by BK Duncan
May let go of Jack’s hand and took the stupid hat off.
‘What happened? Gas?’
‘Not likely. Chief Fire Officer reckons it was deliberate. Petrol bomb at first guess. Yard reeks of the stuff. Keep back now.’
‘Whose house is it?’
‘Number forty-one.’
‘That’s Kitty Loader’s. Is she all right?’
‘Reckon so. Neighbours say she came running out and raised the alarm. Ambulance boys are checking her and the others over now. Let’s just hope they all got out, eh, because them flames look set to eat their way to the front however much water they spray on them.’
The firemen’s brass helmets gleamed in the street lamp; the horses stamped and whinnied as jets of steam escaped from the boiler used to pressurise the water; thick hoses writhed on the ground as they snaked into the passageway leading to the back of the house. Sparks floating up in the air, then snuffed out like tiny red shooting stars. Mini rivers flowed in every direction. The explosive crack of windowpanes.
Something in the activity suddenly brought Jack to life.
‘I need to get my notes.’ He dodged PC Collier’s restraining arm and ran down the street.
‘Oy, you can’t go in there. It ain’t safe!’
But Jack’s bid for freedom had set the others off. PC Collier’s attempt at crowd control was no contest against the spectacle of a burning building becasue East Enders loved nothing more than to watch someone else’s possessions being turned to ash; May had always thought it was partly gratitude that it wasn’t their own. She followed with PC Collier in the wake of the, now almost jubilant, inhabitants of Brabazon Street.
‘Ten to one there’s not a stick left.’
‘Won’t be as good as that Chink blaze last June.’
‘You there?’
‘Not half. Hell of a show it was. They should never have tried to move them families in. Not with one of our brave soldiers needing a roof over his head.’
‘Ain’t right is it? White women marrying foreigners.’
‘I should sodding well think not. Anyways, we showed ’em. House went up like a roman candle. Every scrap burnt to the ground.’
‘I reckon this’un had it coming to her as well. What with taking in a bog Irish and everything. Asking for trouble in my book.’
‘Read in the paper they dragged a Beak from a tram in Dublin and shot him dead. Who’s to say they ain’t started to bring their shenanigans over here?’
May watched Jack slump back down the street, his overalls soaked with spray from the hose.
‘They won’t let me in.’
‘You surprised? If the flames hit the gas, the whole place could go up.’
He pulled off his bandana and wiped the grime from his face. May felt sorry for him, he looked so defeated.
‘Maybe they’ll catch it before it reaches your room. If it started in the yard then it’s got three floors to go up.’
‘All my work for the story’s in there; I didn’t think it was safe to leave it in the newspaper office.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Of course. That’s the whole point. You know who did this, don’t you? The Tong. Don’t you see? It has to be them. After tonight, they know I’m getting too close. This is a warning that next time it won’t only be property that’s damaged.’
‘Sorry, sir, you’re under arrest.’ PC Collier was clutching Jack’s shoulder. ‘One of your neighbours has fingered you as living in the house. There are some questions you need to be answering.’
‘What? Don’t be so bloody stupid. Why would I firebomb my own place?’
‘Insulting the uniform won’t be helping your cause none. We’re on the alert for any suspect activity involving an Irishman and I reckon this, and you, fit that bill well enough. Now, are you going to co-operate or do I need to use the cuffs?’
May watched as all traces of Jack’s previous befuddlement left him. He undid his wet overalls, stepped out of them, found his glasses in the pocket, and put them on. Then he straightened the collar of his crumpled shirt. He turned to her.
‘I’d be obliged if you could see your way to doing me a favour. Can you find a telephone and call Sir Ernest Pollock. Tell him to come to...’ He looked sideways at PC Collier.
‘I reckon we’ll be heading straight for Scotland Yard.’
‘Better make it there, then.’
She must’ve looked confused because he spelt the name out slowly before giving her the exchange, and telephone number.
‘Jack, is this some kind of joke? I’ve seen his name in the newspapers, he’s one of the most famous barristers in London.’
‘The very same. And that’s why I want him with me.’
‘But you’ll never be able to afford his fees. Let me go around to Mr Gliksman, he’s a solicitor we’ve had some dealings with in court. Or maybe Andy Taylor knows someone your paper calls on in times like these.’
‘Now, May, you seem to be labouring under as many misguided notions about me as my erstwhile friendly neighbours. I’ve never told you I’m without means - far from it in fact. My uncle owns a number of the prominent local newspapers in the area. Needless to say including the East End News. Sir Ernest is a good friend of his. So please, run along and help me out before some inspector or other decides to throw the book at me in retaliation for getting him hauled out of bed at this ungodly hour.’
The bond they’d forged at the waterside fell away and May felt she was staring into the face of a stranger. Nothing about him was as it seemed. Probably all that stuff he’d told her about his father being a hero was just one of his little games. He was simply a silver-tongued liar who got kicks from sucking people into his deceptions. She had no doubt he’d be a famous journalist one day, even if he did have to play everyone for a fool along the way - and rely on his uncle’s patronage.
May refused to return his smile and walked away. There was a public kiosk in the all-night chemist on East India Dock Road. She’d ring from there. Because he’d asked her to, not because she cared what happened to him.
It was only when she’d turned into the silence of Guildford Road that it came to her that Jack could be right about the perpetrators, but wrong about the reason. What if this was something to do with the inquest on Miles Elliott? What if her presence in the yen-shi den had made the Tong realise she hadn’t paid enough attention to the threat she’d received on the streets of Limehouse? Just because Jack had been the only one they’d recognised didn’t mean that, with the all-knowing powers Charlie said they possessed, they hadn’t established it had to be her with him. This firebombing might’ve been only half of the warning. Alice. She started to run.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Back at work after the Easter long weekend, May was typing up the notes Braxton Clarke had sent over in preparation for the afternoon’s inquest. With her fingers clacking on the typewriter keys, Saturday night began to feel as if it had happened to somebody else. When she’d arrived home - feeling sick and out of breath - the house had been just as she’d left it. It had taken her until she’d reached the front door to remember Alice had been over in Cawdor Street helping Elaine with her Easter bonnet for the factory parade. When she’d arrived back for Sunday lunch, May had suggested her sister take up Mrs Gibson’s offer to lodge there until the show was over: Alice’s gloating at getting her own way was easier to swallow than the thought of her coming to some harm at the hands of the Tong.
Now the problem of the moment was how to head off Braxton Clarke from asking what had happened about the arrest and return to court of the man they knew as Sing Quong. May had issued the warrant but it was sitting in her desk drawer. PC Collier would be hauled over the coals for not verifying the identity of his witness and he was far too good a policeman to receive a black mark because he’d been inexperienced enough to be taken in. So, how to address the
fact that the perjurer wasn’t going to be turning up, without dropping the constable in it? The solution came as she scrolled a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter. She’d insert something into the coroner’s notes to say an unsuccessful investigation had been conducted (she had found and followed Sing Quong after all) which pointed to the likelihood of Brilliant Chang being a victim of a conspiracy to deceive. Worded that way no one would be made to suffer for the pigtailed Chinaman’s lies.
She pressed the carriage return lever twice and began to type.
***
The resumed inquest started off in the usual fashion with May administering the oath to any new witnesses - in this case, Dr Willcox, the chemical analyst from St Mary’s Hospital. Those of Miles’ friends who had turned up before were all present, as was Brilliant Chang. Elizabeth Newick had obviously not been able to rationalise her prejudice and was casting fearful glances at the Chinaman from her seat on the other side of the room. The Elliotts had sent representation. May wondered if it was Mr Elliott’s way of demonstrating his displeasure that the inquest hadn’t been concluded as promised. After the coroner had given a brief summary of progress so far, he gave the Elliotts’ solicitor leave to ask questions of Brilliant Chang. These consisted of an extended dissection of the fact that Miles Elliott had been known to eat at his restaurant on occasions when a ship was due to dock during the night.
When the solicitor had finally run out of permutations Braxton Clarke thanked him, asked the jury if there was anything they wanted clarified, then glanced down at his notes. There was a long pause before he looked up again and announced that as it was nearly one o’clock, they would break for lunch.
May was sitting in her office when he came in from his chambers.
‘What, precisely, do you mean by this, Miss Keaps?’
He had a page of his notes in his hand and was stabbing at it with his index finger.
‘Do you think I need you to do my job for me? I’ve been Deputy Coroner for City of London and Southwark for four years and I’ve managed very well in all that time to formulate my own opinion as to the veracity of witness testimony. Furthermore, I am entirely at liberty to accept or refuse any evidence as I see fit and instruct the jury accordingly. That is my role, Miss Keaps, not yours. How dare you overstep your authority? You are my officer and it is in the nature of the job that I have to rely heavily on you but that does not include telling me what to think. It may interest you to know I had already come to the conclusion that we were unlikely ever to see that particular witness again.’
There was a knock on the door. He stalked across and wrenched it open. ‘What?’
It was the postman with the early afternoon delivery.
‘I’ll take those.’
He snatched the letters and threw them on the desk. May felt her cheeks grow hot to be caught being reprimanded like a naughty schoolgirl. Braxton Clarke slammed the door shut.
‘I don’t know what else to say... really I don’t... Congratulations, Miss Keaps, you are undoubtedly the first person ever to render me lost for words.’
He had lowered his voice which made his anger all the more intense. May couldn’t do anything but stare at the strewn envelopes and wish she was anywhere but here.
‘I am too outraged... yes, outraged... by your temerity to continue this now. I’ll speak to you later.’ And he marched off back to his chambers, waving the offending notes like a battle flag.
May laced and unlaced her fingers, cursing her stupidity. How could she have forgotten this man wasn’t anything like Colonel Tindal? He took pride in his abilities and she’d insulted his competence. But there was more to it than that, and she knew it. She’d been trying too hard to prove to him how clever she was, what an invaluable coroner’s officer she made. Well, she’d blown that now. Gone were the chances of him giving her a glowing reference when the new coroner was appointed. She’d be out of a job for certain then. And he could still sack her straight away. What had Dr Swan called it? Inability or misbehaviour. Well, if that applied to a coroner there was no reason why it couldn’t also be true of his officer.
But she still had the rest of the inquest to get through. She should eat something. Except her mouth was so dry she didn’t know if she’d be able to swallow. She bent under the desk to get her fishpaste sandwich from her bag. She hadn’t heard him come back into the room. He was standing in front of her, an uncertain smile ghosting his lips.
‘I’m really very sorry, May. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. It was unprofessional with a colleague, and downright unforgivable behaviour towards you as a young woman.’ He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. ‘I have this terrible habit of letting my emotions get the better of me; my wife is always ticking me off for it. I understand that you might have had a different way of operating with Colonel Tindal, but it won’t do for me. As I said before - or rather as I remember shouting...’ A trace of a blush highlighted his cheekbones. ‘I prefer my coroner’s officer to be my representative behind the scenes and for me to do the work in the courtroom. Now, do you think we can put it all behind us and start again? Please?’
May nodded. She didn’t know how else to respond; it was the most gracious apology she’d ever received. Braxton Clarke clasped his hands together like a reprieved miscreant.
‘Splendid. A cup of tea to seal the bargain, I think, before we go back into the fray. No, you sit there and eat your sandwich. I’ll make it.’ And he walked, faintly whistling, into the kitchenette.
***
The courtroom gallery was now peppered with a few press reporters. May guessed the jury had been gossiping in a pub over lunch and word had got around that something was brewing. Either that or the reporters had only just got up. The coroner asked Dr Willcox to give his evidence and the medical expert immediately showed his experience by addressing himself directly to the jury.
‘I will keep my statement brief. If there’s anything or any point that you don’t understand please interrupt me and I will be happy to go over it again. I concur with the post-mortem results that the deceased had smoked opium just prior to death. I’m afraid it’s impossible to say how much but, quite frankly, it wouldn’t make any difference to my conclusions. Because there was a completely different drug in his system. That is, one not from the family of narcotics. A tropane alkaloid: namely, cocaine.’
May felt a shift in the air surrounding Brilliant Chang. She sneaked a glance. His placid expression hadn’t changed but she noticed he had crossed his legs and his free foot was twitching. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear.
‘And that - beyond any doubt - would not have been taken by the deceased voluntarily. Either before or after the opiate.’
The whole courtroom was charged with energy now; it was as if the chemical analyst’s words had set a bomb ticking.
‘Let me explain: opium addicts search for release through narcotic dreams and torpor. Cocaine is a stimulant and would immediately heighten their senses to such an extent they would be consumed with hyperactivity; the two are counterproductive and a seasoned drug taker such as the deceased would’ve known this.’
A member of the jury held up his hand. ‘How can you know that for a fact? Dr Swan only said he’d smoked some opium in that Chinaman’s restaurant before he died.’
Brilliant Chang’s solicitor stood and opened his mouth to speak but the coroner motioned for him to sit down again.
‘It’s all right, I had noticed.’ He turned to the jury. ‘I want you to be quite clear on the fact that no link - none whatsoever - has been established between Mr Chan here and the taking of narcotics. Nor yet is there a direct link with the deceased himself, other than the fact that the body was discovered in close proximity to his establishment.’
May admired Braxton Clarke’s technique. He hadn’t exactly dismissed Sing Quong’s entire testimony (which, of course, h
e couldn’t do without her being able to furnish the proof that he’d been lying) but he had placed it firmly in the realms of speculation. Brilliant Chang wasn’t going to have his name put forward for trial at the Old Bailey quite yet.
‘Please, Dr Willcox, if you would continue with your explanation.’
‘The tissue samples I tested showed abnormalities in the liver and spleen. The fluids - bile, urine and blood - all similarly demonstrated changes associated with the long-term use of opium. However, that is of secondary importance to the evidence I found of acute congestion in the heart and brain tissues and the large volume of cocaine in the stomach contents. I would stake my reputation on the fact that it was an overdose of cocaine that killed Miles Elliott.’
The coroner waited for the buzz in the room to die down and for the jury to focus on him.
‘Thank you, Dr Willcox. This court is indebted to you for your thorough work, and the fact that you have stated your opinions in so clear and unequivocal a fashion. Do I take it there are no further questions for this witness?... In that case, you are free to leave.’
The medical expert returned his notes to his briefcase, nodded once to the coroner, and walked to the door. Braxton Clarke waited until nothing could be heard except the ticking of the clock.
‘Such testimony leads me to question how it is possible that none of his friends here present, who professed to know Miles Elliott well, could have missed the obvious signs of habitual drug use. I happen to find that most unlikely. As I do that Mr Chan here was anywhere other than where he said he was on the night in question; in fact, I have personally corroborated his alibi with the woman concerned. From now on I will have nothing but the truth told in this court and, believe me, the penalties at my disposal for doing otherwise are severe indeed. So, Mr Weatherby, Miss, Fogle, Miss Newick... do any of you wish to re-take the stand and modify your testimony in any way?’
None made a motion to rise.
‘Very good. That was your last chance for leniency. I suggest you go away, think about the implications of what we have heard here this afternoon, and consider that there is such a thing as manslaughter for knowingly allowing a person to endanger their lives with the use of illegal drugs.’
