The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  Trary had just gone up to her bed when Mr Bates put his head into the kitchen. ‘Maggie? There you are,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Come in,’ said Maggie. He came in, virile, cheerful and healthy. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ he said, and seated himself at the table. ‘You’re lookin’ lively, Maggie. Suits you. You’re a handsome woman, yer know.’

  ‘You’re a handsome man. What d’you think ’appened today?’

  ‘Well, what I’ve been thinkin’ all day is do I get to be a happy man?’

  ‘Oh, you’re always happy,’ said Maggie, ‘I never met no-one more cheerful or more pleased with ’imself. Look.’ She pushed the Daily News page across the table to him. ‘Read that, where it’s been circled round.’

  Mr Bates’s first reading was a casual skimming. His second seemed to be accomplished with difficulty. Gallantly, however, he said, ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘I’m rich,’ said Maggie.

  ‘You’re what?’ Mr Bates engineered surprise and a smile of disbelief. ‘Tell us another,’ he said.

  ‘My Uncle Henry left me a diamond mine in South Africa, would you believe it?’

  ‘No, is that a fact?’ Mr Bates tried to sound as if he was humouring her.

  ‘Would yer like a rich wife, Jerry?’

  ‘Now, Maggie, come off it, what’s yer uncle really left yer, a few old iron bedsteads?’

  ‘No, a diamond mine,’ said Maggie, as cool as sliced cucumber. ‘I’ve just told you. You didn’t know about my Uncle Henry, did you?’

  ‘Well, I can’t recall you mentionin’ him, but it’s all one to me, Maggie.’ Mr Bates was making a very gallant effort indeed to maintain a cheerful innocence. ‘It’s you I’ve got deep feelings for, you and yer girls, not a few bits an’ pieces that might net yer a couple of ’undred quid.’

  ‘But you’d ’ave me as your wife, Jerry, wouldn’t you, rich or poor?’

  ‘Rich sounds embarrassin’ to yours truly, Maggie.’ Mr Bates tried earnestness. ‘But I’d have you even if you were in the work’ouse. A diamond mine? That’s all gammon, yer teasin’ girl.’

  Maggie smiled, and Mr Bates wondered if he’d been found out. She’d been to that firm of solicitors, of course, the firm mentioned in the notice.

  He had spent several years in South Africa, trying his hand at various things in a country burgeoning with promise after the end of the Boer War. He met Henry Rushton early on, and partnered him in prospecting for diamonds or gold. They split up after a fruitless year and went their separate ways. While old Henry stuck to prospecting, he himself drifted from one project to another. He fell in with Rodney Foster, who made money by his wits, not by bending his back. They made money together in the booming mining towns of South Africa, mostly by confidence tricks or gambling. What he made always seemed to drain from his pockets. But then he liked good company, good drinking company and the classier and more expensive type of woman. Rodney Foster banked what he made. He ran into Henry Rushton again, and at a time when he was broke and too many men knew him for what he was, a confidence trickster. Also, he had some woman and her father on his tail, the woman swearing he was the father of her child, that he’d promised to marry her. He would have married her if she’d had any money, but her father was only a piffling railway official. Old Henry, an optimistic character, took him on again as a companion and friend. Henry had a feeling about a new area, as well as a bit of money. He lent Jerry some to equip himself for a fresh go at prospecting. They talked at night of England and home, and old Henry spoke often of his favourite niece Maggie, married for several years to a man called Wilson, but now widowed. Old Henry, if he struck it rich, meant to ask his niece to come out and join him, with her four girls.

  They were companions, not partners, prospecting individually. Henry always went about it as if a strike was just round the corner, and eventually he did strike. A rich vein of blue, he said, a blinder. Jerry accompanied him to Johannesburg, where he had the mine legally documented. They stayed several days in Johannesburg, celebrating. They met Rodney Foster on their last day, and he joined the celebrations. Never having got close to prospecting himself, and never having seen a strike, Roddy rode back with them the next day, by which time good old Henry wasn’t too well. He dosed himself with quinine, while Roddy made uncomplimentary remarks about the shack. The following day, it was obvious Henry needed a doctor, he was in high fever. He had lucid moments, however, during one of them he managed to write out his will and to get Roddy and himself, Jerry, to witness it. He asked him to see that it got to his solicitors in Johannesburg, if that was how things were going to work out.

  Mr Bates remembered how he’d had a go at bringing an old Zulu witch doctor. It was only a thirty-minute ride. He felt if he could keep Henry alive, he’d get far more out of him than a dying handshake. But by the time he returned with the old Zulu, Henry had gone, and Roddy was cursing at being in charge of a corpse on a day fierce with heat. He and Roddy buried him, and left for Johannesburg the next day. On the way, Roddy referred to the will and the fact that old Henry’s niece Maggie was going to be a rich woman. A rich widow woman. An idea was born and took root. Any rich widow was worth marrying, even one with four children.

  They turned about, rode back to the shack and found a letter, just one. It was from old Henry’s niece, and bore her address in Walworth, South London. Mr Bates handed the will to the Johannesburg solicitors, but kept the letter. He was going back to England immediately, he said, and would be only too pleased to find Mrs Wilson. It was what his old friend, Henry Rushton, would have wanted him to do. Roddy financed the venture. The idea, of course, was to marry the widow before she came to know about the legacy. Just use your natural charm, said Roddy, and she’ll jump at you. In return, Roddy was to receive ten thousand pounds, plus a further twenty thousand if the value of the mine turned out to be sky-high.

  They were held up on the voyage, the ship’s engines giving trouble. They had to put in to Sierra Leone for repairs. They got to England a lot later than envisaged, which made them worry about the possibility of the widow receiving the glad tidings in advance of Jerry Bates. That didn’t happen.

  But she had had the news now. And what else did she know? Nothing that was upsetting her, judging from her friendly smile. Well, she had a lot to feel friendly about. He’d feel friendly to Lucifer himself if he’d just been left a diamond mine.

  ‘It was lovely and kind of you, Jerry, to offer to be a father to my girls,’ she said. ‘Not many men would take on as much as that.’

  ‘A privilege, Maggie, not a liability. Soon as I met you all, I said to myself, Jerry, I said, ’ere’s a house that’s as good as a treasure chest. I’m not sayin’ bein’ comfortably off don’t count, but in the long run, what’s money? It buys yer bread and pays yer rent, but it don’t give a man something priceless. An’ what’s the top note in pricelessness? As far as yours truly’s concerned, it’s a ready-made fam’ly, it’s a fine wife and four girls. I’d swap any diamond mine for that.’

  ‘You’re such a good man, Jerry, honest you are,’ said Maggie, ‘you’ve never minded me bein’ poor, and you’ve done me lovely kindnesses, like settling with that Mr Monks and my rent owings. I don’t ’ardly know I could live up to you if we married. But if we did, you wouldn’t be embarrassed about my riches because I’m not really rich, after all, not after what I did about what Uncle Henry went and left me. I told the solicitors that my mum an’ dad, an’ my sister, were to ’ave everything except two and a half thousand pounds. Well, Uncle Henry was my mum’s brother, and she an’ dad’s havin’ a terrible time in Australia, and so’s my sister. Her Australian husband’s out of work, and my dad only gets to do bits of jobbin’ carpentry. I couldn’t take all that money, I signed a document at the solicitors.’ She had. She had made over part of the legacy to her parents and her sister. They were to have three thousand pounds between them, leaving her with two and a half thousand pounds, less solicitors’ expenses. ‘So no,
I’m not really rich, y’see, I’ll just have about two and a half thousand pounds. That won’t embarrass you, will it?’

  Mr Bates’s healthy face was a study. It had turned a mottled red. ‘I’ve got to believe this?’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Yes, the document’s been signed, like I said.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Mr Bates, having trouble with his breathing.

  ‘I like to be good an’ kind too,’ said Maggie sweetly.

  ‘That ain’t bein’ good an’ kind,’ panted Mr Bates, ‘that’s bein’ off yer flamin’ rocker. What d’yer mean by doin’ a thing like that, yer silly cow?’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Maggie, ‘that’s not nice, Jerry.’

  ‘You get left a diamond mine and you give away all it’s worth except two and a ’alf thousand nicker?’ Mr Bates was now nearly purple.

  ‘I wouldn’t want more than that, specially not if I ’ad a husband comf’tably off and a kind father to my girls,’ said Maggie.

  ‘You stupid bitch,’ said Mr Bates.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Maggie calmly, ‘that’s ’ardly pleasant, is it? Don’t you want something priceless in me and the girls?’

  ‘Don’t make me ’ysterical,’ said Mr Bates.

  ‘Oh, lor’,’ said Maggie, ’is it all off, then? Don’t you need no answer to your kind proposal?’

  Mr Bates looked at his watch. It was just turned nine-thirty. The Walworth pubs were still open. ‘What I need is a drink, yer brainless female,’ he said, and got to his feet, his face still mottled.

  ‘Yes, go and ’ave a nice pint,’ said Maggie. ‘Oh, you best take this money.’ She rose from her chair and took an envelope from the mantelpiece. ‘It’s all there, everything you lent me. I wouldn’t like you to think I wasn’t in proper appreciation of your kindness.’

  ‘Yer’ll excuse me bein’ speechless,’ said Mr Bates. He took the envelope and left the house with a rattling slam of the front door.

  Maggie smiled. Two men in her life. One had fallen flat on his face. One remained. ‘I’m goin’ to buy meself a new hat an’ new clothes Saturday, and invite Harry to Sunday tea again,’ she said to her sewing-machine. ‘And Bobby can come too.’

  Her sewing-machine voiced no objections.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The trail, so promisingly marked by the statement from Linda Jennings, had petered out. The newspapers, much to Inspector Greaves’s growling disgust, had got their teeth into the failure of the police to make an arrest. They made much of the fact that the murder of Mabel Shipman followed by the attempted murder of another young woman was not something the public would accept lightly in the event of total failure.

  Nicholas, walking along Walworth Road, was deep in depressing thought. He was due to meet Frank Chapman in the Rockingham public house by the Elephant and Castle, for a ham sandwich and a beer. They were then to go to Manor Place Baths to interview an employee whose wife had let slip to CID men that he was out most nights, including the two nights that mattered most. She hadn’t said so before. This morning questions put casually to her had drawn the information from her. Nicholas, however, held out no great hopes. For a start, the husband was nearly sixty years old and did not own a mackintosh. In his introspective mood, Nicholas bumped into a woman coming out of Hurlocks. ‘Sorry – so sorry – ’

  ‘So you should be, Sergeant Chamberlain, I had no idea you could be so bruising,’ said Mrs Emma Carter.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ said Nicholas, looking rueful.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Not my day. Well, it was bad luck nearly knocking you over of all people.’

  ‘Why, am I special, then, or exceptionally fragile and delicate?’ Her expression was solemn, but her eyes were teasing.

  ‘I was thinking of how hospitable you’ve been,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sorry about my clumsiness. How are you?’

  ‘Recovering,’ she said. Nicholas grimaced. ‘No, no, I’m teasing you. I’m very well, thank you, and pleased to see you. I presume, as you haven’t found it necessary to call on me lately, that you’ve stopped worrying about me.’

  ‘I’m not so worried now I know you’ve a close friend to keep an eye on you,’ said Nicholas, envying the man, whoever he was. Emma wrinkled her nose. ‘What are you doing at the moment?’

  ‘This is where I work in the mornings,’ said Emma. ‘Hurlocks. I’ve just finished, and am on my way home.’

  ‘I’m on my way to meet my colleague,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sorry again about bumping you, but —’

  ‘You’ve still got problems?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Yes, still going round in circles, Mrs Carter. Take care now. Good luck.’ Lifting his hat to her, Nicholas went on his way. He knew it would do him no good to linger. It would only stoke the fires. She was a remarkably appealing woman.

  Emma stood for a moment, looking after his striding figure. She felt almost cross that he had departed so abruptly. She turned and made her way home.

  Oh, bother it.

  The interview with the man who worked at Manor Place Baths produced nothing but an explosion of cockney indignation. And why shouldn’t he take umbrage when all he did on his nights out was to play darts around the pubs with his mates? Sod off, go and ask them.

  We’ll have to.

  You do that.

  Sorry you’ve been troubled.

  So am I.

  Walworth brooded by day on the murderer lurking in its midst, and kept its young women indoors at night.

  ‘So there you are, my pets,’ said Maggie. All the girls were home from school, and Maggie had told them of yesterday’s happenings, although that did not include what had taken place between her and the lodger. The girls were spellbound.

  ‘Oh, Mum, oh, crikey,’ breathed Meg.

  ‘Mum, it’s a miracle,’ said Trary, utterly blissed for her mother.

  ‘Uncle ’Enry’s like Jesus,’ said Lily. ‘Jesus did miracles.’

  ‘I never met Uncle ’Enry,’ said Daisy. ‘Mum, d’you fink ’e’d let you buy me some new boots that don’t let water?’

  ‘You’re goin’ to have expensive shoes, love, not boots,’ said Maggie. ‘You’re all goin’ to have shoes, not boots, and lots of new clothes. Lots. Trary can have lots of new stockings because she’s nearly fourteen and because she likes to feel proud when Bobby’s walkin’ her ’ome from school – now don’t break up the happy ’ome.’

  The girls were all joyously dancing. ‘We’re rich, we’re rich!’ Girlish exuberance produced a riot of noise.

  ‘I’d like to hear meself speak, if you don’t mind,’ said Maggie. ‘Daisy, stop jumpin’. Meg, and you too, Trary, stop wavin’ your clothes in the air, just look at you. Listen, is that Bobby comin’ back, is that him I can hear comin’ down the passage?’

  Trary, whose clothes were high and her legs kicking, hastily pushed everything back into place. Maggie laughed. ‘That caught you, my girl,’ she said. ‘Still, it’s nice to know you’ve got modest ways, love. Boys can be cheeky enough, without givin’ them any encouragement.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care,’ said Trary, eyes alight with the joy of being alive. She gave her mum a hug. They all gave her a hug. Maggie’s eyes turned a little misty. ‘Mum, you’re the best ever.’

  Maggie coughed. ‘Well, we’ve got money for all the rainy days now,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you all out on Saturday, we’ll all go shoppin’ for new clothes and things. We’ll go to Hurlocks, they’re the best drapers.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I met an awf’lly nice lady who served me when I bought that hankie for Bobby,’ said Trary.

  ‘We’ll see if she’ll serve us,’ said Maggie. ‘And I thought, oh, yes,’ she added casually, ‘p’raps we’d better invite Constable Bradshaw to tea again on Sunday, seein’ ’ow kind he was to come an’ show me that notice in the newspaper. Yes, we ought to show our gratefulness.’

  ‘We can’t not,’ said Trary, ‘gratefulness is special.’

  ‘Well, yes, all right,’ said Maggie, ‘if that
’s what all you girls would like. I’ll send ’im a note invitin’ him. If you’re sure.’

  ‘What’s mum askin’ us for?’ enquired Lily of Meg.

  ‘Oh, I expect it’s something to do with a widow’s secrets,’ said Meg. ‘Mum’s a widow.’

  ‘Is she really rich?’ asked Daisy, still awe-struck by thousands of pounds.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Maggie crisply, ‘and don’t any of you go puttin’ it about that I am. We’ve just got something to spend on clothes and things, and for rainy days.’ But she knew they had a little more than that. They could actually buy a house, they could buy a nice one with a garden for three hundred pounds, and never have to pay rent again. That prospect made her feel giddy. ‘Well, then, p’raps Trary could take a note round to Mr Bradshaw this evenin’.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Trary, already in love with the idea of having a policeman as a father.

  ‘I’ll go with her,’ said Meg.

  ‘Me too,’ said Lily.

  ‘I’m only little,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Oh, you can come too, little girl,’ said Meg graciously.

  ‘I likes ’Arry,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Daisy, don’t you call him that,’ said Maggie, ‘it’s disrespectful.’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Daisy, ‘I didn’t know I was old enough to be dis’pectful.’

  ‘I’m not sure what Mr Bradshaw’s goin’ to say if you all turn up on ’is doorstep,’ said Maggie. ‘It might be carryin’ gratefulness a bit far.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’d like to see all of us, Mum,’ said Trary. ‘Well, he lives all alone, and visitors must be awf’lly welcome to him. His disappointment might be bitter if only one of us turned up. I can’t think why some nice comely woman doesn’t go and marry him.’

  ‘A what one?’ asked Maggie, having not unusual difficulty in keeping her face straight.

  ‘Comely,’ said Trary. ‘That’s attractive with a nice figure.’