The Detective and the Devil (7 page)

The remark was in somewhat bad taste, and Abigail did not respond to it. She placed the necklace in a pocket of her dress.

‘Well, husband. You have been busy since leaving me at the Hermitage stairs. What next, do you think?’

‘I must visit the offices of the Company. I have no experience of dealing with such institutions. I know not how it will develop.’

‘Your magistrate will accompany you, surely.’

‘Doubtless. He is a former Company man, after all.’

‘Indeed. The Indian service.’

‘You have read his memoirs.’

‘As I say, husband: books tell me many things.’

‘Well, then – what of these?’

He reached down to his satchel, and pulled out the three books he had taken from the house on the Highway. He passed them to her, and she looked over them.

‘Hmm. I know this one’ – she held up the
Environs of London
– ‘but the other two are a mystery to me. This one I cannot make head nor tail of, as I have no
Latin, but I know someone who perhaps can. And this one – “Dr John Dee”. The name is familiar to me. At least the book is in English.’

‘There are pages missing from the first book – the
Environs of London
.’

‘Ah, interesting. I wonder who tore them out. I assume you wish me to consult these books? To see if they might speak to me of something or other?’

‘It would be of great benefit to me.’

‘Really?’ She put her head on one side, like a dog weighing up its owner. ‘Are you humouring me, husband?’

‘By no means. These books were left in Johnson’s desk.’

She looked at him, her head still on one side. Her measuring was not quite finished.

‘Poor husband. It must have been an awful scene. All those slit throats. The blood must have been on everything.’

‘As a matter of fact, no. There was little blood. None at all, in fact.’

Abigail frowned.

‘But how can that be? A slit throat will send blood in arcs all over the place. The heart pumps it into the air through the open wound. It is a basic matter of circulation.’

‘Indeed? Well, how would you explain the lack of blood?’

‘Perhaps the place was cleaned after the murders.’

‘Yes. But I do not know why anyone should have done that. And there would still have been marks, surely.’

‘Or they were dead when their throats were cut. A stopped heart will pump no blood.’

She frowned.

‘What state were the bodies in, husband? If the maidservant visited every third day, they may have been there for almost three days.’

‘There was little sign of decomposition last night. More this morning; there were flies in the house then. But none last night.’

‘So, the bodies were fresh. There was no blood. An obvious explanation presents itself.’

‘Yes. That they were killed somewhere else, and brought back to their home to be discovered, after the blood had drained from them.’

‘And brought there immediately after their deaths.’

Horton nodded at the book in Abigail’s lap.

‘What would Miss Austen have to say on this?’

It was a poor quip, and in the universal way of wives Abigail did not even acknowledge it.

East India House dominated the corner of Leadenhall Street and Lime Street like a public school bully watching for new arrivals. The buildings around it, shabby by comparison,
hunkered down. It took up two hundred feet of pavement, an ordered symmetry of columns and wide wings, topped by a pediment peopled by three gigantic figures. Horton recognised Britannia sitting on
a lion, but had no idea who the other two figures were supposed to be, the one sitting astride a horse, the other on what looked like a camel.

The building was like a whale bearing down on him, its mouth open, its teeth made from fluted columns. Dark-suited men swam up its steps, throwing themselves into its maw with only papers and
files to add flavour.

He knew, because his magistrate John Harriott had told him as they rode up Leadenhall Street, that this frontage was relatively new, that it masked a maze of old buildings – warehouses and
stables, clerks’ quarters and meeting rooms – which John Company had assembled over two hundred years. The classical front was like a fine suit on a body disfigured by age and war. An
application of rouge on an old, scarred hog.

Steps went up behind the pillars to a set of wooden doors which must have taken almost as many trees to build as would a frigate. The steps were shallow but even so presented difficulty to
Harriott. The old man was virtually lame in his left leg, and grimaced as he made his slow way up. Horton found himself unaccountably upset by this: the wealthy building glaring down as its old
servant struggled upon its face. Harriott had given his healthy leg to John Company, but John didn’t care to acknowledge the gift.

Was it possible to hate a building for its character rather than its appearance? Horton was beginning to think that it might be.

He attempted to help Harriott, but was angrily waved away. He had not wanted Harriott to come; a simple letter from him would have sufficed. But Harriott had been adamant.

Eventually the old man reached the top of the steps, and they went inside. Beyond the doors, a wide corridor stretched into the building, pierced with doors and windows and staircases. The
throat of the whale, leading down into its many stomachs. Dark-suited men scurried from one place to the next, all of them carrying papers, the single ones peering at something in their documents,
the groups whispering in urgent tones to each other. A frenzy of information and intelligence filled the air, the great Leviathan’s body filled with these paper-carrying corpuscles with their
missives from its brain to its extremities.

From somewhere within the building Horton heard a great crowd of men shouting and growing silent again, and then shouting once more, as if there were a cock-fight. He and Harriott were accosted
almost immediately by a man wearing the dark clothes of a servant.

‘Is there something you need assistance with?’

The sentence was elegantly formed. It said Horton and Harriott were dressed better than men of the street who might have stepped in out of the cold, but not well dressed enough for anyone in
this building to immediately assume they were on Company business. Perhaps Horton was an unemployed clerk, seeking deferment, accompanied by his old father, a fat man with a lame leg and a red
face.

‘Fetch Mr Robert Ferguson, immediately,’ said Harriott, adopting a practised tone of brusque authority for which Horton was quickly thankful. Harriott had been right to come, after
all. ‘I am John Harriott, the supervising magistrate of the Thames River Police Office. We are here on a criminal matter.’

The servant did not move. Harriott’s introduction placed him and Horton more effectively, but this servant apparently needed more evidence before heading in to speak to whatever internal
brain operated this place.

‘Are there any more details? It is a busy day for us, sir. There is an indigo sale. A great many brokers and dealers are within.’

‘Is that the cause of that infernal racket?’

‘Yes, sir. Are there any more details?’

‘There are none. Fetch Ferguson, and tell him John Harriott is here to see him. Hand him this note. Do not open it yourself.’

Harriott handed over an envelope, and the servant took it rather as if he had been handed an Eastern spider. He looked about to say something, but then thought better of it.

‘I’m afraid I shall have to leave you to wait here in the corridor, sir,’ he said, though his tone contained no apology. ‘All our rooms are taken up with the
Sale.’

‘We will wait. Now go.’

The man turned and left them. Harriott pointed at some old leather seats underneath a window which was frosted and seemed to look on some interior space rather than the world outside.

‘Let us sit and wait, Horton. We may be some time.’

Various people came and went and, as Harriott had predicted, the two of them were kept waiting. Every man Horton saw seemed to be engaged in the most important business on
God’s earth. Benjamin Johnson had been just one of these busy men. How could Horton possibly construct a personality for a dead man who had been just one among legions of scribbling,
scrabbling drones?

When somebody did arrive, he did not come from within the building. Horton saw him arriving through the gigantic street door: a man in a black frock coat with black breeches and white stockings,
an expensive but conservative wig on his head. He looked like William Pitt might have done had he aged beyond his early death: thin, pale, cold, more of an intelligence on legs than a person.
Horton took him for sixty years or more, and observed the stick on which he seemed to depend for balance – it was topped with a small and exquisitely done golden dog’s head.

‘Harriott?’ the pale man said to Horton, who shook his head.

‘No, sir. This is Mr Harriott.’

With some difficulty, Harriott was rising from his seat. A dark cloud had set upon his face. He seemed to have recognised the man.

‘Ah. Of course. Harriott, my name is Burroughs.’

‘I know who you are,’ replied Harriott. The newcomer blinked his pale blue eyes, while Horton took in his clothing, which was, on closer inspection, of supremely fine quality,
despite its very deliberate conservatism.

‘This is most irregular, sir,’ said Burroughs. ‘I am led to understand that you are the magistrate of the River Police. You have no jurisdiction in this place. None
whatsoever.’

‘And you, sir, I recall, are among other things the alderman for this ward?’

‘Indeed I am. Have we met?’

‘Several times. I see I made little impression.’

Burroughs ignored this.

‘You know, of course, that as alderman I also represent the magistracy and hold responsibility for criminal matters. The City preserves these responsibilities seriously.’

‘Indeed. The City polices itself very carefully indeed, I find.’

‘It has always been thus, sir.’

‘Word reached you quickly, Burroughs.’

Harriott’s disdain for the man ran through every sentence he spoke. Horton had seen this before. When the magistrate did not care for someone, he had no means to hide it.

‘I have been asked to attend your meeting here, as a representative of the City magistracy,’ said Burroughs.

‘Asked by whom?’ replied Harriott.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I mean, how did you learn of our presence so quickly? Who sent for you?’

‘Nobody
sent for me
, Harriott. I am not one to be
sent for
. The Company keeps its own gang of ticket porters. One was sent to my premises on Lime Street to inform me of
your descent on East India House.’

‘It is fortunate for all of us that you were home.’

‘My home is elsewhere. I am always to be found at my business premises on a working day.’

‘I would expect nothing more of a pillar of the City such as yourself. And what is your relationship with the Company?’

‘With this Company?’

‘Yes. With the Honourable East India Company.’

‘I am a Proprietor, sir.’

‘With how many votes?’

‘Am I being interrogated, Harriott?’

‘No indeed. But your interest in this matter is worthy of quantification, is it not?’

‘I fail to see the relevance of your question.’

‘Do you? Is that the same as refusing to answer it?’

The two old men were now barely inches from each other, the one tall and frigid, looking down upon the other, who was outraged but maintained a brittle politeness.

‘I hold four votes,’ said Burroughs, finally.

‘Indeed? An influential man within the Company, then. A highly influential man.’ Harriott picked his hat up from the bench behind him. ‘And as such a senior fellow, I assume
you are in full knowledge of the location of our meetings with the representatives of your Company?’

‘My Company?’

‘My apologies.
The
Company.’

Burroughs sneered unpleasantly. It was the first expression of emotion on his face, and he looked as if a horse had just voided its bowels all over his foot. He turned without further comment,
and began to walk up the corridor.

‘After you, Horton,’ said Harriott, as angry as Horton had ever seen him. ‘Let us follow the Proprietor.’

Two men awaited them in a wood-lined room filled with exceptional furniture. One of them greeted Harriott with real warmth, explaining to the others that he and Harriott served
together in India. Horton assumed this was Robert Ferguson, the man Harriott had demanded to see when they arrived. Ferguson did not introduce himself to Horton, and Harriott made no effort to
introduce Horton to the room.

If this was Ferguson, the years had been kinder to him than they had to Harriott; the Company man was elegantly dressed, straight-backed and vigorous, while Harriott dropped down into a leather
chair with audible relief as soon as he had shaken his former comrade’s hand.

Ferguson introduced the other man in the room, a rake-thin fellow who held his hands in front of him like a country vicar.

‘This is Elijah Putnam, senior clerk to our committee on private trade.’

‘Private trade?’ asked Horton. All eyes turned to him.

‘Gentlemen, this is my senior investigating constable, Charles Horton,’ said Harriott. ‘He has my complete faith. You can assume he speaks for me in all things.’

No one asked why, if that was the case, Harriott had not introduced his constable sooner. And no one asked what in God’s name a
senior investigating constable
was. Even Horton had
never heard the words before. The eyes of the other men assessed him as if he were a bag of indigo, and then looked back to Harriott.

‘We have a number of directors’ committees in the Company,’ said Putnam. He was a man of indeterminate age, the very model of the City clerk. His hands were held in front of
him, and his head bobbed up and down as he spoke, like a nervous heron with a story to tell. ‘My committee is one of them. Benjamin Johnson was a clerk working to me.’