Arrowood and the Meeting House Murders

by Mick Finlay

  He laughed, a wet crackle like a frying sausage. ‘Have you ever worked with performers, Norman?’

  I shook my head. I didn’t know how he got my first name, and I didn’t particularly care.

  ‘I just wanted to frighten them. I’ve been paying their food and lodging for weeks. They signed a contract.’

  ‘Well, I was paid to look after them. Now two men are dead.’

  Neddy was over by the cue rack, fingering the polished sticks. I got out the way as the woman leant over the table, lined up her shot, and prodded the white hard with her cue. The ball hurtled down the green cloth and hit the red at an angle, sending it into the pocket. She gave a grunt of joy, then stood by Bruno, her arm around his shoulder.

  ‘It wasn’t us,’ said Bruno. ‘But we do want to find them.’

  ‘So do the police.’

  ‘We all want to, old chap. It’s for their own good. There are so many dangers in the city, and they’re not used to it.’ As he spoke, his words slipped here and there, and I knew he wasn’t all he was pretending to be. ‘Tell me, what do you think happened, Norman?’

  The woman lit a fag, fixing me with her bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Could be you and your men came in and threatened them. Someone took a shot and someone else shot back. Maybe you’re holding the others somewhere, maybe they escaped.’

  He shut his eyes and twitched his head. ‘And if it wasn’t us? What other theories do you have?’

  ‘They might have done it to each other.’

  ‘What about your boss. Mr Arrowood, isn’t it? What does he think?’

  ‘That’s all we got,’ I said. I hadn’t told them about the guvnor either. They must have got it out of Neddy.

  Bruno picked up a small silver platter stacked with Turkish Delight. He took a dusty cube between his two middle fingers and dropped it into his mouth. As he chewed he held the tray out to Neddy. ‘Boy?’

  Neddy stepped over, looked at the pile of sweets, then up at Capaldi. I knew Neddy, and I knew how filthy his little fingers always were. I also knew how he loved sweet things.

  ‘Go on, boy,’ said Bruno, his voice now light and bright. ‘Have two.’

  Neddy snatched a couple of blocks. One he put in his mouth, the other in his coat pocket. Bruno nodded at me.

  I went over and took a cube. It was like a jelly but smelt of a flower. There was a nut inside. Wasn’t too bad, I tell you.

  After putting the platter down, he chalked his cue and blew on it.

  ‘Those Zulus owe us,’ said the woman, leaning over the corner of the table and giving Neddy a poke in the belly with her cue. ‘And, as the Lord is my witness, they do need us. They can’t handle their liquor, and the girl don’t understand contracts. We looked after them like our own children, and they don’t appreciate it.’

  ‘Mrs Capaldi spoils them,’ said Bruno.

  She smiled. ‘Well, maybe a little.’

  ‘Why are they so important to you?’ I asked, trying not to show the anger that had risen in me. The way they talked about those Africans wasn’t so far from how a lot of the toffs of this city talked about the likes of me, folk with the mark of the workhouse and the South London slums, and it vexed me, I can tell you.

  ‘If you go out on the street in London, you can see black men,’ said Bruno. He sipped his tea, his little finger pointing in the air. ‘Medical students, priests, beggars, you’ll see one every week. But Zulus? No. Never. People will pay to see a Zulu.’

  ‘You know they’re amaQwabe, sir? Not Zulus.’

  He looked at me for a moment. ‘Are they? Well, nobody’s ever heard of amaQwabe. People’ll pay for Zulus. And we’re going to take them all over the country, then the continent. Maybe we’ll even take them to Barnum’s American Museum. Everybody wants to see the great warriors who’ve caused such trouble to the British, and the show is quite educational, you know. The audience see stick fighting, dagger throwing, native cooking and dancing. You know the giya dance? It’ll scare you witless! We’ll sell out everywhere, Norman. This is why we don’t like our Zulus to wander about getting in trouble. We give them good rooms, good food. We look after them. And, as I said, we’ve invested a good deal to bring them here.’ He pointed at a pile of pamphlets stacked on the desk. ‘Look at all those, full colour. If they don’t work, how do I pay for those?’

  ‘So you find out anything, come tell us,’ said Mrs Capaldi.

  ‘Why would we do that, ma’am?’ I asked.

  She picked up a cube of Turkish Delight and held it to Bruno’s lips. Her husband bit off half the cube and smiled at her as he chewed.

  ‘Just tell us, Norman,’ she went on. ‘If we find out you know something and didn’t tell us… Well.’ She popped the other half in her mouth. ‘We’ll slaughter you.’

  Bruno laughed his wet laugh again. ‘Slaughter!’ he gasped in delight. Ermano grinned, stroking his belly with his pistol.

  Bruno was still laughing while he lined up his next shot. ‘Slaughter!’ he cackled as he struck the cue ball.

  The woman bent her neck, looking at us side-on, still smiling.

  I took Neddy’s shoulder and pushed him to the door.

  ‘Goodbye, Norman,’ said Bruno as we stepped into the hall. ‘We will see you very soon.’

  As we walked to the front door, we heard the crack of the billiard balls striking each other, and the three of them began to laugh again.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘You want me to stay?’ asked Neddy as we walked down to Clapham Road. ‘I can go up the other end.’

  ‘Too dangerous, mate. They know you now.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. What was the sweets?’

  ‘Turkish Delight.’

  He said nothing for a few steps. I was moving awkward: my legs were stiff, the cold still in the bones. My head was thudding from Ermano’s cosh, so I popped into a little apothecary we were passing and bought a box of Black Drop, swallowing a couple as we walked on.

  ‘Is it dear?’ asked Neddy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turkish Delight.’

  ‘Too much for you, mate. Maybe when you’re a rich man you can afford it.’

  ‘Did you hear about the lady got her foot boiled in Spears and Pond?’

  I laughed again. ‘Go on. Tell me.’

  I listened to his story as we walked along Clapham Road, busy with people hurrying along the pavement as trams and buses passed them on their way to Wimbledon and the Elephant.

  ‘I will get my money, won’t I?’ he asked when he’d finished. ‘Even though I weren’t there long?’

  ‘You’ll get it all, mate. What did they ask you when I was out?’

  ‘What I was doing there, who sent me, who you were. Mr Arrowood told me to tell them the truth.’

  ‘Good, lad. You did right.’

  ‘We getting the bus?’

  ‘Not this time, Neddy.’

  When we got to Coin Street, the guvnor was eating a kidney pudding and watching Isabel rifle through his psychology books. The fire was unlit and they were both wrapped up against the morning cold, she in two shawls, he with his scarf and Donegal coat.

  Isabel held out her hand to Neddy and pulled him in for a hug. Her eyes were red and swollen, her smile sad.

  ‘Back so soon?’ asked the guvnor.

  ‘They spotted us,’ I told him. ‘Came just after Neddy got there. Two blokes.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Neddy, picking at a darn in his britches.

  ‘What did you do?’ barked the guvnor. ‘Walk past the house?’

  ‘I didn’t, sir. I came from the other way.’

  ‘Think, boy,’ he said, the anger gone from his voice as soon as it’d appeared. He pushed the spoon in his mouth and spoke as he chewed. ‘How could they have seen you? This is important. To be a detective you must learn from your mistakes.’

  ‘I come up from Clapham Road and went to the square where Mr Barnett was. Just like you told me. He said to hide in the bushes.’

 
; ‘That must be when they saw you.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ I said, lowering my aching bones onto the stool. ‘They’d gone round the back, came in the other side. Must have already left the house by the time Neddy arrived. It was me they spotted.’

  ‘You weren’t careful enough.’

  ‘No.’

  He sighed hard through his swollen hooter, looking long at me. ‘Damn it,’ he muttered at last.

  ‘Have you seen my medical dictionary?’ asked Isabel, pulling out the drawers in the dresser and poking about.

  ‘No,’ said the guvnor. ‘Did you look upstairs?’

  ‘Of course I’ve looked upstairs!’ she snapped. ‘You didn’t pawn it did you, William?’

  ‘What do you think I am, Isabel? I know you’re studying it.’

  She stepped back to his books and pulled one out. ‘Where are your eyeglasses?’

  ‘On the mantel,’ said the guvnor, shoving the last bit of pudding in his gob and sweeping the crumbs to the floor.

  ‘William! How many times must I tell you not to do that? It brings in the mice.’

  ‘I’ll clear it up,’ he said, turning to me. ‘So, they caught you. And then?’

  I told him everything that happened. I knew I’d get a grilling, it was the same every time. He asked Neddy too. When we got to the end of our reports, one of the babies started making a noise upstairs. Isabel looked at the ceiling, her hands gripping the black book in her lap. Then the wailing began, and, moments later, a second little voice joined in.

  ‘I only just got them to sleep,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘They caught a fever last night. They just won’t settle.’

  I went upstairs to help her. The bedroom window was open, the two babies lying in their boxes under thick blankets. Their faces were red and wet with tears. Leopold’s eyes were shut as he wailed, a lick of black hair stuck to his forehead; Mercy was staring at the yellowed ceiling, her fists clenched and pink, her bottom lip hiding her top. Her little body did a shiver.

  ‘Why don’t you lift the blankets?’ I asked. ‘They’re stewing.’

  ‘The doctor said they must be kept hot to beat the infection.’

  ‘Does that really help?’

  She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I don’t know. Ettie agrees and she was a nurse. They want the windows open for fresh air, but say the babies must be kept warm. It’s so difficult.’

  We carried the boxes down and put them on the table. The guvnor rose to have a look, shaking his head as the babies choked and sobbed.

  ‘You want me to bring them a muffin?’ asked Neddy as Isabel covered them again.

  ‘No, thank you, dear,’ said Isabel, patting his hand. ‘They’re too young.’

  ‘Did you try mustard?’ I asked. Mercy really didn’t look good, and it pinched my heart to see her that way. Her body gave another little shiver and she fell silent. Then the crying began again.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Isabel. ‘I’ll put more on later. I told Ettie not to take them out yesterday, but she knew best, her and that Campbell woman. Oh, Lord, they’re so unhappy. What are we to do?’

  ‘Shall we wet them?’ asked the guvnor, bringing a bowl of water from the scullery.

  Though it was cold, Isabel peeled off their blankets and raised their dresses, revealing their glistening pink bodies and grey nappies. Leopold had some red spots across his chest. The guvnor and Neddy wiped their miserable faces and patted their bodies with the wet cloths. As the babies quietened, the guvnor began to sing to them in a soft voice:

  O where are you going, my pretty maiden fair,

  With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?

  It was a duet you’d hear in many a pub around London on a Saturday night. From the chair by the window, Isabel sang the next lines, her voice as gentle as the guvnor’s:

  I’m going a-milking, kind sir, says she,

  And it’s strawberry leaves makes the milkmaids fair.

  With the cool cloths on their skin and the sweet melody, the babies fell silent. The guvnor sang the next lines:

  Oh, may I go with you, my pretty little dear,

  With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?

  Then Isabel answered again, the faintest smile appearing on her tired face:

  Oh, you may go with me, kind sir, says she,

  And it’s strawberry leaves makes the milkmaids fair.

  And so they continued for several verses. Then, while still singing, the guvnor put down his cloth and wrapped Leopold back up, while Neddy did the same with Mercy. Arrowood straightened, rocking from one foot to the other, gazing at the babies as he sang:

  Oh say, will you marry me, my pretty little dear,

  With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair:

  And Isabel replied, her eyes shut:

  Oh yes, if you please, kind sir, says she,

  And it’s strawberry leaves makes the milkmaids fair.

  And even before she’d ended her line, the guvnor started his turn, this time the words trembling, his throat tightening:

  Oh, will you be constant, my pretty little dear,

  With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?

  Isabel clasped her hands in her lap. The room was silent, the babies tense and waiting. Through my head ran the lines she wasn’t singing:

  Oh, that I cannot promise you, kind sir, says she,

  And it’s strawberry leaves makes the milkmaids fair.

  Then, as if she hadn’t missed her part, the guvnor answered:

  Then I won’t marry you, my pretty little dear,

  With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair.

  He straightened. The air was cold and still. Neddy looked from Isabel to the guvnor, then to me, a question on his brow. I shook my head, holding my finger to my lips. Mercy croaked. Arrowood gazed out the window, his lips muttering something silent, then he marched through to the scullery and out the back door to the outhouse. Isabel raised her hand to her brow, and I saw the glister of a tear in the corner of her eye. Those last verses were too close to their own history, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he sang it to hurt her.

  Now that silence had returned, Mercy began to cry again. Moments later Leopold started up too, joining her in their own infernal duet.

  ‘Will you go out and get me some Godfrey’s Cordial, Neddy?’ asked Isabel, wiping her eyes. She reached for her purse.

  ‘I thought you didn’t use it?’ I asked over the storm of unhappiness.

  ‘Ettie says we use it too much, but they need to sleep, Norman.’

  I went along with Neddy to the apothecary, glad to get out of the din for a while. On the way back, I took him into a coffee shop for a bit of fruit cake, hoping Isabel and the guvnor would take the chance to talk things over. There was a lot between them that they were afraid to bring out in the open, and sometimes it seemed they just wanted to hurt each other.

  By the time I returned, Arrowood was there with Mercy in his arms, pacing the floor, making low buzzing noises. She’d calmed a bit, but was gasping and grunting like she was about to go curly again. Upstairs, I could hear the sound of Isabel’s footsteps, no doubt doing the same. Leopold had quieted too.

  I put the kettle on the boiler and a few minutes later had four mugs of tea ready. I found half a box of cream crackers and brought them through as well. Isabel had come down and was dropping a bit of the Godfrey’s Cordial into Mercy’s mouth. Leopold slept peaceful in his box.

  ‘You’d better not tell Ettie you’ve done that,’ said Arrowood.

  ‘I know, William.’ She stoppered the vial and hid it on the shelf behind one the books. The silence in the room was thick and lovely, and we sat for some time, drinking our tea.

  ‘I don’t like to see them ill,’ said the guvnor at last. ‘Poor little mites.’

  ‘It’ll break soon.’ Isabel’s face was as drawn as the guvnor’s.

  ‘You mustn’t tell Ettie you gave them that soother,’ he said again.

/>   Instead of answering, Isabel smiled sadly at me. ‘You’d better go and get some sleep, Norman. You look exhausted.’

  Chapter Ten

  I wandered home, cold and aching, and was looking forward to my bed when I passed the pub on Great Guildford Street where Molly worked. It was almost midday. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d stepped inside.

  A bloke was kneeling on the floor before the fire, cleaning out the ash with a rusty little shovel. There was a hole the size of a penny in one of his soles. A toddler stood next to him, his pink hand on the bloke’s back.

  He turned his head when he heard my boots.

  ‘Is Molly here?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s sick.’

  ‘What’s up with her?’

  ‘Message said she’d explain tomorrow,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Can I get you something?’

  I shook my head, feeling uneasy. In a job like that you came in when you were sick. There were so many folk looking for work you couldn’t risk it. You only stayed at home if you couldn’t walk. Or if you had something on your boss.

  We were back at Scotland Yard at five that evening. It was already dark on the Embankment, though the streets were crowded with vehicles and the river still busy with barges and steamers. Napper’d left a message at the front desk, telling us he’d be there at seven, so we went to a pub down the road, avoiding the one where the ogre Coyle drank with his mates. At seven we were back. A PC led us up two flights of stairs to an office where Napper sat at a desk. He beckoned us over, asking:

  ‘What did you discover?’ He wore the same suit, the same tie, the same shirt as the day before. Eight desks stood in the room, only one other being used. Three bowlers hung on the wall. Two chairs sat by the desk, waiting for us.

  He leant back and crossed an ankle over his knee. As we told him about the Capaldis, he glanced at the copper on the next desk and exchanged some kind of look.

  ‘So you can’t follow them now, is that it?’ he asked when we’d finished.