*
Billings walked out of Jacobs’s office, but did not go to the surgeon’s room. Instead he headed straight for Clarkson’s desk.
“You need to do something for me,” he said, pulling the pen out of Clarkson’s hand and splashing ink all over his cuffs.
“Oi! Careful!”
“Find out everything you can about this man.” Billings scribbled Barnabas Crooke’s name on a piece of paper. “There should be a file on him. Then send a messenger to deliver the report to my address. Or better still, deliver it yourself.” He added his address to the sheet. “But don’t tell Jacobs. In fact don’t tell anyone.”
“What’s all this about?” Clarkson asked, frowning as he tried to remove the ink stains from his shirt sleeve.
“It’s about the man who attacked me.” Billings blotted the paper, folded it, grabbed Clarkson’s hand and shoved the paper in it. “Bring the report to me as soon as you can.” Then, looking straight into Clarkson’s eyes, he added “But don’t tell Jacobs.”
Clarkson looked back at him, worried and confused. “What’s going on, Billings?”
“Jacobs has ordered me to take a rest and doesn’t want me worrying about the attack. But I can’t let it lie. It’s a matter of pride with me. That’s all.”
“All above board then, is it?”
“Yes, Clarkson. It’s all above board. Just don’t tell anyone. I’m relying on you. Can I trust you?”
Clarkson nodded.
“Good man.”
*
Mrs Appleby started fussing the moment Billings walked in the door.
“Oh my heavens, look at the state of you!” she cried.
Billings had been given three stitches above his eyebrow. He was feeling a little light-headed now that the excitement of the moment had passed and he wanted nothing more than to lock himself up in his room and lie down for a bit. But Mrs Appleby would not allow that.
“Oh no, you mustn’t lie down!” she said. “That’s the worst thing you can do. You might have a concussion. You come into the lounge, my dear. Let your poor old landlady look after ya.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the lounge. “You sit down in that armchair, my dear,” she said pushing him down into the chair. “I’ll put some cold tea leaves in a towel and dab your eyes with it. That’ll help bring the swelling down.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Billings jumped up from his seat. Good old Clarkson, he thought and ran to open the door. Jack was standing in the doorway holding a letter out to him. Billings grabbed the letter fom the boy’s hand and paid him a shilling. Then he turned towards the staircase and was about to rush up to his room, when Mrs Appleby reappeared from the kitchen with a teapot in her hand.
“’Ere, where you going?” she asked.
“Sorry, Mrs Appleby,” Billings said rushing up the stairs. “But a letter just came for me from work.”
“You’re not going to continue working now, are you?”
“Work never stops for a Yard man, Mrs Appleby,” he replied, then disappeared into his room to read the letter.
Barnabas Crooke was born in Bradford in 1838. He married Rebecca Yeoman in 1854. They had their first child in 1855, but it died two months later. They had another child in 1856, this one died in 1859. Their third child was born in 1857. This one survived and was named Oswald. The wife, however, died in 1862. Father and son moved to Whitehaven in ‘68 or ‘69. They both worked at Cranson and Son’s Tannery Yard. Oswald spent three months at Peter Street House of correction for pickpocketing in 1870. He spent another five months there for stealing a gentleman’s coat in 1872 and another full year in 1875 for burglary. Barnabas and Oswald left the employ of Cranson and Son in 1882 after it was alleged they had been stealing skins from the Yard. Neither are heard from again until 1885 when they are both sentenced to 8 months hard labour at Birmingham Prison for burglary (This was Oswald’s fourth conviction - he was lucky not to have been hanged!) In prison Oswald seems to have attracted the pity of one of your lot – by which I mean Quackers [sic] – who arranged for him to be trained and employed as a boatman in the Grand Junction Canal. He’s been ferrying between London and the Midlands with his father ever since, until he was arrested recently in Norfolk for trespassing at Sandringham, for which he was sentenced to six months hard labour (when are they going to hang this brute?). Their boat is called ‘Ryckmer’ and it was moored on the River Chess in Rickmansworth, at the time of Oswald’s arrest. I should warn you that Jacobs has asked for a similar report. (I really do hope this is all above board, Billings.) Don’t worry about Jack, he’s been sworn to secrecy. I had to pay him two shillings to buy his silence (which I expect you to pay me back).
There was only one thing for Billings to do after he finished reading the report. He threw the letter on his bed, grabbed his hat and coat, ran out the door and hailed himself a cab.
*
There were about half a dozen narrowboats moored on the bank of the River Chess. Some laden with cargo (coal, flour, dye), some empty. The boatmen were all hard at work as Billings walked down the towpath, scanning the boat names. They were either carrying out repairs or rearranging their cargo, while their wives and children were hanging their laundry out to dry or tending to the horses in the mews. But they all stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at the detective as he passed. Billings didn’t know whether it was the sight of his bruised face which attracted their attention, or the fact that the boating community (or river gypsies as he’d sometimes heard them be referred to) was notoriously insular, but he felt uneasy strolling amongst the silent, suspicious stares and was relieved when someone finally spoke to him.
“Looking for anyone in particular, guv’nor?”
Billings looked up and saw a man sitting on the roof of his boat, repairing and coiling a rope.
“I’m looking for the Ryckmer,” Billings replied.
“The Ryckmer? Oh, you’ve just missed it, guv’nor. The Ryckmer left a couple of hours ago.”
“Do you know where it went to?”
“Well, I saw her go down the Colne, but she was carrying no cargo.” The man leaned over to the hatch and started calling out into the cabin. “’Ere, Ruthie! Where did Barney go off to this morning?”
“What?”
“Barney? Where did he go off to?”
A woman suddenly appeared from the hatch, holding a snotty-nosed, dirty-faced toddler in her arms.
“What you hollering about?” she asked angrily.
“This man’s asking after Barney. Do you know where he went off to?”
“He went down to meet the Thames, didn’t he? Gone upstream, where he always goes to when he’s in trouble.”
“How far would he have gone by now?” Billings asked.
The woman suddenly turned to look at him and jumped at the sight of his face. “Bloomin’ heck, what happened to you?” she cried with a look of disgust. “Look at the state of him!” she said, turning to her husband and laughing.
“I… um. I had an accident.”
“Accident, my arse! You’ve been punched, that’s what happened to you!”
“Never you mind what happened to him, woman!” the man said, pushing his wife’s head back down into the cabin. “Why don’t you get back in there and bring us some coffee!”
The wife disappeared back into the hatch and the man turned back to face the detective.
“You will have some coffee, won’t you guv’nor? Barney’s long gone by now. What is it you want him for anyway?”
“I have business with him.”
“Business, is it? Well, if it’s business you have, I might be able to oblige.”
Billings looked confused.
“You’re looking to unload some ware, I’d wager,” he clarified. “We’re all in the same trade here, guv’nor. I can take the ware off your hands just as well as Barney can. Now, come on. Get on board and show me what you’ve got.”
Billings conclud
ed that the sight of his face and of his shabby clothes had convinced the man that he was a duffer, so he took advantage of this mistake, climbed on to the boat and sat down on the roof beside him. He pulled out a golden locket his mother had given him from around his neck and showed it to him.
“Lets have a look at that then,” the man said, grabbing the locket from the detective and turning it around in his dirty hands. “Well, it’s not much, is it?”
“It’s gold,” Billings said, a little defensively.
“Gold plated,” the man corrected. “And only lightly so. You got any more?”
“I have more at home,” Billings lied.
“Well, I won’t get more than a couple of sovereigns for this.” He threw the locket on the detective’s lap. “Sorry mate, not worth my while.”
Billings picked the locket up and scrubbed the man’s dirty fingerprints off it with a corner of his jacket.
“How can I find Barney?” he asked.
“You can’t. He don’t wanna be found. That’s what he went upstream for.”
“Why doesn’t he want to be found?”
“What do you think? The law must be after him. But I’ll tell you what, mate. If you really have more stuff, you might as well take it directly to Florence.”
“Florence?”
“It’s what Barney would’ve done with your loot anyway.”
“And where can I find this Florence?”
The wife came out of the cabin again, carrying two mugs of coffee.
“’Ere Ruthie, where does Florence hang out these days?”
“How the devil would I know!” she replied as she handed the mugs out to the men. “You should go to the market in Spittalfields and ask around there. They’ll know.”
“What’s her last name?” Billings asked.
“Whose?”
“Florence. What’s her surname?”
The man and woman suddenly went silent and looked at each other alarmed.
“Florence is not a her, mister!” the man said. “Florence is a bloke!”
Billings instantly felt the mood darken.
“I told you, Archie!” the woman cried angrily. “I told you not to trust strangers!”
“Who are you?” the man asked suddenly, with an aggressive tone in his voice. “Everyone in our line of business knows Florence!”
Billings watched the two boatpeople stare at him with suspicious frowns on their faces and didn’t know what to say.
“My name is John… um… Brown,” he said eventually. “John Brown.”
“John Brown, my arse!” the wife cried. “You’re a copper! He’s a copper, Archie!”
“Are you a copper?”
“No, I assure you. I’m not.”
“Oh Archie, I told you not to trust him! I hope you ain’t said anything incriminating!”
“How do you know Barney Crooke?” the man asked angrily.
“I met him in Norfolk.”
“Did he do that do your face?”
“What? No!”
“He did!” the woman yelled. “You’re the one who’s after him, ain’t you?”
Billings suddenly started feeling nervous and looked around him. The couple’s angry cries had attracted the attention of the other boatpeople and they were all looking in his direction. Some had even started approaching them.
“I met Barnabas Crooke in Norfolk,” Billings said, nervously. “At the White Swan in Dersingham. He told me he dealt in stolen jewellery and if I ever had anything for him I should look him up in Rickmansworth. Just ask for the Ryckmer, he said. Well, here I am, but he ain’t here, so I guess I’ll just…”
He turned away from the man and was about to jump off the boat, but the woman had read his mind and jumped off before him.
“Oh no, you don’t!” she said, leaping onto the bank and untying the mooring ropes. “He’s looking to run away, Archie! Don’t let him!” She quickly pushed the boat away from the bank and before Billings could do anything to prevent it, a big gap of water had emerged between him and dry land – too big for him to jump.
“Now tell me straight, mister!” the man said as he picked a punting pole off the deck. “Are you a copper or not!”
“I told you, I’m not!”
The man pushed the pole forcefully into the detective’s stomach, causing him to stagger back towards the edge of the boat. “I don’t believe you!” he said and gave him another blow, harder this time. It knocked the air right out of the detective and caused him to double over. A large crowd of boatpeople had assembled on the bank by now and they were all watching as the man tried to push Billings into the water with his pole.
“I’m not trying to deceive you,” Billings said, looking around him desperately for a way to get back on to dry land. “Just let me get off the boat and I’ll be on my way.”
“What’s the matter? Can’t you swim?” the man asked, poking him again with the pole. “Well, there’s only way to learn, isn’t there fellas?” He turned towards his audience, who all cheered and clapped, like children at a pantomime. Then, with one hard push, he thrust the pole right into the detective’s guts and sent him flying overboard.
Billings emerged from the cold, murky water a couple of seconds later, gasping for air and splashing about him, desperately looking for dry land. The crowd on the bank was still cheering and clapping and laughing at him. Billings climbed onto the bank and, shivering and bruised, he staggered back towards the station, leaving the ridiculing laughter of the boatpeople behind him.
16. The Foul Whiff of Corruption
Billings felt self-conscious as he walked onto the platform at Rickmansworth with his moist and muddied clothes. He was worried that his suspicious appearance would attract the attention of the authorities. When the train arrived, he quickly climbed into the farthest carriage, sat down on the bench and curled up against the window. The mud on his clothes soon started to dry, but the smell of the dirty river had filled the carriage. This deterred other passengers from entering it, so he remained in there alone for the rest of the journey. And it was there in that slow-moving, pungent space that Billings collected his thoughts, assembled the facts and put them all together into a convincing narrative. It all made sense to him now. The death of Lord Palmer; the mystery of the Wild Man Of Sutton Courtenay; the disappearance of Sebastian Forrester; Bhodan Krym and the Russian counterfeiters; the secretive behaviour of Chief Inspector Jacobs; the ubiquitous Barnabas Crooke. They were all part of the same long story and he had now finally been able to decipher in what manner they had been connected. His problem presently, though, was knowing what to do with this information.
It was ten to six when he alighted at King’s Cross Station. His clothes were still caked with mud and the dirt on his face did little to disguise the two blinkers on his head. But Billings was no longer concerned about unsettling the commuters with his appearance. Londoners were not easy to unsettle. Billings was invisible here. He was just another skipper, another shirker, another shivering jemmy begging for alms, and the commuters simply walked past him as if he didn’t exist. He felt like a ghost, avoided and ignored by the masses, left to wander the darkening streets of London without really existing. Able to observe other people, but not able to interact with them. He felt strangely empowered by this. He had temporarily ceased being himself. He had finally been freed from consequence and responsibility. Billings took advantage of this new power and made his way to Tavistock Square. He finally felt ready for that confrontation with Jacobs.
*
Billings was leaning against the park railings and was staring impatiently down the road towards Endsleigh Place. It was a quarter past seven. Jacobs would be walking down that road any moment on his way back from work. Billings had chosen a good spot to hide in. He was standing in a corner of the square, far removed from the glow of the gas light. He was shielded from sight by the dark branches of a large chestnut tree. The mud on his clothes and face served as camouflage and made him completely invisible. A pa
trolling constable had circled the square twice during his beat and even he hadn’t spotted him. (Which did make Billings question the competence of the Camden police. This was a wealthy neighbourhood. An attractive target for burglars. Someone really ought to have a word with the Camden police about this.)
Suddenly Billings heard the clatter of horse hooves and he turned his eyes back to Endsleigh Place. A hansom cab rolled down the street and stopped right in front of Jacobs’s house. Billings could see his boss step out of the carriage and pay the driver. Lazy sod, thought Billings. It’s only a ten minute walk from Euston Station to here.
Billings waited for the cab to leave, before jumping out of the shadow and rushing towards the house, where Jacobs was already unlocking the door.
“Mr Jacobs, I need to talk to you,” he said, marching towards the doorsteps.
Jacobs jumped and cowered backwards with a look of shock in his eyes. He instinctively raised his umbrella in the air and was about to hit Billings with it, when recognition suddenly crept in.
“Billings? Is that you?” he asked, squinting and looking into the detective’s eyes.
“Yes,” Billings responded calmly and continued to climb the steps towards the front door. “I need to have words with you.”
Jacobs looked Billings up and down and laughed – more from relief than anything else. “What the devil happened to you?” he asked.
“I fell into the river.”
“The river? Where?”
“Rickmansworth.”
“What the devil were you doing in Rickmansworth?”
Billings paused briefly before answering. A moment of doubt crept into his head, but he clenched his fists tightly and pushed on. “I know that you are deliberately scapegoating an innocent man in order to cover the misdeeds in which you have become embroiled.” There. He had said it. He instantly felt the tension in his body ease and he unclenched his fists. But the storm had only just begun.
Jacobs fell silent and stared intently back at Billings. Then he laughed again and shook his head. “You just won’t give up, will you?”
The Ornamental Hermit Page 20
