Will Thomas: The Hellfire Conspiracy

“How did Scotland Yard know we are investigating Miss DeVere’s disappearance?” I asked.

“I rang Terry Poole last night, but it looks like Swanson’s handling the case.”

In Grafton Street, a grate had been pulled out of the gutter and a tall ladder set at an angle in the hole. A constable guarded the ladder as if all Bethnal Green were waiting for him to leave so they could steal it. Barker identified himself and was just about to take hold of it when a head popped out of the hole like a badger from its sett, and soon a pair of wide shoulders squeezed out of it as well.

“Barker,” the man stated in greeting. He wore a tan mackintosh, with greasy spots where it had rubbed against tunnel walls, and a bowler hat. He and the Guv were of like size and shape. He even had the same Scottish accent, but that was not surprising. Detective work, both public and private, was an occupation that seemed to attract Scots. In fact, so many were in Scotland Yard that some jested they had taken up the work when the Scottish kings the street was named for had died out.

“Swanson,” Barker responded. “Bad business, this. Is it Gwendolyn DeVere, do you think?”

“That’s for the coroner to decide. I’m just here to drag out the body and fill out the forms.”

“Who found the body?” my employer asked.

“A lunger, crawling after pennies and such in the sewers. Thought it was old clothes when she first came upon it. Her scream must’ve echoed for miles through the tunnels. You after having a gander?”

“I’ve seen both sewers and dead bodies before, unless there is something else of interest.”

The inspector gave a grim smile. “Not unless you are a connoisseur of sewer pipe.”

“The body, man. Tell me about the body.”

“I’ve got two men bringing it up in a tarp. She’s a’most the right size as the DeVere girl, but, no, it ain’t her. The body is too decomposed. Must’ve been down there a fortnight, at least.”

We stepped back as the first constable’s helmet appeared out of the hole. The second constable was pale as death and wobbly on the ladder. They set the burden down on the pavement and moved away. Without preamble, Barker lifted the tarp. The little face inside was bloated, the eyes swollen, the mouth set in a rictus. The stench of decay hit me then, and the hand of the grave clutched me about the throat. For a second, I thought I would be ill. But the feeling passed, which in itself was alarming. How dulled was my soul becoming to this work?

Cyrus Barker removed his hat and then gently laid a hand upon the little corpse. Inspector Swanson and I watched his lips move in prayer, and in unison we removed our own bowlers. Then slowly the Guv shook his head.

“I’m sorry ’twas not the child you were searching for, Cyrus.”

“Perhaps it’s a blessing, Donald, and the girl lives yet. You’ll send word after the postmortem, will you not?”

“Aye, I will.” Swanson turned his head, looking between the two of us. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered. “This is just what I need. Here comes Stead.”

“The newspaper editor?” Barker asked.

“The gadfly, you mean. The commissioner would rather have him behind bars than any criminal alive. No photographs, Stead!”

I dared glance over my shoulder. Stead was young for the editor of a newspaper as widely subscribed to as the Pall Mall Gazette, not yet forty, I should say. He was of average build, with curly hair and a short, thick beard, and he looked a perfect fireball of energy. He had been directing a young companion to set up a large tripod and camera. Stead had been the first to print photographs of people in his newspaper but had raised the ire of the British government a number of times. Surely, he could never put such a tragic sight as this corpse into his newspaper.

“What have we here, then?” he said, skirting Barker and bending over the body. “Oh, my word, it is a child. Who could have done such a thing? Do you know how she died, Swanson?”

“Won’t know until the postmortem, Stead, you know that,” the inspector said peremptorily. “We just brought her up and have no statement to make.”

“She is clad only in a chemise and bloomers. Another piece of humanity lost in the machinations of the slave trade.”

“It is just like you, Stead,” Swanson said, “to start editorializing before you get the facts. There is no proof that this girl was a victim of the trade. In fact, there is evidence to the contrary. The whole purpose of their operation would be to get a girl safely and in one piece to France, or wherever it is they send her.”

Cyrus Barker, who up until that moment had neither spoken nor moved, knelt down, pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, and delicately wiped the sewer muck from the thin neck of the little corpse. The throat was a battleground of bruises and pale, graying flesh.

“Strangled,” he pronounced. “Two-handed, by the look of it. I’ll hazard a guess that the neck bones are snapped-the child is so small.” He set the handkerchief in a ball on the cobblestones beside her.

“We haven’t met before. William T. Stead,” the newspaperman said, putting out a hand. “And you are?”

Barker looked at the hand warily, as if it were a cobra about to strike, then took it in his own. “Cyrus Barker. Private enquiry agent.”

Stead repeated the name for the benefit of his photographer, who had taken out a notebook and was now scribbling it down.

“It isn’t often the Yard works with private agents,” the editor noted. “How did you become involved in this case?”

“He’s not,” Swanson spoke up, anxious to take control of the situation. “Mr. Barker is investigating a child’s disappearance in the area. I called him in because I thought this might be the child in question, but it is obvious this one has been dead for some time.”

“Barker. Barker…” Stead snapped his fingers. “You’re the chap who advertises in our rival The Times. ”

“I hardly call The Times the Pall Mall Gazette ’s rival, Mr. Stead,” Barker said drily.

“Touche, Mr. Barker,” he responded, flashing a strong set of teeth. “‘A touch, a touch, I do confess.’”

“Hamlet, act five, scene two,” Barker murmured.

“Very good, sir. An educated detective. Truly a rarity.”

I thought Barker was going to correct him and say that he was a private enquiry agent, but instead he said modestly, “Self-educated, I’m afraid. My assistant, Thomas Llewelyn, is the Oxonian.”

I thought it politic to follow the photographer’s example and take notes, so I merely tipped my hat to him, and took out my notebook.

“Marvel upon marvel. It’s a wonder that the Yard has not snapped up such talent. Actually, no, I suppose it isn’t.”

“All right, Stead, move along,” Swanson ordered. “We don’t have time for idle chitchat. This corpse must go to the morgue.”

We all stepped back as the mortuary cart was wheeled down the street toward us by a constable. The lifting of the body released a fresh wave of effluvia, and Stead turned away with a grunt. He handed my employer a card.

“I should like to interview you for an article sometime,” he said.

“I decline to speak about myself, sir, but if it relates to a case and is a matter of public record, certainly. I do not approve of all you do but appreciate the campaign you ran to get Gordon relief in Khartoum, though it proved too late for Gordon himself.”

“The man deserved better than the shabby treatment Gladstone’s government gave him.”

“Is it usual for an editor of your prominence to stalk the streets of the East End?” Barker asked. “Surely you have men for that.”

“Oh, gaggles of them,” he replied, “but this is a personal crusade. Scotland Yard wishes to sweep the issue of the white slave trade under the carpet, as does Parliament. It is not a pretty subject, you see, and they think it better to avoid it. However, I intend to send the facts into every library, public house, and parlor in London and to force Parliament to pass a law against it, no matter what the cost.”