‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘I have some very important information to relate to you.’
Mr Bucket unbuttoned his coat and shook it, as if trying to rid it of the clinging noxious vapours. ‘Yes?’
‘Constable Hacker, if you would be so kind as to deal with PC Lush and his prisoners while I speak to Mr Bucket on a most important matter ….’ Without waiting for an answer, Sergeant Raddle moved swiftly from behind the desk and ushered Mr Bucket to a quiet corner of the Back Hall.
‘What’s the to-do, Mr Raddle?’
‘A message from Inspector Stope, sir. He says there has been a development on the Mizzenmast case, and would you be so kind as to join him in questioning an informant at Execution Docks: the Imperial Spice and Tobacco Company at 2 p.m.’
‘The Mizzenmast case, no less!’ Mr Bucket echoed with the hint of a twinkle in his eye. ‘Still, plenty of time. Meanwhile, I think I shall—’
‘Not necessarily, I’m afraid, Mr Bucket. Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton is at the Southwark Mortuary where lays a body he feels you might like to see.’
‘Well, there goes my lunch break then, Raddle old man!’
‘Yes, sir. Shame,’ replied Sergeant Raddle – but he was wearing a half-smile and had one eye on Constable Hacker, who was being harangued by both the man with the large head and his monkey.
‘A stabbing, Mr Bucket,’ pronounced Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton, the Commissioner of Great Scotland Yard.
‘Evidently,’ said the detective, looking down at the naked, blue-tinged, lanky body with a deep purple, congealed slit in the left side of its neck.
‘He has been identified by his lodging housekeeper as Thomas Jones.’
‘Really?’
‘And then by an acquaintance as William Chuddersby, a former servant of Lady Rhynde.’
‘And now by me as Alfred Jukes!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s his real name. But I’d rather know the name of the man that killed him. That would suit me very nicely. Begging your pardon, sir, but what brings the Commissioner of Police to a common mortuary?’
Sir Marriot shrugged. ‘Everyone seemed to be out on other cases, and I realized this was to do with her ladyship’s stolen ferns.’
‘And a lot more besides.’ Mr Bucket’s right forefinger traced the outline of his sideburn, before pushing the rim of his hat up a little.
‘What? Do you refer to the Mizzentoft case, Inspector?’
Now, the wandering finger briefly touched the side of his nose. ‘Things are coming to a head, sir. If the Commissioner will indulge me a little longer, I have every reason to believe I shall be able to deliver not only a full report to him, but the true killer!’
‘So it isn’t Dr Scambles?’ Mr Bucket shook his head, and the Commissioner groaned quietly to himself. ‘He’ll no doubt sue us.’
‘I doubt that, sir.’
‘Billy Stope won’t be very happy, either.’
A shadow passed over Mr Bucket’s face. ‘No, sir. He won’t.’
Sir Marriot nodded towards the corpse. ‘And I suppose it was not he who killed Mizzentoft?’
‘No, sir. It wasn’t him neither.’
A bulky man was loitering in a doorway near the church of St George the Martyr in Southwark. Even though the street lighting was unequal to the dense fog, he was clearly visible to passers-by and nearby shopkeepers, and he looked suspicious. But he was big, shaven headed and scarred about the face, and as long as he stayed away from them and their property, no one was going to approach him or trouble to involve themselves with what he might be up to.
When Mr Bucket left the mortuary, he pulled up his green scarf against the fog and, ignoring the main roads, took the most direct route towards Westminster Bridge through the side streets. The bulky man who had been lurking nearby stirred himself and followed, much to the relief of those who had been keeping a nervous eye on his presence. Now he was someone else’s problem.
The General kept in step with the detective, but some yards behind; that, and the dampening effect of the fog meant that he was able to follow in virtual silence. He continued to do this for some minutes, until Mr Bucket crossed busy Waterloo Road and took yet another quiet, narrow street which would take him toward Westminster Bridge Road. As far as could be seen through the sickly miasma, this thoroughfare was deserted, and the General quickened his step; as quietly as possible at first, then, when he was just a few paces from his objective he launched into a sprint, which was surprisingly swift for a big man. As Mr Bucket twirled round, the General was already upon him. He grabbed the policeman by the lapels and yanked him into an alley with such sudden force that he was powerless to resist. He was pinned to the wall and his arms were trapped against his sides by the General’s mass pressing against him.
‘You’ve got to help me, Mr Bucket!’
‘It don’t seem like you’re a-needing much help from me, General.’
The bruiser sheepishly relaxed his grip and took a step back. ‘Things ’as got out of hand, Mr Bucket. I’ll stand up to any man – any two or three if it comes to it. But this is diff’rent. This is too big for me. But I swear I ain’t goin’ to the gallows, Mr B.’
‘The Montague Place business?’
The General nodded. ‘The finger’s startin’ to point my way and I know it – but I swear it weren’t me. I didn’t even know about it till after it’d ’appened.’
‘Then why might you think you’re in the frame? We’ve already got a man locked away in Coldbath for it.’
‘Aw, come on Mr B – you’re in on it like the rest of ’em. Everyone knows that doctor’s going to walk. Now Jukes is dead, you’ll be coming after me – and I swear I’ll take one or two of you to ’ell with me afore ye get the bracelets on me, so I do!’
‘Now, now, General. No need for that sort of talk.’
‘I break heads, Mr Bucket. I don’t do people in – except the odd time in self-defence.’
‘Naturally.’
‘I know ’oo killed that man – but I can’t tell yer or I’d be signing me own death warrant anyway.’
‘There’s someone even the General is a-feared of?’
‘Not in that way ….’
Mr Bucket reached out and placed a hand on the General’s shoulder. The big man tensed, since this was the way arrests were made; but the detective merely gave him a couple of heavy, reassuring taps.
‘I know you didn’t kill Edward Mizzentoft, General. And you know I’d never send an innocent man to the gallows.’
‘I do, sir. I do that!’ he replied in an almost pathetic manner, like a guilty dog hoping to avoid a beating from its master.
‘And I believe I know who did do it. But what I need from you is to confirm it – and you may well need to stand before a court and tell everything you know.’
‘Grass someone up in court? There’s my reputation, Mr Bucket.’
‘It’s the only way, old fellow. You’ve already said you fear for your life one way or the other, and I might not be able to help you if you don’t help me. Together, we can make sure the real murderer goes down and then you can stop looking over your shoulder. Why, you can soon restore your reputation by breaking a few more heads.’
The General half turned away. His big paw of a hand rubbed back and forth across his bristly scalp while the internal struggle went on.
‘Will you make me say ’is name, Mr B?’
‘I will say his name. You don’t have to say anything. If you turn and walk away, I know I’m right – and you can swear before the good Lord and on your mother’s grave that you never named anyone to the law.’
‘But my mother ain’t dead, Mr B.’
‘Well, your grandmother or your great-great grandmother. It’s all the same, and it is the best way, don’t you see?’
The General did see. Mr Bucket looked him in the eye for a moment until he was sure he had his full attention, then he named his man.
The ex-prize-fighter shuffl
ed awkwardly, checking all about him for any sound or hint of someone lurking in the fog. Then, he cast Mr Bucket a knowing look and walked briskly away. Mr Bucket himself did not leave immediately but remained rooted to the spot, gazing at the back of the figure as the curtain of mist quickly closed behind it. In order to solve one slaying he had to turn a blind eye to another. One involved important people, the other a mere street urchin – that was the simple fact of the matter. Because in order to avoid jeopardizing his case Mr Bucket had to allow the killer of Tom Prike to walk free.
XXVII
‘HOW HAS MY wife been taking all this?’ asked Scambles. ‘She hasn’t visited me in a while.’
Gordon thought he felt a warmth come to his face and feared he had reddened slightly. He hadn’t expected Scambles to mention Eleanora, since he had shown no signs of caring about her or her plight before now.
‘She has had her ups and downs. I assume you are aware she has been staying with my superior’s relative for a while since the burglary at your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we now have deemed it safe for her to return home.’
‘Does she know everything?’
‘If you mean your financial predicament, yes, she does.’
He gave a bitter smile. ‘And I can imagine how she reacted. I can no doubt look forward to a warm welcome if, as you say, I am soon released from this place.’
He turned that piercing, unwavering gaze on Gordon again. ‘You think I’m an unfeeling man, don’t you, Sergeant.’
It was a statement rather than a question and he was momentarily knocked off balance by it. ‘I … it is not my business as a detective officer to make personal judgements.’
‘Oh, come, sir. It is exactly your business! You must decide whether the people you interview are truthful or liars, wicked or harmless. I know I am not a man of great personal charm or warmth, Mr Gordon. I keep my own counsel and I care not for what the world thinks of me. For my part I don’t think much of the world, so what it thinks is of little moment to me. But she is far worse than I! I prefer to remain aloof and trouble no one. She is an actress, a beguiler. She has beguiled many men, Sergeant. Has she beguiled you? It’s a question which intrigues me. I cannot quite decide whether you are weak enough or greedy enough to allow it.’
Gordon believed he did know the answer, and enjoyed his discomfort. He hated Scambles then more than ever – and he was determined to answer without telling the truth yet also without lying. ‘I am well aware that the air of innocence and vulnerability she presents to the world is a facade.’
To Gordon’s surprise he threw his head back and laughed. ‘Good answer, Mr Gordon!’
He was greatly relieved when they were interrupted by the door opening and a prison officer thrusting his head round it.
‘Dr Scambles, your lawyer is arrived.’
‘Already?’ He removed a watch from his pocket and looked at it. ‘He is a good half hour early – but who am I to complain? He had arranged to visit me to discuss the trial, yet now it seems that we can talk about my imminent release!’
‘Dr Scambles, I pray you do not build up your hopes too—’ The doctor was in the act of returning his timepiece when it hit Gordon, and he cried out, ‘Dr Scambles, pray do not put that watch away.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Is that new? Perhaps one your wife bought while you have been in prison to replace the one you lost?’
‘Lost? I have not lost a watch, Sergeant. This watch was given to me by my father as a twenty-first birthday present.’
‘You did not perhaps own another which has gone missing?’
‘What is this? No, sir. I own only one watch, and it has never been lost.’
Gordon could feel the skin on the back of his neck tingling. ‘A watch bearing your initials was found at the murder scene – a bloodstained watch. May I see yours?’
He handed it over. At first it appeared that it was not personally engraved the way the one in the evidence store at Great Scotland Yard was – but Gordon snapped open the case and there on the inside he saw an inscription:
To JWS from his father
‘JWS?’
‘My full name is Jonathan Webster Scambles. An ancestor married into the Webster family of Dorset and the name has been perpetuated in the naming of the first-born male in the Scambles family ever since. I always go by the full name Jonathan Webster Scambles, never simply Jonathan Scambles.’
‘Then neither you nor anyone else who knew you would use the initials JS when referring to you or inscribing any of your property?’ Gordon’s heart was beginning to pound as the enormity of this discovery’s implications sank in.
‘Certainly not. Anyone who knows me is well aware that—Oh, but wait a moment!’
‘You have remembered something?’
‘When you first came here to meet me it was about a burglary at my home. Something was missing from my desk and no one – including myself – could recall what it was but now I have it! It was a watch. My footman’s watch was in need of repair, and tinkering with mechanical and other such devices being a little hobby of mine I offered to look at it for him. He gave it to me shortly before I left the house on the day of the murder at Montague Place.’
‘What is his name? The initials engraved on the watch found at the murder scene were JS, so it was assumed ….’
‘His name, Sergeant, is James Strachan. I don’t wish to play the detective, but it appears to me that since the theft took place after the murder, whoever stole it did so in a deliberate attempt to bolster the case against me after the fact, mistakenly assuming from the initials on the watch and the fact that it was on my desk that it must be mine. Quite who that could possibly be—’
‘But what about Strachan himself?’
Scambles snorted derisively. ‘Not only does he know nothing of my dealings with Mizzentoft or anyone else and so would have no motive to kill him, but he is simply not capable. The old boy has bad lungs and suffered a minor stroke last year, and he could barely lift a knife, let alone kill someone with it.’
Gordon was on his feet before Scambles had finished. He had never really believed it would have been Strachan anyway, but asked the question because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. There was surely only one man who it could possibly be – even though the very idea seemed utterly appalling and unthinkable ….
XXVIII
MR BUCKET GAZED out of the cab window at the Tower as the horse struggled up Tower Hill – or at least he gazed in the direction of the Tower, since all that could be made out was an indistinct, vaguely portentous mass which appeared to alter shape and hue as the lightest of airs off the Thames constantly rearranged the polluted vapours that enshrouded it. And it was because of the choking, lung-clogging fog that he had gone against his usual habit of walking and had opted for public transport to take him to the Imperial Spice and Tobacco Company at Execution Docks. To the detective, the city had the appearance of one that had had its population ravaged by a great plague and been abandoned by survivors. The folk of the capital were undoubtedly there, but the fog had dampened all sound and hidden from sight those who had ventured out; they flitted briefly in and out of view, hunched, faceless souls, like ghosts seeking a resting place.
Leaving the cab at the top of Old Gravel Lane, Mr Bucket tugged up his emerald green scarf so that it covered his mouth and nose, despite the fact that by now the garment felt damp and cold against his skin. He turned up his collar, pulled down the rim of his hat and embarked on the short walk to his destination. He passed not a soul on Old Gravel Lane, though it was lined with the houses of seamen, shipwrights and dock workers, and as he neared its end he could just hear the lapping of the water on the banks of the river and catch a glimpse of the odd mast in the distance as the fog drifted and eddied. From somewhere nearby he heard a man cry out a greeting, then a muffled reply; from another direction came the weary clip-clop of a horse. It was as if he were in a playhouse: the au
ditorium was in darkness, but the curtains were still drawn even though the performance was under way.
At the end of Old Gravel Lane Mr Bucket turned into Wapping Street. Even without being able to see clearly he knew that lining the river were wharves and small shipyards, and that some of the taller shapes on the shoreline were wooden cranes for unloading the ships that arrived here from all corners of the world. He also knew that he was now in the vicinity of Execution Dock, which was in the jurisdiction of the Admiralty and until recently a place where pirates and mutineers were hanged and their corpses left to be disposed of by the tides. The locals said that Captain Kidd met his end in this place.
The lack of visibility and difficulty in locating landmarks was disorienting, but when Mr Bucket caught a glimpse of the spire of St Mary, Rotherhithe he knew he was getting close. And sure enough he soon found himself looking up at the warehouse of the Imperial Spice and Tobacco Company. The sign was in surprisingly good condition, for the building itself was derelict. The last time Mr Bucket visited this area it had been, he felt certain, a thriving business; but now it was abandoned. The door leading to the offices was shut and barred, but the great barn-like doors through which goods were once moved were lying drunkenly apart, and the detective barely had to duck his head in order to slip through the gap between them. Mr Bucket could sense the cavernous space around him even though the area was in total darkness and the breached entrance and numerous broken windows had allowed the fog to enter as freely as if it were one of the streets or lanes surrounding it. He took a few steps towards what he calculated to be the centre of the warehouse floor, then stopped and looked unseeingly about him, listening, waiting.
So this is where it was to end. A friendship and working partnership of decades; a bond of brotherhood. But how would it end?
Mr Bucket walked again, and kept walking till he reached one wall of the building; then he proceeded to feel his way methodically around the inner perimeter. Distinguishable from the acrid vapours seeping in from the outside world, he could make out the musty smell of rotting timber and the pungent signs of rodent infestation. His sturdy boots crunched on broken glass and wooden splinters. Rusting nuts, bolts and assorted detritus were scattered about with every step, and small animals scurried from his approach.
Murder in Montague Place Page 21