Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Do we know he’s not a local man?’

  ‘I think so, sir. He’s killed in four counties. It’s possible that he might be based in one of them—though that’s unlikely, since he seems too careful to go shitting on his own doorstep—but he can’t be local everywhere he strikes, and so there’s no reason to assume he’s local here.’ Blackstone paused for a moment. ‘You must surely have worked all this out for yourself, sir.’

  ‘I have,’ Bullock agreed. ‘I was checking to see if you were thinking along the same lines. Carry on.’

  ‘He’s not a local man,’ Blackstone continued, ‘so you’d have thought that in a rural area like this, someone would have spotted him. But the Staffordshire police have questioned hundreds of people—and not one of them has reported seeing any strangers around at the time the girl disappeared.’

  Bullock put his hands to his head. ‘It’s a bloody nightmare,’ he groaned. ‘It’s as if the man was invisible. Every killing is a carbon copy of the ones that preceded it, and no killing moves us any closer to catching the murderer. I’m never going to collar this bastard, Sam. He’s going to kill again and again and again—and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘You might think of bringing in Ellie Carr,’ Blackstone suggested, tentatively.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ellie Carr. She’s a doctor, and she works at University College Hospital, London. She specializes in forensic pathology.’

  ‘Forensic pathology?’ Superintendent Bullock repeated, saying the words carefully, as if they came from an alien tongue. ‘What—in God’s name—is that, Sam?’

  ‘It’s a way of applying science in criminal investigations,’ Blackstone explained.

  ‘Then why haven’t I heard about it?’

  ‘Because it’s a very new science—so new that a lot of people don’t believe it’s a true science at all.’

  ‘Then if it’s—’

  ‘But true science or not, I’ve seen it produce some remarkable results.’

  ‘For example?’ Bullock asked, unconvinced.

  ‘Coppers like us can often learn something from looking at corpses—but nothing like as much as Ellie can. She’s helped me solve two cases that I’d never have cracked if I’d been working alone.’

  Bullock smiled. ‘You keep called her “Ellie”,’ he said. ‘She’s not your bit of tottie, is she?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Blackstone said—though there’d been a time when he’d hoped she might be. ‘But even if she was, it wouldn’t alter the facts. Ellie’s bloody good at what she does—and one day they’ll be writing books about her.’

  ‘They’ll be writing books about me, if I don’t solve this case,’ Bullock said, dispiritedly. ‘“Superintendent Ernie Bullock—The Man Who Failed to Catch The Northern Slasher”.’ He paused for a moment. ‘All right, if you’re prepared to vouch for her, then I suppose I could send her a telegram.’

  ‘I’m not promising she’ll definitely get you a result,’ Blackstone said cautiously.

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ Bullock replied. ‘How could you? But after all, what do I stand to lose? Even if she turns out to be no more use than a broken umbrella in a thunderstorm, she can’t do any harm to an investigation that’s already in the doldrums.’

  Blackstone ran his fingernail along the edge of the cheap envelope in his pocket again. It almost seemed to him to be vibrating with its writer’s urgency and desperation.

  ‘If there’s nothing more I can do here, sir, I’d like to go and book my ticket for the early-morning train to Cheshire now,’ he said.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Bullock replied, waving his hand in a gesture of abstracted dismissal.

  It was only when Blackstone had reached the door that the Superintendent recalled himself enough to say, ‘Good luck with whatever it is you have to deal with, Sam.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Blackstone said, over his shoulder.

  And good luck was just what he was going to need, he thought. Because a man like Tom Yardley would never have thought of asking for help unless the situation he found himself facing had turned very nasty indeed.

  Tuesday: Dead on Arrival

  One

  As the train began to slow for its approach to the station, Blackstone took the letter out of his pocket and re-read it for perhaps the twelfth or thirteenth time.

  Dear Sergeant Blackstone (or perhaps I may be permitted to call you Sam), the letter began.

  That sounded just like the old Tom Yardley, Blackstone told himself. The man was modest to the point of diffidence, but in a tight situation there was no one better to have covering your back.

  Through the newspapers, I have been following your career with interest. You seem to have done very well for yourself.

  Possibly I have, Blackstone conceded. But only as long as you’re willing to believe that owning two good second-hand suits, a few books—and very little else—was doing well.

  In fact, you are quickly becoming one of the most famous men our regiment has ever produced.

  There was no need to butter me up like that, old chap, Blackstone told the writer mentally. I’m in your debt already—and I always will be.

  There is something very unpleasant happening in Marston, the village where I live. I don’t want to say too much about it in a letter, but I’m sure you remember Fuzzy Dustman, and will quite understand what I mean when I tell you he would have felt quite at home here.

  Blackstone nodded to himself. Yes, he did remember Faisal Dostam—or Fuzzy Dustman, as the enlisted men had called him. In the days when he and Tom Yardley had soldiered under General Roberts, Dostam had been responsible for running the biggest criminal network in Afghanistan. He had had his finger in a great many pies, but the most important one—the one that made him rich—had involved the smuggling of precious stones.

  You’re probably wondering why I don’t go to the local police, instead of writing to you, the letter continued. Well, the simple fact is that there’s so much money involved that they’ve probably been bought off and once they know that I know what’s going on, my life won’t be worth a brass farthing. But for the sake of everything you and I believe in, something has to be done, Sam. With you by my side, I know we can beat them, but if you can’t come, then I don’t see I have any choice but to take the risk and go it alone. Please reply with all haste, old comrade. Your obedient servant, Tom Yardley.

  It must have been hard for a proud man like Tom to have written that letter, Blackstone thought. It must have taken almost as much courage as he had shown in the cave back in Afghanistan. And never once in the letter had he mentioned the debt he was owed—never once resorted to the sort of emotional blackmail that most men in his position would have drawn on.

  It was an honest letter—an honourable letter—which asked an old comrade to do no more than guard his back. And that was just what Blackstone intended to do.

  *

  Archie Patterson stood in an unfamiliar office in Scotland Yard, looking across a desk at Inspector Maddox, whom he didn’t know—except by reputation—and was already deciding that he didn’t quite like.

  ‘You might do yourself a bit of good on this new case that we’ve been handed,’ Maddox told him.

  ‘Might I, sir?’ Patterson asked. ‘What does it involve?’

  ‘Prostitution,’ Maddox said, with some relish.

  ‘But that’s not illegal.’

  ‘Not in most cases, no. Tell me, Sergeant, have you ever heard of a Member of Parliament called Jack Hobsbourne?’

  Sam Blackstone would never even have bothered to ask him that question, Patterson thought. What Blackstone would actually have said was something like, ‘Tell me all you can about Jack Hobsbourne, MP, Archie. And don’t hold back on any of the juicy titbits.’ Because Sam knew that his sergeant had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of people—both famous and obscure—and would have taken the opportunity to draw on it.

  ‘Well?’ Maddox asked impatiently.

  ‘Yes, I
have heard of him,’ Patterson began. ‘As a matter of fact, Jack Hobsbourne’s a…’ He saw a look of displeasure starting to fill Maddox’s face, and he abruptly shut up.

  He had the man’s measure now, he thought. This inspector didn’t want him to know things. This inspector—with his cardboard files stacked neatly on his desk in front of him—liked to be regarded as the fount of all wisdom.

  ‘Jack Hobsbourne’s a what?’ Maddox asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Patterson confessed. ‘I thought I’d heard of him, but it turns out that I haven’t.’

  Maddox looked a lot happier now. ‘Then it’s a good thing that I do know something,’ he said. ‘It turns out that Hobsbourne is not Church of England, as any decent man would normally be. Oh no, the established church isn’t good enough for Master Jack, and he’s decided to be a Quaker instead.’

  ‘A Methodist,’ Patterson corrected him silently. ‘The man’s a strict Methodist.’

  ‘And this Quakerism,’ Maddox continued, making the word sound even more like an insult, ‘has given him some rather strange ideas. Now normally, that wouldn’t matter—he’s only one out of hundreds of MPs, and half of them are deranged, anyway.’ He paused, and a look of panic came to his face. ‘You’re not to quote me on that.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Patterson promised.

  ‘At any rate, for some strange reason, what this Hobsbourne chooses to say and do seems to worry the Home Secretary.’

  Well, of course it does, Patterson thought. Every time he gives an open air speech, thousands of ordinary people flock to hear it.

  ‘And so if Hobsbourne happens to have a bee in his bonnet, it starts to acquire significance,’ Maddox continued. ‘And his particular “bee” at the moment is the “so-called” age of consent. What do you know about that, Sergeant?’

  ‘Very little, sir,’ Patterson said wisely.

  ‘Then I’ll instruct you in that, as well. When the Queen came to the throne, in 1837, the age at which a girl could consent to have sexual relations with a man was twelve, which, I must admit, seems like a pretty sensible age to me.’

  You wouldn’t think that if it was your sister or your own daughter you were talking about, Patterson thought.

  ‘But throughout the Queen’s reign there have been no end of do-gooders whining that twelve was too young for a girl to make that kind of decision,’ Maddox continued, ‘and about fifteen years ago Parliament gave in to the baying of the self-righteous rabble, and set the age of consent at sixteen. Now, as you can well understand, this made life very difficult for brothels that cater for clients who have a preference for very young girls.’

  ‘Yes, it must have done,’ Patterson agreed, deadpan.

  ‘By and large, it’s been the policy of the Metropolitan Police to look the other way when that particular law’s been broken,’ Maddox said. ‘And quite right, too, in my personal opinion. Strict enforcement does no more than punish the girls themselves.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ Patterson said.

  Maddox looked at him as if he were an idiot. ‘A pretty girl from the slums can earn twenty-five pounds for surrendering her virginity, which is three or four times what a housemaid can earn in a whole year,’ he explained. ‘So doesn’t it seem right that she should be allowed to dispose of whatever assets she has, in whatever way she chooses?’

  ‘Always assuming that she’s willing to,’ Patterson said.

  ‘And why shouldn’t she be willing to? The lower orders attach far less value to virtue than we at the higher levels of society do.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  Maddox frowned. ‘Then you are a very poor student of human nature,’ he said censoriously. ‘In matters of morality, the lower orders are rather like the beasts of the fields.’

  ‘But having disposed of her “asset”, she doesn’t get her fair payment, does she?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘Well...’

  ‘It’s the brothel-keeper who takes the bulk of it, and all she’s left with is a few shillings.’

  ‘Which it would take her quite a while to earn in any other line of business,’ Maddox said, treating the collapse of the central pillar of his argument on assets and rewards as if it were still standing as solid as ever. ‘But that’s neither here nor there, from the point of view of this discussion. The simple fact of the matter is that the Home Secretary has asked us to investigate what our Quaker friend chooses to call—for some strange reason of his own—“child prostitution”. And whatever our personal feelings, it certainly won’t damage our prospects of promotion if we come up with the result he desires.’

  I wish Sam Blackstone was back, Patterson thought. I wish he was the one I was working on this case with.

  Two

  The route from Northwich railway station to the village of Marston lay along a raised road between two stretches of water which could have been regarded either as very large ponds or very small lakes.

  The road itself seemed to be mainly constructed of ash and clinker, and crunched under Blackstone’s boot with every step he took, yet the porter at the railway station had assured him this was the main road.

  It was a strange landscape he found himself walking through, the Inspector thought.

  He was used to seeing manufactories—London had thousands and thousands of them—but in the capital they tended to be well dispersed, so that, for example, there was a leather-curing factory and a bottling plant on Lant Street, Southwark, but there were also rows of terraced houses where the less prosperous workers lived.

  Here there was a concentration of industry that was quite new to him, for on the fringes of the small lakes or large ponds (which he would soon learn to call ‘flashes’) were a number of small salt-extraction works and salt mines, their winding sheds standing starkly and skeletally against the grey sky, their squat brick chimneys belching out clouds of thick black smoke.

  It must have been a shock for Tom Yardley to return to this industrial hell-hole after breathing the pure fresh air of Afghanistan, Blackstone thought. But there were compensations to returning home, too. At least here, he could be assured that half the male population were not wild-eyed tribesmen who would attempt to kill him on an almost daily basis.

  He walked on, and discovered that merely thinking the word ‘Afghanistan’ had been enough to turn his mind back to the past—that he was becoming wrapped up once more in the time when he had been Sergeant Blackstone and Torn had been Private Yardley.

  *

  The cave is a dark gaping mouth in the face of the mountain. It is just the sort of place the Pathan warriors would chose to retreat to once they had finished harassing General Robert’s column, but there is absolutely no way of telling if there are any of them inside it now.

  ‘Are we going inside, Sarge?’ Corporal Jones asks.

  Perhaps there are no Pathans hiding in the cave at all, Blackstone thinks. Or perhaps there are only one or two. But there is also the possibility that there are a dozen or more—and he has only three men under his command.

  He weighs his options. He has a responsibility to his own men, but he also has a responsibility to the rest of the column, which has been taking heavy losses as a result of. the Afghans’ hit-and-run tactics.

  ‘Why don’t you take out that gold watch of yours, Sarge?’ Jones suggests, with a grin on his face.

  ‘Why should I do that?’ Blackstone wonders. ‘I’ve only to look at the sun to see what time it is.’

  Jones’ grin widens. ‘That’s true enough, I suppose. But you always look at your watch when you’ve got a difficult decision to make.’

  Blackstone returns the grin, acknowledging that though he himself has never noticed it before, what Jones has just said is perfectly true.

  He takes the watch out of his pocket, and suddenly understands why he always does this at times of danger It is not .for his own benefit, but for that of his men. They admire this watch, which likely cost as much as they would be paid for half a lifetimes work. And mo
re than that, they have come to regard it as a good luck charm. It is almost as if they have persuaded themselves to believe that anyone who owns such a watch could never come to real harm himself—or bring harm down on the heads of those who follow him.

  ‘You never did tell us where you got that watch from, Sarge,’ Private Wicker says.

  ‘No, I didn’t, did I?’ Blackstone agrees.

  Nor will he ever tell them. The truth is that the watch was presented to him by General Roberts himself as a reward for saving the general’s life. But the men must never know that Roberts’ life ever hung in the balance, because if the watch is a magic charm for these particular men, then General Roberts is the magic charm for the whole army.

  Blackstone puts the watch back in his pocket.

  ‘We’re going in,’ he says. ‘I’ll lead. Jones, you’ll follow me. Wicker and Yardley will bring up the rear.’

  *

  He had taken a few steps inside, then paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could see right through to the very back of the cave, but noted that there was a narrow passageway leading off it at an angle.

  Retreating at that point would have been easy, enacting the same manoeuvre once he was in the passage, much more difficult. If he had had some of his old comrades with him, he would have gone in without hesitation, but his old comrades were now all dead, and he was leading a group of men who had very little experience of battle.

  A picture came into his mind of a small Hindu woman who had been one of the camp-followers—and who he himself had discovered just after dawn, strangled and with her dead baby lying by her side.

  He signalled to his men to move forward.

  *

  The passage is even narrower than he had thought it would be, but he can see a further cavern—an illuminated cavern—at the end of it.

  Speed will be of the essence, he tells himself. Catch the bastards unawares, and they’ll be dead before they even know what’s happening.