‘Not you, though.’
‘Who can say what a man might do ….’
Stope took a step forward with the gun outstretched. ‘STOP IT! I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND IT WON’T WORK!’
At the same moment the sofa suddenly burst into flames. It looked like a scene from hell as the red and orange tongues of fire instantly leaped to the height of Billy Stope’s head, the shadows playing across his contorted features. Very quickly now, other items caught light: a single curtain beside what was once a window, the broken table, a basket of some unidentifiable material in a corner. The heat was so intense that Gordon had to step back, towards the door.
‘Billy!’ cried Mr Bucket, his voice choked with genuine fear and compassion. ‘You must give yourself up to me now before this here fire traps you good and proper. Forget the damned gun – there’s three of us and only one bullet left by my calculations so you would only be shooting me out of spite before you got taken, and I know that ain’t you.’
The fire whooshed and leapt like a wild beast now. The heat was barely tolerable and the angry cracking of wood and the roar of the unpredictable flames and was a sound both terrifying and sickening. Billy Stope was almost completely encircled, with only his head visible, yet he didn’t flinch for a moment.
‘No, that ain’t me.’ He had to raise his voice over the noise of the conflagration, but a grim smile played on his lips. Then, he slowly raised the gun until it was level with his own temple.
Gordon was frozen to the spot, but Mr Bucket charged into the flames. ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, BILLY – NO!’
There was a sharp crack the instant before Mr Bucket hit Billy Stope and bundled them both to the floor. Gordon dashed through the only ever-narrowing gap in the circle of flames, feeling his hair singeing and his throat and lungs burning with every breath. Mr Bucket was on top of Billy. Blood and brain matter covered the side of his head, and the back of his coat was on fire. Gordon quickly grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him back through what was left of the break in the barrier of fire. He was conscious but a dead weight, as if he could not bring himself to let go of the corpse of his friend.
The next thing Gordon knew he was slumped against the door frame and Sir Marriot was patting the top of his head furiously. Only then did he feel the stinging, scorching sensation on his scalp and catch the smell of singed hair. He began to cough and choke so violently that his lungs seemed to go into some sort of spasm. He saw his own black phlegm adding to the ghastly pattern on Mr Bucket’s body, and suddenly felt like a drowning man. After that, everything went black.
XXX
THERE WERE EARLY signs of spring in the air as Sergeant Gordon and Inspector Bucket cut through St James’s Park on their way to Mayfair and the home of Lady Rhynde. This was the third successive day of cloudy but bright and mild weather; snowdrops and the odd crocus provided a splash of colour here and there, and a robin was chirruping merrily from the branches of a tree ahead of them.
It was the week after the funeral. During the course of his duties, Inspector William Joseph Stope had been tragically killed in a fire despite the best efforts of his colleagues to save him. That was the official story. Mr Bucket would not break the law to save his friend from justice, but now that justice had been done in an unforeseen and terrible way, he could at least do that much for the memory of his old comrade. Not that Gordon’s chief had explained this to him. He had not raised the matter nor even mentioned Billy Stope’s name since Gordon had recovered from the damage done to his lungs by the smoke and heat and returned to work, and he had no wish to press him. Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton was fully behind this version of events, but Gordon knew that it must have originated with Mr Bucket. Dr Scambles was free and reunited, as least for now, with Eleanora. Jukes was dead and the General had disappeared, said to have gone to sea. The only hint Gordon had heard of the whole affair was a remark from Sir Marriot that although Mizzentoft had died at the hands of Billy Stope, it truly had been a tragic accident. This too, must have come from Mr Bucket and so Gordon believed it implicitly. There was nothing to be gained by destroying Billy Stope’s family and making the full truth of the case public. As for the mysterious matter of the ferns, Sir Marriot was happy in the belief – again no doubt acquired from Mr Bucket – that they had been stolen by a mad gipsy woman who had since fled London leaving her haul behind her to be safely reunited with their owners.
They were soon admitted to Lady Rhynde’s house and shown up to see her. But when they entered the room Gordon sensed tension and apprehension in her. The reason for this became apparent when her husband, Sir Dalton Rhynde, the Home Secretary, stepped forward. He had been sitting at a writing desk with his back to them when they had entered, and Gordon had failed to notice him. He was a very severe-looking, snowy-haired man who appeared to be a good ten years older in age and even more than that in his manner than his attractive wife. Whatever troubles Lady Rhynde had experienced went far deeper than mere ferns and Gordon could easily guess that it was something she would not want raising in front of her husband. What Gordon knew – and was sure she did too – was that Mr Bucket had brought a batch of letters written in her hand. They were the same ones he had removed from Baroness Sowerby’s house, and were currently nestling in an inside pocket of his coat.
‘My husband was due to be at a reception for Leopold, King of the Belgians, but we hear that His Royal Highness is indisposed this morning and the function has been postponed until tomorrow,’ her ladyship reported with rather forced lightness of manner.
The Home Secretary ignored Gordon and approached his superior. There was an unnatural stiffness about both his gait and the way he held his head and neck, as if all of his clothing right up to his collar was made of wood.
‘You’re Bucket?’ His voice had a gravelly, grunting quality to it, as though speaking to people below his rank – which was most of the population – required more effort than it was worth.
Gordon’s chief gave a formal nod. ‘Mr Bucket of the Detective at your service, sir.’
‘I know why you’re here.’
Gordon’s heart leapt a little, and he noticed a sort of fleeting wince disturb Lady Rhynde’s face.
Mr Bucket remained as unaffected and affable as ever. ‘Really?’
The politician held out a bony claw of a hand. ‘I wish to thank you for putting my wife’s mind at rest regarding this business with the ferns.’
He didn’t smile, yet Gordon realized to his astonishment that this was the closest he came to displaying warmth.
‘My pleasure, sir,’ replied Mr Bucket.
‘I know it’s a damnable business, calling upon senior members of the Detective to deal with such a trivial matter, but you know what women are like.’ He spoke as though his wife were not present. ‘I feel particularly embarrassed at getting you tied up in all this, since it has come to my attention that you have had a far graver matter to occupy your time, and indeed that a valued colleague of yours lost his life during the course of that investigation. So on behalf of my wife and myself, let me once again thank you.’
He gave the slightest of bows, then turned his back on them and went back to his writing desk leaving Gordon, Mr Bucket and Lady Rhynde standing looking at each other rather awkwardly for a moment.
‘Pteridomania!’ said Mr Bucket suddenly, his left thumb tucked into his lapel and his stout right forefinger raised.
‘Mr Bucket?’ frowned her ladyship.
‘The term for avid fern collecting is pteridomania. I have it on good authority. No less than Mrs Bucket, who is herself a pteridomaniac like your ladyship. Pardon me if that’s not the correct term, ma’am. Don’t sound exactly flattering when said like that.’
Lady Rhynde recovered something of her former brightness of spirit. ‘No – but unfortunately is probably quite correct!’
‘Mrs Bucket has managed to grow them out of doors – in the humble back yard of our little home in Pimlico. Has your ladyship had any similar successes?’<
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Gordon now saw where he intended this to go – as, evidently, did she. ‘I have indeed. Perhaps yourself and Mr Gordon might like to step outside with me to see them?’
‘Why, it is an opportunity not to be missed! I might even pick up some ideas for Mrs Bucket – though I promise to take only ideas back home with me ….’
Gordon found it heart-warming to see Lady Rhynde’s face light up as she chuckled at Mr Bucket’s quip. She led them through the house – which reminded Gordon of a hotel more than a family home – and out into the garden.
‘There,’ she said. ‘I dare say it is no larger than your own “humble back yard” in Pimlico.’
‘Only a little – but the setting is far grander.’
Indeed, Gordon was surprised at how little space she had. The houses of Upper Grosvenor Street, though certainly imposing, were much taller than they were wide and were closely packed together, leaving little space at the rear. But, this being the residence of the Home Secretary, there was a gardener at work at the far end, tending to a little bonfire. And ferns there were: some growing in flower beds, others under little glass cloches about the size of a dog’s kennel. To Gordon, as ever they all looked like drab green foliage, and he could barely differentiate between them; but Mr Bucket listened intently as Lady Rhynde picked out and named her prize specimens.
‘Upon my soul, your ladyship has been most informative and kind,’ said Mr Bucket at last. Then he glanced in the direction of the gardener and lowered his voice a little. ‘But there is one further matter which needs to be discussed.’
She nodded. ‘Jackson – could you leave us please? I’m sure if you go to the kitchen Emily or Mrs Porter will soon have some refreshments ready for you.’
The gardener touched the rim of his hat and went indoors. Mr Bucket watched him go, then slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out the bundle of letters. Gordon was sure that she had known for some time that they were in his safe keeping, yet still the sight of them caused a tremor to run through her slender body.
‘Mr Jackson’s fire is dying,’ said Mr Bucket. ‘Shall we help it along a little?’
‘Yes, please,’ she replied in a barely audible whisper.
‘Would your ladyship care to do the honours?’ He held the letters out to her but she recoiled from them, so he went to the fire and threw them in. As it flared up and crackled, a shadow seemed to dim his eyes and he gazed for a moment. The sounds, the heat, the smell of the smoke … Gordon felt something stir in his own breast at the same moment.
‘Sometimes, Lady Rhynde, letters and other things must be burned out of necessity.’ Mr Bucket was still staring into the fire as he spoke. ‘But that don’t necessarily mean that bridges must be burned ….’
‘I take your meaning, Mr Bucket. Thank you.’
Gordon wasn’t privy to the significance of this message. But equally, he knew she could not possibly have understood fully the meaning it had for him as the orange flames reflected in his distant gaze. Then, as if a spell had been broken Mr Bucket suddenly straightened up, and all signs of melancholy had vanished from his countenance. He raised his hat. ‘Well now, your ladyship. That appears to conclude our business!’
She stepped towards him, beaming and holding out her hand. Instead of allowing him to shake it, she pressed it upwards towards his face, and he kissed it lightly. She did the same with Gordon.
‘There concludes the amazing Mystery of the Ferns, Inspector! But pray bear in mind that my position does have its advantages. My husband is, ultimately, your employer and there might come a day when I can repay you in some way. You must promise that you will not hesitate to ask if you are ever in need of some divine intervention!’
Mr Bucket removed his hat and bowed at the waist. ‘Your ladyship is most kind.’
They were sauntering through Charing Cross on their way back to Great Scotland Yard, talking about this and that. It was actually Mr Bucket who was doing most of the talking, since Gordon’s voice was still painfully husky from the fire. The detective told Gordon a little of his days in the army before joining the police, and of the adverse and suspicious public reaction towards himself and the other members of the new detective force when it commenced operations only a little more than two years previously. But when the tales began to stray towards exploits that involved the late Mr Stope, this line of conversation soon dried up and Mr Bucket quickly changed tack.
‘Do you know what the best thing about getting out of the blue uniform was, Mr Gordon?’
‘Pray tell me.’
‘No longer having to wear them damnable collars, that’s what it was. Well, not so much the collar, but the leather stock we wore inside of them. And do you know what the reason for that was?’
‘I really can’t imagine, but it does sound very uncomfortable.’
‘It was to prevent garrotting, Mr Gordon! It was in case someone crept up behind us and attempted to strangle or garrotte us. Now, never in all my years in uniform did I hear of a single attempted garrotting, yet we still were made to—’
But Gordon’s attention had been diverted away from Mr Bucket’s undoubtedly interesting story towards a scene he had spotted before the railings surrounding the statue of Charles I. A man in a filthy hat with a badly frayed brim was selling songbirds in wooden cages in front of the monument, and a respectable-looking gentleman with what looked like his son were inspecting them and conversing with the bird-seller. Nearby, an idler lounging against the railings was casually looking all about him as if watching the world go by – but his gaze kept coming back to the man studying the birds, who had his back to him. To Gordon’s mind, it was a calculating gaze.
‘Hold a moment, Mr Bucket ….’
‘What’s that?’
‘Let us stand here a moment.’ Gordon positioned his back to the little group of people beside the statue. ‘Look over my shoulder to that thin man in the grey jacket by the railings – but don’t make him aware that you are observing him.’
Mr Bucket scowled at his sergeant. ‘I do know my job, Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk. Now, let’s have a look-see. No, don’t recognize him. Could be just …. No, hang on. Prepare for action, Mr Gordon! Hold – not yet, sir …. There he goes, shuffling closer … going for the coat-tail pocket I’ll be bound. NOW!’
Mr Bucket took off like someone in the hundred yard dash, and Gordon turned sharply to follow. He veered away to the right so that he would come up behind the would-be pickpocket. Sure enough, as soon as he saw Mr Bucket charging towards him he spun round to head in the opposite direction – straight into Gordon’s arms. The man cursed and struggled but he was so slightly built as to be almost emaciated, and Gordon had no trouble in restraining him without Mr Bucket needing to intervene; his only fear was that the gentleman whose pocket had almost been picked and who was now advancing upon them with a face like thunder might launch an attack on his prisoner. But Mr Bucket had descried a policeman on his beat walking up the Strand, and summoned him. Their captive was grasped firmly by the collar and led away.
‘Most commendable, Mr Gordon. You are becoming quite the finished detective.’
‘I am fortunate in having a good teacher.’
‘I was thinking we might repair to the Ten Bells.’
‘I won’t argue with that, Mr Bucket.’
‘But then it occurred to me that you have some paperwork to deal with.’
‘I do?’
‘Well, there’s your expenses form to fill in, at least.’
Gordon searched his mind. ‘Expenses?’
‘Yes. On the occasion when you last met Mrs Scambles you informed me you had to pay for the information given to you. So we had better get a form for you to fill in. Don’t want you out of pocket.’
Was that a twinkle in his eye, or Gordon’s paranoia? ‘I … I am in no need of recompense for that, Mr Bucket ….’
‘Ah! Feeling flush, are we? The drinks are on you then, Mr Gordon. Mine’s a brandy and water, if you please.’
Glossary of Slang Phrases
Aris – backside
Barney – fight
Bawdy Houses – brothels, low lodging houses etc.
Beak – magistrate
Beershop – private house selling beer
Bit Faker – maker of counterfeit coins (also “coiner”)
Black Maria – police vehicle for taking prisoners to gaol
Bob – shilling
Bounce – swagger
Bullies – bouncers on doors of brothels, lodging houses etc.
Bull’s-eye – lamp carried by a constable
Bunter – woman who takes lodgings then absconds without paying
Cad – omnibus conductor
Claret – blood, esp. from a fight
Crack a case – burgle a house
Cracksman – more professional type of thief than an opportunist
Crown and Anchor – gambling game
Dip – pickpocket
Dollymops – amateur, opportunist prostitutes
Dollyshops – unofficial pawnbroker, often receivers of no-questions-asked stolen goods
Double-eye-glasses – hand-held spectacles which can fold over one another. The folding action differentiates them from lorgnettes. When folded, could be used as single lens of double thickness.
Doss House – lodgings
Drag, a – three-month prison sentence
Dragsman – thief who robs carriages/cabs by climbing up behind and taking luggage from roof
Fan – to fan someone: to feel someone’s pocket for something worth stealing
Fustian – [Also called bombast] a heavy woven mostly cotton fabric
Murder in Montague Place Page 23