The Incendiary's Trail (13 page)

Music made its way along the murky passage to meet him, and rose in volume as he opened the door to the ground-floor dancing hall. A few couples were still whirling across the wooden floor with
intoxicated imprecision as the band worked their instruments in the final throes of exhaustion. Cigar smoke, perspiration and the scent of spilled drinks filled the humid air of the place. Murmured
conversation precipitated from the tabled balconies above, punctuated with a pattering of lascivious laughter. Their pleasure was reaching its autumn, turning from sweetness to rot.

Mr Williamson approached the large horseshoe-shaped bar, which flashed with gas plumes reflected in multitudinous bottles and mirrors.

‘You strike me as a brandy and water man,’ chirped the hatless girl attending it. ‘I always knows a brandy cove, I does.’

‘You are mistaken. I am looking for Miss Mary Chatter-ton.’

‘You and a hundred other gents! Miss Chatterton is seen only by appointment.’

‘I am not . . . I am not seeking services of that kind. This is about an investigation I am conducting.’

‘Well, you still can’t see her. She’s entertaining a gentleman as we speak.’

‘How long will she be?’

‘What a question!’ The bar girl gave a saucy wink. ‘The lucky gent will be leaving here at dawn if
I’m
any judge.’

‘I cannot wait. Call her now or I will be arresting you and having you sent to Newgate before you can serve another drink.’

‘Why? I haven’t done anything wr—’

At that moment, one of the boys who had earlier been attending Mary burst into the room pale with horror and raised the cry that spelled free admittance to Mr Williamson:

‘
Murder! O! Mary is murdered!
’

The boy then fainted where he stood and was fussed over by the barmaid. At the cry of ‘murder’, the band stopped and the dancers stopped. The conversation upon the balcony diminished
and a prickly silence settled. There was a single, strangled cry that could have been a laugh or a sob – then an urgent murmuring overtook the gathered revellers.

Mr Williamson strode over the fallen boy towards the door from which he had emerged. A stench of burned hair, flesh and clothing told him that the discovery would be an unpleasant one.

He was correct. The
boudoir
of Mary Chatterton presented a sorry scene. He immediately noted the shattered lock of the ‘lovers’ door’ and also took in the chair placed
opposite Mary’s. Evidently a discussion had taken place. The lady herself was tied firmly to her chair, her head slumped on to her breast. Drops of her blood spattered the walls and
furniture. There was not enough blood to have produced a clear footprint, but some of the drops had been smudged by a flat sole, which appeared very like the one he had seen at the Lambeth house. A
balled and bloodstained handkerchief lay on the floor beside the chair and the poker remained in the fire, glowing red at its tip. Was that the gag that had stifled her shouts?

Mary herself was barely distinguishable, even to those who knew her. Her head had had its crown of red hair burned away like a stubble-scorched field, leaving that bloated face oddly naked. The
effect thereupon was worsened by the bruises, swelling and crusted rivulets of blood that had evidently resulted from a systematic beating. Her arms showed the charred spots where the poker had
been held against her. He checked her fingernails to see if she had managed to retaliate and found some blood there which may have been her own or her assailant’s. None of these injuries had
killed her, however. It was the gaping wound across her throat.

Brought back to awareness by an unadulterated brandy, the boy who had found her ventured gingerly into the room once more. His lip trembled with emotion.

‘Is she really dead, sir? Is Mary dead?’

‘Yes, quite dead. Her throat has been cut. She was badly treated before that small mercy, I fear. Tell me how you found her.’

‘I heard the lovers’ door go and thought she was again alone, the gentleman having left—’

‘Who was with her? Did you see him?’

‘I didn’t, sir. There is a rule that if we hear a man’s voice, we are to retire until morning.’

‘And you never break that rule?’

‘I . . . I admit I saw the fellow for the briefest moment through the door here. He was sitting before her and they were talking. I didn’t see his face ’cause he had a
wide-brimmed hat on and a scarf about his face. His clothes were all black. I dared not linger, so I retired to the dancing hall. If only I had—’

‘And when did you find her?’

‘As I said, I heard the door go. I waited about twenty minutes and came to see if she wanted champagne. I smelled the awful smoke and saw her sitting there . . . O! Her beautiful hair all
gone!’

‘What time was this?’

‘Just now, before I came into the bar.’

Mr Williamson opened the lovers’ door and stepped out into the alleyway. There was no sign of anyone – merely the stink of the stopped gutters. He stepped back inside and extracted
his notebook.

‘Can you tell me if anything has been taken from this room?’

‘I would have to look.’

‘Well, look then. Now.’

The boy crossed to the mantel and looked carefully where Mary’s discarded jewellery still glinted dully. He seemed to examine each piece rapidly. Then he crossed to her body and examined
her bejewelled fingers with a lachrymose tenderness. Next, he opened a wooden box on an ornate
escritoire
loaded with feminine unguents and found that it was still stocked with money. His
eyes flicked among the bottles and Mr Williamson saw the reaction.

‘The letter – the letter is gone.’

‘Which letter?’

‘She had been writing a letter. I was to deliver it personally this very night.’

‘To whom was it addressed?’

‘I don’t know. I only saw her writing it and then saw it lying there. It was there when we left the room, I’m sure.’

‘Tell me, boy, have you ever been to that house in Lambeth where the recent murder took place?’

‘Never! O! I never have!’

‘I perceive from your vehemence that that is not the truth. Your mistress has been slain and you are no longer bound by any oath you may have sworn.’

‘I have never been there! I know nothing of the murder.’

‘Which murder? The one sitting here before us? Or the one at the house where you delivered your letter? Yes – I know about it. I also believe that you were also sent to collect a
letter. You were seen. Cease your crying, boy – you are not suspected of any crime, but you might be able to illuminate one, and you might help to catch Mary’s murderer if he is the
same who murdered young Eliza-Beth. Tell me the truth.’

The boy fidgeted as he stood. His eyes watered afresh and he chewed his bottom lip. He rested his hand on the chair opposite Mary. Then he slumped upon it, staring at his feet. ‘I . . . I
did go there with Mary two nights before the murder, but I waited outside. She had an audience with the curiosities. The next day I was sent there with a letter for ElizaBeth.’

‘Is this the letter?’ Sergeant Williamson extracted it from a pocket and handed it to the boy.

‘I didn’t read it, but it is her writing and looks like the paper she uses. But how did you—?’

‘No matter. So it
was
Monday that you were to collect a letter – the same day of the murder?’

‘Yes, last Monday morning. I approached the house just before dawn but saw a number of people there. I was under instructions to collect the letter in secrecy and didn’t want anyone
to see. They told me that a murder had been committed and I returned here empty-handed. Mary was angry with me and said I could not be trusted. She said she would send someone more faithful. I
was
faithful . . . but I couldn’t tell her about the murder when I learned the victim because . . . I feared her reaction. She had such a terrible temper and I only wanted her
happiness. I
did
!’

‘Quite, quite. Stop your snuffling, boy. Did you see anything suspicious as you loitered about the house? The murderer exited the house mere minutes before you arrived.’

‘O! I am sorry for my tears . . . no, I saw no murderer. Only the people standing outside the house. I do not know them. To my eyes, everyone in that area looks like a murderer.’

Mr Williamson made a note in his book and consulted his watch. The discovery had been made barely half an hour previously. The murderer had left perhaps half an hour before that and was walking
the streets or riding in a coach somewhere in the vicinity at that very moment, unseen and undetectable.

‘Can I go, sir? I feel quite faint again.’

‘Tell no one else to enter this room. I must speak to anyone else who may have entered since the killer left.’

‘There is no one, sir.’

‘All right. Leave me.’

Alone again, the detective looked about the room and inhaled its feminine scents. Strange how a woman’s room always had a scent and a sense of its own, as if her spirit remained even when
she was absent. He walked to a large mirror and saw his sombre, pockmarked face reflected in a surface more used to beauty and gaiety. A brush with strands of red hair lay nearby, and he noticed a
carelessly discarded letter that began ‘
My dearest Mary, I burn for you
. . .’ He did not read further. Instead, he once again extracted his notebook and attempted to assess the
scant evidence:

The nature of the murder was certainly curious. Nothing appeared to have been stolen, though the room was full of jewellery. Had the killer known about the ‘lovers’
door’ and that Mary’s attendants would leave him to complete his work in privacy? The fact that the door had been smashed indicated that Mary did not know, or at least was not
expecting, her visiter. That, and his insistence on wearing a hat and scarf to cover his face while inside. And why had he maltreated her so before delivering the final blow – unless he was
attempting to elicit information by force? That would explain the positioning of the chairs. The use of fire, in any case, was highly unconventional and unnecessarily cruel when the man in question
already had his fists and a razor.

It was possible, of course, that the murder was completely unconnected with the Lambeth Murder. Mary was – or at least had been – a notorious
grande horizontale
. She held the
secrets of many who would welcome her perpetual silence, though she was not reputed to be a blackmailer.

Nevertheless, the parallels with Lambeth were too clear to ignore: the broken lock, the razor, the seated victim and the lack of discernible motive. Mary was one of the last people to converse
with Eliza-Beth, and the letters were a crucial link. Another question was why Mary’s hair had been burned off. Was it pure malice? Then there was the murderer himself: careful to cover his
face lest he be identified. Because he was known to Mary or the bar staff? Or because there was an obvious distinguishing mark on his face – a scar, for example?

All was supposition. With his experience, and his detective’s mind, Mr Williamson knew that the truth of the case may prove to be something else entirely.

All he could say with certainty was that the murder of Eliza-Beth was at the centre of some larger pattern.

ELEVEN

It is some time since we heard of Bully Bradford, the murderer of Eliza-Beth. Had he followed his sponsor’s advice, he would have been biding his time on the continent or
in Scotland. But, true to character, he had not left the insalubrious streets of his youth. In fact, he could be found most nights in the close, smoky atmosphere of the penny gaff, his
conspicuously scarred face reddened with gin and merriment. Let us enter that place unseen and watch him in his native environment.

An audience of a hundred or so people are gathered shoulder-to-shoulder on a wooden floor baptized with a sticky layer of beer and gin. The band plays a frenetic dance and four ladies stamp
enthusiastically on the small
dais
, lifting and twirling their skirts so that the men in the audience can quite blatantly see their legs. Cat calls of ‘Prime pins!’ and ‘Go
on, girls!’ ring out from men and boys alike, whose faces shine with the heat and intoxication of the place.

As for Mr Bradford, he shows no trace of remorse or sadness for the crime committed just four days previously. He jigs from foot to foot with a carious grin and loops an over-familiar hand
around the waist of a woman beside him. The police could walk in at any moment and apprehend him, except that the police constable is not permitted to enter such a place. Even if he was, this
unlicensed gaff, a recently abandoned shop, is located in the Minories, a sump of criminality drawn from all the nearby docks and river industries. A uniformed officer entering this place after
dark was either an exceedingly brave, or a foolhardy, man.