Chapter Eight

The regulations of the prison were clear, and it was they that allowed me to speak with such confidence of staying clear of trouble. Prisoners were confined to their cells except at those times when they were engaged in official prison activities, which in reality meant time spent in the exercise area, the chapel or at interview. On every such occasion, a guard was detailed to escort the prisoner to the activity in question, and then to bring him back again. Hardie had hinted that there were ways around these strictures, but I had no intention of testing the limits of my freedom, or lack of it, and had resigned myself to spending the greater part of every day locked in the same small room.

When our cell door opened on the morning of the following day, therefore, I was a little surprised, but assumed I was to be taken to see the governor again, or something of that nature. I looked up as the door swung back, but in place of the guard I expected, there stood two men in prison uniform. Hardie gave a strangled cry and jumped to his feet, the empty bottle from the night before gripped in his hand like a club, but before he could so much as raise it in anger, one of the men – a tall, heavy-set individual with a tattoo of a dragon curling from his collar along the nape of his neck – took a step inside and twisted it from his grasp. He stood over the boy as the other came inside, to be followed by the unmistakable figure of Matty Galloway.

Precisely, Galloway half-turned and pressed the door closed.

He smiled at me coldly and indicated with a nod that I should be brought to my feet. The silent pair who held me obeyed unhurriedly but effectively, twisting my arms across my back as they levered me up.

“Good day, Dr. Watson,” Galloway said. His voice was quiet, almost reserved, as though he were speaking in a church or a library, but there was nothing timorous about him. He held himself with the confidence of a leader, secure in a place of his choosing and under his control, without arrogance but also without undue humility. This prison was his kingdom and I was an outsider. I knew that I was in greater danger at that moment than I had been at any point since the commencement of this whole nightmarish affair.

“Good morning,” I replied, after a moment. “Mr… Galloway?”

“You phrase that as a question, Dr. Watson,” he said. “Would you have me believe you don’t know my identity? Have I so misjudged my own fame, would you say, that I expect my name at least to be known to all inside this establishment?”

He leaned forward, until his face was mere inches from my own. “Is my delusion so great, Doctor?” he asked, his breath hot on my cheek.

There was nothing I could think to say, and the silence grew uncomfortably long. I tensed the muscles in my arms and rocked backwards as I had been taught, determined to give some account of myself at least, when Galloway broke the tension by laughing.

He straightened and nodded once more at the men who held me. I felt the pressure on my arms slacken. I relaxed a little, but remained vigilant.

“You have pluck, I’ll give you that,” Galloway smiled, with genuine warmth, I fancied. “Intended to go down swinging, did you? I admire that in a man; ask anyone here. Give me pluck in the face of certain doom over brains or cunning any day. You always know where you stand with a plucky man.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He lit two gaspers and handed me one, indicating to my two minders that I might now be released entirely.

“Sit down, Dr. Watson. You and I, we need to have a chat. Thing is, it seems to me that I’ve reason to thank you, and because of that, in return you might say, I’m going to explain some things to you. Things which might come in handy, if you hope to survive in this place.”

Oddly, he reminded me now of Holmes at a crime scene, intent only on the matter at hand, but aware of everything around him – every breath of air, every discarded object, every human being – which might prove of importance. The two men who had held me might as well not have been there at all. At that moment, in that place, there was only Matty Galloway and myself.

“The problem you have, Doctor, is a certain blindness when it comes to the criminal classes. I’ve followed your cases, you see, read every edition of The Strand, every newspaper report, even had my lads outside ferret out bits and pieces which don’t ever get written down. And it seems to me that you and your Mr. Sherlock Holmes only recognise two types of criminals. Just two. First, you’ve got your thug, your lumpish brute, straight out the rookeries and the slums, cosh in one hand and knife in the other. No brains, only brawn, so not often of interest to gents such as yourselves, but at least you recognise their existence. That sort’s your muggers and your bug-hunters, your lurkers and your bludgers. Second are the ones you do take an interest in. Gents – or near as, from where I’m standing. Educated fellows, with nice houses and nicer manners, but with something missing inside, something that stops the others from turning bad. That’s your blackmailers and your magsmen, Dr. Watson, your fraudsters and confidence men – the sort that Mr. Holmes eats up for breakfast and again for tea.”

I tried to interject, to ask what he was leading up to, but he held up a hand and his companions again gripped my arms painfully.

“Let me finish, if you don’t mind, Doctor. You will have your chance to ask questions. Indeed, I hope you shall, for as I say, I do feel that I owe you a good turn, and I’d like to give you all the information you need.” He inhaled deeply from his cigarette then flicked the half-smoked remnant into a dark corner. “Don’t get me wrong, though. I say you only admit of two types of criminal but there are other… singular souls out there who, I’m sure, must have crossed your path. I do not speak of them, for each of those must be judged on his own specific talents – and besides, there are none such in here, nor ever likely to be. Men like that don’t allow themselves to be imprisoned.” He sighed, and seemed to lapse into meditation for a period. Then, “No, what you need to know, what you need to recognise, is a final class of criminal, one you will most likely meet in this place. Indeed, one you are meeting at this very moment. For that matter, our paths have crossed before now, though you didn’t know it. I am of that type, Dr. Watson. For me, crime is neither a thuggish display of strength, nor a matter of cruelty and deception. For me crime’s a business. There’s no anger in what I do, just a desire to do what’s best for me and those who work for me. If a label is needed, then think of me as a… shopkeeper.”

Again, he smiled, and as he fell silent, I remembered what Holmes had asked of me, and did my level best to gauge the man. His clothes, of course, told me nothing, for he was dressed exactly as we all were. There was the silver cigarette case, which argued for comparative wealth, but I knew Holmes would expect more from me, and I found myself considering just how he had contrived to maintain possession of so valuable and conspicuous an item. If the search I had undergone on my arrival were standard, it would have been impossible to smuggle so much as a hairpin into the prison. The cigarette he had given me was of high quality and Turkish, but again that was evidence only of his wealth, which was never in doubt, according to Hardie. What else would I be able to tell Holmes?

I had no time to draw further conclusions in any case, for Galloway spoke up once again. “You may be wondering why I tell you all this, Doctor,” he said. “It is so you may understand why I acknowledged you as I did in the yard earlier. You have done me a good turn—” Again, my attempts at protest came to nothing as he pressed on regardless. “Now, now, no need to say a word. Of course, you did no such thing. You are an innocent man, guilty of no crime, as are so many souls in this place. But even so, the belief in the world at large is that you have – how shall I put it? – done me a right good turn. And as a businessman, I know that good work must be rewarded, and rewarded publicly, so that everyone can see the benefits of such. So think of that handshake as your payment. There’s more than one of the other types of criminal in here who bears you terrible ill will, Doctor, and might, left unchecked, have done you a mischief. Now they know that you’re under my protection, and to harm you would be to cross me.

“And they’d be very foolhardy to cross me. Very foolhardy indeed.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left the cell. The two thugs who held me released their grip and followed a moment later, leaving me slumped, a cold chill settling on my spine. I heard Hardie’s voice as though he were some distance away but could make out nothing of what he said. All my attention was focused on one solitary, unpleasant truth.

Whether what had just occurred placed me in greater or lesser immediate jeopardy I could not say, but one thing was eminently clear. By placing myself, however unwillingly, under Galloway’s protection, I had allied myself in the eyes of the world at large with a known criminal. I could see no way in which that was a development to be welcomed.

Hardie, however, insisted that Galloway’s visit was a positive one.

“Stands to reason, if you ask me,” he said, once the immediate effect of our rough handling had abated. “Bloke like Galloway, he don’t care to be in anybody’s debt, so he pays you back in protection, and makes sure everyone knows it too. I tell you, John, it’s no more than him keeping things even.”

“Balancing the books, you mean?” I interposed, recalling Galloway’s description of himself as a shopkeeper.

“Something like,” agreed Hardie. “In his line of work, it don’t do to be seen to be owing favours.”

It was at least a possible explanation for Galloway’s otherwise inexplicable amity – such as it was – but I could not rid myself of the faint feeling that there was more to recent events than met the eye. Galloway was a gang leader, I must never forget, and would benefit from a curtailment of Major McLachlan’s investigations as much as any man. It seemed far-fetched, but could he be in some way responsible for Miss McLachlan’s death, and was his protection nothing but a ruse designed to cast further suspicion on me? Holmes was due to visit later in the day, and I would mention the possibility to him then.

In the meantime, the day continued along already familiar lines, though I was excused the daily exercise period on account of the previous morning’s fracas. Hardie, however, refused to stay inside, and returned, once his hour was complete, with news.

“You’re the talk of the yard, John. Nobody’s talking about anything else but your run-ins with Ikey Collins and Matty Galloway. Collins is in a punishment cell, of course, and won’t be out for a day or two, but I managed to get close enough to some of Galloway’s lads to hear them talking.”

I protested at the risk he had taken, and reminded him of his promise of the night before, but he waved away my worries as he threw himself on his bed.

“Calm yourself, John! I was just sitting nearby, enjoying the fresh air, wasn’t I? No reason why anyone should look at me twice. And besides, you’ll be pleased I did, once you hear what they were saying.”

In spite of myself, I had to admit the truth of his words. The more information we had, the more likely that we would be able to discern a motive for Galloway’s unexpected largesse. Perhaps it would have nothing to do with my own case, but even if it did not directly do so, the mystery of Matthew Galloway was one that required thought on its own merits. Grudgingly, therefore, I settled back to listen, and Hardie described the scene in the yard.

“There was three of them. Two I don’t know, and one who’s always at Galloway’s side. Don’t know his name, but he was here earlier, the one with the dragon tattoo on his neck. He was the one doing most of the talking too. ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ he was saying when I managed to get near enough to hear. ‘Galloway always has his reasons, you know that,’ he says, and the other two, they nodded but they didn’t look convinced. ‘He’s called a meeting,’ says Dragon Tattoo, ‘in the usual place, and he says he’s got something to tell everyone.’ One of the others pipes up then, and asks if it’s about the doctor – that’d be you – or about the other swine, but Dragon Tattoo says how would he know, he’s not Galloway’s keeper, and after a bit of grumbling, they moved off. Dragon Tattoo gave me a bit of a look first, but he didn’t say nothing, so I reckon he’s just not the friendly sort.”

I was less confident about that, but there was no denying that the boy had unearthed valuable information. Clearly, it would be in my interests to eavesdrop on the forthcoming meeting, though I could not for the life of me see how that could be managed. The identity of the “other bloke” was a new wrinkle to a mystery which, increasingly, I felt intersected with my wider difficulties. I quizzed Hardie about the possible location of Galloway’s meeting, but he knew nothing for certain and almost as little as conjecture.

“Galloway’s got a few of the warders in his pocket, that’s for sure. He comes and goes as he pleases, and his men too, so they could be meeting anywhere. It’ll have to be either during exercise or at chapel, for even a bought guard couldn’t ignore a dozen men not in their cells at any other time.”

“They can hardly hold a secret meeting in the chapel,” I noted, after a moment’s thought, “but there would be nothing unusual in a group of friends standing together in the yard, would there?”

Hardie agreed, but reluctantly, and I could see that he harboured doubts about my theory. I was about to quiz him further, when the cell door swung open, and Shapley growled that I had a visitor. Briefly I wondered whether this was not a trap and Shapley one of Galloway’s bought guards, then recognised that there was no need to go to such lengths. He had already proved he could enter my cell with impunity.

Consequently, I pushed myself to my feet, wincing at the sharp pain in my ribs, and followed Shapley down the corridor outside.