‘So Ada’s mother was looking to make money out of your master?’
Simpkins laughed. ‘Do dogs bark at cats? Course she was.’
‘You could see that she was intent on extorting as much cash from Mr Jinkinson as she was able?’
‘Course I could.’
‘And you said nothing to him?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘Weren’t much I could say. If the old fool wants to make ducks and drakes of his sovereigns and throw them all away, then he ain’t goin’ to stop just cos I’ve said something.’
‘Was your master not aware himself of how venal Ada’s mother was?’
Simpkins looked at Adam in bewilderment.
‘Couldn’t ’e see she was out to fleece him?’ Quint interpreted.
‘He ain’t going to see it,’ the clerk said. ‘He’s too busy casting sheep’s eyes at Ada. Anyways, he has as much idea about women as a donkey has of Sunday.’ The clerk spoke with the assurance of a practised and worldly observer of the opposite sex. ‘I tell you, between them they had old Jinks’s ballocks in a cloven stick. And the old hag at least was out to squeeze ’em. But ’e couldn’t see it.’
* * * * *
‘Maybe this girl Ada has been hawking her mutton on the streets. There’s plenty what’s forced to do it. On the other hand, she might not be a regular tart at all, whatever the boy says. She might be just some dollymop out for a good time. With an older gent what pays her way for her.’ Quint had settled himself at one of the tables in a chophouse on Chancery Lane. He looked across at his master who had lowered himself onto the bench opposite him.
‘Who can tell? She may be a veritable Thais, for all we know,’ Adam remarked. ‘Although old Jinkinson makes a poor Alexander, it has to be said. But it’s most likely that she does sell herself somewhere on the streets.’
He gestured to the waiter, who approached and took their order.
‘Perhaps we should look to find this woman,’ he continued. ‘The boy Simpkins may be correct. Jinkinson may have gone off with her.’
‘We’ve lost old Jinks already. Now we’re going to find a tart?’ Quint sounded disbelieving. ‘’Ow we going to do that? London’s full of ’em.’
‘Agreed. The Cyprian corps is everywhere. If a man walks from the top of the Haymarket to the top of Grosvenor Place, he will receive two dozen invitations to stray from the path of virtue in the course of five minutes.’
‘Well, Ada ain’t likely to be among those doin’ the invitin’ in the ’aymarket. More chance she’s in some backstreet case-house somewhere.’
‘You know best, Quint. I shall leave the job of finding her to you. I mean it as no insult when I say that you know the backstreets of the city better than I do. You should consider it as a compliment.’
Quint’s expression suggested that he thought it a backhanded compliment at best. His eyes brightened when the waiter materialised silently at the table with their drinks. Quint raised his tankard immediately to his lips and took a long pull on it. Then he placed it with a flourish on the table.
‘That hit the mark,’ he said. ‘And what’ll you be doing while I’m off in search of a tart?’
Adam leant back on the bench and surveyed the chophouse. It was not yet midday and there were few people in the place. Three men were huddled over cups of coffee at the table next to them, conducting a conversation in conspiratorial whispers. Another man at a corner table – a junior clerk of some kind, judging by his dress – looked up briefly from his copy of Reynolds’s Weekly and then returned to his reading.
‘I shall endeavour to find out more about the mysterious Mr Creech. He is at the heart of everything that has been most puzzling in the events of the last few weeks. Who exactly was he? What mark did he make upon the world before his untimely death in that Herne Hill villa?’
‘And ’ow you proposing to do that exackly? You didn’ ’av’ much luck the other day. Even his servants knew bugger all about ’im.’
‘True enough.’ Adam smiled. ‘I am not entirely certain how I am to put flesh on Creech’s poor dead bones. But I think I might begin by making enquiries of the men named in his notebook. He knew something of them. Perhaps they know something of him.’
‘The nobs, you mean.’
‘Sir Willoughby Oughtred. And Lewis Garland and James Abercrombie.’
‘’Ow you going to get to speak to them?’
‘They are all MPs.’ Adam turned over in his mind the possibilities of approaching the three men in the Houses of Parliament. But would this be a suitable setting in which to ask them questions they might be uncomfortable answering? Perhaps less formal surroundings would be better. A thought struck him. ‘We also know that Oughtred, Garland and Abercrombie are members of the Marco Polo. I wonder if Mr Moorhouse might be able to put me on the right track. He spends most of his waking hours in the club. And many of his sleeping ones, too. He knows everyone.’
The clerk at the corner table had finished reading his Reynolds’s and was making his way towards the exit into Chancery Lane. He raised his hat as he passed them. Adam returned his polite salute.
‘And how will you begin to look for Jinkinson’s femme fatale?’ he asked, turning back to his manservant.
‘Maybe I should go back and have another word with that little ink-spiller in Poulter’s Court. Put the fear of God up him. He might know something more about her.’ Quint had clenched his fists and was examining them as if confirming their ability to put the fear of God up people.
The waiter returned with their plates of food. He banged them down on the table like a military drummer striking his instrument and walked off without a word.
‘Simpkins?’ Adam dismissed the idea. ‘No. He’s told us all he knows.’
‘Just a thought. For half a farthing, I’d be happy to tan that young rip’s arse.’ Quint unrolled his fists and picked up his knife. He poked suspiciously at the meat on his plate. ‘This is thin flank, by the looks of it.’
‘Do stop complaining, Quint. We’re not at Simpson’s or Verrey’s. We’re in a Chancery Lane chophouse. I had no idea you were so difficult a man to please at table.’
‘I ain’t.’ As if to prove he wasn’t, Quint began to shovel meat and mashed potato into his mouth at an alarming rate. He spoke between mouthfuls. ‘I just likes to see some sign the meat come off a fat cow, not a scraggy dog.’
‘I am sure the neighbourhood curs are safe enough from cook’s attentions.’ Adam picked up his own knife and fork and began to prod half-heartedly at the food. ‘Although this is indeed an enigmatic dish the waiter has flung before us. Is it beef? Or is it pork?’
‘Maybe neither. It tastes better ’n it looks.’
‘It is a relief to hear you say that. Although, it would be difficult for it to do otherwise.’ Adam took a mouthful of the food, grimacing slightly as he did so. He chewed and swallowed with the air of a man undertaking an unpleasant but unavoidable duty. ‘But you have still not answered my question about looking for Ada.’
Quint ceased eating just long enough to lay down his fork and tap the side of his nose with his forefinger.
‘Ain’t no need for you to worry about that. It might take a few days, but I’ll find her.’
‘Very well, I bow to your superior knowledge. We shall meet back at Doughty Street at six. And let us both endeavour to avoid the eagle-eyed vigilance of Mrs Gaffery when we return there. I have no wish to endure another cross-examination of the kind she has been undertaking so regularly of late.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the smoking room of the Marco Polo, the modern world with all its noise and bustle and distraction was kept firmly at bay. Deep in the embrace of one of its enormous leather chairs, Mr Moorhouse seemed to have entered a kind of tobacco-induced trance. On entering the room, Adam thought at first it was empty. Only when he noticed smoke signals arising from a distant corner and followed them to their source did he find his man.
Ah, Carver. You’ll join me, I trust?’ Mr Moorhouse
said, coming back to consciousness and waving to the seat opposite his own.
Adam sank into its enveloping depths and lit a cigarette. His companion seemed to have no desire for conversation. He was happy enough just to rest in silent harmony amidst the swirling clouds of smoke. Several minutes passed. Adam finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in one of the vast brass ashtrays the Marco Polo provided for its members. He began to suspect that Mr Moorhouse, although his eyes remained open, had fallen once more into a state of transfixion.
‘The Glorious Twelfth,’ the old clubman said suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Moorhouse?’
‘Just thinking about the shooting. Glorious Twelfth. Start of the grouse season and all that. Exactly two months from today.’ Mr Moorhouse took a long pull on his cigar and blew smoke in large plumes towards the ceiling. ‘Never been much of a one for shooting,’ he continued. ‘Don’t seem to have the eyes for it. Last time I went out with Oughtred on his moors, I shot one of the beaters.’ He paused and watched his smoke drifting through the air. ‘Well, winged him. Fellow was awfully good about it. I gave him a guinea and he said no more.’
His sporting recollections seemingly at an end, Mr Moorhouse fell silent. Now that the old man had himself referred to Oughtred by name, Adam was quick to seize the opportunity to introduce the subject that was uppermost in his mind.
‘You will remember a gentleman named Creech at the Speke dinner, Mr Moorhouse.’
Adam was far from sure that his elderly friend would, but he decided to give Mr Moorhouse’s memory the benefit of the doubt.
‘Creech? Tallish chap? With an odd scar?’ Mr Moorhouse gestured vaguely towards his own eyebrows. ‘Yes, I remember him. Seemed a decent sort of fellow.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead.’
‘Dead? Good God, that’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ Mr Moorhouse appeared genuinely distressed to hear of the death. ‘His heart, was it? Or an apoplexy, maybe? I always think those dinners are just disasters waiting to strike. All those steaming plates of rich food. And all those fine wines. I never take more than a few mouthfuls myself.’
‘He was murdered, Mr Moorhouse.’
‘Murdered?’ If he had been upset by the news of Creech’s death, Mr Moorhouse was utterly aghast at the mention of murder.
‘I was unlucky enough to be the person who found him.’
‘My dear fellow! How absolutely awful!’ Mr Moorhouse was so cast down it seemed as if he might be about to shed tears of sympathy. ‘Murder’s a wretched business. I remember the Courvoisier case. The valet who murdered his master. You must recall it yourself.’
‘It was before my time, Mr Moorhouse. I believe it was thirty years ago.’
‘Was it? Was it really? As long ago as that. Eheu fugaces, eh, as old Horace said. Anyway, murder’s a terrible thing.’ Mr Moor-house stared sadly into space. ‘And the punishment of it. I saw Courvoisier hang, you know. Outside Newgate. Thousands of people there, all howling for the man’s death. Shocking state of affairs. Quite spoiled my opinion of my fellow man. Never been to another hanging since. Wouldn’t go to one now if you offered me a hundred pounds.’
‘There will be no more opportunity for you to go to one, Mr Moorhouse, even should you wish to do so. There are to be no more public hangings. The last to suffer that way was the Fenian bomber two years past.’
‘Really?’ Mr Moorhouse’s ignorance of very nearly everything that had happened in the public world over the last ten years was remarkable. ‘Jolly good show, if you ask me. Brings out the worst in people, a hanging.’
‘I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest into Creech’s death.’
‘Very disagreeable.’ Mr Moorhouse shook his head and made a grimace of sympathy. ‘Never did like courtrooms and those sorts of places. Everyone’s so deucedly rude in them. Asking all kinds of impertinent questions.’
‘Of course, further details of Creech’s life emerged in the course of the inquest.’
Mr Moorhouse seemed to have lost interest in the case. He was gazing into the middle distance. Perhaps, Adam thought, he was remembering some occasion in his past when he had appeared in a courtroom and faced impertinent questions. The old man had once confided in him that he had, many years earlier, made the mistake of affixing his name to a bill of exchange and lived to regret it deeply. Perhaps the regret involved appearing before an unsympathetic judge in a case of financial default.
‘It seems Mr Creech knew several members of our club,’ the young man remarked after a moment.
‘Well, he’d have to know somebody here’ – Mr Moorhouse, returning to awareness of his present surroundings, spoke mildly but with the air of a man pointing out the obvious – ‘in order to be invited to the Speke dinner.’
‘Well, he spoke of Baxendale to me. Said he’d arranged with him to be seated next to me. But I received the distinct impression that he had other friends in the Marco Polo.’
Mr Moorhouse blew a small cumulus cloud of cigar smoke into the air and waved his hand idly through it. ‘Bound to be the case,’ he agreed. ‘Every chap you meet here always seems to know lots of other chaps you’ve already met.’
‘Sir Willoughby Oughtred’s name cropped up at the inquest in connection with Creech’s.’ Adam decided that a white lie was forgivable in the circumstances. ‘And those of two other MPs: Lewis Garland’s and James Abercrombie’s.’
Mr Moorhouse made no reply. He had clearly recovered from his passing shock at the news of Creech’s death. He smiled benignly at his companion but said nothing. Instead he took another puff on his cigar.
‘You know Sir Willoughby, of course,’ Adam prompted. ‘You spoke of shooting on his moors just now.’
‘Oh, yes. Met him many years ago. Not long after Pam came into office for the last time. My brother introduced me to him.’ The old clubman settled even further into the depths of his armchair. ‘Oughtred that is, not Palmerston. Never met him. Don’t think I’d have wanted to.’
‘I had no notion that you had a brother, Mr Moorhouse.’
‘He’s dead now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Oh, no need to be.’ Mr Moorhouse waved his hand through the cigar smoke again. ‘He passed away in sixty-six. Poor Robin. Suffered frightfully with his nerves. He knew Sir Willoughby because they were both in the House. He introduced us at a dinner at some house in Curzon Street. I used to go to those sorts of things all the time then.’ Mr Moorhouse spoke as if he could scarcely credit the reckless follies of his earlier self. ‘Never go to them now. Never go anywhere now. I’d much rather just sit here and watch the world go by.’
It was beginning to look as if speaking to the old man would prove a fruitless exercise, but Adam decided to continue anyway.
‘No hint of scandal attaches itself to Oughtred’s name to the best of your knowledge?’
‘Scandal?’ Mr Moorhouse looked perplexed. ‘What kind of scandal?’
‘Financial, perhaps?’ Adam was unsure exactly how frank he could or should be with the elderly clubman. What would he consider enjoyable gossip and what unforgivable indiscretion? Mr Moorhouse was shaking his head. ‘Or marital?’
‘Good Lord, no! Never heard anything of that kind. Oughtred would be the last person I would suspect of that sort of… aah, straying.’ Mr Moorhouse continued to shake his head in vigorous repudiation of the suggestion that he might know anything that would sully the baronet’s reputation. Suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Pity! Always enjoy a bit of tittle-tattle.’
The old man fell back once more into the comforting depths of his leather armchair. He said nothing more. His eyes closed and, after a few moments, Adam wondered if he had drifted off into a light sleep. It seemed once more as if the idea of questioning Mr Moorhouse had not been an especially inspired one. Adam prepared to leave the smoking room. He had hauled himself to
his feet, escaping the clinging embrace of his own chair, and was just about to head for the door when Mr Moorhouse opened one eye and spoke again.
‘Plenty of tittle-tattle about that Garland fellow, of course.’
Adam promptly sat down once more.
‘Never have taken to him,’ Mr Moorhouse continued. ‘Bit too fond of the sound of his own voice, if you ask me. Of course, not much point entering the House if you don’t like listening to yourself pontificating. But people like that fellow go a bit far.’
‘What have you heard of Lewis Garland, Mr Moorhouse?’
‘Oughtred introduced us earlier this year. Fellow was prosing on and on about the state India was in. Pretty dull stuff, if truth be told, but when I ventured to express an opinion of my own, he was downright rude. Made it only too clear he thought I’d no notion at all what I was talking about.’ The old man rescued a cigar which he had allowed to extinguish itself in one of the ashtrays and began fumbling in his pockets for his vesta. ‘Not that I had, to be honest. Never considered myself an expert on the great subcontinent, but any real gentleman would have heard me out at the very least.’
‘What is the gossip about Garland, Mr Moorhouse?’ Adam pulled his own silver vesta box from his jacket and struck one of the matches.
‘Oh, that!’ The old man leaned forward towards the proffered light. He took a drag on his cigar and fell back in his chair. He blew out the smoke and then dipped his head forward once more.
‘Women,’ he whispered, so close that Adam could feel the old man’s breath fluttering in his ear.
Mr Moorhouse collapsed back into his leather armchair with what could only be described as a smirk on his face.
‘Garland has a reputation as a ladies’ man, does he? I had heard something about a pied-à-terre in St John’s Wood.’
‘Ever come across Beattie here?’
‘The name is familiar, but I have not been introduced to him.’
‘Some sort of banker in the City. Terribly nice chap. Been a member of the club for years.’
‘And he knows Garland?’
‘Does business with him regularly. Something to do with a railway company. Garland’s on the board. Maybe Beattie is as well.’ Mr Moorhouse fluttered his fingers vaguely in the air. It was clear that he had only the flimsiest notions of what went on in the City. ‘Anyway, he told me once about Garland’s friend in St John’s Wood. Not sure how he knew but he seemed very certain of his facts.’
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