by J. J. Durham
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Nor do I. Not to excess. But bear me company, I beg you. I’m in a sociable mood.’
Pilgrim surrendered, and allowed Dickens to bear him off in the direction of the theatre.
‘I’ve seen some passably good comic singers here, and the Mexican Boneless Wonder, an unremarkable-looking little man who performed the most unlikely contortions. It’s just what you need to distract your thoughts from a day’s sleuthing.’
The supper room of the Lyceum was crowded with a different class of audience than was generally found in the main theatre. That didn’t concern Dickens at all. He was always on the lookout for stories and faces, and was happy to find them wherever he could. They found a place at a table at the side of the stage, and whispered their order to a waitress so as not to distract the female singer who was in the middle of her performance.
When the song was finished they applauded.
‘Excellent,’ said Dickens. ‘Almost as good as Jenny Lind. I saw Miss Lind last year, you know, during my tour of America.’
Dickens couldn’t tell whether Pilgrim was impressed or not; the Detective Sergeant’s expression never changed. Pilgrim was a man not prone to smiles or laughter but, thought Dickens, he was by no means melancholic. The solemnity of his face was due rather to the concentration of his intellect on the problems that continually presented themselves for solution in his line of work. It gave him an unstudied air of superiority, of perfect confidence in his own abilities. Very useful for a detective.
A plump baritone took the stage, and, after a certain amount of throat clearing and shuffling, nodded to the pianist and began. Dickens recognized the song with a jolt of pleasure, although he couldn’t remember the author. It had been inspired by one of his characters. The lyrics were moving in the extreme.
What are the wild waves saying,
Sister, the whole day long,
That ever amid our playing
I hear but their low, lone song.
What are the wild waves saying?
Yes! but there’s something greater
That speaks to the heart alone:
’Tis the voice of the great Creator
Dwells in the mighty tone.
What are the wild waves saying?
When the song was finished and the applause had died away, Dickens leaned towards Pilgrim, and spoke over the chatter of the crowd.
‘Are you familiar with my “Dombey”, Sergeant?’
‘Dombey?’
‘My novel, Dombey and Son?’
‘I don’t have much time for reading.’
‘That song was inspired by one of my characters, little Paul Dombey. Only six years old, and the apple of his father’s eye. His death scene still has the power to move me to tears.’
Pilgrim said nothing.
Dickens was prevented from any further elaboration on Dombey by the arrival of their mutton and kidney puddings. A savoury steam rose from the plates, encouraging consumption, rather than conversation for several minutes.
‘How is the Grimwood investigation going?’ asked Pilgrim at last, around a mouthful of pastry.
‘Slowly, I’m afraid. Extremely slowly. It is the nature of the lady’s profession, I fear, that makes it difficult to find reliable witnesses.’
Pilgrim nodded.
‘It’s a pity so many women have to resort to it.’ Dickens leaned forward, glad of the opportunity to pursue one of his favourite topics. ‘Have you heard about Urania Cottage, my refuge for fallen women in Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘No.’
‘It is a cherished project of mine; a place where these poor women have a chance to rise out of their sad lives and regain their sense of worth.’
The detective put down his fork. ‘Charity has its place. But women shouldn’t have to bow and scrape to put food in their mouths.’
‘Is that less preferable than doing it on their backs?’ Dickens frowned. ‘I don’t believe our demands are unreasonable, above asking the girls to show a willingness to behave well, and to change their ways. Our aim, ultimately, is to help them emigrate.’
‘A harsh condition.’
Dickens lifted his eyebrows. ‘Not at all. They see it as a blessing, an opportunity to make a fresh start in a new world.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ Pilgrim’s expression was still neutral. ‘Even prostitutes have families and friends. And what happens if they change their minds?’
‘Then they simply go back to their old life. No one forces them to do anything they do not wish to.’
‘You send them on their way with a purse? New clothes? References?’
Dickens swallowed a piece of gristle, and said nothing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Rise and shine, sir.’
Dolly prodded Pilgrim until he opened his eyes. ‘I saw you hadn’t come back to the barracks so I’ve brought you a bite of breakfast.’ Dolly pointed to a greasy package on Pilgrim’s desk. He swung his legs off the sofa and rubbed his face. Dolly frowned at him. ‘I never thought to bring you a razor, though,’ he said.
‘What time is it?’
‘Five thirty.’
Pilgrim opened the package on his desk. He took a bite of the pie, and put it down again with a grunt of disgust. It dripped gravy onto the pile of letters.
‘Enjoy a glass or two last night, did you, sir?’
Pilgrim shook his head. ‘I was with Mr Dickens. I’ve never known a man sit so long over one glass of punch. Or talk so much about nothing in particular. We stayed so late I thought it was easier just to come here, rather than go back to Holborn.’ He brushed out his crumpled clothes. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
‘I thought I’d write down what Mrs Johnston told us last night, while it was fresh in my mind.’
‘Good idea.’ Pilgrim shrugged on his overcoat.
‘Are you off somewhere, sir?’
‘I’m going back to Upper Harley Street, to talk to the servants about Stella Drake.’
‘Are you going directly there?’ Dolly peered anxiously at Pilgrim’s stubble.
Pilgrim grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll drop into the barracks on the way and have a shave.’
‘Sir … !’ He had almost reached the door, when Dolly called him back.
‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering … whether you’d had the chance to call on cousin Charlotte yet?’
‘Cousin Charlotte?’ Pilgrim knew perfectly well who he was talking about, but was playing for time.
‘Mrs Piper. With the rooms. At Holborn?’
‘Yes. I decided not to take them. They were too expensive.’
‘Oh.’ Dolly looked crestfallen.
‘And there was a bad smell on the landing.’
‘A bad smell? But I thought … ?’ Dolly caught the look in Pilgrim’s eye and he pursed his lips. ‘I see.’
No, thought Pilgrim, I seriously doubt that you do.
Pilgrim tried to look in mirrors as little as possible, but it was something he could hardly avoid while shaving. He lathered the coal tar soap in the dish, using hot water from the ewer, luxuriating in the fact that the barracks was unusually, blessedly, silent. He hadn’t often been in the dormitory at that time of the morning, in the curtained alcove he called home. He applied the lather with the badger brush, enjoying the feel of it on his cheeks and chin, and slid the razor from its case. He had to take more care shaving than most men, because of his scars. The cratered skin caught the blade in unpredictable ways, making it very easy to cut himself. He tried to concentrate, but found his attention wandering. The sight of the blade pressing into his throat inevitably made him think of Appler’s death. What had been going through the Dutchman’s mind in those last desperate moments?
He rinsed the blade thoughtfully. Appler’s killer had somehow got into the locked cell, and out again. He must have taken the keys from under Phelps’ desk. Pilgrim frowned. Why hadn’t Appler called out? Surely, if he had seen the man who had aske
d him to move the packages, he would have had time to alert his gaolers. Pilgrim lifted the blade to his chin again, and paused, leaving it in mid-air. There was something else nagging him, in the back of his memory. Something that didn’t quite fit, but that remained stubbornly out of reach. Was it something he’d heard? Something he’d seen? He shrugged. He knew from experience that it wouldn’t come if he tried to force it. It would occur to him eventually, but in the meantime, he had to make himself respectable to visit Upper Harley Street. He finished with the razor and rinsed his face, then dried it with the towel.
He hoped that the servants at the big house would be able to tell him something useful about Stella Drake. It was astonishing how the phrase ‘detective police’ would loosen the tongues of innocent people. Of course, it usually had the opposite effect on anyone with something to hide. Well, he would see.
The household in Upper Harley Street was up and about its usual business when the footman opened the door to him.
‘The master and mistress are out,’ he said, when he had read Pilgrim’s card. ‘I don’t know when they’ll be back.’ It was the same footman who had spoken to Mrs Johnston at the back door the night before. ‘Cocky’ she’d called him, and Pilgrim reckoned she was right.
‘I’ll wait,’ said Pilgrim.
The young man looked him up and down with the air of a horse trader considering a purchase.
‘As long as you ain’t after doin’ it in the parlour,’ he said, lapsing into his natural diction.
‘The kitchen will do.’ Pilgrim wasn’t in the least bothered. He could never tell how he was going to be received in people’s homes, being neither trade nor gentry, and was happy to take whatever came. He followed the footman to the kitchen and took a seat at the table, where the young man was in the middle of polishing silver. The footman put on his apron again and applied himself to a candlestick.
‘There you go, sir.’ A kitchen maid thrust a mug of tea at Pilgrim and returned to her place beside the cook. The cook muttered something to the maid, and darted him a resentful glance. He ignored it and turned his attention back to the footman.
‘I’m looking for Stella Drake,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ The youth gave him a sideways look.
‘She used to have a position here.’
‘If you say so.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘I don’t rightly remember.’
Pilgrim gave him a cool look.
The footman reconsidered his strategy. ‘Friday night,’ he said. ‘She banked the upstairs fires, as usual, and then went up to her room as I locked up. On Saturday morning she was gone.’
‘She had a room of her own?’
‘As housekeeper she was entitled.’
‘Housekeeper? That’s a responsible position for a girl her age.’
The footman snorted. ‘She was twenty goin’ on two hundred, that one. The mistress took to her, on account of her bein’ so well spoke.’
‘Before she disappeared, did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Did she have any visitors?’
‘The lad, you mean?’ He grinned at Pilgrim’s expression, and rubbed hard at the candlestick. ‘Oh yes, I saw him. We all did. A woman turned up out of the blue and dumped him on her. That set some tongues wagging.’ He sent the cook a poisonous glare. ‘Old besom,’ he muttered.
The cook flounced into the pantry and slammed the door.
‘What happened to the boy?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘Drake took him somewhere. Must have been somewhere close, ’cause she was back in half an hour, actin’ like it had never happened.’
‘Is it possible she took him upstairs?’
‘Smuggled him in, you mean?’ The other man considered the question. ‘’Suppose it’s possible.’
‘Can I see her room?’
The footman glanced at the pantry door. ‘As long as the Guv’nor don’t get to know.’
The room Stella Drake had occupied was in the attic. It was furnished with a bedstead, a chest of drawers, and a washstand with a ewer and basin. A knotted rag rug was the only nod to comfort. Pilgrim knelt to inspect the floorboards, but they had been swept clean, even under the bed.
‘What are you looking for, exactly?’ asked the footman. ‘She took everything with her.’
Pilgrim got to his feet, still looking at the floor. His eyes were caught by two deep scuff marks, about three feet apart.
‘What about her trunk?’ he asked.
The footman looked at him. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘A big one. About,’ he measured the width between the two scuff marks with his hands, and then held them up, ‘so wide. Too heavy for her to carry herself.’
The footman shrugged.
‘No matter,’ said Pilgrim. ‘I’ll call back later and ask your master about it. I imagine he’ll be home for dinner?’
The footman bit his lip. ‘I’d rather not bother him.’
‘I need to know what happened to the trunk. If you can’t tell me … ’
‘I took it to the station for her. She must have packed everything in there. God knows it was heavy enough.’ He fidgeted with his apron. ‘Don’t tell the Guv’nor. If he found out I’d known she was going to do a runner … ’
‘Which station?’
‘Euston Square. I left it with the stationmaster, like she asked me to.’
‘You often did her favours?’
‘We were … friendly, like. A couple of times a week.’
‘Where did you send the trunk?’
‘By the time I got the ruddy thing down the stairs and into a cab I wasn’t fit to notice the label. I do remember how much it cost, though: three shillings and sixpence she paid me for it after.’ He flushed. ‘Why are you asking so many ruddy questions, anyway? What’s Drake done?’
Pilgrim said nothing, but watched the play of emotions on the other man’s face as belligerence melted into confusion, and was replaced a second or two later by horror.
‘Christ Almighty.’ The footman sat heavily on the bed. ‘We did it right here, with that ruddy trunk not three foot away.’ He jumped up again, away from the bed, and shuddered.
‘You really have no idea where she is now?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I imagine there’s a bloke involved, or she’s gone to family somewhere. Otherwise … ’
‘Otherwise?’
‘She has no references. A girl like that there’s only one way she’s goin’ to earn a living, ain’t there?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The beast market at Smithfield was one of the oldest in London, with a tradition of selling and slaughtering animals stretching back to the twelfth century. On market days it was a sight to behold, the pens in the five acre field crammed with every type of domestic animal, a heaving sea of wool, hide, horns, and feathers. The noise was unimaginable – grunting, bleating, and stricken squealing – as animals were slaughtered to satisfy the demands of the customers. Above it all, the traders could be heard, competing for the attention of the managers of the pie shops, chophouses, prisons, workhouses, and the great households of the city:
‘Buy, buy, buy, buy, bu-u-uy!’
Pilgrim was deaf to it all. He wasn’t there to buy. He stepped over a gutter puddled with piss and blood, thankful yet again that he had no sense of smell. The market wasn’t quite as busy as it had been. Already sitting low in the sky, the sun was falling lower still, and a few of the traders had begun to herd what was left of their livestock away from their pens through the streets. A small boy, grasping three or four onions in his hands, crept among the crowd, wriggling through gaps, asking for custom in whining tones.
‘Scallions, Mister? Fresh scallions.’
Pilgrim shook his head, weary to the marrow of his bones. He had spent the whole afternoon visiting the taverns and alehouses in the streets around the market – the aptly-named Cow Cross Street, Pheasant Court, Goose Alley, and Cock Lane – showing customers hi
s photograph of Stella Drake. Smithfield was a flesh market in more ways than one. On market days prostitutes would flock from all over the city to satisfy the appetites of the butchers, porters, and wholesalers. He’d shown the photograph to women of all sizes, shapes, and colours, thinking that one of them might recognize Stella Drake.
There was a lot of sense in what the footman at Harley Street had said. Stella had no references, little money, and nowhere to call home. It was unlikely she’d be able to find respectable work. Even though Pilgrim had spent hours looking for her, it was too early to judge if that assumption was wrong, for the city was huge, and a woman could easily disappear into it if she had a mind to. As he knew all too well.
His belly grumbled, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since his single bite of pie at breakfast. He made for the food stalls set up on the edge of the market, and stopped to examine the wares: pigs’ trotters set in jelly, fried fish, blood puddings, oatmeal puddings in bladders, and the ubiquitous pies that he could guess consisted only of lard shoved into a crust, sent to the oven and ‘done brown.’
He decided he wasn’t hungry after all.
‘Pork pie, Mister? I can do one cheap.’ The boy behind the stall looked at him with the desperation of one who knew he was running out of time to clear his stock. Pilgrim shook his head. The boy hawked and spat, narrowly missing Pilgrim’s boot.
Looking up, Pilgrim recognized the medieval crenellations of St John’s Gate that marked the boundary between the market and Clerkenwell, and headed towards it. He ducked into the doorway of Gay’s Tavern, set in the shadow of the arched gateway. He needed a little time to rest, and to decide what to do next.
The cramped interior of the tavern was smoky, with little light penetrating the leaded windows. It was noisy too, crowded with men with bloodstains on their sleeves and women with harsh voices and cheap clothes. From their raucous laughter it was obvious they had already had a fair amount to drink.