An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
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can roast as far as I’m concerned.’
Pilgrim stood. ‘Thank you for putting Adolphus on the case. It will help to have two pairs of eyes and ears at Great Barrow, and Dolly is sharp, even though he pretends not to be.’ Pilgrim smiled. ‘He reminds me of someone I used to know, years ago.’
‘The boy will go far.’ Field grinned and finished off his port.
Pilgrim nodded and made for the door.
Field stopped him. ‘I forgot to congratulate you on your arrest of Johannes Appler last night.’ At Pilgrim’s blank look he was forced to elaborate. ‘The man in the cab? Quite a task you left for the poor Desk Sergeant, with all those stinking packages to tag and record.’
‘You’ve interviewed Appler?’
‘Briefly. He claims he was transporting the packages for an acquaintance.’
Pilgrim frowned. ‘Of course, he would say that …’
‘But … ?’ Field eyed him. ‘I can sense a “but”.’
‘There was something about his expression, just before I hit him.’
‘Surprise, I should imagine!’
‘Something else too. Or, rather, something that wasn’t there.’
‘Oh?’
‘Fear of discovery.’
Field stared at Pilgrim for a moment, then shook his head. ‘You’re chasing shadows. We couldn’t have caught Appler more red-handed. However,’ he rubbed his nose, ‘if you’d like to speak to him yourself?’
Pilgrim nodded. ‘If you think it might help.’
The holding cells were on the ground floor. The Desk Sergeant, an ex-soldier by the name of Phelps, had charge of the keys.
‘Pity I was off shift last night, sir. I hear you had quite a time of it. Would you like me to come in there with you?’
‘No thank you, Sergeant, I can handle it.’
‘So you can, sir, so you can.’ Phelps handed the keys to Pilgrim with a gap-toothed grin.
When Pilgrim entered the cell Johannes Appler sat up on his cot. A sickly bruise spread from under the whiskers on his jawbone, right up to his cheek.
‘Do not come any closer.’ The young man gave Pilgrim a look of frank dislike. ‘In Amsterdam I would be charging you with brutality. And I would be permitted to have a lawyer present.’
‘You’re not in Amsterdam.’ Pilgrim drew up a stool, which was the only other piece of furniture in the cell. ‘Would you tell me how the packages came to be in your cab?’
Appler rubbed his eyes. Pilgrim realized that he had been crying, for all his apparent self-possession.
‘I have already told your Chief Inspector everything. He made notes. What is the point in my repeating it? All I seem to do is to incriminate myself further.’
‘You say you didn’t kill this girl.’
‘I certainly did not.’
‘The surest way to prove that is to help us catch the real killer.’ Pilgrim persisted. ‘Tell me about the packages.’
Appler sighed. ‘I agreed to take them to the East India Dock. To repay a debt.’
‘To whom?’
‘I do not know his name.’
Pilgrim lifted an eyebrow.
‘I know it does not look good. I met the man at a gambling club on the Brompton Road, and lost a sum of money to him. He agreed to write off the debt if I took a delivery to the Docks.’
‘He brought them to your house?’
Appler nodded. ‘Yesterday afternoon. And told me to expect a cab at midnight.’
‘What did you think was in the packages?’
Appler shrugged. ‘I did not consider it my business.’
‘Weren’t you at all suspicious? Couldn’t you smell them?’ Pilgrim hadn’t been aware of the stink himself, but it had been much complained about when he had brought them into the station.
‘I have a head cold.’ Appler took a handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose extravagantly, as if to emphasize the truth of it. He sighed. ‘I guessed the delivery was dishonest in some way. But I chose to … how do you say … turn an unseeing eye? The debt was considerable.’ He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘I swore to myself that I would not gamble again, that once I had repaid the debt I would go back to Amsterdam.’
‘You’ve given a description of the man to the Chief Inspector?’
‘He was a young man, but there was nothing about him that stood out.’ He hesitated. ‘I do not think he was British.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He had an accent.’
‘French? German? American?’
Appler shrugged. ‘It is hard for me, een Nederlandse, to say.’
Pilgrim gave him a pen and a sheet of paper. ‘Write down anything else you can remember. Anything at all. And make a note of all your engagements on the day of your arrest and the four days previous to it.’
As Pilgrim went to the door of the cell, Appler stood up.
‘My parents,’ he said. ‘They do not know I have been arrested. They live in Amsterdam, in the Pijlsteeg.’
‘Write down the address and I’ll telegraph them.’
Appler stopped him before he went out of the door.
‘Could you please try to be as tactful as possible? They are simple, God-fearing people.’
The journey to Great Barrow was as slow and unpleasant a trip as was possible, considering it was no more than forty miles and the weather mild. But a cow on the line at Brentwood, and the fact that Great Barrow itself wasn’t within walking distance of Chelmsford, made it well past noon when Pilgrim and Dolly climbed down from the pony and trap in front of the Great Barrow Police Station. It was a neatly kept building with flowers in a tub outside. Inside, the well-swept reception hall was empty and silent. No police officers. No lawyers. No sheepish-looking thieves or carousing drunks. No sign of life at all, in fact, except for a moth-eaten gun dog sleeping by the counter that didn’t even lift its head as Pilgrim strode to the desk and rang the bell. There was a scuffle on the other side of the door, and it opened to reveal a uniformed Desk Sergeant, with the stiffest, most extravagant handlebar moustache the detectives had ever seen. Dolly stifled an exclamation of awe.
‘Sergeant Pilgrim and Constable Williamson,’ said Pilgrim. ‘We’re here on the Bonwell case.’
‘Aye, you’re expected. Thought you’d be here sooner.’
He came out from behind the desk, stepped over the dog, and headed out of the door.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘You’ll be wanting to see the lad’s body, won’t you?’
They followed him along the main street, which was thick with mud, dodging a pair of geese that cut across their path, and into a ramshackle coaching inn that occupied the corner. With its red pantiled roof and mullioned windows the inn looked idyllic, but the impression was quickly dispelled by the interior. The corridor was dark, low, and smoky, carrying the sounds of eating and drinking from the main taproom. The whiskered sergeant led them away