Murder in Montague Place Read online

  Murder in Montague Place

  Martyn Beardsley

  Contents

  Title Page

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  Glossary of Slang Phrases

  Copyright

  TOM PRIKE WAS one of the best attic thieves in London. He should have been – for three years he was under the wing of Dark John, the swarthy Cumbrian who ostensibly hawked cutlery about the streets but was regarded with a certain amount of awe by fellow criminals and officers of the law alike for his ghost-like ability to enter and leave apparently secure premises. The only thing he could not escape from was the bottle, and strong spirits brought about his premature demise during the hard winter of 1843.

  A year later, Tom Prike was making his own way in the world. He was fourteen, but in his over-large, threadbare coat, ragged trousers tied at the waist with string and hems in tatters from dragging along the ground and with his slow, hunched-over way of walking, from a distance he might have been mistaken for an old man. When working, though, Tom was as lithe as a cat, as dextrous as a watchmaker. Burgling the houses of the well-off by stealthy entrance via attic or garret windows could be a very lucrative business, but it was clear to see that Tom Prike had not made his fortune from it. That was because he was a freelancer, employed by others to perform tasks they knew he could do better than they. They kept the majority of the haul and he received a cut. It was a pitiful amount and grossly unfair, but it was the only way he knew. Those who called upon his services had the intelligence – the best places to rob, the safest times. Tom had no handily placed contacts, knew no servants with inside information. It was easier for him to wait for the jobs to come to him.

  Which is why Tom Prike was loitering in Russell Square. It was late afternoon, the winter sun sinking behind tall, elegant buildings and the temperature plummeting. Every now and then a shiver ran through his whole body, which he did his best to hide. It was important to maintain the air of one quite content to sit on the freezing pavement in the gathering gloom, doodling in the dirt with a stick. He had his eyes on a house across the way in Montague Place. The family were visiting relatives in Blackheath; one of the servants should have left a window open on the uppermost floor at the rear. He could not see this from where he waited, but when all was clear a light would appear in the top floor window facing the road, and this was Tom’s signal. The attic of his target house, he knew from an earlier scouting mission, could not be directly accessed by climbing – but it could be reached by starting his ascent at the house next door, whose first floor was scaleable. Tom’s fingers were becoming numb and white. He put one hand in his pocket for warmth, but continued to scrabble on the ground with the other: he had to keep up his act or risk being moved on. He knew a bobby passed through Russell Square approximately every fifteen minutes on his beat, and must be due again soon.

  Tom swapped the stick to his left hand and warmed his right, and then became aware of his growing hunger, too. He was well used to going without meals, but if a faintness came on because of it, that, combined with the increasing stiffness in his limbs and hands would put the whole job in jeopardy. This would not be an easy climb, and speed would be required because even the rear of the house was overlooked by several others. As time passed, he began to wonder whether it was such a good idea, whether he shouldn’t just put it off for today and head for Rawbone Sal’s doss house in St George’s-in-the-East. Sal could always be relied on to let him sit by the fire for a bit and maybe even spare him some scraps to eat. But then, at long last, like a beacon on the shoreline guiding a ship safely home, a candle flickered into life in the little third floor window of the house Tom was watching.

  He raised his aching backside from the hard ground and felt his knees creak as his legs straightened. But suddenly he was down again. The policeman had returned, striding out of Southampton Row, his bull’s eye lamp lit. His route did not take him past the spot where Tom Prike was sitting – the youth made quite sure of that – but there was still just enough light left to make him visible, and it would only take one glance in the right direction. Tom bowed his head and concentrated on making circles in the road with his stick, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the dark figure moving through the square and the beam from the lamp flicking this way and that. The peeler should have turned right for Woburn Square – but he did not. He paused, then turned left, towards Tom Prike. Tom continued to make meaningless marks with his stick, head down. It was a reasonable enough ruse when it was light, but as darkness came rapidly on it looked less and less convincing. It was too late to employ a new strategy now. The policeman’s clumping feet came to a halt about twenty paces away, and the bull’s eye flashed in Tom’s direction. But the yellow beam continued to move until it fell on the door of a lawyer’s office. The officer approached the door and tried the handle. Satisfied that all was secure, he turned his back and marched away towards Woburn Square.

  Tom threw down his stick and made his move.

  The house adjoining his target had a narrow gap between it and the next one. Not wide enough even to be called an alley, but just sufficient for a scrawny lad to slip through and reach the back of the buildings. Here, after a brief pause to reassure himself that there were no servants in the shadows having a crafty smoke or taking a break from their labours, Tom climbed onto a metal bin. From there he was able to grasp a drainpipe. This being a posh house, it was freshly painted and shiny. Tom preferred to work shabbier buildings since rusting, rough-surfaced pipes provided a better grip. This one was not only smooth, but wet with condensation on the verge of turning to frost, and he needed to take extra care as he began to shin upwards. Luckily, he only needed to ascend one floor before he was able to haul himself onto a flat roof. He just had to traverse this and then there was another drainpipe providing direct access to the attic window, which was his goal. He crouched down before crossing the open space, for there was a light in a window on this floor. Anyone in that room might see him pass by it. He could see no one inside from his position – but not knowing was dangerous for someone in Tom’s profession. Lesser practitioners might have scurried past and hoped for the best, but that was not Tom Prike’s way. He crawled soundlessly across the lead-covered roof until finally he could press himself against the wall beside the window; then he inched his head closer to assess any dangers which might lurk within.

  And danger did lurk within – but not in a way he could possibly have imagined.

  Tom Prike spied two people inside that room and quickly jerked back his head. Not because he feared he had been spotted – he knew he hadn’t – but because he recognized one of the occupants, and it was not at all who he might have expected to see. Thoughts of robbing the next door house were temporarily forgotten, and he leaned forward again to weigh up this development. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but judging from the angry expressions and jabbing fingers, some sort of heated dispute was taking place. Tom became totally absorbed in this scene, certain that things were about to come to a head. But when they did, everything happened so quickly and violently that he could barely take it all in. A knife appeared – long-bladed, viciously
sharp-looking. There was a flailing of arms, a tangling of bodies, a silvery blur. And then a powerful spurt of red. It was dark, almost purple in the candle light, and it continued to gush freely in a pulsing sort of way such as Tom had never witnessed before. His eyes were wide; his strength deserted him; he began to shake – and this time it was not from the cold. He was witnessing a man’s very lifeblood drain away faster than he could have ever thought possible – the blood drenching the clothes and soaking the carpet. Tom Prike was sickened yet mesmerized, gawping.

  And then something made the assailant look up at the window.

  Tom pulled his head back in an instant, but one image remained graven on his mind: the eyes of the killer looking directly into his own. He did not stop to consider how likely it might be that a person inside a lit room would be able to really see or recognize someone in the darkness outside. He did not even bother with the drainpipe, but leapt into the darkness from the edge of the roof, stifling a cry of pain as his feet hit the hard ground below. He tumbled head-over-heels, crashing into some unseen obstacle, then jumped to his feet and, ignoring the pain in both ankles, fled into the night.

  I

  GREAT SCOTLAND YARD, the Back Hall. Early evening, and the end of a long shift. Sergeant Raddle fussily tidied his desk in the reception area. It was cold. Eye-wateringly cold February air seeped under doors and through the gaps in ill-fitting casements. A small cloud billowed from the good sergeant’s numb red nose as he walked over to the open fire and gave the glowing coals one last poke. Straightening up, he glanced at the big, walnut-encircled clock face high on the wall behind his desk then strode back to his post: slow and erect, boots echoing authoritatively off the stone floor of the foyer. The debilitating chill even held back the elegant minute-hand of that stately timepiece, robbing it of the strength to make that one last effort to reach the black XII at the pinnacle of its journey and mark the end of his duties for the day. Or so it seemed.

  This public entrance to the Yard was busy. Usually, this was one of the quieter times, when people were more interested in home and their evening meal; but there had been a quarterly meeting of senior inspectors on the first floor, bringing not only them but their attendant lackeys to the building. Additionally, the Whitehall Division in which the Yard lay had been conducting a round-up of bail-jumpers and those with outstanding peace warrants against their names – quite possibly with the sole intention of impressing the said inspectors from all the other divisions. The meeting had just broken up, so small knots of senior officers in fancy uniforms loitered in conversation before going their separate ways; moving between them and around them were beat constables leading bedraggled prisoners to the cells and travelling in the opposite direction were men and women of a more cheerful demeanour, making their way from incarceration and back out into the world. Yet another category of person populated the lofty foyer of Great Scotland Yard: the general idler to be found in all public places. The lost, the confused, the cold seeking warmth, the anonymous passer-through. Sergeant Raddle kept a particular eye on these people. It was not unknown for pockets to be relieved of their contents even within the walls of this venerable establishment.

  A rush of icy air around Sergeant Raddle’s ankles drew his attention to the big double doors. A lady. An attractive lady very obviously in distress, no less, hovered half in, half out of them, unsure of herself, eyes darting this way and that. Sergeant Raddle admired her beauty but wished she would either come or go so that the doors might be properly shut ….

  He eventually caught the eye of the distraught woman, who responded by hurrying towards him, her luxuriant fur-trimmed coat swishing across the stone floor. She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, then finally launched into her overture.

  ‘I … I hardly know where to … something has happened … my husband….’

  Her voice was uncomfortably loud, and uncomfortably close to the borders of hysteria for Sergeant Raddle’s liking.

  Among those congregated in the Back Hall was a rather stout man, largely plainly dressed but with a blue and white checked waistcoat just visible beneath his winter garments. He was in conversation with another, and even though he was able to keep up his end of the discussion and his associate believed he had his full attention, his alert eyes had taken in this unfolding scene at the duty sergeant’s desk.

  ‘There, there, madam,’ Sergeant Raddle was saying in a practised, avuncular manner. ‘I’m sure we can find a solution to the problem, whatever it might be.’

  ‘I need … I have read about those people – like spies….’

  Spies? Sergeant Raddle’s heart sank. Spies?

  ‘Someone is spying on your husband, madam?’

  She put a hand to her brow. Her striking blue eyes momentarily swam with salty wetness but she staved off actual tears in a manner admirable to Sergeant Raddle. ‘No, no. Those policemen who are like spies, but—’

  ‘I can assure you, madam, that none of our officers would resort to spying, whatever your husband might think!’

  The loiterer who had picked up on this encounter paused in his own conversation, and seemed to be considering whether, or when, to approach. His companion had now followed the direction of the first man’s gaze, too.

  ‘You don’t understand!’ said the woman in almost a sob. ‘What I need is one of those new types of policemen – not a spy, but—’

  ‘A detective,’ announced the onlooker finally and boldly. He had appeared silently, unnoticed, almost as if materialized by a magician. He was of about medium height and in early middle-age, with dark, searching eyes, which, it was possible to conjecture might in certain circumstances be used as instruments of intimidation, but which in this case twinkled with confidence and sympathy. He touched the woman lightly on the arm.

  ‘A detective officer,’ he repeated, quieter now, and more confidentially. ‘That’s what you need, unless I’m very much mistaken.’ He raised his hat. ‘Inspector Bucket of that department.’

  The exasperation drained from the woman’s face. ‘Yes, a detective officer – that’s it!’

  ‘The detective force is not new, madam,’ Sergeant Raddle informed her. ‘It must be at least two years since—’

  ‘Two years is new enough in the Lord’s great scheme of things, Mr Raddle,’ exclaimed Mr Bucket. He looked up at the clock, even though he knew exactly what time it was. ‘Upon my soul, Sergeant – this is dedication beyond the call of duty. Mrs Raddle will wonder what has become of you!’

  While Sergeant Raddle was expressing his ready agreement with this statement, Mr Bucket added, in an affable aside to the lady, ‘And Mrs Raddle ain’t one whose nerves can stand much of that sort of wondering, madam. Unlike Mrs Bucket, who possesses a deal more phlegm, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  And so Sergeant Raddle was finally released from his duties and hurried to get his heavy winter coat.

  ‘Now then, madam,’ said Mr Bucket. ‘It don’t take neither a spy nor a detective to see that you are greatly troubled by some very pressing matter. One to do with your partner on life’s journey – and what could be more pressing than that? Explain all, and let me see if I can be of any assistance.’

  ‘There has been a death, Mr Bucket. A horrible murder – and my dear husband has been arrested as the culprit!’

  ‘And needless to say you are convinced of his innocence.’

  ‘I am certain of his innocence, sir! I know it as a fact.’

  Mr Bucket transferred his hat to the hand which already held his stick, freeing the other to thoughtfully stroke a luxuriant dark sideburn. ‘And when might this murder have occurred, madam? For there ain’t been one in the Whitehall Division that I’ve a-heard of.’

  ‘I believe the murder to have taken place yesterday at a house in Montague Place near the British Museum – a businessman was stabbed to death. My husband was arrested just this afternoon at our house in Russell Square. I’m afraid I don’t know about your police divisions or which one it falls under, Insp
ector, but I do know that a man from this office, not in uniform, was brought in to help with the investigation. My husband was taken away while I was out and I neither saw the officer nor was able to determine his name.’

  The lady was quite tall; fully as tall as Mr Bucket. Whorls of strawberry-blonde hair floated beneath her hat like summer clouds; her complexion was very fair, yet with a natural blush to the cheeks and very full lips; her eyes were of a particularly luminous shade of blue. As she gazed openly at Mr Bucket her long lashes fluttered agitatedly – perhaps a little too much for his liking.

  ‘If this is another detective officer’s case I cannot rightly intervene …’ Mr Bucket began.

  Her eyes widened and sparkled ever bluer; the long lashes fluttered faster. ‘But sir, there has been a terrible mistake and I implore—’

  ‘But I can make some inquiries and satisfy both of us that all that is being done is above board and fair and square, as you might say,’ Mr Bucket hastened to add, again patting her arm. ‘If innocent your husband be, and I have no reason to doubt your good word, then all shall come clear in the fullness of time. For now, we must be patient and strong. Strong and patient – that’s what we need to be. Now, my dear, let us begin with your name ….’

  She held out a pink, slightly plump little hand for Mr Bucket to shake. ‘Mrs Eleanora Scambles. My husband is Jonathan Scambles – Doctor Jonathan Webster Scambles. He has a practice on Tottenham Court Road. It is a very successful practice, Mr Bucket. A celebrated author and a member of the cabinet are among his patients, so you can see that if news of this dreadful error gets abroad—’

  ‘Strong and patient, Mrs Scambles! I shall do my best.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘That’s all I need. Until next time, Mrs Scambles.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Bucket.’

  With a resigned dimming of her azure gaze and further swishing of her furs, the woman turned and ventured back out into the gloom and the chill air of Whitehall Place.