by M. J. Trow
Batchelor stood where he had left him, straining his ears for the noises of a household in the grip of an unseasonably warm afternoon. There was no clashing of washing up from the kitchen, no smells of early dinner preparations. The silence was so total that he could hear the surge of blood through his own ears. So when the tweedy gent leaned over the balustrade and called down to him, he jumped visibly.
‘Come on up, Mr … which one are you?’
‘Batchelor.’
‘Come on up, Mr Batchelor. Mr Knowes will see you now. And, if I can give you some friendly advice,’ he said, as Batchelor joined him on the landing, ‘don’t be so jumpy. Mr Knowes doesn’t like jumpy people. It makes him jumpy and … well, we’ll just say that you wouldn’t like him when he’s jumpy.’
Dyer’s face swam in front of Batchelor’s eyes. ‘Look out for yourself,’ he heard faintly. ‘Look out for yourself.’ Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he followed the advertisement for gentlemen’s outfitters, tweeds a speciality, into the room at the end of the landing.
After the mellow sunlight of the hall, the room into which he was led was stygian in its gloom. The blinds were drawn down and a small amount of light crept in along the bottom, almost taunting the inhabitants, reminding them that there was light and life outside. The room was large, but even so was dwarfed by an enormous desk in the centre of a Turkey carpet of subdued colours which stretched from the door to the fireplace to one side. The walls were lined with shelves, laden with boxes and files, for all the world like a lawyer’s office; all that was missing was the twirling ends of the red ribbons tying them all closed. A lamp on the desk was turned so low that the wick was just a glowing filament of red, hardly hanging on to life. The tweed suit glowed yellow with the memory of summer days and it and its owner left as soon as Batchelor was ensconced on the rug in front of the desk. He had been an unusually well-behaved schoolboy, back in the day, but this reminded him very much of the occasional times when he had had to turn up in front of the headmaster, having been found out in some minor infraction. He found himself wishing that he had had the foresight to stuff a slim volume of Homer down the back of his trousers, to offset the pain of the inevitable six of the best.
The best way to describe the man behind the desk was ‘beige’. His hair was virtually the same colour as his skin, which was essentially the colour of porridge. His clothes were as impeccably cut as the tweed suit, but considerably less ostentatious. The fabric was possibly linen; Grand would know. There were times when Batchelor wished he had listened more carefully to Matthew’s sartorial advice and this was one; clothes maketh the man and he might be missing an important clue.
The man behind the desk was twirling Batchelor’s business card between his fingers. Two hooded eyes looked him over from head to toe and James Batchelor suddenly felt as if his clothes had disappeared and he stood there naked as a jay. If Mr Knowes turned his hand to the detecting business, Batchelor felt sure there wouldn’t be room in town for both of them.
‘Mr Batchelor.’ His voice was as colourless as the rest of him. ‘I assume that Mr Grand is … hmm … a figment of your imagination? Something to give gravitas?’
Batchelor could hardly contain a smirk; the thought of Matthew Grand, so alive he almost crackled, being a figment of someone’s imagination was certainly amusing. But somehow, the thought of smiling in this room was not something he could countenance. ‘No,’ he said, flatly. ‘Mr Grand is real. He is currently engaged in another matter.’ He was beginning to sound like the minutes of a really boring meeting.
‘I see,’ said Knowes, doubtfully. ‘How can I help you, Mr Batchelor? Hamish said something about a missing woman?’
Yes, thought Batchelor, he would be called Hamish. ‘A client of ours has had some letters which suggest that his wife has been kidnapped,’ he said. He hadn’t meant to divulge this much this soon, but there was something about the beige Mr Knowes that seemed to drag the words out of him.
‘And you think I can help because …?’
‘I understood from a friend that you are in the import/export business …’
‘Did you?’ Knowes allowed one eyelid to flicker. He picked up a pen and dipped it very deliberately in the elaborate inkwell to his right. He poised the pen above a piece of paper dead centre in front of him. Batchelor could see, using his legendary upside-down reading skills, that it was already neatly headed ‘Batchelor?’ underlined three times. ‘Who is this friend, may I ask?’
‘Umm.’ Batchelor looked up to the ceiling and tried to look as if he were trying to remember. ‘I can’t call his name to mind just at the moment.’
‘I see.’ Knowes made a cryptic note and put the pen back in its holder. He laced his fingers together and leaned forward. Batchelor felt that this was probably how a doctor would give really really bad news. ‘I don’t see how I can help you, Mr Batchelor. This lady, with no name, has perhaps been kidnapped, by you don’t know who. Do you know when?’
‘Not precisely.’ Batchelor shook his head.
‘Where?’
‘No … well, either Eastbourne, or London or …’
‘All points between.’
‘Yes.’ Batchelor could almost hear the swish of the cane.
Knowes looked across his desk and Batchelor almost felt him rummage in his brain. He seemed to be making up his mind about something and Batchelor didn’t like to guess about what. Finally, he leaned back.
‘Mr Batchelor,’ he said at last. ‘I like you. I don’t know why; your cheek, I suppose. I don’t know what you have heard about me, precisely. Or from whom. But … I am a man who knows things and if I don’t, I can find them out. I don’t know anything about a kidnapped woman. And you can take that as gospel. But I can … ask.’ He smiled; it was the slow smile of a stoat spying a fat and oblivious rabbit. ‘And when I ask, most people answer.’ He picked up the card and tapped it on the desk. ‘Is this your business address?’
Batchelor nodded.
‘I’ll have an answer with you by tomorrow.’
Batchelor had to ask. ‘And your fee?’
‘Oh, Mr Batchelor.’ The chuckle was low and not without menace. ‘I wouldn’t ask you for money. Let’s say that this one is on the house.’ He touched a bell on his desk and as if by magic, Hamish was behind Batchelor and was ushering him out. In no time at all, he was on the pavement, still wondering what exactly had gone on. For some reason he didn’t quite understand, he felt the need to count his fingers.
Back upstairs, Hamish awaited instructions. His boss clicked his fingers and Hamish poured the obligatory brandy.
‘Grand and Batchelor,’ Knowes said. ‘Anything known?’
‘Snoopers.’ Hamish lit his boss’s cigar. ‘Out of the Strand.’
‘Straight?’
‘Snoopers? Straight? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘Anything for us to worry about? Business-wise, I mean?’
‘I doubt it,’ was Hamish’s professional opinion.
Knowes held the smoke in while he ruminated. Then he let it go. ‘Even so, have a word with the boys. Put ’em on their guard. Who do we know in Fleet Street?’
‘Editor or hack?’
‘Either.’
‘Dyer – works for the Telegraph.’
‘Yes, I remember him. Something I once scraped off my shoe. What about the Yard?’
‘Palmer, Druscovitch, Meiklejohn; take your pick.’
‘Oh, yes, the wise monkeys. Put Dyer on alert to spread ugly rumours about Grand and Batchelor when I give the nod. And the Detective Force can be as obstructive with them as they like.’
‘You want the squeeze, boss?’ Hamish asked. ‘Kneecaps? Hamstrings?’
Knowes looked horrified and took a restorative swig of brandy. ‘We’re not barbarians, Hamish,’ he said.
TEN
They had divided with the hope of conquest. While Batchelor went in search of the enigmatic Mr Knowes, Grand travelled to Limehouse, to the canals that skirted
the docks. It was impossible to escape the river smell here or the clash and hurry of the wharves. The great derricks swung and swayed over Grand’s head and the heavy horses clopped past him, their giant hoofs striking sparks off the cobbles. Out on the river, he could see the lightermen and the lumpers going about their business, hauling coal and cotton, spices and fabrics, in chests and bales, that had come from all over the world.
There would be little here from Grand’s native America. The produce of the States came to Liverpool and Bristol, not to London and the greatest docks in the world made do with the imports from Europe and all points east; granite from the Balkans and flint from just along the coast in Kent.
They had tossed the usual coin for this and Grand was beginning to think that he had got the worst of the deal. Even if Mr Knowes was not at home, or if he was and had become defensive, the most that Batchelor could expect in terms of rudeness was an Eaton Square door slammed in his face. To be fair, Batchelor knew no more about the travellers of the monkey boats than Grand did, so it was debatable whether the London man would have made better headway than the ex-captain from the Army of the Potomac. They had all looked at him suspiciously. The women ducked their heads, averted their gaze, cuffed their naturally nosy children around the ear and shooed them away. Their clothes were gaudy with sewn edges and ribbons, their skin burned brown by the sun and the wind. The men sat sullenly on coils of rope, smoking their pipes or settling their cargo. Even the mangy dogs on the narrow boats weren’t giving much away, except for the odd flea; they moved in a miasma of parasites that would have a lesser canine flat on its back in the local veterinary surgeon’s office.
Grand traipsed from barge to barge, monkey boat to monkey boat until he could scarcely remember where he had been or how many he had visited. He tried to formulate a plan, moving up one side of Regent’s Canal and down the other, but it wasn’t that simple. Those who talked to him, in a bewildering variety of dialects, had seen nothing, heard nothing. It was nothing to do with them what happened on the canals, still less on the river. They were honest traders, going about their business. Honest.
It was dusk now as the September days shortened and chilly on the water, for all the warmth of the fading day. The lights were being lit on the decks of the barges and the lighters and a thin film of mist lent the river a ghostly appearance. The derricks hung silent after the momentum of the day, black monsters against the purple of the sky. Grand decided to try one last barge before calling it a day. The picturesquely named Windsong was just like all the others, a black narrow boat painted with the bright flowers that the travellers loved. The ubiquitous dog, of no breed known to man, lay curled up near the bow. It raised its head, sniffed the alien presence and gave a token growl before settling back to sleep.
‘Welcome, Mr Grand.’
The voice made the enquiry agent jump. He couldn’t see anybody, still less someone who knew who he was. His head spun to left and right and his hand hovered near his inside pocket, where his .32 calibre Colt lay waiting.
‘Over here.’
Grand could pinpoint it now. It was a woman’s voice, reedy and sharp and he made out a figure, small and hunched, sitting motionless in the stern. He edged his way past the cabin, teetering on the strip of deck. He had been doing this all day and was quite adept at it by now. He found himself looking down at an ancient crone, her silver hair strained back from a leather-brown face and stuffed under a black straw bonnet. She wore a fringed shawl embroidered with flowers over her narrow shoulders and her bony fingers clutched a clay pipe from which the smoke drifted lazily.
‘You have the advantage of me, madam.’ He tipped his wideawake.
The old girl chuckled, clicking her teeth. ‘I know I have. I know your name, Mr Grand, but not exactly what you want.’
He eased himself down onto an upturned chest, so that their height difference was not so great. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what I want if you’ll tell me your name.’
He could see her sharp grey eyes twinkling in the half-light from the Windsong’s lanterns. ‘Have a seat, why don’t you?’ she said, fully aware that he already had. ‘You can call me Queenie.’
‘Queenie,’ Grand nodded. ‘And tell me, how do you know my name?’
The crone tapped the side of her not inconsiderable nose. ‘That’d be telling,’ she chuckled.
‘Yes, it would,’ Grand agreed. He could play the village idiot when he had to.
She peered closely at him. It was a kind face, all in all, open and very good-looking. ‘Where are you from, sonny?’ she asked him.
‘I was born in Boston,’ he told her, ‘brought up in Washington – DC, that is.’
‘I was born under a gooseberry bush,’ she confided, ‘but I don’t feel dry land under me much. What brings you to the Windsong?’
‘You haven’t told me how you know my name,’ he said.
‘Look yonder.’ Queenie pointed to a rope line strung the length of the Windsong. Tattered flags of different colours hung there, limp and hardly discernible now in the dusk. ‘Every barge on the canal’s got those. The first one you went on this afternoon was the Bramble, Ned Cattermole’s boat. Then you went to the Rhymer, then to the Ouzel. You should have gone to the Shearwater next, but you didn’t; got lost would be my guess.’
Grand sat there open mouthed.
‘The flags, sonny.’ Queenie took a triumphant pull at her dark shag. ‘We pass it all from barge to barge. You’re never alone on the canals. Bluebottles, Revenue men – you can’t be too careful.’
Grand could have kicked himself. His own Army of the Potomac had done something similar in the Wilderness campaign; but he never expected it three thousand miles away in what was a very different world.
‘You’re looking for bodies,’ Queenie said. ‘The flag system’s not perfect, but I gathered that much.’
‘And you’ve been told not to talk to me,’ Grand understood.
‘Nobody tells Queenie who she can talk to,’ the old girl said. ‘But you’ve got to tell me why you’re interested.’
‘The flags’ll have told you I’m an enquiry agent,’ Grand said.
‘It came out as “nosy bastard” in flag-talk,’ she said.
Grand chuckled. ‘Close enough,’ he said. ‘A client of mine has lost his wife.’
‘Lost?’
‘She’s been kidnapped.’
Queenie paused, peering at the man through the pipe smoke. ‘And you’re wondering if this ’ere woman whose bits have turned up is her.’
‘Something like that,’ Grand said.
‘Why come to us?’ Queenie wanted to know.
Matthew Grand had no intention of recounting his associate’s upside-down reading skills or the link with the River Police, so he settled for a noncommittal, ‘We leave no stone unturned.’
‘Good for you.’ Queenie had let her pipe go out and was refilling it. ‘What does Daddy Bliss say?’
‘Who?’ Grand had been keeping a straight face against such questions for years.
‘The bastard who runs the Bluebottles,’ Queenie said. ‘Or at least, he’d like to think he does. If you’ve never met him, you’re a lucky bugger. He’s had it in for us travellers for years. Anybody farts on the river he’s round here with his flat-feet, accusing us.’
‘So you can’t help,’ Grand assumed.
‘I didn’t say that. What’s the missing lady’s name?’
‘That’s a confidence too far, Queenie,’ Grand said. ‘Client-Agent privilege.’
‘Bollocks!’ Queenie snorted, but no sooner had she opened her mouth to carry on the conversation than rattles and bells punctuated the night.
‘Bluebottles!’ A shout came from the prow.
Queenie was on her feet. ‘Jem, you blind shithouse, you’re supposed to be on watch.’
‘They’ve come by boat,’ the voice came back. ‘No lights.’
Grand peered into the darkness. All he could make out was a black silhouette in the wate
r and oars coming to the upright. There was a thud as the police boat collided with the Windsong and he was almost jolted off his feet, though Queenie sat on, as steady as a rock. Grand scrambled along the side, desperately trying to keep his footing and found himself facing a man with shoulders like wardrobes who he assumed must be Jem.
‘Working with the Bottles, are yer?’ he snarled and swung an oar which caught the already unsteady Grand below the shoulder and sent him crashing over the side into the murky waters of the canal.
At first, everything was black. There was a roaring in Matthew Grand’s ears and he couldn’t open his eyes. When he did open them, he still couldn’t see anything. Father Thames, he knew, lay ahead of him, beyond the sluices of St Katharine’s Lock. Here the canal water was slightly warmer, but it was just as wet. Grand had been swimming in the Potomac since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, but this water was full of tangled ropes and anchor chains that lay like a submerged forest all around him. His lungs were torture and he struck upwards once the shock of his fall had subsided and he crashed through the surface, gulping in the murky evening air as though it were the freshest in the world.
‘Fall in the Thames,’ James Batchelor had told him more than once, ‘and you won’t drown, you’ll die of poisoning.’ Grand took comfort in the fact that he wasn’t technically in the river at all. His left arm ached and he couldn’t use it properly, so he struck out with his right and kicked for all he was worth. There was a current here, of sorts, and it was pulling him away from the flat keel of the Windsong and sideways towards the Stair. He could see the police launch bobbing against the barge’s hull and from the noise, a battle royal was going on on deck and in the cabins. He didn’t know how Daddy Bliss’s boys would fare against Jem but he was pretty sure none of them would be much of a match for Queenie.
Ahead, he could make out the black bulk of the canal embankment and worn, slippery steps leading from the water, as though the devil had made himself a slimy stairway to hell. There were ropes trailing from the quayside above and he caught one, rough and slippery under his good hand. He was just about to haul himself across onto the iron ring below the water line when he came face to face with another luckless soul who shouldn’t, like Grand, have been there.