He looked thoughtfully at an old photograph further along the mantelpiece from the Duke of Clarence, the likeness of a round-faced, firm-featured police sergeant, dressed in the tailed uniform jacket, with eight big, bright buttons, worn in the early sixties. He was standing rather stiffly with his right hand on the back of a chair, on which he had placed his regulation top hat. Pa had always been a uniformed man, with a deep, practical knowledge of the villainous side of London. He’d have to visit him in Oxford Street. Pa would know all about that garrotting business.
Someone downstairs launched a thunderous assault on the door-knocker. Box registered the noise, but continued his train of thought.
Silk…. A thread of silk seemed to run through the report. The dead lady’s green silk dress had been mentioned no fewer than seven times. ‘A green silk dress… The dress appears to be of the finest silk… A lady’s evening dress of costly green silk.’ Well, tomorrow morning he would go to see Mr Anton Berg, of Syria Wharf, a man who knew all about silk. He also knew about satin, and sarsenet, and every other conceivable type of dress material. With a bit of luck, he’d be able to persuade Mr Berg to examine the green silk dress when he brought it back from Essex – which he would do, whatever the powers-that-be down there thought about it.
Box had become so immersed in thought that he jumped with alarm when Mrs Peach knocked lightly on the door, and came into the room. She was holding a calling-card delicately between thumb and forefinger.
‘Mr Box,’ she whispered, ‘there’s a gentleman called to see you. He’s downstairs. Shall I bring him up? Dr Oake, he says his name is.’
‘Dr Oake? Thank you, Mrs Peach. I thought he might run me to ground here. Bring him up, by all means. And when he’s gone, perhaps a spot of dinner will be in order?’
‘It will, sir. Fried herrings with fried potatoes and pickle, followed by castle pudding and custard. I’ll show the gentleman up straight away, Mr Box.’
‘So you don’t know our part of Essex, Inspector? Well, it’s fairly remote, and not very important. Bishop’s Longhurst is more a grand village than a small town. It had something to do with wool in the Middle Ages, so they say. And that’s where I have my practice. I’m also police surgeon for the district.’
Box looked speculatively at his visitor. He had entered the room clutching a black sombrero-style hat, and carrying a small leather valise. Dr Oake was a large man in his mid-fifties, with a mane of thick white hair, and a keen, aquiline profile. His eyes were very dark and very lively. There’s not much, thought Box, that escapes this energetic man’s enquiring glance.
‘It’s very civil of you to call on me, sir,’ said Box, after his visitor had sunk gratefully into a chair on the other side of the fireplace.
‘Not at all, Inspector. I’m up here in Town on business, and I’ll be here all week. Seemed a pity not to see you fellows in person. Your superintendent sent me here in a cab – paid the fare in advance, too! He’s an extraordinarily nice man, isn’t he? Must be very pleasant, working with him. And this is your little billet, is it?’
The bright dark eyes darted round the room. It wasn’t mere curiosity, thought Box. This man was interested in people for their own sakes. He’d evidently known how to charm Old Growler, too. An extraordinarily nice man? Not half!
‘It is, sir. Very convenient, too, because it’s near enough to Whitehall for me to walk in to work every day. There’s this nice sitting-room, a bedroom on the next floor front, and a washroom and the usual offices at the end of the passage.’
Dr Oake had risen while Box was talking, and was peering at a framed and glazed photograph hanging near the door. Box found the doctor’s lively informality very attractive.
‘This is a fine picture, Mr Box! I see you’ve got – what? – four others framed, and up on the walls. Did you take them?’
‘Yes, sir. Photography’s my hobby, you see. Not that I get much time for it, these days. There’s a gentleman at number 12, further down the court, who makes the enlargements for me. That one you’re looking at is of a couple of market stalls in the New Cut. The man at number 12 makes glass slides for me, as well.’
Dr Oake resumed his seat. It seemed to Box that he made a conscious effort to put aside his genuine interest in the photographs. His face became grave as he unfastened his valise, and brought out a note book. He grimaced at what was evidently an unpleasant memory.
‘I’m afraid that the photographs waiting for you at Danesford police station are far less pleasant than these splendid prints,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Bickerstaffe has custody of them, together with my formal autopsy report, but I’ve brought my preliminary notes up here to London with me. Let me give you a few details.’
Dr Oake opened the note book, and turned over a few pages, refreshing his memory before he spoke.
‘The woman taken from the aqueduct, Mr Box, was aged about forty. Forty to forty-five. She was in good health at the time of her death. I don’t think she was married, as there were no marks of rings on her fingers. Her hands were well manicured. There were no distinguishing marks. She had all her natural teeth.’
‘And she had been garrotted?’
‘Yes. Garrotted from behind with a silk handkerchief knotted beforehand, I should think, and thrown over her head before being tightened.’
‘The handkerchief was present on the body?’
‘No. But there were traces of silk in the ligature, which is why I suggest a silk handkerchief.’
‘How long had she been dead, Dr Oake? When she was found, I mean.’
‘Two hours. Certainly no more than that. She was found just before midnight, so she got herself murdered in the middle of nowhere at ten o’clock at night.’
‘Who found her, sir?’
‘A simple fellow called John Doake. He likes to wander in the moonlight, you know. He’s of weak intellect, but quite harmless. He was up there on the aqueduct at Bardley, and saw her floating serenely down our old canal like – like Ophelia, in Hamlet.’
‘Daft, is he? You don’t think—’
‘No, Inspector, I don’t. John Doake’s daft, but he’s harmless, as I said. He just found her, that’s all. Incidentally, there was nothing in her clothing to identify her. We thought somebody would miss her very soon. She was wearing a very costly dress, you see, and good quality shoes, though they pinched a bit. Vanity, most probably. And then, of course, there was the necklace. What does that signify? The poor woman was murdered right enough, but robbery couldn’t have been the motive.’
The doctor’s inquisitive glance had rested on the photograph of Box’s father. He closed his note book, as though dismissing the subject.
‘That picture of a police sergeant, Mr Box – a relative of yours, perhaps?’
‘Yes, Dr Oake. That’s my father. Pa was a uniformed sergeant, many years ago. That likeness of him was taken in 1864. He was shot by a man called Joseph Edward Spargo in 1875. Shot in the leg. Nothing could be proved at the time, but then this Spargo went on to murder a solicitor in Crutched Friars, and was knocked senseless by the butler, an ex-prize-fighter. Very unfortunate for Spargo, that. He was hanged at Newgate in 1880.’
‘And your father, Mr Box. What happened to him? Did he recover?’
‘Well, he was invalided out, sir, as you might expect. He was given a little pension, and they had a benefit for him. He’s still going strong, so to speak, at seventy-three years old.’
Dr Oake hauled himself to his feet. He put his note book back into his valise, and retrieved his slouched hat from the top of the bookcase, where he had tossed it.
‘I’d best be gone, Inspector Box. I’m keeping you from your dinner. I don’t expect we’ll meet again, so I’ll just say how very nice it’s been to talk to you today. I wish you every success with this case. It’s a mystery, Inspector. A dark mystery.’
4
More Silk
Inspector Box hurried down the steps of 2 King James’s Rents, crossed the deserted cobbled square, and turned in
to Whitehall, which, by contrast, was thronging with people. A number of carriages, each guarded by a liveried groom, stood in the dusty street outside the entrance to the great Italianate building of the Home Office. A gloomy pall was beginning to spread itself over the London sky. He could taste the sour, sulphurous tang of chimney-smoke, the precursor of fog.
The Strand seethed with traffic, and echoed with the low thunder of hooves and the ringing of iron tyres. Should he whistle for a cab? No. He enjoyed walking, and this foray across the City would banish the fumes of the office. He wove his way through the press of vehicles and, crossing the wide thoroughfare, continued along Fleet Street.
By the time Box had reached Ludgate Hill, the fog had defined itself as something more than a mere mist. He could just make out the dull glow of the signals on the railway viaduct spanning Ludgate Hill. Should he fortify himself with a glass of stout in the King Lud? No. It would be better to press on.
It was as he hurried along the ever-busy Cannon Street that Box realized he was being followed. He felt a rather illogical surge of excitement. To be tailed like this would add a certain spice to the day. He had noticed a hulking giant of a fellow glancing in his direction as he had skirted St Paul’s Churchyard, and his professional instincts had been alerted to possible danger. He’d wondered whether one of Gideon Raikes’s thugs had been put on his tail.
And now, the hulking man was there again, trailing a hundred yards behind him. Box felt the reassuring length of the truncheon in the special pocket tailored into his left trouser leg. Villains sometimes didn’t realize that plain-clothes policemen carried a concealed weapon –a crocus-wood truncheon, twelve inches long, with a nice leather thong at the handle….
Box began to walk more briskly through the now dense fog, and turned abruptly right into a narrow lane a few yards before the opening to Garlick Hill.
Away from the main thoroughfares, London had become a world of shadows. A church tower loomed up to his left. He entered a narrow lane, where tall, shuttered, houses stared blankly at each other across the wet cobbles. Very soon, he would emerge on to the complex of warehouses and jetties known as Syria Wharf. And there, in a long, attic office which looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, he would find Mr Anton Berg, a man well versed in the mysteries of silk and satin, and in the subtle arts of the dressmaker. Anton Berg could read garments like other people read books….
‘Help!’ It was a shrill cry, anguished and hopeless, and it was followed by a shattering of glass. The sounds came from an alley so narrow that Box’s shoulders touched its sides as he ran down it towards what he recognized as the classical sounds of brutish robbery with violence. To seize and apprehend malefactors was his vocation. He moved as swiftly now as he had done in his days as a uniformed constable. He eased the truncheon from its concealed pocket.
The alley opened out into a tiny square, and through the swirling mist Box saw the bow window of a shop, approached by a tall flight of steps between black iron railings. Painted above the window was the legend: DAMIAN SHULBREDE. WATCHMAKER.
All thoughts of Anton Berg forgotten, Inspector Box burst into the shop. The door, fitted with a patent spring, slammed shut behind him. Yes; there was the smashed display case, the glint of jewellery, the terrified ashen-faced old man standing as though paralysed against the wall. There were two robbers, one big and brutal, the other lithe and snarling – river-vermin, who had crawled up here from the slime of King’s Reach under cover of the fog.
At times like this, you didn’t think about the most prudent course of action: you launched yourself at the foe. Box caught the lithe, snarling man by surprise, flinging him, spitting and cursing, to the floor, and stunning him with a blow from his truncheon. A second later he was lifted bodily by the big brute, and thrown violently against the wall. The robber closed in for the kill, and Box saw his rigidly expressionless face, and his dead, emotionless eyes. This was the type who would kill as well as plunder.
With a report like a sudden gunshot, the front door was kicked open, and the hulking brute who had been following Box from St Paul’s Churchyard charged into the shop. With a roar of rage he hurled himself at the big robber, who lost his balance and fell to the floor with a sickening crash. He was up in a moment, bellowing with fury, but was immediately felled by his massive assailant. The dazed eyes were briefly enlivened by a dawning look of surprise before the man collapsed backwards on the floor, unconscious.
‘Well done—’ Box began, but his rescuer gave him no time to finish.
‘That’s enough of that, my lad! Put your hands above your head, and keep them there! Up! Up!’
Box did as he was told. He was fascinated by this gigantic man. Who was he? Who’d sent him? He wasn’t one of Percy’s lot … An ugly-looking brute! Taller even than Kenwright, with close-cropped yellow hair, and a livid scar running across his face from below the right eye to the left corner of the mouth.
The big man never took his eyes off Box as he knelt down, and produced a set of handcuffs from a greatcoat pocket. A policeman! He secured the unconscious robber’s wrists behind him, and with one hand turned the first robber over on to his back.
‘Officer,’ said Box, still with his arms raised obediently above his head, ‘if you’ll feel in the wallet pocket of my jacket, you’ll find my warrant card.’
From somewhere behind him, Box could hear the murmur of voices, and the clatter of boots on bare boards, but he was held fascinated by his rescuer. Who was this man? Why had he followed him so doggedly to Garlick Hill? The big man’s piercing blue eyes were still fixed on Box’s face. The hand that reached into his jacket bore a heavy gold signet ring on the little finger. There was, Box noted, a smear of blood on the knuckles. The hand deftly removed his warrant card.
Box saw the big man blush deeply before handing him back his card. He lowered his arms, and accepted the warrant without comment. He would stay where he was, and see what the big man would do next.
‘Detective Inspector Box, sir, this was hardly the meeting I’d envisaged. I thought it might be you, but I couldn’t be sure. You might have been an accomplice of that scum on the floor.’
A rear door opened, and the watchmaker entered the shop, accompanied by an elderly police sergeant and a young constable. Two or three timid neighbours crowded in behind them. The sergeant, a slightly stooping man with a humorous eye, saw Box immediately, and saluted. He ignored the big man, who had crossed the room to join the badly shaken shopkeeper and his neighbours.
‘Mr Box, sir,’ he said, ‘do you remember me? Sergeant Harvey. I’ve not seen you in ages. Not since that fire at St Olaf’s Stairs. Mr Shulbrede there came running down to us in Upper Thames Street. I see you’ve floored these villains. Well done, sir, if I may say so. Let’s see who we’ve got here.’
Sergeant Harvey stooped down with his hands on his knees, and peered at the two robbers.
‘Well, well! Joseph Jenkins. And Billy “the Weasel” Whetstone. Local talent, sir: our own breeding, these two. Well, lads, you’ve met your match here, by the look of things. Jenkins, you’ve just done a stretch, and now you’ll have to go back in for ever such a long time! And you, Billy! The cart’s on the way for both of you. Anything to say, either of you? No? Well, that’s understandable.’
Box joined Sergeant Harvey, and looked down in his turn at the two sullen, defeated men, who had been fettered by the constable. The thin chains joining the anklets chinked as they squirmed on the floor. Box’s giant assailant seemed to have shrunk to an awkward, ageing hulk. His weasel companion was quietly sobbing. What riffraff!
‘Joseph Jenkins, hey? And Billy Whetstone?’ said Box. ‘I’ll note those names, gents, and those faces to match. And perhaps you’d care to make a note of me, too? Drag them away, Constable. Here’s your station van now.’
Sergeant Harvey was leaning against the smashed display case, writing in his notebook.
‘Do you want to appear in this, Mr Box? At the Mansion House, I mean. If not, we
can enrol you as a witness at the trial. There’ll be a trial, of course. These two are a bit too big for the magistrates.’
‘That’ll do nicely, Sergeant Harvey,’ said Box. ‘Put me in as a witness. I’ll send you a note at Upper Thames Street. I’m going down to Essex tomorrow, so I’d rather not appear in this row for the moment.’
The robbers were hauled to their feet, and shuffled out through the front door, where the police van was waiting. Sergeant Harvey turned at the door, and gave Box a world-weary but good-humoured smile.
‘All in a day’s work, sir. “The trivial round, the common task, should furnish all we need to ask”. Whoever wrote that, didn’t have our job to do!’
Box turned from the door. The big man with the scar was talking in low tones to the shopkeeper, who was holding a watch that he had salvaged from the shattered display case. The watch-glass had been smashed, and the fingers bent.
‘My name is Damian Shulbrede, sir,’ said the elderly man, turning to Box. ‘Please accept my thanks for apprehending those desperate villains. How very brave of you! This young fellow tells me that you are a Scotland Yard inspector.’
‘That’s very true, sir,’ Box replied, ‘and now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, and this “young fellow” had better come with me! I’ll see you again, Mr Shulbrede, when this case comes to court.’
Box caught the big man’s coat sleeve, and firmly propelled him down the steps and out of the shop.
‘Now, Officer,’ he said, ‘congratulations! You’ve got a healthy suspicion of folk that’ll serve you well. Well done! And by Jove, you can move. A regular whirlwind. I don’t think our beautiful friend back there knew what hit him!’
The fair-haired giant laughed, and delved into one of his pockets. He extracted his own warrant card, which he handed to Box.
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