by BK Duncan
Was May imagining it, or did Braxton Clarke choose to let his gaze rest on Brilliant Chang?
‘We will reconvene at a date to be announced. I can promise you that the real story of why and how a young man met his death will come out in this court: this inquest will not be concluded until it has.’ He stood. ‘God save the King.’
***
May went up to the caretaker’s flat to tell him that the undertaker would be arriving some time in the early evening to take charge of Miles Elliott’s body. Then she checked that the lights were switched off in the main building, and locked up. She turned the corner and headed up Cottage Street. Jack was there leaning against a wall, smoking.
‘I thought you were never coming out.’ He fell in step beside her. ‘How are you, Jack? I’m fine thanks.’
‘With all your strings, I assumed you would be.’
‘That’s unnecessarily dismissive of you. I had an uncomfortable time for a while back there. But it was Sinn Féin conspirators they were looking for and the only thing they had on me was my Irish accent. The upshot being that I was able to keep my recent activities to myself and the lid firmly on my gambling story until I’m ready to blow the whole thing wide open. Oops, I suppose a man arrested for being a suspected fire-bomber shouldn’t say things like that. In case you’re interested, I went back to the house and all my notes were intact.’
‘Good, I’m so glad for you.’
‘I have one piece of news at least that might make you drop the sarcasm. My uncle has agreed for the paper to carry a series of articles on the East End craftsmen in the building trades. Mrs Loader’s house will be better than new in the blink of an eye, with no cost to herself and a bit of cash left over to compensate for her loss of rent. She’s very happy and even trying to wangle an indoor toilet as part of the deal.’
May supposed she had to accept that he wasn’t being completely self-absorbed.
‘Where is she staying?’
‘With her sister. And I’m back bunking up with Uncle Paul in Hampstead for the time being. Not that you were going to ask.’
May stopped at the greengrocers for some onions and potatoes. Jack waited, and then offered to carry the bag for her. She thought he might as well be useful as he obviously was intent on accompanying her at least as far as the railway station.
‘I got to thinking whilst I was sitting in my lonely cell waiting for Sir Ernest to turn up - thanks for making that telephone call, by the way - where did Miles get the money to smoke opium?’
‘He obviously managed it pretty well. We found out in court today he all but lived on the stuff.’
‘Even more reason to ask the question then. If the Tong run their drugs operation the way they do their gambling dens, they’d have charged him as a middle-class white man well over the odds. So, I say again, where did he get the cash from?’
‘We’ll have to wait to find that out at the inquest.’
‘Don’t tell me, Blossom of May, that you’ve lost your taste for entrepreneurial adventure already?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that. And this isn’t some sort of boy’s comic book story: it’s a young man’s death. Manslaughter at the very least - probably murder.’
‘Which, I’d have thought, makes it all the more vital you keep digging. Whoever did it won’t just walk into a police station, wrists at the ready. It’s up to you to crack this.’
May winced; he was touching a nerve. But the only way she had any hope of Mr Clarke not writing an adverse report on her to the new coroner was to play everything strictly by the book.
‘I’ll have you know that I came very close to getting the sack after that business with the yen-shi den.’
‘And Mrs Loader and the other lodgers could have lost their lives.’
‘That was down to you. I’m not responsible for the Tong knowing who you were. It was a half-baked idea anyway. From now on I’m only going to follow up the leads the coroner stipulates; that way I might stand a chance of him actually thinking I know what I’m doing.’
‘What is known amongst fighting men as a coward’s way of looking at things: don’t stick your head above the parapet and you won’t get shot at.’
May stopped in her tracks and stared at Jack’s back as he walked away from her. That had been an unbelievably cruel thing to say. He knew how much she had already put herself on the front line, and how much she still felt, as a woman, she had to prove.
He was waiting outside the pawnshop for her. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his accusation had stung and pretended to be searching in her shoulder bag for something. But neither was she going to fuel the man’s arrogance by letting him believe he was the only one prepared to take risks. She caught up with him, her mind made up.
‘I go out to Essex with a rambling club some weekends.’
‘My, my, with such an exciting life I wonder you find the time to talk to me at all.’
‘You really are an insufferable prig. One of the group is a chap called Roger. He’s a bank clerk in Epping. Where the Elliotts live. I think I might just join them this Sunday and see if he can uncover anything untoward in Miles’ financial affairs.’
‘Glad you’re seeing sense and grasping my little tip. But I think I should come with you - as a newspaperman I’m highly trained in knowing the right questions to ask without giving anything away. I’m correct in my assumption you want this little bit of nosing around kept secret?’
Was everyone today hell-bent on telling her that she didn’t know how to do her job properly? However, much as she wanted to point out that he hadn’t shown himself to be such an ace investigative journalist she could see how getting him involved could work to her advantage. If she happened to learn of something whilst in the company of a companion who was researching a story on Miles Elliott’s tragic death... and the information was ultimately instrumental in helping bring a killer to justice... Even Braxton Clarke couldn’t find fault with her for that.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Okay, hold it there.’
Horatio was sitting on a chair at the footlights, the stage empty except for the figure of Alice standing in front of a bucolic backdrop. From the prompt corner, Vi thought the effect would come over nicely. She’d had the turns in one by one during the last week in an effort to add some sophisticated polish to their stage business. With the majority it had been like pulling teeth, but Alice had picked up every nuance. The girl must also have paid some attention to sweet-talking her way into the stagehands’ affections; it’s a fair bet they wouldn’t have offered up the use of such a pristine drop for anybody else. Now all that remained was to decide on costume. The amateurs were expected to provide the bulk of what they needed but Vi thought she might jettison the flower basket and give it to Alice; it would enhance the girl’s innocence - and enable her to secure something more befitting her own pro status. Maybe a coster barrow laden with bunches of big daisies.
Horatio had turned to the piano player in the band pit. ‘Take a break, mate, but don’t go far.’ He stood and walked up stage. ‘This isn’t working, Alice. It’s not your singing but the way you’re presenting the song. It’s all too... twee.’
Vi felt her jaw muscles clench. She thought that’s what they’d decided on. What she’d decided on.
‘And you’re much too pretty to come across as somebody’s maiden aunt.’
Alice’s bright laughter bounced around the stage.
‘Flyman! You got a pub scene up there? Tables, chairs, bottles in the background; that sort of thing.’
A curse floated down from the gantry followed by a lot of banging about.
‘This do you, guv? Stand clear!’
There was a rumble as he unleashed the ropes and a second backdrop scrolled down. The wooden roller weighting the canvas bounced off the stag
e. A cloud of dust flew up and set everyone in the vicinity coughing.
‘Much better. Now come downstage with me and take a look.’
Alice moved to join him but Vi could see only too well what Horatio was proposing. It was a crudely-painted scene but from the gallery it would look deeply atmospheric: a forlorn tap room after closing time full of spilt dreams, dashed hopes and broken promises. Alice would look radiant in front of it.
Horatio had his arm cradling the girl’s waist. ‘I know you think you’ve only been engaged to sing, but I’d like you to have a go at a bit of acting. Do you think you could manage that, Alice?’
‘I’ll do anything you ask.’
‘Spoken like a real trooper. Now, I want you to imagine that... Anyone, fetch me another chair, will you?’
A stagehand brought one on, and Horatio positioned it opposite his.
‘Sit down, Alice. No, don’t shuffle away; I placed the chairs close for a reason. I expect you played let’s pretend often as a child, didn’t you?’
Vi felt a twinge on Alice’s behalf; for someone so quick on the uptake his tone would be insufferably patronising. However, the girl didn’t seem to mind, just leant forward a little more as if to breathe in his every word.
‘So, the scenario is this. You and I are a courting couple.’
Good God, the girl was actually blushing.
‘We haven’t been seeing each other for long but you are as keen as mustard - told all your friends about me, planned the wedding in your head; that sort of thing.’
Now he really was stretching his notions of make-believe.
‘And all that has led you to expect that the next time we meet will be a big occasion. Look...’
His hand disappeared momentarily inside his jacket. With a flourish he produced a bunch of yellow paper roses.
‘...I even sent you flowers.’
He handed them over, and Alice giggled. Vi put down the stocking she’d been darning to pass the time. That had been the self-same trick he’d used on her that first night. Except then it had been slightly stage-soiled carnations. The turns weren’t the only ones who’d been learning something about sophistication.
‘You were so excited that you couldn’t wait, and arrived early. Here you are, sitting at a table in the snug, and you see me come in the door. Your face lights up - yes, just like that. Perfect. But I don’t take off my coat to join you. Instead I make a little speech about how you are a special girl, and I will always think of you fondly, but that I have fallen in love with another... Now, Alice, how do you think that would make you feel?’
Vi could hardly wait to hear the answer herself.
‘Heartbroken... sad... foolish...’
She was biting her lip so hard it looked as though she might draw blood.
‘Angry. But most of all like I’m not going to allow you to make me feel I’m dirt.’
‘Good... that’s the ticket. What else?’
‘Sort of used up. Like a squeezed orange.’
‘Spot on. Vi, didn’t I say she was a natural? All right, with all those emotions in mind, I want you to sing the song again. Focus on what you’ve lost - what you thought was all there for you bar the taking.’
Vi grudgingly had to admit that as director Horatio had the final say in all the performances but the familiar flame of jealousy was licking at her rationality. The girl was already half in love with him for Christ’s sake; did he have to give her any encouragement?
‘Okay, from the top, but without the accompaniment. Don’t worry about hitting the right notes; it’s what’s inside I’m more concerned with at the moment.’
Alice walked back to her mark, and sang the song. Her performance was powerful but, when she’d finished, Vi was gratified to see Horatio’s face cloud with disappointment. It served him right for expecting too much.
He had his arm around her shoulders now and was steering her into the OP corner. And then... and then... the snake kissed her. Not a consoling peck on the cheek from an encouraging director, but a full mouth, breast-to-breast clinch. Vi felt tears spring to her eyes closely followed by a fury that had her picking up the stocking again and ripping it from heel to garter band.
Alice, flushed and flustered, returned to the stage. She faced the backdrop for a moment before turning and delivering the most perfect rendition of the song imaginable, full of every nuance Horatio had asked for and a deep melancholy all of her own. A spattering of applause issued from the wings. Damn him.
‘That’s my girl. I knew you could do it. Now toddle off and get yourself a cup of tea or something to keep your throat warm.’
Alice chose to exit the stage via the prompt corner. Vi tried to look busy as the girl arrived at her side.
‘Was I okay? I was so scared I’d mess it up again. I’ve watched you do your song and want so much to be a fraction as good.’
Although she wanted to, Vi couldn’t resist the pleading in Alice’s voice. It was nothing less than the naked insecurity of one performer to another.
‘That was lovely, Alice, just right. It was very clever of you to be able to switch your performance like that. Not many pros could do it, believe me.’
The girl left her, beaming.
‘Vi, where are you? Come on, let’s run through the monologue following your song. For the timing of the thing. The same backdrop wouldn’t go amiss, actually; perhaps with a gauze in front to look like you’re on the street outside. In fact, that would work quite well: the world-weary flower seller then, at the beginning of the second half, the ingénue experiencing love’s dagger thrust for the first time. Remember that for me, will you?’
It was a good touch, but not one Vi wanted to dwell on. She positioned herself down stage centre, Horatio back in his chair in front of the footlights, and delivered to the gallery the comically moving skit on her degradation brought about by a love for gin. It was the first time she’d performed it in rehearsal but it didn’t raise a titter backstage. Probably because the old cynics were still smitten by Alice.
Horatio slapped his hands on his knees. ‘Really, Vi, is that the best you can do? I suppose you’ve got that hoary notion in your head about saving the best for the night. But that won’t wash with me. I’m relying on you to lead by example; you’ve more experience in your little finger than the rest of the bill put together - including Mr Dansi’s poodles - and I wouldn’t mind seeing some of it now.’
The bastard hadn’t even had the professional courtesy to take her to one side; he was sitting there with a superior smirk on his face berating her in front of all and sundry. He was right: she was an accomplished artiste and, as such, didn’t have to take such a breach of theatrical etiquette from anyone. Refusing to let the tears fall, she walked - straight-backed and with as much dignity as she could - off the stage.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After she had checked the morning post, May made sure that all her files were locked away then pinned a note in the vestibule saying she would be out for most of the day and any urgent business should be left on her desk. If no one at the inquest was prepared to be forthcoming about where Miles Elliott had got his opium from, then she’d go to where she could watch the Three Colt Street dope-runners at work to see if the patterns of buying and selling gave her any clues.
***
May sat in the window of the Black Cat Café, a cup of scummy tea in front of her. She’d popped home to change and in her printed frock, a slick of lipstick, and one of Alice’s dressing-up hats, she looked every inch the harassed housewife taking a breather on the way back from Dolphin Lane market. She fiddled with her spoon as if deep in thought as she sneaked glances at the two men in shabby suits leaning against the walls of opposite street corners. Business looked to be slow. Only once was an approach made. By a young woman in an unseasonably heavy overcoat. May had watched as money
changed hands and the woman slipped something into her handbag; the buying of drugs conducted as casually as the purchase of fruit in a greengrocer’s.
A figure walked into her eye line. It was Liza, one of her old friends from the tobacco factory. May banged on the window. A flash of a professional smile before Liza saw who it was, then she grinned properly and walked towards the café door. May called the waitress over as Liza bowled up to her table.
‘Fancy seeing you down this way. Here, buy us a tea, there’s a dear. I was up all night coughing and I’ve a right cobweb throat on me now.’
May ordered a pot for them both.
‘You’re not working at this time of day are you?’
‘Lord love you, no. The punters don’t like coming down here much when it ain’t dark.’ She fell heavily onto the chair. ‘My Cyril’s sick. First I thought it was summat he ate - the little bugger’s always putting all sorts in his mouth - but then he went down with this cough too so I took him ’round to mum’s so she could fetch him to the quacks. He won’t see me no more on account I ain’t settled my bill. I’m off to see how she got on. Hope he ain’t said as Cyril has to have no medicine or I’ll have to be turning tricks ’til I’m black and blue to raise the bleeding wherewithal.’
May hoped it wasn’t the influenza because no amount of money in the world would be able to buy a cure for that.
‘Alice knows the man who manufactures Barley-Freeman Cough Linctus - it’s supposed to be very good - I can get you a bottle if you like?’
‘Very grateful, I’m sure. Anyway, what you doing here? I like your titfer.’
May involuntarily reached up and patted the silly little hat. ‘I’m keeping an eye on the dope-runners as part of an investigation.’
‘You don’t want to be having anything to do with that lot. Things are nasty with the gangs that run them. Before, it was like they was in the market with their pitches and everything. Oh, there’d be trouble when someone new came on the scene but now...’