Maggie was working the morning away at the newsagents. She felt it only fair to see a second week through, so that Mr Gardner would have time to find someone to take her place. He shouldn’t have any trouble. Any amount of women would gladly help him out for five bob a week. Yes, said Mr Gardner, but in a shop like this he didn’t want a woman who’d got light fingers. That would cost him money he couldn’t afford.
‘Now,’ said Miss Russell, ‘who can tell me why the Restoration came about?’ Several hands went up. ‘Yes, Jane?’
Jane Atkins stood up. You always had to stand up to address a teacher. It was good manners and showed respect.
‘Well, it was either that or being governed by the Army, Miss Russell.’
‘Or?’ said Miss Russell encouragingly.
‘Or what, Miss Russell?’
‘What was the other alternative?’
‘Oh, I’m stumped there, Miss Russell,’ said Jane, and sat down.
‘Edna?’ said Miss Russell, choosing to ignore Trary’s raised hand for the moment.
Edna Cook stood up, ‘It was riots, Miss Russell.’
‘Yes, the possibility of riots, Edna. What would we call that?’
‘Larky,’ said Agnes Moore.
‘Hardly,’ said Miss Russell. ‘Do you know, Edna?’
‘I forget the word,’ said Edna.
‘Does anyone know?’
‘Could I say, Miss Russell?’ asked Trary, who had been rolling the word around her tongue.
‘Yes, enlighten the class,’ said Miss Russell, and Trary came to her feet in a new school frock, her glossy pigtails dancing at her back. The class quivered in anticipation.
‘It’s anarchy, Miss Russell,’ said Trary, ‘which is rule by mobs. Of course, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, there was something else besides that and Army rule. Actu’lly, Miss Russell, the people were sickeningly fed-up, they’d lived problematical lives for years an’ years because of Oliver Cromwell and what came after him. I think people can put up with an awful lot, don’t you, Miss Russell, but not if there’s no dancing or singing. I think General Monk could see that, and I think he had a long talk with himself. Talking’s important, well, I think it is. I happen to have a friend – ’
‘Dick Turpin,’ said Jane with a giggle.
‘Who?’ asked Miss Russell.
‘That’s his name,’ said Jane.
‘Pardon?’ said Miss Russell.
‘I shouldn’t take any notice of Jane if I were you, Miss Russell,’ said Trary, rising above all giggles. ‘I’m surprised how uneducated she is. I mean, fancy anyone not knowin’ Dick Turpin’s been dead for nearly two hundred years. He was hanged at York, you know, in 1739, so he must be dead. Miss Russell, I was goin’ to say this friend of mine does so much talkin’ that I’m sure he talks to himself when he’s not with me, and I think that’s what General Monk did, I think he – ’ Trary stopped to search for the right word.
‘Conferred with himself?’ suggested Miss Russell.
‘Yes, that sounds just right,’ said Trary, ‘yes, I think that’s what he did, he conferred with ’imself about what was best for the people.’
‘And then?’ said Miss Russell.
‘He decided to side with them and put King Charles II on the throne, he knew King Charles would bring back dancing and singing, and do away with puritan miseries.’
The class of girls whooped in exuberant agreement.
‘Thank you, Trary.’ Miss Russell smiled. ‘If the school ever puts on Shakespeare’s Prince of Denmark, I’ll ask for you to play Hamlet.’
‘Oh, yes, I like ‘To be or not to be,’ don’t you, Miss Russell? I don’t know – ’
‘You may sit down now, Trary,’ said the captivated history teacher.
Trary wanted to tell Bobby that her mum was thinking of buying a house in Herne Hill, but her mum didn’t want anyone to know about it yet. However, she did tell him she’d mentioned him to her history teacher.
‘I’m honoured,’ said Bobby, walking her home.
‘Yes, I said you were so talkative that you probably talked to yourself when you weren’t with me. Do you do that?’
‘Not much, an’ not out loud,’ said Bobby.
‘I bet you confer with yourself all the time,’ said Trary. ‘I mean, I’ve never known you when you weren’t talkin’.’
‘You can’t ’ave a proper conference on your own, Trary.’
Conference? Conference? Oh, the rotten beast, he was always doing that, getting one up on her. ‘I never met such a show-off as you, Bobby Reeves.’
‘Yes, me mum says I’m pretty good, she says I can leave me dad standin’, and he’s a lot older than me.’
‘Of course he’s a lot older, what a daft thing to say. Does your cap feel smaller?’
‘No, why should it?’
‘Because your head’s gettin’ bigger,’ said Trary.
Bobby laughed. They both laughed. And Bobby thought that Trary’s new school frock and her mother’s new silk dress had to mean the Wilson family weren’t as poor as they had been.
On Tuesday, Inspector Greaves was studying reports. He came across one from Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain, concerning a woman who had been followed home by a man on Friday night. The name of the woman was all too familiar. Mrs Emma Carter. He read the report carefully, then called Nicholas in.
‘What the ’ell’s up with you?’ he asked.
‘Frustration, mainly,’ said Nicholas.
‘Don’t get clever, my son. You interviewed Mrs Emma Carter again on Sunday. This is your report. Sunday, eh? I put it to you, what’s today?’
‘Tuesday, Inspector,’ said Nicholas, ‘but the report’s been on your desk since yesterday.’
‘Don’t stand there ’anding me baloney. Why wasn’t I told first thing?’
‘I haven’t seen you since Friday, sir, you’ve been – ’
‘You’ll get trodden on if you keep answerin’ me back. I’ve seen some incompetent reports in my time, this is the pansy of em all. Listen, my son, you’ve made a cock-up of it. Vague description, eh? That’s all she could give you? My eye. Treated ’er gentle, did you? You forgot, did you, that witnesses can remember a lot more than they think they can if you help them shake their brains about? A state of shock is only temp’rary. You’re goin’ soft, my lad.’
‘Far from it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mrs Carter accused me of bullying her.’
‘Well, well, well. Gave you a nasty turn, did it, the said witness goin’ for you while being sound of mind? So you went soft on her. Wasn’t there someone else? Yes, Linda Jennings. That makes two of ’em.’
‘I’d like to point out – ’
‘Don’t, my son. I’ll interview Mrs Carter myself this afternoon. This here footnote about the tram conductor, it’s all you got out of ’im?’
‘He remembered Mrs Carter getting off his tram, but couldn’t remember anyone else doing so. Nor did he spot anyone who might have been the suspect. He wasn’t looking. He’d rung the bell and the tram was away before Mrs Carter reached the pavement. We’ve hit another blank wall, sir.’
‘Oh, we have, have we?’ growled the Inspector. ‘Well, they’re no problem to our man, the bugger’s out and about, and jumpin’ over all of ’em.’
‘With any luck, he’ll break his neck one night,’ said Nicholas.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Inspector Greaves, ’is that supposed to be funny? It’s not makin’ me laugh.’
Emma opened her door to a knock that afternoon. A middle-aged man confronted her. His bushy eyebrows and thick moustache were peppered with grey. He wore a dark blue suit and a black Homburg hat, and had a look of authority. There was another man with him, younger but of the same ilk, except that he wore a bowler.
‘Mrs Carter?’ said Inspector Greaves.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Inspector Greaves of Scotland Yard. This is Detective-Sergeant Arnold.’ The Inspector produced his card. ‘Have you got five minutes to spare?’
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br /> ‘Yes, if you like,’ said Emma wryly. Sergeant Chamberlain, the silly man, had persuaded his superior to come round and buttonhole her. That hadn’t been the idea at all. ‘Please come in.’
The men from the Yard entered. The Inspector got down to business at once. Emma found him quite different from Nicholas. His gravelly voice went with his burliness. He was a rough diamond of a policeman. He referred her to her experience on Friday night, reminding her she had not been able to describe the man in any real detail. Was that because she had been in shock?
‘I wasn’t in shock, Inspector, I remembered everything very clearly.’
He pointed out there were several street lamps between the top of Browning Street and her house midway down King and Queen Street.
‘Several?’ said Emma. ‘One on the corner of Colworth Grove, and one on the corner of King and Queen Street. One and one are two, aren’t they?’
‘Two, then,’ said the Inspector, a no-nonsense arm of the law. ‘I’m accordingly suggestin’ you had two chances to get a good look at him.’
‘Oh, but when one suspects one is being followed by a very questionable character, one is too alarmed to act logically, especially when one is only a weak woman.’ Knowing much of Emma by now, Nicholas would have recognized this for what it was, a dart of feminine whimsy. The Inspector merely regarded her as if he was still making up his mind about her. ‘On the occasions I did look back he was very indistinct.’
The Inspector nevertheless put it to her that she might have collected a clearer picture than she realized. Might he be bold enough to suggest her memory could be jogged now she was out of a state of shock? According to Sergeant Chamberlain the man was quite close to her when she opened her front door.
‘True,’ said Emma.
‘Well, then, can you put your thinkin’ cap on, Mrs Carter?’
‘It’s on,’ said Emma, ‘and I can tell you what I told Sergeant Chamberlain, that the man was fairly tall, that he wore a cap and was muffled up.’
‘Scarf?’ enquired the Inspector.
‘Could have been.’
‘Scarf, scarf.’ The Inspector mused like a well-fed bulldog over a bone. ‘Woollen?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘Costermongers wear woollen scarves,’ said Detective-Sergeant Arnold.
‘His cap,’ said the Inspector. ‘Cloth cap? Tweed cap? Peaked cap?’
‘Flat cap,’ said Emma.
‘Costermongers wear flat caps,’ said Detective-Sergeant Arnold.
‘I put it to you, Mrs Carter,’ said the Inspector, ‘there’s a street lamp not far from your door. Near enough, you might say, to give you a bit of light.’
‘How near is forty yards?’ asked Emma, showing nothing of her exasperation.
Inspector Greaves persisted, taking her through the incident from the beginning. Emma repeated all she had said to Nicholas, including the fact that she had suggested the man was not following her in a strict sense, but simply going to his own home.
‘Said suggestion was in Sergeant Chamberlain’s report, Mrs Carter.’
‘And I’ve just thought of something else,’ she said. ‘If the man was following me with foul intent on his mind, he’d have had plenty of time to catch me up well before I reached home, especially as there was no-one about. But as he didn’t, that could mean he really was simply going to his own home.’
‘Can’t be sure, can we?’ said the Inspector. ‘I’m partial to facts, and the fact was he had nearly caught you up by the time you opened your door.’ But there was a glint of approval in his eyes. He was beginning to respect Emma’s intelligence, as well as her demeanour. ‘I’ll accordingly get the newspapers to print an account of said incident. We want that man to come forward and clear ’imself.’
‘Oh, bother that,’ said Emma, vexed, ‘I really don’t want my name in any papers, Inspector.’
‘I can inform you it won’t be,’ he said.
‘I’d rather you gave the man the benefit of the doubt,’ said Emma.
‘Can’t be done, Mrs Carter.’
‘Bother,’ said Emma again, and made a mental note to give Sergeant Chamberlain a piece of her mind.
The account appeared in the following day’s papers, with a request for the man in question to come forward and help the police with their enquiries. It created a buzz of alarm among the residents of King and Queen Street, and a heated curiosity as to which woman it was who had been followed.
Emma felt very cross.
‘So you’re back,’ said Bobby to his father, who had been out when he should have been in. That was often the way.
‘Yes, it’s me, son,’ said the wiry, wily Mr Reeves.
‘Lofty Short’s just been an’ gone,’ said Bobby sternly.
‘Lofty?’ Mr Reeves looked alarmed. ‘What for, to give me an ’eart attack?’
‘He said you were expectin’ him.’
‘Me?’ said Mr Reeves in protest. ‘I’ve given up expectin’ Lofty, and it ain’t safe to invite ’im to call, neither. ’E’s bad for me ’ealth Bobby, ’e’s just done a Norwood job.’
‘He’ll get nicked,’ said Bobby, ‘and when the coppers can’t find the swag, they’ll be round here to look for it an’ to nick you. He’s dumped it on you, Dad. He said you owed ’im a favour.’
‘Me? I don’t owe Lofty nothing except the wrong end of a barge pole.’
‘He said you did. That’s why he left the swag.’
‘Bleedin’ O’Reilly,’ said Mr Reeves. His eyes, like bright buttons, swivelled about. ‘’E’ll get me jugged, me that ain’t injured the law since I dunno when, an’ then it was ’ighly circumstantial. Bobby, yer dozy ‘a’porth, why’d yer let him plonk the stuff?’
‘Best thing, that’s why,’ said Bobby. ‘Now you’ve got a chance to do yerself and your fam’ly a good turn. Otherwise, we’ll all disown yer.’
‘’Ere, ’ere, you startin’ to run my life for me?’ demanded Mr Reeves. ‘And what d’you mean, disown me?’
‘Bolt the door on you,’ said Bobby. ‘Listen, the swag’s on the larder floor. Get it an’ take it to the police station. They know you’ve done receivin’, Dad, even if they’ve never nabbed you, except that time when Mr Bradshaw ’elped to get you off light. Go on, take that stuff to the police station, tell ’em you found it dumped at the door of the flat, that someone expected you to take care of it, but that you’re turnin’ it in on account of goin’ straight.’
‘Eh?’ said Mr Reeves.
‘You ’eard,’ said Bobby. ‘They can’t nick you if you turn the stuff in, and you don’t have to name names.’
‘Don’t ’ave to? Course I don’t. Nor won’t, son. I ain’t goin’ to be sent to me grave as a coppers’ nark. That won’t get me to ’eaven. I got some rights as a Christian, yer know. Look, you ain’t old enough yet to take these kind of liberties – ’
‘I’m old enough, and an inch taller than you,’ said Bobby, ‘so that’s what you’re goin’ to do, deliver the swag to the police station. There’s a reward, anyway. Said so in the paper this mornin’.’
‘Eh?’ Mr Reeves perked up. ‘Reward? No, I couldn’t do that, Bobby, it’s dead against me principles. ’Ow much reward?’
‘Fifty quid,’ said Bobby.
‘Fifty quid?’ said Mr Reeves. ‘That’s arm-twistin’, if yer like. It’s bleedin’ unscrupulous.’
‘I’m writin’ Lofty Short a letter,’ said Bobby, ‘I’m tellin’ him I turned the loot in myself on account of fam’ly principles, that I did it before you got ’ome. So that’s it, Dad, off you go. Put the swag bag in one of mum’s shoppin’ bags, and while you’re about it just remember I don’t want to ’ave to do all the thinkin’ for this fam’ly. Time you took a turn. Still, mum said you didn’t do too bad on the stall last Saturday. That’s something.’
‘Well, blind old Mother ‘Awkins, if I ain’t a pie-eyed marine,’ said Mr Reeves.
‘Better than the Scrubs,’ said Bobby. ‘I’ve got to rem
ind you, Dad, that I’m dead against you disgracin’ this fam’ly, that I want to be able to hold me ’ead up in Mrs Wilson’s house. So go on, off you go with that swag.’
‘Well, if that don’t beat Fred Karno’s Army,’ said Mr Reeves, ‘who’s ’ead of this fam’ly, might I ask?’
‘Right now?’ said Bobby. ‘Me. Still, as soon as you’re really goin’ straight, Mum and me’ll hand you back the trousers.’
Mr Reeves thought hard. His brow creased as if his thoughts hurt. Then he chuckled, ‘Dunno ’ow I come to ’ave one like you, Bobby,’ he said.
He was on his way to the police station a few minutes later, carrying the swag in a shopping bag. It took the police a long time to believe that the man they knew as Shifty Reeves really was handing in stolen goods. The bugger was even enquiring after the reward.
Bobby had won one more round.
The meter man from the gas company knocked on Maggie’s door on Wednesday afternoon. His face was new to her.
‘Where’s George?’ she asked, the May sunlight gilding her hair.
‘We’ve changed rounds,’ said Herbert Stephens, ‘it’s more convenient. Well, it’s more convenient to me. You’re Mrs Wilson,’ he added, looking at his book.
‘Yes, and the meter’s down the passage,’ said Maggie. ‘If there’s any overs, they’re for my girls’ money-boxes.’ There were often overs when a collector found there were too many pennies against the registered amount of gas used, and the Walworth housewives gladly received such surplus.
‘You’ll get them, Mrs Wilson, and welcome,’ said Stephens, stepping in. Maggie left him to it. He emptied the meter, counted the coppers, checked the output and called her. ‘There we are, Mrs Wilson.’ He handed her three pennies with a smile.
‘Thanks,’ said Maggie. It was money she didn’t need these days, but it could be put away for the girls in a communal money-box. As the new meter man was a nice improvement on George, a slightly morose character, she saw him out. ‘Pleased to ’ave met you,’ she said.
‘Mutual, Mrs Wilson,’ said Herbert Stephens, and departed for the next house.
Emma had a different caller herself. She had been out during the afternoon, visiting a number of sister suffragettes in order to get their signatures to Ten Proposals For Alternative Action. She could not go out in the evenings, it seemed. Sergeant Chamberlain had forbidden it, unless she was back before dark or had an escort. The escort he had in mind was a chicken come home to roost.
The Lodger Page 27
