Blood Tribute (The Lucas Gedge Thrillers Book 1) (12 page)

A
t 10pm that night
, Ackerman walked along Tenter Street, which was parallel to Leman Street, and, checking there was nobody about, slipped into the alley which ran past the back of Frowde’s guest house. The bulk of the police station loomed over the passage to his right. He stopped at the fence that Naseby had mentioned. It was indeed in a poor state of repair. He remained still and listened for a minute, hearing nothing except the sound of late traffic on the surrounding streets.

He gripped one of the narrow rotting laths and pulled it back towards him. It came away with a slight popping noise. He waited again, then repeated the process with another lath, then another, carefully placing them at the base of the fence. Within a few minutes he had created an opening a foot wide, easily enough to get through.

He eased himself into the yard. Soft light filtered down from several of the windows in the building above him; just enough to see where he was moving. He paused and scanned around again, seeing nothing moving except a cat, prowling along the top of a fence several houses over. It stopped, turned and stared at him.

 The back door was locked, so he tried the sash window next to it. It moved, and he eased one pane up. Inside was a small kitchen; the window was above a sink. There was a light issuing from further inside the flat. Ackerman manoeuvred inside, perching on the edge of the sink before lowering himself. As his left foot reached the floor and started to bear his weight, something slid away and rolled across the floor, before spinning to a halt against the wall.

He stopped dead.

A male voice from inside. ‘What was that? Damned cat! Wait until I get my hands on you.’

A slim figure appeared at the doorway, carrying a candle. It started violently at the human form silhouetted in front of the window.

‘Oh god, who are you? What do you want?’

Ackerman stepped forward, bringing himself within the glow of Frowde’s candle.

‘My name’s Ackerman, Mr Frowde. Forgive my furtive entrance, but in my line of work… I’m sure you understand.’

Frowde’s face was stricken and rigid. The knuckles on the hand gripping the candle-holder were white.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a little chat, Mr Frowde. You obviously appreciate that the articles you’ve been writing in your weekly rag are not very welcome to me and my associates. I thought we could have a chat about that. See if I could convince you to cease and desist, as it were. Some of my colleagues thought it would be necessary to do you harm. But I told them, I’m sure Mr Frowde will respond to reason. How about a drink while we talk about it?’ Ackerman nodded towards the room beyond the kitchen.

Frowde remained silent. Ackerman imagined that he wanted to tell him to go to hell, to utter some brave speech about the freedom of the press. But of course, he didn’t dare. Instead, he hesitantly led Ackerman back to his tiny living room. One small gas sconce on the wall, and another candle, provided the space with meagre light. Still with his back to Ackerman, Frowde finally spoke.

‘Brandy?’

‘That’ll be fine.’

He shuffled over to a narrow sideboard and poured two glasses of ruby-red liquid. With shaking hands, he picked them up, and turned round. His jaw dropped open and the glasses slipped from his grasp. They smashed on the floor and the red liquid splashed over his trouser legs.

While Frowde’s back had been turned, Ackerman had slipped a dagger out of the specially designed pocket inside his coat. It was an acquisition from his service in Africa, with a blade just half an inch wide, four inches long, and very, very sharp.

Plunging the knife up under Frowde’s ribcage, Ackerman wrenched the blade around in a circle, as Frowde gurgled and spluttered blood.

Ackerman stared blankly into Frowde’s agonised face. He withdrew the dagger and bundled the body to the ground. He leant over and wiped the blade on Frowde’s shirt, as the blood began to spread over the floor. He returned to the kitchen and washed his hands and the knife.

As he left the alley and turned back onto Tenter Street, heading home, Ackerman smiled. A loose end tied up. This job was progressing very smoothly indeed.

A
fter their jailer had left
, it took Hannah a while to calm Esther down. She said that they mustn’t give up, mustn’t think they were going to be killed. They had to concentrate on escape.

‘Listen, Esther. My father was a soldier and a sort of spy, and I’m trying to think what he would do. For a start, are we sure we can’t get out of this room?’

Esther sighed. ‘I don’t see how. You saw how well they lock the door. And there’s those great bars on the window. They seem pretty solid to me.’

Hannah went over to the window. Four iron bars, cemented in. She pulled on them a little, before deciding that Esther was right. She looked down, pulled up the threadbare carpet in the corner of the room, and peered at the floorboards.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t know. I just had a mad thought that we could somehow prise up the floorboards, hide underneath, and make them think we’d escaped. Then, after they’ve rushed off to find us, we come out and slip away. But I don’t suppose there’s enough room down there.’

‘I don’t care if there is. I couldn’t do that. I get a funny turn if I have to be in a dark, enclosed place. Thank goodness that window lets in a little light at night, or I’d have gone mad in here.’

‘Never mind. We’ll have to think of something else. Esther, how many of them are there, as far as you can tell? Apart from the old witch and that horrible man, Ackerman?’

‘It’s mostly that Vera and two or three men, I think. It’s the first time I’ve seen Ackerman. But occasionally I hear different voices downstairs. And there’s more girls like us here, you know. I’ve heard somebody crying.’

Hannah thought for a moment. ‘This house has several floors, doesn’t it? That’s quite a few rooms. There could be lots of us here. Esther, just think, if only we could talk to the others, between us we should be able to think of a way out of this.’

‘What if there’s somebody just through the wall here, in the next room?’

Hannah examined the wall Esther had indicated. She put her ear to it, but heard nothing. She tapped sharply three times and listened again. Still nothing. She waited a couple of minutes and repeated the three taps, hoping they weren’t loud enough to be noticed by anyone downstairs.

This time, with her ear to the wall, she heard a squeaking—perhaps of bed springs—then the creak of a couple of floorboards. Somebody was moving in there.

Cupping her hands around her mouth, she pressed her face up against the wall again.

‘Hello? Can you hear me? My name’s Hannah. What’s yours?’

‘I’m Lizzie. I’m trapped in here with two other girls. Are you trapped, too?’

T
he morning
after the meeting with Frowde, Gedge was up well before dawn. He’d had a bad night. The nightmares were not the worst he’d experienced, but he’d come around in a cold sweat in the early hours and had to take a walk around the block to clear his head. He’d only managed a couple of hours’ sleep in all.

He was just starting to think how he would deal with Bacchus when from the window he saw Polly hurrying towards the inn. Something was obviously wrong. He was downstairs and opening the front door before she could knock.

‘Oh god, Lucas. It’s Harry Frowde. He’s dead! He was murdered just a couple of hours after we saw him.’ She was in tears, on the verge of collapse, and Gedge pulled her to him.

‘I’m sorry! This isn’t like me.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s only natural. A man we were talking to just last night.’

‘The landlady went down to see him about something, and there was a stain under the door, spreading out from his room into the corridor. When she fetched her own key she found him there, in a huge pool of blood. Apparently it was just one stab wound, but a very bad one. Of course she had the police round there in a couple of minutes, and Jack Cross came to tell us about it not long ago. Father’s taken it badly.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘He says he must bury himself in work. I don’t really know what he’s doing, but every so often he lets out a cry of anger, in French. He never swears.’

‘Perhaps better to leave him alone for a while.’

‘That’s what I thought. But I needed to tell you. Let’s just hope we can salvage something. If Harry’s information about Musgrave pans out, he might not have died completely in vain.’

‘Unfortunately, Musgrave is bound to hear about Frowde’s death. Will he respond to an appeal from beyond the grave?’

‘It might make it more likely that he’ll meet you. The stakes have suddenly been raised. He might actually realise that he can help us put an end to this.’

‘If, in fact, he can. In any case, I need to go over to Christ Church, to hide Frowde’s note in that knot-hole in the pew. Will you come with me?’

I
n the churchyard
, behind the imposing bulk of Christ Church in Spitalfields, Gedge opened a gate in the wrought iron fence and they walked in. He had just deposited the reporter’s last written words, scrawled on a tightly folded scrap of paper, into the hidey-hole inside the church.

‘This is something of an oasis of calm in the bustle of the East End,’ said Polly. ‘A special place. People have been buried in this area from Roman times. The bodies of plague victims were piled into pits around here in the middle ages. In ’59, they had to stop burials in the churchyard. Full up, you see.’

‘If you believe in the spirits of the dead wandering the earth, this might not be such a haven of tranquillity after all.’

‘I don’t believe that. And for some, it provides a haven of a more physical sort.’ She pointed at a row of ragged figures, sleeping on a series of benches along the opposite side of the churchyard.

‘Homeless, I suppose?’ asked Gedge.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you religious, Polly?’

‘No. I think those who have faith have a special something in their lives. But if you don’t believe, you don’t. My faith is in the human spirit, not a holy one. Unfortunately, at times like this, any kind of faith can be tested. What about you?’

‘No. Similar to you, I suppose. I’ve avoided religion since I was young. My father was a no-good so and so, and the local vicar took it out on my mother and us kids. Made sure the congregation knew all about dad’s ungodly activities, implied we were tarred with the same brush. Snide gossip and whisperings. If I ever come across that so-called holy man again, he’ll find out about fire and brimstone. He’s probably long dead, of course.’

‘Not that you bear a grudge.’

Gedge laughed, and they were silent for a while. He stared up at the huge white spire of the church.

‘Penny for your thoughts, Lucas?’

‘Your father’s a clever man, isn’t he?’

‘Generally, yes, but are you thinking about something in particular?’

‘I am. The day I met him, he was talking about injustice. He was implying that it had somehow become endemic to the modern world, almost a direct result of our imperial ambitions, of our industrial might, our insatiable desire for riches and our supposed sophistication. All those things breed the opportunities for corruption, venality and cruelty.’

‘That’s quite a good summary of his thesis. Although it doesn’t mean he sees no hope. In fact, my father is one of the most optimistic people I know. It’s just that his optimism is based on the character and efforts of ordinary people rather than the establishment.’

‘Alright. But more than that, he was sounding me out, suggesting that I could have a role to play in trying to stem the tide. I told both of you that I didn’t know what I wanted to do next, but I was pretty sure it would have nothing to do with the violence that had been my world for so long, and that the issues he was talking about would have to be someone else’s concern. I didn’t believe that an individual could have any impact, anyway.’

‘But then your daughter was taken.’

‘Yes. And of course, my mission became saving her. But I still felt that up until now, things would get back to normal, and I could go back to trying to satisfy my ambition to just be left alone.’

‘So what’s suddenly changed?’

‘I’ve begun to think that things are never going to be normal again. Or perhaps this is my new normality. The realisation that I can’t just sit back and ignore what’s going on. Maybe I must accept the skills I’ve been given and use them to make some small contribution to stopping those who abuse and oppress others, or who allow others to do so. There are always going to be people like Ackerman, and I can’t just will them out of existence.’

Polly smiled. ‘Father said there was something special about you. I must admit I didn’t see it at first, but now I think I do. You might have noticed that I’m not easily impressed. But you’ve just impressed me, Lucas.’

She stretched up and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. It made him feel good, if a little uncomfortable.

They sat on a bench against the wall of the church for a while, in silent contemplation.

‘This is a dark hour,’ said Gedge, finally. ‘Hannah’s still missing. Our hopes rest on a drunken fantasist who may not be able to help even if we do contact him. And our enemies seem to be watching our every move, and have the power to murder with impunity. But I feel a mad sort of elation. I know what I need to do.’

His eyes blazed as Polly took his arm in hers and rested her head on his shoulder.

H
annah stretched
. Her bed was too soft and she could never get comfortable on it. It was mid-morning and she’d been in the house for more than two days.

Esther was sitting at the small table, reading a second-hand book that had been part of a bundle thrown in by the woman Vera.

‘I couldn’t read that, knowing that frightful woman gave it to us.’

‘I know what you mean, but it’s so boring here. It’s something to do.’

‘I suppose.’ But Hannah couldn’t have concentrated on stories, anyway. Her mind was whirring, desperately trying to think of any possible way of escaping.

She could hear faint traffic sounds, presumably from the road at the front of the house, and every so often she’d been able to make out a train’s whistle. She had wondered if she could somehow identify where they were, based on the clues offered by sound. But there was nothing that might be unique to this particular place.

They could see little through the grubby window-panes. Just rooftops. Not even a church spire, anything that might form some sort of landmark. Hannah looked out and saw two wagtails bobbing up and down, skittering along the ridge of the roof just opposite the window, their piping calls now obvious. She envied them their freedom.

Sighing, she turned away and renewed her inspection of the inside of the room. Esther looked up from her book.

‘You’re not still thinking we can get out of this room and escape, are you? Can’t you see it’s hopeless?’

‘No, I can’t. Nothing’s hopeless, Esther. I wish you wouldn’t be so defeatist.’

‘It just makes sense. A locked room, a barred window. The people who are holding us are much stronger than we are. We can’t get away. If we were men, perhaps—’

Hannah snorted and turned away, throwing herself back onto her bed and staring into space.

She found herself looking up at the ceiling. It was old and it had been so long since it had been decorated that its surface was ringed and mottled with dirt. She started doing something she used to do as a child: trying to see patterns in the random shapes. Faces, maps of countries.

Then, she saw it. Almost directly above Esther’s bed there was a subtle geometric shape; a rectangle picked out by hairline cracks.

Hannah crossed the room and stood on the bed. She could just touch the ceiling with the tips of her fingers. The rectangle defined by the cracks was about a foot wide by two-feet long. She felt along the cracks, and then pushed up in the centre of the rectangle.

It yielded, just a little. She could feel the rectangle shift upwards slightly, a tiny shower of dust falling from the cracks. She looked over at Esther. Her cellmate was getting on with her book and ignoring what Hannah was doing, which was alright with her.

She was sure it was a trapdoor, presumably painted over many years ago. And surely it must lead to an attic? But the trapdoor couldn’t be opened without somehow exposing the painted-over locks and catches. How could she do that without alerting their captors?