Читать книгу Arrowood - Mick Finlay, Mick Finlay - Страница 15

Chapter Nine

When I reached the guvnor’s rooms, he was sitting with a tankard in his hand. Ettie was in the chair by the window, her hand flat on her forehead. She acknowledged me briefly then shut her eyes. The guvnor shook his head as if to warn me off, then, still shaking his great turnip, took a long swallow of his ale. He looked guilty for what had happened but, as was his way, gave me no apology.

I lowered myself down onto the small sofa with care, sure there must have been a great bruise across my spine. The guvnor noticed my swollen hand.

‘Good heavens, Barnett! What the blazes happened to you? Shall I call the doctor?’

‘I suppose that’ll come out of my money again, will it?’ I replied, more sharply than I intended.

He looked hurt.

‘I’m only bruised,’ I said more gently.

I did wonder if Ettie, being a nurse as she was, might have taken a look, but she didn’t stir from behind her hand.

‘You need some attention,’ he insisted. ‘I can get the doctor to see to Ettie at the same time. It’ll be cheaper that way.’

‘I don’t need one,’ she said quickly, her eyes still closed.

‘Nor me,’ said I. ‘Though a drink would help my nerves.’

He passed me a small blue bottle.

‘Chlorodine,’ he said. ‘A quite magical medicine. It will help.’

I took a draught while the guvnor poured me a mug of ale. Feeling the good medicine warm my throat, I told him how I’d been beaten in the alley.

‘Oh dear, Barnett,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘This case becomes more complicated by the day. I’ve been sitting here puzzling over why Miss Cousture would lie to us. She was here while we were out, you know. My sister spoke to her. It appears she’s suddenly impatient to know if we’ve made any progress. But she hasn’t left an address. Doesn’t that seem queer, Barnett?’

‘There’s nothing about this case as doesn’t seem queer.’

‘And now a constable follows us, gives you a beating, but doesn’t attempt to question you.’

Ettie let out a sigh and shifted in her chair, a grimace on her pale face.

‘What ails your sister?’ I whispered.

‘She’s come over weak and unwell.’ The guvnor’s voice rose in volume as he spoke. ‘She will not go to bed. She just sits there.’

I detected a slight flicker in her eyelids. It was clear she was listening but was resolved not to respond.

The guvnor raised his eyes to the ceiling. He tapped out his pipe.

‘We’ll visit Miss Cousture first thing tomorrow, before she leaves for work. We’ll search her room for clues.’

‘You think she’ll let us?’

He laughed.

‘I’m sure she won’t, but it might at least provoke her to tell us the truth.’

The shop bell began to tinkle. With some pain, I rose and went through to find Inspector Petleigh at the door. Behind him was the young constable with the booming voice who had taken charge of the murder scene at St George the Martyr. I led them through to the parlour where the guvnor now sat alone. The creaking boards above told me that Ettie had retired.

‘Are these the men?’ Petleigh asked the constable.

‘They is the men, sir,’ bellowed the young man. ‘Him and him.’

‘I knew it,’ said the inspector. ‘The moment you described them, I knew it was these two.’

He laughed unkindly. We’d had plenty of dealings with Inspector Petleigh over the years, some of them good, some of them not so good. He didn’t approve of the work we did, but he knew that there weren’t enough police to look into all the crimes as were happening around our parts. He wasn’t a bad sort, though you’d never get the guvnor to admit that.

‘The tall one is him who gave chase,’ said the constable. ‘The other was holding her head. They knew her. They said they did.’

Petleigh sat without being invited and addressed the guvnor. ‘I’m disappointed with you, William. Most disappointed. I thought you’d learned your lesson. You agreed to stick with pilfering servants and infidelities. Now I find you on the scene of a murder again.’

He twizzled his moustache and stretched out his legs. He wore new leather boots, the soles wet with fresh mud. I noticed that the young constable, who stood by the door gripping his helmet by his side, hadn’t wiped his feet either. I went to the cupboard for the broom.

‘I am glad they’ve put such a keen mind as yours on this case,’ said the guvnor, relighting his pipe. ‘Tell me, have you caught the devil?’

‘We’re investigating. It looks like a street robbery gone sour, although the girl hadn’t much to steal. There’s also the possibility that the Ripper is back. The Commissioner is keeping an eye on that one.’

‘Oh please, Petleigh!’ cried the guvnor. ‘That’s ridiculous. Jack never worked in daylight in a crowded street.’

‘Quite so. We’re working on some various leads. But we’d be nearer our solution if information were not being withheld from us.’

‘May I ask what these leads are?’

Petleigh sighed and shook his head. A pained smile drew wide his thin lips.

‘Do you take me for an idiot?’ he asked.

‘Not at all, sir. I take you for an imbecile.’

Petleigh’s nose flared; he spoke sharply:

‘You know, sir, I can take you before the magistrate for obstructing us.’

‘I’ve done nothing, Inspect—’

‘You’re working on a case connected to the murder,’ interrupted Petleigh loudly. ‘Am I wrong?’

‘No.’

‘Therefore, you have information which you didn’t tell us about at the relevant time. Several days have now elapsed, enough time for the culprit to get away. A magistrate might say you were protecting the murderer.’

‘We don’t know who the murderer is,’ replied the guvnor. ‘He brushed past us. Barnett gave chase but lost him.’

‘What case are you working on?’

‘We’re trying to find the girl’s sweetheart. We were due to meet her at the church.’

‘She hired you,’ declared Petleigh.

‘No.’

‘Then who?’

‘I cannot tell you,’ replied the guvnor, shaking his head. ‘Our client requested privacy.’

‘Tell the inspector!’ barked the constable. ‘Otherwise we’ll haul you off to the clink for the night.’

Petleigh held up his hand to the young man.

‘We can help you catch the murderer, Inspector,’ said the guvnor.

‘You’ve a very high idea of yourself, Mr Arrowood,’ said Petleigh, crossing his legs. ‘Who do you think you are? Sherlock Holmes?’

The guvnor snorted.

‘Let me make this plain. We are the police. We deal with murders, violations, robberies. Dangerous men. You look for lawyers who have doctored their contracts. You search out husbands who have run off with the maid. We don’t give you information – you give it to us. So, once again: who are you working for, and what do you know about this murder?’

‘I’ll tell you what I can if you find out the name of the officer who gave Barnett a hiding this afternoon,’ said the guvnor.

They looked at me.

‘He was following us, Inspector,’ I said. ‘I wondered if maybe it was you put him up to it?’

Petleigh looked at the constable.

‘Did you know about this?’ he asked.

The constable shook his head.

I showed him my swollen arm, then lifted my shirt to reveal the bruise on my back.

‘Ow!’ exclaimed the guvnor, shifting in his chair. ‘What a corker! That must smart. It’s the colour of kidneys, Barnett. I think we will call that doctor after all.’

‘No, sir. I cannot afford him.’ I tucked my shirt back in and addressed Petleigh. ‘He was a copper, though. And you didn’t answer the question. Did you put him up to it?’

‘No, Norman,’ said Petleigh. ‘I swear it. Tell me what happened.’

When I’d explained and described the man as best as I could, he said:

‘Are you sure he was an officer?’

‘He wore a police belt, and it was a police truncheon that damaged me.’

‘I don’t recognize the description. Constable?’

‘There’s one works over Elephant and Castle way who fits the picture,’ replied the young man. ‘I don’t know his name. But I can’t think one of our men would do such a thing as this.’

‘If this is an officer – and we don’t know that for certain, mind - but if it is, do you wish to raise a complaint?’ asked Petleigh.

‘We want the name,’ said the guvnor, looking at me. ‘That’s all at the moment.’

Petleigh considered this for a while.

‘We’ll make enquiries. Now tell me what you know.’

The guvnor filled him in with all the facts we knew. Petleigh scribbled in a notebook as he talked, trying again and again to get the names of our client and our informants. The guvnor resisted.

‘The girl had this in her hand,’ he said, fishing the bullet from his waistcoat. ‘I believe she meant it for us.’

Petleigh held it under the lamp and inspected it. Then he placed it on the table.

‘Could be a sweetheart gave it to her. Or she might have picked it up from somewhere. I don’t think it’s important.’

‘Oh, really?’ said the guvnor. ‘Well, I suppose we must trust your judgement on that. What’s your theory then, Inspector?’

‘Oh, no, no,’ said Petleigh in a tired voice. ‘You tell us yours, Arrowood.’

The guvnor cleared his throat and sat forward.

‘The simplest story is that the French boy was involved in some business between Cream and the Fenian gang. Something went wrong and the boy either fled or was killed. Martha was murdered because she was about to give me information, which means it’s a serious business. More serious than we realized when we took the case. That’s my best guess. Now, what have you found out?’

Petleigh stood, brushing some imaginary dust from his jacket.

‘Much the same,’ he replied as he examined his sleeves. ‘Or similar.’

I couldn’t help but laugh. Petleigh’s face soured.

‘I need the names of your informants,’ he insisted.

I stepped to the grate and began to rouse the last embers of the fire. The guvnor tutted and fiddled in his pockets for matches. He said nothing.

‘You cause me much annoyance, Arrowood,’ said Petleigh at last. He placed his hat carefully on his head. ‘Leave this to the police, sir. If Cream or the Fenians chose to dispose of you, they’d smash you like a . . . like a . . .’ He stood before us, his mouth open, the weight of his warning lost in his inability to find a suitable idea. ‘Like a cow on a dumpling,’ he said at last. He turned to me. ‘That goes for you also, Norman.’

‘Also like a dumpling, Inspector?’

‘They would break you like a biscuit.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘I’m serious!’ cried Petleigh in a fury. ‘You’re no match for them. We know Cream’s men are behind a wave of deaths in the last few years, and it sounds like we can add this girl’s murder to the list. You don’t know the half of it, Arrowood. Drownings, beatings, arson – anything you can think of. The most appalling things. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way and they’ve people so afraid that we can’t get anyone to testify against them. I don’t have to remind you of the Spindle case, do I? You saw what they did to that man!’

The guvnor nodded.

‘Do you want that to happen to you?’ demanded Petleigh.

The guvnor sat thinking, his hands clasped on his belly, his eyes on the fire.

‘You’ll send me the name then, Petleigh?’ he asked at last.

‘Yes, I’ll send you the name,’ replied the inspector with a sigh. ‘But leave the murder of the serving girl to us. If you learn anything, you must tell me at once. Send the muffin boy with a message. Do not follow that trail yourselves. I’m warning you.’

When they’d gone and we were sitting in the warm parlour drinking another mug of ale, the guvnor let out a humourless laugh.

‘Much the same!’ he declared. ‘Much the same, Barnett! Idiot. He knows without us he’s no chance of solving this murder.’

‘What of tomorrow, sir?’

‘Tomorrow we see what the French lady is all about.’