‘You better not,’ said Prosser sternly, ‘cos if you do, I got mates who’ll find you wherever you are and cut out your liver. Now go, quick!’
Stuffing the moneybag in his shirt and some bread in his pocket, the boy went: swiftly on to the Heath, and then swiftly off it, getting on to the Highgate Road as soon as he was clear of the houses. Then he headed towards Archway.
In ten years’ time, he would own a sheep farm in Australia. And five years after that he would be Mayor of Kilby, New South Wales.
But he had many more of life’s slings and arrows to experience before that.
Thoughtfully, Prosser left the coal house, closing and locking the door behind him. After a few paces and a moment’s thought, he went back and unlocked the door, leaving the key on the inside.
10
THE LITTLE CLUSTER of homes and gardens, greens and pathways that nestles in Hampstead’s Vale of Health is a remarkable phenomenon: a country village in the middle of a wild heath, in the heart of a great metropolis.
It began and grew, and acquired its name, between the years 1400 and 1700, when the City of London was often ravaged by disease: first, the Black Death, and then the recurrent Plague. At the first sign of an outbreak, prosperous city-dwellers would flee to the Hampstead uplands and especially to the hollow in the middle. Here there was fresh air, and a wide barrier of grassland between them and the dreaded bacilli.
The Vale of Health had rural lanes and a country pub beside a placid lake, where herons and smaller waterfowl prosper under the overhanging trees.
This hamlet lies on the west side of Hampstead Heath, and Highgate is to the east, so, on leaving the Aspinalls’, Steele and Mason had more than a mile to walk across damp turf and country paths. It was a pleasant prospect, the ground firm underfoot and the air still mild at the end of a sunny, early-December afternoon. The two men had much to talk about.
The Aspinalls had proved hospitable: Mason had especially enjoyed the fruit cake. But their hosts had been very anxious. The wealthy businessman and his wife no longer walked on the Heath, a deprivation they bitterly resented. But their main concern was their youngest son who, at twenty-three, seemed a likely target for the Maniac. Yet the young man insisted on crossing the Heath each day to go to work in Hampstead, often returning quite late in the evening. And on Sunday nights, he was liable to stroll across for a drink at Jack Straw’s Castle. He adamantly refused to be accompanied by a bodyguard. Nevertheless, the Aspinalls were employing a burly ex-soldier to follow him, at a distance and without his knowledge.
The trouble was that the ex-soldier had twice been detained by police patrols, who thought he was the killer stalking his next victim. An unpleasant atmosphere of fear and suspicion pervaded the area.
Herbert Aspinall maintained that this was the whole purpose of the Maniac and, probably, his accomplices. He believed it was all a revolutionary plot to undermine London’s reputation as a safe and pleasant place to live, or to come and do business. Beyond that, he’d had no practical ideas or useful information to offer.
As they walked amid the little hills and trees and hedgerows, the detectives reviewed the case. Neither had heard of Mrs Butters’ death, which had occurred too late for the morning papers. In fact, the two men had not met today until they both arrived at the Aspinalls’. Steele had spent the morning in the chambers of their accountant, Giles Randall, discussing the implications of his report. They’d then lunched at his club. Mason had manned the office, catching up on paperwork, after which he’d eaten a mound of brawn sandwiches, lovingly prepared by his wife.
Steele told Mason about his meeting with Randall earlier and went on to report on the previous day’s visit to Scotland Yard. He had informed Willoughby they were building a file on the activities of Austin and his shady lawyer, and had been surprised to learn that the police were already investigating Jamieson on another matter.
‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ said Mason. ‘The man’s as crooked as a barrel of snakes. What’s the latest on the Heath Maniac?’
‘They’ve traced McDonald, the Greenwells’ man: the chap who fell out with everyone. He’s eliminated from the inquiry.’
‘Oh yes,’ Mason recalled. ‘The bullying butler. Don’t say he’s gone home to die too.’
‘Not quite. He’s gone home, but he seems in robust health. He’s back in Scotland, living with his parents and working as a labourer. It’s established that he hasn’t been south of the border this year. So there’s no need for you to go on asking around the alehouses.’
Mason bore the news cheerfully. ‘Oh well. There’ll soon be something else we need to know. What more did the big chief say?’
‘He’s looking into the anti-homosexual theory.’
This was a possibility that had been mooted early in the investigation. Certain parts of the Heath had long been regarded as a meeting place for homosexuals. Was the Maniac out to destroy those he regarded as deviants? None of the four victims so far were thought to be homosexual but, as lone men walking on the Heath at night, they might have appeared so to a deranged mind.
Willoughby had considered the idea at the outset but it was not an easy avenue to pursue. There was a homosexual community in London but they had to maintain strict secrecy, since their activities were illegal. Obviously, they could not confide in the police. So there had been no way Scotland Yard could learn if they faced a special threat. Until now. Steele brought the story up to date.
‘The police raided the home of a Turkish man this week, in connection with an assault. They found scores of letters and leaflets calling for the extermination of homosexuals. The man had already fled but he’ll be caught; there’s a warrant out for his arrest on the original assault charge. We’ll know more when they bring him in.’
‘That shouldn’t take long,’ said Mason. ‘There aren’t that many Turks walking the streets of London. Did you tell Mr Willoughby about this meeting at the Royal Oak?’
‘I did, and he’s put several plain-clothes men on duty. They should be lurking in the Vale of Health already. So if there is any danger, help will be at hand.’
But the danger wasn’t in the Vale of Health. It was much closer.
One of the scenic delights of Hampstead Heath is the number of ponds, some large, some small, some tidied and tended for swimming, others still wild and natural. In most cases, the footpaths simply skirt around the water. But, in the middle of the Heath, one lake is spanned by a brickwork bridge, twenty yards long. It was when Steele and Mason were halfway across this bridge that the attackers struck.
The detectives were suddenly aware that three men, carrying cudgels, had emerged from the trees beyond the end they were approaching and were walking towards them. There was no doubt of their intentions.
Steele and Mason were used to physical combat but they were also prudent. Since they were outnumbered and the advancing men were armed, discretion was the better part of valour.
‘I think we should turn round,’ said Steele calmly.
But as they did so, three men, also bearing heavy sticks, appeared at the end from which they’d entered the bridge. Their retreat was cut off.
Steele cursed his own stupidity. He’d been prepared for a trap at their destination but not on the way there. Someone must have guessed the route they’d be taking.
‘Sorry, Jack,’ he said. ‘I got this one wrong.’
‘Never mind, guv,’ said Mason cheerfully. ‘There’s only six of them. Backs to the wall, eh?’
The brick parapets at each side of the bridge were generally waist-high but in the middle they arched up a little higher. So anyone standing close to the brickwork could not be attacked from that direction. The two men backed against a centre section, standing a well-judged five feet apart so that, if one of them ducked a blow, it would not go on to hit the other. And each man could hit out without fear of striking his partner. They had been in this situation before.
Each man took off his coat and wrapped it round a forearm as
a protective pad. Steele took a police whistle from his pocket and blew the longest loudest blasts he could produce. In the still air they would surely carry to the waiting police half a mile away.
But how long would it take rescuers to reach the bridge? Five minutes? Ten? By that time both men could be dead or crippled.
The attackers shouted oaths and war-whoops as they went into action. Apart from the swearing, there were no words. They seemed very professional.
The first blow was aimed at Steele’s head, but he took it on his cushioned arm, and then rammed the silver knob of his walking stick very hard into his assailant’s face. The man staggered back, blood pouring from a broken nose, but then he came on again.
As a club swung towards his skull, Mason grabbed it and used its impetus to hurl its owner to the ground; then he kicked the man ferociously under the chin.
The detectives’ shrewd positioning meant that, in trying to hit them, the roughnecks were getting in each other’s way. One thug heaved himself up on to the parapet to attempt an assault from behind. But Steele saw the action instantly and, as the man tried to straighten up, dealt him a sharp blow which sent him toppling into the muddy water twenty feet below.
For more than a minute Steele and Mason fought off the attack, ducking the blows or fending them off with their padded forearms while inflicting damage on their own account, Steele with his stick, Mason with a pair of doughty fists.
But, eventually, numbers told.
As Mason ducked a blow from one flailing cudgel and warded off another with his arm, a more cunning opponent delivered a sweeping strike at his legs, knocking them from under him. Then, while Mason was falling, a fierce blow landed on his head. He crumpled to the ground and lay inert.
Steele moved quickly to stand over his friend and shelter him, swinging his stick, kicking out and shouting defiance.
But now the situation was hopeless. Amid his desperate efforts, Steele’s mind was racing. The thugs were clearly under orders. Had they been told to kill their victims, or just to disable them permanently?
And then, as Steele’s stick was wrenched from his grasp, there came the gunshots: two, in quick succession. One of the gang fell, as his leg gave way under him. The others turned and saw a man hurrying towards the bridge with a pistol in his hand. He fired a third shot, which took another of the thugs in the shoulder.
The gang didn’t wait for a fourth. Three of them began running full tilt towards Highgate; the man with the wounded shoulder staggered more slowly behind them. And, finally, the thug who had struggled out of the pond went stumbling blindly in the same general direction.
The man who’d been shot in the leg still lay clutching his knee and groaning.
The newcomer ignored him as he strode confidently up to Steele. ‘Good afternoon, Major,’ said Commander West. ‘Not safe to walk on the Heath these days without a gun. I thought I told you that.’
The Reverend Ernest Littlejohn closed the door silently behind him and began walking quietly down the dark passage. He felt he should talk to the lady of the house before leaving, but she was nowhere to be seen. He paused and coughed, in a discreet clerical way.
This traditional English signal worked, as usual, and Madge Scully came bustling out of the kitchen, drying rough red hands on a rough grey towel. She greeted the parson respectfully.
‘Oh. Excuse my wet hands, sir. I was doing some washing. Are you off now?’
‘Yes, I have to be, I’m afraid. And your husband is asleep. I don’t want to trouble him further.’
‘Was he all right? I mean, he wasn’t rude or anything?’
‘Not at all, Mrs Scully. He wanted to talk. He’s … er … had a colourful life, has he not?’
‘If you like to call it that. I think he’d have been better off getting a proper job.’
‘Oh well, the Lord has made us all differently. We serve him in varying ways. Your husband has given people the priceless gift of laughter.’
Madge Scully was concerned. ‘He didn’t spend all the time bragging about his success on the stage, did he? He was supposed to be confessing his sins.’
‘Well, the two were often intertwined.’ The Reverend Littlejohn smiled indulgently. ‘But, yes, he did confess his sins extremely fully. I have to say, a little more penitence and a little less detail might have been fitting. But confess he did.’
‘I’m surprised it didn’t take all day.’
‘His trespasses were all of the kind the Lord is very ready to forgive. Mr Scully has made his peace with his creator.’
‘Well, thank you for coming, sir. Will you have a cup of tea before you go?’
‘No, thank you. I have other calls to make before evening prayers. I must be on my way.’
‘Do I owe you anything?’
‘Good gracious, no. The love of God and the services of his clergy are given freely.’
‘Well, that is nice, I must say.’
‘Of course, the Church has many expenses, as you know. Any donations to parish funds, however small, are always much appreciated.’
‘Oh. Yes. Right,’ said Mrs Scully. She thought of Major Steele’s gold sovereigns, which she had retrieved from under her husband’s pillow. Then she reflected that these were somewhat tarnished and grubby from use. And then she recalled the shiny, bright new shilling, minted only this year, which had turned up in her wages. That looked better, and also it was handier. She opened a drawer in the hall-stand, took out the shilling, and gave it to the parson.
‘Please take this, sir,’ she said. ‘With my thanks.’
‘The Church is most grateful,’ said the clergyman, pocketing the coin, with a little bow. ‘God bless you.’
He moved to the front door, and Madge opened it for him.
‘Thank you again, sir,’ she said.
‘And thank you, Mrs Scully,’ said the parson, as he made his exit. ‘Let me know when I can help with the funeral arrangements.’
Madge closed the door behind him and walked thoughtfully down the passage. She stopped outside her husband’s door and listened.
The call was so feeble that Madge would have missed it, had she not been concentrating intently. But there was no doubt about it. Her husband was calling her name. She opened the door and went in.
‘What is it, Luke?’ she asked. ‘The parson said you was asleep.’
‘I was.’ Scully’s speech was weary, but lucid. ‘Then I had a bad dream, and it woke me up. I got something on my mind.’
‘You’d better tell me, then.’
‘That parson said I had to get everything off my chest. So I did. Then he asked if my conscience was clear, and I said it was. But it ain’t.’
‘He said you’d owned up to all your past sins and been forgiven. All up to date. You haven’t managed to do new sins today, have you?’
‘No, Madge, it’s something I forgot. When them detectives was here, asking about the Heath murders. I might have helped them, but I didn’t. Something I could have told them. Only I decided not to. I never got on with coppers. Now it’s on my conscience. I ought to tell them.’
‘They’re very nice gentlemen. I got their address. I’ll get them back, shall I?’
‘No, no, I can’t go through all that again. You write them a letter, Madge.’
‘Me?’
‘I couldn’t hold a pen no more. And you was always better at writing. If you get a pen and paper I can tell you what to say.’
Madge sighed wearily. ‘All right, Luke. If it’ll make you easier in your mind.’
She moved towards the door, but then her husband called her back.
‘Just one more thing, Madge. Urgent.’
‘What is it now?’
‘Fetch the gin bottle out from under the bed, will you?’
‘What’s it doing under the bed?’
‘I hid it. I didn’t want that parson getting at it, did I? Fetch it quick, Madge, I’m gasping.’
Cedric Jamieson was in buoyant mood this morning.
The post had brought several pieces of good news. Harrison’s Wholesale had not queried the exorbitant bill for his services, and had sent a cheque for the full amount. He had caught them at a busy time, as he’d hoped. And he had pitched his fee very nicely: far too much for the work but just short of the sort of figure that any self-respecting client, however busy, would feel bound to challenge.
The houses he owned in Jupiter Street were already attracting offers around £750, now the news of the railway extension was generally released. He had bought them for £200 each, using a shell company to withhold his name, while advising clients in the area that it was about to be blighted by a new sewer development. The advice had been given in strictest confidence so, of course, it had spread like wildfire. Potential buyers were now being reassured that the sewage plan had been abandoned. In fact, of course, it had never existed.
All this had come on top of yesterday’s splendid news that Edwin Slattery had been murdered by a fellow inmate at Pentonville prison. This meant that further dust had settled on the Slattery case, and a vital witness had been removed from the scene.
Now Jamieson was sitting back with his feet on the desk, drinking his first whisky of the day, and studying the morning paper. The latter carried the news that Jamieson relished most. The headline read ‘Detectives Battered on Hampstead Heath’ and the column beneath told a tale which was bringing the lawyer huge pleasure.
Two of London’s leading inquiry agents, Major Henry Steele and Mr John Mason, have been injured in a violent attack on Hampstead Heath. This occurred yesterday afternoon when a dozen thugs surrounded them as they walked near the Vale of Health and beat them with clubs.
The two men have been helping police with the search for the Heath Maniac: but the assault is not believed to be connected with this investigation, since it was a gang attack and no knife was used.
It is thought more likely to have been a revenge attack on two detectives who have been responsible for sending many violent criminals to prison.
Both men were taken to hospital, where Mr Mason was detained and is still being treated for his wounds. Major Steele was discharged after his injuries had been dealt with.
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