by L M Jackson
Sarah Tanner listened intently. It was, as the pawnbroker had suggested, the voice of a gentleman, a voice that seemed quite ill-suited to its owner’s circumstances.
‘Your word, sir,’ replied Bilcher, ‘ain’t worth a blind bit of notice. I had your word on that bird. Damn me, all you had to do was bleedin’ hold on to it. All the bets were against it; Roxton would have kept the Battler down, and you could have swung the lot. It were a prize pegger, too. Cost me two bob to have the borrowin’ of it.’
‘My dear Bilcher, it was an accident,’ said Smith plaintively.
‘Well, then so is this,’ replied Bilcher, his words punctuated by a dull thud and a pronounced groan; the sound, Sarah Tanner guessed, of a well-placed boot meeting Smith’s gut. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes as a vivid image of George Phelps’s last moments flashed before her.
‘Lor!’ exclaimed Bilcher, ‘I ain’t seen a more pathetic human spectacle. Damn you to hell! They should exhibit you as a lesson to young ’uns.’
Another thud; another cry of pain.
‘I mean to say,’ went on the publican, warming to his theme, ‘what’s a man worth if he can’t pay his debts?’
Another thud; another groan.
‘I’d say …’
Bilcher halted. His attention was distracted by the sound of Sarah Tanner stepping behind him, standing at the entrance of the ill-lit alley.
‘Who’s this?’ said the publican, turning and squinting. ‘Your missus, is it? You can have him when I’m done, my dear.’
Bilcher smiled, and moved his foot as if to place another kick into the crumpled body of his victim. But Sarah Tanner’s reply pulled him up short.
‘I’d say you’ve done enough.’
‘Begging your pardon, darlin’,’ said Bilcher with a minatory glance, ‘but unless you want some of the same, you had best hook it now, before I get proper baity.’
‘Just leave him be,’ she said firmly.
‘Now why should I do that?’
‘Because otherwise, I may shoot.’
Sarah Tanner raised her hand, quite steady, in front of her, the muzzle of the small pistol just visible in the darkness.
‘Shoot?’ said Bilcher, incredulously. ‘Who the blazes are you?’
‘It is loaded and capped, I assure you.’
‘You mad bitch. You wouldn’t dare.’
Sarah Tanner took a step forward, keeping the pistol dead ahead of her, putting only half a dozen feet between herself and the publican.
‘I can come closer, if you like. Although I’m told I’m a good shot.’
Bilcher paused, looking closely at the gun. At last, he stepped backwards, slowly, retreating further along the alley, behind the prone body of his victim.
‘He ain’t worth it, darlin’, whatever he’s told you.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
The publican, his face a peculiar mixture of incredulity and fear, backed further away, until certain of his distance.
‘To hell with the both of you!’
Mr. Smith, lying upon the muddy cobbles, turned over, coughing violently. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he watched his tormentor disappear into the darkness, then turned to look at his unexpected benefactor in disbelief.
‘Whoever you are, my thanks,’ he said, raising himself to his knees. ‘I believe you may have saved my life.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Mrs. Tanner, once more raising her pistol.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Good God!’ said Smith, dumbfounded. ‘Do you intend to shoot me now?’
‘That depends,’ replied Sarah Tanner, warily, as Smith got to his feet. ‘But I suggest you keep your distance.’
‘Keep my distance? I swear,’ said Smith, looking carefully at her face, as if trying to fathom her intentions, ‘I thought the female Jack Shephard was the stuff of penny bloods. Perhaps I had better just follow my friend’s example and run.’
‘Perhaps I had better just shoot.’
Smith smiled, rather uneasily. ‘You have a gift for persuasion.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Smith. John Smith.’
‘Not Ferntower?’
Smith paused, as if struck by a sudden realisation.
‘I have it! You were there this morning, at the blessed inquest. I remember you now; standing at the back. Good lord! Whatever do you want with me? How did you come here?’
‘You admit you are John Ferntower?’
‘Why? Is that sufficient cause to blow my brains out?’
‘No,’ replied Sarah Tanner. ‘Not in itself.’
‘Then, if I must, I readily confess it to the world. Or, perhaps, I am more like his wretched shadow. But who the devil are you?’
Mrs. Tanner, however, ignored the question.
‘You were lucky with the verdict,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I hear you killed your aunt.’
‘My aunt? Is that why you are doing this? Forgive me, I am a little confused. Did you know my aunt? You do not strike me as one of her circle.’
The man’s tone was gently mocking, but there was also a hint of trepidation in his voice, his eyes still fixed upon the gun.
‘I never met her in my life. But I would like to know why you killed her; or had her killed.’
A look of puzzlement crept over Ferntower’s face.
‘I will not pretend we were on good terms, but to imagine that I killed her – what, that I drowned her? that I threw her in the river? – no, it is preposterous!’
‘No more preposterous than a gentleman skulking round the Dials, pawning his every possession, keeping company with the likes of Bilcher.’
‘That is my private misfortune,’ said Ferntower, his pride seemingly stung by Sarah Tanner’s words, falling silent for a moment. ‘But it does not make me a murderer. I confess, I half expected the attention of the police; I said some rash things to my father, though he deserved to hear them. But I did not expect this.’
‘Your father thinks you killed her.’
‘My father is an old fool. Still, if you will persist with his foolishness, do you require proof?’
‘If you can provide it,’ replied Sarah Tanner skeptically.
Ferntower wearily shook his head, but nonetheless reached inside his coat, rummaging through one of the pockets until he retrieved a crumpled piece of paper.
‘Here,’ he said, holding out the paper. ‘My misfortune and shame. I trust you are quite satisfied.’
‘What is it?’
‘My release from Clerkenwell gaol. I was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, last Friday; until yesterday morning in fact.’
‘The House of Detention? But you saw your aunt the day before she disappeared. They said as much at the inquest.’
‘I don’t deny it, much good it did me. And that night, there was a little dispute outside my lodgings; not my affair, in fact, but the police are not always so scrupulous. I went before the magistrate the next day. See for yourself.’
‘You know I cannot read a thing in this darkness.’
‘Then take it and read it elsewhere. I’m afraid I do not have any lucifers,’ he continued, his voice tinged with sarcasm, ‘you will have to forgive me.’
Sarah Tanner frowned. ‘Then you had her killed. Her and George Phelps.’
Ferntower rubbed his side, wincing in pain. ‘I am afraid, whoever you are, you are quite deluded.’
‘Did Georgie find you out, is that it? You had to keep him quiet?’
‘My dear woman, I have never even heard of anyone by that name. And, forgive me, what concern is it of yours who killed my aunt?’
‘You admit she was murdered then?’
‘Well, of course. The coroner was a buffoon. And I know the man who did it.’
Sarah Tanner faltered. She was not sure about John Ferntower; and it was not quite the admission she had expected. ‘Who?’ she said at last. But there was too much eagerness in her voic
e; and it seemed to give her prisoner renewed confidence.
‘Stand me a drink, and I might tell you.’
‘I still have the pistol Mr. Ferntower.’
Ferntower shrugged. ‘If you meant to shoot me, you would have done so by now.’
Sarah Tanner started to protest, but her words failed her as John Ferntower came forward and gently brushed past her, out into the street. He turned round to face her.
‘There’s a good ginnery on the corner,’ he said, coughing, and simultaneously grimacing, holding his stomach. ‘Lord, that man’s a brute. Still, I suppose I should thank you, all the same, even if you did mean to murder me. Perhaps you might put that away now?’
Sarah Tanner hestitated for a moment, but finally lowered the gun.
‘Very well, for the moment,’ she said. ‘Lead the way.’
The air inside the gin-palace was moist and hot; the glittering ornamental gas-lights that hung from the ceiling, painted gold and silver, a stark contrast to the shabby fustian and cheap cotton clothes of the drinkers. They stood close-huddled in small groups – for there were no seats nor anything else to impede the collective drowning of sorrows – and it took Sarah Tanner and John Ferntower a few minutes to reach the bar, acquire a drink, then find a spot where they might talk. As Ferntower spoke, Mrs. Tanner sipped her gin-punch and looked closely at his features. Beneath the unkempt beard and dirty upturned collar was still a young man; a handsome one at that.
‘Let me tell you a story, Miss …’
‘Richards.’
‘Really? Well then, let me tell you, Miss Richards, a story about a man. A poor wretch of a man.’
‘I do not need to hear the story of your life.’
‘Do you wish to hear about my aunt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, Miss Richards, pray let me proceed. Now, where shall I begin? Well, picture, if you will, a fellow who comes to our great metropolis, a callow youth, but with a head for business. Now this fellow – let us call him Ferntower; it is a good name – this Ferntower, he is no fool. He looks around himself and he sees the world in its true light.’
John Ferntower paused, and took a gulp of the East India pale ale which Sarah Tanner had procured him.
‘Now, Miss Richards, come, come – play your part, ask me the question.’
‘“Its true light”?’
‘Pounds, shilling and pence, Miss Richards. Pounds, shilling and pence. He looks around our great city and he knows it for a fact: every man; every woman; every child; all of it – all merely pounds, shillings and pence. Magic stuff, money, you see, Miss Richards. Turn it into anything you like; nothing and no-one you can’t buy. Money is the thing.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I beg your pardon. I say nothing of the sort. But young Ferntower – he sees it; and he knows what he has to do about it. So he works himself hard; learns a trade – linen-draper, as it happens – finds it’s a good living. So good, in fact, he takes premises in Regent Street.’
John Ferntower took another gulp of liquor.
‘The premises grow bigger. He grows bigger; pennies into pounds. He marries; and he does that well too. Money marries money; always the way. A child is born; poor thing, the boy has prospects.’
‘Wait, you’re talking about your father? The child is you?’
‘If you like. Now, the child learns its lesson on its father’s knee; nothing should trouble him but pounds, shilling and pence. And when Mama dies – well, that is unfortunate, but it is not money. It is not business – except, that is, for the wretched undertaker.’
‘Is your father such an ogre, then?’
‘An ogre? In the world’s eyes, no. Indeed, he gives a good deal to charity; did you know that? He’s a governor of half a dozen of them. But it is just a sober calculation upon his part – an account upon the Creator’s balance-sheet. His heart is all brass and copper; nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Yes, I can see how his riches must have made things difficult for you.’
‘You mock me, Miss Richards. But I am the creation of that wretched man. I was educated – well educated, mind you – with an eye to commerce. Other men might have been given leave to contemplate the finer things – art, beauty, love –’ he drew breath, as if suddenly reminded of something unwelcome – ‘but I was turned to business, and business alone. He could have made me a gentleman, but instead he made me a counting-clerk.’
‘I thought you were going to tell me about your aunt,’ said Sarah Tanner.
‘True. A pious woman; a woman of firm principle. She always despised me.’
‘Why?’
‘She knew I did not have my father’s zeal for the trade; she was the sort of woman who saw through you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Please. You have interrupted the story. Now, by the age of twenty-one, the young man with prospects has had his fill of business. He has been in his father’s firm for six years, like some wretched apprentice. He seeks out other amusements; the sort of thing that suits a young fellow. He meets sporting gents; he enjoys himself for the first time in his pitiful life, cultivates a love of play. But then he has a run of bad luck; money is owed. He is obliged to draw against his father’s name. His aunt, God rest her soul, finds him out. Lord knows how, but she does.’
‘And your aunt told your father. And he cut you off. I have heard as much myself; it is common gossip. But you said you knew who killed her?’
Ferntower sighed. ‘Miss Richards, you have no patience; you have quite spoilt my little tale.’
‘I have not got all night,’ said Mrs. Tanner.
‘No? Well, let me put it quite simply. My aunt not only told my father about my indiscretions; she told him what to do about it. She was his touchstone upon moral matters; in fact, he deferred to her judgment in all but matters of business. I suppose it saved him the trouble of thinking for himself. And that is why she is dead. She would have prevented all this in an instant.’
‘All what?’
‘Why, the engagement. She intended to do so. Indeed, she came back to England, as soon as she heard of it.’
‘The engagement?’ echoed Sarah Tanner, quite lost.
‘Ah, I see you are not entirely familiar with all my family’s affairs, as you profess. My father has a ward, Miss Richards, named Elizabeth – a distant cousin of mine; orphaned only last year; the sweetest girl in the world. You might have seen her at the inquest. You see, when I went to see my aunt that night, to plead with her to show me some mercy –’
‘To give you some money?’ suggested Sarah Tanner.
Ferntower’s face darkened. ‘When I went to see her, she told me all about it. My cousin Elizabeth is recently engaged to be married to one Cedric Hawkes. It is a rushed affair – the wedding is set for next month.’
‘And what am I supposed to make of that?’
‘Nothing. Except Cedric Hawkes is the greatest gamester, felon, villain, swindler and scoundrel in London. A plausible gentleman, though; claims to be a broker on the ’Change. My father is too blinded by gold to see it. The man will stop at nothing … if anyone killed my wretched aunt, Mr. Hawkes is your man. I am quite sure of that.’
John Ferntower paused and drained his glass.
‘Poor sweet Elizabeth,’ he said at last. ‘She hasn’t the slightest conception.’
Sarah Tanner frowned. ‘Even if it is true, how do you know all this about this man Hawkes?’
‘How? Why, I introduced them.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘I am beneath her now, of course,’ continued Ferntower, ‘but I had thought at one time that perhaps myself and Elizabeth might … well, that time has passed. Now I could only ruin her.’
‘Tell me, I saw another woman at the inquest, with your cousin and your father,’ said Mrs. Tanner. ‘Who was she?’
‘Ah, I expect that was the redoubtable Miss Payne. My cousin’s governess. Now, there you have another female with firm opinions upon my character.’
>
‘Really? You seem to make enemies with remarkable ease, Mr. Ferntower.’
‘I have made mistakes, Miss Richards. No man is perfect. But I am a veritable saint compared to Cedric Hawkes, rest assured.’
‘Very well, tell me more about this man Hawkes. How did you meet him?’
‘Hawkes? At a night-house on the Haymarket; we played a few hands of baccarat. We got on quite familiar terms; I even lent him money. Of course, then,’ said Ferntower, looking rather wistfully into the dregs of his beer, ‘I had money to lend.’
‘And so, naturally, you introduced him to your family?’ said Sarah Tanner skeptically.
‘He passed for a respectable gentleman, Miss Richards. More than respectable, in fact. Besides, it was amusing to parade him before my father, talking about his business affairs, when I had seen him lose twenty guineas on the wheel the night before.’
‘A taste for gaming, even one that extravagant, does not make a man a villain.’
‘No, that would be a fine thing, would it not? But what would you make of a man who changes residence every month; who lets his creditors go hang, whilst he begins his business again under another name?’
‘A fraudster, perhaps. But a murderer?’
‘And yet you would readily believe I am capable of such a thing?’
‘I do not know what to believe, Mr. Smith.’
‘Listen,’ said Ferntower. ‘One night, shortly before my own fall from grace, I caught a hansom with Mr. Hawkes. The cab took us from Regent Street to the City, where he had rooms. There was a disagreement about the fare. A matter of pennies, but the cabman spoke crudely to him. He laughed about it; told the cab to take us on further; that he had forgotten that he wished to call upon a friend. He waited until he found a quiet lane; a dead-end near the Minories, and told the cab to stop. He pulled the man down from his seat and thrashed him with his own whip, until he could barely draw breath.’
‘Even a cruel temper is no guarantee—’
‘Wait. You asked for my opinion, Miss Richards. You may as well hear it. That cabman was seventy years old if he was a day; but Hawkes showed no mercy. He split the handle of the blasted whip in two, he had struck him so many times. Even then, he did not stop. If I had not pulled him back … well, in all honesty, I do not know to this day if the old fellow survived it.’