The Incendiary's Trail (36 page)

Noah dropped the chains, turned right and pulled open the street door. PC Cullen was waiting there and ran with him to the waiting carriage’s open door. They boarded, slammed the door and
the horses were off with a crack of the whip and sparking hooves.

Sergeant Williamson sat in the carriage and regarded the two new arrivals with a smile. ‘Shall we go to the ball, gentlemen? I have our costumes and masques here.’

TWENTY-FIVE

As the carriage headed south, rocking the three men from side to side, they reflected on the manner of the escape.

‘I congratulate you on your criminal mind, Mr Williamson,’ said Noah. ‘And I thank you for aiding my escape.’

‘I thought that having you out of gaol would serve justice better than Mr Newsome using you as bait to catch Mr Boyle.’

‘Quite right. Where is Benjamin?’

‘He is waiting at your home on the chance that Mr Boyle goes there. I presume he is quite able to deal with the murderer?’

‘Quite able. And it is likely people will be wasting energy looking for Ben at Vauxhall. Have you learned anything more about the inspector’s role in this?’

‘Perhaps, but first I think there is some information that you have for me. I have signalled my good faith and risked my position on the understanding that you have the means to apprehend
Lucius Boyle.’

‘I believe I have. He knows that I will be at the
bal masqué
tonight – or at least he will have surmised this. If he knew of my arrest, he will soon also hear of my
escape.’

‘How do you know that Mr Boyle knows you will be at Vauxhall?’

‘The letter I had Benjamin deliver. It was addressed to Mr Hardy, the diminutive gentleman who seems to have replaced the late Mr Coggins as leader of that curious
troupe
. In it, I
made clear that I was going to visit him at Vauxhall Gardens tonight in order to discuss Lucius Boyle further.’

‘But Mr Boyle must already know that Mr Hardy is no longer resident at the house – and that the tiny gentleman has not received the note.’

‘Quite, but he does not know that I know that. As far as he is concerned, I will be there tonight. It is the last night of the season at Vauxhall and the human curiosities will make one
final appearance. It is perhaps Boyle’s final chance to find me – and them, if he wishes them harm. And what could be a greater opportunity for him than an occasion where disguises are
de rigueur.’

‘Still, you have no guarantee he will be there. He may perceive that it is a trap.’

‘No, no guarantee. And, yes, he will be aware that it may be a trap. But he was not deterred from attending the execution of Mr Bradford, was he? He is bold. Fear of discovery has made him
so.’

‘Hmm. I still fail to see how this is a plan. He may be there, but so will thousands of others. How will we know him from his costume?’

‘We know that he is interested in Mr Hardy and friends, and in finding me. Thus, he is most likely to be found near that show. Also, I believe I will be able to discern his gait and
presence, if not his costume. I do, however, have one concern: the possibility that he will send his lackey Hawkins in his stead.’

‘I do not think so. Mr Henry Hawkins is imprisoned at this very moment.’

‘Yes? Tell me what happened.’

‘It seems your plan worked. When the delivery of costumes arrived, the fool tried to pass himself off as the costumier’s boy. Benjamin dealt him a rousing blow and we questioned him.
He told us about the same marine store you once searched for him at—’

‘But he wasn’t there.’

‘No. I went there before coming to Giltspur-street but found the premises quite empty. I have left a man there. Either Mr Hawkins was lying, or Mr Boyle has decided there is now no one he
can trust. Mr Hawkins will hang.’

‘So it seems even more likely that Boyle will be there tonight. He has nothing to lose and perhaps something to gain. If he cannot kill me there, I am sure he will flee London. He can no
longer stay in the city. ’

‘There is also, of course, the question of Inspector Newsome. Now you have escaped, he will also be heading to Vauxhall. I am afraid that if you cannot capture Mr Boyle, you, too, will
have to leave the city – or face being transported. Again . . .’

‘Yes, it is true, Mr Williamson. Do you regret allying yourself with me now that you know for certain that I am – or was – a criminal?’

‘I always thought you were a criminal. But the foregoing weeks have made clear to me that criminality is not the unequivocal beast I thought it.’

‘I was sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation. I was betrayed by Lucius Boyle. We were partners – almost brothers. I was just a boy. But I was a boy from the streets of
London, a boy with a library within his head. The period between that time and this has been one that you could not imagine, Mr Williamson, and one that you would not believe even if I had time to
tell you. I have seen Heaven and Hell, and I carry them with me always.’

‘And what of the cracksman’s tools you were arrested with? Are you really a thief?’

‘The tools were mine, it is true. But I do not steal valuables. My search has always been for information, for Lucius Boyle. If I break a safe, it is for the documents inside it –
not the gold.’

The two men looked at each other across a gulf of experience, Lucius Boyle the bridge across that chasm of time and understanding.

As witness to the conversation, PC Cullen held his own thoughts. He strained to remember every historic word, every nugget of information, that he might recount them to hushed bar audiences for
decades to come. And he would.

‘So much for my fate, Mr Williamson,’ said Noah, ‘what of yours? If Inspector Newsome is indeed what we think he is, how are you to continue in your role?’

‘Simple – I must prove his guilt and bring him to justice, ideally before he can capture you. Perhaps tonight will bring us both men working in collusion.’

‘So. Our plan of action must be thus: we will change into our costumes when we arrive at Vauxhall. We will separate and look out for both Boyle and Inspector Newsome. There are only four
of us among thousands, but we can be reasonably sure that our targets will be mobile. They will not be at supper or dancing; they will be walking around as we are. When a man is searching for
something, his gait and demeanour cannot be hidden by a costume. Whoever finds their man will stay with him like a shadow and not permit him to leave the gardens without being waylaid. If our
targets pose a threat to our scheme, we will incapacitate them. I will go directly to Mr Hardy and await Boyle.’

‘It seems an impossible task, Noah.’

‘I think not. The inspector is unlikely to be in costume. He has not had time to prepare, and he will be there as a policeman. Boyle is looking for me and knows where I will be. The
greatest risk is his seeing us before we see him. That could be fatal. Only PC Cullen here is unknown to him. That may be to our advantage.’

At this, the constable’s face flushed and he unconsciously swelled his chest. ‘I will do all in my power, sirs.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I have all faith in you.’

Silence settled again as the three considered what lay before them. PC Cullen felt for his truncheon at his hip. The inspector looked twice at his pocket watch in the space of three minutes,
while Noah closed his eyes and breathed deep regular breaths, his palms resting in his lap.

‘There is another possibility,’ said Noah, opening his eyes after some minutes. ‘Boyle may attend the ball to kill Mr Newsome. If he has heard of my arrest (a likely
assumption), he may reason that the inspector will be there. In cutting that link, he could rid himself of the whole sorry business. His blackmail plot has proved more complicated than he expected
and it is time to stand away from the game. There will be other opportunities for him.’

‘That would be neither a satisfactory solution nor a just one,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Though I admit it would be fortuitous to have Mr Boyle thus engaged as we search for him.
As for Mr Boyle, what manner of costume do you think will be his choice?’

‘Presumably the same kind I chose: something that is common enough to be unremarkable; something neither too accomplished nor too lacking in effort. In other words, something very like the
common reveller.’

‘That is suitably vague.’

‘Indeed, Detective. It is exactly that.’

The carriage came to a halt and the driver rapped on its roof. They had arrived at Vauxhall Gardens.

And what a spectacle presented itself in the streets. Innumerable carriages were disgorging ladies and gentlemen intent on merrymaking, while still others arrived on foot. The
air was animated with laughter and conversation, and massed revellers presented a gaudy display in their costumes. There were the usual Greeks, Highlanders, Turks and clowns, as well as
postillons
, huntsmen, Leperellos and countless other curious incarnations identifiable neither by clime nor age. Some wore masques over their faces, while others wore ‘masques’
of intoxication and frivolity. Like streams flowing inexorably to the ocean, they poured through the gates of the Gardens, paying their five shillings and being welcomed by jovial masters of the
ceremonies resplendent in court costume.

It was, in short, a faithful imitation of a Neapolitan ball of the sort never seen but known from anecdote. True, the weather was cooler, and the aristocracy had deigned not to attend (Vauxhall
having long been considered
passé
). Many of the bonneted young ladies were there ‘professionally’, and many of the married gentlemen’s masques were as much to
conceal identity as to embrace the spirit of the evening. Though the entrance fee had deterred the lowest beggars and bullies, there were nevertheless countless tricksters, prigs, fakers and
cutpurses commingled among those costumed carousers.

Who is that gentleman in the garb something like an Old Testament prophet? Is he a barrister making merry, or a counterfeiter come to spend his base metals? Who, that elegant lady with her
swishing black silks and alabaster masque reminiscent of the Venetian? Is she the wife of the famous architect, or his kept woman brought hither in her own carriage from her Park-lane apartment
(paid for with his annuity)? Who is yonder Greek in his flowing white robes and laurel wreath? Who is that manic Scotsman in his red peruke and tartan kilt? And who is that gentleman dressed in the
very cerements of the grave, dusty and torn as if recently disinterred from the sarcophagus or mausoleum? His costume is particularly effective in the pale light of the full moon. No doubt he is
some dark-humoured medical student.

Music drifts from multiple locations – from the Rotunda where dancing feet thunder hollowly on a floor etched by a professional
artiste
with chalk arabesques; from the orchestra
performing in the gazebo at the Grove, and from fiddlers and drummers in Moorish costumes wandering the arboreal pathways of the Gardens.

And yet amid the hordes of duplicitous bacchanals, those imprudent imbibers of champagne, punch and sherry cobbler, there are some whose demeanour is sober and whose costume is purely
professional – the police. Particularly those half-dozen surrounding a gesticulating and red-faced Inspector Newsome.

‘Men – you are to stop any and every tall and burly Negro you may find. He is likely to be dressed as a Moor or a Greek. Look at his eyes if his face is covered and you will see a
filmy left eye. At his neck is a gallows scar. Do
not
apprehend him, but follow him. You are looking for his colleague, a man with grey eyes who is also dressed as a Greek or a Turk. If you
find
him
, arrest him. He is violent and will fight, so take care. PC Nelson – you are to wait here at the entrance and scour those entering and leaving. Now, all of you, go!’

The policemen set off in different directions to parade the colonnades and supper rooms, the dance-floors and the audiences in search of that burly Negro. As for the inspector himself, he had
somewhere else to look and someone else to find. He proceeded towards the firework ground.

PC Cullen, now wearing his regular uniform, had observed and overheard Inspector Newsome’s whole exchange with the other constables. He looked around him and, seeing that his dark-blue
attire might as well be a shadow or a painted effigy in such ostentatious company, he followed the inspector.

Mr Newsome did not stop to observe the Calcutta juggler or to marvel at the native dances of the chamois-clad Ojibbeway Indians encamped there among the trees. He stalked onwards, his brow
perspiring despite the coolness of the evening, scanning the faces and bodies around him for a Greek or a Moor. When he saw one – and there were many – he would approach them and
brusquely ask them to remove their masque before moving relentlessly on without pausing to explain his purpose to the perplexed revellers in his wake.

PC Cullen was close behind, easily observing Mr Newsome’s ragged progress through the crowds. At the same time, he looked out for his colleagues, none of whom, it seems unnecessary to say,
were dressed as either Greeks or Moors. And as he walked, the constable was joined by a portly ‘judge’ in flowing black robes and ornate grey periwig, his nose and cheeks reddened to
suggest an overindulgence in port.