by A. A. Glynn
Almost before he realised it and not knowing where he found the energy, O was uncurling himself from the ground and staggering to his feet. He started to run in blind panic for the roadway opposite the Silver Moon.
Rolling on the ground, Dobbs gathered up his Colt and, spluttering and swearing, and, in his typically impetuous way, levelled it at O’s retreating back.
Sadler barked a hoarse objection: ‘No! This whole country is in a fever, terrified of the Irish Fenians starting a shooting campaign, A shot will bring every policeman for miles around! Get after him, quick!’
The two Georgians ran out of the Silver Moon’s small garden and saw O running along the road ahead of them in the direction of Putney Bridge and the church. Both attempted to put on speed but the effort bore upon them the truth that they were no longer the lithe young men they once were and, since both were in the the flat-out pursuit of Dacers and Roberta Van Trask in Cremorne Gardens the previous evening, their reserves of stamina had not been replaced.
O put all his effort into his flight. He had no desire to fall into the hands of the dangerous pair of Americans again. The one with the revolver seemed to have a particular streak of viciousness and O had no wish to feel the threatening steel of his pistol rammed against the roof of his mouth again.
Even in the midst of his alarm, questions concerning the box from Birkenhead began to form in his brain. His earlier fear had been that the police would come in search of it, following up information from Birkenhead, due to the American exile who was robbed being a respected international celebrity. The two men on his tail had shown a desire to obtain the box so intense that they were prepared to resort to gunplay to obtain it. They were plainly no policemen but the box must contain something of peculiar value and, even in the heat of his flight, O saw that it would be better in his hands again rather than hidden away in the obscurity of Adolphus Crayford’s tiny apartment. If he got out of his present predicament, he would take pains to retrieve it. It must be of greater value than he ever imagined and he was foolish to part with it in the first place.
But gasping breath, blood drumming at his eardrums and feet that were beginning to falter, forced recognition of the acuteness of his present predicament on him. He was growing weary. A needle-like stitch was beginning to stab at his side. As his lungs began to labour, he wondered if the scented Turkish cigarettes he virtually devoured were starting to tell on him.
He glanced over his shoulder but could not see his pursuers. Then he noted that he had turned a bend in the road and they were still behind it but would make their appearance at any moment. He forced as much speed as he could out of his unwilling legs. He was now running with Putney’s winter-sheeted recreational craft on the river to his right while the old wooden bridge and St Mary’s Church were looming ahead.
The churchyard was crammed with high grave stones and monuments behind its low stone wall. He ran for the wall, praying he would reach it before the pursuers rounded the bend. He succeeded and scrambled over the wall, feeling that his breath was about to give out. He saw a row of high, weather worn gravestones ahead of him and, ducking low, he flung himself down behind one, fighting to recover his breath. There was an unkempt mixture of long grass and weeds around the grave and this, as well as the gravestone, offered cover. He was well out of sight of the churchyard wall.
He waited, slowly recovering normal breathing and listening for any sound of the two Americans.
Eventually, from beyond the wall, he heard trudging feet and a wearied, laboriously panting American voice said: ‘Damn it! I figure he came this way and he plumb disappeared. Reckon he’s somewhere in this graveyard. Where’s the gate to it. I’m too blamed tuckered out to climb this wall!’
‘Back this way, near the main gate to the church, I guess,’ gasped his companion, who was obviously just as winded.
O came to his knees, keeping his body almost doubled, he scooted back among the graves, crossing the churhyard until he reached the low wall flanking Putney High Street. Climbing the wall, he quickly plunged into the street’s crowded mixture of humanity, horses and vehicles to become almost invisible and make a hasty, stumbling way back to the shelter of his lodgings.
There, he lay low for the rest of the day. He was a man with almost monumental nerve, a smooth-talking chancer, the very model of the ‘chickaleery bloke’ of the music hall song, who had carried out some audacious misdeeds in a reckless life, but terror now gripped him. The two determined Americans might still be prowling the streets of Putney, looking for him and he had no wish to feel the barrel of a cocked pistol rammed into his mouth again. It took a long time for him to gain something resembling his composure and his cocky sense of superiority again. He smoked a fistful of his scented Turkish cigarettes and littered the floor with their miniscule butts, as usual, smoked down to almost nothing.
O was scared but not scared enough to be to be wholly cured of the avarice that drove his criminality. If anything, his greed had been sharpened by his encounter with the pair from America,. He now knew that the box he once had in hands contained something so desirable it brought out murderous intentions in the two. They had terrorised him into divulging its whereabouts but he wanted to possess it and its obviously valuable contents once again.
He determined to hasten to Thistle Street and collect the box from Adolphus Crayford’s keeping but he dare not venture out while there was a possibility of the men from America being somewhere in Putney scouring the streets for him with their murderous desire to obtain the box intensified by his escape.
He would have to wait until the following day before he attempted a return to young Crayford’s lodging. He entertained the wild hope that the pair might have forgotten the young artist’s address address since neither had noted it down but dismissed it, feeling the pair were probably too sharp and too intent on finding the box for that.
By tomorrow morning, the two Americans would surely have cleared out of Putney he would take the suburban train into London proper, hoping they had not beaten him to Marlborough Dwellings and seized the box. That object meant money and nothing lured O like money.
With hands still shaking, he lit another cigarette.
CHAPTER 11
CONSULTATION WITH A SAGE
Septimus Dacers made his way over the broken cobbles and between the dismal houses and tenement dwellings of Seven Dials, one of London’s most deprived, depraved, villainous and starvation-haunted corners. “The Dials” ranked as a blot on the face of Queen Victoria’s booming capital city. Its crumbling courts and unsavoury alleys sheltered a ragged population steeped in every species of trickery and criminality. It was a place to be avoided by any man with a pocket to be picked or a watch to be lifted. Worse, in dusk or darkness a shadow might slip behind him, swiftly snatch off his hat, bring a cosh down on his skull and rob him of everything on his person that could be stolen, including items of his clothing. No respectable woman would ever cross the margin separating Seven Dials from the well policed London of civilised behaviour.
And yet it was in Seven Dials that one of London’s most enigmatic personalities, a veritable sage who seemed to know every heartbeat of the great city, chose to make his home. It was to visit him that Dacers was on his way It was the day after he and Roberta Van Trask were chased through Cremorne Gardens; the self-same day when the two Georgians and Mr. O clashed in Putney.
As he threaded his way through the unlovely cityscape of Seven Dials, several things were on Dacers’mind: the attempt to shoot him; the information gleaned from the meeting at Cremorne concerning the unbelievable plans to bring Georgia out of the United States and into the burgeoning British Empire and the reference to a certain ‘Mr. O’ which brought a vague memory out of the past.
He came to a tumbledown structure over whose door a battered board bore the information that this was the establishment of Seth Wilkins, Practical Engraver.
Setty Wilkins, smal
l and gnome-like whose age none had ever guessed, the very Cockney of all Cockneys who spoke the Cockney argot that went out thirty years before, sat at his work desk, smoking his pipe and reading a book. When he heard the door creak open, he closed his book and pushed it to one side. It was Lord Chesterfield’s Letters to His Son. There was far more to Seth Wilkins than met the eye.
When the tall form of Dacers stepped through the door, Setty gave a throaty chuckle.
‘Vell, look vot’s blown in from the great, salty sea,’ he chortled. ‘Mr. Dacers hisself, in the flesh and accept no substitoots. Votcher, Mr. Dacers?’
‘Fine, thank you, Setty’ said Dacers. ‘How are you?’
‘If lumbago, rheumatism and corns vos currency of the realm, I’d be rich as Rothschild but you vants to know somethin’, Mr. Dacers. You’re velcome as the flowers in May but every time you enters my place of creative endeavour, I catches on to you avantin’ to know somethin.’ Oh, I’m glad to see you all abubble with curiosity. It means you’re in the course of earnin’ a crust, vich is allus a healthy occupation.’
Dacers grinned and sat down on a wooden box, part of the general clutter that furnished Setty’s workplace.
‘What I want to know, Setty, is how you came to be a human cabinet of curiosities where knowledge of London is concerned. When I learn how Setty Wilkins knows what’s going on and what’s gone on all over the city—and even, it seems what’s about to go on in the future—when nobody can recall him ever leaving the Dials I’ll retire content knowing that I’ve solved the greatest mystery of the universe. A detective can ask for nothing more.’
Setty removed his pipe from his mouth and his wrinkled face split into a wide grin. He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, a gesture which in the shadowy quarters of the Cockney world meant “That’s for me to know and you to find out” among other things.
‘Vy, Mr. Dacers, it’s easy vhen you knows how,’ he said jovially. ‘I’ll write the secret of it in my vill for you. Now, how can I help you in vot you are chasin’ up at this moment?’
‘Do you recall, Setty, some years ago there was a fellow whose name began with an O who was in the artistic swim in lots of ways. There was some legal row he was concerned which had to do with some supposedly ancient glasswork that turned out to be quite modern?’
Setty gave a sharp laugh. ‘Oh, I knows the cove you means. Mr. O he’s called in some quarters and Owl in some others. Rum kind of bloke, wery thick with the painting and poetry crowd, Rossetti, Burne-Jones, Vhistler and Svinburne, though I ’eard Burne-Jones considers ’im a rogue and Svinburne don’t like ’im either. It ain’t none of my business but vot do you vant to know about ’im?’
‘All a matter of research, Setty. I’d like to know where he can be found. In fact, I’d like to meet him.’
‘Vell, me vot’s a religious man in my own vay can only put it down to the mysterious vorkings of Providence, but only wery recent, I had vord of that same Mr. O;’ Setty said. ‘’E’s a downy bird an’ a slippery one. ’E’s not the kind to stay in one place for too long but a young man vot comes in here regular vith plates for me to ’grave for the penny dreadfuls had some business vith him not long ago. He might know vhere he can be found. This young gent is an artist and a good ’un, a son of a man of the cloth who deserves to make good one day. He came in here only recent cock-a-’oop because he’d sold a set of paintings to Mr. O and said ’e got a good price. I warned him to guard ’is dealin’s with the man because there’s many a tale that ’e’s responsible for a deal of trickery in the art vorld. He gave young Mr. Crayford vot Mr. Crayford considered a good price for his pictures but rumours say ’e’s the kind of cove vot might ’ave a vay of sellin’ ’em on for a much better price. I can’t think Mr. Crayford really likes him. He told me Mr. O likes scented Turkish cigarettes vhich he smokes all the time, one arter the other stinkin’ everywhere out. Smokes ’em in a rum vay, too, accordin’ to Mr. Crayford. Sucks ’em dry so to speak and leaves almost nothin’ to throw avay.’
‘Mr. Crayford, is that the young man’s name?’
‘Yus, Mr. Adolphus Crayford. ’e never told me ’is full address, but I know it’s somewhere Southampton Row vay.’ Setty paused, scratched his bald dome then suddenly looked inspired. ‘Just a moment, though, I think ve can find it.’
He left his seat, walked to the rickety door and opened it. He bellowed into the street: ‘Melbourne! Melbourne! Vhere are you lurkin’ you young wagabond?’
As if by magic, a grinning boy of about thirteen appeared on the doorstep. He wore tattered clothing, crushed old boots made for someone with bigger feet, an ancient top hat so misused as to resemble a concertina, and a ragged scarf long enough to threaten to trip him.
‘I ain’t far away, Mr. Wilkins,’ he declared brightly. ‘I never am, knowin’ you might need me any minute.’
‘Come in, you brigand,’ Setty invited. ‘This gentleman is Mr. Dacers. ’e comes ’ere once in a while to discuss confidential business—confidential, mind, so don’t you ever say you’ve seen ’im ’ere.’
Melbourne tapped his nose in that familiar Cockney gesture and grinned at Dacers. A child of the Seven Dials, his father who had long ago abandoned his brood of youngsters, must have had that strange weakness of the British lower classes of loving a lord. Otherwise it was difficult to understand why the boy was christened with the title of a former aristocratic Prime Minister who despised the poor.
‘Melbourne, didn’t I vunce send you to find out vhere young Mr. Crayford lives to deliver a set of ’gravings to him because he couldn’t collect ’em ’isself? If you remember the address, give it to Mr. Dacers.’
‘Easy, Mr. Wilkins. It’s in Marlborough Dwellin’s in Thistle Street at the back of Southampton Row. It’s a pad, up the first stair, second door and the number is two. I had to watch my step, askin’ around to find the place. There was three of four crushers lurkin’ around the vicinity. They’d arrest a cove like me in no time, claimin’ I was out to crack a crib.’
‘Vhich is somethin’ I ’ope you never contemplate, ’avin’ tried to get you to respect the Ten Commandments,’ said Setty gravely, wagging a finger at Melbourne.
Dacers fumbled in his pocket and found a florin which he handed to the urchin.
‘Thank you, Melbourne. It’s a good thing you have such a sharp memory. You’ve done me a service,’ he said.
The boy looked at the coin with delight in his eyes. ‘Cor! Two whole bob! Thanks, Mr. Dacers, you’re a real toff!’ he exclaimed.
Setty fished in the pocket of his engraver’s apron and brought forth a shilling which he handed to Melbourne whose eyes lit up even more brightly.
‘My eye! Thanks, Mr. Wilkins—now it’s three whole bob!’ he enthused.
‘Use it to get something at the cookshop for yourself and your brothers and sisters and don’t let your ma get it so she can blow it on gin,’ warned Setty.
‘I shan’t,’ grinned Melbourne. ‘D’you still want me, Mr. Wilkins?’
‘No. Run off. I’ll signal you vhen I vants you again.’
Melbourne left the premises and Setty Wilkins turned to Dacers. He nodded to the door which Melbourne had just slammed. ‘That’s a bright young shaver I ’opes to save from jail or the gallows if I can. A lad like ’im could easily become one of the Swell Mob an’ that’d be ’is ruin.’
Dacers smiled. He always knew there were hidden depths to Setty Wilkins. The old engraver now and then revealed a measure of unexpected learning. Dacers had heard him quote, Shakespeare, Dr Johnson, Lord Chesterfield and poets as old as Andrew Marvell and as modern as Tennyson.
He recalled that, during the affair of the Dixie Ghosts, an unknown urchin, quite likely out of Seven Dials, ran into the Scotland Yard detective office to deliver a message beneficial to Dacers to his friend, Detective Inspector Amos Twells. He suspected that the boy and the message were sent by Se
tty. Indeed, he had a notion that Setty used a squad of tattered urchins to carry out all manner of chores and bring back all manner of gossip from all over the city with which he was so familiar without ever leaving “The Dials”.
He believed, too, that Setty Wilkins was a generous benefactor of the ragged youngsters of Seven Dials. Once again, Dacers left Setty’s premises indebted to the Sage of Seven Dials and thinking of the mysterious Mr. O whose whereabouts might be known to the young artist in Marlborough Dwellings, Thistle Street.
The old engraver had reminded him of this shadow from the past. For O had a way of remaining shadowy in his dealings and he kept himself shadowy, too. Dacers recalled hearing of him as a general factotum among the artists and writers but very little was known about him outside artistic circles. Typically, Dacers had all but forgotten him after he faded from the headlines following the affair of the spurious antique glass for O seemed to have a way of fading away. But he had been mentioned by the speaker at the Cremorne gathering. What had he in his possession wanted by the former soldiers of the South who came to England hawking the improbable dream of Georgia becoming a British colony again?
And did he have any connection with another man from the South, the false-bearded horseman who came within an ace of shooting Dacers?
Clearly, there was more than a hint of criminality about Mr. O and he might need careful handling if Dacers encountered him. Hopefully, Adolphus Crayford of Marlborough Dwellings could tell him where O might be found. But he would delay seeing young Crayford until the morning. Tonight, he desired to call on Miss Van Trask as a matter of urgency.
CHAPTER 12
THE GLOOM OF MR. GRANDON
Victorian etiquette dictated that a gentleman must adhere to certain rules of conduct when calling on a lady. So, on the evening of his visit to Setty Wilkins, Septimus Dacers presented himself on the doorstep of Theodore Van Trask’s home, near Grosvenor Square in a slate-grey topcoat, gloves a well brushed top hat and carrying a stick.