by Alan Watts
Lil started squirming.
“Yeah,” Robert said. “But only if he killed Mr King on purpose and he didn’t. It were an accident, I swear.”
The barrister’s lips thinned and Lil could see his agile mind working, but in the end he shook his head and said, “No further questions, your honour.”
***
As the jury were returning, nearly two hours later, the whole of the courtroom was lit in hues of ochre and flame through the windows, while the warm spring sunshine broke through the clouds. Lil felt cautiously optimistic at last, as the Clerk of the Court asked the Foreman, “Have you reached a verdict?”
“We have.”
“And is your verdict unanimous?”
“It is.”
“Do you find the accused, Robert Smith, guilty, or not guilty of the wilful murder of Mr Horace King?”
“Guilty…”
Lil swayed with horror, though a great cheer came from the gallery, and somebody piped up, “Hang the bastard!”
“Yeah”, cried another, “Slowly, so he feels it!”
“Please, no!” Lil thought, as Robert steadied her, “Not this. Anything but this!”
The gavel banged like a drumstick and then the foreman finished his sentence, “…with a recommendation for clemency.”
Thirteen
Bob wasn’t the only the only one to get a life sentence that day. There were the Inkpens too. All eleven of them.
Scared to death, they were sitting on hard benches in the cold Receiving Rooms of Marylebone Workhouse, under the chilly grey eyes of Miss Beckersdeth, the Matron, and Alistair King, here as always to watch as they removed their clothes. Mr Pocket stood in the background, muttering, Bible in hand. It was he who had received them at the doors. The family shivered in their nakedness, the older ones feeling their skin crawling as King’s eyes wandered over them.
There was an assortment of other internees too, who couldn’t cope any more. Some were hopping with fleas and lice, as Mr Parsons, the Medical Officer, started counting boils and carbuncles.
Miss Beckersdeth was pacing up and down, tapping her thigh with a strap as they donned their blue serge uniforms.
“Silence is the rule,” she barked.
Her voice was like a reed, her mousy hair tied back in a bun.
“The penalties for laziness and disobedience are solitary confinement, on bread and water, for adults, and flogging for any brood. There will be no nonsense. There will be no appeal. Clear?”
There were nervous murmurs of agreement, but then grasping hands appeared from nowhere, plucking away her children, and Mrs Inkpen screamed, flying at her, “You’ll not take me kids, you bitch! Give ’em back! You give ’em back!” Her hands were locked into claws. Spit flew from her lips. Her eyes burned with hate.
Her husband tried to pull her back, soothing, “We’ll be together again soon, love. Promise…”
“Let me go. I want me kids!”
“We’re a family,” he assured her, “we’re united. Soon as I can get work we’ll…”
“You stupid damn fool!” She tore herself away from him. “It’s cos o’ you we’re ‘ere, you an’ yer ale, yer good fur nuthin’…” She started slapping his face and he put his arms up to shield himself.
Beckersdeth nodded at two of the orderlies, who calmly restrained her.
She kicked and scratched to be free, hollering as her kids were dragged away, one carrying the screaming baby, as urine trickled down her legs. She tore at Beckersdeth once more, shrieking, and managed to kick her before the orderlies held her back, while Alistair watched on in fascination.
Her screams echoed down the dreary corridors, and out into the work yards, where the women plied the washboards, the men smashed flint and the boys picked oakum. Few but the idiots in the infirmary stirred, who simply grinned back stupidly.
Mrs Inkpen had seen paupers before, with their pallid skin, lank hair and thousand-yard stares, and she made the same oath that most of them had, when they were interned here, years before. That she would never end up like them.
Fourteen
Lil only had a vague idea of what it was like in these places, but even so, she had seen so many people go there and never come back, she would sell herself if necessary to keep herself and her boy from it. For her, life wasn’t so bad after all.
Yes, she thought of Bob from time to time, knowing she would have to face visiting him at some point, but at least he hadn’t hanged, and her guilt was largely tempered by the many scars, both mental and physical, that accompanied it.
The money wouldn’t last forever and she knew it important to maintain a veneer of normality, so she carried on reading fortunes, determined that at some point soon, Robert would have to find work too, to supplement their income. However it was done, she knew they must never follow in the footsteps of the Inkpens.
Without the corrosive effect of having Bob around, her health and nerves were improving, together with Robert’s behaviour, and soon, she hoped, she might find proper work herself, as a seamstress. Things could only improve.
On this particular day, Robert was somewhere indoors. He no longer played with those rough boys, thank God! His swearing had diminished considerably and even his diction had improved. He had taken to scanning the newspapers, as well as the Bible, more and more, taking an interest in the world beyond the borders of their grubby street. It was as though the whole experience had forced him to grow up. She even caught peeks of him flicking through the dictionary when he came across a word he couldn’t understand and this gladdened her all the more.
Lil’s eyes were flicking from side to side as she gazed deeply into the ball. After telling sixteen-year-old Annie Pearson she would meet a ‘sailor from the Empire’, for instance, she had met, fallen in love with, and married a Canadian merchant shipman called Johnnie Preston. Lil had already surmised he would come along, after hearing Annie’s mother saying to a neighbour, rather snobbishly, that as none of the lads around here were good enough, she would take her daughter down to the docks, where she knew the ships from the colonies came in, undoubtedly with fantasises of her marrying a ship’s captain.
Now, both mother and daughter had spread the news that Lil was ‘touched by angels’ and Lil was busier than ever.
She glanced up at Mrs Cuthbertson, who was wrapped in a shawl, wheezing over a cigarette clamped between a nicotine-stained finger and thumb.
Her wrinkled face was framed with frizzy grey hair and she had a coughing fit as she took another drag, before asking between gasps, “You mean my Sid’s got a few bob stashed away?” She grinned in anticipation, flashing the pink of her toothless gums.
“Through the clouds of despair, shines the majesty of prosperity,” Lil had said, a prophecy that could be understood in so many ways, it was impossible to contradict.
Mrs Cuthbertson coughed some more and Lil let the fit pass before adding, gravely, “I see a man through the mist, a man once lost, a tall man, a wealthy man…”
Mrs Cuthbertson’s son had been released early from prison and word had it that he had recovered the loot he had salted away from a mansion he had burgled five years before.
She was about to carry on, when an icy finger traced its way down her spine. A man, exactly as she had described, stopped before her. She saw his shoes were buffed, and he wore an expensive, tailored suit and bowler hat.
He looked around slowly and gripped the Gladstone bag he was carrying harder.
“May I speak with you in private, Mrs Smith?” he asked.
Mrs Cuthbertson, leaning forward towards Lil to hear the rest about the tall, wealthy man, snapped, between coughs, “You wait yer turn. It ain’t manners to butt in!”
“It’s very important,” he added, ignoring her completely.
Trembling, Lil pulled Mrs Cuthbertson’s penny from the little heap of coins in the drawer and handed it back, certain this glib-looking man was a detective.
Mrs Cuthbertson stood, glowering, snatched the penny an
d wandered back to her Sid, muttering to herself.
Lil looked him up and down and said at last, “Please come inside.” She was convinced, as he followed her through the open door, that he was going to utter the words, “Lillian Smith, I am arresting you for the murder of…”
Scared half to death, she watched as he lowered the Gladstone bag to the floor.
Fifteen
When he said instead, “I am the only son of Horace King, the gentleman who owned this establishment,” she didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared all the more.
Perhaps he was merely here to inform her that, from now on, as sole beneficiary of his estate, he would be her landlord.
Instead, he said, “I want the fob you stole from him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard! It was missing when his body was collected. Only you or your kid could have taken it.”
Bluffing away her fear and certain now that the watch must be worth much more than ten pounds, she snapped, “Mr King, quite apart from the fact that I am innocent of any crime, your family has brought us enough misery already. I do not have your father’s watch or anything else that belonged to him. Now, please leave us alone.”
She made to go for the door, but he didn’t budge.
As she was opening it, he said, “I’m not the only one who thinks it odd that a man of your husband’s temperament would kill in the way that was alleged.”
“Well, he did, so…”
“I could always get a private investigator to find out who really did it. The forensic techniques now are really quite breath-taking.”
She paused, looking at Robert, who had appeared at the bottom of the stairs. King added, “I’ll hire the very best in London. Money will be no…”
She turned on him. “Get out of my house!”
“No, madam, my house. I have inherited it, and every other hovel in this street, and several dozen others. Now give me the watch or you’ll be sorry.”
He was much more determined than his uncle and she knew he wasn’t going to give in as easily.
King advanced upon her again. She backed off, more frightened by the second. The windowsill dug into her thighs, and with nowhere else to go, she shoved him hard. She would never recall what happened in those next few seconds with any clarity.
It was a blur of arms and legs, Robert leaping out of the way at the last instant; King hitting the mantelpiece back first, mouth wide open in a silent scream.
She would never forget the gurgling noise coming from his throat, as he went down on his knees, with his hands groping behind his back. It wasn’t until he toppled forward on his face, and lay there gasping and raking the floorboards with his fingernails, that she realised what had happened. One of her knitting needles was stuck almost full length in his back.
Robert had staggered back as far as the stair rail, paper white with shock.
Lil’s hair had fallen into her eyes. She walked a step closer, shaking, unable to take her gaze from the long spike she guessed had fatally pierced his heart. She was wondering if she should try to pull it out, when his right hand suddenly shot out and grabbed her ankle. She yelped and stumbled, falling into an awkward sitting position, with her dress in a ruck around her.
Still holding her ankle, his face turned up towards hers, a picture of agony. He tried to speak, but a long wheeze and a frothy sound came out instead, followed by a trickle of blood. His head dropped to the floor with a hollow bang, though his eyes remained open.
The grip relaxed on her ankle and she shuffled quickly backwards until she met the door. She looked across the room, over the second dead body to adorn the floor in less than a fortnight, to see her son transfixed by shock, eyes as wide as saucers, mouth gaping open.
She struggled up slowly, her mind racing, as she pushed her hair out of her eyes, knowing there would be no winkling out of it this time, even though what had happened was a genuine accident.
She knew that sending Robert off to find Sharp was a waste of time, because even as dense as he was, he wouldn’t believe a second alibi. Sheer despair engulfed her. She would certainly go to prison and might even hang, while Robert would be taken away to God knows where.
He was blubbing by now, as he asked, “What… what are we going to do?”
“Do?” She was almost angry. “They’ll think we murdered him.” She sat at the table, her legs weak.
Robert’s voice had no strength in it. “But… we… we didn’t. He fell against… He was pushin’ you about… and then…”
Numb, she wished she could stop trembling, as she tried to think what to do.
Then there was a rap on the door. She jumped as though an electric current had passed through her.
Robert bolted upstairs.
She knew that whoever stood beyond would see the body if she opened it more than a crack. Fighting panic, she dragged it under the windowsill, thankfully on the opposite side to which the door opened, as another, louder rap came. She opened it about two inches, knowing if a constable stood there, the game would be up.
Instead, there was a squat, middle-aged woman, wearing a choker that gleamed with a Star of David. Her grey hair was piled up in a bun, with brass pins running through to secure it. Mrs Cohen from Carnaby Lane was another of her regulars.
Apart from the fact that she, too, thought Lil was blessed with her ‘gift’, her agile mind would wonder how, with her husband gone, worthless as he had been, she could afford to turn business away. So, against all her instincts, Lil stepped outside, hoping to God Robert wouldn’t have a breakdown in the next ten minutes.
As she started going through her pitch trying to stop herself from stuttering and being sick, her mind was still churning over the few dubious options open to her.
As Mrs Cohen finally wandered off, happy with what Lil had told her, that her own idle husband would soon be up off his backside, doing some work, something else occurred to her too. Something of perhaps vital importance.
She was twitching as she went indoors to find out.
Sixteen
It stood on the table, beckoning. The Gladstone bag.
She was glad it was getting dark, so she could legitimately pull the curtains and light the oil lamps. Then, after a nervous glance at the door, she pulled the bag towards her, and clicked it open.
As Robert watched, she pulled the two halves apart, and their eyes started from their heads, as she reached inside and pulled out a wad of pound notes.
She whispered “My God!” as she studied it, before laying it on the table.
Then, feverishly, she pulled out another, and another, and another. They were wrapped in bands of royal blue, freshly printed, with the intoxicating scent of the Mint. There were so many, she had to stack them, and when she had finished, they stared at the foot high fortune for a very long time.
Certain she was trapped in a dream, she flicked through one of them, to find there were a hundred notes and a hundred wads, making ten thousand pounds in total. The sum was so vast, it was almost impossible to comprehend.
But what was she to do with it…?
Take it to the police, or to Sir Rupert King or… or use it to take her and Robert away from this dump forever?
There was more than enough.
She looked at him and knew there would never be another opportunity. The boy didn’t stand a chance here, however much she endeavoured to change things, or make him read the Bible.
She sighed long and hard as she looked at the book too, sitting next to the bag, as if God himself had placed it there, as a pious reminder.
That little voice was back. ‘Honesty won’t pay the bills,’ it whispered slyly. ‘It won’t clothe or feed you. It won’t pay your ticket to a street without whooping cough and consumption.’
She exhaled long and hard as her gaze turned back to the money. She looked at the body too, and the same question popped up in her head. What was she to do about him? She closed her eyes, put her elbows on the table and put her fa
ce in her hands, as her brain raced.
She knew she had no choice. He would have to go and the money would have to stay.
More than an hour had passed since King had arrived, and she knew, as she threw a blanket over him, that his disposal would be difficult.
If she started digging in the back yard, she was likely to attract attention, because there were too many windows and too many people used the back alley, as well as the stray dogs that might try and dig him up. It would also have to be done during the hours of darkness, which would fuel any suspicion.
She considered dumping him in the stinking canal that took the sewage from Canary Wharf into the Thames, knowing the rats would dismember him in no time, as they did the tramps and drunks who sometimes fell in, but again, there was the risk of him being found.
Robert asked again, “What are we going to do?”
“There is only one thing we can do. In the morning, we will lift the floor boards, put him under them and put them back.”
‘There, you’ve said it,’ the little voice purred. ‘No going back now.’
Robert was silent for a few moments, before adding with hope in his eyes, “Then, will we leave here forever?”
“No! That would be the stupidest thing we could do. King was a rich man and rich people have many friends. If they suddenly go missing, questions are asked. Nobody cares about the poor, people like us, so nobody asks. That is a sad fact of life we can turn to our advantage for when we do disappear.”
***
Hours later, daylight was vague and muted through the curtains as she asked, yawning, “What do you want to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Rubbish! You’re a growing boy. You must.”
She dragged herself up, blinking away both sleep and the horrible dreams that had plagued her, while Robert looked wearily at the body again, and whispered, “We won’t go to Heaven now, will we?”
