by Carol Hedges
The pretty blonde will eventually pair off with one of the dashing young army officers who have come up from camp for a night out. He will be as free with his money as with his embraces, and a good time will be enjoyed by both, ending in a frantic dash to Nine Elms Station, where the kindly guard will let them travel back to Aldershot in the guard’s van. And what they get up to in there is nobody’s business but their own.
***
Business of an entirely different nature is being conducted not a stone’s throw away in Soho, where The Gathering of The Select & Apocalyptic Brethren is taking place in its usual venue above the music publisher’s shop.
Senior Prophet About is doing business with The Almighty, while being watched by a slightly anxious flock. They have been summoned to an extra-ordinary meeting as there are Concerns. The Concerns pertain to the sudden and unexpected refusal by Bob Murdoch to supply more red paint.
After a brief silence, during which the flock holds its corporate breath, About opens his eyes and scans the room slowly, letting his gaze travel from face to face. “Where is Brother Robert?”
There is a general shifting of position and a group clearing of throats. Everyone knows that two smartly-dressed men had recently visited Bob’s shop while he was elsewhere, had asked his old mum a lot of paint-related questions, but had bought no paint.
After Bob had returned and been told, it was agreed that the men weren’t boney fido decorators, but were there to snoop in an official capacity of some sort. Their visit indicated that somebody had fingered Bob Murdoch, and that the finger in question was not attached to the Hand of God.
“Err … his dog’s not well.”
“Heard it was the wife.”
“Nah – it’s his youngest lad: he’s got that throat thing that’s going around. My Flo had it, proper poorly she was.”
The flock, having thus supplied a pick-your-own mix of excuses, settles back in their seats with the air of having done their duty. About casts his eyes to the heavens, via the smoke-blackened ceiling, and intones:
“Who amongst us has any paint left?”
“Got half a pot,” someone ventures.
“Think I might have a lick somewhere,” adds another.
The Chief Prophet sighs.
“And how are we supposed to proceed with The Lord’s mighty Work of Retribution on half a pot of paint and ‘a lick’?”
“Fish!” a voice from the back row sings out loudly.
All heads swivel round to view the singer, who is grinning happily with the air of a man who has solved the riddle of the universe. Seeing he has their full attention, he continues, “It’s like in the Bible, innit? When there was that crowd and all they had was one loaf of bread and a couple of fish, but Jesus prayed over them and there was enough to feed five thousand. We could pray over the paint and it could turn into … a lot more paint … maybe it might even …” His voice tails off as he catches the corner of About’s hard stare.
“Thank you, Brother Inkerman, for your valuable contribution,” About says drily. “I’m sure that The Lord, if He chose, and in His Infinite Wisdom, could indeed supply us with enough paint to cover the entire city. However, as I also possess a nearly full pot, we should have sufficient for our immediate needs. Let us now bow our heads and pray for Brother Robert – yes, let us pray long and hard for him. And then let us sally forth into the highways and byways of this Iniquitous Cesspit of Evil.”
The flock closes its eyes and mentally focuses upon Brother Robert, who is even now (secretly and under cover of darkness) pouring the last of his stock of red paint into the River Thames, on the basis that if he had to choose between God and Mammon, it is a no-brainer. And when he confirms the name of the bastard who shopped him to the authorities, they will be picking up their teeth from the pavement.
Won’t they just, Harlow Thewl. Oh yes.
***
It is brisk step from Scotland Yard to that part of London known to the initiated as “Down by the Docks”, an area that the various tourist guides to the City might designate as ‘brimming with local colour’.
Down by the Docks is where they eat the largest oysters in the world and scatter the largest oyster shells in the world. Here you will find tally-shops, slop-shops, coffee-shops, and greengrocers’ shops that sell vegetables that seem to have a saline and scaly look, as if they have been scraped off the bottom of ships.
Down by the Docks you can buy telescopes, sou’-wester hats, pewter watches, nautical instruments and Union Jack pocket handkerchiefs. You can feast on sausages and polonies and saveloys made of who-knows-what besides seasoning. Down by the Docks is a roaring, fiddle-scraping, shrieking, shouting, arguing place. A place that is like no other place in the whole of the city.
It is a clear crisp morning, and a small crowd has gathered to watch a man up a ladder very carefully painting THE WAGON & HORSES A PUBLIC HOUSE on an inn sign. He has almost finished. At some point, he is going to realise that he has left out the L. The crowd is looking forward to the entertainment.
Detective Sergeant Cully and Sergeant Evans approach the crowd and attach themselves casually to the back, on the basis that whereas a single man will have his wits about him, a crowd generally shares a single wit amongst many. You can learn things from crowds.
“Nice day,” Cully remarks to nobody in particular.
“Gonna rain later on,” a man in a bowler and shabby suit responds lugubriously, his walrus moustache drooping.
“Ow, thank you, Horace. I’ve just put a load of washing out in the back yard,” a well-upholstered woman replies, folding her meaty arms under her apron.
“Must be hard keeping things nice and clean – my missus is always complaining about the soot and smuts,” Cully says to the same nobody in particular.
“She’s right to complain,” the washing one nods. “Seems it gets sootier and smuttier every year.”
“My Megan says all the washing and mangling plays havoc with her hands,” Evans says.
There is a pause while the woman looks him up and down. Her eyes soften. Her mouth curves into a smile.
“Well, you could always help her out. Big man like you can always make yourself useful around the house.”
“Oh, I shall once we’re married. But right now, she lives in Wales.”
A couple of other women transfer their attention from the painter to the sergeant and eye him with predatory interest.
“Your sweetheart ever gets tired of waiting for you, darlin’, I’m always available,” one says.
Her friend nudges her in the ribs.
“Oooh, Lizzie Duke – don’t let your old man hear you carrying on!”
“Well, can you blame me? Fine figure of a man – wouldn’t kick him out of bed, would you?”
“You want any washing done, lovey? I got a hot tub all ready and waiting,” a third woman says, winking suggestively.
Sergeant Evans blushes furiously. The fan club giggles.
“Actually, ladies,” he says when his face has returned to its normal colour, “there is something you could do for me, if you’d be so kind.”
“Oh, kindness don’t come into it,” Lizzie says, to more raucous laughter.
“The other day I rescued a little lad from some bullies – he was dressed all in white. Never seen anything like it. Do you know his name?”
The women click their teeth and exchange meaningful glances.
“You mean The Infant Prophet.”
“Possibly. What’s his name?”
“That. Leastwise, if he has another name, I ain’t never ‘eard it. You?” The woman appeals to her mates. Who all shake their heads.
“His dad used to be called Millbank Tendring,” Lizzie says. “Only then he got religion. Now he calls himself Prophet About – about as useful as a wet week of Mondays. Rents a place up west where they all meet.”
“They?” Cully queries.
“The people what belong to his church. If you can call it a church. Praying and carrying
on, while his poor wife is at home slaving over the washing and ironing to keep that boy’s clothes white. White! I ask you!”
Cully indicates silently to Evans by tugging on his sleeve that if he agrees, a strategic withdrawal at this point might be a good plan. Sergeant Evans bestows his wide guileless smile upon the fan club.
“Ladies, it has been a pleasure talking to you this fine morning. May we bid you all good day.”
“Anytime you wanta drop by for a talk, don’t hesitate, big boy,” Lizzie replies with a smirk. “I love a good talk.”
Cully and Evans step away from the crowd.
“Are we going to arrest this man?” Evan asks quietly.
“No, we aren’t,” Cully says. “Not yet. We’re going to bide our time until we actually catch him in the act. Otherwise, what’s the point? Better to get the man who did it than the man who looked as if he was going to do it. Especially when people start saying: ‘Prove it’.”
“So, what happens now?”
“We’ll head back to the Yard and work out a plan.”
They move off.
A few minutes later the sign painter climbs down the ladder and looks up to admire his handiwork. He utters a heartfelt groan. The crowd nods in satisfaction.
***
The course of true love rarely runs smoothly, and, at the moment, for two young women, it is barely moving at all. Mind you, it might help if the gentleman who is the focus of their heartfelt affections was a little more generous with his presence.
For Mark Hawksley, secret lover of one and object of interest for the other, is currently proving somewhat elusive. A letter sent to his hotel by Josiah has been returned, marked: No longer staying here.
Three days have passed since this startling development, but now, just as even good-natured Josiah Bulstrode is beginning to look worried – for, after all, he has invested a lot of money in the Dominion Diamond Mine Company – behold, a letter is delivered.
Josiah opens it, watched by two pairs of interested eyes. He reads aloud:
My dear Josiah,
A hundred apologies for not getting in touch. As you can see, I have moved residence and am now renting some rooms in Highgate. I should like to invite you and your sister (not forgetting Miss Kite) to take tea with me at 4 o’clock this afternoon.
It will give me the chance to repay you, in a very small way, for your generosity during my trip to your home town. I also have news of an exciting nature to share with you.
I look forward to our meeting.
Yours,
Mark Hawksley
“There now, Sissy,” Josiah says, folding the letter and placing it in his coat pocket. “I knew he’d be in touch. Didn’t I say as much? Exciting news, eh? I wonder what that can be about?”
Belinda Kite, who is pretending to be very absorbed in the dregs of her coffee cup, also wonders. She speculates that it will be nothing to do with her. Nor, despite her flustered and excited demeanour, to do with Grizelda either.
As soon as Josiah leaves the house, Grizelda seizes Belinda by the arm.
“Let us go up to my room, Miss Kite – I should like your advice on matters of dress. It is important that I make the right impression on Mr Hawksley this afternoon. He has not seen me for some time. He has exciting news! Oh, I am wild to know what it is, aren’t you?”
Reminding herself that this is, after all, what she is paid to do, Belinda follows her wild employer up to the well-appointed bedroom with its chintzy curtains, thick Turkey carpets and dark walnut furniture. Grizelda flings open the wardrobe door.
“So, what shall I wear?”
Belinda gasps. Dress after dress hang in serried rows of pastel profusion. It is as if they have been duplicating themselves since the Bulstrodes returned. Grizelda catches the edge of her glance.
“I am afraid I have been rather extravagant while we were away. I discovered this lovely department store in Leeds. Such well-made dresses – though of course I always remembered what you and Mrs Cully recommended: no bright colours.”
Belinda stands in front of the wardrobe, mentally reflecting on the poverty of her own. The dresses she brought with her to London have been smartened and made over in the quiet of the night. She has the dresses that belonged to Grizelda, of course, and the new green dress bought using the money from the sale of Grizelda’s other dresses. But she cannot wear any of these at the moment, without having to indulge in some rather awkward explanations.
A naughty thought enters her brain that it probably doesn’t matter what she wears, as handsome Mark Hawksley clearly prefers her toute nue. She dismisses the naughty thought and focuses on the matter in hand.
One day, she promises herself, as she starts to sift through her employer’s silks and satins, she will have a handmade dress, and it will be stunningly beautiful and it will fit her perfectly. Belinda has never owned a dress that fitted her perfectly in her whole life.
Eventually, after a lot of trying on and twirling in front of the mirror, Grizelda settles for a pale apricot satin, with black lace inserts and a black wool short jacket, which is handed to the maid to brush out the creases.
The whole of the morning and beyond has now passed. Belinda Kite is starving; it has been a long time since she ate breakfast, but Grizelda declares herself too excited to partake of any luncheon, so of course Belinda cannot have any either. And then Grizelda says that a small walk in the fresh air is what she needs now to calm her nerves before she gets ready.
So coats and bonnets are donned, and the two young women set out to take a turn around Bloomsbury and its environs, where Grizelda marvels at the booksellers and fan makers and print shops and framers, while Belinda tries not to think about her rumbling stomach. They return in time to await Josiah’s promised carriage.
Eventually, at 4 o’clock precisely, the cab drops them outside a terraced house in a quiet side street. A canopied walkway screens visitors from prying eyes, and there are Venetian blinds at all the windows. Grizelda hurries ahead of Belinda and raps on the door.
The door is opened by a man whom Belinda recognises from her first encounter with Hawksley at the Golden Cross Hotel. He greets them, takes their outdoor garments and shows them into a snug sitting-room on the ground floor, where Hawksley and Josiah are seated on opposite sides of a roaring fire.
Hawksley rises. He is wearing a green striped silk waistcoat, a green silk cravat at his throat, and a green handkerchief in his breast pocket. The effect is striking. He bends low over Griselda’s gloved hand.
“Miss Bulstrode, what a pleasure to welcome you to my humble abode.”
“Oh, Mr Hawksley, how nice everything is,” she flutters.
His eyes meet Belinda’s. He gives a small incline of his head in acknowledgement of her presence.
“I was just telling our good friend Mark all about the new business contacts I have found for him,” Josiah says.
“Oh brother, do you never talk about anything else but business?” Grizelda scolds.
She seats herself on the sofa and indicates that Belinda should join her.
“Money makes the world turn, isn’t that right?” Bulstrode appeals to Hawksley, who nods his agreement.
“Indeed, friend Josiah. But now that our delightful companions have finally arrived, let us put business aside and turn to pleasure. I hear the rattle of teacups,” he says, going to the door and letting in William Ginster, who is acting as butler for the occasion, and who carries a tray loaded with good things to eat.
Belinda Kite’s mouth waters as she surveys the plates of tiny crustless sandwiches, the pile of scones, the pats of butter, the jug of cream and the iced sponge cake. She is absolutely ravenous.
Ginster hands each guest a delicate bone-china plate, then serves the scones and sandwiches. Totally ignoring the social convention that states a lady should rarely be seen eating anything in public, Belinda Kite fills her plate, then lets the conversation pass her by as she enjoys her food.
When she rejoins it, i
t is to hear Grizelda (who has barely eaten a thing) saying, “You have not yet told us your exciting news, Mr Hawksley! I am sure I am agog to find out.”
Hawksley flicks an invisible crumb from his waistcoat.
“I have already told your brother, Miss Bulstrode. It concerns the development of a second shaft on my dead father’s property. Initial mine-digging has uncovered a new seam, possibly loaded with priceless gems.”
Griselda’s mouth forms one big O of wonderment.
“I was astonished when I received the news, as you can imagine, Miss Bulstrode. But without the necessary funds, as I was telling your brother before your arrival, it may have to remain unexplored.”
“Oh brother – surely we must support Mr Hawksley in this exciting new discovery?”
“I have already promised him my support, Sissy,” Josiah replies. “And I have agreed to write on his behalf to my friends and business associates back home. It will mean another trip north, though. Letters of business are always best followed up in person. Particularly when they concern matters of a financial nature.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a few more days away,” Grizelda gushes. “If it will help Mr Hawksley’s cause.”
“Then it is decided,” Josiah says.
“You are kindness itself, Miss Bulstrode. I do not know how to thank you and your generous brother for your esteemed support of my little enterprise.” Hawksley smiles and bows in her direction. “I think when the diamonds are lifted from their rocky bed, you shall have first pick.”
Grizelda goes bright pink and chokes on a cake crumb.
Josiah gets to his feet.
“Then I say: let us strike while the iron is hot. Ladies, if you are ready? I shall write those letters as soon as we return to Cartwright Gardens. Come, Sissy, we have work to do.”
He offers Sissy his arm and leads her out of the room and into the hallway.
Belinda follows them, but Mark Hawksley reaches the door first. He turns to face her, blocking her way with his body.