Arrowood and the Meeting House Murders

by Mick Finlay

  ‘D’you believe her?’ I asked as we walked over Blackfriars Bridge.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, drawing the word out the way he does when he’s not quite finished a thought. ‘She appeared not to know two important facts.’

  ‘She might just be good at covering her tracks.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’

  ‘Don’t trust her just because she’s beautiful, William. We’ve made that mistake before.’

  He nodded. ‘Havelock Ellis says that, in medieval law, if there were two suspects for the same crime, the uglier one was considered guilty.’

  My boot slipped in a bit of dung and I stumbled into the road, my hand landing on a cart full of cabbages.

  ‘Steady on, mate,’ grunted the carter, who couldn’t have been more than twelve year old. ‘You’ll break them.’

  The guvnor took my arm and pulled me back onto the pavement. ‘I was watching her closely, Norman. When people hear something that confounds what they know, there’s usually an immediate expression of surprise. It might not be obvious and it’s often fleeting, a minuscule pulling down or a drawing up of the brow, for example. Well, that’s what I observed with her when I said we were looking for the Zulu rather than the Zulus. The faintest line appeared on her forehead and then was gone.’

  ‘She was surprised when you told her there’d been three murders too.’

  ‘Her surprise was more visible in that case. Perhaps because it was a more brutal piece of news. The other thing that convinced me is that when people pretend not to know something that they do know, they either exaggerate that surprise, or else they make a little nod of the head. It’s as if their unconscious is acknowledging the known fact before their mouth denies it.’

  ‘From your Darwin book, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s something I’ve noticed.’

  ‘D’you believe it’s Capaldi?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll take a look at the boarding house and the warehouse.’ He pointed at a bus waiting at a stop just ahead. ‘But first to Camberwell.’

  The address we had for the Aborigines’ Protection Society was a respectable three-storey house on a respectable paved street. A maid answered the door and showed us into a parlour, where sat a Reverend Druitt eating an orange in front of a coal fire. After the guvnor explained our interest in the Zulu case, he invited us to sit on his sofa.

  ‘I was in South Africa at the same time as Mr Fowler,’ he said, moving the tray from his knee to a side table. He’d been eating the fruit with a silver knife and fork. ‘Delphine and I were terribly upset at what happened.’

  ‘Do you speak their language, sir? The lady translates for us, but I’d like to understand what the gentleman says without her in the middle.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. My church served the British community. So few of the natives could accept the Word.’

  ‘You think the African missions are doomed to failure, sir?’

  ‘Well… they can do other things. But convert Africa to Christianity? I think not.’

  ‘You have a low opinion of the natives?’

  He barked a laugh. ‘Great warriors, I admit. But remember what Dickens said of the Zulus: The world would be better if they were gone. If Spencer is correct, I’m afraid they will be gone one day.’

  ‘Dickens said that?’ asked the guvnor in surprise.

  ‘Don’t you read, Mr Arrowood?’

  ‘Of course I read.’

  A little canary in a cage by the window began to flutter its wings, and we all turned to watch it for a moment. ‘Let’s not discuss this,’ said Druitt at last. ‘I’m prone to melancholia in the winter. Now, my daughter speaks the native language well. She helped in the mission school.’ He rang a little bell and the maid returned. ‘Fetch Delphine, Mary. And take the tray. I’ll finish my orange later.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who’s behind the murders, sir?’ asked the guvnor. ‘Any idea at all?’

  ‘I didn’t meet the Africans and poor Frederick was killed before we could discuss the matter. The obvious suspects would be the Zulus, of course.’

  ‘They had the opportunity, but they don’t seem to have a motive.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed the missionary, waving his hand. ‘Don’t look for motive. Some little disagreement will have flared up.’

  ‘You don’t seem particularly upset about Mr Fowler, if I may say.’

  ‘I officiated three funerals yesterday, Mr Arrowood. Grieving is for close relatives.’

  ‘You weren’t friends?’

  ‘We worked together in the society.’ He looked at me suddenly, even though I hadn’t spoke. ‘When souls leave this world to join the Lord, they go home. That’s a good thing. Sadness is only weakness in disguise, and the devil will always exploit weakness, sir.’

  The guvnor nudged me as he spoke, patting his purse pocket and nodding at Reverend Druitt. He never liked to ask for money from his betters. He somehow thought that made him their servant so he left it to me.

  ‘Quite so, reverend,’ I piped up. ‘I suppose you know Mr Fowler was paying us to help the Africans using money from the Aborigines’ Protection Society.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘He paid us for two days and we’ve done that. But since we’re still on the case, we need another payment.’

  He burped into his hand. ‘Well, I’d need to discuss that with the committee.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. We charge twenty shillings a day. I think we’d need another three days.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Mr Barnett.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said as a young woman stepped into the room.

  ‘Ah, Delphine!’ cried the parson. ‘This is Mr Arrrowood and his assistant Mr Barnett. They’re the private detecting agents looking for the missing Zulus. Mr Fowler hired them. They need some help translating.’

  Delphine limped across to stand by the fire: poking out from under her skirts you could see one of her shoes built up about three inches. Her face was broad, her eyes small, and I reckoned she was six inches or so taller than her old man. A great bush of curls grew from her head. ‘Do they speak iZulu or Fanakalo?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re amaQwabe,’ I told her.

  ‘Then I think I should be able to converse with them. Father, may I?’

  ‘Of course, my girl. You need to get out of the house.’

  ‘I’ve been telling you that since we arrived,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, his hand in the air as if he’d startled himself. ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘There’s a murderer at large,’ answered the guvnor. ‘But we only want your daughter’s help to talk to one of the Africans held at the police station, that’s all.’

  ‘But aren’t they the murderers?’ she asked with about as much emotion as a towel.

  ‘I don’t think so, miss. But until we know who did the killing, we can’t be certain.’

  She straightened her blouse, brushed down her skirt. The scowl on her face seemed fixed. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  ‘Not just yet, if you don’t mind,’ said the guvnor. ‘We have to pay a visit first. Could you meet us at Scotland Yard at seven this evening?’

  She looked at her old man.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to come along, my dear?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly.

  He laughed and looked at us. ‘The children loved her, you know. Gave her a mat when we left. She was very popular.’

  As Delphine limped out the room without saying goodbye, I somehow doubted it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  We walked up to the Oval and then on to Vauxhall, where we found the boarding house with the cross in the window near the station. Mrs Farini told us she hadn’t seen the Africans for a week or so and let us upstairs to have a look at the rooms. They were empty. We walked further north to the Lambeth Potteries, the big works just before Lambeth Palace. All the way the guvnor moaned about his back and how tight his shoes were. It was a relief when, on the High Stre
et, we found the place Polichinelle had told us about, a thin warehouse jammed between a ship chandler’s and a tea dealer. Night had fallen, but in the dim moonlight we could see the tall chimneys rising from the factories behind, pouring out brown smoke into the murky sky. The doors were shut, the windows dark. A few of the other warehouses on the road were the same, but most had carts and wagons outside being loaded or unloaded. I hammered on the wide, arched doors. After a minute or so I tried again.

  ‘Anyone in there, mate?’ I asked a fellow in an apron who was smoking outside the tea merchant’s.

  ‘Big bloke left about an hour ago,’ he said, pointing at the heavy padlock. ‘Looks shut up.’

  ‘Is there a watchman?’

  ‘Don’t know, mate. They come and go at all hours.’

  ‘Can we get round the back?’

  He shook his head. ‘These are the only doors.’

  We waited till he’d gone back inside, then the guvnor shielded me while I got to work. On the way, I’d fetched a set of skeleton keys I’d had since I was eleven or so and working for my Uncle Norbert. I took the keys from his locksmith shop after he fell in the river and died. He was a good bloke and that was a sad time for me and my ma. If my uncle hadn’t gone to the other side, I’d never have got into the kind of trouble I got into around Jacob’s Island, and no doubt I’d have become a locksmith myself rather than trailing around London taking beatings for the guvnor. But that’s what happened: he fell between two barges one filthy night and my life was changed. All that was left of him were these keys.

  I found one that fit, and with a bit of jiggling soon had the lock open. We stepped inside. It was an open space taking up the whole ground floor. The smell of spice filled the air. The guvnor lit his candle. Around us were bulging sacks stacked about eight foot high. A few small wagons stood near the door, with hooks and shovels hung upon the wall. To our right was a little office booth, and next to it some stairs.

  We walked quiet as we could round the stacks, but there was nobody about. The next floor was the same: stacks of bulging sacks, the heavy stink of spices, the boards dusty and speckled with mouse droppings. Only one wall had windows looking onto the street. The others were bare brick.

  Up we went to the top floor, where hundreds of ropes were stored, the thick ones in great, dead coils on the floor, the thinner hanging from pegs around all the walls. Cold air whistled through the roof slates, while outside the dark windows, over the rooftops and spires, trains rolled slow over the lines towards Waterloo. Halfway across the space was a rough wall with three doors, where a man sat sleeping on a chair.

  The guvnor blew out his candle and pointed at the ropes. I crept across to the wall and took down a thin one. Then, slowly, we tiptoed across the dusty floor, testing each board for squeaks before putting our weight on them.

  The bloke grunted.

  We froze.

  He was short and heavy, with a grizzled chin beard and a scarf wrapped round his neck. His legs were stretched out on another chair, his arms crossed. A club lay on the floor next to him. In sleep he seemed a puppy, but I knew from the dent on his skull and the stitching on his cheek that he was a rough.

  He began to breathe again.

  We moved forward. Now we could smell the gin oozing from his skin, the air around him warm and wet. We were a few steps away when the guvnor stood on something crunchy. The rough’s eyes shot open, his head jerking this way and that as he tried to adjust his sight to the dark, but before he could rise we fell upon him, the guvnor jamming his belcher in the bloke’s mouth, me looping the rope round his middle and pulling it tight to the chair so he couldn’t move his arms. He struggled like hell, twisting his head furiously while the guvnor tried to keep the cloth in his gin-hole.

  I looped the rope around the bloke again and again while he jerked and strained, tying him off quick as I could. He was like a wild beast, kicking away like blue hell. Arrowood squealed as he got a boot in his shins. I planted my fist in the fellow’s belly and he went limp, heaving for breath: finally, I got his legs tied down too.

  One last bit of rope around his head to keep the belcher in his mouth and we were done. A set of keys were in his coat pocket.

  ‘Wait,’ said the guvnor, sitting on the other chair to calm his wheezing. The rough was groaning and making noises in his throat, twisting his shoulders and rocking, but the bindings held tight. I stepped over to the stairhead and listened. There was no sound below. When Arrowood had caught his breath, he picked the gin-jar from the floor, sniffed it, and took a long swallow. He passed it to me.

  ‘Let’s see what’s behind those,’ he said, pointing at the three doors.

  The bully’d gone still now: he knew there was nothing he could do.

  I found a key that fitted the padlock on the first one. The guvnor stood behind me, the bloke’s club in one hand and a candle in the other. I pulled it open.

  Inside was a stack of mattresses, some empty chamberpots, a table and a few stools. The little room had no windows.

  Hearing a noise behind the second door, I nudged the guvnor and stepped across. He nodded, bracing himself.

  When I’d opened the padlock, I ripped it off quick, expecting the door to burst open. But there was silence. It squeaked when I opened it. The guvnor brought over the candle and we peered in.

  The candle threw its first glow into the room when there was a sudden noise and a flash of movement. A woman was coming towards us, throwing something. I jerked out the way just as a wobbling cloud flew past me and hit the guvnor in the chest.

  He cried out in surprise, just as the woman raced past us and made for the stairs, a chamberpot breaking at his feet. Then another wave of filth came through the door, exploding over his shoulder.

  ‘No!’ he yelled as a second woman came hurtling out, screaming. She was tall, her face smudged and sooty, her hair long and knotted. Like the first, she wore an old overcoat, torn and patched, with nothing underneath. Her legs and feet were bare. And behind her came another, knocking me to the side and following the others to the stairs.

  ‘Norman!’ cried the guvnor, holding his arms away from his soaking Donegal as the women disappeared down the stairs. ‘What in Christ’s name?’

  I collected the candle and lit it again, the women’s cries becoming fainter as they reached the bottom and escaped to the street. We peered into the room: two mattresses on the floor, two broken chamberpots with their cargo thrown across the ground, a little table with two stools. The stink was so thick you could have shovelled it up.

  ‘I wonder how long they’ve been in here,’ I said.

  ‘Get the other door open,’ said the guvnor, his voice weak and blue. He took a canvas sheet from the floor and wiped at his jacket and waistcoat, trying to scrape away the solid matter. ‘Why is it always me?’ he muttered, coming out to stand behind me once again.

  The last door was just the same as the other two. As I fitted the key into the padlock, there came a banging on the other side.

  ‘Good day, sir!’ a voice cried. ‘Good day, sir!’

  ‘S’bu?’ I called. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘S’bu!’ came his voice. ‘S’bu!’

  The moment I’d got the lock off, the door flew open and there he was, looking scared and young like the boy he was. They’d taken his clothes, just like they had with the women, and he wore only an overcoat. He was breathing heavy, his body jerking and trembling. The guvnor moved to put his arms round him but stopped himself. Instead he took the lad’s arm.

  ‘You’re safe now, my dear. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Safe,’ said S’bu, the tears starting to roll down his cheeks. ‘Safe.’

  I put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s get moving.’

  ‘Go,’ said S’bu, his body stiffening, his eyes widening. ‘Go, go!’

  ‘We need to question this one,’ said the guvnor, nodding at the guard.

  ‘We need to get S’bu away from here before anyone else arrives,’ said
I, pulling S’bu to the stairhead. ‘You can stay if you want.’

  The guvnor hesitated, then followed us to the next floor. We were halfway down the final flight when we heard footsteps outside. Ahead of us the warehouse doors were open from the ladies’ escape. Just as we reached the bottom, a big, solid bloke appeared on the pavement.

  ‘Run!’ I cried.

  I rushed at him, S’bu behind me and the guvnor at the back. It was only as I raised my arms to shove him out the way I saw the dull steel in his hand. It was too late to stop: in a blind panic I threw all my weight at the geezer, feeling a sharp pain in my side as we both fell to the pavement. S’bu leapt over us, the guvnor stumbling on my legs.

  I got my hands round the bloke’s neck as he jabbed me in the face with his fist. Then there was a sudden crunching sound and the bloke screamed, going limp for just long enough for me to get off him. The guvnor pulled me up, and I saw the bloke’s forearm propped across the edge of the kerb, bent where it shouldn’t be. S’bu’s foot was on it.

  We ran. After a few steps I stumbled, clutching my side. I knew it’d be wet. I didn’t know it’d be this sore. The guvnor took one arm, S’bu the other, and we hobbled and stuttered down past the churchyard and the distillery until we found a cab.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When we reached Coin Street, Isabel was sitting in the parlour, the fire lit, a lamp glowing on the table. For once, the window was shut and it was warm. Ettie stepped out of the scullery, her pinny and hands black with coal dust.

  ‘S’bu!’ she said. ‘They found you!’

  ‘He’s been through an ordeal,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘Hello, Miss Ettie, good day,’ said the lad, looking from her to Isabel, who said nothing. He wore the guvnor’s boots and my coat over his own, yet still he shivered.

  ‘This is S’bu, Isabel,’ said the guvnor. ‘He doesn’t really speak English. S’bu, this is my wife, Isabel.’

  Isabel nodded, but there was no smile on her face. S’bu murmured a quick ‘Good day’, and then looked away. My wound was giving me hell, so I got out my Black Drop and put three in my mouth, picking up a mug from the table and washing them down with cold tea.