Touched by Angels

by Alan Watts

  Belcher wouldn’t have a clue how to employ vast sums of money without arousing misgivings, and certainly not how to fence jewellery.

  He needed him.

  ***

  Belcher was just tall enough to see over the barrel. He was looking in the direction of the street, as he considered Bride’s clearly sensible offer, when he saw somebody pass by, so transiently that if he’d blinked, he would have missed him.

  He had seen the Guvnor.

  Thirty-one

  When Lil and Robert walked into Coutts & Co Bank once more, they saw no sign of Bride, but knew he could materialise at any moment.

  Lil looked along the row of be-suited tellers behind varnished portals, with no sign of any safety deposit boxes. A giant, green enamelled safe dominated one corner of the bank, and the whole area was lit by a vast electric chandelier.

  The whole place was teeming with the well to do.

  A young smiling man in a suit appeared before her. “How may we be of service?”

  “Mum wants to get to her safety deposit box!” Robert piped up.

  Lil closed her eyes and felt like strangling him. She had meant to build up to the enquiry rather more subtly, so as not to arouse suspicion. Now she would just have to let it ride and pray the man didn’t smell a rat.

  Luckily, he glanced down at what he saw as an immature, affable lad, who hadn’t yet learned the value of tact, and said, “Boys, eh? Got two myself. You never know what they’re going to say next.”

  She smiled, swamped with relief, as he said, so simply she could have cried, “That part of the establishment, madam, is below ground, for added security. If you’ll follow me…”

  They trailed behind him, with Lil briefly squeezing Robert’s hand, and putting her finger to her mouth. They followed him down a flight of stone steps, her block heels clacking loudly, and came to a short corridor, with a whitewashed brick wall to their right, and a row of stout iron bars to their left.

  They ran from ceiling to floor, and were not unlike those of a prison cell, where she would end up for a very long time if anything went wrong in the next ten minutes.

  The electric lights were a novelty. It was an odd feeling to be in a lit enclosed area, without the tang of burning oil in the air.

  Through the iron bars, they saw the far wall was composed of four rows of small numbered steel doors, one on top of the other.

  All were the same size, about fourteen inches across and twenty high, and all were numbered. Each had a brass circle, about two and a half inches across, on the right hand side for the keyhole. Next to each one was a small brass knob to pull the door open. To their immediate right, was a door set into the wall, with the words For Privacy inscribed upon it in large letters.

  The man asked, “May I see your key and safe number?”

  She pulled the key and fob from her blouse pocket, and the man watched as she opened it.

  He didn’t seem surprised at all at its location, having seen many, even stranger places for the number to be secreted. After all, the Duchess of Gloucester kept hers in the whalebone of her corset.

  After she had shown him the number engraved inside, he smiled once more, and said, “All appears to be in order, Madam. Please follow me.”

  She felt her heart slow down. There were two security guards outside the iron barred door, and at a nod from the young man, one of them produced a key and unlocked it.

  It made a grating noise that set her teeth on edge as it swung open. They followed him through.

  “That is your safe on the middle right-hand corner, Madam. Please feel free to enter that room for privacy.”

  He retreated to the corridor to wait.

  She had the unsettling feeling it had been a mite too easy as she inserted the key and turned it. She pulled the brass knob and the thick steel door coasted open. There was a large metal box inside with a hinged lid on top. She pulled it out. Robert walked ahead and opened the door. She followed him in. The room was brightly lit, with just a plain table, a white linen cloth draped across it and a chair either side.

  She placed the box on top, and said quietly, “Close the door.”

  She pulled out one of the chairs, sat, and lifted the lid.

  Thirty-two

  Bride was astounded but relieved by the sudden change in Belcher’s temperament after he had reported Sir Rupert passing by. He seemed even more helpless in the outside world than he had first thought.

  Bride said, as he massaged his aching belly, “I hope he’s not making his way to the bank. Only if he gets there and sees the woman and child…”

  Belcher said nothing, but was looking at him in such a way that said he was certain he’d reeled him in. Bride looked around, as if racking his brains for a solution, though he’d already worked it out.

  “I suppose the best way… well, the only way, is to tell him I’ve already got the money, but won’t tell you where it is. Tell him you’ve got me tied up and gagged in a cellar somewhere, and that it won’t take you a minute to get me blabbing. Then, once he’s followed you here, as I’m certain he will, all you have to do, is kill him, then…”

  “What d’you mean I’ve got to kill him?”

  “Only because you’re more likely to succeed, and anyway, nobody could prove anything.”

  Certain of his hatred for Sir Rupert, he could see the temptation gnawing at him, so he added, “Then all you have to do is dump him in this barrel, by which time the woman will have the money, and after we’ve got it off of her, which won’t be hard, we split it down the middle, and… well, go our separate ways. Simple as that.”

  Belcher’s eyes were slits.

  Any lingering doubts seemed dispelled when Bride snapped, as he looked at his watch, “Christ! You’d better look sharp. That bank has been open ten minutes already.”

  He smirked in spite of his discomfort as Belcher took off down the alley, while he retrieved his shoe. He was already planning his next move as he was lacing it up.

  He stood in the shadows at the end of the alley where Belcher had seen Sir Rupert pass, watching a very young-looking policeman on the other side of the street, knowing him perfect for what he had in mind.

  He kept glancing in the direction Belcher had gone to, to get his timing just right, knowing if he wasn’t careful, his plan could easily backfire. He was also conscious of the fact it was nearly fifteen minutes past nine.

  ***

  He needn’t have worried though, because Lil had been rooted to the spot for nearly ten minutes, just staring. She had been feverishly pulling bag after bag from the box, knowing their extreme high value before she’d even opened them. There was a priced inventory.

  When she picked it up and looked at the first of more than fifty entries, she felt her mouth drop.

  Item one, it said, Bodice ornaments of brilliant cut diamonds, set in silver. Circa 1760. Louis Duval of St. Petersburg.

  Robert watched, mouth gaping, as she picked up the blue velvet presentation case and opened it. The dozens of set diamonds glinted like thousands of silver spears in the light of the single bulb.

  On the inventory, next to the entry Valuation for the purpose of insurance by Christie’s £500.

  Then the next.

  Item two. Necklace and earrings of emeralds and diamonds in open back silver and gold settings. By Nitot & Fils. Circa 1806. Valuation £650.

  Item three. Pendant enamelled gold set with rubies, sapphires and pearls by Giulliano. Circa 1865. Valuation £800.

  Item four. Mermaid pendant by Louis Wiese. Circa 1890. Valuation £400.

  And so it went on… and on.

  When she finally totted it up, the contents of the box were worth around fifty thousand pounds.

  ***

  This was a fact that Sir Rupert King was acutely aware of too, as he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  He had been standing outside the bank for the past few minutes, unable to remember what the woman and child looked like. When he had first seen her, a couple of days ag
o, he had been in a state of deep despair, and so not thinking straight. The only lead he had was that women, particularly those accompanied by children, were a complete rarity in banks.

  He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Bride either, which wasn’t, he supposed, entirely surprising, in view of the fact he was now certain he was a rogue and nothing more.

  When he turned and saw Belcher standing behind him, he felt his heart leap into his mouth. Having seen many times in the past what happened when Belcher lost his temper over trivial things, he wished now that he’d never got him involved in the first place.

  When Belcher said, quietly, “Got the bastard, red ’anded,” all he could mutter, as he looked up at the beefy face, was, “Have you, by golly?”

  “Yeah, got ’im tied up and gagged. Won’t tell me where it is… yet.”

  Sir Rupert instinctively knew that something was amiss, but still, anger gripped him. His fists clenched and unclenched.

  “Where is he?”

  “Tied to a chair in a basement, with a gag stuffed in his mouth. Fought you might like to see me get ’im talkin’.”

  “What about the woman and child?”

  “Dunno, but they’re all in it together, to stitch you up like a kipper. Did your nephew in too. Stuck a knife in ’im.”

  Sir Rupert fell back a step, suddenly engulfed by fear. He didn’t care a fig about the little bastard being murdered, but he most certainly did about the money he had salted away. If he was dead, he couldn’t talk… but Bride could.

  Belcher strutted off, and he followed, fuming with temper, but troubled by the thug’s claim that he’d refused to talk, for he’d never known anyone not giving in to Belcher.

  “Up ’ere.” Belcher indicated the alley he had left less than ten minutes ago.

  Sir Rupert looked along its length, puzzled. That nasty feeling that something was badly wrong was back.

  He had expected to be led to a house.

  ***

  Bride was watching from further down, concealed behind some old crates, peering gingerly through a crack. Bride watched in total disbelief as Sir Rupert walked blindly into what was so clearly a trap.

  When he saw them disappear between the two barrels, he took one glance behind him to be sure the alley was clear in that direction, before making his way towards them.

  His foot wasn’t hurting as much and it felt as though the bleeding had stopped.

  ***

  “There’s nobody here…” Sir Rupert muttered, as he popped his monocle in, but it was too late.

  He felt Belcher’s hand lock around the back of his neck, sending him flying and smashing face first into the wall, where both his jaw and monocle cracked.

  He hung there for a few moments, groaning, the wall propping him up, before sliding down, leaving a blood smear as he went. A shard of glass had punctured his eyeball and stuck from it, glistening red, while the empty monocle was stuck to his grazed cheek with blood.

  As he came round, Sir Rupert opened his mouth to yell for help, but Belcher kicked him in the ribs.

  Bride watched impatiently, willing him to get on with it, so he could set the next part of his plan in motion.

  Sir Rupert spat out a great gob of red and gasped, seemingly unaware of his blinded eye, “What do you want?”

  “I found out ’ow much money there really is.”

  Sir Rupert gulped and said, “I dare say, though it’s nothing to do with…”

  “I told you to shut yer gob!”

  Sir Rupert spat out more blood, as it streamed from his nose. “There’s clearly been…”

  Belcher kicked him again and Sir Rupert gasped, as loudly as he could, “Help! Somebody… anybody… please!”

  Belcher ignored him, grabbed him under the chin, hauled him up and rasped, an inch from his face, “All my life I been in that shit ’ole you run, eatin’ that puke you dish up, while bastards like you filled yer fat bellies with steaks and fings. Wanna know what I ate just to stay alive, eh… eh?”

  Spit flew from his lips, as he shook him like a doll, though by now, Sir Rupert was too terrified to speak.

  “I ate the marrow out the bones they made me split,” he shouted, “even though I knew they’d take the skin off me arse if they caught me. Spud peelins too, candles, anyfing, ’cos if I ’adn’t, I woulda died of ’unger. You don’t know what it’s like to go ’ungry, do you?”

  Sir Rupert spat out more blood, as he glared at Belcher’s free hand grabbing something crawling up the barrel.

  When he saw what it was, he screamed with all that was left in him, until he was choked off by Belcher’s big hand, gripping his throat even harder. He saw the biggest slug of his life, dangling an inch above his face, with slime dripping from its tail.

  “And now,” Belcher rasped, “it’s your turn. Open yer mouth.”

  Sir Rupert kept his bloodied lips tight shut, as his gorge rose.

  “I told you to open yer fuckin’ mouth!”

  He was about to comply, when something strange happened. His body started to buck, like a puppet. The pupil of his remaining eye suddenly dilated, and a brief “Aaah…” came up from his throat.

  ***

  Bride watched as he became stiff as a board, knowing he’d either had a fit or a heart attack.

  It wasn’t until Belcher let go though, and King dropped to the ground, that he realised he was dead and knew it was time to go.

  Still almost hobbling, he ran as fast as he could down the alley, hoping to God that weedy excuse for a policeman was still outside the post office. He grinned as he saw him swinging his truncheon on its string, with not a care in the world.

  Thirty-three

  “America?”

  Robert was sure he’d misheard her, as she clicked the handbag shut.

  She put her finger to her mouth, and said, “Keep your voice down.”

  He was so shocked he didn’t stand right away.

  “We’ve no choice now,” she assured him, “we’ve made some powerful and very ruthless enemies here. If we stay, they’ll rout us out eventually, whichever part of the country we chose to live in. For this sort of money, they’ll kill us.”

  “But how will we get there?”

  “Well, we’ll swim of course, I mean it’s only three thousand miles.”

  She laughed at his expression and said, “Come on, and keep your lip buttoned up as we leave!”

  As they made their way out, she engaged the young man in light banter as they followed him back into the bank.

  She dreaded seeing Bride.

  ***

  She needn’t have worried, because he stood a quarter of a mile away, talking to what must be the stupidest policeman to join the force since Robert Peel had founded it.

  “But how can I be sure you’re telling the truth?” His moustache flicked up and down irritatingly.

  Fed up with repeating the fact that somebody, a Knight of the Realm no less, had been murdered one hundred yards away, Bride asked, his voice hoarse with temper, “Why the bloody hell would I want to do that? I’m honestly curious. Why?”

  “So your chums can nip in there,” he said, indicating the nearby post office with a flick of his truncheon, “and rob it.” He smiled smugly, as if he’d foiled the crime of the century.

  Bride nearly hit him. He’d never felt so exasperated in his whole life. Seeing enough time had been wasted already, and that further arguing was pointless, he did the only thing he could think of at such short notice. He snatched the truncheon out of his hand and walked off with it, across the road.

  “Hey!” the constable called after him.

  By now, people were stopping to stare.

  He stood dithering, as his face reddened, torn between staying where he was, thinking this could be part of the crooks’ plan to get him out of the way, and going after what he had been told he must not, under any circumstances lose again, or he was for the high jump.

  Seeing the man enter an alleyway on the other side of the road, he deci
ded to follow, little knowing he had less than three minutes left to live.

  ***

  Belcher had just finished frisking the dead knight’s pockets, when he heard the determined tread of boots from behind.

  He turned to see a cop standing behind him. He grinned at the frightened look on his boyish face, as the constable took in the sheer size of the man confronting him and the dead body behind.

  The constable fumbled for his whistle with a shaking hand, as he looked around frantically.

  “You blow the gaff on me, you little runt,” Belcher told him grinning, “it’ll be the last fing you ever do.”

  The PC blew shrilly on the whistle, before turning to run and tripping on his first step. Belcher grabbed the back of his skull, and only stopped smashing his face on a half-buried old brick when the screaming in his head subsided and he could hear the sound of running feet. He heard more whistle blowing and shouting, some distant, some near.

  Panic seized him, so he ran up the alley.

  Three cops entered from that end at full pelt, truncheons in hand.

  He turned, and seeing two more appear at the other, took the only escape route he could see, an iron ladder next to the barrels, that extended to the roof.

  As he started clambering up, one of the cops grabbed his foot, but he kicked out, cracking him viciously across the nose. He caught a fleeting peek of pumping blood, and the cop staggering back, dropping his truncheon.

  Amazingly, Belcher was really enjoying himself. He’d done for the Guvnor, something he had dreamed of doing for years, killed a cop, broken the nose of another, and was free of that place where his future had been made obsolete from the minute he drew his first breath.