The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  Inside Emma’s living-room, his eyes adjusted themselves to its darkness, and Herbert Stephens moved slowly and silently forward. They came at him then, Nicholas, Chapman and Harry. A fourth man, Detective-Sergeant Arnold, applied a struck match to the gas lamp. The room sprang into light. Stephens was a raging bull, his blue eyes no longer mild, but hard, glassy and bulging. Nicholas, Chapman and Harry could scarcely hold him. With a muted roar he broke free, hurled himself across the room and snatched the brass-handled poker from the fireside companion set. He launched himself at Nicholas, the poker flailing murderously. Nicholas, keyed-up, had only a fraction of a second in which to save himself from being brained. His reflexes sent him forward to meet maniacal force, and his head and shoulders ducked low. The poker whistled above him and his head thudded into the man’s stomach. There was another muted roar and the bull staggered. Nicholas pitched downwards. Chapman leapt, his head low too, and wound his arms around Stephens’ ribs. The poker whirled back for a killing blow. Harry smashed downwards with drawn truncheon and caught the poker in mid-air. Chapman held on, head buried in the man’s chest, his shoulders pushing. The wavering poker straightened and was aimed point down at Chapman’s bent back. Harry smashed again with his truncheon. Nicholas was up, and Arnold joined the mêlée. The raging bull was smothered, but they could not bring him down, or check his strange muted roars. Harry struck again, and his truncheon took Stephens full in the back of his knees. He fell like a pole-axed gladiator, but he raged about over the floor with the CID men trying to smother him. Furniture crashed. Harry had no option but to smite the bull senseless. It took more than one blow of his truncheon.

  Upstairs, Inspector Greaves and Emma were listening. They heard the sounds of the frenzied struggle subside to a momentary silence. Then they heard Nicholas’s voice.

  ‘That’s Samson? Thank God I’m not Delilah.’

  The Inspector’s moustache moved to a twitch of his lips.

  ‘I’ll give him Delilah.’

  ‘No, no, Inspector, I like to think there’s a very nice sense of humour inhabiting Scotland Yard. And thank you for being with me up here, thank you for your company and comfort.’

  Emma, of course, was working on behalf of Nicholas.

  In Stephens’ pockets they found a black silk stocking and a five-inch penknife of the finest Sheffield steel, its long primary blade honed to razor-like sharpness. From Stephens himself they got nothing at all, not a single word, only a vacant stare from blue eyes as mild as a September sky. Manacled, he was taken to Rodney Road police station, and from there to Scotland Yard.

  ‘Goodnight, Emma, can’t thank you enough,’ said Nicholas on leaving her house.

  ‘Goodnight, Nicholas.’

  ‘You’ll be required to make a statement, a long one.’

  ‘I’ll endure that, the worst is over. When am I to make the statement?’

  ‘I’ll call on you.’

  ‘Call on me. How kind. Goodnight Nicholas.’

  ‘Take care,’ he said automatically, and left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Much to Emma’s embarrassment and disgust, the following day’s papers made her the heroine of the hour. Inspector Greaves and Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain of Scotland Yard were quoted as being unstinting in their praise of her. Sergeant Chamberlain, responsible for the arrest, paid her particular tribute, all in respect of the apprehension of an unnamed man who was to help the police with their enquiries. One reporter had found out she was a suffragette, and he had obtained a tribute from Mrs Pankhurst herself.

  ‘Mrs Emma Carter,’ Mrs Pankhurst was quoted as saying, ’is one of our most valiant members. We are proud of her.’

  Emma fixed her mind on the perfidy of Nicholas. He was responsible for all this, she was sure. You wait, she said to herself, I’ll make your life not worth living.

  She was appalled by the sight of reporters outside her front door when she was about to leave for work. She fled them. But Hurlocks provided no respite from embarrassment. Staff and management converged on her from all directions, expressing fulsome admiration.

  ‘But I didn’t do anything, except to identify him as the man who bought stockings from us.’

  ‘That’s not what the papers say, Mrs Carter,’ said the managing director, ‘nor what the police say. Well done.’

  ‘But the man hasn’t been charged yet.’

  ‘I’m sure he will be. Yes, very well done, Mrs Carter.’

  Emma could hardly wait to get her own back on Nicholas. She would have the opportunity for that when she made her statement. But his perfidy continued, for it was Detective-Sergeant Arnold who called about this, not Nicholas. For her convenience, would she like to make her statement at Rodney Road police station in the presence of Inspector Greaves on Monday afternoon.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Emma.

  ‘Beg your pardon, Mrs Carter?’

  ‘I said certainly not.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Carter, but – ’

  ‘I was told by Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain that he would take my statement.’

  ‘Were you?’

  Emma thought. She frowned. No, he had not actually told her that, he had simply said he would call on her about it.

  ‘Where is Sergeant Chamberlain?’

  ‘He’s a bit busy with the suspect.’

  ‘I see. Very well, Monday afternoon at the police station, then.’

  ‘Two-thirty, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Emma.

  Harry received a pat on the back from the police superintendent, which meant that in two months time he would receive his promotion to sergeant. Maggie was utterly happy for him, her affection for him growing each day. Trary, whose affections had been stirred from the beginning, was utterly proud of him. Meg kissed him, while Daisy and Lily were awe-struck. Bobby, meeting him on his beat, stopped him and asked to shake his hand.

  ‘A man’s got to shake ’ands with another man, Mr Bradshaw.’

  ‘Man to man, is it, Bobby?’

  ‘A bit more than that,’ said Bobby. ‘Well, the way I’m planning things, you’re goin’ to be me future dad-in-law.’

  ‘Does Trary know?’ smiled Harry.

  ‘What a girl,’ said Bobby. ‘She’s playin’ Nelson now, she keeps turnin’ a blind eye to her destiny. I’ve told ’er it’s no good fightin’ it, but you know Trary, Mr Bradshaw, she’s goin’ to fight it all the way till it ’appens. It’s her pride. I’ve never seen any girl put her nose up in the air more than Trary. You ever seen ’er do that?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen her, Bobby.’

  ‘Trouble is, that when she does it she looks prettier than ever. Man to man, Mr Bradshaw, I’m done for. Still, Mrs Wilson agrees with me, it could be a happy death. Well, so long, Mr Bradshaw, glad about yer promotion, an’ you’ve got friends down the market that’s pleased for you. Oh, and me dad’s goin’ straight permanent.’

  ‘Permanent?’ enquired Harry.

  ‘It’d better be permanent, or it’ll be my duty, as his only son, to nail ’is feet to me mum’s kitchen floor.’

  ‘Good luck, Bobby.’

  At the Brixton roller-skating rink on Saturday afternoon, Trary and Bobby took a breather to allow Trary to treat her talking boy to tea and a fruit bun.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Trary, I’m earnin’ a bit from me mum, remember, and you’re still a girl that’s poor.’

  ‘Mum said – well, she’s treatin’ us both, she’s given me a shilling.’ Trary hid the fun of the game by adding solemnly, ‘She says you’re a dear boy – ’

  ‘She says what?’

  ‘Yes, she said “What a dear boy young Bobby is, bless ’is cotton socks, treat him to a nice currant bun.”’

  ‘I’ll have to talk to your mum,’ said Bobby, and gave the order to the larky waitress, who did a bit of cheeky give-and -take with him before departing, much to Trary’s disdain. Up in the air went her nose. ‘Yes, I’ll have to talk to your mum,’ repeated Bobby.
‘Something’s gone to her head, and it’s made her mix me up with some Sunday School kid in a sailor suit. It’s probably bein’ in love. I know how she feels, I don’t know what I’m doin’ meself sometimes.’

  ‘Are you speakin’ to me, Bobby Reeves, or that common girl?’

  ‘Well, you have to say how’s yer father to her, Trary, or – ’

  ‘You’ve said all that before. Oh, I just remembered,’ Trary perked up, ‘the wedding’s goin’ to be the first Saturday of our school holidays.’

  ‘You sure?’ said Bobby.

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve let me know,’ said Bobby, ‘or I might not ’ave turned up. To be candid – ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, to be candid,’ said Bobby, ‘I didn’t even know we were engaged. I know we’ve talked about our destiny, but – hold on, you sure we can get married at our ages? And can we afford it?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t take the cake,’ said Trary.

  ‘It’s buns,’ said the waitress, reappearing with the order, and Trary went aloof while the tea and buns were set out on the table amid a rendering of the Skaters’ Waltz by the band. ‘Don’t get fat,’ said the waitress, and winked at Bobby before departing again.

  ‘Ugh to her,’ said Trary.

  ‘Still, she don’t give us stale buns,’ said Bobby. ‘Anyway, Trary, about our weddin’, are you sure – ’

  ‘Bobby Reeves, you get dafter all the time. And more grinnin’. Don’t think I can’t see you’re grinnin’. Is what you said supposed to be funny?’

  ‘Gettin’ married’s not funny, Trary, it’s our life’s work. But I think we ought to wait a bit, say until I’m – ’

  ‘D’you want me to fill your face with my currant bun?’ asked Trary.

  ‘Don’t you want to wait, then?’ asked Bobby.

  Trary, not for the first time since she’d known him, clapped a hand to her mouth and smothered shrieks. Oh, that boy, look at him, he’ll be my death. She cleared her throat, ‘One day, Bobby Reeves, you’ll be carted off to a loony bin, you will. Boys your age don’t talk to girls my age about gettin’ married, you blessed lump. If you must know, I ’appened to be speakin’ of my mother and Mr Harry Bradshaw, and of their weddin’. Afterwards, they’re goin’ to Eastbourne on honeymoon, while I look after Daisy, Lily an’ Meg. Then when they come back, we’re all movin’ to our new house in Herne Hill. My new dad’s selling his house in Westmoreland Road, and he and mum are buyin’ the new one between them. Mum’s ever so pleased about that. Oh, and you’re gettin’ a special invite to the weddin’. I don’t know why, but mum seems to like you.’

  ‘It’s mutual,’ said Bobby. ‘What’s special about the invite?’

  ‘Well,’ said Trary, consuming her bun, ‘me an’ my sisters are goin’ to be bridesmaids, and you’re goin’ to be a pageboy, like they have in posh weddings. Have you got a blue velvet suit with a lace collar and knickerbockers, and can you get your hair curled? Mum wants you to look pretty. Oh, and Daisy an’ Lily asked if they could both marry you when they’re older, poor things.’

  ‘Could you say all that again, and more slowly?’ asked Bobby.

  ‘Mum said you’d be lovely as a pageboy, specially in blue velvet.’

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Yes, she did. She said, “Oh, that Bobby, he’ll make a lovely pageboy.” But she did ask me to ask you not to wear a box on your head. I could curl your hair for you at home one evenin’, if you like.’

  Bobby finished his bun and looked at the girl who had inspired him to put his foot down with his work-shy dad. Her brown eyes were bright with glee. What a performer.

  ‘Trary Wilson, you’re makin’ an Aunt Sally of me. I’ll get me own back.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky.’

  ‘All right, quits,’ said Bobby. ‘Tell you what, last one round the rink pays the tram fares ’ome.’

  Challenges excited Trary, especially challenges from Bobby. They got up and clumped their way over the carpet to the rink. With the band playing a gallop, off they went, weaving their way around other skaters, Bobby quickly in the lead, the much improved Trary on his heels, laughing and exhilarated. The rink, the rendezvous of the young, was a sea of movement. Bobby went at speed, and Trary’s skirt whipped as she raced after him. Skate crossing over skate, they executed fast turns, Bobby making a dash for the finish. There he described a swishing circle and came to a full stop. Trary skated straight into his arms, and Bobby kissed her, right on her mouth. Girls yelled in delight at them, and boys whistled.

  ‘Oh, you cheeky devil!’ cried Trary.

  ‘I’ll give you pageboy,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Take that,’ said Trary, and handed out a push. Bobby wobbled backwards, grabbed at her, and they fell together. Boys and girls swerved around them, shouting with laughter.

  ‘Give ’im another, Trary!’

  Trary sat up, face flushed, eyes dancing, ‘Oh, you ’ooligan, wait till I tell mum!’ she gasped.

  ‘Tell her what?’ said Bobby. ‘Are we engaged, then? I still think we ought to wait a bit. Still, I suppose it’s our destiny.’

  ‘Oh, you daft lump,’ said Trary, and sat there, helpless with laughter, a young girl full of the joys of living.

  At the local police station on Monday afternoon, Emma had her long statement read out to her by Detective-Sergeant Arnold, with Inspector Greaves present and Nicholas still an absentee. The latter fact quite vexed her. Something had to be done about that gentleman.

  Finding the statement in order, she signed it. ‘That’s all for the time being?’ she asked.

  ‘Until the court proceedings,’ said Inspector Greaves. ‘It’s my pleasure to inform you, Mrs Carter, that we owe you considerably.’

  Emma shook her head, ‘May I ask if the prisoner’s confessed?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the Inspector, and advised her in ponderous fashion that Stephens was trying to climb into the heavyweight division by declaring he couldn’t remember a thing about what he had done to seriously offend the law. His recollections of said capital crimes were nil. By which forgetfulness he was hoping to be committed to a criminal asylum.

  ‘Doesn’t he remember why he chose fair-haired women, why he cut a strand of their hair off?’ asked Emma.

  ‘He shakes his head. In all my experience, Mrs Carter, I’ve never seen any prisoner do a better job of shakin’ his head. But we’re persistin’ patient and methodical, you might say. We’re in helpful possession of the silk stocking and sharp-bladed penknife duly found on him, which can be presented as items relatin’ to premeditation. Which could to a jury accordingly dispose of his suggestions that he must ’ave suffered brainstorms. That’s ’eavyweight division, Mrs Carter, brainstorms.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Emma. ‘Inspector, I’m relieved your men weren’t badly hurt. Where’s Sergeant Chamberlain at the moment?’

  ‘Doin’ most of the work on the prisoner,’ said Inspector Greaves.

  ‘I see,’ said Emma, and made up her mind that what must be done to the absent gentleman, she must do herself.

  An hour after she arrived home, a messenger boy called with a presentation bouquet of red roses and an accompanying letter. From Nicholas.

  Dear Emma,

  I think you deserve something more than thanks for all your help. If anything pleasant came out of this case, it was getting to know you. I thought about letting you get on with your private life, but if your friend is only a friend, I think I’ll give him some competition. I have to see you, in any case. Will you let me know when it’s convenient to call? Best wishes and affectionate regards, Nicholas.

  Affectionate? That was all? We’ll see about that, said Emma to herself, and replied briefly but graciously.

  Dear Nicholas,

  I was touched by your gift of roses, they’re lovely. How kind of you. Please come to tea on Sunday. Four-thirty. Yours sincerely, Emma. PS. You wait.

  Wait? Wh
at for? That was the first question Nicholas, newly promoted to Detective-Inspector, asked when he arrived on Sunday afternoon. So Emma, of course, took him to task for talking to newspapers about her and accordingly being responsible for reporters besieging her door. Nothing to do with me, said Nicholas, blame someone else at the Yard. And by the way, he said, you’re up for the reward. What reward? For help and information leading directly to the capture of Herbert Stephens. Five hundred pounds. Who says so? I do, said Nicholas, I’ve put your name forward and you’ll get it. Oh, you dear man, said Emma. But remembering something had to be done about him, she asked if he truly believed women should have the same rights as men. Nicholas said yes, as long as they didn’t sneak in a few extra, of which they were perfectly capable. Well, we’re smarter, of course, said Emma, but do you truly believe? Yes, said Nicholas. Good, said Emma, then may I have the right of asking you to marry me? Nicholas tottered. Emma said she didn’t have much to offer a Detective-Inspector except herself, although she might shortly come into a fortune of five hundred pounds. Were herself and five hundred pounds enough for him?

  Nicholas, hardly able to believe she was his, fell over. Well, almost.

  Emma laughed.

  But she still kept one thing to herself. She didn’t want him to be cross with her, not now. The fact was she had known it was Alf Barker who followed her home that night. She’d recognized his voice when he said goodnight to her, but if she’d admitted it she’d have had no reason to ask Nicholas to call on her at a time when she was feeling stupidly fretful about his absence from her life.