by Alan Watts
Blissfully ignorant of what she had in store for him, Bride had also thought his plan through carefully, though he needed to know the number of the room she was staying in.
Asking directly for it at Reception was out of the question. A more subtle way was needed, so when morning came, he made his way back to her hotel, dressed rather differently, in garb he had bought from a pawnshop. It was an old suit, abysmally threadbare, with a shabby bowler hat, and shoes that were falling to bits.
He had not washed, or had a shave either, so he guessed he smelt a little ripe. He knew there must be no mistakes or hiccups, or it would all be over. Worse still, he could end up in prison for a very long time.
When he made his way into the lobby, it was mainly to see the lie of the land; to note where the stairs, exits and entrances were and roughly how many people worked there.
All of this was vitally important in the event of something unforeseen happening, so he could run if he had to.
He saw a stern-looking man, who he guessed to be in his fifties, and probably the owner, standing behind the reception desk, writing in a ledger. Bride knew if he approached him with what he had in mind, he might see straight through him, so he stayed back in the shadows, watching the other members of staff as they came and went, as he pretended to look at a wall painting.
To stay too long would look suspicious, but after a few minutes he saw what he had hoped. A boy of about seventeen joined the older man and the rancour between them was obvious. He looked as though he had been a walking punch bag at school, lanky with rosy cheeks, which were peppered here and there with red spots, and a nervous tic in his left eye.
He was safely on the other side of the road as he saw the two people he was after emerge. They looked happy and contented, with not a care in the world.
This left him more mystified and irritated than ever. He quickly reasoned that no bags meant they hadn’t checked out yet, so time to move quickly.
***
Sir Rupert King had surmised a lot too, as he stood in the Boys Canteen in the workhouse beneath a fading slogan on the wall, informing them that “God loves the meek and the thrifty”.
There were about two hundred inmates here, ranging in age from six to fifteen; among them the four Inkpen boys, whose heads had been shaved and painted with iodine in varying hues of mauve and brown, to fight a ringworm infection. They sported various dressings too, where boils had been pricked. They stood with everybody else in the long queue for lunch, cold and miserable, as thin Mrs Scantleberry slopped tepid gruel into their outstretched bowls.
Mr Flint stood by her side, his unblinking eyes missing nothing.
The silence was absolute, apart from the rumbling of many bellies and Mrs Scantleberry’s continuous coughing.
When they were all finally seated, heads bowed, Mr Flint prayed.
Sir Rupert had his mind on other, less virtuous things than paying heed to the Good Lord though. He was sure the woman he had seen had stolen the money to pay for the clothes they wore.
The fact that Bride was watching the fine lady and her son suggested they had something to do with his nephew and that something untoward, or even perilous, may have happened to him.
That was the main reason for him being here. He needed the help of Mr Belcher, both to secure the truth from their devious private detective and possibly even locate his thieving nephew, and he didn’t care a jot how he did it.
He stood next to his brother, scrutinising the proceedings, his other concern being that he was determined to reduce the running costs. He had half an eye on the depth of the thin greasy soup, that was routinely tested with a ruler to be sure it was no more than the inch and a quarter in depth they had agreed upon.
He was intrigued though, as to why, when Flint bade them all be seated, one boy had the impertinence to remain standing, arms folded, not touching his food, whilst staring pointedly at the ceiling.
He was aware too of a change in his brother’s breathing as he ogled him.
Although he found certain of Alistair’s predilections disturbing, to say the least, he had to admit the boy was a fine strapping lad, built up by nearly six months of rock breaking.
For specimens such as this, Alistair had a little room upstairs, containing a specially adapted desk, with straps for ankles, wrists, elbows and knees, and a gag for the mouth; into which the boy of his choice was bent over, naked and restrained, while he took his time to undress.
As they stood watching their charges, spoons at the ready, they waited for Mr Flint to utter, “Begin,” before Sir Rupert fixed him with a glare.
He wandered over, looping his cane over his arm.
Sir Rupert hissed, “For what reason, Mr Flint, is that boy not sitting or eating?”
“He has stiffly refused to, Sir. He claims the food is inedible. Utter nonsense of course!”
“You beat him, I hope?”
“Indeed, Sir, in my study, with a will, but sadly, still to no avail. Some nuts, I regret to say, are tougher than others to crack.”
Sir Rupert’s lips thinned, his monocle dropped and swung back and forth across his chest, as he growled, white-faced with rage, “Then thrash him yet again, this time before the assembled gathering, so they may profit by his error. Please proceed.”
They watched the flogging and listened to the screams and begs for mercy; Sir Rupert, as always, morbidly fascinated, his brother ogling the bare writhing cheeks, and savouring the thwick, thwick, thwick of the whippy rattan, with his tongue almost hanging out and a bulge in his trousers.
The children’s faces, the Inkpens’ in particular, were sickly shades of white and green, with tears running down them. They knew this could so easily happen to them, if they too whined about the nauseating muck they had forced down, thereby establishing, without waste of breath, the deterrent.
When it had finished, and the boy had eaten the ‘good tack’, by now stone cold, while tears streamed down his face, Alistair King told Mr Flint, a little hoarsely, “I want him taken to my woom.”
“Immediately, Sir?” said Mr Flint, obvious shock spread on his face.
“Yes,” Alistair told him, “wight away.”
***
Tom Bride was in luck as he went inside. The boy was standing at the reception desk, writing in the ledger, but Bride loitered in the shadows to be sure the father wasn’t about to appear from nowhere.
He was pretending to admire another oil painting and was soon sure he was alone, so he approached the boy with the most righteous look he could muster.
“Can I help you, Sir?” the boy almost stuttered.
“Yes,” Bride told him, as he removed his hat. He pulled a pound note from his trouser pocket. “I was passing by a couple of hours ago, on my way to the soup kitchen, and I saw a rather well-to-do lady walk out of your front door. She had a little boy with her. I saw her drop this.”
He proffered the note humbly and added, “I followed her for about a mile, trying my best to keep up, but with this wound I received at Ladysmith… well, the pain became too much for me, so I decided it would be best to wait until now, when she might be back and hopefully meet her here, to give it to her.”
“Thank you for being so honest. If you give it to me, I’ll see she gets it back.”
The boy smiled reassuringly and Bride replied, looking suitably embarrassed, “I’d much rather give it to her in person… if you don’t mind.”
He hoped he was right in predicting the boy’s reaction and he was. For a moment he said nothing, as Bride could see his mind working.
“I have no idea when she will return,” he told him, “but you are welcome to wait in the lobby.”
Bride replaced his hat and lowered his gaze. “You are most kind, but I cannot wait. I have to return home to my son. He is ill, and…”
It was all too much. It took him several moments to find his voice again, as he mastered himself.
“If you have an envelope,” he said quietly, giving the impression he’d rather not talk about it, �
��then I can put the money inside and slip it under her door… if of course, you have no objection to me popping upstairs to do it.”
For the first time the tiniest hint of suspicion crossed the boy’s face.
Bride knew he might not be quite as green as he seemed, as he replied, guardedly, “Yes, you may, but I’m afraid I will have to accompany you.”
Bride nodded, to show he understood, as the boy passed him an envelope. It didn’t matter whether he followed him or not. He even embellished his charade, by feigning illiteracy, when the boy asked, “Is there anything you would like to write on it?”
Bride dictated a few sincere lines, and as the boy plied his pen, Bride was sure he had never seen such selflessness in his life.
Twenty-six
Sir Rupert King stood at the far end of the stone-breaking yard, where the noise was interrupted, not by talk, which was expressly forbidden, but by the crack of the iron hammers as they broke the brick-sized lumps of flint.
Next to each man was the iron plate with the regulation-sized hole, through which each stone had to go and a large wicker basket the other side to catch them. The produce would be sold to road builders.
King had been watching Mr Belcher, smoking a cigar as he thought. Belcher was walking steadily along the rows of men and older boys, of whom there were about eighty. Amongst them, Mr Inkpen, whose right arm, more accustomed to lifting an ale glass, moved as though it was filled with lead.
Belcher carried a broad belt of thick hide, with which he could easily raise a half inch purple welt, as Mr Inkpen had quickly found to his cost.
Sir Rupert’s study was close by, and it often amused him to hear the occasional slap and the shriek of pain, as he attended to his correspondence. It helped to break the monotony.
As Belcher drew closer, he could see the scores of white scars that covered his face, neck and hands, from past fights and the odd sliver of flint flying off like glass, inflicting small cuts here and there.
Mr Belcher was six foot five, weighed eighteen stone, all muscle, and had absolutely no concept of either sentiment or fear. As a boy, they had repeatedly flogged him to curb his insolence. When that hadn’t worked, they had locked him in the refractory cell, next to the mortuary, for days on end on a diet of bread and water, and even that had served only to drive the devil in.
As he had grown, his diet got significantly better, as he took the role of an overseer himself. That’s also because fewer of the overseers had had the courage to tackle him, knowing that to do so was a sure ticket to a broken jaw. However, he had become steadily institutionalised, his Achilles heel. For all his toughness, Sir Rupert King knew that Mr Belcher wouldn’t last two minutes in the outside world.
By the time he was so big and strong that nobody dared order him about, there was a clamouring to eject him once and for all.
Sir Rupert, though had recognised that, aside from the fact that he was an almost indispensable overseer himself by now, also knew he would be useful in other areas too, such as rent collecting.
The relief to the men, and Mr Inkpen in particular, was visible when Sir Rupert beckoned him over.
***
A mile or so away, Lil had other things on her mind as she made her way back to the hotel.
In a low voice, she was telling Robert what to do, pressing upon him, for the umpteenth time, that his aim must be absolutely right and that he must exert as much force as possible.
She carried a brown paper bag with all the necessary accoutrements for the successful execution of her plan, knowing this infernal man would be out of the equation once and for all if all went to plan.
“But what if he doesn’t turn up?”
“He will, because he must. He knows he will never see the contents of that box unless he tries to steal the fob from us.”
Robert’s mouth froze as he saw an envelope on the floor, as she opened the door into their room. He picked it up and Lil took it from him and felt her heart skip a beat as she read the message written across it.
You never know when you may need this. A mutual friend.
She pulled out the pound note, certain this was his way of telling her he knew exactly where she was and that he fully intended wresting the fob from her. She smiled. It was going well so far.
***
Bride had dumped his disguise, because it was making him itch. Now, dressed more casually, so as not to attract attention, he had made a couple of circuits of the hotel, looking for its weak spots, with the number 49 lodged in his brain.
He would make his move at about three in the morning, when he was sure they would be asleep.
From his vantage point at the top of a tall wall, in the alley at the rear of the three-storey building, he saw a flight of metal steps to the top floor that formed the fire escape and recognised the obvious means of getting inside.
The sash windows might or might not be locked. A ledge ran the length of the building, beneath each row, though getting in that way would be a last resort.
The only snag was, his left shoe had a squeak. In the dead of night, it would be amplified beyond belief, so he would have to remove his shoes before breaking in.
He had known how to pick locks before he was nine.
He studied the base of the stairs, where there appeared to be nothing to prevent unwanted persons gaining access to them.
He was convinced the whole exercise was going to be a cinch, and thinking again of the rewards at the end of it, he licked his lips.
Twenty-seven
Mr Belcher looked woefully out of place, sat as he was in the Guvnor’s study amid oak panelling and fine furniture, sipping eighteen-year-old Laphroaig whisky from a crystal glass. He studied the two photographs he had been given, drinking in the details, noting mostly the slightly squashed nose of one of the men it depicted, whose name was Tom Bride.
Belcher had been told by Sir Rupert that he was sure Bride had on his person, or hidden nearby, either a fob watch or a key. Sir Rupert wanted that item back, and secondly, he wanted to know where the other was likely to be, even if securing the information meant half-killing him.
The other picture showed a man in his early to mid-thirties, who looked refined and well to do. His name was Adam King, Sir Rupert’s nephew, who might, with the further application of a little violence, also give him some valuable information concerning the missing items.
If he succeeded in recovering them, he would get fifty pounds an item, an unheard-of fortune.
The only drawback for King was that, although Belcher was one of the most terrifying people he had ever known, he wasn’t as stupid as people assumed. When he had asked if the key opened a safe, King had been forced to admit that it did.
To make matters worse, he needed to know the name and location of the bank, and the hotel the woman and child were staying in.
To safeguard his own interests as far as possible, therefore, Sir Rupert had assured him the safe merely contained a few legal documents, which, although vital to him, were worth nothing to a third party.
He could only hope and pray he wouldn’t have enough savvy to open the fob, if he acquired it, and thereby see the box number.
He felt a little more relieved when Belcher said, “All right, I’ll do it, but I want an ’undred per item,” as that meant, at least for now, that he hadn’t thought any further.
After looking suitably appalled at such mercenary terms, and rebuking him for being so greedy, Sir Rupert said, “Very well, but I want results. Clear?”
Belcher nodded and put the photos in his jacket pocket as he left.
Twenty-eight
Many hours later, Tom Bride had removed his shoes earlier than intended, the very moment, in fact, after taking the first rung of the fire escape, for it made a sonorous clang, reverberating the whole length of stairs for the next ten seconds. He had darted back in the shadows with his heart thudding, convinced somebody must have heard it.
He had left his own hotel at three-thirty, dodging the bobbi
es on their beats, as he made his way here, because if anything went wrong, although nothing could go wrong, he kept telling himself, then at least they wouldn’t have an image of him to draw upon later.
When he had finally got his jangly nerves under control, he tied the laces of the shoes together and hung them around his neck. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could just make out the wall he had scaled to get here, which had been no easy obstacle either, though there had at least been the screeching of two tomcats nearby to mask any sound he made.
He made his way carefully up the stairs, ready for anything else that might lie ahead of him. When he got to the top, he was confronted by a solid door, with no glass to peep through, so he had no choice other than to hope nobody stood on the other side when he opened it.
This was the worst part, as there was no way of masking the noise, as he inserted the specially made tools he always carried, as he twisted and turned them, to flick the tumblers inside. He was sweating by the time he heard and felt the tell-tale sudden movements, to indicate success.
As he pushed the door gently open and stepped inside, he had a fleeting vision of being confronted by the owner, with a loaded blunderbuss. There was nobody there. Once inside, he left the door slightly open, so he wouldn’t have to fumble later.
He made his way slowly along the corridor, knowing that however much he strained his eyes, there wouldn’t be enough light to work by, so it would have to be the window or nothing. He counted the doors as he went, knowing he would have to correspondingly count the same number of windows when he got outside. He hoped they weren’t locked.
When he got to the end, he saw the corridor branched off to the left, where it came to a dead end, though there was another sash window, overlooking the road. He was relieved to find it rolled up with very little noise.
