‘Mrs Scambles—’
‘Normally my husband would make the first female caller to the house his valentine for the day. Harmless fun, Mr Gordon! Now that it is a leap year, however, I determined that the first male caller should be my valentine – and here you are!’
She held out the box again, and Gordon had no choice but to take it. Inside was a very expensive double tie pin, with blue enamel scrolling and rose-cut diamonds.
‘Mrs Scambles, this is too much!’
‘Nonsense! The least you can do is kiss me, according to custom!’
She turned her cheek towards him, pouting in mock disappointment at his less than enthusiastic reaction to the gift. Gordon leaned forward and pecked the smooth skin of her face with its natural blush. As he did so he could not help but notice the most subtly exquisite perfume he had ever smelt on a lady, and the delicate white curve of her exposed, slender neck. When his lips touched her cheek, he heard her let out a little sigh of bliss.
‘For a tall, strong-looking army man you have a very gentle touch, Mr Gordon,’ she said in a hushed tone.
A thousand thoughts coursed through his mind, and he was certainly no longer troubled by a coldness in any part of his anatomy. ‘A very happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs Scambles. And,’ he added hastily before there could be any further developments, ‘how have you been? No further visits? No suspicious activity?’
She held him captive in her radiant gaze for a second longer, and when she chose to release him it was as if a candle had been extinguished. Her face darkened and her brow furrowed. ‘I keep fancying that I hear noises, Mr Gordon, particularly at night. I wish I had some capable person close at hand so that I might rest easy.’ She dramatically clutched both his hands in hers. ‘Someone strong and courageous whose protection I might call upon in my time of need….’
He gently but firmly untangled their hands. ‘Why, here you have your servants, and where you are going you shall have Mrs Bucket’s sister – and her husband is himself a policeman.’
She half-turned away and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in theatrical fashion. ‘This whole business has been such a very great strain on my nerves, Mr Gordon.’
‘I’m sure it has, Mrs Scambles.’
‘I don’t know how much longer I can withstand the torment I feel. It seems … it seems that my very life-force has been gradually sucked from me….’ Her voice first became a whimper, then trailed off completely. She took one step in Gordon’s direction, then swooned directly into his arms. He found himself holding her up with his arms wrapped around her narrow waist and what he discovered to be her surprisingly full bosom pressed against his chest.
‘Come, Mrs Scambles. Have strength!’
Gordon hauled her towards the sofa and laid her upon it, whereupon she opened her eyes and reached up and grasped his arms, pulling him closer. ‘Oh, Mr Gordon. I do not know how long I can bear to live with the anxiety of what has happened to my husband. I would do anything for someone who could somehow intervene, somehow secure his release….’ She looked him directly in the eye. ‘Anything!’
IX
WHERE WAS TOM Prike?
This was the question being asked in the rookeries of the East End. It was being asked by Mr Bucket, as he prowled the brooding alleys and rude lodging houses of Whitechapel. It was being asked by those whom he had sent abroad, and those were legion since Mr Bucket sensed that this would not be an easily accomplished quest. Bob Moaks said Tom had taken the train to Portsmouth two days since. Rawbone Sal knew for a fact that he was seen coming out of the beershop in St Giles not an hour ago. Stumpy had heard that Tom was back with his girl, who lodged near Cable Street in Shadwell. Mary Ann Jemps hated to break it to Mr Bucket, but Tom Prike had had his head smashed in by an iron bar during a drunken argument with a soldier, and his body had been dragged out of the Thames that very morning.
But Mr Bucket believed he had the scent of Tom Prike, and felt confident that however elusive the lad might be he was not very far away. His nose and his feet led him along the Commercial Road, where a brief conversation with two different constables walking their beats turned up no useful information. A third policeman was not to be found where Mr Bucket might have expected, but a little ferreting found him smoking his pipe in a doorway down an unnamed yard off Hanbury Street.
‘Nice little spot for a break, Constable. All sheltered from this cold wind that’s a-getting up.’
The policeman whipped the pipe from his mouth and held it behind his back. Mr Bucket couldn’t see his face, just the dark shape of a thick-set man in the shadows. ‘And ’oo in all the world might you be? And what business is it of yours?’ The voice was low and gruff.
‘I might be Inspector Bucket, A Division. Or then again I might be Jenny Lind. What do you think, eh?’
There was a sudden shuffling of feet, straightening of uniform and tapping of pipe against wall. The constable stepped forward into what little light was afforded from the gas lamps. ‘Heard a noise … all seems well. Got to look into these things….’
‘Very commendable, Constable. Know of a lad name of Tom Prike?’
‘Do indeed, sir. Know ’is pa anorl – nasty piece o’ work. Knocks ’is missus abaht somethin’ ’orrible – and I dare say the lad too. I mean, we are all inclined to do such things when in drink – but ’e does it stone cold sober!’
‘And have you seen him about the place – Tom, that is?’
The constable thought for a moment. ‘You normally see ’im ’ere, there and everywhere, but ’e’s bin very quiet of late, ’as young Tom. But now I come to think of it I reckon I did see someone lookin’ very like ’im lurkin’ abaht the back of Paddy’s Goose as I was makin’ me way to start me beat.’
‘Which would have been how long ago?’
‘Hour and ’alf, give or takes a minute.’
‘That’ll do for me, Constable, that will do for me. Tell Sergeant Allen that Inspector Bucket asked after him. And tell him Inspector Bucket was most impressed with his constable’s assistance and powers of observation.’
‘Righto, Guv!’
Mr Bucket turned up his collar and lapels the better to protect his neck and face against the bitter wind. He left the yard, headed down Hanbury Street and within a few minutes was entering the White Swan, known to all and sundry as Paddy’s Goose. Paddy’s Goose was owned by one Patrick Flaherty. It was patronized largely by sailors and inhabited by a certain class of lady to whom sailors were drawn when in port. The sound of a piano, singing and laughing voices could be heard from behind a door to Mr Bucket’s right. A slim but big-boned man lounged against the frame of the door, and upon spotting Mr Bucket, eyed him up and down in a blatant and surly manner. Mr Bucket nodded and smiled.
‘Where might I find the owner of this establishment?’
‘Not in.’
‘I didn’t ask whether he was in or not.’
‘You wanna watch your cheek.’
‘And you want to get a more civil tongue inside that bloomin’ head of yours.’
Without warning the man used the wall against which he was leaning as a sort of springboard, propelling himself at Mr Bucket – but the detective anticipated him and was already thrusting forward himself, raising his forearm to the thug’s throat and using his momentum and greater weight to jam his would-be assailant against the wall. Just then, a door at the end of the hallway opened and another man emerged. He was larger and more athletically built than the first, and more smartly dressed.
‘Hook it!’ Mr Bucket ordered. ‘Me and pally here are having a little chat and we require a little privacy – don’t we, my friend?’
The man was pinned so firmly by the throat that it was all he could do to breathe, let alone speak. The interloper glared at Mr Bucket and moved a step closer – but it was a hesitant step, and when Mr Bucket repeated his order to ‘hook it’ in a firmer voice, there was something about this visitor’s tone and presence which caused him to capitulate and retreat bac
k through the door whence he came.
Mr Bucket turned back to his captive. ‘Tom Prike – where might I find him?’
The man was about to speak when Mr Bucket, instead of relaxing the arm against his throat, pressed it harder.
‘How … urgh! How can I answer … with you choking me so?’
‘If I thought you was about to give me an honest answer I would ease up like a shot, I would. But am I going to get an honest answer – straight off, like?’
The man nodded enthusiastically, and Mr Bucket let him go altogether, letting his hands drop and backing off a little. ‘You’re a very sensible man – that’s what you are. Some might have attempted to draw the whole matter out and waste everyone’s time, and that gets very tedious. And since they’d have told the truth in the end anyway, your way is by far the wisest for all concerned.’
‘Tom’s layin’ low fer a bit….’
‘Someone out to get him, eh?’ The man nodded, and Mr Bucket quickly added, ‘Well, it ain’t me, and I can promise you that as one man to another. I just want a word – might even be able to help him.’
‘You’re a peeler?’
‘My word, you really are sharp as a pin,’ Mr Bucket beamed, patting his man on the shoulder. ‘We could do with more men like you on the force. Too many numskulls. Need more bright fellows like yourself. Is he here somewhere?’
The man nodded in the direction of the stairs.
‘Which room?’
The man leaned closer, whispering, ‘First landing, second on the right.’
Mr Bucket winked conspiratorially at his man, then proceeded up the stairs slowly and with surprising grace and stealth for a rather portly figure. He heard all sorts of noises coming from the rooms on this corridor: some hinting at gaiety, some inebriation and some conjuring up other images altogether. He paused at the second door, listening and contemplating, then something – call it instinct, call it second-sight – whatever it was, it caused the detective to suddenly abandon all thought of covertness and burst into the room, sending the door flying back and crashing into the wall. And it was as he thought. The room was empty; the window was open and an icy draught passed around him and seemingly right through him. It seemed impossible, but Tom Prike had somehow been tipped off. Mr Bucket sighed, adjusted his hat and returned down the stairs, out through the hallway and into the cold night air. He did not, though, turn right out of the building to head back the way he had come. He went left, and glimpsed down an alley running along the side of the building, which appeared to lead past the rear of Paddy’s Goose. He ventured this way: his footsteps were regular and unhesitant, not furtive and searching. And he whistled. He issued forth a very fine rendition of Rule Britannia into the cold night air. Then, as he walked past an untidy collection of dustbins and empty packing cases outside the back door of Paddy’s Goose, Mr Bucket, without warning, swiftly raised his stick and whacked it down upon the nearest bin, causing a resounding clang to reverberate around the alley. At the same instant, he cried, ‘Why, there y’are!’ in no particular direction, and stopped dead, waiting and watching. There came a panicked commotion from the back of the pile of packing cases, and from inside one of them emerged a scraggy youth who commenced to run.
‘Tom – it’s me!’
The lad stopped and let out a strange little noise under his breath. ‘Gawd, Mr Bucket. Yer shun’t ’ave.’ There was dread and despair in his voice. ‘Yer really shun’t ’ave….’
‘Now, Tom … no one can see us here. I got a strange message from you, I did. What’s it all about, matey?’
‘I can’t, Mr Bucket … not this time – please!’
‘Look’ee here, Tom – no one will ever know what you’ve told me. You know that, don’t you?’
‘But it’s different this time….’
‘You said, “Let the doctor take the rap” – that’s the little tale I got told to me. What’s it all about, eh Tom?’
‘I saw somethin’, Mr B. Somethin’ what shocked me – and I’ve seen some things….’
‘Yes? And what was it you saw, lad?’
‘It ain’t so much what I saw as who. I mean, I’d heard rumours, but—’
‘The who and the what in equal measure make my day, no end,’ probed Mr Bucket patiently.
‘I started asking around, asking questions – that was my downfall, Mr B. Shoulda let it be. I heard tell of a man calls himself Chuddersby, and that trail led to another known as the General. Both very bad men, Mr Bucket. Very bad.’
‘But that’s not all, is it Tom? There’s another link in the chain.’
‘Would you ask me to cut me own throat? That doctor’s a wrong ’un, Mr B. I did learn that. Don’t matter whether ’e did it or not – just let ’im ’ang and it’ll be the easier for all of us.’
‘Now Tom, you know I don’t operate along those lines.’
There was a short silence from the boy. It was a thoughtful silence. A tortured silence. Mr Bucket had been very good to him over the years ….
‘Find the General. Probably lordin’ it in a beershop on Earl Street, Seven Dials. It starts with the General and goes up from there – but I begs yer not to mention me name, Mr B.’
‘Tom …’ began Mr Bucket. But Tom Prike’s footsteps were already receding into the darkness.
There was another figure. He lurked unseen in the shadows at the end of the alley – far enough away to remain unsuspected, unseen; but close enough, we may be sure, to have caught some, if not all, of what had just be said.
Gordon had left Mrs Scambles in the very capable hands of Mrs Bucket’s sister and was making his way home by a circuitous route, which allowed him, even in the dark, to admire the gradual rise of the numerous tall and majestic buildings along Coventry Street. The weather was turning. Heavy grey clouds were blowing in from the west and massing over London as it slept. Icicles hanging from gutters and window ledges were dripping; the silvery sheen covering roofs and streets was fading to black. Gordon was in a mellow, introspective mood as he sauntered along the streets of the metropolis – but it was not to last.
It was their feet that he spotted first – dirty, and calloused, covered in sores. Then the bony ankles, the string-like calves. And he knew immediately. He had seen it before on the battlefield in the grey early light of the morning after. The feet were neither white with cold nor mottled red with rheumatics, but a sort of waxy blue-grey. Just like the morning after the battle. Yet there had been no combat here other than that between two frail girls and the world; two children against the system, against nature. Gordon was surprised by the sudden catch in his throat, as if it were in the grip of the bony hand of a spectre as he crouched over the bundle of rags just inside the alley. They were conveniently out of sight and it occurred to him that it suited London nicely that they should die in the shadows, barely visible from the grand shopping thoroughfare.
Gordon reached down to pull back the shawls that had become their shrouds – but the threadbare fabric was still frost-stiffened and stiff, adhering to their scant clothing, to the exposed flesh of their arms, their faces. Gently, he peeled it away to reveal the rigid bodies of Elsie and Annie. They were huddled together in a final sisterly embrace. Annie’s eyes were closed; she could have been sleeping peacefully. Elsie, though, her right arm curled around her sister’s neck and her left beneath her body, clinging to her waist, gazed up at her older sister in fear and confusion through glassy eyes that would see no more of the cruel world which had no further use for her. At Annie’s head, Gordon noticed a sorry-looking bunch of lavenders, frozen and preserved in that same final moment of existence as their owners.
He did not know what to do.
He could not carry two corpses through the streets to his home, but neither could he bring himself to leave them there. He could not just walk away like others who must have seen the same sight and at least suspected the truth of it, yet left them to be collected like rubbish by some street sweeper; or carted away by some uncaring officia
l to an unmarked pauper’s grave. He laid his hands upon their alabaster brows and stroked them gently, one after the other, then looked helplessly up and down the deserted street. He was a soldier. He had seen gruesome sights and death aplenty. But he did not know what to do.
X
‘THIS HAS BEEN a mistake. A selfish, deluded mistake. I can’t do this any more, Mr Bucket – I’m very sorry.’
It just came out like that. Gordon had rehearsed a lengthy, reasoned explanation, but as soon as he opened his mouth, those were the words which tumbled out.
‘Go and tell the Chief.’
Gordon observed him for a moment. He felt sure Mr Bucket must be aware of his inner turmoil and he had not expected such an abrupt reply from him of all people. ‘Very well … but … as your colleague and subordinate officer I thought it only right to make you aware that seeing what London is capable of, what London seems to care little about – those two little girls frozen in each other’s arms – was only the last straw. Among other things I realize only too well how I am viewed within—’
‘Go and tell the Chief,’ repeated Mr Bucket flatly without looking up from the paperwork on his desk.
There was an uneasy silence between them. Gordon became aware of the thin splatter of rain on the window and how the dark, oppressive atmosphere outside seemed to reflect his mood. Was Mr Bucket angry with him? Did he feel betrayed? Did he think he was simply not worth bothering with, or was he testing him? For Gordon’s part, he didn’t know why he wasn’t walking out of their little office and making his way to visit the Assistant Commissioner. Mr Bucket did, though.
‘I’ll be damned if I’m a-going to tell you you can continue in this line of work – because you’re a man and you should know your own mind, Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk.’
He was still brooding over his paperwork – though Gordon now noticed that he didn’t actually seem to be doing anything with it or to it. ‘I know it’s not only Sergeant Blacksnape who thinks it’s unfair that I—’
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