Carver's Quest

by Rennison, Nick

  Stirk was now grinning broadly. He looked as if he thought Inspector Pulverbatch was providing him with a particularly impressive character reference.

  ‘So, Mr Stirk is a gentleman you’ve arrested before?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. We’ve put our ’ands on Stirk more times than you’ve had kidneys for breakfast.’

  ‘But what would a man from Seven Dials be doing in Herne Hill?’

  ‘He’s a traveller, is Stirk, sir. He travels many a mile round London to perpetrate his villainies. Lambeth, Peckham, Hammersmith, Islington. Don’t matter to Stirk. Last time we had him in here, he’d been putting his murderous thumbs round a man’s windpipe down Bethnal Green way. Flung his victim down on the cobblestones and kicked his eye out, sir. The eye was a-hanging on the poor fellow’s cheek.’

  Apparently enjoying this brief résumé of his recent career, Stirk looked across at Adam and nodded again, as if confirming Pulverbatch’s description of events. He seemed almost to be expecting some kind of applause.

  ‘Gin is Stirk’s downfall.’ Inspector Pulverbatch now sounded almost sorry for his prisoner and his shortcomings. ‘He thirsts after gin like a tiger after blood. Look at him now, sir. Like a lamb, ain’t he? But give him liquor and it’s a different matter.’ Pulverbatch shook his head and made a whistling noise. ‘Ferocious, he is, once the liquor seizes hold of him. He’d sell his own mother for the money she’d fetch in old bones when the gin fever is on him.’

  ‘After he’d pawned those crutches of hers, I suppose,’ Adam remarked. ‘I have no doubt that this gentleman is the terror you describe. But how did you succeed in tracking him down?’

  Pulverbatch clasped his hands behind his head and leant back so far in his chair that Adam began to fear he was going to fall off it. He had the air of a grandfather about to launch on the telling of a fairy tale to an admiring circle of grandchildren. As he leant backward, Stirk leant forward as if to catch every word the inspector might say. He continued to grin, as if enjoying the performance of some music hall comedian. Adam was beginning to suspect that the man the police had arrested was little more than a simpleton.

  ‘Imagine London as a thick forest, sir,’ Pulverbatch said. ‘A villain may hide himself there, among the trees, like a wild beast in the jungles of Africa. And many of them are just that. Wild beasts like Stirk here. But I’ve got the means to track ’em down, Mr Carver. I’m the hunter in the forest, sir. The hunter in search of his prey.’

  ‘But how do you know this particular prey is the man who killed Mr Creech? As I have said, he does not look the part to my eye.’

  ‘Ah, but if you’ll forgive my impertinence, sir, yours is the eye of the average man. Here at the Yard, we don’t see things like your average man. That’s what the likes of you and Paddington Pollaky don’t seem to understand. We’re what you might call specialists, sir. We have to be in possession of special facts what the average man don’t have. We have to be able to distinguish between a vast array of villainies.’

  Pulverbatch, warming to his theme, was clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘The man’s a thief, your average cove says. Not good enough, says I. Not good enough at all. What kind of a thief ? That’s the question. There’s your cracksmen and your rampsmen, your bludgers and your bug-hunters, your drag-sneaks and dead-lurkers, your till-friskers, toshers, star-glazers, snow-gatherers, snoozers, stick-slingers and skinners. Which variety of villain is your man?’

  Exhausted by his own eloquence and still rocking back on his chair, the inspector fell silent.

  ‘I can see that your profession is one that requires subtle discrimination,’ Adam said after a brief pause.

  ‘That it does, Mr Carver, that it does.’

  ‘And yet I cannot see the relevance here. We’re not talking about a bludger or – what did you say? – a tosher. We’re talking about someone who shot Mr Creech.’

  ‘The same principles apply, sir.’

  ‘Has Mr Stirk admitted his crime?’

  Pulverbatch allowed a brief grimace to pass across his features. He rocked forward again on his chair and his feet dropped to the floor. He crashed his fists on the table with a sudden force that made both Adam and the man Stirk start in surprise.

  ‘That he has not. He’s as stubborn as an ox in denying it. But I’ll have the truth out of him.’

  ‘Perhaps you have already had the truth out of him, Inspector. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the murder.’

  Pulverbatch glanced at Adam, as if to confirm that this was an average man speaking whose opinion was not to be compared to that of a specialist, and then turned to his prisoner.

  ‘Look at me, Stirk.’ At the sound of his name, Stirk, who had followed the conversation between Adam and the inspector with every sign of enjoyment, now shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His eyes swivelled around the room, looking anywhere but at Pulverbatch. ‘I say, look at me.’

  Very unwillingly, Stirk forced himself to return the inspector’s gaze.

  ‘Do you see any green in my eye, Stirk?’

  The man made no reply.

  ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘No, Mr Pulverbatch.’

  ‘Don’t be giving me any more of this gammon you’ve been giving me so far, then. I know you broke into that house. I know you shot that poor gent when he come across you. You know I knows. So let’s be hearing you say it.’

  ‘I can’t have kilt a gent in ’Erne ’Ill, Mr Pulverbatch.’ Stirk still looked surprisingly cheerful, considering the circumstances in which he found himself, but he sounded puzzled. ‘I ain’t never been in ’Erne ’Ill. I ain’t even sure where ’Erne ’Ill is. Anyways, I told you. I was in The ’Are and ’Ounds down Borough Market that day. There’s dozens can tell you that.’

  ‘You see, Pulverbatch, he has an alibi.’

  The inspector snorted.

  ‘I’ve looked into this alibi of Stirk’s, Mr Carver, and it just won’t wash. It ain’t worth a jigger. The regulars in the Hare and Hounds all lie as fast as a horse can trot. They’d swear the devil had been drinking with ’em and couldn’t have been in hell, if the fancy took ’em to aggravate us. I can tell you plainly, Mr Carver, Stirk could have been in Herne Hill as easy as you or I.’

  Pulverbatch sighed deeply as if distressed by the dishonesty of the Hare and Hounds’ clientele.

  ‘Now, I’m not claiming that he’s the chief villain of this piece.’ The inspector sounded indignant at the very idea that Adam might believe he was. ‘Of course I ain’t. Somebody put him up to visiting Herne Hill, but Stirk ain’t saying who that somebody was.’

  ‘So, what do you propose to do now, Inspector?’

  Pulverbatch made no reply. He left his chair and walked behind his prisoner who smirked uneasily and twisted his head to follow the policeman as he moved around the room.

  ‘Screever!’ Pulverbatch yelled suddenly. The door to the room opened and the constable appeared once more. ‘Take this rogue back down to the cells.’

  Screever hauled the prisoner to his feet and the two of them left the room. As they passed down the corridor, Adam could hear Stirk, in a bemused tone of voice, repeating to the constable his earlier assertion that he ‘ain’t never been in ’erne ’ill’. Pulverbatch sat himself down in the chair his suspect had just vacated and drummed his fingers on the table. For a minute or two, he gazed into the middle distance as if he had just realised that Scotland Yard and the city were the very last places he wanted to be and he was dreaming instead of green fields and shady woodlands. Adam was just beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable and was considering making his farewells when the inspector roused himself from his reverie.

  ‘Remember the old saying, Mr Carver,’ he said, with renewed energy. ‘The bird that can sing and won’t sing, must be made to sing. Never fear, sir. We’ll have Stirk singing like a linnet before the day is out.’

  ‘But what if he’s singing the wrong tune, Inspector? Or just the tune he thinks you want to hear?’

  ‘
He’s our bird, sir. Have no doubt about it. Never was such a one for villainy and violence, I do believe. No need for you to be a-chasing old Jinkinson halfway round town. That fat fraud ain’t got anything to do with this case.’

  ‘And yet you will admit that it may be difficult to prove your case against the man you’ve got?’

  ‘Not in the slightest, sir. We’ll put an end to Stirk, don’t you worry about that. We’ll have the drop creaking under his feet before the month is out. And before he goes, he’ll tell us who sent him out to put the threateners on poor Mr Creech.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The following day, Adam took lunch in a chophouse he knew off the Strand. He sat alone at one of the tables in the rear of the restaurant. Few other customers were there. A mournful-looking man dressed in black was at the next table, eating his meal as if doing so was more of a penance than a pleasure. Adam’s mind was no more on his food than his neighbour’s. The steak with oyster sauce, which in normal times he would have relished, he scarcely tasted. The piece of Stilton he left largely untouched on the plate. The waiter, clearing the table, scowled as if personally affronted by Adam’s poor appetite. Adam hardly noticed. He was thinking about all that had happened in the last two weeks. At the beginning of the month, he’d had no more pressing concerns than his growing debt to his tailors. Now there were a dozen unanswered questions and more to plague him. Some were related to the death of Creech and the mysteries that still surrounded it. Others forced him to think uncomfortably about the whole course of his young life. Adam mostly considered himself a contented man. It was true that his career at Cambridge had unexpectedly left the rails when Charles Carver had put an end to his life. Adam had been obliged to face up not only to the loss of his father but to the sudden ruination of all his plans for the future. Gone were any dreams of academic glory. Gone was even the chance of finishing his degree. No money had been left to support him. Yet he had, he thought, coped admirably. Professor Fields had, of course, come to the rescue with his invitation to accompany him to European Turkey, but it was Adam himself who had made the most of the opportunities the adventure offered. It was Adam who had responded so wholeheartedly to their travels and had even recorded them in a book, which had earned him a certain, albeit fleeting, celebrity. Since his return to London, he had cultivated his new interest in photography and had found much fulfilment in his self-imposed task of recording the buildings that were so swiftly vanishing from the city.

  And yet at times – and this was one such occasion – the young man found himself curiously dissatisfied with his lot. For all his inability to make significant progress with his portrait of King Pellinore, and for all his mounting debts too, his friend Cosmo Jardine at least knew what he was: a painter, for better or worse. But what was he himself, Adam Carver? What was he to do with the rest of his life? He may have lacked the entrepreneurial and commercial skills of his father, but he had his own talents, he knew. Where, though, did any of them lead? How could he make the best of them? Should he determine to travel again? To visit more unfamiliar and unexplored locations than European Turkey? Could he make a more concerted effort to earn money from his abilities as a photographer or writer? Perhaps, he thought, half smiling at the idea despite his present glumness, he should follow the example of Jinkinson. Could he be, he wondered, some sort of enquiry agent manqué? He had certainly enjoyed the drama and the excitement of the last fortnight. He felt flattered that Sunman had asked him to look into the circumstances of Creech’s demise, just as he was fascinated by the murder itself. And there was the enticing prospect, too, of discovering the real identity of Emily Maitland, who was clearly not all she seemed.

  As always, Adam concluded this examination of his own character by drawing no conclusions beyond the decision that he would continue on his current road and attempt to resolve the present mystery. What an intriguing mystery it was! There was the matter of Creech and the secrets of which he had spoken. Why had the man been so eager to meet him? Why had he approached Jar-dine under an alias? Could Creech have been nothing more than a deluded obsessive? Or had he been a genuine scholar who had truly stumbled across something remarkable? No, Creech had been no scholar. Adam remembered the man’s puzzlement when he had quoted one of the most familiar of all Homer’s phrases to him. And did scholars pay private enquiry agents to follow Members of Parliament in pursuit of information with which to blackmail them? It seemed unlikely.

  The waiter, while clearing the evidence of the earlier course, had left the plate with the cheese on the table. Adam picked up the knife and cut a sliver of Stilton. He ate it absentmindedly, still mulling over the questions which troubled him. Would Creech have been killed if there had not been something in his story? Or did his talk of secrets in the Macedonian hills have nothing to do with his death? His apparent activities as a blackmailer offered a more likely motive for murder than enigmatic talk of a mystery hidden in an ancient manuscript. And yet surely it was too much to believe, as the police seemed to, that his death was the result of a botched burglary? Unless Stirk had been hired by one of Creech’s victims to break into the house and steal some incriminating evidence the blackmailer possessed, and had killed the man when he confronted him. Pulverbatch seemed to believe in some such sequence of events, but Adam found it difficult to agree with the inspector’s version of what had happened. Who in their right minds would employ a simpleton like Stirk to undertake such a task?

  Then there was the distracting puzzle of Emily Maitland. She was a beautiful woman. Adam was disinclined to admit, even to himself, how much time he had spent in picturing her in the days since she had so unexpectedly visited his rooms. Her trim figure flitted regularly through his imagination. Her Titian hair and dancing green eyes were rarely far from his thoughts. He was therefore delighted that she had asked to see him once more. But behind the pleasure he gained from recalling her visit, there were nagging questions about the young woman. What had been the true reason for her visit to Doughty Street? And was Mrs Gaffery correct in saying that Emily had been there not once but twice? Perhaps he would have answers when he met her again, in Cremorne Gardens.

  Adam pushed aside the cheese plate. He rested his head in his hands. So many riddles already and now there was another one. What had happened to Jinkinson? Was the enquiry agent’s disappearance significant? Men and women vanished into the vast, anonymous sprawl of London every day of the year. Many did so of their own volition. Jinkinson himself had done so in the past. Perhaps the plump and dilapidated dandy was merely in flight from some pressing creditor or overly importunate client. The boy Simpkins had said that his employer had a history of temporarily vanishing when trouble came knocking on the door of 12 Poulter’s Court. Even now, as Adam stared at the crumbling Stilton in front of him, Jinkinson might be drinking cheerfully in some out-of-the-way haunt and regaling his fellow topers with tall tales.

  The mournful man on the neighbouring table had reached the end of his penitential meal. His plate was empty. He paid the waiter and left. On his table Adam saw a copy of the morning newspaper which had been forgotten. He thought briefly of calling after the man but decided against it. He stretched his arm across to the table and picked up the newspaper. He began to turn the pages, his eyes flickering idly from column to column. The news today, he thought, was little different from the news of a week ago, the last time he had bothered to look at a newspaper. Prussian and French politicians were still squabbling over who should sit on the Spanish throne. As if it was of any real concern to either of them. It would presumably not be long before one side or the other found the pretext for war. The pages were also full of tributes to Dickens, who had recently died, worn out by his creative exertions, at the age of fifty-eight. Adam, who had never forgotten the sheer joy of reading Pickwick and David Copperfield when he was no more than a boy, had been saddened when Jardine had told him of the author’s death a few days earlier. But now he could not concentrate on all the columns of praise for the great humorist’s ge
nius. Instead, his eye was drawn to a few short paragraphs at the bottom of a page that were headed: ‘Outrage in Herne Hill’.

  ‘We are given to understand,’ the article began, ‘that a man well known to Scotland Yard as a most audacious villain has lately been apprehended in reference to the brutal murder which was committed in Herne Hill earlier this month.’ Adam read the rest of the piece and threw the newspaper to one side in exasperation. What did these scribblers know of what they wrote? How wonderfully they combined ignorance with arrogance in their presumption that they knew more than they truly did. In his indignation, he forgot altogether that, on his return from European Turkey, he had himself earned sums of money as a newspaper scribbler and that he continued to place articles in the press from time to time. One not so long ago in the very newspaper he had just cast aside. He picked it up again and looked at the article for a second time: ‘That renowned and perspicacious agent of the law Inspector James Pulverbatch…’ He could not continue. Perhaps Pulverbatch did merit the adjective ‘perspicacious’ but what did he know of this case? How could he believe that the half-witted Stirk could be the perpetrator of the crime at Herne Hill?

  * * * * *

  ‘’Ere, mister.’

  Adam looked down at the ragamuffin standing by the entrance to the Marco Polo. The boy was dressed in jacket and trousers of threadbare black cloth and wore a look of scowling concentration on his face. Adam was surprised that Gilzean, the Crimean veteran who was the club’s doorman, hadn’t moved the child on, but there was no sign of the old soldier.

  ‘The other gent told me to give you this.’

  ‘What other gent?’

  ‘And you’d give me another sixpence.’

  ‘Who said this?’

  ‘On top of the sixpence he give me.’