by Joan Lock
‘I do have a few, sir.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the chief. It listed five names.
‘They were all a bit trivial – just the usual sort of upset with a colleague – and all soon forgotten. Apart from Armitage, that is. That was different all right.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I caught him stealing from a jeweller’s shop in Upper Street.’
‘Ah. This sounds more promising. Explain.’
Best told about that ghastly time. An honest policeman’s worst nightmare. Nowhere near as bad as that time with The Toff, of course, but nasty just the same.
Best had been on his way home in the middle of the night having been kept late on a job, when he had suddenly spotted a man standing very close to a jeweller’s window. At first, he thought he might just be looking at some of the contents lit by the street lamp. But when Best got closer he realized what the man was doing.
He was cleverly hooking out rings and necklaces with a stick which he had pushed through a gap in the metal grill and a hole in the window beyond. The man had suddenly become aware of Best’s approach, looked up, then fled.
But Best had been young and fit and had caught him, only to discover he was Constable Armitage from the opposite shift.
It has been a sickening moment which he hated to remember. He also hated to remember the man sobbing and begging to be let go. Pouring out a tale of woe about debts which were no fault of his own, as he did so.
‘Was he keen on poetry?’
‘Not that I know of, sir. But I only knew him by sight and I can’t remember anything like that to do with the case.’ He paused. ‘He did swear revenge, though. Said he would see to me if it was the last thing he did.’
‘Oh, well, that does look promising.’
‘I was about to see if I could track down those on the list.’
‘No, no.’ Williamson held up his well-manicured hand. ‘We’ll put someone else on that. You just give your mind to poor, plain Aggy and whether it was her husband or father you offended so mightily.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anyone familiar with this couplet?’ “Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go”?’
A shaking of heads all round.
‘It has me beaten.’ He looked across at Littlechild. ‘You follow this up, John, and the rest of you consult those books you’ve got left over from your education exams. I’ll ask my wife, she’s a poetry enthusiast and I’ll put Mr Vincent and his erudite friends on to it.’
‘Helen Franks might beer able to ’elp an’ all.’ Cheadle broke in, clearly not happy with the idea of Mr Vincent beating them to it.
‘She did last time. She has books she looks in.’
Best suppressed a small smile. Helen would be amused at being given a testimonial by the old ogre himself.
‘Is that so?’ said Williamson. ‘Well, we need all the help we can get. Send for her.’
Best nearly choked. It was obvious Williamson had never met Helen. Cheadle had, though.
‘Er. I’ll leave that to Ernest,’ he said, bestowing Best with an unusually benevolent smile. ‘’E’s ’er friend.’
‘Fine. All done?’
It was.
He pointed at Best, a serious expression creeping into his eyes. ‘Thinking cap on, Inspector.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Best applied his mind as well as he could, but it kept drifting back to Alice. He’d been to see her just before she’d gone to the gallows. In fact he and Smith had made several visits since her conviction and sentence.
They had found her sad, but serene.
‘It’s not as if I’m giving up much, is it?’ she’d pointed out.
Sadly, they had to agree. On that occasion she had seemed more concerned with the state of Holloway Prison’s laundry cupboards, which she had been busy sorting out. ‘Just you wait,’ she had said, ‘as soon as I’ve gone they’ll let them go to hell again.’
That was something else they noticed; she’d begun to swear a lot since being sentenced to death. Maybe she had always wanted to, but daren’t.
Now and then her mind had strayed to what might have been and to Maud. ‘I still miss the old cow, you know, hinny. She wasn’t that bad, really.’
Both men had kissed her goodbye. As soon as they had done it they realized it was a mistake. Up to then, as she prepared for death, she had borne up and even joked with them.
But the show of affection had almost undone her. Her mouth had trembled and tears started into her eyes. But she had fought them back, straightened up and declared, ‘I’m going to a better place.’
Best couldn’t disagree with that.
Suddenly she had wailed, ‘I will be forgiven, won’t I?’
The padre, whose job was to comfort her, hesitated but Best had broken in with a firm, ‘Yes, of course. I’m certain of it,’ and she had been calmed, shook their hands and had gone.
And that was it.
Best clapped his hands to his head. Oh, God, and that was it, too.
The Toff grinning and saying, ‘He’s gone to a better place’, then laughing. But how could it be! It was impossible!
It had not been some small slight or disagreement with a colleague after all. It had been something terrible. The worst thing that had happened to Best in his service, apart from the death of his young wife, Emma.
Now, it all rushed back in on him in a dreadful wave, and he held his hands over his ears as though to drive out the words ‘He’s gone to a better place’, and the laugh …
Williamson and Cheadle stared at him.’
‘Why didn’t you think of this before?’ exclaimed Williamson angrily.
‘Well, at first it just didn’t occur to me. I was looking for someone I’d offended and in any case I thought it just couldn’t be – he was transported for life. Went out on the last shipment to Western Australia.’
Williamson sighed. ‘Well, it seems that somehow this “toff” has got back.’
‘Could it be a relative of his getting their own back?’ offered Cheadle.
‘Maybe. They would have to care about him a good deal though, wouldn’t they, and he doesn’t seem very loveable?’
‘Might have left them destitute,’ persisted the pragmatic Cheadle.
‘If they were, doubt if they would have the energy for all this,’ the equally pragmatic Williamson pointed out. He looked at Best, ‘Tell me about him. Why “The Toff”?’
‘He spoke posh. Been to public school – was from a good family who lost everything – it was said. But he was bitter. Thought he should have come in at the superintendent level or straight into the Detective Branch. He hid his anger most of the time, but now and then, usually when he was in drink, it would burst out. His proper name was Rutter, Algernon Rutter.’
‘Hmm. I wonder why he didn’t come into the Branch. They were doing direct entry then, as well, weren’t they?’
This was a sore point. Following the Turf Fraud Scandal, Howard Vincent had reintroduced direct entry by higher calibre applicants. He and the Home Office were convinced that better class folk were the solution to most problems, ignoring the fact that the previous experiment had mostly been a disaster.
‘Had the languages for the Branch, I think. But there were rumours about him being a bit shady and that he’d been given the benefit of the doubt over some transgression.’
‘Oh, well. We had one lucky escape.’
‘Don’t know how true it was – you know what this job’s like for gossip. Anyway, he said he would get there just the same, under his own steam.’
Williamson raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Well, at least we know who we are looking for,’ he said. ‘That’s a step forward.’ He sighed.
He was looking worn, thought Best.
‘You know,’ Williamson went on, ‘this man is going to do something terrible. We desperately need to know where and when.’ He mused, almost to himself, ‘“News from all nations”.’
S
mith put his head around the door and announced that Helen Franks was downstairs and was asking for Best.
Best frowned. ‘But I haven’t asked her to come. Not yet.’
Smith shrugged. ‘She’s saying she must see you, it’s urgent. Something about the newspaper.’
‘Bring her up,’ said Williamson. ‘We need all the help we can get.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Smith hesitated and looked from Cheadle to Williamson. ‘Sir, is it still all right for me to have tomorrow off?’
The senior men exchanged doubtful glances.
‘I did promise Mr Coxwell,’ he added anxiously. ‘It’s the International Aeronautical competition and …’
‘The what?’ exclaimed Williamson, holding up his hand.
The three men stared at each other, stunned.
‘The International Aeronautical competit…’ began Smith when he realized it was a question which didn’t require an answer.
‘Of course,’ said Williamson.
‘There’s reporters from all over the world,’ put in Smith, ‘and …’ His voice petered out.
‘“Ill news hath wings”,’ murmured Best, ‘“and with the wind doth blow …”.’
At that moment Helen arrived looking pink, irritated at being kept waiting, and waving a copy of The Times. ‘This race,’ she said, without preamble. ‘It seems to me with all the international interest …’
‘News from all nations …’ nodded Best. ‘We’ve just realized.’
‘It’s a bit tenuous, but …’
‘No, no,’ said Williamson, who had stood up as she entered. ‘We’ve had another letter which talks of wings and the wind blowing. We think that ties it up,’ he explained. ‘Do take a seat, Miss Franks. I’m sure we could still use your help. You were ahead of us.’
She sat on one of the office chairs opposite and looked around at their worried faces. ‘You know who it is?’
Best nodded. ‘We think so – and it’s not good news.’
For a few seconds they all sat lost in contemplation, as if it were necessary to allow everything to sink in before deciding what to do.
‘I should have thought …’ Smith exclaimed suddenly, his face reddening. ‘I mean, I knew and …’
Williamson waved him silent.
‘We all knew. We all should have thought. It’s been in the papers long enough.’
They all nodded and looked rueful.
‘But now we know – and what’s more, we are lucky to have the services of an expert like yourself who will now educate us to exactly what will happen –’ he spread his hands wide – ‘officially, that is …’
Smith looked startled. ‘Not exactly an expert, sir …’
‘Compared with us, you are. Tell us everything you know about the event.’
Smith looked at Best who nodded as he said, ‘From the beginning. Assume we know nothing.’
He straightened up. ‘Right.’ He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and began: ‘Right. As you know, it happens tomorrow …’
‘You know this man, Rutter,’ Cheadle said to Best. ‘What’s he like?’ he demanded. ‘What’s he going to do?’
Best had shaken his head for the tenth time and muttered, ‘I don’t know!’ Ever since he’d realized who Quicksilver was, the vision of Algernon Rutter (a sight he had worked so hard to forget) had begun to come into focus. But the image had not yet fully crystallized. Cheadle’s hectoring did not help.
‘Give him time to think, Arthur,’ Williamson said, laying a hand on Cheadle’s arm. ‘It takes time.’
‘We ain’t got no time,’ Cheadle grumbled but less belligerently. He was fond of Williamson. Had known his father, one of the first superintendents, back in the old days.
‘Go over that description again,’ Williamson urged quietly.
‘Tall, black hair and short, hard beard and moustache. Well, at least he had then …’
‘These fashions … these stupid fashions,’ Cheadle raged. ‘Thought up by cons, if you ask me – so we can’t h’identify them no more.’
Best had already told them that the shape of Rutter’s face, noted as ‘thin’ on his file in the convicts registration office, was not quite right. More shaped than that implied. ‘He had high cheekbones and hollow cheeks – oh, and a loose kind of mouth,’ said Best, ‘with a line down the side. Yes, that’s it, lines down the side.’ He drew semi-circles around his own cheeks. ‘And he didn’t exactly lisp, but sounded his esses into a sort of “sh”.’
There was a short silence while they absorbed this information and Best raked his memory.
‘Penetrating dark eyes – they were the most noticeable thing – always casting around, seeing they didn’t miss anything … Oh, and he could run. Run like the wind. They called him Mercury on division because he was as swift and cunning and …’
He stopped and slapped his forehead, ‘Mercury! Mercury! Oh, what a bloody fool I am!’
Williamson nodded. ‘Another name for quicksilver. Don’t blame yourself, Ernest. It was a long time ago. The poetry, any idea about that?’
Best grimaced, still smarting at his own stupidity. He shook his head. ‘No.’ He tried to think. ‘Not unless …? No, it couldn’t be that.’
‘What?’
‘Well, the others used to tease me because I bought poetry books, but they were for Emma, when she was sick.’
Williamson nodded. ‘He was taunting you.’
‘His walk. His walk.’ Cheadle exclaimed, having had enough of airy-fairy supposition. ‘Was it like it says ’ere?’ He banged the file. ‘Upright?’
Cheadle was a great believer in identification by a man’s carriage and walk, and it exasperated him that younger detectives didn’t value the knowledge more. ‘You can spot ’em at a distance, get a bead of ’em from far back,’ he always insisted.
Best nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’
‘For God’s sake, man!’
‘I’m trying,’ exclaimed Best. ‘Give me a chance!’ He closed his eyes.
Cheadle didn’t say anything, just pushed himself up in his seat and stared crossly out of the office window into Great Scotland Yard.
‘Not really upright,’ said Best eventually. ‘Held his shoulders straight and his head up in a superior sort of manner but his whole body leaned forward. Tilted and, yes –’ he waved his hand in the air excitedly as though trying to pull knowledge out of the ether – ‘that’s it. That’s it! And, like I said, he was always looking about him, side to side, like this.’
Best imitated the man’s twisting and turning of the head as he walked.
He had done it so he could see what he could get into next, Best later realized. Who he could threaten with arrest, or do some violence to on the excuse that they had resisted arrest.
At the time, Best had only seen Rutter as a hard but successful officer with a slightly superior manner, always catching villains and breaking up fights; had even looked up to him.
Now, he knew better. Could spot the signs earlier. Officers who were always breaking up fights and being assaulted could be the very persons who caused all the trouble in the first place.
‘Under all the supposedly aristocratic bearing, he was belligerent,’ sighed Best, ‘bloody belligerent.’ Then, bitterly: ‘On the take, corrupt. A bully.’ He closed his eyes to blot Rutter out. ‘A vile man. He was a vile man.’
If that were all. If only that were all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For the second day running Best glanced around him, shook his head and shivered. ‘I don’t believe it – snow! It’s not even November yet!’
‘As long as those blasted things take off today, that’s all I care about,’ snapped Cheadle.
Yesterday had been a fiasco. They had arrived in the morning to find the balloon ascent had been postponed. The unexpected overnight fall of snow had caught everyone unawares, making it impossible to inflate the balloons in time. The keen north wind hadn’t helped.
‘Well, at least the postp
onement has cut down the crowd,’ Best muttered, as he glanced around the oddly ethereal scene.
The snow was still lying quite thickly and the sky remained dark and heavy with the promise of more. Occasional shafts of sunlight did manage to break through the stratified layers of cloud, glancing off the tiered wall of the magnificent structure above them.
With its long, low, stepped layers, the Crystal Palace sometimes looked like nothing so much as an oblong wedding cake, glittering curved transepts standing in for the usual arbour.
It truly was the most amazing building in Britain. Even more amazing was the way it had been dismantled, after serving its initial purpose of housing the 1851 Great Exhibition in Hyde Park, to be reassembled here, on a hill in Sydenham in South London.
Pockets of mist had gathered in the hollow below the North Water Tower where, deflated, like a child’s toy balloons, were the two huge aeronautical wonders. This time, despite appearances, they were all ready to be inflated for flight.
The French balloon, at a capacity of 42,000 cubic feet, was much the larger, while the British, Eclipse, could only guzzle a mere 28,000 cubic feet of gas.
All had been evened up by the weight of the passengers and instruments carried by the larger French balloon. With this apparatus for gauging the temperature at high altitude, it was hoped that some insight might be gained into the cause of the persistent London fogs.
It was these loads which were presently preoccupying Best.
Ever since yesterday’s moment of truth, the detectives had been frantically exercising their minds as to what nasty surprise Quicksilver might have in store for them.
Would he make one of the balloons explode over the crowd? Cause the French balloon to disintegrate, thereby causing a dreadful diplomatic incident? Or set fire to the Crystal Palace?
At one time, people had imagined the glass and iron palace could not burn, but there had been a fire which destroyed one wing, so they had all become somewhat nervous at yesterday evening’s fireworks by Mr Brock, which had gone ahead as planned.
‘Bring it down with an explosion, more like.’
‘All that flying glass,’ Smith had shuddered. ‘People would be cut to ribbons.’
Explosions were on everyone’s minds at the moment. Only last month, a mysterious package of dynamite had been found tucked under a railway sleeper on the London & North Western line, between Bushey and Watford. The fact that who planted this ‘bomb’ and why was a complete mystery added somehow to the apprehension. This had come in useful as an excuse for the police vigilance at the balloon event.
