Dead Letters

by Joan Lock

  The crowd drew its collective breath and shouted warnings. The distance between earth and balloon was widening fast and Smith was still clinging on but beginning to topple backwards, his weight dragging the car and causing the balloon to wobble dramatically.

  The pilot and the man in the straw boater realized what was happening and tried to pull Smith aboard. But his size and weight and the angle made it difficult.

  The balloon was swaying alarmingly now and, still low, was drifting towards the palace. Was the fugitive trying to push Smith off? Best could not tell as that side of the basket swung in and out of view. At last the top of Smith’s shoulders disappeared over the side – followed by the rest of his body.

  A spray of sand ballast fell from the car as the pilot attempted to compensate for his additional, unexpected human weight.

  The balloon gave a final, indignant shudder, then, climbing straight up, headed eastwards.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing!’ The aeronaut’s white beard quivered with indignation. ‘You could have killed yourself and caused a terrible accident among the crowd!’

  Smith pulled himself to his feet from his ignominious position in a heap on the floor of the wicker car. ‘I am an officer of the Metropolitan Police,’ he announced. ‘And,’ he went on uncertainly, pointing at the man wearing the boater, who was now incongruously holding a pencil and drawing pad, ‘he is a fraudster!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ the pilot exclaimed as the startled young man’s eyes widened in puzzlement. ‘This is Mr Goodson, the artist. He is here at my invitation to draw the scenery from aloft. I am tired,’ added the balloonist wearily, ‘of inaccurate depictions of the views from a balloon drawn by persons who have obviously never even left ground.’

  Smith was confused. ‘But … but …’ He glanced from one man to the other seeking help. ‘He is wearing a boater,’ he finished foolishly.

  ‘If that’s what you were after, sir, glance below where you will see such a person at the centre of some attention. What’s your weight?’ he added peremptorily. ‘We’ll never get to any decent height until we divest ourselves of your equivalent in ballast. Your presence was not allowed for on this flight.’

  Smith felt an absolute fool. And angry that Best’s impulsiveness had landed him in this situation.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Eleven stone six pounds.’

  ‘Well, at least that’s precise.’ He leaned over the side and shouted, ‘Beware ballast!’ before tipping more sand overboard. ‘Not something I usually do into the faces of my audience,’ he scolded. ‘It is as well that my reputation is already secure.’

  ‘Sorry,’ murmured Smith again who was now gazing at the man with awe. ‘Are you Mr Coxwell?’

  ‘I certainly am.’

  ‘The famous aeronaut?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I feel such a fool.’

  ‘So you ought.’

  As the balloon resumed its upward flight, Coxwell looked at Smith’s crestfallen face and said, ‘Well, you’re here now. You might as well enjoy it. Go on. Look over the side. People pay me a great deal of money for this privilege.’

  Littlechild marched towards Best, triumphant if a little dishevelled, firmly grasping the left wrist and shoulder of a young man. His captive wore a jaunty straw boater with a cream ribbon and a pristine cream blazer.

  ‘Got him!’ Littlechild exclaimed, grinning his enthusiastic boyish grin and awaiting applause.

  Best groaned and covered his eyes. ‘Tell me this is not happening, I don’t believe this!’

  Littlechild frowned. ‘What’s that, Ernest? What don’t you believe?’ He tightened his grip on the young man who, embarrassed by all the attention they were attracting, began to struggle peevishly.

  ‘Here, hold him a minute, Ernest, while I get the cuffs out.’

  He reached into his pocket and extracted a pair of the latest, lightweight US-style handcuffs. ‘Where’s young Smith?’ he grinned. ‘Couldn’t he keep up?’

  Best was tempted to release the prisoner to gesture upwards. Instead he jerked his head skywards, exclaiming bitterly, ‘He’s up there!’

  ‘Gone for a ride?’ Littlechild chuckled as he snapped the cuffs around the man’s wrists. ‘Surprised you could spare him.’ At last he registered Best’s fraught glance – but misinterpreted it. ‘Oh, I see – he’s getting an overall view.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially: ‘Trying to spot Quicksilver from above. Very smart.’

  His prisoner now securely attached to him, he glanced up and watched the balloon drifting towards Tottenham. ‘But,’ he pursed his lips and shook his head knowingly, ‘it isn’t staying over the park for long, is it?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘And what if he does see something suspicious? How would he get the news back to you?’ He chuckled. ‘Haven’t got a telegraph machine on board, have they?’ He patted Best’s arm. ‘Maybe they have a carrier pigeon!’

  The disbelief on Cheadle’s face was matched by the scathing tone in his voice: ‘Sergeant Smith is sailing away in a balloon!’

  Best nodded apologetically. ‘Yes.’

  ‘My fault, I’m afraid,’ exclaimed Littlechild gallantly. ‘He and Inspector Best were helping me in my pursuit of Bermondsey Bill but the crowds were so thick and …’

  ‘Who’s ’e? This Bermondsey Bill?’

  Littlechild cleared his throat. ‘He’s a long-firm swindler – built up all these phantom companies and …’ Even the relentlessly embullient Littlechild suddenly sensed a trap. ‘Er – there’s a warrant out for him, do you see.’

  Cheadle contemplated them in silence for a moment, then took a deep breath and enquired in a voice heavy with irony, ‘When you ’ad ’im, this Bermondsey Bill, did ’e by any chance have primed pipe bombs about his person?’ Receiving no response, the Chief Inspector continued, ‘No, don’t tell me – I got it – you caught ’im red-handed planting a fiendish device?’

  Littlechild looked down, shook his head and had the sense to remain silent. They all knew that once this mood was upon him the only thing to do was just stand there and take it.

  Cheadle slammed his fist on the table. ‘’Ere’s us, trying to stop somebody killing ’undreds of people – including our own – an’ ’ere’s you running about executing warrants and sending sergeants off on balloon rides!’

  Another judiciously silent moment was eventually broken by Best who drew a breath and plunged in: ‘To be fair, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘Bermondsey Bill might have been Quicksilver. Could in fact be Quicksilver and have already deposited his bomb – or bombs.’

  More silence greeted his remark. This time, it was largely due to the depressing accuracy of the thought bearing in on them that, in fact, anyone could be Quicksilver – and their chances of catching him were minimal.

  Cheadle broke the silence. ‘Well, I just hope your men are keeping their eyes open, that’s all I can say.’

  Oh, they’re my men now, are they, thought Best.

  Cheadle sighed, felt about in the right-hand pocket of his commodious waistcoat and fished out a crumpled sheet of blue, lined writing paper, and said, ‘We’ve ’ad another letter.’

  He placed it on the desk between them, smoothed it out as best he could with his huge fist and passed it over.

  The writing was wilder than before, Best noticed, and the number of capital letters and exclamation marks had grown – a sure sign of a loosening grip.

  TAKE HEED!!!

  What I promised will transpire! You will CLOSE YOUR EYES IN ENDLESS NIGHT – as if bereaved of LIGHT!

  QUICKSILVER.

  ‘Very poetical, isn’t he,’ muttered Cheadle, shifting about in his chair.

  Best stared at the words. ‘Wish I knew what he was getting at.’

  ‘’E’s gettin’ at wanting to blow us all to kingdom come. That’s what ’e’s gettin’ at!’

  ‘Yes, but I do think these might be clues he wants us to puzzle over. First “Darkness
will hide my face” and now this “endless night” stuff. Then there’s his name, Quicksilver.’

  ‘That mean’s ’e’s going to kill us,’ said Cheadle bluntly. ‘That last bit – endless night.’

  Best nodded, then, treading carefully, said, ‘Yes, that’s part of it – but isn’t he taunting us as well? Showing how clever he is – telling us part of something, but not enough. Does the first mean he’s going to do his deed at night – or something more … ?

  ‘Well, you’d better ’urry up and find out.’

  ‘Littlechild thought the first quote seemed familiar and I have a feeling about the second one.’

  ‘Lot of good, that is,’ said the big man ungraciously. ‘What we want is facts – not fancies an’ feelin’s.’

  ‘Well, if we find it was from a poem, say, and we knew the rest of it – it might help. He’s showing off and …’

  ‘I realize that, Mr Clever Dick!’ Cheadle exclaimed. ‘But what you going to do about it? That’s the thing. Besides chewing it over like this?’

  There was a pause. Best began to speak but Cheadle waved him to be silent.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you’re goin’ to do. You’re going to put your detective brains to work. Where can you find out about this stuff?’

  ‘In reference books and from artistic, educated people who might know such things,’ said Best.

  ‘An’ where, in this building, can you find these books of yours?’ He made it sound as if books were the sole property of the likes of Best and this was all the result of taking too much notice of them. He could be right.

  ‘There are some reference books in the reading room.’

  ‘An’ where are these clever, artistic, educated people?’ He made it sound insulting.

  ‘Some of the West End actors might know the poetry.’

  ‘Right. Go on then. Get on with it. I’ll organize your men – ’ he waved his hand dismissively at the letter – ‘you find out what all that stuff means.’

  The reading room at the Alexandra Palace was tucked into the south-east corner of the building between the Great Hall and the Eastern Conservatory. With its handsome, heavy oak furniture and plentiful supply of the latest, leading London and provincial newspapers and magazines, it might have been a gentlemen’s club in St James’s – except there were ladies present.

  Two of them sat at the writing desks to the left of the entrance – doubtless recording the delights of the Alexandra Palace for their friends. They could then post their letters in the conveniently situated boxes just inside the door.

  To the right, two pairs of elderly gentlemen, probably season ticket-holders, were fighting a chess war to the death and a couple of young men were engaged in a desultory game of draughts. Several more men were lolling in armchairs, reading newspapers.

  The walls behind these writers and games players were lined with bookshelves. Best headed for the section marked Reference, still unsure from which angle he should approach his task.

  Ah, the University Dictionary of Quotations. That should be a helpful place to start. He had reached out his hand to grasp the book when something about the stillness of the mousey-brown head bent over the nearest writing desk grabbed his attention. His arm froze mid-action. Was it? Surely not? It couldn’t be.

  Then he realized that the woman wasn’t writing after all. She was drawing. Every now and then she lifted her head, gazed towards the far end of the room for a long moment, then she lowered it briefly to move her pencil, before looking up again and repeating the process.

  It was her. Looking just a little older, frowning with that utter concentration that was still so familiar. She’d not seen him. What should he do? Stroll over and speak? Now was hardly a suitable moment for embarrassing reunions. He would turn his back, avert his face and retreat with the book to somewhere out of her view.

  Too late. Her gaze had shifted to the place where he stood foolishly immobile, his arm up, his fingers still grasping the edges of the dictionary.

  She looked startled, her eyes and mouth opening wide in surprise. ‘Ernest!’ she exclaimed warmly. ‘Good heavens!’

  She looked pleased.

  He feigned equal surprise. Took her cue as to tone, and hoped she wouldn’t notice that he was blushing. ‘Helen! What a surprise!’

  That was certainly true. He lowered his arm, smiled his best, flashing smile, strolled over to where she sat and held out his hand. She half rose, took it, and indicated the seat opposite.

  ‘How are you!’

  ‘Shush!’ hissed one of the elderly chess players irritably. Helen put her hand to her mouth to hide her grin and met Best’s amused gaze. She looked around, shrugged, then pointed to the door which led into the Exhibition Hall. They crept out conspiratorially and collapsed in giggles among the works of art and manufactured goods displayed in the splendid ebony-framed glass cases.

  Fortunately, apart from a family being lectured by their father on the merits of the distinguished statesmen depicted in Staffordshire pottery, there were few other viewers to be disturbed by their hilarity.

  It had always been like that, he remembered. They shared the same dislike of pomposity and sense of the ridiculous, and sometimes behaved like children together when thus provoked. But neither had been laughing when they had parted eighteen months before.

  ‘You look well, Ernest,’ she said, looking up at him. He’d forgotten how small and dainty she was, but remembered how strong in spirit. That had been part of the problem.

  ‘You, too.’ She had never been a pretty woman but she was neat and quietly pleasing in a way which grew on one. She had always said that he had good looks enough for both of them and that people’s eyes deserved a rest after looking at him. She had claimed that she served this purpose admirably. But, nonetheless, it had been he who had been the most overwhelmingly smitten. He knew some thought that this was because she was a class above him. But they were wrong.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘A series of drawings of the palace interiors for The Graphic.’

  ‘Oh, marvellous!’ He meant it. He really loved the illustrations in The Graphic. He glanced at the drawing pad under her arm. ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Yes …’ She looked around for somewhere to put her work down but there was nowhere suitable. ‘Over a cup of tea perhaps?’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t!’ His distress surprised him – and her.

  She patted his hand. ‘Don’t worry. It was ever thus.’

  She was right, it had been. But she had been absent as well – and for longer than he. Much longer.

  ‘Serious detective business in the reading room?’ she teased.

  ‘Yes! Believe it or not.’ He sighed. ‘Very serious. I’ve just got to find the source of these quotes.’

  He showed her his notebook. ‘From a poem by Christina Rossetti,’ she said instantly. ‘That first sentence anyway – misquoted a little.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful!’ he exclaimed with relief.

  She smiled fondly at him.

  ‘Can you remember it all? He was like an eager schoolboy.

  ‘Let me see, it’s from Up-hill. Er, it goes:

  “Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

  Yes, to the very end.

  Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?

  From morn to night, my friend.”’

  She hesitated, closing her eyes and screwing up her face with concentration and muttered to herself. Then she stopped. ‘Yes, yes, that’s it.’ She restarted:

  ‘“From morn to night, my friend.

  May not the darkness hide it from my face?

  You cannot miss that inn.

  Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

  Yes, beds for all who come.”’

  He grimaced as he jotted it down. ‘It’s all a bit odd, isn’t it? What does it mean, d’you think?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. Something to do with life and death, I think.’

  ‘Well, that
’s apt.’

  ‘She is a melancholy lady – blighted in love.’ There was a moment’s tense silence before Best asked, ‘What about the other quotations? If that’s what they are.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘That “endless night” is vaguely familiar but …’

  ‘Will you help me find the rest?’

  She glanced up at the conservatory clock. ‘Is this urgent? I have a feeling it is – but I have to meet someone in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Extremely.’ He lowered his voice. ‘In fact it could be a matter of life or death – for a great many people.’

  ‘Well then, he’ll have to wait,’ she said firmly and turned back towards the reading room.

  She’d said ‘he’. She was meeting a ‘he’.

  The shapeless ‘rational dress’ was gone, he noticed as they made their way back into the hushed room. Indeed the printed cotton dress made much of her neat little waist and was gay with rose buds. But it was much too obvious for her, he decided irrationally. Not subtle enough. She was obviously being influenced by someone who didn’t know her well enough to understand her appeal.

  Chapter Eight

  Detective Sergeant Smith had never been higher than the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. He could scarcely believe he was now in a balloon with the ground retreating further below him by the second. It was incredible. Wonderful. Breathtaking.

  The gaping crowd had quickly become a nest of ants watching their Queen Bee disappear from the hive. Ally Pally had become a child’s toy castle and the Great Northern Express, puffing towards the Wood Green Tunnel, a train set model.

  As the shouts of children and showmen faded, all was silence. To Smith’s surprise he felt no sensation of movement as they headed over Wood Green’s grand avenues, now unprepossessing rows of rooftops. Things certainly looked different from up here.

  Soon, the panorama became a patchwork of fields and farms. A tiny cloud approached the balloon car. They rode alongside it for a moment, then through it, as the west wind blew them both along.