The Incendiary's Trail (3 page)

This one has begun, and I am mindful of returning to it.

THREE

Daylight had finally come to illuminate that melancholy alley in Lambeth, though it still seemed in mourning. Leaden clouds hovered almost as low as the chimneys, clouds that
were darkened further by the thick pall of smoke that had already begun to pour forth from a million hearths. The people gathered outside the lodging house had swelled, encouraged into an excitable
state by rumour, and by the sensation that the accidental revelation of the body had caused.

Dr McLeod had had the unfortunate bicephaloid covered in a sheet and removed on a stretcher to his mortuary. As it was being transported from the house, however, the onlookers had surged forward
to see the horror. In the
mêlée
, a curious hand had pulled away the sheet to reveal the two heads hanging limp, the blood-soaked dress and the gaping wound. They recoiled with a
collective gasp, then rushed in anew to see what they dare not see.

Reinforcements had been sent for and now a line of ‘bluebottles’ stood guard before the house. Among them, only PC Cullen had seen the horror within, and the other constables
deferred to him as he rallied them against the crowd:

‘Move along there, Hamilton . . . Keep them away from that window, PC Birch! . . . Everybody move back now –
we are trying to conduct an investigation!
’

Inside, Detective Williamson had moved everyone to the downstairs kitchen to leave the murder scene as it was when the crime had been committed. The plain kitchen table was designated the
interrogation space and the witnesses were called in turn as the detective was ready for them. He would have preferred to keep each testimony private, but the circumstances forbade it. A fire had
been lit and more lamps brought to cast light on the proceeding . . . and what a scene was presented there.

With the hirsute child whimpering like a real dog, the vast woman had been manhandled down the stairs by the giant man and sturdy PC Cullen. She was now settled by the fire, stroking the
child’s head soothingly. The giant man had folded himself on to a chair, his knees higher than table height, and struck a quite ridiculous figure with his enormous hands about a mug of tea.
Everything in his sphere was of childlike proportions, and indeed his very expression was one of great mental simplicity. Though possessed of the strength to crush a man’s scull in his palm,
he would evidently not harm a flower, unless by the clumsiness of his form. Meanwhile, the man with the twisted face sat slightly apart from the group and wore a cap low to conceal as much of his
countenance as possible. He stared into the flames with an unfathomable emotion. Both he and the giant had claimed to have been asleep in the other room at the time of the murder, woken only by the
cries following it.

Among the motley group, the most articulate thus far was the pygmy-like man who had first spoken to Williamson. His name was Mr Hardy, though he appeared theatrically under the
soubriquet
of ‘Goliath’. Despite his diminutive nature, he was in every other respect like a man, albeit with a queer sense of compression natural to his size. He gave his testimony in a curious
falsetto as the detective made notes:

‘We retired to bed, as is our habit, at around midnight – the ladies in the one room and the gentlemen in the other. We are appearing at Vauxhall Gardens as you know, and it is quite
exhausting to be the object of curious stares and exclamations. One never becomes accustomed to it, detective.

‘Mr Coggins, our protector (as he likes to call himself), went out almost as soon as we had returned here in our covered carriage from Vauxhall. As I told you, it is his custom when we are
in the city to be out all night at the public houses and gin palaces.’

Here, the detective raised a hand to pause the testimony and made a note. Then he went on: ‘Excuse me – why was the lady with two . . . the lady—?’

‘Her name was Eliza-Beth.’

‘Thank you. Why was Eliza-Beth sitting while everyone else was asleep?’

‘I believe she was writing a letter. She had received a letter the night before last and she may have been replying to it. At all accounts, she was sitting at the table in the early hours
of Sunday when the killer struck.’

‘There is no letter on the table now.’

‘Perhaps the killer took it. I am not a policeman; I can only report what I believe to be true, detective.’

‘And I thank you for it, Mr Hardy. Do you know of anyone here whom Eliza-Beth confided in, perhaps about the contents of the letter she received? Or where that letter might be
now?’

‘I know she kept the letter beside her bosom. She did not trust Mr Coggins with any of her possessions. As for a confidant, she shared secrets only with Eugenia, our “bearded
lady”.’ The diminutive man indicated the huge woman.

‘But she has no beard,’ remarked Williamson.

‘Indeed. But Mr Coggins likes her to wear a theatrical beard, her natural bulk being judged an insufficient “wonder” on its own account. The audience is more prone to believe
the beard when they behold her size, or so Mr Coggins holds.’

‘I perceive that you have no great respect for your protector.’

‘He is an unspeakable man, but you see how we are. What life could we have on our own accounts? We are objects of derision, curiosity and abhorrence. We may not find any public employment
or even walk in the street as others can. This is the only way we can live: among our own kind. What little dignity we possess together is superior to any we would earn alone.’

Detective Williamson nodded to himself sombrely and, as he wrote, raised a hand to touch the disfigurement of his own face. Mr Hardy noted the unconscious gesture with knowing smile.

‘I thank you, sir, for your testimony,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I will question Mr Coggins thoroughly when he returns, you can be sure. Now I must speak to the large lady
here.’

‘Eugenia. A poor pun, as I am sure you appreciate.’

‘I’m sorry, I do not . . .’

‘“Eugenia” comes from the Greek. It means “well born”.’

‘Oh, I see. Well . . . I thank you once more.’

With this, the detective turned the page in his notebook, made a new heading and carried his chair across to Eugenia, ‘The Bearded Lady’. She filled her purpose-made chair as if
poured into it and later set, like liquid pork fat. Upon closer inspection, her eyes – swollen and red from crying – peered like two gems from the soft upholstery of her face, and her
whole frame was perpetually agitated, like gelatin, with a wheezy breathing. She fondled the head of the dog-child by her side with her pink and dimpled hand.

‘Tell me, madam,’ began the detective, ‘did you see the murderer?’

‘I was awoken by his cries, Constable.’

‘“Sergeant”, if you please. I am Detective Sergeant Williamson.’

‘Oh, forgive me, m’lud. One policeman is as good as another to me.’

He waved away the observation impatiently. ‘What was the nature of the cries you heard?’

‘Well, I was sleeping in my chair. It is difficult to move me to a bed each night, as you might imagine, and, besides, I have grown accustomed to this chair of mine, which was manufactured
especially for me by a renowned coach-maker of Long-acre. As strong as a carriage it is, and made of—’

‘To the matter of the answer, please.’

‘Oh, of course. I heard, “Oh, G—! A monster!” – then a scrabbling of footsteps. When I raised my head, I saw nothing. Nor did I hear the shoes of the man on the
wooden stairs. He must have been eager to leave, I can tell you. I directly saw poor, poor Eliza twitching in her chair and raising hands to her neck . . . and . . . O! It was
her
shoes
beating the floor in terror! And Beth was shrieking, “O! O! We are killed!”’

The immense lady descended once more into sobbing and raised a sodden handkerchief to her eyes, dabbing it into each soft dimple of flesh.

Mr Williamson looked through his notes. ‘Excuse me – who is Beth? I have no record . . .’

‘Why, Beth is the other girl who was killed.’

‘There was another murder here?’

Eugenia looked at the detective as if he were a fool. ‘Eliza had her throat cut. Beth, her “sister”, died as a consequence, for they shared the same heart, according to the
doctors who frequently come to examine us. Poor Beth was killed as surely as Eliza, and that evil man has the burden of
two
murders on his head.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He made a note. ‘And then what happened?’

‘Well, of course, I could not easily get out of my chair to come to her aid, so I let forth a tremendous hue and cry. I have been a singer in my time and have a good pair of lungs. I
almost brought down the rafters, I can tell you. That was when Mr Hardy was awakened and rushed to our room – too late, I fear. Her . . . her fingers were still clutching at her neck as the
last drops of blood leaked from her body. Oh, I can see it now!’

‘Did Beth offer any final words?’

‘No, m’lud. She was past words.’

‘Did anyone think to run out after the murderer?’

‘Which one of us would venture on to the streets without causing a sensation? No, Mr Hardy woke the boy downstairs. We sent him to find a policeman. You know the rest.’

‘There is a great deal I do not know, madam. Why, for instance, was nobody woken by the street-door lock being broken? Were not the others woken by the cries of the killer, or of
Beth?’

‘Well, I can’t say, Commissioner. Maybe you are accustomed to sleeping in the isolation of your own bedroom, but when one lives only in boarding houses around the country, or in
carriages and barns, one is able to sleep at the drop of a hat. It would take a locomotive to wake some of us here. As for the lock, I cannot say.’

Mr Williamson elected to overlook the promotion conferred on him by the lady, but made a further note in his book.

‘What of the letter she received lately? Did Eliza-Beth intimate its contents to you?’

‘She did indeed, but swore me to everlasting secrecy.’

‘A woman is dead, madam. The secret you are bound to keep has passed with her to an everlasting realm and may hold the key to apprehending her murderer. Search your soul and ask if she
would allow you to tell under the circumstances.’

‘I gave my word I would never tell.’

‘I understand. But I must warn you that I have no objection to having you transported through the public streets to the gaol where I will have you held until you reveal the facts that may
catch a murderer.’

‘You are a cruel man, detective. And with I so terribly upset by the murder . . .’ The lady folded her ample arms across a voluminous chest, though the fingertips did not quite
touch.

‘I am a policeman in pursuit of a criminal. I will do all I can to protect you and your group – but I will not be obstructed in my duty. You have nobody’s propriety to protect
now that Eliza-Beth is deceased. Speak frankly.’

Mr Hardy, who had been following the whole conversation from the fireside, spoke up:

‘Tell the detective what you know, Eugenia. Eliza-Beth would wish it.’

The dog-child nuzzled at her knee and Eugenia lowered a hand to fondle the child’s ears. Then the lady’s tear-moistened eyes raised heavenwards, as if in communication with the newly
departed soul.

‘Very well. Eliza-Beth had received a letter concerning her parentage. You may not realize, m’lud, that many of us here have no knowledge of our origins. At our birth, our aspect was
such that our own parents rejected us, leaving us at the church or the hospital or the ash-heap. We are raised without the bonds of love – only the curious stare of the crowd. Eliza –
poor, misguided girl – believed that her parents would one day return for her.’

‘And the letter was from her parents?’

‘From her mother. She said that she had followed ElizaBeth’s history since her birth and had never once stopped thinking of her. Doubtless she had come to see the show at Vauxhall
and determined finally to approach her daughter after all these years. No date was given, but Eliza-Beth was in an ecstasy of joy at the prospect of once again meeting her mother.’

‘Was there a return address?’

‘I did not see the letter. Eliza-Beth kept it close to her heart at all times lest somebody take her one valuable possession. Rather, her second valuable possession.’

‘Her
second
possession?’

‘Why, yes. She wore a locket about her neck in which she treasured two locks of hair: one from her father and one from her mother – or so she believed and maintained. It was gold,
but its value would have been equal to her had it been fashioned from lead.’

‘I saw no locket about Eliza’s neck.’

‘They took it in turns to wear it, so jealous were they of its significance.’

‘Neither was Beth wearing a locket.’

‘Then the murderer took it, or it is lost in the house, for Eliza-Beth was never without it and would not yield it except in death. Even Mr Coggins was unable to get his hands on it, much
as he tried.’

‘I understand that Eliza-Beth was writing a letter when she was killed. Do you know how she was planning to send this letter if she had no return address?’