Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  In the morning, he hangs a CLOSED sign on his office door; it’s not likely that clients will be beating it down, anyway – at least not until his Inspector Bucket advertisement appears. Then he heads for the photography studio of his friend the Scarecrow. It lies in that section of the city Mr Dickens has dubbed Devil’s Acre, not far from Parliament in terms of distance, but worlds away in terms of its surroundings. When the construction of Victoria Street ‘improved’ the area – that is to say, razed it – the building that houses the Scarecrow’s studio somehow escaped improvement. Perhaps the engineers saw no point in demolishing it; it seems sure to collapse on its own before long.

  So does the Scarecrow. As the name suggests, he doesn’t really look like a man so much as a scrawny caricature of one, an effigy of a man. You might conclude from his appearance that he’s suffering from consumption or some other wasting disease, but Charley suspects his precarious state of health is due to all the chemicals he’s inhaled in the pursuit of his art – chloride of iodine and bromine, quicksilver, pyrogallic acid, ether, god knows what else.

  Like so many of his acquaintances, the Scarecrow would have been dead or in prison long since if Charley hadn’t taken him in hand. When they met, the photographer – whose actual name is Isam Jones – was pursuing a similar, but far more risky art: printing counterfeit banknotes, ones that were indistinguishable from those created by the Bank of England. Well, almost indistinguishable. One of the keys to judging a note’s authenticity is the quality of the engraving. But with Isam Jones that didn’t work; he was just too skillful. So Charley didn’t bother much about the printing; he concentrated on the paper. He reasoned that a small-time counterfeiter wouldn’t have access to paper as good as that used by the bank, and he was right. He tracked down the source of the Scarecrow’s paper and then the culprit himself.

  As usual, instead of summarily locking the man up, Charley had a long talk with him and learned the circumstances of his crime. A few years earlier, after failures too numerous to count, Isam Jones – who trained as a chemist – had perfected a method of making what he called a ‘stereotype plate,’ or negative, that would enable him and other photographers to make as many prints of a picture as they desired. He spent the years that followed trying desperately to patent his invention, but the patenting process was so incredibly convoluted and expensive that it left him deep in debt, half insane, and more than half dead of starvation. In the meantime, another photographer – one with better connections and a bigger bank account – beat him to the punch. Desperate and bitter, he found other uses for his skills – ones that didn’t require a patent.

  Charley, who could see from the Scarecrow’s legitimate photographs that he was no hack, proceeded to make use of his own connections. He saw to it that the man’s debts were forgiven and he managed to drum up a few customers for him. Now, Dr Isam Jones Fine Photography is, if not a thriving business, at least a steady one; even better, it’s legal.

  At the moment, the Scarecrow has more customers than he can handle: a family of six have completely taken over his loft and are making themselves at home. The younger children, both boys, are playing hide-and-seek, wrapping themselves in the black velvet curtains that mask the doorway to the developing room, knocking over the folding screens that reflect rays from the skylight onto the photographer’s subject. The two girls are trying on the Scarecrow’s stock of hats, men’s and women’s alike, draping themselves in fake jewelry and equally fake furs, attempting to outdo each other in a game of Who Can Strike the Most Ridiculous Pose.

  The parents – a corpulent fellow in garish clothing that looks a size too small, and his wife, whom Charley would not care to go up against in the ring – pay no attention to their offspring’s antics; they’re too busy haggling over the price of their portrait. When Charley enters, the Scarecrow greets him as a condemned man greets a reprieve. ‘Inspector!’ he cries. ‘Come in, please! We’re just finishing up here!’ This fit of enthusiasm causes him to break into a bout of coughing that racks his skeletal frame.

  The uttering of the simple term Inspector brings about a radical change in the room. The children stop mugging and cavorting and turn to stare at Charley as if he is some fabled creature – an ogre, or a centaur. The father forces his face into a semblance of a smile, the same strained expression Charley has seen a thousand times, the one that says, ‘Nuffing to worry about from me, guv’nor; I’m as honest as the day is long.’ Only the mother is unimpressed; she eyes him the way she might a mackerel at the fish market, mentally weighing it, deciding whether it’s worth bothering with.

  Charley is doing some weighing of his own. He’s encountered the father before in the course of his duties; there was a time when he would have recalled exactly where and when, and what the man’s transgression was, and probably his name as well, but his memory isn’t what it used to be – too many blows to the head, no doubt. In any case, the bloke’s not worth bothering with now. Charley has bigger fish to fry.

  He gives the stooped shoulders of the Scarecrow a comradely pat and says to the customers, ‘I hope my friend’s work was satisfactory. Many people say he’s the best portrait photographer in London.’

  The woman still seems skeptical. ‘Do they, indeed?’

  ‘Oh, yes. In fact—’ Charley leans in toward her and says, in a confidential voice – ‘Word has it he’s one of the top contenders for the position of Portraitist to the Royal Family.’

  This breaks down the mother’s defenses at last. ‘You don’t say?’ She elbows her husband vigorously. ‘D’you hear that, Rodney? We may be able to say we’ve had our portrait taken by the Queen’s personal photog’apher!’ Rodney goes on smiling stupidly. ‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ she says. ‘Pay the man!’

  When the family has finally departed – Charley has to retrieve a paste diamond necklace from one of the girls as she passes – the Scarecrow collapses into a chair. ‘My god!’ he gasps. ‘They’ve been here for hours! Each time I was about to expose the film, one of the little blighters scratched himself, or stuck out his tongue, or pulled his sister’s hair. And we’d have been another hour arguing about my fee, if you hadn’t showed up.’ He counts the coins and chuckles. ‘They gave me a shilling more than I was asking. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they send more customers my way, to sit for the future royal portraitist.’ He chuckles again, so heartily that it turns into another coughing fit.

  ‘Happy to be of help,’ says Charley. ‘And you’ll be happy to know that you can do me a favor in return.’

  It’s a bit of a hike to Hyde Park from here, and Charley isn’t at all sure the Scarecrow is up to it. They head east instead, toward the Houses of Parliament, hoping to find a cab – not such an easy task in the winter. When Parliament isn’t in session, ladies and gentlemen of means retreat to their country houses, and many of the shops and businesses that cater to them close their doors or cut back seriously on their staff. Most of the licensed cabbies find greener pastures, so to speak; all that remain are the bucks, who have no fixed departure point but go mouching about from one likely spot to another, charging whatever the traffic will bear.

  The street sellers, of course, are still easy enough to find. Charley and the Scarecrow pass the usual coffee stalls, match girls, and apple women, but also Christmassing costermongers with barrows full of holly, ivy, evergreen boughs, and mistletoe. Their young assistants fill the air with cries of ‘Holly! Holly-oh!’ their soprano voices now in harmony and now in wild dissonance, like some demented church choir.

  By the time they locate a shabby growler driven by an even shabbier drunkard and then haggle over the fare, the morning is mostly gone. And by the time they reach the headquarters of the Royal Humane Society in Hyde Park, the coroner’s inquest is over and done with. The jury and the spectators are filing from the building, already joking, trading insults, deciding where to go for drinks, casting off the gloomy atmosphere of the inquest like a threadbare cloak. One might think they were coming from a Ch
ristmas party or a dance, and not from passing judgment upon the poor soul for whose sake the inquest was held.

  Charley has sat on his share of inquests, and it’s always angered him to see how lightly his fellow jurors treated the matter, even though he understands the reason behind their jocular attitude – the profound sense of relief that it’s someone else stretched out on that slab, and not them.

  To his surprise, the last person to emerge from the building is none other than Constable Lochinvar Mull. ‘Inspector!’ says the young man. He holds out his hand, then withdraws it, perhaps recalling how painful their last handshake was. ‘Whatever brings you here, sir?’

  ‘I was wondering the same about you. Hyde Park is Division A.’

  ‘You’re right. But the woman resides – resided – in Westminster, so they sent me to see if there was any sign of foul play.’

  Charley scowls. ‘She has a name, you know. It’s Rosa.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry, sir. You knew her, then?’

  Charley ignores the question. ‘They couldn’t even be bothered to send a detective,’ he says. ‘No offense, Constable, but I hardly think you’re qualified to conduct an investigation.’

  The young copper’s face goes red. ‘I know that. ’Twasn’t my idea.’

  ‘I suppose they ruled it a suicide.’

  Constable Mull nods and shrugs. ‘They found naught to indicate otherwise, sir.’

  ‘I dare say they didn’t try very hard. Come, ’Sam, let’s have a look for ourselves.’

  ‘Eh, do you mind if I go along, sir?’ asks the constable. Charley hesitates, considering the request. ‘It may be my only chance to see Inspector Field at work,’ Mull adds earnestly.

  Charley has to suppress a smile. ‘I suppose it won’t hurt – if you promise to do only what I tell you.’

  ‘I will, sir. Cross my heart.’

  As they make their way to the infirmary, the Scarecrow mutters, ‘You sure you want him here? I don’t care to be arrested for this.’

  ‘You won’t be,’ says Charley.

  He knows his way around the Royal Humane Society – much better than he’d like to, actually. In his early days as detective, he didn’t get on well with his chief, and for a year or so he drew all the least desirable assignments, including the suicides. In most cases, there was nothing for him to discover, except perhaps the identity of the victim. Even though felos de se are officially considered criminals, Charley has always thought of them as victims.

  He was hoping he might find a familiar face in charge of the infirmary, but luck isn’t with him. The orderly is a tall fellow who can’t be much older than the baby-faced Constable Mull. Sometimes it seems as if the whole world is being run by children. ‘Forget something, Constable?’ says the orderly.

  Mull looks uncertainly at Charley, who whispers, ‘Tell him we’re here to identify the body.’

  ‘Eh,’ says the constable, ‘these are, um, friends of the deceased. I’ve asked them to make a positive identification.’

  ‘But I’ve already identified her,’ says the orderly. ‘That is—’

  ‘So you’re the one.’ Charley moves in close to the fellow and says quietly, ‘No need to look so sheepish, son. If keeping company with a prostitute is a sin, then Hell must be overflowing.’

  He approaches the table where the body is laid out, still clothed. Part of him has been hoping all along that there was some mistake, that it was some other unfortunate girl. But there’s no mistaking the red hair that flows like blood across the table, or the mole on her cheek, which she tried to conceal with white wax, though Charley insisted that, not so long ago, such ‘beauty spots’ were much coveted. ‘Did you have a hand in pulling her out?’ Charley asks the orderly.

  ‘Yes, sir. We tried to resuscitate her—’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, the usual. We turned her on her stomach and pushed the water from her lungs and—’

  ‘How much water came up?’

  ‘Uh, well, not a lot. A pint or two, I suppose. Why do you—’

  ‘Thank you. Constable Mull, would you take this gentleman into the next room, please, and see what more he can tell you?’

  Though Mull looks a bit baffled, he lives up to his promise. He ushers the orderly from the room, while the man protests, ‘But I – but I already testified at the inquest—’

  ‘Now, get the blood,’ Charley whispers to his companion. ‘And be quick about it.’

  From inside his greatcoat, the Scarecrow draws a scalpel and a brass syringe. Despite his decrepit appearance, when the occasion warrants it he can move with surprising speed. He pushes up the sleeve of the dress and makes a deft cut in the brachial artery. With a shiver, Charley recalls Rosa’s words of the night before: ‘I hope they make sure I’m good and dead before they cut me up!’

  The Scarecrow inserts the needle of the syringe into the cut. Slowly he pulls on the plunger; with a faint sucking sound, Rosa’s blood is drawn into the device. ‘It’s thick, and doesn’t flow well,’ murmurs the man. ‘I hope this’ll be enough.’

  ‘It’ll have to be.’ There’s barely time to pull down the sleeve of the dress before the orderly returns. Charley steps forward and, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulders, guides him toward the hallway, buying time for the Scarecrow to conceal his tools. ‘What arrangements have been made for her burial?’

  ‘Her employer’s taken care of it. She asked us to tell the undertakers that the girl’s death was accidental, so she may be buried in consecrated ground.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘It would be a lie.’

  ‘That may be. But—’ Charley lowers his voice and speaks directly into the young man’s ear. ‘What if it was neither accidental nor a suicide?’

  ‘What else could it—?’ The orderly turns to stare at him. ‘You don’t think—?’

  ‘What I think is that you can truthfully tell the undertakers the girl was murdered.’

  SIX

  There’s no shortage of transportation in the vicinity of Hyde Park. As Charley and his accomplice are about to climb aboard a weathered Uxbridge Road omnibus called, paradoxically, The Paragon, Constable Mull catches up with them. ‘Inspector! Do you not want to hear what I found out?’

  Sighing, Charley waves the Scarecrow onto the bus. ‘You go on ahead, ’Sam. I’ll meet you at the studio.’ He turns to the young constable. ‘Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee.’

  As they’re heading up Stanhope Street, Mull says, ‘Could we find a place that also serves tea? I’ve never had much of a taste for coffee.’

  ‘Just as well. It’s not what it used to be.’ The Worker’s Rest has long been one of Charley’s favorite haunts; not only is he partial to their dark-roasted coffee and crusty rolls and the casual but clean surroundings, it’s always proven a valuable source of scuttlebutt. In the years between the Chartist riots and the Great Exhibition, it was a meeting place for radicals of all stripes, and Charley spent a good deal of time there, disguised as an out-of-work bricklayer, his eyes perusing copies of The Leader and The Northern Star while his ears took in the conversations around him, alert to any conspiratorial tendencies.

  As it turns out, the Worker’s Rest is not what it used to be, either. For one thing, it’s now called the Sussex Square Coffee-House. For another, there are no newspapers or magazines and no chess tables or comfortable chairs or ottomans, only boxes and tables and stools, all made of wood so dark that it seems to suck up all the light in the place.

  There’s no sign of the cordially argumentative owner, either. Instead they’re waited on by a pimply faced youth whose ginger hair looks as though it’s been combed with a hay rake. ‘What’s become of Mr Puffnell, then?’ asks Charley, fearing that the old fellow’s outspoken radicalism might have been his undoing.

  ‘Went bankrupt, ’e did. They say that, ’owever ’igh the price of coffee and tea got, ’e refused to charge more’n a penny a cup.’

  ‘And how much do you charge now?’<
br />
  ‘Well … a penny a cup.’ The boy scratches his spiky mop. ‘I s’pose the price of coffee and tea must’ve went down.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not coffee and tea,’ says Charley.

  ‘’Course it is. What else would it be?’

  Charley waves a dismissive hand. ‘Never mind. We’ll have a so-called tea and a so-called coffee. And some bread and butter – provided the bread isn’t half alum and plaster.’ When the lad slouches off, Charley says to Constable Mull, ‘You didn’t go pale back there, or avoid looking at her, as most young constables would do. You’ve seen dead bodies before.’

  ‘Yes, sir. More than I cared to. When I was about eight, my father went to sit with a dying man; on the way back he fell asleep and tumbled out of the pony chaise, nearly broke his neck. After that, my mother made me go along, to drive him home. If you dunnot mind my saying, sir, you looked a bit pale. You wunnot just making up that bit about being a friend, were you?’

  ‘No. I’ve known her for several years.’ He could lie, say that Rosa was Jane’s friend, or a relative, or something of the sort, but that seems unfair, somehow, as if he’s ashamed of her, which he’s not. ‘She worked at Madame M’Alpine’s Seminary.’

  ‘She was like a schoolteacher, then?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Charley smiles wryly. ‘Although she did teach me a few things, I admit.’

  Constable Mull may be naïve, but he’s not stupid. ‘Oh. The seminary isn’t actually a seminary, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Charley glances at the young man’s face, which shows definite signs of disapproval. ‘Oh, don’t go getting all righteous on me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. ’Tis just that I was taught—’

  ‘I know what you were taught, lad. I’ve heard it all, and most of it, however well-meaning, is bollocks.’

  The pimply boy interrupts to set their food and drink before them. Charley takes a sip of the coffee; it’s no worse than he expected, but no better, either. He butters a slice of the bread and waves it in the constable’s still-skeptical baby face. ‘You’ll meet a lot of prostitutes in the policing business, Mr Mull, and you’ll hear two prevailing opinions about them: One, that they’re disgraceful and depraved; the other, that they’re “poor unfort’n’ts.” If you treat them like either one, they’ll never trust you. Just treat them like people, and you’ll find that they’re not some separate species, any more than criminals are. They’re like – like a big basket of fruit.’