“Where the Devil did you spring from?” demanded Graves, somewhat redundantly. It was plain to Bowman that Kane had jumped on the young man’s back after slipping in through the door behind him. Evan’s eyes rolled in fear and his breathing was quick and shallow. He pulled at Kane’s arm with both hands but it was plain that he was no match for his assailant. Kane kept the blade at Evan’s throat.
“All right, Evan,” soothed Treacher, keeping his voice calm and level as he addressed the young constable. “Easy does it, there’s a good lad.”
“There’s a voice I know,” rasped Jabez Kane peering into the gloom. “And a face to match it, too. Got word to the peelers, did you Treacher?”
“It’s much worse than that, Kane. I would advise you to put down that blade and come quietly. There are many more of us than you, as you can see.”
“And we’re armed, too,” offered Sergeant Williams, stepping into the meagre light thrown into the room by the lantern.
Kane looked from him back to Treacher, tightening his grip about Evan’s throat. “A peeler yerself, are you? I knew there was something queer about you. Lucky we got word that you was on your way.”
“Then why did you come back?” Treacher was inching ever closer now, cautioning Inspector Bowman to keep his distance with a glance. Both he and Bowman had their revolvers trained on Kane, but it would be difficult to get a clear shot with Constable Evan in their sights.
“I came back for my prize. A little momento of your visit, if you like.” Kane began backing towards the door, dragging the young constable with him for security. “Can’t get your shot though, can ya?” he leered at Bowman and Treacher. “Wouldn’t risk putting a bullet into one of yer own now, would ya?”
Bowman took a tighter grip on his revolver, eager to reassure Evan that the situation was under control. “It’s all right, Constable,” he said, his voice loaded with tension despite his wish to reassure.
Kane’s smile grew broader, the scar on his cheek creasing deeper into his face. “Constable, eh?” he cackled hideously. “Well then, got meself a nice young chicken, haven’t I?” With his free hand, he smoothed down the hair on the constable’s head, pressing his lips closer to Evan’s ear. “Don’t struggle, chicken. Don’t ruffle yer feathers.”
Evan was plainly at tipping point. His mouth opened and closed in quivering, silent speech and his eyes stood out in terror. His pale skin was pricked with beads of sweat. His whole body had begun to shake involuntarily. As the young constable was pulled through the door to the alley beyond, Inspector Bowman became aware that Evan was now looking directly at him, his imploring gaze seeming to bore directly into his skull. Whatever the outcome of this particular incident, the inspector knew that look would haunt him for years to come. Evan raised a pleading hand towards Bowman as a word formed on his lips. “Sir,” he gasped, swallowing furiously in his panic.
With a flick of his wrist, Jabez Kane let Evan drop to the rubbish-strewn floor, using the movement as a distraction during which to make good his escape. His feet scuffing against the flagstones, he ran through the doorway to the alley beyond. He pulled the ragged door off its hinges as he did so and threw it back into the room behind him as he fled.
“Evan!” shouted Williams as he ran to the prone figure on the floor.
Treacher and Bowman grappled with the door, heaving it out into the alley then giving chase as best they could. Their feet struggled to find purchase on the greasy floor. Inspector Bowman let loose a shot, the blast echoing off the confining walls around them, but both inspectors knew it was in vain. Skidding to a halt on the wet cobbles, Bowman put a hand on Treacher’s shoulder to steady himself. He shook his head in dismay. “We’ll do more harm than good in this fog.”
As Bowman and Treacher stepped back into the gloom of Hardacre’s den, they found Graves and Williams on the floor at Evan’s side. The constable’s head was cradled in Graves’ lap while Williams held a piece of rag, now soaked in blood, firmly at his neck. The young man’s eyes were open but staring, lifeless, at the ceiling. Graves looked up and met the inspector’s gaze.
“We’ve lost him, sir. Evan is dead.”
X
Night Thoughts
This time, Bowman was flying. Beneath him, the bustle of London life squeezed its way through the narrowing streets. He knew he would appear at any moment, just around the furthest corner. This was how it had always been. He had a theory that all his life had led him here. Every decision he had taken, every choice he had made had ended with him at this corner at this moment. The moment Anna had died. It was a theory they had tried to dispel at Colney Hatch. Much of his treatment had been to quash this heavy, hopeless malaise. The medication, the relentless discipline, the cold baths had all been with the intent to shock him into the present from the fearful past. Bowman daren”t admit to anyone that they had failed.
He was closer to the ground now, only a few feet from the grimy flagstones. He fancied he could smell the hides from the tanning factory across the way. All around him there was bustle. Street urchins jostled with traders and hawkers. Beggars and vagrants skulked beneath the railway arches, hiding from the glare of the low, May sun. Businessmen, smart in their frock coats, cleared a path with a swing of a silver-tipped cane. Bowman noticed they were moving at half speed, swinging their sticks like scythes through grass. Looking about him, he saw everything had slowed. The throng pressed past him as if waist-high in water. A bone thrown for a dog described a leisurely arc through the air. Cruelly, Bowman realised, events were to play out in front of him more slowly than ever before.
Rising to the rooftops now, he saw Anna rounding the corner from Whitechapel. Her face obscured by her bonnet, her purposeful stride gave her away. At such slow speed, it seemed for a moment that Bowman might avert the catastrophe to come, that he might swoop like an angel to persuade her from her course, that she might look up to see him and falter in her step. But it was not to be. From his lofty height, Bowman could hear the clatter of hooves on the flagstones and he knew that Anna would surely die. Again.
As he was held above the scene, he suddenly felt a pressure on his chest. A swift tug seemed to pull him through time and space. He was at home now, seemingly suspended from the ceiling of his rooms in Hampstead. Below him, playing out that morning’s conversation like actors in a play, he could see himself and Anna.
“Must you go?” she was imploring. “I had hoped you might accompany me to the refuge.”
“I am called for, Anna.”
“By whom?”
“Williams has need of men to put an end to a case. He has this past fortnight been close to bringing an end to a case of slavery. A troupe of hawkers in Whitechapel has been abducting children, sending them north to the industrial cities for fodder. Well-to-do children sometimes, not just urchins.”
“Ah,” Anna breathed, smoothing Bowman’s habitual frown with a gloved finger. “So now the toffs are angry and the case must be solved.” There was a look of gentle reproach in her eyes but Bowman forgave her easily, as he forgave her all things. He knew he was being teased.
“It is good work, Anna. Children will be saved.”
Anna dipped her head. “Then, who am I to stand in your way, Detective Inspector George Bowman?” She pronounced his name slowly, deliberately and quietly. In the spaces between each word, she rose up on her toes to plant the softest of kisses on his lips. From his vantage above, Bowman felt the kisses again as if freshly planted, but this time each was like a little ache.
Anna was moving to the door now. “Well, I shall be in Whitechapel, too. Perhaps, when you have saved the world from blight, you might pass by the Women’s Refuge to walk me home?”
Bowman felt the urge to reach down, to shout, to hold her back and prevent her from leaving, but he felt pinned to the ceiling like a butterfly to cork.
“I will do that,” he heard himself say, his words distant.
Anna had been justly proud of her work at the refuge. She had grown up aroun
d Blackfriars, the only child to a respectable clerk, and had often seen women whom her father had named “fallen” on her walks about the Embankment. At first she had not known what he had meant. Conversation about them was forbidden, particularly at the table. With a click of her tongue and a shake of her head, her mother had let it be known that such a dialogue was not welcome at dinner. In what way were they fallen, she had mused as a child. Had they lost their footing on the pavement? In truth, they were often seen to lie prone by the roadside, their petticoats spread about them. If they had indeed fallen, why did no one help them up? In her later youth, Anna came to understand. Far from being appalled at these unfortunate women, she felt sadness at their plight and a sharp pang of guilt that she enjoyed the comforts of a prosperous home while they did not. She learned that these women were in the employ of unscrupulous men. That it was they who profited from their work. Anna felt helpless in the face of their destitution. Soon, however, she had befriended one of them.
Anna had found a little employment at her father’s office and would often pass a woman called Joan on her walk to work. After a day filing accounts she would engage with her in conversation on the way back home. She was young, Anna discovered, only a year older than herself. Joan hoped to find a man to look after her, she had said, a man to give her the love denied her by her family. Over the summer months Anna learned to look forward to these shared moments and she fancied Joan did, too. She even dared to hope that she was being of some practical help. And then, one day, Joan was gone.
Anna had noticed her failing health as the dreary autumn days had shortened. She would often find her slumped against the roadside with nothing but a threadbare shawl to keep her warm. Still, Anna knew, she plied her trade. Her pimp demanded payment. Without it, he could withdraw the protection he offered. Such meagre protection. Noticing Joan’s absence that day, Anna took it upon herself to investigate. Walking nearer to the Thames than she ought on such dark nights, she sought other women who might know of Joan’s whereabouts. Eventually, she found someone with the information she dreaded. Joan had indeed been taken sick. So sick in fact, that her master - how Anna had blanched at the word - had taken it upon himself to remove her from the market. Bad for business, he had apparently said. She’d been removed from her spot and taken to the slums and back alleys of Blackfriars. There she had been left to die and rot, propped up against a filthy tenement wall with no hope of discovery or salvation. The news had taken Anna aback. Her eyes had been opened to a world of misery such as she hoped she would never see. Her solemn oath then, had been to fight for these wretched drabs. If they were indeed, as her father would have it, fallen women, then she would reach out a hand to lift them up. She knew of the fledgling Women’s Refuge in Hanbury Street, founded by the Booths and their Salvation Army. After a perfunctory interview, she was engaged to serve hot, sweet tea at the entrance to any wretch that found themselves upon the porch. Upon payment of a penny, any woman of desperate means could find herself fed, watered, cleaned and with a safe bed for the night. The building’s plain, austere exterior belied the potential for transformation contained within, a thought that pleased Anna greatly as she stepped from the kerb to cross the road. And then she froze.
To Bowman, time had become tangible. He could touch it, feel it. His coat tails were suspended about him. He circled Anna like a bee at a flower. As she stood frozen, mid-step before him, he became aware of the scene in every detail; from the detached eyelash that rested upon her nose, to the dog that slavered in the gutter behind him. From the vagrant suspended mid-fall as he ran from a fish-seller, to the steam that was captured as in a picture, rising from the locomotive on the bridge. He was everywhere at once, aware of all things. Next, a thin whistle sounded in his ears and, with a whoosh, Bowman was observing himself. Half a mile or so away, there he stood with a revolver in his hand. He had just loosed the shot that would change his life forever.
Bowman had been called by Sergeant Williams to provide some fire power if needed. Detective inspectors were allowed to carry arms, and Williams had a thought things might take a turn for the worse. He had been right. Inspector Bowman and Graves had joined the sergeant off Baker’s Row, just in time to catch the villains at work. Williams had intercepted certain of the gang’s communications and, as a result, had lain in wait with his colleagues across from the workhouse. The rogues had plans to abduct more children. It was a profitable business. With industry booming in the north, manpower was in short supply. Far cheaper and more productive to employ urchins from the streets of London. Within days, the little wretches would find themselves beneath the looms that spun imported cotton into fine clothes worn by the ladies of the city. They would lose fingers and limbs as they fought to maintain the machines or free an obstruction. They could be worked to exhaustion, and even sometimes death, and no one would raise their voice in protest. No one would miss them. Now, Williams lay in wait across the road. Before him, a line of waifs was waiting to be admitted to the workhouse. Easy prey, mused Bowman as he crouched beside the sergeant, weapon drawn. Graves shifted his weight behind them. He had held his position for so long, he was starting to lose the feeling in his legs.
“Here they come,” Williams hissed, his eye on the black cab that had rounded the corner. “Be ready now.”
The carriage came thundering at speed, the horses’ hooves kicking up dirt behind them. The wheels rattled on the road as it slowed. Williams fought against every urge to make himself known. He knew he had to wait. To catch these rogues would be prize enough, but to catch them in the act would be enough to see them hang. With a hand held high to gesture that Graves and Bowman should keep their positions, he watched as the brougham careened closer to the kerb. The door was opened and a man hung from the carriage, his arm outstretched. As the driver cracked the whip from where he sat, a scarf wrapped around his face to thwart identification, his passenger simply leaned out and plucked one of the unfortunate wretches from the line. Kicking and screaming, the boy was pulled inside the carriage and the door slammed shut. Now, Williams pounced. As the carriage sped away, scattering pedestrians before it, the sergeant gave chase. Bowman and Graves were at his heels.
“Halt!” screamed Williams, his Welsh brogue all the stronger in his desperation. “Stop that carriage!” The brougham sped on regardless, increasing in speed as it readied to turn the corner into Old Montague Street. Williams knew that if it completed the turn, all would be lost. Which is why he had invited Inspector Bowman. With a nod to his colleague, Williams stepped out of the line of fire. Bowman pulled the revolver from his coat and steadied it at his arm’s length. His view down the street was clear. Thankfully, the speeding carriage had cleared a way down the road. Passers by picked themselves up from where they had fallen, surprised by the commotion and the oncoming carriage. Others shouted their admonishments after the driver. Somewhere a baby cried. As the brougham turned at the junction, Bowman finally had a clear view of the driver. He loosed his shot. And time stopped again.
Bowman was keenly aware of the bullet as it hung suspended before him, the air around it bent out of shape. Halted on its inexorable journey, it was all lethal potential. Following its trajectory, Bowman was now at the carriage. The driver was frozen like a figure of wax, leaning forward with his hands gripped tightly at the reins. As time resumed, there was a crack. The bullet passed clean through the carriage canopy. The driver slumped forward, a hand clutching at his left side. The bullet had made its home in the man’s internal viscera, passing first through his spine then into his heart and left lung. The bullet had claimed its first life. It was about, quite accidentally, to claim another.
From his vantage, Williams saw the carriage careen into Queen Street. “Quick!” he barked, rubbing the sweat from his eyes with his hands. “That road loops round back onto Hanbury Street. We can catch it where is emerges, by the Sally Army refuge.”
Bowman’s heart quickened at the thought. Surely, Anna would be inside by now. He calmed himself in the cert
ain knowledge that she would be safe. The three policemen were running at full pelt now, Williams blowing hard on his whistle to summon any uniformed help that might be nearby. A mob of pigeons took flight before them. People shouted after the three detectives in the confusion. As they neared the refuge, Bowman could hear the clatter of hooves from round the corner. He knew by their sound that the horses were out of control. Their hooves slid on the cobbles as the brougham hove into view, lurching at a precarious angle as it rounded the bend back onto Hanbury Street. Then Bowman saw her.
Anna was just yards in front of the carriage, directly in its way. Cruelly, time sped up. Bowman had relived this moment again and again, both sleeping and awake. Sometimes, events had lengthened such that he had the time to save her. Other times, she had been a step or two behind or in front and, crucially, had stepped clear of the carriage’s fearful path. This time, there was no chance to intervene. It was all too quick. He opened his mouth to call her name in warning, but the horses were already upon her. Their hooves fell upon her body, and Bowman saw her sucked beneath the wheels. There was no time for her to scream. As the carriage thundered on, Bowman slowed his step. His face fell slack. Everything slipped away. He viewed the scene as if through a lens. Sounds collided. Coming to a halt, he felt the spatter of her blood on his face. He had to reach her. As if from a distance, Bowman saw himself step into the carriage’s path. Then there were arms around him.
The Head in the Ice Page 9