Robin Hood Yard

by Mark Sanderson

  “Lizzie asked me not to mention our meeting. She turned up on the doorstep – same way you did. What’s the matter? You know neither of us would ever do anything to hurt you. We love you.”

  The four-letter word made Matt wince. He often used the word in his head but rarely enunciated it. The term was a sign of weakness.

  “Why did she come to see you?”

  “She’s afraid you’re seeing someone else.”

  Matt, as if he’d been holding his breath, gave a huge sigh of relief. His suspicions were unfounded. He pulled Johnny to him.

  “So where is she?” Matt, whispering the words in his ear, held him tight.

  It hurt. Johnny wriggled out of the embrace. “She’s not at home?”

  “No. The house was empty when I got back last night. There’s not been a peep out of her since.”

  “And Lila Mae?”

  “I presume she’s taken her with her.”

  “Of course she has. Why wouldn’t she? It’s a good sign. If she’d been abducted, Lila Mae would have been left behind. There’s no more telltale sound than a crying baby.”

  “I suppose so. I can’t see Zick changing nappies. A little stranger would be bad for business.”

  “We’ve given our word – why would he spoil things now?”

  “He has every reason to distrust us.”

  Fleet Street, at the end of the alley, was a vivid, moving picture postcard. It might as well have been on the other side of a looking glass. Most folk simply wanted to get on with their lives, uninterrupted and untouched by world affairs. Why couldn’t he and Matt be more like them?

  Johnny lit a cigarette and made no comment when Matt took one too.

  “Have you called her parents?”

  “Of course. Her father said he hadn’t seen her or Lila … Why did she think I was being unfaithful?”

  “I don’t know. She’s really down in the dumps though. Sitting at home all day, she’s plenty of time to brood. You’re working all hours while she misses going out to work.”

  “She’s got Lila to look after.”

  “And you as well! But it’s not enough. You know how she is. She’s a woman of ambition.”

  “I’m working to give them what they want. That’s why I do so much overtime. She thinks I’m neglecting her, does she? I wouldn’t mind, but I’d be more than happy to laze around at home all day.”

  “You know that’s not the case. We both want to get on, make a name for ourselves. There’s more to life than getting and spending.”

  “Who said that? Coleridge?”

  “Wordsworth: ‘The World Is Too Much with Us’. Told you some of my reading would eventually rub off on you.”

  Matt smiled, unconvinced. “We need to read the names on Hollom’s list. Ensom, Leask and Ormesher are bound to be on it, but we don’t know if any of the murder victims are.”

  “Well, Hollom won’t tell us. Surely the EFF must have kept a copy?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out. I’m going back to Bishopsgate now.”

  “And Lizzie?”

  “Perhaps she’s been in Blackheath all along. Nursing her resentment as well as Lila. I wouldn’t put it past her father to lie to me. There’s no doubt which side he’d be on if Lizzie was involved in a domestic dispute.”

  “Why would he lie though?”

  “Probably doesn’t want me breaking the door down if she is hiding there.”

  “Well, keep me posted.”

  “Likewise. And if you do hear from her, call Snow Hill straightaway.”

  “I will.”

  They embraced in the dark. This time Johnny put up with the pain. Matt wasn’t usually given to such demonstrativeness. He must be overwrought.

  “Sorry for doubting you.” Matt ruffled his hair.

  “Think no more about it. I’d have thought the same in your place.”

  They re-emerged into Fleet Street. Matt went one way, Johnny the other.

  He almost ran back to the office. He wanted to know what Tanfield had to say for himself.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Hext was lurking in the foyer. He walked straight past him, nodded to the commissionaire, and entered the icy night. A moment later, Hext followed.

  They didn’t speak until he turned into Sherbourne Lane. He often called into St Mary’s – for some reason the church reminded him of Amsterdam. It was an oasis of calm amid the hurly-burly of business. He liked to lose himself in the sublime complexity of Grinling Gibbons’s golden altar screen. He left the praying to others. There was a lot of guilt in the City.

  The younger man could hardly contain himself.

  “A pig came sniffing round today. You promised there’d be no comeback.”

  “Nothing to do with me.”

  “But it is though, isn’t it? Two dead men and a human torch in constant pain.”

  “I believe you hand-picked them. I trust their successors will be more careful.”

  “You want to go ahead then?”

  “Of course – and if I ever see your face again, you’ll be more than sorry. You were under strict orders never to approach me. Why didn’t you telephone?”

  “A little bird told me it wasn’t safe.”

  “Well, dear boy, you’re not safe here on the street either.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Hext squared up to the larger man and immediately crumpled as a gloved fist struck his stomach.

  “Yes, I am. You were paid to do a job – paid handsomely, if you don’t mind my saying so – and I expect you to carry it out to the letter.”

  “You don’t scare me.” The bullyboy, clutching his midriff, stepped back. “You forget we know where you live.”

  His employer smiled. Ignorance and violence were so often to be found in the same tiny mind.

  “Let me tell you something. In the fourteenth century this quiet street was known as Shiteburne Lane. I believe you knew an unfortunate gentleman called Quirk. His conscience got the better of him. Before you do anything foolish, consider what happened to him.”

  Johnny was breathing heavily when he got back to his desk. He’d been so het up he’d ignored the lifts and taken the stairs at a lick. He regretted it now. The soothing ointment had glued his shirt to his back. This had done nothing to cool his temper.

  “What’s PC Watkiss’s first name?”

  Tanfield’s question was so unexpected it stopped Johnny launching into his planned tirade. “Why?”

  “It’s not Albert or Alfred or Algernon, by any chance? Do say yes.”

  “He’s a Herbert.”

  “Pity – A. Watkiss is an anagram of swastika. Has he got any tattoos?”

  “I haven’t the faintest.” He hung his jacket on the back of his chair. “Not got anything better to do than play around with letters?”

  The former public school boy pouted. “Thought you liked word games.”

  “I do …” Johnny was scribbling on a pad. “Oh, look! What a coincidence! T. Tanfield makes defiant Lt.”

  “You don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Johnny smiled in victory. “I don’t. Been speaking to Watkiss, have you? Not the only cop you’ve been blabbing to, is he?”

  Tanfield reddened. “I thought he had a right to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That you’re stepping out with his wife.”

  “You buffoon! We were only arm-in-arm. That’s not adultery.”

  “Just good friends? Don’t pull an act. I know what I saw.”

  “Nothing. That’s what you saw.” Johnny wiped his forehead. “Next time, remember there are no secrets between Turner and me.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Watkiss say anything of interest?”

  “He likes you. Said he was mistaken about you.”

  “Good to hear. It’s so easy to form the wrong impression.” He sat down. His anger had evaporated as quickly as it had flared up. “Anything else?”

  “Chittleborough was poisoned. Bro
ster too. Bromet’s been buried though.”

  “That was quick. His murderer’s still at large.”

  “The cops don’t see any need to exhume him at present. He clearly died at the hands of the same killer.”

  “Saving the pennies again.” Johnny scratched the side of his head. “I’m half-inclined to believe there’s some rational explanation to all this … ”

  “Who said that?”

  “I can’t remember. Someone in The Lady Vanishes.”

  “Oh really?” Tanfield twirled his pencil. “Isn’t that movie set on a train?”

  There she was: collar up, hat pulled down against the cold. Even so you could tell there was firm, lithe flesh beneath the tweed. He imagined putting his arm round the cinched waist; undoing the buttons, one by one.

  He knew it was wrong to follow a woman – but he wasn’t sick in the head. There was no use in making a fool of himself, risking rejection – public humiliation – if she already had a sweetheart. And why would a dish like her be alone? She didn’t wear a wedding ring though … It would be typical of him to fall for someone else’s fiancée.

  Row by row, the lights in the café went out. The manager – who was by no means immune to her charms himself; he’d seen him watching her – locked the door behind him. They said goodnight and went in opposite directions. He towards Aldgate; she towards Gracechurch Street.

  Alex crushed the dog-end beneath his foot and left his vantage point in the darkened doorway of the Trujillo Railway (Peru) Company.

  She walked fast for a woman. Perhaps she had a date this evening … The besotted typist followed, determined not to lose sight of her as she forced her way against the tide of grey-faced office workers heading towards the station.

  At the end of Fenchurch Street she stopped and glanced back. He dodged behind a police box. Surely he hadn’t been spotted?

  The ruins of All Hallows sparkled in the moonlight. Wren’s church – deemed, like so many others, redundant – was being demolished to make way for the new headquarters of a clearing bank. Another triumph of Mammon.

  She crossed the road and entered Lombard Street. Money-lenders poured out of the terraced temples. There was nothing like cooking the books to give one an appetite.

  Past Clement’s Lane, Birchin Lane, Nicholas Lane. The Mansion House and the Bank of England lay straight ahead. What business did she have in this part of the City?

  None, most likely. However, she didn’t disappear into the underground station. The woman who haunted his dreams turned sharply into Change Alley.

  She didn’t look back.

  Clues, Jews and tattoos. Johnny’s head was full of them – and yet he’d not been able to mention any of them in his article. He’d described the encounter in the Turkish baths as vividly as he could but, as agreed, linked it to the series of murders rather than the anti-Semitic attacks. Implicitly, not explicitly. Sometimes what was not said was as important as what was.

  Hollom’s name would not appear in print. The in-house lawyers had cleared every word. There were fewer of them than Johnny would have liked. Adler had been unavailable. Culver was out of the office. It wasn’t like either of them to shun attention.

  What did their absence signify? Everything meant something. He was beginning to see more and more connections wherever he turned.

  She’d vanished. There were five entrances/exits in Change Alley. Alex explored every nook and cranny of the shadowy vennel. He felt like a rat in a laboratory maze. Had she led him down here deliberately?

  A stray dog, truffling through garbage, made him jump. It was no good. He’d lost her. He’d try again tomorrow. The George and Vulture was round the corner …

  He could smell her but not see her. A green scent hung in the air. Something earthy. What was it? Lemon? Vanilla?

  A gloved hand gripped his shoulder. His heart lurched.

  He turned round. It wasn’t her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The colours and angles were spectacular yet the title of the exhibition, Fifteen Paintings of London, and the name of the group of artists, the Euston Road School, had promised so little. Johnny had not been overwhelmed with enthusiasm when Rebecca Taylor had invited him. Nevertheless he’d accepted. He could always study her instead of the daubs.

  The Storran Gallery, at 316 Euston Road, was a couple of minutes’ walk from the station. Johnny, freshly showered, arrived there soon after seven thirty. The woman on the door had winced when he’d said his name.

  “You’re supposed to be a Green or a Brown.”

  “It’s all right, Verity.”

  Rebecca appeared and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll look after him.”

  She handed him a glass of red wine. It was shockingly sweet.

  “Half the guests were plucked from the Post Office directory. It’s all part of their desire to make art accessible to the man in the street. Or woman.”

  “Truly?”

  She giggled.

  “Cross my heart. Their last show was titled The Jones Exhibition. Try keeping up with four hundred of them!”

  The room was packed. It was impossible to tell who might be Green or Brown – everyone was red-faced. So far they had managed to stand in admiration in front of Graham Bell’s café scene, Forty-four Goodge Street; Lawrence Gowing’s Mare Street, Hackney; Claude Rogers’s Regent’s Park; and William Coldstream’s St Pancras Station.

  Johnny, as a wordsmith, considered himself an ignoramus when it came to art. It annoyed him that newspapers were happy to pay a premium for illustrations and photographs when the going rate for words was not even ten a penny.

  The painstaking realism of these urban landscapes – images of places he knew – spoke to him far more than any pastoral scene. That said, the cynic in him wondered why they didn’t simply use a camera.

  The answer came in the form of Geoffrey Tibble’s Demolition of Verlaine’s House. Its composition was anything but composing: the jagged lines and vivid colours suggested violence and anger, yet the total impression was one of pathos. Passion destroyed by progress.

  “A house of ill-repute,” said Becky, rolling her eyes.

  “Well, Verlaine would keep chasing Rimbauds.”

  She hit him to acknowledge the punchline.

  “We can only guess what went on between the poets. No one will ever paint a picture of that.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Johnny. “Artists like to make a stir. The shock of the nude hasn’t lost its power.”

  “It’s still an act of vandalism to knock the house down. It’s vindictive.”

  “The star-crossed lovers didn’t stay in Howland Street for long. They moved to Camden, didn’t they?”

  “That’s not the point. Great poems were written there – even if their subject matter is scandalous.”

  “What would you like the landlord to do? Turn it into a shrine? The place was falling down. He has to make a living. Money trumps art every time.”

  “If you say so.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Look, there’s Eileen Agar. I must talk to her about her theory of womb-magic.”

  Johnny watched her make her way across the crowded room. She was in her element, surrounded by more women than men, radiant with excitement and love of painting.

  “Barking up the wrong tree there, aren’t you?”

  Culver, by way of salutation, raised a glass of champagne.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was invited.”

  “By whom?”

  “No one you know. Artists are always keen to meet moneymen. They cannot live on air alone. The muse must be fed.”

  “What did you mean about barking up the wrong tree?”

  “Come off it, Steadman. Don’t tell me the trouser suit didn’t set the alarm bells ringing? Or d’you enjoy a challenge?”

  “Rebecca is a free-spirited woman with an open mind. Unlike some folk here.”

  “No need to get shirty. It was an idle remark. How come you know her?”

&nb
sp; “She was a friend of one of the murdered men.”

  “A close friend? Perhaps I was wrong.”

  “And you? Where did your paths first cross?”

  “At Grocers’ Hall. She’s very adept at getting people to open their wallets. All in a good cause, of course.”

  Johnny, frowning at his red wine, nodded at the champagne. “Where d’you get that?”

  “You’ll have to buy one of the paintings if you want to find out.”

  “I see. Which one’s yours?”

  The Shark glided through the sea of spectators and stopped in front of a picture by Victor Pasmore. It wasn’t what Johnny had expected. The Flower Barrow was a pretty street scene in pinks and greens.

  “Why this one?”

  His errant informant pointed at the man in black with a bunch of red flowers in each hand. “He’s selling, isn’t he? That’s what I do. He’s performing for the market, trying to attract buyers. And he’s surrounded by ladies …”

  “Every picture tells a story.”

  “Up to a point, Lord Copper. It’s never the whole story. The framing is as important as the figures. What’s left out is as important as what’s left in.”

  “What am I missing?”

  “Once upon a time wealth was only created from commodities: crops, currency, gold. Physical things. Ideas and education – things you can’t touch – were left to art. But ideas have intrinsic value too. So, as knowledge is power, it’s essential to have access to these ideas and information. There’s no real difference between commerce and art. There’s an art to selling bonds just as there’s an art to selling knowledge. The public is more than happy to pay for the knowledge of a teacher, a doctor or a lawyer.”

  “Such knowledge isn’t beautiful, though. And you can touch a painting.” Johnny put out his hand as if to stroke the canvas. “Once the exhibition is over, you’ll pick up The Flower Barrow and take it home.”

  “True – but in the meantime the intangible skills of Mr Pasmore will have touched the public in their own unique way.”

  Culver, like the man in the painting, may have been a glorified barrow boy, but his wits were as sharp as his suit.

  “Why did you abandon me at the baths this afternoon?”