A Particular Eye for Villainy: (Inspector Ben Ross 4)

by Granger, Ann

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I understand. I am sorry if our family appears unhelpful to you. We – we are very distressed.’

  ‘That’s natural.’

  ‘Natural . . .’ she repeated the word as if seeking out some inner meaning to it. ‘Inspector, I would not wish you to think my father had abandoned me, in going to France to live as he did.’

  ‘Of course not. He left you in a comfortable home, with relatives who cared for you and clearly still care for you deeply.’

  ‘I particularly don’t want you to think badly of him,’ she urged, staring at me intently.

  ‘Nor do I. I wonder, Miss Tapley, if there is something else you would like to say to me. Something, perhaps, you felt you could not say in front of your Aunt Maria?’ Again I tried to sound encouraging.

  ‘No!’ she snapped. Then, glancing behind her, ‘I must go back. I’ll be missed.’

  A swirl of silk and she was running back to the front door that opened at her approach. Harris had been waiting. I wondered if he would tell his master about this little escapade. But the staff here would have seen Flora grow up. It was likely they’d protect her now as they probably shielded her from censure when she’d been naughty as a child.

  I also wondered just what she had intended to tell me when she came running after me as she had done; and why she had changed her mind at the last minute.

  ‘Well,’ I said to Lizzie when I reached home at last to find my wife seated comfortably before the glowing embers of our parlour fire. A dish of cold cuts had been awaiting me in the kitchen. I’d carried it through and sat down opposite her setting my tray on an occasional table. ‘I bearded Jonathan Tapley in his den, or in the bosom of his family, and I’ve survived.’

  ‘I dare say,’ returned Lizzie with a grin, ‘he wasn’t dining on cold cuts when you found him.’

  ‘He was at dinner, or just finishing, so not best pleased – as you foresaw. On the other hand he wasn’t entirely surprised. Neither, I fancy, were the two women. I told you they wouldn’t be. They are a family at bay, Lizzie, and constantly on the alert.’

  ‘What is Flora like?’ Lizzie asked immediately.

  ‘She’s not a beauty, but nevertheless a very attractive young lady. Her face shows character, suggests depth. She would stand out in a group of girls of only conventional prettiness. I think she’s probably intelligent and resourceful. But she’s a young woman with something on her mind.’ I related how Flora had run after me in the street.

  Lizzie looked thoughtful. ‘How much do you think she really knows about her papa?’

  ‘About his scandalous past, you mean? Perhaps a little more than her uncle and aunt, as she calls them, imagine. Her Aunt Maria, Mrs Jonathan Tapley, is somewhat fierce or would be, if roused.’

  ‘And she would be roused if anything or anyone appeared to threaten Flora or Flora’s marriage prospects?’ Lizzie asked shrewdly.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I replied, probably a little indistinctly as I was chewing. ‘She would, indeed, and she wouldn’t be a woman to flinch at taking any steps she thought necessary.’

  ‘So, she is a suspect as well as her husband?’ Lizzie asked eagerly.

  ‘I don’t know that I have any suspects,’ I told her. ‘But some interesting possibilities are beginning to emerge. Lizzie, I need to go to Harrogate and speak to someone at the solicitors’ firm, Newman and Thorpe, there. They handled all Thomas Tapley’s affairs – and since they presumably have his will – still do. Flora is supposed by everyone to be his sole heir. But is she? No one has mentioned that. In any case, Thomas lived in Harrogate before leaving for the Continent. He married there and Flora was born there. If I travel up tomorrow on the first available train I should be able to arrange a meeting at the offices of Newman and Thorpe. They may, in turn, be able to suggest some other persons I could profitably speak to. I fancy I’ll have to stay overnight if I’m to complete all my enquiries. I’ll have to persuade Superintendent Dunn that the expense is necessary.’

  And that might be the most difficult part of the whole exercise.

  ‘How did you find your Aunt Parry?’ I remembered to ask.

  ‘Oh, very well. She has a new companion, Miss Laetitia Bunn.’

  ‘Think she’ll last?’

  ‘Not long,’ Lizzie admitted. ‘Not now she knows that one of the previous companions was murdered. She’ll be writing letters already seeking a new place.’

  ‘Like Mrs Jameson’s Jenny,’ I observed.

  ‘Aunt Parry knows all about the Tapley family and Thomas Tapley’s death. It’s the talk of the neighbourhood. Bessie learned that one of Aunt Parry’s housemaids is walking out with the Tapley footman. She has it from the housemaid, via the footman, that Mr Jonathan Tapley is in a bad temper and the household very upset.’

  ‘I dare say it’s even more upset now I’ve called there,’ I told her. ‘Anything else of interest?’

  It seemed to me my wife hesitated but then she said, ‘No, not really.’

  I left it at that. If Lizzie didn’t want to tell me yet, it was useless to ask further.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Elizabeth Martin Ross

  BEN SPENT a good part of the evening consulting Bradshaw’s railway timetable and departed early the next morning for Harrogate. He might return late that evening, but feared he would be away for at least one night. If he found out anything of interest that required following up, then possibly he might stay for two nights. A telegraphed message had been sent to the Yorkshire police to let them know he was on his way. They had replied that an Inspector Barnes would meet him off the train at Harrogate.

  ‘So, Bessie,’ I told her, when Ben had left for King’s Cross Station, ‘you and I are free to dispose of our time as we wish. I suggest we begin by calling on Mr Horatio Jenkins, the private enquiry agent, as he terms himself.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, missus,’ said Bessie doubtfully. ‘Sounds a funny way to earn a living to me. Still,’ she cheered up, ‘no harm in taking a look at him, is there?’

  To take a hackney carriage all the way to Camden would be expensive so we made our way there by omnibus. It is a slow, crowded and uncomfortable way to travel. Frequency of stops to pick up or deposit passengers, together with the press of other traffic, meant the horses seldom went faster than a steady plod, occasionally breaking into a cumbersome trot for brief stretches. Passengers were crammed together unpleasantly, and we were obliged to keep a sharp eye open for those thieves who specialised in preying on omnibus travellers and could operate almost with impunity in the crush. But at last we reached our destination without mishap, and stood on the pavement in Camden High Street, across from the address printed on the card. Bessie was examining her outer clothing gloomily.

  ‘I wouldn’t surprise me, missus, if you and I ain’t picked up a flea or two on that ommybus.’

  ‘Then we shall find out later. Never mind now. That is the place, do you think?’

  We were looking at a greengrocer’s shop. Above the door was printed a. weisz prop. To either side of the entry stood wooden tables displaying produce. It was all neatly set out, fruit on one side, vegetables on the other. A slim man of medium height, in a houndstooth check suit of knickerbockers and jacket and with his face shadowed by a soft felt hat, was inspecting the fruit. He was picking up one piece at a time and examining it on all sides, before putting it down again and trying the next piece.

  A middle-aged man with waxed moustaches, wearing a green baize apron, presumably A. Weisz himself, stood with folded arms in the doorway and watched this prospective customer closely.

  ‘It’s a shop,’ said Bessie simply. ‘You sure we’re at the right address, missus?’

  I took out the card and checked the street number. ‘This is definitely the one, Bessie. Let’s go and ask.’

  We crossed the road and I asked the shopkeeper if he knew of Horatio Jenkins, enquiry agent.

  Without unfolding his arms or taking his eyes f
rom the fussy customer, Mr Weisz replied briefly, ‘Upstairs.’

  He had not moved out of the way and still blocked the entry so I asked, ‘Are we to go through the shop?’

  Mr Weisz now unfolded his arms, but still without taking his eyes from the fellow in the check suit, pointed to his left. ‘Door.’

  There was, I saw, a narrow door, badly in need of a coat of paint, tucked into a shadowy recess next to the shop window. When we went to inspect it, we were able to read painted on it a little inexpertly, H. Jenkins, Private Enquiry Agent, 1st Floor. Also on the first floor we’d find S. Baggins, taxidermist. On the second floor we would find Miss R. Poole, milliner.

  I gave the door an experimental push and it opened on to a dark flight of uncarpeted stairs.

  ‘Come on, Bessie,’ I encouraged, and we started up.

  Sure enough, on the first-floor landing we found ourselves in a dusty, dark corridor with two doors leading off it to the right and a third door facing us at the end of the corridor. The first door to our right bore the legend H. JENKINS DETECTION AGENCY boldly printed in large capitals on it. There was no bell so I knocked loudly and after a moment we heard movement on the other side and the door opened.

  The man who stood there was middle aged with greying curls, a coarse complexion, and small dark eyes. His coat was shiny with wear and his linen didn’t look too clean. A dusting of crumbs covered his shirtfront.

  I was about to ask if he were Mr Jenkins, when he spoke.

  ‘Mrs Ross, ain’t it?’ he said. His lips curved in a wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Nice of you to take up my invitation, Mrs Ross. Why don’t you come on into my office?’

  Even my corset didn’t disguise Bessie’s warning prod in my spine. I ignored it and her and strode boldly inside, my boots clumping on the bare boards. Bessie followed with a gusty sigh.

  Just inside the doorway, rather like a footman waiting to announce us, loomed one of those coat and hat hangers constructed to look like a tree with inward curling branches. Nothing hung from its leafless arms but a battered rusty black umbrella and bowler hat to match. The rest of the ‘office’ was no more imposing. A large ink-stained desk had long ago seen better days. Behind it stood a chair facing the entry. In front of it were two more chairs for visitors, positioned with their backs to the door. On the desk lay implements for writing and a stack of cheap notepaper, but no sign of any work being done. The folded copy of what looked like a sporting newspaper suggested how Mr Jenkins had been passing his morning. In one corner of the room stood a large wicker laundry basket. Another corner had been curtained off and I suspected that was where Jenkins slept. It struck me that the private enquiry business did not appear to be prospering. There was a faint aroma of cigarette smoke and stale beer.

  ‘Sit down, ladies, make yourselves at home,’ invited Mr Jenkins, indicating the visitors’ chairs with a broad, hairy hand.

  I sat down and so, after some hesitation, did Bessie. She continued to take stock of our surroundings and the downward droop of her mouth expressed her opinion. I elected to stare Jenkins in the eye.

  ‘Would you like to take tea? Ruby Poole makes it.’ Jenkins pointed to the ceiling. ‘Up there where she makes her hats. If I’ve got a client I give a rap on the ceiling with that brolly there,’ he redirected his finger to point at the hat stand, ‘and I give as many raps as cups of tea required.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We will not trouble Miss Poole. I’m sure she is busy.’

  ‘She makes a very good mourning bonnet,’ Mr Jenkins informed me, ‘should you ever find yourself in need of such a thing, which of course I hope you won’t. She trims it up with feathers and little satin rosettes, all black, veil if you want.’

  ‘Mr Jenkins!’ I interrupted him. ‘I don’t want tea nor do I need a mourning or any other bonnet. What do you mean by having that boy put your card into my hand in Bryanston Square? How do you know who I am? Were you in Bryanston Square yourself? You must have been. What were you doing there?’

  He gave me another of his slow, wide, mirthless smiles. ‘Doing much what you were doing, Mrs Ross. I was keeping an eye on the residence of Mr Jonathan Tapley.’

  ‘Why?’ I demanded crisply.

  ‘Well, Mrs Ross, again I have to say that it was probably for much the same reason as you were giving it a good look-over.’

  I did not like his familiar manner bordering on the insolent. Nor did I like the idea that, while I had been watching Tapley’s house, this man had been watching me. A sardonic twinkle gleamed in his small dark eyes and, at that, I recognised him.

  ‘You are the clown,’ I gasped.

  Bessie unexpectedly leaped up and marched across to the wicker basket in the corner.

  ‘Here!’ shouted Mr Jenkins, starting to get up from his chair. ‘You keep your nose out of that! That’s private property.’

  ‘Here, yourself!’ retorted Bessie, flinging open the lid. ‘You’re right, missus. It’s all in here. Look!’ She delved into the basket and held up the clown’s wig. ‘Lots of other stuff too, all for dressing up.’

  ‘Disguises, if you don’t mind!’ snapped Jenkins. ‘Not dressing up.’

  ‘I’ll call it what I want,’ Bessie told him. ‘It’s a very strange way of going on, if you ask me, not normal.’

  Jenkins sank back into his chair and appealed to me. ‘Can’t you put her on a leash or something?’

  ‘I believe Bessie and I have every right to know what you keep in that basket,’ I replied. ‘I think you must explain yourself, Mr Jenkins.’

  He placed his large hairy hands flat on the desk and leaned over it towards me. ‘I am an enquiry agent, that’s how I earn my living. I am sometimes called upon to adopt disguises.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less why you dress up – adopt disguises – but I do care when you do so to spy on Thomas Tapley.’

  He sighed and sat back. ‘I knew you’d spotted me,’ he said. ‘I knew from the way you looked at me on the Embankment that you’d guessed what I was about.’

  Strictly speaking, I hadn’t. I had merely been unreasonably terrified out of my wits at the clown’s garb. But now I felt a little better about my fear. I pressed home my advantage.

  ‘Yes, I did think you were up to something suspicious. I told my husband about you.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said with another sigh. ‘I was afraid you might have done that.’

  ‘My husband is an inspector, plain clothes, at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I know who your old man is, Mrs Ross.’ He leaned back. ‘Let me explain myself. Are you sure you won’t let me rap on the ceiling for tea?’

  ‘Just get on with it!’ I told him sharply.

  Bessie, who had been rummaging in the basket, closed the lid at last and returned to her seat.

  ‘Seen enough, have you?’ Jenkins asked her sourly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bessie. ‘I’ll remember all the stuff you’ve got in there and if I see you anywhere wearing any of it, I’ll recognise you straight off!’

  ‘I’ll be watching out for you, too,’ retorted Jenkins. He turned back to me. ‘Best I start at the beginning, so you know who I am and how I come to be in this business. When I was a young chap I decided to go travelling. I went to America, landed in New York. Now, that’s a city you want to try and see. I did a variety of jobs but I didn’t settle and decided to move on. I’d heard you could make your fortune in the Californian goldfields. So I set out West but, by a series of misadventures I needn’t trouble you with, I found myself in Chicago. That’s not the West, more in the middle. I needed to earn some money before I moved on again, still planning on reaching California. I asked around if any one knew of any company hiring. I met a fellow who said he worked for Pinkerton’s. I had no idea what Pinkerton’s was and so he explained it was a private detective agency. He suggested I come along with him to their offices and perhaps they might take me on.

  ‘Along I went. I met the fellow who’d founded it, Allan Pinkerton. He wasn’t an American
by birth. He was a Scotsman who’d got an itch to wander, like me, and decided he could do better if he crossed the Atlantic. He engaged me as one of his agents. The work suited me very well. You might say I turned out to be a natural at it. It was at Pinkerton’s I learned about disguises, and how to adopt a false identity to infiltrate criminal gangs and other plotters. People, Mrs Ross, judge very much by first appearances. What they see is, they reckon, what they’re getting. They’re not all as sharp as you! Most folk see a clown and think, ho! That’s a clown. But you can’t trust your own eyes, that’s the truth.

  ‘Anyway, I was doing well. But then the recent Civil War over there started and that wasn’t good news. Two things were pretty obvious to me. First, the war was likely to last years, rather than months. Second, the nature of the work we’d undertake would be different. Pinkerton saw his opportunity in the Union cause. He got close to President Lincoln, you know, after he found out about a plot to assassinate him. But I’m not a political man, certainly not one for getting caught up in politics in a foreign country. Also, I saw no need to get involved in a war. I’d have joined the army if I wanted to do that.

  ‘I no longer had the urge to get to California, either. I’d met a few men coming the other way, all of whom had either failed to make their fortunes, or who had been robbed of what they had found by fellows with quicker wits than theirs. In the end I decided it was time for me to sail home to Britain.

  ‘I had the idea that, with my experience working for Pinkerton, I could set up something similar here, a private detective agency. So I did. I haven’t done as well as I’d hoped, I admit. Not as well as Allan Pinkerton has done over there. But there again, we do things differently here. But I’ve made a living. You can’t say fairer than that, can you?’

  He paused on this appeal and looked at me, waiting for my answer.

  ‘Please go on, Mr Jenkins,’ was all I said.

  When telling me of his American adventures he’d been at ease. Now he began to look and sound cautious. ‘I was recently approached by a client. There hasn’t been much work about and I was very pleased to think I could earn some money. Perhaps I should have been more cautious but beggars can’t be choosers. It was a job of work, there!