The Hellfire Conspiracy (23 page)

“Inspector!” I cried, but what was done could not be undone.

“Assaulting an officer of the law!” Swanson sputtered above the din, thrusting me into the waiting arms of two of his constables. “And, Cyrus Barker, you are under arrest!”

My employer swung around.

“On what charge?” he asked.

Swanson came close, and they stood nose to nose. The inspector ticked off points on his fingers. “Trespassing. Assault. Destruction of property. That’s just to start. No doubt you are responsible for the unconscious man back there with the sharpened coins sticking out of him.”

A group of men approached, still clad in Georgian costumes, without their wigs and masks. Lord Hesketh stepped forward, followed by a man whom I assumed was Baron le Despencer himself.

“Get these men out of here!” the latter cried. “I demand that they be punished to the fullest extent of the law!”

“Yes, your lordship,” Swanson replied. “I was just in the process of arresting them, thank you very much.”

“How dare you interrupt my party and chase away my guests,” the baron demanded of Barker. “I shall see that you do time for this.”

“And I, your lordship, shall see that every villager knows exactly what sort of orgy has been going on in this church.”

“There is nothing wrong with a harmless function on my private estate with my friends.”

“There is when young women are being outraged and murdered!”

“That is slander, and I am a witness!” Lord Hesketh spoke up.

“Arrest him. Both of them!” the baron ordered. “I want them both in chains!”

Barker raised the cat-o’-nine-tails, and the man ducked and winced. Instead, my employer offered it to the noble.

“Your property, I believe, your lordship.”

Whether it belonged to him or not, he took it. Then Barker held out his wrists for Inspector Swanson’s darbies.

“You always push,” the inspector complained. “You won’t let anything alone. You cannot let other men decide what is right.”

“Do you mean those men consorting with fallen women here tonight, the MPs disporting themselves, the aldermen and aristocrats observing a satanic ritual that murders innocent maidens? No, I will not let that alone.” He held up his chained hands. “Do you know the difference between you and me, Donald? Your wrists have been chained since the very beginning.”

“That’s it. Get him out of here,” Swanson said, thrusting Barker toward one of the constables.

Reluctantly, I held out my own wrists. The cold steel of the Hiatt darbies closed about them. I was going to a jail cell, something I had sworn to myself would never happen again.

The constables marched us past the mausoleum to the dock. It had been quiet when we passed here earlier, but all was chaos now. The steam launch that had brought the party was gone, leaving a dozen or more carousers and their female companions stranded. At least the gentlemen had the manners to lend their old-fashioned coats to the partly clad women. It was chilly on the river, with a fog settling in.

Our plans were set at naught. Who knew where Ona Bellovich had been taken, or if Miacca had been the man in the cape and goat mask. There was no opportunity for us to save her now. As we were loaded onto the police launch, I thought any chance of this case ending well was over.

“Hello, gentlemen,” a man said, as we were thrust into a seat. He came forward and gave us a slight smile under his impossibly black mustache. It was Inspector Dunham of the Thames Police.

W
E WERE ON OUR WAY BACK TO LONDON IN A
police launch destined for a jail cell or the interrogation room in Scotland Yard. The darbies around my wrists were cold, and the fog had spread over the surface of the Thames like icing on a cake. We had punted here slowly, but were speeding back, thanks to the powerful boiler on the police steam launch. I was about as wretched as a man could be, knowing I would be in a cell soon. So why, I wondered, did Cyrus Barker seem so cheerful?

“If your constables are going to arrest a fellow,” he said over the thrumming of the engine, “they would do well to check his pockets.”

So saying, he reached inside his coat as both constables lunged at him. However, he came up with nothing more dangerous than his sealskin tobacco pouch.

Both constables flanked him, arms akimbo, while Inspector Dunham shook his head. “Go ahead, Barker, have your fun.”

Barker charged his pipe, lit it, and leaned back, hooking an elbow over the gunwale and crossing his ankles. All he had to do was hoist himself up over the ledge and he’d be in the water with the vesta he had just thrown in, leaving me to suffer the consequences alone.

“Swanson shall be quite the hero when he brings in a desperate pair of enquiry agents who work so near Scotland Yard they can toss a stone through the front window,” the Guv said, contributing his pipe smoke to the surrounding haze.

Dunham gave him a quizzical look but gave no answer.

“What would your superiors say if I could deliver the killer of the girls into the hands of the Thames Police? Or would you rather I tell them that you allowed a child murderer to escape when you nearly had him in your clutches?”

“I’d have to be positive you could do so,” Dunham said, raising an eyebrow. “Convince me.”

“Describe Miacca for the inspector, lad,” the Guv said to me. “He’s been awaiting Inspector Swanson’s command here on the launch.”

“He was wearing a long cape and a goat’s head mask with horns. Of course, he’s probably tossed those off by now. But there’s one sure way of knowing him. He’s got a young girl with him who is probably drugged.”

“You saw them at the party?” Dunham demanded.

I spoke first. “I would hardly call it a party. Miacca was just about to sacrifice her when we broke in!”

“Where are they now?”

“In the launch ahead of us, heading back to London. We’ve spoiled his entertainment, and now he is taking his victim to salvage what is left of the night for his pleasures.”

“You know who Miacca is?”

“Of course,” Barker said coolly.

Inspector Dunham looked at him skeptically. “Tell me,” he said.

“Oh, I am just a prisoner, Inspector.”

“If I take off the bracelets, will you tell me?”

“If you free us to continue the investigation, I’ll take you right to him.”

“Impossible,” Dunham scoffed.

“I shall, of course, report myself over Dashwood’s complaints after this is over, but right now I demand a free hand. Both of them, in fact.”

“Slip his darbies,” the inspector ordered. The constables, Swanson’s men, looked at him dubiously. “Are you gentlemen in charge, or am I?” he barked at them. They quickly freed my employer’s hands.

“And Llewelyn’s,” Barker demanded.

“I didn’t say anything about your man here.”

“He is my right hand,” Barker insisted. “I need him.”

Dunham heaved a sigh. “Him, too. But here’s the lock coming up. If nobody’s come through here I’m putting the darbies on you again.”

The lockkeeper was standing at the dock in his nightshirt and cap, looking irate.

“Look here,” he cried as we came up. “This is too much. I’ll not have such shenanigans on my lock, racing at such at hour!”

“Someone just came through?” Dunham asked.

“Not ten minutes ago, and in such a hurry he scraped my gate!” He pointed at a scratch of white paint that ran horizontally across the wood.

“Describe them!”

“White steam launch, sir. Just one man aboard that I could see.”

The inspector swiveled his head toward us. Was Barker tricking him? his expression seemed to ask. Or worse, had the man tossed Ona overboard?

“She may have been lying in the bottom of the boat,” I dared say.

“Open this blasted gate!” Dunham bellowed.

In a moment we were through, the constables shoveling coal into the boiler for all they were worth. Meanwhile, the inspector pushed the handle on the throttle, gaining more speed. Barker abandoned the casual pose that had driven Dunham so mad, and made his way to the bow. He seemed glad to be in a boat and extended his chin forward in the breeze as the shreds of fog whipped by.

When we reached London, the vessel slowed, causing barges and other boats to clank against the docks like toys in a tub.

“Stop!” Barker cried, but it was too late to shut the valve. Miacca’s launch was floating unmanned in the middle of the Thames. Dunham swerved, but we plowed into the back end of it with a rending of wood. The inspector was knocked off his perch, and Barker and I nearly fell overboard. The boat narrowly avoided a dock, and slid up an embankment before smashing into a hut. Both constables were covered in hot coals and began patting out the fire on each other. Barker jumped down onto the shore.

“Come! There’s not a moment to lose, if we are to save Ona Bellovich.”

We had passed under the Tower Bridge, still in mid-construction. Barker spread those long legs of his and ran for all he was worth, his oilskin flapping behind, while we struggled to keep up. In Royal Mint Street, he flagged down a cab, and he, Dunham, and I clambered aboard, leaving the constables to find another or be left behind.

“Who is it?” Dunham demanded. “Won’t you please tell me who we are after?”

Barker only gave him an adamantine look.

“Blast your hide, Barker!” the inspector swore. “Must everything be a secret to you?”

“They cannot be far ahead. Turn onto Cambridge Road, driver!”

It’s Palmister Clay,
I told myself.
My word, he’s Miacca!

But no, we swept past Clay’s little snuggery, and when we came to Green Street, we did not turn left toward the charity, pressing on northward instead. Barker seemed to know exactly where he was going. I just prayed we were not too late.

“H
ALT!” BARKER CRIED WHEN WE REACHED
the Old Ford Road and flung open the doors of the cab. He clattered down to the pavement and ran, leaving Dunham and me a tangle of limbs trying simultaneously to exit the vehicle and pay the cabman. We struggled to the ground and followed my employer. There were scant seconds to lose if we were going to save Ona Bellovich from violation, murder, and mutilation. I knew where we were going now and the identity of Miacca.

The Carrick Photographic Emporium was in sight, and Barker had almost reached it. He did not slow as he approached, but several feet away launched himself into the air. Both of his boots struck the door at once, bursting it from its hinges; and when the door fell, he slid across the room upon it until it crashed into the counter. He vaulted it and landed on the other side.

“Stephen Carrick!” Cyrus Barker bellowed. “Bring the girl here now! Gentlemen, the next room!”

The three of us charged into the room where Carrick took his photographs. It was empty, but there was a half-opened door beyond it. I thrust it open in time to see the face of Stephen Carrick regarding us furiously from a small bedstead, his black cape spread across it like the wings of a bat. Underneath him I could see the still form of Ona Bellovich, dazed from whatever drug he had given her. Carrick began to rise, a look of mad triumph on his face.

Dunham and I tackled him, knocking him from the bed. He struggled forcefully, and I was obliged to seize his hair and bang his head once or twice against the brick wall while Barker covered Ona Bellovich’s body with the cape.

A sound like a cat hissing came from behind me, and I turned in time to be confronted by Rose Carrick. She held a large rectangular tray in her hand, the kind used for developing photographs, and she threw the contents at me. It would have soaked me completely, had Barker not stepped between us, raising the oilskin he wore as a shield. The coat caught most of the liquid, but some splashed over his head and onto Dunham and me, and began to burn.

“Acid!” Dunham cried. I looked up to see Barker’s long oilskin begin to smoke. He tore it off, but I could see that his hand already had angry red blisters on it. He ran it over his scalp and came away with a lock of loose hair.

“Sir!” I cried, reaching for him, but Carrick took the opportunity to dash between us. He glanced back at us and there was a look upon his face of sheer maniacal glee. Another few steps and he would be able to flee into the night with his wife.

I wasn’t going to let that happen while I could do something about it. I latched onto his ankle as he passed, and he dragged me with him across the room. The weight of my body slowed him down enough to allow Dunham a good swing of his truncheon, which broke Carrick’s nose. He went down, dazed by the blow, while his wife dropped her pan and loped for the safety of the darkroom.

“I’ve got him this time,” Dunham said grimly, clasping his darbies about the killer’s wrists. “Get his bloody wife!”

Leaving Miss Bellovich with Barker and Carrick in Dunham’s custody, I ran to the door of the darkroom and beat upon it, ordering her to open it. Stepping back, I began to kick near the lock with the heel of my boot as hard as I could.

Suddenly there was a roar within and a sharp scream from Rose Carrick. Barker and I looked at one another incredulously as we realized she had set the room on fire with herself in it. Smoke began to billow from under the door. A darkroom must contain flammable chemicals, I was sure. “Mrs. Carrick,” I cried. “Open the door! Can you get to the door?”

But the screaming became even louder and more plaintive as the fire inside grew. I looked about for something with which to batter the door, but there was nothing nearby that would serve, so I put all my weight into one strong kick.

“No, lad!” Barker cried from behind me, as the door sprung open. He pulled me down as a huge ball of flame flew over our heads, igniting the room. My employer’s mustache and brows were kindled and our clothing caught fire. We rolled over and over across the floor to quench the flames, while overhead the rafters began to burn.

“Ona,” Barker rasped. “Get Ona, lad.”

I pushed myself off the floor and ran into the back room. The fire had not reached there yet, but the room was filling with smoke. I made my way to the bedstead and scooped her up in my arms. Her eyes opened slightly, but she was still heavily drugged.

“I’ll get you out of here safely,” I said, but even as I said the words, I wondered if it was a rash promise. The front room was now an inferno. Dunham and Barker were trying to drag Carrick through the open entranceway with the aid of Swanson’s constables who had finally found us. I took as much smoky air into my lungs as I dared hold, then dashed through the burning room to the front entrance. The heat was excruciating and I wondered if my clothes had caught fire again, but then I was suddenly out in the Old Ford Road, alive, comparatively safe, and with Ona Bellovich in my arms. My coat was so charred, it smoldered in the night air. There was a cheer, and people moved forward to pat my clothing. The fire had attracted residents and merchants who had no idea what had just happened inside.

There was another explosion from the building. The first floor windows blew out, showering us all in glass, and a tongue of fire rose out of the burning chimney.

Stephen Carrick sat up then and pushed himself onto his feet despite his shackled hands. He watched as the shop he had built was engulfed in flames along with the wife who had tried to protect him.

“No! No!” he cried, trying to dash back into the burning building, despite the constables who held him on either side. “No! My jar, my trophy jar! I must have it!”

“Shut it, you little ghoul,” Dunham said, raking him across the shoulders with his club.

“Sir,” I said, kneeling down by Barker. “You’re in bad shape. Let me go and get Dr. Fitzhugh.”

“Go, then,” the Guv said, gritting his teeth in pain. “Miss Bellovich will need medical attention after her ordeal.” Leave it to Barker to disregard his own needs in order to meet another’s.

For once, I was glad to be in Bethnal Green. I ran through the streets on my way to find the doctor, but though I attracted stares from everyone I passed in my smoldering clothes, no one dared stop me. In Kensington or Chelsea, I would have been arrested for disturbing the public peace, but here I ran all the way to Fitzhugh’s boardinghouse without interference.

“My god!” Fitzhugh said when he saw me. “Come in and let me treat you at once.”

“No time,” I choked out. “Barker is in the Old Ford Road in far worse shape than I, and we’ve got a girl in our custody who has been drugged. Get your bag and come!”

Fitzhugh ran up the stairs to pack his medical bag and was back in two minutes ready to give aid. He led me through alleys and side streets I didn’t know about, until we were back in front of the burning structure again.

We found Ona Bellovich being tended by a pair of female Salvation Army workers who had pinned the cape about her body and put a tin cup of cocoa in her hands. A combination of shock from the events and the effects of the drug made her sit forlornly, head cocked to the side, like a doll that had been dropped. I doubted she even knew she held the cocoa. Within minutes, one of the female officers and a constable carefully lifted her into the back of a hansom cab.

Barker’s head had been bathed by another Salvation Army officer. Fitzhugh took over for her, applying sticking plaster to the major lesions and painting the rest of my employer’s face in iodine. I was glad for once that he always wore dark spectacles, else he might have been blinded. By the time the doctor had finished tending him, the iodine and plaster made him look worse than before he had been treated.

“Bloody hell,” a man said behind us. I looked over my shoulder into the eyes of Inspector Swanson. “Why aren’t these men locked up, as I ordered?”

“I discarded your suggestion,” Dunham said, emphasizing the final word, “and decided to go after the killer of all those girls I found in the river. His name is Stephen Carrick and he’s here in my custody.”

“In case you didn’t notice, Dunham, you ain’t on the river now. This is Yard business.”

“I came here on the river,” the Thames Police inspector maintained. “I found those girls in the first place and I wrote the reports you stole and never returned. I won’t have you giving me orders. Why don’t you go back to Whitehall where you belong?”

While the inspectors continued their jurisdictional argument, I hefted my employer to his feet, and the two of us shuffled through the alleyways to the warehouse. Once inside, I called for Mac and together, we got the Guv upstairs and onto the mattress. I believe he fell asleep almost instantly.

“Oy, Thomas,” Mac said, using my Christian name for the first time that I could recall. “You are a fright.”

I looked down at myself. My oilskin was in tatters and there was a large hole burned through my jacket and waistcoat to my shirt beneath. There were blisters on my hand. I went in search of my shaving mirror, and when I found it, wished I hadn’t. My nose and forehead were red from the fireball and my face black with soot. My hair had been singed by fire and would have to be cut short to look normal.

I suddenly began to shake as it all caught up with me, but I fought back the attack of nerves. I had made a temporary truce with Mac but didn’t want to show any sign of weakness. “I say,” I said in my most casual voice, “any chance for a cup of coffee?”

“Of course, but I think first I must attend to your wounds. I’ve got a medical kit among my things.”

“Is there anything you neglected to bring?” I dared ask.

“Shoe polish,” he responded, taking my remark literally. “I have had to buff my shoes with a cloth. I shall remember it the next time the Guv decides to move us into temporary quarters.”

“I hope that won’t be for a very long while.”

“I do, as well,” Mac said. “To be quite candid, I’ve hated it here. I do not believe I would have made a good Sicilian.”

Mac pulled a box full of gauze and other medical supplies from one of his trunks and set to work. I flinched as he applied iodine to one of my burns.

“So,” Mac said as he painted my face. “I assume you got Miacca.”

“Bagged him but good,” I answered. “He’s in police custody, though I’m not certain which police.”

“So, tell me who it was and what happened.”

I told him everything from the time Barker first put the punting pole into the water until we had staggered into the warehouse still smoldering. It took almost half an hour of explaining. We had had an eventful evening.

“So it was Carrick,” Mac said. “How long do you suppose the Guv had known?”

“I have no idea,” I said, looking at the slumbering figure on the bed. “The important thing is it’s done. Miacca is in custody, Bethnal Green is safe, and we can go back to Newington again. No more stony mattresses.”

“No more eight-hour vigils.”

“No more meals served at room temperature.”

“Fresh sheets, clean laundry, fresh cream on the doorstep every morning.”

“And best of all, no infernal exercises.”

“Do you gentlemen intend to talk all night?” Barker spoke from the bed. “Be so good as to give me twenty-five of your best.”