by J. J. Durham
Tanner flinched. ‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir. Some of the murders are similar, to be sure … but they’re different too.’
Everyone waited, expecting more. Tanner clamped his lips shut again.
Field blinked. ‘Thank you for that most … penetrating observation.’
Tanner flushed scarlet.
‘He’s right,’ said Pilgrim. ‘The Countess had her throat cut. We haven’t had the post-mortem report yet on Martha Drewitt, but there was no incision on her neck. There was a bruise on the back of her head that looked as if she’d taken a blow.’ He took a breath, unused to speechifying. ‘The fact that the body in the Hackney Cab was cut into pieces made it difficult to pinpoint the exact cause of death, but Hector Fairweather thinks she was likely smothered. Which means we have three different murder methods?’
Dolly cut in. ‘If it wasn’t for the note there would be no reason to think that any of them were linked.’
Field wouldn’t meet Pilgrim’s eye. What neither he nor Pilgrim could say, was that Appler’s murder made a possible connection between Grimwood and the Hackney murder – both killers were handy with a razor. Field had forbidden Pilgrim to say anything about it, for he wanted to keep the news that the Dutchman was murdered under wraps until after the Royal Academy Gala.
Field rubbed his nose. ‘We can assume from the post-mortem on the Hackney Cab victim that she was killed first. But we don’t know which of the others came next. Dolly, I want you to go to see Hector Fairweather as soon as we’ve finished here. He’ll be doing the autopsy on Martha Drewitt some time today. Ask him to make time of death a priority, if you please.’ He spun on his heel. ‘It’s also possible that there are still victims we know nothing about. Wainwright … did you do as I asked and find out what else we’ve had lately in the way of cadavers?’
Wainwright flushed and read out from a piece of paper. ‘Two self-murders, both male, one drowned, one hanged. Two fatalities from domestic incidents, both females. One male, found beaten to death in the Vauxhall Gardens. One foetus, discovered in a privy. A sailor what died from his injuries after a fight. And a foot, sir.’
‘A foot?’
‘A woman’s foot. Found in the river by Hungerford Stairs.’
‘That’s another possible victim, I suppose.’ Field furrowed his brow. ‘Unless one of our Hackney victim’s feet wasn’t accounted for?’
‘No, sir,’ said Dolly. ‘They were both there.’
Charles Dickens sat forward in his chair. ‘Something puzzles me, Chief Inspector. Why are we even considering that the Hackney Cab murder is connected? I thought Appler was the guilty party there.’
Field gave him a quelling look. ‘Because Appler is dead, there is no way of knowing that for certain. He can hardly confess to it now, can he? That being so, I believe we should keep an open mind.’
Dolly raised his hand, like a schoolboy at lessons. ‘If Appler wasn’t guilty, sir, why did the real murderer set him up? He could have disposed of the woman’s body himself. Or simply left it to be found, like the other two. Why didn’t he do that?’
‘Perhaps the killer knew the first victim?’ suggested Pilgrim. ‘The Countess and the woman I found last night were prostitutes. But, according to Mr Dickens, the first victim was a Jewess. Not a race known for promiscuity.’
‘If you ask me,’ burst out Wainwright, ‘there’s more bleedin’ questions than what there are answers!’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ muttered Field. ‘I think for the time being we should work on the hypothesis that all three women – our Jewess, The Countess, and the woman in Drover’s Yard – have been killed by the same man. Tell me more about your Mr Trinkle, Tanner.’
‘There’s nothing to link him to any of the victims, other than the gloves under Grimwood’s pillow. But I have hopes, sir, high hopes.’
‘Interview him this morning.’ Field turned to Pilgrim. ‘Harry, I’d like you to pursue the Jewish line of enquiry. We need to find out who the lady was.’ He turned. ‘Mr Dickens. I don’t want you to think me ungrateful for your help in finding Trinkle, but it freezes my blood to think you might have been in danger. As an observer, observe. Observe as much as you like. But I beg you: do not enquire, interrogate or – God forbid – detect.’ His jocular tone didn’t quite hide the flint in his eyes.
Dickens flushed. ‘As you wish, Chief Inspector. I would hate to obstruct. I have links with the Jewish community that Sergeant Pilgrim might find useful.’
Pilgrim nodded, feeling oddly embarrassed for the writer. ‘Can I speak to you later about it? There’s something I have to do first.’
Dickens looked about. He caught Tanner’s reluctant eye. ‘In that case, Sergeant Tanner, may I sit in on your interview with Mr Trinkle?’
‘A capital idea,’ agreed Field, ignoring Tanner’s scowl. ‘And I will, of course, see you all at the reception this evening.’ He turned to the others. ‘I’ll send a cab to pick you up at seven.’
A bespectacled clerk with a harassed air poked his head around the door. ‘Inspector Field, sir?’
‘What is it? Can’t you see we’re busy here?’
The clerk ran inky fingers through his hair. ‘Joint Commissioner Mayne would like to see yourself and Sergeant Pilgrim, sir.’
A subtle current ran through the room. Backbones stiffened, eyebrows raised, and glances were exchanged. Dickens looked from man to man and back again, obviously baffled by it. Pilgrim caught Charley Field’s eye. He had only seen Mayne half a dozen times, from a safe distance, but never been introduced to him. He would have preferred it to remain that way. Field shrugged, and straightened.
‘Come on, Harry, we’d better see what he wants.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They followed the clerk out of the station and into the building next door. Number Four Whitehall Place had at one time been a private residence, but was now occupied by the administrative offices of the Metropolitan Police. John May, the Superintendent of A Division, and his senior officers occupied the ground floor. The junior clerks worked on the first floor, while the Chief Clerk shared the second floor with the Receiver and his staff. Joint Commissioner Sir Richard Mayne had the third floor all to himself.
They climbed the winding staircase to the third floor, where the clerk tapped on a set of double doors. Pilgrim glanced at Charley Field, who was smoothing his hair and checking his waistcoat in the manner of a schoolboy about to enter the headmaster’s study. Field caught his eye.
‘Let me do the talking,’ he said sotto voce.
Pilgrim wasn’t going to argue. He had no intention of bringing himself to Mayne’s attention, if he could help it.
There was no answer from inside the room. The clerk was obliged to knock a second time. This time there was a terse response.
‘Come.’
The clerk ushered them into a large oak panelled room, and backed out again, closing the doors behind him.
Pilgrim looked about. Winter light flooded the room through three windows that overlooked Whitehall Place. One of the windows was open, but did nothing to disperse the banner of cigar smoke that hung beneath the ceiling. The room was silent except for the distant rattle and clop of traffic, and the rustle of newspaper.
Sir Richard Mayne sat behind his desk, reading the Evening Chronicle. He looked older than his fifty-four years, with thinning grey hair, mutton chop whiskers, and features that could have been carved from a memorial stone. When he finally put the newspaper down and deigned to look at the detectives, his eyes were hooded and utterly humourless. Pilgrim noticed that the article he was reading was the one Dickens had written about the ‘Hackney Cab Killer’.
‘I suppose it’s too much to ask, Field, that you refrain from turning police work into a circus performance?’ His voice held no trace of an Irish accent, although Pilgrim knew he had been born in Dublin.
Field wisely kept quiet.
‘When the Home Secretary asked us to cooperate with Mr Dickens,’ continued
Mayne, ‘I’m sure he didn’t intend you to use it as an opportunity for self-glorification.’
There was a long silence. Mayne pointed to the newspaper. ‘And it surely goes without saying that I do not relish hearing about this gaudy business second-hand?’
Pilgrim groaned inwardly. With everything that had happened since the chase through the sewers he still hadn’t written up his report on Appler’s arrest, even though Field had asked him for it several times.
‘We have been extremely busy, sir.’ Field stepped in and took the bullet.
‘Busy?’ Mayne nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine you have. Too busy, certainly, to inform me of Mr Appler’s suicide in the cells.’ He skewered Field with a cold stare. ‘And much, much too busy to inform me that the suicide was, in fact, murder.’
Field flinched. Mayne continued to stare at him. ‘At what point, precisely, were you planning to enlighten me with that information?’
‘We had to be certain, sir,’ said Field, ‘before we disturbed you with it.’
‘How could you allow such a thing to happen,’ Mayne’s voice rose, ‘in the very heart of Whitehall?’
Pilgrim shifted from one foot to the other. It was bad form for Mayne to give Field a dressing-down in front of a subordinate, but he had the air of a man only just getting into his stride. Pilgrim realized he had probably only been included in the summons so that Mayne might have that pleasure.
‘Can I remind you that this is not some insignificant East End Police Station?’ Mayne continued, spitting out the words ‘East End’ as if they were dirt in his mouth. ‘This is the seat of government, the very heart of power in this country. The fact that a murderer has been allowed to stroll in and stroll back out again is a matter of national concern.’ He touched the Order of the Bath pinned to his jacket: a subconscious gesture. ‘Something that you appear to hold lightly, Chief Inspector.’
Field flushed brick red and lifted his chin. ‘With respect, sir, the security of A Division’s custodial facility is Superintendent May’s responsibility, not mine. It was one of his uniformed officers who left the razor in Appler’s cell, and another that was careless with the keys. If he … ’
‘With respect,’ Mayne’s tone was glacial, ‘you are here only on the sufferance of Superintendent May and I. You are a whim. An experiment. Make no mistake, if it was up to me, you would be put somewhere well away from here, where you would cost less and not be such an inconvenience.’
Field opened his mouth to speak, but the Commissioner was in no mood for interruption.
‘I should, by rights, inform the Home Secretary about your bungling. But if I do, he might decide to scrap the Detective Force altogether, which would be a pity.’
Pilgrim smothered a snort. It was no secret that the Commissioner considered the Detective Force a waste of energy and resources. In his, often stated, opinion, the primary objective of an efficient police force was the prevention of crime, and to have to resort to detection after the fact was an admission of defeat. But Pilgrim also thought that he was bluffing. Like it or not, the Detective Force was under Mayne’s jurisdiction, and he wouldn’t want to lose face by having it disbanded through ineptitude.
The bluff was confirmed by his next words. ‘I have decided not to inform the Home Office about Appler, but I will still have to tell Sir Charles.’
Again, Pilgrim thought it unlikely. Sir Charles Rowan was the other Joint Commissioner, several years senior to Mayne. He had been suffering from a debilitative stomach complaint for months, provoking rumours of his retirement. That would leave Sir Richard Mayne in sole control – unless Sir Charles was to recommend the appointment of another Joint Commissioner to take his place. Mayne couldn’t afford to have his abilities questioned, not if he wanted to hold the reins of power on his own.
‘How close are you to catching the killer?’ he demanded.
Pilgrim noted the ‘you’, as opposed to a ‘we’, and glanced at Field. In spite of Charley’s earlier exhortation to let him ‘do the talking’ he clearly wasn’t enjoying the experience. Pilgrim took pity on him.
‘We believe he’s murdered others, sir,’ he said. ‘Not only the girl in the cab, but two other women. We’re following several promising leads, particularly with regards to … ’
Mayne cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m not interested in the details.’ He turned back to Field. ‘I want to know if we can expect an arrest.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘An imminent arrest.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Field hesitated. ‘Reasonably imminent.’
Sir Richard nodded, picked up his paper, and opened it again. He read a few lines, then looked up and frowned, as if surprised to see them still there. ‘You may go.’
When they were back outside, and the doors safely shut behind them, Field blew out his cheeks and gave Pilgrim a weak smile. ‘We’d better catch this bastard quickly. I don’t know about you, Harry, but I’d rather have an Irish Stand Down with Big Bill Thompson than go through that again.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
A group of bare-chested boys pushed past Pilgrim as he climbed the stairs of the tenement in Gloucester Street, almost knocking him back down. A mongrel dog scrabbled behind the boys, barking and nipping at their heels. Their shrieks of fear and delight made it almost impossible for Pilgrim to think properly. And he really did need to think. Wainwright was right: there were more questions than answers about the murders. The Hackney killer had lured Pilgrim into the sewer, laying a trail that led to Appler’s house, knowing that Appler had promised to deliver his parcels for him. But why then kill Appler? If it was to protect his own identity, why go to the trouble of setting up Appler in the first place? The timing was also a puzzle. Surely it was too much of a coincidence that the package with the ear had turned up as soon as Pilgrim had discovered Martha Drewitt’s body at Drover’s Yard? It hadn’t come with the mail from Household Words, but had been addressed to him directly. Yet it definitely hadn’t been on his desk early that morning with the rest of his post. So it had to have been put there at some point after he had discovered the body. But how? How had the killer known when the body had been discovered? And how had he got into his office? The same way, presumably, that he had been able to get into Appler’s cell and out again without being seen. Was the killer invisible? Obviously not. But there was one thing for certain: he liked to play games. The thought was unsettling, for it meant that the usual rules of logic couldn’t be applied.
And, at the back of Pilgrim’s mind, ever present, was a small boy in a spotted neckerchief. He liked to think that Stella Drake would turn up eventually, but knew, from hard experience, that she might not. She had vanished into the city like a stone into a pond, leaving barely a ripple on the surface.
The noise of the children and their dog had faded by the time he reached the top of the stairs. He paused outside Frances’ room, where he could hear the sound of sobbing coming through the chipped and split door. He knocked. The sobbing stopped. Footsteps, and then the door opened a couple of inches. A bright blue eye peered at him.
‘What’s your business?’ it said.
‘Tell Frances it’s her uncle to see her.’
Frances’ voice came from inside the room. ‘Let him in, Ida.’
The door opened, and the owner of the eye was revealed as a girl of about twelve, with a profusion of frizzy, carrot-coloured hair and a striped waistcoat. She glared at him, as if he might produce a knife at any moment.
‘’E looks well dodgy to me,’ she proclaimed, as if he wasn’t right in front of her.
Frances met his eyes. ‘You’re right, he does. But he’s all right.’ She was sitting on the bed clutching a handkerchief her face blotched with tears. ‘Be a love and buy us a twist of tobacco.’ She pressed a couple of copper coins into the girl’s hand.
‘Are you sure?’ Ida gave Pilgrim a glare in which suspicion warred with defiance. ‘I don’t like to leave you.’
Frances shook her head. ‘It’s famil
y business.’
Ida went to the door. ‘I’ll leave this open just a smidge,’ she said, ‘to be on the safe side. If ’e gives you any trouble, just shout out. Fat Nellie’s downstairs, I just seen ’er puttin’ out washin’.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Ida left.
Frances read the curiosity in Pilgrim’s eyes. ‘Her father’s long gone, and her mother died last year, God bless her. She’s a good girl, but she’ll probably end up on her back, like the rest of us. If you’ve come to tell me about Martha you’re too late,’ she said. ‘All the girls are buzzing with the news.’
Pilgrim pulled the locket from his overcoat. ‘Is this hers?’
Frances bit her lip as she took it.
‘If it’s any comfort,’ he continued, ‘she was dead before you came to me. Probably the first night she went missing.’
‘Did you even look for her?’
‘I found her.’
‘Duty done, then.’ She offered the necklace back. ‘Congratulations.’
‘I daresay she’d have wanted you to keep it.’ He glanced around the room. The grate was empty, and several bottles lay on the floor.
‘Do you need anything?’ he asked.
She stared at him for a moment, and then gave an incredulous laugh. ‘A hot meal. A bucket of coal. This week’s rent. A punter who doesn’t put his fist in my belly instead of paying me what I’ve earned.’ She paused before continuing. ‘Why is it a man will always resort to fists, in the end?’