by Alex Reeve
‘I don’t know about that. It’s not your things, is it?’
‘What harm can it do?’ I fumbled in my pocket and produced a shilling. ‘For your trouble. Do we have a deal? Don’t bother haggling, this is all I have.’
She took the coin and disappeared through another door. I caught a glimpse of a trolley overspilling with laundry. A man I couldn’t see spoke to her in a foreign language and she replied in kind.
When she reappeared, she was wearing a coat and carrying an empty cotton sack. ‘Might as well clean it out,’ she grunted, and led the way to the courtyard.
I was relieved to see that the men who’d been sitting there before had gone, replaced by a young woman herding two stolid infants in front of her. They stared up at me with open mouths.
We passed the place where Dora Hannigan’s body had been buried. The shallow hole had been filled in, but someone had laid a bunch of daffodils on the spot. Mrs Raster paused next to it, bowing her head before moving on.
We climbed up two sets of rickety steps to the top gallery, which creaked and groaned under our feet. She stopped by a door with the number 23 hand-painted on to it.
‘Here we are,’ she said, and turned the key in the lock.
Inside, there were two beds, a rack for drying clothes, a cupboard and a small chest. The police had been typically careless, strewing the family’s possessions across the floor: clothes, an old carpet bag, a child’s rag doll and a toy horse carved from mahogany in alternate light and dark stripes.
I sorted through everything, feeling ghoulish. What would Dora Hannigan think, if she could see me? A stranger looking at her chemises and small-clothes, her hairbrush and her pins, her unfinished knitting. I felt a surge of pity for her, interrupted in the midst of her life.
‘Has someone else been in here since the police?’ I asked.
Mrs Raster folded her arms. ‘No. Why would they?’
Again, she was lying, and not well; her neck was the colour of beetroot. I was sure that the other man who’d been asking questions had also gained access to this room. He’d probably bribed her to let him in, much as I had, or he had threatened her – although she didn’t seem easily intimidated.
By the side of the bed, I found the ounce of bromide of potash I’d sold her and a box of paper soldiers, but nothing to tell me about her relatives or friends; no letters or cards, no photographs or silhouettes. There were no pictures on the walls either, just a willow-pattern plate over the fireplace that I found hard to look at.
Mrs Raster was watching me, sharp-eyed. ‘I’ve got a daughter,’ she announced, picking up a scrappy little cap that must have been Ciara’s. ‘Mabel, her name is. She’ll be getting married soon. He works on the gas, so I s’pose he’ll be able to look after her, but you never stop worrying, do you?’
‘I don’t have any children.’
‘Really? Not married? Got a girl in mind, though, have you?’
Not any more, I thought, suffering the familiar clench in my stomach. Even now, over a year afterwards, it still came whenever I thought of her.
I divided everything into two piles on one of the beds: things belonging to the children and everything else. When I’d finished, I indicated the everything-else pile.
‘I have no use for this,’ I said.
She nodded and scooped Dora Hannigan’s possessions into her cotton sack. It was only a third full. She pointed at the other pile.
‘And that?’
‘That belongs to the children. I’ll make sure they get it, I promise. That was our deal. You can go now.’
‘All right,’ she said, peering under the peak of her bonnet at the door. ‘You can have five minutes, and you’ll be quicker still, if you know what’s good for you.’
I gathered up the children’s clothing and Aiden’s paper soldiers, hesitating over Ciara’s rag doll before putting it in the carpet bag also. I was prejudiced against such ghastly effigies, seeing only malice in their permanent gaiety and wide, unblinking eyes. My Aunt Gwen had given me one she’d made herself for my seventh birthday, together with three matching frocks and hats. I thanked her politely, and then took it upstairs and hurled it into the bottom of my wardrobe. When I came back down, half an hour later, still pink in the face, the atmosphere in the drawing room was tense. Aunt Gwen wouldn’t look at me. Afterwards, my mother told me they’d been able to hear, with perfect clarity, the sound from above of me stamping my feet. She made me remove all the wax from the candlesticks in the church as punishment.
Most of the courtyard was visible through the window. In the faint light from the city I had no trouble seeing the doors, the water barrels, the shed and the back gate, two storeys below. Presumably, Ciara had stood here as she watched her mother being murdered. I tried to imagine how that must have felt, and could not. She would have been barefoot and in her nightdress, peering on tiptoe over the sill, unable to comprehend what was happening. She would have woken her brother in desperation, but too late.
And then what? Did they hide in this room, terrified, waiting until the coast was clear? Did they hurry past their mother’s newly dug grave?
On some impulse, I tidied up, folding the blankets and opening the window to let in some air. There was no brush for the fireplace and no scuttle or poker either. Perhaps they couldn’t afford coal.
What had Mrs Raster said? Miss Hannigan had paid upfront, three months in advance.
Had the police found any money on her body? They had found her purse, with my name inside, but I didn’t recall any mention of money.
I had searched every inch of the room; every inch except for that fireplace.
I knelt on the hearth and reached up the chimney as far as I could, holding my breath as soot cascaded down, covering my coat and trousers. I groped around each side of the flue, and then something moved: a loose brick. I pulled it out and, in the gap left behind, I could feel something. I withdrew it and leaned out of the window, beating it against the outside wall, sending clouds of dust billowing into the evening.
It was a leather pouch. I set it on the bed. The leather was soft, and it was fastened with a metal buckle with the initials D. H. inscribed on the front. I opened it up and, at first, I thought it was full of notepaper.
Then, I realised what it was: money. Lots of it. Dozens of pound notes packed tightly together. More money than I’d ever seen in my life.
8
I won’t claim I didn’t feel a burst of excitement. It was a lot of money. In fact, it was a dangerously large amount, certainly too much for Dora Hannigan to have come by honestly, or why had she stuffed it into a chimney?
I felt a pang of fear. I considered putting it back and pretending I’d never discovered it, but what good would that do? Either it would be found and spent by the next residents of the room, thanking God for their luck, or it wouldn’t, in which case it would be burned to ash the next time the fire was lit.
I didn’t have time to think. Mrs Raster would return soon.
I wrapped the leather pouch tightly into a pair of Aiden’s trousers and tucked it at the bottom of the carpet bag.
As I was leaving the room, I heard someone on the gallery steps. I looked over the balcony and saw the bald man who’d been squinting at me earlier coming up. He was hatless and coatless, drops of rain glistening on his jacket and his scalp. I stood aside for him, my heart beating on my ribs like a convict on the bars. He stopped in front of me, standing too close, looking me up and down with the air of an undertaker estimating the quantity of wood required. I became keenly aware of the two-storey drop to the courtyard below.
‘I remember you,’ he growled, examining my face. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do. You were with the coppers.’
‘No. I mean … yes, but I didn’t choose to come. They forced me to.’ I wished just once I could sound confident and perhaps a little dangerous, instead of squeaking like a carriage wheel in need of a drop of oil. ‘I’m here to find out if Miss Hannigan’s children have any relatives.’<
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He glared into my eyes, his face inches from mine. If this was the man who had killed Dora Hannigan, he would know to dig a deeper grave this time.
‘Where are the children?’
I gripped the carpet bag tightly. ‘They’re safe. The police have them.’ I realised how that must sound, as if I was constantly hobnobbing with the constabulary. Nevertheless, he nodded. I had the sense he was relieved but was trying not to show it.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Stanhope. And I’m guessing you’re Mr Cowdery.’
‘That’s right. Edwin Cowdery. And you can take a message back to your friends from me.’ He pushed up the brim of my bowler hat with his finger. ‘Tell them no one here killed Dora. It wasn’t us. Tell them that from me, Mr Stanhope.’
I heard a woman’s voice calling up from the courtyard. ‘What’s going on, Edwin?’
We both looked over the rail. The woman was wearing an apron and a lace cap, and was short, with powerful arms and shoulders, seemingly built for, and perhaps by, manual labour.
‘You’re not needed here,’ he called down to her. ‘I’m having a word with this gentleman, that’s all.’
She put her hands on her hips and met his eyes. She had the implacability of a tree stump. ‘I don’t think he’s enjoying the word you’re having.’
He grimaced, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘He’s working with the coppers, Erica.’
She raised her eyebrows. I had the sense that they knew each other well, and this exchange was one fragment of a years-long debate.
‘Would you rather they never found Dora’s killer? Well then.’ She beckoned me down. ‘Why don’t I see you out, Mr …?’
‘Stanhope. Thank you.’
I hurried down the steps, hoping not to hear Cowdery following me.
‘The girl’s sickly,’ he shouted down. ‘Ciara, her name is. She has fits. Make sure they know.’
I thought back to that night when she had woken me in the pitch darkness, and the pulling and jerking of her hot little hand in mine.
‘I will,’ I called back, feeling this was an oddly civilised chat after what had just happened. I almost asked him what he knew about her infirmity, but he opened the door to Miss Hannigan’s room and was gone.
The woman, Erica, was waiting at the bottom. ‘He’s not a bad man,’ she confided. ‘He’s upset about Dora dying that way. It’s hit him hard.’
‘Did he know her well?’
She took my arm. ‘Didn’t you say you weren’t with the police?’
‘I’m just curious.’
She led me back down the hallway towards the front door. I kept a firm hold on the carpet bag, feeling as if I was holding a bomb that might go off at any moment.
On the pavement, I turned to thank her. She surveyed me over the top of her pince-nez with shrewd eyes that would brook no nonsense, and I realised she wasn’t as old as I’d first thought; no more than thirty.
‘I’m Erica Cowdery,’ she said.
‘Oh. Are you Mr Cowdery’s—’
‘Sister,’ she interrupted me, her mouth twitching at the corners. ‘His younger sister. It’s been very nice to meet you, Mr Stanhope.’
‘You too, Miss Cowdery.’
‘Probably best not to get too curious, though, for your own well-being.’
She shut the door before I could reply.
In the street, the wind had picked up. Newspaper pages had blown free and were being whisked along, flipping like acrobats. A small boy was chasing them, leaping and laughing, his arms outstretched and his face a picture of delight.
I envied him so terribly I could have wept.
Back in my room, I opened up the pouch and pulled out the notes, spreading them across my bed.
I had made a mistake.
Some of them were, indeed, pounds, but others were higher denominations, fives and tens, which I’d never set eyes on before. I marvelled at the intricacy of the patterns on the paper.
Note by note, I added them up: two hundred and four pounds.
It was remarkable. How could anyone have this amount of money? I did a quick calculation and couldn’t believe the answer, so did it again; the notes I was holding in my hands would pay my rent for the next ten years.
I rustled them between my fingers. Such thin stuff to hold that much power. I pressed them to my face, inhaling the metallic tang of the engraver’s ink.
It changed everything.
I had brought up a pot of tea on a tray, and poured myself a cup, watching the steam rise. It was just paper, I reminded myself. I had never yearned for the wealthy life my mother had wanted for me, marrying some gentleman with a job in a bank or a toff with a rich daddy, like John bloody Thackery. The thought of it made me laugh, and I spilled my tea over my trousers, quickly pricking both my humour and my brief avarice. It’s hard to feel anything other than foolish while hopping around the room flapping a trouser leg.
When I got back to the money, I had started to think more clearly.
This wealth could change Aiden and Ciara’s future. It was enough to fund their care in the very finest orphanage and ensure they benefited from the best education. They could eat well every day: chicken and ham and green vegetables, with apple pie to follow, lemonade in the afternoons and peppermints before bedtime. They could eat like I used to when I was a child, sitting at the table while a maid ladled gravy on to veal shanks. I didn’t miss much about my childhood, but memories of that dinner table still made my mouth water.
But nothing was so simple. This money must have belonged to someone else at one time, and whoever it was would likely want it back.
The only person I could think of who was rich enough was Sir Reginald Thackery. Had Dora Hannigan stolen from him? If so, John might have been right; his father could have committed murder to get his property returned.
But he hadn’t had it returned, had he? It was right here on my bed.
And there was another possibility. I remembered what Jacob had said: if your father’s wealthy, you’re wealthy too. John Thackery probably had access to this amount of money.
If so, the lie I had told the police would allow a murderer to escape justice.
I collected the notes and returned them to the pouch, which I shoved under my mattress. It had to be kept secret, or all our lives would be endangered.
The following day was Saturday. I worked at the hospital in the morning and, when I left at midday, people on the streets had their coats over their arms. The sun had found its way through the clouds.
It was perfect weather for the zoo.
I went straight to the police headquarters on Whitehall and asked for Constable Pallett. He appeared after five minutes, jacketless with his sleeves rolled up, his hands in his pockets.
‘Constable, I want to visit those children I brought here a few days ago. I have their things.’ I held up the carpet bag. ‘I’d like to take them out for the afternoon, if that’s possible. I was thinking of the zoo.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, sir. But they’re with Mrs Downes now, and she don’t like to let them out, not without proper authority. She’s a bit … particular.’
‘I see. That’s a shame.’
I admit I was disappointed. I’d started to look forward to our little trip, and Constance had danced around the room when I told her we could go. Drawings of elephants and kangaroos had started appearing around the house. She would not take this news well.
Pallett scratched his chin, still no more bearded than my own. ‘Let me check, sir.’ Three minutes later he reappeared, now in full uniform. ‘Why don’t I come along with you, sir, and have a word with Mrs Downes? They’re just nippers, and it’s not right they can’t go out if someone’s willing to take ’em. Not after all they’ve been through.’
‘I don’t want to keep you from your work, Constable.’
‘That’s all right, sir. By rights I should be making a list of every resident of Rose Street, name, age and occupation. That’s t
he important task you’re detaining me from.’
He laughed, and I can honestly say it was the first time I’d ever heard him make a joke. It didn’t suit him. But I was glad of his help and wondered whether his sympathy for the children was rooted in his own upbringing. The rumour was he’d been born in a rookery in Acton town, and had six brothers and four half-brothers, some in prison and one dead, hanged by the neck for garrotting a barman who’d refused him a third bottle of malmsey.
The two of us walked swiftly up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square, where I nodded, as usual, to the statue of General Havelock, stuck on his plinth with a bemused expression, his back permanently and wisely turned to George IV, who was sitting astride a horse and wearing what appeared to be a Roman tunic. What the man himself would have made of such unsuitable garb, I couldn’t have said, but it made me feel chilly despite the sunshine.
Endell Street was a busy thoroughfare leading from Long Acre up towards Bloomsbury, jammed tight with carts and carriages pulled by glum horses flicking their tails, bearing little resemblance to George IV’s mighty iron steed, save in their immobility. Pallett led me to a row of houses, one of them somewhat prouder than the others, with clean paint and all its windows intact.
Mrs Downes turned out to be an austere woman in a dark green frock. She resembled nothing so much as a pine tree, being narrow yet sturdy at the feet, spreading widely in the lower branches and tapering to a crisp, snowy peak at her bonnet.
Pallett explained our purpose, and she pursed her lips.
‘It’s most unusual,’ she said. ‘Other children do get envious, you know. Them that benefit from special treatment soon wish they hadn’t, in my experience.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Downes,’ replied Pallett, unintimidated. ‘But perhaps we can make an exception on this occasion?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, I suppose it don’t matter much, all things considered. Wait here.’
Something in her tone made my skin itch.
While she was gone, a skinny boy of perhaps eight years appeared in the hallway. He stopped and watched us, mouth agape. A girl arrived too and stood beside him. Apparently, we were their afternoon’s entertainment. They looked alike enough to be brother and sister, both barefoot and dressed in near rags. I would have guessed her age at about eleven, but she was so gaunt it was hard to tell. I smiled at them and she smiled back and then, as if remembering herself, cocked a bony hip and raised her eyebrows at me, her fingers plucking at her ragged collar.
