A sizable crowd had gathered by the river at Chelsea Embankment. The Thames was flowing with some force again now, the ice all but gone save by the reeds and weed that grew on the banks. It never ceased to amaze Sergeant Graves just how quickly a crowd could gather. It could not have been above twenty minutes since the alarm was raised but already there were all manner of people present. Tradespeople and bankers, housewives and businessmen, all stamped their feet against the cold as they gossiped and theorised as to what this latest discovery might mean. Curiosity, mused Graves, was a great leveller.
The object of their fascination lay partially buried in the mud of the north bank. To the obvious delight of the onlookers, a tangle of sackcloth and limbs had been discovered protruding from the mire. What held their fascination the most, however, was the small, delicate hand that rose from the sod. Where the mud had been washed away a pale, almost translucent skin had been revealed. The bystanders had already agreed it was the hand of a woman or a young child, but what drew them most was the sight of the index finger, uncurled from the fist and pointing eerily, accusingly towards the heavens.
As Sergeant Graves and Inspector Hicks made their way carefully through the mud, Graves noticed that Jack Watkins was already on the scene, notebook in hand. The ever-present cigar encircled his head with a wreath of smoke, a tangle of red hair plastering his forehead beneath a hat that seemed at least a size too small. Graves rolled his eyes in exasperation. No doubt Watkins had already interviewed certain of the crowd. He could practically see that evening’s Standard headline written all over Watkins’ smug features.
“Ah, gentlemen,” Watkins began at their approach, raising his voice against the sound of the wheeling gulls above. “How goes the investigation?”
Before Graves could respond, Hicks broke in. “Not well. We botched an ambush last night and it cost us dear.”
It takes a lot to stop Ignatius Hicks in full flow, but Graves managed it with a sharp jab to the ribs with his elbow. “I think that’ll do, Inspector Hicks,” he cautioned.
Watkins’ interest was piqued. With an arching of an eyebrow, he leered closer to Hicks, pencil at the ready. “Oh? How so?”
Ever grateful for an attentive ear, Hicks ploughed on, seemingly oblivious to Graves’ warning glances. “We lost one of our most promising constables to a madman’s blade, that’s how so. What was his name, Graves?”
Graves answered quietly, the previous night’s events still fresh. “Constable Evan.”
“Evans, yes, that’s it.” Pulling himself up to his full height, Inspector Hicks summoned all the gravitas at his disposal to deliver his verdict on the whole sorry affair. “He was a great loss to the force,” he announced with something approaching feeling.
Watkins could scent blood. “And the ambush,” he needled, licking his pencil in a curiously rodent-like movement, “How exactly did it go wrong?”
Hicks could barely disguise his delight at being asked his opinion. “It was a botch from start to finish,” he declaimed, now raising his voice for the whole crowd to hear. “Now, if I had been in command - ”
Graves had heard enough. Stepping between the two men, he led Watkins away towards the discovery in the mud. “Might we turn to more urgent matters, Watkins? I hope you have left all as it was found?”
“Of course, Sergeant Graves. I wouldn’t dream of disturbing the evidence.”
Pushing aside several of the onlookers, Graves squatted with Watkins at his side, heedless of his coat tails trailing in the mud. “So, what do we have?”
Watkins, stung by Graves’ earlier reluctance to talk, responded with a surly nod to the pile of limbs and cloth. “Take a look for yourself, Sergeant Graves.”
As Graves peered closer, Inspector Hicks came sliding up behind them. The crowd sniggered as his boots struggled for purchase against the mud. They would consider their morning complete if they were lucky enough to see a Scotland Yarder fall flat on his backside. Hicks denied them the pleasure, however, by throwing his arms wide to steady himself.
“It is just as I said,” he began. “I knew the body would turn up sooner rather than later.”
Ignoring him, Graves turned his face to the newspaper man at his side, blinking against the early morning sun which now glinted off the surface of the Thames. “Who found her?”
Watkins consulted his notebook. “A young boy. Timothy Wilkes. Lives in the slums close by.”
Inspector Hicks had put a hand on Graves’ shoulder to steady himself. “Any distinguishing marks?” he boomed, craning for a better view.
Watkins turned to him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I should have thought the fact that she was without a head would be distinguishing enough.”
Those of the crowd who stood the nearest to the scene broke into laughter at this. Even Graves, though he was well aware of the gravity of the situation, couldn’t help but smirk. Keen to re-establish the authority that he could feel ebbing away as quick as the Thames tide, Hicks cleared his throat pretentiously.
“I would urge you, Mr Watkins,” he began, thrusting his smoking pipe in Watkins’ direction, “To exercise caution in your summarising. We wouldn’t want to jump to any conclusions now, would we?”
This last was said, noticed Graves, without a trace of irony. Choosing not to engage the blustering inspector still further, however, Graves let the comment pass. He stooped again and removed a glove to take a handful of mud. Rubbing it between his fingers, he could plainly see it was of a dark, red colour. The same colour as he had seen in Doctor Crane’s laboratory just the day before, packed hard into the unfortunate woman’s mouth.
“It’s from the brewery over the way there,” offered Jack Watkins, pointing to a large brick building on the south bank. It stood, solid and squat against the horizon, steam belching from one of three tall chimneys that pierced the sky like needles. “They discharge their waste directly into the Thames.”
Graves raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve been conducting some enquiries of my own,” continued Watkins. He clasped his lapels with mock authority. “Perhaps I’ll make an inspector yet.”
Sergeant Graves stood to get a better view of the building. “I was of the impression that Inspector Bowman had given you licence to observe our investigations Mr Watkins, not to start one of your own.”
Following Watkins’ gaze, he could discern a reddish-brown slick in the water, emanating from the brewery. Was it reasonable to assume the head had once been buried here with the body? Had it somehow made its way downstream?
Hicks was resentful of Watkins’ deductions. “Of course, there is still the matter of her identity,” he began, “You are no nearer to - ”
“It’s a Miss Mary Henderson,” Graves interjected. “A young lady from St John’s Wood.” Hicks stood, puffing his cheeks in exasperation. Graves turned to face him. “I believe Inspector Bowman is to inform the family in person this morning.”
St John’s Wood was an area of London as far removed from the slums in which Bowman had spent the previous evening as was possible to imagine. Home to the prosperous, professional classes, it was a leafy, spacious suburb of wide streets, private gardens and squares. Immaculate townhouses stood proudly in their own, well-tended grounds.
As the hansom cab rattled away, Inspector George Bowman was left standing before a house of grand proportions. Set back from the road by a neat front garden, Fifty-Five, Acacia Road stood elegant and tall, its smooth facade punctuated by high sash windows. The house was painted a cheery yellow, which felt most at odds with the grim news the inspector had to deliver. Bowman pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat as he crossed the road. It was already near midday. He could only hope somebody would be in beyond the domestic servants.
Climbing the stone steps to the front door, Bowman removed his hat, smoothing his moustache and hair in his reflection in a large, brass plaque fixed to the wall beneath the bell-push. “Doctor Joshua Henderson, MRCS”, it proclaimed, portentously. Clearing his throat in
the hope it would clear his nerves, Bowman pressed the button long and hard. He heard the bell ring throughout the house. As he waited for an answer, he turned to view the street below.
A wide boulevard lined with bare elm trees, Acacia Road was a busy enough thoroughfare. Traps and carriages rattled past with regularity and well dressed ladies and gentlemen bustled this way and that on important business. A lone street seller stood across the way; a young, pleasant-faced lady with a tray of muffins. She rewarded her customers, Bowman noticed, with a pretty smile and a twinkle in her eye. Feeling a sudden pang of hunger, the inspector resolved to try her wares once his interview was over.
The door behind him swung open and Bowman turned to face an elderly footman. He was stooped and frail and looked out on the world through a pair of pale, rheumy eyes. His thin face rested on a starched collar, his pale skin contrasting sharply with the black coat of his uniform. Not a hair was out of place. The man stared down at Bowman with the air of one tolerating a mild nuisance.
“Yes?” he enquired, simply. His voice was high and had a weary tone.
Bowman cleared his throat again. “I wish to speak with Doctor Henderson.”
There was a pause as the footman’s gaze fell to Bowman’s feet. The inspector knew he was being sized up and appraised. An Englishman’s home is his castle indeed, thought Bowman, and this man is a worthy sentry.
“Could you tell me if he is at home?”
The footman fixed Bowman with a watery gaze. “I could. And who might you be?”
Bowman resisted the urge to clear his throat again and reached into his pocket. Feeling like a naughty schoolchild in his headmaster’s study, he pulled some identification documents from his wallet, pressing them flat into the footman’s skeletal hands.
“My name is Bowman. Detective Inspector George Bowman.” He swallowed hard. “From Scotland Yard.”
The footman cast his eyes across the paper in his hand, seemingly scrutinising every letter. Finally he looked up, the smile that appeared on his face revealing a row of haphazard teeth.
“Forgive me, inspector, my name is Pollard.” Bowman returned the paper to his wallet as the footman continued. “Doctor Henderson is a busy man. He is a surgeon of some note and it is a common belief among the poor that he will turn his hand to any pox or blight that is presented to him.”
Bowman gave a polite laugh.
“I am his first line of defence, if you will,” said Pollard, leaning in.
Bowman peered beyond the footman into the hall for further signs of life. “I am not here to seek medical assistance.” He looked back at the old man before him. “After all, it would not do to trouble a doctor with matters of health.”
At that, Pollard’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “If you were not an officer of the law, inspector, I would turn you away for that remark.”
The inside of Fifty Five, Acacia Road was no less grand than the outside. Bowman had an eye for quality and saw it everywhere he looked. From the Persian rug on the parquet floor to the water colours on the walls, it was obvious that Dr Henderson was doing very well indeed. The subjects of the paintings had a nautical bent, from ships at sea to depictions of foreign lands. Artefacts were arranged in cabinets; stuffed birds and animals, maps and trinkets. Inspector Bowman recognised scientific instruments such as one might find on a ship; astrolabes and compasses, sextants and telescopes. As he was shown into the drawing room by a rather terse Pollard, his eye was drawn first to the ornate candelabra that dominated the room, then to the large picture of a formidable nautical vessel on the wall above the fireplace. Warming himself by the fire, he took the time to examine it further. It seemed an impressive enough ship with four sturdy masts festooned with sails, billowed by the wind. There were painted figures working the ropes and, by their scale, Bowman estimated the ship was perhaps a hundred feet long. Dramatically, the artist had pictured the ship in a storm. An angry, louring sky pressed down on the swell of the sea, the ship broaching waves twenty feet high. Bowman heard footsteps at the door, and turned to face a rather austere man with a curiously ageless face. His greying temples and lines about the face spoke of a man in his middle sixties, but his clear, blue eyes danced with a keen agility redolent of one much younger.
“Ah, the Nimrod. A fine ship if ever there was one.” Henderson’s voice was low and sonorous. A kindly voice much used to offering comfort, Bowman thought. He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, a silver armband at each elbow.
“A frigate?” Bowman offered.
“Schooner.”
Henderson allowed himself a smile at Bowman’s blank look. Entering the room, he gestured that the inspector should join him in one of the comfortable, wing-backed chairs at either side of the fire.
“You’ve never been to sea, inspector?”
“Never.” As Bowman sat, he noticed Henderson’s hands and nails were meticulously clean.
“Spent my finest years there as a young doctor. Ship’s surgeon on the Nimrod.”
Bowman could not hide his surprise. That such a slight figure might serve in such an environment as depicted in the picture seemed hardly credible.
“Three long years that made a man of me. And a competent surgeon, too.”
Bowman felt suddenly incongruous in such refined surroundings. A clock ticked gently on the mantel. The room was bathed in light from the midday sun, admitted by the large bay window that overlooked the road. The high ceiling afforded the room a great sense of openness, despite the rich and plentiful furnishings. A chaise longue stood beneath the window, a large day bed was positioned beneath another nautical painting, this time of a much older vessel, and a writing table and chair stood on another rich Persian rug to the other side.
“My man Pollard said you were quite the persistent sort at the door.”
Bowman’s attention was drawn back to the figure in the chair opposite. The doctor presented himself as a very contained sort of man. Perhaps that’s what people expected of their doctor.
“I doubt you hot footed it from the Yard to gossip of ships and seafaring.”
Bowman felt the atmosphere in the room thicken. The clock seemed to tick ever louder as he loosened his collar in preparation for delivering his news. Why on Earth hadn’t he sent Sergeant Graves? Because, after the morning the young sergeant had had, it simply wouldn’t have been fair. To ask a man to deliver two pieces of bad news in one day would be beyond the pale. Besides, Graves was the sort who revived in fresh air. A morning at Chelsea Embankment would have done him good.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Bowman suddenly felt very hot.
Doctor Henderson leaned in closer, his fingers tightening slightly on his knees. “Good Lord, really?”
Bowman could feel his heart pounding against his chest now and his mouth was dry. “I should tell you plainly sir, that your daughter, Mary, is dead.”
Henderson’s eyes widened at the news, and his jaw dropped. Used to observing people under such conditions, Bowman felt there was something more about the doctor’s expression that eluded him. What was it? Surprise at the news, or surprise that she had been found?
“She was found yesterday in the Thames,” he continued, “In circumstances that indicate foul play.”
Doctor Henderson rose in silence and placed a hand on the mantel to steady himself. “But this is terrible.”
“I’m sorry.”
The doctor took a breath that seemed to calm his nerves. “So am I, Inspector Bowman, most sorry indeed. I fear you have been the subject of a misguided prank.”
Bowman’s brows knitted together in confusion. Rather dramatically, Doctor Henderson turned from the fireplace to face him.
“I do not have a daughter.”
XIII
Progress Thwarted
A fire had been made from wooden pallets just a few feet from the entrance to the den. Hardacre recognised a few of the men huddled round it as he passed. He grunted and nodded at the one or two who raised their eye
s to greet him. As he picked his way to the entrance, he saw the door lying smashed on the floor. Hardacre knew that, given just a few minutes more, it might very well have made it onto the fire behind him. Standing framed in the doorway, Hardacre noticed a slick of blood in the filth beneath his feet. Looking about the dingy room, his eyes slowly acclimatised to the gloom.
“Kane?” he rasped, kneeling for a lantern from the floor. Striking a match to light it, he held it high to illuminate the room. The atmosphere was such that the light seemed to barely penetrate more than a couple of feet. Hardacre moved to the centre of the room and located the loose flagstone with the toe of his boot. He stamped on it hard, calling louder now.
“Kane! You there?”
Cursing, Hardacre knelt to lift the stone, placing the lantern carefully amidst the rubbish on the floor. With an effort, he slid the stone across the floor, revealing the entrance to the cellar beneath. With a look about him to see that no one had followed, Hardacre lowered himself carefully through the hole into the gloom beneath.
Feeling the ground beneath his feet, Hardacre took a moment to steady himself before reaching up to retrieve his lantern. Last night had been disastrous, he mused, but he might yet win the day. If he could get away with his booty, or at least a good part of it, he could set up just a few streets away and never be found. He had found it easy enough to melt away into London’s backstreets before, and he could do it again if the need arose. Muttering to himself as he ran his options through his head, he turned to survey the cellar, to be met by a wholly unexpected sight.
“So, the spider returns to his web. Welcome home, Jeb Hardacre.”
Lifting the lantern higher, Hardacre studied the face that appeared before him.
“There was just too much to leave behind wasn’t there?” Inspector Treacher looked cleaner than when Hardacre had last seen him. His face was clean-shaven and his hair had been cut, but he was still recognisable as the man who had lived in Hardacre’s den for the last several weeks. Most disconcertingly, Hardacre noticed the man had a revolver levelled at his chest.
The Head in the Ice Page 11