The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) (19 page)

Eldritch Batchem perceived the focus of the stare and swiftly put his hand in a jacket pocket. With a dark muttering, he then made to ascend the stairs back to the light, but turned before
passing through the hatchway, his eyes again assuming that dark glare.

‘Tell a soul what you have seen, sir, and you will certainly regret it. That is a promise.’

It was about a year ago that a man crossing Waterloo-bridge took it into his head to hoist a loose kerbstone over the parapet into the river. Instead, it landed upon the scull
of a young man standing on a ballast machine below, killing him outright. The same year, another man boasted to his fellows that he could walk the bridge’s length atop the parapet. He fell
and drowned. Once again, in that same year, a heavily decomposed body was found under the second arch from the Surrey side. Nobody ever discerned the identity of that unfortunate. And we need not
expand further upon the death of Samuel Scott on that selfsame span: accidentally hanged before a crowd of thousands in his own show of fearlessness.

In short, it might be said to be the most notorious among all the city’s great crossings. Ask any waterman plying his trade below its graceful ellipses and he will tell you: there are
upwards of forty suicides annually from its lofty edge – and that does not account for the deaths upon it through accidents, the winter exposure of indigents or abandonment of infants. Is
there a stretch of thoroughfare in any city in the world so blackened with ill fame as Waterloo-bridge?

Of course, it is not only death that finds associations along that granite span. It is also the bridge of lasciviousness, infamous for its assignations in the recesses after dark, and for the
torrent of common prostitutes who swarm north from Waterloo-road to the lights of Middlesex between seven and nine each evening, only to return at nine the next morning, crapulous and in disarray.
It is a place where both innocence and lives are lost – a fine example of our city in miniature should one be required.

Yet during the day, it is as chaotic with traffic as any of the larger bridges. Not as busy as London-bridge, to be sure, but certainly noisy enough that Mr Williamson felt the urge to
occasionally hold his hands over his ears as he ventured along the pedestrian walkway to the place where the newspapers (and Eldritch Batchem) had indicated the fatal incident had taken place.

If he looked deep in thought that morning, it was not the case of the
Aurora
that was uppermost in his mind. Indeed, he might not himself have been able to say which of the conflicting
emotions in his head was the strongest. Was it the naked humiliation of being slandered in that article of
the London Monitor
? Was it the slur upon his proud record as a policeman and as a
detective? Was it the accusation – whether true or not – that he had aided the escape of a felon?

Or was it the shameful and defamatory reference to his associations with prostitutes – with
that
prostitute? With Charlotte.

It was worrying enough that Eldritch Batchem – for it was surely he behind the article – knew so much about his competitors on the case. Evidently he had had them all followed or
otherwise investigated in some depth. Was that the task of the curious Italian . . . ?

Mr Williamson paused suddenly, causing a number of people to stumble, muttering, behind him on the bridge. What if it had been no coincidence that he had been distracted that night outside the
Queen’s Theatre? He had assumed that the incident had been purely accidental – it was, after all, her pitch. But what if the Italian and Eldritch Batchem had somehow inveigled Charlotte
into serving their purpose, knowing that she would certainly catch her victim’s eye – and that he would react as he did?

‘Stand aside, won’t yer, mate?’ shouted a man brushing swiftly past Mr Williamson (who was still quite stationary in the centre of the pedestrian walkway).

He moved absently out of the flow to the stone balustrade overlooking the river and laid a hand on its cold surface. One fact in particular did not make sense to him: the episode outside the
theatre had happened two days
before
any mention of the missing brig had been made. Could Eldritch Batchem really have been observing him for so long? And, if so, for what earthly reason?
The questions multiplied until they questioned themselves . . .

This would not do. Mr Williamson called upon years of experience and attempted to clear his thoughts of all confusion. There was a case to be solved, and the solution to it would likely bring
all other mysteries to a conclusion. Today, the death of Mr William Barton was the thing. He began to walk once again.

It seemed frankly ridiculous to assume that he would find any physical evidence there among the rolling wheels, clopping hooves and persistent footfalls of thousands, but a detective will always
check before he is sure. And as he looked at the roadway of compacted dung cut into ragged ruts by carriage wheels, he knew that all trace of William Barton was forever vanished.

Behind him, a pedestrian recess stood empty – the one in which Eldritch Batchem had claimed to find an earring – and he stepped into it to be away from the pedestrians. Could it be
that someone had lurked in this very space for hours, seeing the fog descend and waiting, waiting for the expected footfall of the tidewaiter? Certainly, it did not seem to be the sort of thing a
lady wearing earrings would do.

He examined the walls of the recess and, as expected, found nothing indicative there. Indeed, from this vantage, the view along the bridge itself was limited: one would have had to peer out
continuously to see someone coming . . . and the fog would, in any event, have made such caution quite unnecessary. Similarly, the high walls of the recess (a deterrent to suicides) made visibility
of the river or city to the east difficult. Anyone waiting to see or hear a signal that the victim was approaching would, in fact, have been inconvenienced by being in the recess (even if there had
not been a fog).

Mr Williamson’s keen brain examined the problem from all points of view. If the theory of the recess-lurker was doubtful, perhaps Benjamin’s suggestion of the killer escaping over
the side was the correct solution.

He stepped out on to the walkway once more and turned his attention instead to the stone balustrade on each side. He first moved northwards, examining each inch of the masonry for any sign, not
knowing at all what he was looking for, but knowing he would recognize it when he saw it. After ten yards or so of nothing unusual, he retraced his steps and conducted the same meticulous search
southwards. He did not look for long.

Three yards beyond the recess, he came upon a small peculiarity in the stone: a jagged indented hole taken out of the granite. He pressed a finger into it and noted that the lack of grime
suggested it was relatively recent. On one knee now, he examined the walkway beneath the hole and confirmed what he expected to be the case: there were a few tiny chips remaining where they had
fallen. No doubt the larger piece had long since been kicked away by pedestrians. In the fog and the damp, Eldritch Batchem clearly hadn’t noticed it at all – or simply not given it any
further thought.

Mr Williamson smiled ruefully to himself. He had been wrong because he had not considered the most unrealistic of all possible solutions.

A hole of this kind did not suggest escape at all, but arrival. Granite is an exceptionally hard stone and would not have been so scarred by having an iron slipped over it. Scratched, possibly,
but not chipped. No – a grappling iron must have been tossed up from the river itself and landed at this spot with a chisel-like impact – an impact loud enough to be heard by the
toll-collector in the silence of the night. Eldritch Batchem’s assumption that the noise had been the razor hitting the parapet when thrown by the dying man now seemed even more
ludicrous.

Mr Williamson placed both hands on the parapet and peered over to check the stonework there. What he saw caused him to smile again. There were a number of greasy scuff marks where it seemed
someone had braced their shoes against the stonework to climb the final stretch before the parapet. And was that also the merest suggestion of where a tarred rope had abraded against the lip of the
edge, leaving a murky line? Such marks would have been difficult to see in the pale dawn, and even more invisible with the bridge stained by rain or fog. But in the clear daylight, the marks could
not be denied.

Nevertheless, it was a feat to be disbelieved by any rational man. What manner of being would be able to toss an iron and rope thirty-five feet upwards in a dense fog and hit the balustrade?
What manner of human monkey would be able to scale a rope swinging half under the great gaping arch and, furthermore, to descend, probably onto a boat moored mid-stream? The iron would then have
had to be disengaged from the balustrade with an immense whip of the rope. The whole would have required a colossal feat of strength, balance and nerve – and also of determination. Why not
simply cudgel the fellow as he walked along a darker street?

More and more, the murder of William Barton seemed to be a significant one. Mr Williamson took out his notebook and added what he had seen, estimating measurements and peering over the side once
more to be sure of his bearings. In a moment, he would go below the bridge to do what Eldritch Batchem had not, but for now there was the toll-collector Mr Weeton to be questioned.

Having enquired at the Bridge Company offices, Mr Williamson had learned that Mr Weeton was still working the night shift, although he had put in a request to move to days. That duty was to
conclude in a matter of minutes, so Mr Williamson hurried towards the Middlesex side, weaving between pedestrians that he might not miss his opportunity.

He was just in time, catching the toll-collector as he was about to leave the toll-house.

‘O, I have already spoken to the fellow in the red hat,’ said Mr Weeton, ‘and to a gentleman from the police. I have told all I know.’

‘I would be most grateful if you could spare just a few moments more to answer my questions also,’ said Mr Williamson, still panting slightly from his progress across the bridge.

‘Are you a newspaperman? I have been instructed by Mr Blackthorne not to speak with any—’

‘My name is George Williamson. I—’

‘Wait – I have heard that name . . . Are you the same fellow who worked on the Lucius Boyle case. The detective? I have read all about it.’

‘I am he. I will not take more than ten minutes of your time . . .’

‘O, all right – but only because you are a detective. I am a furious enthusiast of such work and read everything I can on the subject. But let us step back inside the toll-house.
Timpkins will not mind, and it is a little quieter inside.’

The aforementioned Timpkins was the toll-collector just beginning his duty, and he was busy enough at the toll-gate to offer just the merest nod as the two men went inside the house to take
seats by a small cast-iron stove that smelled of coal smoke. Once settled, Mr Williamson removed his hat and turned to a fresh page in his notebook.

‘As I say, sir, I told everything to that Mr Batchem,’ said Mr Weeton. ‘I am not sure how I can help you.’

‘With respect, you may have answered his questions, but you did not necessarily tell him everything you know. The questions can be as important as the answers. Let us begin with the sound
you heard – it was metal on stone, is that right?’

‘Indeed. I am told it was the razor hitting the parapet.’

‘Is that what it sounded like to you? Would you have heard such a minor sound from some hundreds of yards away?’

‘The fog plays tricks with sound, sir. It was late . . . I was afraid . . . Mr Batchem has said—’

‘Hmm. If I were to take a razor and strike it against the stone now, would it sound the same? Or was the sound more like something being dropped – something heavy like a chisel or
pry bar?’

‘Why . . . yes, I suppose that was more like it . . . but no such item was found. And the man’s throat was cut, not his head beaten in . . .’

‘Let us deal only with the evidence, not yet what it might mean. Did you hear anything else? Footsteps, shouts . . . ?’

‘Nothing more . . . not until the man came out of the fog and fell at my feet.’

‘Ah, yes. It seems he said nothing to you about his experience.’

‘Just noises, sir. Moans . . . gargling . . . the sounds of death. No words.’

‘What manner of noises?’ Mr Williamson poised ready to write.

‘Sorry, sir . . . what do you mean? They were the groans of a dying man.’

‘A man never makes a mere noise. He makes a sound:
Ooo
, or
Aaah
, or
Urrr
. Think carefully – what manner of
sound
did the dying man make?’

‘O, I see! You are thinking he was perhaps trying to make a
word
with his ruined throat. Very clever.’

‘Hmm.’

‘It was a sort of
Orrrr
. Then it was more like . . . well, it was more like a prolonged
fffff
. I suppose that was his dying breath.’