Mr Bucket wasn’t the only person to have observed her departure.
A person, unnoticed by Mrs Scambles and lingering at some distance behind the inspector’s back, had been leaning against a wall, flipping through the pages of the Morning Post – but his eyes had strayed a little too often in the direction of the two figures in earnest conversation. Whether it was Mrs Scambles’ beauty or something else which had attracted his interest was difficult to say. The great double doors had barely stopped swinging from the lady’s departure when he folded up his paper, tucked it under his arm and was swallowed up by the darkness outside.
II
IT WAS GORDON’S second full day as a detective officer, and if anything he was feeling more daunted by the challenge that lay before him than he had been on the first. The previous day, he hadn’t known quite what to expect, and anyway, he had been buoyed by the excitement of joining a service whose mystique had excited him ever since he had first read about it. And he was to be under the tutelage of one of its most illustrious members, to boot. But that first day, the occurrences of which he was supposed to be assimilating but which had dissolved into a maelstrom of strange experiences, a bizarre new language, rules, regulations and an apparently endless parade of barely believable characters, had provided him with such sensory excess as to keep him awake until the early hours of the previous night and had woken him this morning long before his usual hour.
‘Look’ee here, now, Mr Gordon. Most of these places is low lodging houses frequented by a certain type of lady and a host of magsmen, dollymops, bit fakers and the like. Not all are of that persuasion in these parts, to be sure. See that gent crossing the street there?’ Mr Bucket jabbed a sturdy thumb in the direction of an insignificant little fellow who was passing them in the opposite direction – someone towards whom Gordon could swear he had not even glanced while he had been talking to him, and thus someone whom it seemed impossible for him to have even noticed. ‘A poor clerk: shabby-smart black attire. Stooping posture from hour after hour sat bending over a desk. Poor souls – could never do it myself – rather be a felon. And inky fingers. They never seem to be able to get it all off….’
To have seen ink on the man’s fingers from that distance was impossible. Gordon refused to believe it, but—
‘Gotta be able to read people,’ continued Mr Bucket. ‘Many a face you’ll come to know, but many you won’t and you gotta come to recognize the type at the very least.’
They were walking along a frost-whitened mean side-street somewhere between Drury Lane and the Strand, with no particular purpose in mind other than to ‘Have a little look-see’ as Mr Bucket had put it when they had set out from Great Scotland Yard an hour earlier. How anyone could ever come to know his way around these labyrinthine streets, alleys and courts without soon becoming hopelessly lost was completely beyond Gordon. He marched briskly to keep up with his chief, which helped to warm him against the bitter cold, chafing his face and numbing his hands and feet.
‘Quiet at this hour,’ Bucket muttered. ‘Most of these folk is night-owls. But see here – if it ain’t Cock-eyed Joe!’
A sallow, gaunt man of about fifty had just emerged from a door on their left. He had no obvious optical deformity – but then Gordon was already learning the futility of trying to read too much into these enigmatic London nicknames.
‘Mornin’, Mr Bucket.’
‘What brings you out at this early hour, Joe?’
‘Belly’s right bad, Mr Bucket. Gotta take somethin’ for it – can’t stand it no longer.’ He spoke with a grimace, slightly bent over, one hand clutching his abdomen.
‘There’s a good chemist’s shop in Oxford Street, Joe. You want to try some of his rhubarb and magnesia. Inspector Stope’s missus swears by him.’
‘Nah, I’m off to the Wellington for a pint. Beer flushes your system out good and proper if you only takes enough of it, and that’s a known fact.’
Mr Bucket raised an eyebrow but let this piece of questionable medical advice pass without further comment. ‘Joe here’s a smasher, ain’t you Joe.’
Joe’s eyes turned to the pavement by his feet and he began to move on. ‘Gave that lark up months ago, Mr Bucket,’ he mumbled as he wandered away.
‘Smasher?’ Gordon queried. It sounded like some sort of tough, but Cock-eyed Joe certainly didn’t look cut out for that sort of work.
‘A receiver and passer-on of base coins, that’s what the likes of Joe is about. He was never a very good one but he always got by in the business. And still does, despite what he says.’
Gordon hesitated as he watched the man walk away, before stating what seemed the obvious question. ‘Then … shouldn’t we arrest him?’
‘Gotta catch ’em at it! That’s the law, that is. Inconvenient at times, but nothing to be done for it.’
Their meandering route took them north-east to the vicinity of Lincoln’s Inn, and upon hearing the bells of some nearby church chiming ten o’clock, Mr Bucket cast his eyes around until they alighted upon a coffee stall. ‘Ah – time for my morning constitutional!’
They stayed there for a few minutes drinking surprisingly good coffee from cracked china cups, and while Gordon warmed his hands at the coffee man’s charcoal burner, Mr Bucket kept up a running commentary on the theatre that was London as it was enacted before their eyes.
‘And who might that red-headed fellow crossing the street be but Ginger Jem! Never looked this way, but he spotted us all right. Look – he’s stopped to look in the cat’s meat shop and in a second he’ll set off – but away from us instead of towards us as he was originally proceeding.’
Sure enough, Ginger Jem casually sauntered away – Gordon would certainly have never have noticed anything untoward about him, let alone that his behaviour showed him to be avoiding them.
‘Inspector Stope has a peace warrant out against Jem,’ Mr Bucket commented with surprising indifference. Gordon could now understand why their smasher was left unmolested, but surely if this man had a warrant in his name…?
Mr Bucket read his thoughts. ‘That ain’t no reason to spoil a nice coffee stop on a perishing morning like this.’ He leaned his stick against the coffee man’s stall and wrapped both hands around the steaming cup. ‘Jem ain’t hard to find, and Billy Stope will pick him up with no difficulty in his own good time.’
After a moment’s silence, Mr Bucket turned his penetrating gaze on Gordon, and for a moment he got some idea of what it would be like to be a criminal trying to hide the truth from him. ‘So, Mr Gordon. New to police work and to this fair city?’
‘I had never even been to London before I joined the detective force, Mr Bucket.’
‘Never? I never heard of such a thing! Why, everyone’s been to London at some time or another – especially men of your standing.’
‘I grew up in Ringwood in Hampshire, and purchased my commission with the Cameronians before I had time to do anything with my life. Indeed, I only returned from overseas service little more than a year ago.’
The inspector opened a couple of buttons at the top of his great coat and delved into a pocket, producing a small notebook whose pages he began to flip through. ‘James Alexander Gordon, of that ilk. Seventh Earl of Drumnadrochit, no less.’
‘I shan’t inherit that title until my father passes away,’ Gordon corrected him – though he was sure that Mr Bucket knew that perfectly well already. He fully expected him to make some further mention of his father, since the infamous case for which his name was now forever associated had been the talk of the London papers for some months. But the renowned detective resisted the temptation – if indeed there was one.
‘Well, now,’ commented Mr Bucket as they drained and returned the cups and resumed their perambulations. ‘Named like a Scotchman, father a Scotchman – yet lives in England and talks like a true blue-blooded Englishman ….’
Gordon couldn’t help smiling at the inspector’s straight-speaking inquisitiveness. Coming from some it might h
ave seemed offensive, but Mr Bucket, he was learning, had a disarming way about him.
‘My father settled in Hampshire after a spell in the West Indies. I’ve only ever been to Scotland to visit relatives. Are you a Londoner, Mr Bucket?’
‘Born in Battersea, live in Pimlico and rarely had cause to stray further afield than Hemel Hempstead in the far north, where my brother and his good lady live. Spent a time in the army myself, to be sure, but never sent to serve in foreign fields, as you might say.’
‘Really? Which regiment?’
‘Funny you should ask that question, Mr Gordon, because thereby hangs a tale, as they say—’
But just then their attention was diverted to the strange and disturbing cry of a woman. They were by now on Great Queen Street and both turned their heads in time to see a maid come careering precipitously down the steps leading from one of the better class of houses, waving her arms wildly in the air and continuing to pour forth the same anguished but indecipherable utterances. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and pivoted aimlessly this way and that, clapping her hands to cheeks completely drained of colour.
‘Dying!’ was the first intelligible sound to come from her lips, aimed at no one in particular as they approached. ‘The missus is barely clinging to life – won’t somebody assist her?!’
Her plaintive screeching was so piercing as to be almost painful on the ear, and the detectives quickened their stride – Gordon had already learned from his chief that it didn’t do for policemen to run, except in pursuit of an absconder.
‘I’m Mr Bucket of the Detective, I am. And this is Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk, my promising new sergeant. What seems to be the matter, miss?’
The maid half-sobbed and half-gasped a torrent of jumbled words by way of explanation as they followed her through the hallway and into the parlour, and there they saw, groaning and writhing on the floor, a woman of about forty years, clearly extremely handsome despite the facial contortions she was engaged in. During the course of her agonized struggles the lady’s crinolines had ridden up somewhat, exposing the whole of both legs from the knees down. Gordon barely knew where to place his gaze, but couldn’t help noticing that she had very fine calves, for which observation he felt, under the circumstances – or indeed any circumstances – mightily and professionally ashamed.
‘Has madam taken anything, eaten anything untoward?’ Mr Bucket asked the maid calmly.
But though she was still on her feet the maid was in little better condition than her mistress, and neither Gordon nor the inspector could make out a word of what she was saying.
‘Now, now, my dear,’ Mr Bucket admonished her in a firm but kindly way as he took hold of her shoulders. ‘For the good lady’s sake you must compose yourself sufficiently to provide us with an answer – or who knows what might happen to her for the delay?’
In reply, the distressed girl pointed towards three glass domes on a table in the centre of the room. ‘Gone! Theft!’
Mr Bucket raised a fleshy finger to the side of his nose; his keen eyes moved from the domes to the woman squirming on the floor and back again, then narrowed like those of a cat closing in on its quarry.
‘Stuffed animals of some kind?’
The maid could only respond with a no doubt unintentional sound which was a cross between a sob and the mucoid snort of someone with a very heavy cold, which Gordon found none too appealing coming from a member of the fairer sex. She did, though, manage to shake her head.
Now Mr Bucket’s eyes lit up. Somehow, he had it!
‘Ferns!’
‘Aaaargh!’ came a wail of acknowledgement and misery from the floor.
Thinking the poor woman may have inadvertently eaten some sort of plant which had proved injurious to her health, Gordon suggested summoning a doctor.
Mr Bucket leaned closer to him and spoke in a confidential tone. ‘This here ailment seems to be of what you might call a hysterical rather than physical nature. Mrs Bucket’s eldest sister is similarly inclined when confronted by adversity. Ferns, Mr Gordon! A recent but very popular pastime among the ladies. Mrs Bucket herself has taken an interest in that direction – though I am doing my best to dampen her ardour on account of the great expense involved. Some very rare and sought-after specimens about. First time I’ve come across a theft of same, though, I do declare.’
In the meantime another maid had arrived with some smelling salts, and Mr Bucket was finally able to interview the lady of the house while Gordon examined the transparent domes and the general area around them in the forlorn hope of coming across some clue which might help them to identify the perpetrator of the theft. As might be expected, there were some imprints on the glass made by the fingers of, presumably, the thief – but nothing which would help them identify him or her.
‘I was hosting a meeting of the National Truss Society for the Relief of the Ruptured Poor, of which I am the treasurer,’ the lady of the house was explaining to Mr Bucket now that she had revived somewhat and settled herself into a chair.
‘A very worthy organization,’ Mr Bucket commented solemnly. ‘My own father suffered from that very complaint owing to the merest slip of the foot while moving a chest of drawers. I do declare there are many who would suffer agonies without the support of the kind which you ladies generously and selflessly offer.’
Some colour returned to the lady’s face and she allowed herself a modest smile. ‘Well, I do hope you and your officers are able to shed some light onto this matter….’
‘The entire and considerable resources of the detective force shall be directed towards a resolution of this case,’ Mr Bucket assured her. Gordon was not convinced that the inspector was, at that point, quite as committed to the matter as he made out – but he was subsequently to discover that his words would be closer to the mark than either of them then realized.
The detectives left the lady in much better spirits than they had found her, and when their shift was over they adjourned to the Ten Bells in Craven Street, near to their Great Scotland Yard base. The Bells, as Gordon’s colleagues called it, was an old-style public house with sanded floors and spittoons. The ceiling was low, and there was a particularly large fireplace opposite the bar. It had well-worn but comfortable-looking settles on either side of it, but the blaze from the fire, which was so well stoked up on this cold night, was such that few could remain in close vicinity for very long.
‘Don’t go imagining that this kind of alcoholic occurrence happens at the end of every day, Mr Gordon of that ilk,’ Mr Bucket was at pains to explain. ‘Because it don’t. Only now and then, when the mood takes us – ain’t that true, Blackie?’
Sergeant Blacksnape nodded. There were five of them sitting round a table in a corner of the pub. Daniel Blacksnape was a wiry Tyneside man whose thick accent, Gordon had noticed, was apparently a source of amusement and jest to the Londoners among them. Inspector Billy Stope sat on the other side of Mr Bucket; the two of them clearly went back a long way, well before the formation of the detective force of which they were both original members. Stope was a physically imposing man, tall and broad, with a heavy brow and massive hands, which looked as though they could easily crush the pint pot he was holding. His belly was of equally impressive dimensions and his breath had a sort of husky wheeziness to it, though Gordon had little doubt that Billy Stope would not be found lacking if called into action. He had heard the odd person refer to him as ‘Flash Billy’ – though in hushed tones as though afraid it might get back to him. Gordon could now see how it might have arisen. Although largely dressed in the usual generally sober way of a detective officer, there were one or two little touches such as his rather gaudy black and red checked waistcoat and the ostentatiously large and ornate tie pin with what looked like a diamond at the centre of it, which perhaps spoke of a certain level of vanity. And on a couple of occasions Gordon had witnessed him insist on buying rounds of drinks for people who had greeted him in passing, yet with whom he seemed to be only loos
ely acquainted.
The final member of the little party was Misty – it was all he was ever called within Gordon’s hearing and he never did find out any other name for him. He was a quiet, reflective sergeant who had grey hair yet appeared to be a little younger than the still-dark Mr Bucket. All detective officers were either sergeants or inspectors, and all experienced men – except Gordon. They were considered to be the elite of the Metropolitan force, hand-picked for the work, and here he was, feeling not a little proud to be one of them. Especially here, admitted to their inner social sanctum. That feeling lasted, though, only until Danny Blacksnape made a comment. The evening had hitherto been nothing but convivial, and Mr Bucket had just been amusing everyone with the story of the stolen ferns and the swooning woman, when out of the blue Blackie, whom Gordon had observed to be inordinately fond of his rum, piped up, ‘Mr Gordon, I hear that your father is a very close friend of the Chief.’
The ‘Chief’ was Commissioner Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton, to whom the Detective Department was directly answerable.
‘That is not quite true.’
‘Is it not, man? Only I thought it were a bit odd on account o’ yer ’ould man’s brush wi’ the law, like ….’
‘Now then, Blackie,’ Mr Bucket interjected matily, clapping his colleague on the shoulder with a big paw. ‘No need for all that, particularly since Mr Gordon’s pa walked out of court without a stain on his character.’
‘Aye, but we arl know—’
‘It’s actually my grandfather,’ Gordon said. ‘He served in the same regiment as Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton’s father. And yes, without that connection I should certainly never have gained admittance into the Detective Service. I’m equally sure that if I don’t come up to scratch I’ll be got out as quickly as I was got in.’
‘And I ain’t seen no danger of that as yet,’ Mr Bucket remarked before taking a sup of his beer.
‘But ’e still got straight in in the first place – straight in, mind – when some of us had to serve ten year before—’
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