Murder in Montague Place Read online

  ‘Now’s a good time to shut yer gob, Blackie,’ muttered big Billy Stope suddenly, in a manner which even intimidated Gordon despite it being directed at his antagonist. ‘The drink always gives you a bit of bounce and it don’t sit well with yer. It really don’t.’

  Blackie was about to counter this, but the strains of a popular ballad began to echo around the room and took the sting out of the bad feeling which was arising among their group. Through the haze of tobacco smoke Gordon could make out a little old fellow with a single but very prominent upper front tooth, leaning with his chair on two legs, back propped against the wall, crooning away blissfully. Soon others joined in, and the evening turned into an impromptu variety show with various offerings from around the pub. Mr Bucket himself eventually rose to his feet and gave a solo rendition of Take, O Take Those Lips Away to the great approbation of all. Gordon had thus far only thought of him and as a private and undemonstrative man, so he was surprised by both the ease and confidence with which he gave his performance, and the clear and steady tenor voice, which effortlessly reached every corner of the room. The argument was forgotten, and it was a very advanced hour before they vacated their seats – not drunk, Gordon reflected, though certainly somewhat merry.

  Billy Stope and Mr Bucket were walking out arm-in-arm just ahead of him and he overheard some of their conversation.

  ‘So, you have some stolen ferns to investigate while I have a murder, eh?’ said Stope.

  ‘Murder?’ queried Mr Bucket.

  ‘Have you not heard? To tell the truth your ferns will take a lot more investigating than my murder – I’ve already made an arrest. A doctor, of all people.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, I’ve already heard about that. A doctor taking a life instead of preserving one! What’s the world coming to? Can it really be so, Billy?’

  ‘Everything points to it – much of it circumstantial – but to top it all there’s a piece of cast-iron evidence to put him right at the scene.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re in luck, Billy boy. What little gem might that be, then?’

  ‘Little gem?’

  ‘The evidence!’

  ‘Oh, that ….’

  Mr Stope seemed to hesitate, and Gordon hoped that Mr Bucket had not overstepped the mark. He had already learned that officers were very protective of their cases and how it was considered to be particularly bad form for an ‘outsider’ to stick his nose in. But the dilemma was circumvented by Sergeant Blacksnape’s loud and by now rather slurred northern tones.

  ‘Ever seen a corpse done in something horrible?’ he asked Gordon in a kind of leering way. ‘You’ll see lots of ’em in this job, man!’

  Before he could answer, Mr Bucket interposed. ‘Seen one, Blackie? Has he seen one? Why, he’s been responsible for dozens of ’em!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Mr Gordon here was a captain in the 26th Regiment of Foot. Very warm work in China, so I hear, eh, Mr Gordon?’

  ‘At times, Mr Bucket,’ he replied, allowing himself a slight smile at Blacksnape’s sullen expression.

  ‘Away with you, James Alexander Gordon of that ilk,’ the inspector said, prodding him in the chest with his formidable forefinger. ‘Early start for you and me tomorrow, and no mistake.’

  They all went their separate ways. Mr Bucket headed south to Pimlico and Gordon towards Westminster Bridge and his rooms across the Thames in Kennington. But he had not gone far when a figure suddenly darted from the shadows of a narrow lane to his right and barred his path. He instantly took half a step back and raised his cane – but in a second his brain had had time to process what was before him, and he recognized this as a small figure in a passive rather than an aggressive posture. There was little illumination from the gas lamps at this spot, and all Gordon could make out was the dirty face of a boy who could have been little more than ten years of age.

  ‘Mr Bucket?’ came a quavering voice. The lad was shivering from head to toe, and Gordon could see from his outline that he wore no great coat but only a jacket. It made him wonder how long he had been waiting there in the freezing temperatures. He turned to look back, but Mr Bucket had disappeared from sight.

  ‘He has gone home. May I help? I’m his colleague.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Tell Mr Bucket Tom Prike sent me ’cos ’e wants to be left aht of it. Tom says to tell Mr Bucket to let the doc take the rap – and if ’e don’t, ’e must watch ’is back.’

  Gordon was about to probe the boy about this curious message, but as soon as it was delivered he vanished silently into the night.

  III

  A FIGHT SPILLED OUT of a gin shop at the end of Great White Lion Street. Feebly illuminated by a solitary gas lamp, labourers in their dusty and discoloured fustian roared and set about each other over some obscure dispute. Fists flew, shillelaghs flashed, heads were locked under arms, all to the accompaniment of shouts, curses, grunts of pain.

  This was Seven Dials.

  People passed close by, indifferent to the fracas. One group of children chased another whose leader was waving a hat wildly in the air as if it were some kind of trophy. A man led a donkey cart laden with vegetables from Covent Market and steered his beast slightly to one side of the melee, puffing on his pipe and casting only the merest glance. And a tall man in black skirted the mob as if they existed only in the imaginations of others. This pedestrian stood out because of his gentleman’s garb, with a smart frock coat and a top hat of the finest hardened silk. Even his stick had what looked like an ornate silver handle. He turned into narrow Little Earl Street, and approached a run-down building with broken windows, which housed a beer shop.

  The light from the few oil lamps inside were so dim that his entrance was barely noticed. He stood for a moment, observing. In an alcove to his right was a Lascar sailor slumped across his table. The visitor might have taken him to be in a drunken stupor had he not detected the sickly sweet smell of opium from his pipe, the stem of which still adhered to his gaping, drooling mouth while the bowl rested on the table, twitching slightly each time the man exhaled.

  The visitor’s gaze moved round the room, and finally settled on the General. The General was, among other things, an occasional trainer of prize-fighters and was once a pugilist himself – in the vicinity of Seven Dials it was said that he once beat Joe Jullocky, the Manchester Mangler, for the middleweight championship of All England. The General had since lost much of his hair (and shaved the remainder) together with most of his teeth, while gaining enough bulk in all the wrong places to turn him into a heavyweight. But he still looked like an active enough man, and his thick neck, wonky nose and cauliflower ears, together with his reputation, were enough to dissuade all but the most foolish or inebriated of potential adversaries. And the General appeared to be in a pugnacious mood today. The visitor observed the old fighter approach a big man talking to four companions seated round a table on the far side of the room. He tapped the burly man on the shoulder, and the visitor, even in this poor light, could see the look of fear on the seated man’s face when he saw who had come to call. He immediately and ardently stated his case – presumably his defence – and threw his arms out in a desperately submissive, beseeching gesture. But the General was not so easily placated, and the big man was encouraged to leave his seat. He was rugged-faced, broad-shouldered and a full head taller than the man who now ushered him towards a door.

  While the big man’s companions slipped hastily away, the visitor headed for the door through which their companion and the General had gone.

  ‘I thought you wuz an hon’rable man, Michael.’

  ‘I am, General. For God’s sake, ask anyone!’

  The smartly dressed interloper could hear it all. He had silently slipped into the dim corridor where the discussion was taking place, and stood in the shadows, invisible. The General’s tone was calm – yet all the more full of menace for it. The other man had a strong Irish accent and his voice dripped with terror.

  ‘But you and me ’ad an
arrangement.’

  ‘I needed the money desperate. I knew I could get it back so it ain’t like double-crossin’.’

  ‘It ain’t like double-crossin’, it is double-crossin’, Michael. Yer know I can’t let it go.’

  The General took a step closer to Michael – who made a sudden bolt for the door. The observer pressed himself back against the wall, and saw a flurry of fists. There was a high-pitched whistling sound as the air from Michael’s lungs was forced at high velocity through his pain-constricted throat, and then a heavy thud as he collapsed, writhing, to the floor. Several more rapid blows quickly followed. The visitor stepped forward into the glow of a solitary candle in a jar on a windowsill.

  ‘Very efficient work, General.’

  The General, who was stooping over his fallen victim, twisted round as suddenly as his bulk would allow, rising as he did so. ‘’Oo are you, then – a peeler?’

  ‘I’m your guardian angel.’

  ‘You’re a damned nosey bugger ’oo’s seen too much, that what you are!’

  The General began to lumber forwards. But the other man pulled on the silver handle of his stick and whipped out a long, thin sword blade. ‘I’d run you through before you even got close. But there’s no need – like I said, I’m your guardian angel. You can only benefit from my visit.’

  The General lowered his fists. ‘Stop talkin’ in riddles an’ tell me what yer wants.’

  ‘My employer has got a job, and pays well.’

  ‘Who the hell are yer? Ye’r dressed like a gent but yer don’t sound like one, despite yer fine words.’

  ‘It’s to do with the murder in Montague Place – poor Edward Mizzentoft. Some say you did it.’

  ‘That doctor done it.’

  ‘But did he? I hear you had good reason to kill Mizzentoft. I hear you had warm words with him on the day he died. Maybe the police are wrong about Doctor Scambles.’

  ‘He’s as good as swung for it, so what’s it to anybody?’

  A sudden gust of cold air blew through a hole in the window frame where the wood had rotted away, causing the candle on the sill to gutter and almost die. When it flared back to life it highlighted a livid, recent scar across the bridge of the General’s nose.

  ‘People are asking questions, turning stones over and looking underneath. If Scambles is released, things might come out which the person who is paying me – and who is going to pay you – would rather not.’

  ‘Nobody won’t be payin’ me, ’cos I ain’t gettin’ involved.’ The General began to walk towards the door, but the visitor raised his sword so that the tip was level with the old fighter’s face.

  ‘But you are involved. Like I say, people are talking. Your name has been mentioned. If Scambles gets off it will be you the police come for next. My employer has contacts. Believe me, we could make the mud stick as far as Mizzentoft goes. I’d say it’s a question of risk the noose, or be well paid for an easy piece of work.’

  There was a long silence while the General’s brain clunked into gear. ‘What piece of work?’

  IV

  A SUDDEN STRONG GUST of the coldest wind Gordon had ever known – and he had endured a Chinese winter out in the field – almost dislodged his top hat. When he looked at his fingers after rearranging it, he saw that they were coated in frost crystals from its brim. The temperature, albeit probably some way below freezing, was no lower today than yesterday but this wind made things feel ten times worse. Gordon’s toes felt as though they might snap off, and his nose ran so freely he found himself checking his handkerchief to see if it was bleeding.

  ‘Chilly work, eh, Mr Gordon?’ Even Mr Bucket spoke through gritted teeth, as if his jaws were frozen together.

  ‘Indeed. Perhaps our man has remained indoors.’

  Mr Bucket smiled, no doubt, Gordon thought, at his naivety. ‘They don’t have the liberty of staying indoors, Mr Gordon. If they don’t go out to ply their trade, they don’t eat. Some might not even be able to afford a room for the night.’ He stamped his feet a few times and flapped his arms about him, and then took Gordon by the elbow and they set off. ‘But a turn around the block won’t do us any harm. He’s just as likely to be on Regent Street or Pall Mall as here.’

  Mr Bucket had received reports of a group of pickpockets working in this area, led by a character known as Johnny Stovepipe, a habitual criminal nicknamed after his usual form of headwear who had recently been released from a three-year sentence and was apparently active again.

  ‘He won’t make it easy for the likes of us,’ Mr Bucket remarked as they trudged round the corner of the Haymarket into Coventry Street. ‘Odds are it’ll be transportation for him next time, and he knows it.’

  Ahead, they saw two little girls sitting on an upturned wooden packing case at the end of an alley. They looked so alike that Gordon had little doubt but that they were sisters.

  ‘Pretty flowers! Two bunches a penny!’ cried the older of the two. The younger one clutched a large bunch of violets but merely gazed vacantly at the icy ground, shivering violently. Their faces were white and pinched, with dark smudges beneath the eyes. Although bare-headed, they were at least wrapped in shawls – but then as the detectives drew closer, Gordon saw to his horror that neither of them was wearing shoes.

  ‘Mr Bucket!’ the older girl exclaimed upon spotting him. Even the younger now looked up and raised a feeble smile.

  ‘Why, Annie,’ said Mr Bucket as if he were their uncle on a family visit. ‘What pretty flowers you have today – Mrs Bucket’s favourites!’

  ‘You said lavenders wuz ’er favourites last time we ’ad some!’ the younger girl piped up innocently, and received a nudge from her older sister.

  ‘Very changeable in that respect is Mrs Bucket, Elsie. Can’t hardly keep up with her, and that’s for sure.’

  The older girl handed him a little bunch, and although the transaction took place quickly, Gordon noticed that he gave her far more than the penny asking price.

  ‘Such little things, and barefooted. I don’t know how they can survive!’ he commented as they walked on, glancing back over his shoulder at them.

  ‘They don’t all …’ Mr Bucket replied. But Gordon could tell he was somewhat distracted, and the reason soon became clear when he spotted a crossing sweeper working on Piccadilly Circus who looked no older than the two girls they had just met, and called him over. ‘Here, Harry. Now here’s a sixpence for you, and a few more pennies for some coffee. That’s for you – and Annie and Elsie over there.’

  ‘Righto, Mr Bucket,’ said the boy.

  ‘And mind you give it ’em, Harry,’ Mr Bucket warned him, waggling his forefinger like a teacher’s cane. ‘You know I’ll know about it if you don’t.’

  ‘Mr Bucket!’ replied Harry, as if dismayed that his honesty should be thus questioned.

  ‘Seen anything of Johnny Stovepipe?’

  ‘Johnny’s in Newgate, Mr Bucket.’

  ‘Not any more he ain’t.’

  ‘Ah, din’t know.’ He quickly skipped off in the direction of a coffee house across the street.

  ‘And mind you takes the cups back.’

  Although Gordon was paying attention to all this, he still couldn’t get the image of the two little frozen, shoeless girls out of his mind. And Mr Bucket seemed to be aware of how much it had affected him.

  ‘You feel as if you want to save ’em all,’ he mused. ‘I know I did – and still do, make no mistake. But you can’t save ’em all and it would drive you mad to think like that. But you can get to know one or two and do what you can. That’s the best way, that is, Mr Gordon of—Wait a minute!’

  Gordon followed his eyes, but could see nothing out of the ordinary – just what he had already learned was a typically animated, hectic London street: the constant clatter of hansoms, broughams, tradesmen’s carts and omnibuses on the cobbles; the cries of the street hawkers and the general throng of pedestrians.

  ‘The lad looking in the milliner’s shop. Now what d
oes a lad like that want with a milliner’s shop, eh?’

  Gordon had to admit that he might have looked out of place had he actually gone inside, but….

  ‘And who’s he standing beside, eh?’

  It was a well-dressed lady apparently discussing the wares on display with a friend; they were seemingly oblivious to the youth beside them.

  ‘See that?’ cried Mr Bucket almost to himself. ‘He fanned her!’

  Gordon was thrown into confusion. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for or why, and all that had apparently happened was that the young man who had aroused Mr Bucket’s suspicions had raised his hand to lift his hat and scratch his head.

  ‘Fanned?’

  ‘When he raised his hand he felt the outside of her pocket for something worth stealing. Because he’s stationed himself so close it didn’t arouse any suspicion once she saw him scratch his noggin. Get ready to act fast, Mr James Alexander Gordon of that ilk!’

  ‘Is that Johnny Stovepipe?’

  ‘No, but ….’

  Mr Bucket’s searching gaze was roving up and down the street. ‘… That is!’

  ‘The young man by the knife grinder? He’s wearing a billycock hat….’

  ‘Our ’Johnny’s in a cunning disguise, to be sure. But it’s him all right, that’s who it is. And look – she’s in on it, too. Get ready, sir!’ Mr Bucket pulled his hat down tighter and clutched his stick like a knight in armour about to charge.

  A perfectly decently attired woman now also approached the shop window on the opposite side to the youth. She appeared to greet the two women, but evidently more as a stranger than an acquaintance. As she did so she dropped one of her gloves. At the very same moment that this distraction occurred, the youth’s hand shot into the pocket of the woman nearest to him and back out again, and he immediately set off along Piccadilly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. Now Johnny Stovepipe was walking towards him, and although they passed without acknowledging each other there was a barely perceptible brushing against one another and a subtle movement of arms and hands.