Blackstone and the Burning Secret (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 4) Page 18

  ‘Even if he did, you’d never take his word against that of a member of the Cabinet,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Todd countered. ‘You can’t know that until you’ve interrogated him—and you can’t interrogate him until you’ve caught him. So I suggest you forget all about Lord Lansdowne for the moment, and concentrate on the job you’re paid to do!’

  29

  Blackstone followed the constable along the long corridor in which the monotony of the walls was broken up by heavy steel doors.

  ‘This is the one, sir,’ the constable said, coming to a halt. ‘Holding Cell Number 17.’

  Blackstone slid back the shutter over the peephole and looked inside. Mouldoon was sitting on his small, hard prison bed, and when he heard metal scrape against metal he looked up and raised his hand in the air.

  The Inspector stepped away in disgust.

  ‘Did he smile at you, sir?’ asked the uniformed constable. ‘That’s what he usually does when he knows he’s being watched.’

  ‘No, he didn’t smile,’ Blackstone said. ‘He waved, as if he were a friend and he’d just spotted me in the street.’

  ‘Yes, that’s another of his little tricks,’ the constable agreed.

  ‘What about the other prisoner? Rilke?’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t wave or smile when he knows he’s being watched, sir. Well, he wouldn’t do, would he? From what I’ve seen, they’re a surly lot on the whole, are your Germans.’

  ‘But does Rilke look worried?’

  ‘I have to say, he doesn’t. He seems as at ease about the whole situation as his friend the Yank.’

  Why should either of them be worried? Blackstone asked himself.

  They knew the police would never be able to link them directly to the arson attacks, because there was no such link to find—because, although they were indirectly the cause of the crime, they were taking no part in the commission of it. And as Mouldoon had been at pains to point out, he was well aware that Blackstone couldn’t keep him locked up for much longer.

  *

  When Patterson had arrived at the pub, half an hour earlier, the place had been nearly empty, and there had been no trouble securing a table. Since then, however, it had been gradually filling up with costermongers, flower girls and tradesmen—all eager to order a quick shot of something strong to help them get through the rest of the day—and now there wasn’t a seat to be had.

  Blackstone, when he finally appeared in the doorway, didn’t seem to even notice the crush. He spotted Patterson, and made directly for him, cutting a swathe through the sea of other customers.

  A bad sign, Patterson thought. A very bad sign.

  Blackstone was not usually one of those coppers who used his authority—natural or assumed—to get his own way. Unless they were involved in a crime, he was normally the mildest of men with the people he dealt with, because, as he saw it, they were his people—and had life hard enough without him making it any worse.

  The Inspector jostled a costermonger, causing him to spill his beer. The man swung round, more than ready to slam his fist into the offender’s face. Then he recognised Blackstone, and quickly let his arm drop to his side. The policeman, ploughing on, did not even seem to be aware of what had occurred.

  Blackstone sank heavily into the chair opposite his faithful Sergeant, and looked at the pint Patterson had ordered him with something closely akin to disappointment.

  ‘Next time you catch the waiter’s eye, order me a whisky chaser,’ he said despondently. ‘In fact, better make it a double.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, sir?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘It’s the only thing I am sure about at this moment, Sergeant,’ his boss replied. He sighed heavily. ‘What’s the point, eh, Patterson? What’s the bloody point?’

  ‘Which point are we talking about, sir?’

  ‘What’s the point in catching the small fry, when the big fish are simply allowed to swim away?’

  ‘Things would be a hell of a lot worse if we didn’t catch the small fry either,’ Patterson said.

  ‘Would they?’ Blackstone said. ‘Would they really? I wonder. Why should I lock up a burglar who—if he’s left to his own devices—might just decide to rob Lord Lansdowne’s house next?’

  ‘And what would that achieve?’

  ‘Some sort of symmetry, I suppose. If I can’t catch a robber like His Lordship, I’d at least have the satisfaction of knowing that the robber himself is not immune to being robbed.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, sir, Lord Lansdowne isn’t actually a robber,’ Patterson pointed out.

  ‘Oh, stop being pedantic,’ Blackstone said impatiently. ‘You take all the fun out of life.’

  ‘And anyway, as you know yourself, it doesn’t work like that, sir,’ Patterson said gently. ‘The small fry don’t go after the big fish. They prey on fry their own size, or maybe slightly bigger.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ Blackstone agreed wearily. ‘There are a lot of decent people out there in the city, and they deserve to be protected. But I just wish there was some way we could hit back—some way, however small, that we could make blokes like Lord Lansdowne pay for what they’ve done.’

  ‘But we can’t,’ Patterson said.

  The waiter had finally noticed them, and came over. ‘I’d like a whisky,’ Blackstone said. ‘A treble.’

  ‘A treble?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘A treble,’ Blackstone said firmly. He took some coins out of his pocket, and flung them carelessly on to the table. ‘Take it out of that.’

  The waiter scooped up some of the copper, and walked away.

  ‘Are you sure you want a treble, sir?’ Patterson asked worriedly.

  Blackstone sighed. ‘I’ve had to let them go, you know,’ he said, ignoring the question.

  ‘Let who go? Mouldoon and Rilke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘They were never going to crack, so it was just a waste of taxpayers’ money keeping them banged up. But I’ve put a team of detectives on both of them. They’ll be under observation round the clock.’

  ‘And what do you think we’ll gain from that?’

  ‘It might just lead us to McClusky, and through McClusky to Lansdowne,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You don’t sound very hopeful that’s what’s actually going to happen,’ Patterson told him.

  The waiter returned with the whisky. Blackstone knocked it back in a single gulp, then pointed to the coins on the table and mimed that the waiter should bring him another.

  ‘I said, you don’t sound very hopeful,’ Patterson repeated.

  ‘And I heard you,’ Blackstone said sharply. ‘I’m not very hopeful. It’ll probably be just as much a waste of money as keeping them in gaol would have been. But we have to go through the motions, anyway.’

  All the time he had been speaking, his eyes had been fixed on the waiter’s progress, as if willing him to return as soon as possible with the second whisky he’d ordered.

  ‘It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning, sir,’ Patterson said worriedly. ‘If I was you, I’d go easy on the spirits.’

  ‘I wish there was some other way I could get at Lansdowne,’ Blackstone said, as if he hadn’t heard his Sergeant. ‘Even if I can’t charge him with the crimes he’s actually committed, I wish there was some way I could bring him down.’

  *

  When Jed Trent entered the morgue laboratory, he found Ellie Carr bent over her desk, examining the photographs of the Honourable Charles Davenport through a powerful magnifying glass.

  ‘Now that it’s over, are you finally going to tell me what this experiment of yours was all about?’ Trent asked.

  Ellie Carr looked up from her work. ‘I should have thought that it was obvious what it was all about,’ she said. ‘It involved firing a piece of metal from a field gun into the chests of dead men. Hadn’t you spotted that? I thought you ex-coppers were supposed to be trained obser
vers.’

  Trent managed to suppress a grin—but only just. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘What is it you’re trying to prove?’

  ‘I’m trying to prove that appearances can sometimes be deceptive,’ Ellie Carr said. ‘I’m trying to prove that the most obvious answer—the one that most people are willing to accept immediately—isn’t always the correct one.’

  ‘In other words, however much I badger you, you’re not going to tell me,’ Trent said.

  ‘Not true,’ Ellie Carr said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m just not going to tell you yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you getting any preconceived notions, based solely on my initial findings. I’d much rather wait until I’ve assembled a completely coherent argument, and then present it to you. That’s when you’ll be really useful, not only because you’ll be looking at the results through a fresh pair of eyes, but also because you’ll be able to bring into play your considerable expertise.’

  ‘My considerable expertise,’ Trent repeated, disdainfully. ‘When most people want to flatter a man, they do it with a light touch—so he hardly even notices it’s being done at all. But not you, Dr Carr.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘You use flattery as if it was the traditional blunt instrument.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right about that,’ the doctor said.

  ‘I am right.’

  Ellie Carr smiled sweetly. ‘But it still works, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Trent agreed. ‘It still works.’

  30

  The series of crises which had descended on the Prime Minister in the previous few days had meant that he had fallen almost disastrously behind on his paperwork. Now, faced with a veritable mountain of the stuff, he had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed for the next three hours. It was not, therefore, unreasonable of him to feel a wave of irritation when he heard the discreet knock on his office door, nor for the irritation to increase when the door opened and his private secretary stepped into the room.

  ‘Yes?’ he said curtly.

  The secretary looked troubled—and not just by the fact that he was facing the Prime Minister’s displeasure.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, My Lord, but I think there’s something you really should see,’ he said.

  ‘There’s always something I should see,’ the Prime Minister snapped. ‘There’s a never-ending stream of things I should see.’

  ‘This…this is rather important,’ the secretary said.

  With a sigh, Lord Salisbury gave in to the inevitable. ‘All right, what is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a letter, Prime Minister. A blind beggar handed it to the constable on duty outside, not five minutes ago.’

  ‘If the man was blind, I presume he is not the letter’s author.’

  ‘That is correct, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Then who is?’

  ‘The letter is anonymous.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Geoffrey, am I now expected—on top of everything else I have to do—to find time to read every anonymous letter that’s sent to me?’ Salisbury demanded.

  ‘Of course not, Prime Minister. But this one makes some rather serious accusations.’

  ‘Let me see it, then,’ Salisbury said, resignedly.

  The secretary handed over the letter, and the Prime Minister began to read it. By the time he was half-way through it, the colour was starting to drain from his face, and when he finally reached the end he looked almost ghost-like.

  ‘Good God!’ he said.

  ‘Quite!’ the secretary agreed dryly.

  ‘I need to speak to Sir Roderick Todd,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Get him on the phone at once.’

  *

  Before he had left New Scotland Yard to meet Patterson in the pub, Blackstone had ordered the immediate release of Mouldoon and Rilke. But ‘immediate’—to those whose lives are based on procedures and red tape—rarely happens very quickly, and it was not until nearly one o’clock that Mouldoon found himself standing in front of the custody sergeant’s desk, signing for his property.

  ‘Has Mr Rilke been released?’ the American asked, as he slipped his watch into his pocket and scooped up his loose change.

  ‘The German bloke?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘The German bloke,’ Mouldoon agreed.

  ‘Yes, we let him out a couple of minutes ago. You should still be able to catch him, if you run.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Mouldoon asked.

  ‘Is what it?’

  ‘I’ve been held without charge for more than a day. Doesn’t that merit some kind of official apology?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ the sergeant said. ‘Well, no, I’m afraid you don’t get an official apology as such—but Inspector Blackstone did leave a verbal message for you.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ Mouldoon conceded. ‘What was it he wanted you to tell me?’

  ‘He wanted you to know that it’s only with extreme reluctance that he’s letting you go,’ the sergeant said. ‘He’d like you to understand that, in his opinion, you’re still as bent as a corkscrew.’

  *

  Rilke had been standing on the Victoria Embankment for some time when Mouldoon finally walked through the gates to join him. For a moment it looked as if the two men were about to embrace each other in a bear hug. On reflection, however, they seemed to decide on a handshake.

  The conversation which followed—the watchers recorded—lasted for a little more than two minutes, and seemed to be both earnest and intense. Then the two men separated, and both hailed cabs. Once Rilke had climbed into his hansom, it set off towards the Houses of Parliament. Mouldoon’s, in contrast, headed in the opposite direction.

  The watchers, having already commandeered two cabs to meet just such an eventuality, set off in pursuit.

  *

  Lord Salisbury looked grim, Lansdowne thought as he was ushered into the Prime Minister’s office—as grim as he had looked in the earliest, darkest days of the Southern African war.

  ‘I am to take it, Prime Minister, that your summoning me at such short notice means you have changed your mind about paying the ransom?’ the Minister of War asked.

  The Prime Minister shook his head, almost mournfully. ‘No, you are not to make that assumption.’

  ‘Then what…?’

  ‘I have recently received a very disturbing report,’ the Prime Minister interrupted.

  ‘A disturbing report of what nature?’ Lansdowne asked neutrally.

  ‘A report which claims a connection between you and the men who were probably involved in the arson attacks.’

  ‘So that’s what this is all about,’ Lansdowne said bitterly. ‘And did you get this report from the police?’

  ‘No, not from them,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Although they have confirmed its contents.’

  ‘The whole thing is just too ridiculous,’ Lansdowne said. ‘It’s true that McClusky works for me, and yes, I once knew Charlie Davenport on a social basis. But the same could be said of any number of people.’

  ‘I have no doubt that any number of people know this McClusky person, or that any number can claim a previous friendship with Davenport,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘But, given their vastly different social backgrounds, I doubt that there is anyone other than yourself who is acquainted with both of them. And then there is also the matter of the Austro-Hungary Club.’

  ‘But I’ve never been to the blasted club in my entire life!’ Lansdowne protested.

  ‘Apparently, there are witnesses who are prepared to contradict that statement.’

  Lansdowne stiffened. ‘Let me get one thing clear, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘Are you accusing me of being behind these arson attacks? Are you accusing me of attempting to blackmail my own government?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the Prime Minister said hastily. ‘The very notion would be absurd.’

 
‘Good. I’m glad that’s out of the way.’

  ‘But I am saying that there are enough links between you and the arsonists for others to draw those conclusions. Mud sticks, Henry, and in politics it sticks more readily than in most occupations.’

  ‘You’re asking me to resign,’ Lansdowne said bleakly.

  ‘After long and careful consideration, I’ve reached the conclusion that it would be for the best,’ the Prime Minister confirmed.

  ‘The Boer War is the single biggest issue this government is facing at the moment,’ Lansdowne said.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ the Prime Minister said gravely.

  ‘And as Secretary of War, I am the man most identified, in the eyes of the public and the press alike, with that conflict.’

  ‘I am aware of that, too.’

  ‘So if I fall, the Government falls, and we let the mealy-mouthed Liberals into power.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘Is it not?’

  ‘No. If you resign, it is perfectly possible, as you say, that the Government will fall…’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘…but if you stay on, and the rumours start to spread, the Government’s fall is inevitable.’ The Prime Minister shook his head sadly. ‘You have served your Queen and country for most of your adult life, Henry. More than just served it—you have served it well. Your achievements in Canada and India have already earned you your place in history. It would be a pity if those achievements were negated by a scandal now. I am asking you to sacrifice yourself, Henry—sacrifice yourself for the good of your party and for the good of your country. Will you do it?’

  For almost half a minute, the Secretary of War stood in complete silence. Then he said, ‘When would you like me to deliver this resignation speech of mine, Prime Minister?’

  The Prime Minister suppressed a sigh. ‘The sooner the better, for all concerned,’ he said. ‘If you deliver it tomorrow—in front of the House—there is just a chance that we will be able to stop this malicious poison about you spreading any further.’