Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  ‘I have something in mind,’ James said. ‘I cannot just sit reading newspapers and playing chess. I have a favour to ask you, Charlie.’

  ‘Ask it.’

  ‘Do you think you can turn me into a housebreaker?’

  Charlie laughed at first, and then his face grew serious. ‘No,’ he said, ‘and why should you want to learn. You need to build your strength again.’ He sat in silence, obdurate, signalling by his expression that the subject should not be raised again. Then he turned to James. ‘Tell me about Mrs Hawker.’

  James smiled. ‘My mother and Mrs Hawker grew up near here; in the village of Midsomer Norton. Mrs Hawker was twelve years old when my mother’s family took her on to be mother’s maid. Mother was only a year younger.’ He paused for a moment, ordering the memories in his mind. ‘When she married, she took Mrs Hawker with her to the house in Ireland as her lady’s maid. My mother was nineteen then, and ten years later she was dead. After that, Mrs Hawker took care of me. Years later, when my father died and my elder brother Michael inherited the estate, I came to Bath and Mrs Hawker came with me as my housekeeper.’

  ‘How old was you when your mother died?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Two,’ James replied. ‘My mother was so fond of Mrs Hawker that her dying wish was that I be placed in her care.’

  ‘You must be very attached to Mrs Hawker then?’

  ‘She is all I have of my mother, and the closest to a mother I have known for most of my life.’

  James watched as the smile spread across Charlie’s face. He found himself enjoying the old man’s sudden look of contentment, but still the question nagged at him. ‘Charlie,’ he said. The old man looked at him. ‘I really need to learn to think like Caine, and to have some of the skills he has, if I’m to survive. Please teach me.’

  ‘Not that again,’ Charlie replied. ‘I had an apprentice once; only once. It were the son of a good friend and I took him on as a favour to his father.’

  ‘Well why not train me?’ James asked.

  ‘Because it ended badly.’

  ‘But this is different,’ James said. ‘If it ends badly, then it ends badly, but I need your help. I already owe you so much, I realise that, but you must know that I would never betray you.’

  ‘I owe you as well, young ‘un, and I recognise it. You defended me when the peelers had already decided I was guilty. You were the only one who trusted it weren’t me, and you never looked down your nose at me.’ His expression grew graver. ‘Somebody set me up for that job knowing the peelers would like to see me do time for things I’ve done in the past. I think that were Caine.’

  ‘I knew you weren’t guilty,’ James said.

  Charlie smiled. ‘I can teach you some of my skills if you’re willing to learn. If you’re fighting rough, I suppose you need some rough skills. Much as I appreciated your skills at the law, you won’t get far arguing your legal precedents with Nathaniel Caine.’ He laughed, appreciating his own joke. ‘But don’t expect too much, and don’t blame me if it ends bad.’ James smiled and nodded his agreement. ‘Then come with me now,’ Charlie said. ‘But it will be hard work and I’ll not treat you like a gentleman, but as an apprentice.’

  ‘That’s only right,’ James said. ‘You will be the teacher, and I the student.’

  James followed as Charlie led him to a small bedroom on the top floor. The walls of the room were panelled; the room itself sparsely furnished; the floor had only a small rug and the bleached wood floorboards creaked beneath their weight. There was a child’s bed, but no other evidence that a child had ever been in the room. Against one wall stood the only other pieces of furniture in the room, a stout pine table, scratched from heavy use, but scrubbed clean, and a single chair.

  On one wall hung a heavy tapestry, which, in the absence of any other decoration and ornamentation, appeared out of place. Charlie Maggs bent down in front of the wall-hanging and began rolling it upwards. When it was fully folded, he secured the whole of the tapestry to the brass hooks from which it was suspended. Bending down, he removed a small floorboard and reached inside. A narrow panel swung open in the wall, revealing another small, dark, windowless room. Inside, all manner of tools were mounted on the wall and stacked on various shelves; sheets of metal and glass stood on the floor with rows of locks mounted on boards and three complete safes. Cobweb curtains lay draped over all that was within and dust lay thick on every surface.

  ‘As you can see,’ Charlie said, ‘I took my profession very serious and this were where I polished my skills, where I taught my apprentice.’ The pride was clear in his expression, as was his generosity of spirit. James knew he was giving him a gift, the most valuable possession he had to give; he was sharing the profession he held as highly as any degree from a university. ‘I ain’t used the room for some time now since I retired, but you’ll find a broom and some rags in the corner and that’ll be your first job as my apprentice. Clean everything and get to know the tools and what you might do with them. When I return you can tell me what you have learnt.’

  ‘Don’t expect too much of me,’ James smiled.

  ‘Nor will I,’ Charlie said, ‘but I see now that you were right to ask. The skills you might learn would be as good for getting you out of a place where you don’t want to be as they are for getting you in some place where folk would prefer you weren’t.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ James said.

  ‘Aye, and it’ll come all the easier when you have the use of two arms,’ Charlie replied. ‘See that row of locks on the plank with a big number one chalked at the top, well that is the easiest. The picking tools are all in that belt hanging by the tool bag. See if you can open one lock before I get back; after you’ve cleaned up of course.’

  Charlie left the outer bedroom, closing the door behind him. James heard the key turn in the lock and then he was alone with his thoughts. There was little space to move in the hidden room and James found each task doubly difficult with his right arm in the sling. Nevertheless, he removed the worst of the cobwebs with the broom and began sweeping, stopping occasionally to move the sheets of glass and metal. The resulting pile of dust he had no means of picking up, so he swept it into the bedroom and under the rug.

  He moved the tools one by one, and took them to the bedroom table and began cleaning them with a rag. Each had been lovingly cleaned before they were put away and although they were now dusty there was no sign of rust on any of them. There were drills and drill bits, files and saws of different sizes, screwdrivers and chisels, a jemmy with sundry attachments, an adjustable wrench, a sheath knife, an oil can, a tin of gunpowder, a jack and various implements that James could only guess as to their purpose. He returned them all to the room, duly cleaned, before he placed the belt of lock-picking tools and the row of locks mounted on the plank marked number one on the table.

  Unrolling the belt of tools, he found a number of keys. Some were ordinary keys that had been filed down and their edges softened; others he guessed were skeleton keys. There were several picks which resembled surgical instruments, their thin polished shafts holding hooks and probes of differing sizes and shapes. At the end of the roll was the thinnest pair of pliers that he had ever seen.

  There were four locks mounted on the plank and he started on the first, which logic told him would be the easiest. He began with the filed keys which seemed to be the simplest to use, but got nowhere. Then he tried the skeleton keys, but still the lock prevailed. He used the picks and although gradually he began to form some idea of how they should be used he still could not open any lock. His systematic approach was gradually abandoned as he shifted between different methods to no avail. He cursed the uselessness of his right arm as the sweat built on his forehead and he began studying the tools and locks in earnest.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  When Charlie returned, James was still bent over his work. Charlie looked at him with a slightly bemused grin as though he was surprised to find him still working. ‘So how many locks did y
ou manage to open then?’ he asked.

  ‘One,’ James replied, ‘the bedroom door that you locked before you left.’

  ‘You’ve learnt a valuable lesson then, but let’s see if you’ve learnt the most important lesson. How did you open the bedroom door?’

  ‘There’s a wide gap at the bottom of the door. I pushed a sheet of the newspaper that you left on the table, under the door, then pushed the key out until it fell on the newspaper. Then I pulled the newspaper, complete with key, back under the door and opened the lock.’

  James waited for Charlie’s congratulations but watched instead as he rocked with laughter. ‘Every little guttersnipe knows that trick. So you learnt very little then? You should have used the outsiders.’ Charlie retrieved a pair of thin pliers from the room. He opened the door and put the key back in the lock on the other side, then stepping inside, grabbed the bottom end of the key through the lock with the point of the pliers and turned it in the lock.’

  Charlie must have seen his crestfallen look because he smiled. ‘I’m only joking with you, young ‘un. I expected to come home and find you asleep on the bed. I thought you might be too high and mighty to do the cleaning, and too used to having everything set on a plate before you to persevere with the locks. You’ll make an apprentice, but you must work at it.’

  ‘But why should I have used the outsiders instead of the paper?’ James asked.

  ‘Because the key might make a noise falling on the paper or drop awkward and bounce clear, leaving you on the wrong side of the door, and what if there was no gap under the door? The paper’s a good enough trick if you have no outsiders, but no good to a professional.’

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Sitting in the drawing room with Charlie, when his lessons were completed, James heard a knock on the front door and a little while later John appeared with Father Brennan. ‘I brought him like you asked,’ John said.

  James looked at Charlie. His whole demeanour had changed. His face was red and his body stiff. He sat glowering at Sean as though they were old enemies. ‘I’ve made you all welcome and you come and go as you please,’ Charlie said. ‘But I’ll not have a Catholic priest in my house, sat at my table.’ He almost spat the words and looked ready to assault Sean.

  As Charlie was about to stand, James rose and stood directly in front of him. ‘If you cannot accept Sean, then we will all leave,’ he said, staring into Charlie’s eyes. He could hear the man’s breath, coming faster; almost feel the heat from his body.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, James,’ Sean interrupted, ‘I’ll go now.’

  ‘Then we will all go with you,’ James said. Days of stored frustration gripped him now, ruling his emotions. ‘Know this, Charlie, you claim to welcome anyone who is an enemy to Caine, yet you reject the only man that Caine fears.’ The silence was a dark oppressive cloud between them, as James stared at Charlie.

  ‘Stay and let the priest stay,’ Charlie said after a long wait. He looked like a man who had just been bluffed into discarding a winning hand and resented losing.

  James turned and looked him in the eyes. ‘Only if you are sure?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Charlie said. He was still frowning, but he held his hand out to Sean. The priest walked over and shook it. The brevity of the handshake was obvious, but James was relieved, knowing that in truth, at least for the moment, they had nowhere else to go.

  ‘It’s good to see you’re still breathing, James,’ Sean said, ‘the talk was that you were dead and the Cockroad gang were claiming credit.’

  ‘As you can see I am still alive,’ James replied. ‘But I need your help. I intend to take on Caine, but even with the assistance of Charlie and John I have little faith that we can defeat him.’

  ‘So you’re not going to Ireland?’ Sean asked.

  ‘No, I’ll not run, nor add to my brother’s problems.’

  Sean looked towards John, ‘You, I take it, are the man who is becoming the hero of Avon Street for flooring Nathaniel Caine. No one knows your name so they’re inventing a past for you; they say you’re a gypsy, and a bare-knuckle boxer.’

  ‘I’m neither,’ John said. ‘It was a lucky blow; I took him by surprise.’

  ‘What help can I give you?’ Sean asked, turning to James.

  ‘We need to recruit some assistance, some good Oirish lads who can use their brains as well as their brawn. We would pay them, as soon as we have money.’

  ‘You are asking me to give my blessing to a war, that will have casualties,’ Sean replied. ‘I’m not sure I could do that. The Cockroad gang are hated in Avon Street and there are plenty who would fight them and who need money. But you would be asking men to risk their lives.’

  ‘But you told me that you were worried that they might take to the streets in their hatred of Caine,’ James said.

  ‘That’s true,’ Sean said. ‘But how would this be any better?’

  ‘There would be a plan and discipline to our fight,’ James replied. ‘I have no wish to add further deaths to my conscience. We need to out-think Caine, but to do that we need to gather intelligence; discover their weaknesses. I cannot leave the house, Charlie is too well known in their circles, and John cannot do it alone.’

  ‘There are men who would help and who would make good allies, but they would need paying well, particularly those with families,’ Sean said.

  ‘Four men would be enough for now,’ Charlie interrupted. ‘We need probably three around Avon Street and one in Hanham.’

  ‘Why Hanham?’ James asked.

  ‘The gang’s home is still in Cockroad, in Kingswood forest. That village is so tight around the gang that no stranger could hope to pass unnoticed. There’s not a house that’s not in some way dependent on the gang, but there’s an ale house in Hanham, The Blue Bowl, where they go. A stranger could get in there and that’s the only way to find out what’s happening.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sean said, ‘but what about money?’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Charlie interrupted.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  The moment Belle left the Theatre Royal that night she was aware of the man who was following her. She wasn’t sure why she had particularly noticed him, or why she felt his presence so strongly. He had been standing in the alleyway by the side of the theatre. She could barely make out his shape, but he was smoking a pipe and she saw the red glow from the tobacco embers as the man drew on it. As she set off across Saw Close, she heard him tapping out his pipe. Then he began walking, and his footsteps echoed hers.

  Her instinct was to move faster, but she fought it and instead walked more slowly, to hide the apprehension she felt growing within. As she slowed, so did the following footsteps. The man seemed to be taking his lead from her. She turned around. He was not far behind, but following him was a second man. She felt a little easier. The second man, from his top-hatted silhouette, was a gentleman. He was roughly as far behind the other man as she was in front of him, and as she moved on their footsteps merged. She quickened her pace and heard theirs growing quicker.

  As Belle turned into the darkness of Bridewell Lane, she began running. The footfalls behind her increased their pace, but this time it was only one set of shoes that she heard on the cobbles. As she reached the boarded-up door of the derelict house at the top of the lane she noticed for a moment that the boards had been ripped away. Then, as she drew level with the opening, a man stepped out, barring her path. He smiled and she felt a momentary confusion; then he grabbed her arms and threw her into the building. She fell to the ground, feeling the rubble cutting through her coat, biting into her face and legs.

  When she looked up, there were two of them in the doorway. She struggled to her feet. One of the men moved as if to let her past, but the other punched her in the face. She fell to the ground again, and the man began kicking at her body and legs. She pulled herself into a ball, feeling the blood trickling down her face, trying to protect her head. ‘What are you doing?’ she heard a voice say, as
though in a dream, or a nightmare. ‘You’ll kill her. We was only meant to scare her.’

  ‘Bugger off if you don’t like it,’ the other man responded.

  The blows stopped for a moment and she looked up, through fingers clasped over her face. The other man had gone but her assailant was standing over her, untying the belt around his trousers. She summoned the last of her strength and let out a scream. The man froze and then turned to look behind him. She could see the outline of a tall man with a top hat.

  ‘Leave her, you animal,’ he said. She recognised the voice immediately. It was Frank Harcourt. Belle lay in the rubble watching, powerless, as her attacker turned away. Then he retied his belt and spat. ‘You have her then,’ he said, pushing past Harcourt.

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this,’ Harcourt said, as he walked nearer, his shoes crunching in the rubble. She felt the scream building inside her again. ‘But you have a loose tongue and my past is no one’s business but mine.’ Her fingers tightened around the stone she felt under her hand. ‘I trust you enjoyed the entertainment I arranged for you in Queen Square? Perhaps now you will understand the consequences of crossing me. You know how far I am willing to go, so keep your mouth shut!’

  Belle drew her arm back and launched the stone, watching it sail over his shoulder. Frank turned his back and walked away.

  Chapter 21

  When Nat Caine walked into the small room, he could already see the fear in Jeb’s eyes; smell it in the sweat of the man. ‘You’ve let me down again, Jeb?’ Caine said. He felt a momentary thrill of anticipation as he watched Jeb trying to avoid his stare, his eyes like a trapped rat’s, searching nervously for an escape.

  ‘I just do what you tell me, Nat,’ Jeb said.

  ‘But that’s not true, is it?’ Caine grinned. ‘You don’t do what I tell you. I asked you to do a favour for Harcourt. I told you to give the actress a scaring. I didn’t say to beat her half to death, or to violate her.’