It was a wet and rainy London June day in 1874 where this particular story starts. More accurately, this part of a much longer story and more incredulous story even than the one I am about to recount. I hope to write that story, if the fates allow it, but for today it must suffice that I write this one. It starts with the theft of some flowers from a stall on Mepham Street. Nasturtiums to be precise, two bunches to put even more precision to it. The stall was owned by a notorious thief who had put his murky past behind him and was trying to make a living as a florist. There is some small token of irony in a theft from a thief that was not lost on me when I read about the incident in the evening newspaper.
So much of the news recently had been subsequently to be proven false, the incident with the zoo in New York and that infernal induction resonance motion motor from Mr Worrell Keely, that I had a high level of skepticism about this latest story also being a falsehood. However, something about the incident stood out in the article that I dwelt on the facts of the case for a few minutes on that rain sodden June evening. The column inches devoted to the sorry tale where only a few, I concluded that even the amount given to it was because of a lack of other serious news elsewhere.
It was perfunctory journalism. Mepham Street, Waterloo. Flower Stall owned by Mr. B. Edwards, former London bank robber. Two bunches. Nasturtiums. Thief caught by passer-by who heard Mr. Edwards call out. Thief’s name: Mr. James Abercrombie, arrested and taken to the local police station by the arresting officer P.C. Patrick Ferguson. The incident had taken place on the preceding day, 11th June. Just the basic facts.
I was uncertain at first as to what exactly caught my eye. I often describe this feeling like glancing at something one believes to be in the corner of your vision, only to look and see it was an illusion. And so is my mind. I have corners in it that are waving for attention only for my active, conscious mind to blunder into only to find the corner empty. That evening, my mind was waving large red flags. It would be a further two full days and the same number of dead bodies before I realised what it was trying to tell me.
The following day, I was taking my morning constitutional walk with my trusted and loyal companion, Siegfried my German Shorthaired Pointer dog. He had been with me for five years by that summer and we had grown extremely fond of one another. He was extremely intelligent, and I was grateful that I had invested the time in training him thoroughly as he was now a delightful and friendly, well-behaved cohort.
We left my house on Bryanston Square at half past seven o’clock. The rain from the previous day had subsided and there was a breath of warmth in the air with the promise of a better afternoon. My pace was usually quick, both myself and Siegfried enjoy a brisk pace to start the day. We turned down Great Cumberland Street and headed directly for the open spaces and free roaming of Hyde Park. The practice of soap-boxing at “Speakers’ Corner” had started to become more popular over the previous few years and had turned into a new tradition that I, for one, was greatly in favour of. I enjoyed listening to the occasional well put together augment for political or social change, which was unable to be heard in other ways. As I am sure the reader is aware it was the scene of widespread gathering and protest only five or six years ago, which I believe lead to the voting reforms we see today.
This morning, it was a quiet scene and my companion and I moved down towards the inner greenery of the park proper. Siegfried was never tied around the neck with a dog lead, and always walked to heel in the city streets, except to sniff the occasional good smell where he needed to be reminded to rejoin me and he would trot a few paces back to his spot on my left. Once we reached the parks wilderness he was allowed to roam and run, chasing real or imaginary wildlife. He would always return with the calling of his name. This morning however he left my side and wandered into a small cluster of trees to the left of the path. The park was usually empty on these mornings, except for a few morning walkers such as myself. I would exchange pleasantries with visiting dignitaries, local residents and occasionally fellow ex-officers like myself. I once met a member of the Royal family walking through the park. Honour forbids me to reveal who it was, and I am not one to gossip, but they were still wearing their evening attire!
I observed Siegfried moving in the trees, he seemed to be very interested in something in the undergrowth and in order to continue our walk towards the west side of the park, I called him back to me. Normally obedient, Siegfried stayed in the undergrowth, hesitated and ran back towards me, only to stop and turn once more back towards the trees. He now adopted the familiar pointer pose, one he had not been fully trained in as he was a family pet and not a working gun dog. Such was the imprint of breeding I believe his instincts to point to the trees, signaling to me that I should go over myself. I am naturally curious, as it will not surprise the reader, I went over to the trees to investigate. Siegfried joined me as I passed him, seeking praise from me as we went.
Upon entering the small copse of trees with quite deep undergrowth of some brambles and thorns, it was quite evident that there was a body of a man seemingly half buried under a thicket and with branches cut and dragged over the form. I have been unfortunate enough to see many bodies in my time in the service and I knew immediately that the man was quite dead and had been for some time. I knew that I should call for help and summon the police but I was drawn to the left hand side of the man, close to his left hand, I could make out amongst the leaves and branches what appeared to be a few flowers. Nasturtiums.
I hastened back towards Hyde Park Corner where I was certain I had seen a constable on his patrol earlier, failing that I could get a boy to run to Scotland Yard and summon them from there. I was indeed fortunate and I managed to catch up to the constable as he was walking around Marble Arch towards Edgware Road. I remember I jokingly wondered if he was preventing the blessed thing from being stolen. My hurried trot back across the park had left my quite out of breath and I must have appeared quite the figure. As I explained the situation, the young constable look quite alarmed though he managed to be professional in his next actions. He blew his whistle to summon assistance and within a few minutes several colleagues of his surrounded us and I was pressed to recount the story for their benefit.
The constables conferred for a further few moments, and I began to feel the frustration of inaction rising in me. It is a fault of mine to be quick to anger and let my frustration boil over, particularly when the course of action seemed obvious, and we must simply get on with it. I had been told this by my superiors for most of my army career and it had probably caused several promotions to have been delayed. I had come to realise that what may have been obvious to me was not always obvious to others, a curse of the mind I had been born with was to see the ball earlier than most, and swing too early as a result. Nevertheless after a few moments, I was heading back to the trees in the park with two of the constables, one was the original one PC Buxton and his newly arrived colleague PC Forth. The remaining three constables hurried back to Scotland Yard to alert the on-duty Inspector or relevant superiors.
As we arrived back at the trees, I indicated with my walking stick where the body lay and allowed them to hurry over and regard it for themselves. I had no desire to re-examine the corpse. Dead people where not my favourite kind, contrary to one of the songs that the enlisted men had taken to singing about me in my first days as an officer in Woolwich Barracks. The constables poked around in the brambles for five minutes or so, clearly uncertain what to do. Emerging from the trees they were certainly a little greener around the gills than they were moments earlier. PC Buxton took out a small note book, leather bound and licked the end of a stubby pencil and began to ask me a series of questions. Where had I been going? Where I lived? What my name was? As I shared this information I saw a flicker of acknowledgement and unease in the face of young PC Buxton. He also stiffened slightly and straightened up, I feared he may have saluted but he stopped short. Being a retired Colonel and a Lord sometimes has that effect, but it was the recognition of my name that caused the first reactions. Here, dearest reader, I must entreat you to avoid such judgemental reactions as I divulge the full truth of my identity and the fame that surrounds it. General Lord Collingwood Dickson.