“Where have you been?” Flynt asked as Billings walked back towards him. “Hurry up. We have to go inside and witness the coroner’s signing of the death certificate.” He put his hand on his colleague’s back and led him towards the prison block.
“That was Ada Hirsch,” Billings said as they walked.
“Did you speak to her?”
“She wants to abandon her child at a workhouse.”
“Good idea.”
Billings frowned. “Can’t we give her part of the reward money? She has lost everything.”
“It’s not my case, Billings. You’d have to speak to England about that.”
“England is a hard-hearted brute! He’ll never give her anything.”
“England is a clever and cunning policeman. You can learn a lot from him.”
16. Pork Pies
Billings had always thought of himself as a good walker, but after spending three consecutive days scouring the busy Spitalfields Market for any sign of Ada, he could feel blisters starting to form on both of his heels. How many blisters did Ada have to endure, he thought. It was a long walk from Bethnal Green to Old Spitalfields Market, but she would have had to make that journey on foot every day. With a baby strapped to her body and two heavy baskets of pies weighing down her arms. He had not stopped thinking about her since he saw her at the hanging. He felt responsible for her predicament and was now finally in a position to help her, but he simply couldn’t find her. Why couldn’t he find her? He had a horrible feeling in his gut that something was wrong. Of course, it was possible that she might be trying her hand at a different market. He knew that Ada peddled more than one kind of pie. Perhaps beef and oyster pies sold better in Clerkenwell. And umble pies were more desired in Brick Lane. But that horrible feeling in his gut led Billings to believe that her absence from this market pointed to something darker. Perhaps she was ill. Or her baby was ill. Or she might have given up costermongering altogether and resorted to selling something much more valuable in the dark alleys of Whitechapel. Or, worst of all, she may have decided to end it all and throw herself and her baby off a bridge.
Knowing that Ada could not afford a stall, he trudged along the outskirts of the market, looking at all the peddlers carrying baskets, advertising their wares in loud, gravelly voices. All kinds of fragrances met his nose as he drifted through the market: wilting flowers, old fish, raw meat, rotting vegetables.
They sold a bit of everything at these East End markets. Some of it legally, a lot of it not.
There was a man walking around with a pole on his shoulders, on which hung six small birdcages with a chirping songbird in each.
An old, crooked man dragged an equally decrepit goat down the road, offering to sell it to passers-by for six shillings.
A big giant of a man stood by a tavern overlooking the market with two ferocious pit-bull terriers on a leash, accosting selected people and inviting them to a dog fight.
A short distance from the market, by a small park, an Italian ice cream seller stood behind his trolley, surrounded by children waiting for their turns to put the penny-licker to their mouths. Billings frowned. This disgusting practice of allowing hundreds of children to lick ice cream out of the same glass cup was the reason that tuberculosis was so rampant in the East End.
Then, on the pavement just in front of the park gates, he saw a woman sitting on the ground, feeding her baby. It was Ada Hirsch. Two filled baskets of pork pies stood beside her on the ground. He approached her.
“At last, I have found you.”
Ada looked up and frowned. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
“Perhaps we could go somewhere quieter. There’s a tea shop around the corner. I could treat you to a cup of tea.”
“A cup of tea, is it? Well, well, aren’t we the prim and proper type! There’s a tavern over there.” She nodded towards a pub across the road. “Get me a pint of stout and we can talk.”
Billings smiled. “Very well.”
Ada got up, strapped her baby to her torso, picked up her baskets and stepped onto the road.
“Let me help you with that.” Billings ran after her and reached out for one of the baskets.
“You keep your mitts off me wares!” she said, brushing his hand away. She rushed across the road and walked into the pub. Billings went after her.
Billings ordered a pint of stout and a glass of brandy at the bar. “I have some good news for you,” he said to Ada, joining her at a table. “I have your money.”
Ada sat up and raised her eyebrows. “You do?”
Billings took a cheque out of his breast pocket and placed it on the table. “Six hundred pounds,” he said proudly.
Ada did not look at the cheque. “The reward was for two thousand pounds,” she said. “And ’ow do you think I’m gonna cash this cheque? I’ll be arrested for stealing it the moment I step into the bank.”
“I’ll come with you if you like.”
Ada finally looked at the cheque. “This cheque lists you as the payee.”
“Yes.” Billings looked down at the table, a little embarrassed.
“Shouldn’t the payee be the Metropolitan Police Service? Or Countess Olexa?”
“Does it matter?”
There was a pause. Then the penny dropped, and Ada jolted in her seat. “You’re not paying it out of your own pocket, are you?”
“What if I am?”
She stared at the detective with horror then pushed the cheque away from her. “I can’t take it!”
Billings slid the cheque back. “Take it, please.”
“I can’t. I know what a policeman’s wages are. It’s not much.”
She slid the cheque back towards the detective, but Billings put his hands on top of hers and prevented this from happening. “I can afford it,” he said.
Ada looked at Billings and hesitated. Tears were welling in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly, fighting back the tears. Then an idea suddenly occurred to her. She reached for the ground and picked up a basket of pork pies. “Take this,” she said, placing the basket on the table.
Billings was about to decline the offer when Ada grabbed the second basket. “Take both,” she said. “I won’t have no for an answer.”
Billings looked at the two baskets and frowned. “What am I to do with all those pork pies?”
“Eat ’em. Sell ’em. Give ’em away. I don’t care! You’re gonna take ’em off me, or I’ll rip up that cheque and throw it in the wind!”
“Oh, my goodness!” cried Mrs Appleby as Billings put the baskets of pork pies on the kitchen table. “What is this?”
“I was given two baskets of pork pies by a costermonger.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story. I thought perhaps you would like them.”
“Well, I’m partial to a pork pie, but two baskets full?”
“Perhaps you can give some to your sister, or to your friends.”
“They’re all watching their figures. As am I. I’m sorry, Mr Billings, but I can’t take those pies off you. They’re much too tempting. I’ll end up looking like a football.”
“Perhaps Mr McCain might want them.”
Mrs Appleby frowned upon hearing that name. “How long is that man going to be staying in my house?”
“I paid for the room until the end of the month. He’s looking for alternative accommodation now.”
“And will you be paying for that too?”
“No.”
“He has money of his own then, has he?”
“He does now.”
“Oh? Did he find a job?”
Billings frowned. Mrs Appleby was fishing for information again – an annoying habit of hers. He decided it was best to cut the conversation short with a little white lie.
“Yes,” he said.
Mrs Appleby raised her eyebrows. “What kind of job?”
“You should ask him.”
The landlady frowned. “I prefer not to speak to that man at all,” she mumbled.
Enoch walked into the kitchen from the yard at that moment, and behind him Tilly, wagging her tail, drawn by the scent of the pies.
Mrs Appleby frowned. “What’s that dog doing here?” she yelled.
“Sorry,” Enoch said. “I was on the loo. I accidentally let her slip in.”
Billings grabbed a pie from the basket and threw it at the dog, who swiftly devoured it.
Mrs Appleby looked on with disdain. “Mr Billings, really!”
“Well, you didn’t want it.”
She turned her nose up at Enoch and the dog and stormed out of the kitchen.
Enoch lifted up his hands apologetically and smiled. “Sorry, my fault. I keep forgetting that dog is in the yard.” He turned his attention towards the pork pies. “What’s this?”
“Pork pies,” Billings said coldly.
There hadn’t been much interaction between them since the day of the telegram. They remained civil and greeted each other when Billings came home from work, or when they met on the landing, but they no longer slept in the same room and usually sat in awkward silence at the breakfast table.
He picked a pie out of the basket and handed it to Enoch. “Here. Try one.”
Enoch took the pie and bit into it. “Mmmm. It’s good,” he said, smiling broadly.
That was the first time Billings had seen him smile since their little tiff, and he was reminded of how lovely the boy looked when he smiled.
“I’ve never had a pork pie before,” Enoch said.
“Haven’t you?”
“No. We never eat pork at home.”
Billings raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”
Suddenly Enoch became flustered. As if he had said something wrong. “Oh… um… my parents don’t like pigs. They think they’re dirty animals. Because they like to roll in the mud, you see? Where did you get them from?”
“They were a present from a costermonger.”
“Why?”
“I helped her with something.”
“A new protégé?”
Billings recognised the sting in that remark but decided to ignore it. “I don’t know what to do with all these pies. Mrs Appleby doesn’t want them, and I’ve already eaten more than I can take.”
“Perhaps you can take them to Scotland Yard tomorrow. Treat your colleagues.”
“I’m off to Croydon tomorrow.”
“What’s in Croydon?”
“Work.”
“Well, take them with you. I’m sure you’ll find a new charity case in Croydon to give them to.” Grabbing another pie from the basket, he walked out of the kitchen.
Another stinging remark, thought Billings. It looked as though Enoch was as hurt by their little argument as he was. This boded well. This suggested that Enoch had been sincere about his feelings for him.
It was the first rainy day of the summer. It had been muggy all day, but at last the clouds had opened, and the rain was lashing down.
Billings arrived at Saffron Cottage, dripping wet. “My goodness, what a day!” he said, entering the house and shaking his umbrella dry in the doorway. He looked up. The chair on which he expected to find Clarkson sitting was empty.
“Where is everybody?” he wondered. He stuck his umbrella in the stand and entered the drawing room. Ruben was sleeping on the couch, as usual. Simeon was sitting in front of the window, his walking stick resting against the arm rest, staring at the water streaming down the window pane.
“Hello,” Billings said.
Simeon did not reply.
“Where is Detective Sergeant Clarkson?”
“Out,” Simeon mumbled, without taking his eyes off the rain.
“What do you mean, out?”
“He went to get cherries.”
“Cherries?”
“We were craving cherries. We used to have a huge cherry tree in our home in Paris. Cherries remind us of a time when we were still free. Clarkson took pity on us and popped out to get some.”
“He’s not supposed to leave the cottage.”
“There are two constables keeping guard outside, for God’s sake! We’re not going to run away.”
Simeon hadn’t stopped staring out the window throughout the conversation. His face looked tense and pale, his eyes withdrawn. Life in captivity must be getting to him, Billings thought. Simeon and his brothers had been holed up in that cottage for almost three weeks.
“Where is your brother Levi?” Billings asked.
“Levi is upstairs, sleeping.”
“I’ve brought something to cheer you up.” Billings held up the basket of pork pies that he had dragged along with him.
Simeon finally turned his head to look at him. “What are they?” he asked.
“Pork pies.”
Simeon frowned and turned back towards the window. “Jews don’t eat pork.”
Billings slapped his forehead. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll take it away.” He turned to leave the room, but Simeon stopped him.
“Leave it. Levi will probably want some. He’s always complaining that he’s hungry.”
“But if his religion prohibits it…”
“We’re against religion.”
“I’ll put it in the kitchen then. Where it’s out of sight.”
Billings put the basket on the kitchen table and re-entered the drawing room.
“There’s a letter on the desk,” Simeon said. “Could you please post it?”
Billings walked towards the desk and picked up the letter. It was addressed to a Mrs Sylvia Crampin.
“Who is Mrs Sylvia Crampin?”
“A student.”
“Student?”
“I teach French to her. We were whisked out of Bethnal Green without any notice. I want her to know why I’m not there for our classes.”
Billings picked up a letter opener and began slicing open the envelope.
Simeon looked on, aghast. “You can’t open that!”
“I have to read all your correspondence.”
“Am I not allowed any privacy?”
“No.”
Billings pulled the letter out of the envelope and read it.
Dear Sylvia,
I am in Berkshire. I went to meet an old friend who hasn’t seen me for many years. Last time we met was on Sunday 18th of January, 1883! He is half Egyptian and a very interesting character. His name is Safr Oncott. And he is 65 years of age. He is a friend of that German doctor we met. What was his name? Freud, or Creud or something like that. I’ll be back on the 22nd of this month. I will take the train, hopefully I will find a comfortable carriage, so I can think about that book I told you I’d write. You know how I can’t concentrate when there are a lot of people. They distract me. Even the guards distract me when they come to check my ticket. I can’t have any distraction while I am thinking! Anyway, I thought I’d slip a quick note in the envelope to let you know where I am hanging out.
With regards,
Simeon Hirsch
1.8 2.4 3.45 5.45 6.1 7.7 8.7 13.145 15.27 16. 3 17.7
“What is this book you mention in your letter?”
“None of your business.”
“You have to answer my questions.”
“Why?”
“Because you are still under police custody. We have not yet cleared you for the murder of Joseph Hirsch. If you refuse to cooperate, we can send you back to the prison cell.”
“It’s a French grammar book. I told Mrs Crampin that I would write a French grammar book one of these days.”
“What are these numbers at the bottom of the letter?”
“Birds.”
“Birds?”
“I’ve been counting birds. There’s nothing else to do here! I’ve counted seven magpies, fourteen pigeons, twenty-three sparrows, etc.”
“Why did you write those numbers on Mrs Crampin’s letter?”
“I didn’t have any other paper at hand.”
�
��There’s paper in the desk drawer.”
“I didn’t want to get out of my seat.”
“It would be good for you to get up and walk around a bit.”
Finally, Simeon turned to face him. “Oh, would it, Mr Billings?” His face reddened with rage. “It´s not easy for me to walk.” He picked up his walking stick and waved it in the air. “Even so, I’d gladly get up and walk out of this blessed house if I could, but there are two constables out there who would stop me if I tried!”
Billings realised the tactlessness of what he’d said and frowned. He sat down at the desk, pulled a sheet of paper out of the drawer and dipped a pen in the inkwell.
Simeon looked on, confused. “What are you doing?”
“We need to keep a copy of every letter you send.”
“Why?”
“I told you, Mr Hirsch. You are still under suspicion.”
Simeon put his head in his hands. “Lord almighty,” he mumbled. “You’ve become worse than the French police!”
Billings walked back home from Clapham Station. He knew that Enoch would be sitting on the curb in front of Mrs Appleby’s house waiting for him to arrive, and he wasn’t ready to face him yet. He needed this long walk to clear his mind and figure out just what it was that he wanted from that boy before confronting him.
He was still fond of Enoch. And the notion of living together as a couple with him still appealed to him. It had given him confidence to have someone to come home to, someone to wake up next to. But was Enoch the right companion for him? Everything he had learned about the boy suggested that he was someone he should be running a mile from.
But if not Enoch, then who? His experience at the bars taught him that it was not easy to find someone who was interested in more than just a quick bout of carnal pleasure. For all his faults, Enoch was at least easy to love. The boy craved attention. He was loving and caring and, most important of all, unashamed of who he was.
As he turned the corner into Alexandra Avenue, Billings frowned. He’d been walking much faster than he realised, and he hadn’t reached any conclusions yet. Enoch was sitting on the curb as usual. His face was pale, his shoulders hunched. He looked like a little boy who’d been punished by his mother, sent outside and forced to sit on the pavement until he had repented his wrongdoing.
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