‘Has the Montcliffe house been burgled?’
‘No,’ Lord Dalton admitted. ‘But you do understand the point that I’m making?’
‘Yes.’
‘When male servants disappear, you will normally find that gambling is at the bottom of it—either the turf or the ring. They start by making modest bets, but they all eventually overreach themselves. To cover their debts, they steal something from the house—plate or silver spoons. If that goes unnoticed, they steal more. They tell themselves they are only doing it in order to raise the cash to win their money back. Eventually, when they have stolen so much that discovery becomes inevitable, they flee.’
‘You talk as if you’ve had some personal experience in these matters, my Lord.’
Dalton laughed airily. ‘No, not me. I pride myself on being a better judge of men and women than to allow such a person under my roof. But it is possible that Charles’ Thomas is just such a one as I’ve described.’
‘And his disappearing at the time of Charles Montcliffe’s death was no more than a coincidence?’
‘Exactly.’
But remembering the pale-faced young man with the strawberry birthmark at the inquest, Blackstone didn’t think that was likely—because if the valet had only been interested in his master for what he could get out of him, why would Charles have continued to be of any interest after his death?
‘I need to ask another favour of you, my Lord,’ Blackstone said.
‘What kind of favour?’
‘I would like to see Charles Montcliffe’s private papers. It’s unlikely that his father would give them to me, but if you were to ask...’
He left the rest of the statement unsaid.
Dalton thought for a moment, then nodded his head slowly. ‘I can promise nothing,’ he said, ‘but if you think they will be of value to your investigation, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘That’s all I ask,’ Blackstone told him.
Thirteen
It was late afternoon, and from his seat behind his desk, Blackstone could see the sun casting its golden glow over the normally murky Thames. He belched, and turned his attention back to his sergeant.
‘I tell you, Patterson, I’ve never had a meal like that in my life,’ he said. ‘Nothing near like it. We finished on brandies, you know. I saw the bottle. It was over sixty years old.’
‘And how did it taste?’ Patterson asked.
‘Like drinking liquid silk.’
A sudden, unexpected wave of guilt swept over the Inspector as he realized that when he’d walked into Lord Dalton’s club he’d wanted to shake the complacent members until their teeth rattled, yet only a few minutes later he, himself, had been revelling in a feast.
How easy it was to become corrupted!
‘Did you learn anything useful while you were stuffing yourself, sir?’ Patterson asked.
Yes, Blackstone thought—I learned not to become over-familiar with members of the aristocracy.
But aloud, he said, ‘Not really, Sergeant—except that Lord Dalton doesn’t seem to think that there’s any real point in searching for Thomas, Charles Montcliffe’s valet.’
‘And do you agree with him?’
‘No. Even if Dalton’s right, and the valet’s just done a runner to keep himself out of trouble, he still might be able to tell us something useful about his master.’
‘So assuming this valet has gone into hiding, how do we go about finding him?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Lord Dalton said that a lot of servants get into trouble with their gambling habits, and maybe he was right about Thomas on that point at least. Now if he had been nicking the family silverware to cover his debts, what do you think he’d have done with it?’
‘Pawned it?’
‘Or taken it to a fence. So tomorrow morning, I want you hoofing it round all the pawnbrokers and all the known fences. Make it perfectly plain to them right from the start that we’re not interested in running anybody in—we only want to know if they’ve seen Thomas Grey.’
‘Big job,’ Patterson muttered. ‘There must be hundreds of pawnbrokers in London.’
‘Six hundred and ninety-two within ten miles of the Royal Exchange, according to the last issue of the Pawnbrokers’ Gazette,’ Blackstone said cheerfully. ‘But you’re not interested in all of them. The ones where most of the customers are women who pawn the family linen on Monday or Tuesday and redeem it again on Saturday—after their husbands have been paid—won’t give us what we want. You’ll be looking at the ones that handle better quality goods as well—because if Thomas has been stealing the Montcliffes’ silver, he’ll have expected more than a few bob for it.’
‘It’s still a big job for one man to do,’ Patterson said doubtfully. ‘A bloody big job.’
‘Then it’s just as well you’re an eager young copper hell-bent on making it all the way to commissioner, isn’t it?’ Blackstone responded. ‘And count yourself lucky, lad. Your job may be boring at times, but at least it’s nice and safe. When I was your age, I was surrounded by tribesmen who would have cut my throat as soon as think about it.’
‘Afghanistan?’ Patterson asked.
‘Afghanistan,’ Blackstone agreed.
‘I’ve never quite understood what we were doing there in the first place,’ Patterson told him. ‘I mean, it’s not rich like India, is it?’
‘No,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘It’s one of the poorest, most desolate places on earth.’
‘Well then?’
‘We weren’t there so much for what it had as for where it was,’ Blackstone explained. ‘We didn’t want it ourselves, but we didn’t want the Russians to have it either.’
‘And why should the Russians have wanted it?’
Blackstone sighed. ‘I don’t know what they teach you in board school these days. What can you tell me about Russia, Sergeant?’
‘Big place?’ Patterson said hopefully.
‘Very big place,’ Blackstone agreed, ‘and for a good half of the year the only way out of it is overland.’
‘I’m not following you, sir.’
Blackstone sighed again. ‘It doesn’t have a warm-weather port, so it doesn’t matter how big the Russian navy is, because during the winter it either stays in port or is cut off from the mother country entirely.’
‘I see,’ Patterson said.
‘Well, maybe you’re starting to,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘Now the Russians call a warm-weather port “the keys to our house” and—’
‘Don’t they own the Crimea?’ Patterson interrupted.
‘Indeed they do.’
‘And aren’t there warm-weather ports there?’
‘Yes, there are,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘The problem is that the only way from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean is through a narrow strait called the Dardanelles, which is controlled by the Ottoman Empire. So, in effect, it’s the Turks who have the keys to Russia’s house in their pocket.’
‘Why don’t they just invade Turkey, then?’ Patterson asked.
‘They’d love to,’ Blackstone told him. ‘And the Ottoman Empire is so weak and so corrupt that they could do it easily. The only problem is, the other European powers won’t let them. That’s what the Crimean War was about. Which is why the Russians started thinking of other alternatives.’
‘India!’ Patterson exclaimed.
‘Exactly. If they could have overrun India, they’d have had their warm seaport, not to mention all the wealth the country’s got to offer. The only problem was, an independent Afghanistan stood right in the way. And we were determined to make sure it stayed like that.’
Blackstone was suddenly wistful—a state he often found himself in whenever he thought of the country that had managed to both attract and repel him.
‘But that’s all past history now,’ he continued. ‘Let’s get back to the case. Why do you think Viscount Montcliffe was eavesdropping on my little chat with the servants?’
‘So he could find out what was
being said?’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. That was really helpful. But why do you think he wanted to know what was being said?’
‘Maybe because he killed his own brother?’
‘Motive?’
‘To prevent him writing any more stories for The Radical? To stop Charles from—as the Viscount probably saw it—dragging the family name even further through the mud?’
Blackstone nodded. ‘There’s a lot of sense in what you argue. But if he was going to kill his own brother, why go all the way to Aldermans Stairs to do it?’
‘Because it’s less likely to draw suspicion on him than if he did so closer to home?’ Patterson suggested. ‘Anyway, sir, I’m not necessarily saying he killed Charles himself. He could have hired some ruffians to do it.’
‘True enough,’ Blackstone said. ‘And he’s certainly got something to hide. Any news from Australia yet?’
Patterson shook his head. ‘My pal out there is still working on it. He’s found out that the Viscount did visit the place four or five years ago, but he still doesn’t know why.’
‘Maybe we should be searching closer to home, anyway,’ Blackstone mused. ‘I’ll tell you what, Sergeant—when you’ve finished with the pawnbrokers and the fences, get on to some more of your pals and see if they can come up with any new dirt on the Viscount.’
‘Would you like me to clean out the stables while I’m at it?’ Patterson mumbled.
‘What was that, Sergeant?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘And in the meantime, I’ll concentrate my attention on this Count Turgenev bloke.’
‘How do you think he fits into the case, sir?’
‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘But if Charles Montcliffe was interested in him, then so am I.’
Fourteen
Hannah was waiting for Blackstone, as she’d promised she would be, on the corner of Pennington Street and Old Gravel Lane. She was wearing a blue dress with a pleated frill and—though at that moment it was pinned back—there was a veil attached to her broad-brimmed hat.
‘Why the netting?’ Blackstone asked, pointing to the veil. ‘Because we are going to a place where even I like to be a little discreet,’ the Russian woman said.
‘That sounds mysterious.’
Hannah chuckled. ‘It was meant to be. Shall we go?’
They walked side by side down Old Gravel Lane. To their right was the Western Dock, to their left the viaduct which carried the East London Railway. The Russian woman seemed disinclined to talk, and Blackstone—though he was bursting to know just what kind of place would make even a free spirit like her decide to don a veil—kept his questions to himself.
At the corner of Cinnamon Street they turned left and headed towards the viaduct.
‘We’re almost there,’ Hannah said, pulling down her veil.
She led him to a boarded-up railway arch, outside of which were standing two large men who looked like ex-boxers gone to seed.
‘’Ere again, are we, darlin’?’ asked one of them.
‘That’s right,’ Hannah agreed, and Blackstone noticed that her voice had suddenly developed a slight cockney twang.
‘Should be a good one tonight,’ the doorman said. ‘The Basingstoke Bull’s on the bill.’
Hannah reached into her purse and fished out some coins. ‘Bob each, same as usual?’ she asked.
‘Bob each,’ the man agreed, taking the money and opening a small door for them.
The cavern they stepped into was illuminated by a single gas jet, which hung from the ceiling and shot out flame like an angry blowlamp. In the centre of the room was an open square, but the rest of the space was taken with tiered wooden benches that were already half-filled with eager spectators.
‘We must choose our seats carefully,’ Hannah said.
‘Why?’
‘So that you can get a good look at the Count, of course.’ She led him up the rickety steps to a bench midway between the ring and the top tier.
‘Are you sure the Count will turn up?’ Blackstone asked, as they took their seats.
‘Nothing in this world is ever certain. But I would be surprised if he missed the opportunity to see the Basingstoke Bull fight.’
Blackstone took a look around the room. He saw men who probably worked as costermongers and dockers, as horse grooms, factory workers, road sweepers and undertakers’ mutes. But he did not see a single woman.
‘Why do you come here?’ he asked Hannah. ‘Do you really enjoy seeing fights?’
The Russian woman shook her head. ‘If I were a true aficionada of boxing, I would go to the Whitechapel Wonderland, where there is at least some art to what the fighters do. Here, it is just a case of two men pounding at each other until one of them falls over.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Blackstone pointed out.
‘The first time I came, it was to see the audience,’ Hannah said seriously. ‘I needed to understand the reason that men for whom life is already a brutal thing will hand over their hard-earned money to see even more brutality.’
‘And what is the reason?’
‘I think there are two answers to that. They seem at first to contradict each other, but in fact they don’t. One reason they come is because they like to see another man get badly beaten, then they can tell themselves that however miserable their own lives are, there is probably someone who is feeling even worse than they do.’
‘And what’s the other?’
‘As well as the man who loses, there is also a man who wins. And when they see the referee raise the victor’s hand, they can tell themselves that there is hope for themselves, too. But, of course, there isn’t—at least, not as long as things go on the way they are.’
‘So if you’ve got all that figured out already, why do you keep on coming back?’
‘I need to be reminded occasionally of the horror of their existence. It gives me the strength to carry on.’
Half the time he wasn’t even sure he knew what she was talking about, Blackstone thought. Yet there was no doubt that she was the most fascinating woman he’d ever met, and he could only look forward with regret to the day when the case was over and he would never see her again.
The archway had been filling up, and now only three seats remained empty. These seats were in the centre of the front row, which, from the appearance of the spectators who already occupied it, had been reserved for the establishment’s better class of customer.
Three new men entered the room and took the vacant seats. One was a tall man wearing a cloak. The other two, who flanked him, were shorter, but had the tight, hard bodies of men who know how to handle themselves. All three of them were wearing fur hats.
Hannah touched Blackstone’s arm. She only did it lightly, but it sent a tingle down his spine.
‘That’s him,’ she whispered. ‘That’s Count Turgenev.’
The Inspector took a closer look at the man he’d come to observe. Turgenev was around forty-five or forty-six. He was at least six feet four inches tall, had a broad forehead, a large nose and black eyes. A scar ran down his right cheek. But what impressed Blackstone was not his physical appearance but the aura of malevolence that seemed to emanate from him even from a distance—an aura that hung over him like a huge dark cloud.
The master of ceremonies entered the ring.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen...’ he bawled, ‘the first bout of the evenin’ is between Jackie “Iron Fist” Baker an’ Ted Tulley, better known to you all as the Basingstoke Bull.’
The two contestants had stripped down to their fighting tights, and now stood up facing each other. They were both muscular, but their faces had the pinched look that comes from the experience of childhood poverty, and their bodies bore the scars of a hundred bloody fights.
Blackstone turned his attention back to the Russian. Turgenev was scrutinizing the fighters with all the cold professionalism of a butcher examining meat. His inspection apparently
over, he reached into his pocket and took out a wad of banknotes, peeled off several, and handed them to people sitting close to him.
‘Does he always bet so heavily?’ Blackstone asked Hannah in a whisper.
The woman shrugged. ‘I have not made a study of Count Turgenev,’ she told him, ‘but I have heard that he will gamble on anything and everything.’
The fight began. As Hannah had predicted, there was very little art to it—Blackstone had seen more skilful displays of fisticuffs in brawls behind the barracks—but the audience went wild. Except for the Count. He watched the whole thing with an impassivity that gave absolutely nothing away.
Blackstone felt a sudden tingling sensation—not like the one he’d experienced when Hannah had touched him, but the one that told him he was being watched. He swept the room with his eyes. He’d been right! Someone had been watching him, and though the man had realized he was about to be spotted and turned his head away, he did it just a second too late.
The watcher was in his late thirties, and of about medium height. He had a broad, flat face, which didn’t look in the least English, and though he was dressed like most of the other men in the audience were, Blackstone suspected that the clothes were no more than a disguise.
A roar went up as the Basingstoke Bull landed a powerful punch, and Iron-fist Baker keeled over. The referee stepped forwards, one hand held out to keep the Bull at bay, the other raised in the air to assist his counting.
‘Er...one,’ he began. ‘Er...two, er...three...er...four...’
Iron-fist made an attempt to struggle to his knees, but the effort was too much for him and he slumped back on to the floor.
‘Er...eight, er...nine, er...ten!’
The crowd cheered. The winning boxer, who now hardly seemed aware of where he was, submitted meekly as the referee held his right arm in the air.
Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1 Page 9