‘You’re a mouthy one, ain’t you? For a cove what’s got a knife to ’is gargler, that is.’ Greatcoat moved the knife very gently across the skin underneath Adam’s chin. The young man could feel a tiny trickle of blood start down his neck. ‘You can look down your nose at me all you want, cully. It ain’t going to bother me. I’m the one with the chiv. But you keep on asking about young Dolly and you’ll end up dead as a dog in a ditch.’
The man’s face, wrapped in his muffler, was unrecognizable. His eyes, gleaming in the dark shadows of the alleyway, were all that Adam could see. He moved the knife closer to one of the young man’s eyes.
Adam could not stop himself from flinching and shrinking back against the wall.
‘Dead as a dog in a ditch,’ Greatcoat repeated. He stood up, then suddenly and violently kicked the young man in the ribs. Then he and his companion turned and left the alleyway.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Mebbe we should give up looking for the tart like the man says.’ Quint had just carried a plate of bacon and eggs into the room and was idly looking out of the window as his master breakfasted. ‘Ain’t no point getting a blade in the bread-basket just cos some high-kicker’s gone missing.’
‘I am disappointed in you, Quint,’ Adam said. He placed his knife and fork carefully on his plate and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He winced as he did so. His body ached from the blows he had received the previous night. ‘And I will be damned if I allow some loutish ruffian in a dirty greatcoat and muffler to frighten me. Far from ceasing our efforts to find Dolly Delaney, we shall redouble them. I said to you last night that we would communicate with our old friend Pulverbatch at the Yard, and that is precisely what we will do.’
‘You ain’t finishing that then?’ Quint turned from the window and gestured at the breakfast plate.
‘No, I think not.’ Adam pushed back his chair. ‘I have no idea where you bought the rashers of bacon, but they would be better employed as razor strops than as foodstuffs. They are very nearly inedible.’ Adam stood up gingerly and moved away from the table. As Quint removed the plate with the offending bacon on it and returned it to the kitchen, the young man crossed to the davenport desk in the far corner of the room and sat down. He lifted the inclined top and pulled out a sheet of notepaper. Reaching for his pen and ink, he began to compose a letter to Inspector Pulverbatch.
Adam had met this officer the previous year when he had discovered the body of the blackmailer, Samuel Creech; Pulverbatch had been in charge of the official investigation into the man’s murder. Adam had not seen eye to eye with the inspector’s methods, which had nearly resulted in the conviction of an innocent man, but he had been curiously impressed by Pulverbatch’s poise and self-assurance. For his part, the Scotland Yard man had seemed to view Adam’s interventions in the case with tolerant benevolence. They had parted friends.
The young man could see no reason why Pulverbatch would refuse to help him in this case; particularly since, as he now recalled, the inspector had been made aware the year before of Adam’s connections with senior officials in the Foreign Office.
Quint had now returned to the room. He took up a position by the table and stared at the gas lamp on its top. Adam signed his name with a flourish and returned his pen to its stand. ‘That should do the trick,’ he said. ‘I have told the inspector of your sister’s concerns for her daughter. I am certain that we can trust him to assist us in the search for her.’
Quint continued to glare fixedly at the lamp as if he were attempting to mesmerize it. He said nothing.
‘There is a postbox in the Gray’s Inn Road, is there not?’ Adam folded the sheet of paper and sealed it in an envelope. He lifted the desk top again and took out a red penny stamp. He moistened it and affixed it. ‘If you take it there, it should be at the Yard within a couple of hours.’
Quint snatched the letter from his master’s hand with a look that suggested he would be happier to eat it than post it, and left the room, banging the door behind him.
* * * * *
‘Inspector Pulverbatch speaks very highly of you, sir,’ Sampson said. ‘He’s only sorry he can’t be here to greet you himself. He asked to be remembered to you, mind.’
‘You must return my compliments to the inspector, sergeant,’ Adam replied. ‘It is “sergeant”, is it not?’
The man opposite him, a burly individual squeezed into a blue uniform that looked to be one size too small for him to be comfortable, nodded.
They were both sitting at a wooden desk in a darkly panelled room. The letter to Inspector Pulverbatch had triggered an immediate response. By return of post a message had reached Doughty Street inviting Adam to present himself whenever he wished at Room 241 in the vast building in Great Scotland Yard, which housed the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. The young man had been obliged to walk what had seemed like miles along dimly lit corridors in order to reach it, but he had been welcomed there like a visiting dignitary. Now, three large volumes bound in black leather were piled on the desk in front of him.
The sergeant patted the top of one of them. ‘Here they are, sir,’ he said. ‘All the pictures of women in their dishabills as we’ve confiscated in the last three months. Just like the inspector said you wanted.’ The expression on Sergeant Sampson’s face indicated that he was desperately curious to know what reason Adam had, other than prurience, for looking through the books, but that he was far too deferential and too impressed by the young man’s familiarity with the great Inspector Pulverbatch to ask.
Adam had no intention of enlightening him. He pulled the nearest volume towards him and opened it. ‘I am very grateful to you and to Mr Pulverbatch,’ he said. ‘You have given generously of your time.’ He paused briefly. ‘But there is no necessity for you to remain while I look through these photographs.’
Sampson flushed slightly and tugged at his collar. He looked as if he would be only too happy to leave. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Carver, sir. Mr Pulverbatch was very particular about me keeping an eye on the books.’
‘Does he suspect that I might otherwise purloin some of the pictures?’ Adam was amused, but the sergeant was puce with embarrassment. He flushed even deeper.
‘No, of course not, sir, but these books is police property, sir, and . . . and . . .’ Sampson’s voice trailed away.
‘You need say no more, sergeant. I understand.’
Adam began to leaf through the pages of the first book. Mounted on each page were photographs of women in varying stages of undress. Sampson sat back on his chair, gazing with every appearance of fascination at a cobweb on the ceiling, as the young man began to examine them.
The book contained women of all kinds. There were blondes and brunettes, slender girls and fat girls, white girls and a surprising number of black ones. They adopted a variety of poses, some significantly more indecent than others, as they faced the camera. After turning a dozen pages, Adam began to find the acres of bare flesh curiously unstimulating. All the bodies blurred into one and he concentrated on the women’s faces. The sergeant shifted restlessly in his chair. Time passed.
Adam finished one volume and moved on to the next. Forty minutes after he had begun his task, he stopped and pointed to the top of one of the pages. ‘This is she,’ he said, as much to himself as to Sampson.
It was recognizably the same girl who had posed for the photograph Sunman had given him.
‘She’s a neat bit of muslin, ain’t she?’ the policeman said, leaning forward. He seemed unaware of the story Adam had told of his servant’s supposed kinship with the young woman he was seeking – Adam doubted if he would have spoken so familiarly had he known it. Pulverbatch, he assumed, had told his subordinate very little. ‘Not that she’s wearing any muslin there. She ain’t wearing very much of anything, is she?’
It was true. Dolly
was naked. She was sitting on a dining chair, one leg crossed over the other, smiling somewhat desperately into the camera. A dark drape hung behind her. There was nothing to indicate where or when the daguerreotype had been taken.
‘And you say that these are not all that the police have found?’
‘Lord, sir, we’ve got thousands and thousands of them.’ The sergeant pointed at the books on the desk. ‘These is just the recent ones.’ He pointed at the books on the desk. ‘Bit of a stroke of luck chancing on this particular filly so soon.’ He leaned further across the desk and peered at the photograph. ‘Not many as pretty as her, though, is there?’
‘Who might have taken it? Have you any notion of where she was when she posed?’
Sampson shook his head. ‘Could be almost anywhere, Mr Carver. Somewhere in town, obviously. But there’s dozens of photographers within a mile of here who might have taken it. “Artistic studies”, they calls ’em.’ The sergeant’s voice was full of contempt. ‘It’s not what I’d call ’em.’
‘What would you call them, sergeant?’
‘Filthy pictures.’
‘But you’ve no notion of who might have taken these “filthy pictures”?’
‘As I say, Mr Carver, there’s no way of telling. They all look much the same. Pretty girl. No clothes. Dark backdrop. Sometimes the girl’s pretending to be an angel or a goddess from olden times, but that ain’t enough to tell us who the photographer is.’
‘Such a pity,’ Adam said. ‘I had hoped I might be able to speak to him.’ He took the photograph from its mounts and turned it over. As he did so, he noticed something on the reverse side of the picture. Pushing back his chair, Adam moved closer to the window to catch the light, angling the photograph towards it. ‘There is something here,’ he said. ‘There’s a letter embossed on it. Or stamped in some way. It looks like a “P”.’
‘Ah yes, sir, I was coming to that.’ Sampson spoke with a self-satisfied air. ‘We may not know much about the wretches who take these photos, but we know a bit about them as sells ’em. Some of ’em likes to mark their stock when it comes in. Keep a track of it, you might say.’
‘And this “P” indicates who sold this one?’
‘Pennethorne. He’s a gentleman with an interest in what you might call unusual literature, Mr Carver.’
‘And where would I find Mr Pennethorne?’
‘In Wych Street, with half the other buggers as sells this stuff. If you’ll pardon my language, sir.’
* * * * *
Pennethorne’s shop stood halfway along Wych Street, in one of the ancient buildings that characterized the thoroughfare. Adam looked at the overhanging wooden jetties above that jutted into the street and wondered when the houses had first been built. In the days of Queen Elizabeth, perhaps. The street must have escaped the devastation of the Great Fire, and still stood as a relic of London’s Tudor architecture. He must, he thought, bring his camera here to record the buildings. But, for the moment, he turned his attention to the shop which had brought him there.
In its window there was an array of photographs of young ladies. The photographer had apparently chanced upon his subjects while they were engaged in the act of dressing themselves. Several were trying on crinoline petticoats; others, lacing up their Balmoral boots, were exhibiting more of their ankles than young ladies usually displayed in public. None of the women was Dolly.
Adam pushed the door open; a bell above it sounded as he walked into the shop. At the back, a face appeared momentarily, peering through an opening half hidden by billowing red drapes. Seconds later, the man was at Adam’s side. He was tall and lean and was gazing sideways at his potential customer with the look of a fox eyeing up a hen.
‘Am I speaking to the proprietor?’ Adam enquired. ‘Are you Mr Jacob Pennethorne?’
‘I am, sir,’ the lean man said.
‘My name is Carver. Adam Carver. I am looking for a young woman.’
Pennethorne emitted a strange, high-pitched giggle like that of a small boy caught out in some embarrassing misdemeanour. It was such an unlikely noise to issue from a grown man that Adam almost turned around to see who else had entered the shop.
‘That’s what so many of my clients are doing, sir,’ Pennethorne said. ‘Looking for a young woman. We’ve plenty of them here, sir, plenty indeed.’ He gestured towards the shelves behind him, then walked over to a wooden counter at the side of the shop. Wiping first one palm and then the other on the sleeves of his jacket, he picked up a magazine and handed it to Adam. ‘Any of these young women serve your purpose, Mr Carver?’
Adam looked at the cover of the periodical. Most of the page was taken up by an engraving of what seemed to be a scene in a music hall bar. A gentleman in a top hat was surrounded by several ballet girls in short skirts and high-heeled boots. One of the girls was embracing the top-hatted gent; another, her leg on a bar stool, was adjusting her garter.
‘Ain’t she a corker, sir?’ the shopkeeper said, a long finger snaking across the page and indicating the most buxom of the ballet girls. ‘I’ve got the photograph that was engraved from, if you was interested.’
‘She is indeed very fetching. Particularly in that costume. But she is not the woman for whom I am searching. The young lady I seek is called Dolly. Dolly Delaney.’
Pennethorne’s demeanour changed immediately. His unctuous desire to ingratiate himself disappeared, and he snatched the magazine from Adam’s hands, turning to replace it on the counter. ‘Don’t think I know anyone of that name,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Oh, but I think you do, Mr Pennethorne. I was very reliably informed that you have had dealings with the young lady in question.’
‘I see lots of women in my job, Mr Carver.’ The shopkeeper, his back still to Adam, was now tidying the piles of magazines on his counter. ‘Some of ’em are ladies. More of ’em ain’t. I tell you, I don’t know one called Dolly.’
‘My informant was really quite adamant not only that you knew the lady, but that you had employed her.’
‘He’s mistaken then, ain’t he?’
‘I doubt that very much. He’s a very well-informed gentleman. Gentlemen who work at Scotland Yard so often are.’
Pennethorne spun round to face Adam again.
‘Aha, I see I have caught your attention. Yes, Sergeant Sampson asked to be remembered to you. He has not seen you for some time, he said.’
‘He ain’t ’ad no cause to see me.’
‘However, he went on to say that, should my enquiries about the whereabouts of Dolly Delaney prove unfruitful, he would be obliged to undertake some of his own.’ Adam smiled blandly at the shopkeeper.
Pennethorne stood for a moment, clenching and unclenching one fist, and then he surrendered. ‘Ain’t no call for Sampson to come poking his nose round my shop,’ he said surlily. ‘He’s right. I know Dolly.’
‘I knew we could reach a happy agreement on the subject, Mr Pennethorne.’
‘She’s a dancer at one of the theatres in Drury Lane, ain’t she?’
Adam nodded.
‘She come to me about three months ago,’ the shopkeeper went on. ‘Said she needed some extra rhino. I arranged for her to see a friend of mine. He took some photographs of her.’
‘Photographs such as the ones in your window?’
‘A little more interesting than those,’ Pennethorne admitted. ‘A little more the kind I keep in my back room.’
‘Did you see her again?’
‘She returned a few times. Seemed to want the money.’
‘So she posed for your friend again?’ Adam caught the eye of the shopkeeper who looked away.
‘Maybe four times in all.’
‘Has she been here recently?’
Pennethorne shook his h
ead.
‘What about this friend of yours? The one who took the photographs. Where would I find him?’
Pennethorne stepped back. He raised both hands, palms outwards, as if fending off an attack. ‘Discretion, Mr Carver,’ he said. ‘Discretion is the watchword in this business. I can’t go around giving you names, now, can I?’
‘Oh, I think you can, Mr Pennethorne. One name, at least. Either to me – or to Sergeant Sampson.’
The shopkeeper lowered his arms and stared balefully at Adam. He was clearly trying to decide just how well acquainted the young man was with the police.
Adam smiled sweetly at him. ‘It’s one or the other of us, Mr Pennethorne,’ he said. ‘You can be sure of that.’
‘Patch,’ the shopkeeper said, after a brief pause, spitting the word out like a pip from an orange. ‘His name’s Walter Patch.’
‘And where would I find Mr Patch?’
Pennethorne glared at Adam as if in hopes that his gaze might prove as terrible as Medusa’s. ‘Off Fleet Street. Bride Lane, round the back of the church.’
‘He has his home there?’
‘A shop. Sells cameras and other such stuff.’
‘And the photographs?’
‘He’s got a room upstairs. Nice and private. The girls go there.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pennethorne. You’ve been most helpful. If you think of anything more, you must let me know.’
Adam handed Pennethorne his card and was turning to leave, but the shopkeeper had not yet said all he wanted to say. He took a step or two closer to the young man and thrust his head forward belligerently. ‘What exactly do you think you’re doing, Mr Carver? Coming here and looking down on the likes of me and Wally Patch when all we’re doing is providing a service for coves just like yourself. Who do you think buys these photographs, eh? Working men? They’re too pricey. It’s gents as buys ’em. Just remember that when you’re sneering down your nose at us.’
Carver's Truth Page 7
