Ollie nudged him in the ribs and refilled his glass. ‘So you gave her that old line, did you, you crafty bugger?’
A smile crept across Freddie’s lips. ‘Well, any man would, for the first bite of the cherry, but the silly girl took it as Gospel and got it into her head that I’d marry her.’ He straightened his tie again and tilted his head at a cocky angle. ‘Now, I ask you? Do I look like the marrying kind?’
‘You? Naw! After all, it wouldn’t be fair on all the other gals, would it?’
They laughed, and Freddie caught sight of himself in the etched glass of the mirror behind the bar. He ran his hands through his oiled hair, pleased with his reflection. ‘Too true. But I still have to shake that poxy mick, Nolan, off my tail.’ Freddie finished off his second drink and banged the glass on the bar. ‘I tell you, Mr Mac it ain’t fecking fair.’
Ollie splashed brandy in his glass again. ‘A bloody liberty, I calls it.’
Freddie jabbed a finger at him. ‘You’re right,’ He lost his balance and staggered a few steps backwards to right himself. ‘And after I’ve worked like a slave for his sister since her old man died. Does she or her poxy brother appreciate it?’
‘It ain’t in a bogtrotters’ nature to be grateful.’
‘Too true,’ Freddie replied. ‘And now Nolan’s after my blood and his sister’s like a cat in heat after that bastard Archer. And after all I’ve done for her. And to top it all I’ve lost me bloody job.’
‘They’re all a pack of tinkers in Knockfergus and Nolan and his tribe are the worst of them. But,’ Olly clasped Freddie around his shoulder, ‘you don’t want their stinking coalman’s job, do you?’
Freddie shook his head and the floor shifted under his feet.
‘Someone with a bit of savvy about them like you could make a good living at half the effort.’ Ollie lowered his voice. ‘As it happens, I might be able to help you out in that regard, old chum. I have a bit of something that needs relocating, on the hush hush, and I’m looking for someone who can handle a wagon.’
‘What sort of thing?’
Ollie’s matey expression turned chilly. ‘That’s for me to know. But what d’yer reckon? Are you in?’
Through the brandy haze Freddie studied Ollie’s hard features. There was no doubt that whatever needed relocating was from its rightful owner to the Black Eagles Gang’s underworld fence and it would be dangerous. And what if he was caught? He would face a long prison sentence and possibly even transportation. But what could he do? He couldn’t go back to Mattie’s yard, he was sick of sleeping in the dosshouse, and in a day or two he’d be completely skint.
He caught sight of Teddy and Stefan chatting to a couple of luscious trollops in the far corner. Beside the dishevelled working men in the bar they looked like a couple of swells in their double breasted suits and brushed soft-crown hats.
Freddie threw back his drink. ‘I’m in. Just tell me where and when?’
The wiry Scotsman squeezed his shoulders. ‘That’s the spirit.’ He let Freddie go and poured them both another large brandy and raised his glass. ‘Feck all the bog-trotting micks.’
Freddie chinked his glass with Ollie’s ‘Feck ’em all.’
They emptied their glasses and Freddie’s head swam again.
‘You’re one of the boys now.’ Ollie pressed a coin into Freddie’s hand. ‘If things go as they should there will be more where this came from. Meet me here tomorrow and we’ll talk again. Remember, you’re one of us. If you’re in a fix come and see me. Meantime, enjoy the brandy.’
‘Thank you, Mr Mac.’
Ollie slapped him on the shoulder, ‘Call me Ollie!’ He turned, and the crowd parted like the red sea before Moses as he bowled to the front door.
Freddie watched him go then opened his hand. A guinea!
He emptied the last of the drink into his glass and threw it back. He looked at himself again in the mirror and as he ran his fingers down his crumpled lapels he imagined himself dressed in a new suit and hat.
Freddie boy, you’re on the up and up.
Ollie was right. He was too good to lump coal around all day for the pittance Mattie Maguire gave him. And as for Kate, well she’d just have to manage for herself like hundreds of other women.
Freddie pulled out the last handful of coins from his pocket and slammed them on the counter. ‘Gilly!’ He waved the empty bottle at her. ‘Get me another. I’ll be back in a jiff.’
He pushed his way to the rear of the pub and out to the alley at the back. From the far end of the narrow walkthrough a solitary street lamp glowed so faintly that it barely reached him. Freddie propped himself against the wall and relieved his aching bladder.
He adjusted his trousers and started back to the pub but before he’d gone two steps something hit the back of his head.
Black spots popped at the corner of his vision, his head swam, then his knees buckled under him. Just before he hit the floor, someone caught him and turned him upside down. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of hob-nailed boots walking away on the cobbles and the tingle of coal dust in his nose.
Patrick slipped the coins into the brown-paper envelope and sealed it down. He stacked it with the other three at the back of his desk then ticked off the amount in the ledger in front of him.
He’d been at the mooring since five and it was probably nigh on eleven o’clock now. Josie had gone to bed some hours ago, and though his aching muscles and exhausted brain longed to join her, it was Saturday tomorrow and he had to get the wages ready for his crew. On a normal week he would have completed the task before now, but since Mattie had brought Kate red-eyed and crying to their house a week ago, his sister’s predicament and the man who had caused it had taken priority over everything else.
He was furious when Mattie told him what had happened. It wasn’t so much that Kate was with child, as nearly every other bride hereabouts got in the same situation, but that she’d set her sights on such a wastrel as Freddie Ellis. What was it Josie called him? Flash Freddie. That was about right. As much as he didn’t relish Freddie as a brother-in-law, Kate had chosen him, and for his sister’s sake he’d been prepared to make the best of it. But when they told him that instead of standing up to his responsibilities like a man, Freddie had skipped off, he’d locked himself in his office for an hour to let his rage work itself out.
An image of Kate’s tearstained face flashed into Patrick’s mind and his hands tightened into fists. He had thought it would be an easy matter to find the bastard who thought he could ruin a Nolan girl and then leave her in the lurch, but Freddie had gone to ground somewhere and Kate was already getting sly looks and sneering remarks from the street corner gossips. Patrick forced himself to concentrate on his late-night task. He’d just picked up the pile of coins to count into the next envelope when someone hammered on the front door.
He stood and slipped his boat knife into the back of his belt. Then he picked up the table lamp and walked into the hallway.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted through the door, as he grabbed the foot-long ship’s pin from the hall table.
‘Jack Archer,’ came the muffled reply.
What the . . .?
Patrick put down the weapon and opened the door to find his sister’s coalman standing on the whitened step with a man slumped over his right shoulder.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Nolan,’ he said. ‘But I understand you want to have a word with Freddie Ellis. I happened to bump into him earlier in the evening.’ He turned slightly so Patrick could see Freddie’s unconscious face.
‘You had better bring him in.’
‘Patrick! Who is it?’ Josie shouted from upstairs.
‘It’s nothing. You go back to bed,’ Patrick replied, ushering Jack through into the front-room door.
Jack shrugged Freddie off his shoulder and sent him tumbling to the floor like a rag doll. Freddie didn’t murmur and lay with his fair hair flopped over his unshaven face.
‘Where did you find th
e bastard?’ Patrick asked, resisting the urge to drag Freddie to his feet and then knock him down again.
‘In the Blue Coat Boy.’
‘You went there alone?’ he said, unable to keep the amazement from his voice.
Archer looked steadily at him. ‘Aye.’
Patrick raised his eyebrows. The Blue Coat Boy was more a sanctuary for criminals than a public house, and the area surrounding it was a battleground for rival gangs. Not a night passed without some poor bugger being discovered with his throat cut and penniless in the gutter. How did a yokel like Archer manage to get in, nab Freddie and get out without ending up on the wrong end of someone’s blade? Patrick doubted he would have been able to do such a thing himself, at least not without a couple of strong men along side.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me interfering in your family’s business,’ Archer said, straightening the front of his jacket. ‘But I thought you’d rather have me deliver him than I waste more time by fetching you.’
Patrick’s gaze returned to the man sprawled across his carpet. ‘Perhaps it was as well I didn’t find him or he might look a lot less pretty than he does now.’ He hunkered down and slapped Freddie lightly on the cheek. Freddie’s head rolled to one side but there was no flicker to show he felt the blow. ‘He’s out cold.’
Archer gave a hard laugh. ‘The blow knocked him out but the drink’s keeping him that way. By the smell of him I’d say he’d had a skinful before I met him in the alley.’
Patrick stood up and gathered a length of rope from the corner. He lashed Freddie’s legs together, then he and Archer rolled him over to tie his hands behind his back. They left him curled on one side.
‘That should keep him until morning,’ Patrick said as they stood up and looked down at Freddie, who was trussed up like something in a butcher’s window. ‘He’ll have a hell of a surprise when he comes round.’
‘He deserves a whole lot more than a surprise,’ Archer replied harshly.
Patrick nudged Freddie with the toe of his boot. ‘And when he sobers up that’s just what he’ll get.’
Jack repositioned his hat and said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to your business.’ Patrick led him back into the hall and opened it, but as Jack stepped out into the night he turned. ‘Goodnight, Mr Nolan,’ he said, as if he’d stopped by for a social call. ‘And please give my apologies to your wife for disturbing her at such a late hour.’
Although Patrick still wasn’t convinced by Archer’s story and his so-called sister, he offered his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Archer. I owe you.’
Chapter Eighteen
As Mr Garrett worked his way through the funeral liturgy, Mattie stared at the rough-hewn pine coffin beside the open grave, under a leaden sky that summed up much of her sadness. Queenie had finally given up her struggle three days ago, whispering her son’s name with her last breath. Although Mattie was thankful that her dear mother-in-law was now at rest, it left an aching space in her own heart.
As Queenie’s only surviving relative, Freddie was his aunt’s chief mourner and as such stood beside the minister. Behind him were half a dozen wizened old women from the church who had know Queenie in happier days. When Mattie was a child, it wasn’t considered right for women to attend funerals, but as local men couldn’t afford to lose a day’s money, that convention had long since been ignored. The only other person paying his respects was Mr Stebbins, who stood hat in hand and with a sorrowful expression on his face.
Mattie was grateful to all of them for coming but the only person whose presence would have given her some comfort was Jack’s. He couldn’t come, of course. Apart from anything else, someone had to run the yard.
‘For as much as it hath pleased . . .’ the sexton and his assistant stepped forward and grasped the straps running under the coffin. They braced to take the strain then let the rope slip slowly through their hands. A lump caught in Mattie’s throat as she watched Queenie being lowered to her final resting place. ‘ . . . commit her body to the ground . . .’ There was a dull thump as the coffin reached the bottom. ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes.’ Freddie scooped up a handful of dirt and threw it into the grave. It pitter-pattered on the lid and a tear rolled slowly down Mattie’s cheek. Mr Garrett concluded the passage, everyone repeated the Amen, and the vicar closed his prayer book. He shook Freddie’s hand, then came over and mumbled something to her about Queenie being in a better place and some urgent appointment then sped back towards the vicarage. The other mourners followed suit and then drifted away. Freddie replaced his hat and came over.
‘It was a good service, wasn’t it? And I was pleased to see so many of Queenie’s old friends were able to come,’ Mattie said, in a pleasant tone.
‘I’d better get back to the yard,’ he replied, looking coldly at her.
‘No rush. I’m sure Jack can . . .’
Freddie gave her a venomous look, turned his back on her and stomped off.
Mr Stebbins put his hat on and strolled over. He took Mattie’s hand ‘Allow me once again, Mrs Maguire, to give you my heartfelt condolences at the loss of dear Queenie.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Did she suffer much at the end?’
Mattie shook her head. ‘At first her coughing fair tore at your soul but the laudanum settled her. In the end she just drifted off quietly in her sleep.’
Mattie glanced at two men shovelling earth onto her mother-in-law’s coffin. ‘I just wish I knew why she ended up in the river.’
‘It’s a mystery to be sure. But she was very . . . er . . . muddled sometimes,’ he replied.
‘Well yes, she was, but only as far as her son was concerned. Jack said—’
‘Jack?’
‘Jack Archer. The driver who replaced Eli.’
‘Oh!’
‘He thinks something must have upset Queenie to make her run off like that,’ Mattie continued.
‘Really.’ Mr Stebbins’s eyebrows rose. ‘Any idea what?’
Mattie shook her head. ‘By the time we got her back to the house she was barely alive. The poor darling had broken her arm and at least half a dozen ribs. The doctor said he was surprised she survived the fall.’
‘So she said nothing at all about what happened?’ he asked, studying her face intently.
‘Not a thing.’
Mr Stebbins straightened up and flipped his top hat on his head, setting it at a jaunty angle. ‘Well, it’s between dear Mrs Maguire and the Almighty now,’ he said, pulling his gloves on tighter. ‘I’ll have to wish you a good day I’m afraid, Mrs Maguire. I have several meetings to attend. Business, you know.’
‘Of course,’ Mattie replied. ‘Good day.’
‘And to you.’ He picked his way around the men working on the other side of the open grave. As the sexton and his mate shovelled earth onto Queenie’s coffin, Amos looked across at her.
‘You’ll forgive me, I hope, for bringing up the subject on such a sad day, but my associate’s offer for Maguire’s still stands. And now Queenie’s gone you might be wise to reconsider it.’ He tapped the brim of his hat and sauntered off, swinging his cane.
Mattie’s hands clenched into tight fists as she watching Mr Stebbins march across the damp churchyard. No, she would not forgive him for bringing up the subject and no, she would not consider his offer again. Not today, not tomorrow, nor any day.
Nathaniel took the stairs two at a time to Smyth-Hilton’s office. Since their initial meeting the reporter had proved to be not only completely trustworthy but also a veritable terrier at sniffing out information. He’d swiftly verified the duplicate documents and had visited the parish council offices to see the records of land and businesses that had changed hands recently.
Nathaniel had arranged to meet James Smyth-Hilton next Thursday at the Green Dragon, three doors down from the Temperance Society’s offices in Fleet Street, but was surprised to find a letter waiting for him at Wardell’s when he’d dropped in on his rounds. Although Nathaniel had been careful not to g
ive Smyth-Hilton more information than was strictly necessary at their first meeting, it had soon become clear that he could be trusted completely. So Nathaniel had told James to send a letter to the general store in Commercial Road if he needed to get hold of him. There was a change of plan.
James looked up. ‘You got my note then.’
‘Have you’ve heard something?’
‘I’ve done better than that. I’ve quizzed him.’
‘What! How?’
‘I took a table behind Stebbins at one of The God’s True Word Society lectures in Shoreditch. He was most forthcoming about his plans.’
‘He admitted trying to cheat Mrs Maguire out of her coal yard!’ Nathaniel said, looking at James with increased respect.
‘Not in so many words, but I mentioned George Hudson and he didn’t blink an eye, so it’s clear the rumours are true about the Railway King’s involvement.’
Smyth-Hilton rose and went to his bookshelf where he picked up a bottle of brandy and waved it at Nathaniel, who nodded, then asked, ‘But how does that take us forward?’
‘Now we know what he’s up to and that he’s linked with George Hudson, I’m planning a trip north to talk to my colleague on The Yorkshireman – they’re after Hudson’s irregular business practices. If the Railway King crumbles, he’ll take others with him, including Stebbins, and if he is declared bankrupt the City and County will be obliged to open his accounts to the courts to ensure he isn’t concealing any capital. Then we’ll really have him. All the deeds to the properties will be open for scrutiny, as will his company’s books,’ he said triumphantly.
‘So . . . we are dependent on the downfall of George Hudson to catch Stebbins.’
‘At present, yes.’
Nathaniel swirled the brandy around in his glass slowly. ‘I’d rather see him brought to book for what he’s done, not as a casualty of someone else’s wrongdoing.’
James swallowed the last of his drink. ‘Of course, there is a way of doing that now.’
‘How?’
‘If Stebbins got his hands on the deeds to the Maguire Yard and then floated his company we could buy a dozen shares. Then at the first shareholders’ meeting, we would demand to see his accounts. I’m sure that would throw up some—’
Perhaps Tomorrow Page 20