by Evelyn James
Matilda Greystone was a tiny woman, barely five foot in stature and with the worn and weathered appearance of the lifelong heavy drinker. She was smoking a pipe as she peeled potatoes into a large pan. Her hair was as white as snow, but her face the colour of walnuts – Clara was not sure if that was a result of being outdoors a lot, or simply dirt. She had a bottle of gin strategically placed beside her, but she did not appear at that moment to be drunk.
She stopped in her work as the new arrivals appeared and cast them a suspicious look.
“What you doing back here?”
“Matilda, don’t you remember me? Rose,” Rose said quickly.
Matilda shot a glance in her direction.
“Oh, yes, I do recall you. I haven’t seen you in years,” Matilda gave a haughty sniff. “Jenny said you had gone up in the world and weren’t interested in the likes of us no more.”
Rose was visibly stung.
“That was never the case. I always loved Jenny, she was like a sister to me.”
“Then where did you go?” Matilda snorted. “Doesn’t matter anyway, who are these posh posies? Your new friends?”
The sneer in her tone made Rose flinch.
“This is Clara and Tommy Fitzgerald; they are trying to solve a murder that happened in the alleys the other night. They are kind people, not the police.”
“And what does that matter to me?” Matilda snorted. She started to peel potatoes again.
Rose cast an anxious look at Clara, who instantly took over.
“Mrs Greystone…”
“I ain’t never been married,” Matilda snorted. “I’ll be Miss Greystone to you, as you want to be all posh, like.”
“Miss Greystone,” Clara continued, undeterred. “I am really here because of your daughter Jenny. I take it you have not been in contact with her for a while?”
“She ain’t a child no more, she does as she pleases, just like me,” Matilda snapped. “And I don’t like your tone.”
She wagged her knife at Clara.
“I did not realise I had a ‘tone’.” Clara replied calmly. “I am not here to be your enemy Miss Greystone, or to judge you. I am here because the other night your daughter was stabbed to death in an alley.”
It was blunt, maybe even brutal, but Clara knew she had to attract Matilda’s attention and subtlety was not going to work. Matilda froze, but aside from her lack of movement, there was no obvious indication of her feelings. Her expression had not changed and she continued to puff away on her pipe with a rhythmic suction.
“You repeat that,” she said at last, with a slightly threatening tone.
“Your daughter was stabbed to death the other night. No one was sure who she was, or should I say, no one was prepared to come forward and say who she was. I discovered her identity yesterday. I am looking into the crime to find out who killed her.”
“And why are you doing that and not the police?” Matilda barked.
“Because I am damn curious and I can’t let things be,” Clara replied, her own words sharper. “And because a woman died, and someone ought to be brought to justice for that.”
“You ain’t the police,” Matilda snorted.
“No, I am not, and maybe that gives me an advantage. I have no one dictating to me what to do, no superiors, no Chief Constables and no paperwork. I can just dig away at things until I reveal the truth,” Clara pressed home her point. “I think your daughter was either in the wrong place at the wrong time, or knew something that was not good for her, and she was murdered as a result. And I think the people who did that would very much like to remain anonymous, and I am not going to let them.”
Clara’s words had taken on the dogmatic determination Tommy had heard before and knew meant business. Once she was in that mood, nothing was going to hold her back; threats and lies would only stir her on to greater action. She was like a terrier going down a hole after an angry badger; she simply would not back down. Matilda seemed to sense something of that too and she became less obtrusive.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “Maybe I never would have known if you had not come and found me. That… that is something.”
“I wish I did not have to bring you such bad news,” Clara said.
“Bad news is what makes the world go around,” Matilda said placidly. “One of these days it was going to be either me or Jenny winding up dead in a back street. I knew that and so did she. I had hoped I would be a goner first, but you can’t have everything.”
Matilda took the pipe from her mouth and picked up the gin bottle. She consumed a large swig and then placed it down again.
“Did you just come to tell me about my daughter being dead?”
“No. I hoped you could help me work out why she was killed and who by,” Clara answered.
“I don’t know much about my daughter’s life,” Matilda huffed. “Ain’t that obvious?”
“But you will know something, I am sure,” Clara was not sure at all, but she was desperate for any lead. “Can you tell me a little about her daily life? Where she liked to work and if she was regularly associating with any particular man?”
Matilda frowned.
“Jenny always worked out of the Green Dragon,” she said. “The landlord there was sweet on her and let her hang around. She picked up men there, or in the neighbourhood. There is this little alley down the side of the pub where she took her punters.”
“The Green Dragon is not far from the picture house,” Rose pointed out.
“Why would someone kill her?” Matilda groaned, the gin bottle coming to hand again as she attempted to drown her misery.
“I shall find out,” Clara told her, though such promises were easy to make and not always so easy to keep. “Is there anything else you can think of, anything about Jenny’s recent life that might be useful.”
Matilda stared at her gin bottle, a hopelessness developing on her face that suggested a deep gulf of despair opening inside her.
“Jenny never really told me anything,” she said. “We lived our lives away from each other. She was ashamed of me, and that shame deepened when she began to succumb to the bottle like her old mum. Apple never falls far from the tree.”
Matilda sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve.
“Seemed to me she was involving herself with something other than the usual lark,” she continued. “She never talked about it, but I had this impression there was more to her life than turning tricks for any Tom, Dick and Harry. Last time I saw her, she gave me some money. I was stunned by the amount. Asked her where it had come from. She said she had been saving up, and wanted me to have some. She did care about me, after all was said and done.”
By now Matilda had nearly finished her gin bottle and there did not look likely to be any boiled potatoes ready for dinner at the pub. She flopped back onto a wooden chair, which creaked in protest. Matilda gazed vaguely at them.
“I think she had a steady fella,” she slurred. “Not… not a regular… not like that. I mean, someone she was with.”
“A boyfriend,” Clara elaborated.
Matilda nodded.
“That’s what I think…k…k…k,” the gin bottle slipped from Matilda’s hand and dropped to the floor with a nasty clunk. Luckily, it did not smash. “Y…y…you know, wha… I mean...?”
“I think so,” Clara assured her. “Thank you for your help.”
Matilda began to sob to herself.
“M…m…my g…g…girl…”
Rose tapped Clara’s arm and indicated they should leave. Clara wanted to offer some comfort to Matilda, but she could not think how and probably Rose was right – Matilda needed to grieve in peace.
Back on the road outside the pub Rose flicked her hair back over her shoulders and looked serious.
“You run around in this business long enough, the idea of having a protector becomes appealing,” she said to Clara. “Mine came in the form of my sister and her boarding house. For Jenny, maybe she found a man who would wa
tch over her.”
“And perhaps he was part of this alley gang?” Tommy suggested.
Matilda shrugged.
“I can show you the way to the Green Dragon. It’s not far.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Green Dragon stood on a corner, sandwiched between the yard of a warehouse and a pawn shop. The alley Matilda had mentioned ran behind the pub, dividing its back wall from the shop. The pub had the look of being respectable, even if its clientele were from the lower end of society. It had been neatly painted recently and the front step was swept and washed, while the windows sparkled and showed no trace of dirt. Someone cared about this place and took pride in it.
“I wonder if the landlord knew about Jenny’s male friend, considering he was sweet on her,” Tommy asked quietly as they entered.
Rose frowned and pursed her lips.
“He must have done,” she said. “Even if it would not have pleased him.”
The landlord was stood behind his bar, polishing the brass and wood taps of the pump handles. He smiled at them as they entered.
“What can I get you?”
He seemed a friendly, welcoming soul. Not one to dabble in criminal activity; there was an air of innocence about him. Clara could imagine how he had felt sorry for Jenny, and had turned a blind eye to her activities, perhaps thinking that the vague love he felt for her was reciprocated.
“We are not here to order anything,” Clara said, coming near so she did not have to speak loudly. “We have some bad news about Jenny.”
The landlord stiffened, his expression freezing on his face. He licked his lips and seemed to not know what to do, then he managed to speak.
“Bad news?”
“Jenny has been attacked,” Clara said carefully, trying to break the news gently.
The landlord looked appalled.
“Where is she? Can I see her?”
“I am sorry, but the attack was fatal,” Clara hated saying the words. “She was in an alley not far from here and someone stabbed her. I am trying to discover who. I am a private detective.”
The landlord didn’t seem to know what to say. The shock was plain on his face. He glanced around his pub, looking for something that would enable him to make sense of what he had heard. His whole world had just crumbled to pieces.
“Excuse me,” he said, before disappearing through a back door that had the word ‘private’ etched on the glass.
Jenny shook her head.
“That didn’t go well.”
“It’s never easy explaining to people that someone they care about has passed in a violent fashion,” Clara replied. “I hope he comes back.”
They waited for half-an-hour, while other customers came in, looked for the landlord and departed without a drink. Some seemed annoyed, others were curious at his absence. A couple looked at Clara’s group suspiciously. Clara guessed this was not a place where strangers often came; everyone would know everyone else.
Finally, the landlord reappeared. He had been crying. His eyes were reddened and swollen. However, he acted as if nothing was the matter.
“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” he said.
“We need to ask you questions about Jenny,” Clara explained. “That is the only way to find her killer.”
The landlord gulped and looked like he was on the verge of crying again.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“You must,” Clara insisted. “You may be the key to finding out what happened to Jenny and bringing her killer to justice.”
“Justice?” The landlord looked cynical. “No one is fussed about justice for girls like Jenny.”
“I am,” Clara promised. “And this is Rose, an old friend of Jenny’s, who wants to see her killer caught too.”
“Yes,” Rose picked up the thread of the conversation. “I used to know Jenny years ago, we were so close. We lost touch a little these last years, but I would still have done anything for her, and I want her killer found. I won’t let them get away with this.”
The landlord looked baffled, as if he was unable to comprehend what they were telling him. He turned from them and pulled himself a half-pint of stout. Then he placed it on the bar and glowered at the dark liquid, before taking a good swig.
“I honestly don’t know what I can tell you,” he said.
“Did Jenny have a male acquaintance she spent a lot of time with?” Clara asked. “Maybe he was acting as her protector?”
“I don’t know,” the landlord said moodily.
“You do,” Rose snapped at him. “I can see it on your face. We need to know all about this man.”
The landlord snorted.
“Look, old boy,” Tommy stepped up to the bar. “It’s natural to feel hurt when the woman you care for finds another fellow to be sweet on. Especially when you had been looking out for her and making sure she was all right. Feels like ingratitude, doesn’t it? But you still care about her, and you wouldn’t want to think her killer got away because you were jealous, would you?”
The landlord was sulking, his head down.
“Just think, maybe it was this chap she was walking out with who did her in,” Tommy persisted. “Wouldn’t that make you want to do something?”
The landlord took another drink of stout.
“He wasn’t good enough for her,” he mumbled. “I would have looked after her a lot better.”
“Jenny never could tell the good ‘uns, from the bad ‘uns,” Rose said softly. “That was half her trouble. Did you ever tell her how you felt?”
“She knew,” the landlord sniffed.
“That’s a no, then,” Rose continued. “Jenny could be blind to what was right before her. Maybe she would be alive today if you had been a bit more forward with your feelings.”
“Don’t say that,” the landlord grimaced. “Why would you say that?”
“Jenny made a mistake going off with that fellow, but if she did not know there was another option, well, you can’t blame her,” Rose continued. “Don’t hold this against her. Jenny doesn’t deserve that.”
The landlord’s face had fallen and there was a hint of tears in his eyes.
“I did care about her,” he said. “I thought, given time, she would come to see that.”
“People sometimes need a hint, old boy,” Tommy said.
The landlord gave a weak nod.
“The man’s name was Callum Little,” he said. “He is a fence, and he runs errands for any of the gangs that need something done. He was quite well in with the Seashore Boys, back before their gang was crushed by the police. He was lucky to escape that mess, but he never learned his lesson. If you want to talk to him, you can find him down King’s Road, flat 3C. I haven’t seen him around for a few days, but that isn’t unusual.”
“How long have he and Jenny been walking out?” Clara asked.
“A few months now,” the landlord looked miserable. “She told me once that Callum was helping her get out of the game. I guessed that meant she was running errands alongside him. She could walk into places where Callum would be suspicious and pass along messages. I knew she was hoping this would be her way to a better life.”
The landlord took another long drink of stout, his hand shaking as he raised the glass to his lips.
“I would have made her an honest woman,” he said quietly. “She would never have had to do anything she didn’t want to do with me. I should have said something to her, but I never had the courage.”
The landlord gave a sob.
“I thought she would laugh at me.”
~~~*~~~
Having removed themselves from the distraught landlord at the Green Dragon, they made their way to the nearby King’s Road. Rose was getting restless and walking fast, as if she sensed the end of their journey nearing. Clara was less hasty; she did not think the end was in sight, just yet.
They reached No.3, which was divided into a trio of small flats, with 3c being on the top floor, in the attic space. They k
nocked on the front door and an old woman answered. She was so badly hunched over that she found it hard to look up into the faces of her visitors. She leaned on an old walking stick with hands crippled with arthritis and took a moment to catch her breath.
“Yes?”
“Hello, we are hoping to catch Mr Little at home?” Clara said.
The old woman waved a hand to a staircase that ran up the side of the hallway.
“You can find him on the top floor. Just close the front door behind you,” the old woman limped back into a front room and they heard her give a hefty sigh as she sat down in an armchair.
The trio entered the hallway, closing the front door as instructed, and headed upstairs.
“I’m guessing the landlady doesn’t deal with the cleaning,” Tommy said as he nudged aside a discarded apple core that was lying on a step. “Smells like over-cooked liver up here.”
They didn’t pause on the first landing, where the door to flat 3b stood slightly ajar and a man could be heard speaking fiercely in a language that was certainly not English. As they headed further up the stairs, they could glimpse him through the gap in the door, pacing back and forth and clearly practicing a speech. The foul smell had increased and hinted at mouldering socks and urine. Clara surmised that the houseguests were not the cleanest in their habits and, with the landlady so crippled she could barely walk to answer the front door, it was plain nothing was ever going to get washed or scrubbed to remove the foul odours.
On the top landing there was a pile of old newspapers and a bucket that contained black, filthy water and a mop. It stank so badly, it must have been there for weeks.
“This is disgusting,” Clara pressed a hand over her nose and mouth, not that it helped much.
“I have been in worse places,” Rose said complacently.
“Smells like someone has been cooking bones and cabbage up here,” Tommy gagged a little.
As he spoke, a rat startled from the pile of newspapers and scurried down the staircase as fast as its little legs could carry it. Clara was not squeamish about rats, or rodents of any kind, but the sight of the creature rushing down the stairs told her all she needed to know about the quality of this establishment and the sort of people who lived here.
