The Inquiry Agent

by William King

  I took the prescription to the apothecary and he filled it out and took my money and asked me what it was for. I didn't have the heart for conversation so I told him that my daughter was sick and that I must return quickly and he nodded understandingly as I went on my way. I sat beside Rachel for a while hoping that she would wake up and speak to me but she didn't and if anything her breathing seemed a little shallower and her pulse a little weaker. I fought the urge to go and fetch the doctor immediately. It seemed, after a while, that it might only be my imagination.

  I woke Donald up and helped him get ready for school, giving him his daily fee and a penny for his lunch. He looked as tired as I felt and there were shadows under his eyes but he went without complaining. I knew he must be worried because he went over and kissed his sister on the forehead before he left, and he hadn't done that in a very long time, considering it beneath his manly dignity.

  I sat there for a while trying to find the energy to get up and do some work. Weariness tugged at my eyelids and I drifted off for a bit beside the fire. I didn't feel much less tired when I opened my eyes again. Mrs Marshall was shaking my shoulder and telling me that the doctor was there.

  “Good morning, Dr Davies,” I said. He was a soberly dressed, melancholy looking man, with clean hands and a shock of hair that spiked upwards no matter how much oil he put on it to flatten it. If you squinted at him out of the corner of your eye and imagined him out on a foggy night, you could almost picture him in a graveyard with a spade in his hand or cutting up corpses in secret.

  “Good morning, Mr Brodie. I'm just looking in to see how Rachel is. Did she have a quiet night?” His accent marked him as another Scot, one of those bright Edinburgh doctors who had come South to seek their fortune and found the streets were not paved with gold. He sounded calm and educated and the voice let you know that, wild hair and sinister appearance aside, he wasn’t the sort of medical man who carried around a pot of leeches and a razor for letting blood, more the type who joined statistical societies and agitated for sanitary reform.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That's good, that's very good. She needs rest.”

  “What's wrong with her, doctor?”

  “The same thing that was wrong in the winter. Her old complaint has returned, as I feared it would.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “Her condition is made worse by the foul London air. I would recommend, if it is possible, you take her away to the seaside or the country where the air is cleaner and her lungs will have a chance to clean themselves out.”

  He didn't look hopeful about that, but I suppose he suspected that I had no money for such a cure; after all I was still in arrears with his bill.

  “How much do I owe you, doctor?” He told me and I paid him some of it from the expense money that Soames had given me. I suppose I should have felt guilty about that, for it was not my money to spend and there was no way I could account for it to Mr Soames. The thought did not even cross my mind, I am ashamed to say; needs must when the Devil drives.

  The doctor looked surprised but not unpleased to have even part of his bill settled and said that he would look in later to check upon Rachel.

  “Shall I settle with the butcher and the baker as well?” asked Mrs Marshall. I gave her my permission although I suspected she did not really need it.

  I sat there by the fire for a while gathering my strength and then I went through and sat beside Rachel. She still was not awake but she was snoring slightly which seemed like a small improvement to me although I am in no sense of the word a medical man.

  I swore that I would find the money to get her away from the city for a while. And, as is always the case under such circumstances, I started to worry about all the things that could go wrong. I might not find the robbers. I might find the robbers and they might already have disposed of Mr Soames's notes, leaving me with nothing to return.

  And, of course, there was always the possibility that Billy Tucker might make good his threat and kill me. Looking at the fragile form of my daughter I decided that come what may I was not going to let that happen. Too many people were depending upon me, and I had seen too much of what happened to orphans on the street, for me to allow it. Of course, Billy and his friends might have other ideas in which case it would be up to me to stop them. I only hoped I was up to it.

  Wearily I set about my business. I still had to find Ginger Jim Matthews and see if he was involved with the robbery at Brighton House. I also needed to talk to a few other people and see if they could give me some clues as to who might have perpetrated the robbery.

  I headed over to Old Nick's shop to see if he'd turned anything up. It was unlikely, since it was early days yet but I thought I might as well take the chance. Anyway, the brisk walk to the docks would do me good. I stopped along the way to have breakfast.

  A young costermonger boy tossed a penny with a pieman. The boy called wrong and lost his penny and went away hungry but seemingly none the worse for it -- I'd heard it said that a costermonger would rather gamble than eat and judging from the grin on the boy's face, he was living proof of that.

  I didn't feel like gambling a penny against a pie so I paid the man his money and got myself a mutton pie. I ate it as I walked along. The streets were already full with early morning sellers and the whole city smelled vaguely of fish. There were traces of it everywhere for it was Friday, the day when the Dutch eel ships and the trawlers from Grimsby and Hull brought in their catch. It was also the day when what seemed like the whole Catholic population of London and more folk besides bought their fish.

  There were costermongers everywhere, their barrows full of cod and whiting and plaice. Their barrows were wet and their clothes were slimy but their shouts were cheerful and they seemed to be doing good business. The fried fish men were about as well, shouting their wares and doing a roaring trade.

  I had finished a pie by the time I reached Old Nick's shop and bought some ginger beer to wash it down with from a street stand.

  Caliban still slept in his chair, as if he had never risen from it. Nick was behind the counter. It sometimes seemed to me that he was always there, waiting for business, unsleeping, unblinking, untiring in his watchfulness, ever ready to take advantage of human weakness and human sin.

  “Mr Brodie, this is a not unexpected pleasure.”

  “Got anything for me, Nick?”

  He shrugged and rubbed his hands together and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “Maybe yes, Mr Brodie. Maybe no.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  At that point a young Irish woman carrying a baby came in and I had to wait in silence for a few minutes while he loaned her money against the security of a pretty polka dot dress. I was surprised so shabbily dressed a woman could possess something so nice. Perhaps she'd stolen it somewhere which might explain the furtive glances she kept shooting in my direction. When she was gone Nick and I resumed our conversation.

  He seemed almost embarrassed when he said, “I heard something from Harry the Dog.”

  I groaned.

  “I know, Mr Brodie, I know. But Harry's the only one I've heard from so far.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “Where you always will when he's short of cash.”

  “Is that it, Nick?”

  “Give me a chance, Mr Brodie. It's only been a day.”

  “You wouldn't happen to know where I could find Ginger Jim Matthews, would you?”

  “I don't know where he's kipped up but he was always a bit of a dog fancier, wasn't he? Why don't you ask Harry when you see him?”

  “I might just do that. That way the trip won't be a complete waste of time.”

  I made my way to the beer shop on Keegan's Lane. Harry was an old friend of the proprietor who occasionally extended him credit when times were bad, and judging by Harry's appearance, times were very bad indeed.

  I ordered two beers and carried them over to the small deal table where he sat on a sto
ol. His battered face looked more worn than ever and his bulging, veined nose glowed red. There was a dent in his hat and his cravat was soiled and sticky looking. His coat was ripped in half a dozen places and there were holes in the seams of his boots. I put one of the beers down on the table in front of him and he looked up and smiled gratefully until he saw who was providing him with the booze. Then he looked as if he expected a blow, which most likely he richly deserved. He usually did.

  “Hello, Harry. How are things in the dog business?” Harry made his living kidnapping dogs and either selling them on to the fight business or ransoming them back to their owners.

  “Terrible, Mr Brodie. Just terrible. I haven't been able to find a good dog in weeks and I lost all my money betting on that mutt Ripper. Cost me everything and then he bloody well went and died on me, didn't he?”

  “Tragic, Harry, just tragic.”

  “I don't think you take my misfortunes seriously, Mr Brodie. This is no laughing matter. I loved that dog like he was my own son, my own son. I lavished care and attention and good meat, good red butcher meat, mind you, on him and ungrateful little bastard goes and gets his throat ripped out.”

  “I can tell that you are deeply upset, Harry. Grief appears to be overwhelming you.”

  “It bloody well is. I loved that dog as if he were my own child.” He paused to drown his sorrows in a long swig of beer, belched and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “I hear you have something to tell me, Harry.”

  “I hear that you're making inquiries about a break-in at some big house just outside the city.”

  “What big house would that be, Harry?”

  He looked sly and my heart sank a little further.

  “The big house outside town, Mr Brodie, the one you're looking for the burglars what did it.”

  “And you know who they are, I suppose?”

  “Is there money in it, Mr Brodie? A reward of some sort?”

  “There might be if you've got the right sort of information.”

  “I don't suppose you could give me an advance, Mr Brodie?”

  “An advance on what, Harry? You haven't told me anything.”

  “But if I told you then you'd know and you wouldn't have to pay me anything, would you now?”

  “I bought you beer, Harry, and that's only because once in a blue moon the information you've given me has turned out useful. And that beer is all you're going to get from me until I hear something that makes me think that you know something worth paying for.”

  I stared at him hard, letting him know that he'd better not be messing me around. I wasn't in the mood for any silly games. It seemed to take the wind right out of his sails for he started whining.

  “I owe Hugo Dobbs money, Mr Brodie and he'll break my legs if I don't pay him.”

  I suppose I should have known better than to go and talk to Harry in the first place but, as they say, hope springs eternal in the human breast, and I had been hoping for a lead. I should've known that the only lead I was likely to get from Harry were the sort that he used to steal his dogs.

  “What do you think I'll do, Harry, if I find that you brought me all the way to St Giles just to give me a song and dance about things you know nothing about and try and jemmy some money from my pocket.”

  “I'm sorry, Mr Brodie, I just thought...”

  “You just thought that you would try and touch me for some blunt, didn't you, Harry?” I rose from the stool and tipped what was left of the beer over his head and then clouted him with the mug, putting another dent in his hat.

  “Do you want to avoid a good beating, Harry?”

  “I rather think I do, Mr Brodie.”

  “Then answer me one question; have you seen Ginger Jim Matthews about?”

  “What you want Ginger for?”

  “I said answer me one question, Harry, not ask me one.”

  “He's got a new dog, a good ratter, and he likes to show it. He'll be at the Bloody Beast tonight, no doubt. There's a session on there.”

  I drew back my fist and Harry flinched. “You can think yourself lucky that I don't have time to give you a good seeing to. But if you ever try this again you'd better hope that Hugo Dobbs kills you, for I'll make you wish that you'd never been born.”

  I wasn't much worried that Harry would warn Ginger Jim. They'd never liked each other much and anyway Harry would be too busy hiding from Hugo Dobbs

  I stalked off leaving Harry to gulp down what was left of my beer. I suppose I should have felt guilty for taking out my temper on a sad little man like Harry the Dog but actually, after the events of the previous 24 hours, it made me feel a little better. I was starting to understand why Sir Frederick Roe always took his temper out on me when the Home Secretary gave him a dressing down.

  I couldn't think of a lot else to do that morning. Nick hadn't turned anything up and none of the people I was looking for were likely to be out of bed yet.

  I thought I might as well head home and check on Rachel. As I was walking back towards the Strand, I passed a street book seller with a pile of second-hand volumes sitting on the small table in front of them. He was inviting people to come and take a look and make a bid on anything he had. A flash of colour amid the old brown bindings got my attention and I took a closer look and saw that it was the one that Rachel had been interested in at Mr Beadle's bookshop, a little older, a little soiled but still the same book. The bookseller noticed my interest and opened it up to show me the pictures inside. They were lovely woodcut etchings depicting scenes from the Arabian nights.

  “A lovely book, sir, just the thing for a little boy's birthday.”

  I knew that if I showed the slightest interest or gave the slightest hint that it was important to me and for my own child, I would never be able to get a good price from him. So I narrowed my eyes and said, “It's for me, if I buy it.”

  I put my index finger on top of one word and moved it slowly along the line and moved my lips as if I was having some difficulty ciphering out the words. He stared at me, a little embarrassed, exactly as I had intended.

  “Is it a good story? I hope the words aren't all this difficult.”

  “It's a great story, sir, a classic. And it's not at all difficult. I often read it myself for pleasure and it will cause me great sorrow sell it to you for the bargain price of five shillings.”

  I snapped the book shut as if shocked by the exorbitant price that he was asking for it. “I hadn't realised that pictures came so expensive.”

  “They do sir, it costs a lot of money to pay the artists and engrave them. They need to pay the man that draws the pictures as well as the man who writes the words. And they need to pay special artists who can cut wood blocks to make the prints.”

  I was impressed by his enthusiasm and by his knowledge. He obviously cared about what he was selling. “Are these your books?”

  “I didn't steal them if that's what you mean.”

  “No, I meant did you buy them for yourself?”

  He looked at me as if he considered that an impertinent question, but he had that hungry look that told me he needed to make the sale if he wanted to eat.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, softly. “These are my books. The last of what was once quite a large collection. I need to sell them now to keep a roof over my head.”

  “I'll give you half a crown for the Arabian Nights book.”

  “I couldn't possibly let it go for less than four shillings.”

  I shrugged and started to walk away. I had the feeling that he would call me back and I was right. “All right, all right, you're taking the bread out of my mouth and my children's mouths but I'll let you have it for three shillings.”

  I paid him and made my way back home, hoping that Rachel would be awake to see the book I had brought her. She wasn't, she was still asleep, but she looked a little better. I laid the book down on the little stool beside her bed that she used as a table and made my way quietly out. I don't know why I bothered creepi
ng, for the noise from the street was awful, and that had not woken her.

  I found Mrs Marshall waiting for me in the sitting-room. She was asleep in her chair by the fire and when I came in she started up and said, “I wasn't sleeping, I was just resting my eyes.”

  “I could see that,” I said. “And you weren't snoring at all, you were just grunting along to the tune of the hurdy-gurdy player outside.”

  “I don't snore,” she said. “Anyway, Rachel was up for a little while, she was asking about you and I told her that you had to work but that you sat with her all last night. I give her some of the doctor's medicine and she went back to sleep.”

  “Is she any better?”

  “A fair bit, I would say but I'm no doctor.”

  “Thank God for that. I'm glad to hear you say it.”

  She smiled, the lines deepening around her old eyes, and said, “I'm glad to be able to say it.”

  I slumped into the chair, and put my head down on my chest, and said, “I'm going to rest my eyes for a bit, let me know when the clock strikes two.”

  “I'll do that, sir. I'll most assuredly do that.”

  I lay there for a while, trying to nod off, and succeeding only into getting into that drowsy half-asleep state that lies half way between dream and wakefulness. As I did so, my mind turned to the Tucker brothers.

  As lads they'd been inseparable which was hardly surprising since in this world all they had was each other. They were orphans, parents dead of starvation and the cold, no relatives to be found. Bobby was the older of the two by a good eight years and he'd looked after Billy since their mother died. He hadn't started out a bad lad, just a wild one, and not wild in a wicked way, merely fond of a lark. He'd been a hard worker, selling in the street to make a penny to put a roof over he and his brother's heads. Young Billy had worshipped him, looking up to him as a combination of hero, brother and parent. I had known both of them while I was still on the Foot Patrol at Bow Street, and had sometimes bought whatever it was that Bobby was selling. I'd liked them both and I must admit I was surprised when Bobby went to the bad.