by Giles Ekins
Slowly, ever so slowly, she twisted her right wrist to turn the lock more; she was on her knees but dare not try to stand in case she lost the position of the pick on the pins. She held the picklock true with her left hand and cocked her right wrist the other way to turn the pick more, turned now through more than 180 degrees.
Then with a sudden rush and a clatter which seemed to echo like gunshots around her cell the pins in the lock fully rotated and the door was unlocked.
Letting out her pent up breath Lucy eased the betty out from the lock, seeing that it had twisted out of shape; hairline cracks at the point of the bent were clearly visible, the effort had almost been too much for the weak metal of the lamp handle. Much more strain and the right-angled end of the makeshift lockpick would have snapped off inside the lock, making it impossible to undo.
She rubbed her aching hands together and stretched out her back to ease the knotted muscles.
Chapter 32
OCTOBER 31st, 1888. 1.30PM
DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR CHARLES COLLINGWOOD had drunk too much the night before. Had drunk far too much. The bottle of scotch he had opened earlier in the evening was now down to the last inch. He felt wretched, torn apart with worry and fear for the fate of Lucy. He was thick-headed, his mouth foul and tainted, heavy-eyed and queasy-stomached from the scotch.
He groaned and laid his head into his hands as he sat up in his bed, his heart throbbing evilly from the worst hangover he could ever recall. He had not gone to bed until almost 4am, he groaned with the aches and pains of a night sat hunched over the desk in his study consuming far too much whisky.
His stomach heaved and roiled, knotted tight with tension and dread. Slowly he got to his feet, forcing himself upright from the bed, swaying as the whisky residues disrupted his equilibrium.
He ordered a bath prepared and a pot of lapsang souchong tea, another legacy from his time in the Crimea where his commander, Lt. Cleveland Monk, had first introduced him to the bitter black tea.
He was just getting dressed when Mary knocked on his door to advise that Sergeant Flanagan was here to see him. ‘I’ll be done in a minute,’ he answered, wondering what could have brought Flanagan to his house this time in the morning; it could only be news about Lucy. She had been found!! He heart leaped with joy only to be quickly dashed, she could equally have turned up dead – a far more likely explanation for Flanagan’s unprecedented visit. Sick with dread he quickly finished dressing and hurried downstairs.
His sergeant sat on the edge of a chair in the hall, Mary had been unsure whether to take him to the drawing room or not, he was after all only a sergeant and with the innate snobbery of all domestic staff decided that Flanagan was too low born to be permitted access to the drawing room – in fact he should by rights have been told to use the downstairs entrance rather than the front door.
Flanagan sprang to his feet as Collingwood came down the staircase.
‘Flanagan, you have news? News of Lucy? Has she been found?’
‘No sir, not news of Miss Lucy directly sir, but information I thought you ought to be aware of as soon as possible.’
The flood of relief that Flanagan had not come to tell him that his daughter had been found butchered and murdered was quickly tempered by the realisation that she must therefore still be missing.
He ushered Flanagan into the drawing room and rang the bell to order more tea, he certainly needed it even if Flanagan might not.
‘Tell me?’ he asked, ‘What brings you here, if not news of Lucy? No other matter is of the slightest concern.’
‘It concerns Miss Lucy indirectly, sir. It is about Sir Montague Portman.’
‘Portman?’
‘Yes sir, the unforthcoming Sir Montague, I believe we might have a key to unseal his tight lips. Whether that will lead us to Miss Lucy, only time will tell.’
Mary knocked and entered the room and placed the tray with the teapot, cups, saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl on the side table. Both men were silent until Mary was done. As she was about the leave, she turned to Collingwood. ‘Please sir, ’as Mister Flanagan brought news of Miss Lucy? We all do miss her terribly below stairs and praying we are for her safe return,’ and she wiped away a trickled tear.
‘As soon as there is any news Mary, I will pass it on; and please thank everyone for their prayers and best wishes.’
‘Yes, sir, I do so hope she comes home soon.’
‘As do we all Mary. That will be all for now, Mister Flanagan and I can manage perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Yes sir, thank you sir.’
Collingwood waited until the door closed before turning to Flanagan. ‘Tell me man, anything?’
‘Well sir, I heard this from a friend of mine, Sergeant Patterson, duty sergeant at Marlborough Street. It seems that Sir Montague was arrested late last night in an … establishment in Mayfair; a highly select, by invitation only establishment known as The Grecian.’
‘Establishment? You mean a bordello?’
‘Yes sir, but not the usual kind, this one caters for gentlemen, gentlemen with a preference for other gentlemen, if you get my meaning. Or more precisely for those gentlemen who prefer boys,’ Flanagan’s face grimacing in disgust as he spoke.
Collingwood’s throat was dry and acrid from his overindulgence of scotch and he poured out the tea, even though it had probably not brewed for long enough.
Flanagan took one sip and then discreetly put his cup to one side. He took out his notebook. ‘Quite by chance there was a police raid on this establishment last night. The Grecian is apparently infamous for debauchery of the vilest kind. During the course of the search, the body of a young boy was discovered in one of the upper bedrooms. Murdered, it is presumed, by one of the … patrons.’
‘A boy?’
‘Yes sir, a street boy known as Sweet William. He was perhaps nine or ten years old but was frequently used it seems by the … gentlemen for their vile purposes.’
‘And Sir Montague? Is he implicated in the boy’s death?’
‘It has not been established who is responsible as yet, but all the occupants, guests and staff; are being held at various stations, including Marlborough Street. I thought it best to come to you straight away; perhaps we can interview Portman as soon as possible, before he has an opportunity to prevail upon his friends in high places to arrange his release.’
‘Let us go then and pray that Portman does have the information we need.’
‘HOW DID THE UNFORTUNATE CHILD DIE?’ asked Collingwood as their cab sped through the rain-damp streets towards Marlborough Street.
‘It is believed a bottle, a champagne bottle, was thrust into the boys rectum … causing massive internal bleeding. A post-mortem will confirm the cause of death, of course, sir, but that is the information I have.’
Collingwood flinched unwittingly as he thought about the boy’s awful death, but this thought only brought home to bear the dreadful fate that awaited Lucy unless he could find her soon. ‘Tonight is Halloween, the Sabbat night when Sinistrari will nail my beautiful daughter to the cross’ and his cold heart hammered with trepidation at the prospect.
‘Poor child,’ Collingwood responded but Flanagan knew that his boss could equally be talking about his own child.
The cab lurched into a pothole, throwing the two men together and Flanagan caught a gust of whiskey-soaked breath from Collingwood. ‘Poor devil,’ he thought. ‘I think I would be the same if it were my only child held in the clutches of such a fiend So little time left, Hallowe’en tonight.’
‘How did …Sergeant Patterson know that we were interested in Sir Montague Portman?’ Collingwood asked, ‘It has not formed any part of the general enquiry; the Sinistrari hunt which is supposed to be covert; to be kept to you and I alone?’
‘Whatever Sir Charles Warren might think sir, and whatever he might instruct; the safe recovery of Miss Lucy far outweighs any other consideration so far as I am concerned. If you will excuse me sir, I think the man is a
disgrace. He is more concerned with the saving of his own political hide than any concern for your daughter. So I had a quiet word with one or two of the Irish bobbies, those whom I know to be discreet and asked them to keep an ear open for anything concerning Sir Montague, Pritchard-James or Goodley.’
‘I cannot thank you enough, Flanagan, even if this should prove to a wild goose chase, I do thank you. You have placed your career in jeopardy, you know that? If Sir Charles Warren finds out he will break you.’
‘That is of no concern at all. Boston awaits, sir and in truth I cannot wait to get away. But not until we have found Miss Lucy safe and sound.’
SIR MONTAGUE PORTMAN LOOKED UP HOPEFULLY as his cell door opened but his expectant smile turning a snarl of disdain when he saw whom his visitors were.
‘What do you want, Collingwood?’ he growled. ‘I have nothing to say to you, to either of you except to say that if I am detained here a moment longer I will take the greatest pleasure in destroying what is left of your pitiful careers.’
‘Ah yes, those friends in high places.’ Flanagan taunted.
‘Yes.’ Portman snarled, disguising his apprehension with a facade of ill temper and belligerence.
‘I do so hope your fine friends will come to watch you hang.’ Flanagan replied.
‘Hang?’ blustered Portman, ‘For what?’
‘Murder, Sir Montague, murder.’
‘Murder? Murder? Whose murder?’
‘The boy in The Grecian club; Sweet William.’
‘I had nothing to do with the death of that gutter-snipe; it was a mistake that I was even at … those premises. An … old friend invited me to meet him there, to discuss some business; I had no idea that The Grecian was such a … place, I merely took it to be a gentleman’s club, not unlike White’s or Boodles. Not that it is any of your damn business!’
‘Oh, that is where you are very much mistaken, Sir Montague,’ interjected Collingwood, his voice silky smooth with menace. If this bloated dishevelled creature held the key, any key, to the whereabouts of Lucy or Sinistrari then Collingwood was about to exploit the situation as ruthlessly as he could, regardless of ethics. ‘I intend to charge you with murder; I intend to see you hang for the murder of Sweet William, this guttersnipe as you so contemptuously call him. I will see you at the end of the rope, sir, so I will.’
‘I tell you I had nothing to do with the boy’s death. I did not even know there had been a death until the police told me.’
‘So you say, but I have witnesses who say otherwise. Witnesses who can put you in the room where and when the boy Sweet William died.’ Collingwood had no such witnesses, he was not even officially part of the investigation, but he had no scruples about lying to the startled banker. Portman’s ruddy face had turned pale with shock.
‘Lies! Damn lies,’ he shouted.
‘So you say, Sir Montague, but my witnesses will be persuasive, very persuasive and they will send you to the gallows.’
‘To save their own skins.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Don’t you care for the truth of the matter? I tell you. I did not kill the boy. I did not even know the boy. I did not even know the boy was dead.’
There was a knock on the cell door and Sergeant Patterson, Flanagan’s friend, peered in and stared balefully at Portman. ‘Is this the one, governor? he asked Collingwood, his Belfast accent so thick as to virtually impenetrable. ‘The one that killed that poor boy.’
‘Aye, this is the murdering swine,’ answered Flanagan. ‘Not a shadow of doubt. He’ll hang for it.’
‘Hangings too good for the likes of him, hang draw and quarter him, I say. Or do the same as he did to the boy, impale him on a stake.’
‘I did not kill him,’ shouted Portman. ‘I am innocent. I did not kill that boy and I demand to see my lawyer, Sir Henry Beaufort, this instance.’
‘All in good time sir, you’ll have plenty of time to prepare your defence once we charge you. Not that it will do you any good,’ said Patterson, winking at Flanagan behind Portman’s back. He then left and closed the door behind him. Collingwood raised a quizzical eyebrow at Flanagan. The scene had obviously been set up between the two sergeants but Flanagan’s face gave away nothing.
Collingwood turned back to the flustered banker. ‘Now Sir Montague, how long was the boy with you before you killed him? An hour?’
‘I was not with the boy at all.’ he answered forcibly through clenched teeth, enunciating each word with emphasis.
‘We know that you were.’ said Flanagan, thrusting his face up close to Portman’s. ‘We know you were, you murdering swine.’
‘I swear, I was not!’
‘You were seen, Sir Montague. We have witnesses.’
‘Lies! Lies!’
‘When did you decide to kill William, was it before or after you sodomised him?’ Collingwood asked, pressing closer to Portman, determined to puncture his composure, pressing home whilst the banker was disorientated and flustered, the pervading sweat of fear thick and cloying about him.
‘How many more times must I say it? I did not murder the boy. I did not know the boy. I had never been to … that place before and I have never seen the boy. I was not with him when he died. Now, fetch me my lawyer, I insist.’
‘But you have visited The Grecian on previous occasions, Sir Montague, have you not?’
‘No, I told you. I was simply there to meet an acquaintance, had I known what sort of place it was; I would never have gone there. I have my position in society to consider.’
‘You are not telling me the truth, are you?’ Collingwood insisted, flipping open his notebook, pretending to read from pages that were totally blank. ‘The Grecian has been under surveillance for some time and a note taken of all visitors. These lies, Sir Montague, can only speed your passage to the gallows.’
Sir Montague started to bluster, to deny but then stopped and slumped heavily onto the wooden bench that also served as his bed.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said in resignation. ‘It is true I have visited The Grecian, but once or twice only. On business, purely on business, you understand?’
‘Once or twice? Collingwood pressed, arching his eyebrow in disbelief, scrutinising his notebook again.
‘All right. Several times, I admit it. Several times but I insist, Mister Collingwood, I insist that I had nothing to do with the boy’s death.’ Despite the chill in the cell, sweat beaded Portman’s brow.
‘Sweet William?’ asked Flanagan.
‘Was that his name?’
‘You know very well it was, don’t you?’ Flanagan said.
‘Yes! Yes!’
‘And you were with him last night when he died!’ Flanagan insisted.
‘No. No. Why won’t you believe me?’
‘Because I know you killed him. You thrust a champagne bottle into the boy’s rectum and ruptured his arteries. He bled to death and for that we are going to make sure that you hang.’
‘This is a nightmare,’ Portman sobbed, near to breaking. ‘Why will no one believe me? Please sir, won’t you help me?’
‘Why should I?’ Collingwood demanded, ‘you refused to help the when I came to you.’
‘Is that what this is about? Revenge? You would let me hang because I would not breach the bank confidentiality.’
‘No Sir Montague, you will hang for murder.’
‘If I help you now, will you try and see the truth of this matter?’
‘If you give me the information I requested; then perhaps I might review the witness statements again. Perhaps they were mistaken when they placed you with William when he died.’
‘You promise to help me?’
‘If it is proved you did not murder Sweet William, I will not pursue you to the gallows.’
Sir Montague Portman took a deep breath; he seemed to have shrunk inside his clothing. Slatted bars of light from the barred windows etched black hatching across his jowly face, hooding his eyes, giving his fleshy features a reptilian a
spect. Exhaling noisily through his nose he came to his decision.
‘Edward Sinistrari does – did – own other property, although not in his own name, he … he bought in the name of a company, EJS Holdings, as I recall.’
Collingwood and Flanagan looked at each – EJS Holdings, EJS! Edward James Sinistrari, Sinistrari’s vanity was going to be his undoing.
‘I…we … the bank…’ Portman said, ‘assisted in the purchases, as we did for Blackwater House. He swore me to secrecy; he told me that it would go ill with me if I ever revealed details of any of his transactions.
‘Where? Where are these properties?’ Collingwood demanded impatiently, even though he had no doubts that Sinistrari’s threat were real.
‘He has a gentleman’s apartment in Albany, No 34, I think.’
Collingwood and Flanagan looked at each other, an apartment was of no use, Sinistrari could not possibly imprison and murder girls in an apartment in Albany on Piccadilly, he needed premises such as Blackwater House for his vile satanic activities.
‘Where else, a large house somewhere?’ pressed Collingwood, anxious to obtain whatever he could from Portman before he recovered his composure and insisted more forcibly on seeing his lawyer.
‘Richmond.’ he answered dully.
‘By the river?’
‘I never visited the premises myself, but yes I believe it to be by the river.’
‘Do you have the address?’
‘Not to hand but give me some paper and I will instruct Pritchard-James to give the address and other details.’
Collingwood ripped off a page from his notebook and passed it to Portman together with his pen. Portman scribbled a few lines, signed it and passed the paper back to Collingwood.
‘You will help me? I have your promise?’
‘If you are not guilty of Sweet William’s murder, I will do nothing to prove otherwise.’
‘Thank you.’
‘However, you are a vile and depraved debauchee and I will ensure that details of your abominable practices and predilections are made known. I have good contacts in the newspapers, particularly the yellow press, those of the more scurrilous bent; I intend to make them fully aware of your arrest and the activities that are catered for in The Grecian. I rather doubt your ‘position in society’ will survive the scandal. Good day to you sir.’