The Ring

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Shall we divide and conquer?’ Grand asked, sniffing his sleeve doubtfully.

  ‘Why not?’ Batchelor said. ‘Tea or timber?’

  Grand rummaged in his pocket for a florin and tossed it in the air. Covering it with his hand, he said, ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Tails.’

  ‘Tails it is, so; tea or timber?’

  Batchelor gave it some thought. Both were likely to be in a more fragrant setting than Kempster’s laboratory. ‘Timber.’ Too late, he remembered that the timber warehouse was also likely to be loud. Huge tree trunks being lugged around versus soft sacks of whispering tea leaves. Damn!

  ‘Good choice,’ Grand smiled. They were standing near to the Limehouse Pier and the huge walls of Byng’s timber warehouse loomed over them. The tea warehouse was downstream and on the other bank by the Garden Stairs at Greenwich, so Grand stepped carefully down the steps, slippery with weed and general river detritus, to hail a water taxi. Since Kempster’s mortuary, he was watching very carefully where he put his feet.

  ‘Boat, guv’nor?’ The voice came from below the parapet of the lowest step. The tide was low and the mudbanks across the Thames gleamed slick in the September sun. The smell was enough to overwhelm any memory of the cadaver and Grand stepped gingerly aboard. ‘I just need to go across to the Westmoreland tea warehouse. It’s just across the way there, look.’

  The cabbie knew where it was. Hadn’t his old man been a lighterman on this very stretch of river – and his old man before that – helping themselves to other people’s property left carelessly lying about on the ocean-rigged steamers? He feathered his oars to keep his skiff still while Grand got comfortable in the stern. The boatman had spotted the foreign accent straight away and saw an opportunity to earn a bit more than a quick scull across the river could bring in. ‘Visiting, are you, guv,nor?’ he asked, all Cockney sparrer and charm. ‘I could take you a nice scenic route, show you where they found all them women, you know, the chopped up ones …’

  The cabbie couldn’t know he was talking to probably the last man in London who wanted to know more about the body parts. So he was a little startled by Grand’s reply, which cut few corners and made it abundantly clear as to how very much he didn’t want to see the sights. It was a long time since the waterman had heard any new words, but he heard a few that morning, all the way from West Point.

  ‘Right you are, then, guv’nor.’ There seemed little else to say. ‘I’ll get you across in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ And he bent to the oars and, dodging the bigger traffic making its way into the city from Tilbury, sliding expertly across the narrows, he deposited Grand on the opposite bank, in the shadow of the tea warehouse.

  He walked round to the land side, expecting a small office, perhaps, or even a shop. Many of the importers sold their wares directly to the public from such shops, which also gave wholesalers a chance to try out the goods. But Westmoreland Teas presented a dour, blank face to the street and he walked along it, looking for an alleyway, perhaps, or a wicket gate. He was about to give up and retrace his steps when he saw a small hut, almost leaning on the wall. In it, an old man was hunched, eating a sandwich that Grand didn’t want to know too much about. It was about two inches thick and something nameless was oozing out of one side and daubing the old man’s cheek. Grand tapped politely on the door and the man jumped a mile.

  ‘What d’you want to do that for?’ he screeched. ‘You could’ve choked me. What do you want?’

  It seemed rather an over-reaction and Grand couldn’t help thinking that the old man was perhaps not the best advertisement for tea, that most genteel of drinks. ‘I’m looking for the entrance to Westmoreland Teas,’ he said, politely.

  ‘Waddya asking me for?’ the old man said, taking another huge bite of his sandwich, which now made itself known as containing tripe.

  ‘Well,’ Grand waved an arm, ‘you seem to be attached to the building …’

  ‘Attached? Attached? I ain’t attached. I just lean, kind of thing. No, I’m here to watch the ’ole.’

  Grand looked around. ‘Hole?’

  ‘Well, it’s not here at present. But they often digs an ’ole and when they do, it needs watching, see. So I sits here and watches it.’

  ‘I see.’ Grand felt an urgent need to cut this conversation short. ‘So … Westmoreland Teas?’

  ‘Rahnda corner.’

  Grand silently translated in his head. ‘Round this next corner?’ He pointed ahead.

  ‘Nah.’ The old man pointed back the way he had come. ‘Back to the corner. Rahnd that corner. Then rahnd the next corner. Faces onto the river, don’t it?’

  Cursing the waterman under his breath, Grand retraced his steps, leaving the hole-watcher to his sandwich. The way back seemed substantially longer than the way there, but he was soon facing a small door, half glazed with knobbly glass so it was impossible to see in. On a small plaque beside the door, ‘Westmoreland Tea Importers. Please Knock and Enter’ had been engraved, but constant polishing had almost worn it away. Batchelor tapped the glass and pushed the door open. It swung easily and he stepped inside, onto tiles slightly gritty with spilled tea. A man in a brown coat was sweeping the floor and collecting the piles of dust and tea leaves into a cardboard box, labelled ‘Westmoreland Breakfast; economy tea for the discerning’. When he saw Grand, he hurriedly kicked the box under the counter which stretched halfway across the room and turned to him with an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Or is it afternoon? In any event, welcome to Westmoreland Tea Importers.’ This looked like a live one; they didn’t often get top-notch buyers these days at Westmoreland and this one was well dressed and looked a bit of a toff.

  ‘Thank you,’ Grand said. ‘It’s hard to find the way in, isn’t it?’

  Oh, praise be, the man with the broom could scarcely contain himself. A foreign buyer. The old gentlemen will be so pleased. Aloud, he said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. We do have a board, with an arrow, but the urchins round here will keep taking it. I didn’t realize it had gone again. I’ll get someone onto it at once.’ He banged his hand down on a bell on the counter and was rewarded with an injured ‘dung’ sound.

  ‘While he’s about it, he can mend the bell as well, perhaps.’ Grand was beginning to think that he had wandered into rehearsals for a panto.

  ‘Ha ha, that’s a good one, sir, yes indeed. He can. But now you are here, sir, how can I assist?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure, really,’ Grand said. ‘I really need to speak to someone in authority. Um – it is quite confidential …’

  The man in the brown coat was outraged. ‘You can trust me with anything, sir. I am the general factotum here, I work both here “out front” as you might say and also in the offices. Don’t be confused by this garb, sir – I was just doing a bit of sweeping up.’

  ‘Blending the economy Breakfast,’ Grand remarked.

  ‘I can see you like to have your little joke, sir. Just tidying up. So you can ask me anything, sir, and it won’t go an inch further.’

  ‘I need to speak to the people who look after Mrs Byng’s trust fund.’ Grand was suddenly tired of beating around the bush.

  The man started visibly. ‘May I ask why, sir?’

  ‘No. Unless you are one of them, of course, in which case I would be delighted to share the information with you when everyone is assembled.’ The man’s speech patterns were catching and Grand gave himself a mental shake. ‘So just get the cusses together and we’ll talk.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether Mr Teddy and Mr Micah are in, sir.’ The sweeper-up was playing for time and they both knew it.

  ‘Shall we go and look?’ Grand was still polite but was letting his claws show, like a kitten playing with a child. The man took the hint.

  ‘Just let me divest myself of this coat, sir, and I can take you to their offices. But, as I say, they may not—’

  ‘Be in. I know. Let’s risk it, shall we?’

  The man led Grand through a w
arren of passageways then out into a huge warehouse, where bales and bags of various tea leaves awaited shipment to wholesalers, grocers and the various institutions catered to by Westmoreland Teas. To say it was a hive of industry would be a lie, but compared to what he had seen so far, Grand considered it quite crowded. Women stood to one side of the vast space, spreading out leaves onto drying tables and men on the other man-handled the enormous bales. Grand could easily see how Emilia Byng’s father had been killed by one falling from one of the huge pulleys overhead. The smell of dusty tea was overwhelming and Grand sneezed violently. His guide turned round with a laugh.

  ‘It gets most people like that to start with, sir,’ he said. ‘You get used to it eventually.’

  Grand sneezed again and about a dozen voices said, ‘Bless you!’

  ‘It took me about five years, but not everyone is as quick.’ The man darted down a side corridor and clattered up a flight of rickety steps. He pointed to a door. ‘Mr Micah is in here, if he’s in. And Mr Teddy is in here.’ He pointed to the next door.

  ‘If he’s in.’

  ‘Indeed. Oh, can I have your name, sir? Just to introduce, you know.’

  ‘Grand. Matthew Grand.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He flung open the nearest door and shouted, ‘A Mr Grand for you, Mr Micah.’ He turned back to Grand. ‘He is in. In you go. I’ll send Mr Teddy in, if he’s in.’

  Grand went through the door into the office, which was lit by the low embers of a neglected fire and a single gas mantle. An old, old man sat behind the desk; he was alive, that much was clear from the bright eyes glittering below a tall, bald dome of a forehead. But he seemed to be composed of tea; everything about him was the same dusty, brownish olive of the leaves downstairs, including the teeth he now bared in a welcoming smile.

  ‘Mr Grand.’ The voice was low and mellow and Grand was totally taken by surprise. He had expected, from this desiccated and tea-stained tumble of clothes and cranium, something weak and scratchy; even a little demented and confused. But this man was clearly in possession of all his marbles so, at least from that side of things, he ought to be able to get what he came for; if Mr Micah would tell him.

  ‘Hello, Mr …’

  The man’s smile broadened. ‘I suppose that idiot manager called me Mr Micah. And my brother Mr Teddy?’

  Grand nodded.

  ‘I suppose you can’t blame him – we are both Mr Westmoreland and it would get confusing.’

  Grand was now very confused. If there were still Mr Westmorelands, why was Emilia an heiress to the whole tea empire?

  ‘I see you are wondering who we are; our poor cousin’s sad death caused quite a stir and you possibly remember it.’

  Grand smiled. There was no reason to question this man; he seemed to be able to guess the next question all by himself. The door behind Grand opened and another man came in, as tea-coloured as the first but with a wild shock of white hair instead of a gleaming dome.

  ‘This is my brother, the younger by three minutes.’ The elder Mr Westmoreland chuckled. ‘We don’t look much like twins now, I agree with you, Mr Grand, but you should have seen us when we were children; like two peas in a pod, eh, Teddy?’

  Teddy Westmoreland bared an identical set of teeth in an identical smile. ‘Peas,’ he agreed. Unlike his brother, he was a man of few words.

  ‘But you are not here to see how twins look in their dotage, Mr Grand,’ Micah Westmoreland told him. ‘Nor to order tea, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘No.’ Grand felt it was time to actually take part in what was fast becoming a one way conversation. ‘I’m here on behalf of … a client … to ask some questions about the trust fund of Mrs Emilia Byng.’

  The twins smiled in unison, shaking their heads regretfully. ‘Unless your client is Emilia, Mr Grand, and unless you have written authority signed by her, then I am afraid we can’t help you,’ Micah said.

  ‘Help you,’ echoed his brother.

  ‘This is very difficult,’ Grand said. ‘Has Mr Byng not been in touch, then?’

  The twins looked briefly at each other; Grand wondered if Lewis Carroll had ever met them. ‘We are not in touch with Mr Byng,’ Micah said. Teddy just shook his head.

  Grand was between a rock and a hard place. He could hardly just get up and go, but on the other hand, he couldn’t really tell these two old gents what was going on, if Byng hadn’t.

  ‘Can we talk generally?’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ Teddy said, suddenly coming to independent life. ‘No names, no pack drill, eh?’ He had been the company’s representative in India for some years and had a rather martial cast to his character sometimes, to the chagrin of his brother, who had been no further east than Kent.

  ‘That’s right. If I just … remark about some things and you …’

  ‘… remark back!’ Micah clapped his hands. ‘This could be fun. But,’ and he frowned, gathering the expanse of his forehead down over his bright eyes for a moment, ‘we decide what to tell you, Mr Grand. At all times.’

  ‘Of course.’ Grand smiled and they all settled down for a good old chinwag.

  ‘Tea?’ Teddy suddenly asked.

  Grand was puzzled for a moment, then saw the kettle singing quietly to itself on the hob. He hated tea as much as the next Bostonian, but he nodded politely and hoped it would be drinkable and not Westmoreland’s Breakfast Economy.

  While Teddy busied himself with warming the pot and generally being mother, Grand began. ‘First of all, how big is Mrs Byng’s trust fund?’

  ‘Good mercy of heaven!’ Micah almost sat up straight in his agitation. ‘Cut to the chase, Mr Grand, why don’t you? I can’t answer that but suffice to say, substantial. Although the old firm isn’t what it was, the total of the trust is spread over several different investments and is doing very well.’

  ‘Could it stand the removal of five thousand pounds, for example?’ Grand asked.

  A wheezing sound indicated that both men were laughing. ‘Is that a week, Mr Grand, or just one payment? Because the answer to either would be “yes”.’

  Teddy came back to the desk with the teapot and Micah opened a drawer and extracted milk, sugar and cups. Teddy nudged Micah and muttered, ‘five thousand pounds’ to their mutual hilarity.

  Grand made a note in his little book – it seemed to him that this meant that the person holding Emilia Byng and sending bits of her to her husband had no idea of how large the pot was in which he was dipping so shallowly. Anyone in the know would have asked for far more. He asked his next question. ‘Can she … extract any funds?’

  ‘When she’s thirty-five,’ Micah said and shut his mouth with a snap.

  ‘Sugar?’ Teddy said, his hand poised with some exquisite little silver nips over the bowl.

  ‘Er … yes. One, please.’ Grand had no idea whether he took sugar in tea; this would be a learning curve all round.

  ‘Excellent.’ Teddy dropped the small lump in and stirred it carefully. He handed over the cup to Grand and the twins leaned forward to watch him take a sip.

  Grand was ready to force down the dreadful brew, but found his nose, his mouth, his entire brain suffused in a joy of meadows, of sunshine, of fleeting citrus and fugitive honey-drenched flowers. He looked up over the rim of his cup, his eyes wide with amazement.

  ‘He likes it!’ Teddy said, nudging Micah.

  ‘Of course he does,’ Micah said, kindly. ‘Your blends are legendary, Teddy.’

  ‘Oh, now.’ Teddy looked down, blushing.

  ‘This is … wonderful.’ Grand didn’t want to waste good drinking time on talk. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It doesn’t have a name as yet,’ Teddy said. ‘I only perfected it yesterday. But if I may, I will name it after you. “Westmoreland’s Grand Blend”.’ He smiled at Grand. ‘It sounds good, don’t you think? I will pack you up a couple of pounds before you go.’

  Grand gathered his thoughts, but the teacup kept drawing him back. ‘Thirty-five?’ he said, at last. ‘And not a moment s
ooner?’

  ‘Not a single moment,’ Micah said firmly. ‘Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t. Neither Teddy, nor I, nor the business itself could manage to advance it. The only way the trust can be touched earlier than her thirty-fifth birthday is if she should decease and then, of course, it would go to her heir, her husband as things stand.’ The twins looked downcast. ‘But she is only a girl and as far as we know, in good health. So,’ Micah’s beam was back in place. ‘Thirty-five it is; another thirteen years.’

  Grand made another note in his book and drained his cup. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said, standing up and shaking hands with them both. ‘The tea was a revelation and I have all the information I need; thank you for being so helpful.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all.’ Micah hadn’t moved from the spot and didn’t now. ‘Teddy will show you out, via the blending room for your Grand Blend. Do come and visit us again – and with news of Emilia if you can. We miss her since she … well, we miss her. Goodbye, Mr Grand.’

  EIGHT

  Messrs Sillitoe, Byng and Son’s Timber Warehouse stretched as far as Batchelor could see. It was one of those vast, anonymous blocks that fringed the river along Trinidad Street, where the Chinamen walked, its walls punctuated with derricks, pulleys and cranes that hauled the swaying catches from the ocean freighters to be stacked in vast piles inside the cavernous holding hall. From there, huge draught horses carried the timber to the goods yards where they were loaded onto rolling stock and monkey boats to begin their journey to every part of the country, via rail and water. The sawing and the turning would come later, as the middle classes bought their sideboards, their gate-leg tables and jardinière stands, their fireplace surrounds and their beds. At the end of the timber’s journey, the giant trees may even find themselves in vestas in gentlemen’s pockets, tipped red with sulphur and phosphorus and enough to gladden the heart of an old prime minister, still anxious to gain some profit from light.