by Andy Emery
She hit metal. A silvery glint showed through. Surely the catch that would allow the trapdoor to be opened. If she could just get it working.
She climbed down from Esther’s bed and sat on her own. The girls’ friendship had soured since Hannah’s thoughts had turned to escape, as Esther seemed to want nothing to do with it. But now they needed to talk.
‘Esther, can I ask you something?’
‘What?’
‘If there was a way out of here, would you come with me? We need to try to do something! We can’t just let them do what they want with us.’
‘But I’m sure there are people looking for us. They’ll save us.’
‘How will they know where we are?’
‘What about your father? If he used to be a soldier, he’ll know what to do.’
‘I still don’t see how he’ll know that we’re here. I managed to drop something on the pavement when I was taken, but the chances of someone finding it must be small. And anyway, they want us for some reason. They won’t kill us for trying to escape, even if we get caught.’
‘How can you be sure? And they could hurt us for it. It’s no good, Hannah. I can’t do it.’
Hannah sighed and sank back down onto the bed. She didn’t have many minutes to brood before she heard steps outside and the door was unlocked and opened.
Vera strode into the room, with a tray containing their meal. Hannah had no great hopes for the taste or nutritional value, but it was something at least. A thug lurked behind her in the hall.
‘Keeping quiet, I see,’ said Vera. ‘That’s good. Just how I like it. Here’s your grub. All good wholesome stuff, cooked by yours truly.’ She plonked the tray on the table, looking from one girl to the other as if expecting some appreciation. None was forthcoming.
‘Now, I’ve got some news for you. You’ve only got one more day with me and you’ll be on your way to pastures new. Tomorrow evening you’ll be off to actually do some work, instead of sitting about here all day. Before you go, you’ll need to clean yourselves up. We’ll get your hair done, and find you some nice new frocks. I’m a pretty good judge of sizes.’
Hannah stared at her. ‘What for? Where are you taking us?’
‘Won’t be me that’s taking you, and I can’t say where you’re going either. You’ll need to look your best. All I’ll say is that when you get where you’re going, just play along with whatever’s required. Those who do that tend to get through it better than those who make trouble.’
‘Play along with what? What is it that will be required?’
‘I’ve already said too much. Just be prepared. Take heed of what I say. Don’t be a troublemaker.’
She swept out, locking the door behind her.
35
Hawksmoor’s Christ Church was the key landmark in the Spitalfields area. The building loomed above the modest residential housing, and the white steeple dominated the skyline wherever you were in the surrounding streets. For the second time in a day, Gedge strode through the imposing portico, with its huge pillars, and quietly opened the church door.
The interior was a cavernous space. Gedge guessed about 90 feet long, and at least 80 feet high. Further tall pillars ran down each side of the nave, separating the main central area from the narrow and secluded bays at left and right.
At this time of the morning, the church was almost deserted. An elderly woman sat in one of the pews in the central portion, deep in contemplation. As Gedge walked further along the central aisle, another figure came into view, sitting in the left-hand bay, exactly at the spot where Gedge had hidden the message from Frowde. The man’s appearance was just as Frowde had described.
Gedge could see that Musgrave had already been drinking. His head was lolling about as though it wasn’t rigidly connected to his body.
‘Mr Musgrave?’
He looked up, startled. ‘Are you Gedge? I’ve taken a chance even showin’ up here, with Mr Frowde dead.’
‘Yes, I’m Lucas Gedge. I appreciate the risk you’re running. But perhaps the loss of Harry Frowde demonstrates the urgency of sharing whatever you might know about the abductions. That, and the fact that my daughter is one of the girls they’ve taken. And, if you help me, I’ve got something for you.’ Gedge opened his coat a little and allowed Musgrave a glimpse of a gin bottle that he had tucked away.
Musgrave pursed his lips. ‘Go on then, ask your questions.’
‘Please start from the beginning, from when you first heard about the goings-on. Whatever you think is related to the current disappearances.’
‘I expect you’ve heard about my former employment with the force, and the fact that after I left I became an informer for the Leman Street boys. Some years ago, I started hearing tales. Stories of “parties” as they liked to call ’em. I’m talkin’ up-market stuff, high-born people. They’re the worst, really. Drinkin’, drugs, orgies, the kind of thing that’d upset your stuck-up middle-class newspaper reader, but to us men of the world…’ He elbowed Gedge as if to make a point. ‘Nothing very dramatic. But there was more to it.
‘Girls were brought to these affairs. None of your unwashed whores off the street, but nice lasses who’d had a bit of an education. I got to hear about one of these girls who’d been at a few of the parties. She’d had a bad time of it and was shootin’ her mouth off in a pub. She said some of the toffs went a bit far. Sadism and the like. Peculiar games where they half-choked her ’cos it’s supposed to turn you on. She disappeared before I could find out any more. But a friend of hers, Martha, I did meet. She told me even worse things. She reckoned at least one girl had been killed. Many of the others had disappeared, and she thought they’d been sold on, maybe even taken abroad.’ Musgrave gripped the back of the pew in front, his knuckles white.
‘You said that was some years ago. Is there any connection to what’s going on now?’
‘I reckon so. The stories back then died down. Apparently, the parties stopped. But there was something that Martha talked about that kept naggin’ at me. Two things, really. Two people. That was the scariest thing for her, the knowledge of who they were. One was what you might call an agent. He seemed to be the one who organised the dirty work. Findin’ the girls in the first place, movin’ them about, sortin’ out anyone who stepped out of line. She said he was an evil sod, and she was told by a girl who’d had the misfortune to spend the night with him that he was ex-army. He boasted about how many men he’d killed. He said he was with the Grenadiers.’
‘That’s right, he was. His name’s Ackerman. We know about him.’
‘Maybe so, but if anything, the other one was worse. Martha said there was no point goin’ to the police, ’cos Ackerman’s gang was workin’ with someone else. Someone not in the police as such, but above the police, as she put it. Whoever this was, he wasn’t just turnin’ a blind eye, he was actually workin’ with the agent in settin’ the whole thing up, arranging the clients that got involved in all the business. Mr Frowde’s newspaper reports about these latest goin’s-on make me think the same thing’s started up again. That’s why I was talkin’ to him.’
‘So who was this man, who was “above the police”?’
‘I’m not sure if she knew his name, but she’d certainly found out a bit about him. I tried to get more out of her, but she was too scared.’
Gedge fixed Musgrave with a stare, and rested his hand on the older man’s shoulder.
‘Vic, what happened to Martha?’
‘She moved away. I don’t blame her. She went to stay with an uncle in Hastings for a while, but then she moved on, to Dungeness in Kent. Ever been there? Bloody place, it’s like the end of the world. Gawd knows how she stands it.’
‘Have you got an address for Martha, in Dungeness?’
‘Yes, such as it is.’ He stopped talking and looked Gedge in the eye.
‘Well, what is it, man?’
‘Just promise me, if you go down there, you’ll look after her. It’d kill me if I thought tellin’ yo
u all this could bring harm to Martha.’
‘I give you my word, Vic. My friends and I will keep her safe. She’ll never be able to relax with the gang still free to operate. The best way of restoring order to everyone’s lives is to put them out of business, with the help of both you and Martha.’
‘Alright. The address is simple enough. It’s Hope Cottage, Dungeness. It’s somewhere right in the middle of that wasteland of shingle, right near the sea.’
‘Do you think she has any idea where they might be holding the girls now?’
‘If it’s the same place, maybe. But that was another thing she refused to tell me, even though I told her I could make it hot for ’em, with or without the help of the coppers. Too many bad memories, she said. Eventually, I let it lie. Pity. Could’ve stopped other young ladies being taken, includin’ your daughter.’
‘You might also have got yourself killed. There’s no point looking back now. I’m going to go down to Dungeness, find out what Martha knows. In the meantime, you need to lie low. Don’t attract the attention of Ackerman, or the police for that matter. We’ll soon have this sorted out.’
‘You’ll have your work cut out. But I wish you luck, son.’
Gedge handed the gin bottle to Musgrave and hurried out of the church. Looking back, he noticed his informant already taking a furtive sip.
36
Gedge had to wait until the next morning to take a train to the south coast. Polly insisted on accompanying him, pointing out that Martha was likely to be frightened of strangers, and the presence of another woman would be reassuring. Not that Gedge had any objections. Apart from being a fiercely independent woman, Polly was highly perceptive; a quality that was likely to be valuable.
They took an omnibus across London to Victoria Station, in time for the stopping train to Hastings, which departed just after 8 o’clock. They would have to change trains there. The nearest station for Dungeness was at Rye, and then they would need horse-drawn transport the rest of the way. They wouldn’t get to their destination until well into the afternoon.
After alighting at Rye, they looked around the station forecourt. There was little activity, and only one vehicle that looked as though it might provide transport further on. It was a wagonette; an open-topped four-wheeled carriage, propelled by two horses. This particular example appeared to have seen better days. Its paint was peeling, the horses were not in the first flush of youth, and the driver, raised up on a box-seat, did not seem keen to do any business. He grudgingly agreed to take them on to Dungeness, after Gedge paid what he considered to be over the odds. The driver assured them that he knew where Hope Cottage was, and that he would stop some distance short of it. They would walk the rest of the way, in order to draw less attention to themselves.
With no protection against the elements, the wagonette was hardly the ideal mode of transport. The wind whipped more keenly as they left the built-up part of Rye, but at least it wasn’t raining.
‘How far is it to Dungeness?’ Polly asked the driver.
He scoffed, not bothering to turn round in his seat. ‘It’d be ten miles as the crow flies, but there’s only one road in. We ’ave to go in the wrong direction for the first part of it, then turn back. So it ends up being fifteen or more miles. I’d settle back and enjoy the view of Romney Marsh, if I were you.’ He chuckled.
Gedge raised his eyes to the heavens. Evidently, there would be little jolly conversation to enliven the journey. Polly sniggered, and buried her face in the huge scarf she was wearing.
The scenery was notable for its lack of elevation. Grassland stretched far and wide, interrupted by an occasional windswept tree. The field boundaries were marked with wooden fencing and what seemed to be a network of ditches. In places, the road was lined with ragged leafless shrubs. Countless sheep grazed on the open grass meadows.
The two nags trudged on. Their master occasionally called out a reproach, maintaining his affronted air at being asked to make this journey.
After an hour or so, the road curved around and they finally headed south, towards the coast and their destination.
Polly, who had actually managed to fall asleep for a while, roused herself.
‘It’s amazing to think this land wasn’t even here in Roman times.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was reading about it. Back in those days, Rye was a port. It was on the coast, and where we are now would have been several miles offshore. This whole area has silted up since then. That’s why Romney Marsh is so flat. But also a lot of it’s below sea level. I wouldn’t fancy living down here during a winter storm.’
‘No. I suppose it has its own beauty, but I’d have to come back some time to appreciate that. I just wish we could get to where we’re going more quickly.’
They passed through the pretty town of Lydd, the tower of its medieval church dominating the local skyline, but saw virtually nobody on the streets. A couple of miles further on, the landscape started to change. While still mostly flat, great swathes of gravel began to replace the previously endless grassy meadows. Darkness was closing in.
‘This is what I’ve been expecting,’ said Polly. ‘We must be getting near our destination. Dungeness is known for all this shingle.’
They saw a few low houses scattered along the road, some sitting amid the shingle itself. Gedge thought he could finally see the sea: a vague sliver of mid-grey occupied the space between the darker grey of the sky and the pale brown of the flat gravel beach. As the road started to curve northwards, following the line of the coast up towards Dover and Deal, the driver brought the horses to a halt and turned round.
‘You want Hope Cottage? It’s that one with the red roof, over there.’
They looked in the direction of his pointing finger. The house was several hundred yards distant to the south, midway between the road and the shoreline.
‘Will you able to take us back tomorrow?’ said Polly.
‘Suppose so. I’ll be back along here at nine, prompt. You’d better be back here waitin’, or you’ll have to make your own arrangements. I’m off for a beer.’
They disembarked, and the wagonette trotted off, making better time now that the driver had something to look forward to.
‘I can hardly wait for the scintillating return journey,’ said Gedge.
They started making their way across the shingle, trying to favour the more solid ground. It was a landscape like no other: an undulating carpet of pebbles with the occasional foot-high clump of some evergreen plant that was managing to survive into winter.
Hope Cottage, like the others dotted about in the shingle, looked like some desperate attempt to carry on a traditional lifestyle in this alien setting. Gedge found it hard to believe that such a structure would survive many winters out here. It was single-storey, with small windows, dingy brown weatherboarded walls and a roof made of corrugated iron. A lean-to structure was attached at one end; perhaps a shed or storage space. For the final few yards, a narrow boardwalk allowed the front door to be approached with a firmer footing.
Gedge and Polly gratefully stepped onto the planks. There was little sign of life in the house, but a dim light was discernible beyond the gauzy curtains. A thin wisp of smoke issued from the skinny chimney stack, before being snatched away by the sea breeze.
On reaching the door, Gedge became aware of a strange feeling at the back of his neck, as if they were being observed from somewhere. He looked around. Nothing. Not a soul could be seen; not on the road, nor by any of the isolated houses, nor anywhere on the shingle. The only movement was that of washing lines and the odd piece of loose material disturbed by wind off the sea. Half a mile offshore a little fishing boat bobbed on the waves, heading south. He felt a stickiness on his skin from the salt in the air.
He motioned to Polly to stay behind, and knocked on the door.
No answer. He gave the potential occupant enough time to answer, and then tried the knob. It wouldn’t open. He stepped off the boardwalk, slowly
crunched around to the nearest window and peered through. He couldn’t see anything inside; there wasn’t enough light.
Then, the muffled sound of a shout from inside. There was someone there, and that person had seen Gedge’s face at the window.
‘Lucas!’ said Polly. ‘Someone’s coming!’
The door opened a crack and a woman’s face peered out. Her hands gripped the edge, as if she expected to have to ram the door shut again at any moment. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils flared.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
Polly moved in front of Gedge. ‘Don’t be scared, Martha. We mean you no harm.’
‘How the hell do you know my name? Oh my god!’
‘Please listen, Martha. Vic Musgrave told us why you’re down here. He told us about your experiences at the hands of Ackerman’s gang.’
Martha’s face contorted at the mention of Ackerman.
‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ said Polly. ‘In charge of things?’
‘He was one of them, yes. But why couldn’t bloody Vic keep his big mouth shut? What are you? A pair of busybodies? If you know anything about that business, you’ll know it’s best to keep out of it. That’s why I’m down here. I thought it was far enough away. Looks like even this godforsaken hut on the edge of the world isn’t remote enough to give me any peace!’
Gedge spoke up. ‘Martha, it’s because the same sort of things are happening again. That’s why Vic helped us find you. And I’m afraid we can’t just keep out of it. My own daughter’s been kidnapped by them and they’ve killed several times. So you see we do need to find out whatever we can. But nobody knows we’re here, and we won’t tell anyone about you. We’re not the police and we won’t get the authorities involved.’
Martha’s face dropped, and her hands released their grip on the edge of the door. She started to sob; quietly at first, then gradually rising in intensity until she was howling uncontrollably. Polly put her arms around Martha’s shoulders and eased her back in to the cottage. Martha clung on, her frame shaking as the tears welled up.