‘Aha.’ The old man had found the volume he wanted and pulled it out of the stack. It collapsed against another. He leafed through the pages, again discussing his attempt with himself. ‘No, that is not it. No, further. Or maybe… No, not that either.’
Alkmene shuffled her feet.
‘You can sit down,’ Dubois said, nodding at a couch in a corner that looked like it would collapse as soon as anybody sat on it. She wasn’t quite sure about bugs either.
Glancing down, she was glad her skirt’s hem was not touching the ground. Maybe she should clean her shoes thoroughly tonight.
What had Cook said that helped against critters? Petrol?
The old man returned the brooch to Dubois. ‘Most certainly Russian, made by one Sergejev of Saint Petersburg.’
‘You should call it Leningrad these days,’ Dubois said with a glance at Alkmene.
The old man shrugged. ‘I don’t follow those things,’ he said. ‘Saint Petersburg had good goldsmiths, that is all I know and care about.’
He shut the book and dumped it where he stood, returning to his desk with that slow painful limp. He seemed too old to have been wounded in the recent war, but perhaps it had simply been an accident, a fall, that had changed his life for ever.
Dubois put the brooch back in his pocket and nodded. ‘’Til next time.’
He directed her to the door. Outside she asked in a whisper, ‘Should you not have paid him? He helped us.’
‘I know what I am doing.’ He sounded irritated. Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, Dubois went down the stairs, his shoulders pulled up as if he was cold.
Alkmene followed him closely. ‘Now that you know it is Russian, what will you do?’
‘I will think about it. The best thing you can do when things are unclear is wait until they become clearer.’
‘Somehow that doesn’t sound like your kind of philosophy.’ Alkmene took the last steps, panting. ‘I thought that when you wanted something, you dived right in.’
He looked at her, his face half shadowed in the dim hallway. ‘I did dive right in. I found out about the row at the theatre. I also have dug up more information about the dead man’s body: when it was found, and his financial situation. Did you find anything new?’
No, she had not found out anything more, mostly because she was not sure how to go about it. She itched to know what he had dug up. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Dubois. Smiling, she said innocently, ‘I thought we could…exchange our information.’
‘So you said before. But it seems the deal is becoming more one-sided over time. Besides, sharing has to be one’s free choice, remember?’
It irked her that he threw her own words back in her face like that. She had never met someone who really tried to beat her at her own game.
It is not a game, he had said at Waldeck’s.
Was that the main brunt of his resentment against her? That to her this was still a game providing her with diversion, excitement, while to him it was a serious thing?
Perhaps even a matter of justice?
Sobered, she followed him outside. She wanted to say something meaningful and profound, but she had no idea how she could prevent it from sounding thought-up and untrue.
Dubois turned away from her. ‘I am looking forward to receiving my handkerchief back.’
She was left standing there, in the middle of this rundown street, like Dubois didn’t care whether she ever found her way home or not. But she didn’t bother to run after him like a little girl. She didn’t need him. She knew what she was doing. And she was not about to leave this place until she had done something about that little boy.
She went into one of the small shops and bought vegetables, then went into a bakery that looked neat and bought bread and cookies in a big blue box. They had passed a pawnshop at the start of the street and there she found a wooden horse and cart. The paint was chipped a little, and the horse had once had more hair for manes and tail. But at least you could see what it was without guessing trice. She bought it as well and returned to the house on the corner.
She laboured up the steps once again to the fourth floor and banged on the door.
As the voice came, she repeated what Dubois had said. ‘Three for the fisherman, two for the priest.’
The door opened again, and she stepped in.
Instead of the old man seated at the table, there was a younger man with wild hair and red-rimmed eyes, staring back at her like she was some vision. The little boy had seemed to become even smaller, huddling in his corner as if he was not there.
Alkmene quickly dropped the bread and vegetables on the shabby couch, clutching the box with cookies and the horse and cart.
‘Whatdoyouwant?’ the dishevelled man growled.
‘I am here to make payment,’ Alkmene said in a firmer voice than she felt. She went to the boy and smiled down on him. ‘This is for you. A horse and cart to play with and some cookies to eat.’
She held them out to him, but the dishevelled man moved with lightning speed. He slapped the items from her hands, so that the horse and cart tumbled to the floor.
The box with cookies, being lighter, first sailed up to the ceiling, hitting a beam. It burst open, and cookies rained down over Alkmene’s head and shoulders.
Staring at the mess at her feet, anger raged through her. ‘Why did you have to do that?’ she asked the man.
But he was staring at the boy. ‘What did you do?’ he howled. ‘What made this fancy lady want to reward you? Have you been to the church again, speaking to that vicar who thinks he can change the world? Our world never changes, never…’
He came over to Alkmene, kicking at the horse and cart. The fallen cookies crunched under the soles of his coarse boots.
The boy yelped and cowered against the wall, throwing up his arms to protect his face.
Suddenly a tall figure filled the door. ‘Enough.’ Dubois walked in. He was glowering, not at the man, but at Alkmene. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.
‘Bringing some food to these people,’ she retorted, ‘and making sure this little boy has something decent to play with instead of that.’ She nodded in the direction of what passed as tin soldiers.
‘We don’t want your charity,’ the man snarled.
Dubois raised his hands. ‘I was here this afternoon. Your father looked up a few important things for me in his books. This lady was with me. She misunderstood and believed she had to pay for your father’s help. Therefore she bought these things. It is not her fault.’
His tone belied what he said, and the man laughed. ‘Not her fault? Everything here is her fault. People like her have made my life miserable. People like her have killed…’
He began to cough, staggering into a corner and hanging against the wall.
Dubois signalled Alkmene with his eyes to leave, quickly. She wasn’t about to argue with him now. She fled through the door and raced down the steps, the cookie crumbs still crunching under her soles.
In the landing of the second floor she halted and held her hands against her face. Dubois was so right. She knew next to nothing. She had wanted to help the little boy and she had only hurt him even more. She was almost certain that madman would beat him as soon as Dubois left the two of them alone.
Footfalls came down behind her, and she turned, shouting, ‘Why do you leave that miserable drunk alone with the little boy?’
‘He is his father. Ever since the mother died, he started drinking. They lost their home and moved in here with the old man.’
‘If there is a child in the house, it should be clean and neat. He should have nutritious food, clean clothes and toys to play with.’
Dubois laughed softly. ‘I would almost say: try taking him home, Lady Alkmene. Give him a nice guest room with a big bed and clean, whole clothes and see how he turns them into a big mess in no time. How he takes the ball you give him to knock down your precious vases like it is a game in itself. This child has never had anything. He do
esn’t understand any language but that of physical violence.’
‘And you accept that?’
Dubois’s jaw tightened. ‘I do not accept anything. But I am realistic enough to see I cannot change it overnight. Your sweet little gesture…’ his voice dripped acid ‘…has only served to push that drunk man into a rage. The boy will be beaten because of you. Because of some cookies and a horse and cart.’
Alkmene’s eyes burned. Her voice croaked as she said, ‘Please go back and make sure he does not beat him. Please.’
Dubois caught her shoulders. For a moment she thought he was going to shake her and scream at her some more about her ignorance and her disastrous good intentions.
But he just squeezed for a moment, then dropped his hands. ‘I can’t, Alkmene.’ His voice was soft and weary. ‘I cannot protect the boy.’
Alkmene wet her lips. ‘I am sorry for what I did. I only wanted to help them.’
Dubois nodded. ‘I know.’ His voice was even more bitter now than she had heard it before.
She looked up the steps. ‘Shall I go back and try to explain…’
‘Don’t you see that your presence has only made it worse?’ Dubois inhaled slowly. ‘Your kind of people are what caused all their misery to begin with. I can only hope for the boy that his father will collapse soon, to sleep off his haze, and that he won’t remember a thing when he comes to.’
He took her arm. ‘And now we leave.’
Alkmene did not resist.
Chapter Six
‘I would sure like to know what happened to all of my soda,’ Cook said the next morning as she bustled into the breakfast room. When Father wasn’t home, she believed she had to look after ‘the young lady’ and scurried in and out with extra bacon or fresh apple sauce. Father would never allow a cook in his dining room, sticking to a strict order of Brookes serving and Cook not leaving the kitchen unless it was on fire.
But Alkmene actually enjoyed a little liveliness, plus Cook’s never-ending stream of gossip, gathered mainly via her laundering niece.
‘I needed soda to clean up something that had gotten stained by accident,’ Alkmene said, and when Cook gave her an incredulous look: ‘It wasn’t mine, you know, so I felt kind of responsible for the staining. But it is all solved now.’
She hoped that it was when she’d get to the men’s wear store later that day and see if the clerk had found her the perfect substitute.
Just as Cook was at the door, Alkmene said quickly, ‘I was wondering. The people who live in places like Tar Street, is there any form of help for them?’
‘My heart, Lady Alkmene, what would you want in a place like that?’ Cook gave her a suspicious look.
‘I happened to end up there, by coincidence really, and I saw this very sad little boy whose mother died and his father is drinking and beating him and… He doesn’t have any decent clothes or toys to play with.’
Cook sighed. ‘There are too many of those children all over the city, my lady. They are none of your business, I say.’
Alkmene sat up straight, her back pressed against the chair’s rigid wood. ‘If everybody says that, nothing will ever change.’
Cook sighed. ‘I suppose when you put it like that.’
Alkmene pushed her plate away, still half full with scrambled eggs. She couldn’t eat when her mind was so full of thoughts and plans. ‘Is there anybody doing anything to help them? Like the uh…sailors’ mission but then for the children?’
‘I suppose you could say Father Williams is doing that. But people say he is a conman, not a real priest. That he takes donations and doesn’t do nothing for the children. I would be careful around him if I were you. He might take your money and leave you in a bind.’
Cook crossed her thick bare arms over her chest. ‘Besides, your father would not be happy if he knew you are going around places like Tar Street.’
As Alkmene ignored the statement and got up, the woman said in a pleading tone, ‘Your father is on his travels too much, ignoring that you should have been married by now. He may not think about that, but I do. And when word about you gets around, running around among the drunks in Tar Street, men will be scared off.’
Alkmene laughed in spite of herself. Men were already scared off, or she would have been married by now. Conversation with the other sex had never come easy to her, probably because men considered her too sharp-tongued. Most must have thought it, though none had put it directly to her, but Dubois.
It didn’t even bother her. It was the way she was and if they didn’t like it, nobody forced them to be around her.
And nobody would force her to look for a husband, when all she wanted was her freedom and adventures.
Cook took her silence as remorse, a sudden flash of insight into the possibly disastrous consequences of her behaviour, and nodded solemnly. ‘You should sober at the thought. It is nothing for you to sit around here and wait on a father who is never there. Find your own household and have some children to keep you busy.’
Alkmene had to think of the little boy again and winced. She had really outdone herself there, making a mess she couldn’t clean up again. Adventures were fine, but when little children got caught in between… She had to find out more about this Father Williams and his mission. If he was a conman, she’d see right through that. He’d never get her money the easy way.
Alkmene walked out into the hallway and stared in surprise at the envelope on the shiny cherrywood side table. ‘I thought the post wasn’t due for another hour.’
Cook nodded. ‘This envelope was handed to me as I was cleaning the steps in front. I was just throwing the last water from my bucket over them when this street urchin ran up to me and handed it to me. A scruffy little boy in a too large coat. He said it was for the lady. I assume he meant you. It does say Lady Alkmene on the envelope, but there is no sender.’
Alkmene picked up the envelope. A street urchin could most likely not write, and this envelope had a strong adult hand on it. Masculine, she believed.
Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it might be from Dubois. He had mentioned in passing the other day that he had information about the murder, about how the old man’s dead body had been found and some financial complications. The unfortunate end to their visit to the watchmaker had prevented her from asking what those were. But now, after a good night’s sleep, she couldn’t wait to dive back into the investigation again.
But why would Dubois write to her? If he wanted her, he knew where she lived. He was the kind of man who simply rang her doorbell, whenever he wanted to, not caring whether he shocked the staff.
In fact, he would probably enjoy shocking the staff.
No, this could not be from him. Who then?
Alkmene opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of poor quality paper. On it were a few lines in the same strong hand as the writing on the envelope.
Your father would not be pleased if he learned his daughter is consorting with a convict. He will hear of it unless you pay.
Put a hundred pounds into a hat box and take it out with you.
Leave it on the bench underneath the elm next to St Mary of the Humble Heart.
Do not stick around to see who will come and take it along.
Don’t talk about this with anybody or you will pay in a different way. With your reputation. Perhaps even your life.
We are watching you.
Alkmene had to read it a couple of times before the truth sank in. She was actually being blackmailed.
She glanced over her shoulder at the front door as if she could see right through it into the street and establish if anybody was there right now, watching her.
‘Who is it from?’ Cook asked, carrying the breakfast dishes from the dining room. ‘What does it say?’
Alkmene looked up at her, her mind a whirl. ‘Uh… Oh. It’s nothing special.’ She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. ‘I will be out this morning. I will probably not be back for lunch. Save me some cold cuts to tak
e around four.’
Cook gave a grunt that could be acceptance or disapproval of this unconventional request. She shuffled off with the dishes.
Alkmene ran up the stairs to get dressed. She intended to be in Meade Street as soon as possible and ask Dubois for his take on this blackmail scheme.
As she was walking along past the many houses on the street, some harbouring little shops and businesses, others being boarding houses where women polished the bell, she realized Dubois had never told her at what number he rented rooms. It was like him to be evasive, but she supposed he would be known around here and she could ask for him.
Loath to get herself into the same kind of trouble as the day before, she went into a reasonably clean-looking fish store to ask the wiry man cleaning the fish behind the counter where to find the reporter Dubois.
‘Oh, that troublemaker, huh?’ the old man replied. Ashes from his cheap cigar rained on the counter and whatever he was cleaning. ‘Number 33, upstairs.’
Alkmene bought some fish by way of thanks, deciding to leave it somewhere for the strays as she could not bear to think of having to eat it after having seen the cigar ashes falling.
Carrying the parcel, wrapped in old newspaper pages, she walked up to number 33. The door was open, and she went in, going up the stairs and knocking at a closed door.
‘Yeah,’ a voice called, and she pushed the door handle down and walked in.
‘Put the hot water there,’ Dubois’s voice came from another room. ‘I don’t have time for breakfast. I will eat on the way.’
Footfalls resounded, and he appeared, in a dirty shirt with suspenders holding up dark trousers, which had mud stains on the knees, like he was some dock worker. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary as if he hadn’t slept all night.
A Proposal to Die For Page 5