The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (32 page)

As his roomates received tearful kisses and sustaining victuals, he reclined insouciantly in a chair and smoked his long clay pipe with a smirk playing about his eyes. Dressed in a fading and
oft-repaired suit, he was greying about the temples and must have been fifty years old. At my entry, he cast a comprehensive gaze of enquiry about my person and allowed himself a broad smile around
the mouthpiece of the pipe.

‘Ah, you’ll be here about Eldritch Batchem,’ he said.

I admit I was too startled to respond.

‘Assuredly, you have the look of the penny-a-liner about you,’ he said. ‘The worn shoe leather, the suit of clothes that
was
fine when you bought it some years past, the
inky fingertips and, yes, the furtive air of conspiracy as you venture here with not the slightest intention of visiting one of us poor debtors. But becalm yourself – I will not call the
turnkeys! I myself am one of your accursed fraternity . . . or, at least, I once was.’

I took a seat at the table. A smell of stale food and unflushed latrines predominated. ‘Yes – I am a writer. I . . . I have brought you eggs and bread.’

‘Ha! Of course you have, you duplicitous ———! I remember using such ruses myself to sniff out a story. I will not ask what machinations you employed to gain entry to this
place, but I salute them. I trust you are not a stranger to the debtors’ prison?’

‘Horsemonger-lane. I wrote myself free just a few days past.’

‘Yes, your appearance is more emaciated even than our characteristically malnourished ilk. You have the look of grey incarceration about you still.’

‘Well – I seek to add colour. I am on the scent of a story.’

‘And you have heard somewhere that he was once here, “by royal appointment”, one might almost say. Ha!’

‘To my knowledge, Eldritch Batchem was never an inmate of this gaol.’

‘No – but Thomas Crawford was,’ said the fellow with a wink. ‘He did not wear a tweed suit or a russet cap, but he was wont to wear his gloves continually.’

‘What makes you think the two are the same man?’

‘More pertinently – what makes
you
think so?’

‘Call it supposition or intuition. One who knew this Crawford has remarked that there are similarities of character and voice with him who now calls himself Eldritch Batchem. Evidently you
have had the same idea.’

‘I have not seen the figure of Batchem, though I have read of his exploits in the papers.
Your
writing, perhaps? No matter – certain visiters here have remarked upon the
same.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Nobody knew him. He would not be known.’

‘But you lived in his company and observed him: his excessively methodical nature, his irritable temperament, his nightmares . . .’

‘Your research is thorough. Yes, he was a resident here perhaps six or eight months past and I had occasion to study him.’

‘For how long did he stay?’

‘It was curiously brief, that is true. It may have been as few as six weeks and then he was gone, his debts evidently cleared at a stroke.’

‘Then he worked while he was here? How did he buy his freedom?’

‘I never saw him do a thing but read newspapers. I supposed at the time that a benefactor must have bought his freedom, though he received not a single visiter as far as I can
recall.’

‘He spoke to no one? Not even when first admitted and the walls closed all around him?’

‘The man was a veritable Sphinx, as parsimonious with his words as he was presumably profligate with his spending. O, but he was observant in his way: always with a secret eye or ear upon
his fellow debtors. Yes – a suspicious one, to be sure. I barely saw him once they moved him to a private room.’

‘Was that not highly unorthodox in itself?’

‘Well, quite – but the dreams . . . he was keeping the whole ward awake with his gibberings. It was for the benefit of all that he was removed.’

‘You are telling me nothing I do not already know, but I feel certain – if you were a writer of any quality – that you have made your own conjectures upon the man. Will you
tell me, or must I leave and take my researches elsewhere?’

The debtor smiled and applied himself to his pipe for a moment. This unexpected interlude in his otherwise daily tedium was clearly affording him some amusement and he would not be hurried to
its conclusion. At the same time, he seemed to be debating whether to reveal what he knew. Then, with a smile:

‘I believe the key to the man is in his hands rather than yours.’

‘So – a riddle. You refer perhaps to his insistence on wearing his gloves at all times.’

‘That . . . and a particular disinclination to shake hands.’

‘Evidently he has something to hide: some identifying characteristic that might otherwise prevent any protean inclinations. A tattoo? Some infirmity or deformity? A false hand? I see from
your smile that you know very well what it is . . .’

‘And why should I tell you? Ha! What writer gives away his secrets so that another may profit?’

‘You have had your chance and you have not taken it. Or, at least, you have a part of the bigger story but not the whole. With respect, you are old and tired; you no longer have the
requisite spark to weather the ceaseless challenges of the writer’s life. It is why you smoke your pipe in peace here and live off the charity of others: content in your final defeat. I
assume it is book publishing that has brought you to your sorry state?’

‘Ah, books. Do not speak to me of books. Ha! If I had a penny for every book printed at my own risk, or for every copyright I have given up to pay a debt – well, I would be a debtor
nevertheless. But you are quite right: it is a game for young men. My hands have lost their strength. My eyes . . .’

‘Then tell me what you know. Let a younger man enjoy the freedom you can never again taste.’

‘Perhaps for a credit in your eventual work . . . ?’ He smiled, but his eyes were yearning.

‘Let us be frank. Even if I did promise you such a credit, we both know I would be lying. Tell me, or do not tell me – but do not make me sit here longer amid this smell.’

‘Ha! You truly have a heart of iron. You are a writer born, not made. Very well, very well – I will tell you. But I fear you may not believe me. I hardly believe it myself. Eldritch
Batchem is a polydactyl.’

His face betrayed no mocking smirk or lie-revealing evasion of gaze – only the pure satisfaction of revelation.

‘How many?’ I said.

‘He has six fingers on each hand. I saw them myself – each perfectly formed – as he washed at a basin. Look carefully at those perpetual gloves of his and you will see only
five fingers, but the middle one is broader than the rest. Almost twice as broad, in fact, to accommodate the extraneous digit. I understand the condition is exceptionally rare.’

The obfuscating veil of personal history shifted and the likely origins of Crawford/Batchem flashed before me. His behaviour, his dreams, his hands – all suggested one irresistible
conclusion about his past that I must prove.

‘Ah, I believe you have it now: the next step in your investigation of the investigator! Ha!’

‘Perhaps. Tell me – was there ever one called “Liveridge” imprisoned here?’

‘Not to my knowledge. But there is one so called in the tortured soul of Eldritch Batchem, is there not?’

‘I have heard that he spoke the name in his dreams.’

‘In his nightmares only, and always incoherently. Whatever the true import of that name, it is one that for Mr Batchem (or Mr Crawford if you prefer) is bound up in anguish, fear or guilt.
Whatever the secrets and shadows of the man, they will find illumination in the decryption of that single hieroglyphic.’

‘I have no doubt of it. He now styles himself a “detective” and pontificates on all matters pertaining to that art, but did he ever show such interest while here at
Whitecross-street? What might have moved him since to grow that strange beard and adopt his curious costume?’

‘The man I observed was haughty and self-important. Such traits require, or rather demand, an audience to achieve their fullest fruition. Indeed, for someone so determined in his pursuit
of privacy, I believe he relished his notoriety. His every act of wilful seclusion brought him increasingly before our gaze.’

‘Quite the paradox. Well, I thank you for your time, but I now have a story to pursue.’

‘Wait . . . I do not even know your name.’

‘What is a name? I am what you were, and will likely become what you are. Good day.’

And as I pursued my scant but telling discoveries at White-cross-street to their natural conclusions, the figure of Eldritch Batchem himself was blindly investigating his way
to a violent encounter that would take him, unwittingly, to the black heart of the mystery he pursued.

Perseverance is undoubtedly one trait of the effective investigator, and he had been tireless in his interrogations among the shipping districts. Somewhere – in some smoky den or hectic
wharf or greasy-cobbled court – he had heard a name mentioned. In time, that name had no doubt occurred again, and recurred until the chaos of beery and boorish answers revealed a thread.

The name was that of a particular wharf at Wapping.

It was, according to rumour, a place where ships moored (unofficially) if their allotted berth was temporarily taken. It was, they said, a place where one might find occasional work outside the
normal dock hours. It was also, seemingly, a landing point at which almost every manner of cargo was received. More importantly, those who mentioned it at all did so with an accompanying glance
over the shoulder, a wink or a confidential hand over the mouth.

Dusk was settling over the city as Eldritch Batchem strolled along Cinnamon-street, his russet cap and tweed suit drawing the comments and catcalls of sailors thereabouts. Public houses cast
their gaslight across darkening lanes and the dank breath of the river rose among the muddy thoroughfares to claim them for the night.

Down onto Wapping-street he walked and ever eastwards past the Thames Tunnel to where the gas flares of the wharf in question silvered the warehouses and masts about it. As was its custom, the
landing stage was busy with the offloading of a vessel and a steady procession of bales was being disgorged from the hold towards the gaping doors of the storehouse. The intoxicating sweetness of
the cool evening air bespoke Virginia tobacco.

Or rather, that was the predominating scent. There was also another, less aromatic, which twitched at Eldritch Batchem’s nostrils and caused him to look about for its source. He had
smelled that nauseating compost of drains, mud and excrement previously on walking about Wapping-street, and had simultaneously felt that he was being watched. The sensation now was similar.

And there, leaning against a piling at the water’s edge, was a short fellow who unblinkingly returned the gaze directed at him. A particularly grubby-looking specimen of indeterminate age
(he might almost have been a boy), his face was oddly expressionless and his eyes were jet buttons.

‘Do you work here at the wharf, young fellow?’ said Eldritch Batchem, approaching his observer.

No reply.

‘I am a detective seeking the missing brig
Aurora
and I was hoping to ask some questions hereabouts. I wonder if you would be so kind as to . . .’

An inadvertent flicker of the little man’s eyes caused the investigator to turn quickly and look behind him, whereupon he was rendered quite speechless by what he saw.

Standing but a yard from him was the very double of the reeking fellow at the piling: the same height, the same clothes and the same pallid death-mask face – even the same black button
eyes. There was not a detail to separate them.

‘Well I . . . brothers!’ said Eldritch Batchem, turning rapidly back and forth between the two for comparison.

But as he turned and re-turned, they moved silently closer towards him. Before he could react to the threat, he saw the sweep of an arm and the flash of a razor at his throat.

The blade sliced skin and blood ran forth.

‘O! O! I am slain!’ he cried as he dropped to the heavy planks of the wharf, gloved hands fluttering wetly about his neck as the russet cap fell free.

Of the two dozen men loading there, not a single one noticed anything. Or, at least, that is what they would have said if asked.

The bulldog’s bulbous eyes stared sightlessly back at Mr Williamson from the wall-mounted glass case. Once a vigorous specimen of the rat-killing art, the animal was now
reduced to a poorly upholstered parody of itself: legs exaggeratedly bowed, mangy jaw askew, and overstuffed to the point of seeming inflated. The plaque below its memorial proclaimed
Dancer:
four-hundred rats in five minutes
.

‘I saw um when ee wus alive,’ said a virulently red-faced gentleman, nudging Mr Williamson in the ribs. ‘Killed rats quicker than a feller wi’ an ’ammer, did old
Dancer.’

‘Indeed?’

‘O, aye. ’Tis a crime what they done to ’is memory. ’E looks more like a carp these days.’

‘Quite.’

‘Not seen yer ’ere before. ’Ere for the rats, are yer?’