The Hellfire Conspiracy bal-4

by Will Thomas

  The lockkeeper was standing at the dock in his nightshirt and cap, looking irate.

  “Look here,” he cried as we came up. “This is too much. I’ll not have such shenanigans on my lock, racing at such at hour!”

  “Someone just came through?” Dunham asked.

  “Not ten minutes ago, and in such a hurry he scraped my gate!” He pointed at a scratch of white paint that ran horizontally across the wood.

  “Describe them!”

  “White steam launch, sir. Just one man aboard that I could see.”

  The inspector swiveled his head toward us. Was Barker tricking him? his expression seemed to ask. Or worse, had the man tossed Ona overboard?

  “She may have been lying in the bottom of the boat,” I dared say.

  “Open this blasted gate!” Dunham bellowed.

  In a moment we were through, the constables shoveling coal into the boiler for all they were worth. Meanwhile, the inspector pushed the handle on the throttle, gaining more speed. Barker abandoned the casual pose that had driven Dunham so mad, and made his way to the bow. He seemed glad to be in a boat and extended his chin forward in the breeze as the shreds of fog whipped by.

  When we reached London, the vessel slowed, causing barges and other boats to clank against the docks like toys in a tub.

  “Stop!” Barker cried, but it was too late to shut the valve. Miacca’s launch was floating unmanned in the middle of the Thames. Dunham swerved, but we plowed into the back end of it with a rending of wood. The inspector was knocked off his perch, and Barker and I nearly fell overboard. The boat narrowly avoided a dock, and slid up an embankment before smashing into a hut. Both constables were covered in hot coals and began patting out the fire on each other. Barker jumped down onto the shore.

  “Come! There’s not a moment to lose, if we are to save Ona Bellovich.”

  We had passed under the Tower Bridge, still in mid-construction. Barker spread those long legs of his and ran for all he was worth, his oilskin flapping behind, while we struggled to keep up. In Royal Mint Street, he flagged down a cab, and he, Dunham, and I clambered aboard, leaving the constables to find another or be left behind.

  “Who is it?” Dunham demanded. “Won’t you please tell me who we are after?”

  Barker only gave him an adamantine look.

  “Blast your hide, Barker!” the inspector swore. “Must everything be a secret to you?”

  “They cannot be far ahead. Turn onto Cambridge Road, driver!”

  It’s Palmister Clay, I told myself. My word, he’s Miacca!

  But no, we swept past Clay’s little snuggery, and when we came to Green Street, we did not turn left toward the charity, pressing on northward instead. Barker seemed to know exactly where he was going. I just prayed we were not too late.

  31

  “Halt!” Barker cried when we reached the Old Ford Road and flung open the doors of the cab. He clattered down to the pavement and ran, leaving Dunham and me a tangle of limbs trying simultaneously to exit the vehicle and pay the cabman. We struggled to the ground and followed my employer. There were scant seconds to lose if we were going to save Ona Bellovich from violation, murder, and mutilation. I knew where we were going now and the identity of Miacca.

  The Carrick Photographic Emporium was in sight, and Barker had almost reached it. He did not slow as he approached, but several feet away launched himself into the air. Both of his boots struck the door at once, bursting it from its hinges; and when the door fell, he slid across the room upon it until it crashed into the counter. He vaulted it and landed on the other side.

  “Stephen Carrick!” Cyrus Barker bellowed. “Bring the girl here now! Gentlemen, the next room!”

  The three of us charged into the room where Carrick took his photographs. It was empty, but there was a half-opened door beyond it. I thrust it open in time to see the face of Stephen Carrick regarding us furiously from a small bedstead, his black cape spread across it like the wings of a bat. Underneath him I could see the still form of Ona Bellovich, dazed from whatever drug he had given her. Carrick began to rise, a look of mad triumph on his face.

  Dunham and I tackled him, knocking him from the bed. He struggled forcefully, and I was obliged to seize his hair and bang his head once or twice against the brick wall while Barker covered Ona Bellovich’s body with the cape.

  A sound like a cat hissing came from behind me, and I turned in time to be confronted by Rose Carrick. She held a large rectangular tray in her hand, the kind used for developing photographs, and she threw the contents at me. It would have soaked me completely, had Barker not stepped between us, raising the oilskin he wore as a shield. The coat caught most of the liquid, but some splashed over his head and onto Dunham and me, and began to burn.

  “Acid!” Dunham cried. I looked up to see Barker’s long oilskin begin to smoke. He tore it off, but I could see that his hand already had angry red blisters on it. He ran it over his scalp and came away with a lock of loose hair.

  “Sir!” I cried, reaching for him, but Carrick took the opportunity to dash between us. He glanced back at us and there was a look upon his face of sheer maniacal glee. Another few steps and he would be able to flee into the night with his wife.

  I wasn’t going to let that happen while I could do something about it. I latched onto his ankle as he passed, and he dragged me with him across the room. The weight of my body slowed him down enough to allow Dunham a good swing of his truncheon, which broke Carrick’s nose. He went down, dazed by the blow, while his wife dropped her pan and loped for the safety of the darkroom.

  “I’ve got him this time,” Dunham said grimly, clasping his darbies about the killer’s wrists. “Get his bloody wife!”

  Leaving Miss Bellovich with Barker and Carrick in Dunham’s custody, I ran to the door of the darkroom and beat upon it, ordering her to open it. Stepping back, I began to kick near the lock with the heel of my boot as hard as I could.

  Suddenly there was a roar within and a sharp scream from Rose Carrick. Barker and I looked at one another incredulously as we realized she had set the room on fire with herself in it. Smoke began to billow from under the door. A darkroom must contain flammable chemicals, I was sure. “Mrs. Carrick,” I cried. “Open the door! Can you get to the door?”

  But the screaming became even louder and more plaintive as the fire inside grew. I looked about for something with which to batter the door, but there was nothing nearby that would serve, so I put all my weight into one strong kick.

  “No, lad!” Barker cried from behind me, as the door sprung open. He pulled me down as a huge ball of flame flew over our heads, igniting the room. My employer’s mustache and brows were kindled and our clothing caught fire. We rolled over and over across the floor to quench the flames, while overhead the rafters began to burn.

  “Ona,” Barker rasped. “Get Ona, lad.”

  I pushed myself off the floor and ran into the back room. The fire had not reached there yet, but the room was filling with smoke. I made my way to the bedstead and scooped her up in my arms. Her eyes opened slightly, but she was still heavily drugged.

  “I’ll get you out of here safely,” I said, but even as I said the words, I wondered if it was a rash promise. The front room was now an inferno. Dunham and Barker were trying to drag Carrick through the open entranceway with the aid of Swanson’s constables who had finally found us. I took as much smoky air into my lungs as I dared hold, then dashed through the burning room to the front entrance. The heat was excruciating and I wondered if my clothes had caught fire again, but then I was suddenly out in the Old Ford Road, alive, comparatively safe, and with Ona Bellovich in my arms. My coat was so charred, it smoldered in the night air. There was a cheer, and people moved forward to pat my clothing. The fire had attracted residents and merchants who had no idea what had just happened inside.

  There was another explosion from the building. The first floor windows blew out, showering us all in glass, and a tongue of fire rose out of the b
urning chimney.

  Stephen Carrick sat up then and pushed himself onto his feet despite his shackled hands. He watched as the shop he had built was engulfed in flames along with the wife who had tried to protect him.

  “No! No!” he cried, trying to dash back into the burning building, despite the constables who held him on either side. “No! My jar, my trophy jar! I must have it!”

  “Shut it, you little ghoul,” Dunham said, raking him across the shoulders with his club.

  “Sir,” I said, kneeling down by Barker. “You’re in bad shape. Let me go and get Dr. Fitzhugh.”

  “Go, then,” the Guv said, gritting his teeth in pain. “Miss Bellovich will need medical attention after her ordeal.” Leave it to Barker to disregard his own needs in order to meet another’s.

  For once, I was glad to be in Bethnal Green. I ran through the streets on my way to find the doctor, but though I attracted stares from everyone I passed in my smoldering clothes, no one dared stop me. In Kensington or Chelsea, I would have been arrested for disturbing the public peace, but here I ran all the way to Fitzhugh’s boardinghouse without interference.

  “My god!” Fitzhugh said when he saw me. “Come in and let me treat you at once.”

  “No time,” I choked out. “Barker is in the Old Ford Road in far worse shape than I, and we’ve got a girl in our custody who has been drugged. Get your bag and come!”

  Fitzhugh ran up the stairs to pack his medical bag and was back in two minutes ready to give aid. He led me through alleys and side streets I didn’t know about, until we were back in front of the burning structure again.

  We found Ona Bellovich being tended by a pair of female Salvation Army workers who had pinned the cape about her body and put a tin cup of cocoa in her hands. A combination of shock from the events and the effects of the drug made her sit forlornly, head cocked to the side, like a doll that had been dropped. I doubted she even knew she held the cocoa. Within minutes, one of the female officers and a constable carefully lifted her into the back of a hansom cab.

  Barker’s head had been bathed by another Salvation Army officer. Fitzhugh took over for her, applying sticking plaster to the major lesions and painting the rest of my employer’s face in iodine. I was glad for once that he always wore dark spectacles, else he might have been blinded. By the time the doctor had finished tending him, the iodine and plaster made him look worse than before he had been treated.

  “Bloody hell,” a man said behind us. I looked over my shoulder into the eyes of Inspector Swanson. “Why aren’t these men locked up, as I ordered?”

  “I discarded your suggestion,” Dunham said, emphasizing the final word, “and decided to go after the killer of all those girls I found in the river. His name is Stephen Carrick and he’s here in my custody.”

  “In case you didn’t notice, Dunham, you ain’t on the river now. This is Yard business.”

  “I came here on the river,” the Thames Police inspector maintained. “I found those girls in the first place and I wrote the reports you stole and never returned. I won’t have you giving me orders. Why don’t you go back to Whitehall where you belong?”

  While the inspectors continued their jurisdictional argument, I hefted my employer to his feet, and the two of us shuffled through the alleyways to the warehouse. Once inside, I called for Mac and together, we got the Guv upstairs and onto the mattress. I believe he fell asleep almost instantly.

  “Oy, Thomas,” Mac said, using my Christian name for the first time that I could recall. “You are a fright.”

  I looked down at myself. My oilskin was in tatters and there was a large hole burned through my jacket and waistcoat to my shirt beneath. There were blisters on my hand. I went in search of my shaving mirror, and when I found it, wished I hadn’t. My nose and forehead were red from the fireball and my face black with soot. My hair had been singed by fire and would have to be cut short to look normal.

  I suddenly began to shake as it all caught up with me, but I fought back the attack of nerves. I had made a temporary truce with Mac but didn’t want to show any sign of weakness. “I say,” I said in my most casual voice, “any chance for a cup of coffee?”

  “Of course, but I think first I must attend to your wounds. I’ve got a medical kit among my things.”

  “Is there anything you neglected to bring?” I dared ask.

  “Shoe polish,” he responded, taking my remark literally. “I have had to buff my shoes with a cloth. I shall remember it the next time the Guv decides to move us into temporary quarters.”

  “I hope that won’t be for a very long while.”

  “I do, as well,” Mac said. “To be quite candid, I’ve hated it here. I do not believe I would have made a good Sicilian.”

  Mac pulled a box full of gauze and other medical supplies from one of his trunks and set to work. I flinched as he applied iodine to one of my burns.

  “So,” Mac said as he painted my face. “I assume you got Miacca.”

  “Bagged him but good,” I answered. “He’s in police custody, though I’m not certain which police.”

  “So, tell me who it was and what happened.”

  I told him everything from the time Barker first put the punting pole into the water until we had staggered into the warehouse still smoldering. It took almost half an hour of explaining. We had had an eventful evening.

  “So it was Carrick,” Mac said. “How long do you suppose the Guv had known?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, looking at the slumbering figure on the bed. “The important thing is it’s done. Miacca is in custody, Bethnal Green is safe, and we can go back to Newington again. No more stony mattresses.”

  “No more eight-hour vigils.”

  “No more meals served at room temperature.”

  “Fresh sheets, clean laundry, fresh cream on the doorstep every morning.”

  “And best of all, no infernal exercises.”

  “Do you gentlemen intend to talk all night?” Barker spoke from the bed. “Be so good as to give me twenty-five of your best.”

  32

  Thenext day we moved out of Bethnal Green. I was very happy to return the key to the estate agents and be shed of it. In Newington, we put our injured employer to bed and called in his personal physician, Dr. Applegate. He had to cut Barker out of his clothing. Some of the fabric that adhered to his burned skin had to be slowly removed with salad oil. The physician trussed him up like an Egyptian mummy. When he offered to treat me as well, I politely refused.

  Afterward, Barker had me summon a barber to his bed. I had to keep raising my offered fee for the man’s services until he stopped grumbling and we reached a settlement. He came and cut all our hair, Mac’s included, clucking over the state of our appearance, as if acid throwing were some new fashion of which he disapproved, but he left having more than made up for the time he’d shut down his shop.

  Barker was awake in the center of his old cabinet bed, with the curtains all drawn back. He was not the most handsome of men, but I hoped for his sake he would heal quickly.

  “Sir,” I said. “Mac and I were wondering when you first suspected Carrick.”

  “The second I saw him,” he replied.

  My brows went up.

  “Don’t think me a genius, yet, lad. I thought the same thing about Dr. Fitzhugh and William Stead. Detection is not about finding someone and fashioning a charge that will stick to him. It’s more like a footrace. One knows the winner is among the runners, but only when the others have dropped out and the race is finished will you know who it is. In this case, I began with a couple of assumptions.

  “My first was that Miacca was mad. He worked from a compulsion to kill young girls, but his madness was not patently obvious or he would have been arrested by Scotland Yard immediately. They are not simpletons, and they have great resources. Dunham is a good man, but Swanson is a first-rate detective. It was a challenge to work against him in this case.

  “My second assumption was that Miacca was
educated, for only an educated person would quote Blake or parrot your Mr. Lear. The problem was that so many of our suspects were well educated. Carrick, Miss Levy, Dr. Fitzhugh, William Stead, Mr. Clay, Lord Hesketh, and Dashwood had seen time at university. My assumption has been proven false. I now believe that Rose Carrick worked in collaboration with her husband in writing the taunting notes. She’s the one who chose the victims.”

  “Now wait,” I said. “Are you claiming Rose Carrick helped her husband? That implies that she knew what he was and what he did.”

  “More than that, it implies that she did not care. Her own husband assaulted and murdered children, and she helped him do so. I believe it was her task to get rid of the bodies when he was done with them. He would not have cared what became of the corpses. She was the organized one, the planner sitting in the British Museum, cribbing poems to use in taunting letters. She was his helpmeet and protector. She would have done anything for him, suffered anything. In fact, she did.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Who would put up with that?”

  “Do you recall how Stephen Carrick ran into trouble at university and ended up losing his inheritance?”

  “Yes, he was consorting with a fallen woman.”

  “That fallen woman, I believe, was Rose Carrick. Her life had reached the point where she was living as a prostitute in Oxford. The senior Carrick found that they had taken up together and demanded he give her up. Carrick refused, not because he was in love with her but because he would not be dictated to by his father. Rose may have interpreted it as such, and no doubt, she persuaded herself she was in love. She molded her life around him and defended him fully. In her mind, she had somehow won the prize, the handsomest, most intelligent, wealthy gentleman she’d ever met. By the time she discovered that he was less than perfect, that in fact, he was a monster, it was too late. She had committed herself and would do so unto death. She loved him fully, while he, in turn, was incapable of love but knew a good thing when he saw it. I believe she even selected candidates for his abductions. It is perhaps the reason she volunteered at the Charity Organization Society in the first place.”