The Incendiary's Trail (33 page)

Mr Williamson paused and made his way awkwardly to the dormer window, where he looked around the interior of the frame and then out over the city’s fields of chimney pots. He opened the
sash window and leaned out to peer upwards and backwards at the house’s own vertiginous chimneys.

‘Constable Cullen, I think you may have hit upon something there.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘The route between the basement and the attic may be the longest on foot – but the shortest by another, more direct, route.’

‘I don’t quite follow you, sir . . .’

‘Come here. Do you see what I see, Constable? The soot about the chimney base there has been disturbed and there is a little freshly broken mortar here in the gutter. There are lines in
the grime of the tiles where knees or feet have passed.’

‘He went down the chimney, sir?’

‘No – a boy could not slip down there. Even a cat would have trouble.’

‘What are you saying, sir?’

‘I believe a rope was thrown up to the apex of the roof, most likely with a corked hook on it, and a man clambered up the tiles to reach the pots. That would explain the contents of the
canvas bag he carried. Constable, I would like you to follow in his footsteps.’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes. Mr Allan will procure us some rope and a grappling iron. I want you to climb up there and report to me anything you can find – anything at all out of the ordinary.’

And so the rope was obtained and Constable Cullen was able, with some difficulty, to eventually cast a line and ascend with trembling knees over the gritty tiles to the pre-eminent position.

Few have seen London from such a privileged viewpoint. Up there in the smoky aether, one is alone with the birds. Sounds swirl around one, echoing up from the deep gorges of the streets: a
hawker shouting his wares, the rumble of a goods wagon (quite a different noise to the phaeton or hackney carriage), and the ceaseless murmur of a million souls at work. One might be atop the main
spar of a brig, looking out across the empty ocean, for not a single human presence could be seen in that murky and smut-smeared sea of baked clay and slate.

It proved quite simple for Constable Cullen to locate among the six the one chimney pot belonging to the basement room that Mr Askern had slept in. The clay pot itself had been wrenched free and
tied to an adjoining one with a length of weak hempen twine, no doubt so it would not roll away and alert residents. In time, the rope would rot and the broken chimney would roll down to shatter on
the street below. He peered into the jagged hole, which vanished into sooty darkness after less than a yard. It was clear, however, that something had scratched away the accretions of carbonaceous
matter either going down the chimney or coming up it.

PC Cullen, who regarded the detectives with awe and imagined his own career navigating in that direction, did not, however, possess their acuity. He theorized upon what could have caused the
scratches. Some manner of animal, perhaps, that had been trained to deliver a lethal attack? A phial of noxious material dropped down to befuddle the unfortunate writer? There seemed nothing to
report to Sergeant Williamson but the scratches.

Making to return to the window, he put his hand into a wad of matter on the tiles by the chimney base and cursed. The quantity, if not the texture, suggested a duck was responsible. He wiped it
on his trouser leg with a grimace and began to lower himself back to safety. Once back in the room, retrieving the hook proved to be as simple as whipping the rope to dislodge its purchase on the
apex. A little mortar ratted down after it and landed in the gutter.

‘Scratches, you say?’ said Mr Williamson. ‘What kind of scratches? Long and unbroken? Multiple like a man’s fingernails? Like an animal’s claw?’

‘No, sir. They were not regular at all. It looked like something had fallen and simply touched the sides on its way down – or up, I suppose. It was not possible to tell.’

‘Something big? Were the scratches distributed all around the inside of the shaft?’

‘No, sir. I would say that the object fitted quite easily within the diameter but brushed against it slightly on descending.’

‘I think we can rule out any animal. I cannot think of any that would be able to find its way down and then back up in addition to killing Mr Askern without a sign.’

‘I thought the same thing myself, sir.’

‘Hmm. It cannot have been something dropped, for it would be in the fireplace to be found. Inspector Newsome looked there and found only ashes. In which case, the only logical conclusion
is that something was lowered and then pulled back up. Did you say that the broken chimney was tied to its neighbour with a thin piece of rope?’

‘Yes, sir. Too thin for the man to have gained access to the chimneys in the first place. Perhaps it was an off-cut from the other rope?’

‘You have read my mind, PC Cullen.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Let us go down to that room and look again at the fireplace.’

The body had of course been taken away and Mr Allan had evidently made some attempt to tidy the room. The door, splintered and now quite useless, stood beside the doorway. The constable shivered
at the thought of a dead body having lain there just hours ago – killed most probably by Red Jaw himself.

‘Yes. Do you see here, Constable Cullen? If you look around the edge of the grate you can see the darker soot of the inner chimney quite black against the grey of the other combusted
materials. I would say that whatever caused those scratches occurred after this fire had burned itself out.’

‘I see it. But—’

‘Quite – what was the cause? There is nothing here now to indicate that any object living or dead was lowered down. Whatever it might have been, it no longer exists.’

‘Perhaps some kind of noxious gas, sir?’

‘What is that, Constable?’

‘Well, sir. I was thinking that—’

‘No – what is that stain on your trouser leg. It was not there when we arrived at the house. Was there something on the roof?’

‘A bird, sir . . . I wiped my hand—’

‘Show me your hand . . . the palm. Let me smell . . . Hmm. Do you know that smell, Constable?’

PC Cullen sniffed gingerly at his soiled palm.

‘No? I am surprised you have not come across it before. That is opium, Constable. Opium mixed with something else that sailors are prone to smoke along with it:
hashish
– a
highly soporific combination.’

‘Sir?’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘Beside the chimney base, sir. On the tiles.’

‘It seems unlikely that a passing bird dropped it there. I think we have our solution to this little mystery. ’

‘I don’t follow . . .’

‘Of course, we cannot be sure, but I would say that the events unfolded thus: the resident of the attic room – most likely your Red Jaw – waited until sometime just before
dawn, when the fires had burned out, and clambered up to the roof. There, he wrenched off the chimney pot for easier access and lowered some kind of device down to this room. Perhaps it was a
censer of the kind used in Catholic or Orthodox churches. Whatever it was, it was loaded with opium and possibly other narcotics, which, when lowered into this small room gave off a quantity of
intoxicating smoke. Most likely he covered the chimney to seal the room completely.’ ‘But wouldn’t the gentleman have woken up?’ ‘Perhaps under normal circumstances,
but we have evidence enough to suggest otherwise (not least his death). The candle on the desk had burned out, which tells us Mr Askern was possibly too tired to extinguish it. Let us also remember
that the effect of these narcotics is extreme relaxation. Some men have simply never woken after overindulging in such a combination. There is no sudden shock of waking to smell smoke. Indeed, if
he had woken at all, it would have been to a warm stupor of sleepiness. Two or three hours breathing such smoke would have been quite enough. And, finally, let us recall that Mr Askern had a weak
chest – a factor that the murderer most likely knew when he chose this ingenious plan.’

‘Sir? You sound as if you admire the murderer.’ ‘The plan is quite perfect: to kill a man by smoke alone, leaving a corpse that not only shows no injury but in fact gives every
impression of peace. Evidently the smoke had dissipated by the time Mr Allan broke down the door – and what if it had not? The deed had still been done and the criminal fled. A man who
concocts such a plan is to be feared, even by the Detective Force.’ ‘Will you catch him, sir?’ ‘I do not know. Naturally we can make investigations among the opium dens, and
among the churches or ecclesiastical suppliers to see if a censer has been recently stolen or bought. The sources of such a thing are rare enough. But I fear it will do us little good.’

‘Sir . . . have you lost heart? The men say that if anyone can catch this man, it is you.’

‘No, that is no longer the case. I am beginning to think Mr Newsome – wherever his loyalties lie – was correct in at least one of his initial assumptions: a criminal like your
Red Jaw will seldom be caught by a policeman such as me. He does not observe the rules – or rather, he knows the rules and how to break them in a way they would never be broken.’

‘I am not sure I follow you, sir. What was that about Inspector Newsome?’

‘The surgeon in the field hospital must often decide to let one man die so that he can direct his attentions to one who may live. Can one break a law in order to uphold a greater one
– if the outcome is the greater good?’

‘Sir?’

‘There is another, PC Cullen, who can catch Red Jaw. He is the man who came to the house earlier and was dragged there again by the other constables. He is very likely a criminal . . . In
fact, I have no idea at all who he truly is or what he may be . . . Constable – if I asked you to perform a duty that goes against your training and your duty as a policeman . . . if I asked
you to break the law in the name of catching a murderer, would you follow my orders?’

‘To catch Red Jaw, sir, and play my part in this case, I would walk into Hell itself and shackle the Devil if you ordered me to.’

‘That will not be necessary. Although the task I have in mind may be of comparable difficulty. The man I speak of is in Giltspur-street gaol. And he must be free by tomorrow
evening.’

The reader will recall that the last we saw of Lucius Boyle was his appearance to the subject of his intended blackmail, a man who had been reached by a bloody path – a
path which in turn had begot yet more blood.

It had indeed been Lucius Boyle who had spent a brief, sleepless night at Mr Allan’s house, easily admitted with the letter written by his poor victim. And the murder had proceeded to
exactly the pattern surmised by Mr Williamson. Much as he would have enjoyed staying at the house even longer – right under the nose of the Detective Force – he was not a man to take
risks.

Now, twenty-four hours or so after the conflagration and the numerous events of the previous night, he was sitting beside a flaming iron stove on a coal barge just east of the Pool, near Bell
Wharf. The vessel creaked rheumatically at its mooring, bearing no lights save the flickering illumination of the iron stove on Mr Boyle’s uncovered face. It was there, among the aqueous
forest of midnight masts and serried hulls, that he awaited a visit from Henry Hawkins.

As he waited there in the gloom, what thoughts occurred in that smouldering mind? Was he afraid of capture? Did he consider the possibility that Mr Hawkins had been captured and would arrive
with the police? Was there a mob gathering on the sludgy banks at that very moment, having seen a man with a covered jaw board the barge? A man’s mind is a curious thing; it can be as shallow
and murky as a puddle, or as clear and unfathomable as the open ocean. We may assume that Mr Boyle’s was of the latter variety, its leviathans sounding where no light penetrates.

‘General! Are you here, General?’

Henry Hawkins’s nailed boots thudded on to the deck and down the steps to the coal blackness.

‘Why not shout to the whole of London, Mr Hawkins, to let everyone know that I am here?’

‘Sorry. I—’

‘Where have you been all this time? I told you to report back to me with news.’

‘I’ve been very busy, sir. Here is a newspaper.’

‘I have heard about the clergyman. Did he have anything to say?’

‘The police have questioned him twice. The first one was Williamson, who asked Mr Archer whether he had a family. He didn’t ask about you. The second was this man Noah Dyson, who
assaulted the clergyman in Hyde Park and asked him about you. Fortunately, the old gent had nothing to say except he saw another man at the Lambeth house. He’ll be seeing nothing more
now.’

‘I see. What of the detective?’

‘He offered me five hundred pounds for your location and said I would not go to prison.’

‘And?’

‘I said no, of course.’

‘Of course. Did he talk?’

‘I beat him properly, but he will live. At the last, he was whispering something that sounded like “square”. He said it over and over. Well, it could have been any square in
London. So I gave him some more boot and he started to drift off—’

‘Spare me the preamble, Mr Hawkins.’

‘I asked him about Noah Dyson and he said something about Noah and “Manchester”. Then he was gone. I could not revive him. Was he trying to tell me that Noah had gone to
Manchester? But then I had it: Manchester-square! So I went directly there the next morning. Of course, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I didn’t see anything of that Dyson cove,
but I did see a man who looked like the police. He was hanging around the square obviously waiting or looking for something. So I decided to watch him from the glove shop on the corner of
Spanish-place. Do you know the one?’

‘Are you a penny-a-liner to weave out the account?
To the matter of the story
.’

‘Well, after some time, a black man comes out of a house in the square and this police gent starts to follow him. So I followed, too, and I followed the two of them all over London. The
dusky fellow went into a costume shop at Leicester-square and came out shortly after. And would you believe where he went next? To that very house in Lambeth where the girl was killed! And the
black man puts a piece of paper under the door before setting off right back to the house at Manchester-square.’