The Incendiary's Trail (21 page)

The throng seemed to exhale, and a swelling cacophony began to reverberate between the buildings. Noah stamped ferociously on the boards of the scaffold and let forth a bestial, spittle-flecked
profanity that attracted the startled looks of many.

The body of Mr Bradford hung motionless for a further hour before being cut down and taken within the gaol.

SIXTEEN

Commissioner Sir Richard Mayne pounded the letter against the broad tabletop with the flat of his hand. Also arrayed there were a selection of newspaper reports on the
astonishing events of the previous day’s hanging.

Sitting around that same table were Inspector Newsome and Superintendent Wilberforce, who had first approached Sir Richard with their scheme; those three men were now joined by Mr Williamson and
Noah. The commissioner’s anger seemed to hang in the cigar smoke above the table. Nobody but Sir Richard dared speak.

‘This man Boyle murdered another in plain sight of thirty thousand citizens
as hundreds of policemen looked on!
At this solemn exhibition of the price of crime, a criminal is bold
enough to
scorn
the Metropolitan Police by murdering a man even as the prisoner Bradford is dropping through the trap! It is an
insult
, gentlemen. And now this letter . . .’

His exasperation strangled the words once more. The other men looked down at the table, willing another to speak first.

‘What are we to do, gentlemen? What do we know? I want to hear everything and I want to hear how we are going to catch this man with the rapidity with which Mr Bradford was brought to
justice. Do you know that the Queen has been asking questions about this? It has gone that far.’

‘With all respect, Sir Richard,’ began Superintendent Wilberforce, ‘there was no way we could have foreseen or prevented the occurrence with Mr Boyle. Any man could have taken
a pistol to the execution. There are often numerous crimes at a hanging: pockets picked, petty violence, theft from shops, burglaries—’

‘But murder! Do not tell me that
that
is common. There were hundreds of policeman within feet of the man.’

‘The crowd was unprecedented, sir,’ added Mr Newsome. ‘More even than with Courvoisier.’

‘You should have foreseen that, especially since you tell me that Sergeant Williamson had an intuition that this Boyle would attend. Did you not make plans for this?’

‘If I may speak, Sir Richard . . .’

‘You are the man who had me sign my name to a letter of exculpation, yes? The cracksman who captured Mr Bradford – Noah Dyson? I will say now that I experience great unease
entertaining you at this table, sir. This is a police matter – you would be advised to keep your silence.’

‘Nevertheless,’ continued Noah, unconcerned, ‘the situation was not remotely typical or predictable. The facial appearance of Boyle, the unique character of the occasion and
the choice of murder weapon all combined to create a climate where he was able to escape. Nobody here is at fault.’

Sir Richard seethed with a barely contained fury at the head of the table. Had this common thief just disregarded his order to remain silent? Not only disregarded it, but with an air of disdain
at the gravity of the situation and a complete lack of respect for the commissioner of police. He looked from Mr Wilberforce to Mr Newsome, then he stood, and without a word, left the room.

The others stood, too late, as he exited the room with a formidable slam of the door. A humiliated Mr Newsome jabbed a finger at Mr Williamson and Noah:

‘Find Boyle. Do whatever you must do. We cannot have any more murders by this man. The newspapers are intoxicated with it, and now this . . . this letter of his. The very Queen herself is
asking questions! I hold both of you responsible. And let us agree that the name of Lucius Boyle will go no further than this table, do I make myself clear? We don’t want the papers to get
hold of it or we’ll be inundated with letters from a thousand Lucius Boyles!’

And then he and Mr Wilberforce hastily left the room to placate Sir Richard.

Noah and Mr Williamson sat once more, facing each other across the table. The air of the room was charged with lingering anger and accusation. Cigar smoke hung in a grey-blue pall above
them.

‘It was foolish of you to speak like that to the commissioner,’ said Mr Williamson.

‘It was foolish of the police to utilize me in the first instance. I am not bound by any oath.’

‘You are melancholic because Boyle slipped through our fingers yesterday. I understand that. His escape and the murder of Mr Coggins is as much an injury to me, I can promise
you.’

‘I think not.’

The detective reached across to the letter and placed it between them. It was written in black ink, most likely with a steel pen, on standard writing paper. It had been handed to a beat
constable on Westminster-bridge by a street boy who had vanished into the traffic just as quickly as he had appeared. The letter was addressed to ‘Sergeant George Williamson of the Detective
Force, 4 Whitehall Place’.

‘The physical letter can tell us little. The handwriting is copperplate with good spelling and grammar, but we already know he is intelligent. I have looked over its entirety with a
magnifying glass and found nothing that can help us. That leaves us only with the content . . . Noah? Are you listening?’

‘We will never see him again. You are wasting your time in any further investigation.’

‘You are being melodramatic – and you are wrong. You will see Boyle again, because he will not rest until you are dead. He knows that you are working with the police – that is
why he has revealed his name to us. He knows that we know him; he knows that you, more than most men, can identify him; he knows that you are alive when he once thought you – or wished you
– dead . . . I see from your expression that the latter is the more correct.’

‘Why would he kill me?’

‘I am beginning to think that he has determined to kill everyone connected with this case – however tangentially – just as he seems to kill everyone who has seen him or who can
implicate him. First was Mary Chatterton, then Mr Coggins—’

‘Wait. I assumed Mr Coggins was merely an unlucky victim. His coarse shouting attracted unwanted attention. Then he made the mistake of grappling with Lucius.’

‘I thought so too, initially. But is it not too great a coincidence that Boyle should have been standing next to Mr Coggins in a crowd of thousands?’

‘Why a coincidence? Boyle may have attended the show at Vauxhall Gardens and seen Eliza-Beth, but we have no evidence that the two men ever met or knew each other.’

‘Perhaps we do not have evidence, but I think we may make a certain assumption. When I first spoke to Mr Coggins, he described a Dr Cole.’

‘But you told me this Dr Cole is a legitimate doctor, a well-respected specialist of Harley-street. This has been verified.’

‘No. What we have established is that a man claiming to be a doctor visited the Lambeth house, that a doctor of that name exists at Harley-street and that he is currently in
Edinburgh.’

‘There is something you have not told me.’

‘The doctor who visited Mr Coggins was wearing a scarf about his face to “prevent against bad air”. And Dr Cole left for Edinburgh two days
before
the murder of
Eliza-Beth took place. To the knowledge of his household, he has not returned.’

‘Boyle.’

‘It is hardly conclusive, but the evidence suggests it. We may assume that Mr Boyle followed Mr Coggins to Newgate.’

‘Why did you keep this from me?’

‘I learned the date of Dr Cole’s departure to Scotland only this morning. He was the sole connection to the case that remained truly unknown. Evidently our Mr Boyle showed more
foresight than you –
his
calling card named a real person with a real address. A person, moreover, who could not be immediately contacted.’

‘You should keep me informed of the enquiries you make.’

‘Mr Dyson, I told you that I have only just confirmed this information. Nevertheless, I am still not sure I can trust you. I believe you want to capture Mr Boyle for your own revenge. I,
on the other hand, want to bring him to justice.’

‘What I plan for him is justice enough.’

The two stared unblinking at each other across the table. A low murmur of congregated people was carried up to the window. They had gathered at the police headquarters for news, for gossip, for
a glimpse of the policemen conducting the case. The bare facts in the newspapers were not enough to feed their hunger.

‘Mr Dyson, we must apprehend this man by any means necessary, and as rapidly as we can. After that, we need never meet again. I am sure we will not. Now – let us consider the letter.
What are your opinions?’

‘He is amused rather than perturbed by the situation. My continued existence, however, is a genuine surprise to him.’

‘That much is clear. What of his promise to “go to ground”? What could he mean by that?’

‘I am not sure. He has been in hiding for most of his life. I cannot comprehend what more he could do to be invisible, apart from disassociating himself from those few that know him. In
that case, how is he to function? The newspapers are full of descriptions of his face, both covered and uncovered.’

‘Hmm. And what of this “all other connections will be broken”? Is it not a promise, the “connections” being the other people connected to this case?’

‘What connections? Mary is dead. Mr Coggins is dead. Who else is there for him to kill? The rest of the performers?’

‘You. Me. The father of Eliza-Beth, the search for whom may have been the reason why all of this started. He is an incendiary – he is accustomed to razing things to the ground and
destroying them utterly so that not a trace remains.’

‘Sergeant, do you really believe that he would try to kill you and me?’

‘Would you have believed that he would kill Mr Coggins amid thirty thousand people?’

‘Frankly, no. It was highly visible and out of character. So, if we are to keep a watch on possible victims, who are we to watch? Ourselves?’

‘That is something we must ascertain. I will return again to Mr Coggins’s troupe and see if Mr Hardy – the half-man – recalls the visit of “Dr Cole”. We know
that both Mr Askern and the clergyman saw Boyle at the Lambeth house, so we may consider them also to be in danger. Indeed, we may consider all of the performers to be in danger . . . I hope we are
not facing more slaughter.’

‘What exactly did you learn from the writer?’

‘He believes he saw the “doctor” returning Eliza-Beth to the house. What do you make of that?’

‘He cannot have been easily mistaken. It is possible Mr Coggins had other lucrative uses for the girl . . . What of Mr Askern’s paternity?’

‘He appears to be what he claims and gave me no reason to believe that he is the father of Eliza-Beth.’

‘I do not mean to be coarse, but how would he know? When a man is young, he may know many women – just as many men knew Mary Chatterton.’

‘I will trust your experience on that subject, Mr Dyson. Mr Askern is a gentleman. What of the Reverend Archer? Did you locate him?’

‘Yes, and he was as full of wind as usual. I questioned him about the letter and he admitted he had seen it. Only that. Perhaps he was ashamed to have been looking at that area of her
anatomy and therefore lied to you about it. He also provided me with a new piece of information – one that has added weight now that you have told me about the doctor and Eliza-Beth. Mr
Coggins offered him the services of Eliza-Beth.’

‘Services? What services? Do you mean . . . ?’

‘Yes. He was prostituting the girl. She was pretty in her own way, and there are men in London so debauched that they perpetually crave something new—’

‘You do not need to elaborate.’

‘You are blushing, Sergeant. I would expect a man of your experience to have seen everything on the streets.’

‘Hmm. Hmm. This new intelligence complicates matters greatly. It means Eliza-Beth may have had contact with a larger number of men than we know. Perhaps Boyle was indeed one of them. Yet
she is dead, and so is Mr Coggins. What of Mr Archer? Did he partake of her . . . services?’