Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness (25 page)

‘I’m going to ask you your name now,’ he said. ‘Try to say it, but if you can’t quite manage—if your throat feels too tight—then don’t worry about it. There’ll be plenty of time for talking later.’

The gist of Ellie’s telegram ran through his head again:
Latest
victim
definitely
not
Lucy
Stanford
,
despite
fact
found
wearing
Lucy’s
clothes
.
Any
ideas?

He hadn’t had any ideas earlier, but he had a very clear one now. And he was not the least surprised when the girl gasped, ‘I’m…I’m Emma Walsingholme.’

Eight

The man who had been ordered to stand guard outside the Melbourne Mine that afternoon answered to the name of Arthur Fisher, though he had had countless other aliases in the past.

At first, while it was still pleasantly warm, Fisher had not minded being outside, but now, as the air seemed to grow hotter and hotter, he began to wish that he was inside with the rest of the lads.

He looked longingly across at the dormitory block, and wondered if he could risk abandoning his post for just a few short minutes. Yet even as the thought was forming in his mind, he was reminding himself that Mr Bickersdale had decreed a guard must be posted at all times—and Mr Bickersdale was not a man you crossed if you had any ambitions to go on living.

Fisher’s head slumped forward, and he could feel his eyelids starting to droop. He was falling asleep on the job, his drowsy brain told him, and that would never do.

‘Put your hands in the air!’ said a harsh, authoritative voice from somewhere to his left. ‘And keep them there!’

Fisher’s head snapped back and his eyes opened fully. He was suddenly wide awake again.

The first thing his reawakened self saw was the three uniformed police constables—and the two men who were not in uniform—moving rapidly towards the dormitory block.

The second thing he saw was yet another constable, who was standing a few yards away from him and pointing a rifle directly at his torso.

‘I said, put your hands in the air!’ the constable repeated. Fisher glanced sideways at his double-barrelled shotgun, which was leaning against the wall.

‘Don’t even think about it!’ the constable warned him.

He had a choice of either going for the gun or going for the constable, Fisher decided quickly. He settled on the gun.

‘Bloody idiot!’ the constable said, almost to himself, and as Fisher made a grab for his shotgun, he fired the rifle.

The bullet hit Fisher in the chest, and soon found its way to his heart. There was no need for a second shot.

*

The five men in the dormitory were in an excellent mood. The latest consignment of goods had been dispatched, and the next was not due to be collected for another few days. They had time on their hands and could do with it what they liked. And what they had
chosen
to do was sit around the table and get drunk

They were already halfway down their second bottle of cheap brandy when they heard the rifle shot.

‘Wha’—Wha’ was that?’ one of them slurred, but before any of the others had time to answer, the door crashed open and the room was suddenly filled with armed policemen.

‘I’d advise you not to resist!’ Blackstone shouted—though he was rather hoping that they would.

The men at the table looked up at the three rifles and two pistols that were pointing in their direction, then one of him raised his hands in the air. And the rest were quick to follow.

They found Hubert Robertson, crouched down behind his desk, with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears.

‘Oh-my-God!’ the clerk was mumbling, as two of the constables took hold of him and wrenched him to his feet.

‘Where’s your boss?’ Blackstone demanded.

‘Oh-my-God, oh-my-God, oh-my-God!’ Robertson moaned.

The flat of Blackstone’s hand caught him squarely in the face, making his head rock, and his thick-lensed glasses fall to the floor.

‘Where’s Bickersdale?’ the inspector repeated.

‘He’s...he’s down the mine.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes. Apart from ...apart from...’

‘Apart from the girls?’ Blackstone suggested

‘Apart from the girls,’ Robertson agreed.

*

Drayman looked down the deep shaft in the winding shed. Somewhere below, in the darkness, was the cage. And somewhere beyond the cage—hundreds of feet underground—was Bickersdale.

‘What do we do now?’ he asked. ‘Wait for the bastard to come back to the surface again?’

‘No, that’s too risky,’ Blackstone said. ‘He’s got the girls down there, and God knows what he could do to them if he starts to suspect that something’s gone wrong.’

‘So we’re going down?’

‘So
I’m
going down.’

‘And I’m coming with you.’

‘If Bickersdale
is
already suspicious, he’ll be waiting for the cage, and anybody in it will be a sitting target,’ Blackstone pointed out.

‘There’s no disputing that,’ Drayman agreed.

‘So there’s no point in putting both of us in the line of fire. Besides, I work better alone.’

‘No doubt you do,’ Drayman said. ‘But this is my patch and my responsibility.’

‘Even so...’

‘Either we go down together...

‘I’ve told you, I’ll be better...’

‘...or I’ll get my lads to arrest you, and
I’ll
go down alone. Which of those two things is it to be?’

‘We go down together,’ Blackstone said, giving in to the inevitable.

The cage clanked and jerked down to the bottom of the mine. It hit the floor with a soft thud and then was still.

Blackstone and Drayman knew that if Bickersdale was expecting them, now was the time they would find out about it. But when three or four seconds had passed—and they were still alive—it seemed that he wasn’t.

They stepped out of the cage.

Ahead of them lay the vast crystal rock cavern, supported by its massive salt pillars. It was in just such a place as this one that Tom Yardley had met his death at Lawrence Bickersdale’s hands, Blackstone thought—and wondered if he would be any luckier himself.

‘We’ll split up,’ he whispered to Drayman. ‘You move along the wall to the left, I’ll move along the right wall. If you happen to come across Bickersdale, shoot the bastard—and don’t stop firing at him until you’ve emptied your gun.’

‘Understood,’ Drayman said.

The gallery wall was cold to the touch, and the oil lamps—which were fixed to the wall—cast eerie shadows as he passed them. It was like being back in that Afghan cave, Blackstone thought with a shudder.

He stopped for a moment and listened for the sound of Drayman’s footfalls, but the gallery was as silent as a tomb.

Sticking as close to the rock face as he could, he wasn’t even aware of the door until he felt his hand brush against it. It was made of solid oak, but there was a small grill inset to allow for ventilation. Beyond it, Blackstone saw—peering through the grill—was a small room that had been carved out of the rock. There was not much light in the cell, but he thought he could see a figure lying on a bed—and guessed that it was a girl.

He moved out into the open, knowing it was a risk to expose himself like that, but knowing also that only a fool fights a battle without first getting a clear picture of the terrain.

From his new position, he could see six more doors, behind which probably lay six more cells—but there was still no sign of Bickersdale.

He did not see the oil canister lying on the ground until it was too late—until he had caught it with his foot and sent it toppling over. It clanged loudly as its side hit the floor, the sound of the clang echoing around the vast cavern—and with that echo disappeared all chance of catching Bickersdale by surprise.

Blackstone took cover behind the nearest of the huge salt pillars. Now all he could do was wait.

He did not have to wait long. The door of one of the middle cells creaked cautiously open. Blackstone stuck his head around the pillar for the briefest of moments—but in that moment he saw two people step out into the gallery.

The first of them was a girl. She could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen, and she looked terrified.

The second was Bickersdale. He had crouched down slightly, so that he could use the girl as a shield—and he had a gun pointed at her head.

‘Is that you, Inspector Blackstone?’ Bickersdale called out, and his words bounced around and around the vast gallery: ‘…’spector Blackstone…’spector Blackstone …’spector Blackstone.’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ Blackstone confirmed, from behind the cover of his pillar and, like Bickersdale’s words, his own quickly reverberated back at him: ‘…me…me…me.’

‘I can’t see you,’ Bickersdale told him.

‘I know you can’t,’ Blackstone agreed. And because of the echo, you can’t even use my voice to get a fix on my position, he thought.

‘Step out into the open, where I can take a look at you,’ Bickersdale commanded.

‘Not until you’ve let the girl go,’ Blackstone told him.

‘Do you think I’m that much of a fool?’ Bickersdale asked. He fell silent for a few seconds; then he said, ‘Where are my manners? You haven’t been properly introduced, have you? Why don’t you tell Inspector Blackstone who you are, my dear?’

‘I’m Lucy,’ the girl croaked.

‘Lucy who?’ Bickersdale said snappishly. ‘Tell the inspector what your surname is.’

‘Stanford. I’m Lucy Stanford.’

‘Lucy has been something of a disappointment to me,’ Bickersdale said. ‘She was not at all what she was supposed to be, were you, Lucy?’

‘You mean she wasn’t a virgin?’ Blackstone asked.

‘That’s precisely what I mean. She’s been damaged goods right from the start, and so of extremely limited value. And if you force me to, I’ll kill her without a second’s hesitation.’

‘Why not just give yourself up now?’ Blackstone suggested.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Because you’re finished. There’s only one way out of this mine, and that’s under the control of four armed police officers.’

‘You’re quite wrong about that,’ Bickersdale said. ‘There’s a second way out,’—he laughed bitterly—‘as I’ve recently discovered to my cost.’

‘Even if you get clear of the mine, you’ll never get clear of the area,’ Blackstone argued.

‘The odds are against it,’ Bickersdale agreed, ‘but I’ve beaten the odds before. And just to increase my chances, I’d like to make certain you no longer pose a threat—which is why I really
would
appreciate it if you stepped out from whatever pillar you’re hiding behind.’

‘If I do that, you’ll kill me,’ Blackstone said.

‘Not necessarily. I may just decide to incapacitate you by shooting you in the leg,’ Bickersdale countered.

‘You’ll kill me,’ Blackstone repeated.

‘Yes, that’s probably true,’ Bickersdale agreed easily. ‘But if you
don’t
come out, I certainly
will
kill the girl. So why don’t you throw down your gun and let me see you?’

‘You’re bluffing,’ Blackstone told him.

‘About killing the girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You know that once you’ve killed her, there’ll be nothing stopping me from killing you.’

‘Perhaps. But if the choice is between being shot now or hanged later, I’d rather be shot now.’ For a few more seconds Bickersdale was silent again; then he said, ‘I’m getting bored with playing this game, Inspector Blackstone, so this is how it will end. I’ll count to three, and if I don’t see you by the time I finish counting, I’ll shoot the girl.’

‘Listen…’ Blackstone said desperately.

‘One...’ Bickersdale began, ‘…two…’

Blackstone tossed his gun away, and once it had hit the floor he stepped well clear of the pillar.

The moment he’d done it, Bickersdale flung the girl to the ground and aimed his pistol directly at the inspector.

‘That soft heart of yours will be the death of you,’ Bickersdale said, and laughed. He was still laughing when the bullet from Inspector Drayman’s gun struck his forehead as a prelude to ploughing into his brain.

*

There were four girls imprisoned in the mine. Two of them had previously been inmates of the workhouse—and so were missed by nobody. Two came from much more comfortable homes—and were believed to be dead.

All the girls were in a state of shock, but by the time they were back on the surface, wrapped in blankets and sipping hot sweet tea, they were at least
starting
to believe that their ordeal was over.

‘You saved my life,’ Blackstone said, as he and Drayman watched the girls being taken away in an ambulance wagon.

‘It was foolish of me to aim for the head,’ Drayman said. ‘I might so easily have missed. I should have gone for his midsection.’

‘Well, you’ll know better next time,’ Blackstone said. Inspector Drayman shuddered. ‘I’m rather hoping that there won’t
be
a next time.’

‘And with any luck, there won’t be.’

‘You’ve killed a man, haven’t you?’ Drayman asked.

‘Yes,’ Blackstone agreed. More men than he cared to remember, he thought. Pathan warriors…Ghazi warriors…Russian Cossacks…armed robbers…would-be assassins…

‘I don’t mind admitting, the whole experience has shaken me up quite a bit,’ Drayman said. ‘It’s not just the nausea—though that’s bad enough—it’s that I feel as if I’ll never be quite the same man again. It’s as though, by taking another man’s life, I’ve lost something of my own. Did it feel like that to you, the first time you killed someone?’