Sunday afternoon
Horace Tipple was surprised how quickly he and his men found themselves in the labyrinthine tunnels under Harker Fine Goods.
Why, it was only just after noon.
They’d relied on blueprints and city diagrams and what little direction Conway Duke was able to give before he’d been escorted home; finding the tunnel entrance in the factory was easy.
The inspector, with Sergeant Bartholomew and three squads of bobbies, discovered the flight of stairs partly concealed in the back of the storeroom and followed it down. Another three Whitechapel squads were hunting for similar entrances in nearby buildings; hopefully, searching from below and above would reveal how Harker could come and go so easily.
Policemen on loan from Bethnal Green and St. George’s were keeping watch on the streets, ready to nab any of the gang who might be flushed out by the raid. Horace had circulated Lewis’s folio of sketches among the 100 or so bobbies taking part before they started out from Leman Street.
The detective was determined that they wouldn’t end the day empty-handed.
Searching the tunnels they found at the foot of the hidden stair, though, was ploddingly slow work. There were just so many twists and turns and branches that they couldn’t speed through the appropriately depicted labyrinth, even though they reached a promising, broad, lamp-lighted corridor within minutes. It seemed very similar to what Conway Duke had described.
“—As we’ve measured it, sir, the chambers we’ve found thus far were once storerooms for Harker Fine Goods,” Detective Sergeant Haggerty was saying. Broderick Haggerty, the only plainclothes policeman in the tunnels other than Horace, was a blunt-speaking fellow with a thinning mop of ginger hair. The inspector hadn’t had much cause to work with the junior detective before, and certainly not on the Harker case, but Haggerty seemed game to step in at a moment’s notice.
“Only ‘once?’”
“Yes, sir.” Haggerty gestured to the two constables hunched over a map they’d spread out on an old packing crate. The pair was marking off paces counted with a measuring stick, a compass aiding their plotting. “We’re under a trio of outbuildings Mr. Archibald Harker has slated for demolition in a few weeks. They and their storerooms down here have been unused for about two years due to damage caused by a kiln rupture.”
Horace pursed his lips as he wondered why the corridor was as well-lighted and maintained as a thoroughfare.
Haggerty opened his mouth to comment further, but was interrupted by Sergeant Bartholomew trotting back to them.
“Sir! A room just there—“ the bobby pointed back over his shoulder vaguely, “—there’s something you should see.”
Leaving Haggerty to his map men, Horace followed the sergeant’s lead. As they made their way down the passage, the inspector noted a pair of constables a few paces back, tailing him as they had since they left the Leman Street station.
“Were those your idea, Sergeant?”
“What? Oh….” Bartholomew looked back at the constables in tow and bobbed his head once.
Horace chewed his lip. “Why do I have an escort?”
“Sir…what Mr. Duke said: that was a threat.” The sergeant’s reply was soft but steely. “I’m not the only who thinks Harker…or his puppeteer” – his voice went even softer – “wishes you harm and has the means to carry it out. Having men at your back, at least, grants us some peace of mind.”
Horace nodded in acquiescence. “As you wish. But you must know I haven’t any intention to give in to whatever our foe is planning, and every intention of wresting back what and who are ours.”
By then they’d reached the room the sergeant wanted to show the inspector. As it turned out, it was the first goldmine of four.
In that room, Horace saw evidence of recent occupation, or perhaps captivity. Two pairs of shoes had paced through and footprinted the old pottery dust caking the floor – one an average size for a grown man, the other considerably larger – and a wad of black fabric that (when held up) seemed to be some sort of clerical garb lay forgotten in the corner.
If nothing else, these small signs refuted any doubts Horace still had about whether Harker, Todd, and Powell could be entangled together.
A constable brought word of a fresh discovery in the room next door while the detective and the sergeant were still inspecting the first for clues (the bodyguards waited in the hall).
This chamber’s secret was more ghastly: a large, rusty stain had marred the floor and painted macabre swirls in the clay dust before drying.
“I think….” Bartholomew began, his eyes roving over the room without dwelling too long on the stain on the floor, “—I think we may have found where Frank O’Malley died.”
Horace chewed his lip but said nothing.
While the next few chambers were uninteresting and unhelpful, they eventually came to one that showed signs of habitation: sleeping cots, a table, several candle stubs, a lantern that had been extinguished recently (it was still warm), a few heels of bread gone only slightly stale.
While this was telling, the room next door shouted silent volumes to the mute whispers of the other three.
This chamber had all the signs of bodies living rough. The dust on the floor was much more scuffed than it had been elsewhere, and there were spatters of red everywhere. Sprinkled on the floor here; near the wall, there; a streak or two where someone may have lain and bled for a time. Taken together, perhaps the rusty streaks didn’t amount to as much as in the second room, but this wasn’t particularly comforting in light of the telltales of prolonged violence.
Sergeant Bartholomew, swearing softly and eloquently to himself under his breath, stooped to pick up a dark blue rag while Horace stood still in the center of the room, his eyes narrowed and roving.
“Lew’s, I reckon,” the sergeant murmured, shaking out what was left of a policeman’s tunic.
The old detective spared a glance for the tattered uniform. Yes, the chevrons were as expected, and the sleeves looked to be long enough for a man Sergeant Todd’s size: Bartholomew was right.
“But where have they gone?” the sergeant asked.
Horace squatted down, not really listening, and touched his fingertips to something in the dust.
“Sir?”
The inspector rubbed his fingers together, his eyes tracking out of the room into the corridor; he stood after a moment and strode out, still staring at the floor.
“Sir?”
“Sergeant,” Horace replied tersely. “You’ll note the droplets on the bricks. They’re not quite dry and they mark a path that way.”
He pointed down the hall in the direction the policeman had not yet searched. “Gather a squad to start tracking it.”
The sergeant quickly gave the order and nearly a dozen bobbies bent to the task in short order.
“We’re being led somewhere,” Sergeant Bartholomew murmured unhappily, his voice pitched so only the old detective could hear.
“Of course. But that doesn’t mean we must see only what they wish.”
This new bout of tracking took them much further down the corridor, around a sharp corner, down a slight incline, and toward a narrower, unlit side hallway. A few paces beyond where the trail vanished in the blackness, the main corridor ended in a wide, heavily bolted metal door.
“Sergeant Bartholomew. You’ll keep three men with you and get this door open,” the inspector declared. “This lock is new, the door well-kept, and the bit of floor I can see under the bottom edge is as well-traveled as this corridor’s. Find out where it leads. It’ll give us some idea about the nature of this place, I’m sure. And if you come across anyone – anyone, whether hostile or seemingly friendly – see he returns with us to the station. We’ll sort it out later.”
The sergeant didn’t look happy about letting the old detective continue tracking without him, but he didn’t argue.
As the rest of them moved into the closer confines of the dark passage, Horace didn’t need to be particularly perceptive to notice his men tensing. However anxious they were, though, the men seemed to be keeping their professional wits about them.
The footing in the side passage was rougher than the main corridor’s had been, and the pace slowed accordingly. Agonizingly.
Patience, old man, Horace chided himself.
They had to pause at each of the periodic intersections to determine where the trail of blood went before continuing, but continue they did.
After a few twists and turns, the detective lost all concept of where they might be in relation to the factory overhead.
Were they even still under the property?
“Sir.”
One of the lead constables had called a halt just out of sight around a slight bend.
Moving forward, the inspector saw the cause.
Well. That was unexpected.
“Gentlemen.”
“Gov,” the man standing nearest replied, his hands raised nonthreateningly. Crowded behind the fellow (who was a slim sort with hair that glinted palely in the lamplight) were several other figures, easily twice the number of policemen present. Though, like their leader, the assembled thugs offered no visible threats, their combined numbers oozed menace. “S’pose you’d be Hinspector Tipple.”
Seeing no reason to prevaricate, Horace nodded.
“Well then, Gov,” the spokesman said, “Hi’ll take you on to negotiations wif Mr. ‘Arker. Just you. Your blokes an’ mine’ll stay ‘ere.”
“Sir!” One of the old man’s bodyguards reacted instantaneously; it made the inspector sigh inwardly.
“Constable,” Horace chided, and then he nodded to the blonde. “I’ll accompany you.”
Before he stepped forward he added (rolling encouragement to his men and a threat to their adversaries together): “And you and your men should know there are several further squads of policemen combing these tunnels. You raise a hand against any of my men in my absence – or after my return – and all hell will come down on you. Police whistles carry a long, long way, even in these dark, twisty passages.”
The leader cocked his head to one side briefly and then shrugged. “Won’t take long.”
Then he turned, a lamp in hand, and strode off down the narrow corridor.
Not sparing his men more than a glance, Horace shouldered his way through the throng of heavies to follow the bobbing light into the darkness.
* * * * *
The few hesitant tendrils of hope that had budded in David Powell’s breast after seeing his friend alive and awake didn’t last.
Not long after Lewis finished his lengthy conversation with Innocent, their captors barged in. The thugs moved more quickly than the priest and his companions, and the three were pulled rather roughly to their feet.
“Do we finally get to stretch our legs? I’ve been itching to have another gander about this place.”
Of course, none of their kidnappers deigned reply, but the policeman gave David a faint half-smile.
The ferret-faced chap gripped Innocent by the arm and led him out with hardly a word. As soon as they were out the door and off down the corridor, the remaining heavies began tying up the priest and his friend.
“A wee bit tighter…. Ah! Yes, now I can’t feel my hands.”
Lew snorted. He might’ve said something, but one of the thugs shoved a gag in the policeman’s mouth just then.
“From all these ropes they’re using, Lew, I’d almost believe they think us dangerous.”
The sergeant snorted again, his eyes crinkling in humor.
One of the men tying the priest started to gag him as well, but accidentally dropped the kerchief.
In that brief interim, David shelved his silly attempts at levity and said softly, seriously, “Release us. Please. For the good of you future, your souls – please: let us go.”
An odd sort of magnanimity swelled in the priest’s breast then: he’d been able to sway them to his will last evening (for the good of his friend, of course); might his words now be similarly fruitful? Could he encourage them to a better path?
Please, God….
Since none of the thugs were speaking among each other, the clergyman’s plea carried easily through the room. Most ignored him. The blonde glanced at him with a frown. The thug who had taken such offense at him last night and beat him accordingly (the one called Venn) – he took offense again.
“Shut hit, you.”
Venn had been helping secure the policeman; now he reached over and seized David’s shirtfront in one large paw, hauling the shorter man off balance.
“Your soul, man!” the priest said urgently. “For the good of—”
The prick of something hard and sharp under his chin forced the priest’s mouth shut with a snap. (Apparently the knives were out now.) Lewis uttered something in indignation, but gagged, it was wordless and ineffectual. Even so, his effort earned him a knife to the throat as well.
Venn leaned close, his nose almost touching David’s, as he snarled, “Bloody harrogant! You dare judge me?!”
Spittle flecked onto the clergyman’s cheek; with the knife digging in so stingingly, David could say nothing in reply. He felt a thin, hot trickle snake down the skin of his throat.
“Why can’ hit be ‘im?”
Venn’s question was directed at the blonde, and though the angry bruiser’s attention was temporarily diverted, the hold and the knife stayed put.
“‘E’s not has much trouble,” the crew leader replied impassively, touching the scabbed gash on his cheek for emphasis. “Gagged leastwise.”
With a growl, Venn released his hold on the priest and shoved him back toward the pair that’d been tying him.
While the thugs gagged him, David tried to catch his friend’s eye, but one of the others had yanked a dark hood over the policeman’s head.
Lewis submitted passively to their captors’ attentions – whether this was because he hadn’t the strength to protest as before, or thought it futile against the odds, or wanted to lull their foes to complacency before acting (no doubt a well-considered plan whichever) – and now stood still, blind, and mostly incapacitated a few steps from David.
What happened next occurred almost too quickly for the priest to comprehend.
The blonde wordlessly nodded to a seething Venn. As the enraged heavy scowled, the crew leader waved a hand toward the sergeant.
Venn whirled, let out a roar, and then attacked.
His knife flashed dully as he stabbed Lewis twice, once in each leg. On the second, he gave the blade a twist as he yanked it free.
It happened so quickly.
Then both David and his friend cried out at the same time – the policeman uttering a choked moan of agony to the priest’s shout of dismay.
Lewis would’ve crumpled to the floor if a pair of their captors had not been holding him already, as this was apparently part of some plan. As it was, he more or less stayed upright. Blood crept down Lew’s trousers from the wounds on the outside of each of his thighs, staining dark fabric darker. Under the hood, his breath sawed in and out in half-whimpering gasps.
“Once would ‘ave been henough.” The blonde noted drily. “Now you’ll ‘ave to carry ‘im.”
Wiping his reddened blade on a bit of Lew’s shirt, Venn shrugged. “Worth hit.”
A hood over his head threw David’s world into sudden blackness; his thoughts didn’t focus to any clarity again until he realized they’d been hauled some distance away from their prison into the tunnels.
God! What had he done?
His words – his own words – had caused his friend agony. His thoughtlessness had driven that other fellow to such wrath…Lew’s newest hurts were on David’s head.
What have I done? What have I done? WhathaveIdone…
Unbidden, the memory of the accident from two years ago overwhelmed his semi-cogent thoughts.
* * * * *