The Fatal Engine Read online

  “You are lucky to have caught me,” Blake said, who was gathering up papers into a portfolio. “I was just leaving for Axworth. I have a couple of businesses there. Will this take long?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about your dealings with Benjamin Roper.”

  “How do you know about that?” he said after a moment. “What has he said to you – and why?”

  “He’s dead, Mr Blake, and in circumstances that need investigation. We deduced your name from his appointment book. I understand you’ve been meeting with him at The Greyhound at Darnell’s Cross?”

  “Yes. Dead?” Blake sat down, visibly shocked. “And you think there is something suspicious?”

  “He may have been murdered, yes.”

  “Dear God,” muttered Blake. “That’s –”

  “What was the business you had with him, Mr Blake?”

  “He has – had – invented a workable sewing machine. I was giving him money to develop it.”

  “Would you be surprised to hear that he had been approaching other manufacturers?”

  There was a silence for a moment and Blake said, “Is that the case?”

  “It seems to be. Mr Williamson of Williamson and –”

  “Collworth,” said Blake. “Yes, that’s –” He hesitated. “Irksome, to say the least.”

  “Did you give him money up front?”

  “Yes – in cash.” He gave a groan. “Hard bloody cash! Look, I know it must look to you like foolishness, but the man is a genius – was a genius – and not just in my opinion. I’m sure James Williamson thought so too – he’s not one to be gulled, he’s as shrewd as they come. How much did he give him?”

  “I don’t think that is relevant,” said Giles. “But clearly you gave him enough to hurt you, Mr Blake.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Blake. “I was hoping for a good result, and now –” He shook his head. “In this business you take risks. Risk is part of it, and not being afraid to take it, but I really didn’t think that Roper was a risk.”

  “So you can’t think of any reason that Roper would behave in such an underhand manner? Did he have a mistress to keep happy or gambling habits? The money he received from you and Mr Williamson seems have disappeared.”

  “He certainly did not confide in me. I know next to nothing about him, except his work. That’s all I needed to know.”

  “He never mentioned his daughters?”

  Blake shook his head. “I had no idea he was even married. I am quite surprised to hear that. He was an awkward fellow, the sort that stays a bachelor because he can’t find the courage to ask for a kiss at Christmas. And daughters. I suppose daughters are expensive. Mine certainly are!”

  “And you don’t know if he had any enemies? He never spoke of anything of that nature?”

  “No, we kept to the business in hand. That was enough. He always had some new development – last time, he had cracked the regulation of the stitch length. The way he described it – it sounded perfectly wonderful!”

  “But you never saw it?”

  “No, though not for lack of trying. I suggested on numerous occasions I come to his workshop, but he would not allow it. That was a little frustrating, I must say, but I decided to let him have his way. He gave me blueprints enough. I knew it was almost at the point when a working prototype could be constructed. I would hope that it still can. After all, I have paid good money for it.”

  “Mr Williamson might feel the same,” Giles said.

  “Let us hope it is only Williamson,” said Blake. “That he is not more of a villain than that! Good God, what made him do it? I did not keep him short. I was careful not to. That’s the best way to avoid your people giving in to temptation – remove the need for temptation. I pay my hands a full ten percent more than the local rate and I did not stint Mr Roper.”

  “And you were absolutely confident he would deliver the goods to you as requested?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had no sense he may have defaulted on his promise? That the machine might not actually work?”

  “He was confident and I believed him. That’s as much as I can say.”

  “Might I ask how much money you gave him over the course of your association?”

  “About five hundred guineas. Since May last.”

  “Five hundred guineas,” said Coxe as they walked away from the works. “I’m in the wrong trade.”

  “We both are,” Giles said. “Of course, he may have been sensible and banked the great part of it. We shall have to make some enquiries. If it is not banked or spent, then it may have been hidden in that workshop, which would be an invitation to theft –”

  “So you are thinking this is an interrupted burglary, sir?” said Coxe.

  “It’s a possibility. But whether it was opportunistic or someone knew that the money was there is a big question. And of course we cannot rule out either Messrs Blake or Williamson attempting to recoup their investment and the matter going wrong in some way.”

  “I can’t imagine either of those gents getting their hands dirty.”

  “No, but they both have access to ready cash to pay someone else to do a job like that.”

  “That wouldn’t come cheap, though,” said Coxe, “and who would do it?”

  “I’m sure you can think of a name or two,” said Giles.

  “Aye, sir, and I suppose a word or two with them would not do any harm.”

  “We shall be kept busy with this one, I’m afraid. So long as we have our desks clear by Christmas.”

  “With luck, sir,” said Coxe. “I told Sergeant Gibbs we would meet him at the coffee house in West Street. It’s just along here.”

  Gibbs was waiting for them in a booth, and they drank some execrable coffee while Gibbs told them what he had discovered.

  “There is a group of men that meet regularly at an ale house near Hannings’ Mill,” Gibbs said. “Young hands, mostly. They are a rough-looking lot, except for one of them, who is older, and he seems to pick up the tab for them. He has a look of a gentleman about him, but I don’t suppose you would say he was a gentleman, sir,” Gibbs added. “I asked the man who keeps the house about him. He says he’s seen him around, on and off for the last few months, but he doesn’t know his name and he said if he did know his name he wouldn’t be sure it was the right one. He always pays cash.”

  “Did you see this man, Gibbs?”

  “I did, as well as I could, for the room was dark, but –” Gibbs paused for a moment to consult his notebook. “About six foot, lean-bodied, clean-shaven, close-cropped dark hair, and dressed, as I said, better than most. Fancy silk waistcoat – checked black and white – he was sitting in his shirtsleeves with his back to me – and then when he left, he put on his overcoat, which was a distinctive item – with a big fur collar and cuffs, and gold froggings – bottle-green.”

  “Quite the dandy, then?”

  “Exactly, sir. And then when he went to settle with the landlord, I got a proper look at his face, but only for a few seconds, because he was careful to stand out of the light, with his hat on his head, as if he knew he might be recognised. And I could see why, for he had a great big hook nose on him.”

  “Like the Duke of Wellington?” said Coxe.

  “Aye,” said Gibbs.

  “And his hat?” asked Giles.

  “Just a regular chimney,” said Gibbs. “And of course, I went after him, but – you’ll forgive me, sir – I lost him almost at once. I think I was too slow getting out of my place.”

  “And this was last night?” Giles said.

  “At a little after nine,” said Gibbs. “He bought them their supper and a few jugs of beer. Happens every fortnight, so the landlord said.”

  “Nothing against the law in that,” said Coxe.

  Giles took The Ballad of Crimson Mary from his pocket and laid it on the table.

  “Is there anything of the man you saw in this, Sergeant Gibbs?”

  Gibbs studied at moment and said,
“That’s his nose, certainly.”

  “Inspector Coxe, I think you should go with Sergeant Gibbs and press that landlord a little more for a name,” said Giles. “Even if it is only an alias it will be something to start with. Sergeant, I think you have a list of printers for me?”

  “Here you are, sir,” said Gibbs. “I’ve done half of them.”

  “Then I will do the rest,” said Giles, glancing at the three names that Gibbs had not crossed off his list. “We will meet back at the station office at six.”

  This was weary work. Making his way through the grimy, insalubrious streets of Market Craven in a sleet storm, searching out obscure printing shops through a wall of sleet, Giles wondered why he was so doggedly following this particular scent. As Coxe had pointed out, no crime had yet been committed. Depending on how one looked at it, the leaflets could be seen as inflammatory, and at the same time meaningless. However, he knew that the majority of the members of the Watch Committee would be extremely anxious about any developments suggesting that the working man might combine with his fellows and agitate for better conditions. Revolution was to be feared – the horrors of France sixty years ago should not be forgotten – and any green shoot of insurrection must be stamped on.

  This was what had happened twenty years ago, of course, when Crimson Mary had first appeared in Northminster, and justice had perhaps not been served as it should. He had glanced over the record of the cases, and as O’Brien had suggested, the facts had made him uneasy. The men had been hanged on the slightest available evidence. Those circumstances would have to be investigated more closely. It was possible that they had some bearing on the resurrection of the spectre of Crimson Mary. He could not help thinking that this might be the beginning of something dangerous: an old resentment of authority, stoked by a cruel and unnecessary injustice.

  He visited the last printer’s shop on the list. Disappointingly, they could not help him. They did nothing but print fancy labels to be pasted on confectionery boxes, and consequently the shop was awash with engravings of holly and flaming puddings for the coming season. He left them and was about to turn back to the Station House when he glimpsed a tall, lean figure in a fur-trimmed coat, crossing the street at the far end. He hastened up the steep hill after him, realising he was coming from the direction of the printer’s shop that he had visited previously.

  He soon lost sight of him, but it was enough to send him back to the second printer’s shop. He realised that there had been something about the manner of the man he had spoken to that had been unsettling.

  From the expression of the shop man as he walked in, he could tell that his instincts had been correct.

  “Was there something else, sir?” he said.

  “Have you just had a customer?”

  “No, there’s been no one here since you were here, sir.”

  “Are you quite sure about that?” There was a pause. “No one came in and collected an order, perhaps?”

  The printer scratched his head.

  “Well, perhaps.” There was such a pause that Giles was convinced that he had been lying. “Perhaps the boy dealt with it. I was in the back. I may have heard something.”

  “Then get the boy for me, would you?” said Giles.

  “And who are you to be asking all these questions?”

  “A police officer,” said Giles. “The boy, if you please?”

  The printer went into the back of the shop and Giles heard him speaking to the boy. It sounded as if he was briefing him as to what to say. Giles would have leapt over the counter and joined them if they had not come out a moment later.

  “Here you are,” said the printer. “This is Joe.”

  “Did you just serve a customer, Joe?”

  The boy glanced at his master, seemingly looking for a prompt. This arrived in the form of a poke in the ribs.

  “Oh yes, sir, just now, sir.”

  “Describe him, will you, Joe?” said Giles.

  The boy again glanced at his master.

  “It was a man, sir,” he said. “I didn’t really notice what kind of man.”

  “Interesting,” said Giles. “And you spoke to him for how long?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Perhaps it would help if I asked you what his business was? Can you remember that?”

  “He came to get an order.”

  “And what name did he give?” The same bewildered look prompted Giles to turn to the printer and say, “Perhaps, sir, you remember the name? After all, you must have addressed the order and taken it in the first place.”

  “I’ll have to look in the book,” said the printer.

  “If you would,” said Giles. “I’m in no hurry. I can wait until you have the information I need.”

  The printer sent the boy back into the workshop and began, somewhat laboriously, to look through various ledgers as if the information he sought was from a century ago.

  Giles allowed him to continue with this folderol some minutes before closing one of the ledgers on his hand and saying, “Is there something worrying you about supplying me with this information? Has someone told you not to mention his visit here?”

  The printer pulled his hand from the ledger, glanced about him as if he expected to be overheard, then leant forward a little and said, “His name is Whittaker, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “It will be no trouble for me to have this place searched from attic to cellar. I’m sure you would prefer that not to happen. Please give me the details of the job that Mr Whittaker asked you to do.”

  “I will not, sir,” said the printer. “You are poking your nose into my lawful business and you have no right to do so! You are nothing but an agent of a tyrannous government and I will not submit to tyranny. You think you may stamp on us and repress us, but we will be heard!”

  “I have no wish to repress free speech, nor your right to publish. I only want to know what you have printed. What work is it you have done for this Mr Whittaker?”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I might deduce that this is not about principle, but that you have something to hide. The line between free speech and sedition is delicately drawn.”

  “I remember what happened back in ’20,” the printer said. “Those lads, those martyrs!”

  “I see,” said Giles, extremely interested that he had referred to those events without prompting. The matter was clearly in his mind. “So am I to assume that you have been at work for Mr Whittaker on something of this nature?” He took The Ballad of Crimson Mary from his coat. “I have no wish to destroy your business. You cannot be charged for simply printing these. I am not going to arrest you. I only want information.”

  “Information! The food of spies!” said the printer, not unimpressively.

  At this moment the boy came back into the shop. Seeing him, his master said, “What is it?”

  “Bill is having trouble with the plate, sir. He wants you now.”

  “I can wait,” said Giles, and so the printer left reluctantly. The boy remained and noticed the leaflet on the counter. From his expression, Giles wondered if he had seen it before. He pushed it towards him.

  “Is this familiar?” The boy nodded.

  “That’s what Mr Whittaker wanted,” he said in a whisper. “I was there the day he asked for it. He even brought in the block.”

  “And did he take it away with him?”

  “No, sir, it’s still in the print shop, I think.”

  “Could you fetch it for me? I only want to look at it.”

  “He wants a ream more printed,” said the boy. “It’s on the order list in the print shop. I’m not supposed to say, though. Not sure I should show it you either, sir. The master would have my hide if he –”

  “Then that will do for now, Joe, and thank you.”

  Giles decided he would leave the matter there. He had no wish to get the boy into trouble for his honesty. He had a name, at least, and he did not want the printer raising too mu
ch of an alarm. That he was rattled was interesting and significant. Even more interesting was that The Ballad of Crimson Mary had been reprinted.

  Chapter Ten

  Miss Roper’s bottle of cordial did not give Felix much to work with – there was, at most, a spatula’s worth of sticky residue which, as far as he could tell, was mostly crystallized sugar.

  A delivery boy had arrived from Throcktons (presumably arranged by Major Vernon) carrying two bottles of the original cordial, along with the grocer’s recipe. According to this, the mixture contained no opiates. Felix sampled a spoonful. It was excessively sweet, with a strong flavour of vanilla and caramel. The printed direction of the bottle informed him that “this pleasant-tasting, fortifying syrup may be taken as liberally as is desired, and is suitable both for young and old.” What struck him was that the odour and the taste were so intense and so sweet that it would have been a good way to disguise the natural bitterness of tincture of opium. He made up a sample with several grains of opium, and sipping it, found that this was so. It was then possible that she had unwittingly ingested large quantities of opiates over a period of time. If this was the case, who had tampered with the syrup, and for what reason?

  Still thinking about this, he made his way to the Infirmary, hoping the that Sarah Roper might have come to consciousness and have something more useful to say for herself. As he walked, he remembered the French letter that Major Vernon had discovered in Amy Roper’s room. Had her lover been in the habit of coming to the house, indeed to her bedroom? He had once seen a salacious print of a young couple taking vigorous and lusty advantage of a sleeping chaperone. Had Amy given her sister laudanum to make her sleep soundly, so that she could entertain her lover without being discovered? She would, of course, have had to increase the amount over time, to keep her suitably sedated as her body got accustomed to it, thereby increasing Sarah’s dependence on the drug.

  He went straight up to her room, and was glad to see she had come round from her stupor.

  The nurse informed him that she had vomited twice and that fever seemed to be setting in. She was sitting hunched up in her bed, the covers drawn around her, shivering violently. Her pupils were perhaps a little larger than they had been, and her pulse a little firmer. She clutched at his hand as he examined her, and said in a hoarse but feeble voice, “I am on fire. Am I in Hell?”