The Last Watchman

by Kevin Partner

  “And yet, a burden shared is also lessened,” Valentina said, reaching up and touching his arm.

  He smiled sadly at her. “Perhaps, but I hope you will both forgive me the habits of long practice.”

  “I will if you can connect the dots for me,” I said, feeling that unwelcome jealousy rising in my breast again.

  It was Valentina who answered. “That department of government is the official channel in this country between humans and the Other Folk.”

  “I ask you this, John. Is it any coincidence that on the day after the death of Mr Yaxley, Pitt's department is closed down? We didn't reveal his identity to the police, so we can only assume that news of Yaxley's fate reached the ears of the government independently and this was their answer.”

  “But to what purpose? Capitulation?”

  Grimes picked up the poker and thrust it into the smouldering embers of the fire. “I know the people in that department, John. They are many things, but they are not craven. No, we haven't quite reached the bottom of the well yet and we will only do so by pulling on the right thread. And that, my friend, means that you must pay a visit to your new friend, Mr Bryant. But have a care; he could be the fly caught in a vast web, or he might be the spider who has weaved it.”

  Micawber

  I awoke after a restless night filled with emotional dreams in which I experience terror followed by yearning—for a normal life, for drink and, I am ashamed to say, for Valentina. When I finally arose, it was to find Grimes sitting beside the window reading a book.

  “At last,” he said. “You'll be late if you don't hurry.”

  And so, I found myself striding down Bow Road toward Micawber's Coffee shop, my mind not yet entirely released from the tendrils of sleep. Grimes, it transpired, had sent a note in my name to Mr Theodore Bryant at the match factory requesting an interview and had received a reply within the hour imploring me not to visit the factory and proposing that Grimes should nominate a meeting place.

  11am at Micawber's had been my colleague's suggestion and I couldn't help considering how unwelcome such a proposal would be to a man of Bryant's social standing. The area of London in which we lived and operated had a poor reputation then, a reputation that is hardly improved as I write this thirty years later.

  As I reached the frontage I wondered whether he had chosen not to come, as I'd expected to find him waiting outside, but, on entering, I saw that he had been seated beside the fire on the very table Grimes and I had shared so recently, and Micawber himself was fawning over him. Instantly, I realised that my colleague must have sent a note to Micawber warning him of the meeting.

  Bryant called to me as I approached and the proprietor, having exchanged a greeting, scuttled off to prepare coffee for two.

  “My dear Mr Bryant, I must apologise,” I said, shaking hands with him and sitting down.

  “For what reason?” His amiable face contracted in obvious surprise.

  I gestured around at the dingy place. It was lightly inhabited at that time and those tables that were occupied were gathered around the whitewashed walls. The back of my throat tingled as I breathed the stale air, infused as it was with tobacco smoke, burning logs and coffee grounds. “This is not a suitable venue for a man such as yourself.”

  “A Quaker?”

  “No, I mean a man of reputation,” I said, beginning to wish I'd not started this line of conversation.

  He gave a hearty laugh. “Oh, my dear fellow, you have no idea what a relief it is to spend time in such a... relaxed atmosphere. I lose far too many hours to stuffy board meetings, factory tours and social events.”

  Micawber bustled up to the table and deposited upon it a silver tray with an ornate coffee pot, sugar bowl and cups. “There you are, gentlemen. My finest brew for my honoured guests.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr Micawber,” I responded as I handed a cup to Bryant and took one for myself.

  “Two and six,” he said with a slight bow.

  “I'm sorry?”

  He bowed again. “It's the two and six brew. Special occasion, you see. I would, of course, like to be able to offer this with my compliments, but I am a 'umble businessman of limited means.”

  “Oh, of course.” I reached into my purse, found the requisite coins, handed them over and watched him retreat.

  “Now, Mr Makepeace —”

  “John.”

  “John, and you must call me Theodore,” Bryant said genially. “Now then, why did you call me here?”

  I leaned forward, glancing around the dim interior of the coffee shop. “I know about the factory.”

  “What about it?”

  That stumped me for a moment. After all, I had no idea how much Bryant knew or, indeed, how much he thought I knew.

  “Evil things are happening beneath your very roof, Theodore. Do you not know?” I had decided that the time for discretion had passed.

  He tensed up as soon as the words passed my lips. “If you are referring to the dispute, that was all a misunderstanding. Brother Frederick was, perhaps, a little over-zealous in his application of the rules, but the matter was made right. More than right, I may say.”

  “I'm afraid I do not understand,” I said. Bryant had clearly misinterpreted my question and I was all at sea.

  He shrugged as if he couldn't fathom my confusion. “Surely you are referring to the labour dispute. It was widely publicised, to my eternal regret.”

  Then I remembered. Bryant & May's workforce—mainly young Irish girls—had walked out and refused to return when one of their number was sacked. It had been quite a controversy and had led to the management backing down entirely. They not only reinstated those they'd dismissed, but also agreed to further demands to improve working conditions.

  Bryant shook his head. “Regrettable, regrettable,” he mumbled. “Father would not have been pleased, but Brother Frederick is a determined man with complete devotion to the company. That was why he rather than myself was appointed to run the factory when father retired. I am, I'm afraid, rather too liberal to be a businessman. But when I found out about the conditions these poor girls were working in, I petitioned Frederick and the rest of the board to remember our proud Quaker roots and to treat our workers with more compassion.”

  Bryant sighed and then brought the cup to his lips. “I'm afraid Brother Frederick has not forgiven me for my intervention and, indeed, I fear he is consorting with some quite unsavoury types.”

  He looked up at me sharply, as if he'd suddenly realised that he'd said too much.

  “Unsavoury is putting it rather too mildly, I would say,” I responded. “My partner, Mr Grimes, believes that your factory is currently playing host to criminals of the vilest sort who are concocting a plot that will see London brought to its knees.”

  The cup was at his lips, but it didn't move as his eyes locked with mine.

  I continued, “Tell me what you know, Theodore. You sought me on Sunday for more, I think, than to make my acquaintance.”

  Now it was his turn to scan the shop for unfriendly ears. “You are correct, John. I have been uneasy for some time about Frederick's dealings, but I fear he has become associated with men who will drag him down, and the rest of us with him. I have barely seen him this past week, and when I do catch a glimpse, he looks half dead. Pale, haunted. It is as if God has deserted him.”

  “But how did you imagine I could help?”

  “In fact, I was hoping to reach your father through you,” he said. “If anyone could help me, I thought, it would be William. A fine man, and strong. I had hoped the two of you might have been reconciled.”

  I sat back in my chair and sipped the coffee, but its excellent taste did little to disguise my bitter resentment. “No, my father and I do not speak. I have been a disappointment.”

  “Surely not, my dear fellow. You strike me as a fine gentleman that any father would be proud of.”

  “Had you met me but last week, Theodore, you would not have recognised me. At that time,
I was a drunkard employed as a clerk in a soap making factory and lived in a working men's lodging house. I had fallen low from a great height and had squandered the many advantages afforded me by being born the son of a baron.”

  His broad features twisted in confusion. “But I do not understand. You say you were a poor factory clerk, but I see before me a man of the city. What has changed? How did you overcome the demon drink?”

  “I became acquainted with Mr Grimes,” I responded, lowering my voice as I said the name. “In the past days, I have seen more horror than any man could wish to encounter in a lifetime, and yet I now have some purpose and seek to do some good to set against the wasted years that are now lost.”

  “Who is this Grimes?”

  And so I told him all that I knew of the man—though that turned out to be surprisingly little. I realised, as I spoke, that I had entrusted my life to someone whose own life was hidden in shadows he wove around himself. I did not talk of vampires since, even though I knew the truth of it, I could not imagine myself forming the words, let alone having any expectations of being taken seriously. It was essential that we had Bryant's cooperation, and so I withheld certain information. I realised that this was exactly what Grimes had been doing in his dealings with me, and much of my frustration with him evaporated.

  “He believes that the trail leads to the Bryant & May factory. These villains are using it as their headquarters, though for what exact purpose I do not know.”

  As I spoke, I saw the colour drain from the part of his face that was visible behind the big bushy beard.

  “Are the police involved?” he asked.

  “Yes, though currently they are being kept at arm's length by Grimes.” This was a slight modification of the truth—we did have Pitt on our side, but he had been told to drop the investigation.

  “That is something, then,” Bryant said, relaxing slightly. “Brother Frederick, what have you done?” He spoke these last words softly as if to himself.

  “I have not been permitted to visit the factory for some days now and have been instructed to conduct my business from an office in an adjacent building—it was at this office that your message arrived this morning. I was keen to meet you, if only to try again to find a way to your father who I felt sure would know what to do. But it seems that matters are even more serious than I thought. I believed Frederick to be merely exacting some petty revenge for my interference, but it seems that he is attempting to hide something much more serious.”

  It seemed odd to hear such terror in the voice of a man who looked as though he was indestructible. And yet I knew that his fear, born as it was of his imagination, was as nothing to the true horror that lurked somewhere within the walls of the Bryant & May Match Factory.

  The Factory

  I so wished we could have made this raid during the hours of daylight, but Grimes' logic was irrefutable. We could hardly investigate the sprawling factory during the working day without attracting suspicious attention and, indeed, the only period during which we could hope to get in and out unnoticed was in the middle of the night.

  Despite knowing that this was the only way, I crouched in an alley off Old Ford Road wishing that the night would end, and blessed day arrive. Valentina stood behind me, coiled like a hunting cat. Grimes was to my side, peering around the corner at the factory on the opposite side of the street. I knew it well enough to be able to picture it in my mind's eye—a square comprised, on one side, of a row of houses built for the directors and other senior staff, while the main factory, fully five stories high, faced onto the tracks of the Great Eastern Railway.

  To the rear of this imposing row stood several rows of working sheds and garages, wax melting vats and wood-cutting workshops. Our way in was to be through Theodore's house which lay to one end of the row of directors' cottages. He had never used it, preferring to live in his country residence and commute into town by train, but he retained it for occasional use when he'd been to the theatre or some other social event. He'd given us the key and announced he would be on the next train to Reading in order to avoid suspicion falling upon him. Bryant had also asked Grimes to fake a forced entry but had recoiled somewhat from the expression of disgust he'd received in return. I had some sympathy since the factory was a central part of his life and, after all, he didn't know what we suspected. He seemed to believe that we were dealing with a criminal gang and that would, indeed, have been serious enough: to know the truth might well have unmanned him entirely.

  Grimes scanned the street and, after giving the briefest of nods to Valentina and myself, ran across the road. For a man of some physical presence who lumbered rather than flitted, he managed to somehow make himself unobtrusive. Alongside me, Valentina slunk like a hunter while, for all my care, I felt like I was a waddling duck until I reached the shadows of the gaslight opposite. I shivered as an icy stream ran down my back and lifted my hat's brim to look up at the rain falling through the streetlight's wan beam. What a miserable night in this most miserable of places. A source of employment that was only one step away from slavery. The home of the infamous phossy jaw. I wondered whether Theodore was truly the vacuous good-timer he seemed to be or whether he knew precisely what went on in the factory founded by his father and chose to ignore it.

  One house stood dark and silent along the Directors' Row and it was the door to this dwelling that took the key Grimes was holding. He pushed the door open gently and we slipped inside. Bryant had assured us that there would be no-one in the house as he didn't habitually keep servants there—his valet and a cook would accompany him to London when he needed to use the house. And yet Grimes crept through the dusty hallway as if breaking and entering. What a fine criminal he would have made, I thought as I watched him make his way towards the pantry at the rear.

  The house smelled musty and a little damp—I could well imagine that it had seen little use—and we proceeded by the light of Grimes' safety lamp whose beam swung from side to side, illuminating the dated papers and pictures that adorned the walls. I could sense Valentina's nervous tension as she prowled behind me, the hallway narrowing to the point where we were forced to go single-file.

  Presently, Grimes' light found the dark green door that led from the pantry to the little yard behind the cottage. He turned the key beneath the doorknob and, though it opened onto complete blackness, he plunged outside. I felt Valentina grip my arm to shepherd me through the blind night as she sought to keep up with him, then we heard the quiet creaking of a gate opening and Grimes' face appeared in the small globe of light from his lamp.

  “This is the passage that communicates between the houses and the factory. That way…” he pointed to the right, “leads to the main factory block, whereas that way...” his arm swung round to point in the opposite direction, “is where we'll find the ancillary sheds and workshops. Bryant has been true to his word thus far—I suggest we stick to our plan.”

  We grunted assent. The plan, agreed in our quarters only a couple of hours ago, had been to search the workshops at the back of the factory first, but only if Bryant's information turned out to be accurate. If not, we would follow Grimes' instinct which was that the focal point of the trouble would be found beneath the main factory—adjacent to the railway lines and near the river. It was perfectly possible that both could be true, but the factory was huge, and Bryant had given us a specific target that, according to him, had been declared off limits by Frederick. So, we would start there.

  I followed the hunched back of Grimes along the passageway to the left taking care not to slip on the wet cobbles. The brick walls were slimy with moss and I quickly learned not to rely on them for support. I hefted my revolver in my left hand and wiped my right on my trousers, glad, for once, that I had worn my working scruffs.

  I focused entirely on the tiny circle of light ahead that showed where Grimes was. After a few moments it stopped, and I could see it shining upon a gate built into a brick wall. He waited for a moment as Valentina and I caught up, and t
hen swung the door open and stepped into the darkness beyond.

  Electric lights hung from the roof of a vast building that, as our eyes adjusted to the yellow glow of the electric lights set into the roof, resolved itself into a warehouse. Running along the walls to our left and right were wooden shelves stacked high with rectangular and cylindrical objects that I couldn't properly make out in the gloom. The smell of the place reminded me of dust and garlic overlaid with the tangy odour of matches.

  We ran along the shelf-lined wall towards the far door expecting, at any moment, to hear the cry go up. Surely the place would be guarded at night? But there was no sound other than the crunching of our boots on the dry, dirty floor and our breathing, though, in truth, I was the only one of us who was labouring.

  “We're almost there,” Grimes said as he paused beside a door at the end of the warehouse. “If my reckoning is accurate, we're now in the corner of the factory complex and when we pass beyond this door, we will be in the first of the workshops that runs parallel to the main factory. These are where Theodore suggests we will find whatever might be taking place. Are you ready?”

  I nodded, feeling the comforting weight of the revolver in my hand, then looked across at Valentina. She was barely visible in her slim fitting black dress, though I could see her pale face reflected in the faint yellow light. She lifted her hand and I saw the glint of steel.

  Grimes turned the handle and opened the door an inch or two. Whatever was beyond was better illuminated; a thin band of light grew wider as we tried to peer inside. It looked like another workshop, though this time clearly devoted to the packing of matches. Three rows of trestle tables ran along the length of the room and beside them, on the floor, sat large wooden crates containing flat packed cardboard boxes. This was plainly a production line and the smell of garlic was all pervasive.

  I followed Grimes as he passed along the tables, glancing left and right and, from time to time, stopping to investigate the worn wooden floor. In moments, we had passed right through the little workshop and he was standing with his back to the exit. “Nothing here that I can see,” he said. “There are plenty of these sheds to work through, so stay on your guard.”