Ruler of the Night Read online

  They entered a short, narrow street, where a drover navigated cattle through a din of carts, cabs, and omnibuses.

  This was clamorous Ludgate Hill, at the end of which loomed the immense dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. But all Ryan and Becker paid attention to were the signs above the shops.

  “Lloyd’s Pharmacy, Grayson’s Cigars and Fine Tobaccos, Bryant’s Millinery,” Becker murmured. “Here.”

  J. W. BENSON

  WATCH, CLOCK & CHRONOMETER MANUFACTORY

  GOLD AND SILVER TIMEPIECES

  OF EVERY DESCRIPTION, CONSTRUCTION, AND PATTERN

  Bars protected windows on both sides of the entrance. Far out of arm’s reach, an array of polished gold and silver watches lay on a blue felt counter.

  “What? You’re going in there?” the constable asked.

  “I told you it would be interesting,” Ryan answered.

  When they opened the shop door, an overhead bell rang, and a well-dressed clerk glanced up from wiping a speck of dust from a counter. The moment he saw the common clothes that Ryan and Becker wore, his look of expectation changed to one of dismissal.

  Then he saw the constable entering behind them, and his rigid face tried to form a smile. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon,” Ryan said as he, Becker, and the constable peered around in admiration. Despite the noises from outside, Ryan was conscious of multiple ticking sounds throughout the shop.

  “I wonder if you could tell me something about this.” Ryan set the gold chronometer on the counter.

  The clerk straightened at the sight of it, then frowned at the Irish red hair visible beneath Ryan’s cap. “Where did you get this?”

  “It’s a police matter. That’s why I asked this constable to accompany us.”

  The clerk reverently turned the chronometer one way and then another. “Surely this isn’t dried blood. Who would do such a thing to so fine a timepiece?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to learn,” Ryan said.

  The clerk peered at it through a magnifying glass. “There’s a scratch under the blood,” he said, appalled.

  “Yes, from the point of a knife.”

  Now the clerk directed his attention toward Becker and the scar on his chin, seeming to believe that he was responsible.

  Behind the counter, a door opened, and a smooth-cheeked, pleasant-featured man in his late twenties entered the shop. In back, clinking and scraping sounds came from a brightly lit work area that had rows of benches with magnifying lenses attached to armatures. Apron-clad laborers peered through the lenses, measuring, shaping, and polishing small pieces of metal.

  Like the workers, the young man wore an apron. He held a pair of unusually thick spectacles.

  “Ah, Mr. Benson, there’s something here you’ll wish to see,” the clerk said.

  “You’re J. W. Benson?” Ryan asked.

  The man noticed the constable and frowned. “Is there a problem?”

  “Forgive me, but somehow I expected someone older,” Ryan said.

  “My grandfather and father were watchmakers. If you purchase a timepiece from this firm, regardless of my age, you’re acquiring a hundred years of skill.”

  “They brought us this chronometer,” the clerk explained.

  “With dried blood on it?” Benson asked with concern. He needed only a moment to evaluate the watch. “This is our Ludgate model. Top of our line. Thirteen jewels.”

  “Jewels?” Becker asked.

  “Rubies.” Benson removed a small tool from his apron, inserted it into the case, and opened the inmost portion of the timepiece, revealing the magic of its many moving parts.

  Ryan, Becker, and the constable peered down in reverence. The mechanism’s numerous revolving wheels seemed alive, its levers like arms. Its ticking resembled the beat of a heart.

  “A creature unto itself,” Benson said. “But where one piece of metal pivots against another, friction will wear it down. We attach a ruby to every spot where the moving parts touch.”

  Benson noted the position of the hands on the watch and compared them to those on a tall, oak-encased clock that stood in a corner.

  “Every morning, we obtain the exact time from the Royal Observatory. This chronometer is one minute slow, which tells me that it hasn’t been wound recently.”

  “Here’s the key,” Ryan said.

  Like the watch, the key was made of gold. Benson opened the back of the case and inserted the key into one small receptacle, then another, each time carefully turning. “It’s important to stop as soon as there’s a slight resistance.”

  He pulled out the watch’s stem and adjusted the minute hand.

  “Treated with respect, my chronometers are designed to outlast their owners,” Benson said. “But given the dried blood on it and your presence here, I suspect that this particular chronometer outlasted its owner much sooner than he anticipated.” His expression suggested that he would welcome gory details.

  “I regret that we can’t discuss it,” Ryan said.

  “Of course,” Benson told him, disappointed. “This timepiece was purchased within the past three months. I don’t need to look at its serial number to tell you that. The engraving of my initials alone on the back indicates my sole ownership of the company, which is a recent development. Prior to January, my brother was in partnership with me.”

  “Can you tell us who purchased it?”

  “Certainly.”

  Benson opened a door marked PRIVATE, revealing an office. From a shelf, he took down a long, narrow wooden box in which cards were arranged.

  “The serial numbers are matched with the owners.” Benson searched through the cards and held one up. “The gentleman who purchased this chronometer is Daniel Harcourt.”

  “Does the card indicate where he lives?”

  “No. But he did provide his office address.” Benson’s tone emphasized the significance of the location. “In Lombard Street.”

  Outside, the jangle and jolt of traffic was again overwhelming.

  As Becker hurried eastward toward St. Paul’s Cathedral, he wasn’t surprised when Ryan again tested him.

  “We had only a quick glimpse of the workers at the back of Benson’s shop. What did you notice about them?” Ryan asked.

  “They all wore aprons that went up to their chins,” Becker replied.

  “What kind of aprons?”

  “Leather.”

  “What kind of leather?” Ryan persisted.

  “Polished.”

  “Why was the leather polished?” Ryan asked. “And did you notice anything about the workers’ faces?”

  Becker concentrated. “They were all clean-shaven. So was Benson. So was the clerk.”

  “Five years ago, that wouldn’t have seemed unusual,” Ryan said. “But fashions changed. Wouldn’t you have expected a few of the laborers to have beards or at least mustaches?”

  Walking northward past the looming cathedral, Becker struggled to work out what Ryan wanted him to deduce. He concentrated on an image in his memory: the numerous workers leaning over benches, peering through magnifying lenses on armatures, adjusting tiny pieces of metal.

  “Hair,” he replied.

  “It’s hardly a revelation that mustaches and beards are composed of facial hair,” Ryan said.

  Becker recalled the clerk wiping a speck of dust from a counter. “But a tiny facial hair might fall into a watch that’s being assembled.” He grinned at Ryan, knowing that he had the answer. “It might not be noticed even through a magnifying lens, but it would interfere with the intricate mechanism. And Benson chose aprons that were made from polished leather because dust can easily be seen on them and wiped off before specks fall into a watch.”

  “I’m starting to believe you have the makings of an excellent detective,” Ryan told him, then smiled.

  Becker’s grin broadened, his exhaustion lifting from him, as he followed Ryan eastward along Cheapside. They passed a poultry market from which the squawking protests
of imprisoned fowl could be heard despite the grinding noise of traffic.

  Then they arrived at a deafening intersection of six bustling streets. The huge nexus resembled the spokes on a gigantic wheel. At the north end, two massive buildings dominated the scene. One of them seemed as enormous as the newly built Houses of Parliament.

  “Ever been here?” Ryan asked.

  Becker shook his head in awe. “Never. When I came to London, I worked in a brick factory in Spitalfields and hardly had the chance for sightseeing. Then I joined the police force and spent nearly all my time on patrol in Wapping.” Becker gaped at the imposing hub of six streets, feeling the power that radiated from them. “I’ve never seen so many richly dressed men in one place—and look at all the carriages with crests on the doors!”

  “You’re standing at the center of the British Empire,” Ryan told him.

  “The center? But what about Buckingham Palace, Parliament, and Whitehall?”

  “Governments come and go. Monarchs come and go as well. I mean no disrespect or ill wishes to the queen,” Ryan quickly added. “But wealth controls everything, and when it comes to money, there’s no more influential site on the planet than here. That monumental structure with all the pillars is the Bank of England. The one that looks like a Roman temple is the Royal Exchange, where almost every ship in the world and all of their contents are insured. The columned colossus beyond it belongs to the East India Company. These enterprises are the true controllers of the empire, far more than Parliament or anyone on the throne. This is where wars begin and colonies are created. And directly across from us”—Ryan pointed—“is Lombard Street.”

  They reached a varnished maple door between the stone offices of a real estate agent and a stockbroker. A gleaming copper plaque displayed the number 42.

  A constable approached them, obviously wondering about these men in their shapeless clothes when everyone else was dressed in luxury.

  “Scotland Yard detectives,” Ryan said, showing his badge. “We’re investigating a murder. Since we don’t have authority here, would you mind accompanying us upstairs?”

  “Perhaps I should consult with my sergeant.”

  “If you help us find the murderer, I’m sure that your sergeant will take note of your self-reliance.”

  Ryan opened the door, revealing lamps that illuminated a handsomely carpeted stairway. They climbed to a hallway of doors with shiny letters—A, B, and C on one side, D and E on the other.

  A deserted secretary’s desk occupied the space where F would have been expected.

  “No directory downstairs. No names on any of the doors,” Ryan told Becker. “The people who use these offices are so successful they don’t need to identify themselves.”

  Ryan knocked on the door that had a brass letter A, part of the address he’d been given.

  He knocked again.

  “May I help you?” a voice behind them asked.

  They turned toward a fastidiously dressed man approaching along the corridor. He was unusually lean with thin lips and spectacles perched on the tip of his slender nose.

  “We’ve been told that this is Mr. Daniel Harcourt’s office,” Ryan said.

  “Indeed,” the man replied. Obviously disapproving of how Ryan and Becker looked, he spoke to the constable. “I’m Mr. Harcourt’s secretary. May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

  “We’re from Scotland Yard,” Ryan said. He and Becker showed their badges.

  “That means nothing here.”

  “It’s something about a murder,” the constable explained in confusion.

  “Murder?”

  “Is Mr. Harcourt approximately fifty years old, of average height but heavy?” Ryan asked. “Bald? With a beard but not a mustache?”

  The secretary’s stunned features indicated that the description matched his employer. “Good heavens, has something happened to him?”

  “We need to speak to his wife.”

  “He never married. Why is that important?”

  “Perhaps his parents are still alive.”

  “No.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “Brothers. But both of them are dead.”

  “Then unfortunately it comes down to you. Are you willing to go to Westminster Hospital and determine if a corpse there is that of Mr. Harcourt?” Ryan asked.

  “Determine if…” Now that the secretary understood, his face turned gray. He took a breath. “God save him, yes. Whatever I can do to help…All day, I had a terrible feeling. Several important clients arrived for appointments, but Mr. Harcourt failed to come to the office. These aren’t the type of people whom it’s wise to keep waiting.”

  Ryan reached for the doorknob.

  “That won’t do any good. When Mr. Harcourt isn’t here, he keeps his office locked,” the secretary advised.

  “Then open it, please.”

  “I can’t. Mr. Harcourt has the only key.”

  “Which wasn’t on his person,” Ryan said.

  On impulse, he tried the knob. As the door swung open, the secretary gasped.

  “You didn’t test it?” Ryan asked.

  “I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing so!” the secretary answered.

  Cold air drifted from a shadowy office dominated by a substantial desk and a splendid Oriental carpet. When Becker entered the room and opened the curtains, he revealed two red Moroccan leather chairs, a pedestal with a globe of the world on it, and a painting of a stream flowing past the ruins of an abbey. Ryan took for granted that the painting was by a noted artist.

  “What was Mr. Harcourt’s profession?” Becker asked the secretary.

  “He…uh…a lawyer.” The secretary removed his spectacles. His eyes looked smaller. “He was a lawyer.”

  “A barrister?” Ryan referred to the type of lawyer who could make a presentation in a criminal court.

  “No. A solicitor.”

  “At so important an address?” Ryan asked, puzzled. Solicitors were considered inferior to barristers. They dealt with the administrative aspects of the law, mostly drawing up documents such as wills, contracts, and loan agreements.

  “Mr. Harcourt wasn’t an average solicitor,” the secretary replied.

  “Please explain.”

  “I can’t without violating the confidentiality of my position. I need to speak to one of his associates in these other offices and find out what my legal responsibilities are.”

  “By all means, do so.”

  But the secretary remained, suspiciously observing Ryan as he walked around the office and noted details.

  “That isn’t right,” the secretary said.

  “Pardon me?”

  The secretary pointed to an oak cabinet in a corner. “Mr. Harcourt kept his most important documents there.”

  “And what troubles you?” Becker asked.

  “The framed daguerreotype on the cabinet.”

  “Yes, it’s an excellent image of Her Majesty,” Becker noted.

  “A gift from one of Mr. Harcourt’s clients,” the secretary explained with an undertone of significance. “But it’s too close to the front of the cabinet.” He stepped forward and moved it. “Morning sunlight comes through that window and strikes here. Mr. Harcourt was warned that sunlight could destroy the daguerreotype. ‘We mustn’t ever let Her Majesty fade,’ he told me. To protect her picture, he kept it farther back.”

  Ryan tugged at one of the drawers.

  When it opened, the secretary exclaimed, “But that cabinet’s supposed to be locked also!”

  Ryan opened another drawer and another, revealing folders with names on tabs in alphabetical order. Stunned, he forced himself not to show a reaction when he realized how many of Harcourt’s clients were members of the peerage and of Parliament. He was staring at the names of some of the most powerful men in the land.

  One in particular struck him: Temple, Henry John.

  That was the family and given name of Lord Palmerston.

  The secretary inter
vened, putting a hand on one of the drawers. “I really must insist on consulting with Mr. Harcourt’s associates.”

  “Do you have a way to determine whether any folders have been removed?” Ryan asked.

  “No. Mr. Harcourt kept the master list to himself.”

  As the secretary closed the drawers, Ryan redirected his attention toward the rest of the office. He passed the chair at the rear of the desk and approached the pedestal upon which the globe of the world sat. Abruptly he returned to the desk, pulled out the swivel chair, and took a wastepaper basket from an alcove.

  “Mr. Harcourt hid the basket under his desk so clients couldn’t see what he referred to as ‘disorder,’” the secretary explained.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Around seven o’clock last night. He told me that he had a few documents to review and wouldn’t need me.”

  Ryan lifted a single piece of paper from the basket.

  The secretary frowned. “Mr. Harcourt must have put it there after I spoke to him. All our wastepaper is collected and incinerated at six.”

  “Do you know who John Saltram is?” Ryan asked.

  “Who?”

  “John Saltram. The name on this piece of paper.” Ryan showed it to him. “Is this Mr. Harcourt’s handwriting?”

  “No, and I never heard the name before. Without violating confidentiality, I can tell you that he definitely wasn’t a client.”

  “John Saltram?” Becker asked with interest.

  Ryan turned to him. “Does that name mean something to you?”

  “Perhaps.” Becker stepped close and lowered his voice so that no one else could hear. “He might not be the same man, but a John Saltram was a constable when I walked a beat in the East End.”

  “Find him,” Ryan said.

  The term East End had only recently become synonymous with the worst part of London. Four years earlier, in 1851, journalist Henry Mayhew had published his exposé London Labour and the London Poor, about the horrid conditions in the East End, and the appellation had entered the language. For people of means in wealthy districts such as Mayfair and Belgravia, the East End seemed not just half a city away but half a world, its disease and filth as remote as the worst parts of India and the empire’s other eastern regions.