by Tim Standish
‘We’d be delighted,’ I said, deciding that, if I was going to do the job, I might as well do it properly. I offered my arm to Green, who took it, and we walked after Evan; spying an apt moment in the traffic, we darted across Commercial Street and into the pub.
Lunchtime was over now, and the pub was quiet; a few late diners finishing off their drinks, a couple of women clutching glasses of gin at a table nearest the door. Darkly decorated but with enough light let in from the street outside, the bar was not quite warm enough to be welcoming. A vase of slowly wilting flowers on the countertop did something to add a little cheer to the place but this was a place for drinking and forgetting, a refuge for workers of all trades, including the oldest one. We followed our guide through to the lounge bar where the landlord looked up from his Sporting Times with a half-cheery ‘Usual, Evan?’
He nodded. ‘That’s it, Teddy. And something for my guests.’
‘Please,’ I said, stepping next to him at the bar, ‘let me pay for these.’
‘Well that’s so very kind of you!’ he beamed back at me, as if pleasantly surprised by the notion that he wouldn’t be paying.
‘Not at all. We thought the tour was a good afternoon out, didn’t we Rose?’
‘Oh so much!’ chimed in Green. ‘And I have a few more things I would be interested to discuss with you, conspiracies for example.’
The landlord put Evan’s drinks down on the bar – a pint of brown ale and a large whisky – then waited for my order.
‘Pint of pale for me, a small glass of mild for the lady.’
The landlord nodded and pulled the drinks.
‘Conspiracies?’ Evan shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen much evidence for them,’ he said, taking a sip of beer. ‘Stupidity is much more likely if you ask me, or panic, or the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing. When it was going on you had Metropolitans, the City, the CID, and the Branch all sticking their oar in. Everyone wanted the credit of catching him then suddenly no one wanted to be on the end of a battering from the press when anything went wrong. I think you’ll find chaos, not conspiracy, a pretty convincing explanation. Other than that, it all seems pretty straightforward to me: the man was a bloody lunatic, pardon the phrase ma’am, killed for a spell and probably ended up in Bedlam or dead. And all that talk of Masons or the Royals being involved. Fanciful at best, kept alive by people who should know better. Thanks, Ted.’
The landlord set our drinks on the bar. I paid, measuring the amount from a handful of coins, and tried the ale. It was surprisingly good and much better than what I had been used to in Canada.
Green took a sip of mild and made a slight face at the taste. ‘Well I have read several articles to the contrary.’
‘On the wire? Who was it – Richardson?’ Evan laughed, took another sip of beer and chased it with most of the whisky.
‘I’m afraid I can’t remember.’ Green said.
‘Probably Richardson. He’s a lunatic himself. Ran a little tour of his own for a few months after the murders but the police moved him on after some trouble with some of the locals. For his own good more than anything. Now he was your man for conspiracies, saw them everywhere. The nuts on the wire loved him. He was here when the murders were happening, wrote endless letters to the police suggesting how they could catch the Ripper. Even offered to dress up as a prostitute to try and catch him. Well meaning but some odd ideas!’ He took a large gulp of beer and knocked back the remainder of the whisky.
‘He sounds like fun,’ said Green. ‘I feel like I should meet him! Is he still around?’
‘Richardson?’ replied Evan. ‘No, not any more. Moved away somewhere I heard. You wouldn’t want to listen to him for more than five minutes anyway. Totally barmy.’ He tapped his head to illustrate the point.
‘Another drink, Mr Evan?’ I asked.
‘Don’t mind if I do, Mr…’
‘Norris. But call me Albert,’ I replied.
‘Well Albert, that’s very kind, just a pint this time I think.’
I nodded to the landlord who was polishing glasses further along the bar. He put down his cloth and went to pour Evan’s drink.
‘Excuse me,’ asked Green, ‘but I promised I would call my father. Do you know, is there a public phone here?’
‘In the other bar, towards the back,’ said Evan. Then ‘You’ll need coins’ at Green’s back as she walked away.
‘Oh, thank you, I have plenty!’ Green called to him as she headed through to the public bar.
The landlord put Evan’s ale down as he drained the last of the first pint. I fished out a shilling and placed it down on the bar. He took it away, along with Evan’s empty glasses and went back to his work.
‘Cheers!’ said Evan. We both took a sip of our beer. ‘You’re a very lucky man if you don’t mind me saying so, Albert.’
‘And no, I don’t mind, you’re right, we’re both very happy.’ I knew what he was saying though, Green was a good ten years younger than me and, though not in Milady’s league when it came to salon elegance, had a pretty perkiness about her. The guide was probably wondering how on earth I managed to land her.
‘I could see it as we went around today. Lucky lad, I thought. Quite a looker and bright too. Some odd views of course, and an American as well but you can’t have everything, eh?’ He raised his glass and drank again, then frowned as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. ‘Hey now,’ he asked, ‘she’s not a journalist, is she?’
‘A journalist? Good God no! Just a hobby.’
‘Oh, right. By the look of the sparkler on her hand you’ll be getting married soon, would I be right?’
‘We are, the month after next,’ I said.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Expensive business, marriage. And you have the look of an old soldier about you, would I be right thinking that?’
I nodded. Took a sip of beer. ‘Infantry.’
‘I thought so. An officer by the sound of it?’ I nodded again. ‘And let me guess, for I know a bit about this sort of thing,’ he went on, ‘you spent almost all your discharge money on the ring and,’ gesturing with his glass, ‘the rest on that suit by the look of it.’ He looked at me thoughtfully, sizing me up. ‘London’s an expensive place for an old soldier and there’s not many who’ll take us on is there?’
I made a noise that could have been taken as an affirmative.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘If you ever need a bit of work, cash in hand, you know, ask for me here and I’ll have you set up.’
‘What sort of work?’ I asked.
‘Ohh,’ he replied, with a slow wink, ‘this and that.’
‘Thanks, I’ll think about it.’
‘You do that, lad. Even officers need an extra bob every now and again, don’t they?’
‘You’re right there,’ I replied, giving what I hoped was a wry smile.
‘Oh, dearest one.’
I looked up at Green, who was standing in the entrance to the lounge. ‘Yes, Rose, my dear?’
‘Daddy wants to speak to you.’
I sighed slightly and followed her back out to the telephone, held up the receiver.
‘Sterling. Church.’
‘Oh hello, sir, yes, your daughter and I are having a wonderful time,’ I said loudly, for the benefit of any of Evan’s friends who might be listening.
‘Do you know St George’s Hospital, on Hyde Park Corner?’ I said I could find it. ‘I’ll see you there at four.’
‘Yes sir, I’ll make sure your daughter is safely home.’
‘You do that.’
He ended the call. I walked back to the other bar to find Green and our new friend locked in jovial debate.
‘Rose, dear, your father wants you home now and I’m to see you there.’
Green stood up. ‘Well, Evan, thank you so much! It has been a wonderful afternoon.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, you are most welcome. Bert, do let me know if there are any other questions that you find yourse
lf with. Just leave a message here with Teddy.’
We shook hands and Evan gave me the firm grip, steady eye and cheery smile of one honest man to another. I nodded as we shook hands. ‘I will’.
Outside as we looked for a cab, I thought about Evan’s performance on the tour, his patience with the old ladies, his easy-going attitude with the rest of us and his charitable camaraderie with me while Green was on the call. And a phrase of the soldier whose name I’d borrowed came to mind as I thought about that handshake. ‘I wouldn’t trust him,’ as I once heard the real Bert Norris say about someone, ‘further than I could spit into the wind.’
9. Call
I arrived at Hyde Park Corner a shade before four. The day was already darkening, the evening chill setting in. My cab pulled up a few doors down from the main entrance to St George’s, behind another that was already by the kerb.
‘There you go, boss. St George’s Hospital.’
I stepped outside, closed the door behind me. The cabbie rubbed his hands together, warming them, while he waited for me to pay.
‘Here,’ I said, passing him up a half crown, ‘keep the change.’
‘Thank you, sir, very kind.’ He touched his forehead and threw the hansom into gear, the engine rattling into life as he pulled away from the kerb and back into the swirl of traffic coming down from Piccadilly.
As I watched him head towards Knightsbridge, I realised it was colder than I had first thought and cursed myself for not bringing a hat and scarf. I put my hands into my coat pockets, feeling my new papers there as I walked along. Patience had had them ready for me when I dropped off Green; for the purposes of this evening’s visit I was Kenneth Wilkinson, a representative of Gadd, Shanks & Pincock; solicitors, based in Chatham. They were good enough for a meeting or two, she had explained when she gave them to me, and would check out if someone decided to call the number on the card or look up the company but she had warned me that they wouldn’t fool anyone who ‘knew their onions’.
It felt odd to be walking out in the open and while part of me felt committed to follow through on the deal I had made with Milady, there was another part of me that was thinking that the first chance I got I should start running without looking back. The years in Canada meant I was a long way changed from the carefree layabout I had been eight years ago so I might hope to avoid identification. Besides which, if she was to be believed, Patience had rendered me invisible to the Bureau’s engines. All I had to do was steer clear of Fuller’s search parties and every constable in London. And what I imagined to be the far higher hurdle of evading Milady.
‘Sterling.’ I jumped, startled to hear my name. The voice came from the parked cab and I glanced to see Church’s impassive face at the window. He pushed the door open and gestured me inside. I ducked in, tugging the cab door closed behind me and sitting opposite him, the leather seat creaking as I did so.
‘How was Whitechapel?’ he asked. ‘What did you make of the tour?’ I glanced up at the roof and raised an eyebrow. Church shook his head briefly. ‘One of Mac’s lads,’ he said. ‘So. What are your thoughts?’
I felt myself warming to Church. He reminded me a bit of our RSM in Canada – solid, dependable, but canny and the kind of man I would want on my side in a fight. I shrugged at his question. ‘Not much to say. I liked the tour more than I thought I would. I can see why it would be popular. There are two questions that come to mind though: where is the money coming from and why haven’t they been robbed?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Church.
‘The tour bus and horses were better quality than I would have expected, and the little details were all far better done than I would have thought. It all seemed,’ I shrugged my shoulders, ‘too good for a tour like that. The tickets are a few shillings each and they run a few times a day. They obviously have an arrangement with a theatre but even so, I can’t see how they make their money. Who knows, perhaps they have an eccentric backer with a yen to shock well-heeled tourists? But even so: why wasn’t the bus robbed? There was plenty of money on display amongst the passengers. We were going down some very poor and, I assume, highly criminal areas yet were completely unmolested. The driver was armed but, really, I couldn’t see that as a major disincentive to a determined gang.’
‘Paying someone off, most likely,’ said Church. ‘I don’t know which mob is on top in Whitechapel these days, but I’ll find out. Rich tourists you said they were?’ I nodded. ‘Could be they mark them and rob them later. I’ll get Green to check on it. Was that it?’
‘The guide spotted I was an old soldier; offered me a job when Green was calling her Papa.’ Church smiled and I continued, ‘I received a distinct impression it was not as a tour guide. And he wanted to know about Green’s interest: was she a journalist?’
Church was silent for a moment, then said, ‘So the tour was too good, and the guide was too chatty?’
‘In a nutshell, yes, I suppose that’s that. Insubstantial, I know.’
‘Insubstantial is meat and veg for us, Sterling. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.’ He fished out a pocket watch and flipped it open. ‘Talking of which, time for us to pop inside and see the good Sir Anthony. Green brief you before you left?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘We’re lawyers representing families of post-Ripper victims claiming police negligence. We want to know if Sir Anthony will agree to be a witness. We’ll see how he reacts.’
‘Strictly speaking you’re a lawyer,’ said Church, ‘and I’m your firm’s enquiry agent. Hardly matters, though, it’s all just pointless goose-chasing to keep some high-ups happy so don’t expect too much excitement.’
I pointed at the pair of overnight bags that sat on the floor of the cab. ‘Are we going somewhere?’
‘Yes, thanks to you and your fiancée.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Didn’t they tell you? We’re off to Blackpool once we’ve finished here.’ He picked up his hat from the seat next to him, a dark grey bowler, and settled it on his head.
‘Blackpool?’
Church reached out for the door of the cab. ‘It seems one wild goose is not enough for us so we’re heading to the seaside to see the gent your new friend Evan the guide mentioned; Herbert Richardson, some lunatic conspiracist. He’s in Blackpool apparently, so we’re on the 6:10 from Euston. As I say, more goose-chasing. You know the score: if in doubt, look busy.’ He opened the door of the cab. ‘After you.’
He followed me out onto the pavement, and we walked up a set of steps to the front doors of the hospital, standing to one side for a pair of nurses on their way out, dark blue capes wrapped tight about them. Their conversation suddenly silenced as they saw us, then was re-joined with loud laughter as they reached the bottom of the steps. We headed into the warmth of the hospital reception.
The reception was a large oval room, brightly lit, with doors leading off it in either direction. Church dropped back to let me take the lead as we walked across a tiled floor to a long, low desk. Behind it sat a sombrely dressed middle-aged woman scribbling away on the outside of a large, beige envelope. Behind her, through an open doorway marked private, a telegraph machine clicked away. She closed the envelope and carefully wrapped the string round the envelope’s button before putting it on the smaller of the two piles of similar ones to her right. She looked up at us with the weary cheer of a person determined to fulfil their role even in the face of the crowd of tasks more important than dealing with the two of us.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘We’re here to see Sir Anthony Willard. We have an appointment but we’re a little late.’ I smiled apologetically and handed her one of the cards Patience had provided. ‘Kenneth Wilkinson and associate.’
She reached under the desk for a metal clipboard and scanned down the sheet of engine print-out attached to it. ‘Let’s see. Ah yes, Mr Wilkinson, I have you here. And can I just have your colleague’s name?’
‘Dent,’ Church said.
‘Thank you very mu
ch,’ she said and briskly turned the clipboard round. ‘If I could have your signatures here and here, gentlemen.’ She carried on as we signed. Patience had had me practising Kenneth Wilkinson at the Map Room until I had managed a fair facsimile of its neat, un-fussy flow. ‘You’ll need to go through those double doors and walk down to the teaching wing then take the lift there to the top floor. When you come out, turn left and walk along the corridor. Sir Anthony’s office is at the very end. His secretary will be expecting you.’
Church lifted his hat with a friendly ‘much obliged to you ma’am’ and we headed through the doors and along the corridor. We walked along black-and-white patterned linoleum past a series of doors, the round windows in each affording us glimpses of white rooms with two or three beds apiece. Some had patients in them but most seemed empty. The corridor was brightly lit with large, very modern fluorescing lights set into the ceiling of the kind one might see in a smart office. A faint smell of disinfectant was in the air, though masked to a good extent by the perfume from fresh flowers that stood on plinths at regular intervals along the walls. The nurse working in her office at the end of the corridor didn’t look up as we walked past her into a small foyer with a staircase and lift.
A group of young men in white coats who I took to be students chattered over each other as they hauled themselves tiredly up the stairs. Church and I walked over to the lift and pushed the call button. The doors opened immediately and we walked inside. There was no one there to work the lift; fully automatic cage doors slid apart of their own accord. We got inside and pressed the third-floor button. After a pause the doors closed again and, with a low whine, we were carried upwards.
The lift chimed and we stepped out of it into a very different world. The lights here were gas rather than electric and of an older style that gave off light with a yellowish tint. The walls were panelled with dark wood, the floor a richly coloured geometrical parquet. The doors here were windowless, closed and brass labelled: Head of Tropical Diseases, Dean of Research, Bursar, Vice Principal. Finally we came to a door towards the end of the corridor with ‘Sir Anthony Willard, Principal’ in a larger plaque than the others, then, underneath that, engraved on a black wooden sign ‘Enquiries: Room 1a.’ We walked a little further and found the next door open: a tall, smartly dressed secretary sat at a plain, uncluttered desk, her fingers deftly racing across the keys of a typewriter. When she looked up they danced for a few more seconds before they came to a halt and stayed there, hovering above the keys.