Inspector Abberline and the Gods of Rome, Page 2

  ‘What feature, sir?’

  ‘You weren’t like other journalists. You weren’t falling over yourself to ask whether the poor woman was found naked, or whether she’d been violated sexually. No, what struck me was that you cared about those poor women. You have a humane heart.’

  Presently, they joined a road that led toward the Houses of Parliament. Thomas Lloyd took the opportunity to scrutinize the man who would feature in his newspaper articles. He mentally noted the brown herringbone pattern coat, the wisps of fine hair emerging from beneath the hat. He especially noted the broad, open face, with its thick moustache, and a pair of clear, brown eyes that appeared to record every detail of human life that surrounded him.

  Thomas cast his mind back to the start of the week when he’d been hired by the The Pictorial Evening News to write a detailed account of Inspector Abberline’s work. Thomas had spent an entire day reading an enormously thick file devoted to newspaper clippings and reports of Abberline’s life and career. Thomas learnt that Frederick George Abberline had been born in Dorset in 1843. His father, a saddlemaker, died when Abberline was six years old. Thereafter, his mother opened a tiny shop and raised her children all by herself. Life was a constant struggle for Hannah Abberline: poverty and hunger were never far away.

  The young Frederick Abberline was a sharp-witted boy. He was sensitive to the feelings of others, too. The harm and distress inflicted upon innocent people by criminals never failed to anger him, and probably that’s what prompted him to join the police force when he was nineteen years old. His knack for catching wrong-doers, and sheer talent for giving evidence in court that lead to a high conviction rate, impressed his superiors so much that he quickly rose through the police ranks. By the age of thirty, he’d been promoted to inspector and assigned to a station in Whitechapel before being promoted yet again to a senior position at Scotland Yard. However, a grim twist of fate took Inspector Abberline back to Whitechapel a few months later when he investigated the murder of several women by a shadowy figure known as Jack the Ripper.

  Thomas read every document in the file: he felt as if he’d got inside the skin of the man himself and had begun to understand his nature. Inspector Abberline did truly believe that the police must not discriminate on the grounds of wealth, poverty, race or religion. Abberline investigated cases of theft, kidnap, common assault, homicide, as well as internationally famous cases of a highly sensitive nature. Abberline also understood that the loss of a simple possession could have profound consequences. One newspaper carried this telling statement of his: ‘The theft of a duke’s gold watch is undoubtedly a crime. However, I am more inclined to be occupied by the theft of a coat from an impoverished man or woman. For in winter, the possession of a warm coat is of absolute importance. After all, someone without a roof over his head and with no coat will almost certainly die.’ If Thomas had gained a sense of the man’s virtuous character by reading the file, that sense had crystallized when Inspector Abberline had saved the child from violence just thirty minutes ago.

  As they walked, Thomas asked, ‘So you won’t resent my presence, if I shadow you for my newspaper article?’

  ‘With all my heart, I shall welcome it, Mr Lloyd, because if we’re to be successful in waging war on crime it’s vital that we have the understanding and support of the public.’

  Once again the journalist held out his hand. ‘Then, if we are working together, I would like you to call me Thomas, if that is acceptable to you?’

  The inspector shook the journalist’s hand. ‘That is most acceptable, Thomas, thank you. I’ll leave you to decide what you call me.’

  ‘If I may, I’d prefer to continue with Inspector Abberline.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘So, please consider me to be your very own shadow, Inspector. I go where you go.’

  ‘Then meet me at Fenchurch Street Station tomorrow morning, seven sharp; we’ll be taking a train to East Carlton.’

  ‘East Carlton?’

  ‘The name must ring bells, surely?’

  ‘The Sir Alfred Denby accident? He was killed in an explosion.’

  ‘According to Sir Alfred’s brother the death was no accident. It was murder.’ Abberline touched his hat in a gesture of farewell. ‘Now I must detach myself from my shadow. I have an appointment in that building over yonder. Good day, Thomas.’

  With that, Inspector Abberline crossed the road, passed over the threshold of the Houses of Parliament, and vanished into that Gothic palace where a few hundred men created laws that were enforced by individuals like Inspector Frederick Abberline, and which governed the lives of millions who dwelt within the British Empire.

  CHAPTER 3

  On a cold, frosty April morning, with bright blue skies, Thomas Lloyd entered Fenchurch Street Railway Station to find Inspector Abberline already standing by the ticket office. The detective spoke to three constables in uniform. After carefully listening to what Abberline told them, they saluted smartly before walking across to where men and women queued to pass through a turnstile to a station platform. One of the constables seized a young man by the collar. The youth reacted with surprise, struggled a little, but the six foot constable easily bundled him away through a door.

  Thomas watched the other two constables continue their patrol of the station. Like most policemen in uniform they were former soldiers – large, powerful men with straight backs, and a talent for deterring potential troublemakers with nothing more than a stern glance. Thomas knew that as well as being armed with ebony sticks, which they called truncheons, the men had lead weights sewn into the hems of their capes. Thomas had seen plenty of thugs sent crashing to the ground with just a flick of one of these formidable garments.

  The station clock stood at three minutes to seven when Thomas greeted Inspector Abberline.

  ‘Good morning, Thomas. All set for adventure?’ Abberline held out a piece of card. ‘I took the liberty of buying your ticket.’

  ‘Do you really think we are faced with adventure? After all, the coroner ruled that Sir Alfred Denby’s death was an accident.’

  ‘All I can do is examine the facts surrounding his death. Then see if those facts suggest that there has been foul play. Ah, our train leaves in ten minutes.’

  ‘But there is more to detective work than accumulating facts, isn’t there?’

  ‘You mean intuition? The policeman’s sixth sense that allows him to divine when there is a criminal nearby, plotting mischief?’

  ‘Indeed so.’

  ‘It’s remarkable how criminals do give themselves away. They develop tell-tale traits that visibly advertise their guilt. You only have to learn to read the expression in a man’s face, or the way he’ll slope his shoulders, or turn away when he sees a constable.’ They passed through a turnstile. ‘You might have seen the arrest of the young man in the queue. Most people standing in line gaze forward as they await their turn. That particular man, however, repeatedly glanced back at the constables standing by the entrance. When the constables’ attention was fixed on the street the man picked the pocket of the gentleman in front of him. The important thing to note, if you write about this incident, is that the young man’s movements and his manner betrayed him long before he dipped his fingers into his victim’s pocket. After you, Thomas.’ Abberline opened the carriage door.

  Thomas took his seat in the carriage with Abberline facing him. A little while later, the guard sounded a whistle. After blasting out torrents of steam, the locomotive eased its way out of the station, the carriages swaying gently from side to side. Thomas Lloyd glanced at the man opposite, who’d investigated some of the most famous crimes of the century, and felt shivers of excitement. Inspector Abberline had spoken about the policeman’s sixth sense when it came to detection, now Thomas’s own journalistic instincts told him loud and clear that this would be the start of a remarkable day, and that the best was yet to come.

  They had the carriage to themselves as the train rumbled southwards. Every so of
ten, smoke from the engine would find its way through a chink in the window and the carriage would fill with a faint, blue haze. Thomas tried to suppress the tickle in his throat until he couldn’t any longer and coughed. Inspector Abberline, meanwhile, sat with his eyes closed. Thomas suspected the man hadn’t fallen asleep, but that he had, perhaps, entered that formidable memory of his to review the facts of the case they were investigating today.

  Thomas made good use of the time. Taking a pencil and notepad from his pocket, he jotted down a description of Abberline, which he’d use in his article. Abberline, age 49, moustache, side-whiskers, four parallel scars on back of right hand – knife wounds? Smaller scars above left eye possibly inflicted during days as a constable. Remember to ask about his time in uniform.

  The train sounded its whistle as it clattered over a road crossing. There were hardly any hansoms here in the suburbs; traffic mainly consisted of delivery carts. Thomas marvelled that although they were fully ten miles from the heart of the city the suburbs still appeared limitless. Most of the houses were new; their brickwork shone a brilliant orange in the sunlight. In every available acre of land yet more homes were being built.

  Without opening his eyes Abberline said, ‘The city has doubled in size since I arrived here over twenty years ago. When I think of London, I picture a bottle of ink that has been spilt on a green carpet – the stain keeps spreading outwards as if nothing will ever stop it.’

  ‘I daresay when it reaches the coast it must stop there; although I wouldn’t be surprised if one day they drain the English Channel, so more suburbs can be built.’

  Abberline opened his eyes. ‘You’re not a born Londoner, so all the noise and sheer immensity must have been as alien to you as it was to me.’

  ‘Indeed it was. My parents were schoolteachers in a small village between Leeds and Bradford in Yorkshire. I grew up seeing green fields and forests.’

  ‘You’ll see less and less of those. London is devouring every blade of grass in her path.’ He nodded at the scene beyond the window. ‘How many men do you suppose are employed to put up all those new buildings? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?’

  ‘I would imagine that they are beyond counting, Inspector.’

  ‘And with money in their pockets they’ll be preyed on by thieves and tricksters given half the chance.’

  ‘Then it’s my duty to write about your work, Inspector, and inform all and sundry that you and your colleagues are doing your utmost to protect the public.’

  ‘We try, Thomas, though we aren’t guardian angels by any means, so never portray us as such. We’re damned mortals. And our conscience then damns us when we fail … which is more often than we’d care to admit.’

  ‘The police force should be championed. I will endeavour to do exactly that.’

  ‘That sounds like a compliment, Thomas.’

  ‘Then take it as such. However, I shall write truthfully about what I see as I shadow you. And I must warn you that I will not allow you or my editor to change what I’ve written.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘My parents raised me to tell the truth.’

  ‘Which means your articles will expose me if my investigations are slap-dash.’

  Thomas noted the way the man gazed at him. He wondered if he’d spoken too forcefully. Would Abberline become angry?

  ‘You, Thomas Lloyd, are a bloody-minded Yorkshireman.’ With that, he suddenly threw back his head and laughed out loud.

  ‘Sir, I shall not tolerate you mocking me.’

  ‘I’m not mocking, Thomas, I am laughing because I’m happy and relieved – I know we can talk to one another bluntly, if need be. We’re not going to be constrained by what society considers polite or well mannered.’

  ‘My feelings exactly.’

  ‘So, I have something troubling to get off my chest.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This fiancée of yours out in Ceylon. Miss Emma Bright?’

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘Tell her to leave those bloody tea plants to their own devices and come home and marry you.’

  Thomas sat up straight, ready to adopt an expression of being deeply offended by such a direct comment on his personal life. However, he felt his stomach muscles quiver, his shoulders began to shake, and a second later he was laughing, too.

  ‘Damn it.’ Thomas wiped his eyes. ‘I was going to accuse you of being impertinent. But you are absolutely pertinent. That’s what I think every day. I wish Emma would tell her father that she wants to come back to England.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t want to come back to England, Thomas; she would want to come back to you.’

  ‘I sincerely hope what you say is true.’

  ‘Thomas, I have a distinct feeling that we’re going to be the best of friends.’

  ‘I should like that very much.’

  Abberline reached inside his coat and pulled out an envelope. ‘We have half an hour until our stop. Here’s a report on the death of Sir Alfred Denby. There is a photograph of the deceased – brace yourself, the explosion caused some ugly injuries. There is also a letter from the man’s brother, insisting that the gunpowder didn’t detonate due to careless use of a candle. The man believes that this is a case of murder.’

  Thomas noticed the word confidential on the envelope. ‘Are you sure you’d like me to read this?’

  ‘We’re now friends, Thomas. I trust you.’ Abberline looked him directly in the eye. ‘And in this sometimes dangerous line of work, who knows? One day we might have trust each other with our lives.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The maid knew she wasn’t alone in the woods. A figure stalked her. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed him again and again, yet he’d always vanished by the time she’d spun round.

  ‘Is that you, Jake? Come on … I know it’s you.’

  But it wasn’t Jake, the boy who’d kissed her just twenty minutes ago. She’d liked that kiss, even though it had bruised her lips. The way he’d hugged her when he’d planted that hard, stinging kiss excited her so much she could hardly breathe and her heart had pounded. Jake then invited her to a dance in the village on Saturday night, and now she’d have to ask the housekeeper if she could take time off from work on Saturday instead of Sunday. The maid could imagine the housekeeper peering through those funny little glasses perched on her nose – couldn’t she just! Then the frosty woman would declare, ‘Oh, a boy, is it? Let me tell you, girl, boys are trouble – they will bring you trouble.’

  At first, she thought Jake had followed her when she took a shortcut through the wood. But whoever stalked her was no farm lad. The figure was tall, with a strange, long face that was white as milk. Even though the maid had not seen the stranger properly, she was convinced that she’d made out a pair of eyes watching her from the shadows. Just a glimpse of that burning stare had frightened her. For the second time today her chest became so tight she couldn’t breathe and her heart thundered until it hurt. But this wasn’t the thrill of her true-love’s strong arms holding her, this was terror.

  The young woman remembered what had happened to a local girl who’d been abducted by a sailor. The brute had done terrible things before cutting his victim’s throat. She walked faster. Here the trees crowded together in such a manner that the damp and chilly pathway became so gloomy she could barely see. Her nostrils caught that musty smell of wet earth. Birds cried out as if warning each other of some terrible danger coming ever closer.

  A crackle of breaking twigs sounded from behind and she glanced back in terror. A white face – a stark, white face with fiery eyes. Then the face was gone. But the sense of being followed … stalked … hunted … grew stronger.

  ‘Jake? Is that you?’

  No reply.

  ‘Stop it, Jake. You’re scaring me.’

  Although she knew down to the roots of her heart, and the very depths of her blood, that this was no cheerful farm boy. Jake would be working in the fields. He’d think that his sweetheart had
returned to the Hall. Not for one moment would he guess that a frightening stranger pursued her.

  Suddenly, she yelled with all her might, ‘Go away!’

  A ferocious rustle came from her left. Clearly, her pursuer attempted to overtake her without being seen.

  But she heard … she heard!

  With fear draining her strength away, the maid took a path at random. Soon she realized that this was a wrong turn, possibly a fatally wrong turn, because the path took her even further from the Hall, and the protection of other human beings. Finally, she began to run, because she knew with absolute clarity that the moment grew near when she’d stand face-to-face with the stranger. A man who was deathly white – as if he’d been fashioned from Death itself.

  Deeper and deeper into the forest she went … shadows drowned the path in darkness … these were the most dangerous moments of her life. And yet, even as panic threatened to overwhelm her, she heard the beautiful music … no … she must be imagining those sounds, surely? Because that’s the sound of a flute, she told herself. Who would play a flute out here in the forest? Long, slow haunting notes drifted out of the gloom. A sinuous sound … mesmerizing … a melody from a dream.

  Then the music stopped. Everything stopped. She couldn’t even hear the sound of her own heart. In that silence … that long, drawn-out silence, when even time itself died away from the natural world, she seemed to inhabit some uncanny realm beyond this one. From behind her, a pair of white hands gently alighted on each of her shoulders. The whiteness of the skin seemed unreal. Although the young maid couldn’t turn her head, simply because her muscles refused to work, she could make out from the corner of one eye that one of the gleaming, pearl-white hands was connected to a naked arm. The hands gently pulled, drawing the young woman backwards, until she felt warm breath on the back of her neck. And in the silent space beneath the trees, there in deep shadow, the young woman shuddered, and she knew that her life would never be the same again.