The Devil in the Dock

by Richard James

  As he trod carefully down the spiral steps, Bowman started to feel hot. There seemed very little room in the stairwell, and he shuffled along nervously by the outside wall as he felt his fellow adventurers jostling around him. With no natural light, gas lamps were suspended from the roof at intervals, casting shadows on the people’s faces. Their eyes were quite lost in the darkness whilst the harsh light of the lamp bounced off foreheads, noses and chins. It was an eerie effect that served only to amplify Bowman’s discomfort. He felt as if he were descending into the pit of Hell with only demons for company. He tried to slow his breathing. His palms were beginning to sweat. He felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach as he descended.

  There were those around him who were in thrall to the whole experience, particularly a young couple with a child whose little legs were much too small for the steps. They whispered in the small boy’s ear as they passed and shook him by the shoulder in an effort to impart their excitement. After them, however, came a small knot of individuals for whom this couldn’t be less exciting. To them, it was simply a means of traversing the river, perhaps undertaken every day as they went about their business. Bowman clung to the iron railing as he emerged from the steps into the tunnel. It was so long, he couldn’t see the end. He had the unnerving feeling of being in the guts of some great beast such as one might see at The Natural History Museum. He was sure, as he cast his gaze along its preposterous length, that it was moving. Bowman caught his breath. Sweat pricked at his eyes. Focusing on his fob watch for comfort, he saw that he had just ten minutes before his allotted time with the Kaiser. Just time enough, he reasoned, to make it to the centre of the tunnel, which seemed as good a place as any to make himself plain. With an effort, the inspector started the painful journey through the tunnel. The iron walls seemed to press in around him, and it was all Bowman could do to avert his mind from the River Thames above. That thousands upon thousands of gallons of water should at this moment be coursing above him, seemed hardly worthy of belief. The inspector fancied he could feel the weight of the mud and water upon his shoulders. He focussed his gaze before him. All around, people were coming and going through the tunnel. Most seemed quite nonplussed at the experience. He could see the young couple ahead with their child. They each had a hold of one of his hands, and were swinging him playfully between them as they walked. Bowman could hear them singing a fanciful tune that echoed back and forth off the tunnel’s walls.

  At last he found himself at a recess in the wall that he reasoned might well mark the midpoint. He stopped and leaned against the wall, looking back along the tunnel where he had walked. People were streaming past. Some were alone, others with companions. Bowman’s eyes narrowed, looking for signs that any of them could be the subject of his mysterious assignation. A tall man in a heavy cape and hood looked as if he were slowing, only to stop and pick up a handkerchief dropped by a lady ahead of him. A stocky man with mean features seemed to look at Bowman for longer than might have been reasonable, only to tip his hat in greeting as he passed. Bowman turned towards the tunnel ahead of him. Two nuns were gliding towards him, their faces animated in gossip. Behind them, a young man with a hair lip was swinging a bag over his shoulder as he walked. Bowman pulled the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. It was now precisely midday.

  Looking up, he saw a taller head bobbing up and down amongst the crowd. Bowman swallowed hard. His breathing quickened. He recognised the face. The man had a fine head of hair styled fashionably with pomade and his face was adorned with an impressive set of muttonchops. Bowman’s fingers closed tight around the handle of the revolver in his pocket and he tensed his body in readiness for the confrontation. Pressing himself into the recess, he kept half an eye on the figure striding purposefully along the tunnel. The man had met his eyes now and slowed his pace. Bowman saw him reach into his pocket and so the inspector drew his revolver.

  “Halt!” he cried, his voice echoing up the tunnel before him. Heads turned and a woman screamed. “Everybody stand back!”

  Those ahead quickened their step towards the end of the tunnel in alarm, calling for help or crying in fear. The young couple swung their boy up into his father’s arms and they ran into the darkness.

  “I am from Scotland Yard!” Bowman shouted. “Keep back!”

  Behind him, a man’s voice implored with others to walk no further, entreating them to turn about and flee to the north bank. He heard their footsteps retreat back up the subway. Soon he was alone with the man, his revolver drawn. He was gazing into the steely, grey eyes of Chief Inspector Callaghan.

  “Fire that thing in here,” Callaghan said calmly, “and there’s no telling where the bullet might end up.”

  Bowman’s mind was racing. He kept his grip on the gun.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” Callaghan asked, his arms wide in submission. “Have you gone quite mad?”

  Bowman blinked. “Reach slowly into your pocket,” he said carefully. “Take out your gun.”

  “I could have you disciplined for this, Detective Inspector Bowman.” Callaghan kept his eyes locked on the inspector’s. “Drawing your weapon on a senior officer?” He shook his head, sadly. “Perhaps you should think carefully about how such a thing will look.”

  “Take out your gun!” Bowman repeated, sharply.

  Callaghan leaned in closer. “I don’t have a gun,” he hissed.

  Bowman blinked. “Why are you here?”

  “I was sent a note,” Callaghan snapped back. “To meet with my man from St. Saviour’s Dock.”

  Bowman thought quickly. “You expected to meet with Ichabod Sallow?”

  Callaghan nodded. “He was to pass some information concerning the Fenian plot.”

  “There is no Fenian plot!” Bowman’s voice echoed off the walls. “Only the Kaiser.”

  The chief inspector’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “He calls himself the Kaiser,” Bowman stuttered. “He holds the whole of the south bank in his thrall and perhaps the whole of London.” He was quite aware of the ridiculous nature of his assertion.

  “Is this the result of your investigations, Inspector Bowman?” Callaghan gave the inspector a condescending look. It was the same look Bowman remembered from their meeting at the Trafalgar Club. “A bogeyman? You might as well have told me of Spring Heeled Jack.”

  “I too received a note.” Bowman was reaching into his pocket with his free hand, keeping his gun trained on the chief inspector all the while. “I was to meet with the Kaiser here at midday.” Shaking the paper open, he thrust it towards Callaghan’s face.

  “Ah,” Callaghan nodded as if all had suddenly become clear. “And so it follows that I must be your Kaiser.”

  Bowman stuffed the note back into his pocket and tightened his grip on his revolver. “Are you?”

  Improbably, Callaghan threw back his head and laughed. “What should I say to satisfy you?” He threw his arms wide as he posed the question. “If I answer yes, you have your man, but further investigation will lead you nowhere. If I say no, you will arrest me or shoot me. If you arrest me, your investigations will lead you nowhere. If you shoot me, you will have killed a superior officer.”

  Bowman blinked the sweat from his eyes. His neck burned beneath the collar of his shirt. “What were you reaching for, if not a gun?” he asked.

  Callaghan lowered his voice. “If you will permit me?”

  Bowman gave a curt nod.

  Slowly, the chief inspector reached into his coat pocket. He kept his eyes locked on Bowman’s, careful not to make any sudden movement. He knew the inspector to be unstable and did not wish to provoke him.

  Gingerly, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and presented it before the inspector. “I had intended to show you this,” he explained.

  Bowman let his eyes drop to the paper. There, in a spidery hand he recognised, were the words; ‘COME TO THE SUBWAY AT NOON AND THE PLOT SHALL BE FOILED.’ It was undoubte
dly the same handwriting.

  “It was delivered by runner to my office this morning,” Callaghan was saying. “I did not think to come with my revolver.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly at Bowman’s weapon and waited.

  Slowly, Bowman lowered his revolver, uncocked it and placed it in his pocket. “Then it seems,” he began slowly, “we have both been played.”

  “That much is clear,” agreed Callaghan, reluctantly. “But to what end? Who would want us both here at the same time, and why?”

  “To solve a problem?” Bowman asked, his eyes suddenly wide in understanding. Pulling his watch from his pocket, he noted the time. “It is now three minutes past midday.”

  “And what of it?” Callaghan spat, exasperated. “Why bring us both here now?”

  Bowman cast his eyes feverishly around the tunnel. “With no other indication given in the note, I chose the midpoint for our assignation,” he mumbled as much to himself as to the chief inspector.

  “Likewise,” agreed Callaghan.

  “But how did the Kaiser know we were to meet here? Chief inspector, what would you have done if you had not met me at this point?”

  Callaghan shrugged. “Walked on, I suppose. Until I found Sallow.”

  “Then it did not matter where in the subway we met, just that the meeting took place.”

  Callaghan threw his arms up with impatience, “Again I ask, to what end?”

  Bowman was suddenly alive with activity. “As I waited for you here, I saw several people pass.”

  “Of course.”

  “But one man stopped. A tall man in a heavy overcoat, and hooded too.” Bowman was moving a few feet back up the tunnel, his eyes scanning the ground beneath his feet. “I saw him retrieve a handkerchief from the ground, dropped by another pedestrian.” He was replaying the event in his mind. “And then he moved on.”

  “Then chivalry is not dead,” the chief inspector harrumphed, at a loss as to where Bowman’s train of thought was leading them.

  “What if he not only retrieved something, but left something?” Bowman was on his haunches, lifting a pile of discarded rags from the floor. As he rose, he turned to the chief inspector with a look of horror on his face. In his hand he held a bag. Reaching gingerly inside, he withdrew a bundle of several tubular sticks tied together. A clock face and a timing mechanism were attached via copper wires that protruded from their ends. A look of panic passed between the two men. Callaghan thought quickly and spoke even quicker.

  “Can you disarm it?”

  Bowman looked down. “I may not have the time.”

  “We were instructed to meet here at noon, why has the thing not gone off?” Callaghan was backing away from Bowman as he spoke, clearly readying himself to break into a run.

  Bowman felt rooted to the spot in fear. That he held such destructive power in his hands seemed impossible. That it might explode at any moment and bring about his end and that of the Tower Subway was too horrific a thought to contemplate. His mind retreated from it. “Self preservation,” he said, his voice affecting a note of eerie calm. “To give the Kaiser the time to escape the subway.”

  Callaghan was breathing hard. “Then, Inspector Bowman, if he has the time, then so do I.” With a look of apology that Bowman found disconcerting, the chief inspector turned on his heels and ran onward through the tunnel to the north side, tripping in his haste to escape. Bowman heard the sound of his footsteps decreasing with every stride.

  The inspector was alone and suddenly alive to the situation. Looking down to the device in his hands, he could see clearly the timing mechanism was set to detonate at ten minutes past the hour. Plenty of time for the Kaiser to get clear, but was it time enough for him? A thousand thoughts collided in his brain. He could not leave the bomb behind, it would destroy the tunnel and with it those unfortunate souls who had not made it to the end. But did he have time to reach the south side? And what would he do if he did? There was bound to be a crowd of people waiting to gain access to the subway. He would need a way to dispose of the bomb. Taking a breath, Bowman gripped the device hard in his hands, held it before him and broke into a run.

  A small group had gathered at the entrance to the subway on Vine Street to the south of the Thames. They had been denied access by a young man and his wife.

  “He had a gun,” the man explained as his wife cradled their crying boy in her arms. “He said he was with Scotland Yard.”

  “How can you be sure?” asked a large woman with a basket of flowers. “I say call for a constable.”

  A young man with a dog on a length of twine pushed his way into the crowd to offer his opinion. “What’s the point if he’s Scotland Yard?”

  “I must cross the Thames or I shall be late,” grumbled an elderly man in a smart coat and top hat. Still more joined the throng, all eager to cross the river and be about their business.

  Amongst the melee, some were still exiting the subway in a state of distress and breathing hard. Their faces were flushed from having run half the subway at some pace, and all told the story of the mad man with the gun. As they each confirmed the tale told by the man and his wife, those around them grew more excited.

  “Together we could overcome him!” proclaimed a brawny young man with a dirty face and missing teeth.

  “I should like to see you overcome a revolver,” chimed the lady with the flowers to general hilarity. As they chatted and laughed amongst themselves, no one noticed the figure in the long, hooded cloak emerge from the shadows of the subway. Skirting the crowd, it melted into the streets on the south bank, passing from Vine Street towards Tooley Street and the alleys of Bermondsey.

  “If he misses, there’s no telling where the bullet would end up.” The young man with the dirty face was shaking his head.

  “How could he miss?” asked the man with the child. “He was facing the man point blank.”

  “When do you think we can go down?” The smart businessman was practically hopping from one foot to the other in his haste to cross the river.

  “I’m going to fetch a constable.” The large lady with the flowers turned away from the subway’s entrance, lifting at her skirts.

  “A constable’s no good,” cried the young girl. “There’s a dangerous man down there. We need an officer with a gun.”

  “He is an officer with a gun!” exclaimed the businessman in exasperation.

  There came a sudden shout from the entrance to the tunnel, and the man with the child was pushed violently aside. His wife screamed as she saw a man standing at the subway door, his eyes wild. There was a collective gasp as the crowd beheld the scene.

  “That’s him!” she cried, “He’s the one with the gun!”

  “What’s he got in his hands?”

  “Lord save us, he’s got a bomb!” There was a scream and the crowd stepped back, unsure of what collective action should be taken.

  Bowman was a blur. Doubling back past the entrance to the subway, he ran down Vine Street to the river. He knew the bomb could explode at any moment. Surely enough time had elapsed to allow the Kaiser to escape to a safe distance. If that were the case, he might have just seconds. His legs ached from taking the steps from the subway two at a time and he was unsteady on his feet. The blood rushed to his head, making the wharves around him seem to sway and loom towards him. At last he was at Pickle Herring Stairs. The Thames was in full spate before him. With the tide so high, there were fewer ships on the open water. Bowman knew a great many of them would be unloading their goods at the docks. He ran to the very edge of the steps, his boots and trouser legs submerged in the murky water that lapped at the southern shore. With an effort, he swung his arm back and heaved the bomb as far as he could over the water, the momentum pitching him forward and face down into the Thames. Scrabbling back to the shore, Bowman heard a thump behind him. He turned his head in time to see a hump of water rise in the river, erupting into a shower of debris that rained down harmlessly around him. Feeling the spray hit his face, Bowman shielded his
head with his forearm, grateful for the good fortune that had given him time to dispose of the bomb safely in the waters of the Thames.

  XXV

  Brought To Book

  “Did you intend to discharge your firearm?” The commissioner’s tone was firm. He stood at the window to his office with his one arm behind his back. As ever, the empty sleeve of his jacket was pinned to his chest. He shook his head as if in despair. “You understand the consequences had you fired?”

  Bowman shuffled in his seat. “I should have thought the consequences would be less than those following an explosion of a bomb in the Tower Subway.”

  He felt Detective Chief Inspector Callaghan bristle in the chair next to him. They both knew, following such a serious incident, that a report would have to be made. Callaghan had decided time was of the essence and demanded that they both face the commissioner in person. Bowman sensed he was being plotted against.

  “You pulled a revolver on a superior officer!” The commissioner flushed, his usually calm demeanour replaced with a raging fury.

  Bowman swallowed. He would have to choose his words carefully. “I will admit to being under some misapprehensions,” he said.

  Callaghan guffawed beside him and shared a look with the commissioner. “I should say that would be the least of it.”

  Bowman turned to face him. “As were you.” Callaghan scowled.

  “Chief Inspector Callaghan?” The commissioner turned to him, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

  Callaghan cleared his throat and shot a look of exasperation to Bowman. “I had expected to meet an agent with regard to Operation Vanguard.” Bowman frowned at the term. This seemed more specific than Callaghan’s interest in a Fenian plot. “But I was compromised.”

  “Someone wanted to get us both together at the same time, that an end might be made of us,” Bowman explained. “We were both compromised.” The inspector felt the air in the room grow thick. The commissioner and Callaghan were sharing a look, as if uncertain how to continue. It was clear that Callaghan had strayed further than he should into delicate territory.