The Bell Rock Mystery - Chapter 1
Created | Updated Mar 13, 2007
Note from the Author:
Throughout the history of criminology in these Isles, once in a generation a crime of magnitude or notoriety will take place that captures the public’s imagination unlike no other. Probably the most famous of all cases took place in the late summer and autumn of the year 1888, the location was London, England.
What follows is an account of the events of that time as seen through the eyes of one man, Chief Inspector Herbert Kitchener, whose notes have come to light in recent years.
Though the notes have no official status, this account is based directly on the contents.
Due to the fact that the people in the book may have living descendants, names and places may have been altered to protect their anonymity.
NW.
CHAPTER 1
In the year 1888 Queen Victoria had 13 years left on the throne. In the Strand Magazine the first Sherlock Holmes story had been published and the Police and Intelligence forces were engaged in the hunt, through the dark streets of London's East End, for Jack the Ripper
It was getting late; the tube wouldn’t wait for her. The house was a mess, not in its normal state of pristine tidiness.
She heard the clank of the milkman. The wall clock showed eight thirty five. The milk was late, and if she did not hurry, so would she be.
It sometimes amazed her how she made it to the tube station on time every day. She pushed these thoughts and those of the previous evening out of her mind and fixed her mental energies on finding the jacket to her black trouser suit.
She knew that the steaming cup of coffee she carried around as she searched would go untouched as would the two slices of toast on the kitchen table which were already going cold, uneaten.
The jacket located, the coffee abandoned she closed the door behind her. The Yale lock snapped as the door slammed shut. The house was now empty and quiet. The coffee still steaming in the mug, the toast going cold on the kitchen table.
The night before had started well. The restaurant was quiet; after all it was a Sunday night. The lack of clientele gave them a chance to talk, a chance to get to know each other a little better. He of course had chosen the location and had shown a degree of taste; could this bode well for the future?
Their first meeting was fraught with the awkwardness of mutual attraction and the burden of age pressing on their very souls. An eternity of exchanged glances had passed between the two of them. Who would make the first move? As tradition dictates he made the primary contact. A rendezvous had been arranged and now here they were, sitting either side of the three-foot by three foot square of wooden table top, the rules of engagement were beginning to be drawn.
As the first course arrived the conversation was flirtatious, but disjointed. She would interrupt, apologise and then giggle. He would be the true gentleman and insist on her continuing. Plates empty, one set of cutlery down and the wine beginning to take effect, the conversation loosened somewhat. The couple opened up a little and expressed some of their innermost thoughts and feeling to one another.
His opening gambit had been the usual male tack. His likes - cricket, golf, football, basically sport in general. There were no surprises either in his choice of favourite consumables - real ale and curry. His career, however, did have a spark of something out of the ordinary. A TV producer. She pursued this part of conversation asking what he had worked on? It emerged, nothing outstanding; Open University, a handful of children’s programs - none of them known to her.
Apart from the TV Producer aspect of his tale, he could have been any member of the male species recounting his interests.
The main course arrived, holding off the approaching moment when she must respond with her story of loneliness. To her colleagues and friends her apparent lack of male attention was a mystery. She was, after all, an attractive woman, although she had seen thirty four summers, she could well have been mistaken for ten years her junior.
As their plates began to empty, so her tale began to unfold. Having graduated from Oxford with a first in history she gravitated towards a career in academia. After one year of C.V.’s, interviews and rejection letters she hadn’t received any serious job offers and was becoming despondent.
It had been her mother, always logical, always right, that had come up with the idea of a career path for her daughter.
The question was finally asked, he seemed interested to know. The truth came out.
After the dessert, coffee and a promise to arrange another meeting, the couple parted. The capital flashed past as the taxi headed home. In her heart she knew that they would not meet again, not as a couple. So what! She had work in the morning and what was another one down. She’d enjoyed the meal and yes, even the company. It would be easy for her to be upset or even chastise herself for not trying harder to impress him, but why, its his loss.
The next morning she passed the answer phone machine and didn’t give it a second glance as the light flashed continuously. It was getting late; the tube wouldn’t wait for her. The house was a mess, not in its normal state of pristine tidiness.
She heard the clank of the milkman. The wall clock showed eight thirty five. The milk was late, and if she did not hurry, so would she be.
It sometimes amazed her how she made it to the tube station on time every day. She pushed these thoughts and those of the previous evening out of her mind and fixed her mental energies on finding the jacket to her black trouser suit.
She knew that the steaming cup of coffee she carried around as she searched would go untouched as would the two slices of toast on the kitchen table which were already going cold, uneaten.
The jacket located, the coffee abandoned she closed the door behind her. The Yale lock snapped as the door slammed shut. The house was now empty and quiet. The coffee still steaming in the mug, the toast going cold on the kitchen table.
A surge of bodies emerged from the entrance of Westminster underground station. She headed into the heart of the city, passed the Palace of Westminster. The faces of Big Ben showing the time, eight fifty.
In her job, time was important. Ten minutes to get to work, would she make it on time? Crossing the road she saw the familiar sign rotating. The words ‘New Scotland Yard’ catching the morning light that was squeezing through the surrounding buildings. To WPC Kate Wood the building was like the city which had been her home for such a short time, it never slept? The desks are always occupied, the phones perpetually ringing, the canteen continuously dishing out egg and chips. On this particular morning the tea stained tables in the canteen were the least of her worries.
The previous day WPC Wood had received an e-mail. Her mail box frequently received all kinds of correspondence, circulars, reports, newsletters but this piece of mail had a rather important sender, no less than the ACC, Superintendent Marson. Marson was a man known by reputation. It certainly preceded him wherever he went within the force. He was known as a hard man, a hard worker who expected his officers to engage their own works with the same amount of vigour as himself.
Kate took a small intake of breath when she saw who had sent the message. Her hand became involuntary motionless on the mouse as she tried to highlight the message, gathering her thoughts as she opened the memo. As the message scrolled down the screen Kate’s heart began to race. Only one month in this post and already a summons from the Superintendent.
In Marson's anti office Kate struggled to rearrange the shoulder strap of her bra. Why does that piece of clothing only irritate her at times such as this? Sitting at home, on the underground or even sitting on the toilet, not an itch. Did the bra strap register moments of tension in the wearer and move in some kind of telekinetic way?
“Come on, pull yourself together you’re rambling”, Kate thought to herself. There’s no need to panic he’s just another officer, though a senior one at that. So what did he want? Was it a special case? Does he need an assistant?
Her mind was rambling now at high speed, she knew that, but there was no way of stopping it. Had she done something heinously wrong?
No, she’d only been there a matter of a few weeks. With these thoughts rushing through her mind the door opened to the inner sanctum. This brought Kate back to the present with a sharp bump.
Superintendent Marson was holding the handle in his left hand while his right hand, open palmed, ushered her through the door and into his office.
‘WPC Wood, please come in.’
He followed her into the office. From her training she knew that her body language would be important in this interview. It gives a first subconscious impression to anyone you meet. Her mother always told her that first impressions were the most important. She walked through the door with a confident stride. Once in front of the desk she stood almost to attention, her feet parallel with her shoulders, hands held together behind her back. She gave the impression of someone not unused to conversing in the corridors of power.
“Sit down, sit down”, he commanded in a not unfriendly manner.
Kate followed the order and seated herself, with perfect posture, in the chair directly opposite him. Now feeling more relaxed she allowed herself a brief look around the room. She was surprised to see that it was decorated in the modern style, quite minimalist in some ways but most definitely the effect was ruined by the piles of papers and box files randomly dotted around the tops of the cabinets and littering the floor. Directly behind Marson, sticking out of the wall, was a marble mantle piece, the fire long gone. The shelf contained an old clock, two pictures, a silver cigar case and a model of an old Metropolitan Police Box. A throw back to days long gone, before walkie–talkies, mobile phones and computers. Above the collection of curios a large black and white photograph hung. It looked as though it could possibly be the entire staff of New Scotland Yard.
Marson was in the act of pouring himself a cup of tea from the tea service on his desk. The beverage was being decanted from an ornate silver teapot into china cups.
“Tea?”
“Please, Sir.”
Marson poured out another cup full. “Help yourself to milk and sugar.”
Kate poured a small amount of milk into the cup and placed it on the saucer on the desk in front of her. Marson dropped two lumps of sugar into his own cup and stirred it vigorously. “I know. I shouldn’t take it, but I’ve got to have some pleasures to break up the day. Now let me see…” He places the cup onto the desktop and opens a light brown cardboard file.
The folder contained only two sheets of A4 paper. He studied the text as though he’d never read it before but surely he must have? “So WPC, you came here straight from training. How are you finding it? Work ok for you?”
“Its a great honour Sir. I was the only cadet in my year to be posted here.”
“How’s the work? is it taxing enough for you?”
“We all have to start somewhere Sir.” He knew, as she did, that reading between the lines the answer was ‘No’.
“I see from your record that you graduated from Oxford in…” he turns a page, “history.”
“Yes Sir, as part of my degree I wrote a thesis on the link between crime and social conditions in Victorian society” she told him with pride.
She remembered her days at Oxford fondly. She had been a few short months into her course when she had met Alistair, an undergraduate reading post-modern history. They had bonded almost at once and spent their entire four years together, both in lectures and socially. They had shared everything, notes, research, money and a bed.
When they both graduated, he on the back of her work, he seemed to distance himself somewhat. At least, that’s the impression Kate got and then only two weeks out of the cloisters of the college he had left for South America with no word to her. Heartbroken she returned to the sanctuary of her family home. She knew he had used her for four years.
Kate’s mind snapped back to the present.
“Really, I do believe I’ve just the job for someone with your skills.”
Kate was intrigued. He wasn’t letting any more than that out, was this his way? Kate contemplated that thought, was he the sort who would build up your ego to ensure your full efforts would be thrust into the task selected for you or did he build you up to knock you down again?
“Finish your tea.” he said, nonchalantly flicking a switch on his desk intercom and winking at Kate before addressing the machine. “Mrs. Briggs, any chance of a few biscuits in here?” Kate felt happy and surprisingly at ease drinking tea and talking to her superior and he, on his part, appeared to be genuinely interested in her, her career and her opinions.
She would never have expected such a senior member of the police force to have the time or inclination to take such a keen interest in a junior member of the force, especially a woman. Even in today’s police force the opinion of mere women didn’t account for much.
Ten minutes later, the tea and biscuits consumed, WPC Wood followed Marson through the busy offices of the CID department. Always staying half a step behind her superior she felt a sense of achievement as she walked along with him, proud to be singled out over all the others for this special task.
It was nice to see the populace of the offices moving at more than a stationary rate. The normal speed of a desk bound CID officer was on average no faster than the second hand of a clock, slowly ticking away. As Marson marched through the office, legs swung off desktops, newspapers where hidden and keyboards became engaged in the sound of frantic tapping. It sounded as though the proverbial number of monkeys were busy working on the complete works of Shakespeare. Luckily for the assembled members of Marson’s department he had other things on his mind.
The previous day Marson had attended a meeting with the Chief Constable and other high ranking officers. The head of the Metropolitan Police Division was in attendance accompanied by a posse of logistics and time and motion experts on secondment from the Home Office. The meeting was taking place in the comfortable surroundings of the Chief Constable’s club. The steaming hot coffee was passed around freely as the meeting began. Marson should have realised there was no such thing as a free lunch.
The Chief said his piece, as did the head of the Met. That was the end of the pleasantries. The faceless bureaucrats from the Home Office occupied the next two hours of the attendee’s time. A whole range of graphs, line, bar, area and charts, pie, pyramid, radar to name but a few were shown on an overhead projector during the unrelenting lecture that followed. The time and motion people talked of process flow while the logistics representatives spoke of numbers and movements, skill matrixes and inventory.
It was clear to Marson what the outcome of the meeting would be. He realised that the axe was soon to fall on, not only his department, but also the whole of the Metropolitan Force. There were some hard times to come, he was told. On the brighter side any cost savings that could be made before the end of the financial year would be offset against the amount of next year’s budget cut and job losses. Natural wastage was the term being banded around freely. Natural wastage, what was that?
They had failed to mention one thing at the meeting. No one had bothered to mention anything about normal run of the mill Police work, officers on the beat. Did they not matter in this high-speed world of Internet crime?
Now, at the end of the meeting, he had a heavy heart. The other attendee’s, to his mind, did not share his feelings. An almost excited rumble was circling the room. To these aged, senior ranks natural wastage had only one meaning, huge pay off's and retirement to sunnier climes; playing golf in the sun or sailing around the Med. This was not for him or his department he resolutely told himself. We will find other ways of saving money. His worst fear would be having to touch someone on the shoulder and tell them they were no longer required. What an awful prospect. What about the employees in his own charge? What would it be like for them knowing that until April next year they had the Sword of Damocles hanging over them?
Inventory. Yes, that’s where he would start, get rid of as much rubbish as he could. Speaking of which…
A Junior Home Office Minister was approaching, a brandy glass in each hand. The dark liquid rotated like a whirlpool of cold tea as he walked.
“Here you are Sir.” The Junior Minister handed one of the glasses to Marson. “We met last year at the inner city focus group.”
Yes, he remembered. Why was everything so cut and dried to the Government, everything so black and white. Take that focus group session last year for example. Inner city policing, more ethnic minorities into the force that would stop all the negativity with the local ethnic groups, simple?
His mind was wondering now, not listening to the Minister, not interested in anything he would have had to say even if he had heard it. Save money, how much had that bottle of Brandy cost? How much was the rent of this exclusive club costing his beloved Police force? No doubt the Chief would be in the secretary of the club’s good books. One winner then.
Save money, where to save money? He knew just the place. Marson put his glass down, the contents untouched. Without saying a word to the Junior Minister, or anyone else in the room for that matter, he walked out.
“Here we are then” Boomed Marson to Kate.
The pair stopped abruptly next to an old blue wooden door. Kate couldn’t help but wonder what was going on? Why had they stopped here? As far as she could make out there were no empty desks to fill, no sign of an investigation room being used.
One or two curious heads had started to turn interested to see what the new girl and the old master were doing here?
“Shall we go in?”
Kate was confused. In one motion Marson opened the door and flicked on the old light switch which was positioned at the right hand side of the architrave. He gestured Kate through the door and she entered the mysterious room followed by Marson. Her heart sank like a stone dropped into a dark pool. The smell of damp and rotten paper filled her nostrils. Dusty shelves aligned the walls, packed full of old box files pushed in at any angle they would fit. In the centre of the room two more free standing shelving units disappeared into the gloom. Directly in front of the door an old desk was buried beneath fifty or so years of dust, its once red leather top discoloured with age. With the absence of any windows in the room the only illumination was provided by the single low wattage light bulb suspended from the cobwebbed ceiling. Kate had more than a good idea what she would be doing for the next month or so.
All the fears she had nestled at the back of her mind had projected themselves front and centre. Women in the Police Force were only good for helping old ladies across the road or giving road safety lectures to primary school children. She became aware of Marson standing next to her.
“This,” he said with an air of pride in his voice, “is the Blue Room”
Kate was not impressed.
“Stored in this room are the case files of Scotland Yard going back to the mid. 1870’s. I would like you to sort through them. This should be a perfect opportunity for you to dig into the murky world surrounding this station.”
“Yes Sir.” She could hardly mask the disappointment in her voice.
Marson, always the gentleman, dusted down the old swivel chair adjacent to the desk. His handkerchief lost in the cloud of aggravated dust. Who was the last person to rest themselves in this chair? It looked as though it had been there since at least the early thirties.
“Have a read through the files, if they are not of historical importance then put them to one side to be shredded. If you deem them worthy of keeping they’ll be put onto a computer disk or stored on the Police computer or somewhere, not sure how they do it?” He stood up from the chair, “There you go, all ready for you.” He put the handkerchief back into his jacket breast pocket with a flourish, like a magician in the process of a trick. Did he do that in his spare time, at kids parties maybe? ‘The Great Marson, the Magic Copper.”
“I’ll leave you to it, enjoy yourself.” With that final rejoinder Marson exited the room closing the door behind him.
Kate looked around. The room was dark and cold, the sickly sweet smell of yellowing paper hung in the air. A layer of grey dust lay on everything, the metal light shade the box files, the racks, the floor. She surveyed the desk. How many cases had found their way into this room over the years? One hundred and twenty years of notes, evidence and charge sheets, who where the people resident in these case files, what ghosts would she meet in the archives.
The first pile of files fell onto the desk. Dust blew in misty clouds out from between the folders.
“Lovely!” the lone word came forward with more than a hint of sarcasm. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted something, salvation. It was an old gas heater, now, could she make it work? A high-pitched screech made her cringe as she dragged it across the floor from its historical home across to the desk. Slumping down in the chair from her exertions she turned the switch on the top half a turn. From the lower half of the antiquated piece of machinery a low hiss escaped, ‘gas!’ Click, click, click, the igniter crackled into life. Whoosh, the orange and blue flame jumped out of the grill. She felt the heat on her calves. Time to get to work.
The first box open on the desk. The contents placed one by one on the remaining free surface. Items listed, a black pocket note book, a man’s large gold wristwatch and a charge sheet. Ian Rohem, age 19, date 27 March 1974, charge, theft of gold wristwatch from pawnbrokers, Jacobs Well Mews.
I wonder what happened to him? He’d be in his forties now, middle aged. Was he a guest of her majesty or was he a responsible father with a nine to five office job? That could go for anyone whose names have found their way into this room. Most of them would be dead now, their acts of crime long forgotten. This is hardly the look into the criminal masterminds of London’s history she was hoping for.
The paper would be the first of many to make its way into the shredding pile, the watch, put to one side. Any items such as this could be sent to a charity shop or auctioned off for some worthy cause. She could use the box file for keeping them in.
The next file for attention was a plain A4 card folder. Its contents, a single charge sheet. Miss Sarah Chandler, age 26, date 4 May 1984, charge, soliciting. Shredder fodder. Let’s do the poor woman a favour, destroy her past history.
The morning dragged on. It was hard to have any sense of time in a room with no windows. Without a point of reference the brain cannot judge the minutes elapsing. By the time ten thirty had come around, Kate would have given anything for a cup of coffee. The storeroom had heated up nicely now and was quite comfortable.
Mind made up, she would go down to the canteen and get herself a cup of coffee and a bun. The caffeine injection would do her wonders and set her up to nit pick through the archives. Leaving the heater switched on so as to have a warm welcome back into the dark room, she left, closing the door behind her.
At that very moment Karen Christopher-Martin was having a similar thought. Karen was a slim, dark haired woman in her early thirties and had started on the very same morning as Kate. They met in the reception whilst awaiting their escort onto the premises. The women had become good friends over the last few months, both had few friends in the capital and had at least the job in common. Karen had been put straight behind a desk doing no more than secretarial work. Her aspirations had been much greater than the tasks so far allotted to her.
The feeling of frustration was constant. She had experience in several unusual fields and a career in a special operations unit would have followed her training. After the incident in the gym when she had almost paralysed the self-defence instructor, an ex marine, she made no secret of her past. Karen was an expert in most martial arts and a contender for the Olympic shooting team so why had she been overlooked for Special Operations? Kate already knew the answer to that question, she knew Karen would make it, time was on her side.
Now the two WPC’s enjoyed each other’s company both professionally and socially. The two women often hit the town together on their days off. On such occasions it was becoming apparent to Kate that Karen’s attitude towards the male gender differed from her own. Karen’s attitude was that men were there to be used and had had many relationships. Most of her flirtations would only last a week or so, but still in her eyes ‘a success’. Kate’s ideas of a success in the relationship stakes were somewhat more conservative.
Kate spotted her friend in the queue for the drinks counter in the canteen. Her shape was unmistakable, broad powerful shoulders tapering down to shapely hips and legs. Kate silently came up behind, “Hello”
Karen did not show any hint of surprise just slowly and coolly turned around to greet her friend.
“Where have you been all morning? I tried ringing your desk phone.”
“Special duties for the ACC.” She made the task sound considerably more glamorous than it actually was.
“Oh get her” mocked Karen, smiling.
The queue was small and already the drinks counter had arrived, ”Tea please.” Karen requested. The young girl serving the drinks slammed a white mug down under the boiler, pulled the lever and watched the boiling water slop around, in and out of the cup. Once full, the adolescent girl heavy handedly put it on the tray, then as a robot on a production line she sat on the stool next to the till.
“…and a coffee, please.” She turns to Kate, “Coffee ok?”
“Thanks”
The young girl gave a large sigh before repeating the process of drink dispensing. As the water poured, the aroma of coffee filled the air. The charming assistant perched back on her stool, read out the sub total off the small screen on the till.
“Two pound fifty.” Not a note of human feeling in her voice.
The payment handed over, Karen takes the tray and makes a beeline for the nearest free table. Karen then moves on to the next table and the next. Finally she lays the tray down on the first available clean table top, not that there were many around. Some of the eating surfaces had been cleared of disregarded cups and sandwich wrappers, but the surfaces not cleaned down.
“I can’t stop.” apologised Kate.
“Why?” Karen asked as she seated herself.
It was time to come clean. “There’s an old store room upstairs needs clearing out and guess who’s got the job?”
“You?”
“You bet. Marson said how interesting I’d find it, being a history graduate.”
“And is it?”
“If you think petty crime, domestics and prostitution interesting then yes.”
“Nothing juicy?” Karen had a glint in her eye.
“Not yet.” Kate checks her watch. The job she has been tasked with may be a boring one, but that doesn’t mean she would not give it her full attention.
“What time is it” Karen asks with an anxious look on her face.
“Half past, why?”
Karen suddenly stands up and puts the lid on her cup of tea.
“I’ve got to be going. I’m at a presentation about overspend or something with the Super. On for a drink after work?” she is desperately trying to put on her jacket one handedly.
“Why not, nothing else doing” A drink after work would be a well-earned reward after the mind numbing boredom of the day. Kate would look forward to it. Something always happened when these two ‘singletons’
got together.
Unbeknown to the pair their work colleagues had nicknamed them ‘Jones and Bridget’. If they had ever found out the reaction would have probably been a favourable one. No one, however, had ever chanced engaging the wrath of the high kicking Karen. Their own ‘nick’ names for one another seemed to be more degrading than the male members of the workforce.
Kate had christened Karen ‘Ginger Pony’ after one particular night of Karen’s flirtations with the opposite sex. Karen not to be outdone returned the pseudonym to fit Kate’s colouring, ‘Blonde Pony’ she would be known as, from that day.
As the storeroom door swung open a wave of heat hit Kate like a marathon runner hitting the mythical ‘wall’. Without further ado she turned down the heater before collecting the next set of files. She took a
sip of her coffee.
The old file swung open, this looked more promising. Inside the folder lay an old leather pocket book. On closer examination the leather had cracked and faded with age, but how old was it? An elastic band held the covers closed. Next to take her attention was a bundle of papers held together with a red ribbon. All the text on the sheets, as far as could be made out, was in ink from a fountain pen. The handwriting looked almost copperplate, most definitely old school. Kate very carefully took out the book and wedge of papers and placed them gently down on the table.
As Kate’s slender fingers picked up the book and gently tugged at the elastic band, it disintegrated on touch falling onto the tabletop. The book was carefully opened and Kate read the contents with interest.
31st August 1888
Suspect, Tall, Well Dressed. Top Hat Cloak.
Carrying Doctors bag.
Foggy Night did not see suspect’s face.
Followed down to River, took small boat up stream to Westminster.
“Wow” Kate said out loud.
Closing the notebook she noticed the gold leaf initials ‘H.K.’ in the bottom right hand corner of the front leather bound cover,
Was this what she thought it was? No it couldn’t be. She turned her attention to the sheets of paper. The notes had been written by a Chief Inspector Herbert Kitchener, of course the H.K. on the book. A date was etched in the margin, 1888.
“My god!” what was she reading. Could this be the case notes of one of the most notorious crimes in the history of the Police Force?
Kate reads on…
Chapter 2 soon...
