Contents
1. One Dead Anarchist
2. In Darkest London
3. The Duke of Avondale
4. The Railway Plot
5. Two Dead Anarchists
6. Enoch
7. The Bohemian Countess
8. Three Dead Anarchists
9. Sponsor
10. The Reward
11. Judah Hirsch
12. Blame and Recriminations
13. ‘M’
14. Saffron Cottage
15. Four Dead Anarchists
16. Pork Pies
17. Five Dead Anarchists
18. Six Dead Anarchists
19. Disgrace
20. The Bait
21. Dan
Epilogue
Other Books by the Author
1. One Dead Anarchist
“Bloomin’ ’eck, how can anyone concentrate in this heat!” Clarkson sat hunched over his desk. He had taken off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He had even taken off his shoes beneath his desk and rolled his trouser legs up to his shins. “The sweat keeps dripping off me forehead and staining me report.”
Billings looked up from his book. Clarkson was exaggerating. There was no sweat on his forehead, although there was a large, unsightly stain under each armpit. Clarkson always moaned and groaned when he had to write a report, no matter what the weather was like. It was because he couldn’t spell. He kept second guessing himself with every word he wrote. It could take him a whole day just to write down five hundred words. He sat holding his head in one hand and a pen in the other. His hand was covered in ink. He had never learned to write properly, and his reports were always smudged and difficult to read.
“How do you spell ’meet’?” Clarkson asked. “Is it meat or meet?”
“That depends on the context,” Billings replied. He was also hot, but he refused to take off his jacket. He felt naked without it. He had finished his report nearly an hour ago and was struggling to get through another chapter of Wagner the Werewolf. The book was whimsical and melodramatic, and he hated it. But he hated even more to start a book and not finish it, so while he still had another few minutes before the end of his lunch break, he soldiered on.
Chief Inspector Flynt barged into the office. “In the meeting room, right now,” he commanded.
Billings looked at him. “But I haven’t finished my lunch break yet.”
“To hell with your lunch break! We’ve been summoned by Special Branch.” His voice went up when he said ’Special Branch’, and a large smile appeared on his face.
“What do they want?” Billings asked.
“We have been handpicked to help them with a very important case.”
Flynt glowed with pride as he said this, but that expression disappeared when he turned towards Clarkson. “For God’s sake, man! You’re not on the beach now. Get dressed. What if somebody from Special Branch came in and saw you like this? We’d be dropped instantly. Now, hurry up. The meeting is at one o´clock, and we can’t be late.”
The three detectives gathered in the meeting room and waited for someone from Special Branch to join them. Clarkson was fully dressed now, although his shirt and jacket were wrinkled. Flynt kept running his hand over his head to make sure there weren’t any stray hairs sticking out.
At one o´clock precisely, Inspector Christopher England appeared in the doorway. He was a tall, skinny man. He wore large spectacles that made his face look stricter and bonier than it really was. His bald head reflected the light of the gaslight above him.
“Good. You’re all here.”
He walked into the room, carrying some files under his arm. “I suggest we get straight down to business.” He placed the files on the table and pulled up a chair. “I take it you all know what happened in France yesterday.”
Flynt and Clarkson nodded, but Billings looked confused. He never read the morning papers. It felt too much like work, and he needed to distance himself from all the crime and misery he faced in his working day. Knowing this about his colleague, Clarkson leaned in to Billings and whispered in his ear. “The French president has been murdered.”
“That’s right,” England said. “Mr Carnot was stabbed to death in Lyon yesterday as he visited an exhibition. The perpetrator was an Italian anarchist by the name of Cesare Santo. This is the third major anarchist attack in France in eighteen months. I’m sure you all recall how in February the Terminal cafe at the Gare Saint-Lazare was bombed by Emile Henry, killing one customer and injuring twenty others. And then there was last year’s deadly fire at the textile factory, but we’ll talk more about that in a moment.
“It is not just France that has been suffering at the hands of anarchists. Seventy-two people died at the opera in Barcelona last year when a bomb was thrown down from the gallery during the second act. And then, of course, there was the failed attempt at bombing the Royal Observatory in Greenwich earlier this year, which we also believe to have been motivated by anarchism. Now, what do you fellows know about anarchy?”
England looked at the three detectives in turn and was met by blank, embarrassed faces.
“Right. I see,” he mumbled, disappointed. “Well, let me tell you a bit about it, then. The word anarchy is derived from the Greek, and it means ’without ruler’. Anarchists are people who want to live in a world without laws, without state. They believe that without governments, people would organise themselves into peaceful democratic communes and run their own affairs. They have embarked on a series of terrorist attacks aimed at planting chaos and mayhem in society, and thereby disbanding the state. Many of the perpetrators of these terrorist attacks have fled their own countries and have come to England.”
He opened the file, took out some photographs and spread them on the table. The pictures were of a dead male body lying on a surgeon’s slab.
“This is the body of Mr Issachar Hirsch. It was found last night outside the doors of the Autonomie Club, which is an anarchist organisation. Mr Hirsch was one of seven brothers responsible for the bombing of the French textile factory last year, which killed twelve people. The remaining six brothers are believed to be at large in London. Mr Hirsch was stabbed in the lower back and died from internal bleeding. We don’t know who killed him. It may well have been an opportunistic attack, as there is evidence that the body was robbed. Special Branch is far too busy at the moment foiling Fenian and anarchist terrorists to investigate this murder, which is why you have been called in. We believe that the investigation into Mr Hirsch’s death may lead to locating his six fugitive brothers. We want the remaining brothers to be found alive so that we can interrogate them and extradite them back to France. We have reason to believe they are plotting another attack in this country. I want the three of you to go to the Autonomie Club tomorrow. Find out everything you can about the members. It is very suspicious that Hirsch was killed right on their doorstep. Do you have any questions?”
Billings, Clarkson and Flynt arrived at the Autonomie Club at around eight o’clock. After they rang the doorbell, the door creaked open, and the doorman popped his head out.
“We’re not open yet.”
Flynt held up his badge. “Scotland Yard.”
The doorman rolled his eyes. “Oh God, not you lot again,” he mumbled. He opened the door. “You’ll be wanting to speak to the manager, I suppose.”
“If you’d be so kind.”
“Walk this way.” Reluctantly he led the three detectives down the corridor.
“There’s three gentlemen from Scotland Yard here to see you,” he said as he entered the bar.
The bar was empty. Billings, Clarkson and Flynt looked around them to see who the doorman was addressing. Suddenly a man’s head popped up from behind the bar.
“Now what?” The man stood up. He was wearing an apron, and he held a cloth in his hand. He looked Flynt up and down. “You’re not Chief Inspector England.”
Flynt looked confused. “No, I’m Chief Inspector Flynt.”
“Are you his replacement?”
“When did you meet Chief Inspector England?”
“He came here a couple of months ago, didn’t he? To question us about the bombing at the Greenwich Observatory.”
“Well, I’m here on a different matter. We want to ask you about the body that was found on your doorstep last night.”
The man rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’re going to blame that on anarchists as well.”
“May we sit down?” Flynt pointed at one of the tables.
The man hesitated. “Well, make it quick. We open at nine, and I still have a lot of cleaning to do.” He slammed his cloth on the bar, opened the hatch and walked towards the table. The four men sat down.
“What is your name?” Flynt asked.
“Moliniere. Auguste Moliniere.”
“Are you French?”
“Why? Something wrong with being French?”
“You don’t sound French.”
“I’ve been living here for over twenty years.”
This satisfied Flynt’s curiosity, and he proceeded with his interview. “When was the body discovered?”
Moliniere rolled his eyes again. “I’ve been asked all of this already by the local police. Could you not check with them and leave me to carry on with my cleaning?”
“Answer the question, please.”
“The body was discovered at around one o’clock in the morning by a waiter as he walked out to fetch a cab for one of our customers. I gave his name to the local police when I spoke to them yesterday, but I’ll give it to you again. His name is Adolphe Chabert.” He looked at Billings and Clarkson. “Perhaps you can get one of your men to write it down.”
Flynt nodded at Billings. Billings took a pen and notebook out of his breast pocket and jotted down the name.
“What did this… um…” Flynt glanced at Billings’ notebook, “Chabert do after he discovered the body?”
“He ran back inside to fetch me. I stepped out with him to see if I recognised the body. I did. It was Issachar Hirsch, a former member.”
“Issachar, of course, is one of the seven Hirsch brothers, who are accused of bombing a Parisian textile factory.”
“Quite.”
“You know about the Hirsch brothers?”
“Of course I know about them. They’re infamous.”
“How did you know the body was dead?”
Moliniere paused before replying. “How did I know? Well, he wasn’t breathing or moving, there was a vacant look in his eyes and there was a huge, gaping wound in his back.”
Flynt ignored the sarcastic tone. “Did you hear any commotion outside?”
“No.”
Flynt raised his eyebrows. “No screams? No cries for help?”
“We were in the lounge, which is on the other side of the building. The room was full of chatting people. I did not hear anything.”
“Now, Chabert. That sounds like a French name.”
“Bravo. You’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Is all your staff French?”
“Yes.”
“And your members?”
“Most of them. Although we have some Russian members too.”
“No English members?”
“Some.”
“And you are all anarchists, I assume.”
Moliniere frowned. “You say that as if it were a bad word. Not all anarchists are terrorists. This club is for people who believe that a system in which a small number of privileged men governs the masses is unjust. We work to create a society where laws and rules are not forced upon us by a government whose lifestyle is far removed from our own, but are created by individual, democratic communes. And we do so using peaceful means.”
“Peaceful means? Issachar Hirsch and his brothers bombed a textile factory in Paris, killing twelve people.”
“You state that as if it were a fact.”
“You don’t believe it is true?”
“I wouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. French journalists have a habit of scapegoating us. Whenever a shop gets destroyed or a house catches fire, anarchists are blamed. It’s a sensation in Paris. Everywhere you go, it’s anarchists this and anarchists that. Half the atrocities we get blamed for have been invented. And on top of that, the Hirsch brothers are Jewish, which makes them twice as likely to be scapegoated.”
“Did you know Issachar Hirsch well?”
“I did not know him well, but I did know him and his brothers. They were introduced to me by some of our members, who helped them to settle down. Their arrival in this country caused some consternation. Not everyone believed in their innocence. And we disapproved vehemently of their actions. As I said, we are a peaceful group. So we asked them not to come back.“
“But apparently Issachar Hirsch did come back. He was stabbed in your doorway.”
“But he didn’t set foot inside. He and his brothers are barred from this club.”
“How do you know he didn’t enter?”
“Everyone who enters the club must register the time at which they come in and leave. I can show you the register if you want.” Without waiting for an answer, Moliniere raised his hand in the air and clicked his fingers at the doorman. “Henri, the register, please!”
The doorman fetched a large leather-bound book and gave it to Moliniere. Moliniere opened it to the last used page and showed Flynt.
“Hirsch’s body was discovered at half past one,” Flynt said. “According to the coroner, he bled to death and spent around twenty minutes doing so. That means he must’ve been stabbed at around ten past one.” He ran his finger down the list of names and stopped when he found the time he was looking for. “I see several people left the club at around one o’clock. Perhaps one of those could have stabbed him. Do you know all the members of your club?”
“There are only twenty-five members. We all know each other.”
“Could any of the members have had reason to kill Issachar Hirsch?”
“Why do you assume it was a member of this club who killed him?”
“Answer the question, please.”
“I don’t know. I only know the members superficially.”
“Do you allow weapons to be brought into the club?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you check for weapons when people enter the club?”
“Who checks for weapons? This isn’t the wild west.”
“So you don’t check for weapons?”
“No.”
“Do you have the addresses of all the members?”
“They’re on the back of the register.”
Flynt checked the last few pages of the book. It was filled with various names and addresses. “Can I take this with me?”
Moliniere hesitated. “Perhaps one of your men could copy the content?”
Flynt grabbed the pen and notebook from Billings and passed it on to Clarkson. “Copy that,” he ordered. “Quickly.”
Clarkson was about to argue that perhaps he wasn’t the best man for the job, but Flynt continued questioning the manager before he got the chance.
“Detective Sergeant Billings and I would like to take a look around the premises. I assume you have no objection.”
Moliniere hesitated. “Go ahead,” he said.
Flynt got up. “Could you lead us to the lounge, please.”
Moliniere rose from the table and led Flynt and Billings to the back room, leaving Clarkson alone at the table, copying the names from the register into his notebook.
It was a poky lounge. The walls were bare. The wallpaper was faded and yellowed with age and tobacco smoke. Two sofas faced each other against the back wall. A few chairs were scattered around. There was a book case against one of the
walls and next to that a newspaper rack.
While Flynt and Moliniere talked, Billings went towards the newspaper rack and looked through the newspapers. Along with the usual papers, there were several anarchist periodicals in different languages: French, German, English and even one in Yiddish. They had titles such as Freiheit, Le Revolte and Arbeter Fraynd. Billings picked up the one entitled Liberty and scanned through it.
“How many people were here at the time Issachar Hirsch was stabbed?” Flynt asked Moliniere.
“Six or eight.”
“And what were you talking about?”
“We were talking about the assassination of our president, of course. This was bad news for us. Another stick for the French government to beat us with.”
“Are there any more rooms in this club?”
“There’s the lavatory.”
“It’s not a very big club, is it?”
“Big enough for our purposes.”
“Well, I think I’ve seen enough.” Flynt made his way back to the bar.
Billings didn’t follow. He turned to Moliniere and held up the paper he was reading. “Can I take this with me to the office?”
Moliniere was hesitant. “Well… um… I don’t think you should be taking anything with you. After all, you have no warrant.”
“That´s why I’m asking for permission.”
Flynt stopped in the doorway and looked back at his colleague. “What the devil do you want to take that paper for?” he asked.
“I saw something in it that might be of interest.”
“What?”
Billings ignored the question and continued addressing Moliniere. “Can I take it or not?”
“What if I say no?”
“Then we’ll think you have something to hide.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“Then I can take it.” Billings rolled up the newspaper, put it under his arm and followed Flynt out of the room.
“Do you mind telling me what’s so important about that newspaper you asked for?” Flynt asked Billings as the three detectives walked out of the club.
“There’s an article about Jacques Hirsch.”
“Who?”
“Issachar Hirsch’s father. The textile factory that the Hirsch brothers bombed was owned by their father. I want to read it in peace when I get back to the office.”
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