Dead Image

by Joan Lock

  ‘Can we have PC Smith and some of the Special Patrols?’

  Cheadle grimaced, pulling at his sandy side whiskers. ‘Divisionals won’t like it, you know.’

  ‘Young Smith was in at the start, sir, and he’s very keen.’

  He didn’t add that Smith could compose reasonable reports, while some divisional detectives could scarcely write their names. It would scarcely have been tactful, given the Chief Inspector’s own drawbacks in that area. Tales of Cheadle’s latest grammatical errors and spelling howlers were a source of great entertainment to the Sergeants’ office.

  ‘I’ll speak to his superintendent.’ He paused then said, ‘Right, what’s your tale so far, Sergeant Best?’

  As plainly as he could and avoiding any fancy words Best described his actions so far.

  ‘Obviously we’ve been concentrating on positive identification of the boy and the woman,’ he said, giving the word ‘positive’ careful emphasis.

  Cheadle suddenly shot upright in his chair in a manner which had frightened many a poor rookie detective half to death. The receiver’s issue chairs were not suitable support for such a big and burly man with the result he gradually slipped down in them.

  ‘Have a word with Sayer – get the latest on the Thames case. He’s out having a look at another bit – part of the head, I think.’

  Best hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why would he cut up the first body but not the second?’

  ‘Depends how much time he had, laddie, doesn’t it? Might have intended to, but’ – Cheadle spread his huge hands – ‘he ran out of time. Right’, continued the still very upright Chief Inspector, ‘let’s put the pictures in their frames, shall we? Picture number one: the murder happened near the canal and she was shoved straight in. Picture two:’ – he counted off on his thick, reddened fingers – ‘she was murdered on the Tilbury or that other barge what sunk.’

  ‘The Limehouse, sir.’

  ‘The Limehouse,’ echoed Cheadle. Best refrained from mentioning that they were known as canal boats, not barges.

  ‘Picture three: she was done in before being put on one of the barges; and picture four: she was dumped in somewhere else on the canal and she got caught up on one of the barges and dragged along.’ He paused. ‘You think of any other pictures, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir. Oh, apart from the possibility that she might have been on the bridge when the explosion occurred.’

  ‘At 5 a.m.?’ He frowned. ‘Do prostitutes do business there?’

  ‘Not sure, sir. I’m checking.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go back to picture one. The murder happened near the canal and she was shoved straight in.’

  ‘Seems to be a big coincidence that she was murdered on the same night as the explosion.’

  ‘Could have happened some time before.’

  ‘Not long before – the body is quite fresh.’

  ‘That don’t necessarily mean that much,’ Cheadle declared. ‘Might have been tucked away somewhere cool. Keep a look out for somewhere cool.’ Best wondered how he was going to do that. ‘Ask the bargees, they’ll know about the water temperature in the different parts.’

  Best nodded.

  ‘Any missing women thereabouts?’

  ‘Not heard of anyone so far, sir. But so many women come and go from those houses: artists’ models, ladies sitting for their portraits – and there are quite a few actresses and singers in the area.’

  ‘A few very fancy ladies, too, I hear,’ interposed Cheadle. Some of the best-kept, kept women resided in St John’s Wood.

  ‘Yes sir. But it’s usually the men who come and go from them.’

  They shared a conspiratorial, male laugh.

  ‘An’ if one of them ladies got difficult …?’

  ‘Possibility sir. But I think that the victim seems more likely to have been a boatman’s woman – or a servant.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well,’ he began carefully, ‘Smith’s mother says the petticoats are made of very good material, sir, and trimmed with expensive lace – but not new.’

  ‘Smith’s mother! She on the payroll as well, then?’

  Best grinned apologetically. ‘No, sir, she takes in washing, sir, and knows about these things.’

  Cheadle looked amused. He was a firm believer in the superiority of the working classes.

  ‘Which either means,’ Best continued, ‘the woman was wealthy, or–’

  ‘Or she had them passed on. You don’t have to paint me a picture, Sergeant. So she could be a lady’s maid …’

  ‘Or even a real lady fallen on hard times. And then there are her hands, sir. Mrs Smith,’ he went on, doggedly avoiding Cheadle’s eye, ‘says they are not a lady’s hands or those of someone used to heavy manual work.’

  Back to that old question. In the Thames case, the newspapers had made much of the fact that the hands had not yet been found. These, they declared ‘would at least have revealed the victim’s station in life’. It was almost as if it were the fault of the police that the the river had not yet given them up.

  ‘So, something in between, eh? Not quite a lady, not quite a skivvy?’

  ‘Yes. Someone who at least has to look after herself.’

  ‘So, could be a governess, a lady’s maid, an artist’s model, or even a shopkeeper?’ said Cheadle, ‘Anyway, let’s look at picture number four – her being dragged along by one of the barges.’ He scratched his head. ‘Though I got to admit that it does seem a bit unlikely that she could have been carried far without being spotted at one of the locks and there’s nothing in the post-mortem report about any crush injuries the body could have got from a barge.’

  ‘Might have been protected by the dress, sir, which then got pulled off?’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t think so. I think whoever killed her pulled her dress off and she went in where she was found. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Just for now, though, let’s put our money on pictures one to three.’ He paused, ‘Speaking of pictures, got any photographs yet?’

  ‘I’m getting them done of the boy, but I think the woman’s face is too badly damaged to be recognized, sir.’

  ‘Pity. Maybe the reward notices will turn up something – they nearly ready?’

  ‘Just sent them for printing, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Cheadle nodded and took out his watch. Best got up to go but the Chief Inspector held up his hand, ‘You realize there is a fifth possibility.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘She might have had something to do with the explosion.’ Best was puzzled. ‘We don’t know what caused it yet, do we?’

  ‘No sir, but—’

  ‘Could have been deliberate, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He frowned. ‘Do you mean the Fenians sir?’ God forbid they were back in business.

  ‘Hm. Mebbe. Mebbe.’ He shrugged. ‘Or, mebbe some rival. Have you thought of that?’ Best hadn’t. ‘Or,’ he paused and stared meaningfully over his metal-rimmed spectacles, ‘the Grand Junction company themselves.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘In business difficulties – you knows the picture .?.?. ‘He tapped his nose. ‘Sniff around.’ Cheadle might be the most ill-educated man at the Yard, but he was also the most astute. That thought was to reoccur as Best ‘sniffed around’ among the piles of debris which had been brought up the bank from the canal. And the smell was not sweet. It was all such a mess, but he could discern scraps of tarpaulin, torn sacks (some, miraculously, still half full of nuts or sugar), oildrums and, pathetically, a battered tin mug.

  ‘Seen this?’ enquired the tweed-suited Home Office explosives expert. He scraped at the mud on one of the oil drums better to reveal its markings: ‘Hayes & Co., Boston, USA.’ They looked at each other.

  ‘Fenians?’

  He shrugged. ‘Could be.’

  At one time any explosion had been followed by the immediate Press cry, ‘Another Fenian Outrage!’ Hardly surprisi
ng. In the space of two years, a number of bombings and shootings had been carried out by this Irish–American freedom movement. The last outrage, the Clerkenwell Prison Explosion, had been almost seven years ago. Since then, silence. Recent reports from across the Atlantic had informed them not only was the movement still flourishing but also plotting more mayhem. They hadn’t expected it this soon.

  Best sighed and added Fenians to his growing list of suspects.

  HER SOUL WILL ROT IN HELL! The words raged across the wall of the St Pancras lock-keeper’s cottage in huge malignant letters, splashes of whitewash dripping down the brickwork and spreading over the canalside paving. It was not the only message. Further along, in smaller and slightly calmer lettering, was the claim, SHE HAS GONE TO SATEN!, and the imperative instruction, SINNERS REPENT!

  ‘When did they appear?’ enquired Best.

  ‘No one knows,’ replied Thornley. ‘They were noticed at first light.’

  ‘So, any time during the night.’

  Thornley nodded tiredly. ‘Not when the fly boats were passing through, though – someone would have seen.’

  ‘The question is, are they talking about our victim and, if so, who is the message meant for? Can’t be for the other boatmen.’

  Smith looked puzzled.

  ‘They can’t read,’ Best explained.

  ‘Oh, one or two of them can,’ exclaimed Thornley, then admitted, ‘Well, a little bit anyway.’

  They turned back to the venomous messages. It was extraordinary how hate and evil could permeate the atmosphere from mere words. It was depressing. Particularly because the feelings expressed seemed so strangely at odds with the pathetic, unclaimed little body Best had so recently seen lying on a cold slab in Marylebone Workhouse. ‘The phrasing is a bit Biblical – like …’

  ‘One of them religious tracts?’ offered Thornley.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Those Bible thumpers are always trying to save the boatmen.’ He shook his head in wonderment.

  ‘So, the writer might be a boatman, just be copying something he’s seen?’

  ‘But then why didn’t they get Satan right?’ asked Smith. Then answered his own question. ‘Maybe doing it from memory?’

  Best nodded. ‘Or,’ he said, devilishly, ‘they could really be educated but unable to spell, or educated but pretending not to be able to spell – just so as to fool us.’

  Smith looked dazed.

  ‘Not going to be an easy one this,’ said Best. ‘I feel it in my bones. Her soul will rot in hell! Sounds like a religious maniac murderer shouting in triumph, or maybe a frightened irreligious murderer trying to divert attention from himself – or, then again,’ – he looked rueful – ‘someone just amusing themselves at our expense. Anyway, I’ll put evangelists on my list, just in case.’

  ‘I’ve something else for your list,’ broke in a doleful Thornley. ‘It’s just a rumour so far, mind you. You know how it is, things are said at the lockside and the boats pass on …’ Best waited patiently. ‘Then they meet up with others and the story is exaggerated. Anyway, it’s said that a fight between a man and a woman was heard here on the lockside on the night in question – just as the fly boats were passing through.’

  Best got out his notebook.

  The list of missing women had been whittled down to five possibles. Now, after further perusal, Best put three of these aside: one whose hair was described as ‘mid-brown’ and who, if her estimated height was right, was too short. Another, who had a prominent, curved scar on her left shoulder – their corpse had no such marking. The third was too old. That left two. One of these was a young seamstress from Streatham. But it was the second of the two who excited him. Her description was the nearest. ‘And look where she lives!’ he exclaimed, holding up the scribbled draft for the printed information leaflet:

  £50 Reward

  Missing

  LIZA MOODY, aged 24, left the Three Tuns Public House, Stibbington Street, Somers Town, where she is a barmaid, at about 9 p.m. on Saturday, 30 September, 1874. Has not been seen since.

  DESCRIPTION: height, 5 feet 2–3 inches, well proportioned, pale complexion, light hair and eyes. Dress: dark-green stuff with black buttons and trim, red and green plaid shawl, green bonnet with hanging flowers.

  Best slapped the notice excitedly, ‘Somers Town – just by King’s Cross!’

  Smith coughed, and murmured apologetically, ‘It does say the 30th there, doesn’t it – or might it be the 20th? It’s difficult to tell.’

  Best had had the same thought but had pushed it away. If it was the 20th it was probably too early. They both peered hard at the spot where Sergeant Rogers’ free hand became even freer.

  ‘Better check the register,’ Best snapped. ‘No, I’ll do it,’ he stayed Smith with a peremptory gesture, ‘I know where it is.’ Ridiculously, he was cross at having his enthusiasm dampened even though he knew Smith was being sensible. He came back more long-faced.

  ‘It was the 20th. Two weeks before our body was found.’

  They sat in silence, contemplating this latest setback.

  ‘She could have been held captive, or been on board all that time – voluntarily,’ suggested Smith, wishing he hadn’t burst the Sergeant’s balloon. The man had looked so pleased. He was even beginning to appreciate that flashing smile. Brightened the day.

  Best shook his head. ‘Not on board for that long. Those cabins are so small – she would have been seen.’

  ‘Well, she might have been seen by the boatmen, but would they have told us? My mother says they’re as secretive as gypsies.’

  The mercurial Best brightened. ‘You could be right, young Smith. You could be right. If you are I’ll buy you a pint of the best ale – and two for your mother. In the meantime, you go and find out more about Liza Moody of Somers Town. I will go and spirit some information out of the lock-keepers by threatening to reveal that they break canal company law by allowing prostitutes on the lock sides.’

  ‘Do they?’

  Best gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I don’t know. But what would be your guess, young Smith?’

  Chapter Four

  ‘It could have devastated Islington, St Pancras or part of the Harrow Road district with twenty-five thousand inhabitants!’ exclaimed the coroner. ‘Houses there would go down like a pack of cards each taking with them three or four families!’

  Dragging himself back from a predicted drama to the lesser one which had actually taken place, he reopened the inquest on the Regent’s Canal Explosion.

  Workhouses are already such depressing places, reflected Best, that holding inquests in them seems to be adding insult to injury. But at least the St Marylebone Workhouse was clean and had a reputation for being well run. The hearing took place in a sort of boardroom filled with horsehair-stuffed chairs so large and square that a previous inquest juror, Charles Dickens, had wondered for which race of Patagonians they had been made. At the moment the room was rather more overwhelmed by a surprising number of distinguished gentlemen – surprising given the humble origins of those whose deaths were being investigated.

  There were Home Office and War Office explosives experts, solicitors and barristers representing the Regent’s Canal Company, the Grand Junction Canal Company and persons whose property had been damaged by the explosion five days earlier. Indeed, the only persons who seemed to have no one speaking up or watching out for them were the victims and their relatives.

  When they had all settled down, the coroner announced that given the seriousness of the matter their enquiry must extend to the carriage and storage of gunpowder.

  It was now five days since the explosion and, disappointingly, they were still no further forward in identifying the young lad and woman. A failure Best felt keenly. He still thought that enquiries on the locksides regarding prostitutes might be profitable but his efforts had been cut short for the time being by the sudden necessity to attend the inquest where all he could do was listen to evidence of the causes of the expl
osion and hope this might throw up a clue.

  Edward Hall, steerer of the Limehouse, was still sticking to lightning as his guess at the cause, but there was progress in another matter – the truth about the contents of the Tilbury’s cargo.

  Gone was the pretence that it had merely carried nuts, sugar and other dry goods. With gunpowder scattered around the scene for all to see it could scarcely be denied that it had been part of the cargo. But the admission of just how much had been aboard the ill-fated vessel that night brought a gasp from onlookers and even raised eyebrows among the lawyers well accustomed to startling revelations. The Tilbury had been weighed down by no less than five tons of gunpowder.

  The beady eyes of the explosives experts now focused on exactly how this dangerous substance was packaged and transported. Clearly they believed that even if it had been ignited by an act of God, such as a bolt of lightning, this was by no means the only cause. Their probing questions eventually brought admissions that while the ‘sporting powder’ was well packaged, the barrels containing blasting powder destined for Nottingham’s coal mines were not strong. Indeed, the bottoms sometimes dropped out of them and when they did the gunpowder was just scooped up, put back in like so much sugar, and the barrel-bottoms tapped back into place.

  Neither were there any special precautions taken in the carriage. It was loaded on to ordinary boats with ordinary iron fittings, by boatmen wearing their ordinary clothes and ordinary boots. The men were not searched for matches for there was no rule against smoking or having fires in the cabin. Even Best, uninitiated as he was in the finer points of goods transportation, could see the case for negligence relentlessly building up. And if they were that negligent about carriage, might not they also be similarly slack about other rules such as allowing no strangers on board?