Six

BEFORE HE LEFT the house in Gloucester Road, Langton and the constables checked the remainder of the room but found no more cubbyholes or compartments. The landlady, after ignoring the cockroaches and complaining about the hole in her wall (“And who’s going to pay for that, I’d like to know?”), told Langton little more than she’d told McBride: The two lodgers had caused no trouble apart from coming home late; they’d had no visitors but a lot of telegrams and post. No, she couldn’t remember the postmarks on the envelopes, and what did they take her for? A busybody?

Langton stood on the pavement outside the house as McBride made his way through the gaggle of children that played out in the street despite the cold. The bundle of notes and the revolver lay locked in the hansom’s trunk. Langton waited until he and McBride had climbed into the cab before he said, “What did you find?”

McBride flicked through his notebook. “Busy little bees, our two lodgers were. They sent at least one telegram every day, usually to the same address. The GPO clerk showed me the ledger that him and the operators use to record everything.”

Langton read the notebook page that McBride held open. “Fifty-seven, The Mall, W1. I’m sure I know that address.”

“I was going to look it up, sir, but the clerk had a quicker way; they have a directory they use for the telephones and suchlike. Turns out that address belongs to a government department: Foreign and Commonwealth Office.”

Langton remembered that he’d seen a similar address on the telegram that Doctor Fry had received, the one stating that the faceless man’s fingerprints did not match any records. What connection did Durham and Kepler have with the FCO? He had no doubt that Kepler was a Boer; the tattoos proved that. So what kind of convoluted scheme or intrigue had Langton stumbled upon?

He glanced at McBride and considered talking though his suspicions. He decided to wait until he had something more definite. “McBride, when we get back, ask the desk sergeant if he has any news of Durham.”

“Sir.”

As the hansom rattled along Scotland Road, Langton realized that the Kepler case had distracted him from thinking about Sarah’s passing. Torn between the two, he knew that Kepler should be his priority, yet the thought of Sarah alone and trapped and in the power of some collector…No, he had to be wrong. Here in the cold reality of daylight, with trams and carts crowding the streets and pedestrians bustling every way, the idea of the Jar Boys and Doktor Glass seemed like a bad dream. A fiction.

Yet that suspicion would not leave Langton: Sarah waited for him to release her.

Redfers would know. He had stayed with Sarah until the very end. Nobody could have troubled Sarah without his knowledge, and Sarah had trusted Redfers, the man who had looked after her own mother, father, sisters.

As the hansom drew into the headquarters courtyard, Langton ran up the steps and made for the detectives’ room. Before he could find Forbes Paterson, he met Chief Inspector Purcell coming down the wide staircase. “Ah, Langton. I wondered when we might track you down.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’m a little busy—”

Purcell blocked his path. “I’m sure it can wait. My office, Inspector.”

Langton bit back his reply and followed Purcell. As Purcell opened the door to his office, he said, “I want to introduce Major Fallows from the Home Office. He’s closely involved with the safety of Her Majesty’s visit.”

A tall, elegantly dressed man stood at the window. He turned and nodded to Langton but didn’t offer to shake hands. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention my work so publicly, Purcell. We must retain some confidentiality, after all.”

A flush rose from Purcell’s collar. “We’re in a police station, Major, not a public house.”

“Even so.” The major folded his body into Purcell’s leather chair and adjusted his shirt cuffs. “The Chief Inspector informs me that you are in charge of the investigation, Langton. I’d appreciate a résumé of your findings so far.”

As he repeated the bare facts of the case, Langton evaluated Major Fallows. The grey hair and deep-set eyes put his age around fifty years, perhaps more, but he looked attentive and alert; he sat bolt upright, the opposite of Purcell’s customary slump. He did not interrupt while Langton stood and itemized the events.

Langton did not relay everything he had found; for some reason he did not yet fully understand, he kept back McBride’s news of the telegrams’ destination address. Nor—thanks in some part to fear of ridicule—did he mention the possible involvement of the Jar Boys. He finished his explanation and waited for the major’s response.

Fallows nodded. “It’s quite obvious: Kepler and Durham inveigled their way into the Span Company, with robbery as their probable motive. For some reason we don’t yet know, they fell out and Durham killed Kepler. Whatever scheme they had in place is no doubt in tatters.”

Purcell breathed an audible sigh. “You don’t believe it to be a plot.”

“Not from the evidence,” Major Fallows said. “It seems no more than straightforward avarice.”

Langton could see no logic to support the major’s dismissal of the case. He glanced at Purcell, then said, “I don’t believe it is quite so straightforward, Major.”

“Really, Langton?” The major stared at him. “Do go on. Please.”

Purcell, red-faced and frowning, stood between the two men. “Look here, Langton, Major Fallows is one of Her Majesty’s most experienced—”

“Please, Chief Inspector. I want to hear.”

Langton looked past Purcell. “Well, Major, if robbery was the motive, what did Durham and Kepler hope to gain?”

“No doubt the Span Company keeps a reasonable amount of operating capital in its offices.”

“Enough to justify months of preparation and deception?”

“I would imagine the Company payroll is quite large.”

“It was,” Langton said, “during the main phase of the construction, when many thousands of navvies and engineers worked on the Span. But only a few hundred men maintain the structure now. Durham and Kepler missed their opportunity by months if robbery was their motive.”

In contrast to Purcell, the major’s expression did not change. “Go on.”

Langton said, “If Durham did kill Kepler, why disfigure the body? He could have hidden it away, anchored it to the bottom of the Mersey or thrown it into one of the many disused shafts that litter the shore. Instead, the killer dumped the body in the busiest dock in the area and mutilated it in such a way as to guarantee publicity and investigation.”

“Perhaps Durham is mad,” Purcell said. “Without reason or logic.”

Langton nodded. “Perhaps, sir, but I believe there is more to this than simple robbery. Especially since Kepler was a Boer.”

“That does not exclude him from also being greedy.”

“True, Major, but a possible witness was also murdered.”

“This Stoker Olsen? You’re quite sure his death is connected?”

Langton stared at him. “The alternative stretches coincidence, Major. I don’t think either of us is that naïve.”

At that, Purcell became almost apoplectic. “Now see here, Langton, I will not have you speak to—”

Major Fallows stopped the flow with a raised hand. “That’s quite all right, Purcell. Inspector Langton has made some good points. Perhaps my initial opinion was too hasty. But that is all it was: an opinion. I have a duty to Her Majesty which obliges me to investigate any possible danger to her person no matter how slim the evidence.”

Fallows stood up and brushed his sleeves and waistcoat. “With that in mind, Inspector, perhaps you would be good enough to show me the evidence you have collected so far?”

“Of course, Major.” Langton followed him out of the office and saw by the look on Purcell’s face that this matter was not closed.

Down in Langton’s office, Fallows settled himself at the desk with the case file and statements laid out before him. “Don’t let me keep you, Inspector. I’m sure you have many pressing duties.”

As he lifted his coat from the stand, Langton smiled at the irony of being dismissed from his own office. “If there’s anything you need, Major, ask Harry, the office boy.”

“Thank you.” Then, as Langton reached the door, “You believe I have been too swift to reach a conclusion in this case.”

Langton waited. Up in Purcell’s office, he had wondered why the major had wanted to reduce the case to a mere robbery. And Langton could understand why Purcell grasped so firmly at that explanation: It removed the embarrassment that a plot against Her Majesty would bring, a plot formulated in Purcell’s area and under his very nose. Robbery was so much more palatable and so much easier to deal with.

The major continued, “As we discovered in Africa and South America, panic can cause almost as much damage as an actual attack. I must ensure that public confidence is not jeopardized, and that Her Majesty’s visit is not unduly interrupted. I trust that you understand the situation. Until later, Inspector.”

Langton stood for a moment outside his own office, going over the major’s warning. He agreed with the logic but not with the end result. For Major Fallows had implied that the Queen’s visit obliterated all other considerations, even the truth. As patriotic and dutiful as Langton was, he could not simply dismiss this case because it might cause panic. Chief Inspector Purcell might.

And what would Major Fallows make of the references to the Jar Boys? He was sure to find it in the file and Kepler’s postmortem reports. If the public got hold of that possibility, they would create their own sensationalist theories. The more outlandish the story, the longer it ran in the newspapers.

Thinking of the Jar Boys made Langton remember Forbes Paterson and Doctor Redfers. He checked his fob watch; he still had time to see both men. But he found Paterson’s room empty again.

“I gave him your message, sir,” the clerk in the main office told Langton. “Is it really important?”

When Langton said it was, the clerk beckoned him closer, looked left and right like a pantomime theatrical, and lowered his voice. “I don’t suppose Mr. Paterson will mind me telling you, sir: They’re down in the Hole in the Wall pub, celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“They put some big swindler in the cells, sir. They’ve been after him for a year or more.”

Langton thought immediately of Doktor Glass.

“You’ll keep it under your hat, won’t you, sir?”

Langton thanked the clerk and hurried down the stairs. He knew the small, cramped pub down a winding side alley, such a favorite among the police that it sometimes seemed like their unofficial social club. He hurried through the cold streets and pushed his way inside the pub, automatically stooping to avoid the low, dark beams hung with horse brasses. Even at this time of the afternoon, the smoke-wreathed room bustled with drinkers. Langton squeezed through the crowd, peering at faces through clouds of cigar smoke. On a cold winter’s day like this, the warmth and the smell of beer and food seemed like an oasis.

Inspector Forbes Paterson sat in a red leather booth at the back of the snug, surrounded by his fellow detectives, inspectors, and sergeants, all red in the face, grinning and laughing. Glasses and bottles hid every square inch of the table in front of them. Sepia photographs of sporting heroes and prizefighters looked down from the walls, and Paterson himself resembled a pugilist: broad, heavy, with pummeled features and an exorbitant moustache waxed to points. “Langton, sit down and have a drink. I got your message, but the boy Harry said you were in Percy’s office.”

Langton smiled. “Percy” was one of the least insulting nicknames given to Chief Inspector Purcell. “Sorry to interrupt; do you have a minute?”

Paterson looked over the rim of his pint. “Private?”

“Please.”

Paterson finished his pint and carried the empty glass to the bar. As the barmaid refilled it and poured a fresh glass for Langton, Paterson leaned over and spoke a few words. She nodded and pointed to a side door.

“This way,” he said, sliding one of the pints toward Langton.

Langton paid for the drinks and followed Forbes through the crowd, trying not to spill his beer. The side door opened onto a narrow staircase that led to a second-floor function room that smelled of dust and stale beer. A fire burned in the grate behind a mesh guard.

“Bev said we could use this until they start setting up for the night,” Paterson said, pulling two chairs from against the wall and placing them by the fire. He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Langton sipped the dark beer. “I’m sorry for interrupting your celebration.”

“Oh, we’ll be here awhile yet.” Paterson looked away, into the flames. “How are you holding up?”

Langton knew what he meant. “Work helps; the busier I am, the less I…”

Paterson nodded but still stared at the fire. “People believe that time helps, too.”

“Maybe so.” That didn’t reassure Langton; he wanted the pain to lessen but he didn’t want to forget Sarah. He couldn’t imagine the day when the thought of her didn’t pierce his heart.

That reminded him of Doktor Glass. “I believe you had some luck today.”

Paterson grinned. “A year we’ve been after him. Every one of my boys put in extra hours, worked themselves dry, but we got him.”

Langton kept his voice level. “Who was it?”

“A determined, clever, devious little swindler by the name of Archibald David Healey. His specialty was separating recently widowed women from their wealth. And he was good at it, too. Séances, fake mediums, apparitions, the works. Most of his gang’s victims were too embarrassed to testify; in the end, we had to hook him with our own little game. We used an actress from the playhouse and set her up in a fine house in Toxteth. Worked a treat.”

That gave Langton a germ of an idea; he put it to one side for now.

“So what did you want to see me about?” Paterson asked.

Even now, Langton hesitated, but he had to know. “Have you ever heard of the Jar Boys?”

The smile left Paterson’s face. “I’ve heard of them.”

“Are they swindlers? Or just stories?”

Paterson cradled his pint in both hands and didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “This is between us?”

“Completely.”

Paterson nodded and gulped his drink. “They’re real. We had a handful of cases in the past six months. They used to target the poor, who were too afraid, too cowed, or simply too superstitious to speak out. Once they started on the middle classes and the supposedly educated…”

“They?”

“I’ve heard of three local gangs, although they seem to be fighting among themselves lately,” Paterson said. “There’s plenty more in London, but three’s enough for me. More than enough.”

Langton leaned forward. “What do they do?”

Paterson spoke slowly, apparently choosing his words with care. “They used to pay the poorer families for the privilege of attaching some kind of machine to their loved ones just before they passed away. Are you sure you want me to go on?”

“Please.”

“They used various stories: The machines eased the pain, or delayed the inevitable, even that they pointed the dying to heaven. This was with the poor.”

“And with the others?”

Paterson reached automatically for his glass, saw it was empty, and frowned. “The gangs told these supposedly educated families another lie: that the machines could store their loved ones’ souls until a new body was found. And these people actually believed it. They only came to us when the gangs disappeared with their money as well as the contents of the jars.”

Langton stared at him. “The families paid them?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

But as he thought of it, Langton could see a reason: Some families might do anything to extend the lives of their dying loved ones. They might grasp at any and every possibility. “Do you believe they trap the victims’ souls?”

Paterson hesitated. “I’ve talked with more than a few who’ve witnessed the Jar Boys at work. They’re convinced that something happens; they swear you can see a bright mist streaming toward the jar. But as for it being the soul…I don’t know, Langton. I think desperate people see, and believe, what they wish to.”

Langton believed that, too. “What do they do with these jars?”

“You’d have to ask them.”

“Have you caught any of the gangs?”

“We had our hands on a few of the smaller fishes, but the bigger ones always swim a little deeper, out of our reach.”

Langton took a chance: “Have you come across a Doktor Glass?”

Paterson turned to him. “How did you hear that name?”

“I’m investigating a body washed up in Albert Dock.”

“The faceless chap?”

Langton nodded.

“You think he’s connected with Glass?”

“Possibly. What do you know?”

“Only that Doktor Glass is the worst of all of ’em,” Forbes said. “Springheel Bob’s gang is bad enough, the Caribs no better, but nobody will speak of Doktor Glass out of fear. If he really is involved with your faceless man, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

At that moment, as if on purpose, a maid opened the door, saw the two men, and gave a start, almost dropping the white linen folded over her arm. “Sorry, sirs. I was told to start setting the tables.”

“Give us just a minute, please,” Langton said. Then, when she’d left, he asked Paterson, “You know nothing about him?”

“I wish I did. I hate cruelty, especially to the old and the weak. His arrest would comfort many, not to mention solving at least three murders, maybe more.”

“How do you mean?”

Paterson said, “You can’t always depend on when someone is going to die. Only the Lord himself knows that. That interferes with Glass’s schedule, so he’s been known to speed the course of action.”

“He’s murdered the victims?”

“I’m sure he has.” Paterson got to his feet and reached for his empty glass. “Proving it is another thing altogether.”

Langton thought for a moment, then stood and swallowed his beer. “I can think of one way to catch him. It would be difficult, possibly immoral, and definitely dangerous.”

“How?”

Langton said, “We set a trap.”

*  *  *

BY THE TIME Langton left the public house, the streets had filled with people. Homeward-bound commuters huddled beneath the tram stop glass shelters; office workers, clerks, and secretaries hurried along with heads bowed against the cold. At street level, most of the snow had melted. Wet pavements reflected yellow gaslight.

Langton checked his watch and then searched the congested roads for a hansom cab. He walked up Castle Street and all the way to Dale Street before he could flag down a driver. “Gladstone Crescent, and hurry.”

“Do the best I can, sir.”

As the cab lurched away into the stream of traffic, Langton hoped Doctor Redfers would wait for him. Langton hadn’t expected to spend so much time with Paterson. Had it been a waste? Paterson had confirmed what Mrs. Grizedale, Sister Wright, and the Professor had all stated: The Jar Boys existed. Now Langton had no option but to accept them as a fact.

But he’d had no right to ask Paterson to consider setting a trap. After all, the Jar Boys might play only a small part in the case of the murdered Kepler. Hand on heart, Langton knew he should not have asked Paterson to consider such a dangerous and possibly immoral trap. It might be different if the whole case pivoted on them, but Langton had to admit that it would be for Sarah’s benefit and for his own peace of mind. He almost asked the driver to turn the cab around.

“Gladstone Crescent, sir.”

Langton paid the driver and climbed the steps of the three-story town house set opposite a well-tended park bordered by iron railings. He rang the brass bell and waited. Most of the house lay in darkness, with not even a glimmer in the transom above the door, but one dim light glowed in a room to the left. Redfers’s consulting room.

Langton rang again. No answer. Obviously, Redfers had left for the evening or did not wish to be disturbed. That didn’t explain why the maid didn’t open the door. Langton hesitated, looking up and down the quiet crescent, then tried the door handle; it turned in his hand.

“Redfers? It’s Langton.”

The cold hallway led into darkness. Slipping inside, Langton eased the door shut and stood there, listening. The tick of the grandfather clock. No voices. No murmurs. No movement.

The narrow central strip of carpet on the parquet floor silenced Langton’s steps. He tried to remember the layout of the house from his last visit. He pushed open the first door to his right and saw the waiting room. The light of a dying fire in the grate. Empty, hard wooden chairs surrounding a massive table. Pot plants.

Redfers’s rooms stood opposite the waiting room. Langton put his ear to the closed door but heard only his own pulse. He reached for the handle. Every sense seemed sharper: the odors of disinfectant and tobacco smoke; the feel of the cold, smooth brass as he turned the handle. His eyes, adjusting to the meager light from under the door, scanned the receptionist’s empty room in a moment. Her desk, neat and clear apart from the squat typewriter under its cover. The file cabinets closed. Nothing in disarray.

Langton crossed the room and hesitated outside Redfers’s door. He knocked but heard no response. He stood to one side, turned the handle, and pushed the door open with his right foot. Nobody rushed out.

He peered around the edge of the door and saw Redfers sitting at a wide desk. The doctor’s head rested back against the high leather armchair. His mouth hung slack. Langton half-expected to hear snores. An electric table lamp threw white light onto the scattered papers and files. In the corner, a bleached skeleton hung from its support.

“Redfers?”

Langton slipped inside the room. Little heat came from the fire, which had almost died down to nothing. He sniffed at the odor, something chemical akin to bitter almonds with perhaps a hint of white flowers. “Redfers?”

Another two strides brought him to the desk. The dead doctor gripped the arms of the chair like a falling man clutching a parapet; the tendons stood out like steel cables on the Span.

Langton raised the lampshade and saw Redfers’s eyes wide and dilated, staring straight ahead. The light glinted on metal; below Redfers’s chin, just above his necktie, jutted the snapped shaft of the spike that pinned his neck to the back of the chair. Only a trickle of blood showed around the wound.

Langton listened for a moment. He thought he’d heard floorboards creak. He reached for the telephone on the desk, then saw the cord severed and hanging. He turned to the door, then back to Redfers. By twisting the lamp slightly, he threw light onto the doctor’s neck. At the sides, just under the ears, he saw two small patches of burned skin.

Standing on the top step at the front of the house, Langton put his police whistle to his lips and blew three piercing blasts. He repeated the summons at minute intervals until he heard the pounding of constables’ boots from the neighboring streets.

Even as the first breathless constable arrived, Langton had hailed a cab. For, as if to deprive Langton of information or to remove witnesses, someone had killed Stoker Olsen and then Doctor Redfers. And Langton remembered someone else connected to Sarah, someone even more vulnerable than the dead men: Mrs. Grizedale.