In the stinging rain, Graves pushed against the doors of the last vault in the row. The padlock held them fast. While Bowman kept a lookout for any sign of Henderson returning, Graves looked around amidst the mud for a brick large enough to smash the lock. A suitable candidate found, he hurled it against the padlock until the mechanism gave way and the door swung open on its hinges. The two men pushed their way in and looked around. Medical implements and nautical instruments lined the walls and even hung on hooks from the ceiling. Sergeant Graves whistled at the eclectic collection of surgical saws, lancets and rasps, dividers, astrolabes and almanacs. Soon, however, his eyes were drawn to the middle of the room and the body that lay on its rickety bier.
“His throat’s been cut.” Bowman was standing beside Hardacre’s body, gesturing towards the slick of blood on the floor. “And recently, too.”
“Well,” Graves took a step closer, wiping the rain from his face with a sleeve. “He won’t be walking out of here again.”
“Graves, stay here with the body and be on your guard. I’m going after Henderson.” Bowman was already at the door.
“Then he’s our man, sir?” Graves turned to his companion with a look of wide-eyed enquiry.
“Oh yes, Sergeant Graves,” Bowman smoothed his moustache with a gloved hand. “He’s our man for sure.”
XXII
On Lambeth Bridge
Lambeth Bridge had been in a forlorn state for many years. Crossing the Thames between the Palace of Westminster and Lambeth Palace, its steep approaches and doubts about its safety had been enough to deter all but pedestrian traffic. As a result, revenue from the tollbooths at either end had not been enough to pay for its repair. It stood on an historic site, its termination on the Lambeth side being just a few yards north of an old Horseferry landing stage. Originally an impressive sight, the bridge was divided into three spans along its length, each one resting on immense piers that rose from the waters beneath. It was a shadow of its former self. The road was pitted and cracked and the great twisted cables were coloured with rust. Great lumps of masonry had fallen from its side exposing the rusted iron girders that held the piers in place.
Doctor Henderson had known he was being followed for several minutes. As he approached the bridge from Lambeth Road, he had turned to see a familiar figure not a hundred yards behind him. Even with his hat pulled down and his collar up, Henderson had easily discerned the figure of Inspector Bowman, his face set into a determined expression as he strode through the rain in pursuit. Henderson had quickened his step in response, but found himself matched for speed as he turned into the bridge approach. Behind him, he had heard Bowman blow on his whistle to summon help and now, as Lambeth Bridge came into sight, Henderson knew he was running out of time. Weaving between the few passers by who were braving the rain, he threw his umbrella ahead of him and darted down an alley off the main road. The tenements rose up ominously at either side as he broke into a run. Beneath the relentless rain, only the hardiest of ice still clung to the roofs and windowsills above him. The melt water ran from the walls and broken gutters to the ground, making the passageway treacherous underfoot. Taking no heed of the water as it splashed around his ankles, Henderson thought to double back upon himself and emerge back onto Lambeth Road behind Inspector Bowman. Beyond that, he had to admit, he had no plan. As he rounded a corner, however, Henderson felt something clutch at his coat tails as they billowed up behind him. Bowman had made up the distance between them. Losing his footing on the wet ground, Doctor Henderson crashed to the floor, splaying his arms ahead of him in a vain attempt to break his fall. Inspector Bowman, now scrabbling on the floor with him, held him fast by his waist. As his hat rolled away before him, Henderson looked up to see a pair of legs running swiftly towards him.
“I’ve got him, Graves!” Henderson heard Bowman shout. Narrowing his eyes against the rain, he could see Graves coming ever nearer, his trouser legs sopping wet from the puddles around him. Lifting a knee to his chest, Henderson summoned his strength and slammed a foot into Bowman’s shoulder. With a yelp of pain, the inspector released his hold and Henderson was able to scramble to his feet. Momentarily losing his balance, his momentum sent him crashing into Sergeant Graves who fell against the wall behind him then slid to the ground, winded by the impact. Seizing the advantage, Henderson broke into a run towards Lambeth Bridge, leaving his two pursuers sprawled on the ground behind him.
“Are you alright, sir?” Graves found his breath and crawled to where Inspector Bowman lay, clutching at his shoulder.
“Yes, Graves,” Bowman winced. “Go after him.” Graves hesitated, concerned at Bowman’s condition. “I’m with you,” entreated the inspector. “Go!” As he rose slowly to his feet, Bowman saw Graves take a deep breath to compose himself, then disappear round the corner back onto Lambeth Road in pursuit of his quarry.
As quickly as the rain had begun, so it stopped. The heavy, grey clouds, still pregnant with their load, loured ominously over the city as Graves approached Lambeth Bridge, but no rain fell. He could hear the water cascading from gutters, but he was grateful not to feel the sting of rain upon his face. As he swept his hair back from his forehead and wiped his face with a hand, Graves focused on the bridge ahead. There, clinging to the outside of one of the great piers that supported the structure, he could see a figure. Turning to his side, Graves saw his companion at his shoulder. Bowman was clutching at his upper arm and panting for breath. Since their struggle in the alley, both men had found themselves soaked to the skin and Inspector Bowman couldn’t help but shiver against the cold. Through all this, Sergeant Graves was certain there was something wrong. Despite his exertions, Bowman’s breath was just too erratic, his eyes too wide.
Graves regarded him cautiously. “Shall I handle this, sir?”
Bowman shook his head. “Together,” he panted, clutching at his chest. “We’ll do it together”.
“Well, there he is.” Graves raised an arm to point at Henderson. He was leaning out over the seething Thames, both hands clutching at the bridge behind him. “I think he’s going to jump.”
“We must prevent that at all costs,” gasped Bowman, wincing against the pain in his chest.
Inspector Bowman noticed the daylight beginning to fade around him. Soon the lamplighters would be about their business, even in this most inclement of weather. In the gathering gloom, he walked cautiously to the side of the bridge, peering over at the river beneath. Oblivious to the water dripping onto him from the trees above, the inspector could see that, after the deluge of the last few hours, only the shallowest water was still frozen. Even at the banks, the thin ice was cracking and breaking away to join the seething waters. The river churned and boiled, a tumult of such force that Bowman knew Henderson wouldn’t stand a chance if he jumped. In spite of the urgency of the situation, his attention was drawn inexorably to the water beneath the bridge. The swirling motion turned his stomach and he gulped as the gorge rose in his throat. It took an effort of will to turn his eyes from the swell.
“We’ve got to get to him Graves, but if he sees either one of us approaching - ”
“Leave it to me sir,” Graves interrupted. “Keep him talking.”
Bowman turned to his companion, a look of concern playing about his face. “What do you have in mind?”
“The unexpected.” With a nod and a wink quite out of keeping with their circumstances, Sergeant Graves walked away, plainly mindful that Doctor Henderson should see him do so. Affecting a nonchalance that Bowman would have found almost amusing under other circumstances, Graves sauntered back down Lambeth Road, away from the bridge and back towards the alley where they had first accosted Henderson.
Standing alone at the river’s edge, Bowman became aware that Doctor Henderson had seen him. Reasoning that it was too late to hide, Bowman decided to make the best of the situation and engage with the doctor. He walked slowly to the middle of the road and, holding his hands out by his side to show that he was not armed, procee
ded towards the bridge. With each step, Bowman felt his legs grow weak. His vision was blurred. When he had come within twenty feet of Henderson, the doctor turned his head to meet his gaze.
“That’s quite far enough, Inspector Bowman,” Henderson cautioned, his teeth set into a grimace of determination. Bowman could see that, like him, the doctor was soaked to the skin. His long frock coat was beginning to steam in the slowly warming air and his hair was plastered flat against his head. Gone was the immaculately presented, professional gentleman Inspector Bowman had met in the drawing room of Acacia Road just twenty-four hours before.
“Doctor Henderson,” Bowman began, coming to a stop as directed. “That is a foolish thing to consider.”
Henderson stared down at the swirling maelstrom beneath him. “There is a comfort to be had in choosing the place and time of one’s death, inspector,” he said, his hair blowing about his ears in the wind.
“That’s not a comfort you afforded to Jeb Hardacre.” Bowman looked about him for a sight of Graves. Just what had his companion meant?
“Interestingly,” began Henderson, “there are several distinct ways of drowning. In perhaps a tenth of all cases, the victim dies of asphyxiation due to the reflex closing of the vocal cords.”
As the doctor spoke, seemingly oblivious to his situation, Bowman moved slowly to the opposite side of the bridge. Casting his eyes downwards, he glimpsed a hand grasping at a ledge beneath the main span. Below him, Graves was almost bent double in the space between the iron supports. Struggling to find purchase on the ledge above in order to keep his balance, the sergeant stepped gingerly out over the river. Bowman could see that, as he made slow progress towards the centre of the bridge, Graves was able to come to his full height, feeling his way carefully along the wet girders with his feet. Turning back to Doctor Henderson, Bowman could see he was being watched.
“Do not come a step closer, inspector,” intoned the doctor, “or I shall slip from your grasp forever.”
There was a calm, sing-song quality to his voice that Bowman found unnerving. It was as if the doctor was perfectly at ease with his predicament. Thankful that Henderson had mistaken his movements as an attempt to edge closer, Bowman made great play of coming back to the centre of the bridge. “I spoke to your wife today,” he began, aware that if Sergeant Graves was to stand a chance of reaching the doctor before he fell he would need all the time he could get. “She would miss you.”
Quite unexpectedly, Henderson threw his head back and laughed. When he finally spoke, Bowman noticed a manic gleam in his eye and an edge to his voice that belied his outward calm. “If you really spoke to my wife today, then you will know that she feels no love for me, nor I for her.”
“She spent three years aching for news of her daughter.”
“And now she has it,” Henderson replied simply. “Mary is dead.”
“Killed by your hand.” Bowman held the doctor’s gaze. A slow, uneven smile spread across Henderson’s face as he contemplated Bowman’s words.
“I see you fancy yourself as quite the master detective, inspector.”
“No more than you the master surgeon.” Bowman needed Henderson to stay exactly where he was. He took a guess that he was not a man to let such insinuations stand. As long as Bowman appealed directly to the doctor’s own sense of superiority, he knew he would not jump.
“I have a reputation, inspector. Something that you have yet to earn.”
“Of course. Your reputation.” Bowman looked down at the cracked and crumbling bridge surface with forced nonchalance. “The only thing in your mind when your daughter presented herself to you in her pregnant state. How the tongues would wag.” Raising his eyes again, Bowman could see his words had hit their mark.
“What else do you know, inspector?”
Henderson’s eyes burned with a ferocious intensity. Shuffling where he stood in spite of himself, Bowman resisted the urge to clear his throat and tried to affect an authoritative air as he spoke. “I know that during your time as ship’s doctor aboard the Nimrod, you met a certain Jeb Hardacre. I know there was an incident on board and I know that from that moment, Hardacre has been in your debt. You will need to enlighten me further as to the nature of the contract between you.”
Even from twenty paces, Inspector Bowman could see that Henderson was transported in his mind to events long ago and many miles away. Knowing that Graves needed every precious minute to scale the bridge beneath him, Bowman was content to indulge the doctor in his reverie.
XXIII
NIMROD
Joshua Henderson had much to celebrate. Having recently received his accreditation with the Royal College of Surgeons, he felt vindicated in his choice of a career in medicine. A hard and expensive training had left him almost penniless, his private savings spent and his family unwilling to lend him more. But with his accreditation came the most valuable commodity of all; opportunity. Throwing himself upon the world with all the energy of one half his age, Henderson considered himself at a turning point at last. In truth, at almost thirty years old he was already middle-aged, but opportunity could be found at any age if the wind was fair. The metaphor was apt, thought Henderson, as he lay in his cabin on board the merchant vessel Nimrod, en route to Bengal. The voyage out to Chittagong had been as uneventful as a journey of three thousand miles might be expected to be. In his post as ship’s doctor, his concern had been for the welfare of the eleven-man crew that manned the Nimrod, and in particular their diet. Henderson had had no say in the stores and provisions that had been loaded aboard at Southampton, and the first few days at sea were marked by uninspiring food served unenthusiastically by the surly galley staff. No fresh fruit or vegetables had been allowed for in the inventory and the resultant grey, floury broths had been almost unpalatable to a man of higher tastes. Moreover, Doctor Henderson knew that such a diet would result in him being far busier than he intended. His motivation in accepting his post on board the Nimrod had been entirely selfish. To see the world and receive an income for it had seemed an ideal opportunity for a man with time to spare, and Henderson was determined that it would not be spoiled by having to administer to a shipload of sick and dying sailors. Speaking with the captain, a large, thickset man with fewer teeth than any living man Henderson had ever met, the doctor had been able to arrange the taking on of more nutritious stores at Lisbon. He had overseen the buying of fruit in person, even allowing himself to break into a rare sweat as he helped load the crates aboard. Spanish oranges and grapefruits were soon regular accompaniments to the otherwise uninspiring meals the crew had to suffer, and Henderson made a mental note to argue for the purchase of spices as soon as they reached their destination in the East. He was determined that the voyage home at least would be characterised by a more varied and palatable menu. In the light of a more nutritious diet, Henderson was spared being presented with the usual ailments of travel by sea. He saw none of the vitamin and mineral deficiencies about which he had read with horror before his voyage began. Instead, he found himself troubled only by the occasional crewman complaining of sunburn or of having received a bump to the head in the course of his duties. As a result, Henderson was free to peruse at length the many books he had brought aboard, sketch the shores of foreign lands as they rolled past and stand on deck of an evening to watch the sun set over strange waters.
It was never his intention to get to know the crew. Beyond the odd, formal dip of the head in the morning as he encountered each man going about his business, Henderson contrived to have as little to do with them as possible with the exception of Captain Biddel whose company, despite appearances, was pleasant enough. Henderson was content to tolerate his rather exuberant manner and tall tales in exchange for the opportunity to eat at the captain’s table each night. As captain, Biddel had a part share in both the ship and its cargo, and was pleased enough to have all his crew in good health as they docked at Chittagong. He was astute enough to realise that this was in no small way due to Henderson’s insistenc
e they be fed a decent diet and he had agreed to give the good doctor a small portion of his personal profits the moment they made landfall back at Southampton. It was a gesture Henderson had appreciated but, as one also made under the influence of drink, not one by which he had set any great store.
Aside from Biddel, Henderson saw little to recommend in the crew. With the exception of the purser, a stuffy, officious man with the air of one dissatisfied with his station in life, all the crew were taken from the lower classes. They drank to excess when they could and spent much of their time, it seemed to Henderson, devising excuses by which they might be relieved of their duties. Chief among them was the kitchen porter, a rough barrel of a man with a thick beard that obscured a good half of his face. Spending his time below decks scrubbing pans and preparing the food with the cook, he was only seen at mealtimes when he would serve the food with a distinct lack of enthusiasm and, more often than not, an air of genuine menace. It was rumoured among the crew that he would spit on the food if he was crossed and Henderson believed him to be the cause of many a black eye in his time on board the Nimrod. He was plainly a man to be avoided. Henderson came to know him as Jeb Hardacre.
A week out of Lisbon, Doctor Henderson had the opportunity to study Hardacre’s fabled temper at close quarters. At dinner one night a young able seaman, Perryman, was found to have cheated at cards. Rumbles of discontent had emanated from the ship’s crew and from Hardacre in particular. An inveterate gambler, he had lost the contents of his small purse to Perryman with a week’s ration of rum besides. It was discovered that Perryman had been hiding cards up his sleeve. Goaded by the men around him, Hardacre had launched a ferocious attack upon the poor man. His fist had landed again and again upon his face, splitting his nose and cracking a tooth. The purser, a lean man of principle, had intervened and the matter was brought before the captain. Biddel sat behind his desk, his large hands clenched into fists of frustration as Hardacre and Perryman stood before him. Doctor Henderson was granted a seat in the corner as witness to the proceedings. Hardacre’s skin shone like burnished leather in the lamplight, his great beard cascading over his heaving chest. Perryman was altogether a different prospect. Standing at no more than five and a half feet tall, he had a head of thick, blond hair. His normally bright, rosy complexion was spoiled by a great swelling across his face and, despite having been attended to by the doctor, blood still seeped from his bloated nose. Standing with his hands at his side and his eyes to the floor, he had the air and appearance of a naughty schoolboy who had been called for admonishment to the headmaster’s office. Biddel fingered the great Bible on the desk before him. It was richly decorated in gold leaf with the ship’s name and the picture of a mermaid on a rock. Also on the desk between the men, Henderson could see the coins that Perryman had won from his opponent in a game of cribbage.
The Head in the Ice Page 20