Against the Light

by Marjorie Eccles

  He pounded on the door of number three, whose grimy windows looked a little cleaner than some of the others, if not by much, and waited.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ said Watts. When they had come through the passage, there had been no one about, not even the usual gang of rowdy children. It was understandable. Even the unchoosy urchins who inhabited these tenements wouldn’t want to hang around on this patch, a yard, enclosed on four sides. If it had ever had the benefit of cobbles, which was doubtful, decades of stamped down rubbish had buried them. It was now just a filthy black scum of trodden earth. Thank God it wasn’t raining. Then, it must be nothing more than a sea of mud that stuck to the boot soles and got trampled into the houses. Not that such concerns would bother most of the occupants, not a few of whom had miraculously appeared and were now hanging around, women in doorways with their arms folded and men standing about in various exaggeratedly non-menacing attitudes, all of them eyeing them covertly. Having been despatched here while Gaines attended to business elsewhere, Inskip was glad he’d picked Watts to accompany him. A strapping lad like him would make catsmeat of any of them stupid enough to try anything on. He thumped the door again, louder. And this time it was answered.

  ‘Maureen.’

  ‘Well? What do you want?’ The blowsy barmaid from the Nag wasn’t pleased to see him, but he hadn’t expected she would be. ‘Can we have a word?’

  ‘It’s not convenient.’ She made a half-hearted attempt to push the door shut, but he had his foot there.

  ‘Where is he, Maureen?’ She looked past his shoulder and saw the square full of onlookers, and as Inskip showed no sign of moving, after a moment she decided to step aside, but not before she’d screeched out to the audience, ‘Seen enough, have you, so?’ Watts followed the two of them inside. She banged the door shut and faced Inskip, arms akimbo.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked again.

  ‘If you mean my husband, he’s still in his bed, where he’s been for the last six weeks, and I’d ask you to have the decency not to disturb him, poor soul.’

  ‘I’m not talking about your husband, I’m talking about O’Rourke.’

  ‘And which O’Rourke would that be? I know at least half a dozen that go by the name, and none of them are here, so you can sling your hooks, both of you.’

  ‘I’m talking about Danny O’Rourke, Maureen. Him that used to go with Cathleen Hennessy, remember?’

  ‘And what makes you think he’s here? You’ve got no cause to go disturbing innocent folks, looking for the likes of that one.’ She was full of righteous indignation, which didn’t fool either of them.

  ‘Come on, Maureen. We’re not going until we’ve had a look round.’

  ‘Go on, then, look. If nothing else will satisfy you, look around all you want. You won’t find him. But don’t you go bothering Michael.’ For the first time she looked anxious.

  ‘We’ll have to take a look in his room, but we won’t disturb him.’

  There were few places to hide in that barely furnished house – and nor did they find anything, after searching from attic to cellar, even in the sick Michael Maguire’s bedroom, after a hasty apology to its occupant. Nothing except, in the attic, an old iron bedstead, an orange crate and a vile, acrid smell that made Inskip gag, which Watts cheerfully ascribed to rats. Maureen said yes, they did occasionally take in a lodger but she had enough to do now, looking after Michael, without that.

  So Mona Reagan had given him false information – or been mistaken, which Inskip preferred to believe. He’d had a message from Corrigan at the Nag that she had something to tell him and to meet her in the same place as before. He had done as she asked, and when they met, found she’d had a change of heart after all. She had at last admitted she might have an idea where he might find O’Rourke. ‘But you must promise me you won’t get the people there into trouble,’ she’d insisted before she would say a word.

  ‘I can’t promise that, if they’ve been hiding him.’

  Then she wasn’t going to tell. But in the end, she did.

  ‘Maureen Maguire’s my sister – the woman who works at the Nag, you know? She’s not a widow but she soon will be – her husband’s dying of the consumption in the front room and nothing to be done about it. Nothing coming in, either, so she was glad of it when Michael Corrigan gave her that job. She’s hopeless, to tell the truth, but she does her best. Her house isn’t big enough to swing a cat, but she has to take in the occasional lodger in the attic to make ends meet.’ She gave him a steady look. ‘If you understand me.’

  ‘O’Rourke’s the lodger now?’

  She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, either. ‘I hope I’m not going to live to regret this, but anything that’ll help you to get that swine.’ Again, he wondered what had caused her to hate O’Rourke so much she was prepared to sacrifice her sister. ‘As long as you don’t tell Maureen it was me who told you, sure she’d murder me. She’s doing it for the money, that’s all, so I can’t blame her. But you just promise she won’t get into trouble – I won’t be here to help her, I’m leaving, going back home. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say.’ Enough of what? he wondered. ‘Though I don’t suppose much more than a warning will happen to her, if she swears she didn’t know he was wanted.’ He hoped that wasn’t wishful thinking on his part.

  ‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure she does know what it is he’s done, though anybody else but Mo might have a good idea, the daft spalpeen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  He didn’t expect an answer to that one, but she said, ‘Well, I’ve told you now. You never know, it might drive some sense into her thick noddle.’ She laughed shortly. ‘Just listen to me, the pot calling the kettle black!’

  ‘I have to thank you, Mona, for this. But before you go, tell me … what do you know about Lennie Croxton?’

  ‘Oh, him!’ she said, curling her lip. Then, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘But he and O’Rourke – they were in something together?’

  He had tried her too far, he saw. She looked scared. ‘I’m sorry he’s dead – Lennie. But he is now and nothing to be done about it. He was up to his neck in it over in Ireland, you know, and doing things he’d no right to do over here, and … no, I can’t say anything else.’

  After that, he hadn’t pushed her further. After all, she’d been brave to go as far as she had, even though they hadn’t found O’Rourke.

  Mona had hoped they would, and that searching her sister’s house would make Maureen Maguire see sense, but he doubted much would do that. Unlike her sister, Maureen was not, as Mona had intimated, very bright. More than that, she was a slattern. If O’Rourke had been holing up here, he must have been glad to depart. On the other hand, she was devotedly doing her best to look after a husband who patently wouldn’t see out another winter.

  He was disappointed not to have found O’Rourke in Jubilee Court, but he would have been more surprised if they had. Too much to expect. Too easy. Maybe he had been here when Mona had spoken to him, but these people operated their own network and O’Rourke was most likely moving from house to house, not staying long in any one of them. If he was still hanging around London, there must be a compelling reason, but he couldn’t hope to escape detection for ever. With the resources of the Special Branch behind them, they would find him, sooner or later.

  While Inskip was holding his nose at the odours of Jubilee Court, Gaines was interviewing Violet Martens in her lavender-scented sitting room.

  ‘Rather you than me, sir,’ Inskip had said, rolling his eyes after they had discussed the hypothesis Gaines had put forward and Gaines had announced his intention of seeing Mrs Martens. ‘And the best of luck,’ he added with a grin.

  So now the inspector was left alone with her after the reluctant departure of the sour-faced Newcombe, who had been with her when he was shown in. He sat facing her, his solid frame on an upright cha
ir, his feet planted squarely on the ground. That she didn’t welcome his presence or the prospect of conversation with him was more than obvious, but at least she was being coolly polite.

  She was looking better than when he had last seen her. Recent events in this household must have taken their toll, but it didn’t show. She was wearing black, because of her brother, of course, from head to toe, but in no way did it resemble the deep mourning it was meant to be. Her dress was fashionably cut to show off her slim figure and no other colour but black could have enhanced her dazzling complexion to such an extent. She was wearing no jewellery, except for a shiny jet mourning brooch at the throat of her high-collared dress, and more jet in her ears.

  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t had the opportunity to speak since your brother died, Mrs Martens,’ he began.

  She raised delicately drawn eyebrows. ‘I would hardly have thought that was necessary. I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you there.’

  ‘May I offer my condolences?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head in acknowledgement and smiled the closed, tucked-in smile that never seemed to be really amused. ‘It’s all been very unfortunate.’

  ‘Indeed. I’m afraid your family’s had a series of unfortunate happenings lately.’ If she noticed the irony, she didn’t show it.

  ‘That’s true, Inspector. But at least my baby’s been returned.’

  ‘She’s shown no after effects, I hope?’

  ‘None, according to Nanny.’

  Her impatience was beginning to show. She only just avoided looking pointedly at the clock, but she picked up some sewing that was nearby and began to stitch, her slender fingers moving quickly, a plain enough indication that she thought he was wasting her time. He decided she was quite capable of continuing indefinitely with her monosyllabic responses to his questions, but he didn’t intend to let it stop him. What he had come here to say would be difficult for him, a man who normally didn’t use words more than he had to. But before he could begin, she spoke lightly. ‘It was all very mysterious, was it not, the kidnapping?’

  She had unwittingly given him his opening, ‘That’s true, but perhaps not so mysterious as you might wish us to believe, Mrs Martens.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, her colour rising. ‘Would you mind telling me just what you mean by that?’

  ‘I’ll try to explain myself more clearly. But before we go any further, I must ask you if you would like your husband to be present as well.’

  ‘He’s not at home, he’s at the bank.’ Her breathing was coming more quickly, but she asked coldly, ‘Why should I want that?’

  ‘Because there are questions I need to ask, to which he’s entitled to know the answer. Unless, of course, you don’t want him to hear.’

  She put the sewing aside very deliberately and stood up. ‘I believe you are exceeding your welcome, Inspector. How dare you? I must ask you to leave.’

  ‘I’m prepared to do that, but not before you have heard what I have to say.’

  For answer, she simply turned her back and pressed the bell by the fireplace whereupon the maid, Newcombe, entered, so quickly it was easy to see she had been outside the door listening, or attempting to listen, to what was going on inside. How much did she know? he wondered, not for the first time. He said, ‘I don’t intend to go just yet, not until we have talked. Are you sure you want your maid to hear?’

  Newcombe looked daggers at him from under drawn brows. If Violet Martens ever needed a formidable watchdog, she had one in this woman. It wouldn’t have amazed him to see her showing her teeth, ready to bite. He was pretty certain that what Emma Pavel had told Inskip was likely to be true enough, that she would do anything for her mistress. Assuming a headache at the time of the so-called kidnapping would have been nothing to her.

  ‘Is everything in order, Mrs Martens?’ she asked.

  For a split second, Violet hesitated, then she shook her head, ‘You may go, Newcombe. I’m sorry, I rang the bell by mistake.’

  The woman scowled her disbelief, but as Violet fluttered her hand in dismissal she had no option but to obey. Sitting down again, Violet looked at her feet. He waited several minutes but she kept her head down, silently tracing the carpet’s pattern with the toe of her shoe.

  ‘All right, then let’s start with this, Mrs Martens, shall we?’

  At last she raised her head. ‘What – what is that you’re holding?’

  He stretched out his palm so that she could see the little silver bracelet more clearly, but her expression didn’t change as she stared wordlessly at it. ‘The bracelet your daughter was wearing when she was returned, of course. You recognize it? You should; I think I’m right in believing it once belonged to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘When you were a child. You must remember it, you were wearing it in several of the photographs your brother was so proud of, all those he kept in his study.’

  He could feel the frost from where he sat. ‘That’s a totally unjustified supposition. A cheap little mass produced thing like that, there must be hundreds about.’

  Her insistence on the bracelet’s tawdriness wouldn’t hold up. It was a pretty, delicate little thing, craftsman made, and though not an expensive object, it was not something to be despised. He said nothing for several moments, but her stare didn’t waver. Her eyes were beautifully shaped, with thick lashes, the same shade of forget-me-not blue as her little daughter’s, though there the similarity ended. He’d never thought of it before, but it struck him now that hers were the unnerving eyes of a china doll, diamond hard and just as lifeless. She kept them fixed on him and he saw she wasn’t going to own up to the bracelet. ‘All right’ he said at last. ‘We’ll leave that for now. Let’s talk about Dudley Nichol.’ Her immaculate brows rose again. ‘Mrs Latimer’s cousin, the young man who was murdered.’

  ‘I know who you mean. What about him?’

  ‘There’s quite a lot I need to ask you about him, but I’m not here for the duration,’ he said, dispensing with politeness. ‘So I’m going to leave the questions for the moment and tell you that we now have a fairly clear picture of what has been happening in this house lately. I believe it started, for you, when Dudley Nichol arrived, though for him it began when he discovered his cousin, Alice, was married to your brother, a senior politician. He brought himself to stay with them for a particular reason. Did you never wonder what he was doing here?’

  ‘He was a guest of my sister-in-law. It was not up to me to pry into his personal life.’

  ‘You became quite friendly with him, though … were you aware he had been living in the East End under an assumed name?’

  ‘Certainly not – and if he was, the reasons for it were his own business.’

  ‘Even if he was working with Irish troublemakers?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers, Mrs Martens? Don’t you know anything of what’s happening in Ireland, in Parliament, over this Home Rule business? Then let me tell you, it’s more than a difference of opinion that’s going on over there. It’s going to be more than a scrap … there are some who think it goes so deep it might even lead to civil war. And there’s no shortage of people who are getting ready for it, who are desperate to raise money to buy arms. Why do you think Nichol wanted money?’

  Her eyes flickered, but she shrugged at such a needless question. ‘Why does anyone want money? If he did.’

  So she hadn’t known the truth about Nichol, at least not then. But he sensed a dawning comprehension, and perhaps anxiety for what was coming.

  ‘Dudley Nichol was playing a risky game, perhaps more so than he knew, associating with dangerous people. He made a serious error of judgement – and he wasn’t the only one, as I think you now know, Mrs Martens. No, no! Listen, and hear what I have to say.’ He settled his bulk more comfortably and went on, ‘When your brother and his wife were out of the house, Nichol fell into the habit of vis
iting you. And together you made a plan for the apparent kidnapping of Lucy.’

  She gave a smothered exclamation and tried to speak, but he held up his hand. ‘You can have your say when I’m finished. You planned to ask for money for her return, five thousand pounds to be exact, which you were going to share, half for you and half for Nichol. And for that,’ he said deliberately, ‘you were prepared to put your child in danger.’

  He had at last succeeded in touching a nerve and she could contain herself no longer. ‘Please stop this nonsense. You’re getting it all wrong! Lucy was never in the slightest danger.’ She stopped. Her colour came and went rapidly as she realized what she had admitted in her agitation.

  ‘No, I don’t believe she was. Because she never was kidnapped, was she? She was taken away with your consent.’

  ‘If she was, there was no question at any time that she wouldn’t be looked after properly.’ She was visibly trembling now, too agitated to refute the accusation.

  ‘How did you know that? Did you visit her to make sure she was being looked after?’

  ‘Lucinda was— Well, she was with my old nanny, the one I had as a child, if you must know. She was in no danger at all, and she was happy. She knows Nanny Ryan because she’s been taken to visit her regularly, and Nanny adores her. She was delighted to look after her.’