Blood Tribute (The Lucas Gedge Thrillers Book 1) (13 page)

G
edge
, Rondeau and Polly had previously discussed the possibility of keeping watch on the church, to make sure they got to meet Musgrave when he discovered the note. But since they had no idea when he might appear, they decided it was impractical.

While they waited, Gedge saw his chance to deal with Bacchus. First, he needed to pay a visit to another part of London. As soon as he’d bade farewell to Polly at the church, he took the omnibus some five miles north, to a high street in the leafy suburb of Stamford Hill.

T
he sign
above the shop read ‘Gideon. Antiquarian Horologist.’ Either side of the door, the windows displayed clocks and other timepieces in all their variety, but mostly examples from at least a century before. They ranged from several tall grandfather clocks, through mantel, carriage and wall clocks, down to pocket and fob watches.

Gedge opened the door, causing a bell to tinkle and a young boy wearing an apron to pop out from behind a counter, looking eager to help. Inside, the shop was tiny, but full to the rafters with clocks of all kinds and in every state of repair and disrepair, as well as supplies and tools. All available space seemed to have been used to store the stock, and shelving reaching from floor to ceiling, requiring a step-ladder to reach the upper levels. But none of the legitimate stock interested Gedge.

‘Mr Gideon about?’

‘He’s indisposed at the moment, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘Please be so good as to go to Mr Gideon and tell him that Major Bellhouse sent me. He’ll see me, I assure you.’

The boy looked doubtful, but shuffled to the back of the shop and through a door. He only took a couple of minutes to return.

‘Mr Gideon says to please go through, sir.’

‘Thank you, I will.’

Gedge took a moment to peer back through the window to the street outside, checking there was nothing suspicious, nobody showing unusual interest in the shop. He passed through the door and down a short flight of stairs leading to a basement. As he reached the bottom step, a voice called out from a room beyond.

‘You must be one of Felix Bellhouse’s chosen ones.’

Gedge pushed open the door. Inside, an enormously fat, bald man sat at an ancient desk in the centre of the room. He was hunched over the innards of a mantel clock, probing at the intricate parts with tweezers and a tiny screwdriver, while peering through watchmakers’ eyeglasses. The sight reminded Gedge of something he’d seen at the zoo: a gorilla using surprisingly dextrous fingers to peel a fruit.

The desk occupied the centre of the room; the only space free of shelving and other forms of storage. There was a row of six filing cabinets, each meticulously labelled, and along one wall, a series of tall display cupboards.

Gideon spent a few moments finishing what he was doing, then carefully put the apparatus down and looked up.

‘Mr Gedge, I presume?’

‘That’s right, Mr Gideon. Lucas Gedge. A pleasure to meet you. You almost sound as though you’ve been expecting me.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. But several of Felix’s boys have turned up here at one time or another. I’d heard you were the last. It’s a shame about what happened to him, but he did have some odd ideas.’

‘As I’ve only recently found out. But he always treated me well.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Strange, though, that he did so well in the army. Solitary type, and preferred to work with just a few men at a time. Still, I suppose the posting to Simla suited him well. I believe the Intelligence Department boys there liked to go their own way.’

‘Yes, and much to the chagrin of London.’

Gideon chuckled as he collected the bits and pieces he had been working on and put them into a drawer. ‘He is a brilliant man in his way, but prone to flights of fancy.’

‘You know him well?’

‘
Knew
him well, perhaps. We were at Cambridge together. Got up to all sorts then, of course. I was a shadow of my current self in those days.’ He patted his tremendous stomach. ‘Even then, Felix had unusual political ideas. I wasn’t interested in that, and these days it pays not to express thoughts in that area, one way or the other. Not in my profession.’

‘I’ve been led to believe that your true calling isn’t actually the sale and repair of clocks.’

‘Oh, I love the inner workings of these beauties. But obviously I have other interests as well, or you wouldn’t be here. I’m in the business of reconditioning. In particular, small arms for the private market. You can of course buy guns widely, and licence them for use outside the home, but I offer a more eclectic range, all from military stock, for the more discerning buyer. I take it you are looking to buy?’

‘That’s correct. My immediate need is for a reliable pistol for general use. Looking further ahead, I’d also be interested in a sniper’s rifle, one that will be accurate to at least eight-hundred yards.’

‘Intriguing. For the pistol, might I suggest this.’ Gideon opened one of the display cabinets, which contained multiple housings for handguns. He brought out a short-barrelled revolver. ‘It’s the Webley Mark 1, as you can see, ex-British Army. But as you know, the characteristics of the individual weapon can be more important than the make and model, and for that reason I can assure you that the actual guns I am showing you are superb examples of their kind. Of course, if you are not satisfied, you can bring them back for exchange, but I am sure you will not need to do so.’

Gedge tested the weight and handling of the pistol, then checked the loading procedure, and took it apart, confirming that all parts were clean.

‘It looks like a fine weapon. I’ll take two cases of bullets with it, please.’

‘Certainly. They are .455 calibre. Now to the rifle. Especially for a marksman’s weapon, my remarks about the quality of the individual weapon are even more important. And this one is a beauty.’

He turned to another of the cabinets, this time with a series of vertical slots for rifles, and pulled one out. ‘This is a Mauser
Infanterie-Gewehr
71. It’s actually the 1884 adaptation with an eight-round magazine. Although the model isn’t generally known for distance work, this particular example has superb build characteristics and rifling. To get to the longest ranges, you will need this.’ He pulled out a telescopic sight made of brass, and attached it to the top of the rifle.

Gedge again sized up the weight and feel of the weapon, or as much as he could do in a cramped basement.

‘Mr Gideon, they both feel like grand weapons. I’ll need to test the rifle out in live firing, as you realise, but I’m sure it will all be ideal. I value your expertise.’

Gedge handed over the cash for both weapons, and took the revolver and ammunition with him. He would pick up the rifle at a later date, when he had time to subject it to some rigorous testing.

G
edge caught the return bus
, and was back in the East End by 11 o’clock. He alighted at a stop on Bethnal Green Road that was overshadowed by the imposing bulk of the Bethnal House lunatic asylum. Skirting around the institution, he walked down Ann Street, and spotted the railway arches as he came around a bend in the road. He knew that the arches supported the main line between the Liverpool Street terminus a mile-and-a-half to the west, and the city of Norwich, more than a hundred and fifty miles northeast.

The three brick arches that faced onto Ann Street each seemed to be occupied by businesses. One was a repair shop for hansom cabs. A cab minus its horse was sitting outside, and the noise of hammering issued through the open door. Another arch bore a sign for
J. Gold & Sons, Import-Export,
although there was no sign of life.

Gedge’s interest was in the central arch; the nerve-centre of Bacchus’s operations, according to Hoyte. It was anonymous-looking; the frontage consisted of a wall of wooden planks, all peeling paint that may once have been green. Set into the frontage were double doors that would allow small wagons in and out of the premises; and, to the side, another smaller door, permitting access to foot traffic. This door was ajar.

Gedge had timed his approach in order to coincide with the passing of a commuter train that had departed Liverpool Street a few minutes earlier. He saw the plume of steam and heard the train’s whistle. As the locomotive passed a point about a hundred yards away from where he stood, he dashed across the road behind a lumbering cart bearing stacks of wooden telegraph poles. He flattened himself against the wooden frontage of Bacchus’s den as the train passed overhead. He felt the structure vibrate. This was the time, with the noise permeating through the arches themselves, to enter.

He opened the door a few inches and peered through. The interior of the arch reminded him of caves he had once explored in India. The roof with its smooth, uninterrupted curve, and patchy illumination provided by a few spluttering gas sconces.

The centre of the space was occupied by piles of crates and barrels. On the face of it, the lifeblood of honest trade, but Gedge knew this was more likely to be the product of criminal extortion and theft. Around these piles and against the walls, racking had been fitted, containing tools, coiled ropes and other trappings. Immediately opposite the door, an iron staircase led to an upper floor gallery, containing a small office against the far wall, which occupied part of the apex of the arch. He could see a figure pacing about through the windows of the office. Red hair, cut severely. Goatee beard. Budding gang boss Matthew Bacchus.

Gedge absorbed the scene within a couple of seconds. With the train still thundering above, he thrust the door open, closed it behind him, and made for the stairs.

Another man walked around from behind one of the stacks of crates. He looked up, and saw Gedge. It was Creek, the loudmouth Gedge had bested at The Admiral Jervis. He snarled, spat something Gedge couldn’t hear above the din, and ran at him. This time, Gedge was ready for the youth, and as he launched himself, Gedge stepped to the side, whipped out a cosh, and rapped Creek on the temple as he lurched past. The boy dropped to the floor, unconscious.

With the noise of the train receding, Gedge knew he had to act quickly to retain the element of surprise. He raced up the stairs two at a time, keeping the figure above in view as he did so. As he reached the top, Bacchus emerged from the office and leant over the railing, looking down into the warehouse below.

‘Creek! Where are ye?’

Gedge smiled. ‘Your friend Creek’s having a little snooze, Mr Bacchus.’

Bacchus whirled around, his eyes momentarily widening in surprise. But he regained his composure almost instantly, jutting out his jaw in defiance. Hoyte had described him well: aged nineteen at most, thin as a rake, with a natural arrogance. And he evidently fancied himself as something of a dandy, wearing a three-piece suit in a gaudy ginger-brown check.

‘Don’t tell me. The bloke from the Jervis? I knew there was more to it than Creek let on. Give ’em a bit of a whipping, did ye?’

‘That evening’s history now, Bacchus. It’s just a shame you didn’t take the hint and back off.’

‘Soft spot for old Hoyte? Well no, I’m a bit more resilient than that. And you’re threatening my business. Nobody gets away with that.’

‘Big words for a youngster. Make much more noise and you’ll attract the attention of the real players in the gangster world around here. The Flynns, the Kaplan gang. They’ll snuff you out in a moment.’

‘Maybe that’s my plan. Attracting ’em. Those boys appreciate talent. My chance to better myself. Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘So I imagine it would be pointless appealing to your better nature?’

‘Completely pointless, mate.’ At that, Bacchus picked a vicious-looking object off the railing. It was an ‘s’-shaped metal implement about two-feet long, with a hook at one end. Gedge imagined it was used in the butchery trade. And now Bacchus was seeing him as a side of meat. He advanced on Gedge, swinging his weapon in an arc.

Just before Bacchus came within flailing range, Gedge pulled the Webley from his pocket and aimed it at the youth’s chest.

‘Drop it!’

Bacchus charged him. He’d guessed correctly that Gedge didn’t want to use the gun. But Gedge had decades of experience in hand-to-hand combat, and he was feeling more confident than he had at the inn a few weeks ago. He didn’t retreat or sidestep, but moved inside Bacchus’s swing and rammed the revolver flat into his opponent’s face.

He heard the crunch as the cartilage in Bacchus’s nose ripped. The metal hook clanged down on the walkway. Gedge dropped his gun, gripped Bacchus with both hands, and thrust him back against the railing, forcing the breath out of his lungs.

He released the limp body, and Bacchus slid down onto the gantry, violent spasms contorting him as he fought for breath.

‘Your little adventure’s just come to an end,’ said Gedge. ‘The only criminal masterminds you’ll be impressing are those already in jail, where you’re heading.’

Gedge pulled Bacchus, blood flowing from his nose, down the iron staircase. Then he went to fetch a coil of rope from the racking.

H
alf an hour later
, a worker wandered out of the cab repair shop, lighting a cigarette. He took a puff and watched as a charabanc passed on the road. As it went by, he noticed one of the passengers look over. Her mouth opened and she said something, causing the other passengers to turn and gawk, some standing up to get a better view. Their attention was directed to the front of the next arch along. He followed the gazes, and dropped his cigarette.

The entrance doors to the adjoining premises were open, and two men were tied up, one to each doorpost. Rope secured their arms, chests, and legs, and they were gagged. Of the two, the red-haired individual was wriggling feebly, his eyes blazing. Dried blood stained his face and chest. The bound figure on the other side was dark-haired and was staring at the ground, making no attempt to break free. Hanging around the necks of both men were signs written on large pieces of card. The sign attached to the wriggling man read:

The other man’s label was in the same hand:

Looking inside the arch, between the two men, the worker could see what looked like a king-sized white sheet, tied across a big pile of boxes and barrels. Written in huge letters on the sheet, was the message:

The workman ran his hand through his hair. He’d need another cigarette, and he’d smoke that while fetching the nearest police constable from his fixed point two streets away.

But then he noticed that very officer already hurrying towards him from the Liverpool Street direction.