by Carol Rivers
‘Perhaps I had better introduce myself,’ was the calm, unruffled reply. ‘I am Detective Inspector Mathew Fleet, working as part of the Metropolitan Division of the Central CID, better known as the Flying Squad.’
Eve was still clutching the samovar to her chest when Peg, Joan and Maude rushed in.
She was staring down at the man lying on Joseph’s kitchen floor. The man she had just hit over the head while fighting for her life.
‘Eve! Eve!’
‘Here, who’s that?’ Peg and Joan shrieked together.
‘My God, it’s a burglar!’
‘She’s caught a thief!’
‘What’s he doing on the floor?’
Eve slumped down on a chair. ‘He . . . he . . .’ The words seemed to be stuck in her throat.
‘It’s all right love, we’re with you, now.’ Peg waved the smelling salts under her nose.
‘Oh, Peg, he just walked in, as bold as brass. I thought it was Maude.’
‘What did he want? Who is he?’
‘He’s the landlord of the Drunken Sailor,’ Eve croaked as she stared at him.
‘But I thought you told us he died in a fire,’ said Peg in confusion.
‘He told me it wasn’t him. It was someone else instead, an innocent victim.’ She touched the scarf that still hung round her neck. ‘He tried to strangle me, Peg.’
Joan gasped as Maude took the scarf from Eve’s shoulders. ‘Oh, you poor love, your neck is all red!’
‘He was tying the scarf tighter and tighter. Then somehow I got hold of the samovar . . .’ She shuddered as she closed her eyes to try to block out the memory.
Peg knelt down by the body. ‘He’s a bloody ugly customer. But he’s still breathing.’
Eve put her hand to her mouth. ‘He . . . he blamed me for ruining his business.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
Eve gulped as she clung to the samovar. ‘He said he sold lascars to the rich. Human beings that wouldn’t ever be missed because they are all dregs . . .’ Eve burst into tears.
‘There, there, lass.’ Peg pulled her close, sliding her hand gently over Eve’s untidy hair. ‘It’s all over now. He ain’t gonna harm you again.’
They all looked down at the body. ‘How did he know you were here at Joseph’s?’ Maude asked.
‘He’s been watching me,’ Eve whispered. ‘I didn’t know who it was but he seemed familiar. He must have followed me back here today. Charlie told me to be careful, but I forgot.’
They all stared down at the unconscious man. A few seconds more, Eve reflected . . . if it hadn’t been for Joseph’s samovar, she would have been lying there instead.
Glancing down at the heavy metal urn she was still cradling to her chest, Eve saw the top had fallen off. Inside the cavity was a sheet of paper. With trembling hands, she slid it out.
Was this the answer to Joseph’s disappearance?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Joseph’s once cold front room was now warm and the fire burned brightly in the grate. Charlie sat beside Eve on the couch, his hand over hers as she recounted all that had happened since the landlord of the Drunken Sailor had walked into the house and attempted to kill her. The rest of the detective’s team had arrived in Isle Street and taken away the man responsible not only for attempting to kill Eve but for other crimes in the East End that stretched back many years.
‘But who is he?’ asked Eve as she looked at the tall, dark-headed police officer who sat opposite in the big arm chair. ‘Why would he want to kill me?’
‘The man who attacked you today, Mrs Kumar,’ explained Detective Inspector Mathew Fleet, ‘is known to us by a number of names. Walter Donovan, Maurice Owen, Jack the Lad Bannister, all aliases. His real identity is Alfred Rattigan, known to us as a tout, thief, smuggler and slave trader.’
‘Slave trader!’ Charlie repeated on a gasp.
Eve nodded. ‘Charlie, that’s what he told me. He said he found lascars . . . that they deserved what they got . . .’
The detective shifted his position in the chair. ‘Rattigan would befriend seamen in distress, then expose them to the excess and addictions that you saw for yourself, Mrs Kumar, in that back room of the tavern. Once his victims were under his control, he would market them to the wealthy, to be used in debauchery and for the entertainment of the upper classes. We have even discovered these unfortunates begging, imprisoned by circuses and brothels and other places.’ The young man paused briefly, raising his shoulders. ‘You see, the slave trade is quite sickening and most of the Oriental seamen who fall on hard times in our ports have no wealthy relatives to follow up their disappearances. They are like lambs to the slaughter once they become involved with people like Rattigan.’
‘Is that what happened to Dilip Bal?’ Eve asked in quiet tones.
‘We can only conjecture that he had become a liability and was . . . disposed of.’
‘And Singh?’ Charlie said abruptly.
‘Oh no,’ replied the detective, his dark eyes hardening. ‘Singh was a different kettle of fish. He wasn’t killed because he was vulnerable. He was murdered because he knew too much about Rattigan. Singh was a serang, a native boatswain. These men have almost autocratic power over their charges. Now, some serangs are honourable and look after their crew, but some bad apples are corrupt, as was Singh. He would first gain a man’s confidence by arranging a working passage, promising him the means to support his family. But on the next trip, he would extract dustoorie or payment from his wages until finally he bled him dry. It was then, when the man was desperate, he would take him to Rattigan to serve his final purpose.’
Charlie shook his head slowly. ‘So Eve became a danger too, after what she saw at Shadwell?’
‘From what you have told us,’ the policeman nodded, ‘something must have gone wrong on that jetty. Perhaps those men were disturbed or maybe they just took fright.’
‘They were arguing,’ Eve nodded. ‘As if they couldn’t make up their mind what to do with me.’
‘And perhaps that is the truth of it,’ agreed the detective. ‘But had not Constable Merritt appeared on the scene soon after, I’m afraid the outcome would have been very much as Rattigan had planned.’
Charlie squeezed Eve’s hand as he felt a shiver go through her. ‘But if you knew about Rattigan,’ Charlie asked their companion, ‘why didn’t you arrest him?’
‘We knew he had moved to London from the north,’ continued the Flying Squad officer, ‘but we had lost track of him for some time. It was only when we received Sergeant Moody’s request to have you formally suspended from duty that our enquiries began to mature. Even last year, during our more intensive investigations into East End crime, we had no real evidence to support the facts. The lascars disappeared, they were invisible to us and with no communication between us and the Indian authorities, our enquiries were inconclusive.’
‘If only I had made Moody listen to me,’ Charlie said on a distressed sigh.
‘If only you had,’ agreed the detective.
Charlie looked down. ‘I thought it was enough to follow my own instincts.’
Detective Inspector Fleet laughed lightly and Charlie glanced up. He deserved to be mocked, but it was a deep humiliation.
‘Instincts are what we all work on,’ said the policeman, still smiling. ‘And you were going in the right direction. Had we not followed you to the Overseas Sailors’ Home and discovered all we needed to know about Singh, then we wouldn’t have put a case together as solidly as we have now.’
‘You followed me?’ Charlie repeated.
‘It is our job to work undercover.’
‘But . . . but I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me there!’ Charlie protested. ‘It seemed like a wall of silence.’
‘And perhaps it was,’ nodded the policeman. ‘But after you left, we brought those four men in for questioning at the Yard. They were quite innocent of course, but terrified. Each of them revealed the truth about Singh and how, beginn
ing on the Star of Bengal and later on the Tarkay, they and men like them poured all their wages into Singh’s pockets and slowly these same men began to disappear. Singh had become a figure of terror to any lascar. There will be very few who mourn his passing.’
Charlie frowned as he sat forward. ‘And Eve . . . Eve’s husband . . .’
Detective Inspector Fleet nodded slowly, his dark eyes travelling to Eve. ‘There is no evidence to show that your husband was involved with either Singh or Rattigan, Mrs Kumar. Marriage to a British citizen and his work in the purser’s department where he would be under the jurisdiction of the officers and not a serang, would set him apart. It is the low-caste sweepers, the agwalas, paniwallahs and khalassies who become the victims of men like Singh and Rattigan.’
‘So . . . so my Raj . . . he wasn’t . . .’ Eve began tremulously.
The tall, dark man smiled gently. ‘I think it is fair to say that your husband perished in unfortunate circumstances, an accident perhaps, a fall from the ship – and we can find no evidence at all to suggest that his life was taken.’
Charlie felt Eve slump back beside him. She gave a tight sob, dropping her head forward. He needed more than anything to comfort her and was grateful when the detective rose and went out of the room. ‘Eve, I’m so dreadfully sorry.’ He took her in his arms and held her to him.
‘I’d been thinking such terrible things,’ she whispered into his shoulder. ‘That someone killed him.’
‘No, it was an accident, Eve.’
‘Do you believe that?’ She looked up into his face and he brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
He nodded and, kissing the damp spot, he whispered, ‘Raj was a good man, a fine man. I believe what the detective says. And you must too.’
He felt a little shudder go through him as he held her. In the silence of Joseph’s front room, he came closer to praying than he had been in a long time. He asked that now Raj Kumar’s soul could rest in peace. And that when all this was over, he and the woman he held against his heart could make a future together.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was Sunday 14th April 1929 and Eve sat alone on one of the two wooden chairs propped side by side in the backyard of number three Isle Street. Her face was lifted to the pale sunshine and her feet were tucked neatly at the base of the newly repaired wall that Charlie had just completed whilst waiting for Samuel and Albert to return from Mass.
The wall now stood a good four feet high and had returned a pleasant intimacy to the cottage that had been missing ever since the Great Flood of last year.
Not that there had been much peace here a few moments ago, Eve reflected, for as Charlie had tapped the last brick into place with his trowel, the boys had returned from St Saviour’s with only one thing on their mind: to pack their shorts, tops, long socks and boots into their shoe bags for the afternoon match. It was a friendly between the Millwall Under Elevens and Cubitt Town’s Primaries. Samuel and Albert were members of the first team and this was to be their third outing since January. Charlie was their coach and trainer and had spent every spare moment with his new protégés.
A smile touched Eve’s lips as she thought of her sons’ noisy, exuberant delight, equalled only by Charlie’s own unstoppable energy. In a whirlwind of enthusiasm they had left to conquer the world. Well, at least a small playing field of it, Eve thought fondly.
How fortunate they were to have Charlie for a friend. And not just a friend – Eve knew that Charlie meant more to them all than this. But even though the events of the last year had meant that now she could start a new life, still she was reluctant to commit herself.
The letter in Eve’s hand fluttered gently. She gazed down at the single sheet that had never been very far from her person since that day in January. It was Joseph’s own personal goodbye and she had never tired of reading it.
Eve, forgive this old man for leaving without a farewell. But I am ailing now and it will not be long before my time on this earth is complete. This country has a special place in my affections but now I return to join Gilda and those loved ones who sleep on Russian soil. I leave you a parting gift. The top of the samovar was given to me by my visitors and now I give it to you, my dear. Redeem its value and it will provide a generous sum for your future. Shalom!
Your grateful friend and neighbour,
Joseph
Just then Eve heard Joan and Peg’s voices. As usual they were enjoying a disagreement, shouting above the clatter of pots and pans. Dinner was being prepared in the kitchen, ready for Charlie and the boys when they returned home. As Eve listened, her mind went back to the day that had changed her life. When Alfred Rattigan had followed her to Joseph’s cottage and she had stared into the eyes of a killer. Her hand went up to her throat automatically and she felt a chill despite the warm sun. If the samovar hadn’t been on the dresser, if she hadn’t managed to defend herself...
Eve shuddered, trying to put the memory behind her. Rattigan was in custody awaiting trial for the heinous crimes he had committed against the unsuspecting lascars of London’s docklands. Detective Inspector Fleet had assured them that Rattigan would never see the light of day again. But still Eve shivered at the memories.
Folding the letter, Eve tucked it into her pocket and turned her thoughts towards all the good that had come out of that day. She had discovered the note from Joseph, and though she missed him dearly, she understood his decision to return to Russia and die on his native soil. But her shock had been great at his parting gift. The heavy metal top of the samovar that looked like brass, was in fact, gold.
‘’Ere, gel, look at this!’ Peg came running from the kitchen, followed closely by Joan. The two women were dressed in aprons and turbans and a lighted roll-up hung from the corner of Peg’s mouth.
Eve sat up. ‘What is it?’
Peg pushed a newspaper into her hands. ‘It’s Friday’s rag. Old Reg Barnes at the market wrapped the beef up in it. Look!’
Eve frowned at the crumpled newspaper.
‘It’s about Harold!’ exclaimed Joan, jabbing it with her finger. ‘See, it’s my old man!’
The three women stared at the bloodstained sheet that Eve held out. ‘Charged with lascivious behaviour—’ Eve began, to be stopped mid-sentence by Joan.
‘What’s las . . . las . . .’
‘It’s being a dirty old man, that’s what!’ chuckled Peg, pulling the paper close. ‘He got caught with his trousers down, up Aldgate, in one of them dock dollies’ gaffs. See? It says he was in . . . im . . . impor—’
‘Importuning,’ read Eve. ‘That means it was more than once.’
‘The dirty old sod!’
‘I always knew it,’ cackled Peg, sucking hard on her roll-up. ‘And to think me own sister believed I was lying when I tried to warn her!’
Joan put her hands on her hips. ‘Don’t start all that again.’
‘It says here that Harold Slygo is of no fixed abode,’ read Eve slowly. ‘So he ain’t at Bambury Buildings any more!’
‘He must’ve been kicked out.’ Joan gave a little sob. ‘All me lovely stuff was there an’ all.’
‘It wasn’t your lovely stuff,’ pointed out Peg sharply. ‘It was your mother-in-law’s.’
‘Same thing, as it was me that polished it.’
Peg almost choked on her cigarette. ‘You never done a day’s polishing in yer life, you lazy cow!’
Eve put the paper down. ‘Shush, you two. Just think, Joan, Harold didn’t get off scot free after all.’
Joan smiled, nodding in satisfaction as she tucked a wisp of grey hair into her turban.
Peg sat down on the wooden chair beside Eve. She took the newspaper and folded it in two. ‘Well, ladies, I reckon we’ll keep this as a souvenir.’
‘Could frame it even.’ Joan folded her arms over her chest and looked slyly at her sister. ‘It’d be nice to raise a glass to British justice.’
Peg and Eve looked up quickly. ‘British justice me foot,’ muttered Peg
. ‘You ain’t going on the juice again, Joan. Not in this house you ain’t.’
‘Didn’t say I was, did I?’
‘Well, go and make a cuppa, then. And bring out me baccy when you come.’
‘The trouble with you, Peg,’ muttered Joan as she turned and walked back to the kitchen, ‘is that you don’t know ’ow to enjoy yerself.’
Eve and Peg laughed softly as they glanced at each other. Then Peg put her hand on Eve’s wrist. ‘You all right, gel?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Queer the way life turns out, ain’t it? It was only fifteen months ago that this backyard was a lake.’
‘And all the lavs overflowed.’ They laughed together.
Peg sighed. ‘Then this ’andsome young copper comes along and rescues us . . .’
Eve nodded slowly. ‘And who would have believed what happened after that?’
Peg glanced at Eve. ‘Has he popped the question yet?’
Eve laughed. ‘Peg, I ain’t getting married.’
‘But you’re selling yer flowers in his shop!’
‘That’s a business arrangement between me and Mr Merritt. It ain’t nothing to do with Charlie and me.’
Peg spluttered disbelievingly. ‘When you’re rich you won’t wanna live in Isle Street.’
Eve smiled affectionately. ‘I’ll never be rich, Peg, but I’d like to think we’ll be comfortable. Nothing changes the fact that you and Joan and Jimmy are the closest to family that me and the boys will ever have.’
‘Yeah, we’ll always be that, Eve. But times change. You’ve got Samuel and Albert to think of. They need a bit of space like what the Merritts have got at the bakery.’
‘Don’t forget I’ve changed the name now,’ Eve gently reminded her friend, ‘to Eve’s Flowers.’
‘I know, ducks. And I’m proud of you. As Sarah would be proud of her daughter – and yer dad too.’
‘I wish they were alive to see it. Never thought I’d own a shop, Peg. I always thought it was me destiny to sell on the streets. But to tell you the truth I knew in my heart it wasn’t enough for the boys. I couldn’t admit that Sister Superior might be right, that my sons deserved something better.’
