Phantom of Blood Alley

by Paul Stewart

  ‘I,’ he said officiously, ‘am Inspector Clackett. And who might you be?’

  ‘I’m Barnaby Grimes,’ I told him. ‘Tick-tock lad. And this is Clarissa Oliphant, sister of …’

  I fell silent. As the inspector had stood up, a body, lying in the flickering shadows at the base of the pot-bellied vat, revealed itself. Clarissa Oliphant gasped and clamped the lace handkerchief to her mouth. I struggled not to gag at the gruesome sight before me.

  The face of the body lying there was unrecognizable. Barely human in appearance, the entire head had been burned by the corrosive contents of the up-turned cauldron–skin, hair and features melted like candle wax.

  And deeply embedded in the corpse’s chest was Clarissa Oliphant’s duelling sword, its jewelled hilt gleaming like beads of blood.

  ‘Laurence,’ I heard Clarissa whisper, and she rushed forward, her arms outstretched.

  The inspector seized her by the wrist. ‘Do not touch the body, Miss Oliphant,’ he cautioned. ‘It has been doused in something highly caustic.’

  Clarissa visibly shrank. ‘But what … what has happened, Inspector?’

  ‘That,’ he told her grimly, ‘is what I am attempting to establish. It appears that the victim was stabbed through the heart, and that the murderer subsequently attempted to dispose of the body by dissolving it in chemicals. I put the time of death somewhere between midnight and four in the morning, a time that coincides with witness reports of a loud and violent disturbance.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Can you confirm that this is your brother, Laurence Oliphant?’

  ‘They’re his … his clothes,’ Clarissa replied weakly. ‘I bought him that overcoat myself. Fustian weave,’ she said, ‘the best that money could buy. He always had such a delicate chest …’ Her eyes filled with tears as she realized what she’d said.

  All three of us stared at the sword sticking out of the victim’s chest. From the back yard, the sound of furious barking became louder, more insistent. Inspector Clackett took a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Can you shed any light on the murder weapon?’ he asked.

  Clarissa nodded miserably. ‘It belongs to me,’ she said, a fact that seemed to turn the air brittle.

  The inspector’s beady eyes narrowed.

  ‘I was a duelling governess by profession,’ she explained, ‘and that was a sword presented to me by Lord Riverhythe when I left his service. It’s a Dalmatian sabre,’ she added. ‘Extremely valuable …’

  ‘And can you explain how your Dalmatian sabre came to be here, Miss Oliphant?’

  ‘I … that is,’ she faltered. ‘Laurence … I had it displayed above my drawing-room mantelpiece, and last night Laurence took it. I believed he intended to sell it.’

  ‘And at what time exactly did this occur?’ the inspector asked, pulling a notebook from the top pocket of his jacket and licking his pencil.

  Clarissa frowned. ‘Eight. Eight fifteen, wasn’t it, Barnaby?’

  The inspector turned to me. ‘You witnessed this?’

  ‘I was at the Oliphants’ house yesterday evening,’ I told him. ‘I can confirm everything that Miss Oliphant has told you.’

  ‘You saw Laurence Oliphant leave with the sword?’ the inspector queried, his dark eyes boring into mine.

  The barking grew louder, and was punctuated with angry shouts and curses from what I supposed were exasperated constables.

  I shook my head. ‘I was in the hallway,’ I told him. ‘But I heard the altercation between Miss Oliphant and her brother,’ I said, ‘after which he stormed past me and left the house.’

  ‘Did you actually see him with the sword in question?’ the inspector persisted.

  I had to admit I hadn’t. ‘It all happened so fast,’ I told him.

  The inspector turned his attention back to Clarissa Oliphant. ‘Where were you between the hours of midnight and four o’clock this morning?’ he demanded.

  ‘I … I …’ She looked startled. ‘In my bed, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘In your bed,’ the inspector said slowly, making a careful note in his notebook. ‘So you have no alibi.’ He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing. ‘If you would accompany me to the station, Miss Oliphant, there are a few facts I would like to get straight.’

  I expected Clarissa to object, but the fight seemed to have gone out of her. She nodded weakly and hung her head.

  ‘And you, Mr Grimes,’ the inspector added. ‘I’ll need a statement.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector,’ I told him.

  Outside, the barking had become a hysterical cacophony of fierce snarling and desperate howling. Inspector Clackett turned and bellowed in the direction of the sound.

  ‘Mulroney! Barstow! If you can’t get that damned hound under control, then shoot it!’

  ‘No, don’t do that!’ I protested. ‘I’m good with dogs, Inspector. Let me see if I can control it.’

  Call me soft-hearted but, savage as the Moravian boarhound seemed, it was a pedigree dog which had clearly been mistreated, and didn’t deserve a bullet in its skull.

  ‘It’s all the same to me,’ said Inspector Clackett with a shrug. ‘Just get it out of here and then report to me at the station in Hibernian Yard, understood?’

  I told him that I did.

  Ordering his constables to remove the body, the inspector placed Clarissa in a pair of handcuffs and led her outside, through the gawping crowds, to the police carriage. She seemed like a broken woman.

  ‘Tell Tilly that I won’t be home for luncheon,’ she said with a barely suppressed sob.

  I watched them go before crossing the blood-red studio to the back door. With shaking fingers, I gripped the door handle.

  As I did so, there was a colossal thud, followed by scraping and splintering as the dog’s claws scratched at the wood. Low, menacing snarls sounded from outside. I swallowed hard, turned the handle and eased the door open.

  The Moravian boarhound had been muzzled by the constables, and from his battered collar there hung the leash they’d attached before abandoning the struggle. I was just able to read a name on the strip of corroded metal that was attached to the leather collar, Kaiser, the fading letters etched in italic script. I stepped into the yard, and the dog flinched, obviously expecting a kick or a blow. I could make out matted patches of dried blood that suggested Laurence had beaten the dog, perhaps with that cane of his.

  I held out a hand towards him and whispered softly.

  ‘Kaiser, easy boy. I’m not going to hurt you …’

  I’ve always had a way with dogs – a kind of empathy and understanding, you could call it. I can tell just by looking into a dog’s eyes what its temperament might be. Lady Ambrose’s Penanganese lapdog, Frou-frou, for instance, had the black heart of a hellhound, while Lucky Bob, the champion Hightown racing whippet, had the soul of a long-suffering saint.

  Kaiser raised his muzzled snout and sniffed at my hand. I let him get my scent, then I knelt down and looked into the dog’s eyes. They were large and pale caramel in colour, typical of a pedigree Moravian boarhound’s. The bushy eyebrows gave him a questioning look. As our eyes met, though, the low, throaty growling started up again, and the fur on the nape of his back stood on end.

  ‘Kaiser,’ I whispered. I held his gaze. The growling ceased and the dog took a step towards me. ‘Good dog,’ I said encouragingly.

  I let him smell my hand again, and continued to whisper his name. His teeth were no longer bared and, behind the muzzle, his tongue lolled.

  ‘Good boy!’ I said again. This was no hot-blooded cur, at least, not by nature. Kaiser was a fine creature, every bit as noble as his name suggested. Beneath his violent exterior beat the loyal heart of man’s best friend. I could tell by the look in his eyes.

  I reached forward, the back of my hand to the dog’s snout. His shoulders dipped and he came forward slowly and cautiously. The fur at his neck was standing on end, but he hadn’t started growling again, and the shaking was down to the slightest of tremors. He sniff
ed at my hand again, then, tail wagging, his tongue flicked through the metal bars of the muzzle and licked me.

  Taking care not to make any sharp movements, nor to position my hand where he couldn’t see it, I reached slowly forward and ruffled the fur at the side of his neck. He licked me again, his tongue warm and soft.

  ‘Good lad, Kaiser,’ I whispered. ‘You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you again …’

  Despite his ill treatment, I could tell that Kaiser was a magnificent specimen. He had probably been the victim of a muttmonger, a dog thief specializing in holding expensive breeds for ransom. How he’d come into Laurence Oliphant’s possession was something of a mystery, though in this disreputable part of town, not a very big one. Most lock-ups needed guard dogs for security, and their owners were seldom picky about where they came from. But it was a criminal waste of a dog as magnificent as Kaiser to turn him into a half-starved, savage guard dog.

  I had a hunch. Although I realized that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I hoped that those already learned might be revived.

  ‘Sit,’ I told him firmly.

  Kaiser simply stood there.

  ‘Sit!’

  With a soft sigh, the great dog sat down on his haunches. He stared up at me.

  ‘Good boy,’ I told him.

  I got him to lie down, then sit again, then to roll over, and I crouched down and tickled his tummy. Not only had Kaiser been trained, but he’d been trained well, and I wondered whether Laurence Oliphant had even bothered to find this out before locking him up in the dingy back yard and casually brutalizing the poor creature.

  I picked up the leash and, standing up, patted Kaiser on the back. ‘Come on, boy,’ I said.

  We set off through the side gate and made our way up the alleyway. Back on Blood Alley, we skirted round the crowd of fascinated onlookers still clustered at the front of the lock-up, and headed for Blue Boar Lane.

  If Clarissa Oliphant and I had made an odd couple, then Kaiser and I were a good deal odder, with the huge dog – the size of a small pony – trotting obediently at my side and glancing up at me meekly from behind the police muzzle. With the dog now displaying both his pedigree and obvious good training, the brutal metal muzzle clamped round his head looked curiously incongruous.

  ‘Good boy, Kaiser,’ I said proudly as he trotted to heel. I patted his head. ‘Good lad.’

  I stopped off at Arnold’s the local butcher’s and purchased a pennyworth of offal, with a lamb bone thrown in for free, then bought a couple of glazed earthenware dishes from Eastwick’s next door. Back at number 3 Caged Lark Lane at last, I led Kaiser through the archway to the back yard behind. It was large and airy, turfed behind a whitewashed fence and criss-crossed with clothes lines where the occupants of Caged Lark Lane dried their laundry. In the corner, by a stand of sunflowers, was the kennel where Disraeli, old Sergeant-Major Miller’s pet terrier, had once lived.

  ‘Your new home, Kaiser,’ I told him.

  It was a snug fit, but Kaiser seemed to take to it immediately, sniffing about before flopping down inside the kennel, his head and shoulders outside. I unstrapped the muzzle and ruffled the fur on his head, before turning to unpack my purchases.

  Kaiser watched me expectantly, his head cocked to one side. I unwrapped the newspaper package and dropped the glistening innards into one of the dishes. Then I dunked the other dish in the water butt, and set both of them down before him. Kaiser climbed from the kennel, sniffed the food, then hesitated.

  ‘Eat, lad,’ I said. Tail wagging, he buried his long scarred snout in the bloody scraps and began wolfing them down. I dropped the bone beside him. ‘The second course,’ I said. ‘I’m going out for a bit. Be a good boy.’

  I walked to the police station in Hibernian Yard. Given the local constabulary’s attitude to highstacking, I thought it best. I arrived half an hour later, climbed the steps to the two black entrance doors and went in. The clock on the wall opposite showed two o’clock.

  ‘I’m here with regard to the death of Laurence Oliphant,’ I told the sergeant at the desk. ‘My name’s Barnaby Grimes. Inspector Clackett asked me to make a statement.’

  ‘Did he now?’ the portly sergeant said, scratching behind his ear with his pen. ‘Then you’d better take a seat,’ he added, nodding to a row of dark varnished benches that lined the green tiled walls of the vast, dingy entrance hall. ‘Someone will be along presently.’

  I took a seat and looked about me. The benches were full of the usual suspects. There were petty pickpocket dandies wearing decorated waistcoats and expressions of injured innocence, and protesting chorus girls in gaudy dresses and too much make-up. River-toughs from the docks and gang members from Gatling Quays eyed each other mistrustfully, while black-gowned lawyers and slick-haired clerks of the court strode purposefully past, clutching armfuls of yellowing documents tied up with red ribbons. I took off my coalstack hat, folded it up and settled down to wait.

  Four hours later, I was still waiting. People had come and gone, striding through the hall in ones and twos, and disappearing into the various rooms which led off it. Once a large family of eight circus entertainers, including several shame-faced clowns escorted by two constables, had been ushered into the hall at the end. But no one came for me. Even when I reintroduced myself to the new sergeant on duty at the desk, and had been assured that someone would soon be with me, no one came.

  Only when, at six o’clock, having decided to leave, I climbed to my feet and headed for the door, did someone call my name. I turned to see Inspector Clackett standing with his hands on his hips, looking at me.

  ‘You’re the tick-tock lad, aren’t you?’ he said dismissively. I nodded. ‘Follow me.’

  The interview took place in a small, windowless room that I took to be his office. There was a roll-top desk overflowing with paperwork in one corner and two high-back chairs on either side of a low baize-covered table. The walls were decorated from floor to ceiling with plaster death masks of convicted murderers, giving the gloomy chamber an intensely sinister atmosphere.

  Inspector Clackett pulled up a chair and sat down, gesturing for me to sit down in the chair opposite.

  ‘Don’t mind them,’ he said with an unpleasant smile, as he noticed me eyeing the ghostly faces around us. ‘They’re my testimonials, Mr Grimes. Because you see’ – his deep-set eyes narrowed – ‘Clackett always gets his man. Or, in this case, woman.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, what can you tell me about the murder of Laurence Oliphant, Mr Grimes?’

  As he picked up a quill and a sheet of paper, I told him all about how Clarissa Oliphant and my paths had first crossed; about the assignment she had given me, as well as the fee she had paid, and I detailed my initial findings. It soon became apparent, however, that Inspector Clackett was most interested in the events that had taken place at 12 Aspen Row the previous evening. With his hooked nose thrust forward, he probed my memory, encouraging me to recall everything that I’d overheard. And, though I didn’t intend to, with every word I uttered, I fear I made Clarissa Oliphant seem more guilty.

  Inspector Clackett pulled up a chair and sat down …

  ‘You say she was controlling,’ he pressed.

  ‘I said Laurence accused her of controlling him,’ I countered.

  The inspector nodded. ‘Accused her of snooping and prying into his affairs. Claimed she treated him like a wayward child. And yet,’ he went on, ‘she refused to lend him money – money she has through an inheritance,’ he added, spitting out the word as though it was something distasteful, ‘left to her by the late Lord Riverhythe …

  ‘A strongbox full of gold sovereigns, Laurence said,’ I told him.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘sovereigns she refused to lend to her brother, which apparently prompted him to steal an item of some value, to wit a …’ He paused, licked his finger and flicked through the pages of his notebook. ‘A Dalmatian duelling sabre.’ He looked up. ‘The murder weapon.’

  I swallowed. ‘A
s I said, Inspector, I’d seen it hanging above the mantelpiece. Laurence must have taken it down …’

  ‘Yet you did not see him leaving with it,’ the inspector said. ‘Nor have you any knowledge of what Miss Oliphant did following your departure at …’ He paused again. ‘At eight forty-five.’

  ‘No, but—’

  He raised his hand to silence me. ‘Furthermore,’ he continued, ‘when you visited her at eight o’clock this morning, you claimed that Miss Oliphant looked as if she had not slept all night.’ He shook his head, his fleshy jowls quivering. ‘It doesn’t look good for Miss Oliphant, does it?’ he said.

  It certainly didn’t, and I clearly wasn’t helping the redoubtable duelling governess either. Inspector Clackett sat back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head and a self-satisfied expression on his face.

  ‘Read the statement through, Mr Grimes,’ he said. ‘Then sign it.’

  Written down, my words seemed even more damning of Clarissa Oliphant, yet they were a true enough representation of what I’d said. Regretfully, I signed my name.

  ‘What happens now?’ I asked.

  ‘Now?’ said Inspector Clackett, leaning forward. ‘You’re free to go, Mr Grimes. Your presence will, of course, be required in court at a future date, of which you’ll be informed in due course.’

  ‘And Miss Oliphant?’ I asked.

  ‘Miss Oliphant?’ the inspector repeated. ‘Miss Oliphant will be charged with the murder of her brother, Laurence Oliphant, and stand trial. Until then, she will be an inmate of Whitegate Model Prison.’

  I knew of Whitegate Model Prison by reputation. It was a new prison, built to a revolutionary design based on the beliefs of Jeremy Hobholt, one of the great thinkers of the age. Unlike the old prisons like Gallowgates and Highheath, with their crowded communal cells, this model prison was a so-called panoptican.

  It was octagonal in shape, three storeys in height and with a central viewing platform from which the warders could observe the inmates. But the most revolutionary aspect of Whitegate was that these inmates were kept in solitary confinement, in individual cells, and forbidden to talk at all times. Even in the exercise yard, they were made to wear hoods so the inmates could not fraternize with, or even see, their fellow prisoners.