The Detective and the Devil

by Lloyd Shepherd

  St Helena, too – the strangely poetic and popish name of that distant island kept repeating itself. He knew where the island was, of course – he was a Navy man, a mutinous officer, and all Naval officers knew the shape of Britain’s overseas possessions like they knew the curves of their cannon and the smell of their sail. But he had never visited the East India Company island. The Royal Navy only visited Company lands when there was trouble afoot.

  These considerations were interrupted by the arrival of the jury, which was walked into the room by Unwin. The men were as pale and grim-faced as the Marr jury had been, and Horton wondered if they had also been taken to the River Police Office to view the dead bodies. If so, they had walked a good way, watched over by a fair-sized crowd which had come out to see if, as rumoured, the Monster had returned.

  With the jury seated, Salter was the first to be interrogated by Unwin. He described the condition of the bodies – the damaged faces, the shattered craniums and slashed throats.

  ‘Was there anything unusual about the bodies, other than the terrible violence?’ asked Unwin.

  ‘There were two matters of note,’ said Salter. ‘One was the absence of any blood at the scene of the crime, despite the terrible injuries.’

  ‘To what do you attribute that?’

  ‘Either the house was cleaned, or the bodies were brought there from somewhere else.’

  ‘Already dead?’

  ‘I cannot tell. They may have been.’

  ‘So the cause of death may not have been the maul and the fire and the knife?’

  ‘That is possible.’

  ‘What might it have been?’

  ‘There is no way of saying.’

  ‘And the other unusual matter?’

  ‘There were markings on the bodies. The same mark above the heart of each of the deceased.’

  ‘What kind of markings?’

  ‘A deliberate symbol, consisting of a crescent, a circle, a cross and an inverted number three.’

  The audience whispered and moved in their seats, and already Horton could imagine the newspaper stories the next day. They would be full of ritual slaughter and secret symbols. He realised, with a little start, that he had had no opportunity to inform Markland of this development, and sure enough the Shadwell man was now staring at him across the room, fury in his eyes.

  Neighbours were brought in as witnesses, though they had little enough to tell. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. But these men and women lived next door to a menagerie, so how unusual did a noise have to be to be noteworthy?

  Amy Beavis took the stand last. Horton watched the faces of some of the jurors grow tender at her appearance, while others turned noticeably wolfish. Unwin, always something of a ham, became even more melodramatic at the appearance of Miss Beavis, leaning in towards her, passing her a kerchief when she became upset, all but stroking her.

  She told the jury how she had discovered the bodies on that terrible day, how she had called for the watchman immediately. She then told the same story as she had told Horton – how Mrs Johnson and her daughter had gone to the coast, where they were later joined by Mr Johnson.

  ‘Did you know of anyone who might wish harm on Mr Johnson?’ said Unwin.

  ‘No, sir. He was a kindly man. He always did right by me.’

  ‘I have no doubt of that,’ muttered a woman seated near Horton.

  Unwin was a coroner, charged with identifying the cause of death rather than explaining it. In this case, the cause was obvious enough for the jury, and the verdict was straightforward: murder by persons unknown.

  Horton tried to take his leave, but Markland had other ideas. The magistrate was shoving people out of his way to reach Horton even before the jury rose.

  ‘I thought I made myself clear, Horton,’ he began, his voice stretched by anger, the head of his cane rapping into Horton’s chest for emphasis. ‘Report to me, immediately, any discoveries. Was that not clear?’

  ‘Perfectly clear, sir.’

  ‘Then why is it I learn of this new development – these markings on their skin – at the confounded inquest?’

  ‘Sir, I only found out about them myself this morning.’

  ‘And did you come straight to me? Hmm? No, constable, you did not. You did not. There will be consequences, constable. There will indeed . . . ’

  John Harriott appeared at Markland’s elbow. He was holding a note.

  ‘Markland, a word, if you please.’

  Harriott looked at Horton, and one of his eyes narrowed slightly in a motion so fleeting that it could easily have been missed. A wink, of all things.

  ‘Not now, Harriott,’ said Markland. ‘I am discussing matters relating to the case with the constable, here.’

  ‘Are you indeed? Well, there is someone else who would like to discuss the case with you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Home Secretary.’

  Markland’s face paled as he glanced at the note in Harriott’s hand.

  ‘Is that from . . . ?’

  ‘Sidmouth? It is. I sent him a note this morning. This is his reply. We are to attend him immediately.’

  ‘You had no right . . .’

  ‘You can inform me of my rights or otherwise in the carriage on our way. Good day, Horton. Report to me this evening, if you please.’

  And with that Harriott, who it seemed had learned to play the politician, turned away. He was followed by Markland, whose face was that of a dog chastised. Horton watched them leave and then looked for Amy, but the servant girl had gone.

  Several uniformed Bow Street patrolmen were gathered outside St George’s in the East, and Horton recognised one of them: William Jealous, whom he had met the previous year. A reliable young man, Horton recalled. Jealous nodded at him, and Horton nodded back, but did not stop. He had no particular wish to make small talk now. The other Runners turned to look at him. Did they feel the same mild antipathy towards him that his fellow waterman-constables in Wapping felt? He recalled, with some embarrassment, Charles Lamb’s words, his description of Horton as some kind of nonpareil. He did not like the feeling. He wished that no one knew his name.

  He was walking past the row of houses in which the Johnsons had lived – and, before them, the Marrs. There was a thicker crowd here, a motley collection of streetwalkers and barrow boys jostling with City gentlemen and West End ladies. Another East End crime, another reason to tour these benighted streets. A small boy of perhaps eight or nine years ran up to him.

  ‘Do you know yer bein’ follered, mate?’ he said.

  Horton looked around him.

  ‘Who says I am?’

  ‘Twitcher was first as noticed it, this mornin’, but he’s no’ about now. Cripps is watchin’ your ’ouse. I’m watchin’ you.’

  ‘Well, Rat, I’m obliged to you.’

  He handed over tuppence. Horton had two dozen or more such boys keeping their eyes on Wapping and treating the whole thing as an enormously exciting game. Their utility was incalculable.

  ‘Tell me more, Rat.’

  ‘The feller was ’angin’ about in Lower Gun Alley this mornin’. Twitcher pointed ’im out to me.’

  ‘The man’s description, if you please.’

  The boy frowned, his dirty face crinkling in concentration.

  ‘’e’s ’ard to describe.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘’e looks like you, constable. ’ard to place. Dark clothes. Dark hair. Tall. Pale. Wearin’ a pea-coat.’

  Horton’s heart chilled.

  ‘Does he have a limp?’

  ‘Nah, nuffink like that.’

  The chill lifted, a little.

  ‘When was he last seen?’

  ‘This mornin’. ’e followed you to the Office, and then ’e followed you from there back to your lodgin’s. ’ung around a bit, then made off. Afore you came out.’

  ‘And where did he go when he left Lower Gun Alley?’

  ‘Dunno. We’re not followin’ ’im, are we?’


  Horton looked around. The street was its normal frantic self, but now had an unwelcome whiff of purpose about it.

  ‘And Cripps is watching my house just now?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well then, Rat. My thanks to you. Return to Lower Gun Alley and keep common purpose with Cripps. If you see the man again, one of you run to the Office and report it.’

  ‘Yes, constable.’

  ‘You and Cripps meet me at the Prospect at seven.’

  ‘Yes, constable.’

  ‘There’s good money in this for you, Rat. Do it well, and I’ll see you right.’

  ‘You always do, sir. I’ll be off, then.’

  ‘Give my regards to your mother.’

  The boy frowned.

  ‘My mother’s gawn, constable. Coughed herself dead, she did.’

  Horton remembered the woman – a pale, consumptive figure, barely able to work. Abigail had visited a dozen times or more. She would be heartbroken.

  ‘Where are you living?’

  ‘I must be off. Watch your back, constable.’

  Before Horton could ask any further questions, Rat was gone.

  Horton thought about following him, back towards Wapping and Lower Gun Alley. It was disturbing to think of his house being watched. If anyone were following, though, it would be him they would choose, not his wife. He looked around him, here at the point the Highway passed St Katharine’s and headed towards the Tower. Was there anyone watching him? A queasy feeling, as if the gigantic creature of East India House was turning its head to look for him. He didn’t doubt, for a moment, that this episode was to do with the current case.

  He carried on walking, and reached Dorset Street after a half-hour. The place was as anonymously busy as any London street in the mid-afternoon, the end of the work day approaching, the night making its way towards the metropolis like a black sheet with which to cover iniquity. The dirty windows of the boarding houses looked like closed eyes, and the shops beneath them were picking through whatever trade they could take from the poor inhabitants.

  Horton walked up to Amy Beavis’s boarding house. It was quiet, and the door was open – in his experience, never a happy sign. Swallowing a great fear, he made his way inside.

  If there were residents within, they were either sleeping or had left for the day. Or they were hiding in the rooms. A door opened at the back of the hallway, and a pair of eyes peeped out.

  ‘Landlord!’ shouted Horton, but the eyes widened and the door slammed. Horton made his way to the unreliable staircase, listening for any sound while his certainty grew that he was too late to be of any use to anyone.

  On the second landing, the door to the room which Amy Beavis shared with her deranged father was shut. He walked up to it, put an ear to its pocked surface, and heard no sound from within. He tried the handle, and the door swung wide with a knowing squeak.

  Beavis was seated on the one chair in the room, his hands clasped between his knees, his head lolling back as if he had fallen asleep. A cup lay on the floor at his feet, and whatever had been in it had seeped into the moth-eaten rug on the floor.

  Amy lay on her back in front of the hearth, her dead eyes open to the ceiling. He looked down at her, as if he might see the face of the man who killed her imprinted on the eyes.

  Jacques had come, it appeared. He had not been generous.

  Whoever had done this must have left only moments before, and whatever had happened had happened as soon as Amy arrived home. The killer may even have been waiting for her, or had followed her from the inquest. There were no signs of a struggle; presumably Beavis had been here in the parlour when the killer first arrived.

  But the scene was peaceful, domestic, quiet. How could that be?

  Another cup stood on the mantel above the fireplace. He went over to it, saw clear liquid inside, sniffed two distinct smells – gin, and almonds.

  If he hadn’t stopped to speak to Rat, he might have disturbed them.

  He moved around, forcing himself not to look too hard, to listen and to smell, to breathe in the room and to touch its stories. He focused on a corner of the wall and ceiling, an ugly brown-black locus, and then he remembered the etching, the ugly, faded picture of St Paul’s.

  It was no longer on the wall. He looked around the room for it, but it was not there. There was no square where the etching had hung – the revealed wall was as dirty and damp as the rest of the room. The etching had not hung there for long; Amy must have only just hung it. And now it was gone.

  ‘Well, this is nice, innit.’

  Rat stood in the Hortons’ parlour, a grin on his face which could not have been any wider if he’d been standing in a drawing room at Windsor Castle. Abigail was warming a tub of water by the fire.

  ‘He’s not staying here without a wash,’ she said to Horton. ‘And are those the only clothes you own?’ Rat, embarrassed by her tone, nodded. Every time Abigail spoke to him he blushed, and his eyes followed her adoringly round the room, like a puppy with a new and kind owner. ‘You can borrow some of Charles’s clothes while I wash them. They’ll be much too big for you, of course, but they’ll keep you warm enough.’

  She went to fetch the clothes and the soap. She seemed angry and upset, and he wondered if his over-protectiveness was offending her again. He would have to ignore it. The boy grinned, his teeth white in the street-grime of his face. His cheerfulness astonished Horton, but then so much about these street boys astonished him – their resourcefulness, their enduring existence.

  ‘Rehearse the plan to me, if you please, Rat,’ he said.

  ‘Right-o.’ Rat held out his hand, and counted off each point on his filthy fingers, just as Horton had explained it to him.

  ‘Article the First. I’m to stay ’ere in the ’ouse with Mrs Horton, unless she goes out, when I’m to accompany Her.’ He pronounced Horton and Her with careful precision, emphasising the ‘haitch’ which was otherwise a stranger to his speech.

  ‘Yes. At all times, Rat.’

  ‘Article the Second. I see or ’ear anything suspicious – noise on the stairs, fellas ’anging round, anythin’ – I’m to wave this ’an’kerchief out that window there.’

  ‘And don’t worry if whoever’s watching the house sees you.’

  ‘Correct, Constable Horton. ’Cos if they see us, they’ll know we can see them, right?’

  ‘Yes. And finally?’

  ‘Article the Third. Cripps is organisin’ the others to keep an eye on the alley. They sees my kerchief, they leg it round to the Police Office and fetch a constable. That it?’

  Horton nodded.

  ‘That’s it. And here.’

  He handed Rat a small purse.

  ‘A shilling a day. That’s enough for a week in there. Don’t spend it right away.’

  Rat’s eyes widened.

  ‘Seven shillin’s? Seven bleedin’ shillin’s? By Lawd, constable, where’d you get seven shillin’s?’

  ‘From the magistrate. And he’ll expect to see a good return for his money, too.’

  Harriott had indeed provided the money; had initially insisted that he send constables to watch Horton’s house. But Horton has seen too many scowls, heard too many muttered insults as he’d turned down corridors to trust the safety of his wife and household to Wapping’s constables. They were only river watchmen, after all, capable of little more than ticking off items landed from a ship. The boys of Wapping were more able.

  Rat pulled himself up straight.

  ‘I’ll do right by your missus, constable. I swears I will.’

  Abigail walked in, and Rat crumpled into adoration once more. Horton watched Abigail as she made herself busy washing and dressing the boy. She was irritated at him, but there was something else. He knew her well enough to know she would tell him what ailed her if she wished to tell him. After this morning’s conversation, he did not wish to pester her with concern.

  Perhaps Rat’s presence would distract her. Perhaps protection could run
in two directions. They had no children of their own, despite having wished for them, and they were now too old. Rat might be staying longer than just a few nights. It would be appropriate, he thought, to find a son out in the Wapping streets, even a dirty adoptive one.

  Tomorrow would bring another inquest, this time into the deaths of Amy Beavis and her father. The Whitechapel magistrates would become involved. Arguments between them and Markland and Harriott were drearily inevitable. He would not attend the inquest, he decided. He’d had enough of jurisdictional niceties, even though the Home Secretary had brought Markland down a few pegs. But Sidmouth had also had words for Harriott.

  ‘He told me to be careful,’ the old magistrate had told him, sitting in his chair before the riverside window after Horton’s return from Dorset Street. ‘Markland’s situation is a clear warning signal to us, Horton. The East India Company is as much a part of the fabric of this nation as the House of Commons. Hundreds of great men and dozens of famous women are stockholders in John Company, and thousands of ordinary men work for it. Throw a coin out of the window into the street, and chances are it will hit someone who has some dealings with the Company. Throw the same coin into the Commons, and it will strike a dozen men or more of the Company interest. We would do well to remember that.’

  Would the pressure of powerful men now come to bear upon him? Had mighty wheels begun to turn, and would they crush those without influence? And was he really going to try and shield himself and his wife against such might with Wapping street boys?

  ‘I will not be a prisoner, Charles,’ said Abigail, as she scrubbed away at Rat’s back.

  ‘Not a prisoner.’

  ‘No. Not quite. But I will go out as I wish, Charles. I will.’

  A straight line had appeared in the middle of her brow, a straight line with which he knew not to argue.

  ‘Perhaps you would prefer to spend the day in the Police Office?’