Behind Closed Doors E-Book

Brian L. Porter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Autumn, 1888. While the citizens of fog-shrouded London are horrified by Jack the Ripper's murder spree, another, less publicized killer is at large.

Each murder takes place right after the Ripper killings, on board the carriages of the London Metropolitan Railway. Inspector Albert Norris is charged with bringing the killer to justice, but clues are few and the killer's motive unclear.

As authorities try to maintain confidence in the railway system's safety, Norris can count on little help from above. Can he solve the inexplicable series of murders before the killer strikes again?

Leseprobe

Behind Closed Doors

Brian L Porter

Copyright (C) 2011 Brian L Porter

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

Edited by Lorna Read

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedication

Behind Closed Doors is dedicated to the memory of Enid Ann Porter, (1914 – 2004), to Juliet, and to Jennie and the staff, volunteers, and four legged residents of The Mayflower Animal Sanctuary, Doncaster, UK. Keep up the great work, people!

Introduction

The year 1888 remains memorable for many different reasons. In the USA, blizzards swept across the country, claiming the lives of hundreds of innocent souls. In Germany, Wilhelm II was crowned Emperor, and in London, in June of that year, Annie Besant organized the famed matchgirls' strike, which was to have future implications for the working classes within the great hub of the British Empire.

It was, however, within the annals of crime that the year passed most memorably into history, for 1888 was the year in which the city of London was rocked to its core by the most vicious and diabolical series of murders ever recorded in the history of such events in the United Kingdom. In the space of a few short weeks, the great metropolis was to be witness to a series of murders most foul, which, to this very day, have ensured lasting immortality and infamy for their perpetrator. The streets of the Whitechapel and Spitalfields areas, in particular, became streets of fear, as the unknown and, to this day, unidentified assailant, known only as Jack the Ripper, seemed to appear and disappear like a wraith in the night, leaving a trail of blood, death, and terror in his wake.

Little, however, is known of another series of murders which took place in London at that time. As Jack the Ripper struck with apparent impunity on the mean, filthy, rat-infested streets of London's East End, another, less spectacular, but no less dangerous killer was on the prowl, hardly a stone's-throw from the scenes of the Ripper's handiwork, the killer striking with unerring regularity, less than twenty-four hours after the murders of the Ripper himself.

With the Metropolitan police force's resources stretched almost to their limit in their search for Jack the Ripper, and with the banner headlines of the popular press screaming of his atrocities with almost daily regularity, it is little surprise that the story of the second, rather less newsworthy series of murders has been relegated to little more than a footnote in history. Yet, with political machinations taking place to suppress news of the second string of killings in an attempt to avoid a massive public backlash against not only the police, but the government too, and an investigation hampered by interference at many levels of authority, the story of the so-called Underground Murders is one that should, and will, be told in the following pages.

Today, the London Underground, known almost universally as The Tube, carries millions of passengers every year in relative comfort and safety, both above and below the streets of the capital. Back in the days of Queen Victoria, however, the Underground Railway was a new and innovative feat of engineering brilliance, which was yet to make its permanent mark on the infrastructure of the city. With steam locomotives and cold and often uncomfortable carriages plagued by noxious fumes from the locomotives and the tunnels, it was nonetheless popular, especially with the working classes, for whom it provided a cheap and for the most part ultra-reliable means of travelling far greater distances to and from work – or at least, the search for work – than had hitherto been possible. This new transport system was also to become the unfortunate setting for the murders which feature within the pages of this book.

Only the release of certain documents from Scotland Yard's archives, under the United Kingdom's recent Freedom of Information Act, has made the telling of this little-known murder mystery possible, so, without further ado, I ask you accompany me on a journey back in time, back to the autumn of the year 1888, and a cold, rather misty London morning…

Part One

An Early Morning Caller

“Albert, the dog.”

“Eh, what?” came the muffled response from a sleepy Albert Norris, his head tucked away under his pillow, as the first wash of morning light encroached through the curtained window into the bedroom.

“I said, the dog needs to go out. He's scratching at the door.”

Norris emerged from under the pillow. His hair was tousled from a night's tossing and turning and he looked at his wife as she nudged him forcibly in the ribs with her elbow.

“Okay, Betty, I'm going,” he replied, as he slowly extricated himself from the warmth of his bed, his feet slipping, almost as if by magic, into the carpet slippers which sat in their usual place beside the bed. Norris trudged sleepily across the room, stopping only to pick up and pull on his plaid dressing gown, a Christmas gift from his wife the previous year, then opened the door, allowing the entry of a scruffy black terrier of indeterminate parentage. The mutt immediately bypassed Norris and jumped on the bed, smothering his mistress's face with affectionate licks as his tail wagged non-stop with excitement.

“Bert!” she shouted at her husband, who, as was usual upon Billy the dog's daily entrance to their room, stood watching the performance with a huge grin on his face.

“Alright, I know. Billy, come on, you mad hound,” he called, and the terrier leaped from the bed and quickly followed Norris as he went down the stairs and opened the back door of their neat terraced home, to allow the dog to roam freely in the small back garden.

Albert Norris spent the next five minutes making a pot of steaming hot tea, then, leaving Billy to enjoy himself in the garden, he returned to the bedroom with cups of tea for his wife and himself.

“One day, Bert, that dog will learn not to jump on the bed in the mornings. I'm sure you encourage him.”

“Oh, come on, d'you really expect him to change? We've had him five years, and he's hardly likely to stop showing you his affection after all that time, is he?”

“I suppose you're right.” Betty Norris smiled at her husband. “The tea's good, Bert, as always.”

“My speciality, eh, my love,” he replied, his voice soft and soothing as he reached out and touched his wife's hair, stroking her long auburn locks and caressing her gently behind her ear.

“Now, Bert Norris, that's enough of that. You've work to go to, my lad. You can forget all that amorous stuff and put it aside for later.”

“Well, then, you'd best be getting out of that bed and seeing to my breakfast, don't you think? Or do you want me to go to work on an empty stomach?”

“Bert Norris, you're a slave driver,” she said, laughing.

Betty thumped her husband playfully and finished her tea, returning the cup and saucer to the tea-tray. Five minutes later, she was in the kitchen, boiling two eggs and buttering two thick slices of bread for her husband's breakfast. Before the eggs were ready, their morning routine was interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door.

“I'll go,” said Norris. He walked briskly from the kitchen and along the narrow hallway. He paused at the door to turn the key in the lock and then opened it to reveal a young and seemingly agitated uniformed police constable, who stood almost to attention as the bulky figure of Albert Norris filled the open doorway.

“Constable Fry,” said Norris, recognising the young man as one of the constables from the station, though not one he'd worked closely with in the past. “What one earth brings you to my door at this early hour?”

“Inspector Norris,” said Fry, “I'm so sorry to disturb you, but Chief Inspector Madden sent me. Well, that is, the chief inspector gave the orders and Sergeant Wilson actually sent me, but…”

“You're babbling, Fry. Pull yourself together, man and tell me what's happened. By the look on your face, something serious is afoot.”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir. Anyway, Sergeant Wilson said I was to fetch you right away. All hell's broke loose, sir. You know as how the Whitechapel Murderer struck again last night? Well, the night before last night, really, and…”

“Whoa, hold your horses, man! I'm not involved in that case. I thought Inspector Abberline was leading the local investigation into that one?”

“Yes, I know, sir, but it's not about that.”

“Well, why mention him then? What's this about, Fry?”

“The beast killed again in the early hours of yesterday morning, as you know, and the mutilations were even worse than the others, sir, I mean Tabram and Nichols, and there's hardly a constable to be spared. Everyone is being drafted in to intensify the search, as Sergeant Wilson put it. That's why they need you for the other case.”

“What other case?” asked Norris, his face suddenly setting into a hard and professional stare as he waited for Fry to get to the real point of this early morning summons.

“There's been a killing on the new Underground Railway, sir. A woman, stabbed and left in a carriage, I've been told to tell you. The chief inspector wants you to take charge of the case. Someone has already been sent to fetch Sergeant Hillman to the station, too.”

Dylan Hillman was Norris's sergeant, the only man in the entire world he would admit to having absolute faith and trust in. Hillman and Norris had worked closely together for five years, and the bond between the two men had grown ever stronger with each passing year. At least, Norris thought, he wasn't the only man being summoned into the station at the crack of dawn. He could only imagine the scowl on Hillman's face when a constable knocked him up at such an ungodly hour.

“I take it I've no time for breakfast then, Fry?” asked Norris, knowing the answer already. If Madden had sent for him, it meant he was needed right away, not after enjoying a leisurely breakfast with his wife.

“The sergeant said I was to tell you that the chief inspector said, `Now means now,' if you'll forgive me, sir.”

“Don't worry, constable. I'm not in the habit of shooting the messenger. Just give me a minute to let my wife know I may be out for a long while.”

Norris closed the door. Constable Fry stood waiting, fidgeting and fretting as one minute turned into two, then three, and then four. Surely, he'd be in trouble with the sergeant if the inspector didn't get himself down to the station in double-quick time? After all, the chief inspector himself had summoned him.

A full ten minutes had passed by the time Norris eventually opened the front door once again. Betty had wrapped two slices of buttered bread in a slice of grease-proof paper, which he carried under his left arm. She had also made sure that Norris had eaten the two eggs she'd boiled before he rejoined Fry. They'd gone cold while he was standing at the door talking to the constable, but at least they were a source of nourishment for her husband, who, she knew from past experiences, could be away for many long hours when in the early stages of a murder investigation. Norris had kissed his wife on the cheek, patted the dog, who'd returned from his patrol of the back garden to scrounge any leftovers from the breakfast table, and was now ready to face whatever the day held in store for him.

“Right, Constable Fry, lead on,” said a cheery Albert Norris, as he rejoined the young constable. He'd had no time to shave, and his coat appeared more than little crumpled, but, as he walked at a brisk pace beside the inspector, Fry felt that Detective Inspector Norris, who he knew solely by reputation, was definitely not a man he'd like to cross. Norris had a `past', so he'd learned – though quite what had happened that had left the inspector in a sort of promotion limbo, no one at the station either knew or was prepared to say. All Fry knew, as he cast his eyes in the inspector's direction as they walked, was that the man had a certain air of authority about him; one that would brook no argument from a humble P.C. such as himself. Norris could be difficult to get along with, that much he'd learned, and he made a conscious decision not to get on the inspector's wrong side, if he could help it.

The two men soon left behind the neat suburban terraces where the inspector had made his home and found themselves walking along an already busy thoroughfare, as early morning omnibuses rattled along the cobbled streets, horses snorting and hooves clattering as they carried the early morning workers to their destinations. They were passed by three such omnibuses, each filled to the brim on both the upper and lower decks with passengers. Clearly, the advent of the new underground railway hadn't entirely stolen too much business from the omnibus company, as had been expected. There were still many residents of London who feared the new railway, preferring to travel above ground rather than risk the tunnels and darkness of the new transport system. Even though much of the rail network ran above ground, they still considered it too risky and avoided it as though certain death would visit itself upon anyone foolish enough to hazard a journey along its gleaming metal rails.

Street sellers were already at work setting up their stalls, a hot chestnut seller firing up his brazier, a match seller preparing his pitch and all manner of others making an early start as they went about the business of earning a living. For many, that living would be a hard one, as thousands of the capital's residents fell into the lowest category of society, that of the poor.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the inspector's house on Allardyce Street, on the morning of 9th September, 1888, just over twenty-four hours after the man who would later be dubbed Jack the Ripper had killed and mutilated the unfortunate Annie Chapman, Norris arrived at New Street police station, where his involvement with the underground murders, as the killings would eventually be dubbed, soon began in earnest.

The Body at Aldgate

Approximately four hours before Constable Fry knocked on Albert Norris's front door, at just after 2 a.m., twenty two-year-old Arthur Ward, employee of the Metropolitan Railway, began his systematic check of the carriages of the last train of the night to have arrived and terminated at Aldgate station. Ward's job entailed opening each carriage door and making sure that all passengers had safely alighted and vacated the train, and to check for any property left behind on the train, which he would then deliver to the lost property office. At such a late hour, it wasn't unusual for the odd late-night reveller to fall asleep in their seat and either miss their stop, or carry on to the end of the line where Arthur Ward, or someone like him, would gently awaken them and coax them from the train.

Each carriage could hold a maximum of ten people, on somewhat uncomfortable bench seats covered in a bare modicum of cloth material that added little in the way of comfort for those travelling on board this latest innovative mode of travel within the capital. As he reached the third carriage of the late night train, Ward opened the door and quickly spotted the reclining figure of a young woman in the corner of one of the bench seats, her head resting against the window of the carriage. She wore a green dress, with a pale brown shawl covering her shoulders. Her boots were well-soled, almost new in appearance and she had the appearance of a respectable young working woman, perhaps a nurse or a midwife, he thought, on her way home from a late shift at one of the local hospitals. He knew that not all nurses lived on the premises in some of the city's larger hospitals. His own cousin, Maude, was a nurse at Charing Cross, and `lived out' at her parents' home.

“End of the line, my dear.” Ward spoke loudly, wanting to wake the woman and see her on her way. “This is Aldgate, lady,” he tried again. “We don't go no further tonight. This is the end of the line.”

When his repeated entreaties received no reply from the apparently sleeping woman, Arthur Ward stepped briskly into the compartment and placed a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently.

“Please, Miss, it's late and you ought to be getting off home, now,” he appealed. Receiving no response, he shook the woman a little harder. This time, he was shocked as, instead of waking and perhaps reproaching him for his familiarity in touching her while she slept, the woman instead slipped slowly away from the window, off the seat itself, then rolled in ungainly fashion onto the floor of the carriage.

Up to that date in his young life, Arthur Ward had never seen or been in close proximity to a dead body. Yet, as he stared down at the figure lying at his feet on the carriage floor, he was in no doubt whatsoever that the young woman was indeed deceased. The blank, staring eyes and pallid appearance of her face were unmistakable clues, and if they needed reinforcing in his mind, that reinforcement came from the small but significant red stain, almost centrally placed on her chest, which was revealed as her shawl slipped back with the movement of her body onto the floor. Arthur knew blood when he saw it; he'd seen enough accidents amongst some of the labourers on the railway to recognise it for what it was. Strangely, his first thought was that there should be more blood, if what he was looking at was a fatal wound, but then, he was no medical expert.

He realised he was shaking. Shock perhaps, he thought, and his legs felt like lead, though he knew he couldn't stand there staring at the woman's body all night. He had to get help, to report his grisly find and so, with a superhuman effort, Arthur Ward forced his legs to move, as he beat a retreat from the carriage and made his way along the platform to the station master's office. The station master, Edgar Rowe, had long since left for the night and his office was currently occupied by the night-time supervisor, Maurice Belton. Belton was also preparing to finish work for the night, as soon as Arthur Ward reported to him that the train was clear and the station could be locked up until the early morning shift arrived, in little less than two hours' time.

Belton smiled as young Arthur entered the office, but the smile soon turned to a look of worried puzzlement as he saw the shocked look and pallor clearly apparent on the younger man's face.

“Arthur? What's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

“Worse than that, Mr. Belton, I've found a body!” Arthur shouted.

“A body? What sort of body?” asked Belton, realising as he spoke that it was probably the stupidest question he'd ever asked in his life.

“The dead sort, Mr. Belton. A woman, a young one, in one of the carriages. It's horrible, really. She's got a red bloodstain on her chest. I think she's been shot.”

“All right, Arthur, calm down a bit, there's a good lad. I think you'd better show me this body of yours before we go any further.”

“T'ain't no body of mine, Mr. Belton, that's for sure.”

“Yes, well, anyway, you'd better show me,” said Belton. He extricated his slightly ponderous bulk from the space behind the desk and made his way with Arthur Ward to the carriage where the recumbent body of the young woman lay.

After confirming what Arthur Ward already knew, in other words, that the woman was beyond any help from the living, Belton sent the hapless young man to find a constable, or, if one couldn't be found, he instructed the young man to run to the nearest police station, some ten minutes' walk away, and bring back a policeman.

Glad to be out of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the underground station concourse, Arthur Ward gulped in huge lungfuls of air as he arrived on the street outside Aldgate station. He was glad to escape from the all-pervading smell that always lingered within the confines of his place of work; a mixture of stale smoke, steam, coal dust and other noxious elements that hung like a pall on every yard of the railway. As luck would have it, within two minutes of leaving the station he turned a corner to find himself face to face with a uniformed police constable, and the young man quickly blurted out his story.

“There's been a murder, on the train, in the station,” he babbled at the surprised police officer, who, seeing the man's agitated state, took hold of his arm.

“Now, then,” the officer said, soothingly. “What murder is this you're referring to? Which station do you mean? Give me the facts, man, and we can sort this out sooner.”

“Aldgate station. Yes, of course, I'm sorry. I found the body in a carriage. It's a young woman and there's a big red wound in her chest.”

“Is there anyone with her now?” asked the constable.

“Yes, Mr. Belton the night station supervisor's with her.”

“Right then, here's what I want you to do, young fellow. What's your name, by the way?”

“Ward, sir. Arthur Ward.”

“Right, Arthur. I want you to run to New Street police station, it's not far from here. D'you know it?”

Arthur nodded.

“Good. Tell the sergeant on duty that Constable Wilkinson sent you to report the murder of a young woman. Give him all the details you can, and he'll send someone to Aldgate as soon as he can. I'll be there, waiting for them.”

“Yes, right. I'll be as fast as I can,” Arthur replied.

Police Constable Bob Wilkinson quickly made his way to Aldgate, where he found Maurice Belton standing on the platform, outside the carriage that Wilkinson assumed held the body of the deceased. Indeed, Belton had seen enough of the corpse and had spent little time with the body after sending Ward on his mission. Rightly, he'd also suspected that the less he encroached upon the scene, the less chance there was of him compromising any evidence the killer might have left behind.

“Mr. Belton, is it, sir?”

“Maurice Belton, yes, that's right, Constable.”

“The body, sir?”

“In there.” Belton pointed at the appropriate carriage door.

Wilkinson stepped past the night supervisor, into the murder scene and within minutes, he was joined by both a uniformed sergeant and a young plain clothes detective, accompanied by Arthur Ward, who waited on the platform with Belton. The detective, a Sergeant Dove, appeared to take charge of the scene, and it was he, a short time later, who soon sent Wilkinson back to the station with instructions that would see the crime reported to higher authority in rapid time.

Even Dove was unaware just how high his message would be passed in a short space of time, or that within hours, he would be joined at the scene by Detective Inspector Albert Norris, who himself was being summoned from his home and given some rather unusual instructions regarding the investigation that was being handed to him.

For now, Detective Sergeant Dove and Sergeant Lee made sure the scene was as secure as they could make it, and Constable Wilkinson was put to work taking preliminary statements from both Arthur Ward and Maurice Belton, though Dove was certain that whoever arrived to take charge of the case would need to speak to both men, too. For that reason, the sergeant forbade the two men from leaving the station until an inspector arrived.

“But my wife will worry,” Belton protested. “I'm already late home from work and if I have to hang around here for hours, she'll be certain I've been murdered or met with an accident.”

“Too right,” added Arthur Ward. “And my mum and dad will wonder what's become of me, too.”

Dove pondered for a moment.

Sergeant Lee provided the solution they required.

“I'll run back to New Street and arrange for a constable to get messages to their homes, if they'll provide me with their addresses,” he volunteered. “I can do that and be back here in no time.”

Belton and Ward provided the information Lee required and he set off to arrange for their families to be told simply that there'd been an incident at work and that they were both assisting the police with their inquiries and would return home soon.

Tobias Dove was soon hard at work, searching the carriage and inspecting the woman's body to the best of his ability. He wanted to locate as many clues as possible, to present to whichever inspector might arrive to take charge of the case. He quickly found himself baffled by the apparent lack of any substantive evidence, either on the body of the deceased, or in the carriage itself.

Joined soon afterwards by Sergeant Lee, who'd brought two more constables with him to help in the search for clues, Dove continued in his investigation until the arrival, an hour later, of the police surgeon, Doctor Roebuck. The surgeon had been summoned from his bed by a uniformed officer, sent by Lee as soon as he'd returned to New Street with confirmation that a body had indeed been discovered, and that foul play was suspected.

Doctor Roebuck busied himself with an examination of the body, during which time Constable Fry had been despatched by the chief inspector, himself woken from his slumbers by a runner, to bring Inspector Albert Norris into his office for a briefing on the case. As the ever-growing official contingent assembled on the platform at Aldgate, Albert Norris found himself seated opposite his superior officer, receiving a rather strange briefing. It was certainly one such as he'd never heard the like of before, in all his years on the force.

Instructions

Chief Inspector Joshua Madden sat cradling his unlit pipe in the palm of his right hand, as Albert Norris sat down on the opposite side of his desk, as instructed. Aged almost sixty, a little under six feet tall, with a waistline just giving way to obesity, and hoping to retire before the year was out, Madden stroked his greying beard and waited for the inspector to settle himself before speaking.

“Well, Bert, we've a real to-do on our hands, that's for sure. Sorry for calling you out so early, by the way.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Norris replied, though he knew Madden's apology would never stand up in a court of law. It had probably given the chief inspector great delight to summon Norris from his bed at the crack of dawn. “Young Fry told me there'd been a murder?”

“Yes, a bad business by all accounts. A young woman's body was discovered by a Metropolitan Railway employee a few hours ago.”

“On the railway track, sir, or on a train?”

“In a carriage, standing at the platform on Aldgate station.”

“Ah, so we can't be sure if the victim was actually killed where she was found?”

“Well, it's fairly certain she was killed in the carriage.”

“No, sir. I mean, if she was on a train, she could have been killed at any point along her journey. As you said, the body was discovered at Aldgate when the train was stationary. There's nothing to suggest that she was killed there, I suppose, as opposed to anywhere else along the train's route?”

“I don't have a lot of details, yet, Inspector. Sergeant Dove is on the scene and is carrying out a preliminary investigation of the carriage and the body, in the presence of the police surgeon.”

“I see, sir. Can I just ask why I've been drafted in for this one? I mean, I'm hardly flavour of the month around here, or anywhere else in the city, am I? Surely Scotland Yard will want to get their hooks into this one.”

Madden looked hard at Norris, his cheeks puffing out with barely concealed anger, which he did well to stifle before replying to the inspector's question.

“Listen to me, and listen well, Inspector. As long as you're on my team, you follow my orders, is that clear?”

Norris nodded but said nothing. Madden continued.

“Scotland Yard have got their work cut out in the search for this so-called Whitechapel Murderer. You know as well as I do that they've drafted in uniformed constables from every station in the city to help in the investigation. Stations like ours are being denuded of officers we can ill afford to lose if we're to police the rest of London effectively. We've lost five men to the Whitechapel investigation and I have to make the best of the resources left at my disposal. You, Norris, made a mistake ten years ago, one that cost you your place at Scotland Yard. Since then, you've done a pretty good job in my opinion, but you have a bloody bad habit of carrying that awful big chip around on your shoulder. Forget the past, Bert, and concentrate on now. You're the best man I have for this job, and I want you to lead the investigation.”

“I see, sir. When you put it like that, I can't really refuse, can I?”

“No, you bloody well can't. Now, are you going to listen to what I have to say, or not?”

“Yes, sir. Please, do carry on.”

Madden ignored the slight condescension in Norris's voice, but, as if to reinforce his superiority over his subordinate officer, he removed a box of Swan Vesta matches from a drawer in his desk and spent a whole minute lighting his pipe, puffing on the stem until the tobacco in the bowl was burning to his satisfaction. Satisfied at last, he spoke once again.

“How much do you know about the Metropolitan Railway, Bert?”

“Well, as far as I recall, it was opened in the early Sixties…”

“1863, to be precise,” the chief interjected.

“Right, sir, 1863 it is, then. It runs above and below ground and the steam locomotives that haul the carriages are specially adapted for running through the long tunnels underground. I've never travelled on it myself, but I've heard it's fast and efficient as well as being cheap. The downside, from what I've heard and read, is that it's smoky and draughty, and the smell of the smoke and other substances produced by the locomotives can be positively gut-wrenching for the passengers. The smoke fills the carriages, seeping in through every crack and tiny hole in the coachwork, and some people claim that riding on the underground railway can be bloody hazardous to a person's health. That's about all I know, sir.”

“Some of what you say is quite true, Bert, but there's more to it than that. The government is committed to seeing a great expansion of the underground railway system. It already carries millions of passengers every year, and has revolutionised the movement of the labour force around the city. Workers can now travel into and out of the city, to and from jobs they might never have obtained before the coming of the railway. Yes, there are still those who doubt the long-term future of the railway, and those who tell of so-called choke damp as being a terrible affliction travellers place themselves at risk of catching if they use the system regularly, but the Metropolitan is here to stay. Not only that, but the company has plans to expand the system so that it reaches even further afield, into the suburbs and beyond. Before long, it will be possible for workers to travel into the city from country villages and towns, and vice-versa, of course. Think of the economic virtue of such expansion, and what it may do to assist in the growth of the industry of the nation.”

“Sounds like you're an expert in the workings of the Metropolitan Railway, sir.”

“I'm telling you what I know, and what I've read in The Times in recent months, Inspector, nothing more.”

After hesitating for a few seconds, Madden then went on.

“Well, there is something more, in fact, though what I'm about to tell you is completely confidential. You may, at some point in the investigation, reveal this to your sergeant, but only if you feel it to be a necessity for him to share this knowledge, understood?”

Not sure what the chief inspector was about to reveal, Norris could only nod in agreement, and shifted in his chair, slightly uneasily. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear. Madden opened a drawer in his desk, and extracted a slim brown file. Placing it on his desk, he opened it and removed a single sheet of paper, covered, as Norris could see from his side of the desk, in neat typewritten script.

“Sadly,” Madden began, “there have been a number of threats made against the Metropolitan since it opened over twenty years ago. Most of the older ones can, I believe, be easily discounted as irrelevant to today's investigation. Others, however, can't be dismissed quite so readily.”

“Threats, sir? What kind of threats?” Norris was intrigued.

“There are people, Norris, who believe that the underground railway is not a good or proper thing as far as London is concerned. Here are a couple of examples.”

He began to read from the paper in front of him.

“ `Men have met their maker as a result of the greed and avarice of those who would turn the people of this fair city into denizens of the underworld. Be warned that their deaths will be avenged.' It's true that a number of workers were killed in accidents, mostly cave-ins, during the excavations of the original tunnel and some of the newer ones. This could be a valid threat from someone with revenge in mind against the company, perhaps a friend or relative of one of the dead men. `God will not allow this fiendish contraption, this infernal machine of the devil to prosper. We will bring about its ruination and force the Metropolitan Railway to cease its operations forthwith, in the name of The Almighty,' says another one. There are more, but they mostly follow the same theme.”

“But surely, sir, these are cranks, fools and idiotic protesters with more time and ink on their hands than real intent?”

“You're probably correct, Inspector. But, and we must be careful here, if even one of these is a genuine threat and someone has taken to murder to try and scare the good people of the city from the railway in order to force it to cease operations, or at least in a move designed to hit the company's profits, then we must be alert to the danger.”

“Yes, sir, I think I see. But if this is a random, motiveless murder designed simply to hit the reputation of the Metropolitan railway, we are going to find it even harder to track down the killer.”

“I'm afraid there's more. The final paragraph of this document, which was circulated to all senior officers in the Metropolitan Police, states quite firmly: `Any act of wilful sabotage, or potential wilful sabotage, violence against the person or persons of those employed by or being carried as passengers by the Metropolitan Railway, will be viewed in the gravest light by Her Majesty's government, such is the importance placed by said government on the future economic success of the underground railway and its implications for the future prosperity of the country itself. It is therefore imperative that any investigation into any such acts be carried out with extreme tact and diplomacy, with the minimum publicity being granted to the act, and with the outcome kept as close and private as can be allowed within the confines of the law.'

“In other words, Norris, you are to keep your investigation as low-key as possible, reporting only to me, and discussing the case only with those directly involved in the investigation. That includes your wife, and even your dog. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir, you do. I didn't realise this was such a high-profile case.”

“It isn't, really. And that's how we have to keep it.”

“But surely, sir, the press will be onto the murder in no time?”

“The government has certain powers to limit press coverage of cases which are deemed a matter of national security. This will be classified as such and all editors will be instructed, under the Special Powers Act, to co-operate in a partial news blackout. There will be minimal information printed, enough to make sure that there will be no embarrassing leaks of information from anyone privy to the fact that the murder did in fact take place, but the details will be closely guarded and any press articles censored by the Home Office.”

“Bloody hell, sir. What you're effectively saying is that I'm to be working with one hand tied behind my back, so to speak.”

“I'm afraid so, Norris. That's the way things stand, and you'd better be extremely careful where you tread with this one. Now, I think we've wasted enough time here in the office. Your sergeant has already been despatched to Aldgate to take over from the responding officers, so I suggest you get over there post-haste and assert your authority on the situation. Remember as well that the Whitechapel Murderer is getting all the publicity and attracting massive press coverage. Let's keep it that way, eh?”

“In other words, let the boys in Whitechapel run rings around themselves, while we keep a low profile and work in the shadows?”

“Something like that, yes. Now, you were about to leave?”

“Yes, sir, but, just one question?”

“Which is?”

“What about any witnesses? Won't they be free to relate what's happened to their families, the press perhaps?”

“They will be taken care of too, Norris. Never fear. They will be sworn to silence under pain of prosecution. A member of Special Branch is already on the way to Aldgate to ensure they sign the necessary papers that will ensure their silence.”

“They, whoever `they' are, seem to have this all sewn up, sir, if you don't mind me saying so. Do you really want me to find this killer, or just go through the motions and let the whole thing be buried under the carpet?”

“We are the Metropolitan Police, Inspector Norris. You will do all you can to unearth and apprehend the killer, and then leave matters in my hands. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. I'd better be going then.”

Norris rose to leave and Madden stared at him for a second before standing himself, offering a handshake across the desk and saying, simply, “Good luck, Bert.”

“Thank you, sir. I've a feeling I'm going to need it.”

Norris took his leave of the chief inspector, and made his way on foot to Aldgate, where he knew his sergeant, and indeed his close friend, Dylan Hillman, would be waiting. What, he wondered, am I to tell Hillman?

For the first time in many years, Albert Norris envied the role of the humble police constable who simply followed orders, did his job, and went home at the end of his shift. Whatever he and Hillman were about to become embroiled in, would, he felt sure, leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Already, the feeling that he'd be subject to political manipulation as his investigation proceeded was strong in Norris's mind. As he entered Aldgate station and headed for the crowd of police officers already gathered on the platform, he had the sensation that this case, like one a long time ago, might not really be in the best interest of his career, such as it already was.