by Andy Emery
‘Oh, no. I quite believe him when he says he was put off violence of any kind by his experiences in Afghanistan.’ Rondeau rubbed his beard as he spoke. ‘I still hope he will be able to help me in a more passive role, however. Tell me, Jack, how are things at Leman Street these days? Generally, I mean.’
Cross smiled. ‘Always after the info, eh, Claude? Well, obviously I’m not part of the inner circle, or privy to the rumblings of the uniformed officers. There’s always been tension for one reason or other, since ’88. The last couple of months we’ve had Special Branch camped out in the station, taking up a couple of offices while they nose about. What they’re up to is top secret of course. Just adds to the sense of unease, to be honest.’
‘Special Branch. That is the unit originally set up to combat the Fenian threat, is it not?’
‘Correct. They now have a more general remit. A juicy enough nugget for you?’
Rondeau chuckled. ‘I know I am incorrigible, Jack. Thank you for indulging me. Turning back to the urgent situation we are faced with, I believe everything we have talked about is linked. The disappearances of the girls and Mr Frowde, the abduction of Miss Gedge, and the shadow cast by Ackerman. And there is another factor: if we accept his involvement, how did Ackerman know of Gedge’s arrival back in England, and the movements of his daughter? Whoever is carrying out these crimes must have some backing from somewhere inside the establishment.’
‘There you go again. Unfortunately, in this day and age it’s hardly an unbelievable suggestion. But as far as the police are concerned, we can only proceed when we have evidence.’
Rondeau took a puff on his pipe. ‘It is a problem for you. Not being able to take action until a prescribed amount of information is entered in the ledger.’
Cross frowned at this. ‘It may be irritating, but what’s the alternative? Even more miscarriages of justice? If we don’t have the evidence, we can’t act. It’s as simple as that. The rule of law has to mean something.’
‘And so the few, like yourself, have your hands tied behind your back, in contrast to the criminals and the more venal officials who have both authority and a disregard for the very principles they purport to uphold.’
Cross rose to his feet, obviously annoyed at the turn the conversation had taken. ‘I’m not going to argue about this again. I hope you’re not implying that others, private individuals, should “take action” as you put it? Because that would be criminal in itself, and only serve to make matters worse. As to your suspicions, I’ll keep my ears open. As I said, I’m unlikely to pick up anything at the station. But you never know. One of my snitches, perhaps.’
Rondeau smiled at him. ‘Jack, I apologise for upsetting you. It is just the urgency of the matter for my friend. Anyway, I wish you well in your detecting, and I hope to see you soon.’
They parted on good terms, but Cross tramped slowly downstairs as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. It probably felt like it was.
Rondeau smiled as he watched him leave. Cross was a good man in a bad place. He had known him for years, since before the Ripper business. He was transferred from B Division in Chelsea, and at first advanced rapidly through the ranks, being promoted to inspector in 1887. It was during the Ripper’s reign of terror the following year that he started to cause ripples of concern among his colleagues and superiors. He made some comments that the investigation seemed to be trying to pin the crimes on pathetic figures such as Aaron Kosminski and “Leather Apron”. Cross considered these individuals to be living, breathing caricatures of the sort of “outsider” that the public would imagine had done the crimes, but did not have the capabilities to do so. From his admittedly limited knowledge of the case, Cross thought that more attention should have been given to the indications that the very heart of Victorian society was implicated. His concerns were soon lost among the welter of conflicting information and opinions concerning the case. Since then, he had become more alienated from the bulk of H Division’s officers, due to his refusal to compromise on ethical matters.
Cross was trying to combat injustice from his lonely office in Leman Street, from within the system, and Rondeau applauded him for doing so. But the older man was increasingly coming to believe that radical solutions were required for some of the world’s ills; solutions that would involve private individuals. Even if the letter of the law was not adhered to.
21
The next morning, at number 14 White Lion Street, Rondeau sat down with Gedge and leafed through the contents of Frowde’s file, occasionally raising his eyebrows and muttering under his breath. After examining the cuttings, the letters and the notebook, he placed the box, still open, back onto the table. He stared off into the corner of the room for a moment and then lit his pipe.
‘Thank you for these, Lucas. They give us something to work on. As you say, it is perhaps a pity that they contain little we do not already know, but there are a few morsels of information. The letters are indeed in Dutch, or a version of it used in parts of Belgium. They were obtained by contacts I still have there from the investigations five years ago. They are to and from the operators of brothels, this time in the port city of Antwerp rather than the capital Brussels. In fact it may interest you to know that just a few weeks ago, Polly and I witnessed a delivery of girls at the dock in Antwerp, having been transported there from Wapping. I only wish we had been able to intervene. I will need to study these letters more closely, but I know they cryptically refer to somebody in London who is the connection between the trafficking organisation and its customers.’
‘Do they mention his name?’ asked Gedge.
‘No, but it links with what is written in the notebook. There seem to be two key figures. One is an agent or “fixer”, who has a few permanent lieutenants and some hired thugs as back-up. We now know this is Ackerman. But I believe the “Link to Society”, as Frowde has it, is the organiser mentioned in the letters. He could be the connection to the money. Make no mistake, we need to deal with both Ackerman and whoever lurks above. If we cannot catch them, they will retreat like spiders to their lair, only to reappear when the coast is clear, to continue preying on our young women.’
‘What about the name Musgrave?’
‘I don’t know. I will enquire widely on the matter. In fact, with your permission, I will retreat upstairs and begin that process with some research. I will also re-read the letters in case I have missed anything.’
Rondeau disappeared upstairs. Soon after, Polly came bustling in through the kitchen door, bags of shopping in her hands.
‘Hello, Lucas. Have you been in a fight?’
Gedge had picked up a couple of cuts in the brawl in Frowde’s room.
‘Yes, but you should see the other fellow. I managed to obtain some more information, but whether it will be useful… Your father is upstairs now, trying to piece things together. For myself, I need to try to understand where we go from here. It’s all going too slowly for my liking.’
Polly was packing things away, with her back to him. After a few moments, she spoke quietly.
‘I suppose you ought to know. I’m not actually Claude’s daughter.’
‘Really? I thought—’
‘That’s what we tell everyone, and I am his daughter in everything that matters, but not legally. Claude and his late wife Elise brought me up from the age of five. Some day I’ll tell you the rest, but in reality I’m more like Claude’s ward than his daughter.’
‘Would it matter to anyone, though?’
‘To some, yes. But not to anyone who knows us. I just thought I’d better tell you to avoid surprises at a later date.’
‘Thank you for your honesty.’
‘Cup of tea?’ She placed the teapot and two cups on the table. ‘Lucas, I wanted to ask you about those dreams you get, and the tremors.’
‘I try to ignore them when I can. Thinking about it just makes them worse.’
‘But that’s just it. Father mentioned it obliquely yesterday. But an acq
uaintance of ours, a doctor, had some success in helping survivors of a train crash get over the problems they experienced afterwards. Some of them had nightmares and physical tics, similar to yours.’
‘How did he help them?’
‘Well, I don’t know the details, but his approach involved actually reliving the events. I imagine that would take some nerve.’
‘I hope I don’t lack nerve. But even so, I’m sceptical about whether it would work.’
‘I think he lives some distance away. I know you can’t see past the current crisis now, but when this is over, would you be willing to at least go and talk to him about it?’
‘You’re right. Rescuing my daughter is all I care about at the moment. But yes, it would be worth trying anything to try to get rid of the nightmares.’
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock, and the occasional mutterings of Rondeau upstairs.
Gedge felt a tear swell in his eye. Embarrassed, he rubbed a sleeve across his face, but Polly saw the gesture.
‘Lucas! Are you getting a flashback now?’
‘No, not at all. I’m sorry, Polly. I’m just thinking about Hannah. It’s been a day and a half now. I wonder where she is, what’s happening to her. Our investigation seems to be going nowhere. I’m just sitting here waiting to see if your father can find inspiration. I should be doing something!’
‘You can’t think like that. We’re doing all we can. And I’m sure you’ll be able to bang some heads together soon enough. I don’t think the people who’ve taken her realise what they’re up against. You haven’t told me what Hannah is like.”
Gedge smiled. ‘You remind me of her, actually. She’s spirited, clever, quite the sparky young lady. She’s recently developed an interest in women’s emancipation.’
‘Really? That’s encouraging. I’ve been to a couple of meetings myself. I can’t wait to meet your daughter.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp rapping at the front door. Three short knocks, then a pause, then two more.
‘It’s one of the boys,’ said Polly.
Gedge was about to ask what boys she was referring to, when Rondeau called from above.
‘That will be young Simeon with a package for me! Don’t let him go, I have another errand for him.’
Polly showed a small boy into the kitchen. He must have been about twelve. His face, hands and clothes were flecked with dirt, and a cloth cap stuck on his head at a jaunty angle. He did at least have a stout-looking pair of boots on. He pulled an envelope from an inside jacket pocket.
‘This is Master Simeon Japp. He does some little jobs for us, him and his brother Fred. Simeon, this is Mr Lucas Gedge.’
‘I’ve ’eard a’ you. Fred knocked you up the other day, so’s you could come up ‘ere.’
‘Oh, yes. I compliment Fred on his aim. Not many young boys could hit a small window pane with a pebble at such a distance.’
Rondeau had descended the stairs. He took the package and whispered something to the boy. Simeon looked askance at Rondeau for a moment; a look which vanished as the old man held out a hand containing some coins.
After the boy left, Gedge asked Rondeau if he had discovered anything in the documents.
‘I found a reference in some old reports, dating from ’84, to a Victor Musgrave, who was a police informer at the time. The name is familiar for some other reason. I can’t bring it to mind at the moment. I am sure Jack Cross will know, and I have sent young Simeon with a message for him.’
Rondeau paused, then looked Gedge squarely in the eye.
‘I have to say, Lucas, that the dead body you left hanging out of a window yesterday is not the sort of thing the police take kindly to. But, since the incident took place under the jurisdiction of Bethnal Green’s J Division, rather than our own dear H Division, we may have a little time before Inspector Cross links it with us.’
‘Let’s hope so. I’m afraid I didn’t have much choice with Ackerman’s henchman. It was him or me.’
22
Major Hugh Garland peered out of the hansom’s window, making sure that he couldn’t be seen from the outside. The vehicle was parked about a hundred yards away from number 14 White Lion Street, giving a clear view of the front door.
He had decided that he would take a more active role in the Gedge business himself. Garland was at heart a field officer, and a part of him resented all the time he had to spend behind a desk.
The idiot he’d assigned to surveillance a few days ago had been spotted at the zoo, and compounded his error by taking part in a chase that caused uproar. More importantly, the abduction of Gedge’s daughter had cast everything to do with the man in a more dramatic light. Since those interviews in Simla, he had felt he understood Gedge, at least a little bit. The man seemed to attract trouble. Garland suspected that Gedge had again found himself at the centre of a tangled web of events.
The whole business of trying to re-recruit Gedge was, in his view, absurd, and he wondered if there was an ulterior motive. Even if the man was enthusiastic about coming back, he was probably a shadow of his former self. Still, as some senior figures wanted it followed up, he had to play along. He dreaded the thought of making a final report to Paxton that was wholly in the negative.
Garland had seen Gedge enter the premises an hour or so earlier, and now a young urchin knocked at the door of number 14 and was let in. A few minutes later, the boy emerged again, and hared off in the direction of Commercial Road. Garland jotted down the incident in his notebook, but as he looked at the page, his eyes were drawn back to the scene outside the hansom’s window.
Two men, who had been busily erecting a stall at the side of the road opposite Rondeau’s house, stopped what they were doing as the boy went past, and stared after him. Garland studied the men through his binoculars. One was writing something down, while the other spoke. Then the first man walked off in the direction the boy had taken and the other one continued to build the stall.
To the trained eye, it was clear that he was not the only one taking an interest in Claude Rondeau’s house. Who were they? Certainly not Intelligence Department men. He eased himself further back into the hansom and returned to his notebook.
Another hour passed, with Garland deep in thought. He had almost convinced himself that he should meet Gedge himself; to put to him the suggestion of returning to the service, and, on a personal level, to ask him if he needed any help with whatever trouble he was in. But such a course of action would set him at odds with the Department. If discovered, there would be serious consequences.
The sight of a police constable and another man, heading towards him along White Lion Street, shook him out of his reverie. He took the man walking beside the bobby to be a plain-clothes policeman, presumably a detective. He was a striking figure, tall with aquiline features.
They stopped outside number 14, and the constable knocked on the door.
23
The constable did not come in. Gedge noticed that he had been left standing immediately outside the door, as if on guard duty. Cross had greeted Polly and him tersely, and now all three were silently waiting for Rondeau to come downstairs.
Rondeau burst into the room in something of a fluster. He was obviously anticipating much from Cross’s visit.
‘My dear Jack! Welcome. Does your prompt arrival mean you have something for us?’
‘Claude, the speed of my arrival has more to do with myself and the constable being en route to the scene of a burglary off the Whitechapel Road. After getting your message I debated long and hard before deciding to impart what I’m about to tell you. On the whole, it could expedite the search for Miss Gedge if you are able to help. But I warn you, if you find anything out, you must report it immediately to me. Take no action yourselves, do you understand? Both of you.’ He glared from Rondeau to Gedge.
Polly smiled. ‘You don’t think I might take action, as you put it, inspector?’
‘My comments
apply to all of you, and any of your associates for that matter, Miss Rondeau. Now, it turns out that the man you’re interested in, Vic Musgrave, was an official police informant up until a couple of years ago. In fact he’d been a bobby himself up until ’81, but he had problems with drink. Aside from that, he’d been a solid police officer, so he was considered an unusually reliable snout.’
‘But I seem to remember his name for another reason,’ said Rondeau. ‘Have you fathomed out what that might have been?’
‘I think so. The drink gradually got to Musgrave more and more, and he developed an obsession with conspiracies, seeing them everywhere. Any time there was any hint of a scandal we’d hear about him arguing the toss in the boozers around the East End, claiming Lord so-and-so was in on it, that it was the Jews, the Fenians, the Masons, or whoever else popped into his head at the time. A constable who interviewed Musgrave at his rooms said that he’d papered the walls with newspaper cuttings, surrounding himself with what he thought of as evidence that it was all linked together. The funny thing is, there may have been a grain of truth in some of what he said, but nobody would have ever believed it from him. Of course, he was dropped as an informer.
‘Now, I don’t know if you know this, but there was a similar rash of these disappearances, or abductions, a year or so ago. Musgrave got wind of them, and that was it. For him, it was more evidence of this vast conspiracy, of the corruption infecting government, business, the nobility, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. This time he worked himself up into a complete lather, and ended up standing outside the Leman Street station, hollering curses at the top of his voice, whisky bottle in hand. He spent a couple of nights in a cell to dry out, and was told in no uncertain terms that a repeat performance would result in charges. It ended up in one of the papers. I expect that’s where you heard about him.’