The Incendiary's Trail (16 page)

Who was the father of Eliza-Beth and how did he react to these letters? Assuredly, he did not react well. The letter from Mary opened a wound that had long ago healed over. She
had been a different woman then: a pretty girl over-impressed with the big city and the attention she could garner. The news of a daughter, a girl –
that
girl – at once sickened
and saddened him. If it was true. If it was not some grubby hoax. He knew by now that the mother was dead. She had meant nothing to him for decades, and now – in a rush – she and a
child were thrust back at him as corpses.

He felt that everyone was looking at him, that everyone
knew
. He heard their whispers:
There is the man who had a child with Mary Chatterton, the Haymarket whore. There is the man
whose child was a monster, slain among other monsters.
The gutter newspapers would make him famous and drag him into the mire of gossip and calumny if they knew his identity. Innocent as he
was, they would besmear him with the infamy.

Thus, the second letter set his blood running cold. Who was this man observing him and what did he know? It could all be an elaborate joke, but it did not feel so. It felt as if his life was
under a glass and that the eye above him was the sky itself.

THIRTEEN

‘Nothing, Ben!
Nothing!
I could smell his presence there – that sulphurous, infernal whiff – but the shop was quite abandoned. He will never set foot
there again.’

Noah stared fixedly from his study window to the street below as Benjamin poured tea from a silver pot.

‘I have never been this close,’ he continued. ‘It’s as if he is taunting me, as if he knows I am searching for him and gives me glimpses just to play with me. It would be
like him.’

The Negro caught Noah’s attention with a guttural cough and proceeded to make a series of brief but complicated gestures with his hands, describing shapes in the air with his paler palms
and punctuating the words with fine finger movement. He raised his shoulders interrogatively in conclusion.

‘Yes, yes – you are right. He has no idea I am even in the country. At least, he has no reason to know. It is only my fancy and my anger that make it seem otherwise. You know I am
not like you, Ben. I cannot forget. I will not forget.’

Again, Benjamin made his curious language of signs.

‘No. The police business is over as far as the detectives are concerned. They have their murderer and we have our letters. The case is closed. The only good thing to come from it is that
it brought me closer to finding him. Indeed, I was think—’

Noah was interrupted by a decisive knocking at the street door. He peered down from the window and saw the stovepipe hats of two policemen.

‘G— confound them! It is the police, Ben. No Sabbath for them. Be good enough to let them in. Evidently, they want more value from me.’

The two officers entered the room with their hats in their hands and waited patiently for Noah to bid them sit. He did not do so, leaving them instead to stand as he scrutinized them from his
stance at the window. He recognized Mr Newsome, of course, but the other man was a stranger to him.

Assuredly, the man was a policeman – his posture was unmistakable. He looked like a man who might have grown up among the barrows and barges, the gin shops and chandlers of the city as
Noah himself had. But he had risen above them. Whoever he was, he was making a detailed examination of the room as if gauging what kind of man might inhabit it. His voice was quiet, but carried
authority:

‘I perceive you seek to make us uncomfortable by not asking us to sit. I expected nothing less. My name is Sergeant George Williamson. I will not shake your hand because I do not shake the
hands of criminals.’

Noah nodded to himself and smiled slightly. ‘Sit, gentlemen. I await with interest the reason for your presence here, especially since I have a letter from your commissioner naming me as
an innocent man.’

‘The case is not over and you know it,’ said Mr Newsome, sitting on a large leather sofa. ‘We may have Mr Bradford in custody, and the public may think the crime solved, but
you know there is more to it.’

‘I know nothing of the sort.’

‘Did you question him when you arrested him?’ enquired Mr Newsome.

‘I had little time. Another man was about to kill him, as I’m sure he has told you. I rescued him and took him to the nearest watch house. I returned here afterwards, exhausted after
my ordeal at your hands.’

‘You did not discuss the circumstances around his committing the murder?’ enquired Mr Williamson. ‘You did not venture to a marine store off Rosemary-lane once you had
delivered our prisoner?’

Noah looked again at this detective who had delivered what were evidently rhetorical questions. Sitting there beside Mr Newsome, he did not seemed cowed by the decorous surroundings, by the
books and furniture of a gentleman. In his eyes, Noah was a cracksman: a criminal, albeit an uncommon one. If Mr Bradford had been questioned carefully (and the murderer was not a man of strong
will), the police would know what had passed between him and Noah. What Mr Bradford couldn’t know for sure was whether his ‘rescuer’ had actually gone to the marine store they had
discussed. Either the detective was guessing, or . . .

‘I did not go to the store, though I did discuss it with the man.’

‘Hmm.’ Mr Williamson appeared to smile. ‘So you will know what we know: that although we have the murderer in our custody, the man behind the crime remains at
liberty.’

‘Indeed, but he has committed no crime himself. Your case is closed, as is my involvement with it.’

‘He has benefited from the murder, or at least from Mr Bradford’s primary intention in visiting that address.’

‘And what was that?’

‘That is no business of yours.’

‘Is it not? Why, then, do I have two detectives sitting in my study telling me that the murderer is to be hanged but that I am still involved in some way?’

Inspector Newsome observed with evident satisfaction the verbal sparring of these two men whom he had planned to put together. They reminded him of two dogs that will cease fighting only when
– bleeding and exhausted – they perceive they have met their match. But turn those two dogs on a third fierce creature and they will together bring it down decisively. He addressed
their host:

‘Mr Dyson, you perceive correctly that we have not finished our business with you. Let us lay pretence aside for a moment and address the issue: the man you seem to have been seeking for
some years past is very likely the man we also seek. You know much about this man that we do not, and we know things you do not. I would like you to work with my colleague Sergeant Williamson to
bring this man to justice. It is in all our interests to have this man at the gallows.

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. I leave you together to discuss how you are going to collaborate. This man must be caught with all haste. I trust Benjamin will
see me to the door?’

After a brief glance of enquiry at Noah, Benjamin escorted Mr Newsome out of the room. The two remaining men heard the street door close and appraised each other in silence. An awkwardness
settled, as when young gentle-people of opposite genders are left alone together for a moment. It being Noah’s own house, he had the advantage of home territory.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Detective? Benjamin has just poured one for himself, but you are welcome to it.’

‘No, thank you. And I am surprised that you take tea with your servants.’

‘He is not my servant, and I am not his master.’

‘Hmm. He is certainly a curious specimen. I perceive that he has been hanged, a fate that may one day befall you. Only, you will not survive the ministrations of Mr Calcraft.’

‘You do not like me, Mr Williamson. May I call you George?’

‘You may not.’

‘I see. You do not like me, but you know nothing about me.’

‘I know that you are a cracksman—’

‘You know nothing of the sort. You know only that I was arrested in possession of a cracksman’s tools. No stolen property has been discovered in my possession. Nor can there be any
provable link between that uniform of mine and the one stolen from the unfortunate constable.’

‘PC Wiseman.’

‘Indeed. Such items can be bought at any shop along Rosemary-lane, or made by a tailor. In short, you must know as a detective that, however dubious the circumstances of my arrest, there
is no proof of my guilt.’

‘You mean that we have not yet discovered it.’

Noah smiled and sipped his tea, noting that his guest had elected not to drink his cup. ‘Do you play chess, Detective?’

‘I prefer draughts . . . Mr Dyson, may we omit this delicate conversation and proceed to the heart of the matter. I am obliged to cooperate with you and I do not relish the opportunity.
There is a criminal behind this crime and we believe you know who he is.’

‘Why do you believe so?’

‘You have been searching for a man who is likely an incendiary. The man described to us by Mr Bradford goes by the name of ‘Lucifer’ Ball, or Boyle, named for his odd
attraction to the eponymous matches. We also have other evidence that the man who initiated this chain of crimes is—’

‘What other evidence?’

‘That is none of your concern.’

‘You said we were working together on this case. If so, we are both compelled to collaborate against our will, so you need not maintain your injured air, or that of superiority. I already
know – as you must – that the bully was sent to Lambeth to obtain a letter, and that the subsequent murder was the result of fear rather than malice. There are more things in Heaven and
Earth than are dreamed of in Mr Bradford’s philosophy.’

Mr Williamson pursed his lips in distaste. He did not perceive the origin of the literary reference – merely that it was one. His fingers worked unthinkingly at the brim of his hat.
‘So you know as much as we do.’

‘I may know more, Detective. I know what was inside the locket.’

‘Hair. Mr Bradford revealed that to us.’

‘Of two colours: red and brown.’

‘Quite. But you know nothing of the letters.’

‘Lett-
ers
, plural? I know only of one letter: the one that Mr Bradford took from Eliza-Beth, but which he could not read. We can assume that Boyle has read it.’

‘Indeed he has, much to my regret. I discovered the second letter myself, inside the pillow on Eliza-Beth’s bed.’

‘What were its contents?’

‘Let us proceed with less haste. Before I reveal to you the secrets of the Detective Force, I would like to know – indeed, I demand it – why you seek this man and what his
capture means to you.’

‘He once did me an evil turn, which I promised I would avenge. That is all. Now – to the matter of this second letter.’

‘What was the nature of this evil turn?’

‘What were the circumstances of your disfigured face? I presume it was the smallpox.’

Mr Williamson’s face reddened and showed all the signs of rising anger.

‘Forgive me, Detective, but I seek only to illustrate that some things are best left unspoken. Our subject is the case at hand – nothing more. I pursue this man for personal reasons;
you seek to enforce the law. Now – the contents of that letter.’

The detective clenched his jaw. ‘It appears to be from Eliza-Beth’s absent mother. No name was appended, and no return address given. It was delivered by hand, by the same person who
was to collect the reply. I have it here.’

He handed the letter to Noah, who smelled it and then rapidly read the contents. He thought for a moment.

‘So the red lock of hair in the locket belonged to the writer of this letter, the mother. I have seen Dr Zwigoff’s show at Vauxhall and seen the girl for myself. Her hair was flame
red . . . Wait – you spoke of other evidence.’

‘A number of people visited the house during the period of the Vauxhall shows. I have been contacting them to see if they can shed any light on the case. One of them has recently been
murdered – an occurrence which cannot be attributed to coincidence.’

‘Because Mary Chatterton was red-haired. Yes, I have read of it. I presume she is the victim you are referring to. She was one of the visiters to the house . . . and the writer of the
letter. Tell me, how was she killed?’

‘Quite horribly. The full details are known only to a few. She was beaten, burned about the body and the head, and then her throat cut. Our surgeon, Dr McLeod, tells me that none of the
burns were fatal in themselves, and that the burning of her hair and scalp most likely took place
post mortem
. . . it means “after death”.’

‘I know what it means. How do you know that the bully did not commit the crime?’

‘Mr Bradford denies all knowledge of it, except what he has heard in the street. I am inclined to believe him.’

‘Yes, I feel sure it is the man you seek. His name is Lucius Boyle. The bully may be a killer, but he does not have the stomach for torture. And only Boyle would use fire in such a way. It
fascinates him. But why—’