The Architect of Murder Read online

  “Come on,” said Truegood, leading me across the intersection into the darkness ahead.

  The Black Maria’s clattering receded and I looked back to see it continuing down the street we’d just crossed. The six constables, joined by their sergeant, followed us. Ahead, Peabody’s Rochester Buildings, a giant block of flats with Dutch gables, sat squat above the surrounding dwellings. To our right an alley opened up — a rough-looking man with a frayed coat and soft cap lurched towards us. I tensed — reached into my coat — and relaxed as I recognised an unwashed and unshaven version of Sergeant Aitken.

  “Morning, gents.” He grinned.

  Truegood turned to the uniformed sergeant. “How many armed?”

  “Only myself and one other, it was all — ”

  “Take three men down there with you, the armed constable comes with me. Station yourselves at the back of The Otter’s Pocket, two on each side. Collar anyone who leaves and be careful, because they might be armed. If you hear one blast of the whistle, just the men with pistols come to our assistance. Two blasts, everyone converges on us. Got it?”

  The four men nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

  “Murgatroyd has spike nails set in the back wall of the public house, so he and his adams can make a rapid exit if necessary. When we go in the front I expect most of the household will leg it out the back.” I noticed that of the three remaining constables, two carried sledgehammers, and the other a revolver. “You men with the locksmith’s daughters know what you’re doing?” They replied in the affirmative. “Stay outside with them unless you hear the single whistle,” Truegood said to the third, who nodded.

  Aitken led our party forward to another alleyway, parallel to the one from which he’d sprung. “This is St Anne’s Lane.”

  Once we’d left Old Pye Street there were no lamps and we would have required lanterns to navigate were it not for the faint light from the rising sun. Like its neighbours, the lane was narrow and the houses leaned at odd angles, looming in the dimness. A few yards ahead a shadow darker than the rest gradually took human shape and I made out another homeless man slumped on the road, there being no pavement to offer a more suitable bed. As we approached he stirred and rose, and I saw he had an eye patch and a matted black beard. He, too, grinned and I realised that Sergeant Lamb lurked under the theatrical props.

  He reported to Truegood, speaking in a whisper. “He’s in there. So’s Murgatroyd, Bird, and the landlord and his wife. There may be others.”

  I could just make out where Lamb had pointed, a few dozen yards further down the road. The Otter’s Pocket was a Tudor style house with two small gables and a narrow doorway set deep in the middle of the structure. The façade was blackened and peeling, and there were three sets of windows, indicating that the gables had been converted into garrets. There was no sign advertising a public house and no light from any of the windows. The three uniformed men walked past and waited outside the house next door, which was anonymous and tumbledown. All of the buildings in the lane were dark and quiet.

  Truegood addressed me. “Rose is a tubby little cove with a goatee.” He gave me a pair of handcuffs and a knuckleduster, both of which I dropped into my side pocket.

  Lamb removed his eye patch, and drew a snub-nosed Webley. Aitken removed a bullseye lantern from under his coat. When it was alight, he clipped it to the front of his belt, and produced a similar revolver along with a short truncheon.

  Truegood took a lantern from Lamb and clipped it to his own belt. “If they’re armed, chances are they’ll use them, so be prepared. But we need Rose alive, no matter what. The front and back are covered, so we’ll go straight in, straight up to the second floor. If we need help, one blast on the whistle for the two armed men, two blasts for the lot. Got it, Aitken?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lamb?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Marshall, stick with me.” Truegood withdrew his watch and I looked over his shoulder. It was twenty-eight minutes to five. Truegood waved to the uniformed men and replaced his watch. “Let’s go,” he said. I noticed a life-preserver had appeared in his left hand.

  As the two constables with the sledgehammers moved to the front door, we crossed the lane. I drew my Broomhandle Mauser from its shoulder rig. I’d acquired the pistol from a dead Boer at Ladysmith and used it for the rest of the war. I slipped the brass knuckles over my left fist. The four of us crouched down in a neat row in front of one of the windows: Truegood, myself, Lamb, and Aitken. It wasn’t an ideal position, but we had little choice, as the doorway was barely big enough for the two constables to wield their universal keys.

  It appeared that everyone was waiting for a pre-arranged signal of which I was not aware.

  A low growl issued from inside the house.

  Then another.

  Dogs began barking.

  “Now, now!” shouted Truegood.

  “Heave!” The constables hefted the hammers into the door, one heavy thump after the other. The dogs went berserk, but there was no crack of wood.

  “Again!” Truegood shouted needlessly. “Heave!”

  Thump, thump — then a crackle — a crash as the door imploded.

  “Get out, get out!” Truegood dragged one of the men from the doorway, flung him into the street, and squeezed into the space created. He booted the remains of the door, burst into the house, and shot the first dog in mid leap. “Police! This is a raid! Police!”

  A boom echoed across the city as the guns in Hyde Park fired their first salute. It was dawn on coronation day.

  The other two dogs yelped at the noise of the shot and fled. I was at Truegood’s shoulder as he entered a vestibule with two doorways and a flight of mouldy stairs. He charged up; I followed.

  From above I heard shouts, a scream, and rapid footsteps.

  Truegood reached the first floor landing and a door opened in front of him. A skinny, bare-chested man came out — I saw the flash of a shiv. Truegood hit him in the jaw with his elbow and rushed for the next flight of stairs. Bare Chest fell back against the wall, swore, and came forward again, blade raised.

  I hit him as hard as I could across the bridge of the nose.

  His face exploded in a cloud of blood and he screamed, dropping to the floor.

  Truegood surged ahead and I took the stairs three at a time to catch him. Behind me I heard a roar followed by a gunshot. Truegood gained the second floor as three loud bangs came from below. He dropped his life preserver and reached for his whistle. A door to the right opened and a man in a nightshirt, wielding a poker, stepped out. He saw Truegood and I — thought better of it — disappeared back into the room.

  Truegood’s piercing whistle cut through the noise in the house: one long, loud blast.

  I joined Truegood as he reached for a door to the left — it opened — a man in a greatcoat raised a sawn-off shotgun.

  Truegood dived left — I dived right — thunder and lightning exploded on the landing.

  I looked up and saw Greatcoat run for the stairs. I raised the Mauser and he threw his weapon at me. I squeezed the trigger — the shotgun hit my arm — my shot went wide. Greatcoat hurled himself down the stairs. I scrambled to my feet and gave chase.

  “That’s Murgatroyd!” Truegood shouted. “Find Rose!” Behind me, I heard him kick in the door Nightshirt had shut.

  I jumped down to the first floor, where Aitken lay slumped, a smear of blood on the wall behind him. Lamb was struggling with a huge, bald man in a velveteen coat, the pair fighting for control of an axe handle. The big man threw Lamb down the stairs, saw me, and pulled the weapon back to swing.

  I raised the Mauser — someone leapt on my back, knocking me to one side. “Leave ’im alone, you fuckin’ bravo!” I heard as my right ear was covered in spittle. A hand reached for my eyes.

  Velveteen Coat hacked at me with his weapon — there wasn’t time to fire — the axe handle caught the corner — skimmed along the wall.

  He bellowed and pulle
d back for a second blow.

  I threw the woman off me.

  Velveteen Coat swung.

  I shot him — once, twice — two to the chest.

  I heard a crash behind me — Truegood — and a muffled curse below.

  Truegood kicked in another door and I dashed down to the ground floor — a constable was there, revolver drawn — more curses from below.

  “Down to the basement!” I led the way, but it was pitch black. I shoved the constable in front, the light from his lantern bouncing up and down the walls as we ran. A damp cellar was full of dusty barrels, and I was overcome by the smell of raw sewage. I heard more curses, saw there was a door at the back, and ran to it.

  I opened the door and stepped in —

  “Stop!”

  It was Lamb.

  I froze, and tottered over a cesspit about four feet square. I lost my balance and pitched forward —”

  “Got you!” The constable grabbed a fistful of my coat and hauled me back.

  The cesspit was directly in front of the door. On the other side of it, Lamb was flinging filth off him.

  “Where’d he go!”

  “Through there,” Lamb spat.

  Above us I heard two more blasts from a whistle.

  I leapt over the cesspit. The constable followed and shone the lantern at the side wall. There was a two-foot square hole. I took the lantern from the constable’s belt, thrust it out in front of me, and prepared to crawl in.

  “Major, leave it!” I turned to Lamb.

  “That’s Murgatroyd. He’s armed, and he might be waitin’. It’s not worth it. Aitken’s hit.” Lamb jumped back over the cesspit and disappeared into the cellar.

  My every instinct was to continue the pursuit, but he was right. Not only was it foolhardy, but it was Rose we wanted. I told the constable to wait there, negotiated the cesspit again, and found Lamb assisting two more constables to remove Aitken from the building. Velveteen Coat was gurgling and gasping, from which I gathered I’d hit him in the lungs.

  I checked the room Velveteen Coat had come from — empty — and then the one opposite. The woman who’d attacked me was lying naked and insensible. I grabbed hold of one of her arms and dragged her to Bare Chest, who was sitting clutching his face. I handcuffed the two of them together, and pocketed Bare Chest’s blade along with my brass knuckles.

  I heard a heavy step on the floor above. Truegood marched Nightshirt and another woman — this one clothed — down from the top floor. They were also handcuffed to each other.

  “Did you get him?” he asked.

  “Rose — no.”

  “Not Rose — Murgatroyd! He nearly blew my head off, and his adam shot Aitken. Did you get him?”

  “No. He escaped through a hole in the cellar wall.”

  “Just wait till I get my hands on that bastard! Where’s Aitken?”

  “They’ve taken him out, but he looks bad.”

  “Strewth!” he snarled, and looked down at Velveteen Coat. For a second I thought he was going to shoot him. “Wait here with these three villains. I’ll send a couple of constables up.”

  “What about — ”

  “Just wait here!”

  I was fuming. What the hell had happened to Rose? None of the men we’d encountered were tubby, and none had goatees either. If Rose had escaped, or not been here in the first place, Aitken’s wound was in vain. We’d even managed to lose Murgatroyd in the bargain. I didn’t have long to ponder our dismal performance before I was relieved by the sergeant and another constable. I left them with Velveteen Coat and the handcuffed couple, running out to find Truegood. More policemen had appeared, alerted by the gunfire and whistles, and Truegood was standing over a covered body.

  It was Aitken.

  “He’s gone,” Truegood said to me. “That fucking animal Murgatroyd. This is not over. It is not over.”

  “Where the hell is Rose?” I demanded.

  “Rose. Rose?” he said absently.

  “Yes, Rose. The reason this man died.”

  “Rose is at Rochester Row station.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, let’s go. There’s nothing we can do for Aitken now.”

  “So where did Rose go?” I asked, following him.

  “Out the back. They always do.”

  19. The Colonial Secretary’s Accident

  “Thank you again for the tobacco, sir. Blowin’ a cloud helps to get rid of that horrible stench. Latakia, is it?”

  Lamb and I were in the washroom of Rochester Row police station. He was sitting on a bench, wrapped in a towel and smoking his briar pipe — filled with my spiced tobacco. I was stripped to the waist, cleaning the blood from my coat with a soapy cloth.

  “My pleasure. It’s a Turkish blend from Astley’s, not bad at all. I’m sorry about Sergeant Aitken. What happened?”

  “I didn’t know him very well, but he was a good copper. Murgatroyd’s got a lot to answer for. After you cracked Milligan in the face I jumped in to put the darbies on him. Saved my life, it did. Aitken was a step behind me. He was about to go into the room Milligan had come out of when Bird opened the other door and gave him two in the back with a Bulldog. I’d just stuck my pistol in my belt for the darbies; when I turned round there was no time to draw and Bird was on me with the axe handle.”

  “I saw you dancing with him when I got back. He looked as strong as an ox.”

  “He was. I think Mr Truegood could’ve handled him, but he was too much for the rest of us. When he threw me down the stairs I looked up and saw you were copin’,” he smiled through a cloud of smoke, “so I decided to go after Murgatroyd — who’d already gone flyin’ down like a bat from a belfry. I did think about firin’ a shot up the stairs, but I didn’t want to hit you, sir.”

  “I’m rather glad you didn’t — fire a shot or hit me, that is.”

  “I thought you were just goin’ to shoot Bird anyway.”

  “I was, but as I was about to pull the trigger, a naked lady of the night leapt on my back and tried to scratch my eyes out. Luckily Bird was so big; the length of his arms and weapon combined ensured he didn’t land his first swing. He was just about to deliver the second when I managed to throw her off.”

  “Yes, sir, I did notice the harpy on your back. There’s some that would pay dear for that… Anyway, like a bloody fool I followed Murgatroyd into the cellar. When I got to the bottom of the stairs all I could see was a patch of black in the darkness. I heard a door swingin’ on its hinges, fired two shots at it, charged in, and ran — or fell — straight into his trap. One minute I was runnin’ through the door, the next I was up to my ears in human waste. I don’t know how deep it was, but I nearly lost my pistol in my fright. I was lucky Murgatroyd didn’t hang about to shoot me. He scarpered instead.” Lamb looked at the pile of folded rags that had been assembled for him after he’d been hosed down and his clothes burnt. “I’m glad I was in mufti, not my best clobber, but I’m not sure about these.”

  “We could’ve done with more men, but Inspector Truegood did well with what he had. No matter how many we’d used someone would’ve been hit; Murgatroyd and his Family were too well armed.”

  “The dogs were the main problem, sir.”

  “The dogs?”

  “Yes, sir. The guvnor had us set to go in when the guns went off at dawn — to cover our entry. But then the dogs started and gave Murgatroyd all the warnin’ he needed. I should’ve guessed about the dogs. It was too good to be true, no lads keepin’ watch and no dogs. When I saw there were no young lads, I should’ve known there’d be dogs.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Lamb.” I patted him on the shoulder. “These things happen in war — police work, I mean. Bird shot him, and I shot Bird. That’s all there is to think about.”

  “Yes, sir, poor old Aitken. I wouldn’t like to be in Murgatroyd’s shoes. Even though Aitken wasn’t one of us, the guvnor’s taken it personal. He won’t rest until he finds him. He’s like that, is Mr Truegood.” Ha
ving finished my cleaning as best I could, I began dressing. “What’s that cannon you’re carrying there, sir, if I you don’t mind my askin’?”

  “It’s a Mauser, a new design by the Germans. Not only is it double-action, but it’s self-cocking as well, so it’s more accurate.” I removed the magazine, cocked opened the slide, and ejected the live round into my palm. Then I closed the slide and passed it over to Lamb. “There you are. The Germans are way ahead of us when it comes to weapons and they supplied the Boers — unofficially, of course.”

  “Good God, it is a cannon, isn’t it? How many rounds does it carry, sir?”

  “Ten in that magazine. Ten seven-point-six-three rounds. It is a bit bulky, but I had a shoulder rig made to measure.”

  He handed the pistol back to me as Truegood joined us. “Christ, Lamb, this isn’t a Turkish Bath. Get those clothes on sharpish, I’ve got work for you.”

  “Yes, guvnor,” he replied without enthusiasm.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Rose is scared — as he should be after Aitken — but all he’s telling is that Murgatroyd sent him to find Lowenstein. He was given a physical description and told the fella was in hiding, but that’s it. Doesn’t know who commissioned Murgatroyd for the job — if anyone did — or why he wanted him found. It was the girl that gave Lowenstein away. As soon as she told Rose, he reported to Murgatroyd, and he claims not to know what happened thereafter. Apparently Murgatroyd had at least three others on the job as well, but they’re all lower down the Family chain of command than Rose.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I’m still going to grill the villain all day just because I bloody well can, but yeah, I do. He’s scared enough to tell me everything he knows, and he’s clever enough to realise the game’s up with Murgatroyd. I’m going to grill the two ponces and harlots as well, but I doubt they’ll know anything.”