Inspector Abberline and the Gods of Rome

  Inspector

  Abberline

  and the

  Gods of Rome

  SIMON CLARK

  Contents

  Who is Inspector Abberline?

  When the Gods fled Rome

  Bizzare Death

  Chapters

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  By the same author

  Copyright

  Who is Inspector Abberline?

  If a man could ever be described as a rival to the legendary Sherlock Holmes then the real-life Inspector Frederick Abberline is that man.

  Frederick George Abberline (1843-1929) rose to fame in his search for the serial-killer Jack the Ripper in 1888. He was widely featured in national newspapers, which portrayed him as a heroic figure who tirelessly fought crime. Although Abberline never did catch the notorious Whitechapel ‘Ripper’, he was an enormously successful policeman, receiving eighty-four commendations and awards, as well as earning the loyalty and respect of his colleagues. He retired from Scotland Yard at the age of forty-nine, yet continued to work as a private detective. At various times, he was based in Monte Carlo where he investigated the most sensitive of cases before being appointed head of the European office of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Inspector Abberline’s legendary stature grew as he solved crimes on the international stage and without doubt became the most famous detective in the world.

  WHEN THE GODS FLED ROME

  408 ad: The glory that is Rome is already being consigned to history. Roman legions leave Britain to fend for herself. Caesar’s vast empire is collapsing. Barbarians sweep from the north into Italy to plunder its towns and slaughter its people. Alaric, King of the Visigoths, lays siege to Rome, attempting to starve an already decaying and impoverished city into submission.

  Emperor Honorious knows that soon the barbarians will swarm through the capital’s streets to loot what remains of its treasures, so he orders his bodyguard to carry away seven golden statues, known as the Gods of Rome, and hide them until the fortunes of the empire are restored.

  At the dead of night, the Gods of Rome are smuggled out through secret catacombs beneath the barbarian army’s very feet and are taken to a place of safety.

  The Roman Empire continues its long, slow decline. By 476 ad this once mighty civilization will be gone forever. And so, it seems, will the fabulous treasure known as the Gods of Rome – until, that is, a mysterious photograph is found in the most strangest of circumstances.

  BIZARRE DEATH

  Sir Alfred Denby, 63, of Fairfax Manor, East Carlton, has been found dead in a workshop adjacent to his home. Sir Alfred continued the custom of his late father by signalling the start of the working day to estate staff by the firing of a cannon at seven o’ clock in the morning. The gentleman’s last words to his manservant were, ‘Edward, the lock of the workshop is sprained. See that it’s repaired today.’ Sir Alfred then went to the workshop where a considerable quantity of gunpowder was stored for use in the cannon. Witnesses report that a violent explosion occurred at 6.30am. Mr T. Barstow, coroner, believed that Sir Alfred placed a candle too close to an open barrel of gunpowder, resulting in its detonation.

  The gentleman was found in the debris of the workshop, quite dead, and in a shockingly injured condition.

  Sir Alfred Denby makes the fourth brother in the same family on whom an inquest has been held.

  From The Todworth Chronicle, 9 February 1890

  CHAPTER 1

  London 3 April 1890

  The journalist witnessed the dramatic incident from the window of the White Horse Tavern on Charing Cross Road. A large, red-faced gent in a grey coat roughly pushed aside a small boy who’d crossed his path. The boy carried a jug, which splashed its contents across the front of the man.

  The man reacted with fury. He grabbed hold of the boy’s wrist so fiercely that the jug flew into the road where it shattered. The man’s face grew even redder as he shouted at his captive, while pointing at what appeared to be milk dripping down the front of his coat. Hardly anyone glanced in the direction of the angry man shaking the distraught boy. Nor did passers-by react when the thug raised his fist. Such occurrences were commonplace on these streets. Clearly, the child would be beaten for an accident that wasn’t even his fault in the first place; for it was the man who had roughly pushed the boy aside, causing the milk to be spilt on his clothes.

  Such is life in London, thought the journalist. Violence is everywhere. The cab driver who whips his horse, the thief who knocks down a woman to steal her purse, the master who beats his servants; even rats fight one another in the sewers for scraps of food. Not only the River Thames flows through the city, there’s also an ever-present current of violence, too. The journalist liked the line about the River Thames and an ever-present current of violence and decided to use it in the article he was writing. As he jotted down the words, he heard an indignant shout. Before the thug in the grey coat could strike the child, another man had intervened. The newcomer had grabbed the bully’s sleeve at the cuff. Now both men were standing toe-to-toe. The individual with milk still dripping down his coat bunched his large fist and held it just an inch or so from the other man’s chin.

  The journalist quickly rose to his feet, slipping the notebook into his pocket as he did so, then he ran across the busy road just as the fight started. The gentleman who’d intervened had protectively moved the boy behind him while looking his opponent in the eye. Grey Coat appeared to be the vile type who settles disputes with his fists.

  What happened next proved the journalist right. Grey Coat threw a punch. The other man stepped back, moving the child as he did so. The bully punched a second time, and a third, each time missing his target. With growing frustration, he launched himself forward while swinging his fist at the boy’s protector.

  The smaller man had appeared to be flinching back in terror from the punches. Now, however, he rather neatly turned the tables. As Grey Coat almost lost his balance, due to the violence of the missed blow, the other man seized the lapels of the milk-spattered garment and gave a sharp tug. The brute toppled forward. He struck the pavement belly first with a resounding smack that could be heard above the rumble of carts. Swiftly, and with such an air of quiet confidence, suggesting that he’d done this many times before, the smaller man seized Grey Coat’s hand, bent it back against the wrist then placed one foot on the side of the fallen man’s neck.

  The journalist stepped forward. ‘Can I be of any help, sir?’

  ‘He will lie there quite calmly now.’ The victor added a few words that Grey Coat was clearly intended to hear, ‘Otherwise, if the gentleman struggles, I shall break his wrist.’ The man applied just enough pressure to make the thug squirm in pain.

  At last, pedestrians and cart drivers alike were taking an interest, and they stopped to find out what would happen next. This, after all, was quite a spectacle. A middle-aged man, softly spoken, of modest stature, and with the appearance of a bank manager or country solicitor, perhaps, had toppled G
oliath. Now this ‘David’ stood there, resting one foot on Goliath’s neck, while gripping his hand in such a way that left him unable to fight back.

  At that moment, a pair of constables, immaculate in their dark- blue uniforms and crested helmets, moved through the growing crowd.

  ‘Hey, you there,’ barked one of the constables to the victor, ‘let go of that gent immediately.’

  ‘Not until the boy’s safely away from here.’ The man who’d defeated the thug spoke to the child. ‘Best be on your way home. Explain to your mother that it wasn’t your fault about the jug. A clumsy, ill-mannered gentleman barged into you.’

  Without a second’s hesitation, the child vanished into the crowds.

  The man who’d saved him from a beating shook his head and sighed. ‘Though I suspect the boy’s mother will thrash him for spilling the milk, so he probably won’t escape unscathed after all.’

  One of the constables put his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Sir, you must release him.’

  ‘Indeed I will, and I release him into your custody.’

  When the man turned to face the constables they immediately took a step back and saluted. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said one, with a genuine note of apology. ‘I didn’t recognize you for a moment there.’

  Grey Coat had, at last, climbed to his feet. Before he had time to decide whether to resume his attack or run away, the constables gripped an arm apiece. With a uniformed officer at either side of him, he realized the time had come to surrender. He stood there quietly with his head lowered.

  ‘What’s the charge, sir?’ asked one of the policemen.

  ‘A breach of the peace is sufficient, Constable.’

  After that, one of the constables noted down details of the incident then they led the rather despondent-looking Goliath away. Meanwhile, the crowd quickly dispersed now the excitement was over. Within moments, London returned to its timeless melody: horses clipping smartly along, drawing hansom cabs; the ponderous rumble of carts laden with flour, coal, bales of cloth, kegs of ale, and all the other essentials that kept Londoners fed, clothed and warm. Threading themselves through the noise of the seemingly eternal traffic were human voices: children calling to one another, the shout of an old man selling apples from a barrow – all mingling with the chirpy whistling of delivery boys, and the long, booming call of the newspaper vendor.

  The journalist remained a short distance from that singular individual who, for a few moments at least, had stopped London’s traffic. When the man looked the journalist in the eye, he tilted his head to one side, clearly expecting to be spoken to.

  Stepping forward, the journalist nodded politely, and held out his hand. ‘Inspector Abberline, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Thomas Lloyd. I’m a journalist, and I’ve been hired to tell your story.’

  CHAPTER 2

  After Inspector Abberline had shaken the journalist’s hand, they left Charing Cross Road for a narrow street lined with shops. Small flakes of snow fell, leaving white speckles on the inspector’s hat. Even though it was April, winter showed no sign of yielding to spring. People hurried by, eager to finish errands and get out of the cold. A man in a leather apron stirred a simmering vat. Thomas Lloyd could smell the hot liquor from the other side of the street – clearly some potent concoction of oranges, cinnamon and sugar boiled up with water and plenty of gin.

  The man in the leather apron barked out to passers-by, ‘Good for all that ails thee. Cures colds, bronchitis and lumbago!’

  ‘More likely to send you blind than cure you,’ muttered Thomas, as the raw fumes of hot gin prickled his nose.

  Abberline smiled. ‘I’m more of an ale man myself.’

  Thomas nodded in the direction of a snug-looking tavern. ‘Can I buy you a pint of something, Inspector Abberline?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I devote as much time as I possibly can to walking. One of the tools of the policeman’s trade are his feet … together with eyes, ears, and a nose for trouble, of course.’

  Thomas noticed that the man had quickened his pace. He realized that Abberline had a restless need to cover a good deal of ground, and see and hear as much as he could. What’s more, the detective didn’t simply gaze on a general London street scene of people, shops, horses and taverns – he noticed precise details. The way a man might slouch on a corner with the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes to conceal his identity, or the way a woman carried a bundle of linen while constantly glancing back over her shoulder as if she was being followed.

  Inspector Abberline didn’t say anything more, or even question what must have been a surprising statement that Thomas had uttered a few minutes ago: I’m a journalist, and I’ve been hired to tell your story. Eventually, Thomas decided to break the silence.

  ‘What you did back there was remarkable.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The boy would have taken a savage beating from that thug.’

  ‘The policeman’s duty is to protect the lives and property of everyone. Beggar or aristocrat – or even a journalist come to that.’ He paused by a factory as its gates opened and hundreds of women poured out in their long skirts, with shawls over their heads, and carrying baskets. When they joined the crowds in the street it was like watching a pair of rivers in flood merge. Inspector Abberline’s brown eyes calmly regarded this deluge of humanity.

  ‘Mr Lloyd,’ he began, ‘London is one of the biggest cities in the world. Its population has increased to more than six million. Most of the people you see here weren’t even born in London. They were raised in villages; they once picked apples in orchards; they tended cattle and sheep. These people escaped poor, rural communities in order to earn enough money to prevent their families from starving. Men and women have poured into this, the capital of Queen Victoria’s empire, not to become rich, but in order to survive. The problem that confronts them is that there aren’t enough houses, or jobs, or even space to walk without being pushed and jostled. So people become angry. They find the noise and clamour oppressive. Sheer pressure of human beings in this town becomes explosive. Ordinary men and women find themselves doing terrible things that they would never have even dreamt of doing when they lived in the countryside. If people don’t find work they’re driven to prostitute their bodies, or forced to steal in order to stay alive. Those individuals occupy the bulk of the police officer’s time; however, there is a new breed of wrong-doer that I’ve never encountered before until much later in my career. It’s my belief, Mr Lloyd, that in the most evil and oppressive conditions found in cities, there are certain human beings who cannot remain fully human. Their minds shatter, and then they commit murder. What I fear above everything else is that such murders will become an epidemic: that they will upend society and lead to a state of anarchy where law and order cease to exist.’

  That was an extraordinarily powerful statement – a heartfelt one, too. Thomas hesitated for a moment before broaching what he knew would be a sensitive subject. ‘Sir, I know that you investigated the slayings in Whitechapel two years ago.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Lloyd, I won’t take offence. You may safely use that name: Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘I didn’t want to cause any embarrassment.’

  ‘I’m not embarrassed, Mr Lloyd, I am ashamed. That monster, the so-called Jack the Ripper, murdered and butchered at least five women. I failed to catch their killer. That failure is a stain on my professional life. And far, far worse than making me appear incompetent there is a danger that the monster might start killing again … all because I failed to catch him … or her … or them.’

  He began walking again.

  ‘Inspector Abberline, I’ve clearly made you angry.’

  ‘No, you’ve reminded me that I can never be complacent. If there’s any anger it’s directed at myself. Whatever newspapers might write in praise of my work, I know that I will always be found wanting in respect of the Ripper atrocities.’

  ‘Inspector, I told you that I’ve been hired to write
your story. We have an appointment to meet tomorrow at Scotland Yard, but chance brought us together today. Yet I fear that I’ve failed before I’ve even begun.’

  ‘Far from it. Your editor told me that you will write about the daily toil of the modern investigator.’ He smiled. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, it is, Inspector. Allow me to tell you something about myself.’

  ‘You are Mr Thomas Lloyd, aged thirty-seven of Pimlico. Just this week you went to work for The Pictorial Evening News … and you were engaged to a young lady by the name of Miss Emma Bright. Are my facts on target?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I spoke to you during the Ripper Case when you reported for the Wimbledon Herald.’

  Thomas did not hide his surprise. ‘That was two years ago. I don’t believe we spoke for more than five minutes at most, and you still remember me?’

  ‘You told me that you were meeting your fiancée that afternoon in order to hear a lecture on botany – something to do with the nutritional merits of breadfruit, I believe. Perhaps Miss Bright is now Mrs Lloyd?’

  ‘Ah, not yet, sir. However, Emma is still my fiancée.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s helping her father in Ceylon. He’s cultivating tea plants that are resistant to disease.’

  ‘But she will become your wife one day?’

  Yes, sir.’ Then Thomas added with some heat, ‘As soon as she leaves those blessed tea plants and comes home.’

  ‘In that case, I hope you won’t be kept waiting much longer.’

  ‘If I may ask, how do you know so much about me, sir?’

  ‘Ah … in my class at school there was a boy who grew and grew. When he was thirteen years old he stood fully six feet and seven inches tall.’ The inspector paused to allow a butcher’s cart to pass by before he crossed the road. ‘I didn’t grow a great deal in physical stature, but my memory grew and grew in what I daresay is an abnormal way. This isn’t a boast but a fact, Mr Lloyd: I remember. That’s the long and the short of it: I remember faces, conversations; I remember the physical detail of the killer’s knife, the sound of a victim’s scream.’ He touched his head. ‘All goes in here … it never leaves. Though sometimes I wish it would. Memory can haunt as doggedly as a ghost, is that not so? I recall speaking with you outside McCarthy’s shop in Whitechapel, on the tenth of November, 1888, the day after Mary Kelly had been murdered by the Ripper. You wore a red scarf with a pale-brown coat, and I remembered an especially striking feature.’