by M. J. Trow
Tanner beckoned him forward. ‘Mr Grand is helping us with our enquiries,’ he said.
‘Ah, the Orient. Yes, yes, of course.’
‘The Orient?’ Tanner frowned, his arm still across the door and blocking Batchelor’s way out into the murky, tile-clad corridor.
‘Er …’
‘We seem to make a habit of talking at cross purposes, Mr Batchelor. The help that Mr Grand was giving us relates to a murder in the Haymarket.’
‘The Haymarket?’ Batchelor repeated. ‘But he knows nothing about the murders in the Haymarket.’
‘Oh, but he does,’ Tanner said. ‘He was there.’
‘What?’ None of this was making sense to the former Fleet Street man.
‘Mr Grand tells us he saw the murderer. Further, he believes the murderer to be a policeman. Now, what’s this about the Orient?’
James Batchelor took stock of his situation and came to a decision. ‘One murder at a time,’ he said. ‘You tell me how Grand is involved in the Haymarket, and I’ll tell you about the Orient.’
Tanner looked at him. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we cut out the middle man, so to speak, and all of us talk about this together?’ And he dropped his arm and led the way down the corridor.
They walked up a flight of stairs and turned left at the top, through a door marked ‘Private’. Inside the room they entered, a gas light fizzed and flickered, flashing green shadows on the face of Matthew Grand.
‘I believe you gentlemen know each other,’ Tanner said.
Like the inspector, Grand had discarded his suit jacket and loosened his tie. There was a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, along with his papers and a .32 calibre Colt pistol, with a short barrel suitable for a shoulder holster. That holster was still under his left armpit.
‘Matthew.’ Batchelor grabbed a chair and sat down next to him. The man’s forehead was swollen and bruised. ‘I hope this is not the work of the Metropolitan Police, Inspector.’
‘No, no,’ Grand said. ‘It’s the work, I understand, of a fast-thinking lady of the night. One of your scarlet sisters tripped me up on the sidewalk. It’s my own damn fool fault.’
‘Quite so,’ said Tanner, sliding back his own chair. ‘Just to make all things clear, Mr Batchelor, where were you tonight? Before you came looking for Mr Grand, that is.’
‘At the Haymarket,’ Batchelor said.
‘You missed all the fun.’ Grand winced, feeling his head throb anew.
‘Fun, Mr Grand?’ Tanner’s face assumed an aspect that Batchelor hadn’t seen before. ‘You call the murder of a young woman fun?’
‘Murder?’ Batchelor repeated, looking desperately from one face to another.
‘I was referring to the fisticuffs of earlier,’ Grand explained. ‘Oh, but of course, you missed that too.’
‘Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?’ Batchelor shouted, way past the end of his tether by now.
‘Certainly,’ said Tanner. ‘I understand there was the usual rowdyism at the Haymarket, involving a number of unfortunates with Mr Grand in the middle of it. No one called us, so we must put that down to part of Mr Argyll’s idea of entertainment. So far, so humdrum. But this is where it gets interesting. Version one is that Mr Grand, here, inflamed perhaps by the proximity of so much pulchritude, goes out into the street, accosts a girl and strangles her with wire.’
‘I told you—’ Grand began.
‘Version two—’ Tanner cut him short – ‘is that somebody else did that and Mr Grand merely arrived on the scene moments later. Does any of this sound familiar to you, Mr Batchelor?’
The journalist nodded, open-mouthed. ‘It does,’ he said at last. ‘My exact experience with Effie.’
‘Now—’ Tanner leaned back – ‘I ask myself: what are the odds of two gentlemen who know each other both stumbling on similar murders in the same part of London, only a few nights apart? Strains credulity, don’t you think?’
‘It has to be coincidence,’ Batchelor said.
Tanner chuckled, but it was mirthless. ‘Search the detectives’ handbook from cover to cover, Mr Batchelor,’ he said, ‘and you will find no such word. In short, the Metropolitan Police do not believe in coincidences.’
A silence followed in which each man tried to guess what was going on in the minds of the other two.
‘Tell me about the Orient,’ Tanner said, looking hard at Grand. Grand, in turn, looked hard at Batchelor. Nothing. ‘You see, as soon as the incomparable constables Morris and Brown brought you in here, I knew I’d seen your face before,’ the inspector went on. ‘It was at the offices of Messrs Inman, the shipping line, in Leadenhall Street. Technically, of course, I was out of my patch, treading on the toes of my colleagues in the City Force, but needs must when the devil drives.’
Grand looked up. ‘The devil?’
‘I never forget a face, Mr Grand,’ Tanner went on.
‘Neither do I,’ the American assured him.
Another silence.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Matthew, tell him,’ Batchelor blurted out. ‘You’re looking for a needle in a haystack, and this is the man with a magnet.’
For a long moment, Grand said nothing, then he leaned back in his chair. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a man named Charles Dundreary.’
‘Why?’ Tanner asked.
‘He owes me money,’ Grand said, ignoring the look that Batchelor gave him. ‘Swindled me in a card game back in Washington. The bastard ran to New York and caught the Orient. I followed.’
‘On the City of Manchester, yes,’ Tanner said, nodding. ‘How much does this Mr Dundreary owe you?’
‘Five hundred dollars.’
Tanner whistled through his teeth. ‘I can see why you want to find him,’ he said. ‘But of course, what intrigues me is that there was a murder on the Orient.’
‘There was?’ Grand appeared the innocent.
‘You know very well there was,’ Tanner said. ‘I overheard the clerk at Inman’s, telling you all about it.’
‘I was merely curious,’ Grand lied. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’
‘Oh, but I think it does,’ the inspector said. ‘Either Mr Dundreary was the victim of that murder – which we both know he was not – or he was the murderer.’
‘Again,’ Grand said, shrugging, ‘that may be the case. Dundreary may be a murderer, but I want him for another reason altogether.’
‘He owes you money.’
Grand nodded. ‘Precisely.’
If the silences before were painful, this one was positively agonizing. Again, it was Tanner who broke it. He stood and picked up Grand’s papers, passing them to him. Then, as Grand stood, he picked up the gun, twirled it with lightning speed around his finger and handed it butt-first to its owner. ‘Don’t leave London, Mr Grand,’ he said, ‘and if I hear that you carry this again, I will take it from you personally, and what I do with it then will bring tears to your eyes, that I guarantee.’
Grand nodded and slid the Colt into his holster.
‘And Mr Batchelor?’ The inspector turned from the door. ‘Next time you go to the Haymarket, I’d be careful of the friends you take with you.’
Once they were well away from the Vine Street Police Station, Matthew Grand thought he would have a quiet, confidential word with James Batchelor. Before that, however, the American picked up the Englishman by the lapels and bounced him against the wall.
‘What part of “you must not tell a living soul” did you not understand, Batchelor?’
‘You told me it was “the story” – and I quote – “of a lifetime”.’
Grand relaxed his grip a little. ‘Only when I’m darned good and ready for you to publish it.’ And he dropped the man and marched away.
‘When will that be?’ Batchelor pulled his jacket back into place and followed him. It was barely light yet, and the streets were nearly deserted in this part of London.
Grand stopped and spun
round. ‘When I’ve found this son of a bitch,’ he said.
‘I’m looking for a son of a bitch too.’ Somehow the phrase didn’t sound quite right coming from Batchelor.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Grand asked. He was walking already.
‘We work together.’ Batchelor ran and skipped alongside him. ‘Two heads are better than one, eh? I know this city like the back of my hand, and you know the man you’re looking for.’
‘That’s not going to help you with the Haymarket killings,’ Grand said.
‘No, that’s true. But one thing at a time. Have you tried the street directories?’
‘The what?’ Grand had never heard of them.
‘Street directories. Kelly’s is the best. They contain lists of every ratepayer, house by house, since 1851. What if Dundreary’s there?’
‘I think we can assume that’s not the feller’s real name,’ Grand muttered. ‘And now we’ve got that detective in there thinking I’m up to my neck in murder.’
‘Thanks for the swindling card-cheat story, by the way,’ Batchelor said. ‘I wasn’t quite ready for that one.’
Grand stopped walking and looked at the man. ‘Look, the only other detectives I know, apart from Tanner back there, are a couple of cousins named Baker back home. Either of them would slit a man’s throat if the fancy took them, and I don’t suppose your police are any different.’
Batchelor found himself defending the man. ‘I think Tanner’s straight as a die.’
‘Yeah, and I’m Stonewall Jackson’s left tit,’ Grand rumbled. ‘Godammit, Batchelor, I’m working undercover for the American government, for God’s sake. I can’t go broadcasting that to every flatfoot I meet. Or every hack, come to that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Batchelor spread his arms. ‘Look, it’ll be daylight soon. There’s a chop house around the corner that does devilled kidneys which you simply won’t believe. My treat, for a change. What do you say?’
Grand had walked on again but now he stopped. It had been a rough few hours one way or another, and perhaps it was time to take stock for a while. He looked at Batchelor. The man was clearly a loose-mouthed idiot, but he meant well. And he did know this city like the back of his hand.
‘Devilled kidneys, huh?’ the American said. ‘All right. You talked me into it. And tell me about these Haymarket killings – one way or another, they’ve sort of landed in my lap too.’
The next night, as the candles guttered in Mrs Biggs’ upstairs room, James Batchelor came to a decision. He had promised to report daily to George Sala at the Telegraph, and he hadn’t done it. Neither could he walk openly into the offices of Thornton Leigh Hunt for fear of being sued for trespass. So there had to be a middle way, and he dashed off a message in time to catch the last telegraph. ‘I have news. Re our American cousin. Batchelor.’
St James’s Park was bathed in sunshine the next morning, and George Sala was sitting on a bench throwing crumbs to the ducks. He’d never felt at one with nature but occasionally his feathered friends were a lot more companionable than those in suits. They squawked and squabbled at his feet, threatening to nip his fingers with their lightning bills – very like Fleet Street, really.
‘You’re late.’ He didn’t look up as James Batchelor sat down beside him. The younger man opened up a box of sandwiches and started munching as though he and Sala had never met and were not about to have a conversation.
‘Sorry.’ Batchelor was talking out of the side of his mouth.
‘Are you going to do that all the time?’ Sala asked, leaning away from the man. ‘Because if you are, this conversation is at an end. People will stare.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And don’t keep saying sorry. What have you got for me?’ Sala was already wondering if this truly was a good idea.
‘Well, not a lot, George, actually.’
‘I happen to know you’ve been to Vine Street,’ Sala said, still throwing crumbs, ‘and that friend Grand was taken into custody.’
‘All a misunderstanding,’ Batchelor explained. ‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Yes.’ Sala sighed. ‘Rather like he was at Ford’s Theatre. Look, I’m not remotely interested in some harlots going the way of all flesh. I’m interested in what happened in Washington on Good Friday.’
‘You can’t believe Matthew was involved in the Lincoln assassination,’ Batchelor said. ‘He’s working for the government.’
‘Oh, Matthew, is it?’ Sala sneered. ‘Take my advice, Batchelor, and don’t get too close to this man. And I know he’s working for the government. What I don’t know is what else he’s up to.’
‘There was a murder on the SS Orient. She sailed into Liverpool two days before Grand arrived. He thinks that murder is connected somehow with the Lincoln conspiracy.’
‘Does he?’ Sala had stopped throwing his bread now, and the ducks were becoming rebellious, pecking his shoes and socks. ‘That’s interesting. Did he say why?’
Batchelor was torn. Here was a journalist he respected enormously, and the man was paying his wages at the moment. On the other hand he’d developed a liking for Grand and he had betrayed him once already, to Tanner. He wasn’t about to do it again. ‘No,’ he said, straight-faced.
‘Well, get on to it.’ Sala slipped a plain, buff envelope into Batchelor’s pocket. ‘I want to know about the Orient. And for God’s sake, Batchelor, will you stop this ludicrous hole in a corner meeting nonsense? We’re not spies, dammit. Only spies meet in St James’s Park.’
At the telegraph office that afternoon, George Sala was at his terse best. Usually a verbose and flowing wordsmith, telegrams cost money, and he could hardly put it down to the Telegraph’s expense account.
‘Nothing yet,’ he wrote. ‘Will keep you posted.’ And he sent it to Lafayette Baker, Washington.
Matthew Grand had sat in the Reading Room of the British Museum for what seemed like days. Bearded old men covered in cobwebs sat with him, their noses buried in tomes as dry and dusty as they were. The clerk was helpfulness itself, except that he was no help at all. Various maps and deeds appeared before Grand, brought up from the bowels of the building on a little hand-drawn cart. They all contained the same thing: umpteen depictions of the red cross and sword badge on the cufflink Peanut John had found in the alleyway next to Ford’s Theatre. And Grand learned for the umpteenth time that it was the coat of arms of the Corporation of the City of London. Their motto read ‘Domine dirige nos’ – Lord, direct us. And how fervently Matthew Grand repeated that in the days ahead.
The clerk could be of no further use – but if sir wanted to know more, perhaps he could try the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street? He couldn’t miss it.
Actually, Matthew Grand did miss it, twice. The entrance and west wing were undergoing a rebuilding, and Irishmen with loud voices and unintelligible shouts swarmed all over it, up ladders and along planking, carrying bricks on their shoulders. When he was at last inside, Grand explained the purpose of his visit. A friend of his in America had had a pair of cufflinks made, and he was anxious to track down the craftsman concerned.
A bald man with a permanent stoop did his best to help and cradled the cufflink lovingly. ‘Ah, the Corporation,’ he said, beaming. ‘Argent a cross gules, in the first quarter a sword in pale point upwards of the last.’ He caught the look of disbelief on Grand’s face. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s how we heralds speak. I’m Thomas Leslie, by the way, Rouge Croix Pursuivant in Ordinary to give you my full moniker. I don’t suppose you have people like me at home.’
‘Er … not exactly, no.’
‘Asprey’s,’ the herald said.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Asprey’s, jewellers for gentlefolk of discernment and pots of money. If anyone makes those things, it’ll be Asprey’s. New Bond Street. You can’t miss it.’
‘It’s more the man I’m after,’ Grand said, ‘rather than the cufflink.’
‘I don’t follow.�
�� Leslie frowned.
‘Well, it’s ridiculous, really. I met this Englishman in Washington recently and we got on famously. He left this behind inadvertently, and I wanted to return it to him.’
‘An extraordinarily generous gesture, sir, if I may say so, to travel three thousand miles to return a gewgaw.’
‘Well, I had business in London anyhow, but the silly thing is, I can’t remember the feller’s name. I was hoping the crest might be a club or a fraternity or something.’
‘Well, I suppose the City of London is a club of sorts, from the Lord Mayor down. But anyone can purchase cufflinks like these, sir. You don’t actually have to be a member of the Corporation. It is made up of the City Livery Companies, and each of them has their own coat of arms, of course. Did your friend not leave you with a forwarding address?’
Grand laughed, bitter, hollow, empty. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Our last meeting was rather rushed. It must have slipped his mind.’ He thanked the herald and strode for the door. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘The College of Arms’ motto.’ He pointed to the gorgeous carving on the wall. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Oh, that?’ Leslie smiled. ‘Diligent and secret.’
James Batchelor thought he had drawn the longer straw when he ended up with the task of visiting Auntie Bettie. He had had his moments with women, or so he liked to claim, but if he were to be scrupulously honest he would have to say that those moments had been very short and very few and far between – and had never featured any of Auntie Bettie’s girls, who were in the middle echelons of ladies of uncertain virtue, if only by the parameter of price. The one good thing about this was that she was easily found. Her premises in the strangely apt Charles II Street were palatial by anyone’s standards, although possibly a little rococo for some tastes. He was let in by a maid in black bombazine and a flirty little cap low on her brow. He asked, rather diffidently, to speak to Auntie Bettie and was shown into a plush drawing room to the right of the hall. He was looking at the portraits around the walls when he heard a soft step behind him.
‘Hello, young man,’ a deep voice drawled, almost in his ear. ‘Now, how can I help you, I wonder?’