The Incendiary's Trail (5 page)

‘Yes, sir. I wrote it down.’

‘Hmm. This is highly inconvenient. Constable Cullen – I am placing you in charge here. You are to prevent anyone from entering the room upstairs, with force if necessary. Direct the
constables outside to begin arresting the gathered people if they do not disperse. The situation is becoming ridiculous. Tell them also to say nothing to the journalists who will inevitably
descend. See that the description of the killer is distributed to all watch houses. Someone is sure to know that face. And also send out word that the wandering clergyman is to visit me at this
address today. I will return as soon as I may. ’

‘Yes, sir! And Mr Coggins? I fear he will make trouble.’

‘You are empowered to make more for him than he makes for you.’

‘Yes, sir!’

And with that, the detective put on his hat and walked out to the carriage.

FOUR

Standing at the very core of penal London, Giltspur-street Compter presents a rusticated Portland stone
façade
. Close by, one will find the Old Bailey, the
infamous Newgate gaol (termed ‘the Stone Jug’ by its familiars) and the now closed Fleet prison. To the criminal classes, these are streets to be avoided – except perhaps on the
day of an execution, when the distracted crowds present an opportunity too good to be missed.

The innocent man rides past in his carriage or cab; ladies stroll by arm in arm; children clutching coins hotly in their palms run past on their way to the bakers for a treasured meat pie. Do
such people give a thought to the faceless hundreds confined behind the anonymous walls? The drunk, the destitute, the violent and the condemned are accommodated there: out of sight, but
indisputably present – out of common society, yet still invisibly within it.

Shall we, in fancy, leave the light and bustle of the street to ascend the steps and pass through the stone arch into the dim interior of the compter on that day? Therein, the cold scent of
imprisoning stone was all about; the echo of bolts and the voices of the confined replaced the intercourse of the free. Escorted by a burly turnkey, Mr Merrill, we pass through heavy doors to the
song of the lock and approach a solitary cell in which a singular prisoner was being remanded. Exceptionally, he was in the company of two of the highest-ranking officers of the Metropolitan
Police’s Detective Force.

Inspector Albert Newsome was a lightly built man with thick eyebrows and a mass of curly red hair. One of the first policemen to join in 1829, he had dedicated years to maintaining order on the
streets and been a natural choice for the highest ranks of the new Detective Force. If he had the reputation of being something of a ruffian – and he did – it was perhaps because he had
progressed through the university of the broken bottle and the shouted expletive rather than Oxford or Cambridge.

Alongside him stood Superintendent Sir Henry Wilberforce, an old soldier and perhaps the tallest man on the force at six feet five inches. His hair was a steel grey and his eyes a penetrating
icy blue. He
had
been to Oxford and carried his patrician gaze with the rigidity of the military. Together they were attempting to interrogate the man sitting cross-legged on the horsehair
mattress before them.

‘Your situation is quite hopeless,’ continued Mr Wilberforce. ‘If only you would speak to us, we might find some amelioration in the crimes of which you stand accused.

‘Or perhaps you are eager to spend a prolonged period in this rude cell as we search out more evidence against you?’ added Mr Newsome. ‘I’m sure that the Lord Mayor would
be happy to send you off to Australia. I hear that men are dying of influenza in the Woolwich hulk
Justitia
as we speak, and I feel sure there’s a hammock for one such as
you.’

At this, the prisoner evinced no trace of emotion. Since the interview had begun, he had given away nothing more than a slight stiffening about the jaw. Everything about him was an enigma as
extraordinary as the details of his capture. As to that, I defer to page seven of
the Times
, dated three days previously, and written by no lesser a person than myself (on account of their
regular court correspondent being violently waylaid by a robber the night before).

Thus remanded, the unnamed man now faced the two senior officers with inexplicable calmness. Demonstrating an irregular amount of curiosity in the prisoner, they had made an
acute physical examination of his person and discovered yet more oddities.

He was of police regulation height (five feet nine inches) and of a lithe yet muscular build. Across his back was a horrifying series of old scars that bespoke a severe flogging, while his
ankles and wrists showed similar scarring. His left shoulder bore a curious and intricate tattoo of the kind often displayed by sailors who have navigated the islands of the South Seas. Of his
face, the most striking features were his pale-grey eyes – like wood smoke – and a slightly crooked nose that had evidently been broken. His age might have been guessed at thirty.

His clothing,
viz
. the stolen uniform, had been (well) tailored to fit him, though no identifying mark could be found therein. His pockets were empty but for articles discovered on his
arrest. Though he had not spoken since being admitted to the cell, the gaolers were of the opinion that he was an intelligent man, English by birth and well aware (though unafraid) of his
situation. How they could tell this, they could not express – it was merely the intuition of the turnkey.

For the two interrogating officers, the situation was a perplexing one. They had nothing with which to identify the man: no name in his hat or clothes, no documents or known acquaintances, and
no recognition on the part of local constables (who could normally be relied upon to know every face on their beat). The calling cards he had been captured with had all proved to be false names,
unheard of at the addresses specified. His very clothing – that usual indicator of social position and profession – was chimerical, being fraudulent in every respect. It was, in
essence, a disguise. Without hearing his voice, they could not even be sure of his nationality. How else does one know a man? Take away his voice and his usual appearance; take away his habitual
location and his profession; take away the spider’s web of relationships that situates him in the city and the story of his past . . . and what is left? You have a man who might have been
dropped from the sky or washed up on the shore. Is such a man a man at all? One might as well gaze upon the unformed Genesiac clay.

Among the warders of Giltspur, however, there was a more pressing topic of conversation than the prisoner’s identity. Why had two such important men elected to leave Whitehall to interview
personally a mere thief? The reason had its origins in a meeting that had taken place two months previously in a room at 4, Whitehall Place – Division A of the Metropolitan Police and known
more colloquially as Scotland Yard.

At the head of the plain wooden table was Commissioner of Police Sir Richard Mayne. Superintendent Wilberforce was to his left, and Inspector Newsome sat to his right. The
polished wood surface was bereft of paper or writing implements. Though the windows were closed, the carriage traffic of Whitehall and the sound of river steamers could be heard occasionally above
the crackle of the fire.

Sir Richard took in the other gentlemen with his piercing barrister’s gaze. He presented an imposing aspect with his dark side-whiskers, his pale skin and his long, thin nose, this man who
stood alongside Commissioner Sir Charles Warren as guardian of the Metropolitan Police and of the very Law itself. His voice – bearing the merest trace of an Irish brogue – carried the
clarity and authority of one whose opinions are sought by ministers and judges:

‘Gentlemen, I have arranged this meeting at your request. Also at your request, I have agreed that no record of it shall take place, that it shall be remembered only by our individual
memories and go with us, unspoken, to the grave. At the same time, I must express my severest reservations at the practice. Now, you may proceed.’

The other two gentlemen looked from one to the other for who would speak first. Inspector Newsome nodded slightly and began.

‘Thank you, Sir Richard. I will try to state my case without preamble, for the proposal at hand is mine, although it has found sympathy with Superintendent Wilberforce. In short, the
Detective Force is proving highly effective, though quite recent in establishment. Our freedom to investigate across police districts, and our civilian attire, has helped greatly in the pursuit of
crime. And yet . . .’

He paused and spread his hands across the polished tabletop, casting a glance at Wilberforce. The older man caught the look and pursed his lips at what he had to say:

‘Sir Richard, I am certain you have seen the recent press reports about crime and the police. They are saying that crime – especially of the fatal kind, of murder – is an
epidemic raging out of control, that it is infecting the body of our city entirely untroubled by the authorities. They point to a list of recent unsolved murders whose perpetrators walk free among
us even now: the boy Brill at Ruislip, Eliza Davies the barmaid of Frederick-street, Richard Westwood of Princes-street, and Eliza Grimwood of Waterloo-road. And let us not forget the recent case
of Sarah M’Farlane, who named her murderer to constables at the scene. They knew of the man, the Frenchman Dalmas, and yet he remained at liberty until
voluntarily
turning himself in
some time later! We are being humiliated, sir.’

Sir Richard looked unblinkingly at each man:

‘I have read such things. But I remind you of the great progress the Metropolitan Police has made since it was established by Mr Peel. Now we have the respect of much of the populace and I
believe crime has been reduced greatly. The newspapers can be hysterical. Need I remind you of Mr Peel’s fifth tenet of policing: that we encourage cooperation and trust from the public by
our impartiality rather than by pandering to their whims and “scandals”? Is that what you wish?’