The Detective and the Devil (13 page)

‘Already dead?’

‘I cannot tell. They may have been.’

‘So the cause of death may
not
have been the maul and the fire and the knife?’

‘That is possible.’

‘What might it have been?’

‘There is no way of saying.’

‘And the other unusual matter?’

‘There were markings on the bodies. The same mark above the heart of each of the deceased.’

‘What kind of markings?’

‘A deliberate symbol, consisting of a crescent, a circle, a cross and an inverted number three.’

The audience whispered and moved in their seats, and already Horton could imagine the newspaper stories the next day. They would be full of ritual slaughter and secret symbols. He realised, with
a little start, that he had had no opportunity to inform Markland of this development, and sure enough the Shadwell man was now staring at him across the room, fury in his eyes.

Neighbours were brought in as witnesses, though they had little enough to tell. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. But these men and women lived next door to a menagerie, so how unusual
did a noise have to be to be noteworthy?

Amy Beavis took the stand last. Horton watched the faces of some of the jurors grow tender at her appearance, while others turned noticeably wolfish. Unwin, always something of a ham, became
even more melodramatic at the appearance of Miss Beavis, leaning in towards her, passing her a kerchief when she became upset, all but stroking her.

She told the jury how she had discovered the bodies on that terrible day, how she had called for the watchman immediately. She then told the same story as she had told Horton – how Mrs
Johnson and her daughter had gone to the coast, where they were later joined by Mr Johnson.

‘Did you know of anyone who might wish harm on Mr Johnson?’ said Unwin.

‘No, sir. He was a kindly man. He always did right by me.’

‘I have no doubt of that,’ muttered a woman seated near Horton.

Unwin was a coroner, charged with identifying the cause of death rather than explaining it. In this case, the cause was obvious enough for the jury, and the verdict was straightforward: murder
by persons unknown.

Horton tried to take his leave, but Markland had other ideas. The magistrate was shoving people out of his way to reach Horton even before the jury rose.

‘I thought I made myself clear, Horton,’ he began, his voice stretched by anger, the head of his cane rapping into Horton’s chest for emphasis. ‘Report to me,
immediately, any discoveries. Was that not clear?’

‘Perfectly clear, sir.’

‘Then why is it I learn of this new development – these markings on their skin – at the confounded
inquest
?’

‘Sir, I only found out about them myself this morning.’

‘And did you come straight to me? Hmm? No, constable, you did not. You did
not
. There will be consequences, constable. There will indeed . . . ’

John Harriott appeared at Markland’s elbow. He was holding a note.

‘Markland, a word, if you please.’

Harriott looked at Horton, and one of his eyes narrowed slightly in a motion so fleeting that it could easily have been missed. A wink, of all things.

‘Not now, Harriott,’ said Markland. ‘I am discussing matters relating to the case with the constable, here.’

‘Are you indeed? Well, there is someone else who would like to discuss the case with you.’

‘Who?’

‘The Home Secretary.’

Markland’s face paled as he glanced at the note in Harriott’s hand.

‘Is that from . . . ?’

‘Sidmouth? It is. I sent him a note this morning. This is his reply. We are to attend him immediately.’

‘You had no right . . .’

‘You can inform me of my rights or otherwise in the carriage on our way. Good day, Horton. Report to me this evening, if you please.’

And with that Harriott, who it seemed had learned to play the politician, turned away. He was followed by Markland, whose face was that of a dog chastised. Horton watched them leave and then
looked for Amy, but the servant girl had gone.

Several uniformed Bow Street patrolmen were gathered outside St George’s in the East, and Horton recognised one of them: William Jealous, whom he had met the previous
year. A reliable young man, Horton recalled. Jealous nodded at him, and Horton nodded back, but did not stop. He had no particular wish to make small talk now. The other Runners turned to look at
him. Did they feel the same mild antipathy towards him that his fellow waterman-constables in Wapping felt? He recalled, with some embarrassment, Charles Lamb’s words, his description of
Horton as some kind of
nonpareil.
He did not like the feeling. He wished that no one knew his name.

He was walking past the row of houses in which the Johnsons had lived – and, before them, the Marrs. There was a thicker crowd here, a motley collection of streetwalkers and barrow boys
jostling with City gentlemen and West End ladies. Another East End crime, another reason to tour these benighted streets. A small boy of perhaps eight or nine years ran up to him.

‘Do you know yer bein’ follered, mate?’ he said.

Horton looked around him.

‘Who says I am?’

‘Twitcher was first as noticed it, this mornin’, but he’s no’ about now. Cripps is watchin’ your ’ouse. I’m watchin’ you.’

‘Well, Rat, I’m obliged to you.’

He handed over tuppence. Horton had two dozen or more such boys keeping their eyes on Wapping and treating the whole thing as an enormously exciting game. Their utility was incalculable.

‘Tell me more, Rat.’

‘The feller was ’angin’ about in Lower Gun Alley this mornin’. Twitcher pointed ’im out to me.’

‘The man’s description, if you please.’

The boy frowned, his dirty face crinkling in concentration.

‘’e’s ’ard to describe.’

‘Try.’

‘’e looks like you, constable. ’ard to place. Dark clothes. Dark hair. Tall. Pale. Wearin’ a pea-coat.’

Horton’s heart chilled.

‘Does he have a limp?’

‘Nah, nuffink like that.’

The chill lifted, a little.

‘When was he last seen?’

‘This mornin’. ’e followed you to the Office, and then ’e followed you from there back to your lodgin’s. ’ung around a bit, then made off. Afore you came
out.’

‘And where did he go when he left Lower Gun Alley?’

‘Dunno. We’re not followin’ ’im
,
are we?’

Horton looked around. The street was its normal frantic self, but now had an unwelcome whiff of purpose about it.

‘And Cripps is watching my house just now?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well then, Rat. My thanks to you. Return to Lower Gun Alley and keep common purpose with Cripps. If you see the man again, one of you run to the Office and report it.’

‘Yes, constable.’

‘You and Cripps meet me at the Prospect at seven.’

‘Yes, constable.’

‘There’s good money in this for you, Rat. Do it well, and I’ll see you right.’

‘You always do, sir. I’ll be off, then.’

‘Give my regards to your mother.’

The boy frowned.

‘My mother’s gawn, constable. Coughed herself dead, she did.’

Horton remembered the woman – a pale, consumptive figure, barely able to work. Abigail had visited a dozen times or more. She would be heartbroken.

‘Where are you living?’

‘I must be off. Watch your back, constable.’

Before Horton could ask any further questions, Rat was gone.

Horton thought about following him, back towards Wapping and Lower Gun Alley. It was disturbing to think of his house being watched. If anyone were following, though, it would be him they would
choose, not his wife. He looked around him, here at the point the Highway passed St Katharine’s and headed towards the Tower. Was there anyone watching him? A queasy feeling, as if the
gigantic creature of East India House was turning its head to look for him. He didn’t doubt, for a moment, that this episode was to do with the current case.

He carried on walking, and reached Dorset Street after a half-hour. The place was as anonymously busy as any London street in the mid-afternoon, the end of the work day approaching, the night
making its way towards the metropolis like a black sheet with which to cover iniquity. The dirty windows of the boarding houses looked like closed eyes, and the shops beneath them were picking
through whatever trade they could take from the poor inhabitants.

Horton walked up to Amy Beavis’s boarding house. It was quiet, and the door was open – in his experience, never a happy sign. Swallowing a great fear, he made his way inside.

If there were residents within, they were either sleeping or had left for the day. Or they were hiding in the rooms. A door opened at the back of the hallway, and a pair of eyes peeped out.

‘Landlord!’ shouted Horton, but the eyes widened and the door slammed. Horton made his way to the unreliable staircase, listening for any sound while his certainty grew that he was
too late to be of any use to anyone.

On the second landing, the door to the room which Amy Beavis shared with her deranged father was shut. He walked up to it, put an ear to its pocked surface, and heard no sound from within. He
tried the handle, and the door swung wide with a knowing squeak.

Beavis was seated on the one chair in the room, his hands clasped between his knees, his head lolling back as if he had fallen asleep. A cup lay on the floor at his feet, and whatever had been
in it had seeped into the moth-eaten rug on the floor.

Amy lay on her back in front of the hearth, her dead eyes open to the ceiling. He looked down at her, as if he might see the face of the man who killed her imprinted on the eyes.

Jacques had come, it appeared. He had not been generous.

Whoever had done this must have left only moments before, and whatever had happened had happened as soon as Amy arrived home. The killer may even have been waiting for her, or had followed her
from the inquest. There were no signs of a struggle; presumably Beavis had been here in the parlour when the killer first arrived.

But the scene was peaceful, domestic, quiet. How could that be?

Another cup stood on the mantel above the fireplace. He went over to it, saw clear liquid inside, sniffed two distinct smells – gin, and almonds.

If he hadn’t stopped to speak to Rat, he might have disturbed them.

He moved around, forcing himself not to look too hard, to listen and to smell, to breathe in the room and to touch its stories. He focused on a corner of the wall and ceiling, an ugly
brown-black locus, and then he remembered the etching, the ugly, faded picture of St Paul’s.

It was no longer on the wall. He looked around the room for it, but it was not there. There was no square where the etching had hung – the revealed wall was as dirty and damp as the rest
of the room. The etching had not hung there for long; Amy must have only just hung it. And now it was gone.

‘Well, this
is
nice, innit.’

Rat stood in the Hortons’ parlour, a grin on his face which could not have been any wider if he’d been standing in a drawing room at Windsor Castle. Abigail was warming a tub of
water by the fire.

‘He’s not staying here without a wash,’ she said to Horton. ‘And are those the only clothes you own?’ Rat, embarrassed by her tone, nodded. Every time Abigail spoke
to him he blushed, and his eyes followed her adoringly round the room, like a puppy with a new and kind owner. ‘You can borrow some of Charles’s clothes while I wash them. They’ll
be much too big for you, of course, but they’ll keep you warm enough.’

She went to fetch the clothes and the soap. She seemed angry and upset, and he wondered if his over-protectiveness was offending her again. He would have to ignore it. The boy grinned, his teeth
white in the street-grime of his face. His cheerfulness astonished Horton, but then so much about these street boys astonished him – their resourcefulness, their enduring existence.

‘Rehearse the plan to me, if you please, Rat,’ he said.

‘Right-o.’ Rat held out his hand, and counted off each point on his filthy fingers, just as Horton had explained it to him.

‘Article the First. I’m to stay ’ere in the ’ouse with Mrs Horton, unless she goes out, when I’m to accompany Her.’ He pronounced
Horton
and
Her
with careful precision, emphasising the ‘haitch’ which was otherwise a stranger to his speech.

‘Yes. At
all times
, Rat.’

‘Article the Second. I see or ’ear anything suspicious – noise on the stairs, fellas ’anging round, anythin’ – I’m to wave this ’an’kerchief
out that window there.’

‘And don’t worry if whoever’s watching the house sees you.’

‘Correct, Constable Horton. ’Cos if they see
us
, they’ll know
we
can see
them
, right?’

‘Yes. And finally?’

‘Article the Third. Cripps is organisin’ the others to keep an eye on the alley. They sees my kerchief, they leg it round to the Police Office and fetch a constable. That
it?’

Horton nodded.

‘That’s it. And here.’

He handed Rat a small purse.

‘A shilling a day. That’s enough for a week in there. Don’t spend it right away.’

Rat’s eyes widened.

‘Seven shillin’s? Seven bleedin’ shillin’s? By Lawd, constable, where’d you get seven shillin’s?’

‘From the magistrate. And he’ll expect to see a good return for his money, too.’

Harriott had indeed provided the money; had initially insisted that he send constables to watch Horton’s house. But Horton has seen too many scowls, heard too many muttered insults as
he’d turned down corridors to trust the safety of his wife and household to Wapping’s constables. They were only river watchmen, after all, capable of little more than ticking off items
landed from a ship. The boys of Wapping were more able.

Rat pulled himself up straight.

‘I’ll do right by your missus, constable. I swears I will.’

Abigail walked in, and Rat crumpled into adoration once more. Horton watched Abigail as she made herself busy washing and dressing the boy. She was irritated at him, but there was something
else. He knew her well enough to know she would tell him what ailed her if she wished to tell him. After this morning’s conversation, he did not wish to pester her with concern.