Inspector Abberline and the Just King Read online

  Inspector

  Abberline

  and the

  Just King

  SIMON CLARK

  Contents

  Who is Inspector Abberline?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Who is Inspector Abberline?

  If a man could ever be described as a rival to the legendary Sherlock Holmes then the real-life Inspector Frederick Abberline is that man.

  Frederick George Abberline (1843-1929) rose to fame in his search for the serial killer Jack the Ripper in 1888. He was widely featured in newspapers, which portrayed him as a heroic figure tirelessly fighting crime. Although Abberline never did catch the notorious Whitechapel Ripper, he was an enormously successful policeman, receiving eighty-four commendations and awards, as well as earning the loyalty and respect of his colleagues. Abberline retired from Scotland Yard at the age of forty-nine in order to work as a private detective. His legendary stature continued to grow and, without doubt, he became the most famous detective in the world.

  Chapter 1

  Isle of Faxfleet, Yorkshire, 1890

  Benedict Feasby of Camelot House climbed the tree with all the gusto of a saint climbing a ladder towards heaven. Pixie-like, bright eyed, he moved with the vigour and energy of a man of twenty. Benedict was eighty-one years of age.

  He whispered eagerly, ‘Halfway from the bottom, halfway to the top. Up, up, up, Benedict, sir. Seek and, verily, you shall find.’

  The sun rose from a flat horizon. Smoke from thousands of chimneys formed a hazy cloud over the city of Hull in the distance, while the mighty River Humber, which surrounded this island, glinted with flashes of silver. Sailing boats and steamers rode the ebbing tide towards the North Sea, which would carry them to mainland Europe and beyond.

  Benedict paused to check nests in the branches. ‘And the contents thereof,’ he sang under his breath. Using a pencil, he noted down species of bird, number of eggs, or chicks as necessary. He took the utmost care not to disturb the nests or their chirping tenants.

  Benedict continued his ascent of the oak tree. By now, he was fifty feet above the ground. Leaves rustled as if the tree whispered to him. A squirrel darted along a branch above his head.

  ‘Good morning, squirrel, sir,’ he said with a cheerful smile. ‘A lovely day, don’t you think? Though thunderstorms by dusk, I’m sure.’

  Benedict pictured his twin brother’s expression of delight when he returned home, armed with a list of birds’ nests he’d visited and animals he’d seen. All creatures were objects of wonder and delight to the Feasby brothers.

  Benedict’s hands and feet darted to branches and footholds in the trunk with the speed of a monkey as he climbed with absolute confidence. For a moment, he was enveloped in greenery. His view of the landscape was non-existent. In fact, being in the heart of the oak was like being in a green room, entirely shut off from the world.

  ‘Behold – a jade realm,’ he murmured. The air was warmer here, rich with the aroma of leaves and bark. Seconds later, he broke through into the open where an astonishing sight met his eyes. ‘Goodness gracious.’

  Benedict Feasby stared at the creature on the branch in front of him. Swiftly his eyes took in the wolf with the outstretched wings of an eagle, the legs of a crocodile and the oversized teeth of a leopard.

  ‘No … no. That’s not possible.’ He froze in shock, staring at the bizarre monstrosity. ‘You shouldn’t be up here. Not you, Sir Terror … you should be on your perch in the parlour back home.’

  Benedict moved further along the branch, away from the mass of greenery, and into the open air. Fifty feet below him he saw rabbits scampering across the grass. He continued to walk along the branch, while holding onto a higher branch above his head.

  ‘You are Sir Terror, aren’t you?’ He leaned closer to the wolf with the eagle’s wings. Its eyes of blue glass seemed to stare back into his. ‘Yes, I recognize my stitches on your neck.’ He reached out to pat the furry head of the stuffed beast. ‘Don’t worry, boy, I’ll soon have you back home. But who should be so naughty to put you up here?’

  The wolf hissed sharply – No! Not the wolf. An object hissed as it flashed through the air.

  ‘Oh?’ Benedict sang out in surprise.

  An arrow had whistled out of nowhere. Its point embedded itself in the man’s chest. Pain seemed to flash through the very marrow of his bones.

  Benedict released his grip on the branch above his head in order to clasp the arrow’s shaft with both hands. That’s when he toppled from the branch on which he stood, and began the swift, and decidedly lethal, journey to earth below.

  Chapter 2

  London, 1890

  ‘There he goes! Catch him!’

  The warehouse boss waved his arms as the thief erupted from a stack of empty boxes. Two constables in uniform pounced on the man. All three crashed to the floor. Arms blurred as punches were thrown.

  Inspector Abberline rushed towards the two constables as they fought the wild man.

  ‘Hold him down!’ Abberline shouted. ‘Watch out! He has a knife.’

  Before the thief could stab the policemen, Abberline kicked the knife from the man’s hand. He pulled manacles from his coat pocket and handed them to one of the constables.

  ‘Chain him,’ Abberline ordered. ‘Careful! This devil has put men in hospital before.’

  The thief roared with fury. Thomas Lloyd didn’t hesitate and joined the fray. He knelt on the raving man’s back while an officer locked the steel cuffs around their captive’s wrists. Thomas Lloyd was a journalist. He’d been assigned to accompany the legendary Inspector Abberline and write reports for the newspaper about the man and his work. Thomas had shadowed the inspector on several cases now, and hoped this assignment would never end. He respected Inspector Abberline and considered him a friend. In addition, police work fascinated Thomas. There had been many occasions when he had been drawn into the heat and fury of the action – just like now, in fact, as the thief tried to squirm from beneath Thomas as he knelt on the man’s spine.

  ‘I’ll cut you!’ thundered the man. ‘I’ll chop your faces so bad your own mothers won’t recognize you!’

  He tried to bite Thomas’s hand. Thomas shifted his weight to the back of the man’s thick neck. Their captive’s face turned crimson, his eyes bulged, and veins stood out from his temples.

  Abberline patted Thomas on the shoulder. ‘Good work. Just try and refrain from choking the fellow to death. I’d like to question him later.’

  ‘Oi!’ The warehouse boss waved his fists again. ‘There’s another of the devils. O’er yonder. By them doors.’

  Thomas leapt to his feet as a thin man with a shock of black hair disappeared through a doorway. Thomas raced after him. Abberline shouted what seemed to be a warning. The excitement of the chase had caught hold of Thomas now and he dashed out of the warehouse. He found himself in a paved yard next to a canal where barges waited for their cargos of tea to be loaded on board.

  The thin man bounded along the canal’s edge. Thomas had the hunter’s fever on him now. Catching his prey was all that mattered. The journalist saw that this second thief certainly lacked the physical power of the first. What’s more, the man had a distinct limp. Running appeared painful to him.

  This will be a short chase, Thomas told himself, exhilarated. I’ll soon catch him. Thomas easily gained on the limping man.

  Then the man
did something unexpected. He quickly stooped, pulled a rope from an iron post, before leaping into a small boat that lay out of sight beneath the wharf. The thief immediately used an oar to push the boat clear.

  Thomas judged the distance in a flash. He leapt hard. Cool air blew into his face. A split second later he realized he had, in fact, badly misjudged. Thomas fell short of the boat. Instantly, he was beneath that cold, black water. Bubbles rushed by his face.

  It’s all right, he told himself. I can swim. I’ll make for the boat. I can still catch him.

  The moment he surfaced the oar came crashing down onto this head. After that: stillness, silence. He realized he was floating face down in the foul water, unable to raise his head.

  I’m drowning, he thought. I am actually drowning.

  The water closed over him. He knew he was sinking to the bottom of the canal. Sinking down into death everlasting.

  The constable saw Inspector Abberline jump into the canal after the young reporter. The middle-aged man disappeared into those black, greasy waters and the surface became still again. The constable crouched at the edge of the wharf trying to see through the murk.

  ‘Inspector?’ he called, even though he was sure his superior wouldn’t hear him. ‘Inspector, have you found him?’

  The warehouse boss lumbered up, puffing, red-faced.

  ‘Both will drown, mark my words,’ panted the man. ‘I’ve seen it before. One falls in, another goes into rescue ’em, and both drown. That canal’s the work of the devil – it’s made many a wife a widow, I can tell ya.’

  The constable took off his helmet. ‘I’m going in.’

  ‘Then you’ll make it three dead. That’s hell water, that is.’

  Before the constable could jump in, however, the black surface flared into dazzling white. An arm appeared, thrashing hard. Then two heads broke through into the God-given light.

  The constable found himself in the midst of the fury and drama of the moment as Abberline swam, pulling the still figure of Thomas Lloyd. The second constable appeared. Soon the two men had successfully hauled Thomas from the water and laid him face down on the ground. The warehouse boss helped Abberline climb from the canal. He gulped for breath. Water poured from the heavy coat he wore. His side-whiskers were matted to his face.

  Abberline shouted, ‘How is he? Does he breathe?’

  The constable rested his hand on Thomas’s chest. The news-paperman lay absolutely still. His face had turned completely white, even the lips. Almost immediately the constable noticed a faint bluish hue creeping into that uncannily pale face – this blue colouring was a clear sign of death.

  ‘Constable? Does he breathe?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m sorry.’

  The warehouse boss gave a knowing grunt. ‘His belly’s all swollen big, too. He’s swallowed a gallon or more. He’s beyond our help. His soul’s gone from its mortal shell.’

  The constable and Abberline rubbed Thomas’s hands, patted his face, and repeatedly checked for signs of a pulse in his wrist and neck. The man lay in a pool of water. He hadn’t moved so much as an eyelid. The flesh took on the aspect of cold marble.

  Abberline knelt beside the man. ‘Thomas. Oh, my poor Thomas.’

  The constable wasn’t an imaginative fellow, yet at that moment it seemed as if the Angel of Death had alighted in that place beside the canal. The waters became still, silence prevailed, nobody moved.

  ‘The body should be covered,’ Abberline said at last. ‘Find a blanket.’

  An elderly man, carrying a broom, stepped out of an outbuilding. He had a white beard that reached down as far as his chest.

  The old man asked, ‘How long was he in canal?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Abberline sighed with such regret.

  The warehouse boss spoke up. ‘This is our sweeper.’ He glared at the man. ‘Get back to your work, Smith. This is no business of yours.’

  To the boss’s surprise the elderly man tossed the broom aside. What he did next was absolutely shocking. He knelt beside the body of Thomas Lloyd and ferociously punched the corpse in the back.

  The constable wrenched the sweeper away from the corpse. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’

  The sweeper said, ‘I worked on a fishing boat with a Russian. He told me that you mustn’t give up on the drowned. If luck’s on your side you can beat death out of ’em.’

  The constable snarled, ‘You should be in the madhouse!’

  The sweeper shook his head. ‘Death can be driven out. How long was he under?’

  Abberline looked up. ‘Four minutes. No less than four.’

  ‘Let me try the Russian ways on the gent. Let me try and beat death out.’

  The warehouse boss shook his fist at the sweeper. ‘I’ll beat the foolishness out of you! Clear out or I’ll break your filthy old bones, you—’

  ‘Let him try,’ Abberline said. ‘If there’s a chance …’

  The boss started to protest.

  Abberline silenced him with a glance of pure ice. ‘Let the gentleman try.’

  The constable released his grip on the sweeper and he lowered himself, with some discomfort, down onto his knees. Clasping both hands, as if in prayer, he brought them down hard onto Thomas’s back. Once, twice, three times. The blows sounded hollow. Like a fist beating upon the lid of a sealed coffin. The sweeper rolled Thomas over onto his back. He repeated the action, delivering hard blows to Thomas’s chest.

  The constable cried out, ‘Inspector, don’t let him do this! Thomas was your friend!’

  The sweeper delivered another resounding blow to the cadaver’s chest.

  ‘Enough!’ Abberline cried. ‘Enough! Leave him!’

  His words still echoed from the surrounding buildings when Thomas Lloyd coughed and opened his eyes.

  Chapter 3

  Thomas Lloyd woke up in his bed. Sunlight flooded the room. The sounds of London reached him: the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rattle of cart wheels, shopkeepers bellowing prices of everything from potatoes to boiled eels, a train whistle cutting through the sunlit day.

  Despite the brilliance of the sunlight he felt distinctly foggy inside his head. Yes, foggy, he thought, wondering why he couldn’t more precisely describe the sensation of blurred thoughts. After all, I am a journalist. Words are my business. Now I have gone all foggy inside …

  A hand touched his arm that lay outside the bed sheet. ‘Good afternoon, Thomas.’

  Thomas rolled his head on the pillow in order to gaze in the direction of the kindly voice. He saw a middle-aged man with brown eyes. He could have been a clerk, who worked quietly in the back office of a government building. However, that face … the small scars around one eye. Something familiar … ah …

  Thomas coughed. His lips tasted strangely bitter. ‘I’ve seen you before …’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘You are a … yes, I recall. You’re a policeman.’

  ‘I am that.’

  ‘You are here to arrest me?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’

  ‘Why have you broken into my rooms?’

  The man’s expression became worried. ‘I’ve done no such thing, Thomas. Mrs Cherryhome invited me.’

  ‘That I did, Mr Lloyd.’ This came from a shadowy figure beyond the doorway.

  ‘Then why is a policeman visiting me? Here. Today.’ Thomas spoke with difficulty. ‘I’ve committed no crime. Am I not a free man?’

  ‘Don’t you remember me, Thomas? I am Abberline. Inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Abberline? You never did find Jack the Ripper, did you? When was that? Two years ago? Yes, the summer of 1888. I wrote articles for my newspaper. Those poor women. They say the streets of Whitechapel turned crimson … I must sharpen my pencils. I have so many of them. They’re blunt. I must sharpen them all!’

  ‘There, there, old chap. Don’t agitate yourself.’

  ‘Is Jack the Ripper in this house, Inspector? Is that why you’re here
?’

  ‘You must remember me, surely, Thomas? We investigated the Denby case together earlier this year. Do you remember the Gods of Rome?’

  ‘Yes … Sir Alfred Denby died when gunpowder exploded in his workshop.’ Thomas sat up in bed, tingling from head to toe as the fog evaporated. ‘It’s all coming back to me.’

  ‘Good, but don’t get over-excited. The doctor insists you rest.’

  ‘I remember! Today we lay in wait for thieves at a warehouse. We arrested one scoundrel. I chased the other and … and … oh, it all goes to fog in here.’ He touched the side of his head.

  ‘You fell into the canal as you tried to catch a thief. I feared for your life, Thomas. Fortunately, there was a gentleman on hand who knew the art of … well … bringing the drowned back from …’ He ran a hand over his eyes as if remembering a sight that distressed him.

  ‘I was brought back from the dead? Resurrected?’

  ‘Ha, no witchcraft was used. The fellow knew a medical technique of some sort or other. What’s important is that I’m visiting you today: a living man.’ He patted Thomas’s arm.

  ‘Then I must have been unconscious for more than an hour?’

  ‘Not an hour, Thomas. You’ve not been properly awake for these past three days.’

  Thomas Lloyd’s face burned with anger. ‘And today is the first day you visit me? You wait three days before coming to see if I am still in the land of living? Blast you, sir! I thought you were my friend.’ Thomas flung out his hand. ‘Get out of my room! Get out of this blasted house!’

  Mrs Cherryhome stood in the doorway. ‘Don’t say such angry words, Mr Lloyd.’

  ‘I might have been lying here on my deathbed for all he knew, or cared!’

  ‘Mr Lloyd,’ said the woman. ‘Mr Abberline has been here every day since your unfortunate occurrence. He has sat quietly beside your bed for many a long hour. He has shown you the utmost devotion.’

  Thomas stared at Abberline. ‘I’m sorry. How can I ask you to forgive me? My God … why did I get so angry?’

  ‘You aren’t quite yourself, Thomas.’ Abberline smiled. ‘It’s perfectly understandable that your temper might run away with itself.’

  ‘But I don’t remember you being here. I must have been delirious.’