CHAPTER FORTY

There was a loud crack from the other side of the room and more smoke gusted underneath the door and through the frame. Murdoch knew he couldn’t wait for the fire truck to arrive. He didn’t know if anybody was alive or where Reordan was. He wrapped his muffler around his nose and mouth and shoved open the door that led to Gregory’s apartment.

The entire opposite wall seemed to be on fire, flames licking at the window frames and mantelpiece. However, opening the door had allowed some of the smoke to escape and he could see well enough.

In the centre of the room, as yet untouched by fire, was one of the most macabre scenes he had ever witnessed and it was to haunt him ever after.

Gregory was bound hand and foot to one of the central pillars. He was gagged but his eyes were open and he was alive. Stacked all around him in a pyre, were dozens of photographic cards and loose papers. John Reordan was in the process of emptying a drawer of folders on to the heap. Hearing Murdoch, he spun around. He had a revolver in his hand and he immediately pointed it.

“Don’t come any closer, Will. You don’t deserve to die, but I’ll kill you if you try to stop me.” His voice was hoarse.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Reordan continued to shove papers toward the pyre with his foot but without taking his eyes off Murdoch for a moment. “That’s it exactly. I’m sending him to hell.” He uttered a cry that was half sob. “I have very good reasons, Will.”

“John, he’ll be tried and sent down for a long time, I promise you.”

“That’s not enough.”

Murdoch went to say something, but Reordan yelled at him. “There’s more to it than you know. It’s personal.”

He was coughing from the smoke and very agitated but the gun was steady. Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoch saw Gregory heave against his bonds. Reordan saw him too and responded by throwing another folder on the pyre. He jerked his head in Gregory’s direction.

“He’s the one who tarred and feathered me…When you showed me that photograph of a man with his cock exposed, I recognized that man too, or should I say it. He has scars from the clap on his shaft. I dealt with him next door, and now I’m dealing with this one.”

Murdoch risked a glance at Gregory, whose frightened eyes fastened on his in desperation.

Reordan barked out at him. “Charlie told you he pissed on me, but he didn’t know the worst. Both of them raped me afterward.” Murdoch tried a small step forward but Reordan kept the revolver steadily aimed at his head. “When you said you suspected Gregory of doing those photographs and that he was an Englishman. I knew it was him. And I was right, of course. I’d know his voice if I was dying. If I’d gone blind, I’d know that voice.” He kicked some more cards to the heap, which Murdoch could see had been splattered with fluid. A smashed lamp on the floor indicated what that splatter was. Reordan was seized with a spasm of coughing but didn’t break his focus on Murdoch.

“I’m not the first person he’s raped. You should see these cards and photographs. He was going to set something up with two young boys. I saw them when I came here.”

Murdoch eased forward again. The smoke was worse and his eyes were stinging and watering so badly he could hardly see. He raised his voice over the noise of the flames.

“John, don’t do this, I swear I’ll bring him to justice.”

Reordan gave a sort of laugh. “Come on, Murdoch. You must have seen Tibbett out there. There’s no going back for me. Can you blame me? They’re getting what they deserve.”

Murdoch didn’t know how much of this Gregory could hear but he was still struggling futilely with the bonds. He obviously knew what Reordan intended.

With his gun still aimed at Murdoch, Reordan reached to a table behind him where there was a lit candle in a holder.

Murdoch yelled at him. “John, stop. I’m not going to stand by and watch you burn a man alive.”

He tried another step. Reordan cocked the hammer of the gun. “Don’t be a fool, Will. This toe-ragger isn’t worth it.” Quickly, he stooped down and applied the candle flame to the paper. With a whoosh, the paper, soaked with lamp oil, burst into flames.

Then they both heard the bell of the fire truck as it raced toward the building. For one crucial second, Reordan was distracted and glanced over his shoulder. Murdoch leapt forward and grabbed his wrist, and they locked in a bizarre dance, pivoting and twisting. But his assailant had a demented strength and he flung Murdoch to the ground. He rolled to one side, expecting to be shot, keeping his eye on Reordan. The Irishman lowered the gun, then suddenly thrust it underneath his own chin and pulled the trigger. The impact threw him backward into the heart of the fire. Murdoch scrambled to his feet and waded into the burning pile, kicking away the cards and paper. The flames had raced greedily toward Gregory and his clothing and hair were on fire. The rope cords that were binding him were also burning. At the edge of his consciousness, Murdoch could feel pain in his own legs, but he tugged Gregory free, and dragged him away from the flames.

Suddenly he was aware of Seymour beside him. He had a blanket, which he threw over Gregory to smother the flames. By now the gag had burned off and the man was screaming, not the full-bodied cry of his wife but a thin, shrill wail, just as persistent.

Behind them, where the windows had been, there was a sudden, explosive hiss of water as the hoses were directed at the wall from the fire truck below. Dense, choking smoke billowed toward them.

“Get his legs,” said Murdoch and he lifted Gregory underneath his arms. Gasping, almost blind, they managed to carry him into the studio, where there was less smoke, and lie him on the floor. His exposed skin had turned black and blistered, and in places the burns were more severe and oozed blood. Coughing and spluttering, both Seymour and Murdoch fell on their knees, struggling for air. Then the door was shattered and what seemed like an army of firemen burst in.

“Get out of here,” one of them yelled, and Seymour and Murdoch scooped up the injured man again and staggered to the stairs. Halfway down they met with more firemen and one of them unceremoniously took Gregory from them, tossed him over his shoulders, and ran down the stairs. His lungs burning, Murdoch followed, Seymour behind him.

Outside, a crowd of people were being held back by two constables who had answered the alarm. Amy Slade was among them and she ducked under the restraining arm of the officer and ran toward them.

“Where’s John?”

Murdoch found himself suddenly sitting on the curb. His hand, legs, and feet were excruciatingly painful and he saw in surprise that the bottom of his trousers were in blackened shreds and that his boots were smoking.

“He shot himself.”

Seymour was in better condition than Murdoch. “We’ve got to get Will to hospital.”

Amy turned and called to a man who had pulled up in his carriage and in spite of the nervousness of his horse was leaning out of the carriage window, intent on watching the proceedings.

“You, sir. These men are police officers. They must be taken to hospital immediately.”

The man obeyed without the slightest hesitation. He recognized an Amazon when he met one. He jumped out and opened his carriage door.

Amy and Seymour helped Murdoch to stand and all three climbed into the plush interior of the carriage. The last thing Murdoch saw as they drove away were the billowing clouds of smoke and fire as the Emporium was consumed by flames.