by Carol Hedges
It is a chance comment from his sergeant that has brought Inspector Greig hurrying hot-foot from Bow Street to the railway construction site. Having read a report in one of the lunchtime papers of a ‘gas leak’ destroying the last remaining dwelling in Hind Street, Sergeant Hacket had observed that as far as he recalled from their previous visit, the gas had been cut off.
Most of the time Greig treats the opinions of the young officers with a degree of benign scepticism. But something about what Hacket said had resonated. So now here he is, pushing his way through the sightseers and the sellers of ginger beer, fruit, cakes and coffee who have all miraculously materialised once again and set up temporary stalls in the hope of picking up trade.
Greig surveys the wreckage of what was once number 18 Hind Street but is now a jumbled, smoking pile of timbers, lath and plaster being carefully picked over by a team of workmen.
Then he goes to find Albert Noble, the onsite chemist, who is packing up his bottles and equipment.
“You’re the expert on big bangs Mr Noble, aren’t you? Tell me this wasn’t a gas explosion,” Greig says.
The chemist shakes his head.
“It was certainly not. The gas was cut off to the whole street a long time ago, Inspector. But the house was on borrowed time - it would have been destroyed sooner or later. The tunnel was already undermining the foundations.”
“Looks like someone did the job for you,” Greig says drily. “So could ... say ... a can of nitro-glycerine be enough to bring down a house?”
“Oh yes, certainly. Particularly a house like that one. The contractor had already shored up the side with timber beams.”
“I think we have discovered where your missing can went to, then. Though how it got there is still to be revealed. Do you have any ideas?”
“I am a mere chemist, Inspector. What would I know about such matters? I leave speculation to other heads,” the chemist says primly. “Now if I can be of no further help, my services are urgently required at another construction site.”
Greig goes to chat to the four Metropolitan police constables currently holding back the crowd who, having been drawn initially by the explosion, are now hanging on in the hope that something gruesome might be discovered in the clearing up process.
“Any sign of the previous occupants?”
“Body of a man found,” one says with lugubrious relish. “Horribly burned it was. They found bits of flesh and pieces of bone as far as thirty yards away. All taken to the police morgue, if you want to have a look for yourself.”
Greig does not. Given the time of day, he hazards a guess that the body is, or rather was Mr Sprowle the landlord, as the rest of the tenants are likely to have left for work earlier. He also doubts that the landlord would be the one who helped himself to a can of nitro-glycerine. Too old and not enough gumption.
Inspector Greig curses his own stupidity. Why did he not get a list of the tenants renting rooms at number 18? At the time, it seemed irrelevant. Not any more. Whoever stole the can of chemicals may now be guilty not only of theft of railway property, but also of murder.
Without giving away his true reasons, he orders the constables to mount a special watch over the site, and to apprehend anybody trying to access it, or making such inquiries indicative of their former tenancy, or interest in the property.
He gives them his card, telling them to send a man over, day or night, to Bow Street. Then he takes a last long look at the devastation. Babies murdered, lethal explosions - who would have thought that one poor dilapidated street could contain so much evil?
****
The life of a bank clerk is, on the whole, pretty monotonous. Ranged in long rows they sit high off the ground casting up accounts on sloping desks. All day long they weigh and pay, weigh and pay.
It is no wonder then, that at 5.30 pm Waxwing and Persiflage dismount thankfully from their stools, don their street coats and proceed to their usual alamode house, where they order a fourpenny plate of boiled beef with carrots and suet dumplings and bespeak a copy of the evening paper.
Hoping to read of some terrible disaster that may have befallen an MP or a member of the upper classes, they are instead struck dumb by an account on page two of a mysterious and very fatal gas explosion that has taken place earlier in a street next to the Metropolitan Railway workings.
It takes a couple of readings before the penny drops and they realise that the article refers to number 18 Hind Street, and their former dulce domum is now a non domum.
A further reading elicits the notion that the accompanying illustration of the body found at the scene is an artist’s impression of what might be Mr Sprowle, or rather Mr Sprowle at the moment of impact when according to the artist, his arms and legs parted company with his body in rather dramatic fashion.
“Here’s a to-do,” Waxwing exclaims. “I say, do you suppose it was ...”
Persiflage gives his co-conspirator a stern look.
“Muller said the mantelpiece weren’t a safe place to keep it,” Waxwing continues, ignoring the look.
Persiflage says nothing.
“I had two guineas and a brand-new pair of trousers in there,” Waxwing laments. “Do you think it’d be worth going back to see if they’ve turned up?”
Persiflage turns on him.
“Of course they haven’t turned up, you stupid, bloody fool!” he hisses.
“Now now, no call for bad language. We’ve both had a shock. Thing like that ... it can ... unseat you a little.”
Persiflage downs the last of his porter. Then rises.
“Since our friend Muller is such an expert on ballistics, I think we should pay him a call and see what else he is good at. Hopefully finding temp’ry room and board for two homeless men,” he says.
“So you don’t want to go and see if any of your stuff is left?”
Persiflage smiles bitterly.
“What ‘stuff’ would that be, Danton? Eh? My Hind Street Anarchist writings? Leftover bits of nitro-glycerine on the mantelpiece? A big sign saying: we caused it - we blew up the building, we killed the landlord: arrest us now?”
Waxwing, whose diet is somewhat deficient in irony, regards him bemusedly.
“Let them think it is just a gas leak. The moment anybody suspects different, we will be Marked Men,” Persiflage says, striking a dramatic pose. “The best thing we can do now is to disappear completely. Just melt away into the background. Muller shall lend us some cash to tide us over until I can get funds released from the bank.”
“I didn’t know you had funds.”
“I will have by close of business tomorrow.”
“Ah. I see. Those sort of funds.”
“Precisely. Now, get your hat and let us sally forth. The old is behind us, the new is before us. This time it wasn’t to be, but there will be a next time. And when that next time comes, we shall be ready and waiting for it. Onward to the Big Boom, my friend.”
****
A few hours later as dusk gently falls, Inspector Greig pays a visit to Marylebone police office, where a couple of former tenants of number 18 Hind Street are being held pending further questioning.
He is shown into one of the station’s bleak whitewashed interview rooms where Miss Adelina Makepiece Chiappa, seamstress, and Miss Florina Sabini, bonnet trimmer, nervously await his arrival.
The women are young, shabbily dressed and white-faced with shock. They sit close together on the bare wooden plank bench that doubles as a bed when the holding cells are full. Someone has given them a mug of tea each. Other than that, they have nothing. Their entire worldly possessions lie in two small baskets at their feet.
They stare at Greig mutely.
“Ladies, I am sorry indeed that you have had to lose your home in such a way,” he says. “Do not be afraid, I am sure you have done nothing wrong. I am just making sure all the tenants of number 18 are safe and alive and accounted for.”
Miss Adelina Chiappa clutches her empty mug tightly as if she is drow
ning and it is a life-preserver. She swallows a couple of times, then says shakily,
“We were just coming back to get a bite of supper before our evening work started. We turned the corner and ... and ...” her voice falters, dies away. Tears streak her cheeks.
Miss Florina Sabini, though equally shocked, seems a bit more composed. She sets down her mug and puts a comforting arm round her companion’s shoulders.
“Can you tell me who else lived in the house?” Greig asks.
“There was old Mr Sprowle the landlord: he had the ground floor. I gather he’s gone. We had the first floor front and the two clerks had the first floor back. That was all, sir,” she says.
“The clerks - what can you tell me about them?”
“Edwin and Danny, I think that’s what they was called. Never knew their surnames. They moved in a bit before we did. I b’lieve they worked for a private bank. Kept themselves to themselves. We’d occasionally meet one of them on the landing going out or coming back, but they never spoke to us. Snooty pair they was. Looked down their noses coz we’re only working girls.”
“Tell him about the man,” the seamstress whispers.
“Really? You think he wants to hear about that?”
“Let me be the judge,” Greig says.
Miss Florina Sabini shrugs.
“Well, one night some time ago, don’t ask me exactly when coz I’m not good with time, we returned very late as the company we work for had a rush order on. Anyways, as we came in, one of them clerks was showing a man out.
“He had a beard and a foreign accent. I heard it when they bid each other goodnight. Which I thought at the time was a bit odd, them being British as far as we could tell.”
“We heard the foreigner a couple of times after that,” Miss Adelina Chiappa says. “The walls were quite thin, so you could hear people talking and moving around clearly. But that’s all we know,” she continues. “For the rest, you’ll have to ask ’em yourself. And now we have nowhere to live and all our piecework has gone up in smoke.”
Her lower lip quivers.
“Which no doubt we will have to pay for, knowing the boss,” the bonnet maker adds tartly.
They stare at each other, the disaster of their position mirrored in each face.
“Ladies, I thank you. You are, of course, free to go.”
Miss Florina Sabini helps her friend to her feet and adjusts her shawl.
“Thanks ain’t going to put a roof over our head, nor food in our bellies,” she mutters, pinching her lips together.
Greig reaches in his inner jacket pocket and produces some coins.
“Here, until you get back on your feet.”
The bonnet maker snatches them eagerly.
“Well, ain’t you a gent. I’d never have thought it, you being a policemen. See, Addy, here’s enough for two hot suppers and a bit left over for a night's lodging. We won’t be bedding down in the park after all.”
The seamstress stares at Greig.
“It’s very kind of you, sir. I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”
“My pleasure, ladies. If you can give me a description of the two clerks who lodged in number 18, we’ll call it quits.”
“Oh, we can do that an’ it’s our pleasure. Typical innit, that we’re the ones suffering while they’re probably living in the lap of luxury somewhere,” the bonnet maker declares.
Greig seriously doubts this, but the picture that is emerging, coupled with the non-appearance of the two clerks and story of the foreign visitor, is confirming his worst suspicions. Wherever they are, there is clearly more to the two young men than meets the eye.
After the young women leave, Greig sits on for a while to gather his thoughts. Hind Street, one of those places that exist merely so that people can have come from it, looks like becoming the focus of two criminal investigations.
Even though the street has gone, the houses demolished, and the inhabitants scattered to the four winds, Hind Street still casts its evil shadow, he thinks. And at the centre of it squats the old enemy who can never be defeated: Death.
****
Letitia Simpkins watches the shadows lengthen on her bedroom wall. She has been locked in for hours. Occasionally she hears noises outside on the landing, but nobody comes.
At length, there is the sound of scuffling feet, then someone taps on the door.
“Letty?”
“William, is that you?”
“Yes. Art is here too. Have you done something bad?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then who locked you in?”
“Mrs Briscoe.”
“Are you going to have any supper? We have had ours ages ago. Now Father and Mrs Briscoe have gone into the study and shut the door,” William tells her. “Do you want us to let you out?”
Despite the gravity of her situation, Letitia cannot help smiling. The twins are such dears.
“I’m sure I shall probably be allowed out for some supper soon,” she reassures them.
“I wouldn’t bother. It was only boiled mutton and rice pudding,” William says disgustedly.
“We hate boiled mutton. And rice pudding,” Arthur adds.
“Oh-oh … Father is coming out of his study. We had better go to our room and pretend we weren’t speaking to you,” William whispers.
The scuffling dies away, to be replaced by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Next moment the key is turned in the lock and Mr Simpkins stands in the doorway, his face hard and cold.
“What is this I hear, Letitia? Stealing from my desk?”
“I only took what was my own, Father. The letters were addressed to me. I should have been allowed to read them, surely?”
Mr Simpkins advances into the room, allowing Letitia to catch sight of the black clad figure of Mrs Briscoe hovering on the landing. She is listening intently to the conversation.
“May I remind you Letitia, that nothing in this house is ‘your own’ as you choose to call it. Your clothes, your food, the roof over your head are all paid for by me. You live here at my expense and are likely to do so for the foreseeable future. Therefore, you will obey me and abide by my decisions in every particular. In my absence, you will obey Mrs Briscoe. Is that clearly understood?”
“Am I not allowed to receive letters from my friends, or call on them?”
“If we decide that such friends are suitable for an unmarried girl, such visits may take place - on a limited basis and only when all your household duties are satisfactorily completed.
“You have been out today I gather, and left many household tasks neglected. Mrs Briscoe has had to organise supper for the boys, a task that you decided was less important than gallivanting around in a carriage with some hoyden of a young woman.”
“Daisy Lawton and I were at school together, as you know” Letitia says quietly. “Her family are respectable people - her father is a surgeon. They live in a respectable neighbourhood. She came to offer her condolences on the death of Mama. Was that not a proper thing to do?”
Out on the landing Mrs Briscoe clears her throat. Meaningfully.
“Yes, that reminds me,” Letitia’s father says. “I should like you to give me your front door key. In future, Mrs Briscoe will take care of it and she will accompany you on all outings. It is not acceptable for a young woman to go about London unchaperoned, as I have told you in the past, though you do not seem to heed my advice as is clear from your correspondents. I will not permit you to mix with such unsuitable people, and there’s an end to it. The key.”
He holds out his hand.
Letitia stares at him without replying.
“The key, if you please.”
The silence deepens.
“I cannot give it to you, Father. Mama gave me the key on the day I came back from boarding school - it was her own key. She told me to keep it safe and never to lose it. I must do as she asked. Besides, it is the only thing I have left to remind me of her. I will accede to the rest of your wishe
s if I have to, but not this.”
She looks down, twisting her hands together, digging her nails into her palm, riding the pain, because right at this moment, the physical pain is not as bad as the pain around her heart.
“I have had nothing to eat since I returned,” she says, into the silence. “Am I permitted to go down to the kitchen and find something?”
Her father motions her roughly toward the door. Letitia gets up and walks out with as much dignity as she can muster in the circumstances. As she passes Mrs Briscoe, she pauses, deliberately making eye contact. She holds the hateful woman’s gaze for as long as she can bear, then descends the stairs.
The key to the front door is still in her pocket. Letitia finds some string in a kitchen drawer, cuts off a length and hangs the key round her neck. Later, after she has eaten, she will add to it the key to her room. From now on she will make sure that she is never without either of them.
****
A week passes. The Hind Street Anarchists in the personas of Danton Waxwing and Edwin Persiflage have shifted to new quarters and now have rooms above the chemist shop of Bengt & Muller, where their friend Muller both lodges and works.
It is just far enough away from Hind Street for them to feel safe. A new notebook has been started, though still using the old name. Their quarters, though serviceable, do not yet feel permanent enough for a name change.
The principle advantage of the new accommodation is the access it allows them to the stock. After the shop has closed and the main chemist has departed, they come down and under Muller’s guidance, they help themselves to various chemicals which can be combined into something potentially explosive. The lamentable loss of the nitro-glycerine is now a thing of the past. They are men with an eye to the future.
And here they both are in a back box of a cheap dining room, enjoying a meat supper together with their friend Muller and Millie girl, who is exhibiting a slight air of huff, having been ignored for several weeks.
The gift of a small bottle of cheap scent, a sample left in the chemist shop by a travelling salesman, has only slightly mollified her. For pretty Millie knows her worth, and if Eddy doesn’t - well, there are gentlemen aplenty lining up to take her out and show her a good time.