The Incendiary's Trail (4 page)

‘I do not know. Perhaps she did have an address, or perhaps someone was going to collect it; we have many visiters here. Indeed, it was a visiter who delivered it here. Perhaps she was
writing it merely for her own fancy. ’

‘Who delivered the letter?’

‘I did not see the gentleman. He brought it to the street door and gave the boy a penny to bring it upstairs.’

‘And where is this boy now?’

‘If he is not downstairs at this moment, I have no idea.’

‘Hmm. You spoke of visiters. What visiters do you have in this place?’

At this moment, however, the questioning was interrupted by the return of Mr Henry Coggins. A commotion was heard from outside the door and the baritone of PC Cullen insisting, ‘No
admittance here!’ A scuffle of feet was heard, and the repeated phrase, ‘This is my abode!
Let me through!
’

‘I apprehend that Mr Coggins is returned,’ muttered Mr Hardy. A flutter of reaction went through the group. Then the man himself burst into the room, hatless.

He was a diminutive figure whose immediate identifying characteristic was the preposterous blond peruke that sat askew on his head, perhaps knocked that way by the scuffle outside. He was
perspiring freely and clearly still under the influence of alcohol, swaying slightly. Sergeant Williamson’s first thought was that the face resembled something one might see on a
butcher’s block – and a particularly cheap and disreputable butcher at that.

‘What in d— is happening here?’ yelled the bewigged fellow. ‘Hardy! What is this b— circus? Hardy, where are you? I can’t see you. Step out from where you
are, man – you’re no bigger than a cat for G—’s sake! Must I look under the tables?’

‘I will thank you to remember, when you speak so, that ladies are present,’ remonstrated Mr Williamson in an even voice as Mr Coggins stared wildly about him for his tiny
employee.

The bleary eyes of the self-styled ‘Dr Zwigoff’ settled upon the now standing Detective Williamson. He reached up to the hat he had evidently lost while on his debauches and instead
set the peruke level with an air of authority. His clothing – a suit that must once have been expensive when made for its original owner – was in a state of disruption and he reeked of
pipe smoke and gin.

‘And who in the name of C— might you be, sitting at my kitchen table as if you owned it and telling me how to speak to my own employees? I have a mind to knock you down, sir .
’

Mr Hardy jumped down from the chair he was occupying by the fire:

‘This is Sergeant Williamson of the Detective Force, Mr Coggins. He is here about the murder of Eliza-Beth. He has been ques—’

‘
Murder?
Did you say murder, Mr Hardy?’

Williamson raised his voice: ‘
Mr Coggins
. The lady called Eliza-Beth has been murdered here this night and lies at the mortuary as we speak. I have been waiting for you to return so
that I might—’

‘Eliza-Beth dead? It’s not possible.’

‘I understand that you are shocked at this loss, but—’

‘“Loss”, you say? You understand it right! Of all my “anatomical curiosities”, she was the biggest draw among the crowds, not to mention private showings. I shall
be ruined! Do you realize how rare such a specimen is, constable?
Ruined
, I say!’

‘I am not a constable. I am Detective Sergeant George Williamson and I hold the power to have you taken directly to the nearest watch house and incarcerated for drunkenness and
unreasonable behaviour if I so choose. At the moment, however, I would like you to accompany me upstairs so I might speak with you away from these good people. I perceive that they are ill at ease
in your company.’

‘Ill at ease? Why, you d— scoundrel! They positively revere me, I’ll have you know. And if I wasn’t feeling so unsteady on my feet on account of the early hour, I would
knock you down.’

What followed was brief and efficacious. PC Cullen was requested to enter the house and escort Mr Coggins upstairs, which journey was occasioned by some accidental violence to his person on
account of falling a number of times against the constable’s fist. He thus found himself somewhat more sober and attentive when forced into a chair in his own room for the interview with Mr
Williamson. The peruke had again been disturbed from its customary situation, though he was insensible to it.

‘Now, Mr Coggins. I will be brief because I see you are emotional after your night out. I know that you have been absent since around ten o’clock last evening, so you are not a
suspect. At least, not yet. The lady Eugenia told me that you have a number of visiters at this house. Who are they and why do they come?’

Perceiving that his testimony was of some worth to the detective, Mr Coggins adopted a coyness not native to his character: ‘Well, Mr Williamson. There are a number of people who visit,
but I cannot recall directly who they were.’

‘Perhaps your memory might be aided by a trip to the gaol, escorted by PC Cullen. I assumed that you have already formed a close acquaintance.’

‘He’s a bully, that man. Hmm. Well, if you insist on this course of questioning . . . We generally receive the same kind of people when we are in London. The doctors are great ones
for measuring and sketching, of course. You wouldn’t believe how many of them have offered me money for the skeleton of Eliza-Beth on her eventual passing – not that I would consider
such a thing, you understand.’

‘Have any doctors visited since you have been appearing at Vauxhall Gardens?’

‘Just one. A strange cove, he was, too. He didn’t make sketches like they usually do. But he gave me a card that said he was a doctor of Harley-street. I have the card about the
place somewhere if you don’t believe me.’

‘What do you mean that he was a “strange cove”?’

‘Well, I have met a good many doctors and they are all alike. This man was certainly educated and he knew a lot of medical words like “skeleton” and suchlike. But there was
something I just couldn’t place. He wore a scarf to prevent him breathing mephitic air, he said. Still, he paid what was due . . . Oh, you needn’t look at me that way – I
can’t live on air alone.’

‘I will ask to see that card.’ The detective made a note. ‘Who else has visited?’

‘We had a writer fellow who said he was preparing a book on the “underworld” of London. The “underworld” if you like! Do I seem like the underworld to you,
detective?’

‘I could not say. What did this writer want to research?’

‘Oh, he asked my employees about their origins, where they were born and if they recalled their parents. He wrote it all down in a strange hand – Greek perhaps. He had a terrible
chest on him, poor fellow – the consumption I suspect. And he took great interest in me and my business. We travel all across these isles and my name is well known across the land, as
“Dr Zwigoff” of course. It is my little conceit – it sounds more theatrical than “Coggins”, you understand.’

‘Quite. Did the writer also leave a card?’

‘He did, and paid, too. More than the clergyman, at any account. He gave me nothing.’

‘The clergyman?’

‘Oh yes! An odd one, he was. “Apocalypse” this and “Revelation” that – a veritable walking scripture! He didn’t want to talk to the ladies and
gentlemen, only to look at them. I couldn’t tell if he was incensed or ecstatic as he condemned us all. He called me – what was it? – the “Devil’s minion” or
some such nonsense. Quite coddled in the head, as my grandmother used to say. There was a real smell of fire and brimstone about him! He left no card, but I recall his name: Reverend Josiah Archer.
I’m told he preaches on street corners.’

‘I believe I know of him. Does this conclude the series of visiters?’

‘No, there was another – though I must insist that my revelation of her name remains a strict secret between us because she is well known about the Haymarket.’

‘I am a sergeant of the Detective Force, Mr Coggins – not a fellow you might happen to meet in a public house. We are not making conversation but conducting a murder
investigation.’

‘Does this mean I am not to receive my customary fee for an interview?’

‘Indeed it does. I may, however, be inclined to offer you your freedom.’

‘I see how it goes with you, Detective. Well – the lady in question was none other than Mary Chatterton, she of the Night Rooms at Haymarket. She was here just two nights
ago.’

‘You surprise me, Mr Coggins. I understand the other vis-iters’ motives, but why would Mary Chatterton visit this house?’

‘I admit I was also surprised. She said she had seen the show at Vauxhall and felt a great pity for the performers. She spoke to Eliza-Beth and to Eugenia particularly. She was once a
great beauty was Miss Chatterton: quite the courtesan. I’ve heard that the nights at her suppers can be quite “warm”, as they say. Not that I know of such things personally, you
understand.’

‘Naturally. Did any of the visiters pass a letter to ElizaBeth?’

‘Ah-ha! The letter! You are a sharp one, Mr Williamson! I was very curious about that letter. It was delivered the same night that Mary came, only much later. I saw Eliza-Beth reading it
just the other day and tried my best to get a look at it, but she kept it tightly in her bodice. I couldn’t even get it while she was sleeping . . . not that I tried. But even if I had wanted
to—’

‘Who delivered it?’

‘That I cannot tell you. I asked her about it, but she was a secretive one . . . or I should say two. In truth, she was two people: Eliza the quiet one and Beth the natural performer. I
have seen one of them sleeping while the other spoke. In my job, you see some curious things, detective, I can tell you. Have you seen the dog-child? I paid a pretty penny for her. Lord knows where
she comes from – she cannot speak a word of any human tongue. She just barks like a dog. Still, the public love her! You should see the shock when they behold her!’

‘Tell me something, Mr Coggins. Do you feel no guilt about your work?’

‘Guilt? Why? I am the protector of these poor people. I give them a home and a retreat from the prying eyes of the public. Without me they would surely be dead.’

‘And do you share the profits of your show with them?’

‘I feed them and clothe them. I provide their accommodation and transport.’

‘Hmm. Well, I think have finished with you for the moment. I will need to spend some more time at the scene of the murder when I conclude my questioning downstairs. I have had the door to
the room securely fastened and you may not enter.’

‘I am paying the rent for this property—’

‘You will not enter until my investigation is complete.’

‘But—’

At that moment, the voice of Mr Hardy echoed up the staircase:

‘Sergeant Williamson! I think we have unearthed a clue.’

The detective left Mr Coggins looking quite ill in his chair and descended to find Mr Hardy and Eugenia apparently conversing with the dog-child. At least, the child was making a variety of
canine noises: panting, barking, whimpering and growling. Even in her present company, she was a singular specimen: completely covered in fine hair but for her eyes and the palms of her hands.

Mr Hardy turned to Williamson: ‘The little girl says she saw the murderer!’

‘How do you know this if the child cannot speak?’

‘True, she cannot speak, but she can communicate and we have learned to understand many of her utterances. Eugenia particularly has been able to fashion a mode of language with her. It
seems she was watching and saw everything as the man entered the room. He walked quietly and held some manner of weapon. He approached Eliza-Beth and apparently became transfixed by her appearance.
He recoiled, cried out, and then leaped forward to strike her. ’

‘You have understood all of this from the child’s bestial noises?’

Eugenia spoke: ‘We have raised her and know her almost like a daughter.’

‘Has she provided a description of the man? Can she illustrate him, perhaps?’

A piece of paper, a steel pen and some ink were produced from Mr Coggin’s room (as he complained of the cost) and the child was encouraged to sketch the murderer. Throughout the process,
Eugenia cajoled details in her quasi-canine tongue and pointed to various aspects of the depiction. Not for the first time that day, Mr Williamson wondered at the oddness of the situation he found
himself in.

Though extremely rudimentary, the result gave some impression of the man in question. He wore knee breeches and flat-soled shoes, a cloth cap, a waistcoat and a jacket. About his neck was a
stock. It could have been a labouring man of almost any profession. Only the shoes were anomalous: Williamson would have expected boots to complement the working-man’s
ensemble
.

‘What is this line on his face here, from the forehead down to the chin?’ asked the detective.

Eugenia grunted to the child in a strangulated yet vaguely interrogative fashion and indicated the line. The little girl then raised a tiny, hairy finger to Williamson’s own pox-scarred
face. Despite himself, he blushed.

‘A scar? He has a scar down his face?’

The facts were checked and the child concurred: the killer had a scar crossing downwards over the left eye. Under the circumstances, the detective was fortunate to have elicited so much
information from the girl – if it could be trusted. Anything subtler would surely be more difficult to procure.

Williamson was musing thus on the facts of the case when PC Cullen escorted a panting constable into the room: a messenger.

‘Sir – I am come directly from Giltspur-street and am directed to tell you to report there immediately. A carriage is waiting.’

‘I am in the midst of an investigation here, constable. The blood is still fresh and I must look over the crime scene once more now that it is light. I will come to Giltspur-street in my
own time. I can assure you of that.’

‘Please, sir, I was sent here by Superintendent Wilberforce and Inspector Newsome. They are waiting there now and told me that you should return with me as matter of exceptional
priority.’

‘Their exact words, I assume.’