Murder in Montague Place Page 4

  ‘Whatever was taken, Johnny now has it,’ said Mr Bucket said, setting off after his man with Gordon hurrying to catch him up. ‘Most come quietly, but Johnny won’t. Not this time.’

  They hurried their step, and when Johnny, who was about twenty paces ahead of them, turned off Piccadilly, Mr Bucket exclaimed, ‘Keep on his tail, Mr Gordon. I’m a-going to try and outflank him, as my old colonel used to say.’ And with that he headed off up Old Bond Street.

  Johnny had gone up Dover Street. There was a side road off to the right but he passed that, sauntering at a very leisurely pace, presumably so as not to attract attention. There was another turning to the left further ahead, and Gordon’s instincts told him that he would take this. But before he had a chance, the unmistakable figure of Mr Bucket suddenly appeared from the opposite end of Dover Street. Gordon saw Johnny’s step falter and his body tense. He suddenly spun round and began running in Gordon’s direction. He quickly stepped into the middle of the street and stretched his arms out wide.

  ‘STOP, POLICE!’ he cried for the first time in his life – and how strange and unconvincing it sounded coming from his lips. But it made Johnny veer into the side road he had originally passed, and off Gordon went in pursuit. Mr Bucket, who was able but clearly not the swiftest of men, instantly drew his rattle from his pocket, and its eerie and surprisingly loud clackety-clack rang in Gordon’s ears as he pounded after Johnny Stovepipe. He was fast. Gordon was keeping up but not gaining on him as they hurtled down the alley and out onto Old Bond Street. It was teeming with people and traffic, but Johnny barged through the crowds and shot straight across the road, dodging between two carriages, one of whose horses reared up in fright and jerked the vehicle across Gordon’s path. It only cost him a second or two, but it was enough for Johnny to extend his lead and Gordon just caught sight of him disappearing down another narrow lane. He renewed the chase with something of a heavy heart because he knew the advantage was now with Johnny. Mr Bucket’s rattle called out loud and clear again just behind him, and people stopped to stare as the detectives charged into Burlington Street. Johnny had already vanished and there were several turnings he could have taken. But now there came the sound of another rattle from an alley to Gordon’s right as if in answer to that of Mr Bucket, followed by a cry of ‘STOP, THIEF!’ Gordon skidded on the icy path and almost fell as he turned sharply into this thoroughfare. There, ahead of him, he saw a constable in uniform wrestling on the ground with Johnny Stovepipe. The constable’s rattle, which in the violent struggle he attempted to use as a weapon, was knocked from his grasp and went clattering across the cobbles; in the confusion Johnny broke free and was about to escape when his path was blocked by two men who had come running out of a shop, alerted by the noise. It was the shopkeeper in his apron and a very smart-looking and fairly elderly – but tall and well-made – gentleman. The latter laid about Johnny with his stick while the shopkeeper made a grab for his arms. As he closed in, Gordon saw Johnny reach into his pocket, and at the same time heard Mr Bucket, fast coming up on his shoulder, shout a warning.

  ‘Watch out for his life-preserver, gents!’

  Sure enough, in a flash Johnny had whipped out what looked like a leather strap with a heavy lead ball attached to the end, which he lashed at the old man. The ball hit him on the forehead with a sickening crack. He turned and reeled away clutching his wound, blood seeping freely through his fingers. Johnny wound himself up to take another swing, this time at the shopkeeper, and Gordon saw his chance. He charged and drove his shoulder into the boy’s ribcage. Gordon knew from the way he felt his chest collapse that it was a damaging collision, and he heard Johnny grunt like a stuck pig. The force of the collision caused them both to tumble to the ground in a tangled heap. Gordon found himself on his back with Johnny virtually on top of him, and though the crook gasped for air and grimaced with pain, he raised his fearsome life-preserver ready to lash it down at the sergeant. At that moment a shadow came over them both, and a police truncheon prodded the end of Johnny Stovepipe’s nose, pressing it flat against his face and jerking his head back.

  ‘Now, Johnny. It’s all up for you, don’t you see?’ said Mr Bucket soothingly, as if to a cornered, wounded animal. ‘You want the beak to know you came along all nice and calm like a good fellow. That’s the outcome you’re hoping for, I can tell.’

  This brief interruption gave Johnny enough time to assess his new situation, and the fight suddenly went out of him like a pricked balloon. He petulantly tossed aside his weapon, and bowed his head to his heaving chest, muttering and cursing under his breath.

  The injured old man was assisted to the nearby house of a doctor, while their little party trooped southwards in the direction of Great Scotland Yard with the uniformed constable keeping a firm hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It was a sight which drew stares all along the way and Gordon thought he had rarely felt more self-conscious in his life than after this, his first arrest. The better class of person, he noticed, tended to look their way but make no comment. The lower orders stared openly and seemed unable to resist expressing their opinions – though judgements were divided. Some declared their approbation, while others hissed, ‘Shame!’ and much worse in their direction.

  It was only when they reached Whitehall that Gordon remembered something that the events of the morning had temporarily pushed from his mind. ‘I had a curious encounter last night just after we parted, Mr Bucket.’

  ‘Well, Mr Gordon of that ilk, we all had a fair amount to drink. No need to say more of it ….’

  ‘No – what I mean is, a youth approached me with a message for you.’ Gordon told him what had been said.

  Mr Bucket suddenly brought their little procession to a halt and asked Gordon to repeat what he had just told him. ‘Exact words, Mr Gordon,’ he said. ‘Pray, make sure you give me the exact words.’

  ‘He said that the message was from someone called Tom Prike. He evidently didn’t bring it himself because he wanted to be “left out of it”.’ The precise message, and I can remember most of his words quite clearly, was Tell Mr Bucket to let the doc take the rap, and if not he must watch his back. Who is this Tom Prike?’

  ‘A young fellow who passes the odd snippet of intelligence my way. Not like him to be shy, though. Not at all ….’

  They continued on their way again and were soon close to the station, and as they turned from Whitehall into Great Scotland Yard they almost bumped into a woman coming the other way: tall and extremely pretty, yet with a troubled, disconsolate look in her vivid blue eyes. When she saw them, though, her expression brightened.

  ‘Mr Bucket! They told me you could not be contacted ….’

  ‘Mrs Scambles! I do still rather have my hands full, madam.’

  ‘I see. It’s just that—’

  ‘I did inquire after … shall we say, the case in question. As I warned you, my dear, I’m afraid there seems to be little I can do. Nothing untoward a-going on there as far as I can see.’

  ‘But there has been a new development!’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Someone got into my house yesterday, and some of my husband’s personal effects may be missing.’

  Mr Bucket rubbed an imposing forefinger against the side of his nose for a moment. ‘I see…. Well, as you know I cannot involve myself in the more pressing case in which you are sadly embroiled. But burglary is different. A burglary is a burglary, and must be looked into. I shall call round tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp – if that would be convenient?’

  ‘Certainly! You are most kind, sir!’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Gordon asked as they entered the Back Hall and took their man to be booked in by Sergeant Raddle. ‘Not just the lady, but the boy’s message….’

  ‘That,’ replied Mr Bucket, ‘was about something fishy. That’s what that was all about.’

  V

  THERE WAS DISQUIETUDE in Northumberland Gardens. Commotion reigned, and ominous forces lurked. The tumult blighted the peace
of that green oasis, which lay surrounded by the tall buildings and busy carriageways of the nation’s – nay the world’s – capital city.

  More accurately, the disquietude and the tumult was in the head of Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton, joint commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Northumberland Gardens herself was still; still and white – for her verdancy was hidden by the frosty embrace of February. But her equanimity was unaffected by the disorder inside the head of the head of the detective department, gazing upon her through care-narrowed eyes, through the ice-crinkled window of his office. He was a short, corpulent man, gloriously and vainly bewhiskered, but with a bald dome which had numerous strands of hair carefully arranged across it, valiantly attempting to disguise its pink nakedness.

  There were some who were expecting – even willing – the nascent detective force to fail. It was un-British to have police officers disguised as civilians prowling the streets, they said. It smacked of some foreign tyrannical state, they claimed. Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton knew they would use any excuse as ammunition to bolster their case. The Commissioner himself believed almost fully in the concept of the detective officer … it’s just that their methods seemed to him so … so … arcane. Uniformed peelers were straightforward, predictable men, easy to deploy and control: just like the soldiers under his command when he was a colonel of the Rifle Brigade. With the detectives, it was somehow unnerving the way they seemed to obtain results like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat. How could he be sure their modes of operation were always completely principled? Might some major scandal one day emerge – news of dishonourable practices which exposed the Commissioner’s lack of understanding of and control over his force? And now this latest development. Just the kind of fraught and delicate matter which, if not handled in the correct manner, could provide his enemies with the ammunition they needed.

  It was not that he didn’t have the highest regard for Inspector Bucket. On the contrary – a steadier fellow you could not hope to find. Neither was it a lack of policing expertise. He was experienced, efficient, highly regarded. It was just that he had … a way of dealing with people, of addressing them, which … well, it wasn’t the kind of thing people who moved in certain circles of society were used to or were likely to take to kindly. That it got results was without a doubt. Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton had seen Mr Bucket in action – how he gained the confidence of the wary, how he had them confiding in or agreeing with him without their really realizing that their position had turned face-about. It would never work on him, of course, and other intelligent and lofty people might be offended by the very attempt. Perhaps if Sir Marriot were to follow his original instinct after all and allocate the case to a senior, experienced uniformed officer, at least the interviewees would not be surprised at certain—

  A knock came at the door. Sir Marriot dragged his gaze from the winter scene outside and tried to gather his thoughts.

  ‘Enter.’

  Mr Bucket appeared, carrying a small, rather dog-eared piece of paper. ‘Good morning, Sir Marriot. January’s expenses as promised,’ he said, presenting the piece of paper. ‘Nothing out o’ the ordinary in there to bother your head over unduly, sir.’

  Sir Marriot glanced at the sheet. He would be the judge of that. ‘Hmm. Nothing out of the ordinary indeed – since the total under “Refreshments” seems to be consistently at a level which—’

  ‘Bearing in mind, Sir Marriot …’ Mr Bucket jumped in with a raised forefinger. The Chief’s left eyebrow twitched slightly. He hated being interrupted, but allowed Bucket to carry on. ‘Bearing in mind that information does not come cheap, as they say. Intelligence as precious as jewels may be obtained for the price of a dish of bloaters, a glass or two of gin, and cetera, sir. And that’s a fact.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Bucket. At least it’s not as large a figure as Inspector Stope’s, I suppose.’ Sir Marriot squiggled his initials at the bottom of the piece of paper and handed it back to Mr Bucket.

  ‘Very generous to his sources is Mr Stope, sir. Good morning, Sir Marriot.’

  Mr Bucket stuffed the sheet into his pocket and turned to go, but he was called back.

  ‘There is a case….’ The words emerged reluctantly, like an embarrassing confession.

  ‘Ah…. With respect, Sir Marriot, I have an appointment this morning with a very respectable lady on account of a burglary which—’

  ‘I know about that, Bucket. I’ve sent Gordon. There’s something else I need you to look into.’

  For once, Mr Bucket was taken by surprise. ‘You know about the…? Mr Gordon…?’

  ‘He reported in half an hour ago, Bucket. He’s a very keen young man.’

  ‘A very promising officer, that’s plain enough.’

  ‘He can look into a simply burglary – it will do him good to give him his head on a case like that.’

  ‘An inspired decision, that’s what that is, sir.’

  ‘And I want you to devote all your energies to this other case….’

  ‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from it, Sir Marriot, whatever it may be. On that you have my word. However … Mr Gordon, as well as being a very promising detective officer, is young, tall and handsome, as you might say….’

  Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘And Mrs Scambles is young, beautiful and distressed. And lonely….’

  ‘From what I hear, Mrs Scambles is a most reputable lady, Bucket. I hope you are not suggesting—’

  ‘Oh, perish the thought, Sir Marriot! But there the situation is. And Mr Gordon not being experienced in the ways of the world, as you might term it, a fatherly eye might be kept on the matter from time to time – even while devoting the whole of one’s attentions to the case you are about to unveil. Having been allocated by your good self to show him the ropes, I can’t help feeling a sort of responsibility towards the young gen’lman, Sir Marriot.’

  The Chief clamped his teeth together and let out a resigned hiss from his bulbous nostrils. ‘Yes, well. As long as the situation I am about to explain takes absolute priority….’

  Mr Bucket prodded the air with his finger once more. ‘On that you may depend, sir!’

  Sir Marriot rose from his chair and went to the window, where he stood with his chubby hands clasped behind his back just above the swallowtails of his coat, crumpled from long hours sitting at his desk. ‘Ferns, Mr Bucket.’

  ‘Upon my soul,’ exclaimed the detective. ‘Not more gone a-missing?’

  Sir Marriot swivelled round. ‘You know about the ferns?’

  ‘I chanced upon a theft of same only recently.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t an isolated incident. Now, Bucket, this investigation will bring you into contact with a certain kind of person with whom your duties do not normally—’

  ‘Like Mrs Crouch, wife of Henry Dranfield Crouch, the cotton magnet?’

  Sir Marriot winced at the pronunciation of the word magnate. This was just the kind of reason he wanted to keep Bucket away from these people. ‘You know of her?’

  ‘Like old pals, me and Mrs Spongler! T’were the loss of her ferns I was called to look into!’

  Sir Marriot winced again. ‘Well, there has been another theft like it. In fact it is the third – a report of a similar, earlier case in Chelsea has since come to light and I suspect there are others which have so far gone unreported. The thing is, Bucket, this second one concerns Lady Rhynde, the wife of the Home Secretary. The Home Secretary has personally approached me, and I have given him my word that I shall put my best man on the case.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Bucket knowingly. ‘I begin to see, sir. Utmost tact and expedition to be employed! Well, don’t you worry your head about that, Sir Marriot. I’ll soon get myself on matey terms with Lady Rhynde.’

  ‘Yes, but Bucket, that’s just what—’

  Mr Bucket silenced his chief with a tap of his fat forefinger to his nose. ‘You can leave it all to me, Sir Marriot!’ There was possibly the hint of a twin
kle in his eye, but it could have been moistness due to the cold, and anyway, Sir Marriot was too agitated to notice it.

  ‘Of course, Bucket, and I know I can trust you, but—’

  ‘That’s very touching, that is, sir,’ said Bucket earnestly. ‘All kinds of low and dishonest people say the very same thing to me during the course of my duties and I don’t necessarily believe ’em. But coming from you – a man esteemed for his honour and integrity, an officer and a gen’lman – I know I can trust it, which is very uplifting for the soul if I may make so bold, sir.’

  ‘Er, I’m glad to hear it, Bucket.’ Sir Marriot Ogle-Tarbolton sighed, sinking back into his chair. He provided his inspector with some of the basic facts of the case, then sent him on his way and returned to his contemplation of Northumberland Gardens, where the disquietude and tumult had increased in intensity.

  Spud’s arms were aching. The much-repaired leather strap which normally went round his neck and held his tray of nuts had snapped again, and this time it had given up the ghost altogether. It had become too short to tie yet another knot in, and he had nothing to repair it with. He would find a replacement in the gutter or on a dung heap soon, but in the meantime he would just have to carry the thing in his deadened, frozen fingers. The consolation was that he didn’t have far to go, for the lights of the Ten Bells were just a little way ahead, beckoning him. He pushed through the door, drew in a breath to commence his familiar cry, but was cut short. He had hit a grey wall of tobacco smoke. Spud didn’t smoke himself – had never been able to afford the baccy for one thing – and the pungent miasma made him catch his breath and hindered his progress almost as if he was walking through water. But although he never got used to it, it was nothing new, and Spud soon found his voice.

  ‘NUTS! Walnuts, Spanish nuts, hazelnuts! Get yer nuts!’

  There must have been around twenty people inside, but at first it was as if Spud was an invisible presence, a ghost – an all too familiar and depressing sensation. It had been a slow time of late, what with the weather and all, and Spud hadn’t eaten since early that morning when one of the Jews at the market where he obtained his merchandise took pity on him and gave him a couple of slices of stale bread and butter. He could always eat his remaining nuts as a last resort, but they wouldn’t fill the hole and anyway, he could eat much better on the proceeds if he could but sell them all. As he meandered between tables, a man near the bar who hadn’t even looked in his direction gestured with his hand and uttered some words Spud couldn’t quite make out. No matter – he had made his first sale.