Arrowood and the Meeting House Murders

by Mick Finlay

  The house was in darkness. I went down the steps to the basement window and tapped. A sheet was hung across it as a curtain. There was no sound.

  ‘Molly,’ I said, tapping on the glass again. I didn’t want to wake her if she was sleeping, so I had a swallow and stood there for a few more minutes. Then I thought maybe she’d appreciate a bit of gin, so I tapped again.

  ‘Molly,’ I said, louder. As soon as I heard my voice, I regretted it. She was sick, and I was waking her up for myself. I hoped there’d be no reply. Out of the brown sky, a cold rain began to fall. Now I wanted nothing more than to go back to my room and be alone, and was just climbing the stairs when I heard a shuffling inside.

  ‘Who is it?’ came a woman’s voice from within.

  ‘It’s Norman. Is Molly there?’

  ‘Norman? Is that you?’ The glow of a candle appeared behind the sheet. It rose in one corner and I saw the flame, and behind it the face of a woman, a sleeping cap on her head, a thick jumper and scarf below.

  ‘I don’t want to wake her. They told me she was ill.’

  ‘Hold on.’ The curtain dropped, and it went dark. Moments later the basement door opened.

  ‘I’m her sister, Ann,’ she said. She was a few years older than Molly, taller and more bony. ‘She told me about you, Norm. You’re Rita’s husband.’

  ‘You knew Rita?’

  ‘Not too well. Sorry to hear about her.’ The flame lit her head from below: her face was craggy and brown.

  ‘Is Molly there?’ I asked, moving closer against the wall as the rain got heavier.

  She hesitated, glancing at the street over my shoulder. ‘No, she ain’t,’ she said.

  ‘She ain’t in hospital, is she?’

  ‘She’s working.’

  ‘I’ve just been at the pub. She’s not there.’

  She nodded. ‘She does other work.’

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’ I was going down, I could feel it. Something wasn’t right. ‘What work?’

  ‘You better ask her.’

  ‘What work?’ I asked, the vexation rising in me.

  ‘Ask her, Norm. It ain’t my business.’

  I put my foot in the doorway. ‘Why the secret? Just tell me, will you?’

  She looked down at my foot. ‘Back off, will you? She’ll be in the pub tomorrow. You talk to her.’

  I looked at her tired face again in the flickering candlelight, the strands of grey hair falling from her cap, her worn-out eyes. I took my foot away.

  ‘’Night, mate,’ she said softly, and shut the door.

  I finished off the gin and dropped off quick, waking in the early hours with the wound in my side aching, thinking about Molly and what she was doing out so late at night. Why hadn’t she told me she had other work? I went through the reasons she could have and didn’t like any of them, and then those thoughts tumbled into others, into who was killing people, why those women were locked up in Capaldi’s warehouse, what was going to happen to Thembeka and Senzo and S’bu. On top of it all I was worried about the guvnor and how he’d react to the death of Leo. He saw himself as Leo’s father, did so the second he picked up that child, and I knew Isabel wanted him to, whatever she said. Though the two of them might never be a loving couple, they were already a family, a vexed, confused one, but a family all the same. But the guvnor did have a weakness, a taint from his father, and I’d seen him descend into his own world of rumination and bitterness and melancholy before. It was after the Betsy case. For months he didn’t work, barely left his rooms, fell into debt. That was when Isabel left him. I didn’t know how many times a man could have a nervous breakdown and recover, and I didn’t want to find out.

  I fell asleep just after the knocker-upper tapped on the window next to mine. When I woke again the grey daylight had crept into my room. I looked at my chair, my washstand, my set of drawers. I’d planned to buy a rug for the floor this Christmas, but we hadn’t been paid and the money I had would only last a few more days. An anger rose in me. When would things change? I wondered, as I had so many times over the last few years, if I should try and find a steady job. Molly’d suggested it last time I saw her. A steady job. Molly. Where the hell was she last night?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I had a bowl of porridge at Willows’ and arrived at Coin Street about nine. The Puddings were boiling and baking, a few wet punters sitting at the thin tables guzzling spotted dicks and mutton pies. Ettie greeted me at the door. They’d set up the parlour for the laying out: the mirror was covered with a bit of muslin, the clock stopped, the chairs pushed back against the wall. The guvnor’s mattress had gone upstairs. On the table was Leo’s box, and there lay the baby boy in a long white dress. A ha’penny covered each eye. He was still.

  We looked upon him for some time without speaking.

  ‘How’s Mercy?’ I asked at last.

  ‘She’s taking milk now.’ Ettie nodded. ‘The doctor believes there’s a good chance she’ll recover, but we must all pray for God’s mercy. Why he would take Leo I cannot understand. To give Isabel two miscarriages and then this.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘As you’d expect.’

  Arrowood came down the stairs wincing, taking one step at a time. His haemorrhoids were at him again.

  ‘Norman,’ he said as he tackled the last few steps. He was in his Sunday best, a silk tie, a pair of Lewis’s old shoes.

  ‘William,’ I nodded.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ he said. ‘The case is over for me.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Ettie. ‘Don’t be so weak. You must carry on. They need your help.’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he said, soft as a cat. He took Ettie’s hands. ‘I just…’ A grimace came over his face and he hurried out to the scullery.

  We heard movement above, then Isabel’s boots on the steps. We both watched in silence as she descended. She wore a black shawl over her usual brown dress. Her eyes were red, her pupils tiny pinholes.

  ‘Did he say he was giving up the case?’ she asked, no strength in her voice.

  I nodded.

  ‘I don’t want him here. Tell him he must go to work.’

  ‘Isabel…’ Ettie said, but stopped. She didn’t know what to say.

  Arrowood stepped back from the scullery, a mug in his hand. ‘He was my son too, Isabel.’

  ‘No, William. He wasn’t your son. He was Luther’s son. You’ve no right to claim him. He was mine and Luther’s.’

  She was breathing hard, twitching her nose as she tried not to weep.

  ‘I think you should finish the case, brother,’ said Ettie.

  He looked about to speak, then changed his mind. He nodded, put the mug down, and collected his coat.

  ‘Get the medicine, Ettie,’ he said.

  It was Monday morning, two days before Christmas. The roads, still muddy and slick from the overnight rain, were full of delivery carts taking food and gifts to the big houses all over town. Delphine had agreed to help us again, so we went to Camberwell to collect her and see if her old man had talked to the committee about getting us more payment. He hadn’t and, seeing how we weren’t too pleased to hear it, offered to let us use his carriage that day instead.

  As we crunched and skidded through the muddy streets, the guvnor explained to Delphine what he wanted her to do. ‘Will you remember that?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, looking offended. She touched her bonnet. ‘It’s not complicated.’

  The desk sergeant who was there last time told us to go straight upstairs to the detectives’ office. All the desks were occupied by plainclothes officers, all writing reports. In a corner sat Mabaso, reading the book he always carried in his pocket. He sat up when he saw us enter.

  ‘You’ve taken your time,’ said Napper, not looking up from whatever it was he was writing.

  ‘Did your men take any of the Zulus’ possessions from the Quaker Meeting House?’ asked the guvnor, dropping into a chair. ‘In particular a hat with ribbons and a neckl
ace of feathers?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘They were there when we found the bodies but they’ve gone missing.’

  ‘Well, it’s probably a souvenir hunter. They’re always nicking things from the crime scene. Now, I suppose you want to know what clues we found of Miss Sylvia’s disappearance?’

  ‘We’re not interested in that, Napper,’ said the guvnor, sitting on the chair in front of his desk.

  The detective’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh? How so, Arrowood?’

  ‘She ran off by herself.’

  ‘Ran off, did she? And how do you know that?’

  ‘I had a feeling for it.’

  ‘A feeling?’

  ‘Nick’ll disappear next. He’ll go and join her.’

  ‘Oh, really. Well, maybe you’ll change your story when you hear what we discovered in Gresham Hall.’ Mabaso took out a hanky and began to cough. Napper looked at him for a few moments, then picked a cigarette end from his desk and held it out. ‘A French cigarette, found under Miss Sylvia’s bed. Yet none of the ladies smoke cigarettes.’

  Arrowood looked carefully at the butt. He sniffed it. ‘Interesting.’

  Mabaso kept coughing, finding it harder each day to catch his breath.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked the guvnor.

  The constable shook his head, his eyes closed.

  ‘Whoever it was stole three pounds from Miss Leonie’s purse,’ said Napper. ‘Money she’d been saving. The cigarette suggests someone connected to Madame Delacourte, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It does, indeed,’ said the guvnor.

  Napper took back the butt with a smile. ‘We’ve requested the warrants.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly moving forward,’ Arrowood said, placing his palms on the desk. ‘Learn from this, Barnett. The work of a master. Now, sir, I want to try something, with your permission. It might provide more evidence for you about the prisoners. Something to make your chances of a conviction more secure.’ He turned to Delphine. ‘I’d like to introduce Miss Druitt. She used to live in Natal.’

  Napper rose and shook her hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, miss. You were here before.’

  ‘Yes. I speak Fanakalo, sir. It’s a language from Natal.’

  ‘Ah, well, we already have someone who speaks that language. Constable Mabaso.’

  The African copper was on his feet now. He bowed his head. Delphine spoke to him in his tongue.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, and sat back down.

  ‘I want to interview Thembeka and Senzo,’ said the guvnor. ‘Miss Druitt will listen and do some translating for us.’

  ‘As I said, we already have a police officer who can do that.’

  ‘But they know he can speak their language,’ said the guvnor. ‘They don’t know that Miss Druitt can. Now, this is what I want you to tell them.’

  Ten minutes later, me, Delphine, and the guvnor entered an interview room in the basement, a place we’d been once before with a couple of officers from the SIB. Napper sat at a table between Thembeka and Senzo, whose hand was wrapped in a brown bandage. One of his bottom teeth was gone, his lip swollen and scarred. Thembeka’s hands were clasped upon the table top.

  ‘Ooh, is this them, sergeant?’ asked Delphine as she stepped through the door. She wore a smile we’d never seen before on that unhappy mouth, and spoke with a light, engaging voice. Me and the guvnor looked at each other in surprise: all he’d asked her to do was to pretend she couldn’t understand their language and let him do the rest.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Napper. ‘These are the two murderers. Miss Thembeka Kunene and Mr Senzo Nyambezi.’

  Delphine was staring at Thembeka. ‘What, she as well?’ She covered her mouth in a childish manner, her eyes big and surprised. ‘The lady?’

  Napper chuckled. ‘Yes, both of them. You don’t think they look like killers?’

  ‘Who is this girl?’ asked Thembeka, turning to Napper.

  ‘This is Miss Whitehead, the daughter of Lord Whitehead, Duke of Southampton and member of the Privy Council,’ said the copper, rising from his seat. ‘A great friend of our Commissioner, as it happens. Miss Whitehead’s never met an African before and very much wanted to see you before you… Well, before the trial.’

  Thembeka looked at Delphine. Delphine’s broad face flushed, and she seemed lost for words. She looked at me with panic in her eyes.

  ‘Well?’ asked Thembeka.

  ‘Can I touch them, sergeant?’ asked Delphine suddenly, glancing at Napper.

  The guvnor looked horrified. ‘No, Miss Whitehead!’ he exclaimed.

  Napper turned to Thembeka. ‘Do you mind, Miss Kunene?’

  ‘Tell her to go away,’ she hissed.

  Senzo asked Thembeka something. She answered him with a roll of her eyes. He shook his head.

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Delphine. Her face was burning now, her body rigid.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered the copper. ‘The man doesn’t speak any English.’

  ‘Ask him if I can touch his hair, miss,’ Delphine said to Thembeka.

  ‘Get out of here, girl,’ said Thembeka. ‘This is not an exhibition.’

  I met the guvnor’s eyes. He shook his head, as baffled as I was. Delphine now stepped over to Senzo and held out her hand: ‘I adore your hair, sir,’ she said, louder now. ‘May I touch it?’

  Senzo moved his head back, scowling. ‘Mampara,’ he muttered, or something like that.

  ‘No, miss,’ said the guvnor. ‘Stop asking, please.’

  ‘We’re facing execution, you foolish girl,’ said Thembeka, crossing her arms over her breast. ‘And you ask if you can touch us? Get out of here.’

  Delphine opened her mouth to speak, then her face fell. Arrowood took her arm and led her out the door. After she’d stepped into the corridor and out of sight, he turned back. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I just had one question, Miss Thembeka. May I?’

  ‘Are you helping us or are you with him?’ asked Thembeka, nodding at Napper sat beside her.

  ‘I don’t believe you killed Mrs Fowler,’ said the guvnor. ‘We’re trying to find out who did, but we need more information from you. When I asked you to translate the letter, you deceived me. It wasn’t about a meeting in Paris, it was about meeting Princess Nobantu at the York Hotel here in London.’ Here he paused. He smiled just a bit, tilting his head and looking at Thembeka. She looked at me. Still, the guvnor said nothing.

  Napper blew his nose.

  Senzo began to speak. Thembeka answered. He spoke again. And then nobody spoke.

  Finally, the guvnor asked, ‘Why did you lie to us about the princess?’

  ‘My cousin knows her from a long time back. He wanted to see her. But she isn’t a real princess, she just talks like one because she worked for the governor’s sister. It’s only to sell more tickets.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell us that?’

  Again, Thembeka and Senzo talked. Thembeka looked back to the guvnor. ‘Mr Capaldi has people inside the police. The princess has nothing to do with our case, but he would have found out and he might have thought she knew where we were. We didn’t want him making trouble for her. His men are violent.’

  ‘Have you met her before?’

  She shook her head. ‘My cousin was working on her kraal when he was younger.’ She glanced at Senzo and lowered her voice. ‘He thinks he can marry her. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did he know she was coming to London?’

  ‘We heard when we were in Paris. It’s why they signed the contracts to come to London. I didn’t want to come here. We had many arguments, but Monteuil convinced Musa and S’bu that London would be better. He said there were more black fellows here. They thought Monteuil was going to take us, but, of course, he’d sold our contract to Capaldi.’

  ‘How did you hear the princess would be in London?’

  ‘She’s doing exhibitions. We’re doing exhibitions. Everybody knows everything in this world.’

  ‘Is sh
e also with Mr Capaldi?’

  ‘Mr Beaumont. Another showman.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you she’d be coming?’

  ‘No.’

  Through these last exchanges, Senzo was watching the guvnor carefully. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he understood every word.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  We went up to the waiting room while they locked Senzo and Thembeka away. Delphine’s head was down, her face quite white now.

  ‘Miss Druitt,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ she said, staring at the floor. ‘I feel so ashamed. It’s just… I completely lost my nerve. I’m not used to being asked to do something like that. She was glaring at me, and I had this awful feeling she knew everything, she knew what we were up to. I didn’t know what to say. I was afraid I’d ruin it. Then I remembered my cousin. She visited us in Natal last year. She’s from Hampshire. She did exactly that with our housekeeper. Almost exactly those words. It was all I could think of doing to pretend I didn’t know anything about her people or her language. It was stupid.’

  ‘It was insulting,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘I know!’ she said fiercely. ‘I feel awful. I need to apologize.’

  Just then, Napper came up from the cells and led us up to the detective’s office. There was another copper sitting on the other side of the room, a cigarette in his hand, a mug of tea in front of him. Mabaso still sat where he’d been before, his book in his hands. As he shut it, I noticed his fingernails were smooth and perfect as a princess.

  ‘What are you reading?’ asked the guvnor.

  ‘Frederik Douglass,’ he said, a cold fury in his eyes. ‘A narrative of his life as a slave.’

  ‘Ah, yes. What d’you think of it?’

  ‘It angers me.’ He spoke slowly, fixing his glare on the guvnor.

  ‘Of course.’ Time seemed to slow as the guvnor nodded. His blood-raddled eyes watered. ‘But at least you don’t have slavery in Natal.’

  Mabaso snorted and shook his head. ‘It’s not called slavery, but we are not free, Mr Arrowood. Your people want to take charge wherever you go. It’s a fault in your nature. I think my people see it more clearly than yours.’