The Night Calls (33 page)

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Authors: David Pirie

BOOK: The Night Calls
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Standing in that cold hallway I listened as footsteps came out of the other entrance and went off down the street in the direction of the river. The house before me was silent. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I could see the place was clean but with little furniture. I moved to the staircase and thought I could just make out a flicker of light at the top. I did not want to call out, so I started to mount the stairs.
I was on the first landing, moving as quietly as I could, when I heard the noise. It was not very loud, a scraping sound. I waited, but there was nothing more. I debated going to look in one of the rooms, but all were pitch-black, so I climbed on.
At last I reached the top and turned towards the light source, which turned out to be a half-gutted candle standing on a bench at the far end of the landing beside an open door. It illuminated a bare corridor. And the house seemed quite empty. So who had lit it and why?
I advanced along the corridor and picked the candle up. Thinking perhaps there was someone in the room beyond, I held it high so I could see through the door.
There in its guttering light was the outstretched corpse of a woman. It lay on a table, almost like some dreadful embryo. The limbs were curled, the mouth was wrenched open in shock and the eyes seemed to push forward out of their sockets.
I had seen bodies enough but none like this, for the effect was so uncanny that I almost let go of the candle. It took every shred of my medical training to move towards her. I now realised even the corpse’s hair was standing on end and I put out a hand to touch her fingers, trying as I did so not to look at her face. The fingers were rigid, which I would have expected, yet they had a horrifying quality I had never before encountered, a clammy warmth that made them slither away from me.
As I recoiled, I must have pushed the corpse’s shoulder for it seemed to quiver and I heard its teeth suddenly grind down and air came from the larynx almost as if it were starting to retch. There was something so horribly animated about this body, something so indefinably repellent, that I could bear no more. I dropped the candle and moved away back down the stairs, wanting only to get out of that house.
As I reached the first landing I thought I heard something and I looked down at the floor. The figure was crouched on its belly below me where it had been waiting. I caught just a glimpse of skin and hair and then it was rearing up towards me, and I felt the terrible pain as it struck out. It was fortunate for me I had twisted round even as I saw it, for the sharp object stabbed into my arm not my heart, and I recoiled with the blow and half fell, half ran down the stairs.
Behind me I knew it had sprung up but I never looked back, desperately staggering on, my arm almost useless to me now. At last I reached the door, managing to fumble it open even as I felt movement behind me. Then I was out in the night, pulling the door closed. In the dim light of the gas I could see a few figures up the street by the river, and wondered if I could get help. But it seemed doubtful so I moved in the opposite direction and slipped inside a doorway.
Beside me my assailant was out of the door almost at once. I could see little enough of him, but, now that I was clear of that house of darkness, at least I made out a male figure. Clearly he supposed I would make for the lights of the river and as soon as he saw signs of people, he started in that direction. So I used the darkness, which I would once have feared but now welcomed, to move stealthily up the street away from him. Soon I had reached St James’s church and was almost in Cannon Street.
Here it became busier, in spite of the cold, and I welcomed the crowd, even if my torn coat and wounded arm made me an object of curiosity. Eventually a bored hansom driver spotted me as he came down Queen Victoria Street on his way to the West End, and asked if I wanted a lift. He stared at me oddly, when he saw the wound but I merely gave him directions to Bell’s hotel and lay back against the cushioned seat, breathing heavily and trying to decide if I had imagined the dark blotch of colour on my pursuer’s neck.
I drew many stares as I entered the hotel. I had wrapped a bloody handkerchief round my wound, my coat was torn and I was shivering from pain and cold. There was no way on earth they would have allowed me to proceed and I stood leaning against the porter’s desk while the Doctor was summoned. Luckily he came down quickly enough, took one glance at me, nodded at the porter and within a few minutes he was bandaging my wound in his room.
As he did so, I told him of everything that had happened, uneasily aware of how little I had to show for my adventure. Even the letter was gone, for I dropped it in my flight. But I was emphatic that the body I saw must have been Jenny Galton.
‘Well, you have lost blood but your wound is not so bad,’ the Doctor announced, ‘and I can give you a spare coat. Once you have thawed out we must return to the house at once, only of course with company.’
Since Bell was already working on the Lowther case, assistance came quickly and within about an hour we were in a police cab alongside Inspector Miller and his two uniformed assistants. Miller, a quiet and sensible policeman, was already aware from Bell how anxious we were to contact the missing Jenny Galton, though the Doctor had not explained the real reason why, merely stating that he had grounds for thinking she might offer evidence of an important kind.
Nor did Miller show much surprise when I told him, as cogently as I could in my somewhat exhausted state, of my earlier experience in the house next door; indeed he was sympathetic.
‘I am glad to have the information, Dr Doyle,’ he said, taking out a notebook and making a record of the address as the cab rattled along Cannon Street. ‘I admit much of it goes on but we will try to ensure that particular business closes for good when we call upon it at three tomorrow. There is a charity I know which secures homes for the victims of such places.’
The word ‘charity’ made me think at once of the League, and he must have seen my expression.
‘No, Sir, you need not fear for the child. I talk of a real charity run by women who are genuinely kind, not at all the type who believe they are doing their charges a great favour. I have three children of my own and know the difference.’
I was pleased by this, but it was to be the only satisfaction remaining to me that evening. Armed with lamps, we soon found ourselves before that house in Cole Lane. I felt a little tremor of fear as they opened the door, but I need not have worried, for the place was not merely orderly but entirely empty. There was no sign of anyone, least of all a corpse.
Bell could not find a single spot of blood on the landing where I had been stabbed. When we reached the top of the house the table was still there as I had seen it, but nothing lay on it. In vain I held the lamp high and searched for a piece of hair or a flake of skin or even the candle I had dropped. The shining wood of the table gleamed innocently back at me in the lamplight.
I was glad of Bell’s presence for, with the best will in the world, it was a highly embarrassing situation. A corpse that seemed to move, but which had now completely disappeared. A figure that was nowhere to be seen. A mysterious letter which I no longer possessed. And now a house that, even to eyes as sharp as the Doctor’s offered up not the slightest clue. All that was left was my wound, which of course could have been picked up in any street brawl. One of the uniformed policemen, who wore a long moustache and whiskers, had looked away with a smirk as I described the house next door, and by the end of our search I am sure he thought I had gone out looking for a little lechery, been beaten and robbed in the usual way and was now concocting a feeble story to save my honour.
In the circumstances even I began to wonder if my mind had played tricks on me in the darkness of that house. But then, I reasoned to myself, was it not possible that what I saw here
explained
my lucky escape? Perhaps my assailant had not bothered to follow me very zealously because he was more concerned to remove all the evidence as quickly as possible. I made some attempt to explain this point to the others, but by now I was too bewildered and exhausted to be remotely convincing. The expression on the moustached policeman’s face grew more and more incredulous as the night wore on. Even Miller’s patience was not inexhaustible, and if Bell had not been involved, I strongly suspect I would have been rebuked for wasting their time.
To his credit the Doctor never uttered a word of doubt in their presence. But on the way home, when they had left us, he did ask me one question I could have done without. ‘Tell me,’ he said, putting his fingertips together in that way he had and looking out of the police cab at the dark streets. ‘When you went home today after our work in Shad Thames, did you take a draft of any kind, Doyle?’
The implication infuriated me. ‘You mean laudanum,’ I said. ‘Of course not. I was only at home for a few minutes and went straight out again.’
‘Very well,’ he said, and shortly afterwards we parted.
I travelled on in the cab to my lodgings alone, feeling deeply dispirited if not angry with the whole world. As we turned down Page Street into Esher, I was sure I could make out a figure standing on the pavement opposite the Morland house looking up at something. But I was in no mood to trust my judgement that night and, to my relief, when we stopped, there was no sign of it.
 
The next day, Monday, dawned bitterly cold and there was no possibility of avoiding my work for the practice. Fortunately my wound was easily coverable, and it was healing too, but my arm ached terribly when it was used for any but the easiest of tasks. In normal circumstances I would have taken something to alleviate the pain, but after Bell’s question the previous evening I was determined to avoid that. I felt his suspicions were deeply unjust, and a part of me burned at the injustice. One day, I reflected, I might take an amount of the stuff just to spite him but not now.
I was brooding on this as I spent an arduous few hours in the surgery, hoping my patients would not notice me wincing whenever I was required to apply pressure with my left hand. The weather outside was still freezing cold, but at least the surgery was warm and, as I worked, the events of the previous evening stayed unpleasantly in my mind. In particular I wondered again if my visit to the house next door had been accidental. To the police I had pretended so, but in my heart there was real doubt. I could almost sense
his
amusement at the thought of it: my entrance to the room, my shock as I saw that little shape on the bed. It was his notion, I was sure, of corrupting me.
‘Doctor, is it done?’ said a voice. And I found I was staring down at a bandage I had just applied to the arm of a local horse dealer.
‘Ah, yes,’ I said quickly. ‘I just wished to be sure it was not too tight, but it is fine.’ I quickly straightened myself up and was pleased to see he lost his puzzled expression and beamed happily.
As I showed him out, I reflected that it was not even worth telling Bell of such suspicions. It was hard enough even to convince the police I had seen a body. Indeed, I am convinced now that, if matters had continued to stand as they did that morning, then within a short time the Doctor and I would have gone our separate ways.
But a few minutes later, after I had finished the surgery and earned some time for lunch, I was handed a telegram.
I opened it as I walked out on to the street. The message was terse but I understood it immediately.
She is found in the river. Come at once. Bell.
 
The address was the morgue I had visited before and, when I reached there, the bewhiskered policeman from the previous day – now, I noticed with pleasure, utterly straight-faced – showed me up to Bell in the large and gloomy mortuary where we had stood in perplexity over Harriet Lowther.
The Doctor was just inside the door of that place, his hand beating a rhythm on the nearest workbench, and there was nothing perplexed about him now. Later I learned he had been up most of the night, with no thought for the freezing cold, and had even spent a part of it watching the opium den and Hanbury’s boatyard. But, far from seeming tired, his fund of energy was stronger than ever and, as the policeman disappeared, he walked me over to a slab in the corner, pulling off the sheet.
Staring up at me was the body I had seen in the house. The face was unmistakable, its mouth still gaping in that horrible rictus of agony, the eyes starting forward out of their sockets. But the hair no longer stood on end for the corpse had been in the river and bore all the marks of it.
‘It has been a very busy night, Doyle,’ said the Doctor intently, studying the body with obvious satisfaction. ‘She was found close by Swan Pier, only a short distance from Cole Lane, in the early hours of this morning. Because of your story, Miller had her brought here, and we have not been idle. Two hours ago she was positively identified by Elsie Farr. It is indeed Jenny Galton. And I would stake my life she did not drown.’
Of course he saw the look of relief on my face. ‘Oh yes. You are entirely vindicated. Now, I am intending to undertake the post-mortem myself. For protocol’s sake I cannot ask you to join me, since I must work alongside their own pathologist, but I am hopeful he will be confirm my suspicions.’
‘Suspicions?’
Suddenly he was serious. ‘Yes, I am very much afraid those strange stories of the river have a serious foundation. She was killed by the foul thing they call the ‘head’ and we may have a grim night ahead of us. I suggest you get something to eat and finish your day’s labours in good time.’
My mind was in a whirl for the rest of the day which, fortunately, was not arduous, and I was able to get home to the Morlands in late afternoon. There was nobody at home so, before I set out, I sat down in the drawing room to write a message that they should not expect me back for some time. As I was writing I recalled that at breakfast that day Sally Morland had said something about a surprise for me that night. So I added a line, expressing the hope that I would see them later in the evening.
It was nearing five, and still just as cold outside as it had been all day, when I reached the morgue. The post-mortem was complete and I found Bell sitting alone in the clerk’s office writing up his notes, if anything even more excited than before.
‘It is, I would say, Doyle,’ he said, looking up from his labours, ‘the most exciting autopsy I have ever performed.’
‘And what did you find?’ I asked with enormous curiosity.
‘Not a great deal,’ he replied without the slightest acknowledgement that this appeared to be a flat contradiction of his previous statement. ‘And I am sorry to say the pathologist made even less of it. As we knew, Jenny Galton did not drown, but rigor mortis was very marked indeed. The blood, in her heart was extremely fluid, more so than I have ever seen, even the right heart was free from clotting. Her pupils were enlarged, and we concluded that she suffered from primary heart failure. That was the sum of it.’
‘Then I find it hard to see why you found it so exciting.’
‘But you will,’ he said. ‘Now, as to our plans. From my own observation, our best chance of finding the truth lies in Sing’s establishment. I am convinced there will be little of use in Hanbury’s boathouse. We must therefore get into Sing’s, but as I have told Miller, I am extremely wary of a police raid. In such an area, things have a habit of getting out and, moreover, all the evidence we might hope to find would probably end up at the bottom of the Thames. So for the moment I am falling back on our own devices.’ He studied me for a moment. At his suggestion I was dressed against the cold and wore a dark, heavy overcoat. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘that will suit us, for it is already freezing outside. Now I must myself change, so you will come to the hotel. I have already asked them to lay out a buffet, so I hope some cold roast pheasant and oysters will suit you.’ And, with that, he dashed off a signature to the report he had been writing and got to his feet.
Later the Doctor was silent as we consumed our meal in the hotel, and I was a little surprised that Inspector Miller was nowhere to be seen. ‘He is talking to Macandrew,’ Bell replied in answer to my question, looking up from his pheasant without expression. ‘But I have asked his men to stand by and he should be with us later.’
‘Macandrew?’ I said with surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Because I suggested he did,’ said Bell, taking a last mouthful and glancing at the window. ‘Good, it is time for us to go.’
Bell was extremely specific in his request to the cab driver, directing him not to the alley or Shad Thames but to Charles Street, a more respectable thoroughfare well to the south.
We stepped out of the cab into a freezing night, lit by a huge moon. The cold was dry and bracing, and we walked up into Shad Thames, sticking to the shadows and keeping a wary eye for any trouble, but the weather was keeping people off the streets. When we reached the Lord Lovat, Bell did not venture into the alley. Instead he walked on, glancing only once at the place as he did so.
As soon as we were past it, he turned into a little path between the houses that was strewn with stones and ashes. At the end of this, I saw at once he had discovered another way of getting down to the level of the den without using the steps, for you could clamber down a muddy bank that now lay in front of us and get across a narrow gully on to the broad timber ledge that surrounded the whole building. And there was enough rubbish on the bank, including some half-rotten barrels, to provide concealment. Looking down I could not make out what lay at the bottom of the gully itself: the river, perhaps, or a mudflat.
It was so cold that we were having to thrust our gloved hands in our overcoats to stop them from freezing. As we surveyed the place, away to our left its main door opened and a man tottered out. I heard him stumbling up the steps and then he was gone. The Doctor waited out of sight in the moonlight, till there was no sound of him, and then scrambled down the bank as I followed. Close to the edge, he took the easiest distance across and jumped with customary agility, landing on the ledge that surrounded the structure in front of us.
It was broad and he moved along it to leave room for me to join him. Perhaps partly because of the doubt he had shown in me, and also out of athletic conceit, I took a far longer leap than he did. Of course I cleared the distance with ease, but it was very foolish for I had failed to anticipate that the ledge would be icy. My foot slipped and I went over with a bump, clutching out to stop me falling. There was no real danger of going over, but the Doctor stood stock-still in case we had been heard. I was ashamed of my stupidity and I dreaded to see someone appearing from the door or hear the noise of a shutter opening on the side of the building. Fortunately it did not happen. The only sound came from the slight lapping of water below, so I clambered to my feet and we started to edge our way cautiously along towards the back of the building.
Bell ignored the first shutter that presented itself, assuming, I suppose, that it was too near the front, but he stopped at the next one. We were now almost at the back corner of the place and, beyond it, I could make out a stone wall. Already the cold was starting to ice up my hands, even inside the gloves, and, thanks to my folly over the jump, some of the pain had returned to my arm.
The Doctor turned half back towards me and the moonlight picked out his hooded eagle’s eyes, a picture of concentration, as he listened with his ear close to the shutter. Evidently he heard nothing, for he put out a gloved hand and applied some pressure to see if it would open. It did not move a fraction; clearly the frame was held fast by a catch. With a deft movement, he took some instrument out of his pocket and slid it through the crack at the centre of the shutter, levering it upwards, and I heard a tiny click. Then Bell pulled again and the shutter opened quite easily. But he did not pull very far, only a few inches, evidently in order to see if there was any light in the room beyond him. All was dark, so he opened it wider.
The window before us had several small panes but there was a large hinged one at the centre of it. It too was closed but again Bell’s implement went to work. This time I could see he found it much harder – he had to press down and apply force to try and lift the catch. Evidently it was barely used, and even in that cold there was perspiration on the Doctor’s face as he pushed, and pushed again, and nothing happened. But finally it sprang back with a sudden grating noise which made him instantly withdraw the tool and put out his hand to steady the window.
I am sure both of us were eager to get in, for it was all I could do on that moonlit ledge to stop shivering. But once again we waited, motionless. The Doctor peered into the darkness of the room, yet nobody came and we saw no light. At last, after what was, I am sure, a full minute, Bell reached out and opened the large central pane as far as it would go, which allowed just enough room to climb through. He entered first and was soon on the ledge at the other side. After a few seconds, surveying what was below him, he disappeared down into the darkness and I had the easy task of following.
It was not particularly warm inside, but at least we were out of the frosty air. The ledge was dusty and, though it was still difficult to make much out, the room I climbed into felt damp and ill-used. The Doctor was staring down at something, and I soon saw what: a pile of clothes. He took a pace and lifted a few up. There were coats and hats and waistcoats but also women’s clothes too: skirts, petticoats and bodices. A few were of a good cloth; most were shabby.
I walked to the back of the room and here was another pile with a little shawl on the top. There was something so indefinably pitiful about the whole collection that I hated to look at it, for it was obvious that these could not possibly belong to one person or even a family. Yet it seemed hard to believe it could be the proceeds of crime either. Who would bother to rob a man of his clothes? And both our victims had been fully dressed.
But something was wrong here and I could not help noticing that Bell was equally concerned. Looking round, he had found another heap in the corner and was sifting through it with anxiety.
At last he gave up and turned to the closed door at the opposite corner of the room from the window, indicating I should follow. He removed his gloves and I did the same. At the door he listened again, and then with a painstakingly slow movement he turned the handle.
It opened silently and, beyond, all was still dark. Both of us moved out stealthily and waited. There was light from somewhere to the right of us and I could make out that we were in a corridor. Presumably, if we turned to our left we would arrive at the front of the den and the entrance. I assumed Bell would go in that direction, for the stairs down to the bottom level were there, but he did no such thing.

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