by Carol Hedges
Thinking about her own mother brings back memories of Izzy’s last birthday. It was a special day. Her mother had met her from work, and they’d walked to a food stall down New Cut, where her mother had spent some of her money on hot potato and fried fish, which they’d eaten by the light of a swinging oil lamp. The stall holder had put his arm round her mother’s shoulders, whispering in her ear. The rest of the memory was blurred, but the taste of that lovely hot fish lingered on.
She takes a final look at the house of mourning, sending kind thoughts towards her grieving teacher, then sets off back to the small section of shared floor that she calls home. As she walks, Izzy looks up, up at the shining stars. She takes a breath of cold tingly air. Today is her eleventh birthday. That was why she’d put on her scarlet ribbon this morning when she got up. Today will be remembered as a special day too, but not for the same reasons as last year.
****
The city is emptying as Stride walks home. There has been paperwork; there will be more paperwork. Now all he craves is the comfort of his own hearth. He pauses at the newsboy’s stand on the corner of the Piazza, but the headlines this evening are all about the disappearance of Lady Someone who has escaped from a privately-run asylum.
Stride does not blame her. In his opinion, there are more people walking the streets who should be incarcerated in lunatic asylums, than ever have been. Good luck to the lady, he thinks, even though wishing anything positive upon the upper classes goes against his moral grain. His thoughts linger briefly on Mr. Gerald Daubney. There is a man so close to the edge of madness that it would only take a slight push to tip him over.
He reaches his street, where the gas-lamps have been lit, and spies his house in the distance. Smoke is rising from the chimney, a sign that supper is being cooked. He quickens his pace and is just about to unlatch the front gate, when he has the distinct sensation that somebody has stepped out from the shadows and is standing right behind him.
Stride whirls round, fists raised, ready to strike the first blow. Then, recognising whom he is about to strike, he lowers his hands and grips the putative assailant by his shoulders instead. “Pozzy! For the love of God! Where have you been?”
The old man wheezes himself into voice. “Bin here an’ there, Mr. Stride. Duckin’ and divin’, wheelin’ and dealin’. Like you do.”
“Did you know your sister has been down to Scotland Yard and reported you missing? She is very upset about you.”
The old man laughs. It sounds like a rusty knife scraping along a brick wall. “Has she now? Silly cow. She oughter know me better. I allus turns up, eventually. Like the proverbial bad penny, I am. Serves her right. Coming round the house, telling me what to eat an’ when to change my socks. As I keeps saying to her: I eat what I likes, and I don’t need clean socks at my time of life.”
The old man sniffs the air. “Smells like good stew cooking somewhere,” he says. He regards Stride with watery, but hopeful eyes. “Bit of supper wouldn’t go amiss. Then I might be up to tellin’ you wot I found out.”
Stride shudders at the thought of Mrs Stride’s reaction if he turns up with Pozzy in tow, but he marches him to the front door and, bidding him wait on the step, enters the house, carefully taking off his boots first. After a short interval, he returns, carrying a brimming plate.
“You sit down here on the step and enjoy your meal, Pozzy,” he says. “Then we’ll go for a pint or two, shall we?”
The old man’s mouth waters as he takes the plate in his hands. “Fair enough, Mr. Stride. Fair enough,” he says, sitting down carefully so as not to spill any of the rich gravy. Stride hands him a spoon, then goes back to the kitchen where, even with the door closed, he can hear the noises of the old man enjoying his food.
A short while later, Stride and Pozzy set out for the Black Horse, the nearest public house. Stride doesn’t drink there normally. Partly because it is the nearest public house and partly because Mrs Stride, who was brought up strict Presbyterian, does not approve of strong drink.
Nevertheless, an exception has been made, and now Stride places the old man in a quiet back booth while he orders drinks at the bar. When his pint arrives, Pozzy takes a long pull of his ale, wipes his moustache, then sits back contentedly.
“That’s better, Mr. Stride. Nothing like a plate of good stew and a pint to set a man up for the evening. Now then, I expects you’re wanting to know what I has to tell yer?”
“In your own time, Pozzy,” Stride says. He is rather relishing the excuse to have an evening out: Mrs Stride has been leaving paint charts on the kitchen table again, an ominous sign that more decorating is being planned. Stride hates decorating. He has barely recovered from the last bout.
“So, where have you been staying, Pozzy?” he asks.
The old man looks vague. “Got a mate down Deptford way. Owed me a favour. Been kipping at his place while I made some inquiries for you. And the word on the cobbles is that it’s not just you who wants Mr. Munro Black caught. There are a lot of people in that queue.
“See, it’s not just the gambling, currency rackets and loan sharking what he does, but right now he is bad for business generally, coz whenever you get policemen investigating somebody, they always end up seeing more than they should. The sooner he clears off or someone puts him behind bars, the better for local businesses round here, and for certain people who’ll sleep safer, and stop looking over their shoulders.”
Stride sees the logic of this. “But if that is so, why won’t anybody talk to us?” he asks.
“Nobody wants to be known as a snitch, is why. And they’re scared, Mr. Stride. They don’t like Munro Black, but he’s got a lot of muscle and the muscle is paid to put the frighteners on anybody who might get in his way. That’s why he did what he did. Show who’s top dog. Ain’t no one going to take him on if they know they might end up swingin’ from a rope somewhere, are they? Stands to reason. And that’s the long and short of it.”
“Did you find anyone who’d be prepared to stand up in court and swear it was Munro Black who murdered James Flashley?”
Pozzy shakes his head. “Nobody was there, nobody saw nothin’.”
Stride pulls a face. “Well, you did your best, Pozzy,” he said. “At least you kept yourself safe.”
“Oi, Mr. Stride! Hold up a bit. I ain’t finished. I might not be able to help you out with Munro Black, but I got some interesting stuff about his younger brother.”
“I thought he had gone abroad.”
“He comes and goes. He trades in hooman flesh, as them newspapers puts it. Picks up girls in London and takes them over to France or to Belgium.”
“We know this,” Stride says. “We can’t stop him. These girls are old enough to choose where they want to work. If we arrested every ‘actress’ on the street, there wouldn’t be room for the real criminals.”
Pozzy waves a dismissive hand, “Ah, but wait a bit ~ we ain’t talking about your usual judies, Mr. Stride. These are very young ones, but they are being sold on the Continent as older girls.”
Stride leans forward, his gaze fixed intently upon the old man’s face. “Go on …”
“What they do, see, is they gets hold of a birth certificate of another girl, maybe she has a similar name, and then they pass off their girl as that one. Mr. Black senior turns up at the Register General’s office, all suited and booted, and pays the fee for a copy of the birth certificate. Then Mr. Black junior ships the girl over to the Continent, with the copy, and shows it to the Continental police, who think it is an official document.
“They have to do it like that because taking a young girl abroad is a crime. And I got the address of the woman who looks after the girls until they are collected,” Pozzy grins crazily at Stride, “Coz why? Coz I am still the best-informed informer in town, Mr. Stride. And that’s God’s own truth.”
They finish their drinks. Stride gives the old man the agreed reward for his services, which Pozzy pockets with a grunt of satisfaction. Then, having mad
e a note of the address of the woman, he walks the old man to the nearest cab stand and puts him in a hansom. It is far too late for an old man, unsteady on his feet, to walk home on his own.
Stride waits until the cab has disappeared into the night, after which he sets off in the direction of home once more. The walk will enable him to clear his head. And to plot the next stage of the investigation. Finally, the net is closing on Munro Black, but they must move carefully and with stealth. It is absolutely vital that there are no holes for him to slip through.
****
The night wears on. Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton sits at her writing-desk, chin resting on one cupped hand, staring out of her window at the starlit sky. Venus is rising, an auspicious portent.
On her desk, as yet unopened, sits a letter, written in the familiar hand of her barrister’s clerk. It was delivered earlier this evening, while the Author was at table. Now, she rests her other hand upon the superscript, thinking that this moment is like that point in a novel when the turning of a page will finally reveal the true destiny of a fair, but misjudged heroine.
Her current Heroine is still languishing in the sloughs of unrequited affection, even though it is a bright and brilliant June (her favourite month); a triumphant summer has banished the pitiful spring and the meadows are all perfume and colour. She (the Heroine) awaits her fate, even as her creator, the Author, awaits sufficient courage to open the letter she has received.
At last she turns her gaze away from the celestial realm. It is time. She picks up an ivory letter-opener and inserts it under the red waxed seal. Inside the envelope is a letter, written on rich cream paper in the same sloping, clerkish hand.
Dear Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton, (she reads)
I have now received official written confirmation from Strutt & Preening (lawyers) that the allegation made against you by Lord Edwin Lackington has been formally withdrawn. In the circumstances and given the adverse effect upon your esteemed literary reputation, I will be making an application to the court for compensation.
It is my intention to request that the sum of two hundred guineas, which I think is an appropriate amount given the social position of the litigant and the seriousness of the accusation made against you, should be paid into your bank account at the earliest opportunity, on the understanding that we will not pursue Lord Lackington through the courts for his wrongful and malicious accusation.
I trust this meets with your approval.
The letter is signed by the barrister himself (she presumes it is his signature, like the signature of most professional men, it is totally illegible to the layman’s eye).
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton stares at the letter for some considerable time, trying to take in the contents. She remembers reading, in her youth, some saying in the bible on the lines that if one cast one’s bread upon the waters, it would return one hundredfold or thereabout. Here is tangible proof. She spent fifty guineas; she will receive two hundred guineas in return. All being well.
She decides that, should it come to pass, some of the money must be given to Miss Landseer, in recompense for her successful efforts in clearing her name. The rest will be saved towards her eventual purchase of a little writer’s nook in the Lake District.
The Author sets the letter aside. All this is for another time. Meanwhile, outside her window is the clear sky, upholding the never-ending pomp of night, and the ever-new prospect of dawn. With a grateful sigh, Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton takes up her pen, dips it into her ink-pot, and begins to write.
****
It is the following morning, and Maria Barklem is meeting with the church Elders to discuss her future occupation of the cottage. The meeting is taking place in the church parlour, a plain room, barely warmed by a sputtering coal fire. The room has a large polished table. The Elders sit behind the polished table. Behind the Elders are the words GOD IS LOVE, painted on the white wall.
It is just over two weeks since her mother was buried in the churchyard, next to her father. The mound of earth is still fresh on her grave. The headstone has not been set in place yet. But the living (and the houses they currently occupy) are more important than the dead, so here she is, clothed in full mourning, waiting the judgement of these three wise men.
And here they are, elderly and upright, elected to carry out God’s Will to the letter, if not the Spirit. They regard her cautiously across the wide brown shininess of the table, as if she were some strange alien on a far-off shore. An Egyptian facing the Chosen People. Which is what she certainly feels like.
“Let us now open the meeting with prayer,” one of the Elders intones solemnly.
Heads are bowed. The Almighty is called upon to bless and guide. The departed are mentioned, briefly, but not dwelt upon for too long, as the absence of their presence plays no part in what is to be discussed.
Maria lets the words float above her. Her lips instinctively frame an ‘amen’ at the close of the prayer, but she does not inhabit it. It is not just the black clothes that separate her from the world, but her whole existence. She does not know who she is any more. Can you be a daughter when you have no mother?
One of the Elders, (his name is Samuel Cutclyffe-Hyne) clears his throat. Meaningfully. Maria raises her eyes and fixes them upon him. He is the man who grudgingly agreed to allow her mother to stay on in the cottage. In his face there is little expression, but behind the pale eyes, some ruthless calculation is in progress. He is the business end of the meeting. The other two Elders are here in a scenic capacity.
“We meet, albeit in sad circumstances, to consider the future of the church cottage,” he begins. “More particularly, the future use of the church’s dwelling place, which has been the topic of much prayer and debate, and which I, as senior Elder, have now been instructed to share with you.”
Maria stares at him. She says nothing in response. She is damned if she is going to help him out. His dislike of her has always been hidden in plain sight. She works. She earns money. She has opinions. Which she expresses. She does not conform to his idea of what a young unmarried Christian female should be. Plus, he strongly suspects (correctly) that she seems to be poking every utterance of his with a stick.
“It has always been the intention of the church that the cottage should be offered to somebody who is in the employ of the diocese,” Cutclyffe-Hyne says. “In the past, that was your father, who served the parish in the role of assistant minister. Then, as a concession to her situation and her declining health, your mother and you were permitted to reside there. Now, we face a new prospect, and so a new solution must be sought. Do you not agree?”
Maria folds her black-gloved hands in her black silk lap and lets the black thoughts circle inside her head like predatory birds. “So, in which particular gutter would you like me to take up residence, then?” she says, sharply, in a voice that she does not recognise as hers.
There is a swift indrawing of Elderly breath.
“Now, now, young woman, I do not see the necessity for such a remark,” Cutclyffe-Hyne says, his face reddening. “I am sure an amicable outcome is the one we all wish to see enacted.”
Maria holds his words up for scrutiny. “You want to throw me out of the home I have lived in since I was a child. How is that ‘amicable’?”
“Nobody is speaking of throwing you out. Far from it. We have a proposal that, once you hear it, we are all sure will suit your current circumstances admirably.”
Maria sidles up to this and sniffs it cautiously. “I am listening.”
Cutclyffe-Hyne shoots a quick glance at his fellow Elders.
“Now then. Miss Barklem. As you know, the church has recently appointed a new curate. He and his family of four will be joining us from Northumberland in a few weeks. What we propose is that you stay on in the house as cook and general housekeeper to the family.”
“I see. Where would I sleep?”
“I believe, from my recollection, that the scullery adjoining the kitchen is capacious enough to hold a small truckle bed, is it not?
The church itself is in need of a cleaner, so you could easily combine the two roles. Of course, you would live rent-free. A small emolument might be provided in recompense for your Christian services. What do you say?”
Maria grips her hands tightly together. “I say I would rather die in a ditch than skivvy day and night.”
“Hoity-toity young miss! You are not in a position to turn down such an offer of Christian charity, I think?”
“Well, I have to inform you, gentlemen, that you are wrong. I have made my plans, and they do not include working my fingers to the bone for a pittance.” She stands. “I bid you good day. Be assured, by the time your new curate arrives, I shall be gone. You will see me no more, other than when I visit the graves of my father and mother, whose lives you made thoroughly miserable. You call this Christian charity? A dog in the street has more charity than you.”
Maria thrusts her arms into the sleeves of her coat and stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her for good measure. Anger gets her most of the way home. Then, the cold reality of her situation punches her in the face.
She sits down on the red plush chair that was her mother’s favourite, covering her face with her hands. She has lied to the Elders. Lied. She has nowhere to go once she quits this home. And her job at the bakery will not pay her enough for both rent and food. Bravado without back-up. Her jibe about living on the street may well become a reality unless something turns up. And it doesn’t have long to do so.
****
A short while later, a cab pulls up outside a certain respectable-looking house in Portland Place. The blinds are lowered at some of the upper story windows, suggesting that there might be illness in the house. Out of the cab steps Detective Inspector Stride. He is accompanied by an inspector and a couple of constables from C-Division.
