The Incendiary's Trail (17 page)

‘Why would he kill her? I have my own ideas but I would like to hear yours.’

‘She was a singular woman. She could have angered him so much that . . . But, no, he would not lose his temper. He would not have murdered her if he wanted to blackmail her over the
maternity of Eliza-Beth . . .’

Noah lapsed into contemplation, playing out different scenarios in his mind. For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the distant clatter of hooves and wheels. Despite the closed
window, the pungent smell of Lazenby’s fish-sauce warehouse found its way into the room, adulterated occasionally with the infernal ferrous tang of the Panklibanon foundry over at
Baker-street.

‘Which other people visited the house, Sergeant?’

‘A clergyman named Josiah Archer.’

‘Ha! The man is quite insane. I am surprised he is not yet preaching at Bedlam.’

‘Quite. He visited to satisfy himself that the performers were correctly fulfilling the predictions of the Apocalypse. Then there was a doctor, whom I have not yet been able contact. He is
teaching in Edinburgh. And a writer by the name of—’

‘Henry Askern?’

‘Do you know of him?’

‘He is often to be found about the rookeries and the low public houses. I understand he is researching a new book on the underworld of London. I have seen him on my peregrinations about
the city. Which of these have you spoken to?’

‘Mr Archer only. I am to meet Mr Askern this afternoon.’

‘And which of these do you suspect is the father?’

‘What . . .? Ah, very good, Mr Dyson! I see that you have followed the same pathways of my own thoughts. There is no reason to believe that any of them fathered Eliza-Beth. I am sure that
each has his legitimate reason for visiting the place. Our only indication that the father is close by is Mr Boyle’s seeming interest in the poor girls’ parentage.
He
evidently
believes that the man can be found, whomever and wherever he is. Our goal is the same as our quarry – but only he knows where to look.’

‘If Mary told him. If indeed Mary
knew
. She was quite a phenomenon in her youth.’

‘If she knew, no mortal would have withstood the treatment he dealt her. I believe he knows the father’s identity and will act on the information.’

‘What is your plan, Sergeant?’

‘What do
you
suggest? You have been searching for this man for many years, with no apparent success. Why have you been unable to find him?’

‘He is a child of the city and knows it like few others. I believe he wears disguises. There may be men who live side by side with him and do not know his true identity . . . why do you
smile?’

‘You have described yourself.’

‘Mmm . . . What knowledge have you gained from
your
witnesses?’

‘One of Mary’s boys said that he was covering his face with a scarf and hat. Mr Bradford said that he has only ever seen the man in shadow or with a face-covering of some kind. It
would seem that he is unwilling to be seen even by the people he converses with. Such a mania for anonymity seems odd, does it not? Unless he has some highly recognizable facial feature that he
wishes to hide. You have seen him – is this the case?’

‘The truth is that covering one’s face is likely to attract
more
attention—’

‘You have evaded my question, Mr Dyson. We are sharing information and you are attempting to retain some of yours, no doubt to give yourself an advantage in the pursuit. If I apprehend the
man, he will hang. Is that not revenge enough for you? Our aim is the same. Do not treat me as a fool.’

Noah smiled stiffly, acknowledging his opponent’s insight whilst simultaneously resenting it. It was true that the entire apparatus of the police was indeed his best chance thus far of
locating his enemy . . . although Boyle would never be – as he had not yet been – caught by a mere policeman.

‘I capitulate, Sergeant Williamson. Boyle’s lower face is disfigured by a birth defect. His skin is violently red, hence his scarf. I do not know why he wears a low hat – it
could be that he has acquired further distinguishing marks in the intervening years. His eyes are grey, the light grey of wood smoke.’

‘Thank you. This information may prove invaluable in our pursuit.’

‘I do not see how. He has remained entirely unknown to the police for years, and I – who know the man by sight – have been unable to find him. How do you intend to locate this
man who has evaded the notice of the authorities for a lifetime?’

‘I see a few possibilities. Firstly, he will make a mistake and be apprehended quite by chance as you were—’

‘
I
was not committing a crime, Sergeant. Nor am I a murderer.’

‘The second possibility is that we will divine his actions with sufficient foresight to be waiting for him when he acts again, although you have failed singularly in this for some
years.’

‘They are both slim possibilities.’

‘Indeed, but I see a third. Is it not plausible that Mr Boyle will overextend himself in theatricality? There have been murderers who became intoxicated with public attention as if by gin,
and trapped by that perceived glamour.’

‘Not Boyle. He is too clever for that. Anonymity is his protection. How do you imagine he has escaped the notice of the police since his criminal childhood?’

‘You know of his childhood?’

‘I know
him
.’

‘And I would wager that he would know you if he saw you. Or if your presence was made known to him. Would he, I wonder – knowing that he was being pursued by one who knows him, one
who may know his secrets – make an uncharacteristic error?’

‘What are you suggesting, Mr Williamson?’

‘Mr Bradford will be hanged on Monday, as you know. I will be there, and Mr Boyle may also make an appearance. You know that a hanging brings out the entire criminal fraternity for
entertainment, and he may want to satisfy himself that this fragile link to his identity is finally deceased. How would it affect Mr Boyle to see you standing beside me near the gallows? Would he
recognize you?’

‘Frankly, I cannot say. We have not looked each other in the eye for . . . for many years. I might have passed him in the street a dozen times . . . but . . .’

‘But if you saw him, you would know him.’

‘If I could see his face uncovered – or even his eyes – I am certain, yes.’

‘And I think he would know you. Moreover, a hanging is an exceptionally suitable occasion for our purposes.’

‘How so?’

‘Think on it. Just before the prisoner is hanged, the entire audience removes their hats – supposedly out of respect, but in actuality to provide an unobstructed view. All faces are
turned on a single point: the rope and the neck within it. For us, situated on or near the gallows, a sea of twenty or thirty thousand faces presents itself. Would we not notice – in such a
crowd – a man with a scarf about his face and a hat pulled over his eyes? Or a man with a highly visible red mark? He cannot possibly hide his features in such a crowd. Were he to try, he
would become eminently visible.’

‘Which is why it would be pure foolishness on his part to attend. And discerning one face in a multitude is no easy task. I see no reason why he should be there.’

‘Nor I. But I have a strange intuition that he might. There is much attention on the recent murders and he is in danger of being exposed as never before. Also, we have no other options.
After the hanging – if he attends and if any identification is made – we must discern the rules of the game as he sees fit to play them. He may vanish forever, or he may embark on a new
course of action. I hope for the latter. ’

‘What do you expect him to do?’

‘I think Mr Boyle, like many of the “greater” criminals, has an exaggerated sense of self-regard. It is necessary for him to feel himself superior to lesser men, and to the
police in general. It is a kind of game to him, an entertainment if you like.’

‘You speak as if you know him.’

‘I know his kind. The circumstances of Mary’s murder have certain curious similarities to the Lambeth case although the killer was different: the door which was broken when a man of
his ability could have gained access more easily; shoes that bore a similar imprint to those worn by Mr Bradford; and the cut throat, most probably with a razor.’

‘Do you think he was leaving clues to misdirect your investigation? To make you think—’

‘I do not know. The manner of Mary’s death could not have been the work of Mr Bradford . . . unless . . . well, I am confused as to what Boyle’s intentions were.’

‘Perhaps that was his intention – we will discover eventually. As for our endeavours, what are we to do before the hanging?’

‘I am to see Mr Askern, the writer, later today. I suggest that you search out Reverend Archer and learn what you can from him.’

‘But you have questioned him previously. Do you suspect him?’

‘I think he knows more than he told me.’

‘On what authority am I to question him? I am not a detective; he is not obliged to speak to me.’

‘I will say only that you were able to glean all of the information that Mr Bradford held in that under-worked brain of his. Catching this murderer is more important to me than the
outraged ravings of a street evangelist.’

‘So you will see the law bent, though not broken – if I understand you?’

‘When a man has no respect for the law, he has no respect for his common man.’

‘Mmm. What does the Reverend Archer know?’

‘If he is entirely innocent, only what has been in the papers: that Eliza-Beth was killed by Mr Bradford. I asked him about a letter, of which he denied all knowledge – while
inadvertently revealing he had seen it peeping from her dress. Concerning the locket, he may have seen it but he says he knows nothing of its theft. At least, he should not.’

‘Can you trust this Dr Zwigoff when he says that these are the only people who visited Eliza-Beth?’

‘One cannot trust the man – his real name is Coggins – any more than one could trust a Haymarket bar girl to keep a secret. It may prove necessary to call on him again, this
time with a more persuasive approach. I must also ascertain when the good Doctor Cole is to return from Edinburgh. We will meet again at the scaffold and compare our findings.’

‘Take care, Sergeant Williamson.’

‘I always do, Mr Dyson.’

FOURTEEN

Henry Askern, aged forty-two, was the writer who had visited that ill-fated house in Lambeth in the week before the murder. One would think that his education at Westminster
School and Oxford University would have provided a comfortable, affluent lifestyle for this undoubted gentleman, but he had a fatal flaw: his romantic sensibility. Not for him the secure position
at his father’s legal practice; no, he sought adventure (and ruin) in India and the islands of the South Seas. Returning to London was a rude awakening to disownment and the perils of having
chosen a fanciful path.

What vocation for an intelligent man of limited means? Why, the greatest of them all: to write! His plays were judged harshly by the critics and his novel was a carcase that no galvanism could
revive. So he turned to journalism and found his
métier
in social study. You may have seen his
Pieceworkers of the East End
or his
Street Children of the Metropolis
,
both of which were minor successes drawn from his fearless travels about the city’s filthier environs.

Sergeant Williamson was escorted into Mr Askern’s study by a slightly frayed servant and saw the writer himself rising from a writing desk to extend a dry hand. The detective noted the
man’s clean linen and ink-stained fingers, the prematurely greying hair at his temples and the perceptiveness behind those tired eyes. He looked a little underweight and sickly. A faint
chymical smell pervaded the room and made the detective wrinkle his nose.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Askern.’

‘It is my pleasure, sir. My Sundays are days of rest. I must apologize for the smell – chymistry is a hobby of mine and I have been conducting experiments this morning. Well, I have
heard and read many things about the men of the Detective Force. I believe that your job is very similar to mine in a number of respects.’

‘Really?’

‘Please – be seated.’ Mr Askern sat again at the desk as his guest settled into a wing-backed leather chair. The writer laced his fingers in his lap. ‘Yes, we both seek
information. You seek it in pursuit of a crime, I in the pursuit of knowledge – for my books. We are both obliged to search the city for our subjects, and elicit answers from those who may be
unable or unwilling to share them. It is a skill.’

‘Quite.’

‘I am certain that you have observed the number of researchers about the darker streets. I myself regularly meet members of sundry charities and other writers being escorted to lodging
houses or brothels as if visiting darkest Africa rather than the pre-eminent city of the entire earth. We are all detectives of a sort, are we not?’

‘I understand that you recently visited a house in Lambeth—’

‘Ah yes. Dr Zwigoff’s collection . . . or rather Mr Coggins’s. A terrible case.’