‘Hmm. I fail to see the relevance of this time off.’
‘As do I, at present. And I must be careful not to pursue a wild goose all the way to Leadenhall Street. But their care to cover up whatever Johnson was looking into is itself interesting. He may have been up to something.’
‘Or he may simply have been involved in commercial matters they wish to remain secret. It is a private company, Horton. Secrets are its stock in trade.’
‘Yes, sir. But what if those secrets lead to the deaths of its clerks?’
‘Hmm. No evidence for that, now, is there?’
Harriott sounded aggrieved, and Horton could detect the man’s lingering loyalty to his old employer. He decided to change the subject.
‘The alderman, Burroughs. What is his trade?’
‘He is one of the more powerful men in the City. A broker in gold and silver bullion; there are only two in the whole City, him and Moccatta, and Burroughs makes much play of being the only Gentile broker. Unfortunately, he is also one of those who police these streets. The aldermen are the justices of the City peace, and yet Burroughs acts like an advocate for the HEIC.’
‘It is an odd arrangement.’
‘That it is, Horton. That it is. The City aldermen are required to have paternal relationships with London’s trading firms. They know how their bread is buttered, after all. But this is worse – he is a Proprietor.’
‘And what does that mean, sir?’
‘It means he is a joint-stock owner, and a large one; he holds four votes at the court of proprietors, which is the most any one individual is allowed. If Johnson’s death is related to East India matters, Burroughs’s involvement will be damnably irritating.’
‘The inquest tomorrow may raise some further lines of inquiry,’ Horton said. ‘Also, there were some books in Johnson’s house which may relate to all this. I am looking into those. I would talk to the neighbours again, and Amy Beavis. I would also like to know more about Mrs Johnson.’
‘Why?’
‘I believe some items may have been taken from her dressing table. There was a lock on it, but the drawer was empty.’
Harriott frowned.
‘But that might be the key to the entire case! Why have you not told me this before now?’
Horton affected embarrassment, but instead felt relief. He had turned the magistrate’s attention away from the East India Company, and back onto the Johnsons. He felt in his pocket for the paper that sat folded within. On the way out of the Atlantic Office section, with Putnam hard on his heels, Horton had barrelled into one of the clerks who was trying to leave the room at the same time.
‘Oh! My puh-puh-pardon, constable! I was lost in my usual drah-dreamworld.’
It had been Lamb, the stammering clerk who had spoken when they first went into the room.
Stepping back, Horton indicated the door.
‘After you, Mr Lamb.’
‘My thanks to you, Cuh-Constable Horton.’
Lamb exited, turning right to go further into the capacious interior of John Company’s headquarters. Horton turned left, Putnam close behind.
The sharp-edged note in his pocket must have been inserted there by Lamb when they bumped into each other. He had noticed it as soon as they left the private trade committee office, and had read it surreptitiously while Harriott climbed into the carriage.
‘Horton – I would speak to you of Johnson. Prospect of
Whitby, tonight at 7.’
It was a random element in the story, and it promised answers to questions. Not the least of which was how an East India Company clerk had known his name.
1590: JACOBUS AT THE ISLAND
It took another couple of years, but eventually they boarded a ship and sailed south. They could have left earlier, but by now Mina was heavily pregnant for the first time, and they waited for the child to be born before taking ship. Sailing with a newborn could have been an awful experience, but the infant seemed to take the rolling world of the ocean without anxiety, as if Neptune himself rocked him to sleep.
South they sailed, and as the child slept, Jacobus taught his wife the contents of the manuscript, lest something happen to him and she had to take over the Project. They had been calling it the Project for some time now, the initial capital pregnant with conspiracy.
‘Can it be true, Jacobus?’ Mina asked as he coached her, and she heard the contents of the book for the first time. ‘Can this miracle really take place?’
‘Yes, my dear, it can be true. It is true.’
He said it with faith, though he could still not be sure. He had not been able to follow the instructions which had been set out in the manuscript. He needed the right environment and conditions, and he believed he had found them on the island. He had spoken to several men who had visited it, and they told him about its rocky fastness and its isolation. It seemed perfect.
But now, seeing it for the first time, he felt that certainty slip, disturbed by the high rollers of the ocean beneath him.
‘My days,’ said Mina, holding little Jacobus in her arms. ‘It looks like a prison.’
And it did. The island was encased in walls of rock, and it stood alone in the blue-green ocean. They approached from the south, the only direction which the wind would allow, and sailed around to the north side where the only reliable landing place could be found. As they went, Jacobus caught sight of men working on one of the headlands.
‘Look, my love!’ he shouted, excitement conquering his dismay at the initial sight of the place. ‘They are building our fort!’
He found her hand with his, and they held the baby together as the South Atlantic winds moved them around the island which was to be their home.
CONSTABLE HORTON IN THE PROSPECT OF WHITBY
Horton arrived at the Prospect soon after six. He bought himself a pint of porter and sat down near a window looking out onto the river. With Lamb not due until seven, he had some time to himself, valuable time in which to think. His eyes rested on the ships and boats crowding the river outside. Their endless activity always settled him.
His peace was short-lived. Within minutes an unwelcome figure had made himself known. Horton, gazing out onto the Thames, had not seen his arrival, and was startled by Edward Markland’s hand on his shoulder and his velvet voice in his ear.
‘Constable Horton. I was told I would find you in here.’
Horton frowned. Somebody at the River Police, stirring up trouble for him, had no doubt passed on his whereabouts. Or perhaps Markland had been to his home. The man did not understand other men’s boundaries.
‘Mr Markland,’ he said. ‘I am meeting somebody here shortly in reference to the current case.’
‘I am glad to hear it. This will not take long.’
Markland sat down. He took no drink; in fact he looked with some distaste at the metal tankard in front of Horton.
‘Does the drinking of ale aid you in your considerations, constable?’ he asked.
‘I find it does. Taken in reasonable amounts.’
‘Ah. And I wonder what reasonable amounts are, constable. I am told you are a frequent denizen of this establishment.’ Markland said establishment with the same contempt as he might say France.
‘It is a useful spot for meeting informants, sir.’
‘Is it? Reliable informants, no doubt. Made compliant through the copious taking of alcohol.’ Markland sniffed, and passed a handkerchief under his nose, as if the air of the Prospect was polluting his interior.
‘Now, Horton,’ he said. ‘You have brought me no new information on the Johnson case today. I find this unsatisfactory. It is my understanding that you have recently visited East India House.’
‘You seem very well informed, sir.’
‘That may be so, constable, that may be so. Still, the question remains: why did you not report to me about your visit?’
‘I was planning to come to you tomorrow, sir.’
This was a lie. Indeed, he had comfortably forgot
ten that he was accountable to Markland on this particular case. The man was characteristically rather indolent and had, on previous cases for which Horton had investigated for him, been happy to let the constable alone. This case, it seemed, was different. Different enough to get the Shadwell magistrate away from his usual habitat and into a smelly and grimy tavern.
‘Well, we shall never know if you planned to visit me or not, shall we, constable? As it is, Mr Burroughs sent me a personal note to complain about your presence.’
‘Mr Burroughs is a man of your acquaintance?’
‘He is indeed. And, lest it be said that I am as miserly with my information as you are with yours, know this, constable: I am, like Burroughs, a Proprietor of the East India Company. Only with one vote, but nonetheless, I have interests.’
‘You did not mention this before, sir.’
‘I did not think it relevant before, constable.’
‘Then I take it you will no longer be involved in this particular case?’
Markland blinked and then frowned and then smiled.
‘Your reasoning, constable?’
‘Your personal interests, sir. If it came to pass that there were Company matters entwined with these events . . .’
‘If it came to pass. It will not come to pass, constable. It will certainly not.’
It was rare to see the real Markland, thought Horton, but he wondered if he was seeing him now. Ambitious. Hard-nosed. Contemptuous of his inferiors. The street-fighter in the guise of the dandy.
‘You seem very, very sure of yourself, constable,’ Markland said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You forget yourself. You forget who I am. I am your superior. And, in this matter, you will take direction from me.’
‘And from Mr Harriott, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. Harriott.’
Markland eased back in his chair, the old comfortable smile on his smooth face. His fingers stroked each other, as if they were infatuated with themselves.
‘Your magistrate, constable, is not quite the man you think he is.’
The tankard in Horton’s hand felt suddenly heavy. Or perhaps it was just the air in the room thinning out, its invisible odours dropping away. Markland smiled a vinegar-thin smile.
‘Harriott is financially embarrassed, constable. Acutely so. He has made certain unfortunate investments. He is an inveterate fiddler in business, as you must certainly know. He has a number of patents which he has been trusting to lift him out from this temporary difficulty. Unfortunately, none of them has performed the way he may have wanted. He has been forced to move to a meaner residence in Burr Street. And he is terribly ill.’
Horton stood up.
‘Sit down, constable.’
Horton’s fist clenched, and Markland saw it.
‘Do me violence, constable, and see what happens. Now, I say again: sit down.’
Helplessly, Horton returned to his seat.
‘I regret having to bring up the unfortunate matter of your magistrate’s private affairs. But you will understand I only have your best interests at heart. Harriott is your protector. He is the man who gives you clear water within which to pilot your odd little craft. But he is not a man on whom you should rely.’
Markland leaned forward.
‘I am that man, constable. I am willing to be your protector.’
‘Sir, I know nothing of Mr Harriott’s position, financial or otherwise.’
‘You do now.’
‘I shall forget what I have heard. But until Mr Harriott tells me otherwise – or until his superior does – I will continue to be loyal to him.’
‘Admirable. Contemptible, as well. Contemptibly shortsighted.’
‘Perhaps, sir.’
‘I can have you removed from this investigation, constable.’
‘I’m not at all sure you can, sir. Not if Mr Harriott wishes to pursue it.’
‘It is my case, not his.’
‘And that is a matter for discussion between the two of you. I, as a lowly constable, only do what my magistrate tells me to.’
‘Poppycock. You are your own man, Horton. Do not underestimate my intelligence.’
Horton said nothing to that. Markland stared at him, a cat gazing at a recalcitrant mouse. Then he stood.
‘You will report to me every day, Horton,’ he said. ‘And you will, in particular, give me a full account of any dealings you may or may not have with the Honourable East India Company. I will allow you to continue your investigations in the manner you see fit, but I will not permit you to keep Harriott more regularly informed than I. Do I make myself clear, constable?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do not make an enemy of me, Horton,’ said Markland. ‘Do not embarrass me in front of my peers. Do right by me, and I shall do right by you.’
He smiled, and it was not the usual Markland smile, the welcoming grin which settled the room and made everyone feel they were in the presence of integrity and wit, for however short a time. No, this was the smile of the leopard in the tree watching the gazelle walk beneath, a smile that emphasised the teeth within.
‘Why, Cuh-Cuh-Cuh-Constable Horton. I do be-be-believe you may be a little the worse for drink.’
Charles Lamb announced his arrival at Horton’s table in the Prospect an hour after Markland’s departure. He grinned, his face warm and friendly despite the clerical pallor, and offered to buy Horton another drink. Horton agreed, though he was already on his fourth pint of porter. He had drunk rapidly after his exchange with Markland. Lamb went away and returned with the drinks: a tankard for Horton, and a jug of gin and a cup for himself.
‘Fuh-fuh-fuh-forgive me for playing the lush, constable,’ said Lamb, after downing a shocking amount of gin in a single draft. ‘This in-in-infernal STAMmer only responds to drink, and we need to tuh-tuh-tuh-TALK.’ He swallowed more gin, and began to talk, of general matters at first: of Bonaparte’s infernal return, of the battle of Tolentino, of the latest coalition and the ambitions of Russia. Lamb spoke with creativity and power, such that Horton found himself vividly picturing the Emperor’s approach towards the Low Countries, his northern march into that figurative space which England shared with the United Netherlands, the flat expanses of sea and land into which the Thames poured. The ale churned in his mind as he looked out at the ships on the river, busy in their industry and diligent, oblivious to the warlike chants from over the water.
Lamb’s stammer did indeed smooth out, the jagged interruptions to his speech giving way to his own personality. He was a man of Horton’s age, perhaps a little younger, with a handsome, open face which was quick to take delight. Lamb watched the other people in the Prospect, which by now was crowded, with the same appetite as Horton.
‘Well, constable, I must say this. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.’
‘I thank you, sir,’ said Horton, somewhat disturbed by this. ‘You knew my name at East India House. How did that come to be?’
‘Know your name? Of course I know your name! The famous Charles Horton, Wapping’s lonely investigator. The éminence grise of crime and its detection. The man who solved the Solander case!’
The mention of the Solander murders brought Horton up short, ale or no ale. How did an East India Company clerk come to know, and what is more, to obviously care about that particular case and his involvement in it? But Lamb was not yet done.
‘And the Sybarites? An unusual case. Though not as uncommon as the London Monster of 1811. Was John Williams really involved, constable? Or was there a darker power at work?’
Lamb’s handsome, intelligent face now had hunger in it. He had seen a similar appetite in the faces of newspaper men, though Lamb’s interest surely could not be for financial gain, as theirs was.
‘You have me at a terrible disadvantage, Lamb,’ was all Horton would say. Lamb laughed delightedly.
‘Perfect! Your reputation is well earned. A man who keeps his own counsel. Coleridge will be delighted.
’
‘Coleridge?’
‘He wanted to come to meet you, but was occupied with another obligation. But I shall report back in detail.’
‘Lamb, this grows tiresome. Who are you, please, to know so much of me?’
‘My name is Charles Lamb, constable. As well as clerking at the Company, I write a bit. The odd essay, the occasional tragedy, even a play for Drury Lane some years ago, though it was met with precious little fanfare. Coleridge, though. You must have heard of Coleridge.’
‘The name is familiar.’
‘Familiar! He is one of England’s finest thinkers and poets!’
‘I read little poetry. In fact, none at all.’
‘No. Of course you do not. But Coleridge has heard of you, sir. We all have. Your name has been discussed several times among us. We find you, and your works, continually fascinating. De Quincey speaks of little else. He is preparing a monograph on the Ratcliffe Highway murders.’
Horton had no idea what to say. This man was obviously well educated and no doubt financially secure – East India House clerks were well paid and vacancies were subject to ferocious competition. Yet despite his charm he talked of Horton as if he were a subject for study, seemingly unconcerned by this impertinence. Who were these poets and writers, to speak of him so?
‘Mr Lamb, I thank you for your enthusiasm,’ he said. ‘But I swear, there is nothing particular or special about me. I am only pursuing the tasks which my magistrate lays in front of me.’
‘No indeed, constable. I think there is a good deal more to you than that. And I think it right that you look into the strange death of poor Ben Johnson and his family. There is a good deal more to that than meets the eye, as well.’
‘Perhaps you can enlighten me.’
‘I have worked as a clerk to the private trade committee for barely a year, constable. And I do believe my presence there to be in the nature of an accident – I am not as bovine as most of the clerks who go through that office.
Lamb sipped his gin more gently, his stutter gone under the drink’s earlier ministrations.
The Detective and the Devil Page 7
