The Incendiary's Trail

by James McCreet

  ‘No. I went there before coming to Giltspur-street but found the premises quite empty. I have left a man there. Either Mr Hawkins was lying, or Mr Boyle has decided there is now no one he can trust. Mr Hawkins will hang.’

  ‘So it seems even more likely that Boyle will be there tonight. He has nothing to lose and perhaps something to gain. If he cannot kill me there, I am sure he will flee London. He can no longer stay in the city. ’

  ‘There is also, of course, the question of Inspector Newsome. Now you have escaped, he will also be heading to Vauxhall. I am afraid that if you cannot capture Mr Boyle, you, too, will have to leave the city – or face being transported. Again . . .’

  ‘Yes, it is true, Mr Williamson. Do you regret allying yourself with me now that you know for certain that I am – or was – a criminal?’

  ‘I always thought you were a criminal. But the foregoing weeks have made clear to me that criminality is not the unequivocal beast I thought it.’

  ‘I was sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation. I was betrayed by Lucius Boyle. We were partners – almost brothers. I was just a boy. But I was a boy from the streets of London, a boy with a library within his head. The period between that time and this has been one that you could not imagine, Mr Williamson, and one that you would not believe even if I had time to tell you. I have seen Heaven and Hell, and I carry them with me always.’

  ‘And what of the cracksman’s tools you were arrested with? Are you really a thief?’

  ‘The tools were mine, it is true. But I do not steal valuables. My search has always been for information, for Lucius Boyle. If I break a safe, it is for the documents inside it – not the gold.’

  The two men looked at each other across a gulf of experience, Lucius Boyle the bridge across that chasm of time and understanding.

  As witness to the conversation, PC Cullen held his own thoughts. He strained to remember every historic word, every nugget of information, that he might recount them to hushed bar audiences for decades to come. And he would.

  ‘So much for my fate, Mr Williamson,’ said Noah, ‘what of yours? If Inspector Newsome is indeed what we think he is, how are you to continue in your role?’

  ‘Simple – I must prove his guilt and bring him to justice, ideally before he can capture you. Perhaps tonight will bring us both men working in collusion.’

  ‘So. Our plan of action must be thus: we will change into our costumes when we arrive at Vauxhall. We will separate and look out for both Boyle and Inspector Newsome. There are only four of us among thousands, but we can be reasonably sure that our targets will be mobile. They will not be at supper or dancing; they will be walking around as we are. When a man is searching for something, his gait and demeanour cannot be hidden by a costume. Whoever finds their man will stay with him like a shadow and not permit him to leave the gardens without being waylaid. If our targets pose a threat to our scheme, we will incapacitate them. I will go directly to Mr Hardy and await Boyle.’

  ‘It seems an impossible task, Noah.’

  ‘I think not. The inspector is unlikely to be in costume. He has not had time to prepare, and he will be there as a policeman. Boyle is looking for me and knows where I will be. The greatest risk is his seeing us before we see him. That could be fatal. Only PC Cullen here is unknown to him. That may be to our advantage.’

  At this, the constable’s face flushed and he unconsciously swelled his chest. ‘I will do all in my power, sirs.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I have all faith in you.’

  Silence settled again as the three considered what lay before them. PC Cullen felt for his truncheon at his hip. The inspector looked twice at his pocket watch in the space of three minutes, while Noah closed his eyes and breathed deep regular breaths, his palms resting in his lap.

  ‘There is another possibility,’ said Noah, opening his eyes after some minutes. ‘Boyle may attend the ball to kill Mr Newsome. If he has heard of my arrest (a likely assumption), he may reason that the inspector will be there. In cutting that link, he could rid himself of the whole sorry business. His blackmail plot has proved more complicated than he expected and it is time to stand away from the game. There will be other opportunities for him.’

  ‘That would be neither a satisfactory solution nor a just one,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Though I admit it would be fortuitous to have Mr Boyle thus engaged as we search for him. As for Mr Boyle, what manner of costume do you think will be his choice?’

  ‘Presumably the same kind I chose: something that is common enough to be unremarkable; something neither too accomplished nor too lacking in effort. In other words, something very like the common reveller.’

  ‘That is suitably vague.’

  ‘Indeed, Detective. It is exactly that.’

  The carriage came to a halt and the driver rapped on its roof. They had arrived at Vauxhall Gardens.

  And what a spectacle presented itself in the streets. Innumerable carriages were disgorging ladies and gentlemen intent on merrymaking, while still others arrived on foot. The air was animated with laughter and conversation, and massed revellers presented a gaudy display in their costumes. There were the usual Greeks, Highlanders, Turks and clowns, as well as postillons, huntsmen, Leperellos and countless other curious incarnations identifiable neither by clime nor age. Some wore masques over their faces, while others wore ‘masques’ of intoxication and frivolity. Like streams flowing inexorably to the ocean, they poured through the gates of the Gardens, paying their five shillings and being welcomed by jovial masters of the ceremonies resplendent in court costume.

  It was, in short, a faithful imitation of a Neapolitan ball of the sort never seen but known from anecdote. True, the weather was cooler, and the aristocracy had deigned not to attend (Vauxhall having long been considered passé). Many of the bonneted young ladies were there ‘professionally’, and many of the married gentlemen’s masques were as much to conceal identity as to embrace the spirit of the evening. Though the entrance fee had deterred the lowest beggars and bullies, there were nevertheless countless tricksters, prigs, fakers and cutpurses commingled among those costumed carousers.

  Who is that gentleman in the garb something like an Old Testament prophet? Is he a barrister making merry, or a counterfeiter come to spend his base metals? Who, that elegant lady with her swishing black silks and alabaster masque reminiscent of the Venetian? Is she the wife of the famous architect, or his kept woman brought hither in her own carriage from her Park-lane apartment (paid for with his annuity)? Who is yonder Greek in his flowing white robes and laurel wreath? Who is that manic Scotsman in his red peruke and tartan kilt? And who is that gentleman dressed in the very cerements of the grave, dusty and torn as if recently disinterred from the sarcophagus or mausoleum? His costume is particularly effective in the pale light of the full moon. No doubt he is some dark-humoured medical student.

  Music drifts from multiple locations – from the Rotunda where dancing feet thunder hollowly on a floor etched by a professional artiste with chalk arabesques; from the orchestra performing in the gazebo at the Grove, and from fiddlers and drummers in Moorish costumes wandering the arboreal pathways of the Gardens.

  And yet amid the hordes of duplicitous bacchanals, those imprudent imbibers of champagne, punch and sherry cobbler, there are some whose demeanour is sober and whose costume is purely professional – the police. Particularly those half-dozen surrounding a gesticulating and red-faced Inspector Newsome.

  ‘Men – you are to stop any and every tall and burly Negro you may find. He is likely to be dressed as a Moor or a Greek. Look at his eyes if his face is covered and you will see a filmy left eye. At his neck is a gallows scar. Do not apprehend him, but follow him. You are looking for his colleague, a man with grey eyes who is also dressed as a Greek or a Turk. If you find him, arrest him. He is violent and will fight, so take care. PC Nelson – you are to wait here at the entrance and scour those entering and leaving. Now, all of you, go!’r />
  The policemen set off in different directions to parade the colonnades and supper rooms, the dance-floors and the audiences in search of that burly Negro. As for the inspector himself, he had somewhere else to look and someone else to find. He proceeded towards the firework ground.

  PC Cullen, now wearing his regular uniform, had observed and overheard Inspector Newsome’s whole exchange with the other constables. He looked around him and, seeing that his dark-blue attire might as well be a shadow or a painted effigy in such ostentatious company, he followed the inspector.

  Mr Newsome did not stop to observe the Calcutta juggler or to marvel at the native dances of the chamois-clad Ojibbeway Indians encamped there among the trees. He stalked onwards, his brow perspiring despite the coolness of the evening, scanning the faces and bodies around him for a Greek or a Moor. When he saw one – and there were many – he would approach them and brusquely ask them to remove their masque before moving relentlessly on without pausing to explain his purpose to the perplexed revellers in his wake.

  PC Cullen was close behind, easily observing Mr Newsome’s ragged progress through the crowds. At the same time, he looked out for his colleagues, none of whom, it seems unnecessary to say, were dressed as either Greeks or Moors. And as he walked, the constable was joined by a portly ‘judge’ in flowing black robes and ornate grey periwig, his nose and cheeks reddened to suggest an overindulgence in port.

  ‘Have you seen any of them, Constable?’ muttered the judicial Mr Williamson.

  ‘Yes, sir. Ten yards ahead is the inspector.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see him.’

  ‘He has told his men to look for a Greek and a Moor. He described Benjamin and Mr Dyson.’

  ‘Good work. Keep following him. Prevent him in his duty if you can. If you see any of his constables, tell them you have seen Benjamin at the entrance. Keep them looking awry.’

  ‘Yes, sir—’

  But the ‘judge’ had taken a different path and was heading for the Grove, where an audience was gathered around the gazebo for a vocal performance supported by a small orchestra. The gathered people had hushed momentarily in anticipation of the first notes, and all eyes were bent upon the singer, an attractive lady with curled blonde hair spilling from her bonnet.

  Mr Williamson did not look at the lady, however. He cast his eyes across the people for one that was out of rhythm, one that was not behaving in a like manner, one that (like himself) had an alternative purpose. He was looking for a man in a costume much like everyone around him, most probably with a full-face masque – an almost futile task in that environment.

  There were couples; there were groups; there was the occasional unaccompanied person – but all were occupied with the pleasures around them. With a drink or a ham sandwich in hand, they observed the musicians or the various shows. They moved leisurely directionless and observed what went on around them without excessive concern or agitation. In short, they were having fun.

  All except for one man, a man moving purposefully away from the crowd and heading towards the firework ground – a man whose gait and build seemed familiar, and who seemed quite uninterested in all that was happening around him.

  Mr Williamson pushed his way through the people and tried to keep sight of the other man. Though the tree-lined walkways were brilliantly lit, the shadows between them were dark enough, and those recesses not yet occupied by illicit lovemaking could harbour the man at any moment.

  As for the object of Mr Williamson’s pursuit, his costume was that of the Greek or Roman orator: sweeping folds of white drapery and the obligatory laurel at his temples. Over his face was a tragedian’s masque fashioned from brass and frozen into a perpetual grimace of agony. It was polished to such a degree that any interlocutor would simply gaze back at his own distorted reflection. Only the eyes were visible.

  As Mr Williamson followed, the man walked without pause in his chosen direction. He did not look at the other carnival-goers, even those dressed as Moors and Greeks. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to know where he would find it.

  Together and apart, they crunched along the gravelled pathways towards the open area at the eastern end of the Gardens, where the firework ground could be found, and where two enormous balloons swayed in their fully inflated state, tethered complainingly to the earth by numerous ropes and pegs. One of them was the balloon of the famous Mr Lyme, its red and gold stripes held like a sub-marine behemoth within a vast net. A crowd of people gathered admiringly around its wicker car.

  This was also the area where Mr Hardy and his troupe could be found, located a safe distance from the good taste and decorum of the dancing halls and supper tables, at an outer perimeter reserved for oddities and wonders: the very edge of Eden, where illumination strained to reach.

  The theatrical façade of their show – otherwise an enclosed structure of shoddy gimcrackery – was as gaudy as one might expect. Wooden boards depicted lurid representations of the performers themselves: Edgar the giant pictured perhaps a foot higher than his already miraculous (or cursed) height and with a midget loaf of bread in his palm; Eugenia in full beard and inflated like a ball in her specially constructed throne; Mr Hardy dwarfed by a conventionally proportioned dog, who on closer inspection proved to be Missy herself with a bone between her teeth. The man with the destroyed face was not pictured at all (perhaps because no exaggeration could do justice to his woe). There was, however, a conspicuous space in the gallery of dysmorphia, an undecorated area no doubt once occupied by poor ElizaBeth’s cruel effigy.

  The Graeco-Roman paused for a moment outside the frontage, as did Mr Williamson. A hawker stood before the entrance regaling hesitant onlookers with titbits of what they might see if they parted with their money:

  ‘Come inside! Come inside! See the prodigious man-giant Edgar who was three feet tall at birth, ladies and gentlemen – not a word of a lie. He could hold your head in his palm like you hold a wine cork. Come inside! Cast your eyes upon Eugenia the bearded behemoth – as heavy as an elephant and as hirsute as an ape. But not, ladies and gentlemen, as hairy as her child . . . or should I say dog, for the creature is both simultaneously. The wonders of nature reside within. No tricks here – you may touch and converse with them if you don’t believe. Just a shilling!’

  Mr Williamson’s mouth turned down at the artless patter and at the vulgarity of the thing. A number of people were hesitating whether to venture inside, weighing their repulsion and dubiety against their fascination for the hideous. One of them was dressed as an ancient warrior, perhaps Achilles. His polished breastplate and greaves glinted dully in the gaslight and a gladiator’s iron mask covered his face. A dagger was sheathed at his hip. Presently, a number of people walked forward to the entrance with their coins ready, and the Graeco-Roman, too, took his opportunity to enter with them. The ‘judge’ followed.

  Inside, there was a small, dimly lit area for a dozen or so observers, and a raised stage illuminated on both sides by long plumes of flickering gas. An unclean green velvet curtain hung at the rear of the stage. The audience murmured among themselves and waited.

  Then the curtain parted in the middle and Mr Hardy emerged to gasps and mutterings from the people. He was immaculately turned out in a tailored suit and carried a tiny cane.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, my name is Goliath. I welcome you to my world of anatomical curiosities,’ he began in his odd falsetto voice. ‘Here you will find wonders . . .’

  But a number of his audience were not paying attention to the speech. Sergeant Williamson kept his eyes on the laurel wreath of his target. The ancient soldier looked at the judge and discerned from that venerable personage’s gaze that he, too, should be looking in the same direction. Noting this, he began to move slowly back towards the entrance to prevent anyone else from leaving or entering. But before he arrived there, another pushed inside, a man not in costume but in his conventional attire: Inspector Newsome.

  ‘. . . Let me introduce Edgar the man giant,’ conti
nued Mr Hardy. And the lumbering gentleman emerged from the curtain with his head brushing the roof. As the exclamations of wonder burst forth, Mr Hardy cast a sly glance at both the judge and Achilles and saw the direction of their gazes.

  When the audience reaction had subsided, Mr Hardy continued: ‘Let me stand beside Edgar to show his full height. But, no . . . the comparison is unfair. Who among you will come to stand beside Edgar to properly show his enormity? How about you there – the gentleman dressed as Socrates or perhaps Herodotus. You are of a conventional height. Come up on to the stage, won’t you?’

  All eyes turned to the Graeco-Roman. All eyes including those of Inspector Newsome, who focused intently on the man.

  ‘Don’t be shy, sir. You may keep on your masque. Just stand here beside Edgar for us to compare.’

  The Greek shook his head but did not speak. A few of the audience began to clap and encourage him to go on stage that they might not themselves become the focus of attention. Still he shook his head, adamant that he would not go.

  ‘Have you something to hide, sir?’ chided Mr Hardy in a mild mocking tone. ‘What could you have to be ashamed of in comparison to us, anomalies of nature that we are. I perceive that you are normal in every way . . . unless your masque hides a terrible secret.’

  At this, the audience laughed and called out variously to the silent gentlemen:

  ‘Go on – stand next to the giant!’

  ‘Don’t be shy, sir. ’

  ‘Take off your masque and show us your deformity!’

  ‘A big nose, I’ll bet!’

  ‘Or a red jaw.’

  The latter comment was from Achilles, standing behind them all at the entrance. The Greek jerked round to stare in his direction – and an unnerving, silent stillness settled over that murky space. The theatrical atmosphere was replaced with one of confinement. Breathing was the only sound. The people looked between the soldier and the Greek, then back to the Greek.

  ‘Take off your masque, sir,’ said a ‘Scotsman’, all trace of good-natured goading now gone. ‘You are making the ladies nervous.’