The Ring

by M. J. Trow

  Jack was back at work now, his food eaten, his knapsack containing the day’s finds – two old keys, rusty and useless; half a comb; a length of hemp like the hangman used; and what appeared to be a handkerchief with writing on it. Still, it was early days, and the mellow, grey September day wasn’t over yet.

  The bag came creeping towards him on the ebb tide, the colour of the sky. It looked like linen, discoloured here and there and of course saturated with the Thames. Jack reached out and caught it. It danced away on a sudden current, eddying around in a tight whorl and he scrabbled for it. There was no Ben to catch it on the lower reaches, so if he wasn’t careful, he might lose this for good. Experience told him that the bag must be empty; otherwise it wouldn’t be floating. Even so, if there was fancy embroidery on it, once dried out and washed, any old clo’ dealer might give Jack a penny for it.

  He checked his balance. A mouthful of old Father Thames was not something that Jack relished, and he’d had plenty of experience of that. Planting his feet apart, the cold water swirling around his hips, he lunged and got it. Holding the bag in both hands, he looked down. It wasn’t a bag at all. It was some sort of mask. It had eyeholes without eyes, and it had eyelashes too. The lips were still there, cut and notched though they were. The mask felt peculiar, like … and it was a while before Jack could place it … like skin. And slowly, as the hairs rose on the back of his neck, Jack Sandal, mudlark, realized that he was holding in his hands the skull-less head of a woman.

  FIVE

  Selwyn Byng was ludicrously easy to spot. He wore his Derby hat low on his forehead and his coat buttoned up to the neck, the collar turned up to hide the bottom half of his face. Grand couldn’t help but smile; all he needed was a large sign on his back saying, ‘I am on the way to a clandestine meeting’ and the picture would have been complete. He let him pass him and signalled to Batchelor, waiting at the entrance to the mews which led behind their house. A pincer movement would do the trick and they could merely fall into step with the man and no one would know that they weren’t just acquaintances bumping into each other all by accident.

  ‘Mr Byng,’ Grand muttered and the man jumped as though shot. ‘Just keep walking and my colleague will join us in a moment. We’ll go to the kosher restaurant along the way; they know us there and will give us a nice quiet table at the back.’

  ‘But …’ Byng was looking round like a man possessed. ‘What if … they see us? Emilia …’

  Grand looked around ostentatiously. There wasn’t a soul in the street, except for Algernon, the blind crossing sweeper at the far end where it met the Strand. Grand had often wondered how that worked but it seemed to; after all, Algernon had been there ever since he had moved to Alsatia and he seemed to be unscathed. ‘We’re quite safe, Mr Byng, but I think you might create less of a stir if you walk upright, turn down your collar and push your hat back a tad.’

  Reluctantly, Byng did as he was told.

  ‘There,’ Grand said, clapping him on the back. ‘Now we look a lot more like old friends out for a stroll and a lot less like a mountebank and his zany.’ It was a shame that Batchelor was too far away to hear that – he would have been so proud.

  As they passed the mews, Batchelor stepped out and shook Byng by the hand. ‘Hello, old chap,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’ Batchelor had often longed to tread the boards. ‘How is the little woman?’ And he fell into step on Byng’s other side and between them, they got him to the restaurant without him falling in a dead faint or letting rip with one of his strange cries. He looked from one to the other constantly and had anyone been interested enough to guess what was going on, they would probably have concluded that he owed Grand and Batchelor money. Which, in a way, since Friday, he did.

  The shutters were just being rolled up when they got to the door and the proprietor turned round ready to send the men away; his fires had been banked since the Sabbath and he needed a while to get everything going again. But when he saw who it was, he was effusive in his welcome. No one appreciated his salt-beef like Matthew Grand.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, come in, come in. A nice table in the window?’

  ‘Thanks, Isaac, not this time. Can you put us somewhere quiet, at the back?’

  ‘Of course, of course. But …’ Isaac saw the fear in Byng’s eyes, ‘there will be no violence, I hope.’

  ‘Violence?’ Batchelor was puzzled. This man had known them for years. Then he looked at Byng’s expression and understood. ‘No, Isaac. He isn’t scared of us. It’s some other people he’s avoiding!’

  The restaurateur smiled and ushered them in. ‘In that case, let me show you into my private dining room?’

  ‘You’ve got a private dining room?’ Grand was a little miffed that he hadn’t been shown into it before. ‘Why am I only just finding out about this?’

  ‘You’ve never had a man ready to faint with you before,’ the owner said, shrugging. ‘It’s bad for business, men lying on the floor. People will wonder what it was he ate. Was it the fish? they will ask. Was it the chicken?’

  Byng was sagging heavily on Grand’s shoulder now and he could quite see Isaac’s point of view. Between them, the three men got him into the private room and closed the door, with a bottle of brandy on their side of it.

  ‘Come on, now, Mr Byng, snap out of it.’ James Batchelor was a kind man, often too kind for his own good. But this lily-livered behaviour was beginning to get on his nerves. He didn’t believe that the writer of the ransom note was watching and following Selwyn Byng every minute of every day. In a deserted street such as they had just walked along, he would have to be invisible. And although he had seen some sights in his time working alongside Matthew Grand, an invisible person had never turned out to be the miscreant.

  ‘Yes, come on, Selwyn. We may call you Selwyn, I presume?’

  Grand had chosen the right way to snap the man out of his fugue. ‘I would much rather you didn’t,’ he said coldly, sitting up straight and adjusting the hang of his rather outdated coat. ‘I would prefer to keep things formal, if you don’t mind, gentlemen.’

  ‘That suits me,’ Grand said. ‘And since this is to be businesslike, may I present you with our bill to date?’

  Batchelor was surprised. Although it was good to be paid, he had never seen Grand so quick off the mark.

  Byng opened the envelope. ‘I say!’ he said. ‘This is a bit steep, isn’t it?’ He prodded the paper. ‘What are these extras?’

  Grand leaned over. ‘Fares. Hotel. Food. We went down to see Miss Moriarty in Eastbourne, for example. Mr Batchelor here went along the river to see the warehouses of which you spoke.’

  Byng gibbered briefly and then folded the bill savagely and thrust it into his coat. ‘I will pass this to my man of business. But I hope, since you have brought the matter up, that you didn’t divulge anything of this heinous crime to either my poor aunt-in-law or anyone at the warehouse.’

  ‘No,’ Grand said, ‘we didn’t. Miss Moriarty was helpful up to a point, but she got quite distressed about a collateral matter. The warehouses were closed. But before we get on to the second letter, we must ask you something.’

  ‘Which is?’ Byng’s eyes were narrowed and he looked suspicious.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about Emilia’s maid?’

  ‘Her maid?’ Byng swivelled his head frantically from side to side. ‘What about her maid?’

  ‘That’s what we are asking, I think,’ Batchelor said. ‘You told us that your wife didn’t appear at the station, but you didn’t mention the maid.’

  Byng got to his feet. ‘I’ve made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you are up to the job. I will thank you to return my correspondence and I will be on my way.’

  Batchelor pulled him down and he sat with a bump. ‘I think our question is quite reasonable, Mr Byng. If the maid turned up or if she didn’t is very relevant to the case. If she turned up, where is she? If she didn’t, she may still be with your wife, in which case the wh
ole situation is a little more complex. So … did she turn up or not?’

  ‘Well … not, I suppose.’

  Grand’s eyes widened. ‘You suppose? How long has she been with your wife?’

  ‘Since before we were married.’

  ‘So you would recognize her in a crowd.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So …’ Grand was getting a few goosebumps as this strange man sat there, oblivious to the world outside his blinkered view. ‘So … did she arrive or not?’

  Byng put his head down in his arms and howled his peculiar wail of distress. The door flew open and the owner stood in the doorway.

  ‘I thought you said no violence!’ he said, brandishing the chair leg he kept beside the register for just this eventuality.

  Grand and Batchelor held up their arms to show they were not touching the man. Isaac’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair. ‘A lunatic?’ he asked. ‘You have brought a lunatic into my restaurant?’

  ‘He’s upset,’ mouthed Batchelor. ‘We’ll make him be quiet.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ the restaurateur said. ‘He’s curdling my sufganiyot.’ That went without saying.

  Grand patted and then bashed Byng on the back. ‘Hush up, now. This won’t get us anywhere except thrown out into the street. What’s the matter now?’

  Byng straightened up and blew his nose thoroughly and wiped his eyes. ‘I was late,’ he said. ‘I was late for the train, so I don’t know if Molly came up from Eastbourne.’

  ‘And you don’t know if your wife did, either.’ Batchelor was not a happy man.

  Byng shook his head.

  ‘So she may have been taken in London?’ Grand asked.

  ‘Yes, I suppose she may.’

  Grand sighed and lolled back in his chair. ‘Do you think, Mr Byng, that it is possible that your wife, angry at you not meeting the train when you were supposed to be so excited to see her, went off, perhaps to a friend’s house and that between them, they have concocted this note – these notes, sorry – to make you suffer?’

  ‘Emilia wouldn’t be so unkind.’ Byng shook his head, adamant.

  ‘I have never had the pleasure of being married,’ Grand said, ‘but I freely admit to you, Mr Byng, that I have had my share of female companionship.’ He threw a glance to Batchelor which killed the incipient snort at birth. ‘And my experience in that respect has taught me that you can never, never ever be sure of what a woman will do when slighted.’

  Byng was outraged. ‘I would never slight Emilia,’ he said. ‘I worship the very ground upon which she walks. I would die rather than upset her …’

  ‘And yet,’ Batchelor remarked, evenly, ‘you failed to meet her train.’

  Byng hung his head. ‘I … my father had given me a task to do which took me longer than I expected …’

  ‘So you stayed at work rather than meet the train. Had this happened before?’

  Byng drew himself up. ‘Business is important. It puts food on the table …’

  Grand leaned forward, his arms on the table, and looked Byng in the eye. ‘So, long story cut short, Mr Byng, you failed to meet your wife, not for the first time. And this time, it was a meeting which was devoutly wished by you both. Miss Moriarty described you as “ardent” …’

  Byng slapped the table in annoyance.

  ‘Her word, Mr Byng, not mine. Or perhaps, I should say, your wife’s word. She, also according to Miss Moriarty, was just as ardent and could barely wait until she was back in your bed. Actually, to be fair, that isn’t exactly what Miss Moriarty said, but it is the gist. So, picture the scene, Mr Byng. Your wife, eager and ardent, gets on the train in Eastbourne and travels north to London. Perhaps she gets more … excited … with every mile. She gets to Victoria Station, ready to fling herself into your arms. She leaps down from the train, her maid behind her with the luggage and – what’s this? No husband, ardent as she, with arms wide with passion. Not even a message. She sends the maid home to her family for a much-needed holiday. She puts her luggage in a cab and goes … where? She has no family, so it will be to a friend, or even a hotel.’

  Byng was silent, looking down at the table top with its crisp linen cover.

  ‘Well,’ Batchelor said, slapping his hands on the table and getting up. ‘I think that’s all to be said for a while. Mr Byng, we’ll leave you to find out from your wife’s friends whether they have her visiting. Don’t worry about embarrassing yourself – believe me, if she is with one of them, they all know of your shortcomings by now. And if you find that she is with one, let us know. If she isn’t, let us know. But until then, I think I am right in saying, am I not, Matthew, this is goodbye.’

  Selwyn Byng sat like a dead man at the table as Grand and Batchelor showed themselves out. Isaac met them at the door.

  ‘Is your friend …?’ he looked towards the door to the back room.

  ‘Leave him for a bit,’ Grand said. ‘He’s had a bit of a shock. The brandy’s on us – just put it on the tab.’

  ‘No sufganiyot?’

  The paperboy was late that morning. As a result of that, Mrs Rackstraw had not only told him his future, she’d also cuffed him around the ear. As a result of that, he was even later to his next port of call. So by the time James Batchelor got hold of The Times, he was on his third cup of tea and Matthew Grand was draining the last of his coffee.

  ‘What news on the Rialto, James?’ Grand was peering out of the window, trying to guess the weather, that good old English pastime.

  Batchelor still winced a little inwardly when his American associate came out with the lines of the greatest English bard but he’d never said anything and by now, nearly eight years into their business partnership, the moment had gone. ‘Looks like Gladstone’s reconsidering the match tax again.’ He was scanning the headlines, holding the paper to the window to help him decipher the tiny font.

  ‘Ex luce, lucellum,’ Grand murmured.

  Batchelor translated in his head. Out of light, profit. ‘We’re very erudite this morning, Matthew.’ He lowered the paper in salute.

  ‘I read it in the Telegraph the other day,’ Grand was man enough to admit. ‘May have to cut back on the old cigars if Gladeye gets his way.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Batchelor said. ‘If the Old Man’s Licensing Bill goes through, he’ll be out of a job by Thursday and Dizzie is bound to reverse everything he’s done.’

  ‘We’ll make Americans of you cusses yet,’ Grand chuckled.

  ‘Ask Mrs R. for some more toast, would you, Matthew? I could eat a horse this morning.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Grand said. And Batchelor swept on to the Finance Section, always a rich source of clientage. He didn’t notice the small print headed ‘Suspected Murder’.

  By that afternoon, Dr Felix Kempster was already hard at work. He had his private practice in Lockington Street, but his role as police surgeon to V Division kept him pretty busy. Today, he was at his most creative, at the request of Daddy Bliss, who hovered at his elbow now. He had known Bliss for years and the men had a grudging respect for each other. Kempster knew that the fat inspector kept most things to himself and woe betide the hapless copper who tried to muscle in on his manor. Bliss knew that Kempster was a misfit, an artist and an adventurer trapped in the bloodied apron of a surgeon. Today, in Kempster’s laboratory, this was a marriage made in Heaven.

  The doctor had placed a butcher’s block on the table and had shaved off its corners. Then he had taken the skin mask that little Jack Sandal had found and stretched it over the frame. The fit wasn’t good, so Kempster played God, not for the first time and pulled it off again, using a file on the smooth oak to fashion a head. He had to guess the jut of the chin and the shape of the nose and more than an hour passed before he had finished. Kempster was able to dissociate himself from death – he had done that since medical school – and to forget that he was trying to reassemble what once had been the head of a human being. In his imagination that Monday, he
was Michelangelo chipping away the Carrera marble to sculpt his Moses or his David and the huge man waiting patiently alongside him was one of the great genius’s apprentices.

  He stretched the skin again and stood back. It wasn’t – couldn’t be – a work of art. And he suddenly snapped out of his Florentine daydream and looked reality in the face. He peered closer, passing his magnifying glass across the distorted features.

  ‘Well, doctor?’ This was something of a red-letter day; Daddy Bliss had not said anything for over an hour.

  ‘I don’t know how far I would care to extrapolate,’ Kempster murmured, still looking at the folds of grey skin.

  ‘Doctor,’ Bliss sighed. He was not a man exactly known for his patience. ‘I’ve got a quarter of a body and a shoulder which may or may not belong to this head. I’d like to know who this was before the rest turns up.’

  ‘You think there’ll be more?’ Kempster asked.

  ‘I’d stake my pension on it. Extrapolate away.’

  ‘Very well.’ Kempster straightened, only now realizing how his back ached. ‘We’re looking at a woman. Probably over forty.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Look,’ the doctor said, pointing to the upper lip. What we in the profession call a feminine moustache. You don’t get that in young people. She’d be naturally dark.’

  Bliss could tell that from the portions of hair that still clung to the scalp at the back of the block.