After the quietness of his office in Malvern House, the noise in Piccadilly was overwhelming, and James reeled slightly as he came out of the building. Horses’ hooves, metal wheels on the road, organ grinders, and the cries of the newsboys hawking the evening editions of the newspapers … all mingled together to create a huge cacophony of sound that assaulted his senses.
But as he stepped out in swift strides, weaving in and out through the crowds of pedestrians, James soon adapted to the noise of this great metropolitan city. London. The center of the world, his grandfather called it.
He had studied Mr. Malvern’s notes for part of the day and had instantly understood that the most important thing about his job was to make sure the windows were cleverly dressed. It was the shops’ windows in the arcades that pulled in the customers who spent money. So the tenants could pay the rent. As for the quality of the products, he knew that was just a question of judgment. How thankful he was that he had spent time wandering through the floors of Fortnum & Mason over the years, looking at their top-notch goods, noting the different weaves of cashmere, wool, gabardine, leather, suede, velvet, and silks. He had a good eye, and his fingers were sensitive. He easily recognized what he was touching and its true quality.
On the second piece of paper, Mr. Malvern had said he could pay him two pounds a week as a starting wage. He accepted it without a quibble. It would eventually increase.
The fact that he had a job with Mr. Malvern and was actually earning money pleased James. He also understood that today his life had changed; it would never be the same. He was on his own, standing on his own two feet, in control of his life, his fate, and what the future held.
He smiled to himself, knowing how lucky he was that he had been invited to share his uncle’s very convenient flat, and that he had a safety net, if anything went wrong: his parents and grandparents.
The two men, Parkinson and Goring, had each stepped into his office to welcome him properly at different times during the day. They seemed nice enough, had been friendly. Right at this moment he was aware how much he was going to miss William Venables, who had become his closest friend and confidant, not to mention his great-aunt and great-uncle. How good they had been to him over this year he had spent in Hull. And he had learned a lot from Great-Uncle Clarence. He knew he had a friend for life in him.
Hull. That had been a brainstorm on his part, suggesting an arcade in the City of Gaiety, but he knew he was right about how successful one would be. He had noticed that Mr. Malvern’s dark eyes had sparkled at the mere mention of this. He tucked that idea at the back of his mind. He must formulate a plan. One was already ticking away.
At five o’clock, Mr. Malvern had strolled into his office, welcomed him again, and asked him if he would be willing to visit their two arcades tomorrow morning. He asked if he had understood the notes. James assured him he knew what to look for and would be happy to accompany Mr. Malvern to acquaint himself with the two properties.
With a nod and a smile, Mr. Malvern had said goodnight and left, having told him to go home whenever he wanted.
James’s thoughts veered to another matter altogether as he traversed Piccadilly. Mrs. Georgiana Ward. He had written to her in the first week of November, announcing that he would be returning to London at the end of the month. She had written back and suggested they have supper at her house on Wednesday, December 5. At six o’clock, prompt. He had replied instantly. And he would be seeing her in two days.
In her letter she had warned him that conditions were not at all good. Recently there had been a lot of fogs, mostly created by coal dust and fumes from other elements used in homes and from the underground railway. James had only been back since Thursday night, but as yet he hadn’t been bothered by any fogs. On the other hand, he knew they were something of a menace and caused a lot of ill health in the city, as well as dirt and filth everywhere.
It suddenly struck him, as he walked toward Half Moon Street, that Mrs. Ward was the only friend he had in London, other than his family. He made another mental note to make a point of going to see Jack Holden, on Saturday or Sunday, when he was in Camden Town with his parents. To pay his respects.
* * *
When James opened the front door of the flat and went in, he was delighted to see the lamplights flaring, the fire blazing up the chimney, and his uncle sitting in a comfortable armchair in front of the fire. Naturally he was perusing one of the competing newspapers.
“Here I am, Uncle George,” James said, slipping out of his overcoat, hanging it on the coat stand, and walking into the small, comfortable parlor.
George looked over the top of his newspaper and smiled, “How did it go, James? How was Mr. Malvern? Treat you well, did he?”
“To answer the last part of your question first, Mr. Malvern is just the nicest man, as Father had told me he was. Plain speaking, to the point, but kind. He gave me notes he had made about the job. Tomorrow he’s going to take me to see the two arcades they own in London. Oh, and he told me I might have to travel to the north occasionally, to Leeds and Harrogate, where they own arcades. I don’t mind that at all, since I can easily do a hop, skip, and a jump, and land in Hull for Saturday nights on the town.”
His uncle chuckled and put down the paper. “You’ve got it all worked out, I see.”
“Not really. But I would visit Hull. William and I became really good friends. He’s genuine and trustworthy, and I miss him already.”
“I know what you mean. A good pal is worth his weight in gold, take my word for it. And one is hard to come by.”
James sat down in the other chair and warmed his hands. “It’s turned nippy tonight. But there’s no fog, thank God.”
“Thank God twenty times over! Do you know, about two years ago there were over eighty fogs in central London. Damn near unbearable. I don’t know why this blasted government doesn’t do something about our polluted air.”
“Neither do I. What could they do, Uncle George?”
“I’ve no idea either. Stop using coal, and whatever else causes the atmosphere to become dangerous. Actually dangerous. Well, the two of us can’t mend the world, but we can go out and enjoy ourselves. It’s my day off, James, got any plans?”
“No, I haven’t. Nobody to make plans with.”
“That’s true. So, you’re coming with me. I’m going to have dinner with my best pal, and you’re tagging along.”
“Who is he, your best pal?”
“A copper, what else, a bloody good one at that.”
* * *
George Falconer, somewhat a creature of habit, had booked a table at the Bettrage Hotel. But this evening he had chosen the hotel’s less formal brasserie for supper.
He and his nephew James walked through Mayfair to Davies Street where the hotel was located, chatting amiably about family matters in general.
As they went down Davies Street to the front entrance of the hotel, they saw something of a fuss going on with several porters and a large pile of luggage outside the front door.
Instantly, George came to a stop, put his hand on James’s arm. “The arrival of two posh ladies,” he murmured. “Let the porters get the trunks in first, the ladies will follow, and then we can enter.” George grinned. “The young one is rather a looker, I must admit. The mother’s not bad either.”
“How do you know she is the mother?” James asked.
“They look alike, don’t you think? The older woman is slightly plumper.”
The trunks were being hurriedly rolled inside on a form of long barrow, and then the ladies went into the hotel.
Stepping out, pulling James forward, George steered his nephew in through the front door after the women. In the bright lights of the hotel’s foyer the women were truly visible, and they were indeed very good-looking, elegantly gowned and bejeweled. In a low voice, George said, “Americans. And no doubt buccaneers.”
James gaped at his uncle, frowning. “What are buccaneers?”
“I’ll explain when we get into the brasserie,” George said, his voice low, his eyes following the fashionably and richly gowned women, who were standing at the desk of the concierge, talking to him animatedly.
The maître d’ of the brasserie greeted them warmly as they entered. “Good evening, Lomax,” George said. “I would like to introduce you to my nephew, James Falconer.”
After the two men had greeted each other and shaken hands, Lomax said, “The inspector just arrived a few seconds ago, Mr. Falconer.” He steered them over to a round table in a far corner of the restaurant, which was George’s preferred place to sit. It gave him an overall view of the entire room, which as a journalist was important to him. He could see who entered and left with ease.
George quickly introduced his friend Detective Inspector Roger Crawford to James, and the three men sat down. Looking at each of them, George said, “How about a bottle of bubbly? It’s a little celebration for me tonight.”
“Sounds good,” the inspector said.
James simply nodded.
George looked at Lomax. “Don’t bother to send the sommelier over with the wine list, Lomax. Have him open a bottle of my favorite champagne, please.”
“Certainly, Mr. Falconer. Straightaway.”
“I would have liked to look at their wine list,” James murmured as the maître d’ walked off.
“You can see it later,” George answered. “That’s not a problem.”
Roger Crawford asked, “And what is the celebration for, George? Don’t tell me you’ve found a woman and got engaged.”
“No such luck,” George answered, and left it at that, remembering Roger’s troubled life a few years ago. He now announced, “I am celebrating the commencement of the career of my nephew, Roger. James started work today. His future as a successful merchant prince has just begun.”
Roger looked across at James and smiled, liking the look of this impossibly handsome young man who had walked in as if he owned the world. He certainly owned the room. All of the women diners were glancing at him surreptitiously. Roger had already noticed the charisma, the warm nature of George’s nephew.
“So you have gone into retailing, have you?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yes, I am working for Mr. Henry Malvern, owner of the Malvern company. He has several arcades in London, amongst many other things, and he’s put me in charge of them. I will be supervising them, actually.”
“Sounds like a big job,” the inspector replied. “Malvern must have great faith in you.”
George said, “My brother has owned four stalls in the Malvern Market for years. I thought I’d told you that, and Malvern has been interested in James for some time.”
“The penny’s just dropped!” Roger exclaimed, and stared intently at James. “You were one of the two young men who were badly beaten up on Chalk Farm Road, about a year and a half ago. I am right about that, aren’t I?”
James said, “You are, sir. My friend Denny was in a coma and never came out of it. He died.”
“Yes, that was a terrible affair. It’s all coming back to me now.” He looked at George. “You came to me about it and we were never able to solve it … a cold case.”
George nodded. Changing the subject, he said, “What’s happening with the Jack the Ripper case? Three more women brutally murdered, but no news from Scotland Yard. Another cold case?”
Detective Inspector Roger Crawford shook his head, his expression one of deep concern. “Maybe. We have nothing. Not a clue. Although I have a couple of theories. I—” He stopped speaking abruptly when the waiter arrived with a bucket of champagne.
“I’ll tell you what I know after we’ve toasted your nephew, George.”