Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins

by Amy Myers

  My head was whirling with the noise around us and my body was still aching so I was glad when the bands struck up and the return journey began. I decided not to tell Clara of these latest developments as the manuscript would be safe enough while we were on the move. As we approached the junction with Great Tower Street, I began to allow myself to relax. The worst would soon be over. I looked across at Ned but he seemed happy enough still bouncing along in his cage, while I continued to rattle the bucket for more farthings.

  It seemed quite peaceful now and it was hard to believe that there could well be at least one murderer near at hand, if not two, given that not only Slugger and his men were here but the Ordinaries too. I’d be thankful when we parted company with the City procession, although there had been no sign of Flint’s presence yet. I could see Hetty with Phineas who was now dancing at the side of her wagon — a little stiffly, owing to his injuries, but his soft melodious voice was just as sweet as ever.

  Never harm nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh …

  I felt my eyes full of tears, but they were tears of gratitude that there are such precious moments in life, despite the dangers we face.

  But danger came all too quickly. Just as I became aware that the procession had suddenly come to a halt, I heard shouts and police whistles and rattles, and saw peelers running everywhere. I looked back — and terror struck. They were by Hetty’s wagon and using their truncheons left, right and centre, trying to drag someone away. Thankfully I could see Hetty herself standing up, with Phineas at her side and his arm round her. I reached the wagon in time to see three or four stalwart peelers pulling Slugger Joe to his feet and cuffing him.

  ‘Bloody cat!’ Slugger was yelling in between sneezes. ‘I’ll hang his guts out to dry when I get to him.’

  Cockalorum, I thought thankfully, I’ll buy you a big bit of fish straight from the sea. I wished I’d been there to see the fun.

  Then I caught sight of Constable Peters who came over to me chuckling. ‘There was Slugger, thinking he’d set about Miss Pomfret when she lifts her skirts and Slugger starts sneezing his head off; then the cat leaps out and attacks him good and proper. As a result we’ve nabbed Slugger at last and two of his mates.’

  I didn’t bother to ask the constable if they’d nabbed Flint. I knew the answer would be no. I told him about William Wright though, and he said he’d take care of that rotten apple. Cockalorum, peacefully back in his cage, purred at me as I stroked him. ‘You,’ I told him, ‘are truly of the tribe of Tiger.’ Which reminded me that I had to break the news to Phineas that the manuscript of the Jubilate Agno was very probably stolen property. I wouldn’t tell him today though and spoil his happiness.

  ‘These Ordinaries, Mr Wasp,’ said the constable. ‘Now we’ve got Slugger, we need the bigger game. It has to be one of them hired Flint — and if it’s not Splendour, which of them is it?’

  ‘Let’s have a word with them, Mr Wasp,’ the constable continued, ‘and then I’ll deal with Wright.’ I followed him to the Ordinaries’ wagon, where I had a private word with Mr Chalcot (who looked most engaging in his fool’s cap) to assure him that the Seven Deadly Sins was safe. I was hoping it would remain safe too.

  The wagon was laden with the seven gentlemen dressed up with fool’s caps, one still playing his tabor, and with Mrs Harcourt who sat there as a grim black presence amongst them as if to remind them she was still waiting for her missing play — and perhaps her husband’s murderer, too. If only she had known that the manuscript was a matter of fifty yards from her — or that she would never own it. And nor would the gentlemen with her, two of whom had done so much to persuade the world outside their small gathering that the manuscript was valueless.

  ‘Pardon me for interrupting, ma’am, gentlemen,’ the constable said to them, ‘but an attack’s been made on a young lady which we’ve reason to believe is connected to the murder of Mrs Fortescue, and that might cast doubt on Mr Splendour’s arrest.’

  ‘I fail to see why,’ Mrs Harcourt immediately sniffed. ‘I witnessed someone who was undoubtedly Mr Splendour in the shop with her.’

  ‘Could have been an early customer,’ the constable said firmly. ‘Any of you gentlemen remember being there early that morning and seeing anything amiss?’ he asked. I could see a gleam in his eye that suggested he had something in mind.

  Mr Timpson, fool’s hat nodding vigorously, could not assist us. ‘I arrived at my office at eight o’clock precisely, and cannot recall seeing anything unusual. Splendour’s door was open and there was no sign of anyone inside when I passed it.’

  Mr Manley too had seen nothing unusual. ‘I returned to my office about a quarter past seven — I find an early stroll inspires me in my work — and saw no one enter or leave Mr Splendour’s store as I passed by.’

  The constable turned to Mrs Harcourt. ‘You witnessed the gentleman inside the store, whom you believed to be Mr Splendour, and I understand you did not see him leave.’

  ‘You are correct,’ she agreed. ‘It was surely Mr Splendour who killed that poor woman, having come down from his rooms, ready with his strop. He then opened the door to make it appear that some ruffian had killed her and run away. But it was he who killed her. A case of blackmail, constable.’

  ‘But which of them was the blackmailer?’ the constable enquired.

  At that interesting moment Inspector Harvey joined us, together with Inspector Wiley, and after some whispering they all began to move towards the sweeps’ procession, leaving Constable Peters’ question unanswered. Inspector Harvey beckoned me to join them and I felt most honoured to be amongst them, though this was not entirely to Inspector Wiley’s pleasure.

  ‘You buzzing round again, Wasp?’

  I agreed that I was, and he seemed satisfied with that. Constable Peters’ point about blackmail was a most interesting one. Was Mr Splendour the blackmailer of Mrs Fortescue, because he knew she had arranged Mr Harcourt’s death with Flint in revenge for his treatment of her, or was Mrs Fortescue the blackmailer of Mr Splendour, because he had hired Flint to kill Mr Harcourt for the sake of the Tarlton manuscript? I didn’t have time to answer these questions for myself because Inspector Harvey spoke to me.

  ‘I hear you’re not happy about Splendour, Mr Wasp.’

  ‘No, sir. If he were guilty he’d have found that missing manuscript. And he hasn’t.’

  ‘The Old Bailey won’t see it that way.’

  ‘Then the law is an ass,’ I said, unwisely.

  ‘Wasp!’ thundered Inspector Wiley, delighted to have the opportunity to roar at me.

  ‘It’s a quotation from Mr Dickens,’ I said meekly, and at that magic name Inspector Wiley was silenced — especially as Inspector Harvey took this up. He even smiled.

  ‘Mr Bumble,’ he contributed. ‘My own choice of quotation would be, “The tongues of dying men / Enforce attention like deep harmony.” Shakespeare’s Richard II. In other words, Mr Harcourt and Mrs Fortescue are speaking to us, Mr Wasp, but we can’t hear them.’

  He looked at me meditatively but I decided to leave literature to look after itself for a while, although I thought I remembered seeing a few of those words in the Seven Deadly Sins manuscript, which at least showed Mr Shakespeare had read it.

  ‘This Slugger Joe of yours, constable,’ the inspector continued. ‘Will he squeal?’

  ‘About Flint? It’s possible.’

  ‘About who hired him — Splendour or someone else. Or it could have been two of them in it together — or more.’

  Here we go again, I thought, depressing even myself. It was like the old chant, ‘There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza’. Back we came to where we started. And yet … was I sure of that? What were Mr Harcourt and Mrs Fortescue trying to tell us? Were two Ordinaries working together as Inspector Harvey suggested? One Ordinary hires Flint to seize the manuscript by fair means or foul, the other hides at the gateway to Dolly’s yard waiting for an opportunity to pounce on Harcourt? Why then shou
ld Mrs Fortescue have been murdered?

  Because, I reasoned, growing excited by this theory, she had been one of the parties concerned. Perhaps she grew too greedy, especially when the Tarlton manuscript failed to appear. Perhaps she threatened to split on her accomplice?

  Inspector Harvey’s theory must have appealed to Constable Peters as well, because he too jumped at it. ‘It’s an idea, sir.’

  ‘Mrs Fortescue may have had a finger in the pie,’ I pointed out, ‘because she insisted on being escorted home.’

  ‘Who asked you to shove your nose in?’ Inspector Wiley demanded.

  Inspector Harvey ignored this. ‘A good point, Wasp. But who was her partner or partners?’

  Odd the way ideas come to you out of the blue. How do they fly there? How do they decide whether to stay or pass on? This one came to me through one word, ‘harmony’, a word Inspector Harvey had just used, and which I now remembered Mr Chalcot had also once used. More importantly, I remembered exactly what he’d said. The word wedged itself in my mind, and then another insidiously crept in: voice. There was no time to lose.

  ‘Ask that wagon leaving for the City to stop, sir. There may be a few questions to ask.’

  It’s surprising that they took any notice of my dramatic order, but they did.

  ‘Of whom?’ Inspector Peters threw at me as Inspector Harvey hesitated, then detailed one of his men to halt it and we began to pushing our way back to the City Sweeps’ wagons.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Harcourt.’

  XVII

  The Brush at the Top of the Chimney

  As we pushed through the crowds, it took only a few minutes to persuade Inspector Harvey that I wasn’t talking out of my old topper and Constable Peters was quickly thinking it through for himself. Inspector Wiley, panting at our side, chimed in with: ‘There’s no evidence against Mrs Harcourt. It’s just Wasp buzzing around confusing folk like he always does.’

  Even he grudgingly listened though, as we reached a less crowded spot, and it didn’t take long for me to work out what must have happened. Inspector Harvey’s men were already stopping the City procession wagons from moving off.

  ‘It’s my belief Mrs Harcourt and Mrs Fortescue weren’t enemies, not at first, anyway,’ I said, remembering that Mr Chalcot had spoken of earlier harmony between them. ‘They both wanted the same thing,’ I continued, ‘Mr Harcourt’s death. Mrs Fortescue out of revenge for his cruelty to her, Mrs Harcourt for much the same reason, plus she wanted that valuable Tarlton play he’d told her was coming, as well as the rest of his property. One of the ladies had the idea of hiring Flint — and they agreed the Tarlton evening at Dolly’s would be a suitable opportunity for their plan to be put into action.’

  ‘Any evidence for Flint’s involvement?’ Inspector Harvey threw at me. We were drawing close to the City wagons now and I tried to think quickly.

  ‘Why else would Slugger and Lairy John be linked into this Tarlton playscript business?’ I asked. ‘They’re unlikely to risk working on their own.’

  ‘Go on,’ the inspector said approvingly.

  Thus encouraged, I did so. ‘Mrs Harcourt had arranged with her husband, probably at her insistence, that she should travel up early on the Thursday morning to look at this great Tarlton find, thus avoiding suspicion herself, and Mrs Fortescue would have arranged for her maid to witness she had no opportunity to kill him either. But then the Tarlton play vanished and so did harmony. Flint would have wasted no time in letting the ladies know it was missing after Slugger’s failed visit to the bookstore. Mrs Harcourt thought Mrs Fortescue had it and Mrs Fortescue was quite sure Mrs Harcourt had nabbed it for herself, although they must have agreed that they should both have an earning from it. When Mrs Harcourt denied having it, Mrs Fortescue could have tried a spot of blackmail on her, threatening to reveal her part in the story. Perhaps, also, it was Mrs Harcourt who arranged Flint’s services, which would have given Mrs Fortescue another handle for blackmailing her.’

  ‘Are you suggesting Mrs Harcourt arranged to murder Mrs Fortescue, as well as her husband, through Flint?’ Inspector Harvey frowned.

  ‘Possibly,’ I said, perhaps wisely in the circumstances, as I hadn’t thought this through. I quickly tried to do so. ‘But more likely Mrs Harcourt strangled Mrs Fortescue herself. Mrs Harcourt’s a strong woman, and taken by surprise from behind, Mrs Fortescue couldn’t have protected herself in time.’

  The inspector wasn’t convinced. ‘And the razor strop? Splendour had a new one.’

  ‘Quite innocently,’ I pointed out. ‘But hanging strops are popular and Mrs Harcourt wouldn’t yet have cleared out her husband’s belongings.’

  A nod from the inspector. ‘We’ll check with the servants. They may recognise it. We’ll ask her to come in for questioning.’

  It wasn’t much for the police to go on — not that Inspector Wiley was eager to go anywhere where I was concerned — and I thought I should go with them all to the wagon, reluctant though I was. There’s a difference between working something out in your head and challenging someone face to face, no matter how much they deserve it. And I believed that Mrs Harcourt did.

  I stood back with Inspector Wiley and Constable Peters as Inspector Harvey and his men approached the wagon where she and the Ordinaries were sitting, no doubt wondering what the delay was for. There was much screeching and shouting when Mrs Harcourt was told the reason for it, and I was glad Clara wasn’t there. She must have gone to speak to Hetty.

  ‘I,’ Mrs Harcourt cried, ‘come with you to a police station? To answer questions about my husband’s death?’

  She’d made a mistake straight away and the Inspector saw it, too. ‘About the murder of Mrs Fortescue, ma’am, first.’

  I almost felt sorry for the Ordinaries, they looked so shocked. Mr Chalcot looked so bewildered that I began to wonder if I’d make a mistake. After all, it was he who had put it into my mind by his talk of harmony in connection with the two ladies — and perhaps too with his reference to the voice of the Lord God in the garden. I tried hard to think straight … Had he been thinking of Mrs Harcourt and Mrs Fortescue in the churchyard garden? I must ask him, now. But I was forestalled. Mrs Harcourt was on her feet, but with no intention of leaving the wagon.

  ‘That Fortescue woman?’ she cried dismissively in answer to Inspector Harvey. ‘I thought you meant my husband. Mr Splendour killed her. We all know that.’

  ‘If you’ll come with us, ma’am,’ the inspector said patiently as she showed no signs of moving.

  ‘I shall not. You cannot prove I have any connection with her death or my husband’s.’

  Inspector Harvey nodded to his two constables to let down the wagon board for her to descend. I thought at first she would not move but she rose to her feet looking round at us all. Something must have changed her mind, because instead of climbing down from the wagon she burst out with:

  ‘Look at that wagon back there. Queen of the May indeed! Miss Pomfret is a common slut. I said to Arnold: you and that Tarlton. He was nothing more than a lecher in pantaloons and so are you. Those blasted Tarlton jests. I must have heard them all a hundred times. There he’d sit, chuckling away, when he deigned to come to see me, either ranting about Tarlton’s pretty wenches or his own. And then he’d crown it with his favourite dose of spite. “You recall, my dear,” he’d say, “the jest about how Tarlton would have drowned his wife. Such a humorous story of a ship’s captain who ordered every man aboard to throw into the sea the heaviest thing he had with him to lighten the ship before the storm. And you know what Tarlton did, my dear?” Arnold thought this so amusing. He’d cackle, “He threw his wife overboard and when asked why he did so, he replied that I was the heaviest thing he had and could best be spared.” Well, you’re not jesting anymore, are you, Arnold dear?’ Mrs Harcourt screeched.

  I thought I glimpsed one or two of the Ordinaries also thinking this a most amusing story, but most looked as shocked as I was. Harcourt had reduced his wife to th
is: a ranting harpy spitting venom, and one whom I might have pitied if it hadn’t been for my belief that she took not only his life, but Mrs Fortescue’s.

  Mrs Harcourt descended the wagon and departed with the City of London Police without further outburst. Inspector Wiley managed to have the last word.

  ‘What about Flint? You’re so clever, Wasp. Who is he?’

  I could give no answer to this and Inspector Wiley smirked in triumph. I was intent on having a word with Mr Chalcot though. I had to get to the bottom of what he’d meant by harmony and that reference to the voice of the Lord God. Fortunately, the other Ordinaries were busily discussing Mrs Harcourt’s outburst, and I could speak to Mr Chalcot quite privately.

  ‘Mrs Harcourt and Mrs Fortescue in harmony?’ he asked, taken aback.

  ‘And you mentioned too the voice of the Lord God in the garden.’

  He still looked blank and I waited on tenterhooks. And then at last the familiar beam.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I did see them talking and walking apparently amicably a few days before the terrible business of Mr Harcourt’s murder. I thought nothing of it, given that it seemed of little relevance to the violent death of Mr Harcourt, and where they were.’

  I pricked up my ears at this. ‘Where was that, sir, if I might ask?’

  ‘They were attending a Biblical meeting.’

  ‘In St Paul’s?’

  ‘The Chapter House by the churchyard. They were escorted by a gentleman, of course.’

  ‘Mr Harcourt?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Indeed not. It was the gentleman who sells Biblical tracts in the churchyard. A most obliging person.’

  I paled. The one who ordered me not to tread the sinner’s way?

  ‘One of the pallbearers at the funeral?’

  Mr Chalcot beamed. ‘Yes indeed. He spoke to me of the dangers of the seven deadly sins.’