by David Fable
“I don’t know what justice is, Mr. Hudson. Do I want to see the one who killed Mr. Holmes hanging from Tower Bridge? Yeah! And if I knew who it was, I would tell you.”
It occurred to me that the justice argument had very little resonance if you lived in the East End. The concept of justice in Bethnal Green had been tested by the sweatshops and dock workers and found to be a scale that tipped cruelly toward those who could apply influ-ence. Occasionally it was counterbalanced by those exploited individuals willing to exert pressure through painful sacrifice. Daisy had no union and nothing more than life and limb to sacrifice. For a resident of the East End, justice could only be gotten in exchange for blood.
“What if I could take you out of here, Daisy? What if I could arrange for you to have a different life?”
“What different life could you make for me, Christopher? Do you think I’m fit to 'ave tea at Claridge’s? You think I could sit in a shop in Mayfair and talk to people about fine china or riding saddles and all that? I can’t mix in your society. Your society comes east to this establishment when they want to do business with the likes of us.”
“That’s how it used to be, but things have changed. You can change your life.” I waited for her to speak, but she merely stared at me as if I spoke a foreign language. “Daisy, I need your help.”
She looked down at her hands as if she would find some answers there. Finally, she spoke up. “I could never live with it if any harm came to you or Doctor Watson. He is the kindest man I have ever known. I’m sure he don’t even remember, but one year when I was twelve all the young ones got the measles, all got better but my little brother, Henry, who was only seven and it went to his lungs. We were sleeping in a stable on Huntsworth Mews and Wiggins said we 'ad to get Henry to Doctor Watson. So we show up on the doorsteps of Baker Street at eleven o’clock, the three of us, on a bitter-cold night with Henry in Wiggins’s arms. And Doctor Watson sets up Henry on Mr. Holmes’s couch and he gives him medicine and I sleep on the floor because Henry won’t stay without me there, and Wiggins goes back to the stables because he had to see to the others. Doctor Watson took care of Henry for three days and your mum gave us toast and tea in the morning and Henry soup in the afternoons and you were just a little baby.” Tears started to roll down Daisy’s cheeks. “So I will tell you wha’ I know and hope it will 'elp you, but you must never mention that we spoke about it.”
I went to her side and put my arm around her shoulder reassuringly. “I promise you I will tell no one and no harm will come to you as result of anything you say.”
She drew a deep breath. “The man you ask about called himself Sergio. I first saw him, I’d say, maybe two years ago. I never asked his last name or cared. He said he was from Spain and once went on to me about the mountains there. He was not a very interesting bloke, but believed he was quite irresistible to the girls and kept trying to get into their rooms for free. He would come around here and talk to Wiggins. It seemed like they were talking business. He was the…” she searched for the appropriate word, “…’companion’ of a much older woman who lived in Kensington. She was widowed and quite rich. Wiggins never seemed to take this Sergio character very seriously, but he began talking to the old woman more and more. A few times she even came down 'ere, coming from the back stairs, of course.”
“What did this woman look like?” I asked, thinking in all likelihood that this was the very woman who led us to the ambush.
“She was quite old. Her face was wrinkled. She looked like one of those old ladies who take their carriages through the park on Sunday. So Sergio is dead, you say?”
“Shot through the heart. And his lady friend is in the hospital.”
“And all this has something to do with Mr. Holmes?”
“I have to believe so.”
“Well, that’s what I know about Sergio. Why would he want to kill Mr. Holmes or you and the doctor?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Well if 'e’s dead, then there’s nothing more to it,” she said hopefully.
“I believe there may be more to it than that. There might be someone else behind this,” I said, disabusing her of that halfhearted supposition.
“I’m 'fraid you’re right,” she relented.
“Let me ask you,” I said. “Do you know anything of Lord Fitzroy?”
“Plenty,” she answered immediately.
“Tell me what you know.”
“I know 'e’s partial to young boys.”
“And his wife?”
“I know nothing of her. But I can assure you he’s never facin’ her when they go at it.”
“So I assume Wiggins uses this information to his own advantage with Fitzroy,” I said delicately.
“A lot of 'em come down 'ere, and he blackmails 'em all. Not for straight-out money, but for favors…this and that when he needs it,” said Daisy bluntly. “The fancy ones…they never want nothin’ simple. That’s why they come to the East End.”
“What do you know of the relationship between Wiggins and Moriarty?” I queried.
“Moriarty’s in jail,” she said as if that were answer enough.
“Do you know if they have any contact?”
“No. I know that Wiggins isn’t afraid of much but he had a healthy respect for Moriarty. Long time ago one of the Irregulars, named Hackney on account of we found him on Hackney Road stealing from a grocer, he left Wiggins and went to work for Moriarty. Wiggins told Moriarty he wanted him back and not to filch any of his crew and they had a fierce argument. Moriarty sent him back all right…in six pieces. Wiggins had Creed and Sir Patrick visit some of Moriarty’s, and after that they had a pact. They stayed out of each other’s business.”
“I assume it wouldn’t help to attempt to speak to Sir Patrick?” I asked feebly.
“Don’t even try. I’m sure Wiggins told him you are to be respected, but 'e will never tell you anything. That goes for Creed, as well. If Wiggins ever goes down, those two will go down with him.”
“Why do they call him Sir Patrick?” I asked, just out of general curiosity.
“On account of the way he speaks. He’s well educated. Went to boardin’ school,” she said almost proudly.
“How did he come to work for Wiggins?”
“Wiggins got 'im out of a pinch with the police once. Some say it was murder, but I don’t believe that. The thing you gotta understand about Wiggins is that he’s a good man who’s been in bad circumstances. And when he says he loves you and wouldn’t 'arm you, he means it at that moment. But he’s high-tempered, and sometimes that’s what takes over.” She looked up at me for affirmation. “You know, he’s building flats for the poor…all around the city…for those tots like we were…for the next bunch of Irregulars.”
It was oddly touching to hear her come to Wiggins’s defense. Whatever could be said about Wiggins, he inspired loyalty, and it wasn’t solely through fear. Many of his company had been with him since childhood and were bound by the shared experience of basic survival. They had only each other to rely on to make it through the day. There was something about that common denominator that built better character than many of the population of Kensington and Mayfair possessed.
I moved to the door. “You’re wrong about one thing, Daisy. You are more than fit to have tea at Claridge’s.”
She blushed as her eyes turned downward. I slipped out of the room.
27
W hen I exited Wiggins’s establishment, I found Fogel and his two companions warming themselves by a fire of old shingles and packing carton they had lit in an open trash bin. My motorbike was right at the bottom of the steps where I had left it.
“Hope they treated you all right in there, Mr. 'udson,” said Fogel, warming his hands and elbowing one his of mates slyly.
“More than satisfactorily, Mr. Fogel. Thank you for watching my motorbike.” I flipped him half a crown.
“’Appy to be of service,” he answered gladly pocketing the coin.<
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At that moment, a black Renault two-seater came charging around the corner and sped right past the building. It was the very make of car that I had suspected was used in Holmes’s murder. I jumped on my Harley-Davison, fired it up and immediately gave chase.
The Renault tore down Butchers Road and turned onto Dock Road as if making for the river. The roof and windshield were closed and the interior dark, so I could not see who was driving the car. I resolved to try and discreetly pull up beside the vehicle to identify the driver. I drew within a hundreds yards of the vehicle at a speed of forty miles per hour. Happily, it was well after one in the morning, and the streets were deserted. I eased out toward the middle of the street and opened the throttle, inching up to the level of the back bumper of the Renault. I could see a dark figure behind the wheel but couldn’t recognize whether it was a man or woman. I opened the throttle a bit more and pulled up even with the back tire. The driver was alone in the car, but the dark and fog conspired to thwart my view. I sped up a little more in order to pull up beside the driver’s seat and get a full look at the profile. I gained a few more inches and suddenly the Renault turned sharply onto Narrow Street, heading away from the river. The driver must have seen me for he cut the headlights, and I heard him go full bore toward the marshland. I skidded to a stop, spun around and headed off after him.
The Renault had a two-cylinder, twelve-horsepower motor with a top speed of perhaps sixty miles per hour, which could put a good amount of distance between him and me if he got to the long stretch of Grove Road that cut a swath through the marshland.
At top speed I hit the roundabout at Mile End Road and saw the shape of the Renault up ahead careening onto Grove Road and the edge of the marshes. I headed after it, twisting my throttle as wide as it would go.
The marshes were a former hunting ground to kings and now home to a growing population of Eastern European immigrants. The buildings were humble and sparse and the bugs and wildlife plentiful. Several insects plastered themselves on my goggles as the wind rushed across my face at top speed and the engine whined threateningly. As I went deeper, the marsh mist blanketed the road, and I caught only glimpses of the Renault far in front of me as it passed in and out of the ambient light shed from the occasional building popping up on the roadside.
Clearly the driver of the Renault had altered his route in order to lose me, but his miscalculation was getting on a road with few ways off. If he didn’t turn onto Roman Road, he would end up in the virtual dead end of Victoria Park.
I maintained a speed of fifty miles per hour and kept my eyes fixed ahead to my right where, about a half mile away, the Roman Road snaked off, lit by a string of streetlamps. I would be able to detect the movement of the Renault if the driver chose to take that route, otherwise he would have to slow down when he reached the park and give me an opportunity to catch up.
In half a minute I passed the intersection and determined that the Renault had not turned off. He had to be up ahead, though I could not see any sign of him. After another two minutes I arrived at the entrance to Victoria Park. I calculated that the Renault had been no more than a mile in front of me. At near top speed it would have arrived sixty to ninety seconds earlier. Either the driver had chosen to enter the park or drive around the perimeter, which would take him directly back to the entrance. If he had entered, this would be his only point of egress as the park grounds were encircled by an iron fence. The circumference of the park was 3.2 miles, so if he was driving at a manageable speed he would arrive back at my location between four and five minutes. If I entered the park now, I risked the chance of losing him if he had chosen to make the loop. If I waited for him to come back around, I risked the possibility that he would park either on the perimeter or inside the grounds and abandon the car. That seemed to be the less likely possibility, so I resolved to wait within sight of the entrance for the minutes it would take him to circumnavigate. If I did not see the car, I would assume he had driven into the park and would go in and find him.
I let my engine idle quietly and took this opportunity to clean the insect detritus off my goggles. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. The street was empty. The houses at the edge of the park were asleep and I could hear the frogs croaking to each other within the grounds. Victoria Park had been built in the middle of the nineteenth century in reaction to the growing population of the East End. It was believed that it would create a barrier from the squalor. There were fears that, with no open spaces, disease would spread from the stinking industries and slums of the roughly four hundred thousand East Enders to the rest of London. Used primarily for grazing and gravel digging, the land at this location was purchased relatively cheaply by the government. In 1841 Queen Victoria gave her blessing to the construction of the park within the Tower Hamlets, and, even before it was completed in 1843, East Enders started flocking to Victoria Park and enjoying its tranquil grounds. I was aware of this history because it was explained to me by my father, who used to take me here when I was a child. Having sailed to the Orient, he admired the Chinese pagoda that had been transplanted from Hyde Park, and, on occasional Sundays, would take me in a small rowboat to visit all three islands on the boating lake at the west end of the park.
After five minutes, I concluded that the Renault must have gone through the gate. Light was not plentiful on the grounds and it was too dark a night to turn off my headlamp and attempt a stealthy search. I turned my beam in the direction of the gate, revved the engine and entered Victoria Park at a steady ten miles per hour.
Grove Road bisected the park with small paths leading off it for foot traffic. To the left side was an open field with a scattering of elms. To my right was a play area with swings, slides and picnic tables. On weekends this area would be filled with families, but, presently, the only inhabitant was a sleeping beggar bundled in a blanket beneath one of the benches.
I rolled on, carefully scanning the area, and saw no sign of the Renault. Soon the trees on my left grew thicker and on my right a vast lawn sloped down to the boating lake. I could see the dark shape of the Chinese pagoda hovering above the water on the island. I continued to move forward, and the beam of my lamp grazed across some tire tracks in the lawn. They led down to the lake, and I felt confident of what vehicle had made them. I turned off my lamp and let the bike roll down the lawn noiselessly toward the water. The grass was slick beneath my wheels and I worked the brake gently so as not to gain too much speed. I scanned the area cautiously as I glided toward the footpath that surrounded the lake. I spotted the Renault parked like a ghost in the darkness of a stand of trees. I instantly stopped. The car’s lamps were off and driver’s-side door open. In all likelihood it had been abandoned. The driver could easily have climbed the fence and fled or could be hiding anywhere in the two hundred plus acres. I left my motorbike by the lakeside and warily approached the vehicle. Behind the windshield I could see only darkness. It had been almost fifteen minutes since I last spotted the vehicle, but the engine and radiator were creaking as if it had just been shut down. I considered the possibility that the driver was lurking somewhere in the shadows planning to leap out at me and attack. There was a multitude of places to hide around the lake. As I crept closer, my hand moved to the switchblade in my pocket. Suddenly the engine roared to life and the vehicle rocketed straight at me. The headlights burst on, blinding me, and I reflexively sprung into the air, landed flat on the hood and rolled off the fender onto the wet grass. I turned to see the driver’s door slam closed as the Renault tore a swathe across the lawn and up to the road. I jumped to my feet and fired up my Harley to give chase.
My tires struggled to gain traction on the uphill grass and the bike skidded and wobbled, making me ease up on the throttle until I reached the road. I had seen that the Renault headed off toward the north gate, which I assumed would be locked. As I sped that direction, I did a mental inventory of my injuries. My knee hurt as did my shoulder but neither seemed to signal any major damage. Ahead of me in the dark, I heard the drone
of the Renault. I heard the squeal of tires followed by a crash and, seconds later, I arrived at the north gate to see that the Renault had left the road and crashed through an old wooden section of fence separating the park from the Hackney Cemetery, which bordered it to the north. I bounced up onto the curb and followed through the gap in the fence. Off to my left I could see the automobile flashing along the road that wound through the ornate headstones and monuments of the old Jewish graveyard.