Читать книгу Arrowood - Mick Finlay, Mick Finlay - Страница 11

Chapter Five

We arrived in Great Dover Street later that evening, where a row of milliners, dress shops and shoe shops all had their lights on for the evening trade. At the end was a coffee grinder, and the breeze carried the rich smells of the roasting beans. There was only one photographer’s studio, called ‘The Fontaine’. A man in a green velvet jacket with hair reaching his collar stood at the desk constructing a picture frame. He held a small hammer in his hand and a pin in his mouth.

‘Good day, sirs,’ he said with an insincere smile. ‘How may I help you? Is it a portrait you’re after?’

‘We’re looking for Miss Cousture,’ said the guvnor, glancing around at the photographic portraits on the walls. ‘Is she here?’

‘She’s at work,’ the man replied, pulling back his long head disdainfully. ‘I’m the proprietor, Mr Fontaine. Do you want to book a portrait?’

‘Did you take these?’ asked the guvnor, indicating the pictures. ‘They’re very good.’

‘Yes indeed. All my own work. I could make a fine image of you, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. Your profile is quite wonderful.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked the guvnor, his chest inflating. He smoothed the hair around his crown. ‘I’ve been thinking of commissioning a picture for some time. I think my sister would very much like a portrait above the fire.’

I looked at him, unable to suppress a smile at the thought of such a gift.

‘We can book it in now, sir. Shall we say Monday morning? Eleven o’clock?’

‘Yes . . . Ah. Wait. On second thoughts, I’d better wait until I’ve taken possession of my new suit. But might we speak to Miss Cousture now? On a personal matter.’

The artist looked down his long nose at us for some time.

‘It’s important, Mr Fontaine,’ I said, growing impatient. ‘Is she here?’

With a theatrical sigh and a shake of his lank black hair, he disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the store. A moment later Miss Cousture appeared.

‘Good day, Mr Arrowood,’ she said quietly as she swept through the curtains. She was wearing a high-waisted black skirt, a white blouse rolled to her sleeves, her hair pinned up on her head. She nodded at me. ‘Mr Barnett.’

Mr Fontaine appeared behind her and stood by the curtain, his arms crossed.

She flicked her eyes at her employer as if to warn us not to talk. There followed a silence. Her pale cheeks coloured. She looked at her boots.

‘Would you mind if we have a private moment with the lady, sir?’ asked the guvnor finally. Noticing that his tie had blown over his shoulder from the breezy street, I stepped forward and flipped it back. He took a quick backward swipe at me.

‘This is my studio, sir,’ said the man with a sniff. He rubbed his long nose quickly. ‘The name above the door is mine, not the lady’s. If you have something to say, get on and say it.’

‘Then will you come outside, madam?’

‘Oh, putain, Eric!’ she cursed, turning to her employer. ‘One moment, that is all!’

On the lips of this fine woman, the profanity turned the air cold. Fontaine threw his head back and ducked behind the curtain. We heard his angry footsteps on the stairs.

The guvnor pulled a chair from behind the counter and lowered himself down with a wince. He rubbed his feet through his tight boots. For some time he didn’t speak.

‘We need to ask you a few more questions, miss,’ he said at last.

‘Of course. But I tell you all I know.’

‘We must know what trouble your brother was in,’ he said, a pained smile on his red face. ‘Any small thing he might have said. Please be quite open with us.’

‘Of course.’

‘Did you know his friend Martha?’

She shook her head.

‘His sweetheart. You didn’t know about her?’

‘I never heard the name.’

‘Well, Miss Cousture, I’m afraid to say she was murdered this afternoon.’

We watched as her face turned from surprise to sadness. She gripped the counter and lowered herself onto the stool.

‘We had an appointment to meet but someone got to her first,’ explained the guvnor.

She nodded slowly.

‘We also discovered there was some trouble in the Barrel of Beef just before Thierry disappeared. The only clue we have is that it might involve an American. Did Thierry mention any such thing to you?’

‘An American?’ she said, a disappointed tone in her voice. ‘No, never. What is the name?’

‘We don’t have a name. All we know is that the day your brother disappeared there was an argument involving an American. We don’t even know for sure Thierry was involved. But please think again. Did anything happen before he disappeared? Was there any change in him?’

‘Only when he comes to me for money. The last time I see him, I tell you he’s scared.’ She paused, her eyes travelling quickly from the guvnor to me and back again. ‘Do you think he’s dead? Is that what you mean by “trouble”?’

The guvnor took her hand and held it.

‘It’s too early to think of that, miss.’

She was about to speak again when Mr Fontaine swept back through the curtain. This time he would not be budged.

We walked back towards Waterloo. The air was still and a fog had descended.

‘Barnett,’ said the guvnor at length. ‘Was there anything that struck you as odd about what we’ve just seen?’

I thought for a bit, trying to guess what he’d noticed.

‘Not as I could say,’ I said at last.

‘Tell me, if Mrs Barnett had disappeared without taking her clothes or her papers, and you’d appointed a detective, and let’s imagine that two days later the detective came to see you. You’re quite mad with worry, remember.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What would be the first thing you would say to him?’

‘I suppose I’d ask if he’d found her.’

‘Exactly, Barnett.’ His brow tensed. ‘Exactly.’

The guvnor continued home to ponder this development, while I returned to the White Eagle. I had myself a bowl of oysters and then a plate of mutton as I waited, and then a glass of porter, and then another. It was a noisy night, and I was happy enough to sit in the corner and watch my fellow citizens larking about under the great looking glass as stretched the length of the ceiling. Later on, the match-seller trudged in. He looked at no one as he made his way across the syrupy floor, but held his face in a rictus in case he should launch into some anarchic pantomime. He paid, took his glass, and went to hide in his usual corner behind the glass panel.

When the crowd began to thin, Ernest stumbled in and stood at the same place at the bar as before. He took himself a gin and drank it quick, his back hunched over the counter. He wore the same thick clothes as before, and didn’t appear to see anyone around him except the barmaid, who slammed his drink before him as if he’d insulted her mother.

‘Good to see you again, my friend,’ I said, placing a second glass before him. ‘Come sit at my table. I could do with a bit of company.’

He looked up with confusion in his eyes. He glanced at the gin, then back at me. A trickle of blood from his gums ran down his single remaining front tooth.

‘Eh?’ he said at last.

‘We met the other night, Ernest. Here. Two nights ago.’

Slowly, his watery eyes cleared and he seemed to remember me. He pulled himself upright. Then he became suspicious.

‘I ain’t got no money,’ he declared, before quickly swallowing the whole glass in one.

‘Come over. I’ll get you some oysters.’

‘What is it you want?’

I lowered my voice. The cab driver I’d seen before was leaning against the bar in the corner, talking with the barmaid.

‘I want some information is all.’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t know nothing. I should never have spoke to you the first time.’

He turned away from me. From behind the glass partition an arm flailed, followed by an irritated growl. A group of young men, their faces and hands black with coal dust, came over to look at the source, and the sight of the tortured match-seller trying to suppress his mania made them laugh. They returned to their table, but the ruckus went on for minutes. From behind the screen came another strangled yowl and a foul curse from the ticcing man, which made the young men burst into a second, louder round of laughter.

‘Let me get you another drink,’ I said to the sculleryman. Before he could refuse, I gestured to the barmaid and placed a nice mug of gin in his raw fist.

‘Let’s sit. You look like you need to get the weight off your feet. You’ve been working hard, Ernest.’

He followed me meekly to the table.

‘Did you ever see Thierry’s sister at the Beef?’ I asked when we were sat down. ‘Good looker, dark hair? French, as you might suppose.’

He breathed in sharply, then quickly swallowed his gin.

‘Not as I ever saw. Never saw him with any woman but Martha.’

‘What about the American? What did you hear about him?’

‘You said oysters?’ he said, folding his arms over his matted coat.

I went to get him a bowl and another mug of gin. He’d got through half of it and survived a short burping fit before I asked him again.

‘Mr Cream has plenty of business acquaintances,’ he replied. ‘They was in day after day. Some of them you’d recognize, but this one I never seen before. Bald, with black hair around the crown. Black beard. Blue eyes that pierced you. I took them up some coffee and he almost stared right through me. There was an Irishman with him. I seen him in the place a few times before. Little fellow with a big voice. Stringy yellow hair. One of his ears was cut off. Horrible-looking he was.’

‘And you don’t know his business, I suppose.’

‘They talk business in the office, not the scullery.’

‘I need to know anyone else Terry was tight with, Ernest. Who did he talk to? Give me some names.’

‘I give you a name last time. Martha. Ask her.’

‘I need another name.’

‘I’ve given you a name!’ he protested, chafing now that he was flushed through with gin. ‘Ask Martha. If anybody knows anything, it’ll be her.’

I leaned in to him and whispered, ‘She’s dead, Ern. Murdered on her way to work this evening.’

His mouth fell open; he stared at me with his rheumy eyes. It seemed as if his pickled brain couldn’t absorb what I’d told him.

‘Did you hear me? Murdered. That’s why I need to talk to somebody else.’

Slowly, fear took him over. His arm trembled, his eyes blinked fast. He swallowed his gin; I gestured for another.

When it arrived he shook his head.

‘I got to go, mister,’ he said. His voice was strained. ‘I don’t know nothing.’

He made a move to rise; I held his wrist fast.

‘A name, Ern. One name. Someone he might have talked to. Who did he work next to? Who in the Beef did he spend most time with?’

‘I suppose Harry.’ He was talking quick now, looking around him at each noise. ‘You could try him. One of the junior cooks. He worked in the same part of the kitchen.’

‘And what does he look like?’

‘Very thin. Unnatural thin, he is, and his eyebrows are dark but his hair’s yellow. You can’t miss him.’

I let go of his wrist.

‘Thank you, Ernest.’

In a flash he was up and scurrying out of the gin-house. As I rose, I felt someone’s eyes on me. I turned. The bald head of the match-seller had appeared around the side of the glass partition, and he was staring at me with curiosity. He sniffed, his shoulders twitched, and he disappeared back into his hole.