The Hellfire Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF Page B

but if they, with all their energy, can be brought so low, what hope is there for the rest of us?
    “How did Scotland Yard know we are investigating Miss DeVere’s disappearance?” I asked.
    “I rang Terry Poole last night, but it looks like Swanson’s handling the case.”
    In Grafton Street, a grate had been pulled out of the gutter and a tall ladder set at an angle in the hole. A constable guarded the ladder as if all Bethnal Green were waiting for him to leave so they could steal it. Barker identified himself and was just about to take hold of it when a head popped out of the hole like a badger from its sett, and soon a pair of wide shoulders squeezed out of it as well.
    “Barker,” the man stated in greeting. He wore a tan mackintosh, with greasy spots where it had rubbed against tunnel walls, and a bowler hat. He and the Guv were of like size and shape. He even had the same Scottish accent, but that was not surprising. Detective work, both public and private, was an occupation that seemed to attract Scots. In fact, so many were in Scotland Yard that some jested they had taken up the work when the Scottish kings the street was named for had died out.
    “Swanson,” Barker responded. “Bad business, this. Is it Gwendolyn DeVere, do you think?”
    “That’s for the coroner to decide. I’m just here to drag out the body and fill out the forms.”
    “Who found the body?” my employer asked.
    “A lunger, crawling after pennies and such in the sewers. Thought it was old clothes when she first came upon it. Her scream must’ve echoed for miles through the tunnels. You after having a gander?”
    “I’ve seen both sewers and dead bodies before, unless there is something else of interest.”
    The inspector gave a grim smile. “Not unless you are a connoisseur of sewer pipe.”
    “The body, man. Tell me about the body.”
    “I’ve got two men bringing it up in a tarp. She’s a’most the right size as the DeVere girl, but, no, it ain’t her. The body is too decomposed. Must’ve been down there a fortnight, at least.”
    We stepped back as the first constable’s helmet appeared out of the hole. The second constable was pale as death and wobbly on the ladder. They set the burden down on the pavement and moved away. Without preamble, Barker lifted the tarp. The little face inside was bloated, the eyes swollen, the mouth set in a rictus. The stench of decay hit me then, and the hand of the grave clutched me about the throat. For a second, I thought I would be ill. But the feeling passed, which in itself was alarming. How dulled was my soul becoming to this work?
    Cyrus Barker removed his hat and then gently laid a hand upon the little corpse. Inspector Swanson and I watched his lips move in prayer, and in unison we removed our own bowlers. Then slowly the Guv shook his head.
    “I’m sorry ’twas not the child you were searching for, Cyrus.”
    “Perhaps it’s a blessing, Donald, and the girl lives yet. You’ll send word after the postmortem, will you not?”
    “Aye, I will.” Swanson turned his head, looking between the two of us. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered. “This is just what I need. Here comes Stead.”
    “The newspaper editor?” Barker asked.
    “The gadfly, you mean. The commissioner would rather have him behind bars than any criminal alive. No photographs, Stead!”
    I dared glance over my shoulder. Stead was young for the editor of a newspaper as widely subscribed to as the Pall Mall Gazette, not yet forty, I should say. He was of average build, with curly hair and a short, thick beard, and he looked a perfect fireball of energy. He had been directing a young companion to set up a large tripod and camera. Stead had been the first to print photographs of people in his newspaper but had raised the ire of the British government a number of times. Surely, he could never put such a tragic sight as this corpse into his newspaper.
    “What have we here, then?” he said, skirting Barker and