The Tiger in the Well

by Philip Pullman

  "Put your hands up," he said. "All of you. Back against the wall, go on."

  Jim took a step forward. Parrish fired into the floor at his feet, and Jim stopped.

  Sarah-Jane felt as if she were dreaming. She could see little things very clearly, like the bullet-hole in the carpet, like a piece of sticking-plaster on top of Parrish's head. . . She was looking right down from above, and her mind whirled, and she looked around hastily. Yes. There was something on the floor outside the nearest bedroom door. She picked it up, tiptoed back, leant over, took aim, dropped it. . .

  The white china burst into fragments, and Parrish went down at once. The gun fell from his hand. Jim was on him in a moment, and Mendel seized the gun, but one of Parrish's men charged him and sent him flying into the umbrella-stand. Then the fight began, and in a moment the hall was a melee. Sarah-Jane shrank back; the ferocity of it. . . One man was kicking another in the head. . . Someone had a razor. . . The sounds they were making, the grunting, the sickening crunching noises, and without a word spoken, going about this violence as if it were a difficult trade they had to concentrate on, like hewing rock or stoking a boiler. . .

  She turned away, shivering, and looked out of the window. A man was running along the drive towards the gate; it was the servant whose head she'd seen looking out of the kitchen. Should she shout and stop him? Tell Jim? What?

  By the time she'd seen him, the fight was over. Someone downstairs let his breath out in a long whistling sigh, and then there was the sound of hands brushing together. And the front door opening, and stumbling feet.

  She looked over the banister again. The last of Parrish's men was crawling out on his hands and knees. Mendel was bending over one of his men, another was sitting on the stairs mopping his cheek with a dirty handkerchief, another was combing his hair in the hall mirror.

  Jim was standing over Parrish, who was stretched senseless on the floor.

  Sarah-Jane, trembling in every limb, crept down the stairs. She'd killed him. She'd be hanged. It was almost the worst thing she'd ever known.

  Jim looked up. "What'd you drop on him?"

  "A chamber pot," she whispered. "Is he dead?"

  Jim chortled. "Dead? He's snoring like a baby. I bet he's never been laid out by one of them before. . ."

  Mendel handed him a vase of flowers which had escaped the destruction, and Jim tipped the lot over Parrish's head. As Parrish spluttered awake, Jim bent down and pulled him up by his lapels.

  "Where is she?" he said. "Where's the child?"

  Parrish said nothing. Even dazed and soaked and beaten, he had a formidable coldness in his eyes, and he merely glared up at Jim with hatred and said nothing.

  "Not going to talk, eh," said Jim, and dropped him.

  "It's nine o'clock, Mr Taylor," said Mendel. "The telephone exchange will be open. I'm going to send a man down to the hotel to make a call. I think you said something about breakfast."

  "So I did," said Jim. "Have his servants made a run for it? Yes? Well, we can fry some eggs and bacon, make a bit of toast. Oh - not bacon in your case, I beg your pardon. Let's tie this bugger up, and then we can go and see what there is."

  He spoke lightly, but Sarah-Jane could see that he was worried about Harriet. He and Mendel tied Parrish to the newel-post by his thumbs and then went through with the rest of the men to the kitchen. Sarah-Jane looked back at Parrish, and then away hurriedly, for the hatred in his eyes chilled her.

  "Tell me about this man Lee," said Jim a few minutes later in the kitchen. "The whatchacallem - the Tzaddik. What's that mean, by the way?"

  "It's a Yiddish word," said Mendel. "It means a righteous man, a holy man, a saint, something like that. Unless it means precisely the opposite, which it does here. He's Parrish's principal; he set him up in business. He's involved in a complicated fraud on Jewish immigrants, which Mr Goldberg has been investigating. But he comes into this because it seems to be him rather than the little man out there who wants Miss Lockhart's child. He's her real enemy; Parrish is only an agent. I imagine he was allowed to have this place as a kind of payment. Might I trouble you for the marmalade, Miss Russell?"

  Sarah-Jane was becoming impressed by this elegant, worldly man; he seemed to breathe an air of power and wealth and authority, and to have more time and space around him than other people, so that he could move through it like a prince. And yet he was a Soho criminal! And here he was in the kitchen at Orchard House listening respectfully to Jim - treating him like an equal. . . She didn't know whether to admire, or deplore, or join in.

  She heard a noise from the hall: a voice - and suddenly remembered what she'd seen from the upstairs window.

  "Oh, Jim!" she said. "I'm sorry, I forgot - while you were fighting - there was a man running out of the gate - one of the servants -"

  She looked towards the hall door. Jim heard the voice too, and got up at once.

  Sarah-Jane was behind him. Parrish was standing next to the stairs, rubbing his thumbs. Beside him was a policeman. Sarah-Jane could see two more policemen through the open front door, looking at the scattered furniture.

  "This is the girl I dismissed, constable," said Parrish. "She must have let them in."

  Jim stepped forward. "Morning, Constable Andrews," he said. "Glad to see you."

  The policeman looked uncomfortable.

  "Look, Mr Taylor," he said, "I know you've just got back - you won't have heard, I expect. But we can't have this kind of thing going on. I'm sorry, Mr Taylor, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you down to the station."

  "Me? What for?"

  "Breaking and entering. Affray. That'll do for a start. I dare say Mr Parrish will want to sue you for trespass, but that's up to him. Now let's not have any trouble--"

  "You're joking!" said Jim. "You know I live here, you dozy clod! You've had a glass of beer in the kitchen dozens of times. It's that man you ought to arrest."

  The policeman shifted his feet, looked at Parrish, looked at the floor.

  "I'm sorry, Mr Taylor. The law's on his side, not yours. If you won't come quietly, I'll have to arrest--"

  "You don't suppose this little louse would have been able to get away with it if Mr Garland and I'd been here, do you? He hasn't got a leg to stand on, and you know it!"

  "I have to deal with the situation as I find it, Mr Taylor--"

  "Boss!" a man came running in at the front door and stopped on seeing the confrontation. It was the man who'd gone to telephone.

  "Yes, Al?" said Mendel from the kitchen doorway.

  "That's Mendel!" said Parrish at once. "The Soho gangleader! There's bound to be a reward -"

  The policeman was bewildered. Mendel came forward, and Parrish fell silent.

  "Well?" he said to the man in the doorway. "What's the news?"

  "One of Moishe Lipman's blokes telephoned in just a few minutes ago. He says the house in Fournier Square - you know, the one they was watching - it's collapsed. Just fallen in!"

  "That the one where Miss Lockhart was?" said Jim to Mendel. "In Spitalfields?"

  Mendel nodded. The policeman was looking from one to the other, uncertain what to do; so he was unable to stop Jim, who slipped past him and out of the front door and away.

  "Stop him!" the constable yelled to the other policemen outside, but Jim evaded them easily. Sarah-Jane knew he'd go straight to Spitalfields - and she knew, too, that the responsibility for coping with this was suddenly hers, because Mendel was a guest, and had no authority in the house.

  So in the little silence that followed, she cleared her throat and said, "Well, constable. I suggest we go and sit down and try to get to the bottom of this. There's obviously some confusion in Mr Parrish's mind; you can see he's been hit on the head. Shall I make us all a cup of tea?"

  There'd never been such a crowd in Fournier Square since the house on the corner had housed an Exhibition of Wonders, which included a Genuine Mermaid, a Hottentot Princess and a German Wild Boy. The rain had lifted, adding to the universal s
atisfaction, which rose to a peak when the last standing part of the house finally fell in.

  The fire brigade had pulled half a dozen men and women out of the rubble so far, but it was a big house, and the rumours going around the crowd spoke of a large household - mysterious owner - crippled - strange machinery - secret rooms - screams in the middle of the night. . .

  It got better and better.

  By mid-morning, the occupants of the houses on either side, who'd been evacuated, were allowed to go back in and get dressed while the firemen inspected the structure. Reporters from the major papers had interviewed the chief officer, the neighbours, the passers-by; artists stood there sketching assiduously for the engravers, who'd turn their drawings into plates to be printed in the illustrated weeklies; sellers of meat-pies set up their barrows; a mobile coffee-stall pulled by an arthritic horse was soon open and doing a flourishing trade.

  And all the morning the rescue continued. One after another the staff from the house were helped, or dragged, or carried out. Three of them were dead, another six injured, and from what the survivors said, another five were missing: a valet, a footman, a maidservant, the butler and the master himself, a Mr Lee.

  The secretary, Herr Winterhalter, had broken a collarbone, but otherwise he was unhurt, and he stood beside a police officer identifying the servants who were being brought out, and describing the layout of the house so that the rescuers knew where to look.

  At the edge of the crowd, Margaret Haddow was standing. Next to her were Rebecca Meyer, her arm in a sling, and James Wentworth the lawyer. Each time a shout went up from the firemen clambering over the rubble, they took a step closer, tried to peer over the heads of the crowd, held their breath; and then sighed. They didn't say much.

  Margaret felt a tap on her shoulder.

  She turned, and saw Jim - sunburnt, dishevelled, travel-stained, grim-faced. She gasped with surprise and seized his hand. They'd been on first-name terms for as long as she and Sally had; she felt like embracing him.

  "Do you know what's happening?" she said after they'd shaken hands. "Oh - sorry - this is Miss Meyer, who looked after Harriet. And Mr Wentworth, the firm's lawyer. But when did you get back?"

  He explained what had happened at Orchard House.

  "Parrish was still there when I left," he said. "Sarah-Jane's coping with it. Mr Wentworth, I'm going to need a lawyer myself: that little weasel had the police at his beck and call. How the hell - excuse me - did all this happen?"

  Rebecca said something in German. Mr Wentworth translated: "There was no sign of the child at Twickenham, Mr Taylor? Miss Meyer is very concerned. She blames herself for letting it happen."

  "Well, tell her she's not to. What I reckon is this: this Mr Goldberg sent three parties off to find Harriet. One came here to watch this place, Mr Mendel went to Twickenham, and Mr Goldberg himself went to Clapham. If she's not here and she wasn't at Orchard House -"

  Rebecca was speaking again, urgently. Jim heard the name Goldberg and watched the lawyer, intrigued by this shabby-looking man with his shrewd, ugly face and his flaming red hair.

  "Apparently," said Mr Wentworth, "Mr Goldberg has single-handedly stopped a riot this morning. There was a mob about to attack a bakery in Whitechapel - so Miss Meyer has heard - and Goldberg roused the local people, called for a chair, stood up and began to tell a story, of all things - and they stopped to listen! It's gone all round the East End - he's a figure of some fame in this community, Mr Taylor. But then he was arrested, so Miss Meyer says."

  "Arrested? Him as well? But hang on: if he was in Whitechapel, he can't have been in Clapham. So maybe--"

  Margaret gave a cry and seized the lawyer's arm, pointing up at the house.

  One of the firemen was waving. He bent to lift some bricks out of the way, and then there was a head, a shoulder, an arm -

  "That's not Sally," said Jim, disappointed.

  But Rebecca was nodding, her face animated, and she spoke rapidly.

  "It is!" said Mr Wentworth. "Miss Meyer says she dyed her hair and cut it short -"

  Jim didn't wait. Dodging through the crowd, he snatched a blanket and scrambled up over the rubble, shoving the firemen aside - and then she was clear, lying exhausted and bruised and torn on the broken bricks, and then she saw him, and they were only a few feet apart.

  He stopped, looking down at her.

  "What do you think you look like?" he said softly. "You ought to be ashamed, clambering about in your underwear. Sling this round you, go on. . ."

  Then she was trembling against him, huddled up in the blanket, and he began to help her down towards the pavement.

  "Where's Harriet?" she muttered.

  "We're still looking."

  Helping her clamber over the bricks and stones, her torn stockings, her bloodied feet - and hands coming up to help, Margaret close by, and the little Russian girl, and a policeman.

  And a man with his arm in a sling, and a German voice: "Yes, this is the one."

  Her other arm was already held by the policeman. He said, "Miss Lockhart?"

  They were on the pavement, only six feet from the barrier holding back the crowd. Margaret was reaching out - but they'd stopped, too far to touch.

  "Yes?" Sally said, shivering, hoarse.

  "Miss Lockhart, it's my duty to arrest you on the charge of attempted murder. Anything you say will -"

  Confusion. There was a surge of excitement in the crowd; the three nearest reporters lunged forward at once, clamouring for details; James Wentworth tried to restrain Jim, who seemed to be about to hit the policeman; the secretary stood by, stern, biting his lip; Margaret and Rebecca darted through the barrier to help Sally, who had fallen to the ground.

  Except that she hadn't fallen. She pulled free of their hands, impatiently, and sat up to tug down her torn wet stocking, taking out a folded piece of paper, handing it with shaking fingers to Margaret - "Open it! Unfold it, carefully. . ."

  All the urgency of the crowd, the moment, seemed to have swirled in a curious vortex around this still point: a bare patch of wet pavement surrounded by a thousand eyes. Margaret, sensing the importance of the paper, desperate not to tear it, went slowly and methodically along one edge and peeled it open before trying the next. Sally had folded the paper into four. If the ink had run. . .

  Margaret carefully separated the two corners and gently peeled it back. Winterhalter was a thorough man: his records were meant to be permanent. He'd used Indian ink, and there it still was, that column of payments labelled P for Parrish.

  "There!" said Sally, looking up at them all, pale in the triumph no one could understand. "I've done it. Now where's my child?"

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  RABBITS

  The one person in the crowd who knew what that paper meant was the secretary; and as he slipped away, Jim saw him and shouted, "Hold him!"

  Hands reached out to seize him. He struggled, glaring at the sergeant who'd tried to arrest Sally. The policeman looked back, bewildered, and then Mr Wentworth spoke.

  "Sergeant, whatever claim you have on Miss Lockhart, as her lawyer I must insist that she first has medical attention. Once we've heard what she's got to say about this obviously very important paper, you'll be able to decide whether or not to go ahead and arrest her."

  The sergeant was confused. There was just too much going on; and he was conscious that he'd overstepped his powers in trying to arrest Sally, in any case, since he didn't know for certain who she was, and was only going on the word of the secretary and a vaguely remembered circular about a kidnapping, or something - a child involved - and yet she was asking where the child was, so she couldn't have stolen it - dammit, he couldn't sort out this confounded betanglement. . .

  "Move along there," he said sternly to no one in particular.

  Winterhalter was loudly demanding to be set free, to see his lawyer, and no one was taking any notice, because Sally had fainted. Jim was holding her, and Mr Wentworth and Margaret were clearing a path throu
gh the crowd.

  "Oy," said the sergeant uncertainly. "Constable Willis, follow the cab. Don't let her out of your sight. And as for the rest of yer: move along! Clear the road! Move along there!"

  "Don't lose the paper," Sally said, half-conscious. "Jim - is that really you? Jim, you know who that was? The man in there?"

  "The Tzaddik," said Jim. "That's what I heard."

  "He was Ah Ling! He was Hendrik van Eeden! You remember - back at the beginning - he killed my father - opium -"

  Jim nearly dropped her.

  "But - but you shot him!"

  "And paralysed him. Didn't kill him. Someone must have got him away that night. And ever since then -"

  She had to stop then, as they helped her into a cab.

  "Ever since then," she whispered, "he's been dying for revenge. Dying. He's dead now. Dead of revenge. But in the cellar, Jim, I tried to save him. I did, I pulled him out of the water, I kept him alive. . ."

  She fainted again. Jim looked at the others; he was dumbfounded.

  "Did you hear what she said? The bloke at the back of this was. . . So that's what it was all about!"

  "As I understand it," said Mr Wentworth, "Miss Lockhart could defend herself against the charge of attempting to murder that man yesterday by claiming that in fact she tried to murder him some time ago. Or have I got it wrong?"

  Jim, holding Sally in his arms, looked at the lawyer sharply to see if he was being ironical, and decided he wasn't.

  "That's about it," he said.

  Margaret was still holding the paper. She looked at it, trying to make sense of the columns of figures.

  "This is a record of payments - of money received," she said. "But which column is the important one, or whether they all are, I couldn't say."

  "Better let me dry it out," said the lawyer, opening his shabby Gladstone bag and taking out a folded sheet of blotting paper. He put the paper inside it.

  "Goldberg," said Sally, waking dimly again. "He's got a pocket book. . . Belonged to Parrish. . ."

  "Ah!" said Mr Wentworth. "I begin to see."

  His ugly face was brimming with a kind of wicked delight. Jim couldn't help smiling in response. Then he said: "I'll have to get back to Twickenham smartish. Sarah-Jane Russell's coping with Parrish and a policeman, and what with one thing and another, she's feeling a bit shaken."