Kith and Kin

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘Quite likely they would. It’s a way off my patch, I asked the locals to look at it and they told me nothing doing. So I accepted that.’

  The threads were slowly starting to twist together, Henry thought. He had the strange feeling they might twist into a tight and round enough bundle to form a rope. A rope for someone’s neck, perhaps.

  SIXTEEN

  After breakfast on the Wednesday morning, Henry and Mickey drove to Ash Tree Lane. By rights they should have informed Sergeant Frith that this was what they planned to do and it was a breach in protocol for them to go alone, but Mickey did not broach the subject and Henry did not mention it.

  They parked up close to the gate and waited for somebody to come and speak to them, and then asked to see Sarah Cooper. The man at the gate glanced at their credentials and then beckoned them inside and they followed him through the camp. Henry looked around, keenly interested. There were many children running here and there and people set on their daily activities, building and tending fires, cooking, dealing with the horses. Most glanced in their direction as he and Mickey walked through and then turned away as though deliberately ignoring them. Only the children showed undisguised interest in the strangers and by the time they reached Sarah’s vardo they had picked up a procession of tots and teens, who scattered when Sarah opened the door and glared at them. The man, his job apparently done, left them to Sarah’s tender mercies.

  ‘And who might you be? Obviously, the police.’ She glanced beyond them and looked around, and then said, ‘And where’s Sergeant Frith got to?’

  ‘You just have us this morning,’ Mickey said pleasantly. ‘Detective Sergeant Mickey Hitchens, and this is my boss Detective Chief Inspector Johnstone.’

  ‘Well, there’s fancy. And to what do we owe the pleasure?’

  ‘You’re sister to the late Mrs Beaney,’ Henry said.

  Sarah eyed him suspiciously. ‘I told her after her old man died she should have changed her name back. It was her name, Cooper; she should have kept it.’

  Mickey was curious. ‘So Cooper is not your married name?’

  ‘Cooper is my name. If my husband wished to take it, he could. What brothers I had died in the war, so there’s no one to carry the name forward for our branch of the family and it’s now mine to do with as I wish.’

  ‘We are told you had a strange visit the night before last,’ Mickey said. ‘A group of men in three cars, carrying guns. Apparently they left swiftly, with their tails between their legs. What did they want with you, Sarah Cooper?’

  ‘And who says they wanted anything with me? The only visitors we had two nights ago were a rabble of young ’uns, followed some of ours back after they’d been drinking together, caused a bit of a ruckus and went on their way.’

  ‘That doesn’t fit with what we’ve been told. With what a witness has told.’

  ‘What witness? You’re wasting your time, coming here. What can we tell you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Henry said. ‘What can you tell us? Or perhaps we should begin by telling you what we know?’

  The woman looked at him, head slightly on one side, undecided about what to do with him, and then she shrugged. ‘Get along with it, then. I don’t have time to waste.’

  Henry’s attention had been attracted by something happening over on the far side of the camp and now he began to walk towards it, leaving a puzzled Mickey and a very annoyed Sarah in his wake. Two young men were sparring in an improvised ring made of hay bales and they had quite an audience. They were bare fisted, fast and disciplined. The aim seemed to be to test one another out, not to do damage or even score points at this stage, and to Henry’s practised eye it was clear that these two were strangers to one another and had probably not yet battled for real.

  Watching closely was a much older man, wearing a heavy coat and a flat cap. His face was lined with wrinkles upon wrinkles, but his body moved in sympathy with those of the young men, jabbing and dodging and ducking, his left hand fetching round into a vicious uppercut that contacted nothing but seemed to make the air shiver.

  Sarah looked amused. ‘Fancy your chances, do you, copper?’

  Mickey just laughed.

  Henry turned and looked at the woman thoughtfully and then he nodded. ‘Why not?’

  More laughter. This time the men watching the boxers joined in as they realized there was amusement to be had. Mickey was careful not to react.

  Henry shed his coat, jacket, waistcoat and shirt, leaving just his short-sleeved singlet. He eased his feet out of his shoes and stepped forward into the ring. The two young men had stopped, unsure of what to do next. The old man called them aside and threw blankets round their shoulders so they didn’t take cold while they were waiting. Henry was soon joined by another man, the one who had escorted them from the gate. Sarah plonked herself down on one of the hay bales, swung her legs over so that she was facing the ring, and Mickey, more cautiously, sat beside her. ‘They don’t like the women to watch the fighting,’ she said. ‘Not a woman’s place – but neither is it a policeman’s.’

  ‘He lives by his own rules,’ Mickey told her. But these were strange rules, even by Henry’s standards.

  The mood changed. Whereas the two boys had been trying each other out, testing boundaries and speed and skill, the two men who now moved in the ring seemed to have other concerns. It was a long time since Mickey had seen the scars on Henry’s arms and shoulders. They were clearly from burns and stood out whiter than ever against pale skin. The other man had been browned by many summers out on the roads, his skin still tanned even in the depths of winter. They were well matched for height and reach, Mickey thought.

  There was a strange silence as the two men began to move, dancing around one another. After all, it wasn’t every day you saw one of yours get the chance to hit a policeman and not get banged up for it. Henry moved first, jabbing with his right and then following through immediately with a left uppercut. He made contact, but not hard. Bare knuckled you don’t focus on the head, at least not in the early part of the fight. Bones are hard and can wreck knuckles, so it’s body shots you go for, wearing your opponent down. But he had proved his point, got inside the other man’s guard, and now the fight was on in earnest. A flurry of blows from either side followed, sharp and jabby; not hard, but intended to demonstrate what speed each man had, what skill. Only when this had been established did they follow through and the slap of knuckle on muscle seemed very loud in the tense silence.

  Henry was more than holding his own. The other man was tough and wiry, but he was also impatient and a little put out to find himself matched when he hoped to be superior. Henry landed three forceful body blows, one after the other, following through with the full force of what little weight he had and driving his opponent back towards the perimeter. His opponent twisted, turned and aimed a kidney punch but Henry was quick enough to avoid it landing fully and moved forward, catching his opponent’s foot as he did so, and the man almost went down.

  Almost, but not quite. And he was angry now, and the anger fuelled his punches. Two landed hard on Henry’s sternum and then a third, below, caught him in the diaphragm. Henry returned the blows in kind, though he was gasping for breath now. Mickey held his own breath as his boss suddenly lurched forward beneath the other man’s guard and jabbed first in the ear and then in the jaw, sending him staggering.

  Henry backed off then, leaning forward to catch his breath. His knuckles were bleeding and his opponent looked dazed. The old man who’d been watching the boys fight came forward and threw a towel on the ground between the two fighters.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘You’ve both had your fun – now bugger off. I’ve work to do.’

  For a moment both men looked reluctant; then they realized that they’d been told, and that everybody expected them to take notice.

  Sarah was laughing as Henry came back to retrieve his clothes. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s something I’ve never seen before. And like as not, will never see agai
n. Have fun, did you?’

  Henry fastened his shirt and replaced his waistcoat and jacket before walking over to one of the nearby bales and sitting down so that he could put on his shoes.

  ‘In December 1918,’ he said, ‘your sister Dalina Beaney and her children turned up here one very cold night and you took them in. The cottage had been burned down and everybody assumed that at least one body would be inside. Many people thought she’d killed her husband and set fire to the cottage to cover up the crime, or at least that’s what the local constable told me. But as it happened, there was no one inside. What had happened to the husband I do not know, but your sister and her children walked here, and you took them in. That much I know, because of enquiries that were made subsequently. And so the local constabulary came and enquired after her, and finding her and the children safe took no more action – or perhaps they came asking but were sent away, still in a state of ignorance. She said, according to the reports, that her husband had left and she didn’t know where he’d gone. The local farmer who owned the cottage that had been burned down said that previously she was a good tenant. He was left out of pocket by the whole experience, but no more action was taken against your sister or her children, presumably because it was your brother-in-law who was named on the rental agreement. Or was it that the Coopers who owned the cottage and the land were also kin?

  ‘We know that your brother-in-law went away to the war in 1915. I don’t know what regiment he was with because I haven’t looked that far yet, and it wasn’t in the reports that I’ve been shown. We know also that the marriage was an unhappy one, because the local constable had been called out to the cottage to deal with violent incidents on several occasions since his return. Hence the suspicion that your sister might have done away with him and burned the cottage down to hide her crime.

  ‘I suspect she may well have done away with him. The man was a thoroughly bad lot. From all accounts, he was also a known associate of one Josiah Bailey. I’m sure you know the name.’

  ‘And why should I know the name?’

  ‘Because Bailey’s men came here two nights ago. The only reason I can think of that they might have come here is that they were looking for your sister. Why they were looking for your sister is yet a mystery to me, but it’s significant that two of Bailey’s men fetched up dead at Otterham Creek last week, not more than a mile from where your sister was living ten years ago.’

  ‘Was living. Ten years ago. It’s nothing to do with her now, and besides, she’s been dead this last five years.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘Grown up and gone on their way, as children do.’

  Henry shrugged into his overcoat and cast a long, thoughtful glance around the encampment. ‘I’m told some people live here full time, that they have mailing addresses and plots designated for them. I’m told that others pass through, and that most of the permanent inhabitants as well as the passers through work on agricultural land during the summer. Also, that this time of year showmen from the circus and fairgrounds tend to use this as a passing place. And that this is a stable community which causes little trouble and certainly wants none.’

  ‘And all of that is true,’ Sarah told him.

  ‘That being the case, you should take warning. Josiah Bailey is not a man to be taken lightly and if he wants something from you, then he will take it.’

  She seemed to come to a decision. ‘His men didn’t do so well the other night.’

  ‘And no doubt those who failed will be suffering for it even now. But others will come. They won’t rest until they have whatever they are looking for, whoever they are looking for – because Bailey won’t allow them to. You understand me.’

  She nodded. ‘Then we’ll be ready for them.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way it will go badly for everyone, you may take my word on that. And you would do well to warn those two, your sister’s children, because if he suspects they might know the truth of whatever it is he’s looking for, their lives are worth nothing.’

  His words had affected her, he could see, but she faced him down boldly and didn’t flinch.

  ‘Thank your man for the bruises,’ Henry said. He headed back towards the gate, Mickey in tow.

  She called out to him, just before they reached the perimeter.

  ‘Kem and Malina,’ she said. ‘Cooper. They took back their family name, but I think my sister kept her married one as a penance – though believe me, I have no idea for what.’

  Henry paused, but did not turn.

  ‘She’s rooming at the residential club on Guilford Street and he’s on the boats. On the Lady Bay.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Henry said. ‘Now look to your people here. Warn them.’

  Once they were a little distance away Mickey said, ‘You know, you can be an idiot. Sometimes.’

  Henry felt his bruised ribs gingerly. ‘I’m aware of that fact,’ he said.

  They had the address of the reported witness, the boy who claimed to have seen armed men getting out of three cars and heading into the gypsy camp.

  ‘I thought Sergeant Frith would be coming back,’ Mrs Barclay said as she scrutinized their identity cards and at last decided to let them through the front door. She was, Henry thought, a solid woman. Tall and upright and, he imagined, usually quite immovable. He wondered what Mr Barclay might be like and whether he found ways to circumvent his wife or was constantly either pushing against her or being pushed back.

  In his next moment he wondered if he was being unfair. No doubt Mickey would have plenty to say later on, and once he’d heard Mickey’s opinion he might revise his own.

  The woman led them into a parlour, unheated and clearly little used, obviously reserved for high days and holidays and visiting vicars. It seemed that visiting police officers came into the same category.

  ‘You may as well sit down,’ she said. ‘My boy’s at school. I don’t know what you expected in the middle of the day. It’s all very well for those children over there not to go to school, but mine is a respectable boy.’

  Henry realized that it hadn’t even occurred to him that the boy might not be there, but of course it was a school day. He sat down in one of the beautifully upholstered wing chairs. Both were of green leather and looked as though they had escaped from a gentlemen’s club, button backed and with outswept arms. Mickey took the other and they faced her across a woven Turkish rug that was set before the hearth. The rug was the one bright thing in the room, reds and deep blues and little shots of green that he felt should have told him something about where it was made, but he could not quite call the information to mind. Cynthia would have known immediately.

  Henry wondered if the fire was ever lit in here and decided from the general feeling of damp that it probably was not. He was glad of his coat.

  Mrs Barclay seemed immune to it; in her red dress and dark cardigan she seemed quite at ease.

  ‘We are interested to hear what your son has to say,’ Henry said. ‘And we are quite content to come back at a time convenient to yourself, and to your son. When does the school finish for the day?’

  ‘I’m afraid it would not be convenient. Not at any time. I’ve already told Sergeant Frith, and so has Cedric, all the boy claims to have seen that night.’

  ‘Claims to have seen?’ Mickey enquired. ‘You don’t believe your son, then?’

  She glared at him. ‘My son is not a liar. But he does let his imagination run away from him and he does read too many American books. What the local library is doing allowing a child to borrow such trash I do not know. It just feeds their imagination and boys of that age have far too much as it is. Another few months and he will be out to work and so much the better. It’ll give him far less time to think.’

  The thought dawned on Henry: she is frightened. And she is lying. It seemed it must be his day for impulsive actions, because he got up and walked to the door and then went out into the narrow wood-panelled hallway. It was an Edwardian house, a larger terrac
e at the end, with a garden that wrapped around on three sides. As with most houses of this design, there was a front parlour and, he guessed, a middle room and then the kitchen. Henry opened the door to the middle room. ‘Cedric,’ he said. ‘I think you should come out now.’

  Behind him, Mrs Barclay was incandescent. She spluttered and shouted and told Henry that he had no right. Henry ignored her, and Cedric stepped through from the kitchen beyond, where he’d been hiding.

  ‘Sit down, Cedric,’ Henry told him. ‘Not at school, then?’

  The boy was looking at his mother for direction and Henry could feel her fury at his back, but he stepped inside the middle room and directed the boy to a chair and Mrs Barclay to another. ‘You lied to me,’ he said. ‘That could be classed as obstruction, Mrs Barclay. It could be construed as a criminal offence.’

  Cedric asked, ‘You won’t arrest my mother?’

  Henry turned on him eyes that were as cold and grey as river pebbles and the boy quailed; so did his mother. ‘I do not like being taken for a fool,’ he said. ‘Now, the truth of what you saw.’

  The immovable wall that had been Mrs Barclay now crumbled and she took her son’s hand. ‘You better tell them, Ceddie dear,’ she said. ‘You better tell these … people … what you saw.’

  Henry continued to hold them with his gaze, cold and hard. He could be harsh sometimes, Mickey thought, and he himself said more gently, ‘Cedric, what time was it when you saw the cars?’

  ‘I’m not sure, about one o’clock, I think. There were three cars in the park just up the road. They’d cut the engines and were coasting down, and that’s what I thought was strange. They’d turned the lights out too, like they didn’t want anybody to see them.’

  ‘You have any idea what the cars might have been, or did you notice the registration on them?’

  ‘No. It was too dark for that. But I saw the men get out and as they moved under the street light I saw that two of them were holding guns in their hands, and some of the others had things like sticks and metal bars.’