Mr Lynch's Prophecy

by Evelyn James

  “This life, it wrecks your nerves,” she told Clara. “I can’t sleep without my sister Ethel nearby.”

  Ethel, the woman with the glasses, clasped her hands before her and watched her sister sadly.

  “Ethel looks out for me. She doesn’t do what I do, don’t ever think she does. Ethel is virtuous. I never would let her do this,” Rose was talking quick and pacing again. “But you have to survive, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Clara said sympathetically. “The world can be a very cruel place, when you are a woman with no money and no prospects.”

  “You understand that,” Rose smiled at Clara, like they were comrades in this domestic war. “It’s a tough life. Bet it’s hard doing what you do?”

  “Oh, that it is,” Clara shrugged. “Men rarely see me as anything but an interfering woman who should go get herself a husband rather than muddle in their business. That just makes me more determined to prove I am as good, in fact, better, than them.”

  Rose’s grin had returned.

  “I like you. Do you really want to find out who killed Jenny?”

  “Yes. I will do all I can to discover what happened to her.”

  Rose relaxed a fraction further.

  “I knew Jenny for years. We shared the same streets, often walked together. That was before Ethel started this place. Ethel was not like me, she was always a sensible girl,” Rose smiled fondly at her sister. “She got married to a seaman. During the war he served on one of those patrol boats looking for German submarines. They helped to sink one too, but Ethel’s husband was killed.”

  “He was a brave man,” Clara turned and told Ethel.

  Ethel gave a shrug and dropped her head, shy at the compliment.

  “You got prize money for sinking submarines, and the share Ethel’s husband would have had went to her and she started this place to keep a roof over her head,” Rose gave a sad sigh. “She said I could come and work here, you know, proper work. But the place has never been that profitable, so I started to provide certain guests with extras again.”

  Ethel gave a soft sob.

  “It is not your fault, love,” Rose stepped out from behind the sofa and clutched Ethel’s hand. “You’ve tried so very hard for me. Don’t cry.”

  Clara felt she was imposing on this moment between the two sisters and wondered if she ought to leave, but Rose was looking at her again.

  “That brings us to Jenny,” she said. “When I left street-walking we lost touch. I can’t say I have seen her in years.”

  “Would you recognise her, if you did see her?” Clara asked.

  “No need, that tattoo tells me its her,” Rose gave Clara a knowing look. “This business, you tend to develop a dislike for male company, but you still want company. Back in the day, me and Jenny were thick as thieves, we went everywhere together, looked out for each other. One time we met this Chinese sailor who could do the most beautiful tattoos and we had one each. Mine says Jenny, and Jenny’s said Rose, and they were ringed in thorns. They were our secret, no one else would know what they meant, would they? The fellas never knew our real names, so they could not know what those tattoos stood for.

  “And then I left Jenny. It sounds rotten, it wasn’t like that. I was going to start a new life and when the time was right, she would join me. It just… never happened. I wasn’t there to look out for her. Not in the end…”

  Tears ran down Rose’s face. Ethel clasped her hand tightly and they drew together like two desperate waifs tossed into the world’s ocean, hopeless and frightened.

  “Life is so cruel to women like us,” Rose cried. “We never stood a chance.”

  Clara stepped closer to Rose.

  “I shall discover who did this to Jenny,” she said. “I shall make it my duty. But, I must know more about Rose’s life these last few years. Who could I speak to about her?”

  Rose shrugged.

  “We lost touch,” she sniffed. “I don’t know. I don’t know…”

  “What about her mother?” Ethel nudged her sister. “She might know.”

  Rose wiped tears from her eyes.

  “She might,” she admitted. “Jenny’s mother never took to me, don’t know why. Not like she had done any different with her life. She drinks heavy. A right gin fiend. If you want to find her, I would suggest trying some of the local doss houses first, or a pub doorway. Jenny tried to rise above that, but she started to fall into drink too.”

  Rose became silent. Her tears had stopped. She only had so many left to shed these days.

  “How did she die?” She asked.

  “She was stabbed,” Clara explained. “I think she was in a place she was not supposed to be. Did you always walk around the alleys by the picture house when you worked together?”

  “Yes, they were our hunting grounds,” Rose gave a bitter laugh. “Men falling out of the picture house near enough on top of us, and before it was a picture house, it was a cheap music hall. Those alleys were always full of girls and men looking for girls.”

  “Not these days,” Clara said darkly.

  Rose gave her an enquiring look.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone has made a point of clearing them out, and it isn’t the police. They are empty, no one dares step foot in them and if you do, you’ll get threatened with violence until you leave. I discovered that myself.”

  Rose glanced at her sister.

  “That… that is the oddest thing. Those alleys were always so crowded with people. Most of ‘em were lowlifes, but there would be children and women, some like me and Jenny, and some just housewives having a natter. Me and Jenny would walk down them arm-in-arm, calling out to all the people we knew as we went past. No one judged us.”

  “Why would anyone want the alleys empty?” Ethel asked quietly, her eyes screwing up in anxiety behind her glasses, which made for a strange sight.

  “Maybe so they can conduct their business without hindrance?” Clara replied. “Someone wants no witnesses and no one getting in the way. And they are prepared to act violently to ensure that.”

  “Oh Jenny,” Rose sniffed. “Why did she have to get mixed up in that?”

  “I’m sorry,” Clara said. “I really am. I hope I can figure this out and put your friend’s killer behind bars.”

  “Do that,” Rose nodded. “You’ve got to. Maybe we are just common working girls, and maybe we aren’t worth the time of day to the police, but we still have feelings, we still want to live. Ain’t no one cares about us.”

  Clara took Rose’s hand and held it firmly.

  “I care,” she swore. “And I will do all in my power to bring justice to Jenny.”

  “You ain’t like the rest,” Rose embraced Clara and sobbed softly in her ear. “You have a good heart. If you need to ask me anything, anything at all, come back at once. I want to help find Jenny’s killer.”

  Clara gently hugged her back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There was a message when Clara finally arrived home from Colonel Brandt. He had been asking around among his contacts and had discovered that a former army major, who had served in India, had retired to Brighton in 1876. He had been part of the force sent to quell the 1855 rebellion and had been decorated for his bravery. He had earned one of the special hunting knives. He was also long since dead, having passed away in 1891. However, Brandt had learned through his colleagues that the major had had a son and it was possible the knife had remained in the family as an heirloom. Or it might have been sold, pawned or stolen at any time since the major was awarded it. Clara just had to hope someone had been sentimental. Since she was short on leads, it certainly would not hurt to track down the major’s family and see what they knew about the knife.

  Her father’s collection of old trade directories was once again to prove useful. He had been slightly obsessed about buying them throughout his adult life, much to Clara’s mother’s mild disapproval. No one needed that many directories. Clara, however, thanked her father’s odd coll
ection. It helped her enormously, and she was continuing the family tradition, buying up the latest trade and street directory as soon as it came out.

  They had an edition for 1890, the year before the major died. His full name had been Major Edward Basildon, and the street directory specified his address as 18 Lovall road. Clara fetched a map and was interested to note that Lovall Road was not far from the crime scene; just a couple of streets over. She pointed this out to Tommy.

  “Coincidence or clue?” She asked him.

  “Depends if his descendants still live in the area,” Tommy pointed out.

  They also discovered that in 1890 a second Edward Basildon was living in Lovall Road, a few doors down from number 18. Clara tapped her finger on the name.

  “Has to be his son,” she said to Tommy.

  Tommy fetched a street directory for ten years later and found Lovall Road. He traced his finger down the list of residents.

  “Edward Basildon,” he pointed to 10 Lovall Road. “Assuming he is Major Basildon’s son, he could be in his seventies by now.”

  “Old enough to have a son and a grandson of his own. How many Basildons live in Brighton?”

  Tommy flicked to the back of the directory and checked out the name list again.

  “Only five are listed for 1900. Hang on, let’s get the newest directory down.”

  Tommy fetched the 1921 Jolley’s Street Directory from a shelf. Clara had yet to use it, though she had scrolled through the section for her own street to assure herself that she had been correctly listed. She had also paid for a full-page advertisement in the directory, as you never knew who might look in there.

  “Still only five Basildons listed,” Tommy told her. “Edward Basildon is still living in Lovall Road, the other Basildons are in different parts of Brighton.”

  “Well, I think we know who are going to be paying a visit to,” Clara said.

  ~~~*~~~

  An hour later they found themselves in Lovall Road. It was a quiet place lined with terrace houses. The front doors of the houses exited straight onto the pavement, but some homeowners had compensated for the lack of a front garden by placing flower boxes on the sills of their front windows. While the houses were far from extravagant, the road had an air of respectability and everyone appeared to be trying their best. Number ten was at the top end of the road and Clara had to pass number 18 to reach it. She glanced at the former home of Major Basildon, noting that the window was dominated by a canary cage, two bright yellow birds hopping about inside.

  “Seems a humble place for an army major to live,” Tommy remarked.

  Clara was distracted from the canaries.

  “I suppose anyone can find themselves a little short of money,” she said.

  “Short enough to sell a highly valuable dagger?” Tommy suggested.

  Clara made a hissing noise by sucking backwards through her teeth.

  “I hope not, or else this is another dead end.”

  They came to 10 Lovall Road. A bicycle was propped against the wall, partly covering the bottom of the deep window. Clara knocked on the door.

  They waited only a moment before a woman answered. She was in her forties and therefore unlikely to be the wife of Edward Basildon – unless they had misjudged his age.

  “Hello,” Clara smiled politely. “My colleague and I are from the British Army’s Historical Research Society. We work at compiling regimental histories, and other such papers. We are currently on a five-year project researching the 1855 rebellion in India and we are trying to collect as much information as we can about those men who participated. I hope we are not mistaken in assuming that the Edward Basildon who resides here is the son of Major Edward Basildon?”

  The woman was a mouse-haired, plump creature. She listened attentively.

  “Why, you are referring to my grandfather!” She declared with a smile. “And yes, my father, Major Basildon’s son, does reside here and I am sure he would love to talk to you. He was extremely proud of his father, you know.”

  The woman showed them into the narrow hallway of the house.

  “And what is your name?” Clara asked as they squeezed in; there was barely room for them to stand squashed by the wall with the staircase running up the hallway.

  “Mary Parkes,” the woman introduced herself. “I live here and look after father. He is rather frail these days and my mother passed away just after the war.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Clara said.

  Mary Parkes waved away her comment, she did not need pity.

  “I don’t ever feel sorry for myself, it is a bad habit. No, I live here and look after father, which suits me fine as my own husband perished in the last war,” Mary Parkes pushed past them and escorted them to the back of the house, the property proved to be longer than it at first appeared, with a room at the front and a room behind, with a tiny window squashed to one side. The kitchen was built to cover part of this back room and the hallway, with a narrow passage running along the side. Edward Basildon was sitting in the small back room next to a blazing fire. The heat that came out of the room made Clara feel flushed, it was like being battered by a furnace fire. In contrast, Edward was not only wearing a cardigan, but had his legs covered by a thick blanket.

  He was carefully constructing a model from matchsticks. It was too early in the process to say what the object was going to be. Edward’s hands trembled madly as he lifted each matchstick, sliced off the head with its flammable tip, dotted glue on the section he was constructing and carefully applied the stick of wood. The process would at first glance seem impossible with the terrible tremors he was suffering, but despite his shaking the work was coming along smoothly and the model was an impressive work of precision.

  Opposite Edward, leaning back in a second armchair and watching the old man work with a slightly bored expression, was a young man. He was in his mid-twenties, a burly individual with thick, curly black hair. Mary Parkes had shuffled into the room ahead of them, and starting making introductions.

  “This is my son, Mortimer,” she introduced the younger man, “and this is my father, Edward. Father, these people are researching the 1855 India rebellion and want to ask about grandfather.”

  Edward looked up with sudden interest.

  “Really? How exciting! About time someone paid attention to that. Too many people these days are discussing Indian independence and acting as if we were monsters over there. My father would talk about the atrocities he had seen. Some of those Indians were thugs; they killed their own, along with British subjects. They tortured and killed in horrendous ways. Oh, there were some decent ones too, father always said that. People had to be there to understand what he went through,” this was clearly a subject that was dear to Edward’s heart. “I was always so proud of him. He was a brave and heroic man. During the rebellion he saved three Indian ladies from being drowned in a well! Hardly a monster, huh? He protected anyone who needed help, that was my father.”

  “I’m off, if its going to be all talk about the ‘Major’ again,” Mortimer Parkes rose from his seat, his tone sullen and unpleasant.

  “Don’t be like that,” Mary pleaded with her son, in a voice that suggested they had had this discussion before.

  “Let him go,” Edward grumbled. “He doesn’t know what respect is, that’s his trouble. My father would be ashamed of him, thoroughly ashamed!”

  “Father! You don’t help,” Mary complained, she was sandwiched between the two warring parties, and she was never going to win.

  “I don’t need any stuffy old army major’s approval,” Mortimer sneered as he marched out of the room. “What good did it do him anyway? Living in a hovel all his life and barely enough money to keep him out of a pauper’s grave when he died! If that’s what bravery gets you, you can keep it.”

  Mortimer stormed out and they shortly heard the front door slamming.

  “I apologise…” Mary began.

  “Don’t,” Edward scolded her, “let them see what
a pathetic excuse for a man he is. He never served in the war, you know. Supposedly the doctor at the recruiting station told him he had a bad heart, and they wouldn’t take him.”

  “He came home with a letter, father,” Mary protested.

  “What twaddle!” Edward snapped. “If I had been young enough I would have done my duty, bad heart or no bad heart. He is a lazy oaf who doesn’t give a damn for his country!”

  “You are being harsh, father,” Mary said softly. “And our guests don’t need to know all that, anyway. I’ll go make some tea.”

  Mary looked dejected as she left the room. Clara could only guess at the family rift she had managed to clumsily step into by her arrival and questions.

  “Ignore them,” Edward distracted her. “Take a seat, there is an extra chair in that corner.”

  Clara took the armchair as directed, while Tommy found a wooden chair in the corner and brought it over.

  “Did you serve?” Edward asked him fiercely.

  “Yes,” Tommy answered politely. “All four years.”

  “What rank?”

  “I was a captain, by the end,” Tommy said.

  “Good man, I could see you were officer material,” Edward nodded. “As for me, my father wouldn’t hear of me going into the army. Said it was not a life he wished on anyone, and so I worked all my days as a teacher.”

  Edward nudged his matchstick model.

  “Mortimer is right about one thing, my father deserved to end his days living in luxury. He was a hero, but there was nothing here for him when he got home. And my mother contracted a sickness in India that never went away. My father was desperate for a cure, spent every penny on doctors and cures. All to no avail. By the time my mother passed there was very little left, and then father became ill and I took care of him and my own family with what money I had,” Edward looked around the small back room. “I guess I can see why Mortimer is angry. But he is a fool, there is more to life than wealth. There is respect, honour and being a good man. My father was a hero and that can never be taken from him.”