Murder in Montague Place

by Martyn Beardsley

  Gordon felt a surge of anticipation, and his whole body tensed. There were six men altogether at the table and they all looked to be of the rough type described earlier by his chief; at least two of them had already reached slyly into their jackets, as if preparing to arm themselves. The burly, shaven-headed man who had been called the ‘General’ was glaring at his accuser with such burning intensity that it seemed only a matter of time before some sort of violent encounter would take place. With his flattened, misshapen nose, massive fists and fairly recent scar across his right cheekbone, the General certainly did seem, as Mr Bucket suggested, to have had a pugilistic background. His accuser was a broad-chested, straight-backed man with a tanned face – every inch the soldier, as Mr Bucket had noted. He puffed coolly on his pipe and his demeanour was far calmer, yet his eyes attested to the steely resolve of a man who was not prepared to back down. Gordon began to move forward, thinking this was a situation better nipped in the bud; but Mr Bucket, whose eyes flitted keenly from one individual to another at the table, swiftly moved his cane across his assistant’s legs as a sign for him to wait.

  ‘All was not as it seemed?’ hissed the General in a cockney accent strongly laced with Irish. ‘All was not as it seemed? It seemed to me like I beat yer fair ’n square. What’s not right about that, mister?’

  ‘I don’t want to embarrass nor cause no sort of a fuss. All I ask is that you give me back my stake and we’ll say no more about it.’

  The General’s face visibly reddened, making the old scars around his eyes and forehead turn white, the fresher one on his cheek seem as if it might burst open anew and his bloodshot eyes bulged a little wider. ‘Don’t want to cause a fuss, is it? ’E accuses me of cheatin’, but ’e don’t want to cause no fuss – oh, no!’

  ‘You passed something to your mate there. Looked like a card. And he passed something to you – also looked like a card.’

  The General sprang to his feet, sending his chair clattering backwards across the stone floor. The men either side of him rose too. One whipped out a life-preserver; the other’s hand remained in his jacket pocket, readied on whatever weapon he had concealed. The military man’s strong, weathered hands remained spread out on the table before him, his steadfast but composed gaze fixed on the General – who seemed to have exhausted whatever limited vocabulary he possessed. He stood with legs apart like an angry bull, chest heaving, the ugly veins about his temples throbbing, then suddenly he swiped the table aside as though it were a child’s toy. It somersaulted noisily across the room and opened up a clear space between the adversaries. The General moved forward, ripping off his jacket as he did so, and Gordon caught a movement of the arm from the man on his left, and a glint of steel. He had produced a knife with a thin, gleaming blade about eight inches in length. Now Mr Bucket made his move. He crossed the floor with surprising speed and poise, and the General and his men were so intent upon their accuser that Bucket had knocked the knife out of the hand of its owner with his stick before they were even aware of his presence among them. The detective surged past the would-be knife-man and advanced on the General, but the incensed knife-man was coming up behind him so Gordon sprang towards him and yanked him back by the collar. At the same time, the General took a mighty swing at Mr Bucket. He tried to duck but it still caught the side of his head, staggering him and sending his hat flying; but he stayed on his feet. The General closed again, swinging his ham-like fist. They clashed, and somehow – it happened too fast for Gordon to perceive yet he felt sure it was no mere chance – in the tangle the General was half-spun round and Mr Bucket was now behind his man with his stick across the hefty fellow’s throat in a tight grip. The man with the life-preserver moved to intervene, and while Gordon struggled to keep hold of the knife-man, who luckily was of a short and wiry stature, the man who had accused the General launched himself into the melee and dealt this new assailant an impressive blow, sending him spinning across the room till he thudded into the wall. But this was the General’s territory, and people who had previously been lounging with their drinks and pipes had left their seats and now began to converge in a most menacing way. Bottles were grasped; hands went into pockets. Gordon felt they had acquitted themselves well thus far, but they were in the centre of the room, cut off from the exits, and surrounded by strapping, villainous-looking men. As an officer of the Cameronians he had always been aware that one day when all was lost he might have to go down fighting to the last like a true British redcoat, but he never expected it to happen in a London beerhouse. The knife-man would be too much of an encumbrance to him in the coming battle, so he lightened the scrawny man’s contact with the ground by thrusting his hand under his crotch, lifting him onto his tiptoes, then propelling him in the back with the other hand as forcefully as he could. He careered into some of the advancing supporters of the General, yelping and clutching his nether regions, but Gordon knew this was only a temporary respite. Mr Bucket was struggling to restrain the thrashing prize-fighter, pulling his cane so hard against the man’s throat that his face was turning a ghastly purple; but a broken, jagged beer bottle thrown from behind Gordon narrowly missed Mr Bucket’s head and smashed against the wall, and two more thugs were coming up behind the inspector now, one on either side. The sheer weight of numbers would soon, Gordon knew, be their downfall. But then Mr Bucket’s voice cut through the mayhem, loud and authoritative.

  ‘I’m Inspector Bucket of the Detective, I am, and I can promise you gen’lmen it won’t do no good to go smashing up that poor landlord’s establishment just because of a falling out over baccarat.’

  His commanding tone at least had the effect of bringing about a pause in the disturbance. He released his grip on the General, who staggered forward, gasping and wiping his spittle-covered chin with his sleeve.

  ‘Now,’ Mr Bucket continued. ‘I take it that this being your regular lay and all, you wouldn’t want it to become the object of regular and thorough scrutiny by the local peelers, now, would you, General?’

  The big brute glanced towards the ashen-faced landlord. ‘I ain’t done nothin’. Why yer come after me?’

  ‘I ain’t come after you, least not in that way, General. We have a common acquaintance whose whereabouts I want to inquire after.’

  ‘I ain’t no grass, either.’

  ‘And our common acquaintance ain’t done nothing wrong. In fact it’s his own safety that’s my concern.’

  Gordon sensed a lessening of the pent-up tension in the room.

  ‘Let’s settle this little matter peaceably, like. Now, this man here who’s upset you so also happens to be known to me – good evening to ye, by the way, Mr George!’

  ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Bucket,’ nodded the said old soldier.

  ‘You’re a sensible man, General; a man who knows the workings of the world, that’s what you are. What say you give Mr George here his stake back and we’ll say no more about it? You still end up the winner by a long chalk the way I see it – ain’t that so?’

  Mr George’s face clouded over, but Gordon knew it was the only realistic way of them getting out of this place intact, and was glad when both he and the General finally gave unenthusiastic nods.

  ‘Now, General, it’s Tom Prike I came to ask about. Young lad from St Giles way. Like I say, he ain’t in trouble, on that you have my word as a man.’

  The General shot a quick look towards one of his accomplices, then shook his head. ‘Don’t know no Tom Prike, sir. Not at all.’

  Bucket looked round the room. ‘Anyone? It would be a great favour to me – and one good turn deserves another, as they say.’

  There was some low muttering and shaking of heads – Gordon and Bucket’s only reward for placing themselves in such a perilous position. Mr Bucket collected his hat and righted the table, then scooped up the coins from the floor and handed them to the General, upon which they shook hands. The circle of bodies then parted as the detectives and their new acquaintance made their way to the exit.

&nb
sp; ‘I’m not at all sure he was telling the truth,’ Gordon informed Mr Bucket as they strolled through the darkness of Little Earl Street.

  ‘You’re catching on, Mr Gordon. I swear I shall find out in good time. And I have a suspicion that when I do, the answer shall prove to be an important step towards solving the puzzle.’

  ‘Which particular puzzle are you—’

  They were interrupted by a voice. ‘Mr Bucket!’

  It was Mr George, who had so bravely and calmly stood up to the General. Mr Bucket held out his hand.

  ‘How goes the shooting gallery? What of Phil Squod? Still a-sidling about the place, is he?’

  Mr George lowered his head and took a moment before replying. ‘The muffled drums have beat for Phil, Mr Bucket. Took bad with his chest last winter. Never the healthiest of men. Didn’t have the constitution to fight it off.’

  Mr George delivered the news in a steady, impassive voice, but Gordon thought he noticed a watery film cross his eyes momentarily.

  ‘That’s sad news, George. Sad news indeed. Mr George here and his assistant Phil went all the way back to the army days, Mr Gordon.’

  ‘I thought you might like to know I got a new lad in to help out, though, Mr Bucket. Name of Tom Prike.’

  Mr Bucket grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ah! One step ahead of me, eh? Might he be lying low at your establishment?’

  ‘He was, sir. Then he started to behave rather queer just lately and I asked him if he was in some sort of trouble, but he wouldn’t tell me. He stopped going out, and I even let him sleep at the gallery. Told him I could protect him if only he would tell me what ailed him.’

  ‘No better man for that sort of work, Mr Gordon of that ilk,’ Mr Bucket informed Gordon.

  ‘But something or someone had got to him very bad, and he just clammed up. Yesterday, I was away from the gallery for an hour and when I got back he’d gone. I asked around, and a friend of a friend mentioned Seven Dials – and the General’s name cropped up. I wasn’t here for a game of cards, Mr Bucket, but to find out what has become of him. And I have an idea about who to see next – but he won’t talk in your presence, begging your pardon, Mr Bucket. Let me talk to him, then if your business might bring you in the vicinity of the shooting gallery tomorrow I might just have something for you.’

  Mr Bucket nodded and briefly touched the rim of his tall hat. Then they turned and made their way back to Scotland Yard.

  XI

  THE YELLOW BEAMS of two bull’s eye lamps converged to illuminate the small, splintered wooden panel in the rear door of Brisket, Baxter and Edge, solicitors, attorneys at law and public notaries of Gray’s Inn. The pieces of fractured wood had been crudely pressed back together and the door was closed. A less alert eye might easily have missed the signs of this break-in, particularly since this was the rear entrance. But they did not escape the attentions of this detective and his constable.

  The inspector managed to gently push the unsteady door open without making a sound and the two men crept inside, using their bull’s eyes to make sure they didn’t stumble against anything in the darkness and give themselves away to whoever was inside. There was a bump, followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps. The two men froze, and the detective pointed to the floor above; the constable nodded. They crept towards the stairway and begin to ascend, slowly and cautiously. But when they were almost at the top they were given away by a creaking tread. There was a sudden panicked commotion from above, and even before the policemen could reach the landing, two men came hurtling into the light from their lanterns.

  ‘STOP! POLICE!’ cried the constable.

  The leading man was charging towards the detective as if to force his way past and down the stairs, when he seemed to think better of it and skidded to a halt. One of his feet slipped off the edge of the top stair and overbalanced him, his midriff thudding into the head of the plain-clothes man, who was stooping to lay down his lantern to free both of his hands. The criminal started to say something but the detective straightened up, grabbed the man by the lapels and with a sudden, powerful twisting motion launched the criminal headlong down the stairs. He was swallowed by the darkness, but there came a sickening series of cracks and thuds, then silence. The constable gazed at the detective in what looked like disbelief – though it might have been something stronger – and when the bigger man moved towards the second burglar the uniformed officer deftly dodged past him and grasped the crook by the arm.

  ‘There’s no use in running. You are my prisoner and I intend to take you to Bow Street.’

  The prisoner peered in the glow from the bull’s eyes past the constable. ‘That you, Mr Stope?’

  ‘Squibby!’ declared Inspector Stope. ‘I knew it was only a matter of time!’

  ‘Mr Stope, these partic’lar lawyers is bigger crooks than I am – you must know that. We wuz only settlin’ a score.’

  ‘Looks like burglary plain and simple to me, Squibby.’

  Squibby pulled a roll of bank notes from a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. ‘It’ll be Van Deiman’s Land for me Mr Stope – and after all I’ve done for you,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll keep ten per cent – the rest is yours. And that’s a lot, Mr Stope.’

  When the answer didn’t come as quickly as he expected, the constable swung his bull’s eye in his superior’s direction. Stope’s heavy, overhanging brow cast a dark shadow over his eyes.

  ‘You know I can’t do such a thing, Squibby. We must take you in.’

  ‘But Mr Stope—’

  ‘You deaf, Squibby?’

  ‘I got something else.’

  ‘Squibby—’

  ‘A name in a murder case.’

  Stope’s aggressive stance relaxed somewhat; he folded his arms across his broad chest.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘A name you don’t know about.’

  ‘Well, then, if this name leads to a conviction, I’ll talk to my boss and we’ll see if we can do anything for you.’

  ‘I need more than that, Mr Stope. Beggin’ yer pardon, but it don’t sound very definite.’

  ‘It ain’t,’ said Stope, taking a step closer to his man so that he loomed over him. ‘But it seems to me you’ve got nothing to lose and something to gain.’

  ‘Well, see, I was thinkin’ you might have somethin’ to lose, Mr Stope ….’

  The big detective suddenly gripped the crook’s jaw in one of his bear-like hands. ‘I do hope your pal’s all right, Squibby. I mean, he ain’t made a sound since he landed – and it’s a long way down.’

  Squibby seemed to visibly shrink in Stope’s shadow. ‘Beaufort Scuttle. The brother of the wife of Edward Mizzentoft.’

  Inspector Stope pushed Squibby roughly away in disgust. ‘Mizzentoft? Seems to me like the world and his wife can’t stop trying to find new suspects for a murder that’s already solved! And anyway, Mrs Mizzentoft’s maiden name was Saddler not Scuttle, so you’re talking out of your arse.’ He turned to go. ‘Constable, I’ll lead the way. Bring this man to Bow Street and I’ll—’

  ‘Saddler was the name of one of his wives, Mr Stope.’

  The detective froze. ‘What’s all this, Squibby?’

  ‘Mizzentoft told everybody he had another business in Sheffield. Kept going back there. But he didn’t. He didn’t have any businesses except his crooked money-lending lark. What he had in Sheffield was another wife.’

  Stope picked up his lantern and held it up to Squibby’s face, revealing the crook’s triumphant expression.

  ‘Who was seen lurking around Bloomsbury saying he was going to do for Mizzentoft? The brother of this other wife! And who vanished right after Mizzentoft was skewered? The brother of his other wife! Beaufort Scuttle. Was ’anging round the pubs just before the murder with this northern tough, asking questions. I don’t know what you got on that doctor feller, but it makes yer think, don’t it, though?’

  Stope didn’t say anything, but the constable was staring hard at his superior, and
it was clear that the news had made him think very hard indeed.

  XII

  ‘I SHOULD BE obliged if you would furnish us with three coffees, Kidney my good man. My usual two sugars, none for the Seventh Earl of Drumnadrochit here … and what about you, Wart?’

  They were lounging alongside Mr Bucket’s favourite coffee stall on the corner of Pall Mall and the Haymarket, just a short walk from Great Scotland Yard, after a fruitless trip to Paternoster Row in search of a husband and wife coin-forging team against whom Mr Bucket had a warrant. Wart was a young villain they had apprehended ten minutes earlier in the act of relieving a younger child of half a pound of pig’s face that he had been sent out to buy by his mother.

  ‘Yer can piss in it fer all I care, Sergeant Shitbucket,’ snarled Wart, who was handcuffed to some railings a few feet away. He gave his manacles another might tug as if this time he might have mysteriously developed the strength to burst free.

  ‘That’s Inspector Shitbucket to you, sonny.’

  Wart merely growled.

  ‘Make that another two sugars, Mr Kidney. Needs sweetening up, does young Wart. In fact, plonk one in Mr Gordon’s coffee as well – he’ll need sweetening up when he hears what he’s about after this.’ Gordon noticed Mr Bucket giving Kidney a sly wink at this.

  ‘I don’t like sugar. And I thought we were going to see Lady Rhynde about the ferns?’

  ‘I am a-going to pay a visit to the delightful Lady Rhynde, Mr Gordon,’ commented Mr Bucket as he opened up his snuff tin and offered him a little. ‘You, however, are going to Slaughter’s Coffee House.’

  ‘What am I to do at Slaughter’s?’

  ‘You are to meet Mrs Eleanora Scambles, that’s what you are to do.’

  ‘To escort her home again?’