The Door That Led to Where

by Sally Gardner

  Miss Esme said quietly, ‘My father keeps saying if he doesn’t see you he will take his secret to the grave and then the truth will be forever buried.’

  These words had an immediate effect on Ingleby’s indecision and he waved down a hackney cab.

  ‘St John Street, and be fast about it,’ he shouted. ‘Mr Jobey, I doubt we are going to the house of a cholera victim, but who knows.’

  ‘We won’t catch it,’ said AJ. ‘It’s spread through filthy water.’

  ‘Well, that is reassuring,’ said Ingleby.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ asked Miss Esme.

  ‘No,’ said AJ.

  ‘Then how do you know so much about this terrible plague? Have you been following the news from Moscow where so many people have died? They say it is only a matter of time until London is affected. I have read nothing about water, only that you catch it from the smell in the air.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ said AJ. ‘Anyway, if I remember rightly, cholera won’t reach here until the end of next year.’

  Ingleby let out a loud and meaningful cough.

  ‘My friend here has some far-fetched ideas. Ahead of his time, you might say.’

  ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ said Miss Esme.

  ‘Mr Jobey is soon to be gone from the metropolis,’ said Ingleby. ‘Abroad,’ he added.

  AJ smiled at the young woman and she turned away and looked out of the window.

  He sat, taking it all in, recording every detail with his senses – his eyes, his ears, his touch. He missed nothing: the battered leather seats that smelled of horse, stables and tobacco, the way the carriage went hard over the bumps, the noise of the street criers, the snorting of horses, metal-rimmed wheels clattering over cobbles.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘Coming up to Clerkenwell Green,’ replied Ingleby.

  ‘Have you never been this way before, Mr Jobey?’ said Miss Esme.

  ‘It’s much changed since I was last here,’ said AJ.

  Strange, thought AJ. If her old dad is about to hang up his clogs forever, shouldn’t she be a tad more upset? She seemed so calm. He tried to think how he would feel if the red reptile was on her deathbed. Yep. Maybe he would be sitting there just like this girl, staring out of the window, loving the sun of a new day.

  The carriage drew up outside a tall, grand house in St John Street and Miss Esme led them in. The hall was in darkness. The door of the dining room stood ajar and an unpleasant smell wafted from it. AJ glanced in. A couple of chairs had been knocked over and on the floor, silver and china were scattered all around. A linen tablecloth was covered in bloody vomit. It certainly looked like something not altogether kosher had been going on.

  A woman appeared on the stairs. In the gloom it was hard to see her face. She was small and nothing about her said welcome. This must be Mrs Meacock, thought AJ.

  ‘Mr Ingleby. You should not be here,’ the woman said.

  ‘My father requested I bring him,’ interrupted Miss Esme, her voice tight.

  ‘There was no need, no need at all. I told you to leave well alone, dear.’ The woman smiled at the girl but her eyes simmered with rage. ‘I am sorry, Mr Ingleby, Miss Esme has these flights of fancy. They seem to be occurring more frequently. Unfortunately Mr Dalton is too ill to see anyone.’

  Dalton, thought AJ. Mr Stone said Old Jobey’s business partner was called Samuel Dalton.

  A woman came up from the basement carrying a jug of steaming water. Just then there was a cry from upstairs.

  ‘Ingleby! Is he here?’

  To AJ’s surprise Mrs Meacock barred everyone from going up and told the woman with the jug to stay in the kitchen.

  ‘I will call you when you’re needed, dear Mrs Renwick,’ she said sweetly.

  As far as AJ could see, the best thing they could do was call for the emergency services. He had to remind himself where he was, and he was wondering what would happen next when Ingleby said firmly, ‘Out of my way, madam,’ and ran up the stairs.

  ‘But Mr Dalton might well be infectious,’ said the saccharine-voiced housekeeper.

  AJ noticed that all the while she had her hand on the girl. He followed them up to Mr Dalton’s bedchamber.

  This, like the dining room, had been trashed – the hangings of the four-poster bed lay on the floor. The man in the bed pulled himself upright, his hands reaching out to Ingleby. Then he stopped and stared wide-eyed at AJ as if he’d seen a ghost.

  ‘Have you come for me?’ he shouted, pointing at AJ. ‘I tell you, I knew nothing of it, that is the honest truth. I asked for none of it. None of it.’

  ‘I fear it might be cholera,’ Mrs Meacock said, stroking his brow. ‘That is why it is not safe for any of you to be in this room. I must ask you all to leave.’

  ‘Too late, you’re too late!’ cried Mr Dalton. ‘It’s all done with.’

  He collapsed on the pillows.

  Why was no doctor present, AJ wondered – and he noted something else about this uncomfortable scene. Miss Esme was staring out of the window as if oblivious to her father’s distress.

  ‘Where’s the doctor?’ AJ whispered to her. ‘At least a nurse should be here.’

  ‘The doctor said he would be back in an hour with more medicine but we have yet to see him.’

  Again Mr Dalton rose and again he pointed at AJ.

  ‘Have you come to take your revenge?’

  Mrs Meacock turned on Ingleby.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘You are only making matters worse. Miss Esme should never have brought you.’

  She pulled vigorously on a velvet rope beside the bed.

  Mrs Renwick appeared at the door with the same jug of boiling water and the housekeeper shooed them all from the room.

  ‘See what you have done, my dear?’ she said to Miss Esme.

  Ingleby didn’t wait to hear more. He pulled AJ out of the house and onto the street where he hailed another hackney cab.

  ‘That man used to work with my grandfather, didn’t he?’ said AJ. ‘So why did he want to see you so badly?’

  ‘Best you forget all you have seen, best by far,’ said Ingleby.

  ‘No,’ said AJ. ‘Why did he think he knew me? Did he think I was my father?’

  Ingleby didn’t answer.

  At the tumbledown house where AJ’s adventure had started the night before, Ingleby said, as he opened the door, ‘No need to go upstairs. Your clothes are in a bundle on that chair. Now, when I let you out, just close the door behind you and you will find yourself back where you came from.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said AJ. ‘I’m going, but first answer my questions.’

  ‘Mr Jobey,’ said Ingleby, ‘my advice to you is to lock the door, post the key through the letterbox and let the past well alone.’

  Chapter Twelve

  AJ felt grubby and decided he would have a wash and shave before he went to work. It was a choice between two evils: he turned up for work on time looking like a scruffball or he turned up for work late, washed and shaved. Either way Morton’s disapproval would fall on him like a ton of bricks.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ said Leon.

  ‘Out,’ said AJ as he walked into the lounge of Leon’s flat. Dr Jinx was sitting surrounded by beer cans and empty pizza cartons. He looked as if he had been gradually simmering into the sofa over a long period of time. As far as AJ was concerned Jinx was the rat of the neighbourhood. A rat with a Glaswegian accent so thick that you could cut off its tail with a carving knife. Both his cheeks were tattooed with skulls, his eyebrows, nose and upper lip were all pierced. Since he’d become a father seven years before, he had started to take his business a tad more seriously and these days he dressed with attitude to show the punters he was doing all right: a red tartan suit with drainpipe trousers, a small pork pie hat on the top of his spiky, green-dyed hair.

  ‘I am unforgettable,’ he would say. ‘So unforgettable that no one can remember me.’

  AJ didn’t like Dr Jinx one li
ttle bit.

  ‘What‘s he doing here, bro?’ he asked Leon.

  ‘Now that’s not a nice way to talk about Dr Jinx, is it, wee man?’

  ‘Do you deserve nice? I don‘t think so,’ said AJ. ‘I can‘t imagine that nice and you have ever met.’

  ‘Wee cocky bastard. You‘d better watch that tongue of yours, laddie. Now piss off. I have business with Leon.’ His words drifted away in a long exhale of smoke. He stubbed out his fag on a half-eaten pizza. ‘Been to a fancy dress party? You look a right plonker.’

  He stood up to leave and Leon followed him into the hall. AJ heard Dr Jinx say, ‘Don’t let me down. Six at Blues.’

  Blues was a billiards club that none of them had ever bothered with. It was where all trouble started.

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked AJ when Leon came back into the lounge.

  ‘Making a living, bro,’ said Leon, flopping down into a chair. ‘Paying the rent, that kind of shit.’

  ‘I said I’d help.’

  ‘Yeah. But I want more, bro.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ said AJ. He moved the pizza cartons and opened the window to let out the stink of Jinx’s cheap aftershave.

  ‘You know that’s your mum’s dealer – the one who sold her the smack in the first place. What are you doing?’

  ‘Shut it. You sound like a nagging girl. I do my stuff, you do yours. Live and let live, OK?’ said Leon. ‘Anyway, why are you dressed like that? You escaped from some TV drama?’

  AJ had been so surprised to find himself on the other side of the door that he hadn‘t given a thought to what he was wearing. He’d made his way out of the car park back to Mount Pleasant, clutching his second-hand suit and brogues, where he’d caught a bus back to Stokey. He’d sat on the top, huddled in the corner at the front, and, staring blankly out of the window, thought about the young girl and the dying man.

  AJ felt for the key, checked that he still had the snuffbox, and decided that, come the weekend, he’d go back and have a recce by himself.

  ‘So where have you been?’ asked Leon. ‘And where did you find those clothes?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Tea?’ said AJ, going into the kitchen and putting on the kettle.

  Leon followed him.

  ‘Have you seem Slim?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘He came round last night. Said he was in lo-ove and his girl lo-oved him so much that she wanted him to give up skateboarding.’

  AJ found two cups without mould growing in the bottom and put the tea bags in them.

  ‘Has to be black,’ he said. ‘The milk’s off.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Leon.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked AJ.

  ‘Sicknote.’

  ‘What?’ said AJ. ‘You are joking, man. Sicknote? No, she’ll use him and abuse him.’

  ‘I know that, you know that. The only person who doesn’t know it is Slim. She’s Moses’ girl. Slim doesn’t want to go crossing Moses. Moses will eat him for breakfast and Sicknote won’t give a monkeys. Didn’t he text you?’

  AJ took his mobile out of his pocket and saw he had one missed call and two texts. He also saw the time – it was nearly nine-thirty.

  ‘Bollocks. I should have been in work an hour ago.’

  One text was from Slim, the other from work; the call was from his mum.

  He read the text from Morton.

  ‘You are not needed in chambers until ten o’clock.’

  There was still time. He might just make it without being too late. He rushed into the bathroom to shave and brush his teeth. In his bedroom he pulled his office suit over the cambric shirt and waistcoat and put the key in the pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Forget Dr Jinx,’ he said, poking his head round the lounge door. ‘He’s nothing but trouble. Here, see if you can do something with this.’

  He threw Leon the snuffbox .

  ‘Sweet,’ said Leon, examining it. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Later,’ shouted AJ as he closed the front door behind him.

  The voicemail from his mum was typical. He couldn’t just walk out on her like that. She needed his rent whether he was there or not. The message ended with, ‘Frank says so.’

  The text from Slim was a mess. He had changed his Facebook page to say that he and Sicknote were an item.

  If his two best friends had been looking for trouble they had been unbelievably successful in finding it.

  It was ten past ten when he arrived at Raymond Buildings. A half-exposed photograph of another century overlayed Gray’s Inn.

  ‘Late!’ shouted Morton from the clerk’s office.

  ‘Sorry,’ said AJ. ‘The bus … ’

  ‘Don’t let it happen again.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Good. Detective Poilaine wants to see you.’

  ‘Why?’ said AJ, feeling as if he was wading into a sea of panic and would probably drown there.

  ‘The hospital tests confirmed that Mr Baldwin was poisoned. Everyone in chambers has been interviewed except you. Just answer the questions, then you’ll be going back to the Old Bailey. Ms Finch wants you, she – what are you wearing, Mr Jobey? It is an eccentric look and one not altogether suitable for a baby clerk in these chambers. And where is your tie?’

  Detective Poilaine wore a sharp grey suit, high heels and had a turned-up nose. She didn’t look as if she belonged in the police at all. The interview took place in the Museum and AJ feared that at any moment the files would start talking of their own accord and he would be busted. He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to tell too many lies. Fortunately, he was able to say truthfully that he’d last seen Mr Baldwin on Friday morning. It was the longest ten minutes of his life.

  ‘Interesting waistcoat, Mr Jobey,’ said the detective as he left the room.

  Morton handed him a file.

  ‘There’s a taxi downstairs waiting to take you to the Old Bailey. Give this to Ms Finch immediately.’

  AJ was out of Raymond Buildings as fast as a dog from a trap. In the back of the cab, trying to catch his breath, he wondered if he should have told the truth. What truth? He would have thought he’d dreamed the whole thing if it wasn’t for the waistcoat and shirt he was wearing. When he thought about it, daydreaming had been a big problem at school. It did him no favours, so his teacher had told him.

  ‘You can’t let dreams rule your life,’ she’d said.

  He’d answered back, which was never wise.

  ‘Reality sucks.’

  He’d spent the rest of the class standing in the corridor.

  His mobile rang. It was Slim.

  ‘Hi, bro,’ said Slim. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Working. Where are you?’

  ‘In Topshop, waiting for my girl. I’m buying her a party dress.’

  ‘Slim, man, what are you doing? Sicknote is nothing but trouble and Moses will kill you if he finds out you are with his girl.’

  ‘She broke up with him. This is serious.’

  ‘Yeah, seriously unwise.’

  It was then that AJ saw that a photo had fallen from the file.

  ‘Have to go,’ said AJ, reaching down to pick it up. ‘Look, I’ll call you later, all right?’

  AJ blinked. He was tired, he was imagining things, it was all too much. His two best friends were losing the plot and he had lied to the police. Life felt like a road accident. He looked again at the photo. Apart from the clothes, the only difference between the man in the photo and the dying man he had seen that morning was that the man in the photo looked well. He turned it over. On the back was written ‘Samuel Dalton, April 2008’.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It struck AJ as he got out of the cab that he was in a very sticky place. Six weeks ago he was just another sixteen-year-old who had failed his exams and was about to join the long list of the unemployable. By a fluke he’d been given a job and with it had come a pile up of unanswered question. And a house with a front door.

  �
��Aiden,’ said Ms Finch. ‘The file?’

  He had been so wrapped in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed her standing by the entrance to the Old Bailey.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Not that it’s needed now. Mr Purcell was taken ill last night. The case has been adjourned for two weeks. Coffee?’

  A croissant and a hot chocolate with whipped cream helped to fill the gargantuan hole in AJ’s stomach.

  ‘How did Mr Purcell know the man in the photograph, Samuel Dalton?’ asked AJ, licking the cream off his spoon.

  ‘He claims that Samuel Dalton and he were business partners, but unfortunately for our client we have been unable to trace any record of the existence of this Samuel Dalton. Mr Purcell insists that he knew Mr Dalton, hence the photo, which was taken outside his flat. He also insists that he saw documentation showing the snuffboxes were genuine. Unfortunately, according to Mr Purcell, those documents are with Samuel Dalton. We go round and round in circles.’ Ms Finch sighed. ‘Mr Baldwin said he wasn’t worried about the documentation. He said that he would have it by the end of this week. Now he is in hospital and we have a missing witness and a hell of a lot of unexplained original eighteenth-century snuffboxes. So where does it all lead us?’

  ‘I would say,’ said AJ, ‘up shit creek.’

  It was five o’clock when Morton asked to see AJ in his office. Once again AJ’s stomach started its unhelpful roller-coaster ride. He was sure that Detective Poilaine had spotted a lie and Morton was going to say he should tell the truth if he wanted to keep his job. He even thought that the key in his pocket might be obvious and Morton had sussed out that he had it. Thinking through all the possible ramifications, he was completely unprepared for what Morton did have to say.

  ‘Do you get on well with Mr Baldwin?’

  AJ was puzzled.

  ‘I make him his coffee, that’s all.’

  Morton wrote something on his notepad, tore out the page and handed it to AJ.

  ‘Room 27, The London Clinic.’