Carver's Truth

by Nick Rennison

  * * * * *

  ‘When we spoke of Dolly before, you said that she had been with the company only a few weeks. Can you recall the exact date on which she began work here?’

  Adam was once again in one of the props rooms at the back of the Prince Albert, watching Cosmo Jardine applying paint to a vast theatrical flat which was hanging vertically from the ceiling. This one appeared to represent a burning building: lurid red flames leapt across it; tiny black figures scampered through them. Perhaps, on second thoughts, Adam decided, it was meant to depict the fiery furnaces of Hell. What production at the Albert could possibly require such scenery? Was some strange version of Faust being planned?

  ‘I am not certain that I can,’ his friend said. Giant brush still in hand, he began to climb a stepladder to reach the upper area of the flat. ‘Do the civil, will you, old man, and hold this wretched ladder so it doesn’t tumble down?’

  Adam moved forward and seized either side of the steps as Cosmo climbed higher.

  ‘I noticed her almost immediately, of course,’ the painter continued. ‘Which man would not? But I do not think I could tell you the very day and the very week. It was about the same time the other girl showed up in the chorus line.’

  ‘Which other girl?’ Arms outstretched, Adam tipped back his head to see what his friend was doing.

  ‘Best not to look up, old chap. Liable to get paint in the eye.’ Jardine was making sweeping movements with the brush across the top of the flat, adding further red to the flames. ‘The dark one. The one with the opinions. No sooner had she arrived than she was ticking off poor McIlwraith for the way he treated the dancers. The man was a positive slave-driver, if you were to believe what she said. The wonder is that McIlwraith has kept her on. I think he must have a secret yearning to be bullied and nagged. Some chaps do, you know.’ Jardine paused to shout instructions to a stagehand who was staggering out of the wings under the weight of what looked like a large bush. ‘Myself, I prefer the quiet and the demure to the noisy and the scolding but . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake, Cosmo, what is the girl’s name?’ Adam knew the answer already but he wanted his friend to confirm it.

  ‘Hattie?’ Half the painter’s attention was still on the stagehand, who had come to an abrupt halt and was peering through the foliage he was carrying. Jardine waved him in the direction he wanted him to go before returning to the question of the chorus girl. ‘No, Hetty. That is it. Hetty something or other.’

  ‘Gallant.’

  ‘That is she. We talked of her before, I recall. She may well be here, should you wish to speak to her.’

  Hetty was not in the theatre. A brief conversation with McIlwraith, who winced visibly at the mention of her name, was enough for Adam to ascertain that she had left after the afternoon rehearsal and was not expected back until the evening performance.

  * * * * *

  His servant was waiting for Adam when the young man emerged from the stage door. Quint was leaning against a gas lamp and chewing morosely on a quid of tobacco. As his master approached, he turned and spat the tobacco into the gutter.

  ‘We know anythin’ more about the girl?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘That is a foul habit,’ Adam remarked. ‘Can you not restrict yourself to the smoking of the weed?’

  ‘They’re both good for a man,’ Quint replied. ‘Chewing and smoking. They get the circ’lation going.’

  ‘Well, I am not so sure that a doctor, should you ever visit one, would agree with you. But perhaps he would be wrong. Perhaps you are in the forefront of medical thought, Quint, and it is tobacco that keeps you in the pink.’

  ‘’Course it is,’ said Quint, as if there was no doubt in the matter. ‘That, and beer.’

  ‘Ah, I had forgotten beer.’ The two men had emerged from the side street into Drury Lane and were making their way towards High Holborn. ‘And, in answer to your question, we know a lot more about the girl.’

  ‘If we knew where she lived, it’d be a start.’

  ‘We know exactly where Dolly lives, Quint. We have done so for some time.’

  ‘Oh, we ’ave, ’ave we?’ The manservant’s face was fixed in an expression that suggested he was, because of the goodness of his heart, tolerating what was exceptional idiocy on his master’s part.

  ‘We have even been to her humble abode ourselves.’

  This was too much even for Quint to endure. ‘Well, why in ’ell didn’t we jest tell ’er that ’er toff boyfriend wanted to see her? ’Stead of chasing off to bleedin’ York and stumblin’ over a stiff in the theatre!’

  ‘At the time we met Dolly, she was living in basement rooms north of King’s Cross.’ Quint was silent. Adam watched the light begin to dawn in his servant’s eyes. ‘She was living there under an assumed name,’ he went on. ‘She was calling herself—’

  ‘Hetty,’ Quint interrupted. ‘She was calling ’erself Hetty. That judy I followed on the underground.’

  ‘Exactly, you have it at last. Hetty Gallant is Dolly Delaney.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Adam pushed his way through the crowds emerging from the entrance to King’s Cross station. As he moved on and turned left towards the Caledonian Road, the streams of people began to thin out. When he took another left turning, heading in the direction of Hetty’s lodgings, they became no more than a trickle.

  A watercress girl just ahead of him was dolefully calling, ‘Four bunches a penny, four bunches a penny!’ over and over again but there were few to take notice of her. He wondered idly why the girl had strayed away from the busier streets. There would be little business for her here. The thought clearly occurred to the girl herself and she turned to make her way back to the main road. Her wicker basket hanging over her right arm, she nearly bumped into him.

  ‘Cress, sir?’ she asked. ‘Four bunches a penny.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Fresh this morning, sir.’

  Adam looked at the pinched little face and the bedraggled black hair. He reached into his pocket and found a penny. The girl took it and solemnly handed him four wilting green bunches. They did not look fresh this week, never mind this morning. The watercress seller continued on her way back to the crowds of potential customers, once again crying her wares. Adam stared at his impulse purchase and could not think what to do with it. Eventually he knelt and propped the cress against the doorstep of one of the houses. Perhaps its occupants would welcome the gift.

  The young man made his way around the next corner and realized he was in the street where the young woman who was calling herself Hetty Gallant lived. On his previous call, he had thought the terraces hereabouts indistinguishable one from another; now, looking about him, he could see that this street was slightly more distinguished than its neighbours. The houses were a little bigger, a little more ambitious in their architecture. Perhaps the street was the work of a builder who had hoped to attract more middle-class residents to the area. If it was, Adam suspected that he had hoped in vain.

  As he approached the house in which Hetty had her rooms, his heart began to thump within his chest. He could not decide whether the prospect of seeing her again was delightful or discomfiting. Their night together had been one of pleasure but they had not met since he had said farewell to her the following dawn. And now he was arriving with accusations which, although he was certain they were true, could only cause her embarrassment and distress. No, it was more than that, he reminded himself. It was entirely possible that the girl in whose arms he had enjoyed himself so much knew more than she should about the murder of her friend.

  Adam stopped in front of the house itself and looked over the railings into the entry to the basement. A dishevelled slavey, hands red raw, was kneeling there. She was scrubbing the step that led into Hetty’s rooms. Seeming to
feel Adam’s presence above her, she glanced up. Blushing, her face now the colour of her hands, she struggled to her feet and moved quickly inside. The young man made his way down the narrow steps to the tiny area yard. The girl was standing just inside Hetty’s lodgings. She looked scared.

  ‘I am sorry, miss,’ Adam said. ‘I did not mean to disturb you, but I am in search of the lady who lives here.’

  ‘She’s gorn, sir,’ the servant said. She was trembling and could scarcely speak.

  ‘I intend you no harm, Miss.’ Adam strove to sound reassuring. He peered beyond the girl and into the rooms. They were so dark that he could see little. ‘I wish simply to speak with Miss Gallant.’

  ‘She’s gorn, sir,’ the slavey repeated.

  ‘What is it, Nan?’ A harsh voice emerged from inside the basement lodgings. ‘Who’s that with you?’

  A thin and angular woman came into the area yard, brandishing a sweeping brush as if it was a weapon of war. It was the woman who had looked down from the upstairs window on the evening he had seen Hetty – or Dolly, as he reluctantly believed he must now think of her – with Harry Vernon.

  ‘’E wants to see ’Etty, Mrs Threave.’

  ‘I’d like to see her myself,’ the new arrival said. ‘And there’d be hell to pay if I did. Not to mention the ten bob in back rent she owes.’

  ‘I am sorry that Miss Gallant has proved such a difficult tenant, ma’am,’ Adam said, raising his hat. ‘May I ask when she first took the rooms?’

  ‘Don’t know as I can say exactly.’ The landlady was eyeing Adam with obvious suspicion. ‘What’s it to you, anyways?’

  ‘I am a friend of the young lady. I am interested in her whereabouts and her well-being.’

  Mrs Threave snorted. ‘I know the sorts of friends that woman had,’ she said. ‘I seen plenty of ’em coming in and out of my house. Kicking up the devil’s delight at all hours of the day and night.’ She turned to the slavey, who was still standing in the yard, clutching her scrubbing brush and staring blankly at Adam. ‘Nan, get up them steps and clean the hallway upstairs. I’ll deal with this gent.’

  The girl, still eyeing Adam as if she had never before seen anyone quite like him, backed up the steps and disappeared into the house above them.

  The landlady watched her go and then turned to the young man again. ‘I don’t know as I can tell you anything about Hetty,’ she said. ‘She was here and now she’s gone. And she’s took my ten bob with her.’

  ‘Perhaps a florin towards the payment of her debts might help you remember something about her,’ Adam suggested.

  ‘It might,’ Mrs Threave agreed. ‘Half a crown might help me even more.’

  Adam smiled and took the larger silver coin from his pocket. The landlady extended a bony hand and snatched it from him, like a buzzard swooping on its prey. Adam smiled again. ‘How long had Miss Gallant been lodging with you?’ he asked.

  ‘She arrived here at the beginning of the year. Maybe the third week in January. And she was trouble from the beginning.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Noisy. Playing on the piano morning, noon and night. Gentlemen callers. Although I ain’t sure it’s all that gentlemanly to come a-calling on single ladies after nightfall.’

  ‘Gentlemen in the plural?’

  ‘Well, two at least.’

  ‘What did the gentlemen look like?’

  ‘Gentlemen. Dressed in the kind of suits you don’t see round here too often. One of them, the one that come visiting several times, he had a round, red face like a big, silly baby.’

  Mrs Threave, it was clear, didn’t have much time for gentlemen of any description but, Adam noted, she must have been talking about the plump and clean-shaven Harry Vernon.

  ‘What about the other one?’

  The landlady shrugged. ‘Thinner,’ she said. ‘Taller as well. Bearded. I only saw him the once. It was babyface who was round all the time.’

  It could have been anyone, Adam thought. Probably a stage-door admirer she had invited to visit her. ‘Perhaps I could be allowed to look around the rooms before you re-let them?’

  ‘You ain’t planning to take ’em yourself, I suppose?’ The note of sarcasm in Mrs Threave’s voice suggested that she was under no illusion that her lodgings might appeal to Adam.

  ‘Alas, no. I have no need of accommodation at present.’

  ‘Well, if you ain’t wanting ’em, you ain’t looking at ’em.’

  ‘Suppose I was to advance another half a crown towards paying off the arrears in rent Miss Gallant has so thoughtlessly accumulated?’ Adam reached into his jacket pocket and extracted another silver coin. He held it up to the sunlight. Mrs Threave moved towards it like a compass point heading northwards. ‘Would that make a difference to your thoughts on the matter?’

  ‘I reckon it might.’

  The young man flicked the coin in the air. The landlady shot out a hand and neatly snatched it before it had travelled more than a few inches. She thrust the half-crown deep into the folds of the large apron she was wearing. ‘Look all you like,’ she said, standing aside and waving towards the dark interior of the basement lodgings.

  Adam raised his hat again and stepped into the room. Mrs Threave followed him, treading close on his heels. The prints of the royal couple and the grazing sheep, which he had noted on his previous visit, were still there. The young man’s eyes were now drawn to the mantelpiece where two china figures stood. One was recognizably an elephant. The other was less recognizably the Duke of Wellington.

  ‘That’s Jumbo,’ Mrs Threave explained, still standing at his elbow. ‘Me and the old man went to see him. At the zoo.’

  Adam took another few steps into the room and so did the landlady. He could feel her presence behind him and her eyes boring into his back. He turned to confront her. She glared at him, a Gorgon in a cotton apron. ‘I was rather hoping, ma’am,’ he said as politely as he could, ‘that my last half a crown would buy me a little privacy.’

  Mrs Threave glared suspiciously at Adam before swivelling on her heel without another word and leaving. He could hear her climbing the steps out of the area yard and then calling for the girl Nan.

  Adam began to move about the room. He was unsure for what he was searching; he didn’t even know that there was anything to find. Although it was a bright morning, little light seemed to filter down into the basement. A brass oil lamp was sitting on a table and Adam lit it. It flickered as if its fuel was running low but its flame was strong enough to illuminate the darker corners of the room.

  At first glance, the place seemed almost exactly as he remembered it from his visit a few weeks earlier. Either Hetty had left in a hurry, leaving her possessions behind her, or she had had none to leave and the furniture and ornaments, like Jumbo the elephant, all belonged to Mrs Threave. The piano was there as before. But surely the piano had been Hetty’s, Adam thought. He had just heard the landlady’s complaints about it being played, so she would scarcely have provided her tenant with the instrument herself. But why would Hetty leave it behind? A piano, even one as dilapidated as this one was, was an expensive purchase for a young woman of irregular income. If Mrs Threave was concerned about rent money Hetty owed her, she need only sell it and she would cover the debt several times over.

  Adam lifted the lid and tapped out a short melody on the keyboard. There was still a pile of sheet music on the piano stool, he noticed. He picked up the song on the top. ‘“Walking in the Zoo”,’ he read. ‘“As Sung with Distinguished Applause by the Great Vance”.’ The picture on the front of the song-sheet showed a frock-coated and moustachioed gentleman sauntering past a row of cages in the Zoological Gardens. Behind him, another man, presumably a keeper, was poking a large steak in the general direction of a sad-looking lion imprisoned in one of them.
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  As Adam looked at the coloured lithograph, a piece of paper fell from the song-sheet and fluttered to the floor. He thought at first that it was one of the pages of music but, bending to pick it up, he realized that it was something else. It was a page torn from a notebook. Fine quality paper, he noticed, rather to his surprise. At the top was a date. Yesterday’s date. Underneath a time of day was written on it in a rather delicate hand: a quarter after seven. This was followed by a capital P and another number, this time 3. He turned the page over. There was nothing on the other side. Adam looked again at the writing. What, he wondered, could it mean? A rendezvous time, perhaps? He peered more closely at the figure seven of the noted time. It was written in the European style with a bar through the upright of the number. He pocketed the note and continued his search, but found nothing else that shed any light on the girl’s whereabouts.

  After ten minutes, Adam left the rooms, shutting the door behind him. He climbed the steps to the street level and looked up. Mrs Threave was standing at the upstairs window and watched him as he turned and made his way towards King’s Cross.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘There is a man watching us.’

  ‘Don’t be so bleedin’ silly, Harry. ’Oo’d be watchin’ us, fer Gawd’s sake?’

  ‘That man over there. By the Smith’s kiosk.’ Harry Vernon was shifting from foot to foot with anxiety.

  Hetty Gallant turned to look across the crowded station concourse towards the bookstall.

  ‘Don’t let him see that we have noticed him.’

  ‘If you mean the bloke as was reading the paper, he’s bought it and gone orf to catch ’is train. There ain’t nobody watching us.’

  Vernon allowed himself to peer gingerly in the direction of the kiosk. To his relief there was no one in front of it save two schoolboys from Christ’s Hospital in their distinctive blue coats, knee breeches and yellow socks. ‘Well, perhaps I was mistaken,’ he conceded.