by Amy Myers
‘Hook it!’ he told me with a gesture that made his point quickly.
I promptly hooked it.
*
I have a nodding acquaintance with Mrs Tutman, whose lodging house is well known to me. She has all sorts there, sailors from foreign parts, dockers, professional beggars, even gentlemen down on their luck. They all sit round an evening table to enjoy what passes for food, but there is little communion amongst them; they all come from situations so different and so grim that they have nothing to share and nothing to which they can look forward, save being able to save the next fourpence for a night’s sleep. What the deuce was Phineas doing here?
Mrs Tutman is not like the Widow Snook. She is thin and determined and suspicious, the first on account of her lack of cooking talents, and the second and third because of where she lives.
‘Me chimneys are as clean as new,’ she snapped.
They weren’t. I’d heard from a fellow sweep that there’d been three chimney fires in the last two months there. ‘Mr Phineas Snook, if you please,’ I said. I had to find him quickly.
‘Round the back, up the garden stairs.’ She closed the door before I could even thank her.
I picked my way through the rubbish piled up in the entry to the small yard where only one struggling daisy and some dandelions in the cracks between the stones suggested its pretensions to the name of garden. Nevertheless, compared with what I’d once glimpsed of the rooms inside the front of the house, this looked luxurious. A flight of wooden steps — one missing — led up to what must be Phineas’ room. There was a small platform between the steps and the shabby door, and sitting impassively on guard was Phineas’ stalwart companion. I’d recognise that cat anywhere.
It was Cockalorum.
I’m not one for cats, but Cockalorum is different. He lives up to his name, being aware of his own importance. He’s a tabby to look at, but not the soft and cuddly kind. Cockalorum is a lean and learned cat, who takes himself very seriously. He’s acquired enough knowledge in his short life to survive all that London’s dark side can throw at him. He knows who’s good and who’s bad, whom he likes and whom he dislikes. Phineas is at the top of Cockalorum’s list of likes. Indeed, he seems to be the only person on it.
Cockalorum was watching me suspiciously as I climbed up the steps towards him. When I went to try the door handle though, he stretched a warning paw that sent a message that he was provided with long claws for good reason. Even Slugger must think twice about upsetting Cockalorum.
‘Cockalorum,’ I addressed him politely to avoid any fast-moving claws, ‘mind if I knock on the door?’
I did so, but there was no reply. I sighed and turned to go. ‘Tell him Tom Wasp wants to speak to him, Cockalorum. It’s urgent.’
*
Where would I find Phineas? Street folk have a hard life, depending on weather and many other things. The streets are working territory to thousands of people. Long before dawn we sweeps are out calling the streets, armies of smallholders are paying their halfpenny tolls to cross the bridges to reach London’s markets, coffee stalls are busy and markets are humming; then housemaids drag themselves from their beds to light the fires, and workers of all sorts are flocking to their places of toil. They have no time to stand watching street entertainers, so they arrive later, when visitors, shoppers and men of business are willing to stand a moment to admire and pay for their genius.
Gone are the days when to be a clown or fool or jester was a noble profession. Phineas told me once he began his working life as a clown, but by our times such a profession has lost the respect of monarchy and people alike. Now he’s a street entertainer, and sings and plays the pipe like the fools of old, just as Richard Tarlton was the king of clowns at the court of Queen Elizabeth, according to Clara. I’ve no doubt that Phineas would do well at cheering Her Majesty Queen Victoria up after the loss of her husband Prince Albert, such is his power to sing and dance and play his music that one can both laugh and weep with him. Phineas told me once: ‘I can play the lute, the tabor, the pipe, I can sing merrily, I can sing of love, I can juggle, I can dance and I can jest — but I don’t like jesting. Jokes are like daggers but they strike with the tongue.’
I decided to try one of Phineas’ favourite spots for his performance, and that’s by the Tower of London. On a good day the Tower gets many visitors and while they wait at the entrance for the next tour to take them to see the armouries and the crown jewels, Phineas often entertains them. His reddish-brown pantaloons, hose and fool’s cap with its jaunty feather fit well with the Tower, for the Tower has been host to many kings and queens. It’s true that not many of them would have been in a mood to enjoy fools, as they were imprisoned there and in fear of their lives.
On a sunny day outside that glorious building, it’s easy to forget that. I wonder sometimes whether the lot of those kings and queens was really any different from ours. Death is with us all, so the only difference is in the merrymaking; the kings and queens had their feasts and dances, and we ordinary folk have our coffee houses, our music halls and those moments of silence when we watch the old river Thames flow by or look at the flowers in Victoria Park.
The last tour of the Tower was at four o’clock; I had passed no clock but it must be about that time already. I hurried along Postern Row, which borders the great ditch that surrounds the Tower, then looked down Tower Hill. There I could see the queue leading from the ticket office back across the bridge to the green sward of the Hill which is where Phineas often performs. To my relief I heard him singing and saw him dancing. The queue seemed to be taking little notice though, pressing ahead to pay for their tickets.
The Reformists amongst us frown on music and dancing, but what else can we do to let the good Lord above us know we appreciate Him? I watched Phineas for a while as he danced, knowing he cared not a whit if no one applauded him or even if they jeered at him. He’s generous of heart and spirit. I saw him once pick a wild rose in Wellclose Square and give it to a beggar girl. He had no money to give but there were tears in her eyes as she thanked him. He’s an ordinary sort of man when he walks alongside you in his everyday clothes, but while he sings, dances or plays his whistle or pipe, then he’s over the hills and far away.
Someone told me his songs were often those of Mr William Shakespeare, who used to write his plays around this part of London. They certainly aren’t to current taste. No The Captain and his Whiskers for Phineas. As I walked down Great Tower Hill, I could hear him singing Sigh no More, Ladies, and wondered if that meant he was still worrying about Hetty. He often dances out his love for her. He’s in his own world then, a world he would like — I fear in vain — to share with Hetty.
He caught sight of me watching him and stopped his song immediately. ‘Hey nonny, Tom Wasp,’ he cried out.
I knew by that he was still in his world of song and merely taking time off to talk to me, and quickened my step.
‘What news of Hetty?’ he asked anxiously, as I joined him.
‘She is well,’ I told him. That was true enough and much relieved, he danced a few steps. He asked me to wait while he changed into his everyday clothes at the nearby Lion tavern, with which he has an arrangement.
Clowns usually paint their smiles and whiten their faces, but they may not smile underneath, poor souls, as they try to earn pennies to eat. Fools are different and Phineas’ face is there for all to see; it’s the most changeable face I’ve ever seen, whether he’s laughing at the glories of this world or weeping for the loss of a butterfly. When he returned from the tavern he was still smiling with pleasure at the news I had given him, and off we set, at his suggestion, to his lodgings. I hesitated about telling him the terrible murder of Mr Harcourt as he walked merrily at my side, swinging his bag from which the fool’s cap’s feather peeped out.
To me, Phineas is in some respects a modern-day Richard Tarlton, whose picture hangs in Dolly’s famous coffee room opposite that of Dolly herself. In the drawing, Tarlton too has a pipe and t
abor but he was known for his jests as well as for his bawdy jigs and songs. Tarlton wanted to make the world laugh. I’m not sure what Phineas wants, but I hoped he’d find it one day.
‘I’ve bad news to tell you, Phineas,’ I finally said as we reached his lodgings.
He looked alarmed. ‘Mr Harcourt is going to wed Hetty?’
‘He is not.’
‘That’s good news,’ he said with relief, ‘not bad. Tell her …’
‘Tell her what, Phineas?’ I asked.
He smiled.‘That I will make a willow cabin at her gate.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ I said.
He’d retreated into his own world again. ‘That’s all I could offer her, apart from a blackbird to sing at dawn and a nightingale by night.’
‘She’s had a nasty shock, Phineas. She needs help.’
Instantly he was practical. ‘What help? What shock?’ he asked as we climbed the steps and entered his room.
Cockalorum purred at me benignly as we entered, perhaps because I now had his beloved master’s sanction to come inside. He even allowed me to take the rocking chair on which he had been sitting.
I took a deep breath and began. ‘Mr Harcourt is dead, Phineas — and his widow grieves.’
Apart from his trade, Phineas is no fool. He stared at me. ‘Hetty’s safe then. So Mr Harcourt was married — I knew he was a rogue. Yet for every man’s death, we should weep, Tom.’
‘There’s worse,’ I said. ‘He was murdered, Phineas, and the peelers will want to talk to you, because you’re a friend of Hetty’s.’ That was all I could say, as I had no idea why they should have fastened on Phineas — unless the connection with Slugger Joe was known to them.
Phineas looked puzzled. ‘That’s terrible news, but Hetty has many friends.’
‘Even so, the peelers may ask you where you were last night.’
He answered readily enough. ‘I was asleep.’
‘Anyone vouch for that?’
He chuckled. ‘Cockalorum.
‘Between what times were you here?’ I persevered, determined to make him realise how serious this was.
He considered this carefully. ‘I have no watch, but I heard midnight strike and remained until dawn.’
And that was as far as I could get. I was worried though, because it seemed to me that a whole sack of soot might come tumbling down when the City of London police got going — especially when they found out that Slugger Joe was in the picture. Phineas wouldn’t be worried, of course. He would be blithely sure that because he knew he was innocent, the police would believe that too. Cockalorum must have been of the same opinion because when I left he gave me a smug and supercilious look as if to say I need not come bothering them again. I hoped I wouldn’t, but Phineas might not stand a chance if Inspector Harvey had a bee in his bonnet that he was involved in Mr Harcourt’s murder.
When I reached Hairbrine Court again Ned was waiting for me with the kettle already on the coals and the sausages ready to cook, but I was still concerned. If Phineas wasn’t going to take care of his interests, then I knew I must — even if it meant treading on the toes of the City of London Police.
‘What’s wrong, guvnor?’ Ned asked, so I explained that it was possible that the City police might think Phineas wanted to kill Mr Harcourt.
He shook his head. ‘No, it was one of those crack-brained Ordinaries.’
‘You may be right about that, Ned, or maybe it was one of them hired Flint’s mob to do the job.’
Clara had said that the Ordinaries were the last to leave, and Mr Harcourt was being supported by three of them behind the other four. But that was at the Queen’s Head Passage entrance — how and why was the body in the log store outhouse? That raised some very nasty thoughts that would horrify Clara and cast an even worse shadow over Dolly’s: had one of her staff killed him? Then I realised that it could equally well be Flint’s men waiting in the dark of the yard entry to pounce on Mr Harcourt as he emerged. There was no doubt in my mind that I would have to return to Dolly’s tomorrow and not just to clean those chimneys.
Ned looked worldly-wise — as indeed he is, in most respects. ‘Flint’s mob, for sure, guvnor.’ But I heard him mutter, ‘I reckon that Boy in the alley had something to do with it.’
*
We went to fetch Doshie and the cart the next morning, bright and early. Doshie is our faithful old horse whose stable is just round the corner in Blue Anchor Yard. We have an arrangement with the tavern keeper there and Doshie seems quite happy with it.
As it was so early, Clara wasn’t about when we reached Dolly’s, but a yawning maid let us in. By now Dolly’s chimneys and I were old friends. Like Clara herself, there are no bends and slants to them. They’re straight up to the clear sky of our Lord above and so we were quickly done with our machine. Ned was quiet about his work until we cleared our cloths and soot bags into the cart and returned to the kitchen.
There, ready to light the fires for the day were the kitchen and chambermaids who were their usual welcoming selves — despite the presence of Jericho Mason, Dolly’s chief cook. Today even Jericho’s dour presence couldn’t stop the chatter about the murder and opinions on who might have been Mr Harcourt’s killer. Ned was basking in the attention he was receiving (and the fresh muffins that came with it) and relating for the umpteenth time every detail of the gory scene we’d come across yesterday. Clara’s staff were listening avidly as they had felt cheated at being refused entry to the murder scene until after all the peelers had left and the body been removed.
Jericho was the only person at Dolly’s with whom I have failed to see eye to eye, and not just because he’s over six foot tall. He makes wonderful pies and broils the best chops and steaks in London. He’s a tall, strongly-built man to say the least, with the brawniest arms I’ve ever seen. Slugger Joe would employ him immediately. He puts his heart and soul into his work, but no one dares cross him when he’s off duty.
‘Ain’t you finished yet, Wasp?’ he grumbled as I returned. ‘And what about this gridiron, eh? Expect me to cook on that, do you?’
‘That’s burnt bits of steak, Mr Mason,’ I told him amiably, ‘not soot. But I’ll clean it for you.’ I have a way with cleaning things, not just chimneys. I can often wipe a situation clean with just a few words too. For a moment I thought he’d carry on the argument, but seeing as how no soot can produce a lump half an inch thick on cooking utensils he graciously accepted my offer. He watched me with folded arms while I scrubbed and so I could tell he was weighing up what to complain about next.
I plucked up my courage. ‘Mrs Pomfret mentioned you were here last night when the Ordinaries left. Hear any set-to in the yard, did you?’
His arms slowly unfolded and the fists were clenched. I took a step or two back.
Surprisingly — and to my relief — the answering growl was a simple ‘No.’ Then after further consideration, he added, ‘You’re from the docks, aren’t you, Wasp?’
I agreed I was, as St Katharine’s and London docks are not far away from where we live.
‘Heard of a bloke called Phineas Snook?’
Not again! ‘He’s a pal of mine.’
‘Tell him to watch out.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked as lightly as I could. Was this a warning or advice? With Jericho I could never tell from his tone because it’s always threatening.
‘What?’ He stared at me oddly. Then: ‘Tell him to keep away from here.’
There was no doubt about his intention on this occasion. It was a definite threat and I shivered at the thought that there might be mysteries inside Dolly’s of which even Clara was unaware.
The kitchen was beginning to be busy. Tradesmen were hollering at the rear yard door, delivering meat and vegetables; the waiting staff were beginning to arrive through the side door that also opened into the yard. They would be as anxious as usual to get the most tips out of the breakfast business and today to hear the latest news on the murder. The two chambermaids
who lodged at Dolly’s were awaiting hot water to take up to the hotel rooms and agog to pass on any titbits of information to hotel clients.
This, I thought, would be a good time to speak to William Wright — if I could find him. Someone had killed Mr Harcourt, and it could have been one of the Tarlton Ordinaries. I couldn’t forget what Clara had said: that William had asked to serve them yesterday evening. Was that just to save Hetty from doing so, or for his own reasons? And what else might he have heard than the little she had told me? The sooner I talked to him the better, given that waiters need their tips and workers would be coming in for breakfast very shortly.
William’s a bright and polite young man of about twenty-five, the son of a smallholder out Blackheath way and eager to make good in the City. He’s slim, rather like a chimney brush: a long pole with a head of bushy dark hair. He moves like one, too — I’ve seen him swaying along with eight or more plates of chops balanced on one arm. He’s here and gone in a flash when he’s working and even now was fidgeting to get back to his work.
‘I’ve told all this to the police yesterday, Mr Wasp,’ he said plaintively. ‘I told them I was here until well past midnight and didn’t hear anything after the gentlemen had finished their caterwauling outside. Can I ask what your interest is?’
It wouldn’t do to mention Phineas, on account of William also being an admirer of Hetty, so I tried to be careful.
‘It’s this way, Mr Wright,’ I said. ‘Me having found the body the police are naturally eager to prove I murdered this man myself.’
‘Did you?’ he asked, more startled than anxious on my behalf. ‘He was an unpleasant man anyway. No one would have blamed you.’
‘Unpleasant to those he met in his line of work, or by his way of treating ladies?’
‘By gum, both!’ He flushed red. ‘I’d a mind to speak out. He was that rude about ladies when Mrs Fortescue tried to join them. And he didn’t treat Hetty well, he must have been three times her age, and treated her like she was off the streets. He was an old goat and now Mrs Pomfret says he wasn’t a widower, he was married.’
