by J. J. Durham
‘There’s no need. It’s my head they’re after.’
‘I’m coming.’
To their surprise, the clerk didn’t stop at the third floor of Number Four Whitehall Place, but he continued up to the fourth to where Sir Charles Rowan had his private apartments. A housekeeper opened the door and dismissed the clerk. She saw they had no hat or coats to take, but made them wipe their perfectly clean feet on the doormat before leading them deeper into the apartment. She showed them to a room lined with books.
Sir Richard Mayne stood by the mantel, staring into a hastily lit fire. He was unshaven and wore no cravat, although Pilgrim noticed he had still had time to pin the Order of the Bath to his jacket.
Sir Charles Rowan sat in a fireside chair, wearing a green flannel dressing gown. It had been several months since Pilgrim had seen the senior Joint Commissioner and he was shocked at the change in him. Once the image of a hearty country squire, Sir Charles’ skin hung on his frame. He seemed to have shrunk several inches.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Field and Detective Sergeant Pilgrim, sir.’ The housekeeper bobbed a curtsey and retreated, leaving them marooned in the middle of the rug.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ Sir Charles sat stiff-backed in his chair. ‘Sir Richard and I have heard about the night’s events. We’re disappointed, Chief Inspector, very disappointed.’
Pilgrim didn’t look at Field, but he sensed the fight draining out of him. Sir Charles’ words were worse than any of Mayne’s thunderings.
‘Perhaps you could tell us exactly what your men were doing in Artillery Lane?’
Field took a breath and began with Appler’s arrest and the earring in the Hackney cab. Sir Charles listened without comment, until Field reached the part where they had discovered Appler’s suicide was murder.
‘Good God! You mean the fellow had his throat cut right here in the cells?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Why weren’t we informed?’
Field glanced at the other Commissioner. ‘Sir Richard knew, sir.’
‘I see.’ Sir Charles’s expression tightened. ‘Go on.’
Mayne grew redder and redder as Field continued his narrative. Field was crafty, editing the tale so as to leave no opening for Mayne to have his revenge. He made no mention of Dickens, mesmerism, or Pilgrim’s visit to Clara Donald, but improvised instead on the resourcefulness of his detectives. Finally, however, he had no choice but to confess the details of the surveillance in Artillery Lane.
Mayne seized his chance. ‘Your men were in disguise?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘As what?’
‘As Hebrews, sir.’
He looked as if he might have apoplexy.
‘The nature of the disguise is immaterial,’ said Sir Charles. ‘The point is that no policeman should disguise himself without express permission.’
‘Such subterfuge is objectionable, on every possible level!’ said Mayne.
Pilgrim couldn’t remain silent. ‘We had no choice but to disguise ourselves, our surveillance would have been obvious otherwise.’
Mayne widened his eyes. ‘It is not your place to …’
‘We were trying to save a girl’s life.’
‘That may well have been the case, Detective Sergeant,’ said Sir Charles with a wave of his hand, ‘but you appear to have missed the point.’ He turned to Field. ‘Is there some reason you didn’t ask permission from Sir Richard before following this course of action?’
Field was silent. It was clear to everyone that Mayne would never have given his permission, everyone, apparently, except Sir Charles.
‘Our position with regards to disguise is not a whim, Chief Inspector, but policy. We shun the use of subterfuge because it leaves us open to the accusation of policemen being employed as spies, or in other improper ways. However, there may be times, a few exceptional circumstances, when it can be justified.’
‘Exceptional circumstances,’ Mayne agreed, ‘but … ’
Sir Charles held up his hand. ‘The Chief Inspector is aware of his transgression, there’s no need to rub his nose in it. Carry on, Field.’
Field took up his story again, ending with Dolly’s beating and Amalia Cohen’s murder. When he had finished there was a long silence in the room.
Sir Charles gave a gusty sigh. ‘It’s a mess, gentlemen, and no mistake. The Home Secretary will have to be told, I see no way around it.’
Mayne bit his lip. He had gone from red to white, and no wonder: the Home Secretary’s involvement was a nail in the coffin of his ambition. It was unlikely now that he’d get the chance to run the Force on his own. Sir Charles shifted in his chair and winced. Pilgrim realized he was only managing his pain with the utmost self-control.
‘I cannot go to the Home Office empty handed,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I need a sacrificial offering. Either an arrest, or … ’ he looked meaningfully at Field.
‘I understand, sir.’ Field nodded. ‘I will tender my resignation to Sir Richard within the hour.’
Mayne flashed him a look of malignant triumph.
But Sir Charles shook his head. ‘There’s no need to be hasty. I can put off my visit to the Home Secretary until tomorrow.’ He gave the detectives a tight smile. ’You have twenty-four hours to catch your murderer, gentlemen. Use them wisely.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The library of the Royal College of Surgeons in Lincoln’s Inn throbbed with masculine self-congratulation. Dickens listened to the voices – plummy, querulous, strident, declamatory – all raised in competition with each other in what passed for conversation. He sighed inwardly. As Guest of Honour for the Hunterian Oration he could hardly make his excuses and leave.
‘I can safely say we may look forward to Mr Hawkins’ speech, in fact … ’ Dr Feargal Cuthbertson mumbled on and on. The Dean of St Bartholomew’s was dressed in a smock coat, knee shorts, and a wig that wouldn’t have looked out of place sixty years earlier. He had monopolized Dickens ever since his arrival half an hour before, not so much trying to engage him in conversation, as lecturing him. Dickens didn’t mind: it was something of a relief, for once, not to be expected to perform. He took the opportunity to admire the impressive double height room, with its graceful columns and rows of books, and the decorative balcony that ran around it. If only those books were on something other than medical subjects …
‘Museum?’ asked Cuthbertson. Dickens gave a start. Was an answer expected? Apparently not. Cuthbertson ploughed on. ‘I must show you around it some time. It is full of the most fascinating curiosities … hundreds of anatomical specimens, including the Evelyn tables, bequeathed to the College in the seventeenth century. Have you heard of the Evelyn tables, Mr Dickens?’ Dickens shook his head. ‘They are fascinating, quite fascinating. Each one displays a different part of the human body: arteries, nerves, and veins dissected from a human specimen and glued to a wooden board made from pine planks. When they had finished, they covered everything with varnish. Remarkable, is it not, to think that organic matter could be preserved in such a way?’
Dickens nodded and smiled. Cuthbertson looked as if he had been similarly preserved himself. He reminded Dickens of a skeleton he had once seen, dug from a vault under one of the old marsh churches near Rochester: a mixture of a cadaver and a horrid waxwork, with dark eyes moving in his eye sockets. Dickens made a note of all these things and stored them away for future usefulness.
‘Yes, I believe we can safely say we have a treat in store this afternoon. What do you think, sir?’
This time it seemed some response was expected. ‘What is the subject of Mr Hawkins’ lecture?’ he asked.
The Doctor rubbed his bony hands together. ‘The Excision of the Ovarium. It promises to be most illuminating. Do you know, sir, how many diseases of the ovarium there are?’ Cuthbertson didn’t wait for Dickens to guess but plunged on. First there are the common malignancies, such as …’ He started to count them off on his fingers.
&
nbsp; Dickens gave an inward groan. Was he expected to listen to this lecture with a full stomach? The college was well known for its largesse, and there were rumoured to be eight courses at luncheon. Eight courses, followed by a surgical lecture. He hoped they wouldn’t serve the meat rare. He became aware of a looming presence at his shoulder.
Dr Cuthbertson broke off his enumeration. ‘Ah, I wondered where you had got to,’ he said. ‘Mr Dickens, may I present Dr Hector Fairweather, Chief Coroner, and our Head of Pathology at St Bartholomew’s.’
Fairweather was an imposing man, with a bald head and whiskers. The expression in his eyes was at once self-deprecating and sardonic. As they shook hands, Dickens noticed his wooden leg.
‘An honour,’ said the pathologist. He nodded at Cuthbertson. ‘Caesar Hawkins has arrived, Feargal. He’s asking for you.’
‘Is he … ?’ Cuthbertson looked surprised, but delighted. ‘Pray excuse me, Mr Dickens; I will no doubt see you later.’
‘No doubt.’
They bowed to each other and Cuthbertson dodged off through the crowd.
Fairweather snorted. ‘Caesar Hawkins wouldn’t know Feargal if he fell over him, but you looked in need of rescuing.’
Dickens grinned.
‘He insists on dragging me to these damned functions,’ continued Fairweather. ‘So much hot air. But at least they serve a decent dram.’ He raised his glass in a silent toast.
Dickens did the same. ‘You’re the Coroner at St Bartholomew’s? Then you’ll be acquainted with Charley Field and his men?’
‘On a daily basis, I’m sorry to say.’ He saw his expression. ‘Don’t mistake me. They’re all fine fellows. But I regret their necessity.’
The two men fell silent, but it was a thoughtful silence rather than an uneasy one.
‘How long have you been a pathologist?’ asked Dickens at last.
‘Five years. But I’ve been a surgeon for much longer, of course.’
‘You must be hardened to death in all its forms?’
‘I’m not sure I am. But I enjoy my work.’ Fairweather swirled the liquid in his glass. ‘Pathology has its own, subtle satisfactions. A cadaver speaks to me. It whispers its secrets on the autopsy table, and together we discover the journey it has taken to arrive there. On the whole, the dead make obliging company.’ He emptied the glass in a single gulp. ‘Charley Field and his men have to deal with the living. I’m surprised they can sleep at night.’
Dickens nodded. ‘I’ve been observing their investigation into the murder of Eliza Grimwood. A terrible business.’
Fairweather’s eyes narrowed. Dickens guessed he was assessing him, wondering how much he knew.
‘A rare guddle,’ was all he said.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Dickens. ‘Five victims already, but Sergeant Pilgrim and his team seem to be making little progress in catching the murderer.’
‘Six victims,’ corrected Fairweather. ‘Another one arrived in the morgue this morning. A Jewish girl. Can’t have been more than twenty. Damn shame.’
A chill trickled down the writer’s spine. He placed his glass on a side table. ‘I don’t suppose you can recall her name?’ he asked, as casually as he could.
Fairweather shook his head. ‘I daresay it will be in the paperwork, providing anyone at Whitehall had time to fill it in. They were all at sixes and sevens this morning.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Do you know Detective Constable Williamson?’
‘Adolphus?’ Dickens nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘The lad was badly beaten last night. I’ve heard he might not pull through.’
CHAPTER FORTY
A nurse showed Pilgrim and Charlotte Piper into an airy, well proportioned ward, lit by gothic windows. The new hospital at Westminster was a model of cleanliness and convenience; each ward with no more than eight patients, and its own water closet. Unfortunately, no amount of modern convenience could conjure away the sounds of suffering that came from the beds. Pilgrim tried to ignore the piteous cries and groans as the nurse took them towards a bed at the far end of the row.
‘I can only permit you to see Mr Williamson for a moment,’ she said.
‘There’s Winnie,’ said Charlotte.
Pilgrim had caught a glimpse of Dolly’s face and he was glad of a moment to master his shock. He turned to the woman sitting at the bedside who was plainly his mother. She had round red cheeks and round eyes, dulled by anxiety. Her face was wet. Charlotte embraced her.
‘Lotte. I’m glad to see you, love. You’ve just missed the girls. I persuaded them to get a bite to eat.’ Her eyes moved to Pilgrim.
‘This is Sergeant Pilgrim,’ said Charlotte. ‘He brought me.’
Winnie Williamson clasped his hand. ‘Oh, Mr Pilgrim, sir, my boy talks so much about you. He admires you so very much.’
Charlotte approached the bed. ‘Dear Lord, what have they done to him?’ Tears sprung to her eyes.
Pilgrim braced himself to look again. The left side of Dolly’s face was swollen almost beyond recognition, his eye split like an overripe fig. The rest of his face had none of its usual colouring. His head and one ear were swathed in a bandage and his eyes were closed. He looked more dead than alive, but Pilgrim could see his chest rising and falling beneath the blanket. ‘How is he?’ he asked Winnie. His mouth was dry.
‘The doctors don’t know if he’ll live, sir. But we’re hopeful.’ She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘They’ve given him laudanum, for now. Sleep is a great restorative, they say. He has bruises … the most terrible bruises … and some broken bones. But bones mend. Bones mend.’ She repeated her words as if trying to reassure herself of their truth.
‘He’s a strong boy,’ said Charlotte. ‘We’ll pray for him, Winnie.’
Pilgrim curled his lip. He couldn’t help himself. But Dolly’s mother had caught it.
‘You’re not a Christian, sir?’
‘No.’ He avoided the eyes that bored into him, intelligent and compassionate. ‘I once believed in a God who rewarded virtue and punished trespass, but not any more.’
‘Life can be hard.’ Winnie Williamson nodded. ‘I lost Aldolphus’ father, and three of my boys when they were no more than babes. I lost my way for a while too. But I still have my girls. And Dolly.’ She clasped Dolly’s hand, lying inert on the sheet. ‘Pray for him, sir, in any case. He needs every scrap of help he can get.’
The nurse approached them. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Pilgrim and Charlotte, ‘but you must leave now.’ They left Mrs Williamson clinging to her son as if she might haul him bodily back from the brink of death.
Pilgrim handed Charlotte into the Hackney cab that was waiting for them, noting her bloodless cheeks and shuttered expression. ‘Shall I drop you back at Holborn?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I’m going to sweep out your room. Keep myself busy.’ She looked as if she might say more, but fell back into silence.
They had almost reached Greville Street when she spoke again.
‘I’ve been meaning to say something to you, Sergeant.’ She was twisting a handkerchief in her fingers.
‘Oh?’ Apprehension gripped him.
‘I should have said it a while ago, but … ’ she tailed off. She refused to meet his eye and continued to throttle the handkerchief. ‘I wanted to apologize, for the things … for the thing I said, when we first met.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Piper …’
‘No, please, let me finish.’ She lifted her chin, crimson with embarrassment. ‘It was unforgivable … and inaccurate, besides. I don’t think of you as … disfigured.’ She swallowed. ‘I only said that to wound you because you’d hurt my pride.’
He squirmed, mortified. He didn’t know what to say.
‘Can you forgive me?’
He opened his mouth, but finding no words there, nodded instead. Then he saw with relief that they had arrived at the house.
He dropped her there, and continued on to St
Bartholomew’s in a painful daze. He had found her apology almost as excruciating as the original insult. To his mind there had been more than a whiff of noblesse oblige about it, as if he was some pitiful creature she knew she had treated unfairly. His pride burned at the thought. But at the same time he knew himself well enough to realize he was probably being over sensitive.
He didn’t want to think about Charlotte Piper. Or Dolly. So he decided he would keep his mind occupied by taking take a look at Amalia Cohen’s body, to see if it could tell him anything. He wanted, if possible, to see it in its original condition before Dr Fairweather conducted his autopsy.
To his surprise he found Charles Dickens in the entrance hall of St Bartholomew’s, squaring up to the medical assistant, Townsend.
‘I don’t care if you’re Thomas Jefferson himself,’ Townsend was saying, ‘you’re not going in there.’ He scowled at the writer.
‘But I need to discover the young lady’s identity,’ retorted Dickens.
‘The doctors are all out.’
‘I am well aware of that.’ From his tone it was clear Dickens was barely holding his temper in check. ‘They’re at the Royal College of Surgeons. I’ve just come from there. But I still say it can do no harm to let me see the girl, or at least confirm her identity.’
‘I don’t have that information.’ Townsend’s expression grew even more truculent when he saw Pilgrim. ‘You can’t go in either.’
‘Sergeant Pilgrim!’ Dickens rushed over to him. ‘The girl who was killed this morning, please tell me it was not Miss Cohen.’
‘I’m afraid it was.’
Dickens sank onto one of the padded benches and ran a hand through his long hair. ‘She was selling me ribbons not twenty four hours ago.’
Townsend was still watching them through the thick lenses of his spectacles. Pilgrim took Dickens by the elbow and steered him to the door. ‘We’ll come back later,’ he called back to Townsend. The young man remained at his post, watching them intently, until they were safely outside, on the street.
‘I heard about Adolphus, too,’ said Dickens. ‘What in heaven happened?’