Inspector Abberline and the Just King

by Simon Clark

  ‘It’ll take time to bring a handcart through the forest.’

  ‘The devil.’ Thomas felt the heat of his anger surge through him. ‘It was Tristan who did this, wasn’t it? He hid that damn spring-gun so it would injure the first person who walked along this path.’ Thomas glanced at his shotgun leaning against a tree. ‘If he comes this way, I’ll blast him to kingdom come.’

  ‘It’s justice we want, Thomas, not revenge.’

  ‘The man’s clearly trying to make his attacks famous – murder by bow and arrow, using exotic poisons, electric shocks, mutilating a composer’s hand – now this: mantraps. Those will be the kind of stories that will capture the public’s attention. Tristan must be afflicted with some kind of egomania or narcissistic condition.’

  ‘We don’t know that it is Tristan who carried out the attacks. He’s a suspect, that’s true. But we can’t assume that he’s the perpetrator. Ack … Thomas. My leg isn’t Tristan’s throat.’

  ‘I’m pressing too hard? I’m sorry.’ Thomas released pressure on the handkerchief that he’d been forcing against the wound. Gently, he lifted the pad of lace. ‘The bleeding has stopped.’ He glanced back along the path. ‘I thought Jo would have brought help by now.’

  ‘No doubt she will be here soon.’ Abberline patted Thomas on the arm, a gesture of affection. ‘When she does, we won’t be able to discuss matters openly. Don’t mention that we suspect Tristan is the killer.’

  ‘But he should be found.’

  ‘We must retain the element of surprise.’

  ‘He might be holding Bertie prisoner. Considering what Tristan has done in the past then he’ll be planning to kill the lad in … let’s say a spectacularly newsworthy way.’

  ‘Thomas, your expression suggests that we should tell everyone that Tristan is our suspect. But imagine the king’s reaction. If I tell him that his son might be the murderer he simply won’t believe me. He might even have me locked up in the palace cellar because he thinks I’ve lost my mind; then I will be of no use whatsoever.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So you understand that keeping our suspicions about Tristan a secret might determine whether Bertie Trask lives or dies?’

  The sound of voices came along the path.

  ‘This sounds like our rescue party.’ Abberline tried to be cheerful although he grunted with pain.

  To Thomas’s surprise the group wasn’t brought here by Jo. In fact, a constable in uniform led half a dozen fishermen. One man carried another man on his back. A single glance told Thomas that the man being carried had suffered an injury to his leg.

  The constable rushed forward with the words: ‘Good Lord. Another one of those damn guns has gone off. Inspector, are you hurt bad?’

  ‘Just a cut,’ Abberline said.

  Thomas said, ‘The bleeding’s stopped.’

  One of the fishermen stepped forward. ‘I’ll carry the gent on my back.’

  ‘I’m not light,’ Abberline warned him.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. I can manage you.’

  The fisherman had white hair and bright blue eyes. The broad shoulders suggested that the man possessed a massive physical strength. A lifetime hauling nets had given him plenty of muscle. A couple of other men helped Abberline onto the fisherman’s back, so he’d be carried piggy-back style like the other wounded fellow. Soon, the strange procession continued on its way through the forest.

  Thomas, meanwhile, began to feel increasingly uneasy. ‘Jo should be here by now. What’s happened to her?’

  Fifteen minutes later, the group made it back to the palace grounds. The fishermen had taken it in turns to carry Abberline and their injured friend. Both men were conscious, and both were in pain. As they approached the palace Thomas broke away from the group to run the last hundred yards to the front doors. The doors opened to reveal one of the footmen he’d seen earlier.

  ‘Where is Miss Hamilton-West?’ he asked, using Jo’s surname.

  The footman appeared taken aback. ‘The lady left with you.’

  ‘She came back here about an hour ago.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her, sir.’

  ‘You’ve been here all the time?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I watched you leave with the lady and the Scotland Yard gentleman. Nobody has been through these doors since then.’

  Thomas felt the skin all over his body become cold. He wanted to find Jo as quickly as possible, yet there was another important matter to be dealt with first. He said, ‘There are two injured men on their way. Is there anyone here with medical knowledge?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Manvers was a doctor before he became an artist.’

  ‘Good. Make sure he’s called to the entrance hall. The injured men will be here in no more than two minutes.’

  Thomas raced back to the half a dozen men accompanied by the police constable. ‘There’ll be help waiting for you when you reach the palace.’ He turned to Abberline. ‘Inspector, I must speak with you.’

  Abberline asked the fisherman to set him down. He put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders in order to support himself.

  Abberline spoke to the constable. ‘Get everyone indoors. I’ll join you in a moment.’

  The constable nodded and led his search party towards the palace.

  Thomas waited until he was sure they wouldn’t be overheard. He whispered. ‘Jo didn’t return to the palace.’

  Abberline gave a single, sharp nod. ‘Then it’s likely that she’s been taken, too.’

  ‘But where on earth could she be?’

  ‘Even though this is a small island, there are still plenty of places to hide prisoners. Empty cottages, huts; the forest is as dense as a jungle in places.’

  ‘I’m going to look for her.’

  ‘Don’t forget that Tristan is still out there.’

  Thomas raised the shotgun. ‘I’ve got this.’

  ‘Very well, but take care.’

  Thomas reassured Abberline that he would.

  Abberline said, ‘When I see Metcalfe and Scott I’ll tell them that Tristan is the murder suspect. I can trust my own men not to give the game away until Tristan is caught. As I said earlier, I don’t want to be in a position where I have to persuade Ludwig that his own son might be the killer. If he doesn’t believe me, I’ll lose what authority I have here. Now … leave me. Go find Jo and Bertie.’

  ‘You can’t walk.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. One of the footmen will help. Go, Thomas. Every minute counts. If you see any of the other search parties tell them that I gave you permission to take charge of the search.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, and keep out of the forest as much as you can. There’ll be more of those infernal spring-guns in there.’

  Thomas made sure that Abberline could stand by himself. That done, he gripped the shotgun tightly in one hand, and raced back along the path.

  This part of the forest didn’t have another human being in it as far as Thomas could see. He smelt the damp earth beneath the trees. Rabbits hopped across the path in front of him. Birds sang in the branches overhead. More than once he thought he saw a crouching figure. He’d whip the shotgun up to his shoulder only to realize that what he took to be an assassin was an old tree stump.

  His imagination showed him in vivid detail what may have happened earlier, when Jo had headed back in the direction of the palace. Perhaps Tristan had been watching them all along. Might the automatic gun he’d hidden be as much to warn him that people were moving around the island, rather than a means to wound or to kill? The man was intelligent. He manipulated his victims’ behaviour before he attacked. The sound of the gun, which had hurt Abberline, might also have drawn Tristan to them. When Tristan saw Jo leave, he followed her. Moments later he must have pounced. Where was she now? Was she even alive?

  Thomas ran faster through the forest, searching at random, hoping to come across a clue. A mound of leaves covered the path in front of him. He skidded to a stop. Picking up a fallen branch from t
he ground, he brushed aside the leaves and stood quickly back. It was another of the old spring-guns that had been used as mantraps many years ago before they’d been outlawed. Landowners used these potentially lethal devices to injure trespassers and poachers. Long strips of metal were connected to a spring trigger fixed to the gun barrel. The automatic weapon would be loaded with gunpowder and metal pellets.

  Thomas moved to a point where the open mouth of the gun’s muzzle pointed away from him. He swung the branch down onto the long strip of iron. A click! The spring had been activated, which operated the trigger. There was a terrifically loud bang, a jet of smoke, and the pellets struck a nearby tree, stripping away bark. If he’d stepped on the thing, before noticing it, it’s likely the skin of his leg would have been violently torn away just like the bark of that tree.

  Thomas concealed himself behind some bushes. Would the sound of the gun firing bring Tristan again? Would the man want to see the result of his pernicious handiwork?

  Five minutes passed. Rabbits returned to hop around the glade. They seemed content to nibble the dandelion leaves that grew there, suggesting that they hadn’t heard another human approaching. Thomas waited another two minutes. No. It seemed that Tristan wouldn’t be drawn into the open again. He’d realized, no doubt, that others would have guessed that the spring-guns were also a device that warned him people were in the forest.

  Thomas continued along the path to the river. The tide had rolled out, exposing areas of sand and mud. He decided it would be safer to move along the shore. There, nobody could spring out from a tree behind him. Also, there wouldn’t be any of those vicious automatic guns hidden on the beach.

  Of course, he didn’t know where to search. So, once again, he found himself walking in the simple hope of seeing Tristan, or some indication that he was nearby. It wasn’t long before he noticed marks in the sand. He knelt down in order to examine them more closely. Two sets of footprints. One set seemed to be made by a man’s shoes. The other set was smaller, with pointed toes. He recalled Jo’s boots that tapered towards the toes.

  Could these be Jo and Tristan’s footprints? But why would she come to the beach with Tristan? After all, she was returning to the palace to bring help after Abberline had been wounded. These thoughts sped through Thomas’s mind as he studied the footprints amid a scattering of white seashells. Of course, she had no reason to be suspicious of Tristan. Only Thomas and Abberline believed that the king’s youngest son might have a connection to the killings and the abduction of Bertie Trask. Tristan could have invented a story to deceive Jo. Come quickly, he might have said. I’ve found the child. He’s badly hurt. I need you to help him. It was quite reasonable in those circumstances that Bertie should be helped first. Especially if she believed that his life was in danger.

  ‘So …’ Thomas murmured to himself. ‘Jo goes with Tristan. She doesn’t know she’s alone with a murderer.’

  Thomas gazed at the line of footprints. They told him the direction the two people had walked. However, after no more than a dozen paces they turned towards a broad line of pebbles where they disappeared. Thomas tried to pick up the footprints again. The land above the high-tide mark consisted of hard-packed soil, covered with grass. He could see no prints whatsoever. Jo and Tristan might have headed into the forest, or even backtracked across firm ground that wouldn’t show any prints. Or they might have continued heading along the strip of grassland between the beach and the trees.

  All Thomas could do, in the circumstance, was hope for a lucky break. He checked again that the shotgun was loaded. A moment later, he began walking quickly, following the line of the beach, scanning the area ahead as he went.

  Thomas Lloyd continued walking. He kept his shotgun at the ready. Flocks of birds had settled onto the beach to feed. At the water’s edge, a seal watched him walk past, its dark eyes glistening in the sunlight. Way off, in the centre of the river, big steamships lay at anchor, waiting for the turn of the tide before they could safely make for the open sea, which lay several miles to the east.

  Thomas passed the old windmill at the water’s edge. Twenty years ago this would have been on dry land. But now this derelict structure straddled the beach. The river had been steadily eroding the Isle of Faxfleet for the last decade or so. No doubt in a few more years the mill and its outbuildings would tumble into the river and be gone for good. The tall mill tower that once bore the sails of the windmill was nearest the water. Even from here Thomas could see huge cracks in its brick walls. The tides must already be eating away at the tower’s foundations.

  Thomas pushed on, walking briskly. He decided to check a cluster of vacant cottages in the forest that he’d noticed when he’d first arrived on the island. One of those could have been used to imprison Bertie and Jo. He turned inland. Almost straightaway he heard it – something like a clatter of falling stones.

  Thomas looked back at the old windmill. Immediately, he saw the flash of red from the biggest outbuilding. This was a substantial two-storey structure. The flicker of red came again from a window.

  Thomas stared in shock. ‘That’s Jo’s scarf,’ he breathed. ‘I’ve found her.’

  He ran back down the beach towards the derelict building. Jo must have seen him. Was she held captive there? And where was Tristan? The man was dangerous. Thomas realized that only too clearly. He tightened his grip on the shotgun, simultaneously curling a finger around the trigger. Perhaps it would have been safer to find the constables and Abberline’s colleagues. However, if Tristan decided to kill Jo it would only take a moment. Finding the policemen might take hours, considering that the men were searching elsewhere on the island.

  No, he told himself, I must act now. This is the only way.

  He raced towards the two-storey building. The red scarf fluttered in the breeze. Jo remained out of sight. Perhaps she couldn’t come to the window? She might have only just been able to extend her hand, holding the scarf, as far as the opening.

  Thomas reached a door that hung askew from its hinges. He stepped into the building, alert to the slightest movement, his head turning as he listened for a noise that would suggest that Tristan was about to spring out at him. He heard nothing. Quickly, he found the room where he’d seen the scarf. And there it was, tied to the rotten frame of the window, fluttering and snapping sharply as the breeze caught it.

  Is Jo still here? he wondered with a growing sense of fear for the woman’s safety. Or is she already dead?

  Thomas couldn’t continue this furtive search of the mill. He threw caution to the wind and loudly called her name.

  ‘Jo? Jo! Are you there? It’s me, Thomas!’

  Instantly, voices echoed from somewhere in the building. A woman and a child.

  Thomas’s heart surged. That must be Jo and Bertie. They’re alive! He rushed along the corridor that stank of rot and damp.

  ‘Jo? Tell me where you are?’

  The voices that answered seemed to shimmer from far away. They were almost like the voices of spirits from another world.

  ‘Jo! Keep shouting! I’ll find you!’

  The cries of the child and woman continued. They were full of terror, as well as a clamouring kind of hope, yet he couldn’t make out any actual words amid the chaos of echo upon echo.

  Then he realized why the voices sounded so ghostly. A doorway yawned to reveal steps descending into the earth.

  With triumph soaring inside of him, he shouted: ‘They’re in the basement!’

  Thomas clattered down the steps to find himself in a vault lit by candles. The smell of damp filled his nostrils. There was a strong odour of seaweed, too. At the bottom of the staircase, vaults ran to the left and to the right. He saw a scattering of debris on the floor that included pieces of furniture – stools, chairs, cabinets – along with bottles, jars and food cans – these must have been stored down here when this had been a working mill. His feet squelched in wet dirt when he entered the vault.

  ‘Jo!’

  ‘Thomas, here. Qui
ck!’

  An extraordinary sight met his eyes – so extraordinary it stole the air from his lungs and left him gasping in shock. For there, in the candlelight, were six iron cages. They must have measured five feet by five feet. In fact, the ironwork formed a cube that had been sealed at the top. The cages were old, red with rust: they must have been used to contain animals, perhaps just prior to slaughter, because huge iron hooks protruded from the ceiling where the carcasses of sheep and pigs might have once been hung.

  Most extraordinary of all – two of the cages were occupied. In one, Bertie. In the second, Jo.

  She threw herself at the cage bars, seizing one in each hand. ‘Thomas! Don’t stay down here! Fetch help!’

  Even as she finished shouting those words, a tremendous thud echoed through the basement.

  Thomas knew that was a door being slammed shut. Bolts rattled as they were shot home. He raced back to the steps but knew what he’d find. The basement door would be locked. They’d be trapped down here.

  Candles set in holders fixed to the wall illuminated the scene. The brick-lined vault was as cold as a tomb. Strewn across the floor were pieces of wood, chairs, broken tables. All were rotting. Damp oozed from the walls in glistening beads.

  Thomas had checked the door to the basement. This was made from heavy slabs of timber. The thing was soundly bolted from the other side. He tried to pull it open. The door didn’t budge. He returned to where Bertie and Jo stood in the iron cages. The gates to the cages were padlocked shut. Those were formidable padlocks. Even though he knew he’d try his hardest to jemmy them open he doubted if he’d be successful with the bits of rusty metal lying here and there in the wet dirt. Maybe he could shoot off the locks with the gun? That could be possible, but it would also put the child and Jo in danger. They might be hit by deflected shotgun pellets. He stood before the cage that held Jo. The woman stared out at him.

  ‘Tristan?’ That was all he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I met him in the woods. He told me he’d found Bertie in the windmill and needed help freeing him. So I went with him. When we reached here he pulled out a pistol and made me come down into the cellar.’