The going was slow. It seemed the world and his wife had come to see The Prodigal Daughter, and now they were in need of a drink. As he made his way downstairs to the theatre entrance, Graves saw the more genteel members of the audience were gathering in the better class of bar. Gentlemen in top hats and frock coats drank champagne and chattered with ladies in their wide dresses and tiaras. The further downstairs he went, so the noisier the bars became. The stalls bar, which stood at the theatre entrance, was crammed with a crowd already half drunk. No wonder, mused Graves, they were enjoying the play so much. Youths in their caps and waistcoats drank to impress the women in their company. Wiser, older men watched from the bar as their younger comrades squabbled and competed for attention. Calls for more beer echoed into the street and hawkers and traders took their chances with their trays of oranges and pies. Tankards of ale and colourful, sweet confections were passed back and forth over heads as the crowd swayed, as one, back and forth. It was all Graves could do to keep moving. More than once he trod on people’s toes in his efforts to reach the doors.
In the street at last, he was glad to feel the cool air on his face. The shops around Russell Street had closed their shutters for the night, but now there was a free for all. Barrows of fruit, bread and roasted chestnuts assailed the nostrils of passers by, their attendants singing loud to promote their wares. Graves shouldered his way through the crowd and turned into Catherine Street. As he rounded the corner, his gaze was drawn to a young lad in a large, felt hat leaning against a doorway. His tousled hair hung into his eyes as he regarded the sergeant with a smirk. Graves remembered seeing him at Vinegar Yard that afternoon. This was clearly the boy’s patch, he thought and he felt a pang of sympathy at his plight. The urchins that Graves had met in the course of his duties had always seemed happy enough, but he knew they led lives of severe deprivation and misfortune, often prey to older men with few scruples.
Graves picked his way carefully up the alley. At this hour, it was already home to several vagrants. Three or four had lit a fire at the furthest end and they huddled round for warmth as they drank their gin, swearing and spitting amongst themselves. They paid no heed as the detective sergeant made his way to the stage door, carefully avoiding the fresh piles of excrement at his feet. The smell was almost intolerable; the stink of ordure and urine. Half way along, he almost stumbled over a prone body on the ground, its arms spread out at an awkward angle across the alley. Bending to confirm the poor soul was still alive, Graves lifted the wretch by the coat collars and propped him up against the wall, placing his half-empty bottle beside him. The stench of vomit rose from him and Graves had to hold his breath. The poor man’s clothes were stained and greasy, his hair and skin caked with the filth of the alley. He mumbled something then sank back into his stupor, his head rolling onto his chest. Graves wondered how Kitty coped with such sights every day.
Stopping at the stage door, Graves peered round the corner, expecting to see the young lass pulling down the shutter at the end of her evening’s work. The shutter was still up. He stepped inside, gingerly, knocking at the open door for attention. Nothing. Confused, Graves headed down the corridor to the under stage. He was stopped on his way by the large lady he had seen sewing in the passage. She carried a large basket of costumes that Graves recognised from the first half of the play.
“I’m looking for Kitty,” the sergeant said. “She said to meet her at the stage door at the interval.”
“Oh, I think she’s long gone, dear,” said the woman, barging through with her basket. “I dare say you got here too late.”
“Where do you think she’s gone?” Graves’ blue eyes blinked in bewilderment.
“Home, I expect.” The woman threw the basket onto her shoulder as she retreated into the wardrobe rooms. “If she’s got any sense.”
Forlorn, Graves made his way back down Vinegar Yard. Why had Kitty not waited? She had said she would look forward to having Graves’ company. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Shrugging at this strange turn of events, he emerged back onto Catherine Street. There, still standing in the doorway opposite, was the young boy in the floppy, felt hat. Just as Graves was about to cross the road and talk to the lad, he gave the sergeant a toothy grin and a knowing wink. Graves stopped. What did he mean by that? Did he know something? Graves opened his mouth to ask, but, before he could engage him in conversation, the boy pulled his hat down over his forehead and ran off into the evening crowds, his eyes alert for easy pickings.
XV
A Rendez-Vous
Cornelius Bracewell had remained silent for the whole journey. His narrow eyes regarded Bowman closely as the smart brougham careened through the streets of Rotherhithe and Deptford. Resting his hand upon his cane, he had the appearance of one out for a Sunday drive. Bowman noticed that he was dressed formally beneath his coat, in a wing collared shirt and white bow tie.
Street after street rattled past the windows, often separated by vast tracts of marsh and wasteland. Bowman knew, however ghastly these vistas were, they were still home to some. Occasionally he would see a vagrant or two wandering beside the road, plainly drunk, their eyes wild. Once, the carriage swerved to avoid the body of a woman in the road. Whether she was alive or dead was not clear, and Bowman could see the driver had no inclination to stop and find out.
Bowman had no wish to engage his companion in conversation. He was uneasy at the means of his abduction. How long had he been watched? For watched he must have been if they knew where to find him. Where exactly was he going? He felt in no immediate danger now and guessed he was being taken to a rendez-vous, but with whom? The crease of a frown deepened on his forehead as he contemplated his situation. Bracewell was surely armed, he reasoned, rendering any attempt at escape quite futile. Besides, Bowman didn’t know these streets. If he had managed to escape the carriage and run, they would surely find him. He resolved to sit and wait.
After twenty minutes or so, Bowman felt the carriage begin to slow. Looking out into the darkness, he was conscious of a lack of houses. An open space lay before them, and Bowman guessed they were passing one of the great Royal Parks. Considering they were still south of the River Thames and had been heading east, the inspector hazarded a guess that it was Greenwich Park. It was not an area he knew well, but he could swear the air felt cleaner here. Soon, they were passing smart villas with trim cupolas sat proudly on top. Large, imposing buildings were set back from the road, the street lamps lending an opalescent pallor to the white Portland stone. The streets were busier now. Boys and girls of indeterminate ages stood in doorways, inviting strangers to join them in their rented rooms. Gangs of youths spilled onto the street. Here and there, pot-houses were marked by the presence of two or three lads sitting on their steps, staring insensibly into space.
The carriage turned off the main road. Bowman saw they were passing down the side of the Royal Hospital School towards the Thames. Even by night, the masts and rigging of several boats could be seen swaying in the breeze on the river, lamps burning on their masts like stars in the sky.
They stopped before an impressive, red-brick building with solid, white pillars. An elaborate cupola framed the large, wooden doors at the entrance. As more carriages unburdened themselves at the roadside, Bowman watched as liveried doormen welcomed their occupants with a curt nod. A brass plaque beside the door proclaimed the place to be The Trafalgar Club.
The door to the carriage snapped open, and an efficient looking doorman wished Bowman a good evening. Standing to one side, he gestured that the inspector should alight and make his way into the building. Looking to his left, Bowman saw Bracewell nodding slowly. All the while, he kept one hand ominously beneath the folds of his coat. The threat was implicit. Slowly, Bowman lowered himself from the brougham and crossed the path to the grand entrance. Bracewell was at his side at once, limping slightly as they made their way through the doors.
“Do not distress yourself, Inspector Bowman,” he purred. “There is none here that wish yo
u harm.” His ruddy face shone in the lamplight. Bowman swallowed hard and fought the urge to resist.
The reception room to the Trafalgar Club was an opulent affair. The marble floor was inlaid with the club’s motto in an antique font; A Mari Usque Ad Mare, From Sea To Sea. A representation of a ship that Bowman recognised as HMS Victory lay at the centre of the design, its sails billowing in the wind. The high, panelled walls were adorned with large oil paintings of seascapes and famous ships, some presented in calm seas or storms, others in the heat of battle, their guns blazing. They were displayed in lavish frames featuring carved motifs of warfare; muskets and rifles, swords and cannon. Great gilded pots held ferns and fronds that reached halfway to the ceiling. Here and there, rich ornaments were displayed in cabinets. Stuffed animals from far-off climes were mounted under glass for curious eyes to inspect, their claws pinned to rock or branch before vistas of distant lands. Bowman recognised marmosets and lemurs, birds of paradise and reptiles among so many more strange beasts. Great map books were opened upon tables with instruments of navigation laid upon them. There was a gentle hum of convivial conversation and, from one of the two corridors that led from the foyer, the clink of cutlery on china. A large reception desk stood at the foot of a sweeping staircase, manned by a wiry man with bushy eyebrows and a disdainful manner. Bracewell approached the desk, his cane tapping against the marble floor.
“Good evening, sir,” sneered the concierge, barely concealing his contempt. “How may I be of assistance?”
“We are here for dinner,” replied Bracewell curtly. Bowman raised his eyebrows in surprise. “We are to join Chief Inspector Callaghan at his table.”
Inspector Bowman reeled at the news. That they were to meet a member of the Metropolitan Police Force after such a journey seemed scarcely credible. He hadn’t heard of Callaghan, but then the ranks of The Force were far too large for any one man to have an intimate knowledge. Looking at Bracewell with fresh eyes, he wondered just how trustworthy a dinner companion he would be. Suddenly roused from his thoughts, Bowman realised he was under scrutiny. The man behind the desk was regarding him with a withering stare.
“Your… overcoat, sir,” he searched for the word as if the garment were beyond description. “May I hang it in the cloakroom?”
It was clear Bowman had no choice. As he shook off his coat, the concierge returned from a large cupboard beneath the stairs. He held a smart frock coat before him, and bade the inspector put it on.
“Club rules, sir,” he smirked.
Bowman felt all the more uncomfortable in his oversized frock coat as he was led with Bracewell to the dining room. It was a large hall with a high ceiling studded with candelabra and frescos of seascapes. Twenty or so round tables were laid for dinner and a good many of them were occupied. Each was covered with a pristine, white cotton tablecloth on which stood cut crystal glasses, fine bone china plates and silver cutlery. Carafes of wine and decanters of brandy stood sparkling in the lamplight. All around them as they walked, Bowman heard whispers of polite conversation. It was only after a few moments that he realised all the dinner guests were male. Each was dressed in formal dinner suit and tie so that, despite the addition of his smart frock coat, the inspector felt himself distinctly underdressed. Older gentlemen peered at him through their spectacles and monocles while their younger companions smoothed their hair in the large mirrors that hung around the room.
The concierge led them to a table by the fire. A lone man sat at his dinner, a napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt as he sipped from a bowl of soup. He had a fine head of hair for a man his age, fashionably styled with pomade. A pair of impressive mutton chop sideburns graced his cheeks and when he looked up, he did so with a pair of steely, grey eyes.
“Your dinner guests, sir,” the concierge announced, giving a sharp bow whilst maintaining the impression that such a thing was below him.
“Thank you, Jenks,” replied Callaghan in a crisp voice, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Gentlemen, please take a seat.”
The concierge deigned to pull out their chairs and the two men sat, each facing Callaghan across the round table. Places had already been laid before them. Before they had even had the chance to pull themselves to the table, an efficient sommelier was topping up their glasses with claret.
“I must apologise for the nature of your journey, Inspector Bowman,” Callaghan said through a half smile.
“It is not the nature of the journey to which I object,” snarled Bowman, quietly seething at the guile of the man. “But the nature of my abduction at its start.”
Callaghan took a sip of his wine. “Despite appearances, inspector,” he began, “I am a busy man. This evening marked the only opportunity to meet with you. Mr Bracewell was kind enough to attend to the details, for which I apologise.”
Looking to his companion, Bowman could see Bracewell seemed not in the least apologetic for his actions, but rather sat grinning in his seat, his napkin already tucked over his collar in anticipation of his dinner.
“I had not thought to end the evening in conversation with a Chief Inspector of police,” Bowman drawled. “Or perhaps I would have dressed more appropriately.”
“No matter,” Callaghan waved his hand. “It is understood you are my guest.” As he spoke, Bowman and Bracewell were each presented with a bowl of brown soup. Bracewell smacked his lips, picked up his spoon and slurped noisily as he ate. Bowman raised an eyebrow.
“Will you not eat, Inspector Bowman?”
“I’m not hungry,” Bowman snapped. All around him, fine gentlemen were continuing with their evening, raising glasses to toast a venture with their colleagues or sitting alone to enjoy a peaceful meal. Sporadic peels of laughter rang out from a large table in the corner, echoing around the room and causing much turning of heads. They were clearly in the midst of some celebration, as there was a regular clinking of glasses and the occasional, short oration from the older members of the company. Bowman turned his attention to the suave man in the chair opposite. There was not a hair out of place on his head. His face, though lined about the eyes, was smooth and youthful looking. His bow tie was knotted expertly around a starched collar, his waistcoat discretely fashionable. As the chief inspector placed his napkin delicately on the table, he lifted his eyes to meet Bowman’s gaze.
“Perhaps I should explain.” Callaghan shifted back in his seat. He looked, thought Bowman, perfectly at ease in these rarefied surroundings. “Inspector Bowman, I must ask you to cease your enquiries at St. Katharine Docks.”
There was a pause.
“What do you know of my enquiries?” asked Bowman, carefully.
“I know that you are jeopardising years of intelligence gathering and diligent investigation on behalf of my colleagues at the Special Irish Branch.”
Bracewell slurped on his soup, clearly unconcerned at the revelation.
“Why is Special Irish Branch at St. Katharine Docks?” Bowman was leaning forward on his elbows, his voice low.
“There is no need to be so clandestine, inspector,” Callaghan chuckled. “The Trafalgar Club is the very epitome of discretion.”
Bowman looked around at his fellow diners. Some sat barely ten feet away and could easily have overheard the conversation if they wished. He cleared his throat.
“What is your interest at the dock?” he repeated.
“We have seen an increase in Fenian activity. Their desire to see an Ireland free from British interference is driving them to ever more desperate means, and violent.”
“The bomb?” offered Bowman.
“Just the latest stage in their campaign,” said Callaghan. “We believe there is a Fenian cell operating from St. Saviour’s Dock. We have planted an asset among them that must not be disturbed or exposed.”
Bowman sneered at the chief inspector’s choice of words. He assumed Callaghan meant there was an undercover agent at work. One who could gain the trust of the group, act like them, perhaps think like them b
ut, ultimately, betray them. Bowman had had experience of such men before. Indeed, Detective Inspector Treacher had proven invaluable during the affair with the head in the ice. Bowman’s thoughts turned to those he had met at the docks. Was Bracewell Callaghan’s informer? Looking at him now, he doubted it. There was nothing subtle about the man, and Callaghan had given no indication that he was in any way in cahoots. Constable Thackery he had only met briefly, so he was very much an unknown quantity. If Jonas Cook was Callaghan’s man, laid up as he was with The Sisters Of Mercy, then the game was up. One other came to Bowman’s mind. He had clearly made himself a part of the community around the dock, even a feared one. He would be well-placed to infiltrate a Fenian cell. Bowman was sure they would welcome a tall, rangy man with a clouded eye and a belligerent personality to their ranks.
“Ichabod Sallow is our man, Inspector Bowman,” Callaghan confirmed. “Operating within our remit.”
And perhaps outside of it, mused Bowman, his thoughts on the incident with Jonas Cook.
“Your enquiries are placing our investigations in danger, and I must ask you to desist.” There was a note of threat behind the kindly smile and Bowman detected a hint of steel beneath the outwardly smooth exterior Callaghan presented to the world. He thought it best to say nothing of his suspicions in regard to Sallow’s part in Cook’s injury.
“Then you will need to speak with the commissioner,” the inspector said, simply. “I am at the docks at his specific request.”
Unnervingly, Callaghan laughed, the sardonic chuckle of one who feels superior to his company. The chief inspector sat further back in his seat, lifting his hands to pat his hair.
“Inspector Bowman, you and I both know that you were sent to St. Saviour’s Dock on matters pertaining to security and that is all. I believe that you have strayed beyond that path into matters that do not concern you. Indeed, you are placing the whole of London under threat with your actions.”
The Devil in the Dock Page 10