‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ exclaimed a young woman cradling a baby in one arm. Gordon saw an open door across the court and guessed she must have been watching him for some time.
‘That’s quite all right. I was looking for Mr George, the owner of this establishment.’
‘He were here no more than an hour ago, sir, but what’s become of him I couldn’t rightly say. There’s been a number o’ reg’lar shootin’ and fencin’ gentlemen a-knockin’ since then. Odd, because Mr George can’t hardly afford to lose custom, so they say.’
‘And you have no idea where he might have gone, nor when he left?’
‘Mr George,’ intervened a familiar voice speaking in an unfamiliar tone, ‘is in custody in Whitechapel.’ It was Mr Bucket, who had materialized in his practised, stealthy manner. But he bore an expression Gordon had never seen before: grim, angry, humourless. It was such a look as to dissuade him from even asking for any further details. But the woman with them was not so easily cowed.
‘Mr George locked up? Why, whatever for?’
‘For murder, that’s what.’
She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Why, the man’s incapable of it. Mind you, he’s a very determined sort. Not the sort of man to be crossed ….’
‘Mr George didn’t commit no murder, missus, and don’t you go putting it about that he did,’ Mr Bucket warned her.
‘But if he’s been arrested …’ Gordon blurted out finally. ‘I mean – who? Who is he supposed to have killed?’
‘Tom Prike. A lad who I’ve known and looked out for since he was a babbie, and who I promised would come to no harm because of this business.’
‘Business? But what is the business?’ Gordon asked.
‘The murder of Edward Mizzentoft.’
‘But what can we do? It’s not our affair, Mr Bucket.’
‘Well, Mr Gordon, it is now!’
XIII
MR BUCKET SAID nothing as they made their way to the Leman Street police station in the East End. He walked briskly, jabbing his cane sharply down with each step as if driving it into the body of a fallen enemy. When someone greeted him from across the street – and someone seemed to know him wherever he and Gordon went – he either grunted tersely or even remained oblivious to the hail and pressed relentlessly on. They strode without pausing past people lounging in doorways, shellfish sellers, a row of houses-cum-shops owned by German sugar bakers, past a slop-maker’s warehouse and out of a side street into broad Leman Street; about three-quarters of the way down, next door to the Garrick Theatre, they arrived at the station.
It was a dull, overcast, late winter’s afternoon, and all the gas lamps inside appeared to be lit and quietly hissed away in the background. A constable was part-leading, part-carrying a drunken woman – almost certainly a prostitute – to the cells. Her mood was perfectly unalloyed by her imminent incarceration and she was giving a spirited rendition of The Forsaken Gipsy and encouraging all present to join in. It might have been an amusing scene under other circumstances, but Gordon, even though he had no personal knowledge of poor Tom Prike and had only met Mr George once, had become infected by Mr Bucket’s mood and barely heeded this little vignette. They went straight up to the duty sergeant: a gaunt, stiffly moving man with just a streak of white hair on either side of his bald dome. Gordon could scarcely credit that he was not already well beyond retirement age. Just as the sergeant noticed them and was about to speak, Mr Bucket got the jump on him.
‘Who arrested a certain Mr George for murder this afternoon? I want to see him – immediately, if you please.’
The sergeant took up a pair of spectacles from his desk and placed them on the end of his nose the better to see his forceful visitor. His tremulous hand only served to accentuate his appearance of advanced age. ‘And ’oo might you be?’
‘I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective Department of Scotland Yard, that’s who I am.’
Gordon’s superior’s voice was not sharp, but certainly a little more strident than usual, and heads turned in their direction. The sergeant seemed to need no further explanation and he called out for a nearby constable to ‘go and fetch Charlie’. Within a couple of minutes Charlie, in the person of Constable H27 Gradely, stood before them. He was in his thirties and heavily pockmarked about the face. If he felt any trepidation about being beckoned so summarily, he didn’t betray it.
Without any preamble, Mr Bucket said, ‘I wants to know why Mr George was arrested for the murder of young Tom Prike.’
‘Because he was caught in the very act, sir.’
‘You saw him killing the boy?’
‘He was kneeling over the body with the bloody knife in his hand.’
‘Then don’t say “in the very act”, lad. Don’t put that in your report to go before a jury, because that’s not what “in the very act” means and you should know that.’
Gordon felt that the inspector was being very harsh with a fellow officer, but thought it better to hold his tongue, for the time being at least.
‘Pardon me, sir, but you weren’t there, and if you had been—’
‘Why were you there, Constable?’
‘It happened on my beat, naturally.’
‘How “naturally”, though? Are you saying you just happened to be walking along and you came upon the bloody scene?’
‘Not quite, sir.’
Gordon was impressed with the way the man maintained his poise and nerve under Mr Bucket’s quick-fire and rather fierce examination.
‘I was a couple of streets away following my normal route when I was approached by a man who had witnessed the knifing himself. He described the culprit and told me where it was taking place. I sprang my rattle and rushed to the spot.’
‘And you enjoined him to accompany you – he being a material witness and all?’
For the first time, the constable’s air of quiet defiance faltered slightly. ‘I did …. At first he ran beside me but he was older than me and not a strong runner, and he began to fall behind a little. By the time I came upon the scene I had to quickly detain the suspect and see to the victim’s wounds. Other policemen, alerted by my rattle, were arriving … there was some confusion … and the man was no longer there.’
Mr Bucket could not conceal a slight tutting noise under his breath. The constable’s neck stiffened, but he maintained a dignified silence. Gordon could not do so any longer.
‘Mr Bucket, it is very unfortunate that his witness was allowed to leave the vicinity, but I’m sure under the same circumstances, when there appears to be a murderer to arrest and perhaps even a life which might still be saved, I might very well have been guilty of the same lapse.’
‘That’s because you are barely out of nappies as far as police work goes, Mr Gordon, whereas this man is a ten-year veteran and has no such excuse.’
PC Gradely bridled at this. ‘Sir, if you have been inquiring into my police record I can assure you that—’
‘I don’t need to see no paperwork. The slight fraying of his cuffs,’ explained Mr Bucket, addressing Gordon, ‘and the way the crown has been all but worn away on the brass buttons of his coat indicate several years of service. The faint boot-print on the top of the chimney pot hat he carries under his arm – they use ’em for climbing or seeing over walls, Mr Gordon – indicates a man of some experience. And that make of hat itself is one they stopped issuing even when I wore the blue uniform. When you adds it up it comes to about ten years, by my reckoning.’
‘Eight and a half, sir.’
‘Those boot prints never quite come away no matter how much you rubs at ’em – and I can see you’ve rubbed mighty hard, lad. Just as well the hat’s on your head with the top out of sight when they inspect uniforms on parade, eh?’
‘It is, sir,’ Gradely, allowing himself the faintest of smiles.
‘Describe this vital witness who you allowed to wander away, lad,’ said Mr Bucket. His tone was noticeably softer now, and Gordon wondered whether he was recalling some inciden
t from his own days in uniform when he was similarly upbraided.
‘He was a very tall man – even a little taller than your colleague here – and well dressed. Like a gentleman, yet somehow I sensed that he wasn’t really a gentleman.’
‘Why? Put it into words for me.’
‘I … I can’t, sir. But I just know.’
‘Good answer, Constable. Take note, Mr Gordon of that ilk. Always trust that feeling. You’re a man that likes to be able to put things into words, that’s what you are. A lot of what we do can’t be put into words, but it don’t make it any less suitable for all that.’
Constable Gradely’s description of the man struck a chord with Gordon immediately. ‘Did this man have long hair – over his collar at the back, and heavily oiled?’
The policeman thought hard. ‘I barely glanced at him once he’d conveyed his news. Possibly long hair, yes, but I’m sure I couldn’t say whether it was oiled or not.’
‘Mr Gordon?’ queried the inspector.
‘It may be nothing, but this sounds like the description of the man who visited Mrs Scambles’ home and caused us to remove her to your wife’s sister’s house.’
‘It may be nothing, as you say, Mr Gordon.’
But Mr Bucket’s chunky finger was in action, and Gordon knew, as he directed them to be taken to see Mr George, that he had made some sort of connection of his own, and that all would be revealed in due course.
Beaufort Edwin Scuttle was not in a good mood. The clerk before him was as impassive as a statue in Trafalgar Square. He did not – or would not – accept the gravity of the situation nor the need for a speedy resolution of the matter.
‘You would not act to save the good name of a lady?’ Mr Scuttle thundered, the cheeks of his fat face quivering. The dramatic effect of his remonstrance was somewhat diminished by the fact that the counter at the Whitechapel Register Office for Births, Deaths and Marriages was so high, and Mr Scuttle so short, that only his mottled red nose and the features above it were on view to the straight-faced clerk. Mr Scuttle’s ridiculously tall hat, made of cheap felt for all its ostentation, could only go a little way towards making up for his lack of stature.
‘The case is currently under investigation,’ said the clerk calmly.
‘But a good lady’s reputation is at stake, sir!’ spluttered Mr Scuttle. ‘You would not expedite matters? What kind of man would not expedite matters to protect the name of a lady?’
‘All cases at the Register Office are dealt with in the appropriate order. Always have been, always will be.’
‘The government is good at prying into people’s private businesses and writing it all down, from the day we’re born till the day we die – and everything in between, what with this new Census thing as well. But you’re not so quick to give us access to our own information! Look, my good fellow, when a man has travelled all the way from Sheffield and cannot remain in the capital indefinitely, when a man’s sole object in life is to clear the name of his beloved sister who was cruelly duped by a bigamist – cannot the wheels of bureaucracy be made to move faster? Has bureaucracy no heart? This marriage must be expunged! Annulled forthwith, I say.’
‘The Whitechapel Register Office is impartial in such things, sir, and acts according to due procedure in all cases.’
‘Then I shall require your name, sir. I have connections, sir – connections!’
An exasperated Mr Scuttle eventually waddled from the Whitechapel Register Office to the Five Bells round the corner where he was reunited with Pikey Pratt, a renowned Sheffield tough who was drinking gin with some newly acquired friends. Mr Scuttle obtained a glass of rum and water and beckoned his companion to a quieter part of the room.
‘It’s no use, Pikey.’ Mr Scuttle sighed as he sank into the chair; his magnificently sprouting and carefully groomed side whiskers seemed to droop in keeping with his mood.
‘I said thee should’a took me in withee, sir,’ said Pikey, shaking his close-cropped head wistfully. ‘I’d soon’ve knocked some sense into them pasty-faced pen-pushers.’
‘That sort of thing don’t play in places like that.’ The watery grey eyes deep in Mr Scuttle’s round, piggy face suddenly lit up. ‘Not during office hours, any road up!’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘We’ve sorted that bastard Mizzentoft out our own way; perhaps it’s time to do the same with the Whitechapel Register Office!’
Pikey rose to his feet. ‘Like I said, sir, just leave ’em to me.’
‘No, no. You have to play these people at their own game – outwit ’em! All it will take is a page torn out of a book. Mizzentoft himself is no more, and next it’ll be as if the marriage between that scoundrel and my sister never existed. You go back and enjoy a drink with your pals, Pikey. But not too much. You’re to meet me outside the Register Office at midnight tonight. Meantime, I’m going to have a little snoop round to see if there’s a nice quiet back entrance to the place ….’
The cells at the rear of Leman Street police station stank of urine, vomit and various other, less easily identifiable odours. Gordon’s eyes took some time to adjust to the darkness in there; there was no natural light at all, the only illumination coming from a couple of gas jets at either end of the narrow space which ran in front of the cell doors. PC Gradely led them along this walkway until they came to a door with a faded number 5 on it. He picked out a key from a bunch on his large, heavy ring, and opened the door, crying, ‘Visitors!’ He was about to go in first, but Mr Bucket spoke up.
‘Would it be all the same to you if we have a quiet parley with Mr George on our own, Constable?’
PC Gradely nodded without hesitation and stepped aside. The cell was nothing more than a dank, whitewashed rectangular room with a straw mattress on the floor and a disgusting pail in one corner. Mr George was sitting on the mattress with his back propped against the wall. He looked up as they entered, but his sombre face registered neither surprise nor pleasure.
‘Well,’ said Mr Bucket. ‘What’s all this, eh, George?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ came the disconsolate reply.
‘I know that, George. And as from one man to another – and an old soldier likewise, mind you – I shall get to the bottom of this. On that you have my word. But how did such a thing come about, old man?’
‘Like I told you yesterday, I had an inkling as to who might be able to tell me where young Tom could be found. This person – who shall remain nameless if that’s all right with you, Mr Bucket—’
‘It is, George. ’Course it is.’
‘This person directed me to a lodging house in the Minories, and I set off this morning to see if I couldn’t find him, or at least what had become of him. But when I came out of the court where the gallery is, I noticed a man lounging across the street. There was just something suspicious about him – and sure enough I soon suspected that he was following me. However, I made some sharp turns and deviations along my route and by the time I got close to the house where I was told Tom might be found, there was no sign of him. I went inside, only to be told that Tom had run an errand for someone to earn himself some money. When I came out, I feared I saw out of the corner of my eye the same man who had been following me hasten out of sight at the corner of the street, and my heart sank, Mr Bucket.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, George.’
‘I waited a while, hoping Tom might soon return and I could both warn and protect him. But after a few minutes a feeling came over me that I must act, and I set off in the direction I had been told he had gone. When I reached the corner of Fenchurch Street, the man who had been following me came rushing in the opposite direction, nearly knocking me flying. I couldn’t say whether he was chasing or being chased – but my darkest fears were confirmed when I passed an alley near the Royal Mint.’ Mr George bowed his head and ran his fingers through his crisp dark hair. ‘Poor Tom …. The next thing I knew, I heard the bobby’s rattle.’
‘The man you saw – the killer,
George – he had the quick wit to finger you to a passing policeman as he was fleeing the scene. That’s how come you ended up here.’
The poor old soldier made a sound that sounded like a sob. ‘I was supposed to be looking out for him, and I led his killer straight to him! They might as well hang me – I as good as murdered him!’
‘Now, now, George, let’s hear no more talk like that. You’ve been outwitted, old man, that’s what’s happened to you – and me too, come to that, for if I’d been as sharp as I should have been that man might not have been at liberty to do such a thing. I take it he was very tall, with long, oiled hair?’
The trooper looked up at them for the first time. ‘You know who he is, Mr Bucket?’
‘I have a good idea, and if all comes to pass as I intend, it should be the key to proving your innocence. But until then, hold fast, Mr George, for I also plan to talk to a good brief I’ve crossed paths with on several occasions in the past.’
‘I can’t afford no lawyer, thanks all the same, sir.’
‘Don’t go a-worrying on that score. That will all be taken care of. And if he’s as good at getting you let out as he is with folks I wish would stay locked up, then he’s your man.’
A cold breeze swept along the banks of the Thames and whistled over the coal wharf at Shadwell. It was a little before one in the morning when the General’s bulky outline materialized: a lumbering shape blacker than the blackness of the night, filling the stone pathway along the river like a silent landslide. The tide was high and the stinking water, glinting oily dark, lapped against the wharf. He saw another figure already waiting ahead of him, the outline of his head and shoulders rising above the ugly shape of a moored coal barge.
Murder in Montague Place Page 12