The General.
Jones glanced surreptitiously about him for an escape route. At their last encounter he had both a sword concealed in a stick and the element of surprise on his side, yet still hadn’t managed to finish off the former prize-fighter. Things weren’t looking good, except … he knew he had grievously wounded him. Surely the General would not be capable of out-running him?
‘Fancied a change of scenery, did yer?’
‘What do you want?’
‘You tried to carve me up good and proper, but I don’t take it personal. No doubts you ’ad yer orders. But it’s bad fer business if a man like me don’t settle ‘is scores. See – nuthin’ personal!’
He inched a little closer to Thomas Jones. One of his hands was in his jacket pocket, and it occurred to Jones that the General would probably expect him to be armed. He would come prepared this time. While the General had been speaking he had been assessing the lie of the land. There was a dead-end to his right. There was an alley across the road which looked promising – but the General’s wide frame was between him and that route. The main road to the left, at the end of the street they were standing on, was by far the best bet, and it was a dash of only about thirty yards. But the General clearly knew his game. He had been very slightly edging to his right and angling his body so that he was at least half-covering that way too. An image sprang, out of the blue, to Thomas Jones’s mind. It was something he had witnessed seven years ago. He had seen a lot of things that day, but this particular scene lasted no more than a few seconds. A melee in a beer house. The General dispatching a man with a tickler to the lower ribs, which doubled him up, teeth clenched, breath whistling through them like the air being slowly released from a toy balloon. Another man grabbing the General by the throat from behind. The General reaching backwards, grasping the man’s head in his great paws and spinning them both round in a sudden, violent motion. The unearthly click of the attacker’s neck breaking. His body on the floor, twitching like a puppet controlled by a man with a severe nervous tick, then flopping back down, lifeless.
Jones snapped himself back to the present – suddenly he saw a course of action clearly in his head. He had no idea where it came from and he wasn’t expecting it, but he impulsively grasped at it.
‘I can dodge you and I can out-run you and you know it. If you were to make a sudden move I could run back in there and out through the rear, or I could simply skip round you and leg it down the road. Either way you’d never catch me.’
‘I reckon you’d’ve already done that by now if you wuz so sure of yerself.’
‘We can help each other. You’ve got things on me; I’ve got plenty on you. But so have others. Together, we can look out for each other, cover each other’s tracks. There’s things that need to be covered up good and proper so they can never come to light. I know about you and Mizzentoft– and I’m not the only one.’
Even in the fog and the dim light, Jones saw the General’s face grow darker.
‘And ’ow can you look out fer me, might I ask?’
‘I can take care of anyone who knows things that could bring you down.’
‘In case yer didn’t know, I’m pretty good at that sort o’ thing meself. Why do I need you?’
‘Take Mizzentoft. I know people who know things. I know who they are and how to get to them. You don’t. There is more to this than you know. You were purposely only told what was necessary. But I know it all, and that’s my insurance policy. That’s why you need me.’
The General’s shoulders seemed to relax. He removed his hand from his pocket and let it fall to his side. A grin spread across his face. ‘I told yer it weren’t personal. Just business. It’s always just business – and that sounds like good business to me!’
The General sidled up and patted Thomas Jones on the shoulder. ‘Come back inside – I’ll buy yer a drink to seal the deal.’
Jones nodded, but then suddenly grimaced and bent forward with a hand in the small of his back.
‘I didn’t ’urt yer, did I, friend? Sometimes I don’t realize I—’
‘No, no. It’s my old back. Lumbago.’
‘A drop o’ rum, that’s what you need.’
As the General spoke those words, Thomas Jones, still bent over, whipped out the thin-bladed knife tucked into his boot. He straightened up and thrust it in one swift movement, the blade glinting dully in the gaslight as it arced towards the centre of the General’s chest. He was cool, totally focused on executing a lightning, perfect strike. Which was why he did not even see the shorter, broader blade that the General had been palming since taking his hand out of his pocket.
At a glance it looked as if the General had punched Thomas Jones, knocking him to the ground with the sheer brute force of the blow. But a closer inspection would reveal a knife buried to the hilt in the taller man’s neck. And there was arterial blood spurting from the wound. It looked black under the artificial lighting as it splattered into the gutter and quickly began to spread and pool. The General was keen to leave while no one was about, but he was not going to waste a perfectly good knife. He put his boot on the rapidly fading Thomas Jones’s head for leverage and yanked the weapon out, causing a sudden extra-strong gush of blood, which narrowly missed his trousers. He wiped the blade clean on the unconscious, dying man’s coat. Then, with the clump-clump of his heavy-footed tread, he was swallowed by the fog.
XXI
ON THE MORNING after Gordon’s meeting with Mrs Scambles, he was more nervous, as he crossed the floor of the Back Hall and climbed the stairs to the detective offices, than he had been when he had arrived to begin his first day in the post. The encounter itself he had simply been unable to put out of his mind. Various details: subtle smells, physical sensations, sighs, whispers – all jumping into his consciousness unbidden like a series of photographs, yet in vivid colour, flashing before his eyes, one after another. It was both wonderful and terrible, but now, in the cold light of day a multitude of possible consequences dogged his every footstep like a spiteful, taunting rabble of street urchins. How much should he say, how much should he hold back? Not only was he not accustomed to lying or deceit, but this was Mr Bucket, not some ordinary acquaintance who might swallow a convenient falsehood without a second thought.
The said Mr Bucket was leaning back in his chair, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, and gazing out of the window.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Morning.’
Gordon struggled to discern his mood. Was he merely cogitating on something – or did he even know? How could he know? It was impossible. No one knew. But – he was Mr Bucket!
‘Foggy again,’ Gordon ventured, removing his hat and great coat and hanging them up on the stand.
‘A veritable pea-souper, as they say. And like to stay so for a good while yet, according to Mrs Bucket. How did it go yesterday?’
‘Very well ….’
‘And Mrs Scambles was completely satisfied?’
Gordon gulped. ‘Satisfied?’
‘That it was safe to return to her home.’ He took another puff on his pipe, and brushed away a little ash from his maroon waistcoat, the buttons of which were straining somewhat against his ample girth. Gordon noticed for the first time a mourning ring on his little finger. On reflection he felt sure it had been there since their first meeting, yet he had failed to spot it. What sort of detective was he?
‘She appeared to be perfectly content. What about you?’
‘Me? I’m perfectly content. What did she have to say?’
‘No, I mean did you uncover anything interesting after we parted? Has Mr Stope said anything else?’
‘Billy has kept himself to himself, but then that’s his way. I had a very interesting interview with a lady, but certain things were discussed which appertain to that lady’s reputation, and so I’m not free to share them with anyone else, not even you. Leastways, not those parts which have nothing to do with our case.’
Gordon guessed he was re
ferring to Lady Rhynde. He was so discomfited that he was barely registering what Mr Bucket was saying, yet he was keen for his superior to continue in the pathetic hope that it would distract him from asking any more questions about his meeting with Eleanora – even though Gordon knew he had to tell him what he had discovered. ‘But this lady was able to provide you with some useful intelligence?’
‘To be sure. So, did she have nothing useful to tell you?’
‘Who?’
‘Well I’m not a-talking about the Queen of Sheba, Mr Gordon.’
Gordon forced a laugh. ‘Quite! As a matter of fact, yes – she did have something very interesting to relate.’
Mr Bucket removed his pipe and sat up straight. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Mrs Scambles says … that her husband did kill Edward Mizzentoft.’
‘She thinks, or she knows?’
‘She states it as a fact.’
The plump right forefinger began to perform. ‘The last time you spoke to Mrs S she turned on her husband because she had discovered he’d ruined them financially and was greatly indebted to Mizzentoft. How can you be sure she’s not just saying this out of malice?’
‘Do you recall when we first saw the General at the beer shop in Seven Dials?’
‘It was a distinctly memorable kerfuffle, Mr Gordon of that ilk.’
‘He bore various scars—’
‘He was a prize-fighter, man!’
‘But there was a fresh scar. A distinctly recent one on his right cheekbone – did you not notice?’
‘I did not, sir. Why, Lord bless your soul: you really do have the makings of a detective! And that would have been just days after the murder.’
‘There is more. Dr Scambles bested the General in a fight! The General was employed as a debt collector of the brutal sort by Mizzentoft and was sent to apply pressure to make Scambles pay back what he owed. Things became heated; the doctor lost his temper and by all accounts turned into some sort of wild man and completely overwhelmed our surprised pugilist friend. Then, still in an uncontrollable passion, he sought out the man who had sent the General to him – Mizzentoft – and did for him.’
‘What about the knife?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mizzentoft was stabbed. We are to believe that Scambles lost all self-control – yet such a state can only be maintained for so long before the blood begins to cool and the likely consequences of one’s actions begin to come to the surface. It must have taken some time to obtain the knife.’
‘He was a doctor – he must have had easy access to all manner of sharp implements.’
‘I take it the fight with the General did not take place while Dr Scambles was with a patient?’
‘I don’t know for certain, but I don’t think so.’
‘Then he may well not have had his bag with him. The mere act of returning home, probably having to speak to servants, to his wife, having to pick out the best instrument for the job – all of these things would allow the fury to dissipate and the intellect to intervene. I’ll grant you, we got a fine example of the fellow’s temper when we paid him a visit in Coldbath, but I see Dr Scambles as being a flash-in-the-pan sort of a man. Flares up, then just as quick dies down. Likes to be in control of himself, that’s what he likes. Bet he’s never been drunk in his life!’
‘I agree up to a point. But according to El—Mrs Scambles, he is capable of seeing through a vendetta to its end, no matter how long it takes.’
Mr Bucket left his desk and went over to the window, not that he could see much, what with the fog outside and the condensation on the glass. But Gordon knew he was looking inward, not out. ‘It don’t take much imagination to see him committing the ultimate sin, that much I do concede. But, was Mrs Scambles being truthful, or merely vengeful? Did she offer up this information freely?’
Gordon was glad Mr Bucket had his back to him. ‘Not entirely….’
‘Oh?’
‘There was a price. I would just like to state—’
‘There’s always a price for intelligence as prized as that. That’s the way we work. You’d better put in an expenses claim.’
‘A what? Oh, I see, yes.’
‘I realize she is now a needy woman. How much did it cost?’
‘She is a needy woman, and it cost … a lot. Look, Mr Bucket … she attempted to barter with me by using … intimate methods. If I had been foolish enough to succumb, how serious a matter would it have been? Purely for future reference.’
‘More of an embarrassment than a sacking offence, I’d say.’
‘But I’m not talking about internal discipline. If something like that came out at Dr Scambles’ trial, it may adversely affect the case. I mean, for a detective officer to admit to intimacy with a material witness—’
‘She didn’t witness anything, so don’t go using police terms till you know what they mean, Mr James Alexander Gordon.’
Gordon felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. But Mr Bucket had not finished.
‘Supposing you had succumbed to Eleanora’s – begging your pardon, Mrs Scambles’ – wiles, I doubt whether she would want to get a fine, good-natured man like yourself who has shown her only kindness into trouble. But one day you will come up against someone who would use it against you, yet you’ll find it hard to tell the difference. Very hard.’
He extinguished his pipe and knocked the ash into the metal bin beside his desk, then picked up his coat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘We are a-going to see Baroness Sowerby, that’s where we’re a-going.’
But once they had left the building and had entered Great Scotland Yard itself, they had barely walked five paces when they encountered Mr George coming towards them.
‘How do, Mr George! What brings you here?’ said Mr Bucket.
‘I hope I’m not wasting your time, gentlemen,’ the old soldier began, ‘but I’ve just had a conversation with a person in my shooting gallery that I thought you might want to hear about. It’s all second-hand tittle-tattle, I’m afraid, but when I heard the name Mizzentoft—’
‘Bless your heart, Mr George. I’ll be glad to hear what you’ve got to say – can’t have too much information in this game, and it’s easy enough to discard what don’t matter.’
‘The man who came to shoot is a solicitor from Tooting, and he’s also a member of the Chandos Club in Langham Place. It seems that Edward Mizzentoft also happened to be a member, and the two were vaguely acquainted. Sounds as if, although Mizzentoft had money and acted the gentleman, most of the members saw through him and guessed there was something a bit off about him. Who he really was and how he came by his wealth was the source of much gossip at the club, and all sorts of rumours abounded. The one which caught my attention was that he was something of a ladies’ man, and that among others he was said to have consorted with the beautiful wife of a doctor acquaintance of his. No names were given, but adding two and two together….’
‘Mrs Scambles?’ Gordon couldn’t help blurting out.
‘That’s for you gentlemen to decide,’ Mr George replied.
‘Well, she does have that way about her,’ said Mr Bucket, giving Gordon a knowing look. ‘That’s very much appreciated, Mr George.’
‘But there’s more, Mr Bucket. It was rumoured that Mizzentoft was living in fear of her – having got wind of a story that she paid to have a former lover done in!’
Mr Bucket glanced at Gordon again. ‘Sounds like a dangerous woman to know, this Mrs Scambles.’
‘If indeed it is her,’ Gordon countered.
‘He was an elderly landowner called Digby whom she bewitched so completely that he wrote her into his will – whereupon she approached a known tough and offered him money to bump the old man off. But in the meantime the man’s family got to know about the liaison and intervened, threatening her with exposure if she did not disassociate herself from him.’
‘Do we know if Mizzentoft left a will?’ Gordon wo
ndered out loud. ‘If he did, and he left money to Mrs Scambles ….’
‘Quite, Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk!’ said Mr Bucket. ‘This is something that might turn our whole investigation down a new path. Something that needs investigating.’
‘Mr Bucket, I think that owing to my previous contact with Mrs Scambles—’
‘So off you go! I have matters to discuss with Mr George here over a glass of brandy and water in the Ten Bells. We shall meet again at three at the home of Baroness Sowerby.’
Approaching the Russell Square home of Eleanora Scambles, Gordon’s heart was pumping so forcefully that he could feel his ribcage quaking rhythmically inside his heavy coat. The last time he had felt this way was before battle, yet this time, despite the new information they had received from Mr George, his fears weren’t to do with any danger he might be in. It was simply … her. No other human being he had ever met had possessed the power to send his mind into such a state of chaos and confusion. Even possessing this new information about her – which still may or may not be true – Gordon wasn’t sure whether he was afraid of being bewitched by her again, or of the possibility that perhaps he wanted to be. He told himself that the latter wasn’t true, but in reality he no longer trusted his rational judgement in the matter.
As Gordon was being shown in he endeavoured to scrutinize the maid’s face for signs that she was aware of the previous intimacy between himself and her mistress, and that she assumed that his current visit was of the same nature. Servants had a way of gleefully letting one know these things subtly even while still deporting themselves in the correct manner. But the dull-featured Polly seemed incapable of such artful behaviour. She led Gordon not to the parlour but directly to the drawing room, even though Mrs Scambles was not there to receive him. He was about to sit on the sofa, but then thought better of it and switched to the relative isolation and safety of an armchair. Despite avoiding the sofa, as Gordon cast his eyes around the room he could not avoid the memories of his last visit. He perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair, as if not wishing to sully himself further by any more physical contact with this room than was necessary.
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