“That wheeze with the notebooks fell out badly,” Slocumb started to say, no denial in his face or tone, when the rear door of the shop flew open and the woman from the street came out with a heather broom, which she swung first at St. Ives, clipping him on the shoulder, before turning to Hasbro, who shifted on his feet so that it was Slocumb who took the blow on the side of his head. She descended again upon St. Ives again, who trod back toward the street, putting up his hands and managing to wrench the broom from her grasp. He pitched it over the wall behind him and stood his ground, hoping to God that she would come to her senses. It was Slocumb who rescued him. Hasbro had set him free, and the man put his hands on the woman’s shoulders now, and guided her weeping back into the shop, shutting the door behind her and shaking his head sadly. St. Ives found that he was shaken by the woman’s anger, which he not only understood, but admired and feared.
“She’s here to pick up little Claire, sir,” Slocumb told them. “They’ll be off to gather up young James, who studies at Mr. Markham’s Day School. He’s a bright lad, is Jimmy, and Jenny’s fixed on the idea that he’ll come to something, and not have to pick up a living on the streets like his poor father. Perhaps you’d give me a moment to lock the street door behind her?”
“I could attend to the shop,” Hasbro said, “and leave you gentlemen to discuss business. I worked in the trade, Mr. Slocumb, when I was a young man – Benson’s Millinery off Euston Square.”
“Old man Benson!” Slocumb said, momentarily cheered by the memory. “I was fond of Benson, although he was an eccentric of the first water. He died some few months back, I’m sorry to say. Well… Thank you, sir. I’d be grateful if you’d step in. It’s best to keep regular hours. Nothing worse than customers fagging down here for nought.”
Hasbro nodded and went in through the door. St. Ives listened for sounds of a confrontation, his own friends naturally being the woman’s enemies. But there was nothing. If anyone could calm the waters, it would be Hasbro. Jenny and Claire and Jimmy – three names to go along with the faces. A few minutes ago, in front of the shop, the sight of the woman had brought that night on the street back into his mind with vivid clarity, and now the names finished the tale. He wished that Slocumb hadn’t named the children, who might have remained indistinct shadows. Then he thought of Eddie and of the perils of indecision – nothing indistinct there.
“You say that the business went badly,” he said to Slocumb, getting to the point. “That’s coming at it a little mild, I should think.”
“In that we agree. How did you know to find me? Not that I’ve any business putting questions to you.” He stepped back into the shadow of the building, out of the remains of the day’s sunlight, which was still quite warm.
“The unfortunate man who died that night,” St. Ives said, “he knew me the instant he saw me, but it was just today the reason came into my mind. I had seen him at Merton’s on two or three occasions, going out on deliveries. I remembered the limp as well as his face. The rest followed.”
“That was my nephew, George, sir. I wondered why he had bolted that night. That wasn’t his way. He could brass it out in front of Lucifer himself. I suspected that he twigged that something was amiss and ran, but I had no idea it was you. When Jenny just now told me the truth of it, seeing you on the street as she did, I bolted, just like George. I couldn’t stand a stint in Newgate, sir, not at my age, and no one to take care of Jenny and the little ones now that George is dead.”
“I assume that the notebooks were frauds,” St. Ives said, “two sets of frauds, one perfectly believable and one flawed. Merton’s contrived them both, no doubt.”
“No, sir,” Slocumb said. “Merton found the notebooks right enough in an old trunk at Banks’s home in Lincolnshire, in the Abbey. They’d been stored away this last century. Miraculous discovery, but you know Merton. He hears a rumor from a crow’s mouth and then follows the bird to its nest.”
“The ubiquitous old trunk, you say? Forgive me, but it’s always the old trunk. I’ve seen Merton’s work. I’ve profited from it, in my way. I’ve looked through his workroom – old paper, doctored ink, chemicals of all sorts. He can work marvels with weak tea and garden soil. William Henry Ireland was an amateur compared to Merton. It stands to reason that he mugged up Banks’s early work and fabricated the notebooks himself. I believe that you negotiated the sale to the Royal Society, not naming Merton. When the fraudulent work was authenticated you contrived to have the notebooks replaced with the second, inferior set. Merton recovered the first set that way along with the papers that authenticated them, and sued for the money that was owed him for the lost set, which wasn’t lost at all, but was once again in his possession. And of course he could resell it in due time, with the authentication papers in order. The Royal Society had a reputation to protect, and admitting to the whole business would mean scandal, which eliminated the police, and thus I found myself involved in this ill-conceived plan to re-purchase the stolen notebooks. Whose idea was it to sell them back to the Royal Society, I wonder? That was brilliant – a swindle on top of a swindle.”
Slocumb stared at him for a moment and then said, “That was mine, sir. Merton had nothing to do with that bit. It was me alone who put George in the way of that Hansom cab just as surely as if I had pushed him.”
St. Ives took this in. “Your niece Jenny would say that same thing about me.”
“Perhaps it was the fates that pushed him, sir. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. But you’ve still got it wrong about the old trunk. The three notebooks were Joseph Banks’s work right enough, like I said. There’s no gain in my making that up. Merton got it into his head that he could devise a fair copy as good as the original, out of artistic pride, if you like, and he set out to do it. That was the copy I took to the Society. Merton’s name was never mentioned, nor my own, of course. I was a Frenchman named Diderot that evening. If their experts saw through the notebooks, that was to be the end of it. I would be outraged or aggrieved, whichever suited the general atmosphere, and Merton not suspected at all.”
“And Merton with nothing to show for his work?” St. Ives asked. “Strange that he would be happy with that.”
“For Merton it’s the art of it, do you see, not the profit? And come to that, he would still possess the original notebooks and could do with them as he pleased. That was worth nothing to me, though. And so it was I who talked Merton into giving me his working copies of the notebooks, as he called them, for my part in the drama. I could do with them what I would, he said, although he had no idea I would do what I did. A fellow I know – I won’t tell you his name – exchanged them for the fair copy, which was left lying on a desk by some pitiful fool. The exchange was discovered almost at once, and it was then that the Society prevailed upon you to play the role of unscrupulous collector in order to buy back what they assumed were the originals.
“Wheels within wheels, sir, but it all came apart when George ran for it, poor beggar, and him with a game leg. Would you credit it, sir, if I told you that his right leg was destroyed in his youth when he ran afoul of a wagon? It’s long odds that it would happen twice, and that the second encounter would finish him, although perhaps it’s the fates again. There but for fortune…” He shook his head sadly. “I’ve had my say, sir. Don’t be too hard on Harry Merton. He fancied giving the money back to the Society as a variety of executory bequest, legally speaking, upon his death. That kind of largesse was good for the soul, he said, and of course he still had Banks’s originals, the copies having been run over along with George. He saw the Society’s money as a sort of loan, you see, that he would repay in due time.”
“What of Jenny and her children?” St. Ives asked. “Who’s to care for them with George gone?”
“That would be me, sir, in my way. There would perhaps be no need for it if it hadn’t gone ill for George, but…” He shrugged.
A mongrel dog came around the corner of the shop now and stood staring at the two of them. It ev
idently recognized Slocumb, for it came forward eagerly, wagging its tail, and Slocumb brought a piece of biscuit out of his pocket and gave it to the creature, petting it absently on the head. It lay down in the shade, looking at St. Ives as if waiting for him to come to a decision. St. Ives wished for a morsel of Hasbro’s always-excellent advice at that moment, but Hasbro was inside the shop, selling hats.
“The Royal Society were careful not to bring the police into the business,” St. Ives said at last, “and I’ll stand by them in that regard. The entire thing turns out to have been a travesty, or perhaps tragedy, the two being close cousins under the circumstances. Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Slocumb, on one condition, and I’ll warn you that you are in a precarious position if you refuse. Think of Jenny and the children before you answer.”
“Anything, sir, and I thank you very kindly.”
“It’s vital that I know the likely whereabouts of Dr. Ignacio Narbondo. He keeps rooms in London, but it’s certain that he moves them from time to time for the sake of secrecy.”
Slocumb stood staring at him, the doubtful look on his face making it perfectly clear that the thanks had gone out of him. “I can’t say, sir.”
“You mean you won’t say. I know that Merton has done business with Narbondo on occasion. You, being Merton’s agent, would know what Merton knows and more into the bargain. As with the notebooks, Merton would have remained in the background in his dealings with Narbondo, and wisely. Narbondo would have his way with Merton. Not long ago he very nearly did, when he sent someone around to the Merton’s shop with a lead pipe. If ever Merton needed you as an intermediary, it would be in dealings with Narbondo.”
“It’s that lead pipe that commands my attention, sir. Newgate Prison or a lead pipe – Morton’s Fork, and no doubt about it. It would be the end of Miles Slocumb, with Jenny and the little ones faring for themselves.”
“You have my word that they’ll be cared for and given every opportunity, Mr. Slocumb. They’ll never in life have to fare for themselves unless they choose to.”
Slocumb nodded his head slowly, contemplating this. “Right enough,” he said finally. “Something like a month back Merton did a bit of business with the Doctor – conveyance of foreign contraband – I don’t know what, and don’t want to know. Merton wasn’t keen on any of this because of that lead pipe, if you see what I mean. But he agreed, for it was the Doctor asking it of him, which was persuasive. And there was the chance of profit in it, come to that. It was me who hired a steam launch to bring the goods into Gravesend, although it never arrived, and it was me who hired the crew. Merton arranged the rest.”
“You say that the launch never returned with its cargo? Did Narbondo complain to Merton?”
“He wanted recompense. He had paid a quarter of what was due for the product in advance, but he asked for double his money back, for the trouble invested and the time wasted. The launch was a dead loss pending the insurance. But a claim against the insurance would mean Merton’s revealing details of the cargo, including a bill of lading, which he couldn’t provide. Merton will pay up in both directions if he don’t want trouble.”
“And the crew? How many men?”
“Six altogether, including the lighterman and the ship’s boy, so to call him – fireman, really.”
“None of them returned? Perhaps they simply played the pirate and sailed off with the launch?”
“Two corpses were found, sir, the pilot and one of the crew, pulled out of the river near the Old Steps by dredgers. I was told they’d come up with the tide, three or four days dead. Both of them shot dead, not drowned.”
“Betrayed by the others, perhaps, who stole the cargo?”
“That don’t seem likely, sir. They put into Margate on the return, and it seems strange that they’d cut this sort of caper so close to home instead of the middle of the Channel at midnight. It’s a rough patch of river along the marshes, pirates still being common enough. The long and the short of it is that Harry Merton should have chosen a longer spoon, if you take my meaning. Now the Doctor has him backed into a corner, as does the owner of the launch, and no way out except to empty his purse. Wisdom often comes at a price. Better pounds sterling than pounds of flesh, though.”
“Indeed,” said St. Ives, the entire story resonating in his mind, although it suggested nothing specific. “I’ll just ask you for the Doctor’s whereabouts now, as close as is sensible, and then I’ll leave you to your hats.”
“Spitalfields, below Flower and Dean,” Slocumb said without hesitation. “Do you know the area?”
“Nothing aside from its reputation.”
“It’s worse than that, sir. Take my word. It’s tolerably close quarters, with the houses packed together, and each crowded with thieves and cutthroats. I didn’t meet the Doctor at his lodgings, but near enough, in Angel Alley, above Whitechapel Road. We struck a bargain and he disappeared for a nonce while I stood waiting, although I had my eyes wide open for villainy. There was a courtyard with a broad stone wall across it, with an open arch and another courtyard beyond. I’m main certain that he went into a shabby-looking entryway under that arch, although when he found me again he came from farther off, out of George Yard, I’d warrant, which confounded me. I advise you to take several stalwart friends with you when you seek him out. By midnight, mark my words, the populace will be far gone in drink, and won’t scruple to murder you, no matter how many of you there are. They’ll set the dogs on you, which don’t care a fig about a bullet. And as for the Doctor, he won’t be found unless he wants to be found, and by then you’ll be in it up to the withers, and no way out.”
SEVENTEEN
MERTON’S RARITIES
Merton’s Rarities, Thames Street, near London Bridge, was empty of trade and at first appeared to be closed for the evening except for a lamp glowing in the back of the shop, in what would be Merton’s workroom. Merton had been a purchasing clerk in the British Museum in his youth, and had established connections to various purveyors of antiquities and curiosities that were out of the regular line. Hence the clientele of Rarities was an eccentric lot. The shop, standing near the London Docks, was much frequented by sailors returning to port from exotic lands, looking to sell rather than buy, knowing that Merton would pay ready money for a well-preserved whale’s eyeball or stuffed ape, or better yet for something particularly out of the ordinary – clean human skeletons, well assembled, fetching upwards of sixty pounds these days and worth half that at wholesale.
St. Ives had heard that Merton did a fair trade in severed heads bought dearly from Paris, fresh from the guillotine and preserved in double-refined spirits. He rapped on the door now, loudly, peering inside past the skeleton of some variety of great ape – almost certainly an orangutan. To St. Ives’s certain knowledge, Merton was a cartographer, a forger, and a dealer in rare books as well as curiosities – in short, a good man to know under the right circumstances. A year ago Merton had passed on a valuable map to St. Ives, who had profited from it, and St. Ives was loathe to do him an injury now, or to confront him with anything having the odor of extortion. But time was short. Within the shop, all was silent and still. Behind them, a fog rose from the Thames, drifting inland.
If Merton weren’t in, then it was even odds he was either at home with Mrs. Merton eating an early supper, or else in his second shop open only to “the trade” – several subterranean rooms accessible from the back of a haberdashery on Threadneedle Street, where he kept certain species of merchandise well hidden. It was there that he was visited by hangman’s assistants trundling Saratoga trunks. St. Ives was determined to run him to ground tonight, and time was ticking away. He and Hasbro were meeting with two “stalwart friends” in a little over an hour at Billson’s Half Toad Inn in Smithfield, for supper and a council of war. The business at Slocumb’s had taken longer than he had hoped, but it had borne fruit, although whether pears or apples he couldn’t yet say.
Merton didn’t travel; he had told St. Ives proudly t
hat he had never in his life been out of Greater London, except on occasion to visit various aunts and uncles in the Midlands, which scarcely counted as travel. The world came to him, Merton liked to say, rarely the other way around. St. Ives wondered whether to climb over the garden wall from the side street and force the rear door, the mountain coming to Merton, so to speak. Merton might easily be in hiding if he had got wind of St. Ives’s part in the notebooks fraud.
No sooner than he conceived the idea, however, than a shadow passed in front of the lamp in the workroom and remained there. St. Ives could just make out the half circle of Merton’s round face, looking out at them. The rest of him stood mostly hidden by the edge of the door. St. Ives waved at him, and after another moment Merton apparently identified them. He hurried forward, unlocked the door, and ushered them in, wiping his hands on a piece of towel and gesturing toward a little grouping of stuffed chairs and deal tables in an alcove in the front of the shop. His sparse hair stood up nearly straight on his head, a slump-shouldered man of perhaps fifty years. He wore thick spectacles, his eyesight the victim of the close work he did as a sometimes forger. His lab coat had once been white, but was a palette of colors now, and despite the towel his hands were stained from whatever task he had been up to in his workroom.
“Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting,” he said. “A man can’t be too careful once the sun sets. Glass of something?”
The Aylesford Skull Page 13
