Doktor Glass (24 page)

Langton considered for a moment. He had much to do, but maybe he should return home to bathe and change. “Thank you, I’ll see to it myself.”

McBride turned back at the door. “I almost forgot, sir. You remember that Mrs. Dunne said Doctor Redfers got a call just before he
sent her home? Well, the constable we left at the telephone exchange went through the records with the operators and found an entry, a call coming in to the doctor’s number. I don’t know if it’s the one we’re looking for—”

“Where was it from?”

McBride smiled. “From here, sir. From headquarters.”

A
FTER
McB
RIDE HAD
left, Langton took out Redfers’s diary and compared the names from the sergeant’s list with the clients’ abbreviations. He found three possibilities: Arthur Cameron, David Hemplemann, Stephen Powell. If they were the same as AC, DH, and SP in the diary, they would have to explain to Langton what exactly they had received from Redfers. Even though they were important men, men of influence in Liverpool society.

Langton thought back to the day Redfers had died. Who in headquarters had called Redfers? Langton would have given a great deal to know the contents of that call. Whatever the message, Redfers had sent his receptionist home and cleared his house of patients. And then he’d waited. He hadn’t expected to die; that final, terrified look on his face said as much.

As he locked away the case files and prepared to leave for home, Langton recalled some of the threads still hanging loose: He still had to identify Mrs. Grizedale’s attacker and the “doctor” who’d died on the Edge Hill rails; he awaited news of Durham from the tunnels’ search
teams; he wanted to interrogate Reefer Jake again. There was Mr. Dowden to see, and also Mrs. Barker; Langton wanted to check on her, ensure she had recovered.

So much to do. So many possible connections and interconnections.

Langton switched off the office lights and started down the stairs. He stopped and looked up at the sound of his name and saw Purcell striding down the steps, coattails flapping.

“I want a word with you.” Purcell strode past Langton and made for his office; he halted when he realized that Langton hadn’t followed. “What is it, man?”

“Sir, I’ve worked all last night, I’ve had no sleep, and I need to go home and clean myself up at the very least. Now, what can I do for you?”

Purcell’s face reddened. “I’d adjust my tone if I were you,
Inspector
.”

Langton took a breath and controlled his impatience. “Sir, we’re very busy and—”

“Too busy to update Major Fallows and me,” Purcell said. “People dying left and right, bodies mutilated, and citizens murdered in their own homes, and you fail to keep me informed. It’s just not good enough, Langton. Now, what news have you for me?”

“The investigation proceeds, sir.” Langton shifted to one side to allow people past. “Would you like me to brief you now?”

“On the stairs? I think not. No, you can tell Major Fallows the latest news. He’s out at the Span, supervising the arrangements.”

“Sir, I—”

“To the Span, Langton. I will not have Fallows accuse me—us, rather—of not cooperating.”

Langton bit back his reply. He supposed he could use the opportunity to check on the progress of the tunnel search teams. He gave a slight bow to Purcell and descended the stairs. He slowed as he passed Forbes Paterson’s department, wondering what he might have found in Reefer Jake’s personal possessions. It could wait until later, when they interviewed Jake again.

Outside, Langton shielded his eyes against the sun. After the dark night in Wavertree and Edge Hill, and his hours spent in the cells and his office, daylight seemed almost painful. He stood blinking at the top of the steps until he got used to the glare. Then he submerged himself in the tide of people sweeping down Victoria Street toward the Pier Head.

The city seemed to have erupted in a patriotic fervor for the Queen’s imminent visit: Many of the Dale Street shops and offices now bore banners of red, white, and blue; Union Jack flags hung from windows; Corporation workmen on tapering ladders looped bright garlands between the iron lampposts. Langton wondered how much she would see as her carriage made its way through the crowds that were sure to throng these streets. Probably very little. But perhaps the city’s inhabitants welcomed the Span as much as, if not more than, the monarch. The Span promised freedom.

And as Langton turned the corner of Water Street and faced the Pier Head, he saw the Span rear up like a colossus, a physical steel echo of some ancient Grecian tale. The Span diminished with perspective until it showed as no more than a narrow thread of light over distant Ireland. Here it dwarfed every other structure, even the immense ventilator shafts for the new Mersey Tunnel. It reduced men to no more than dots, specks against the stone and steel.

“Oy! Watch your step.”

At the shouted warning, Langton stepped back onto the pavement. He raised a hand in apology to the cart driver who’d almost run him down. Either side of Langton, pedestrians waited to cross the Strand; they glanced at Langton as if he were drunk.

Drunk with fatigue, Langton thought. His hand found the bottle of Benzedrine tablets in his pocket. Not yet.

As he passed the tobacconist’s cabin under the overhead railway, Langton remembered the man who’d followed him from the camp. Or rather, who he
thought
had followed him. Langton saw it now for an overactive imagination. Or perhaps the atmosphere of the murder
cases was affecting him. He’d have to keep a balanced perspective no matter down what strange roads the Jar Boys led him.

At the Span’s Pier Head entrance, the guards at the first set of barriers asked Langton to wait. He could see the camp less than a hundred yards away, but the Queen would not; teams of Span workmen busied themselves all along the Pier Head, erecting tall hoardings to block all sight of the shanties. Lines of constables patrolled the construction, intervening where the camp’s inhabitants argued with the builders working so hard to hide them away.

“This way, sir.”

Langton followed a plainclothes guard through the first barrier and then a turnstile, one of a series built for the inauguration’s guests. He could see how the barriers would funnel people through in single file, delay them so the various police and guards and the Queen’s own officers could monitor them and spot any troublemakers. A good plan if it worked.

“Are you armed, sir?”

“I am,” Langton said, already reaching for the Webley.

The guard stopped him. “You can keep it today, sir, but no weapons will be allowed as of tomorrow. This way, please.”

Through a set of ornate steel gates, past tiered wooden seats beneath awnings still being erected by shirt-sleeved workmen. Beyond the guarded perimeter, the life of the docks continued: Langton could see cranes hoisting cargo, men scurrying over ships, carts, and steam wagons laden with bales. Here, within the radius of the site of the inauguration ceremony, an air of calm and comparative quiet reigned.

On one side of the concourse stood the offices of the Span Company, where Langton had spoken with Lord Salisbury. On the other stood temporary, tiered seating for perhaps two or three hundred guests. And there, at the very start of the Span’s great access ramp, two massive gilt chairs, plush and red, squatted inside an ornate pavilion. The man in front of the pavilion watched Langton approach, then waved away the guard. “Langton.”

“Major Fallows.” Langton didn’t know whether to salute or shake hands, since he didn’t know who Fallows really was. “The Chief Inspector said you wanted to see me.”

Instead of acknowledging that, Fallows waved his right arm to encompass the site of the inauguration and the Span itself. “We’ve taken every precaution we can, Langton. Every guest will be searched, even the ladies. Teams have scoured the docks and sewers and found no devices or assassins. We’ll have a man in every office of the Span’s headquarters there, in every window. The Span itself will be crawling with policemen, army specialists, guards, and marksmen. But all to no avail.”

Langton waited.

“If you cannot find Durham,” Fallows said, staring at Langton, “then all our preparations mean nothing.”

“We don’t know he’s part of any plot.”

“We cannot discard it, Langton. Now, tell me the progress of your investigations.”

Langton told Fallows about Redfers and Mrs. Grizedale’s attacker, and the results of their postmortems.

Fallows interrupted him with a wave of the hand. “Tell me of Durham.”

“Of him I have no news. I hope to question the head of the tunnel search teams as soon as I can.”

Fallows gazed at the docks beyond the temporary fences. “So he’s still out there.”

Langton hesitated before asking, “Who is this man Durham?”

For a moment, Fallows seemed about to answer. Then his face set into its usual impassive alignment. “You have a task, Langton. I am not the only one interested in finding Durham. You don’t want to answer to Her Majesty herself, do you?”

With this, Fallows turned away to end the discussion. But Langton said, “You must have worked at the Home Office for some years, Major. I find it surprising that your name doesn’t appear in any of the directories.”

Slowly, Fallows turned back to Langton. “You’ve spent some of your valuable time investigating me?”

“You have no office at Queen Anne’s Gate,” Langton said. “I can find no record of you there. There is, however, a Major Fallows at the Foreign Office.”

Fallows took a step forward. His eyes had become very small and bright. “Concentrate on finding Durham, Langton.”

Langton stood his ground. “I need to know, Major.”

Another moment’s hesitation, then Fallows said, “If I wished it, I could call myself Captain, General, Commodore, or Lord. I can be whoever or whatever my duties demand of me. And I answer to one person and one person alone. I hope you understand that.”

Langton nodded. “Now I understand.”

“Good. Then find Durham. Before it’s too late.”

As Fallows strode away toward the Span, Langton followed the guard back to the entrance gates. At least one of his questions had been answered: Fallows belonged to one of Her Majesty’s confidential agencies. That explained his duties, his power, and his reticence. It might also explain his interest in Durham.

Where exactly did Kepler’s accomplice—and perhaps his killer—fit into all this?

Outside the Span entrance, to the north, workmen had erected hoardings around the Liver Guaranty Building site and were now busy painting the bare wood. The Queen would see little of the real Pier Head when she arrived; perhaps she never saw anything of the real Britain wherever she traveled, since everything would be cleaned, painted, or hidden for her visit. Buildings, streets, whole towns might be renovated just for her.

In front of the half-built Liver Building, around raised iron access covers, Langton found the police search squad. A chugging steam lorry leaked water and smoke. Tubes led from the wagon’s pumps and down the subterranean access shaft’s steps into darkness. A slim boy sat on the pavement with his legs swinging over the shaft; putrid,
stinking brown filth covered him from head to foot but didn’t prevent him from gnawing at a sandwich.

“Is Sapper George down there?” Langton asked, keeping upwind of the boy.

“He is, sir. And you’re…”

“Inspector Langton.”

“Right-o, sir. One minute.” The boy bolted the last of his sandwich and disappeared down the access shaft like a rat down a drainpipe.

Langton waited five minutes, then ten. The pumps, driven by the steam engine, pulsed, wheezed, and gulped like a straining beast. Just as Langton thought about yelling down the shaft, a slender head and shoulders squeezed into view. The smell made Langton step back and cough.

“Quite a fragrance, isn’t it, Inspector, till you get used to it.” Sapper George slid from the shaft like an eel from a rock and cast a bundle of oilcloth up to rest beside the steam wagon’s wheel. He grabbed a flask of water, gargled, then spat a streak of black bile onto the pavement. “Some sweet perfumes down there, sir, I can tell you.”

As Sapper George climbed up to street level, Langton saw that his filthy overalls had grab handles sewn onto the shoulders, waist, and calves, so that his mates could pull him out of danger. A leather strap fastened an electric lamp to his bald head and made him resemble some strange, one-eyed underground creature. Thick brown and black sludge dripped from his limbs.

Langton took a step back. How could anyone get used to working in conditions like that? The search squad went where no one else would go: lakes, sewers, pits, quarries. They dragged lime pits and cesspools. They found the bodies that murderers thought, and hoped, lost.

“Any sign of our man Durham?”

“Plenty, sir. We went in where you described, just below the sewer outfall. Ripe, that was.”

Langton remembered the translucent cockroaches. “Go on.”

Sapper George took another gulp of water before he continued. “Well, he stumbled around a bit, as you would in the dark, then headed inland. Footsteps easy to follow, except when he had to cross the sewer courses. But he’s persistent, sir, I’ll give him that; he didn’t give up. It’s a rats’ warren down there, what with the old smugglers’ tunnels, the boreholes, the ventilation shafts and waste sluices. This Durham fella just kept going.”

Langton peered into the darkness waiting at the bottom of the access shaft and tried to imagine the network of tunnels down there. Damp, crumbling brickwork. No light. The scurrying of rats and God knew what else. He shuddered. “I didn’t think he’d survive.”

Sapper George smiled. “Oh, you’d be surprised, sir. We’ve found whole families living down there. Like Swiss cheese, the sandstone underneath Liverpool. Like another city. Why, when the navvies were digging for the Mersey Tunnel, they found bedrooms and living rooms, kitchens and all kinds; twelve skeletons sitting around a dinner table a hundred feet under the Trinity Church. Rooms stacked full of bones, neat as you like. Devilish signs and bottomless shafts leading Lord knows where. Some strange souls have lived down there.”