* * *
At about the same time that Patrick had read the paragraph from the county press to his wife, another person’s eyes had also been drawn to it. Detective Sergeant Scholes Nettleton snipped deftly around the column of print with a pair of nail scissors and, after re-reading it, folded it into his inside pocket. There might of course be no connection here, but then again it was worth following through; there wasn’t much else brewing at the moment. He would have words with his superior later.
Leaning over the arm of his office chair he reached down to pull out a drawer. From here he took a file and laid it open on his desk, glancing through the details with which he had become well-acquainted: ‘Deceased – female, approximate age – sixty years … cause of death – multiple fractures to the skull …’ He skimmed over the rest of the details to the paragraph at the foot of the page: ‘Discovery of body in shallow grave… several other graves … all found to contain the skeletal remains of animals.’ He recalled the look on that chap’s face, the one who had discovered the fingers sticking out from the earth after a particularly heavy downpour, and had launched a murder hunt.
Subsequent enquiries had determined that the deceased had taken in a lodger some years previous to her death and it was the lodger who had been responsible for the sale of the farm – or at least so it appeared. The present owner had not minded that the transaction hadn’t been entirely legal, having paid a low price for the farm. He did not, however, relish being implicated in a murder. When he had come across the body he had told the police all he knew about the other party, including a good description. Added to this, the man produced a bill of sale bearing the lodger’s name. The same name as was in this newspaper article. Whether or not he had used his real name in his nefarious activities was debatable – probably not if he had killed the old woman – and even if he had, it was a very common name among the thousands of immigrants in the big cities. Nevertheless, the case of the brothel-keeper in York would bear investigation.
Nettleton drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the file, then closed it and replaced it in the drawer, under H for Hughes.
Chapter Forty-Seven
‘But, Dickie where we gonna go?’ pleaded Lally, her naked legs draped over the chair arm. ‘You know we love it ’ere with you.’
‘Lally, my pet I don’t rightly know where you’re going to go, but go ye must.’ Dickie twirled a diamond cravat pin thoughtfully. ‘Love me or not, I won’t go to jail for anyone. Ye can blame that silly cow who thought she’d try to make an extra quid on the side – as if I didn’t pay her enough. I hope she enjoys her fourteen days.’ He rose and crossed the ostentatious room, heavy with ormolu and gaudy trappings, to check on his appearance in the mirror, fixing his cravat pin as he went. ‘And just let that bastard Sleetham come looking for his free jump …’ Sleetham was the policeman who had normally helped in such matters.
She started to moan again and he grimaced. ‘Look, Lally – we all had a good time, but ’tis over now. No amount o’ bellyachin’ is going to change things.’ As ever when before a mirror he traced the faint, but still legible L on his brow.
She sighed regretfully. ‘I reckon so, only I don’t know where I’m gonna find a place as good as this.’ She swung her legs to the floor and padded over to him seductively. ‘How about a last bit o’ fun, Dickie my love?’
He finished preening and spoke to her reflection in the cherub-laden mirror. ‘Ye had your check-up yesterday – what did the quack say?’ Not for Dickie the bad reputation of the lower class brothel-keeper; at first sign of disease his girls were pensioned off. ‘Was it a clean bill o’ health he gave ye?’
‘Clean as yer muvver’s.’
He spun round, checking his watch. ‘All right then – but make it quick, I’ve a lotta sorting out to do.’ Women came so easy to him these days that he had no need to waste his charm, especially on a pro.
‘You really know how to make a girl feel wanted, you dog.’ But even so she led him over to the four-poster bed.
Afterwards, Dickie was preparing once again to take positive steps in the sale of his property when the front doorbell sounded. ‘Oh, Mother o’ God.’ He ripped off the lopsided cravat and threw it onto the bed. ‘Lally, will ye get your fat backside up an’ answer that. Don’t they know we’ve been closed down?’
Lally scissored her bare legs and leapt out of bed, throwing on a flimsy peignoir. ‘What if it’s the beak?’ she asked jokingly.
‘Then I’ll trust you to keep him happy while I get out the back way.’ The bell rang again. ‘Woman, will ye please answer it? An’ then go see if the others have packed. I’m supposed to have sold up lock, stock an’ barrel by now, an’ there they are fancying themselves up as though ’tis business as usual. I could smell ’em in Scarbro’ with all that bloody scent they’re chucking about. That’s probably what’s drawn the customer; he’s just followed his nose.’
It wasn’t a customer, neither was it a magistrate. Dickie swore as Lally came back into the bedroom. ‘Blessed Mary! How can I tie this cravat when you keep prancing in and out. Who was it anyway?’
‘Somebody wantin’ to see you – a girl.’ She unfastened her peignoir which was coming loose, wrapped it more tightly around her and retied it ‘I told her you were busy but she pushed right past me. She’s now in the hall refusing to move.’
He tutted exasperatedly. ‘Here, can you do this? It was perfectly all right ’til you got your dirty hands on me.’ She came over, snatched the violet cravat and had it tied in a flick of her wrist, topping it with the diamond. ‘Ah, a true professional.’ He smiled now and slipped into his silver-grey frockcoat. ‘Well, I’d best go see what she wants, we don’t want to throw her out if she’s brought us some money.’
Lally stepped out of his way. ‘That’s hardly likely, lookin’ at her.’
The shabby figure in the hall sprang from her chair at the sound of his boots on the stairs. ‘Well, as I live an’ breathe – Amy Forsdyke!’ He made his approach slowly, looking her up and down. ‘An’ what can we do for you?’
‘Oh, yer do remember me, then?’ His mother’s former maid took a newspaper from the folds of her cloak and waved it at him. ‘I saw your little piece in the paper; thought I’d come an’ get meself a job.’
‘Christ! the woman’s off her head. There’s me trying to get rid o’ the half-dozen girls upstairs an’ this one askin’ for a job. Can ye not read?’
‘Oh, I know what it sez,’ replied Amy, turning up her nose. ‘But I didn’t think you’d be takin’ any notice of it; you who can talk yer way out of owt.’
He took her arm and tried to coax her to the door. ‘Listen, Amy, ’tis nice to see ye but …’
‘But yer can’t wait to get rid o’ me!’ she snapped. ‘You’d see me starvin’ an’ not chuck a carraway seed in my direction.’
‘Now, you’re not going to tell me you’re starvin’, ’cause I’d not believe ye.’
‘Near as dammit. An’ it’s all your fault. I reckon you owe me.’
‘How d’ye work that one out?’ he asked. ‘An’ what happened to the domestic line o’ work that ye want to throw it over to come an’ work here?’
‘It’s not out o’ choice I do it but necessity,’ she retorted. ‘Yer don’t think anybody else was gonna employ a maid what’s been sacked without reference, d’yer?’
He made a noise of understanding.
‘An’ who was it got me sacked?’ she added pointedly.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help ye, Amy. Like ye read in the paper, I have to have everyone out in twenty-four hours, or else.’
‘Yer’ll not be livin’ in the middle of a field, will yer?’ she argued. ‘Yer’ll need a maid wherever yer goin’.’
‘Well, I suppose …’ He stroked his chin, drawing her attention to the difference in his appearance since the last time she had seen him. His exploits had detracted nothing from his handsomeness. What lines he had accumulated were mostly around the eye
s, enhancing the twinkle in them when he smiled. He had grown side-whiskers, which was a shame for they hid one of his best features; the strong, determined jaw inherited from his father.
‘Look at me!’ she said harshly. ‘It’s you what brought me down to this level. Haven’t you got one ounce o’ conscience?’
He laughed aloud. ‘Ah, God I’m sorry but that’s really funny coming from your lips.’ Then, with a quick consultation of his watch said. ‘All right, Amy, ye’ve twisted me arm. It’s to your advantage that I have to go out an’ haven’t time to argue.’
‘Oh, thanks, Dickie!’ She jumped at him and kissed his cheek. ‘Where shall I put me things?’
‘Christ, not here! There might be spies about; they see girls moving in instead of out an’ I’m jail fodder. Now, if I can get a quick sale I’ll require your services in a couple o’ weeks. Though at this pace I’ll never get it sold.’ He pushed her to the door. ‘Where will I find ye?’
‘I’m stoppin’ at Mrs Sykes down Friargate – but don’t wait too long before yer send for me: I owe three weeks rent an’ might be out on me ear if yer leave it too long.’
‘Don’t worry, I want to get things settled as much as you do.’
She lingered on the doorstep. ‘Yer sure you aren’t just sayin’ it to get rid o’ me? Only if I thought …’
‘Amy, Amy, please!’ He clapped a hand to his brow. ‘I’m not gonna be able to send for ye at all if ye don’t let me go about my business. Now, I promise as soon as it’s done I’ll send word; ye can be sure o’ that. Goodbye.’
‘Dickie!’ She foiled his attempt to shut the door. ‘D’yer think yer could see your way to givin’ me an advance in wages? Just so’s the old sow don’t chuck me out.’
‘Jazers, everybody’s after me money.’ He dug into his pocket. ‘Wherever ye go it’s pay, pay, pay. Here – an’ now I’m really going. Goodbye!’ He slammed the door.
Amy grinned and savoured the jingle of coins in her clenched fist. ‘Oh, you haven’t finished payin’ yet, Dickie boy; not by a long chalk.’
* * *
With his scuppered brothel duly sold, but for the signature on the contract which would be undertaken tomorrow, Dickie sought relaxation at The King Willie. It was laughable that, for all his money, whenever he hungered for company his feet always brought him back to the area of his childhood. That was one point on which his father had been right; money or no, the gentry wanted nothing to do with the Irish.
He asked for a whiskey. The landlord spoke confidentially as he poured it. ‘We had a slop in here last night looking for you.’ He pushed the glass towards Dickie. ‘No uniform, but it didn’t take much guessing.’
Dickie’s ears pricked at this. ‘A bogeyman, ye say? Did he ask for me by name?’
‘Well, how else would he ask for yer, silly bugger.’ The landlord took a cloth and wiped the beer spills from the bar-top.
‘He could’ve had a photograph.’
‘Oh aye … no, he asked for you by name. But I don’t reckon he knows yer personal-like. I hear he’s been doing all the pubs.’
‘Ye didn’t tell him I’m a regular?’ said Dickie cautiously.
‘Would I do that?’
Dickie was grateful. ‘Thanks, Sam. Will ye give me a nod if ever I’m in here an’ he’s standing next to me?’
The landlord inclined his balding head and refilled the proffered glass. ‘You’ll hardly be able to miss him though; he had half his ear’ole missing. I got him talking about it so’s I could catch his accent. Said he had it chewed off in an affray. West Ridin’ fella my own ear told me.’
‘That’s puzzlin’. Did he say what he wanted with me?’ Dickie pushed a shilling at the landlord. ‘Have one for yourself, Sammy.’
‘Oh, ta. I’ll have the same. No, he was quiet on that score, just asked where he might find yer.’ He handed Dickie his change. ‘Good health to yer.’
‘Sláinte.’ Dickie washed the whiskey around his teeth. A man came alongside and ordered a stout. ‘Hello to ye, Mr Bearpark.’ Dickie saluted with his glass. ‘How’s business?’
Isaiah Bearpark, ‘Growler’, as the Feeneys had nicknamed him in their childhood for his guttural monosyllables, perused Dickie from top to toe, then picked up his drink, hawked and spat in the lead-lined spittoon at the foot of the bar and moved away to sit near the fireplace. Dickie smiled sweetly at the landlord and clicked his tongue. ‘He’s a lovely fella.’
‘Don’t you go riling him,’ warned Sammy. ‘You know you can’t handle it.’
‘All I said was hello.’
‘You’re well aware you don’t need to say anything else to spark off a brawl. After I’ve done you that favour an’ all,’ he added peevishly.
Dickie grinned and slammed his empty glass on the counter. ‘Aye thanks for the tip-off, Sammy, I owe ye one. Well, I came in for some company but if the law’s after me here an’ all I’d best make meself scarce. Don’t get drunk.’ He worked his way between the closely-packed tables. At one point the gap between the drinkers was so narrow that he had to place his hand on someone’s shoulder to steady himself. He continued past, until the someone gripped his arm. He looked down at the seated individual. It was Growler.
‘You touched me!’ The statement was made with shocked affront.
Dickie was immediately contrite. ‘I humbly beg your pardon, Mr Bearpark.’
The man rose to his full height. ‘I don’t like being touched.’
‘Yes, I know that, Mr Bearpark – but it was an accident.’ Dickie, poised for flight, waited for Bearpark’s fingers to begin stroking his bulbous nose, for he knew that after a few moments of hypnotising his intended victim those same fingers would fork out like two bolts of steel into his opponent’s eyeballs.
‘I’m truly sorry, Mr Bearpark,’ he said again, urgently. ‘Can I buy ye a drink by way of recompense?’ And was relieved to see that the fingers stayed twitchingly at Bearpark’s side. The man made a growling sound in his throat and, after a speedy trip to the bar, Dickie placed a full bottle of whiskey on the table. ‘A bottle of Scotch with my humble apologies. Good health to ye.’ May God rot your ugly balls, he thought grimly as he made his swift exit. As if I haven’t enough troubles.
Dubious of visiting any of his other regular hostelries for fear of running into the detective, he sauntered idly around the streets, speculating on what property to invest in next. He was looking into a goldsmith’s window, with his eye firmly fixed to a gold signet ring furnished with a single, but large, diamond, and did not see her reflection at first. Then all at once, between the trays of glittering jewellery, materialised two brighter-than-bright emeralds in slanting, cat-like settings. He turned round quickly, sweeping off his hat in delight. ‘Dusty!’
‘Hello, Dickie,’ she said. It could have been yesterday; she had not altered one bit. ‘Got yourself in another spot of bother, I see.’
His eyes drank her in. ‘What?’ God, she was marvellous! Look at her.
‘I read about your escapade in the paper.’
His trance was broken and he dropped the doting expression to sigh, ‘Gob, is there anyone who hasn’t seen it?’
She gave a brief smile, then began to walk away. He started, then kept pace with her, watching her face all the while.
‘You’re going to trip over something if you continue to stare at me.’
‘Sorry!’ But he didn’t turn his face away. ‘I just can’t get over meeting ye like this. ’Tis so good to see ye, Dusty.’ They walked in silence for a short distance, then he said, ‘How is everything with you?’
‘If you mean businesswise, extremely well,’ Dusty informed him. ‘If, on the other hand, you refer to my personal life … my father died last year.’ She caught the look that flicked directly to her left hand. ‘No, there’s no ring, Dickie. I’ve decided I shall never marry.’
‘That’s a shame; ye’d make somebody a good wife.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘I’m sorry, Dusty,’ he said genuinely. ‘For ever
ything.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself that you’re responsible for my spinsterhood,’ came the tart reply. ‘The business takes up so much of my time that I’d have none to spare for a family. Besides, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?’ She looked through him to stare into another shop window. ‘How is Peggy, by the way?’
His black eyebrows met. ‘Same as she ever was I suppose.’
‘And … and the baby? Well, it won’t be a baby now, will it?’
He understood now. ‘Dusty, I didn’t marry Peggy, I thought you’d have heard.’
She lost interest in the shop window and turned on him. ‘You ran out on her?’
‘If ye want to put it like that, I did.’
‘Is there any other way to put it? You used her then you ran out on her – like you ran out on me.’ Her hopes that he might have changed were dashed. She moved off, her pace more urgent this time.
He hurried beside her. ‘Dusty, there’s an awful lot ye don’t know …’
‘And if that press account is anything to go by I’ve no desire to!’
‘Please, Dusty allow me to tell ye! My brother married Peggy.’
She was almost running while his long legs pursued her at an easy gait. ‘Well, it’s probably a great relief to her that she’s married to a decent dependable man and not a brothel-keeper!’
‘Ye don’t understand! That was only a bit of a joke.’
She stopped abruptly then, causing him to retrace half a dozen steps. ‘A joke?’
He shrugged helplessly. ‘Well, I thought ’twas a bit of a lark at the time. Thought it might knock Mam an’ Dad off their pedestal; take them down a peg or two for trying to palm me off with that slut.’
‘I have never heard such spurious outpourings in all my life!’ panted Dusty, eyes blazing. ‘I imagined when I saw you that you had grown up, but I see now the maturity was only skin-deep. You’re still a child in a man’s body. As childish as ever. Like a little boy who says: if I can’t have my own way I’m spoiling your game. Your parents may have had their faults, but nothing they’ve done could warrant inflicting such shame upon them. And slut though Peggy undoubtably is I should not be too quick to call her it if I were you, for she would be quite within her rights to hurl the male equivalent of that insult at you!’ Her tiny bosom rose and fell. She seemed about to say more, but turned away in frustration and walked off.
For My Brother’s Sins Page 63
