The Incendiary's Trail (40 page)

‘The miniature gentleman . . . he has taken over from Mr Coggins as—’

‘I remember. Proceed.’

‘Well, we boarded the balloon together, he and I, and joined forces in the pursuit. On landing, he was quite badly injured. These injuries, in addition to those he sustained at the hands
of Mr Henry Hawkins, mean that he is not currently fit for duty. We have agreed that he will take some time away from the Detective Force in convalescence.’

‘Is that advisable? He is one of our finest men; we need men like him on the streets of the city pursuing crime, not malingering in bed.’

‘The injuries were quite serious, sir, and, I fear, not restricted to the body. This case has shaken him like no other. It may have reduced his faith in his own abilities, Commissioner.
When a policeman is afraid to venture into a dark alley, whether actual or metaphorical, he has lost his worth.’

‘I will thank you not to wax poetical with me, Inspector. I’m sure we will be seeing more of Sergeant Williamson, whatever you say. There will certainly be no more of this
regrettable activity with known criminals.’

‘Certainly not, sir.’

‘It has been a most curious case, has it not? I feel that there are still parts of it that I do not understand. Much of it seems purely motiveless.’

‘Indeed. From what Mr Hawkins deigned to tell us, it appears that the original murder of Eliza-Beth was in order to procure evidence for a case of blackmail, either of the mother or
father. Mary Chatterton was evidently the mother and yielded nothing but her life. The murders of Mr Coggins, the clergyman and Mr Askern were evidently aimed at eradicating witnesses of
Boyle’s visits to Lambeth – a rather drastic set of measures.’

‘And still we have no idea who the victim of this supposed blackmail was? Is he somewhere in the metropolis, joyful at Boyle’s death and yet stricken with the slaughter committed to
protect his name?’

‘We have no idea, sir. I am afraid it is a thread we cannot and, perhaps, should not pursue.’

‘I fear you are correct. However, there is one “thread” I am keen to sever. I presume that Mr Dyson is on his way back to New South Wales.’

‘Ah. That is an issue I wanted to discuss with you . . .’

Mr Williamson was sitting alone at home. He put down the newspaper with a mirthless smile. Both articles were thoroughly incorrect in their own way, but they told the story
they intended to, making appropriate heroes and villains of the characters in the whole murderous tale. As for Mr Williamson himself, which was he?

Needless to say, he had not been injured in the balloon landing. That piece of artifice had been Inspector Newsome’s idea – or rather his insistence. Mr Newsome had come to the house
on the Sunday after the balloon chase and found Mr Williamson in a confrontational humour.

‘Have you come to arrest me for aiding Noah’s escape, Inspector Newsome?’

‘I am reassured that you would think so. That is the George Williamson I know: the one who would arrest his closest friend if he proved to be a criminal.’

‘You are not my closest friend, and I am not that George Williamson.’

‘Indeed. Indeed you are not. And that is why I have come. Not to arrest you, but to discuss your future in the Detective Force.’

‘Am I to be suspended? Or expelled completely?’

‘I think we can find another solution, one that is less drastic. I will tell Commissioner Mayne that you were injured in the balloon chase. You still have visible injuries from your
beating so this will be quite plausible. I will recommend a period of convalescence which will, in time, grow into your retirement from the Metropolitan Police.’

‘I have given my life to the police. How am I . . .?’

‘Mr Williamson, the alternative is a trial and gaol, possibly transportation. The other convicts would not take kindly to an ex-detective in their midst.’

‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘You did it to yourself the moment you stepped on to the side of the criminal.’

‘And you have never stepped across that dividing line, Albert? Not when you recruited Noah to do your work for you? Not when you allowed Noah to be locked in Giltspur-street as bait to
draw a murderer who would have slain him?’

‘What I did, I did in the interests of justice.’

‘As did I, but you obviously cannot see that. Lucius Boyle was caught and the matter is over. We approached the same conclusion from different paths.’

‘My path did not involve two gaolers and three constables brutally injured at the hands of Mr Dyson. It involved the breaking of no law – only the stretching of it.’

‘Since I clearly have no option in what you suggest, at least do me the honour of being truthful about your motivations in removing me from the police. What intrigue are you involved in
now?’

‘George, do you still suspect me of complicity with that man?’

‘No, I do not. I admit I was following the wrong path. Even if I did believe you were the victim of his blackmail, there is little now that I could do to prove it. I wonder if it is
selfishness that you would like all the acclaim to fall upon your shoulders for this success?’

‘It is not. It is the simple fact that I believe you have lost your sense of right and wrong. I am sure that even you understand we cannot have a serving detective who has aided a criminal
to break out of prison. We would become the joke of the entire nation. It is better that you disappear gradually from view.’

‘Hmm. Hmm.’

‘It is really the best solution.’

‘Hmm. Have you behaved similarly with PC Cullen? Is he to be hanged?’

‘You need not be so melodramatic. The man is a capable policeman; he was following your orders and cannot be blamed for his actions. He is a simple man and quite in awe of the detectives.
I have been no harsher with him than having him transferred to traffic duty on London-bridge.’

‘Where he may be trampled, crushed or maimed at any moment.’

‘If you say so. I can see you are tired, but I do have one further question before I leave. Have you had any contact with Noah Dyson since Friday night when we all came back to the
city?’

‘I have not seen him or heard from him since that night – nor do I have any wish to. It was only through your machinations that we were introduced and there is no need for any
further contact. Perhaps you will find him at home.’

‘Well, that is the thing. We went to his house the very next morning but there was no answer. We forced entry and discovered – it appears – that the man and his manservant have
fled. The furniture remains, but the books and clothing have gone. I suspect that this occurred at the hands of the Negro even while we were at Vauxhall. The two of them seem to have vanished . . .
do you find something amusing, Mr Williamson?’

‘Nothing.’

‘If you have any information about his whereabouts, you are bound to deliver it. If he sends you a letter or one of his cryptic communications via a street boy or fancy-dress impostor, I
trust you will contact me immediately. I must find him. He belongs on the other side of the world where he cannot damage the reputation of the Detective Force.’

‘Of course I will give you any information I have.’

‘Well . . . good. I trust you have heard about Dr McLeod?’

‘Yes. A tragic loss.’

‘Why would he kill himself? Do you suspect anything suspicious? He was connected to this case, however tangen-tially.’

‘I have no idea. I did not know him well. I suspect that few did. I was sorry to hear the news.’

‘Quite. Well, I will be leaving. I hope that we will remain in contact; if not professionally, then at least for the occasional cup of tea.’

‘I think not.’

‘That is a pity. Goodbye.’

Now alone, Mr Williamson unfolded the letter he had received by post that very morning: the last letter written by Dr McLeod:

Mr Williamson held the letter in his hand with a feeling of commingled pity, sorrow and anger. He reserved the anger for himself for not having discerned the facts sooner. Had
he done so, he might have prevented multiple deaths, including that of the doctor.

Were there clues? In retrospect, he had to admit that there were, if only he had been able to piece them together. There was the body of Josiah Archer. Was the slip of paper in his dead hand
– ‘I am watching. You will do my bidding’ – addressed to Mr Williamson as he had thought – or to the man who would very likely see it first, the man who actually did
find it first: the doctor? Mr McLeod had paled at the sight of the handwriting. And he had just left the man who had written it.

No doubt Inspector Newsome had told Dr McLeod of Mr Allan’s secret house and the means of entry to it. The letter accompanying Lucius Boyle to that address had claimed he had a
‘partially severed tongue’ – a decidedly medical-sounding explanation. Why not simply an ‘injured mouth’? Why any reason at all? Only Mr Newsome’s name was
required to gain entry, but Dr McLeod had not known that when he wrote the letter. And the choice of murder weapon – a mixture of opium and hashish delivered to a man with respiratory
problems – had a clinical genius to it that even Lucius Boyle might not have considered. Had the doctor also been forced to supply the change of clothes that Boyle had found before visiting
the house?

It was a ragged collection of clues that carried weight only after the death and confession of the doctor. And yet, hadn’t it seemed there was an equal quantity of clues against Inspector
Newsome?

Mr Williamson rubbed his eyes and looked into the hearth. The fire was dying and required more coal. His thoughts turned to Noah and he smiled again at the seemingly miraculous disappearance of
the man. Where was he now? On a ship bound for the Indies or America? Or was he standing on the street outside dressed as a rag-picker, a cabman or a swell about town, watching over his erstwhile
colleague? The man might well be everywhere – or nowhere: London’s very
genius loci
.

The detective reluctantly left the warmth of his chair and bent to the bucket of coal before the fire died completely.

With what emotions had Noah gazed upon the blistered countenance of his enemy? Had it been with relief? With anger? With pity? The face staring back at him had hardly been
human. Rather, it was a liquescent parody of anatomy: bone and cartilage showing through black paper skin, eyes clouded with film, all trace of identity wiped clean by the purifying flame. It could
be none other than Lucius Boyle. Nobody else had been in the balloon.

There must have been no satisfaction in it. To have Boyle killed in a mere accident was a hollow victory. The cadaver seemed unreal – a mere effigy of the man Noah had known and carried
with him as a talisman of vengeance for years. All vitality and threat had been purged from the body by the cleansing flame. Only ash was left.

The men had travelled back to the city in a carriage provided by the assistants of Mr Lyme – the usual method of retrieving aeronauts. Few words had been exchanged on that trip, for the
pursuit of Boyle had consumed each man in its way and worked its own web of animosities between them. No further mention of guilt or arrest was made; no more accusations were thrown. They would
come later, as we have seen.

On reaching the City-road, Noah had simply opened the carriage door as they turned a corner and stepped out into the night. Inspector Newsome had shouted after him, but he was gone. Gone back to
the streets and the invisibility he had cultivated before his inadvertent capture. Gone so completely that even I did not know where he had gone – at least, for some time.

Was there a second house that he had kept for years in anticipation of the necessity to flee? No doubt the loss of his property in Manchester-square was a painful one, though he had taken
everything of personal value. The police could – and would – search it for clues to his whereabouts. They would search in vain. And then, suddenly, they would cease their attempts on
the orders of Inspector Newsome, who would ascribe his unwillingness to continue to the futility of the search and the lack of manpower. The true reason, however, was quite different.