Episode 5: A Breakfast at Strutton Ground

Season 1: The World Unseen

London

October 1899

The hansom drew to a halt at the junction of Victoria Street and Strutton Ground, having taken such a circuitous route from the Traveller’s Club that Major Arthur Lock was certain it would have been quicker to walk. He had said as much to the driver on the way.

‘London traffic, guv’nor. Can’t nothing be done about it, except avoid it when you can or endure when you can’t,’ the driver replied philosophically. I’ll get you there on time,’ he said, adding the ominous clause, ‘barring accidents.’

And here Lock was, on time, as not quite promised. He stepped from the cab onto the damp, dirty pavement and took a breath of the damp, dirty air of the imperial metropolis. He looked up to the sky, which seemed nothing but brown fog. The sun never sets on the Empire, and yet here at the hub of it all, he thought, it never seems to rise properly. He handed the driver some coins and told him to keep the change.

‘Ta, guv’nor,’ the driver said, and looked sceptically towards Strutton Ground, where the market was in full flow and cry. ‘Are you sure this is where you’re meant to be ‘aving breakfast? I mean, it ain’t exactly Mayfair round ‘ere.’

‘No, it isn’t. But this is where I was told to come. Mrs Green’s on Strutton Ground. Do you know it?’

The driver shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry, this ain’t my manor.’

‘Well, wish me luck.’

‘Luck, guv’nor, and plenty of it.’

Lock strode into the seething street, into the mass of warm and pungent bodies. Market stalls lined each side, some piled with fruit and vegetables, others with tinned goods of all kinds, still others with household items like brushes, cutlery, and cleaning supplies. Stallholders bawled above the general din, extolling their taters or mush or loverly apples, their bully beef from Canada or their pepper from the Hindies, their patent washing powder that’ll leave yer old winders shinin’ like the Crystal Palace, missus. The air was thick with the smells of vegetation, fresh and rotting, of mud, and of something worse.

Lock had been warned that Mrs Green’s establishment was unmarked, and told it was two doors down from the fishmonger.

Down, Lock realized, was a relative term in his current circumstances. Then he spied the fishmonger on the other side of the street, a white-tiled, open-fronted shop, its wet and glistening wares laid out amid piles of ice. He pushed his way through the crowd. Two doors to the left was a cobbler’s. Two doors to the right was a shop with a steamy lattice bay window, through which he could see tightly packed tables and chairs, and men seated at them.

He pushed the door open and entered a moist atmosphere, imbued with the aromas of frying meat and frying eggs. He headed for a counter, threading his way past tables where burly men went at plates of food with an unhurried ferocity. A pale girl with blonde hair was running between the tables, dealing out more plates of food and mugs of tea.

A small stout woman clad in a dress of greasy black calico, her pasty face shiny with sweat, her grey hair pinned up in an enormous bun, looked out from the counter like a sea captain watching the waters for signs of turbulence and danger. She eyed Lock as if she had been expecting him.

‘I’m Major Arthur Lock,’ he said. ‘I’m breakfasting with Sir Edward Bradford. Has he arrived?’

‘Shhh… discretion, major, if you please. Sir Edward don’t like too many folks here to know who is he and what he’s about.’

‘My apologies,’ Lock said.

‘I ‘spect you’re surprised to find him breakfasting in a shop like this.’ She leaned over the counter, and said in a confidential tone, ‘Sir Edward started coming ‘ere when they closed Simpson’s on the Strand. One of his men recommended Mrs Green’s to him, and he took to it like a native. Says he won’t be going back to Simpson’s even when it re-opens.’

‘Then I’m looking forward to breakfast very much,’ Lock said. ‘Is Sir Edward —’

‘I’ll take you up,’ Mrs Green said. ‘I let Sir Edward eat in me own dining room. It’s more comfortable for a gentleman.’

Lock followed Mrs Green into the back of the shop, and up a narrow staircase. From the landing, she led him to a door and knocked.

‘Enter!’ was the response.

‘Your visitor, Sir Edward,’ said Mrs Green, bowing slightly and affecting a prim accent.

‘Thank you, Mrs Green. And we’ll eat whenever you’re ready. Come in, Lock.’

Mrs Green left them and Sir Edward rose from the small dining table. The room was warm and airless, plainly furnished and decorated, with no clutter or personal items, other than a clock on the mantelpiece. Lock guessed that Mrs Green cleared it out whenever Sir Edward visited. A coal fire smouldered in the grate and a sleeping cat lay close to it. It was quite incongruous to see the head of Scotland Yard in such a setting.

When he told me he’d booked a private room for our breakfast, this wasn’t quite what I was expecting, Lock thought. And now, I’m even more curious as to what this is about.

The invitation had arrived at Lock’s club five days before. After a month in London, dealing with the army bureaucracy for his discharge papers and pension, Lock was impatient to get back to Shropshire and the family estate he hadn’t seen for almost ten years. But a summons from Sir Edward Bradford, Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, even if it was in the form of an invitation to breakfast, was not to be ignored.

Lock knew a little of Bradford’s biography. He was stationed in India for three decades, first in the army and then in the political service, until he was persuaded to take charge of London’s Metropolitan Police in 1890. Bradford came in when morale was rock bottom and the men were on the verge of striking. After sacking some ringleaders for insubordination, Bradford went about improving the men’s pay and conditions. The results were impressive. Morale was good, crime was low, and the reputation of London’s police was higher than it had ever been. Bradford was a formidable and capable man. And of course, there was the incident with the tiger.

‘Good morning, Lock. Good of you to come.’

The men exchanged firm handshakes, a matter of principle on Lock’s part and, he suspected, on Sir Edward’s too.

No sooner had they sat down than Mrs Green reappeared with a tea tray.

‘Shall I pour, Sir Edward?’ she said, setting it down on the table.

‘No, madam,’ he replied. ‘Major Lock and I are old army dogs. We can manage that between us. You can go and make sure our breakfast is not too far off. I have a fierce appetite this morning.’

Mrs Green left the room, and Sir Edward gestured for Lock to take a seat.

‘It’s tea or nothing here, I’m afraid,’ Sir Edward said. ‘Coffee is far too exotic a beverage for Mrs Green’s establishment. But the tea is good and strong and the food is excellent. Nothing fancy mind, no kedgeree or devilled kidneys on the menu. Just a good solid workingman’s breakfast.’

‘Better than Simpson’s, Mrs Green was telling me.’

Sir Edward smiled. ‘It was deuced inconvenient when they decided to widen that part of the Strand and Simpson’s had to close. But they’ll be re-opening in new premises soon enough. In the meantime, one of my sergeants mentioned this place, saying it was the best breakfast in London. He made enquiries on my behalf and Mrs Green said I could use her dining room when I wished. I don’t come here every day, that wouldn’t be fair on the woman. But it makes a change from the canteen and it’s only a short walk from the Yard. Now then, let me give this pot a stir and then I’ll pour you a cup.’

Lock watched Sir Edward manage the task with his one arm. There was no self-consciousness or awkwardness about him. The left arm had been lost on a hunting trip in the Guna district of India almost forty years before. The party had already dispatched eighteen tigers when Bradford went after another. Unfortunately, his aim was awry. The tiger attacked him and made such a mess of his left arm that it had to be amputated. It was the end of his active military service and the beginning of his career in government and administration.

He was at a stern figure at first sight, with his military bearing, balding head, mutton-chop sideboards, and a grand white moustache. But Lock could detect humour and intelligence in the eyes that seemed to observe him, even as Sir Edward was managing the pouring.

‘Well, Lock,’ Bradford said, as they sipped their tea. ‘You must be wondering why you’re here. And as much as I enjoy the company of old India hands like yourself, I must confess I have an ulterior motive. Two of them in fact.’

Here we go, Lock thought. ‘Go on, sir.’

Bradford picked up a briefcase from the floor and removed a thick file bound with string. He pulled the knot open and lay the file in front of him.

‘This is your military service file. I had it sent over to Scotland Yard when it was repatriated shortly after you were. It’s confidential, of course, but there are no secrets between the army and the Metropolitan Police. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How long have you been back in Blighty, Lock?’

‘About a month, sir.’

‘And you resigned from the army — because?’

‘After eighteen years’ service, I felt it was the right time to return to Civvy Street. I’ve done my bit. Not as much as everyone — not much as you, sir,’ Lock said carefully. ‘But I’m proud of my service. I gave the army my all.’

‘Looking at your record, you’re right to be proud. But, tell me, was there was anything else that prompted your decision?’

Bradford began leafing through the papers in the file.

Lock shifted in his chair. What was the old man driving at?

Bradford found what he was looking for. He pulled out some sheets that were tagged together and glanced through them.

‘You were attached to the Indian Central Special Branch in 1895, on the strength of your work for the army intelligence service. However, it appears there was soon considerable friction with your superior officers. You gained a reputation for being soft on certain of the natives. This eventually to the end of your attachment.’

‘Sir, if I may explain?’

‘Please do.’

‘I believed that the Central Special Branch was targeting non-violent dissidents in a way that was, well, to be frank, unBritish. I have no time for violent agitators and terrorists, believe me, but if a chap wants to set up a printing press and circulate a newspaper calling for a peaceful transition to Indian home rule, then I believe he should be allowed to do that. And I speak as a firm believer in the high ideals of the Empire.’

Bradford looked at him sceptically.

‘The problem is, Lock, it’s the thin end of the wedge. Tolerate that chap with his printing press, let him work people into a lather, and before you know it, you’ll have armed bands at the gates.’

Lock decided it would be diplomatic not to disagree with Sir Edward, who continued browsing the file.

‘Let’s see what else we have here,’ said the old man, pulling various papers out of the folder as he spoke. ‘Royal Military College, Sandhurst… King’s Shropshire Light Infantry… stationed in Malta… promoted to major… then Hong Kong… then India. Distinguished Service Order for gallantry during the Soudan Expedition… Victoria Cross for valour during the Chitral Expedition… Various military intelligence missions undertaken in India and Central Asia… etcetera, etcetera. Quite the record.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And you preferred to use your army leave for foreign explorations, rather than vacations in the mother country… let me see…’ Sir Edward consulted the file again. ‘Jaunts to Arabia, Sumatra and, in the last year, Tibet… and papers published in the journal of the Royal Geographical Society.’

‘That’s correct, sir.’

Sir Edward sat back in his chair and exhaled meditatively.

‘You seem a restless sort of chap, Lock.’ Without waiting for a response, he added, ‘And not married yet.’

‘No, sir. There doesn’t seem to have been time,’ Lock said warily.

‘Well, I didn’t invite you here to give you courting advice. Though I’d recommend marriage. Gives a fellow an anchor.’

There was another knock at the door, and Mrs Green and the thin blonde girl came in bearing plates piled with steaming food.

‘Ah, here’s breakfast,’ Sir Edward said with relish. ‘Now, Lock, I don’t like to talk too much when I’m eating, so let’s tuck in, enjoy the grub, and we’ll talk business when we’ve had our fill.’

Lock groaned inwardly at the delay until he found out the purpose of this meeting, but the food looked and smelled so good that it would have been churlish to resent the interlude.

‘I cut up the sausage and bacon and pudding for you, Sir Edward,’ Mrs Grimaldi said, as Lock was wondering how the old man would manage his plate.

They attacked the breakfast with gusto, and Sir Edward was such a silent yet appreciative dining companion that Lock’s impatience soon faded. Bacon, sausages, black pudding, fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, and marmalade were all gradually polished off.

It wasn’t until Mrs Green had cleared the table and brought more tea, and both men were sitting back in their chairs smoking cigarettes, that Sir Edward said, ‘Now, I’m not one for false modesty, Lock, so I’ll tell you I’ve improved things in the Met since I’ve been in charge. The average copper is far more effective in his job, and far more satisfied too. The Home Secretary leaves me alone most of the time, which is a proof in itself. As well as the run-of-the mill policing, I have a Detective Branch to investigate serious crimes, and a Special Branch to counter terrorism and subversion. Crime in the metropolis is at its lowest point in living memory.’

Sir Edward stubbed out his cigarette and picked up a toothpick, considering it for a moment.

‘And yet I’m anxious, Lock. We’re on the verge of a new century, bringing new challenges and new hazards for our country. New types of criminal, and new types of crime. Large-scale crime, organized crime, you might call it, run by men who see themselves as generals, kings even, executing violence and rapine against civilized society. All these miraculous new inventions we have — telephony, photography, horseless carriages, electric power — give the criminal class new opportunities.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’

‘My men are effective and capable on the whole,’ Sir Edward said, ‘but they lack imagination and flexibility. They lack those qualities that you’ve shown in your service career. The ability to gather intelligence and interpret it, to take action without waiting to be told, to improvise, to change tactics mid-battle, to work with all strata of society.

‘I need good men around me, Lock. Men who can work quietly and diligently — and with ferocity if necessary. I’m talking about a kind of undercover intelligence unit, to work alongside the other branches of the Met, a branch that I can give out-of-the ordinary cases to. The work will be secret, not the sort of thing where I invite Fleet Street to the Yard so I can boast of our latest success.

‘So here’s my offer to you. I want you to take charge of this new branch. You’ll be well-resourced and you can recruit who you need.’

Lock hadn’t been expecting this. But his immediate reaction was to say no. He hadn’t left the army just to get involved in a new chain of command, with new responsibilities. He wanted to get back to Shropshire, to see what kind of ramshackle condition the family estate was in and start on putting it right.

‘Sir, I appreciate your high opinion of me and the opportunity you’ve presented, but the answer is —’

‘Don’t be too hasty, Lock. Think it over. Go back to Shropshire, spend some time fishing and hunting. I know what’s like. A man has to reflect before striking out on a fresh course in life. That’s what I did before I took this post. Salmon fishing in Scotland. Heartily recommend it. Think it over for a month or two and then give me your answer.’

‘Very well, sir.’

‘Good.’ Sir Edward checked his pocket watch. ‘Damned time, never enough of it. Well, Lock, it’s been good to see you. We’ll stay in touch, eh?’

Sir Edward put the file back into his briefcase.

‘Sir, you said you had two ulterior motives for inviting me here.’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? Well, now. It’s about an open investigation we have. The Detective Branch are making little progress with it. Exactly the sort of case I’d like to get you on, should you accept my offer. A couple of children have gone missing. These aren’t your street urchin types. Those kind go missing all the time and there’s usually damn all we can do about it. But this is different. One’s the son of an MP and the other was an inmate at the Foundling Hospital. Both went missing in the summer and we only connected them after they were seen together at Liverpool Street station. Since then, nothing has turned up. No sightings, no ransom notes — no bodies either. Nothing, not a trace of either of them.’

‘I’m not sure how I —’

‘We looked into their family histories. It was an exhaustive search but after so many months, my men are desperate for any kind of lead. As am I. With an MP involved… well, I’m sure you can imagine the pressure being applied. The only thing we’ve turned up so far is that your brother saw both the mothers when he was doctoring at Barts.’

‘But Henry left Barts over fifteen years ago.’

‘Yes, I know. But we have to follow every lead, however unlikely. Now your brother was a neurologist and from what we’ve gathered, his contact with these women wasn’t a medical matter. Barts tell us he was engaged in private research and they have no records of it. But they pointed us to advertisements Dr Lock placed in London newspapers in 1880 and 1881. These requested anybody with supposed psychic abilities to take part in a research project. The MP’s wife has told us about her contact with your brother, but it didn’t get us very far. Unfortunately, the mother of the foundling is dead. All this psychic business sounds like mumbo-jumbo, but after some things I saw in India, I’m not a complete sceptic. I don’t suppose you know anything about it?’

‘Well, I know Henry has an interest in these matters.’

‘I believe you’re going to see him in the new year?’

‘Yes, I am. But how did you know?’

‘It’s hard to keep a secret in London, Lock, believe me. But when you’re over there, can you ask him if he has any ideas at about why these children may have vanished, anything at all. I could send him a telegraph, but it’s an unsuitable form of communication for such matters.’

‘Yes, of course, sir.’

‘Good.’ Sir Edward rose from the table. ‘And think over my offer. I may be wrong, but I don’t think you’re ready to retire to your country estate just yet.’

After the two men had parted on Victoria Street, Lock made the short walk to St James’ Park. He watched the swans and pelicans as he strolled by the lakeside, certain at that moment that he would decline Sir Edward’s offer. But he would certainly ask Henry about those children.