He picked up his pen with an air of finality. Peyton took the hint and settled to his own work.
Lucilla Velmond and Anthea had been doing a round of the fashionable shops again that morning, in spite of the inclement weather.
‘For I simply must have some new gowns to wear now that the season is upon us,’ said Anthea, sweeping Lucy before her into one of the foremost modiste’s. ‘And doubtless you’ll wish to order something too.’
The proprietress of the establishment, a Mrs Banks who thought it professionally advantageous to call herself Madame Tufane, came quickly forward to greet this frequent and favoured customer. As she did so, an assistant emerged from one of the cubicles escorting Mrs Cleveland, elegantly attired in a wine-coloured pelisse trimmed with fur and a matching bonnet.
‘Why, how delightful to meet you!’ exclaimed Mrs Cleveland in the gushing tones she reserved for female acquaintances. ‘Are you bent on purchasing some new gowns? Lucky you, Miss Rutherford, since you have no husband to take you to task for extravagance. Mine has become a dead bore on the subject, I assure you! And of course you, Lady Velmond, have not yet been married long enough to incur that kind of reproach.’
A faint accent on the last part of her sentence brought a quick blush to Lucy’s cheek.
‘Isn’t it atrocious weather,’ said Anthea, changing the subject quickly. ‘We scarce knew whether to brave it and entertain ourselves looking at fripperies, or remain within doors to watch the rain running down the window panes. But perhaps it will clear presently.’
‘Indeed, I trust so, for I’m off tomorrow to Norfolk to see my daughter, Lady Barclay. She does not come up to Town, you know, so I must go to her occasionally.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘You will recollect Cecilia, will you not, Lady Velmond? You and she were schoolfellows in Bath, though I think you were never close friends.’
Lucy looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, we were at the same school. It’s a long time ago now. How does Cecilia go on, ma’am? I trust she is well?’
‘Oh, very well, thank you, though she is in’ — she lowered her rather strident tones — ‘a delicate condition just now. She was married last October to Sir Philip Barclay, who has an estate in Norfolk. I will remember you to her, shall I? I dare say she may recollect you,’ she added in an offhand tone.
‘Oh, yes, pray do so,’ answered Lucy, still a trifle ill at ease.
Mrs Cleveland parted from them, and the serious business of the expedition began. But it was easy for Anthea to see that her companion’s heart was not in the delightful creations of satin, silk and muslin in the fashionable pale shades which were paraded before them; so presently she took leave of Madame Tufane and escorted Lucy back to the waiting carriage.
They were both silent for a while as the conveyance bore them homewards. Then Anthea lightly touched her friend’s hand.
‘What is it, Lucy? Something has disturbed you, I know. Will you not tell me? It’s to do with Mrs Cleveland’s daughter, isn’t it?’
Lucy nodded; a tear coursed its way down her cheek.
‘It seems one can never leave behind the past,’ she answered in a choking voice. ‘I thought — I hoped and prayed — all that was over and done with years since! That girl — Cecilia Cleveland that was — she was never a friend of mine at school, but she knows all about, all about —’
She broke down. Anthea put an arm round her.
‘About the reason why you received that blackmail letter, my love?’ she finished for Lucy. ‘Pray don’t distress yourself. I dare say, whatever it is, she has long since forgotten it.’
Nevertheless, Anthea made a mental note to inform Justin of this.
Later that day, Runner Watts reported to Justin’s rooms in Albemarle Street.
‘No good,’ he said gloomily. ‘I questioned ’em all, but no one recalls a packet for Thompson, let alone anything about the bloke who collected it. It’s a fiendish busy office that one, sir, with folk coming and going all day long.’
‘No, I must admit I’d small hope at this interval of time, but we couldn’t overlook the possibility. No matter, there may be other opportunities.’ His tone changed. ‘Did you bring the keys to Yarnton’s place, Joe?’
Watts produced them.
‘Good man. I think we’ll postpone our visit there until dusk, though. Don’t wish to set the neighbours in a bustle, do we?’
The dead man’s servants had been paid off since their master’s murder, so the house had a slightly musty smell as they let themselves into the hall. Watts, who knew his way about from his previous visit, soon lit the candles in a branched candlestick on the hall table, carrying it with him to light their way.
‘This is the room with the bureau where we found that diary, sir,’ he said, pushing open a door on the right.
They entered, then stopped in their tracks, staring. A bureau bookcase stood against one wall, and before it the floor was strewn with books and papers. The glass doors of the bookcase were flung wide, and most of the books tumbled from the shelves. The lid of the bureau was lowered, revealing a jumble of papers which had spilled over on to the floor.
‘Gawd’s truth!’ exclaimed Watts in dismay.
‘I collect,’ said Justin dryly, ‘that this isn’t quite as your people left it?’
‘Gorblimey, us leave a den in this state?’ demanded Watts scornfully, lapsing into thieves’ cant. ‘Why, the guv’nor’d have our lights an’ liver for it, not arf he would!’
‘Then someone else must have been here,’ said Justin, crossing over to the bureau and lifting up some of the loose papers. ‘D’you know, Joe, I have the most melancholy persuasion that we shan’t find that notebook here, after all.’
Watts shook his head in gloomy agreement.
‘The keys never left Bow Street, so reckon it was a break-in,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a look downstairs — sure to be in the basement.’
This proved to be accurate. They found a small window wide open. It looked out on to a yard and a gate leading to a narrow alley behind the houses, which eventually came out into the street.
Watts closed the window but found the catch was broken.
‘Bust off, sir. We’ll send round and get that mended tomorrow.’
‘Well, I suppose we may as well search for that notebook,’ said Justin, as they returned to the burgled room. ‘I dare say you’ll want to check if anything else is missing, too. You’ll have taken an inventory, I presume?’
Watts acknowledged that this had been done and produced his official notebook.
For the next hour, having lit all the candles in the room, they searched thoroughly, tidying all the contents of the desk and the litter surrounding it as they proceeded, but without finding the item they sought.
‘Why pull out the books, I wonder?’ mused Justin, as he stooped to retrieve two leather-bound volumes from the floor in order to restore them to the shelves. ‘It suggests that our burglar didn’t know precisely what he was seeking, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Well, come to that, sir, I don’t rightly see how he could’ve done. Only Runner Grimshaw and me knew about the notebook — barring the guv’nor, that is — and even we didn’t think it important at the time. If it was this here blackmailer, he was probably searching for anything that could give his game away — anything with the name Thompson on it.’
Justin nodded. ‘Precisely my view. And it looks as if that notebook must have contained some reference of the kind. There’s nothing else here that does — bills, receipts, a few letters, invitation cards, tradesmen’s advertising material, coach timetables — pah!’ He indicated the now reasonably tidy pigeon-holes of the bureau. ‘What an unconscionable amount of paraphernalia we collect about us, Joe! And all to be bequeathed to an unappreciative posterity. It makes one wax philosophical, don’t it?’
Rightly considering this to be a rhetorical question, Watts did not trouble to answer, but continued with the task which he had set himself after their fruitless search for the notebook. This was to ch
eck the other contents of the room against the inventory which had been taken on the Runners’ first visit. After a second circuit of the room, he looked up, frowning.
‘Queer, sir, but I don’t see this snuffbox anywhere hereabouts,’ he said, tapping his notebook.
‘Snuffbox? Have you a description of it?’
‘Here, sir.’ Watts indicated the item on the page.
‘Gold and enamelled snuff box, oval, two and a quarter inches long, initials MY on base,’ read Justin aloud.
‘It was on this table, sir, by the snuff jar, which is still here. I’ve a good eye for positioning, sir, and I recollect that most particular.’
‘It could easily have become swept off as our intruder moved around. The floor seems the most likely place.’
Together they searched the floor and all other possible hiding places for the snuffbox, but without success. Afterwards, they turned their attention to the route by which the burglar must have entered. At the end of a further hour, Justin acknowledged defeat and abandoned the search. By that time, his dark hair was completely dishevelled and his clothing, hands and face liberally streaked with dust.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, catching sight of himself in a mirror. ‘I look for all the world like a road sweeper! Just as well it will be dark outside. I frequently look as bad when I’m grubbing around antiquities, but I’m unlikely to encounter anyone of my acquaintance on such ploys. Is there a pump in the yard here, do you know? It’s too much to hope there’ll be water laid on to the house.’
Watts confirmed that there was indeed a pump, so they both went outside to remove the traces of grime as best they might, shuddering at the ice cold water.
‘We’ll leave by this back way, I think,’ said Justin, as he rubbed himself dry on a towel they had found in one of the kitchen drawers. ‘We’ll attract less notice. Queer thing about that snuffbox — almost leads one to suppose our intruder was a professional burglar, except that objects of greater value were left. Now what d’you suppose he could have wanted with it?’ A thought struck him. ‘Did you look inside?’
‘No, sir, but if you’re thinking it might’ve held something instead of snuff, you’d catch cold on that, I opine. The box wasn’t above an inch deep, a bit less, I’d say.’
Justin nodded. ‘The usual size. All the same, possibly it could contain a scrap of paper — just a thought, I’ll admit not perhaps a prodigiously inspired one. Come on, then. Let’s be off.’
They emerged stealthily from the back door of the premises, locking it behind them, then stood still for a few moments to let their eyes become accustomed to the gloom. By now it was dark, but a faint glimmer of light came from a fitful moon. They trod quietly across the yard and through the gate into the alley. It was too narrow for them to walk comfortably side by side, so they went in single file, Watts leading the way.
They had traversed more than half the distance which led to the street beyond when, without warning, two figures armed with stout cudgels sprang from the shadow of a gateway.
One launched himself upon Watts, cudgel raised. The Runner was quick to draw his official truncheon to parry the first blow. Meanwhile, the second turned his attention to Justin, who was unarmed.
If he had thought to find an easy prey, the assailant soon found his mistake. Dodging a stroke from the cudgel, Justin slammed home a hefty punch to the jaw, which made his attacker pause momentarily. Justin seized his advantage by rushing in to butt the other man in the chest and wrest the weapon from his hand. Seeing the tables were now turned, the attacker did not stay to try conclusions but fled, thrusting the other two struggling figures aside in his passage.
Justin started in pursuit but stopped abruptly on seeing that Watts had fallen to the ground and his attacker was about to bring his cudgel down on the helpless Runner’s head. Seizing the man’s arm, he tussled with him for possession of the weapon, while Watts still lay inert. The attacker was a burly fellow; but for all his slender build, Justin’s muscles were in good trim, so the honours were more even than might have been supposed. He had just succeeded in knocking the cudgel from the other’s hold when Watts joined the fray, having recovered from his temporary unconsciousness. A blow from his truncheon felled the man, who lay like one dead.
The two companions leaned against the wall, panting.
‘You all right, Joe?’ asked Justin breathlessly.
‘Aye, right enough, though I reckon I’ll have a bruise or two. Knocked me cold for a moment, yon bastard.’
Justin looked down at the inert figure at their feet.
‘Hope to God you haven’t killed him.’
‘No more’n his deserts.’ Watts turned the man over, face upwards. ‘Reckon I know his ugly mug, too,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Can’t put a name to it, offhand, but one o’ these bully boys who hang around the flash houses, I’ll swear.’
Justin knew that the term ‘flash house’ was applied to the lower type of tavern where thieves commonly met. It was not unusual, either, for the Runners to frequent such places in search of information.
‘What d’you mean to do with him?’
‘Take him in, see if we can get anything out of him. Do you stay by him, sir,’ Watts instructed, handing over his truncheon to Justin, ‘while I get a hackney to take him off to Bow Street.’
Justin nodded but thrust the truncheon aside.
‘I’ll manage without that.’
Watts grinned. ‘Reckon you will, sir. You pack a handy bunch o’ fives.’
‘Give the credit to Gentleman Jackson, although it’s some time since last I sparred with him. I’d best look in again at his boxing academy in Old Bond Street if we’re to have much of this sort of ploy, though. Now, I wonder, Joe, did these two set upon us by chance, or was there more to it than that?’
CHAPTER 7
At well past midnight, the atmosphere inside the Magpie and Stump in Skinner Street would not have suited a fastidious man. Compounded of the odours of unwashed clothing and bodies, filthy sawdust-strewn floors, cheap raw liquor, the smoke from clay pipes filled with rank tobacco, not to mention the stench caused by the unhygienic habits of the tavern’s customers, it assailed even accustomed nostrils powerfully. But in the course of duty, Joseph Watts had frequently been obliged to patronize this and other of the flash houses; so although a slight spasm crossed his features as he entered, he managed to control his inner feelings of disgust.
Although he had taken care to dress in his oldest clothes, he still presented a more respectable appearance than most other customers. Though many of these were too busy about their own concerns of drinking and whoring, some few looked at him askance, recognizing him for what he was. With a quick motion of his head, he summoned one of these to his side.
The fellow looked reluctant but at last approached, thrusting aside with a curse the individuals who stood in his way. ‘Want a word,’ said Watts briefly. ‘Outside.’
The other protested that it was cold outside, and moreover there was nothing to warm a cove out there.
‘Take some of your blue ruin with you,’ replied Watts, surreptitiously sliding a coin into the other’s hand, for it would never do to be flashing money around here. ‘No, not for me — my guts won’t take it.’
The man obtained his beverage after a wordy struggle with others of a like mind, drained half of it, then joined Watts in a second fight, this time to reach the door.
‘Gawd’s truth!’ gasped the Runner, when he once more stood in the far from fresh, but slightly less foetid air of Skinner Street. ‘What a stinking hole!’
He led the way round the corner of the tavern to a neglected yard, which was deserted at present. Here he halted in the partial shelter of a lean-to structure against one wall of the building.
The other man stopped also, facing him warily.
‘Whad yer want wi’ me? I ain’t done nuffink.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ said Watts sceptically. ‘Bill Flitch is in custody. He mentioned your name — said you�
��d brought a message to him and to another cove we’ve not laid by the heels yet. We want to know who gave you this here message.’
‘Flitch!’ The other spat expressively. ‘Don’t yer go for believin’ anythink ’e says, bloody liar, ’e is.’
‘Like his mates,’ agreed Watts. ‘Only this time, I reckon he’s telling the truth for once. Come on, Sims, let’s be knowing — and don’t say you’ve forgotten,’ — as he saw the excuse forming on the other man’s lips — ‘or else I might start recollecting a few things about you that I’ve conveniently forgotten.’
‘Dunno who this cove was, an’ that’s Gawd’s truth,’ said Sims, rapidly changing his mind as to tactics. ‘Never set eyes on ’im afore. Come in ’ere a coupla nights back, asks for me, says ’e needs a coupla bully lads to do a job. Dunno ’ow ’e knows me moniker, so no use askin’,’ he added for good measure.
‘Word gets round that you’re a fixer, that’s for sure. So you’d never seen this man before? What was he like?’
Sims shrugged. ‘Dunno — ’e didn’t stay more’n coupla minutes, an’ kep’ out o’ the light. Not much light, best o’ times.’
This was true enough. The Magpie and Stump catered for those who preferred the anonymity of gloom.
‘Still, you must have seen enough to get some notion of his looks. How old? Tall or short? Fat or thin? Colouring? Come on, man!’
‘Not rightly old, nor young,’ said Sims, pondering these queries. ‘Belly on ’im, though. Whiskers — ’bout as tall as me.’
‘Medium height, then. What d’you mean by whiskers? Beard? Sideburns?’
‘Nah, more like ’e ’adn’t shaved for a week or so.’
‘What colour hair, then?’
‘Gawd, I dunno,’ replied Sims despairingly. ‘Look, mister, it’s bloody cold ’ere, an’ I’ve telt yer all I knows. Lemme go now.’
‘In a minute. What manner of voice?’
A Reputation Dies: A thrilling combination of detective fiction and romance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 1) Page 6
