Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  ‘What if I ’ave to piss?’ Curiously enough, Hoggles feels compelled to say this in a whisper, as if afraid of offending the children’s tender ears.

  ‘If you’re that modest,’ says Charley, ‘I’ll look the other way.’

  ‘No, I mean you’ll let me get down, right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Just drive quickly; the breeze will dry you out in no time.’

  Charley is so weary that he can barely hold the reins of the gig. Fortunately – well, in a way – the pain from the gunshot keeps him awake; just to be safe, he lets Audrey share the driver’s seat, so she can pinch him if he nods off.

  Once they’ve left the mill far behind, she says, in a voice that’s barely audible over the chattering of the wheels, ‘I’m sorry about Charlene. I tried to bring her with me, but Mr Priestley took her away. He said I was a big girl now, and shouldn’t be playing with dollies.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ says Charley. ‘I should have visited you sooner at the orphans’ home. Maybe I’d have figured out what was going on.’

  She places a hand lightly on his sleeve. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she says. ‘And besides, you did rescue me, just like a Knight of the Round Table.’

  Though Charley is, for some reason, feeling quite choked up, he manages say, ‘You sound like your mother.’

  The ride back to Lancaster seems to take twice as long as the trip out. It’s nearly dawn by the time they pull up in front of the constabulary, and then they’re obliged to wait another hour before the deputy chief constable can be roused from his bed. He’s almost as baby-faced as Mr Mull and eager to be of assistance to the fabled Inspector Bucket, whose name is well known in these parts, too, perhaps better than those in The Book of Saints. He’s been trying to get the goods on Mr Stubbins for years, he says – though that would mean he must have started around the age of fifteen – but the chief has always put obstacles in his path. He rather suspects that the Old Man has struck a deal of some sort with the mill owner.

  ‘I struck a deal with Stubbins myself,’ says Charley. ‘We agreed that he’d either improve the conditions at his mill, or else turn it into a coffee roastery.’

  ‘A coffee roastery?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Those old oak boards should give the beans a nice smoky flavor.’

  Charley turns the stolen brougham and its gory contents over to the deputy chief constable and obtains a voucher that entitles him and his prisoner and his young charges to free passage on the next London-bound train.

  For the first half hour or so of the trip, Hoggles is unexpectedly chatty, given the circumstances. Except for the handcuffs, anyone would think he’d been rescued as well – and in a way perhaps he has. He seems quite glad to be rid of his sometime partner and expresses no regrets or ill feelings about Neck’s death. In fact, he sounds more concerned about the fate of Young Lochinvar. ‘It weren’t my idea to beat ’im up that way, y’know.’ He leans in close to Charley and murmurs, almost in his ear, ‘And it weren’t my idea to do that one’s mother in, neither.’ He nods in the direction of Audrey, who is curled up on the seat, peacefully asleep.

  The temptation to shove his fist into the man’s face again is almost too strong for Charley to resist. He takes a moment to collect himself, then he says, ‘You remember what I told you before, about what would happen to your mouth if you didn’t keep it shut?’

  Hoggles nods dumbly.

  ‘Well, that was me being polite.’

  After he’s handed Neckless over to the authorities – who are delighted to have him at last – and left the children in the care of Mary and Mrs Bramble, Charley heads straight for the Priestley Orphans’ Home, without even stopping at the Holywell Street house to refresh himself. Perhaps he could trust the coppers to haul the Reverend in, but then again, maybe not. They’re always reluctant to arrest anyone well-born or well connected, especially for such a nebulous sort of crime. After all, the Reverend hasn’t killed anyone – not directly, anyway – or stolen anything, except perhaps innocence.

  Clearly, that’s the way Priestley himself sees it. When Charley shows up, brandishing the cuffs, the man seems genuinely surprised – almost amused, in fact. ‘Are you remanding me to custody, Inspector Bucket?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Do as you like, but I guarantee you they won’t keep me for long. What’s more, your wife is going to be very upset.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Several weeks ago she joined our board of overseers – said she needed something worthwhile to keep her occupied. She and all the rest of the board members – some of whom are very influential – are going to be quite unhappy if you try to put their director behind bars.’

  Charley scowls and lowers the cuffs. ‘I see. Well, that puts things in a very different light, doesn’t it? I suppose I have no choice but to let you go.’

  ‘Now you’re being reasonable. No hard feelings, I hope?’

  ‘No, no; they say the coppers always get their man, but it’s not true, of course.’ He extends a hand and the smugly smiling Priestley clasps it. The smile quickly changes to a grimace as Charley tightens his grip. While the Reverend squirms and gasps, Charley claps one end of the cuffs on the man’s bony wrist and the other on his own brawny one. ‘That, Mr Priestley, is what’s known in the bare-knuckle boxing trade as a feint – you pretend to go in one direction and then go another way altogether.’

  But the Reverend isn’t down and out just yet; after all, he bargains daily with a far higher authority than a mere private enquiry agent. He actually manages a laugh, though it’s a trifle weak and shaky. ‘Oh, come now, Inspector. You’re a practical-minded man. Surely you realize that we can’t possibly keep this place going solely through donations from benefactors, no matter how generous they are. Even in the workhouses, young inmates are apprenticed to various trades. I know, because I was one of them. What we’re doing is no different.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ says Charley. ‘Tell me, Reverend: When you were an apprentice, did they work you twelve hours a day, every day, and never let you sit and rest, not for even a moment?’

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘Did you sleep alongside twenty other children – most of them sick – on a moldy, bug-infested mattress, with only a bucket to shit and piss in?’

  ‘Really, Inspector—’

  ‘If you tried to escape, did they cut off all your hair, lock you in a windowless cell, and feed you bread and water?’

  ‘Well, I never actually—’

  ‘Did you live in constant fear of having your fingers crushed, or your hand, or your head?’

  ‘N – no, not exactly, but—’

  ‘Then don’t try to tell me that what you’re doing to these children is no different, goddamn it!’

  In the cab on the way to Lambeth station house, the Reverend tries yet again to get through to Charley. ‘You’re going to look very foolish, Inspector, when they release me. I’m a well-respected citizen, and, whatever you may think, apprenticing children is not a crime. No judge will ever convict me.’

  Charley nods thoughtfully. ‘You know, Reverend, you may be right … or rather you might be, except for the fact that you’ve also harbored a notorious murderer and hired his friend to steal the carriage of an even more well-respected citizen: Lord Belliveau.’

  Priestley gapes and then groans, ‘Oh for god’s sake! I never meant—’ Realizing how incriminating this sounds, he breaks off abruptly.

  Charley finishes for him. ‘You never meant for him to rob anyone quite so important. Well, you know what they say: If you run with the dogs, you’ll surely get fleas. My guess is, that’ll earn you at least two years in quod – where I doubt your social standing will be worth very much.’

  Though Charley is in no hurry to face Jane, he can’t possibly stay on his feet much longer, and her house is his nearest haven. He’s too played out even to stop at a tavern or a coffeehouse for a bracer. His weariness makes him a bit ashamed, really, a bi
t betrayed by his body; there was a time when he could chase a criminal for days on end with little or no sleep and barely break his stride. But as he climbs from the cab, his ribs remind him that, oh, yes, he’s been shot. Well, all right, then; his body is forgiven, just this once.

  He can only hope that Jane, too, is in a forgiving mood. Perhaps he shouldn’t even bother telling her about Priestley; let her read it in tomorrow’s paper. But no, that’ll give her even more reason to chastise him. Better to have it out now, and be done with it.

  Jane is tucked up in her favorite overstuffed chair, book in hand; ordinarily she’s blind and deaf to the real world at such times, but to his surprise, she actually notices his entrance. ‘How did it go?’ she calls. ‘Did you get your man?’

  Charley pours himself a glass of rum and downs half of it before replying. ‘Yes, I did, my dear. All three of them.’

  ‘Three? Oh, my. I hope they didn’t give you any trouble.’

  ‘Not really. I think Mr Priestley was the worst of the lot, actually. He tried to talk me to death.’

  She turns to stare at him over the back of the chair. ‘Mr Priestley of the orphans’ home?’

  There’s no turning back now. He slumps down on the squab sofa and recounts the whole sorry tale – well, most of it, anyway. She won’t want to hear the nasty details of Neck’s demise, of course, But, however much it may offend her sensibilities, she needs to know what sort of existence those children lead if she’s to understand why Mr Priestley must be brought to justice.

  And she actually does appear to understand. In fact, she’s so moved by his account that she dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. Well, she always has had a soft spot for the helpless and downtrodden. ‘How many of them has he sent off to the mills?’ she asks, in an unsteady voice.

  ‘Dozens,’ says Charley. ‘He’s listed them all in a ledger. I’m hoping I’ll be able to rescue at least some of them. Do you think can we find places for them in other orphanages?’

  Jane frowns and shakes her head dubiously. ‘It won’t be easy. They’re all so overcrowded as it is. I suppose we overseers can keep our home going for a while, until we find a new director.’

  ‘Good, good,’ says Charley. He’s far too muddle-headed with exhaustion to be discussing anything of importance, but the sooner he speaks what’s on his mind the better. She’ll surely need some time to get used to the idea. He clears his throat uncomfortably and says, ‘I’d like us to take in one of the girls ourselves.’ It’s been some time since he spoke of Jane and himself as ‘us,’ or even thought it. The words don’t come easily. But he can’t let it sound as though this is her decision alone, or her sole responsibility.

  Jane blinks in surprise. ‘Here, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Audrey’s a very pleasant and very resourceful child; she’ll be no trouble at all. I’m sure Hanora will gladly help take care of her – not that she’ll need much taking care of, mind you – and I’ll … I’ll try to spend more time here myself, so she won’t be a burden on you.’

  She studies his face curiously, as if searching for some sign that he’s joking, or perhaps going mad. ‘What is this girl to you?’ she says. ‘I mean, what makes her different from any of the others?’

  Charley sighs. He’s known all along that the question would come up, and yet he still doesn’t have a satisfactory answer. ‘Her mother was …’ He was about to say One of my clients, but that seems unfair to Rosa. ‘Her mother was a friend – a milliner and an artist. She was murdered by the same coves who did Priestley’s dirty work for him.’

  Jane is an intelligent woman; the real meaning of the term friend is surely not lost on her. No doubt she’s been aware for many years that Charley had women friends – though of course she’d never have broached so vulgar a subject. Nor does she now. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘And you feel it’s your duty to look after her daughter?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  She gives a small, humorless laugh. ‘Well, god knows you’ve always been a man who tries to do his duty.’ She picks up her Brontë book again. ‘Let me think about it, Charley, all right? You look worn out. Go to bed.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Making promises to Jane is a dangerous thing, almost as dangerous as injuring her feelings; she never lets you forget either one. Charley knows how difficult it will be, making good on his vow to spend more time in the Millbank house. But he also knows that, if he wants something from Jane, he has to be prepared to give something up – in this case, a certain amount of freedom.

  He can’t just ignore the demands of his private enquiry business, of course. There may be half a dozen urgent cases awaiting his attention, not to mention the rescue of those other orphans – and let us not forget the tricky matter of Miss Fairweather. Ordinarily, he would just slip away to his office the next morning before Jane rises, but he forces himself to stick around long enough to let her know where he’s off to.

  Predictably enough, she seems peeved but, unpredictably, she says, ‘Well, no matter. I’ll be gone much of the day, anyway.’ She holds up a card that arrived in the early post. ‘The overseers have called a meeting, to determine how to proceed.’

  Charley is tempted to ask whether she’s considered his proposal to take in Audrey, but restrains himself. Wives, he’s learned, are much like informers; if you push them too hard, they’re likely to turn on you.

  That afternoon, as Charley is at his massive oaken desk going over Mr Priestley’s ledger and considering where and how to begin his rescue efforts, there’s a soft rap at the office door. ‘Enter!’ he calls, distractedly, and the visitor obliges. ‘Just give me a moment,’ says Charley. Though he prides himself on his acuity, when he looks up from his task he almost doesn’t trust his eyes. ‘Jane? Audrey. Where did you— How did you—?’

  ‘May we sit down?’ asks his wife.

  Flustered by this sudden collision of what have until now been separate worlds, Charley gets clumsily to his feet, holding his aching ribs. ‘Of course. I’m afraid I have just the one chair, unless—’ He tries to maneuver his own chair around to the front of the desk; it’s like trying to pass a costermonger’s cart in Paternoster Row.

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Audrey. ‘We’re small enough to share a seat.’

  Jane clearly takes this as a compliment and rewards the girl with a slightly stiff smile. Still, it is a smile. ‘Just as I was returning home from my meeting,’ she says, ‘a very nice and rather elegant lady named Mrs … what was it, dear?’

  ‘Mrs M’Alpine,’ says Audrey.

  ‘Mrs M’Alpine came by. She said that you had left Audrey in her care, but that the child had been asking to see you. So … well, as you can see, I brought her here.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Inspector.’ Audrey tugs at the bonnet she’s been given to cover her shorn head. ‘I know you’re busy with cases. I just … I didn’t feel quite safe, that’s all.’

  Charley circles the desk and crouches next to her. ‘Of course you don’t. After all you’ve been through, it’ll take some time. In the meanwhile, you can come and see me whenever you want, for as long as you want.’

  Jane clears her throat, as if preparing to say something difficult. ‘As a matter of fact, we’ve been thinking that … that if you’d like, perhaps … perhaps you might come and live with us for a while.’

  Audrey regards her with something like disbelief. ‘In your house?’

  ‘Yes. It’s quite large, you know; you’d have your own room. I’ll be working at the orphanage most days, but you could come with me. That way you could see your little friends.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t be living there?’

  Jane glances at Charley as if to say, Why doesn’t she understand?

  Because, Charley wants to reply, she has no notion what a real home is, only a shabby one-room flat or a brothel or an orphanage. ‘No,’ he tells the girl, ‘as Mrs Field says, you’d live with us. Do you think you’d like that?’

  Audrey considers this a m
oment, then nods gravely. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m quite sure I would.’

  ‘Well, let’s go home then,’ says Jane, ‘and let the inspector get back to work.’ She glances at the open ledger containing the names of all those condemned children waiting to be set free. ‘No doubt he has important cases to see to.’

  ‘I do, in fact. But before you go, what’s this about working at the orphanage?’

  ‘Well, I told the other overseers everything you told me, and they agreed that we should find a new director, and I said that I felt I could handle the job, and they seemed amenable to the idea – especially when I said I wouldn’t require a salary.’

  ‘Oh. Well. That’s … that’s good.’ He leans in closer to her and says softly, ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  She bristles a bit. ‘You don’t think I can?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean running the orphanage. No doubt you’ll manage that perfectly well. I meant …’ He glances toward Audrey, who is examining his coffee-making paraphernalia.

  ‘Yes, I think so. As you said, she’s a very pleasant child, and very little trouble. And … well, she needs a family of some sort, doesn’t she?’ A family of some sort; that’s as good a way as any of describing what he and Jane have. She glances again at the ledger. ‘Charley,’ she says quietly, ‘I know you promised to be home more, and I appreciate that. But don’t you feel it’s more important just now to find those other children and bring them back? Every day you delay is another day of misery for them.’

  ‘Of course. I just thought that – well, I didn’t want to—’ He gestures awkwardly in Audrey’s direction.

  ‘Between Hanora and me, she’ll be well taken care of.’

  ‘I know. I just feel—’ There’s no way he can explain to Jane how he feels, the guilt he still carries over Rosa’s death. He knew she was afraid of something and he failed to protect her. Though Audrey is in no real danger now, he can’t bear for her to think that he’s abandoning her, the way he did her mother. But neither can he bear to think of all those other orphan girls, whose lives truly are in danger. Charley can’t recall Sir Galahad ever being faced with such a dilemma – having to choose which maiden to rescue. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘let’s give it a few days; once she’s settled in perhaps she’ll feel safer.’