He reached for the jar of cream he’d placed on his desk and turned it around in his hand automatically as he recalled his activities during the past three days. The interviews he’d wangled with Millie and Albert had brought no clues as to what that couple of sharpsters Joshua Peters and his valet had been up to. He would not, though, trust either of them to clean a baby’s bottom without making off with the napkin. So he’d decided to look into the background of the Peters and Roberts import/export business. Whatever was going on, it was more than like something that had led to Peters’ death. Thomas saw in his mind’s eye the deep desk drawer, empty apart from a gun and that dratted jar.
He had spent two days looking into Peters and Roberts Ltd. Searches into Company House had required the disentangling of a cat’s cradle of connected companies with no accounts lodged in recent years for any of them. Action was being taken against most and it looked as though the directors, both Joshua Peters, had he still been alive, and his partner Martin Roberts, were about to end up in court. ‘About to be bottled, they are,’ Thomas was told after he’d chatted up a clerk he’d once had dealings with while he was in the police force.
‘You mean arrested?’
The man sucked his teeth. ‘Well let’s just say they’re unlikely to remain in business.’
Chats with ex-colleagues in the dockland area identified a feeling that the operating company was deemed to be dodgy but nothing had occurred so far to bring them into real trouble, nor had anyone seemed able to explain exactly what ‘dodgy’ might mean. ‘We’re keeping an eye out,’ was a phrase used more than once.
Abandoning this aspect of his investigation, Thomas had turned his attention to the Maison Rose. This enterprise seemed above board. He had made contact with a sergeant in the Saville Row police station whom he’d worked with in the past. ‘Foreign gent has taken a lease on the first and second floors,’ said George Parker. ‘Lives on the second, as does his so-called partner, Madame Rose.’
‘So-called?’
‘They run some sort of beauty business on the first floor. She’s a good-looking woman,’ he added judiciously. ‘If a bit too much on her dignity. They maintain separate apartments but, behind closed doors …’ he leered at Thomas.
‘How come you know so much about them?’
‘Just after they moved in, there was a right old fracas in Davies Street, outside their front door. Party of toffs, all drunk as lords, which in fact some of them proved to be,’ he added with a cynical expression. ‘One of them took exception to something another said, words led to fisticuffs and the noise was something else. They was all arrested. The foreign gentleman, now what was his name?’ Sergeant Parker had scratched his ear, an action that Thomas remembered he’d habitually used to aid his memory. ‘Count he was. Yes, Count Meyerhoff. Well, he’d been returning home and seen the start of the fight. He refused to be a witness, said he didn’t want no trouble, but he did want to know how often that sort of thing took place. He said he’d thought it was a respectable neighbourhood.’
Thomas nodded. ‘Always has been. Very far from the East End in every sense.’
‘So I assured the count. Well, he wanted an inspection of his locks. Wanted to make sure he and his partner were safe in their beds.’
‘In their beds?’
‘Didn’t actually use them words but it was obvious what he meant.’
Trust George Parker to see innuendo in the most commonplace of situations!
‘No other trouble in the area?’
The sergeant shook his head and finished off the pint of ale Thomas had bought him in the police station’s local. ‘It gets regularly patrolled, as you’d expect, being as ’ow we don’t want no trouble there. And the Maison Rose property don’t seem to attract any suspicious night life, know what I mean?’ He winked meaningfully at Thomas. ‘Daytime they get a very good class of custom calling there.’
Thomas had returned home little wiser. But he was unable to rule the Maison Rose out of the investigation until he discovered what business Albert had had with the foreign count. Frustrated, he’d written up his notes then had shut his notebook with a decisive air and gone next door to the Bottle and Glass.
The pub was seething with drinkers. Exchanging greetings, Thomas worked his way through to the bar, where he was surprised and bothered to find Betty Marks serving alongside Schooner. Perspiration ran down the sides of her face as she pulled on the ale handle, sharply told one customer he must wait his turn and rejected the invitation of another to come outside. Then she saw Thomas and her face lit up. ‘Hey, stranger, where you been, then?’ The foaming beer was handed over, money received, and she automatically wiped down the surface of the bar as she smiled a welcome.
‘Didn’t know you were barmaid as well as cook,’ he said awkwardly, aware that she was the main reason he hadn’t frequented the Bottle and Glass the last few weeks.
She flicked him a saucy look. ‘Mavis is off sick and Schooner hauled me in from the kitchen, said drink was more important than food. What can I get you?’
‘Pint of the usual, thanks, Betty.’
‘You take it over there,’ she indicated a little table in the far corner of the bar. ‘It’ll soon quieten and we can talk. Eaten, have you? There’s a mighty tasty pie in the back; cut you a slice in a twinkling. And you know you like my pickled onions.’
Schooner gave him a welcoming nod and Thomas knew he was caught. He was also hungry.
Little Patty, the girl who worked at whatever was needed doing, brought over a plate of generously cut pork pie, a small dish of pickled onions and a doorstop slice of bread.
‘Got you in the kitchen today, have they?’ Thomas gave her a smile.
She placed the food carefully before him, tongue peeking from her mouth as she concentrated on making sure nothing fell to the floor. She was very thin, her shoulder bones almost cutting through the worn cotton of her dress, its original pattern long since lost through wear and washing. Say this for Schooner, he made sure his staff were clean, no easy feat in this area of London.
‘I’se cook today,’ she said proudly, large eyes anxious. ‘Missus Marks, she tells me to watch the stew and spoon it out for customers. I’se not to let pot boil. Keep it simmering; that’s the trick she says.’
‘You’ll soon be taking over.’
‘You want stew, Mister Jackman?’
‘This is fine, Patty.’
She gave him a wide grin and disappeared back to the kitchen.
Thomas looked around to see if there was someone whose eye he could catch who would take the other chair at the little table. But that night’s clientele studiously ignored him. He might no longer be a member of the law but there were many who would rather not lay themselves open to his attention. Then a rough-looking fellow approached him in a sideways movement.
‘Eli Martock, isn’t it?’
‘Get you a pint?’ the man offered, hovering, obviously anxious to have words with him.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’ Thomas waved a hand at his more than half-full glass. ‘Take a seat.’ He nudged the opposite chair away from the table with his foot.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Eli Martock placed his tankard on the table and sat down heavily. He wore battered and none-too-clean canvas workmen’s trousers and jacket. Having made the move, he looked down at his hands and seemed unable to state why he’d approached the ex-policeman.
‘Carter for Jim Stevens, ain’t you?’ said Thomas in an effort to move the conversation along. ‘Remember talking to you when Jim had stock go astray.’ Stevens was a wholesale ironmonger. It had been a simple case, one of the first Thomas had investigated after he’d left the police force; Stevens hadn’t wanted the authorities involved and Schooner had told him to have a word with Jackman. It hadn’t been difficult to establish that one of the other carters had been quietly slipping the odd item of this and that to a mate along his delivery route, reckoning they wouldn’t be missed.
Eli nodded,
opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Thomas ate a piece of pie and waited for the other man to find his voice.
‘Dunno as ’ow you’d want to help.’
‘Won’t know if you don’t tell me what it is.’
A bit of heavy breathing before Eli looked at him, his weathered face creased with anxiety. ‘You ain’t a copper any longer, is you?’
Thomas shook his head.
‘It’s just, if I tells you sommat, you don’t ’ave to report it, does you?’ Eli looked around them, no doubt checking who was in earshot. But the little table was quite private.
Hands held up, Thomas said, ‘I can be as silent as any grave.’
‘It’s just that Mr Stevens fired Walker, you know? ’Im what ’ad been doin’ that stealin’, you know?’
Thomas nodded. ‘He was lucky not to end up in prison, as he would have done if he’d been charged.’
‘’E doesn’t think ’e’s lucky, an’ … an’ ’e reckons ’tis all my fault.’
Thomas put down his knife and fork, conscious they had arrived at the nub of the matter. ‘Threatening you, is he?’
‘Says ’e’ll tell the boss as ’ow I was in on it, too.’
‘And were you?’
A vigorous shake of the head. ‘Only the cart wot I drive ’ad a right tear-away driver crash into it the other day and while the mess got sorted some varmint scarpered off with several boxes of goods. I told the boss as ’ow it weren’t my fault, I’d ’ad me work cut out dealin’ with the ’orses, right state they was in, and there’d been witnesses, like. So ’e said as it were all right, though ’e’s dockin’ me pay until what was lost is covered, said I should ’ave bin able to guard everything better.’ The hands with their huge knuckles worked together. ‘Only Walker, ’e ’eard all about it and says unless I pays ’im, ’e’ll tell the boss as ’ow I was in on ’is scam. An’ then it’ll be me for the ’igh jump. An’ me and the missus, well, there’s a littl’un on the way … an’ if I lose me job, well, I won’t get a reference; Stevens didn’t give Walker one.’
‘And that’s why he’s asking you for money?’
Eli nodded miserably. ‘Reckon so. Can’t get no job without one.’
‘What makes you think Mr Stevens will believe him rather than you?’
Feet were shuffled unhappily. ‘Long time ago, there were an incident. An’ boss gave me another chance but said anything else an’ that would be it.’
Thomas remembered Jim Stevens very well. A fair but tough man. He hadn’t wanted to prosecute Walker, said it would only give rise to a host of claims against him for goods that hadn’t disappeared at all, but he’d never be able to prove it because his paperwork wasn’t bang up to rights. Walker had been told the evidence was against him and he was to go without that essential piece of paper every working man or woman required, the reference that stated their abilities and their honesty.
‘Have you given Walker any money?’
‘’E said it was only the once, to tide ’im over like. But …’
‘He’s come back for more.’ Thomas sighed. ‘You should never have given him anything. He thinks he’s got you now.’
‘Reckon that’s it. I’m that worried. And then, when I saw you tonight, well, I thought as ’ow you might …’
‘Might what?’
Eli put his hands beneath his armpits and looked more miserable than ever. ‘Dunno, really. Only, that time it was you wot caught Walker, and I thought, maybe …’
Thomas took a good look at him. Early twenties, strong in arm, weak in head. With a missus in an interesting condition and disaster staring him in the face. By the time Thomas had finished his investigation into the missing goods, he’d been certain Walker was the only carter involved in the scam. The man was an unpleasant type, quick to see where any advantage might lie.
‘You know what you should do, don’t you, mate?’
Eli looked at him helplessly.
‘Go to your boss and tell him everything. Then there’s nothing left for Walker to threaten you with.’
Consternation filled Eli’s face. ‘But suppose as ’ow the boss gives me me marching orders.’
‘Stevens is a fair man. More like he’d report Walker for extortion.’
It took a little longer but eventually Eli Martock nodded his big head with its untidy thatch of dark hair. ‘I’ll do that, Mr Jackman. Right after tomorrow’s rounds.’
Thomas made a mental note to call on Jim Stevens first thing the next morning. No need for Eli to know anything about it but best to make sure Stevens understood just what a rat he’d been employing with Walker. He watched the carter walk out of the pub, his shoulders held back.
Nobody else joined him and he’d finished the pie by the time the drinkers had thinned out and Betty came over to his table, pushing back damp curls, a little sparkle in her eyes.
‘Supper all right, then, Tom?’ She settled down into the other chair with a little sigh of tiredness.
‘Excellent, Betty. Best I’ve had in a long time. And you seem to be training young Patty in the ways of cooking.’
She gave him a smug smile. ‘Cook a decent meal and you’ll find a job or a husband, maybe both,’ she added coyly, looking up at him through her thick dark lashes.
Once again Thomas was conscious he was passing up an offer most men in his situation would feel grateful for. Unable to think of anything safe to say, he finished the last piece of pie.’
Betty waved over Patty, now clearing dirty glasses left by departed drinkers. ‘Take Mr Jackman’s plate and bring him that last piece of apple pie I told you to save. You have still got it?’ she added sharply as the girl hesitated.
Patty nodded. ‘But Mr Marks said he wanted it.’
‘Then he must have it,’ Thomas said quickly, happy to go without one of his favourite dishes if it meant he could escape back home.
‘I’ll make another tomorrow; he can have some then,’ said Betty dismissively.
So Thomas had to remain a captive. Betty asked if the meeting that had interrupted her visit with the oyster stew had gone well. Soon he found himself telling her a little of the Peters case. No names were mentioned, of course, nor any detail that might reveal identities. He concentrated on generalities. ‘And tomorrow I must try and get hold of another of the servants and see if there is anything they can reveal of what has been going on.’
‘You should talk to the cook.’ Betty had followed everything he’d said with keen attention.
‘Really?’
‘Kitchen is the heart of the house. If someone isn’t home for meals, or is off their food, the cook knows. If there are valued visitors, cook knows. If money is short, cook knows.’
Thomas looked at her with new eyes. He had not thought she was capable of such perception, and immediately felt guilty. He should have known she was not lacking intelligence and what she said was only common sense.
* * *
Now, listening to the rain as he finished going through his notes, Thomas reckoned Betty was right. It was time he turned his attention back to the Peters household and the cook was an obvious target.
He closed the notebook and took himself off to Jim Stevens in High Holborn. It hadn’t taken long to put the wholesale ironmonger in the picture regarding Eli Martock.
‘Daft bugger,’ Jim Stevens said. ‘If only I could get my hands on Walker. I was wrong not to prosecute him and I don’t mind saying so. I’ll put out the word that if he tries anything on Eli, I’ll have his guts for garters.’
Thomas left the ironmongery confident that Eli’s problem was more or less solved. The rain looked as though it was clearing and the ironmonger’s depot wasn’t a million miles from Montagu Place.
Hoping Mrs Trenchard had not decided on calling on the Peters’ house that morning, he knocked on the basement door. Young Sam opened up. The production of a sixpenny piece ensured his willing co-operation.
‘I need to speak to Cook, but not in the house. Best would be
to run into her outside. What are her shopping habits?’
Sam picked his nose and stared at him.
‘I mean, will she go shopping for food today?’
‘Hasn’t been for several days,’ he said gloomily. His hair needed washing, his collarless shirt bore various stains and there was a decided lack of polish on his shoes. Joshua Peters would have had a fit if he could see the youngest member of his staff so neglecting his appearance.
Suddenly Sam’s expression lightened. ‘We’re to have a proper meal today. I heard Cook tell Mrs Trenchard yesterday it were a disgrace there weren’t no money for food. Credit’s all used up, she said. We’ve been living on the store-cupboard for weeks and now its empty. But this morning she told us we could look forward to dinnertime.’ He looked expectantly at Thomas.
‘So you think Mrs Trenchard has given her some money and that Cook will need to do some shopping before she can produce a proper meal for you all?’
Sam nodded vigorously. ‘Last few days we’ve been starving. Never thought I’d be serving in a gentleman’s house what couldn’t afford to feed its staff.’
‘When do you think Cook will be going out?’
‘Dunno. But she went upstairs ’bout five minutes ago.’
‘Thanks, Sam.’ Thomas thought of something else. ‘Millie around?’ he asked in an offhand manner.
‘Nah! Went off early this morning, dressed in one of Mrs Peters’ best gowns and with her hair done all la-di-dah. She thinks now she doesn’t have to look after her mistress, she can come and go as she pleases. If you ask me, she’s a disgrace.’
‘And you don’t know where?’
‘Found a fancy man, must ’ave.’
Thomas wished fervently that that would turn out to be true. ‘Better go back in, Sam,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait around the corner and see if Cook comes out. Now not a word about this to anyone.’ He slipped Sam another sixpenny piece.
With amazing speed it vanished into an invisible pocket.
Thomas had already reconnoitred the local shops. Unless the Peters’ cook was adventurous, there was everything she needed by way of fresh produce within a ten-minute walk. He took himself off to hang around the butcher’s that seemed to offer good quality at a reasonable price. It wasn’t long before a lanky female in a serviceable jacket and remarkably plain hat and carrying a basket came along. He folded the newspaper he had pretended to peruse and shoved it behind a crate conveniently sitting on the pavement.
A Fatal Freedom Page 19