trouser pocket. He then stood and turned to look out at the river, where a fully loaded steam ferry was leaving a
churning wake for a coal barge to traverse on its way up to Westminster. The manufactory chimneys of Southwark were pouring their incessant smoke into a grey sky. Idly, he looked at the mantel
clock and seemed to weigh how best to spend his afternoon.
He looked again at the advertisement Benjamin had circled, and, as if making a sudden decision, he quickly extracted a dagger from a drawer and slipped it into a leather sheath beneath his
jacket. His top hat and dark overcoat were next, and then he was descending carpeted stairs to emerge into a narrow alley that brought him onto the private wharf facing the river. In just a few
minutes, he was standing with a dozen others at the Blackfriars ferry pier.
As they waited thus, the gathered passengers heard the unmistakable chant of a street hawker coming down the stairs from the bridge:
‘ Eldritch Batchem! Eldritch Batchem! The greatest detective of modern London and investigator by royal appointment!’ cried a man in a garish rust-coloured suit as he walked
among them. ‘Hear him speak on “The Mind of the Murderer” at the Queen’s Theatre . . . !’
A playbill was thrust into Noah’s hand by the cryer. He scanned the first few lines:
THE MIND OF THE MURDERER REVEALED
Esteemed private investigator by Royal Appointment
Eldritch Batchem addresses the people of London on
the science of detection and on the special case of
the murderer . . .
He crumpled the paper and threw it into the river, where it was almost instantly sucked into the boiling water beneath the arriving ferry’s circular paddles. The swell
splashed up against the pier, a billow of acrid smoke washed over faces, and the hatch-boy on board yelled ‘Stop ’er! Stop ’er!’ down to the hidden engineer.
The gangplank was lowered into place and, after a sudden cataract of passengers off and on, the hatch-boy was relaying the skipper’s hand signals from the bridge to the engine:
‘Half-a-turn-astern! And another . . . easy now! Easy now! Full speed ahead now!’
Noah climbed the stairs to take a seat on the upper deck that he might better observe the passengers, who presented a common enough selection: here a group of enthusiastic visiters from the
provinces in their outdated fashions, pointing vigorously at the shoreline as if every warehouse were a palace and every spire the dome of St Paul’s. Here a minor clerk heading for St
Katharine’s, his mind occupied with how many wagons would be available to transport his hogsheads of beer. And here, sitting before Noah, was a governess with her young charge: a boy
whose clothes said he was from a wealthy family, but whose unkempt hair and muddy knees said he was still just a boy at heart. His inquisitive eyes seemed to be fixed on Noah’s wrists, which,
where they emerged from the coat cuffs, revealed the kind of scarring that comes only from incarceration in irons.
Seeing the boy’s glances, Noah winked and reached beneath his waistcoat to extract the dagger, which he used affectedly to scrape a clot of mud from his boot heel, enjoying the wide-eyed
stare it elicited.
The game soon ended, however, when the intended object of Noah’s trip walked by with a scent of perfume to counteract the river’s stink. Her linen and lace were suggestive, and the
flash of ankle as she strode made that suggestion fact: she was a street girl using the ferry to advertise herself to the many professional men upon the Thames. Noah stood and walked towards where
she stood at the rail, the line of her outthrust hip exhibited to best effect in the black dress.
‘Good morning to you, miss,’ he said.
‘I don’t talk to policemen, sir. Call me superstitious, but I just don’t.’ Her smile said that she might, nevertheless, make an exception for Noah.
‘What makes you think I am a policeman?’
‘I can just tell.’
‘Well, I
churning wake for a coal barge to traverse on its way up to Westminster. The manufactory chimneys of Southwark were pouring their incessant smoke into a grey sky. Idly, he looked at the mantel
clock and seemed to weigh how best to spend his afternoon.
He looked again at the advertisement Benjamin had circled, and, as if making a sudden decision, he quickly extracted a dagger from a drawer and slipped it into a leather sheath beneath his
jacket. His top hat and dark overcoat were next, and then he was descending carpeted stairs to emerge into a narrow alley that brought him onto the private wharf facing the river. In just a few
minutes, he was standing with a dozen others at the Blackfriars ferry pier.
As they waited thus, the gathered passengers heard the unmistakable chant of a street hawker coming down the stairs from the bridge:
‘ Eldritch Batchem! Eldritch Batchem! The greatest detective of modern London and investigator by royal appointment!’ cried a man in a garish rust-coloured suit as he walked
among them. ‘Hear him speak on “The Mind of the Murderer” at the Queen’s Theatre . . . !’
A playbill was thrust into Noah’s hand by the cryer. He scanned the first few lines:
THE MIND OF THE MURDERER REVEALED
Esteemed private investigator by Royal Appointment
Eldritch Batchem addresses the people of London on
the science of detection and on the special case of
the murderer . . .
He crumpled the paper and threw it into the river, where it was almost instantly sucked into the boiling water beneath the arriving ferry’s circular paddles. The swell
splashed up against the pier, a billow of acrid smoke washed over faces, and the hatch-boy on board yelled ‘Stop ’er! Stop ’er!’ down to the hidden engineer.
The gangplank was lowered into place and, after a sudden cataract of passengers off and on, the hatch-boy was relaying the skipper’s hand signals from the bridge to the engine:
‘Half-a-turn-astern! And another . . . easy now! Easy now! Full speed ahead now!’
Noah climbed the stairs to take a seat on the upper deck that he might better observe the passengers, who presented a common enough selection: here a group of enthusiastic visiters from the
provinces in their outdated fashions, pointing vigorously at the shoreline as if every warehouse were a palace and every spire the dome of St Paul’s. Here a minor clerk heading for St
Katharine’s, his mind occupied with how many wagons would be available to transport his hogsheads of beer. And here, sitting before Noah, was a governess with her young charge: a boy
whose clothes said he was from a wealthy family, but whose unkempt hair and muddy knees said he was still just a boy at heart. His inquisitive eyes seemed to be fixed on Noah’s wrists, which,
where they emerged from the coat cuffs, revealed the kind of scarring that comes only from incarceration in irons.
Seeing the boy’s glances, Noah winked and reached beneath his waistcoat to extract the dagger, which he used affectedly to scrape a clot of mud from his boot heel, enjoying the wide-eyed
stare it elicited.
The game soon ended, however, when the intended object of Noah’s trip walked by with a scent of perfume to counteract the river’s stink. Her linen and lace were suggestive, and the
flash of ankle as she strode made that suggestion fact: she was a street girl using the ferry to advertise herself to the many professional men upon the Thames. Noah stood and walked towards where
she stood at the rail, the line of her outthrust hip exhibited to best effect in the black dress.
‘Good morning to you, miss,’ he said.
‘I don’t talk to policemen, sir. Call me superstitious, but I just don’t.’ Her smile said that she might, nevertheless, make an exception for Noah.
‘What makes you think I am a policeman?’
‘I can just tell.’
‘Well, I
Similar Books
