Murder by Lamplight, page 26
But the porter, the chaplain, and the nurse—he knew them. The nurse who saw the hollowed-eyed girls and the bent-over boys and ignored their bloody underdrawers. She had it coming. And that pair of buggers—Bertie and Willie, they called each other—one on top of him, rutting and grunting, the other watching with his hand in his trousers.
Jacko had a moment of hope the night he recognized the chaplain. Gently, Mr. Atwater pushed him down by his shoulders until he was kneeling. The chaplain rested a hand on his head—a blessing, he thought. But with his other one, Mr. Atwater opened his buttons and pulled Jacko’s face into him, telling the boy what he wanted him to do.
Two years after he arrived at the workhouse, Little Jacko spent his last day toiling on the dustheap. When he returned in the evening, the matron met him at the gate. She hurried him to the washroom, cleaned him up, and dressed him in a new set of workhouse clothes.
The master was waiting in his office. At his side was a stranger, a tall, cadaverous man who beat a battered hat impatiently against his leg. His thinning hair hung in wispy strings that touched the frayed collar of his black coat.
The stranger looked Jacko up and down. “I trust the workhouse has been true to its godly purpose, that it’s taught the hard lesson of life. Since Adam’s fall, toil from dawn to dusk is what the Lord ordained. It’s what the boy can expect from me.”
“You’ll not be disappointed, sir,” the master said.
“Well, boy?” The stranger barked. “Speak up. What’s your name?”
“Jacko, sir,” he whispered. “Jacko Fratelli.”
“Not anymore, it’s not.” His bony hand darted out and clutched him above the elbow. “My sister named you Jonathan after me. From now on, you’re Jonathan Graves.”
* * *
It amused Graves that Paddy O’Malley had been right all along: the banker didn’t fit.
When Inspector Tennant asked his sergeant to fetch the evidence box from the storage room, he’d slipped the balloon inside. It was his way of having some fun, a little sleight of hand at the investigation’s expense. And he’d enjoyed tormenting Tennant with pangs of guilt. Poor innocent Meyer—what a joke. He was as guilty as sin.
He’d made sure Paddy discovered the balloon in the banker’s box. Nothing was easier. He always kept one or two on him, tucked in a pocket in the lining of his coat. In idle moments at his desk, he’d reach inside and finger them, wrapping their rubbery smoothness around his forefinger and thumb. He’d fantasize about where he’d put them next. With his heart beating and his breaths coming quickly, he’d press them deeper into their secret pouch and get on with his work.
Sometimes he thought it was all too easy. He preened when he recalled how he dodged the jobs at the music hall and the workhouse. Before Tennant handed out assignments, he jumped in and volunteered for something else—looking for the street-sweeping lad, questioning Sir Harry Jackson, or grilling Johnny Osborne. Not that he thought he’d be recognized, but it paid to be careful. And he was happy to lead the investigation down any wrong garden path or to change the subject deftly whenever sodding Paddy O’Malley was on to something.
The riskiest part of the plot was topping Willie Lomax in his lodgings. Stupid, pathetic Willie; he was so willing to do his bidding for a rent-free flat, not knowing what was going on. With that pox-addled brain of his, the old fool hadn’t a clue. But on command, he’d dress up in that flaming wig and play his part.
He had one or two close calls. After Willie’s murder, Graves made sure he was the one who interviewed the rent collector, never dreaming the bugger would show up at the Yard. Benny Kane was the only person who knew he was Willie’s landlord, that he’d inherited the house from his uncle. Still, Kane was a worry; he’d have to do something about him.
In the end, he’d slipped through that noose nimbly. The second one, those ruddy workhouse ledger books—he’d handled that just as deftly, made sure to grab the telltale editions before O’Malley saw them. The volume for 1849 recorded his arrival with his sister. And the 1851 edition listed the departure of one Jacko Fratelli, aged twelve, released into the care of his uncle, Mr. Jonathan Graves, residing at 165 Cowper Street in Hoxton. It also recorded a death two months earlier: Jillian Fratelli, aged nine, died of fever.
He’d turned the page, closed the book, and announced to Paddy, “Nothing in this one, mate.”
He paid them back with a stick, all except Sir Maxwell Ball. With his knife at their throats, frenzied, hate-filled, he felt sated—at least, for a while.
No, he didn’t sodomize Sir Maxwell or slice him up. The man never visited Little Jacko or his sister on those nights at the workhouse. But it was time he paid for all the mothers he’d poisoned, for the children he’d left fatherless and homeless over the years. For all he knew, it was Ball’s filthy water that his parents drank that terrible day, the day that changed everything.
Graves had an earlier tick mark on his tally sheet: his first kill. Such a tragedy—a cask of slippery molasses leaking across the warehouse platform and a nasty fall. He looked down at the broken body of his uncle and curled a length of rope artfully around his ankles.
It was past time the bastard paid. He’d cast off his own sister, hadn’t he? With a little help, Jacko’s family needn’t have rotted in a cholera-ridden slum. And for two years, he’d condemned his nephew and niece to the hell of the workhouse. He came too late to save Jillie. No. He wouldn’t think about her now. He wouldn’t think about how he’d failed her.
His uncle only looked for Jacko after the death of his son. He wanted a Graves to inherit and carry on the business, failing as it was. Jonathan granted his uncle’s wish a little sooner than he’d planned.
Still, one thing worried him: How would he entertain himself once it was over? Of course, he wasn’t ruling out a return engagement. Strolling through a park or waiting on a station platform, he might spot another monster from his past. But, for the moment, he was nearly done.
Only one scene left to play.
CHAPTER 17
O’Malley pounded along the pavement and skidded to a stop in front of the entrance to the Yard. He scrambled through the doors and doubled over at the duty sergeant’s desk.
“Inspector Tennant,” he gasped. “Is he back from Somerset House?”
“Back and gone twenty minutes ago.” The sergeant’s face was a mask of stone. “Left a message for you, but I’m guessing you’ve heard.”
“Tennant knows?”
The sergeant nodded. “Found the records at Somerset House.”
“Where is he? Where’s the inspector?”
“Took three constables with him and left for Whitechapel Workhouse. He’s hunting for Graves.”
Outside the Yard, O’Malley cut in front of an outraged passenger. “Sorry, sir. I’m taking this cab. Official business.” He shouted directions at the cabbie and slammed his back against the seat, cursing his blindness for the hundredth time.
At the end of his conversation with the rent collector, after he’d written his name and address, O’Malley had gaped like a fish.
“Detective-Constable O’Malley,” Kane had said. “You work at Scotland Yard?” When he nodded, the man exploded his bomb: “Then you must know the landlord—Sergeant Graves. Generous bloke. Let Willie live rent-free. Maybe he’ll give you a discount—brothers in blue and all.”
His mind was like a child’s kaleidoscope: every time he shook his head, images and memories reformed into a different pattern. The sergeant—his sergeant—was the murderer. It beggared the imagination. Quickly, disbelief changed shape and settled into realization. It was so easy, simple for him to use his closeness to the case to manipulate and deceive. “I’ll start with these ledgers, mate.” Graves said it with his usual cheer, no doubt taking charge of the guilty volumes.
O’Malley stared out into the murk of the gray morning. This fecking cab. Its crawling pace through the smoke-shrouded streets added to his frustration. Smoke and mirrors—the sergeant had them all stumbling in the dark.
Still, O’Malley saw one thing as clear and bright as a summer morning: Jonathan Graves had taken up lodging in his head. It would be a long time before he was evicted.
* * *
Tennant reread the Somerset House documents on the ride from the Yard to Whitechapel Workhouse. The lanterns the driver had hung to avoid collisions provided just enough light. A clerk had added a last-minute document from the Probate Registry Office: the uncle’s will. It named his adopted son, Jonathan Graves—born Jonathan Fratelli—as his heir, listing the properties he inherited.
Tennant looked up at the grim faces of the constables who shared the four-wheeler cab with him. They would all feel it, bottom to top, from the Yard’s newest bobby to Sir Richard Mayne; all would feel tainted by the treachery of one of their own. For the inspector, there was an added layer of humiliation. To be so deceived by a member of your team was a galling realization.
They were on their way to the workhouse, but would Graves be such a fool as to wait around for them to pick him up? He must realize the evidence was there, at Somerset House, enough to send him to the gallows. Tennant doubted he’d find him paging through the ledger books, but that was his last known destination. He’d have to pick up his trail from there.
What would be his next move? Would he flee to the Channel, try to hide somewhere on the Continent? Or South America, perhaps; the inspector had ordered telegrams with his description sent to all the ports.
What would he do if he couldn’t get away and knew he was cornered? In a sickening flash, Tennant knew the answer. He’d add a final victim to his ledger, and the aftermath be damned.
He pounded on the roof of the carriage. When the cabbie pulled over, Tennant shouted out the window. “Turn right in front of the London Hospital, then right again on Charlotte Street. Fast as you can, man—take us to the Whitechapel Clinic at Fieldgate and New streets.”
* * *
Julia smiled at the sight of Sergeant Graves. Through her doorway, she watched him exercise his considerable charm on the stoic Nurse Clemmie. Then the clinic’s cook appeared and handed him a cup of tea and a biscuit. When he looked up, Julia waved him into her office.
“You have my whole staff eating out of your hand, Sergeant.”
He put his cup on the edge of her desk. “Can’t explain it, Doc. Ladies of a certain age all want to mother me. It’s the younger ones who won’t give me the time of day.”
“Well, I have a little time today. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve got a body on our hands, down Mile End way. It’s a young woman, nothing to do with our murders. The guv wants to know if you can give it a squint.”
“Give me a few minutes to finish this report and check on the wards. Then I’m all yours.”
Graves wandered around her office. He stopped in front of a life-size drawing of the interior organs of the human body and muttered, “Blimey,” and moved on. He peered through the glass of Julia’s medicine cupboard. Then, over his shoulder, he said, “You could polish off half of East London with what you’ve got in here. Hope you keep it locked.” He rattled the door to check.
Julia signed a document with a flourish, blotted her signature, and looked up. “Five minutes, Sergeant, to speak to Nurse Clemmie in the wards, and then we can be off. I’ll ask Fred to whistle up a cab.”
Idly, he picked up the letter opener on her desk. “Plenty of time, Doc. No worries.”
* * *
Fred opened the door of the hansom and handed Jonathan his bull’s-eye lantern.
“Here you are, Sarge, though it won’t do you much good in this murk. Where are you headed?” he asked.
Graves gave Fred the address of a warehouse on Canal Road in Mile End. The porter repeated it to the cabbie, and the hansom rattled off.
After Julia had settled into her seat, she turned to Graves. “I was thinking. You might try your luck with Emily—she’s half Nurse Clemmie’s age.”
“Are you playing matchmaker, Doc?” She nodded. “Right, then. Put in a good word for me.”
They trundled along for a while until he broke a companionable silence. “I remember the day I first met you. Surprised, I was. I can’t deny it—a lady doctor. You made a joke about showing us your medical license.”
“You looked as if you wanted to see some evidence.”
He grinned. “You got me there, Doc. Never can hide what I’m thinking. It’s a disadvantage for a copper.”
“So, tell me a little about the victim.”
“Some lads playing in an empty warehouse along Regent’s Canal found her on the second floor. Throat cut ear to ear. That’s about all I’ve got.”
They made slow progress in the fog. Julia peered into the gloom, trying to make out some landmarks. “I think we just passed Mile End Green, but it’s hard to tell in this dreadful smoke.”
“The canal’s just ahead. We’ll cross a footbridge to the other side. The warehouse is right on the water.”
At the end of the road, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jonathan hopped out and helped Julia down. “Careful, now, Doc. Watch your step on the bridge. Take my hand; some of the planks are a bit wobbly.”
The fog hovered low along the water’s surface, but the warehouse was clear enough. It was a hulking edifice built right to the bank of the canal. From three shuttered windows, drawbridge platforms jutted out like petulant lower lips. The hoists above the windows had been used in more prosperous times to lower heavy loads into barges below. From a spot just south of the building, one such derelict vessel sagged at its stern, taking on water.
Graves flashed his beam on the steps to the warehouse. Pushing the doors open, he waited while Julia passed him. Inside, they paused in the gloom to get their bearings. Speckles of floating dust glittered in the lamp beam. Turning his head to cough, Graves pulled out his handkerchief and pointed his light toward the staircase.
“That’s the way, Doc. One floor up.” At the top of the stairs, he said. “First door on the right.”
It was open a crack, so she gave it a push. Graves shone the light over her shoulder to show her the way. He followed her into the room and put the lantern down the floor.
Julia looked around. “Where is the victim?”
His left arm came around her shoulder and pulled her against him in a crushing grip. She felt the tip of a blade touch her neck.
“She’s right here, Doctor.”
He jammed a cloth against her nose and mouth, and the room went dark.
* * *
Tennant slammed through the clinic’s doors and walked rapidly along the hallway, looking left and right. He spotted the head nurse and the porter standing at an open cupboard in Julia’s office.
Nurse Clemmie rattled the broken latch. “But who, Fred? One of the patients?”
“Where is Doctor Lewis?”
The heads of the nurse and porter snapped around. Fred said, “Didn’t they turn up? They were supposed to be meeting you down Mile End way.”
The inspector knew the answer, but he asked anyway. “When you say ‘they,’ who do you mean?”
“Doctor Lewis and your sergeant, of course. Sergeant Graves.”
Stiff-armed, he gripped the back of a chair and barked, “When?”
“Just after morning rounds.”
“How long ago, exactly.”
“Forty-five minutes, give or take.”
Nurse Clemmie looked back at the broken cabinet. “Is something wrong, Inspector?”
“I’m not sure. Fred, you said Mile End. How do you know that?”
He scratched his head. “Well, Doctor Lewis asked me to whistle up a hansom, and Sergeant Graves gave me the address. I repeated it to the cabbie.”
Tennant took him by the shoulders. “Do you remember it?”
Fred bit his lip, trying to recall.
“Think hard, Fred. I need that address.”
“Canal Road, the sergeant said. Number—”
Tennant released the porter. “Canal Road. That’s . . .”
He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a bundle of papers. Selecting a document, he unfolded a will’s stiff parchment, scanning the text until he found what he wanted.
“Did Graves say 187 Canal Road?”
“That’s it. I told the cabbie to drive to 187 Canal Road.”
Outside, Tennant gave the cab driver the address. “Whitechapel Road will be too slow. Take Charlotte to Oxford Street. In Stepney, we’ll cut over to Mile End Road. As fast as you can, man.” The inspector slammed the door and thumped on the roof for the cabbie to get moving.
He eyed the grim faces of the three constables sitting around him. “He has Doctor Lewis.”
“Bloody hell,” his seatmate muttered.
“On the way to the warehouse, we’ll stop at the Bethnal Green station and round up some reinforcements.”
Another constable said, “You gave the cabbie an exact address. How’s that, sir?”
“He made no secret of his destination. Graves made a point of telling the porter.”
“He’s leading us right to him, then.”
“Yes.” Tennant looked out the window, then back at his officers. “It’s a filthy day; visibility is compromised. But check your weapons. One of you may have to take him down.” The inspector held the eye of Constable Hawkins, the Yard’s crack shot.
“Understood, sir,” he said.
“We’ll leave the carriage a street away and walk the distance. Two of you—Robbins and Smythe—will survey the perimeter and report back to me. I’ll make a final assessment on the spot before we proceed. Any questions?”
The men shook their heads.
“Remember, he knows his cover is blown. He’s armed, dangerous, and has nothing to lose.”
* * *
Julia woke up stiff and cold, lying on her side, her cheek pressed against a bare, wooden floor. She groaned as she propped herself on her elbow and tried to sit up. As the room swirled and her head spun, a surge she couldn’t suppress flooded her mouth. She turned her head and vomited.
