by Lee Jackson
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
HENRY COTTON GINGERLY opens the door that leads into the Three Cups tavern. It is his third visit and the landlord, first to see him, gives him a broad smile, which does not make him entirely at ease; if anything, it has the opposite effect. Cotton peers through the smoky gloom of the pub and sees Tom Hunt sitting at his usual table, though he is dressed in a new jacket and coat, rather less careworn than the apparel he wore previously. His young wife sits next to him, passive and unanimated, and two glasses of spirits sit half empty upon the table in front of them. Hunt, in fact, is engaged in debate with a man nearby, but he breaks off his conversation as he sees Cotton approaching. He greets him like an old friend.
‘Sir! Make room for the gentleman, Liz! This is a surprise, sir. I thought we agreed it was tomorrow we’d meet again?’
Cotton attempts a similarly joyous greeting, though his eyes are distracted by the patches of dark bruising on Lizzie Hunt’s face. Hunt follows his gaze, anticipating what he might say.
‘Don’t be alarmed, sir. Lizzie here is tougher than she looks, ain’t you, love?’
Lizzie mumbles something indistinct.
‘And shy too,’ continues Hunt. ‘I tell you, when I find the fellow what did that, I’ll give him what for, won’t I just?’
Hunt laughs, as if pleased with some personal joke, and Lizzie steals a nervous glance at her husband.
‘I hope this is not a bad time, then?’ ventures Cotton.
‘Not at all, not for an old pal like yourself, eh?’
‘No, well, that is good of you.’
‘We had a fine time of it yesterday, did we not?’
‘It was very instructive. In fact, that is why I came today.’
‘No money returned,’ replies Hunt, laughing, but looking at him a little warily.
‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that I had an idea, something where your particular knowledge and, ah, expertise, might assist my understanding. A different arena, as it were.’
‘I ain’t following you.’
‘No, I should speak more plainly. As you know, I intend to throw light, in my writing, on the workings of the, shall we say, criminal classes.’
Hunt looks ready to make his usual objection to such a slur on his character, but Cotton holds up his hand, and continues.
‘And I know that you yourself, by chance, have been exposed to all kinds of criminality and have a good knowledge of such persons and their manners.’
‘That’s no lie, I confess,’ replies Hunt, affably.
‘Well, the “dodges” you showed me yesterday . . .’
‘Merely for instruction,’ interjects Hunt.
‘Indeed,’ continues Cotton, ‘they were remarkable, but such things have been written of before now.’
‘I should not be surprised,’ replies Hunt.
‘But if I am to take firm hold of the public’s attention, then there must be something novel.’
Hunt raises his eyebrows, but says nothing in reply. Cotton lowers his voice to a confidential whisper.
‘It came to me last night. I am thinking, Mr. Hunt, of a burglary.’
Hunt looks perplexed, uncertain whether to laugh or take the suggestion seriously.
‘I am sure,’ he replies, ‘though I ain’t no scholar, that such things have been written of.’
‘Oh, they have. But not first-hand.’
‘First-hand?’
‘I know of a house, near the Edgware Road, whose owner is absent from the property. He is, in fact, a friend of mine. I would like you to show me how you would go about it.’
‘About what?’
‘Breaking in, of course.’
‘Come, Mr. Phibbs, you are joking. You want me to crack this place of your pal’s?’
‘Do not get me wrong, Mr. Hunt. Nothing must be taken. It is merely so that I might attempt an article on the subject.’
‘You’re a queer fellow, you know that.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘But I take nothing?’
‘I’ll pay, of course.’
‘How much?’
‘A pound.’
‘For breaking a drum? Two guineas.’
‘Done,’ replies Cotton, eagerly, his face as bright and enthusiastic as a schoolboy planning a visit to a sweet-shop.
‘And what if we’re caught?’
‘Well, I will explain the circumstances; my friend would not press charges. Besides, he is not even in London. I will fix everything, before and after.’
Hunt still looks a little doubtful. ‘And when do you propose we have this little adventure?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Tonight!’
‘Two guineas, Mr. Hunt, if we do it tonight. Think on it.’
Hunt breathes out, thinking the matter through.
‘Done.’
‘Now,’ says Cotton, taking out his notebook, ‘tell me how you intend to go about it.’
‘I think, Mr. Phibbs,’ says Hunt, downing the remainder of his drink, ‘my head needs a little lubrication before I can do any serious thinking.’
Phillip P. Butterby, sub-editor of the City and Westminster Press (‘The Oracle of the Metropolis’) looks up in surprise.
‘Phibbs?’
‘That’s the name, yes, sir. We wondered if you knew anyone of that name?’
‘Is he in trouble, then, sergeant?’
‘Then you do know a gentleman by that name, sir?’
‘In a professional capacity. I was expecting a set of articles from him for the paper last week, as it happens, but they never arrived. A most unreliable young man.’
‘What were these articles?’
Butterby looks in his desk drawer, and pulls out a sheet of paper.
‘We had a title. Wrote it myself. Ah, here you go. “London’s Hidden Deeps: An Exploration of Persons and Places Unknown and Unmourned: by One Who Has Seen Them”.’
‘Very colourful, sir.’
‘Well, such things tickle the public’s fancy, sergeant.’
‘I am sure, sir. Now, do you have an address for the gentleman?’
‘Ah. I believe I do not. He was rather a secretive young fellow. I know very little about him. Met him a few weeks back, gave us a smart little submission on “Our Social Ills”. Told him I wanted more before we might publish, and haven’t seen the blessed chap since.’
‘Well, do you expect to see him, sir?’
The sub-editor sniffs. ‘Doubtless he has some masterpiece to finish before then. If I have learnt one thing in my years here, sergeant, it is that you can never trust a literary gentleman to deliver on time.’
‘I see. Perhaps you could give me a full description of the man.’
‘Of course, sergeant. Do tell me, what has he done?’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
FARRINGDON CUT.
‘Here, Billy boy, slow down, will you?’
The railway foreman, a stout man, his face covered in dirt, shouts out to Bill Hunt, as Hunt pushes past him, red-faced and sweating, with a wheelbarrow full of earth and rubble, almost clipping his leg. Bill scowls at him, making no apology.
‘What?’
‘Mind where you’re going. What are you daydreaming about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well then, take it slow. You’ll do someone a bleedin’ injury.’
Bill Hunt nods, and continues. He stops a few yards away by a mound of refuse, the accumulation of a day or two’s excavation, and empties the barrow. He does it rather hastily, and the anxious look upon his face suggests he would like to be somewhere else. The foreman watches him from a distance, and shouts out once more.
‘You ain’t ill, are you?’
Hunt shakes his head.
Doughty Street.
Clara White hears the noise in the Harrises’ study as she ascends the stairs. It is past the dinner hour, and, for a moment, she fancies it is her master who has quietly returned home. But the sound itself is of something metallic clatterin
g off several surfaces, combined with her mistress groaning in frustration. Clara peers round the half-open door, and sees Mrs. Harris sitting upon her husband’s chair by his writing desk. She is in the process of picking up a paper-knife from the rug. Once she has retrieved it, Clara watches as she attempts, for a second time, to wedge it into the locked desk drawer in a vain attempt to prise it open. It is a remarkable and almost frantic exertion, but the result is merely that the knife itself is visibly bent out of shape, and the drawer scratched but still sealed tight. Mrs. Harris looks round and notices her maid-servant watching her. The ringlets of dark hair that normally adorn her cheeks appear somewhat disordered.
‘Can you get me something else, White?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘A stronger knife. I imagine Cook has something more durable.’
‘Actually, ma’am, that was why I came up. Cook says dinner won’t keep no longer.’
‘I am not hungry.’
‘No word from the master, then, ma’am?’
Mrs. Harris does not answer the question. ‘Will you,’ she says emphatically, ‘get me a knife, or must I go downstairs myself?’
‘Sorry, ma’am. I’ll go and ask,’ replies Clara, backing out of the room.
Mrs. Harris returns to her task.
‘What you playing at, Billy Hunt?’
The foreman’s voice booms from outside the workman’s hut; Bill opens the door and finds the man in question waiting for him.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘How long you been in there? Having a little nap?’
‘I was looking for a new pick,’ he replies, rather sullenly. ‘The shaft on this one’s gone, see?’
He holds up a pick-axe with a broken handle, but the spectacle makes little impression on his interrogator.
‘That don’t take a half-hour.’
‘I weren’t gone a half-hour.’
‘Listen, Bill,’ says the foreman, lowering his voice, and clasping Bill Hunt round the shoulder, ‘I know these larks ain’t like you. But if you keep this up, I’ll soon be having to let you go. And I don’t want to lose a good man, see?’
Bill looks at the ground, but nods acknowledgement.
‘Good,’ replies the foreman. ‘Now you just get back to work.’
Bill closes the shed door, broken pick-axe still in hand. He can hear a strange pounding in his head; he realises it is his heart beating.
Mrs. Harris cuts an incongruous figure, cutting away at the ornate mahogany with a kitchen knife. It is, in all probability, the most manual labour she has ever carried out in her life. For this reason, though the task is not that difficult, it takes her some minutes. Eventually, however, the little brass lock that fastens the desk drawer is free of the splintering wood. She sits back, looking at the ruined desk, nervously biting her lip. She realises that she has lived with her husband for thirty years, but only once questioned him on what he keeps locked away in his desk.
‘Confidential papers.’
She pulls out the drawer gingerly in stages, as if it contains some cornered animal, and lays it on the desk, picking out the various notebooks and papers contained within.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
‘IS THIS THE place?’
Tom Hunt surveys the corner of Meulton Street; it is a quiet side street, not far from the Edgware Road, near enough that the clatter of horse-drawn traffic can still be heard, even though it has gone midnight. Meulton Street, in darkness, has none of the nocturnal bustle and disorder of Saffron Hill, but rather contains a row of unexceptional town-houses, sound but small places, where, Hunt imagines, little of note ever happens, and, doubtless, the daily delivery of groceries is considered a cause for excitement. There is, admittedly, a light in one house, but every other building appears to be in darkness, shuttered and bolted for the night. The property upon which Tom Hunt focuses his attention certainly falls into this category. However, the house in question seems not half so grand as Henry Cotton’s description had suggested. In consequence, Tom Hunt gives the appearance, at least, of being almost uninterested in the business at hand. His wife, however, seems anxious, frequently looking left and right, though there is, as yet, no requirement for her to do so. Henry Cotton, if truth be told, seems no less apprehensive, and nervously toys with the buttons on his coat.
‘Is there some difficulty?’
‘I thought it would be bigger,’ replies Tom Hunt.
‘Does it matter? Remember, we must take nothing, in any case.’
‘The bigger the place, the less likely you are to be noticed, that’s all. We can’t go round the back for starters; there ain’t even a way round it.’
‘There are stables at the back, I believe, if you go round to the next road.’
‘Well, where there are stables, there are horses. And they don’t take kindly to being woke up, in my experience.’
‘True.’
Hunt rubs his chin.
‘Then what,’ continues Cotton, ‘shall we do?’
‘It’s plain enough, ain’t it? Down to the kitchen, unless you fancy the front door’s open, that is.’
‘Yes, well, I suppose you are right.’
Hunt looks at him. ‘What you waiting for, then?’ asks Hunt. ‘You first. Walk past, all casual, like, but open the gate and get down there, and do it sharpish.’
Henry Cotton nods. He takes a deep breath, stepping out from the doorway in which the trio are standing, and crosses the road, his figure briefly illuminated by the light of the nearby gas-lamp. He briskly crosses the street, where it is somewhat darker, and strides purposefully along, albeit rather stiffly, until he reaches the house on the corner. There he struggles clumsily with the catch on the iron gate that protects the area steps, and then disappears from view. Tom Hunt, a cautious man for all his bluster, waits a moment or two before following him. It is not long, however, before the two men are both standing in the dark well that fronts the basement kitchen.
‘What if someone comes?’ asks Cotton.
‘Then Liz’ll shout.’
‘What will she shout?’
‘Whatever she damn well likes. Be quiet, will you, or someone’ll hear us.’
Hunt strikes a match, then takes off his hat, holding it a little above the lit flame so that any light it gives out is not so visible from above. He bends down and peers closely at the lock on the kitchen door, then at the glass panels above it.
‘Can you pick the lock?’ whispers Cotton.
‘Well, it ain’t one of Mr. Chubb’s, so maybe I could. But I ain’t going to try it in this case.’
‘What then?’
Hunt motions him to be silent, and blows out the match. He takes from his pocket a small sheath knife and chisel, and begins applying the implements to one of the glass panels in the door. Rather than hacking noisily at the wood surrounding it, he adopts a chiselling motion that gradually strips away the splintering frame, until, after no more than a couple of minutes, the glass itself is so loose that he can easily lever it free into his hands. He handles the panel carefully, slowly laying it on the ground, then looks at Henry Cotton triumphantly.
‘The door is still locked,’ replies Cotton, confused. ‘And even an infant could not get in through that space.’
‘No,’ replies Hunt, a little annoyed that his genius is not apparent, ‘but that window there is just on a latch, ain’t it?’
Hunt leans into the door, reaching through the gap; there is some distance between the door itself and the window, but he skilfully flips up the latch with the end of his knife, his arm fully extended. In one swift movement, he opens it, and then clambers through into the kitchen.
‘You coming then?’
Cotton follows behind him, glancing back up at the street as he climbs inside.
‘Confidentially,’ says Hunt, cheerfully, ‘busting the glaze is always easier than locks. Though I don’t suppose your pal will be too happy.’
‘My pal? Ah, yes, well, I will have it repaired first thing tomorr
ow.’
‘Well, then,’ says Hunt, looking around the kitchen disinterestedly, ‘what do you want us to do now?’
‘Perhaps if you show me what you would look for if you were here to take something.’
Hunt shrugs. ‘It’s plain enough. Anything what you can carry. Silver, plate, money, jewellery. Let’s have a look-see.’
Before Cotton can reply, Hunt is up the stairs, lighting another match to see the way. Cotton follows him.
‘Bachelor gentleman, is he, this friend of yours?’ asks Hunt, surveying the hall.
‘How did you know that?’
‘Ain’t nothing fancy in it, is there? You can tell a woman’s hand on a place, can’t you?’
‘You look for such things?’
‘Won’t be no jewels about for a start, will there? Although, I’d know a bit about the place before I came in, in the regular way of things – scout it out.’
‘Would you go through every room?’
‘Depends on the house . . . here, what’s that?’
Tom Hunt asks the question, but it is somewhat rhetorical, since he recognises his wife’s voice crying out his name.
‘Keep quiet,’ says Hunt. ‘For God’s sake.’
The two men stand stock-still in the hall. The distinct sound of boots descending the area steps can be heard. Then of someone trying the handle of the kitchen door.
‘I thought you said no-one was home,’ says Hunt in a whisper.
‘There isn’t,’ replies Cotton.
‘Then it’s the bleeding peelers, ain’t it?’
‘But no-one ever comes by here.’
‘Don’t they?’
Again, the question is left unanswered, as the sound of the kitchen window opening and closing can be heard downstairs.
‘There is no need to be alarmed,’ says Cotton, ‘I swear. Remember what I told you.’
‘I don’t care what you say, I’m hooking it.’
Before Cotton can reply, Tom Hunt dashes into the front parlour, heading directly for the sash window that overlooks the area steps below, half-tripping on the rug as he does so. Despite his panic, there is something remarkably assured in the way he immediately locates and breaks the lock upon the shutter, smashing it forcefully with the end of the chisel. He pulls up the window, looking out on to the street. Without even glancing over his shoulder, he springs out into the road; easily clears the iron railings that guard the house, but falls awkwardly on the stones.
