The Head in the Ice by Richard James

Author:Richard James [James, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2020-04-13T22:00:00+00:00

Sergeant Williams had had no compunction about throwing Hardacre in the darkest, dampest cell beneath Bow Street police station. With nothing but a bench and a bucket for company, Hardacre had stood motionless as Williams sat watching from a stool beyond the bars. A single lamp on the table beside him was the only light source in the gloom. Williams was writing in a notebook with a small pencil attached with string. Keeping his eyes cast down, he could almost sense Hardacre’s shoulders rising and falling slowly beneath his great coat in his cell. As Williams wrote, a low growl began deep in Hardacre’s throat and then, in full cry, he turned and threw himself at the cell door. Gripping the bars like a caged bear, he threw his whole weight against them and roared in frustration. Great beads of spit flew from his mouth.

“What’s the charge, filth?” he snarled, shaking the door on its hinges for good measure. “You can’t hold me without a charge. That much I know.”

Williams declined to look up from his work and replied with an affected and well-practised nonchalance. “I’m compiling a list that will be presented to you in good time.” He continued scratching at his notepad.

“A list?” With a final rattle of the bars, Hardacre turned back into his cell, kicking the empty slops bucket in his rage.

With a sigh, Williams put down his pencil and stood to stretch his legs. “In the three weeks Inspector Treacher was a part of your company Hardacre, he heard gossip enough to compile a list of charges as long as the Devil’s arm.”

Hardacre still had his back to him. “You’d rely on the words of villains and gypsies?” he rasped, “You can’t hang a man on gossip alone, filth.” With that, he spat on the filthy straw at his feet.

“Isambard Fogg will be enough.” Williams leaned against the wall near Hardacre’s cell. He was wise enough to keep out of reach, but positioned himself close enough to gauge the gang master’s reactions. “He died in that very cell across the way. If you care to look, you may still see his blood on the straw.”

Hardacre turned with a sneer of disdain. “Fogg?” He gave a hollow laugh. “Vermin! You might as well charge me for stepping on a rat in the alley.”

“Then there’s the matter of a woman’s head found yesterday in the Thames,” continued Williams in measured tones. “Inspector Bowman suspects one of your acquaintance and no doubt believes, as I do, that you had a hand in it, too.” With a studied indifference, Williams sauntered back to his stool, picked up his pencil and continued his work. “All in all, I think you’ll find we’ve got enough to be going on with.”

Hardacre launched himself at the door again, his great paw swiping ineffectually for the sergeant on his stool. With a final, angry push at the bars, he turned once more and sat on the up-turned bucket in his cell. Minutes passed in

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