by Mark Latham
My father’s papers still sat in a large box in my lounge, and I had only sorted half of them so far. This, then, would be my first task. I set about organising them methodically into piles, and writing brief instructions for any outstanding business concerns to my solicitor, Mr. Fairclough. I came once more upon the address near Faversham, which had once been my home, and lingered over it. My late father had taken on an estate manager to look after the house, though I had long thought it sold, and as far as I could tell it was still being maintained thus. I took great pains to balance the books so that my old home could remain in my keeping, and sent instruction to Mr. Fairclough to acquire for me a key to the property, and transfer all of the relevant paperwork to my name and notify the manager of the change, so that I could visit it as soon as my business in London was concluded. Ah, if only it was so simple, I remember thinking; the case looked unlikely to be resolved any time soon, and was already absorbing so much of my time that a return to the quiet countryside of my youth seemed a pleasure far beyond my reach.
It was late in the afternoon when Archie McGrath called on me. I took tea with him and he checked on my wounds, encouraging me greatly with his appraisal. I was, it seemed, recovering rapidly, and he changed my dressings, passing comment that perhaps this time I could get some bed-rest and allow my stitches to heal fully. Although he was an earnest fellow, I still felt guarded and suspicious of everyone; my conversation with Jim the previous day had left me feeling slightly paranoid, and I was beginning to long for army life again, for the embrace of the only family I had known for many a long year.
After some awkward small-talk, mercifully interrupted by Mrs. Whitinger’s collection of our tea things, Archie made his excuses and left me to my thoughts. I realised after he had gone that I had done little to extend the hand of fellowship to him, even though he really did seem amiable enough. I wondered if perhaps I had become too used to isolation, and forgotten the simple pleasures of good company. I contemplated dressing for dinner and taking a cab to the club, but reminded myself of Jim’s warning not to return to duty so soon, and so with a weary head I hobbled off to bed.
When I awoke at the start of yet another day, I felt stronger and full of optimism, and mercifully free from the opium cravings that had marred my recovery. I washed, shaved, and dressed for breakfast. I ate heartily, and even managed cheerful conversation with Mrs. Whitinger, at least partly restoring some of her trust in my good nature.
At nine o’clock sharp there was a rap at the door, and soon after the maid brought in a letter addressed to me. It was a short missive, written on headed club notepaper.
John,
I hope this note finds you in good health. I have today received fresh instructions regarding our investigation. Suggest we meet later today. Please accept my invitation to luncheon at the Mitre on Aldgate. Shall we say midday? I hope to see you shortly.
Your Friend,
A.H.
I felt oddly cross; Ambrose had not deigned to visit these past few days, though of course it was likely that the investigation had taken up all of his time in light of the new attacks. Aldgate seemed an odd choice of venue for a meeting, however—did he somehow know that I wished to revisit the East End, I wondered? Or was it just one of Ambrose’s regular haunts? Regardless, I was eager to begin work, and so I scribbled an acceptance note, making brief mention of my intention to return to Whitechapel, and instructing Ambrose to dress down for the occasion. When it came time to depart I took up my cane, which I still needed for support, and placed a notebook and pencil in my breast pocket. As I had mentioned to Ambrose, I was careful to select clothing that would not draw undue attention in the East End, especially in the poorer Spitalfields area. I dressed casually, ready for luncheon at Ambrose’s chosen eatery, but carried my battered overcoat over my arm so that I could don it when required to travel incognito.
I arrived at the Mitre to find it was not quite the modest dining room I had envisaged. It had clearly once been a tavern, and from the outside might still have passed as one, but the current proprietor had transformed it into a more up-market establishment, no doubt to serve the growing number of senior clerks and bankers that laboured each day in the district. I was shown to Ambrose’s table, and I held onto my overcoat, slightly embarrassed to hand the tatty article to the waiter.
Ambrose was already waiting for me, having reserved our table ahead of time, taking care to secure a booth where we might conduct our business privately.
‘Ah, there you are, old chap,’ Ambrose said as I took my seat. ‘You look fit as a fiddle. Mind you, you’ll forgive me if I don’t embrace you, in case you break.’ He laughed and took a sip of wine from a glass that was almost empty.
‘Go easy, Ambrose,’ I said. ‘We’ll need clear heads today. Business before pleasure.’
‘When have I ever done anything in moderation? Face it, old chap, you really yearn to resume our partnership. Your life must have been tiresome dull these last few days without me.’
‘“Tiresome dull”… that’s one way of putting it, yes,’ I replied. ‘And you? I presume you have been busy with club duties?’
‘For the most part, although not as much as I’d have liked. Old Toby was keen to keep you in the loop for some reason, hence we are here.’
I expected him to explain why he hadn’t visited me on my sickbed, but he merely drained his glass and suppressed a burp. It was all I could do not to smile despite myself. This was the Ambrose I had come to know—unashamed and unabashed. And singularly selfish in his own roguish way. Were we really friends? I felt we were, although for the life of me I couldn’t work out why.
We ordered a modest lunch of chops and vegetables, and began to formulate our plan of action, using my map to aid us.
‘So, we begin at the Ten Bells,’ began Ambrose, ‘and question the landlord and some of the locals.’
‘I agree, but we must also be on the lookout for anything unusual in the pub,’ I added. ‘Perhaps I am becoming too untrusting, but I cannot rely on the statements of anyone—who knows how far the influence of the anarchists has spread?’
Ambrose nodded as he sipped his beer. A waiter set down our food, and there was a momentary bustle of activity, before we were once again left alone. I was nervous about the coming day’s activity, but at the same time I still felt a determination to further the case and bring the anarchists to justice. I could barely sit still during lunch, instead feeling an agitation to set down knife and fork and begin the investigation immediately.
Ambrose and I determined to find out as much as possible at the Ten Bells, and then if need be move on to Christ Church and speak to the vicar or verger there. We were optimistic of results, but even so we looked at the map and planned a route to Chelsea Hospital, another suspected exit point for the dynamiters, to see if anyone there remembered anything suspicious from the earlier bomb attacks. I thought back to my conversation with Captain Denny; I almost wished I had struck out to the East End with him rather than Ambrose. Regardless of conflicts of interest, I had met no one at the club whom I trusted half as well as James Denny. He reminded me of the men I had served with in the East. How I longed for trusted comrades at my side right now—Sergeant Whittock, Lieutenant Bertrand, Corporal Beechworth… these names flitted at the edges of clouded memory, and God only knew where they were now; those steadfast men whom I had called friends. Now true friendship and trust seemed commodities I could ill afford.
When lunch was done, Ambrose produced a small cloth bag from beside him on his bench. I had not noticed it before, and he slid the bag across the table casually, saying quietly: ‘You might need this—best keep it hidden, though, until the paperwork comes through. We might be able to convince the law that you’re still in the army, but safest not to let it come down to my bargaining skills.’
As soon as I touched the bag, I knew what it contained. I placed it beside me on my own bench, and peeked inside to confirm the presence of the gun: an old snub-nosed Webley, smaller an
d lighter than the service revolver I had used overseas, but more than formidable enough for the seedier side of London.
‘Checked it out of the armoury last night. I trust it’s the type you’re familiar with?’
I thanked Ambrose, and was glad of the weapon. When I’d landed back in England after my discharge, I would have resisted the idea of carrying a sidearm and seeking any kind of action, so harrowing were my memories of service. Now, however, I was filled by thoughts of pitting my wits against an elusive, dangerous and determined foe. And, truth be told, of evening the score should the opportunity arise.
* * *
Our first destination was Commercial Street, and our route took us past the yawning mouth of Commercial Road, along whose wide street could be seen the havoc wreaked by the recent blast. Though the debris was mostly cleared and traffic now crawled along the thoroughfare, it was a far cry from the crammed and energetic scene that had presented itself to us on our last visit just days ago.
Through the bustle of street life and industry we passed, until the hansom came to a stop near a busy junction, outside the gleaming edifice of Christ Church. As Ambrose paid the driver I stepped towards the church, gazing up at its classical façade and stupendously tall steeple, and feeling almost dizzied by the bizarre, sharp-edged shadows that criss-crossed the frontage, making the unmatched windows and blind arches seem strangely stark and somehow detached, floating ethereally upon a canvas of smooth, white stone. It was majestic; more of a temple than a church, and it seemed so wholly out of place, towering as it did over the small buildings around it.
I felt a tap on my arm. Ambrose indicated the public house across the street from Christ Church.
‘Magnificent church,’ he stated. ‘But we have business over the road first—if in doubt, always take drink before church; it’s a rule I swear by. Now, we don’t want a repeat of that business with the dreadful Walpole woman, so follow my lead. We do not want to be taken for newspapermen, Scotland Yard, or, worse still, bloody daytrippers.’
‘Daytrippers? Here?’ I asked, ignoring his assumption that I was some kind of buffoon.
‘Oh yes. The spirit of Saucy Jack looms large in the Ten Bells,’ said Ambrose. ‘Followers of the Autumn of Terror flock here to see where the Ripper’s victims used to drink. Puts coin in the tills, but drives the locals to distraction. No, we shall pretend we are former patrons, who have steered clear due to the recent trouble. Let’s pretend we’ve heard some scurrilous rumours in the gutter-press that brings the pub into disrepute. They’ll be so angry that they’ll tell us all we need.’
‘I’m not sure making them angry is the way to go about it. What if it doesn’t work?’
‘Then we use our fall-back plan.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘You buy them all drinks until they talk.’ And with that, he was across the road and through the door with me trailing behind like his shadow.
* * *
Ambrose’s plan went almost entirely smoothly, which caused me to wonder if, when not playing the dandy, he often caroused with the common working man in backwater establishments. He certainly took to coarse conversation and weak ale like a duck to water.
Upon learning that several fictitious newspapers had named his pub as a notorious haunt of the hated dynamiters, the publican had become most indignant, and his regulars had rallied round him.
‘I run an honest establishment!’ the landlord had cried. ‘If I had cause to believe… why it beggars belief… oh! I should have words with these muck-rakers!’ It seemed to me that the press was not well-liked in the East End, doubtless for their endless portrayals of the local colour as gin-addled wastrels and violent thugs in order to amuse the middle-class commuter crowd.
In exchange for several rounds of drinks, the tongues of the regulars were soon loosened and their observations imparted. It was only, however, when I mentioned that the anarchists were sometimes called ‘men in black’ that we struck upon vital intelligence, which perhaps the police would have overlooked.
‘I heard that they always dress in smart black clothes, and sometimes stay near the scene of the crime to witness their handiwork,’ I’d said. ‘And other times still…’ I leaned in and lowered my voice, causing everyone to lean forward also and listen to me carefully, ‘…they even have women with them, decked out in their afflictions.’ There was an audible intake of breath, until finally a small man with a hard, pinched face spoke up.
‘I can barely believe my ears, and I swear upon my mother’s grave that this is the first time I have heard such thing, but I fear I may have seen something after all!’ He seemed nervous and hesitant, but perfectly sincere. He was an old sot named Tom, and it transpired that he had been drinking in the Ten Bells on the evening of the third—as he did most evenings, it seems—and had stepped outside when he heard ‘holy hell’ breaking loose, which he’d first taken for an earthquake.
‘A few of us went outside to see what was happening,’ he had explained, ‘and there was a terrible commotion. Bobbies whistlin’, fire-trucks a-clatterin’, and people running all about shoutin’ bloody murder. We could see smoke risin’ from over the rooftops in three great plumes. Never seen anything like it in all my days. But there was something else. Something that I’d forgotten about until just now.’ He had stopped to take a drink, continuing only when he was satisfied that everyone was on tenterhooks waiting for his testimony. ‘Across the road we saw two men and a young lady, all dressed in black. Too smart for the time o’ day. My mate ’Arold said to me, he says, “Look at them there, in their Sunday best. Didn’t know there was a funeral on today.” For sure enough, they was heading into the church, and they was in a terrible ’urry; all flustered and out of puff they were. And ’Arold was right; I hadn’t seen a black-coach all day.’
‘And what happened? Did you see them again? Where did they go?’ I was eager to know more. Perhaps it was that eagerness that stopped him from proceeding, suspecting that I was one of those ‘muck-rakers’ after all, or perhaps that was all he knew, for all he would say was: ‘Dunno sir. I never saw them again, surely, and never paid it no mind until today. And to think, I might have seen them dynamiters with me own eyes!’
At the culmination of Old Tom’s tale, it became obvious that our true business was at the church, and we had already attracted too much of a little gathering in the Ten Bells, some of whom were surely suspecting us of being policemen or reporters by that point. We made our excuses and beat a retreat, straight across the road to the Baroque church.
* * *
The atmosphere within Christ Church was positively otherworldly. The nave was both spacious and claustrophobic at the same time; Gothic arches, and carved Composite columns seemed to break up every open space, so there was no logical path for the eye to follow into the huge nave until one was actually standing in its centre. The dichotomy of light and shadow was dizzying; streams of pale light poured in through the clerestory, causing shadows of varying intensity to criss-cross the nave before blending into pitch darkness in every far corner. It was as though the architect had attempted to paint a melancholy scene using naught but light. A few large tallow candles were lit here and there, and their smoke mingled with incense from an unseen source to make the very air seem to writhe around us. There was no sound, save for a faint coughing from a solitary worshipper near the altar, and the sound of our heels ringing on the flagged floor as we made for the vestry. There, we met the incumbent rector, Dr. Billing, and his young verger, Michael, who were more than helpful when we explained our business. There was little deception required on our part with staunch men of the cloth, although Ambrose introduced us as Home Office agents nonetheless, leaving me no choice but to play along.
We spent some time taking tea in the vestry with the loquacious rector, with Ambrose at least making a show of professionalism when his mouth wasn’t stuffed with cake. Michael spoke little, and after just minutes in the rector’s company I doubted that he had much opportunity;
the elder clergyman strayed too readily and too often from the matter at hand for my liking, and chattered almost non-stop.
‘I do recall,’ he said, when eventually he decided to answer my questions directly, ‘that on the evening of the third we were disturbed by a loud noise, as though the door had been opened and closed sharply; isn’t that right Michael?’ Michael was given no chance to reply. ‘We were both certain that the door had been locked, so we went out to the nave to investigate.’
It seemed our luck was in, for the two of them had stayed late on the night in question, and had recorded the events in a diary, which the rector fetched to remind himself of the facts.
‘We checked the main door, and found the wicket door open,’ Dr. Billing continued. ‘This was most disconcerting, for I remembered locking it myself, and Michael was certain he remembered me doing so, didn’t you Michael? This is not the fairest district of London, and it was near dark outside, so we were concerned that perhaps some disreputable type had entered by force. It was with some trepidation that I poked my head outside and surveyed the scene. There was nothing unusual as far as I could tell. There were a few people scurrying back and forth, still frantic after the dynamite attack, but no one approached our doors or loitered nearby.
‘I closed the door once more, and bade Michael watch it whilst I looked around the church. If someone had forced their way in, I did not want to lock the door once more for fear of being trapped inside with the type of individual who would break into a house of God. I fumbled for a match and lit some more of the candles, but just then we were both made to jump out of our skins by another noise, this time from the crypt. Well, I need not explain that we were now in a bit of a funk, for it seemed obvious that someone had entered the church and was rattling about in our crypt. At best, I surmised, it would be a poor unfortunate of the streets, seeking shelter; at worst, a grave robber, though he would find no recent burials down there.