Dead Letters

by Joan Lock

  ‘Can’t see there’s any relation myself,’ said Williamson. ‘The railway bomber is more likely to have something to do with the rent riots in Ireland, but people aren’t to know that, thank goodness.’

  From this distance, the spectators who gathered around the deflated balloons resembled sprinkles of soot around huge, multicoloured boiled sweets.

  A greater density of sooty particles fussed around the business end of the crafts. According to Smith, who had been appointed their resident authority on the subject, these were groundsmen poulticing the valves, an exercise which prevented the gas, about to be injected, from seeping away.

  Gas tubes had been inserted in the openings, ready for the filling up, and the cars were about to be affixed. Smith was disappointed that he was not able to help but had been smartly advised that only he and his new friend, veteran aeronaut Mr Coxwell, stood between a successful outcome and a terrible calamity.

  ‘That,’ Mr Coxwell informed Best, pointing to the man now overseeing the attachment of the car to the Eclipse, ‘is our competitor, Mr Thomas Wright. He has taken over from me as the official Crystal Palace balloonist.

  ‘The man taking the photographs is Mr William Cobb, photographer to the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich. I can’t tell you the name of the man with the notebook, but he is a literary gentleman connected with the Central Press Association.

  ‘They are the crew and passengers of the British balloon.’

  He paused before continuing: ‘Those three men –’ he pointed to a group deep in conversation around the valve – ‘are Mr Adams and Mr Whelan, aeronauts from Manchester, and Mr Jackson from Derby. Of course,’ he went on, ‘both contestants have checked their assistants in case a stranger should attempt to muscle in …’ He smiled. ‘As they would in any event. Tampering has been known.’

  None of them looked the least bit like Rutter, but he might be employing someone else to do his dirty work. It had been cold then, as well, but not snowing. Best had been wearing the heavy uniform overcoat which brought even fit young men almost to their knees with weariness before the night was up.

  Strangely, despite its bulk, which impeded you if you had to run, the garment wasn’t all that warm. How did the police outfitters manage that trick, they would wonder? Material which was thick, heavy as a cartload of coal, but not warm?

  Rutter had been waiting for him outside the Methodist Chapel, on the corner of Barford Street and the Liverpool Road where their beats met up.

  Rutter didn’t look cold, but then he kept warm in one of his many bolt holes. His step was light and his head, as always, was swivelling. He grinned at the frozen Best. ‘Been trying too many door handles, old man?’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ Best replied, feeling foolish.

  Rutter gave a shout of laughter which sent an alcoholic wave towards Best. His helmet, Best noticed, was tilted at a jaunty angle.

  ‘What we need tonight is a swig of something stronger,’ he said as Best began to turn into the side entrance to the Royal Agricultural Hall – the Aggy – towards the nightwatchman’s room.

  ‘No not for me,’ said Best. He drew the line at alcohol on duty. ‘You go … I’ll …’

  Best had seen too many officers brought down by booze. In any case, he wanted to be a detective and did not want to blot his copybook for the sake of a quick nip of the hard stuff.

  Rutter scowled, then spotted the new advertising notices for the Christmas Fair opening the following day.

  ‘No,’ he shrugged, then grinned. ‘I’ll come with you first.’

  Mr Coxwell had turned his attention to the French crew.

  ‘That is M’sieur De Fonvielle, the aeronaut and the president of their Academie,’ he said, indicating a bewhiskered, middle-aged man who looked more like a worried bank manager than an adventurer among the clouds with a gigantic balloon for a chariot.

  One side of the balloon was now lifting as the gas began flowing in. The artist, standing back, furiously sketching the moment, was M’sieur Perron, the French Academie vice-president, Mr Coxwell explained, while the third passenger, checking the mooring ropes, was Englishman, Commander Cheyne R.N.

  Ah, that was him. He was famous for his proposed Arctic expedition by linked balloons to the North Pole. An insane scheme which had so excited Smith that, for a while, Best was afraid he was going to volunteer for that suicidal mission.

  Coxwell turned his head sharply. ‘I’m afraid I do not know that young woman.’ He pointed to an approaching figure wearing a snug chestnut brown coat, a matching astrakhan hat and a tentative smile.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Best. ‘I do!’

  He strode over to her, his boots squelching through the snow. ‘Mary Jane, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I brought your scarf and gloves.’ She blushed and held them out towards him. ‘You forgot them and it is so cold today.’

  He looked fondly at her, hoping his irritation wasn’t too obvious. ‘You are a thoughtful girl,’ he said, ‘and I do need these.’ He quickly wrapped the scarf around him, thinking, What I don’t need is you here to worry about and distract me.

  As if reading his mind, she said, ‘I won’t get in the way, Ernest, I promise.’

  Best pulled on the gloves. The extra warmth was certainly welcome. ‘You came all this way alone?’ he said, grasping her hands. She was a dear girl.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she said, suddenly defensive, then she put her head on one side and smiled her most fetching smile, ‘bedsides, I thought it might be fun.’

  ‘It will be, I’m sure.’ He patted her hand distractedly, looking around as he did to see that no one else was sneaking into the forbidden area.

  A gasp from the crowd made his head swing rapidly around towards the balloons. The French balloon had begun to jerk and drag itself upright. The Eclipse started to follow suit.

  ‘Back in the crowd, please, dearest,’ he said, pushing her away without looking around. Both balloons were growing larger by the second. The ropes holding them tautened as the north-east wind began pulling at them, urging them to leave the earth now and fly with it. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  He sensed that Mary Jane hadn’t moved. She was transfixed. ‘Do as I tell you,’ he yelled. ‘Move away!’

  Much more checking of ropes and ballast took place. A premature flight, without a crew, was the last thing they wanted.

  As the time for lift-off drew near, the policemen kept exchanging anxious looks and scanning the crowd, alert to the danger of a sudden attack. Best’s fingers dug into his palm. Please let this go all right, he whispered to himself. Please.

  He knew they had done everything they could to make sure it did. Uniformed policemen had spent all night searching in and around the glass palace. All those people anywhere near the balloons had been checked and rechecked, and the official inspection teams had been extra thorough in their perusal of the craft.

  But somehow Best still felt that if anything went wrong, it was his fault.

  His fault because it was his reaction to what had happened all those years ago that had caused the problem. And his fault because he should have realized earlier who Quicksilver was.

  Bigger and bigger the spheres became, jerking and pulling themselves ever upright.

  Close up, they were certainly a breathtaking sight. So huge and awesome, swaying uncertainly in the wind as though warning that, soon, nothing would hold them back.

  The crew were evidently of the same mind, for all at once they were aboard, some ropes were being slackened, others straining as the crafts were held above ground while ballast was ejected.

  Then, in a flurry of flag-waving and enthusiastic shouts, the French balloon was up and away. A minute later, Eclipse rose gracefully and followed her.

  How quickly they grew smaller as they began drifting southwards – without, Best noted with relief, either exploding or catching fire.

  He unballed his fists, let out a long sigh and shivered, suddenly aware that his socks were s
oaking wet. He gazed with disgust at his greying sodden boots.

  Snow! In October! What next!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was magical inside the Agricultural Hall that night. The full moon shone brightly through the glass roof, lighting up the red and silver baubles on the Christmas trees and the tinsel swags draped across the sideshow curtains.

  The huge, silent hall, which had seen everything from prize cattle shows to colourful military tattoos, was currently springing to life twice daily with the Grand Christmas Fête. This featured spangled acrobats; a lumbering, bejewelled elephant; Blondin, ‘the hero of Niagara’; and a dramatic re-enactment of the Siege of Paris.

  Old George, a ‘chesty’ nightwatchman with a gimpy leg earned in the Crimea, was taking Rutter and Best on a private tour of the Christmas show attractions as proudly as though they were all his own.

  As they followed the wheezing fellow up the stairs to the first of the tiers which ranged around the edge of the hall, Best realized that Rutter was hanging back a little. He soon saw why. Also, why the man had changed his mind about coming into the Aggy rather than sloping off for a tipple; he was stealing from the toy and trinket stalls.

  Every now and then Rutter’s hand would shoot out, quick as a flash, and seize a bar of chocolate here, a small glass ornament there, or a toy animal from a tree, and stuff them into the pockets of the greatcoat he was carrying over his left arm.

  Best was stunned. What should he do? Arrest another colleague? There had already been bad feeling enough about Armitage. Some thought he should have made him put the rings back and just reported it as a break-in.

  Best was still an unproved rookie but Rutter was becoming well thought of in the division. Not only did it flatter them to have someone so posh in their ranks, but his incredible arrest rate was helping their crime figures to look better.

  Afterwards, Best discovered that there had been suggestions that Rutter was not above planting goods on suspects then accusing them of theft. But he hadn’t known that then and neither had his superiors. Right then, the general feeling was, if anyone can rid them of Slippery John Irons, Rutter could.

  Slippery was N Division’s most persistent and elusive of burglars. A thorn in their side who single-handedly kept their crime figures too high despite Rutter’s efforts. Joke was, they knew who he was, but couldn’t catch him at work.

  Best glanced back. Rutter grinned at him, took a flask from his pocket, saluted him with it and took a long swig, staggering slightly as he did so. He was drunk as well! Oh God!

  They weren’t even supposed to be in there. What could he do to stop it? Should he just face the man up?

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a frozen-looking constable who had been hanging about, guarding the Eclipse balloon. ‘I was asked to give you this.’

  He proffered a page torn from a sketch pad. Neatly written on it was the message: ‘Meet me in the Assyrian Court. I’m learning and drawing! Mary Jane.’

  Best glanced around him. Smith, his bodyguard, was deep in animated conversation with Mr Coxwell. Best shrugged. The lad had already given up his involvement with the balloon race. No point in robbing him of further fun.

  He began squelching up the now slushy path towards the sturdy, cylindrical North Tower. The whimsical mandarin hats of the twin towers amused him, belying, as they did, the serious purpose of the structures – that of storing and pumping out the vast quantity of water needed to feed the fountains, cascades and waterfalls, when they sprang to life.

  The vulnerability of the towers to Quicksilver’s machinations had caused the police some concern. Ruptured tanks could cause the grounds to be swamped and put the crowds in danger. A recent small breach had given them fair warning.

  But a thorough search had revealed nothing untoward secreted there, and the two policemen posted on each entrance had kept away any unwanted visitors.

  Not only that, the top of the North Tower was currently in the very capable hands of Sergeant Major Carthew of the Royal Engineers who, with his assistants, had been charged with making scientific observations on the ascent and flight path of the competing balloons.

  The North transept doors turned out to be closed, so Best shook the dirty snow off his boots and trudged along the terrace towards the Central entrance. At least the lee of the buildings provided some shelter from the still keen north wind.

  Below, to his left, the sharp outlines of the statues and fountains in the Italian gardens were softened by snow. Indignant coots and mandarin ducks slipped about on the half-frozen lakes.

  Occasionally, a shaft of weak sun would spotlight a church spire in one of the distant Kentish towns or villages below.

  Best’s heart felt surprisingly light. The balloon ascent had gone without incident, which was one major hurdle over. There was nothing he could do about any other possibility, apart from keeping his eyes open.

  The crowds were depleted, due to yesterday’s postponement, and those that had come were dispersing quite quickly now. This was no weather to hang about. Who knows, maybe yesterday’s debacle and the weather had also thrown Quicksilver’s plans into disarray?

  But when he thought about Mary Jane, his mood darkened. Her arrival had set his thoughts once again on Helen. He was confused by his reawakened passion for her and felt unable to resist it. How did she really feel? Had she just pretended when she said she was pleased he was to be married?

  There was still feeling there, he was certain. Maybe, he thought wildly, she would agree to marry him now? If it were so, how could he cause Mary Jane so much pain? She was already desperately trying to emulate Helen with this ‘learning and drawing’!

  But she was young, wasn’t she? Young enough to recover, with plenty of time to find another love among her father’s police colleagues. Best had merely been there when she had grown up and she had fixed her sights on him largely for that reason.

  They were climbing the stairs to the Aggy’s second tier when Rutter’s swivelling eyes caught a movement on the floor above.

  ‘It’s that bloody Irons!’ he shouted when the man flashed briefly into view. ‘That bastard!’ Rutter exclaimed, as despite being drunk, he took off in pursuit like one of Mr Pain’s rockets. ‘I’ll teach him to come on my patch!’

  Best, caught unawares and still agonizing over the dilemma in which his thieving colleague had placed him, was slower off the mark.

  As he rounded the top of the iron stairway, he saw them. Rutter had caught up with the runtish thief who was teetering on the edge of the railings which edged that floor. His agility was one of the reasons for his success and why he was so hard to catch. Even rooftops were no hindrance to him. Rutter regarded the man’s activities as a personal affront, a blow to his masculine pride and a block to his ambitions.

  On this occasion, Irons had obviously tried to escape by shinning up the decorative ironwork on to the floors above. But Rutter, the fastest constable on the division, old Mercury, had been too quick for him this time. He had hold of the man’s legs.

  Best made his way down the deserted north nave of the Crystal Palace. To either side were the various fine art courts, the magnificent Egyptian Court, guarded over by pillars from the Temple at Karnak and a row of gigantic statues of Rameses II was followed by the Greek; modelled on the Parthenon, this was awash with statues of half-draped ladies and athletic, nude gentlemen who recently – after complaints – had been made decent by the application of fig leaves.

  In the Medieval Court chain-mailed knights jousted against a backdrop of Gothic windows and lancet arches while Good Queen Bess and Mary Queen of Scots faced it out in the Elizabethan arena.

  It was getting quieter, he noticed. The only sounds were very distant voices and the occasional creaking from the structures around him.

  There was no sign of Mary Jane among the massive human-headed bulls of the Assyrian Court. He called out her name but his voice echoed eerily in the chamber.

  She had said Assyrian, hadn’t she?

&nb
sp; He scrambled in his pocket for her note. Yes. Assyrian. That was right. But, just a minute, this looked like Mary Jane’s handwriting, but something about it looked forced, as if she had been told to write it by someone else. Why on earth hadn’t he realized that before?

  Irons tried to kick his left leg free from Rutter’s vice-like grip. At last he succeeded, but in doing so his foot jerked back and smashed into the policeman’s ribs.

  Rutter let out a roar of fury, grabbed Irons’ testicles and twisted them. He screamed in agony and lashed out again.

  It was his death warrant.

  Rutter let go of the thief’s legs and gave him a hefty push.

  Irons wobbled for a moment, grabbing desperately for Rutter’s arm, which the policeman pulled back as he watched the man topple forwards, screaming in terror as he fell three floors into the arena below and Rutter spread his arms wide and proclaimed, ‘O! What a fall was there, my countrymen!’

  Suddenly aware of Best’s presence he turned, grinned and said, ‘You saw that. Resisted arrest, didn’t he? Struggled – and over he went. Gone to a better place, wouldn’t you say?’

  Cold panic had already started to grip Best when he heard the shout from far above. ‘Up here, Best. This is what you’re looking for, isn’t it?’

  Rutter was standing on one of the decorative railings, in the Upper Gallery of Crystal Palace. In front of him he held a woman. His right arm was clasped tightly around her and his upper body leant forward so she was forced to look down. It was then that he saw it was Mary Jane.

  ‘Come here an’ tell your lady friend why you ruined my life,’ he shouted. ‘Why you had to go and rat on me!’