by David Field
‘If yer killed me dog,’ Blower yelled, ‘then yer next fer the chop. I’ve got two shots fully loaded, and the geezer wi’ the ferrety face gets the fust un!’
‘Assuming that was a reference to me,’ Percy shouted back calmly, ‘then let me assure you that “Toby” isn’t dead. As for your two shots, you won’t need the second one, because as soon as you loose the first, these gentlemen behind me will give you the benefit of their own collection of firearms. They have six shots between them, and you’re enough of an engineer to calculate the odds.’
Blower had decided to lower his gun, and the procession completed the last few yards towards his cottage heaving a collective sigh of relief. Percy raised his police badge high in the air and smiled sarcastically at Blower.
‘You didn’t make any effort to inspect this properly during my last visit, Mr Blower, so I assume that you accept my identity. If not, let me assure you that these gentlemen behind me didn’t hire their uniforms from a theatrical costumier. You’re under arrest.’
‘What for?’ Blower demanded.
‘Resisting arrest, and assault with a deadly dog.’ Percy smiled back. ‘That’s only by way of the opening chorus, but when we get that lake drained we can probably add fraud, receiving a stolen Pullman carriage, and possibly murder.’
‘Murder?’ Blower yelled in disbelief. ‘I ain’t done no murder!’
‘That remains to be seen, does it not?’ Percy reminded him. ‘Or perhaps you can advise me in advance whether or not, when we extract the railway carriage from that lake, we’ll find the body of Lord Stranmillis?’
Chapter Twenty
Jack halted at the front entrance to the three storied residence, then checked the address he had been given by Carson. If Samuel Allen was the blackmailer that he was rumoured to be, then he must be at the top of his profession, if this was how he lived. The narrow but neat little street on the fringes of Shepherd Market was the residential choice of writers, artists and theatrical types, not low-life operators such as Allen, chiselling a few pounds here and there from victims no wealthier than he was, but with horrible secrets that they desperately needed to keep hidden. Then again, if Allen specialised in blackmailing those of an artistic leaning, then he was surrounded by them in this somewhat pretentious offshoot of its better class neighbour Mayfair.
Allen had the effrontery to describe himself on the gold name plate at the front entrance of this block of apartments as a ‘Commercial Consultant’, but then this was no different from a high class prostitute advertising her ‘discreet personal services’, as some of those who were known to live in this area actually did in the personal pages of the grubbier newspapers that it was almost a confession of vice to be caught reading. While the hypocrisy of the man might be breathtaking, it would give Jack immense personal pleasure to acquire evidence against him that would puncture his facade, destroy his lucrative trade in other peoples’ misery and, as an added bonus, have him locked away in Pentonville for a few years.
But that wasn’t why he was standing outside, feeling like a beggar at the gates of Caesar’s palace. Jack was here because he had a strong suspicion that the man calling himself a commercial consultant had consulted with Oscar Wilde, ostensibly in the matter of the missing letter to ‘Bosie’ Douglas, but in reality with some other purpose in mind. Given Wilde’s lifestyle and sexual preferences, and given his lauded place at the dinner tables of the wealthy, the ennobled and the downright perverted, it might be the case that Allen was prepared to oblige Wilde in some way or other — financially, or in the form of willing young men — in return for information that Allen could then use to his advantage regarding others of a like persuasion to Wilde’s who would be prepared to pay handsomely for his — that is, either Allen’s or Wildes’ — silence. Or perhaps even both of them.
Was it possible that Wilde had abandoned his action against Queensberry, at considerable financial cost, because he had been warned off pursuing it and risking the prospect that Carson would call a witness who would blow the cover off someone really significant in British public life? After all, the weekend house parties that Wilde and his little boys’ club frequented were hardly hosted by, or for the benefit of, your average man in the street.
Jack entered the elegantly tiled entrance hall and climbed the stairs to the first floor, as directed by the name plate at street level. He rang the bell, and after a short delay a manservant of some sort opened the door and looked down his nose at Jack.
‘You have business with Mr Allen?’
‘I hope so,’ Jack replied with an eager expression.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No, since the nature of my business is such that it would have been indiscreet to write in advance.’
‘I’ll present your card, and enquire if he’ll see you,’ the flunkey advised Jack in a bored nasal tone as he held out his hand, presumably anticipating a calling card.
Jack tried his best to look embarrassed and confused. ‘Again,’ he replied, ‘it would be unwise of me to leave evidence of my visit here, should the nature of your master’s business be such as I have been advised that it is. You may advise him that a Mr Jackson wishes to engage his services, should they be as rumoured.’
‘Wait there,’ Jack was instructed as the door was closed in his face. Wondering whether Allen would be prepared to risk admitting someone from the street who might well be a hired assassin, given the nature of his business, Jack was relieved when the door was re-opened after less than a minute, and he was ushered down a heavily carpeted hallway and into a drawing room, where the man himself sat behind a small desk.
The room was richly furnished, with oil paintings on the walls, heavy drape curtains overlooking the street below, and several luxurious easy chairs dotted around the room. Allen himself was the epitome of a wealthy man on a day of rest, although it was a Friday, and he rose casually to lean across the narrow desk and shake Jack’s hand with warm confidence as he gestured him into the visitor’s chair.
‘In what way may I be of assistance to you, Mr ... Jackson?’
‘It’s a very sensitive matter,’ Jack mumbled convincingly as he looked down at the table rather than meet Allen’s eye.
‘Most of the matters I handle are,’ Allen replied confidently, and Jack allowed his assumed alter ego to look up and take a closer look at his quarry. He was in his late thirties, apparently, and comfortably attired in a blue velvet smoking jacket with a matching cravat, with a smooth complexion, and sporting a monocle in his left eye socket. His face was almost elegant in its slimness, and the blue eyes gave nothing away except the suggestion created by the light wrinkles that surrounded them that this man was wont to smile a good deal.
It fell embarrassingly silent until Allen removed his monocle, twirled its gold chain thoughtfully in his hand, and broke the ice.
‘I believe that you wish to consult me regarding an affair of the heart,’ he suggested, and Jack nodded with what he hoped was the appropriate amount of reluctance.
‘You are very perceptive, sir,’ he mumbled.
‘In my profession, one is required to be,’ Allen replied.
‘I am advised, sir, that the nature of your profession is such that affairs of the heart can be, shall we say, managed to satisfaction.’
‘A man or a woman?’ Allen demanded bluntly.
‘A lady,’ Jack confessed. ‘A lady, what is more, who is married, but unhappily.’
‘Her husband being…?’
Jack shook his head vigorously. ‘Forgive me, sir, but we are not yet sufficiently acquainted for me to divulge that information.’
‘But it is he whose attitude you wish to see adjusted, in the matter of his wife’s affectionate disposition towards yourself? Or is the lady herself proving importunate in her demands?’
‘Indeed, sir, you have reached the nub of it, in your first suggestion.’
‘I usually do,’ Allen boasted as he leaned back in his chair with an air of self-satisfaction. ‘
There are two types of client who occupy the chair in which you are now seated. Those who wish to relieve themselves of an embarrassment, and those who wish to inflict it on another. You, I suspect, require both such services.’
Despite himself, Jack was impressed by the man’s powers of perception, and there could be no doubt that he was capable of moving smoothly in the highest of social circles with the lowest of agendas. He almost had Jack convinced that the story he had invented for the occasion was genuine. It was time to play out more line to catch this most oily of fish.
‘If I may be frank, sir,’ Jack wheedled, ‘I must confess that in the past twelve months or so, I have become enamoured of a certain lady a few years older than myself, the wife of a very wealthy and prominent man around this city whose name would be instantly known to you, were I to divulge it at this stage. My affection for her is reciprocated, and in our less restrained moments we have indulged in matters of a carnal nature of which we should be thoroughly ashamed, although we are not. But in her defence, I should add that she has been starved of any pleasures of that nature for some time now, due to her husband’s fondness for other fleshly pursuits.’
‘He would not be the first husband to take his pleasures with certain obliging ladies, one of whom even resides on this staircase,’ Allen commented.
‘Regrettably, for my beloved, that is not his nature. He is — how may I put this? — he is inclined towards sexual partners of the other gender.’
‘He’s a queer, is that what you’re getting at?’ Allen demanded bluntly.
Jack did his best to blush. ‘Is that what they are called? Men who prefer boys? Young boys?’
‘That’s one word for them, certainly,’ Allen confirmed, ‘but where is this leading?’
Jack dropped his gaze to the desk as he gave out the rest of his prepared story. ‘To my considerable shame, regret and embarrassment, certain love poems that I had written for the lady proved so acceptable to her that she kept them in her handbag, where they were discovered by her maid, who lost no time in passing them on to the lady’s husband, thereby gaining herself a certain financial reward. The husband is now threatening to employ them in a most disagreeable way, namely as evidence in a divorce action.’
‘And you wish me to secure the return of these importunate scribblings? How much are you willing to pay for their return, should I agree to approach this man on your behalf?’
‘I had not thought in terms of money,’ Jack replied with suitable modesty, ‘since I am not a wealthy man.’
‘But you must have realised that I would require a fee for my services?’ Allen replied with a less friendly facial expression. ‘Why do you waste my time, sir?’
‘I had hoped,’ Jack replied deferentially, ‘that when I give you certain additional information regarding this man, and his activities with young men at weekend house parties in certain Home Counties country estates, you might be able to persuade him to hand the missives to you in return for not revealing his proclivities to his employer, given his position.’
‘His employer being...?’
‘The Government. He is a senior public servant whose name is household.’
‘Really?’ Allen’s face lit up in confirmation that Jack had secured his quarry. ‘Pray who is this man?’
‘Before I divulge his identity,’ Jack replied guardedly, hoping that the prize he was dangling in front of Allen’s eyes was enough to encourage less discretion on his part, ‘how can I be satisfied that you possess the ability to persuade him to part with these letters?’
‘You have presumably been advised of my previous successes?’ Allen replied as his eyes narrowed in warning. ‘Otherwise you would not be here. Might I enquire who recommended my services to you?’
Jack hesitated for what he judged to be the appropriate few seconds before replying. ‘I had no direct recommendation as such, but I read of you in the newspapers, regarding your involvement with Mr Oscar Wilde.’
‘My name was mentioned but briefly in that disgraceful travesty of a trial,’ Allen grimaced, ‘and Oscar was poorly advised to give in when he did. He is a good friend of mine, and I feel for him in the public humiliation that he has suffered.’
‘It was not disclosed at the trial that you were his friend,’ Jack replied with genuine surprise. ‘It was mentioned only that you sought to return a certain letter to him in exchange for money. You were unkindly described as a blackmailer, although that is a term that I deprecate. However, it was your experience in returning lost letters that led me to believe that you might be of assistance in my matter.’
‘That was a minor matter, compared with some of the business transactions I have negotiated during my twenty or so years in this business,’ Allen boasted expansively. ‘Some of the leading lights of this nation of ours have consulted me in their anxiety to draw the veil of charity over their indiscretions. I have regularly been consulted by associates of Oscar Wilde in such matters, and it may well be that I have been present at one or more of those weekend house parties to which you referred. Who, pray, is the cuckolded husband to whom you referred earlier?’
‘If I supply you with his name, and further evidence of his fondness for young boys, there will be no charge to me for your services? If I adjudge you correctly, you will be charging your fee directly to the gentleman in question, in addition to securing the return of my love poems?’
‘Indeed I will,’ Allen grinned, ‘and it is I who am indebted to you for bringing this matter to my attention.’
‘And how do I know that you will not retain these documents so important to me, and charge me for their return?’
‘You don’t,’ Allen replied with a smirk, ‘any more than I can rest assured that you were not sent here by a certain Mr Ryan.’
‘And who might he be?’ Jack hoped that his suddenly increased heart rate was not audible through his waistcoat.
‘If you know the man to whom I refer, then you do not need to enquire,’ Allen replied peevishly, as if he had said too much. ‘But if you do not, then why should I reveal further information about him? What is this additional evidence that you wish to bring to me?’
‘Something known only to his wife, my lover.’ Jack smiled as an idea came to him. ‘We shall both present ourselves to you in the course of the next few days. And so I take my leave.’
He thought he detected a look of relief on Allen’s face as he rose from his chair and headed for the door. Was it perhaps that Allen had been fearful that Jack had come armed for the occasion? And had he been referring to the same ‘Mr Ryan’?
Chapter Twenty-One
Percy watched anxiously as the long lengths of soft piping were connected to the powerful pump that the engineers from the locomotive works had carefully brought down the track, pulled by two horses. Men had been feeding coal into it from the copious pile that had serviced the original pump that now lay, discarded, to one side of the shaft. It was now ready, and as one of the men in overalls gave the ‘thumbs up’ sign to his colleague, he turned a wheel, and the steam engine hissed into life as the pipes swelled with the first of their load of brine, and Percy watched the first few gallons passing down the long network of pipes until the bulge disappeared into the far distance.
Once the pump was fully engaged, the engineers transferred their attention to the crane that sat at the entrance to the shaft building, and after only a few minutes it was up and firing, and they slowly moved it out into position, with the brine lake on one side and the railway branch line to its rear. The combined noise from two steam devices was almost overpowering, and certainly prohibitive to normal conversation, so Percy beckoned to the senior constable on duty and walked with him a few hundred yards further back up the track before attempting to speak.
‘How long do you think it’ll take until we see the roof of the Pullman carriage?’
‘Assuming that it’s down there,’ the constable replied, ‘the engineers reckon a couple of hours or so. Apparently they reckon that they can pu
mp out five feet an hour.’
‘Can I borrow the police wagon for a short trip back into Beeston?’
‘You’re the Inspector,’ the constable replied deferentially. ‘As a matter of pure formality, what do you need it for?’
‘I’m off to see a man about a signal,’ Percy replied. ‘By the time I get back, hopefully you’ll have a railway carriage for me to inspect. If I’m gone for a while, tell the men to drain it, but not to go inside.’
Back at Beeston signal box, Percy was relieved to see the familiar grinning face of Ted Holmes as he beckoned him inside. The weather was a little warmer than it had been on his previous visit, but the stove in the corner was burning as brightly as it had then, and the heat was almost overpowering. Holmes was seated in the far corner reading a newspaper, and presumably there were no trains due immediately, so this would make it easier.
Percy took the seat indicated by the imperious wave of Holmes’s hand, and smiled.
‘I was a little remiss during our last conversation,’ Percy advised him, ‘in that I failed to obtain precise information regarding your shift workings. When you told me that you switched from days to nights every month, I assumed that you meant calendar months, and in any case I was particularly seeking information about an incident that I believe occurred on the evening of the twenty-second of February last. I don’t suppose you can remember whether or not you were on duty that evening?’
‘I don’t ’ave to,’ Holmes replied with a smile, ‘since it’ll be noted in this Train Register.’ He stood up, moved to the sloping wooden desk, and began to turn back the pages of the register, which lay in its permanent place on top of the desk. ‘What were that date agin?’
‘February the twenty-second,’ Percy replied. ‘I believe it was a Friday.’
Holmes found the page, then smiled as he turned to face Percy. ‘There it is. Fred Butterworth were on duty that night, an’ seemin’ly ’e ’ad a problem wi’ the crossin’ gates out there. Read it fer yerself.’