The Incendiary's Trail (18 page)

‘What do you know of it?’

‘Only what I have read in the newspapers: that the girl Eliza-Beth was murdered for no discernible motive and that the perpetrator has just recently been apprehended.’

‘Why did you visit the house?’

‘I am preparing a new book on the London underworld. Though Mr Coggins is not strictly a criminal, his business has that
frisson
of the macabre that readers publicly abhor and
privately consume with fervour. I’m afraid I am little better than Mr Coggins in this respect, but the clamour surrounding the case is proof enough of its interest. I spoke briefly with some
of his “exhibits” about their personal histories.’

‘And what did you learn of Eliza-Beth?’

‘A moment. I have my notes here somewhere . . . ah, here we are.’

‘May I see them?’

‘I would be happy for you to, but it is written in “shorthand”: a kind of code which allows the writer to rapidly transcribe. Do you know it?’

‘No. Mr Coggins thought it might be Greek.’

‘Oh? Do you read Greek, Sergeant?’

‘I do not. Please tell me what you learned from the unfortunate girl.’

‘You are right to call her unfortunate, for hers was a doleful story even in life. She was left at a church door and never knew her parents. She was raised by a succession of physicians
who considered her nothing more than a study in abnormal development. Mr Coggins insinuated to me that he bought the girl. Or rather, that is what I inferred from his winks and knowing nods. The
others at that house were the only family that she ever knew.’

‘Do you have a family, Mr Askern?’

‘No. I am a bachelor. The truth, Sergeant, is that I have little to offer a bride. My father saw to that. This new book might make my fortune, but . . . well, we will see.’

‘I wonder, Mr Askern, if you have any ideas on what might have motivated Eliza-Beth’s killer? You know more than many others about the criminal classes of the city. Do you have a
theory?’

‘Of course I have thought about it, from the viewpoint of a writer as well as a researcher. But I am curious at your question: you have the killer in custody and must know his
motive.’

‘Indeed we do. But I am interested in your answer.’

‘Well, in that case I will satisfy your curiosity to satisfy my own. There are men – and, yes, women, too – who would kill you for your watch—’

‘Eliza-Beth had nothing.’

‘True . . . well, no, she did have a gold locket about her neck when I spoke with her, though I do suspect it was worth too little to be killed for. Then, there are also men who are quite
insane, men who kill because they hear voices telling them to do so, or because they are angry, or because it is a Thursday. There is no rational explanation and perhaps not even any evil in their
actions, for they are insensible to their crimes. Then again, there are men who become monsters when drunk, which accounts for most of the lower classes much of the time.’

‘So you are telling me that Eliza-Beth could have been killed virtually by accident, a victim almost of chance.’

‘You must know from your experience that such things are possible. I am sure they account for the majority of victims dredged out of the Thames . . . and I see from your nods that I am
right. But let us explore other possibilities. Could it be that Eliza-Beth knew Mr Bradford in some context? Maybe they were romantically linked . . .’

‘I think that your creativity is getting the upper hand, Mr Askern.’

‘Yes, yes . . . I suppose so. Let me think. What if Mr Bradford had intelligence of Eliza-Beth’s lost parents? Being the man he undoubtedly is, he would have asked for money to not
reveal the information. Perhaps they fought. She refused his price and threatened to expose him as a blackmailer. In the passion of the moment, he slashed her throat . . . Oh, I don’t know,
Sergeant! Please, tell me the truth – I see from your expression that I am speaking absurdly.’

‘Your ideas are certainly interesting. But you are quite correct in your original suggestion. The murder was quite random. Mr Bradford was no doubt intoxicated and broke into the house to
steal. He was startled and reacted with a razor instead of his mind. Now he will hang.’

‘A tragic waste. The girl was quite articulate, you know. At least one of them was, I forget which.’

‘Was Eliza-Beth your daughter, Mr Askern?’

‘I . . . I beg your pardon!’ Mr Askern stood as if the interview were terminated. ‘I will
not
accept such impudence, even if you
are
a detective! Did I not tell
you that I have no family? Are you accusing me of being—?’

The writer began to cough. It was no normal cough – it was the glutinous rattle of the consumptive. He leaned against the seat back and reached for his handkerchief as his body was wracked
with convulsions. His eyes watered and his face became scarlet as he covered his mouth and strained for control. Presently, he managed to calm himself and looked ominously into the handkerchief,
folding it with a dark look.

‘Forgive me. I have not been entirely well since I returned from the east. It was just . . . I was—’

‘I understand. My questions are not my own, but part of an investigation. Please, sit down. I am certain that you have experienced anger from interviewees in your own researches, so you
will understand.’

‘Well . . . well . . . a gentleman is not accustomed to such questions, Sergeant Williamson.’

‘Indeed. Please be seated. Let us proceed. Have you ever, in your travels about the underworld, heard the name “Lucius Boyle” or “Lucifer Boyle”?’

The writer sat, grudgingly accepting the truth of Mr Williamson’s words: questions
could
often cause offence – most especially those questions that the inquisitor sought
answers to. ‘Mmm, “Boyle” you say? The name is not familiar. What is he?’

‘We cannot be sure. It may be a clue. We have heard the name. We know that he is a criminal, perhaps a master criminal with others working for him. I thought that he would be known to
others of the fraternity.’

‘It is rare for criminals – serious, professional criminals, that is – to work together, or for others. They are too distrusting. It is true that children will work for a
kidsman, but they soon escape from his authority and become independent. It is also highly likely that any “master criminal” would soon be challenged or killed by a rival. I’m
afraid that the figure of the master criminal is all too often a literary conceit.’

‘What kind of man would be a “master criminal”, if you were to portray such a man in a book?’

‘Well, if we are to consider him as a character in a fiction, he would have to be uncommonly intelligent. A university education would be of very little use to him (though I suppose it
would help him to enter the confidence of gentlemen). No, his intellect would be one bred by the city itself: a sly cunning, a labyrinthine mind as dark and unmappable as the streets that raised
it. He would be involved in diverse criminal enterprises – theft, robbery, blackmail, prostitution – but not personally. He would have too much to risk.’

‘So he would have men working for him. What of loyalty?’

‘Well, quite. What could buy the loyalty of men whose very existence is based upon lies and deception? Any such criminal mastermind would have to inspire unwavering loyalty, and history
teaches us that there is only one thing that engenders such loyalty.’

‘Money?’

‘Fear. Our man must be brutal in his authority, punishing the merest breach of trust with death, or something worse. But, as I say, such a man is an unnatural monster. He would have to be
almost insane, and bloodthirsty to an extreme degree, in order to maintain his power for any period.’

Mr Williamson seemed to ponder these answers for a moment, working the brim of the hat in his lap. An idea occurred to him:

‘Mr Askern, has any of your research focused on the attire of our city’s inhabitants?’

‘Your line of questioning is quite odd, Sergeant. I am not entirely sure what you require of me. Nevertheless, yes, a man’s clothing is a particular interest of mine. Indeed, it is
one that I intend to write about very shortly. What is it that you would like to know?’

Where would one find the turbulent clergyman? His peripatetic ways took him all over the city to rant at passers-by about Revelations already made flesh, and those to come.
Noah was forced to agree that one merit of the Metropolitan Police was the efficacy of its beat system. No matter how ineffectual the police divisions as a collaborative whole, the individual
constables knew their territories better than any other – at least, almost as well as the criminals they pursued.

A letter from Inspector Newsome to all of the watch houses in the city had resulted in a map compiled from the knowledge of numerous beat constables. It pinpointed the Reverend Archer’s
most common pulpits and when he might be found at each. Thereafter, it was merely a matter of going from one to the next in the hope of meeting the man.

Thus, as Sergeant Williamson was quizzing Mr Askern, Noah was crossing Hyde Park Corner and passing through the Ionic columns of the triumphal arch into Hyde Park itself. Though autumn was
passing into winter and it was not a Sunday, traffic in the park was plentiful. Carriages rattled through the arches and passed along parallel to Park-lane or Knightsbridge and nursemaids led
excitable children across the grass. Casting a respectful glance at the colossal statue of Achilles, Noah set off towards the Serpentine.

Even before reaching that stretch of water, its rank odour drifted to meet him. A memory shuddered momentarily through his body, stimulated by that compost of sewage and dead flesh – a
memory as palpable as the scars on his back. Just as the whitened skin would sometimes stretch tightly, or itch with remembered pain, so a familiar smell would return shards of recollection to him.
He fought the momentary impulse to vomit and continued.

Children were launching their miniature barks and cutters on to the putrid waters as their nursemaids exchanged gossip on the benches. Less respectable children waded thigh deep among the mud
and occasional animal corpse which had bobbed gaseously obscene to the surface. Though some called it a lung of the city, it was in that case a tubercular organ. The smoke of a million chimneys had
laid their soot over all, and it drifted still, high above the trees.

A familiar voice began to make itself heard to Noah. Then, as he approached, he saw the flailing black figure of Reverend Archer standing on a bench, and began to discern words:

‘. . .
Come here and I will show unto thee the judgement of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters, with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication
. .
.’

Drawing closer, Noah saw that a wide circle of people had formed around the preacher – not to listen, but to be distant from him. It was a space of fear rather than fascination surrounding
him, and children’s ears were covered as the man in black robes spat forth his warnings of immanent oblivion. Upon closer inspection, he cast a sorry figure, his bony frame lost within the
swirling folds and his bald head glistening red with exertion.

‘. . .
And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness
of her fornication
. . .
!
’

Noah stood before the clergyman and watched. It was clearly the only interest the speaker had attracted all day and he paused to look back at this audience of one. He stepped down from his
improvised pulpit and assailed Noah with sour breath.

‘The End is upon us, sir. Have you welcomed Christ into your heart?’

‘Christ has done nothing for me. May I speak with you privately, Reverend Archer?’

‘
Nothing for you?
’ thundered Mr Archer. ‘Nothing for you? He
died
for you, sir! Died for you. What manner of human are you that rejects his Lord and
Master?’

‘I am master of myself. Jesus might have saved himself the trouble of dying for me. I have “died” many times, but have returned to life. Now, if you—’

‘
Blasphemer!
’ The clergyman’s face contorted into scarlet apoplexy. ‘The Apocalypse is upon us, sir, and you are set to burn in everlasting fire in company with
the sin-soaked fornicators of this city of Babylon.’

‘I am interested in your choice of text. The book of Revelation, chapter seventeen, if I recall.’

‘Aha! So you
do
know your scripture.’

‘Have you read of the murder of Mary Chatterton at Haymarket?’

‘It is a sign.
And the ten horns which thou sawest upon the beast, these shall hate the whore, and shall make her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh and burn her with
fire.’

‘Did you ever meet Mary, Mr Archer? Did you know her?’

‘She was a whore.
Upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.
’

Noah sighed, his patience now strained to its limits. He looked about him and saw what he expected to see: a dozen or so people assiduously not looking in his direction. It was human nature that
when something caused embarrassment, it became curiously invisible. Without a word of threat, Noah’s fist flashed rapidly into the cavity beneath the clergyman’s bony chest and the man
collapsed to the ground in a flutter of dark drapery. As he lay there pale and panting, Noah knelt by his side.

‘Listen carefully, Mr Archer. I have neither the time nor the inclination for your scripture, much as I admire its lyrical qualities. You will answer my questions, or I will be forced to
cast your body into this pestilential Styx here, without the benefit of Charon’s steerage. I prefer the Greek to the Hebrew, you see. Now, let us begin again – in your own words, if you
please.’

Passers-by turned away from the scene and nursemaids called children away from the vicinity. Only one man, sitting at a bench with an unread newspaper, watched the tableau with interest.

‘A street girl – as I’m sure you fully comprehend – is one of the most astute judges of attire in the city, for it is necessary that she be able to
discern a client and his wealth at a glance. She will charge what she thinks she can get away with, and approach only he who is likely to patronize girls of her sort. She knows that the judge or
aristocrat keeps his own seclusive in high style at Regent’s-park and would not lower himself to associate with a common prostitute. I hope I am not patronizing you, Sergeant
Williamson.’