by Carol Rivers
He was considering a smaller model for himself, so that he could teach April to drive. Though the reason she'd mentioned it was not much to his liking. They had disagreed once again on Tom's future schooling. Danny was reluctant to consider boarding him. But April had insisted that Tom would do very well in his education if given the opportunity.
Danny heaved a thoughtful sigh and returned his attention to the well-shod punters beginning to arrive on the forecourt. Several men browsed round the cars, but then a couple stopped to gaze in. The young woman wore a fur stole draped around her shoulders. One grey-gloved hand was firmly attached to an elderly man's arm. The gent sported a tailored Edwardian-style jacket and leaned heavily on his cane, though every now and then he remembered to straighten his shoulders.
Danny nodded slightly in their direction and received a brief acknowledgement back. It was often the case in such affluent circles that the luxury car would be purchased as a gift. The woman was at least thirty years younger than her companion. But just as they were about to enter the showrooms, a child of about three or four years of age, dressed in clothes that were almost too shabby to call clothes, with curly ginger hair matted to its scalp and a face so filthy he could only guess it was a boy, ran up to the couple. He held out his cupped hands, begging for coppers.
Oh, dear, thought Danny, could this be the return of the troublesome travellers? He held his breath, waiting to see if more arrived.
Danny watched intently as the young woman recoiled. But the gent dipped into his pocket and threw a coin. Then without warning, the beggar child's mother appeared. In contrast to her boy, she was half-decently, but oddly, dressed in a white blouse and colourful skirt, much like a street performer might wear. Gold hoops swung from her ears under her dark, curling hair. Bracelets shimmered on her wrists. Smiling at the couple, she attempted to engage them in conversation. However, whatever it was must have distressed them for they made off in great haste.
Annoyed that the incident had driven off a potential customer, Danny made his way out. His eyes surveyed the scene to left and right, although he could see no travellers, and since the pavements were crowded, the woman and child were lost to sight. He was about to retrace his steps when suddenly he spotted them.
Just a few paces away, the boy was howling, refusing to give up his coin. His mother, appallingly, did everything in her power to relieve him of it; with a push, a shove, and a clout round the head – Danny was incensed.
Forgetting himself almost, he strode towards them just as the woman delivered another blow with such force that the boy was knocked off his feet. Should he help the child first, Danny wondered, or severely reprimand the mother? But before he could move another step, a hand landed on his shoulder.
He turned to find himself staring into the face of a stranger, a man he had never seen before accompanied by a smaller man who stared up at him with challenge in his small, sly eyes.
'Don't resist,' said the taller of the two and before Danny could object, he was pushed headlong into a vehicle that had drawn up to the kerb. Struggling to free himself, he saw the beggar woman staring through the window. She was smiling now, the child's hand in hers, before a hood was pulled roughly over his head.
Danny tried to listen for sounds he knew or some indication of where he was being taken. The voices he heard led him to believe he was accompanied by three men at least; one to drive the vehicle, the other two to restrain him. His hands were bound behind him and his protests all ended with a sound punch to the belly.
He felt the sweat stick to his collar. Who were these people and why had they taken him?
He didn't have to wait long for an answer. The car's engine finally rattled to a stop where a sharp jolt ended the journey. With pushes and thumps he was dragged along. More blows followed as he fell to his knees.
A command was shouted and he was grasped under his arms. His captors thrust him onto a hard seat. Here he sagged forward, once again attempting to catch his breath. Silence fell. This seemed even more menacing than the voices.
He sat very still, straining his eyes to see through the filthy hessian covering that reeked of engine oil. But it was pitch black. He knew this odour well and wondered if he had been brought to a garage. For all his senses told him that he was now shut in, hidden away from the world.
A sound of footsteps came close, light on the ground and slow, as if the person was assessing him. Or was there another beating to come? The steps were mingled with the brush of sawdust; that fine, gravelly mixture of wood shavings he'd used in his workshop.
'Where am I?' he demanded. 'Who are you?'
Again, followed the uncanny silence. Sweat oozed down Danny's back. His wrists were tied so tightly, he was forced to sit at un unnatural angle. His shins pounded and his ribs ached. Whoever this was, they knew about hurting. Just as Leonard Savage had. But Savage was dead. None of this made sense.
Suddenly the hood was removed. He blinked several times to adjust his eyes to the dim light. He was seated on a chair, a rope tied around his chest and fastened to his hands behind his back, so that every movement increased his discomfort. In front of him was some kind of painted wooden article, covered by tarpaulin. Beside this, what looked like a generator. Perhaps he was right about the garage. Could this be a competitor? Someone who resented his starting up in Euston? Yet he had made no enemies as far as he knew. The expensive stock he sold set him apart from back-street dealers.
Blinking hard, he strained to see to his right and left; but those corners were in total darkness. One smell was pervasive throughout - horses! Animal sweat, oils and liniment. Straw bales baked under a hot sun.
'And so we meet,' a male voice said and Danny's attention was drawn to a figure standing in the gloom by the only door he could see. It was however, bolted, barred and offering no chance of escape.
'Where am I?' Danny addressed the shape. 'Do I know you?'
'I know you.'
'Then tell me your name.' All Danny could see was the silhouette of a tall figure, with an odd looking feathered hat on his head. A cape of some sort was slung around his shoulders, giving him a theatrical air.
'I could be a friend,' came the strange accent. 'I could be your enemy.'
Danny saw the glint of metal at the man's waist. A weapon! Cold air seemed to blow into Danny's lungs and freeze his insides.
'Chancel Lane earned you a reputation,' the voice continued.
'How do you know about that?' Danny demanded.
'You have come up in the world,' continued the man, 'and, after Leonard Savage, have discovered great wealth in the city.'
So this person knew about Savage! Danny pulled back his head in an effort to ease the pain of his shoulders. 'What do you want of me?' he asked again.
This was ignored. 'I have heard that you have abandoned the East End and your friend and ally, Lizzie Flowers.'
Icy fingers clawed at Danny's ribs. Just as they had in the barn at Chancel Lane when death had awaited him only inches away, at the bottom of that stagnant well.
'What's Lizzie got to do with this?' he gasped, trying to stay calm.
'She is why you are here,' said the man in his soft, musical voice. 'You must persuade the lady to see reason.'
'I haven't seen Lizzie in a long while,' Danny protested. 'I couldn't persuade her, anyway, of something she didn't want to do.'
As unmoved as marble, the man's face showed no reaction. And then, to Danny's alarm, he saw it was a mask. Half a face, so cleverly sculptured that it could be mistaken for skin and bone. Eyes hidden behind slits, below finely curved eyebrows. An aquiline nose above a mouth that must be real for it smiled so cruelly.
'Running away like a frightened cur, will bring you no gain, Danny Flowers,' said the twisted lips. 'Do you know that a man carries his past like a cross? Even great wealth will not ease your burden.'
In anger, Danny yanked his arms, only to feel an agony shoot through his limbs. The chair beneath him moved and for a moment he thought he woul
d topple. He gasped for breath and found himself choking.
'Remind Lizzie Flowers that the Mill Wall is mine,' said the whisper. 'Ask her about me. She will tell you.'
Danny struggled against his bonds but they tightened on his chest, breaking the flow of air to his lungs.
'And one day in the not too distant future, we shall speak again of your fine investment,' continued the speaker. 'We shall admire your fortune together, and how it has raised you above the common man. Above jackals like me!' Laughter trickled into Danny's ear; a breath fanned his cheek. And all at once, Danny remembered a tall, black-haired man wearing a dark beard and the sound of his lilting voice. But more distinctly he recalled the tell-tale trace of mud on the heel of a polished brogue. And the fact that this swaggering stranger visiting his showrooms for the first time, had known he was Danny Flowers.
'Bring in the law and you are doomed,' came the husky threat. 'We shall meet again, Mr Flowers!'
Before Danny could take a breath, the hood came down over his head again. He was dragged from the chair, pushed and punched, and finally thrown into a vehicle. He gasped for breath, straining to hear any voices or sounds that he might recognise. The vibration of the engine shuddered through him and he painfully wriggled himself upright. This time, he gathered, he must be alone with the driver.
He wondered if he could pull off his hood somehow, but his hands were still tied behind his back. He knew now they weren't about to kill him, so they must be returning him, but to where?
It was a good half hour later when the car came to a halt. He tensed and waited, while his heart beat a tattoo inside his chest. The click of the car door made him start and someone pulled him into the open. He was sent sprawling, his head hitting the ground. There was a woman's scream and the roar of an engine. Tyres screeched and a horn blasted.
Danny rolled on his back, the bonds around his hands digging mercilessly into his skin and tried to sit up, but he was dazed.
'Danny! What in God's name has happened?' The voice was Hugo's and Danny blinked as the hood was removed. He stared around him and saw first a blur, then a vague impression of the street, people stopping to stare at him and Hugo's concerned face.
'Untie me,' Danny muttered. 'Quick as you can, Hugo.'
As his salesman clumsily tore at the ropes binding him, Danny felt his head swim. A trickle of warm blood ran down by his ear.
It seemed an eternity by the time Hugo managed to free him and awkwardly hoisted his arm around his shoulder. 'Not far now, old man,' Hugo said as he dragged Danny towards the open doors.
'Shouldn't someone send for the police?' called a man from the crowd of onlookers.
Danny stopped briefly and forced himself to smile. 'We'll take care of that, thank you.'
But as they stumbled into the showroom, he knew that the very last action he would take, would be to involve the law. He had taken the masked man's threat seriously. He was not about to fill the street with blue uniforms.
'What happened?' Hugo asked as they reached the safety of the office and Danny sank onto a chair.
'I barely know,' Danny said, nodding to the decanter. 'Pour me a whisky will you Hugo?'
'Is that wise? You should have that head wound seen to.'
'A drink will do the trick. And make it a stiff one.'
Danny drank thirstily and felt the alcohol kick through his system.
'Was it those meddlers?' Hugo asked astutely. 'The ones I had trouble with?'
Danny nodded. 'I fear it was, Hugo.'
'What were they after?'
Danny slung back his whisky. 'What every scoundrel is after. Money.'
Hugo stood in his fine tailored suit, his immaculate appearance only marred by the fear in his eyes. 'Protectionists?' he said in his cut glass English and Danny nodded.
Much more than that, Danny thought to himself but didn't say. For Salvo Vella was a league apart from the refined social circles in which Hugo mixed. The Prince was an opportunist who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
Chapter 47
It was a rainy morning at the end of the month when Lizzie and Bert drove to a large municipal building in Walthamstow. They were told when they arrived that the inquest was to be held in an office normally used for council meetings. As they filed in, along with others, Lizzie looked around for Elsie. She was disappointed to see that she hadn't attended.
Bert fidgeted on his chair as the room filled, prising his finger under his collar and stretching his neck. Lizzie knew he was uncomfortable in his rarely worn suit, but they had both dressed up in Madge's honour. Lizzie wore her navy-blue suit and white blouse and had coiled her dark hair up on top of her head. As she gazed around, she saw the policeman who had taken her statement. He sat in his uniform, looking very stern.
'This is a very unfortunate case,' began the coroner, a Dr Nolan, who had his name written on a white card placed on the desk in front of him. He studied the people who sat before him, then turned to the official on his right – a severe-looking man in a dark suit. 'The clerk will now read out the details that we have been given by the police regarding the fire in April this year at the bakery in Ripon Street.'
The clerk shuffled his papers then, in a very low voice, told everyone of the events of that day that were known to the police. It was hard for Lizzie to listen to as she thought of poor Jenny in hospital and Madge who had lain under all that debris from the blazing fire. Eventually the clerk announced that Madge's only relative, her son Ted, could not be found by either the police force or the insurance company. He quickly finished his summary and sat down.
'From the investigation results,' said Dr Nolan, 'it is clear that the blaze started in the kitchen of the bakery on Ripon Street, owned by one named Mrs Elizabeth Flowers. Is this lady present?'
Nervously standing, Lizzie nodded. 'That's me.'
'First my condolences, Mrs Flowers. I understand that you were on close terms with the deceased?'
'Madge was a good friend and employee,' agreed Lizzie in a soft voice.
'You had two other employees, Miss Jennifer Maguire and Mrs Elsie Booth?'
Lizzie nodded again. 'All my staff led very hard lives before they came to work for me. I offered Madge and Jenny accommodation above the bakery. Elsie lives at home and looks after her sick husband.'
'I see,' said the coroner, bending his white head to study his notes. 'I understand Miss Maguire is in hospital as a result of her injuries. But what of Mrs Booth?'
Lizzie paused before she spoke. 'Elsie's husband depends on her.'
'But if she managed to get to her job at the bakery each day, why couldn't she travel here?' he asked abruptly. 'I am told she refused to be interviewed by the police. Instead, she shouted at them through a broken window.'
Lizzie felt her cheeks burn as all heads turned to stare at her.
'Mrs Flowers, may I ask,' continued the coroner, 'in your opinion, is Mrs Booth a person to be relied on?'
'Yes, of course,' replied Lizzie quickly.
'And, she was on good terms with the other two women?'
'Yes, she was.'
'Is Mrs Booth in good health?'
Again, Lizzie hesitated. 'I believe so.'
'Then I can see no reason why she couldn't make some arrangement for her sick relative and attend today.'
Lizzie swallowed as she thought of poor Elsie's fear of the law and the sick husband who seemed to dominate her life. But how could she explain these circumstances without throwing Elsie into a bad light?
'Mrs Booth has a police record,' the corner said sharply. 'Are you aware of that?'
Lizzie took a breath. 'Yes, but Elsie is a good worker and I trust her.'
'You trust her?' repeated Dr Nolan with narrowed eyes. 'Trust her enough never to smoke a cigarette in your bakery and drop a match near a source of gas? Or leave a pan on the hob to burn? Or the ovens to overheat?'
'No, she wouldn't do that!' Lizzie protested, aware of the insinuation. 'Elsie didn't cause the fire. It was
someone else.'
At this, a hush fell on the room.
Lizzie stared into the curious eyes surveying her.
'And who may that be?' came the silky, soft question.
Lizzie's palms were damp. 'I believe it was a crook named Salvo Vella, known as The Prince. He has a grudge against me and could easily have started the fire.'
Dr Nolan sat back in his chair and studied Lizzie with a mocking smile. 'The Prince?' he repeated with contempt.
'Yes,' Lizzie murmured, aware of the muffled giggles around her. 'He and his women have used my tavern for prostitution.'
At this there was a sudden rush of whispers. 'Quiet!' cried the coroner and frowning at Lizzie he mocked, 'both a prince and a pauper? Surely it must be one or the other?'
Bert jumped to his feet. 'It's true,' he hollered, 'you should be after him, not poor bloody Elsie!'
There was sudden chaos in the room. It seemed to Lizzie that papers flew in the air, the clerk dropped his files to the floor and Dr Nolan jumped to his feet. 'Be quiet!' he roared at Bert. 'Or I'll have you thrown out!'
Lizzie was terrified that Bert would be dragged off. She grabbed his arm. 'Please Bert, don't lose your temper. It's no use. They won't believe us.'
'If there is any more disruption, I shall close the proceedings,' threatened the coroner. 'Now, let us have quiet and we shall resume.' He sat down with a thump and glared at Lizzie. 'Mrs Flowers, you have made a serious accusation. Have you any evidence to support your claim?'
Lizzie could only shake her head.
Dr Nolan folded his thin hands together on his desk. 'It is a very serious thing to accuse someone of a crime. And as this is an inquest into the death of the late Mrs Hobson, and not a criminal investigation, I shall overlook your outburst. But if there is any further disorder I shall stop the proceedings immediately. Which means there will be no resolution to a very tragic event.' He took in a long breath. 'I would like to remind everyone present that an inquest is held only to ascertain how, when and where a death occurred.'
