by BK Duncan
‘Let’s stop for a moment for him to catch up and you two can meet properly. He lodges with an old friend of the family and fancied getting out of Poplar for a while. I don’t know him very well but he seems nice enough - if a little full of himself. He works on the local newspaper.’
Roger nodded as if that told him everything. As they waited and the others overtook them, Roger crouched over a clump of low-growing flowers with a magnifying glass in hand. Jack arrived looking sulky. May took him to one side.
‘At least try and pretend you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘I’d have more fun poking my eyes out. Your mummy’s boy had better come up with the goods after all this tramping just to gawp at one big fat load of nothing. What’s he looking at anyway?’
‘Pansies.’
Jack snorted. ‘That figures.’
She’d had just about enough of him putting the dampener on the only free time she’d had for ages. ‘Why do you always have to think yourself so superior to everyone else? Just because he’s fascinated by something you don’t give a damn about.’
‘Where’s the big attraction in eyeballing leaves? Things grow in the dirt - so what?’
There was a slight tremor in his voice under the cock-sure dismissal. She had found his weakness: the mighty Jack Cahill was afraid of the countryside. She glanced at Roger and, just past him, into the ditch. She’d have a little fun at Jack’s expense. He’d asked for it for making her look such an idiot in front of PC Collier over that Sir Ernest Pollock business. May squatted down to examine the remains of the grass snake. It was flat - nothing more than head and skin really - probably trampled by one of the plough horses. Then she squealed as if startled, scooped the corpse up with her hand, and flicked it to land at Jack’s feet. He really did scream. May turned and grinned. Jack only looked as if he wanted to murder her for a second and then, to give him his due, he did at least attempt a wobbly smile.
Roger had finished with his botany. May composed herself enough to formally introduce the two men, then stepped away to pretend to be admiring the view - and get the giggles out of her system. Jack didn’t get off to the best of starts by offering an asthmatic a cigarette, but it wasn’t long before he was back in his stride.
‘Miss Keaps tells me you work in a bank, Roger. It must be quite a relief to get away from all that paperwork. Have you come far, or are you lucky enough to have this on your doorstep?’
She had to hand it to him; mustering something like enthusiasm, he sounded genuinely interested.
‘Epping. A bus ride away. I could walk it actually - if it wasn’t for this weak chest of mine. Traffic fumes, you know.’
‘Ah, bring back the days when there was nothing but horse carts. I can’t really understand all this need for speed - progress at the expense of being alienated from everything around you. Not like here, eh? A man can feel he truly belongs in a beautiful place like this.’
May was worried Jack was tipping over into insincerity but a peek at Roger’s face told her he was still on track.
‘Have you seen this hedge laying, Mr Cahill? I’ve rarely seen a neater job.’
Jack followed Roger to the side of the field, throwing May a look of despair as he passed. It served him right for masquerading as a son of the soil.
‘Actually, Roger, I’ll admit that I’m more interested in us having a word; Miss Keaps told me about you and I immediately grasped the opportunity to come out here today so we could meet. You see, I’m a journalist...’
‘She said. You must have to be up to your eyes in even more paper than I do.’
Jack gave the smothered chuckle of one man’s acknowledgment of another’s appreciation.
‘Well the stuff that’s littering my desk at the moment is all related to a story my editor wants me to write on a young man who was recently found dead in Limehouse. Miles Elliott. As you also come from Epping, I wondered if your paths might’ve crossed.’
‘I never met him but we undertake all the Elliott Shipping financial affairs and accounts at our branch. So I am acquainted with his father somewhat.’
Jack gave May the thumbs up behind his back. ‘It’s always a point with me to write about the deceased as real people, not just as cameos framed by the circumstances of their demise. In this case some knowledge of Miles’ job responsibility and lifestyle would be invaluable. I could ask the family, I know, but I don’t want to bother them at such a terrible time.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t help but, as I told you, I never met him.’
‘There are rumours there might’ve been some financial irregularities. And here’s where the second responsibility of a journalist comes in: to the relatives. If it’s true then, should the case go to the Old Bailey for trial, there would be no way of stopping it coming out. So you see, if you could furnish me with any information now then I could both represent Miles in as true colours as possible, and, if forearmed, also warn the family to save them the humiliation of public shock and embarrassment. I would consider that nothing less than my duty.’
Roger pushed his fringe back off his forehead and stared at Jack as if one of them had just trodden in a cowpat. May felt the thrill of superiority spike her blood: no wonder Jack enjoyed looking down on others so much. The ace investigative reporter had made a pig’s ear of things by laying it on too thick. Roger might not be the sharpest chisel in the toolbox but he hadn’t worked behind a bank counter for years without being able to spot a clumsy attempt at fraud. She coughed to break the awkwardness of the moment, then stepped over to join them.
‘I’m afraid that Mr Cahill has been trying to spare my blushes. The truth is, Roger, that there’s been a terrible mistake with some filing in the coroner’s office and I’ll lose my job if I can’t clear it up. Mr Elliott gave something to Colonel Tindal as evidence and it’s gone missing. I don’t know exactly what it was but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with money. But of course I can’t possibly check with Mr Elliott, and if I were to go to your manager in my official capacity and ask what it could have been then I’ll be bringing the coroner’s reputation into disrepute. Do you see my problem? It would be a tremendous help if you could reassure me there’s nothing untoward about Miles Elliott’s affairs and then I can cross that possibility off my list.’
Roger turned to Jack. ‘I don’t know why you made me listen to all that guff. If you’d have told me the truth in the first place then Miss Keaps wouldn’t have been forced into making such an embarrassing confession. I suppose it’s a prime example of the sensation seeking everyone accuses you press people of.’
He stared at his hands for a moment as if mentally counting-up on his fingers.
‘I told you we do the Elliott Shipping accounts and one of my jobs is to itemise the expenses. I’m not breaching any banking regulations if I tell you that Miles Elliott wasn’t shown any favours and only received the going rate for the job - which wasn’t very much. Although I didn’t handle any of his personal transactions, he never wrote a cheque against the business account that couldn’t be reconciled, and the books always balanced at the end of the month. I am certain there could be nothing there to concern your coroner because the branch manager has been over everything with a fine toothcomb; Elliott Shipping has effectively ceased trading, you see. Without any creditors. Does that help?’
May smiled at him. ‘Very much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Roger; you’ve probably just saved my job.’ She looped her arm through his. ‘Now, shall we go and see if we can find any trace of that mystery settlement of yours? I’m sure you won’t be interested in joining us, Mr Cahill, so I’ll say goodbye now. I’ve no doubt circumstances will throw us each others’ way some time in the future.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday found May sorting which of Colonel Tindal’s old reports could be consigned to the storage Braxton Clarke had secured in the Town
Hall. The papers were technically the property of the late coroner’s estate but as he had no relatives and had left no instructions as to their disposal, she’d thought it best to box them up until the new incumbent made a decision about what to do with them. After responding to a couple of requests for information that came in the morning post, she was at last free to concentrate on just how far she’d got in her investigation into the death of Miles Elliott.
She opened her notebook. The first thing she came to was the list of witnesses supplied by Mr Elliott. She remembered Roger had said the shipping business had effectively ceased trading; had Mrs Elliott taken a turn for the worse or had the poor man become incapacitated through grief himself? Perhaps he had simply lost heart. The tableau of Colonel Tindal and Mr Elliott sharing their lost hope for their lost sons flickered before her eyes: two old men with little left to live for. Colonel Tindal hadn’t survived the night. She wondered if Albert’s death had taken her father the same way once the numbness of the first few months has passed. But he’d still had his daughters. Not as special in a man’s world perhaps, but surely important enough to rally for all the same.
She took her time sharpening her pencil, the leaves of wood curling down into the wastepaper basket like so many discarded memories. On the next clean page she wrote a summary of everything she’d found out to date. When she finished she realised it didn’t amount to an awful lot. So far she knew only that Miles had been murdered, his body found outside Brilliant Chang’s restaurant. Dr Swan thought his death might have occurred some time earlier, and that he died from an overdose not the beating which had been administered posthumously. Brilliant Chang had told her he was being framed by an enemy. She had yet to identify who that might be. If Brilliant Chang was a drug dealer (something he consistently denied) then the Tong leader was an obvious suspect because Chang’s relocation to Limehouse would surely upset the established patterns of trade. Liza said there had been an escalation of violence amongst the street dope-runners. She had seen the witness, Richard Weatherby, cosying up to one on Three Colt Street. Someone killed Miles, and someone was supplying him with opium. The same person? Lastly, Roger had told her that Miles hadn’t earned very much, and Jack had confirmed the opium dens charged middle-class white boys top whack.
May jumped as a commotion started up in the street outside the window; a horse was involved by the sound of it. The break in her concentration was what she needed to shift her thoughts sideways. What if Miles hadn’t had to pay for his narcotics at all? What if he was getting them straight off the boat? Lots of sailors made a tidy living by what they picked up on their travels, and a man working in a shipping office would be perfectly placed to offer some sort of quid pro quo arrangement. Could it be someone other than a street dealer she was looking for?
She went through her routine of securing the office and notifying the public when she would be available. The Blakeney’s Head wouldn’t be busy yet. The landlord knew everything there was to know about the alternative sources of income in the docks and would be sure to tell her if there had been something going on at Elliott Shipping.
***
Her eyes adjusted to an interior deprived of sunlight by the grimy etched glass of the windows. There was a group of men - ship’s stokers by the look of them - sitting at a table playing cards. They all tracked her progress as she walked up to the counter. Bert Ford was washing glasses at the end. He was an ex-prize-fighter with none of the muscle turned to fat. His nose had been broken in numerous places, his large ears were tattered, and the elbow of his right arm stuck out at an alarming angle. Not all of these injuries had been sustained in the ring; the Blakeney’s Head was the haunt of sailors who wanted more than a drink to liven up their shore leave.
‘May Keaps, as I live and breathe. Last time I clapped eyes on your pretty face was when you was delivering your old dad’s flask of cocoa as he was on nights. Terrible what happened to him. I was meaning to give my condolences at the time but you know what it’s like...’
This wasn’t what she’d come to talk about. ‘It’s all right, I understand.’
‘You sit yourself down and I’ll bring you a drink on the house. What you having?’
‘That’s very kind; half a shandy, please. And I’d like a word if you’ve got a moment.’
‘Official like?’ He blinked his hooded eyes a number of times. ‘I heard you was working for the Beaks.’
‘The coroner. But it’s just to satisfy my curiosity. It won’t get repeated in court, I promise.’
‘That’s okay, then. Wouldn’t like to have to turn a girl down but I’ve a reputation to keep and if it got out that I’ve been playing the snout then that’ll be half my customers taking themselves off to the Crown and Dolphin.’
May chose the table tucked in the corner near the sooty fireplace. The smell prickled her nostrils. Bert served the stokers another round then came over to join her. She noticed how he stood with his broad back to the door, shielding her from sight. For her protection, or his own?
‘Make it quick, love, there’ll be a shift ending in the engine works soon and I won’t have time to fart then.’
‘There’s a business on Anchor Wharf. Elliott Shipping. Have you heard about anything that might have been going on there recently?’
‘The boy who got himself topped at the Chink’s place on the Causeway? So that’s what you’re here about.’
May wondered if she was the only one who thought Brilliant Chang innocent. She sipped her drink and waited. Bert tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.
‘Can’t say as I’ve had a sniff of anything that’s not common knowledge. The likes of him didn’t drink in here. Preferred the lounge at the Eastern Hotel I reckon. Better class of clientele they gets up there; not so ready with their fists or a broken bottle when they’ve had one-over-the-eight. But he’d always stop to pass the time of day when I was seeing to the deliveries of a morning. Seemed nice enough. Certainly not deserving of getting his head bashed in.’
He whipped a grubby cloth from his back pocket and bent to wipe the table.
‘Except there has been talk of summat funny with regards to Anchor Wharf - a rumour only, mind, so don’t go taking it as gospel. Lumper came in here the other day - wouldn’t credit how a drop can loosen a tongue because, sure as eggs is eggs, I wouldn’t have been spreading the same - but he’d heard whisper the Bow Kum are angling to take over Anchor Wharf lock, stock, and barrel. And if that’s kosher it won’t be for the unloading of tinned meat, you mark my words. That end of the quay’s out where the Basin ain’t got enough in it for ships to berth, so discharged goods are brought ashore by lighter, and the customs men often as not can’t be arsed - pardon my proverbial - to trek all that way. Makes the place worth a packet in the hands of those who know the unofficial import/expert business, if you get my drift. But I ain’t as green as I’m cabbage looking so I won’t be saying nothing more on the subject. Not even for a pretty face like yours.’ The door banged behind him. ‘Back in a minute, love.’
May took another swallow of shandy. The wharves were privately owned and not patrolled by the Port of London Authority police so Elliott Shipping, isolated on the end of the quay, would be the perfect place for bringing drugs ashore. Had Miles been working for the Bow Kum Tong and there’d been some sort of falling out amongst thieves? Perhaps he’d become greedy (from the little she knew about habitual drug taking, more and more was needed over time to achieve the same result) and threatened to blow the whistle on them. So they killed him, taking the opportunity to remove a rival in the rackets - Brilliant Chang - in the process. If that was true it would be impossible to gather enough evidence to prove: Bert hadn’t said much but it was more than anyone else was ever likely to.
She finished her drink and took the glass up to the counter. The landlord broke away from his customers.
‘Another?’
‘No thank you. I need to be getting back. Just one more thing though. What did you and Miles Elliott talk about? Did he ever say anything concerning the business?’
‘Not so you’d notice. Sometimes about a particular ship maybe. We had this joke running. Don’t seem very funny now but he wore the key to the office around his neck and I’d always be saying that if he fell in the water it’d be that sank him to the bottom and drowned him.’
His mouth dropped open as if he’d been hit over the back of the head with a brick.
‘No offence, May, love. I didn’t mean nothing by it. For what it’s worth none of us think your old dad topped himself. Reckon it was an accident. Even men like him who could walk a plank with a sack of sugar on his shoulder can go tripping over their own feet when full to the top with whisky. Except - and I remember remarking on it when we heard - I ain’t never known him touch the stuff before. Always said as hops were the only thing should go into the drink of a true mudlark. Do you know the one time when he...’
May laid her hand on his. Bert hoisted himself up on the counter on his tree-trunk arms and bent over to give her a peck on the cheek.
‘You down this way again, love, you come on in.’
She threw him a thin smile and left.
***
It took her to the corner of Chrisp Street to clarify her thoughts. It essentially came down to there being two ways she could go about getting to the bottom of what might have been going on out at Anchor Wharf - the Braxton Clarke way, or the East End way which, although unorthodox, would be sure to produce some sort of result. Bert had reminded her that she was a child of the docks, and that meant she had methods at her disposal that Mr Clarke with his posh accent and expensive suits could never so much as dream about. If this was to be the last case she would investigate as the Poplar Coroner’s Officer then she’d see to it that the jury’s verdict was at least a fully-informed one.