The Cold North Sea

by The Cold North Sea (retail) (epub)

  It had a gold-embossed cross on the front – a Bible, slightly damp round the edges.

  ‘Trust me, you’re wasting your time. Your Good Lord gave up on me long, long ago.’

  ‘No, sir. S’nothin’ like that.’

  ‘No “sirs”. Remember?’

  Pickersgill slipped out a newspaper cutting that lay folded within. He handed it to Finch. It was half a page ripped from an edition of the Eastern Daily Press. Its date was from two days ago – since their meeting in the pub, noted Finch. And you couldn’t get the paper locally.

  ‘See there?’

  Pickersgill pointed.

  ‘Can’t see a damn thing.’

  Finch moved towards the light of the front window. Pickersgill followed, though not without a customary cautious glance. Another coughing fit ensued as Finch studied the cutting and Pickersgill directed him to the section headed ‘Death Notices’.

  Among the poor East Anglian souls to have shuffled off this mortal coil this past week – the ‘dearly beloveds’ and folks now ‘resting in peace’ – was one Bertram Brandon, Pickersgill indicated, aged thirty-seven, of Endthorpe, ‘perished at sea’.

  ‘He was a crewman on my boat.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘A day boat, thirty-footer, small steamer. We used a-crew with four.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry for poor Mr…’

  Finch examined the cutting again.

  ‘…Brandon. But…’

  ‘The other two, and now Bertie,’ Pickersgill cut in. ‘That’s three of us in the last nine days. All dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘All in boating “accidents”.’

  Finch handed the cutting back. He set about tying his neckwear, a golden silk cravat he’d worried was a tad too flash but was prepared to take a chance on.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Look, Dr Finch. You hear wha’ happen on the Dogger Bank recently… the incident… those trawlers from Hull…?’

  ‘How could I not? It’s all anyone’s talked about. War, war, war and more bloody war…’

  Finch gestured to his Times lying on the settee. After bottling up the Russian fleet in Vigo, Spain, the Royal Navy was now shadowing the warships on the high seas, primed to engage if necessary. The front page was full of items about the public clamour for retribution and how London and St Petersburg were locked in a frantic diplomatic scramble.

  ‘I was there,’ said Pickersgill.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I was there. My boat, the Kittiwake. We take har out. We’re o’er the Dogger Bank that night.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Must have been quite an experience.’

  Finch wasn’t sure where this was going.

  ‘Bertie… That’s three men, Dr Finch. Three men. I know for a fact two of them hant even put out to sea in that time. They didn’t die in “accidents”, believe you me. They were…’

  He fumbled for the right words.

  ‘You mean they were killed?’ asked Finch, suddenly pausing mid-knot.

  ‘Murdered.’

  Finch’s tone turned serious.

  ‘If there’s something sinister afoot, Mr Pickersgill, then take it to the authorities. Go to the police.’

  ‘If only it were that simple.’

  Pickersgill folded the cutting and inserted it back in the Bible. He put the good book back inside his jacket.

  ‘And Bertie Brandon didn’t just die…’

  The vowel was round, like ‘doy’.

  ‘…He be decapper-tatered.’

  ‘Decapitated?’

  The man nodded.

  Finch winced. ‘Propeller blade?’

  ‘No, Dr Finch! Although funnily enough… not so funny, as it happen… that’s what they say… the police. But I see his body. That wa’nt a clean cut made by no blade. It was ragged… everythin’ stretched, elongated, ripped… the wound, the tendons. Like his head a-been torn… wrenched orf.’

  There was a furious rapping on the knocker. Pickersgill darted into the kitchen. Finch noted his jitters, pleaded for calm and answered the door slowly.

  It was Maude standing there.

  ‘What the hell is keeping you?’ she scowled.

  ‘I was just on my way.’

  ‘Damn you, Ingo. I’ve been waiting three quarters of an hour.’

  ‘You said half past eleven.’

  ‘I said eleven. We changed it, remember?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She huffed.

  ‘We’ll have to get the next train.’

  Though it was inopportune to say it, she looked stunning: a green satin bolero jacket over a tapered bustle skirt, a matching pashmina wrap, long ivory gloves and tasteful tam-o’-shanter adorned with a small peacock feather.

  As she made her way in, Maude caught sight of Pickersgill lurking in the rear.

  ‘Oh.’

  Pickersgill had clammed up, the words unable to come.

  ‘What a pleasure,’ she added with unconstrained sarcasm.

  His coughing fit returned. He pulled the blanket in tight.

  ‘Is he ill?’ she asked Finch, not addressing the man directly.

  Finch nodded. He went to the bureau, on which sat his medical bag. He rummaged through it and returned with a thermometer. He sat Pickersgill down in front of the fire. He loosened the blanket.

  ‘Listen, be a good fellow…’

  He shook the thermometer, popped it in Pickersgill’s mouth and looked at his watch.

  Maude touched Pickersgill’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s soaking wet.’

  ‘Look, Maude. I know this seems rude, but do you mind waiting outside? Just for a moment.’

  She sulked and stamped to the front door. Finch paced about till three minutes were up. He removed the thermometer.

  ‘Ninety-eight. Borderline. But you’ve got yourself a dose of something, Pickersgill. A heavy cold, bit of a fever. Sleeping rough, the wet and not eating properly won’t have helped.’

  Pickersgill pulled him close.

  ‘I’ve accepted my fate, Dr Finch. They’ll get me soon. Make no mistake. I just thought you, as a man who worked in intelligence, one with connections, that maybe you’d be able to—’

  ‘Dammit Pickersgill,’ Finch snapped. ‘I don’t know where the hell you got such a fanciful notion into your head. But I tell you, you are completely mistaken!’

  Pickersgill gave a wan smile. He nodded in the direction of Maude, strutting up and down outside the window.

  ‘Must be hard, havin’ t’keep it quiet all this time. I understand.’

  ‘I’m warning you…’

  He coughed some more. Finch eased off.

  ‘Look, for the sake of my health, I need to go,’ said Finch. ‘And right now.’

  Pickersgill’s eyelids were beginning to droop.

  ‘The fire. Those wet things. You can dry them out here. There’s a clothes horse…’

  Pickersgill sighed.

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Help yourself to food. And grab something from the fruit bowl. But above all, get some sleep. You’re safe here.’

  Pickersgill was already leaning back into a slumber. Finch tucked the blanket around him.

  The Offenbach, which had been paying all the while, came to an end. The stylus crackled in the central groove, going round and round and round.

  ‘But I expect you to be gone when I’m back. You hear me? Eleven o’clock latest.’

  He pointed to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘God bless.’

  ‘I’m looking you in the eye here. You promise?’

  Pickersgill strained his lids open to signal his consent.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Leave everything as it is. Put the fire out. I’ll draw the curtains. No need to answer the door.’

  He went to his medical bag again.

  ‘Here… two drops of this.’

>   He produced a brown medicine bottle and a pipette.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Acetyl chloride combined with sodium salicylate.’

  Pickersgill shrugged wearily.

  ‘Aspirin,’ said Finch. ‘Open wide.’

  Pickersgill did as he was told. Finch splashed a couple of drops onto his tongue.

  Pickersgill touched his arm.

  ‘I’m glad I found you,’ he said. ‘It’s a weight off my mind.’

  ‘I don’t see how. You haven’t really told me anything.’

  ‘Oh but I have, Dr Finch.’

  Finch pulled on his jacket and coat. He grabbed his Homburg from the hatstand.

  ‘You’ll find a way. You will,’ said Pickersgill.

  ‘Here,’ said Finch.

  He sighed, as if compelled to act against his better judgement, and slipped Pickersgill a half-crown.

  ‘God bless you, sir.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Outside, Maude was standing, arms crossed.

  ‘Some treat this is turning out to be.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Pickersgill?’

  ‘Who else?’

  He gestured back indoors.

  ‘He’ll be gone when we return. I promise.’

  ‘You’re a fool, Ingo.’

  They set off up the road.

  Chapter Six

  The hansom cab clipped along Brook Street. The evening had reached that magical hour – darkness falling outside, but with those indoors having yet to draw their curtains against it.

  To Finch it was like a confessional, the townhouses and pieds-à-terre of Mayfair revealing their interiors to the world – the gold-leafed finery and crystal chandeliers, the earnestly posed portraits. In one ground-floor dining room, servants were setting out the silverware for dinner. At another, bored masters and mistresses, dressed in their formal evening wear, prodded at overloaded plates between monstrous candelabra.

  ‘My God, this is an exhibition in itself,’ said Maude. ‘And thank you…’

  She twitched her brochure, titled The Dudley Gallery.

  ‘It was very kind.’

  Finch lit a Navy Cut. He exhaled out of the window.

  ‘Listen… Maude?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This morning… these past few days…’

  He found it awkward to say so but forced it out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘For which particular bit?’

  ‘Don’t rub it in.’

  She squeezed his hand and smiled.

  ‘Stieglitz goes a long way,’ she said. ‘But I still think you’re a fool… on several levels.’

  Finch clasped his cigarette between his lips. He reached inside his jacket for his hip flask.

  ‘Do you really have to?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a fool… remember?’

  He offered her a sip. She declined. He went ahead.

  As they reached the glass portico of Claridge’s Hotel, red waistcoated bellboys sprang forward in expectation, only to retreat when it was obvious their cab would go sailing past. A doorman in a top hat blew a shrill whistle and waved white-gloved hands, marshalling others.

  There was a fine drizzle, not much more than a mist. Finch thought for a moment of his old comrade Major Leonard Cox, who’d met his unfortunate end in a vehicle just like this one on the streets of Cape Town.

  He had corresponded with Cox’s family in India in the aftermath, leading to a protracted pen friendship with Cox’s spinster sister, which he had indulged out of politeness but abandoned once it became a chore. Despite his withdrawal from their communication some time ago, a letter of hers had arrived only last week – pale blue, slightly perfumed, but whiffing moreover of desperation. He hadn’t bothered to open it.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Maude.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were miles away.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What was it?’

  He drew on his cigarette.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What kind of “nothing”?’

  He shrugged. The silence lingered. Then he felt bad about it.

  ‘Just… you know… South Africa… the war.’

  She squeezed his hand again and kept hers there this time.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she ventured, tenderly. ‘I mean… If you want to talk about it. My uncle… Dad’s brother… he was in Afghanistan and—’

  Finch banged hard on the cab’s roof.

  ‘Right along Regent Street, please,’ he commanded the driver.

  He turned to Maude.

  ‘You know, they profess to know every bloody street in London, but this fellow was about to go left, I swear.’

  She huffed and snatched her hand back.

  ‘If you can’t talk about it…’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Well?’

  Nothing.

  On the street corner a newsvendor was yelling out ‘Evenin’ Standard latest!’ Peace talks between Britain and Russia, proclaimed the one-sheet poster, were in the balance. This seemed to be presented as good news.

  Finch took another swig. Maude dug him in the ribs, slightly too hard to be playful. Conflict, thought Finch, in all its forms, was never far beneath the surface. He capped the flask and put it back in his jacket.

  ‘My dearest Maude,’ he said. ‘There persists this notion, chiefly amongst female intimates – in my admittedly limited encounters – that “sharing feelings” or “talking about things” somehow relieves the burden. In my experience it merely exports it.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Sometimes you really are the most patronising, obnoxious…’

  ‘I know.’

  On Regent Street they proceeded south down Nash’s grand Regency curve. Even on a Saturday evening it was still busy with red horse-drawn omnibuses, buggies and carts clogging the thoroughfare, cyclists gliding by. An impatient buzzing Daimler automobile tried to weave its way through. Along the pavements the pedestrians teemed, some making their way home from the afternoon’s demonstration in Trafalgar Square. There were more police around than usual.

  A recent city statute had allowed Saturday commercial hours to extend to seven o’clock, which accounted for the bustle. Ahead, dormant cranes towered over the excavations for the new Piccadilly Underground station and the luxury hotel being built for Swiss hospitality magnate César Ritz. Behind them, too, through the small window, Finch could see a forest of lifting machinery over Euston. In every way, London was a city on the rise – in a constant state of reinvention.

  On Regent Street, the huge plate glass windows of the clothiers and milliners and haberdashers were being pored over in wide-eyed awe by pedestrians for whom shopping in such emporia was economically unthinkable. The stores relished the fact, boasting ever more elaborate window displays, their golden lights reflecting back on the wet pavement.

  One shop, a purveyor of bridal dresses, had a hugely detailed display running along its whole front. It had forgone mannequins for real live young women, dressed up in all-white and sprouting feathers in a Swan Lake-themed tableau. It had attracted quite a crowd. Small boys at the front were pulling faces.

  As they neared the hub of Piccadilly Circus, a churning wheel of traffic pivoted clockwise around the Shaftesbury memorial and its winged cherub (mistakenly misconstrued, as Finch liked to point out, as the Greek god Eros). A handful of pro-war agitators were sitting around the steps of its base, placards lowered, reduced to the odd drunken chant and bouts of internecine bickering.

  Around them, under the great new illuminated green sign advertising Perrier water, queues snaked for the grand Criterion and Piccadilly theatres. The Perrier sign, composed of thousands of light bulbs, standing on high like a great emerald beacon, was an object of fascination in itself, a brand new wonder of the commercial world, not least for the fanciful Continental notion that honest-to-goodness drinking water
should be purchased in a bottle.

  Finch asked the driver to turn left into Glasshouse Street. Away from Nash’s symmetry, the old road pattern – evolved over centuries of chaos – resumed. He got out, tipped the driver and helped Maude down. It was chilly enough now for their breath to cloud the night air.

  ‘Here!’

  He pointed.

  ‘Oh…’ she said.

  Their cab was swiftly commandeered and, with a snort and scrape of hooves, was soon trotting off.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he assured. ‘You’ll love it.’

  The Cathay restaurant was brand new, its bold red paintwork with green adornments and sculpted gold dragons a shock of Eastern flash in a dull Western backstreet. Glazed, bloated duck hung in the window; above it the establishment’s name was written in a cod-Oriental script. Though early, the place was already busy, those exiting having to jostle their way through the entrants. On the pavement, a dejected woman was browbeating her husband about his failure to make a reservation.

  A party emerged onto the street, including a man in a jaunty panama. His group was intercepted by a pack of pushy men with notebooks.

  Squealed Maude, ‘My God… is that…?’

  The man’s friends fell away to let him field questions.

  ‘George Robey indeed,’ said Finch. ‘Haven’t a clue what he’s like as an actor, but any man who can play professional soccer while turning out for the MCC is all right by me…’

  Maude tried hard not to stare as Finch steered a path. As they entered, Chinese men with wispy beards, pigtails, skull caps and elaborate silk smocks with ‘frogged’ braided fastenings, bowed and held open the doors into a reception area dominated by a huge gong. The aroma of spices and wok-fried produce was pungent and intoxicating.

  Finch had made several trips to the original Chinatown that had grown up around the Limehouse area of the Docklands – a small district of shops and cafes springing up to service the many Orientals, in particular from Hong Kong, who had come to the country as merchant ship crews. If such food were eaten by native Chinese, Finch had supposed – largely Cantonese – it had to be authentic.

  This place, by comparison, though he didn’t doubt the quality of its fare, had been established by an enterprising Chinaman, an ex-Red Funnel steward, as a confection for the Occidentals of theatreland. The newly voguish dish in which it specialised, chop suey – like its New York variant, chow mein – had been created specifically for the purpose, deemed more palatable for British dilettantes.