Number Nineteen

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Steadying himself, Ben replied, ‘Well, yus. But we gotter be careful—and we ain’t got much time!’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘’Arf past ten.’

  ‘You mean we’ve got till then?’

  ‘That’s right, miss.’

  She gave a quick glance at her wrist-watch.

  ‘That gives us twenty minutes. Enough to finish the conversation we couldn’t finish last night.’ She slipped inside the dark passage, and Ben closed the door. ‘Where shall we talk?’

  ‘Kitching,’ said Ben, and led the way.

  She glanced around curiously when they were in the room, and her eyes rested on the overturned broken chair, but she made no comment. Instead she asked,

  ‘Do you know if I was seen leaving here?’

  ‘Yer was,’ nodded Ben.

  ‘I was afraid so.’

  ‘But I put that right.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, see, the bloke wot engaiged me—I told yer abart ’im—’e come agine this mornin’, and ’e sez wot abart it, so I tells ’im yer’d jest come ter the wrong address, and ’e swallered it ’ole.’

  ‘That was clever of you!’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. I’d almost given up when it come ter me. I ’ope ’e didn’t see yer come jest now?’

  ‘No, I’ve been terribly careful. Was the man who left here a little while ago the man you’ve mentioned?’

  ‘Oh! Yer saw ’im?’

  ‘Not distinctly.’

  ‘That’s the one. P’r’aps I’ll tell yer a bit more abart ’im, but fust yer goin’ ter tell me somethink, aincher? Wot we was interrupted abart last night. Corse,’ he added, ‘afore we really gets goin’, you gotter know I ain’t a wrong ’un and I gotter know you ain’t one. That’s right, ain’t it?’

  She smiled. ‘Do you think I’m a wrong ’un?’

  ‘If yer wants the fack,’ he answered, ‘I’d bet nex’ Sunday’s dinner yer ain’t.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m quite sure now you’re not a wrong ’un—’

  ‘Oi! Not so loud, if yer don’t mind!’ She looked startled, and he quickly reassured her. ‘Okay, nobody’s ’earin’ us, but wot I meant was yer gotter be careful wot yer say abart me if anybody does. See, I’m s’posed ter be a wrong ’un, and if it’s fahnd aht I ain’t I’m a gorner! Yus, but drop me fer a bit and let’s ’ear wot brort yer ’ere, and wot yer want, and ’oo this Mr Remington is—’

  ‘Remington?’

  ‘The bloke yer was arskin’ abart.’

  ‘Bretherton.’

  ‘Oh, was it? Okay. Bretherton. ’Oo is ’e?’ A sudden idea came to Ben. ‘Is ’e comin’ ’ere terday with the agent?’

  Now a new look came into her face. A troubled look. It troubled Ben.

  ‘I wish—he were!’ Then she gave herself a little shake, as though to dismiss the sadness in her voice, and when she spoke again it was with the hardness which Ben had noticed at the beginning of their first interview ‘No. He is not coming here. You don’t know, then?’

  ‘Don’t know what, miss?’ muttered Ben, struggling not to know. For his mind was becoming too perceptive for comfort. There is a lot to be said, at times, for ignorance.

  ‘You don’t know why he couldn’t be coming here?’ she asked, watching him closely.

  ‘Well, p’r’aps that’s one o’ the things yer goin’ ter tell me?’ was Ben’s evasive response.

  She nodded, and suddenly sat down on the nearest chair. Ben recognised that abrupt need to sit. He often got it. It was when your knees went weak.

  ‘Yes. It is,’ she said. ‘He—Mr Bretherton—he is dead.’

  (‘Wait for it!’ thought Ben.)

  ‘He was murdered yesterday afternoon. You—you didn’t know anything about that?’

  ‘Well, I knew abart the murder, miss,’ answered Ben, carefully.

  ‘Oh! You did!’

  ‘But not ’oo ’e was.’

  ‘How did you know about the murder?’

  ‘I’ll tell yer in a minit, but p’r’aps yer’d better finish your bit fust.’

  ‘Very well. I’m trusting you. He was murdered on a park seat. Have you seen the morning papers?’

  Ben shook his head.

  ‘There’s a photograph. Somebody took it just before—it happened. Mr Bretherton was on one end of the seat, and the man who is believed to have killed him was on the other.’ She paused, and then added, ‘I came here because I thought the man might be here.’

  ‘Oh!’ murmured Ben. ‘Did yer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ He didn’t quite. ‘But when yer called larst night yer ’adn’t seed the pickcher. Or did some’un show it to yer?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t seen it,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t call because of the picture. What I meant was that I thought the murderer might be here, or I might learn some news of him.’

  ‘Ah, that’s more like it! See, it mightn’t of bin the bloke in the pickcher at all. As a matter of fack, miss, I ’appens ter know as it wasn’t.’

  ‘You do?’ she exclaimed, in surprise.

  ‘I orter. And now, as yer trustin’ me, I’m goin’ ter trust you. I’m the bloke.’

  Her surprise changed to utter astonishment. She stared at him, speechless.

  ‘The reason yer don’t reckernise me is ’cos I’ve ’ad me fice chainged,’ went on Ben. ‘It’s bin chainged by the chap wot took the photo, and ’e took the photo ’cos ’e wanted ter put the blime on me fer wot ’e done ’iself—’

  ‘What!’ she gasped.

  ‘That’s right, miss. ’E done it. It was the chap with the mustache wot brort me ’ere arter I see ’im do it. Fust ’e tikes the photer and then ’e gives me a dose o’ dope, and when I come to I’m ’ere and ’e sez I done it meself! ’E got me proper, but I ain’t stayin’ on ’ere on’y fer that. See, I’m goin’ ter git me own back on ’im and find aht wot ’is gime is, oh, yus, there’s a gime on ’ere orl right, wich is why I’m pertendin’ ter be a wrong ’un, like I sed, see, if I didn’t I wouldn’t learn nothink, would I, it’d be the finish, and—’

  ‘Wait!’ she interrupted. ‘You’re going too fast! I can’t take it all in!’

  ‘Sime ’ere. It gits yer dizzy.’

  ‘Do you really mean what you’re saying? That you were doped and brought here—’

  ‘That’s right. I woke up in a bed upstairs, and there was Mr Smith, any’ow that’s wot ’e calls ’iself, the one ’oo did it, there ’e was watchin’ of me and tellin’ me wot I ’ad ter do.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Eh?’ Ben jerked his head round. ‘Where?’

  ‘I meant what did you have to do?’

  ‘Oh, I git yer. This plice mikes yer jumpy. Wot did I ’ave ter do? Lummy, it’s a mouthful, but the start of it was I ’ad to be the caretaiker o’ this ’ouse or be ’anded over ter the pleece, see, when I was subconshus ’e fixed me fingerprints on the knife. ’E’d worked the ’ole thing aht from Adam to Eve. If yer git me.’

  ‘But this is terrible!’

  ‘Yer ain’t ’eard nothink yet!’

  ‘There’s some more?’

  ‘You ain’t ’eard abart the Monnertrocity, there’s one somewhere abart, or the caretaiker afore me, ’e’s dead, or the cat wot they killed, too. Nice cat, that was. We got quite chummy. Or abart the bobby wot called ’ere arter you did larst night, or did you call arter ’im, no, ’e called arter you, lummy, yer gits so mixed up yer don’t know if it’s Monday or Friday—’

  ‘Please, don’t go so fast!’ she begged. ‘Did you say the police had been here?’

  ‘Not the real pleece, miss, it was a bogious one,’ replied Ben, trying to slow his pace. But once he had started, everything had poured out of him as if he had suddenly sprung a leak where he talked, and he had found it difficult to stop. ‘See, they wanted ter find aht if I’d give ’em away if the pleece did call, but luckerly I got on ter it withaht ’im knowin’, so nah they t
hink I’m the proper goods!’ He paused at a thought. ‘’Ave you bin ter the pleece, miss?’

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘I reckon that’s jest as well—on’y why not?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I finish my story. Please go on with yours.’

  ‘Okay, on’y ain’t we tellin’ ’em in the wrong order?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Wait a moment, though. Why are you glad I haven’t been to the police?’

  ‘Well, it’s like this, see, on’y I ain’t sure as I can expline. Sometimes the pleece is the best blokes ter find a thing aht, but sometimes they ain’t, ’cos when they comes the birds is flown, if yer git me, or else yer carn’t git nothink aht of ’em. Well, I sizes up that this is one o’ the times, and the way things ’as worked aht I’m orl set ter find aht wot the pleece carn’t. Is that too fast or do yer foller it?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Thank Gawd yer do, ’cos me bones tells me I’m right, and I ain’t no good at puttin’ things not if they ain’t simple. There’s a big gime on, with brines be’ind it, and they’ll smell a bobby comin’ if ’e’s a mile orf, yus, and when the bobby did git ’ere ’e wouldn’t learn nothink aht o’ me ’cos they’d say I done it and I’d be ’ad. But I was tellin’ yer. Where was I upter? Oh, yus, ’ere’s the next thing. At ’arf-past ten the agent’s comin’ to show some’un over the ’ouse—’

  ‘Do you mean Wavell?’ she interrupted sharply.

  ‘Yus, that’s the nime?’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘Yer do?’

  ‘I’ve worked for him! That’s one reason I’m here.’

  ‘Oh! Well, in that caise yer’d think ’e’d be orl right—’

  ‘On the contrary, I stopped working for him because he wasn’t all right! Half-past ten? Then we’ve only got a few more minutes. He mustn’t find me here. He’d recognise me. Go on, go on! What more do you know about him?’

  ‘I don’t know nothink, except wot I gotter do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I gotter give ’im a packet. This ’un.’ He took it from his pocket. ‘I’d ’ave a look inside on’y they’d know if I broke the seals. Arter that I gotter go up ter the top room and waite till they go, excep’ if the agent wants me ter ’elp ’im.’

  ‘Help him?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I dunno. ’E’ll tell me, I s’pose. But I gotter do it, wotever it is. Them’s me instruckshuns.’

  ‘Who gave them to you? The man you call Mr Smith?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The man you say killed Mr Bretherton?’

  ‘That’s the one. ’E give em to me this mornin’, and if I’m good and do orl I’m told I’m s’posed ter be onter a good thing. That’s ’is baite like. Do wot I sez and yer’ll ’ave a nice prize. Yus, and with a bloke like that, see me gittin’ it! Any’ow, them’s me orders, and it looks ter me like bein’ a nice cup o’ tea! Yus, but ’arf a mo’,’ went on Ben, as she began to speak again, ‘there’s somethink else, yus, I better tell yer this.’

  ‘Is it important?’ she asked almost impatiently, with a swift glance at her wrist-watch.

  ‘I reckon it is, miss,’ answered Ben. ‘Leastwise, it might be, but then yer doesn’t orlways know not till arterwards, do yer? There’s a button on the floor. “’Allo!” yer sez, and picks it up. P’r’aps it’ll ’ang a man, or p’r’aps it’s jest orf the milkman’s trahsers. Yer never knows not till arterwards.’

  ‘We’d better not waste time over it,’ she said.

  ‘Over wot?’

  ‘The button—but you can show it to me, if you like.’

  ‘There ain’t no button.’

  ‘Didn’t you say—?’

  ‘Ah, I was speakin’ wot’s called—wot’s called—I’ve fergot. Illierstrashun like, is that it? Any’ow, wot I fahnd wer’n’t on the floor, it was up on the top o’ that there dresser, see, I was sweepin’ it with a broom, that’s ’ow the chair fell over, and dahn it come.’

  ‘The chair?’

  ‘Eh? No, I come dahn with the chair, the other come dahn orf the top o’ the dresser, like I sed. The chair was on the bottom bit where it sticks aht.’

  ‘What came down from the top—?’

  ‘Well, I’m tellin’ yer, miss. It was a bit o’ paiper. Well, ’ere it is. See if yer can mike anythink aht of it? Looks like ter me as if—’

  The word ‘if’ came out of Ben’s mouth at exactly half-past ten, and with the most inconsiderate promptitude, the front-door bell rang.

  15

  10.30

  ‘Gawd, that’s torn it!’ gulped Ben.

  ‘Quick!’ whispered the lady, and snatching the paper from Ben’s hand she ran to the kitchen door.

  But she stopped at Ben’s hoarse voice.

  ‘Oi, miss! Arf a mo’!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Better waite till I lets ’em in afore yer goes aht.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And they may leave some’un ahtside arter they comes in. Watchin’ like.’

  ‘You mean Mr Smith?’

  ‘Most likely ’im, though there’s others, as well.’

  She considered swiftly, then nodded.

  ‘I’ll be careful. Go up! They’re ringing again.’ She moved out into the passage. ‘Better be quick!’

  He followed her out, but paused at the foot of the cold stone basement stairs to look at her. She had moved no more herself.

  ‘I ain’t ’eard wot you gotter tell me yet,’ he muttered.

  ‘I know,’ she answered, ‘and you must.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’ll find a way.’ Knocking began. ‘We can’t talk any more now. They’ll have the door down. Later.’

  Trying to compose himself, Ben mounted the basement stairs. Half-way up he stopped and turned, but the lady either had gone or was standing in too deep a shadow for Ben’s quick glance to pick her out. He would have given much for these new callers to have been five minutes late. It would have been helpful if he could have been armed with her knowledge as well as his own. For all he could say, when she came back again it might be too late. Still, Ben had long learned that you had to deal with a situation as it was, not as you wished it were, and that to spend your time wishing was no way to ease your burdens. On the contrary, it merely added further defeats to the already disturbing score.

  So now he suddenly accelerated, and he arrived at the front door before a fourth summons could occur. Opening it, he saw the two expected men standing on the doorstep. One, the larger, glowered at him.

  ‘Been asleep?’ he barked.

  ‘I’m ’ere now,’ replied Ben.

  ‘Do you know how long you’ve kept us waiting?’

  ‘It’s a long way dahn orl them stairs.’

  ‘Oh, you were up at the top?’

  ‘Yus, and I’ve got rhoomertism in me ’ip.’

  ‘It sounded as though you came up from the basement,’ remarked the man, as he stepped in, followed by his companion. ‘You weren’t down there?’

  In case sounds had been heard below, Ben thought it best to offer some explanation. His intention to tell lies was no firmer than his determination not to be caught out in any.

  ‘Well, see, I come dahn with a cupple o’ brooms in each ’and,’ he said, ‘and so I carried on fust to the kitching.’

  The other man now spoke. He was of a very different type. His figure was delicate and slight, and he had a small beard. His voice was educated and refined.

  ‘It would certainly,’ he observed, with a smile, ‘be difficult to open a door with two brooms in each hand.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Do you always work with four?’

  ‘Let’s get on with it, let’s get on with it!’ snapped the first man, and then suddenly glanced half-apologetically at the other, who was looking at him rather curiously. ‘Terrible lot to do lately—feeling a bit short-tempered this morning
, but never mind, never mind!’ He turned back to Ben. ‘It’s your fault, you know, for having kept us on the doorstep so long. Now, let me see. You’re the new caretaker here, of course, aren’t you?’

  Behind his overbearing manner Ben now noticed traces of nervousness.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Jones, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. And your’n’ll be Wavell?’

  ‘I am Mr Wavell.’ He spoke a little stiffly. ‘And naturally, Jones, I have to report on your behaviour, so of course you will see that you give me no cause for complaint.’

  ‘Since we are covering introductions,’ added the alleged house-hunter, ‘my name is Black. So now we all know each other, do we not?’

  Mr Black still wore his faint smile, as though now he were amused at something else, not this time brooms.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ben, and then thought it would be a good idea to try and impress his visitors with his efficiency. ‘But as I’m new on me job, ’ow abart lettin’ me be sure I’m dealin’ with the right parties?’ Mr Wavell’s eyebrows went up. ‘Wot I mean, sir, is that ain’t there a list or somethink I orter see afore showin’ yer over the ’ouse like?’

  ‘A rightly cautious fellow,’ commented Mr Black, and then threw a glance at the agent as though to see how he was taking it.

  ‘Well, see, I ’as ter be,’ replied Ben, ‘’cos it wasn’t Mr Wavell ’oo engaiged me, and the chap wot did lef’ me in charge o’ the property.’

  ‘You certainly appear to be doing that very thoroughly,’ returned Mr Wavell, his tone less complimentary than his words.

  ‘Then I ’opes yer’ll put it in that there report,’ said Ben, and felt rightly that he had scored.

  ‘It shall undoubtedly be mentioned, yes, undoubtedly,’ replied the agent, ‘but I also want to be able to report some progress.’

  ‘I ain’t stoppin’ yer goin’ over the plice.’

  ‘No, quite so—but—er—by the way, have you anything for me before we start?’

  The question was asked casually, to cover its importance.

  ‘That’s right, sir. And yer shall ’ave it when I seen that list.’

  Here Mr Black interposed again. He seemed, for the most part, a silent man.