by Joan Lock
‘Were there any specific instructions about the carriage of gunpowder?’ the Home Office man enquired coldly.
‘No … just caution,’ the steerer replied nervously and rather superfluously in the circumstances. Then he had second thoughts and added that they always put a cloth or tarpaulin over the gunpowder ‘An’ we don’t do that with no other cargo. Oh, an’ the boat is always watered before we put it in, but there was no need that night what with all the rain an’ all.’
Just as Hall was conceding that cabin fires were forbidden, but only when they were carrying government explosives from arsenal to arsenal, Best slipped out into the corridor. There, the waiting witnesses offered a stark contrast to the bevy of top-hatted and frock-coated representatives and watchers inside.
Among them was the now bowler-hatted traffic manager, Albert Thornley, who sat nervously clutching a wooden model of a fly boat and the bills of lading which the coroner had instructed him to produce. His bony head was bent in anxious conference with the two workmen on either side of him.
Best walked straight past them and out to the front steps where he lit a cigarette and stood watching idly the stream of passers-by hurrying towards Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Exhibition intent on glimpsing the latest ‘amazingly realistic’ images of the Tsar of all the Russias, the late Mr Charles Dickens, and the judges in the sensational, long-running case of the Tichborne Claimant. He then turned his attention to the list of witnesses pinned up in the entrance.
By the time he had finished his cigarette and returned to the corridor, Thornley had gone into the inquest chamber to give his evidence. This allowed the Police Sergeant with the conveniently foreign air, to slip quietly into his now vacant seat.
At first, Best sat gazing blankly into the distance but, after a while, he began shifting about restlessly, and emitting just perceptible sighs. Then he began to tap the toe of one of his sleek, four-button boots on the shiny parquet floor.
‘This is a liberty,’ he murmured shaking his head, ‘a liberty.’ He stared about him, sighed, and pointed out a little more loudly, just what a waste of time it all was. ‘We should all be in there, you know. Never mind all those toffs. Never mind no room. Inquests are public. We should be in there.’
The thin, rigid-faced man on his right ignored the detective’s overtures and continued to stare morosely into the distance. But the stocky workman on Best’s left nodded eager agreement. ‘That’s right. That’s right!’
This would be loader Sam Grealey. Nervous, bored out of his mind, unable to engage his morose companion in conversation, and probably unable to enjoy the distraction of reading, for the simple reason that had never learned how. Grealey’s nods of agreement seemed to set off a nervous reaction and his head was now juddering from side to side several times as he said, ‘Goes on and on, don’t it?’
‘It’s not as if I know anything of any use,’ complained Best.
‘Me, neither. Me, neither,’ agreed Grealey. ‘But it don’t seem to make no difference, do it?’
‘They think we’ve got nothing better to do,’ said Best crossly as he extracted the Graphic from his jacket pocket, unfolded it at the sporting page and began to study the racing form. He would rather have read the nearby report on the bicycle races at Cremorne Gardens but reckoned that the horses would be more in Grealey’s line.
‘What’s Hall been going on about in there?’ Grealey asked abruptly, anxious to keep Best talking.
‘Oh, I don’t know – something about how they always water the boats before they put in the gunpowder – then cover it with tarpaulin …’
Grealey grinned knowingly. ‘Is that right?’
‘Not true?’ murmured Best mildly as he refolded his paper into a smaller square to check the Newmarket form.
Grealey gave a sudden barking laugh which caused the other man to turn his head at last. ‘Well, from what I’ve seen …’ An icy glance from the silent man stopped him in his tracks. ‘It’s, well, yes, that’s how it is. Watering and everything,’ he paused, confused. ‘Don’t have to do it when it rains though. No need, you see. Rain does it for you.’
‘Well, dangerous stuff, isn’t it, this gunpowder?’ murmured Best non-committally and settled down with his pencil and the list of runners.
The other man turned his face away again. Grealey, discomfited but unwilling to lose contact, straightened up his bulky shoulders defiantly. ‘Goin’ to ‘ave a bet then?’
‘Just perusing the field,’ said Best, ‘just perusing. But I reckon I’d do it better with a smoke. Helps me think.’ He got up and wandered back towards the entrance. He was holding a match to his second cigarette when Grealey appeared beside him. ‘Got too much for you in there as well?’ Best murmured, proffering his tin.
‘No thanks, prefer something stronger,’ said Grealey, fishing a brown holland bag and a packet of cigarette papers from his trouser pocket. ‘By the bye, take no notice of me mate.’ Grealey gestured back into the building with his upturned thumb, ‘Joe Minchin. He’s all right, really, but he’s got a few things on his mind.’
‘Isn’t he the load-checker?’
‘Right, right.’
‘No wonder he’s worried!’
‘Oh yeah, yeah,’ Grealey nodded then added in the manner of a man who enjoys knowing something others don’t. ‘But, ‘course, it ain’t just that.’
‘No?’ Clearly, Grealey wanted it teased out of him but Best played a waiting game.
‘Some woman problem, they say,’ he offered finally.
‘Ain’t it always,’ shrugged Best. ‘Ain’t it always.’ Glancing down as he put away his silver match case, the familiar engraving of intertwined Es caught the light and to his astonishment he felt a sudden and violent rush of tears.
Unaware, Grealey grinned. ‘If they knew the trouble they caused us!’
Best nodded, unable to trust himself to utter.
‘Here, you all right, mate?’ asked the startled Grealey.
‘Oh yes, yes. Must have caught a chill. Always makes my eyes water.’ He blew his nose heartily wiping his eyes at the same time. After all this time it could still hit him like this – like an unprovoked punch in the face. Making life seem totally empty and pointless again, even when the thought of his lovely Emmy had not been in his conscious thoughts.
Grealey patted him on the shoulder, ‘Nothing but trouble, mate, nothing but trouble.’ The sentiment clearly affected him greatly as his head went into a paroxysm of twitches.
It was ironic, Best thought later, that after all his careful strategy it was his impromptu tears which had made safe his cover as far as Grealey was concerned.
When Best went back into the inquest chamber, the plain-spoken Brummie steerer of the steamboat which had tugged the fated fleet that night, was recalling hearing someone shouting at him to stop. He went on to explain that he didn’t because he was used to men calling this out in jest. A further call, ‘Stop, this boat’s afire!’ had caused him to ring his bell, stop his engine and turn around, in time to catch, ‘A beautiful blue bursticle of flame’, lighting up the bows of the Tilbury.
‘Then it all went dark again. But I shouldn’t think it was hardly a minute later when it all went up – knocking me against the cabin side. There was a blue flame – all the pieces went across the bridge. Then a piece of the bridge shifted a bit, and it all dropped.’
PC Smith wasn’t making much progress with the affable landlord of the Three Tuns in Somers Town. He obviously felt he had already said everything there was to say about his missing barmaid, Liza Moody, and was too busy or too lazy to exercise his mind again on behalf of a fresh-faced young constable. Smith could understand that. In any case, his brief was to get the feel of the place, as well as to try to prise out any more useful information. So, while the landlord went off to serve customers, Smith sat quite cheerfully imbibing a half a pint of ale and surveying his fellow customers.
They were an odd assortment, but then, it was an odd area dominated by three huge an
d imposing railway termini: King’s Cross, Euston Station and the fantastic, castellated St Pancras. The sordid and sooty corridor in between provided down-at-heel hotels and lodging-houses. These catered for the poorest of travellers and tenants such as French and Spanish refugees who scraped a dire living in freezing rooms by teaching and translating their native languages.
Right in the middle of the central corridor sat the Three Tuns Public House which, despite its dowdy surroundings, was cheerful with brass lamps and red plush. Adding to the mixture of local residents and travellers were oil-streaked railway workers and ebullient costermongers from the rowdy street market nearby. And, of course, there were the prostitutes. It was one of the latter, a tiny, dark, cherry-cheeked, bright-eyed, 16-year-old whore, who sat herself down beside the handsome young policeman and began to talk to him.
First came the everyday comment that he was a stranger in these parts. This was quickly followed by the offer of her wares in a manner so outright and matter-of-fact that Smith laughed. She laughed too, thinking she had made a quick sale, but was soon sobered by his announcement that he was a police officer trying to help find Liza Moody. It had occurred to him that he might be on a fool’s errand. He knew that bar staff tended to move from pub to pub and also that given the opportunities of the area Liza may have supplemented her meagre pay with some part-time prostitution and simply left to become a full professional. He voiced this thought to his young companion whose name, he had learned, was Maisie. She shook her head vigorously, ‘No, no, m’dear,’ she assured him in the manner of someone twice her age, ‘not that Liza.’
Glancing around meaningfully he said, ‘Well, I would have thought …’
‘Well, you would have thought wrong, m’dear,’ she interrupted him. ‘I – knew that Liza. A darling girl but very innocent – straight from the farm. Knew everything there was to know about cows and pigs and all that stuff, but nothin’ about men. They’re the same thing, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, but she might have been different with men. Some man could have got around her if she was innocent, like you say.’
She held up her hand to stop him, shaking her head vigorously, ‘No, no. I’m telling you.’ She paused, looked around and lowered her voice, ‘In fact, there is something I could tell you.’
Smith leaned his ear down towards her expectantly.
‘Here, you stop bothering the young constable.’ The landlord stood before them wiping his hands. He did not have to tell Maisie twice. When Smith turned back she was gone.
‘Sorry, I’ve been so long,’ the landlord apologized, ‘but I’ve got a minute now.’ He leaned on the scrubbed counter, a fat Welshman with flat black hair which clung like a cap to his head giving him an oddly boyish look for a man who must be at least forty years old. ‘Look, you know, I think you might as well stop looking for Liza.’
Smith was startled. ‘You know where she is?’
‘No, but, I mean I feel a bit of a fool saying she was missing at all. You know what barmaids are like. Here today, gone off tomorrow without so much as a ta ta – usually only stopping to grab some of the takings.’ The man’s features stayed quite immobile as he spoke giving no hint of what he was really thinking. ‘You can see what it’s like round here.’ His hand lazily encompassed his dubious clientele. ‘It’s easy for the girls to start doing a bit of business on the side. Then some bloke gets them set up to do it full time … plenty of work from the railway stations, there is. I reckon that’s what she’s done.’
‘You didn’t think so at first.’
He shrugged. ‘No, bit of a shock I suppose – probably because she didn’t take nothing when she went. But now I’ve found a bit of cash has gone after all and then there was this man I saw her talking to … Well, that’s what I reckon – don’t you, boy?’
There was no sign of Maisie when Smith left. Found herself a customer, he smiled sadly to himself. There was one more task to complete before he headed back to the Yard. He checked his watch before walking to what he reckoned was the nearest point on the Regent’s Canal which ran in a curve around the streets just north of Somers Town. It took him exactly ten minutes.
Chapter Five
The autumn was Best’s favourite season but this one had so far failed miserably to live up to his expectations of crisp air and misty aspects. It was inappropriately warm for a start. It was also wet, very wet, and quite often foggy. The Graphic (his favourite newspaper for its numerous and dramatic illustrations) had been right in dubbing the month ‘this soaking October’. Dreary, miserable, soaking October, they might have said.
His mercurial heart lightened a little as he entered the City Road Wharf of the Grand Junction Canal Company. Not only was it bustling with activity but it was well lit by gas and, unexpectedly, had a roof. At least he would be protected from the drizzle which had begun again just as he alighted from his cab.
The cabbie, who had conveyed Best from the Scotland Yard rank on many an odd quest, had been surprised by this destination and a little uncertain of its whereabouts. ‘Don’t get much call for that place you see, guv. Sure it will be open this time of day?’
That all this lively scene carried on daily without his awareness was also a matter of wonder to Best. Another world that he had been missing. He weaved his way between bales of wool and piles of boxes, barrels and casks stacked by the dark pool at the centre of the yard. All around, men moving, humping and straining as they shifted the goods. They had little breath left for pleasantries, but there were shouts of guidance to the hoist operators and the odd epithet – many of which Best could not decipher. The men used various Midland dialects interspersed with boatmen’s language. Sounds foreign to me, he smiled to himself.
Trusting that the lack of comprehension worked only one way he enquired of one of the weathered boatmen as to the whereabouts of Mr Thornley. The man listened carefully, nodding his head, but his eyes were riveted on Best’s gleaming boots. His own were no less extraordinary to Best’s eyes. Like armoured men-of-war. Their incredibly thick leather was protected at both heel and toe with slabs of metal while, on the soles, hobnails so large that they gave the man an extra half an inch in height. How on earth did he manage to stay upright on them? Come to that, how could he feel the deck beneath him? One thing Best was sure of, if the boatman ever went overboard his amazing footwear must anchor him securely to the bottom. Perhaps there was a way of slipping out of them quickly? Best smiled to himself. Emma would have loved hearing about the boatman’s boots.
The tall, gaunt Thornley, appeared more resigned to the calamity which had overtaken both him and his company but remained guarded in his responses. Best made clear that he was interested only in information relating to his murder enquiry, not the causes of the explosion. He also managed to infer that he believed this murder was nothing to do with the Grand Junction Canal Company, but that he needed their help to find out as much as possible about canals, boatmen and so on – just so he knew what he was talking about – and to please his boss.
It was a quarter truth, Best admitted to himself. While counting himself as an honest man, he knew that telling a few white lies was often the only way a policeman could get his job done. To lull Thornley further, the Sergeant produced his list of questions and launched into them with the innocuous, ‘How often is the canal drained?’
‘Once a year.’
‘And the last occasion was …?’
‘Six months ago.’
‘Can you tell me something about the boat people?’
‘How d’you mean?’ Thornley looked defensive. As he played for time, scratching the spot on the top of his head where the shiny scalp shone through the wispy hair, Best noticed for the first time that where Thornley’s right thumb should have been was only a mutilated stump and across the palm a deep scar.
‘I mean, generally,’ Best murmured casually. ‘Not just the ones you employ. You know, what kind of people are they? How do they live? That sort of thing. If you can just give me an idea,
I’m a bit out of my depth here.’
Relieved, Thornley exclaimed, ‘Well, they’re not as bad as they’re painted, I can tell you. They have a hard life, you know! That George Smith doesn’t know what he’s talking about!’
The philanthropist, George Smith, had recently turned his attentions from the plight of the brickyard children to the tribulations of the offspring of boatmen. Already perceived as having foul-mouthed and loose-living parents, he was claiming the children received no education and were ill-treated and lived miserable lives on over-crowded boats.
‘What you’ve got to understand first of all,’ said Thornley, drawing a deep breath, ‘is that there’s three different sorts of boatmen. There’s ours and those that work for the other big companies running fly boats. Fly boats is usually men only. They work shifts, night and day, three to a boat – an’ are properly supervised. Their families stay at home an’ are better off than most. They work hard but we pay them well.’
He paused, looking hard at Best to see if he was taking all this in before continuing, ‘Then there are the boats run by families – handed down like. Some of them keeps their craft very nice.’
Best and Emma had seen these gaily painted craft with their glinting brasswork on an outing to Brentford Lock one golden summer day when they were newly married. They hadn’t had much time to ever become much more than newly married.
‘But some of them don’t keep them nice?’ Best prompted.
‘No, some is disgusting.’
‘Same as on land.’
‘That’s right.’ Thornley relaxed a little. He was on his home ground and there had been no accusatory questions about the loading of gunpowder.
‘Then, there are the Rodney men – the casuals. A lot of them are nobbut idle loafers, doing a bit of work here and a bit there, getting drunk, having fights.’