Читать книгу An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London - J. Durham J. - Страница 11

‘Bugger and galloping hell’s flames, Harry. I know Dick Tanner’s not the easiest man to get on with, but I can’t have my detectives brawling like navvies.’ Charley Field glared at Pilgrim, who was sporting a bruised chin and rapidly swelling eye.

‘Do you think Tanner will make a formal complaint?’ asked Pilgrim.

‘Shouldn’t think so. He’s a political animal.’

‘Unlike me.’

‘Unlike you. What the hell were you thinking?’

Pilgrim said nothing, but Field was not to be shaken off.

‘Was it Appler? Must’ve been a shock, finding him like that.’

‘No.’

‘Is it the boy?’ Field persisted, like a terrier with a rat. ‘Is the Bonwell case getting to you?’

‘No.’

‘I can put someone else on it if you want.’

‘It’s not the Bonwell case.’

Field’s expression grew sly. ‘Adolphus told me you had a visitor.’

‘Did he?’

‘An auburn-haired charmer. Adolphus was very specific.’

Pilgrim sighed. ‘It was Frances Reilly: Bess’s niece. She wants me to help her find a missing friend.’

‘You’re not going to do it?’

‘Is that an order?’

‘Don’t be bloody-minded. You can’t allow yourself to get dragged back into all that. Everything’s changed since those days.’

‘You certainly have.’

‘Yes, I have,’ agreed Field. ‘And I’m damn proud of it. Be reasonable, Harry. You have to put the past behind you.’

Pilgrim stared at Field for a long time.

‘You’re right, of course,’ he said at last, ‘about Frances. I’d already changed my mind about getting involved. I’m taking the train back to Great Barrow on the Bonwell case.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Field, ‘but don’t hang about. There’ll be an inquest into Appler’s death. Things could get sticky.’

‘I think he was innocent.’

Field sighed. ‘Innocent. Guilty. It’s irrelevant now. The case is closed.’

‘What about the dead girl?’

Field considered the question as he walked over his copy of Cross’s New Map of London, identical to the one in Pilgrim’s office. ‘Last year,’ he said, gazing up at it, ‘there were thirty-two murders in the metropolitan area. Thirty-two murders, eighty-four assaults, sixty house breakings, nine suicides, and twenty-eight rapes.’ He paused. ‘True, most of them were carried out by cretins, which made them easy to solve, but that still leaves a hellish workload.’ He swung around to face Pilgrim. ‘It’s an unending tide of shit, Harry, and we’re the only things stopping it from swamping this sorry cesspit of a city. Until the Commissioners see fit to appoint more than five of us, I have to choose the battles we fight.’

There was a beat of silence.

‘And no one has reported the girl missing,’ said Pilgrim, flatly.

‘That’s about the measure of it.’ Field caught Pilgrim’s expression and sighed. ‘I’m not saying it’s the way it should be. It’s just the way it is.’

The Reverend Horace Bonwell emerged from his front door, straightened his hat, and strode off down the frosty lane without seeing Pilgrim, who was standing behind one of the yew trees that flanked the rectory. Pilgrim wasn’t hiding, precisely, but he wasn’t sorry the minister hadn’t seen him. He waited until Bonwell had turned the corner towards the main street, then bounded up the rectory steps and pulled the bell. It jangled somewhere inside the building.

After a minute the door opened. Mrs Walsh glared suspiciously at his swollen eye and scabbed chin.

‘The Reverend’s out,’ she said.

‘Is he?’ said Pilgrim. ‘No matter. I’ve lost my pocketbook.’

‘Your … ?’

‘I think I may have left it here, the last time I called.’

‘I haven’t seen it.’ The housekeeper considered him. ‘Wait here.’

She vanished back into the house, leaving the door ajar. Pilgrim waited a few moments then followed her. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her skirt as it disappeared into the study, and then he headed for the parlour. He went directly to the bible, and opened it.

There was a family tree on the flyleaf, drawn in black ink in a neat hand. Below the marriage of Horace Bonwell and Alice Drake were two names – Patience and Faith – both marked ‘died in infancy’. He traced his finger up again, to the sibling line of Alice Drake, and stopped. Here was something interesting! Another name had been deleted. Not marked ‘deceased’ but simply scored out with one careful line. Stella Agnes. He tapped his finger on the page and closed the bible.

He could hear women’s voices. He followed the sound into the hall, and saw that the study door still stood ajar. The voices were raised, not loud enough for him to make out what they were saying, but loud enough for him to discern a note of panic. He pushed the door open.

‘Any luck?’ he asked cheerfully.

The two women froze, surprised in their search for the pocketbook. A flush crept up Mrs Bonwell’s throat and into her cheeks.

‘I said to wait,’ snapped the housekeeper.

Pilgrim ignored her, and nodded instead to her mistress. ‘So sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Bonwell. May I help you look?’

He made a show of searching the floor, and then of inspecting the chair he had been sitting on during his last visit. He put his hand down the side of the cushion, and, after a second’s pause, pulled out his pocketbook, with the air of Little Jack Horner pulling out a plum.

‘Here we are. I knew I must have left it here somewhere.’ He made as if to leave, but then hesitated at the door. He turned to Mrs Bonwell. ‘I’ve had a long journey to get here, and it will be a long journey back. I was wondering … some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?’

Dismay flickered over Mrs Bonwell’s face, but it was vanquished by good manners.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’ll take it in the parlour, please, Mrs Walsh.’

‘I’ll put the pot on, ma’am. It shouldn’t take long.’ The housekeeper cast him a venomous glance.

Mrs Bonwell showed him into the parlour, where they sat in silence, apart from the ticking of the black marble clock on the mantelpiece. The room was oppressive, shaded from the fading effects of the sun with velvet drapes pulled almost completely over the window. The silence stretched. Pilgrim’s gaze flicked to the photographs on the table.

‘Do you and your husband have children, Mrs Bonwell?’ he asked.

‘The Lord saw fit to take them from us.’

‘It’s a hard thing, to lose a child.’

‘It was God’s will.’

He clenched his hands on his lap. The silence spun out again. He settled himself more comfortably into his chair, while she perched on the edge of her cushion as if it was made of knives. The clock ticked. Under his steady gaze Mrs Bonwell started to fiddle with the crucifix at her throat.

She actually jumped when the housekeeper entered with the tea tray.

‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh. I’ll pour.’

The housekeeper left.

Mrs Bonwell busied herself with the tea things, her hand trembling as she handed a cup to Pilgrim. As he took it, his gaze dropped to her wrist. There were several distinct marks around it: fingermarks. She tugged down the cuff of her blouse without meeting his eyes.

They sipped their tea. Silence stretched again.

Finally it snapped: Mrs Bonwell clattered her cup down onto the saucer.

‘My sister …’ she began. She stopped and started again. ‘You asked, when you last came, whether we knew anyone in London.’ She hesitated. ‘My sister is in London. At least, I believe she is. She ran away, years ago. Horace … he forbids me to speak of her.’

‘What makes you think she is in London?’

‘She sends me a note, every now and then. Christmas. My birthday. I tear them up before Horace can see.’

‘Did you see the label on the parcel?’

She nodded.

‘And the writing on it?’ he asked.

‘I can’t be sure, but yes, it was similar to Stella’s.’

‘Her surname is Drake?’

Mrs Bonwell raised her eyebrows. ‘Unless she has married, but how … ?’

‘Can you describe her to me?’

She hesitated, her eyes searching his. She rose, and went to the sewing table that stood next to the window. She delved into one of the silk-lined pockets, and came out with a piece of card that she passed to Pilgrim. She seemed calmer for having made the decision to help him.

‘It was taken on her sixteenth birthday. She may have changed.’

The photograph showed a handsome girl with expressive eyes, and dressed in a high-necked gown, beside a display of flowers. A mischievous smile undermined the formal pose.

‘Why did she run away?’ he asked.

‘There was a young man. It caused quite a scandal. Father had died the year before, and Horace was her legal guardian. You can probably imagine …’

‘Yes, I can,’ said Pilgrim. The thought of the Reverend Bonwell on his high horse was not a comfortable one. ‘Was there a child?’

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I believe so.’

He released his breath, unaware he had even been holding it. ‘Male or female?’ he asked.

‘I have no idea.’

‘When was this?’

‘Four years ago.’