by Mick Finlay
‘I’ve no appetite.’
‘You’ve got to take care of yourself. They’ll need you when they recover.’
The pause was over-long.
‘I know, Norman,’ she said at last.
‘Shall I wake up Leo?’
‘Let him sleep.’
I nodded. ‘Is William in?’
‘He’s in the outhouse. He’s been windy.’
‘Did you see the scholarship committee yesterday?’
She sat forward like she wanted to appear enthusiastic, though there was no real energy in her face. ‘Two hours I was in there. I think I did well enough. I answered their questions, but I was very tired.’
‘What did they ask?’
‘About my medical knowledge and my reasons for wanting to be a doctor. They wanted to know whether I’d be prepared to go to India. There are more female doctors there than anywhere else, apparently. Women aren’t permitted to see male doctors, so they don’t have much choice but to accept us. I wouldn’t have to go. Mrs Anderson wants more women in England too.’
‘She was there?’
She nodded. ‘They asked about my home situation. One of the gentlemen wasn’t happy to know I have a child, but I thought some of the others were sympathetic. They won’t decide for a day or so. They were seeing other ladies.’
‘I do hope you’re chosen.’
‘So do I, Norman. The more I’ve read, the more certain I am this is my calling.’ Her hand waved at the babies. ‘And after this…’
‘They’re only choosing one lady?’
‘Yes, only one.’
The door opened and Ettie stepped in, followed by Reverend Hebden, the fellow who ran the mission she helped at. He nodded at me.
‘Good day, Isabel,’ he said, lifting his parson’s hat. ‘I’ve come to pray for the children.’
‘Then do so, Reverend.’
Without another word, she got to her feet and climbed the stairs.
I didn’t like seeing Ettie and Hebden come in together. I wondered how she could still talk to the dirty bastard. I’d never get over what they did, why she chose him, how he could stand so erect with his parson’s hat and talk about love and sin as if he hadn’t fathered little Mercy. I couldn’t for one moment understand why he wouldn’t claim that little angel as his own.
As the parson took up his stance over the ailing babies, Ettie beckoned me into the scullery. She took out a telegram and handed it to me. ‘It arrived yesterday evening,’ she said.
It was addressed to her.
DELIGHTED TO INFORM YOU HAVE WON WOMENS MEDICAL SCHOLARSHIP. PLS CONTACT MRS ANDERSON MONDAY NEXT FOR ARRANGEMENTS.
I shook my head, not understanding. ‘Why’s this come to you?’
‘They’ve awarded it to me, Norman. My interview was on Wednesday. I didn’t want Isabel to know I’d applied in case it caused more bad feeling.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, feeling that for once something had gone right in the world. Ettie had served in Afghanistan as a nurse and had been doing good work in the slums for the last few years. If anyone deserved this, it was her.
‘How am I going to tell Isabel?’ she asked, biting her lip.
‘Just tell her straight. There’s nothing else you can do.’
‘But I can’t tell her now, not with the children so poorly.’
‘Does William know?’ I asked, nodding at the outhouse.
‘Only you, Norman.’
‘Not Hebden?’
‘No. And I told you that what we did is in the past. Reverend Hebden’s promised to Miss Fitzhugh.’
‘Of course he blooming is. Does she know he has a child?’
‘No, and she mustn’t.’
‘You’ve a lot of secrets, Ettie. I’m not sure I like you this way.’
Her face fell, and I saw that I’d hurt her. Hearing the outhouse door squeak open, we moved back to the parlour and moments later the guvnor appeared. He glanced at Hebden but said nothing: the parson’s hand was now on the crown of Mercy’s head as he muttered a request for intervention. The guvnor patted my rumple as he passed, putting on his overcoat and hat, his gloves, his scarf.
‘Come along, Barnett,’ he said. ‘We’ve work to do.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
The desk sergeant, a big-bellied bloke with a round, bald head, had us wait downstairs as he sent a lad to find Inspector Napper. We stood by the front door, watching as constables came in and out, some in uniform with their idiot hats perched on their heads, some in plainclothes. All wore thick gloves and grim, frosty faces. A PC bundled in a shivering brown fellow wearing a knitted coat bound by a rope around the middle.
‘He stole an umbrella from Selfridge’s, sarge.’
The sergeant shook his head and snarled. ‘Name.’
‘Henry Din, sir,’ said the thief.
‘Hindoo?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Christian, sir.’
‘You’re a Hindoo, I reckon.’
‘My old man was from India, sir.’
‘So you come all the way over here to steal umbrellas, do you?’
‘I was born here, sir, in London.’
‘You should go back there, boy, hear me? You think we want the likes of you in our place stealing from decent people?’
The door behind his desk opened and the superintendent appeared. ‘A word, Farmerson,’ he said to the desk sarge.
They went into the office and closed the door, leaving the PC and the umbrella thief waiting by the desk.
‘That was a new trick you played on Dave yesterday,’ I said to the guvnor.
‘Well, any fool could see the man was exhausted. I’ve been reading Alfred Binet and his theory of suggestion. I was trying some of the techniques.’
‘Isabel told me there was a medicine she wanted for the babies.’
‘It’s some kind of potion from Peru. Jesuit’s bark and Jimson weed. The chemist wasn’t sure if it’ll work, but we have to try. They’re so weak.’
‘Where are you going to get forty bob from?’
He sighed and rested his head against the cold wall. ‘We could pawn everything we own and still not get halfway. I owe the chandler and Mrs Pudding, and Lewis can’t help. That shop has ruined him. You know he mortgaged his house again? And Scrapes is tight as a sparrow’s ear so there’s no point asking him. You don’t have it, do you, Norman?’
‘Wish I did, William.’
‘If we could only get that reward.’
Half an hour later, Napper appeared.
‘What news?’ asked the guvnor.
‘Come along. We’ve had some information.’
He wore the same brown suit and tie. A dark grease stain sat above his watch pocket. He pulled on his reefer jacket as he walked. We followed him outside, where we climbed into a Black Maria driven by McDonald, the young PC who’d been at the Quaker Meeting House. I sat next to the guvnor with Napper squeezed up against the window, his eyes wet with the cold.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Arrowood.
‘Brixton. We’ve been told they might be holding the Africans in a place Capaldi uses. Mabaso’s waiting for us there.’
McDonald gee-ed up the nags and they began to trot along the Embankment towards Westminster Bridge.
‘Where did you get this information?’ asked the guvnor.
‘Mabaso got it out one of Capaldi’s drivers,’ said Napper. ‘That fellow’s a better policeman than I expected.’
‘So Capaldi has them captured?’
‘Didn’t I just say that?’
The guvnor grunted as the carriage jolted in a pothole and turned onto the bridge. The tide was low, barges marooned on the mud and grit along the sides of the river. On the other side of the road, a wagon stacked high with Christmas trees had lost a wheel, and there was an angry queue stretching all the way past St Thomas’s.
‘Are you going to arrest them?’ I asked.
‘We’ll hold them until we know whether it was them as killed Mr Fowler
and the old one. If not, Mabaso’ll take them back on the boat to face trial in Johannesburg. Now, tell me what you’ve discovered.’
‘Not much more than you,’ said the guvnor. ‘What did you get from Madame Delacourte?’
‘We searched her office and apartment on Thursday. Waste of time when Capaldi had them all the while.’
The guvnor held my eye: there didn’t seem anything we could do. Even if we could prove Senzo and Thembeka didn’t kill Musa or Mr Fowler, Mabaso was still going to take them, whether they were innocent or not.
‘Are you going to arrest Capaldi for kidnapping them?’ asked the guvnor.
‘What good would that do? He’s caught them for us.’
The guvnor shook his head. ‘Any sign of Mrs Fowler?’
‘She still hasn’t returned home.’
‘Did your superintendent approve the reward?’ asked the guvnor.
Napper took out his marbles and began swirling them in his fingers. ‘Not yet. I didn’t get the extra constable yet either, but if we get one today we could finish it all off by the weekend. If he’s in a good mood he might even let me take an afternoon off. There’s a Crystal Palace match on.’
As we drove on south, me and him talked football while the guvnor stared out the window at the moving city. When we reached Gresham Hall we found Mabaso pacing up and down the pavement, his hands planted deep in the pockets of his police mackintosh. He’d got himself an old brown scarf since we met.
He led us down the side path, then stood aside as PC McDonald hammered on the door of the back annex with his truncheon. It opened almost straight off, and there stood Dave, his face twisted in a scowl as he took us all in.
‘Mr Capaldi ain’t going to like this, you stupid pricks,’ he said, looking at me and the guvnor over McDonald’s shoulder.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Napper. What’s your name?’
‘Dave.’
Napper stared at him with eyelids half-drawn, breathing cold mist from his runny nose. ‘Don’t act the fool, man. Give me your name.’
‘English.’
‘Dave English. And you work for Mr Capaldi?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Yes or no.’
Dave filled his chest. ‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘I’m busy.’
Napper pushed past him, the PC and Mabaso following. Dave sighed and stood aside. ‘What did you tell them?’ he asked me.
‘We didn’t,’ said I. ‘One of your lot told that African copper they were here.’
Dave watched as the three policemen looked into the kitchen.
‘Where are the Zulus, ma’am?’ asked Napper, disappearing into the room.
‘Who are you?’ came Leonie’s voice.
‘What Zulus?’ asked Gisele.
The young PC stood in the doorway looking up from under his brow with his mouth hung open. It was clear he’d gone a bit queer seeing Capaldi’s Wonders.
‘Detective Inspector Napper, Scotland Yard. Tell me where the Zulus are.’
‘We don’t know,’ said Leonie.
There was a bit of shuffling, then Napper came out and looked in the cupboard by the stairs. The door to the hall was locked. Next, Leonie appeared and was about to climb the stairs when Mabaso put his hand on her arm.
‘No, mum,’ he said. ‘You must stay here.’
‘Don’t touch her, there’s a good chap,’ said Napper. He looked at Leonie. ‘He didn’t hurt you, did he?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Stay down here.’
Gisele appeared in the kitchen door now. PC McDonald backed to the far side of the corridor, where he stared at Gisele’s floppy pink claws.
‘What’s the matter with you, boy?’ she demanded, peering at him through her eyeglasses. ‘You no seen a lobster before?’
The poor lad edged away further, till he was behind me.
‘Shut that mouth of yours, boy,’ demanded Napper, giving the lad a slap on the cheek. ‘Don’t be so rude. Now, get up those stairs.’
Leonie took Gisele’s hand as the three coppers climbed to the floor above. ‘Who’s the black one?’
‘He’s from the South African Police,’ answered the guvnor. ‘He’s been tracking them from Johannesburg. Says they stole some gold and killed two people, one of them a child. Did they tell you anything about that?’
She shook her head. ‘Is it true?’
‘The South African Police say so.’
We heard shouting from upstairs, and the sound of heavy boots. A few minutes later Senzo and Thembeka were brought down, their wrists in irons. Leonie, a head taller than Gisele, pulled her tight to her side, her knuckles white on her friend’s arm.
Thembeka glared at me, fury in her eyes.
‘It wasn’t us, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It was Capaldi’s driver.’
Senzo stood upright and strong, his eyes avoiding ours, blood running from his hair and down the side of his face. Both had on their coats and hats. Mabaso was behind, and then came Sylvia, wearing a thick man’s jumper. Her eyes were bleary from sleep, her soft, blonde wig not quite straight on her head.
‘What happened to him?’ demanded the guvnor.
‘He tried to strike me,’ said Mabaso, his voice quiet, vexed. He tucked the scarf back inside his mackintosh and pushed Senzo along the corridor.
‘Why are you arresting them?’ asked Leonie. ‘They haven’t done anything.’
‘Yes, they have, ma’am,’ said Napper.
‘They didn’t kill Musa, no chance.’
‘Then who did, Mrs…?’
‘I don’t know, but not them. They’d never kill Musa.’
‘Well, don’t you worry about it. We’ll get the truth out of them.’
‘I’m PC Mabaso from the Johannesburg police, ma’am,’ said the African copper, tipping his hat to her. ‘Do you know where the young one is? S’bu Kunene?’
‘No,’ answered Leonie. ‘Nobody’s heard from him.’
‘How about Mrs Fowler, the wife of the dead Quaker?’ asked Napper. ‘D’you know anything about her?’
‘Nothing. We can’t help you. But Senzo and Thembeka haven’t done anything, I can tell you. They’re not like that.’
‘They’re wanted for murder in South Africa,’ said Mabaso, his words slow and precise. His smooth cheek twitched: he rubbed his nose as if it was to blame. ‘I’m here to bring them back.’
‘They didn’t kill the boy at the compound,’ said Thembeka.
‘We have a witness who says they did,’ answered Mabaso.
‘That’s a lie.’ She looked at Napper. ‘You can’t take me. I wasn’t even on the raid.’
‘You’re an accomplice to murder, Miss Kunene,’ said Mabaso. His voice had gone cold, his pinched eyes hard. ‘Now, tell us where S’bu is.’
‘We haven’t seen him or Mrs Fowler since the day Musa was killed,’ she said. ‘Two white men came to the Quaker Hall. They shot Mr Fowler. S’bu took out a gun but they captured him. We escaped, and that’s all we know. We’ve been hiding ever since.’
‘What about Mrs Fowler?’ asked Napper.
‘She wasn’t there.’
‘You didn’t see her?’
‘She was shopping. And Musa was asleep in the basement when we escaped. The two men must have killed him too.’
Mabaso stepped close. She looked up at his face as he spoke low and firm. ‘Is S’bu hiding here as well?’
She clicked her tongue and shook her head. Mabaso turned to Senzo and spoke in their queer language. Senzo shook his head, spoke back. Mabaso waved his arm at him, saying something strong. He began to cough, a wet, crackly hack, and took a hanky from his pocket to cover his mouth. Senzo watched him, his lip curling. When Mabaso spoke again, he was calmer. Senzo waved his hand and answered quick.
‘What does he say?’ asked Napper.
‘The same as she,’ answered Mabaso.
Napper grunted. He looked at Leonie and pointed at the door at the end of the corridor. ‘What’s behi
nd that door?’
‘The hall,’ she said.
Gisele ducked into the kitchen and came back with the key.
‘Keep them here, McDonald,’ Napper ordered the young PC as he unlocked the door.
We followed him in to the great, cavernous hall. Napper looked around slowly while Mabaso strode the length of the room and checked the door to the street. Finding it locked, he marched back, his shoes soft on the parquet floor. He was a tall fellow, and thin, his stride stiff and quick, his ears sticking out from the brim of his hat. On either side of the stage were the doors to the cupboards that I’d had a look in the day before. As Napper sat at the harmonium and began to play a clumsy song, Mabaso opened the first cupboard, waiting for a little light to fill the place. After a quick look at the small space, he shut the door. He opened the second, the bigger one.
Immediately, he stepped back.
‘Amasendi,’ he said. He coughed into his hanky again.
Napper stopped playing. ‘What is it?’ he asked, crossing the stage as me and the guvnor hurried over.
Mabaso touched his chest, breathing heavy, then finally stepped forward into the cupboard where he squatted just inside the door.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘A candle.’
Inside, among the piles of books and tracts, was a chair. And on the chair sat Mrs Fowler.
Chapter Twenty-Five
She gazed at the wall opposite, her yellow dress buttoned up to the neck. Her mouth was open, and stuck between her pale lips was a long-stemmed clay pipe.
‘Is she dead?’ asked the guvnor, straining to see in the dark little room.
‘I think,’ grunted the African copper.
I fetched the hand-lamp from the piano top. Napper lit it and squeezed in next to Mabaso. Now we could make out her face proper. Her skin was fine and pale, just the faintest violet hue to her well-fed cheeks. Her eyes were wide, one ball full of blood with a crust at the corner by her nose. Her hands were tied to the back of the chair with green ribbons, her ankles to the legs with blue.
Napper touched her wrist.
‘Stone cold,’ he said. He breathed heavy as he checked for a pulse. ‘Nothing.’
