Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1

by Sally Spencer

  The pawnbroker’s clerk licked his dry lips. ‘I only wanted to clear my outstanding debts,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you did,’ the man inside the cab agreed. ‘Just as any honourable man would. But now I am giving you the opportunity not only to clear your debts, but to walk away from them with a substantial sum in your pocket. Get into the cab, Mr Tompkins.’

  Slowly—reluctantly—the pawnbroker climbed into the cab. ‘I’m no danger to you, you know,’ he said, as he sat down.

  ‘Course I know that, Mr Tompkins,’ the other man said. ‘Why don’t you just sit back and relax?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We’re going to meet a man—a very influential man—who could make you rich, and me even richer than I am already,’ Seymour said.

  Then he knocked on the roof with his stick, and the Russian who was sitting behind the horse eased the animal forward.

  *

  Hannah told the driver of the hansom cab to stop midway down Commercial Road.

  ‘So this is where you live,’ Blackstone said when he’d paid the cabbie his fare.

  ‘Why should you assume that?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Because I can’t see you walking far in that outfit,’ Blackstone replied prosaically.

  Hannah smiled. ‘My parent’s are very liberal, even by Russian standards,’ she told him. ‘But I doubt if even they would welcome a gentleman caller at this time of night.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I keep a small private apartment over the greengrocer’s. I thought we would go up there for a nightcap.’

  ‘Where’s all this leading?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘You English!’ Hannah said. ‘You must always think of the future, rather than experiencing the present.’

  ‘Don’t you ever think of the future?’

  ‘I had friends in Russia who were killed by a drunken mob,’ Hannah said. ‘I had other friends who were arrested by the Okhrana—’

  ‘The Okhrana?’

  ‘The Tsar’s secret police. I don’t know if you have no such thing in England, but in Russia they are everywhere.’

  ‘I see,’ Blackstone said. ‘And you’ve had friends who were arrested by them.’

  ‘And never seen again! That teaches one a valuable lesson. Of course you must think about the future. But you must also seize the gifts of the present, because you can never be sure for how long those gifts will he available to you.’

  ‘Is that what I’m to see you as?’ Blackstone asked. ‘A gift? A toy to play with while I’ve got the chance?’

  ‘Perhaps it could turn into more,’ Hannah said. ‘But for the moment, would it be so wrong to see the two of us as being gifts to each other?’

  ‘You offered me a nightcap. What have you got to drink up there?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Hannah said. ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘No,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’

  *

  ‘Why are we crossing the river?’ Thaddeus Tompkins asked anxiously as the four-wheel cab made its way along London Bridge.

  ‘To get to the other side?’ his companion suggested, with a thin smile playing on his lips.

  ‘You didn’t say anything about crossing the river when I got into the cab,’ Tompkins fretted.

  ‘No, but I did tell you there was someone I needed you to meet. And that person is waiting for us in Bermondsey.’

  ‘Who is he? What does he want?’

  ‘He’ll tell you that himself. Just be patient.’

  The cab turned on to Tooley Street. Lights blazed in the pubs, and there were a few costermongers trying to sell the last of their stock before it rotted on their barrows, but other than that, the street was deserted.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Tompkins said weakly.

  ‘No one cares what you like.’

  The cab turned off Tooley Street, and made its way down a canyon between rows of tall warehouses. When it reached Cotton’s Wharf, it came to a halt. Another cab was already parked there, and there were a number of lanterns glowing on a barge in the river.

  ‘Get out,’ the man sitting next to Tompkins said, as if he would be more than glad to see the last of him.

  The clerk climbed down, and found himself facing a large man who seemed to emanate pure menace.

  ‘We hired you to tell the police that Thomas Grey was a thief and a gambler,’ the man said, with a slight foreign accent. ‘You were supposed to convince them that his gambling was the reason Grey had disappeared.’

  ‘I did just as I was told,’ Tompkins whined.

  ‘The policeman you talked to didn’t believe you,’ the other man said coldly. ‘Or, if he did, his boss didn’t believe him.’

  ‘This morning, you were an asset to us—a rather poor one, but at least an asset. This evening, you are nothing but a liability.’

  Tompkins had not heard the cab driver climb down from his seat, but now he felt the man’s left arm clamp tight around his chest as the right hand dragged a razor across his throat. The pawnbroker’s clerk gurgled, blew a bubble of blood from the gash—and died.

  Another man appeared from out of the shadows, and helped the assassin to fling the body of the dead clerk into the waiting barge.

  ‘You are to weigh him down, and throw him into the river,’ Count Turgenev told the man on the barge. ‘But you are not to do it until you are well away from London. I do not want there to be even the slightest chance of the police finding out about this until next Wednesday—after which it will not matter what they find. Do you understand?’

  The man nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Satisfied, the Count turned back to his bodyguards. ‘We still have one more thing to do before our night’s work is complete,’ he said.

  ‘Kill the policeman?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Turgenev agreed.

  Twenty-Five

  That a single woman should choose to fill so much of the small room with such a large bed told Blackstone that he was not the first man Hannah had invited back to her apartment. Lying there naked, on that same bed, he tried to feel resentful over the fact—and found that he couldn’t. The normal rules of conduct just did not apply to Hannah, he decided, and what would have cheapened other women only seemed to further proclaim her a free spirit.

  She stirred slightly, next to him.

  ‘Are you awake?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I’ve never been asleep.’

  ‘You certainly seemed asleep.’

  ‘When I have made love, I like to lie still and relive the experience over and over again. You will understand that when you know me better.’

  Was she saying that this was just the beginning? he wondered.

  ‘You will stay the night?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Because of your police work?’

  ‘Because it would be a big step—a step which would raise my hopes—and I’m not sure I’m brave enough to take it.’

  Hannah laughed, but not cruelly. ‘You’re afraid you might fall in love with me?’

  ‘I’m afraid I might have already.’

  ‘And perhaps, if you stay, I might fall in love with you,’ Hannah said, then, noting his reaction, she put her hand to her mouth in mock horror. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to say that I thought I had already fallen in love with you?’

  ‘It would have been nice,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘There is nothing nice about love. Love is like a wild animal, which might snuggle up to you at one moment, yet the next might rip you apart with its claws. That is why it is so wonderful—because it is also so dangerous.’ Hannah paused. ‘What would you do if I said that if you left now, I would never see you again?’

  ‘I’d go anyway,’ Blackstone said firmly.

  ‘Out of a misplaced sense of pride?’

  ‘No. Because if I stayed, I would no longer be my own master.’

  Hannah nodde
d seriously. ‘You are a man of spirit, even if that spirit has been thoroughly soaked by your English drizzle. Go back to your lodgings if you must, Sam. I will see you in the morning.’

  *

  Blackstone descended the stairs from Hannah’s small apartment and stepped out on to the street. He looked around for a cab, but since it was the only time of night when that part of London really slept—two hours after the pubs had shut their door to the late-night revellers, two and a half hours before they would open those doors again to the men who had to make an early start—there were none to be had. He didn’t mind. For a man who had marched from Kabul to Kandahar, three or four miles of London streets—even after the most energetic lovemaking he could ever remember—was no problem. Besides, it would give him time to think.

  He had gone less than a hundred yards when the conviction started to grow in him that something was seriously wrong. It was the shape in the doorway that first alerted him—the obviously human shape. Why would a man—by nature a creature drawn to the light almost as strongly as any moth—choose to position himself at a point equidistant from the two nearest gas lamps? Unless, of course, he wanted to remain concealed for as long as possible!

  Nor was the man ahead the only problem. He could hear at least two sets of footsteps behind him—soft, slithering footsteps. He knew what caused the slithering sound. The men who were following him stuck strips of rubber to the soles of their boots—just as police constables did in order not to wake up residents when they were on night patrol in middle-class areas. But when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw no reassuring pointed helmets.

  Blackstone came to a sudden halt, and, half a second later, so did the men behind him.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Harm me, and you’ll have the full force of the law coming down on you.’

  One of the men behind him gave a dry throaty chuckle. Blackstone’s blood ran cold as he realized the three men already knew exactly who he was—and had been waiting to get him in just this situation.

  Three against one were not good odds, especially since he had no weapon and they almost definitely did. His feverish brain working at double speed, he ran through his options. He could try to escape, but they had sprung their trap so well that he knew he would never make it. He could stay where he was, and wait for them to come to him—but that would only be giving all three of them the chance to attack him at the same time. So clearly, there was only one course of action he could take.

  Drawing a deep breath, he broke into a run towards the man who was waiting ahead him. Yet even as he felt his feet pounding the cobblestones, he knew that he was making no more than a pointless gesture.

  The man in the doorway stepped out to block the pavement, and from the stance he adopted it was obvious that he was holding a knife in his hand. The two men behind had already broken into a sprint to match Blackstone’s. In a minute or so it would be all over, the Inspector thought. In a minute or so, he would have no more life in him than Charles Montcliffe had.

  He could see himself stretched out on the coroner’s slab, a subject of morbid curiosity—or perhaps revulsion—for the twelve men who would consider the evidence, and rule that he had been murdered by a person or persons unknown.

  Enough of that! he ordered himself. Stick to the matter in hand! If they’re going to finish you off, at least don’t let them do it without a fight!

  The man ahead of him was making slashing motions through the air with his knife, but Blackstone did not slacken his pace. He was five yards from the man. Then three. Then two. He was a yard and a half away when he pulled up short and lashed out with his right leg.

  He felt the toe of his boot connect with his enemy’s groin and heard the other man’s agonized grunt as the air was forced out of him. The man fell forward, hut instead of just collapsing in a useless heap as he was supposed to, he grabbed Blackstone’s leg as he went down, so that both of them ended up sprawling on the ground.

  It did not take the Inspector long to break free from his injured opponent’s grip, but it took him longer than he could afford—and he was only half-way back to his feet when a heavy boot slammed into his chest.

  Blackstone went down again, and this time—he was sure —it would be for ever. So this was how it ended. After surviving the Afghan campaign, after tracking down some of the most dangerous criminals in London, he was about to be slaughtered like a pig on the street.

  A pair of powerful hands pinned his shoulders to the ground. He lashed out with his legs, but it did no good. He could see a man standing over him, the razor in his hand glinting against the light of the nearest gas lamp. Well, he thought, at least with professionals like these, it would be a quick death.

  There had been four of them there, enacting this little drama, but suddenly there were seven. The new men moved with speed and assurance, two of them creating a human shield between Blackstone and the man with the razor, the third tackling the man who was pinning the Inspector down. It could scarcely have been called a fight at all—the rescuers arrived on the scene, the attackers took to their heels and fled.

  One of the rescuers knelt down next to Blackstone. ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.

  Blackstone nodded—then, as pain coursed through his body, wished he hadn’t. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he gasped.

  ‘What do you intend to do with him?’ the rescuer asked, pointing to the man Blackstone had kicked in the groin, and who was still lying on the ground, groaning.

  ‘I intend to arrest him.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  Blackstone painfully raised himself on one elbow. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back on my feet before he will—and I’ve got a set of handcuffs.’

  ‘Good,’ the other man said.

  He turned to his companions, and spoke to them rapidly in a language that, from his recent experience, Blackstone was almost certain was Russian. The two men disappeared down the alley from which they’d so recently emerged.

  ‘You will have our protection until you leave Little Russia,’ the rescuer said. ‘You will not see us, but we will be there.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Why are you helping?’

  ‘You already know who had Charles Montcliffe killed,’ the other man said. ‘Now what you have to find out is why.’

  And then he was gone, swallowed up by the darkness of the alley.

  Blackstone climbed painfully to his feet. He had not got a really clear look at the man who had saved his life, but he hadn’t needed to, because he had seen him before—twice on the night he had gone to the fight with Hannah, and once again when he had visited the Russian Library.

  *

  Sergeant Patterson stifled a yawn, then took a gulp of strong coffee from his enamel mug. An hour earlier, he had been sleeping peacefully in his bed, and now he was back at the Yard, in the company of his chief and the man who had tried to kill him.

  He looked at the Russian, who was handcuffed to a sturdy chair. The man’s face showed neither fear nor anger. Instead, he appeared to have accepted what had befallen him with complete indifference.

  Patterson glanced across at the window, where his boss was standing, looking out over the Thames. Given the attack on him, Blackstone should have been a mass of ragged nerves, yet he seemed strangely calm. Perhaps that was his military training. But his training didn’t explain away the other changes in the Inspector. Patterson had never seen him look quite as he did at that moment—and it suddenly occurred to the sergeant that, for the first time in their partnership, his superior was happy.

  Blackstone turned and caught Patterson staring at him. He coughed embarrassedly, the mantle of happiness fell from him, and he was hard-bitten police officer once more.

  The Inspector walked over to the Russian. ‘This is nothing but a complete waste of time,’ he said. ‘You’ll tell us what we want to know eventually, so why not come clean now?’

  The prisoner continued to stare straight ahead, as if
Blackstone had not spoken.

  ‘In this country, you can be hanged for the attempted murder of a policeman,’ Blackstone told him. ‘Do you want to hang?’

  Still the Russian said nothing.

  Blackstone walked over to his desk and sat down. I’ve had enough of him for one night,’ he said to Patterson. ‘Get one of the uniformed lads to take him down to the holding cells, will you, Sergeant?’

  ‘When I’ve done that, can I go home for a couple of hours?’ the sergeant asked hopefully.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Blackstone told him. ‘I’ve got another little job I need you to do for me.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Since we seem to he getting nowhere with the monkey,’ Blackstone said, looking across at his prisoner, ‘I think it’s about time we had a word with the organ grinder.’

  Part Three: Southwark Street

  Twenty-Six

  It was a quarter to six in the morning, and already much of the city was wide awake. Scarlet mail vans dashed down the road, heading for Liverpool Street Station and the early trains. Milk carts were already returning from the same station, and as the horses’ hooves clip-clopped against the cobblestones, the metal churns on the backs of the carts banged furiously together.

  Blue and yellow trams carried workmen from south of the river to the more prosperous areas further north. The butchers’ and greengrocers’ shops were already open. All-night coffee stalls were still serving their cheap, almost tasteless brew, though they were losing most of their trade now that the pubs had opened their doors. The loafers were out in force; the beggars had taken up their favourite positions. And a police van—a Black Maria, as most people called it—was just entering Little Russia.

  The Black Maria came to a halt in front of one of the more prosperous houses. Three men got out, two uniformed constables and a detective sergeant.

  It was Patterson who knocked loudly on the front door, then knelt down to shout, ‘Police! Open up!’ through the letterbox.

  It took perhaps two minutes of constant hammering before the door was opened by a broad young man still dressed in his nightshift.