The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (9 page)

‘Aye, I am Tarr.’ The voice matched the face: a brine-seasoned, weather-hewn instrument that exhaled a cloud of smoke from the twig-like cigar.

‘What are you doing down here, Mr Tarr, if I may ask. I see no houses.’

‘I might ask the same of you, Inspector.’

‘You know me?’

‘I saw the galley row over from the Tower and I saw you in it. Two constables and their inspector is standard for a galley. You held no oar. Won’t you take a seat and watch the river
with me?’

‘Thank you – I will. Your sight is certainly acute. I am Inspector Newsome of the Detec—, of the Thames Police, and I am told that you are the man to speak to concerning the
tides of the river and . . . and other related matters.’

‘I was a Trinity House pilot. I was a waterman. I have been a ferry skipper. I know the river as well as any man, and I know it as little as any man.’

‘Well, you are better placed than I am to answer my question. If a body washes up among the colliers of the Pool on the Surrey side about fifty yards east of London-bridge, where might it
have entered the water? Is there any means of calculating it?’

‘Ho! Do you know women, Inspector?’

‘Women? What has that to do with the question?’

‘A woman is a force of nature, Inspector. One might learn no science to predict her actions. She is like fire or the sea – a mystery to men, and a great danger. The river is like a
woman – only less predictable, more lethal.’

Mr Tarr took the cigar from his mouth and pointed to his interlocutor with it as if adding a glowing full stop to the proclamation.

‘I see,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Perhaps, in my ignorance, I have mistaken the daily change of tides to be a somewhat predictable pattern—’

‘“Predictable”, you say? Perhaps before Old London-bridge was demolished – but no longer. Did you know that the flood tide has greater velocity on the Surrey side of
Blackfriars when the Middlesex side simultaneously has flat water? Shoals appear and disappear at their own whim. When the north-easterlies blow uninterrupted, the channel chokes on water and
breaks its banks. And yet dead water will appear mid-flow, stirring flotsam as the tides flow round. The bed of the river is to blame, of course. It is dredged, it is shifted, it is moulded by
accretions of human filth from the sewers. Who knows what it is doing there beneath the cloaking water or what secrets it holds? Predictable? No. No. It is
haunted
.’

‘Haunted?’ Mr Newsome maintained his mask of earnest enquiry with difficulty.

‘How many lives are lost to it every year? Fifty? One hundred? There are forty jumpers annually from Waterloo-bridge alone. Multiply that by centuries and ask yourself: where do those
damned souls go? Not to heaven, certainly – not with the taint of their sin upon them. No – they remain there in the depths, in the cold blackness. It is
their
sorrow that
animates the tides. They call to others, and keep them at their pleasure before releasing their flesh back to the world.’

‘I recall reading a more scientific explanation, but no matter. Perhaps an example will prove more helpful. Last month, a woman’s body was pulled out of the river at Blackwall. She
had leapt from London-bridge four weeks previously – but where had she been since then? At the bottom of the river? Moving out to sea and back again in a ceaseless cycle? Is there something
in the tides or the patterns of the river that make Blackwall a more appropriate place to find bodies fallen in at the bridge? Then again, some bodies falling from Waterloo-bridge have been
reliably found at Cuckold’s Point. Some bodies are never found at all. There
must
be some knowledge not known to almanacks but known to men such as you.’

‘Some places are darker than others, Inspector. They harbour more souls and seek more to share their hopelessness. Waterloo is doubtlessly one such place. They are the spots where your
bodies linger, unseen, until delivered up once again to the sun.’

‘Well, I see I have wasted my time coming to you for information, Mr Tarr.’ Mr Newsome made to stand.

‘The river becomes darker, Inspector. Time was when every vessel moved by the power of wind or arm alone. Time was when every vessel was natural wood. Now all is steam and iron and copper.
We have lost our feeling for the river and have made it just another thoroughfare to suit our ends. And yet it continues to claim souls, does it not? What would we see if the waters were to recede
and reveal the history in its mud? The ribs of Roman galleys? The ribs of men sacrificed to religion, commerce and despair? Predictable? Ho! Predict your own end, Inspector!’

Mr Newsome stared sidelong at the ex-pilot to discern if he was mocking, or merely mad. The latter seemed the likelier assumption, so he began walking towards Tripe-alley.

‘I will bid you good day, Mr Tarr. I leave you to the comfort of your insanity.’

‘Beware the beasts of the river!’

The inspector stopped and felt for the tooth in his pocket.

‘“Beasts?” I thought you spoke only of souls?’

John Tarr touched the side of his sun-seasoned nose and winked.

‘Look at this.’ Mr Newsome returned to the bench and held the tooth between thumb and forefinger so that Tarr could see it clearly. ‘What manner of river animal has a tooth
like this?’

‘Inspector – there are things down there in the blackness that no man has ever seen. O, we sometimes see their shadows or the flick of a tail. We sometimes see the body of a cat
vanish in a splash with an unseen snap of jaws; we sometimes see shapes in the low-tide mud made by no human foot; we sometimes hear noises at night made by no human throat. Your tooth tells me
nothing I do not already know.’

‘I see. Well, once again, your “expertise” appears to be quite incoherent. Thank you for your time.’

John Tarr made a mock salute and turned his attention back to the river, his cigar still smouldering at the corner of his mouth.

Mr Newsome shook his head and returned to the clamour of Pickle Herring-street, more assured than ever that the river made mad those who worked upon it. As he passed the wool warehouse, a
terrible faecal-vegetal reek assailed his nostrils and he was forced to rapidly pull out a handkerchief to cover his nose. He looked around for the origin of the smell and his eyes met those of a
very odd little man standing on the opposite side of the street.

The fellow might have been a boy of fifteen from a distance, such were his dimensions, but in fact he must have been twenty-five years old. His face seemed utterly devoid of expression –
almost, indeed, as if his features had been painted onto a wooden effigy of a man: two round brown eyes, a spatter of freckles, an unremarkable nose and a mouth-shaped mouth. The dark hair was
matted with filth, and it was evidently he who was so noisome. Passers-by exclaimed in disgust as they walked by, allowing him significant space. He returned Mr Newsome’s look of disgust
without interest or recognition.

The inspector was hurrying to be elsewhere, however, and did not stop to give the encounter further thought.

It might be said that one has not truly experienced London until one has visited the theatre. Admittedly, there is much to be said of a stroll along Oxford-street or a cup of
coffee on Fleet-street, but for an authentic view of city life, one attends a theatre such as the Queen’s. And on that evening two days after the Waterloo-bridge incident, Wych-street was
veritably a-swarm with people flocking to hear Eldritch Batchem speak.

It had been uncharitably noted by some that it was no mere coincidence that a playbill for this show had been found in the pocket of the unfortunate tidewaiter William Barton . . . or at least
that Mr Batchem had reported thus. Wags in certain other quarters had joked that the investigator himself had slain the man just to popularize the evening. Such are the comments of cynics, but the
fact could not be denied: the thrill of the dead man advertising the fame of his own death’s investigator was a story too delicious to resist.

Accordingly, the auditorium was filling rapidly, each part relative to the price of its seat. In the gallery sat London’s common men and women: a heaving and raucous mass of unalloyed
humanity that exuded a sour reek of bodies, smoke and gin. Some scratched at dirty collars; some feasted on handfuls of meat pie bought especially for the occasion; some peeled off boots to ease
their work-worn feet. All chattered and laughed with the crass manner of the streets. Perhaps nine in every ten women were there in a purely ‘professional’ capacity.

The stalls were perhaps a little more refined. Here, decorum competed with affectation to demonstrate that two shillings more per seat made one a ‘theatre-goer’ rather than a
groundling animated only by vulgar entertainment. Were one to scan the rows in this part of the theatre, one would have noticed among the throng a single Negro face: Benjamin. Beside him was Noah
Dyson, and beside
him
was Mr George Williamson (relieved of pickpocket duty tonight on account of attending the show). John Cullen was once again by his mentor’s left hand, seemingly
gleeful at this, his first visit to a ‘real’ theatre rather than the sordid penny gaff.

A number of people would have been intrigued to see this peculiar quartet together, and Commissioner Sir Richard Mayne was one of them. Sitting alone in his private box, he had at first believed
himself to be mistaken when he saw George Williamson sitting in the distant stalls before him. Using his opera glasses, however, he was able to verify that it was indeed the illustrious detective
who had once worked within the ranks of the Detective Force. And there, either side of him, was an ex-constable and a known felon.

Inspector Albert Newsome was yet another who, seeing the Negro face, had noticed the four sitting together and wondered at the import of such a grouping. In his experience, it was a fellowship
that promised only inconvenience. Fortunately, none of them seemed to have noticed him sitting a few rows to the rear and to their right.

By now, the theatre was quite filled to capacity and the vast banked horseshoe of seating writhed with figures and murmurs. Smoke drifted thickly through the light of the large gas chandelier
hanging from the gaudy gilt ceiling.

‘Is that Sir Richard in the box?’ said Mr Cullen to his neighbour.

‘It is,’ replied Mr Williamson. ‘And he has seen us.’

‘Do not turn, but Inspector Newsome is also sitting three rows behind us to the right,’ said Noah. ‘I saw him in the lobby as we entered. He pretended to be tying his
bootlace.’

‘There are many policemen here tonight,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘Whether to mock or revere Mr Batchem, I could not say.’

‘Which do you favour, George?’

‘First I will listen to the man – then I will make my judgement.’

‘Of course. Tell me – why do you study the gallery so intently, George? Are you expecting to see somebody in particular there?’

‘Hmm. It is idle habit – nothing more.’ Mr Williamson extracted his watch somewhat irritably. ‘Where is Mr Batchem? It is time for the performance to begin . .
.’

At that moment, the deep-red curtains on the stage twitched and a thrill went through the audience. A cheer went up from the gallery. The theatre manger emerged from between the folds and made a
bow.

‘Ladies and gentlemen – welcome! Welcome! Tonight we are privileged indeed to have the pleasure of an audience with a man who has lately captured our interest in the public sphere,
in the newspapers, in the annals of crime and—’

‘
Get on with it!
’ yelled a voice from the gallery, followed by much spirituous mirth.

‘I . . . well, without further preamble, I give you Mr Eldritch Batchem: investigator
extraordinaire
!’

Applause of an enthusiastic (if not yet fully convinced) manner went up, and the curtains were drawn back to reveal that same figure glimpsed previously on Waterloo-bridge. He seemed a smaller
man on the immensity of the bare stage, dressed in his customary tweed suit and odd russet cap. Indeed, there was a suggestion, almost, of vulnerability about him that hushed the crowd to an
improbable silence.

Cowed he may have been, but the way he strolled to centre stage showed little trepidation. There, he stroked his pointed salt-and-pepper beard with a gloved hand, eyes cast downward at the
boards, and nodded to himself as if lost in thought. One might have heard the very rustle of his clothing as expectation rose.

(‘Quite the showman, is he not?’ whispered Noah to Mr Williamson.

‘Hmm,’ replied the latter.)

Finally, Eldritch Batchem looked up, giving the impression that he had stumbled quite by chance upon an audience gathered in his honour. He cast a meaningful look around and smiled, though his
eyes were black glass. When he spoke, it was with a calm, clear voice that carried to the furthest recesses of the auditorium.

‘Who among you, I wonder, is a murderer?’

A flutter of scandalous pleasure passed through the gallery.

‘I say again: who among you is a murderer? No doubt you abhor the thought! No doubt you reject outright the very idea that you – a Christian, a son, a daughter – could be
capable of such a soul-staining act. But that would be your mistake! Why? Because we are
all
murderers.’