by Granger, Ann
‘The client wanted me to find a man called Thomas Tapley. Tapley had been living in France but the client believed he’d returned to England. He had a relative, name of Jonathan Tapley, living in London in Bryanston Square. But when the client made enquiries and found out what manner of man Jonathan Tapley was, it didn’t seem such a good idea to approach him directly and start asking questions. So the client came to me. I was given a photograph of Thomas, a studio portrait taken in France, and a very good description of the subject as well.’
I interrupted him. ‘Do you still have this photograph?’
‘I do, madam. But let me finish my tale. I managed to find out that Thomas Tapley had indeed returned to England. I tracked him from Southampton to London. But where he was in London, ah, that was a different matter. The quarry seemed to have vanished. If you want to get lost, London is the place to choose, that’s the truth.
‘So I tried a new tack. I kept watch on the Bryanston Square house. I established very quick that Mr Jonathan kept a carriage and a very showy pair to pull it. I’d seen horses like that in America. Palominos, they call them, almost gold in colour, with pale manes and tails. Sort of thing would please the ladies, you know, and there were a pair of ladies living in the house. One afternoon, as I was making my way towards the Square, I saw that carriage trotting along the road, going in the direction of the river. There’s not another carriage pair like that around, I thought! I set off after it. There was a lot of traffic that day, so it wasn’t so difficult to keep it in sight until it got to Waterloo Bridge. It started across the bridge and I meant to do the same, but I had bad luck. A couple of cabbies got themselves into an argument over who had the right of way and a crowd built up. I got through it at last, and across the Bridge, but no sign of the carriage now. I’d lost ’em.
‘My first thought was that probably it had been making for the railway station and someone was hoping to catch a train. I therefore made for the station, too, but I didn’t see the carriage around there. So, I thought to myself, where else might it be have been going? Could it be that Thomas Tapley was living south of the river, and whoever was inside the carriage was visiting him? If that were so then Thomas, so I reckoned, would sooner or later cross the bridge. For there ain’t nothing but the railway station on the south side. I adopted my clown disguise and took up my post on the Embankment. On the third day I stood there, juggling and making little jokes and earning quite a few pence, when I saw him coming towards me. I waited for him to come back and I followed him and established where he was living. That was my good luck. The bad luck was you spotting me.’
‘Your client’, I said, ‘didn’t want to ask Jonathan Tapley if he knew where Thomas might be found, because your mysterious client had found out Jonathan practises at the bar. Your client, I suspect, is avoiding the law, Mr Jenkins. That is why he came to you.’
‘I dare say you’re right, Mrs Ross,’ agreed Jenkins. ‘But not everyone wants to go to the police or lawyers, do they? That’s why they come to me, see? That’s how I make my living. Anyhow, I reported to my client that I’d tracked the quarry down. I was paid my fee, on the spot. I had previously arranged that I should be paid as soon as I found my man.
‘I felt pretty pleased with myself. A good bit of detection and a good bit of business. But I stopped feeling good about it very quickly, I can tell you. A few days later I read in the evening papers that a man had been found murdered in that very street. He’d been lodging there after previously lodging in Southampton. I didn’t like the sound of it. I felt sure the corpse would turn out to be Thomas Tapley and I’d been tracking him. In no time at all the police might be tracking me! Even worse, the day after the evening press carried the story, my client turned up again here. This time I was asked to approach Jonathan Tapley. But I smelled danger so first off, I refused.’
‘How did your client seem?’ I asked. ‘Anxious? Surprised? Not at all put out?’
‘Oh, very anxious indeed. As I was, eh? Talk about a couple of cats on hot bricks! We neither of us wanted to find ourselves accused of being involved in any murder. The pair of us stood in a very bad light. But my client didn’t want your Thomas Tapley dead, Mrs Ross. My client very much wanted him alive. I didn’t want to make an enemy of the client who might put the police on to me. But I didn’t want to be involved any further, either. Real pickle I found myself in. So I said to the client, give me some time and I’ll cast about to see what’s happening. I carried on watching the house in Bryanston Square, too, because that’s at the centre of it, in my opinion. I’m a man, remember, of some experience in detection. That’s when I saw you again and thought to meself, ha! The lady’s playing at detective too!’
‘Nevertheless,’ I said firmly, ‘you must go to the police now. To continue as you have been, snooping about on your own, risks making things look even worse for you. Persuade you client to go with you to Scotland Yard. My husband is out of London at the moment. He will not return until tomorrow evening, or possibly even the day after. But ask for Sergeant Morris, or even for Superintendent Dunn himself.’
Jenkins was shaking his head vigorously. ‘No, no, that won’t do. My client wouldn’t hear of it. In this first place, you see, my client isn’t “he”. My client is “she”.’
‘A lady?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Yes, Mrs Ross, and a foreign one at that, a French one. I did mention going to Scotland Yard, but the very idea terrifies her. I established that Inspector Ross is in charge of the inquiry and my client would agree to meet the inspector here, at this office. She speaks some English but would probably need some help. As it happens I know a little French and could help out in any interview. Will you tell your husband so?’
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I spoke good French, and could interpret if needed. But I stopped myself. The less information Jenkins had about me, the better. He was quite capable of finding out enough for himself.
‘Then I should tell the Yard myself,’ I said. ‘This is a murder inquiry and all information should be given to the police at once. I should pass on immediately all you’ve told me.’
Jenkins began to be agitated. ‘No, no! If you do that, I’ll have rozzers all over this office. What good is that to a private enquiry agent, discretion assured? I’d never get another client, once word got round. Besides, my client would get wind of it and she wouldn’t turn up. She will meet Inspector Ross here, on his own, or no one.’
‘What is the lady’s name?’ I asked.
He gave me one of his slow, unsettling smiles. ‘I’m like a lawyer myself, Mrs Ross, that or a priest. I keep my clients’ secrets until they tell me I may speak. It’s all a matter of trust, see? Clients tell me all manner of things because they believe I’ll keep a confidence.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, standing up.
‘I’d rather have your word,’ Jenkins said.
That put me on the spot. ‘My husband may return late tonight, or not. I will wait until tomorrow. If he doesn’t come then – if he has to remain away any longer – I shall go myself to the Yard. My suggestion to you is that you contact this lady. You have all the rest of today to do it. Persuade her to confide in the authorities, if possible before the day is out. If she has nothing to hide, she need have no fears.’
‘I don’t know as if you’ve agreed to the right thing there, missus,’ said Bessie as we reached the street and set off home-ward.
‘No more do I know it,’ I confessed. ‘But if I run straight away to Superintendent Dunn and he sends Morris or someone over here, then it is possible this elusive lady client of Jenkins’s will disappear and we’ll not find her again. We don’t know her name, only that she is French and, if frightened, will run straight away back to France.’
‘What did she want our Mr Thomas Tapley for?’ asked Bessie. ‘And why does she now want to get in touch with Mr Jonathan Tapley? She didn’t want to get in touch with him before; not once she found out he was a lawyer. If you ask me, she has
got something to hide. That’s why she’s keeping out of sight.’
‘We won’t know that until she chooses to tell us – tell the police. That depends on Jenkins producing her. I shall do as I promised Jenkins and wait. If the inspector does not return tonight from Harrogate, then I shall go directly to Superintendent Dunn tomorrow morning. We shall have to risk losing the lady.’
As I spoke, we passed by a man standing on the corner and munching an apple. I thought I recognised his knickerbockers and felt hat.
‘After picking over every piece of fruit on show,’ Bessie, who’d recognised him too, muttered, ‘he only bought a single apple from that poor man’s shop. You would think he could have done that without so much fuss!’
Her remark made me turn my head towards the man and I met his eyes, fixed on me. They were very large, dark eyes, with a sort of mocking twinkle in them. They stared at me so frankly, assessing me in a way that seemed so personal, that I was embarrassed. I’m not usually confused by being stared at. Not, I hasten to add, that I attract too many glances of the openly admiring variety. I don’t think I’m bad looking but I was never a great beauty of the sort to turn all heads. Nor was the fellow himself, strictly speaking, really handsome. But there was a sort of rakish, man-of-the-world confidence about him. He had thick curling black side-whiskers and his skin was of that pale olive shade that wasn’t quite English. Perhaps that was why he wore a tweed suit. He fancied it made him look less foreign.
He’d noted my confusion and it amused him. He grinned, showing strong white teeth, and then bit into the apple again with an audible crunch.
I hurried by him prey to a feeling I couldn’t quite explain and didn’t care to dwell on too much.
Chapter Ten
* * *
Inspector Benjamin Ross
I HAD been told to look out for Inspector Barnes, my opposite number at Harrogate, at the town’s railway station. During my journey I wondered how I’d know him. As it turned out I could hardly have missed him, as he was bigger than anyone else there. He had spotted and identified me almost before I had both feet on the platform, and bore down on me.
‘You’ll be the chap from London!’ he boomed, gripping my hand. ‘Ross, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I gasped, easing my fingers free. ‘You’re Inspector Barnes?’
‘That’s me, all right. Now, before anything else, what do you think of our station?’ He waved a massive paw at our surroundings. ‘We’re very proud of it, y’know. It’s not been open long, only six year. Before that, trains fetched up at the old Brunswick Station and that weren’t much more than a garden shed compared to this. You’ve got the one bag, have you?’
He was shepherding me briskly through the crowd as we spoke. I managed to say the place seemed very busy.
‘A lot of folk come here to Harrogate,’ he informed me. ‘That’s why we needed a new station. It’s on account of the mineral springs. There’s folk swear by a pint of Harrogate waters. The Pump Room is never short of visitors. They even come here from abroad, our waters are that famous. It’s the high concentration of minerals, you know, cures just about everything. If you’ve got time afore you leave, you ought to get yourself down to the Pump Room and try it.’
‘What’s it like?’ I asked with caution.
Barnes gave that a moment’s thought. ‘It’s what you might call an acquired taste. But it’ll do you a power of good and my old mother always said that no good medicine ever tasted nice.’
I resolved that urgent need to return to London would not allow me time to down a pint of the famous waters.
‘Now, it’s all arranged,’ Barnes went on. For an awful moment I thought he meant a pint of the dread fluid was already lined up for me. Luckily, he continued, ‘I’ve booked you a room for tonight at the Commercial Hotel. You’ll be comfortable enough sleeping there. But Mrs Barnes is looking forward to seeing you at our table tonight. She’s got a wonderful light hand with pastry, my wife.’
That sounded much better. Barnes was assuming that my business here wouldn’t allow me to set off home tonight; but I’d warned Lizzie that might be the case. I would, however, need to telegraph the Yard and let them know my plans. Perhaps I could get a message to my wife at the same time. Aloud, I said I was looking forward to meeting Mrs Barnes.
‘From the way you talk, you’ll not be a southerner?’ enquired Barnes.
‘I’m originally from Derbyshire.’
‘Mrs Barnes will like that,’ he told me approvingly. ‘She’s what you might call a bit suspicious of southerners.’
‘I am myself, and I live among them,’ I told him. At that he roared with laughter and clapped my shoulders so heartily I almost fell flat on my face.
Fortunately he’d hailed a cab and I found myself bundled into it. Barnes shouted out an address to the cabbie and climbed in beside me. The cab rocked and seemed to settle lower on its springs. I am a solidly built fellow myself and I felt sorry for the horse that had to pull the pair of us.
‘We are going to the hotel?’ I asked doubtfully, since Barnes hadn’t given the driver the name of the Commercial.
‘I thought it best I take you straight to Newman and Thorpe’s offices,’ he told me. ‘I’ve set up a meeting with Fred Thorpe. Young Mr Thorpe, that is.’
‘How young?’ I asked immediately. I wanted, if possible, to speak to people who’d dealt with Thomas Tapley before he departed for the Continent and knew something about him as a person.
‘Fred’s around my age,’ Barnes said. ‘And I’m forty-one. They call him Young Mr Thorpe to distinguish him from his father, Old Mr Thorpe, also called Frederick.’
‘Old Mr Thorpe is retired?’
‘He does a little, just to keep his hand in. Folk are traditional around here and some of his older clients don’t want to deal with anyone else. So I wouldn’t say Old Mr Thorpe is retired. Now, Mr Thorpe Senior, he is retired. He’s in his eighties.’
At least three male Thorpes living. I made a quick calculation.
‘The senior gentleman would be Fred’s – Young Mr Thorpe’s – grandfather?’
‘You’ve got it. Old Mr Thorpe’s pa and young Fred’s – as we tend to call him – grandpapa. A very old-established firm is Newman and Thorpe.’
‘What about Newman?’ I asked, wondering how old he was.
‘Dead,’ said Barnes. ‘But they haven’t got round to taking his name off the doorplate.’
‘I see. When did he die?’
‘Twenty year ago. Now,’ continued Barnes, ‘I’ll introduce you and then, if you like, I’ll take your bag along to the Commercial and drop it off. Then you can make your own way to the hotel at your leisure. Ah, here we are.’
I was briskly decanted from the cab and the driver ordered to wait. I was propelled into the outer office of Newman and Thorpe, where an aged clerk rose creakingly to greet us. He looked to me as if he might have started work there as a youngster in Mr Thorpe Senior’s day.
‘Here he is, Walter,’ announced Inspector Barnes. ‘This is Inspector Ross from Scotland Yard, down in London. We get the top people coming to us in Harrogate!’ He gave me another mighty clap on the shoulder. ‘See you later, lad,’ he said and, to my relief, departed.
Walter looked me up and down suspiciously in silence. I wondered if he quite understood why I was there.
‘I understand,’ I prompted, ‘that Mr Thorpe – Young Mr Thorpe – is expecting me.’
‘I didn’t hear the fire cart’s bell,’ replied Walter. ‘All in good time. London folk are always rushing about, as I’m told. I’ll take you to him.’
He shuffled ahead of me to a door, opened it and managed to slip through it quite nimbly, pushing it smartly to behind him, so that I was left staring at the oak panels.
‘It’s yon fellow from London,’ I heard him say through the crack.
There was a scrape of a chair, a brisk footfall, and the door was opened wide.
‘Come in!’ cried a jolly looking, red-faced a
nd curly-haired man. ‘Sit down. Yes, yes, Walter, that’s fine.’ He shut the door, excluding my escort. ‘Don’t mind Walter,’ he added. ‘He’s a very cautious old boy, you know, doesn’t care for strangers.’
‘You deal mostly with established clients, then?’
‘Mostly,’ agreed Thorpe. ‘Glass of sherry?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said. ‘I know I’m on duty here, but it was a long journey.’
Thorpe leaned forward. ‘If you’d prefer, I’ll send over the road for a jug of ale.’
‘Even better,’ I told him. ‘But how long will it take Walter to fetch it?’
Fred Thorpe chuckled. ‘He won’t go himself. He’ll send Charlie, the office boy.’
I didn’t ask how old Charlie was. The way things were at Newman and Thorpe, he was very likely at least sixty.
Fred settled back in his chair. ‘You’ve come about poor old Tom Tapley, then?’
‘I have. You have heard he’s dead, obviously. May I ask, did Barnes tell you – or did you read it in the press?’
‘We don’t see the London evening papers here, but this morning, the murder victim was named in The Times.’ He tapped a folded newspaper on his desk.
‘I haven’t seen it,’ I said regretfully. I had read the Morning Chronicle during my train journey. The paper had devoted much of today’s edition to its zeal for reform. Poor Tapley’s death suggested no copy for an interesting leader on social conditions. He had not died of cholera in a squalid slum but in a respectable Quaker house. Perhaps, having reported the original discovery of a body, the Chronicle was now waiting for an arrest. It would then send a man to cover the trial and fill its columns with sensational details. I hoped the press wouldn’t have to wait much longer. That was why I was here in Harrogate: to find a lead. I had a childish impulse to cross my fingers.