‘I came to pay my respects.’
‘Respects? To gloat more likely.’ She dragged me to the edge of the grave. ‘It’s you who belongs in there, not him.’ She swung me round. My feet were on the edge of the hole now and starting to slide, and I grabbed her arm to stop myself falling into it.
‘Please. I do not know who killed your brother, but I tried to save him.’ My right foot slid into the air. ‘I tried.’
‘Miss Green, come now.’ The undertaker touched her hand and she let me go. I teetered and the younger of the gravediggers caught my sleeve and steadied me.
One of the pallbearers led Horatio Green’s sister away, but she twisted her head and I had never seen such hatred blaze in a woman’s eyes. ‘You shall have a quicklime grave for this,’ she shouted, ‘and I shall come and spit on it.’
I stood and watched her being ushered back into her carriage and the pallbearers clamber back into the hearse and the grooms take up their reins and go back up the drive, more slowly and respectfully than they had arrived, and I wondered how she would react when she found she was excluded from her brother’s will.
‘You all right, miss?’ It was the gravedigger who had saved me.
‘Yes.’ I fumbled in my purse and gave him two shillings. ‘Thank you.’
‘Only paid to bury ’em one at a time,’ he told me with a grin.
You would have loved your funeral – the parade-ground precision, the praise of your courage under fire. You saved a comrade by putting yourself between him and the enemy, they said. They gave you a medal and sent it to your mother. How proud you would have been. How proud I must have been, they told me. They were impressed by my stoicism, not knowing how guilt makes heroes of us all.
I would have shared your grave willingly or taken your place if I could, but life is no fairer than death. And so I stood and watched as my heart was lowered to the accompaniment of a rifle salute, and the red soil thumped in reply. The Union Jack fluttered half-mast, a rectangle of cloth dyed in the three crosses that, we were told by a perspiring padre, you and your comrades died to protect.
It all sounded so noble to those who did not see the surgeon’s knife or hear the screams of boys not even pretending to be men.
They did not know you died because of me. If only they could have buried that knowledge so ceremoniously.
17
The Man with No Arms
I waited until the hearse and carriage were out of view and lit a cigarette. My hand was steady but my heart still thumped. It was a long walk back to Bloomsbury but I needed it.
A man came running up to me. ‘Spare a copper for a war vet’ran, miss.’ He had no arms.
I kept walking because I knew I would be mobbed if I did not, and he trotted alongside. ‘Where were you injured?’
‘Waterloo, miss.’
I surveyed his face. ‘You are about forty years too young for that one.’
‘Most foreigners don’t know that,’ he said. ‘They’ve ’eard of Waterloo, though.’
I laughed. ‘What makes you think I’m foreign?’
‘You don’t live round ’ere,’ he said. ‘So you’re foreign.’
‘How did you really lose your arms?’
‘Printin’ press. I was resettin’ it when they switched it on. Bam! Down it comes and splat – my arms is all over the front page.’
‘Did your employers compensate you?’
‘Oh yeah.’ He wiggled his head vigorously. ‘They was most generous. Twenty quid they gave me – five weeks’ wages ’cause I was skilled, you see.’
I brought out a shilling. ‘But how will I give it to you?’ He had no pockets in his shabby clothes.
‘Toss it in the air, miss.’ I did and he caught it in his mouth. ‘Gawd bless you, miss.’ The coin appeared between his brown teeth. ‘I’ll keep it ’ere for safety.’ The shilling disappeared again. ‘You shouldn’t be walkin’ these streets by yourself.’
‘I have been down worse.’ I walked on and he fell back.
There was a public house on the corner – The Boar’s Head – and I needed a drink, but hearing the drunken arguments going on inside, I dared not go in by myself. I thought about asking the beggar – but how could he have protected me? I was just about to walk on when I saw a man shambling towards the entrance. He was dressed in a grubby suit and his shoes were unlaced. His head was bowed and turned away from me, but there was something about him that I recognized. I hurried over and caught his profile.
‘Inspector Pound?’
The man spun round. ‘You.’ His face was thick with stubble, his collar undone and his trousers splattered with mud. ‘Clear off.’ He flapped his hand as one might to a persistent stray and stepped backwards.
‘But I have been worried about—’
‘Take your worries and stuff them.’ His voice was hoarse and his eyes bloodshot. ‘And keep your trap shut.’
Two men worked their way out, half-supporting and half-pulling each other over in their intoxication. ‘Bit of trouble with your strump, mate?’ one asked.
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Give her a bun, did yer?’
The Inspector Pound I knew, the urbane figure of authority, would have rounded on anyone who spoke to me like that. But he laughed coarsely and said, ‘Who’d touch that old haddock on a dark night? Not me.’
The two men guffawed and the shorter one was slightly sick down his front.
‘How dare—’
‘I dare what I dare,’ Inspector Pound snapped. ‘And keep your trap shut if you don’t want a taste of this.’ He raised the back of his hand.
I swallowed. ‘Very well, Inspector. I will—’
‘Inspector?’ The taller man burst out and Inspector Pound flinched.
‘I used to inspect ’buses,’ he said, ‘before I found I liked inspecting bottles more.’ They all laughed. ‘Come inside, mates, and we’ll inspect a few together.’
The two men turned unsteadily and with some difficulty, and were just about to go back in when another voice said, ‘’Buses my backside. I knew there was somefink funny about you.’ A tall black-stubbled man with a shaven head and gold-capped teeth had come up behind us. He took a long, narrow butcher’s knife from a sheath inside his jacket. ‘I knew you was a copper’s nark the moment I saw you. Get a nose for crushers when you’ve been done down and nibbed as often as me.’
‘What you talking about, Smith?’ the inspector asked. ‘Come and have a drink with us.’
‘I don’t drink with bluebottles.’ He adjusted his grip on the knife, holding it at hip level.
Inspector Pound spread his hands innocently. ‘What, me? Don’t make me laugh. I—’
‘You will come home with me this minute,’ I said. ‘The kids want you and I came to tell you they said you could have your job back at the depot if you turn up sober on Monday.’
Smith sneered. ‘Nice try, lady, but I never met a dutch yet who called her old man inspector.’ With that last word his arm shot forward, the knife flashed, and the blade ripped through Inspector Pound’s jacket and shirt, and in one clean movement plunged into his stomach all the way up to the hilt. I heard it cut through him, swishing like a spade in the earth.
We froze, Smith leaning forward clenching the bone handle, the inspector staring into his eyes. A deep stain appeared all at once and Inspector Pound grunted as if he had been punched. He looked down and reached for the knife, but Smith twisted it and pulled it out almost as quickly as it had gone in, and a gush of blood followed it. The inspector clutched at the wound and bent forward. Smith pulled his weapon back, ready to strike again, and I lashed out. I aimed for the eye but Smith was fast. He jerked his head back like a prizefighter and I caught his cheek with the handle of my parasol. He snarled angrily and swung his left arm out, crashing into my neck and sending me sprawling on to the pavement.
The two drunks backed hastily into the pub. Inspector Pound was almost doubled up and I saw his knees buckle as I scrambled up, swi
nging my handbag wildly and uselessly into Smith’s shoulder as he pushed me aside. ‘Want some?’ he challenged. ‘Well, just you wait your turn.’
He raised the knife for a downward blow on the crouching man. Inspector Pound looked at me. His hands were full and overflowing with his life’s blood now. ‘Run, March,’ he gasped. ‘Run, my dearest.’
I jabbed Smith in the side with my parasol. ‘Drat you.’ He wrenched it from my hands. ‘Can’t wait then?’ He threw it into the road and turned to me. The inspector tried to lunge at him but tumbled helplessly to the cobbles. Smith took one step towards me and the knife went back, its blade already wet.
‘Leave ’er.’ A boot flew up. I saw it clearly – no laces and hardly any sole. But the toe cracked hard into Smith’s groin and Smith let out a yelp and grabbed himself, but the knife stayed firmly in his grip. And I saw that the wearer of the boot was the man with no arms, and as Smith spun furiously towards him, the beggar smashed his head hard into Smith’s face and Smith blinked and toppled, straight and heavy like a felled tree, cracking the back of his head on the edge of the kerb.
‘Run, miss, before ’e comes to.’
‘Like hell I will.’
‘Go,’ Inspector Pound said weakly as I ripped open his shirt. It was a savage cut, gaping wide and pumping steadily. I pulled off my scarf and rammed it into and over the hole, and the inspector groaned and twisted away.
‘I am sorry.’ I clamped his hands over the scarf.
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.
The armless man shouted into the bar. ‘We need ’elp ’ere.’ But the men inside did not move.
‘It’s you who’ll be needin’ ’elp when Smith wakes up with a sore ’ead.’
‘You’ll all get done if ’e dies – accessories to murder.’
‘Where is the nearest hospital?’ I asked.
‘The London,’ the man with no arms told me. ‘Ten minutes’ walk and you won’t never get a cab this way.’
There was a big red-haired man with shaggy sideburns behind the bar.
‘Are you sober?’ I asked.
‘Don’t drink, miss,’ he said. ‘Daren’t in my trade or I’d never stop.’
I looked at my watch. ‘It is seven minutes to twelve,’ I said. ‘I will give you ten pounds if you can get this man alive to the hospital before noon.’
‘I’ll help,’ an old black man called from his corner chair, and suddenly the saloon was full of volunteers.
‘Just him.’ I pointed to the redhead who was vaulting over the bar and out on to the street. He kneeled quickly by Inspector Pound, put one arm under his neck and another under his legs, and heaved him up, getting to his feet as he lifted the inspector like a bride at the threshold. The inspector moaned.
‘Oh good Gawd,’ the armless man said. ‘I’ve gone and swallered me tin. Ne’er mind. I’ll find it in the morning.’
‘Out the way,’ the redhead shouted. And he was off.
I have watched men run for their lives from a rogue elephant in musk or a wounded tiger in a botched hunt, but I have never seen a man run so fast as that barman went. I was unencumbered but I could not keep up with him as he sprinted along the street and through a court then down a long straight road. There was a massive red-brick building which I hoped was the hospital, but it was so far away and the streets were getting more crowded. On he pelted, hollering, ‘Make way. Dyin’ man. Make way.’
There was a market with stalls selling rags, buckets and re-caned chairs, and the man weaved between and around them, swerving like a rugby player going for the winning try. I crashed into a rack of battered saucepans and heard it clatter behind me.
‘Frebbin’ cow,’ the woman in charge of it raged. But I had not time to stop and was too winded to apologize.
I was getting a stitch as we turned left into Turner Street and the man was twenty yards ahead of me by now. I could see his back and Inspector Pound’s head and feet bobbing up and down as they reached the main gates.
‘Man dyin’. Man dyin’,’ the red-haired man shouted as he forced his way through a heavy queue on the entrance steps.
I caught up with him in the lobby – an immense marbled hall in the palace of disease – both of us fighting for oxygen. The red-headed man slumped down on the bench, scattering a family that was already settled on it. His efforts had finally proved too much and it was all he could do to point to the clock high over the reception desk.
‘One minute to twelve,’ I gasped.
‘Just in time,’ he managed to say and looked down. ‘Don’t know about him, though.’
Inspector Pound’s face was waxen white and when I lifted his arm, it was limp and heavy and his skin was clammy cold. I put my fingertips into his wrist, searching for a pulse.
‘Oh dear God.’ I moved my fingers around and dug them in deep, hunting for the faintest of beats but, hard as I tried, there was nothing but the dark weeping from his wound.
18
The Blood of a Lion
A nurse came over. The red-headed man struggled to his feet and laid his burden on the bench.
The nurse leaned over and I saw she had thick stains on her apron. She pulled up Inspector Pound’s top left eyelid with her thumb and peered into it. The pupil was tiny and fixed on the ceiling.
She let the lid go and looked at his other eye.
‘He is dead,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m sorry. Somebody will come and take him.’
‘Dead,’ I whispered, though nobody heard me, my name in droplets of blood on my face.
She bustled away and I put an ear to the inspector’s nose, but the clatter of feet and the cries of the sick were too loud for me to hope to hear anything. I touched the side of his throat and thought I felt a trembling under my third finger, and saw the blood ooze from his wound in time with the flutter of his heart.
I put my mouth to his ear. ‘You are not dead,’ I said, ‘and you are not going to die. If Mr Grice were here he would absolutely forbid it.’ And something tickled my cheek. It may have been a wisp of air or perhaps his eyelashes, which were flickering now.
‘Nurse,’ I called out, but she was dealing with a baby. ‘We need a doctor,’ I shouted.
‘You and two hundred others before you,’ a young woman said. She was holding a filthy cloth to her eye.
‘Doctor,’ the red-headed man bellowed. He had a fine loud voice and several people glared at him. ‘Man dyin’ ’ere.’
‘And a dozen others in this room alone,’ the nurse called. ‘Hush yourself and wait your turn.’
‘He is a policeman,’ I said, but she only saw his pretence of a vagrant.
‘And I’m the queen of Siam,’ she jeered.
The man with no arms came panting into the room. He took one look, threw back his head and crowed like a cockerel. Three times he did it, ear-splittingly loud. And, as if he had been waiting for the summons, a doctor came into the waiting room, his coat off and his sleeves rolled up.
‘What in heaven’s name is that appalling racket?’
I ran over and grabbed his arm. ‘This man is a police inspector working in disguise. He has been stabbed.’
The doctor crouched. ‘He certainly has.’ He stood. ‘You men take a limb each and carry him through there.’
Four bystanders grabbed hold of his arms and legs and marched across the room.
‘Be careful,’ I said, and was alarmed to see how loosely his head hung back and that he did not even wince. The wound pulled open again and there was another spout of bleeding.
‘Through here.’ The doctor indicated a side room and they dropped him heavily on his back on a long table and departed.
‘Wait out there,’ the doctor told me.
‘I have nursing experience. Can I help?’
‘We have our own proper nurses. Goodbye.’
I went back to the bench. It was occupied now by five crying girls. The man with no arms was crouched in a slurry of Inspector Pound’s blood and trying to reassure them. They ha
d vivid pink rashes on their ears and necks.
The red-headed man was standing nearby. ‘I ’ope ’e makes it.’
‘You did your best.’ I reached into my purse. ‘Here is my card. If you call tomorrow I will give you the money.’
He took the card and left. The armless man stood up, nodded at me, ‘Good luck, miss,’ and turned for the exit. I chased after him.
‘What is your name?’
‘Charles Sawyer. My friends call me Chas.’
‘You may have saved a man’s life today, Chas, and you certainly saved mine. Thank you.’
Chas looked abashed. ‘I don’t like to see a lady knocked abart and you was kind to me.’
‘Take my card,’ I said. ‘And if you come tomorrow I will reward you.’
‘I don’t expect—’
‘And I did not expect to be rescued.’
‘Show me the card.’ He looked down. ‘125 Gower Street. I won’t forget.’
He walked out and I waited and watched the nurse trudging wearily between patients, telling some to wait and others to go. And I wondered if I had been like that, too exhausted to show compassion. A boy with an injured mongrel was chased away. The five girls were herded out to be put in isolation. The doctor returned. ‘I have stopped the bleeding but he is very weak. He needs more blood.’
‘A transfusion?’
He wiped his hands on his coat. ‘I have done a few and sometimes they work, but other times they hasten the patient’s death. We think that there are different kinds of human blood and some do not mix well with others, but we have no means of distinguishing between them.’
‘Take my blood,’ I said. ‘It is my fault he was stabbed.’
We went through to the side room where Inspector Pound lay grey as a corpse, his chest hardly rising. ‘I have cleaned the wound with carbolic acid,’ the doctor told me. ‘There is some evidence it prevents suppuration and I have sutured what I could.’
The Curse Of The House Of Foskett (The Gower Street Detective Series) Page 9
