Chapter Seventeen
Jonathan took Mrs Benson’s steps two at a time and tucked himself under the carved wooden porch to shelter from the rain. He knocked smartly on the door. Willamore opened it and ushered him inside.
‘How is Mrs Benson?’ Jonathan asked, handing over his soggy coat and hat.
‘A little better but Madam doesn’t complain.’
Like many in the congregation, Mrs Benson had taken a chill just after Christmas, but while others had shaken off the chest ague without too much trouble, Mrs Benson hadn’t yet rallied. It was only to be expected at her age, but Jonathan was nonetheless concerned.
The butler led him towards the morning-room door. ‘She’ll be cheered to see you, Captain Quinn.’
Jonathan walked in to where Mrs Benson reclined, swathed in shawls, on the chaise longue. She’d always seemed frail but now the skin of her face seemed transparent, revealing the blue veins around her temples.
‘Captain Quinn. You’ll forgive me for not rising to greet you properly,’ she said, extending a small hand.
‘Of course,’ Jonathan said, taking it gently. ‘How are you?’
‘Well enough for an old woman.’ She covered her mouth with a lace handkerchief and coughed. ‘I’ve got Harker trying to prescribe me all sorts of concoctions but I told him no.’
‘Surely there must be something—’
She raised her hand. ‘I’m too old to argue with, remember?’
Jonathan smiled and pulled a chair alongside her to sit down.
Mrs Benson tilted her head and studied him closely. ‘Now, it’s the duty of those visiting the sick to divert them from their troubles so let us talk of something other than my old bones.’
The housekeeper brought tea and cake and Jonathan told Mrs Benson how his plans for the school were progressing.
‘Excellent! What with the new curriculum and books . . .’ she said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘And what area are you going to tackle next?’
‘Truancy,’ Jonathan replied. ‘It’s lessening but there are still some children who never do a full week. I understand their circumstances – if the head of the household has no work or is on short time the children have to earn something – but I’m afraid that often means turning to petty crime. Of course Mrs Ellis’s children are always in school. I saw her just yesterday,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘She asked me to pass on her best wishes.’
‘That’s kind of her.’ She shifted position and winced.
‘Am I tiring you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m quite all right. It’s just a little stiffness from sitting. I’ll be fine.’ She smiled at him. ‘But what about you? It worries me to think of you in that large schoolhouse with no one looking after you or keeping you company.’
‘You sound like Mrs Delaney!’
Mrs Benson looked at him with impatience. ‘Well, she has a point!’
‘But—’
‘But nothing,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively. ‘You’ve been with us for over six months now. I thought you and Miss Puttock were growing closer. She’s a tendency to the dramatic, I grant you, but a household to run and a brood of children should keep her feet on the ground. You do want children, don’t you?’
‘I do, but—’
‘Genesis chapter two, verse eighteen. “It is not good for a man to be alone.” You can’t argue with the Good Book.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Jonathan replied.
She sighed. ‘And I would so like to see you settled and happy.’ She studied his face again. ‘Is there someone else who has caught your attention?’
An image of Kate Ellis on the cake stall floated into his mind. ‘Of course not, but you can’t rush these things.’
She scrutinised his face.
Jonathan pulled out his watch. ‘Is that the time?’ He stood up. ‘I should be getting back.’
Mrs Benson studied him for a few seconds longer then put her cup down. ‘It’s good of you to call,’ she said, ringing the small bell at her elbow.
‘Not at all. I always look forward to putting the world to rights with you each Tuesday afternoon.’
‘As do I.’ She offered him her hand and Jonathan patted it gently.
The door opened and Willamore stood back so he could leave. Jonathan smiled down at her again then turned to go.
‘Oh, Jonathan.’ He turned. ‘If you happen to see Kate Ellis as you take the air on your way home, would you give her my best regards?’
Freddie pressed himself hard against the wall and swivelled his eyes to the right to keep them trained on the police officer checking the doors at the end of the alley. The beam from the officer’s bull-eyed lamp cut through the thick fog snaking up from the river. Freddie drew in a deep breath and held it. Ollie, Stefan and Inchy Pete, the gang’s slip-in boy, did the same beside him.
Even though he stood upwind from Ollie, Freddie could smell the brandy he’d been consuming from the moment he woke. Since the fire, Ollie hadn’t spent more than an hour sober.
‘Right,’ whispered Stefan. ‘Once the bluebottle’s around the corner we move. Freddie, do you know what to do?’
Hidden in the shadows, Freddie sent the large Swede a hateful look. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’
The officer rattled the lock of the last warehouse and then plodded out of sight. Stefan laid a massive hand on Pete’s shoulder. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, Mr Magson.’
Stefan cupped his hands and bent forward. Inchy put one bare foot in the improvised stirrup and Stefan lifted him on to his shoulders. The boy took a knife from his belt and clamped it between his teeth, then scrambled up the narrow window ledge before disappearing inside.
‘He’ssss a good little lad,’ Ollie slurred, looking balefully up at the open window. ‘My little boy would have been just like him if the Good Lord had spared him,’ he continued a little too loudly.
Freddie rolled his eyes. Bloody fine fucking kettle of fish, he thought. Here we are outside a bonded warehouse with a dozen nabbers within spitting distance and our fucking boss man’s blubbing like a sissy boy.
‘Now come on, Ollie man,’ Stefan replied, in a soothing tone. ‘Let’s do business.’
Ollie wiped his nose on his sleeve and stood away from the wall. ‘Yer right.’ He spat on the floor then inched his way towards the door, hiccupping quietly as he went.
‘Perhaps we should call it off,’ Freddie said, watching Ollie stumble over a broken pavement slab. ‘I was thinking, with Mr Mac being a bit under the weather, it might be best to—’
Stefan grasped Freddie’s collar and tie, lifting him off the ground. ‘Just see to the cart, Ellis, and leave the thinking to those who know how.’
Freddie twisted himself out of his grasp. ‘Watch the suit,’ he said, pulling the front of his jacket. ‘I was just saying.’
‘Don’t,’ Stefan hissed.
The warehouse door squeaked and Freddie and Stefan stepped back into the shadows. Ollie Mac wove his way unsteadily towards the entrance and then disappeared into the storehouse. Inchy padded silently across the cobbled street towards them.
‘Good lad,’ Stefan said, ruffling the boy’s unkempt hair. ‘Now nip up to the corner and give us a whistle if you spy anything.’
‘Yes, Mr Magson.’ The boy skipped off.
Stefan turned back. ‘Me and Ollie will be out in no time so keep your fucking eyes peeled.’
He pulled his cap over his eyes.
Aggie was right, Freddie thought. Ollie’s finished. It was only a matter of time before Stefan stepped into his shoes. The gang knew it and were already falling into line.
Bloody cheek. I ain’t kowtowing to him.
It was all very well for Aggie to urge him to challenge Stefan but she wasn’t the one who’d have to dodge the end of his blade. He remembered what happened to the last man who’d challenged Magson.
He glanced at the warehouse nervously. Where were they? The beat nabber would be checking in
with his sergeant on the corner of Greenbank by now and starting back soon. If Ollie and Stefan didn’t get a move on, they’d all be had.
Freddie’s thoughts reeled as a dangerous but perfect solution to his problems popped into his mind. He shook his head to dislodge it. No! He daren’t. But then Aggie’s words floated back to him.
If you see a chance to do Ollie in, then take it, Freddie. Take it! That’s what she’d said, and now that chance had presented itself. It was the perfect solution. Ollie and Stefan sorted in one blow . . . Perspiration sprang out on his forehead and with the blood pounding in his ears and sweat dripping from his brow Freddie sprinted towards the Highway. St George’s clock had just finished striking three when he spotted a cluster of nabbers gathered a hundred yards away on the corner of Ensign Street. He tucked himself into a doorway. What was he thinking? It was far too risky. He’d be dead meat if—
Take it, Freddie. Take it, Aggie’s voice said again.
He stepped out from the shadows and the sergeant, a well-stuffed specimen of the constabulary with a bushy moustache, turned as he approached.
‘Thank goodness,’ he said, stopping in front of them. ‘I’m just on my way to work and I saw a wagon tied up in front of Jones and Sons’ warehouse down on Bostock Street and I think I saw a light in one of the upstairs windows.’
The sergeant’s eyes flashed open. ‘Constables Burton and Woolmer, you get yourselves down Broad Street, and Brooks, Almond and Grey, make haste down Pennington Street. Surround the warehouse and detain anyone who comes out. I’ll fetch the wagon and reinforcements from the station.’
All five constables snapped to attention, drew their truncheons and ran off. The sergeant turned back to Freddie.
‘And who are you?’
‘Eddie Pollard. I’m a porter at Smithfield and live in Chapman Street. Number thirty-four.’
The sergeant studied him closely as Freddie fought the almost overwhelming urge to turn tail and run. After what seemed like hours the sergeant spoke.
‘On your way, chum,’ he said, flicking his head.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Freddie replied, touching the brim of his cap respectfully.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered down the street. He forced himself to maintain an unhurried pace until he turned the corner and then collapsed against the wall. Letting his head fall back on the rough brickwork, he shut his eyes. As the distant sound of police rattles broke the early morning silence, Freddie stood away from the wall and prayed that by the time he got back to the Blue Coat Boy, Ollie Mac and Stefan would be in a cell under Arbour Square police station.
Aggie lifted her brandy to her lips and studied the bar of the Blue Coat Boy over the rim. It was a bit quiet tonight but then it had been since the fire. Hopefully it would pick up again now that Lilly and her sprog were buried. And what a palaver that had been. Instead of just having the coffin carried on a handcart, Ollie had spent a fortune hiring a hearse with a black horse between the shafts and a plume stuck on its head like he was burying a nob or something, not Lilly Bragg who used to give hand jobs to sailors for tuppence. And if that weren’t enough, they all had to traipse behind the procession for two miles to the burial ground and witness the sorry spectacle of Ollie blubbing all the way there.
Of course, she’d sniffed and dabbed her eyes along with the rest of them but wasn’t best pleased when she couldn’t get her shoes on the following day because of blisters. Still, she shouldn’t be too put out by it all. After all, she’d only thought to spit on Lilly’s strawberries by doing her nipper in but as luck would have it, she’d got rid of her, too. That left only Ollie to deal with, and as he’d been as drunk as a lord since they carted the bodies away that shouldn’t take too long. Well, it wouldn’t if Freddie got his fucking finger out and did something. Perhaps when Ollie finally sobered up, she’d try another crack at hooking him. If not, there were a couple of new men who might fit the bill. She swilled her drink and studied the unshaven dozen or so men around her. She would have considered Stefan himself but he seemed to be more interested in the Molly boys who lived over by the slaughterhouse than any of the whores.
Although she wasn’t supposed to know, she’d wheedled out of Freddie that there was a raid on the bonded warehouse alongside the Mint. Ollie’s men had drifted in during the past hour to await their governor.
She drained the last of her drink and was just considering whether or not to take a stroll upstairs to have another look around the burnt-out room to pass the time, when the door burst open. Freddie staggered in red-faced and sweating. There was terror in his eyes as they darted wildly around the room then fixed on her.
A shiver of excitement ran up her spine.
Well stone the crows! He’s done it.
Freddie lurched towards the bar. ‘Give us a drink,’ he bellowed.
Mary started pouring one but Freddie snatched the bottle from her and took it to his lips. The gang jostled around and fired questions at him. Aggie got up and pushed her way through the press of sweaty bodies.
‘For gawd’s sake, let him get his breath,’ she shouted.
She felt the tension in Freddie’s body and saw the pulse in his neck galloping ten to the dozen. He drained the bottle and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Are Ollie and Stefan here?’
The men looked at each other and shook their heads. Freddie tore at his hair. ‘Don’t say the fucking nabbers ’ave ’em.’
‘What nabbers?’
‘Hundreds of them. Big buggers, too. Swarming over the yards like ants in a sugar sack,’ he replied. ‘We didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Where did they come from?’ asked someone.
‘Didn’t you see them coming?’ another shouted.
‘I reckon half of H division was there and by the time I saw them it was too late. I called out to Mr Mac but he and Stefan were too far away,’ Freddie told them.
Jimmy stepped forward. ‘So how come they didn’t catch you?’
‘They nearly did, I tell you. I could have got away clean as a whistle when I spotted them marching up the road but I couldn’t just scarper and leave me mates, could I?’ Freddie answered.
‘So how did you get away?’ he asked, suspiciously.
Freddie’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘I hid myself behind the door.’
Jimmy laughed. ‘What, and these swarms of coppers didn’t find you?’
‘You calling me a liar?’ Freddie barked.
Jimmy’s eyes shifted. ‘I’m just wondering how you managed to escape, that’s all.’
‘And I’m wondering if you’ve grassed him up to the nabbers for the half-crown in your pocket,’ Aggie shot at Jimmy, raising her voice to make sure the whole bar heard.
Freddie’s gaze flickered on to her for second then a crafty smile crept across his face. ‘Yeah, maybe the coppers arrived because someone told them where to look,’ he added.
A growl went around the room and Jimmy blanched. ‘Well if someone did then on me muvver’s life it weren’t me.’
Harry Watson, a good-looking fella who’d recently joined the gang, pushed his way to the front. ‘You were right smart hiding like that, Freddie,’ he said, flashing a set of spectacularly white teeth.
‘My Freddie is smart,’ Aggie replied, giving the newcomer the appreciative once-over. ‘And everyone knows how much Mr Mac relies on him, especially since he lost poor Lilly.’ Aggie rolled her eyes upwards at the grubby ceiling and a couple of the gang members crossed themselves.
‘What’re we going to do now, Freddie?’ Harry asked.
‘The warehouse on Smithfield for a start.’
‘What about the swarms of coppers?’ asked Jimmy.
Freddie tapped his forehead with his finger. ‘You dense or something? If Ollie and Stefan are in the cells and cartloads of pilfered stuff recovered, the local old bill will be slapping each other on the back in the cop shop all night, won’t they?’
Harry laughed. ‘Yo
u’re right there.’ The rest of the gang joined in.
‘That’s all very well and good,’ Jimmy said, as he lounged against the bar. ‘But now the lock-up’s been found, what’re you going to do with half a dozen barrels of stolen brandy, Freddie? Hide them behind the door?’
Freddie stepped forward. ‘Don’t you fret none. I’ve already got somewhere nice and snug marked out for those little beauties.’
Freddie lounged against the up-ended cannon with a ball wedged in its mouth and waited, along with a gaggle of children hanging on the chain railing of the towpath, for the tall rigged merchantman to glide through the narrow waterway from St Katharine Dock.
He drummed his fingers impatiently. Where on earth was he? Freddie wiped his damp palms down his trousers and tried to resume a casual stance. Strictly speaking, Knockfergus – the east end of Cable Street and the tangle of narrow roads running off it – was far enough north but it was still a little too close for comfort. It only needed one of the bloody bogtrotters to spot him and go running to poxy Pat Nolan. Thankfully, he spotted Joe trotting down the road. He and three other lads were whooping and shouting as they ran along. One of them whipped Joe’s cap off and threw it in the air and Joe duly caught it and play-tussled with his friend until they broke from each other, mirthful and laughing.
Freddie stood away from the bollard. ‘Joe!’
Joe looked around and his face lit up. ‘Pa! Pa!’
He said something to the other boys and then ran over and hugged his legs. An odd soppy feeling started in Freddie’s chest but he damped it down.
‘That’s enough of that,’ he said, pulling down the front of his jacket. ‘You don’t want people to think you’re a nancy boy, do you?’
Joe let go. ‘No, Pa,’ he said, lowering his eyes and kicking the toe of his boot on the kerb.
‘I’ve been waiting for ages. Where have you been?’
Joe looked up and Freddie basked in his son’s hero-worship. ‘Have you come down specially to see me?’
Hold On to Hope Page 19