The Eloquence of the Dead (28 page)

 

SATURDAY OCTOBER 8
TH
, 1887

 

FORTY-SIX

Teddy Shaftoe was anxious to be co-operative after just one night in the Tower.

‘He was as big as a fackin' rabbit, Mr Swallow. Wiv a tail about a foot long. An' that was just the first of the fackers. Got 'im wiv my boot, didn' I? But then all of 'is facking brothers an' sisters comes in after 'im.'

A pile of four or five dead rats in the corner of the cell corroborated Teddy's tale of voracious rodents who were masters of the night in St Thomas's Tower. Swallow understood why the warder the previous evening had insisted on being accompanied by his two terrier dogs.

Montgomery and Bright had been at Frost's, as promised, at 8.30. But the hotel's breakfast of thin porridge, toast and watery marmalade was an unsatisfactory start to the day.

The Yard men led the way to the underground railway station on Clerkenwell Road. Swallow was looking forward to the experience of the travelling under the earth.

In the five-minute walk from Frost's Hotel to the station, he saw why London's engineers and builders had embarked upon this radical transportation plan.

He had never walked in streets so noisily congested, or with such foul air. Dublin had the gentle pace of a market town by comparison. Carriages and cars contested for space between delivery wagons, huge drays and lines of steam-driven omnibuses. Drivers and porters manoeuvred for advantage, shouting for room and cursing their rivals.

The sheer number of people was overwhelming. In Dublin, a walk on a city street was a pleasure. Here, phalanxes of pedestrians crushed and jostled against each other, grim-faced and without salutation.

The underground railway was a novelty, but not a pleasant one.

Swallow had read descriptions of the miniature carriages, plunging through the dark, earthen channels under the city. What he was not prepared for was the belching steam and smoke from the engine, funnelling backward towards the passengers, driven by the vehicle's own subterranean velocity. He was grateful to gulp fresh air, briney from the river, when they emerged at Mark Lane.

At St Thomas's Tower, the warder secreted Montgomery and Bright in the listening hole above Teddy Shaftoe's cell. When Swallow entered, he found Shaftoe sitting on his bunk, feet tucked under him. A heavy boot in his right hand was in readiness as a missile in the event of a daylight appearance by the rodents.

‘The quicker you tell me what I need to know, and the quicker I can verify it, the quicker you'll be out of here, Shaftoe.' Swallow had no desire to spend any longer than necessary himself in the dampness of the Tower.

He drew a chair and sat at the table, notebook ready.

‘So, what's the name of the fellow who contracted you and where do I find him?'

Shaftoe cautiously left his bed, crossed the cell and took the chair opposite.

‘I didn't ever exactly say I knew 'is name, Mr Swallow. I know wot 'e looks like and I know where 'e works, or where 'e says 'e works. An' I know where 'e drinks. Or at least I know where 'e drinks when 'e wants to meet me.'

Swallow's temper rose.

‘This is bullshit. I set up this deal on the basis that you'd lead me to the fellow who sent you to do the job in Dublin. You'd better do that, no fucking about and you'd better do it now.' He brought his fist down on the table. ‘Or I'm off to Bow Street with my warrant and you'll be back on the boat to Dublin with me tonight. And you won't be drinking the Queen's money in the bar either.'

Shaftoe raised a hand defensively.

‘I said I'd do that, Mr Swallow. An' so I shall. So I shall. It's just not as straightforward as that. I'll 'ave to send this geezer a message that I wants to see 'im, won't I? Then, when 'e shows, you can 'ave 'im.'

Swallow bottled his anger.

‘Right,' he said reasonably, ‘how do you send him the message?'

‘I drops the word into the public 'ouse. Someone passes it on. I goes back and I gets a time from the guv'nor when to come back. Then my man shows up. Sometimes I 'ave to wait around for a couple hours. But that's no 'ardship in a decent 'ouse, is it?'

‘What's the public house? You know that much, I'll warrant.'

‘Yeh, it's The Mitre, innit? Right there in Ely Court, off 'Atton Garden.'

Swallow knew of Hatton Garden, as did every police detective in the Kingdom.

Lying between Gray's Inn Road and Farringdon Road, it was emerging as the centre of London's burgeoning trade in jewellery and precious metals. The vast majority of its business was legitimate and above board, but inevitably, among its scores of workshops and trade houses there were some that offered opportunities to those with stolen gold, silver or diamonds to dispose of.

‘Right, we're going for a visit, Teddy. You'll bring me down to the Mitre and you'll leave a message to meet this fellow. I'll be watching you at every moment. Try to bolt and I'll plug you.' Swallow tapped the Bulldog Webley in its shoulder-holster. ‘And you know from what happened at Greenberg's that I don't miss.'

When Swallow met the Scotland Yard men an hour later, Montgomery was unhappy with what he had overheard from his listening post above Teddy Shaftoe's cell.

‘I don't have authority to let him out at this stage, even into your custody,' he told Swallow. ‘And if he's to deliver a message in The Mitre without arousing suspicion, he'll have to be uncuffed and unaccompanied.'

‘We can manage that, I think,' Swallow said.

Montgomery looked doubtful.

‘I don't like this any more than you do,' Swallow conceded. ‘But I've got to follow this trail down to the end. I'll take responsibility if anything goes wrong.'

‘We can cover the place,' Bright said. ‘It's in an alley called Ely Court. Just two exits. One onto Hatton Garden; the other into Ely Place.'

In spite of Montgomery's reservations, an hour later saw Teddy Shaftoe step through the door of The Mitre close to the Holborn Circus end of Hatton Garden. Swallow placed himself against the railings of the shop next to the entrance to Ely Court, pretending to read a newspaper. Directly opposite, Montgomery peered in a shop window, apparently examining trays of rings, but with a perfect mirror view across the street. Jack Bright had taken up position at the other end of the laneway at Ely Place.

‘You've got to give me some time in there, Mr Swallow,' Shaftoe pleaded. ‘I've to deal with the guv'nor. It could be when I goes in that 'e's dealin' wiv a customer. I may 'ave to wait until 'e can talk to me.'

Shaftoe went into Ely Court, and Swallow watched him go through the front door of the public house. A moment later, Swallow heard his own name being called. It was a woman's voice.

‘Mr Swallow … Joe. What are you doing here?'

Katherine Greenberg was standing on the pavement not a yard away. Swallow fumbled with the newspaper. The last thing he needed or expected was to be recognised.

‘What a coincidence,' Katherine laughed. ‘Are you gone into the jewellery trade?'

‘I'm on duty,' he pitched his voice low. ‘Pretend you don't know me. Just go about your business.'

She understood. Her expression became serious.

‘Of course,' she too dropped her voice.

‘It's just so … amazing. I come here regularly.' She looked past him to the shop front. ‘I have business in here. I hope you'll excuse me.'

She stepped to the shop door and then turned back to him.

‘I don't know how long you will be in London, but I'm here until Monday. I'm at the Grosvenor, beside Victoria, if you are free to call.'

He had no time to answer. Teddy Shaftoe stepped out into the street from the alley. He did not as much as glance at Katherine, but the alarm in her face told Swallow that she recognised him. She looked away quickly.

Shaftoe turned left towards Holborn Circus. Swallow followed. He saw Montgomery flanking them on the pavement opposite. They crossed Holborn Circus into Fetter Lane and made for a public house called The White Swan, as they had planned.

Swallow bought Teddy Shaftoe a pint of ale and whiskies for the Yard men. He ordered a pint bottle of Guinness's light porter for himself and a Cornish pasty to fill the hole left by Mrs Frost's poor breakfast.

‘Well,' Swallow asked when they had settled over their refreshments, ‘what's the plan?'

Shaftoe drained off his ale in two great gulps.

‘Another o' those would do very nicely, Mr Swallow, so it would.'

Swallow signalled the barman.

‘At The Mitre,' Shaftoe said. ‘That's where 'e'll be. Tomorrer' around noon.'

 

FORTY-SEVEN

Swallow spent the afternoon at the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square.

They had returned Teddy Shaftoe to the Tower after they left the White Swan on Fetter Lane.

‘Would we have time to make it to Dymchurch to interview Lady Gessel this evening?' Swallow inquired once Shaftoe was locked up.

‘I don't think so,' Montgomery shook his head. ‘We'd need to give notice to the East Sussex Police. They'd have to notify her. And we've no way of knowing if she'd be available for interview without arrangement.'

‘A pity.'

‘There's nothing to be done until the morning. We'll collect Shaftoe then and bring him down to The Mitre.'

The Special Branch men returned to Scotland Yard. Swallow caught a steam omnibus to Trafalgar Square.

He was struck by the similarity between the Nelson Column in the centre of the square and its Dublin counterpart. But London's monument was somewhat taller. The four bronze lions at the base were impressive.

He thought to climb it for the view. But then he discovered that the column's slender Corinthian proportions did not allow of an internal staircase as in Dublin. Swallow felt a small surge of pride that his own city had probably done a better job.

He felt affirmed, too, when he compared the Gallery itself to the National Gallery in Dublin.

Francis Fowke's building on Merrion Square was not nearly as magnificent at Wilkins' temple facing Trafalgar Square, but he fancied that the Italian collection in Dublin could hold its own with what he saw here. While the English and French collections were on a grander scale, he reckoned that the quality of Dublin's acquisitions compared favourably.

He was absorbed in the Barry Rooms when the staff started to call the end of viewing. Men in blue uniforms moved from gallery to gallery, ringing small handbells and calling out.

‘Clowsin' time … clowsin' time please.'

He asked a porter how he might find the Grosvenor Hotel.

‘Bucking'am Palace Road, across from Victoria Station, Sir. Can't miss it. Bloomin' great buildin,' must be six storeys 'igh. Lovely walk along the Mall, if you're not in a 'urry.'

Swallow was not in a hurry. He crossed Trafalgar Square and set off along The Mall. The trees in St James's Park still held just a little of their summer greenery. The footpaths were busy with strolling ladies and gentlemen. Fine carriages with uniformed footmen and drivers went up and down.

Halfway along The Mall, he saw the gates of Buckingham Palace open and a column of Life Guards ride out. A minute later they trotted past him, magnificent in silver breastplates and helmets, every man fixed perfectly in the saddle as if he and his horse were one. He felt that he was starting to understand the difference between an imperial capital and a national one.

Many times in his head during the afternoon he had turned over Katherine Greenberg's invitation to call. Was it just social nicety? Two people who know each other cross paths in a strange city. What could be more appropriate than that they should agree to meet, perhaps for a drink or to dine?

Or was it a sense of obligation? Here were two people recently thrown in each other's way by dramatic and dangerous events. Her life and her father's life had been threatened.

Or was there something more? Was it ridiculous to think that there might be some glimmering of a romantic interest on her part? He had seen a look in Katherine's eyes when they talked in Lily Grant's painting class that seemed to go beyond friendliness. The air between them had seemed, somehow, alive. But he was old enough to be her father. No, that was not true. An older brother, perhaps. And yet, she had seemed to grow warmer towards him with each successive encounter. And since he had started in the painting class he realised that he had begun to look forward to Katherine's company each Thursday afternoon.

He hoped that she would be at the Grosvenor when he got there, and he found himself worrying that perhaps he might not be looking as well as he should for an engagement with a lady.

 

FORTY-EIGHT

Katherine chose a supper house on Drury Lane called The Albion.

‘London hotels are stuffy with dining-rooms like a morgue,' she said. ‘And the fancy restaurants would break anyone's bank account. We can eat well at The Albion and we won't be thrown out at 9 o'clock.'

When Swallow had inquired for her at the Grosvenor Hotel, the reception clerk nodded. Yes, the hotel had a guest of that name staying, and yes, she had advised that she was expecting a visitor. A bell boy would be sent to Miss Greenberg's room with a message. Would the gentleman care to take a seat in the lobby?

The Grosvenor was almost on the same vast scale as the great railway terminus nearby, whose passengers comprised the bulk of its clientele. Swallow found a vacant chair under a colonnade of arches that reached to an elaborately decorated ceiling. Glittering chandeliers reflected on walls panelled with high, burnished mirrors.

Ladies and gentlemen with porters and servants bustled in and out of the lobby. Liveried hotel staff greeted guests, directing them to the various dining areas and lounges or towards the lifts that would carry them by electric power to their accommodation on the upper floors.