“I’ve no-one to mind her, since her mother’s gone,” he said and began to cough.
“May we come in?”
Moss could not speak for coughing, but indicated they could and they followed him into the room, which was light and airy due to the large window that filled one wall. A bookbinder’s bench stretched along its length.
Moss sat down, and at length his cough subsided.
“Yes, gentlemen?” he managed to say. “Are you wanting some work done?”
“I wanted information about someone you have worked for: Mr Briggs Yardley.” Moss frowned. “What can you tell us about him?”
“Why do you need to know about him, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?” Moss said, carefully after a moment.
“I’m a police officer,” said Giles.
Moss sighed, considered for a moment and then said, “Well, he’s a gentleman with a particular desire for particular things.”
“Indeed. And you have done business with him?”
“On occasion, yes.”
Moss sat knotting his fingers together, his chest rising and falling alarmingly. Then he reached out and took up one of his bookbinding tools and turned it in his hand.
“There used to be enough money in just the binding work,” he said. “But people don’t care about getting a proper binding these days, they just want the book. My father used to bind books for all the gentry, and they wanted it done properly, but these days...”
“Did you do something other than bind books for Mr Yardley?” Giles said.
“At first I did. He was kind enough to bring me some fine old books to repair. A lovely job, I must say...” He began to cough again.
“Have you seen him recently?” said Giles.
“Yes,” said Moss. “He was here the day before yesterday. He had got a set of prints he wanted binding up. I haven’t begun it yet. To tell you the truth, I haven’t had the strength to, though it will be bread on the table. And the prints are of a nasty sort. I don’t want to do anything with them until I know my girl is safe asleep.”
He pointed to a large portfolio propped up against the wall.
“May I?” Giles said. Moss nodded and Giles went and opened the portfolio.
“Martyrdoms of the saints,” said Moss. “So-called.”
The images were certainly disturbing, showing a relish for torture couched in the guise of devotion.
“Nasty stuff indeed,” said Giles, closing the portfolio. “And will he come back to collect the work?”
“Yes, but I don’t know when. I had better get on with them.”
“Do you know where he is staying?”
“He did not say, sir. He comes and goes.”
“He had never mentioned an address to you in town?”
“Once he did – last year he had me send something to a shop in Healygate. Gale’s.”
“You are certain of that? Gale’s the tobacconist?”
“Quite.”
The man began to cough again and the conversation necessarily stalled.
Was this simply a coincidence or suggestive of something deeply unpleasant: a connection between Holzknecht and Yardley? His mind went back to Jasper Hearn’s description of the devils on the high road – one in the old shooting coat, the other tall and fair in a light-coloured frock coat, carrying a straw top hat.
At last his coughing fit abated and Giles asked, “So, as well as book binding for Mr Yardley, Mr Moss, you have had other business dealings? Yes?”
Moss twisted up his mouth and looked away.
“Things have been so hard,” said Moss after a moment. “I shouldn’t have done it otherwise. It was ready money when all is said and done, and that is hard to refuse, sir. I had a friend who acquired –”
“Acquired?” Giles said.
“I don’t know where he got ’em!” Moss said. “I didn’t ask.”
“I see,” said Giles. “So you had your doubts about their origins?”
“Maybe,” said Moss.
“And these things were?”
“Old books. Illuminated. Very choice. Beautiful old work – the sort of stuff you can sell for good money if you know the right people.”
“And Briggs Yardley was the right sort of person?”
“I didn’t like to do it,” Moss said. “Cutting up a book like that – it’s like killing something. But I needed the money, and I knew Yardley would pay three times over just for the little paintings, and I could pay my friend, and leave some to pay my bills. A lovely Our Lady with the child Jesus there was, and some scenes of the harvest.”
“And your friend is in Northminster?” The person who ‘acquired’ these books?”
“I haven’t seen him since my wife died,” Moss said. “He’s a Dutchman. Went back to Rotterdam.”
“Very convenient,” said Giles.
“God’s honest truth, sir!” exclaimed Moss. “I have nothing more to lose, have I?”
He glanced to the side. The little girl was now standing in the doorway to the room, watching them with solemn eyes, her thumb in her mouth. He gestured for her to go back into the room, which she did at length.
“I can’t fool myself,” he said, when she had gone. “It’s only a matter of time. My lungs are failing me... and then who will look after her?”
“If you help us, Mr Moss,” Giles said, “we could perhaps see that arrangements were made for her.”
“You will take care of her?”
Giles nodded.
“If you help us a little more,” he said. “Next time Yardley is here, I shall expect to know about it at once, and furthermore I want you to tell him that you have heard that some interesting and valuable documents have become available – perhaps your friend in Rotterdam has been to visit.”
“I could, sir, I suppose. I should need some more details.”
“We have all the details.” Giles indicated to Milburne to take out his papers.
“A complete provenance,” said Lord Milburne, handing it over. “And description.”
Moss read over the first page or two.
“He will like the look of that, yes,” he said with a sigh. “I shall do my best, sir, I suppose I can do no other.”
He dropped the papers to the floor. He looked utterly exhausted.
“I may send Mr Carswell to have a look at him,” said Giles as they went downstairs. “I fear he is in danger of not staying the course.”
“And the poor little girl?”
“There is a charity school for girls attached to the Minster – the Grey Maids Hospital. My sister has a hand in its management. I think we could find a place for her there.”
“An orphanage?” said Milburne, with some repulsion.
“It’s not like the workhouse,” Giles said. “It’s a kind place and the girls get a good education.”
-o-
Felix worked on the post-mortems until a little after two when hunger, exhaustion and his lingering hangover, not to mention his bruises, got the better of him.
He covered the bodies, scrubbed his hands, locked the door, and headed towards the chop house on the corner of the street. It was not the most salubrious place, but it had the virtue of anonymity.
He knew he ought to go back to Silver Street and make peace with Sukey, but he did not know how to begin. He wanted only to hear her forgive him and press her hand to his forehead and give him hot broth and comfort, but he knew that these things would come only if he said the right things and behaved with the correct degree of contrition. He felt the latter strongly enough, but he had no idea how he was supposed to convey it to her convincingly.
So instead he found a seat in a dark corner, and ordered a bottle of porter and two mutton chops. He took the edge from his appetite with the bread and butter that was placed on the table, as if for free, but always charged for and excessively so, for the bread was stale and the butter not fresh. But Felix scarcely cared. He ate mechanically.
After some minutes the waiter appeared with the
chops, the porter and a jug of claret.
“I didn’t order that,” Felix said, as the waiter put the wine on the table.
“Your friend did, sir,” the waiter said, and then Felix saw that Briggs Yardley was looming up behind him. He stared and blinked as if it were a vision thrown up by tiredness and his own disorderly mind, but he seemed quite solid.
“Please take it away,” he managed to say, at the same time knowing it was not what needed to be said. What he needed to do was to quietly tell the waiter to fetch a constable and lock the door to the shop so that Yardley could not get away.
“As you like, sir,” said the waiter and went away. And as he did, and before Felix had a chance to call him back, Yardley was standing at the table.
“No fancy for claret today, Carswell?” he said.
“No, thank you, sir. It was kind, but I’ve no stomach for it,” Felix said, repulsed by this closeness.
“No offence taken,” said Yardley. “It was a mere token, to express my thanks, once again, for the safe delivery of my boy.”
“Quite unnecessary, sir,” said Felix, pushing away his scarcely touched plate of meat.
He decided he would make a swift departure and go and find some assistance for himself. In the meantime, it was important that he was able to leave Yardley with the impression that he did not know he was the object of an intensive police search. He got to his feet and said, “If you will excuse me, sir, I have a pressing appointment.”
“You do?” said Yardley, and reached out, clamping Felix’s hand to the table with surprisingly strong fingers. Felix attempted and then failed to pull his hand away. He found himself remembering Louisa Rivers’ account of being overpowered by him. “And leave all your meat?” said Yardley. “What kind of appointment can that be?”
“I have no appetite, as I said,” said Felix, again trying to disentangle himself, but finding somehow he could not.
“Sit down, Mr Carswell.”
“I do not think –”
“I believe a certain lady would prefer it if you stayed and talked to me.”
“What?”
“The pretty Irish widow. Your pretty Irish widow. Such a charming creature. I was quite bowled over when I finally made her acquaintance. I can see why you have made her your mistress, Mr Carswell. You have exquisite taste.”
“Excuse me, sir, but –” Again he tried to get out, but Yardley had him by the shoulder and shoved him down onto the bench.
“Now, now, let us not be coy, Mr Carswell,” he said, “She’s your mistress. And perhaps she serves your colleague, the famous Major too – I don’t know, but she certainly warms your bed. Yes?”
“That is none of your business,” said Felix, and attempted to push him away.
“It is, since she is now my guest, and I hope more.”
“Your guest?”
“She was glad to come away with me.”
In his mind Felix could only see the bloodstained debris in that remote farmhouse, the girl’s boot lying on the hall floor.
“Where is she?” he said, attempting to rise again. “What have you –”
“All in good time,” said Yardley and pushed him down on the bench again and kept him there, a leaden hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you drink your claret and eat your meat? Then we shall go and see her, and talk over the business.”
“What the devil have you done with her?” Felix said.
“She is my guest,” said Yardley. “And quite safe! My, my, sir, what do you take me for?”
“I know what you are,” Felix said. “I know what you have done and you will hang for it. All the police in the city are looking for you. You will not get away with this!”
“Oh well, they may be looking,” said Yardley. “But they are not going to find me. I am quite certain of that. So sit still,” he added, with a violent shove, that sent Felix crashing into the corner, “and eat your meat. Then I may let you see your sweetheart.”
“You will take me to her directly?” Felix said.
“Yes. If you do not try and cause a fuss, I may allow that.”
At which point he reached into his coat and produced a several-chambered pistol and shoved it into Felix’s ribcage. Felix had no doubt that it was primed and loaded.
Felix did as he was told. In the moment he could not form any other plan. The gun was hard against him.
He attempted to eat his mutton chops but his mouth was so dry that it felt like he eating scraps of wool. He could scarcely swallow.
Yardley urged the wine on him. He wondered if he would choke or vomit. He was not sure what caused him greater unease: the pointed pistol or Yardley’s eyes fixed upon him as he sliced up his chop. Once or twice Yardley reached out with his bony fingers and a stole a morsel of the mutton. He popped it into his mouth and relished it with disgusting noises.
“Sir, I cannot...” Felix said after some laborious minutes of this, which felt in truth like hours. “Please may we go and see Mrs Connolly?”
“Your tone is improved,” said Yardley. Felix felt he might retch up what he had just eaten. He had hated the necessity of pleading but it was all he could think to do. “A little more befitting your station. Ah, but she has the better of you, has she not? You are her slave. That is never advisable, Carswell. A woman should be your slave, and not the other way around. But I can understand it. She is bewitching.”
“If you have so much as laid –”
“If I have, what?” said Yardley. “Mind your manners, Carswell. Do you want to see her or not?” Felix nodded. “Have another glass of wine.”
The claret was of such poor quality that it would turn a man to temperance, but Felix drank the vinegary stuff, conscious that he was making a lamentable mess of this whole business. The Major, no doubt, would have had Yardley cuffed and begging for mercy by now. Every strategy he considered seemed ridiculously foolhardy and liable to put him further from the most important consideration: getting Sukey to safety.
“That will do,” said Yardley. “Now, settle your bill like a gentleman.”
“What?”
“I’m not paying,” said Yardley, giving the gun a painful thrust into Felix’s ribs. Felix dug into his pockets and produced a handful of coins, far more than the cost of the food, but he flung them on the table none the less.
“Now, let us go and drink tea with Mrs Connolly,” said Yardley, standing up, shoving the gun again into Felix’s chest. “I shall not hesitate to shoot you if you fail to behave yourself, Mr Carswell,” he added. “I do hope you understand that.”
Chapter Thirty-six
“Where is Mrs Connolly, Anne?” said Giles when he returned to Silver Street with Mrs Maitland.
“I don’t know, sir – she went out, a couple of hours ago now.”
“Did she tell you when she would be back?”
The servant shook her head.
“No, sir,” said Anne.
At this moment Holt came in with a large bucket of coal.
“Mr Holt, have you seen Mrs Connolly?” Giles said.
“No,” said Holt with a frown.
“Perhaps you would go down to Mr O’Brien’s and see if she is there?”
“Of course, sir,” said Holt, turning towards the stairs. “I’ll just get the fire up in your room, sir.”
“No need for that. If you could lay a fire in the Professor’s sitting room instead. This lady will be working in there. Mrs Maitland, this is Edward Holt, my man. Holt, this is Mrs Maitland. Her late husband was Lieutenant Colonel Maitland, with whom I had the honour to serve.”
“Very glad to know you, ma’am,” said Holt, and opened the door to the Professor’s room to them.
Mrs Maitland stood looking about her while Holt and Giles lit the lamps.
“I expect rather more papers than you anticipated,” he said. “That is the difficulty with police work.”
“It is so sad,” she said, taking up a paper and studying it. “To see all this work abandoned. To think he felt dr
iven to such an act.”
Giles glanced around, aware that someone had come to stand in the open doorway. It was Louisa Rivers, wrapped up in a shawl, clutching a book.
“Should you be out of bed, Miss Rivers?”
“I was looking for Mr Carswell,” she said.
“He’s not here, Miss,” said Holt from the fireplace, clanking the tongs and coals.
“Good afternoon, Miss Rivers,” Mrs Maitland said.
“Ma’am,” said Louisa.
“I hope you are a little better,” Mrs Maitland said.
“I am much better, thank you,” she said, drawing herself up a little. “Though I should pretend to be an invalid as long as I can, I dare say. Then you cannot charge me.”
“I have no intention of charging you with anything at the moment,” Giles said.
“When will Mr Carswell be back? I have a question for him.” Louisa tapped the book she was holding.
“Oh yes, of course, he is coaching you,” said Giles. “He thinks you are a prodigy. You might be able to help us now, since you are feeling better. Tell me, do have any knowledge of German?”
“I do,” she said. “I got through Schreiber’s grammar last winter. I have a little understanding.”
Mrs Maitland said something in German and the girl responded promptly.
“Very good,” said Mrs Maitland. “You could certainly help us.”
“This is to do with what happened last night – the fire?” Louisa said.
“Yes. We are trying to establish why on earth the Professor should do such a thing,” said Giles.
“So, these German gentlemen – it was Professor Holzknecht and his son?” Louisa said, picking up one of the papers from the table.
“Yes.”
“Anne told me so, but I was not quite sure she had the name right,” Louisa said. “You do know they were at Whithorne? Last summer. It was before you came, Mrs Maitland.”
“What?” said Giles.
“The old man gave me a copy of his tales to practice my German,” said Louisa. “He gave one to Bel too, though she couldn’t speak a word of it.”
“He was in Whithorne? Where?” said Giles
“At the vicarage. Mr and Mrs Foyle were lionising him. It was quite funny but he was interesting and it was kind of him to give his books.”
The Hanging Cage (The Northminster Mysteries Book 4) Page 32