Last Rights

by Barbara Nadel

  He smiled, which made him look even more spare and hawk-like than he already was. ‘I gather from the police that you are aware of some of the details regarding Pearl Dooley’s background,’ he said. ‘Specifically her mother and who she was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was you who, as it were, raised the alarm vis-à-vis Kevin Dooley, was it not, Mr Hancock?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’

  ‘Without at the time, I understand, having any knowledge about the life and career of Pearl’s mother, Victorine, and her very similar modus operandi.’

  Luckily for me I’d got into the grammar school so I knew what he was on about. I’d quite enjoyed my Latin classes.

  ‘No. Although I’ve learned this and that since.’

  ‘I was Victorine Reynolds’s solicitor,’ Blatt said. ‘With Mr Couch, her barrister, I tried to convince the court that Harold Neilson’s death was as much his own doing as Victorine’s.’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That his acts of violence towards her, over a long period of time I should add, drove the poor woman to kill him in defence of herself and her youngest child, Opal.’

  Opal. That was the other name.

  ‘But unfortunately we failed and Mr Justice Morgan handed down the death penalty.’ He shook his head sadly at the memory of it. ‘Poor Victorine, she was so worried about her daughters. Wanted them to stay together, had visions of a family living on after her, as it were. But it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Pearl told me they were orphaned,’ I said.

  Blatt leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘They all have different fathers,’ he said. ‘God knows who they are or were. Who outside can fathom the shady world of female prostitution, Mr Hancock?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ I said, with what I knew was a guilty swallow. ‘So, do you know what happened to the girls after their mother was executed?’

  Doris came back in with the tea at that point. Only when she’d gone did Blatt, after lighting up a fag, continue.

  ‘Ruby, who’s the eldest, Pearl and Amber were sent to an orphanage,’ he said. ‘Opal, who was only eight at the time, was, I believe, put up for adoption. Victorine killed Harold Neilson, Mr Hancock, but I don’t believe that Pearl murdered her husband in the same fashion, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I responded honestly. ‘It seems unlikely.’

  ‘Murder, or rather murderous tendencies, cannot be inherited like some sort of disease,’ he said, with passion in his voice. ‘It’s just too fantastic.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, not wanting to give my opinion either way to this unknown man as yet. ‘But if she or anyone else, for that matter, is innocent, I know that we have a duty to see the authorities know it. The truth is important, especially in war-time. People are frightened. The truth is all they have to hang on to, you know . . .’

  ‘Absolutely! Absolutely!’ I’d gone off a bit and I could tell that he was humouring me. I could see in his eyes he knew I wasn’t quite the ticket.

  And then he asked me what I knew. He had, of course, spoken to Pearl and the police so he knew about the abortion and Dot Harris’s denial of it.

  ‘Do you think that Pearl indeed had an abortion performed on her, Mr Hancock?’ he said, after I’d finished.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘How can I? But I think it’s a possibility, whatever Dot Harris might say. Otherwise why would Pearl own up to such a thing?’

  ‘Precisely!’ Blatt smiled. ‘Exactly! The abortionist, this Harris woman, has to be lying!’

  ‘Dot Harris does have something of a reputation,’ I said, without thinking.

  ‘Oh, so you know this woman, do you?’ Blatt came back immediately. ‘How so?’

  I felt my face redden but I managed to speak in spite of this and quite quickly, even if I do say so myself. ‘Everyone round here knows Dot Harris, Mr Blatt,’ I replied. ‘As I said, she does have a reputation for helping girls out when they’re in trouble.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He looked at me with a hard if also rather amused eye. No wonder he had his office in Knightsbridge, I thought. He had to be an astute man, mainly because I felt him looking into my own guilty soul. He could, I felt, sense I’d been in Dot’s house – knowing what she was and what she did, going to one of her girls to satisfy my lusts. But, then, even as Mr Blatt had to know, we’re not in the habit of giving up our own in this part of the world. Young girls get in trouble and Dot Harris, just like me, has to make a living. However, Mr Blatt’s understanding of this didn’t seem, perhaps, all that I thought it should be.

  ‘A terrible thing to destroy a child like that,’ he said, as his face gradually assumed a grave aspect. Almost faraway now, he said, ‘It’s such a waste! Like yourself, I imagine, Mr Hancock, I served in the Great War. Leaves one with such an abhorrence for loss of life!’

  But I didn’t answer. His comment about the first lot didn’t need one. And although I knew he’d use the abortion as a defence for Pearl, it was obvious to me that he didn’t approve of such practices. Not in any circumstances. I know what the Church and the law have to say on the matter, but I find it hard to agree with that myself. Maybe I’ve buried too many girls who should maybe have had abortions. I’ve also buried more than my share of poor, twisted and deformed infants, who would probably have been better had they not lived at all. If only it could be done properly, by doctors. But it never will be.

  Mr Blatt didn’t stay long after that and, to be honest, I was quite pleased about it. I preferred to think that Pearl was innocent, but I felt that with Blatt there was a forcing of that position I didn’t feel comfortable with. I knew he was her brief and had to be like that, to some extent. But he was a bit much for me, I decided, Mr Blatt.

  ‘Makes you wonder what’s going on with those Reynolds women,’ I said to Ken, as I swept the yard at the back of the shop. ‘Pearl and Kevin, Ruby and Shlomo. Funny Mr Blatt never asked me about that.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because it ain’t his case,’ Ken said.

  ‘Yes, but it could have some connection to Pearl or, rather, there could be a possibility of that,’ I said. ‘I mean, it does seem a bit of a coincidence that both those sisters’ fellows should die in mysterious circumstances.’

  ‘Well, maybe the women did do them,’ Ken said. ‘I mean, H, women do kill, some of them quite pretty women too.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘It’s Velma I really feel bad about. If I hadn’t had all those doubts I did about Kevin and how he died, she’d be with her mum now instead of God knows where and in who knows what danger. I wish I knew where she was.’

  ‘Maybe you do.’

  I looked up at him, frowning.

  ‘Bethnal Green tube?’ Ken said. ‘Ain’t that where she said she went that night with her mum?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Although whether she’d go back there on her own, I didn’t know. If she was on her own. ‘But shouldn’t I tell the coppers?’

  ‘What, and frighten the kid rigid? Nah!’

  ‘Yes, but on my own, I . . .’

  ‘It’s got to be worth a shot,’ Ken said, as he made his way out into the back alley behind the shop. ‘She trusts you. Look, someone’s coming!’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  I was about to say, ‘Yes, but I can’t go down there, not down a tube,’ but he’d gone. Looking as he does, his face in the state it is, Ken isn’t comfortable around those he doesn’t know. There’s nothing for these blokes, these heroes of the trenches, whose wounds are so bad people shrink from them in the street. King and Government don’t care, that’s for sure. If they did they’d do something for the poor buggers – they’d think more than twice about getting into another war too. So Ken just took off as he always does when strangers turn up.

  ‘Just watch yourself, H,’ I heard him say, as he walked down the alley. ‘Just make sure you can always see your way to the exit.’

  Too bloody right, I thought, as I rested the broom against the privy wall. As well as being
underground, the tube stations are hazardous, packed with people in all states and conditions. Afraid and starved of daylight, some of them down there can be funny about their ‘pitches’ on the platform. I’ve heard stories about women effing and blinding at each other, fights blocking exits, blood on the platforms – everything.

  ‘Francis Hancock?’ The voice, although not that deep, was gruff and almost without a doubt unfriendly.

  I looked up into the face of its owner and noticed that there were two other faces, one on either side of it. None of them were in any way appealing to me and all of them bore a resemblance to the late Kevin Dooley.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘who wants to—’

  ‘Never mind who wants to know,’ the speaker, who was, I reckoned, about twenty-five, said. ‘Just listen and learn, Hancock.’

  The one on the speaker’s left very obviously punched his right palm with his knuckleduster-crowned fist. I can handle myself in a fight, I know, but I’m also good at recognising when I’m beaten. I stood quite still, waiting to hear and learn.

  ‘We’ve heard a rumour,’ the speaker said, ‘that some people think that murdering slag Pearl Dooley didn’t kill her husband.’

  He looked at me as if he wanted a response, but when I did open my mouth to speak the creature on his right, a small, weaselly-looking thing, darted forward and put one of his hands round my throat.

  ‘I said to fucking listen!’ the speaker said.

  Seeing as how I could hardly breathe I didn’t have a lot of choice. So, wondering just how indiscreet Fred Bryant had been about my assistance to Pearl, I waited for the man to speak again.

  ‘Now, we know that you’ve helped the slag, Hancock,’ he said, ‘so don’t bother to try and lie. Not that I’m interested in what happened in the past, you understand. It’s the future as bothers me.’ He moved his face, which smelled of beer, close to mine. ‘If I hear you’ve been helping her again . . .’

  ‘She’s in Holloway,’ I gagged. ‘It was me helped put her there!’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘But you took her in once when my old mum chucked her out. I don’t like that. People don’t usually cross my family like that. I want you to have nothing more to do with the murdering bitch and I want you to tell me if you so much as sniff her bastard kid.’

  This Dooley obviously didn’t share his old mum’s dislike of swear words.

  ‘Why?’

  He went to punch me in the stomach, I even tensed to receive the blow, but then he changed his mind. ‘Because the kid’ll defend her mother and I don’t want that slag to get away with murdering my brother.’

  ‘How do you know Pearl killed your brother?’ I said. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Because I just fucking know, right?’ he yelled. His face was bright purple now, his already coarse features stretched into an ugly mask of hatred. ‘Because no one else would’ve dared touch our Kev! Because she’d had a go at him before, making threats, and because she’s a lying, baby-killing tart!’

  The weasel-faced one loosened his grip on my throat while what I assumed was his brother collected his thoughts.

  ‘So, what I’m saying, Hancock, is this,’ he panted. ‘Help that slag again and you’ll have to deal with us. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not talking about a bit of a punch-up either,’ he said. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ The possibilities were endless. They could break my kneecaps, cut off one of my ears, even shoot me with a gun some older brother or uncle had hidden away after the Great War. A lot of old soldiers still have guns. My old Webley, unused since the first lot, lay in the top drawer of the tallboy in my bedroom at the time. I thought then that perhaps I ought to try to find the ammo at some point.

  ‘So we understand each other, then?’ he said, as he attempted to tower over me, without much success.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Isn’t it strange the way that so many short men have this bullying side to their nature?

  The weasel let me go and then, with what sounded like a growl made through his gritted, broken teeth, the leader led his troops out of the yard and into the alleyway.

  I wasn’t so much shaken up as angry. I knew that if the Dooleys cut up rough there wasn’t a lot I could do about it, even if I did get my old revolver out. But that they should have come into my yard and threatened me made me furious – and, I have to say, suspicious. I know, God knows I do, how important family is in the East End. I’ve seen rival families fight almost to the death over this, that or the other. I’ve seen women launch themselves at other women and their kids in the street and we all know all about nobbling witnesses to a crime. But in this case I did wonder. I couldn’t know any more than anyone else whether Pearl was telling the truth about where she was when Kevin died. Even if she’d been to Dot Harris’s, the old girl had to lie about what she’d been doing at the time – and, what was more, the police had to know that too. But then the police would also know that they’d have to get the whole affair sorted very quickly. Murder isn’t good for morale in a city so wounded as our old London and a quick clear-up has to be favourite. Justice withers and can die in war-time, as I know.

  But I wondered. If Pearl didn’t kill her husband, then who did? And did it have more to do with her and who she was, her dubious parentage, or was it just down to Kevin and who he’d been? Had he just had relations with, and possibly roughed up, a street woman who then took her revenge? Even though Hannah hadn’t heard anything like this on her travels, it didn’t mean that such a thing was impossible. After all, there are other places round here besides Rathbone Street for blokes with needs to go. Also, Kevin Dooley hadn’t been a popular bloke. A violent drunk, although his mum and Pearl – so she said – had loved him but I wondered about whether anyone else had. After all, just because someone’s family it doesn’t mean we have to like them. It doesn’t mean we can’t hate them. Perhaps there was a family member who had had a problem with Kevin. Perhaps this person was who the Dooley boys were protecting when they threatened me. They had, after all, kicked up quite a stink and were very certain about Pearl’s guilt. I decided then and there to do something I’d never done before – something that just the thought of made my skin crawl. I did it alone too – without the coppers and without Hannah. I wasn’t ready to see her just then.

  I’d heard that some people spend all day down tube stations, but I never understood what this meant until I went to Bethnal Green that evening. I walked there, through the rain, past some people crying and others singing. You can see every feeling in this city now. You can see firm chins and stout spirits even in the most awful circumstances and you can see despair that goes far beyond the loss of hope. A woman staring into a rain-filled hole, her eyes dry and numb as if they’re blind. Makes you wonder what or who is down that hole. But unless there’s just been a raid, you probably don’t ask. Whatever it was is dead now.

  I have so few clothes these days I have to wear what I wear for work or I’d go naked most of the time. So there I was, all in black, the veil around my hat sodden with rainwater, hanging down the back of my neck, walking through the shattered remains of people’s lives and what was left of their property. Like Death himself. I could see the marks of fear in their eyes as I passed. I heard the way many of them went silent as they looked at me. Maybe some thought they were suffering visions, finally gone mad with it all.

  Even when I got to the tube station that illusion continued.

  I asked the bloke at the ticket office for a platform ticket and he said, ‘Someone copped it down there, did they, pal?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I said, as I raked in my pockets for coppers.

  ‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘Not here on business, then?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘You know they’re all packed in like sardines down there, don’t you?’ he said.

  I felt my face flush with anxiety, but I smiled weakly and walked away without answering.

  It’s the smell as hit
s you first. Musty and rank. A mixture of rain-sodden clothes, fag smoke, sweat, urine and something sweet and sickly, like milk. All of it overlaid with the usual smells of the tube: the wood of the carriages, oil, the brilliantine on the men’s heads as they get out at the stations. The trains keep on running, the passengers getting off on to platforms that serve as parlours, bedrooms, kitchens and brothels.

  A train had just pulled in when I got down on to the platform. I had to press myself against the wall so that shop girls and old clerks, tailors and soldiers home on leave could get to the exit. Stepping gingerly over mums trying to calm excited youngsters, the passengers would pick their way, saying, ‘Sorry, love,’ ‘Excuse me,’ or ‘Mind out the bleedin’ way, Missus,’ according to how they felt. As I looked down the eastbound platform, I felt my heart sink. How on earth was I ever going to find Velma among this lot? There were thousands of them, hordes of jabbering people, mostly in brown or grey coats. They looked like a great mat of cockroaches spread out on the floor in front of me. Just to breathe I had to concentrate. I was so scared and could have lost myself to my fear so easily. To prove to myself I could do it, I raised an arm a little bit and then I started to feel better.

  As soon as I began to move among the largely seated crowd, the problems I’d experienced earlier with people outside reappeared.

  ‘Fucking hell, you know when Death’s in town, don’t you?’ one bright spark said. ‘Bloody smell!’

  A lot of people say that all of us, in my line of work, smell of the french polish we use to shine up the coffins but I’ve never noticed it myself so I just pushed on without comment.

  ‘Here, you’ve not come for Gracie Rose, have you?’

  The woman, who was probably about fifty, had one hand on the bottom of my coat while the other one clutched on to an older woman sitting beside her.

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Well, her chest was shocking until about an hour ago,’ the woman said. ‘Then it all went quiet. I could well believe she’d passed on.’

  ‘God love her!’ her companion said, shaking her head as she did so.