by Clive Mullis
‘Oh, what’s ‘e gone and dun?’
‘Are you his mother?’ asked Rose softly.
The woman nodded and then flung the door open fully. ‘Ye’d better come in then.’ She turned and wandered back inside.
Rose and Frankie exchanged a look and then followed after.
Rose gawped at the neat and spotless room with not a bit of dust anywhere. A weak light filtered through from the scullery out back but the main light came from two tallow candles fixed to a shelf on the wall. A small table with two chairs took up the middle of the room with two old upholstered armchairs positioned to either side of a small fire grate. A chest of drawers and an old bureau completed the sum of the furniture.
‘Sorry, missus,’ said Frankie as he stood by the table. ‘But Herbert’s been nicked. He’s down at Scooters Yard.’
The woman nodded acceptance of the fact. ‘With Norris, was ‘e?’
‘Yes,’ answered Rose, taking a moment to study her. Thin mousey hair, a pinched, haggard face, small and skinny, wearing threadbare old clothes: she could have been any age between thirty and sixty. Rose thought she looked more like sixty but suspected her age nearer thirty. Life did that to you in the slum; it sucked all the youth out of a body like a leech.
‘Tried to tell ‘im that one were trouble, but would ‘e listen? No, would ‘e f—’.
‘Anyway,’ interrupted Frankie. ‘He’s down at the Yard; thought you’d like to know.’
‘What ‘e do?’
‘There’s quite a list, I’m afraid,’ said Rose not unsympathetically. ‘The main one being trying to set fire to the dwarf tunnels. We believe Herbert and Norris were being used by a mystery man who they met down a pub; he’s been giving them money to cause trouble.’
Herbert’s mother sighed and then flopped down in an armchair. She sighed again as she drew her hand down her face. ‘I ‘ad ‘im followed, I did,’ she said quietly, staring off into space.
‘What’s that you say, missus?’ asked Frankie, his ears straining.
‘I said I ‘ad ‘im followed: my Herbert. I knew ‘e were up to no good as ‘e ‘ad cash in his pocket and ‘e never ‘as cash. Twenty dollars. I counted it when ‘e were asleep.’
Rose and Frankie shared a glance, twenty dollars was a lot for someone living in The Brews.
‘What did you find out,’ asked Rose, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice. ‘It might help Herbert if you know something.’
‘I tried to bring ‘im up ‘onest, I really did, but it’s ‘ard round ‘ere. The likes o’ Norris don’t ‘elp; ‘e’s always ‘ad sticky fingers, ‘as Norris.’
Frankie nodded his agreement. He’d come from The Warren, a better class of slum, but had at one time lived on the wrong side of the law. When you had nothing there wasn’t a decision to make. ‘I’m sure you did, missus, but he’s old enough to know right from wrong, unfortunately, he picked wrong. Same as I did when I were his age, but it don’t mean you can’t change.’
Herbert’s mum looked up, a little bit of hope in her eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Now, about you following young Herbert. What happened?’
The light that momentarily flared died and she looked down once more, contemplating her hands in her lap. ‘It weren’t me, it were a man I knows. ‘E followed Herbert to the Bull and Badger. ‘E sees ‘im and Norris talking to a man in the snug. They laughed a lot but the man weren’t laughing in ‘is eyes. ‘E gave ‘em a bag o’ coins and then left. My friend decides to tag the man, as ‘e didn’t seem to be right, if you knows what I mean. Anyways, ‘e follows ‘im across the bridge and blow me, didn’t ‘e just walk straight into the Assembly. My friend couldn’t follow ‘im in there, so ‘e comes back to tell me.’
‘The Assembly? You sure he said that?’ asked Rose, shocked at the revelation.
The woman nodded. ‘Straight through the front door.’
‘And this friend of yours, who is he?’
‘Phil,’ said Herbert’s mum. ‘Phil the Flick, on account of the knives he carries.’
‘Oh, that sort of friend,’ said Frankie.
The little group of hard-nosed bruisers looked up from their game of dice as Rose and Frankie approached the front door. One climbed to his feet and flashed a toothless grin before banging a fist on the door. The door opened revealing another heavy, but this one sported a full set of tombstones, indicating that maybe he was a little better at the job than the one outside, his array of weapons confirming the judgement.
Frankie nodded a greeting but needn’t have bothered because, as normal, all eyes were on Rose, or to be more precise, on the bits of Rose which tended to get the most attention.
‘‘E’s upstairs,’ said the man with the teeth. ‘‘Eard you were visiting ‘is turf and is expecting you.’
Rose smiled back and briefly brushed his arm as she walked past, causing a little stir in certain regions.
Crinning, Gerald’s assistant, a thin dapper-looking man dressed very much like a butler, appeared at the top of the stairs and beckoned Frankie and Rose to come up to the lair of the King of The Brews
‘Mr Gerald will be with you shortly,’ he said as Frankie and Rose joined him. ‘He’s just making an enquiry into an occurrence that, er, occurred.’
He led the detectives into the inner sanctum with a throne-like chair placed on a dais at the far end of the room. As always, Frankie and Rose winced at the décor. Sumptuous and comfortable, but the array of clashing colours and styles left the brain wondering what spectrum it was in. Crinning ushered them to a set of chairs below the dais and bid them sit to await the king’s pleasure.
An open window, fronting onto the river, let a gentle breeze waft into the room, rippling a fine silk wall hanging behind the throne-like chair. Frankie and Rose sat down whilst Crinning hovered attentively close by, waiting.
A muffled thump came from the room next door, closely followed by a whimper. Some muted conversation and then another thump and then a howl which descended in volume through the wall only to resume a moment later from outside the window, but this time at full volume, until it ended abruptly with the noise of a splash.
A door rattled and Gerald appeared clad in a collarless white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Braces kept the trousers up which showed bare sockless ankles. A small man with salt and pepper hair he wore a cheeky and mischievous grin.
‘Well now, me darling, where you bin ‘iding?’ he said to Rose as he bounced towards her holding out his hands.
Rose stood and welcomed him in an embrace, the top of his head reaching just above her chest. He smiled again in gratitude as his head bowed and rested there, cushioned as it were.
‘As if I would hide from you, Gerald,’ replied Rose with a smile on her face. Even though he delved so deep into lawlessness that he would need a shovel just to get up to the level of criminal, she rather liked him.
‘Me offer still stands,’ responded Gerald. ‘Soon as yer done wiv Cornwallis, then come to me an’ I’ll treat yer as me queen.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Rose, the offer being the ritual of their frequent meetings.
Gerald reluctantly broke the contact and stood back. ‘Now, what brings yer ‘ere, eh?’
Frankie indicated the window. ‘Bit of trouble?’
Gerald shook his head. ‘Not fer me. Let’s say ‘e wasn’t fully open an’ ‘onest, as it were. I’ll ‘ave me cut, fair and square, that’s the rools. ‘E wanted to give a bit of square, but keep the fair — bit of a dunking will learn ‘im.’
‘I take it he can swim?’
A bit of a pause ensued as Gerald thought, then he walked over to the window and looked out. ‘Crinning,’ he yelled.
‘Yes, Mr Gerald?’ replied Crinning, making a rapid appearance.
‘Send someone dahn t’ fish ‘im out, will yer.’
‘Right away, Mr Gerald.’
Gerald turned and rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, where was we? Oh, yeah, what�
�s you doing ‘ere?’
Over tea and biscuits, Frankie and Rose explained about Herbert and Norris, and what they had been up to over the last few days. Gerald listened attentively, just in case he learnt something he didn’t already know. There wasn’t much that happened in Gornstock that he didn’t hear about from his many sources, normally about ten minutes after they happened. A crime Tsar had to keep his finger on the pulse of the city.
‘So, you want’s to speak t’ ‘erbert’s mum’s friend, then?’
Frankie and Rose nodded.
‘No problem. Crinning,’ he yelled again. ‘Get Phil the Flick ‘ere pronto.’
‘Right away, Mr Gerald,’ replied Crinning, dipping his head formally.
‘Just be a tick,’ said Gerald with a wink.
Chapter 21
There were never enough hours in the day, reflected Cornwallis as he headed off to the Guild of Ironworkers: so many balls to juggle, so many things to do and people to see. He’d taken his eye off The Pipe because of the attacks and disruption, leaving all the day to day organising down to Goodhalgan. He really wanted to be involved now as the opening was just around the corner, but he still had so much to do.
Anyone wanting to find the Guild of Ironworkers would naturally go to either the Guilds Hall or the iron foundry on the outskirts of the city where the foundry belched smoke and steam; another reason why the Sterkle glooped instead of flowed as it swallowed up all the detritus that came from the foundry, but they would be wrong. Most of the guilds had offices away from the Hall and away from their main area of work in order to hold meetings that could be deemed “sensitive,” if anyone found out about them.
The Ironworkers Guild had its offices down a back alley off of Chancers Lane, above a shop selling second-hand clothes, or pre-loved vintage, as the sign said, enabling them to charge three times what an item cost when new.
Cornwallis rattled the knocker on the door next to the plaque which indicated the Guild’s presence and waited. Perusing the shop window brought to mind the clothes worn by his grandmother, which they had dumped when she passed away; now, he learnt, they had inadvertently given away hundreds of dollar’s worth of legacy.
The door cracked and a nervous face appeared. ‘Can I help you?’
Cornwallis whipped his head back to view the man standing there. A small man wearing a dark suit, he had a small round head and wore spectacles, wisps of hair were playfully covering a bald dome, a hopeful attempt to prove a full head of hair; sadly, it didn’t work.
‘I’m looking for the Ironworkers Guild,’ said Cornwallis, looking down at him.
‘In that case, you’ve found it.’
Cornwallis waited.
The small man looked up expectantly.
‘Now that I’ve found it,’ said Cornwallis. ‘Do you think I can come in?’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Obliged,’ replied Cornwallis stepping in.
He followed the man up the narrow dark staircase to a small office above the shop, cluttered with bits of iron in various stages of manufacture, most of it rusting nicely. A small desk with a chair behind backed up against the tiny window, shining a little dreary light on the surface. Another two chairs sat in front of the desk.
Cornwallis took one of the two chairs and sat as the little man squeezed behind the desk and eased down into his, looking up expectantly.
‘How may I help you, Mr… er?’ enquired the man.
‘Cornwallis,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘I’m an investigator, presently attached to Scooters Yard and I’m investigating a crime.’
‘Oh, my; that’s sounds serious.’
‘It is, Mr… er?’
‘Tredding, Ernest Tredding. Master of the Guild of Ironworkers.’
Cornwallis inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Mr Tredding, I wish to know who uses two of your properties. One is in Loom Lane, number eighteen, and the one it backs on to in Fetter Street.’
Mr Tredding nodded. ‘Yes, we own a number of properties there. Most are empty, I believe. We use them as temporary accommodation for foundry workers.’
‘So you have keys for them?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Here?’
Mr Tredding shook his head. ‘Not enough room. We keep them at the Guilds Hall.’
Cornwallis raised his eyebrows. ‘So who has access to them?’
‘Just us. Safe as houses there,’ said Mr Tredding, not realising he’d made a pun. ‘No one would ever think about using something from another guild. It wouldn’t be proper.’
Cornwallis opened his mouth to reply, but a look at the guileless master prevented his rejoinder. Mr Tredding believed what he just said. ‘I’m sure you’re right, but if you could humour me for a moment. Why don’t you and I take a little stroll down to Guilds Hall and take a look at the keys, just to check that all is as it should be.’
‘Oh, do you think that’s necessary?’
‘I’m sure we’ll find everything in order, but it will help my investigation. Shall we go now?’ said Cornwallis, rising from his chair.
The walk to Guilds Hall took ten minutes. On the way, Cornwallis tried to gauge the master’s views on the imminent opening of The Pipe, whether it would have a positive or negative impact on the iron business. Mr Tredding appeared to not only approve of the enterprise but believed it would be beneficent to his guild. The dwarfs and he had come to an agreement where the foundry would turn ore into iron for them in return for supplying extra ore at a discounted rate.
This was news to Cornwallis but Goodhalgan had told him that he would take care of the iron and that he could organise it all. Evidently, he had.
Cornwallis filed that bit of knowledge in his mind for later perusal. He’d never been to the Guilds Hall before, so the opulence of the entrance lobby took him aback as they entered through the massive doors, guarded by gigantic columns of marble, supporting a decorative portico.
Festooned with colourful bright banners and flags hanging from the walls, each one representing a guild from the city, the vast rectangular space of the lobby spread out before them. Above them, the ceiling, ornate with panels of frescoes painted by a master artist. A lattice-work of polished wooden cubicles skirted the walls, furnished with benches and low tables. The floor, covered by slabs of marble, gleamed as if polished within an inch of its life. To the right, a dozen porters and flunkies pandered to the enquiring members behind a long shiny wooden counter.
‘I’ll just sign you in, Mr Cornwallis,’ said Mr Tredding as he stepped up to the counter.
Tredding clicked his fingers and a liveried flunkey stepped smartly up. The master explained Cornwallis’ presence and the flunkey reluctantly signed him in, distaste at a non-member of the guilds evident by the look of derision that shot Cornwallis’ way.
Cornwallis ignored the implied insult, instead just winking and grinning until the flunkey went back to his work.
Mr Tredding guided Cornwallis across the floor to a nondescript door at the far end, flanked by a couple of guards. Once through the door, the Guilds Hall became functional: no adornments, no decoration, no nothing — just plain and simple austerity.
Mr Tredding headed up the steps to the second floor and then along a corridor hosting a number of doors, each one with a little plaque and a tiny flag next to it, indicating which guild resided there. The Guild of Ironworkers had its office towards the end of the corridor, next door to The Guild of Socks and Hosiery Makers.
‘How many guilds are there?’ asked Cornwallis.
‘Hundreds,’ replied Mr Tredding. ‘The founding members are on the first floor, you know, like the carpenters, the masons, butchers, bakers—’
‘Candlestick makers?’ said Cornwallis interrupting.
‘Precisely,’ said Mr Tredding. ‘And of course, the ladies.’
‘Ladies?’ asked Cornwallis.
‘The oldest profession, of course; they have to be on the first floor.’
Cornwallis acknowledged the sen
se of that. ‘You’re on the second floor,’ he continued.
‘Indeed. We were not original members but gained approval shortly after. There are seven floors and the newest member is up the top. That’s how it works.’
Cornwallis nodded and followed the master into the ironworkers’ office; he noted that the door was unlocked.
The large office contained a finely carved desk and chair. Around the walls were intricate cabinets, some glass-fronted, to show off pieces of finely wrought iron. There were drawers; loads of them, containing only the gods knew what. The Chain of Office draped from a lump of wood fixed to a stand to show it off with other bits of regalia on a table beneath. A posh office, and therefore, Cornwallis could see that it was all for show, like looking at a bottle of the finest whisky, but not being allowed to try it.
Mr Tredding went to a set of drawers below the display of some strange bendy bits, which Cornwallis couldn’t fathom out at all. He pulled one out; inside were little compartments, each containing a set of keys. A piece of card below the keys indicated where and what they belonged to.
Mr Tredding scratched his head. ‘Oh! The keys to those two houses are missing, Mr Cornwallis, and I haven’t the foggiest idea why.’
‘Not another member of your guild?’ asked Cornwallis, looking at the empty spaces.
Mr Tredding shook his head. ‘I’ve been the only one coming here. I saw the porter writing down my name in the guild book. There’s only been my name for months.’
‘Any other keys missing?’
Mr Tredding opened other drawers, checking the contents in each and it dawned on Cornwallis that the ironworkers guild owned an awful lot of properties.
‘Is the guild wealthy?’ asked Cornwallis a little uneasily.
‘No more than any other guild,’ said Mr Tredding, still checking the drawers, ever more frantically. ‘We have to safeguard our members in case of hardship.’ Finally, Mr Tredding stood up. ‘No, no other keys are missing, just those two. How very strange.’
‘Maybe not so strange,’ said Cornwallis. ‘Tell me, has there been any trouble between your guild and another?’