‘Sometimes it is,’ he agreed. ‘Not the finding so much, but the searching.’
Melissa studied his face intently in a way that was also like her mother. ‘You can only do your best,’ she told him seriously.
It was something Cynthia always told her children, and Henry suddenly felt very much like a child.
Malina had departed to hang the new coat in her wardrobe, and Melissa settled by the fire to eat her toast. Henry watched as Nanny toasted a piece for him, pierced on the prongs of the long-handled fork. ‘Bless the girl,’ Nanny said. ‘She’s had to struggle for everything and now she can afford to splash out a little – well, it’s a joy to behold, isn’t it?’
Henry agreed that it was.
‘And I want to say thank you, Mr Henry,’ Nanny went on quietly.
‘Oh, for what?’
‘For writing to your sister. Though I never meant for you to. I didn’t say what I said for that. But I’m grateful.’
For a moment Henry was nonplussed, then he recalled the conversation about the children growing up and the worry this elderly woman had about losing her position and her home. ‘Oh,’ he said.
‘The mistress, she sent me a telegram. Oh, I was so shaken, you know – telegrams only ever bring bad news. I’ve only had one before this and that was …’ She trailed off but Henry could guess what it was. It had probably said something like ‘We regret to inform you …’
He wondered whom she had lost. Was there anyone in the country who had not lost someone in the Great War?
‘So when the telegram came, I had to ask Malina to read it to me.’ She took the much-folded flimsy sheet from her pocket and handed it to Henry.
‘You will always have a home with us,’ Henry read. He nodded. ‘I’d have expected nothing else.’
He handed it back. Melissa was waiting for another piece of toast, and Malina had returned and poured more tea. She settled with a contented sigh in a chair next to Henry’s. These two women, Henry thought, had finally fetched up in a safe harbour, and Cynthia would move heaven and earth to ensure that those she had taken under her protection remained that way.
He recalled his sister’s letter and the decision to close the factory on the German border. He could imagine Cynthia’s guilt at the knowledge of so many now put out of work. For her to have added her voice to that proposal, Henry thought, must mean that things were very bad. Very bad indeed.
After leaving his sister’s house, Henry had gone looking for Abraham at home but had been told by a neighbour that as it was Sunday evening, he had gone to the Workers’ Circle in Alie Street to listen to some music. The Circle had been formed by Russian Jews back at the start of the century. Its aim was to provide a meeting place and somewhere the local people could receive an education and indulge in culture. It was a poor community, but the belief in cultural enrichment and care for the sick and the unemployed was at the heart of the first Circle.
The Circle had moved to Brick Lane and then finally to Alie Street, and Henry made his way there.
Abraham seemed pleased to see him. He had been eating a supper of herring and bread, washed down with a copious quantity of tea. Henry declined the herring but accepted the offer of tea. His cup was filled from a giant samovar in the corner of the room beside the food counter.
‘I come here on a Sunday,’ Abraham told Henry. ‘Often there is music, or sometimes I play chess; always there is company.’
‘And yet you sit alone tonight?’
Abraham shrugged. ‘I should not even be here. I should still be with my family, mourning the death of my nephew. Most people here know that and don’t know whether they should tell me they disapprove, sympathize because they know my brother’s wife or leave me alone to grieve.’
‘And which would you prefer?’
‘Truthfully, I don’t think I know. But what brings you here?’
‘Did Joseph have a watch?’
‘Of course Joseph had a watch. What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t give the boy a watch?’
‘Could you describe it to me? Was there anything about it that would make it identifiable?’
Abraham dabbed at his plate with the last of his bread and chewed slowly as though needing to think about his reply. He took a sip of his tea.
‘I had hoped,’ he said, ‘that somehow the watch would have been in his waistcoat pocket, that he could have been buried with it. They left him his coat but not his watch. A watch is so easy to dispose of, I suppose.’
‘It’s even possible that he was killed for it,’ Henry said.
‘Possible, yes. It is a fine watch, if a little old fashioned. Gold, it winds with a key that he kept always on a fob chain. A full hunter. I took it as security for a loan and the loan was never repaid, so I kept the watch. After a time I decided that the watch deserved a good home, and when Joseph had his Bar Mitzvah, the age at which a child becomes a man’ – Henry nodded – ‘I engraved a message on the watch and gave it to him as a gift.’
‘And the message was?’
‘Simple. To Joseph with all our love.’
‘Our?’
‘Inspector, my wife and child might have died but, as I told your sergeant, I never ceased to love them or to feel that my family remained with me. Had my wife lived, the watch would have been given with love from us both. Why should that change simply because she has already passed on?’
Henry thought about it but could come up with no answer. His usual resort of asking himself what Mickey would have said also failed him and so he said nothing for a while. Instead, the two men sat quietly, listening to the hum of conversation all around them, the chink of cups, the bursts of laughter.
Henry was suddenly aware of just how tired he felt, how utterly exhausted. He sorted through his mental file for something to say. ‘This might seem like an odd question,’ he ventured, ‘but what was so important about Joseph’s hat? Why would he be sure to take his hat, even when he left his suitcase behind?’
Abraham stared at him, as though this was the strangest question in the world. ‘Can I get you more tea? You are sure you do not want to eat – the food is cheap here.’
‘I want nothing, thank you. My question seems to have taken you by surprise.’
‘It’s an odd question to ask. I suppose, it is because a young man should not be seen without his hat, any more than a lady without her gloves. And’ – he managed a half laugh – ‘we Jews are attached to our headwear.’
‘And yet he removed his hat and put it on the luggage rack alongside the suitcase. When he left the train, he made certain to pick up his hat. He could just as easily have reached for both but he did not. We know that there was nothing of value in the suitcase apart from a ten-shilling note, but he made certain to take his hat. Besides,’ he added, ‘you and Joseph are not Hassidic or Sephardic Jews who cover their heads at all times, and as far as I can tell, you do not even wear the kippah outside of religious observances.’
‘A hat is just a hat. How should I know why he took his hat?’
‘There is no reason,’ Henry admitted. ‘I’m just reminded of the people whose hats matter to them. Perhaps I am just overtired,’ he admitted. ‘And when I’m overtired, small things bother me.’
Abraham laughed and seemed to relax. ‘I understand that all too well,’ he said. ‘The body wishes to relax and sleep, and the brain, the brain tugs at minor sins, at small problems, at memories you put aside years ago but that suddenly come back to haunt you in the middle of the night.’
‘There was an old man who lived in the village where I grew up,’ Henry said. ‘He had a beautiful garden, and when he went out to visit other gardens, he would quietly take cuttings and conceal them in the band inside his hat until he had them home, and then he would put them into clay pots, and nine times out of ten they would grow for him. I came to realize that this process of stealing and concealment and smuggling was part of his process of getting something to grow. He could have asked for cuttings; nobody would have de
nied him, and everybody knew what he did – it was a standing joke. But nevertheless he did this. He purloined his little bit of plant material and concealed it in his hat, and he took it home and made it grow. And I know of others who hide money in their hats – blades, even.’
‘Joseph just kept his head in his,’ Abraham said dryly. He finished his tea and looked around. ‘Do you like music? The concert will begin in only five minutes or so. It is Mozart. I’m sure you would enjoy it.’
‘I think it is a little late to buy a ticket.’
‘There are always spare tickets. Anyway, if they have sold out, they still allow people to stand at the back. We believe that music is important, as important as food and tea and talk and a place to be.’
‘We?’
‘People who come here. The Workers’ Circle welcomes all. You look around and you will see Jews like me; some of the old men here fought the Bolsheviks and still others fought against the Tsar. You will find anarchists and idealists and nihilists, and those who simply like to play chess or dominoes. You see that old man over there, reading Freiheit? In his mind he is no doubt plotting his next attack with Molotov cocktails and heavy sticks. If you ask, he will show you his scars.
‘Or they come just to listen to the music. Joseph used to come just to listen to the music. But the problem with being here is that others see that you are here and they make an assessment of you. How can you be of use? You have come here tonight, wondering how I could be of use, and I understand that it is of use to me too, but you see what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Henry said. ‘I want to find out who killed your nephew and you want that, too. His family need to know that.’
Abraham shook his head. ‘His family know that he’s dead. What else is there?’
‘You don’t want to know who killed him? I don’t believe that.’
‘Of course I do. The concert is about to begin,’ Abraham said. He picked his coat off the back of the chair and collected his hat from where he had laid it on the table. He turned the hat so that the inside could be seen by Henry. ‘Nothing in my hat,’ he said. ‘But I will think about Joseph and about his hat. And if I think of anything worth telling, then I will tell you.’
The room was emptying now as people moved through into the hall. Henry could hear a string quartet tuning up, and as he rose to leave and glanced through the door, he could see that the room would probably hold about 200 people and that it was already filling up. He found he was slightly put out that Abraham had not repeated his invitation to join him, and he was also curious now. He had said something that had unsettled Abraham, but now was not the time to push that, nor was this the place. But he had no doubt that he would hear from Abraham Levy in the next few days and he wondered what it was that he was not being told.
Henry had been aware that someone was following him ever since he left Alie Street. As he turned the corner, he glanced back but could see no one in the shadows. It was a wet Sunday evening and there were few people around; most of those who had been going anywhere had already gone, and the majority were tucked up for the night, curtains closed and lights dimmed. He hunched deeper into his coat and turned up the collar against the cold. As he did so, he heard a sudden rush of footsteps and turned as a man hurtled into him, light glinting off the blade in his hand.
Instinctively, Henry dropped his weight, turned his body and blocked the man’s arm with his own, pushing back with his shoulder and turning on his heel so that he threw his assailant off balance. The man staggered back, then turned tail and ran. Henry gave chase, but the knifeman had the advantage – he knew this network of streets and tiny back alleys and no doubt hoped to lead Henry away and perhaps even turn on him again. But Henry was fast, long-limbed and fit, and his would-be assailant had not made it a hundred yards before he was pushed to the ground, his knife hand bashed against a kerb stone and his arms twisted behind his back. Henry knelt on the man’s back while he retrieved the knife and tucked it into his own pocket. ‘Consider yourself arrested.’
The man had begun to blabber. ‘I never meant it, sir, but you come out of that place and I thought you were one of them Jew boys.’
‘And what if I had been? Is it not also against the law to roll a Jew?’ He hauled the man to his feet. ‘There’s a difference under the law, is there? I think you’ll find there is a difference under the law when you attack a policeman.’
Arms firmly twisted behind his back, Henry walked the man to the main thoroughfare and there found a constable and handed his charge over. His crime, attacking a police officer with a knife. He handed the knife over, too.
The constable enquired as to whether the chief inspector would be coming back with them. Henry declined. ‘Put him in a cell overnight. I’ll deal with it in the morning. I don’t see why I should spoil my evening for the likes of him.’
He watched as the constable took his assailant away and then walked thoughtfully back to his flat. Was this just something random? Despite what the man had said, Henry wasn’t so sure. But it could wait till morning. What he had told Abraham was the truth: he was dog-tired and he needed a night’s sleep. He hoped that Abraham would be wrong and that the stupid little details and worries that attack the mind in the early hours of the morning would stay quiet.
EIGHTEEN
Despite having been voluble the night before, the man who had attacked Henry had now decided upon silence. He’d been fed and watered, Mickey was told, but had refused to speak to anyone and now, sitting across the table from Mickey, the man was still declining to be drawn.
He was small but wiry, not frail. Bones held together with steel cables. Mickey recalled Henry’s comment that when he had held the man down, he had felt strength in his back and arms that belied his leanness.
‘You were sent to attack my boss?’
The man stared at the table.
‘Or was it happenstance? Does Clem Atkins know that you are poaching on his territory?’
A slight flicker as the man lifted his eyes and then lowered them again told Mickey that he had landed on the truth.
‘So, someone sent you to make trouble on Atkins’ patch. Now, I’m wondering who that might be … A long list of possibilities, I would imagine, wishing to test Atkins’ nerve and his security.’
A slight shift in his seat this time.
Mickey got up and paced, his steps eventually bringing him up behind the man. Mickey did not touch him but simply paused behind the chair before moving on. ‘I don’t imagine your master will be impressed,’ he said. ‘You lie in wait, hoping for a Jew, and instead you catch yourself a policeman.’
He continued to pace with slow, steady steps, as though merely taking a pleasant walk, until once more he stood behind the man. Both the man’s hands were visible on the tabletop. The wrist Henry had smashed against the kerb stone was bruised and swollen. Without warning, Mickey reached for it, pressed his finger and thumb into the wrist, separating bone. The man yelped in pain, half leapt from his chair. Mickey placed his other hand on the man’s shoulder and pressed him back into his seat.
‘So you do have a voice,’ Mickey said. ‘You know it’s a little late to play the mute with me. I’m told you spoke readily enough last night.’
He released the wrist and the man hugged it tightly to his chest. ‘I got nothing t’ say to yer.’
Mickey sighed, bored now. ‘I’m guessing here,’ he said, ‘but my guess is that your affiliations are with the Elephant mob. One of yours was hurt and you came looking for revenge, but what the hell possessed you to come alone? Even the likes of you, someone with the most limited intelligence, must recognize the stupidity of that?’
There was a knock at the door and a constable appeared, carrying a fingerprint card.
‘Ah, so we have a name,’ he said. ‘Tommy Price. Robbery with threats, housebreaking, even a spot of dipping. I’d never have reckoned you quick enough to pick pockets.’
He handed the card back to the constable. ‘Have him cha
rged,’ he said, ‘and have the word put out that we have Tommy Price in custody and that he’s squealing like a little girl.’
NINETEEN
Addie remembered the first time they had been together in the small, rundown hotel close to the railway station, on a Sunday afternoon, just a few weeks after they first met. She had a cheap dress ring that she had slipped on to her wedding finger, turning the stone to the inside of her hand. Had anyone cast a quick glance, she could indeed be Mrs Astor. She had met him there, his fiancée’s family having left him at the station in the expectation that he would get the train. He had indeed boarded the train and walked the length of it, then disembarked and watched as his future relatives had left the station. He and Addie had walked to the hotel and gone in together, his suitcase lending a touch of authenticity to the story that they would be leaving Lincoln in the morning, and then they had asked about cheap places to eat. Not everywhere had a Sunday licence, but there were a few pubs close to the station that catered for travellers. He had been nervous in the little restaurant, tucked away in a side street, just in case someone he happened to know should come to the door – even though he knew that was so unlikely as to be impossible. And then they had returned nervously to the hotel, expecting to be challenged, but they had just been handed the key and wished a good evening.
Joseph was not as innocent as his family had believed, and this was not his first time with a woman, but even so he had found that his experience was distinctly lacking, and she knew that she had been a revelation to him. Afterwards they had lain together, not talking, light from the street lamp seeping in through a gap between the curtains and filtering through the thin blue fabric.
‘I don’t want to go home,’ Joseph had said.
She had pressed closer to him. He was so skinny that she could feel the bones of his ribs. He had eaten well earlier in the evening, and she supposed he was just one of those people who burnt energy through sheer nervousness and never seemed to put on an ounce of spare flesh.
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