Foul Trade

by BK Duncan

  But just as her foot was on the top flight of the steep stairs, the anxious Japanese mother grabbed her arm in a shark-like grip and refused to be shaken off.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  May finished cutting out the piece from the morning’s East End News. Every time she reread it she felt the same degree of satisfaction: Andy Taylor had performed a miracle of misdirection. There had been a telephone call from Braxton Clarke shortly after she’d got in but she’d decided to wait until he was back in the office (which he thought would be any time soon; his wife just needed a few more days’ convalescence) to tell him about what she’d done. He might not see things quite the way she did. And, anyway, she hadn’t wanted to dampen his mood because he’d sounded bright as a button, fulsomely apologetic for leaving her in the lurch to stem the tide of the bereaved as he put it. It had made her laugh.

  The street door banged and PC Collier strode in. She gave him a cheery smile but the young man’s face remained serious. He made no attempt to remove his helmet.

  ‘I thought I should be telling you there’s a body been found. Young woman. Mother, too. I’m to go fetch her boy and take him to the Institution. No father, see. Makes your heart bleed at times, this job.’

  She reached out and touched his sleeve. ‘When will she be brought here? I’ll need to get in touch with the City of London Coroner’s clerk to arrange the inquest.’

  ‘Oh, no, no. She weren’t found in Poplar. Just lived here. Had her ration card on her. Washed up on Greenwich Strand she was. Could have fallen in off a bridge or jumped. Either way, there’s nothing but the boy we have to be dealing with this side of the river.’

  May felt a bleak dismay for the poor child’s future. Although the Poplar Poor Law Guardians didn’t run the workhouse in the accepted way of making life for the inmates miserable in order that the seeking of poor relief was a last resort, there wasn’t an enlightened approach in the world could make growing up in the place bearable for a young orphan.

  ‘I’ll take her name for the records and in case someone comes to me to make enquiries.’

  PC Collier took out his notebook and flicked to the last page. ‘One Elizabeth Trow.’ He replaced it in his top pocket. ‘Best be on my way. Unpleasant duties don’t get no better by the putting off.’

  Left alone, May sat staring at nothing. Liza hadn’t jumped or tumbled off anything: she’d been fingered by the drug dealers as an informer and dealt with accordingly. She hadn’t asked what state the body had been in. Please let her not have been beaten. A film reel played in her head of Liza frantically struggling to fill her lungs with something other than water. She should have gone to the police and asked them to keep an eye on her. When exactly had they picked her up - shortly after she’d left the Black Cat Café, or had the pimp who’d once sliced her stalked her to the river? May listened to the chatter and clatter of the High Street snaking through the gaps in the sash window. Sounds Liza would never hear again.

  Anxious to have something to do before guilt incapacitated her completely, she walked through to the vestibule and fished the afternoon post from the letter-cage. On opening, the first missives failed to provide her with the distraction she needed: an invoice for his recent services from Dr Swan; a cheque from the LCC reimbursing her expenses; a copy of the forms confirming the date for the inquest on the gas explosion couple. But halfway down the pile was an envelope delivered by hand and marked personal. May slid her finger under the flap. Nestled inside the single sheet of paper was a key. She took it out and laid it on the desk.

  Dear Miss Keaps,

  I hope this finds you as well as it leaves me. Although I am sure you will feel some distress after reading this. Apologies for not delivering this news in more personal a manner but I cannot leave the theatre as the show will be starting shortly. Without Alice, I am sorry to say. She has just this minute left after telling me that although she felt awful about letting everyone down, she couldn’t face setting foot on the stage. Then she went on to ask if I’d fetch some of her clothes and take them to her at the gates of Limekiln Basin just before nine o’clock tonight. I am unacquainted with the docks but could there be a chance of her boarding a steam packet from there? Putting two and two together I’m concerned she might feel unable to remain living and working where she must now only taste failure.

  Far be it for me to tell you what to do but can I suggest that instead of going to your house, I wait for you here (I’ll be free of all post-show commitments by eight-thirty) in order we go to the rendezvous together? I’m sure whatever state she’s in will be no match for the two of us, and we’ll be able to talk her out of anything stupid. She is a talented little performer and, if only she could master her stage fright, could look forward to doing very well for herself on the boards.

  Yours with very sincere consolation,

  Violet Tremins.

  May didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She had no doubt her sister didn’t intend bolting permanently to anywhere - she’d never have let anyone else choose her clothes if that was the case - catching the last steamer up to Aunt Bella’s in Southend was probably the most she had in mind. But, even so, she must’ve got herself worked up into a pretty bad state to miss her beloved show. Vi had described how incapacitating the terrors of stage fright could be when she’d been over for tea and if you topped them with the humiliation of being shouted at by the man you thought yourself to be in love with, then perhaps it was no wonder Alice had turned tail. She’d go to pick her up and, once the dust had settled, maybe the girl could be made to accept that she didn’t have the temperament for the theatrical life and should quit the Gaiety for an office job and night school.

  Conscious she was trying to avert potential disaster in an equally immature way, May picked up the telephone receiver and put in a call to Braxton Clarke. A soft Sussex burr at the other end announced herself to be the maid... followed by the fact that the Clarkes had left a half an hour ago for the seaside to set the seal on madam’s recovery. May declined to leave a message; the only thing she wanted to utter was a scream of frustration and she didn’t think that appropriate for the coroner to receive on his return.

  She filled the last hour of the working day with paperwork. On the dot of five o’clock she packed up, and left for Chrisp Street market to get some food in for Alice’s return. As she walked away from the court building she thought it’d be a nice gesture to include in her purchases some of the almond cakes she knew her sister loved.

  ***

  The Turkish baker’s was opposite the East End News’ offices. On her way out of the shop, May realised that Braxton Clarke wasn’t the only one she owed an explanation concerning this morning’s article - if only to forestall Jack from saying something stupid and giving the game away. She’d pop in and see him before continuing on to the market.

  ***

  ‘...so I reckon there’s a fair chance that now they think they’ve got me off their backs, they’ll push ahead with their plans to acquire Elliott Shipping. One slip up in their haste to get it secured is all I need to tie them in to Miles Elliott’s murder.’

  She was standing by the window in Jack’s cubbyhole looking out at the early evening sun turning the white stucco of the houses in Wade Place a soft apricot, the bag of freshly-baked cakes in her satchel pressing warmly into her side.

  ‘Don’t go getting ahead of yourself. You’ll only have bought a little time, that’s all.’

  May felt a stab of childish peevishness that Jack hadn’t acknowledged her cleverness, before putting it down to the fact that it was something he’d never have thought of himself.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t we have that drink tonight? I need to give the dens a wide berth for a while, and we could celebrate your temporary release from the jaws of death.’

  That wasn’t funny in the light of what had happened to Liza but, to be fair, she hadn’t told
him about that.

  ‘Can’t,’ she turned and smiled at him to show she wasn’t being offish, ‘but we could make it the Spotted Dog tomorrow at around eight; I expect I’ll need a break from exhibiting endless patience by then. But, of course, you don’t know. Alice was to be in that talent show on at the Gaiety until her nerves got the better of her - so much so it seems there are suspicions she might do a flit. I’m pretty confident it’s another of her dramatic gestures for attention but, knowing her, there’s always the chance she won’t know when to stop and carry it too far. My sister’s not one to back away gracefully when she’s manoeuvred herself into a corner-’

  ‘Like peas in a pod, you two.’

  May shot him a look. ‘So tonight I’ll be making a trip out to Limekiln Basin; I checked the tables and the steamer from Gallions is due to dock at Old Sun Wharf at quarter past nine. It’ll be a quick turnaround to catch the high tide, so I should be able to just scoop her up and head for home. Do you know what irritates me most about this ridiculous plan of hers? That she must’ve saved up money when she should’ve been giving every spare penny to Mrs Gibson for putting her up. But that’s Alice’s selfishness for you: a ticket in her hand will always be more important than food in someone else’s mouth.’

  ‘Hey, why don’t you try easing up on her a little? The poor girl must’ve learnt some very hard lessons recently and, from what you tell me, she’s not exactly equipped to find a rational solution to crippling stage fright. Not to mention her entire theatrical career being over before it’s begun. I’m sure she’s not leading you a merry dance on purpose.’

  For once May wasn’t tempted to ask him what he knew about it. His open face was full of nothing but the desire for there to be a happy ending to it all. A sentiment she shared so strongly that she walked behind his desk and gave him a peck on the cheek before seeing herself out.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  May headed down the alley to the Stage Door. Once inside the theatre she could hear the muffled sounds of an audience in the throes of hysteria - the evening show must be well under way. The doorman looked up from his newspaper.

  ‘Reckon you’ve gone and taken one turn too many, love. Entrance is ’round the front. But I’d save the shoe-leather if I was you. Best acts ’ave wiped off the greasepaint; nothing but second-rate bill fare after the tabs are pulled on the Monoped Dancer - and, if I’m not mistaken, Peg-Leg Bates is ’opping the boards now with ’is comic closing.’

  ‘I’m to meet someone here; Violet Tremins.’

  ‘Ah.’ He swiped a pile of cigarette ash from the counter. ‘Shame she ain’t booked for tonight. Classy artiste, she is: good in the footlights at the same time as being not too la-di-dah to pass the time of day with the likes of me. But you’re out of luck. Came through some time back not long after that amateur whatsit finished. Tell you what; she’s thick with that posh fella what put it on and if I put a call through to the manager’s office perhaps ’e’ll come down and tell you where she’s at.’

  May smiled her thanks. She listened to the doorman fulfilling his request, then passed the time waiting for Horatio to arrive by reading a call for auditions from The Stage someone had tacked to the notice board. It seemed odd Vi had left the theatre seeing as she was the one who’d suggested they meet up. If she’d simply popped out for something after the talent show had finished then she’d have been back by now. And she couldn’t have gone to pick up the clothes Alice had asked for because she’d slipped the house key in with the note. May’s musings ended abruptly as the backstage door swung open and Horatio Barley-Freeman almost bounded to her side.

  ‘Miss Keaps. Vi told me to expect you. Many apologies for not being on hand but my father couldn’t resist making a full-scale production out of toasting our success in champagne. I think I have clinked glasses with every dignitary he saw fit to invite, and not a few I’m sure didn’t even attend the performance. Their loss.’

  ‘It went well, then?’

  ‘Like a dream. I’d almost go so far as to say it made all the shenanigans over the past few weeks worthwhile. Although, of course, I still have deep regrets about that little contretemps with Alice; however Vi was a real trooper and filled in perfectly. Sorry. That was unspeakably thoughtless of me; your sister’s whereabouts is why you’re here, after all. I suspect Vi underplayed her concern in her note - she’s always been one to restrict her emotions to performances - but when I heard about Alice’s apparent plans, I must admit to being pretty worried. Not to mention guilty about the part I might’ve played in bringing us all to this.’

  He waved away May’s protest before she could properly articulate it.

  ‘I sent Vi down to the rendezvous early in case Alice got it into her head not to wait but get someone to row her over to East India Dock Pier instead. If she boarded one of the Blue Funnel Line steamers then it’d be a hell of a job tracking her down as they’re bound for places more exotic than Southend or Margate and the authorities checking ships’ manifests would be the order of the day. I felt sure that, in your position, you wouldn’t want such a public fuss made, and be happy to forgive my, no doubt, over-reactive caution.’

  For the second time since she’d made his acquaintance, May felt awash with gratitude; as if saving her from any further retaliation from the dope-seller wasn’t enough, his solicitude had now extended to embrace protecting her reputation. She turned her face away as her cheeks grew hot. A handful of missed beats hung in the air before he stepped into the silence.

  ‘My intention was to take Vi’s place and accompany you to Limehouse but my father is insisting on my presence at the supper he is hosting. And he’s in such a rare good mood that this could be the perfect time to broach the subject of my change of career path.’

  ‘Of course, you must.’

  ‘I knew you’d understand. There’s the added bonus that some of his business cronies have been so impressed about the publicity the show’s bought for Barley-Freeman Cough Linctus they might see their way into being sweet-talked into sponsoring one of their own.’

  It was Horatio’s turn to flush.

  ‘I must admit to quite having caught the bug for this directing lark.’

  May laughed at his school-boy embarrassment at being caught blowing his own trumpet.

  ‘Allow me... say... an hour or so... I gave Vi the key to our spice warehouse on Dunbar Wharf and told her to get Alice into the warm - I know to my cost how the wind coming off the river can cut through your bones, and I’m guessing your sister will be feeling miserable enough as it is. If you don’t catch up with them on the wharf then that’s where they’ll be. When I arrive I can let us all off the quay via the side gate and we can head to a nearby eatery I’m acquainted with. My treat, of course. I suspect Alice will be famished, and somehow I feel a little neutral company might be called for until you both get used to the fact that nothing awful happened tonight - apart from your sister losing a little face, that is. And with Vi in the party she’ll be chivvied out of that in no time.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The area around the gates to Limekiln Basin was as busy as a dockers’ call-on when a tea clipper was due in. The passengers had been unceremoniously herded off the steamer and were blocking the way of those needing to board in the few minutes before the mooring ropes were loosed and the ship ploughed out to the river again to catch the tide. May was bumped and barged as she tried to fight her way through to find Alice. At one point she thought she recognised Vi’s shapely figure but it turned out to be a pock-face woman who hurled curses at being accosted on her way to the gangplank.

  In too short a time there was no one left on the quayside but the gatekeeper and sailors scurrying fore and aft to release the ship. The thudding propellers were churning the water as May slunk into the shadow caused by the overhanging roof of the nearest transit shed. The night watchman had arrived to assume his shift and was ratt
ling the gate bolts into place. She waited until he was safely ensconced in his cabin - no doubt with his flask of cocoa and the evening dog results - then skirted the front of the remaining sheds until she was clear of the glow from the gas light at the dock entrance and could walk to Horatio’s warehouse on Dunbar Wharf without risk of detection.

  Keeping to the centre of the quay to avoid the hazards of tying-up rings, coiled ropes, and bollards, May walked on through the chill mist that always gathered over dockside concrete. As she moved further towards the river the usual night-time noises were distorted and flattened by the widening expanse of water. She could make out the whooshing of coal into half-full holds way over to the east and some cranes operating on the wharves fringing Limehouse Cut, but the rhythmic slapping of rigging on masts beyond the Millwall side of the Basin and tide-agitated wavelets lapping the hull of the moored ship she had passed were the only sounds close to hand.

  Her ears were beginning to sting with the cold before the massive edifice of one of the timber sheds for which Dunbar Wharf was renowned hove into view. These didn’t house planks of the common-or-garden woods such as pine, spruce or larch but cradled intact de-branched tree trunks from all around the world. On the rare occasions her father had been available (and inclined) to indulge her and Albert in a bedtime story, he’d recite their origins and uses as if they were a docker’s poem:

  Rosewood for pianos comes from Honduras,

  Greenheart from British Guiana for fishing rods,

  North American Maple Root for veneer;

  West Indian Locust and Mangrove to be made into furniture.

  The dyeing trade uses Bar Wood from West Africa, Nicaragua Wood

  from Central America or Jamaican Logwood;

  but the best is Red Sanders from the East Indies.

  Ask me my favourite and I’ll tell you it’s the pink, like a skinned rabbit,