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

by Sally Spencer

  ‘What would be the point of that?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Our firebugs are far too clever to leave behind anything that might lead us to them. And if they had made a mistake, what’s the chances any clue would have survived the combined assault of half a dozen uniformed bobbies trampling all over it with their big flat feet?’

  ‘Virtually nil,’ Patterson agreed. ‘So we stick to our previous plan, do we? I go to the German and American Consulates, and you—’

  ‘And I go back to St Saviour’s Workhouse,’ Blackstone said, shuddering again.

  ‘We could swap jobs, if you’d prefer it, sir,’ Patterson said, sympathetically.

  And what would be the point of that? Blackstone wondered. When had any man ever overcome his fear by running away from it?

  ‘I’ll go to the workhouse,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ Patterson said, as if he had some little inkling of what was going on in his boss’s mind.

  ‘You should wish us both good luck,’ Blackstone told him. ‘Because we’re both going to bloody well need it.’

  20

  Blackstone looked out of the window of the Workhouse Master’s office and down on to the courtyard below. It seemed to be as much like a prison as anything he had ever seen.

  ‘That’s the men’s exercise yard,’ the Master said, following his gaze. ‘We’re not like some of the workhouses you may have heard of, which keep their inmates inside all the time. We’re progressive here. We believe that those placed in our charge should get a breath of fresh air now and again.’

  Fresh air? Blackstone repeated in his mind. Fresh air? Just how fresh was the air supposed to be, in a courtyard surrounded by such high, imposing, walls?

  ‘Would the “casual” I’m interested in have had access to that exercise yard?’ he asked—because he was now wondering if the reason the firebug had entered the workhouse in the first place could have been because he desperately needed to contact someone who was already there.

  The Master laughed. ‘A casual! Have access to the men’s exercise yard?’ he said in a tone which suggested it was the most ridiculous idea he had ever heard. ‘Oh dear me, no, Inspector. Certainly not!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The workhouse operates on a principle of division and classification,’ the Master said, lowering his voice as if he were revealing a closely guarded trade secret. ‘Our regular inmates are split into three groups—men, women and children—and each group is housed in a different section of the building. They are not normally allowed to meet, although sometimes—on purely compassionate grounds—we will permit a mother to visit her children.’

  ‘Very good of you,’ Blackstone said dryly. ‘But I was asking about the casuals.’

  ‘The casuals are another category entirely—or rather, two categories, since they are both men and women. They have their own blocks.’

  ‘You still haven’t explained why the casual men are not allowed to mix with the regular male inmates,’ Blackstone pointed out.

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ the Master said. ‘The casuals we admit are, on the whole, a pretty rough lot. They take what they’re given readily enough, but they don’t always appreciate how lucky they are to get it. Some of them have even been known to complain.’

  ‘Scandalous!’ Blackstone said.

  ‘It is indeed,’ the Master replied, nodding his head sagely. ‘So you can see why we don’t want them mixing with our regular inmates, can’t you?’

  ‘Because they’d spread discontent?’

  ‘Exactly! Or, at least, they would try to.’

  ‘Only try to?’

  ‘They would meet with absolutely no success. The regulars are quite happy with their lot. They’re grateful for their three square meals a day and a warm, dry place to sleep at night. They have no wish to be reminded that on the outside a man may rise and go to bed at what hour he wishes, whereas in here he must get up at six in the morning and be abed—with his candle extinguished—by eight in the evening. It is no longer of any interest to them that a man with money in his pocket may—if he chooses to squander it in such a manner—purchase strong drink. They have completely abandoned their baser instincts, too, and would be shocked to hear about the amorous exploits of the lascivious men who have just come in off the street.’

  And quite right, too, Blackstone thought. For who, in his right mind, would ever want to drink and spend the night in the arms of a woman when he could, instead, reside in this paradise on earth?

  ‘So, just to be clear on the point, the casuals are kept completely separate from the normal inmates,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Precisely!’

  Then that was that, Blackstone thought. Whatever the reason the firebug had had for seeking admission to the workhouse, it couldn’t have been to talk to one of the inmates, because he must have known he would never be allowed to.

  And yet…and yet…for all their boasting, the men in charge rarely knew everything that was going on in the institutions they administered.

  ‘Would you mind if I talked to some of your staff?’ he asked.

  ‘I can see no reason why you shouldn’t,’ the Master said. ‘But you won’t learn anything more than I’ve already told you. There are strict rules—and they are scrupulously obeyed. We run a tight ship here.’

  Yes indeed, Blackstone thought—a tight prison ship!

  *

  Located as it was—on St Helen’s Place, and but a short walk from both the London Stock Exchange and Liverpool Street Station—the American Consulate was a convenient stop for men with either commerce or travel on their minds.

  When Patterson arrived, it was already full, almost to bursting point, with both: on one side of the room, the American tourists with their guidebooks; on the other, British businessmen shuffling stacks of invoices which needed an official stamp before they could begin to ship their goods to the United States. None of those waiting were exactly pleased to see the plump young man—who didn’t look as if he were in any way important—ushered straight into the Consul-General’s office.

  The Consul-General was most welcoming. ‘We always like to cooperate with the police in any way we can,’ he said, shaking Patterson’s hand, ‘and if any of our own bad apples have found their way over here, we’re more than willing to help you weed them out.’

  Do you really ‘weed out’ bad apples? Patterson found himself wondering. But since he couldn’t come up with any better image himself—and since, even if he could have, it was probably unwise to correct a senior diplomat—he contented himself with nodding and agreeing that bad apples were, indeed, his business.

  ‘I believe that you keep a register of American citizens who are in London, do you not, sir?’ he asked, when he’d accepted the Consul-General’s invitation to sit down.

  ‘Yes, but it probably isn’t as inclusive as you might wish,’ the Consul-General cautioned him. ‘You see, it’s not a record of all Americans in London, but only a record of those who choose to register.’

  ‘I understand that, sir,’ Patterson said, ‘but I’d still be very grateful if you’d check through your books and see if one of those who chose to register was called Mouldoon.’

  ‘Why, certainly,’ the Consul-General said. There was a bookcase to the left of his desk and, reaching across to it, he extracted a leather-bound volume. ‘What’s the first name of the man you’re interested in?’

  ‘Robert.’

  ‘And how long has he been in this country?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The Consul-General sighed. ‘It would have been much easier if you did,’ he said. ‘Do you at least know what profession this Mr Robert Mouldoon of yours is following?’

  Yes, Patterson thought. He’s a pimp—and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a part-owner of a gambling club, as well. But I’m certainly not going to tell you that until we have a clearer picture of the man.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t supply that information,’ he said.


  ‘You really don’t seem to know much about your business,’ the Consul-General said, sounding—for the first time—slightly disapproving. ‘I would have expected a more professional approach from an old-established force like the Metropolitan Police.’

  But he opened the ledger, and began to flick through it anyway.

  ‘I’ve gone back three years, and there’s no record of anyone called Mouldoon registering,’ he said, after several minutes had passed.

  That was only to be expected, Patterson thought. He reached into his pocket and produced the sketch which the police artist had made, based on Blackstone’s description. ‘This is the man,’ he said. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  The Consul-General studied the sketch for quite some time.

  It’s certainly a striking face,’ he said, ‘and a vaguely familiar one, too. But I don’t know this man from any dealings I might have had with him in London.’

  ‘But you do know him from somewhere else?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say,’ the Consul-General admitted. ‘This is a very good sketch indeed—please convey my congratulations to the artist—but it is still only a sketch. Now if you had a photograph…’

  ‘Despite the fact that it’s only a sketch, you do think you recognise him?’ Patterson pressed.

  ‘Yes, I must admit that I think I do.’

  ‘Could you put a name to the face?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Then where do you think you might have seen him?’

  ‘Somewhere in the States. Possibly in New York.’

  Maybe you saw him when you were visiting your favourite New York brothel, Patterson thought, but realised he would have to find some way to rephrase it before he actually put it into words.

  ‘Perhaps he’s involved in the entertainment business,’ he suggested.

  ‘The entertainment business?’ the Consul-General echoed. ‘Doing what, exactly?’

  The evil goblin who seemed to have crawled through Patterson’s ear and into his brain had several suggestions, including one that Mouldoon might have been handing out whips in the brothel lobby and pouring fountains of champagne over naked prostitutes. The Sergeant decided to ignore the goblin altogether.

  ‘I don’t know exactly what he might have been doing,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps he was the head waiter in your favourite restaurant. Or the manager of your dining club.’

  ‘No,’ the Consul-General said. ‘If that had been the case, I think I would have recognised him instantly.’ He considered the problem for a few seconds more. ‘I get the distinct impression that I may have met him—though only briefly—on a more equal footing.’

  ‘You mean that he might have been some kind of diplomat, much like yourself?’

  ‘No, definitely not that,’ the Consul-General said. ‘I think…I think we must have come across each other at some sort of reception. Perhaps he’s a businessman or a theatre producer.’

  So we’re back to the brothels, Patterson thought.

  ‘Anything you tell me is completely confidential,’ he said, trying to sound both worldly-wise and discreet.

  ‘I’d assumed confidentiality from the very beginning,’ the Consul-General told him. ‘What’s your point?’

  A difficult point, Patterson thought. A very difficult point. ‘That if you had not met him in the most salubrious of surroundings—’ he began.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘If…er…for example, you’d happened to stray—purely by accident—into a house of ill-repute…’

  The Consul-General laughed. ‘You think I might have met him in a cat house?’

  ‘I…er…’ Patterson said, lost for words.

  ‘If I patronised such establishments, I would feel no embarrassment in telling you about it, but—trust me—I do not,’ the Consul-General said, looking Patterson straight in the eye.

  ‘I believe you, sir,’ Patterson said, and was almost certain that he was speaking the truth.

  ‘Are there any other copies of this sketch available?’ the Consul-General asked.

  ‘Yes, there are,’ Patterson said. ‘We’re very up-to-date at the Met, and we have the very latest in reproductive—’

  ‘I don’t want a lecture on how Britain is not as backward as it sometimes seems,’ the Consul-General said. ‘I was merely enquiring as to whether I can keep this particular sketch, so that I can study it at leisure.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose you can,’ Patterson said, feeling more-than-somewhat deflated.

  The Consul-General nodded. ‘Good. And if you do manage to obtain a photograph of this man, why don’t you have that sent over to me too?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ the Sergeant promised.

  They shook hands, and Patterson was nearly at the door when the Consul-General said, ‘It almost came to me then!’

  ‘What did, sir?’

  ‘Where I’d seen him before. I had a picture in my mind of crystal chandeliers, a polished wood floor, and some kind of musical entertainment. And before you’re impertinent enough to ask the question, Sergeant, yes, I’m absolutely sure it wasn’t a brothel.’

  Patterson grinned. ‘It had never occurred to me to think that it might be, sir,’ he lied.

  21

  While the senior warder was examining the sketch of the suspected firebug, Blackstone took the opportunity of examining him. He was one of those men who thought a little authority lifted them well above the common herd, the Inspector quickly decided—one of those men who likes to listen to nothing so much as the sound of his own voice.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember this bugger, all right,’ the warder said. ‘I didn’t like his attitude from the very start.’

  ‘Oh?’ Blackstone said, noncommittally.

  ‘He was the sort of bloke who doesn’t seem to realise just how lucky he’s been to be taken in.’

  ‘You mean, he was a bit like a dog which bites the hand that feeds it, rather than one that will even lick your boots to show how grateful it is?’ Blackstone suggested.

  ‘Exactly,’ the warder agreed, pleased that the Inspector seemed to have grasped the point. ‘Anyway, given this attitude of his, I wasn’t the least bit surprised when he went off the rails.’

  ‘How did he go off the rails?’

  ‘He went missing, didn’t he? What, in the Army, you would call going absent without leave.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Let me see,’ the warder said, self-importantly stroking his chin. ‘It would have been the second morning he was here.’

  ‘In other words, less than twenty-four hours before he was due to be discharged.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Be glad to. I’d set all the casuals to work picking oakum, and I went off for a smoke,’ the warder said. ‘Speaking of which,’ he looked meaningfully at Blackstone, ‘you don’t happen to have any fags on you, do you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Blackstone replied, offering the warder a cigarette—and almost hating himself for doing it.

  The warder lit up the cigarette, and inhaled greedily. ‘When I got back to the workroom, there didn’t seem to be as many of the casuals as there’d been when I left,’ he continued, ‘so I did a quick head count, and sure enough one of them was missing. Well, it didn’t take me long to work out which one it was, did it? Like I told you, I’d had that cocky sod’s card marked right from the start.’

  ‘So you went looking for him?’

  ‘Indeed I did. Can’t have the casuals wandering around as if they own the place.’

  ‘And where did you find him?’

  ‘That kind of thing’s happened before—not often, but it has happened—so I pretty much knew what to do,’ the warder said, refusing to come directly to the point and thus ruin a good story in which he would undoubtedly feature as the hero. ‘The first place I looked was in the women’s section. Some of these women haven’t seen a man for yea
rs, you know, and I thought that he’d probably figure they’d be gasping for a bit of how’s-your-father and wouldn’t be too particular about who they took the tumble with.’

  ‘But he wasn’t there?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. The matrons hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the blighter. So the next place I checked was the infirmary. They keep surgical alcohol there, you see, and even though it tastes foul, some of these blokes are so desperate they’ll drink anything.’

  ‘But he wasn’t there, either?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘So where did you find him?’ Blackstone asked, suppressing his natural urge to shake the man until his teeth rattled.

  ‘Believe it or believe it not, I found him standing outside the old couples’ apartments.’

  ‘The old couples’ apartments?’ Blackstone repeated. ‘I thought it was the policy of this institution to keep the men and women completely separated from one another.’

  ‘Then you’ve got it wrong,’ the warder said. ‘The policy is to stop them from enjoying themselves.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Blackstone admitted.

  ‘If you allowed a youngish couple to live together, they’d be jumping on each other all night. Going at it hammer and tongs. Humping till the cows come home. Making the—’

  ‘I get the point,’ Blackstone interrupted.

  ‘Enjoying themselves,’ the warder summed up. ‘And we can’t have that. But once they get to the stage where all that unhealthy passion’s drained away, they can apply to the Board of Guardians to live together. And if the Board thinks they’re suitable—which is the same as saying they’re so dried up there’s absolutely no chance of reigniting the fire—well, then they’re given a room in the block where the other old couples live.’

  Dear God! Blackstone thought.

  ‘How did the man react when you caught him outside the old couples’ block?’ he asked.

  ‘Didn’t seem to mind at all,’ the warder said, the disappointment he must have felt at the time still evident in his voice now. ‘In fact, he was better behaved at that point than at any time since he’d been admitted. He didn’t even object when I informed him that, as his punishment for his misbehaviour, he’d only get bread and water for his supper.’