The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  Graves turned to the source of the voice. He was confronted by two women dressed quite inappropriately for the cool air. They were each squeezed into a bodice, one decorated in black brocade, the other in red pleated cotton. Their full skirts were tattered and torn. One wore her hem tucked into a garter revealing an ankle and a calf that, Graves noticed, was capable of turning heads from across the street.

  “Spending your night alone, are you?” Graves looked to the woman who had spoken. Her face was heavily made up with an opaque, white powder. A tatty, blonde wig was pulled too low over her forehead and obscured her eyebrows. A row of ramshackle teeth peeped through her painted lips. Her companion hovered at her shoulder, a good few inches shorter and a few years younger. “You could have us both if you could afford it,” the taller woman was saying. Graves looked to her more demure companion. She still had her natural beauty, he noticed. Her large eyes looked up at him as she twirled her hair in her fingers. “She’s deaf and dumb, dearie,” the older woman was grinning, the air whistling through her teeth as she spoke. “So, you can call her what you like and she’ll be quiet as a mouse in return. How d’you like the sound o’that?”

  At this hour, Graves considered himself officially off duty. He shrugged the women off with a coy smile and continued his progress up The Strand. Around him, the evening light was fading. Lamplighters were about their work, stretching their tapers up to the gas lamps at intervals along the street. The road was a bustle with those leaving their places of employment for the evening and those arriving for their entertainments. The proliferation of gin palaces, coffee houses, hotels and theatres made The Strand and its environs a magnet for those with a mind to be amused.

  The pavements had been subject to many recent renovations, but still there were areas that remained little more than damp and muddy walkways. Graves watched as many a lady lifted her fine skirts to prevent them being caked with mud. The road itself was rutted and churned by the passing carts and cabs. Horses kicked up dirt behind them. Graves knew that, even though his intended destination was but a few minutes’ walk away, he would be brushing dust from his coat for the rest of the evening.

  The Strand once stood as the bank to the Thames itself. Now it provided a tide of its own in the shape of the vagrants and visitors who crowded between its pavements. A deluge of humanity, it swirled in at the shop doorways and hotel concourses. It swept through the alleys and spilled into the yards. And everywhere it went, Graves knew, lay the potential for crime. Pockets were picked as a matter of course, handkerchiefs stolen, shop fronts robbed. Foolish was the storeowner who wasn’t alert to such goings on.

  Between the road and the river, where large, imposing houses had once fronted the Thames, the Victoria Embankment now held the tides at bay. The great embankments were to ensure London’s place as a civilised and prosperous city, though Graves doubted they had achieved much more than pushing the stink of the river some five hundred yards further from the noses of the shoppers and passers by around him.

  Great houses sat back from the road, once home to dukes and abbots. They were now occupied by government departments, merchants, shipping offices and grand hotels of which The Savoy was the most recent. At the eastern end, St. Mary le Strand stood sentinel against the hordes of Mammon, its steeple pointing up to a heaven forsaken or ignored by the drunks that sheltered in its doorways.

  Amongst the filth, fine gentlemen resplendent in their Astrakhan coats and silk top hats picked their way carefully to the theatres, sweeping the dirt from the road with their canes. Ladies clutched their handkerchiefs to their noses as they navigated the fetid pools and horse dung that littered the thoroughfare. The smells from the chophouses mingled with the aroma of the bad water that lay in intermittent pools along The Strand’s length. If ever there was a sharper picture of the divide between those that have the most and those that have the least, then Graves had yet to see it. The streets and shop fronts that provided a diversion to some, were home to others. A man with one arm and a tattered eye patch begged for money by Somerset House, a drunken woman rolled in the road by the newly built Terry’s Theatre. Wherever Graves cared to look along the street, he was presented with London life in all its variety.

  The sergeant was in an unusually circumspect mood. There was something about the Drury Lane murder that troubled him beyond the condition of the unfortunate man’s body. Graves wouldn’t consider himself a particularly religious man. Beyond his habitual Sunday attendance at his local church in Stanmore, he considered himself no more pious a man than any he knew. His natural exuberance enabled him to enjoy the singing of hymns and he had even been known to take a turn at the chapel organ if the occasion demanded. Beyond this, however, he paid not much heed to the iconography and tenets of the Christian Church. And yet, he was troubled. Troubled by the detail he had omitted to mention to Inspector Bowman in The Silver Cross. Troubled by the image of the Devil, branded onto the poor man’s chest. It was unlikely he had caused the wound himself or come by it as the result of an accident. Sergeant Graves was sure it had been inflicted as a badge of ownership, as a farmer would brand his cattle. The thought that there was, somewhere, someone who would consider humanity in the same light caused a shiver to pass down the young sergeant’s spine.

  Turning into Catherine Street, he lifted his eyes to The Theatre Royal. The large, square building was surrounded by a crush of people. Some elbowed their way through the crowd, others waited patiently to be allocated their tickets for the evening’s performance. Smart broughams discharged their loads onto the pavements; elegant ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finery, eager to see a play and to be seen to be seeing a play. Graves had no doubt they would be shown directly to their boxes by the theatre manager himself, there to enjoy a convivial glass or two before the show.

  As a particularly well-dressed dowager stepped beneath the ornate portico at the theatre’s entrance, Graves noticed a young boy in a floppy felt cap keeping to the shadows, his keen eyes alert for any opportunity. Receiving a cuff to the head from a smart attendant in a red frock coat, the lad moved to the other side of the street to watch proceedings, his grubby hand reaching into his pocket for some tobacco. Turning into Vinegar Yard, the sergeant stepped carefully through the scattered debris on the ground. All sign of the day’s activities had been removed now, save a stain of blood on the pavement by the stage door. He had felt sorry for the stage door lass at their earlier meeting in the yard and, his conscience had pricked at not giving her more attention. He wanted to call upon her now to make amends. He was sure she would be at her employment at this, the busiest time of the evening.

  As he approached, he saw a gaggle of theatrical types gathered at the doorway. An array of wigs was piled on heads and rouged cheeks shone in the evening light. The gossip was of the body found not three yards from where they stood.

  “Gives you the shivers,” said a young man in an elaborate frock coat with extended lapels. “At least they moved him before the evening performance.”

  “There’s no one safe,” declaimed an ancient actor in a footman’s costume, his wrinkled nose turning up at the depravity of it all. “To think he died where we stand.”

  They turned as one to Sergeant Graves as he approached. “I’m looking for Miss Kitty Baldwin,” he said with an engaging smile.

  The actors looked to one another with raised eyebrows. “I’m sure you are, dear,” the elderly footman insinuated.

  Graves smiled all the wider, his eyes twinkling in the face of such arch amusement. “Is she at work tonight?”

  “She is,” the older actor responded, resting on his hip. “As she is every night. She’s working out the Kaiser’s share, you’ll have to wait your turn.” Graves was nonplussed at the name.

  “Might we know who calls upon her?”

  Graves regarded the powdered faces before him as the actors leaned forwards in anticipation of his answer. “Detective Sergeant Graves,” he said, breezily. The effect was immediate. The older actor lo
oked in at the stage door, swallowing in his obvious discomfort. Another of them cleared their throat.

  “Then, Detective Sergeant Graves,” began the younger actor, keen to move the conversation on, “perhaps your time would be better spent catching whomsoever killed the poor man here in Vinegar Yard today, rather than catching the bit of skirt what found him.”

  The other actors sniggered. Graves thought the young man’s opprobrium might have been all the more effective if he hadn’t been wearing a full theatrical costume and makeup.

  “What’s the show tonight?”

  “The same as the last twelve weeks,” snarled the old footman. “The Prodigal Daughter.”

  “Then I must make a note to see it,” said Graves winningly.

  “Make all the notes you want, we close on Saturday.” There was another round of sniggers.

  “Well,” began Graves, “It’s been a pleasure to talk to you.” As he made his way through the stage door, the young sergeant made a mental note never to seek out the company of actors if he could help it. What he couldn’t have seen is that, as he entered the theatre, the small boy with grubby knees and a jaunty felt cap had observed the whole encounter.

  Once inside the theatre, Graves was met with a maze of cramped and dingy corridors. The musty air was thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of sweat. The sound of a tuneless piano percolated through the walls. Somewhere, someone laughed. In a corner, a large woman stood sewing an elaborate costume with needle and thread, her face a picture of careful concentration.

  As he stood, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom, Graves was suddenly confronted by a tall, angular man who was plainly in a hurry to leave the building. He jostled with the sergeant in his haste, mumbling under his breath. In the short time they stood face to face, Graves couldn’t help but notice the man’s heavy brow and prominent nose. Graves mumbled an apology and the man was gone as quickly as he had appeared, fumbling with a large, faded carpetbag held under his arm.

  Turning to his right, Graves was met by a low counter that gave into a small office. One wall was entirely given over to small compartments holding keys, papers and personal effects that Graves guessed belonged to the actors and theatre workers around him. Gas lamps had been lit and filled the room with an orange-yellow glow. On a stool by the counter sat Kitty. Her wide eyes were bloodshot and her delicate fingers picked nervously at a thread on her dress. Seeing Graves standing at the counter, she rose slowly to her feet, clearly surprised to see him. She wiped her eyes with a delicate handkerchief. “You were at Vinegar Yard this morning,” she began. “With the larger gentleman.”

  “Sergeant Anthony Graves, Kitty,” Graves held out his hand. “I was passing by and thought I might call upon you. You seemed understandably distressed at our last meeting.”

  “I have never seen such a thing before, Sergeant Graves. I was overcome, that is all.” She was clearly embarrassed at her earlier demeanour.

  “Are you fit to work this evening, Kitty?” Graves was concerned at her downcast expression. She seemed as fragile as a bird.

  “It’s work what’s keeping me sane. I have to work, sergeant. I got rent to pay.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like some company on your walk home tonight?” The words were out of Graves’ mouth before he knew it. His eyes shone with a kindly humour and Kitty was taken with him at once.

  “That would be nice.” For the first time in their conversation, Graves saw her lift her eyes from her hands. “I will be finished once the first act is done, then you can walk me to Marylebone.” Kitty paused, her hands wringing nervously at her handkerchief. “Do you know any more about the man?”

  Graves wished he could offer her more comfort. “We don’t Kitty, but it’s early days.” She cast her eyes down again. “There are some marks about the body that may prove useful. We are in the processes of establishing an identity. That would be of great help in our investigations.”

  “Then it is not even known who he is?” She blinked at her inadvertent use of the present tense.

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Poor man.” In that moment, Kitty looked more delicate than anyone Graves had ever seen.

  “Tell me of the show,” he beamed, intent on lightening the conversation. Kitty looked up again.

  “Oh, it’s a silly thing. Not a patch on the pantomime.” She opened her eyes wide. “Would you like to see it? Or the first half at least, before I leave?”

  Graves was intrigued enough to acquiesce. “How would I get a ticket?”

  “Oh, ticket be blowed. I’ll show you through.” With that, Kitty threw a shutter down over her counter and grabbed a key from the table. Locking the door behind her, she called to the actors at the stage door. “Nathaniel, Thomas, you’ve got five minutes. I’m taking this gentleman through front of house so you’re on your own.”

  “I’ve never been known to miss an entrance,” purred the older actor in the footman’s costume.

  “He’s right,” volunteered another. “It’s getting him off again that’s the problem!”

  “Come with me.” Kitty beckoned the young sergeant to follow her as she set off through the maze of passages towards the stage.

  As they walked, Graves was struck by how dark and dingy the corridors were. Faded playbills had been pasted to the wall. Where they had flaked away, they lay in drifts on the floor exposing crumbling brickwork and peeling paint. The floor itself was uneven and, in some places, slippery with a skein of water. Gas jets were placed at intervals along the wall, their yellow light lending an eerie glow to their journey.

  Passing down some steep, narrow steps, Kitty turned to her guest. “We’re going under the stage,” she explained. “This passage will lead us back up the other side to the pass door.”

  As they passed through the subterranean corridor, Graves saw dressing rooms to his left and right. The first was home to a gaggle of actresses in wide skirts and even wider wigs. One was at her mirror applying thick daubs of makeup. Another lay upon on a low day bed, smoking a long cheroot.

  “Five minutes, ladies,” Kitty chimed as they passed. Graves noticed large, wooden flats leaning against the wall, painted with pastoral views and townscapes, pots of paint lined up carefully beside them. A knot of stagehands hung about at a corner, one stripped to the waist in anticipation of the evening’s work. At last they ascended another flight of stone steps, twisting back upon themselves as they climbed. And then Graves heard it. A faint murmur at first but, as a door was opened to the side of stage, it grew to a roar. An impatient audience were in their seats. Immediately before him, Graves was presented with huge painted flats, stretching twenty feet up beyond the top of the proscenium arch. It was clear the first scene was to occur in the parlour of a large country house. The glassless windows gave out to a painted backdrop of a formal garden rendered so exquisitely, Graves almost thought he could smell the flowers. Heavy drapes hung either side of the windows, tied back with elaborate sashes. A loveseat stood centre stage, upholstered in plush, red velvet. Bookcases and ornate tables were placed carefully for effect. Graves noticed a roll top secretary desk was primed with paper and quill, the use of which would, no doubt, result in hilarious consequences. All in all, the effect was to present the perfect stage upon which a comedy of manners might be performed. Looking up, Graves could see the scenery was suspended by a series of ropes and weights to a network of gantries high up in the roof. There he saw other huge flats waiting in their place to be lowered, one featuring a cliff edge and seascape, the other, improbably, a man on a throne suspended in the clouds by a flock of swans.

  “The fly tower,” said Kitty as she noticed Graves’ awed expression in the gloom. “One of the highest in London.”

  Burly men lounged against a lattice of ropes that hung to the side of the stage. Graves guessed they were awaiting a cue to haul the next flat down from its position in the fly tower. They regarded him with expressions of sublime disinterest. Looking out to the front of stage, Graves saw hea
vy curtains pulled across the proscenium. Two actors stood to one side, their heads inclined towards each other in gossip. There was a sense of anticipation in the air. And all the while, beyond the curtain, the audience were taking their seats. Peels of laughter rang out occasionally and the odd scream punctuated the general melee. Graves felt caught in a moment of potential, the air full of a strange, crackling energy.

  “After you.” Kitty was holding open a door set in the side of the proscenium arch. Stepping through, the sergeant was suddenly in another world. This was a world of light, colour and opulent comfort, quite remote from the dark and gloomy underworld he had just passed through. The corridor before him was carpeted in a rich, red Worcester. The walls were papered in a luxurious flock. A brass handrail stretched the whole length of the corridor, above which were affixed play bills and faded daguerreotypes of esteemed and august actors. Names of previous productions sang out from framed programmes, including those of The Theatre Royal’s famous pantomimes; Dick Whittington, Jack And The Beanstalk and Robinson Crusoe.

  Kitty was pulling a curtain across the opening to an alcove. “Here you go, Sergeant Graves, you can watch it all from here.”

  Sergeant Graves stepped into the box and looked around him. It was furnished with four exquisite side chairs, each with a tasselled cushion on their seats. Gas lamps burned at the wall, illuminating portraits of Queen Victoria in the guise of the three muses. Her Majesty was known to be a keen supporter of the theatre and indeed was patron to many. The box hung out into the auditorium above the stalls. Moving to a chair, Graves looked out over the unruly audience. He hovered above a sea of heads, all bobbing animatedly before him. The noise was a roar now. Graves could see a woman being escorted from the theatre by attendants. She was plainly drunk, swinging her hat about her head and singing loudly at the top of her voice. Looking back, Graves could see a well-dressed man with his head in his hands, now sat next to an empty seat. Elsewhere, another man lay across the laps of three of his companions. Looking up, Graves beheld the ceiling. An impressive chandelier was set into a richly decorated ellipse edged in gold. It gave the impression of a large eye staring down from the heavens. The murmur that the sergeant had heard backstage was now a raucous and unbridled roar, and he wondered that a play would be able to quieten the crowd at all. His concern was addressed, quite suddenly, by the striking up of a band from the pit beneath the stage. The audience took to their seats and diverted their attention to the curtain. Slowly but perceptibly, the hubbub subsided. Sitting in anticipation, Graves noticed that the lights were dimming. A single, wide spotlight lit the curtain until, with a great crescendo from the band, it faded and the curtain rose with a cheer.