The Shadow in the North

by Philip Pullman

  "Or a company called North Star?"

  "Means nothing, I'm afraid, love."

  "Look - I'll read you what you said." He took the folded piece of paper in Jim's writing out of his pocket, and read it aloud steadily. When he got to the end, he looked up and said, "Does that mean anything to you?"

  She looked amused. "Did I say all that?" she said. "What a load of nonsense!"

  "You really don't know where all this comes from?"

  "It's probably what-do-they-call-it - telepathy. I'm probably reading someone's mind. Lord, I don't know. I've got as much idea about glass coffins and sparks as the man in the moon. What d'you want to know for, anyway?"

  "One of the members of the Spiritualist League is a clerk in a City firm, and he's worried about some of the stuff he's heard from you. It seems to be secret business information. He thinks it'll get out, you see, and he'll be blamed for it."

  "Well, I'm blowed! This is all to do with business, then?"

  "Some of it," Frederick said. "And some we're just not sure of." Then a thought struck him. "You don't know a fellow called Mackinnon, by any chance?"

  That took her by surprise. Her eyes widened and she sat back in the sofa.

  "Alistair Mackinnon?" she said. Her voice was faint. "The one they call The Wizard of the North?"

  "That's him. This man Bellmann I mentioned - he seems to be after Mackinnon for some reason. You wouldn't know anything about him, would you? Mackinnon, I mean?"

  She shook her head. "I . . . I've seen him on the halls. Wonderful clever. But not a man as you could trust, I'd say. Not like my Josiah, though Josiah didn't come within a mile of him in the conjuring line. But I don't know nothing about this Bellmann."

  "Or. . ." He thought back to the evening at Lady Harborough's. "What about a man called Wytham?"

  This time she was really startled. She caught her breath and pressed her hand to her bosom, and he saw she'd gone pale under the powder she wore.

  "Wytham?" she said. "Not Johnny Wytham?"

  "Do you know someone by that name?"

  "JohnnyWytham. Lord Wytham - that's what he is now. He was Johnny Kennett when I knew him - when I was on the halls, that is. He asked me to marry him, and then. . . Ah, well, I had a good man in Josiah. But Johnny Wytham was . . . all grace and fun in those days, and such a handsome man. Lord, he was handsome. What a swell. . ."

  She'd have been a stunning girl, thought Frederick; not exactly pretty, but full of life and vigour and fun.

  "Look at this," she said, and opened a drawer in a little table. She took out a photograph in a silver frame - a crisp ambrotype of the kind that had been common twenty or more years before. It showed two plump, smiling girls of twenty or so, dressed scantily in ballet costumes that showed off their well-shaped legs. They were identical twins. The caption underneath the portrait said "Miss Nellie and Miss Jessie Saxon".

  "That's me on the left," she said. "Jessie's still on the halls, up north. We were a pretty pair, weren't we?"

  "You certainly were. Did your sister know Lord Wytham as well?"

  "She knew him, yes, but he was my special. . . Who knows, eh? I might be Lady Wytham today, if things had worked out different."

  "When did you last see him?"

  "Funny you should ask," she said. She got up and wandered to the window, as if she were embarrassed. The ginger cat Rameses sprang on to the sofa and curled up in the warm spot she'd left. She took a tassel of the curtain and twisted it absently, gazing out into the quiet street.

  "Yes?" Frederick prompted.

  "It was last summer. Up in Scotland. At - at the races. But we only passed and said hello; he couldn't talk on account of his family, and. . . That's all."

  "Is there any connection between him and Bellmann? Or him and Mackinnon? I only mentioned his name because I saw all three of them in the same place the other night."

  "No," she said. "I can't imagine. I don't know who this Bellmann is at all. . ."

  She was still looking away. Frederick let the silence stretch, and then said, "Well, anyway, thank you, Mrs Budd. If something comes to mind I'd be grateful if you'd let me know. Here's my address. . ."

  He put a card on the table and got up to leave. She turned around to shake hands, and he saw that all her bounce and sparkle had gone; she looked almost like an old woman now, powdered and painted and frightened.

  "Look," she said, "I've answered all your questions, and you've told me nothing. Who are you? What are you up to?"

  "I'm a private detective," he said. "I'm working on two cases at the moment, and they seem to be joining up in odd ways. You will let me know if you think of anything else?"

  She nodded. "I'll try," she said. "I'll try and remember. But you know how it is, these things slip out of your mind. . . If I think of anything I'll write you a note. All right, dear?"

  She showed him to the door with a false, bright smile, and said goodbye.

  Sally, meanwhile, was going to see Axel Bellmann.

  She had decided that she had nothing to lose by taking the initiative, and it might throw him off balance for a short while. It was a tactic her father had taught her. She used it when she played chess with Webster. Sometimes it worked.

  She arrived, with Chaka, at Baltic House at ten o'clock. There was a stout commissionaire outside, who saluted smartly and made no move to stop her going in. He had an expression of monumental stupidity; she supposed they ordered commissionaires by girth rather than brain.

  The porter inside was quicker on the uptake.

  "Sorry, miss," he said. "Quite impossible. No one can see Mr Bellmann without I have an appointment written in my book here."

  He shook his head and made to bar her way.

  "Chaka," said Sally, and released his collar.

  The huge beast growled and lunged a step or two towards the porter.

  "All right! All right! Call him off! I'll see, miss -"

  Sally regained her grip, and the man scuttled off to find someone in authority. He came back after a minute with a smooth, moustached young man, who spread his hands and smiled.

  "Miss - Lockhart, is it? - I do so regret it, but Mr Bellmann is quite unavailable at the moment -"

  "That's all right," said Sally. "I can wait five minutes."

  "I say! What a splendid beast! Irish wolfhound?" he said, smiling again. It was a warm, engaging smile, and totally fake. He advanced a manicured hand towards the dog's head. "Unfortunately, it isn't a question of five minutes - my God! Help me! Let go - ohh! - ahhh -"

  Chaka had casually seized the outstretched hand and was worrying it like a rat.

  "I shouldn't worry," said Sally. "He'll let go in a minute. He only likes real meat."

  At the sound of her calm voice the dog let go, and sat down, pleased, looking up at her happily. The young man staggered to a chair and flopped into it, hugging his hand.

  "Look!" he said. "He's drawn blood!"

  "How very surprising. Perhaps Mr Bellmann has finished what he was doing a moment ago. Would you go and tell him that I am here, and I would like to see him at once?"

  Slack-mouthed, the young man trembled to his feet and hurried out. The porter stayed in the corridor, peering around the door and then retreating again.

  Two minutes went by. She looked in her handbag for the card Frederick had given her, with Nellie Budd's address; perhaps she could go and see her afterwards. Then she heard footsteps in the corridor, and tucked the card into her glove.

  The door opened, and a stout middle-aged man came in. From his manner, she could tell that he was someone important in the company, not a well-dressed nonentity like the first man.

  Chaka was lying still at Sally's feet. No threats now: another tactic this time. She smiled and held out her hand.

  Slightly nonplussed, the man took it.

  "I am given to understand that you want to see Mr Bellmann," he said. "Let me make an appointment for you. Perhaps you can tell me what the matter is about, so that--"

  "The
only appointment I shall make is to see Mr Bellmann in three minutes' time. Otherwise I shall go to the Pall Mall Gazette and tell them precisely what I know about Mr Bellmann's connection with the Swedish Match Company's liquidation. I mean it. Three minutes."

  "I -"

  He gulped, shot his cuffs and vanished. In fact Sally knew nothing for certain; there'd been rumours, whispers about irregularities, but nothing concrete. However, it seemed to be working. Two and a half minutes later, she was shown into the presence of Axel Bellmann. He did not get up from his desk.

  "Well?" he said. "I warned you, Miss Lockhart."

  "You warned me what, exactly? Let's be clear about it, Mr Bellmann. What exactly must I stop doing, and what exactly will you do if I don't?"

  She sat down calmly, though her heart was beating fast. Bellmann had a massive presence; it reminded her of the stillness of some huge dynamo spinning so fast that it seemed not to move at all. He looked at her heavily.

  "You must stop trying to understand matters which are too deep for you," he said after a few moments. "And if you do not, I shall make it known to everyone who is in a position to help you or employ you that you are an immoral woman, living on immoral earnings."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  The expression around his eyes changed unpleasantly; she realized that he was smiling. He reached into a drawer and took out a buff-coloured folder.

  "I have here a record of visits paid by unaccompanied men to your place of business in North Street. During the past month no less than twenty-four such visits have been made. Only the other night, for example, a man called very late - at half-past one, to be precise - was admitted by yourself, and stayed for most of an hour before leaving. When my secretary Mr Windlesham visited your so-called office yesterday, he noticed that it contained, among other furniture, a large couch. As if that were not enough, you are known to associate with a Webster Garland, a photographer who has made a speciality of photographing - how shall I put it - the nude."

  She bit her lip: careful, careful.

  "You're quite wrong," she said as calmly as she could. "Mr Garland specializes in portraiture, as a matter of fact. As for the rest of that absurd nonsense - if that's the worst you can find to fight me with, you might as well give up."

  He raised his eyebrows. "How naive you are. You will find out quite soon how much damage allegations like that can do. A young woman, alone, making money . . . disreputable associates. . ."

  He smiled again, and she felt chilly, because he was quite right. There was no defence against that sort of smear. Ignore it, she thought; get on.

  "I don't want to waste time, Mr Bellmann," she said. "If I come to see you again, I had better be admitted at once. Now to the point; your involvement in the Anglo-Baltic Steam Navigation Company has cost a client of mine her life savings. Her name is Miss Susan Walsh. She was a teacher. A good woman. She's given her life to her pupils, and to girls' education. She's harmed no one and done a great deal of good, and now that she's retired she's entitled to live on the money she'd saved. I advised her to invest in Anglo-Baltic.

  "Now do you see why it concerns you? You ruined that company deliberately and by stealth. In doing so you lost a great many people their money, and they all deserve reparation; but they're not all my clients. I will have a cheque, please, made out for the sum of three thousand, two hundred and forty pounds, to be paid to Miss Susan Walsh. The sum is itemized here."

  She dropped a folded piece of paper on the desk. He did not move.

  "And I will have it now," she said.

  Chaka, at her feet, growled softly.

  Suddenly Bellmann moved. He flicked open the paper, read it and, in one movement, tore it in half and flung it into a waste-paper basket. His pale face washed a shade darker.

  "Get out," he said.

  "Without the cheque? I assume you will send it to me. You know where my office is."

  "I shall send you nothing."

  "Very well." She snapped her fingers, and Chaka got to his feet. "I don't intend to swap allegations with you; it's a silly game. I know enough about you now to make a very interesting article in the papers: North Star, for instance, Nordenfels. What's more, I know where to look next, and look I shall, and when I find out what you're doing I shall publish it. I will have that money, Mr Bellmann, make no mistake about that."

  "I do not make mistakes."

  "I think you might have done, now. Good morning."

  He did not reply. No one came near her as she left the building. It took half an hour in an ABC teashop, a currant bun and a pot of tea, to stop her trembling. And then she found herself wondering, to her considerable annoyance, whether the mistake hadn't been hers after all.

  As soon as she'd gone, Bellmann came out from behind his desk and picked up the card which had fluttered to the carpet from her glove. He'd said nothing as he watched it fall. He stopped to gather it, and read:

  Mrs Budd

  147 Tollbooth Road

  Streatham

  He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment or two, and then sent for Mr Windlesham.

  Chapter Nine

  LAVENDER

  Jim Taylor considered he had an interest in Alistair Mackinnon, much as if he'd bought shares in him. For all the distaste he felt for the man, he couldn't help feeling annoyed when Frederick lost him; and when Frederick retorted that no one could be expected to keep hold of a man who could turn himself into smoke and pour out through a keyhole, Jim said that he must be losing his grip, as he couldn't even keep hold of his own watch. It'd be his trousers next.

  So he decided to look for Mackinnon himself. He called at every house in Oakley Street, Chelsea, where Mackinnon had said he lived, and drew a blank; he tried the manager of the music-hall he'd rescued him from, and was told that no one knew his address; he went to several other music-halls in case Mackinnon was appearing under a different name, but he had no luck there either.

  Still, he didn't give up. He'd amassed, in his short and scruffy life, an astonishing number of criminal, semi-criminal, sporting, theatrical and even one or two downright respectable acquaintances; and they were all linked by favours owed or owing - racing tips, loans of half a crown, casual hints that the copper on the corner was looking this way, and so on; and there wasn't much, Jim reckoned, that he couldn't find out, if he wanted to.

  So it was that on the evening of the day Sally visited Axel Bellmann, he found himself standing elbow to elbow in the four-ale bar of a Deptford pub with a shifty little man in a white muffler, who jumped as Jim tapped his shoulder.

  "Wotcher, Dippy!" Jim said. "How are yer, mate?"

  "Eh? Oh, it's you, Jim. How do."

  Dippy Lumsden looked around furtively, but then he was professionally furtive, being a pickpocket.

  "Listen, Dippy," said Jim. "I'm trying to find a bloke. A feller called Mackinnon - a magician. Scotch geezer. He's been on the halls a year or two; you might've seen him."

  Dippy nodded at once. "I seen him. And I know where he is, too."

  "Eh? Where?"

  The pickpocket looked crafty, and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "What's it worth?" he said.

  "Worth Felspar," said Jim. "What you still owe me for, remember?"

  Felspar was a horse which had won at twenty to one, and brought them both a tidy sum. Jim had tipped him, thanks to a jockey he knew.

  Dippy nodded philosophically. "Fair enough," he said. "He's staying in Lambeth. Dirty little place called Allen's Yard. With a fat old Irish cow called Mrs Mooney. I seen him last night - I knew who he was 'cause I seen him at Gatti's Music-Hall one night. What you want him for?"

  "He nicked a watch. But he ain't in your class, Dippy - don't worry about competition from him."

  "Oh. Ah. Righto, mate. But you never saw me tonight, remember. And I never seen him. I gotta look after meself."

  "Course you have, Dippy," said Jim. "Another pint?"

  But Dippy shook his head. He couldn't afford to stay too long in
any one pub, he said, for professional reasons. He swallowed the rest of his drink, and left; and after a minute or so's flirtation with the barmaid, so did Jim.

  Mrs Mooney's house was a crazy, stinking, tottering ruin, kept from falling into Allen's Yard only by the fact that there was no room for it to fall into. The little light that reached the court from outside and from the dim windows of the house showed that the floor of it was little better than a cesspool, but that didn't appear to worry the red-haired child who was playing barefoot on the doorstep, teaching her doll manners by smacking its head, and toasting a bit of herring over a smoking lantern.

  "Mrs Mooney in?" said Jim.

  The child looked up. She sneered at him, and Jim felt tempted to follow the example she was practising on the doll.

  "I says, is Mrs Mooney in, rat-face?"

  She looked more interested. "Lost yer barrel-organ?" she inquired. "Where's yer little red jacket and yer tin?"

  Jim restrained himself.

  "Look, carrot-face, get the murerk, else I'll fetch you a sockdologer what'll lay you out till Christmas," he said.

  The brat took a piece of fish out of her mouth, and shrieked, "Auntie Mary!" before putting it back. She continued to watch Jim contemptuously as he shifted from spot to spot, looking for somewhere dry to stand on.

  "Enjoying yer little dance?" she said.

  Jim snarled, and was about to clout her one when a colossal woman rolled into the doorway, blocking almost all the meagre light from inside. A powerful wave of gin-laden odour drifted from her.

  "Oo's this?" she said.

  "I'm looking for Mr Mackinnon," said Jim.

  "Never heard of him."

  "Scottish geezer. Skinny bloke with dark eyes. Been here a couple of days, I was told. A conjuror."

  "What d'you want with him?"

  "Is he in, or ain't he?"

  She thought for a fuddled moment.

  "He ain't," she said. "And no one can't see him neither."

  "Well, tell him when he gets in as Jim Taylor called. Got that?"

  "I tell you, he ain't here."

  "No, course not. Never thought he was. Only, if he turns up one day, tell him I called. Right?"

  She considered again and then rolled away without a word.

  "Drunken fussock," observed the child.

  "You want to mind your manners," said Jim. "Speaking of your elders and betters like that."