by Annis Bell
“So he wasn’t selling your orchids on the sly?” Rooke asked, nibbling on a piece of shortbread.
“No, no, which is why I never noticed his side dealings. Then Sir Robert Parks paid us a visit and requested another violet Pleione praecox! Do you see where this is going? I haven’t offered such a flower in over a year. Pleione praecox is a long-petaled orchid, very large and rare, and correspondingly expensive. Other customers started coming in to ask about different rare orchids I have never sold. It finally dawned on me that Korshaw had been using my customers to sell his own orchids. I immediately went through the paperwork in his desk and came across a list of names. Most of them I know—as orchid hunters.” Veitch reached into a file, withdrew a crumpled sheet of paper covered with cramped handwriting, and handed it to Rooke.
Both men scanned the list. Most of the names were accompanied by a month and a country. “Mungo Rudbeck, September, Mexico. Walter Mitscherlich, August, Burma. Derek Tomkins, September, Colombia, and so on. Can you tell us who else these men were working for?” Rooke asked.
Veitch made a face. “Crooks, the lot of them, if you ask me. Playing their backers against each other. Rudbeck works for Parks, Mitscherlich for Sander, and Tomkins exclusively for Halston, as far as I know.”
David inhaled sharply. “Well, what do you know . . .”
“Halston,” Rooke said thoughtfully. “Any news from there?”
After leaving Veitch’s office, they walked for a while through the wintery, gray London streets, each man deep in thought. Eventually, David said, “I’ll send a telegram to Halston. He needs to tell us the exact nature of his business relationship with Tomkins, but if I remember correctly, he said that Tomkins worked exclusively for him. He seemed proud of that.”
“Is that a reason to kill Korshaw? Or to have him killed?” Rooke nodded to a policeman walking his beat.
They passed a stand offering soup and battered fish that catered primarily to the poor, who had no cooking facilities in their homes and therefore had to rely on street vendors for meals. Wherever he looked, David saw hungry people standing in front of shop windows, eating whatever they could buy for a few pennies. The smells of fish, peas, kidney pie, and pastries mixed with the stink of horse dung and human excrement.
“Hardly. Halston certainly has a temper, but he’d be more likely to go after his own man, Tomkins, than Korshaw. But Korshaw had other customers. Perhaps one of them felt cheated or defrauded. Cunningham, perhaps?”
David thought of Rachel, who had worked for Cunningham before entering the Halston household. “What if Rachel, the maid at—”
“I know who you mean,” said Rooke.
“What if Cunningham used Rachel to infiltrate Halston’s collection, and the whole story about the importunate son was simply made up?”
“And so Halston got rid of her?” Rooke stopped and turned away from a barefooted youngster shoveling dog feces into a bag with his bare hands. The boy would no doubt attempt to sell it to a tannery or a maker of leather gaiters.
“But how does his sick wife figure into all this . . . no, it doesn’t fit together.” Wescott pulled on his top hat a little tighter as a gust of icy wind swept between the buildings. Too many things did not fit together. “Have you made any headway with the Pedley affair?”
“Not really. We paid a visit to Seven Bells, but either they got wind of us coming in advance or they shined themselves up right after the murder. They were as clean as new pins. Nothing we could do. Big John laughed at us.”
“As expected. What about Satterley and the black widow?” David had told Rooke all he knew about that case.
“She must have changed her name. I wasn’t able to turn up any recent documents for a Velma Satterley. Are you still coming for a drink?” Across the street, a hanging pub sign squeaked in the wind, but David had the stink of the street in his nose, which robbed him of both his appetite and his thirst for beer.
“Thank you, but I think I’ll just take a coach home. Jane might have sent a telegram.”
The moment David stepped through his front door on Seymour Street, he found Levi and Blount waiting for him. “What’s the matter?” he asked in alarm.
“A message from Lady Jane.” Blount handed him the envelope. “She sent it express.”
Levi, who had waited his turn to talk, then said, “Myron would like to tell you something, Captain.”
David hurriedly read Jane’s message. God, poor Charlotte was actually in danger of being locked away forever, Alison could give birth at any moment, and the housekeeper had a blond daughter who happened to be visiting from India. “I have to go to Northumberland! Blount, we leave as soon as possible.”
After helping him out of his coat, Blount took his hat and walking stick. “But listen to what Myron has to say first. The boy has traversed half of London.”
“I’ll be in the library.” David went straight to his desk and poured himself a glass of whisky, then reread Jane’s telegram. “That scheming old witch!” As he knew from Jane, Mrs. Gubbins hated Charlotte, and now it turned out that her daughter had been in India. Maybe Rachel had uncovered something, or perhaps she’d overheard something she shouldn’t have.
There was a tentative knock on the door, and Myron entered. The boy was barely recognizable from his former self. A few days of decent food, a warm bath, and new clothes had worked wonders. In front of David now stood an alert young lad whose eyes glowed with self-confidence. “Myron, I hear you’re learning to read and write?”
“Yes, Cap’n. I can already write me name and a few words. The grub’s smashing, and the kitchen’s warm, and Mr. Levi’s nice and so’s Mr. Blount and—”
David tousled the effusive boy’s hair. “It’s all right, I know . . . but you wanted to tell me something?”
The boy’s face turned radiantly proud. “I heard you talking about orchid hunters and that gardener who died. I’ve got lots of friends. The boys on the streets, we stick together . . . most of us, anyways. We’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. One of me friends, his name’s Tom. He’s got an uncle who was a soldier in India. Now he drinks and earns his keep working down on the docks if he isn’t . . . well, that don’t matter.”
David tried to imagine what kind of business an army veteran and dockworker could get himself involved in and decided not to pry. “Yes?”
“Well, Tom’s uncle went into a pub in St. Giles and saw Korshaw. He called out and waved, but all Korshaw did was turn his back and disappear into the crowd.”
“Which pub?” asked David, already suspecting the answer.
“The Seven Bells it was. But that ain’t all. Tom’s uncle figured Korshaw had something to hide if he didn’t want to see an old pal from the colonies, so he went after him and followed him all the way to the docks. This was in the middle of the night. Korshaw went right up to a sailboat from overseas that had just tied up. The ship was being unloaded, lots of crates of spices and ivory, that kind of thing. Then Tom’s uncle got a shock because he saw Korshaw talking to a man that he himself was afraid of.”
Myron looked at the floor.
David had been listening and watching the boy intently. “Are you keeping something from me, Myron?”
The boy fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket, a warm, tweed item that Josiah had outgrown. “I’m sorry, Cap’n. No one does nothing for free. Tom’s uncle will only tell you the name face-to-face, and only if you pay ’im for it. He’ll be working at the West India Docks all today.”
Whether or not work was to be had at the docks depended on the arriving ships. Some weeks, two hundred trading ships or more tied up. Other weeks they were lucky to see thirty. Early mornings, the dockworkers gathered at the gates, hoping to be chosen for the day. More often than not, three hours of work was all they got, and what they earned was barely enough to live on.
“What’s his uncle’s name?”
“Dan.”
“I hope you didn’t promise him anything?”
Myron’s eyes w
idened. “No, cross my heart! It’s true enough, Cap’n, that we poor folk have to do what we can with whatever comes our way. A second chance don’t come often.”
David stifled a grin. “Then let’s see if what Dan has to say is worth a penny.”
“Yes, Cap’n!” Myron all but jumped along beside David, who strode back into the hall. “It’s bound to be!”
“Blount! We’re going to the docks!”
The West India Docks consisted of two docks, with a third under construction, on the Isle of Dogs, a tongue of land inside a bend of the Thames in London’s East End. In the early afternoon, the coachman drove his three passengers along West Ferry Road. The sight of an undulating sea of masts, rigging, and a wide variety of ships made David’s heart beat faster.
A railway line had been added since the construction of the harbor facilities proper sixty years earlier, making the loading and unloading of the big ships considerably more efficient. Even Blount looked out of the coach window with interest.
“They can sail from the import dock directly into the export dock, and the goods are hauled straight off to the farms,” David explained to Myron. “There’s a four-master being unloaded as we speak.”
Myron pushed up the window and poked his head out into the cold. “The dockworkers are coming with sacks. Can I climb out?”
David banged on the wall of the coach with his stick, and the coachman drew his vehicle to a halt. After climbing out, David went over to the coachman. “Here’s the first half.” David gave the coachman what they had agreed on. “You’ll have the rest once you’ve driven us home again. Where will we find you?”
“Corner of Emmet, in the Peacock’s stables.”
The Peacock was the kind of guesthouse typical of the docks, offering cheap bunks for seamen, along with prostitutes and reasonably good food. The sheds and depots stood a little farther north, along with the police station, customs offices, and the harbormaster’s office. Past that came more warehouses and the workshops of carpenters, wagon makers, painters, blacksmiths, mechanics, and, set a little back from the fray, a workhouse and tiny cottages for the harbormaster’s employees.
The docks were correspondingly chaotic. Seamen, tradesmen, dockworkers, street vendors, horse-drawn carriages, pack mules, and all manner of doubtful characters—who would even gather scraps of old rope if they could trade them for money—were milling about in a cacophony of noises and hollering. Myron seemed in his element as he nimbly dodged a cart that had slid out of the slippery traces, then pointed ahead at the porters.
“He’ll be there! Come on!” Chest puffed out, his new boots polished, and his cap pulled low on his forehead, he strutted through the throng.
Blount, who wore a long coat and cape over his suit and who had taken to wearing a new bowler hat, stamped dourly through the ankle-deep, frozen sludge. Close to the river, snow never lasted long, unless the year was particularly cold and the frost bit hard for weeks. Like David, Blount kept one eye on dubious figures moving around the dock or standing in small groups, his revolver within easy reach beneath his coat.
“Not sure this was such a good idea, Captain,” he murmured after they were jostled by two tough-looking dockhands. “What if it’s a trap?”
Five men in rough coats with knives tucked into their belts suddenly emerged from behind a stack of crates, blocking their path. The one in front fixed them with a derisive squint and said something in Russian to the others. Blount returned the insult in fluent Russian, making sure they saw his revolver, and the men let them pass.
Myron looked up admiringly at Blount. “I want to be just like you, sir. That was respect!”
“So where’s our informant? We don’t have all day,” Blount grumbled.
The men on the docks, coarse characters to whom life had given nothing for free, hauled their sacks to waiting carts. One of them snatched his cap from his bald head and wiped the sweat from his face with a rag. The heavy work had left its mark on his body. His cheeks and nose were covered in a dense web of blue veins. The last two fingers on his right hand were missing, and he walked with a limp. Heaving his sack onto the cart, he stretched with a pained grimace and was about to shuffle back to a ship when he noticed Myron.
“Eh, Myron!”
“Eh, Dan. I kept me word!” Myron replied and proudly stepped aside.
Blount and David stepped forward, all too aware of the curious glances of the other dockworkers.
“Don’t you ’ave some fine friends, Dan? Or are they lambs to slaughter?” A dark-skinned man let out an ugly laugh and dropped his sack close behind Dan as if by accident. “Oops.”
David signaled to Dan to come closer. “Can you meet us at the Peacock? I’ll pay for the time lost.”
“And two dark ales and a beef soup!” Dan demanded, putting his cap back on. “Eh, Myron, looks like ye’ve landed on yer feet. If only Tom had yer kind of luck . . .”
Dan turned to a young man who was crouched on top of a crate. “Can y’ take over for me, Bob?”
The young man didn’t need to be asked twice. He jumped down immediately and ran to the enormous East Indiaman ship bobbing in the icy Thames water.
Suddenly, a soft, whirring noise sliced the air, and Myron, who had been standing in front of Dan, opened his mouth in a silent scream.
Dan immediately grabbed the boy under his arms, staring in disbelief at the handle of the knife protruding from the boy’s skinny body. “Myron . . . come on, lad, say something!”
Turning instantly, Blount was already in pursuit of the assassin, one of the Russians from moments before. All five were running, scattering. David looked around, but all he saw were impassive faces, with only a few showing honest emotion. Violence and crime were the norm there. You closed your eyes and kept on, hoping to survive.
Myron’s eyes stared lifelessly at the gray winter canopy. “Let me take him,” said David, lifting the dead boy in his arms. The handle of the knife jutted skyward accusingly.
David had prepared himself for many things, including an attempt on his own life or Blount’s, but he was not prepared for the death of this small and innocent boy. Gently, he closed Myron’s eyes and swallowed back his own rising tears. “Whoever did this will pay. We’ll find him.”
“Sir, I think it was me they was after,” said Dan beside him, stroking Myron’s limp hand.
David cleared his throat. “No doubt. You need to tell me what you know.”
Anxiously scanning the docks, Dan suddenly seemed as tense as a deer that has scented its hunter. “Not here.”
In the meantime, someone had alerted two police officers who had been patrolling the other side of the dock. They ran over.
“Do you know who did this?” asked the elder officer.
“My assistant is pursuing the presumed killer. Russian, I’d say,” David said.
“And you are . . . ? Were you in business with the Russians?” The officer took out a notebook.
David identified himself and demanded that Rooke be called, which defused the officer’s suspicions. Together, they carried David’s sad cargo into the harbor office.
They laid Myron on a bench, removed the knife, and covered the boy with a blanket, then someone handed David and Dan tea and rum. David blamed himself for Myron’s death, and he was angry with himself for not seeing that something like this might happen. “I should’ve forbidden Myron to come along!” he muttered angrily to himself.
“Captain,” said Dan quietly, sitting beside him on a stool. “I get what yer feeling, but the boy knew what he was doing. He was a clever rascal. And you made him feel worth something. I ain’t never seen him so happy as in these last few days.”
David looked up sadly. “A brief happiness . . .”
“Better a moment of happiness than a long and miserable life, eh? Listen, I’ll tell ye who I saw Korshaw with, then I’ll be dropping out of sight.”
“I’ll give you some money, enough to let you disappear for a while. It’s the least I can do,” Da
vid promised.
“Korshaw was about the rottenest piece of filth I ever ran across in India, a treacherous, two-timing rat ye wouldn’t believe if he told ye the sun rose in the morning. I’d been stationed in Burma for three months and met him at the casino in Bassein. He was with an adventurer, a man he wanted to do some big deal with. Korshaw always had some kind of crooked business going, but the other fellow was on to him, I’d a sense of it. I knew he’d be in hot water if he ever cheated this fellow. Korshaw was murdered, wasn’t he?”
Dan had spoken in a low voice, scanning the room as he spoke, but the only man in sight was a constable at a desk, busy with paperwork.
“It was supposed to look like suicide, but it was murder,” David confirmed.
“When I saw the two of ’em together back then, I had a feeling it wouldn’t end well. Know what I mean? How sometimes ye just sense that somebody’s going to come to harm? I’ve read occasional bits and pieces about that adventurer in the papers since India. He’s an orchid hunter, a real specialist.”
“What’s his name?” David could not stand the sight of the dead boy any longer.
“Tomkins. Derek Tomkins.”
26.
For a raven ever croaks, at my side,
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward,
Or thou wilt prove their tool.
Yea, too, myself from myself I guard,
For often a man’s own angry pride
Is cap and bells for a fool.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
Jane woke with a stabbing pain in her side. Her corset had twisted and was poking painfully into her soft skin. Only a man could have conceived of such an instrument of torture as suitable clothing for a woman! Sitting up, she straightened the detested undergarment. The winter sun shone weakly through the window, the curtains only half-drawn.
The first thing she saw was her friend’s bed. After an arduous night marked by fear of more bleeding, Alison had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Nora lay on the carpet beside Alison’s bed, and Hettie had curled up in an armchair. Jane smiled. The two young women had been a great help and could not have been more attentive to Alison. Jane rose from the worn chaise longue, stretched her arms, and rolled her stiff neck to and fro.
