The Blue and the Grey
Page 25
Miss Witherspoon did her best, and not an hour after Leigh Hunt’s bombshell, the double doors closed behind the last member of staff, Edwin Dyer. He had cunningly managed to stay at the end of the queue throughout, having worked out that by the time he got to Miss Witherspoon’s desk, Leigh Hunt would have seen sense and would rehire anyone still on the premises. Sadly, like so many of Edwin Dyer’s best ideas, this one proved to be false.
He stood on the top step, leaning disconsolately on the door, listening to the distant sound of the bolts being rammed home behind him. Life was not looking good for Edwin Dyer. He had never met a drink he didn’t like. Money was for spending, and if not for spending, for borrowing and then spending. Rent was for other people. But this couldn’t have come at a worse time. His landlady had been hinting darkly about being made an honest woman of, and although Dyer liked her money and her house, the moustache was rather off-putting, and he had been thinking of making a move. In fact, he had already packed, ready for a moonlight flit that very evening. And now here he was. Unemployed, and probably homeless. Or married. He couldn’t think which choice filled him with the most dread.
‘Hello, Edwin.’
A familiar voice made him look up. ‘Jim!’ he said. This might be a fortuitous meeting. He had heard of Batchelor’s new circumstances, sitting pretty in rooms in Alsatia, all found and no heavy lifting. Perhaps …
‘What’s going on?’ Batchelor asked. ‘Why are the doors shut? I have a piece here that TLH will give his eye teeth for. “I CAUGHT THE HAYMARKET STRANGLER.” He’ll love it – page two stuff if ever I saw it.’
Dyer raised a hand and let it fall, limply. ‘He’s sacked us all,’ he said and was horrified to hear how croaky his voice was. ‘Every man jack. And Miss Witherspoon.’
‘What?’ Batchelor was aghast. ‘Is the Telegraph gone, then?’
‘Who knows?’ Dyer said. ‘I doubt it. He’ll just start again. When he comes down off his high horse, he might even employ us again. But for now, the doors are closed, the paper is resting and I don’t have a bean.’
‘But, you’ll be all right, Edwin,’ Batchelor said, clapping him on the arm. ‘You don’t have to find the rent, at least.’
One look at Dyer’s face told him the full story.
‘Oh. Well … but wait. My rooms should still be vacant and with two weeks to run on the rent. You know where I was living, don’t you? Of course you do, you’ve been there. Take this—’ and Batchelor hurriedly scribbled a note to Mrs Biggs – ‘and see how you get on. I’m sure Mrs Biggs will love you.’ Batchelor had a small qualm; Dyer had never done him any harm, after all. But he was cheered by Dyer’s smile.
‘I don’t remember Mrs …’
‘Biggs.’
‘Mrs Biggs very well, but I’m sure she’s a very nice woman.’
‘Indeed,’ Batchelor agreed, ‘very nice.’ He gave Dyer a small push in the direction of Fleet Lane, murmuring, as he went out of earshot, ‘and plenty of her to go around.’
The lights burned blue that night in the house at the Alsatia end of the Strand. Mrs Manciple had retired early, as her gentlemen seemed to be intent on making a night of it. The brandy was excellent, and James Batchelor in particular was feeling mellow. All right, he would never write for the Telegraph again; perhaps none of them would. But he had caught a murderer – or rather, he and Grand had. In fact, they had caught two. And it had given him an idea.
‘I must say, Matthew,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘It has been a pleasure to work with you.’
‘And you.’ Grand clinked his glass with that of the ex-journalist.
‘And I was wondering …’
‘Hmmm?’
‘Well, what your plans are just now. I suppose you’ll be going home. Your fiancée, the army, the bank, Congress. But it’s just that, at the moment, there is this rage for private detectives – you know, enquiry agents. And I was wondering whether … well, Batchelor and Grand … Can you see it? A shingle on the door? A secretary, perhaps. Files. Cabinets. Cases.’
Grand looked at him. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Well, no, of course, I understand. With all that must be going on at home for you … Out of the question. Silly of me to raise it.’
The silence hung heavy between them. Not even the clock ticked.
‘Well …’ Batchelor could stand the embarrassment no longer. Tomorrow he would trudge back to Fleet Street again and eat humble pie and sign on as office boy in any office that would take him. But tonight? Tonight he was going to get roaring drunk. Perhaps not at the Haymarket, all things considered. He didn’t have to go that far. ‘I’m off to wet my whistle. Care to join me?’
Grand shook his head. ‘Not tonight,’ he said.
‘Right.’ Batchelor crossed to the hall and found his coat. ‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’
Grand said nothing, his mind and his expression far away.
James Batchelor reached the street. It was a fine night, and he could see and hear the swells rolling drunkenly at the end of the Strand in search of their dreams. He heard a window open, and he looked up. Matthew Grand had stuck his head out of the second floor sash.
‘But Grand and Batchelor might work.’