Murder in Montague Place

by Martyn Beardsley

  ‘That goes without saying,’ replied Mr Bucket. His fat forefinger rubbed the side of his nose. Mr Stope saw this, and promptly stalked out of the room, scowling darkly.

  XV

  GORDON WAS IN a sombre, reflective mood when he made his way to Great Scotland Yard the following morning. He circumnavigated Whitehall Place to reach their entrance at the rear, pausing only to absently hand a few pennies to an old sailor with one arm begging on the corner. It troubled him that their own delvings into the Montague Street murder, however justified and well-intended, had threatened to breach not only the professional, but also the personal relationship between Mr Bucket and Mr Stope. Their friendship was a long-standing one, and Gordon hated the thought that this was becoming such a serious matter that permanent damage might be done.

  From what he had learned of Mr Bucket in the short time he had been working with him, he trusted both him and his judgement implicitly, yet certain questions continued to haunt him. Should they have gone to Mr Stope earlier with their suspicions, their information? And if this all were to lead to a terrible breach between those two respected and long-serving policemen, how much would Gordon personally be to blame? He might have been new to the detective branch but he was no innocent abroad. He was a former cavalry officer with a fair amount of experience of the world and of how professional men who regularly work in close proximity must learn to accommodate one another’s feelings and foibles. Last night he had sensed a very deep unease within Mr Stope’s breast, one that wouldn’t easily or quickly be assuaged.

  Just as Gordon was about to go through the big double doors of the police station he was almost knocked over as they burst open and several burly uniformed men came running out, truncheons already drawn. Sergeant Raddle was at the front desk and before Gordon made his way to the office he shared with Mr Bucket he asked him what was the matter.

  ‘A serious disturbance of the peace in among the Thames watermen. Something to do with poaching one another’s fares. Very tough and strong in the arm, those watermen.’

  Before he could reach the stairs, Mr Raddle called out again: ‘Oh, and Mr Bucket says will you meet him down in the holding cells.’

  He must have detected Gordon’s momentary hesitation – he had not even visited the holding cells yet – because he pointed with his stubby pencil towards one of several highly polished oak doors. It was in the far corner of the foyer, and led directly to another world entirely. The very second he crossed its threshold he found himself in a much bleaker space: a drab, ill-lit stairway along which a mildly dank smell was wafted on a chill draught from below. Gordon’s eyes were still adjusting to this darker place beneath the well-lit environment above so it took him a second to recognize the solidly proportioned figure leaning calmly against a wall in the act of lighting a pipe. Apart from Mr Bucket’s contented puffing, the only other sound he could hear was a hacking cough from one of the prison cells which lined both sides of this dismal corridor, and the almost incongruous sound of contented snoring emanating from another one further along.

  ‘Good morning, Mr James Alexander Gordon.’

  ‘And a good very morning to you, Mr Bucket. What news of our prisoners of last night?’

  ‘Slept tolerable well, or so I’m told, and ate of a hearty Scotland Yard breakfast. Now it’s time for business.’

  As he began to seek out the correct key from the bunch he had fished out of his pocket, Gordon tapped him on the shoulder. ‘What did you make of the Scuttle connection with the Mizzentoft case, sir? Mr Scuttle certainly had good reason to lose his temper with him if this bigamy charge is correct.’

  ‘And his companion Pikey assuredly seems as though he would be both willing and capable of enforcing any dubious requests from his master. We must look into it,’ he said, and added with a wink: ‘without giving too much away ourselves.’

  They entered the cell and Mr Bucket greeted the prisoners cordially. ‘Trust you had a pleasant night, gentlemen! We do pride ourselves here at Great Scotland Yard in providing a superior form of bed and board for our guests.’

  ‘One o’ the best I’ve come across, all right,’ replied Pikey the henchman in all seriousness.

  Mr Beaufort Scuttle was not in quite so sanguine a temper. His extravagant side-whiskers were all askew and his ruddy features were so puffy that his little eyes seemed embedded in his face even more deeply than usual, almost to the point of disappearing entirely. He chuntered of indignity, rights and of being confined like a common criminal.

  ‘Well, you very likely would have become a common criminal had not Mr Gordon and myself happened along and saved you from yourself,’ smiled Mr Bucket, settling himself down beside Pikey on the wooden bench, which also served as a bed. ‘So let us consider it a small price to pay. Even as it is, my sergeant here is seriously considering what the charge is to be: loitering with intent, attempted burglary of Her Majesty’s Register Office, attempted fraudulent tampering with official government records. The list is almost endless. Almost a question of sticking a pin in, one might say.’

  ‘It’s the marriage that were fraudulent,’ croaked Scuttle in a first-thing-in-the-morning sort of voice.

  ‘But these things have to be sorted out proper, like. Not by breaking and entering and falsifying official documents. I’ve often had a yearning to falsify the date my birth certificate, but if we all gave in to such yearnings, why where would the world be then, Mr Scuttle?’

  ‘But I didn’t want to falsify owt! It was only my intention to remove something false, harmlessly and without violence or undue damage. Merely make the record of that monster’s sham marriage to my innocent sister disappear. Nobody would have been any the worse for it.’

  ‘I don’t know owt about no paperwork, but we sorted that Mizzentoft out good and proper, didn’t we!’ chuckled Pikey.

  Gordon shot a glance at Mr Bucket. ‘Sorted him out?’

  ‘Never knew what hit him!’

  ‘Pikey!’ barked Scuttle, though with a half-smirk on this chubby face.

  ‘Never knew?’ repeated Mr Bucket. ‘Could it be he never knew because you sorted him out too well? Got a bit carried away?’

  Scuttle snorted with derision. ‘Nonsense.’

  Gordon rose and, for effect – or so he hoped – stood over the man, who was a good foot shorter than himself. ‘Edward Mizzentoft is dead.’

  Mr Scuttle’s face was a picture. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Murdered, by person – or persons – unknown,’ Mr Bucket added.

  Scuttle turned to his thug. ‘What the hell did you do, man? You were supposed to break his fingers, not kill him!

  ‘I didn’t kill ’im, I didn’t! I … didn’t even break ’is fingers.’

  ‘Why not?’ Scuttle demanded.

  ‘I tried – but they was all sort of flexible ….’

  Pikey suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘Hey! This is one o’ them fit-ups, that’s what this is!’

  ‘You’ll sit down if you know what’s good for you,’ Mr Bucket warned him, before calmly taking a drag from his pipe. ‘No one’s being accused. But put yourself in my position, gentlemen. A policeman asks himself: Who had a reason to kill the victim? Who were the last people to see him alive? That’s what he asks himself, and then he seeks out that person – or persons.’

  Scuttle’s face reddened and his flabby cheeks and chins began to wobble. He had woken that morning expecting to face some minor charge if any at all, and the implications of this new development seemed to hit him all at once.

  ‘Well, we weren’t the last people to see ’im alive, and that’s God’s truth!’ Pikey shouted in a tone that was half-challenging, half-imploring.

  ‘Pikey!’ admonished his employer.

  ‘Of course,’ continued Mr Bucket serenely, almost as if he were thinking out loud to himself, ‘if we were to find that you gentlemen weren’t the last to see Mr Mizzentoft alive. If it transpired to be someone else … someone with a name ….’

  ‘It was!’ cried Pikey.
‘It was!’

  Scuttle turned on his assistant, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. ‘Don’t thee go spinning no yarns and getting us into more trouble. It won’t work. We didn’t even know he were dead, Inspector. Surely thee can tell when a man’s telling the truth in your line of work.’

  ‘More often than not,’ smiled Mr Bucket. ‘And I know you are.’ But he turned to Pikey and his smile broadened. He didn’t have to say anything. The big man shuffled uncomfortably and he stared at his feet.

  ‘Pikey?’ queried Scuttle. ‘Tell me once and for all – you didn’t kill the feller?’

  ‘No. But I knew ’e were dead. Some blokes blabbed about it once they’d had a few pints. And they mentioned a name.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Mr Scuttle?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘I knew he’d think it were me what done it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police – if only to absolve yourself and Mr Scuttle here from the blame?’

  ‘Because they said anyone ’oo snitched on him would end up the same as Mizzentoft. Easiest just to forget it.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. All I wanted to do was clear my sister’s good name.’

  ‘That will take place in good time and by the proper method,’ said Mr Bucket. He rose and placed himself before Pikey.

  ‘Name.’

  Pikey shook his head, refusing even to look directly at Mr Bucket.

  Gordon expected a battle of wills, but to his surprise his superior turned away with a shrug.

  ‘All the same to me. Any court would convict these two on my word, and as the men with the motive and wherewithal, boasting of how they sorted the murdered man out. I dare say Mr Pike here has made that boast on several occasions in front of his new London drinking buddies, and if so I’ll find ’em. If I can’t get the right man I’ll get the next best thing just as long as I get someone – I’m known for it in these parts, aren’t I Mr Gordon?’

  Gordon forced myself to maintain a straight face and nodded gravely.

  They started to leave the cell, and for a second Gordon thought the ruse was going to fail. Scuttle began whimpering like a scolded puppy, and as soon as Mr Bucket’s hand touched the door handle, Pikey cracked.

  ‘The General. They said ’e calls himself the General. Collected debts for Mizzentoft, but something went bad between ’em and they say the General did for ’im. I don’t know what ’is real name is, but—’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ said Mr Bucket. ‘We know all about the General.’

  XVI

  MR BUCKET LED the way back up the stairs. ‘The General, eh? What do you make of it, Gordon?’

  ‘I certainly believe him to be capable of it. If this news is true about his connection to Mizzentoft – plus the fact that he withheld it from us when we spoke to him, well ….’

  ‘Well indeed, sir. Now I have Mr George to attend to, so while I’m a-looking into that I should like you to—’

  They had just emerged into the relative brightness of the foyer, but there was a shadow cast upon them. It was Inspector Stope. He didn’t speak for a moment; he simply blocked their path. His stony countenance, though, spoke volumes. Just as Gordon feared some sort of unpleasant confrontation was about to take place, he uttered two words.

  ‘Evidence Room.’

  That was all. He turned his back on them and began to walk away. Gordon looked at Mr Bucket, who nodded for him to follow. The Evidence Room was yet another part of this labyrinthine building Gordon had yet to visit, but he had heard of it. As he trailed after Mr Stope he observed the broadness of his shoulders and his short, thick neck, and the way his heavy step made the wooden floor vibrate as he walked. They followed him along a corridor at the back of the building and through an unmarked door, finding themselves in a large, drab, windowless room. Gordon could just make out in the shadows lots of shelves: fixed ones along all the walls, and large, free-standing ones down the length of the room. Mr Stope took a box of matches from his pocket and proceeded to light two gas lamps on the walls, then a paraffin lamp on a desk, which stood just inside the door. And it was from this light that Gordon first saw the massive safe in the corner behind the door. It was at least a yard high, and looked so bulky and heavy he couldn’t imagine how many men it might take to lift it.

  Mr Bucket’s soft voice broke the silence. ‘There’s no need for all this you know, Billy ….’

  Mr Stope ignored this, and proceeded to turn the dial of the safe backwards and forwards as he fed in the combination, performing with the speed of familiarity. There was a final click, and the door, which was at least four inches thick, swung open silently. He reached inside and pulled out a small wooden box. He carried it past Bucket and Gordon to the table, where he placed it down and opened it as they gathered round him. Under the yellow light of the paraffin lamp he produced a small item wrapped in brown paper, which he carefully opened up. The item he had brought them to see was a silver watch. Mr Stope placed it on the table and stood back into the shadows.

  ‘Now have a look.’

  Mr Bucket hung back, so Gordon crouched over the table. At first he hesitated to even pick it up, and just moved it around so that it was in a better light. He could see that it was well made and fairly expensive, but not of the first quality. It appeared to be of silver. But then other things began to catch his attention. The chain was broken – at least half the length it should have been, with the final link clearly wrenched apart by some force. And there were dark spots on the face and edges of the case. At last he picked it up, making sure not to touch the stained areas, and held it closer to the light. There were several more small spots on the back, and one larger one.

  ‘This is blood.’ Gordon felt certain he was right, but he glanced over his shoulder for confirmation and saw Stope nod.

  And now something else caught Gordon’s eye. Beneath the engraved manufacturer’s name some initials had been added in a different, extravagantly italic style.

  JS.

  He straightened up. ‘JS. Jonathan Scambles.’

  ‘This was at the scene of the murder in Montague Place, then, Billy? Why didn’t you say, old man?’

  ‘Because it’s my case. Because I never thought there would be any need to prove my case to another detective. I’ll do that before a jury, and successfully.’

  ‘Mr Stope,’ Gordon said. ‘Please try to understand that certain things kept coming to light purely by chance as we dealt with other matters. Things that didn’t prove anything so we didn’t feel able to—’

  But Stope was already on his way out of the room, leaving them to lock the evidence away again.

  Gordon let out a deep sigh. ‘Have we handled this in the correct manner, Mr Bucket?’

  ‘I do hope so, Mr Gordon of that ilk. Now you go and escort Mrs Scambles back to her home, something which I know will relieve Mrs Bucket’s sister greatly.’

  ‘But won’t she be in danger?’

  ‘Not any longer. Off you go. I’ll meet you back in the office first thing in the morning.’

  Gordon obediently left Mr Bucket, but looked back from the doorway before he departed. The inspector was gazing intently at the back of the silver watch, like a man reading a cipher.

  XVII

  THE COMMITTEE OF the National Truss Society for the Relief of the Ruptured Poor met on a monthly basis, the venue rotating between the homes of the various committee members. This month, the six esteemed ladies, among the cream of London society, were gathered at the Mayfair residence of Dame Agnes Bludger. Advance preparations for the Spring Bazaar were under way. Arrangements for the fund-raising soirée at the end of February, to which such eminent personages as Lord Pickance and Admiral Welchet had graciously agreed to lend their patronage, were all but complete. A debate on the merits of organizing a raffle – which to some members had too strong a whiff of gambling about it for it to be considered acceptable – was interrupted by the arrival of refreshments, and the ladies took a break from their labours. Lady Rhynde wished to sp
eak to Lady Bligh about obtaining cuttings from her amaranthus; but Lady Bligh was already in conversation with Baroness Sowerby, and Lady Rhynde had certain reasons for wishing to avoid the company of Baroness Sowerby. She veered away from those two ladies and found herself gravitating towards the nearest window, where she gazed down upon the well-wrapped pedestrians, and the steamy breath issuing from the noses of the horses as they pulled their various conveyances along the frosted roads.

  But her reverie did not last. Mrs Honoria Rusely had spied her fellow committee member’s lack of company, and it was not long before she had Lady Rhynde pinned into a corner and was subjecting her to a passionate discourse on the wonders of her pet subject – phrenology.

  ‘You see, my dear, if all of the lower classes might be subjected to phrenological screening – a perfectly painless and speedy process – then those with obviously criminal protuberances might be separated out from the rest of society.’

  Mrs Honoria Rusely had a disconcerting way of standing uncomfortably close to her captive audience. Lady Rhynde had already backed away as discreetly as possible several times and now she could retreat no further, and had to endure Mrs Rusely’s stale breath, and her entire field of vision being filled by the woman’s rheumy eyes and jowly undulations.

  ‘Is the reading of lumps and bumps of one’s head really to be relied upon to discern criminal tendencies in people?’

  ‘Oh, it is entirely infallible, my dear.’

  ‘But then there might be a large number of such persons. What would one do with them? Particularly taking into account the fact that they would not yet have committed any crime.’

  Mrs Rusely swatted away these mere details with the sweep of a fleshy white hand. ‘Perhaps not committed any crime known to the authorities! They might be allowed to live within special enclosures – perhaps built on ground which is marshy or otherwise unsuited for normal human habitation or cultivation. Or sent to some uninhabited or sparsely populated savage country in the same way that convicted criminals are transported to Van Dieman’s Land – with adequate food and clothing, naturally. Such persons are used to having little and surviving on their wits. There can be little doubt but that they should manage.’