by J. J. Durham
Unfortunately, it had all been in vain. The banker had several influential friends who all swore he was drinking with them when the murder happened. Even if Pilgrim had been able to persuade the young thief to testify, it would have been the boy’s word against theirs, and so Pilgrim had been obliged to chalk that particular episode down to experience.
‘Sir?’ Dolly broke into his thoughts.
Pilgrim judged it wise to change the subject. Arrangements of the kind that existed between himself and Ma Jellybelly were frowned on by the Joint Commissioners. It was better if Dolly didn’t know about it, officially at least.
Instead, he asked, ‘What time is it?’
Dolly took out his pocket watch. ‘Two o’clock, sir.’
‘We have time to catch a cab to Islington before we go back to Whitehall.’
‘I promised the Inspector I’d make up that roster.’
‘You’ll have time. Come on.’
Three brass balls, the usual sign of a pawnbroker, hung over the main door of the Angel Leaving Shop in Islington. There was a second sign above the side door in the alley, a pair of carved angel wings, the paint cracked and peeling. Pilgrim and Dolly passed beneath them, into a room of cubicles similar to the one at Ma Jellybelly’s. They took a seat in one of them.
The man who appeared almost immediately couldn’t have been anything other than Dick Tanner’s brother. He was shorter, and the grooves that ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth were more pronounced, but otherwise he might have been the detective’s twin. He glared at them and cracked his knuckles. Pilgrim handed him Clara Donald’s ticket. He stomped off.
Dolly turned, triumphant, to Pilgrim. ‘It’s uncanny, sir.’
Pilgrim didn’t respond.
They heard Bert Tanner returning before they saw him, his boots loud on the floorboards. He tore a ticket off a small package, and thrust the package at Pilgrim.
‘Three shillin’s,’ he grunted.
Pilgrim nodded at Dolly. He never put his hand in his own pocket if he could avoid it: the Chief Clerk was notoriously tight-fisted when it came to expenses.
Dolly flushed. He fished in his pocket. He put the coins on the counter, and the pawnbroker scooped them up.
‘When was this left with you?’ asked Pilgrim.
The big man glared at him. ‘You should know.’
‘I’m collecting it for my sister.’
Bert Tanner read the ticket he had torn from the package. ‘Eleventh January.’
Pilgrim nodded his thanks. He waited until they were back out in the alley before giving the package to Dolly.
‘Open it.’
Dolly tore off the wrapping. ‘It’s just a picture frame. Plate, by the look of it. There’s no picture in it.’ He grimaced, disappointed.
Pilgrim took it from him. ‘Another false trail.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not sure what I was expecting.’ He handed it back.
‘It was worth checking, though, sir. What shall I do with this now?’
‘Whatever you want. You paid for it.’
Dolly sighed and pocketed the frame.
They turned left on the High Street to pass in front of the shop’s window, where a selection of unredeemed items was displayed for sale. Pilgrim stopped. Dolly stopped beside him, and peered through the window to see what he was looking at.
‘Something caught your fancy, sir?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
In the middle of the window, between a crystal decanter and an oil painting of cattle, were three silver goblets, engraved with a distinctive heraldic design. Something slid in Pilgrim’s guts: it felt very like disappointment.
‘Come on,’ he said to Dolly. ‘We’re late.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Charlotte Piper opened the door and blinked.
‘Yes?’ Her eyes were wary.
Pilgrim lounged on her step, outlined by the fog, wearing a gaberdine coat, a wide brimmed hat, a heavy beard, and side locks.
‘Don’t you recognize me, Mrs Piper?’ he asked. ‘I thought it best to knock, rather than letting myself in. I didn’t want to give you a fright.’
‘Sergeant Pilgrim?’ She opened the door to usher him inside. Once in the hall she inspected him from head to toe. He opened his mouth to speak, but she lifted a hand to stop him.
‘I’m sure you have your reasons. Your dinner’s on the table in half an hour.’ She turned on her heel and went back down to the kitchen.
He removed his hat. The side locks came off with it, but not the beard, which was attached by a ribbon that ran up and over his head. He untied it and put it on the hook, where it hung like a gamekeeper’s trophy. He had spent a weary afternoon at the back of Artillery Lane, doing nothing more than standing still. The fog had returned, enough to penetrate the thick gaberdine of his overcoat, but not to melt the ice underfoot, so that the cold struck through the soles of his boots and up his legs. He felt as if he’d never get warm again. He was taking off his boots when there was a knock at the door.
Henry Wainwright stood to attention on the step outside, carrying a carpet bag. ‘Reportin’ for duty, sir.’
‘Take off your boots and come on up.’
Pilgrim sent a silent prayer of thanks to Charlotte Piper when he saw the fire burning in the grate of his room. He shrugged himself out of his clothes, and shivered on the hearthrug in his undervest and drawers. Wainwright stripped off his own clothes and started to put on the ones Pilgrim had discarded.
‘Everything quiet, this afternoon, sir?’
‘Miss Cohen didn’t leave the house or the shop all day, except to go to the synagogue.’ Pilgrim smothered a smile, remembering Dolly’s look of panic when he realized he was going to have to go into the synagogue with Amalia Cohen and her father. Pilgrim had lingered on the street outside, where he had seen Aaron and Woolf Levy also on their way into the building. The younger man was pale, and the older walked as if carrying a burden, his shoulders slumped, his whole frame diminished by grief.
‘Dolly’s taken over from me at the front of the shop,’ said Pilgrim to Wainwright. ‘You’re to go to the back lane to relieve Sergeant Tanner.’ This time his smile broke through. Tanner had only submitted to wearing a beard and side locks under threat of dismissal from Field.
‘Mr Pilgrim!’ Mrs Piper called up from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Could I have a word?’
‘One moment,’ he shouted. He tugged on a pair of trousers and a shirt and went out onto the landing. Charlotte Piper frowned up at him.
‘Have you got someone up there with you?’
‘One of my constables. He’ll be gone in a minute.’
‘Oh.’ Her frown relaxed. Her gaze travelled from his face to his unbuttoned shirt and lingered there. ‘Do you like Brussels? The grocer had them at a special price today.’
‘Yes.’ The skin at his throat felt warm where her gaze rested.
Wainwright emerged from the door behind him, carrying his carpet bag. Pilgrim had to hide another smile. The gaberdine overcoat swamped the constable’s shoulders and brushed the top of his stocking feet, making him look like a schoolboy dressed in his father’s clothes.
‘It’ll have to do,’ said Pilgrim. ‘The beard and hat are downstairs. This is Mrs Piper, my landlady. Mrs Piper, this is Constable Wainwright.’
‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am,’ said Wainwright. He blushed.
Charlotte nodded at him. ‘Would you like to stay for dinner? There’s more than enough to go round.’
‘No, thank you,’ Pilgrim answered for Wainwright. ‘He has to be on his way.’
She nodded again and disappeared from view. They heard her feet clomp back down the kitchen stairs. Pilgrim fastened his shirt and went downstairs, followed by Wainwright. At the door, he helped the constable to don the hat and wig, arranging the side locks so that they covered the ribbon of the beard.
‘You have your whistle?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir, snug in my pocket.’
‘The s
ignal is three loud blasts. If you see anything suspicious, don’t try to be a hero. Blow the whistle. Dolly and the constables on the beat will be with you in an instant.’ He hoped. Artillery Lane was in H Division, but Field was so determined to maintain control of the operation that he’d decided not to tell the Superintendent of H Division about it. Pilgrim thought it was a mistake, and had told him so, but Charley wasn’t in the mood to listen.
Pilgrim opened the door and Wainwright melted into the fog and darkness.
‘Your dinner’s ready.’
He followed Mrs Piper’s summons into the dining room. He looked forward to meals in his new lodging, but it wasn’t because of the food. Thanks to his anosmia he had no subtlety of palate. In fact, he would go so far to say he had no sense of taste at all. And it was just as well, because Charlotte Piper was an indifferent cook: she boiled, coddled, and roasted everything to within an inch of disintegration. No, the attraction was definitely not the food.
He liked to watch Mrs Piper as she brought his plates and took them away again. He liked the quick movements of her hands, the way she would brush a stray lock of hair away from her face with her forearm if she were carrying something, the sway of her hips beneath her black skirts. Harry Pilgrim looked at Charlotte Piper the same way he had looked at the confections in the bakery in Gray’s Inn Lane as a boy; not in expectation, nor even real desire, but with an aesthetic appreciation of something beyond his reach.
‘I thought I would give your rooms a sweep out in the morning,’ she said. She plonked a suet pudding in front of him. The meat filling was almost as grey as the suet, spilling onto the plate to lap greasily around a mountain of sprouts. He picked up his knife and fork and started to chew his way through them.
‘Do you like egg custard?’
He nodded. She disappeared through the door.
‘Mrs Piper!’
She came back.
‘Dolly will be coming for me at midnight. I have to go out again. I thought I should let you know, in case we disturbed you.’
‘Try not to make too much noise.’
After his meal he thanked her and headed back to his room. He threw a shovelful of coal on the fire and sat on the sofa, stretching his toes to the flames. He was full and warm. He told himself not to get too comfortable, or it would be doubly difficult to go back out into the fog at midnight. That thought inspired another. Had he grown too comfortable in his new lodgings? His life so far had taught him to expect very little, which meant that he was rarely disappointed. As a philosophy it served him well enough, but was it any way for a man to live?
He jerked awake as the clock in the hall sounded the last chimes of midnight. He had fallen asleep on his bed. So much for his determination not to get comfortable. Realising that Dolly would be there any minute, he decided to go down and wait in the hallway, to catch him before he knocked at the door. He padded down the stairs, put on his boots, and opened the door onto the street. The fog had thickened to such an extent that he could barely see the bottom of the steps. He waited.
The clock struck quarter past midnight. Then half past. Where the hell was Dolly? He waited another five minutes then decided to head for Artillery Lane anyway. He set off into the fog at a smart pace, and then, after a couple of minutes, broke into a run. He had a very bad feeling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Artillery Lane was in an uproar. The inhabitants had turned out into the street in their nightclothes – dozens of men, women, and children, all milling around, talking excitedly and exclaiming over the damage that had been done. Broken glass from windows sparkled in the mud, and there were eggs and animal dung splattered on several of the doors. Pilgrim headed for a knot of police uniforms at the far end of the street, gathered around a figure on the ground. He elbowed his way through.
Dolly Williamson was barely recognizable under the blood and beard. His hat had come off and the gabardine overcoat was ripped apart. One of the other constables knelt beside him. He looked up and recognized Pilgrim.
‘They’ve beaten this poor fellow pretty bad, sir.’
‘Dolly, can you hear me?’ Pilgrim bent to examine him. It was hard to tell if he was breathing. ‘Has anyone sent for a doctor?’
The constable got to his feet and called out into the milling crowd. ‘Is there a doctor here?’
Pilgrim caught his sleeve. ‘Fetch Cruikshank from Whitehall.’
The man’s gaze dropped, uncomprehending, to the figure on the ground.
‘Get him now!’ snarled Pilgrim. ‘What are you waiting for?’
He took off through the crowd.
‘What the hell happened?’ Pilgrim turned to another of the uniformed policemen.
‘A disturbance, sir. Apprentices, looking for trouble. They do it periodically. They took off when one of the residents found this and blew it.’ He showed Pilgrim Dolly’s whistle. ‘Lord knows what it was doing here.’
Pilgrim felt for a pulse at Dolly’s neck, but couldn’t find one under the beard. Dear God! Was he dead?
‘Help! Help me!’
Pilgrim tore his gaze from Dolly and saw a nightshirted figure gesticulating in the doorway further up the street. His feet were bare and a halo of hair blew wild about his head.
‘My daughter!’ Reuben Cohen waved his arms.
‘Do not leave this man, under any circumstances,’ said Pilgrim to the officer. ‘When Dr Cruikshank comes make sure he attends him straight away.’ He ran to the old man.
Cohen gripped the front of Pilgrim’s shirt. ‘Help her,’ he gasped.
Pilgrim pushed past him into the building, through the curtains at the back of the shop, and up the stairs. Reuben Cohen followed.
‘In there.’ The tailor pointed to a door half way along the landing, at the back of the house. Pilgrim went in ahead of him. At first he could see no sign of Amalia; the bed was rumpled, but empty. The window was open and the curtains and pole had been torn down. Then he saw a bare foot sticking out from under the curtain. He pulled the fabric away.
Amalia Cohen stared back at him. There was no blood, but her head was caved in at the temple as if some giant’s thumb had crushed it for sport. Her expression was one of surprise rather than fear. He didn’t need to check for a pulse. There was a noise, a sigh behind him, and then a thud as Reuben Cohen dropped to his knees.
Someone else crashed into the room. Dick Tanner took in the scene at a glance, ran to the window, and thrust his head out. ‘Wainwright! he bellowed. ‘Wainwright, you useless cunny, can you hear me?’
‘Stay here,’ ordered Pilgrim.
For once, Tanner didn’t argue.
Pilgrim tore out of the shop, past Dolly’s prone figure, scattering two of the uniformed policemen like skittles. ‘You two!’ he shouted. ‘Come with me.’
They charged after him, out of Artillery Lane and right on Bishopsgate Street, then took another sharp right into the lane that ran behind the tailor’s shop. Pilgrim skidded to a halt and pointed at one of the policemen.
‘You, stay here. Don’t let anyone in or out.’
The lad puffed out his chest and nodded. The other officer followed Pilgrim further into the lane. Pilgrim found the spot he had occupied himself earlier in the evening, in the shadow of the wash house that served the street.
‘Look there sir!’ The young constable pointed to a shape lying on the ground only a few feet away.
‘Wainwright!’ As Pilgrim reached him, the constable stirred. Pilgrim helped him to sit up.
‘What happened?’ Wainwright put his fingers to the back of his head and they came away sticky with blood. ‘The bugger hit me!’
He tried to get to his feet, but Pilgrim pushed him back down again.
‘Stay there,’ said Pilgrim. ‘Cruikshank’s on his way.’
‘I heard a commotion in the street, sir, but didn’t hear no whistle. The bugger must have crept up on me.’ Wainwright glanced up at Amalia Cohen’s window and flinched when he saw Tanner glaring down at him. He swivelled
his eyes back to Pilgrim. ‘He didn’t … he didn’t get her, sir, did he?’
‘It’s not your fault.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘It’s all my fault.’ Charley Field stared morosely into his glass. ‘I should have told Reuben Cohen his daughter’s life was in danger. And I should have told the uniforms what was going on.’
‘No one could have predicted what happened tonight.’ Pilgrim was almost too tired to speak.
‘No?’ Field looked at him. ‘Not even the murderer? What if he set the apprentices up as a diversion? The bastard’s clever, Harry. Too clever.’ He took another gulp of port. It was only six o’clock in the morning but he was already on his second glass. ‘We’re no closer to catching him now than we were three weeks ago. I might as well fall on my sword before they put me out of a job.’
Pilgrim sighed and stood up. He couldn’t deal with Charley Field’s self-pity now.
‘I still haven’t told Mrs Piper about Dolly. I’ll have a wash and an hour’s sleep then take her to the hospital.’
Field turned to him, his expression bleak. ‘What if he dies, Harry? What if the boy dies?’
Pilgrim shrugged. He had no answer. A tap came at the door. Field hid his glass under a pile of papers.
‘What is it?’
A head appeared, tousled with sleep. Pilgrim’s spirits slid even lower as he recognized Sir Richard Mayne’s clerk.
‘The Joint Commissioners would like to see you, Chief Inspector, sir.’
Field sighed and raised his eyebrows at Pilgrim. ‘Both of them, God help me. Bad news travels fast.’ He stood up and straightened his clothes.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Pilgrim offered.