An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
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will all come to nothing.’ Sir Harold dismissed Dickens, the detectives, and the improved conviction rates of the capital with a wave. As Justice of the Peace for Clerkenwell East, he was well known for being ‘down on’ anyone unlucky enough to appear before him, and prided himself on that reputation. ‘It is never a wise or safe proceeding to put authority in the hands of the lower classes.’
Dickens’s gaze flicked to the footmen lining the room. They remained granite-faced, as good servants should.
‘If you ask me,’ continued Sir Harold, ‘there’s something underhand about these detectives of yours. All that sneaking about and lurking in corners. It isn’t …,’ he cast around for a suitable word, ‘English.’
‘Nonsense, Harold,’ snorted Lady Harcourt-Brown. ‘I, for one, feel safer with these gentlemen on our streets.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Mrs Phillips.
‘I imagine they must possess very specific qualities?’ Mr Phillips surrendered the beef to a footman to distribute among the guests.
‘Indeed.’ Dickens understood his host’s question for what it was: his cue to earn his supper. He took a breath. ‘You might think that a detective, having been recruited from the ranks, would inevitably betray some evidence of his lowly beginnings, but you would be wrong!’ He wagged a finger at his audience. ‘A good detective must blend in as easily in the upper echelons of society as among the criminal classes. He must be well mannered and respectable looking, with good deportment – nothing lounging or slinking in his manner. And, of course, he must possess keen observational skills and a quick perception.’
Sir Harold harrumphed.
Dickens continued. ‘In my opinion, this city needs an effective police force, in the same way a child needs the guidance of a wise and impartial parent. It offers protection to the vulnerable elements of the population. Which is why I am determined to do all I can for it.’
As he finished, he wondered whether Harry Pilgrim had acted on the anonymous note he had given him earlier in the evening. The detective had received the tip-off with his usual sangfroid, giving him no indication whether he intended to do anything about it. Pilgrim would certainly be able to give some of his acquaintances a run for their money at the cribbage table.
‘I understand there is one detective who is particularly successful,’ said Mrs Phillips, apparently picking up on his thoughts. ‘Sergeant Pilchem, I believe he is called?’
‘His real name is Pilgrim. Henry Pilgrim. A veritable prince of detectives.’
Lady Harcourt-Brown’s gaze slid mischievously to her husband. ‘In that case, perhaps we should invite Sergeant Pilgrim to our next supper party, Harold?’
Sir Harold’s face suffused with blood, and his eyes bulged. For a moment – one brief, glorious moment – Dickens thought he might be choking on the beef. But no. It was indignation.
‘Over my dead body!’
Pilgrim tucked into his breakfast: bloody pork chops and coddled eggs. Freshly shaved and wearing a suit, he was almost unrecognisable as the man who, less than five hours earlier, had apprehended the murderer who would be dubbed ‘The Hackney Cab Killer’ by the second editions of the newspapers. Pilgrim’s scarred face was shocking in the morning light; the skin of the lower half of his chin and neck as pitted as orange peel.
He sat apart from the younger, uniformed officers that also boarded at the barracks, letting their banter wash over and around him, like waves around a rock. The dining room was functionally furnished, with no comforts beyond the long scrubbed table and benches, and a motto painted on the wall: ‘Be sure your sin will find you out’. Pilgrim eyed it as he chewed. If only it were true, it would save him a world of trouble.
‘There you are, sir.’ Adolphus Williamson bounced over to sit beside him, carrying his own tray. Pilgrim smothered a smile. Dolly Williamson, with his smooth, scrubbed features and pink cheeks, looked exactly like the toy he was nicknamed after. Pilgrim knew that appearances were deceptive, however: beneath Dolly’s cherubic appearance lay a will of iron.
‘Sorry we were too late this morning to be of any assistance, sir.’ Dolly continued, taking up his knife and fork. ‘I said we should have come as we were, in our nightshirts, but Sergeant Tanner wouldn’t hear of it. Wish I’d been with you when you stopped that cab, sir.’
‘He didn’t put up much of a fight, if that’s any consolation.’
‘Not really.’ Dolly pulled a face, and bent to feed a ginger tomcat a piece of his own chop. ‘Any scrap’s better than none at all. What do we have on this morning?’
‘Whitehall, but I need to call in at the Chronicle first, to see if there are any rooms to rent.’
‘You’re moving out of the barracks?’ Dolly raised his eyebrows. ‘You can’t do that, sir, you’re a fixture here, just like old Thomas.’
Pilgrim studied the cat that glared back at him with its single remaining eye. He avoided it whenever he could, for it had the temperament of a Glaswegian stevedore.
‘Did you know the neighbours have been complaining about him?’ He said to Dolly. ‘Apparently he’s turned cannibal. He’s been eating their pet kitty cats. If I don’t get out of these barracks soon I might start to do the same.’
‘Nonsense.’ Dolly bent to stroke the cat, but his gaze remained on Pilgrim. ‘You’re an old softy, aren’t you?’
There were only five detectives in the new detective division of Scotland Yard – two sergeants and two constables – headed by Chief Inspector Charley Field. They all shared an office, apart from Field, but it was empty when Pilgrim and Dolly finally arrived, after a fruitless visit to the offices of the Chronicle.
The furnishings reflected the fact the division was newly created: all four desks and chairs were mismatched, gleaned from elsewhere in the force, and a sofa – strictly for visitors – borrowed from Customs and Excise. A map, divided into sections with thick blue ink, hung on the wall: Cross’s New Plan of London, published earlier that year. There was nothing else in the room to betray its function: no housebreakers’ tools, silverware, luggage, or other unclaimed stolen goods, no disturbing drawings of criminal physiognomy. To all intents and purposes it was indistinguishable from an office of shipping clerks. Pilgrim knew it was a source of disappointment to Charley Field, who would have liked something more dramatic to show visitors.
As Pilgrim took off his overcoat, Constable Wainwright lurched through the doorway, shouldering a large mail sack.
‘You’re here, sir!’ he gasped. ‘I have your monthly delivery for you, from Mr Dickens’s journal.’ Wainwright heaved the sack onto Pilgrim’s desk and upended it with a flourish. ‘It’s the biggest yet.’
Pilgrim scowled at the pile of letters. ‘Did you have to put them there?’
‘But they’re from well-wishers, sir.’
‘Well-wishers? People demanding that I find their missing cats, or jewellery. Or husbands. For some reason they believe everything Dickens writes about Sergeant Pilchem, but he has nothing to do with me.’
‘Go on with you, sir,’ said Dolly. ‘There’s no need to be modest. Everyone knows it’s you.’
Pilgrim scowled. ‘I wish the Inspector would stop encouraging Dickens.’
‘Hear bloody hear!’ The words were spoken by Dick Tanner, the other Detective Sergeant, who stood in the doorway. A powerfully built man in his thirties, he had a head like a bullet and hands made for heavy labour. He glowered at Wainwright. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ He tossed a file onto his desk.