‘I say, that’s enough of that, you two ruffians! Can’t you see there are women and children present?’
He swung his cane at Killigrew’s head. The commander ducked beneath it, but then the marksman punched him in the jaw, knocking him back against the railing. He toppled over it, felt himself falling, and barely managed to catch the rail in time. He dangled from one hand, level with the equator, and gazed down to New Zealand, some thirty feet below him.
Manny Leventhal emerged from the doorway in the South Pacific Ocean, followed by half a dozen bobbies, one of them waving a rattle furiously to summon further assistance. Leventhal looked up and saw Killigrew dangling from the platform above. He pointed up at him, and ran for the stairs, the peelers struggling to keep up.
Killigrew glanced across to where the marksman now struggled with the visitor armed with a cane. When the two of them parted, the cane was in the marksman’s possession and he swung it at the side of the visitor’s head, knocking him down. The spectators gasped, and after that no one felt like interfering.
The railings were too narrow for Killigrew to squeeze through back on to the safety of the platform. He managed to get his other hand on the rail, but then the marksman whirled with the cane and slammed it down between his hands. He drew back for another swing, and Killigrew had to let go of the railing, hanging off the stanchions below. The marksman lashed out with one foot, crushing Killigrew’s fingers against the rail. The commander gasped and had to let go with that hand, dangling from the other.
He looked up to see his opponent standing above him, sweeping the cane back over one shoulder to swing it over the rail at Killigrew’s head. Then the assassin’s eyes widened in terror, and the next thing the commander knew the man was toppling over the railing. Killigrew drew his head in as the man fell past him, head first, screaming. The scream was cut short when he thudded against New Zealand and slid down the Pacific Ocean towards the Antarctic. A woman shrieked in horror, while the nanny tried to cover the eyes of her charge who, being a ten-year-old boy, did not want to be prevented from gawping at the dead man.
Killigrew managed to catch hold of one of the other railings with his crushed hand; it stung like the devil, but there were no bones broken as far as he could tell; and he had some experience of broken bones. Not that he wanted any more, so he was relieved when he looked up to see Leventhal leaning over the rail, reaching down to clasp his hand. It must have been the printer who had caught the marksman by the heels and tumbled him over the railing.
He hauled Killigrew to safety and the two of them sat down with their backs to the railings, gasping for breath. One of the peelers stood over them, arms folded and grim-faced, wanting some answers. Killigrew made a gesture that managed to be an acknowledgement of his presence, an appeasement, and a request for a chance to catch his breath before explaining, all in one.
He glanced over his shoulder. Through the railings, he could see the other peelers creating a cordon around the marksman’s body. ‘Is he dead?’
‘He ain’t dancing a jig, Mr K,’ panted Leventhal.
‘Damn! I wanted to take him alive!’
‘Would you prefer it… if it was you down there… with your neck bent double… and him up here… still breathing?’
‘I needed him to answer some questions.’
‘We got the other one.’
Killigrew nodded, and glanced at Leventhal. ‘I thought you people didn’t believe in violence?’
‘You must be thinking of the Quakers, Mr K. You ever read the Old Testament? Gideon, David, Samson? All Jews.’
‘Well, I’m obliged to you, Mr Leventhal. You just saved my life.’
‘Think nothing of it. Why, if I’d let you tackle them fellers alone, tonight you’d’ve been sitting in your club telling your pals over a glass of port and a cigar about how some dirty little Hebrew didn’t help you tackle a couple of armed killers.’
‘You did far more than most would have done.’
‘Of course. What you people don’t understand is what a full-time responsibility it is, being Jewish.’ The printer indicated the waiting bobby. ‘Your department, I think.’
* * *
Killigrew was kept waiting in a cell to himself at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court for nearly twelve hours before the door opened and Detective Inspector Jordan entered. He had a face like thunder.
Killigrew covered a yawn with a bandaged hand and stretched his aching limbs. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Your story seems to be true in its particulars as far as we can ascertain. The man you captured on Bedford Street is William Richards, alias Brassy Bill; the man who died at the Great Globe is a known accomplice of his, Charles Croker. Both were recently tried for murder at the Old Bailey but acquitted, thanks to the eloquent defence on their behalf by—’
‘James Tabard, QC?’ anticipated Killigrew.
Jordan scowled at having his thunder stolen. ‘Yes.’
‘And what does Mr Tabard have to say for himself?’
‘Not much. He swallowed a whole phial of prussic acid shortly before we arrived. Killed himself out of remorse for having assisted two Russian spies to murder an innocent woman and frame an innocent man, according to his suicide note.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Killigrew. ‘He’s a barrister. Barristers don’t suffer from remorse.’
‘I’d’ve thought you’d be pleased. It puts you in the clear.’
‘It still doesn’t make sense. Tabard was the sort who’d brazen it out, not take his own life. Where did he get a phial of prussic acid at such short notice, anyhow?’
‘We’ve checked with the apothecaries in the vicinity of the Inns of Court and haven’t found any record of prussic acid being sold to a Mr Tabard. Of course, he might have purchased the acid under an assumed name, but my guess is he was murdered. The barristers living in the adjoining chambers heard raised voices shortly before we arrived, and there are bruises on Tabard’s throat, jaw, shoulders and arms consistent with his having been pinned down while someone poured the acid down his throat. And the suicide note’s written in a very shaky hand, as if written under extreme duress.’
‘Then why are you releasing me? I’d’ve thought I’d be your prime suspect.’
Jordan shook his head. ‘You’ve got a cast-iron alibi: you were in here at the time. We know precisely when Tabard was killed because he was seen alive when he let two men into his chambers at three o’clock. The raised voices were heard about ten minutes after that. Then everything went quiet, and at twenty-three minutes past they emerged again. We arrived there at half-past.’ He grimaced again, clearly painfully conscious that he had missed out on making the arrest of his career.
Killigrew frowned. ‘Why so precise?’
‘Pardon?’
‘About the time they left, I mean. You said “twenty-three minutes past”. Not “twenty past,” or “twenty-five past,” but “twenty-three minutes past”.’
‘Because the two men seen emerging from Tabard’s chambers stopped to ask the witness the time: that’s why he remembers it so precisely.’
‘Doesn’t that strike you as rather odd?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Put yourself in their shoes. You’ve just forced a man to write a suicide note then held him down and poured prussic acid down his throat. Would you stop to ask the time as you left the building, and risk the danger that the man you asked would be able to give your description?’
‘Well, lucky for you they did, because the description given by the witness is a fair tally for the one you gave of Nekrasoff and Ryzhago.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Covering their tracks. What about Leventhal?’
‘That’s slightly trickier. Technically, since he hadn’t actually begun forging the Prussian passport, he’s not actually guilty of any crime; and even if he had, I’m not sure there’s any law against forging the passport of a foreign country. But we can get him on receiving stolen goods.’
‘The real Pru
ssian passport his confederates stole for him to use as a template?’
Jordan nodded.
‘Actually, I was wondering if you could turn a blind eye to that.’
‘We leave turning blind eyes to you naval lads. One way or another, we’re going to throw the book at that greasy Hebrew bastard.’
‘That “greasy Hebrew bastard”, as you call him, saved my life, Inspector.’
‘That’s very nice, sir,’ Jordan retorted coldly. ‘You can speak up as a character witness at his trial.’
‘What about this meeting he arranged to hand the passport over to Nekrasoff at… I never did find out where they were going to meet.’
‘The Crystal Palace, sir. The Egyptian Court, to be precise. I think we can safely assume that meeting’s been cancelled.’
‘Why not get Leventhal to turn Queen’s evidence? If it was Tabard that sent those two men to kill me, there’s still a chance that Nekrasoff doesn’t know we know about the passport. You could have plainclothes men waiting at the Crystal Palace to arrest Nekrasoff when he turns up. I know it’s a long shot, Inspector, but surely it’s got to be worth a try?’
‘Nekrasoff will know we know about the passport when he reads about Leventhal’s arrest in the press tomorrow. The People’s Banner already has the story. Gunfights in Covent Garden, a punch-up in the Great Globe – you can’t keep incidents like that under wraps. The important thing is, this fellow Nekrasoff won’t be getting his false passport now.’
‘The important thing is finding out who that passport was intended for, surely? From the description Leventhal gave me, it wasn’t Nekrasoff or Ryzhago. And I’m sure there are other forgers in London that Nekrasoff can go to.’
‘And I’m sure we’ll find Nekrasoff before he has a chance to use it. We’ve got men watching all the ports and we’re checking all the known forgers.’
‘What about the unknown ones?’
‘You go back to Portsmouth and do your job, Commander. Leave us to do ours.’
‘Do my job! It’s thanks to your bungling, Inspector, that I’m going to spend the whole of the summer kicking my heels on board HMS Excellent while the fleet returns to the Baltic!’
Chapter 6
The Merlin
‘Did Vinny tell you what happened to the lads from the Cossack?’ Seth Endicott asked Molineaux on the deck of HMS Ramillies.
‘No. What?’
‘They sent a boat ashore at Hangö Head to drop off some of the prisoners they’d taken – you know, merchant cap’ns off prizes – and there was a battalion of Russian infantry waiting for them ashore, and when the boat reached the pier the officer commanding the Russkis shouted: “We don’t care for your flag of truce, we’ll learn you not to fight against Russians!” and then he ordered his men to open fire on the boat.’ A lanky Liverpudlian with greasy fair hair, Endicott had recently been promoted to gunner’s mate following his predecessor’s death from the epidemic of smallpox that had raged through the fleet, and now wore a petty officer’s badge of distinction on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘And afterwards, when they’d rounded up the prisoners, they took the bodies of the dead and the dying and threw them into the sea!’
‘Yur, well, we know the Ivans ain’t no respecters of a flag of truce,’ said Molineaux, and frowned. ‘How do they know?’
‘Eh?’
‘How do they know what the Russian officer said, if the Ivans killed half of them and took the rest prisoner?’
‘Oh! One of the lads they wounded managed to hide ashore overnight and rowed back to the Cossack the next morning.’
‘Haven’t you two got anything better to do than lollygag around all day, gossiping like a couple of old washerwomen?’ demanded Commander Tremaine, looming up suddenly.
The two petty officers regarded Killigrew’s replacement with studied insolence. ‘No, sir,’ said Molineaux.
It was true enough. Since the British fleet had arrived in the Baltic two months earlier, the Ramillies – a third-rate ship of the line converted to a block-ship – had been engaged in the tedium of blockade duties, while the crews of the frigates and sloops of the fleet amused themselves as best they could by cutting merchant ships out of undefended Finnish harbours, or exchanging shots with troops ashore.
For the past two weeks, the Ramillies had been at anchor with the rest of the British fleet – now joined by the French contingent – off Kotlin Island, a sliver of land some six miles long. The fortress of Kronstadt stood on the east end of Kotlin, dominating the approaches to St Petersburg where the Gulf of Finland narrowed towards its end. The Allied ships of the line had anchored in line of battle some three miles beyond the western tip of Kotlin, presenting their broadsides to any ships that approached from that direction. Four frigates and two sloops formed a second line a mile closer to the island, but still well out of range of Kronstadt’s guns.
The Russians had four ships of the line, three frigates and three brigs anchored behind the maritime fortress, moored in a line to the east where they could gain from the protection of Kronstadt’s guns and protect the fortress in turn by serving as floating batteries. But they dared not come out to face the Allied fleet, and the Allied ships dared not try steaming past the granite-faced batteries of Kronstadt to go in and get them. The seamen of the Allied fleet had more to fear from smallpox and chicken pox than they did from enemy action, and as Lieutenant Frederick Adare stood on the quarterdeck, eavesdropping on the two petty officers’ conversation, he had even found himself wishing he had been with the men from HMS Cossack who had gone ashore only to be massacred or captured: at least they had seen some action.
‘Well… at least have the decency to pretend to be busy,’ Commander Tremaine told the two petty officers testily.
‘Pretend to be busy,’ echoed Molineaux.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Endicott, ‘but if it means that much to you, couldn’t you pretend we’re busy, like?’
Adare struggled to suppress a smile.
‘That’s enough lip from you, Endicott!’ snapped Tremaine, wagging a finger in the Liverpudlian’s face. ‘I’ve had quite enough of your impudence!’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Endicott saluted smartly, and as the commander turned on his heel to stalk back to the quarterdeck, the Liverpudlian made obscene gestures at his back.
‘A little harsh on them, weren’t you, sir?’ Adare asked Tremaine. ‘They’re both good men. They just want to see some fighting; they can’t help it if the tedium wears down their tempers.’
‘That’s no excuse for insubordination! If you ask me, Commander Killigrew let things get a little too slack on this ship.’
‘The Old Man never had any complaints about the way Mr Killigrew handled the men, sir.’
‘Then he’s as much to blame as Killigrew is.’
‘Sir,’ Adare commented non-committally. He had mixed feelings about Killigrew’s replacement by Tremaine. The son of a senior clerk in the Post Office, Adare had always known he was going to have problems fitting into a service that was dominated by the sons of naval officers, landed gentlemen and titled peers. Indeed, so keenly had he felt the snobbery directed at him as one of the ‘middling sort’, he had been thinking about resigning his commission altogether when Captain Crichton had given him a berth on the Ramillies. Either Crichton did not care what a man’s social background was, or – perhaps more likely – he had enough trouble remembering what his father did for a living, and played it safe by treating everyone with equal geniality. Killigrew, meanwhile, as president of the wardroom mess, had not tolerated any kind of snobbery – a true gentleman, he detested it as simply being bad manners – and he treated everyone with respect, from the captain down to the lowliest ship’s boy. And in turn the men had respected him for it.
The queer thing was, the ratings could be the biggest snobs of all. Like the servants below stairs at his father’s house in Dublin, they had their own hierarchy that had to be respected by all who were in it. They certainly had none of the res
pect that they automatically accorded the other officers for Adare. ‘He ain’t a proper gentleman,’ he had heard one seaman remark, thinking he was out of earshot, and even Able Seaman Hughes, who constantly sought (in vain) to convert his shipmates to communism yet fawned obsequiously in the presence of officers, was noticeably less obsequious when dealing with Adare.
That had been the case when Adare had first joined the Ramillies sixteen months ago; and on every ship he had served on before then. It was not so bad now, and Adare knew he had Killigrew to thank for that: when the seamen had seen Killigrew treating Adare with respect, they had begun to do the same; grudgingly at first, but slowly he had begun to win them round.
Now Killigrew had gone, to be replaced by Tremaine – the biggest snob of all – Adare no longer had that safety net. But Tremaine had done so much to make an enemy of everyone on board with his strict adherence to every rule and regulation, and his inability to turn a blind eye to the most minor of infractions, the more the hands saw the commander treating Adare with contempt, the more they gave their tacit support to the lieutenant against the outsider, the cuckoo who had invaded their once-happy nest. Detestable though Tremaine was, his presence was almost welcome to Adare. Best of all, the commander had no sense of humour whatsoever, which made him an easy mark.
Adare glanced for’ard, in the direction of the Russian ships anchored beyond Kronstadt, and frowned. He took the telescope from the binnacle and levelled it, taking care not to let the eyepiece actually touch any part of his face. ‘Is that the Russian fleet getting ready to weigh anchor?’ he wondered out loud.
‘What? Let me see!’ Tremaine snatched the telescope from Adare’s hands to see for himself. He peered past Kronstadt for a few moments, and then lowered the telescope again. ‘I don’t see any smoke coming from their funnels, and there’s no sign of them crossing their yards.’
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 12