‘It is unfair, and there’s no escaping it. But the opportunity arose and you took it, just like we all would’ve. You knew that all along – but you’re here now and you can either walk away or prove that you would have got in on your own merit and ability.’
‘But that’s just it. For example, what I told you about Mrs Scambles’ … approaches wasn’t quite the whole story. The fact is, I was tempted, Mr Bucket. I was most tempted, in a way that an officer of—’
‘Why, Lord, you were tempted by a beautiful woman throwing herself upon you. Now ain’t that a thing. Well, Mr Gordon, maybe we should all resign, then.’
‘But then there was Annie and Elsie. I know I shall come across further such scenes, and worse. And you warned me I can’t help all London’s poor wretches, but now I’ve ended up paying for a proper burial, and God help me if I were to come across another such case, and another ….’
‘I said you can’t save all of ’em, but you can do what you can for one or two. And that’s exactly what you did, don’t you see, Mr Gordon? And I’m proud of you, because I’ve known little Annie and Elsie for …’ Mr Bucket faltered momentarily – and, Gordon was sure, unexpectedly – the moment he uttered their names; he put a hand to his mouth and coughed unconvincingly. ‘Little frog …. Always happens when the weather turns. Anyhow, like I say you can’t save all of ’em – and you won’t want to! Half of ’em’s saucy little beggars who would call you “Uncle” to your face and have your watch from your pocket at the same time, while calling you all the names under the sun behind your back.’
Gordon stood before his superior’s desk feeling sheepish but already rather better about things – yet at the same time still troubled deep down, and wondering whether on some level he had been duped like the victim of the three-card-trick. When a knock came at the door, he welcomed the interruption.
Inspector Stope thrust his large head into the room. ‘A word?’ he asked Mr Bucket.
‘Why, Billy, come in, old man!’
He opened the door fully, and his bulk filled the frame. His eyes fell upon Gordon. ‘This don’t concern you.’
He wasn’t unduly troubled. He knew it was just Mr Stope’s way and he moved as if to leave, but Mr Bucket intervened.
‘Come now, Billy. Mr Gordon and I don’t want to be having any secrets from each other if we are to form a formidable crime fighting partnership, do we?’
‘Come to think of it, it does concern him, anyway.’ Mr Stope entered the room and walked across to lean his backside against the window ledge; his great frame caused the room to darken. Today in typical ‘Flash Billy’ fashion he wore a garish green waistcoat and sported a chunky ring on his little finger with a large sapphire set into it. He suddenly looked like a nervous suitor about to make his proposal speech, uncertain as to how to put whatever it was he had to say into words. ‘The Scambles case.’
‘Ah that! I’d been meaning to mention that to you, Billy, and I’m sure ashamed with myself for letting it slip.’
‘I had to visit Dr Scambles’ lawyer earlier, and it came out that you’d been to see his client at Coldbath. People around the office are starting to wonder ….’
Gordon fidgeted uncomfortably, but Mr Bucket maintained his genial demeanour. ‘Coincidence, Billy. Now, we don’t put much store by coincidence in this game, do we? But it’s a fact, that’s what it is. Mrs Scambles reported a burglary – after the murder, mind, nothing to do with all that business – and the Chief himself details Mr James Alexander Gordon to look into it. Not that there even seems to be much to investigate.’
‘He was in debt,’ Stope blurted. ‘Up to his neck in debt to Edward Mizzentoft. Mizzentoft presented himself as the successful, respectable businessman, but it was a front. Or at any rate, most of his money didn’t come from legitimate commerce but from shady money lending, debt collecting and the Lord knows what else. Quite how it came about that Scambles got in his bad books he refuses to say. But all the doctor’s personal fortune had vanished, the bank and others were pursuing him and he had no way out – other than the course he took, according to his way of seeing things. That’s the long and the short of it – together with physical evidence found placing him at the scene. It all comes together perfect. Scambles might play the cool medical man, but when roused—’
‘Oh, we know,’ Gordon said. ‘He all but went for the pair of us in Coldbath.’
‘Well, just so’s you know.’
Mr Bucket rose to his feet and reached out his hand across the desk. ‘We won’t let this come between us, eh, Billy? And if I hear anyone a-starting any rumours in the office I’ll put ’em straight, you can be sure of that.’
‘Where are we going?’ Gordon asked Mr Bucket as they tramped past the Admiralty and along into St James’s Park. With the freezing rain and bitter wind he would have almost thought it colder than it had been when the sub-zero temperatures were upon them – but a picture of the bodies of Annie and Elsie flashed into his mind once more and he soon changed his mind about that. The rain had started to fall more steadily and Gordon had taken advantage of a kiosk of the London Umbrella Company he had come across and hired one of their devices at the very reasonable rate of fourpence for three hours. Mr Bucket declined to take advantage of such protection, and although he didn’t categorically say so – merely muttering that such things hadn’t been invented when he was a young policeman walking the beat – Gordon got the distinct impression that he thought there was something rather less than manly about such accoutrements. Perhaps it was just a fancy on Gordon’s part, then, that a couple of times he sensed Mr Bucket glancing with a certain air of envy at his companion’s sheltered, dry condition as compared to his own increasingly sodden and bedraggled one.
‘We, Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk, are going to descend upon the residence of Henrietta, Baroness Sowerby of Belgrave Place. Related to our hero the Iron Duke himself, they say. In fact, I may well let you do the talking on this occasion. You’re more used to dealing with folk like that – I might commit all sorts of forks passes in such company, I might.’
‘Surely not, sir. I take it this is the business about ferns?’
‘Correct.’
‘Is this really a job for the detective department?’
‘The job itself might not be – but the folk involved puts things in a different light as far as our superiors and betters are concerned. Neither party wants lowly constables being seen knocking on their doors and trampling through their houses with their muddy boots. Mind you …’ Mr Bucket trailed off, glancing down at the state of his own footwear.
‘These plants must be worth quite a bit to cause such a spate of thefts.’
‘Some of ’em can cost a great deal, as I have fervently discussed with Mrs Bucket only too often. Money might not be at the bottom of it, though.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gordon asked. But just then, a most curious incident occurred. A woman came hurrying towards them. Mr Bucket spotted her and addressed her in a friendly tone, yet with barely a pause in her step she merely pressed something into his hand and continued on her way. Mr Bucket stopped in his tracks and watched her go, stroking his chin.
‘Well, well. What’s got into Emeline?’
‘Who is she?’
‘She’s the wife of Mick the Whippet, one of my snouts. I use the term “wife” in the loosest of senses.’
Mr Bucket looked at what had been presented to him in so furtive a manner. It was a roughly torn piece of newspaper, which he opened out to reveal a message scrawled across it in thick, crudely formed handwriting. He then passed it to Gordon:
TOM PRIKE DANGER
7 DILS
‘Seven Dils?’
‘Seven Dials, a district just up a way from Charing Cross.’ He stared at the scrap of paper as if hoping it might reveal something more.
‘Should we go?’
‘Got an appointment. These aren’t the sort of folks you stand up….’ But he seemed preoccupied as they carried on
their way. ‘Tom Prike’s crafty, he is. Knows how to take care of himself. But we’ll go there directly, though.’
‘Is all this something to do with the Scambles case?’ Gordon asked.
Mr Bucket tapped his nose in that familiar fashion. ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet, Mr James Alexander Gordon.’
‘Inspector Stope mentioned Dr Scambles being in debt to Mizzentoft. Having witnessed the doctor’s outburst, I could easily imagine him losing his self-control if confronted by someone who was, shall we say, being persistent about the repayment of money.’
‘What about Mrs Scambles?’
‘Mrs Scambles? I confess I was discomfited by her … forwardness, but murder? Besides, is there anything to implicate her?’
‘Where the husband is implicated, suspicion must always fall upon the wife. Or vicey versy. Why was he in debt – was it to do with her?’
‘But still – a woman committing the bloody murder of a man?’
‘Not unknown, though they usually resort to poison. But enough of this. Some policemen may jump to obvious conclusions and some may cut corners, but not Billy Stope. We may not be able to help ourselves in taking an interest – particularly in view of Mrs Scambles now being on our hands, so to speak. But the murder itself is still not our business, however much peripheral matters might cause us to stray in that direction.’
Mr Bucket still had a slightly distracted air about him as he said this, and Gordon wasn’t entirely convinced that even he still truly adhered to this view.
They had arrived at number 5, Belgrave Place, Baroness Sowerby’s stately residence with its impeccably whitewashed frontage complete with first-floor balcony. The interview was to take place in a surprisingly capacious and well-furnished solarium at the rear of the house where the owner awaited them. Baroness Sowerby was a tiny, bird-like woman with silver hair drawn so tightly back that it appeared to tighten the skin of her face. She spoke in short, sharp sentences, all the while holding a lorgnette, which she raised to gaze through at them every now and then as if to remind herself what they looked like.
‘It was a maidenhair spleenwort. The total value of all these,’ she gestured to the bewildering collection of plants which surrounded the detectives on shelves, on tables, on windowsills, ‘is two hundred and fifty pounds. That one specimen alone was worth that and more. It was collected for me personally by an explorer friend of my husband.’
‘I take it there were no signs of a break-in?’ Mr Bucket inquired.
‘Oh, but there were, Inspector.’
‘What occurred, my lady?’
‘Someone forced their way into this very room.’
Gordon got up and went to inspect the door leading to the garden. ‘The lock seems to be intact, my lady.’
‘I’ve had it repaired, naturally.’
‘Ah. It’s just that the lock and doorknob look almost original.’
‘I insisted that the new knob was identical to the old. And it has been repainted, of course.’ She held her spectacle up to get a better look at him. ‘Do you doubt me?’
Gordon’s heart lurched, aghast at the thought of upsetting someone so influential at such a delicate stage of his fledgling career. ‘Not at all, my lady. The craftsman has made such a fine job of it that it’s hard to tell there has been any repair. He is to be complimented!’
‘And when did this distressing incident take place?’ asked Mr Bucket.
‘Two days ago.’
‘During the night?’
‘It must have been, because I hosted a meeting of the Society here in the afternoon and the ladies were admiring the fern. I am an early riser and the first thing I always do is come in here – and the following morning is when I discovered the theft.’
‘The “Society”?’ Mr Bucket queried.
‘The National Truss Society for the Relief of the Ruptured Poor. I am its chairwoman.’
‘I see.’ Mr Bucket’s reply was quite casual, but his forefinger moved to the side of his nose – usually, Gordon had come to notice, a sign that his profound and inscrutable mind was hard at work. He rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time, my lady.’
‘Is that all?’ she asked brusquely.
‘I don’t need to take up any more of your ladyship’s time. We have a very strong suspect in this case, and I do believe it to be only a matter of time before we swoop.’
‘A very strong suspect?’ Gordon queried after they had left Baroness Sowerby’s house and were making their way past the Queen’s Palace. ‘You didn’t mention this before.’
‘That, Mr James Alexander Gordon, is because we didn’t have one before.’
He was clearly in one of his enigmatic moods so Gordon didn’t trouble himself to press him. ‘Well, Baroness Sowerby’s story didn’t satisfy me. For one thing, I do not believe her solarium to have been broken into. I swear the lock was the original one – and anyhow there would have been a smell of paint had it been replaced and repainted only two days ago. I should have liked to have stayed longer and looked into it more thoroughly.’
‘Commendably perceptive. But I doubt whether we should have a-gleaned any more by staying longer, and presently I’m more concerned about young Tom Prike and the message we received.’
If it had been anyone else, Gordon should have been irritated at the thought of pertinent intelligence being withheld from him – but Mr Bucket had his methods, and at least for the time being, he was happy to go along with it and let the enigmatic detective guide him in his own way. The walk to Seven Dials was not a long one, which was just as well since the sky was a brooding dark presence that felt almost low enough to reach up and touch, and the rain fell as heavily as ever. Even though it was mid-afternoon, darkness was already coming on, and as they approached this notorious place from St Martin’s Lane it took on the appearance of one of the entrances to hell itself. They entered a space around which several roads converged – presumably seven, though Gordon didn’t count them – like the hub of a wheel. Tall corner buildings watched over the circle they formed like the mysterious standing stones of the Druids, as if guarding the entrances to the streets at their backs and the narrow alleys and passageways that ran off them. A disreputable assortment of characters inhabited this stage-like area, and, perhaps partly due to the darkly portentous weather, of all the unsavoury places Gordon had so far come across during his short time in London, this had the most menacing aspect. He had a constant feeling of being observed, of being measured up, of his presence being resented.
Mr Bucket was, as usual, unperturbed. ‘Gets its name from a great big sun dial that used to stand in the middle, this place does. It had six dials on it.’
He was about to query whether he really meant six, not seven dials, but thought better of it. London.
‘Now, Mr Gordon. The place where we are a-going ain’t like any place you’ve been to afore. I can tell you are a man who has taken care of himself and I dare say you boxed a bit in the army, but make no mistake that the men in the place we are about to visit are of the most dangerous type: vicious, heartless fellows who have fought for money – and sometimes even for their lives. A strong and fit man like you could out-box them and out-think them, avoid one of their blows and land two of your own. But do you know what would happen? They would laugh in your face and come back for more. You could break their noses, split their lips and knock their teeth out yet they’d keep coming back at you till it quite broke your heart, Mr Gordon. I’ve seen it happen. I still say the two of us might settle with two or three of them – but they’ll know who we are and what we are, and if two or three rise up, then four or five, six or seven are liable to do so.’
Gordon wasn’t exactly afraid as Mr Bucket led them into the shabby beershop on Earl Street, which might at a glance have easily been taken for an abandoned, derelict property, but he was certainly on his guard to say the least. It was as if they had intruded upon a private party. The smell of beer, tobacco and unwashed bodies hit him immediately, and while t
he room didn’t exactly fall silent upon their arrival there was a slight but noticeable diminution in the general hubbub. Harsh bursts of laughter from gap-toothed mouths set in unshaven faces faded momentarily. Numerous heads turned their way then came closer together, no doubt to discuss who they might be and what their appearance might mean. The only patrons who remained oblivious to their intrusion were a group of men arranged round a circular table, engrossed in a game of cards. Piles of coins on the table explained their lack of interest in Gordon and Bucket. For men such as these, the stakes must have been high.
They went to the bar – actually nothing more than a heavy wooden table with two casks upon it and some bottles on shelves behind, and were served beers by a sullen landlord who betrayed no sign of recognizing Mr Bucket yet certainly appeared to be aware that this visit was not an entirely social one. Gordon noticed that Mr Bucket’s ever watchful eyes rarely strayed from the card players. There were few chairs in the dingy little room so they stood by the table, and Gordon sipped his cloudy, flat ale self-consciously while wondering what Mr Bucket’s next move might be.
Although he tried not to stare too obviously, it soon became apparent that there was a certain tension at the card table, as if a winner-takes-all game was building towards its climax. While Gordon was looking round the room he heard a hand of cards being slapped down hard, followed by a very vocal release of pressure: groans, gasps, laughter, curses. He assumed this was an end to that particular diversion and was distracted by the sight of a crooked little old woman who had arrived with three empty bottles of her own, which she demanded the landlord fill for her to take away. But then a steady yet clear and forceful voice caused a sudden hush to fall over the room.
‘General, I do believe all was not as it seemed during that hand.’
Gordon turned to look, and in the same instant Mr Bucket subtly touched his sleeve, whispering, ‘The big pugilistic-looking fellow has just won the whole pot, but by underhand means – and the soldierly-looking fellow knows it. And it’s going to turn very ugly unless I’m very much mistaken, Mr Gordon of that ilk.’
Murder in Montague Place Page 9