Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  Then, to his surprise, the spirit calls out to him: ‘Inspector Field! Are you there?’ Oddly enough, the voice sounds like that of Constable Mull. Well, not so odd, really, since that is, in fact, who’s calling him, not from the spirit world but from right outside his office door.

  Yawning, Charley wraps himself in his slightly shabby plaid dressing gown – which is far more comfortable and practical than that damned smoking jacket – and allows Young Lochinvar to enter. ‘I should have taught you how to pick locks, lad; you could have let yourself in, without all the racket.’

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you, Inspector. I had no idea you’d still be abed.’

  ‘It’s all right. Only you might have brought me a bit of breakfast. Sit down, and I’ll make us some coffee.’

  ‘You brew your own?’

  ‘You needn’t act so surprised.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll teach you that skill, as well. It’ll make you a very popular fellow at the station house.’

  ‘Eh, that would be a welcome change.’ The constable shakes his head and sighs. ‘How I wish I could solve some baffling case, or bring in some desperate criminal, and show them all.’

  ‘That’ll happen in time, lad. Be patient.’

  Lochinvar looks anything but patient. In fact, he looks as though he can barely sit still. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a case you’d be needing help with? ’Tis my day off.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Most of my time is spent – wasted, I might better say – trying to track down Mr Neck and Mr Hubbard.’

  ‘Hanora said I should ask around about Hubbard, and I’ve done so, but I’ve turned up nothing. You think he’s the one he’s responsible for Rosa’s death?’

  ‘It seems unlikely. But, despite what William of Ockham may think, the most likely solutions aren’t always the right ones.’

  ‘You know about Ockham’s razor?’

  ‘I have read a book or two in my time, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Never mind. You know, you might do worse with your day off than to call on Hanora. No doubt I can convince Mrs Field to spare her for an hour or two. A fellow doesn’t need to be a detective to deduce that she’s fond of you.’

  The constable blushes and ducks his head. ‘She’s told me as much. And I like her, too. It’s just that – Well, I seem to have forgotten how to just relax and have a bit of fun. Even when I’m not on duty, I feel as though I mun be doing something, do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ says Charley. He remembers that feeling well, from his early days on the force – the awareness that somewhere out there crimes were being committed and wrongs being done and that he should be out there, too, doing his best to prevent them. ‘I wish I could tell you that that, too, will change in time. But it doesn’t, I’m afraid. Just don’t let your whole life revolve around policing, lad, or it won’t be much of a life.’

  The constable stays only long enough to drink his coffee. ‘Eh, if you’ve nothing I can help with, I’ll be up and off. Perhaps I can manage to see Hanora on her free afternoon; we’d have more time, then. For now, I believe I’ll just do some—’

  ‘Some poking about?’

  ‘Yes; some poking about.’

  ‘All right, lad. Only be careful, will you? Poking about can be dangerous, if you poke the wrong people.’

  TWENTY

  Charley feels no great urge to do time at the Holywell Street house, but he can’t think of any excuse not to. Besides, it’s his duty, he supposes, to put in an appearance now and again, and no one has ever accused him of shirking his duty.

  Though the day outside is sunny, within the house the climate is even more bleak than usual, for the mother has fallen ill with some unspecified ailment just severe enough to keep her in bed, lounging regally on a throne of pillows, but not enough to keep her from issuing royal commands with astonishing frequency, most of which are carried out by Hanora. At least Charley brings a smile to the poor girl’s face by conveying Young Lochinvar’s best wishes.

  There is one thing to be said for his wife’s home: there’s always plenty of good food and drink – excepting coffee, of course, but he’s consumed enough already to see him through most of the day, and if need be, he can always fetch a cup of something resembling Mocha from the slap-bang down the street. As he’s tucking into a plate of deviled kidneys, Jane appears and, sitting across the table from him, pours herself a cup of tea. Charley steels himself, anticipating a minutely detailed account of the mother’s complaints. Instead, his wife says, ‘Have you been on a – what do you call them? A case? An enquiry?’

  ‘Either one. Yes, I have. Though I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal any details.’ Particularly those details involving Miss Fairweather.

  ‘Oh,’ says Jane, sounding slightly put out, it seems to him. But then she so often sounds that way; perhaps it’s just from old habit. Charley assumes that will be the end of the discussion, but to his surprise, she keeps it going. ‘You’ve been getting quite a lot of cases lately, haven’t you? I suppose it was your advertisement in the newspapers that made the difference?’

  Perhaps he’s being unfair, but Charley can’t help wondering what her game is, why she’s suddenly so interested in his work. He also can’t help feeling a bit resentful; the enquiry business is his territory, and he doesn’t much want her trespassing on it. After all, he never interrogates her about the way she runs the household. ‘Yes,’ he says dryly. ‘People would much sooner consult Inspector Bucket than Detective Field.’ Before she can question him further, he beats her to the punch. ‘Have you called in a doctor to examine your mother?’

  ‘Yes; apparently it has something to do with her heart.’

  Charley is tempted to say, Oh, she does have one, then? but he restrains himself. ‘Did he prescribe any sort of treatment?’

  ‘Bed rest, mainly. Oh, and you’ll be gratified to know, he suggested she drink several cups of coffee a day, as a diuretic.’

  Charley barely suppresses a grin. ‘You don’t say? Do you think she’ll actually do it?’

  ‘I’ll make certain she does.’

  ‘Well, be sure to put in lots of cream and sugar; that takes the edge off. Who knows, she may even come to like it.’ They glance at each other, shake their heads, and say, with one voice, ‘No.’ Charley can’t recall the last time they actually agreed on anything; it’s a strange feeling. Though it takes them even deeper into his private territory, he feels obliged to offer the use of his grinder and biffin. He doesn’t know whether to be offended or relieved when she declines.

  ‘Oh, we don’t want the whole house smelling of the stuff; Hanora can bring it in from the dining house down the street.’ A grand title for such a run-down place, but of course she would never be caught uttering so vulgar a term as slap-bang.

  Back when he was still a Runner, Charley began to notice that criminals, like farmers, are governed to a surprising extent by the seasons. As Chaucer observed, in spring folk longen to goon on pilgrimages, but it seems they also longen to commit fraud, burgle homes, and beat their wives and mistresses. And when the police aren’t willing or able to help, the defrauded and burgled and beaten turn to Charley and his colleagues – to use the term loosely. In truth, the world of private enquiring is a very small one, and so the agents are more in the nature of rivals than colleagues.

  Charley has a leg up, however; thanks partly to Mr Pillbeam, but even more to Mr Dickens and Inspector Bucket, he’s quickly acquired a reputation as a clever and conscientious detective. For the month or so that follows, he has more work than he can handle. Though he’s grateful for the money, it’s vexing to have so little time for pursuing the lawbreakers on his list. It looks as if he’ll have to give up on Neck, at least for the moment. His top priority is the villain who did Rosa in, and if Rosa’s spirit spoke true, it wasn’t Neck at all, but William Hubbard.

  Charley doesn’t have much time to spend at the Holywell S
treet house, either, but his sense of duty compels him to look in every few days to see how Jane and the mother are getting along. He always brings with him an extra cup of Mocha and, however much she may grouse about it, the mother always forces it down. Though she distrusts people in general, she has an almost childlike awe of doctors, and will follow their instructions to the letter. Unfortunately the coffee appears to have little effect, beyond obliging her to use the bedpan a dozen times a day. Each time Charley visits, she seems to have slid downhill a little, in the general direction of the graveyard.

  All in all, it’s a sad and stressful situation, but as far as he can tell, Jane is coping fairly well. She’s always been at her best when called upon to help those in need, whether it’s the orphans at the asylum or a tramp looking for work, a starving stray cat or a bird with a broken wing – and once, twenty years ago, an unruly, uncultured, and underfed young police sergeant.

  Not only is she as patient as Job in tending to her mother, she continues to be more civil than usual to Charley. Though he has more than enough mysteries to solve already, this one needs some investigating. He begins by interrogating the house girl.

  It’s always best to approach these things in a casual, offhand way – preferably while the subject is occupied with some other business, so he or she is off guard and more likely to let something slip. Hanora is simultaneously chopping vegetables and reading the evening edition, which seems a bit risky to Charley, but apparently her hands are so used to such tasks that they can operate independently of her brain. No doubt it would be even riskier if Jane were to find her idly perusing the paper; after all, what need does a servant have to know the news?

  ‘Have you noticed,’ says Charley, between bites of his gargantuan beef sandwich, ‘that Mrs Field is being more … more tolerant lately?’

  Hanora gives him a puzzled glance. ‘Tolerant, sir?’ Charley’s sure she knows the meaning of the word; it’s probably just that she’s never heard it applied to Mrs Field before. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Well, not with you, perhaps, but with me. I mean, I may be wrong, but it seems to me that … well, if she shows any interest in what I’m doing or what I want, it’s usually because there’s something she wants. Do you have any idea what that might be?’

  Hanora ceases chopping and nibbles thoughtfully on one of the carrot slices. ‘Are you after asking my unvarnished opinion, sir?’

  ‘Please, spare the varnish.’

  ‘Well, sir, I expect she’s beginning to realize that her mam won’t be around forever, and maybe she’s fearful of finding herself all on her own.’

  ‘Ah. So you think she’s trying to bridge the gap between her and me?’

  ‘I would say so, aye.’

  ‘Thank you. We detectives are good at figuring out who did something, and how, but not always so good at guessing why.’

  Hanora smiles a mischievous smile. ‘Perhaps the police should consider hiring some women, sir. We’re good at that.’

  A few months ago, Charley wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he’s getting a bit weary of solving cases. He can barely recall the last time he did anything purely for his own amusement, aside from downing a few pints at a tavern and swapping stories with his drinking companions, but a fellow gets weary of that, too. When he spots an announcement in the Daily News that Faust and Marguerite is being presented nightly at the Princess’s Theatre, it’s like stumbling upon an oasis in the middle of the desert.

  But in order to reach the promised land of Miss Fairweather’s play, he has to endure an hour’s trek through something called Married Unmarried, a rather smarmy piece that has the audience unaccountably laughing itself into stitches. Actually, Miss Fairweather has a small role in that one, too, and doesn’t look terribly thrilled about it.

  When she comes onstage in Faust and Marguerite, she still looks somehow out of sorts. She’s clearly making an effort to be her usual scintillating self, but not quite succeeding. Each time she’s called upon to laugh or smile, it seems as though it pains her. Though it’s quite possible that the rest of the audience doesn’t even notice, Charley certainly does, and it makes him uncomfortable.

  He was uncomfortable enough already. Like Constable Mull, he’s feeling the need to be doing something, specifically something that will put him closer to finding Rosa’s killer, instead of sitting here enjoying himself. There’s a double irony at work, there. First of all, he has no leads. Second of all, he’s not really enjoying himself; he can’t appreciate Miss Fairweather’s performance when he’s wondering what her problem is. Just what he needs: another mystery to solve.

  According to the playbill, she’s been spared a part in the third offering of the evening, A Storm in a Teacup. Charley decides to spare himself, too. He slips out of the theatre and takes up a post outside the stage door. He’s used to standing by while a woman puts on her clothes and her face – at least he once was, back when he and Jane still went out together occasionally – and he’s prepared to wait for twice as long as it could conceivably take.

  He’s quite astonished when, a mere quarter of an hour later, Miss Fairweather emerges. She shows no sign of astonishment at finding him there, or even mild surprise, though it’s hard to be sure, since the broad-brimmed bonnet she’s wearing casts her face in shadow. Neither does she show any sign of being particularly pleased. In fact, she barely glances his way. She does deign to say, ‘Hello, Charley; did you enjoy the show?’ as she glides past him.

  Charley falls into step with her. ‘Not very much. It didn’t look as though you were enjoying it, either.’

  ‘Oh? I thought it went quite well!’ she replies, almost brightly enough to convince him that nothing’s amiss after all.

  ‘Well, except for the stage manager being stabbed to death.’ Perhaps he should be on the boards after all; his timing is perfect. Just as she turns to him and cries ‘What!’ they pass beneath a street lamp and her face catches the light. Though she’s tried hard to hide it with makeup, the bruise on her cheekbone is too dark and too swollen to be covered up altogether.

  Miss Fairweather is a clever woman, and it takes her only an instant to realize that she’s been gammoned. Scowling, she delivers a surprisingly solid blow to his chest. ‘Damn you, Charley!’

  ‘I could see there was something wrong, even from the audience. You can’t blame me for wondering what it was.’

  ‘Yes, I can. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Perhaps not. I just thought we were friends.’

  ‘Are we?’ she says coldly. Then abruptly her tone changes, becomes almost pleading. ‘If you are my friend, Charley, you won’t ask me any questions; you’ll just let it go.’ She reaches out with the hand that, a moment ago, was a fist, and closes it around one of his. ‘Promise me?’

  She doesn’t know what she’s asking; she’s asking the ferret to loose its dogged grip. But he’s seen too many women brutalized by husbands or lovers to shrug it off. A man who will strike his wife or mistress once will seldom stop at that, any more than a detective with one clue will give up the case. He can’t promise what she wants; he can only sigh and say, ‘Well, for now, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you.’ They’ve come abreast of the cab rank – and rank is a good word for it. The rigs and drivers that serve the theatre crowd tend to be, like many of the theatregoers themselves, somewhat on the shabby side, and the watermen are generally not overzealous in keeping the area tidy. There are sodden piles of hay strewn about, and puddles of muck in the vicinity of the pump, not to mention the inevitable heaps of horseshit.

  ‘Let me get a cab for you,’ says Charley. Seeing her dubious look, he hastens to add, ‘Not to worry; I won’t be sharing the ride.’ Well, not in the usual sense, at any rate. But once the cab has pulled forward to a less sloppy spot and he’s helped Miss Fairweather into her seat, he circles around to the rear, where he puts a finger to his lips and a shilling into the cabbie’s gloved hand. Then he steps onto the metal rail, swings himself up next to the
driver, and clings there, like a footman on a countess’s carriage, as they set off for Covent Garden.

  Instead of dismounting in front of the Royal Theatre as before, Miss Fairweather calls out an address to the driver. Charley doesn’t quite catch it, but it’s safe to assume that they’ll end up in one of the sorry little low-rent areas to the north and east of the Opera House. But no; they turn south instead, toward the Strand.

  A few minutes later, the driver makes pointing motions to signal that their destination is just ahead, then makes further motions in the direction of the pavement. Charley nods; the moment the cab begins to slow, he hops down, stumbles and nearly falls on his face, then recovers and heads for one of the trees that line the street. Concealed behind its trunk, he watches as Miss Fairweather climbs out and gracefully ascends the stone steps of a three-story terraced town house.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Once the cab and its passenger are safely out of sight, Charley crosses the cobbles and stares up at the brick building. It’s completely contrary to the mental image he had of Miss Fairweather’s lodgings. Though it’s what’s called a third-rate town house, that refers only to the size; it’s still plenty impressive. You don’t get a residence of any sort in this neighborhood for nothing; the rent must be at least double what Jane pays on the Holbrook Street house. How can Miss Fairweather possibly afford such posh digs on an actress’s earnings? Either there’s a family fortune she hasn’t bothered to mention, or … or she’s being provided for by one of those wealthy admirers they’ve been bantering about.

  As he stands there, gawping, voices drift down from an open window on the second floor; though he can’t quite make out the words, there’s no missing the harshness with which they’re spoken. One voice is unmistakably that of Miss Fairweather; the other is surely a man’s, though it’s higher pitched than most. Then comes another, more startling sound – the shattering of glass is Charley’s guess – and a moment later the window sash is slammed shut by some figure made indistinct by the billowing curtains.