Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  “Thanks, and good ‘ealth, sir,” he says, raising his glass.

  “Indeed,” Hunter responds.

  “An’ who may I be addressing?”

  “Someone who has just stood you a drink.”

  “Ah. I see. One of them no-names drinks.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  The two sit and sup awhile. Then the recipient of free beverages remarks, “And is there any little matter I could do for you in return for your kindness?”

  “There may well be one.”

  The imbiber of gratis libations taps the side of his nose with a nicotined yellow-nailed forefinger.

  “Thort so.”

  A further period of companionable silence follows, after which Hunter sets down his glass, jingles some coins in his pocket to let the other know that there are coins in his pocket, and leans his elbows on the table. The man imitates his gesture.

  “So,” Hunter says. “I am looking for a man named Jem Hall. Would you know where I can find him?”

  The man sits back and assumes an expression of total innocence.

  “Never heard of him. Never. Dunno who he is. Nah, come to the wrong man, you have. Sorry an’ that.”

  Unmoved, Hunter reaches into his inner pocket and lets the man see a fatly stuffed wallet.

  “That is a great shame. My master is in a bit of a fix, and I was given to understand that this Jem Hall might be able to get him out of it. Oh well, thank you for your advice and I shall not trouble you further,” Hunter says, getting up and making as if he is leaving.

  “Now wait a bit. Wait a bit,” the man says quickly. “Not so hasty, eh? I only said wot I did coz I thort you might be from the ecipol. Not welcome around here, are they? So, sit you back down and tell me what it’s about.”

  Hunter resumes his seat.

  “My master suspects that a certain person he knew once is about to present him with an unwelcome little remembrance of that time. And as he is about to be married, he does not wish to be encumbered with it, or her. I was given to understand the Jem was the man for the job.”

  “And so he woz, so he woz.”

  “But not any more?”

  The man leans in.

  “Jem ain’t around to the moment, as it were.”

  “Is he likely to return?”

  “I’d say not.”

  Hunter sits back.

  “Ah. That then leaves me with somewhat of a problem.”

  “Well it might. Only could be I know something about the business in hand.”

  “Really? That is very interesting to hear. But you are sure Jem won’t be angry if he finds out you have, as it were, slipped into his shoes?”

  The man grins.

  “He ain’t gonna say a word, trust me.”

  Another pause. The man stares significantly into his now empty glass and Hunter looks straight ahead.

  “So how would you be able to help me?”

  “I might know some people.”

  “The same people that Jem knows?”

  “Could be, could be.”

  “And when may I get to meet these people?”

  The man pulls up a battered brass timepiece from his greasy coat pocket. His lips move as he carefully counts round the cloudy clock face.

  “Should be able to take you there later. For an agreed price.”

  “Of course,” Hunter says. “There is always a price to be agreed.”

  “Happy to agree it over another drink, if you’re still in the chair, squire.”

  Hunter is very much still in the chair, so he goes to the bar, buys the man another pint and himself a gin and water and when they have finished their drinks, they both leave the pub. The man goes first, Hunter following a couple of seconds later.

  They come together once more at the corner of the street. Money changes hands. Then the man leads Hunter down alleys and walkthroughs and noisome courts until they arrive in front of a brick archway. Although the hour is late, the archway is choked with gasping loungers who eye Hunter askance, but relax and let them pass when the man indicates that they are together.

  “This is Bessie’s Rents,” the man says, stopping at the door of a crumbling tenement, whose windows seem more to shut the light out than admit it.

  He thumps on the door, which is opened by a sallow-complexioned man with a long nose, wet hair and a limp spotted neckerchief. He wears down at heel carpet slippers and a sly expression.

  “Brought a bit of business round,” says Hunter’s companion.

  The man looks Hunter up and down, his gaze taking in his well tailored clothes and clean appearance.

  “Better come on in then,” he says.

  Hunter follows him along a noxious smelling corridor to the ground floor back. Here the only window looks out into a high dead wall. The air in the room is very close, and musty, smelling of damp and faeces and sour milk. Light comes from a small tallow dip, which throws flickering shadows onto the unpapered walls.

  The room is furnished with an armchair and a low bedstead upon which two small semi-naked babies fret and stir in fitful sleep. Neither appear to have any proper covering.

  “Only here temp’rary, you unnerstand. Had to get out of the last place in a bit of a hurry,” the man shrugs apologetically. “I’ll call the wife - she’s the business end.”

  He shuffles off into a back room, reappearing a few seconds later with a sharp-faced woman carrying a comatose child. Its head lolls on her shoulder, its face glazed, its small legs dangling limply.

  “Little dear wouldn’t stop carrying on,” she says, almost tossing the child onto the bed. She folds her hands under her apron. “So, you are looking for a wet nurse, I gather?”

  Briefly Hunter outlines the situation. The woman nods her understanding.

  “Yes, I can see how a little encumbrance might be a problem. And he’s a rich man, your master? Even worse. There’s no telling what some gels will do to get revenge.

  “I’ve seen many a rich man brought low and ruined by the scheming of some hussy. Marriages broken up, sons disinherited - oh there’s nothing I ain’t seen with my own two eyes. You have no idea what can happen. Best to make sure it don’t.”

  She takes another long, calculating look at Hunter.

  “My charges are fifteen shillings a month, or can adopt outright for fifty pounds and clothing.”

  “I think the latter would be preferable,” Hunter says.

  “As you please sir. I am full at the moment - but I guarantee by the time the baby is born, I shall have vacancies.”

  Wisely Hunter does not inquire how she can predict this. Instead he asks:

  “How shall I get in touch with you, when the day comes?”

  “You leave a message at the pub where you met my friend saying you have agreed a bit of business with Mrs ‘Melia Hall. They’ll let me know. I’ll leave a message at the bar saying when and where to meet me. You come with the money and the baby. And all your master’s worries will be over.”

  She smiles, her ivory-yellow teeth glistening in the flickering candlelight.

  “I have to take precautions, you understand. There are those who want to stop what I do.”

  “Dear madam, I understand completely,” Hunter says. “I shall convey your instructions back to my master exactly as you have conveyed them to me. Thank you for your time. And now I bid you goodnight.”

  He touches his hat and walks out of the meanly appointed room into the darkness of the noisome noxious night. Later, he will report back to Barnes Baker, who will heave a sigh of relief, before setting out for a night’s revels.

  ****

  Dearest Jeanie (Inspector Greig writes)

  Thank you for the seed cake, which arrived safely. It was kind of you, and I am enjoying the taste of your excellent home baking. I have taken the precaution of locking the cake in one of my desk drawers, so the sweet-toothed thief cannot appropriate any of it.

  I hope you are all enjoying good weather. Here, we have had a run of stifling ho
t days and nights, almost too much to bear. I do not think this city is made for heat - the buildings seem to droop and look even more decayed and fine dust chokes the thoroughfares.

  In the midst of the ‘heatwave’, Tibby, the Bow Street cat has given birth to four fine kittens, which she is currently nursing under my desk. This is unlikely to be a permanent arrangement as she moves them every few days.

  If you are agreeable, I thought I might bring a couple of the kittens back with me as a present for you all when I get my leave in August. If they take after their mother, they are likely to be good mousers.

  Last week I went to the British Museum where I saw a fine display of stuffed animals - wild ox, monkeys and numerous birds with beautiful feathers all the colours of the rainbow. I saw a foot from a Dodo, a strange looking bird that is now extinct and an Albatross, which is the largest seabird in existence.

  There was also a Pelican, that is supposed to feed her young on her own blood, although the notes accompanying the bird indicated that it was more likely the way the fish was discharged through the beak.

  I have included some drawings of the birds I saw on my visit - I hope you like them, though I am no artist, as you have frequently told me!

  As always, I remain

  Your devoted brother,

  Lachlan

  The light is fading as Greig seals the letter. Once again, he wonders if the city is changing him and if so, what he is becoming. He still has that feeling of being in transit. He hears his watch tick on the pinewood table by the bed.

  Also on the table is a copy of the Morning Post, sister paper in scurrility and inaccurate reportage to the Illustrated London News. The front-page banner headline reads:

  Anarchy! Royal Statue Blown to Smithereens!

  Underneath in smaller letters (because some wag simply couldn’t resist it,) is the subheading:

  Large hole in pavement! Detective Police looking into it.

  Greig has read and pondered about the accompanying article and decided to go over to Scotland Yard and have a word. There may not be any link to the Hind Street explosion and the two missing bank clerks. On the other hand, there might. He would not like to be accused, in retrospect, of withholding important information.

  He blows out the candle and gets into bed, his eyes dilating in the familiar darkness. The June nights are short, and he is on early duty again tomorrow.

  ****

  Detective Inspector Leo Stride of Scotland Yard has a reputation. Nobody knows exactly what for, but it stands him in good stead both within and outwith the detective division. Nothing is more guaranteed to earn respect from the hierarchy and spread consternation amongst the lowerarchy than having a reputation for having a reputation.

  He also has a ‘file it on the first available flat surface’ habit. Inspector Greig, no mean slouch in the ignore paperwork department himself, sits in Stride’s office and feels he is in the presence of a master. There are strata here that, if labelled chronologically, could form the basis of another fine exhibit at the British Museum.

  The detective inspector is a middle-aged man with greying hair, pouchy eyes and an unbrushed brown suit. Having heard Greig out in silence, he now sits back and regards the young inspector thoughtfully.

  “I read about the Hind Street explosion. I have to say, I had my doubts at the time. We’ve had gas explosions ever since we’ve had gas. They don’t usually bring down whole houses - unless they’re in the vicinity of one of those gasometers. And usually someone in the house notices there’s a smell of gas beforehand and complains about it.”

  “I have the report of the site chemist,” Greig says. “I have not shown it to anybody yet as I have no proof it was caused by the two clerks.”

  “Very wise. You also don’t want the press getting their paws on it.”

  Greig pulls a face.

  “Where I come from, detective inspector, the press is only too keen to help the police stamp out crime.”

  “Indeed. It’s a different story here. Met Mr Richard Dandy? Dandy Dick, as he’s known. Writes for a rag called the Illustrated London News: ‘The voice of the man in the street’. I wouldn’t wipe my arse on it, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “I have met the individual. And I have written to the paper to express my thoughts about his writing skills.”

  “Good for you. I often say to my sergeant we spend as much time fighting lies in the press as we do detecting crime on the street. And that’s even before …”

  Stride’s words are interrupted by a polite knock at the door, which opens to reveal a younger detective, clean-shaven but for a pair of side-whiskers. His face has a gaunt, unslept look.

  “There’s a gentlemen from the London Fine Wine Importers in the outer office. He claims their warehouse has been raided overnight. He has his carriage waiting.”

  “River Police?”

  “They say it isn’t actual water crime.”

  Stride rolls his eyes.

  “Bloody typical. Right, if we’re done here, Inspector Greig, I’ll let you be on your way.”

  “We’re done. I’ve said my piece and I thank you for your time.”

  Greig rises, puts on his hat. The younger detective nods a friendly greeting.

  “Inspector Greig isn’t it? From Bow Street? I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Cully. I hear on the grapevine you’re after some so-called baby minders.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Then I hope to God you catch them,” Cully says vehemently.

  Greig raises his eyebrows.

  “Jack’s wife has just given birth to a baby girl. That’s why he feels so strongly,” Stride says. “And why he looks as if he hasn’t slept,” he adds, gathering his things.

  “It is my intention to bring them to court, detective sergeant. By hook or by crook ... for crooks they most certainly are. And murderers of the deepest and most dastardly hue. And now I’ll bid you both good-bye.”

  He walks out, humming the Bluebells of Scotland under his breath.

  Detective Sergeant Jack Cully stares after him.

  “Rum,” he murmurs.

  “How so? Seemed a perfectly reasonable man to me. Good thief taker, I gather.”

  “He’s a single man. No children. But the Bow Street sergeants say he’s like a terrier after a rat. Absolutely determined to catch these people, whatever it takes.”

  “Well, I don’t drink wine - can’t abide the stuff, but that won’t stop me trying to track down this gang - if there is a gang,” Stride says. “Now then, let’s see what Mr Fine Wine Importer has for us. As they say, time and tide wait for no man.”

  ****

  There is no tide proximitous to the Lawton residence, but the time is early evening and the table is laid for dinner. Snowy table linen, bright silver, clear sparkling glass, wine and a bowl of soft fruit on the sideboard for dessert.

  Mr and Mrs Lawton are seated on either side of the drawing room hearth, waiting to be summoned to dine by the parlour maid. A short distance away, Daisy Lawton stands in the bow window, looking out on the garden.

  Mrs Lawton casts a quick glance in her daughter’s direction, then leans forward, lowering her voice.

  “Have you noticed any change in Daisy over the last few days?”

  This is exactly the sort of question that strikes fear into any husband, freighted as it always is with the possibility of misunderstanding, leading to error and culminating in uxorial wrath.

  “Would this have to do with her appetite? I noticed she hasn’t been finishing her food. I put it down to the general seesaw between appetite and love.”

  Mrs Lawton purses her lips in disapproval.

  “Typical of a man. Only thinking of your stomach. Look at her: moping by the window - is that the behaviour of a happy young girl who has just secured one of the handsomest and most eligible bachelors in London?”

  “Is that what he is? Ah.”

  Mr Lawton sighs. His Daisy-duck is seventeen and engaged to be married. Yet it se
ems like only the other day she was in long-clothes and scrambling up the apple tree.

  “Perhaps it is too soon for an engagement,” he ventures cautiously, to be instantly quelled by A Look.

  “What nonsense! She is clearly in love with dear Digby. And he with her. Why, her face lights up whenever he enters the room. No, there is something troubling her and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

  Alerted by his wife’s words, Mr Lawton watches Daisy carefully during dinner. He notices that she is not particularly preoccupied by anything that is going on. She joins in no conversations. She picks at her food, and crumbles her bread on the tablecloth. Her long eyelashes are seen on the clear tint of her cheeks.

  After blackcurrant dumplings, always a favourite in the past, have been tasted and left on her plate, he makes up his mind. As soon as the meal is over, he pushes back his chair.

  “Now, who is going to come and read the evening paper to me in my den?”

  Daisy looks up, her eyes troubled.

  “Daisy-duck, your old papa needs your young eyes,” Mr Lawton says, rising and holding out his hand.

  Listlessly, Daisy gets up and follows him to the book-lined room always referred to as ‘Fa’s Den’ where Mr Lawton sits down in his favourite armchair and pulls his daughter down onto his lap.

  “Now than Daisy - tell your silly old Fa what is troubling you. No - don’t turn your face away. I am a doctor and I diagnose that there something amiss with my favourite daughter.”

  “I am your only daughter, Fa.”

  “That is why it is even more important to make it better.”

  Daisy colours a little. Mr Lawton who has learned the value of silence over many years of marriage, waits for her to speak.

  Daisy sighs, plays with the fringe on her shawl.

  “I have had a quarrel with somebody.”

  “Digby?”

  Daisy shakes her head.

  “It is Tishy - Letitia Simpkins.”

  “Ah. The funny little girl from school. I like her.”

  Daisy frowns.

  “Funny?”

  “She has a funny little face - always makes me smile, especially when she looks at you with her head on one side in that amusing way of hers, as if she is laughing at you inside. And she knows all about science and geography and quotes Byron! Quite amazing.”