Dead Letters

by Joan Lock

  ‘Foreign accent?’ Coiners often had.

  ‘No.’ Littlechild knitted his brow. ‘At least I don’t think so.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, it’s not much help.’

  Best sat down wearily on one of the gallery benches.

  ‘Why are you taking all this on your shoulders, Ernest?’ asked Littlechild. ‘There’s an army of police here – not just you. They’re all on the alert.’ He looked a little hurt as he reminded his colleague, ‘And you know that keeping an eye open for Fenians has been handed over to me – so bombs and all that …’ He spread his hands.

  ‘I know, I know. I just have this unreasonable feeling that the answer is somewhere in here –’ Best tapped his forehead – ‘but I just can’t get it out.’

  ‘Well, nothing’s happened so far, has it?’ his ever-cheerful colleague comforted. ‘I expect he just wants to see us all running around in a panic.’

  ‘Something’s going to happen when it gets dark,’ Best insisted.

  ‘Well, it certainly won’t be dark down at the triple lakes. They’re illuminating one of them with electricity tonight. Got to see that! Wish I’d heard the promenade concert – some splendid choral stuff.’

  Chief Inspector Billings approached, his hand raised in greeting. ‘Best! Been looking for you. That woman, Helen Franks, said to tell you she will be down in the pavilion by the triple lakes for the concert and fireworks.’

  Answers were beginning to leap into Best’s head: blasted with excess of light … darkness …

  Billings laughed when he looked at Littlechild. ‘Another one! You chaps can’t bear to take off your make-up, can you?’

  ‘He was in a hurry to meet me,’ explained Best.

  ‘The one down by the lake wasn’t!’

  Littlechild was puzzled. ‘What one down by the lake? Couldn’t have been one of ours, old fellow. We’ve only just finished our business.’

  Best became very still. ‘Is there,’ he enquired carefully, ‘more than one troupe of minstrels here?’

  Littlechild shook his head. ‘No.’ The beginnings of a frown creased his brow. ‘Just us.’

  They glanced at each other. ‘I am black but …’

  ‘What exactly was he doing, this minstrel?’ Best asked very quietly, his hands clenching into tight fists.

  ‘Helping us.’

  ‘Helping you? What d’you mean, helping you? Do what?’

  ‘Search under the pavilion before the orchestra got into place.’ Billings laughed uncertainly. ‘It was funny. We lost him for a while down there – him being all black and …’

  Best and Littlechild stared at him in disbelief, all expression and movement frozen.

  ‘Well, we thought since he was one of ours …’ Billings was floundering. ‘Although I must say I was surprised that the fellow had a bit of a lisp – but I expect that disappears when he sings …’

  Best was already up and running, shouting back at them, ‘Run! Run! We’ve got to stop him! We must stop him!’

  Chief Inspector Billings was soon trailing behind Littlechild and Best. As the pair raced towards the rear doors of the palace they careered into a weary Sergeant Smith, just returned from his balloon fiasco.

  He stumbled back, startled and confused, saw Best’s urgent expression, noted the untypical lack of greeting and began to run with them. Soon, his long, loping stride was outstripping that of the maturer men. He glanced back for guidance, anxious not to make another mistake through acting too quickly.

  ‘Pavilion! Triple lakes!’ shouted Best breathlessly. ‘Clear it! Clear it!’

  The posse turned left under the gaily-lit railway arch, cannoning into several quietly strolling older couples escaping the noise and hurly-burly. They were enraged to be thrust roughly aside by these sweating, grunting ruffians, including a minstrel, make-up hideously smeared and wig and boater widely askew.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ exclaimed a stout lady shaking her walking stick.

  ‘The Commissioner will hear about this!’ shouted a wheezing, elderly gentleman. ‘If I were ten years younger …!’

  The speeding trio were deaf to their cries. The light music from The Grove behind them was fading, but that of the triple lakes orchestra was still muffled by distance. Soon they turned right into the avenue leading to the lakes and saw just ahead to their left numerous gas lights twinkling as they were reflected on water.

  ‘Not that lake,’ shouted Best. ‘The next one.’

  The thump of the steam engine driving the electric lighting and the hearty strains of Benedict’s ‘Drinking Song’ spurred the panting men to a final agonizing effort. Best felt his lungs would burst. Helen was in that pavilion. Oh God!

  The lake came into view and it was an astonishing sight. Suspended over it were two huge electric lamps. Myriad strings of coloured lights were strung out along the lake edges – all were reflected dazzlingly in the still, glassy water.

  But the stunning lighting effects were wasted on the three running men. With horror, Best began to realize just why Quicksilver had chosen this site for his grand gesture.

  The choir was in full voice:

  ‘Drink, drink drink! And fill the night with mirth.

  Drink, drink, drink! Till we quite forget the earth.’

  Oh, God help them. The pavilion was at the far end of the lake. They weren’t going to be able to reach it before the song’s crescendo which, Best was now convinced, would be accompanied by a terrifying explosion.

  ‘Fill, fill, fill! Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!

  Fill, fill, fill! Let champagne glasses tremble.’

  Please let it not happen, pleaded Best. I’ll never lie again. I’ll take confession again.

  But it was no good. The music grew louder, the voices swelled. They were singing the final lines! The running men had reached the steps of the pavilion but could not hold back those final words. They rang out:

  ‘Drink, and fill your throats with mirth,

  Drink, and DROWN THE WORLD IN PLEASURE!’

  As the applause rippled around the waterside a speechless Best and Littlechild saw Smith trying to persuade the conductor to cease taking bows and to get off the stand. The man clearly thought he was mad.

  Best reached the pavilion, sprang up the steps and unceremoniously pushed the indignant man from his podium. He jumped up there himself, faced the orchestra and singers and shouted between gulping breaths, ‘Get off this structure immediately! Run! As far as you can! Run!’

  The urgency in his voice suddenly penetrated their heads. Choir and musicians ran en masse towards the stairs, tumbling over each other, picking themselves up, then fanning out across the grass.

  A startled, motionless Helen was sitting in a corner, pad on her lap and pencil raised. Best ran over, pulled her to her feet then dragged her, protesting, down the steps and away from the pavilion, stumbling and falling as they went.

  ‘Are you mad, Ernest?’ she shouted. ‘Have you gone insane?’

  ‘Well,’ muttered Ringemere, the conductor, nastily ten minutes later. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Well, nothing,’ snapped a weary Best. ‘Nobody said it was going to happen straightaway. Anyway, nothing might happen. We may have nipped it in the bud.’

  ‘Hmph,’ the conductor snorted disdainfully. ‘You realize that I have sprained my wrist and lost my baton. The leader of the strings has broken his violin and heaven knows what other instruments have been ruined. I presume Scotland Yard will pay for them?’

  Best said nothing. He had already realized, as he sat disconsolate on the grass at the opposite end of the lake alongside the still confused and disorientated performers, that if, indeed, he had been wrong, Cheadle, and everyone from the Commissioner down, would descend on him like snow in an avalanche. His job may even be forfeit.

  It was always like that. Get it right and you were a hero, although rarely rewarded. Get it wrong and you were an incompetent fool, to be severely berated and punished.

  ‘And just what are you telling the
m, our disappointed audience?’ enquired Ringemere acidly as they watched policemen answering endless questions from the bewildered audience.

  ‘That you heard creaking and felt movement beneath you and that we realized that the structure might be unsound.’

  ‘How ridiculous!’ Ringemere was furious. ‘Blaming it on us! What a lie!’

  ‘Of course it is a lie, you stupid man!’ Best retorted. He could always run a pub. But would he be granted a licence now? ‘We have to prevent panic,’ he added wearily.

  ‘Oh, and you’re doing that, are you?’ Ringemere nodded towards the puzzled throng milling back and forth around the three sides of the lake to which they were allowed access. ‘They look to me as if they are becoming agitated.’

  He was right. There was mounting tension in the air. A restlessness and agitation in people’s movements as they gathered in groups and stared at the pavilion perplexedly.

  Best turned to Ringemere. ‘Well, do something about it. Show some spirit for goodness sake.’

  ‘Me? What are you talking about, man?’ Ringemere exploded. ‘What can I possibly do to pull your rabbit out of your hat?’

  ‘You can stop being so spineless and carry on playing and singing.’

  There was a murmur of assent from those within earshot.

  ‘Why not?’ said a violinist, punctuating his words by pointing his bow.

  ‘Yes, let’s give it a try,’ said another, nursing his rescued clarinet.

  ‘You’ve got your voices and most of your instruments,’ Best pointed out.

  It was true. As they had run, the musicians who played portable instruments had automatically picked them up – as if they were their children whom they could not abandon.

  ‘We have no percussion!’ shouted Ringemere triumphantly.

  ‘Well, I’ll find you some,’ retorted Best. ‘Meanwhile, get yourselves organized.’

  The musicians and singers began getting to their feet.

  ‘I’ll fetch you more players to – add a bit of volume,’ he added over his shoulder as he left.

  He and Smith made for The Grove where A Division’s band were packing up after their performance. By the time they returned with percussion and a dozen musicians eager to add their volume to the Alexandra Palace Orchestra, the choir were lined up and ready to go.

  As they swept into a jolly polka the crowd began to turn towards them with relieved smiles. Then a soothing cornet solo began echoing across the shining waters, switching the mood to one of dreamy melancholy.

  That was more like it, thought Best. At least Ringemere knew how to use his music to capture and hold the spirit of the restless onlookers. The man actually offered him a half-smile of acknowledgement.

  But Best knew that he was still in a great deal of trouble. Cheadle was stamping around the lakeside, peering into the crowds looking for him.

  I can’t face that yet, Best thought, as he retreated behind some of A Division’s finest and largest.

  He also saw Helen wandering about on a similar errand but did not reveal himself. Let them all go to hell.

  This was not, he admitted, one of his better moments. He’d been certain that the eager, helpful minstrel must have been up to mischief.

  A rich tenor solo was warning of the dangers of love with a passionate rendering of ‘The Thorn’. Best’s thorn was Cheadle and co. As for love? Well, it was too late to think about Helen now, wasn’t it? Even if she had wanted him. He was engaged to Mary Jane.

  As the ebb and flow of ‘The Turkish Patrol’ began building into a rousing finale, a clutch of maroon shells shot across the sky, signalling the commencement of the firework display.

  Organized by Mr James Pain, the show had been scheduled to begin at a quarter past nine and was not subject to a change of timing for anything other than torrential rain or similar Acts of God.

  Suddenly, the whole lakeside and park was bathed in light from a multitude of star shells. Then a display of coloured rockets blended their various tints across the sky whilst two gas balloons, lit with magnesium flares and spilling sparkling fireworks, floated gently upwards.

  On ground level, horizontal wheels began to turn, throwing off rockets, Roman candles and ‘jewel mines’ as they revolved. Fiery dragons raced, whistling, across a rope. They spun a few times, then rushed back again to the whooping delight of the now once more animated children.

  And so it went on. Rockets, shells, Pain’s prize asteroids and serpent-like saucissons whizzed about like whirligigs above them. Watchers scarcely caught their breath in time for their next gasps of awe.

  The shimmering reflections in the lake gradually grew a little mistier from the drifting smoke. Suddenly all eyes were attracted to the coloured flares picking out the fire portrait of Colonel Fraser, Chief of the City Police.

  Attention was drawn back aloft where a rush of multicoloured shells and stars and a golden cloud studded with jewel colours began the build-up to the grand finale.

  Then it burst forth: balloons spouted tri-coloured smoke, ‘Aladdin’s Jewelled Tree’ flung forth its dazzling branches, and a wheel of multicoloured rockets sent out gigantic, cascading aerial bouquets. The sky was ablaze with light and colour.

  Then, with a blinding white flash and a mighty roar, the Triple Lakes Pavilion exploded. Aftershock caused the ground to tremble, the audience held their deafened ears and the pavilion roof, fencing and remaining contents rained down all around.

  For a few moments, as flames licked at the blackened stumps, the stunned crowd remained silent. Slowly, a ripple of applause began and built into a crescendo. People whooped and cheered excitedly in appreciation of this truly amazing finale.

  This, surely, must be Mr Pain’s most impressive firework display ever.

  Best certainly thought so.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The dawn mists lingered over the damp and blackened stumps of what had been the Triple Lakes Pavilion. On the ground below these grotesque remnants, a line of policemen crept forward on their hands and knees through what had once been green grass but was fast becoming black sludge.

  Two of the leading officers swept the ground before them with large magnets. Every now and then, they extracted small metal objects and fragments from the heads and placed them into bins alongside them.

  At intervals, another officer came forward and emptied the bins into a large basket which he took back to a table at the rear. Here stood a stocky, tweedy, amiable-looking gentleman: Major Majendie, the Home Office explosives expert.

  Best had become acquainted with the major at the time of the Regent’s Park Explosion of 1874, when the man had riveted the jury with a dramatic demonstration of how and why the accident had taken place.

  ‘What do you think?’ Best asked as Majendie and his assistant separated out mangled music stands, instrument cases, lunch boxes and umbrellas that would no longer keep out the rain.

  Majendie glanced up at Best, studied him for a moment, then muttered, ‘I think you look terrible, Ernest.’

  Best grinned ruefully. He felt terrible and, something he hated, rumpled and rather grubby.

  When the mayhem which followed the triple lakes explosion had finally died down, he’d grabbed a couple of hours on a couch in the manager’s office but been unable to sleep.

  His mind had been in a turmoil. Elation and relief at having been proved right, mingling with his confusion over the lines of puzzling poetry and minstrels, visions of the carnage which could have occurred, and confusion at seeing Helen again. Despite a dawn wash and brush-up in the gentlemen’s retiring room, he now felt seedy, exhausted and a little disorientated.

  After all the extraneous material was removed from the table, Majendie was left with a much smaller pile of springs, wheels, cogs, nuts and bolts, a pocket knife, various mangled metal fragments and curiously untouched slabs of metal – some with nuts and bolts attached. A bent and twisted clock face completed the collection.

  ‘I also think,’ said Major Majendie slowly, ‘
that this clock was an exceptionally good timekeeper.’

  Best nodded. ‘Remarkable that the explosion came exactly at the end of the finale.’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it.’ Majendie inclined his head thoughtfully. ‘Could just be a coincidence but these firework displays are usually well-timed and organized.’

  ‘So, I’m looking for someone who helped with the display or who had been in a position to discover the timing?’

  ‘Not too difficult?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Best agreed ruefully. ‘The starting time is published in the programme. They also tell us, and anyone else who needs to know, the approximate finishing time and …’ He sighed. ‘Just tell me – was it a professional job, d’you think? Have the Fenians begun their new campaign already?’

  ‘Could be.’ Majendie shrugged. ‘But not necessarily.’ He sucked in his lips, causing the hair of his abundant silver moustache to fan out like silken wings. ‘Needs knowledge to assemble these devices, of course, but, again, that’s not so hard to acquire these days.’ He chuckled. ‘I can tell you that what you do need is a very sharp knife –’ he held up the opened pocket knife – ‘like this.’

  ‘Two more questions: why do you have to be so cheerful? And what was the knife for?’

  Majendie patted Best’s arm comfortingly. ‘It was attached to the clock mechanism. At the appointed minute the knife dropped on a spring and cut through a piece of twine, which released another spring, which struck the percussion cap, which detonated the dynamite.’

  Best shook his head dazedly. ‘Amazing.’ He paused, then enquired, ‘So what I’m looking for is an incurable optimist with access to a knife grinder and a plentiful supply of dynamite?

  ‘Exactly,’ murmured the major.

  ‘A lot of flaming good that is!’ exclaimed Cheadle, tapping his sturdy finger on a photograph of one Isaac Grimes, lately released on licence from Pentonville Prison after serving eight years of a ten-year sentence for coining and fraud. ‘They all look alike!’ he fumed, sweeping his hand across the album page. ‘An’ none of them will look like that now, will they? We keeps telling ’em but they won’t listen.’