The Head in the Ice

by Richard James

  Back on the streets of Southwark, there had been a tense discussion as to the best course of action. Bowman knew they would have to look for Evan but, once he was recovered, he was in favour of abandoning the exercise. He was in no doubt that the boy would have raised the alarm and that, in just a few minutes, Hardacre and his gang would disappear into the fog-shrouded streets of the South Bank to evade capture. Treacher and Williams, however, felt they had invested too much to give up the chase.

  “I spent three weeks squatting in their filth,” protested Treacher. “I’m not turning back now. If we’re quick we could still catch them.”

  Bowman had sympathy with Treacher’s position and so agreed that the ambush should continue.

  “Evan knew the route to Hardacre’s den,” interjected Graves with cheery optimism. “We’ve no reason to think he’s come into any difficulty.” He glanced at each of the men in turn. “If we continue on, no doubt we’ll find him.”

  And so it was agreed that the men should carry on in pursuit of their quarry, with the hope of finding Constable Evan in the meantime. Now, Inspector Treacher took the lead. Bowman, Graves and Williams, rattled by the incident with the ginger-haired boy, had decided there was safety in numbers. They followed in a group a few yards behind, each of them keeping as good a look out as they could for any further trouble. Denied his sense of sight, Bowman found he relied increasingly upon his ears to tell him of his surroundings. The sound of their footsteps resounding off the walls told him whether the road was wide or narrow, and so he was able to make an educated guess as to where on the route they were. He was relieved to hear no other sound but their own boots. The local residents had evidently decided that, in the face of such weather, the best course of action was to stay indoors. In that moment, Bowman wished he could join them. The small rooms he had in Hampstead now seemed a long way away, and he yearned to be sitting by the fire, a lamp lit in the window and a glass of Madeira in his hand.

  Bowman’s train of thought was brought to a sudden halt. Williams had paused at a crossroads and was peering from one direction to the next, as if lost. Having removed his false hook some time ago, reasoning that no one could see him anyway, he held up his hand to slow the party behind him. They were with him in moments, and Bowman could see the sergeant was anxious.

  “What is it?” whispered Graves as he looked out into the fog.

  “Shh!” commanded Williams and he cupped a hand to his ear.

  If Inspector Bowman held his breath, he discovered he could hear it too. A quick, rhythmical pounding on the flagstones. The sweat pricked at Bowman’s eyes as his blood ran cold. Hooves. He could hear the clatter of hooves. He couldn’t move. His vision, impaired already by the fog, became confused and there came a ringing in his ears. His heart beat in time with the thump of the approaching horses as he felt himself lose balance. Shifting his weight to correct the feeling, he pressed his gloved hands hard against his temples. Time collapsed and he was back on the street with Anna. A flash of bridle caught his eye and he twisted his head to where he knew she was. Too late. She lay twisted on the ground, her blood mingling with the dirt. And now he was restrained. Opening his mouth to scream, no sound came. Sergeant Graves had him by the arms, pulling him back from the careening carriage that sped past them, its driver slumped over the reins. Graves was calling. “No, sir! It’s too late!” As if breaking a spell, the words reverberated around the tenement walls and Bowman was drawn back to the here and now.

  “Sir!” Graves had him gingerly by the sleeve. “Someone’s coming.”

  Bowman fought to steady his legs. Not hooves, but footsteps. His breath returned.

  “Sir?” Graves was peering at him through the fog, his usually open features clouded with concern.

  “Yes, but from where?” answered Williams, his Welsh brogue all the stronger with the tension he felt.

  His wits restored for now, Bowman looked about him. It seemed only Graves had noticed his momentary confusion. Williams had a point. In this fog, it was impossible to tell from which direction the sound was coming. It echoed off the tall buildings that bore down upon them and seemed to come from everywhere at once. His eyes still on Bowman, Graves was the first to formulate a plan.

  “There are four roads joining here,” he began. “And four of us. Treacher, you take Fordham Street to the north, Williams, you south. Bowman, you look back the way we came, and I’ll stand here facing west. That way, we’ll catch the beggar wherever he comes from.”

  They barely had the time to take their positions when the man was upon them, flying into Bowman like a wild animal. The force of the impact threw him to the ground and they writhed in the street, a mess of arms and legs, while the others came to Bowman’s rescue. Williams threw himself on top of the two grappling forms on the ground, and attempted to take a hold of Bowman’s assailant.

  “Hold him,” yelled Bowman, his fists flailing uselessly against his unknown attacker.

  Treacher stood back and drew his revolver. He waved it in a futile gesture, unable to discern between the two figures before him. “Police!” he yelled, “Let go, and show yourself!”

  Williams and Graves had a good hold on him now, and they dragged the assailant off Bowman’s body onto the muddy street beside him. They held him with his arms behind his back, face down in the mud. As Bowman stood, rubbing a painful elbow and knee with his hand, he knelt to pick something up from the road.

  “Let him go, Sergeant Williams,” he said with an odd, calm note in his voice.

  “What?” roared Williams, fired up from the thrill of the chase.

  “It’s Constable Evan.” Bowman held up a porter’s hat which, until just a few moments ago had been jammed tight on Evan’s head. “Let him go.”

  At this, Evan himself piped up from the dirt. “Sergeant Williams sir, it’s me, Evan. You’re hurting.”

  Exchanging looks of exasperation, Williams and Treacher hauled the scared young man to his feet. Sergeant Williams brushed him down as best he could, whilst Treacher straightened the knapsack on his own back.

  “Evan, what on Earth got into you?” rasped Treacher into his ear. “If that young urchin didn’t wake the whole neighbourhood, you sure as hell did.”

  Bowman could see that Evan was white with fear. His hands trembled uncontrollably and his eyes darted from left to right as he spoke.

  “I got as far as the end of the alley here before I realised you weren’t behind me. I decided to double back and see if I didn’t run into you before long.”

  Williams gave a sardonic laugh. “You certainly did that, sonny.”

  “Sorry, sir. I’m afraid that, what with the fog and all, I took a fright. I got completely lost. Didn’t know where I was. I must have run in circles.” Evan was scratching at his head, trying to make sense of it all. Inspector Bowman stepped towards him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Constable Evan,” he said, looking the young man in the eye, “The last thing we need now is a jittery youth among us. Are you well enough to carry on?”

  Evan swallowed hard, then nodded his head. “I think so sir, yes.”

  “Then walk behind us, Constable, and try to keep an eye out.” Bowman clapped Evan on the shoulder to try and steady his nerves, then turned to Graves as the young constable made his way to the back of the group. “Keep him out of harm’s way, Graves. We need him for numbers, but don’t give him more than he can handle.” Graves nodded in understanding and, taking Evan’s hat from the inspector, joined the youth who was now shuffling his feet nervously a few paces behind. At a signal the little group continued on their way, passing off the main roads and into the fogbound alleys and passageways of Southwark.

  As they plunged deeper into London’s dark heart, Bowman felt the atmosphere itself changing around him. The smell of human squalor rose into the air to mingle with the fog and sulphur from the nearby brickworks. Bowman could taste the air, and resisted the urge to cough as it caught him in the back of the throat. The ground was harde
r going now. The sleet and snow was mixed with other debris, harder to identify, but soft and giving under foot. Piles of rags and rubbish were gathered beside the buildings and in the roads, making it difficult to find the space to walk. More than once, Inspector Treacher led them on minor detours to avoid the makeshift barricades. Then, as they rounded the corner into a small close, Treacher stopped.

  Bowman squinted into the yellowing mist around them. Tall, forbidding buildings rose high on either side and, ahead of them, a windowless wall soared up into the fog, its top completely obscured so that it could have risen for miles. Bowman suddenly felt uneasy. He had a sense that the buildings were closing in on him, bearing down to crush him to the floor. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced at Treacher for instructions. The inspector took the kerchief from his neck to wipe the moisture from his forehead, then gestured with a finger to a small corner of the building to his right. There, propped up against the brickwork, was a heavy wooden pallet, the door to Hardacre’s den. Treacher pulled the knapsack from his back and, reaching in, produced a small lantern. Pulling a book of matches from his pocket, he carefully lit the lantern and raised a thumb to signal his readiness. The little group shuffled into formation. Sergeant Williams stood forward and placed a hand on the door to signal his intent, while Bowman and Treacher drew their revolvers from their pockets in anticipation. Constable Evan, at a nod from Bowman, stood to one side to look back down the alley, his eyes squinting into the smog for any sign of activity. When Sergeant Williams was sure he had his companions’ attention, he put a shoulder to the ramshackle door and pushed.

  Having climbed the stairs to her rooms, Mrs Bessom paused for breath before heading into the small communal kitchen. Turning up the lamp on the wall, she placed her bags on the table and set about lighting the stove. She placed a battered and dented kettle to boil, then poured herself a glass of sherry to help keep out the cold. Moving back onto the landing, she proceeded to shed her coat and hang it, with her hat and scarf, on one of the many hooks fixed there. She could tell from the other empty hooks that she was alone in the house for the evening. She busied herself at the grate in her small living room and, having built a handsome fire, settled in her favourite armchair to reflect upon her day.

  The air was rent with the sound of splitting wood as Williams put his whole weight against the pallet, and it gave way into the room behind. Treading over the shattered debris, Williams was first in the room, Inspector Treacher following hard on his heels. He held his lantern high to light the room. Graves and Bowman poured in after, the inspector’s revolver scanning the room for signs of movement.

  “Hold hard or we’ll shoot!” yelled Bowman, his hobnailed boots struggling to find purchase on the splintered wood beneath.

  “Make yourself plain!” added Treacher, swinging the lantern before him. “We’re armed!”

  Bowman and Graves moved further into the room as the dust settled, Bowman kicking over the piles of rags and papers that littered the floor.

  “Nothing,” breathed Graves, his voice hoarse from the exertion. “They’ve flown the nest.” Treacher motioned him to be quiet and, catching Bowman’s eye, gestured to the greasy curtain that separated the room from Hardacre’s cell. Bowman took up position beside it, his revolver levelled at head height in front of him. Inspector Treacher reached up to the curtain and, with a look to Bowman, tore it down in one movement, charging into the room beyond. Bowman followed at once, his body tensed for action. As Treacher held his lantern high, turning circles in the room to light each corner, Bowman could see the cell was empty.

  “It’s clear!” Treacher yelled back to Graves and Williams in the main room, a note of incredulity in his voice. Pocketing his revolver once more, Bowman emerged back through the curtain, Treacher following close behind, despondent.

  “They’ve gone,” he said, the disappointment plain in his demeanour. “And with them the evidence.” He raised his eyes to meet Williams’, who shook his head sadly at the news.

  “Then it’s all come to nought,” said the sergeant.

  For a while, the four men stood with their eyes to the floor, dejected and confused. Williams lent back to rest upon something harsh and metallic, then sprang back up with alarm. The brazier. The sergeant turned and put a hand cautiously over the coals.

  “The brazier’s cold,” he said to no one in particular.

  His interest piqued, Bowman walked to the corner of the room where Williams stood, kicking at a pile of scraps in his way. He reached out and picked up a coal from the brazier.

  “And wet,” he observed.

  There was a movement at the door that caused each man to tense suddenly where he stood. Constable Evan trod carefully through the hole in the wall, holding a hand in front of his face to shield his eyes from the glow of Treacher’s lamp.

  “Too late?” he stammered, nervously.

  “They must have got word,” replied Treacher.

  “Must have been the boy, then,” said Evan. He had clearly been ill at ease outside and seemed to relax visibly as he sidled further into the room. “He must have raised the alarm.”

  “The enterprise was doomed from the moment we ran into him,” offered Williams. He looked up to meet Bowman’s gaze. Neither of them had the heart to tell Evan that his own behaviour might well have been as much to blame.

  “Still,” grumbled Bowman, “They can’t be long gone. The brazier’s wet but this coal still has some warmth in it.” He threw the coal to the floor and wiped a sooty hand on his coat.

  Evan looked suddenly terrified that the search for the villains was about to start all over again. “But, the fog,” he spluttered. “They could be anywhere by now and it would be impossible to find them.”

  Bowman smoothed down his moustache with a finger. “Just a moment.” As his eyes narrowed, the assembled party turned as one to face him. “If you got word of an ambush, and wanted to get out quick, would you take time to throw water over the fire?”

  “Possibly,” said Treacher slowly, swinging his lantern to where the brazier stood in the corner.

  “But surely you’d be more concerned with getting out in a hurry,” Bowman retorted. “Unless...” Bowman’s eyes dropped to the brazier’s feet. Squatting on his haunches, his great coat trailing in the grease behind him, he grabbed Treacher’s lamp from him and traced a line across the floor where the brazier had been dragged through the dirt and straw.

  “The brazier has been moved. That’s why they cooled it,” he mused aloud. “Treacher, you didn’t notice the brazier was in a different position?”

  “I thought nothing of it,” shrugged Treacher from the shadows.

  Bowman traced the lines in the dirt where the brazier’s feet had been dragged and stood, pointing at a flagstone in the centre of the room. Even in the gloom, it was possible to see it had been recently disturbed. It was ill fitting and its sides and corners were chipped. Bowman put a finger to his lips to call for silence in the room, drew his revolver from his pocket and motioned to Williams to lift the flagstone from its place in the floor. As the sergeant knelt to lever up the slab, Graves stepped forward to help him lift it to one side with some effort. Once removed, it revealed a deep, dark hole in the floor.

  Having warmed herself satisfactorily, Mrs Bessom headed back to the kitchen to prepare her supper. Reaching into the bag she had left upon the table, she felt for the cold meat and potatoes she had bought on her way home and stretched up to a shelf above the window to feel for a pan. The last of the water from the kettle would serve to boil the vegetables. As they cooked, she turned again to her bag to retrieve her copy of The Evening Standard, smiling at the memory of the ever-cheerful Martin Quigley. Taking a quick nibble from the smoked ham on her plate, Mrs Bessom flicked through the pages absentmindedly before turning the paper over for a more in-depth investigation. The headline on the front page gave her pause; ‘A GRUESOME DISCOVERY’.

  “Come on out and make yourself known!” shouted Treacher into the hole. The
re was no reply. Resigned, Bowman took the lantern from Treacher and, with a look to Graves and the other men in the room to make sure they were ready, launched himself into the darkness below.

  The party in the room heard the soles of Bowman’s boots slap against the floor in the cellar below, then a scuffling noise as he regained his balance. The lamp cast an eerie glow back up the hatch, illuminating the pit as if it were some furnace. For a while there was silence and Inspector Treacher tightened his grip on his revolver in anticipation. Then, Inspector Bowman’s voice echoed into the room.

  “The booty’s here, all right,” he called as his head popped up through the hole in the floor. “But not a soul to be found.” Graves knelt to help his fellow inspector up as Bowman continued. “Inspector Treacher, perhaps we should arrange to have an inventory made of everything that’s down there. We might be able to return some of it to its rightful owners.”

  “Then tonight hasn’t been a complete disaster,” offered the ever-optimistic Sergeant Graves, his face beaming in the lamplight.

  Bowman was brushing down his coat and trousers. “Agreed. Though where they’ve got to is anyone’s guess.”

  “Too fly for you, eh?” A new voice echoed off the soot and tobacco stained walls. It was a voice Inspector Treacher knew well. As the party turned as one to face the door, two men stood illuminated by Treacher’s lantern. One was Jabez Kane. As a grisly smile spread over his dark and swarthy face, the scar that ran down from his forehead to his cheek creased into a deeper fissure. What startled the attendant officers most, however, was the sight of Constable Evan being held against Kane’s chest by an arm about his shoulders. A jagged blade was at his throat.

  Shaking her head at the depravity of it all, Patricia Bessom turned from her Evening Standard to retrieve a little mustard from a jar. Spooning it onto her plate next to the ham, she prodded the potatoes with a fork as they rolled in the pan of boiling water. Five more minutes, she guessed, and her supper would be ready. Turning her attention back to the article, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill at the more salacious details. A body discovered in the ice. A young woman in need of identification. Holding the paper closer to the flickering lamplight, Mrs Bessom slid her spectacles to the end of her nose, the better to peer over them. There, just below the article was a drawing, a likeness of the young lady found in the river, and alongside that were printed the words, “Most curious of all are the young lady’s eyes, each being of a different colour to the other”. Mrs Bessom looked long and hard at the picture, her mouth opening in a silent expression of alarm. Releasing the paper in horror, her eyes grew wide in fear. It was a face she knew well. “Oh, Lord,” she exclaimed, her hands flying involuntarily to her face. “Mary!”