by William King
“Give us money, guvnor. We're hungry and we need something to eat,” said the largest of them.
“You're talking to the wrong man, lads,” I said. He looked up at me and I could see that he knew who I was too.
“Now wait a minute, Mr Brodie,” said Mr Soames. “If these lads are hungry I think we can do something to help them.”
I groaned inwardly and by then it was too late to do anything about it. Soames was already fumbling in his pocket for coppers and he passed them over smiling to the lads. They knuckled the brim of their hats and took his money and rushed off to the roast chestnut stand.
“There was no reason to give them that, sir,” I said. “If you just let me speak to them they would have seen sense in a moment.”
“I'm aware of that, Mr Brodie, but I chose to give them it anyway. It seems to me perhaps it would be better for everybody if boys like those went to bed without an empty stomach once in a while. Fewer of them might grow up to be robbers.”
There was nothing I could say to that. There was even a possibility that he was right. As our surroundings became progressively less threatening, he became progressively more garrulous and it was obvious to me that he had been moved, or at least made thoughtful, by what he had seen.
“I will confess to you, Mr Brodie, that when we first entered this terrible place I feared for my life. Now, as we are leaving it, I fear for their's, the lives of the people who live here, I mean.”
“Such Christian generosity does you credit, sir,” I said.
“Something should be done about such places,” he said.
“Indeed it should, sir,” I said. “But what?”
“I don't know, but I cannot help but feel that something must be.”
“The poor are always with us, sir. They always have been and they always will be. What can anybody do about that?”
“You do not sound very hopeful, Mr Brodie.”
“When it comes to such things, sir, I am not. Since I came to this city things have been getting steadily worse. More and more people come here, crowding into spaces that become year by year more foul. They come from everywhere -- from Ireland, from Europe, from Russia even. They come from the villages, they come from the countryside, they even come from other cities. They come because they think life will be better here but it isn't. They compete with each other for food and work and space to live in and there just isn't enough of all of those things to go around. The more people there are, the more mouths to feed, the lower wages go and the worse things get. The workhouses are full. The factories are closing. The cholera kills by the tens of thousands. And there doesn't seem to be any end in sight. In fact, it's getting worse. What cause for hope is there in any of that?”
He looked at me as he'd just looked at Seven Dials, as if seeing me for the first time. “It can’t be as bad as you say, Mr Brodie, surely?”
“If anything, sir, it's worse.”
“You sound like Parson Malthus and all those dismal philosophers who follow his line of thinking.”
“I'm no philosopher, sir, just an inquiry agent but I keep my eyes open and I know what I see.”
“I believe, Mr Brodie, that things will get better, that with goodwill, ingenuity and help of the Lord the world may someday become a better place.”
“I sincerely hope that you are correct, sir. For myself, I see no cause for such optimism.”
“We shall see what happens, Mr Brodie, or at least you and Jane shall, I think. I am an old man now and however things turn out I doubt that I shall live to witness it. But for your sake and the sake of my niece and those who come after I pray that you're wrong.”
We lapsed into silence until we reached the Strand. Fleming waited there with the carriage, and Jane and Mr Soames climbed in. I stood there for a few minutes watching the lights of the coach recede into the distance and join the rest of the great stream of night-time traffic. I made my way home, tired, thoughtful and keen to know how Rachel was.
Donald was waiting up along with Mrs Marshall when I got home. I did not object because he was upset and needed reassurance and so I think did my housekeeper. They seemed pleased to see me and told me that Rachel was a little better although still asleep. I went into the bedroom to see how she was and sat there while Mrs Marshall cooked me some supper.
Rachel looked very small and terribly vulnerable as she lay there, and I wondered what was going to happen to her, even if she got better from this illness. I wished Mr Soames had not asked me his question and made me think about the future for it did not seem terribly bright for anyone.
Saturday, April 10th 1841
Out of sheer weariness, I slept well that night and was woken the next day by the sounds of traffic outside my window. It was Saturday and we were near Covent Garden, and that meant nothing but disturbance. Saturday is the great market day for the costermongers, and when I went out to take a look around, traffic was already backed up all the way along Bow Street and far beyond. There were dozens of donkey drawn carts being led along by coster boys all keen to replenish their stock. The boy's fathers chatted with each other in that great logjam.
I watched them wend their way down the street. There were so many of them and they moved so slowly that it seemed like they would never pass but, of course, eventually they did although I was not there to see it having gone back inside to see how Rachel was.
She was awake although she looked pale and tired and I was glad to hear her voice and spend some time reading her new book to her. Donald sat there too, a little sad, a little tired, and a little jealous and a little glad. He looked so serious that I felt sorry for him and wanted to take him aside and speak but the moment passed and I never found time for it. Of such small regrets are our lives made.
After an hour or so Rachel fell asleep again and Donald and I went into the sitting-room and sat there on either side of the fire. I asked him how he was, and he said fine. He asked me if I was going to be out late again that night and I told him that I did not know, but it was very likely. His face fell and I could tell that he was hoping that I would be in and we could spend some time together and read one of his penny bloods.
I did not really know what to say. I didn't want to have to explain to him how desperate our finances were and how imperative it was that I earn some money. He was at that age where a young man might be expected to go out and work. Many coster lads started far younger than him. Just that morning I had seen boys no older than eight years old leading donkeys to market and, of the evening, you could see the same boys out selling oranges or nuts. I did not want Donald to have to do that unless it was absolutely necessary.
I wanted him to stay at school and learn and have the opportunity for a better life and it came to me then, that perhaps, in my secret heart, I agreed more with Mr Soames than I cared to admit. For at least I thought there was the possibility that he might be able to have a better life, and I was prepared to do all that I could to help him towards that.
Perhaps such optimism is instinctive, perhaps it simply folly. It seemed though that no matter how bad I thought things were, I was prepared to hope that they might be better for my son.
He looked at me and said, “Rachel is going to get better, isn't she?”
“Yes,” I said. “The doctor said so.”
“I'm glad. I was very worried about her.”
“There's nothing to be worried about,” I lied. I rose and I walked over to my desk and I began an entry in my diary to bring the record up to date. He sat there reading about Dick Turpin and dreaming about highwaymen in the way that boys can before they learn what highwaymen are really like.
He looked up at me and said, “Father, were there really highwaymen on the roads when you were young?”
He made it sound as if he was asking about the times of Julius Caesar. I remembered asking similar questions to my own father in exactly the same way when I was his age and it made me smile.
“There were. They used to be a real plague in London before th
e mounted patrols were set to guard the outskirts of the city.”
“Did you ever see a highwaymen?”
“I did not. Not a real one, like Dick Turpin, anyway.”
“Did they have highwaymen in Scotland?”
“We were too poor to have highwaymen. We could only afford bandits.”
“What sort of bandits did you have?”
“The usual sort, the kind that hits you over the head with a club, and then takes all your money.”
“Did you ever see one of those?”
“No. I saw a lot of turnips and a fair number of potatoes but no bandits. They were probably too scared to come nearer our village. They knew the Kirk Elders would bore them to death.”
He smiled but at that exact moment Mrs Marshall entered the room and tut-tutted loudly. “You should not say things like that, Mr Brodie. You’ll give the boy the wrong idea.”
“I think he gets quite enough of those from you, Mrs Marshall,” I said.
“Stuff and nonsense, Mr Brodie. It's those books he's always reading, and your nonsense, that's what does it.” She smiled as she said it though. We sat and we chatted for an hour after that, talking about Dick Turpin and other highwaymen.
I talked about some of the famous Runners I had known, George Ledbetter and Henry Goddard and some of the cases I had worked on. I wanted Donald to know that there were more things to life than highwaymen and that most criminals stood a chance of getting caught and being sent to the gallows. I wanted him to see that there was some romance in thief-taking as well as in highway robbery which of course brought us around to the inevitable subject.
“Did Jonathan Wild really exist?” he asked.
“Yes. He was hanged at Newgate in 1725.”
“And was he really a thief-taker like you?”
“He was a thief-taker but I hope I am a little more honest, Donald.”
“And did he really do all the terrible things he did in the Jack Sheppard book? Did he really rob people and blackmail people and put the blame on others? Did he make sure that innocent men were hung for his crimes?”
“I don’t know. Possibly but I think it more likely that many bad deeds were ascribed to him after he died. He was certainly wicked enough to be hung.”
“Did he…”
“Hush lad, you’ll wake your sister with your questioning.”
We spent a pleasant afternoon talking and playing draughts and after a while I sat and read Dick Turpin with him and even Mrs Marshall found it within herself to join us and listen. I read quietly so as not to wake Rachel and every now and again I rose to go in and check on her.
All too soon it was time for me to say goodbye to him and Rachel and Mrs Marshall and set about my business. It had become imperative that I find Ginger Jim Matthews and there was only one way to do that. It would involve a lot of walking about in places I did not really want to go, where I stood every chance of running into Billy Tucker and his friends, but I did not have any alternative. We needed the money.
It was dark outside when I set out. I had not seen any point in going out earlier; no-one I was looking for would be on the street until after dark.
Though it was early in the evening you could feel the Saturday night spirit in the air. Workmen who had got off early had already started to drink. Wives were even then out looking for their husbands, hoping to get some share of the pay packet before it was all spent on gin. Street traders shouted their bargains-- for Saturday night was a big night for them as well as the publicans.
I made my way into some very rough pubs in the Dials. They were crowded with working men come there to collect their pay, for in those days it was common for employers to pay their employees in such places. There were rumours that landlords paid them to do so or extended them credit for their own drinking. Certainly it was a practice that contributed to the ruin of a lot of good work men, and to a lot of hunger for their families. For the men, when they were paid, would inevitably stop for just one drain, which would equally inevitably lead to another and then another until a full-blown spree began.
The pubs were full of people who knew this; flower girls, card sharps, beggars, fantocinni men, entertainers and vendors of every sort. The streets were full of them as well, for on Saturday night money flowed even in the poorest quarters of London. My informants were all the sort to take advantage of this too. I talked to publicans and dog fanciers and street girls and so I eventually found my way to Sarah.
She stood on a street corner in Seven Dials, under the gas lamp, looking as lost and lovely as ever. She was talking to an older man, who did not seem to be able to make up his mind whether he was interested or not.
“Go on, love, buy some violets, you know you want to. They're lovely and fresh.” Her tone made it clear that she was not talking about the flowers.
“I don't know. They seem awfully expensive to me. Maybe I'll come back later.”
“Maybe I won't be here later. I might have sold everything by then.”
I walked up, took her by the elbow, asked the man to excuse us and walked her off down the street. He just stood there looking confused and I realised that even this early in the evening he was very drunk.
“You just cost me money, Mr Brodie,” Sarah said.
“Don't worry, I'll pay you for your time,” I said.
She leaned her head into my shoulder quite flirtatiously and said, “That sounds interesting. How much of my time will you pay me for?”
“I'm looking for Ginger Jim Matthews.”
“That was not exactly what I had in mind.”
“You know where I can find him?”
She stopped, turned, raised her chin and looked up at me. “I might. Why are you looking for him?”
“I think he may have had something to do with the robbery at Brighton House. At very least, I think he might be able to tell me something about the people who did.”
She leaned a little closer, and put both her hands on my chest, still looking up at me. Her lips were slightly parted. Her eyes were quite wide.
“Why do you do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Behave as if I were one of your customers.”
“Maybe I wish you were.” She moved a little closer and pushed me gently into a doorway. “Put your arms around me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't want to get my throat cut -- which may well happen if people around here think I'm talking to you for any other reason than business.”
I embraced her. She felt warm and soft in my arms and there's no way that I could describe the sensation as unpleasant. She wriggled closer and rested her head on my chest. “That's better,” she said.
“Tell me about Ginger Jim,” I said. I could feel her breath on my face. She smelled of violets.
“You are a very single-minded man, Mr Brodie, aren't you? There's a lot of men who would pay good money to be standing where you're standing now.”
“I am paying good money.”
“You know how to flatter a girl, don't you?”
“It's not my business to flatter you, Sarah,” I said.
“You don't have to explain that to me, Mr Brodie. I noticed that a long time ago. What’s wrong, are you afraid that your wife will find out what you've been up to?”
“My wife is dead, Sarah.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, pulling away. “I never knew. I thought you were married.”
“Is that why you always flirt with me?”
She pulled back and looked up into my face, as if searching for something. I don't know what she saw there but it made her look away.
“When did she die?”
“Three years ago, the consumption took her. She left me with two children to look after.” I don’t know why I told her. The words just came out. They sometimes do when you least expect them to. She looked at me thoughtfully and the flirtatiousness vanished, replaced with something else that looked a little like concern.
“You can usually find
Ginger Jim up at the Haymarket on a Saturday night. He likes to go there and find a new girl, likes them green if he can get them. I've seen him there every Saturday night for the past few months. He was missing this last month but I've heard that he's back now. Sadie Lane says she saw him and she should know, she was always sweet on him.”
I took out the money and pressed it into her hand. Her fingers closed around mine for a moment and her touch was warm. A thrill passed up my arm and I held the touch a moment longer than necessary.
“Look after yourself, Sarah,” I said.
“You too, Mr Brodie,” she said softly as I walked away.
The Haymarket is at its busiest on a Saturday night. It's not the working men who go there, it's the working girls. You can see hundreds of them standing around in the gas light, chatting, and looking at passers-by. If you did not know any better, you would never take most of them for what they are. Many of them are dressed beautifully, like the daughters of the wealthy. At least in the mist and the glow of gaslight you could take them for that. Some of them are as lovely and proud as any noblewoman.
It was here that you found the slumming rich young men and those who wanted to pretend they were. You saw men in checkered trousers and the latest fashion in hats, twirling their canes and stroking their whiskers and studying the girls as if choosing a sweetmeat. You saw older men with white hair, dressed as if it still were the earliest days of the Regency, and they were still sprightly young bucks as they handed the young ladies into their carriages. The Haymarket is not the place you come for cattle feed any more but it's still a market nonetheless.
I walked around, looking not quite as out of place as you might think, for there were plenty of respectable-looking, commercial gentleman present. Some pretended they had come for the theatre, and some maybe had, but mostly it was clear why they were there.
There were many bars and coffee stalls where bargains of all sorts were being struck. If you listened you could hear people talking not just about prices but about love and attraction and loneliness. For even in places like the Haymarket, men sometimes seek more than just sex and the girls sometimes look for more than just money.
