What if it had been just the pleasant outing Ursula Grandison had obviously expected? For the briefest of moments, Jackman enjoyed a warm sensation that a handsome and intelligent woman would welcome social contact with him. Would like to be, instead of a reluctant investigator working alongside him, a friend.
‘Friend’. The word rang melodiously in Jackman’s mind. Friendship was a rare commodity in his world. His wife had died several years earlier. Such friends as they had enjoyed together seemed to melt away when she was no longer around. His work, first as a detective with the Metropolitan Police Force and latterly as private investigator, by its very nature precluded close contact with those he met.
Not, he told himself, that there were many he’d be happy to spend time with. Petty crooks, frightened witnesses, people trying to cope with the sordid detritus of London lowlife, plus every now and then the mind-numbing business of dealing with the upper classes who relegated such as Jackman to cockroach status.
Then there were the business men such as Joshua Peters. The ones who feared they were being cheated: by confederates, by tradesmen, by wives. Who expected Jackman to prove their suspicions and meanwhile patronised him. There were many times he disliked the life he had to lead.
Trying to understand the contempt in Ursula Grandison’s voice as she left him in Regent’s Park after the menagerie, the following day Jackman had attended on Joshua Peters at his home in Montagu Place.
He was shown into a dark room next to the front door by a scared-looking maid. Heavy net hanging within swathes of thick brown velvet curtains cut out light from the window. Wallpaper in brown, with touches of cream, compounded the gloom. On top of a large desk, on an expanse of gilt-edged leather, sat a small pile of papers. An elaborate brass inkstand sat at the back, a green shaded lamp on one corner. A marble fireplace was corralled by a padded seat-cum-fender. In the otherwise empty grate was a brass stand that emulated peacock’s feathers on full display.
A side table against the back wall carried a large bronze of a rearing horse. Two huge engravings of the Fire of London Monument and Ludgate Hill either side of a bookcase holding books with elaborately tooled leather bindings did little to lighten the stultifying effect of the room, which was compounded by a dark brown carpet half covered by a Turkish rug in purples and murky reds. Jackman’s previous interviews with Joshua Peters had taken place in his city office, a workmanlike place with ample light. If asked, Jackman would have claimed not to be a man affected by atmosphere but he knew he would find it impossible to work effectively in this room. Standing waiting for his employer, he found himself uncharacteristically nervous.
The door was thrust open and Joshua Peters strode in. He sat heavily in the leather upholstered swivel chair behind the desk. His formal suit suggested he had just returned from his place of business. ‘So,’ he said, emphasising the word. ‘You have the photograph you were to take yesterday?’
‘Unfortunately, Mr Peters, there was an incident which made it impossible to capture Mrs Peters and her friend.’
‘Incident? What sort of incident?’ The man’s voice was filled with menace.
Jackman gave a brief account.
Peters’ small, brown eyes gazed at him scornfully. ‘You allowed some birds and a girl to prevent you performing your job.’
Jackman said nothing.
Peters continued to look at him for a long moment, then pressed a bell beneath the desk. Jackman could just hear a remote jangling in the nether regions of the house. It did not take long before the same maid who had opened the front door to him appeared.
‘Tell Mrs Peters to attend me here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ With a quick bob of the head, she was gone.
Joshua Peters picked up the little pile of papers from the middle of the desk and quickly shuffled through them. Jackman recognised the reports he had sent in.
‘A great pity you have not produced the photograph but these should be sufficient.’
The door opened again and there stood Alice Peters. During his surveillance of her activities, Jackman had had plenty of opportunity to study the woman. The charm of her personality had grown on him, as had the effect of her marvellous eyes. From considering her to be no more than ‘a sweet face’, he now thought of her as beautiful. He had seen the warmth of her smile, the way those remarkable eyes lit up as she looked at the companion she had met on those carefully orchestrated ‘unexpected’ meetings. He had almost felt the touch of her small hand on his arm as she laid it on her companion’s.
This afternoon her face was unnaturally pale, the eyes veiled behind lids that were almost transparent. Her mouth, usually so sweetly shaped, was tightly closed.
‘You wish to see me?’ It was as though she could not bring herself to utter her husband’s name.
‘Yes, I do.’ Again that tone of menace. ‘Sit.’
She flinched, recovered herself, walked steadily towards the desk and sat on a chair to one side, arranging her hands neatly in her lap. Then, as if for the first time, she noticed Jackman and her eyes closed for a moment.
‘Who is this man you have been meeting?’ The question was thrust at her, and he pushed across the little set of papers.
‘What do you mean?’ Jackman could hardly hear her nervous voice.
‘Don’t try to come the innocent with me, Alice. I have had you followed,’ he waved a hand briefly at Jackman. ‘This has been the result.’ Again he thrust the papers at her, leaning forward so that his heavy face was inches away from hers. ‘You will tell me who you have been meeting and why.’
Looking at the aggression in every line of her husband’s body, Jackman thought it was no wonder that Alice Peters wanted to spend a few hours in the company of a man who could make her feel life was enjoyable.
She passed her tongue over her lips and glanced helplessly at the investigator. ‘You had me followed?’ she said, her voice breathless. ‘Why?’
Peters rose, his heavy body seeming to hang over her frailty like a bear that has tasted human blood. ‘Because I wanted to know who you were meeting.’
She turned her white face to Jackman. ‘If you have indeed been following me,’ her voice was suddenly steady, ‘then you will know that I have a wide acquaintanceship and meet a great many people.’
‘Tell her,’ Peters suddenly roared at him. ‘Tell her who she meets.’
Jackman took a grip on himself. ‘Mrs Peters,’ he started slowly. ‘As instructed by your husband.’ He realised he had put the slightest of emphases on the word ‘husband’, as though to remind her that the man had every right to know what she did and where she went. ‘As instructed by your husband,’ he repeated without inflexion, ‘I followed you for just over a week. You met the same man on five out of eight days. His name is Daniel Rokeby.’
She flushed. ‘We move in the same circles,’ she said, her voice gaining strength. ‘Daniel is a friend of my sister, Rachel. If you were following me yesterday, you will know that the three of us visited the menagerie at Tottenham Court Road together.’ Her hands clutched tightly at the arms of her chair.
Jackman nodded.
Joshua Peters’ face darkened. He flourished his handful of papers. ‘Yesterday perhaps. But here,’ he leafed through them, picking out first one and then another. ‘You met Rokeby by himself at the British Museum. And again walking in Hyde Park. And then at some art exhibition. You cannot deny this.’
Bombarded by her husband’s words, Jackman saw Alice Peters find courage. ‘They were accidental meetings,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I may have told my sister where I was going and perhaps she mentioned it to Mr Rokeby. As I said, he is her friend.’ She swallowed hard. ‘What is it you accuse me of, Joshua? Meeting an acquaintance and passing a little time with him?’
She managed to make the suggestion sound ludicrous and Jackman inwardly applauded her spirit.
Suddenly Peters rounded on him. ‘Have you reported everything to me? There were no assignations, no meetings in hote
ls you have failed to note down?’
‘Mr Peters, I am not in the habit of cheating on those who employ me.’
All at once, the man looked like a bear who had lost his way.
As though the changing of her husband’s target for a moment had given her additional courage, Alice Peters rose. ‘If you have nothing else to say, I will be in the drawing room. I am expecting my aunt to call for tea.’
Jackman managed to open the door for her. She went through without a glance at him.
Peters flung himself back in his swivel chair. ‘Bitch!’
The word shook Jackman. He wished he could tell this overbearing man what he thought of him. If only he didn’t need the fees …
‘Do you wish me to continue surveillance on Mrs Peters’ movements?’
The man sat, his heavy head bowed, chewing on a thumbnail. It was as though he hadn’t heard. Jackman waited. Finally Peters glanced up. ‘Call at my office 9.30 tomorrow morning.’
Jackman nodded. ‘I’ll be there. I’ll let myself out, sir,’ he added.
Once outside, he felt lighter, as though in that gloomy room he’d sloughed off a skin.
The next morning’s meeting was short. Peters announced that he had accepted his wife’s word that nothing unseemly had occurred between her and Daniel Rokeby and that he had promised to withdraw Jackman’s surveillance.
‘For the moment, anyway,’ he finished. ‘I’ll soon know if she’s up to her tricks again.’
Peters reached into a drawer and drew out an envelope and looked at him with hard eyes. ‘You wrote in your notes that the man Rokeby is some sort of poet but supports himself selling scurrilous stories to low magazines, right?’
Jackman nodded. It hadn’t taken long to establish who the attractive stranger was. After the third meeting, Jackman, instead of ensuring Mrs Peters was returning home, had followed the young man into a public house, where he had greeted another. They fell into an easy-looking conversation, drinking beer, laughing and joshing together. Then Jackman’s target punched the other lightly on the upper arm and left.
Jackman had approached the bar, slipped, clutched at the other man, and apologised. After that it didn’t take long for Jackman to pretend he’d wanted to catch an old friend, only to discover that the man who had just left was called Daniel Rokeby.
‘You don’t say! I could have sworn it was my old mate, Alfie Brooks. Alfie’s a solicitor’s clerk, says he’s going to be rich one of these days.’
The young man had given a hoot of laughter. ‘More than Dan will ever be.’ Half an hour later Jackman had everything he needed to know about the fellow who had captured Alice Peters’ heart. For Jackman was sure that this is what had happened. And who could blame her, married to a man like Joshua Peters?
Peters handed the envelope to Jackman. ‘That clears my account with you. I’ll be in touch if I need you again.’
* * *
For some ten days after that Jackman heard nothing more from Joshua Peters. He had long ago learned not to become emotionally involved in any of the investigations he undertook, or to make moral judgements on those who required his services. In this case, though, it had become increasingly difficult to maintain his distance and perform the job he’d been hired to do.
Then he had received a scribbled note that looked as though it had been written under extreme stress, commanding him to meet Peters immediately and gave an address in Bloomsbury.
Jackman had looked at the note. It ignored any possibility the investigator might not be available, and, like the man, conveyed aggression. He felt a strong urge to disregard it, he could always claim he had been otherwise engaged.
Yet, he found he wanted to know the next stage in this story.
Arriving in Bloomsbury, he found Peters waiting in a hansom cab. ‘Get in, man. The aunt isn’t there. The maid said something about a tea party but didn’t know where. Can’t get the staff these days.’
As Jackman got in, Peters rapped on the roof and gave the driver an address in St George’s Square, Pimlico.
As the cab fought its way through dense traffic, Jackman waited to hear what had brought the summons.
‘She’s gone, the bitch has gone,’ said Peters eventually, beginning to gnaw on his thumb.
Jackman felt a flash of admiration at her courage. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, then inwardly cursed himself. Of course the man was sure, Peters didn’t deal in uncertainty.
His face dark with rage, Peters passed him a letter. ‘Found that when I came home for luncheon.’
Jackman had learned that Joshua Peters was a man who regularly spent a long day at his office. What had brought him back to luncheon?
He opened the piece of paper.
I am sorry, I cannot bear life with you any longer so I am leaving.
Do not try and follow me, it will be of no use. – Alice.
Jackman folded the letter neatly and handed it back to Peters. ‘She left this morning?’
The cab slowed to a crawl in dreadful traffic; a few motor vehicles interfered with the horse-drawn buses, carriages, cabs and carts, making the everyday road tangle worse. Jackman was in two minds about the enduring quality of motor transport. Breakdowns, punctures in tyres, noisy, requiring ample amounts of petrol, they seemed to him little improvement on horses.
Peters shifted uneasily. ‘Last night. I … I was out at a Masonic meeting. When I returned home yesterday evening to change, I was told Mrs Peters had a headache and was not to be disturbed. I left early this morning and did not think of checking on her before I left.’
Hung-over more like, thought Jackman. He wondered about the sleeping arrangements at Montagu Place. Did Peters normally share a bed with his wife, retiring to a dressing room if she required peace and quiet, or did they keep separate quarters?
‘At the office I thought I should come back for luncheon and see how she was. That was when I found the note. She could have gone last night or this morning.’ He looked down at the piece of paper he held, his jaw working. Then he suddenly crushed it in his hand.
‘Are we checking where you think she might have gone?’
‘She’s gone to that bastard, Rokeby. I want you to find his address. In the meantime I thought her aunt or her sister would know.’
‘And now we are going to the sister, right?’ Jackman remembered the girl with the beret who had ruined his photographic efforts and made that passionate speech at the menagerie. He wouldn’t mind meeting her again.
‘Rachel Fentiman. She’s at the bottom of all this nonsense. Ever since she went to university in Manchester she has been an evil influence on my wife. Didn’t Mrs Peters say yesterday that the bastard Rokeby was a friend of her sister’s? Miss Fentiman must know where to find them.’ He looked out of the cab, a muscle working in his heavy jaw.
Eventually the hansom arrived in a long square just off the Thames Embankment, full of tall, respectable-looking houses with a church at one end.
Peters flung himself out of the cab as it halted. ‘Wait there,’ he cried and charged up the steps to ring the bell. The door opened and he disappeared inside, only to reappear a few minutes later.
‘She’s not there! Nor is my wife. But I’ve been told where Miss Fentiman has gone!’
Once again Peters rapped on the cab’s roof and gave a new address. As they moved towards Knightsbridge, Jackman tried to estimate how long it was going to take him to find out Rokeby’s address. Unless luck went his way, it could mean a long and tiring trawl enquiring after a freelance writer amongst the offices of the lower class of publication. Failing that, a search for poetic societies.
Peters showed no inclination to say anything further. Jackman tried to work out if the man was nursing a broken heart or if it was just that his pride was damaged. He thought of the way Peters had called his wife a bitch and told himself the answer was dead plain. Peters needed to reinforce his authority over his property.
Their destination this time was a crescent of stylish houses just off
Belgrave Square. Once again Peters alighted. ‘Wait for me,’ he commanded Jackman. ‘If she’s there, I may need your help to bring her home.’
He was out of the cab before the investigator could query why a man as strong as Joshua Peters needed help subduing a small woman. Then he realised that Peters thought Rokeby might be there as well. He got down from the cab, told the driver to remain where he was and moved towards the house Peters had disappeared into.
Jackman decided to wait a couple of steps down the basement entrance. No need to advertise his presence.
It wasn’t long before Peters emerged, clutching his bowler and charging off up the road. Jackman followed. Peters turned on him. His face was livid with rage, his eyes pig-tiny. ‘That Fentiman bitch knows something, I’d bet the business on it. You can recognise her again?’
Jackman nodded. Rachel Fentiman was someone he would never forget.
‘Stay here, follow her. She’ll lead you to my wife.’ Peters now sounded full of confidence. ‘Then let me know where she is. I’ll make her regret the day she was born,’ he added almost beneath his breath. He swung himself into the cab and it moved off.
Jackman watched it and felt an urge to throw Peters’ business back in his face. Then he remembered the bills waiting for payment. Peters’ last cheque had only cleared the worst of them. He moved to a position where he had a good view of the house’s front door but was out of the direct line of vision of anyone on the steps.
From there he watched a number of women leaving the house. The way they huddled together, then moved off in twos and threes, throwing words between themselves, resembled a murmuration of starlings. Jackman liked collecting odd words.
A Fatal Freedom Page 5