The Incendiary's Trail (37 page)

‘Have you seen any of them, Constable?’ muttered the judicial Mr Williamson.

‘Yes, sir. Ten yards ahead is the inspector.’

‘Ah, yes, I see him.’

‘He has told his men to look for a Greek and a Moor. He described Benjamin and Mr Dyson.’

‘Good work. Keep following him. Prevent him in his duty if you can. If you see any of his constables, tell them you have seen Benjamin at the entrance. Keep them looking awry.’

‘Yes, sir—’

But the ‘judge’ had taken a different path and was heading for the Grove, where an audience was gathered around the gazebo for a vocal performance supported by a small orchestra. The
gathered people had hushed momentarily in anticipation of the first notes, and all eyes were bent upon the singer, an attractive lady with curled blonde hair spilling from her bonnet.

Mr Williamson did not look at the lady, however. He cast his eyes across the people for one that was out of rhythm, one that was not behaving in a like manner, one that (like himself) had an
alternative purpose. He was looking for a man in a costume much like everyone around him, most probably with a full-face masque – an almost futile task in that environment.

There were couples; there were groups; there was the occasional unaccompanied person – but all were occupied with the pleasures around them. With a drink or a ham sandwich in hand, they
observed the musicians or the various shows. They moved leisurely directionless and observed what went on around them without excessive concern or agitation. In short, they were having fun.

All except for one man, a man moving purposefully away from the crowd and heading towards the firework ground – a man whose gait and build seemed familiar, and who seemed quite
uninterested in all that was happening around him.

Mr Williamson pushed his way through the people and tried to keep sight of the other man. Though the tree-lined walkways were brilliantly lit, the shadows between them were dark enough, and
those recesses not yet occupied by illicit lovemaking could harbour the man at any moment.

As for the object of Mr Williamson’s pursuit, his costume was that of the Greek or Roman orator: sweeping folds of white drapery and the obligatory laurel at his temples. Over his face was
a tragedian’s masque fashioned from brass and frozen into a perpetual grimace of agony. It was polished to such a degree that any interlocutor would simply gaze back at his own distorted
reflection. Only the eyes were visible.

As Mr Williamson followed, the man walked without pause in his chosen direction. He did not look at the other carnival-goers, even those dressed as Moors and Greeks. Whatever he was looking for,
he seemed to know where he would find it.

Together and apart, they crunched along the gravelled pathways towards the open area at the eastern end of the Gardens, where the firework ground could be found, and where two enormous balloons
swayed in their fully inflated state, tethered complainingly to the earth by numerous ropes and pegs. One of them was the balloon of the famous Mr Lyme, its red and gold stripes held like a
sub-marine behemoth within a vast net. A crowd of people gathered admiringly around its wicker car.

This was also the area where Mr Hardy and his
troupe
could be found, located a safe distance from the good taste and
decorum
of the dancing halls and supper tables, at an outer
perimeter reserved for oddities and wonders: the very edge of Eden, where illumination strained to reach.

The theatrical
façade
of their show – otherwise an enclosed structure of shoddy gimcrackery – was as gaudy as one might expect. Wooden boards depicted lurid
representations of the performers themselves: Edgar the giant pictured perhaps a foot higher than his already miraculous (or cursed) height and with a midget loaf of bread in his palm; Eugenia in
full beard and inflated like a ball in her specially constructed throne; Mr Hardy dwarfed by a conventionally proportioned dog, who on closer inspection proved to be Missy herself with a bone
between her teeth. The man with the destroyed face was not pictured at all (perhaps because no exaggeration could do justice to his woe). There was, however, a conspicuous space in the gallery of
dysmorphia, an undecorated area no doubt once occupied by poor ElizaBeth’s cruel effigy.

The Graeco-Roman paused for a moment outside the frontage, as did Mr Williamson. A hawker stood before the entrance regaling hesitant onlookers with titbits of what they might see if they parted
with their money:

‘Come inside! Come inside! See the prodigious man-giant Edgar who was three feet tall
at birth
, ladies and gentlemen – not a word of a lie. He could hold your head in his palm
like you hold a wine cork. Come inside! Cast your eyes upon Eugenia the bearded behemoth – as heavy as an elephant and as hirsute as an ape. But not, ladies and gentlemen, as hairy as her
child . . . or should I say
dog
, for the creature is both simultaneously. The wonders of nature reside within. No tricks here – you may touch and converse with them if you don’t
believe. Just a shilling!’

Mr Williamson’s mouth turned down at the artless patter and at the vulgarity of the thing. A number of people were hesitating whether to venture inside, weighing their repulsion and
dubiety against their fascination for the hideous. One of them was dressed as an ancient warrior, perhaps Achilles. His polished breastplate and greaves glinted dully in the gaslight and a
gladiator’s iron mask covered his face. A dagger was sheathed at his hip. Presently, a number of people walked forward to the entrance with their coins ready, and the Graeco-Roman, too, took
his opportunity to enter with them. The ‘judge’ followed.

Inside, there was a small, dimly lit area for a dozen or so observers, and a raised stage illuminated on both sides by long plumes of flickering gas. An unclean green velvet curtain hung at the
rear of the stage. The audience murmured among themselves and waited.

Then the curtain parted in the middle and Mr Hardy emerged to gasps and mutterings from the people. He was immaculately turned out in a tailored suit and carried a tiny cane.

‘Ladies and gentleman, my name is Goliath. I welcome you to my world of anatomical curiosities,’ he began in his odd falsetto voice. ‘Here you will find wonders . .
.’

But a number of his audience were not paying attention to the speech. Sergeant Williamson kept his eyes on the laurel wreath of his target. The ancient soldier looked at the judge and discerned
from that venerable personage’s gaze that he, too, should be looking in the same direction. Noting this, he began to move slowly back towards the entrance to prevent anyone else from leaving
or entering. But before he arrived there, another pushed inside, a man not in costume but in his conventional attire: Inspector Newsome.

‘. . . Let me introduce Edgar the man giant,’ continued Mr Hardy. And the lumbering gentleman emerged from the curtain with his head brushing the roof. As the exclamations of wonder
burst forth, Mr Hardy cast a sly glance at both the judge and Achilles and saw the direction of their gazes.

When the audience reaction had subsided, Mr Hardy continued: ‘Let me stand beside Edgar to show his full height. But, no . . . the comparison is unfair. Who among you will come to stand
beside Edgar to properly show his enormity? How about you there – the gentleman dressed as Socrates or perhaps Herodotus. You are of a conventional height. Come up on to the stage,
won’t you?’

All eyes turned to the Graeco-Roman. All eyes including those of Inspector Newsome, who focused intently on the man.

‘Don’t be shy, sir. You may keep on your masque. Just stand here beside Edgar for us to compare.’

The Greek shook his head but did not speak. A few of the audience began to clap and encourage him to go on stage that they might not themselves become the focus of attention. Still he shook his
head, adamant that he would not go.

‘Have you something to hide, sir?’ chided Mr Hardy in a mild mocking tone. ‘What could
you
have to be ashamed of in comparison to us, anomalies of nature that we are. I
perceive that you are normal in every way . . . unless your masque hides a terrible secret.’

At this, the audience laughed and called out variously to the silent gentlemen:

‘Go on – stand next to the giant!’

‘Don’t be shy, sir. ’

‘Take off your masque and show us your deformity!’

‘A big nose, I’ll bet!’

‘Or a red jaw.’

The latter comment was from Achilles, standing behind them all at the entrance. The Greek jerked round to stare in his direction – and an unnerving, silent stillness settled over that
murky space. The theatrical atmosphere was replaced with one of confinement. Breathing was the only sound. The people looked between the soldier and the Greek, then back to the Greek.

‘Take off your masque, sir,’ said a ‘Scotsman’, all trace of good-natured goading now gone. ‘You are making the ladies nervous.’

‘I am Detective Inspector Newsome of the Detective Force,’ said the inspector. All eyes turned upon him. ‘I demand that you remove that mask.’

Edgar stepped down from the stage and approached the Greek through the people, who moved fearfully away. But the Greek did not flinch or show fear. Instead, he reached inside his folds and
produced a pistol. And still the giant advanced on him.

‘Put that gun down! You have no conceivable escape!’ shouted Inspector Newsome.

Edgar continued as inexorably as a fully laden Thames barge and reached out a colossal hand towards the Greek’s masque. The pistol cracked: a staggering detonation in that small space.

A general clamour of screams and shouts went up and people rushed to the exit, the Greek among them. But Edgar was no more inconvenienced by the bullet than by a fly upon his belly. He clamped
his hand upon his target’s shoulder and halted the gentleman’s flight as an obstructing tree might.

Inspector Newsome closed in upon the pair, as did Mr Williamson and Achilles. In a moment, they were the only remaining persons, forming an awkward tableau of conflict: the giant Edgar holding
the Greek’s upper arm as in a vice; the miniature Mr Hardy watching intently from the stage; the Homeric warrior, now holding a dagger; the judge holding up placating hands; and Inspector
Newsome, oblivious to the identity of any but the Greek.

‘Noah Dyson! Remove your masque. You are under arrest,’ said the inspector to the pinioned Greek.

TWENTY-SIX

‘I am here,’ replied Noah, removing the gladiatorial mask and showing himself as Achilles.

The inspector looked at him in bewilderment.

‘Did you really think I was going to dress as a typical Greek when both you and Boyle expected me to? I am not the fool you take me for, Inspector.’

Edgar used his free hand to snatch the Greek’s masque away, revealing – as the reader has long ago surmised – the virulent countenance of Lucius Boyle. His face was so scarlet
with rage that the jaw was almost consumed within it.

‘So – two criminals caught in one evening,’ said Mr Newsome with evident satisfaction.

‘Three.’

The speaker was Mr Williamson. He removed his judge’s wig and wiped the
rouge
from his nose and cheeks with a sleeve. ‘I aided Noah in his escape. Therefore I am also a
criminal in your eyes. Will you arrest me also?’

The inspector stared incredulously at his fellow detective.

‘Four.’

This voice came from behind. All except Lucius Boyle turned to see PC Cullen at the entrance. He was holding his truncheon.

‘What in d— is going on here?’ said Mr Newsome.

‘I also aided Detective Williamson in the escape of Mr Dyson, sir. Therefore, I, too, am guilty. As are you, Inspector.’

‘Are you quite mad, Constable? Do you realize what you are saying, and to whom?’

‘The constable speaks for us all,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘We have reason to believe that you have been in contact with Mr Boyle here for some time, that he has been blackmailing
you, that his access to Mr Allan’s house was gained with your help and that you recruited Noah to end the blackmail by any means within your power.’

‘You are all bereft of your senses! What you say is sheer nonsense.’

‘We can ask Mr Boyle himself about that.’

Lucius Boyle had remained quiet throughout this exchange. He had ceased his struggles and stood observing the scene playing out before him. Of his pursuers, only one seemed to be of any
significance to him. He looked at Noah constantly.

For his part, Noah glared at his enemy with an unbroken stare. The dagger was still grasped in his hand. In an instant he could spring forward and bury the steel in Boyle’s heart. But
would he, in that instant, receive payment for his years of imprisonment, his humiliations, his violations, his lashes, his losses? Was death retribution enough?

‘Noah! Put away that dagger. That is not the way,’ said Mr Williamson, who had just discerned the hatred sparking between the two.

‘You are
all
under arrest,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘I have six constables with me. They will be here momentarily.’