Prologue

 

3rd August 1914, Dover, Kent

 

Fourteen-year-old William Parkin was standing on the outside of the low green iron fence that ran the periphery of Granville Gardens, mesmerised by the small flecks of soot tumbling gently down onto Dover, vaguely curious as to the cause of the black snow. He breathed in the hot August air, redolent with the heavy stench of paraffin, slowly wafting his hand in front of his face. Through the haze created by the cascading soot, he observed Dover Castle, looming large in its defensive position perched above the coastal town as it had been for hundreds of years.

William shifted his gaze to the Grand Hotel on the opposite side of the gardens, watching with mild envy as a group of well-to-do folk strolled out from the elegant building, seemingly oblivious to the strange layer of smut falling from the sky and settling on their colourful parasols. He watched as they entered the gardens before disappearing among the crowd of people loosely assembled around the vacant bandstand.

    William aimlessly crossed Marine Parade in front of a horse and cart, over to the wide promenade where he paused to take in the scene. As usual on the August Bank Holiday, the shingle beach was packed with holidaymakers and day-trippers who had thronged to the town. But something was amiss.

    As William cast his eyes over the unsettled crowd, he noticed that there was less chatter and less laughter than usual, with most eyes gazing seaward. The old promenade photographer, George Amos, and the ice cream seller, Agostino Demarco, were standing without business, the crowds distracted from the typical Bank Holiday frivolities by something out at sea.

William pushed through the crowds, loosely gathered in a haphazard line along the length of the beach like washed-up sea detritus.

    As he made his way closer to the water, he noticed that several men were standing among their families with field-glasses trained out to sea and he wondered if the cause of the shared distraction was something taking place on the coast of France, visible just twenty-one miles across the English Channel. Could they see evidence of the new war taking place between France and Germany?

    Finally emerging just a few yards from the gently breaking waves, William could see the cause of their distraction and the falling clouds of soot: more than a dozen naval ships were anchored in the harbour with full steam up, waiting like dogs held back on a tight leash, demonstrating their eagerness and readiness for war.

    He gazed at the monstrous warships, finding the cause of the clouds of soot falling on the town in the thick black smoke billowing from every one of the ships’ funnels.

    ‘Are they about to fight?’ William asked the man beside whom he was standing.

    The man looked at him blankly. ‘Dunno. They’ve been like this all day.’

    ‘Oh,’ he replied, somewhat disappointed.

    William waited for something to happen but, after a few impatient minutes putting up with the stink and soot, wandered back through the crowds in search of something to do.

Without any particular aim in mind, he walked listlessly along the sea front, eventually reaching the Admiralty Pier, which jutted out from beside the Lord Warden Hotel. He wandered over to the stone steps on the other side of the pier and gazed down over Shakespeare Beach, which he found to be almost entirely devoid of people and with far less noise and fumes.

    William ambled down the stone steps and made his way across the pebble beach. At the shoreline, he stood for a few moments with his arms folded, watching small rolls of oily foam unfolding before him. Then he moved on, following the shifting wet and greasy trail across the stones towards the chalk verticals of Shakespeare Cliff, several times dancing out of the way of the incoming tide.

    A few yards up in front of him, he noticed something that had been deposited on the shingle and hastened over towards it, wondering what it could be.

    ‘Christ,’ he muttered, crouching down to get a closer look.

    In front of him was a whole human arm, severed at its shoulder joint.

    William stared aghast at the pale grey limb, desperately searching for alternative possibilities for what he was seeing. But it was very clearly a human arm.

    Now what? he thought, looking across the beach for anyone to come and tell him what he should do about it.

    Suddenly, a tar-crested wave licked in over his shoes and lapped up over the arm.

    William watched in horror as the retreating wave began to take the severed limb with it, threatening to carry it off, back out to sea.

    An internal instinct that the arm needed to be saved made him reach down and pull it from the receding tide.

    He stood there, his shoes and trousers sodden, holding the cold limb out in front of him, trying to stifle the same internal, conflicted instincts which were now telling him to toss the disgusting thing back into the sea. Instead, William fought back his revulsion and ran up the beach as fast as the sinking shingle would allow, gripping the arm out in front of him in disgust as a cloud of black soot wafted over him.

 

 

Chapter One

 

3rd August 1914, Dover, Kent 

 

Edwin Dalloway alighted the train at Dover Priory station, clutching a small suitcase in each hand. He was wearing a sharp suit, shirt and tie and, despite the mid-afternoon heat, a heavy, dark wool overcoat. Under a bowler hat, his brown hair was slicked over from a side-parting and held in place with Brilliantine. His rugged complexion was complemented by a thick, waxed moustache.

    Dalloway strode through the busy waiting room, beelining for the small newsagent’s that he had just spotted and where he now purchased a copy of The Dover Express along with a Bacon’s Pocket Map. Setting down his suitcases, he opened out the map, taking a short while to find his current location and then his destination: the Maison Dieu building. He committed the route to memory, tucked the map and newspaper into his pocket, picked up his suitcases and then exited the waiting room.

    He paused for a moment, looking all about the place and determining his bearings from key aspects of the map he had just memorised.

    He drew in a long breath, noticing that the air was heavy with coal smoke and the scent of salt and fish, then set on his way.

    The brisk walk along Folkestone Road led him to Biggin Street, which appeared to be part of the town centre, bustling as it was with pedestrians moving between the various canopied shops which lined the street. Although he had a specific focus, Dalloway walked slowly, purposely taking in his surroundings. He passed businesses belonging to drapers, clothiers, confectioners, printers, grocers, bakers and butchers; all typical shops to serve this Kentish seaside town.

As he continued walking up Biggin Street, he caught sight of a grand edifice which rose prominently from the two- and three-storied shops which surrounded it. It was a startling and impressive building made of stone and flint and, with its decorative masonry and high stained-glass windows, bore more than a passing resemblance to a monastery. There could be little doubt that this was the Maison Dieu.

    Dalloway waited for a tram to pass, observing that the main entrance to the building was below a covered canopy of glass and iron and up a stone flight of steps.

    He crossed the wide street and instead of entering the building via the main entrance, headed to a closed wooden door with intricate ironwork just to its right. Above it, carved into the stone lintel was the word POLICE.

    He turned the circular handle, pushed open the door and removed his bowler hat, tucking it under his arm as he stepped into a narrow, whitewashed corridor. He closed the door, immediately noticing how the low vaulted ceiling and the cool interior offered an oppressive first impression, which Dalloway guessed had been the intention for the public entrance to the town’s police station.

    He could hear distant male voices but see nobody, so he walked down the corridor past several flickering lamps, following the sounds until he reached a head-height hatch in the left-hand wall. Dalloway peered into the charge office, finding there the source of the talking: four uniformed officers sitting around a table, drinking tea, smoking and playing cards.

    Dalloway cleared his throat to seek their attention.

    Each of the four men took a casual glance over at him but nobody moved.

    ‘Afternoon,’ Dalloway said, his voice resonating into the cavernous room a little more loudly than he might have intended.

    This time, only one of the men looked in his direction. He met Dalloway’s stare, took a long drag on his cigarette and then slowly walked over to the window. ‘Yes?’ he said. He was young—in his early thirties, Dalloway estimated—and wearing the uniform of a sergeant. His dark hair was greased over from a side-parting, and he had a neat moustache perched on his upper lip.

Dalloway took his time in removing a letter and his wallet from his inside pocket. He placed the letter down in front of the sergeant and then waited.

    The sergeant’s eyes narrowed at the headed paper. He took a quick glance up at Dalloway and then continued to read. Just as he reached the end, Dalloway opened his wallet and revealed his Scotland Yard warrant card.

    ‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,’ the sergeant said, visibly straightening. He smiled. ‘Moving down from the Yard?’

    Dalloway nodded and folded the formal transfer letter back into his pocket along with his wallet.

    ‘Come round, sir,’ the sergeant said, pointing to his left.

    Picking up his suitcases, Dalloway walked the few paces to the end of the corridor, which terminated at a closed metal gate.

    ‘You’ve come to the public entrance,’ the sergeant explained, meeting him on the other side of the gate. He began to search the large bunch of keys dangling from his waist. He paused and looked up at Dalloway. ‘The entrance we usually use is further along, down to the right of the building and opposite the Turkish Baths. Avoids the public and the cells.’

    ‘I see,’ Dalloway said, receiving information of which he had already been advised but which he had chosen to ignore.

    ‘Here we are, then,’ the sergeant said, finding the correct key and unlocking the metal gate.     He pulled it inwards and stepped to one side with a smile. ‘Sergeant Sutton.’ He thrust his right hand forwards.

    ‘Detective Inspector Dalloway,’ he replied, shaking his hand.

    Sergeant Sutton re-locked the gate and then said, ‘I’ll take you down to meet the Chief Constable. I’ll get you your own key for the other door presently.’

    ‘Thank you,’ he said, following Sergeant Sutton down a narrow corridor, either side of which were long runs of solid wooden doors—at least a dozen on each side—with tell-tale face-height inspection hatches. Above each door, carved in the sandstone was the word FELONS.

    ‘Here we’ve got the cells,’ Sutton said needlessly.

    Dalloway said nothing but continued down the cold corridor, which ended at a large office.

As he followed Sutton into the room, Dalloway quickly glanced around. An inadequately small and barred window failed to light the space and was compensated for with several electric lamps on the walls. Below the lights were long runs of wooden filing cabinets and, in the centre of the room were half a dozen desks at which were seated uniformed officers who appeared to be busy writing reports. Dalloway noted two adjacent doors with nameplates bearing CONSTABLES’ MESS and KITCHEN.

    ‘This is our main office,’ Sutton said, continuing across to an archway at the far end, which led into a slightly larger room with still more filing cabinets around the edges but just three desks at which were working a corresponding number of civilian clerks. Dalloway noted that there appeared to be a hierarchy running from the most junior, who was sitting closest to the door, through to the final, oldest clerk, whose status apparently afforded her a telephone and typewriter. Only one of the women—the one in the middle—noticed his arrival, looking up with a faint glimmer of a smile.

    Dalloway nodded and concluded his quick assessment of the room. On the wall, sandwiched between the water closet and a storeroom, was a large map of Dover and, at the far end of the room, a narrow door centred between two barred windows, which, if Dalloway had his bearings correct, was the entrance that Sutton had told him he ought to have used.

    Sergeant Sutton led him to a closed door on the opposite side to the storeroom, where a shiny brass plaque announced CHIEF CONSTABLE R. HUGHES. Sutton knocked on the door and waited.

    ‘Come in,’ a deep voice boomed from the other side.

    Sutton opened the door and stepped in. ‘Detective Inspector Dalloway reporting for duty, sir.’

    ‘Good luck,’ Sutton muttered under his breath as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

    Dalloway stood for a moment, staring at the man sitting in an oversized bottle-green leather chair behind an immaculate, polished walnut desk. He was holding a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez on the bridge of his nose as he studied a document. An expensive Turkish cigarette burnt steadily in a glass ashtray. He was a portly man with a thick white moustache and was wearing the uniform of the Chief Constable of the Dover Constabulary.

    As he waited to be acknowledged, Dalloway surveyed the office. Even though it had the same vaulted ceilings as the rest of the station, this room benefited from natural light pouring in from four high windows. Unlike the rest of the whitewashed maze of cavernous rooms, this one had been decorated to a much higher standard with dark green walls, a burgundy carpet, ornate oak bookshelves, a large strong box and framed portraits of various Royal Navy vessels. Completing the room was a map of Dover similar to that hanging in the outer office, but this one was marked with differently coloured outlines surrounding the eight beats which comprised the town’s boundaries.

    Finally, the Chief Constable removed his pince-nez and looked up. ‘Dalloway.’

    Dalloway wasn’t sure if it were a question or a statement, so remained silent.

    The Chief Constable took in a long breath through his flared nostrils. ‘I hope your arrival from Scotland Yard isn’t a bad omen.’

    ‘A bad omen, sir?’ Dalloway questioned.

    ‘You get here on the very eve of war,’ he said, looking down at his pocket watch. ‘And an hour ago a severed arm washed up onto one of my beaches.’

    Dalloway raised his eyebrows, considering again that silence was likely the best option.

    ‘It’s next door, in the detectives’ office. It’s probably from some foreign streetwalker who’s managed to get themselves disarticulated in the Channel.’

    ‘I’ll investigate it, sir.’

    The Chief Constable made a scoffing sound with his lips. ‘Just…send Heller with it over to the mortuary.’

    Dalloway nodded, not knowing who Heller might be.

    The Chief Constable nodded to the map of the town. ‘Do you know Dover?’

    ‘No, sir.’

    ‘Well. Population of forty-three thousand,’ he began, ‘but the port makes the place swell and shrink by the hour: boat trains in, steamers out, sailors, stokers, dock hands, railwaymen, customs and every sort of traveller. What you will find as you get to know the place is that there are in fact two Dovers. There is the town with tight streets, lodging houses, pubs that fill when the boats are in…and the usual run of theft, drunkenness and domestic rows. And then, there is the Dover that matters to Whitehall—and the one which will be of significant importance in the event of war—the narrow throat of the Channel, England’s nearest point to France, and a harbour the Navy and Army have been busy shaping into its current defensive stronghold. And all of it falling under the shadow of the castle and the watchful eye of the Deputy Constable of Dover Castle, Colonel Isaac Mello-Frith.’

    ‘A pivotal moment, indeed,’ Dalloway commented.

    The Chief Constable raised one eyebrow, then said, ‘Go and get yourself settled next door.’

    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Dalloway said, crossing to the door.

    ‘Oh, and Dalloway…’ the Chief said.

    He turned and said, ‘Yes, sir?’

    ‘The press hasn’t got wind of this wretched arm business—keep it that way and quietly get shot of it.’

    ‘Yes, sir,’ Dalloway said, leaving the room and stepping into the outer office. He turned and opened the door marked DETECTIVES, his eyes quickly settling on two young men standing under a lamp and squinting at something on a piece of paper. They both looked over and one of them asked, ‘Detective Inspector Dalloway?’

    Dalloway nodded, placed his suitcases down and strode over to shake his hand.

    ‘Detective Sergeant Max Heller,’ he greeted, shaking Dalloway’s hand. He was in his late twenties, with thick eyebrows and a neat moustache, and was wearing a plain suit, shirt and tie.        ‘Welcome to Dover. This is the detectives’ office, and this is Detective Constable Percy Fox.’

    Dalloway shook the young officer’s hand.

    ‘Good to meet you, sir,’ Fox said.

    After hanging his bowler hat and coat on the stand close by the door, Dalloway looked around the room, finding that it was a much smaller room than the Chief Constable’s and much more simply decorated and furnished. On one wall, a large map of the town hung above a row of filing cabinets and on another were several wooden bookshelves topped with evidence boxes.

    In the centre of the room were three desks. The reading lamps on two of them illuminated piles of disorderly paperwork, pencil stubs and various forms, while the third desk contained just one thing: a severed arm, lying casually like some morbid welcome gift.

    ‘This one mine?’ Dalloway asked.

    ‘Oh, yes, that,’ Heller said. ‘Sorry, sir. I’ll get it over to the mortuary presently.’

    ‘What have we got?’ Dalloway asked, moving towards the desk.

    ‘Washed up on Shakespeare Beach this afternoon—found by a local lad who brought it in. Probably came off a passing ship or even washed over from France. Alarmingly, it happens quite often along the coast. Not enough to investigate and even less chance of identification.’

    ‘Is that so?’ Dalloway said, taking his magnifying glass from his pocket. He crouched down so that he was level with the limb, receiving an instant whiff of brine. The lack of any sourness of decay suggested that it had not been long in the water. ‘Anybody reported missing in the last few days?’

    ‘No,’ Heller replied. ‘And we checked with neighbouring forces, too.’

    Dalloway switched on the reading lamp, angling the bulb to get a better look. It was a right arm, light grey in colour and had a near-ninety-degree bend in the elbow. The palm was facing upward with the slender fingers slightly curled as if holding an imaginary orange. 

    ‘Did you conduct a thorough search of the beach for the other body parts?’ Dalloway asked.

    ‘Not as yet, sir,’ Fox answered.

    Dalloway looked over, perplexed as to why this important step had been overlooked.

    ‘I believe four constables are on their way there now, sir,’ Fox quickly added.

    ‘Hmm,’ Dalloway muttered, attempting to move the fingers to examine three rings, one on each of the first three fingers, but rigor had set in and it felt like trying to bend waxed leather.     Moving his focus to the other end, he could see that the limb had been dismembered from the body at the armpit.

    ‘The Chief is of the opinion that it was disarticulated by the Channel currents,’ Heller commented, approaching the other side of the desk.

    Dalloway shook his head. ‘No, look: the skin was cut first with a narrow-bladed skinning knife—very expertly, I might add—then the tissue below cut with a different knife, and then the bone severed with a saw of some kind.’ He pointed over at Heller’s desk. ‘Bring that desk lamp over.’

    Heller did as instructed, returning with the lamp.

    ‘Angle it behind me,’ Dalloway said. But no matter how Heller shifted the weak light behind the magnifying glass, it proved ineffective. ‘No. No good,’ Dalloway said as he stood up. Taking out his handkerchief and using it to grip the arm at the elbow, he strode over towards the door with it in his hand.

    ‘Where are you taking it, sir?’ Heller called, hurrying behind him and out into the office.

    Dalloway carried the limb over to the window adjacent to the door and held it so that the light shone in onto the protruding bone. ‘Better…’ he said.

    The clerk closest to him noticed what was in his hand and gasped. She quickly stood and hurried off from her desk to the water closet. The older clerk stood in astonishment, muttered something under her breath, then dashed over to the Chief Constable’s office.

    ‘What are you doing, sir?’ Heller asked. ‘This isn’t for public display, sir.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Not in front of the clerks.’

    ‘Look here,’ Dalloway said, ignoring him and holding the limb close to his face. ‘Just four saw marks across the bone.’

    ‘And...?’

    ‘And… What does that tell you?’ Dalloway countered, looking him in the eyes and hoping that he’d not been encumbered with yet another incompetent sergeant.

    ‘That the person who cut it knew what they were doing?’

    Dalloway turned. The answer had come from the second clerk, the one who had smiled upon his entrance.

    ‘Yes. Exactly that, miss,’ Dalloway said, just as the Chief Constable burst out of his office with the older clerk in tow.

    ‘What on earth are you doing with that, Detective Inspector?’ he demanded.

    ‘I’m doing my job, sir: detecting a crime,’ Dalloway answered, examining the neatly sliced flesh under the brighter light.

    ‘Get rid of it—now,’ the Chief Constable ordered.

    ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, taking the limb over to the detectives’ office.

    Heller followed him in and went to close the door, but the second clerk was now standing in the way. ‘Would you like a drink, sir?’ she asked, craning her neck to peer inside.

Dalloway faced her, taking her in fully for the first time. She was handsome in appearance, probably around his age, in her early thirties, with dark hair gathered in a low bun on the back of her head. She was wearing a white blouse and cardigan with an ankle-length woollen skirt. The most interesting part of her to Dalloway was that she was staring at the limb in a curious manner and was not, as he would have expected, repulsed by it. ‘We’ve got tea or coffee,’ she added.

    ‘No, thank you,’ Dalloway said, turning his back on her and crouching down to get a better look at the victim’s fingernails.

    ‘Go and fetch an evidence box that’s big enough to fit the woman’s arm into, would you?’ Heller asked her.

    ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, leaving the room.

    ‘Woman’s arm?’ Dalloway asked. ‘How do we know it belonged to a woman?’

    Heller seemed perplexed by the question. ‘It… Well, it looks like a woman’s hand, sir. Slender fingers, fine blonde hairs and rings that only a woman would wear.’

    ‘Perhaps,’ Dalloway said. ‘I agree that the limb does appear to belong to a woman. But, until we find the rest of the victim’s body, we cannot be certain.’

    ‘Yes, sir,’ Heller replied.

    Another light tap came on the office door, and the clerk entered, carrying a cardboard carton.

    ‘What do you think of the Chief Constable’s assertion that the victim was likely a streetwalker?’ Dalloway asked Heller.

    ‘The cheap-looking rings might suggest this as a possible line of enquiry,’ he answered.

    ‘That arm doesn’t belong to a prostitute,’ the clerk commented.

    Dalloway stared at her and opened his hands to take the carton. ‘And what makes you think that?’

    The clerk took his question as permission to approach the desk. She handed Dalloway the carton and then promptly leant over the limb. ‘Look at the fingernails. They are well manicured, maintained and clean.’

    Dalloway remained silent, watching with some intrigue as she leant in still closer to the severed limb. Then, in an action which took him greatly by surprise, she carefully managed to slide the three rings over the victim’s knuckles. She looked between Dalloway and Heller. ‘I don’t believe these belonged to her. Look.’

    The two men closed in on the fingers. ‘No discolouration of the skin, except here,’ she said, pointing to the index finger, where Dalloway could see an indentation caused by habitual ring-wearing.

    Heller noticed the same thing. ‘But she did wear a ring. Look.’

    ‘Yes,’ the clerk agreed. ‘But it was a much larger ring than this cheap old thing.’

    ‘And your conclusion?’ Dalloway pressed, instinctively touching the space on his own ring finger where a wedding band had once been.

    The clerk stood up and thought for a moment. ‘That a ring which might identify her was removed and replaced with three others.’

    'And why would someone do that?’ Heller asked, unable to hide the disbelief from his voice.

    ‘Well, to hide something?’ she suggested.

    A sharp rap came on the office door and the older, more senior clerk entered with a severe, disapproving look on her face. ‘Miss Somerset, if you would be so kind as to return to your duties.’

    Miss Somerset nodded deferentially and left the room, her senior closing the door behind her.

    ‘Always having ideas above her station, that one,’ Heller commented. ‘She reads too many detective novels and fancies herself as another Holmes,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Can you imagine?’

    ‘She actually had very sensible ideas, to my mind,’ Dalloway said, considering her comment about the rings. He held his magnifying glass over the indentation on the victim’s index finger.     ‘Has the coroner been informed of the discovery?’

    ‘Yes,’ Heller confirmed.

    ‘Good,’ Dalloway said, lifting the limb into the cardboard carton. ‘Get this to the mortuary right away and tell the surgeon I want it placed in formalin. I’ll call in tomorrow first thing to collect his report.’

    ‘Yes, sir,’ Heller responded.

    ‘Oh, and just before you do, I want the fingertips inked and rolled properly and then sent to Scotland Yard for comparison.’

    Heller frowned. ‘You think the victim might be in the criminal database, sir?’

    ‘We shan’t know unless we look,’ he replied, striding over to the hat stand, where he pulled on his coat and bowler hat and picked up his two suitcases. ‘Heller, where is the mortuary?’

    ‘Tower Street. It’s on the tram route. Where will you be coming in from, sir?’

    ‘That’s a question I’m hoping to answer presently. See you tomorrow.’

    ‘Goodbye.’

    Dalloway left the office, gave a nod to Miss Somerset and then headed out into the late afternoon sun. He stepped away from the door and took out his newspaper, pretending to read it as he surreptitiously looked around him. He spotted a recess in the stonework, which would be out of sight from the building. He folded his newspaper under his arm and strode confidently towards it, as though he’d seen something important.

    He quickly removed a small glass bottle from his inside pocket, unscrewed the lid and took a swig of the bitter and metallic liquid. He breathed slowly, waiting for the nerve tonic to kick in.

    As he waited, he opened the newspaper and ran his finger down the centre column of the first page under the heading of APARTMENTS.

    He stood for a moment gazing up at the Maison Dieu, wondering if he had made the right decision in coming to Dover to confront his past. Time would tell, he thought, the quivering in his hands beginning to steady.