by Amy Myers
‘Yes,’ she said miserably. ‘I told Mr Harcourt that Phineas had it and Mr Harcourt went to see him to tell him he might like to buy it. Phineas took the manuscript to him on the afternoon of the day he died. That’s why Phineas came to the Row. He doesn’t know it was me who told Mr Harcourt about it.’
I had to try even harder to pretend this was of little importance because Hetty was looking so upset. ‘Don’t worry, Hetty. It’s good news for Phineas. From what you told me, he had no reason to want to kill Mr Harcourt, did he?’
She looked up hopefully. ‘No.’
I held my breath. ‘Did Phineas say who had given it to him?’ Could it possibly be Lairy or Slugger? I couldn’t see how — but then I couldn’t see any other explanation.
‘His father, I think.’
My face must have looked as startled as a mole in the sunlight. ‘Phineas owned it?’ It seemed to me very unlikely that Phineas’ father would be a collector of old scripts.
Hetty nodded happily, unaware what a shock she’d presented. ‘Yes. Mr Harcourt told Phineas that he would pay him some money for it when Phineas brought it to him and more after he had sold it to one of his customers. That would mean we could then get married.’ She blushed.
I began to see why Phineas had asked me to warn Clara about Mr Harcourt’s conduct. Expecting Mr Harcourt to pay him immediately, he would naturally be reluctant to reproach him that same day for his behaviour to Hetty and risk not receiving the money. Then a happier thought came to me. If Phineas owned the Tarlton play, didn’t that mean that he was merely stealing his own property back?
My hopes were doomed. ‘Only Mr Harcourt didn’t pay him any money. He said he’d have to wait,’ Hetty blithely continued.
Which gave Phineas a reason to want his script back — a request which Harcourt would have refused. What might have been good news for Phineas now looked bleak — and doubtless the City of London police would agree. They would see it as a motive for his murdering Mr Harcourt.
I did my best to reassure Hetty, however, and to thank her for telling me all this.
‘Will it help Phineas?’ she asked dolefully.
‘It might well do so,’ I said, although I secretly thought that it might well do the opposite. Then I saw a gleam of light at the top of the chimney. ‘What would help even more, Hetty,’ I continued, ‘would be for you to persuade Jericho and William to tell the truth about their encounter with Phineas that Wednesday. Their stories are quite different to Phineas’s.’
Hetty looked happier. ‘I can do that easily. Let’s go now, together. Come with me, Mr Wasp.’
She leapt up and hurried down the stairs with Clara and me following in her wake. It took her but a moment or two (with me out of sight) for her to bring Jericho and William to join us in Clara’s greeting office.
They were both so concerned with not ceding victory to their rival in the race for Hetty’s favours that they made no objection to my presence. Jericho sat with folded arms as William glared at him.
‘A most unfortunate thing has occurred,’ Hetty began demurely, her hands clasped in her lap and looking very proper.
‘What’s that, Miss Hetty?’ Jericho asked, looking ready to leap on the nearest charger to ride off to save his lady fair. Almost simultaneously William followed suit in his readiness to assist.
‘It is most distressing but Mr Snook’s version of what happened between you last Wednesday afternoon is very different from yours.’ Hetty dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Of course it would be, Hetty,’ William explained. ‘He would hardly admit that he attacked us both so viciously.’
Jericho seemed less certain of this approach, perhaps wisely, because Hetty gazed at William in admiration but said, ‘Suppose you are wrong, Mr Wright. I could not tolerate poor Mr Snook’s death either being due to me or to anyone I might be fortunate enough to marry. I do realise it takes a brave man to admit he has been mistaken.’
William took her point immediately and once she had turned her eyes on Jericho he saw it too. He glared at us all, even Hetty, but especially me.
‘Tell him, Will,’ he growled, and reluctantly William obeyed.
‘We didn’t like the way he was presuming with you, Hetty. We thought he was pestering you and that had to be stopped,’ he explained earnestly. ‘We saw him coming through the Passage entry, so I went to tell him to come round the back because you’d like a word with him. But it was us who wanted the words.’
‘And none of these words had punches accompanying them?’ I asked.
‘Just a push,’ William muttered.
There was a silence, but by the time I departed it had been agreed that this new version of events should be passed on to Constable Peters, who would know what to do next.
I left Dolly’s downcast, however. Getting Phineas released would take more than the change to Jericho’s and William’s account of what had happened, as the shadow of the new information about Tarlton’s play would overlay it. Phineas was undoubtedly part of that story, but how big a part wasn’t clear. For a start it could rule out both Lairy John’s and Flint’s roles in it. What was worse was that it would prove a weighty weapon at Phineas’ trial.
To have murdered Mr Harcourt either in Dolly’s yard or so close to it that the body could have been dragged in, Phineas would have had to remain in the area for some hours after Hetty had seen him in Panyer Alley late that afternoon. That would have been possible, had I not believed his story that he was at home alone. He must have known that the Ordinaries would be meeting at Dolly’s that evening, but I’d heard of no evidence that he’d been seen during that time.
What was clear was that I had to find out more about that manuscript. Mrs Fortescue said she had left the bookstore before Mr Harcourt received it; she might not be telling the truth about that but it had certainly arrived according to Hetty’s account, so where was it now? I contemplated this interesting matter as I walked along the Row to Mr Splendour’s bookstore, hoping to find Mrs Fortescue alone. I was beginning to feel at home in the Row now, with coming here so frequently and getting to know all these people.
Both Mrs Fortescue and Mr Splendour were in his shop when I arrived, however, and she looked at me suspiciously when I said I had come with news of Mr Phineas Snook. Mr Splendour, in contrast, seemed pleased when I told them solemnly and not altogether truthfully that Phineas could be released very soon.
‘That is good news indeed for his friends,’ Mr Splendour answered warmly, ‘I have always been of the opinion that Harcourt was set upon by one of the fences he traded with.’
Mrs Fortescue looked at him indignantly. ‘It may be that on rare occasions Mr Harcourt was tempted to deal with such villains but it was hardly his usual practice. It is true that Mr Harcourt did acquire at an advantageous price what he described as a job lot from the respectable Spitalfields dealer I mentioned earlier. It included the Jubilate Agno, which the dealer considered of little interest. Mr Harcourt thought otherwise.’
Mr Splendour had been considering Mrs Fortescue’s words. ‘Most interesting. This surely suggests that this dealer — fence or not — might also have been the source of the Seven Deadly Sins manuscript; he had told us of its imminent arrival some days before our meeting that night. As you must know, Mr Wasp, in our trade we frequently have offers from questionable sources.’
I did not comment — or mention that both manuscripts were the property of Phineas Snook. What interested me was that the Ordinaries would have had plenty of time to hire Flint’s services, whether the Tarlton play belonged to Phineas or had been acquired through Lairy John. Why was it suddenly so important for Slugger to steal it back so promptly after the murder? Or was that just because Phineas had not been paid? Something was still very smoky here.
I decided on a touch of humility. ‘These are deep waters, sir. And I’m glad that folk like yourselves are aware of them.’
‘We have to be in our trade, Mr Wasp.’ Mr Splendour shook his head gravel
y. ‘This Phineas Snook is part of a gang as well as — if I understand correctly — being smitten by Miss Pomfret’s charms.’
‘That hussy. Poor Mr Harcourt was deluded by her too.’ Mrs Fortescue sniffed. ‘I pitied his poor wife.’
Neither I nor Mr Splendour commented on her sudden concern for Mrs Harcourt’s feelings. Instead he continued, ‘If the Tarlton manuscript was delivered as Mr Harcourt claimed on the afternoon of his tragic death, and Mrs Harcourt wishes to sell, you may be sure that we would deal only with a manuscript whose origins and ownership are clear.’
Mrs Fortescue did not look impressed by this virtuous statement.
‘And, Mr Wasp, if you should happen to hear of its whereabouts,’ Mr Splendour continued, ‘we can of course advise you as to the best course. The problem for us honest brokers is that we don’t always recognise dishonesty amongst our own circle. Of course I usually trust my fellow Ordinaries completely,’ he explained blandly, ‘but if that faith were misplaced, as I fear it may have been, one of them might have carried out that vile murder, reluctant though I am to consider such a thing.’
This shook me, and a thought scuttled across my mind like a cockroach. I knew little of these gentlemen beyond their polite exteriors, and yet the Ordinaries were beginning to fight amongst themselves. I had not yet recognised Flint’s voice amongst them, but I recognised his shadow.
*
As I walked back to Hairbrine Court, I looked down on the majestic Tower and thought of how often I’d seen Phineas dancing on Great Tower Hill. He would be up for trial very soon and if convicted, would shortly be hanged. Instead of inching to the end of this sorry matter, I felt as if I was walking round and round an impenetrable tower just like this great fortress, that resisted every attempt at entrance.
I reasoned that even if Phineas hadn’t been paid by Mr Harcourt for the manuscript, he would have had every expectation of receiving the money at some point. He wouldn’t just go out and murder Mr Harcourt — although he might, I conceded with sinking heart, have thought he could reclaim it after he knew Mr Harcourt was dead. I was sure that wouldn’t have occurred to Phineas himself, but Slugger could well have threatened Phineas into coming with him to break into the bookstore. I was also sure that Phineas wasn’t capable of organising a cracksman’s job himself and so he must have had Slugger Joe with him. It was far more likely that Slugger insisted on his presence as Slugger wouldn’t know an Elizabethan manuscript from a pile of Enoch’s old newspapers.
Whichever way I turned, however, the puzzle of why Slugger was still looking for the manuscript remained, and if Flint had been hired, was that primarily for Mr Harcourt’s murder or for the manuscript? I could not decide. Our minds produce their own phantasmagoria when the light grows dim.
*
It was dark by the time I reached home, the time when danger begins to lurk in the unlit corners of the Ratcliffe Highway. As the highway is near the docks, footpads and other villains are there in plenty to prey on matelots from all nations as they lurch along it. As a sweep I walk in comparative safety — what riches would I have to steal? My riches lie in Ned and our home, but tonight they too had been threatened.
I found Ned crying on the stairs leading up to our door. I’ve only seen him sobbing aloud once in the years he’s been with me and that was over the death of Jack, the linnet he had before Kwan-yin. I sat down on the stairs next to him and waited for him to tell me what was wrong.
‘He’s gone, guvnor.’
‘Who?’ I asked in alarm.
‘Cockalorum.’
Phineas’ words shot back at me. Look after the cat. I’d taken his words to heart, but now I’d failed him.
‘He’ll be back, Ned. Just out for a stroll,’ I said, thinking to comfort him. ‘He’ll be back.’
He lifted a woebegone face to me. ‘They took him. Slugger and another man. They threw Cockalorum in a sack and tied it up to drown him.’
There are times in life when you feel sick to the stomach. There’s enough trouble in this world without the likes of Slugger creating it when it isn’t necessary. ‘Did they threaten you, lad?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me the truth, Ned.’
He squirmed sheepishly. ‘They said they’d be back for me if they didn’t get what they wanted.’
‘And what was that?’ I asked sharply.
‘Dunno, guvnor.’
I heaved myself upright and went up to our rooms, bracing myself to face what I might find. I surveyed what they’d left of our home. No neat pile for us. The wreckage was everywhere, turned over, upside down, smashed and torn. Ned’s birdcage was upright but Kwan-yin had gone. He loved that bird just as he loved Cockalorum. Cockalorum seemed to have had a lot of respect for Kwan-yin too.
But then I saw her and for that at least I rejoiced. She was perched outside on the window ledge. I opened the window and brought her in and Ned looked just a little bit happier.
‘They didn’t find the sixpenny box though.’ Ned’s voice was wobbly.
‘What about Phineas’ cat book?’ I asked, not seeing it anywhere.
‘Didn’t get that either. I’d already moved it and put it in my pillow.’
That was fine thinking on Ned’s part. His pillow is made from an old soot bag with a sprinkling of soot still in it and he never lets me near it to clean it — so it was clever of Ned to think of putting it there. If the Jubilate Agno had already suffered from Ned’s using it as a pillow, it might as well stay where it was.
‘Keep it in there, Ned. They may be back.’
He considered this. ‘I don’t think so. They think they’ve done a thorough job. Amateurs,’ he added scathingly. His lips were trembling though.
I had an idea. ‘Suppose we get that poetry out of your pillow, Ned, and read some lines as a sort of prayer for Cockalorum.’
Ned bit his lip and I could see he was trying not to cry again. ‘All right, guvnor.’
And so we did, once we’d put the rooms to right and mended what we could. Then Ned fished the Jubilate out. He’d wrapped it snugly in one of Enoch’s old broadsheets and given it a clean bag of its own so the soot wouldn’t get at it. He took it out of its bag, gave it a good blow, then took off the newspaper and found the right two pages in the folder for the lines about my cat Jeoffry. Then I read some of them aloud (with a little adjustment of my own):
For I will consider my Cat Cockalorum
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him …
I was feeling tearful myself by the time I reached
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary …
For he purrs in thankfulness when God tells him he is a good Cat.
‘Cockalorum was a good cat, Ned,’ I said as I finished.
‘They’ll pay for this, guvnor,’ was his reply.
‘We’ll make sure of that, Ned.’ What had happened here made my mind up. ‘I’ll get Phineas free and then we’ll smash them.’
‘Soon?’
I made a promise to him and myself. ‘It’ll all be done by the time you’re Jack-in-the-Green, Ned.’
The first of May. Nine days away. It wasn’t long.
*
There had to be an end to this, and I set off on Saturday morning to discuss it with Clara. I took Ned with me after our chimney sweeping was done, so that he wouldn’t have a go at Slugger Joe or Lairy John himself.
When we reached the Row though, there was a rumpus afoot. I could see the Row was blocked further along, with what looked like every bookseller and tradesman in the City of London. I sent Ned to Dolly’s in the hope that Clara would settle him with a pie and hurried up to see what this was all about. As I drew nearer, I could see peelers and a Black Maria.
A sweep can always manage to work his way through a crowd as his smell goes before him and the crowd parts like the Red Sea for Moses. I easily worked my way through and saw that the peelers were standing outside Mr Splendour’s shop.
What’s all this about? I wondered fearfully. Another cracksman had a go? No, all these people wouldn’t be gathered just for that.
Once at the front of the crowd I could see Constable Peters through the window of Mr Splendour’s shop. He was with Inspector Harvey, whom I remembered from the start of this case, and they were talking most earnestly.
‘I’ve business in there,’ I said to the guardian of the door, making it sound important.
‘Not today, you haven’t,’ was the answer. ‘No sweeps needed. There’s a stiff in there. Murdered. Blood everywhere.’
‘Mr Splendour?’ I asked in horror, but without reply.
Constable Peters saw me while the peeler was still intent on stopping me, and so I managed to get inside the doorway. There were police everywhere, but no blood that I could see. No Mr Splendour though, which looked ominous. Then I saw two legs jutting out from behind the counter, and nerved myself to go further in. It was a grisly sight, and there was no sign of life.
Mrs Fortescue was undoubtedly dead.
XI
Stories of Yore
‘Mr Wasp!’ Constable Peters came to join me. I’d feared that with the City of London Police present I would quickly be shown the door, but the constable’s presence here ensured that I could stay. Mrs Fortescue lay there on her side, her tongue bulging out between purple lips, and grooves in the angry red neck, where a leather razor strop that had been used to strangle her had bitten deeply. The strop was lying at her side and her eyes were staring out as if demanding to know why this was happening to her. Grotesquely, her hat remained pinned to her hair, squashed by the fall of her body. He has a tender heart, does Constable Peters, and seeing that poor woman must have been hard for him, as it was for me.
‘You were acquainted with the lady, weren’t you?’ he asked me.
‘I was.’ I thought of the unfortunate encounters I had with her and put their memory aside. ‘Is Mr Splendour here?’ I asked.
‘Upstairs. He’s suffering from the shock. He came down at his usual time of eight o’clock and found the door to the street open and Mrs Fortescue dead. It looks as if when she arrived this morning someone followed her into the shop, thinking to rob the money till or perhaps snatch her purse. She resisted and she’s dead as a result.’ Constable Peters was looking at me hard as though he wasn’t at all sure that was what had happened.
