‘So you’re looking for a mysterious robed figure who shot two people with a knife?’
‘Ooh, me sides, I think you’ve split ’em.’
Abberline sighed. ‘Was the gun ever found?’
‘No.’
And now the younger peeler was thinking about the gun he’d found on the body. He was thinking about the puncture wound he found on the body.
‘You only had the one witness?’
‘Another one, who only saw a bloke running away.’
‘Was he wearing funny robes?’
‘The witness or the guy running away?’
‘The guy running away.’
‘No.’
‘So he could be the shooter?’
Aubrey looked at him, a little shame-faced. ‘Well, he could be I suppose. Never really thought about it. I had the knife-carrying figure in the robes to occupy me, didn’t I?’
Abberline threw up his hands. ‘Bloody hell, Aubs. Come on, sup up. You and me are going back to the Rookery.’
An hour later and poor old Aubrey Shaw was even more despondent. His first witness, the crone who’d seen the man in robes, was nowhere to be found. ‘She’s disappeared, just like the mythical knifeman,’ Aubrey was bemoaning, although both men knew that such was the itinerant life of the slums that she’d probably just packed up and moved on.
Thank God for small mercies, then, that they were able to find the second witness. Abberline thought he might have had a broken man on his hands otherwise.
‘Here she is,’ said Aubrey through the side of his mouth as they approached number 32. There on the steps of a tall smoke-discoloured and flat-fronted tenement sat a defeated woman. She gazed at them with eyes shorn of all emotion. She held a baby to one bare breast.
Aubrey coughed and looked down. Abberline desperately wanted to be worldly but failed, and he too felt himself colouring as he found something of great interest in a line of washing nearby. Both men did what a gentleman should do in such circumstances. They took off their hats.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ said Abberline. ‘I believe you talked to my colleague here, Police Constable Aubrey Shaw, upon the matter of something you may have seen on the night of an horrific double murder right here in the Rookery. Would I be correct in making such an assumption?’
‘Saints preserve us.’ She smiled through teeth like timeworn gravestones. ‘Don’t you talk pretty?’
Abberline wasn’t sure if she was taking the piss or genuinely being nice, but her face had lit a little, and her eyes softened, so he pressed home the advantage. ‘Madam, did you see some fellow running down this very street on the night of the murder?’
She seemed to think, looking down at the baby’s head. She adjusted the infant on her nipple then returned her attention to the two peelers on the steps below. ‘That I did.’
‘And he was just running, was he?’
‘That he was.’
‘Can you describe him?’
She sniffed haughtily. ‘Like I told your friend there, I don’t think I could describe him, no. Not without a couple of pennies like.’
Frowning, Abberline turned to Aubrey, ‘You mean to tell me you could have got a description but for a few pennies?’
‘It was all about the bloke with the robes, wasn’t it?’ Aubrey raised his hands defensively, colouring even more than usual.
‘All about you being a tight-arse more like.’
‘How was I to know you’d suddenly get all interested in some bloke running in the street? Matter of fact, why are you so bleedin’ interested? He probably just saw the blood, or better still the bloke with the knife, and thought he’d do well to make himself scarce. Wouldn’t you?’
Abberline had stopped listening. He was already climbing the steps to press coins into the woman’s palm, gallantly averting his face from her naked breast as he did so. ‘Now, can you tell me what he looked like?’
She looked down at her hand as though wondering whether to quibble but then decided against it. ‘He were a bloke in a suit with a big puffy moustache like what Prince Albert used to wear before he up and died, God rest his soul. And he had big thick side whiskers down here, bit like yours.’
‘And tell me, madam, was he carrying anything?’
She looked shifty. Afraid.
Abberline leaned forward, still keeping his eyes primly averted but able to speak into the woman’s ear. ‘Was he carrying a revolver, by any chance?’
With her eyes she said yes. Abberline thanked her with his, and then withdrew.
As he and Aubrey made their way out of the slum, Abberline was ebullient. ‘You see what this means, Aubs? It means that more than likely your running man and my corpse is the same bloke. And your man in robes is the same man who turned up at Belle Isle. This, my friend could crack the case wide open.’
‘Thank God for that,’ sighed Aubrey. ‘Just maybe I’ll be able to restore my reputation.’
Abberline sighed as well. ‘There’s also the small matter of truth and justice, Aubrey. Let’s not forget that, eh?’
And in return the older man gave him a look that said, You may be keen but you have an awful lot to learn, saying, ‘Truth and justice ain’t gonna bring that little girl back, Freddie.’
Back at the station Abberline badgered Aubrey into asking the desk sergeant for the logbook, and as Aubrey went to make what he described as a ‘well-earned brew’ Abberline sat it on a lectern, hoisted himself up to a tall chair, and began leafing through the heavy pages in search of persons reported missing on the night of …
Ah. There it was. Bloody hell. Just one in this area. A man whose wife had made the report the evening after the night in question. He’d gone out to – oh, this was good – the Rookery, telling her he had a bit of business to attend to, and that he’d be back soon. Only he hadn’t turned up.
His name was Robert Waugh. He lived not far from here.
‘Aubs,’ said Abberline, as the other PC returned to the front desk, two steaming mugs of tea in his fists. ‘No time for that, we’ve got a house call to make. We’re going to the home of Robert Waugh.’
26
‘Bharat Singh!’
It was late afternoon when his name came down, bouncing like a ball dropped into the shaft as it was passed from one man to another: ‘Bharat Singh … Bharat Singh … Bharat Singh …’
And though he was conditioned to respond to the name he’d been given he was too lost in thought to respond until the man next to him, barely pausing in his work, tapped him with the head of his pickaxe. ‘Hey, Indian, you’re wanted up top.’
He took to the ladders to find Marchant waiting for him at ground level. With him were the three punishers, and together they led The Ghost across the planks, traversing a reservoir of filth to the mobile office on wheels. Inside was Cavanagh – no Mr Pearson or Mr Fowler today – just Cavanagh, and he sat behind a wide polished-oak desk that was empty save for a document that The Ghost recognized at once.
Afternoon was becoming extinct, and in the dim light of the office Cavanagh’s scar shone dully as he picked up the letter for The Ghost to see. ‘Your name is Bharat Singh,’ he said without emotion. ‘Originally from Bombay, author of this correspondence?’
The Metropolitan director spoke in a more confidential register than The Ghost was used to hearing from the commands he barked to Marchant and the foremen of the trench.
‘Yes, I did sir,’ The Ghost acknowledged with a bow of the head.
Marchant had taken a place just behind his master, wearing the same oily smile he always w
ore. He stood close to him, as though he wished to reach out and touch Cavanagh just to draw on some of his master’s greatness. Behind him, meanwhile, the three strongarms had stepped in and fanned out.
This was it. This was the moment that, if Cavanagh had his suspicions, he would act. The Ghost weighed up possibilities. He already knew which of the men were strongest and which were weakest. Marchant had the honour of propping up that particular list. At the top, however, was the man behind the desk, a man The Ghost knew from his dossier to be as ruthless as he was quick in combat.
‘And your father was a sepoy at Jalalabad in 1842, you say?’ said Cavanagh, allowing the letter to flutter to the tabletop.
The Ghost nodded.
‘Very brave, the sepoys,’ continued Cavanagh. ‘I knew an especially courageous one once.’
The Ghost looked at him, hardly able to believe his ears as he thought of the poor nameless sepoy, but Cavanagh had already moved on. ‘And your father knew me?’
‘Knew of you, sir, though he would have liked the opportunity to become acquainted, I’m sure. I feel certain he would be envious of me now.’
Cavanagh raised a faintly bemused eyebrow. ‘Oh yes? And why would that be, exactly?’
‘He spoke very highly of you, sir. He talked of you as a hero, as the great soldier who survived the march from Kabul, that I should look out for your name as you were surely destined for greatness.’
‘He thought I was “destined for greatness”? Why, because I can bear the cold and I’m handy with a sabre? Go out there and you’ll find a hundred men who fought as fiercely as I did, served their country just as I did, and did what they could to survive, just as I did. None of them have achieved greatness. Not unless you consider it a great achievement to have Marchant shout at you day and night. None have reached my rank. What on earth made your father think I would be the one to thrive?’
‘He was right, though, sir, wasn’t he?’
Cavanagh acknowledged the point with a tilt of the chin, but … ‘The question remains.’
The Ghost swallowed. Here comes the moment of truth. ‘He mentioned an organization, sir,’ he said, ‘an organization that had taken an interest in you because of your talents. A very powerful organization, sir, and that having this organization’s seal of approval was certainly enough to ensure your rise.’
‘I see. And does it have a name, this organization?’
‘The Knights Templar, sir.’
Marchant’s oily smile remained fixed but his eyes narrowed as the words ‘Knights Templar’ dropped like a stone into the still pool of the room. Behind him, The Ghost sensed the three strongarms tense. Were they readying themselves for something The Ghost might do? Or something Cavanagh might?
‘That’s right. Your father was correct.’ A brief smile flickered on the otherwise impassive face. His scar twisted. ‘How gratifying to know such recognition existed within the lower orders.’
The moment hung as Cavanagh sat back in his chair, fixing The Ghost with an assessing look, as if trying to decode signals the younger man refused to send. Whatever decision the director reached must be his alone, a product of trust in his own instinct. Nothing else mattered now, apart from gaining Cavanagh’s trust.
And then the man behind the desk seemed to relax, indicating the letter. ‘The second interesting aspect of your missive is this information you have on an employee of mine you are going to expose as a traitor. I wonder, would that have anything to do with my employee, Robert Waugh, who was found dead at the dig two days ago?’
The Ghost nodded.
‘Tell me, how did you make the connection between him and me?’
‘I saw him visiting your office, sir.’ At this Cavanagh looked up to Marchant with a meaningful stare. ‘And then when I saw him in a public house I knew it was him.’
‘And that’s how you knew he was indulging in, as you say, treacherous activities?’
‘That’s when I suspected, sir, yes.’
‘And what made you decide to report it to me?’
Another moment of truth for The Ghost. Another point in his favour or a nail in his coffin, depending on what Cavanagh decided to believe.
‘After what my father had told me, sir, I couldn’t believe my luck in seeing you. Seeing your name and seeing the scar, and knowing it was the same scar with which you had returned from the doomed retreat, I decided that fate had brought me into your wider circle, but that it was up to me to enter the immediate one. The Knights Templar once looked upon you as a man of talent, who might be of use to them. I hope, now, that is how you look upon me.’
‘That’s all very well, and maybe even commendable, but at the moment, all I have is your word and a dead body, and I’m really not sure that either is all that much use to me.’
‘It was I who killed Robert Waugh, in the hope that you would have given me the job eventually.’
Cavanagh snorted. ‘Well, that was rather presumptuous of you, wasn’t it? Because to return to my first point, I only have your word that he was a traitor.’
‘He was selling your goods in the public houses, using a man named Boot to do the dirty work.’
Cavanagh shrugged. ‘It sounds plausible but it’s still lacking in concrete evidence.’
‘I killed him in the Rookery, sir. I took from him the evidence. A photographic plate that I have at my home.’
‘At the tunnel?’
The Ghost switched on a look of surprise. ‘You know where I live, sir?’
‘Oh yes. You like your tunnels, don’t you? We’ve been there and we’ve asked around, and you are a little bit more than just an occupant of the tunnel, aren’t you? By all accounts you’re the closest they have to a leader.’
‘I can read and write, sir. I was taught on my passage from India. I gained some medical knowledge also. For this reason, and the fact that I have on occasion stood up against the scum who also make the tunnel their home, some of the people who live there consider me their friend.’
Cavanagh smiled tightly. ‘Even so, it’s a very resourceful picture of you that is being painted.’
Judging this to be the right moment, The Ghost let a little eagerness creep into his voice. ‘A man who can be of use to you, sir. I do not nominate myself to your services lightly, sir. I hope that in me you see something of yourself.’
‘Yes, well, that remains to be seen.’ Cavanagh gave another tilt of his chin, suggesting he’d reached a decision in The Ghost’s favour. He addressed one of the strongarms behind him. ‘Smith, go to the tunnel, retrieve this photographic plate he’s talking about. Oh, and Smith, be nice to the old lady, won’t you? From what I can gather, she and our friend here are close.’
He looked significantly at The Ghost, who suppressed a dread thought, before continuing. ‘In the meantime you, Mr Bharat Singh, are going to accompany Marchant and Mr Hardy to visit the home of the recently widowed Mrs Waugh. And, Mr Hardy? Given that I’m certain we’re going to learn that our new associate is telling the truth, you don’t need to worry about being nice to Mrs Waugh. You can be as unfriendly to that old baggage as you like.’
Hardy grinned, revealing a gold tooth. He spoke with a voice like the scrape of spades at the tunnel face. ‘It would be my pleasure, sir.’
27
‘I don’t suppose you can drive a carriage, can you, lad?’ rasped Hardy when the three men stepped outside the gates of the dig to where their transport was tethered.
And The Ghost, who was an excellent horseman, and who had driven many a carriage back home, and who recognized an excellently sprung, beautifu
lly upholstered Clarence when he saw one, took pains to look like the clueless bumpkin Hardy clearly thought him to be, and shrugged his shoulders and looked lost.
‘Good,’ said Hardy with flinty eyes. He scratched at his stubble then corrected the set of his hat. ‘Because nobody gets to drive Mr Cavanagh’s carriage apart from me, Mr Smith or Other Mr Hardy. Is that clear?’
‘I have no problem with that, sir,’ replied The Ghost. ‘Should I just join Mr Marchant inside, sir, where it’s warm?’
Hardy shot him a look, as though to say don’t push your luck, and in the next moment occupied himself with pulling on a scarf, topcoat and mittens, ready for the short journey to Bedford Square.
The Ghost, meanwhile, stood to the side of the Clarence, awaiting Marchant, and then opening the door for the clerk when he appeared. Without a word of thanks Marchant stepped inside before fussily arranging a blanket over himself and leaving none for The Ghost, who took a seat opposite. When he was settled, Marchant yanked a cord and then made a point of ignoring The Ghost to stare out of the carriage window. Up top Hardy shook the reins and the carriage set off for the home of Mrs Waugh.
When they arrived The Ghost watched with implacable interest as Hardy stepped down from the seat of the carriage, removed his mittens and pulled on a pair of leather gloves instead, flexing his fingers with a grim and business-like air and fixing The Ghost with a malevolent stare at the same time. Watch your step, I’ve got my eye on you.
Next Hardy reached up to the storage box on the carriage. From it he took a pair of brass knuckles that he fitted over one leather-gloved hand. Out came something else: a thick wooden truncheon with a leather loop that he slid over his wrist before slipping the baton into his sleeve. Lastly he produced a knife from somewhere within the folds of his topcoat. He twirled it in his fingers, light dashing down the blade, and all the time he never took his eyes off The Ghost.
Watch your step, I’ve got my eye on you.
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