The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  The road outside was quiet. With the tide out, Graves knew there would be little activity at St. Saviour’s Dock. As he turned to the river, he was struck by the sweet smell of hops from the Courage brewery across the street. Tall chimneys belched their steam into the sky, their brick scorched black from the heat. Rounding the corner onto Shad Thames, Graves stopped for a moment to gaze out at the river. The retreating waters had revealed muddy banks at either side. Graves could see strange debris caught in the sediment. Clothing, great metal chains and dead fish littered the shoreline, the smell rising in the afternoon sun. If the tide had been in and the Thames lapping at the shore around George’s Stairs, Graves would never have heard the sound. It was quite incongruous and, at first, Graves couldn’t believe his senses. As he trained his ears to the wharves at his right, he could hear quite distinctly the cheering of many men. Following the sound, he walked up the side of Butler’s Wharf along Curlew Street. The noise seemed to be coming from inside the great wharf to his side. He looked along its length for an entrance.

  In just a few minutes, he found a heavy corrugated door left ajar. The noise from within was coming in waves now, by turns expressions of excitement or appreciation, then howls of frustration or disappointment. Graves was reminded of the audience he had seen at The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane just the day before. The door swung open at his touch with a squeak. With a last look around the street to make sure he wasn’t being watched, the young sergeant squeezed through the gap into the cavernous space beyond.

  Butler’s Wharf was huge. Several thousand square feet were home to shelves upon shelves of grain, sugar, cloves, cinnamon, rubber, tea and tapioca; all imported goods awaiting transportation to the markets of London and beyond. The roof was so high as to be barely visible in the low light. The smell was a pungent mix of rare and exotic spices, tea and rubber. It was all Graves could do to stop himself exclaiming aloud at the sheer scale of it all. He marvelled at the miles these sacks, cases and chests must have travelled. The tea, stored in chests away from the spices to preserve its flavour, bore labels proudly proclaiming its origins in India or Ceylon. There seemed to be thousands of them stacked carefully as high as the eye could see. Crates of rubber from Malaya stood opposite chests of pepper from Singapore. Graves could see other crates marked as containing coffee, cocoa and sugar. In that one moment, he felt as if he stood at the very centre of the Empire. In time, much of the produce around him would face its ignominious end at the dinner tables of England, with scarcely a thought given to the industry involved in its passage around the world. Shaking his head at the thought, Graves moved slowly to the furthest end of the wharf, keeping to the shadows afforded him by the stacks of crates that loomed above him. The noise of the crowd rang in his ears as he turned a corner to a large space in which a makeshift stage had been erected. All around it, a throng of people waved slips of paper and rolls of notes excitedly in the air. There must have been upwards of a hundred of them standing before the improvised scaffold, with yet more hanging precariously from the many balconies and galleries that surrounded it.

  “Where’s your money goin’?” Graves turned to face the source of the voice. He was confronted by an eager looking man in a corduroy jacket, a leather pouch tied around his waist. “The Spaniard or the Scotsman?” He had to shout to make himself heard above the melee.

  Graves thought fast. “What are the odds on the Scotsman?”

  “Three to one,” the man replied. “He’s putting up a brave front. But the Spaniard’s yer man.” He nodded to the stage where, for the first time, Sergeant Graves saw the object of the crowd’s fascination. Two men, stripped to the waist and bloodied, were smashing seven bells out of each other.

  “Let me get a feel for him,” blustered Graves to buy time, ‘to see where my money’s best placed.”

  “The odds’ll go against you as the fight proceeds,” the man cautioned. “The Kaiser’s got money to make.”

  Graves started at the mention of the name. The man with the beaked nose, who he had but lately seen in a police constable’s uniform, had been linked to the Kaiser by the actors at Drury Lane. He looked around him as the man in the corduroy jacket moved on, taking money from those in the crowd who wished to place a wager and tearing off a chit for them in return. Almost every other man in the place held a note or two in the air. Graves guessed hundreds of pounds could be changing hands. Was it all destined for this mysterious Kaiser? And to what end? Pushing through the crowd, he made his way to the makeshift stage. It had been hammered together, he could see now, from long planks of wood that were fixed on barrels for support. The rickety floor bounced with each movement the two fighters made, bending alarmingly whenever one was thrown to the floor. All around him, people were shouting encouragement at their preferred combatant, either for the Scotsman or the Spaniard. Even in the few moments he had stood there, Graves could tell it wasn’t an even match. Although he had weight and height on his side, the taller of the two combatants was tiring. The smaller, darker man, whom Graves guessed was the Spaniard, was quick and lively on his feet. He seemed more practised with his fists, and more used to the crowds than his opponent.

  “Tasty, ain’t he?” A fat man breathed in Graves’ ear, a gleam of excitement in his eye. “Over twenty fights and he’s never let me down.” He leaned in closer, the better to be heard over the baying crowd. “Got a bullseye on him tonight.”

  Graves raised his eyebrows. A fifty-pound bet would be well beyond his means as a humble detective sergeant. “That man there,” the fat man continued, pointing a chubby finger at the Spaniard in the ring, “paid for my daughter’s wedding!”

  The men around him laughed heartily, pulling their wallets from their pockets to place their own bets in the Spaniard’s favour, encouraged by the fat man’s tale of good fortune. The man in the corduroy jacket was with them at once, taking their money with a practised professionalism. His eyes glinted at the fat man as he did so. Graves guessed he was a stooge, employed to talk the Spaniard up and encourage those around him to make bets of their own. Almost at once, Graves knew how the fight must end. With the Spaniard making a strong showing in the early stages, and stooges like the fat man placed amongst the crowd to talk him up, big wagers would be made in his favour. If the Kaiser was to make their money tonight, the Spaniard would lose, no matter that it was clear he was the stronger fighter. As if to confirm his suspicions, there came an almighty roar from the stage. The taller of the two men whom Graves had guessed was the Scotsman, had brought his locked hands down on the Spaniard’s head. For a moment, the smaller man stood stock still, an expression of dazed indignation clouding his swarthy face. Then, almost comically, he crumpled to the floor, his face smashing hard against the rough planks of the stage. A chorus of boos rose from the crowd, the majority of whom were waving their chits angrily about them. The fat man, Graves noticed, and the man in the corduroy jacket were suddenly nowhere to be seen. Glancing back to the stage, the sergeant at last got a clear view of the two men. The victor stood, breathing hard, his eyes wild. His opponent lay prone at his feet, his head bloodied, his chest rising and falling as he gasped for breath. Through all this, Graves saw that one thing united them. Both men on the stage had the distinction of bearing a mark upon their chest. It was a mark that Graves recognised, and he caught his breath as he thought through the implications. Both men in the ring had been branded on their chests with the mark of the Devil.

  XXI

  The Devil’s Neckcloth

  “Tell me all you know of Cornelius Bracewell.”

  Alma Beaurepaire looked up from her ledger to be confronted by a dishevelled Detective Inspector Bowman.

  “Gee, George,” she purred, snapping the book shut. “Didn’t get much sleep last night?”

  Bowman swallowed hard and tried to run his fingers through his tangled hair. He knew he presented something of a ruffled demeanour. He had fallen asleep in the hansom on his way to Bermondsey. Indeed, the driver had had to knock hard upon th
e roof to alert him to his arrival. Now, his eyes felt bloodshot and his mouth was dry. He suddenly realised he had not eaten at all.

  “How long has Bracewell been in place at St. Saviour’s Dock?”

  “Been in place?” Alma parroted. “What a peculiar turn of phrase.” Her soft tone of voice lent a playful air to her words. “Perhaps we could find somewhere more comfortable to talk?”

  Despite her levity, Bowman thought he detected a hint of steel behind her words. She seemed, however subtly, to regard him altogether differently since their last encounter at The Sisters Of Mercy.

  Alma Beaurepaire led the inspector to a sparse but comfortable office area on the first floor. A bay window gave out onto the street below, affording them a good vantage of Bermondsey and the streets down to the river. Two small leather chairs stood either side of a desk and a wooden bookcase strewn with papers filled an entire wall.

  “Cornelius Bracewell is St. Saviour’s Dock,” Alma was opining as she sat at the chair nearest the window. “There’s nothing that happens there that he doesn’t know of.”

  “How long has he been the loading officer?”

  “Some ten years. He has made quite the name for himself.” Alma gestured that Bowman should sit. He ignored the offer.

  “In what way?” he asked.

  “He is well-trusted, George.” Alma leaned back in her chair, stretching her long arms above her head. “St. Saviour’s is a commercial concern. It must make money.”

  Bowman’s mind returned to Tremont’s comments concerning the competition from Tilbury Docks.

  “Have you had many dealings with the man?”

  Alma leaned forward on the desk, a lock of curly hair falling on her forehead. “We are the nearest police station. We are here to serve all who need us. Mr Bracewell has often had need to call upon us.”

  “In what regard?”

  Alma smiled, gently amused by the inspector’s formal manner. “Mostly in matters of public order,” she said, blowing her hair from her face in a manner that Bowman found most endearing. “The dockworkers are a breed apart; a rowdy bunch when in their cups. Then there is the matter of the black market.”

  “Oh?” Bowman raised his eyebrows.

  “Wherever there is trade, George, there will be criminals. Smugglers, pirates. As I understand it, that is why you were sent to Bermondsey.”

  Bowman swallowed hard at the implication. Callaghan had warned him not to stray beyond his remit into matters that did not concern him. Yet, here he was. Bowman shook his head to clear it. He could not stand idly by if he thought there were criminal matters afoot. Glancing up, he noticed Alma looking at him expectantly, as if she required a response.

  “And you, Miss Beaurepaire,” he stuttered. “What brings you here? This is hardly the job for a woman.”

  Alma’s eyes opened wide as she laughed at the remark. “Oh George,” she began. “You and I both know it is men that rule the world, but it takes a woman to change it.”

  Bowman blanched. That was, he thought to himself, almost exactly the sort of thing Anna would have said. His moustache twitched at his mouth.

  “Are you trying to change the world, Miss Beaurepaire?”

  “Bit by bit, George.” She held her hands wide. “Your Queen Victoria sits at the head of her Empire. Why cannot I sit at the head of mine?”

  Bowman’s eyes narrowed. “Is she not your Queen, too?”

  There was a palpable silence in the room as Alma’s eyes bore into him. Breaking her gaze, she looked around her as she spoke.

  “This station was in disarray when I arrived, the local police held in low regard. I like to think I have assisted in its elevation.”

  Bowman nodded thoughtfully. Alma Beaurepaire had plainly been an asset to the people of Bermondsey. He changed tack. “Does Bracewell have any dealings with St. Katharine Docks?”

  “His remit is for matters pertaining to St. Saviour’s,” Alma replied simply. “While St. Katharine Docks sit under the auspices of the Port Of London too, they are not Bracewell’s territory.”

  Bowman’s eyebrows rose at the use of the word. He thought it a strange one to use. Alma was looking deep into his eyes again, her gaze a silent challenge.

  “And what of you, Inspector Bowman?” She used his title for the first time, he noticed, as if she was singularly unimpressed. “Will you change the world?”

  Feeling suddenly awkward under her penetrating gaze, Bowman moved to the window to survey the streets below. A young child with no shoes was playing with a stray dog. An elderly woman sat by the roadside begging. He suddenly felt very hot.

  “I had thought to, once. But now I rather think the world has changed me.” Had Alma looked into his eyes at that particular moment, she might well have seen a greater sadness than she had seen in any man.

  “But you must at least have hopes of bringing a change to the world? Or else, why rise in the morning?”

  Bowman blinked. “It is a question I ask myself every day,” he heard himself say.

  “We all need a reason,” said Alma, plainly.

  “I fear I have lost mine.” Bowman swallowed again, suddenly aware of the ambiguity in his statement.

  Alma rose from her chair as Bowman turned to face her. “I am sorry to hear it,” she was saying, a look of concern on her face. “Your wife?”

  Bowman felt himself nodding, slowly. “She is dead.”

  “How alarming.” Alma lifted a hand to her face. “Under what circumstances?”

  In his mind’s eye, Bowman was briefly back on Hanbury Street. The hooves thundered against the flagstones, the carriage clattering towards him. He felt the handle of the gun once more, his finger tightening around the trigger.

  “She died as she lived,” he whispered, barely aware of the room around him. “In the pursuit of helping others.”

  Alma was nodding. “Then perhaps, George, that is where you must find your inspiration.” Just as Bowman was sure she would reach out to him, there came a disturbance at the stairs. Turning as one to the door, they saw a small boy enter the room, his clothes and hair dishevelled, his breathing erratic from his exertions.

  “Miss Beaurepaire, you must come right away,” he panted.

  Alma was with him at once, crouching to place both hands on his shoulders. She looked him full in the face. “What is it, Samuel?”

  “I have been sent to fetch you to St. Saviour’s,” he breathed, his face flushed. “The Devil has come to the dock!”

  They walked so fast, they kicked up dirt at their heels. Alma had set quite a pace, and it was all Inspector Bowman could do to keep up with her. The streets were slowly filling as news of a discovery spread from house to house. Men were even leaving the taverns and public houses to see what the fuss was. By the time they were at Gedling Street, there was quite a crowd behind them and an even larger one before them. Dockhead was crammed with bystanders eager to view the sight, and Alma had to clear a path through with her elbows. Bowman noticed several women standing with their hands over their mouths, their eyes wide with shock. One was crying. Children ran from the streets and called for their parents. He heard the word ‘devil” several times, carried on the breeze like a fire catching from one tree to the next. There was a palpable sense of panic in the air. At last, they were at the head of the throng, and Bowman saw the cause of the collective anxiety. There, where the road met the dock and on the very patch of land that Cornelius Bracewell had described as the Devil’s Neckcloth, stood an improvised gibbet. As the crowd gathered to behold the grisly scene, their cries of anguish carried across the dock to the open river beyond. The pitiful figure of a young girl swung by her neck in the wind. Bowman took his policeman’s whistle from his pocket and blew.

  Slipping away from Butler’s Wharf, Sergeant Graves skirted round Shad Thames with his head full of questions. He had heard the mysterious Kaiser mentioned a handful of times now. They were clearly a powerful figure, able to command both fear and respect amongst the people of the south ba
nk and beyond. He remembered the actors at The Theatre Royal stage door and marvelled that the Kaiser’s reach could stretch so far. As he mulled over the events in Butler’s Wharf, he noticed the streets were emptier than usual. With the tide at its lowest, he reasoned, the majority of dockworkers would be in their beds or in the taverns and chophouses that littered the area. Now would be the perfect time, he thought, to pay another visit to Corder’s Wharf. Ichabod Sallow had clearly been up to no good in the cellar and Graves was eager to learn more. His keen eyes scanning the road for anyone watching, the sergeant pulled at a side door into the wharf and slipped inside. He stood for a moment to get his bearings, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. As he had hoped, the wharf was deserted. He stepped quietly between the shelves and galleries and made a beeline for the small antechamber where he had, just two hours before, assisted Sallow with his work. Resting his weight against the great sliding doors, he pushed just enough to create a small opening. Squeezing his lithe frame through the gap, Graves slid the doors shut behind him.

  There was an eerie silence behind the doors. Only two hours ago the wharf had been a bustle of men, their grunts and oaths cutting through the air. The dock beyond had been heaving with activity. Now, all was quiet. The little sunlight that made it through the filthy windows caught on the dust that danced in the air. Graves stepped gingerly over to the trap door in the floor. Crouching on his haunches, he felt through the dust to the edges of the trap. Hooking his fingers beneath the slab, he succeeded in lifting the door open on its hinges. Clapping his hands together and wiping them on his trousers, Graves peered into the gloom below. He could see a ladder descending into the darkness. Looking around, he found a lamp placed on a shelf. Pulling a box of matches from his pocket, he lit the wick and turned up the flame. The glass placed over the lamp, the sergeant stood still for a moment. He was sure there had been movement in the street beyond the window. Satisfied the disturbance had passed, Graves lowered himself slowly down the ladder into the pit below.