
‘I am as sure as I can be. The doctor certainly had the means to kill himself in a painless way. He lived an impeccable and utterly blameless life. Perhaps, as is sometimes the case, he simply became fatigued with the death he encountered almost daily. It affects men in different ways.’
‘Well, he was a good man. He will be missed. Now – what is this about Sergeant Williamson?’
‘Yes, he was also at Vauxhall Gardens that night. His own investigations had led him to believe that he would find Lucius Boyle there and we met at Mr Hardy’s show—’
‘Mr Hardy?’
‘The miniature gentleman . . . he has taken over from Mr Coggins as—’
‘I remember. Proceed.’
‘Well, we boarded the balloon together, he and I, and joined forces in the pursuit. On landing, he was quite badly injured. These injuries, in addition to those he sustained at the hands of Mr Henry Hawkins, mean that he is not currently fit for duty. We have agreed that he will take some time away from the Detective Force in convalescence.’
‘Is that advisable? He is one of our finest men; we need men like him on the streets of the city pursuing crime, not malingering in bed.’
‘The injuries were quite serious, sir, and, I fear, not restricted to the body. This case has shaken him like no other. It may have reduced his faith in his own abilities, Commissioner. When a policeman is afraid to venture into a dark alley, whether actual or metaphorical, he has lost his worth.’
‘I will thank you not to wax poetical with me, Inspector. I’m sure we will be seeing more of Sergeant Williamson, whatever you say. There will certainly be no more of this regrettable activity with known criminals.’
‘Certainly not, sir.’
‘It has been a most curious case, has it not? I feel that there are still parts of it that I do not understand. Much of it seems purely motiveless.’
‘Indeed. From what Mr Hawkins deigned to tell us, it appears that the original murder of Eliza-Beth was in order to procure evidence for a case of blackmail, either of the mother or father. Mary Chatterton was evidently the mother and yielded nothing but her life. The murders of Mr Coggins, the clergyman and Mr Askern were evidently aimed at eradicating witnesses of Boyle’s visits to Lambeth – a rather drastic set of measures.’
‘And still we have no idea who the victim of this supposed blackmail was? Is he somewhere in the metropolis, joyful at Boyle’s death and yet stricken with the slaughter committed to protect his name?’
‘We have no idea, sir. I am afraid it is a thread we cannot and, perhaps, should not pursue.’
‘I fear you are correct. However, there is one “thread” I am keen to sever. I presume that Mr Dyson is on his way back to New South Wales.’
‘Ah. That is an issue I wanted to discuss with you . . .’
Mr Williamson was sitting alone at home. He put down the newspaper with a mirthless smile. Both articles were thoroughly incorrect in their own way, but they told the story they intended to, making appropriate heroes and villains of the characters in the whole murderous tale. As for Mr Williamson himself, which was he?
Needless to say, he had not been injured in the balloon landing. That piece of artifice had been Inspector Newsome’s idea – or rather his insistence. Mr Newsome had come to the house on the Sunday after the balloon chase and found Mr Williamson in a confrontational humour.
‘Have you come to arrest me for aiding
Noah’s escape, Inspector Newsome?’
‘I am reassured that you would think so. That is the George Williamson I know: the one who would arrest his closest friend if he proved to be a criminal.’
‘You are not my closest friend, and I am not that George Williamson.’
‘Indeed. Indeed you are not. And that is why I have come. Not to arrest you, but to discuss your future in the Detective Force.’
‘Am I to be suspended? Or expelled completely?’
‘I think we can find another solution, one that is less drastic. I will tell Commissioner Mayne that you were injured in the balloon chase. You still have visible injuries from your beating so this will be quite plausible. I will recommend a period of convalescence which will, in time, grow into your retirement from the Metropolitan Police.’
‘I have given my life to the police. How am I . . .?’
‘Mr Williamson, the alternative is a trial and gaol, possibly transportation. The other convicts would not take kindly to an ex-detective in their midst.’
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘You did it to yourself the moment you stepped on to the side of the criminal.’
‘And you have never stepped across that dividing line, Albert? Not when you recruited Noah to do your work for you? Not when you allowed Noah to be locked in Giltspur-street as bait to draw a murderer who would have slain him?’
‘What I did, I did in the interests of justice.’
‘As did I, but you obviously cannot see that. Lucius Boyle was caught and the matter is over. We approached the same conclusion from different paths.’
‘My path did not involve two gaolers and three constables brutally injured at the hands of Mr Dyson. It involved the breaking of no law – only the stretching of it.’
‘Since I clearly have no option in what you suggest, at least do me the honour of being truthful about your motivations in removing me from the police. What intrigue are you involved in now?’
‘George, do you still suspect me of complicity with that man?’
‘No, I do not. I admit I was following the wrong path. Even if I did believe you were the victim of his blackmail, there is little now that I could do to prove it. I wonder if it is selfishness that you would like all the acclaim to fall upon your shoulders for this success?’