by Amy Myers
This sounded ominous, but there must be more to it than that for them to question Phineas. ‘Do you know why the Tarlton Ordinaries would be talking of you? Have you met them?’
He looked at me, puzzled. ‘I don’t think so.’
He began to hum and I knew I would get no answer if I asked him whether he had been in Paternoster Row on Wednesday evening. He told me he had been at home at midnight and Phineas always tells the truth, so I believed him. And yet something wasn’t right.
The sweet sound of his voice filled the air with There was a Lover and his Lass, but I was still worried. How, for instance, did Phineas know Hetty was upset if he hadn’t seen her since Mr Harcourt’s death? It suggested that he paid more visits to Dolly’s Chop House than I had thought — and perhaps more than Clara had thought, too. I wondered what the police had made of Phineas as I walked back to Hairbrine Court. So far I had been giving thought to who killed Mr Harcourt, but it occurred to me that no one had talked much about Mr Harcourt himself. He wasn’t a man who was greatly liked, what with his treating Mrs Fortescue so cruelly and trying to seduce young Hetty. Nor did he treat his wife well. But as with apples, most unlikeable people are only half bad. He must have had his good moments or he couldn’t have charmed Hetty into liking him. Was the Mrs Harcourt I had encountered once her husband’s tender sweetheart? Did he find pleasure only in his books? Did he truly love Mrs Fortescue, once? Did he have love for Hetty or merely lust after her body? Did he see himself as the King of Paternoster Row? Was that why he had boasted about a manuscript he might never have possessed? Was he killed for revenge or in defence of Hetty or for a manuscript he might or might not have possessed?
I had been looking forward to reaching Hairbrine Court and having a glass of ale with Ned, or perhaps a cup of tea if our money box could afford a new packet, so that we could talk things over instead of my worrying alone. Ned doesn’t say much as he isn’t good at conversation, but what he does say always sets me thinking hard.
That had to be postponed. There waiting for me was not only Ned, but Constable Peters, looking as usual like a schoolboy off to Sunday school, only happier. Ned had given him a glass of my ale and very peaceful and comfy they looked.
‘You’ll be getting me a bad reputation calling here, constable,’ I joked. I knew this must be important though, this being a Sunday when he must like being at home with Mrs Jessica and Master Bertie.
‘The Detective Department’s had a request from the City of London Police, Mr Wasp. They want permission to come on to our territory over this Harcourt case.’
That set the alarm bells ringing.
‘They might want to interview you again — and others,’ the constable added, not looking me in the eye.
I knew what he meant: Phineas. And that couldn’t be just because he’d warned Clara about Mr Harcourt’s attentions to Hetty. ‘Were you the peeler who spoke to Phineas?’ I asked him outright.
He blushed even rosier. ‘Yes. I wasn’t ordered to do that, but after you told me about the case, I really wanted to talk to him about Slugger Joe. We can’t arrest Slugger without evidence, so every time he slips through our fingers like a blessed eel. Phineas told me Slugger won’t force his way into his lodgings because someone called Cockalorum scared him off.’
I grinned. ‘Cockalorum’s a cat.’
He didn’t believe me. ‘A cat wouldn’t scare Slugger.’
‘Cockalorum would. When in fighting mood, he’d scare anybody.’
The constable laughed. ‘Even Flint?’
‘Not knowing who he is, I can’t say. Now, as to Mr Harcourt, Phineas says you asked him if he killed him.’
‘That wasn’t me. That was Inspector Wiley of H Division. He came with me.’
I groaned. Inspector Wiley — although I always think of him as Sergeant Wiley, he being of that rank when I first encountered him in the River Police — is good at heart, but he and I don’t see eye to eye, him being the sort of copper to whom a man is guilty until proven innocent rather than the other way about.
‘I talked to Sergeant Williamson about it,’ Constable Peters added awkwardly. Sergeant Williamson is the brilliant detective at Scotland Yard who has had a role in many famous murder cases, including the tragic Road murder, where he assisted Inspector Whicher. ‘He agreed we should let the City of London come on to our territory. He’s told me to keep an eye on them though, and they can’t arrest anyone here without our being present. And we’ve been given the same rights on their territory over this case if Slugger and Flint are likely to be involved.’
That sounded sensible to me, but I was wondering how a mere chimney sweep like myself came into this.
Constable Peters gave me the answer to that. ‘Sergeant Williamson wants me to do some nosing around on this Harcourt case now that we have this joint arrangement but I don’t want to look too formal about it. So I’d like you to be present tomorrow when I do so, Mr Wasp, seeing that you know Phineas and Dolly’s.’
This was very flattering, but I tread cautiously over rough stones. ‘You’re not planning on suspecting Mrs Pomfret, are you?’
‘No. It’s the gentlemen who were at Dolly’s that night with him, the Tarlton Ordinaries. I’m concerned, Mr Wasp. The City of London’s divisional Inspector Harvey doesn’t see them doing the job themselves. He’s either looking elsewhere or at their hiring Flint.’
‘Either might lead him back to Phineas,’ I said, ‘as Slugger is friendly with his mother. What’s his line on Flint though?’
‘Mr Harcourt had regular dealings with Lairy John.’
I gasped. That was a bucketful of soot in my face all right. Lairy John, as well as being one of Flint’s two deputies, was no mere dolly-shop fence; he was working out of Spitalfields, which meant he had the best of both worlds: the takings of the thieves’ dens of east London, but not beyond the pale for those of west London, too.
Spitalfields and Lairy John … What had Mrs Fortescue said? That the poetry folder bought for tuppence and thought to be by this Christopher Smart had come from a prominent Spitalfields dealer. That must surely be Lairy.
‘So this missing manuscript Mrs Harcourt’s so worried about …’ Constable Peters began.
‘Might have passed through Flint’s hands — and Slugger’s bloody ones too,’ I finished for him.
‘The trouble is,’ the constable said awkwardly, ‘the City blokes aren’t thinking it through.’
I saw his gist. ‘Which one of those Ordinaries hired them, you mean.’
He nodded. ‘Which is why I’d welcome your presence, as a concerned friend of Mrs Pomfret as well as the person who found the body.’ He winked at me.
Thanks to my unofficial attendance at the Ordinaries’ meeting yesterday I was able to tell him whom, in my view, he should speak to first: Mr Algernon Splendour, Mr Thomas Manley and Mr George Timpson, the three who were escorting Mr Harcourt as they left Dolly’s. They would have been thinking he was with Mrs Fortescue after they left him, but in fact he was very shortly on his own and still near Dolly’s. Right where any of the Ordinaries could have attacked him — or Flint’s men. Or, I had to admit, anyone in Clara’s staff who had reason to want Mr Harcourt dead. Like William Wright.
*
The premises of Messrs Timpson and Timpson in Paternoster Row were very grand and formal, for a publisher who aimed at the popular market rather than the educational market like Messrs Longmans. Rotary steam printing presses and modern typesetting have made books so much cheaper now that everybody wants to read (except Ned, who thanks to the local ragged school can read but seldom does). Clara giggled when she told me Mr Manley maintained that the word literature did not apply to Mr Timpson’s list of penny dreadfuls, cheap novels and reprints, and Mr Splendour did not recognise any work written after the death of Good Queen Bess as having literary merit. As I have never been sure of what publishers do, except take manuscripts from an author, give them to a printer and arrange for someone else to sell them, I was most interested to visit Timps
on and Timpson on several counts.
The lofty red brick building in which their offices were located was close to Hart House where Harcourt’s Antiquarian Bookstore was housed and Timpson and Timpson seemed to look down in scorn upon the pedestrians and traffic beneath. When Constable Peters and I entered on Monday morning, it seemed to be full of earnest young gentlemen in smart waistcoats looking most important as they hurried up and down stairs clutching books, papers and ledgers and seemingly rapt in admiration for the valuable work which they were helping to immortalise in print.
Everyone in the reception area seemed far too busy to speak to us, not realising that Constable Peters was from the police. At last one young man took note of us and managed to find a moment to enquire our business. He looked shocked at the very idea that Mr Timpson himself might have spare time to waste on us, police or not, but fortunately I could hear the familiar booming voice. He and a lady visitor were descending the stairs, with the skirts of her dress swishing as she expressed her gratitude for his condescension in publishing her humble work.
‘It is mankind who will thank you, my dear madam,’ Mr Timpson assured her as they passed by us.
From the gravity of his voice, one might think that Miss Jane Austen herself had returned to life, although this tiny lady in an old-fashioned walking dress was more likely to be the proud authoress of one of the still popular three volume novels.
On his return from ushering her into the Row, Mr Timpson, looking most imposing in his morning coat, deigned to take note of us. ‘Who is this?’ he enquired of his clerk.
Constable Peters, normally the most peaceable of men, took objection to this and made no bones about who we were. ‘Mr Thomas Wasp and Constable Peters from the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police. Here about the death of Mr Arnold Harcourt.’
Mr Timpson quickly reassessed us and wisely did not enquire why a sweep should be involved; instead he ushered us to the first floor. I was awarded a chair at the rear of the office, which suited me well because I could observe without getting in Constable Peters’ way.
‘I trust this tragedy of Mr Harcourt’s death will convince you that something must be done,’ Mr Timpson informed the constable solemnly, ‘about the ruffians who invade our streets.’
If the severity of his tone was meant to impress us, it failed. ‘He wasn’t murdered by some ruffian, sir. We believe his death could have been planned,’ Constable Peters told him. ‘He doesn’t seem to have been a popular gentleman.’
Mr Timpson stiffened. ‘Nonsense. Arnold Harcourt was the most popular man in the Row.’
‘With the ladies?’ the constable enquired, with his face looking as innocent as ever. ‘I’m told that evening a distressed lady interrupted your proceedings at Dolly’s Chop House and that Mr Harcourt also made advances to Miss Pomfret.’
Mr Timpson was taken aback. ‘Ah well, we gentlemen, eh?’ A hearty laugh, in which we did not join. ‘That may be so,’ he added hastily. ‘I spoke of course about his professional reputation.’
‘I’m told you escorted Mr Harcourt part of the way to his home.’
‘I did, until that very distressed lady, Mrs Fortescue, intervened. Mr Splendour, Mr Manley and myself then departed.’
‘Together?’
‘Separately,’ Mr Timpson informed us. ‘I myself was the first to leave and took a brisk walk round the Churchyard. I can’t speak for Manley and Splendour.’
I wondered what their stories would be today, remembering the interesting argument at Dolly’s.
‘You had no disagreements that evening at the supper you all attended?’ the constable asked.
‘Where the deuce did you get that idea?’ Mr Timpson laughed heartily again. ‘We meet to honour one of the greatest fellows in the drama history of our country, Richard Tarlton. Nothing to argue over. He was greatly respected in his time and for long thereafter, pals with Sir Francis Walsingham, Sir Philip Sidney and even Queen Elizabeth herself. He wrote treatises, poems, and only had to put his head round the curtain on stage to have the audience cheering and laughing.’
I decided to make my presence felt. ‘Do you publish his writings, sir?’
He didn’t like that question. ‘We live in a different age. I publish for the millions.’
‘Yet you attend the Tarlton Ordinary Club?’ the constable observed.
‘I publish as a business,’ he snapped. ‘My private interests differ. They keep an excellent table at Dolly’s. We’ve had dukes, earls, playwrights, actors as members in the past — all dedicated to keeping Tarlton’s memory alive. It’s a joint responsibility. And therefore,’ he said, ‘as there was a burglary at Harcourt’s place on Thursday night, I’m entitled to know what’s happened to the missing manuscript.’
‘I’ve heard talk of that, sir,’ I told him, ‘but what it is and who has it don’t seem to be known.’
‘That is unfortunate, my man.’ Mr Timpson glared at me. ‘Mr Harcourt often boasted about some great find of his. If we passed him in the Row or took coffee with him he always had some such tale and usually nothing came of it. Given that he was murdered however, we must allow for the possibility that on this occasion he was right. And that, constable, surely affects your case.’
The constable seemed to be encouraging me to continue, so I spoke again. ‘What was the subject of this missing manuscript that concerns you?’
‘Harcourt gave us no details,’ Mr Timpson replied stiffly.’
‘Something obtained from Lairy John, perhaps?’ the constable enquired.
That shook him. ‘Absolutely not.’
He didn’t enquire as to who Lairy John was, I noted.
*
Next we made our way to call on Mr Thomas Manley, whose premises were hardly to be compared with Mr Timpson’s, although they too were close by in the Row. We were directed upstairs by a young man in his shirt sleeves on the ground floor who appeared to have nothing to do with Thomas Manley Limited. On the third floor there were three doors of which one was open and occupied by another young man sitting on a high stool with a ledger propped before him. A bookcase stood nearby with a few dusty slim leather-bound volumes on its shelves, which spoke of long ago days in the publishing world and several with names unfamiliar to me, such as Geraldus Flowerflook’s Rainbow: the End, the Beginning.
The young man looked surprised at having two visitors but he laid down his quill and informed us that he would see whether Mr Manley was free. From the look of this office, it seemed to me that Mr Manley would be free quite a lot of his time, but the youth bounded forward with such eagerness you’d think he was announcing Mr Charles Dickens and Mr Wilkie Collins.
The inner office revealed Mr Manley himself, who rose from his desk with a creditable imitation of a busy publisher. Previously I’d only glimpsed his back and part of his profile, and now I saw an earnest face and dreamy eyes. Determined, though.
He spoke rapidly as though this was a well-rehearsed speech for greeting visitors — if there were any. ‘Ah yes, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I take it you have brought me some of your work. We are a small but ambitious company dedicated to our duty to literature. We print only the best, by which I mean books that have contributed or will contribute much of value to mankind.’
Grand words, but I couldn’t help noticing that the cuffs of his shirt were frayed.
‘Like Mr Kingsley’s Water Babies,’ I commented knowledgeably. ‘That shows what a hard life a climbing boy has.’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Manley looked uncertain about this departure from his script.
‘We’re here,’ Constable Peters rescued the floundering publisher, ‘to ask about Mr Harcourt’s death.’
Mr Manley looked alarmed. ‘I’ve explained to the police already.’ His voice rose. ‘I know nothing of that. He and Mrs Fortescue were about to walk along the Passage to Newgate Street when I left. I cannot answer for my two colleagues’ movements,’ he added firmly. ‘I did not see either Mr Timpson or Mr Splendour after I departed. I
left them there as I felt the need of inspiration before I retired. I walked over to Doctors’ Commons and down the Thames riverside before returning here. I have rooms on the floor above this.’
He seemed very nervous now, and his eyes were like a sparrow’s, dodging everywhere rather than looking at us.
‘This manuscript that seems to be missing from Mr Harcourt’s shop — what was it?’ the constable began.
Mr Manley looked trapped and tried a light laugh. ‘It depends to which one he referred. Harcourt had so many and he really knew very little about true literature. He was an antiquarian bookseller, as is Mr Splendour. I have little in common with them. The words of the past may have great interest, but the words of the future are precious jewels for us to nurture and treasure. Literature is a continuous story. Each great writer plays his part.’
‘From William Shakespeare to Mr Dickens,’ I contributed, as Constable Peters was looking mystified.
Not for long. ‘What about that poetry book the thief bought for tuppence? Would that be valuable?’ he asked.
Mr Manley seemed to me relieved. ‘I doubt that very much. Smart is not a popular poet at present. His slender output, unfortunate mental problems and dissolute way of life do not appeal. Hardly the moral standard we seek for this company.’ He looked forlornly round his empire of cheap rickety furniture and the meagre row of books.
‘What about works by Mr Tarlton?’ I asked him, hitting my target.
‘A great man, a great fool,’ he stuttered. ‘But manuscripts — no, certainly not. There are none. So little of his writing has survived, and even if more came to light it would be of little interest. Do consult Mr Splendour or Mr Timpson or the other Ordinaries.’ He brightened at this solution. ‘Far more expert than I am but they would agree — Tarlton — little interest now …’ He stopped in mid flow. ‘Except to the Ordinaries of course,’ he added unhappily. ‘Admirers, but nothing of value — no.’
‘Mr Harcourt couldn’t have been killed because of this manuscript, then?’ Constable Peters asked firmly.
‘Certainly not,’ Thomas Manley said miserably. ‘Most unlikely.’