The Architect of Murder

by Rafe McGregor

  24. Rendezvous in Shad Thames

  It had already been a rather trying day. What with Murgatroyd, the Russians, and Armstrong, I was in no mood for Truegood. I threw my hat on the nearest desk, reached my left hand into my side pocket, and gripped the brass knuckles. As Truegood surged towards me, I stepped forward with my left leg, increasing my reach and minimising my size as a target. “Come on. If you want a fight, let’s fight. Otherwise, tell me what the hell you’re talking about!”

  Truegood stopped three feet from me, well out of reach, hands on hips. His chest and shoulders rippled with muscle. “This is all about your sister, isn’t it? She was riding with Carey when she died. You think there was foul play, and you want Carey questioned. You want him questioned about her, so you’ve twisted everything so it points to him: Lowenstein, Chamberlain, the lot.”

  “I’m warning you now: unless you want to explain to Melville why both of us are unfit for duty, you’ll show my late sister the proper respect. It’s Dr Marshall, for a start.”

  “Dr Marshall, if you bloody like!” He threw his hands in the air, turned, and stomped back to his seat. I let go of the brass knuckles. “When Mr M hears about this, it’ll be you off the payroll, sharpish. Fit for duty or fucking not.” He sat down heavily. “I should never have trusted an amateur.”

  I sat on the edge of a desk. Once again, to give him his due, Truegood was thorough. He’d obviously cross-referenced the Yard’s records for mention of Carey’s name. “Yes, I think Carey was hired to kill Dr Marshall. Your own surgeon, Dr Maycock, thinks the scene of the offence was contrived to make a murder look like an accident. You suspect that Carey offers his services for hire; I just don’t know who employed him to kill Dr Marshall, or why, but Carey was definitely Chamberlain’s cab driver. When I looked at his schedule book, the third of July to the eighth of July were blank. They were the only blank days since his return from East Africa.”

  Truegood’s anger disappeared in an instant. “The third to the eighth?”

  “Yes. The day before, on the second of July, he met with T.D. at the Bartitsu Club, whatever that is.”

  “It’s Barton-Wright’s self-defence club in Shaftesbury Avenue. He teaches boxing, wrestling, singlestick, fencing — all forms of single combat. The second of July?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Christ in heaven!” He brought his huge fist down on the desk. “That’s it, that’s bloody it! The Colonial Conference started on the Tuesday. This T.D. villain or his superiors don’t like something Chamberlain says. T.D. meets Carey the next day; Carey becomes Tom Stringer on the Thursday, and takes the first opportunity that presents itself — Monday morning. He waits one more day for appearances sake, then returns to Mayfair, and Stringer is no more. Yeah, I like it — no, hold on a minute. What about the hat? Why would he wear his own hat while he was doing the business on Chamberlain?”

  I explained why I thought Carey might prefer to keep some identifying feature when working in disguise.

  Truegood scratched his chin. “I like it; I like it a lot. I can’t believe I spoke to the man and didn’t realise it was Carey.”

  “Why would you?”

  “True. What’s your plan? We bring Carey in for questioning about Lowenstein, using the eyewitness and the penang lawyer as evidence. Is the stick his?”

  “Yes, I think it was given to him by the Empress of Russia.”

  “Yeah, that would explain the Okhrana agents this morning. Are you sure they didn’t set him up for Lowenstein?”

  “As certain as I can be about anything. If the Russians I met this morning were Okhrana — and I can’t think who else they’d be — then there was no need, was there?”

  “You’re right, yeah. Why risk blowing the Lischinskys’ cover when they can just gun Carey down in his own house? Not by half. Right, we bring Carey in for Lowenstein, put your sis — Dr Marshall’s — murder on him as well, and tell him we know he’s Stringer. That’ll be easy, I’ll just say I recognise him. You said something about the ears being difficult to disguise, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll use that then. What next?”

  “With two murder and one espionage charge against him, I’m hoping he’ll tell us everything: who employed him to kill Dr Marshall, who employed him to scare Chamberlain, and who wanted us to think he had killed Lowenstein. With any luck, he’ll give us a name with which we’re already familiar. Once we find out who wanted him arrested for Lowenstein’s murder, then we’ll know who the real killer is.”

  “This T.D. fella?”

  “Possibly. There’s one other thing I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Do you know of the rumours about Rhodes’ secret society?”

  “The one based on the Jesuits?”

  “Yes, with the aim of expanding the Empire until it rules the whole world. Well the society — I don’t know what they call themselves — exists. I’m pretty sure it was inaugurated at the National Liberal Club on Empire Day.”

  “Christ, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I don’t know all of the leaders, but we’ve got Chamberlain, Jameson, Cavendish, Kitchener and Flora Shaw for a start.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Cavendish, Chamberlain, Kitchener… bloody hell, if I wasn’t such a bellicose bastard, I’d resign now. Save them the trouble of sacking me later.”

  “You’re right about that.” I smiled.

  “What?”

  “You are a bellicose bastard.”

  “If I wasn’t, I’d sit back and wait for orders from Mr M — but he won’t be available until tonight, and we need to get Carey now. What about T.D., are we going to pick him up as well?”

  “I don’t think we have enough cause. Yet.”

  “I agree. You said Lyons & Co., didn’t you?”

  I took out my watch. “In half an hour. We’d better get going and hope we can find a hansom in Southwark.”

  “We can do better than that, sir,” said Lamb as he entered the office. “I’ve got a growler waiting outside.”

  “Right, let’s go.” Truegood grabbed his hat. “You’re both armed? Good.”

  A four-wheeler was waiting on the Victoria Embankment. Truegood left the driver in no doubt of the urgency of our mission, and we bounced off at a brisk pace, crossing Westminster Bridge into Lambeth. He briefed Lamb about Carey, but didn’t mention the secret society. When Truegood was finished — by which time we were leaving the wide, clean streets of Lambeth for Southwark — he turned back to me.

  “Lyons and Co. have several warehouses in Shad Thames, on Butler’s Wharf, the other side of Tower Bridge. We’ll have to find the right one when we get there. Regarding Murgatroyd, we think he might also be in Bermondsey. One of his adams is a ponce called Boustred. Boustred runs a whorehouse in the warren off Snowsfields, which is only a stone’s throw away from Shad Thames. Problem is there’s just the three of us until tomorrow. If Murgatroyd is there, the place is bound to be defended, and I’m not planning another raid until I’ve got all the men I need.”

  “Yes, quite right.”

  “When we’re done with Carey and this other gent, I’ll put my docker’s togs on again, and go and have a look,” said Lamb.

  We lapsed into silence as we rattled through Southwark. The streets weren’t as busy as Westminster, for obvious reasons, but there were still plenty of people celebrating as well as occasional signs of commerce, despite the bank holiday. We drove through Newington and turned north. Even though the factories were closed, the caustic smell of glue hung thick, like an invisible fog. As we neared the South Bank, the foul odour of decaying flesh and drying skin replaced the glue.

  “The Leather Market,” said Lamb in response to my grimace. “No market today, but the tanners will have their skins out to dry.”

  We passed Guy’s Hospital and crossed Tooley Street. The characte
r of the air altered again, the smell of the tanneries mingling with the reek of the Thames, raw sewage and rotten fish. No wonder so many Britons chose to move to the fresh air and open spaces of the colonies.

  “The driver will stop at the bridge and wait for us,” said Truegood. “All of the Lyons & Co. buildings are this side of the dockyard, so we’ll just have to take them one by one and hope Carey doesn’t see us coming.”

  Tower Bridge came into view, a Victorian gothic folly marking the entrance to the Upper Pool of the Thames. Opposite stood the Tower itself, fortress London, with the Monument to the west, and St Katherine’s Dock to the east. Small boats and pleasure cruisers plied their way along the great river. I checked my watch again: five minutes past four. The driver stopped at Horselydown, where Shad Thames began, and we alighted. I’d never been here before, and I was astonished at the huge warehouses — some of them seven or more stories high — on either side of the narrow, cobbled street. Above, a maze of metal walkways connected the buildings, evenly spaced between cranes and winches. It looked like something out of the future, an alien landscape from the pen of Mr Wells.

  The street was completely deserted.

  “Come on,” said Truegood, striding ahead, “the first one is just around that corner.”

  A few paces later, we could see around the bend: on the left, about a hundred and fifty yards ahead, a single vehicle sat in the street. It was a horseless carriage. “That’s Carey’s,” I said. “He’s an automobile enthusiast.”

  “Lamb, duck down into Maggie Blake’s, and cover the front. And keep your revolver handy, I don’t want any mistakes this time.”

  Lamb darted ahead of us, then disappeared through a cause to the left, on to the front of the wharf. Truegood and I stepped up our pace. We approached the horseless carriage, resting on its thick india-rubber tyres, its polished brass horn and wheel gleaming.

  My thoughts of time travel were disturbed by the muffled sound of a shot.

  Truegood and I reached for our weapons simultaneously.

  The Panhard-Levassar was parked immediately outside a door. I followed Truegood around the front of the automobile, feeling the warmth of the engine as I passed. The door was closed, but unlocked. Truegood opened it — I heard a shout — another — we dashed inside.

  The warehouse was long and narrow, with plenty of light from a row of

  riverside windows. It was full of tea chests and sacks, stacked right up to the low ceiling in many cases. Another shout — to the right; and movement — to the left.

  Truegood sprinted forward and turned left into an aisle. I turned right, making for the cry.

  “Stop, police!” I heard from behind. A stifled shout — then a groan ahead.

  I found a Bowie knife with a nine inch blade lying on the floor, a bloodstain, and bloody footprints.

  I gritted my teeth and charged around a stack of chests: Carey, lying prone, arm outstretched. More blood: from his arm up and over several chests.

  “Police, stay where you are!”

  A crash, then running feet.

  I crouched next to Carey — kept an eye in front — and turned him over. He’d been shot in the face and stabbed twice in the torso. His eyes flickered and blinked, he made a tight fist with his right hand, and then he was gone.

  A figure appeared above the blood trail — I raised the Mauser — aimed.

  “It’s me, sir!”

  “Where’s Truegood?” Lamb shrugged. “He went that way.” I left Carey and sprinted back to where I’d last seen the inspector. There were no more sounds. “How did you get in?” I shouted over my shoulder.

  “From the wharf. The doors were unlocked.”

  The warehouse had two sets of doors on either side, which was how Lamb had missed the murderer. I turned towards the river and saw an open door ahead. I burst out onto the wharf, turned left, and picked up the blood trail. It was intermittent; the bleeder was moving fast. No sign of Truegood or the suspect. I glanced over the railing towards Tower Bridge — boats and cranes, but no Truegood. I ran into Maggie Blake’s Cause, emerged onto Shad Thames, and heard a shot from somewhere ahead.

  And another.

  We dashed up Horselydown — reached Tooley Street — followed the raised arms and voices of pedestrians — ran past St John’s, and under a railway bridge.

  Lamb blew his whistle — as if in answer there was another shot, closer this time.

  We reached Tanner Street and a group of loafers outside the Bermondsey Workhouse pointed right, towards the leather market. We crossed Bermondsey Street — I heard another whistle — saw two constables running towards us.

  The road ahead forked.

  I shouted to Lamb to go right, and went left into Underpass Street.

  The leather market — empty stalls. No Truegood, no suspect, just the stench of meat and skin.

  I continued, arriving in a wide terrace, the houses decorated with Union flags and streamers.

  Nothing here either.

  I heard a whistle from behind and ran back — along the north side of the market this time.

  Another policeman came towards me from Bermondsey Street. At about twenty yards distance, he saw my pistol and stopped.

  “It’s all right, I’m from the Yard!”

  He nodded. “This way, sir!”

  I followed him up a narrow alley to my left. A constable was in the middle of the street, kneeling over Truegood. The constable saw us and shouted to his colleague. “Up there, Sarge, an’ be careful there’s another plainclothesman on the loose!”

  The sergeant continued up the alley, but I stopped: the constable had Truegood’s head propped up on his thigh, and his hand was covering the inspector’s throat. “He’s been shot!” Blood oozed from under the man’s fingers. Truegood’s eyes were closed, and he was groaning.

  “You’re doing a good job, Constable, do you need help?”

  “No, sir, I’ve got ’im. They’ve gone for the ambulance.”

  “Good. Just keep the pressure on the wound. Did he say anything?”

  “No, sir, ’e was like this when I found ’im.”

  I continued up the alley, but soon met Lamb on his way back with the sergeant and another constable. “How’s the guvnor, sir?”

  “Not good. Did you see who it was?”

  “No, sir, and he’s gone now.”

  “Gone where?” I asked.

  “Snowsfields.” He pointed back the way he’d come. “That’s Snowsfields, sir, where Murgatroyd is.”

  25. The Empire Loyalist League

  “What did he look like?” I asked.

  “I only caught a flash as he went round the corner, then he was gone. He was dressed like a gentleman, and he was carryin’ a stick in his left hand. I’m afraid that’s all, sir.”

  “What about the others?” I indicated the uniformed policemen.

  “No one else got a look in, sir.”

  “Listen carefully. I want you to send a couple of constables over to the warehouse to prevent anyone from interfering with the scene of the offence until a detective arrives. Carey is already dead so they needn’t go inside. Then you can take me to the nearest police station and help me track down Melville.”

  “But, sir, he’s — ”

  “At the Palace, I know. It doesn’t matter. Even if he can’t come out here, I need to speak to him — now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We left Truegood in the care of the sergeant and two constables. An ambulance was en route from Guy’s Hospital. Lamb directed another two constables to secure the scene of the offence, and led me to the Bermondsey Street station, only a short distance away. I waited while he gave the duty inspector, a middle-aged man by the name of Jones, a summarised version of events. Jones contacted M Division headquarters, in Borough, to request a detective, and then left us alone.

  “You sure about this, sir?”

  “I am,” I replied.

  “I think it might be better comin’ from you, sir. This teleph
one contraption is all about how a person sounds, and they can tell — well, I think an educated accent like yours might go further, sir.”

  “But I don’t know the protocol. I’ll tell you what, Lamb. You make a start and I’ll take over when you need me to. And don’t worry about speaking to Melville, I’ll do that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  More than half an hour later I was alone in the office, earpiece in hand, still trying to penetrate the privacy of Buckingham Palace. After doing his bit, Lamb had left to meet Inspector Hughes, from district headquarters. I was wondering if the telephone was such a useful invention after all, and if it wouldn’t have been quicker to appear in person and trust to my military rank and VC. For the umpteenth time I heard muted voices from the other end and prepared to repeat my request yet again.

  “Melville.”

  At last. “It’s Marshall, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s urgent.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “First, Truegood has been shot in Snowsfields.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He was when the ambulance took him. You recall Lieutenant Francis Carey?”

  “Yes.”

  “We found evidence suggesting that Carey was hired to frighten Chamberlain last month, and that he was falsely implicated in Lowenstein’s murder. He was meeting a man with the initials T.D. today in Butler’s Wharf. It is likely that this man was involved in both crimes. When we arrived Carey was dead. The unidentified suspect escaped after shooting Truegood. Do you know about the raid this morning in Devil’s Acre?”

  “Yes.”

  “The intelligence subsequently received was that Murgatroyd had gone to ground in Snowsfields with a man named Boustred. It’s possible that our suspect, whether it’s T.D. or not, is hiding with them.”

  “Carey was dead when you found him?”

  “Dying, but he didn’t say anything. I would’ve telephoned you about Truegood anyway, but this afternoon I worked out that Rhodes’ secret society exists. It’s not Milner or the Society of the Elect — that was nonsense. Chamberlain and Jameson inaugurated the real society this year, on the twenty-fourth of May.”