Arrowood and the Meeting House Murders

by Mick Finlay

  ‘The fellow by the Tabernacle.’

  ‘I keep telling you he dilutes the meat. Go to the place opposite the station. It’s the same price. Now, you buy these pistols next time. This is a shop, you know.’

  ‘Of course, dear friend,’ said the guvnor. ‘In fact, we’ve brought something for you.’

  I got Rucker’s pistol out my jacket pocket and handed it to Lewis. He scowled as he put on his eyeglasses and inspected it. ‘Point three six calibre, Colt Navy.’

  ‘Used by General Pennefather in the Battle of Inkerman,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘Really?’ asked Lewis, inspecting the handle and barrel. ‘There’s no identification.’

  ‘How much?’ asked the guvnor.

  Lewis cracked it open and looked down the barrel. ‘Two bob.’

  ‘For a pistol? What’s wrong with you, Lewis? You’d cheat your oldest friend?’

  ‘The barrel’s twisted. Look.’ He handed it to the guvnor. ‘It won’t fire.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, though we knew the pistol was no good even before we returned it to Rucker. ‘Can’t it be fixed?’

  ‘With a new barrel, yes.’

  The guvnor sighed. ‘Oh, all right, then. I’ll take three bob.’

  Lewis went to the back of the store to find his money box. The damp little room was lit by two paraffin lamps, one on the counter, the other on a barrel of gunpowder. From the ceiling hung boxing gloves, cowls, truncheons and clubs, and stacked on the floor were open crates with knives and bullets. By the front door about fifty old umbrellas stood in a tea chest.

  I took the silvery pistol I’d used before and let it fall into my pocket. The guvnor took the black Lancaster, saying: ‘We need a few more this time if you don’t mind, old friend. Just for a few days.’

  Lewis studied him for a moment, a frown on his bloodless face. He put the three shillings back into his pocket.

  ‘What’s the case?’ he asked at last.

  Arrowood explained what Thembeka had told us.

  ‘Are you preparing for a gun battle?’ Lewis brushed the stringy hair from his eyes and looked at me. ‘That won’t end well.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to shoot,’ said the guvnor. ‘If the Capaldis bring out guns we only need to match them. Once they know the Zulus are armed, they’ll leave them alone.’

  ‘That’s your plan?’

  ‘I can’t think what else we can do. They insist on staying in London. They’ll never be able to hide.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, William? It sounds too great a risk.’

  ‘Trust me, Lewis. The first person who shoots in a situation like that’ll get shot themselves. The Zulus are just one of many business opportunities the Capaldis have. It just wouldn’t be worth it.’

  Lewis sighed and took out three more pistols. From another drawer he brought out a couple of boxes of bullets.

  ‘But these ones you’ll have to hire from me. The Quakers can pay. Say a shilling a day for each.’

  ‘We’ll ask them,’ said the guvnor as we put the pistols away in our coat pockets.

  Lewis took the cigar from behind his ear and lit a match. ‘Are you coming for Christmas?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the guvnor. ‘We do so enjoy your Jewish Christmases, my friend.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure having children around the place for once. And you, Norman?’

  ‘Thanks, Lewis, but I’m going to Sidney’s.’

  As I opened the door, the guvnor pulled out an old umbrella from the tea chest. ‘Do you mind if I borrow one of these?’ he asked, tapping it on the dusty floor as if to test it.

  ‘Bring it back,’ said Lewis, lowering himself onto his stool with a groan.

  By the time we crossed Waterloo Bridge, the rain had stopped and a fog was falling over the city. We hurried through the wet crowds to Covent Garden, avoiding the puddles and gutters spurting their load onto the greasy pavements. Mr Fowler let us in when we reached the Quaker Meeting House, leading us through the lobby and some doors hung with heavy red curtains. In the main meeting room, benches ran along three walls; two rows of chairs were set around a long table in the middle. A piano was in one corner. Fowler’d brought a burner into the big room and the three Zulu men sat around it warming their hands. They’d taken off their earrings, Musa his ribbons, Senzo his necklace of feathers.

  ‘Good morning,’ said each in turn, shaking our hands.

  ‘Good morning,’ we said.

  ‘How are you keeping?’ asked the guvnor.

  ‘Well,’ said Musa. ‘Come. Sit.’ He was a fair bit older than the others, his moustache thin, his head bald but for a patch of thin hair at each side. His voice was soft, and his eyes shone with a kindly glimmer. He touched the guvnor’s overcoat. ‘This good. Coat good.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ said the guvnor. ‘It’s my favourite.’

  He’d got the coat from a second-hand barrow on Petticoat Lane a few years back, and though he loved it, with its blue bodice and furry black collar, it never fitted him right. The sleeves were over long, and the buttons had popped a few times when his wind was troubling him.

  Musa ran his fingers down the soft lapel. ‘What is?’

  ‘Astrakhan,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘Astrakhan, yes. Good.’

  ‘Where’s Thembeka?’ I asked Fowler.

  ‘Ah, yes… she’s in the… the…’ he mumbled as he fiddled with his watch chain. ‘The lavatory, I believe.’

  The dusty Quaker looked older now – maybe seventy or so – and a bit out of his depth. His face was drawn, his eyes set deep in their holes.

  ‘Go and make sure she’s safe,’ the guvnor told me.

  I waited down the corridor from the privy until she’d finished. When we got back to the meeting room, we saw that the guvnor’d given them each a pistol. Senzo and Musa sat by the burner inspecting their guns, while the young lad lay on a bench, his pistol hung upside down, his finger stuck through the trigger loop.

  ‘Where’s mine?’ asked Thembeka, dropping onto one of the chairs like she was in charge of the place.

  ‘We only brought three,’ said the guvnor. ‘But they’re not for shooting. If the Capaldis come, you just show them. They’ll back off.’

  The doorbell rang. Before letting Fowler answer it, I pulled the pistol from my pocket and looked through the doorkeeper’s window, a bit of mirror as let you see from the meeting room through the lobby and straight down to the glass doors on the street. It was only a couple of well turned-out women, so I hid the gun behind my back and followed Mr Fowler through. When he opened the door, we could see there were two laundry hampers sat on the step.

  ‘The bedding, Mr Fowler,’ said one of the women. Though her face was set in a sneer, her eyes travelled up and down my body with a fevered curiosity. A thick scarf was wound round her neck. ‘Are they really Capaldi’s Zulus?’

  ‘They’re not anybody’s Zulus,’ said Fowler. ‘They’re free men.’

  ‘Well, they’re called Capaldi’s Zulus in the paper,’ said the woman. ‘We’ve brought everything you wanted and a few extra jumpers and blankets. Oh, and gloves. We didn’t know if they had them. They won’t be used to the cold.’

  ‘Can we meet them?’ asked the other, a stout woman with a honking voice.

  ‘Yes… I mean, well, no, you’re not supposed to know too much about them, ladies,’ answered Fowler. ‘They’re in hiding.’

  ‘But we’d never tell anyone, Frederick!’

  ‘Of course, Pamela. It’s just our procedure. We must have rules.’

  ‘May we come in, just for a moment?’ asked the first. ‘Is it true they wear earrings?’

  ‘What have you been told about them, ma’am?’ I asked.

  The first lady looked startled.

  ‘This is Mr Barnett,’ said Fowler. ‘He’s one of the agents helping us. This is Mrs Stockton-Hugh.’ He indicated the one who’d inspected me, then the one he’d called Pamela. ‘And Mrs Porter.’

  ‘What
d’you know about the people staying here?’ I asked.

  ‘Only what we’ve read in the papers, Mr Barnett,’ said Mrs Porter.

  I looked hard at Fowler. ‘We asked you not to tell anybody who they were, sir.’

  ‘Well, no, of course,’ he said with a shrug. He raked his long fingers through his sparse hair. ‘The ladies don’t know anybody connected to the Capaldis. Nobody in our society moves in those circles.’

  ‘People talk. Don’t tell anyone else, please, Mr Fowler. Not a single person. Understood?’

  ‘Ah… well, yes… if you think it’s best.’

  I looked hard at Mrs Porter and Mrs Stockton-Hugh.

  ‘Of course, Mr Barnett,’ they said together.

  I pulled the two hampers in and bolted the front door. As Fowler and me carried the first one through, a shouting arose in the big room ahead. I dropped the handle and bounded in to see Thembeka and S’bu in a tussle. S’bu was bent at the waist, his hands clutched at his belly. Thembeka had her shoulder under his chest, and with both her hands was trying to wrench the gun from his grasp. A chair lay upturned by their side.

  ‘Thembeka asked the lad for the pistol but he wouldn’t hand it over,’ said the guvnor as we watched them grunt and wrestle. Musa and Senzo sat next to each other, a bored look on their faces.

  ‘Now, now!’ cried Fowler, striding across the polished floor. He tapped S’bu on the back. ‘Stop it. There’s a good chap.’

  The old Quaker might as well have blown in his pocket for all the difference it made. He looked over at me for help. I shrugged: it was clear they were playing at fighting, though he didn’t seem to see it.

  Senzo spoke to Thembeka. She rolled her eyes, and, with what sounded like a curse, went to sit on the other side of the hall. Then she began to laugh. When she forgot her worry, you could see a mischief in her face that spoke of better times.

  S’bu smiled, waving the gun at her, and they spoke for a while. After a moment or two they were both laughing.

  Watching them, the guvnor chuckled too. ‘What did they say?’ he asked, turning to Musa.

  ‘She say S’bu likes you look at him like um…’ The old fellow’s face screwed up. He put his hands on his bald head with a finger stuck up on each, like he had horns. Then he dipped his head and made a groan.

  ‘A bull,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘A goat,’ said Thembeka. ‘Like a long-hair goat.’

  ‘Oh!’ said the guvnor with a chuckle. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Like goat,’ said Musa.

  ‘It means he likes the attention,’ said Thembeka. ‘And he said I fight like a bush pig.’

  We passed out the blankets and the four of them fashioned a bed each around the burner. I set myself up in the lobby, with the guvnor by the side door to the alley so we could hear if anyone tried to get in. Fowler went out for food while the four of them looked through the hamper of clothes. Thembeka picked out a thick vest, a linen undersuit, and a tasselled shawl she wrapped over her dress. Senzo and Musa each took a cable-knit jumper, and Musa found a Donegal overcoat.

  ‘That’s a good one,’ said the guvnor, stepping over to have a feel of the material. It was just like one he’d been trying on the week before in Pope’s. Though the coat was a few years old and had a tear under the arm, he didn’t have the thirty shillings so he’d asked the shopkeeper to hold it for a fortnight. I didn’t reckon he’d afford it now. This case wasn’t going to earn him enough, and he owed the chandler and Mrs Pudding first anyway.

  He helped Musa get it on. S’bu pulled a cricket sweater over his overalls, then put on a greatcoat over the top. Then they added scarves and gloves. Thus thickened, they sat back around the burner and crossed their arms.

  The rest of the day passed slowly. S’bu spent a few hours playing with the piano – he seemed to know a thing or two, as after a little practice he stumbled over a few hymns I almost recognized. Thembeka told us he played the concertina. The guvnor found a draught board in the vestibule and played with Musa for an hour or so. Senzo lay in the blankets watching them play. When Arrowood offered around his thin cigars, Thembeka took one and had a smoke as she read the paper. Musa took one too, and the guvnor and him puffed away as they played game after game. Every now and then they’d break into peals of laughter, patting each other on the back and shaking hands.

  The Quaker came back with bread, pickled eggs, and a few pots of ale. We laid it out on the table and ate. Musa picked up an egg and bit into it.

  ‘Owf!’ he spluttered, his face screwed up like a bulldog. He spat it into his hand. ‘Masimbanko.’

  All of us except old Fowler laughed.

  ‘What is?’ muttered Musa, staring at the brown egg in his hand.

  ‘Pick… pickled… egg,’ said the guvnor through his laughter. There were tears in his eyes.

  Musa held it out to Senzo who shook his head. They spoke in their tongue and Senzo laughed again. Musa offered it to Thembeka.

  ‘It’s vinegar,’ I told her. ‘Keeps longer.’

  She translated it for Musa, then turned to me. ‘Have you ever had porcupine eggs?’

  I shook my head. ‘Is that a kind of chook?’

  ‘No,’ laughed Thembeka. She translated for the others and they laughed too. ‘No. It’s like a… like a dog with needles sticking out all over his hide.’

  ‘Get away,’ I said.

  ‘It’s true. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Fowler?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barnett,’ said the old Quaker. ‘Like a monstrous hedgehog.’

  ‘You must try the eggs one day,’ said Thembeka. ‘They’re the best.’

  The way she was looking at me with her big eyes and lopsided smile, I didn’t know if she was codding me.

  ‘Trust me, Norman.’

  ‘Hedgehog eggs? I never heard of them.’

  She patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll find some for you.’

  ‘If you say so, miss.’

  I suppose my face gave me away, for she began to laugh again.

  After eating, the Zulu men sat around quietly while the rest of us turned to the papers. Now and then they spoke to each other. Since the darkness fell, they’d grown nervy, looking up at any noise, going to the vestibule to peer out the front door. At about seven, Fowler went home, promising to return in the morning with more food.

  A few hours later, the four of them lay down to sleep, the guvnor and me taking it in turns to stay awake. Towards one there was a great row in the street, but it was just two cabbies fighting over a fare. The Capaldis never came.

  Chapter Four

  Fowler arrived with his wife about eight the next morning. She had a basket of boiled eggs and bread; he held a couple of jugs of tea in his shaky hand. The guvnor and our friends ate quick while Mrs Fowler, who was a good bit younger than her husband, sat by the door, studying their habits closely. When we’d finished and it was all cleared away, Thembeka walked over to S’bu and held out her hand. The thin lad shook his head. She raised her voice, pointing at the pocket in his overalls where he held the gun, but the boy only rammed in his fist and turned away.

  ‘Why don’t you let him keep the pistol, Miss Thembeka?’ asked the guvnor.

  ‘He’s a boy. I don’t want to see him shot.’

  ‘Senzo and Musa don’t seem to mind him having it.’

  ‘They don’t want me to have it because I’m a woman.’ She looked at the young lad and smiled with affection. ‘He’ll give it to me soon enough.’

  It was queer. I didn’t know what to make of Thembeka and her cousins. She spoke for them, but there was something wrong about how they were together, like they didn’t trust one another. And then from nowhere you’d see something like love rise up for a few moments.

  ‘Musa,’ said the guvnor, holding his chin between his finger and thumb and examining his new friend. ‘That coat’s too big for you.’

  ‘Too big,’ he nodded, looking down at the new Donegal overcoat buttoned up to his chin. It was the right length but could ha
ve been tighter around the belly. It didn’t matter: half of London was trundling around in clothes that didn’t fit them proper. Musa shrugged.

  ‘Why don’t we exchange?’ asked the guvnor, removing his astrakhan overcoat and handing it to him. ‘You said you liked it, didn’t you?’

  Musa narrowed his eyes. ‘I? I coat?’

  ‘Yes. You take.’ The guvnor plucked at Musa’s sleeve. ‘You give me this.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ Musa shed his coat and handed it over. ‘Take coat.’

  The guvnor put it on: it fitted him a deal better than the astrakhan that his belly’d outgrown some time ago. And the astrakhan fitted Musa better too. ‘Good,’ said the African, stroking the furry collar. ‘I like.’

  They shook hands, then, in a fit of joy, the guvnor gave Musa a great hug.

  ‘You look like a king, my friend,’ he said.

  Musa laughed. ‘You? Long-hair goat!’

  They thought that was the funniest thing in the world, and as we watched them laugh, S’bu, Thembeka, Mrs Fowler and me found ourselves joining them. Finally, even old Fowler himself began to smile.

  When we were all sitting around the brazier and smoking again, the guvnor turned to Fowler. ‘The two days you’ve paid for will expire at dusk tomorrow, sir. What are you going to do then? D’you have a plan?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fowler as if he’d been taken by surprise. ‘Well, no, of course… Yes, but I… I hadn’t…’ He covered one fist with the other and pinched his nose.

  ‘Are they going to stay here alone, or will you move them?’

  ‘Well, I suppose they…’ He looked at Thembeka with his brow raised as if expecting her to answer. She said nothing.

  ‘We’ll have to take back the guns,’ I said. ‘They were only loaned.’

  ‘Well, well, yes, of course.’ Fowler crossed his arms and frowned. ‘It really would be safer if you just got on the next ship to South Africa, Miss Thembeka.’

  She looked over at her three companions, but her eyes were in a haze, like she wasn’t seeing them so much as something hidden there, a ghost or a long-lost place. ‘We’re not going back, sir.’

  ‘But why? The longer you stay here the more danger you’re in.’