An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
apple above her collar.
‘Perhaps, Mrs Bonwell, you have friends or family …’
‘My wife has no family: none living. Address your questions to me.’
Pilgrim obliged. ‘You really have no idea why someone might have sent the boy to you?’
‘My dear Constable … ’
‘Detective Sergeant,’ corrected Pilgrim.
‘My dear Detective Sergeant, how can I possibly begin to imagine what goes on in the mind of such a person? The criminal classes are so far below me, both in understanding and sensibility that I am at a loss when dealing with them. A complete loss. But of course, a man such as yourself, a police constable … ’
Pilgrim flushed. ‘A man like myself, a Detective Sergeant, finds it hard to believe that someone completely unconnected to you would send the boy for no reason at all.’
‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’
Pilgrim curled his lip.
If the Reverend was aware of his disdain, he gave no sign. He smiled and rose. ‘If that is all? I was about to go out. Parish business, you understand. I really cannot help you further.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Why I should be the target of such an outrage is a mystery.’
Pilgrim and Dolly nodded to Mrs Bonwell and followed the Reverend into the hallway, where the housekeeper helped the Reverend into his coat and opened the door.
‘Good day to you.’
The detectives followed the Reverend out, and watched him stride off down the lane.
Dolly flipped open his notebook and sighed at the still blank page. ‘Well that was time well spent.’
‘I think so.’ Pilgrim tugged his hat back on, his expression serene. ‘We need the boy on the same train as us. You might have to grease the Station Master’s palm to make sure of it.’
‘But … ’
‘I can’t do it,’ said Pilgrim. ‘I’ve lost my pocketbook.’
Dolly managed to secure a berth in the luggage carriage of the train, although he was obliged to be economical with the truth when it came to the actual contents of the large packing case he stowed there. He made sure all the straps were secure, and the lid well nailed down, before making his way to the First Class passenger carriage.
Pilgrim glanced at him over the top of his Evening Chronicle as he entered. A steward was lighting the gas lamps, bouncing buttery light off polished wood and brass. The train guard on the platform blew his whistle, and the steward went out, leaving the detectives alone.
‘I’ve never travelled First Class before,’ said Dolly. The whistle blew again, and the train gave a jolt as it began to move. Dolly reached into his pocket. ‘Before I forget, sir, I’ve been meaning to give you this.’ He handed Pilgrim a piece of paper. ‘My cousin is taking in lodgers. She’s a widow. Very respectable. And she lives in Holborn, so it’s only a hop and a skip to Whitehall.’
‘Your cousin?’
‘Mrs Charlotte Piper.’
‘Thank you.’ Pilgrim put the paper in his pocket without looking at it, and passed the Chronicle to Dolly.
Dolly opened the newspaper, and gasped.
‘Will you look at that! It’s the Chief Inspector! This must be the piece Mr Dickens was writing.’ Sure enough, Charley Field straddled the page like a colossus, under a headline that bellowed ‘New Detective Force Foils Hackney Cab Killer.’ ‘Shall I read it to you, sir?’ Without waiting for an answer, Dolly cleared his throat and began to read.
The mutilated body of a human being, stated to be that of an adult female, was discovered in a Hackney carriage on Saturday night in the West End of the City. The shocking circumstances were outlined to this journalist by none other than our very own Detective Chief Inspector Field:
‘On Saturday night Detective Sergeant Henry Pilgrim, of the Metropolitan Force had reason to stop and search a four-wheeled cab leaving residential premises on the east side of Curzon Street. The vehicle contained only a single passenger, and a number of parcels. When Sergeant Pilgrim respectfully requested the man to reveal the contents of the parcels, the smallest was found to contain the decomposed head of a woman. The remaining parcels, which were larger, had in them the trunk of a woman, apparently about 20 years of age, and two arms and legs. The murderer has given his name to the police as Johannes Hendrik Appler, 26, residing at 14 Bolton Street. He is charged with having in his possession the mutilated body of an adult female, at present unknown, which has been unlawfully killed by him. The mutilated remains were removed by the police and handed over to the coroner’s office. They are now lying in St Bartholomew’s Mortuary.’
This deed of unprovoked savagery on behalf of Mr Appler that would scarcely be effected by a bestial horde of Red Indians, or the Maoris of New Zealand, is abhorrent in an age as civilized as ours. How inconceivable then, that such a crime could be carried out in the heart of our own comfortable Metropolis, and how reassuring that we may now rely upon that most admirable Instrument of Justice, our new Detective Police Force.
When he reached the end, Dolly grinned at Pilgrim. ‘That’s grand. You’re famous, sir. Properly famous. Mr Dickens has used your real name this time, not Sergeant Pilchem, like he does in the Journal.’
Pilgrim stared out of the window, but could only see the blur of his own reflection.
Dolly frowned. ‘Don’t you like Mr Dickens? He’s much admired, generally.’
Pilgrim sighed. ‘I have nothing against him. As a novelist. But I do take issue when he starts mixing fiction with fact.’ Pilgrim paused. ‘What if, for the sake of argument, our Hackney Cab Killer isn’t?’
‘Sir?’
‘What if we have the wrong man?’
‘But … ’
‘Appler claims he was transporting the packages for an acquaintance. Someone he owed money to.’
‘Cock and bull. He’s just trying to wriggle out of the noose.’
‘But what if he’s telling the truth? What if the letter Dickens passed on to us was from someone trying to frame Appler? Appler hasn’t gone to trial yet, his jury hasn’t been chosen. But now, thanks to Mr Dickens, he’s as good as hanged.’
Dolly subsided onto his seat, the newspaper forgotten.
‘Dickens has it wrong, Dolly. We’re not an Instrument of Justice – that’s up to the judges. It’s our job to discover the truth, to discover what is hidden, and drag it into the light. Nothing more.’ Pilgrim sighed. ‘God knows that can be hard enough, without help from novelists.’
Charles Dickens contemplated the shadows gathering on the ceiling. They eddied and swirled as clouds passed over the moon outside, creating fantastical shapes and figures. He could make out a face with a nose like an eggplant, and another with a long neck and bare, curving breast. His hand twitched, tempted to stray to his groin, but he forestalled it. One of his restless moods was upon him, and he knew from experience that onanism would do little to soothe it.
The house on Devonshire Terrace was quiet, with no sound at all from Catherine’s room across the hall, and none from the nursery above, apart from the usual creaks and groans from settling floorboards and joists. It was one in the morning, and every nerve, every sinew in his body was itching to be up and out of bed. He sighed and scratched his thigh. He had just published the novel he thought of as his crowning achievement, had poured into it every drop of his energy, all the triumphs, and disappointments of his younger self. The Personal