Inspector Box hurried down the steps of 2 King James’s Rents, crossed the deserted cobbled square, and turned into Whitehall, which, by contrast, was thronging with people. A number of carriages, each guarded by a liveried groom, stood in the dusty street outside the entrance to the great Italianate building of the Home Office. A gloomy pall was beginning to spread itself over the London sky. He could taste the sour, sulphurous tang of chimney-smoke, the precursor of fog.
The Strand seethed with traffic, and echoed with the low thunder of hooves and the ringing of iron tyres. Should he whistle for a cab? No. He enjoyed walking, and this foray across the City would banish the fumes of the office. He wove his way through the press of vehicles and, crossing the wide thoroughfare, continued along Fleet Street.
By the time Box had reached Ludgate Hill, the fog had defined itself as something more than a mere mist. He could just make out the dull glow of the signals on the railway viaduct spanning Ludgate Hill. Should he fortify himself with a glass of stout in the King Lud? No. It would be better to press on.
It was as he hurried along the ever-busy Cannon Street that Box realized he was being followed. He felt a rather illogical surge of excitement. To be tailed like this would add a certain spice to the day. He had noticed a hulking giant of a fellow glancing in his direction as he had skirted St Paul’s Churchyard, and his professional instincts had been alerted to possible danger. He’d wondered whether one of Gideon Raikes’s thugs had been put on his tail.
And now, the hulking man was there again, trailing a hundred yards behind him. Box felt the reassuring length of the truncheon in the special pocket tailored into his left trouser leg. Villains sometimes didn’t realize that plain-clothes policemen carried a concealed weapon –a crocus-wood truncheon, twelve inches long, with a nice leather thong at the handle….
Box began to walk more briskly through the now dense fog, and turned abruptly right into a narrow lane a few yards before the opening to Garlick Hill.
Away from the main thoroughfares, London had become a world of shadows. A church tower loomed up to his left. He entered a narrow lane, where tall, shuttered, houses stared blankly at each other across the wet cobbles. Very soon, he would emerge on to the complex of warehouses and jetties known as Syria Wharf. And there, in a long, attic office which looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, he would find Mr Anton Berg, a man well versed in the mysteries of silk and satin, and in the subtle arts of the dressmaker. Anton Berg could read garments like other people read books….
‘Help!’ It was a shrill cry, anguished and hopeless, and it was followed by a shattering of glass. The sounds came from an alley so narrow that Box’s shoulders touched its sides as he ran down it towards what he recognized as the classical sounds of brutish robbery with violence. To seize and apprehend malefactors was his vocation. He moved as swiftly now as he had done in his days as a uniformed constable. He eased the truncheon from its concealed pocket.
The alley opened out into a tiny square, and through the swirling mist Box saw the bow window of a shop, approached by a tall flight of steps between black iron railings. Painted above the window was the legend: DAMIAN SHULBREDE. WATCHMAKER.
All thoughts of Anton Berg forgotten, Inspector Box burst into the shop. The door, fitted with a patent spring, slammed shut behind him. Yes; there was the smashed display case, the glint of jewellery, the terrified ashen-faced old man standing as though paralysed against the wall. There were two robbers, one big and brutal, the other lithe and snarling – river-vermin, who had crawled up here from the slime of King’s Reach under cover of the fog.
At times like this, you didn’t think about the most prudent course of action: you launched yourself at the foe. Box caught the lithe, snarling man by surprise, flinging him, spitting and cursing, to the floor, and stunning him with a blow from his truncheon. A second later he was lifted bodily by the big brute, and thrown violently against the wall. The robber closed in for the kill, and Box saw his rigidly expressionless face, and his dead, emotionless eyes. This was the type who would kill as well as plunder.
With a report like a sudden gunshot, the front door was kicked open, and the hulking brute who had been following Box from St Paul’s Churchyard charged into the shop. With a roar of rage he hurled himself at the big robber, who lost his balance and fell to the floor with a sickening crash. He was up in a moment, bellowing with fury, but was immediately felled by his massive assailant. The dazed eyes were briefly enlivened by a dawning look of surprise before the man collapsed backwards on the floor, unconscious.
‘Well done—’ Box began, but his rescuer gave him no time to finish.
‘That’s enough of that, my lad! Put your hands above your head, and keep them there! Up! Up!’
Box did as he was told. He was fascinated by this gigantic man. Who was he? Who’d sent him? He wasn’t one of Percy’s lot … An ugly-looking brute! Taller even than Kenwright, with close-cropped yellow hair, and a livid scar running across his face from below the right eye to the left corner of the mouth.
The big man never took his eyes off Box as he knelt down, and produced a set of handcuffs from a greatcoat pocket. A policeman! He secured the unconscious robber’s wrists behind him, and with one hand turned the first robber over on to his back.
‘Officer,’ said Box, still with his arms raised obediently above his head, ‘if you’ll feel in the wallet pocket of my jacket, you’ll find my warrant card.’
From somewhere behind him, Box could hear the murmur of voices, and the clatter of boots on bare boards, but he was held fascinated by his rescuer. Who was this man? Why had he followed him so doggedly to Garlick Hill? The big man’s piercing blue eyes were still fixed on Box’s face. The hand that reached into his jacket bore a heavy gold signet ring on the little finger. There was, Box noted, a smear of blood on the knuckles. The hand deftly removed his warrant card.
Box saw the big man blush deeply before handing him back his card. He lowered his arms, and accepted the warrant without comment. He would stay where he was, and see what the big man would do next.
‘Detective Inspector Box, sir, this was hardly the meeting I’d envisaged. I thought it might be you, but I couldn’t be sure. You might have been an accomplice of that scum on the floor.’
A rear door opened, and the watchmaker entered the shop, accompanied by an elderly police sergeant and a young constable. Two or three timid neighbours crowded in behind them. The sergeant, a slightly stooping man with a humorous eye, saw Box immediately, and saluted. He ignored the big man, who had crossed the room to join the badly shaken shopkeeper and his neighbours.
‘Mr Box, sir,’ he said, ‘do you remember me? Sergeant Harvey. I’ve not seen you in ages. Not since that fire at St Olaf’s Stairs. Mr Shulbrede there came running down to us in Upper Thames Street. I see you’ve floored these villains. Well done, sir, if I may say so. Let’s see who we’ve got here.’
Sergeant Harvey stooped down with his hands on his knees, and peered at the two robbers.
‘Well, well! Joseph Jenkins. And Billy “the Weasel” Whetstone. Local talent, sir: our own breeding, these two. Well, lads, you’ve met your match here, by the look of things. Jenkins, you’ve just done a stretch, and now you’ll have to go back in for ever such a long time! And you, Billy! The cart’s on the way for both of you. Anything to say, either of you? No? Well, that’s understandable.’
Box joined Sergeant Harvey, and looked down in his turn at the two sullen, defeated men, who had been fettered by the constable. The thin chains joining the anklets chinked as they squirmed on the floor. Box’s giant assailant seemed to have shrunk to an awkward, ageing hulk. His weasel companion was quietly sobbing. What riffraff!
‘Joseph Jenkins, hey? And Billy Whetstone?’ said Box. ‘I’ll note those names, gents, and those faces to match. And perhaps you’d care to make a note of me, too? Drag them away, Constable. Here’s your station van now.’
Sergeant Harvey was leaning against the smashed display case, writing in his notebook.
‘Do you want to appear in this, Mr Box? At the Mansion House, I mean. If not, we can enrol you as a witness at the trial. There’ll be a trial, of course. These two are a bit too big for the magistrates.’
‘That’ll do nicely, Sergeant Harvey,’ said Box. ‘Put me in as a witness. I’ll send you a note at Upper Thames Street. I’m going down to Essex tomorrow, so I’d rather not appear in this row for the moment.’
The robbers were hauled to their feet, and shuffled out through the front door, where the police van was waiting. Sergeant Harvey turned at the door, and gave Box a world-weary but good-humoured smile.
‘All in a day’s work, sir. “The trivial round, the common task, should furnish all we need to ask”. Whoever wrote that, didn’t have our job to do!’
Box turned from the door. The big man with the scar was talking in low tones to the shopkeeper, who was holding a watch that he had salvaged from the shattered display case. The watch-glass had been smashed, and the fingers bent.
‘My name is Damian Shulbrede, sir,’ said the elderly man, turning to Box. ‘Please accept my thanks for apprehending those desperate villains. How very brave of you! This young fellow tells me that you are a Scotland Yard inspector.’
‘That’s very true, sir,’ Box replied, ‘and now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, and this “young fellow” had better come with me! I’ll see you again, Mr Shulbrede, when this case comes to court.’
Box caught the big man’s coat sleeve, and firmly propelled him down the steps and out of the shop.
‘Now, Officer,’ he said, ‘congratulations! You’ve got a healthy suspicion of folk that’ll serve you well. Well done! And by Jove, you can move. A regular whirlwind. I don’t think our beautiful friend back there knew what hit him!’
The fair-haired giant laughed, and delved into one of his pockets. He extracted his own warrant card, which he handed to Box.
‘You’d left King James’s Rents just minutes before I arrived, sir. I was determined to find you. A big, bearded constable told me where you’d gone, and I followed you. I’m Sergeant Knollys, sir. Jack Knollys.’
*
‘I don’t suppose you drink on duty, gentlemen, but you won’t be able to resist this particular infusion. It’s Turkish coffee. The brightest jewel in the Sultan’s turban! And those are genuine Turkish crenellated cups. Cream – there. Sugar – there. The connoisseur drinks it black.’
By the time that Box and his new sergeant had extricated themselves from the scene of the robbery, the fog had begun to rise, so that when they reached the end of the lane, and emerged on to the stone flags of Syria Wharf, they were able to see the great looming complex of warehouses rising up on the edge of the river-bank, and the stark inscription, A. BERG. IMPORTER, displayed in huge white lettering high above the ranks of windows. A creaking goods lift had taken them up to the sixth floor, and so to the offices of Mr Anton Berg.
Mr Berg poured out the coffee from a silver pot, talking all the time. His bright, shrewd eyes looked speculatively at Box, and then reached for an elaborately chased flask.
‘Yes, the connoisseurs drink it black; but I’m merely a humble cloth merchant, and you, gentlemen, are honest policemen. So we’ll have cream and sugar. A fracas, you say? And a lot of violence? Well, you must have a dollop of this sovereign restorative in your coffee. Napoleon brandy.’
No one, thought Box, would ever mistake Anton Berg for a ‘humble cloth merchant’. A man nearing sixty, a sinuous, prowling kind of man, with the sensitive face of a scholar, he was dressed impeccably in a well-tailored black suit of modern cut, without tails. There was a dull sheen to the material of the suit, as though it had been tailored from some esoteric kind of satin. Gold links shone at his cuffs.
Nor was there anything particularly mercantile about his premises, which occupied the whole of the sixth floor. An outer office, manned by a stooping clerk, was succeeded by a series of solidly furnished rooms culminating in a low, airy chamber hung entirely in silk. It always reminded Box of a picture he had seen as a child of a Bedouin sheik reclining in a damask tent. There were a number of sofas with patterned silk covers and tasselled cushions, and low tables carved with Arabic script.
Mr Berg added a generous measure of brandy to each cup, and then sat back on his sofa.
‘And is there, perhaps, something that you want me to do for you, Mr Box?’
‘There is, Mr Berg. Something very much in your line, as the saying goes.’ Inspector Box gave the merchant a succinct account of the murder case awaiting his investigation in Essex, and the emphasis placed in the local police report on the green silk dress. He was conscious of his new sergeant’s air of absorbed interest in what he was saying. Did Knollys know anything about him? Anything about the various cases that had brought him to inspector’s rank at the early age of thirty? Knollys didn’t look like a policeman. He looked like a well-dressed but dangerous ruffian….
Mr Berg sipped his coffee thoughtfully, and then smiled, revealing a number of gold teeth.
‘“Silk”! And what, pray, do they mean by that? “Silk”? You might as well say “cloth”, for all that means. I’ve got at least eight different silks here, of the type used in ladies’ dresses. What does this Essex policeman mean? Peking Tissue? Foochow Lion’s Breath? And “green”-does he mean China green? Vat-dyed? Look!’
Berg made a disconcerting dart to the door, and disappeared into the adjacent room. They could hear the whirring of a roller as a length of cloth was pulled free. When Berg returned, both men gasped in awe. The merchant had quite unselfconsciously draped himself in a swathe of blue and gold silk that seemed to pulsate with life and colour. He moved from side to side, and they saw delicate images of flowers and leaves spring to life in the changing light from the tall warehouse windows. Berg flung himself down on his sofa, and spread the gorgeous material out across his knees.
‘You see that, gentlemen? Is it sufficient to call this creation by the simple name of “silk”? Is it adequate? Is it right?’ Mr Berg’s eyes blazed with something approaching fanaticism. His long black curls fell across his brow. ‘Feel it! Four hundred and eighty stitches to the square inch, and as smooth as butter! Look at the weave!’
He produced a little square lens from a pocket, and thrust it into Box’s hand. ‘Chinese?’ Box ventured, peering at the almost invisible weaving of the shimmering blue material.
‘No. Italian, Mr Box. Venetian.’ His voice, normally vibrant, sank to a conspiratorial whisper as he quoted some lines of verse.
‘“There’s magic in the web of it…
The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk,
And it was dy’d in mummy, which the skilful
Conserv’d of maidens’ hearts.”’
Mr Berg suddenly laughed, swept up the length of silk from his knees, and deposited it on the floor beside his sofa.
‘So what can I do for you, Inspector? I’ve got the best French silk here, and finest Italian, as you’ve just seen. Lovely stuff. I bring these things in for the Bond Street fashion houses. Just tell me how many bolts you want, Mr Box, and it’s yours at trade price. I don’t sell any shoddy stuff.’
Box saw that Mr Berg was eyeing Sergeant Knollys with curiosity. Why on earth had he not introduced the sergeant formally, as was the custom? Perhaps because he felt he had only just been introduced to the man himself.
The inspector put down his Turkish cup carefully on the saucer, and looked at Anton Berg. What was he? An Austrian? His English was perfect, but there was a slight foreign accent lurking behind it. Whatever else he might be, he was a salesman to his manicured fingertips.
‘Trade price, plus five per cent discount for quantity,’ Berg added.
‘I don’t want to buy anything, Mr Berg.’ Box’s voice assumed a plaintive tone, which held the suspicion of a whine. Why did people always want to sell him things? Did he look like a soft touch? ‘I want you to do me a favour. When I come back from Essex, let me bring you that dress! The victim’s green dress. Seven times, they mentioned it. There must have been something special about it, and you’ll see what it is. Will you agree to look at it?’
Anton Berg had made up his mind before Box had finished speaking.
‘Of course I will! It’s an intriguing prospect, Inspector. But you must bring it to me here, where I can examine it by the light of heaven. Don’t ask me to root around in your warren of dark little rooms at King James’s Rents! Besides, I have the tools of my trade here. So bring the dress when you will.’
Sergeant Knollys had said nothing since they had entered the Arabian Nights apartment. He had watched Anton Berg in fascination, and wondered what connection there was between this rather exotic foreign man and the dapper, Cockney detective who was to be his new guvnor.
‘Do you live up here, then, Mr Berg?’ asked Knollys.
‘Live here? Not now, Sergeant. My wife and I have a very nice little villa in Islington. But I did live up here once, for a time. That’s why it’s still furnished. I was watching you just now, and thought how well you merged into this room! You seemed to fit it, if you know what I mean. Look! From the windows here, on the City side, you can see St Paul’s rising above the throng of streets! Over there, you can see the back of the Mansion House. Walk across the room, and there’s the river below you. The fog’s almost cleared now. You can see the whole of Southwark in prospect.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Knollys, softly. ‘A marvellous place, sir. And you don’t live here now?’
‘No, Sergeant – er, I don’t think Mr Box mentioned your name?’
‘Knollys, sir. Detective Sergeant Knollys.’
‘Knollys, hey! A very interesting name, if I may say so. I recently supervised the hanging of new curtains at Marlborough House for the Prince and Princess of Wales. I find myself occasionally moving in very exalted circles! Anyway, one of the footmen pointed out a gentleman called Sir Francis Knollys, and told me that he was not only the Prince’s secretary, but also Gentleman Usher to Her Majesty. A very old family, apparently. One of them was Lord Mayor of London, so this footman told me. A relative of yours, perhaps?’
Inspector Box started uneasily. Maybe this Jack Knollys really was a scion of this exalted family. He caught his new sergeant’s eye. It held a kind of mocking gleam.
‘Sir Francis Knollys and I, Mr Berg,’ said the sergeant, ‘share a common ancestor.’
‘Indeed? Well, Sergeant Knollys, this place is empty and forlorn, pining for company. It is, as you say, a marvellous place. Somewhere, a tenant is waiting for it. Who knows what the fates may bring? I wish you all success for your investigation, Inspector Box. Will Sergeant Knollys be accompanying you down to Essex?’
Box saw the eager, almost pleading look in Knollys’ eyes, and made up his mind instantly about what to reply.
‘He will, sir. It’s the custom, you know. Inspectors and sergeants tend to hunt in pairs!’
‘Are you game for a brisk walk back to Whitehall?’
‘Yes, sir. And thank you for sparing my blushes back up there. About going down to Essex, I mean.’
They had proceeded in silence half way up Garlick Hill before Knollys added, ‘It was a fine scrap, wasn’t it, sir? You’d have downed Joseph Jenkins yourself, I expect, without my help. He was all flab! Out of training, as you might say.’
Box glanced at his companion, and saw the glint of pleasure in his eyes. He really had enjoyed the fight! Knollys would prove a very useful man to have in a tight spot. They reached the top of the narrow road, and turned left into Cannon Street.
‘It’s certainly a point of view, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘My own view, for what it’s worth, is that I’d have been pulverized without your timely appearance. Mangled.’
At St Paul’s Churchyard, Box suddenly stopped on the pavement, forcing one or two passers-by to walk round him. He glanced briefly at the great dome of the cathedral rising above the throng of people and vehicles streaming towards Ludgate Circus.
‘It was just here, Sergeant Knollys, that I spotted you. Nailed you for certain, I mean. “Who’s this ugly customer on my tail?” I thought. I let you keep me in sight, so I wouldn’t lose you myself. Just as well, all things considered.’
‘When they told me at King James’s Rents where you’d gone, sir, I took a cab to Fleet Street, waited for you to arrive, and followed you from there. That big constable – Kenwright, his name was – gave me your description: mid-thirties, round face, thick moustache, light overcoat, brown bowler, rapid gait, a little below average height—’
‘Yes, well, never mind this preoccupation with height, Sergeant. I’ve enough to put up with from PC Kenwright, and George Boyd, without you starting on me! And let me remind you that Goliath … Goliath … no, it was David. He was only a titch, too, and he felled that giant with a single stone. Well, not a titch, of course. I expect he was of average height for a youth … I think I’m getting out of my depth in this conversation. But here we are at the Circus, Sergeant Knollys, and here’s the good old King Lud. So I suggest we adjourn for a bottle each of India Pale Ale.’
It was comfortably gloomy inside the King Lud. The two detectives sat at a little marble-topped table near the door. There was an incessant murmur of voices from the long, crowded public bar. Light from the street outside filtered its way through narrow windows filled with coloured glass, and glinted off the brass handles of the beer engines along the bar.
‘Ah!’ said Box, after an appreciative sip from his glass. ‘Very nice. And lightly chilled, as it should be, though some folk prefer it warm, like draught beer. I don’t suppose you’re settled anywhere, yet?’
‘I’ve dumped my kit in the section house for the moment, sir. That’ll do me, I expect. But I was very taken by that eyrie of Mr Berg’s back there at Syria Wharf. Perhaps he and I could do a deal, if you’re agreeable.’
‘The section house! Bobbies’ barracks! That brings back fond memories, Sergeant. One bed, one table, one chair. Tidiness was the watchword. Plenty of camaraderie, as they say, but not much in the way of creature comforts. See Mr Berg by all means, as soon as ever you and I get back from Essex. We’ll go down tomorrow morning by the eight o’clock train.’
Both men had drained their glasses. Knollys rose to his feet, and half turned towards the bar. Box saw the wary look in his eyes. They had talked easily together, but the sergeant was evidently wondering whether or not he had gained acceptance.
‘Another one, sir?’
‘Well, perhaps so, Sergeant. It’d help to mend our shattered nerves after the – what did Mr Berg call it? – the “fracas”. Then we’d better get back to King James’s Rents. We don’t want to disgrace ourselves by staggering over the threshold! And thanks very much, Sergeant Knollys. Very civil. Much appreciated.’
Box watched the big sergeant as he made his way to the crowded bar. As well as being a powerful man, he was a well-dressed man. He evidently cared much for his appearance. Maybe he’d like to give George Boyd a few lessons in deportment. Despite that hideous scar, Knollys was still a good-looking man. That scar needed some kind of explanation. He would choose his time to ask.
‘What’s your connection with Mr Berg, Inspector?’ asked Knollys, when he returned carrying two bottles. ‘There’s a very nice, genuine man lurking beneath all that froth and tosh.’
Box carefully filled his empty glass.
‘A very nice man? Yes, that’s quite true, I suppose. But you’ve got to watch him. He’s a born salesman. I once came away from that warehouse of his with half a bolt of orange cloth. Orange! I suppose you realize that he was trying to get you as a tenant back there? I’m not so sure that he hasn’t succeeded, either! But, tosh or no tosh, Sergeant, Mr Anton Berg knows what he’s talking about. He’s helped me before, as you may have gathered.’
‘How did you meet him? Was it on a case?’
‘It was. His case, so to speak. Do you know St Olaf Stairs, across the river? Well, Anton Berg used to have his warehouse there. It was burnt down by a man called Stryver. Twelve engines went out to that fire, Sergeant, twelve engines, and the whole river behind them, all to no avail. The place just glowed and glowed all night, and then collapsed in a mound of ash.’ Box paused for effect, and then added, rather cockily, ‘I was the man who hunted Stryver down, and saw him put away for life.’
Sergeant Knollys treated his inspector to an amused smile.
‘Didn’t this Stryver like silk-merchants, then?’ he asked.
‘Stryver, Sergeant Knollys, was acting for a third party, the same party who was behind the murder of the unfortunate Mr James Hungerford at St Saviour’s Dock.’
‘And are you going to tell me the name of this third party, sir?’
Box drained his glass, and stood up. He looked almost absently at Knollys.
‘What? Yes, I’ll tell you all about him when we get back from Essex. His is a name not to be dropped lightly, Sergeant; he’s hardly material for the fag-end of a conversation in a public house. So we’ll talk about him later. At the moment, we’d better turn our thoughts to this business down in Essex: the garrotted lady of quality in the green silk dress.’