‘What man was he?’
‘Why, you should know, sir, for it is the man you sent.’
‘What gibberish are you talking now? I did not send any man except Mr Askern, and Sergeant Williamson escorted him here.’
‘But there was your letter, sir.’
‘What letter? Tell me everything, for I am sure I do not understand a word you are saying.’
‘A constable knocked at the door late last night with a man in irons. He said that he had orders to render the man unto my care. Naturally, I denied all knowledge of my special services here – I knew that no common policeman would know of it. But then he produced a letter from you.’
‘Do you have this letter?’
‘Yes. I will fetch it.’
Mr Allan limped off to retrieve the letter and the inspector looked about him at the death scene. His confusion was giving way to a rushing fear.
‘Here it is, sir. It has your signature on it.’
Mr Newsome snatched it from Mr Allan’s hands.
Sir
Please take this gentleman into your care in my name. It will only be until tomorrow, and then I will come for him. Please extend him every courtesy, but do not attempt to speak to him. He has a partially severed tongue and cannot speak.
Until tomorrow.
Detective Inspector Newsome
‘That signature is not mine. And did you not wonder that the letter was addressed to “Sir” and not “Mr Allan” as I would have addressed it?’
‘No, sir . . . as I said, it was late. After midnight. Perhaps I was a little tired.’
‘What did he look like, this man who was brought here?’
‘Well, he was of average build—’
‘His face, Mr Allan – what of his face?’
‘He had grey eyes – quite startling. But I did not see the rest. He wore a bandage about his lower face that quite hid his features. No doubt for his injured tongue. He smelled quite badly of smoke, as if he’d been near a fire, and he carried a canvas bag such as sailors carry . . . Mr Newsome, sir? Are you all right? You have become very pale.’
‘Do you read the newspapers, Mr Allan?’
‘Why, yes, of course I read them. One has to be well informed.’
‘Could you tell me, then, what the biggest news story of the moment is?’
‘I am sure you know better than—’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Well, it is the pursuit of this fellow they call “the General”: murderer of Mary Chatterton and the theatrical agent Coggins, and more besides if the rumours are to be believed.’
‘Indeed. Indeed. You are quite right on that latter point. In fact, the latest murder has very likely taken place just feet from where we are standing. And just this very night.’
‘Sir? I . . .’
‘The man who was brought here last night had his lower face covered, did he not? Let us add to that piece of information the fact that he was fraudulently brought here in my name. Let us further note that in the same house was one whom this man with the “injured tongue” would like to see dead.’
‘Red Jaw was in this house? L— preserve me!’
‘It seems highly probable. Two things still perplex me, however. First: there are no signs at all that Mr Askern was murdered, and indeed no possibility of it. And, second, how did this “Red Jaw” come to know of this house and its residents?’
A knock at the street door echoed down to where they stood.
‘Dr McLeod, no doubt,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Please show him to this room and let us discover what – or who – killed poor Mr Askern.’
TWENTY-TWO
Noah paid the driver and got down from the cab. He’d had to pay extra to tempt the cab south of the river at that time of day, and more to hurry the man along.
The carriage had set him down before Sergeant Williamson’s home, which had a policeman posted at the front door. Noah approached the door and saw the policeman stand to attention, ready to accost this man who looked so like a street beggar yet walked like a gentleman. Fortunately, the sergeant himself opened the door at that moment, supported on the sturdy arm of PC Cullen.
‘My G—, Williamson! What happened to you?’
‘Mr Dyson – I was about to venture out to call on you.’
‘You would not have found me at home.’
‘Come inside. We have very important things to discuss.’
The two men established themselves in Mr Williamson’s parlour, the latter propped upright in his chair and evidently in a state of great discomfort. PC Cullen prepared tea.
‘Was it Hawkins?’ asked Noah.
‘Yes. He murdered the Reverend Archer and then waited for me at the scene. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was to procure a disfigured body and claim it as Boyle’s, thereby ending the case.’
‘And you did not acquiesce, I presume.’
‘Hmm. You are quite the detective, Mr Dyson. I have heard that you were unsuccessful in your attempts to locate Razor Bill alive. Unless it was you who killed him and left his body in Hanover-square?’
‘Hawkins again.’
‘I must take your word for it. Why are you dressed like that?’
‘Because your men have been following me since I was first released from Giltspur-street and I must escape them to do my job properly.’
‘I told Mr Newsome that you would discover that piece of duplicity in no time. I would have been disappointed if you had not. Just now, you said that I would not find you at home – why is that?’
‘Recent events have shown that Boyle is always ahead of the game. With that buffoon of Inspector Newsome’s following me about, I might as well have had a beam of gaslight upon me. And Mr Hawkins knows where I live – could you explain that to me, Mr Williamson?’
‘We will come to that in a moment. What have you been doing?’
‘I shrugged off my shadow last night after the fire. Boyle caused it – he was there. I almost had him again. Until now, he seems to have been following our every move, so I made the choice to disappear. When he cannot follow, he must lead.’
‘What did you discover?’
‘I discovered nothing – but I have left a trail of clues that, I hope, he will act upon and which will lead him directly into our hands.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Wait. Do I know that I can trust you? The Detective Force has not trusted me from the outset. I was surprised to find that Hawkins – and therefore Boyle – knows where I live. Hawkins may have followed the policeman, but how would Hawkins know to follow him?
‘Mr Dyson . . . Noah . . . I will be frank. I have grave concerns about my own superior.’
‘Inspector Newsome? I have my own. Tell me.’
‘From the beginning, I have wondered why he has gone to such lengths to employ one such as you, stretching and sullying everything that the police stand for in order to solve a murder. What would make the man so maniacal in his pursuit of a criminal, unless he had something personal at stake?’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I believe – and I have no evidence for this except for my detective’s nose – that Inspector Newsome may be the father of Eliza-Beth and the lover of Mary Chatterton. I believe that he had had some indication of this prior to Eliza-Beth’s death. Perhaps Mary was trying to blackmail him. Perhaps it was Mr Boyle doing the blackmailing. Whatever the impetus, the inspector persuaded those at Whitehall to agree to his scheme to save his own name. He can be a persuasive man. And now the pursuit of Mr Boyle has become a veritable mania for him.’
‘Have you considered that it was Mr Newsome himself who orchestrated the murder of Eliza-Beth? To remove the evidence of his dalliance, so to speak.’
‘I could not think that of him. There are, however, numerous questions. Do you recall the letter that was sent to me at Whitehall? Mr Boyle wrote: “Few others could recognize me, and no other could thirst for my capture with such keenness, except perhaps your hapless superior.” What
did Boyle mean by that latter part? Was it a personal message to the inspector? And why did Boyle sign his name? Perhaps we knew it was he, but a man so careful did not have to make it clear – unless he wanted Mr Newsome to know particularly that he was the author.’
‘You make a reasonable case. However, you forget that there is no possibility that Mr Newsome can have known about my past with Boyle, or that I had been looking for him.’
‘That is true. It would be the oddest piece of luck on his part. Or it could be that in his own attempts to find Mr Boyle and curtail the blackmail, he found you also searching – your own records show that for a long time you could be found wherever Mr Boyle’s fires took place.’
‘I suppose it is possible. Whatever the background, it seems that Boyle and Mr Newsome are engaged in a game and that we are pieces in it. The inspector wants to catch his enemy, but in order to placate him, he offers the man opportunities to elude us. I think he would prefer me to find and kill Boyle rather than you to find and arrest him. It is a double-faced game he is playing: attempting to maintain the façade of a detective and yet following his own agenda. Thus, Hawkins attacks you but doesn’t kill you; Hawkins knows my home yet does not kill me – unless he had only just received the information and was not able to act on it. What are we to do? Can you go to the commissioner?’
‘I have considered going to Commissioner Mayne or to Superintendent Wilberforce with my suspicions, but with what evidence? I have nothing but surmises. I have no idea who is involved in this. I am afraid that the decisive agent in the case will be you.’
‘I have made the first step. I have interrupted their game with a move neither Boyle or Mr Newsome expected, and which neither will understand. They can only react. Then we have them. Neither knows where I am. That will remain the case if your constables here do not speak.’
‘What have you done?’
‘I will not tell you now lest I put you in a position where you have to choose your loyalties. I will say only that I have presented them with the means for proceeding, move by move, into a trap that I have laid for them. Even if they suspect it, they have little other option.’
‘I hope you are right, Noah.’
‘I am not a gambling man. Now – I have taken a risk in coming here. I must leave.’
‘Wait. Why did you come to me?’
‘Mr Williamson, you are a good man, an honest man. I have not known many in my life. Whatever your other faults – being a policeman among them – you are the only one who can help me. Perhaps I am the only one who can help you.’
‘Hmm. Hmm. If you are planning to remain invisible, you must leave. I am expecting Mr Newsome here. Go – find Boyle. But bring him to me alive. It is his testimony that will entrap Inspector Newsome also. Both are guilty. Can you promise me that?’
‘I would like to, but I fear the game has become a fatal one.’
‘Noah – why must you kill him? Whatever evil he did to you was a lifetime ago. You are a different man now. Killing him will change nothing, will repair nothing.’
‘What do you know of loss and pain, Mr Williamson?’
‘I . . . I know more than you think. But I bear it like a Christian.’
‘I am no Christian. You do not know what I have suffered for Lucius Boyle.’
‘I know that killing him will not cleanse your mind of it.’
‘I have lived half a life thinking of nothing else.’
‘You are wrong to think so. You are his prisoner by thinking so.’
‘I have had my fill of being a prisoner while he has been free . . .’
‘Then why don’t you allow me to capture him alive? Then you can live the rest of your life knowing that you saw him tried, imprisoned and hanged.’
‘I must leave. Mr Newsome may look for me here. How will we communicate?’
‘Find PC Cullen, the burly man who brought us tea. He is a beat officer in this division and I can trust him. He will pass on messages. Now go.’
The sound of a carriage stopping outside the house caused both men to exchange glances. PC Cullen’s voice called out:
‘Inspector Newsome is arrived, sir.’
‘Can I leave the house without him seeing me?’ asked Noah.
‘Yes. To the rear. Down the corridor there.’
Noah pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out to the detective: ‘Quickly – take this. You will discern my plan.’
Then he was gone. Mr Williamson thrust the paper, unread, into his jacket pocket and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the door was opened by PC Cullen.
‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Williamson!’ said Mr Newsome entering. ‘Up and about, I see. Is that advisable? We need you fit as soon as possible. I trust you have heard about the other events of last night: the fire, the death of Razor Bill . . .?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘From the constables, of course. I know how they talk. One has no need of a newspaper if one knows a constable. I expect PC Cullen knows more about the criminal headlines of London that does the editor of the Times.’
‘Yes, yes – I expect so. I have heard the news. Was it Lucius Boyle?’
‘That we cannot say. It may be that this man Noah Dyson has a hand in it.’
‘Oh? Why do you say so?’
‘Well, you sent him to Oxford-street in search of this Bill and a few hours later there is a conflagration and a dead body at Hanover-square. I will let you draw your own conclusions, bearing in mind Mr Dyson’s documented interest in incendiary matters. I might also add that we have discerned some surprising facts about the man, first among them that he seems to be a convict escaped from New South Wales. What we knew of him appears now to be a web of untruths . . . you look surprised. I thought that your opinion of him was lower even than mine.’
‘It is the pain that makes me grimace.’
‘I sympathize. I have sent a bulletin to all stations and watch houses with a description of Hawkins and of Noah. He did not return home last night and so we know what clothes he is wearing. If either man shows his face, we will have him.’
‘I do not believe Hawkins will reveal anything, even if captured. I offered him five hundred pounds for information leading to the capture of Boyle and he just laughed. There is nothing we can do to him that Boyle cannot do twofold.’
‘You are quite the pessimist after your beating, Mr Williamson. Alas, I have worse news. Mr Askern is dead.’
‘What? How?’
‘Yes. Last night. His body was discovered this morning. A man was brought to the house at around midnight with a letter purporting to be from me. Mr Allan foolishly admitted the man, whose lower jaw was covered on account of an “injured tongue”. He had grey eyes and was carrying a sailor’s canvas bag.’
‘Boyle. How did he know about the house?’
‘How indeed? But do we know it was Boyle? No red jaw was seen – only a covered jaw. Who is to say that it was not merely someone with his jaw covered? Who is to say it was not Noah Dyson? His movements during the night are completely unaccounted for and even now we do not know where he is.’
‘What of your man Bryant?’
‘Noah escaped him. We were able to follow his manservant, the Negro, on a jaunt around London to costumiers and the like – but the man himself remains at large.’
‘I did not tell Noah where I was taking Mr Askern – only that it was to a completely secure place. What else do we know of this man who stayed there?’
‘Only that he fled at dawn.’
‘Hmm. How did Mr Askern die? It was quite impossible for anyone to gain access to that room; I checked everything personally. What did you find? What did Doctor McLeod say?’
‘He examined the body and proclaimed a natural death. There was no bodily injury, no blood – no sign at all of violence. I could see all of that for myself. The room was locked from the inside and there was no sign of forced entry either by door or window. The man simply passed away in his sleep with no indi
cations of agitation, struggle or discomfort.’
‘That seems a remarkable coincidence, especially if there was an anonymous intruder in the house.’
‘My thinking exactly, Mr Williamson.’
‘Which room was the other man accommodated in?’
‘In the attic – the furthest possible room from Mr Askern’s. Even if he had wanted to descend to attack the writer, he would have alerted Mr Allan in doing so.’
‘I cannot believe that the death was natural. Not in light of all that has happened.’
‘Nor I, but there is no evidence to suggest otherwise.’
‘At least, no evidence that has yet surfaced.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I do not know. I am tired . . . tired of all of this. What else is left? Is there is any chance of us finding Boyle now? Perhaps Noah himself is dead and we will find him rotting on the mudbanks in a day or two. Mr Boyle and Henry Hawkins will vanish.’
‘Come, Sergeant. That is not the spirit I expect from you.’
‘I am trying to be realistic. Mr Boyle may have finished his series of killings – except perhaps for mine. Would it be so reprehensible if I were to follow his instructions and dredge up a suitable corpse to satisfy the newspapers and Commissioner Mayne? A phial of clothier’s dye applied to the jaw . . .’
‘Enough of that talk! He must be caught. The reputation – no, the continued existence – of the Detective Force depends on it. How can we survive if we allow this man to escape? How can we respect ourselves, Mr Williamson? He is in London somewhere. We are many and he is one. I would like you – even in your frail condition – to pay a visit to Mr Allan’s house and conduct your own investigation. Tomorrow morning at the very latest. It may be our only remaining link to Mr Boyle.’
‘Your fervour is admirable, sir. How do you maintain it?’
‘Justice, Mr Williamson: my thirst for justice.’
‘Only that?’
‘Of course. What else would it be?’
The two men stared at each other for a moment.
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