by J. J. Durham
As if the thought had guided the blade, the edge of the razor caught on a scar on his neck, nicking the skin. He dabbed at the cut with the towel, and then at a spot of blood that had splashed onto his undervest. He slowed … then stopped, watching the blood spread like capillaries across the cotton. His heart thumped. He remembered what it was that he had seen, so many days before, that he had been trying to remember. Something that shouldn’t have been there. Like the missing piece of a puzzle it slotted smoothly into place. And once it had, another piece fitted, and then another. A dreadful comprehension seized him.
He ran to bang on the door.
A squint-eyed constable appeared on the other side: one he knew by sight but not by name.
‘Keep it down in there.’
‘I need to speak to Inspector Field.’
‘So what? I ain’t goin’ to bring him here on your say so.’
‘It’s urgent.’ Pilgrim could see the doubt on the young man’s face. ‘Let me send him a note.’
The constable scowled.
‘What harm could it possibly do for me to write him a note?’ Pilgrim changed his strategy. ‘It might even do you some good.’
‘Make it quick, then. I ain’t no messenger boy.’
It only took a moment to scribble a few words on the paper the constable brought him. He folded it carefully and passed it through the hatch in the door. As he did, a thought occurred. He held on to the paper as the constable tried to tug it off him. ‘Is your name Anderson?’
‘What of it?’
‘Do you like gingerbread?’
The young policeman scowled. ‘What kind of question is that to be askin’ me? Are you tryin’ to be funny?’
‘Not at all. Do you?’
‘It’s my favourite. Not that it’s any of your business. Are you goin’ to give me that note or not?’
Pilgrim released the paper. ‘Take it to the Inspector right away. Him and no one else.’
The constable grumbled as he took the paper. He stomped off down the passage.
Pilgrim rinsed the soap from his face and dried it. He couldn’t trust himself to finish with the razor. His hands were shaking. He pulled his shirt over the blood-spotted vest, then sat down, and waited.
It seemed hours before he heard the tramp of feet back along the passage, the tread of someone carrying a burden. The key scraped in the lock and the door creaked open to reveal Constable Anderson, carrying two of the ledgers from Hatchell and Manson. He thumped them down onto the floor. ‘The Inspector said we was to bring you these, sir.’ Another officer stepped into the cell with two more of the ledgers.
‘Thank you.’ Pilgrim had noted the ‘sir’.
‘We’ll fetch the others.’
He knelt to look at the dates on the spines of the massive books. Each one covered several months and detailed hundreds of transactions. He had dreaded going through them, but that was before he knew what he was looking for.
Now he had a name.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Dickens was aware that Charley Field was watching him out of the tail of his eye as they hurtled towards St Bartholomew’s. He suspected that the Inspector would have forbidden him to be in on the chase, if it wasn’t for the fact he had put his carriage at the detectives’ disposal. He favoured the Inspector with his most disingenuous smile.
‘What are we going to do if he isn’t there?’ he asked.
‘Track him down.’
Tanner snorted. ‘Just because Dolly saw him in Artillery Lane, it doesn’t mean he’s the murderer.’
‘Dolly said he used the phrase “just for jolly” in the mortuary, the same as in the note. And he was carrying a cudgel. It’s too much of a coincidence.’ Field lifted a forefinger. ‘Don’t forget that Appler said his mysterious gambler was a foreigner, and Martha Drewitt’s baby was cut from her womb with medical precision.’
Wainwright shuddered. The carriage drew up at the kerb in front of the hospital and the four men jumped down to run into the building beneath the legs of Henry VIII. The entrance hall was busy with visitors, and students on their way to late lectures.
‘Wait here, Tanner,’ said Field. ‘If you see our man, don’t let him get past you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Wainwright, go and see if there’s a back exit. Make sure he doesn’t get out that way.’
The constable hurried off.
Field glared at Dickens. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait in the carriage?’ He read his answer in the other man’s face, and sighed.
They went past the staircase, beneath Hogarth’s famous paintings of The Good Samaritan and The Pool of Bethesda. Dickens studied them as they passed and decided he didn’t find their grand, mock Renaissance style appealing. Hogarth, in his opinion, was at his best when showing ordinary people, in all their plain, unvarnished eccentricity. He liked to think it was something they had in common.
‘This way.’ Field took a left-hand turn, down another staircase, and into a corridor lined with drab painted doors. One of the doors opened and a skeletal figure in knee breeches emerged.
‘Dr. Cuthbertson!’ Field strode along the corridor to meet the Dean. ‘Could we have a moment of your time?’
‘I’m due to give a lecture in five minutes.’
‘We’re looking for Dr Fairweather’s assistant. Do you know where he is?’
‘Young Townsend?’ Feargal Cuthbertson blinked black eyes. ‘Certainly. He’s in New York.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Pilgrim rubbed his eyes. The words and numbers on the page were melting into a blur of vertical and horizontal lines, and the tip of his forefinger was sore and stained with ink. He slammed the fifth ledger shut. Perhaps he was wrong? Or perhaps he had missed it? He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Reading the ledgers in the dingy light of the cell was making his head ache, and the possibility of having to start all over again made him want to lie down and go back to sleep.
He picked up the last book and opened it. The name he was looking for leapt off the page as if illuminated by monks. He moved his finger to the column beside the name. The address was right, too, although the order wasn’t quite what he was expecting.
He ran to the door and pounded it with his fists. This time it was Sergeant Phelps who came to see who was making the noise.
‘I need to speak to Inspector Field,’ said Pilgrim. ‘Urgently.’
‘I’m afraid that ain’t possible.’
‘It’s very important.’
‘You misunderstand, sir. It ain’t because I won’t fetch him, it’s because I can’t. He ain’t here at present. He’s gone with Sergeant Tanner and Constable Wainwright to catch the killer. Mr Dickens is with them.’
‘The killer?’ Pilgrim blinked.
‘They took off more than an hour ago. To arrest him, they said.’
‘That’s not possible. You have to let me out.’
‘Can’t do that, sir.’
Pilgrim ran his hand through his hair. ‘You say they’ve gone to catch the killer? The killer of Mena Levy, Eliza Grimwood, and Martha Drewitt?’
‘Yes, sir. And Mr Appler, and that poor Hebrew girl.’
‘So what does that make me?’
Phelps studied him for a heartbeat, then pulled a face. ‘You do ’ave a point, sir.’
Pilgrim pulled his overcoat around him and hurried on through the rain. He had thought it would be faster to walk to Portsoken rather than trying to catch a cab, but he was already regretting his decision. It was further than he thought. Or perhaps it was only the rain that made it seem as if he had already been walking for hours. It slashed down like knives, obscuring the still distant dome of St Paul’s. He cursed and broke into a run. The most direct route took him along the path of the old city wall, the quickest way by foot, but not popular with traffic. He heard the clatter of hooves and looked over his shoulder to see a glossy Brougham bowling towards him. On impulse, he leapt into the middle of the road and windm
illed his arms. Having no choice but to stop, the coach driver hauled on the reins.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doin’, prancin’ about in the middle of the road?’ He scowled down at Pilgrim.
‘I’m a police officer. I need you to take me to Portsoken.’
‘Why are we stopping?’ A woman’s voice called out from inside the carriage. The coachman swivelled in his seat.
‘It’s this gentleman, ma’am, ’e says ’e’s a policeman.’
The window dropped with a bang and a woman leaned out to look at him. ‘Are you really?’ She scrutinized his dripping figure. ‘Where’s your uniform?’
‘I’m a detective, ma’am. We don’t wear uniforms. I need to get to Portsoken, urgently.’
She sniffed. ‘What are you waiting for? Climb up here, man, out of the rain. Drive on, Dixon, to ’soken.’
Pilgrim hauled himself up into the carriage and squelched onto the seat as far from its passenger as was possible. ‘Much obliged to you,’ he said.
‘A police detective. How thrilling!’ She inspected him through her lorgnette. ‘I’ve been following your adventures in Household Words. I don’t suppose you know Mr Dickens?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘How about Sergeant Pilchem? You must have heard of Sergeant Pilchem?’
‘No, ma’am. I’m afraid he’s just a figment.’
‘A figment?’
‘Of Mr Dickens’s imagination.’
He jumped down from the Brougham in Bishopsgate Street and plunged into the labyrinth of streets and alleys behind Houndsditch. If he remembered rightly, the house he was looking for was at the east end of the street, behind Gravel Lane. He found it with some difficulty, for it looked quite different at the back than it did at the front. From the front it had given the illusion of affluence, thanks mainly to its generous front garden, but from the back its dilapidation was all too plain. Even though it was dark he could see holes in the roof. Many of the gutters were hanging off it. Some of the windows were also broken. Lights shone behind the curtains at ground level, but the upper floors were in darkness.
He chose a window that was open a few inches. He tested the drainpipe that ran past it. Unlike some of its neighbours it seemed to be anchored securely to the wall. Even though it was slick with rain he shinned up it easily – a legacy of his misguided youth – and hauled up the sash. It creaked like the gates of hell. He froze. But there was no responding shout, or any sound within the house. After waiting another second or two, just to be sure, he swung his leg over the sill and levered himself into the room.
It was a woman’s bedroom, strewn with hatboxes and frilled garments, and every surface cluttered with knick-knacks. He crossed the room and stepped out onto the landing.
A light gleamed in the hall downstairs. He paused. If this were the domain of the lady of the house, then where would she put her lodger? There was a glazed door at the end of the corridor that led to the upper storey. He crept to it and opened it, listening for any noise from downstairs. All he could hear was a steady plop, plop, plop. The sound came from buckets positioned on the upper stairs to catch leaks. They were all full; the water lapping over the rims to splash onto the stairs, creating a miniature waterfall. He wondered how long it had been since they were emptied. He splashed between the buckets, and, after making sure that no light was showing beneath the door at the top, pushed it open.
A draught of bitter air chilled his cheeks. He could hear rain drumming on the roof and the steady drip, drip, drip of water. There was enough light from the dormer windows to make out several buckets positioned around the room and an oil lamp standing on a chest of drawers. He made his way over to the lamp and took his tinderbox from his pocket. It was a risk to light it, as the light could be seen from the street, but it couldn’t be helped: he needed a few minutes to search the room. There was a narrow, unmade bed – obviously the bed of a bachelor – and a table stacked with oil paints and brushes. An easel braced in one corner was empty.
There were several canvases propped against the wall covered with dustsheets. He took the oil lamp to the nearest one and tugged off the sheet.
Venus lay on her side, her head tipped back on her pillow as if her hair was too heavy for her slender neck. She looked at him through eyes narrowed to languorous slits, the fingers of one hand curled loosely at her groin, more in invitation than denial. She took his breath away. She was anatomically perfect – strong limbed, wide shouldered, and round bellied – and unmistakably Eliza Grimwood.
He pulled the cover off the next canvas. St Sebastian’s milky body bristled with arrows, contorted by the rope that bound him to the tree. He had one elbow pinioned above his head, while the other was wrenched behind his back, forcing his spine to arch unnaturally. One foot rested on a boulder, and his legs twisted away from the viewer at a torturous angle. Apart from his pale forehead very little of the Saint’s face was visible, hidden by a tumble of dark red hair. Pilgrim didn’t need to see his features to know he was looking at Angus Trinkle.
The girl on the next canvas was dark-haired and sloe-eyed and her expression solemn, apart from a quirk of her lips that may have betrayed the first thoughts of a smile. She wore a red robe and carried a head on silver platter. A head with mutton chop side whiskers and a beaked profile, easily recognizable as Johannes Appler. John the Baptist. And Salome. He wanted to see Mena dance.
He moved on. Mary Magdalene raised her eyes to heaven and parted her lips as if in expectation of a lover’s kiss. Her glorious red hair rippled over her body, lapping her shoulders, and isolating the islands of her breasts. Breasts that he – Harry Pilgrim – had once kissed. The paint glistened. He touched a fingertip to it, which came away wet.
There was only one canvas left under cover, larger than the others. His fingers reluctantly twitched the sheet away. It was a Madonna and child. The composition was conventional, with the apple-cheeked Madonna smiling down at the child that lay across her knee. But something jarred. The Christ child was older than in most portrayals, and his body was limp, totally supported by the Madonna’s arm. Louis Drake smiled up at his painted mother, Martha Drewitt, and she smiled back at him with the maternal love he had never known in life.
Pilgrim closed his eyes. What was it he had said to Charley Field? Even a maniac has to have a motive. He had guessed Wainwright was the killer, but hadn’t realized until that moment why he had selected these particular victims. The paintings were all copies of the ones he had seen in the Royal Academy. Wainwright said he visited the Academy whenever he could. Now he knew why.
He moved to the table to look at a sketch pad resting there. On the top sheet, drawn in red chalk, there was an anatomical study of a hand. It was meticulous in its attention to detail, faithfully capturing the whorl of each knuckle, the ragged nails, some lined with dirt. A red handkerchief lay nearby. Pilgrim picked it up. Clara Donald’s hand was underneath, the flesh grey, the little finger missing from the knuckle. The last time Pilgrim had seen it, Clara Donald had been combing her hair. And, just before that … He dropped the handkerchief back onto the hand and swallowed back his nausea and his rage.
Where was Wainwright now? And how long would he be gone? There was no way he could get a note to Field without arousing Wainwright’s suspicion, and Wainwright could return home at any minute. Pilgrim decided to hide and wait, in the hope that the element of surprise would work in his favour. He turned out the lamp and replaced it on the chest of drawers. As he moved to conceal himself behind the door, however, he brushed past the table and knocked the sketch pad onto the floor. He snatched it up. Underneath the hand study there was another drawing, a preparatory sketch for Wainwright’s next painting. He took it to the window and tipped it to catch the light.
It was Venus again, but very different from Eliza Grimwood’s wanton goddess. This one sat before a mirror supported by cherubs, gazing at her reflection with haughty self-possession. It was only an outline, but it was enough for him to recognize the po
se and the subject from the Royal Academy. His imagination was able to complete the details suggested by the chalk: straight brows over wide eyes, braided hair. It was a face he recognized.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
‘New York?’ Field’s face was comical with consternation.
‘Indeed.’ Cuthbertson nodded. ‘That is to say, Townsend is on his way there, as far as I know. I believe he was due to sail some time today. Is it anything I can help you with?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then, if you’ll forgive me …’ Cuthbertson waved a hand towards the staircase.
‘Of course.’ Field stepped aside to let him pass. ‘Do you know where the boy was living?’
‘Records will have a note of it. On the first floor.’ Cuthbertson disappeared up the staircase in a flurry of wig powder.
‘Bugger,’ said Field.
‘If we’re quick,’ said Dickens, ‘we might be able to catch him at the docks.’
Field looked at him. ‘If I’m quick. I think it best if your involvement ends here, sir. Don’t imagine that I’m not grateful for your help, but I worry about the danger to your person.’
Dickens nodded. ‘I quite understand, Inspector. Allow me to put my carriage at your disposal. It will be faster than a Hackney.’
‘Thank you.’ Field seemed taken aback by his easy surrender.
Back in the foyer, Field gathered Wainwright and Tanner to him and quickly explained the situation.
‘Tanner,’ he said, ‘I want you to come with me to the docks. Wainwright, find out where Townsend has been lodging, and check the place over.’
‘Good luck, Inspector,’ called Dickens.
He watched Tanner and Field climb into the carriage and the driver whip them off at a smart trot.
‘Right.’ Dickens turned to Wainwright and rubbed his hands together. ‘You summon a cab, and I’ll find out where Townsend was lodging.’
Half an hour later, Wainwright cupped his hands on the window of a dingy artisan’s cottage, trying to see through the chink in the curtains. ‘Ain’t nobody in there,’ he said.