The Incendiary's Trail (24 page)

‘So this “General” is the same man who is to murder us, I presume?’ enquired Mr Hardy.

‘I do not know. That is why I have arranged for the gentleman to come here where all of those most closely acquainted with the case reside.’

‘At least, those still living,’ added Noah, with macabre precision.

‘Quite. Mr Dyson here has . . . has special knowledge of the case and, together, we will attempt to take the greatest advantage of this new avenue. It may lead us to another
cul de
sac
– we will see. Until the gentleman in question arrives, I have some more questions for the people here.’

‘We are happy to help,’ said Mr Hardy, jumping up to his accustomed perch on the chair.

‘Then tell me – did the doctor visit more than once?’

‘Let me think . . .’

‘Yes! Yes!’ Eugenia flapped her arms like an immense chicken. ‘That evil man
was
here another time. When he returned Eliza-Beth from their “carriage ride”.
He did not enter, but I remember the writer gentleman was leaving about the same time – maybe a little before. They may even have seen each other.’

‘Why, what are you talking about, Eugenia?’ said Mr Hardy.

‘
You
don’t know! None of you know! Only I know. You all chose not to see what anyone could see. You are as guilty as those who spoiled that young girl!’

The large lady dissolved into bubbling sobs and an atmosphere of uneasy embarrassment settled in the room. Mr Hardy – ever the tiny gentleman – made a brave attempt to salvage some
decorum, albeit without entirely convincing himself or those gathered there.

‘Well, Detective . . . I . . . I’m sure I have no idea what she is talking about.’

‘Prostitution, Mr Hardy,’ replied the detective. ‘And the series of degradations poor Eliza-Beth underwent during her short and unhappy life. She may not have told you of them,
but I feel everyone here knew of them.’

‘Well, I . . . well . . .’

‘Quite.’

Silence reigned again, but for the lachrymose snuffling of Eugenia. Then Missy began to sniff, and footsteps were heard crunching outside the window. A rasping cough rattled, and then there was
a rapping at the door.

‘I will answer it this time,’ said Mr Williamson to the giant Edgar, who was making to unfold himself once more.

EIGHTEEN

The reader, like the police, must be wondering about the escape and the whereabouts of Mr Lucius Boyle. In truth, there were many accustomed to reporting to him who now could
not locate him in the places he usually resided. Those divers criminals of the city had of course heard about the sensation at the hanging of Mr Bradford and surmised that their
‘General’ had decided to vanish.

Stepping back a moment, we might discover what had occurred in the immediate aftermath of Mr Boyle’s extraordinary exit from the scene at Newgate. How had he made his escape and where had
he ventured thereafter?

Due to the immensity of the crowd, there were many who had not seen Boyle, or the murder of Mr Coggins. They were aware only of some remarkable occurrence that quivered through the multitude as
through a single organism. Thus, when the people packing the entrance to those alleys beheld an odd, red-jawed man approaching them through the crowd, they can only have been stricken by the
strange and unnerving nature of his appearance. They did not know him as a murderer, even if they marvelled at the ease with which he had moved through the people in a space of his own. If he moved
calmly, and if people all around him seemed to stare fixedly at him, there was nevertheless a wildness in his eyes that forbade any interaction. By the time he entered the dark and narrow lanes
where printers and bookbinders toil at their labour, his face was again covered and he was part of the general exodus returning to work or to the gin shop – just another faceless city dweller
about his business. From those alleys, he would have slipped easily on to Warwick-lane or Paternoster-row and thence into the nearest cab.

But he was angry. That imbecile Coggins had almost cast him into the hands of the mob – a far more serious prospect than capture by the police. After shadowing the
impresario
the
previous evening, his plan had been to lure him to a gin shop after the hanging and thereafter dispose of him quietly. It was not advisable to let one so garrulous and acquisitive stay alive when
the entire city was talking about the recent series of murders.

The commingled rage and excitement of the events boiled inside him. Killing Mr Coggins had alleviated that to a small extent, but a savage rage was burning. If he had been able to see clearly
through his ire, he would have admitted that seeing Noah there on the platform had shocked him more that he cared to admit.

Though he had seldom spared a thought for his transported childhood companion over the years, he had always regarded Noah as his only equal: a boy very like himself, who had emerged from the
gutter stronger and better than he had entered it. That was why he had had to betray his fellow ‘General’ – Noah was his only obstruction to unrivalled supremacy, the only threat
he would be afraid to encounter. The other boys may have feared Lucius, but they admired Noah.

He thought back to those days. After his victory against Noah, his notoriety had spread . . . and his violence had blossomed. When one of his boys tried to steal from him, Boyle’s
retribution exceeded all previous limits. It was his first murder. How loyal were his boys now? Would they keep his crime secret?
Could
they, when gossip was the currency of the street boy?
Ever cautious, he did the one thing he could to save himself: he disappeared.

Such a thing is not as difficult as it may seem. Lucius Boyle’s face may have been a common feature in the environs of Smithfield, say, but a migration to Whitechapel or Stepney would have
been little different to a move to the continent as far as the constables and his boys were concerned. Criminal fiefdoms and police divisions were as islands in an archipelago. Moreover, the
continuous influx of people from the country, the ever-changing residents of lodging houses, and the daily ingress and egress of tradesman made a new face nothing odd. He could be at home anywhere
– and nowhere.

Of course, his was no ordinary face. Its distinctiveness was a curse. He would have to become a phantasm of the shadows, venturing out mostly at night and braving daylight only with concealed
features. Thus light and dark became his special concern, and fire his obsession.

Who knows what prompted his incendiarism? No doubt there are doctors of the troubled mind who could ascribe it to some impulse or other. Was it a symptom of his suppressed rage? Or was he simply
insane? Whatever the cause, he found a twisted solace in the breathing of the inferno, the crackle of timbers and the inevitable collapse, with its billowing exhalations of sparks and embers cast
skyward. There was beauty and drama in such a show, and he was the conductor of this symphony of fire.

And let us not imagine that he had learned nothing from his brief partnership with Noah. He had understood that brawn is all very well, but it was doubled with brains. He stole books, or had
them stolen by his minions, and tried to learn. There were ladies and gentlemen at that time, as now, who sought grace through the charitable education of wretched street children. Perhaps he was
one of them. Perhaps his virulent face marked him out as an especially pitiful specimen. He learned to read and write, collecting words like weapons. Had he not seen how Noah had beguiled the boys
with his fancy words? They were like incantations to the unlearned. Had he taken interest in history, he would have known that the combination of rhetoric and violence are an irresistible
force.

And now Noah had returned. Not only had he returned, but he appeared to be allied with the police. The coincidence was too strong to ignore: the police had somehow discovered Noah and employed
him in the pursuit of his erstwhile friend. It made no difference whether Noah was a willing accomplice or not – the capture of the man who had betrayed him was the desired conclusion,
presumably driven by an entire adult life tainted with the canker of unfulfilled revenge.

Such were the thoughts that crackled in his overheated mind as he returned to one of his many hiding places, there to write the letter to Sergeant Williamson that we have already seen. For a
full day he remained alone, not even contacting his trusted servant Henry Hawkins. All of London was now looking out for his vermilion jaw, or for any man wearing a conspicuous scarf.

Ever the tactician, he considered what he must do. There were people who had seen him at the Lambeth house and who could link him to the case. There were people who were pursuing him and who
would not cease until he was captured. There were people who might seek to benefit from their marginal knowledge of him. These people had to be dealt with, and would be. More alone now than he had
ever been – excepting perhaps during those early days on the streets – he was a cornered animal facing survival or death.

Despite the even tone of the letter he had sent to Scotland Yard, he was much agitated and felt the visceral urge to destroy. It resonated in his very sinews like a maddening bass note struck
upon some dark instrument, throbbing and humming interminably. Throughout his childhood and adulthood, when these unfathomable dark humours came upon him, there was only one balm to soothe his
rage, only one release for the tension: fire. In those hours spent alone, concealed, he stared into the grate and watched the coals spark and flicker, poking at them savagely with an iron bar.

On the Tuesday, Mr Hawkins arrived with food, drink and coal for the fire. He found his master in a smouldering mood.

‘I have been looking all over for you, General, lugging this coal about the city. Nobody has any intelligence of you.’

‘Do you wonder why?’

‘Well, no. I have seen the papers. I have one here . . .’

‘You were not at the execution?’

‘I thought I might be identified.’

‘That was astute of you. Tell me with certainty that you were not followed. People know of your connection to me.’

‘I was careful. I took cabs and went back on myself as you told me to. But . . . I am becoming nervous. People know my face—’

‘
Your
face? That is good, Mr Hawkins. No matter – I will be leaving this place shortly.’

‘Where will you go? Out of the city?’

‘That is no concern of yours. It is better that you do not know. In the meantime, there are things that you must do for me. I have made a list of instructions for you, which you are to
follow to the letter. Destroy it once you have finished.’

‘Of course. General . . .’

‘What? There is something you are hesitating to tell me. Out with it.’

‘I heard talk of a man asking after you. He didn’t know your name, but he seemed to know of your reputation.’

‘Tell me everything you know.’

‘The gentleman was a writer. He said he was writing a book about the “underworld”. He was asking about a criminal “master”. It was along the gin shops of
Oxford-street.’

‘Did anyone speak?’

‘I heard that Razor Bill was talking to the gent. As usual, he was half-cut, and the gent was plying him with brandy and water like it was tea.’