Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness

  ‘I’ve just noticed that the next few notes all appear to have exactly the same serial number.’

  ‘But that’s impossible!’

  ‘Not if they’re forgeries, it isn’t.’

  Patterson held one of the bank notes up to the light, and examined the watermark.

  Gabriel Moore had been right when he’d said he was well past his best work, the sergeant thought. This was nothing like the high standard of counterfeiting he could have produced in his heyday.

  ‘Would you mind telling me how you came into possession of this forged bank note, madam?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, obviously, if it is forged then I’m an innocent victim of a forgery ring,’ the madam said. ‘Some member of the counterfeit gang passed the note off on me, and I never even noticed.’

  ‘I suppose that could be possible,’ Patterson agreed. ‘If we arrested everybody who was in possession of a forged bank note, the gaols would be full to bursting.’

  ‘Well, exactly,’ the madam agreed.

  ‘But when someone has more than one of the notes in his or her possession—and I believe you have seven of them—then that’s stretching credulity just a little too far, don’t you think? Anyone who had seven of them must be a member of the gang whose job it is to slip the notes into general circulation.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Miss Latouche said.

  ‘And I must inform you now, madam, that the law takes a very dim view of such activities. Indeed, in sentencing terms, it tends to come down harder—much harder—on counterfeiters and their associates than it does on criminals whom I personally would consider to be guilty of much worse offences—those who deal in child prostitution, for example.’

  ‘Are you saying that...that...’

  ‘I’m saying that, if convicted—and based on this evidence you’re almost certain to be—you face the prospect of several years’ hard labour.’

  ‘You’ve planted that money on me!’ the madam screamed.

  ‘How could I have done that?’ Patterson wondered. ‘These are the very same banknotes that my colleagues seized when they raided your house, and since then they have been here in the property room. I myself haven’t touched them at all until a few moments ago, as the sergeant here will verify. Won’t you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Indeed I will,’ the property sergeant agreed.

  ‘You know very well what I mean!’ the madam said. ‘I’m not saying you switched the money now.’

  ‘Then what are you saying?’

  ‘That these notes you say are forged—the seven ten-pound notes—are the very ones you gave me when you came to my house.’

  ‘I think you must be mistaken, madam,’ Patterson said. ‘The only money I gave you was a single ten-pound note.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘And if you’ve forgotten that, madam—as you certainly appear to have done—then you need only read your own sworn statement to remind yourself.’

  ‘You’re fitting me up,’ the madam said, with growing horror. ‘You’ve had this planned all along.’

  ‘You’re certainly entitled to believe that, if you choose to,’ Patterson said evenly. ‘But once again, I must remind you that your sworn statement would seem to contradict your current claim.’

  ‘Why are you doing this horrible thing to me?’ the woman asked, in tears now.

  ‘I’m not doing anything, madam,’ Patterson said. ‘Or, at least,’ he added with a smile, ‘nothing that you can actually prove. But if you were to spread the word among your friends who share the gutter with you that you believe I’ve fitted you up—and that I’d be likely to do the same to them if they dabbled in child prostitution again—then there’s certainly nothing I could do to stop you.’

  Epilogue

  London, Saturday

  It was Saturday night, and the saloon bar of the Goldsmith’s Arms was full of people who had worked hard all week and were now intent on having a damned good time.

  Blackstone looked around at them: at the flower girls who, having paid their weekly visit to the public washhouse, had completed their toilet for the next seven days; at the costermongers, who dreamed of one day owning their own barrows, but were resigned to continue renting until, some time in their thirties, they went to the great street market in the sky; at the dockers, who formed long queues at the dock gates before dawn, in the hope that a ship was due to land that day, and there would be work for them; at the car-men, who transported anything and everything all over London, and worried that one day soon the internal combustion engine would replace their horses and carts; at the petty thieves and con artists, who picked pockets or talked the unsuspecting public into handing over a few pence; at the ex-boxers, who had fought in the Whitechapel Wonderland on their way up, and under railway arches on their way down…

  ‘You seem happy enough to be back, sir,’ Patterson said.

  ‘I am,’ Blackstone agreed.

  And he really was, he thought. This was his city and, for all their faults and weaknesses, these were his people. And, though he had no idea when his death was to come, he hoped that when it did, he would be in London.

  At the far end of the bar, a cabbie and car-man were involved in a loud discussion which threatened to eventually turn into a fight, but for the moment was no more than hot air.

  ‘Know any good charities, sir?’ Patterson wondered.

  ‘I can think of any number of them. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of spare money to get rid of. Seventy quid, as a matter of fact. And I thought I’d give it to something worthwhile.’

  ‘You’ve got seventy pounds?’ Blackstone asked, astonished. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

  ‘Operational expenses.’

  ‘Then if you haven’t spent it, you’ll have to give it back.’

  ‘I can’t exactly do that,’ Patterson said. ‘Not without admitting that the money I paid over to Miss Latouche was…’ He paused. ‘I don’t really think you want to know the details, sir.’

  ‘No, I suspect I don’t,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Let’s change the subject. Quickly!’

  ‘This case of yours can’t have been easy on you,’ Patterson said. ‘I know we’re supposed to enforce the law without fear or favour, but handing over the man who once saved your life…’

  ‘You’ve never actually served in the army, have you, Archie?’ Blackstone interrupted.

  ‘Is that another way of saying you don’t want to talk about what happened in Cheshire?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ Blackstone assured him. ‘But before I can talk about it, I need to explain a few things to you.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Patterson agreed.

  ‘There’s all sorts of positions a rifleman can adopt when firing his weapon,’ Blackstone said. ‘The British soldier is usually standing or down on one knee, but when the Pathan warrior has a choice, he prefers to do it lying down.’

  ‘I see,’ Patterson said, though it was clear that he didn’t.

  ‘Now, according to Torn Yardley, the Pathan was waiting for him outside the cave, and would have killed him if his rifle hadn’t jammed. But it did jam, and Yardley shot him instead.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Patterson, who was beginning to catch on to Blackstone’s way of thinking. ‘I thought you told me earlier that the Pathan was shot in the chest.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But if he’d been lying down...’

  ‘Here’s what I think happened,’ Blackstone said. ‘It was the Pathan who was coming out of the cave, and Yardley who was waiting in ambush outside.’

  ‘But that must mean...’

  ‘It must mean that none of Yardley’s story was true. He didn’t kill the Pathans in the cave, as he later claimed he did. They were killed by Corporal Jones and Private Wicker, before they bought it themselves. What Tom Yardley did was cut and run.’

  ‘But he did go back into the cave, didn’t he?’ Patterson said.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Bl
ackstone agreed. He reached into his pocket, and took out his gold watch. ‘And I think the reason he came back was for this.’

  ‘When did you come up with this theory of yours?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘I think it had been germinating for a long time,’ Blackstone said, ‘but it wasn’t until I was down the mine that it really became clear. You see, I couldn’t believe that any man could be both a hero and also involved with a monster like Bickersdale. That’s why it took me so long to accept that Torn was a member of the gang.’

  ‘But once you knew he was in the gang, the idea that he was a hero began to slip away?’

  ‘Exactly. I began re-examining the incident in the cave in a new light, and finally saw what must have happened.’

  ‘But you couldn’t be sure, even then,’ Patterson guessed.

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Good men do sometimes turn bad. But I don’t think I’ve seen a brave man turn into a coward.’

  ‘And that’s why you gave him the gun?’

  ‘Yes. He knew he’d hang if he didn’t fire it, but even then, he didn’t dare take the risk. Because this wasn’t an ambush, in which he had the advantage. This was one man against another, on equal terms. And he was too yellow to take the chance.’

  ‘You were taking a bit of a chance yourself,’ Patterson said. ‘There was always the possibility that he’d manage to kill you.’

  ‘Yes, there was, but I had to be sure I was right about him—and not just for my own sake.’

  ‘Then who else...’

  ‘I went to Cheshire to pay a debt of honour. And I have. But the debt wasn’t to Tom Yardley, as I’d thought. It was to Corporal Jones and Private Wicker, who might still be alive if he hadn’t let them down.’

  The argument between the cabbie and the car-man had moved up a notch. Now the two men stood a clear three feet apart, and all the other drinkers had formed a wide circle around them, like spectators at a cock fight.

  ‘Has the landlord called the police?’ Blackstone asked the waiter.

  The waiter nodded. ‘Five minutes’ ago.’

  The car-man said something in an undertone which made his friends laugh loudly, but turned the cabbie’s face red with anger.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, takin’ his abuse!’ an aging prostitute screamed at the cabbie. ‘Be a man!’

  The cabbie put his hand into his pocket, and when he pulled it out again, it was holding a cut-throat razor. As he made a move to open the blade, two of the car-man’s cronies jumped him, which caused two of the cabbie’s cronies to jump them, and soon a full-scale fight had broken out.

  ‘It’s none of our business, sir,’ Patterson said.

  ‘Quite right,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Let’s leave it to the uniforms.’ But both men were already rising to their feet, more than willing to throw themselves into the fray.

  Author’s Note

  The town of Northwich and village of Marston are real places, and in 1901 looked much as I describe them. The mining, and the geological disasters which resulted from it, are accurately depicted. The characters, however, are entirely fictitious, and though I have allowed Tom Yardley to live in the house where I was brought up, he is no ancestor of mine.

  If you enjoyed reading Blackstone and the Great Game you might be interested in Blackstone and the Rendezvous with Death by Sally Spencer, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Blackstone and the Rendezvous with Death by Sally Spencer

  Prologue

  The fog had begun to descend just before nightfall, and within minutes it had covered the whole of the area north of the river. It was a thick, clogging fog, more yellow than grey. And it stank—not just of smoke and sulphur, but also of the decay and desperation it absorbed from the crumbling houses as it slid menacingly along them.

  To the shabbily dressed young man who was making his way with cautious speed down Burr Street, this fog seemed more than just an inconvenience. It was, to him, nothing less than a malevolent force that was doing all it could to detain him—to prevent him from reaching that part of the city where he could be reasonably sure he would be safe.

  He had been too rash, he thought. Far too rash. He should have ended his investigation earlier, at the point when he had already discovered enough to sketch out a rough picture of the terrible, terrible thing that was about to happen. But instead, he’d stuck doggedly at it, collecting extra details, refining the picture—putting himself more and more at risk. And finally, that night, he was paying the price, because—though he could not swear to it—he was almost certain he had been spotted. Which made it vital that he got all he knew down on paper before...before...

  Suddenly, he realized he was not alone! He could hear footfalls behind him. And not ordinary footfalls. They didn’t make the same sound as his scuffed dress boots, nor did they have the angry clump of a working man’s sturdy clodhoppers. No, these steps were muted, swishing like a slithering serpent.

  In a panic, he glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing except the fog. He increased his pace, and behind him the swish-swishing grew faster, too. He felt his heart begin to pound, and could taste raw, naked fear in his throat.

  He tried to calculate exactly where he was. It was a good ten minutes since he’d turned on to Burr Street, so even moving at the slow pace the fog dictated, he should be almost at the end of that street by now. If the public house on the corner were open—if, by some happy chance, the landlord had chosen to disobey the licensing laws—then he would be safe, at least for a while. True, the rough men inside—the dockers and the watermen—might see through his disguise and ridicule him. They might even rob him. But perhaps they would believe what he had to say, too. So that even if this was to be his last night on earth, his death might at least have some purpose.

  He reached the corner, and his heart sank as he saw that the pub was shuttered and in total darkness. Where could he go now? he wondered, as his panic increased with every passing second. Where was there left to run to?

  Head along Lower East Smithfield, towards Aldermans Stairs! counselled the tiny grain of rational thought still left in his brain.

  Yes, that was it! There was another pub on that corner, and even if it was also closed, there was always the chance that there would be a waterman on duty at the Stairs, willing to take him across the Thames—to carry him to safety.

  You’re fooling yourself! he thought angrily.

  There would be no watermen. Not on a filthy night like this. Yet there was no choice but to cling to that slim hope, because now he was convinced that there was not one set of slithering footsteps behind him, but two.

  He turned the corner, and was confronted by a black shape, looming in the darkness. An ambush! Naturally! Why had he ever imagined these people would leave anything to chance?

  Perhaps if he could somehow manage to overpower the one ahead, then make a dash for it before the ones behind...

  ‘Lookin’ fer a good time, duckie?’ asked a cracked female voice.

  He could now see the shape for what it was. Nothing but a common prostitute, so desperate to earn her gin money that she was touting for custom even in this weather.

  Or was it simply a trick? Was she, in reality, one of them?

  He approached the woman cautiously, aware, even as he was doing so, that it would enable the men behind him to gain some ground. She was a small woman, well past her prime, and dressed in other people’s cast-offs. It was hard to believe that she could be part of any conspiracy against him.

  The woman lifted her skirt to show that she was wearing no drawers, then turned her back and presented him with her naked, mottled rear.

  ‘Eivver end,’ she said. ‘I’m not fussy. Long as yer’ve got a tanner, yer can ’ave me any way yer want.’

  ‘I’m...I’m not here for...for...’ the young man stuttered.

  ‘Yer won’t get a better offer than that nowhere,’ the woman said, a note of irritation creeping into her voice.

 
; But the young man was already brushing past her and plunging once more into the swirling fog.

  Surely he would come across a policeman on duty soon, he told himself. Surely, somewhere on his route, he would find a bobby who could protect him. But would any solitary man—even one wearing a blue uniform—be able to do anything against his ruthless pursuers?

  He increased his pace again, but he did not run, because he knew that they would only do the same: and he wanted to have a little energy left in reserve for when he finally reached the desperate conclusion of this chase.

  The swishing sound was still hauntingly behind him, but despite his encounter with the prostitute, it did not seem any closer. They were holding back, he decided—waiting until they could catch him in an even more secluded place than this achingly empty street. And he was leading them right to such a place! He knew that. But that same place, as dangerous as it might be, was where his only remaining hope lay.

  Like a drowning man, he felt his whole life flash in front of him. The school his parents had sent him—a school he’d hated and where he’d continued to be bullied long beyond the age at which bullying should have stopped. He thought about his stern, unyielding father, his cowed mother, and his baying, opinionated older brother. And he thought about his loving, gentle sister, who had provided the few moments of happiness in his grim existence, and who was—indirectly—responsible for the situation in which he now found himself.

  The pub at the edge of Aldermans Stairs was as dark and empty as the one outside which the prostitute had been lurking. And here there were fewer street lamps, so that he was moving in almost total darkness.

  He stretched out his foot and felt for the edge of the Stairs.

  ‘Hello, is there anyone down there?’ he called out, thinking how squeaky and immature his voice sounded.

  There was no answer, save for the gentle whoosh of the river.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Is there anybody down there?’ he repeated, in a much deeper voice this time.