Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  ‘No, Your Honor. And even if he had, it certainly would not have caused me to – to—’ She begins sobbing softly into her lace handkerchief. For a moment, Charley fears that the audience will break into applause again, but they don’t. Instead, the gallery is as hushed and still as a Friends’ meeting house. He spots several of the female spectators pulling out their own handkerchiefs.

  Though Mr Mallett seems barely able to lift his gavel, he manages to bang it hard enough to startle everyone. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, will you please gather at the other end of the room and discuss this amongst yourselves? And would someone please bring me a pint of mild?’

  Mr Elton, Sergeant Williamson, and Charley all converge on Miss Fairweather and ask, almost in one voice, whether she’s all right. ‘Yes,’ she says, sniffling, ‘just a little shaken, that’s all. Mr Elton, I’m so grateful to you for speaking out on my behalf. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  Judging from Elton’s subtly salacious smile, he’s already thought of several possibilities. But he says, with an air of magisterial munificence, ‘I’m only too happy to be of help, my dear.’

  Of course, there’s no guarantee that his testimony will, in fact, prove helpful; Charley is about to point that out when there’s a sudden flurry of activity at the far end of the gallery. The jury has already come out of its huddle and the foreman, a burly cooper, is approaching the coroner’s bench. Mr Mallett regards the group with surprise and a touch of disapproval; he hasn’t even had his pint of ale yet. ‘What is it?’ he asks, no doubt assuming they have further questions.

  ‘We’ve arrived at a verdick, Your Honor,’ says the foreman.

  ‘Already? You arrived almost before you left.’

  ‘That’s as may be sir, but we’ve talked it over, and ’tis our considered opinion that Lord Bainbury’s death were a accident, plain and simple.’

  Miss Fairweather responds with a very gratifying display of tearful joy. Almost instantly, she and Mr Elton are surrounded by spectators and jurymen, some offering congratulations, some just wishing to touch the hems of their garments, as it were. And of course there are the inevitable newspaper reporters looking for a quote from the dead man’s mistress, one that they can completely reword to suit their purposes.

  Charley wants none of it. He’s done his job; it’s time to go. Well, as soon as he’s visited the bar downstairs for a glass of grog, anyway. He should feel a sense of satisfaction, he supposes; things could hardly have turned out better – except for poor Monty, that is. But for some reason, the whole business seems unfinished.

  He still can’t help wondering what became of the house girl. It’s unlikely that she’d suddenly just slope off with no notice at all; as Miss Fairweather said, jobs are hard to find, and even harder without a reference. In his experience, there are two main reasons why people unaccountably disappear: Either they’re guilty of something, or they’re afraid of something. Of course, there’s always a third possibility, but he doesn’t like to consider it. There’s been entirely too much dying going on.

  When he’s mulling over a case, Charley likes to keep a clear head, but it doesn’t seem be doing much good. Besides, he could use another drink; he’s feeling a trifle sorry for himself, a bit unappreciated. He didn’t expect Miss Fairweather to fall all over him, but she might at least have said thank you. She certainly made a point of thanking Mr Elton; it wouldn’t surprise Charley if, after the inquest winds down, she shows her gratitude in some more intimate fashion. No doubt that sort of thing is commonplace in the world of the theatre. Perhaps he should have been an actor and not a copper, after all.

  By the time he’s walked all the way to Millbank, it’s going on eleven. Jane will surely have given up on him and gone to bed long ago. Just as well; he’s not really in a mood for talking or, more likely, being talked at. What he’s really in the mood for is a late supper. With any luck, Hanora will have left a plate of something for him.

  When he shuffles into the kitchen, he’s taken aback to find Jane sitting at what she calls the servants’ table – as with servants’ entrance, it implies that they have more than one – sipping a cup of tea. Charley recovers quickly and says, half joking, ‘Aren’t you afraid that’ll keep you awake?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well lately, in any case.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, my dear. Can I fix you a sandwich?’

  ‘No, thank you. I haven’t had much appetite, either.’

  Well, he’s not about to coax her; she knows her own mind. As he assembles his repast, he softly whistles ‘Under the Greenwood Tree.’ He’s not about to volunteer any excuses or apologies, either. Maybe it would have been more thoughtful of him to send her a message, explaining where he was and what he was up to, so she wouldn’t worry, but he didn’t, and that’s that, and if she wants to take him to task for it, so be it.

  ‘I don’t mean to be critical,’ she says, and Charley’s whistling trails off. Oh, here we go. But she doesn’t go in the direction he expects. ‘It’s just that Hanora seems a bit … distracted lately. Do you suppose there are problems with her family, or something of that sort? Has she said anything to you?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’ If you don’t count her rhapsodizing about Young Lochinvar, who is very likely the cause of her distraction. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to seem as if I’m prying.’ There’s a sentence he doesn’t recall ever hearing her use before. What’s come over her?

  ‘I’ll bring it up tomorrow, if you like.’

  ‘Would you, please?’ She finishes her tea, dabs her mouth delicately with a napkin, and rises. ‘I hope you had a good day, and solved lots of cases.’

  ‘Well, only one, but it was an important one. I helped prevent a—’ Better not to say a young woman; that might lead to more questions – ‘a woman from being charged with murder.’

  ‘She was innocent, I hope?’ Her tone sounds almost teasing – something else Jane doesn’t ordinarily do much of.

  ‘Yes,’ says Charley, and adds, under his breath, ‘I hope so, too.’

  She yawns discreetly, one hand covering her mouth. ‘I suppose I may as well go to bed, even though I probably won’t be able to sleep for hours yet.’ Is it his imagination, or is there something slightly suggestive in the way she says that? When Miss Fairweather makes a risqué remark, it’s hard to miss her meaning; of course, she’s had far more practice. ‘Perhaps you should come to bed, too; you look tired.’

  ‘Uh, no, I’m fine. I think I’ll stay up for a while yet. I need to make some notes about this case, while it’s fresh in my mind.’ As he bites rather emphatically into his sandwich, Charley fancies he hears a faint sigh of disappointment or resignation from her.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Well. I believe I’ll read the Brontë book you gave me at Yuletide.’

  Perhaps Jane was exaggerating about her inability to sleep. When Charley arises early the next morning and passes her room, he can hear her snoring softly. Hanora is up already, simultaneously shelling peas and scanning the Daily News. She gives him a cheerful grin. ‘Good morning, sir. Can I fix something for you?’

  ‘A nice cup of Mocha wouldn’t be amiss. Since Mrs Field is in such an accommodating mood, perhaps she won’t mind if I bring my grinder and biffin into her house.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’s quite that accommodating just yet. I’d give her a bit more time.’

  ‘Hmm. I don’t suppose she’s ready for pipe smoking, either?’

  The house girl shrugs. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to try.’

  ‘It might.’ He nods at the paper. ‘Any news of interest?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Here’s a fascinating story about the coroner’s inquest into the death of Lord Bainbury. Would you care to read it?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m sure story is the proper term for it; they’ll have made up most of it.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t actually say “Once again, gentlemen, the English sys
tem of justice has shown itself to be the most efficient, most thorough, and most unbiased in the civilized world.”?’

  ‘Does it sound like something I’d say?’

  ‘Maybe. If you were delirious, and imagined you were Mr Disraeli. Oh, and here’s another bit of invention. It says that Lord Bainbury’s house girl has mysteriously vanished.’ Hanora gives a snort of derision. ‘I happen to know that he dismissed her, with no notice at all. She went home to County Clare.’

  Charley, who has discovered the still-warm oatcakes Hanora baked earlier, pauses in the middle of eating one to gape at her. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Aye. My friend Mary knows her well; she helped her pack and all.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two days since.’

  Charley puts aside the half-eaten oatcake and turns away, not caring to let Hanora see how disturbed and how baffled he is by this information. It’s better if she has no notion that anything is amiss. Once people get it into their heads that someone has committed a crime or been the victim of one, it colors their perception; they begin to remember things differently.

  Why, he wonders, wouldn’t Miss Fairweather tell him that Arly had been let go? Did she not know? Hard to imagine that Monty wouldn’t at least discuss it with her. And why dismiss the girl so abruptly? Because she’d done something wrong? Threatened him somehow, or demanded something from him? Charley takes a deep breath and puts on a neutral face, then turns back to Hanora, meaning to determine, very calmly, what else she knows. But before he can say a word, she gives a startled cry and claps a hand to her mouth. Her wide eyes stare incredulously at the newspaper. ‘Saints preserve us!’ she gasps.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  Wordlessly, she hands him the paper, pointing with a shaking finger at a brief item in the lower right corner of the page. While the headline – ‘CONSTABLE BRUTALLY BEATEN’ – is certainly upsetting, it’s hardly startling or unexpected. There are over five thousand men on the force, after all; hardly a month goes by without one of them suffering injuries in the line of duty. Charley certainly suffered his share.

  And then he reads the text of the piece: Last evening, a policeman walking his beat near the Oval in South Lambeth came upon the unconscious, nearly lifeless form of a fellow constable. The unfortunate officer, who had been severely beaten over his entire body, was identified as Constable Lochinvar Mull, a recent recruit to Scotland’s Yard’s Chelsea (B) Division. He was conveyed at once to Westminster Hospital where, at last word, he was in critical condition; doctors there hold little hope for his recovery.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Westminster Hospital was built only twenty years ago as a refuge for the ill and injured who can’t afford a private physician’s care. That unfortunately includes constables, whose weekly wage is scarcely more than that of a good chimney sweep or a bag maker. The hospital’s modern design – a series of small rooms rather than a single large ward – was meant to minimize the spread of infectious diseases. It hasn’t worked very well, for the sheer volume of patients – some 20,000 a year – is such that half a dozen or more must be crammed into each room, like animals at a slaughterhouse awaiting their turn to be pole-axed and bled out.

  Being a copper does have its advantages, though; an officer injured in the performance of his duty is, after all, a kind of hero, and heroes should not be treated as cavalierly as ordinary patients. Constable Mull has been placed in a room that contains only three other men. It’s even possible to walk between the beds.

  For once, the newspaper wasn’t exaggerating; the poor fellow is in bad shape. His left forearm is encased in a gypsum roller bandage; his face is as swollen and purple as an overripe plum; his scalp has been stitched up in half a dozen places; bloody gauze encircles his abdomen like a gruesome sort of cummerbund. ‘Oh, Lochinvar!’ whispers Hanora. ‘Just look at you!’ She sits on the edge of the painted metal bed and takes one of the lad’s mangled hands in her own; he doesn’t respond at all. Charley remains standing, partly because he’s not sure the bed will hold another person’s weight and partly because hospitals, like prisons, make him nervous; he likes to stay on his toes, just in case – in case of what, he’s not quite sure. As his mother was fond of saying, ‘You just never know.’

  After an hour or so of silence from Mr Mull and a unceasing chorus of coughs and groans from his roommates, a nurse turns up to check on the patients. Before the woman can get away, Hanora corners her and demands to know about her friend’s condition. Apparently the surgeon who sewed him up and set his arm is convinced that one of the lad’s internal organs was ruptured by the beating – most likely his spleen. Since no one has ever removed a ruptured spleen, at least not without killing the patient, their only hope is that it will heal on its own – a rare occurrence, but not unheard of.

  And their only hope of finding out who attacked him may be to ask Mull himself. Charley does pay a visit to the Walton Street station and, over the objections of his old foe, the flat-nosed sergeant clerk, questions every constable there. But not a man among them has any notion of what Lochinvar was doing so far from B Division during duty hours. Mere constables don’t ordinarily go chasing down culprits in some other part of the city; that’s the job of a detective inspector. Could someone have beaten him senseless in his own territory, then, and hauled the body to South Lambeth? It would be possible, of course, but it would also be very stupid. Not that there’s any shortage of stupid criminals; for the most part, though, they don’t take any more risks than they have to.

  Charley has a pretty good understanding of how Lochinvar’s mind works, since the lad is so much like he was himself at that age. So, when he was a young copper pounding the pavement, what would have prompted him to break the rules and abandon his beat? Though it may seem a hypothetical question, actually it’s not, for Charley did that very thing, not a month after he joined the force.

  Of course, he wasn’t a total novice, like Lochinvar; he’d already done a year’s duty as a Bow Street Runner, and he’d learned a few things about thief-taking. One of those things was that, contrary to what the copper’s Book of General Instructions says, it isn’t wise to patrol your beat in a regular fashion, always taking the same streets in the same order, completing each round in the recommended time. It doesn’t take long for a burglar to catch on, to know that he has a guaranteed grace period of twenty or thirty minutes in which to jump a crib – that is, climb through a window – fill his booty bag, and be gone.

  Constable Field ignored the instructions and took a different route each night; sometimes he even doubled back. And that’s how he happened to catch a man in the act of cutting lead sheets from the roof of a town house. Charley hadn’t yet learned to keep a sharp eye on the roofs of buildings, and might have passed by without noticing anything wrong, only the lead-stealer was a clumsy cove. He dropped his shears, which bounced off Charley’s reinforced chimney-pot hat.

  The thief scrambled down a drainpipe at the rear of the house and could have easily made his escape except that, in addition to being clumsy, he was stubborn; he refused to give up his hard-won roll of roofing. But Charley was even more stubborn, plus he had a bare-knuckle boxer’s stamina. You had to hand it to the culprit, though; he made it nearly all the way to St Giles before he collapsed from the weight of all that lead.

  Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, pursuing that fellow; after all, it left his beat at the mercy of every other thief and burglar in the vicinity. But, though his superiors insisted that the force’s role was to discourage criminals, not capture them, to tell Charley that was like telling a dog not to chase a rabbit. He’s almost certain that, in a similar situation, Constable Mull would have done the same thing – and perhaps did.

  By the time Charley is done questioning the constables at the station house, the sullen sergeant clerk’s shift has ended; his replacement is an old chum of Charley’s, Stanley Smoak, who doesn’t mind at all if Charley peruses the previous day’s route-paper. ‘Hmm,’ says Charl
ey. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘What is?’ asks Stanley.

  ‘It says here you brought in a Reginald Hoggles and charged him with the theft of Lord Belliveau’s carriage. Am I right in thinking that’s the rascal we called Neckless?’

  ‘One and the same. Belliveau’s driver said he could identify the thief, but between the time he said that and the time he come face to face with our man, something happened; suddenly, he looked very scared. My guess is, one of Neckless’s cronies got to him, told him if he didn’t keep his mouth shut they’d shut it for him, or something of that sort.’

  ‘Any idea who Mr Hoggles works for these days?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering: why steal a carriage? And such a fancy one at that? It’ll stick out like a tippler’s red nose.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll strip it and repaint it, probably sell it to some country squire.’

  ‘I suppose. So, you released the blighter, then?’

  Stanley shrugs. ‘We had to.’

  ‘Were you behind the desk at the time?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Do you happen to recall whether Constable Mull was around?’

  Stanley checks his Beat Book. ‘He was on the night shift, so he would have been just going on duty.’

  ‘But I’ll bet any amount that he didn’t go on duty. I’ll bet that he tailed Neckless, instead, the young fool.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asks Stanley.

  ‘Because,’ says Charley, ‘I told him to.’

  Not in so many words, of course. All he’d said was for Lochinvar to keep an eye out for the man and his sometime partner, Neck. But the young constable is so deuced eager to prove himself a good copper; Charley should have known that if he spotted either man, he wouldn’t be content to just report it. He’d want to collar the cove, or at least tail him and find out where his hidey-hole was.