‘You’d left King James’s Rents just minutes before I arrived, sir. I was determined to find you. A big, bearded constable told me where you’d gone, and I followed you. I’m Sergeant Knollys, sir. Jack Knollys.’
*
‘I don’t suppose you drink on duty, gentlemen, but you won’t be able to resist this particular infusion. It’s Turkish coffee. The brightest jewel in the Sultan’s turban! And those are genuine Turkish crenellated cups. Cream – there. Sugar – there. The connoisseur drinks it black.’
By the time that Box and his new sergeant had extricated themselves from the scene of the robbery, the fog had begun to rise, so that when they reached the end of the lane, and emerged on to the stone flags of Syria Wharf, they were able to see the great looming complex of warehouses rising up on the edge of the river-bank, and the stark inscription, A. BERG. IMPORTER, displayed in huge white lettering high above the ranks of windows. A creaking goods lift had taken them up to the sixth floor, and so to the offices of Mr Anton Berg.
Mr Berg poured out the coffee from a silver pot, talking all the time. His bright, shrewd eyes looked speculatively at Box, and then reached for an elaborately chased flask.
‘Yes, the connoisseurs drink it black; but I’m merely a humble cloth merchant, and you, gentlemen, are honest policemen. So we’ll have cream and sugar. A fracas, you say? And a lot of violence? Well, you must have a dollop of this sovereign restorative in your coffee. Napoleon brandy.’
No one, thought Box, would ever mistake Anton Berg for a ‘humble cloth merchant’. A man nearing sixty, a sinuous, prowling kind of man, with the sensitive face of a scholar, he was dressed impeccably in a well-tailored black suit of modern cut, without tails. There was a dull sheen to the material of the suit, as though it had been tailored from some esoteric kind of satin. Gold links shone at his cuffs.
Nor was there anything particularly mercantile about his premises, which occupied the whole of the sixth floor. An outer office, manned by a stooping clerk, was succeeded by a series of solidly furnished rooms culminating in a low, airy chamber hung entirely in silk. It always reminded Box of a picture he had seen as a child of a Bedouin sheik reclining in a damask tent. There were a number of sofas with patterned silk covers and tasselled cushions, and low tables carved with Arabic script.
Mr Berg added a generous measure of brandy to each cup, and then sat back on his sofa.
‘And is there, perhaps, something that you want me to do for you, Mr Box?’
‘There is, Mr Berg. Something very much in your line, as the saying goes.’ Inspector Box gave the merchant a succinct account of the murder case awaiting his investigation in Essex, and the emphasis placed in the local police report on the green silk dress. He was conscious of his new sergeant’s air of absorbed interest in what he was saying. Did Knollys know anything about him? Anything about the various cases that had brought him to inspector’s rank at the early age of thirty? Knollys didn’t look like a policeman. He looked like a well-dressed but dangerous ruffian….
Mr Berg sipped his coffee thoughtfully, and then smiled, revealing a number of gold teeth.
‘“Silk”! And what, pray, do they mean by that? “Silk”? You might as well say “cloth”, for all that means. I’ve got at least eight different silks here, of the type used in ladies’ dresses. What does this Essex policeman mean? Peking Tissue? Foochow Lion’s Breath? And “green”-does he mean China green? Vat-dyed? Look!’
Berg made a disconcerting dart to the door, and disappeared into the adjacent room. They could hear the whirring of a roller as a length of cloth was pulled free. When Berg returned, both men gasped in awe. The merchant had quite unselfconsciously draped himself in a swathe of blue and gold silk that seemed to pulsate with life and colour. He moved from side to side, and they saw delicate images of flowers and leaves spring to life in the changing light from the tall warehouse windows. Berg flung himself down on his sofa, and spread the gorgeous material out across his knees.
‘You see that, gentlemen? Is it sufficient to call this creation by the simple name of “silk”? Is it adequate? Is it right?’ Mr Berg’s eyes blazed with something approaching fanaticism. His long black curls fell across his brow. ‘Feel it! Four hundred and eighty stitches to the square inch, and as smooth as butter! Look at the weave!’
He produced a little square lens from a pocket, and thrust it into Box’s hand. ‘Chinese?’ Box ventured, peering at the almost invisible weaving of the shimmering blue material.
‘No. Italian, Mr Box. Venetian.’ His voice, normally vibrant, sank to a conspiratorial whisper as he quoted some lines of verse.
‘“There’s magic in the web of it…
The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk,
And it was dy’d in mummy, which the skilful
Conserv’d of maidens’ hearts.”’
Mr Berg suddenly laughed, swept up the length of silk from his knees, and deposited it on the floor beside his sofa.
‘So what can I do for you, Inspector? I’ve got the best French silk here, and finest Italian, as you’ve just seen. Lovely stuff. I bring these things in for the Bond Street fashion houses. Just tell me how many bolts you want, Mr Box, and it’s yours at trade price. I don’t sell any shoddy stuff.’
Box saw that Mr Berg was eyeing Sergeant Knollys with curiosity. Why on earth had he not introduced the sergeant formally, as was the custom? Perhaps because he felt he had only just been introduced to the man himself.
The inspector put down his Turkish cup carefully on the saucer, and looked at Anton Berg. What was he? An Austrian? His English was perfect, but there was a slight foreign accent lurking behind it. Whatever else he might be, he was a salesman to his manicured fingertips.
‘Trade price, plus five per cent discount for quantity,’ Berg added.
‘I don’t want to buy anything, Mr Berg.’ Box’s voice assumed a plaintive tone, which held the suspicion of a whine. Why did people always want to sell him things? Did he look like a soft touch? ‘I want you to do me a favour. When I come back from Essex, let me bring you that dress! The victim’s green dress. Seven times, they mentioned it. There must have been something special about it, and you’ll see what it is. Will you agree to look at it?’
Anton Berg had made up his mind before Box had finished speaking.
‘Of course I will! It’s an intriguing prospect, Inspector. But you must bring it to me here, where I can examine it by the light of heaven. Don’t ask me to root around in your warren of dark little rooms at King James’s Rents! Besides, I have the tools of my trade here. So bring the dress when you will.’
Sergeant Knollys had said nothing since they had entered the Arabian Nights apartment. He had watched Anton Berg in fascination, and wondered what connection there was between this rather exotic foreign man and the dapper, Cockney detective who was to be his new guvnor.
‘Do you live up here, then, Mr Berg?’ asked Knollys.
‘Live here? Not now, Sergeant. My wife and I have a very nice little villa in Islington. But I did live up here once, for a time. That’s why it’s still furnished. I was watching you just now, and thought how well you merged into this room! You seemed to fit it, if you know what I mean. Look! From the windows here, on the City side, you can see St Paul’s rising above the throng of streets! Over there, you can see the back of the Mansion House. Walk across the room, and there’s the river below you. The fog’s almost cleared now. You can see the whole of Southwark in prospect.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Knollys, softly. ‘A marvellous place, sir. And you don’t live here now?’
‘No, Sergeant – er, I don’t think Mr Box mentioned your name?’
‘Knollys, sir. Detective Sergeant Knollys.’
‘Knollys, hey! A very interesting name, if I may say so. I recently supervised the hanging of new curtains at Marlborough House for the Prince and Princess of Wales. I find myself occasionally moving in very exalted circles! Anyway, one of the footmen pointed out a gentleman
called Sir Francis Knollys, and told me that he was not only the Prince’s secretary, but also Gentleman Usher to Her Majesty. A very old family, apparently. One of them was Lord Mayor of London, so this footman told me. A relative of yours, perhaps?’
Inspector Box started uneasily. Maybe this Jack Knollys really was a scion of this exalted family. He caught his new sergeant’s eye. It held a kind of mocking gleam.
‘Sir Francis Knollys and I, Mr Berg,’ said the sergeant, ‘share a common ancestor.’
‘Indeed? Well, Sergeant Knollys, this place is empty and forlorn, pining for company. It is, as you say, a marvellous place. Somewhere, a tenant is waiting for it. Who knows what the fates may bring? I wish you all success for your investigation, Inspector Box. Will Sergeant Knollys be accompanying you down to Essex?’
Box saw the eager, almost pleading look in Knollys’ eyes, and made up his mind instantly about what to reply.
‘He will, sir. It’s the custom, you know. Inspectors and sergeants tend to hunt in pairs!’
‘Are you game for a brisk walk back to Whitehall?’
‘Yes, sir. And thank you for sparing my blushes back up there. About going down to Essex, I mean.’
They had proceeded in silence half way up Garlick Hill before Knollys added, ‘It was a fine scrap, wasn’t it, sir? You’d have downed Joseph Jenkins yourself, I expect, without my help. He was all flab! Out of training, as you might say.’
Box glanced at his companion, and saw the glint of pleasure in his eyes. He really had enjoyed the fight! Knollys would prove a very useful man to have in a tight spot. They reached the top of the narrow road, and turned left into Cannon Street.
‘It’s certainly a point of view, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘My own view, for what it’s worth, is that I’d have been pulverized without your timely appearance. Mangled.’
At St Paul’s Churchyard, Box suddenly stopped on the pavement, forcing one or two passers-by to walk round him. He glanced briefly at the great dome of the cathedral rising above the throng of people and vehicles streaming towards Ludgate Circus.
‘It was just here, Sergeant Knollys, that I spotted you. Nailed you for certain, I mean. “Who’s this ugly customer on my tail?” I thought. I let you keep me in sight, so I wouldn’t lose you myself. Just as well, all things considered.’
‘When they told me at King James’s Rents where you’d gone, sir, I took a cab to Fleet Street, waited for you to arrive, and followed you from there. That big constable – Kenwright, his name was – gave me your description: mid-thirties, round face, thick moustache, light overcoat, brown bowler, rapid gait, a little below average height—’
‘Yes, well, never mind this preoccupation with height, Sergeant. I’ve enough to put up with from PC Kenwright, and George Boyd, without you starting on me! And let me remind you that Goliath … Goliath … no, it was David. He was only a titch, too, and he felled that giant with a single stone. Well, not a titch, of course. I expect he was of average height for a youth … I think I’m getting out of my depth in this conversation. But here we are at the Circus, Sergeant Knollys, and here’s the good old King Lud. So I suggest we adjourn for a bottle each of India Pale Ale.’
It was comfortably gloomy inside the King Lud. The two detectives sat at a little marble-topped table near the door. There was an incessant murmur of voices from the long, crowded public bar. Light from the street outside filtered its way through narrow windows filled with coloured glass, and glinted off the brass handles of the beer engines along the bar.
‘Ah!’ said Box, after an appreciative sip from his glass. ‘Very nice. And lightly chilled, as it should be, though some folk prefer it warm, like draught beer. I don’t suppose you’re settled anywhere, yet?’
‘I’ve dumped my kit in the section house for the moment, sir. That’ll do me, I expect. But I was very taken by that eyrie of Mr Berg’s back there at Syria Wharf. Perhaps he and I could do a deal, if you’re agreeable.’
‘The section house! Bobbies’ barracks! That brings back fond memories, Sergeant. One bed, one table, one chair. Tidiness was the watchword. Plenty of camaraderie, as they say, but not much in the way of creature comforts. See Mr Berg by all means, as soon as ever you and I get back from Essex. We’ll go down tomorrow morning by the eight o’clock train.’
Both men had drained their glasses. Knollys rose to his feet, and half turned towards the bar. Box saw the wary look in his eyes. They had talked easily together, but the sergeant was evidently wondering whether or not he had gained acceptance.
‘Another one, sir?’
‘Well, perhaps so, Sergeant. It’d help to mend our shattered nerves after the – what did Mr Berg call it? – the “fracas”. Then we’d better get back to King James’s Rents. We don’t want to disgrace ourselves by staggering over the threshold! And thanks very much, Sergeant Knollys. Very civil. Much appreciated.’
Box watched the big sergeant as he made his way to the crowded bar. As well as being a powerful man, he was a well-dressed man. He evidently cared much for his appearance. Maybe he’d like to give George Boyd a few lessons in deportment. Despite that hideous scar, Knollys was still a good-looking man. That scar needed some kind of explanation. He would choose his time to ask.
‘What’s your connection with Mr Berg, Inspector?’ asked Knollys, when he returned carrying two bottles. ‘There’s a very nice, genuine man lurking beneath all that froth and tosh.’
Box carefully filled his empty glass.
‘A very nice man? Yes, that’s quite true, I suppose. But you’ve got to watch him. He’s a born salesman. I once came away from that warehouse of his with half a bolt of orange cloth. Orange! I suppose you realize that he was trying to get you as a tenant back there? I’m not so sure that he hasn’t succeeded, either! But, tosh or no tosh, Sergeant, Mr Anton Berg knows what he’s talking about. He’s helped me before, as you may have gathered.’
‘How did you meet him? Was it on a case?’
‘It was. His case, so to speak. Do you know St Olaf Stairs, across the river? Well, Anton Berg used to have his warehouse there. It was burnt down by a man called Stryver. Twelve engines went out to that fire, Sergeant, twelve engines, and the whole river behind them, all to no avail. The place just glowed and glowed all night, and then collapsed in a mound of ash.’ Box paused for effect, and then added, rather cockily, ‘I was the man who hunted Stryver down, and saw him put away for life.’
Sergeant Knollys treated his inspector to an amused smile.
‘Didn’t this Stryver like silk-merchants, then?’ he asked.
‘Stryver, Sergeant Knollys, was acting for a third party, the same party who was behind the murder of the unfortunate Mr James Hungerford at St Saviour’s Dock.’
‘And are you going to tell me the name of this third party, sir?’
Box drained his glass, and stood up. He looked almost absently at Knollys.
‘What? Yes, I’ll tell you all about him when we get back from Essex. His is a name not to be dropped lightly, Sergeant; he’s hardly material for the fag-end of a conversation in a public house. So we’ll talk about him later. At the moment, we’d better turn our thoughts to this business down in Essex: the garrotted lady of quality in the green silk dress.’
5
Drowned Woman, Known to God
Sergeant Isaac Bickerstaffe paused with his clay pipe halfway to his lips. A thought had struck him, and he liked to worry a thought until he’d ferreted out its meaning. That poor dead lady … Why hadn’t she been wearing a coat? It had only been the sixth of September when they’d found her, but still, it was chilly enough then to need a coat of an evening.
He puffed away at his pipe, and leaned back in his chair. Of course, they’d noticed that she’d no coat when they’d hauled her from the canal, but it was only now that the point had clamoured for his attention. What did it mean?
Bickerstaffe lumbered to his feet, and padded out of his crowded cottage parlour, tightening his leather belt as he did so. It was
more comfortable to let it out a notch when you were sitting down at the fireside. He left his heavy serge uniform jacket unfastened.
‘Joe! Where did I put that list of missing persons? The one they sent down from Maldon? This Scotland Yarder might want to see it. This Inspector Box.’
A strong, stolid young man of twenty or so was half way up a ladder, busy whitewashing one of the walls of a kind of annexe, built on to the cottage at right angles. He paused in his work, and considered the question for a few moments.
‘I know! You put it under the blotter, Uncle Isaac. You said you’d know where to find it if you put it there.’
The sergeant stood for a while, watching his nephew Joe as he painted with long, steady strokes. Joe was a good lad, and made a good constable. The Bickerstaffes had been constables at Danesford for generations, long before the Peelers came. Danesford was a good place. Not every village had its own church, and a decent alehouse. The church stood at one end of Field Lane, and the police station, which was housed in Isaac Bickerstaffe’s ancient weather-boarded cottage, at the other.
Behind the cottage stretched his smallholding, and beyond that, the countless flat acres of wheatfields and wide marshland that characterized his part of Essex. The winds always bore more than a hint of the sea, and an awareness in their salty tang of the countless creeks and inlets, islands and mudflats, in the estuaries of the Stour and the Blackwater, long miles away to the east.
Sergeant Bickerstaffe went back into the long, dim front parlour, and sat at his little cluttered desk in the window. Sure enough, the missing persons list was where he’d left it under the blotter, still in its buff envelope with the penny stamp and Maldon postmark. It would be as well to look at it again, before he and Joe set out in the trap for Bishop’s Longhurst, to meet this Inspector Box and his sergeant at the station. The Scotland Yarder would want to know about the missing persons.
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