An Arrowood Mystery

‘Shame your guvnor ain’t here,’ he said as he climbed onto the little boat. ‘You’ll take some money off the fee, will you?’

‘We’ll give you an extra day, Captain. You sure Belasco’s coming?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Suzie, already sitting in the boat. ‘He oversleeps sometimes. His missus always makes sure he gets here.’

‘Let’s get off, Katie,’ said Moon to the woman in the wherry. She cast oar and they set off toward the pier.

‘You look after our boat, Mr Barnett,’ Suzie called out. ‘And look after yourself!’

‘Just make sure you enjoy yourselves,’ I called back.

‘Oh, blimey, I wish you hadn’t said that,’ she cried over the water. ‘There’s always trouble when Dad enjoys himself!’

She had a good laugh at that.

When they were back ashore, I had a look round the boat. They’d done a fair job of cleaning it up, but there were burns on some of the benches, and the paint had been scorched off the deck. You could still smell the smoke, though maybe that wouldn’t matter tomorrow when the engine was on and pumping out black steam.

When the light began to fade, I found a jar of paraffin and lit all the lamps: one at the stern, one at the bow, two on each side. I wanted them to know there were people on board. In the saloon I found a pot with a bit of cold porridge in it. I took it on deck and ate as the darkness crept up, looking out onto the grey outlines of the wharves and warehouses lining the river. The two barges we were moored next to were derelict and we formed a little bobbing island with me as the only inhabitant. If anything happened I wouldn’t be able to get to the bank; I was never a strong swimmer, and the currents this side of the bridge were lethal.

After some time, I climbed up to the sun-deck and sat there watching out for Belasco arriving at the pier. Every time I saw a boat on the move I stood, showing myself on board, feeling the river bounce and rock under my boots until the boat passed and the water settled again. The stars came out, adding to the dim twinkle from the lamps of London Bridge.

At some point I realized Belasco wasn’t coming. I wasn’t too happy being out there on the river knowing what those blokes were capable of, not too happy at all. But I’d be all right. I’d show them the gun, fire into the air. They wouldn’t come on if they thought they’d be shot. I lit a smoke. The thing was to stay awake.

I paced the deck, examining the London skyline. On north side St Botolph’s spire, the dome of St Paul’s, the Monument. On the Surrey side Hibernia Wharf, the church of St Saviour’s, Pickford’s still working by torchlight, unloading bricks and gravel from low-slung barges, the shouts of the stevedores and bargees carrying over the water to me. Behind it would be Coin Street, where Ettie’d be sleeping with the baby in its box, I thought. And there, across London Bridge and down Borough High Street was my room, empty now, I hoped.

I lit another smoke. What was the guvnor thinking? We were in the middle of the case, for Christ’s sake. He knew it was turning out a dangerous one and the minute Holmes calls he just ups and leaves. How many times had he raged about the man’s infernal logic? How many times had he cursed Watson and his stories that he just couldn’t believe made sense? The damn fool. Holmes always made him lose his balance. He thought it’d get him in the papers, that’s why he raced off to Coventry. That’s what he always wanted, all these years we’d worked together. He wanted to be known. I hurled my butt in the water, cursing him for leaving me alone. But it wasn’t doing me any good getting vexed. I’d get through tonight. With Lewis’s pistol, I’d get through. And where the hell was Belasco? I stamped my feet and shook my head, trying to put away these thoughts running around inside me, but I was chafed, and they kept returning.

I went back to the saloon and brought up a few bottles of beer from the bar. The bells of St Saviour’s rang midnight. The moon was out now, the warehouses all shadow and glimmer. I pulled my jacket close, lit another smoke and brought the pistol out my pocket. As I held it, I remembered Ettie making the gun shape with her hand that afternoon, her face so serious. I smiled. Time passed. I must have fallen into myself a bit, as I was suddenly brought to by a loud rending noise and men shouting. Fearful the boat had been damaged, I ran to the other side.

I saw it straight away: between me and the pier was a lighter almost split in half and sinking fast. Two blokes held onto the sides, their bodies in the water, crying out. I pulled a lifebuoy from the rail and hurled it, but it didn’t get halfway. Jumping down to the main deck, I rang the bell, hoping to rouse someone from the embankment. I dashed back to the gunwale, shouting for help. One half of the lighter tipped up straight, then was sucked under by the black water. It was then I saw a third head in the river, drifting away with the current. I rang the bell over and over.

Shouting now came from the piers and a police galley pushed out, its long oars chopping the river. Bells began to sound ashore too, raising the alarm. I heard the grunt of a steam engine downriver and ran to the stern, waving my arms and yelling. A little boat lit by three silver lights was coming under the bridge, heading upriver. For some moments it kept on course, then I saw it turn towards me. A fellow appeared on deck and waved. I beckoned the boat over, watching as it turned just too late to catch the lone person drifting in the current. I yelled at them, pointing, and saw the steamboat turn again, slow, too slow, then picking up speed and chasing after the bobbing head as it passed through the bridge and into the Pool.

The other half of the lighter was gone underwater now, and the two blokes wailed as they swam in the black ooze. Their arms were heavy and slow, and for every stroke they took towards the bank the current took them further downriver. The ogglers in the police galley were heaving at their oars, moving out into the stream as the two blokes were pulled by the current towards the arches of the bridge, where water jumped and foamed at the buttresses. I shouted at the coppers; the patrol boat turned to try and cut them off, but it was clear it’d never reach them fast enough.

Seconds later the two men were carried under London Bridge by the rushing tide, past the steamboat that was stopped still now, the folk on board yelling and holding torches out over the water. But the lone head had gone, disappeared into the thick water. The cries of the other two men were weak and pitiful now, like they’d just about given up.

Then, as bells rang out from every wharf and pier around, a dredger came lumbering out from Billingsgate. I watched through the arches as it moved side-on into the current like a great, drifting wall, the folk on board leaning over the side with boathooks, angling to catch the two men. Finally, just before the boat disappeared behind the arches of the bridge, they snagged them.

I fell onto a bench, a great tiredness come over me. Feared I’d fall asleep, I rose again and took up my weary march.

Chapter Eight

I walked up and down that boat all night. The bells rang the quarter hour, the half-hour, the hour. I filled the lamps with paraffin and lit them again. The tide went down, making the air heavy with mud stink, then crept up again. Sometimes a boat would drift past, and each time I tensed and gripped the gun. When the sun finally warmed the sky over the Monument, my body was heavy, my spirit in a daze. Quickly, the river got busy again, and by the time the five o’clock bell rang at Billingsgate the eel-boats and shrimpers were already bobbing on the other side of the bridge, waiting to unload. Only then did I sit down to rest.

Just after seven, Suzie and Captain Moon pulled up in the wherry and climbed aboard. Suzie was fresh, her eyes bright. She drew a carrot and a couple of rusks from her basket and handed them to me. The captain looked like he hadn’t slept: his broad face was grey, his eyes yellow. His trousers were creased and stained.

‘They come?’ he growled, his face screwed up against the pain of the sun.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘How was your do?’

Moon ignored me and shuffled off to the engine house.

‘Too much brandy last night,’ said Suzie, watching his sorry shape clutching the rail as if he’d unbalance. ‘Couldn’t lie down without holding on.’

‘Can he take the helm like that?’

She shook her head as she lowered a bucket over the side. ‘Belasco’ll take over if he gets wretched.’

‘He never came last night.’

‘Oh, Lord. Sorry, Mr Barnett. He’s never done that before.’ She pulled up the rope. ‘You go and rest. Have your breakfast.’

She threw the water over the deck, then pushed it back and forth with a broom. I sat up on the sun-deck and had my breakfast. Barges and lighters were queuing at the wharves on the Surrey side, while a few early steamers heavy with day-trippers headed up to Hampton Court and Windsor. I watched the piermaster carry a crate from his cabin, climb the stairs, and put it down at the pier entrance. He came back down to talk to one of the captains. A few minutes later the crippled boy limped over and sat on the crate. He let his cap fall off his head onto the floor, moving it into place with his toes. Soon after, the piermaster climbed back up the stairs. The crippled boy bent his leg up and poked about in his shoulder bag with his foot, pulling out a muffin between his toes. Without a word passing between them, the piermaster took it, nodded, and ate it as he climbed back down to the pier.

When I’d finished my own sorry meal, I lay down for a snooze, only waking when the paddles started to turn below. Suzie raised the anchor and the boat began to drift towards the pier, where there was an empty space next to a steamer twice the size of ours, its red and black funnel spitting out steam. A queue of well-dressed families waited in line to board her.

Suzie threw the rope down to a bloke who was waiting by the bollards. As he tied off the boat, she let out the gangway and stepped down to talk to him. He was fifty or so, a pair of long pointed shoes on his feet but his britches too short, a solid round belly, a pink and green waistcoat with pictures of the hunt on it. Half his collar had come loose from his shirt.

‘This is Ken, Mr Barnett,’ said Suzie when I’d climbed down. ‘He sells our tickets.’

‘You’re the private agent, are you?’ asked the bloke as we shook hands. He was clean-shaven but for a long, curled moustache. He spoke loud and bold like he owned the place.

‘One of them. You got many passengers today?’

‘Twelve. But there’s still two hour. Any bother last night?’

I shook my head.

A cry came from the other side of the boat, then a great splash.

‘Dad!’ yelled Suzie, turning and bounding up the gangway with us close behind. ‘Dad!’ she shouted again as she leapt aboard and raced through the saloon.

When we reached the other side, we found Moon sat on a bench, his mouth open, his eyes wide with fear.

‘What is it, Dad?’ asked Suzie, taking his shoulder.

He pointed at a thin rope tied to the balustrade, his hands wet with black ooze.

The three of us peered overboard into the thick brown water, where the rope disappeared. Suzie frowned and looked back at her old man.

‘That ain’t our rope,’ she said. ‘You pull it up?’

Moon shut his eyes and burped. He bent forward, resting his arms on his knees, moaning under his breath. His cap slipped off and fell at his feet.

‘You going to be sick?’ demanded Suzie, her voice harder than I’d heard it before.

Moon shook his head.

She looked over the side again. ‘There’s another up there,’ she said, pointing towards the bow where a thicker rope stretched down the hull and into the water. She took the thin rope in her hands.

‘You put that down!’ barked Moon.

She stopped, staring at him, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I was only—’

‘Down!’ he bellowed.

‘Let me, Suzie,’ I said, taking it from her. The rope was slick, covered all over with a stinking, tarry mud. I pulled it hand over hand until something burst out the water. It was a brownish, yellowish thing like a big egg, the rope tied through a hole in the shell.

‘What the hell is that?’ asked Ken.

I kept pulling. Then, as the thing rose up the boat, another one appeared in the brown water, tied a few feet further down the rope. As it broke the surface, it rolled on its side.

Suzie gasped.

I stopped pulling and stared.

It was a skull. The eye holes were plugged with black mud, the teeth little and bright. The rope ran through where the nose should be. Only now could we see that the first one was also a skull.

‘Oh, Christ,’ murmured Ken.

Suzie’s fingers dug into my arm. ‘Dad,’ she whispered.

I pulled again. After a few more feet of rope another skull appeared, this one a bit bigger. I felt like I was floating somehow, that I was outside my body looking on. I paused to steady myself, then pulled again. A couple of feet later another appeared. Then another. When the first skull reached me, I lifted the little thing over the rail. It was light and cold, its jaw broke off, a brown stain covering one side of its dome.

Suzie stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. It was a child. I placed it on the deck and drew up more of the rope, feeling a cold fury fill me as skull after skull came up from the water.

Finally, I laid the last one down and stood back, the grey Thames slick pooling at our feet, the coil of filthy children’s skulls like a monstrous necklace. I looked at them each in turn, wondering who they were, those little, dissolved lives. I thought of my sister, dead at five, my niece Emily whose dress caught fire when she was four and burned her black, and the twins we shared a room with, taken by the river at three. In the workhouse and the courts of Jacob’s Island, little nippers were just queuing to join the angels. I turned away.

Moon’s jaw trembled as he looked at the chain of skulls. His eyes were shot through with blood. His mouth hung open.

‘You were here,’ said Suzie to me, her voice quiet.

‘Nobody came near.’ I rubbed the greasy black ooze on my britches, my voice rough and cracked. ‘I was awake all night. Walking up and down.’

‘Well, it weren’t here last night,’ she said. ‘I cleaned that rail.’

‘You must’ve fallen asleep,’ said Ken.

I shook my head.

‘This side was next to the barges,’ said Suzie. We all looked out into the river to where the Gravesend Queen was moored the night before. The two barges were still there, rocking gentle in the wake of a tug chugging upriver. ‘Ain’t nobody on them overnight, is there, Dad?’

Moon didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were fixed on the skulls, his trembling hands gripping the sides of his head.

‘I suppose someone could’ve been hid in one of the cabins,’ I said after a while. ‘Wouldn’t have taken long to tie the rope on when I was on the other side of the boat, but I’d have heard them leaving. I’d have noticed.’

‘They might be still be there waiting for us to go,’ said Suzie.

We watched the sleepy black barges rolling up and down with the lap of the water. Gulls stood about on the furthest one, but there was no other sign of life.

‘I’ll get out there and have a look,’ I said. ‘But first let’s get the other rope up. No point in drawing this out.’

I walked alone down to the rope at the bow. There I shut my eyes and breathed in slow. I would have prayed too if I thought it’d make the rope disappear. I took in another deep breath, hardened my heart, and pulled.

It barely moved. I pulled again, this time with my whole body. It rose a few inches, no more. Whatever was on the end of this rope was heavy. I wiped the sweat from my face, cursing Belasco for not being here to help. Where was that prick? Why the hell hadn’t he turned up? Suzie came over by my side. I braced and pulled again. The water below was thick and brown, bits of paper and sticks and sewage bobbing and drifting in it like workhouse soup. Suzie got her hands on the rope and we pulled again.

We pulled again.

There was something just below the surface now, a mess of bladderwrack, its tangle drawn by the current. Something blurred and yellow was below it. We pulled again. The thing broke the surface and a groan fell out of my mouth. It wasn’t bladderwrack, it was hair. Long hair floating in the water.

It was a head.

A woman’s head.

‘Help us, Ken!’ snapped Suzie.

He stepped over and took the end of the rope. We hoisted again.

The rope formed a noose around the dead woman’s neck as she rose inch by inch from the water, her head tipping down, her arms hanging heavy at her side.

‘Oh Lord, no,’ murmured Suzie. I could feel her arms shaking on the rope behind me. We heaved again and again, the body inching its way up the gunwale, Ken grunting with each pull. The higher it got, the heavier she became.

We heaved again, but the weight was too much now and the rope slipped from my hand. Suzie and Ken couldn’t keep hold either, and the body fell back into the water.

‘Get help, Ken,’ I told him.

He ran off. Suzie stood staring at the body floating just under the surface, her breath short and fast. Her face was rolling with sweat, her eyes pink like she had a fever.

‘You go sit down,’ I told her. ‘Look after your old man.’

She nodded and stepped back, sitting down next to Moon. He sat hunched over, his elbows resting on his legs, watching the floor. She touched his hand but he made no response. She stood again, stepped over to the rail, wiped her hands on her dress.

‘This is my boat, Mr Barnett,’ she said at last.

We stood by the rope saying nothing until Ken came back with the piermaster. The four of us took up the rope and heaved. The head broke the surface again, and we worked the body up the side of the boat, pull after pull. The woman wore a long brown nightdress, torn and tattered. When she was almost clear of the water, I saw there was something tied to her ankle. We pulled again and her foot broke the water. It was a hand. A hand tied to her ankle.

‘No,’ whispered Suzie. ‘Please, God, not another.’

‘Let it go,’ said Ken with a cough. ‘We need the Old Bill.’

‘Keep pulling,’ I grunted, wanting it over now. ‘Let’s get them out.’

Again we heaved at the rope. The woman’s head was now level with the rail. Her hair was long and curled, soaked in the filthy water. Her face was white as goose fat, her tongue grey and poking out her mouth like a third lip. She glared at me with crimson eyes, as if it was me who’d done this to her.

We could now see the freckled arm of a second woman rising out the water. We pulled again. Her head broke from the water, her face tipped down, her hair tufted and short, her neck bruised black. The undershirt she wore was made for a man, both its sleeves torn off.

As the other three took the strain, I grabbed the first woman under the arms and pulled her sodden body on board, feeling her cold skin on my hands, her dead meat. She slid onto the deck and rested there on her back, her head tilted to the side. The water streamed out of her. The front of her nightdress was ripped, the wet fabric around it stained pink. Though the folds and ruck of the material covered most of the damage, I could see her belly’d been cut open. The second woman was bent double over the rail now, her undershirt snagged on a curl in the ironwork. Suzie, Ken and the piermaster came over to take the rope at the balustrade, where it led back into the water. I freed the second woman and she fell aboard, her head resting upon the first woman’s belly. Quick as I could I pulled her torn shirt tight over her body, hoping Suzie hadn’t seen the skin slashed open on her belly too, her muscles and innards purple and grey, washed and bloodless. She was smaller, three-quarter size. Her starry eyes looked up at us, an uncertain smile on her face like she’d just done a joke and wasn’t sure we’d laugh.

‘Help us, Mr Barnett,’ said Suzie. Tears ran down her cheeks as she and Ken and the piermaster strained to keep hold of the rope. It was looped around the first woman’s neck, then around her ankle and the second woman’s hand, and from there fell taut into the water. We pulled again. A bald man’s crown now rose from the river, a great, bruised dent across the back of his head. His ears were gone, and in their place were ragged wounds, pink and white and brown. Though he was heavy we pulled quicker: he was the last.

When his shoulders were level with the balustrade, I hauled him over and he fell in a ball, his bruised yellow head on the floor like a Mohammedan at prayer. He wore nothing but a long white shirt.

Suzie was on her knees, panting. Ken dropped onto a bench, his eyes fixed on the bodies, convulsions running through his limbs.

‘I’ll find a copper,’ said the piermaster, his voice dull. He shuffled off through the saloon.

I held on tight to the rail, trying to catch my breath, unable to take my eyes off the three slippery bodies sleeping on the deck. They hadn’t been in the water long. I’d been there when my Uncle Norbert’s body was pulled from the river back when I lived on Jacob’s Island, and they didn’t look anything like him. I looked over at Moon, still hunched over, still refusing to look.

‘Who are they, Captain?’ I asked.

He made no reply.

‘You’ve got to tell me now,’ I said, the anger rising in my voice. ‘What’s going on? Who are those people?’

‘Dad?’ asked Suzie.

Moon shook his head, covering his face with his hands.

‘Suzie, what do you know about this?’ I asked, turning to her. ‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Barnett. I swear it. I don’t know anything about this.’

For some time nobody spoke.

‘Look,’ said Suzie, climbing to her feet. She was pointing out into the stream.

Out near last night’s mooring was Polgreen’s boat, its engine chugging, its paddles holding it still against the current. On its deck stood the foreigners. And they were watching us.

Chapter Nine

The father, the mother, the son, all in a row, their hands on the rail. Suzie and Moon did nothing. They just sat there on deck watching the Polgreen family watching them.

‘Were they at the barges?’ I asked.

Suzie shook her head. ‘They come from upriver just now. Stopped when they saw us.’

Polgreen took his wife’s arm and pulled her into the wheel room. The lad stood frozen, unable to take his eyes off the bodies. We heard their engines change gear; the paddles started to churn the water. The boat moved off.

‘I need to check the barges,’ I said. ‘Ken can come with me. Suzie, pull up the gangway and don’t let anyone on board until the coppers come.’

She wiped the tears from her face and nodded. ‘Wait here, Dad,’ she said, patting Moon’s knee. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

The pier was even more crowded now: families were queuing for the Koh-i-noor, the women in frilly lace dresses and bonnets, the children running around laughing, excited to be getting on the water. The men wore boating jackets and straw hats and white britches, while a few dogs stood panting by their owners. A bloke who looked a bit like Ken went between them selling parasols and cures for seasickness.

Another shorter queue was starting to form by the Gravesend Queen. These were the East End day-trippers. Their bonnets were simpler, their dresses coarser and less frilled, their suits old and plain, and not a white trouser-leg to be seen. Their kids laughed and ran too, but the two sets of children kept away from each other, already knowing their place.

Ken and me got Kate, the wherry woman who’d taken Moon and Suzie the day before, to row us out to the barges. They were empty, stripped of sails and rigging, boughs and booms. The only sign of life was the gulls who’d claimed them as their shit-spattered slum. Just as we were climbing back onto the pier, the guvnor came shuffling through the crowds.