The Incendiary's Trail (28 page)

‘Hmm. Hmm. In that proclamation, Mr Hawkins, Her Majesty promises that, “any person or persons who shall discover and apprehend, or cause to be discovered and apprehended, the
authors, abettors, and perpetrators of any such incendiary fire . . . so that they, or any of them, shall be duly convicted thereof, shall be entitled to the sum of five hundred pounds for each and
every person who shall be so convicted, and shall receive our most gracious pardon for the said crime.” In short, Mr Hawkins, there is five hundred pounds for you if you help bring Mr Boyle
to justice for even one of his fires – and a pardon for you if you were involved.’

Henry Hawkins smiled. Then he began to laugh his glutinous bass-note laugh. His eyes showed little mirth. It was at that moment that Mr Williamson realized the depth of his miscalculation and
truly felt the inadequacy of his own diminutive stature next to the brawn and sinew of his interlocutor. And he felt the first tremors of fear.

TWENTY

Inspector Newsome sat at his desk in Whitehall, his head in his hands. The note that Mr Williamson had found in the graveyard of St Giles’s was on the desk before him, as
was the slip of paper from the dead clergyman’s hand – both supplied by a concerned Dr McLeod.

News of Mr Williamson (and that of the wounded constable) had arrived shortly after eight o’clock that Wednesday morning. The other constable had returned to the church when he had gone
off duty and found a group of people surrounding the prone figure of the detective, bloodied and immobile in the very same place where the Reverend Archer had lain.

Shortly before this, intelligence of another body had arrived: that of a man known as Razor Bill, a petty criminal who had had his throat cut in Hanover-square. Mr Newsome recognized the name
from Mr Williamson’s most recent report: the drunken interviewee who had made mention of a certain ‘General’. That ‘General’ was almost certainly the murderer,
blackmailer and incendiary Lucius Boyle, who had largely carried out his promise to ‘break the connections’ between himself and the pursuing police. The others, though safe in their
respective hiding places, were quite useless in aiding the investigation further. Only their status as murder victims in waiting made their concealment necessary. The police could hardly sustain
more
damaging newspaper coverage.

‘What are we to do now? He has disabled our detective, murdered our witnesses and made a mockery of the police. This is no longer a matter of a two-headed girl and Mary Chatterton. It is a
matter of our abject humiliation. Do you realize that the future of the Detective Force could be at risk – not to mention our good names?’

The question was addressed to Sir Henry Wilberforce, who was sitting in a leather armchair by the fire and smoking a pipe. His grey hair looked a little whiter in the light from the window.

‘The situation is bleak,’ he replied. ‘The whole of London – indeed, the entire nation – is now talking about this “Red Jaw”.’

‘D— the man! Had I been waiting there at St Giles, I can assure you that I would not be the one left on the ground. No doubt Williamson tried to explain the finer points of law to
this Hawkins even as the blows rained down!’

‘Mr Williamson is a good man. What is his condition?’

‘I spoke with him earlier this morning. He was badly beaten about the head and chest, though no bones seem to be broken. He refused to stay at the hospital and has returned home under the
protection of two constables. Dr McLeod has advised him to remain in bed for at least a week. I certainly do not think he is ready for duty, but he says he will lead the investigation from his bed.
What investigation, I say? There is no investigation.’

‘There is the man Hawkins: a bare-knuckle fighter by all accounts. He is a big man and his face is known. We will find him, Mr Newsome. With that letter already in our possession, we will
compel Mr Hawkins to provide us with certain means of sending this Boyle to the gallows. In order to expedite that piece of investigation, however, I have a more pressing question. Where is Noah
Dyson?’

‘The last we heard, he was in pursuit of this Razor Bill – the very same man found dead this morning. Since then, we have no indication as to his whereabouts.’

‘What of your man Mr Bryant who has been following Mr Dyson these past days?’

‘That is the curious thing, sir. After the fire in Oxford-street, Mr Bryant continued to follow his man as usual when Mr Dyson suddenly darted around a corner and simply vanished into the
crowd. It is as if he had known all along that he was being followed and simply chose the moment to elude his pursuer. He has not returned home.’

‘Do you suspect him in the murder of this Bill fellow?’

‘I see no benefit for Mr Dyson in that murder, but I do wonder why he chose now – of all times – to vanish.’

‘Perhaps he is also dead. This Boyle is proving highly effective in fulfilling his promises to cut all connections.’

‘I do not believe that Mr Dyson is dead. Whatever my feelings about the man, he is like a street dog. He lives by his wits and has already survived what might kill others.’

‘No matter. We know where he lives. If he is alive, he must return there for clothes – and he has a manservant, does he not? A Negro?’

‘Indeed. Mr Bryant is observing the property as we speak.’

‘Do you think that Mr Williamson gave anything away during his beating? I am sure this Boyle would appreciate knowing Mr Dyson’s address, for instance, or what we know so far about
Boyle himself.’

‘I asked him that and he said he believed he had not said anything damaging to the case – although he did lose consciousness. I do not believe he would speak. You know
him.’

‘Let us hope he is correct in his assumption.’

A knock at the door interrupted the officers’ conversation and a clerk, on being beckoned by Inspector Newsome, entered with a sheaf of papers.

‘Do you remember our initial interrogation of Mr Dyson?’ said Mr Newsome to his colleague. ‘You will recall that he gave us scant personal details. Since then, I have had my
men investigating these and other questions I had. Let us see what we have.’ Mr Newsome indicated that the clerk should present his information.

‘Ahem . . . well, sirs, his claim that he was born in the parish of St Giles is not true. At least, there is no record of the birth of a Noah Dyson. We checked for twenty years either side
of his probable age and found only a Noel Dyson, who died aged three months.’

‘I see,’ said Inspector Newsome, giving Sir Henry Wilberforce a knowing glance. ‘And what of his sailor’s service in the South Seas?’

‘We could find no evidence of his having been in the Royal Navy, sir. ’

‘Indeed? I cannot say that I am surprised. No doubt he sailed under another flag. What of his other claims?’

‘The house in Manchester-square was paid for in cash, sir, in the name of Henry Matthews. Of that gentleman, we can find no evidence.’

‘So – we have nothing.
Nothing
. The man vanishes like a ghost. It was foolish of us to—’

‘Sir? We did discover one piece of information . . .’ offered the clerk.

‘Then speak of it, man!’

‘In 1829, a boy called Noah Dyson was transported to New South Wales for incendiarism and theft. He was initially sentenced to hang, but received a royal pardon on account of his tender
years. We are trying to discover if any ticket of leave or pardon was issued to permit him to return to England. It may take some time.’

‘Ha! I’m certain you will not find evidence of a legitimate departure from those shores. Good work, Jones. You may go back to your researches. What do you think of that, Sir Henry?
Our man is an escaped convict from the Antipodes. That would explain his multiplicity of scars.’

‘That remains to be seen. What is of greater interest – if he is our man – is the nature of the crimes: incendiarism and theft.’

‘Indeed.’

‘What do you intend to do? Noah is apparently a greater criminal than we thought. And this man Boyle must be apprehended with all haste. Neither can remain at liberty.’

‘Mr Dyson will not remain away from his home indefinitely. My Mr Bryant and his colleagues are watching the place for any signs of contact as we speak. And we will endeavour to locate this
Hawkins, who himself is no doubt also searching for Noah. A bulletin will be sent out to all stations and watch houses for both, though I am sure that wherever Boyle or his instrument Hawkins are
to be found, we will also find Noah.’

‘What about this writer fellow, Askern? Do you think that Boyle will make an attempt on his life? We cannot afford another murder.’

‘Mr Askern is quite safe. Only we know where he is.’

‘Are you sure that Sergeant Williamson did not speak to Hawkins?’

‘He says not and I believe him. He has no reason to lie. No, Sir Henry – even Boyle cannot find a man we have purposely hidden.’

‘One week ago, I might have believed you. Check on it personally.’

Benjamin sat in the study at Portland-place and stroked the scarred skin at his throat absent-mindedly. A mantel clock ticked stolidly through the silence. Whenever Noah did
not return home, the Negro man could not rest until a letter or other communication arrived with information or instructions.

Some would say – if they knew the full details – that Benjamin stood to benefit greatly from the death or disappearance of his benefactor, for he was named sole beneficiary in
Noah’s will. The house and all of Noah’s considerable assets would go directly to him. But would one wish the death of one’s brother for financial gain? Wealth and property meant
little to a man cast friendless, speechless and alone upon the metropolis. A dark face was a badge of foreignness, however well-to-do it might be. In truth, he would have laid down his life for
Noah, as Noah had risked his own to save Benjamin. Theirs was an unbreakable bond.

He thought back to their early acquaintance on a ship – the
Bluebird
out of Nantucket – plying the Southern Oceans. Noah already had his stripes from the cat, and Benjamin was
tongueless and scarred about the neck. Both outcasts and fugitives, they were drawn together and were bunkmates.

Crews could be volatile. Both men knew how to defend their names or their honour. Benjamin could knock any man into oblivion with his powerful fists, but his wits were not as sharp as his
friend. Noah was as patient and strategic as a spider, but was not made for the seas. He was a city boy thrown to the winds and he would not rest until he was back within the shadow of a
building.

Of course, Benjamin knew something of hate and retribution. His neck was proof enough of that. How long had he hung until they’d cut him down thinking he was a corpse? And didn’t he
still carry in his inner eye the face of the instigator of that lynching? The man had pleaded for his life like a child as Benjamin had tightened a rope around
his
neck until the last
strangulated cry was twisted out. It had been an empty victory – a shameful loss of control that had cast him beyond the coasts of America for a life of outlawry.

A timid knock at the street door started him from his thoughts and he rushed down the stairs to open it, hoping for good news but fearing another visit from the police.

On the doorstep stood a ragged urchin, who recoiled to see a black man with a ghostly eye opening the door to him. The boy’s feet were bare and caked in filth, and his clothes showed pale
skin and bruises through their rents. He was evidently a long way from his accustomed streets. A letter was clutched in his hand.

‘Is you Ben?’ he said.

Benjamin nodded.

‘’E said as you should show me yer licker first.’

Benjamin opened his mouth and bent down so that the boy could peer into the darkness.

‘O! Did it ’urt bad?’

Benjamin nodded once and held out his hand for the letter.

‘’Ee said there was a sovvy in it for me.’

Benjamin took out a sovereign from his waistcoat pocket and held it up to the light. The boy’s eyes focused on it as if it was the largest diamond in the world, and acquisitiveness twisted
a smirk across his vulpine features.

‘What if this letter is worth more than a sovvy to you and the gent?’

He had hardly finished expressing that base consideration when a meaty black palm like one of those enormous spiders sometimes encountered by men working at the ports settled gently on his
shoulder and exerted just enough pressure to promise crippling pain.

‘I’ll take the sovvy.’

And he handed over the letter. Benjamin opened it quickly and looked at the
postscriptum
to assure himself that it was indeed from Noah. Then he handed the sovereign to the boy, who
snatched it and danced away with a cheeky ‘Thanking you, chimney chops!’

Benjamin closed the door and the boy walked jauntily and newly wealthy back along the street, moving eastwards. He had hardly gone more than a hundred yards around the corner when a man in a top
hat and dark-blue clothes ran up behind him and grasped his grimy ear.

‘Halt there, boy! What do you have in your hand?’