Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  The girl assessed him coolly. She was a devious bugger and no mistake. Clear blue eyes and a haughty demeanour. Stuck up. She wasn’t a girl at all, but in the full bloom of early womanhood. And already scheming and plotting. Such was the fairer sex.

  “And who would like to know?”

  “Joseph Rees. Friend of your father, is it?”

  “I’m sure he’s never mentioned a Joseph Rees before and I’m sure I’ve never seen you.”

  “I’ve entered into a business discussion with Mr Parker,” Joe said.

  “Wait. I have seen you,” she said. “You sell the newspapers on the village green.”

  “That’s right. Your father discussed me supplying his business on a long-term contract.”

  The girl wavered, thinking it through. “He’s not here. You just missed him.”

  “Ah, what a misfortune, madam. Might I ask where he’s gone? I might catch him up.”

  “I couldn’t tell. Nor would I.”

  Joe smiled and bowed his head. “Then I shall catch him another time. Thank you for your kindness, miss.”

  He put his hat back on and turned, not looking back, and only hearing the door slam shut when he was ten yards up the street.

  He quickened his step. The police station was five minutes away. He had to tell Beadle everything before he forgot it.

  — 27 —

  DANNY AND RACHEL SET off to follow but were immediately taken by surprise when Mr Parker stopped walking and stood at the tram stop opposite the tram depot only a hundred yards from his house.

  They slowed, wondering what to do, then heard the tram rumbling behind them, roaring down the slope from the village.

  Danny quickened his pace. “He’s getting the tram.”

  “We’re not getting it with him, are we?”

  “Why not?”

  “Too scary.”

  “You said you liked the tram.”

  She pulled him back, her feet rooted with fear. “Wandering around 1912 Moseley is one thing, Danny, but setting out to other parts of the city... no way.”

  The entire city of Birmingham was out there – its great, sprawling, dangerous mass – and it made her long to be within touching distance of that gravestone in St Mary’s churchyard.

  “Well, I’m going,” he said, shaking her off and striding for the tram stop.

  Rachel looked back up the street as the tram roared past. The dark rise to Moseley was lit by pools of gaslight. But between here and St Marys were so many shadows.

  She ran for the stop, where the electric tram screeched to a halt. Mr Parker was cloaked in a thick cloud of cigar smoke. Danny took her hand and stepped onto the rear platform. Mr Parker had gone up the open stairs so they followed him to the upper deck. It was covered but the sides were open. They sat a few seats behind him, the smell of his cigar thick in their faces despite the absence of windows.

  The tram set off again and wheezed through the Brighton Road crossroads, with its strange turreted building standing guard like a watchtower.

  Rachel gazed out and noticed the street change character. It was as if, in crossing the Brighton Road, they’d not only crossed over from genteel Moseley into roughshod Balsall Heath, from the suburbs into the city, but also from respectability into debauchery. She’d studied the history of the two neighbourhoods and their dramatic differences, which survived on to her present. How Balsall Heath had always been the poor relation, defecting to the city twenty years before Moseley, which had tried to stay aloof, and how its red light reputation had existed up until the 1990s, when its growing Muslim population had driven it out. As the tram sailed down the Moseley Road, she could see it was nothing but a boulevard of gin houses and brothels.

  A few stops further on they reached Highgate, and Balsall Heath suddenly seemed genteel. Highgate was a dingy slum with not even gin houses and brothels to give it some respectability. Mr Parker stood up and walked down the stairs. Rachel and Danny looked at each other with amazement.

  “We have to,” said Danny.

  Rachel groaned and followed him down the steep stairs.

  They stepped off the tram after Mr Parker, who strode off, still puffing on his cigar. Rachel shuddered, feeling the danger of the place; it had a physical quality that polluted the air, like smog. It was dirty and smelly and the streets were crowded with shawled women carrying jugs of ale, men reeking of booze and sweat, wearing shabby clothes and scuffed boots. They hung around on corners, glaring at them with glassy eyes. Barefoot children wore rags that could barely be called clothes. Mr Parker looked out of place striding through it, and so did Rachel and Danny.

  He turned into a shop and they both sighed with relief. When they reached it they realized it was a pharmacy.

  “Should we go inside?” asked Rachel.

  “He’d notice us. And I’ve no idea what to ask for.”

  “I don’t like it out here.”

  “Me neither.”

  She scanned the surroundings for a safe haven. There was a pub on the opposite corner but it looked like a hell hole: a mob of drinkers in peaked caps had piled out into the street outside, roaring, smoking, swearing, fighting. A young woman in a shawl came and pleaded with a man to come home, tried to drag him away, only to be punched and sent on her way with a farewell kick, which seemed to amuse the other men there who all cheered him on.

  Rachel stared with horror. A few of the drinkers noticed them, glowering across the street. Some of them exchanged words and glanced back at them.

  “I don’t like this,” said Danny.

  They goaded one of the young drinkers on and pushed him into the street. He made his way across to them, a glint in his eye.

  Rachel knew this meant trouble and that she might stay rooted to the spot and let it all happen out of politeness rather than risk hurting his feelings by running away.

  Danny snatched her hand and dragged her inside the shop, the bell ringing as they stepped inside. She heard a disappointed Aaaaah! rise up from the drinkers and knew they had escaped a beating.

  There were a handful of people standing inside the pharmacy and a hush of respectability, as if they’d stepped into a library out of a riot. The walls were lined with jars of potions and an elderly, balding man behind the counter seemed to be the pharmacist. He was ushering Mr Parker through a door. She caught a glimpse of them both walking up a flight of stairs before the door closed behind them with its brass notice marked Private.

  The pharmacist’s assistant, a younger gentleman in a white smock, had taken over counter duty and was dispensing medicines in small vials and neatly wrapped paper parcels. They shuffled uncertainly as the customers were dealt with and left the shop one by one. Rachel peered out of the window through the gaps in the elegant bottles of blue and red liquid on display, and saw that the drinkers across the road had forgotten about them, more interested in the fist fight that was taking place in their midst.

  She browsed the cabinets and displays and marvelled at the array of remedies: Venos Lightning Cough Cure, Radium Hand Cleanser, Pettingill’s Kidney-Wort Tablets, John Melrose Southern Counties Cream, which was confusingly from Edinburgh, Dr Blumer’s Camphorated Oil, Puretest Tincture Iodine, Watson’s Linseed Lozenges, California Syrup of Figs, eucalyptus gums, Glauber salts, Price’s Epsom Salts, Beecham’s Pills, sulphur tablets, Owbridges Lung Tonic, Hudson’s Cherry Lincture.

  The last customer was served and the assistant turned to Danny.

  “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

  Danny stammered. He had frozen and had no idea what to say.

  “I have a terrible headache,” said Rachel, putting the back of her hand to her temple, a touch melodramatically. “In fact, I feel quite faint.”

  She swooned to her left, as close as possible to the wooden chair. Danny caught her, real shock on his face, and let her sink onto it. The assistant rushed around to help her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me, it’s nothing.”

  “You stay there, M
iss,” said the assistant. “What is it you feel?”

  “Just a tremendous headache,” she said. “I don’t know why I felt faint. I think it’s just rather hot in here.”

  The assistant rushed behind the counter to a sink to pour a glass of water.

  Danny leaned in close to her. “Are you okay?” he said.

  “Of course I am,” she whispered. “We just need some time.”

  The assistant returned with the water and she sipped it down. The glass tumbler was heavy in her hand. She’d never felt a glass that thick.

  “Now, for your headache, Miss,” he said.

  “She’ll be fine with some aspirin,” said Danny.

  The assistant frowned. “I could add some powder to the water,” he said. “But I think some Pinkham’s Compound would be better.”

  Rachel shot Danny a warning glare.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” he said. “If you say so.”

  The assistant went to one of the cabinets, which he opened with a key, and brought back a small bottle with brown liquid inside. He took out the cork stopper, poured the thick syrup into a teaspoon and offered it to Rachel. She looked at it uncertainly.

  “This should set you right, Miss.”

  She lipped it off the teaspoon and winced at the sharp taste of aniseed, the thick syrup coating her throat. The assistant handed her the bottle and she glanced at the mass of small type on the label. She could only make out Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, for Prolapsus Uteri, and lower down, Female Weaknesses.

  “Thank you,” she gasped.

  The door marked Private opened and Mr Parker came out, followed by the pharmacist. Danny bent himself close over Rachel to hide both their faces as he passed them and left the shop, the bell above the door ringing.

  “I feel much better now,” said Rachel.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Danny.

  “I won’t wrap the bottle now you’ve opened it,” said the assistant, walking back behind the counter. “That’ll be fourpence, please sir.”

  Danny fiddled with a handful of coins for an age before handing over the right money. He pocketed the bottle, tipped his hat and said goodbye, taking Rachel outside. They walked off briskly up the road, following Mr Parker, who was a good hundred yards ahead.

  “Come on,” said Danny. “He might get the tram back and we need to be on it.”

  They marched down the gaslit street as fast as they could, ready to break into a run at the first sign of attention from the locals. As they emerged on the Moseley Road, the tram pulled up and Mr Parker stepped onto it. They ran the last few yards and jumped onto the rear platform as it pulled away. Danny was about to climb the stairs but Rachel pulled him into the lower deck.

  “We can see when he gets off from here,” she said.

  He followed her to a seat and they fell into it with relief.

  The acrid taste of the medicine was still fetid in her throat. “I think that medicine is going to make me sick. God knows what’s in it.”

  “It said Vegetable Compound. It’s probably just some herbal remedy.”

  “It said it’s for Female Weaknesses. Didn’t Queen Victoria take laudanum for that? Isn’t that basically heroin?”

  “You’ll be all right,” he said.

  The tram roared out of Highgate and headed back to civilisation. But unfortunately, before they could reach it, Mr Parker stepped off in Balsall Heath.

  — 28 —

  INSPECTOR BEADLE LEFT the station earlier than his customary 7pm, and instead of heading straight for his empty Maypole home – devoid of life and warmth since the tragic death of his wife – he took a city-bound tram. It was almost empty, the trams full of human life all streaming past on the other side. Forever, it seemed, he was against the tide.

  He arrived in the teeming gaslit city, unnerved by the sheer bustle of the throng. Each time he came it was more crowded than the last, as if it were a giant anthill spawning and spreading by the minute.

  Birmingham had been a few respectable streets ringed by a giant slum for many years, but slowly the respectability had pushed the slums outwards till they now bordered the respectable suburbs. Peakies and sloggers had held sway here for decades, but they were now taking over that area they called the ‘inner city’.

  The city fathers had managed to push the poverty out of arms’ reach so they didn’t have to hold their noses anymore. It was the problem of the suburban police now.

  He walked into Cornish Brothers booksellers on New Street, to find it buzzing with activity. Rows of chairs were laid out, and a desk piled with books, like an impromptu barricade that had been thrown up to protect the author from the marauding masses.

  And there sat Arthur Conan Doyle.

  His thick moustache was white now, and his eyes had become screwed up, but the flicker of intelligence was still bright. There was still something of the amateur sleuth about him – a busybody thinking he was smarter than the police whose job it was to catch real criminals, not sit on their backsides imagining what it would be like to do so.

  Beadle stood at the back, leaning on a pillar.

  A well-dressed reptilian looking gentleman stood and made a little speech, and told the audience that Arthur Conan Doyle would sign copies of his latest novel, The Lost World, and take questions on the fascinating issues of prehistory, spiritualism and theosophy, but would not discuss Sherlock Holmes.

  Groans from the seated audience of ladies and gentlemen.

  Conan Doyle stood and gave a little talk about how lovely it was to be back in Birmingham again after such a long time. He said a little about the serialisation of The Lost World in the Strand magazine. The publication of the novel had coincided fortuitously with his friend Charles Dawson unearthing a startling find regarding our prehistoric ancestry: the ‘Piltdown Man’ remains recently discovered in East Sussex.

  Then he read a bit of his new book, which was some nonsense about dinosaurs that held the audience in thrall.

  Beadle flinched as someone nudged him in the ribs. He looked into the clear blue eyes of Arabella Palmer.

  He read the need in them, that she had been unable to resist being drawn back into the mystery that haunted them both.

  — 29 —

  RACHEL AND DANNY JUMPED off the tram after Mr Parker and followed at a distance. He seemed to be walking the rest of the way home. She found herself thinking of movies she’d seen of Jack the Ripper or Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde, following a man in a top hat through the mist of a gaslit street that was an explosion of gin bars and brothels. Music and rowdiness bellowed from every single door, and women calling out to every man that passed, asking if he fancied some fun. But unlike those films, the women were not scantily-clad glamour girls caked in make-up; they were plain and tired, their faces bloated, eyes glassy. Their dresses and hats were flamboyant, with ruffles, feathers and brocade and as much cheap material to peacock them as they could muster, but there was no flesh on show at all. Their flouncy skirts went down to their boots and their lacy collars to their chins.

  “Oh my god,” said Rachel. “It’s rougher than it is now!”

  “Tell me about it,” said Danny.

  He was looking quite uncomfortable at running the gauntlet of so much blatant solicitation and she felt his arm grip a little more tightly on her hand.

  In Moseley, it had seemed that the chief forms of communication were the tipped hat and the handshake. Here it was more the shout of abuse and the punch up. They passed three fights taking place outside bars that no one else seemed to notice, and two of them were between rival prostitutes.

  To their surprise, Mr Parker turned into one of the bars, a cluster of peak-capped young scarfaces stepping apart respectfully as he entered.

  “He’s gone in that bar,” said Danny. “I can’t believe it. It looks so rough.”

  “Come on then. It’s your round.”

  “Do you think we should? I don’t mind admitting it, but I’m actually scared now.”

  Ra
chel grinned. Danny was so posh, he had no idea how to handle this. She had no idea either, but felt it should be more her element.

  “We’ve got a murder to solve,” she said, pretending to be fearless. “We’re not going to find out anything here.”

  They walked to the door and the gang of youths outside parted to let them through. Inside, through a thick pall of smoke, they found an eclectic mixture of roughs and toffs seated at scores of tables. A cabaret seemed to be taking place on a stage, but no one could hear it. The singer went through the motions but her song was drowned out by the shouts, screams and laughter of the customers.

  Rachel and Danny hovered uncertainly, not knowing what to do. Mr Parker had somehow found a table to himself. A waiter who looked about fifteen years old breezed up to them.

  “Evening, sir. I can fit you in stageside if you like?”

  “Er, yeah. I mean, yes, thank you.”

  The waiter led them through the crowd to the empty table next to Mr Parker’s. They sat and Danny nodded to him. Mr Parker rose slightly from his seat for Rachel’s benefit and tipped his hat.

  “What’ll it be, sir?” said the waiter.

  “Er... Two V and T’s?” said Danny.

  “You what?”

  Danny looked uncertain. He glanced around to see what other people were drinking but they all had bottles he didn’t recognize.

  “The same as those,” he said.

  “Gin spesh for two. Right away, sir.”

  He rushed off.

  A different waiter, younger than their own, rushed over to Mr Parker and left a bottle, pouring something ruby red into the glass. A fight broke out on the other side of the bar between two tarts. They got pushed out onto the street, a screaming ball of hair and rouge. All the men around them laughed riotously.

  “I thought chavs were a new invention as well,” said Rachel.

  Their waiter came back with a green bottle and two glasses. “Here you are, sir. It’s a bit quiet tonight, I’m afraid.”

  Rachel looked aghast while he poured the gin.