‘I am not sure I follow you, sir. What was that about Inspector Newsome?’
‘The surgeon in the field hospital must often decide to let one man die so that he can direct his attentions to one who may live. Can one break a law in order to uphold a greater one – if the outcome is the greater good?’
‘Sir?’
‘There is another, PC Cullen, who can catch Red Jaw. He is the man who came to the house earlier and was dragged there again by the other constables. He is very likely a criminal . . . In fact, I have no idea at all who he truly is or what he may be . . . Constable – if I asked you to perform a duty that goes against your training and your duty as a policeman . . . if I asked you to break the law in the name of catching a murderer, would you follow my orders?’
‘To catch Red Jaw, sir, and play my part in this case, I would walk into Hell itself and shackle the Devil if you ordered me to.’
‘That will not be necessary. Although the task I have in mind may be of comparable difficulty. The man I speak of is in Giltspur-street gaol. And he must be free by tomorrow evening.’
The reader will recall that the last we saw of Lucius Boyle was his appearance to the subject of his intended blackmail, a man who had been reached by a bloody path – a path which in turn had begot yet more blood.
It had indeed been Lucius Boyle who had spent a brief, sleepless night at Mr Allan’s house, easily admitted with the letter written by his poor victim. And the murder had proceeded to exactly the pattern surmised by Mr Williamson. Much as he would have enjoyed staying at the house even longer – right under the nose of the Detective Force – he was not a man to take risks.
Now, twenty-four hours or so after the conflagration and the numerous events of the previous night, he was sitting beside a flaming iron stove on a coal barge just east of the Pool, near Bell Wharf. The vessel creaked rheumatically at its mooring, bearing no lights save the flickering illumination of the iron stove on Mr Boyle’s uncovered face. It was there, among the aqueous forest of midnight masts and serried hulls, that he awaited a visit from Henry Hawkins.
As he waited there in the gloom, what thoughts occurred in that smouldering mind? Was he afraid of capture? Did he consider the possibility that Mr Hawkins had been captured and would arrive with the police? Was there a mob gathering on the sludgy banks at that very moment, having seen a man with a covered jaw board the barge? A man’s mind is a curious thing; it can be as shallow and murky as a puddle, or as clear and unfathomable as the open ocean. We may assume that Mr Boyle’s was of the latter variety, its leviathans sounding where no light penetrates.
‘General! Are you here, General?’
Henry Hawkins’s nailed boots thudded on to the deck and down the steps to the coal blackness.
‘Why not shout to the whole of London, Mr Hawkins, to let everyone know that I am here?’
‘Sorry. I—’
‘Where have you been all this time? I told you to report back to me with news.’
‘I’ve been very busy, sir. Here is a newspaper.’
‘I have heard about the clergyman. Did he have anything to say?’
‘The police have questioned him twice. The first one was Williamson, who asked Mr Archer whether he had a family. He didn’t ask about you. The second was this man Noah Dyson, who assaulted the clergyman in Hyde Park and asked him about you. Fortunately, the old gent had nothing to say except he saw another man at the Lambeth house. He’ll be seeing nothing more now.’
‘I see. What of the detective?’
‘He offered me five hundred pounds for your location and said I would not go to prison.’
‘And?’
‘I said no, of course.’
‘Of course. Did he talk?’
‘I beat him properly, but he will live. At the last, he was whispering something that sounded like “square”. He said it over and over. Well, it could have been any square in London. So I gave him some more boot and he started to drift off—’
‘Spare me the preamble, Mr Hawkins.’
‘I asked him about Noah Dyson and he said something about Noah and “Manchester”. Then he was gone. I could not revive him. Was he trying to tell me that Noah had gone to Manchester? But then I had it: Manchester-square! So I went directly there the next morning. Of course, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I didn’t see anything of that Dyson cove, but I did see a man who looked like the police. He was hanging around the square obviously waiting or looking for something. So I decided to watch him from the glove shop on the corner of Spanish-place. Do you know the one?’
‘Are you a penny-a-liner to weave out the account? To the matter of the story.’
‘Well, after some time, a black man comes out of a house in the square and this police gent starts to follow him. So I followed, too, and I followed the two of them all over London. The dusky fellow went into a costume shop at Leicester-square and came out shortly after. And would you believe where he went next? To that very house in Lambeth where the girl was killed! And the black man puts a piece of paper under the door before setting off right back to the house at Manchester-square.’
‘Did you discover what was written on that paper?’
‘I have it here in my pocket. Why do you look at me so? I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘The fact that you brought it here means the recipient will not receive it, and, therefore, that its contents may now be nullified.’
‘I had to kick the door down to get it.’
‘The subtlety increases. Give it to me. Good. I trust you returned to the costume shop to discover if anything was purchased?’
‘Yes. Two costumes – a Greek and a Moor – and two masques to be delivered to the address in Manchester-square. The gent in the shop said I was the second to ask about the black man’s order.’
‘Indeed? You will return to that address and watch that policeman and that house. It seems here is something that Detective Williamson tried to protect with what he thought was his dying breath. It may be Noah Dyson. It would be ideal if you could waylay the delivery of those costumes if they have not already been delivered. You could become the deliverer yourself if you are clever about it. You know what to do if you find Noah. That will conclude our business. If you do not find him, try to discover why the police are watching that house. Can I trust you to do these things, Henry?’
‘Yes, General. You can trust me. Are we to leave London after? People are looking at me. People know my face from the fights.’
‘Perhaps. Now, where is that piece of paper I gave you concerning last night’s duties? I trust you have burned it?’
‘Yes.’
Lucius Boyle looked at Mr Hawkins with precisely that look which had sustained his reign of intimidation for so long: a blank, unblinking expression in which those smoky eyes became embers. No matter that the recipient of that stare was a bigger man, or a force of ten men – being its focus was often a prelude to fatality.
‘Are you lying to me, Henry?’
‘I . . . I lost it. No doubt it has already been carried to a dust heap or to the riv—’
‘Your name is on that piece of paper, as are the crimes you committed in my name. And you are quite correct in what you said: people do know your face.’
‘I know that.’
‘If that piece of paper is found, and if you are captured, you will certainly hang.’
‘They will ask me about your whereabouts.’
Silence.
The tainted skin of Lucius’s jaw seemed alive in the light from the stove, seething incarnadine as if bubbling up from his neck.
‘What are you saying, Mr Hawkins?’
‘Nothing. I would never tell. You know it. We have been together for so long. I would rather die than betray you. You know it.’
‘Yes. I know it, Henry. ’
‘You believe me, don’t you? I didn’t mean anything—’
‘I am sure of your sincerity. Now, go to Manchester-square. And try to be discreet when y
ou leave this place.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I will follow my own route towards Noah Dyson. You know where and when to find me again if you discover anything.’
Mr Hawkins left. Lucius Boyle opened the folded piece of paper retrieved from the Lambeth house and read its contents. It was difficult to discern from his expression whether the contents pleased or displeased him, for there was no change in his countenance. Rather, he opened the door on the stove and touched the paper to the eager flames, holding on until the dancing yellow-blue edge touched his fingertips and the spent fragments fluttered to the ground.
He was not so dull-witted as to be unsuspicious of the letter and its means of delivery. The entire episode was distinctly dubious. True, the intended recipient may not have received the letter, but the information therein was nevertheless useful for his own purposes – and the Negro had no way of knowing whether the letter had reached its destination.
The newspaper carried the now familiar sketch of the man the police were seeking for the murders of Mr Coggins and Mary Chatterton (the murders of Razor Bill and Josiah Archer would not appear until the next day). Were Lucius to venture into any of the riverside bars at that moment, he would have been ripped limb from limb. Already, men had been attacked merely for covering their faces for whatever innocent reason. A coal delivery man had been beaten half to death in the early hours as he protected his face from the coal dust. All of London was looking for Lucius Boyle – and seeing him everywhere.
Something dramatic would have to be done to change the state of play – and on the very next day. There, cradled in the glassy blackness of the Thames and surrounded by the brittle perfume of the coal, he made a decision. Someone would have to be forgotten, someone would have to be faced – and someone would have to die.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘How else are you to apprehend Boyle without my help?’ said Noah, back in his Giltspur-street cell. ‘He does not play by your rules. You have seen what he did to your finest detective.’
‘I see that a poor night’s rest has done little to soothe your mood,’ replied Inspector Newsome. ‘So tell me – what successes have you achieved since you left this cell? Perhaps you recognize no rules, but you have twice been within touching distance of the man and let him go free. Am I to put my trust in you? The only thing I can be sure of is that he wants you. If he comes for you, I will have him.’
‘And if he does not? What then, Inspector? Will I rot in this cell? Do you not remember that I have a letter from your own commissioner absolving me of any guilt?’
‘That letter absolves you of house-breaking and the aggravated theft of a police uniform. Fleeing Her Majesty’s penal colony is not mentioned. It is an entirely different charge – one that I think you will not be able to escape. You may well find yourself on your way back to Botany Bay.’
‘What if Boyle does discover me here? Is he to kill me? It would not be difficult to gain access to me through the window here.’
‘I am hoping that he will think so. I will be stationing a man outside to look out for Mr Boyle or his associates.’
‘Your plan is weak, Mr Newsome. Of the two things Boyle could wish for me, you grant him at least one: my imprisonment. What is to stop him simply forgetting me? I am no threat to him in irons. Or are you to contrive an execution for me and capture him there with as much success as the last such episode?’
‘I am willing to hear your suggestions, Noah.’
‘You will have no doubt heard from your man – the one who was following me like a forlorn goat with a bell about its neck – that I “disappeared” yesterday. You will also know that Benjamin led your man about the city on a curiously circuitous route. Have you yet worked out the truth behind those facts, Detective Inspector?’
‘I know about the costumes. I know about the note at the Lambeth address.’
‘Oh, you do? Do you know where it is now?’
‘It will be in my hands shortly.’
‘No – it is already in Lucius Boyle’s hand. Henry Hawkins delivered it there, as I intended. He was following your man and I was following them both. It was my intention that Boyle be given a trail to follow. Only I know that trail and where it leads.’
‘And if I let you free, you will take me to Boyle, yes? You must think me very gullible. I have believed too much of what you have told me and found myself in a worse position than ever as a result. You will remain here and the situation will, I hope, not become any worse.’
‘I tell you: Lucius Boyle is going to be in a particular place at a particular time. So will Henry Hawkins. Only I know these things.’
‘Do you take me for a fool? The costumes you ordered indicate a masque ball. There is to be one tonight at Vauxhall Gardens. You have admitted that Boyle is expecting a Greek and a Moor – you and Benjamin – to be there. And I will be there to apprehend him. It is a perfect opportunity for him to venture out of hiding. On that piece of inventiveness, I congratulate you.’
‘And, of course, there will be only two men so dressed. Have you ever been to such a ball, Inspector? The Greek, the Turk and the Scotsman are the most popular costumes every time. There will be dozens so attired. And how are you to find him in a crowd of disguised people? Will you unmask everyone there? You must know that there will be many men there who wish to remain anonymous as they consort with women not their wives. The letter slipped under the door at Lambeth is the key to where Boyle will be, when, and why. Only I and Boyle know of its contents. What of that?’
‘I could make you tell me.’
‘Inspector – you have seen my scars. I have not lived a life like yours. I have seen and experienced things that you cannot imagine. I have been strapped to the triangle and flogged until my shoes filled with blood and strips of my back flicked wetly at my face. I made no sound. Few could break my spirit.’
‘And it seems Lucius Boyle is one of them. You are as much a prisoner of his as you are mine, Noah. Can you not see that? He has already won the battle between you by dominating your every thought. Even if you were to kill him, he will always be with you.’
‘I will find him.’
‘No, you will remain here until I decide otherwise. I will leave you to think about that, Noah. If you feel at any time that you would like to reveal more information to me, call the turnkey and he will notify me. I will be attending the bal masqué to see whether Mr Boyle has been tricked by you. We might discuss that tomorrow.’
The door banged shut and the key rattled in its lock.
Noah fought a surge of anger and frustration. It would not help him to break the irons binding his ankles, nor to bend the bars at the window. To be incarcerated there by a man like Inspector Newsome was an insult indeed. To have his actions curtailed by the police had become an intolerable imposition, especially now as bait to the predator.
He had had more experience of incarceration than most men. The leaden weight of time; the eroding silence of solitude; the humiliation of beatings; the cold; the damp; the massy closeness of stone all around – he had promised himself never again to endure such things. When this was over – if he was still alive at that time – he would take measures to see that his freedom was unassailable.
Before then, there was the more pressing matter of Lucius Boyle. If Sergeant Williamson’s suspicions about Mr Newsome were correct, there was every reason to believe that Henry Hawkins or some other weapon would be arriving shortly. What game was the inspector playing now? Was he working in concert with his blackmailer, or against him? Shuffling to the window with his chains scraping, Noah was able to see the top hat of Mr Bryant standing sentinel there lest the prisoner try to attract the attention of a passer-by. He coughed and the policeman turned around.
‘It should be easier to keep me in your sight now,’ said Noah.
‘I should say so. Are your irons comfortable?’
‘Sufficiently. A pity you didn’t manage to acquire the letter from the Lambeth House. You helped me grea
tly with that piece of ineptitude.’
‘How did you—?’
‘Never mind that. Worry more about what is to happen at half-past seven this evening.’
Mr Bryant made to answer, but then paused and turned back to the street. Noah waited to see whether the man would check his pocket watch, and was rewarded some minutes later when, unable to resist, the policeman looked surreptitiously inside his coat as if buttoning it.
Nothing was due to happen at half-past seven – at least not as far as Mr Bryant was concerned. That was the time the ball would begin, but it might prove useful to have his overseer thinking about some unspecified threat for the rest of the day while Noah thought of some way to get a message to either Benjamin or Mr Williamson (if the latter was inclined to trust him any longer).
He was lying on his rough horsehair mattress and considering his options when Mr Bryant evidently encountered someone on the street outside the window:
‘Good afternoon, Mr Bryant.’
‘Do I know you, sir? You have the bearing of a policeman.’
‘I am a brother officer – from L division. Is it true that they have Red Jaw locked up here?’
‘What is your name?’
‘I have heard a rumour that Red Jaw is caught by Inspector Newsome and has been locked in this very cell. Is it true? I will not tell a soul if it is true.’
‘Move along, Constable. I am working. I cannot tell you anything.’
‘May I have a quick look?’
‘Move along I tell you, or there will be trouble.’
‘Your words are truer than you know.’
The sound of a carriage stopping just outside caused Noah to venture once more to the bars. There, he beheld a police carriage with the door open but nobody inside. As Mr Bryant readied himself for some imagined rescue attempt, a truncheon caught him not too softly at the tip of the jaw and he dropped unconscious to the ground, whereupon Constable Cullen – for it was he – lifted him with ease and carried him to the open carriage. The door was slammed shut and the carriage set off, leaving Mr Cullen to place Mr Bryant’s too-small top hat on his own head for all the world as if he had just relieved the other officer rather than assaulted him. He spoke sotto voce without turning fully around to the bars:
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