by M. J. Trow
‘No, no,’ the ancient retainer was saying as Batchelor sneezed his way across the threshold. ‘Old Mr Sillitoe passed away some years ago, but Mr Byng is such a kindly soul, he couldn’t bear to take his name down from the roof or off of the stationery. Er … it was Mr Byng the elder you wanted to see, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Batchelor blew his nose. His eyes were swimming and his throat prickled.
The ancient retainer chuckled. ‘That’ll be the Russian fir, sir,’ he said. ‘We’re all used to it now, of course, but it still comes as a bit of a trial to them as hasn’t encountered it before. Trees in here aren’t the same as them growing in the parks, you see.’
Batchelor sneezed again and followed the old man up a flight of stone steps, past windows that let out into the warehouse. The noise there was terrifying, like the seventh circle of hell, as timbers crashed and chains rattled. Each movement was accompanied by the frantic yells of the warehousemen, screaming above the row in an incomprehensible language that Batchelor scarcely recognized. At an ornate oak door, the retainer paused. ‘May I say what your visit is in connection with, sir?’
‘That’s confidential, I’m afraid,’ Batchelor told him, ‘between me and Mr Byng.’
‘Quite. Quite.’
The old man pushed the door and ushered Batchelor into a comfortable waiting room. There was a plush carpet and around the walls were panels of every conceivable type of tree – sequoias, redwoods, black tupelo and ginkgo bilobas – all of them available from Messrs Sillitoe, Byng and Son, Timber Importers. But that wasn’t what caught Batchelor’s eye. In the far corner of the waiting room, a young lady sat in front of a machine on a table. It had a piece of paper in the top and she was hesitantly poking the keys below it with one finger.
‘Is that a typewriting machine?’ he asked.
‘Please, sir,’ the retainer took his arm to hurry him along. ‘No disturbing the staff. Miss Plunkett is doing her best, but personally, I don’t see what’s wrong with a quill pen.’
‘Quite. Quite.’ It was Batchelor’s turn to say it this time. He had to agree with the old boy. He had been reading about these inventions of a printer’s devil for weeks now but he had never actually seen one. He honestly couldn’t see how Fleet Street could manage. With that speed of printing, the very idea of a deadline would be out of the window.
The retainer rapped on a second door, just as ornate as the first and there was a gruff grunt from beyond it.
‘Mr Batchelor, sir,’ the retainer announced as though the enquiry agent was being shown into Buckingham Palace’s throne room. The presence at the far end of this cavernous office didn’t get up from behind his rosewood desk. At first glance, he looked even older than the retainer, but his eyes were bright, even mischievous and his jaw firm.
‘Mr Byng,’ Batchelor said. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice.’
‘Make that no notice at all,’ Byng grunted. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s a rather delicate matter, sir,’ Batchelor said, ‘of a personal nature.’ He glanced at the retainer.
‘Leave us, Todmorden,’ Byng said.
The retainer half bowed and shuffled out of the room.
‘Well?’ Byng waited until the door had closed.
‘It’s about your son, sir.’
‘Selwyn?’ The old man’s eyes narrowed and his flowing Dundrearies twitched. ‘What about him?’
‘I’ll come to the point, sir, if I may.’
‘I wish you would,’ Byng sighed. ‘It may be something of a cliché, young man, but time is money. Especially mine.’
‘I am an enquiry agent, sir.’ Batchelor passed his card across the desk and could barely reach the man’s hand. Byng read it and frowned. ‘“Grand and Batchelor”,’ he read. ‘“Enquiry Agents”.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Not too bad an address. Which one are you, again?’
‘Batchelor, sir.’
The old man snorted. ‘Junior partner, eh?’
‘No, sir. Mr Grand and I are equals.’
‘How quaint. So … the purpose of your visit?’
‘Well, obviously, sir, it’s about the kidnap.’
‘The what?’
Batchelor blinked. For a moment he wondered if the old boy hadn’t heard him, but seconds later, it was clear that he had. ‘What kidnap? Who’s been kidnapped?’
‘Emilia, sir. Your daughter-in-law.’
‘Poppycock!’ the elder Byng snapped. ‘I saw her only the other day. Oh, she’s not right for Selwyn, of course; but then, he isn’t right for her. I knew that this would end in tears.’
‘Not a happy marriage?’ Dislike the work though he did, much of Grand and Batchelor’s bread and butter came from their evidence before the divorce courts. He was used to asking questions like that.
‘You have met my son, I assume?’ Byng asked. ‘In person, I mean, not through some correspondence course?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Batchelor assured him. ‘I have.’
‘Well, there you are.’ Byng leaned back in his chair, clasping his fingers across his sprigged waistcoat. ‘How could anybody be happy with a man like that?’
‘Believe me, sir, when I say that your daughter-in-law’s kidnap is real enough.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The kidnapper sent her finger to your son through the post.’
‘Good God!’ The elder Byng sat bolt upright, eyes bulging. ‘Why didn’t he tell me? Call the police?’
‘He was told not to, sir,’ Batchelor said, ‘by the kidnapper. Dire things would happen to Emilia unless Selwyn co-operated.’
‘Dire?’ Byng thundered. ‘How much more dire can it be than to chop off a person’s finger? At the very least she’ll die of loss of blood or sepsis or whatever the medical chappies call it.’
‘That’s why it’s important to act quickly, sir,’ Batchelor said. ‘I presumed your son had told you all about it.’
‘My son and I haven’t had a meaningful conversation since 1867, Mr Batchelor and then it was just me putting him right over his insanely liberal notions on Disraeli’s extension of the vote. Now, I’m sorry I can’t help you, but the timber import business is a cut-throat one and I am a very busy man. Can you see yourself out? And tell that wretched girl to stop that useless clacking outside. That contraption will never catch on.’
Since the elder Byng’s mouth was now firmly shut, fringed by the silver of his whiskers, there seemed little else that Batchelor could find out. He thanked the man for his time, which was really all he had given and crossed the office threshold. He was going to take the opportunity to ask the wretched girl all about the typewriting machine and perhaps even have a go on it himself, but he saw Todmorden hovering and swept on past.
‘Todmorden,’ old Mr Byng growled as the retainer reached his door. ‘Get my son up here now. We need to talk.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ the elder Byng was sitting back in his chair, his eyes flinty hard and his Dundrearies bristling.
‘About what, father?’ Selwyn asked.
‘That girl you married. She’s been kidnapped.’
Selwyn blinked. His mouth was bricky dry. All his life he had feared and hated this man in equal measure. Often because the old man always seemed to know as much, if not more, than he did. ‘I know,’ was all he could think to say.
The elder Byng slammed closed a ledger on his desk and stood up, hauling down the lapels of his frock coat. ‘Of course you know,’ he snarled. ‘But I didn’t. I just had some scruffy street person up here, name of Batchelor. Know him?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Claims you’ve hired him to find Emilia. Is that right?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Why didn’t you come to me?’ the old man bellowed, answering his own question with every move of his body.
‘I … I didn’t want to bother you, Father. The Trust …’
‘Yes,’ the old man’s sharp business brain was whirling. ‘I was wondering about that. This kidnapper cha
ppie – how does he know about the Trust?’
‘He doesn’t, father,’ Selwyn said. ‘Or at least, I don’t think he does. He merely wants me to pay up or—’
‘Or they’ll send various bits of her to you in the post; yes, I know.’
‘It’s urgent now, Father,’ Selwyn blurted out. ‘Could you advance me the money?’
The elder Byng turned pale. He almost felt the sharp, acid pain in the area of his wallet. ‘How much is it?’ he asked.
‘Five thousand pounds,’ Selwyn said.
His father stood as though frozen to the spot. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘I’m not made of money.’
‘But, Father we’re talking about Emilia’s life.’
‘That, sir, will be on your conscience, not mine.’
‘The Trust, then …’ Selwyn knew that the old man would have exactly this response; that was why he hadn’t gone to him in the first place.
‘You can grovel around them if you like,’ the elder Byng said, ‘but don’t expect any help from me. You’ve been a disappointment to me all your life, Selwyn, a waste of space. I keep you on here so that you’re not leading a life of complete dissipation. I won’t have it noised abroad that my son is a layabout. But this is something you must resolve yourself – your chance to be a man, if it’s not too late. Win your spurs, sir. And stop snivelling to those enquiry agents or whatever they call themselves. Damned snoopers, that’s all they are. Now, get out. And, for God’s sake, don’t let any of this reach the newspapers.’
‘Enquiry agents?’ Daddy Bliss blinked. ‘What’s that?’
‘We are,’ Grand said. He didn’t like this man already and he’d only been on board his ship for five minutes.
Bliss looked at the pair from his usual position across the table. The littler one was sharp, beady-eyed and didn’t miss much. He was difficult to pin down, however. Clearly, he had had an above-average education, maybe even private, but his duds were nothing to write home about. The bigger one was foreign.
‘And what is it you are enquiring about, exactly?’ he asked.
‘We have a client,’ Batchelor told him, ‘who came to us with a little problem. That problem led us to Dr Kempster of V Division.’
‘A good man,’ Bliss nodded. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee but showed no inclination to offer any to his visitors. ‘But less good now I know he’s passed you on to me.’
‘We understand,’ Grand said, ‘that you’re something of an expert on body parts.’
Bliss paused with the tin cup near his lips. ‘I’ve had my moments,’ he said.
‘Digits?’ Batchelor asked.
Bliss continued his swig, then wiped his mouth. ‘Suppose you tell me exactly what you want,’ he said.
Grand and Batchelor looked at each other. They’d known coppers who were helpfulness itself – the late Dick Tanner at the Yard had been one such. Dolly Williamson, also of A Division, more or less sang from their hymn sheet. Then there were the others – and Daddy Bliss appeared to be one of them – who wouldn’t give them the time of day. But ice had to be broken somewhere or all that the Strand pair would have to show for this morning was a faint whiff of the river.
‘We cannot give you our client’s name,’ Batchelor said, ‘but we can confide that his wife is missing and he has received two ransom notes.’
‘A matter for us, surely,’ Bliss said, ‘in my professional opinion.’
‘That’s just it,’ Grand said. ‘The notes were specific – no police.’
Bliss snorted. ‘That’s what they all say, isn’t it? It’s axiomatic among the criminal classes. I’m going to throw this brick through a plate glass window but don’t go blabbing to the boys in blue. That sort of thing.’
‘They sent him a finger,’ Grand said.
Bliss paused in mid-swig again. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Hence your interest in body parts and digits.’
‘Dr Kempster gave nothing away,’ Batchelor lied. ‘The papers are full of your river finds. What’s the Star calling it? “The Bermondsey Horror”?’
Bliss chuckled. ‘I don’t know how these blokes can watch themselves shave of a morning,’ he said, ‘writing bollocks like that. They only do it to frighten people.’
‘Perhaps people should be frightened.’ Batchelor felt he had to defend his former colleagues. ‘What with torsos floating in the Thames.’
‘We’ve got it in hand,’ Bliss assured them, ‘if you’ll excuse the pun.’
‘The hand is why we’re here,’ Grand said. ‘Or, to be precise, the left-hand ring finger.’
‘Sent through the post?’ Bliss asked.
‘We believe so,’ Batchelor nodded.
‘Postmark?’
‘Blurred to the point of invisibilty,’ Grand said. ‘Unreadable.’
‘Hm,’ Bliss nodded. ‘I don’t mean to denigrate the operatives of the General Post Office, but all too often those careless, lazy buggers obstruct us in the course of our enquiries. Or, in this case, yours. What about packaging?’
‘Plain,’ Batchelor said. ‘Brown, for the use of. You can buy it in any stationers in the country.’
‘String?’ Bliss asked.
‘Ditto,’ Grand said. ‘Hardware stores the length and breadth.’
‘You said “ring finger”.’ Bliss was intrigued now. He had eleven body parts on display in Kempster’s laboratory, but fingers were not among them. ‘Was the ring still present?’
‘It was,’ Batchelor said. ‘Our client confirmed it as the one he bought for his wife on their wedding day.’
‘Touching,’ Bliss murmured.
‘There was no mention of hands in the newspaper articles,’ Batchelor said. ‘Can you confirm that the parts that have turned up did not include them?’
‘What did Kempster say?’
Again, the pair exchanged glances.
‘He didn’t believe the finger belonged to the body,’ Grand said.
Bliss spread his arms. ‘Well, there you are, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You’ve already had it from the horse’s mouth. I don’t see what more I can add.’
Resisting the urge to continue the metaphor with Bliss as the horse’s ass, Grand went on, ‘There’s a world of difference between a doctor’s point of view and a River Policeman’s,’ he said.
‘We were hoping to pick your brains on the body parts you’ve found,’ Batchelor chipped in. ‘Kempster has tried to reassemble the woman, but the papers were hazy as to where the various parts were found.’
‘They would be,’ Bliss said. ‘That’s partly because I want it that way. It hasn’t quite started yet, but pretty soon we’ll have every lunatic in London queuing up to view the remains, claiming it’s his auntie, mother, daughter or the woman whose cat once ran up his alley. After that, we’ll get the pillocks who claimed to have done it; anything for their fifteen minutes of fame. And of course, the other reason the papers are “hazy” as you put it, is that they’re run by bloody idiots who wouldn’t know a river current from their elbows.’
‘So, you can’t help further?’ Batchelor asked.
‘No, gentlemen, I’m sorry,’ the inspector said.
Grand opened his mouth to say something, but Batchelor was on his feet. ‘Well, thank you, Inspector.’ He held out his hand. Bliss shook it.
‘If your client sees reason and calls us in,’ he said, ‘you know where we are.’
‘We sure do,’ Grand said, without smiling. He tipped his hat and they left, clattering up the steps to the deck.
Constable Brandon saw them off the Royalist with a grin and a brisk salute.
‘Might as well have asked the ship’s cat,’ Grand muttered as they trod the quayside stone again.
‘Matthew, Matthew,’ Batchelor chuckled. ‘Will you never learn the skills of an old newshound?’
‘What would they be?’ Grand asked. ‘Lounging in bars? Paying out bungs?’
‘Tsk, tsk,’ Batchelor chided. ‘So young, so cynical. No, I mean, the ability to read upside down
. Did you notice the note on Bliss’s desk?’
‘I saw some scribbles, yes.’
‘It said “Monkey boats. Limehouse. Travellers.”’
‘Travellers?’
‘Gypsies, Matthew. The travelling people. In this case, those who travel the canals on the barges. Now it may be that Bliss pays these blokes a visit every now and again just because he can. Or it may be because he has a link between them and the body parts.’
‘Okay.’
‘Did you notice something else?’ Batchelor asked. ‘Something Bliss jotted down with his pencil just before we left?’
‘Er …’
Batchelor tapped the side of his nose, ‘It could have been his wife’s shopping list, but I don’t think so. Didn’t it strike you as odd that Bliss didn’t ask about the size of the ransom? The money involved?’
‘I assumed it was because he didn’t give a damn,’ Grand shrugged.
‘Well, yes, that’s possible. But it could be because he’s got an idea who’s sending notes and fingers through the post.’
‘Why?’ Grand asked. ‘What did he write down?’
‘One word,’ Batchelor said, ‘Knowes. K-N-O-W-E-S.’
‘Can’t he spell?’ Grand asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Batchelor said, ‘but I think it’s a name.’
‘So all we have to do is to find it,’ Grand said. A cold dread filled him. He’d been here before, looking for needles in haystacks. It meant hours of his life, hours he’d never get back, poring over Kelly’s Street Directories. That was if Knowes was a real name and not an alias.
‘That’s all,’ Batchelor said cheerfully, ‘and we are enquiry agents.’
NINE
The Street Directories were unhelpful. There were four Knowles, a couple of Knodes, even several people of Knote. But Knowes remained defiantly absent from Kelly’s lists. So Batchelor took a cab (he was feeling lazy that afternoon) to Fleet Street to link up with his old cronies from the Telegraph. Old Gabriel Horner had long since shuffled off the mortal coil, a martyr to brandy and soda. Tom Grossmith had moved to The Times, as a royal correspondent, no less, wondering politely whether Her Majesty would ever make another public appearance as her devoted subjects loved her so much. That left Edwin Dyer.
