Robin Hood Yard

by Mark Sanderson

  He rinsed out the teapot and spooned in four heaps of Lipton’s. It seemed there was no clocking on either.

  “Who owns the house?”

  “I do.”

  Johnny, while Yaxley’s back was turned, slipped out of the kitchen. He was halfway up the stairs before the landlord noticed.

  “Oi! Steadman! What about the money?”

  “Send me an invoice.”

  Even if the sluggard were to submit one he would see that it was never paid. Instinct told him Yaxley had concealed more than he’d revealed.

  TWO

  The first body had been found on Monday in Gun Square, actually a gloomy triangle off Houndsditch. Jimmy Bromet, nineteen, was a waiter at the Three Nuns Hotel next door to Aldgate Station. He, too, had been tied to his bed and emasculated, but not castrated. No one in the lodging house had a heard a sound.

  On his way back to the office Johnny made the cabbie take a detour. Although entirely surrounded by banks, Grocers’ Hall, off Prince’s Street, had its own courtyard. Two covered entrances allowed vehicles to drive in and out without the irksome task of reversing. A polite but obdurate doorkeeper informed him that Miss Taylor had arrived late for work. Consequently she would not be available until this evening. And livery companies were supposed to be charitable institutions.

  “Undemonstrative? Fifteen letters.” Tanfield, a junior reporter, had a strange knack of determining the length of a word no matter how long.

  “We’ll never know how long Chittleborough was though, will we?” said Dimeo. The deputy sports editor was obsessed with physical attributes. “What d’you think the killer does with the trophies?”

  “I loathe to think,” said Johnny.

  “Yet you must find out, Steadman, post haste. It is what you are paid to do.”

  Gustav Patsel’s wire-rimmed spectacles glinted in the milky midday sun. Tanfield and Dimeo returned to their desks. “Pencil”, as the news editor was ironically known, had never been popular but, since the invasion of Czechoslovakia, anti-German feeling was at an all-time high. The ever-hungry Hun’s waist had its own policy of expansionism.

  “Perhaps they’re turned into sausages,” said Johnny. “You’d know more about that than me. Frankfurters, bratwurst, knackwurst …” Dimeo disguised a cackle with a cough.

  “I want a thousand words on the two murders by four o’clock,” said Patsel. “They are obviously the work of the same degenerate.” He was about to say more when Quarles, his long-suffering deputy, handed him a sheet of yellow paper. The bulletin did not contain good news.

  Johnny watched Patsel resume his throne in the centre of the newsroom and pick up a phone.

  “What’s so important?”

  “Goya and El Greco are following in the footsteps of Rembrandt and Rubens,” said Quarles.

  The central rooms of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square had been closed for more than a month. Rumour had it the priceless paintings were being stored somewhere in Wales.

  “They and their curators clearly don’t have much faith in old Neville,” said Johnny. “I wish Pencil would pack up and leave.”

  “He’d rather be interned than return to the Fatherland – and who can blame him? Pressmen are even less popular over there. At least we try to tell the truth.”

  “Are we interested in birching? There’s another demonstration planned for this afternoon. It might be lively.”

  “No. Given the whole country is in danger of losing their skins, you’d think they’d have something better to do. Concentrate on the murders. See if you can find anything that connects the two men.”

  Peter Quarles was the main reason why Johnny was still at the Daily News: without his frequent, good-natured interventions, Patsel and his star reporter would have come to blows. The editor was not blessed with a sense of humour. He found Johnny’s wit and disregard for authority difficult to take. Quarles, though, had learned to handle – and respect – Johnny’s wayward talent.

  Johnny, keen to hear more, rang Matt but was told D. C. Turner was still out of the office. The press bureau at Old Jewry, headquarters of the City of London police, promised to relay any developments in the double murder case. He wouldn’t hold his breath.

  Apart from the manner of their deaths, there appeared to be nothing to link the cases. Bromet had lived on the first floor; Chittleborough on the third. Had the two bachelors known each other? Bromet had no criminal convictions. Did Chittleborough have a clean record too?

  Matt would have no difficulty in answering the second question. He was invariably quick to acknowledge the part Johnny had played in his promotion. Although unofficial, their collaboration in several headline-hitting cases had boosted both their careers. The lifelong friends made a good team. That didn’t mean they always saw eye to eye.

  Lizzie jerked awake. The glowing coals shifted in the grate. Lila Mae, Johnny’s god-daughter, slumbered on in her arms. It was natural for the child to fall asleep after being fed, but not for her. Still, in more ways than one, breast-feeding took it out of her.

  She’d been dreaming again. The same silly dream. Walking down the aisle, carrying her bouquet of lilies of the valley – she could smell them now – and coming to a stop beside the man who, instead of being blond like her husband-to-be, had copper-coloured hair. Both Matt and Johnny had been in love with her – Lizzie knew, at least she hoped, they still were – but she was beginning to wonder if she had chosen the wrong man.

  She’d seen less and less of Matt since he’d joined the Detective Squad. There was no doubt he was a devoted father – he adored Lila Mae, even if he was hopeless at changing nappies. However, after the birth, Matt had seemed to lose interest in her. A distance crept between them and, unless she was mistaken, it was, like Lila, growing by the day. It was almost as if she’d served her purpose by producing a baby. When Matt did pay her any attention – usually on a Saturday night, after a bout of boxing and boozing – it felt as though he was acting out of duty rather than desire.

  Could you suffer from postpartum depression fifteen months after the event? It was unlikely. She had been down in the dumps for a couple weeks in September last year – when the prospect of caring for such a helpless, relentless bundle of need had become overwhelming – but the feeling had passed. Resentment at being trapped, being a prisoner of her all-consuming love for Lila, had given way to resignation and, eventually, a newfound resilience.

  She was proud of the fact that she’d regained her slim figure – well, almost – but why had she bothered? No one else saw her. Men rarely gave more than a glance to women pushing prams. She missed the admiration she’d attracted while working in Gamages. Her parents had been right when they’d said such a position was beneath her. Their darling daughter was not meant to be a salesgirl, yet they’d been perfectly happy when she’d left the department store to be a housewife and mother. They seemed to have forgotten she had brains as well as beauty.

  She didn’t feel clever today though. She felt grubby, distracted and disappointed. She kissed Lila on a chubby pink cheek; sniffed her silky fair hair. Her whole world had shrunk to this infant. She owed it to herself not to drown in domestic drudgery. She couldn’t go on like this.

  She got out of the armchair and lay Lila down in her cradle. The baby whimpered and waved her arms but did not wake. Lizzie, watching over her, sighed deeply. It wasn’t only nappies that she had to change.

  He didn’t light the paraffin heater even though the cold gave him goose pimples. Perhaps it wasn’t the pervasive underground chill. Perhaps it was nervous anticipation.

  The vat squatted on the workbench. He wouldn’t peep inside it again. The contents made him gag. The thought of touching the thick, foul liquid made his stomach lurch. Sweat beaded his broad forehead.

  The bottles were lined up waiting. He put on a pair of cotton gloves, picked up the first one and turned the spigot.

  Nothing happened. Then, just as he was about to turn off the tap, a black trickle quickly became a
torrent. He grinned with relief. He’d soon be done.

  The expected knock on the cellar door came at the exact appointed time. That was encouraging. He paid the pair of toughs and pointed to the crate.

  “Remember, gentlemen, if you do it right, I’ll give you the same again.”

  “Piece of cake,” said the older one, licking his lips. His accomplice hoisted the crate on to his shoulder with ease.

  “We’re going to enjoy this.”

  THREE

  He finally got through to Rebecca Taylor at four thirty as she returned from the canteen. Reporters didn’t get tea breaks. A trolley came round on the hour, every hour. The women who pushed it, each of them wearing what seemed like the same floral apron, were a valuable source of gossip about the goings-on in Hereflete House.

  They knew what the seventh floor had decided before anyone else.

  It was too late for the early edition – he’d already filed his copy – but it didn’t matter anyway.

  “I can’t talk now. Besides, the detective told me not to speak to the press at all.” Johnny liked her voice. She sounded like Jean Arthur.

  “What was he called?”

  “Parnell, Pentell, something like that.”

  Close enough.

  “Penterell. Don’t worry about him. He’s a dolt.”

  “I don’t want to get into any trouble.”

  “You won’t. You have my word.”

  “Are you in the habit of making promises you can’t keep?”

  “Meet me after work and you’ll find out. What time d’you finish?”

  “Half past five. Don’t come to the reception. Wait for me outside.”

  “I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you?”

  “Keep your hair on! I know you.”

  He lit up and, slowly exhaling, stared at the massive blank walls of the Bank of England: unscalable, unbreachable, very unfriendly. Prince’s Street had seemed to be one of the most boring thoroughfares in the City until the discovery of the London Curse a few years ago. The lead tablet, inscribed on both sides in Latin, declared: Titus Egnatius Tyranus is hereby solemnly cursed, likewise Publius Cicereius Felix. Empires rose and fell but human nature remained the same. Had the two dismembered men also been cursed?

  “You look exactly like your photograph.” Johnny laughed. Miss Taylor looked nothing like Jean Arthur but she was still a dish.

  “Is that a good or bad thing?”

  “Good, I reckon. You’re famous for not misleading your readers.”

  She was only partly right. There were times when he felt it necessary not to tell the whole truth. He did his best to protect his sources and the innocent. Then again, as PDQ was fond of saying – Peter Donald Quarles’s initials gave him the inevitable nickname “pretty damn quick” – what is not said can be just as revealing as what is.

  “I’m not famous. I’m simply good at my job.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Such modesty!”

  “Indeed. I’ve got a lot to be modest about.”

  They went to the Three Bucks round the corner in Gresham Street.

  “What can you tell me about Walter Chittleborough?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. He seemed a decent enough chap to begin with, but I was wrong.”

  She took another sip of beer – a surprising choice of drink. He’d had her down as a G&T sort of girl. He waited for her to break the silence.

  “I shouldn’t have given in. He’d been asking me out for months but I wasn’t interested.”

  “Why did you?”

  “I thought he’d leave me alone if I gave him what he wanted.” Johnny’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different. Men are only after one thing. Go on, I dare you. Tell me you’d say no.”

  Once upon a time he’d have answered her by kissing her on the lips. They were so red they scarcely needed lipstick. He was no stranger to brief encounters, but as he got older – thirty-one now! – he hankered after something more meaningful. Besides, he’d been in love with someone – someone he couldn’t marry – for years.

  “You’re a knockout girl, and I admit I’d like to get to know you better, but what’s the hurry?”

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s going to be another war. We might all be dead by Christmas.”

  “Let’s concentrate on those who are already dead. Who’d want to kill Chittleborough in such a horrid way?”

  “Me, for a start.”

  “Don’t say things like that. I thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”

  “I do – but Wally had it coming. He was handsome on the outside, ugly on the inside. He had a sick mind.”

  “In what way?”

  She shook her head. Her black curls gleamed in the gaslight. “I’d rather not say. It’s not important.”

  “Of course it is!” Was she insane? “What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So why did you reject him?”

  “I didn’t! He rejected me.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Stop flattering me.”

  “I’m not.” Was he? “Why would he reject you after pursuing you for so long?”

  “Pillow talk is dangerous.”

  If he pressed her further she would clam up altogether. He tried a different tack.

  “Did you ever meet any of his friends?”

  “No. He didn’t go out much during the week. His pacing up and down, up and down, drove me mad. I was planning to get out from underneath him.”

  “And yet you didn’t hear a thing last night.”

  “Not after I went to bed. I was listening to the third act of Carmen from Covent Garden. I think Renée Gilly is marvellous. It finished at five to eleven.”

  She met his gaze as if challenging him to contradict her. He remained silent.

  “I’m still going to move out, even though he’s dead.” She sighed. Out of relief or satisfaction? He couldn’t tell. “I don’t feel safe. I’ll never spend another night in Savage Gardens.”

  “You can stay with me if you like.” The words were out before he could eat them.

  “Now who’s in a hurry?” She smiled. Her eyes were almost maroon. “I’m going to stay with my brother in Tooting.”

  “Good for you. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed her his card. “You’ll feel a lot safer when the killer’s in custody.”

  “Perhaps. Thanks for the drink.”

  Johnny drained his glass and got to his feet. They shook hands. He watched her walk quickly out of the pub, aware of other eyes – those of half-cut bankers, brokers and jobbers – examining her assets. Miss Taylor was too much of a catch to let slip through his fingers. He must find a good reason to see her again.

  “Hello stranger!”

  It had been over a year since Cecil Zick – brothel-keeper, pornographer and extortionist – had seen his fellow purveyor of smut, Henry Simkins of the Daily Chronicle. It was not a fond reunion.

  “Don’t be like that, darling. We make a good team.”

  “Keep your voice down.” The wooden walls of Ye Olde Mitre were thin but Zick, a stickler for keeping up appearances, still went to the trouble of hiring a private room. “What brings you back this time?”

  “Herr Hitler. I don’t trust a word the ghastly man says. The sooner someone exterminates the jumped-up little man the better. In the meanwhile I’m going to hide behind Britannia’s voluminous skirts.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “I’ll let you know soon enough. Everything’s almost ready. The show must go on.”

  “If word gets out, you’ll wish you were in back in Potsdamer Platz.”

  “I know. I know. That’s where you come in.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Whatever you wish. A new pair of balls?”

  “Very droll. It’s always someone else who pays the price, isn’t it? You’ve a remarkable talent for survival. One of these day
s your luck will run out.”

  “Not if I can help it.” Zick coughed discreetly. “I was sorry to hear about your little accident …”

  “It wasn’t a fucking accident. It was deliberate!”

  A psychopath – an amateur surgeon who abjured the use of anaesthetic – had deprived Simkins of his crown jewels the previous summer. If it hadn’t been for Steadman, his arch-rival, he’d have lost a lot more.

  “Yes, indeed. You do understand it was impossible to visit. Let me make it up to you. Can you still …?”

  “Rise to the occasion? No – but there are other sources of pleasure.”

  “Indeed. I should know. However, let’s not forget that pleasure doesn’t equal happiness.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  “Revenge can be almost as satisfying as sex. The longer it’s deferred, the more glorious its consummation.”

  “So that’s what you’re after.”

  “Detective Constable Turner is not a man for letting bygones be bygones.” Zick put down his glass and, as if the champagne had turned to battery acid, grimaced. “I hardly touched his wife. How was I to know she was pregnant? I only detained her so that Turner would do what was required. Once again he represents a serious impediment to my business plans.”

  “What’s it going to be then? Bribery or butchery?”

  “Much as the latter would be fun, the former would be more expedient.”

  “Why not have a word with the Commander?”

  “The less he knows the better.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself: what’s in it for me?”

  “Don’t you want to get one over on Steadman?”

  “He saved my life!”

  “But not your balls, alas. And it seems that’s not all you lost. Where’s the Machiavellian streak that’s got you this far?”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you. He did set me up though. Have you still got the photographs?”

  A couple of years ago both Matt and Johnny – on separate occasions – had been drugged and molested while a camera recorded the criminal depravity. So far they had succeeded in preventing the attacks becoming common knowledge.