Three Brothers

by Peter Ackroyd

  Daniel noticed the thin creases upon his face, and the lines about his mouth; he noticed his slightly curled lip, and his insolent stare. The black coat and the black cap were old-fashioned. And there was something else. He was wearing brown shoes. Black trousers and brown shoes. The jackdaw was not someone who paid attention to his appearance or, rather, he was someone who advertised that fact.

  “How long has he been here?” Sparkler asked them.

  “A couple of days. No more. He’s got nerve. He knows this is our pub.”

  “I wonder what he wants.”

  “What do you boys always want?”

  “We don’t normally cross the water.”

  “True.”

  “I’ll be watching out for him.”

  “So will we.”

  Sparkler and Daniel walked back slowly to the flat, Sparkler looking behind from time to time. “What’s the matter?” Daniel asked him.

  “I want to see the man who isn’t there.”

  They trod the dark streets in silence. There was fog in the street, spreading from the river; there was an acrid smell in the air, too, as if the fog were smoke from a bonfire. This was a damp and unwholesome place. The lights were burning in the downstairs rooms that they passed; where the curtains were not drawn Daniel could see plates on tables, cheap prints hanging from the walls, plain furniture, and people sitting or standing in silhouette.

  Suddenly Daniel heard a most terrible scream: it crescendoed for some seconds and then abruptly stopped. It reminded him of an incident from his childhood. On Camden Common he had watched as a cat was seized by a fox. Daniel stood still, and stared about him.

  “Why are you stopping?” Sparkler asked him.

  “Somebody,” Daniel replied, “has been killed.”

  “Well, blow me down.”

  “Seriously. You must have heard it.”

  “I didn’t hear nothing.”

  “Are you deaf? It was so fierce.”

  “I never have heard that scream. Some people have. Some people haven’t. My grandfather heard it once.”

  Daniel stayed for the rest of the weekend, eating with Sparkler in the now familiar cafés and cheap restaurants of Limehouse. He explored the territory for other reasons also. He had decided to write one chapter of his proposed book on the various novelists who had described the opium dens of the neighbourhood in the nineteenth century. There was one street in particular where the dens had been situated—Bluegate Fields—but it was now part of a park where blocks of council apartments rose. Yet still, in the lie of the territory, Daniel could see the image of the old street and its cobbled stones. He could glimpse it twisting its way among the small red gates and granite paths of the new estate; it would always be here, with its own burden of mystery. It was of the same order as the scream he had heard.

  He and Sparkler came back on Sunday night from a meal in a local Indian restaurant, where Sparkler had insisted on ordering the hottest vindaloo on the menu. “That was a facer,” he said, the sweat running down his forehead. “That will get the wind up me. Did you ever hear that song. ‘I’m Doris, the goddess of wind. Tra-la.’ ”

  “I am not familiar with it. No.”

  “Sung by Mrs. Shufflewick.”

  They had come up to the front door of the house in Britannia Street. When he put the key in the lock, Sparkler’s expression changed. He took out the key and then placed it back in the lock. He opened the door very abruptly and ran up the stairs to the third floor on which he lived. Daniel followed him quickly, alarmed at Sparkler’s reaction. The door of the flat was open, and he could hear Sparkler’s voice raised in anger. “What the bloody hell is this?” he was saying. “For the love of Mike!”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been burgled. The burglar has been burgled. The thief has been out-thiefed. He’s taken the watches. Can you believe it?” Daniel shook his head. “When one tea-leaf goes after another tea-leaf, what do you get? You don’t get a cup of tea. Oh fuck.” Sparkler went over to a small chest of drawers and opened one of its compartments. “Oh fuck.” He intoned the word more solemnly. “He’s taken my little red book.”

  The little red book was Sparkler’s record of the visits of his male clients, Aubrey Rackham and Sir Martin Flaxman among them.

  Sparkler pretended to strangle himself, writhing in such strange contortions that he alarmed Daniel. Then he lay down on the floor, and began banging his feet on the carpet. “I’m dead,” he said. “I’m finished. I’m over.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” Daniel went over and stood above him. “Was my name in the book?”

  Sparkler gave him a curiously impersonal look. “Of course not. You’re a friend.”

  “Who was?”

  “I can’t tell you. What am I going to do, Danny? What am I going to do?” He rolled on to his front, and lay spread-eagled on the carpet. “I could go to the police.” He started laughing, quietly at first; but he became louder and more hysterical.

  “Calm down, or you’ll burst.”

  “The jackdaw. That’s the one. He must have followed us home the other night.” He was silent for a moment. “Or those two coppers could have told him where I live.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Did you notice how quiet they got when I mentioned the arson?”

  “They were warning you to stay away. I noticed that.”

  “So now they have a little bit of insurance against me. The little red book is in their hands, courtesy of the jackdaw. Do you get it?”

  Daniel did get it. It seemed likely to him that the two policemen, and some of their colleagues, were somehow collaborating with the arsonists who had driven the Byrne family from their flat.

  “I’m going back to the Spit and Sawdust,” Sparkler said. “I’m not going to be his candyass.” He had an interest in American crime films, and on occasions borrowed his vocabulary from them. “Am I or am I not a flake?”

  “You are not.” Daniel said nothing else for a moment. “Is this really a good idea?”

  “Don’t worry. I just want to dance around him. I won’t land a punch. I want him to know that I know.”

  The jackdaw was standing by the counter in the saloon bar when Sparkler and Daniel came in. “Well hello, my beauty,” Sparkler said before greeting him with a brief but neatly executed soft-shoe shuffle. “Having fun?” The jackdaw looked at him warily, and said nothing. “Not so fragrant here as your side of the water, is it? They tell me that Bermondsey is pure heaven. Do you do a lot of business there?”

  The jackdaw’s expression was one of amused contempt. “This and that.”

  “More of this? Or more of that?”

  The jackdaw sniffed. “Can it.” He had a hoarse and rasping voice that was very like a growl.

  “Now that is not nice. Not nice at all. Anyone would think you had a grudge against me. Next thing I know you will be breaking and entering.” At that moment the landlord came behind the bar and asked them what they wanted to drink. Sparkler was distracted, momentarily, and ordered two pints of Guinness.

  The jackdaw and Sparkler were both now standing at the counter of the bar, just a few feet apart.

  “Breaking and entering,” Sparkler said to Daniel in a loud voice. “That’s a lovely phrase.”

  The jackdaw stared into the space immediately ahead of him. Then he began to whistle a tune that Daniel recognised. But he did not recall the words. The jackdaw whistled a few more notes, and then finished his drink with a flourish before wiping his mouth with a red and white spotted handkerchief. He tipped his hat over his eyes, strolled to the door and, on leaving, looked across at Sparkler. “Is your friend a nancy, too?” he asked him. Then he was gone.

  Sparkler rushed to the door, but the jackdaw had already slipped around a corner. “Push off,” he shouted in his general direction. He came back into the bar. “I wonder,” he asked Daniel, “if I will see him again?”

  Daniel knew that he would. “That tune he was whistling,”
he said, “is called ‘Sweet Mystery of Life.’ ”

  XIII

  Cheeky monkey

  “IS HIS nibs in?” the odd-looking young man asked Sam Hanway. “He’s expecting me.”

  “Who shall I say—”

  “The chancer from over the river. Pincher Solomon’s friend. He’ll know.” He was carrying in his hand a small package that resembled a slim book.

  Ruppta must have heard his voice—he was always very acute of hearing—because he opened the door at once. “Ah,” he said, “the jackdaw is quick. He likes to chatter.”

  “I am quick. I told you so.”

  Ruppta ushered the young man into his office, from where Sam heard snatches of murmured conversation. He thought he heard the name of Sparkler mentioned, but he dismissed the possibility; there was no reason why his friend should be discussed by this stranger. There was the sound of laughter, and then Sam heard the familiar clicking of the lock to the safe in the corner of Ruppta’s office.

  They came out of the office, smiling, as if in memory of some shared joke. “Tell Mr. Solomon he has no need to worry now,” Ruppta said. “I already had one. Now I have the other.”

  “Solomon will be very pleased. Hold onto them. Hold on tight.”

  “That is my intention. What is that English saying about birds in the hand? But you know all about birds, don’t you?”

  They shook hands, and Ruppta opened the door for him. “That young man is known as the jackdaw,” he said after he had gone. “The jackdaw is considered to be an omen of death. Let us hope it is not the case here.”

  Sam left the office early that day, Ruppta permitting his departure on the grounds of what he called “this inclement weather.”

  He had decided to visit his mother at her home, and workplace, in Borough. One of “the girls,” as they were called, came to the door. “Oh it’s you,” she said. “She’s just popped out.” She moved aside and, as Sam entered, she laughed. “You always bow your head when you come in. You would think this was a church.”

  He made his way to the room at the end of the corridor; the flowers were in a blue vase on the table, as usual, and the window had been left open despite the rain. He went over, and leaned against the sill. He liked to gaze at the rain. He did not hear his mother enter the room, and he was startled when she put her hand upon his shoulder.

  “Lost in space?” she asked. “Your father used to like the rain.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I was thinking. I never heard you come in.”

  “A penny.”

  “What?”

  “For your thoughts.”

  “Oh nothing much. Nothing special.”

  “Your father used to think too much. That’s probably what killed him. Is that an awful thing to say?” She leaned over the table and tidied the drooping stems of the flowers in the vase. “There. That’s better.”

  “I’ll tell you what I was thinking. Have you heard of Pincher Solomon?”

  “Of course I have.” His mother looked at him intently, almost fearfully. “He runs this area. Why do you want to know?” Then Sam told her the story of the strange young man with the long yellow hair who had come to Ruppta’s office that morning. She stopped him after a moment. “That’s the jackdaw,” she said. “Watch out for him. Don’t cross him. He can be dangerous. Everyone knows about him.”

  “Does he live around here?”

  “He drinks in the Blue Elephant. Along with Solomon. Don’t go near them, Sam. You will only come to harm.”

  “What do they want with Mr. Ruppta?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Stay away.” Sally Hanway had dealings with Solomon. He took five per cent of her profits on the understanding that he would protect her from the attentions of the police or the threats of her rivals. “I wish,” she said, “that you would find another job.”

  “Why? I like the one I have.”

  “You shouldn’t be seeing these people. You shouldn’t be dealing with them. They don’t care what they do, Sam. They’ll do anything.”

  He left his mother’s house soon after, and began to wander through the streets of Borough. The air was full of noises—a football being kicked against a wall, the faint mosquito crackle of a transistor radio beside an open window, a car accelerating in the road, a child crying, all of them mingling together as the halo of the human world. Then Sam caught sight of the Blue Elephant public house. Instinctively he walked towards it and went in.

  The interior resembled a large barn, with a circular bar in the centre of the open space and various chairs and tables scattered across the uneven floor. There were jars of pickled eggs on the counter of the bar, and the air was striated by cigarette smoke and the odour of stale beer. An Irish hound lay sprawled upon the floor, apparently asleep among the loud laughter and conversation of the clientele. A jukebox broadcast the voice of Johnny Mathis. No one paid Sam any attention but, as he went over to the bar, he noticed the jackdaw sitting on a wide deep sofa with three other men.

  His companions had a distinctive, and almost shameless, air; each of them was dressed, like the jackdaw himself, in a variety of oddly assorted clothes. One of them wore a mustard-coloured waistcoat with white flared trousers; he had bright red hair that stuck out unevenly. Another had a pork-pie hat with a shiny grey suit; he was wearing white plimsolls. The third of them was older. He wore a blue cloth suit, and a black waistcoat with a watch chain draped across it; his shoes were patched with red and white leather. Sam surmised, rightly, that this was Pincher Solomon. The jackdaw, always quick and observant, recognised Sam at once and whispered to Solomon. “Over here,” he called out. “Why don’t you come over here?” Sam approached them slowly. “This is the gent I was telling you of,” the jackdaw said to Solomon. “He works for old Ruppta.”

  “Oh does he?” Solomon had a soft voice with the slightest trace of a lisp. “Are you a good boy? Are you a slave to your master?”

  “No. I am not a slave.”

  “You have more of an independent mind, do you?”

  “I do my work. That’s all.”

  “And what is that work?” Solomon seemed to look at him sideways, as if he were examining him secretly as he spoke.

  “I collect the rents.”

  “That is very sensitive work. Very provoking. Very tiring.”

  “I don’t find it so.”

  “Do you not? Most interesting. Most interesting indeed. Would you care for a drink? Benedict, will you bring our guest something?”

  Benedict leapt to his feet. “What will it be?”

  “Guinness.”

  “An excellent choice,” Solomon said. “What shall we call you, sir?”

  “Sam.”

  The jackdaw raised his head. “I knew a Sam once. He ended up in Pentonville.”

  “Past history, jackdaw.” Solomon seemed to be concealing the fact that he was annoyed. “Past history.” Then he turned back to Sam. “I don’t suppose you would object to earning an extra spot of cash? I am not being indelicate, I hope.”

  “I don’t suppose,” the jackdaw said, imitating Solomon’s soft and gentle delivery, “that you came in here by accident.”

  “It may have been a whim.” Solomon replied for him. “A whim is a good thing. Did you come here on purpose, Sam?”

  “I was interested.”

  “May I put it this way?” Solomon asked him. “Your lord and master asked the jackdaw here to help him in a delicate matter. Might Mr. Solomon one day ask the same of you?”

  “That depends.”

  “Oh you are a clever boy.”

  “I would do nothing to harm Mr. Ruppta.”

  “And you are loyal, too. That is a great encouragement to me. That means everything.” Benedict came back with Sam’s drink. “This young man,” he told Sam, “is as keen as the mustard. Are you not, Benedict?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Pincher Solomon exchanged a look with the jackdaw. “You may be able to solve a little difficulty for me, Mr. Sam. We were just
discussing it. Before you came in. Isn’t that a coincidence? We need to get a certain letter delivered into the hands of a certain person. It is all very delicate.” He placed the fingertips of both hands together. “Very sensitive. The jackdaw is too shy, you see. He hates to be recognised. As do all my boys. But you, well, you are anonymous. You look to me like a young man in an old photograph. One of the war dead, as it were.”

  “I can mention this to Mr. Ruppta?”

  “He will be delighted. Overjoyed. Tell him that I am sending a little letter to Sir Martin Flaxman. Have you heard of him?” Sam shook his head. “Even better. Better and better.”

  As instructed, Sam returned to the Blue Elephant two days later. “Here is the famous letter,” Pincher Solomon told him. “It is my epistle to the Romans. Fallen brethren, you see. This is what you must do. You must present yourself at the front door of this residence.” He tapped the address on the envelope. “You must say that you have an important letter to deliver personally to Sir Martin. Personally. There will be the usual bustle and refusal. Then you will say this. ‘Tell him it is about Tuesday evenings.’ Repeat the sentence. He will see you then. Take my word for it. Give him the letter. Stay there if you can, while he reads it.”

  Asher Ruppta had borrowed the jackdaw from Solomon, so that the practised thief might steal Sparkler’s diary; Ruppta knew that Sparkler had been asking questions about the arsonists in Britannia Street, and he wanted to prevent him from doing so. If he had evidence of Sparkler’s illegal activities as a prostitute, he could at the very least evict him from his lodgings.

  When Ruppta saw the contents of Sparkler’s diary, however, he paused and reflected. Here was the name of Sir Martin Flaxman. Ruppta was also interested in another name. It was that of Stanley Askisson, who had carried the bribes from Ruppta to Cormac Webb at the Ministry of Housing.

  Of course the jackdaw had first copied out the entries made by Sparkler, and then handed the paper with a flourish to Pincher Solomon. “The bum boy,” he said, “has been careless.”