Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness (30 page)

Epilogue

London, Saturday

It was Saturday night, and the saloon bar of the Goldsmith’s Arms was full of people who had worked hard all week and were now intent on having a damned good time.

Blackstone looked around at them: at the flower girls who, having paid their weekly visit to the public washhouse, had completed their toilet for the next seven days; at the costermongers, who dreamed of one day owning their own barrows, but were resigned to continue renting until, some time in their thirties, they went to the great street market in the sky; at the dockers, who formed long queues at the dock gates before dawn, in the hope that a ship was due to land that day, and there would be work for them; at the car-men, who transported anything and everything all over London, and worried that one day soon the internal combustion engine would replace their horses and carts; at the petty thieves and con artists, who picked pockets or talked the unsuspecting public into handing over a few pence; at the ex-boxers, who had fought in the Whitechapel Wonderland on their way up, and under railway arches on their way down…

‘You seem happy enough to be back, sir,’ Patterson said.

‘I am,’ Blackstone agreed.

And he really was, he thought. This was his city and, for all their faults and weaknesses, these were his people. And, though he had no idea when his death was to come, he hoped that when it did, he would be in London.

At the far end of the bar, a cabbie and car-man were involved in a loud discussion which threatened to eventually turn into a fight, but for the moment was no more than hot air.

‘Know any good charities, sir?’ Patterson wondered.

‘I can think of any number of them. Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve got a bit of spare money to get rid of. Seventy quid, as a matter of fact. And I thought I’d give it to something worthwhile.’

‘You’ve got seventy pounds?’ Blackstone asked, astonished. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

‘Operational expenses.’

‘Then if you haven’t spent it, you’ll have to give it back.’

‘I can’t exactly do that,’ Patterson said. ‘Not without admitting that the money I paid over to Miss Latouche was…’ He paused. ‘I don’t really think you want to know the details, sir.’

‘No, I suspect I don’t,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Let’s change the subject. Quickly!’

‘This case of yours can’t have been easy on you,’ Patterson said. ‘I know we’re supposed to enforce the law without fear or favour, but handing over the man who once saved your life…’

‘You’ve never actually served in the army, have you, Archie?’ Blackstone interrupted.

‘Is that another way of saying you don’t want to talk about what happened in Cheshire?’ Patterson asked.

‘Not at all,’ Blackstone assured him. ‘But before I
can
talk about it, I need to explain a few things to you.’

‘Fair enough,’ Patterson agreed.

‘There’s all sorts of positions a rifleman can adopt when firing his weapon,’ Blackstone said. ‘The British soldier is usually standing or down on one knee, but when the Pathan warrior has a choice, he prefers to do it lying down.’

‘I see,’ Patterson said, though it was clear that he didn’t.

‘Now, according to Torn Yardley, the Pathan was waiting for him outside the cave, and would have killed him if his rifle hadn’t jammed. But it did jam, and Yardley shot him instead.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Patterson, who was beginning to catch on to Blackstone’s way of thinking. ‘I thought you told me earlier that the Pathan was shot in the chest.’

‘I did.’

‘But if he’d been lying down...’

‘Here’s what I think happened,’ Blackstone said. ‘It was the
Pathan
who was coming out of the cave, and
Yardley
who was waiting in ambush outside.’

‘But that must mean...’

‘It must mean that none of Yardley’s story was true. He didn’t kill the Pathans in the cave, as he later claimed he did. They were killed by Corporal Jones and Private Wicker, before they bought it themselves. What Tom Yardley did was cut and run.’

‘But he did go back into the cave, didn’t he?’ Patterson said.

‘Yes, he did,’ Blackstone agreed. He reached into his pocket, and took out his gold watch. ‘And I think the
reason
he came back was for this.’

‘When did you come up with this theory of yours?’ Patterson asked.

‘I think it had been germinating for a long time,’ Blackstone said, ‘but it wasn’t until I was down the mine that it really became clear. You see, I couldn’t believe that any man could be both a hero and also involved with a monster like Bickersdale. That’s why it took me so long to accept that Torn was a member of the gang.’

‘But once you knew he was in the gang, the idea that he was a hero began to slip away?’

‘Exactly. I began re-examining the incident in the cave in a new light, and finally saw what must have happened.’

‘But you couldn’t be sure, even then,’ Patterson guessed.

‘No, I couldn’t,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Good men do sometimes turn bad. But I don’t think I’ve seen a brave man turn into a coward.’

‘And that’s why you gave him the gun?’

‘Yes. He knew he’d hang if he didn’t fire it, but even then, he didn’t dare take the risk. Because this wasn’t an ambush, in which he had the advantage. This was one man against another, on equal terms. And he was too yellow to take the chance.’

‘You were taking a bit of a chance yourself,’ Patterson said. ‘There was always the possibility that he’d manage to kill you.’

‘Yes, there was, but I had to be sure I was right about him—and not just for my own sake.’

‘Then who else...’

‘I went to Cheshire to pay a debt of honour. And I have. But the debt wasn’t to Tom Yardley, as I’d thought. It was to Corporal Jones and Private Wicker, who might still be alive if he hadn’t let them down.’

The argument between the cabbie and the car-man had moved up a notch. Now the two men stood a clear three feet apart, and all the other drinkers had formed a wide circle around them, like spectators at a cock fight.

‘Has the landlord called the police?’ Blackstone asked the waiter.

The waiter nodded. ‘Five minutes’ ago.’

The car-man said something in an undertone which made his friends laugh loudly, but turned the cabbie’s face red with anger.

‘Don’t just stand there, takin’ his abuse!’ an aging prostitute screamed at the cabbie. ‘Be a man!’

The cabbie put his hand into his pocket, and when he pulled it out again, it was holding a cut-throat razor. As he made a move to open the blade, two of the car-man’s cronies jumped him, which caused two of the cabbie’s cronies to jump
them
, and soon a full-scale fight had broken out.

‘It’s none of our business, sir,’ Patterson said.

‘Quite right,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Let’s leave it to the uniforms.’ But both men were already rising to their feet, more than willing to throw themselves into the fray.

Author’s Note

The town of Northwich and village of Marston are real places, and in 1901 looked much as I describe them. The mining, and the geological disasters which resulted from it, are accurately depicted. The characters, however, are entirely fictitious, and though I have allowed Tom Yardley to live in the house where I was brought up, he is no ancestor of mine.

If you enjoyed reading
Blackstone and the Great Game
you might be interested in
Blackstone and the Rendezvous with Death
by Sally Spencer, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
Blackstone and the Rendezvous with Death
by Sally Spencer

Prologue

The fog had begun to descend just before nightfall, and within minutes it had covered the whole of the area north of the river. It was a thick, clogging fog, more yellow than grey. And it stank—not just of smoke and sulphur, but also of the decay and desperation it absorbed from the crumbling houses as it slid menacingly along them.

To the shabbily dressed young man who was making his way with cautious speed down Burr Street, this fog seemed more than just an inconvenience. It was, to him, nothing less than a malevolent force that was doing all it could to detain him—to prevent him from reaching that part of the city where he could be reasonably sure he would be safe.

He had been too rash, he thought. Far too rash. He should have ended his investigation earlier, at the point when he had
already
discovered enough to sketch out a rough picture of the terrible, terrible thing that was about to happen. But instead, he’d stuck doggedly at it, collecting extra details, refining the picture—putting himself more and more at risk. And finally, that night, he was paying the price, because—though he could not swear to it—he was almost certain he had been spotted. Which made it vital that he got all he knew down on paper before...before...

Suddenly, he realized he was not alone! He could hear footfalls behind him. And not ordinary footfalls. They didn’t make the same sound as his scuffed dress boots, nor did they have the angry clump of a working man’s sturdy clodhoppers. No, these steps were muted, swishing like a slithering serpent.

In a panic, he glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing except the fog. He increased his pace, and behind him the swish-swishing grew faster, too. He felt his heart begin to pound, and could taste raw, naked fear in his throat.

He tried to calculate exactly where he was. It was a good ten minutes since he’d turned on to Burr Street, so even moving at the slow pace the fog dictated, he should be almost at the end of that street by now. If the public house on the corner were open—if, by some happy chance, the landlord had chosen to disobey the licensing laws—then he would be safe, at least for a while. True, the rough men inside—the dockers and the watermen—might see through his disguise and ridicule him. They might even rob him. But perhaps they would believe what he had to say, too. So that even if this was to be his last night on earth, his death might at least have some purpose.

He reached the corner, and his heart sank as he saw that the pub was shuttered and in total darkness. Where could he go now? he wondered, as his panic increased with every passing second. Where was there left to run to?

Head along Lower East Smithfield, towards Aldermans Stairs! counselled the tiny grain of rational thought still left in his brain.

Yes, that was it! There was another pub on that corner, and even if it was also closed, there was always the chance that there would be a waterman on duty at the Stairs, willing to take him across the Thames—to carry him to safety.

You’re fooling yourself! he thought angrily.

There would be no watermen. Not on a filthy night like this. Yet there was no choice but to cling to that slim hope, because now he was convinced that there was not one set of slithering footsteps behind him, but two.

He turned the corner, and was confronted by a black shape, looming in the darkness. An ambush! Naturally! Why had he ever imagined these people would leave anything to chance?

Perhaps if he could somehow manage to overpower the one ahead, then make a dash for it before the ones behind...

‘Lookin’ fer a good time, duckie?’ asked a cracked female voice.

He could now see the shape for what it was. Nothing but a common prostitute, so desperate to earn her gin money that she was touting for custom even in this weather.

Or was it simply a trick? Was she, in reality, one of
them
?

He approached the woman cautiously, aware, even as he was doing so, that it would enable the men behind him to gain some ground. She was a small woman, well past her prime, and dressed in other people’s cast-offs. It was hard to believe that she could be part of any conspiracy against him.

The woman lifted her skirt to show that she was wearing no drawers, then turned her back and presented him with her naked, mottled rear.

‘Eivver end,’ she said. ‘I’m not fussy. Long as yer’ve got a tanner, yer can ’ave me any way yer want.’

‘I’m...I’m not here for...for...’ the young man stuttered.

‘Yer won’t get a better offer than that nowhere,’ the woman said, a note of irritation creeping into her voice.

But the young man was already brushing past her and plunging once more into the swirling fog.

Surely he would come across a policeman on duty soon, he told himself. Surely, somewhere on his route, he would find a bobby who could protect him. But would any solitary man—even one wearing a blue uniform—be able to do anything against his ruthless pursuers?

He increased his pace again, but he did not run, because he knew that they would only do the same: and he wanted to have a little energy left in reserve for when he finally reached the desperate conclusion of this chase.

The swishing sound was still hauntingly behind him, but despite his encounter with the prostitute, it did not seem any closer. They were holding back, he decided—waiting until they could catch him in an even more secluded place than this achingly empty street. And he was leading them right to such a place! He knew that. But that same place, as dangerous as it might be, was where his only remaining hope lay.

Like a drowning man, he felt his whole life flash in front of him. The school his parents had sent him—a school he’d hated and where he’d continued to be bullied long beyond the age at which bullying should have stopped. He thought about his stern, unyielding father, his cowed mother, and his baying, opinionated older brother. And he thought about his loving, gentle sister, who had provided the few moments of happiness in his grim existence, and who was—indirectly—responsible for the situation in which he now found himself.

The pub at the edge of Aldermans Stairs was as dark and empty as the one outside which the prostitute had been lurking. And here there were fewer street lamps, so that he was moving in almost total darkness.

He stretched out his foot and felt for the edge of the Stairs.

‘Hello, is there anyone down there?’ he called out, thinking how squeaky and immature his voice sounded.

There was no answer, save for the gentle whoosh of the river.

He cleared his throat. ‘Is there anybody down there?’ he repeated, in a much deeper voice this time.

Once again, there was only silence in response.

He made his way groping down the Stairs. Perhaps he could swim for it, he thought. But he had never been a strong swimmer—never a strong
anything
if he was honest about it—and he was sure that before he was even half-way across the broad river he would succumb to exhaustion, and sink into oblivion.

He had reached the bottom of the Stairs, and his shin banged against something hard. A boat! By some miracle, one of the watermen—probably too drunk to know what he was doing—had left his boat moored where anyone could take it.

He felt along the edge of the boat until he came to the mooring rope. A miracle, he thought again—the possibility of escape when all such hope had seemed to be gone.

Working in almost total darkness—and with trembling hands—he clawed at the professionally tied knot that kept the boat tethered to the landing stage. As he worked, one small corner of his mind registered the fact that the swishing sound behind him had stopped. But there was no time to consider such matters now, when all his energy—all his will—had to be directed to getting the boat free.

He felt one of the fingernails on his right hand break, but ignored the short, inevitable, stab of pain. He twisted and tugged at the knot, knowing he should he more methodical, yet being unable to discipline himself into adopting a more rational approach. And finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the knot slid apart in his hands.

He put a tentative foot into the boat, and felt it move. But of course it moved! Now that he had untied it, what was there to
stop
it from moving? He lifted his other leg, lost his balance, and fell clumsily on to the floor of the craft.

Something was digging into his side, and he realized that it must be one of the oars. He picked it up, and poked it blindly into the darkness in the general direction of the landing stage. He felt the oar make contact, and then the prow of the boat swung away from the shore and towards the middle of the Thames.

But the stern stayed where it was!

The boat was tied up at both ends! He should have checked on that before he got in. He awkwardly manoeuvred himself round until he was in the right position to find the second mooring rope. Yes, there it was, and there was the knot holding it.

He wished he had brought a knife with him, so he could have sliced through the rope with one smooth movement. But he hadn’t thought to bring a knife. There were
so
many
things he hadn’t thought to bring. Perhaps that was why he found himself in the position he was in now—because he hadn’t planned ahead, but had relied solely on instinct.

Even as he grappled with the second knot, he could picture his father, watching the whole process and shaking his head in a gesture of censure and despair.

Yes, Father, he thought, I’ve failed again.

Except that this time it wasn’t just the Earl he was letting down—this time it went far, far beyond the bounds of his narrow, censorious family.

The knot finally started to give at the same moment as he heard the violent crash behind him and felt the boat lurch violently. And then, almost before he’d had time to register what was happening, a pair of powerful hands had pinned his arms behind his back, and something cold and sharp was being drawn across his throat.

He wondered how they had managed to get so close to him without his hearing them. Wondered, too, how he could know he was in pain and yet not really feel hurt. Then he stopped wondering—and everything went black.