She leaned way forward to twist her head to see. “Oh, that’s Ashley’s mousetrap. That there’s Narcissus.” Then she returned to Rasputin.
Mousetrap? Narcissus? Perhaps they really were in the land of the Lotus-Eaters. “Just a minute. How could a dish of water trap a mouse?”
“Well, it don’t, do it? It’s one of Ashley’s inventions. Now, them electric wires in the water is to electrocute any mouse that takes a drink. The only one even comes for a deco is Narcissus there. Friend of ours, Gabe Merchant, named him that.” When she grinned, a touch of gold winked in the light.
Ah! A wedge, a crack in the door—the mention of Gabe provided a smooth transition to the matter at hand. Not (he reminded himself) that one needed to use cunning with White Ellie. He watched as once again she wrestled her huge girth out of the chair and waddled to a shelf from which she plucked up a square of paper or cardboard. This she handed to Melrose. “See? Gabe painted ’is portrait.”
Melrose couldn’t help but smile at the little drawing, later water-colored in, of a mouse by a water dish. It was extremely fetching and whimsical and put him in mind of Beatrix Potter. Two bright little eyes appeared to be asking, “Would you fall for this lot?” At the bottom the artist had penned in the name “Narcissus.”
“Cause ’e always be lookin’ at hisself, Gabe said.”
Gabe, Melrose was pleased to discover, was imaginative.
“So I leave a bit of biscuit out fer that there mouse, but don’t tell Ashley. ’E’d be ever so disappointed.” She lit another cigarette and waved out the match. “Was a dead mouse out in t’ kitchen I brought in and put by the dish. Died from natural causes, it did, but Ashley didn’t know that. Oh, he was ever so pleased. ‘Elephant,’ ’e says, ‘Elephant, there’s genius up ’ere,’ an’ taps ’is ’ead. A genius Ashley ain’t.”
Melrose smiled, then laughed. He handed back the drawing, saying, “This painter, Gabriel Merchant? That his name?” White Ellie nodded. “He was in the Tate with a friend of his—”
“Bea Slocum, right.”
“They were both in the Tate when a woman named Frances Hamilton died.”
White Ellie let out a hoot and slapped her thigh. “Weren’t they ever? Well, there Bea sat and this lady falls on ’er. I never.”
Melrose marvelled that it did not occur to her to question his visit, or to question his question. In White Ellie’s world, it was all part of one giant tapestry, the warp and the woof, Rasputin and the Tate, the mouse and Melrose, the garden on fire and sudden death. White Ellie’s approach to life was almost metaphysical.
“Richard Jury wanted me to talk to them. Mr. Merchant has been staying with you, he said, and I was hoping he’d be here.”
“Aw, Gabe’s down t’ the nick bailin’ out Ashley. Bea, well, she’d be at work still. Not gone five ‘as it? Bea lives over in Bethnal Green. Works at that kiddies’ museum. Like t’ take me own kids, but they’d tear the place apart.” She sighed. “Right bright girl is Bea. Fools people. But I don’t know what else either a them could tell ya. The super and his sergeant, they’ve asked a thousand questions. I think Bea and Gabe told ’em everything.” She leaned forward, breathing onions on him. “You don’t think they’d something to do with it, now?”
Melrose shook his head. “No, I’m sure the superintendent doesn’t think that. I’ll tell you why he wants me to talk to them: because I’d be a fresh pair of ears and because sometimes, as I’m sure you agree, a person can actually know more than he himself realizes he knows.”
Sententiously, she nodded. He doubted White Ellie could ever know more than she realized she knew.
“This Gabe is obviously very observant. And his girlfriend, as you said, is bright. From what Jury told me, she said some rather surprising things about art. Both of them made . . . observations that just might suggest they saw more than they knew. As I said.” He shrugged. “Very likely the Hamilton woman died of natural causes—” he couldn’t help his eye flickering to the water dish—“but there are things that have happened, subsequent things that make us wonder if Mrs. Hamilton’s death isn’t somehow connected.”
White Ellie smoked and studied something on the ceiling. “Subsequent things,” she murmured. Then, looking around the room, she said, “Where’s them kids got to?”
Melrose was suddenly conscious of the background racket having stopped.
“Always up to somethin’, it’s turrible, turrible.” White Ellie tch-tched but made no move to look for them. Instead she lit another cigarette.
“You said Ash was in the nick?” Ashley Cripps was, Melrose remembered, the Man on the Dole, the paradigm of the unemployed.
“T’ Bill picked ’im up in Bethnal Green this time.”
“But Superintendent Jury just saw him here, a day or two ago, wasn’t it?”
She snorted. “Don’t take long to go showin’ hisself in the public lavatory down the Underground. Bea was that mad, and I don’t blame ’er. ‘All them kids, Ash,’ she told ’im. ‘Fancy some poor little girl goes to the toilet and what does she see? What?’ Well, Ashley really takes umbrage at that, as you can imagine. ‘I never!’ ’e says to Bea. ‘Think I’m a bloody pervert, the way you talk!’ ”
“How long will they hold him?”
“Not long. Gabe went down there to get ’im out. Only, I do wish Ashley’d stick to round ’ere; it’s ruddy embarrassing, it is.”
This was said in the tone of one who wished her nearest and dearest would stop patronizing a shop belonging to a competitor.
Putting down his mug, Melrose rose and said he’d got to be going. “I’d really like a word with Beatrice Slocum. You say she’s working at the Museum of Childhood?”
“Right you are. But you only just got ’ere. I enjoy a nice chin wag with an old friend now and again. Thought mebbe we could go along to the pub for a pint.” She struggled up out of the depth of the sprung-cushioned chair. “Necklace is gone, worse luck.”
She was speaking of the Anodyne Necklace, a narrow old pub that had stood at the end of Catchcoach Street. It made Melrose sad to hear it was gone. “That’s bad news. What happened?”
“Ah, you know them breweries,” White Ellie said, waving the breweries away. “Got took over by Charrington’s. Twice the price and half the beer, now. They got one a them awful glittery big balls, you know like they put in discos, hangin’ from the ceiling.”
By now they were at the door, where the rat-faced dog was waiting to sink its teeth into Melrose’s trouser leg.
“ ’Ere, Basker! Get yerself off!” White Ellie gave the dog a thumping kick but her slipper was too soft to do any damage.
The dog clung and clung until Melrose gave it a swipe. He was wondering where the kiddies were. Fifteen minutes of silence boded ill, he was sure.
Out on the pavement, up and down White Ellie looked. “Beats me where them brats got to.”
“I’m sure I’ll find out. Goodbye, Ellie.”
• • •
MELROSE THOUGHT he was getting off fairly cheaply. Only six quid. They’d ambushed him at the corner, saying they’d walk him past the butcher’s for just a quid apiece. (Protection money had gone up just like everything else, he supposed.) When he questioned this enterprising scheme—“Why should I pay anyone to walk me past the butcher’s?”—they told him the butcher was insane and whenever he saw some toff from the City he went for his meat cleaver.
“I’m not from the City. Nor am I a toff, as you put it.”
“Yeah? Well, he don’t know that, do he?” came the reasonable answer.
So he’d paid them off—even the toddler, who had her sticky little hand out—and walked the rest of the block with them until they came to a shop owned by one M. Perkins, and featuring: Choice Meats and Game. Melrose couldn’t imagine a great deal of a demand for “choice meats,” much less “choice game,” in this particular area, but as he looked in the window he saw a pleasant, round-faced gentleman in a spanking-clean white apron arranging little bouquets
of mint on a platter holding a handsome joint. Leg of lamb, thought Melrose, smiling brightly at the butcher. The man returned the smile and waved cheerily to the Crippses, even blowing a kiss to the toddler, who had her small hands and face mashed against the glass and was licking at it.
They passed on. Melrose reflected, “Strange. He seems quite a pleasant chap.”
The older boy looked up at him, shaking his head as if he were truly dim. “A course he does. I tol’ you you’d be okay long as you was with us, right?”
And this said, they all ran away, giggles floating back in the icy air as they twirled and turned and skittered away like leaves.
TWENTY-THREE
Except for the red hair, with its unreal eggplant tint, Melrose would have thought her to be one of the visitors. She was standing in front of one of the many glass cases housing nostalgic holdovers from childhood, this particular one being a very large and intricately furnished dollhouse. He found this glimpse of her—her face reflected in the glass and superimposed over a small kitchen and dining room filled with minuscule bits of dishes, oil lamps, fruits and vegetables—a ham on the table ready for carving, even—this glimpse showed a face with a wondering expression, head tilted slightly, mouth an o. In her hand was a jeweler’s loupe.
“Miss Slocum? Beatrice Slocum?”
Suddenly, she turned and the child was quickly replaced by the rather bored adult. “Do I know you?” But the up-and-down, quick assessment suggested she wouldn’t mind, after all.
“No. My name is Melrose Plant. I’m a friend of the Crippses.”
Her eyes narrowed to a squint. “What? You are?” She seemed to want to add, “Not bloody likely.”
He nodded. “I’ve just come from Catchcoach Street. Ellie Cripps told me you worked here and I was wondering if we could talk. I’m also a friend of Superintendent Jury.”
She moaned. “Not that again? Not that bleedin’ lady in the Tate? So now what?” She moved away from him, going behind a counter and inspecting the tiny accessories used in the dollhouse.
Melrose followed. “I can’t say I blame you. You must be pretty sick of the whole thing, especially as you didn’t really see anything you think might be helpful.”
Irritated, she started slapping things into her purse. “I certainly didn’t. Gabe and me—I expect you’ve talked to Gabe, too?”
“No. He wasn’t around this afternoon. Mrs. Cripps says he’s trying to get Ash out of custody.”
This at least put her into a better humor. Her giggle was as fresh as any of the kiddies’. “Oh, God, yes. I told him, I told Ash if ever I found him anywheres round my territory again I’d give him a proper thrashing. Anyway.” She sighed and continued stuffing her bag.
“Look, if you’re leaving work, perhaps you wouldn’t mind having a bite or a cup of coffee or something and we could talk. Just for a few minutes.”
She pursed her mouth. “Mmnn. There’s that new caff Dotrice opened up near Vicky Park. I wouldn’t mind. But I’ll have to clear out of here first. Just take me a few minutes if you want to look around. Wander about, why don’t you?”
He did wander about.
It struck him as rather an odd place for somebody like Bea Slocum to be working, but, then, he didn’t really know her, did he? He looked over the dollhouse up a few steps to his left; it was really a cabinet, cleverly converted into several rooms. He was fascinated by the detail, the tiny glasses on the dining-room table, the miniature vegetables ready for cooking in pots as small as a fivepenny coin. He passed to the next big window. Here was Dingley Hall, quite a handsome manor house. Its occupants seemed very busy here, descending and ascending the sweeping staircase, probably assembling for the tea that was about to be served on a table round which were collected tiny chairs in the Queen Anne style.
Melrose climbed a few steps to the second level and found himself amongst the trains: electric, steam, pull-alongs; engines and tenders, locomotives, carriages, Pullman and passenger, every kind he could imagine. There was a long glass case that had been set up with track, rolling stock, miniature buildings and people—a countryside that the train would run through, provided you put twenty pence in the slot. He watched a boy of five or six do just this and the train started rolling. The boy stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking a bit on his heels, his gaze intense. He did not appear to mind sharing his twenty pence with a stranger; however, when the train came to rest, the boy looked up at Melrose with the expression of a crony who’d been standing drinks and was wondering when the other fellow was going to be in the chair.
Melrose pushed his own coin in the slot. The boy nodded, and they both turned to watch the locomotive move out of the station into open country. The boy’s eyes tracked the train’s progress. He was not disposed to talk, which was fine with Melrose.
Melrose frowned at the little train, snaking its way through a tunnel. It had started him wondering whether, when he was this lad’s age, he’d had some sort of setup like this. He could not remember having had one; this annoyed him. After some hard thinking, he came to the conclusion that, no, he had never had a train, which annoyed him even more. Why hadn’t he? Didn’t every boy whose family could afford it have a train? After a while he became aware that he had adopted the boy’s own posture—hands clasped behind him, tilting forward and backward on the balls of his feet. Quickly, he dug his hands into his jacket pockets.
With no comment, the boy left to continue his way round the exhibits, and Melrose moved to the several cases housing miniature shops. There were a provisions store, a fish stall, the Tiptop General Store, a milliner’s shop where a porcelain shop assistant gestured with her tiny pearl-white hand towards tables and shelves of little hats. The largest of these shops was the butcher’s, quite amazing in its approximation to the real thing. Sides of beef, joints of mutton all hung in a row beneath the roof; ducks and chickens and other fowl hung neck down. One bowler-hatted butcher occupied the doorway; another, in the dark recess of the shop, sharpened knives. Mr. Jurvis, Melrose was sure, would appreciate the scale to which the shop and its contents had been drawn.
He walked along a few steps to a display of models of boys and girls engaged in old games like Hot Cockles and Bull in the Park. The girl with the hoop reminded him of J. M. W. Turner’s fanciful painting in the Tate. Had he played such games? If he had he was sure he would have been It.
He passed along to the building bricks, construction kits, old Bayko building sets, and could not recall one single one of these he had had as a child. Frowning, he moved to a large case of the sort one would find in Brighton at the Old Penny Palace. Inside were wooden black-faced sheep who would give their rendition of “Baa Baa Black Sheep” for 20p. Everything seemed to cost 20p, and he’d run out of coins. Melrose bet he’d seen any number of these coin-operated toys along the piers of Brighton or Liverpool—
Oh, for heaven’s sake, he said to himself. You’ve never been in Liverpool in your entire life. Only once to Brighton, and that was with Jury. Yet, there must have been holidays by the sea. Still, he could not call up one scene of himself as a child with a pail and sandy, sunburnt legs. Why had his childhood been so blighted? He frowned deeply. He would ask Ruthven, the repository of such memories. Good, stout Ruthven and, to a lesser degree, his wife, Martha. How old was Ruthven? Well, no matter, for he appeared to be in robust health. Then, as usually happens in the moment you start considering your own or another’s mortality, you think you’ve got to sort out everything before everyone drops dead. He would ask Ruthven the minute he got—
A movement behind him brought Melrose out of these reflections; a hand was pushing a coin into the slot and the wooden sheep began to baa to the tune. He turned to see Bea standing right behind him.
“There, how’s that?” she said cheerily. “You can sing along if you like.”
Melrose studied her expression, to see if he could detect any irony in it, but he could not. He didn’t answer, though.
“Probably, you’d lik
e the peep shows. They’re just back there—” she gestured towards the back of the room.
Huffily he said, “I’m sure I had quite enough of peep shows when I was a lad.”
She ignored the tone. “Did you used to make them up out of shoeboxes? That’s what we did. Inside the box you put little things and then stick a hole in the end—”
“Yes, that’s about what we did. Except ours were very fancy. We had regular scale-model . . . things. Let’s go to this cafe, then, what do you say?”
Her face brightened. “It’s what’s near where I live. I live in one of them blocks of flats the Social tossed up. It’s French, the cafe. Kind of posh?” She made a question of this, unsure as to whether Melrose was into poshness. “Kind of expensive.”
He smiled. “Damn the expense. Let’s go.”
• • •
IT WAS as Bea had described it: a posh little restaurant, probably overpriced—posh, certainly, for Bethnal Green, which was hardly an affluent area, having as its neighbors Shoreditch and Spitalfields, and, not far away, Stepney and Limehouse. Perhaps Dotrice heralded gentrification, the promise of invasion by Trueblood’s WEMs, who might be spending the rest of their week (their working week) in Bethnal Green.
If anything was the bellwether of such a movement, it was a restaurant. London loved its restaurants, perhaps even more than London loved its West End theatres. Eating out was almost obligatory, and every new little restaurant that sprouted was solemnly noted, patronized, criticized. It made Melrose sad, studying the exterior of Dotrice, the way the old pubs had refurbished both their looks and their food to cater for this new clientele.
Finally, the maître d’ came to lead them to a table. A surprising number of customers were already dining, so they must have come before 7:30. Good God, was this a new trend, then? Dinner at seven? Melrose shuddered slightly, as he followed Bea to a table. If one couldn’t while away the evening hours between eight and ten at dinner, just how was one to fill them? Watching the telly? The couple at the table beside them were eating dessert! They’d be finished by 7:45 if they weren’t careful.
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