And then he stopped suddenly. He had heard a different sound, something far above his head. It was not repeated, but he believed he had pinpointed its location, and when his perambulation brought him to an alarmingly decrepit-looking set of stairs, he began to ascend, placing his feet with great caution at every step. The flimsy stair rail – the only thing between him and the floor below - was leaning at an alarming angle, and moved several more inches when he put his hand on it. The treads beneath his feet were rotten, holed, loose and occasionally missing completely. But it had to be possible to negotiate this path, because he knew another had recently done it before him. Just before reaching the top, the detective took a step and the timber beneath his boot crumbled away, pitching him forwards and down. He instinctively grabbed for the banister even though he knew it was useless. It buckled and splintered, and Mr Bucket stumbled towards the edge, praying that the step his hands were about to make contact with would bear his weight. It did. He winced at the jarring of his wrists and shoulders on impact; his hat rim struck the bridge of his nose, bounced onto the stairs, then was swallowed by the darkness. There were a couple of seconds of silence, then it could be heard clattering onto the floor below. There was a searing pain in his knees where they had struck sharply against the splintered edge of the stairs, but the stinging was nothing to him at that moment. He had avoided plummeting to the warehouse floor below, and now there was undoubtedly a greater challenge to be faced.
The fog was much thinner on the landing, and Mr Bucket could see that this floor consisted of a long corridor with numerous rooms leading off it. The doors to most of the rooms were ajar, as if only temporarily vacated by the staff who once worked here. There was no sound, no movement; which room had the noise Mr Bucket heard come from? He proceeded stealthily, listening, looking. Then he heard something like the shuffle of a single foot against bare floorboards and paused, fixing his eyes on a door to his right a little way ahead. He edged towards the room until he was within reach of the door, then waited, listening intently. He could only hear the sound of his own breathing, but his stout forefinger moved to a spot just in front of his nose and hovered there; he sensed a presence behind this door. His hand moved away from his face until his palm rested against the door. It moved easily but noisily until it was half open, when the bottom became stuck fast against an uneven floor.
Across the room he could see daylight – such as it was that grim day for not only had a large window been smashed from its frame, but a jagged section of wooden wall itself had gone, too, leaving a gaping hole in the side of the building. Silhouetted against this grey glimpse of fog and sky he could just see the spire of St Mary’s, Rotherhithe. But there was another dark outline beside it. This one was within the room, and was topped by the shape of a tall hat. The bell of St Mary’s chimed two o’clock; the sound was dampened by the heavy, dank atmosphere, as if the church itself was in awe of the drama being played out.
‘Afternoon, Bucket. Right London Peculiar out there.’
‘Terrible choker. Even worse than yesterday, and that was bad enough. They say it will clear up tonight, though.’
‘The Chief has been in a bad mood today. Don’t know what’s got into him.’
‘He’s just discovered his mother-in-law is a-coming to stay for the weekend. They’ve never quite seen eye to eye, as you might say.’
Stope laughed gruffly. ‘Well that wouldn’t be an easy thing to accomplish because I saw them together at a function a couple of years ago and—’
‘—She’s a good foot taller than him!’ Mr Bucket finished the sentence for him, joining in the subdued mirth. ‘That was just after we’d rounded up that gang of forgers from Essex. That was a good job, all right!’
‘Nobody else in the Detective could have got to the bottom of that but you and me, Bucket. And what about the Mizzentoft case? How does that go?’
‘That’s nearly all squared up, Billy.’
‘Thought as much. That’s why I thought I’d have a little chat with you ….’
‘No, old friend. You’ve got more than that in mind. If you’d wanted a little chat we could have done that at the Yard. You have something more significant planned.’
The dark, broad-shouldered outline remained as static and solid as that of the church in the background. A finger of fog spiralled into the room through the yawning wound in the side of the building and formed a translucent barrier between the two men.
‘I knew it would come to this. For God’s sake, as soon as you started nosing around I knew it would end like this.’
‘I never made it my business to interfere in your case, Billy. I promise you that as one man to another. It was just circumstances. First, Mrs Scambles comes to me and tells a convincing tale. Then I get involved in the stolen ferns business – quite by chance, Billy. Just happened to be passing one of those swanky houses off Drury Lane. That led me to Jukes – though he was calling himself Chuddersby. It took me but a little time to remember him. It took me quite a bit longer to remember that when we were in uniform he used to sell scraps of information to you. It was him, wasn’t it?’
Stope nodded curtly.
‘From what Mr James Alexander Gordon and I have picked up along the way, I guessed he had stolen the watch from the Scambles home.’
‘You’ve got it. After Mizzentoft died I needed someone to run the General to keep everyone in order. That made me two removed from things and harder to be fingered.’
‘That was good thinking. But, Lord, Billy – why kill Mizzentoft in the first place? That’s not you, that’s not.’
‘I turned into a greedy man, that’s what it was. That’s what I became.’
‘A greedy man, a flash man – but not a murderer. It don’t add up, old man.’
‘How many times have we heard someone claim it was all a terrible misfortune? There was a scuffle, and it was an accident, Officer. Too many. Well, that’s how it was. But I knew how that would go down, especially when it came out that I owed Mizzentoft a lot of money and I’d made certain threats in order to keep him quiet. Empty threats, but people knew of them. He must have thought I was coming to make good my promises, and he pulled a knife on me. I grabbed his wrist, we wrestled, fell over a footstool, and I landed on top of him. My weight forced the knife into his chest.’
‘Well there you are, Billy! You’re not a common criminal but a respected officer of the Detective. Your word will carry weight with a jury. You’ve let things get into a mess through greed and bad thinking, but you’re a man of the world, a man of sound sense, that’s what you are, Billy.’ Mr Bucket began to move towards Inspector Stope. ‘What you’re going to do is—’
Stope also advanced, but in a much more menacing fashion. ‘That line won’t wash with me the way it does with others! We both know it’s the hangman for me if I don’t vanish.’
‘Duty is duty, Billy, and you know what I must do.’
‘You can tell as well as any man I’ve known when someone is lying. You know I didn’t set out to murder Mizzentoft – that it was an accident. I could just disappear, run for it. You tried to catch me, but I got away. You never were a fast runner, Bucket – it was always me as caught the dashers.’
‘You could always out-run me for sure, but now is not the time for running. You can judge when a man is a-telling the truth every bit as well as me, my friend, and you know I have to take you in.’
Mr Bucket took another tentative step into the darkness of the fog-shrouded room, his tentative feet searching out hidden obstacles.
Stope stayed where he was – but his hand reached into his pocket. ‘God help me, Bucket – I won’t be taken.’
XXIX
GORDON BURST THROUGH the big double doors of Great Scotland Yard, sending an unfortunate middle-aged civilian couple reeling backwards and landing in a heap on the floor. Ignoring their indignant cries and those of others who had witnessed it, he raced straight up to Sergeant Raddle at the front desk. He was in conversation with Sir Marriot
Ogle-Tarbolton.
‘Where is Mr Bucket?’
‘Why, Mr Gordon – what has come over you?’ Sir Marriot demanded.
‘I must see Mr Bucket immediately. And where is Mr Stope?’
‘Really, Mr Gordon—’
‘Mr Bucket has gone to meet Mr Stope in Wapping,’ Sergeant Raddle stated. ‘Must be a serious matter, since Billy requisitioned a revolver from the armoury.’
Gordon groaned. ‘Did Mr Bucket also?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Pray calm yourself, sir,’ said Sir Marriot, ‘and tell me why you are acting in such a manner.’
‘It was Billy Stope who killed Edward Mizzentoft!’
The two men exchanged bewildered glances. ‘Have you gone completely mad?’ asked the Chief.
‘The primary piece of evidence against Scambles is supposedly his watch. I have discovered that this is not his watch – and anyway could not have been at the murder scene as Mr Stope claimed since it did not go missing till after the murder. There are other things. Mr Bucket knows more than I, but you must believe me! We must assume that Mr Stope intends to silence Mr Bucket!’
Sir Marriot’s eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed indecisively.
‘Sergeant Raddle – tell me exactly where Mr Bucket was to meet Mr Stope.’
‘Execution Dock, sir. The Imperial Spice and Tobacco warehouse.’
Gordon turned sharply on his heels. ‘Then I must go there.’
‘Wait for me, Gordon!’ called Sir Marriot.
‘Don’t you want pistols, sir?’ came Sergeant Raddle’s voice.
‘No time,’ Gordon replied without looking back. He’d never had cause to requisition a weapon since joining the detective branch but he knew they had to be located, unlocked and signed for and every moment counted. Gordon was soon out of the building and racing into the fog with no thought as to whether or not Sir Marriot was keeping pace with him – when it occurred to him that he had not the slightest idea where Execution Dock was. Then he heard the Chief hailing a cab.
‘It’s a long way, Gordon. This will be quicker.’ The Chief’s disembodied voice came through the fog. He wasn’t sure whether he really meant it was too far for his little legs to carry him at such a pace, but he had little choice other than to run back and join him as he was boarding the hansom and barking instructions to the driver.
‘And get us there as quick as you can. You’ll be paid treble your fare if you do!’
The driver yelled at his horse and cracked his whip, and the cab lurched into action, the driver lashing at the animal and uttering short, sharp imprecations. It was the most terrifying journey of Gordon’s life. They could see no more than ten yards ahead, and if any unexpected obstacle had presented itself they should have had no chance whatsoever of stopping. Several times the two-wheeled vehicle tilted so crazily as it raced round corners that Gordon felt sure they should tip over completely; and every few seconds shadowy figures loomed out of the fog, running or jumping for their lives as they flew over the cobbles like a coach from hell with the Devil at the reigns. But a greater fear than all that weighed on Gordon’s mind as he fretted over the fate of Mr Bucket. He was sure he must now suspect Billy Stope, but they were long-standing friends. Perhaps his heart would prevent him from admitting to the obvious conclusion. There had always been something about Stope that made Gordon slightly uneasy, and as far as his character went it now fell into place and he felt sure that the inspector would stop at nothing to avoid arrest. If Mr Bucket had gone to the rendezvous unprepared for what Billy Stope had in mind ….
The cab thundered noisily down a narrow street, and as it turned a sharp corner at the bottom, the right-hand wheel clipped the wall and jolted them so violently that Gordon’s head cracked against the stiff rim of Sir Marriot’s hat. The Chief ignored it, and continued to peer outside earnestly.
‘This is it, Gordon,’ he muttered, leaning forward and beginning to swing one leg over the side even before the vehicle had slithered to a halt on the wet cobbles.
Gordon could barely make anything out of where they were, but the distinctive stench of the river told him they were close to its bank. He jumped down to follow Sir Marriot, and in doing so held on to the handle of one of the great brass lanterns attached to either side of the cab. Then an idea occurred to him. He put both hands on the body of the lamp, ignoring the burning pain from the hot metal, and after a few wrenches this way and that, lifted it out of its fitting and carried it by its cooler stem.
‘Oi!’
‘This is a serious police matter. Wait there and you will be handsomely rewarded.’
Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton had reached the door of the warehouse only to find it locked, and was barging his shoulder against it. Gordon joined in, kicking at it with the sole of his boot. He soon heard the sound of splintering wood, and between them they forced it open. It was only after they had passed through two rooms of a large office and emerged into the warehouse space itself that Gordon saw a feeble patch of daylight, which told him that the goods entrance was gaping open and would have allowed them easy entry. But by now this was the last thing on his mind – for he could hear voices from above. He hissed to Sir Marriot to stop.
‘Listen!’
The words were indistinct, but to his great relief Gordon felt certain that one of the speakers was Mr Bucket.
‘Look,’ said the Chief. ‘Stairs. Let us proceed silently and cautiously. If Mr Bucket is in danger we may be able to catch Billy off guard.’
Gordon nodded, and they crept towards the stairway as quietly as the debris-strewn floor would permit. The stairs themselves were in a parlous state and they had to take extra care both to avoid too much creaking and for their own safety. But all that changed in an instant. The subdued conversation they had been listening to suddenly rose in intensity, followed by a series of crashes, bangs and shouts, which spoke of a sudden eruption of violence. They quickened their pace, stumbling, but still managing to keep their feet. When the unmistakable sound of gunfire rent the air, all attempts at stealth were forgotten and they stumbled and raced to the top of the steps, finding themselves in a long corridor. The shots seemed to be coming from a room near the end, and they ran towards it. But then the firing had stopped, and Gordon heard voices again. They both instinctively slowed, and resumed their silent advance.
‘Easy there, Billy,’ Mr Bucket could be heard saying. He sounded somewhat shaken and breathless, but Gordon was relieved merely to know that he was still alive.
‘I don’t care any more, don’t you see?’ Despite Mr Stope’s deep growl, there was a catch in his throat as he forced out these words. He sounded like a man close to breaking point.
Gordon could now see that there was a second door to this room further down the corridor. He positioned himself by the first one and gestured to Sir Marriot to go to the other. Gordon intended to show himself to attract Billy’s attention, in the hope that the Chief would have an opportunity to take him by surprise. Sir Marriot nodded, and tiptoed towards the far door. Once he was in position, Gordon slipped in through his door, deliberately placing his feet down heavily so that he would be noticed in the darkness. He shone his lantern about the room until, finally, it illuminated the face of Billy Stope. The eerie light fell on his heavy brow and cast his eyes in deep shadow, making him look more fearsome than ever.
‘That you, Mr Gordon?’ came Mr Bucket’s voice from the darkness.
‘Yes, sir. Are you all right?’
Gordon turned the lantern in the direction from which his voice had come, and saw that Mr Bucket had somehow managed to snatch the revolver away from Billy Stope and was aiming it at his erstwhile friend. It was a relief – yet something felt dangerously wrong about this scene …. By the time Gordon realized what it was, he was already too late. Mr Bucket’s back was to the other door. Sir Marriot suddenly came crashing in shouting for everyone to stand still, but in the process sent Mr Bucket flying into a table in the middle of the room. One of its
legs fractured and it collapsed beneath him. He went sprawling, the revolver hit the edge of the table and went off. Gordon instinctively threw himself to the floor, and in the same instant heard the bullet ricochet off some metallic object and then embed itself in one of the walls. In diving for cover, the large hansom lantern Gordon had been carrying was knocked from his grasp and clattered along the dusty floorboards. It must have spilt nearly a full load of oil, because a streak of flame instantly flared into life and rapidly began to spread. Scraps of paper, wood shavings and other scattered rubbish combusted in a chain reaction, and by this light Gordon could see that the fire was spreading towards a big old sofa.
Worse still, he could see that Mr Stope, on the other side of the fire from the three of them, somehow now held the revolver. It was levelled at Mr Bucket.
‘Would you, Billy? Even now – even after it’s come to this, would you shoot me in cold blood?’
‘My blood ain’t cold.’
‘Then it don’t look good for me. I know you’re a crack shot ’cos I recall the time when that American fellow had me cornered with his Colt against my noggin. Shot him in the temple with an old flintlock from ten yards, you did – remember that, Billy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I do, because I felt the ball whistle over my shoulder. Just past my ear, it went. Still sets it a-ringing just to think of it. That was when we were still in uniform. Long time ago.’
‘You mean when I was a good copper.’
‘That ain’t what I’m getting at. You’re still a good copper – you’ve just succumbed, that’s all. Could happen to any of us. You see, Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk, he ain’t always been flash, our Billy. I saw the signs, but I ignored them because he’s my colleague – my friend. Even now, deep down, he’s the salt of the earth – that’s what Billy Stope is. Me and him have always looked out for each other. But they don’t pay us much. We have to put up with a lot of nonsense from folk every day and risk our necks. We deserve more, and Billy decided it was time to get what he could. Any man might do the same.’
Murder in Montague Place Page 22