A Donation of Murder

by Felicity Young

  When James had gone, he said, ‘Now come here, my darling. Put your hand in my pocket. Yes, that one, that’s it, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘Not if I’m likely to find more of that poison.’

  ‘No, no,’ he reassured her. ‘It’s nothing like that. Trust me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, why not.’

  ‘Come on, don’t be like that.’

  Despite her misgivings, Margaret dug into John’s jacket pocket. It looked like he was telling the truth for a change. She found no vials of questionable substances, just a small velvet box.

  ‘Open it,’ he said.

  Inside she found a ring of at least eight carats, an emerald surrounded by diamonds. Holding her breath she lifted it up to the light. The stone had a quality of colour like nothing she had ever before seen. An intense shamrock green, it was eye-clean — and very valuable.

  She looked deep into John’s eyes and felt herself warmed by the light of genuine love she saw in them.

  ‘You’re a rogue, John Giblett.’

  ‘I didn’t steal it. I can show you the receipt.’

  ‘And Malcolm James?’

  ‘He goes just as soon as I’ve sold the necklace.’

  ‘And you won’t start selling that stuff of his?’

  ‘Just as long as I can keep some for medicinal use — it works wonders for my headaches.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d never tried it before.’

  ‘Well, only once or twice. It hasn’t become a habit, I swear. All I use it for is my headaches.’

  That seemed fair enough to Margaret, or so she told herself. He did get terrible headaches. She nodded and slipped the ring onto her finger. No wonder he’d wanted to choose her gown for the night — green satin, a perfect match.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pike handed his top hat, gloves and coat to an effeminate butler who could have stepped straight from one of London’s more risqué clubs. Gilt-framed paintings of naked women adorned the hall walls. A bronze statue of a woman fornicating with a goat stood on a table, and the mosaic floor depicted scenes from a Roman orgy. What was he letting himself in for, he wondered, as the footman led him to a reception room via a curling flight of stairs.

  ‘Mr Charles Kilner of Boston,’ the butler announced, swishing open the double doors.

  At least this room wasn’t as confronting as the hall. One wall was lined with shelves of books that Pike suspected to be facades. The sofas, upholstered in a garish floral fabric, looked comfortable. Wing-backed chairs of various colours and patterns were scattered between them, as if the decorator had not been able to make his mind up and had chosen one of each.

  Several men in evening dress stood as he entered the room. John Giblett, whom Pike pretended not to recognise, clapped him on the shoulder and shook his hand.

  Giblett introduced himself. ‘Welcome back to England, Charlie — you don’t mind if I call you Charlie, do you? I feel as if we’re old pals.’

  ‘I like to think we are, John,’ Pike replied. ‘What with the correspondence that’s been going on between us and all.’

  Giblett’s gaze travelled up and down Pike’s body. ‘Have you got the err . . .’

  ‘The money, yes,’ Pike said, patting the money belt beneath his tailcoat. ‘Not that I’m necessarily going to spend it, you understand. I need to be satisfied with the goods first. There’s plenty of other shopping opportunities in London.’

  ‘I plan an after-dinner showing. I’m afraid you’re not the only punter interested,’ Giblett said, cocking his head toward several men standing just out of earshot.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Pike said. ‘I didn’t expect I would be. That was quite a feat, John, that operation of yours. Congratulations. When you first wrote me about it I wasn’t expecting to hear of your success.’

  ‘You’ve been out of the country too long, Charlie, otherwise you’d know: I don’t fail.’

  Pike chuckled. ‘You were just a whipper-snapper when I left. I suppose someone had to fill the void.’

  A frown passed across Giblett’s face. Pike had achieved what he had intended — he’d put a burr under the man’s saddle. It would be unrealistic to imagine no rivalry between the two thieves.

  As Pike walked towards the grouped men, he whispered to his host, ‘Just so you know, I still have mates in this country, and several know where I’m going tonight, and what this,’ he patted his stomach, ‘is for. If something should happen to me, or the money . . .’

  ‘I’d do the same myself, no hard feelings,’ Giblett muttered. In a louder voice he said, ‘Over here chaps, come meet Pianner Charlie.’

  Pike found himself surrounded, clapped on the back, his hand crushed in grips so hard he had to pull away and flex his fingers. He recognised some of the names, but not all. There was O’Sullivan from Ireland, infamous around the Dublin racetracks. The Irishman had refused to relinquish his coat at the front door and an exasperated footman was still trying to wrest it from him.

  ‘Leave him be,’ Giblett said to the footman. ‘He’s caught a chill and wants to stay warm.’

  There was also one-eyed Jerry Hartwell, ex-leader of the Forty Thieves, standing next to the notorious fixer, Jackie Lambert. Pike doubted any of the men he met were serious contenders for the necklace, and suspected Giblett had only invited them to boost numbers and conjure up interest. The one man he felt could be a rival bidder was a balding French jeweller called Monsieur Roy who carried a crocodile-skin attaché case. Before they shook hands Roy transferred it from his right to his left hand, maintaining a knuckle-white grip on its handle. No need to guess where this man kept his money.

  Pike had had nothing to do with any of the men before and felt confident his cover was safe.

  The ladies joined them and introductions were made again. Their appearance lightened the atmosphere in the room and relaxed all the men but Pike, who did his best to appear at home. He managed to ration his intake of Krug, even though the champagne flowed like water, tipping a glass into a handy pot plant when no one was looking.

  Pike was introduced to Giblett’s fiancée, a tall woman with fiery red hair. Margaret Doyle. So this striking creature was the woman who’d captivated Dody, and her ‘John’ was undoubtedly John Giblett. Pike recalled the document from the record room he’d read earlier. ‘Diamond’ Peggy Doyle, daughter of Irish immigrants now deceased. No jail time and no convictions, although she was thought to have fallen in with the Whistlers. No doubt that was how she’d come by the earrings she’d given Dody. It was suspected that she had been involved with the Selfridges heist herself, but a sound alibi had meant that the police could go no further with it.

  When he took her hand she stared as if she knew him. He held her eye and tried to ignore the prick of his winged collar against his reddening neck. Her eyes were a perfect match to the stone she wore on her left hand, and her exquisite satin gown. The milky white rise of her breasts was emphasised by the low-cut bodice. Pike made a conscious effort to keep his eyes on her face as they exchanged pleasantries.

  ‘I hope you will do me the honour of escorting me into the dining room when dinner is served,’ she said.

  ‘It will be my pleasure, Miss Doyle,’ he replied with a small bow.

  She excused herself. His gaze followed her as she glided across the room to greet O’Sullivan.

  A voice that sounded as if its owner had been licking tarmac whispered close to his ear. ‘Bad luck, Charlie, she’s taken.’ Pike turned to find Malcolm James standing nearby, his lopsided grin matching his lopsided nose. His shiny black hair was slicked on either side of his central parting like crow’s wings.

  Pike shrugged. ‘For now, maybe.’

  ‘Ha, you haven’t changed.’

  Pike paused and stared at the man. ‘What do you mean by that? You don’t know me at all,’ he said with a threatening edge to his voice.

  ‘I reckon I know you better than you think, mate.’

  Pike held his breath. Had James spotted h
is tail from De Keyser’s after all?

  ‘Your reputation lived on long after you scarpered to America,’ James explained. He looked at Pike through suspicious eyes then nodded towards the grand piano in the corner of the room. ‘How about giving us a tune?’

  ‘After dinner’s for singsongs. Now’s hardly the time.’

  ‘Oh, but I think it is. How about your signature tune? I can’t remember its name, but you know the one I mean.’

  ‘I don’t have a signature tune,’ Pike said, keeping his expression blank.

  James smiled then raised his voice to the room. ‘C’mon everyone, Charlie’s going to play us a tune.’

  Everyone clapped and urged him on. Pike had no choice. He took a seat at the piano and blew on his fingers. A woman laughed. He sat for a moment and stared at the keys.

  James took a step towards him. ‘Forgotten, have you?’

  With his eyes fixed on James, Pike ran his fingers up the scale and down.

  ‘Key of C,’ he called out. ‘Join in if you know the words.’

  He played the first few bars. Feet began to tap when the song was recognised. Even Malcolm James smiled.

  ‘Do you know the words?’ Pike asked Margaret, who stood at the piano next to him. She nodded and smiled. ‘And you?’ he added to James, standing just beyond her.

  James’s answer was the first verse, which he sung in a strong baritone.

  Now my name is Samuel Hall,

  Samuel Hall, Samuel Hall

  Oh my name is Samuel Hall, Samuel Hall

  Oh my name is Samuel Hall,

  and I hate you one and all

  You’re a bunch of fuckers all

  Blast your eyes.

  You’re a bunch of fuckers all

  Blast your eyes.

  The crowd roared and stamped their feet.

  ‘My turn,’ Margaret said, leaning against the piano, giving Pike an unobstructed view of her cleavage. Her alto complimented James’s baritone perfectly.

  Now I killed a man they said

  So they said, so they said

  Oh I killed a man they said

  Yes they said

  I killed a man they said

  And I left him layin’ dead

  Cause I bashed his bloody head

  Blast his eyes.

  Caused I bashed his bloody head

  Blast his eyes. Oh it’s swingin’ I must go

  I must go I must go

  ‘You again,’ Margaret said to James.

  The tension between them was palpable. As if there was no one else in the room, they sang only to each other. Love or hate, Pike could not tell what passions were stirring, but whatever they were, they translated into an uncomfortable tingle on the back of his neck.

  James skipped over a few verses and reached the last. Pike upped the tempo, amazed by the relish with which the verse was sung. Had James any idea that he might be singing about himself — or was that the point?

  I must hang until I’m dead

  Til I’m dead, Til I’m dead

  I must hang until I’m dead

  I must hang until I’m dead

  Caused I killed a man they said

  And left him layin’ dead

  Blast his eyes.

  And left him layin’ dead

  Blast his eyes.

  Pike ended the song. When the cheers and whistles died, James turned away and raised his hand for silence.

  ‘Any tips for the Irish cup, O’Sullivan?’ he called out.

  ‘Why, planning on stealing it, are you, laddie?’ O’Sullivan replied to hoots of laughter. The Irishman walked over to James and thumped him on the arm. James winced.

  ‘Sorry, carrying an injury, are you, Malcolm?’ O’Sullivan asked.

  ‘Got spiked last night. Nothing serious.’

  ‘Got spiked by a woman,’ Giblett added, smiling.

  O’Sullivan roared with laughter. James scowled. What’s that all about? Pike wondered as he left the piano in search of a drink.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned.

  ‘You look thirsty, here.’ Margaret Doyle took his empty glass and swapped it with a full one from a passing waiter. ‘I don’t know about you, but James always makes me reach for the bottle.’

  ‘He has a good singing voice, but he’s a bit short on charm, isn’t he?’

  ‘And dangerous. You need to be careful of him.’

  Pike shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m dangerous, too.’

  ‘We’ll see then, won’t we? When the bidding starts.’

  Pike was glad when the butler entered the room and announced that dinner was served. The sooner this night ended the better.

  Margaret slipped her arm through his and walked him to the dining room, taking great delight in showing him the central table decoration she had crafted herself. He made the right noises as she showed him to his seat, before taking hers at the other end of the huge table.

  The dinner was a strange affair, like none Pike had ever been to before. He’d endured all kinds of meals in all kinds of cultures, from the highest echelon of British society to its lowest, not to mention a variety of barbarous foreign cuisines in between. Never had he come across such a contradiction of table manners as he saw here. Several of the women failed to remove their gloves. They were loud and vulgar and helped themselves to wine before the host or butler offered it, elevating their little fingers as they swilled from the cut-glass crystal. Most of the men ate with their napkins stuffed down their shirtfronts, pulling their spoons towards them through their soup like over zealous rowers. O’Sullivan still refused to remove his overcoat, saying he was cold despite the blazing fire. The men swore like sailors in front of the women and often lapsed into rhyming slang.

  Pike glanced at his fob. Nine o’clock. The soup course was still on the table and the cutlery indicated a seven-course meal, which meant business would probably not commence before midnight.

  Giblett, meanwhile, maintained a friendly conversation with Pike, asking him what living in America was like and complimenting him on his table manners.

  The guvnor of the Anchor Men was certainly more couth than his colleague, Mr James, who kept up a litany of obscene remarks, digging the unimpressed Frenchman next to him in the ribs. The Frenchman caught Giblett’s eye and frowned.

  ‘I think it was a mistake to invite Mr James. Peggy was right,’ Giblett murmured out of the side of his mouth to Pike, shrugging an apology to Roy as he did so.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Pike said. ‘Whose midden did you scoop him from?’

  Giblett rolled his eyes. He was about to say something when the butler rushed in and began whispering in his ear.

  ‘Shit, it’s the Ducks and Geese — the fuckin’ police,’ Giblett said for Monsieur Roy’s benefit. ‘James, go hide in the safe and get someone to lock you in. It’s you they want. Something about that bother you got yourself into last night with the woman — stupid git.’

  James leapt to his feet and ran from the room.

  ‘The necklace, what about the necklace?’ asked Roy as the butler swept away James’s chair and place setting.

  ‘They’re not looking for the bloody necklace, all right?’ Giblett said, pouring James’s soup back into the tureen. ‘They have a counterfeit they think is the real thing — I fixed it like that. The heat is off about the necklace, trust me. Bloody frog,’ he muttered just out of Roy’s earshot.

  The real necklace must be in the safe too, Pike thought, wondering if James could be trusted in there with it. It was a bit like hiding a rabbit in a crate full of lettuce.

  Margaret let out a peal of laughter and nudged the Irishman sitting next to her, who guffawed on command. Her instincts were well-tuned, Pike noticed. She’d timed the laugh to perfection, synchronising it to the whoosh of the double doors and the arrival of the police.

  And the turbaned Sergeant Singh.

  The party around the table fell silent as Singh walked over to Giblett.

  Pike dropped
his head and stared into his soup. What the devil was Singh doing here? Was this Shepherd’s work? It must be, Callan would never have sanctioned the search with Pike here.

  ‘Excuse the intrusion, sir,’ Singh said to Giblett, handing him a document. ‘This is a search warrant. Would you care to accompany us as we search your house?’

  ‘What you are searching for, Sergeant?’

  ‘A man named Malcolm James. It is alleged he assaulted a woman last night in Hackney Road. His landlady said he might be here.’

  ‘Haven’t seem him for weeks, search all you like,’ Giblett said, cool as ice. ‘But please leave us to get on with our party. My butler will go with you.’

  ‘Certainly, sir, I apologise for the intrusion.’

  Pike looked up. Singh met his eye and gave an involuntary start. Pike stared back through his clear-lensed spectacles, keeping his face blank. Singh’s eyes skittered away and he hurried from the room.

  The entire company breathed a sigh of relief. The heavy footsteps of the police clumped up and down the stairs. Margaret left her seat and stood behind Giblett, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  ‘The necklace,’ Monsieur Roy hissed.

  Giblett patted Margaret’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t find it.’

  ‘They’re looking for a man, anyway,’ Margaret added.

  ‘That’s what they say, but how can we be sure? This could be a trick, it might be the necklace they’re after and not the man at all.’

  ‘I told you, they’re not looking for the bloody necklace,’ Giblett growled, the Frenchman obviously testing his patience now.

  ‘They said Malcolm assaulted a woman,’ Margaret said. ‘That sounds like his style. This is no trick, Monsieur.’ She kneaded Giblett’s shoulders. ‘How about we leave him in the safe, John, let him suffocate.’

  ‘Be nice now, darlin’.’

  With a sigh, Margaret returned to her place. The party resumed. Each mouthful of soup Pike swallowed felt like glass. He felt Giblett’s eyes on him and looked up.

  ‘That wog sergeant gave you a funny look. What was that about?’ Giblett asked.

  Pike shrugged. ‘Maybe because I’m one of the few in this room who’s not known to the Ducks and Geese.’

  ‘Not me,’ Giblett said, ‘They don’t know me by sight.’