An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
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Frances nodded at him, and then at Dickens.
‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Dickens.
Pilgrim guided her out of the room, aware that the men’s eyes – even Dickens’s – were drawn to her backside under the tight skirt. As they passed, Pilgrim put his mouth close to Dolly’s ear. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Williamson.’
Pilgrim and Frances paused at the top of the main staircase, obliging other people to step around them.
‘You can reach me at Gloucester Street,’ she said.
‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘I’m only asking you to try.’ She started down the stairs.
‘Frannie,’ he stopped her. ‘I miss Bess too. I know it’s my fault …’
‘Yes,’ she cut across what he was going to say, ‘it is.’
He watched her make her way down the rest of the stairs, not taking his eyes from her graceful figure until it passed out of the main doors and melted into the crowds on the street.
Then he turned and headed to the reception desk.
‘I need the keys to the cells, Sergeant.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ Phelps stooped to get them from the hook under the counter, and sighed. ‘They ain’t here. If I’ve told those youngsters once, I’ve told them a hundred times – bring the keys back to me. One of the buggers will have them in his pocket. It’s a good thing I have a spare set.’ He disappeared into the cubbyhole that served as an office, and emerged a moment later with a heavy bunch of keys.
‘I’ll come with you if you don’t mind, sir. I’d better check the keys haven’t been left in one of the locks. I’ll have someone’s bleedin’ guts for garters.’ Phelps sailed through the barred doorway to the cells on a wave of indignation. Pilgrim followed. Phelps’ gaze swept the locks as they went down the corridor. When they reached Appler’s cell, however, he stopped, and his face took on a strange expression.
‘What?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘Is it Mr Appler you want to see, sir?’
Pilgrim nodded.
‘I think you’d best let me go first.’ Phelps unlocked the door, but before he could open it, Pilgrim moved him firmly out of the way.
Appler lay in the centre of the cell; face down in a pool of blood, one arm stretched above his head. There were great smears around his arms and legs, where he had thrashed about in the gore, and a cut-throat razor lay a few inches from his outflung hand. The blade was black and clotted.
When they had caught their breath, Pilgrim pulled Phelps back out into the corridor. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.
‘The blood, sir. I could smell it. I spent long enough on the battlefields of Afghanistan to know it anywhere.’
Pilgrim swallowed. Somehow Phelps’ revelation that blood had its own scent was even more appalling than the carnage in the cell.
He cleared his throat. ‘You’d best fetch Inspector Field,’ he said, ‘but make sure Mr Dickens is off the premises first.’
Phelps shot away down the corridor, and Pilgrim went back into the cell. He looked around. There was a bowl of water on the chair beside a mirror, a shaving brush, and a towel. Prisoners were generally permitted to shave, unless they were considered a risk to either themselves or their gaolers. With Appler, there had been no reason to think either was the case. Pilgrim put a finger into the water in the bowl. Stone cold. As he wiped his finger on his shirt he noticed a crumpled ball of paper lying on the cot. He picked it up and smoothed it out, recognising the notepaper he had given to Appler. He had evidently started to list his movements on the days prior to his arrest, and had written a few lines – ‘5th February – Rose late. Paid a call on Bookmaker – P. Beddowes of Turk St at 11 o’clock’. But there was nothing else, save a single word scrawled across the page: ‘verloren’. Pilgrim knew no Dutch, but had a little German. He recognized the word: ‘lost’.
What had made Johannes Appler surrender to despair? Guilt? The realization that the evidence against him was overwhelming? Or the shame of having to face his parents? Whatever the reason, no one would know it now. Appler was lost indeed.
Pilgrim pushed the paper into his pocket.
He met Field and Phelps halfway down the corridor.
‘Has Dickens gone?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘I sent him packing.’ Field’s face was grim. ‘This is an ugly business, Harry.’
‘You haven’t seen the half of it yet. We need to find out who brought Appler the shaving bowl, and when.’
‘I can tell you that, sir,’ said Phelps. ‘Young Anderson was on slops duty. He must have taken it in about eight this morning. Can’t imagine why he never went back for it, though.’
‘Find out,’ snapped Field. ‘But play it close to your chest, for now. I don’t want everyone and his ruddy dog knowing.’
‘I hear your Hackney Killer has topped himself,’ said Tanner. ‘Good riddance.’
Pilgrim ignored the comment. There was no point asking Tanner how he knew. They had tried to remove Appler’s body and clean his cell as discreetly as possible, but policemen were incurable gossips. No doubt it was also common knowledge that Constable Anderson had been prevented from going back into the cell for the shaving bowl by a sudden attack of the flux. The delay had given Appler more than enough time to pluck up the courage to kill himself.
Tanner was alone in the office. There was no sign of Dolly, who had presumably taken himself off to the laundries with the vest. Pilgrim pushed his pile of fan mail aside to sit on his desk, and scrutinised Wainwright’s sketch of Martha Drewitt. It didn’t improve his mood. He glanced sideways at Tanner, who was trying to pick a lock on a small travelling valise covered with decorative luggage labels.
‘How is your investigation on Eliza Grimwood coming on?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘Well enough.’
Pilgrim got up from his desk, and took the lock pick from the other man. He opened the valise with a twist of his fingers. ‘Have you asked Ben Thompson at the Spreadeagle whether he saw her that night?’
‘Of course I have. Don’t try to teach me to suck eggs.’ Tanner looked into the valise. A collection of spoons and three goblets nestled in cotton wadding.
Pilgrim picked up one of the goblets, engraved with a heraldic design, and weighed it in his hand. ‘Silver,’ he said. He looked at the valise. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Anderson found it on a stairway at the back of the Old Mint. Some fence’s stash, probably.’
‘Probably.’ Pilgrim tossed the goblet back into the valise, and handed Tanner the sketch of Martha Drewitt. ‘I have a girl missing from the Waterloo Road.’
‘So?’
‘Is it possible there’s a connection between her and Eliza Grimwood, or the killer?’
‘Possible, but not likely.’ Tanner faced him with a sneer. ‘What would you have me do; keep an eye on every slack cunny in the East End? The silly drabs go missing all the time.’ He thrust the sketch back at Pilgrim. ‘Tell you what, Sergeant Pilchem, why don’t you keep it? I know you have a soft spot for a trollop like that.’
Pilgrim punched him.
‘Bugger and galloping hell’s flames, Harry. I know Dick Tanner’s not the easiest man to get on with, but I can’t have