Murder in Montague Place

by Martyn Beardsley

  ‘That you?’ He struck a lucifer, and in its yellow flare he saw his man: a very tall, slender figure.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Some business to take care of up Shoreditch way. Couldn’t wait.’

  A strong gust of wind extinguished what was left of the feeble flame and whipped up a froth on the surface of the Thames.

  ‘Not in trouble, am I?’ growled the General, not sounding particularly troubled at the prospect.

  ‘Well, you didn’t do the job we agreed, did you?’

  ‘But I provided the information and it was taken care of.’

  ‘You weren’t paid to provide information; you were paid to see it through.’

  ‘He was just a slip of a lad! I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but—’

  ‘Let’s not argue about it. My Governor wants to reward you.’

  ‘But … I only did half the job – and you paid me for that.’

  ‘The boss has been thinking. He wants to make sure the reward really is sufficient to ensure your silence.’

  ‘What’s that s’pposed to mean?’

  ‘He’s heard that you’ve been saying things when in drink, General. And that’s worrying.’

  ‘I ain’t said nuthink, I swears! Mind you, if the Governor wants to give me more money to make sure I keep me trap shut, ’oo am I to complain?’

  ‘Money? There is no more money, General.’

  A rat scuttled across the path between them.

  ‘But you said ….’

  ‘I said you would be rewarded. There is only one way to reward a loud-mouthed drunk who puts others at risk.’

  The General was a dull, slow-thinking man but in matters of personal survival he was a professor, a renowned authority. He heard rather than saw the muffled movement the tall man made in the darkness, but it was all he needed, and he pounced to take the initiative away from his enemy. What he could not see was the swordstick, nor how close it had already been extended towards his belly.

  The worst part, strange to say, was that there was initially hardly any pain. The blade has gone so cleanly through – he felt it pushing the back of his jacket outwards – that at first the General felt almost nothing, just a sort of icy chill in his guts, spreading rapidly down to his groin. He had experienced agonies of all kinds, but this strange iciness was the worst feeling of his life. Yet he was still on his feet. That was the rule. Stay on your feet or you are a dead man. It occurred to the General that he was already was a dead man, but he vowed to himself that he would not be the only one this night. He made a grab for the handle of the sword, but it was even longer than he thought and he felt only more steel, cutting into the flesh of his palm. This did hurt, but he ignored the pain and the sticky feel of the blood oozing through his fingers. He stepped backwards suddenly, pulling the sword and the man holding it towards him, then snapped his head forwards with as much force as he could muster. He felt his forehead smash into flesh and bone – maybe a nose, maybe teeth, he couldn’t tell. But there was a price. The violence of his attack pushed the sword further through his belly. He felt the hilt pressing against him, and now it hurt beyond belief and he screamed, unable to hide his pain any longer. But he knew his enemy was damaged too. He knew his man wasn’t used to such punishment and wouldn’t be able to take it, and with a roar which was a mix of agony and defiant anger, he threw a straight right and it hit home with a satisfying crunch. Now it felt as though his insides were falling out, but he had to finish the job. He reached out blindly and grabbed his man by whatever parts of his clothing he could, hurling him over the edge of the wharf and into the freezing water. There was a splash, then silence. No sound of gasping for breath, nor of the desperate thrashing of limbs in the murky Thames. He must have already been senseless before going under. The job was done. But his opponent had kept his hold on the sword, and as he fell the blade had been yanked right out of the General’s body, but at a different angle, doing more damage as it exited. An explosion of lights and sounds filled the General’s head so that it seemed as if it could only burst. He was unconscious before his face hit the ground.

  XIV

  ‘MR BUCKET, I must ask you – are we investigating the murder of Edward Mizzentoft, or at least the guilt or otherwise of Dr Scambles, or are we not?’

  It was dark, and there was a chill, damp wind and a threat of rain in the air as they walked west along the Whitechapel Road and approached Aldgate. They had made slow progress since leaving Mr George at Leman Street police station. First, they found themselves offering assistance at the scene of a most unfortunate accident where a deaf, elderly gentleman had been struck from behind by a hansom and had his legs terribly mangled. (Gordon suspected he would not last long after they had made him comfortable and handed him over to the surgeon who had been summoned.) They then stopped to talk to one of Mr Bucket’s underworld informants they happened upon at the corner of Goulston Street. Gordon realized full well by now that Mr Bucket had his ways, and very wise and successful ones at that. But the extent to which they were jeopardizing their professional relationship with Mr Stope – a detective equally experienced and as esteemed as Mr Bucket despite his reputation for ostentatious display and a rougher and more ruthless way of dealing with criminals – and also for that matter with their chief, Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton, had been troubling him.

  Mr Bucket’s stout digit brushed the side of his nose, which Gordon took to be an interesting sign at the very least. ‘You are an intelligent man, Mr James Alexander Gordon, and there’s no gulling you. Not that I would wish to. But I have a very specific reason to want to keep things under my hat – or at least I did. Now, my old pal Tom Prike has been destroyed and the game has changed. Things will start to happen fast. Just bear with me for a day or two more, Mr Gordon of that ilk, for I say there will be a development ….’

  He fell silent, and his ever-scanning eyes had once again fallen on something Gordon had not noticed. ‘Just draw off a bit here, Mr Gordon,’ he said, guiding him by the elbow towards the corner of an alleyway. They stood silently for a moment, and now Gordon could distinctly hear the sound of scuffling feet and what could have been a door or window being tried. Gordon looked up at the building before them. It was the Whitechapel Register Office, and he considered this a most unusual place for a cracksman to ply his trade. Mr Bucket, his stick raised like a hussar’s sword, began to creep forward, motioning Gordon to follow as he did so. It took their eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom of the alley, but even before this they began to hear voices just a few yards away:

  ‘Then try pulling up, not down.’

  ‘Nah, still no good. Proper fast.’

  ‘Pikey, can you put that little pane in without too much noise?’

  ‘Aye – gimme thy scarf a second, sir.’

  Before any damage could be done, Mr Bucket gave Gordon the nod and moved towards the two would-be burglars.

  ‘We don’t want any windows putting in. Makes such a mess!’ he announced in his resounding tenor voice.

  Gordon heard a scuffling of feet, and saw the taller of the two men make for his superior. They grappled, and since his accomplice didn’t seem keen to join in the fracas, Gordon was free to help Mr Bucket. From behind, he thrust his forearm round the neck of the attacker and yanked him backwards. He was very strong and almost wrenched himself from Gordon’s grasp, but Gordon had a good hold of him and applied more pressure to his windpipe. It had the desired effect of making him forget about fighting in order to concentrate on the more important matter of breathing. Before things could develop any further the voice of the smaller man rang out.

  ‘Cease, Pikey! No use in all that. I’m certain that once we explain all, these gentlemen will look kindly upon us.’

  ‘I try to look kindly on everybody, sir,’ said Mr Bucket good-humouredly. ‘But at present I can’t look upon you no-how, and I’d be obliged if you and your friend would accompany me and mine into the street.’

  So they all trooped
back down the alley into the Commercial Road and stood beneath a street light outside the Register Office. ‘So, what’s all this about, eh?’ Mr Bucket inquired.

  The small man – who Gordon could now see was very small and dressed for all the world like a gentleman – stuck his chest out. ‘May I ask to whom I am referring before I go having to justify my activities?’

  ‘You may ask, and I shall tell. I am Inspector Bucket of Great Scotland Yard, and this is my colleague Mr James Alexander Gordon, the Seventh Earl of Drumnadrochit no less – although he might not mention it, not being big on titles himself.’

  Gordon had long since given up trying to explain that he was not yet the seventh Earl of Drumnadrochit, and remained silent.

  ‘Inspector? What do you inspect, sir, for you do not have the appearance of a policeman, even an off-duty one.’

  ‘’E is a peeler – I can smell it,’ muttered the man called Pikey.

  Mr Bucket turned and shot him a piercing look. ‘A man who’s already in trouble didn’t ought to talk to an officer of the law like that. Won’t do him any good, and might well make things much worse.’ Then he turned back to his accomplice. ‘I am from the detective branch, something you might not have heard of if you are recently arrived from Yorkshire as I guess from your accent. The fact is that I am a policeman and you are a fellow who was attempting to gain unlawful entry to these here premises.’

  ‘Aye – and so would you have been if you were in my position.’

  ‘Very unlikely. But tell me what that position is anyway.’

  ‘It’s a long story …. My sister was wedded to a chap named Mizzentoft – or at least she thought she was married to that reprehensible—’

  Mr Bucket raised his finger and stopped the man in his tracks. ‘Mizzentoft? As in, the late Mr Edward Mizzentoft?’

  ‘The very same!’

  Mr Bucket placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘This is not a matter to be discussed in the cold streets. I must ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard, where we’ll be much more warm and cosy.’

  Gordon hurried through Charing Cross and into Craven Street, just a short walk from Great Scotland Yard, his brain still trying to take in the implications of the sudden turn of events since they had taken Beaufort Scuttle and his henchman Pikey Pratt into custody. The windows of the Ten Bells, the favourite haunt of the detectives, glowed yellow in the gathering fog. Mr Stope was not hard to find, crowded though the pub was. He was leaning against the bar, head and shoulders above most others, his deep, husky but booming voice easily audible above the general hubbub as he ordered another round for his companions; there must have been half a dozen of these, mostly women but a couple of men also. They were gathered around the big man like satellites in the gravitational thrall of a larger body, hanging on his every word, laughing heartily at his jokes. Gordon was already aware that he spent his money much more freely than Mr Bucket did and dressed in a much more flamboyant way. He knew that within the Force his abilities were every bit as admired as those of Mr Bucket, but on the whole he considered himself fortunate to have been placed under the tutelage of the latter.

  ‘Mr Ogle-Tarbolton sends his compliments and asks if you would join him at the Yard, Mr Stope,’ he ventured, hovering at the border of his coterie, trying to make himself heard. Gordon was certain he did hear him, and indeed glanced his way with the briefest flick of his eyes. But for some reason he chose not to answer. It was only when Gordon cleared his throat and repeated his request that Mr Stope could drag himself away from the convivial gathering. Before he left, Gordon saw him whisper something in the ear of a gaudily made-up woman; she laughed raucously and slapped him on the back as he turned away.

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Mr Stope rather tetchily as they returned to Great Scotland Yard.

  ‘Mr Bucket and I have inadvertently made a discovery which might have a bearing on your murder case – Edward Mizzentoft.’ He found himself tensing as he said this, and tried to place a subtle emphasis on the word your. And when Mr Stope glanced at him darkly, Gordon quickly added, ‘It was quite by chance – we were on our way from Leman Street police station after interviewing an old acquaintance of Mr Bucket, and we stumbled upon an attempted burglary. One of the persons we apprehended claimed to be the brother of a woman Mizzentoft bigamously married. We have subsequently discovered that he and his accomplice had been heard making threats to the wife of Mr Mizzentoft.’

  He expected Mr Stope to dismiss this business brusquely. He did, after all, already have his man as far as he was concerned.

  ‘What is this man’s name?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Scuttle, sir.’

  He fell silent, and for the rest of the short walk remained nothing more than a big, dark brooding presence casting its shadow over Gordon.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ began Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton. He seemed ill at ease, and allowed himself to become distracted by some papers on his desk, which were apparently sticking out of a folder at an unacceptably irregular angle and needed to be straightened before matters could proceed any further. Gordon also noticed a sort of tic in a left eyebrow – something that his superior had warned him was a sign that their chief’s mind was agitated. At the time, this had sounded like one of Mr Bucket’s little jokes, but there it was, subtle but clear to see.

  ‘Gentlemen …’ he began again. ‘There has been a development in the case of the murder of Mr Edward Mizzentoft – perhaps I should say developments, in the plural, since it is apparent that the events of this evening are only the latest in a number of what, at the time, seemed mere coincidences. But the cumulative effect of these findings has now caused me to think again about this case.’

  Gordon surreptitiously looked to Mr Stope’s face for his reaction. It was hard to read and yet the very stoniness of it somehow raised the level of edginess in the room. Even Mr Bucket seemed to shift rather uneasily in his chair as they all sat in a semi-circle facing their chief behind his big desk.

  Eventually Mr Stope uttered but one word, yet it had the effect of heightening the tension like someone tweaking the string of a violin close to breaking point.

  ‘Apparent?’

  ‘Mr Stope?’ queried Sir Marriot, his chubby, cherub-like cheeks flushing slightly.

  ‘All of this intelligence about my case has become apparent to you. How, sir, has it all become apparent to you?’

  He glared at Mr Bucket, who immediately knew the meaning of what was being asked.

  ‘Now, Billy—’

  ‘No, Bucket. I’ve been patient, very patient in this matter and the time has come to seek an explanation and a resolution.’

  Gordon hated to see these long-time friends and professional colleagues at loggerheads like this. And although Mr Stope’s face and posture remained impassive he could sense his profound anger and sense of betrayal lay just beneath the surface like a smouldering volcano.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen … ’ Sir Marriot protested ineffectually.

  ‘You forget that I know the difference between what you say and what you do,’ continued Stope. ‘I know how you operate.’

  ‘Honourably always, I hope, Billy,’ replied Mr Bucket.

  Gordon felt obliged to intervene on his superior’s behalf. ‘I can assure you, Mr Stope, that Mr Bucket has acted – and has cautioned me to act – only with the utmost professionalism. It’s just that our quite separate investigations have brought us into contact with people who have transpired to be in some way connected with the Mizzentoft case.’

  ‘Were you aware,’ said Sir Marriot, his left eyebrow twitching quite noticeably now, ‘that a Mr Beaufort Scuttle travelled from Sheffield to London only days before Mizzentoft’s murder with the apparent intention of avenging his unfortunate sister who had been duped into a bigamous marriage with him?’

  ‘Scuttle is all mouth and no trousers,’ growled Stope. ‘He ain’t no killer.’

  ‘But did you talk to him, Billy?’ Mr Bucket asked gently.

  ‘My
snitches told me all I needed to know.’

  ‘And someone has taken it upon themselves to silence Mrs Scambles in her attempts to prove her husband’s innocence,’ said Mr Bucket. Then his voice took on a graver tenor. ‘And someone has done for Tom Prike, who appears to have had some knowledge of Mizzentoft’s murder. Now, Billy, no one is going to bother doing that unless the lad had knowledge of something that has not yet come to light – don’t you see?’

  ‘Tom Prike had all sorts of knowledge of all sorts of things that might have got him into trouble. He was always going to end up dead.’

  Mr Bucket bridled. ‘Well Tom Prike was under my protection and I shall find whoever killed him and bring them in—’

  Mr Stope rose to his feet. ‘If it’s directly connected with my case—’

  ‘If looking into Tom’s death leads me to someone connected with the Mizzentoft murder then I’ll look at that side of things too!’

  Voices were raised now. This was the closest Gordon had seen Mr Bucket come to losing his temper, and it even seemed to give Mr Stope pause for thought.

  ‘It is clear to me,’ intervened the chief, ‘that although there is still every reason to believe that Dr Scambles killed Edward Mizzentoft, there is a chance that we are missing something here. Perhaps he had an accomplice; perhaps he even paid someone else to do the deed for him. I don’t know, but I do believe there are some loose ends and so I am instructing Mr Bucket to pursue the lines of inquiry which fate has placed before him. You are free to do the same, Billy. If you believe there is nothing more to be learned then continue with your current case, but if you wish to make any further investigation then by all means do so. But both of you must keep me informed of your progress.’