The Assassin’s Assassin
by Benjamin Parsons
Copyright 2013 Benjamin Parsons
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Very early one cold, overcast January morning, it came about that I was crossing the river at St. Paul’s to reach the south bank; and as I began to mount the arc of the new bridge, I happened to look down to my left, over the rails, and was surprised by what I saw below.
When the tide goes out, the receding waterline reveals intermittent stretches of stark beach under the embankments— dirty fringes of sludge and rubble— and there, contrasting as a pale gleam with the squalid detritus around her, was a beautiful woman, finely dressed in a long and sumptuous white coat, open in front, with a mere slip beneath. Her bare toes peeped from the hems of her attire, but she neither stepped with timidity, nor lifted those fine clothes out of the muck; and the fledgling seagulls, flecked with brown, which were stood huddled all along this shore, neither flinched nor cawed at her approach, even as she moved among their numbers. Her face was full of anxiety, and a sort of breathless urgency that was matched by her movements as she advanced between the sorry, rotted palings sticking up at intervals from the shallows. She moved to the very lapping edge of the water and paused, a picture of terrible but lovely anguish, staring out into the silver-grey body of the river.
I wondered, for a moment, whether the pockets of her elegant mantle might be stuffed with broken bricks, picked from the silt on every side, and that, thus weighed, she meant to rush into the strong flood and drown herself; but as soon as I realised who she was, I knew I was wrong— and so, like a true Londoner, I hurried on my way, ignorantly, and did not look back to see what happened next.
But I have since learned the whole tale of what brought her to the brink of the Thames that chilly morning, and here it is.
Do you remember hearing of a strange foundling, a mere baby, who was washed up one day near Tower Bridge? It was some thirty years ago now, or more. A man, employed in servicing the hydraulics below the bridge, was on his way to make some repair when he was distracted by the odd noise of an infant mewling nearby. Glancing towards the river, he saw, to his amazement, the poor little creature actually sweeping past in an eddy of the current— quite alert, and loud as any healthy newborn. With quick dexterity, he stooped down and snatched it from the drink as it swirled near, becoming in that moment a sort of marine midwife to the child.
Once he had borne it to hospital, and his colleagues had borne the news of the adventure to the local press, he was lauded for his promptness and heroism, which made for a heart-warming article or two; but the story was kept alive by the total mystery of the baby’s origins. Of course, it was assumed that she (for a she it was) had been cast off the bridge into the water by her mother— cast, rather than dropped, because no mother came forward to claim a lost daughter, which implied in turn that she was not only unwanted, but almost a victim of infanticide, too. But while this supposition made for some lucratively appalled reportage in itself, the conundrum was made still more perplexing by several people who had been further up-river on the day, who separately claimed to have seen an object, which they thought (but doubted) to be a baby, washing downstream from as high as Blackfriars. Was it possible that the child had been dragged so far, and yet escaped drowning? Could she have floated still further, though unseen until then— had she sailed all through the city?
The letters pages of the London papers filled with speculation on the subject, and a range of theories were put forward, from the remarkable natural buoyancy of babies, to the possibility that a large fish, or shoal of the same (maybe a whale) had carried the tiny charge all the way in safety, and even, perhaps, comfort. Well, well; suffice to say there was a great deal of concern about the fate of the child, and she became something of a celebrity for a while. The saviour-engineer (who had poetical aspirations, latterly dashed) gave her the fond name Thamesis, and a wealthyish, barren couple from Richmond adopted her, carrying the orphan home to be raised within view of her natal waters.
Then, when she was twelve years old, her guardians died, both at once, and popular interest in her revived for a moment— it was an opportunity to revisit the anecdotes of yesterday, and pity anew the misfortunes of the poor girl, both abandoned and bereaved in such a short life. But she was not an unhappy sort of person, in the main, and little given to demonstrative mourning, so it was difficult for the reporters to concoct much of a tragedy out of her. Besides, when it transpired that she had been left as quite a well-off little heiress, there seemed less and less to pity— and since there was nothing to revile either, there was, in sum, no longer any story, and as a result she disappeared from the public eye altogether.
But the fellows who operate Tower Bridge never forgot her, and after some years passed on, would still mention ‘their’ Thamesis from time to time, and affect to recognise her if she ever came near their place of employment, which, on occasion, she did.
One such was a howling day of drenching rain. It happened that, in the midst of the downpour, a man fell from the bridge and drowned— not an uncommon occurrence; and when his body was recovered soon afterwards (for a bridgeman sighted it hitting the water) he was identified as a wealthy business magnate— chairman of the board, and the like. This was more uncommon, but not unheard of, and cynical observers expected to learn that his affairs or influence had been in jeopardy, or some secret corruption was about to be discovered— but no: his empire was not built on fraud, nor was it prone to be devoured by creditors. He had been a wise (if rather rapacious and unpleasant) tycoon, and his obituaries were full of respect, grudging admiration, and condolences for his sons.
If he had leapt to his death, there was no hint as to his motive whatsoever; but the police theorised that he might have been carrying a note about his person that was dislodged as he plunged into the water, because it would be very difficult indeed to accidentally fall over the guard rail, even in wet weather. Still, there was something unfathomed in it while evidence of his reason was lacking, and the witness of his death-dive was questioned thoroughly. Did he see the victim climb over the rail? —No, he saw nothing like that. —Perhaps the victim was manhandled somehow, and thrown into the Thames? Was there anyone else on the bridge at the time? —No, it was strangely quiet, not even a cab driving across just then— but—.
But? But what?
‘I think,’ said the fellow, ‘well, I can’t be sure, but— but I reckon I saw someone.’
Who? What was he like?
‘She— it was a she, no doubt about that. Stood up there on her own, in all the rain— I suppose it was odd— just looking down after him. And you know what? She reminded me of— well, of course, I haven’t seen her for a few years, but her face was just like—’
Like who, the impatient officers demanded —and on hearing the name Thamesis, multiplied their questions a thousand-fold. However, the man could not be sure; it was nothing but a resemblance, and she was hardly there for a moment anyway. In short, he would not venture to testify.
So the police dismissed this imperfect account, and the coroner, under the influence of a pair of newly-minted multi-millionaires (that is, the dead man’s sons), brought a verdict of death by misadventure. Nevertheless, the scrupulous investigating officer made an effort to speak to this Thamesis, just to be sure— but her address could not be ascertained, nobody knew what had become of her, and the matter was quickly succeeded by more urgent cases.
Even so, neither that detective, the witness, their colleagues, nor the coroner himself had heard that name Thamesis for the last time— no, it rippled, whisperingly, to them all, as though from far away, and very near. It was overheard, fleetingly, on the tube; it was noticed, briefly, scrawled between the
names on a bouncer’s door-list; it was called, at a great height, from a scaffolded building; a road-sweeper muttered it as he scuffled by. She seeped, imperceptibly, into society, like an interesting rumour, so that soon enough everyone found themselves speaking that name, without really knowing why, or of whom they spoke.
But those bridgemen were all nodding their heads together knowingly enough when she turned up in one of their tabloids. Half a column, recording the unfortunate demise of a substantial company’s major shareholder, added a sentence at the end, which printed her name. This illustrious personage had been out beyond the barrier in his private yacht when the fine day grew dark. A fierce tempest succeeded, harried the vessel out into dangerous waters, capsized it, dashed the owner overboard, and killed him. Another misadventurous death, this, and