45
The Respectable Mr Reeve
Tanner could see that Jack had fulfilled his side of the bargain when he looked up at the ghost of the girl at the attic window. She was young. Perhaps that had made her easier to coax into the house, but Tanner didn’t want to ask how Jack did it. She was there and that was all that mattered. The Black Rot had subsided from Aysgarth House. The house had its ghost. Tanner drew a line through the letter i on the list.
‘Satisfied?’ muttered Jack into the collar of his black frock coat.
Tanner nodded.
‘Then it’s your turn. Follow me.’
Jack walked swiftly through the Aldwych, around Covent Garden, always taking the busiest streets, crossing the road to avoid the police, but also steering clear of the beggars and crooks who frequented the quieter, shadier alleyways.
On one of the roads off the Seven Dials Jack slipped into an alleyway between a pawnbroker’s and a second-hand clothes shop. There they remained, watching the passers-by, until he pointed out a man wearing a pale blue coat and carrying a silver-tipped walking stick.
‘That’s ’im,’ said Jack.
‘Who is he?’ asked Tanner.
‘’is name is Reeve.’
‘He looks respectable enough to me,’ said Tanner.
‘’E’s the biggest ne’er do well in the whole of this stinkin’ city.’
‘What do you want me to do? I already told you, I won’t go haunting. Tricks is one thing. But scaring attracts the wrong kind of attention.’
‘I told you, I just want you to spy on ’im,’ said Jack.
As the man passed tradesmen and shopkeepers on the street they tipped their hats to him. In response he nodded back so benignly that Tanner wondered if Jack wasn’t mistaken in his assessment of the man. He tossed a coin into a beggar’s hat, then stepped through a door into a pub called The Crown.
‘’Is office is at the back of that pub. I’m interested in anythin’ ’e says that relates to me.’
‘What connection do you have with this man?’
‘For many years I worked for ’im.’
‘So what prevents you from approaching him now?’ asked Tanner.
‘You ask too many questions. You know what you need to do.’
‘I just find it hard to believe that you and him could have any connection at all,’ said Tanner.
‘I ain’t asking you to believe anything, just to watch ’im.’ Jack chuckled darkly. ‘Besides, Mr Reeve would have the world believe that he is a respectable man. But you mark my words, lad, Mr Reeve is as sinful as the devil ’imself.’
‘If I’m to spend the day doing this then you must continue with your work,’ said Tanner.
‘Of course. Give me an address and I’ll find you a ghost by nightfall.’
‘Two,’ said Tanner. ‘If I am to follow your Mr Reeve all day, you can fill two houses.’
‘Two it is, then.’
Tanner read out two addresses from the list, then drifted across the road to spy on Mr Reeve.
46
Last Orders
The landlady of the Boar’s Head, Mrs O’Twain, hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the man with the three-pointed birthmark on his head who entered the pub as she was ringing the bell for last orders. The Boar’s Head was home to as many different kinds of customer as there were kinds of folk in the world. By day it was filled with journalists, drinking and gossiping in the name of work. Businessmen came to escape their offices by day, and their families by night. The rich, the poor, the reputable and the disreputable: every walk of life came through its doors. As her husband used to say, liquor was the great equaliser and you couldn’t tell a lord from a chimney sweep when they were under a table.
Mrs O’Twain had served a number of religious men too. Anglicans and Catholics might have argued about what happened to the wine they took at holy communion once it entered the body, but both were agreed on the importance of it going in to begin with.
‘What will it be, padre?’ she asked. ‘You’re just in time.’
‘You have a spirit,’ he replied.
‘We have a wall full of them. Which can I interest you in?’ she said, taking his strange manner as indication he had visited a number of public houses prior to arriving at this one.
‘A spirit of a different kind concerns me. My name is Reverend Fallowfield.’
‘You want something you can’t see?’ she asked, confused.
‘None can see the spirits of which I speak,’ he said. ‘Those spirits who walk amongst us. Unhappy souls.’
Mrs O’Twain rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, you’re like that girl, are you?’
‘What girl?’ demanded Reverend Fallowfield.
‘A well-to-do young lass, she was. Little more than fifteen years, at a guess. But polite enough. She came here asking after my dead husband. I thought she was a . . . well, I don’t know what I thought she was, but as it turns out she never knew him in life. She was hoping to meet his ghost.’ She chuckled.
‘Her name, this girl?’
‘I never thought to ask. What’s all this sudden interest in my husband’s ghost, then?’
The priest seemed momentarily lost in thought. By now, a couple of the regulars were listening in.
‘This chap giving you bother?’ asked one of them.
‘He says he’s interested in my Paddy,’ she replied.
‘Debt collector?’ asked another.
‘Ghosts are the debts we collect in life,’ said Reverend Fallowfield. ‘I pay them off. I banish them to the other side where they belong.’
‘My Paddy never hung around here enough in life, always roaming around looking for more trouble to land himself in. I see no reason he’d linger here in death.’
‘Unless the dead like a drink too,’ said one of the regulars, laughing.
‘In which case I’d notice the depletion in stocks,’ replied Mrs O’Twain.
The joke got more laughter than it deserved, but then they all did this far into the evening.
‘I am not asking a question,’ said the priest angrily. ‘Your husband’s spirit remains here because he cannot leave.’
Mrs O’Twain felt a pang of annoyance now and her resolve to speak her mind was strengthened by the inclusion of others in the conversation. ‘If he is here then he is no burden. Which is more than could be said of him in life.’
‘Spiritual decay,’ pronounced the priest. ‘They exist amongst us without our permission. They pollute us.’
‘Oh, and now you’ll be telling me that for a small donation you’ll rid me of this unseen tenant, will you?’
‘I will not charge you for this exorcism,’ said the priest. ‘It is your decision if you wish to make a donation after you have seen this public house cleansed.’
‘I tell you, I’ve heard some scams in my day,’ said Mrs O’Twain, ‘so I’ll give you the credit of at least coming up with a new one. But, it is a scam, and in the end you’re no better than the coiners I chased out last Wednesday.’
The priest slammed down his fist in anger, but as he did so his elbow collided with a man behind him, sending the remainder of his drink to the floor. The two regulars instantly stood up and the priest backed away.
‘I’ll ask you not to come in here causing trouble again,’ said Mrs O’Twain. ‘Now I suggest you buy this man a beer to replace the one you just spilled.’
The priest scowled. He thrust a hand in one pocket and pulled out a coin, which he tossed across the bar.
‘It better be real,’ said Mrs O’Twain.
‘You dare question my authenticity?’ barked the priest. ‘I who will rid this city of every stinking devil that lurks in its shadows. You mark my words.’
The priest turned and left the pub to cheers and laughter from the other customers.
47
Mr Reeve’s Place Of Business
Tanner stood in the corner of the windowless room. With its elegantly carved desk, neatly arranged ornaments and gr
and oil paintings hanging from the wood-panelled walls, Mr Reeve’s office looked like that of a flourishing business. Its tranquillity seemed out of keeping with its location at the top of a staircase at the back of the public house. Tanner moved through the wall into the pub, where a burly-looking brute called Mr Bazeley acted as Mr Reeve’s secretary, although he had a broken nose and rolled-up sleeves revealing a pair of strong arms, more apt for fighting than note-taking. Mr Bazeley sat at the bar, taking the names of visitors then announcing each one before they entered. Some of them he assisted in leaving. Normally his build was enough to make them go, but occasionally he had to resort to more physical methods of persuasion.
In his office, Mr Reeve was protected from having to witness this brutality and was able to conduct his affairs in a serene business-like manner. The majority of his time was taken up with money-lending, involving large sums being lent with high interest rates and harsh punishments threatened on failure to repay. Tanner wondered what any of this had to do with Jack. Did Jack owe him money? Or, more likely, was he one of the men employed to carry out the threatened violence on Mr Reeve’s behalf?
Late in the morning, just before lunch, a man entered, wearing dark ragged clothing, with his collars turned up and a hat pulled down over his face to cover his shifting eyes.
‘Please, take a seat, Bill,’ said Mr Reeve.
‘You gotta help me, Mr Reeve, sir,’ he said. ‘The coppers have caught my partner and he’ll give ’em my name if it’s the difference between prison and hangin’. I know he will.’
‘Now, Bill,’ replied Mr Reeve. ‘You know me well enough to realise that making demands is no way to ask for help. If it’s help you want, you need to ask. You need to outline exactly what I can do for you and what you will do for me in return. You know this, Bill.’
‘I need protection. I need you to keep the law off my back. After all, I done this job for you, didn’t I?’
With his money-lending clients Mr Reeve had adopted an air of professionalism, like that of a well-to-do businessman. Talking to this man brought out a different side to him. His voice lowered in tone. It sounded gruffer. Edgier. Harder. ‘I never told you to break into that house.’
‘I done good work for you,’ protested Bill.
Mr Reeve sat back in his leather chair and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘You think someone like me needs to send someone like you into the private property of a law-abiding citizen? No, Bill, you do that by your own choice. Yes, I may help relieve you of the burden of your acquisitions, finding a buyer and getting you the best price, taking the most modest of percentages for my endeavours, but that is all.’
‘You made enough money out of me.’
‘I’m trying to explain that I already help you. I turn your candles, snuff boxes and jewellery into coin, Bill. If there’s any owing, it’s the other way round to what you have it.’
‘What do I owe you?’ yelled Bill, slamming his fist down on the desk.
Mr Reeve looked at Bill’s fist until he removed it, then replied in a cold, measured voice. ‘Respect,’ he said. ‘And it ain’t very respectful, you coming in here with your demands.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Reeve, sir,’ whined Bill. ‘I don’t mean no disrespect. I’m just saying, one word from you and I’m off the hook.’
‘It seems to me that it’s your partner who will be saying or not saying the word. My advice to you would be to take a little holiday, get out of town for a bit.’
‘Leave London? Where would I go? How would I live?’
‘There are plenty of people who live elsewhere other than London,’ said Mr Reeve, with a smile. ‘Why, Bill, the world is full of them.’
‘I’ve got nothing. If I go back to my dwellings to get my stash, they’ll surely nab me,’ said Bill. ‘You need to lend me something. You’ve skimmed enough off what I’ve stolen over the years.’
‘You aren’t listening, Bill. You were free to sell your items wherever you chose. You chose to sell to me. You never grumbled about my prices before. But now you have this spot of bother and you act like I’m the thief.’
‘You are a thief,’ said Bill, spitting out the words. ‘Your hands are as dirty as mine. Dirtier, even. For all your fancy clothes and your office, you got every burglar in London coming to you.’
‘I don’t know what you expect from me,’ said Mr Reeve. ‘The police have your partner, you clearly don’t trust him not to give you away. What can I do to prevent them coming after you?’
Bill stood up. ‘I know you got people what you could ask, people in the police.’
Mr Reeve rose slowly to his feet as well. ‘Sit down, Bill,’ he said.
Bill sat back down on the hard wooden chair. Mr Reeve remained standing, leaning over him. ‘Why would I waste my time trying to get you off when I got a line of men just like you willing to do your work? The police, though, they don’t see it like that. Their job is to catch people like you. You ask me, that’s a bit like trying to rid the world of cockroaches or flies. No matter how many of you they catch, there’s always more will crawl out and take your place.’
‘Then I’ll give ’em your name,’ said Bill desperately. ‘I’ll take you down too.’
Mr Reeve sat back down and let out a low, throaty laugh. ‘I think you missed my point about the flies,’ he said. ‘A fly flies into a window and the window is fine. The fly, though . . .’ He slammed his palm down on the desk. ‘You mention my name and nothing will come of it, but the consequences for you – well, Bill, you’ll get swatted.’
Bill stood up. ‘I see how it works now. This is what you did to Jack, was it? You cut him adrift too.’
‘Jack Toop was a better thief than you’ll ever be,’ said Mr Reeve. ‘Never once got caught, did Jack. You can’t be wanted if no one knows you exist. But then he went and did something foolish, didn’t he? He killed one of their own. They don’t like it when you do that. Then they got wind of his name. Now they all want him: Jack Toop, the copper killer. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’s done what I’m suggesting you do, and left town.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Enter,’ said Mr Reeve.
Mr Bazeley stepped inside.
‘Ah, Bazeley. Bill was just leaving. Escort him out, will you?’
Tanner followed the two men down the stairs, listening to Bill’s protests as the bigger man strong-armed him out through the pub and into the street.
That evening, back in the shady alley, Tanner relayed the conversation to Jack.
Jack smiled. ‘Good work, lad.’
‘He said you killed a copper?’ said Tanner.
‘That’s none of your business,’ replied Jack. ‘I want you to do the same for me tomorrow.’
‘What of your work?’ asked Tanner. ‘Did you find Residents for the houses?’
‘Oh yes. Both vacancies are now filled,’ said Jack.
48
Those Who Mourn
Two days after Jack’s departure, Sam was at another funeral, silently watching a tiny coffin being lowered into the ground. Today the piece of silk draped over his funeral baton was white. Children’s burials were always the worst. The funeral of a man who had reached a respectable age would usually find its way to the tavern next to the cemetery, where liquor and games of skittles would shift the mood from misery to fond remembrances or funny stories about the deceased. But there was nothing funny to be said about a child that had barely reached its second month and there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to numb the pain of a couple who were burying their third child. As Mr Constable had said, ‘Ours is not a profession that values regular customers such as these.’
The mother shook with each violent, pained sob. It was on occasions such as this Sam was grateful that his role as mute prevented him from speaking. What could anyone say to this poor woman who had gone through labour three times but had no children to show for it? With each one’s death, another slice of hope was cut from her heart. Her husband kept
his own feelings tucked behind his grey eyes, standing as still as a statue.
Several years ago, when the role of mute was new to Sam, he had been moved to tears seeing the look on a young widow’s face. After the funeral, Mr Constable had taken him to one side to have a word.
‘We are undertakers,’ he had said. ‘Some of our profession, most, perhaps, become immune to the sadness and personal tragedy which is our daily business, but that is not our way. My father used to tell me that we should never cease to feel for our clients. To do so would be to divorce ourselves from that which makes us human. And yet, this is a job. We have a responsibility to our customers. It is up to them how they demonstrate their grief. Some cry; some do not. Some conduct themselves with reserved dignity in public then, once behind closed doors, the floodgates will open. Some beat their chests and wail. Others eulogise or drink to the memories of their loved ones. It is our business to respect each decision. A grieving widow unable to shed a tear for her departed husband may be embarrassed by a stranger who weeps openly. We each are prisoners of our emotions. Our role is to allow the grieving the opportunity to grieve. It is not for us to dictate how, nor to grieve for them.’
Sam had never cried at a funeral again.
The husband finally found the strength to place an arm around his wife’s shoulder and lead her away from the grave, unknowingly taking her past the ghosts in the cemetery who sat mourning their own lives. Sam knew all the regulars. Most came to cry over the gravestones that bore their names. In some cases these lumps of stone were all the evidence that remained of their existence in the first place. Others angrily awaited visits from their relatives, bemoaning loudly the poor maintenance of their gravestones and lack of flowers. Only one of them came hoping to comfort his family when they visited. His name was Mr Ravenstock and Sam had known him in life and death. Seeing Sam he waved. Ghosts like him were few and far between. Most cared for no one but themselves.
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