There’s nothing elegant or artistic about the interior of the shop, or its proprietor. Both are drab, homely, dusty-looking, and seem to have very little to offer a potential customer. Charley strides up to the sallow, sad little fellow behind the chipped counter – which shows no sign of ever having had teller’s windows – and thrusts out a hand. ‘Good afternoon, sir! Mr Milford, isn’t it?’ He has no notion of the man’s actual name, of course; this is his way of finding out.
‘No, sir, it’s Blimely. Grodon Peter Blimely, to be exact.’
‘Mr Blimely, of course! How could I forget? It’s just like “Blimey.”’ Charley laughs heartily. ‘But I’m sure you’ve heard that one a thousand times.’
The man just gives a weary smile and a shrug.
‘Well,’ says Charley, ‘I’ve just been telling my friend here about your shop, and how you carry only the best pipes and the finest mixtures.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, indeed. If you don’t mind, I’ll just look around while you see to his smoking needs.’ To Mumchance, he mutters, ‘I’ll need five minutes. Keep him busy.’
Charley studies the dingy plaster and worn wainscoting on the walls as if, like Daniel in Belshazzar’s castle, he can decipher some message written there. He bends and, slipping on his spectacles, examines the edge of the floor until he finds what he’s looking for. Then he returns to the counter. While Mr Blimely searches his sparse stock for a pipe to suit Mumchance, Charley crouches and runs his fingers over the floorboards. ‘Hmm,’ he murmurs. Rising, he puts a hand on Mumchance’s shoulder. ‘Let me pay for that,’ he says, indicating the unexpectedly fine cherrywood pipe in the poet’s hands. To the proprietor, he says, ‘These poets; they never have one penny to rub against another.’
‘I can sympathize. Not that I’m a poet, mind you, just that I know what it’s like to be poor.’
‘Perhaps you should consider some other line of business. A coffeehouse, for example. Or, I don’t know, a betting parlor.’
Mr Blimely’s face registers astonishment. ‘How odd that you should say such a thing! In the past month, a dozen fellows have come in asking what became of the betting shop!’ So preposterous is the notion that the man bursts into laughter.
Charley laughs along with him. ‘And what did you tell them?’
‘Well, that I’ve been renting this space for twenty years, and there’s never been a betting shop anywhere near here. Most of them just went away, shaking their heads, but one threatened to have the law on me if I didn’t pay him his winnings.’
‘That is curious, indeed. Something else struck me as odd: When we were here a few weeks ago, the place was closed up tight.’
‘Really? Perhaps it was a Sunday.’
‘I remember the date,’ says Charley – from the pasteboard ticket, of course. ‘It was November 18th.’
The man consults a calendar on the wall. ‘That was a Friday. What was I—? Oh, yes. I was in Bath, visiting my sister, the poor old thing; she’s not well, you know.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. So you were gone for several days, then?’
‘Three and a half days, more or less.’
‘Did you tell anyone you were going?’
The man scratches his scabby, balding head. ‘I may have mentioned it to one of my customers. Business is a little slow sometimes, so when a customer does come in, I’m afraid I tend to go on a bit too much. Am I going on too much?’
‘No, no. Thank you for taking such good care of my friend, here. A poet must have a proper pipe, of course – inspiration and all that.’ Before Mr Blimely can reply, Charley hustles Mumchance out the door.
‘Actually,’ says the poet, once they’re well away, ‘I have no use for a pipe; I smoke only cigarettes. When I can afford them.’
‘I’ll be glad to take it off your hands.’ Charley glances at the fellow’s expensive boots. ‘Why don’t you ask your parents for money? I’m sure they have plenty.’
Geoffrey gapes at him for a moment, then nods, a bit sheepishly. ‘You’re right once again. My old man owns a woolen mill in Gloucestershire. He’s rich as Croesus, but he pays his workers a pittance and treats them like slaves. I didn’t want to be a part of that, and I don’t want to profit from it.’
‘Good for you. I like a man with principles.’
‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t mind also being a man with money.’
‘Hmm. Let’s start by getting back your father’s watch.’
Over cups of coffee at a chop house, Charley reveals his findings. ‘First off, you weren’t imagining things; there was a betting shop in that location. For approximately three days.’
‘Three days—? Oh, I see. While Mr Blimey was away, visiting his sister.’
‘Exactly. When our culprits learned he’d be gone, they moved in – under cover of night, no doubt – installed the betting windows, hung up some pictures and chalkboards, and stuck a pre-painted sign above the door.’
‘The devil take me! How did you deduce all that?’
‘There were crumbs of chalk on the floor, some freshly hammered nails in the wall, and screw holes in the floorboards next to the counter. My guess is, they built the dividers somewhere else, in sections, and just stuck them up there, like the flats in a stage set. Which brings us to the matter of who these coves are. You didn’t happen to notice the ring worn by the man at the teller’s window?’
‘If I did, I’ve forgot it.’
‘Apparently it was made of silver and pewter, and had images of a compass and a skull.’
‘Masonic symbols,’ says Mumchance. ‘But there are dozens of lodges in London; how on earth—’
Charley holds up a hand, cutting him off. ‘There was another image as well. A large letter B.’
‘But even so—’
‘And I happen to know who is likely to sport such a ring.’
The early afternoon air is, in the words of Horatio, nipping and eager, but the coffee – though it tastes of beans that never saw a coffee plant – warms them well, and it’s an easy walk to the Haymarket Theatre. Charley once performed there, in the coppers’ Christmas pantomime, but that was so long ago that no one is likely to recognize him. Just to make sure, he stops in a pawnshop and purchases a silk hat, a pair of pince-nez glasses, and a fur-trimmed coat that makes him appear quite the swell – as long as you don’t look closely enough to see the moth holes.
In the alley beside the Haymarket, Charley says, ‘Follow my lead,’ and strides through the stage door as if he owns the place. Ignoring the fact that there’s a rehearsal in progress, he approaches the harried-looking stage manager and speaks in a voice as booming as that of Mr Dickens and an accent as posh as that of Lord Chumley. ‘My fwiend Chahley Dickens sent meh. Heh’s wented your theataw in the pahst, and tells me it’s an excellent venue.’
‘Please keep your voice down, sir! Come with me!’ The stage manager leads them down a set of stairs to the lower level, where the scene shops and dressing rooms are found. ‘If you’re interested in renting the theatre, sir, you’ll have to talk to Mr Webster.’
‘Oh, deeah. I was so hoping we could at least look awound a bit, see whethew the place is seeootable?’
‘Well … I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, if you pwomise – promise to do so quietly.’
‘Upon my honnah, sah, we shall be as silent as church mice. Or is it church mice that are pooah? I can nevah wemembah.’
When the man is well out of hearing, Geoffrey gives in to the laughter he’s been suppressing. ‘That,’ he chokes, ‘was quite a performance!’
‘My deeah Mistah Mumchawnce,’ says Charley, ‘will you pleeahs contwol yooahself?’ As they explore the rooms on either side of the long hallway, Charley whispers, ‘Did you see his ring?’
‘No. Is it the same one?’
The detective nods. ‘It’s worn by the members of the Bedford Lodge, most of whom are theatre professionals – actors, stagehands, carpenters, and … set designers.’ He opens a door labeled SCENE
SHOP, slips inside, and turns up the gas lamp, revealing what looks like a combination of a Roman ruin and a village that’s been razed by a cyclone. ‘This is where they store the sets from previous productions. And look there.’ Leaning against the wall are several panels made of wood and wrought iron; one of them has an opening similar to a teller’s window. Next to it is a large chalkboard with the word Ascot painted at the top in white letters. Behind it, half concealed, is something that looks very much like a painting of a racehorse.
‘Well, I’m damned!’ breathes Geoffrey. ‘How did those end up here?’
‘No doubt they were constructed here – perhaps for a play, perhaps specifically for the purpose they were put to.’
‘Constructed by whom?’
Charley lifts his crooked index finger to his lips and whispers, ‘I think we’re about to find out.’ He turns down the gas and flattens himself against the wall. The footsteps he heard in the hallway grow louder, then stop. The door hinges squeak; a dark form enters the room and turns up the gas.
Charley slams the door shut and leans casually against it. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he says, shedding both the pince-nez and the Lord Chumley accent.
The man is the way Mumchance described him: tall, good-looking, and well built. But now he’s wearing a carpenter’s outfit – corduroy trousers and waistcoat, a leather apron, a hat made of folded paper. He glares at them. ‘What are you doing in my workshop?’
‘Looking for a particular stage set.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Detective Field. This is Mr Mumchance. And you …’ Charley produces the play program he discovered in one of the dressing rooms and reads from it. ‘You are “Matthew Turple, Scenic Designer,” I believe. An impressive job title, but I’m guessing it doesn’t pay accordingly, or you wouldn’t be obliged to put on your own little productions in your leisure time.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Mr Mumchance here attended one of your performances a month ago and found the ticket price far too steep. We’ve come to ask for a refund.’
‘You’re talking a lot of nonsense,’ growls the man. ‘And even if it’s true, you can’t pin anything on me.’
‘If I were you,’ says Charley, ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
NINE
When Charley mentions the possibility of prison, the man’s defiant facade quickly crumbles. He confesses that he and his confederates have pulled the vanishing betting shop stunt half a dozen times and have made a pretty profit, both in cash and in valuables, which they sell to flash houses – receivers of stolen goods.
‘Then you no longer have my watch?’ asks the poet.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ says Turple. ‘I’m more than happy to give you what it was worth, if you don’t report me. Will two pounds cover it?’
Mr Mumchance nods.
‘But,’ says Charley, ‘there’s also the matter of my fee.’
‘He hired you; let him pay you.’
‘I prefer to collect from you. Thirty shillings, plus expenses. Let’s say another two pounds.’
The carpenter grudgingly surrenders the money. ‘Now we’re square, right?’
Charley smiles and says, ‘Not quite.’
Three days later, on Christmas Eve, Charley and Geoffrey are again standing before the tobacconist’s – though it hardly looks like the same shop at all. The window frames are freshly painted, the sooty bricks have been washed and whitewashed. A large sign above the door reads MR BLIMEY’s Smoke Shop Fine Tobaccos and Related Items.
‘Turple and his men did an admirable job,’ says Charley.
‘There’s just one small problem,’ the poet points out. ‘They misspelled Mr Blimely’s name.’
The interior of the shop has undergone a similar transformation. The plaster is patched and painted, the wainscoting scrubbed and varnished, the countertop replaced. ‘I’ve ordered in some new stock, as well,’ says Mr Blimely. ‘I expect I’ll have more customers now.’
‘I’ll have Mr Turple correct the spelling of your name,’ says Charley. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate.’
‘Oh, but it was, sir! I told you I was thinking of changing my name, and now I’ve done it! Well, why not? Everyone calls me Blimey, anyway. Besides, it’s more eye-catching, more … more memorable. A businessman has to think about such things, you know.’
The display in the window has been completely redone, too; an attractive array of pipes, tobaccos, cigar boxes, and humidors rests on a bed of cotton wool surrounded by evergreen boughs and ornaments. ‘When we were here before,’ says Charley, ‘I noticed a doll in your front window. Do you still have it?’
The grateful Mr Mumchance treats him to dinner at an oyster house where the food is, if not topping, at least cheap and plentiful. By the time Charley reaches his office, it’s nearly dark, and snow has begun to fall. The postman has been by, and for the first time has left something besides advertising circulars. There are no fewer than three envelopes addressed to Inspector Bucket’s Private Enquiry Agency. The notices he planted in the papers are bearing fruit.
Unfortunately, none of the appeals is worth bothering with. The first is from a sorry-sounding chap who wants help finding a suitable wife. The second is from a fellow enquiry agent, offering to take on some of Inspector Bucket’s ‘no doubt enormous load of cases.’ There’s also a plea from a man whose wallet has been stolen. Charley sighs; he’d been hoping for an excuse not to go home, but it appears that he’s doomed to spend Christmas Eve with the wife and the mother.
He locks up the office and descends the stairs. Just as he steps onto the snow-dusted pavement, a cab pulls up, strewing slush with its wheels, and a pretty face is thrust around the front edge of the passenger enclosure. The woman’s mouth and jaw are concealed by a scarf; above it, her dark eyes are wide with anxiety and alarm. ‘Mary!’ says Charley. ‘What is it?’
‘I went to your house first; they said I might find you here! Come with me, quickly!’
The driver releases the side doors and Charley clambers into the cab. ‘He’s back, isn’t he? The man with the stiff neck?’
Mary nods. ‘I only hope we’re not too late.’ Her words are indistinct, thanks to the phossy jaw, but Charley is used to deciphering all sorts of strange dialects and accents.
‘Is he with a girl?’
‘He was when I left. Mrs Bramble put a dose of something in his drink, to knock him out, but she didn’t know how long it might last.’
Though Mary is clearly distraught, Charley learned long ago the importance of staying calm and clear-headed, however dire the situation might seem. He raps on the roof with his walking stick and the driver opens the little hatch. ‘If you get us there in ten minutes,’ calls Charley, ‘there’s an extra shilling in it for you.’
‘I’ll do me best, sir,’ says the cabbie. ‘And so will Petunia. That’s me ’orse.’
‘I guessed as much.’ Charley leans forward and speaks to the horse. ‘Put on some speed, Petunia, and I’ll see that you get an extra ration of oats.’ She cocks an ear and picks up the pace. Settling back in the seat, he says to Mary, ‘Do you prefer the shilling, or the ration of oats?’ and she gives a startled laugh. Surreptitiously, Charley feels the inside pocket of his greatcoat, making sure the cast-iron cuffs are where they’re supposed to be.
When they near Madame M’Alpine’s Seminary, Charley raps on the roof again and hands the fare and the bonus to the driver. ‘Release the doors now, please; we can’t afford to waste even a second.’ Before the cab has quite come to a halt, his feet are on the pavement and he’s sprinting for the front entrance. Mrs Bramble is at the door, waiting for him. ‘He’s upstairs!’ she whispers. ‘In Rosa’s room!’
It would be foolish to go thundering up the stairs. He takes them swiftly but quietly, stepping on the outsides of the treads to avoid any squeaking; there’s no telling whether Neck might be dead to the world or fully alert. He doesn’t dare try the door on Rosa’s old room, either,
to determine whether it’s locked. He’s had plenty of experience at knocking things down and, though he’s not as fit as he once was, when he throws himself into it shoulder-first, the door gives way with a satisfying splintering sound.
To his relief, the girl who was entertaining Neck has slipped out at some point. The stiff-necked cove is in the room alone, stretched out on the rumpled bed, naked except for his shirt, snoring in the same gravelly, grating way that he speaks. Charley is sorely tempted to brain the bastard with the heavy head of his walking stick, and if he were a hundred percent certain that Neck is to blame for Rosa’s death, he might do it. But he’s been wrong before – not often, but occasionally. Instead, he fishes the bracelets from his greatcoat pocket, leans across the bed, and deftly clamps one of the cuffs onto the man’s right wrist.
Before Charley can fasten the other end to the bedstead, Neck abruptly sits up and looks around, the way he must have done when he came back from the dead. But this time he doesn’t say, ‘This don’t look like Hell to me.’ In fact, he doesn’t utter a word. He springs from the bed, yanking the cuffs from Charley’s grasp, and stumbles toward the wooden valet where his overcoat is hanging. Thrusting a hand into the side pocket, he comes up with a revolver – the same sort he previously pulled on Charley.
Once again Charley is too quick for him. He brings his walking stick down on the man’s wrist so hard that you can hear bones crack. Neck lets out a hoarse roar of pain. But instead of clutching the wounded wrist as any normal person would do, he does something totally unexpected: He snatches up the woolen bedspread, flings it around his shoulders like a cape, and lunges across the room – not toward Charley, but toward the window. He hits it full force, the way Charley hit the door; the mullions splinter, the glass explodes outwards, and the man tumbles out of sight.
Snatching up the revolver, Charley flies to the window and thrusts his head through the opening. He knows the Seminary’s surroundings well enough to know that, unfortunately, his prey hasn’t gone plummeting to the street. There’s a building adjacent to this one, a harness shop that’s only two stories high. Neck has somehow managed to land atop it without breaking any bones and is teetering along the peak of the roof, his bare feet slipping on the snow; he loses his footing and slides on his arse down the slope, but is brought up short by the brick parapet. He flings aside the bedspread and scuttles onward.
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