Blackstone and the Burning Secret (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 4) Page 21

  ‘Then you have stronger nerves than I do,’ Tyndale said. ‘Either that or you have too little imagination to feel what it would be like as the rope tightens around your neck.’

  Rilke was about to reply when their female companion appeared out of the fog. ‘He’s worried, Madam,’ Rilke said, in a hearty voice. ‘Tell him his fears are groundless.’

  ‘Your fears are groundless,’ Emily Tyndale told her husband. ‘I’ve just been talking to the harbour master. The fog’s starting to lift, and we should be setting sail within the hour.’

  34

  The hansom cab pulled up at the main entrance to New Scotland Yard, and the portly Sergeant and his almost gaunt boss climbed out of it.

  As Blackstone stepped down, he looked like a man whose mind was elsewhere—and that was not too far from the truth. Ever since the American Consul-General had shown him the photograph, his thoughts—like a desperate eagle which believes itself trapped in a canyon—had been swooping and soaring, soaring and swooping.

  He now knew the real names of Robert Mouldoon and Sophia de Vere. More than that—he knew that Mouldoon/Tyndale was heir to a large American fortune, and that Sophia/Emily was his wife. But rather than answering any questions, this merely posed some new—even more perplexing—ones.

  Why had Tyndale pretended to be a pimp, and Emily acted as if she were one of his stable of whores?

  What could either of them have hoped to gain by becoming involved in Lansdowne’s and McClusky’s extortion scheme?

  Their part in the whole plot—even if only peripheral—seemed meaningless to the point of insanity.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but there’s a woman waiting for you in your office,’ the constable on duty at the gate said.

  A woman! For a moment, Blackstone had visions of it being Emily, come to unburden herself of her sins by confessing.

  But the Emily he had interrogated into the early hours of the morning had too much nerve to break down at this stage of the game. Besides, she’d be in Dover by now.

  It was left up to Patterson to ask the obvious question. ‘You’ve left a woman in our office?’ he demanded. ‘Unattended?’

  The constable looked down at his boots. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘But good God, man, she could be anybody. The Fenians have already tried to blow up Scotland Yard once, as I should have no need to remind you. How do you know she isn’t working for them?’

  ‘She didn’t look to me like she was a mad bomber, Sergeant,’ the constable mumbled.

  ‘And how do you expect them to look? Do you think they have their intentions painted on their foreheads?

  ‘She said she was a doctor,’ the constable protested.

  ‘A doctor!’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. And she seemed very sure of herself. She insisted she needed to be in your office to prepare what she’d got to show you.’

  ‘And you just took her word for it?’ Patterson demanded.

  Despite his overall feeling of gloom, Blackstone found that he was laughing. ‘The Sergeant here doesn’t understand, does he, Constable?’ he asked the man on the gate. ‘But then, you see—unlike you and me—he’s had no opportunity to meet the formidable Dr Carr.’

  *

  Blackstone’s desk had been its usual cluttered mess when he’d left the office, but now all his papers had been placed on the floor—or possibly swept on to the floor—and the desk was laid out with a large number of photographs.

  Ellie Carr looked up from her work, and smiled at him. ‘Well, this ain’t much of a place to look at,’ she said in her Cockney voice, ‘but I suppose you call it ‘ome.’

  That was true enough, Blackstone thought—but unless he could pull something out of the fire pretty damn quickly, he wouldn’t be able to call it home much longer.

  ‘There was no need for you to come all this way,’ he said, knowing that he sounded ungracious and not really caring. ‘You could simply have posted me your report.’

  ‘Posted it!’ Ellie Carr said. ‘And missed the chance of seeing the look on your face when you discover what I’ve found out?’

  Blackstone sighed. ‘To be perfectly honest, Dr Carr, I don’t really care whether the Honourable Charles Davenport was killed by the projectile or merely drowned.’

  ‘Yes, you do—or, at least, you soon will,’ Ellie Carr told him, with a certainty which was slightly unnerving. ‘If yer don’t believe me, come an’ ‘ave a butcher’s for yourself, Inspector.’

  Almost reluctantly, Blackstone walked over to the desk. Patterson, showing no more enthusiasm, followed close behind.

  ‘This is your corpse, the Honourable Charles Thingamabob,’ Ellie Carr said, pointing to the first group of photographs. ‘Notice how the piece of iron is wedged in his chest.’

  ‘I don’t need to look. I’ve seen it in the flesh,’ Blackstone said.

  But he did as he’d been instructed anyway.

  ‘Now look at how it’s wedged in the chests of the others,’ Ellie Carr told him.

  Blackstone quickly ran his eyes over the photographs of the other three bodies. ‘Who are these people?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re as bad as Jed Trent,’ Ellie Carr said. ‘It doesn’t matter a monkey’s who they are—just notice how they look.’

  Blackstone examined the photographs, first with his naked eye and then with a magnifying glass. ‘They look different,’ he admitted.

  ‘Which look different to what?’ Ellie Carr asked, infuriatingly.

  ‘The last three corpses look different to Davenport’s.’

  ‘Excellent. Now could you possibly tell me how they look different?’

  ‘The damage seems to have been far more extensive,’ Blackstone said. ‘There’s an edging around the actual wounds—beyond the point of penetration—that isn’t evident on Davenport’s body.’

  ‘A bit like the crater you find around a meteorite?’ Ellie Carr suggested helpfully.

  ‘I’ve never seen one myself, but yes, I’d assume it’s something like that,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘They all had the projectile fired at them, and they all—more or less—exhibit the same kind of damage,’ Ellie Carr said. ‘I’d have liked to have done a few more experiments to confirm my finding, but there’s no real respect for research scientists in this bloody country and—’

  ‘Get to the point!’ Blackstone said impatiently.

  ‘You mean to say that you need more of an explanation?’ Ellie Can asked, incredulously.

  ‘Yes, I need more of an explanation,’ Blackstone replied.

  ‘I really would have thought you could have worked it out for yourself,’ Ellie Carr said, with just a hint of disappointment in her voice. ‘And maybe you still can, if I give you a bit of a nudge in the right direction.’ She paused. ‘All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘We know for a fact what happened to these three corpses, because I arranged for it to happen. But we only think we know what happened to Davenport—we only assume that he met the same fate as the others. But if he did, why are his wounds so very different?’

  ‘Because the injuries were not the result of an explosion at all!’ Blackstone exclaimed.

  Ellie Carr positively beamed with pleasure. ‘Go to the top of the class,’ she said.

  ‘Then just how did Davenport die?’

  ‘It was the piece of metal itself which first aroused my suspicions,’ Ellie Carr told him. ‘It didn’t look to me like it had been broken off in an explosion. It seemed more as if it had been very carefully taken apart. So I took a closer look at it, and what I found was very interesting.’ She handed a photograph of the piece of rowlock to Blackstone. ‘See what you think.’

  Blackstone studied the picture through his magnifying glass. ‘There are some curious indentations on the part of the rowlock which was projecting out of Davenport’s chest,’ he said.

  ‘And?’ Ellie Carr asked.

  ‘They seem to be quite regular. Almost as if they were made wi
th some kind of tool.’

  ‘I think perhaps it might have been a ball-hammer,’ Ellie Carr speculated. ‘But whatever it was, it proves that the piece of metal wasn’t shot into Davenport’s chest—it was driven into it by a series of blows. In other words, his death was no accident at all. It was, in fact, cold-blooded murder. What I can’t tell you, I’m afraid, is just why the killer or killers went to all that trouble.’

  ‘They did it to fool us!’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You’ve lost me!’ Ellie admitted.

  ‘They wanted to leave us a clue,’ Blackstone explained. ‘But they didn’t want us to know it had been left there deliberately. If we’d thought Davenport had been murdered, we’d have been suspicious about whatever we found in his pocket. But if it had been an accident, we’d just have thought we were lucky—which is exactly what we did think!’

  ‘He had something in his pocket that was a clue?’ Ellie asked, still trying to make sense of it all.

  ‘Yes. It was the card we found in his pocket that led to the Austro-Hungary Club,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘And everything else that happened after that just followed on from there,’ Patterson added.

  ‘You were right when you said it had all been too easy,’ Blackstone told his Sergeant. ‘It was worse than easy—they’ve been pulling our strings ever since this case started.’

  *

  The people standing and waiting on the dock had been able to gauge the speed at which the weather was clearing simply by keeping their eyes fixed on the end of the pier.

  At first they could see no more beyond the edge than a black mass which appeared occasionally—and briefly—from within the swirling fog. They believed it to be the cross-Channel ferry, but it could just as easily have been a lighthouse or a rock—or even some part of the fog which, for reasons of its own, had decided to be darker than all the rest.

  Then, slowly, a more definite shape began to emerge. It was too soon to say yet that it was definitely a ship, but it was certainly a something.

  A little more time passed, and the watchers could distinguish the prow, the stern, and even the funnel. Minutes later, they could pick out the railing which ran along the deck, the anchor chain projecting from the water and the gangplank which had just been lowered.

  They were not about to spend a night in dank, dark Dover, as they’d feared they might have to. Very soon now they would be on the ship, where there would be food and drink and soft bunks to lie down on. They let out a collective sigh of relief, and none of the sighs were louder than that of the American who was travelling with his wife and their friend with the foreign-sounding name.

  *

  ‘I shall sail from Amsterdam,’ Rilke said, as he and his companions approached the gangplank. ‘It will be quite a long journey, but I will not mind. I will have the best of everything while I am aboard ship. I have deserved it.’

  ‘We’ve all deserved it,’ Emily Tyndale said. ‘Isn’t that right, my darling Lucas?’

  ‘Talk up the future all you want, but we’re not free and clear of the present yet,’ Tyndale growled.

  ‘But we soon will be,’ Rilke said. ‘What a joy it will be to return home—to leave decaying old Europe behind me, and once again breathe the clear sweet air of a young country.’

  As they drew level with the gangplank, a customs official stepped forward to block their way.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, they’d like to have a few words with you in the office,’ he said politely.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Lucas Tyndale asked.

  ‘Not really. It’s just a minor matter that needs to be cleared up before you sail,’ the customs officer said. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t let the ferry leave without you.’

  They walked back along the pier in procession. It was not until they were well clear of the other passengers that a dozen police constables appeared from out of nowhere.

  Rilke dropped his bag, and began to reach into his jacket pocket.

  ‘I really wouldn’t go for your gun if I were you, Mr Rilke,’ the customs officer said.

  He no longer seemed as mild-mannered as he had earlier, and this change of attitude was only underlined by the pistol in his hand.

  ‘I am quite capable of shooting you if I have to,’ he continued. ‘And even if I were not, we have a number of sharp-shooters posted who would be more than willing to do the job.’

  35

  The square, solid man, who met Blackstone on Dover Railway Station at four o’clock in the morning, introduced himself as Inspector White.

  ‘Arrested them personally,’ he told Blackstone as they journeyed in the cab back to Dover Police Central. ‘Dressed up as a customs officer for the occasion. The German had a gun in his pocket. He would have used it, too, if I hadn’t persuaded him otherwise.’

  I’m sure he would, Blackstone thought. But I think you’re wrong in assuming that Rilke’s a German.

  ‘You’ve put them in separate cells, have you?’ he asked. ‘Naturally,’ White replied.

  ‘And how are they taking it?’

  ‘Rilke’s not said a word since I arrested him. Tyndale was shaken at first, but he seems to have pulled himself together. If I was you, I’d start my interrogations with the woman.’

  ‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ Blackstone said.

  *

  Blackstone was already sitting at the interview table when Emily Tyndale was shown in.

  ‘Sit down, Emily,’ he said.

  She studied him, then studied the room—almost as if assessing how she should play the part.

  ‘Suppose I don’t want to sit down?’ she said, after running through her repertoire of responses, and selecting defiance.

  ‘I could force you to sit down, but I don’t feel like doing that,’ Blackstone told her. ‘If you don’t want to talk, you can go back to your cell—and I’ll have a cosy little chat with your husband, instead.’

  ‘He won’t tell you anything!’ Emily said. ‘He’s too strong to be broken. Too brave to be cowed by the likes of you.’

  She’d cast herself in a melodrama, Blackstone thought—and a badly written one, at that.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be sure about him keeping quiet,’ he said. ‘It’s surprising how talkative people can suddenly become when they see the shadow of the rope hanging over them.’

  ‘The rope!’ Emily repeated, with a horror which seemed genuine enough for even the most demanding critic.

  ‘Certainly the rope,’ Blackstone said. ‘Murder’s a capital offence. Somebody’s got to pay for the killing of the Honourable Charles Davenport, but…’ He paused.

  ‘But what?’ Emily asked.

  ‘But there’s no reason why it should be you. Do you still want to go back to your cell, or will you take the seat I’ve just offered you?’

  Emily crossed the room—with a slight stagger to her gait—and sat in the chair.

  More dramatics, Blackstone decided. The woman couldn’t help acting. It was no wonder she’d been so convincing as a whore.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong about Davenport,’ Emily said. ‘Nobody killed him. He was in the skiff when the incendiary bomb blew up and—’

  ‘He might well have been in the skiff, but he was already dead at the time,’ Blackstone interrupted her. ‘His murder was one of the coldest and most calculated I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘No, honestly, he was—’

  ‘It won’t take the jury more than ten minutes to arrive at their verdict, and the judge will be reaching for his black cap even before they’ve even come back into the court. But like I said, you don’t have to be one of those whose neck is stretched—and if you’ll just fill in the few details that are still missing, I’ll make sure that you’re spared.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ the woman said. ‘It’s my duty.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Where did you meet your husband, Emily?’

  ‘In New York.’

  ‘What were you doing
there? Acting?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no, actually.’

  ‘Which is it? Yes or no?’

  ‘I was resting. Waiting for the right role to come along. It would have happened, you know. I’d made several appearances on the London stage before I ever went to America.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that.’

  ‘I was never given the leading role—but you can’t keep real talent down for ever, and if I’d stayed in London a little longer, I’d have been the rage of the West End.’ She took a deep breath and puffed out her bosom. ‘You may have heard of me, Inspector. My professional name was Emma Moon.’

  ‘That does sound familiar,’ Blackstone lied. ‘Weren’t you in that play…oh, what was it called now?’

  ‘The Sailor’s Revenge,’ Emily Tyndale said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘The Sailor’s Revenge. I saw that one myself.’

  ‘The critics were very unkind to us. They literally savaged the play, and we closed after a week,’ Emily said sulkily.

  ‘But they surely can’t have savaged you personally!’ Blackstone said, sounding amazed.

  ‘Mine was a relatively minor part,’ Emily Tyndale pointed out.

  ‘But, from what I remember, you carried it off magnificently,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ Emily Tyndale agreed.

  ‘And it was after The Sailor’s Revenge closed down that you went off to America?’

  ‘Yes, it was. I wanted to go somewhere real talent was truly appreciated, you see.’

  ‘And I’m sure you’d have been a big success, given time. But you chose to abandon the bright, dazzling future which lay ahead of you, didn’t you? And you did it all for love!’

  Emily Tyndale all but simpered. ‘You’re very understanding for a policeman,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Blackstone replied. ‘Is Rilke really a German?’

  The question threw Emily completely off-balance, just as the Inspector had intended it to.

  ‘I…I don’t really know,’ she spluttered.

  Blackstone shook his head reproachfully. ‘What a pity,’ he said. ‘What a great pity. And just when we were getting on so well. Just when I’d decided that I’d move heaven and earth to stop the hangman putting his rope around that pretty little neck of yours.’