Arrowood and the Meeting House Murders

by Mick Finlay

  ‘He lives with his brother, Ermano, and his wife. They didn’t say much.’

  ‘How did he react when you told him about the deaths?’ asked the guvnor.

  ‘He wasn’t too happy – said he’d paid twenty pounds to take over their contract. He blames a rival of his, Madame Delacourte. Have you heard of her?’

  ‘Didn’t she manage the bi-penis boy?’ asked the guvnor.

  ‘The bi-penis boy?’ repeated Napper, his nose wrinkling. ‘Not with…’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you see the bills?’

  He shook his head. ‘She’s exhibiting some tribesmen from Borneo in the Egyptian Hall next week. He believes she’s trying to do away with the competition.’

  The guvnor snorted. ‘He thinks she’d kill two people to sell more tickets?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Did he have any other theories?’

  ‘He believes it was her. I asked around the detectives upstairs. She does have a reputation. Intimidating the managers of other shows, threatening theatre owners for the best bookings, that sort of thing. There was a case of blackmail, but it was never taken to court. She’s a bad lot, but Capaldi’s no angel. They’ve been feuding for years.’

  ‘Are you going to see her?’

  Napper nodded, turning his eyes to watch as a huge bear of a man was hauled into the reception by four constables. His arms were shackled to his waist, his ankles in chains. ‘Capaldi said the Zulus were always arguing, that sometimes it turned violent.’

  ‘Surely they wouldn’t batter Musa’s teeth out with a hammer and then shoot Mr Fowler?’

  ‘Well, he believes it was Madame Delacourte, but I wouldn’t put it past the Zulus. If they did kill Musa, maybe they shot Mr Fowler as a witness.’

  ‘Has the police surgeon examined the bodies yet?’

  ‘Fowler was killed with a single shot to the heart. We’ve got the bullet but no gun to compare it to. Musa was strangled after his teeth were knocked out.’ Napper stood, looking down on us sat on the bench. The marbles had appeared in his hand, and he was rolling them around in his fingers.

  ‘He wasn’t struck anywhere else?’

  ‘Only the mouth.’ Napper sighed and when he winced it looked almost like a smile. ‘It’s queer, right enough. Very bloody queer.’

  ‘We have to catch whoever did this, Napper,’ said the guvnor. ‘These people are monsters.’

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have been handing around guns, Arrowood,’ said the detective, glancing at me.

  The guvnor dropped his head, his fat right hand clenched on his lap. ‘I know,’ he said.

  I patted his knee. ‘We didn’t have any other choice,’ I told him. ‘And it could have been worse for them without the guns. Maybe they escaped, eh?’

  ‘We’ve been to the Fowler household,’ said Napper. ‘Mrs Fowler never returned.’

  The door swung open again and a constable pushed in a well-dressed woman with a head full of bees. She swayed in the middle of the small waiting area until her eyes got right again. Seeing the guvnor sitting next to me, she dropped herself onto his lap.

  ‘Excuse me, madam!’ he squealed. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Aw,’ she cooed as she draped her arm over his shoulder. ‘You’re a very handsome fellow.’

  ‘Get off him, Ida,’ said the constable, pulling her up. ‘I got other things to do tonight.’

  Ida slapped the guvnor hard on the top of his hat as she got to her feet. ‘You wait for me here, Michael,’ she slurred. ‘I’ll be back out in an hour or two, just as soon as they’ve had their way with me.’

  Her corn-pipe cackle echoed around the bare walls. Napper grinned as he helped the constable get her over to the sergeant’s desk.

  ‘Here,’ said Napper, feeling the bony lump on his neck. ‘D’you fancy a mug of ale? I’m about to knock off.’

  He went upstairs to get his coat and hat, then took us to a pub down the road. It was a pub I’d been in before one time as I waited for the guvnor to come out of an interrogation. The place was full of coppers, in uniform and plainclothes, and Napper nodded and patted his way through them to get to the bar. I spied a fellow I knew sitting in a booth by the fire: Detective Coyle of the Special Irish Branch. We weren’t on friendly terms, and I turned away quick from the ugly bugger, hoping he hadn’t seen me.

  We squeezed in at the end of a table. I rolled a fag, while the guvnor took out his pipe. Napper drank down half his beer in one.

  ‘The police don’t usually want to associate with us, sir,’ I said.

  ‘We get a lot of trouble from private agents, Mr Barnett.’

  ‘What makes us different?’

  ‘Just as I said. I saw what happened in Catford.’

  ‘How long have you been a detective?’ asked the guvnor, taking a great swallow from his mug. He burped.

  ‘Six years. I was with K division before that. West Ham.’ Napper drained the rest of his beer. The guvnor nudged me: I got up to buy another round.

  When I got back to the table, they were working their way through a pile of winkles.

  ‘What’s the next step, detective?’ asked the guvnor, his mouth full. He picked up the mug I’d put before him and sloshed it all down with porter. ‘How are you going to find them?’

  Napper levered a winkle out of its shell and popped it in his gob. ‘It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow. We’re putting bills up asking for information, and all the police divisions are keeping an eye out too. If they’ve got any sense they’ll be near the docks: they’d stick out like yellow dogs anywhere else. Even so, three Africans and one of them a woman’s something you don’t even see in Canning Town. Someone must have spotted them. I’ve asked the superintendent to put up a reward.’

  The guvnor nodded as he forked out five winkles and put them one after the other in his mouth. He swept the shells to the floor. ‘Any ideas about that letter?’

  ‘We haven’t found a translator yet.’

  As I listened, I kept one eye on Coyle at the far side of the room. He was half-jiggered, talking loud to his mates. He hadn’t noticed me. Maybe it didn’t matter. But after what I did to him last time I reckoned maybe it did.

  ‘Are you going to have the Capaldis followed?’ asked Arrowood.

  ‘I’ve been given one PC and told to see if we can find witnesses on St Martin’s Lane. If I had another couple I’d follow Capaldi.’ He looked at the guvnor and smiled. He looked at me. ‘But I don’t. They been cutting the money for policing these last few years. Ain’t enough of us for all the crimes in this cesspool.’

  The guvnor nodded. ‘That’s why you offered us a drink.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Arrowood. The way I see it you’ve been paid for one more day.’

  The guvnor nodded, a tight, unhappy smile on his face. The winkles were making him sweat. ‘I like you, sir. Most other detectives would tell us to keep clear.’

  ‘I need your help.’ He nodded at our mugs. ‘You want another?’

  ‘Perhaps just one more,’ said the guvnor. ‘We’ve got things to do tonight. And perhaps a brandy and hot water to go with it?’

  Ten minutes later we rose to leave. Before stepping onto the pavement, I took one more look at Coyle on the other side of the room. His mates were silent. He was watching me. They were all watching me.

  Bruno Capaldi lived in a tall house on a terraced street in Stockwell. The guvnor’s plan was to take it in turns watching the door, following anybody who came out in case they led us to the Africans. I arrived about half ten that night. Neddy, the little lad who helped us now and then, would take over about five in the morning, then the guvnor from midday.

  The buildings on the street weren’t gentry rich, but they were well-painted and lit with electricity, with maybe a cook and a maid in each one. In a few the curtains were still open, and here and there could be seen a Christmas tree, dripping with baubles and sweets. About a hundred yards down from Capaldi’s house was a square with a little park, a great plane tre
e at each corner. There were some bushes to provide a bit of cover, so I tucked myself behind them and waited.

  Over the next few hours, carriages pulled up at some of the other houses, letting out folk back from the theatres and dining clubs, but nobody went in or out of Capaldi’s house that evening. Soon after the bells of St Stephen’s sounded midnight, the windows in all the other houses had gone dark. Just the Capaldis’ lights stayed on.

  A glow from the moon only just made itself known through the low grey cloud of smoke as hung over London that night. Rats moved about in the bushes, ran along the gutters and climbed down the drains. A fox or two came and stood in the road, staring at me, then went hopping along to their dinner appointments. I paced up and down the edge of the green, puffing out my white breath, half-hid by the bushes. I had on two waistcoats, a thick overcoat, a scarf Ettie’d bought me the Christmas before, but my fingers were numb and my toes ached with the cold. How I yearned for a chair and a nice coal fire.

  About three, a few workers came walking along, heading for the Locomotive Works at Nine Elms, I reckoned. By five, deliveries of milk and coal were arriving in the dark. A few folk in suits and overcoats stepped out and walked down to the trams on Clapham Road. Nobody came out the Capaldi house.

  I spotted Neddy at the far end of Albert Terrace about six, skipping down the street like he had no cares in the world. I waved and he broke into a run.

  ‘Hello, mate,’ I said. ‘You’re an hour late.’

  ‘I had to wait for the baker’s to open. I needed get some bread in for Harriet.’ He kicked out at the bushes. ‘I gave Ma the money for it last night but she went and spent it all on herself.’

  Harriet was his little sister. She had a bend in her leg and was slow to speak, so Neddy and his older sister, Abigail, looked after her. His ma seemed to love her gin more than she loved her kids.

  ‘You didn’t just oversleep?’ I asked him.

  ‘I wish. I can’t blooming trust her with anything.’

  He was so put out I thought he must have been telling the truth. Neddy was about eleven or twelve but small for his age. This was the first winter he’d got long trousers, rough, thick things run through with repairs stitched in every type of wool. A scarf I hadn’t seen afore was wound round his neck and over the top of his head, with a ragged little sailor’s cap jammed on the top.

  He pulled a sooty muffin from his pocket. ‘I brought it for you.’

  ‘Thanks, lad. I’m hungry as hell.’ The muffin was a bit stale, a bit dusty, but he knew I loved muffins. I pointed at Capaldi’s place. ‘That’s the house there. Twenty-five.’

  ‘Blue door?’

  ‘That’s right. If anyone comes out, you get after them, but don’t let them see you. Did the guvnor give you any money in case you need to take a tram?’

  Neddy nodded. He put on the guvnor’s voice: ‘Find out where they go and write the address down. Don’t get seen. Don’t try anything else. I have done this before, y’know, sir.’

  We fell silent as a couple of laundrywomen passed on the other side of the railings.

  ‘These are nasty blokes, Neddy. You got to take care.’

  He looked at me like I was a fool, his missing front teeth making his expression only more insulting.

  ‘Get a boy to bring us a note if you find out anything.’

  ‘What if it’s a servant comes out?’

  I thought about it for a minute or two. ‘Don’t bother with servants. Mr Arrowood’ll be here at twelve. You can go home then.’

  ‘I’m on the muffins at one.’

  ‘Will you be warm enough?’

  ‘Reckon so.’

  ‘Keep moving, but don’t get closer than here. Don’t leave the park. You can sit in that bush. And keep hid if you see a copper. Don’t want them thinking you’re planning a click.’

  ‘I’ll be right.’

  I shook his bony hand and walked off towards Clapham Road. A few moments later, a bloke on a bicycle entered the road. He stopped pedalling, his eyes fixed on me like he was trying to decide something. His face was square, his nose wide and flat, and he wore a flash overcoat buttoned up to his chin. A rubbery scar like a worm ran over one eye and disappeared into his ear-hole. My hand clenched in my pocket, ready in case he should stop. But just as we were level he seemed to change his mind and began to pedal again.

  Something about that bloke was wrong. I watched him reach the square and turn down toward where Neddy was hid. As he reached the gate, he got off and laid his bike against the railings. I started walking back to the park, my boots crunching on the cinders. In the dark of the winter morning, I saw him step through the gate and disappear, hidden by the bushes. I broke into a run.

  ‘Oi!’ came Neddy’s voice, then a squeal of pain.

  I reached the gate just in time to see the bloke dragging Neddy out onto the grass, one hand pulling his hair, the other twisting his wrist up his back. The lad was trying to get free, swinging out with his other arm and stamping on the bloke’s foot. I leapt forward.

  Suddenly the man lost patience and lashed out, striking Neddy across the face with the back of his hand. I flew at him, my hands around his throat, my knee in his ballocks.

  He fell, pulling Neddy down with him and me on top. I remember smelling dog shit, then patchouli, then feeling the wind knocked out of me as I landed on his upturned elbow. As I gasped for breath, I glanced another bloke running up behind, a cosh raised in the air. It landed on my skull.

  Chapter Eight

  I came to out of a sunlit dream and for a moment felt joyful. Then I felt the pain all over my head and the cold floor on my cheek. I opened my eyes, seeing stone flags, the grease-spattered feet of a dresser, rat pellets along the skirting. I shut my eyes against the sickening dizziness, knowing the Capaldis had me but not clear enough in my head to be able to do anything about it. I felt something nudge my back.

  ‘Wake up, Muggsy,’ said a low voice.

  I opened my eyes again, pushing myself up so I was sitting, my back against a cold door.

  We were in a gloomy basement kitchen. A bloke on a wooden chair watched me with small eyes, a pistol in his hand. The right side of his face was purple and yellow from a recent battering. He was bald on top, an edge of oiled black hair round the sides, a neat moustache. He wore a brown suit, a thick red waistcoat, a green tie. Neddy sat on another chair, his hands under his thighs, his cap on his knee. He didn’t look hurt.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ I asked him, feeling something stab the back of my head with each word.

  Neddy nodded. ‘You been out a few hours. Does it hurt?’

  I shook my head. It wasn’t a good idea.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the bloke.

  ‘Name’s Barnett,’ I said, touching the lump on the back of my head. The hair was wet and sticky. ‘You?’

  ‘Capaldi. Why was you watching us?’

  ‘Ermano Capaldi?’ I asked. It was a guess.

  He nodded. ‘Why?’ he asked again. Upstairs I heard a door close and footsteps on a wooden floor.

  ‘I’m trying to find the Zulus,’ I said. I reckoned there was no point hiding what we were doing; there couldn’t be many other reasons to be watching them. ‘You know where they are?’

  ‘We’re trying to find them too. What d’you want them for?’

  ‘Take me to Bruno and I’ll tell you.’

  He didn’t even think about it. He got to his feet and looked at Neddy. ‘You come too, Topolino. Chop chop.’

  Neddy jumped to the floor and held out his hand to help me. Soon as I was on my feet the dizzy feeling came back, and I had to grab the table till it passed. Ermano waited till I’d opened my eyes again.

  ‘You can walk?’ he asked. For a bloke who’d just coshed me, he didn’t seem too bad.

  He directed us up the narrow stairs to the floor above, where the corridor widened. It wasn’t bright, just a bit of daylight tipping in from the fanlight above the front door. A long Turkish carpet went along the
hallway, the walls papered in dark wallpaper with purple and pink flowers.

  As Ermano opened the door to the front room, I saw his hair formed a thin pigtail at the back that fell just over his collar. He led us in. It was a billiard room, a full-size table taking up the centre. There were electric lights, and a fire blazed and crackled in the grate.

  A shortish man leant over the far side of the table lining up a shot. He had no moustache, his thin black hair smoothed over his balding scalp. His hands were tiny, his fingers little stubs that seemed too small to be useful. A boy of fifteen or sixteen in a checked lounge suit stood by the window, a cue in his hands. Sitting on a high-backed chair was a woman of forty or fifty. A pair of marbled spectacles sat on her crooked nose.

  ‘Mr Barnett,’ said Ermano. ‘The boy’s Neddy. They’re looking for the Africans.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ answered the short bloke, staring at me hard. While Ermano’s voice was pure East End, this one spoke like he’d been schooled at Winchester. He straightened. ‘Ralf, go upstairs.’

  ‘But we’re halfway through the game, Dad.’

  ‘I need to talk to this man. We’ll play later.’

  Ralf looked at me, his hands tight on his cue. He still had child fat around his cheeks, but his eyes were bright and eager, his hair combed into a wave. A few freckles were dotted across his cheek. The boy was turning into a handsome devil.

  ‘Can’t I just stay and listen? You said I should learn.’

  ‘No, darling,’ said the woman. She looked Italian but spoke like a Scouser. ‘Do as Dad tells you.’

  Ralf looked one last time at his old man, who shook his head. He leant the cue against the wall and left. Ermano closed the door behind him.

  ‘So, you know who I am?’ asked the short man.

  ‘Bruno Capaldi,’ I said.

  ‘And you know why I want the Africans back, I suppose.’ He leant over the table and lined up his shot again. ‘But why do you want to find them, Mr Barnett?’ He cracked the cue ball. It hit the red, bounced off the baulk, then touched the other white, leaving both on the cushion. The woman stood and took up Ralf’s cue.

  ‘I’m a private investigative agent,’ I said. ‘They came to me for protection. From you. Said you’d kill one of them if they didn’t perform.’