Part 14 (1/2)

TWENTY-FIVE.

BOW STREET POLICE STATION.

Alice and Bill Kraken parted company from Mother Laswell on Fleet Street, the two of them bound for the newly built Metropolitan Police Station on Bow Street, Covent Garden, and Mother away down Whitefriars Street toward the river, in search of emanations in the environs of the infamous Mr. Klingheimer's house on Lazarus Walk. They would meet at the entrance to Temple Church an hour hence, and then, if they missed the appointed time, at the top of the following hour.

”You take care, Mother,” Bill Kraken said. ”This ain't no time for cutting capers. If you see the man Shadwell, make certain he don't see you. Lie low. That's the byword, and we'll all come home safe. I wish you had a pistol in that there bag of yours.”

”I've given up pistols, Bill. You know that,” Mother Laswell said to him. ”I'll take particular care. As for Shadwell, he certainly believes I'm dead. You do the same, Bill. Heed your own advice.” They stared at each other for a moment as if finding it difficult to part, which was something that Alice understood very well. As she watched Mother Laswell walk away, she wondered whether Hasbro's notion of dividing their forces was indeed a good idea after all. They were spread thin, as the saying went, although surely there was little danger to her and Bill, who were merely chatting up the authorities for the particulars of James Harrow's death, which should be a simple business.

They continued along the Strand now, and up Wellington Street, garnering odd glances from the people they pa.s.sed. Alice was careful to walk beside Kraken, who had the habit of following behind when he accompanied Alice, as if he didn't want to presume upon their friends.h.i.+p. She was anxious to avoid giving anyone the idea that she was being followed by a dangerous madman. He had a resolute look on his face, his eyes squinting, his fists clenched, his mouth working, his hair wild. It was a dangerous, rope's-end look, as if he might break out at any moment into a rash act, which he very well might.

”I have a plan, Bill, for dealing with the police,” she said to him as they drew in sight of Bow Street Station, newly built of stone and with a low iron fence around it. An officer stood outside the door, and there were farm barrows moving past on the street Covent Garden market starting to clear out, most of its business done in the early morning hours.

”I'd be happy if you allow me to deal with this matter of James Harrow. It won't take but a moment for me to learn all there is to know.”

”I won't lose sight of you, ma'am, not on your life. If you're a-going inside that there station, then so am I.”

”It's a police station, Bill. I couldn't be safer. You, however, have much to lose if you run afoul of the police and were taken up. It would be the end of me if that happened. I don't know what I would do. Think of what you told Mother not ten minutes ago about lying low. I'm asking you to heed your own advice, just as she did.”

After a long moment he nodded curtly and said, ”I'll stand out front on the street, then, if that's orders, and watch the door for you to come out. They can't take a man up for standing in the road.”

”Yes they can, Bill. They can do as they please. You'll find yourself in Newgate Prison if you don't look out. There's a coffee house down the way. You can see its sign hanging over the door. Wait for me there, if you please.”

”Aye,” he said, nodding again and moving away, shambling past the policeman, who looked him over with a scowl, his hand on the handle of the truncheon hanging from his belt.

”He's in my employ,” Alice told the policeman cheerfully. ”He's harmless.”

”Yes, ma'am,” the policeman said, doffing his high hat, his demeanor changing on the instant to a solicitous grin. ”Just as you say.”

She got that response often enough the unearned appreciation of men who admired her appearance. She didn't find it flattering, but it was sometimes useful. She entered the building, thinking about male gallantry and female charm as she made her way to a desk with a harried-looking police sergeant sitting behind it. There were two people queued up in front of her a distraught woman who was wringing a pair of gloves and trying to talk past a small, stout man who told her to ”wait her bleeding turn,” while he explained to the sergeant that a man on a horse had forced his cart into a post and broke the cart and the wheel into the bargain. ”I want compensation,” he said with a heavy nod of the head. ”I mean to have it.”

”Where is this villain?” the Sergeant asked him blandly.

”He just kept on, didn't he? Didn't look back. Not for a moment.”

”Then there's nothing we can do for you, sir.”

”But who's to compensate me? I have the right to compensation.”

”The right, do you say? You have the right to be thrown into the street for being a d.a.m.ned ugly, slab-sided villain. Compensation, he says! Off with you now. Next! Yes, ma'am, step forward.”

The glove-wringing woman pushed forward now and in a broken voice told the sergeant that her young son had disappeared, describing him in a way that might apply to half the boys on earth. He took down the information impatiently, and then asked, ”The boy's name?”

”Charles Pickney, officer.”

”Perhaps he was taken up by the police,” the sergeant said, and he looked through a long list of names on sheets of foolscap before him.

”No, sir,” she said. ”He's not been taken up. He's a good boy.”

”They're all good boys, ma'am, until they prove otherwise. As I said, his name is not on the list. That decides the matter. Move along now, my good woman,” he said, waving her off. ”Next!”

Alice watched the woman wander away in a state of obvious confusion and grief. Last night it had been Langdon who was missing, and she recalled her empty helplessness and despair as she lay there in the darkness thinking about it. She wondered what she might say to the woman that would help her, but nothing came to her. To the sergeant she said, ”A friend of mine has gone missing, also. His name is James Harrow, and he is a.s.sociated with the British Museum. He was allegedly kicked by a horse near the Swan Lane Pier, the night before last, his body taken away by the police. I'd like to verify that this is true and to discover where the body was taken. His sister has found it impossible to learn meaningful details of the event or the whereabouts of his body.”

The sergeant nodded and looked at his list again a long list. ”No such name here, ma'am. Wait a moment if you will, and I'll ask Joe Matthews, who works along the river.” He arose and went off, pa.s.sing through a door, from which he reemerged a minute later. ”Joe tells me that your man is missing, as reported by his sister in Chiswick, like you said. His wagon was burned alongside the river. His body would have been conveyed to a dead house in the immediate area.”

”We were told that the body was taken away by the police. Wouldn't there be a record of it?”

”There should be, ma'am, but there is not. His body would have been conveyed to a dead house, like I said, but Joe Walton didn't hear of it.”

”Where are the dead houses?” Alice asked.

”They s.h.i.+ft about, ma'am. People aren't fond of 'em, you see. A shed back of a church, perhaps, or the bas.e.m.e.nt of a boarding house that's paid a fee by the Board of Works till the tenants move out because of the stink of the bodies. The Board can tell you better nor me. That's their lookout. It's right up the way, near Admiralty Arch.”

”I'll pay them a visit,” Alice said. ”Thank you, sir. You've been helpful.”

She moved away, the line having grown to six behind her, and she heard the sergeant's, ”Next!” as she pushed open the door.

She found Bill Kraken pacing on the pavement outside the coffee house, dodging pedestrians, and the two of them set out at once for the Board of Works, which was a matter of ten minutes' walk under the windy blue sky.

Kraken entered the building along with her this time and sat down in a wooden chair by the door to wait. Alice was greeted by a small and very serious woman named Mrs. Green who asked whether she wished to make an official inquiry, to which Alice asked once again after James Harrow's body, whether it had been conveyed to a dead house, probably in the City and somewhere near the river.

”We're not fond of the term 'dead house,'” Mrs. Green told her. ”There are in fact three morgues in the general vicinity of the Swan Lane Pier, however.”

At that moment a small, narrow-faced man sitting at a nearby desk interrupted, suggesting to Mrs. Green that it was more pressing that she complete the monthly roster and that he would be quite happy to reveal the location of Mr. Harrow's remains.

”Yes, Mr. Lewis,” Mrs. Green said, and went away, presumably to do as he asked.

Alice looked at the man attentively enough so that he became visibly fl.u.s.tered. The last time she had seen him had been through a pair of opera gla.s.ses while standing on the deck of the Hedge-pig, moments before the collapse of the Embankment.

TWENTY-SIX.

THE PRISONER.

”Am I a prisoner, then?” St. Ives asked the man whose name was Klingheimer.

”No, sir. You are merely detained in this room for a brief time. I ask your pardon for Dr. Peavy's hasty actions. He is sometimes intemperate when he feels threatened.”

”I threatened no one,” St. Ives said.