“That’s preposterous,” Bowman scoffed. “Is that all you have?”
“By no means, inspector.”
Bowman’s eyes narrowed. What was Watkins playing at now? As he watched, the wiry newspaperman was walking to a set of drawers by the door. Reaching inside and leafing through some papers, Watkins drew out a facsimile of a front page from The Evening Standard. Wordlessly, he slid it across the desk. Bowman leaned in to read the headline; ‘INSPECTOR ADMITTED TO LUNATIC ASYLUM AFTER DEATH OF WIFE.’
“It’s from May of last year,” Watkins purred. “The morning edition, just a few days after your incident in Whitechapel.”
Bowman felt he was suddenly at sea. The room seemed to pitch and roll. He braced his legs against the swell and grabbed the sides of the table before him, forcing himself to breathe. One word stood out from the page; ‘LUNATIC’.
“The commissioner has faith in me,” hissed Bowman through clenched teeth.
“Really?” continued Watkins, rolling his cigar between his fingers. “Our readers have long memories, Inspector Bowman. I think they will be concerned that a madman has been left in charge of a murder investigation. And if that decision can be laid at the commissioner’s door, it’s all the worse for him.”
The inspector took a breath as he considered the import of Watkins’ words. “Is that what your leader will suggest tomorrow?” he asked, steadily.
Watkins could see the byline now; ‘Who would send a madman to solve a murder?’ He took a draw from his cigar, peering through the resultant fug at the disconsolate figure by the window. “Unless you can convince me otherwise by this evening,” he said with a shrug, “it is.”
The row of arches stretched as far as the eye could see. Above them, the suburban lines of the London and South Western Railway spread out like the tendrils of a web. From Waterloo, it raced away to Richmond, Staines, Datchet and Windsor, as if fleeing the very city that sustained it. Where it crossed marshy land, great tracts of line were set upon arches, and so the railway strode like a colossus across the landscape.
Jeb Hardacre loped into the yard that ran alongside the arches outside Lambeth. Fat beads of rain slapped about him as he walked with weary steps, pulling a hospital blanket about his head for shelter. Picking his way between the puddles, Hardacre cursed himself for not stopping to pull on his boots at the hospital. At the time, speed had seemed of the essence but now he regretted not taking the time to effect his escape with more care. His feet were bloodied, filthy and cold. Steadying himself with a shaking hand against the arches, Hardacre scanned the yard before him. There, in the furthest corner, a set of doors stood ajar. Making his way along the line, he brushed the spray from his eyes and shook the rain from his great, matted beard. Looking nervously about him, Hardacre knocked at the partially opened door. Pulling the blanket tighter around him as he waited for a response, Hardacre felt the chill reach to his very marrow. Growing impatient at being left to wait in such conditions, he was about to push against the doors and make his way inside, when a pair of hands reached out to him from within. Clutching him by the lapels of his ragged coat, the hands pulled him almost off his feet and into the lockup beneath the arch, the doors slamming shut behind him.
XXI
The Penny Drops
The log fire at The Silver Cross popped and spat from the grate. As Sergeant Graves warmed his feet on the hearth, he looked about him at the bustling scene. It was a testament to Harris the landlord that The Silver Cross was always busy. There were many public houses within a stone’s throw of Scotland Yard, but Harris had established himself as one of the more trustworthy landlords in Whitehall. The beer was never less than foaming and there was seldom any trouble from the clientele. As a result it attracted, he liked to think, a better class of customer, with more than half a dozen of Scotland Yard’s finest among them. Harris tipped a wink to Sergeant Graves from the bar where he stood, towel in hand, drying a tray of freshly cleaned glasses and tankards. Graves smiled in acknowledgment and sunk even deeper into the high-backed leather chair by the fire. The rain streaked down the window behind him, collecting in pools on the sill before dripping to the street. Reaching out to the table at his side and lifting his glass to his lips, Sergeant Graves could think of nowhere he would rather be. His thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of movement at the door. Inspector Bowman stood, stamping the rain from his feet, water dripping to the floor from the brim of his hat. As he cast around for a sight of his colleague, Graves caught his eye and motioned that he should join him at the fire. As Bowman approached, Graves gave a nod in the direction of Harris, a signal to bring another glass to the table.
“A flood of Biblical proportions, Sergeant Graves,” Bowman said archly as he hung his coat on a hook by the chimney breast.
“It is that, sir,” Graves replied, amused to see the inspector’s hat beginning to steam in the warmth of the fire. “I’d be glad enough to spend the rest of the afternoon at this table.”
Bowman agreed. “And after my encounter with a certain Mr Watkins this afternoon, I’d be inclined to join you.”
“Any word on Hardacre?” Graves asked.
Bowman took a breath. He shook his head and wiped the rain from his moustache with a handkerchief. “He appears to be rather fleet of foot for a dead man. What news from the Shipping Office?” Bowman pulled his chair up to the table and rested his chin thoughtfully on his hands, eager to hear Graves’ report.
Sergeant Graves pulled his notebook from a pocket. “Plenty,” he replied. “Though how much is of use remains to be seen.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, sergeant,” said Bowman leaning back in his seat as Harris delivered a full jar to the table. “Just tell me all you have.”
Graves squinted hard to read his scrawl. Even in his inside pocket, the rain had soaked through to dampen the pages, causing them to pucker and stick together. Graves lifted and turned each dimpled page with care until he found his place. “The Nimrod was registered at Southampton in July 1854. She belongs to the Indies Trading Company and has, over the past thirty-five years, completed more than thirty voyages to the Indies and Bengal to trade for spices, coffee and jute. According to crew manifests which, I have to say, are far from complete, one Jeb Hardacre was recruited to the galley staff some twenty five years ago.”
“Galley staff?” Bowman’s brow knitted together in thought. “So, he was the ship’s cook?”
“Nothing quite so grand, I’m afraid. He’s listed as the kitchen porter. The lowest of the low, I would suggest.” Seeing no response from Bowman save for a look of impatience, Graves cleared his throat and returned his attention to his notebook. “It appears that there was some incident on board. Hardacre was implicated and placed in confinement on board by the captain, a Mr George Biddel of Tilbury, since deceased.”
“Very thorough, Sergeant Graves.” Bowman sipped from his beer as he thought. Just what was the connection with Doctor Henderson?
“Once ashore, though,” Graves continued, spurred on by his superior’s words of encouragement, “he escaped. Nothing more was heard from him until we had word of his activities in Southwark. But, for twenty years, he just disappeared.”
“Not for the last time, it would seem.” Bowman stared into the fire, as if the answers he sought could be found in its dancing flames.
Graves thumbed through the pages of his notebook, a look of concentration on his face. “Then I spoke to Inspector Treacher from ‘H’ Division.”
“Oh?”
Graves paused to down the last of his beer, wiping the froth from his upper lip with his jacket sleeve before he spoke. “From the information he gathered in his time in Hardacre’s den, it was clear to him that Hardacre had placed himself at the very heart of the criminal community. Treacher knew of various petty thieves and pickpockets who answered to him, and there was talk of him providing murderers and blackmailers for public use.”
“He offered criminals for hire?”
Graves nodded. “And
charged a great deal for the pleasure. He grew as rich as he grew fat, but kept it all in his den as we saw.”
Bowman remembered the collection of treasure in Hardacre’s cellar. “To what end?”
“Treacher believes that he planned to sell up and move abroad.”
Bowman pushed himself back from the table, stretching his legs out towards the fire to warm his still damp feet. “What’s Treacher’s next move?”
“Hardacre’s whereabouts is his prime concern,” Graves replied, snapping his notebook shut. “He is going to talk to anyone suspected of having any recent contact with him. Prostitutes, petty thieves, hospitals.”
“Hospitals?”
Graves nodded, almost enthusiastically. “He acquired bodies for dissection. Criminals, usually.” In what Bowman thought was an entirely inappropriate gesture, Graves flashed him a mischievous smile. “People tend to turn a blind eye.” Not for the first time, Bowman noted Graves’ propensity to enjoy the more macabre aspects of his job.
“Quite the jack-of-all-trades, isn’t he? Any clues as to where he might be?”
“He’s got several hideouts, apparently,” Graves continued. “The den in Southwark of course, but we’re guessing he won’t be going back there any time soon. The location has been sealed and ‘H’ Division are keeping watch. He is also a deft hand at navigating the sewers.”
As Sergeant Graves spoke, Bowman’s attention was drawn out the window, across the rain-beaten street to the other side of the road. As carriages and cabs rattled past, his eye alighted on a butcher’s shop. In the failing light of the day, lamps had been lit at the window, illuminating the scene within as the butcher struggled to his block with a side of pork.
“He also visits a lockup vault just outside Lambeth,” continued Graves as Bowman watched the scene unfold in the butcher’s shop. Light flashed on blade as the butcher reached for his knife. The great hatchet was held high in anticipation and, for a moment, Bowman felt himself holding his breath. A moment later and the hatchet fell. The head was dispatched with a clean, professional stroke and the carcass prepared for another blow. As he watched from his chair in The Silver Cross, Inspector Bowman became aware he was sitting stock-still, his glass of porter paused in its transit from the table to his lips.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“A lockup,” Graves repeated. “At Lambeth.”
The butcher’s hatchet fell again and a leg was severed. Bowman seemed in a trance. As Sergeant Graves leaned forward in his chair, it was as if he could see a thousand thoughts collide in Bowman’s eyes. “Sir?” he offered, concerned.
“Why?” Bowman turned to face his companion, his brow creased into his habitual frown.
“Why what, sir?”
“Why does Hardacre visit a lockup in Lambeth?”
“Treacher wasn’t sure. He just heard talk of it amongst Hardacre’s gang.”
Bowman was suddenly galvanised into action. Turning to the chimney breast, he grabbed his coat from the hook. “Drink up, Sergeant Graves, and come with me.”
Graves looked through the window to the rain beyond. “In that?”
Inspector Bowman was almost to the door already. “Yes, in that.”
“Where are we going?” Graves rose reluctantly from his chair by the fire.
Bowman fixed him with a determined glare. “To catch a rat,” he said meaningfully.
The lockup was one of eight that ran the length of the arches beneath the London and South Western Railway. At first glance, there was little to distinguish it from the others; all were in possession of a stout pair of doors, one of which contained a single window. All were of the same height and interior dimensions and all gave out to the rain-spattered railway yard containing surplus wood, bricks and metal. One particular lockup was, however, distinguishable from the others in one important respect. It contained the body of a dead man.
The carcass lay on a makeshift table in the centre of the room. Around it, wooden shelves groaned with boxes of medical equipment and nautical mementos. Syringes and flasks stood alongside sextants and maps. Bottles and vials crowded onto every available space next to burners and test tubes, each carefully labelled with a neat, cursive hand. Cobwebs were strung from post to beam and a thick layer of dust lay over every surface. With the window in the door obscured by a tattered strip of curtain, a single lamp lit the gloom. It hung from an improvised hook in the middle of the ceiling, illuminating the grisly scene beneath. Hardacre’s body lay on the narrow table, its arms hanging loose at his side. His great mountain of a stomach protruded up to the ceiling, pulling his shirt tails from his waistband to expose an expanse of belly. His bare feet hung over the table’s end, calloused and dirty from his walk in the rain but, most apparent of all, was the thick slick of blood that oozed from his neck to drip to the floor. It ran in viscous gobs from a wide wound running from one side to the other. This time there was no escaping it. Jeb Hardacre was dead.
Doctor Joshua Henderson stood in a corner just beyond the reach of the light, a long-handled, bloodied knife at his feet. It lay where he had dropped it, amongst the dust and filth that had accumulated over years. Henderson stood panting, his breath condensing in the cold air. The sweat on his forehead betrayed the exertions of the previous few minutes. Moving silently to a corner shelf, he took a syringe and bottle from an unmarked box. Uncoiling a length of Indian rubber tubing to use as a tourniquet, Henderson rolled up a coat sleeve to expose an arm and dropped to his knees, unscrewing the lid from the bottle and fumbling to remove the protective casing from the needle as he did so. Pulling the tubing tight above his elbow, Henderson drew the liquid from the bottle to the syringe and let it slip deep into the vein. A gentle pressure on the plunger, and he let the tubing go to feel the drug coursing through his body. A familiar warmth enveloped him. For a moment, Henderson gave himself completely to its effects, his eyes rolling back into their sockets as he succumbed to its sweet oblivion. Then, with a sudden vigour he rose, shook his head and looked around him with a sense of urgent clarity. The body was in need of disposal, but it would be a long process and his absence would surely soon be noticed at home. It would not do to arouse suspicion now. Confident that Hardacre would not be found that night, Henderson straightened his coat sleeve over his arm, wiped the dirt from his knees and resolved to return in the morning to complete his grisly task.
“Any idea which one?” Bowman pressed his back hard against the wall as he looked out at the railway yard before him. He and Graves had found the yard by a process of elimination, following the line by cab through Lambeth. A row of lockup vaults stretched away before him in the thumping rain, each the same as the one before save the numbers chalked upon their doors.
“No idea at all sir,” rasped Graves from his position behind him. “But there aren’t that many.”
Bowman wiped the rain from his face with a look of exasperation. He had thought of calling upon Mrs Henderson for details of her husband’s whereabouts, but felt any further delay might well prove costly. “You take the last four, Sergeant Graves, I’ll take the nearest.” Graves gave a cheery nod and stepped out into the full force of the rain. “And be careful,” Bowman hissed after him, but he was already beyond hearing.
As Graves ran across the yard, keeping out of sight as best he could, Bowman made his way to the first vault in the line. Finding it locked, he set his shoulder to the door and pushed. The inspector was surprised to feel the doors give beneath his weight and open sufficiently so that he could squeeze through the gap between them and gain access to the lockup beyond.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. From long experience of gaining access to such places, Bowman immediately recognised the acrid tang of varnish. Waiting a moment for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, Bowman looked around as best he could for any signs of life. The lockup was lined with shelves of tools; lathes and saws and others Bowman did not recognise. An object was placed in the middle of the floor. Measuring perhaps six feet long and
four wide, it stood almost five feet tall. It was covered in a large, greasy sheet. Moving cautiously towards it, Bowman reached out to the object, carefully lifting a corner of the sheet to peer beneath. Even in the dark, he could see it was an ornate pump organ such as one might see in a small church or chapel. From its condition, Bowman could tell it was in the midst of renovation. The foot-pumped bellows at the base of the instrument were torn and misaligned, the wooden panelling in various states of repair. Bowman let the sheet drop and cast a final look around the room. Satisfied it was otherwise empty, he moved towards the exit, sliding his feet through the sawdust on the floor in the half-light so as not to lose his footing. Just as he put his hand to the door, however, he felt a pressure against it from the other side and a panting Sergeant Graves squeezed through the gap to join him. Placing a finger to his lips to indicate that Bowman should remain quiet, Graves pointed with the other hand to the small window in the door, pressing himself into the darkness of the wall as he did so. Bowman joined him, pulling to one side the rag that hung at the small window by way of a curtain. He peered through, anxious to see what Graves had found.
“Looks like fortune is with us,” whispered Graves with his customary smile. He was plainly enjoying the subterfuge. Out in the yard, Bowman saw Doctor Henderson walk briskly past the lockup, a top hat on his head and an umbrella in his hand.
“Did you see where he came from?” asked Bowman as he watched the doctor leave the yard, his purposeful stride increasing with every step. But Graves had already put his shoulder to the door and eased himself through the gap, motioning with his head that Bowman should follow.
The Head in the Ice Page 19