by Andy Conway
“From a single drop of water, a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other.”
Daniel gazed helplessly around the room, overwhelmed by the objects at which he had no desire to look closely.
“She was attacked while she lay in bed,” said Arthur. “What can we deduce from this?”
“That she was attacked by a burglar, someone who broke in and murdered her while she slept?”
Daniel’s eyes fell on a pile of clothes before the open wardrobe, as if they’d spilled from it, or had been thrown in its general direction. A white blouse, a scarf, a rumpled skirt, her underthings.
“Or that it was someone she knew,” said Arthur. “Could she possibly have taken a man home with her?”
Daniel turned from the pile of clothes. “I’m sure she couldn’t. She was a good girl.”
“I don’t ask for your sentiment, Daniel. We must be logical about this. It is a possibility that the man entered with her and she... undressed for him.”
Daniel gazed at the white tower of Christ Church above the bed, a spurt of vermilion slashed across it. It reminded him of his damaged oil painting this morning. “Might she have posed for him?” he asked.
Arthur was on his knees and peering under the bed. “What? You mean our murderer is an artist?”
“Let’s logically examine the alternatives,” said Daniel. “One. She was asleep and murdered by an intruder. Two. She brought a man here for... relations. Three. She was posing for an artist. All three would account for her nakedness.”
“But an artist would have to bring a canvas, paints, an easel. He would make quite a din carrying that lot up the stairs.”
“Yes,” said Daniel forlornly. “It makes no sense.” But at that moment he preferred the idea of Louisa Gill posing for an artist to the other option: taking a stranger to her room and undressing for him.
Arthur lay flat on the threadbare rug, his head disappearing under the bed. The dull chime of a chamber pot sounded. “There is a fourth possibility,” he said from under the bed. “She was attacked by a stranger, taken into the house, and he undressed her before killing her. Or afterwards.”
Daniel put his face in his hands. Arthur emerged from under the bed, clutching something in his fingers.
“I know, my friend. The prospect is too ghastly, but we must consider it.”
“If that’s the case,” Daniel sighed, “then we are dealing with a monster.”
“Indeed.”
“And how is it possible to anticipate the movements of a monster, to whom no logic applies?”
Arthur held up the thing he’d found under the bed. “By gathering clues.”
Daniel bent down and peered closer. It was a pawn ticket. “It might be her own.”
Arthur pushed himself to his feet, gasping at the effort. “It might be the killer’s.”
“How can we possibly know?”
“By redeeming the ticket.”
The sound of voices in the mews below. The creak of the garden gate. Daniel rushed to the window and peered down through the gap in the curtains, hidden by the nets.
Two familiar figures walking up the path to the house. Inspector Beadle and Sergeant Macpherson.
“We must go. Quickly. Those are the policemen who suspect me.”
Arthur was already rushing out of the room, tucking the pawn ticket into his waistcoat pocket. Daniel hurried down the steep stairs after him, trying not to fall. At the foot of the stairs Arthur panicked, looking this way and that, trapped, not knowing what to do.
“The back way,” Daniel hissed.
The front door knocker rattled as they marched down the corridor, the landlady coming to meet them.
“We need to examine the rear entrance,” Daniel said.
“To ascertain if this is where the intruder gained access,” Arthur added.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “The noise I heard was definitely at the front door. I thought she’d fallen down as she was coming in, drunk or something.”
“Is it this way?” Arthur asked, pointing and already walking through to the rear.
They strode through a dingy back parlour, an even dingier, dank kitchen and the scullery beyond it. They could hear her opening the front door.
Daniel yanked open the back door and they pushed through into a back yard, nothing but a ragged patch of mud and grass. White sheets and bloomers waving on the line.
As Daniel unbolted the back gate and rushed through, he saw a couple of sunflowers, tall and bright, the only thing of beauty, and he wondered for an instant if Louisa Gill had been the person to plant them. But the thought was lost as they ran down an alleyway of back to backs.
18
“SITTING HERE SPYING on me, are ya?”
Tom wiped his hands on his trousers guiltily.
William Bury peered round the alcove, his piercing eyes boring into him.
Tom stood up, pushed the table back, beer sloshing all over it, and ran out.
The filthy street. A child stared from an alleyway opposite, her clothes in flitters, bare feet, mud caked. Was it even a girl?
Hot. No air. He stumbled to a horse trough filled with rain water, mosquito larvae slick on the surface, plunged his hand in, beautiful coolness, swept off his hat, palmed the back of his neck, let the cool water run inside his shirt all down his back. His skin was boiling. Just don’t drink it. Drink it and it will kill you.
A hand on his head, gentle, stroking.
“Look at you, Thomas Conway. You look a fright.”
He pushed her hand away and caught her hurt expression. Her voice had been soft, soothing, sympathetic.
Her man came out and glared across the street. Such piercing eyes. Catherine waved him away and he skulked back inside.
Tom sat on the edge of the trough, the weight off his legs. Such relief. Catherine’s eyes gazing down on him with pity.
He felt his heart give in to her. When he looked at her face, he saw the faint impression of the woman he had once loved. It was nothing but an echo, but it was there, and it haunted him.
They had met when he was 25. Little Annie was 24 now. They had been together for all those years. Minus the six since she’d left. But still. All those years.
“Look at you,” she said. “The years haven’t been kind to you, Tom.”
“They’re not kind to anyone,” he said.
“That’s true. They’ve been cruel to me. But I hate to see what they do to you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’ll be here when you’re long gone.”
She winced and he felt bad that he’d hurt her. He hadn’t meant it cruelly. It was a fact. It was the boys that kept him going, and he was almost certain that their mother would drink herself to death some day soon.
But he couldn’t help seeing his daughter in her face. Annie had her nose and her hazel eyes and her ear lobes, and there was a way that she smiled that was just the same. And he loved his daughter. But he had stopped loving her mother.
“You need a woman in your life,” she said. “Someone to look after you.”
“You’ve got your plate full.”
She glanced back at the beer house. “What, him? He’s nothing. He’s married.”
“So what’s he doing with you?”
“A woman needs protection, especially at times like these. Can’t be walking the streets alone.”
That was what was different about her: she looked reasonably smart. She looked like a woman who hadn’t spent her nights on the streets or in a doss house. She had made an effort. Was she trying to impress him?
“Of course,” she said, “I’d prefer it if my husband took on that role.”
“I’m not your husband, Cath.”
She rolled her left sleeve up, revealing the clumsy pale blue tattoo. Two letters, slightly crooked. Indigo faded. Almost indi-gone.
T.C.
He remembered the day she’d had it done. A young girl�
��s expression of everlasting love. It was the nearest thing they’d ever had to a marriage ceremony. His initials inked into her arm. Although he’d feigned disapproval, something about it had touched him at the time. It had demonstrated the strength of her feeling for him. She had flown into a rage at his disapproval. Their first argument. But later she’d cheerily said she didn’t care. It showed what she felt and the Devil take it.
He hadn’t responded. There was no marking on his own body declaring his bond with C.E.
“There’s nothing can keep us apart, Tom,” she said, pushing her forearm into his face. “You can read that, can’t you, Mister Conway the author?”
“There’s plenty has kept us apart, Cath.”
She pulled the red neckerchief from his throat and doused it in the water, brought it to his forehead, mopping his brow, like she used to.
“Tom, I can change. We can be together again, just like the old times. You remember how good we were together? Travelling the country, selling your chapbooks. You remember I used to help with the ballads. We made something beautiful together once.”
He snatched the scarf from her and rubbed it against his neck, trying to wipe away the feel of her touch. “We made three beautiful children together,” he said. “And you left them for the drink.”
She shrank back as if slapped and whined, “There’s no need for that.”
“You haven’t even asked about the boys,” he said.
She pursed her lips, the way she always used to when he’d caught her out in a lie. “You know I love them boys.”
“They’re better off away from you. They always have been.”
“It’s not my fault I’ve come to this.”
“Then whose fault is it?”
“You let me fall this low, Tom. You’re to blame.”
He heavd himself to his feet, his knees shrieking in pain, and pushed past her, desperate to get away from her. Her fist hit him on the back and he stumbled forward. Just get away from this. Back to the main street, flag a cab and drive to Birmingham to a temperance bar.
He rushed on, stomping through the mud, Catherine’s voice shouting after him.
She had fallen into the abyss. Drink had taken her, and if he stayed anywhere near her, it would take him too. She was a woman drowning among the reeds, Ophelia sinking into the murky waters, singing all the while. He had tried to save her but she would only drag him down with her. And each time you pulled her out of the water she merely laughed, then snarled, then punched you, and sank back into it again. She wanted to drown. She wanted to die.
He had to turn his back on her. He had to break free of her.
He ran as fast as his sore knees would allow, panting, throat so dry, and waved his arms at a passing Victoria. The cabman slowed his horse.
As he sank into the carriage and felt himself speeding from her, he wondered if the distance between them would ever be enough.
He mopped his face with his red handkerchief and wondered if it would be better all round if she were dead.
19
DANIEL AND ARTHUR DOUBLED back and hurtled down the long alley that had taken them there, flashing past the opening to Albert Avenue. Inspector Beadle and Sergeant Macpherson were nowhere to be seen, obviously making their way through to the rear of the house in pursuit, or — if they were lucky — climbing the stairs to examine the crime scene, because the landlady had said nothing about the other two: consulting detective Holmes and Doctor Watson.
They emerged onto Ladypool Road, busy with noon day traffic and the hubbub of the traders.
“This way,” said Daniel, turning left, intending to circle round onto Highgate Road.
He immediately stopped short and held Arthur back.
“What is it, old boy?”
Daniel nodded ahead and Arthur spied the policeman’s helmet advancing towards them above the hats of shoppers, surfing the crowd.
Daniel shoved Arthur in the other direction. They walked swiftly up Ladypool Road, heading for Moseley but he was immediately stilled once more by the sight of another peeler up ahead, walking towards them.
Trapped.
He looked around in panic. There was only one direction left.
“That way,” Arthur hissed.
They crossed the road at the George Inn and ducked into Alfred Street, marching swiftly but not too conspicuously along the terraced row of dwellings, most of which had been turned into shops — a dressmaker, a house agent, a gasfitter, a coal dealer, a maltster, and then a couple of beer houses before they turned left into quiet Queen Street, looking back to make sure neither policeman was following. They were safe. They passed another beer house at Victoria Street but carried on to the end of Queen Street, turning back onto busy Highgate Road.
Arthur gazed longingly westward. “The station is at completely the opposite end. A long way to walk with so many policemen about.”
“Let’s not get the train,” said Daniel.
Standing on a train platform, pointing a pistol at a clock, fading from sight.
“But speed is of the essence,” said Arthur.
“A cab,” Daniel cried. “There!”
Jostling through the hubbub of horses, carriages and wagons was a lone Victoria. They crossed the road quickly and Daniel waved him down, both men climbing aboard before telling the cabman their destination.
“Where you going to, sir?”
“Sherlock Street,” said Daniel. “Birmingham.”
“Righto, sir. I’ll just turn round.”
“No! Go straight ahead, via Stratford Road.”
“But it’s at the other end of Highgate Street, sir.” He pointed back up the street. “Don’t make no sense to go round that way.”
“I want to show my friend something on the way. Holy Trinity.”
The cabman gawped. “That’s right round the Wrekin, is that.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
Daniel pulled out a florin and handed it to him. The cabman pocketed it with a smile and whipped his horse on with a delighted, “Yah!”
They turned into Stratford Road and headed for Birmingham. Daniel slumped back in his seat, gasping. Arthur was chuckling to himself.
“What’s so funny, Arthur?”
“Forgive me. Just an amusing coincidence.”
“What?”
“Sherlock Street. The location of our pawnbroker. It’s just quite funny.”
Daniel felt a ball of irritation rise in his throat. “Why?”
“I used it in my book,” he laughed. “I remembered the street name from when I lived here. Always liked it. Named my main character after it. The consulting detective you just pretended to be. Holmes. His first name’s Sherlock.”
Daniel swallowed the ball of irritation. It wasn’t a morning to laugh about anything. In fact, he wondered if he might laugh ever again. But there was something so ludicrous about it that he couldn’t help but smile with his friend.
The Victoria rattled along the streets for a good half hour. Daniel stiffened every time he saw a policeman walking the pavement, but none of them noticed, none of them turned and shouted and took out their whistle and called “Stop! Murderer!” This was the advantage of such a sprawling conurbation. It made one anonymous.
He thought surely the landlady would tell Inspector Beadle about the two mysterious officers who’d just called and left through the back door. She would describe them. Beadle would know who it was. He would put out an alert. Within an hour or two, half of the police force in Kings Norton would be looking for them. So going into Birmingham made sense. By crossing that divide they had muddied the waters.
But he wondered how long it would take for a description to be issued, perhaps even a photograph to be copied and printed off and distributed by hand. And how much interaction did the Kings Norton police have with the Birmingham force?
They turned at Camp Hill and passed Stratford Place, skirting Highgate Park and down the dark length of Moseley Street before turning back on thems
elves to finally emerge at the northernmost foot of Sherlock Street. The traffic had thickened as they entered Birmingham, the roads crammed with a chaotic swarm of coaches, Clarences, Victorias, drays, wagons and trams both steam-driven and horse-drawn, with pedestrians flitting around the spaces between.
Arthur had a funny, proud smile on his face as they rambled up the long street, lined with Jewish shops. Daniel called out the number, reading it from the ticket, and they eventually pulled up under the three golden orbs of William Woolf’s pawn shop.
There was an awful smell around the place, a vile odour of ripe shellfish cooked in bleach, which they put down to the vicinity of a fishmonger and tripe dresser.
He told the cabman to wait, and that there would be another florin in it for him, receiving a salute in return, and they pushed open the door of the pawnbroker’s.
An elderly Jewish man looked up as they entered, assessing the cut of their clothes and betraying barely a hint of surprise at the quality.
They marched to the counter and Daniel slid the ticket across to him.
“I wish to redeem this pawn,” he said.
The old man peered at it closely, then at Daniel again. “You’re not the gentlemen who pawned this item.”
“That is true. But I have been sent here to pay the loan.” Daniel panicked suddenly, wondering how much the loan might be and if he had enough to cover it.
The old man shrugged and walked through to the maze of shelves at the back. When he returned he was carrying a carpet bag which he heaved onto the counter.
“One pound, five shillings and sixpence,” he said.
Daniel looked at Arthur, who reached for his inside breast pocket, but Daniel stopped him. He had the money. It wasn’t so much. He laid the note and the coins out on the counter and took the bag. It was heavy, and he wondered for a moment if there might be a body inside it. But no. It wasn’t that heavy. There was however something of bulk inside it.
He tipped his hat to the old man and they walked out with the murderer’s bag.
20
CATHERINE WATCHED TOM Conway stagger up the muddy street and wondered if he would survive much longer. He had looked pale and drawn, and had moved with difficulty. He was older, of course, by nine years, but those years had told on him. They were weighing him down. She thought with a brief flash of guilt that she might have caused some of that herself, leaving him to bring up the boys, but it was his own pig-headedness that had caused everything. And hadn’t he abandoned her to the wolves, thrown her out of house and home, denied her access to her children, left her to the mercy of the streets?