This was it. This was that moment that, if Cavanagh had his suspicions, he would act. The Ghost weighed up possibilities. He already knew which of the men were strongest and which were weakest. Marchant had the honor of propping up that particular list. At the top, however, was the man behind the desk, a man The Ghost knew from his dossier to be as ruthless as he was quick in combat.
“And your father was a sepoy at Jalalabad in 1842, you say?” continued Cavanagh, allowing the letter to flutter to the tabletop.
The Ghost nodded.
“Very brave, the sepoys,” continued Cavanagh. “I knew an especially courageous one once.”
The Ghost looked at him, hardly able to believe his ears as he thought of the poor, nameless sepoy, but Cavanagh had already moved on. “And your father knew me?”
“Knew of you, sir, though he would have liked the opportunity to become acquainted, I’m sure. I feel certain he would be envious of me now.”
Cavanagh raised a faintly bemused eyebrow. “Oh yes? And why would that be, exactly?”
“He spoke very highly of you, sir. He talked of you as a hero, as the great soldier who survived the march from Kabul; that I should look out for your name as you were surely destined for greatness.”
“He thought I was ‘destined for greatness’? Why, because I can bear the cold and I’m handy with a saber? Go out there and you’ll find a hundred men who fought as fiercely as I did, served their country just as I did, and did what they could to survive, just as I did. None of them have achieved greatness. Not unless you consider it a great achievement to have Marchant shout at you day and night. None have reached my rank. What on earth made your father think I would be the one to thrive?”
“He was right, though, sir, wasn’t he?”
Cavanagh acknowledged the point with a tilt of the chin, but . . . “The question remains.”
The Ghost swallowed. Here comes the moment of truth. “He mentioned an organization, sir,” he said, “an organization that had taken an interest in you because of your talents. A very powerful organization, sir, and that having this organization’s seal of approval was certainly enough to ensure your rise.”
“I see. And does it have a name, this organization?”
“The Knights Templar, sir.”
Marchant’s oily smile remained fixed but his eyes narrowed as the words “Knights Templar” dropped like a stone into the still pool of the room. Behind him, The Ghost sensed the three fighters tense. Were they readying themselves for something The Ghost might do? Or for something Cavanagh might do?
“That’s right. Your father was correct.” A brief smile flickered on the otherwise impassive face. His scar twisted. “How gratifying to know such recognition existed within the lower orders.”
The moment hung as Cavanagh sat back in his chair, fixing The Ghost with an assessing look, as if trying to decode signals the younger man refused to send. Whatever decision the director reached must be his alone, a product of trust in his own instinct. Nothing else mattered now apart from gaining Cavanagh’s trust.
And then the man behind the desk seemed to relax, indicating the letter. “The second interesting aspect of your missive is this information you have on an employee of mine you are going to expose as a traitor. I wonder if that would have anything to do with my employee Robert Waugh, who was found dead at the dig two days ago?”
The Ghost nodded.
“Tell me, how did you make the connection between him and me?”
“I saw him visiting your office, sir.” At this Cavanagh looked up to Marchant with a meaningful stare. “And then when I saw him in a public house I knew it was him.”
“And that’s how you knew that he was indulging in, as you say, treacherous activities?”
“That’s when I suspected, sir, yes.”
“And what made you decide to report it to me?”
It was another moment of truth for The Ghost, another point in his favor or a nail in his coffin, depending on what Cavanagh decided to believe.
“After what my father had told me, sir, I couldn’t believe my luck in seeing you. Seeing your name and seeing the scar and knowing it was the same scar with which you had returned from the doomed retreat, I decided that fate had brought me into your wider circle but that it was up to me to enter the immediate one. The Knights Templar once looked upon you as a man of talent, who might be of use to them. I hope, now, that is how you look upon me.”
“That’s all very well, and maybe even commendable, but at the moment, all I have is your word and a dead body, and I’m really not sure that either is all that much use to me.”
“It was I who killed Robert Waugh, in the hope that you would have given me the job eventually.”
Cavanagh snorted. “Well, that was rather presumptuous of you, wasn’t it? Because to return to my first point, I only have your word that he was a traitor.”
“He was selling your goods in the public houses, using a man named Boot to do the dirty work.”
Cavanagh shrugged. “It sounds plausible, but it’s still lacking in concrete evidence.”
“I killed him in the Old Nichol, sir. I took from him the evidence, a photographic plate that I have at my home.”
“At the tunnel?”
The Ghost switched on a look of surprise. “You know where I live, sir?”
“Oh yes. You like your tunnels, don’t you? We’ve been there and we’ve asked around, and you are a little bit more than just an occupant of the tunnel, aren’t you? By all accounts you’re the closest they have to a leader.”
“I can read and write, sir. I was taught on my passage from India. I gained some medical knowledge also. For this reason, and the fact that I have on occasion stood up against the scum who also make the tunnel their home, some of the people who live there consider me their friend.”
Cavanagh smiled tightly. “Yes, well, in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king, I suppose. Even so, it’s a very resourceful picture of you that is being painted.”
Judging this to be the right moment, The Ghost let a little eagerness creep into his voice. “A man who can be of use to you, sir. I do not nominate myself to your services lightly, sir. I hope that in me you see something of yourself.”
“Yes, well, that remains to be seen.” Cavanagh gave a tilt of his chin, suggesting he’d reached a decision in The Ghost’s favor. He addressed one of the fighters. “Smith, go to the tunnel, retrieve this photographic plate he’s talking about. Oh, and, Smith, be nice to the old lady, won’t you? From what I can gather, she and our friend here are close.”
He looked significantly at The Ghost, who suppressed a dread thought before continuing. “In the meantime you, Mr. Bharat Singh, are going to accompany Marchant and Mr. Hardy to visit the home of the recently widowed Mrs. Waugh. And Mr. Hardy? Given that I’m certain we’re going to learn that our new associate is telling the truth, you don’t need to worry about being nice to Mrs. Waugh. You can be as unfriendly to that old baggage as you like.”
Mr. Hardy grinned, revealing a gold tooth. He spoke with a voice like the scrape of spades at the tunnel face. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I don’t suppose you can drive a carriage can you, lad?” rasped Hardy when the three men stepped outside the gates of the dig to where their transport was tethered.
The Ghost, who was an excellent horseman, and who had driven many a carriage back home, and who recognized an excellently sprung beautifully upholstered Clarence when he saw one, took pains to look like the clueless bumpkin Hardy clearly thought him to be, and shrugged his shoulders and looked lost.
“Good,” said Hardy with flinty eyes. He scratched at his stubble, then corrected the set of his hat. “Because nobody gets to drive Mr. Cavanagh’s carriage apart from me, Mr. Smith or Other Mr. Hardy. Is that clear?”
“I have no
problem with that, sir,” replied The Ghost. “Should I just join Mr. Marchant inside, sir, where it’s warm?”
Hardy shot him a look, as though to say, Don’t push your luck, and in the next moment occupied himself with pulling on a scarf, topcoat and mittens, ready for the short journey to Bedford Square.
The Ghost, meanwhile, stood to the side of the Clarence, awaiting Marchant, then opening the door for the clerk when he appeared. Without a word of thanks Marchant stepped inside before fussily arranging a blanket over himself and leaving none for The Ghost, who took a seat opposite. When he was settled, Marchant yanked a cord and made a point of ignoring The Ghost to stare out of the carriage window. Up top Hardy shook the reins and their carriage set off for the home of Mrs. Waugh.
* * *
They arrived and The Ghost watched with implacable interest as Hardy stepped down from the seat of the carriage, removed his mittens and pulled on a pair of leather gloves instead, flexing his fingers with a grim and businesslike air and fixing The Ghost with a malevolent stare at the same time. Watch your step, I’ve got my eye on you.
Next, Hardy reached to the storage box on the carriage. From it he took a pair of brass knuckles that he fitted over one leather-gloved hand. Out came something else: a thick wooden truncheon with a leather loop that he slid over his wrist before slipping the baton into his sleeve. Lastly, he produced a knife from somewhere within the folds of his topcoat. He twirled it in his fingers, light dashing down the blade, and all the time never took his eyes off The Ghost.
Watch your step, I’ve got my eye on you.
Now the three men considered the house across the road. The shutters were closed, just a dim light burning somewhere within. Otherwise there was no sign of life, except . . .
The Ghost saw it, a slight disruption of ceiling shadow glimpsed through the window of the front door. With a hand held out—Wait there—to the other two, he darted quickly across the road, having to satisfy himself with merely imagining the outraged looks on the men’s faces at being given an order by this new recruit. A boy. An Indian boy, no less. An outsider.
Stealthily mounting the front steps, he crouched to listen at the front door. From inside he heard voices retreating up an interior passage. He tried the front door but found it locked then scuttled back to the Clarence. “There’s somebody in there with her,” he told Marchant and Hardy. “Sounds like the peelers.”
“Been a long time since I bagged myself a blue bottle,” Hardy said through a wicked smile. Gold glinted malevolently in the dark.
“I would guess that whoever’s there is in one of the back rooms,” said The Ghost. “In the kitchen, perhaps. I say we assess how many before we go rushing in.”
“Assess, now, is it?” sneered Hardy. “How about we do it another way? How about we knock on the door and take them by surprise.” His brass knuckles shone as he performed a quick boxer’s one-two, just in case they were in any doubt exactly what he meant by taking them by surprise.
“We may be outnumbered,” warned The Ghost, turning his attention to Marchant instead. “There are only three of us, after all.”
At last the clerk was spurred into a decision. “Right. Hardy, put those bloody things away before anybody sees them. This is a respectable square. You, Indian, go to the back. I and Mr. Hardy here will await your signal that it is safe to proceed. Assuming it is, we’ll enter by the front, Hardy and you can make sure nobody tries to leave from the back, is that a plan?” The others agreed. The Ghost demonstrated his owl call, then made off, finding an alleyway that ran through the terrace and darting along it until he came to a door into the grounds of the Waugh’s home. The door would be bolted but The Ghost didn’t even bother trying it. Instead, with a quick look left and right, he leapt, grabbed an overhang on the wall and nimbly pulled himself to the top.
He crouched there for a moment or so, a dark silhouette against the gunmetal night, enjoying a brief moment of pride in a life that was otherwise shorn of it. He wished he was wearing his robes and could feel the weight of his hidden blade along his forearm but, for the time being, just crouching here would do.
Moment over, he dropped silently to the other side, where he waited in the shrubs and shadows for his vision to adapt to the new, less malevolent darkness. Stretching away from him was a garden, well maintained—evidently there was money to be made in selling these “erotic prints”—while looming to his left was the rear of the house. He made his way there now, guessing from the glow of interior lamps which was the kitchen window, and there he squatted, allowing the night to claim him.
And then—very, very carefully—he peered inside.
Standing in the kitchen with their hats in their hands were two peelers. One was a red-faced, plump fellow he didn’t recognize, and the other was Abberline, the constable who’d come to the dig. The Ghost remembered that he’d paid close attention to Waugh’s chest wound. It sounded like a contradiction in terms, but such a clean kill had been careless of Ethan. Abberline’s suspicions had been raised.
Which was probably the reason he was standing in the Waughs’ kitchen right now.
He and his mate were talking to a flustered-looking old maid complete with bonnet and apron, who held a rolling pin like she might be tempted to use it in anger. This was Mrs. Waugh, no doubt. The Ghost couldn’t see her lips to lip-read, but she spoke so loudly he could hear her through the glass anyway.
“I always said he was getting in too deep there. I always knew he was playing with fire.”
Something caught his eye. There in the kitchen doorway, hidden in the shadows, was a figure The Ghost recognized as Mr. Hardy. The Ghost had no idea how he’d got into the house, but the reason why was clear from the wicked glint of the knife he held.
The two constables had their backs to Hardy; they wouldn’t stand a chance. The woman was too busy gesticulating with the rolling pin to see him.
None of them stood a chance.
The Ghost had a second to decide: save the peelers and endanger his mission or let them die for the greater good.
TWENTY-EIGHT
They rubbed along without too much strife, but even so, Abberline and Aubrey weren’t exactly crazy about one another. For a start, Abberline thought rather poorly of Aubrey’s qualities as a police constable, while for his part, Aubrey reckoned Abberline might learn a thing or two about basic human compassion.
Aubrey had returned to the point earlier, as the two of them made their way to the address of Mr. and Mrs. Waugh on Bedford Square.
“The job’s about people, too, you know, Freddie,” he told his companion as they threaded through the hustle and bustle of Tottenham Court Road. “Serving truth and justice is all very well. But what about serving the people?”
“That’s what the rules is there for, Aubrey,” Abberline reminded him. “Rules is for the good of everybody.”
They skirted rival pure-finders who were about to brawl over a particularly sizable pile of dog shit but stopped when they saw the peelers approaching and made a showy pretense of looking like old pals. Aubrey frowned at them as they passed. I’ve got my eye on you.
“That’s as may be,” he said, when they were past and it was safe to exhale. “Just as long as you don’t start putting the rules first and the good of everybody second, is what I’m saying. Besides which, it’s not always so cut-and-dried, is it? After all, if our theory’s right, then your man with the gun shot down a little girl in cold blood. Where’s the justice in apprehending the man who killed her killer?”
“Well, let’s get to the truth of the matter first, shall we? And then we’ll question the justice of it all.”
They had reached their destination, a deceptively handsome bay-fronted building in an appealing Bedford Square of other deceptively handsome bay-fronted buildings. It was just close enough to Tottenham Court Road for the square’s no-doubt-smartly-attired residents to reach their offices e
ach day, but far enough away so that the noise of the thoroughfare was just a distant hubbub rather than the never-ending clamor that might send people mad if they had to live on top of it.
The two bobbies stood with their thumbs in their belts, regarding the house in question. Shutters at the bay window were closed. A light at the window above the front door was the only sign of life. As they trod the steps to knock, Abberline wondered if Mrs. Waugh was inside now, weeping as she pined for her husband . . .
* * *
“Where is he, that bastard?”
Abberline had been correct in one regard. Mrs. Waugh was indeed inside the house. When she opened the door it was clear from her flour-covered face that she was midbaking. But as for weeping and pining?
“Come on,” she demanded of the two peelers on her doorstep. She had the appearance of a well-fed butcher’s wife, complete with ruddy complexion and a white apron bearing stains of unknown provenance. “Where the bloody hell is he?”
“We don’t know . . .” started Abberline, sent off guard by her ferocity.
It wasn’t the best way to begin, and sure enough, Mrs. Waugh—at least, they assumed it was Mrs. Waugh, unless Mr. Waugh had an exceptionally bad-tempered and insolent housekeeper—was sent into a spin.
“What do you mean, you don’t know where he is? Why are you coming here, then? You should be out there, looking for him.” She threw up her hands in frustration and dismay, turned away from the door and stomped off up the hall, muttering to herself as she went, leaving little flour footprints on the terra-cotta tiles.
Abberline and Aubrey looked at one another, Abberline giving Aubrey a look up and down. “Just your type.” He smiled.
“Oh, give over,” said Aubrey. “Are we going in or what?”
They closed the door behind them, throwing the bolt before following the sound of feminine distress to the kitchen. There they found her already using a rolling pin to take out her frustration on a vast mound of dough, pounding at it furiously and almost obscured by clouds of flour.
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