by Mick Finlay
I searched in the piano, under the burner, in the cupboard and all round the benches and chairs, while the guvnor did the same on the other side. As he had a look around the double doors, I lit a candle and climbed downstairs to the tiny room where Musa had been sleeping before he was killed. I examined the empty bottles and broken chairs, the stack of old curtains and shelves of books that looked as if nobody’d opened them for twenty years. On the floor were his blankets. I picked them up and shook them out. Five ribbons, green and blue, fell to the floor.
I took them upstairs, where the guvnor sat on a chair in the middle of the room, smoking his pipe, his stick between his legs. He took the ribbons, studied them, and shoved them in his pocket. ‘We’ll have to search the rest of the building.’
I helped him to his feet and we spent the next half hour examining every room. The smiley bloke unlocked those we’d not been in before, but we found nothing. The Quaker appeared again as we reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘One question, sir,’ said the guvnor.
‘Yes, Mr Arrowood?’
‘When we discovered the murders, there were a pair of driver’s gloves, a hat with ribbons, and a feather necklace on a bench in the main room,’ he said. ‘Did the police take them?’
‘I kept the gloves in the office,’ said the bloke. ‘But I didn’t see a hat or a necklace.’
‘Was it you who found the gloves?’
‘Yes, the day after the murders. But there was nothing else on the bench.’
‘May I see them?’
The Quaker took us to the office and opened a drawer. It was empty but for Thembeka’s coachman’s gloves.
‘Is there anyone else who could have taken the other things?’ asked the guvnor.
‘It must have been the police. Nobody else was allowed in until the next day, and I was the first in.’ He pulled his watch out. ‘I’m afraid I have to close the building now, sir.’
‘Of course. Thank you for your help,’ said the guvnor. His hands touched the stiff gnarls on his turnip. ‘Fetch my hat, will you, Barnett? I think it’s in the meeting room.’
I looked at him: we were standing not two foot from the door to that very room.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll fetch it my blooming self.’
I held the door open for him, just to show willing, and he waddled over to the long table in the centre of the room to collect his bowler. Just as he turned to come back, he stopped, looking at something above the doors. Then, without a word, he hurried over to the basement door and brought out the stepladder as was stored at the top of the stairs.
He dragged it over to the double doors.
‘How did I not notice that before?’ he asked as he began to climb.
I stood back to see what it was. The doors from the vestibule weren’t built into the main wall, but instead into a recess that projected into the hall about three foot. On either side were narrow walls, one of which contained the doorkeeper’s window. Above the double doors, forming the roof of the recess, was a platform about three foot deep and six foot wide, with coving on three sides and the main wall on the other.
I held the ladder till he was at the top. With a groan, he stretched, reaching out for something just out of sight.
It was Mrs Fowler’s scarf. When he’d come down, I mounted the ladder to have a look myself. The little roof above the door formed a shallow rectangular box, the coving making a wall around it. There was no way of seeing anything inside it from the floor.
‘You think the murderer hid it in there?’ I asked as I reached the floor.
‘Her coat and umbrella were in the hallway. Why hide the scarf and not the rest?’ He asked, gazing at me with his big cow eyes.
Arrowood was silent as we walked to get a tram. There were no seats, and we had to stand for the first half of the journey. The other passengers were wrapped up in coats and double coats, their breath white, their noses running in the wintry carriage. He held the scarf in his hand, gazing at it, pulling on it, considering it, as folk pushed past him to get on and off. Now and then he took a sniff. As I gripped the rail against the judder and lurch of the tram, my thoughts turned to Molly. I felt happy just remembering her smiling face, her hearty appetite, the pleasure she took in having a lark. Though it hadn’t been long, I felt such a need for her sometimes it made me restless. Maybe I did love her. Maybe I did.
It was only when we reached Kennington Park that he spoke. ‘We’ve two reports that Mrs Fowler wasn’t there when her husband was killed. Miss Thembeka says she hadn’t returned when they fled, and S’bu says she wasn’t there when he was captured. Yet her coat was there when we discovered the bodies a few hours later. What do we make of that?’
‘She came back after they’d gone.’
As a nun rose to get off the tram, he dropped onto her bench, next to a maid with a cat on her lap.
‘If what S’bu said is true. Now, S’bu and Thembeka also said that Musa was in the basement asleep and didn’t come up during the fight. So here’s what I think happened. Either Capaldi’s men returned or someone else arrived after they’d left with S’bu. Whoever it was discovered Musa and killed him. Mrs Fowler arrived while the killer was there. She removes her coat and gloves, puts away her umbrella and is about to remove her scarf when she hears something. She goes through to the meeting room and catches the killer in the act. “Ah!” she screams. He pounces on her and…’ The guvnor made a strangling gesture with his grubby paws.
The young maid sitting next to him was listening in, her face screwed up in concentration. A navvy who stood next to me was nodding, his eyes fixed on Arrowood.
‘The most logical explanation for us finding her scarf above the doors is that her body was hidden there. With the coving it wouldn’t be seen from the floor. The murderer escaped and returned later to move the body. When he pulled her down, the scarf was left behind. It’s not something the killer would notice if they climbed up the ladder just enough to pull her off.’
The maid nodded, poking an aniseed twist into her mouth. The cat lay on its paws, its head up, also thinking about the case.
‘And you might have noticed that, for the body to fit in the space, you’d need to bend her legs into about the same shape as if she was sitting.’
I pictured the size of the space and nodded. ‘Clever, sir.’
‘Yes, Barnett. Thank you. I must say being on stage’s been a tonic. They loved my singing, didn’t they? My thinking’s been sluggish the last few days, but now I feel like lightning’s going through me. It’s every bit as good as Mariani wine.’
‘You should join a theatre group.’
‘D’you think so?’ he asked, the idea distracting him for a moment. He filled his chest, lifting his head as if delivering a soliloquy. Finally, he gave a shudder. ‘Anyway, I don’t think the killer planned that part, although it might have given him the idea of tying her to a chair later.’
‘Why didn’t they take her at the time?’ I asked.
‘It was broad daylight. There were so many people about in the street what with the fire just down the road. How could they get her out and into a carriage without being seen?’
‘They couldn’t,’ said the maid. ‘No chance.’
‘But they left Musa and Mr Fowler without hiding them,’ said I. ‘Why hide Mrs Fowler?’
‘That,’ he said slowly, ‘is what we need to understand next.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was about nine that night when we reached Gresham Hall. Nick let us in. Leonie and Gisele were at the kitchen table eating a bit of cold mutton and beans. They were out of their costumes now, like ordinary people again.
‘Has Sylvia returned?’ asked the guvnor.
Leonie shook her head. ‘Heaven knows where she is.’
‘They could be doing anything to her,’ said Gisele.
‘Did you ask Mr Capaldi to move us, Nick?’ asked Leonie. Her face was bloodless. She moved the meat around the bowl with her f
ork.
‘He said no,’ said Nick, standing with his legs against the range. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’
‘You didn’t keep Sylvia safe.’
‘And Dave’ll be here soon too.’
‘Did Detective Napper come to look around?’ asked the guvnor.
Leonie nodded. ‘He didn’t find any clues.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t,’ said the guvnor, lifting the lid of the pot on the stove and peering inside.
‘Why not?’
‘Because Sylvia wasn’t kidnapped. D’you mind if I have some of these beans?’ he asked, a bowl already in his hand. ‘I don’t mind it cold.’
Nick glanced at the guvnor, then at Leonie. He seemed frozen.
‘She wasn’t kidnapped?’ asked Leonie.
‘Who’d kidnap her?’ asked the guvnor as he spooned the wet beans onto his plate.
‘Madame Delacourte,’ said Gisele and Leonie at once.
‘To spoil your show? Well, I suppose that might be possible.’
‘It’s got to be her,’ said Nick.
‘Not your master, Nick?’ asked the guvnor.
‘It could be him too,’ he said, his voice quiet.
‘Tell me, was her wig missing?’ asked the guvnor, settling down at the table.
Nick swallowed.
‘Nick?’ asked Arrowood without looking up.
The bloke shrugged.
Leonie rose. ‘Let me have a look.’
We watched the guvnor eat as we waited for her to come back down. Finally, she appeared at the door.
‘It’s gone,’ she said.
The guvnor just nodded.
‘So what does that mean, Mr Arrowood?’ asked Leonie.
‘It means she left of her own accord,’ he said.
As he spoke, Nick watched him from the corner of his eye.
‘I suspected as much when you said that she left in her night clothes, but that she’d taken a dress. A kidnapper’s unlikely to take the extra time to search for her dress, though I suppose it’s just possible they grabbed one if it was nearby. I assume it was by her bed?’
‘Yes, on the chair,’ said Leonie.
‘Hm. But to take her wig? That wig was very important to how she presented herself to the world. What would a kidnapper care about that? Particularly if they were going to kill her. And if she pleaded for it, you’d surely have woken, given that you two were sleeping in the same room.’
‘Maybe they knew her,’ said Leonie.
‘She didn’t know anyone here in London. No, my friends, she took the wig herself.’
‘Why?’ cried Nick, suddenly angry. ‘Why would she leave me?’
The guvnor stood, put his bowl in the sink, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He stepped over to Nick, brushing some crumbs off the guard’s lapels. ‘Why indeed, Nick,’ he whispered, looking into his eyes. ‘Why indeed.’
Nick stood straight and still, his eyes flicking this way and that.
‘Did you know that a person’s emotions can be transmitted through the air, Nick?’ asked the guvnor.
Nick frowned.
‘Yes, Le Bon writes about this. It’s how crowds turn wild. And once you know it can happen, you start to feel it. I don’t know how it happens. Some say it’s due to magnetism, but it might just be our unconscious noticing clues that our conscious mind’s too busy to perceive. You’re not worried. You might say you are, but you aren’t as worried as you should be with a murderer on the loose. You haven’t been since Sylvia disappeared.’
‘I am worried!’ cried Nick. ‘I’m scared half to death!’
The guvnor tilted his head and looked at him for some time. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I just don’t feel it. You know what I think? I think she’s run away and you know it. You might even be planning to join her, maybe after you collect your next wages, whenever that is. But why did she go without you, I wonder? Perhaps you’re being extra careful. Perhaps she’s gone first because she’s the easiest for Capaldi to hunt down, given her unusual looks, and you’re going to wait a few days to make sure he hasn’t tracked her down. If she hasn’t been found after a certain time, you’re going to join her and flee to America. If she does get found, then she’ll be brought back here. They’ll chastise you for not guarding her well enough, no doubt, but you’ll end up guarding her again. You and her can then plan another escape in some other way. Something like that, Nick? Clever to cover yourself in case of failure, I must say. Very clever. I’m only guessing, of course.’
Nick just looked at him.
‘We’ll see you tomorrow or the next day, ladies,’ said Arrowood, putting on his bowler. ‘Stay close to Nick and Dave tonight and you’ll be safe.’
And with that we were gone.
It was about ten when we reached Coin Street. The guvnor was excited about returning with the money for the babies’ medicine, and I was happy for him. Since Isabel came back, he hadn’t had much chance to prove himself to her, so this was important. The shop was closed, but Mrs Pudding had left a couple of dried-up kidney pies in the oven with a note for the guvnor to take them if he cared. He did, and we bore them triumphant through the back passage and into his rooms.
We both knew it was bad the moment we stepped in. The ginger cat lay on the mantel, watching us. Isabel sat in the good chair by the window, her eyes puffy and pink. Ettie was moving about in the scullery.
‘Isabel,’ whispered the guvnor, hurrying towards his wife. ‘What is it?’
She didn’t even look at him.
‘Isabel? Speak to me.’
She shook her head. The guvnor straightened, looking at the two boxes on the table. In one, under a pile of blankets, lay Mercy, her head tossing from side to side.
The other was empty.
‘Where’s Leo?’ whispered Arrowood.
‘We lost him this afternoon, William,’ said Ettie, stepping back into the parlour. She laid her hand on Isabel’s shoulder. ‘The fever took him.’
The guvnor collapsed onto a chair, covering his face with his hands. Isabel placed her own hand on top of Ettie’s. In the other she clasped a hanky so tight it shook.
A great clucking arose from the next-door hens, and, one after the other, the neighbourhood dogs started to bark. Outside in the dark alley, someone tapped on the window. I opened the curtains and held the candle up to the glass. It was Reverend Hebden again.
‘Can you let me in?’ he asked in his booming voice, pointing towards the shop.
I looked over at Ettie, who nodded. A tear rolled down her cheek.
I made them tea and stood in the parlour for as long as I could bear it. When I finally stepped onto the street, my body was seized with exhaustion and my heart with hopelessness. I knew it was going to happen. I’d dreamt it earlier in the week as I lay in a restless sleep with Molly at my side. I’d dreamt it and pushed it out of my mind, hoping that’d stop it coming true. I never believed in premonitions, but I couldn’t help the sense that by dreaming it I’d brought it forth, just the same way I did with Uncle Norbert and Mrs B.
The Pelican was about to call last orders that Sunday night, and the counter was three deep with pissed-up Cockneys wanting one last dose of holy water before another week of toil. A hunched old woman in a hooded cloak sat alone in a corner, a mug in her hand. She stared at a creased Christmas card, opening and reading it, closing it and gazing at the picture, a smile alternating with a look of such sorrow. A boy of twelve or so was helping the landlord, filling the mugs from a barrel as his boss took the money and poured out the gin and brandy. It was hot enough in there, hot and anxious; I counted out my money, hoping to take the edge off my sickening desperation.
‘Half pint of gin,’ I said when I’d got the landlord’s attention.
He poured it out and handed it over.
‘Molly in tonight?’ I asked as I gave him the coins.
He shook his head. ‘She ain’t well. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Where is she?’
‘How do I know?’ he said,
looking over my shoulder at the woman behind. ‘Yes, mate?’ he asked.
I took the flask over to the other side, where there was a space on the wall, and had a long drink. There was a bitter mood in there tonight. On the table next to me, three ladies were complaining to each other about the privy in the court where they lived. Across the room, a bloke was ranting about something to do with permits, his hands out wide, his eyes glaring as his mate shook his head and cursed. A fellow in a sailor’s hat took a swing at a lascar over the shove ha’penny board and a bit of pushing and shouting started up among the other folk waiting to play. Looking round that pub I could not see a laugh or a song or a bit of tenderness in the whole place. I swallowed my gin. Where was Molly? I couldn’t understand how the landlord put up with her going off sick again. I’d bet half the women there would have fancied the job she had, here in the warm with a steady wage. Better than the factory and the street, that was sure.
Molly had a room with her sister in the basement of a building just in front of the boiler works on Tabard Street, so I put the flask in my pocket and walked down Borough High Street, hoping she’d still be awake. I’d only been there once, the night we went dancing; her sister was off somewhere with her fellow so we’d had the place to ourselves.
The gin had given me a bit of comfort, and I saw some beauty in the Borough that night. Frost coated the trees outside St George’s, and the moonlight picked out the sleeping bodies on the steps of the church. A horse trotted past Borough station on its own, a saddle on its back and reins dragging along the icy road. A couple of dogs were sniffing around the urinals on Great Dover Street, while two jiggered ladies sang ‘The Violet I Plucked’ as they staggered along the road. Black Mary’s song again. As they disappeared round the corner, I remembered the scene at Coin Street and the sadness fell over me again. Poor Leo. Poor Isabel. I’d be back there tomorrow, amongst it all. Christ, I hoped Molly would be awake.
