Blackstone and the Burning Secret (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 4)

by Sally Spencer

  Or to be more accurate, when I was investigating the case of the golden egg, and you were getting in the way, Blackstone thought. But aloud, he said no more than, ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Of course, I wasn’t there for the conclusion of the investigation—in for the kill, as you might say—because I’d been called back to St Petersburg for consultations.’

  ‘Fortunately, I managed to struggle on without your help,’ Blackstone answered, only just preventing a small smile from coming to his lips.

  ‘Not that you can be said to have actually solved the case on your own,’ Sir Roderick said harshly. ‘The simple truth is that the solution fell into your lap. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘Quite true,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Circumstances contrived to make it so simple that even a child of five could have solved it.’

  Sir Roderick studied the Inspector’s face for any signs of sarcasm and, failing to find them, sighed and said, ‘It’s a wise man who knows his own limitations. And you are very limited indeed, Blackstone.’

  ‘Still, I do my humble best,’ the Inspector told him.

  ‘What puzzles me is why this arsonist should address his letter to you,’ Sir Roderick said.

  ‘I can’t understand it, either,’ Blackstone replied.

  ‘Unless, of course, he wanted you to be assigned to the case, because he knew that you would have less chance of catching him than most of the officers under my command.’

  ‘Best not to fall for his tricks, then,’ Blackstone suggested.

  ‘I beg your pardon’?’

  ‘Don’t assign me to the case. Give it to someone who’s much better at detecting.’

  Sir Roderick looked momentarily uncomfortable. ‘That was my first thought,’ he admitted, ‘but the Commissioner disagreed. He seems to feel you should be given a chance to prove yourself.’

  ‘That’s very generous of him,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘I think so too,’ Sir Roderick agreed. ‘More than generous. So, given that I’m stuck with you, might I ask how you propose to conduct your investigation?’

  ‘It’s early days yet, sir,’ Blackstone said cautiously.

  ‘I should tell you that the Government is highly unlikely to give in to the arsonist’s demands.’

  ‘I rather thought it wouldn’t.’

  ‘But at the same time, it is anxious that there should be no more unfortunate incidents.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to see that there aren’t,’ Blackstone promised.

  ‘Yes, but will your best be anything like good enough?’ Sir Roderick wondered.

  Of course it wouldn’t! Blackstone thought. The firebug was both intelligent and professional. He would torch at least one more building before they caught him, and probably more. It was even possible that they would never catch him.

  ‘You have had a certain amount of success in the past,’ Sir Roderick continued grudgingly, ‘though I have to say that I believe those successes came more through luck than judgement. But whatever their cause, you cannot afford to rest on your laurels, Inspector. Failure will not be tolerated. It would be no exaggeration to say that your head is on the block with this one.’

  It would be no exaggeration to say that, with idiots like you in charge, my head is on the block with every case I investigate, Blackstone thought. But he wisely kept his opinions to himself.

  *

  It was generally considered that Man was essentially a conservative creature by nature, and the four constables who worked the night-shift patrol out of the Lant Street stationhouse certainly seemed to subscribe—if only by example—to this view. As much as any reindeer or summering bird, they were locked into a migratory pattern which never varied. The police canteen expected them when they came off their shift at six o’clock, and was already preparing their heavily subsidised—and heavily larded—breakfast when they walked through the door. Their wives expected to hear their clumping footfalls outside their back doors at just after eight. And between-times, when the food was settling, and bed was but a future promise, the officers would pay an early morning visit to the Goldsmith’s Arms.

  The pub was usually very quiet at that time of day. The casual labourers, having supped a sustaining pint, would be queuing up outside the docks, ready—if not willing—to work. The costermongers, on the other hand, would not yet have sold enough off their barrows to be able to convince themselves they had earned a drink. Thus, it was not uncommon for the officers to have the place completely to themselves.

  On that particular morning, however, they were not as alone as they might have thought. Had they glanced in the large mirror at the back of the bar, they would have spotted in it the reflection of the plump young man who was sitting quietly—beyond the partition wall—in the saloon bar.

  The moment the public bar door swung open, the barmaid— who knew her regulars and knew what they liked—reached for the beer pump and began to pull the first of four pints.

  ‘We don’t want that rubbish today, Doris, darlin’,’ called one of the constables from the doorway.

  ‘What rubbish?’ the barmaid asked, mystified.

  ‘The ordinary bitter,’ the constable replied. ‘Today, it’s best bitter or nuffink.’

  Best bitter cost a ha’penny more a pint than the ordinary—and they all knew it.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ the barmaid asked sceptically. ‘Best bitter, you want?’

  ‘Never been more sure of anyfink in me life,’ the constable replied confidently. ‘And while you’re at it, you might as well set up four whisky chasers as well.’

  The other constables looked at him dubiously. ‘What’s got into you, Jethro?’ one of them asked as they approached the bar. ‘Best bitter?’

  ‘Men like us—men who do a real man’s job—deserve the best,’ Jethro Quail said.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ his companion responded. ‘But we’re all on a constable’s pay, an’ if drinkin’ best bitter today means there’s no money for ordinary bitter tomorrer, then I’d prefer to drink ordinary bitter on both days.’

  ‘So it’s the money what’s botherin’ you, is it?’ Quail asked, slightly contemptuously.

  ‘You’re damn right that it’s the money what’s botherin’ me,’ the other constable said.

  ‘Then worry no more.’ They had arrived at the bar, and Quail reached into his pocket. ‘Have you got change for a gold guinea, Doris, my love?’ he asked, holding the coin out for the barmaid to see.

  Doris shook her head. ‘I’d be lucky to have change for one of them at the end of the day,’ she said. ‘At this time of the mornin’, there won’t be more than a couple of bob in the till.’

  ‘Well, that is a problem,’ Quail said, his voice indicating that he didn’t really consider it a problem at all. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of you givin’ me credit, is there?’

  ‘I’m sure the landlord won’t mind if I put a few drinks on the slate,’ the barmaid said.

  Quail grinned at his companions. ‘Ain’t that just the way fings are in this life?’ he asked. ‘If you’ve got tuppence in your pocket, you’re nobody. But if you’ve got a gold guinea, the world’s your oyster.’

  It was the four constables’ practice to have two swift pints of bitter and then leave for home, but since Jethro Quail was footing the bill, they were in no hurry to depart that day, and it was not until half-past nine that they rose, fairly shakily, to their feet and headed for the door.

  The slightly plump man, having already emerged from the door of the saloon bar, was waiting for them outside.

  ‘If being mean was a hanging offence, you’d die innocent,’ Patterson said genially to Constable Quail.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Quail demanded, with the aggression which comes to some men through drink.

  ‘Merely that you seem to have treated your comrades almost royally this morning,’ Patterson said.

  ‘An’ what if I ‘ave?’

  ‘I was just wondering how you possibly ma
naged it on a police constable’s wage.’

  Quail staggered slightly, then raised his arm and poked Patterson in the chest.

  ‘Listen to me, Fatso,’ he slurred, ‘Ifs none of your business how I choose to spend my money. Do you even know how much a police officer earns?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ Patterson said.

  ‘Well, ain’t you a clever boy!’ Quail sneered.

  ‘There’s nothing clever about it,’ Patterson replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his warrant card. ‘I know because I was a constable myself, once. Now, of course, I’m a sergeant—which means that I outrank you.’

  The temperature on the street suddenly dropped by several degrees. Quail screwed up his eyes and attempted to focus them on the warrant card which was being held out for his inspection.

  ‘Detective Sergeant…Detective Sergeant Patterson,’ he said, after some effort.

  ‘That’s right,’ Patterson agreed.

  The flushed look had drained from Quail’s face, and he was beginning to grow quite pale. ‘Look, Sarge, I don’t want no trouble,’ he said.

  ‘I think it’s a little late for that,’ Patterson told him. ‘I’m on my way to Scotland Yard, and it would probably be best if you came with me.’

  5

  Blackstone looked up at the man standing in front of his desk. Constable Quail had narrow, cunning eyes, the Inspector thought. Cunning—but not necessarily very intelligent. They were the kind of eyes which could spot an opportunity when they saw it, but yet were unable to communicate back to the brain the dangers which might be involved in taking such an opportunity.

  ‘There’s been a mistake, sir,’ the constable said, unconvincingly.

  ‘Has there?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, there has.’

  ‘And what, if I may be so bold as to enquire, is the nature of this mistake?’

  ‘Sergeant Patterson seems to fink I stole the money. But I didn’t. It was mine, to do with as I wished.’

  ‘Quite so—even if what you wished to do was squander it on getting your comrades drunk,’ Blackstone said dryly. ‘But what I still don’t understand is where the money came from.’

  ‘I saved it up, sir.’

  ‘You must be very thrifty indeed to have saved so much on a constable’s salary.’

  ‘I am, sir. “Make do and mend”, that’s my motto.’

  ‘And when you’d saved up enough, you took it to the bank, and exchanged it for a gold guinea.’

  Quail, who clearly thought he was going to get away with it after all, could not resist a slight smile. ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And when exactly did you change all these copper coins that you’d been saving up for gold?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  Blackstone leant back in his chair. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Why what, sir?’

  ‘Why change it at all? I could understand you going to such trouble and inconvenience if you were going to save the money, but that wasn’t your plan at all, now was it?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Yesterday, you changed copper for gold, and this morning, in the pub, you tried to break up gold for copper. Wouldn’t it have been easier simply to keep the copper in the first place?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Quail said sullenly.

  ‘Unless, of course, you’d never made any such exchange,’ Blackstone said. ‘Unless what really happened was that someone handed you the guinea sometime last night. Isn’t that what really occurred?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Blackstone wondered.

  ‘What did who look like?’ Quail countered.

  ‘The man who handed you the letter, of course,’ Blackstone said, as if it should have been obvious to anyone.

  Quail’s jaw dropped. ‘How…how did you know?’ he asked.

  ‘I feel almost shy pointing this out to you, but I am a detective,’ Blackstone said diffidently. ‘A very good detective, as a matter of fact. But even if I’d been the most bumbling investigator ever born,’ he continued, his voice suddenly as hard as flint, ‘even then, I’d still have been able to work it out. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Quail said, but now he was looking down at the ground, as if he wished it would swallow him up.

  ‘One of the first things the leading fireman did when the engines arrived on the scene was to instruct two of his men to see to it that the spectators were kept well back from the fire,’ Blackstone said. ‘Then, when you and your comrades appeared, you took the firemen’s place. There was no way that any of the crowd could have got within more than five yards of the engines, was there?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Yet someone did get close enough to the tender to be able to carefully place a letter between the driver’s seat and the near-side light. Now who do you think that might have been?’

  ‘Could have been one of the firemen,’ Quail mumbled.

  ‘It could indeed,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘But, as far as I’m aware, none of the firemen who were there last night had a shiny new guinea in his pocket just a few hours later.’

  Quail shuddered. ‘But I didn’t know that I was doin’ anyfink wrong, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Just because you’re a bloody idiot yourself, don’t think to tar me with the same brush!’ Blackstone said sharply. ‘Of course you knew you were doing wrong! Nobody would give you a guinea for simply doing what was right! But what I am prepared to believe—if you decide to cooperate with me—is that you didn’t know just how wrong it was.’

  Quail’s jaw was beginning to tremble uncontrollably. ‘Am I in trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s not really the question anymore,’ Blackstone told him unrelentingly. ‘What we’re really here to decide, Constable Quail, is whether you just get kicked off the Force…’

  ‘Just get kicked off?’

  …or whether you go to prison as well.’

  ‘He said it was a joke he was playin’ on one of the firemen,’ Quail said, almost blubbering now. ‘Nuffink more than a joke.’

  ‘A joke he was prepared to pay a guinea to see carried out,’ Blackstone said. He slammed his hand down hard on his desk. ‘Tell me what the man looked like, you miserable creature!’

  ‘He…I’d say that he was about my height, sir.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Probably in his early thirties.’

  ‘Well, that certainly narrows it down a lot, doesn’t it, Sergeant?’ Blackstone said to Patterson.

  ‘It certainly does,’ Patterson agreed. ‘There can’t be more than a few hundred thousand men in London who match that description.’

  ‘You’ll have to say a lot more than that if you’re to escape the ball and chain,’ Blackstone told Quail.

  ‘He…he had short brown hair, sir.’

  ‘More!’

  Quail hesitated.

  ‘In some prisons, they don’t even have an exercise yard, you know,’ Blackstone growled.

  ‘Sir…’ Quail pleaded.

  ‘You could be incarcerated for ten or fifteen years and never get to smell fresh air,’ Blackstone told him. ‘But you won’t want for exercise, because where there’s no yard they use the treadmill instead.’

  ‘He…he wasn’t dressed very well, sir,’ Quail said reluctantly.

  ‘I’m not very well dressed,’ Blackstone countered. ‘Sergeant Patterson isn’t very well dressed. There’s nobody below the rank of Superintendent who can afford to be well dressed.’

  ‘He…he was dressed a lot worse than you an’ the Sergeant, sir. His clothes was almost rags.’

  ‘So he looked like a tramp?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But you knew he couldn’t be a tramp, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Because tramps don’t usually have gold guineas on them to hand out to bent constables.’

  ‘I…I really think he was a tramp, sir.’

&nb
sp; ‘Pull the other leg, Constable, it’s got bells on,’ Blackstone said contemptuously.

  ‘It was his smell that made me think he must be the real thing, sir,’ Quail insisted.

  ‘It’s the easiest thing in the world to make yourself stink,’ Blackstone said impatiently. ‘It’s hotting up in London now, and anybody who doesn’t wash for a couple of days is almost bound to stink.’

  ‘But he didn’t, sir. That’s the whole point,’ Quail whined.

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Didn’t stink.’

  ‘You’re wasting my time,’ Blackstone told him.

  ‘No, sir, he smelled clean—but it was a very special kind of clean.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I thought he was a real tramp because he had the smell about him of the kind of soap they always use at the work-house.’

  6

  The grim, imposing walls which surrounded St Saviour’s Workhouse sent a chill running down Blackstone’s spine every time circumstances caused him to walk past the place. And why wouldn’t they? he asked himself, looking up at those walls once more. What else did he expect, for God’s sake?

  He had been brought up in Dr Barnardo’s orphanage. How could he—or any of Barnardo’s children—ever forget that? Was it any wonder that thoughts of the workhouse—another institution in which he might end his life—were his constant, dark, companions?

  Of course, it was by no means inevitable that he would finish his days in the workhouse. If he managed to hold on to his job long enough to collect a pension, he could look forward to spending his last few years in only relative poverty.

  But that was unlikely to happen—because he’d had too many brushes with his superiors to believe that his luck would last for ever. There’d come a point, he was sure, when even his reputation as a thief-catcher wouldn’t protect him any longer, and he’d be unceremoniously shown the door.

  He supposed he should save up for that eventuality, but his salary was not large, and much of what little he received was immediately passed on to help support the work of Dr Barnardo’s.