The Incendiary's Trail (14 page)

And yet there
was
one man watching the bully. Towards the back of the heaving crowd, near the street entrance, the sometime bare-knuckle fighter Mr Henry Hawkins loitered.
His
countenance showed none of the grinning idiocy of the drunk, for he was at work on the orders of his employer. A hooked iron bar was secreted down one trouser leg, though one of his prodigious
fists would have been sufficient to dispatch any victim, should that be his purpose.

As the girls left the ‘stage’ with their bonnets askew and hair in disarray, a portly man with a too-small top hat stepped up, causing an instant roar of approval with his
ejaculation of ‘B— h—, me eyes have steamed over!’ He was a ‘comedian’ whose patter seemed to consist of little more than uttering expletives, each of which
stimulated the crowd to greater laughter. Bully Bradford himself was weeping tears of mirth that ran down the channel of his scar and into his gin.

Henry Hawkins, however, was not laughing. He was observant and patient. Indeed, so intent was he on observing Mr Bradford that he had not noticed another man watching both himself and the bully.
This man was also laughing along with the crowd and had the same glowing face, although a careful look at his eyes would have shown that he was neither intoxicated nor amused. Nor did the rough
corduroy jacket and knee breeches represent his usual attire. He had followed the bully into the gaff an hour or so previously and then, very quickly, noted the presence of Mr Hawkins at the
door.

With a final flourish, the band put down their instruments and reached for their glasses of ale as the proprietor shamelessly attempted to expedite the exit of one audience in favour of the
next: ‘Come along now! Out you go! There are others waiting!’ And indeed there was a large gathering waiting at the street door to enter the hot fug for the third encore of the
evening.

The bully emerged with the flow of people and, after some noisily cordial leave-taking among his friends, immediately turned south in the direction of Rosemary-lane. The street was alive at that
time with the noise of public houses and girls in over-tight bodices asking gentlemen if they’d like to retire for a warming brandy. Vendors shouted their wares from the kerb:
‘
Coffee! Get yer coffee!
. . .
Kidney pies, good and ’ot!
. . . ’
Am sandwiches as thick as yer ’ead – get ’em fresh!
’

Thus with a meat pie in his hand and a clay pipe at the side of his mouth, the bully ambled along unsteadily past the glaring light of shops and coffee houses. Here, he was among his kind: the
bawdy dredgers, ballast heavers, coal-whippers, watermen and sailors who were quick to drink and quicker to fight. Pipe smoke replaced the common air and hid the stench of the gutters.

The bully’s footsteps were filled just a few feet behind by Mr Hawkins, still utterly oblivious that he himself was being followed.
His
pursuer appeared to be staggering under the
influence of the gin he had not drunk, and to the casual passer-by he was one of the many working men of the neighbourhood enjoying an evening out in such a conventional manner that he might well
have been invisible.

But as the bully turned the corner on to Rosemary-lane, Mr Hawkins’s pursuer changed his gait and posture, standing more erect and affecting alertness. Now he appeared a late-night shopper
at the marine stores and second-hand clothing emporia. Gazing into windows and handling the hanging garments, he remained as inconspicuous as he had before.

Henry Hawkins, however, was known to many of the residents from his time in the fights and, even in this area, he radiated a threat of violence that repulsed people for yards around him. All,
that is, except for one bleary-eyed ‘fancy’ lover who called out:

‘Butcher ’Awkins, is that you? Look! It’s ’Awkins of the fancy!’

Mr Hawkins looked malevolently at the man who had called attention to his presence. But it was too late to maintain anonymity and Bully Bradford had turned round on hearing the name. His eyes
met those of Hawkins and filled with justifiable dread. He turned quickly, hoping perhaps to give the impression that he had not seen his nemesis – though his increasing velocity demonstrated
otherwise. Hawkins, too, quickened his pace.

The bully cut rapidly down Cartwright-street, puffing heavily at his pipe and perspiring freely. A prostitute would later report seeing him rush past her in a most agitated state, pursued first
by a ‘big bruiser’ and then shortly after by ‘a man of no particular distinction’. The bully turned into a
cul de sac
and waited there, panting, in the vain hope that
his pursuer had lost him. It was a stinking and forgotten alley of the city, rank with the corpse of a rotting dog and alive with rats scuttling away from his approach.

‘Good evening to you, Mr Bradford,’ said a smiling Mr Hawkins.

‘Why yer following me? What d’yer want?’

‘I have a message from the General.’

‘
Do
yer? I’ve ’ad enough on ’im. What’s ’e want?’

The ex-fighter reached forward and grabbed Mr Bradford by the stock, jerking him within range of his fearsome breath. The clay pipe fell from the bully’s mouth and crunched under
Hawkins’s boot.

‘General says your existence is no longer required.’

‘
Did
’e? Well . . . well . . .’

‘Short of insolence now, aren’t you, maggot?’

With his spare hand, Hawkins extracted the iron bar and raised it above his head to smash the bully’s scull like a boiled egg. Its descent was halted only by the voice of the third man
– he who had been following Mr Hawkins.

‘Henry Hawkins! Put down that bar.’

Hawkins turned, Mr Bradford’s throat still in his fist. ‘Who the — are you? A detective? Be on your way, or you’ll also be found in the river tomorrow.’

‘I told you to set him free. I am taking him.’

‘We’ll see about this,’ said Hawkins. He shoved the bully towards the end of the alley, where he stumbled and fell to the muddy ground. Then the fighter turned fully to face
his challenger, a man of a much slighter build than he. ‘You may have heard of me, if you follow the fancy.’

‘I have heard of you. And I tell you once again to deliver Mr Bradford to me. You need not fight about it.’

Mr Hawkins adopted the pose of the fighter, fists held high, and approached his opponent.

‘I have no interest in harming you, Hawkins.’

Hopping from foot to foot now as if he were in the ring, Mr Hawkins snorted at the idea that any man could hurt him, but noted with some surprise that the stranger evinced no alertness of
danger. Nor did the man raise his fists to fight. Somewhat insulted by the lack of fear he was inspiring, he lunged with a formidable right . . .

But the man was not where his fist had aimed. Instead, the fighter felt a stinging blow to the side of his head that made his eyes flash and his ears ring. He had not seen where it had come from
and did not know whether it had been a hand, a foot or a weapon. He flicked around and saw the man standing behind him, hands empty.

Again, the fighter lunged with a prodigious punch. His combatant did not move his feet. Rather, he deflected the approaching arm away from him at the elbow and aimed a staggering blow to Mr
Hawkins’s throat with the edge of his hand. The latter clutched his neck in agony and stumbled, gurgling and frankly stunned. As he knelt struggling for air, the heel of the other man’s
hand connected solidly with his forehead and he fell quite unconscious to the muddy ground, where a well-placed kick at his upper abdomen seemed to empty all of the air from his body.

‘Come with me, Mr Bradford, if you wish to live longer, ’ said the stranger.

‘’Ow d’yer know me . . .?
Yer bested Butcher ’Awkins!
’ replied Mr Bradford, clearly dumbfounded.

‘And I will do the same for you unless you accompany me immediately.’

The bully approached his saviour in wonder, uncertain whether to be afraid or amazed. At this point, a pair of handcuffs were locked deftly about his wrists.

‘Oi! What’s this? Are yer a buzzer?’

‘I am not. But you are under arrest and I have some questions for you. Do not try to resist or I will be obliged to injure you considerably.’

The two men walked back towards the busier streets, not noticing another – a fourth man – who had observed the whole proceedings from the shadows, and who was following them now back
towards Rosemary-lane.

Mr Bradford looked nervously around him for a chance to run, or perhaps for a friend to free him.

‘You are captured now. Your fate is known,’ warned his ‘saviour’.

‘Yer not a detective. Let me free and we’ll both profit. I ’ave money.’

‘What happens to you is of no concern to me. The police will discern if you are guilty of the Lambeth murder.’

The gin-addled brain of Mr Bradford struggled to comprehend his situation. ‘I . . . ’ow do they—? No one saw . . . It weren’t me! I was made to do it!’

‘By whom?’

‘I . . . I cannot tell. ’E’d kill me sure as a dog kills a rat. Or set light to me, more likely. ’

‘Stop. What did you say?’

‘Why, that ’e’d kill me sure as—’

‘You said he would set light to you. Why did you say that?’

‘Nothin’. Just, ’e plays with lucifer matches—’

‘What is his name?’

‘What’s it worth to yer? If I’m in a position to—’

‘It is worth your miserable life to tell me directly. Nobody need know that I have found you tonight. I could snap your neck like a twig and toss you in the river without a sorrowful
feeling. It will be no worse than your appointment with Mr Calcraft.’

‘Yer won’t know ’im. They call ’im General, though I’ve ’eard others call him Mister Ball or some such . . .’

‘Where? Where have you seen him?’

‘Well, to tell the God’s ’onest, I don’t often see ’is face—’

‘
Where?
’

‘Last was at the marine store jus’ off Rosemary. Use to be “Wilson’s”.’

‘I know it.’

‘Will yer set me at liberty now?’

‘No, you will certainly hang. I am taking you to the nearest watch house. In the meantime, you will tell me everything you know of this man and you might survive the journey. ’

They continued along the night streets, Mr Bradford occasionally being pulled by the handcuffs like a recalcitrant ass.

The reader will have no doubt surmised that in this latter scene Henry Hawkins’s conqueror and Mr Bradford’s apprehender can have been none other than Noah Dyson.
It will be necessary, therefore, to fill the lacunae.

Noah had indeed been presented with his letter from Sir Richard (an occurrence occasioning unprecedented rancour at Scotland Yard), and seen Benjamin freed to his satisfaction. Then he had been
informed of the conditions of his release by Inspector Newsome:

‘Mr Dyson, we are to engage you as a species of detective in the pursuit of a murderer. You have perhaps heard about the case in Lambeth from the turnkeys? It is he. The details of your
arrest, and our investigations into your life, have led us to believe that you are a man of some resource—’

‘Albeit a criminal in your eyes.’

‘No matter. You have the skills we seek. Our witness statement describes a man with a perpendicular scar crossing his left eye: a working man wearing a cap and knee breeches.’

‘That describes innumerable men in London – if he is still in London.’

‘The scar narrows our search. You presumably have intelligence of the criminal classes. Do you know of such a man?’

‘No. But I may know where to ask.’

‘You are to find this man and bring him to the nearest watch house. There he will be handed over to Detective Sergeant Williamson, who is handling the case.’

‘And thereafter I will be free.’

‘You will remember that the conditions of your release are dependent on you providing us with information about yourself.’

‘You know my name. I was born in this city in the parish of St Giles and spent time as a sailor in the South Seas, hence my tattoo and the lash marks you have seen. I recently resettled in
London.’

‘That is hardly a biography, Mr Dyson. How do you come to live in Manchester-square? From where do you draw your income? Why do your neighbours know you by different names? Why have you
documented fires in the city and who is the man you seek? Why were you so reluctant to speak when you were captured? The questions multiply!’

‘I see no necessity for you to know these things. My usefulness to you is not affected by the answers and you know it.’

‘Call it curiosity, then. We are not about to release a man who may be a greater criminal than we already think you to be. Are you an incendiary?’

‘I am not. I take an amateur’s interest in crime and catalogue it as another man might pin butterflies to a board. I may compile a monograph on the subject.’

‘I see. And who is the man you appear to be seeking? You need not look so confused. We discovered the book in your study: that handwritten book in which you have documented your
researches. We have been looking through it and discerned that you are looking for a man: an incendiary, a man who seems to have no address but the entire city itself. Who is this man?’

‘My researches have demonstrated that a single man may be responsible for many of the fires in London. If I am able to find him, I will be happy to turn him over to the police. In the
meantime, it is an idle hobby of mine.’

‘A hobby? It seems more like a mania.’

‘It is a hobby. Might not one man’s hobby seem an obsession to another?’

‘And what of your income? How is it that you – a retired sailor, if we are to believe you – have such wealth?’

‘You saw the diamond about my neck. It is the last of many precious stones I acquired during my travels – enough to make me self-sufficient when diligently invested. That is enough.
I agreed to pursue your man to the best of my ability, not to sell you my soul. As long as I am in your custody, he is free. When he is in custody, I will be free.’

‘You will see in Sir Richard’s letter that you are to be engaged until the case has been concluded to the satisfaction of the police. The scarred man is our only suspect at present,
but if he proves—’