Sergeant Ernest Best of the Detective Branch contemplated the bodies lined up on marble slabs and exclaimed, ‘What do you mean, you don’t know who they are! They worked for you, didn’t they?’
‘Only the captain,’ said the Grand Junction Canal traffic manager shaking his head. ‘He takes on his own crew.’ He shrugged his gaunt shoulders. ‘All we ask is that there are at least three of them.’
Best sighed. That made things very difficult. How was he going to begin on identifying the extra body if no one knew who the bona fide corpses were? It seemed ridiculous. ‘But surely the other bargees know who they are?’
‘No, not really.’ Thornley paused, then corrected Best carefully, ‘The boatmen come from all over the place.’ The Sergeant said nothing and waited. The man looked unhappy, as if suspecting that much of this trouble was going to come right down on his head. ‘They meet up here and there at the locks.’ He tugged at the stiff collar constraining his scrawny neck. ‘But don’t necessarily get to know each other’s names.’ He paused before adding, ‘Well, not their real names anyway. Sometimes, just their nicknames.’
‘Because they’re on the run?’
Best knew that, like the railway construction sites, the canals had a reputation for giving sanctuary to men who had good reason for forgetting their real names.
‘No, not necessarily.’ The traffic manager looked mildly offended. ‘There’s not as much of that as people think, you know. A lot of them are good family men. It’s just, well, it’s just their way.’
They were in the mortuary of the Marylebone Workhouse which Charles Dickens had described as ‘a kind of crypt devoted to the warehousing of parochial coffins’. The mournful Thornley looked right at home in such bleak surroundings but Sergeant Best did not. It was not so much the vividness of his black hair or his extraordinary greeny-grey eyes and immaculate clothes, but the strong feeling of life emanating from him – despite his serious concentration on police business. Despite even the deep sadness at the heart of him.
‘The boatmen think he might be Birmingham Joe – or Jack,’ offered Thornley, pointing to the youngest and most badly burned of the three stocky bodies. ‘But, I don’t know … the lads are the hardest to recognize. So many of them – and they come from … well, from all over,’ he trailed off.
The three bodies lying before them on the marble slabs had been sluiced down to remove some of the grey canal mud. It was a warm day and as the water drained off and the dampness evaporated they started to look more human. Hair began to spring away from heads and cheeks in a disconcerting manner and clothing to take on its proper hue. Best preferred bodies not to look so human.
‘Let’s start with the man you do know, shall we?’ he said briskly. ‘This is the captain, yes?’
Suddenly, tears welled into Thornley’s eyes. He was touched, Best suspected, by genuine pity at the sight of Baxton’s badly burned hands and smashed skull – and the heavy knowledge of the trouble the Grand Junction Canal, and thus himself, could be in.
Signalling young PC Smith to follow him with his notebook, Best snapped out, ‘Charles Baxton? Yes?’
Thornley pulled himself up and responded, ‘Yes. Charles Baxton. Been working for us for – for quite a few years. In his mid-thirties, I’d say, and he’s from Loughborough, in Leicestershire.’
‘Family?’
Thornton nodded sadly. ‘Yes. Wife and four children, too, they tell me.’
‘God rest his soul.’
‘Yes.’
‘And this one? What have you got?’
Alongside the remains of Charles Baxton was the body of a man in early middle-age. One side of his face was adorned with mutton-chop whiskers, the other was merely raw flesh.
Thornley glanced at his notebook. ‘The men say they think his name might be Tailford or Taylor. The captain of the Dee thinks he might be from Braunston or Brierley Hill.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘I’m not sure. Leicestershire, I think.’
‘Make sure you get all the details of these clothes,’ Best murmured to Smith. ‘This is fustian,’ he said, feeling the man’s dark jacket. ‘And don’t forget the buttons – whether they are brass or bone and so on. It’s specially important when their clothes are so similar.’ It was a lesson Best had learned from bitter experience.
PC John George Smith looked up from his notebook and nodded earnestly. He realized he probably knew more about clothes than the Sergeant ever would but he was grateful just to be there. Having been specially selected merely on the basis of his good handwriting and tolerable spelling, he was anxious to make the most of this opportunity.
When they came to the lad, the traffic manager could offer no suggestions apart from, ‘Maybe Birmingham Joe,’ again.
A silence fell on them as they stood before the woman’s body. Her hair was fair, her body young and slight but her face had been destroyed. Relatives attempting to identify her were in for a terrible shock, thought Best. As disfigured as she was there was still, somehow, an air of prettiness about her – or delicacy rather. Certainly her fair hair and white skin came as a marked contrast to the rest of the group who were all stocky, muscular and as dark as gypsies.
Best broke the silence by enquiring bluntly, ‘Baxton’s wife – or woman d’you think?’
‘Oh, no. Neither.’
‘How on earth can you be so sure?’
‘Women aren’t allowed on board.’
Best was incredulous. ‘You’re not telling me I haven’t seen dozens of women on these boats?’
‘Not these particular boats,’ corrected Thornley, his voice gaining confidence from the fact that he was at last able to speak with some authority. ‘You would have seen them on family-run boats, not on company boats like these. We only employ men, and no strangers are allowed on board – particularly women.’
His blind faith puzzled Best who had never heard of a rule which didn’t get broken. ‘Not beyond the realms of possibility that he would give his woman a ride, though, is it?’
Thornley reddened and shook his head. ‘You’ve seen the size of the cabins on these fly boats. The whole craft has to be especially narrow to get through the canals going north and with a full crew and such a heavy load …’
‘Wouldn’t be absolutely impossible, though, would it? I’ll grant you she may be a bit young to be his wife but she could be his daughter, though, or more likely …’
Thornley shook his head and said firmly, ‘One thing I do know, she couldn’t have been on board at City Road.’
‘All right, ‘ Best conceded. He felt sorry for the man. ‘But you don’t see what’s going on once they’re underway, do you?’ he added softly.
There was a strained silence. Thornley clearly did not want to make an enemy.
He was rescued by PC Smith who murmured quietly, ‘Seems quite good quality, this petticoat, sir?’
Best glanced at what once had been plain white petticoats prinked with pale blue ribbons, then switched his surprised gaze to the constable. ‘You experienced in these matters, Smith?’
John George blushed. ‘No, sir. Well, I mean, the lace and everything – seems quite expensive.’ He pointed to one of the silky blue ribbons, now recovering some of their sheen having been released from their muddy coating. ‘New, don’t you think, sir?’
Best continued to gaze bemusedly at the well-set-up Smith. Maybe the lad was merely very observant and thus a potential new local detective. God knows they needed some with some brains. Or maybe this handsome, blond, blue-eyed young lad just enjoyed fingering ladies underwear. Folks were funny, he had discovered since he joined the Force. Much funnier than he had ever imagined and rarely what they appeared to be.
‘My mother takes in washing, sir,’ Smith offered helpfully, ‘from quite well-to-do people. So, when I lived at home I saw a lot of clothes …’
The Sergeant contemplated this intelligence for a few moments before saying, ‘Well, young man, I think your mother should come in and give us her considered opinion on this underwear before we issue the description to the newspapers, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ PC Smith gulped.
‘And …’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘No word about this to anyone.’
‘Oh no, sir. Of course not.’
‘As far as the newspapers are concerned we have no suspicion she might have been on one of the boats. She just happened to be in the canal when it was dragged. After all,’ he said, reasoning with himself, ‘she could just be a suicide. Plenty of people throw themselves into the canals. Might have gone in somewhere else and been dragged along by a boat. She could have been on the bridge when it exploded,’ he went on. ‘Doesn’t seem to be burned, does she?’ he asked suddenly.
Smith shook his head.
‘Be interesting to know if she is with child, though, wouldn’t it?’
Smith didn’t know whether he was supposed to respond to this so confined himself to a guarded nod, hoping that his mother was not supposed to divine this as well.
‘While we’re waiting for the good surgeons to reveal all, we’ll get some plain-clothes men out and about talking to the boatmen and the artistic folk of St John’s Wood – see if anyone is missing. But discreetly, mind you. You know what people are.’
PC Smith couldn’t believe his luck, ‘You mean I can come too, sir?’
Best grinned. ‘I do.’
The now quietly plain-clothed PC Smith in a modest, dark-grey suit, and the not-so-discreetly garbed Sergeant Best surveyed the scene of the explosion and had to agree that the Press were right. What had saved the pretty little Italianate villas and whitewashed Gothic houses from utter devastation was that they had been set well back from the Regent’s Canal deep cutting. Nonetheless, in such an oasis of peace and sylvan rural charm such an occurrence must have seemed doubly shocking.
Best knew that St John’s Wood was a mecca for artists and writers. He had read how James Tissot dispensed iced champagne to his wealthy patrons at his leafy Grove End villa. He had also seen paintings in which lightly clad languid and comely Grecian and Roman young ladies were draped against Doric columns or on tiger-skin rugs – all rumoured to have been posed in Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s spacious garden or in his remarkable oriental studio.
The idea of meeting such people was exciting and, PC Smith had to admit, the mildly Bohemian-looking Sergeant Best probably fitted into this background better than he did. But he still found it hard to get used to the way Best’s smile would suddenly flash and his eyes sparkle when he was amused or his interest had been aroused. Best seemed aware of the uneasiness his foreign-seeming vivacity engendered, for no sooner had his face lit up than he would suddenly switch off the lamp, letting his mouth harden a little – which, had he known it, only served to buttress the impression of quixotic foreignness.
Smith had been somewhat reassured, however, by the man from Scotland Yard’s instant and businesslike, ‘Now, it’s “Sergeant” not “sir”. You come with me, I need your local knowledge,’ leaving the lazy and slovenly Sergeant in charge of the local detectives and crony constables to make their own way. Then, flatteringly, ‘Where shall we start – John George, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir – Sergeant. But George will do.’ Unaccustomed to being asked for his opinion, Smith hesitated before saying firmly, ‘At Mr Alma-Tadema’s, I think, Sergeant. He’s an important man among all these artists so I expect his servants know what goes on around here.’
Best looked at him and laughed. ‘You will go far, young Smith. Servants are the fount of all knowledge. Our biggest problem is hiding this fact from their masters!’
The Alma-Tadema villa appeared unlikely to present the pair with that problem. It was in such a sorry state that it was doubtful that anyone was at home. More suited to southern Italy’s sunny skies, even when intact, its broken outline now looked forlorn against the grey and drizzling background of a miserable October day in London – a fact which was affording the newspapers untold delight. Cutting pretentious foreigners down to size was a favourite national sport.
To add a droll note, the famous artist’s garden was now littered with nuts. Nuts had been among the lighter items in the Tilbury’s load and, consequently, had scattered further and wider than heavier merchandise. The two officers now contemplating this odd scene were unaware that nestling among the almonds and peanuts were tiny pellets of blasting powder – which looked remarkably similar to nuts.
Two lines of stakes had been driven into the canal demarking the edges of the disaster area. The gap between these stakes was tightly packed with cinders, forming waterproof barriers. Then the pumping-out began. Workmen followed the retreating water down the banksides, clearing the debris, and slipping and sliding in the mud as they did so.
Back in the Marylebone Workhouse the inquest on the accident had opened. The jury retired at once to the mortuary to view the bodies and listen as Baxton and Taylor were identified by fellow boatmen and company clerks. No such help could yet be given as to the identity of the third crew member, the young lad – or of the young woman. All the boatmen expressed total disbelief that Baxton would, or could, have smuggled her on board.
The coroner asked Edward Hall, steerer of the Limehouse, what he thought might have caused the explosion.
‘Lightning,’ he answered promptly. ‘There was a lot of it about that night.’ He nodded. ‘A lot.’
Answers to questions about the exact contents of Baxton’s boat were less prompt and precise. In fact they proved quite vague.
‘Oh, you know – a few nuts and other things,’ offered a labourer who had witnessed the loading, ‘Some sugar, some bags, and some casks of – of all sorts.’
‘But what did the casks contain?’ enquired the coroner testily.
‘I don’t exactly know.’ The man looked about him desperately searching for help. ‘No, I don’t know,’ he repeated firmly when he saw he was on his own then mumbled something half to himself.
‘What did you say, man? Speak up! Speak up!’
‘I said, Your Lordship,’ he muttered miserably, ‘that it’s more than my place is worth to know.’
As Best and Smith expected, Mr Alma-Tadema was not at home. But a neighbour was. He was a Mr Van Ellen, a stout, middle-aged banker with a very smooth, pink-and-white skin and cherubic features. In contrast, his manner was precise to the point of abruptness, probably, surmised Best, to stop you taking his babylike features at face value. He in turn had made it clear that he was relieved that, despite Best’s mildly outré appearance, he was not ‘one of those daubers’.
‘No, Sergeant, neither I nor my family have heard about any young lady being missing.’
The Sergeant doubted whether the family had been asked. ‘Perhaps, sir,’ he said mildly, ‘the ladies, not being as busy as yourself, may have heard of some servant problem or …?’
‘Oh, that’s most unlikely, Officer,’ said the banker dismissively. ‘Most unlikely. You see, they have very little to do with our neighbours.’ He made the word sound pejorative.
Best firmed up his voice so that a refusal would tend to lead to confrontation, something he suspected from which the foreign-born Mr Van Ellen would shrink. ‘I assure you that sometimes the most seemingly unimportant information can be of assistance.’ There was an awkward silence. ‘And I’m sure the commissioner would be most obliged for your assistance,’ he added. Thus implying that Van Ellen was on intimate terms with Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson while hinting that co-operation with the police was the decent English thing to do.
‘Very well, Officer,’ he shrugged, ‘I am persuaded.’ He picked up a silver handbell from a side table, then added suddenly, ‘But I’m sure you would be better employed talking to some of my neighbours who seem to have ladies coming and going with great regularity.’ He paused, suddenly aware that his remark might seem improper, ‘As artists’ models, of course.’
‘Of course, sir, of course. We will be talking to everyone.’ Over Van Ellen’s shoulder, he could see into Alma-Tadema’s garden. Glinting in the weak sun on the far side was the windowed wall of what he guessed was the artist’s studio. Was the banker jealous of these artists who were flouting convention, getting away with it – and becoming very wealthy in the process? Or was the ire more personal? Had, perhaps, the colourful Alma-Tadema been attracting the notice of the ladies of the Van Ellen household?
After Van Ellen had given the crisply pinnied parlour-maid her instructions to rally the family, Best murmured casually, ‘And, perhaps, while I am talking to the ladies, Constable Smith could be having a brief word with the servants?’
‘Oh, I really don’t think they could possibly know anything,’ said Van Ellen in a manner which doubtless brooked no refusal at his bank.
Best nodded as though agreeing, but added, man-to-man, ‘Unfortunately, I do have to assure the commissioner that I have been absolutely thorough. You understand my problem, sir. And servants do tend to know other servants – so it’s always possible …’ he shrugged, ‘just a formality.’ He pushed Smith after the retreating parlour-maid as though the arrangement was a foregone conclusion. ‘Your family consists of, sir?’
As though in answer, two ladies entered the room. One was a tall, apologetically plain, young girl; the other a homely, though quite handsome, middle-aged woman encased in a dark-red dress heavily embroidered in black and set off with masses of jet jewellery – all of which rather overwhelmed her.
While they were being introduced as Van Ellen’s wife and daughter, a young man wearing city clothes and a pained expression came into the parlour – carelessly letting the door bang behind him. His expression did not improve on meeting Best. ‘I would have thought you could be better employed keeping that rabble outside in order. It really is too much. The omnibus companies are running special excursions, for God’s sake!’
‘Roger usually enjoys walking along the canal towpath in the evenings,’ said Mrs Van Ellen by way of excusing his rudeness. ‘It helps him to relax after his day in the city.’
This did not please Roger either. He coloured up and snapped, ‘Mother, you do exaggerate. I only go down there occasionally.’
Now why would that bother you, wondered Best? It came as no surprise to him that the young man, familiar as he was with the canal, could offer no suggestions as to whose body the fourth victim might be. ‘Apart from some silly maidservant finding herself in trouble!’ Best wanted to punch him. No, he had not been on the towpath the previous evening. He had been dining out in St James’s.
Best was not sorry when the parlour-maid reappeared with a message that a constable had called and left word that he should return to the Yard – at once.