Phantom of Blood Alley (6 page)

We must have made an odd couple as we strode through town. Clarissa Oliphant, tall, portly and silver-haired, striding impatiently
behind me as I led the way, anxious not to be trampled underfoot.

The city was busy. It was Saturday, and several streets and squares were lined with bustling market stalls. We picked our way through the crowds on Fenugreek Street and Marston Lane as I retraced the route I’d taken the previous day. There was a distinguished-looking gentleman in front of the old Navy Memorial, exchanging lapel pins for donations to the Old Sailors’ Benevolent Fund. I paused to give him some spare change, causing Clarissa Oliphant to barrel into me and almost lose her footing on the cobbles.

‘Come, Mr Grimes,’ she insisted as I grabbed her elbow to steady her. ‘There is no time for delay!’

Broadacre was thronging and, not for the first time, I looked up longingly at the rooftops overhead, wishing that I was up there, far above the heaving cobbled streets. Using her umbrella like a weapon, Clarissa drove
forward, her top lip curling as the foul stench that hung permanently over Gastown grew stronger. She pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and held it to her nose.

‘Not far now,’ I told her. We were on Blue Boar Lane. ‘It’s the next turning on the right.’

As we rounded the corner, I halted in my tracks. Something was not right.

The day before, Blood Alley had been deserted. Now there was a large group clustered around one of the lock-ups, staring intently and whispering to one another in hushed, urgent voices behind their hands. I noticed the ‘Black Margery’, a two-horse police carriage, parked at the end of the alley. A rotund constable, his face red and helmet askew, was guarding the open door of the lock-up, while from the back yards, every dog in the alley was furiously barking.

‘Which one is Laurence’s?’ asked Clarissa
Oliphant purposefully, looking up and down Blood Alley.

My stomach turned somersaults. ‘That one.’ I pointed to the lock-up which was attracting all the attention.

Clarissa Oliphant let out a little cry of dismay. ‘I knew something was wrong,’ she boomed.

She broke into an ungainly lolloping run, her patent-leather pumps skidding on the frosty cobbles. She pushed her way through the gawping onlookers; I followed in her wake. The constable stepped forward to bar her way, but the indomitable governess brushed him aside with her rolled umbrella, as though parrying a blow from a fencing opponent.

‘I’m Clarissa Oliphant,’ she proclaimed as she marched inside, ‘sister of the owner of this lock-up.’

I followed her. The constable protested.

‘Oi, you can’t go barging your way in ’ere! This is a murder scene …’

The lock-up, I discovered, housed a laboratory studio. It was cramped and hot, and bathed in a blood-red light cast by the ornate brass gas lamp on the side wall, which had a length of crimson silk wrapped round its glass cowl. Planks of wood had been nailed across the windows, cutting out every scrap of daylight. It was like stepping into an infernal pit.

There was a bench to my left, with a sink and zinc trays set along it, and overladen shelves above. To my right were cupboards, and a table bowing under the weight of the equipment piled upon it, while around my head, pegged to a clothes line that spanned the air and fluttering as I walked past, were numerous squares of paper. Each one was an oliphantype, the images of the faces that Laurence Oliphant had captured staring back at me impassively.

At the far end of the room, I saw a stout figure in a hound’s-tooth mackintosh crouched
down beside an upturned cauldron. As Clarissa and I approached, he looked round, his face flushed in the red glow. He was jowly, with a hooked nose and dark, deep-set eyes, and was clasping a large magnifying glass in his right hand. On his head was a polished tub-belly bowler of charcoal grey, the latest fashion for detectives in the city constabulary. He looked the pair of us up and down, stroked his moustache, then climbed slowly to his feet.

‘I,’ he said officiously, ‘am Inspector Clackett. And who might you be?’

‘I’m Barnaby Grimes,’ I told him. ‘Tick-tock lad. And this is Clarissa Oliphant, sister of …’

I fell silent. As the inspector had stood up, a body, lying in the flickering shadows at the base of the pot-bellied vat, revealed itself. Clarissa Oliphant gasped and clamped the lace handkerchief to her mouth. I struggled not to gag at the gruesome sight before me.

The face of the body lying there was unrecognizable. Barely human in appearance, the entire head had been burned by the corrosive contents of the up-turned cauldron–skin, hair and features melted like candle wax.

And deeply embedded in the corpse’s chest was Clarissa Oliphant’s duelling sword, its jewelled hilt gleaming like beads of blood.

‘Laurence,’ I heard Clarissa whisper, and she rushed forward, her arms outstretched.

The inspector seized her by the wrist. ‘Do not touch the body, Miss Oliphant,’ he cautioned. ‘It has been doused in something highly caustic.’

Clarissa visibly shrank. ‘But what … what has happened, Inspector?’

‘That,’ he told her grimly, ‘is what I am attempting to establish. It appears that the victim was stabbed through the heart, and that the murderer subsequently attempted to dispose of the body by dissolving it in chemicals. I put the time of death somewhere
between midnight and four in the morning, a time that coincides with witness reports of a loud and violent disturbance.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Can you confirm that this is your brother, Laurence Oliphant?’

‘They’re his … his clothes,’ Clarissa replied weakly. ‘I bought him that overcoat myself. Fustian weave,’ she said, ‘the best that money could buy. He always had such a delicate chest …’ Her eyes filled with tears as she realized what she’d said.

All three of us stared at the sword sticking out of the victim’s chest. From the back yard, the sound of furious barking became louder, more insistent. Inspector Clackett took a sharp intake of breath.

‘Can you shed any light on the murder weapon?’ he asked.

Clarissa nodded miserably. ‘It belongs to me,’ she said, a fact that seemed to turn the air brittle.

The inspector’s beady eyes narrowed.

‘I was a duelling governess by profession,’ she explained, ‘and that was a sword presented to me by Lord Riverhythe when I left his service. It’s a Dalmatian sabre,’ she added. ‘Extremely valuable …’

‘And can you explain how your Dalmatian sabre came to be here, Miss Oliphant?’

‘I … that is,’ she faltered. ‘Laurence … I had it displayed above my drawing-room mantelpiece, and last night Laurence took it. I believed he intended to sell it.’

‘And at what time exactly did this occur?’ the inspector asked, pulling a notebook from the top pocket of his jacket and licking his pencil.

Clarissa frowned. ‘Eight. Eight fifteen, wasn’t it, Barnaby?’

The inspector turned to me. ‘You witnessed this?’

‘I was at the Oliphants’ house yesterday evening,’ I told him. ‘I can confirm everything that Miss Oliphant has told you.’

‘You saw Laurence Oliphant leave with the sword?’ the inspector queried, his dark eyes boring into mine.

The barking grew louder, and was punctuated with angry shouts and curses from what I supposed were exasperated constables.

I shook my head. ‘I was in the hallway,’ I told him. ‘But I
heard
the altercation between Miss Oliphant and her brother,’ I said, ‘after which he stormed past me and left the house.’

‘Did you actually see him with the sword in question?’ the inspector persisted.

I had to admit I hadn’t. ‘It all happened so fast,’ I told him.

The inspector turned his attention back to Clarissa Oliphant. ‘Where were you between the hours of midnight and four o’clock this morning?’ he demanded.

‘I … I …’ She looked startled. ‘In my bed, Inspector,’ she said.

‘In your bed,’ the inspector said slowly,
making a careful note in his notebook. ‘So you have no alibi.’ He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing. ‘If you would accompany me to the station, Miss Oliphant, there are a few facts I would like to get straight.’

I expected Clarissa to object, but the fight seemed to have gone out of her. She nodded weakly and hung her head.

‘And you, Mr Grimes,’ the inspector added. ‘I’ll need a statement.’

‘Of course, Inspector,’ I told him.

Outside, the barking had become a hysterical cacophony of fierce snarling and desperate howling. Inspector Clackett turned and bellowed in the direction of the sound.

‘Mulroney! Barstow! If you can’t get that damned hound under control, then shoot it!’

‘No, don’t do that!’ I protested. ‘I’m good with dogs, Inspector. Let me see if I can control it.’

Call me soft-hearted but, savage as the Moravian boarhound seemed, it was a
pedigree dog which had clearly been mistreated, and didn’t deserve a bullet in its skull.

‘It’s all the same to me,’ said Inspector Clackett with a shrug. ‘Just get it out of here and then report to me at the station in Hibernian Yard, understood?’

I told him that I did.

Ordering his constables to remove the body, the inspector placed Clarissa in a pair of handcuffs and led her outside, through the gawping crowds, to the police carriage. She seemed like a broken woman.

‘Tell Tilly that I won’t be home for luncheon,’ she said with a barely suppressed sob.

I watched them go before crossing the blood-red studio to the back door. With shaking fingers, I gripped the door handle.

As I did so, there was a colossal
thud
, followed by scraping and splintering as the dog’s claws scratched at the wood. Low,
menacing snarls sounded from outside. I swallowed hard, turned the handle and eased the door open.

The Moravian boarhound had been muzzled by the constables, and from his battered collar there hung the leash they’d attached before abandoning the struggle. I was just able to read a name on the strip of corroded metal that was attached to the leather collar,
Kaiser
, the fading letters etched in italic script. I stepped into the yard, and the dog flinched, obviously expecting a kick or a blow. I could make out matted patches of dried blood that suggested Laurence had beaten the dog, perhaps with that cane of his.

I held out a hand towards him and whispered softly.

‘Kaiser, easy boy. I’m not going to hurt you …’

I’ve always had a way with dogs – a kind of empathy and understanding, you could call it. I can tell just by looking into a dog’s eyes
what its temperament might be. Lady Ambrose’s Penanganese lapdog, Frou-frou, for instance, had the black heart of a hellhound, while Lucky Bob, the champion Hightown racing whippet, had the soul of a long-suffering saint.

Kaiser raised his muzzled snout and sniffed at my hand. I let him get my scent, then I knelt down and looked into the dog’s eyes. They were large and pale caramel in colour, typical of a pedigree Moravian boarhound’s. The bushy eyebrows gave him a questioning look. As our eyes met, though, the low, throaty growling started up again, and the fur on the nape of his back stood on end.

‘Kaiser,’ I whispered. I held his gaze. The growling ceased and the dog took a step towards me. ‘Good dog,’ I said encouragingly.

I let him smell my hand again, and continued to whisper his name. His teeth were no longer bared and, behind the muzzle, his tongue lolled.

‘Good boy!’ I said again. This was no hot-blooded cur, at least, not by nature. Kaiser was a fine creature, every bit as noble as his name suggested. Beneath his violent exterior beat the loyal heart of man’s best friend. I could tell by the look in his eyes.

I reached forward, the back of my hand to the dog’s snout. His shoulders dipped and he came forward slowly and cautiously. The fur at his neck was standing on end, but he hadn’t started growling again, and the shaking was down to the slightest of tremors. He sniffed at my hand again, then, tail wagging, his tongue flicked through the metal bars of the muzzle and licked me.

Taking care not to make any sharp movements, nor to position my hand where he couldn’t see it, I reached slowly forward and ruffled the fur at the side of his neck. He licked me again, his tongue warm and soft.

‘Good lad, Kaiser,’ I whispered. ‘You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you again …’

Despite his ill treatment, I could tell that Kaiser was a magnificent specimen. He had probably been the victim of a muttmonger, a dog thief specializing in holding expensive breeds for ransom. How he’d come into Laurence Oliphant’s possession was something of a mystery, though in this disreputable part of town, not a very big one. Most lock-ups needed guard dogs for security, and their owners were seldom picky about where they came from. But it was a criminal waste of a dog as magnificent as Kaiser to turn him into a half-starved, savage guard dog.

I had a hunch. Although I realized that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I hoped that those already learned might be revived.

‘Sit,’ I told him firmly.

Kaiser simply stood there.

‘Sit!’

With a soft sigh, the great dog sat down on his haunches. He stared up at me.

‘Good boy,’ I told him.

I got him to lie down, then sit again, then to roll over, and I crouched down and tickled his tummy. Not only had Kaiser been trained, but he’d been trained well, and I wondered whether Laurence Oliphant had even bothered to find this out before locking him up in the dingy back yard and casually brutalizing the poor creature.

I picked up the leash and, standing up, patted Kaiser on the back. ‘Come on, boy,’ I said.

We set off through the side gate and made our way up the alleyway. Back on Blood Alley, we skirted round the crowd of fascinated onlookers still clustered at the front of the lock-up, and headed for Blue Boar Lane.

If Clarissa Oliphant and I had made an odd couple, then Kaiser and I were a good deal odder, with the huge dog – the size of a small pony – trotting obediently at my side and glancing up at me meekly from behind the police muzzle. With the dog now displaying
both his pedigree and obvious good training, the brutal metal muzzle clamped round his head looked curiously incongruous.