by Conor Brady
Shaftoe turned left towards Holborn Circus. Swallow followed. He saw Montgomery flanking them on the pavement opposite. They crossed Holborn Circus into Fetter Lane and made for a public house called The White Swan, as they had planned.
Swallow bought Teddy Shaftoe a pint of ale and whiskies for the Yard men. He ordered a pint bottle of Guinness’s light porter for himself and a Cornish pasty to fill the hole left by Mrs Frost’s poor breakfast.
‘Well,’ Swallow asked when they had settled over their refreshments, ‘what’s the plan?’
Shaftoe drained off his ale in two great gulps.
‘Another o’ those would do very nicely, Mr Swallow, so it would.’
Swallow signalled the barman.
‘At The Mitre,’ Shaftoe said. ‘That’s where ’e’ll be. Tomorrer’ around noon.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Swallow spent the afternoon at the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square.
They had returned Teddy Shaftoe to the Tower after they left the White Swan on Fetter Lane.
‘Would we have time to make it to Dymchurch to interview Lady Gessel this evening?’ Swallow inquired once Shaftoe was locked up.
‘I don’t think so,’ Montgomery shook his head. ‘We’d need to give notice to the East Sussex Police. They’d have to notify her. And we’ve no way of knowing if she’d be available for interview without arrangement.’
‘A pity.’
‘There’s nothing to be done until the morning. We’ll collect Shaftoe then and bring him down to The Mitre.’
The Special Branch men returned to Scotland Yard. Swallow caught a steam omnibus to Trafalgar Square.
He was struck by the similarity between the Nelson Column in the centre of the square and its Dublin counterpart. But London’s monument was somewhat taller. The four bronze lions at the base were impressive.
He thought to climb it for the view. But then he discovered that the column’s slender Corinthian proportions did not allow of an internal staircase as in Dublin. Swallow felt a small surge of pride that his own city had probably done a better job.
He felt affirmed, too, when he compared the Gallery itself to the National Gallery in Dublin.
Francis Fowke’s building on Merrion Square was not nearly as magnificent at Wilkins’ temple facing Trafalgar Square, but he fancied that the Italian collection in Dublin could hold its own with what he saw here. While the English and French collections were on a grander scale, he reckoned that the quality of Dublin’s acquisitions compared favourably.
He was absorbed in the Barry Rooms when the staff started to call the end of viewing. Men in blue uniforms moved from gallery to gallery, ringing small handbells and calling out.
‘Clowsin’ time … clowsin’ time please.’
He asked a porter how he might find the Grosvenor Hotel.
‘Bucking’am Palace Road, across from Victoria Station, Sir. Can’t miss it. Bloomin’ great buildin,’ must be six storeys ’igh. Lovely walk along the Mall, if you’re not in a ’urry.’
Swallow was not in a hurry. He crossed Trafalgar Square and set off along The Mall. The trees in St James’s Park still held just a little of their summer greenery. The footpaths were busy with strolling ladies and gentlemen. Fine carriages with uniformed footmen and drivers went up and down.
Halfway along The Mall, he saw the gates of Buckingham Palace open and a column of Life Guards ride out. A minute later they trotted past him, magnificent in silver breastplates and helmets, every man fixed perfectly in the saddle as if he and his horse were one. He felt that he was starting to understand the difference between an imperial capital and a national one.
Many times in his head during the afternoon he had turned over Katherine Greenberg’s invitation to call. Was it just social nicety? Two people who know each other cross paths in a strange city. What could be more appropriate than that they should agree to meet, perhaps for a drink or to dine?
Or was it a sense of obligation? Here were two people recently thrown in each other’s way by dramatic and dangerous events. Her life and her father’s life had been threatened.
Or was there something more? Was it ridiculous to think that there might be some glimmering of a romantic interest on her part? He had seen a look in Katherine’s eyes when they talked in Lily Grant’s painting class that seemed to go beyond friendliness. The air between them had seemed, somehow, alive. But he was old enough to be her father. No, that was not true. An older brother, perhaps. And yet, she had seemed to grow warmer towards him with each successive encounter. And since he had started in the painting class he realised that he had begun to look forward to Katherine’s company each Thursday afternoon.
He hoped that she would be at the Grosvenor when he got there, and he found himself worrying that perhaps he might not be looking as well as he should for an engagement with a lady.
FORTY-EIGHT
Katherine chose a supper house on Drury Lane called The Albion.
‘London hotels are stuffy with dining-rooms like a morgue,’ she said. ‘And the fancy restaurants would break anyone’s bank account. We can eat well at The Albion and we won’t be thrown out at 9 o’clock.’
When Swallow had inquired for her at the Grosvenor Hotel, the reception clerk nodded. Yes, the hotel had a guest of that name staying, and yes, she had advised that she was expecting a visitor. A bell boy would be sent to Miss Greenberg’s room with a message. Would the gentleman care to take a seat in the lobby?
The Grosvenor was almost on the same vast scale as the great railway terminus nearby, whose passengers comprised the bulk of its clientele. Swallow found a vacant chair under a colonnade of arches that reached to an elaborately decorated ceiling. Glittering chandeliers reflected on walls panelled with high, burnished mirrors.
Ladies and gentlemen with porters and servants bustled in and out of the lobby. Liveried hotel staff greeted guests, directing them to the various dining areas and lounges or towards the lifts that would carry them by electric power to their accommodation on the upper floors.
A few minutes later he saw Katherine emerge from one of the lifts. She spotted him as he rose from the chair, made her way across the busy lobby and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Swallow was unsure whether he should be embarrassed or pleased at the unaccustomed intimacy. He felt himself blush.
‘It’s good that you came,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know if you could, being on duty this morning when we met. There’s a private lounge here for residents. We can at least hear ourselves talk in there.’
The residents’ lounge was surprisingly uncrowded. She led the way to a place by the windows, looking out onto Buckingham Palace Road.
‘Wasn’t that an extraordinary coincidence that we should meet this morning?’ she said smiling. ‘When did you come over from Dublin? And what are you doing here, or can you tell me?’
‘Business,’ he said. ‘Police business.’
Her face darkened momentarily. ‘I assume it has something to do with that wretched man who beat my father with the gun. I only saw him for a few seconds when they attacked us, but I recognised him going into Moser’s.’
He grimaced.
‘I can’t tell you everything. But yes, it’s to do with him. I’m working with some detectives from Scotland Yard on it. You wouldn’t have seen them at Hatton Garden, but they were with me this morning.’
A waiter appeared. They ordered tea.
‘And what about you?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’
She waved a hand at her surroundings.
‘Oh, this is a regular visit. I come to London from time to time in connection with the business. My father isn’t strong enough to make the journey any longer. He used to love it, meeting his old friends in the trade, making bargains, all of that.’
‘So what do you do when you come here?’
‘I usually bring stones, rings, watches, rare items that we know we can make a good profit on. Coins too, of course. The Dublin market is small, and there’s a m
uch greater demand in London. You’ll always get a good price.’
‘Are you telling me that you travel on your own from Dublin carrying these things? Don’t you realise that you’re a dream opportunity for robbers? Some of them would murder a woman for a sixpence.’
She shrugged. ‘The only time anything ever happened was last week in our own shop in Dublin, as you know. And I’m not foolish. I take suitable precautions.’
Swallow believed her. He wondered what they might involve.
The waiter brought the tea. She poured for them both.
‘Now, we’ve had enough discussion of police work and the jewellery trade for a while,’ she laughed. ‘What are your proposals to entertain me for the evening? Or do I act as your guide?’
They agreed that the programme should be a compromise. He would entertain her to dinner. She would choose the venue. There was still an hour of light in the October evening. She would use it to introduce him to some of the London sights that he not seen.
They walked to Westminster. She showed him the Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. They waited to hear Big Ben strike the hour before crossing Bridge Street to the Victoria Embankment.
Katherine slipped her arm through his as they made their way along the river front. To anyone watching, they might be any courting couple taking the Embankment air, he reckoned.
The gas lights had been lit, forming a pearly chain that followed the river’s curve to Waterloo Bridge. The Embankment’s wide pavement was dotted with strolling couples. Here and there a brazier glowed where men roasted chestnuts for sale.
She pointed towards the arches of Waterloo Bridge.
‘Did you know that Constable painted this scene? And Monet too.’
Swallow did not know that, but he could understand how the perfect proportions of the bridge, the reflection off the water and the backdrop of the city would appeal to an artist. For a moment, he allowed himself to think that what he was looking at was actually a painting. He was aware that increasingly he tended to frame the world in terms of art. It disturbed him. He came back to reality.
‘I thought Constable always liked to paint rural scenes,’ he said. ‘Trees, lakes, river crossings, that sort of thing.’
‘I imagine it was a commercial decision. For many years the poor fellow didn’t sell very well in England. Nobody was particularly interested in images of the countryside.’
‘You know your London well.’
She laughed.
‘I should. I lived here for three years, you know. My father put me to an apprenticeship with a friend of his who had a fine business. He had a workshop near Hatton Garden and a really good outlet at Bond Street. Very fashionable. I learned a lot about the jewellery trade. It wasn’t usual for a girl, of course, but my gender has never been a problem in the business. It might even have been an advantage.’
‘You obviously liked it here. You weren’t tempted to stay?’
They came to Cleopatra’s Needle. She stopped, looking out across the river.
‘I fell in love,’ she said. ‘But the man didn’t love me. Oh, he said he did, of course. There was a year of courtship. In the end, he didn’t think the daughter of a Dublin Jewish shopkeeper was a good enough match.’
‘Was it a question of religion? Was he of your faith?’
‘Oh yes, he was Jewish. As Jewish as you can get.’ There was an edge of anger to her voice. ‘His family were high up in the community here. Big people in the synagogue. They finally drove me away from any religious practice.’
‘But your family was well established in Dublin. And well off too. Your parents built up a good business.’
‘By their standards they saw us as struggling.’ For a moment she looked sad. ‘I went back to Dublin as soon as my three years were up. My mother was gone. My father needed support. It was time to put what I had learned back into the business.’
They left the river front at Lancaster Place, and walked through Aldwych to Drury Lane. By now the light was fading, and the streets were filling with theatre-goers. Elegantly dressed men and women stepped down from carriages or emerged from the restaurants and chop houses. The pavements were alive with the buzz of laughter and conversation.
The Albion was warm and welcoming. They were offered a glass of cider punch, and shown to a table with a cheerful view of the fire. They were early diners, the waiter told them. The place would really only get busy when the theatres began to close.
The menu of the evening was chalked up on a blackboard that stood beside the fireplace. Swallow had never seen such a thing. The supper house had an air of informality that he liked.
They chose from the menu, starting with fried eel, on Katherine’s advice.
‘They’re a London specialty,’ she told him. ‘They catch them in the Thames estuary and they cook them in a flour batter. They’re very tasty.’
When he had finished, Swallow was sure he would not seek them out again.
They had a glass of Hock with the eel. Then they both decided to take the waiter’s guidance in favour of the house beefsteak. Swallow ordered a bottle of Medoc when they had finished the Hock.
‘So how much are you going to tell me about your business in London?’ she asked. ‘I imagine that Mr Shaftoe must have turned out to be a serious criminal to bring you all the way to Scotland Yard. It makes me nervous to think of him on the loose again.’
‘You needn’t worry for the moment. He’s safely locked up in the Tower of London now.’
‘In the Tower? I thought they only used that for kings’ wives before they cut their heads off.’
Swallow smiled. ‘Well, they do. But it has other uses too.’
He sipped the Medoc.
‘We know he was sent to Dublin by someone to find who had sold the tetradrachms. We’re not sure who sent him or why he wanted the information. And we’re still searching for Grace Clinton, who sold them to you. ‘
‘That poor woman. I didn’t know who she was or where to find her.’
‘We’ll locate her eventually, I hope.’
‘I don’t understand. The coins are not worth sending someone from London with a gun.’
‘Shaftoe tells us that there’s a plan here in London and in Dublin to defraud the Treasury in the transfer of land in Ireland.’
She looked puzzled. ‘But what has that do with the coins?’
‘I don’t know. I think it might have something to do also with the murder of the pawnbroker Ambrose Pollock a couple of weeks ago.’
‘My father knew him, but I don’t think I ever met him.’
‘It seemed at first that he’d been killed by his sister. It might have been some sort of family dispute. But it became clear once we started into the investigation that there were two people involved in his death. She might have been one, but she’s gone missing. We don’t know if she’s alive or dead.’
Katherine looked puzzled. ‘Then it wasn’t his sister?’
‘I can’t say that. I can’t say much with any certainty. This may not be the glittering peak of my police career.’
‘I don’t know much about how the police authorities view these things, but it seems to me that you’ve had lots of successes,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve been forever reading about you in the newspapers. It would be unfair if you were to feel down because of one case.’
‘You’re only as good as your last job in the police. Credit for past successes dries up pretty quickly.’
By now the supper house had become busy. The theatres were emptying, and tables began to fill with couples and larger groups, animatedly discussing the shows they had just seen.
The waiters redoubled their speed of service and the air became thick with cigar smoke. When an attractive young woman entered on a gentleman’s arm and was shown to a reserved table by the window, the restaurant broke into a round of applause and cheering. Swallow surmised that she was a leading lady or at least a prominent role in some nearby stage production.
The Medoc was finished.
He ordered a second bottle.
When the wine was poured, the waiter asked if they would like to choose a dessert. They both opted for raspberry sorbet.
‘They’re good,’ he said approvingly, savouring the raspberries. ‘But they’re not as good as the ones my mother grows in Newcroft.’
She smiled. ‘Where’s Newcroft? Is that where you grew up?’
‘It’s a little place in Kildare, hardly on the map. It’s not even a village, more a crossroads really. My people have a business there. The usual combination, a public house and a grocery. My father died a few years back, but my mother still runs it.’
‘Were they disappointed when you left your medical studies?’
‘It wasn’t so much that I left them,’ his tone was serious. ‘I told you before. I threw them away like a fool because I was too fond of drink.’
‘Wouldn’t you be interested in going home to take it over? Or is there someone else in the family to do that?’
‘No, I’m an only son. My sister is a teacher, and she doesn’t want to go back to it.’
‘Maybe it’s not my place to ask,’ she said cautiously, ‘but would it not be … well … suitable for yourself and Mrs Walsh?’
‘Mrs Walsh was my landlady.’ He knew his tone was sharp. ‘And we … found each other’s company congenial. In other circumstances, there might have been more to our relationship in the long run, I won’t deny that. But there’s no commitment and no expectations on either side now.’
She seemed to recoil a little at his vehemence.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that you seem, well, unhappy.’ Katherine finished her drink. ‘I’ve had my own experiences of unhappiness,’ she said, ‘and I can recognise it when I see it.’
They had reached the end of the Medoc. A troupe of three men in evening dress with violins was making its way across the restaurant, playing for each table party. Katherine smiled and reached across and touched his hand.
