The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (47 page)

Mr Jackson seemed even more ill at ease.

Mr Williamson had become quite pale.

‘Enough of this mood!’ said Sir Richard. ‘You speak, Mr Dyson, as if we were utterly vanquished, but we have quite smashed the criminal enterprise of this fellow and driven him
to flee. He has nowhere to hide and we will seize him. In the meantime, the Metropolitan Police has many of the lumpers from Frying Pan wharf in custody and the secret warehouse itself to pick
clean of evidence. We will make all exertions to locate this Italian and these smelly little men – both of whom seem rather conspicuous. The arrest of this fellow is but a matter of
time.’

‘He knows where we live. He is a ruthless murderer. Do you think he will wait?’ said Noah.

‘I will not abandon you or Mr Williamson,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I have involved you in this and I will ensure your safety whatever measures are required. I and the thousands of
men at my command will not rest until this person is gaoled. There are many remaining avenues of investigation to pursue . . .’

But neither Noah nor Mr Williamson was now listening. Instead, each was engaged in his own thoughts upon the implications of the case – each understanding that the writer of that diary
would not be found by any common investigation. Here was a man who had sought not to kill them, but to ruin them by attacking livelihood and reputation. Here was a man who had targeted their
friends. His actions were no mere crimes. He acted from some more inexplicably personal imperative. As long as he and his minions were at liberty, the investigators could not feel safe, could not
walk down any street with anonymity. Decisive and collaborative action would be necessary – action that would not wear a uniform or bear the stamp of Sir Richard’s legitimacy.

They exchanged glances. Together, they were stronger – time and experience had proved as much. They had Benjamin and Mr Cullen in support. The prize this time would not be justice, but
freedom itself.

Both nodded slightly. The deal was made.

As one might expect, the disappearance of Eldritch Batchem was a matter of the greatest public interest in those following days. He who had been such a conspicuous voice of
detection had now seemingly vanished as completely as the vessel he had sought.

Some maintained that he could not possibly be dead and that he continued to pursue the case in secret, this being the only way to track the criminals. Others solemnly accepted the police reports
of his death, praising his heroic sacrifice in the battle against smugglers. In certain quarters, it was remarked darkly that his disappearance just as the police raided the warehouse was no
coincidence at all – that, in fact, the russet-capped enigma knew more about those murders than any man (except the murderer himself) should.

One thing was certain: the most talked-about revelation of all concerning the life and alleged death of Eldritch Batchem was published just two days after the high tide in that ill-famed rag
the London Monitor.
Purporting to be a singular and authentic history of the man, it was a publishing sensation that saw editions changing hands for two and three times the cover price once
all had sold out. As for the author of the piece, he also made a significant sum – enough, assuredly, to stay beyond the magistrate’s reach for another six months, and to earn himself
the considerable envy of the city’s penny-a-liners.

It was I.

I had learned much about the man during those hectic days of the
Aurora
case, albeit barely enough for an
exposé
. Nevertheless, the skilled writer is able – through
the galvanic alchemy of the fictive art – to fuse fact and conjecture into genuine truth. Eldritch Batchem was an unfinished story: a conglomeration of disassociated episodes whom I would
write whole.

My beginning, at least, was certain: Eldritch Batchem had been born a supernumerary horror, six perfect fingers on each imperfect hand. People had smarted in disgust, their coos souring on
tongues as they perceived the taint of disfigurement. His own mother recoiled at what she had made and could not bear to look upon it. Her love curdled in shame.

What end for an innocent child too abominable to suckle? Why, the same end as greets so many others of the city’s lost: he was abandoned nameless as a foundling at the hospital gates,
there to be raised by proxy, named by a committee and dropped into a ward with the loveless progeny of magdalenes and beggars.

From such places do those like Eldritch Batchem emerge. The child competes for attention among half a hundred other tiny souls, or retires inwards to the safety of solitude. Possessions are
collective or none. Cared for by nobody, the unfortunates make their own stories for a life of sustaining artifice.

Only by means of many footsore researches among London’s orphanages and hospitals did I learn more, blessed by the fact that a twelve-fingered boy is most definitely remembered, whether he
is called Crawford or Batchem . . . or Liveridge.

And at the illustrious Foundling Hospital on Guildford-street, I found my man. Thomas Liveridge had been admitted, aged just two days, some forty-three years previously. Born illegitimately to a
prostitute, the infant had kept his birth name and had survived the perilous early years to become a delightful (albeit diminutive) boy beloved of all at the hospital. Inquisitive, attractive, and
of a naturally loving nature, he was quite the most popular little chap of his age group. His fingers, however, numbered only ten.

Young Thomas’s closest confidant during that first decade was rather more abundantly endowed with digits.
He
was called John Shakespeare (according to the Guildford-street mania for
bestowing illustrious names) and was quite a different story. Left in a basket at the door aged one, he was silent, secretive and possessive from his earliest infancy. He was, nevertheless, a child
of developed intellect: a teller of stories with which to entertain his fellow Thomas long after the candles had been extinguished.

Thus they lived out their collective childhood, cheating mortality and growing robust. In time, as is occasionally the case, little Thomas soon took the fancy of an esteemed benefactor whose
barren wife could not bear to see the sweet boy apprenticed to a rough boot-maker or weaver. Might not they take him as their own and educate him in a manner more befitting his charm? Arrangements
were duly made, and young Thomas quite danced with glee at the thought of presents and carriage rides and of a life immeasurably more blessed than his fellows.

More blessed, certainly, than his closest friend: the six-fingered lad facing a lifetime of exclusion and grim curiosity. As might be expected, Shakespeare/Crawford/Batchem took the good news
without good grace. Indeed, his rage on learning that his closest, his only, fellow was to abandon him was so intemperate that he had to be restrained and given laudanum. He did not speak for days,
choosing instead to remain, against all official strictures and solicitations, beneath his bed sheets muttering incessantly to himself.

That might have been the end of it, but the true conclusion was more tragic still. It is not uncommon for children to die at these institutions, but such fatalities are usually among the
youngest, and attributable to such ailments as convulsions or inflammation of the bowels. Falling to one’s death from an upper-storey window at midnight on the eve of one’s salvation,
however, might be considered decidedly
un
common.

The investigation had been discreet enough. Nobody could say for sure what had motivated fortunate Thomas Liveridge to imbibe his friend’s phial of laudanum and leap from the dormitory
window. Nobody could explain how the other sleeping children had seen or heard nothing untoward. Nobody wanted to speculate too closely about the distinct six-fingered hand print on the pane in
question. In fact, when John Shakespeare was apprenticed one year before the customary age of release – sent forth with twenty rather than the usual ten pounds to ease his way in the world
– nobody at Guildford-street sought to ask any further questions on the matter.

Had he, indeed, murdered his closest friend rather than lose him to another? Had
this
been the childhood crime that would torture him thence, drive him ultimately towards a phantasy of
investigation and make him a public speaker upon the very nature of his own blackest deed? Perhaps. Like teardrops, man’s deepest sins seep forth unbidden.

Where the boy went then, I cannot discern. He did not stay long with the weaver to whom he was sent, and was no doubt absorbed soon after into the great ravening nowhere of London. Here, a mere
walking shadow down dark streets and within the insensate crush of crowds, a man may lose himself so comprehensively that he may find himself anew.

Such was the essence of my article in
the London Monitor
: a construction (I admit) of equal parts fact and fancy – a tale signifying nothing but the vagaries of fate. Regarding the
mysterious investigation of the Green Drawing Room, I had been able to learn nothing more. Indeed, of Eldritch Batchem’s life between apprenticeship and insolvency, there was only a void of
speculation and wonder. Of his death also, there was only rumour, for no body was ever found. He had come from nowhere and returned there just as inexplicably with the erasing wash of the
river’s tides.

No matter; I leave truth to the philosopher and revelation to the chaplain.
My
province is the inner theatre of the mind, for whose performance I always prefer payment over applause.

But before the curtain falls, let us cast a departing glance across the city stage to watch over them all: Noah stalking nervously alone among the faceless streets, Benjamin
and Mr Cullen at the musical theatres of Haymarket, Mr Williamson drawn irresistibly by a siren of passion along midnight avenues to Golden-square, and Sir Richard at his unending committee
meetings and court hearings.

Had any of them known the true identity of the criminal behind the
Aurora
’s theft, however, they would have felt a profounder unease. In fact, only one man knew the terrible
entirety of the truth – and knew it with the singular advantage of the villain not knowing it was known.

It was two days after that disastrous tide, and the banks of the river were more crowded than ever with mudlarks picking through the filth for newly revealed treasures. Since a boy had unearthed
a slimy leather bag full of Spanish gold between Southwark-bridge and Blackfriars-bridge, even shop girls and apprentices could be found wrist-deep in the mire, combing excrement for hidden
wealth.

By London-bridge on that bright, still day, the silent herd of scavengers were given reason to pause shortly before noon. At first, the sounds from the sewer were assumed to be that of a fat eel
or drowning dog thrashing in the shallow outflow. But as it persisted, they heard the unmistakable sloshing rhythm of footsteps approach.

‘’Tis the beast . . .’ mumbled an Irish hag, describing the shape of the Holy Cross upon her breast.

But it was no myth that emerged from the hellish mouth. Nor, at first sight, did it seem completely human. Rather, it was a vision of reeking degradation: clothes soaked with vile matter, hair
quite tortured with grime, face besmirched with two days and nights of smoking oil, hands made blackened claws by ancient brick, and pained eyes squinting at the light of freedom.

Inspector Albert Newsome.

By what means had he navigated his way through the poisonous labyrinth and sustained himself without food or water during that purgatory? How had he escaped from the flooded chamber and found
oil enough to light his way through passages quite blocked with the river’s flow? These are answers for another time. More pressing, perhaps, is the matter of his unholy resurrection.

In truth, he had never died. The Italian’s shot had been perfectly aimed at his adversary’s heart, but that heart had been covered with the policeman’s bullseye lamp. Metal was
pierced, glass was broken and oil was spilled, but no skin or bone was damaged. If he fell, it was merely the colossal jolt of the impact over his precious organ that knocked him shocked and
insensible, manifesting in him all the visible signs of death. A physician might even tell us that his body ceased to live momentarily, as sometimes happens with those wrongfully interred.

It was in this unanimated state that his form, shifted and buoyed by the swirling currents, was carried among the cargo with the other flotsam until a wave of frigid water lapped up his nose to
wake him with a splutter and a cry. By then, he was alone in the murk of Thamesis’s ancient realm – alone but in possession of the singular dreadful knowledge that must surely restore
him to his former stature. Only he knew the secret identity of the criminal who had so invisibly observed them all.

And as the mudlarks backed away in fear from the filthy apparition before them, Inspector Newsome cast his eyes over the blackened chimneys and warehouses of Southwark, over the massed packets
and colliers of the rancid river, over the smoke-choked sky and the hovering chymical miasma. Truly, London was the greatest city in the world.

A smile almost touched his lips and, with a viscous, sucking step, he made his way wearily towards Scotland Yard.

Also by James McCreet

The Incendiary’s Trail

The Vice Society

Moniczka – muse and amused

Rodzinie Radeckich –
za wszystko

Monika Wolny – fault-finder extraordinaire

Jennifer White – once again, for the card

Sarah Armstrong and family – fine people all

Professor Laura Marcus – catalyst for Williamson’s world