The Ripper Secret

by The Ripper Secret (retail) (epub)

  ‘What is it, Thomas?’ Warren asked, looking across the room.

  ‘You have a visitor, sir,’ Ryan replied. ‘He has no appointment, speaks good English but with a pronounced foreign accent, and claims to have information of vital importance. He refused to tell me his name or anything about the nature of that information, but he said that it was essential he passed it direct to you, to avoid what he called a catastrophe in the city.’

  Warren smiled slightly.

  ‘I really don’t need another catastrophe, Thomas,’ he replied, ‘but I’m also not in the habit of speaking to people who call at my house unannounced and who will not divulge their names.’ Warren paused for a moment. ‘Do you think he’s serious? I mean, he’s not in drink or a lunatic?’

  Ryan shook his head.

  ‘I cannot speak for his state of mind, sir, but he struck me as being both sober and serious. Certainly there is no smell of gin or other liquor on his breath. And I feel that there is a quality of – I suppose menace is perhaps the best word – about him.’

  Warren nodded.

  ‘Very well, then. Where is he at the moment?’

  ‘I have left him in the hall, sir, and instructed Annie to remain there with him.’

  Warren doubted if the chambermaid would be an effective counter if the man proved to be dangerous, but in fact Ryan’s actions made sense. He certainly didn’t want a stranger to be roaming the house unsupervised.

  ‘Is the drawing room free?’

  ‘At present, sir, yes.’

  ‘Good,’ Warren replied. ‘Put him in there and remain in the room with him yourself. I will be down in two or three minutes to speak to him.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Ryan turned and left the room. As he did so, Warren took a key from his pocket and unlocked and opened the smallest drawer on his desk. From it he removed his personal firearm, a Webley Mark 1 revolver with a four-inch barrel, chambered for the heavy-calibre .455 Webley cartridge. It was the kind of pistol that would instantly end any argument, simply by one of the people involved producing it. The weapon was of course unloaded, but in moments Warren had opened the box of cartridges which he also kept in the drawer and loaded five of the six chambers, so that the firing pin would rest over a vacant chamber, for safety. He slipped the revolver into his pocket, left the study and walked down the stairs. On the ground floor he turned left in the hallway and crossed over to the door of the drawing room, which stood very slightly ajar, then pushed it open and stepped into the room.

  Ryan stood on one side, his legs slightly apart and his hands behind his back, unconsciously adopting the ‘at ease’ position that had been so familiar to him in his earlier career as an infantryman. Warren registered his presence with a nod, then turned his attention to the second man in the room.

  The visitor was standing on one side of the fireplace, which was already laid with kindling and coals in preparation for later in the evening, apparently completely relaxed, looking as if he’d just dropped by to see an old friend. He was slimly built, with dark hair, and was wearing a long black coat of an expensive cut. The buttons down the front were undone and Warren could see evidence of a neatly tailored suit underneath it. Whoever the man was, he clearly wasn’t poor.

  What Warren couldn’t see, or at least not with any degree of clarity, was the stranger’s face, because despite being in the house he was still wearing a soft hat, the brim pulled down low over his eyes, and almost all the rest of his face was hidden behind a bushy black beard that Warren immediately guessed was false. A rudimentary, but actually quite an effective, disguise.

  ‘I am Charles Warren,’ the commissioner began, introducing himself, ‘and I understand from my man here that you have some information for me. Who are you, and what is it that you want to divulge?’

  The stranger glanced across the room at Ryan, a still and silent witness, and shook his head. ‘What I have to tell you is for your ears alone, Commissioner. It is a matter so sensitive that I dare not let any other person hear the details.’

  Warren noted the accent and inflection in the man’s voice. Although his English appeared to be virtually fluent, he guessed the stranger probably spoke Russian or one of the eastern European tongues as his first language.

  ‘Thomas Ryan is a valued and trusted member of my staff,’ he said. ‘You may speak freely in front of him.’

  Again the man shook his head.

  ‘I think not. This does not concern your present employment here in London, but an event that took place some years ago. When you know what it is I am referring to, I am quite certain that you would not wish any other person to be a party to our discussion.’

  A feeling of cold emptiness settled on Warren as he heard these words. Absolutely the only event in his past that still caused him any concern was the Jerusalem excavation and the events which had taken place at the very end of the dig. After all these years, and because he had taken care to leave no traces of what he had done in the tunnels under the Temple Mount, he had hoped that nobody would ever be able to deduce what he had found or done. But if his immediate guess about his visitor was correct, somebody, somehow, must have worked it out. So perhaps his reading of the man’s identity was wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t just some Russian, but maybe a Russian Jew, sent by the authorities in Jerusalem to recover the menorah.

  And if that was the case, Warren knew that his career would effectively be over. He was already loathed by a large part of the population of the city he had been charged with policing, his relationship with the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews, was less than harmonious, and many of his subordinates would be absolutely delighted to see him removed from office. And if it ever came to public attention that he had not only stolen the most sacred icon of the Jewish people from its resting place while engaged in illegal digging in Jerusalem, but had also smuggled it out of the country, he would be reviled as a liar, a thief and a smuggler, and clearly a wholly inappropriate person to be London’s most senior police officer. He would probably also be dismissed from the Army, in which he still held his commission as a senior officer, and of course lose his knighthood.

  Whatever happened, he would have to deny all knowledge of the relic to this man, although it was actually in the house, safely stowed away in the safe in his study upstairs. That was all he could do. And that should be enough, because the one thing he did know was that there was no actual proof, no proof whatsoever, that he had even found the menorah, far less removed it from the caverns under the Temple Mount.

  But it would obviously not do for Ryan to hear any of that conversation.

  ‘Very well,’ he said.

  Warren walked a few paces to an easy chair, an occasional table beside it, and sat down. As he did so, he removed the Webley revolver from his pocket and placed it on the table within easy reach and in plain sight. Then he turned to Ryan.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas,’ he said. ‘I think it might be best if you left us now. I’m perfectly capable of conducting this interview alone. Close the door on your way out and return to your normal duties.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  When the heavy door of the drawing room had closed behind the manservant, Warren again directed his attention towards the stranger, who was still standing in precisely the same place as before, seemingly not in any way perturbed by the commissioner’s production of the firearm.

  ‘I hope,’ Warren said, ‘that you have some information of interest to me, because I do not like having my time wasted. First, what is your name?’

  The stranger shook his head, and for the first time Warren could clearly see his eyes, cold and hard and unblinking below the brim of his hat.

  ‘My name is not important,’ the man replied, ‘but for convenience you may call me Michael.’

  ‘Well, Michael’ – Warren emphasized the obviously false name – ‘what do you want?’

  ‘It’s really very simple, Commissioner. When you were sent to Jerusalem by the Palestine Exploration Fund just ov
er twenty years ago, you were forbidden, first by the pasha, and then by the firman issued by the Ottoman authorities in Constantinople, from excavating any religious sites in and around the city. Despite this, you practised a deception, ignored this prohibition, and excavated tunnels underneath the Temple Mount itself. That was bad enough, and there is no point in you denying that this took place, because I myself have inspected your excavations in Jerusalem and I have seen what you did. In fact, since I arrived in Britain I have discovered that you even had the effrontery to publish a book called Underground Jerusalem fourteen years ago, which described in some detail how and where you excavated.’

  Warren nodded.

  ‘What I did in Jerusalem is now a matter of public record. As you say, I’ve even written a book about it.’

  The man who called himself Michael also nodded.

  ‘Exactly. But what is not a matter of public record, or in your book, is what happened in the last few days of your excavation, before the second firman arrived from Constantinople which banned all digging in the area.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  The visitor wagged his finger.

  ‘I think you know exactly what I mean, Commissioner. I know what you found in that last chamber, the one with the very restricted opening, the chamber that lay under the very heart of the Temple Mount.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ Warren said again firmly, though the faint flicker in his eyes told a different story.

  ‘It was wrapped in cloth,’ the stranger continued remorselessly. ‘Quite a long cloth which covered it completely, and which you left behind. It was placed in an alcove in the rock, an opening which was narrower at the top than the bottom. You were carrying a metal lantern, and you jammed that into the gap at the top of the crevice so you could see what you were doing when you lifted out the object. Once you’d got it out of the alcove, you placed it on its base on the ground behind you.’

  For a few seconds, Warren didn’t reply. He knew, knew absolutely without the slightest possibility of error, that he had been alone on that final expedition below the Temple Mount, despite the fact that the man in front of him had just painted a remarkably accurate picture of what he had done in that small chamber. It was almost as if there had been another person there, somebody who had noted down precisely what had happened.

  But Warren had an analytical mind. He had been trained as a surveyor and as an army officer, and both careers had fostered the habit of clear, logical and rapid thinking. Because he knew he had been alone in the chamber, the stranger must have deduced what had taken place there from the clues that had been left behind. He remembered discarding the cloth which had enshrouded and protected the menorah, replacing it in the stone alcove. He had jammed his lamp into the narrow gap at the top of the crevice, so that he could use both hands to remove the relic, and in doing so he might have left scratches on the rock, or even a few flakes of paint. Finally, he had placed the menorah on the ground behind him once he had lifted out, and it was so heavy that it would probably have left an impression on the fairly soft soil which formed the floor of the chamber.

  A clever man, he supposed, who knew what he was looking for and had examined the chamber with a critical eye and in a decent light, might have been able to spot these telltale clues and reconstruct the possible sequence of actions which had taken place there. In the same circumstances, Warren knew, he might even have reached the same conclusion himself. And the fact that he had been excavating around the Temple Mount had been common knowledge in Jerusalem while he was there, and no doubt after he had left the country. What he had written in his book about the excavations would simply have confirmed this man’s suspicions.

  Somehow or other, the bearded man – whose name Warren knew certainly wasn’t ‘Michael’ – had discovered that the menorah had been concealed in that chamber centuries earlier, and had entered it either himself, or perhaps with a group of other men, to retrieve it. When he had found that it wasn’t there, logic would suggest that the only person who could have removed the relic was Warren himself, and that was why this stranger was standing in front of him at that moment.

  But there was, Warren knew absolutely, no proof at all that he had done what this man was accusing him of, and he certainly wasn’t going to admit what had happened. He was a powerful man in London, with the resources of the entire Metropolitan Police force at his disposal, and whatever this man thought or believed really didn’t matter to him.

  In fact, at that moment Warren was more curious than concerned. He wondered again if he had been right in his initial assessment. Was the man a Russian Jew? More importantly, was he acting as a part of some kind of official or semi-official group? Or, alternatively, might he simply be a treasure hunter, seeking the menorah as probably the greatest of all the lost treasures of history, out for what he could get?

  Neither the stranger’s stance nor his expression – or what little Warren could see of it behind the beard – seemed to have changed. That might suggest that he was not acting alone, and that he had comrades either right outside the property or waiting somewhere close by, perhaps ready to rush to his assistance if required.

  Before Warren threw the man out into the street – and that seemed to him to be the most obvious and sensible course of action – it might be as well to find out who, if anybody, the stranger represented.

  Warren picked up the revolver and held it loosely in his right hand, the threat of the weapon clear and explicit. He appeared to examine the pistol for a few moments, then looked up at the man standing a few feet away from him.

  ‘I’m not going to dignify your preposterous allegations with a rebuttal. All I will say is that you are utterly mistaken in your belief. But before you leave my house, I would like to know your real name, and who you represent.’

  Warren had supposed that his blanket denial would have produced some kind of a response from the stranger, but the man seemed to be entirely unmoved. His eyes still bored into Warren, but he remained apparently completely relaxed and comfortable, despite his situation and the weapon aimed loosely at him. All he did was shake his head, his gaze never leaving the commissioner.

  ‘That is precisely the response that I had been expecting,’ he said, his voice soft but laced with menace. ‘As I told you before, my real name is not important. What is important is what I will do now. Sooner or later, you will hand over the menorah to me. Eventually, you will probably be pleased to do so, because only when that happens will the nightmare end.’

  ‘What nightmare?’ Warren asked, an unpleasant echo of the dream he’d had the previous night flashing into his memory.

  ‘The nightmare which is about to engulf you. You will see me again, and you will also hear from me, and my actions will speak loudly and clearly on my behalf. I will leave you this piece of paper’ – he took a folded sheet out of his pocket and placed it on the mantelpiece beside him – ‘on which I have written an address. It is a warehouse in Bermondsey, on the south bank of the river. There is no point in any of your men watching the building, because I will not be going there. Or at least, not yet.

  ‘For your part, when you finally decide that you will do what is right and surrender the menorah to me, you will kindly have it packed in a wooden crate and mark it with the instruction which I have also written on this page.’

  The stranger smiled, or at least Warren believed that he did, though the thick beard made it impossible to tell for sure.

  ‘I know that at this moment you are probably thinking that I’m a deranged lunatic, but I would suggest that you give the most serious consideration to me and what I have said to you. I know that you have the relic in your possession, or that you can retrieve it easily from a secure location, probably somewhere here in London. Your bank, perhaps. I also know that you have told nobody about it, otherwise the whole world would already be aware of what you found in that small chamber. Rest assured that I will tell nobody what you di
d, at least for the moment, because silence will help me, as well as helping you. But make no mistake. You will surrender the menorah to me. Not now, perhaps not even very soon, but eventually you will be pleased to hand it over.’

  Warren simply stared at him, tightened his grip on the revolver and stood up to face the stranger.

  ‘You must be a lunatic,’ he said, ‘and I will thank you to leave my house immediately.’

  ‘I have no problem in leaving,’ the man replied, ‘and I wish you no harm personally. I only came here to deliver that message. But I do have two other things to say to you. They will mean nothing at all at this moment, but their significance will become very clear over the next few weeks. You are, I believe, a Freemason, and you will know well the commonest of all the symbols of that Craft, the mason’s square and compasses. You should remember the shapes of those two objects, because that will provide a confirmation to you of both my resolve and my actions. And you should also remember who fabricated the menorah, and who rightfully owns it.’

  And with that, the stranger stepped across the drawing room towards the closed door, Warren following him a few paces behind.

  Despite the commissioner’s instructions to him, Ryan was waiting outside in the hall, just in case of any trouble, and opened the door when he heard footsteps approaching across the wooden floor. Without a word, he turned, strode across to the front door of the house and opened that as well.

  The stranger nodded his thanks to Ryan, then stepped through the door, walked down the stone steps which led to the pavement, turned to his left and almost immediately vanished from sight into the swirling smog.