The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  “But I for one,” the commissioner was musing, “would be willing to forgo that livelihood in exchange for safe streets.” Bowman was wondering just where the conversation was leading. It was rare enough for an officer to be called into a private meeting with the commissioner. He doubted it was solely to discuss the present state of the Force.

  The commissioner was clearing his throat. He seemed to be marking time. “But, for now, we must be entirely beyond reproach.” He turned back into the room to face Bowman, squarely. “In short, inspector, I need men I can trust.”

  Stung by the insinuation, Bowman opened his mouth to respond. He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come!” barked the commissioner, plainly relieved at the interruption.

  Bowman blinked into the light as the commissioner moved away from the window to greet the visitor. “Ah,” he was purring, ‘thank you for coming.”

  “Good morning, Sir Edward.”

  The voice caught Bowman unawares. It was enough to dry his mouth. He felt his palms sweat. In a moment he had placed it. It was a voice he associated with isolation and despair. With treatment.

  “Inspector Bowman,” the commissioner was saying, “you of course remember Superintendent Athol Wilkes of Colney Hatch?”

  Feeling his face flush and his heart racing in his chest, Bowman turned. The superintendent stood with a hand outstretched, a kindly but professional look upon his face. “George, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He spoke deliberately and gently, clearly aware of the effect his sudden appearance would have.

  Bowman swallowed hard and stood to return the gesture. His head swam as two worlds collided. Somewhere just beyond the here and now he could smell the carbolic corridors of the lunatic asylum.

  The superintendent placed a Gladstone bag on the desk and took his place in the empty chair next to Bowman. The inspector was in thrall to the man’s face, a face he had hoped never to see again. He was an exceedingly thin man, the bones of his skull clearly visible through his face. The superintendent was dressed formally in high wing-collared shirt, frock coat and pinstriped trousers. He rested a top hat on the desk next to his bag.

  The commissioner pulled his own chair from the desk and sat opposite the men, knotting his brows in agitation. He was clearly finding this difficult.

  “Superintendent Wilkes is here to complete your evaluation and decide if you are fit to continue in your employment at Scotland Yard.”

  The superintendent rose from his seat and snapped open the clasp on his bag. Reaching inside, he withdrew a sheaf of papers. He turned to face his erstwhile patient. “Inspector Bowman, you will know that it is some twelve weeks since your discharge from Colney Hatch. It falls to me to make an evaluation as to your state of health and present a full report to the commissioner regarding your fitness to continue in your work.”

  Bowman could not speak.

  “Do you understand?” The superintendent was leaning towards him, his eyes searching Bowman’s for signs of comprehension.

  Bowman’s moustache twitching nervously at his lip. “I understand,” he rasped.

  With a sudden vigour, Wilkes sprang towards him. Bowman felt his bony hands on his face as he first pulled down his jaw to peer into his mouth, then opened his eyelids between a finger and thumb to examine his eyes, first one, then the other. Bowman gripped the arms of his chair, the superintendent’s actions reminding him of a time when he had felt like nothing more than a specimen on a slab.

  “I understand this must be very difficult for you, George,” Athol Wilkes was saying as he scratched a note in a volume of papers. Bowman resented the use of his first name. “But I have some questions to ask of you.”

  Was the inspector to be tested for signs of insanity? He was willing to make a wager that too few men in this very building would pass such a test. Bowman was careful not to let his feelings show.

  “Are you now, or have you been at any time in the last twelve weeks, habitually in the throes of melancholy?” asked the superintendent.

  “I have not.”

  “Could you speak up a little, Inspector Bowman?” The commissioner was resting an elbow on the desk, rapt with attention.

  Bowman coughed. His collar felt tight. “I have not,” he heard himself say. “I am not.”

  The superintendent scratched at his paper.

  “Are you of sound appetite?”

  “I am.”

  Another note was made. Bowman felt the room was growing smaller, the wood-panelled walls closing in around him. The air seemed thick and heavy.

  “Are you visited by dreams?”

  “No,” Bowman lied.

  With a final note, Wilkes placed his paper and pencil to one side. He looked Bowman in the eye. “How do you feel?” he asked, simply.

  Bowman was stumped by the question and how best to answer it. He swallowed hard, shifting his weight awkwardly in the seat of his chair. The commissioner leaned in to hear, his benevolent stare encouraging Bowman to respond.

  “I feel,” he began, struggling to find a form of words the superintendent would be happy to hear. “I feel better.” He smoothed his moustache between his finger and thumb, wishing he were anywhere else in the world but in that room.

  The superintendent sat back with a non-committal expression. Resting his hands in his lap, he nodded to the commissioner that his interview was done.

  Sir Edward cleared his throat and rose to his feet once more. He moved back to the window. Bowman realised this was his favoured position from which to conduct a difficult conversation.

  “Inspector Bowman,” he began, his hand playing restlessly behind his back. “You were given leave to return to your duties as a detective inspector by the superintendent some twelve weeks ago.” Bowman shot a look at Wilkes who regarded him with a benign smile. “It is my place to reach an informed opinion as to whether you are fit for those duties,” the commissioner continued. He turned into the room, deep in thought. “Tell me about Lambeth Bridge.”

  “Lambeth Bridge, sir?” Bowman blinked. He had thought the matter long forgotten.

  “Sergeant Graves has given us a detailed report of the events that took place there and I, of course, have read your report. They differ slightly, inspector.”

  “In what respect, sir?”

  “In the respect that Graves mentions you were not fully in control of your faculties during much of what passed there.”

  Bowman nodded. “It’s quite simple, sir,” he began, falteringly. “With the assistance of Sergeant Graves I apprehended Doctor Henderson, resulting in his conviction for the death of his daughter.”

  “I understand you underwent some form of melancholic episode.”

  Bowman’s face flushed. He was aware of the superintendent’s gaze.

  “I - ” he stuttered. “I was momentarily overcome. But recovered sufficient to discharge my duty.”

  “And Smithfield Market?” The commissioner regarded the inspector with a steely gaze.

  “Smithfield Market?” Bowman chewed his lip. What on Earth had he done wrong at Smithfield Market?

  “Inspector Hicks described what might be termed a manic episode. He said you were belligerent, and changeable.”

  Hicks. Bowman might have known. He recalled an altercation with the bluff inspector during his investigations at Smithfield Market. “Inspector Hicks wished to reopen the market with undue haste, sir.”

  “He says you were hostile.”

  “A murder had been committed, sir. My only thought was to preserve the scene.”

  “And the Hackney workhouse? Sergeant Graves says you were particularly disputatious.”

  The superintendent raised his eyebrows. Bowman had a look of defeat about him.

  “Inspector Hicks had withheld vital evidence.” The inspector felt he was fighting a losing battle. “It was crucial to the success of the case.” It stung that Hicks had turned informer, but hurt all the more that Graves had been so free with his opinions.

  “You must unde
rstand, inspector, that these men were pressed to give their views.” Bowman guessed that Hicks had not required much pressing. “You are not to hold their testimony against them if you remain in post.”

  The words caught Bowman off guard. “Sir, I can assure you I am quite recovered.”

  The commissioner affected a conciliatory tone. “Not many men could go through what you went through, inspector, and emerge unscathed. There is a growing body of evidence to suggest that a man may be changed by a disquieting event. I must deliberate on your attestations here today, and will endeavour to reach a conclusion that will be to the benefit both of yourself and those whom you serve.”

  It seemed to Bowman that those whom he served would only benefit from his remaining on duty. If the police were so thinly stretched, losing a detective would hardly help.

  Bowman opened his mouth to speak but was met with a sharp “Thank you, inspector, that will be all.”

  Bowman smoothed his coat about him as he stood. The superintendent stood in his way to the door.

  “How lovely to see you again, George.” Wilkes stood with an outstretched hand. As Bowman lifted his own hand to return the gesture, he saw with some alarm that the tremor had returned. Gripping the superintendent’s hand tightly to dispel the involuntary movement, he met the man’s eyes to see what lay there. It was clear he had noticed.

  “Thank you,” mumbled Bowman redundantly. Giving a curt nod to the commissioner, Bowman left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The mood in the room seemed to lighten at once. The superintendent puffed out his cheeks in an expression of relief.

  “Well?” asked the commissioner once he was sure Bowman was out of hearing.

  The superintendent shook his head and rubbed his chin. An expression of concern clouded his sharp features as he turned to the commissioner to deliver his verdict. “I’d keep him out of harm’s way if I were you.”

  II

  The Parting Of The Ways

  “They say he lost it to a tiger.” Sergeant Anthony Graves was in as fine form as ever he was when drinking at The Silver Cross. Bowman looked around him from his favourite chair by the fireplace. Even on this April evening there was sufficient chill in the air to warrant a fire. As the door flew open to admit new patrons, the flames would gutter and dance as a fierce wind whipped through the saloon. Harris the landlord was busy about his duties; jollying his customers along with a free drink at the bar or cuffing the cellar boy about the ear for his conduct. All around them, a raucous display was in progress as a slim young woman with an enormous voice scaled the heights of a music hall ditty that Bowman didn’t much care for. The inspector had been about to down the last of his porter and be on his way when Graves had spoken up above the din.

  “A tiger?” spluttered Bowman, struggling to make himself heard above the final chorus of The Honeysuckle And The Bee.

  “He was a cavalryman in Rajputana, India. Went out hunting in Sixty Three, lost his arm to a tiger.” Graves’ eyes were alive with his story, his youthful face beaming with the adventure of it all. “They say,” he continued, slurping from his beer, “that he was sewn up at the roadside.”

  “Was he invalided home?” Bowman couldn’t help but be intrigued.

  “Not a bit of it,” Graves’ voice rose above the final bars of the song. “He got back on his horse and rode away, the reins between his teeth.” He raised his tankard to his lips. “Common knowledge,” he said matter-of-factly, downing the last of his ale. As if in response to his tale, the small public house erupted with applause. Comically, Graves almost sprung to his feet for a bow. Bowman was suddenly aware of the time he had lost whilst at Colney Hatch. Sir Edward Bradford had been in post since Eighteen Ninety. Bowman had known him barely a year before the incident in Hanbury Street which had seen him incarcerated. In the time he had been away, it was clear that Bradford had endeared himself to the men in his command.

  “He’s got some bright ideas, that man.” Graves wiped the foam from his lip with the back of his hand. “He’s of the belief that a man’s fingerprints might be used to implicate him in a crime.”

  Bowman nodded sagely. He had heard that Bradford had seen the taking of fingerprints in India for the purpose of identification. “How might they be collected and stored?” he asked.

  “Cut their hands off?” Graves twinkled at his own joke. “P’raps the tiger gave him the idea.” Looking up suddenly from the table, Graves could see there was a press of customers at the bar following the end of the evening’s entertainments. “Better be quick, sir. Will you have another?”

  Bowman shook his head. He really should be on his way. He regarded Graves thoughtfully as he made his way through the throng to the bar. The young sergeant had promised to keep the salient facts of the affair on Lambeth Bridge out of his report to the commissioner. Bowman was surprised he had it in him to be so duplicitous. Perhaps he didn’t know him at all.

  His tankard full to the brim again, Graves returned to the table. Careful not to spill a drop, he took his seat with a grin.

  “Harris says the piano’s waiting if I fancy a tickle.”

  Bowman threw a look to the landlord at the bar. As Harris busied himself at his pumps, he gave Bowman a wink. The inspector could tell he was in his element, never happier than when The Silver Cross was busy. The building had been in use as a tavern for two hundred years, Harris was fond of telling his clientele. With his lined, leathery skin and long, lank hair, Bowman wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn that Harris had worked the bar for all that time.

  “And he said there’d be a free drink in it for me, too.”

  Bowman was about to make his excuses and leave when there came a bustle of activity at the door. It swung wide on its hinges to admit Detective Inspector Ignatius Hicks; a force of nature no less in strength than the tempest that blew in behind him. The fire burned all the brighter in the grate, as if in defiance.

  “Ah, Bowman!” he roared, holding his hands wide in greeting. Hicks made for a fearsome sight at the door, his great beard hanging down to his chest. He was dressed in a coat and scarf that only seemed to accentuate his size, and a battered top hat was balanced precariously on his head. His habitual pipe, without which he was never seen, was held before him as a conductor would hold a baton. “I have news from the Yard,” he announced, his words accompanied by a salacious grin.

  Bowman suddenly regretted not making his way home earlier. “I was just on my way, Inspector Hicks,” he said, gathering his coat from a hook by the chimneybreast. “You may have my chair if you wish.” Bowman retrieved his hat from the mantle, bashing it into shape as he made his way to the door. Hicks stood his ground.

  “We are to make our way to Drury Lane,” he proclaimed.

  Graves looked up from his beer. As much as he was enjoying the contents of his jar, his heart quickened at the prospect of a case.

  “What shall we find at Drury Lane?” Bowman asked, resigned to a night’s work.

  “Sergeant Graves and I are to investigate the discovery of a body at Vinegar Yard. The commissioner has other plans for you,” he jabbed the inspector in the ribs with the end of his pipe. “You, Inspector Bowman, are to report back to the Yard and, first thing in the morning, to board a cab to Shad Thames.”

  “Did you ever see Macready’s Macbeth?”

  As Sergeant Graves walked with Inspector Hicks down Bow Street, his rotund companion was in expansive mood.

  “Is this a dagger which I see before me?” Hicks was declaiming to any who would listen. The glances from passers by only served to encourage him in his performance. Graves had no experience in play going, but he knew enough to suspect that Hicks was far too young to have seen Macready’s Macbeth. “And I saw the great Dan Leno give his Railway Guard at The Theatre Royal.” For a moment, Graves was tempted to believe him, until he saw a tattered poster for the very same entertainment peeling from a wall beside them.

  Drury Lane was a wide thoroughfare, though not
wide enough for the throng that moved along its length. Vagrants and beggars sat at the kerbside or scuffled amongst themselves in dingy alleyways. Ruffians, already drunk at this early hour, disgorged themselves from the gin palaces to berate the lamplighters about their work. Stallholders and barrow keepers shouted their wares to the rooftops. The lower floors of the buildings around them were given over to shop fronts; jewellers, milliners, bakers and butchers all jostling for position with shadier establishments whose occupants were less likely to be guessed at. Those two perennial companions, vice and disease, had made themselves at home on Drury Lane.

  The two detectives barged their way through the crowd on their progress to Vinegar Yard. More than once, Hicks had to be cajoled away from an oyster cart or costermonger. If there was an end to Hicks’ appetite, mused Graves, it had not yet been found.

  “Why is Inspector Bowman sent to Shad Thames?” Graves asked, narrowly avoiding an urchin with a pie and a floppy felt hat.

  “He is to report to Bermondsey,” Hicks said with some authority. “They are concerned at the rise in theft from their docks and need men.”

  “He has been sent on a security detail?”

  “Ours is not to reason why.” Hicks gave an almighty shrug that saw his hat shift dangerously on his head. Kicking his way through the filth in the street, he made his way across to Vinegar Yard, the conversation apparently over. Following in his wake, Graves was left to muse how Bowman’s presence would be sorely missed.

  A constable stood guard at the alley. His presence had drawn a large, curious crowd to Vinegar Yard. A rope had been placed across the alley mouth to keep them at bay, but still they vied for position, each trying to pry over their neighbour’s shoulder. The constable’s jittery demeanour gave the impression of one uncomfortable with his lot. As the two men approached, shouldering their way through the crowd, it was clear to see why. A crying woman clung to him for comfort, tugging at his sleeve for support.

  “Constable Prendergast,” the young man announced, standing stiffly to something approaching attention.