Out of Time: . (Steamside Chroncles Book 1)

by Symon A Sanderson

  “Can you remember where you were when he asked you to deliver it?”

  “On Commercial Road in Stepney,” said the boy.

  “How much did he pay you?” said Jacob having recovered his composure. The boy held out a sixpence in his trembling hand.

  Jacob let out a long, slow breath before putting his hand in his pocket, “Here,” he said as he gave the boy two shillings, “take these and go home.”

  The boy looked uncertainly at the coins and then at Jacob before running through the open door.

  Kate stood up and turned to Jacob. “What does the note say?”

  Jacob handed the piece of paper to Kate and she read out loud. “Stop asking questions if you want to see her alive again,” she read the note again before looking at Jacob. “We have to take this to your brother-in-law.”

  Jacob nodded and took his hat and coat from a from a hat stand in the corner, “Here,” he said as he handed a thick woollen cape to Kate, “you’ll need this. It’s cold outside.”

  Kate swirled the cape around her shoulders and smiled. It was the first time she had not had to argue in an effort to join Jacob. They left the house and walked to Fulham Road where they hailed a cab to the police station.

  ***

  Riordan was already going through the latest reports when Kate and Jacob were ushered into his office. Jacob placed the note onto Riordan’s desk and waited as he read it.

  “At least we know she’s alive,” said Riordan.

  “Do we?” replied Jacob, “How can you be so certain?”

  Kate looked first at Jacob and then Riordan. She had already considered the worst case scenario, but hadn’t dared discuss it with Jacob. She was eager to hear Riordan’s reply.

  “A hostage is only of any use when they are alive, a bargaining chip to exercise control and ensure obedience. Go home and stay there Jacob and let my men do their job.”

  “How can I just stay there and do nothing?” Jacob’s eyes glazed over as the tears welled up. Riordan walked round his desk and stood next to Jacob, placing his hand on Jacob’s shoulder.

  “I have every man in the force looking. We’ll find her I promise. Go home and wait for any further news.”

  The last words were directed at Kate. She nodded and took Jacob by the arm leading him out of the station and back onto the street. Kate flagged down a hansom and was telling the driver to go to St. Giles Square when Jacob changed the address to that of Lord Ashbury’s London residence.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” asked Kate. “He wasn’t exactly pleased to see us the last time and the note was specific. It may be that we’re being watched.”

  “His son was taken in identical circumstances. I have to know.”

  Kate, realising that Jacob had made up his mind, reclined back into the seat, As a steam car passed bellowing thick black smoke from a funnel on its rear end, she took a pair of goggles from a hook on the door and slid them over her eyes.

  ***

  The hansom stopped in front of Lord Ashbury’s London residence and Jacob paid the driver before Kate spoke again, “I doubt he will see you regardless of what happened to his son. He didn’t strike me as the most sympathetic of men.”

  “Perhaps, but I have to at least try.”

  They walked up to the front door where a constable was still standing guard.

  “Hello Alfred,” said Jacob, “you still have a job I see.”

  The constable smiled, “Hello, Doctor. Yes, I got my ears chewed off good and proper by the superintendent, but his Lordship never so much looks at the hired help let alone talks to ‘em. I doubt he would recognise me from Adam sir.”

  “I need to speak with him Alfred. It’s a matter of great urgency.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about your daughter sir. I’m sorry. I wish I was out there looking for her, but I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time. His Lordship left this morning before breakfast sir. Nobody knows where he’s gone or when he’ll be back.”

  Jacob rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger before stroking his chin. “The body of the governess was found by the maid if I remember correctly.”

  “You do, Doctor, it was Miss Alvey.”

  “Could I speak to her or the other servants? They may have remembered some small point which could help,” said Jacob, the distress in his voice becoming obvious.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I have strict instruction who can come into the house. I have been told that you and the lady here are two people who are not to be allowed in under any circumstances.”

  “Alfred…”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I can’t let you in.” Alfred looked round before moving closer to Jacob, anxious not to be overheard. “”My relief should be here in an hour,” he scribbled something in his notebook before tearing the page out and giving it to Jacob, “meet me there.”

  ***

  At Jacob’s suggestion they had walked to Hyde Park and around the Serpentine to kill time before hailing a cab.

  “Where are we going?” Kate asked as the cab trundled at a brisk pace along Whitechapel Road.

  “It’s an address just off Mile End Road near the workhouse.”

  “What’s there?”

  “If I’m not mistaken it’s where Alfred lives. I went there last year and delivered his second daughter. Irene if I remember correctly.”

  The cab made one turn and stopped near the end of a row of terraced houses. Jacob paid the driver and told him to wait. He checked the address and knocked on an old, but spotlessly clean wooden door. Seconds later the door was opened by a woman wearing a frayed white apron and headscarf.

  “Lilley, how are you?”

  A smile erupted on the woman’s face.

  “Doctor McKinley it’s so good to see you. Alfred said you would be coming. He’s in the kitchen.”

  They were led through the small front room, which looked as though it doubled as a bedroom, into the kitchen at the rear of the house. A small cast iron range radiated heat into the room with pots and pans of varying sizes vying for the limited space available. Sat at a wooden table next to the range was Alfred, his tunic hung on the back of a chair and his braces hanging down by his legs. He rose and shook Jacob’s hand.

  “How is everyone Alfred?” asked Jacob, hoping that wasn’t the reason he had been invited.

  “Everyone’s fine thanks, Doctor, thanks to you,” Alfred motioned the pair to sit, “but I think you know that’s not the reason you’re here.”

  Kate and Jacob sat at the table and were joined by Lilley.

  “I had strict instructions not to let anyone in the house or talk to the servants. But they didn’t say you couldn’t talk to Lilley,” Alfred saw the confused look on Jacob’s face and continued, “Lilley isn’t one of the servants and doesn’t work there. However, once a week she picks up a load of laundry and brings it back here to wash and iron it. She’s friendly with most of the staff and well, you know how they gossip.”

  “It’s not gossip if it’s true,” said Lilley. “Besides, the staff in all the houses talk. You can’t avoid it most of the time. I just like to see how they live and what they do with all that money.”

  “So, what have you heard,” asked Jacob a little more harshly than he would have liked.

  Lilley shuffled slightly on her chair, “There has been no ransom note delivered to the house. Lord Ashbury, or any of his family for that matter, wouldn’t answer the door. A member of staff would have done that and they told me they had been given no special instructions about any ransom note.”

  “That’s strange,” said Kate. “You’d think he would be desperate for any information…” she stopped and glanced at Jacob.

  “And then there’s Miss Shaw, the governess,” said Lilley. “It seems common knowledge among the staff that her and Lord Ashbury were carrying on together. Susan, the maid who found the body, says she heard them arguing one night. I know I shouldn’t, but I pushed her on it and she seemed to think that Miss Shaw was pregnant.�
�

  “With Lord Ashbury’s child?” said Kate.

  “That’s what she thought.”

  Jacob slowly shook his head, “No, I examined the body. Performed an autopsy on it and she definitely wasn’t pregnant. Also, other than the cause of death there were no back street injuries on her.”

  The inference was not lost on Kate, “Maybe she was pretending to be pregnant. She might have been blackmailing him.”

  “Possibly,” said Jacob, “but that’s a big jump to make without any further evidence and we don’t have anyone else to talk to.”

  “There is someone, Doctor,” said Lilley. “When I pick the laundry up I often take mail down to the post office, just to save the girls a job. Every time I did there was a letter, sometimes more than one, addressed to Marie Roberts in Dalston. The girls told me the letters were from Margaret Shaw, but they didn’t know who this Marie Roberts was.”

  “Do you know the address?” asked Jacob

  “Yes, I’ll get Alf to write it down.”

  Jacob watched as Alfred scrawled the address on a piece of paper and snatched it out of his hands when he had finished.

  “Have you told your inspector about this address?” asked Jacob.

  “No Doctor,” said Alfred. “My name’s mud at the moment. If I gave it to him he’d probably just throw it in the bin.”

  Alfred took Kate and Jacob back to the front door and shook Jacob’s hand, “I hope that address is of some use Doctor McKinley and that you find your little girl safe and well.”

  “Thank you Alfred. I appreciate this.”

  As the pair walked back towards the main road Jacob said, “Are you ready for a trip to Dalston?”

  Kate nodded as Jacob hailed the first cab that he saw.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Henry Collins picked up a large canvas bag and stepped down from the brougham. He told the driver to wait and turned to look at the two-storey brick building on the opposite side of the road. He straightened his top hat, ran his forefinger gently over the slight burn mark on his neck and strolled into Limehouse Police Station.

  He walked along a short, narrow corridor, neatly side-stepping two constables struggling with a very drunk woman, before reaching the front desk. A harassed looking sergeant was shouting at the two constables and writing something on a sheet of paper. Collins looked and realised it was the drunk woman’s details.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment sir,” said the sergeant as he continued to write.

  Collins nodded and watched as the constables dragged the woman down another corridor to the rear of the building.

  “I’m sorry about that sir,” said the sergeant as he placed the sheet of paper to one side. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “My name is Peter Jackson,” said Collins. “I am here on behalf of Reuben Breakspear to see Mr Harry Finch.”

  “Reuben Breakspear,” repeated the sergeant, “the Admiralty barrister from Chancery Lane? What do they want with a low-life like Finch?”

  “I don’t question Mr Breakspear,” said Collins implying that neither should the sergeant, “I just follow his instructions. Now, will I be allowed to see Mr. Finch or should I go back and inform Mr. Breakspear you have refused his request?”

  The desk sergeant frowned and slowly looked Collins up and down before calling a constable over to the desk.

  “Show Mr Jackson here to cell number four. Stand in the doorway and don’t take your eyes off them. Understood?”

  The constable nodded and motioned Collins to follow him. They walked down the same corridor the drunk woman had been taken. Collins followed as the constable unlocked an iron gate and walked around the corner, stopping at a solid looking grey iron door.

  Collins took off his top hat and placed it on a plain wooden chair as the constable opened the heavy iron door with a creaking of hinges. Collins walked into the doorway and looked at the angry figure of Harry Finch laying on a thin, dirty mattress. Finch looked up and recognised Collins immediately. He glanced over the American’s shoulder to the constable and back to Collins.

  “What do you want?” said Finch.

  “I have been asked to give you a message. That you should not worry. The walls will come tumbling down soon.”

  “Very reassuring,” said Finch, “and just how soon is that?”

  “Very soon,” said Collins, his lips curling into a sneer.

  Finch watched in alarm as Collins reached into the canvas bag he was carrying but he turned to the constable and nodded before moving back into the corridor. Collins had begun to walk back down the corridor when the constable called him back.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said picking up the top hat from the chair and offering it to Collins. “You’ve forgotten your hat.”

  Collins turned around and tapped the top hat he was holding.

  “I don’t believe so,” he said as he folded the empty canvas bag and placed it under his arm, “you must be mistaken.”

  The constable looked at the hat for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and putting it back on the chair.

  Collins nodded at the desk sergeant as he walked out of the police station and back to his waiting brougham. The carriage had travelled no more than fifty yards along Commercial Road when the bomb exploded.

  ***

  Harry Finch had heard the conversation between Collins and the constable about the hat on the chair. Instantly he realised the hat must have contained an explosive device set to go off when the copper mainspring had become loose enough and made a connection. He tried to look out of the small hatch in the door but the angle was too tight. A quick look at the door handle and lock showed Finch the door opened into the corridor to his right. Collins must have used the door to shield himself while he put the hat on the chair. He dragged his metal bunk bed to the far corner of the cell and tipped it onto its side. Crouching behind the frame he wrapped the thin mattress around himself and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The explosion was deafening and a split second later he felt a large piece of stone from the wall hit him on the side of his ribs. Finch winced in pain before throwing the mattress to one side. To his left, he saw a large hole in the wall where the door had once been. That was now lying on the floor having missed the bed by inches. To his right Finch saw several large pieces of stone had become dislodged from the wall just under the barred window, the other side of which, as Finch knew was the case at every police station, was where the stables were kept.

  He jumped to his feet and grabbed the bars. Lifting himself up Finch placed his feet against the stone wall and pulled on the bars. The stonework gave way immediately and he fell backwards, twisting as he fell so the bars wouldn’t land on him. The landing was still uncomfortable enough, his ribs screamed in agony, but Finch knew he only had one chance. He scrambled through the hole and into the back yard.

  Finch looked around the yard. It was empty. There were no doors at the back of the building so the constables, not realising a new door had just been created, would run to the side or front of the building to provide assistance to those inside. He made his way to the stables. Finch smiled to himself as he realised his luck was in. Two horses, made skittish and vocal by the blast, had been in the process of being bridled and saddled before being taken out. It only took Finch a couple of seconds to finish the job before he was riding out of the yard and into the Whitechapel slums.

  Chapter Twenty- Seven

  The cab ride to Dalston was only a short one but it seemed to be taking all day. Kate turned her attention from the streets and the steam-powered cars and horse drawn carriages which were using them, sights which she was rapidly getting used to, back to the silent figure of Jacob.

  “What good do you think this will do? I mean what do you think we’re going to find?” she asked.

  Jacob, who had been studying the floor of the cab, raised his head and stared at its ceiling before replying, “I don’t know. The two incidents are so similar they must be connected, but how?
I’m just hoping there is something in those letters.”

  “And if there isn’t?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jacob still staring at the ceiling of the cab. “What I do know is that Margaret Shaw definitely was not pregnant.” Jacob closed his eyes, sighed and put his chin on his chest. “Perhaps she was blackmailing Lord Ashbury and the pregnancy was just a bluff. Even if there’s nothing in the letters she may have confided in this woman. What was her name again?”

  “Marie Roberts. And if I’m not mistaken this is where she lives.”

  The cab came to a jerking stop and as Jacob paid the driver Kate knocked on the door. A young maid answered and they were shown into a large parlour room. Kate looked around. Although the room was big it seemed cluttered. A large, round table in the middle, a piano against one wall, several chairs of various descriptions and a chaise longue in one corner. The walls were covered in paintings and photographs many with a military theme. The door opened and a woman in her mid-forties walked in.

  Marie Roberts?” asked Kate. The woman nodded.

  “Hello,” said Kate. “My name is Kate Lockwood and this is my colleague Jacob McKinley. “We would like to ask you a few questions about the murder of a young woman in South Kensington last weekend.”

  The woman’s eyes flickered between the two of them before she gave a reluctant nod of her head.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ve been expecting you,” Kate and Jacob watched as she sat in the largest leather chair in the room, motioning for them to make themselves comfortable. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No thanks,” said Kate as she sat down. “You said you were expecting us?”

  “It was always going to be only a matter of time before they found out. The requirements of the role were quite specific you see. No attachments or family. Preferably no relatives at all. I suppose they didn’t want the governess of their only child having any distractions. Margaret went there and told them everything they wanted to hear. That, along with her background and qualifications, some of which I am quite sure were fabricated, made her the ideal candidate.”