by Amy Myers
Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins
Amy Myers
© Amy Myers 2019
Amy Myers has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2019 by Endeavour Quill.
Endeavour Quill is an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
I: A Grim Discovery
II: Enter Phineas Snook
III: Tuppence for a Book
IV: Meeting the Ordinaries
V: The Lover and his Lass
VI: The Soot Gathers
VII: Tolling Bells
VIII: Where is It?
IX: Entering the Den
X: The Chimney Darkens
XI: Stories of Yore
XII: When Night Falls
XIII: Climbing the Chimney
XIV: Lost
XV: One Last Flue
XVI: The Coming of May Day
XVII: The Brush at the Top of the Chimney
A Literary Journey by Tom Wasp
Historical Note
Author’s Note
Tom Wasp relates his own story in this novel, and as he’s a chimney sweep in London’s east end in the reign of Queen Victoria, his use of English is sometimes idiosyncratic. Luckily, as a climbing boy during his childhood, he mistakenly landed in the hearth of Lady Beazer, while sweeping her chimneys one day. Taking an interest in him, she paid for his schooling.
As his scribe, I thank my agent, Sara Keane of Keane Kataria Literary Agency, for her invaluable help and all the time and effort she has poured into Tom Wasp’s story. A professional chimney brush can sweep away countless specks of soot where these have gathered unnoticed, so thank you, Sara. My thanks are also due to the wonderful team at Endeavour Quill and the late Dorothy Lumley, who seized on my idea of a chimney sweep sleuth and encouraged me to write about him.
At the end of this novel, Tom Wasp has provided ‘A Literary Journey’, adding details to the journey that he took in this novel as the plot unfolded, and I have added a historical note to differentiate fact from fiction.
I
A Grim Discovery
‘I won’t go there, guvnor.’ Ned was looking at me defiantly, swinging his soot bag over his shoulder. I could see him trembling, though.
‘It’s only a boy carved out of stone, Ned,’ I said gently.
I’m Tom Wasp, master chimney sweep, and Ned’s my chummy, that meaning my apprentice; he’s twelve or so — I’ve never known his true age. He’s a lad who can face with confidence the boozed-up matelots in east London’s docklands and tell ’em what he thinks of them.
I can’t be sure why he’s wary of the Boy of Panyer Alley, as he’s known, but I can guess. The Boy isn’t doing any harm, just sitting on a basket of bread — but Ned believes he’s astride a rooftop, looking at his foot burnt by the chimney he’s just climbed up. Ned was a climbing boy before I rescued him from that fate and he finds it hard to face up to anything that reminds him of those days. I was once a climbing boy too, and my bowed legs haven’t forgotten what it feels like to wriggle up a narrow chimney that’s sometimes as little as ten inches wide.
‘Stir your stumps, Ned. We won’t go down the alley if you don’t fancy it.’
Our first job of the day should have been in Newgate Street at the far end of the alley, but instead we’d go straight to Dolly’s, the famous chophouse just off Paternoster Row near St Paul’s Cathedral in London City. In addition to sweeping their chimneys, I had another, more private, mission there today.
On a cold Thursday morning in April at the first signs of dawn, when we chimney sweeps have already been hard at work for an hour or two, Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s London can be a fearsome place or a beautiful one, in this year of 1864, depending on how you look at this grand old lady of cities. St Paul’s Churchyard, which we had just left, gives its name not only to the yard itself but also to the noisy, busy streets that encircle its railings. It was already packed with workers marching to their posts for the day and carriages clattering over the granite stones with such urgency you’d think old London was afire again. It’s a time of day I love, there being a sense of purpose as the wheels of the city whirl into action.
With the great cathedral of St Paul’s towering behind us and streaks of gold creeping into the grey sky, I was inclined to count my blessings, but Ned is young and fixed in his ways. And today his way wasn’t going to be past the Boy in Panyer Alley.
As we made our way along Paternoster Row to Dolly’s, workers were already hurrying along together with most of the horses and delivery vans in London. The Row, now flourishing with booksellers and publishers, was well known for its silken cloth in the old days, when the diarist Mr Pepys was a customer, but that was before the Great Fire of 1666. His Majesty King Charles himself came to help extinguish that, but he arrived too late to stop much of the Row and St Paul’s itself from being burnt down, including an old tavern called The Castle. That’s where Dolly’s Chop House now stands.
‘I’ll see about a pie for you once we’ve done our job at Dolly’s,’ I reassured Ned and his face brightened.
Dolly’s, famous for its mutton chops and steaks, is in Queen’s Head Passage, which like Panyer Alley, runs from the Row through to Newgate Street. The Queen of this passage isn’t our own Queen Victoria, but Queen Anne, whose picture is in one of the chophouse windows. Dolly’s has been there for a great many years, first as Dolly’s Tavern, then Dolly’s Coffee House, and for as long as I can recall, as a chophouse and hotel.
We trundled our handcart under the arch in the passage and past Dolly’s main entrance. All was silent, and the dawn chill still struck at our bodies. At the far end of the building is the open gateway to Dolly’s small yard with outhouses, three stables and room for several diners’ carriages. In daytime it’s a bustling, lively area, but before Dolly’s has come to life it looks dismal and unwelcoming.
But it wasn’t so now. In the still greyish light as we entered the yard I saw something ahead that made me look twice — and then again. The nearest outhouse to us was the log store. Its door stood partly open, but protruding beyond it I saw what looked like a foot. An old shoe? No. The wrong angle for that. A gentleman of the road still sleeping it off?
‘You stay here, Ned,’ I said sharply.
But he’d seen it too and, being a curious lad, he left the handcart and ran forward, with me hobbling after him. My legs make running hard.
‘It’s a bloke. Looks like he’s kicked the bucket,’ he called out to me matter-of-factly.
Despite his strange dislike of the Boy in the alley, Ned has no fear of the dead, living as we do between London’s docklands and the old rookery of the Nichol where I was born. Poverty and brawling there bring many a man to an early grave — and their women, too.
As I reached the log store, I saw the man lying, half in the store and half sprawled in the doorway, eyes staring sightlessly, blood on his face, tongue protruding from his mouth and rope around his now purple neck. He’d been garrotted. Even Ned was wincing at the sight and, as for me, I was torn with revulsion, pity and shock.
This was no tipsy matelot wandered in here by mistake, no tramp. The dress coat lay open, a silk top hat had either rolled or been thrown away. Such was the fearful state of his face that at first I did not recognise him. This was a gentleman of quality, who had probably dined here last night, and he was as dead and cold as the dawn he had never seen.
Worse, it was someone I soon recognised.
‘Ned,’ I said, ‘we passed a peeler in the Row. You fetch him.’
Off he ran, which left me
time to look more carefully at this poor man. I would have to break the news at Dolly’s. No one seemed to be stirring yet, although kitchen maids at least must be around. Most on my mind was how to tell Mrs Clara Pomfret, who is by way of being a friend of mine and is the licensee and hotelier of Dolly’s.
Clara is what I would call a comfortable lady and not just in size. She’s comfortable to be with, to talk to, to rely on. Being a sweep, I don’t have lady friends unless they are sweeps themselves — (only one or two of them in the whole of London) — or sweeps’ families. Apart from our smell being a deterrent, I don’t seek ladies’ company out of respect for my own good woman, who died these ten years back. But Clara is different. The sort you can put your arms around for comfort, for support, or for the sheer joy of life.
She’s about my age — which I think is about thirty-seven or eight — and has one of those faces that lights up like a sunbeam when she smiles, which is nearly all the time. How would she take this news, however?
The dead man was Mr Arnold Harcourt. I’d once seen him here at Dolly’s, where the Tarlton Ordinary Club meets once a month for supper on a Wednesday evening. He could have been attending that last night — was he robbed as he left?
Even as that thought passed through my mind, my eye fell on his elegant albert chain and fob; the bulge in the pocket suggested the watch still lay within. Robbed? No thief would overlook them, nor the silk top hat, which was also worth a shilling or two.
I’ve seen death before many times and he never comes alone. Hidden from our sight are all the mourning faces, all the tears that the rest of the world never sees as it goes about its daily business. In the shadows sob the wives, the children, the friends — and all the rest of us mortals who listen for the tolling bell of death. Sometimes even our Lord must weep when he sees what we’re doing to ourselves down on this earth. He meant it to be clean and beautiful like Victoria Park on a summer afternoon, and it’s our job to keep it as best we can for Him like the chimneys that Ned and I sweep so hard.
In the dawning light, I heard the eerie sound of the peeler’s rattle. Ned had found him and the City of London Police would soon be with us.
Not one but two peelers very shortly arrived, looking most officious in their City of London Police blue coats and red and white cap bands. I stood there while they cast a brief look at the victim, and then concentrated suspiciously on me.
‘What you doing here?’
‘Appointment to sweep the chimneys.’ Having some experience of this sort of situation, I knew I had to speak quickly. ‘Will the Scotland Yard Detective Department be taking this case?’
They looked puzzled. ‘What for?’ said one of them. ‘We’ve nabbed you already, sweepie.’
Me? My heart sank to the bottom of my old boots. I had feared this, from past experience. ‘On what charge?’ I enquired.
‘Robbery and murder.’
Ned looked at me nervously, so I gave him an encouraging smile.
‘Why would we stay here and report the crime if we did it?’ I tried to ask reasonably. ‘I’d have taken this.’ I pointed to the albert and its watch.
This puzzled them even more. Then one of them came up with the answer: ‘You ain’t yet snatched it off him.’
I saw Ned fidgeting, and he might say something I would regret, so I said even more firmly, ‘Ask for Sergeant Williamson or Constable Peters of the Metropolitan Police Detective Department. They’ll know me.’
They chortled. ‘You an old lag then, sweepie?’
Nevertheless, doubt began to creep into their faces. ‘This,’ I said, ‘is a gentleman of importance. You don’t want to do nothing wrong where he’s concerned. Your sergeant wouldn’t care for that.’
They immediately saw my point, and while they waited for this sergeant to come, I requested permission to break the news to Dolly’s, where there were now clearly people stirring. It was refused, but Ned took it upon himself to go into the hotel in my place. Ned has seen too many dramas at the penny gaffs for him to miss this chance of taking part in one, and from the shrieks I heard from the kitchen it was clear he was in fine form. That worried me, because of Clara — I’d like to have broken the news myself.
As it was, she came rushing out after a few minutes, a shawl thrown hastily over her black bombazine working dress and her hair askew.
‘What’s going on here, Tom? Ned’s shouting about a murder.’ Then she took in the presence of the peelers, who had fortunately had the thought of throwing two sacks over Mr Harcourt’s body and were on guard standing by it.
‘You knew him, Clara,’ I said quietly, hoping they wouldn’t hear our conversation. ‘It’s Mr Harcourt.’
Mr Harcourt had run Harcourt’s Antiquarian Bookstore, not far from Dolly’s and further westwards along the Row, and he had lived in the rooms above it. I’d cleaned the chimneys there once; I didn’t take to him, but I can’t afford to turn work down. I need my six or seven chimneys a day if I’m to feed and house Ned and myself.
‘Him?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘Lawks a mussy, Tom, what happened? He was here last night. The Ordinaries were up in the coffee room having their usual high jinks. Could one of them —’ She broke off, but it was clear what she had been going to say.
‘We’ll hope not, Clara.’
‘What am I going to do about opening up, Tom?’ she moaned. ‘We’re usually open at seven and it’s nearly six now.’
I had no answer to that, as I saw the sergeant arrive, and behind him more peelers. Now it was beginning: the questions, the step by step digging into the darkness to unravel the mysteries of the murder of Mr Harcourt — who had been the subject of my private mission here today.
*
I waited in Clara’s ‘greeting room’, her name for the ground floor room that serves as her office. It is quite unlike any office I’ve ever seen. Comfortable armchairs and tea are what I associate with that room. Even today, while we waited to be summoned yet again by the sergeant, it had a peaceful feel about it, an island in the middle of a stormy sea. It had been ten o’clock before the sergeant gave Clara his permission to open Dolly’s; by that time the body had been removed, and I had been questioned several times as to the reason for my presence (which I gave only as chimney sweeping) and my movements on arrival at Dolly’s. Ned had been comforted with pies and muffins, and Clara had been interrogated too. That had not been easy for her.
She had completed her toilette and changed into a plum red dress swept back in a bustle that made her look so imposing that she rivalled the Queen herself. She knew she looked a stunner, so that had helped her through the sergeant’s inquisition.
‘Mr Harcourt was here last night, Tom. I had to tell the sergeant that.’
And I had to tell her about my private mission. ‘Clara, I was asked only yesterday morning to warn you about Mr Harcourt.’
She looked at me sharply. ‘Who by?’
She hadn’t asked me what about, I noticed.
‘Mr Phineas Snook, the dancing clown.’ I call Phineas a clown but he’s more one of these old-time fools I’ve seen in pictures. Singing, dancing and playing the pipe are what he’s best at, though he jests as well. ‘He’s by way of being a friend of mine,’ I explained, ‘and being at his trade entertaining all day, he couldn’t come himself.’
Clara looked at me gravely. ‘I know Phineas Snook, Tom. What did he want to warn me about?’
‘He’s sweet on Hetty, Clara, and she was the subject of attentions from Mr Harcourt —’ careful, Tom, I told myself — ‘which she is too shy to resist.’ Shy did not describe Hetty, who is Clara’s daughter and one of the three lady waiters at Dolly’s; she’s a pretty lass and innocent at heart but aware of her own charms. I had to tread as carefully as if I was edging along a chimney flat.
‘Arnold Harcourt,’ Clara said heavily, ‘was a lecher, but Hetty didn’t see that. What’s she going to say now? She thinks I was jealous, wanting him for myself, me being a widow.’
That shocked me.
‘You wouldn’t, Clara. Not you.’
‘No. I had my Simon. He was enough for me, though he’s been gone these ten years.’
She hesitated. ‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’
I knew what she was thinking. ‘Phineas? He wouldn’t know which end of the knife to use for such a deed. He’s one for life is Phineas, not death. He’s a dreamer not a doer.’
‘Remember Harcourt was here last night, Tom, dining with the Tarlton Ordinaries. He didn’t hide his liking for Hetty. William knew about that.’
William White, head waiter here, is sweet on Hetty like Phineas, although not as humble as Phineas over his chances of winning her heart. William is a pleasant lad, but ambitious. Being a waiter at Dolly’s is a prized job, and the price Clara charges these waiters for the privilege of the job (as is the usual arrangement) proves it. The waiters pay her this fee and live on their tips; they have to work hard for them so chops and steaks flash off the gridiron and on to the tables quicker than a pie disappears down Ned’s throat.
‘How many Ordinaries were here last night, Clara?’ She had explained to me that this group, composed of local booksellers and publishers, met in memory of an old English clown called Richard Tarlton who lived in the reign of the great Queen Elizabeth.
‘Eight. They’re a weird bunch, Tom. All so merry with each other when they’re here, and yet I wouldn’t put anything past any of them if it didn’t suit their purpose.’
‘Sounds of discord last night?’
‘I couldn’t say. William was better placed than I was. I wasn’t there except when Maria Fortescue arrived. I couldn’t stop her from running up the stairs to burst in on them.’
The Ordinaries were privileged in having the grand coffee room upstairs kept for their visits. In that room writers like Mr Goldsmith and Dr Johnson ate and drank, and a splendid portrait of the original Dolly herself hangs over the fireplace, painted by Mr Gainsborough many years ago.