The Last Watchman

by Kevin Partner

Grimes nodded. “Indeed. We can be fairly certain that he chose this place deliberately. So you see, John, that his presence in this part of London isn't so very difficult to explain. I doubt very much that he came here under duress or was captured and brought here for... whatever this is.”

  Kneeling beside the head, Grimes examined the wound, the wall behind the body and the grimy floor beneath it. “Could you spare some spirit from your lamp, constable? On a little cloth, if you please.”

  When the policeman had obliged, Grimes used the soaked handkerchief to wipe away the blood from the man's chin and face. I could see his shoulders sag. “I believe he was gagged.”

  I leaned a little closer to see where he was pointing. “Do you mean to say that he was conscious when his throat was cut? That is barbaric!”

  “Indeed. We are dealing with the barbarous.”

  Pitt was scribbling in his book by the light of the spirit lamp which was now back in the hands of the constable. “Can we conclude, then, that he was here for a pre-arranged assignation and—given the fact that the rubber packet was sealed—that this did not take place?”

  Grimes, who'd been using a measuring stick, dropped it and his notebook into his pocket before standing up. “I think that's about it, though the fact that he was, shall we say, preparing himself, suggests that he did indeed meet his correspondent here. Which makes her the prime witness. We can only hope that she did not meet with a similar fate.”

  Anna

  The home—or, more accurately, place of business—of Mrs McCluskey had once been lavishly decorated, but the fine velvets and silks on the chaises longues, chairs and curtains were now faded and thinning. I sneezed as we entered but had promised myself I would breathe through my nostrils since I didn't want to sample the fetid air of a downtown brothel. I was something of a prig at the time, I regret to admit.

  “No, I don't know of her whereabouts,” McCluskey said as she sat in a chair and waved at the dusty sofa opposite. Grimes dropped into place without hesitation while I perched myself on the edge.

  She was a large woman of advanced years. Behind the thick makeup and spectacles lurked a face that had, I would guess, seen more than seventy summers. Beneath a white bonnet sat the blonde ringlets of a wig that looked as though it had been made from more than one donor. She wore a light silk dress of a type that had been fashionable a decade ago and gave every evidence of having been worn regularly in the intervening years. Had she possessed a shepherd's crook, she could have taken the stage as a geriatric Bo Peep.

  “It was on account of her going missing that I was out looking and came across... came across... the —”

  Pitt, who'd been hovering behind us, quite content to allow Grimes to conduct the questioning, stepped forward and handed her his handkerchief.

  “Here, madam. I am sorry that we must ask such questions, but our task is to prevent further tragedies.”

  Her moist eyes peered up at him from over the top of the spectacles. “Thank you, inspector. It is quaite difficult.”

  She was adopting the sort of accent affected by lower class folk when talking to their betters, but she couldn't quite suppress her Lambeth twang.

  “What can you tell us of the gentleman she was due to meet?” Grimes asked.

  “Why nothing, sir,” McCluskey said with a shrug. “Except she said he was a nice one. Never wanted anything too out of the ordinary. Just a lonely gentleman in need of companionship.”

  “How many times had she... met... with this man?”

  McCluskey thought for a moment. “Well, she only joined my establishment two or three weeks ago, and he met her weekly, so there's your answer.”

  “How did he first come into contact with her?”

  Grimes was like a dog on a scent and his direct questioning seemed to be unsettling the woman.

  “He was known to us,” she said. “We knows what he's lookin' for, and when Anna came to stay, I says to myself 'Here's the perfect girl for him.' so when he next came a'visitin', I introduced him. And I were right—he was smitten.”

  “It’s my business,” the old woman continued, recovering her bravado. “I can tell who’s right for any man, though I will confess that you are quite the challenge. I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone quite of your type.”

  This time, it was Grimes’ turn to fidget uncomfortably. “My tastes are not at issue here, we need to find this girl, this Anna. You say she was only here for a brief time. What can you tell us about her?”

  McCluskey shrugged as if the matter were of little consequence. “There’s not much to say. She came looking for work and I took her on.”

  “Where had she come from?”

  “I didn’t ask questions, though I reckon she was high born like your friend here,” she said, glancing across at me. “Posh accent and skin like ivory, she had. That’s why I thought she’d be a match for our gentleman. Some of them likes a bit of rough as we say in the trade, but this man was all for the genteel ones. Mind you, it doesn’t stop ‘em once they gets going.”

  Grimes sighed. “Yes, I think that’s quite enough, thank you. There’s nothing more you can tell us about this girl? Did she give a surname?”

  The old woman shook her head and would say no more. Even I, a neophyte detective, knew she was holding back. “But do you not care where Anna is?” I asked.

  “Oh, I knows my girls, sir, and this one can take care of herself. If I were you—and I don’t mean to be presumptuous—I wouldn’t be worrying about her safety, I’d be thinking about the next gentleman in this city what she will be going after.”

  “This is preposterous,” I said to Grimes as we breathed the fresher air outside the brothel. “A girl is missing following the most heinous of murders, and that... that... woman suggests it was carried out by a member of her sex? No, I simply do not accept it.”

  Grimes pulled me to one side so that we could talk privately. “You are a romantic fool, John, if you believe women incapable of such deeds. Is there no lady you can think of who might, in certain conditions, prove to be a savagely efficient killer?”

  I was about to shake my head at such a ridiculous assertion when I saw, in my mind’s eye, an aquiline profile that hid an inner power. “Valentina? Well, yes, of course. But she is a vamp...” And then it hit me finally. “Oh.”

  “Obvious really, isn't it? Anna, if that was indeed her name, was the bait and no doubt played her part in the murder.”

  “But can we be certain? Is it not possible that this girl is an innocent party to all this? Or at least as innocent as a woman of the night could be.”

  Grimes gestured me to follow him back to the dimly lit street. “Really, John, you must try to rein in your more judgemental tendencies. Not everyone was born into privilege and many have no choice but to earn a living in ways you would consider reprehensible.”

  The protest died in my throat because I knew he was right and hated him for it.

  Pitt had returned to the scene of the murder to supervise the gathering of evidence and so Grimes and I shared a hansom back to 215 Bow Road. I sat in doleful silence throughout the journey and said not a word to him even as we ascended the stairs.

  “Will you join me in a nightcap?” he said as he unlocked the new door at the top of the building, and we stepped onto the landing. Grimes, it seemed, had been entirely unaffected by my sullenness, which did nothing to improve my mood. I was also certain that the nightcap would be non-alcoholic—a fact that simultaneously left me disappointed and relieved.

  Sure enough, as we entered the sitting room, he went across to the window and removed a jar of milk he'd left on the sill to keep cool. He poured it into an iron kettle on the mantelpiece and dropped it into the smouldering coals of the fire.

  “You are doing well, John,” he said as he dropped into his chair.

  I took off my coat and hat and sat beside him. “I don't follow.”

  “Yesterday you were drooling into your bedroom carpet. Today you have taken no drink and have
asked for none, despite the shocking and gruesome scene we encountered in Lambeth.”

  “In truth, I have not thought about drink,” I said. And it was true—his offer of a nightcap had been the first moment I'd felt anything like the familiar yearning.

  Grimes nodded with satisfaction and leaned forward to poke the quietly bubbling kettle.

  I drew in the soporific aroma of warm milk and breathed deeply. “I crave sleep, but I dread it also. What I've seen over these past days will feed my nightmares for the rest of my life.”

  “It seems so incongruous,” I continued. “Sitting here in front of the fire drinking warm milk when evil things stalk the night.”

  Handing me a mug of warm milk, Grimes settled back into his chair. The scarlet light of the dying fire flickered in the black depths of his eyes. “It may seem so, but it pays to sit and think and prepare so that when we do act, we stand a chance of succeeding. We are all that is left of the Watch, John, and if we fall, the peace will shatter, and Hell will be loosed on the streets of London.”

  “You have said that more than once,” I responded, “but you have not explained why it would be so apocalyptic—the peace has only endured for a few decades.”

  Grimes sighed and put down his mug. “Imagine a stream flowing gently through the countryside. A family of beavers builds a dam. What happens if we destroy the dam?”

  I shrugged, not seeing where this was going. “The stream reverts to normal.”

  “No!” Grimes snapped. “Think, John. Destroying the dam unleashes a torrent and it is only once that has passed that the waters relent. It is the flood that we must avoid.”

  He relaxed again and began turning the mug around in his hands. “And there is one factor that makes this threat greater than any we've faced before. This is not a campaign being waged by some petty vampire or human looking to profit from chaos: I thought it was so, but the signs are unmistakable. The three murders so far—the blood sacrifice, the dark angel and the reverse hanging—these are ritual in nature, John. They are designed with the express purpose of spreading terror. Once these killings, and their methods, become public knowledge, there will be panic on the streets, the authorities will be stretched to the limit keeping control and the true threat will emerge.”

  I sat, silently transfixed by him as he stared into the fire and spoke. With a thrill, I realised that he was frightened. Not for me or for society in general, but for himself.

  “Who is behind this, Grimes?”

  After a pause, Grimes began to speak in a monotone, machine-like, fashion. “His name is Argalon and he is a demon spawned from the very pits of Hell.”

  I got nothing more from him that night. It was as if, having said the name, he had exhausted his ability or willingness to communicate and he simply sat in front of the fire as if facing the inferno himself.

  After a fitful sleep interrupted by long periods spent lying awake listening to the creaks of the house and imagining long claws wrapping around the window frames, I found him in our sitting room with his nose in the paper.

  I greeted him, poured myself a cup of tea and sat down in front of the newly laid fire. I found myself staring into the hearth and watching its rhythmic pulsing. The ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece and the occasional pop from the fire were the only sounds other than the background rumble of the street below and the rustle of Grimes' paper. I wondered if I'd ever become accustomed to the incongruity of this pleasant room and the conversations we had within it.

  Of course, the subject I most wished to discuss—but also dreaded—was the one I knew he'd least wish to talk about, but I began forming the words in my mind when he broke the silence.

  “Aha!”

  He laid the paper on his knees and stabbed a finger at a paragraph in the incidental news section. “What do you make of that?”

  The copy ran thus:

  Messrs Pratt and Smith reported a burglary at their factory between the hours of 9pm on Monday night and 6am on Tuesday morning. Much damage was caused, and several kegs stolen.

  “This seems to be the report of a petty crime,” I said, “as are the others on this page. I don't see the significance.”

  “Are you familiar with Pratt and Smith? No? They import and manufacture chemicals for use in the food and medicinal trades. Come, let us pay them a visit.”

  He sprang out of his chair like a statue come to life.

  “But Grimes, what of this so-called demon? You have told me so little.”

  “I have told you too much, John. Let that rest for now.”

  I threw my hands in the air in exasperation. “And the hanging man? You are going to concern yourself with a trivial burglary? Surely we should be looking for this Anna and ascertaining the identity of the poor victim?”

  He'd shown no signs of hearing me as he pulled on his ulster but, as he dropped his ridiculous hat on his oversized head, he turned. “These things are all connected. I do not comprehend every detail, but I know that if I pull at this thread…” he brandished the slip he'd torn from the paper, “…then others will unravel that will lead us to the centre of the web. Now come, we have much to do and I'd rather be back before dark.”

  Pratt & Smith

  The factory of Pratt & Smith squatted beside the River Lea a short walk from our lodgings. It struck me just how many of the locations we'd visited seemed to be near where we lived, but when I mentioned this to Grimes he merely shrugged as if it were of no consequence. I'd often wondered why a man of such obvious means would choose to live in a working man's lodging house in the worst part of London and it seemed to me that this might be the answer. His task was to guard against the forces of darkness, and this was where they were centred.

  My nose crinkled as we entered the factory yard. Sacks and crates were scattered around, their contents spilling into the mud and emitting occasional plumes of smoke as they mixed. A surly worker with a ruddy face and a scar-pocked beard pointed to the office where we found a man hunched over a ledger.

  He looked up as we approached, his eyes widening in surprise.

  “You were expecting some other visitors?” Grimes said.

  For a moment, he simply blinked at us from behind thick spectacles and then he put down his pen and stood. “I am Jeremiah Pratt. As to your question, I was expecting the police. I assume you are not they?”

  Grimes gave a brief chuckle. “No, Mr Pratt, we are quite unofficial.”

  “Then I have nothing to say to you. Good day.” He sat down abruptly and picked up his pen again.

  “Do you not wish to know why we are calling?” I interjected.

  “If you wish to discuss business then my partner, Mr Smith, will return within the hour. He deals with such matters. I concern myself with the running of the factory.” He said all this without looking up.

  “Perhaps you are trying to find a replacement for the bicarbonate of soda that was stolen two nights ago.”

  Pratt's head shot up. “What? How could you possibly know what was stolen? Are you from the insurers?”

  Smiling, Grimes pulled a pair of chairs from beside the wall and sat down in front of the desk, motioning me to sit beside him. “As I said, we are not the official police, but then this is not the sort of crime that is in their normal line of work.”

  “It seems to me that it is simple theft.”

  “But who would steal bicarbonate of soda?”

  The little man behind the desk settled back into his chair with a sigh. “That is what I have been wrestling with. It is not an uncommon substance, although I'll warrant that there is nowhere one would find a greater supply.”

  I confess I was as much in the dark as Mr Pratt and beginning to resent the fact that my colleague hadn't confided his line of reasoning to me.

  “Tell me, Mr Pratt, was anything else taken? Sugar or, more specifically, glucose, perhaps?”

  The man's eyes popped so wide his spectacles fell off. “How could you possibly know that?” he spluttered as he thrust them back
onto his nose.

  Triumph spread across the face of Grimes. There was something reptilian about that satisfied grin that made me think of an ancient dinosaur digesting a recent meal.

  “Please tell me everything,” he said.

  “To summarise, then,” Grimes said as he put down his pen. “Barrels containing approximately a hundredweight each of bicarbonate of soda and glucose were reported missing yesterday morning. They were discovered by a Mr Yateman, the stores manager; a man well known to you and considered trustworthy.”

  Pratt nodded at this point as if to emphasise Yateman's standing in his esteem.

  “After a thorough check of the premises, you discovered a rarely used rear entrance to the factory was unlocked and, suspecting foul play, you called in the police who showed little interest. You then contacted The Times and they sent a junior reporter around which resulted in the notice that brought us here. Is that correct?”

  “It is an adequate summary,” Pratt responded.

  “So, you believe that the door was left deliberately unlocked?”

  Again, Pratt nodded. “We run a most thorough operation, Mr Grimes. All entrances are checked before the foreman leaves and the night watch arrives.”

  “At 9pm?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Bates the watchman saw and heard nothing?”

  “Correct.”

  “Bates being beyond reproach.”

  “Indeed.”

  I realised I'd been holding myself perfectly still as I listened to the interrogation. “It seems to be quite the mystery.”

  Pratt went to speak, but Grimes cut him off. “Not at all. It was clearly an inside job.”

  “What? That is outrageous! I would vouch for every man here. And every woman!” Pratt said, leaping up and wagging his pen at Grimes who made what he probably considered to be calming movements with his hands.

  “You say you can vouch for everyone?” Grimes said. “Including that man on the gate who showed us in?”

  Pratt's eyebrows creased. “Hellier? Well, to be sure, he's only worked here for two or three weeks, but he came recommended. My brother found him a position. He has given no cause for complaint.”