Authors: Mark Latham
Ambrose and I determined to find out as much as possible at the Ten Bells, and then if need be move on to Christ Church and speak to the vicar or verger there. We were optimistic of results, but even so we looked at the map and planned a route to Chelsea Hospital, another suspected exit point for the dynamiters, to see if anyone there remembered anything suspicious from the earlier bomb attacks. I thought back to my conversation with Captain Denny; I almost wished I had struck out to the East End with him rather than Ambrose. Regardless of conflicts of interest, I had met no one at the club whom I trusted half as well as James Denny. He reminded me of the men I had served with in the East. How I longed for trusted comrades at my side right now—Sergeant Whittock, Lieutenant Bertrand, Corporal Beechworth… these names flitted at the edges of clouded memory, and God only knew where they were now; those steadfast men whom I had called friends. Now true friendship and trust seemed commodities I could ill afford.
When lunch was done, Ambrose produced a small cloth bag from beside him on his bench. I had not noticed it before, and he slid the bag across the table casually, saying quietly: ‘You might need this—best keep it hidden, though, until the paperwork comes through. We might be able to convince the law that you’re still in the army, but safest not to let it come down to my bargaining skills.’
As soon as I touched the bag, I knew what it contained. I placed it beside me on my own bench, and peeked inside to confirm the presence of the gun: an old snub-nosed Webley, smaller and lighter than the service revolver I had used overseas, but more than formidable enough for the seedier side of London.
‘Checked it out of the armoury last night. I trust it’s the type you’re familiar with?’
I thanked Ambrose, and was glad of the weapon. When I’d landed back in England after my discharge, I would have resisted the idea of carrying a sidearm and seeking any kind of action, so harrowing were my memories of service. Now, however, I was filled by thoughts of pitting my wits against an elusive, dangerous and determined foe. And, truth be told, of evening the score should the opportunity arise.
* * *
Our first destination was Commercial Street, and our route took us past the yawning mouth of Commercial Road, along whose wide street could be seen the havoc wreaked by the recent blast. Though the debris was mostly cleared and traffic now crawled along the thoroughfare, it was a far cry from the crammed and energetic scene that had presented itself to us on our last visit just days ago.
Through the bustle of street life and industry we passed, until the hansom came to a stop near a busy junction, outside the gleaming edifice of Christ Church. As Ambrose paid the driver I stepped towards the church, gazing up at its classical façade and stupendously tall steeple, and feeling almost dizzied by the bizarre, sharp-edged shadows that criss-crossed the frontage, making the unmatched windows and blind arches seem strangely stark and somehow detached, floating ethereally upon a canvas of smooth, white stone. It was majestic; more of a temple than a church, and it seemed so wholly out of place, towering as it did over the small buildings around it.
I felt a tap on my arm. Ambrose indicated the public house across the street from Christ Church.
‘Magnificent church,’ he stated. ‘But we have business over the road first—if in doubt, always take drink before church; it’s a rule I swear by. Now, we don’t want a repeat of that business with the dreadful Walpole woman, so follow my lead. We do not want to be taken for newspapermen, Scotland Yard, or, worse still, bloody daytrippers.’
‘Daytrippers? Here?’ I asked, ignoring his assumption that I was some kind of buffoon.
‘Oh yes. The spirit of Saucy Jack looms large in the Ten Bells,’ said Ambrose. ‘Followers of the Autumn of Terror flock here to see where the Ripper’s victims used to drink. Puts coin in the tills, but drives the locals to distraction. No, we shall pretend we are former patrons, who have steered clear due to the recent trouble. Let’s pretend we’ve heard some scurrilous rumours in the gutter-press that brings the pub into disrepute. They’ll be so angry that they’ll tell us all we need.’
‘I’m not sure making them angry is the way to go about it. What if it doesn’t work?’
‘Then we use our fall-back plan.’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘You buy them all drinks until they talk.’ And with that, he was across the road and through the door with me trailing behind like his shadow.
* * *
Ambrose’s plan went almost entirely smoothly, which caused me to wonder if, when not playing the dandy, he often caroused with the common working man in backwater establishments. He certainly took to coarse conversation and weak ale like a duck to water.
Upon learning that several fictitious newspapers had named his pub as a notorious haunt of the hated dynamiters, the publican had become most indignant, and his regulars had rallied round him.
‘I run an honest establishment!’ the landlord had cried. ‘If I had cause to believe… why it beggars belief… oh! I should have words with these muck-rakers!’ It seemed to me that the press was not well-liked in the East End, doubtless for their endless portrayals of the local colour as gin-addled wastrels and violent thugs in order to amuse the middle-class commuter crowd.
In exchange for several rounds of drinks, the tongues of the regulars were soon loosened and their observations imparted. It was only, however, when I mentioned that the anarchists were sometimes called ‘men in black’ that we struck upon vital intelligence, which perhaps the police would have overlooked.
‘I heard that they always dress in smart black clothes, and sometimes stay near the scene of the crime to witness their handiwork,’ I’d said. ‘And other times still…’ I leaned in and lowered my voice, causing everyone to lean forward also and listen to me carefully, ‘…they even have women with them, decked out in their afflictions.’ There was an audible intake of breath, until finally a small man with a hard, pinched face spoke up.
‘I can barely believe my ears, and I swear upon my mother’s grave that this is the first time I have heard such thing, but I fear I may have seen something after all!’ He seemed nervous and hesitant, but perfectly sincere. He was an old sot named Tom, and it transpired that he had been drinking in the Ten Bells on the evening of the third—as he did most evenings, it seems—and had stepped outside when he heard ‘holy hell’ breaking loose, which he’d first taken for an earthquake.
‘A few of us went outside to see what was happening,’ he had explained, ‘and there was a terrible commotion. Bobbies whistlin’, fire-trucks a-clatterin’, and people running all about shoutin’ bloody murder. We could see smoke risin’ from over the rooftops in three great plumes. Never seen anything like it in all my days. But there was something else. Something that I’d forgotten about until just now.’ He had stopped to take a drink, continuing only when he was satisfied that everyone was on tenterhooks waiting for his testimony. ‘Across the road we saw two men and a young lady, all dressed in black. Too smart for the time o’ day. My mate ’Arold said to me, he says, “Look at them there, in their Sunday best. Didn’t know there was a funeral on today.” For sure enough, they was heading into the church, and they was in a terrible ’urry; all flustered and out of puff they were. And ’Arold was right; I hadn’t seen a black-coach all day.’
‘And what happened? Did you see them again? Where did they go?’ I was eager to know more. Perhaps it was that eagerness that stopped him from proceeding, suspecting that I was one of those ‘muck-rakers’ after all, or perhaps that was all he knew, for all he would say was: ‘Dunno sir. I never saw them again, surely, and never paid it no mind until today. And to think, I might have seen them dynamiters with me own eyes!’
At the culmination of Old Tom’s tale, it became obvious that our true business was at the church, and we had already attracted too much of a little gathering in the Ten Bells, some of whom were surely suspecting us of being policemen or reporters by that point. We made our excuses and beat a retreat, straight across the road to the Baroque church.
* * *
The atmosphere within Christ Church was positively otherworldly. The nave was both spacious and claustrophobic at the same time; Gothic arches, and carved Composite columns seemed to break up every open space, so there was no logical path for the eye to follow into the huge nave until one was actually standing in its centre. The dichotomy of light and shadow was dizzying; streams of pale light poured in through the clerestory, causing shadows of varying intensity to criss-cross the nave before blending into pitch darkness in every far corner. It was as though the architect had attempted to paint a melancholy scene using naught but light. A few large tallow candles were lit here and there, and their smoke mingled with incense from an unseen source to make the very air seem to writhe around us. There was no sound, save for a faint coughing from a solitary worshipper near the altar, and the sound of our heels ringing on the flagged floor as we made for the vestry. There, we met the incumbent rector, Dr. Billing, and his young verger, Michael, who were more than helpful when we explained our business. There was little deception required on our part with staunch men of the cloth, although Ambrose introduced us as Home Office agents nonetheless, leaving me no choice but to play along.
We spent some time taking tea in the vestry with the loquacious rector, with Ambrose at least making a show of professionalism when his mouth wasn’t stuffed with cake. Michael spoke little, and after just minutes in the rector’s company I doubted that he had much opportunity; the elder clergyman strayed too readily and too often from the matter at hand for my liking, and chattered almost non-stop.
‘I do recall,’ he said, when eventually he decided to answer my questions directly, ‘that on the evening of the third we were disturbed by a loud noise, as though the door had been opened and closed sharply; isn’t that right Michael?’ Michael was given no chance to reply. ‘We were both certain that the door had been locked, so we went out to the nave to investigate.’
It seemed our luck was in, for the two of them had stayed late on the night in question, and had recorded the events in a diary, which the rector fetched to remind himself of the facts.
‘We checked the main door, and found the wicket door open,’ Dr. Billing continued. ‘This was most disconcerting, for I remembered locking it myself, and Michael was certain he remembered me doing so, didn’t you Michael? This is not the fairest district of London, and it was near dark outside, so we were concerned that perhaps some disreputable type had entered by force. It was with some trepidation that I poked my head outside and surveyed the scene. There was nothing unusual as far as I could tell. There were a few people scurrying back and forth, still frantic after the dynamite attack, but no one approached our doors or loitered nearby.
‘I closed the door once more, and bade Michael watch it whilst I looked around the church. If someone had forced their way in, I did not want to lock the door once more for fear of being trapped inside with the type of individual who would break into a house of God. I fumbled for a match and lit some more of the candles, but just then we were both made to jump out of our skins by another noise, this time from the crypt. Well, I need not explain that we were now in a bit of a funk, for it seemed obvious that someone had entered the church and was rattling about in our crypt. At best, I surmised, it would be a poor unfortunate of the streets, seeking shelter; at worst, a grave robber, though he would find no recent burials down there.
‘Though it was tempting to step outside and call for a policeman,’ Dr. Billing went on, ‘I gathered my wits and decided to investigate. After all, it would be a desperate individual indeed who would knowingly attack a man of the cloth. I crept to the crypt door, with Michael close behind, glancing back towards the front door now and then in case anyone else should enter. As we reached the entrance to the crypt, I am sure I heard a strange whistling sort of noise, which once more threatened to set my nerves jangling. But I steeled myself, and with a muttered prayer I pulled open the door. As I did so, a great and sudden draught blew out my candle, and there came a flash of light—although Michael and I cannot agree on that point entirely. We found ourselves standing in pitch darkness, staring into a dark, silent crypt. There was no longer a whistling noise, or any sign of habitation.
‘It took the two of us some time to pluck up the courage to enter the crypt, I can tell you. But when we did, and had lit every wall-sconce and candle, we found nothing. No signs of any disturbance at all. All we could think was that it must have been the wind, and eventually we laughed about it and remarked what sorry souls we would have looked had anyone seen us. With the fright over, we conducted a full search of the building, until we were satisfied that the church was secure. We stayed a full hour after that, but no one came seeking sanctuary or counsel, and so we left for the night.’
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, not because the rector’s tale was related in the manner of an old ghost story, but because I recognised some parallels with my own experiences, and knew that were close on the trail of our anarchists.
‘Is there any other way out of the crypt?’ Ambrose asked.
‘Technically, yes, but it is not possible that the exit was used.’
‘How so?’
‘There is a very old passage that leads to the churchyard—an old catacomb, I suppose, which would have been used to bring remains in and out—but it has been blocked up for many years. The doors at either end are chained shut and have not been used in living memory. They were secure when I checked. They also adjoin the vaults, which descend even further beneath the porch, but these have long been emptied and there is no exit from those either.’
At this, Ambrose and I naturally investigated the crypt, finding a doorway at the far end of the vaulted chamber. The rector said that the door had once led to a passageway to the churchyard, but that it had long been filled in and now led only to a brick wall. After a thorough search, we at last made a breakthrough.