Chapter 1
Bert Santorini hoped this wouldn't take long. He didn't have all night and despite it being almost springtime, it was still bloomin' cold. Princess, the old pony, swished her tail and gave a soft whinny. He climbed down from the seat of his ice cart and straightened the bouquet he'd saved to give to a certain lady who was annoyed with him at the moment. He put his hand on Princess' back, hoping to soothe her. "Don't fret, my lovey-we'll be home soon. Just got to take care of this bit of business."
He glared down the dark mews and tried to keep a lid on his temper. It was past time for the meeting and he was tired; Mondays were always a tough day. He told himself he should just leave, that he wasn't going to be dancing to a fancy toff's tune, but there was too much at stake. This was business, and there was more than a little money to be made, maybe a lot more if he kept his head and held his tongue.
Wind gusted down the mews, and Princess snorted faintly, as if telling him they should be moving on. "It's alright, love-it'll not be much longer." He glanced at the far end of the mews, squinting in the dim light. He and Princess were only a few feet off the Commercial Road; but the radiance from the streetlamps didn't reach this far, and the only illumination was from the two kerosene lights on his cart. It was enough to see by, but just barely.
He glanced up at the four-story brown brick office building on his left before turning and examining the two-story warehouse on the right. Both places were dark and closed for the night. Good- the last thing he needed was prying eyes. Satisfied, he turned toward the Commercial Road. Traffic was heavy at this time of evening, but nothing turned into the mews. Where was the blighter? Money or not, he wasn't going to wait much longer.
He whirled around as he heard footsteps coming from the opposite end of the mews. He had a story ready if it was a copper on patrol, but it wasn't a copper, it was the one he expected. Dragging in a deep breath, he readied himself for what might turn into a nasty row. As he exhaled, he realized there was something funny going on here. His eyes narrowed as the figure came closer. It was him, of course, and he'd not seen him since before the trial, but from the way his overcoat hung, he'd put on a good half stone or more of weight. "Guess 'e can afford to stuff his face anytime he wants," he muttered. Princess snorted.
"It's about time you got 'ere." Bert tried and failed to hold his tongue. But his visitor said nothing; he simply shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and kept moving.
"What's wrong with ya? Cat got yer tongue?"
Again, the advancing figure said nothing.
Princess whinnied again and tossed her head, jangling her harness. Bert was suddenly uneasy; something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He told himself there was nothing to worry about-he'd taken precautions. What they'd done had been much more dangerous for the toff than for him. He'd made bloomin' sure the toff knew better than to try to squirm out of their deal. He'd taken a big risk for this one, and he'd made it crystal clear that if anything happened to him, there was a friend who'd point the police his way.
"Come on, come on, pick up your feet and get your arse over 'ere. It's cold and you're late. I want to get Princess home. I've got plans for tonight."
But instead of moving faster, the blighter stuck his left hand inside his overcoat. Bert's eyes widened in surprise as he saw a pillow appear.
"Have you gone mad? Why are you carryin' around a pillow?"
But instead of answering, he suddenly increased his speed while shoving his hand into his other coat pocket.
Alarmed, Bert stumbled backward. He'd survived the crime-ridden streets of the East End by trusting his instincts, and right now they were screaming at him to run.
But it was too late.
The figure raced toward Bert, pulling a gun out of his coat pocket as he narrowed the distance between the two of them. Bert turned and ran toward the end of the mews. His only chance was to make it to the Commercial Road. But the cobblestones were damp, and before he could go more than a few feet, he slipped and fell hard onto the ground. He landed next to Princess, scaring her enough so that she danced away from him. He grabbed at her harness, his fingers closing around the soft leather straps as he tried to get up. But the animal tore away from his grasp, confused, and bolted toward the busy road.
The killer stood above him with the gun pointed straight at his forehead. Bert's eyes widened as he saw who held the weapon. "You. What in the name of all that's holy are you doin' 'ere?"
"My God, you always did ask stupid questions." In one quick movement, the murderer shoved the pillow into Bert's face, rammed the gun against the fabric, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was muffled by the traffic noise.
Bert slumped to the ground. It took only a moment to make sure he was dead. The assailant saw that the pony, frightened even more by the unfamiliar noises, had now reached the end of the mews and, with the cart lurching drunkenly behind it, ran out onto the busy street. That was good-part of the plan, actually. At this time of day, the street would be crowded with both pedestrian and road traffic. By now, someone would have spotted the animal and realized where it had come from and, more important, that something might be wrong. No one let a valuable horse and cart go running off on its own, not in this part of the city. Within minutes, someone would be here to see what happened and that was just fine.
The faster the police arrived, the better.
The killer carefully placed the gun next to the body, turned around, and walked calmly back the way they'd come.
Constable Poole spotted the pony and cart rushing into the heavy traffic of the Commercial Road. He raced toward it, dodging coopersÕ vans, hansoms, four-wheelers, and two omnibuses before he managed to grasp the animalÕs bridle. HeÕd been raised in the country, so he knew better than to try to stop the runaway. He ran alongside the pony, gradually slowing it down.
Poole petted the pony's head and spoke in a low, soothing voice as they slackened their pace and moved toward the edge of the pavement. Both of them were panting and out of breath as they finally came to a stop. "Not to worry, my pretty one, you're safe now. But where's your owner? Where'd you come from?"
By this time quite a crowd had gathered. "He come out of the end of Felix Mews." A flat-capped young lad pointed. "He come out like he was bein' chased by the devil hisself."
"Can someone hold on to him?" Poole called. He wanted to have a look in the mews. The owner should be close by; perhaps he'd been making deliveries or had stopped to give the beast a rest. But if that was the case, where was he? Whatever the reason, Poole needed to find out what was happening.
"I'll hold him," a middle-aged man volunteered.
Poole nodded and hurried to the mews. He stepped inside and realized how little light came from the street. For a brief moment, he wished he had his hand lantern, but he'd been on fixed-point duty and all he had was a truncheon and a whistle. He moved farther inside the mews and then came to a full stop. Even in the darkness, there was enough light for him to see a body splayed out on the cobblestones. Poole hurried over to where the man lay, knelt down, and shoved his fingers against the man's neck, feeling for a pulse. He prayed he was doing it right. But after several minutes of Poole prodding the poor fellow's neck and wrist, he was fairly certain the man was dead. The bullet hole in his forehead was a clue, but he'd been on the force long enough to know that people could survive all sorts of wounds, including bullets to their head. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and leaned back on his heels. That was when he spotted the gun lying next to the body.
Poole stood up and charged out of the mews, blowing his police whistle as he ran. Several members of the crowd surged forward, but he held out his arms. "No one goes inside here," he yelled. "You"-he nodded toward a street lad who was petting the pony-"run to the Leman Street Police Station and tell them we need help here. Hurry." The lad raced off.
"What happened? Why can't we go in the mews?" an elderly woman asked. Several others echoed her questions. They were a pushy bunch here in the East End. But Constable Poole ignored them and blew his whistle again and again.
Relief flooded through him as he saw two constables coming around the corner. For once, Constable Poole was glad that Whitechapel was such a high crime area that there were always constables on patrol.
ÒWeÕre lucky that pony bolted,Ó Inspector Vincent Havers muttered as he stared down at the body. ÒOtherwise he might have lain here all night.Ó The inspector was a tall, burly man with curly black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples and an elegantly shaped mustache. ÒDoes anyone know who he is?Ó
"Bert Santorini, sir. He's an iceman who mainly works in the West End, but he supplies some of the nicer pubs around 'ere with ice," Constable Farrow, one of the men holding a lamp, replied. He'd been born and raised in Whitechapel and knew all the locals.
"Does anyone know where he lives?" Havers asked.
"He lodges at Frida Sorensen's," another constable said.
"We'll start there then," Havers muttered. "Hold the lamps higher," he ordered as he knelt down, looking for the weapon Poole had said was next to the body. It was lying next to Santorini's head. Havers moved the weapon carefully, making sure it wasn't pointing at anyone before picking it up. "No doubt, this is the murder weapon." He raised the barrel to his nose and took a whiff. "I can smell the powder; it's been fired."
"You mean the killer left it here?" Constable Farrow said. "That doesn't make much sense, does it, sir? Guns are expensive."
Havers frowned slightly as he held the firearm closer to the lamp. "Indeed, it doesn't, especially when the weapon in question looks to be quite valuable." He drew back. "This is a dueling pistol. It's got fancy carvings on the handle, and it looks as if this filigree is made of gold. Good gracious, the inlay looks like mother-of-pearl."
"May I have a look, sir?" Poole asked. "It might be one that we saw at the station recently."
Havers looked up sharply. "At the station? Good Lord, man, if it belonged to a prisoner and was used in a crime, why didn't you confiscate it and take it into evidence?" He handed the weapon, handle first, to the constable.
Poole took the firearm. He said nothing for a few moments as he stared at the gun in his hand. He'd paid no attention to the details when he'd seen it lying next to the body, but now he knew he'd seen it before, and very recently at that. "Well, sir, we didn't confiscate it because it didn't belong to a prisoner."
"Who does it belong to?" Havers demanded.
"Inspector Nigel Nivens, sir. He brought it into the station because he was getting one of the guns repaired. You're right, sir, it is a dueling pistol. It's part of a set that Inspector Nivens said had been in his family for generations. According to Inspector Nivens, it's very old, something called a single-shot flintlock, which only fires one bullet and then has to be reloaded."
Havers said nothing for a moment. Poole shifted nervously. He wasn't sure what to do now. He knew that Inspector Havers had no great liking or admiration for Inspector Nivens, but he also knew that when it came right down to it, those at the top always stuck together. "Are you certain of this, Constable Poole?"
But despite his trepidation, Poole was an honest man, raised in the best traditions of his late mother's Presbyterian church; he'd not lie just because the truth might cause him a bit of trouble. Besides, he wasn't the only constable who'd seen Nivens' guns. "I'm very certain of it, sir." He handed the weapon back to Havers. "Inspector Nivens brought the guns into the station last Thursday, sir. He laid the gun box on the sergeant's desk and opened the lid. The two guns were inside. Several of us saw them, sir. Inspector Nivens held one up and told us the filigree design on the handles was an intricate working of his mother's maiden initials, so he had to be careful who he let repair the one that wasn't working. Apparently, there aren't many gunsmiths in London who Inspector Nivens trusted with his family heirloom. He didn't want the gold filigree or mother-of-pearl destroyed."
In truth, Inspector Nivens had used the opportunity to brag about his mother's family wealth, claiming the guns had been a gift to her grandfather by a maharajah of India. No one knew whether what he said was true or not; for that matter, no one cared. Every constable that had the misfortune of working under Nivens hated him.
"And you're absolutely certain this gun was part of Nivens' set?" Havers loathed Nivens as well, but before he questioned the fellow, he had to be absolutely sure of his facts. Nivens had been sent to the East End because he'd been accused of deliberately withholding evidence in a murder investigation, conduct that would normally have gotten a detective sacked. But Nivens' family had intervened, so instead of the man getting chucked out, the Leman Street Station was stuck with him. Furthermore, Nivens had recently solved a series of burglaries and sent the Irish brothers who'd committed the crimes off to prison, so his star was on the rise. Havers was no fool: Nivens' family was powerful, and it wouldn't do to start hurling accusations based on very few facts.
Poole stared at the weapon for a few moments and then met his inspector's gaze. "It looks the same to me, sir, and when the inspector was talking about the pistols, he claimed they were the only ones ever made with a gold filigree handle and mother-of-pearl inlays. But Constable Farrow and Constable Blackstone were standing there when Inspector Nivens showed us the pistols. You might want to double-check with one of them, sir."
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