Free The Incendiary's Trail by James McCreet

of signs and advertising
hoardings that assault the eye and call for attention.
    Almost lost amidst the noise, the lone voice of a running patterer shouts news of the latest scandal – one so new that he has not yet procured the printed sheets to sell: ‘Hideous
murder in Lambeth! Two-headed monster slain by killer! House of horrors in our midst!’
    Finally, the boy turns right up Duke-street and on to Edward-street, a more sedate thoroughfare in the environs of Portman-square: a street of milliners, of Lazenby and Sons’ famous
fish-sauce warehouse, and, for those of the inclination, Miss Prince’s Academy of Dancing. But he does not stop here – rather, he continues into Manchester-square: a small oasis of calm
away from the cacophony of the city. It is the kind of place one might find the residence of an eminent physician, writer or composer.
    And it was here that the boy approached a black door on the south side and knocked. It was answered by a Negro man. He listened as the boy explained something at length, nodded and took a coin
from his pocket for the boy, who then set off back towards the east.
    ‘And then I sent the PC in pursuit of the boy while I attended to the house. Nobody has entered or left the property as I waited for your arrival. I have made enquiries
hereabouts as to who occupies the house and have received conflicting reports. One neighbour maintains that a writer lives there; another says he is a businessman. All say that he is a quiet and
unassuming man. All remarked on the peculiarity of his Negro manservant – and I’m sure you will recall that it was a black man who attacked PC Wiseman of Stepney. Both have lived here
for about four years.’
    Inspector Newsome, who had just arrived at Manchester-square by police carriage, nodded to himself and answered:
    ‘Very good, Mr Bryant. The boy returned directly to Giltspur-street, where he received another coin. I admit I have no idea from where the prisoner produced these coins – he was
thoroughly searched in his cell. I have ordered him searched again. Well, I wonder if this is our prisoner’s address. Have you elicited any further information from any of the
neighbours?’
    ‘A strange thing, sir – none can agree on a name. One knows him as Henry Matthews, another as William Smart. Yet another has heard him called Harold Smith.’
    ‘I see. I am not particularly surprised. Now – I intend us to enter the house and search it for anything that might throw light on our mysterious prisoner. Evidence of stolen goods
would also be beneficial to our cause, though I do not expect to find it. If we are fortunate, the secret to the enigma will lie herein.’
    Together, they crossed the road and Mr Newsome used the brass knocker to rap three times on the door. The Negro man who had answered previously opened it now. He was of a singular
appearance:
    There was no stock about his neck and the two policemen saw a quite horrific scar there, the skin evidently having been stretched and torn as if he had been hanged and survived it. His left eye
was also damaged, presenting an opaque film to the world. His build was that of a bare-knuckle boxer, an assumption reinforced by the flattened nose and scar tissue about the temples, but his
manner was attentive. Mr Newsome saw him looking at their clothes and demeanour as closely as they were reading him. Evidently, he knew who they were before they spoke, though it did not seem to
alarm him.
    ‘I am Inspector Newsome of the Detective Force and this is Detective Constable Bryant. We are investigating a crime and must enter this place to seek evidence. You are obliged to permit us
entrance, or risk being arrested yourself.’
    The Negro said nothing. His hand moved to the scar tissue at his neck and he scratched absently at the skin there. He did not move from his position filling the doorway.
    ‘Is your master at home?’ enquired Mr Bryant.
    The Negro shook his head.
    ‘When do you expect