by Amy Myers
‘How was he when you served the Ordinaries yesterday evening?’
He shrugged. ‘Old boozers playing games, like they always do.’
‘Quarrelling?’
He became guarded now. ‘They were excited over something to do with that Tarlton. There was some joke about lechery and Tarlton liking it. They always talk about how well their books are doing, old books and that sort of thing. That wolf Harcourt was boasting about something. No wonder he got himself murdered. He shut up when he saw me.’
‘Boasting about Miss Hetty?’
‘No. Some book or other. I served them their port and Stilton then left them to it. Shouting their heads off, they were. They’d had so much tipple they were falling down the stairs when they left.’
‘Mrs Pomfret says they all left more or less together by the front entrance about midnight and Mrs Fortescue rushed out to join them. What happened to them then?’
‘Wouldn’t know,’ he said, but I felt his attention wasn’t on me.
We’d been sitting at one of the tables in the restaurant, and Hetty was coming through the door. She wasn’t rushing to serve a table but coming towards us, smiling. She walks in beauty like the night — I read that once, in a poem. Hetty brings the sun with her, though, not the night.
Seeing William with me she was putting on airs, for she knew she made a pretty picture with her fair hair, blue eyes and the lace cap set off by her black lady waiter’s full-skirted dress. Her heart-shaped face looked proudly at us, as though daring you not to admire her. At heart she was a kind girl, a good daughter to Clara, but she hadn’t yet learned all the ways of the world.
William’s expression as he gazed at her was one of adoration, and even Ned, not quite yet at the age when beautiful young ladies can catch at his throat, had his eyes glued to her.
‘Dear Mr Wright,’ she said sweetly. ‘Mother asked if you could assist her in the office.’
A look of anguish crossed his face not because he wanted to avoid work, but because he would have to leave his goddess. Indecision held him motionless but at last he left us leaving Hetty to ask me anxiously:
‘Mr Wasp, have you spoken to Mr Snook?’
‘I have, and have told him about Mr Harcourt’s terrible death.’
She looked distressed. ‘Is he upset with me because I dallied with Mr Harcourt?’
‘Not with you, Hetty, only with Mr Harcourt, and he is not alone in that.’
She looked downcast. ‘I don’t see why,’ she said mutinously. ‘I’m eighteen years old and quite grown up.’
‘We make mistakes whatever age we are.’
‘I didn’t know Mr Harcourt was married,’ she said in a burst of confidence. ‘He said he was a widower and that he would marry me and I believed him. Otherwise …’
She broke off and there was a sudden smile. ‘I didn’t really want to marry him. But oh, Mr Wasp, he was a gentleman.’
‘No, Miss Hetty, he treated you as no gentleman would.’
A small giggle. ‘He wanted to take me to Cremorne Gardens.’
‘Then it’s as well you did not go.’ Cremorne Gardens is notorious for its shady paths and hidden corners, from which many a girl has emerged no longer a maid. ‘Mr Wright or Mr Snook would take you there and not beguile you into dangerous paths.’
‘Phineas.’ She went very quiet. ‘Did he speak of me kindly?’
‘He did. He said he would give you a blackbird to sing at dawn and a nightingale by night.’
A tear ran down her cheek. ‘He would not say that if he knew …’
But she would say no more.
I left Dolly’s greatly troubled. It seemed that the mysteries inside Dolly’s were not confined to staff and customers. They were close to Clara herself.
III
Tuppence for a Book
St Paul’s Churchyard is busy all day long and every day, with the shops, coffee houses, schools and houses surrounding the iron railings of the churchyard itself. Only on a Sunday does the scene change, as the pious come to worship Our Lord in His great cathedral and Paul’s Chain is put across the main carriageway to still the noise of the carriages. This was a Saturday though, and so as usual every stallholder was shouting of the glory of his wares, children were yelling either in excitement or tears and every horse, carriage and growler in London seemed to be clattering over the granite stones. Inside the cathedral, however, our Lord was beckoning those who wanted to find peace.
Once, this whole area had a religious bent, and the streets about it showed their reverence by taking names like Amen Corner and Paternoster Row, and all the booksellers and publishers were dedicated to religious books. Nowadays, the chief sign of religion outside the cathedral itself is several sellers of Biblical tracts, ordering passers-by to heed their God amid the temptations of silks, flowers and cigars around them and threatening hellfire to those who fail to listen. As we passed the gate of the Churchyard gardens, one looked ready to thrust a sheet at any newcomer, and a very stern, tall and terrifying man he looked.
‘Where will you spend eternity?’ he thundered at me. ‘Tread not the sinner’s way.’ He stepped back, thrusting the tract at me from arm’s length — he didn’t like my smell any more than anyone else, however much he wanted to bring me to our Lord. My own view is that there is enough to scare us in this world without such fearsome people blighting our days unnecessarily. One look at the glory of the cathedral itself does more than a tract to remind us of Our Lord’s wishes.
‘Thank you kindly,’ I replied, believing it best to be polite when I can, but he had already turned his back in search of his next victim. Furthermore, I might need a slice of God’s word with me where I was going.
Ned and I trundled our handcart, which carries the cleaning machine, along Paternoster Row to Hart House, where Mr Harcourt lived and worked and where we were expected for chimney sweeping. Clara told me the house was named for a famous actor at Drury Lane, a great-nephew of Mr Shakespeare’s.
Many’s the time I have peered in the windows of Harcourt’s Antiquarian Bookstore, admiring the strange volumes that appeared there. As with human beings, some books are desired for their outer covers, some for their hearts, the matter that lies within. The old book market casts its web far and wide to catch the one person who might love a battered dusty tome that had lain forgotten for years. Mr Harcourt must have loved his bookstore greatly to live above it when he couldn’t be with Mrs Harcourt in the countryside.
Today I noticed that the blinds were not down, as was the custom on a death. Nor was there a wreath on the door. I paused when we reached the area steps at the rear of Hart House, where the kitchens and storerooms lay. This had been the home of a man who had died a horrible death and it seemed right to take off my topper for a moment. Seeing me do so, Ned dutifully pulled off his own cap, sending a shower of soot floating around us. Once inside and our cloths laid, we did our duty by the chimneys after which Ned was able to put on his usual waiflike look of ‘I haven’t eaten for two days’, which always goes down well with the lady servants. He has a keen eye for those who might take pity on him under the delusion that his cruel master was still pushing him up chimneys.
It was thanks to Clara Pomfret that I was here, as the baker who also delivers to Hart House had, at Clara’s request, passed on the information that it was time for me to call there again. It is sad that even in times of tragedy the routine of life must roll on; fires must be lit, chimneys swept and delivery men kept informed of local news. This was a good opportunity to find out more about Mr Harcourt and with good fortune to see Mrs Harcourt, who must be staying here. Where better to begin than in the kitchen?
Ned busied himself with a muffin, and I studied the servants with whom I shared the kitchen table. I can tell a lot about the heads of a household from its servants. At one end of the table sat Mr Parker, the butler — a grand name for his role in this size of house — at the other the housekeeper Mrs Birch, and there were two maids and a footman. I’d also glimps
ed a young lad working outside in the yard. I can’t speak for him, but these five were as haughty and stiff as if they’d never had a night out at the music hall. There was nevertheless much eager chat about the murder of the late master, but not much hint of his being mourned. They seemed more interested in a broken sash window pane that had just been noticed. I spent some time retelling the story of finding Mr Harcourt’s body, but I had to work hard for any reaction. Ned, being mischievous, made the story more lurid:
‘Bucketfuls of blood there was,’ he informed our audience with relish, setting to on his second muffin. No one pointed out that Mr Harcourt had been strangled, not stabbed.
Following his example, I was just at the point of telling them how I was nearly put in chains and marched off to Newgate prison when a great rumpus of shouting and shrieking broke out above us.
‘Godamercy, what’s that?’ screamed Mrs Birch, as another screech came from upstairs and I could hear heated women’s voices.
‘I’ve been robbed,’ someone was shouting. ‘Police. I want the police!’
‘That’s Mrs Harcourt,’ Mrs Birch cried, exchanging a look with Mr Parker, who broke out of his solemnity to yell at the boy outside to fetch a copper. With one accord he and Mrs Birch rushed to the stairs that led to the upper floor, with me following them as fast as I could and the two housemaids close behind me.
When we reached the door into the bookstore the hubbub was still in full cry, but as the doorway was blocked by Mrs Birch and Mr Parker, I had to squeeze my way round them to see what was happening. Two ladies, both of mature years, were prowling around each other like pugilists sizing each other up for the big fight, and shouting at each other so loudly I couldn’t make out a word. One, a full-figured lady of medium height, I recognised as Mrs Maria Fortescue, Mr Harcourt’s assistant in the bookstore and apparently his erstwhile lady friend; the other, a tall, thin, severe-looking lady, must be Mrs Harcourt — although it wasn’t a widow’s grief written all over her face, it was rage.
‘You old bitch,’ she was yelling at Mrs Fortescue. ‘You’re nothing better than a moll. Get back to walking the streets where you belong. What are you doing here, anyway?’
Mrs Fortescue stood with arms akimbo, clearly determined to give as good as she got. ‘Think I’ve nothing better to do than throw books over the floor, you old cow? I came to pay my condolences, but I see they are not required.’
Peering down, I saw that most of the floor was strewn with books thrown down anyhow without regard for their contents; some looked as though they’d been wrenched open, journals lay around higgledy-piggledy, and volumes of what looked like manuscript had been tossed down so carelessly that their pages were lying loose. This, I realised, must be connected with that broken window pane.
‘Condolences? Madam, custom requires them to be paid after the funeral, not before. Tell me, where is it?’ Mrs Harcourt shrieked.
‘If there was anything, the thief took it,’ Mrs Fortescue shouted in return, glaring at us all.
Mrs Harcourt ignored this. ‘Where have you hidden it?’ she screeched, pushing her adversary out of the way to gain access to the shelving Mrs Fortescue was blocking. ‘It’s mine.’ She cast a quick look at its contents then began to stomp around the shop, delving into the unhappy-looking piles on the floor, perhaps in the hope that whatever it was she sought would suddenly appear at the top. This was strange as she didn’t look like the kind of lady who would cry over losing one book out of so many. Nor did she look like a lady who had just lost her husband.
‘What’s been stolen, Mrs Harcourt?’ asked Mr Parker, clearing his throat in a business-like manner as befitted his position as butler.
Mrs Harcourt turned on him. ‘Nothing to do with you, Parker. Why didn’t you discover this outrage earlier?’
Mr Parker drew himself up to his full height. ‘The bookstore is not our responsibility, Mrs Harcourt. Mr Harcourt was most particular about that.’
Mrs Fortescue, who had been doing her own share of prowling, took advantage of this lull in the storm. ‘The manuscript you require, Mrs Harcourt, is not here and never was,’ she snapped. ‘All that thief took was some poetry in what appeared to be Christopher Smart’s handwriting, enclosed in a folder entitled Jubilate Agno. I remember seeing it displayed on the counter early on the Wednesday afternoon before I left the bookstore.’
‘Before he gave you the boot, you mean,’ Mrs Harcourt jeered.
Mrs Fortescue took no notice. ‘Mr Harcourt cannot have sold the manuscript to which you refer later that afternoon, or the sale would be recorded. For the Smart folder the thief has left a mere tuppence. Your manuscript is not here.’
‘Nonsense,’ snorted Mrs Harcourt.
Mrs Fortescue shrugged. ‘Look at this, if you don’t believe me. Here’s the tuppence.’ She pointed, and being near the counter I could see three halfpennies and two farthings neatly piled up.
Mrs Harcourt was not impressed. ‘There’s more missing than a mere poetry folder. Mr Harcourt,’ — she remembered to cross herself — ‘may he rest in peace, told me some days previously that the manuscript would be arriving that afternoon. And that is why he asked me to come here yesterday morning. Only to find out he had been murdered.’ A handkerchief was applied to her eyes.
‘As I informed you, I wasn’t here for the whole of Wednesday afternoon,’ Mrs Fortescue said icily, ‘when — if — it arrived.’
‘Bitch. You’ve stolen it. Do you think I don’t know what went on? You shared his bed for long enough, and when he didn’t fancy a scraggy old woman like you and turned his attentions to Miss Pomfret, you took your revenge and stabbed him to death.’
This mention of Hetty was a vicious switch of attack. Mr Parker’s eyes were popping out of his head — this being a situation to which butlers aren’t accustomed. Mrs Birch’s mouth fell open wide in shock, and the housemaids were giggling nervously. As for me, I was thinking that I would find where the cracksman — assuming there was one — had made his entrance through that broken sash. None of the servants had spoken of hearing any disturbance during the night, which suggested the cracksman was a professional.
While everyone’s attention was on the two pugilists, I managed to slip into the rear room of the bookstore which had also served as Mr Harcourt’s office, judging by the furnishings. There I could see the missing window pane, obviously neatly cut with a glass-cutter’s stone, and the window still ajar. It didn’t take a Scotland Yard detective to see that this room too had been ransacked. Piles of books and journals adorned the floor here, just as in the room I had left.
What interested me most, however, was that tuppence on the counter in the front store. What kind of burglar breaks in during the night to buy a book that he must want very urgently (and cheaply) and then leaves money for it?
*
Mrs Harcourt insisted Mrs Fortescue remained until the City of London Police arrived, but if she was hoping that they would arrest Mrs Fortescue for the murder of Mr Harcourt, she was disappointed. Burglary being a common offence in this noble city of ours, just one bobby had been allotted to this crime and he was not interested in murder. He was an aged constable by modern standards, and I recognised him as Billy Russell, who had risen from being one of the old watchmen charlies to the status of a City constable. Billy smiled benignly on the world, and recognising each other we exchanged a few merry words much to Mrs Harcourt’s fury.
‘Do your duty, my man,’ she commanded. ‘Arrest this person.’
‘Which person would that be?’ Billy asked, studying each of us one by one very slowly and very carefully. I could tell he didn’t like being called ‘my man’.
‘This one.’ Mrs Harcourt poked Mrs Fortescue, who had taken heart at seeing Billy’s reluctance.
‘Arrest this lady for what?’ He was puzzled — or appeared to be so.
‘Look around you,’ she replied impatiently. ‘A robbery during the night and murder. This woman stole my property and murdered my husband.’
‘Then arrest her for theft,’ Mrs Harcourt cried. ‘Perhaps she stole it this morning, not during the night. The woman was working here.’
Billy thought this through carefully. ‘If she were working here, ma’am, she wouldn’t have needed to break in, would she?’
‘She’s thrown all these books around to confuse us. She is the only person who knew the manuscript was here.’
Billy shook his head regretfully. ‘If it isn’t here, I can’t arrest no one. There’s no evidence it was here, see? I’ll have to make a report.’ He slowly withdrew a notebook from his tunic pocket.
‘Of course the manuscript isn’t here. She stole it!’ Mrs Harcourt’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘But she’s a murderess.’
This only resulted in Billy’s need to make a second report. Then he carefully replaced his notebook in his pocket, and walked out of the door.
Mrs Fortescue was sobbing with relief, so I escorted her across the road and under the archway to Dolly’s, where I knew Clara with her kind heart would look after her. We took the front entrance to avoid reminding her of the yard where Mr Harcourt had died. Mrs Fortescue was not capable of telling Clara herself what had just happened at the bookstore and so that would be left to me.
By this time it was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning, so I had sent Ned home with the cart with chimney sweeping over for the day. Luncheon customers were beginning to gather at Dolly’s and many of the booths were already full. I could see Hetty whisking around, skirts swishing, as she and the other waiters hurried to and from the kitchens.
There is nothing as good as the smells from kitchens. They seem to reflect the cooks and those who employ them. Dolly’s kitchen smell was warm and inviting, the rich harvest of Clara’s influence. Even Jericho’s dour presence didn’t affect that, nor even the thought of the murder that had taken place here so recently. A murder that must be connected to Dolly’s. No vagrant of the night would have dragged his victim into the yard, and no robber chancing upon Mr Harcourt would have left that watch and albert behind him.