by Gareth Clegg
Simmons nodded and waited for him to continue. “And then?” he prompted.
“That were it. He took to his heels toward the street. I stayed here cos I’ve heard things what happens to them what gets taken by the Blaggards.” The boy shivered.
Simmons turned to Bazalgette. “Give him the thruppence—he’s earned it.”
With the transaction complete, Charlie disappeared down the alley, and Simmons returned towards the base of the first window. A boot print was visible among rotten straw which had spilt from a broken crate. “Yes, that’s a military-style boot if ever I saw one,” Simmons said, looking back at Bazalgette. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Well,” Bazalgette started, not picking up on the rhetorical nature of Simmons question. “If we can believe the boy, the Black Guard murdered Silas Cooper and the killer somehow performed the act without being seen.”
“Until the boy sees him out here,” Simmons said.
Whistles sounded in the distance as the local constabulary flocked towards the area. Bazalgette shot Simmons a glance, eyes wide, like a rabbit caught in the sights.
“We best get our story straight,” Simmons said. “I don’t want to spend a night in a cold cell when I have a comfortable bed waiting for me.”
“That sounds sensible,” Bazalgette said, “but do you really think you’ll sleep tonight after all this? I know I won’t.”
“It may seem somewhat overwhelming now, but give it a little time. You’ll get used to it.”
Bazalgette removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I’m not sure I want to.”
8
Cargill beat at the flames with his jacket, but that only made them spread. Sweat dripped from his soot-stained brow. He was melting in the heat.
What had started as an entertaining evening, was turning into a nightmare. His attempt to douse the fireplace with a vase of water had been like pouring oil onto it. Flames leapt out along the wall to envelop the only door, blocking his escape. The wallpaper crinkled and burnt to hot ash as the wooden frame crackled, paint bubbling and spitting as it turned from cream to black.
He had to decide now. Should he throw open the large window and try to escape the blistering heat, or barricade himself from the rest of the room with furniture? The first option worried him. He was an educated man from the Inner-City and realised opening the window to the night air would feed the fiery beast. The resulting explosion of flame might cook him there and then, but at least he’d have a chance.
As he took a faltering step towards the large bay window, the red velvet curtains surrounding it fell in flaming tatters as the wooden rail snapped in the furnace-like heat, blocking his way. The ceiling rolled with thick smoke, and he coughed and sputtered for breath. He had to keep down, away from the billowing plumes of death. It was no less deadly to him than the Black Smoke used by the Martian fighting machines to eliminate entire sections of London during the invasion.
He screamed for help, for someone, anyone to hear him but to no avail. His skin was bright red, cooking in the luxurious furnace. He pulled a wardrobe and dressing table down around him, barricading himself into a small corner as far from the heart of the blaze as he could. There he sat hugging his knees tight to his chest and rocking back and forth like a straitjacketed inmate from an asylum.
“Help me,” he yelled, clenching his eyelids shut, trying to stem the flood of tears streaming down his face from the acidic fumes. As he blinked them away, he noticed a change in the roiling smoke filling the top half of the once lavish room. Tendrils broke from it, reaching out, testing the surroundings. They leached colour from everything they touched, turning vibrant crimson to dull grey ash. Even the thick pile on the carpet was smouldering, an arc of black creeping ever nearer.
A weight slammed into him, holding him in place while peeling his eyelids open, forcing him to stare at the hellish scene around him. Smoke writhed, coiled tentacles reaching from the ceiling, pinning him to the wall with the strength of a dozen men.
The molten carpet was inches from his bare toes, the flesh blistering and charring. The intense agony tore through him as the flames licked his skin, and he screamed. His throat cracked as the torture intensified, and the fire crept up towards his ankles. As he thought the pain couldn't get any worse, it doubled, and he watched his flesh blacken and flake away to bright white bone.
Wood and glass exploded from the window, raining ash and streaks of flame to bounce off the cobbled street like a meteor shower. Huge flames leapt from the upper storey window, climbing high into the night air.
The dancing glow from the blaze illuminated the girl's grim smile down on the street. She savoured the last panic-stricken screams of the filthy bastard she had trapped up there. Cargill's voice cracked and then fell silent. She was a little disappointed it was over so soon, but two minutes of hysterical screaming was probably the most she could have hoped for. All that remained was the roar of the fire consuming everything in its path: wood, cloth and flesh.
The acrid smell of charred timber permeated the dark Whitechapel slum as she turned and left.
9
The interview with the police soon wrapped up. It helped that Simmons’ role as a man catcher required him to carry official paperwork. Things proceeded faster once he’d explained he was there to meet with Cooper to gain further information regarding a case.
The police questioned them both, and as agreed, they told everything except for what they’d gained from the young urchin. Constables scribbled their details into police notebooks, and then they were free to leave.
Bazalgette reached into his jacket and produced his card, offering it to Simmons. “In case you are ever in need of an engineer.”
He took the card, noting the pertinent details—Nathaniel Bazalgette, Structural Sewage Engineer and Inventor—and returned the favour.
“And if you should need anyone tracked down, or just want to talk if you run into any further trouble from tonight,” he replied.
Formalities completed, they parted, each making their way to hansom cabs waiting at the edge of the police cordon. A crowd of gawkers had formed around the area, held back by a line of constables. Simmons waited until the other cab left before climbing into his transport.
“Where to governor?” the cabbie asked. His voice muffled by the thick scarf and hood that gave a modicum of protection from the fog.
“Carleton Place in Spitalfields. Do you know it?”
“Yeah, up by St. Bart’s, isn’t it? Right you are, sir.” The two doors slid shut encasing Simmons in a small protective bubble, out of the reach of the deadly fog. The cab lurched as the single horse reacted to the crack of the whip. Its impromptu fog mask wobbled, nothing more than a feedbag with eyeholes cut through, and the docklands receded behind them.
Simmons checked the card he’d rescued from Cooper’s wallet when he searched through his jacket. It had held little of interest other than twenty pounds, a considerable amount of money for someone like Cooper to be carrying, and his calling card which provided his address.
The forlorn call of the foghorns started about halfway through the fifteen-minute journey from the south-east dock area. The docks were prone to flooding at high tide when the Thames came rushing back from the sea, trying to squeeze its way through the barriers constructed to prevent such ingress. With the water came the red weed said to cause the deadly nature of the fog.
The tempo of the hoof beats slowed, and the cab came to a halt. A thud sounded from above as the cabbie slid the hatch. “Here you go, sir. Carleton Place. That’ll be sixpence please.”
Simmons peered through the dirty glass at the darkness beyond. A single street light shed a dim glow behind them, the others either broken or, more likely, vandalised for their precious wiring. It was common in the regions nearer the outer wall where most police feared to tread. Even in the central areas, they patrolled in pairs.
He fished two coins from his pocket and held them
up to the cabbie. “Here’s a shilling if you wait here, and you’ll receive another for the return journey to Whitechapel. I don’t expect to be more than thirty minutes.”
The cabbie took the shilling. “I’ll be right here then, sir.”
The hatch closed and a few seconds later, the familiar clunk and hiss of the door mechanism released Simmons from his comfortable enclosure. He stepped onto the street, pulling his coat a little tighter. There was a chill in the air as he walked into a dark and abandoned Carleton Place.
The name was deceiving. He’d expected it to be one of the better areas of Spitalfields, but the reality was disappointing. Carleton Place was a narrow street without the space to drive a single hansom cab down. No wonder the cabbie made him alight at the corner. It continued into darkness the further he walked from the main street and the last remnant of subdued street lighting.
It ended in a cul-de-sac, with a collapsed building. The houses on either side looked to be back-to-backs and faced each other across the narrow cobbled road that had seen much better days. Number seventeen was on the left-hand side about three-quarters of the way down. Most of the houses were in a state of disrepair and most likely abandoned. There’d been no sign of life from any he had passed so far.
The door to number seventeen hung open, dangling from the ruined frame. Wood fragments lay on the ground ripped from the frame, and the door showed evidence of a brutal pounding and forced entry. He took his time listening and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness before proceeding.
Simmons stepped over the threshold and drew his revolver. His light footstep crunched on the remains of the lock mechanism. With a silent curse, he stopped, waiting in the darkness.
Once inside it was pitch black, and against his better judgement, he reached for his lighter and ignited it with a practised flick. The crackle and the low hum of the small device illuminated the area with a blue-white glow from the flickering crossed arcs of electricity. It had been a gift from his wife, and he pushed back a wave of melancholy, needing to focus on the job at hand.
The light was adequate for his needs, but compared with Bazalgette’s arc-lamp, the contrast was startling. It was the difference between looking into the pleasant flame from a match and staring into the blazing heart of the sun. Through muted colours, shadows danced with constant movement. The hallway led to an open door on his right and continued onto stairs leading upwards. The room was a wreck, remains of drawers and seating smashed or ripped apart, pictures stripped from walls laying amongst other debris strewn across the floor.
With an experienced eye, he noted the telltale signs of multiple boot prints. Whoever was here had been searching for something. Where he’d hoped for a simple conversation with Cooper, those who had caused this mess had ransacked the place without a care for the owner’s belongings or feelings.
There was something not right about the room. Simmons couldn’t put his finger on it, but it lurked at the back of his mind leaving him with a sour feeling in his stomach. He’d learnt to follow his instincts in previous cases, and they usually panned out. Sifting through the refuse provided nothing of note. A writing desk in the corner of the room stood away from the wall, empty sockets where drawers should have been, and no trace of correspondence of any kind.
A glint of light caught his eye, a pale speck of fluff drifted in the air, perhaps from furniture stuffing. If that was still settling, it couldn’t have been long since they turned the place over—a few hours at most. That coincided with the attack at The Britannia.
If this was a Black Guard operation, then they may have left a few surprises. They did that kind of thing, pleasant little devices that would take your leg off or any other extremity that got within a certain proximity. The wonders that Tesla developed for the good of the Empire also found use by those who protected it. In fact, the Black Guard utilised a fearsome arsenal of new weaponry based on Tesla’s designs.
Damn, he needed to be more careful. He retraced his steps to the hall, stopping at the stairs. It didn’t feel right, and as the lighter came closer, a dark metallic wire strung across the front edge of the step cast a flickering shadow.
That wouldn’t be the only trap. He checked the next few steps finding another two tripwires. The dark coloured wires were almost too thin to see in the poor light. Without the lighter, he would have missed it and triggered the surprise left behind for the unwary.
He wasn’t about to push his luck any further and retreated to the sitting-room door. As he looked in from the hallway, it clicked: the fireplace was a mess. Not through being disturbed and raked through like the rest of the room—it was still full of ash and soot.
Most people would have their fireplaces cleaned and raked out before they left for the day and re-laid with coal, ready to be lit on their return. Who could face having to clean out the remnants of yesterday’s fire before being able to light a new one, especially when it was cold?
The fireplace looked like someone had made a half-hearted attempt to rake through the ashes, but then a soot-fall had put that to an end. He cracked a smile, imagining a furious Black Guard officer grubbing around with his pristine uniform covered in soot.
Nothing ventured. Simmons reached into the chimney, groping around the interior. Soot exploded as it hit the hearth and he coughed for the best part of a minute before recovering. With his scarf covering his nose and mouth, he tried again.
More soot fell, but his fingers brushed something smooth. He retrieved his discovery and, cleaning the worst of the dirt from it, exposed a small package wrapped in waxcloth.
What have we here? The fine soot brushed from the package leaving rough twine that held it together. After a few moments, he peeled back the waxcloth, revealing a red leather-bound journal. It contained writing on several pages in a precise and meticulous hand. A series of numbers and initials told a tale of money passing back and forth. It required more light and no doubt more time to divulge its secrets.
He folded the book back into its protective wrapping and headed for the exit to the street and, with luck, a cab waiting to drive him home.
After cleaning up back at his apartment, Simmons took the package and with the light on his desk turned up full, began his investigation of the ledger and its secrets. It was clear it contained several accounts in varying levels of detail. One page included money received by an ‘SC’. Could this be Silas Cooper? The initials fitted. He then redistributed this to others in smaller quantities. Large sums went to an ‘RC’, but only over the last few weeks.
The remaining pages showed payments to other sets of initials. These were substantial amounts. Several hundred pounds at a time, enough to pay a butler’s wage for years. Thumbing through the rest of the ledger, two pieces of paper slipped free. One was a collection of scribbled notes. Simmons opened the other which looked like a letter.
My dear fellow,
My humble thanks for the information you have provided us, it has already been of great use in furthering our cause. Our mutual friend continues to impress. As you suggested, she is a woman of remarkable talent.
Our time runs short while our list of tasks they still increase in number. I must ask you to double your efforts and find the other parties involved as we cannot allow them to get away from us. That simply would not do. I include with this missive payment of twenty guineas as agreed for your services rendered to date. Ensure the pressure is kept up on the authorities.
The time has come to close the net and squeeze it tight till we pop those wicked little fishes out onto dry land. Let them flounder and suffer as they gasp their last, their eyes glazing over, their lips turning black.
The message was signed with the letter J. The writing differed from the ledger, so small it was almost unreadable.
He returned to the other sheet that had fallen out. The notes were in the same hand as in the ledger, but in various positions on the page. Each contained variations in the ink that hinted at their addition at different times.
Fou
r names dominated the sheet. Checking the accounts, he found initials matching the large payments.
Cyril Woodruff - Funding
Alfred Cargill - Elocution and Deportment
John Addison - Clothing and Fitting
James Blakelocke - Planning and Recruitment
The top two names were struck through, as though resolved somehow. Next to Addison and Blakelocke were arrows leading to a note ‘more for Rosie to sort out’.
Several references to ‘The Watchmen’ with another series of names that had lines pointing to a series of final questions on the page. ‘Who are they, what do they watch? Could this be Dent’s work? Need to check The Strand.’
So, Cooper appears to be a bookkeeper as well as a social agitator. Paid Twenty Guineas by this person who names themselves J, but to do what?
‘Dent’ had to be referring to the royal watchmaker. Simmons was sure the shop was on The Strand.
Hmm, let’s see if Mr Dent can shed any more light on these Watchmen tomorrow, he thought before tossing back another glass of the peaty flavoured scotch he favoured. He refilled it, the amber liquid clung to the sides in greasy streaks, and he settled into his chair.
But what of this Rosie, what was her part in all this? How was she meant to ‘sort out’ these men?
Simmons reviewed his options. He focused on finding a medical explanation of Cooper’s death to support his own ideas, then to learn more about these Watchmen.
10
Bodies always ended up at The London Hospital when retrieved by police investigations. Simmons set off after breakfast. It was a brisk half-mile walk from his lodgings following Whitechapel Road. The air was chill, dark clouds threatening to unleash torrents of rain at any moment. He hurried along, his greatcoat pulled around him, and made his way into the grounds just as the chimes for eleven were fading from Big Ben.