Scarper Jack and the Bloodstained Room

by Christopher Russell

  ‘And there’s something else, sir. Can you tell me who was in your room on Tuesday morning?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you were at the art shop?’

  Erskine just stared at Rupert.

  ‘Why on earth should I?’ he eventually snapped. ‘How dare you be so impertinent. Now go away before I call the police.’

  ‘Do that,’ said April swiftly, ‘and they’ll ask you the same question. Cos whoever they were knows about the Nunwell Street murder. And I bet you do too.’

  Erskine took an instinctive step back from the fierce, dirty girl.

  ‘What? You deserve a beating, you nasty little child. And you too, Master Shorey.’

  Rupert stood his ground.

  ‘Who was it, sir?’ he asked. ‘Please.’

  Erskine waved a dismissive hand and walked away.

  ‘Please!’ Rupert called after him.

  Erskine stopped and turned, his face white with anger.

  ‘Friends,’ he said. ‘And one of them was Richard Featherstone. Are you suggesting he killed his own father?’

  ‘Explain to me again about last night,’ said Colonel Radcliffe.

  Tony’s decision to tell the truth about the window didn’t seem to have satisfied the man at all.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ he sighed. ‘I got drunk and fell asleep.’

  ‘Your son was at seventeen Nunwell Street. Can you explain why?’

  ‘My son? Jack?’ The interview was taking too many twists and turns for Tony.

  ‘He was identified leaving the premises. He and another person broke in and disturbed the scene of crime. You’re very close, I understand. You and Jack. Father and son. You do things together.’

  Tony began to panic. ‘Yes. I mean no… No. I wasn’t anywhere near Nunwell Street last night. I swear.’

  ‘Then who else can have been with the boy?’ Colonel Radcliffe was wandering around the room now. ‘You’re quite sure, Mr Tolchard, you weren’t visiting the scene of the murder? Or maybe revisiting it. With the help of an agile and dutiful son?’

  ‘No!’ Tony’s voice was almost a squeak.

  ‘Of course,’ said Radcliffe carefully, ‘we could ask Jack ourselves. If only we knew where he was.’ He stared softly, hopefully, at Tony. And waited.

  ‘Redbarn Road.’ Tony lowered his eyes. ‘You’ll find him at Redbarn Road. Up on the old buildings behind the sweep’s yard – Jevons’ place. He’ll be waiting there with my wages.’ He glanced humbly at Richard. ‘I sent him to your house, Mr Richard. I hope the money’ll be paid in your absence as you said before?’

  Richard merely nodded. There was a brief silence, then Colonel Radcliffe turned to him.

  ‘So it seems we must go to Redbarn Road, Mr Featherstone. Will you accompany us to ensure we’re as fair with the son as you’ll no doubt agree we’ve been with the father?’

  Richard was looking pale and unwell. He shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary, Colonel. You’ve more than proved yourself as even-handed.’

  He managed to stand up. ‘You’ll understand these… revelations come as something of a shock. If you’ll excuse me.’

  He picked up his hat and left. Radcliffe watched him go, then spoke quietly to Adams before turning briskly to Downing.

  ‘Handcuffs for Mr Tolchard, please, Downing. He’s coming with us to Redbarn Road.’

  Tony was appalled. ‘You can’t take me with you,’ he cried. ‘Jack’ll think I’ve betrayed him.’

  ‘You have,’ said Radcliffe tersely. ‘Probably all his life.’

  Portman Square was full of fine buildings and Denmoy House, the Featherstones’ residence, was just about the finest.

  Jack stood a moment, gazing up at it. The tradesmen’s entrance was down a flight of steps between railings. Jack went down the steps, pulled the bell handle and waited. Some time after the distant jangle had faded inside the house, the door was opened by a man with neat hair and a long black apron. He had silver polish on his fingers. Jack judged him to be the butler.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. My name’s Jack Tolchard. Tony Tolchard’s son?’

  The man’s face remained suspicious but Jack was relieved to see a glimmer of recognition at the name.

  He held out the card.

  ‘Mr Richard gave my father this and said he was to come for his wages.’

  The butler took the card delicately between finger and thumb. ‘So where is your father?’

  ‘He’s unwell, sir.’

  The butler handed back the card. ‘Mr Richard is out at the moment but he has left instructions. Step inside.’ He closed and locked the door with Jack inside the house.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, and turned unhurriedly away.

  Jack watched the butler disappear towards a passage, then heard his footsteps mounting stairs. He’d been left alone in a large scullery. To his right a doorway opened into a huge circular room flooded with morning light, which streamed through its high glass ceiling. From where he stood, Jack could see that the walls were lined with paintings. Curious, he walked across and went in, then stopped and stared in utter surprise.

  The same workmen and street entertainers who had gazed at him from the paintings in Erskine’s room were gazing down at him from these walls too: singers were singing and scaffolders were eating their lunch. His eyes lingered on a picture of a man swallowing a snake. That one was different. He shuddered and moved his gaze on.

  Then the whole world seemed to close in on him. He was staring at a picture of a strongman lying on a small stage with a paving slab on his chest. The man’s hands gripped the edge of the slab, braced to take the blow from the hammer that was about to smash down on it. It was the hands Jack recognized first. He began to feel cold, as if ice were sliding down his back. There was no mistaking those huge hands or the straining face turned sideways, looking out of the canvas at him. He was staring again directly into the eyes of the man who had followed him to Nunwell Street. The man who’d tried to kill his father.

  10

  Collision

  Jack had moved involuntarily away from the painting, as if the man could reach out from the wall and grab him. He moved closer again.

  ‘Were you told you could come in here?’

  Jack jumped and spun round, ready to run. Richard Featherstone was standing in the doorway.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m only looking at the paintings.’

  Richard approached across the room, his heels tapping loudly on the tiled floor.

  ‘And do you like what you see?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Especially that one?’

  ‘Um… yes, sir. Do you know the man, sir?’

  ‘A strange question from a trespasser.’

  Richard was behind him now.

  ‘Mr Richard?’ The butler’s surprised voice startled them both. He was standing in the doorway, a stout paper bag full of coins in his hand. ‘I didn’t hear you come in, sir.’ He stepped forward anxiously. ‘You look unwell. May I fetch you something?’

  ‘No. I’m quite well, thank you, Parfitt,’ said Richard, attempting a smile. ‘And I would like to speak to this young man alone.’

  ‘Are you quite sure, sir?’

  ‘I am.’ Richard took the bag of money, then shut the door behind the departing butler. He came and stood beside Jack.

  ‘I’ve just returned from the police station, Jack – may I call you Jack?’

  Jack nodded warily.

  ‘I’m told that you broke into my father’s office last night. Why did you do that?’

  Jack felt his cheeks go red but he said nothing.

  ‘Did you hope to find money – or valuables? Or were you merely curious to see the site of such a terrible crime?’

  Jack stared at the floor.

  ‘Your father is with the police now.’

  Jack looked up slowly. Was this a trick?

  ‘He swears he wasn’t the man they saw with you last night,’ said Richard. ‘The police don’t belie
ve him, of course.’

  Jack’s face betrayed his anxiety but still he said nothing.

  ‘If you’re trying to protect him, you’re wasting your silence. He’s confessed to leaving a window open. Someone paid him to.’

  Jack took a deep breath and looked straight at Richard. ‘I’m sorry he did that, sir. He’s not a bad man. I truly believe he didn’t know what a terrible thing was going to happen.’

  Richard regarded the boy in front of him with an almost detached curiosity. The father was obviously so indifferent to his son’s fate and yet the son was so loyal. He shook his head and began to laugh. How different their circumstances were. His own father had been a good man and in his own way a good father too. And yet how disloyal the son.

  Jack stepped back, unnerved by the sudden strange laughter. He saw tears on the man’s cheeks. Richard choked them back. Then the laughter stopped too.

  ‘Why do you want to know about Mr Davis?’ he asked.

  Jack was totally thrown by the question. ‘Mr Davis?’

  Richard nodded at the painting. ‘The man beneath the paving slab.’

  Jack hesitated. ‘Because, sir, I’m afraid he may have had something to do with your father’s death.’

  Richard said nothing. Jack blundered on.

  ‘And, sir, it’s possible that Mr Erskine, the artist, was also involved.’

  The bag of money hit the floor with a thud and split open. Coins, silver and copper, rolled noisily across the hard tiles. Richard’s face, already pale, had turned grey. He stared at Jack until the last coin had fallen still. After a brief silence, he gestured at the walls and whispered: ‘These are not Erskine’s work, Jack. He’s a good artist and a good friend but he didn’t paint these. I did. They are all my paintings. I painted John Davis; his hands, his cruel eyes, his strength…’ He paused. ‘Are you saying I killed my father?’

  Suddenly, the new and awful possibility became clear to Jack. It could have been Richard Featherstone he’d heard from inside the chimney. Richard Featherstone, Erskine’s friend, and Davis the man they both painted.

  ‘Are you?’ Richard was waiting for an answer.

  ‘No, sir.’ Jack hesitated, staring back at the trembling man. ‘I believe someone paid John Davis to kill him.’

  Richard began to laugh again. ‘Like someone paid your father to leave the window open?’

  ‘John Davis paid my father to leave the window open.’

  The laughter stopped abruptly.

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  Richard turned away. He paced in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Tell me, Jack. If John Davis paid your father to leave the window open, who do you think paid John Davis to murder my father?’

  Jack feared to say, although he felt sure now. He wished the door was closer. Richard suddenly caught hold of his arm.

  ‘You can be frank with me, Jack.’ The strange, almost hysterical tears were flowing again. ‘We share an interest in troublesome fathers, I think.’

  He let go of Jack’s arm, sniffed and wiped his face with his hand. ‘It can be a terrible thing to be a son, don’t you agree? Fathers so seldom behave as one would wish. As one would behave oneself. Indeed, sometimes it seems they set out deliberately to thwart, frustrate and generally belittle, when they have it in their hands to do so much more… D’you not feel that fathers are not fit to hold such power over us?’

  Richard paused then laughed again. ‘I read your thoughts, Jack. Where’s the comparison, you’re thinking. But the thing is, Jack, mine was every bit as selfish as your own appears to be. Mine pursued his own desires to the exclusion of all else. And his latest desire was to hazard everything on two strips of steel to run the length of South America. His entire fortune – and this house as well – were to be gambled for no better reason than the thrill he got from risk. All or nothing. Never mind his family, never mind art and beauty.’

  He swept his hand around the room. ‘He knew, he knew how many artists depended on our money. Not just my friends, dozens of others as well who would be destitute without my patronage. I have no income of my own. I relied on his great wealth. But those I support were of no account to him. I was of no account.’ He turned his head aside. ‘I didn’t plan to do it, don’t think that of me. I’m not cold-blooded.’ He choked back a sob, then grabbed Jack’s wrist and pulled him close.

  ‘Understand this, Jack. Hugo Erskine knows nothing. I was at the house where he’s working. John Davis was there too. We both paint Davis frequently. We were discussing my latest project. Hugo went out to pick up some materials he’d ordered. I went on chatting to Davis… And then it came to me. He’s so strong, so fearless. So ruthless. It suddenly seemed the obvious solution. I didn’t stop to think about it. I made a wild decision. And how I wish I hadn’t…’

  The room was filled with a thick heavy silence. Then someone began to clap, not loudly, but lightly and slowly.

  ‘Very touching.’

  John Davis was standing in the open doorway. His clothes were torn and filthy and his clapping hands were bloody. Richard stared at him, unable to speak.

  ‘My blood this time, Mr Featherstone,’ Davis whispered, coming into the room and closing the door behind him. He held his hands up for Richard to see better. ‘You’ll excuse my coming in without disturbing the staff.’

  Jack’s heart began to pound. He glanced quickly around the room.

  ‘No good looking for another door, boy,’ growled Davis. ‘There’s only one. And no window this time.’

  Jack said nothing but tensed his body for the attack he was sure would be launched at any moment.

  ‘This time?’ echoed Richard, his voice tight. ‘You’ve met before?’

  Davis smiled a hard little smile. ‘Tell it your way if you like, boy.’

  ‘Two nights ago I came home,’ said Jack, keeping his voice as level as he could, ‘and found this man trying to strangle my father.’

  Richard gazed at Davis in bewilderment.

  ‘Frighten him,’ he whispered. ‘He was talking too much in the public house. I told you to follow and frighten him, that’s all. To keep him silent.’

  Davis smirked. ‘I frightened him all right.’

  ‘Then last night,’ continued Jack, ‘he tried to kill me too.’

  ‘Careless, weren’t you?’ Davis sneered. ‘Coming to the market. Not so clever as you think you are, chimney creeper.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Richard. ‘Why would you want to harm the boy?’

  Davis looked at him pityingly. ‘He saw my face, didn’t he? He could describe me to the crushers, tell ’em who had paid his miserable dad to leave the window open.’ He snorted. ‘And they’re not stupid any more. If they got me, they’d never let it go. Not till I’d told them the rest. Like who I was working for. Which I would. I don’t believe in hanging without company.’

  Richard had stopped listening. He couldn’t take his eyes off Davis’s bloody hands but it wasn’t those hands he was seeing. It was his father’s battered body. He closed his eyes but that was worse. He could see his father’s face smiling out of a pool of redness. Smiling.

  ‘Why did you have to hit my father so hard?’ he cried suddenly.

  ‘Because he put up a fight, of course. He had pluck, your father.’

  ‘But so much blood!’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Davis sarcastically. ‘Did you think I could kill him and lay him out all pretty, with flowers in his hands and not a mark on his face?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Richard. ‘It was for the artists who depend on me. For art itself–’

  Davis spat on the floor. ‘You paid for a murder, not for a painting.’

  Jack stared at the shiny gob of saliva but dared not move.

  Richard said nothing. He looked up at the glass roof that arched over his studio and as he stared he lost focus and it began to look like a different roof altogether. A station roof. He could see his father again, standing on
a railway line that stretched into the distance. The railways had been Henry Featherstone’s greatest passion and not just because they made him money. The soaring glass roofs of King’s Cross and the rest contained an echoing bustle of life, a richness of movement and purpose, the very things that Richard tried, and usually failed, to celebrate in paint. The railways, with their cheap, fast travel, benefited the working man so close to Richard’s heart as much as they benefited the wealthy. They opened up the world. Suddenly Richard realized his father had known that all along. His father’s had been the true understanding of what ordinary people needed most. And what had he, the son, achieved on their behalf ? Nothing. He’d merely patronized them with his paintings.

  Richard could vaguely hear Davis shouting, then the man’s great bloodied fists had grabbed his arms and were shaking him.

  ‘Pull yourself together!’ roared Davis in his face, ‘Or we’re both dead!’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ moaned Richard.

  ‘A hiding place,’ demanded Davis. ‘Or distance between me and London. And money to make that possible.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘I’ve already paid you. I have no more money in the house. Only what’s on the floor.’

  Davis kicked out contemptuously at the scattered silver and copper coins.

  ‘Your bank then.’ Ripping the scarf from his neck, he twisted Richard round and roughly tied his wrists together behind his back, then began shoving him towards the door. ‘We’ll go to your bank for some proper cash, and then away. Where’s your carriage?’

  Jack sprang after them but Davis kicked out viciously and sent him sprawling. He staggered to his feet and tried to follow. As the studio door opened, it seemed to Jack that a dozen people were converging on the scullery, alerted by the shouting, but no one was brave enough to attempt to stop Davis as he bundled Richard out towards the stable yard behind the house. The horses were still harnessed to the smart green carriage and the coachman was standing beside the door, awaiting further orders. Davis pushed Richard roughly inside, punched the protesting coachman, hoisted himself up on to the box seat and grabbed the reins. He slapped them hard and roared and the startled horses leapt forward, careering the carriage behind them out into the street.