Carver's Quest

by Rennison, Nick

  ‘What can I do for you, young man?’ he asked. He appeared to be under the impression that he had never seen Adam before in his life.

  ‘I am looking for a Mr Jinkinson, and I presume that you are he.’

  ‘Presumption correct, sir.’ The man attempted a polite bow to his visitor but his paunch and his position in his chair conspired to produce no more than a vague shifting of his bulk. ‘You see before you the wreck of the human being that goes by the name of Herbert George Jinkinson. And you, sir? You are…?’

  ‘My name is Carver. I have learned of your name and your address through a mutual acquaintance: Mr Samuel Creech.’

  To say that Jinkinson was startled by the introduction of Creech’s name, Adam decided, would have been a gross understatement. He seemed poleaxed by it. The blood drained from his face. A look of apparently intense pain twisted his features.

  ‘Are you unwell, Mr Jinkinson?’

  ‘It is no matter, sir.’ Jinkinson struggled manfully to regain his composure. ‘I am suffering from a derangement of my interior. No more than that, I can assure you. Would you believe that no food save a small milk pudding has passed my lips in the last twenty-four hours, and yet a storm still rages in the inner man?’ He patted briefly at his sizeable stomach as if to calm the tempest. ‘A Mr Creech, you say? I believe I have some small recollection of the name.’

  Jinkinson’s elaborate pantomime of a man struggling to retrieve a memory hidden in the furthest recesses of his mind was a performance worthy of the stage of the Lyceum.

  ‘Ah, yes. I have it. A gentleman who lives out of town. Dulwich, perhaps? Or was it Herne Hill? I seem to remember I was able to do him some trifling service. Something to do with a missing watch. Not valuable, but a memento of a much-loved relative. I would have to consult my records to be certain.’

  Jinkinson gestured towards what Adam had assumed was a large wastepaper basket overflowing with papers. The ageing dandy noticed his look of scepticism.

  ‘The records need attention, Mr Carver. And that blackguard boy outside, Simpkins, is as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. Some mornings you cannot stir him into action at all. No more than you can stir cold lead with a wooden spoon.’

  ‘So you would have no notion why Mr Creech is dead? Murdered, in fact.’

  Jinkinson had been stunned by Adam’s earlier remark. He was rendered speechless by this one. His mouth opened and closed in a vain effort to find words. His face, naturally rubicund, was now so pale he looked almost dead himself.

  ‘You are shocked, I see, Mr Jinkinson.’

  The enquiry agent made a Herculean effort and recovered the power of speech. ‘Who would not be, sir? The death of a fellow traveller through this vale of tears is always shocking. A murder is even more so.’

  ‘And yet you knew the gentleman in question only slightly.’

  ‘Hardly at all,’ Jinkinson agreed quickly. ‘But I am a sensitive man, Mr Carver. The years may have rolled over me but they have failed to harden my heart entirely. I have heard the swish of Death’s scythe so many times and yet each new report of it still saddens me.’ The sound of his own voice echoing sonorously around his office appeared to help Jinkinson recover his equilibrium. ‘I learn of the sudden departure of some acquaintance – some slight acquaintance – and the tears start unbidden to my eyes. It is hard to be a sensitive soul in a world so indifferent to the feelings of the individual, but I have learned to live with that fate.’

  With difficulty, Jinkinson heaved himself to his feet. He lurched to the left and seized hold of the edge of the table to steady himself.

  ‘I cannot help but be curious, Mr Carver, as to why you are interested in Mr Creech and his death yourself. You are related to the gentleman, perhaps?’

  ‘No, Mr Jinkinson, I am not.’ Adam noticed the enquiry agent’s relief at these words. He wondered how much, if anything, to tell him. He decided that the truth, if not the whole truth, should probably be divulged. ‘I met him only the once. But the meeting was in curious circumstances. He spoke to me of secrets which I could help him to unearth. Secrets buried far away in European Turkey. We arranged to meet again at his house. When I arrived in Herne Hill to keep the appointment, I found him dead. With a bullet in his head and his brains scattered about the room.’

  ‘Curious circumstances, indeed,’ Jinkinson said, still clutching the table for support. He was clearly drunk, but he was equally clearly the sort of drinker who could function perfectly adequately with quantities of liquor inside him that would fell a lesser man. ‘They almost remind me of the opening of one of those penny dreadful stories that wretched boy Simpkins will insist on reading.’ Jinkinson pawed briefly at his silk cravat, as if he was unsatisfied with the way it was tied and was contemplating redoing it. ‘Not, I hasten to assure you, that I have ever read any of them myself.’

  ‘I thought perhaps that you might be able to throw some light on the mystery of Mr Creech’s death.’

  ‘Throw some light? I, sir?’ Jinkinson appeared astounded by the suggestion. ‘How could I do so? How have you travelled, physically and mentally as it were, from Mr Creech’s bloody corpse in Herne Hill to my humble offices here in Poulter’s Court? What connection – what mistaken connection – can you have made, I wonder?’

  ‘There was a journal by Creech’s bed. With notes in his handwriting. Your name and address appeared in it.’

  ‘Easily explained,’ Jinkinson said, waving his hands in the air as if they were about to do the explaining. He had entirely recovered his composure. ‘As I have said, I undertook some investigative work for the unfortunate Mr Creech. He must have recorded our business in his journal. No doubt the book holds records of the gentleman’s other dealings.’

  ‘All the records in the notebook – and there are many of them – appear to refer to you.’

  ‘Our business was trivial but it took some time to reach a conclusion.’ Jinkinson smiled blandly. ‘Mr Creech must have been a careful gentleman who recorded even the most trifling of transactions in detail.’

  ‘Curious, however, that only your dealings with the gentleman were recorded in this notebook.’

  Jinkinson made an elaborate performance of shrugging his shoulders. ‘Curious indeed. Perhaps he kept a multitude of such journals. One for each of the individuals with whom he did business.’ The enquiry agent gave another bland smile. He looked like a fat baby with the wind. ‘But the death of Creech and all circumstances surrounding it are surely now matters for the police, are they not? Not for a private gentleman? Even one such as yourself, who had the shocking experience of finding the body weltering in its own gore.’

  ‘There were a number of other names in Mr Creech’s notebook,’ Adam continued. ‘Names of prominent men. Lewis Garland and Sir Willoughby Oughtred. James Abercrombie.’

  ‘I thought that you said that only my own dealings with Creech were recorded.’

  ‘All these men seemed to be linked to your business with Mr Creech in some way. Perhaps you know them?’

  Jinkinson’s repeat impersonation of a man racking his brains in search of elusive knowledge was once again worthy of an audience’s generous applause.

  ‘No, I believe not,’ he said at last. ‘I thought for a moment the name Garland was familiar to me, but I can only assume that I have chanced upon it in the newspapers. A gentleman of the turf, perhaps? Or a brother of the quill?’

  ‘He is an MP. As are the other two gentlemen.’

  Jinkinson smiled again as if all mysteries had been solved.

  ‘I take little interest in politics, Mr Carver. There is little wonder that the names mean nothing to me.’

  ‘But there they sit on the pages of Mr Creech’s notebook, side by side with your own.’

  ‘A puzzle, indeed.’

  ‘What of the word “Euphorion”, Mr Jinkinson? Does that recall anything to mind?’

  For the third time in the conversation, Jinkinson was rocked on his heels and, for the third time, he recove
red his poise swiftly.

  ‘That would be a Latin word, would it, Mr Carver?’

  ‘Greek, I believe.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Jinkinson said, spreading his hands wide as if this explained much that was previously inexplicable. ‘Unlike your good self, I have not had the inestimable benefit of a classical education. No sojourns by the Cam or Isis for poor Jinkinson, however much he may have yearned for them in his youth. The Thames alone has been his watery companion.’

  ‘And the word means nothing to you? It was also prominent in the pages of Creech’s notebook.’

  ‘Not a thing, sir. Unless it be the name of some minor god? The men of ancient Greece had so many, I understand.’

  ‘It is not the name of a god, Mr Jinkinson. Why would Creech record the name of a Greek god?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ The enquiry agent was swaying on his feet but was now, once more, entirely at ease. ‘Why would he record any Greek word? In my brief dealings with the gentleman, he did not strike me as much of a classical scholar.’

  Adam was obliged to acknowledge to himself that the man was right. And there seemed to be no possibility that Jinkinson was about to admit to anything more.

  ‘You are correct, of course, sir. I should leave all these matters to the authorities. And yet I was the man who found Creech. It was I who was told of secrets that needed revealing. I feel compelled to investigate further.’

  ‘I can see the logic of your remarks, Mr Carver, but if I were you, I would allow the police to do their work unaided.’ The fat enquiry agent hesitated briefly. ‘I would stand aside and watch the professionals go about their work. No need to confuse their investigations with irrelevant details. Such as my insignificant business with the deceased.’

  Jinkinson caught Adam’s eye and held his gaze for a moment. The younger man smiled to himself, amused by the obviousness of the decaying dandy’s concern that his name should not be mentioned to the police. Then he inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement that he had understood.

  ‘You are correct again, Mr Jinkinson. The police will no doubt find the murderer without my assistance. And why should I muddy the waters of their enquiries with unnecessary information?’

  The fat investigator breathed an audible sigh of relief. He swivelled his body sideways and, aiming his bulk in the direction of the door, set off towards it. When he reached it, after a brief and involuntary diversion towards the window overlooking Poulter’s Court, he turned to Adam.

  ‘Nothing would delight me more than to throw some light on this dark and terrible mystery, Mr Carver. But I fear I cannot.’

  Jinkinson reached out and threw open his door. He called into the outer office. ‘Simpkins, please show this gentleman out.’

  The boy was still sitting behind his rickety desk. He had not yet finished reading his penny dreadful and seemed disinclined to pay much attention to his master.

  ‘Simpkins, the size of your great flapping ears makes it impossible for me to believe that they have failed to catch my instruction. Mr Carver here requires to be shown to the street.’

  ‘Gent showed hisself in. Would have thought the gent could have showed hisself out.’

  ‘I want none of your impertinence, you young devil.’

  ‘No, you wants none of it cos you’ve got enough of your own already, you old rogue.’

  Simpkins, coolly defiant, did not even bother to raise his eyes from the page he was reading. Jinkinson made as if to move into the outer office and assert his authority more forcefully, but the sudden effort appeared to disorient him. He clutched at the door jamb and brought his hand melodramatically to his brow. He turned back into his own office to address Adam.

  ‘This miserable boy will be the death of me, Mr Carver. I took him on only at the request of his poor mother, to whom I owed a trifling obligation. And hear the impudence with which he repays me.’

  Simpkins snorted contemptuously.

  ‘And he has as little wit about him as the pump at Aldgate.’

  There was another grunt from the target of Jinkinson’s wrath.

  ‘There is no need to trouble the boy,’ replied Adam. ‘I can make my own way out, as he says. And it seems you can throw no further light on Mr Creech’s death.’

  ‘Alas, no!’

  ‘Perhaps I can leave this.’ Adam had squeezed past the elderly dandy and now, back in the shabby ante-room, he held out his card. ‘If anything occurs to you, I can always be contacted in Doughty Street.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Jinkinson took the card Adam offered him and slipped it into a pocket in his waistcoat without looking at it. ‘But I fear I will be unable to tell you any more. At any time in the future. I must say goodbye to you, Mr Carver. Business, with all its stern demands, requires my attention.’ He pointed back into his office, as if to indicate the mountains of paperwork that awaited him.

  Unable to tell me more or unwilling? Adam wondered. It seemed pointless to linger any longer in Poulter’s Court. Or to ask any more about Garland and Abercrombie and Oughtred and Euphorion. The enquiry agent very obviously wished him gone and was intent on telling him nothing but half-truths and lies. Indeed, with a flourish of his fingers and a bow of his head as a farewell, Jinkinson had returned to his office and closed the door. Adam was suddenly left with only Simpkins and his penny dreadful for company. He moved towards the door to the stairs, pausing briefly at the boy’s desk. Simpkins’s eyes had come to rest on a page of advertisements. One had attracted his particular attention and his finger was tracing its words down the page. Adam could see that it was for a competition with a prize of half a guinea a week for life.

  ‘Will you enter it?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Won’t I just,’ the boy replied, looking up for the first time since Jinkinson had interrupted his reading with the request that he show Adam out.

  ‘And what would you do with such money, if you won?’

  ‘I’d get myself as far away from that old wretch as I could.’ Simpkins thumbed his nose scornfully in the direction of the door behind which Jinkinson had just retired. ‘And then I’d eat pies every day, mister. Pies and sausage rolls. Wouldn’t that be prime?’ The boy’s eyes misted over as he contemplated a future filled with such feasts. Adam left him to his dreams.

  * * * * *

  ‘Mr Jinkinson was a curious gentleman, Quint.’ Back in his rooms, Adam was reclining in a chair. He had slipped so deeply into it that he seemed to be experimenting with the possibility of sitting comfortably on his shoulder blades. ‘Terrible toper, obviously. His offices stank of liquor and he could barely stand upright. But a man of some education.’

  ‘The best eddicated gents are often the worst lushingtons of all,’ Quint said.

  ‘True enough.’ Adam spoke from the depths of the armchair. ‘Cambridge was full of the most dreadful drunkards. You could scarcely walk down Trinity Street of a Saturday night without tripping over a dozen men in liquor, sprawled in the gutter. Most of them quoting Virgil at you.’

  ‘What did this Jinkinson cove quote at you?’

  ‘Nothing from the Georgics or the Aeneid, I regret to say. He told me that he’d had dealings with Creech in the past but they were finished. That he had no idea why his name featured so prominently in that notebook you swiped. He was lying, of course.’

  ‘Ain’t no surprise about that. Anybody’d lie if they thought they was being linked to a man with a pair of bullets in his napper. This Jinkinson cove’d be worrying about the gentlemen in blue and white coming calling.’

  ‘I think he’s safe enough from the attentions of the police,’ Adam said. ‘I doubt very much if there is anything to connect Jinkinson to Creech other than the notebook and we have that.’

  ‘Ain’t we telling Pulverbatch about it?’

  ‘No, Quint, we are not.’ Adam had hauled himself into a more conventionally upright position in his chair. ‘I have thought long and hard about this and I have decided that we shall continue to pursue investigations of our own into Cr
eech’s death. In parallel with those of the police, but quite separate.’

  Quint stared at his master with an unreadable expression. ‘Well, don’t ask me to be the one to give Jem Pulverbatch the news we’ve been ’olding back on ’im,’ he said, after a short silence.

  ‘The responsibility is all mine, Quint. You are merely a humble manservant obedient to his master’s every wish.’

  Quint grunted.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Adam went on. ‘The idea of obedience to any of my wishes is an alien concept to you. But how is Pulverbatch – or any other policeman – to know of the extent of your habitual recalcitrance?’

  ‘I ain’t got the first notion what you’re talking of,’ Quint said.

  ‘But you are content that we should pursue our enquiries?’

  The servant nodded.

  ‘Good!’ Adam clapped his hands together and leaped from the chair. ‘So we are left to confront the puzzle of Jinkinson and what he knows and does not know. Why was he so unforthcoming?’

  ‘He was probably trying to work out what you was after. And whether there was any tin to be had out of helping you.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Adam sounded unconvinced. ‘In that case, he must have decided I had no tin to offer since he was exceedingly unhelpful. But I thought he was more scared than anything else. Maybe of the police. Maybe of somebody else.’

  ‘Course he was scared. As I say, nobody wants his name spoke in the same breath as a dead man.’

  ‘No, it was more than that, Quint. Jinkinson knows something that I should like to know.’

  ‘He ain’t about to tell you, though.’

  ‘Most certainly not. Which is why I propose to follow him when he leaves his office tomorrow and see whether or not his actions reveal more of the truth than his words.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eight o’clock the next morning found Adam once more in the vicinity of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was a surprisingly cold morning for June and he was shivering from the icy breeze that was blowing along the street. To his left, a small platoon of labourers from one of the gas companies had arrived to dig up the road. The men were shouting cheerfully at one another as they unloaded their tools from the back of a cart. From where Adam was standing, he could just see through the arched entrance that led into Poulter’s Court. A minute earlier, Jinkinson had descended his staircase in company with his boy assistant and the two were now engaged in some kind of spat. Simpkins was pointing back up the staircase and gesticulating. Jinkinson aimed a cuff in the direction of his clerk’s head but missed by a good foot. With a shouted instruction which Adam could not hear well enough to interpret, he set off down Serle Street in the direction of the Strand and Fleet Street. The boy returned to the office. Jinkinson was clearly in good spirits. Once again he was dressed to stand out from the crowd in a mustard-yellow jacket and chequered trousers. For a man who had drunk so fully and so freely the previous day, he seemed remarkably cheerful. It was difficult to believe, Adam thought, that he was not suffering the pains of a hangover, but he showed no obvious signs of it. Nor were there indications of the fears that Jinkinson had showed when told of Creech’s murder. A night’s sleep seemed to have dispelled them. There was an unmistakeable spring in his step. He was not actively twirling the ivory-knobbed stick he was carrying as he walked, but he had the air of a man who would do so at any moment. Adam followed him at a discreet distance. Jinkinson showed no sign that he suspected or feared that anyone might be tailing him. Two urchins, amused by the colour of his jacket, pestered him as he walked, but he waved them amiably on their way.