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‘“...Where stays the shimmering crystal stream, on light that gazes open seems, Oh what in that which hopeful roams, a guiding light to send you home.”’
Jocelyn Cornwallis III slowly closed the brown frayed leather book with a sigh. The book, whose title “Poetry and Thoughts for Today’s Modern Man” scarred black into its dull brown cover, was thoughtlessly cast onto the old oak, once polished desk; on which his boots were presently resting. The tome slid to a halt amidst the dusty paperwork sending motes swirling into the air.
‘Yeah, right,’ responded Frankie Kandalwick, Cornwallis’ friend and employee, grimacing at the tortuous lines. ‘So tell me, why do you read such rubbish?’
‘Because, my dear Frankie,’ answered Cornwallis, casting his eyes around the room and waving a distracted arm, ‘it gives one a sense of perspective. This particular poem shows how nature can guide the most wayward, a simple star in the sky, a speck of light, and it can help a weary traveller find home. Those of us who are fortunate enough to be educated recognise the beauty of language.’
Frankie snorted disdainfully. ‘Anyway, if that’s what you call education, I’ll happily stay ignorant.’
Cornwallis slowly shook his head in resignation, he steepled his fingers and then tapped the index fingers against his lips in thought. ‘You know, Frankie, I sometimes wonder why I let you work for me.’
‘That’s ‘cause no other bugger’s stupid enough.’
‘That’s about the only sensible thing you’ve said so far today.’ Cornwallis pulled at the neck of his shirt hoping for a draught of air to cool him down, it had been a hot day and there didn’t seem to be much air circulating around the room, the window was fully open but the wind decided to go on strike.
Jocelyn Cornwallis III, a tad over six feet tall, lean and clean-shaven, presently sat relaxing in his chair with his feet crossed and planted firmly on his desk. The room, his office, hadn’t seen a broom or a duster in months; it was just the way he liked it. He had dark equine features with dark brown shoulder length hair and dressed in a coal black suit which contrasted with the crisp white shirt. He could have a razor sharp mind, but only when he wasn’t too distracted. Born to lead a different life, the son of a noble, he suffered the normal upbringing afforded to his class: brought up by a nanny until old enough to attend “School” then destined for a seat in the Assembly. But Cornwallis had other ideas; he decided against following tradition and began a life far removed from that which his father had planned. He decided he wanted to work for a living. On the door to the office, a cardboard sign proclaimed the word Investigator in faded lettering.
Frankie had no choice in the matter, a product of the gutter, or if not the gutter, standing precariously on the kerb looking down, a life of lawlessness beckoned. As a youth and a man, he lived up to expectation and forged himself quite a career, until the day Cornwallis and he became reacquainted, and then his life changed; he became honest. It happened suddenly down a back alley with a pocket full of silver jewellery, filched from the house of a dealer in antique curios and novelty items, who had short-changed his brother when he had been trying to offload a stack of lead piping. He couldn’t understand how the knife got there, pressed to his throat, but Cornwallis did, he being the one holding the knife. He had seen him leaving by a side window, and negotiations, as they say, continued. His mum used to be a char at Cornwallis’ father’s city house and they had played together as kids. Built like a brick outhouse with cropped light hair and large calloused hands, few argued with Frankie, and those that did rapidly regretted their decision. The broken nose and puffy ears suggested he sometimes came off second best, but looks could be deceiving, he was a mountain of a man who could move mountains and in their line of work, he was more than useful. He played up to his image of being slow in thought, but many had cause to re-think that assumption, there was more to Frankie than met the eye. He balanced the chair on its two rear legs and reclined against the wall, he sighed and then pitched forward, stood up, and headed over to the dart board — boredom had set in, nothing had happened for days now.
‘Triple twenty,’ he announced, standing back to the chalk line on the floor.
Cornwallis grinned as he watched.
Frankie screwed up his eye and threw. ‘A five. Bugger.’
‘Try something easier,’ suggested Cornwallis. ‘Like the wall.’
‘It’s these darts of yours, they ain’t balanced,’ he countered, taking aim again. This time he concentrated harder, he licked his lips but left the pink tip of his tongue hanging out. The dart thumped into the board. ‘Single twenty,’ he announced, triumphantly. ‘Getting closer.’
Cornwallis pulled out half a dollar and slapped it on the desk. ‘Next dart, and I’ll make it easy for you, sixteen or higher.’
‘If you want to throw yer money away, then I’ll have it. Yer a loser waiting to lose.’ He took his time, concentrating as hard as he could, flexing his arm a few times and then slowly pulling the dart back to his face. His hand shot forward and the dart flew unerringly towards the board, it felt smooth and graceful, a perfect release — the dart hit a seven.
Cornwallis shook his head as Frankie paid up, a nailed on certainty that he would miss. It didn’t really seem fair to take the money, but then again... ‘Well, Frankie, I don’t know about you, but I feel a thirst coming on.’
Frankie didn’t need to think. ‘So long as you’re paying,’ he said, as he watched his half-dollar disappear into Cornwallis’ pocket.
They made their way down the stairs from the second floor of the four-storey house; Cornwallis had bought the house a few years previously and rented out the ground and first floor whilst keeping the top two floors for himself. The address was in one of the more fashionable areas of the city, Hupplemere Mews, right on the corner with Grantby Street and only a few streets away from the seat of government, so there were always a steady stream of takers for the vacant rooms. At present, a workers agency, a marriage broker and a gentleman’s surgical appliance fitter rented the spare rooms and only last week a rather attractive lady who spoke to the dead paid a month’s rent in advance; he did think that the surgical supply fitter might have to start reinforcing some of his wares should some of the clientele walk into the wrong room, but that wouldn’t be his problem.
Frankie couldn’t have been more wrong, something had happened at the offices of Mssrs Critchloe, Flanders, and Goup, Accountants, Greenwalsh Avenue, Gornstock. Miss Eliza Knutt, 51, spinster of the parish, had been found dead in the first floor inner office, and the circumstances were not natural. Miss Knutt had been a cleaner, and she would most definitely not be happy with the state of her former body. The pool of blood surrounding her, and soaking into the richly embroidered deeply piled and very expensive East Pergoland rug began to congeal nicely. Mr Goup, who found Miss Knutt, not a particularly robust man, stared in abject horror at the two paper-knives sticking out of the back of Miss Knutt’s neck. He struggled to stop his lunch from making a dramatic re-appearance as it churned in his stomach and then make a short foray up his gullet before deciding whether to go for broke. As Mr Goup stepped back from the door his stomach won the unequal battle and an explosion of half-digested pea and ham pie, together with a half bottle of his favourite Pinket Gregorio wine, came rushing forth.
*
THE BLACK STOAT OCCUPIED a corner of a small piazza down Brindlenook Alley, called Cumerbund Square. Tables spewed out from the interior and covered the forefront of the tavern like a rash. It had a diverse clientele to say the least. It wasn’t a particularly rough establishment, but it could be described as being a little frayed around the edges as the occasional bout of entertainment did occur, but that only added to the ambience. In the opposite corner stood another tavern, The Duke, and that was chalk to the Stoat’s cheese. Only the young and well-heeled frequented The Duke as it considered itself a cut above the rest, serving its drinks in tiny glasses, always with some kind of fruit floating on top. Between the taverns, a variety of premises: a cloth merchant; a candle maker; Fossie’s Take Away; a baker’s; Ying Pong’s noodle shop and an exotic wares merchant.
Cornwallis and Frankie sat themselves down at a table in the piazza not far from the door of the Stoat and caught the eye of Eddie the landlord. Cornwallis held up two fingers and mimed drinking to order a couple of beers. The late afternoon sunshine bathed the piazza in a golden glow which brought folk out to drink and to cool down, the place just starting to fill up. They could see Big George pedalling away in the corner inside the tavern; the brown bear sitting on a geared contraption which, attached to a fan by a large rubber band, gave just enough waft of air to stir the smoke and give a respite from the cloying heat. Outside though, a cooling breeze gently breathed, and Cornwallis eased back into the chair and closed his eyes, enjoying the moment of relaxation and the anticipation of the cooling beer disappearing down his throat — but only for a few seconds.
‘Frankie, do you have to do that?’ Cornwallis opened one eye and peered at his employee. Frankie had his index finger firmly rammed up his left nostril, a deep excavation taking place. Cornwallis watched in distaste as the finger puggled away until it finally slowly unscrewed from the cavity.
Frankie held up his finger triumphantly before staring at the result with satisfaction, he sniffed, and then deftly flicked the offending article towards the leg of a passing tradesman. ‘Technically, no, but I ain’t got a hankie.’ He sniffed again to check that all was well and grinned back at Cornwallis. ‘You could always lend me one of yours.’
‘Gods forbid,’ replied Cornwallis, aghast, ‘I’d have to burn it afterwards. Your snot would just disintegrate my rather expensive silk. No, Frankie, I will not lend you one of mine.’
Their beers appeared and immediately the conversation ceased as the serving girl sashayed her way towards them. She wore a long pale green dress with a golden tasselled braid wrapped around her slim waist, the gentle curves of her hips accentuated by the silkiness of the dress as she moved forward step by seductive step. Long honey-coloured hair hung loose down her back and she had the biggest blue eyes ever. She stood about five foot nine tall and her skin radiated vitality; but the cut of her dress allowed the imagination to run riot as the material struggled to hold everything in place. She arrived at their table and eased forward to put the tray down, and two pairs of eyes watched eagerly, hoping and praying for a wardrobe malfunction.
‘Er, you couldn’t wipe the table for us, my darling?’ asked Frankie, somewhat strained but hopeful all the same, as she positioned the glass in front of him.
The girl stood up slowly and shook her head; piercing blue eyes seared into Frankie’s, but then flicked over to Cornwallis’.
‘I think you know the answer to that; do I look like I’ve got a cloth on me?’ She held her arms out wide in a stance that said frisk me then, but her eyes said you’d be dead if you tried. Everyone on nearby tables turned eagerly to watch, as if they knew something Cornwallis and Frankie didn’t. She smiled sweetly and then picked up the tray; everyone seemed to groan and then turn disappointedly back. ‘Eddie just warned me about you two, you know, but for some reason he told me to be gentle.’ She wagged a finger of admonishment at them before breaking into a wide smile. ‘You two have a lot to learn.’ She swished around, and then without another word, headed back inside. Two pairs of eyes followed her intently, and were rewarded when she turned briefly and gave a coy little look over her shoulder before disappearing from view.
Frankie groaned and crossed his legs. ‘Where do you think Eddie found her from? She wasn’t here a few days ago, it were that Bertha with a limp and she spilled most of the beer before we got it.’
Cornwallis’ smile was beatific. ‘I don’t particularly care where he found her, I’m just thankful that he did. She didn’t tell us her name, but I’m sure we’ll find that out soon enough. Francis, I think I’m in love.’
As soon as Eddie stepped out of the door, Cornwallis beckoned him over. ‘Come on, Eddie, who is she and where did you find her?’
‘Looky ‘ere, Jack, I can’t be ‘aving with you chasing after me staff, you know.’ Eddie being one of the few people who were well enough acquainted with Cornwallis to use his soubriquet. ‘She’s ‘ere to work and pull in the punters.’
‘And I’m sure she’s very good at it,’ responded Cornwallis, thinking that once word got around this place would be heaving every hour of the day. ‘However... Oh, come on, Eddie, tell us.’
The pleading look in Cornwallis’ eye was too much for Eddie so he sat down and leant back with a sigh. ‘All right then, her name is Primrose, or Rose for short, she’s my sister’s niece by marriage, meaning, she’s family.’ His emphasis on his last indicated a subtle warning, ‘She’s come up from Dawling for a time, wants to see the big city, got fed up with a nowhere town and wants to live a little.’ He scratched his chin and belched loudly. ‘I’m not so sure I done the right thing now, though. Over the last few days I’ve had more problems than I want to deal with; some of the punters are taking right liberties. She tells me she can handle things, but... I don’t know; mebbe I should find another job for her.’
‘No, no, no!’ Frankie almost screamed in horror. ‘You can’t do that; she brings a touch of class to the place. No, you keep her on and if you get any trouble then let me know and I will personally sort it out for you.’ He tapped his chest and sat up straight.
Eddie sighed and stood up. ‘I doubt you’d ever be needed: she got taught how to defend herself by a little priest from out east; so far she’s broken up three fights and put two people in hospital. She could probably knock seven colours of shit out of the pair of you if she really wanted to.’
Cornwallis’ mouth hung open as he stared at Eddie’s retreating back.
*
THE POLICE HAD JUST arrived at the address of Mssrs Critchloe, Flanders and Goup; a large grey stoned terraced building with two pillars guarding the entrance. Four officers marched in and sealed off the premises. Sergeant Jethro MacGillicudy stood at the door to the inner office and gazed down at Eliza Knutt. He was a big man with a moustache and long side whiskers, his reddish-brown hair flecked with grey and he possessed an air of authority that screamed his rank. Nicknamed the Feelers, the police had been founded by Lord Carstairs Fielding long ago. He had decided enough was enough after being robbed at knifepoint as he took home his ill-gotten gains after fleecing the Mayor of several hundred dollars.
‘Constable Toopins, if you please.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ The youngest recruit elbowed his way to the front to stand next to his sergeant. A skinny creature with a mop of unruly dark hair, he’d already got the nickname of Dewdrop, due to the seemingly permanent droplet of snot hanging from his nose.
‘Tell me son, what do you see?’ MacGillicudy wrapped an arm around his shoulder and swept the other generously around the room.
‘Er... A dead woman, Sarge?’ he ventured timidly.
‘Yes, yes... and?’
‘Er... a lot of blood, Sarge?’
‘Well spotted, son, well spotted.’ MacGillicudy knew he had to be patient. ‘Now, shall we try to be a bit more adventurous in our initial examination of the alleged crime scene?’
Some whispering came from behind him which resulted in a snigger.
‘What, Constable Spekes, do you find funny?’
‘Sorry, Sarge, but I can’t help seeing the alleged knives in ‘er neck, and unless she were very inventive, I can’t see any alleged alleging at all.’
‘Spekes, everything is alleged until we know different. Now get your pencil out and start writing. You can write, can’t you?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
The young feelers indulged in some more whispering as MacGillicudy waited. ‘Are we ready now, Spekes?’
There was a stamp, a little groan of pain, and then some shuffling. A pencil finally appeared.
‘Am now, Sarge, carry on; I’m all ears.’
‘Right,’ and he rubbed his hands together. ‘To the left of the door and in front of the open filing cabinet is lying prone a female body, in her neck appear to be two knives. Blood is on the rug and on the floor. There is a footprint in blood heading to the door. To the right of the door is a desk, and on that desk I can see a lamp, an open ledger, and some papers. Are you getting everything, Spekes?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Er... Sarge?’
MacGilliudy emitted a deep sigh. ‘What is it Constable Popham?’
‘Mr Goup says he wants to throw up, he ain’t looking too good, you know.’
‘Well, could you ask Mr Goup to kindly go and puke somewhere else, this is a crime scene and I don’t want any extras.’
A retching noise entered the sergeant’s ears.
‘Sorry, Sarge, too late.’
MacGillicudy closed his eyes as the odour wafted beneath his nose. ‘Thank you, Popham, I think I can tell that now.’
Some hurried footsteps came up the stairs and a breathless constable stuck his head around the outer office door. ‘Message from the Captain, Sarge; he says you ain’t to touch or do anything. He wants you to seal up the building and wait for Cornwallis to come. He says he’s sorry but the order comes from above.’
‘What?’ bellowed MacGillicudy, his anger exploding like a volcano. ‘What the hell does the Captain mean by handing a perfectly good murder over to someone like Cornwallis?’
‘You’ll have to speak to the Captain, Sarge; I’m just telling you what he said.’ The constable hadn’t ventured any further than the door and he could see the three others begin to edge away from the puce looking sergeant as he struggled to contain himself.
*
THE EATERY AND THE noodle shop were beginning to do a brisk business as the afternoon moved on to evening. The piazza had filled up and the buzz of conversations echoed around as people began to meet up to eat, drink, and catch up on the day’s news. Big George had taken a rest from pedalling and sat with his friend, a panda called Mike, enjoying a cool glass of Bamboo Soda.
Frankie leant back and slid over a piece of paper with an address written in black ink. ‘Go ‘round there tomorrow, George, he said he might have some work for you. Won’t pay much, but if you do a good job, there might be more.’
‘Thanks, Mr Kandalwick.’ The slow voice had a bass resonance. ‘Rats is it?’
‘Rats it is. All you can eat and pay to go with it; what more could a bear ask?’
‘You’re good to me, Mr Kandalwick; I won’t let you down. Be ‘round there first thing in the morning.’
‘That’s my bear.’
Frankie turned his attention back to Cornwallis, though Cornwallis’ attention was at that moment drawn elsewhere. A man had appeared wearing a black stove pipe hat and a duck arse jacket. Knee breeches and gaiters finished the ensemble.
‘Feeler on the prowl, Frankie; now, who do you suppose he’s after?’ Cornwallis pointed to the little alley off to the side of the Duke; the officer seemed to be studying the little square as though looking for something or someone.
Frankie narrowed his eyes in the dim light as the oil lamps had yet to be lit. ‘Looks like old Wiggins to me.’
Wiggins nodded to himself as he spied Cornwallis and Frankie; he shrugged and then strode purposefully over.
‘Mr Cornwallis, Frankie,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Captain Bough sent me to find yer.’ He rummaged in his pocket and brought out a neatly folded piece of paper. ‘I’ve got to give you this.’ He handed the note over to Cornwallis and then stood and cast his experienced eyes around the square, looking for anything that might be amiss. He might have been old and well past his prime but he had been a constable for twenty six years and he could smell a wrong ‘un from half a mile away.
Cornwallis carefully unfolded the note and began to read. Halfway through he raised an eyebrow and then glanced at Frankie; he smiled a little as he carried on before breaking into a wide grin. He re-folded the note and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Well?’ enquired Frankie, curious as to what the note said.
‘Well, indeed,’ smiled a satisfied Cornwallis, ‘I am pleased to announce that we now have some gainful employment.’ He patted the note in his pocket. ‘When you eventually finish that drink of yours, then our friendly neighbourhood constable will guide us to our house of mysteries.’
Frankie drained his glass in one, wiped his arm across his mouth and banged the glass back down on the table. ‘Then what are we waiting for? You can tell me all about it on the way.’
*
A CROWD HAD GATHERED at Greenwalsh Avenue and Constable Wiggins had to force a path through for Cornwallis and Frankie; word had gone around quicker than a fly on acid, and those assembled waited eagerly for any juicy gossip that could be quickly turned into a free pint.
Sergeant MacGillicudy waited on the staircase, far from happy. His flamboyant side whiskers seemed to bristle and his nose twitched as he spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Evening to you, Cornwallis. I’m not best pleased about this and I’ll have you know I will be speaking to the Captain.’ He stood straight as a ramrod and directed his address to just above Cornwallis’ head. It took an effort to get the words out, but he felt he put enough contempt into them to make his point.
‘Sergeant,’ acknowledged Cornwallis, and then grinned. ‘I have a note here from your Captain, and he has assured me you will do your utmost to help us with this enquiry. He even says that you yourself are to make yourself available and are now, if fact, to function under my direction. So Sergeant, how do you feel about calling me Sir?’ Cornwallis felt that he had evened up the score and now watched MacGillicudy twitch as he digested the information. He actually liked the man, they had even shared a drink or two in the past and he understood how the sergeant felt; to solve the murder would have been a feather in his cap if he could have rooted out the perpetrator: but for some reason Bough had given it over to him, so the question went through his mind, why? He knew that MacGillicudy was nobody’s fool, and as feelers went, he was one of the best. Given time he would probably solve it, but it had fallen into his lap and he couldn’t help thinking that there was more to this than met the eye — and he hadn’t even seen the body yet.
Cornwallis stepped over the pile of vomit and then studied the scene from the doorway, allowing all the little details to burn into his memory. Frankie stood behind and peered over his shoulder.
‘Hmmm,’ contemplated Cornwallis aloud. ‘Is that boot print one of yours, Jethro?’
‘You know me better than that, Jack,’ replied MacGillicudy, insulted. ‘No one’s been in yet, except maybe Mr Goup. He found her and it’s his office. A Miss Knutt, he says, his cleaner.’
‘Is he still here?’
‘Downstairs, back office. Though he ain’t feeling too good at the moment.’
‘Frankie, would you go and have a quick word with Mr Goup and see whether he came in and what he did while he was here. I’ll come and speak to him when I’m done.’
Frankie turned away and went downstairs; Cornwallis could hear him muttering to himself and grandmother and eggs featured prominently.
‘Right, Sergeant,’ said Cornwallis, rubbing his hands. ‘I want you to get an artist up here and get this lot pictured. A close up of the boot print and the body if you please. Now, let’s see what’s in the cabinet.’ He stepped into the room, and careful to avoid the blood, tip-toed over to the cabinet. He leant over the deceased and looked inside.
If he expected to see anything interesting then at first he felt disappointed. There were files, lots of files, all in alphabetical order, rows and rows of them. The only interesting thing, he supposed, was that someone had left the file open on the letter D. He peered closer and began to read down the list. His first impressions were wrong, some of the names, cross referenced to another number, he supposed to another file, were very interesting indeed. Turning his attention to Miss Knutt, he stepped back and knelt down. The blood had turned a nice deep colour now, having spent too long away from the nice warm insides of the deceased. The knives were quite ornate with ivory handles and he supposed thin blades, making an aesthetically pleasing arrangement with the V of the handles beneath the round grey bun of hair on the back of Miss Knutt’s head. He glanced along the length of the body and found nothing out of the ordinary. Standing up, he began to look around the rest of the room, then over to the desk and looked in the ledger, again names, but this time with appointments, a diary in fact. He read down the list for that day.
‘Sergeant, would you care to start organising your men. I want that crowd out there spoken to and could you go around all the buildings in the street; see if anyone saw or heard anything, who came in, and who went out. You know the sort of thing we need.’ There were just too many people to question; he and Frankie couldn’t deal with it all, and he could always go and re-interview should anything of any substance crop up.
MacGillicudy sighed, but though tempted, knew better than to make life difficult. He nodded and then disappeared down the stairs.
Cornwallis tapped his finger against the last name in the diary as he thought. Mr Morris Bezell and it concerned his tax demand. He thought a little more as something niggled there, something not quite right. He tapped again as if the act would force his mind to clarity.
As he thought, Frankie returned from speaking to Mr Goup; he still had a smile on his face as he had seen the melee outside as Sergeant MacGillicudy and his constables got to work. ‘He didn’t go into the room,’ he informed Cornwallis, ‘he just puked on the landing and ran. Though he did say that the knives were his and that they had been on the table; used ‘em for opening his letters, he said. Miss Knutt had only worked for him for a few days as his normal cleaner had gone off to visit some relative: just a temporary replacement, so he doesn’t know much about her. The other partners are dead, so Mr Goup is the only one left.’
Cornwallis looked up as Frankie disturbed his thoughts. ‘So we know the boot print must have come from our friend, but why kill an innocent cleaner?’
‘Was she innocent though?’ replied Frankie, raising his eyebrows in question. ‘You can’t tell these days; don’t you remember Ethel Pinns?’
Cornwallis winced; he did, but thankfully, that case hadn’t involved him as the repercussions were widely felt. Ethel Pinns had been secretary of the knitting circle as well as chair of two charities. She had been rich, but nobody thought to wonder how. Unbeknownst to anyone, she ran two brothels, a protection racket, and operated as the biggest loan shark in Gornstock. Eighty three years old and she had been operating beneath the law for sixty two of them. A mass resignation in the Assembly followed her arrest; eighteen members were tied up with Ethel Pinns and her operation. ‘Such a trusting fellow you are, Frankie, I bet your mother’s proud of you.’
Frankie grinned. ‘Of course she is; I’m the only one in the family who never got caught.’
‘I caught you.’
‘Yes, but you ain’t the feelers, so it don’t count.’
Cornwallis shook his head slowly in defeat; to Frankie that logic was fool-proof. He turned his attention back to the diary; something still niggled there, but it wouldn’t quite click into place. He pulled out a notebook and copied out all the day’s appointments, then walked over to the cabinet and listed all the names and references that showed there. He flipped through the files again, and once done, closed his book and slipped it back into his jacket pocket before stepping back and scanning the scene once more. ‘I think you might be right, Frankie. Our Miss Knutt had been looking for something, and someone didn’t want her to find it. You can see specks of blood on the cabinet and on the inside of the drawer, but not on the files themselves. She had a file open and was reading it when it happened, otherwise there would be blood all over the files. She’s lying in front of the cabinet with the knives in the back of the neck, so she must have been bending over the drawer when the assailant struck. I think somebody panicked when they saw her looking at something she shouldn’t. Mr Goup has got a few things to tell us; he’s an accountant, so one thing’s for certain, he’s not above bending the law.’
The last of the light began to disappear so Cornwallis lit the oil lamp on the desk; it spluttered as it caught, so he turned the wick down a little as the smoke rose, blackening the glass. A weak illumination filled the room as he pursed his lips in thought; Frankie stood at the door with his hands deep in his pockets, tapping impatiently with his foot.
‘You all done now?’ asked Frankie, eager to get back to the pub. ‘We can have another quick word with the accountant and then get straight back down to the Stoat to chew things over. MacGillicudy can wait for the picture-man.’
Cornwallis suddenly grinned to himself, he hadn’t heard a word Frankie had said. ‘Mr Morris Bezel, Mr M Bezel. Embezzle! Clever, but no banana.’
Frankie stopped tapping his foot and looked confused. ‘Er?’
‘The last entry in the diary, Frankie,’ explained Cornwallis patiently, ‘an appointment with a Mr Morris Bezel. I knew there was something wrong with it. It’s someone’s little joke, and if we find out whose, then we may have our man. Let’s find where the rest of the files are and then go and see if Jethro has come up with anything.’
The main files were easy to find. They were in the back room and stacked in cabinets from floor to ceiling, but there were too many to go through now; they would just have to wait until they had a good few months to spare.
MacGillicudy hadn’t had any luck at all. Nobody had seen anything, or more to the point, nobody had seen anything that they were prepared to talk about. He shook his head as he turned to Cornwallis standing at the door. ‘Nobody noticed a thing, they say. Look at the street: a coffee shop just over there, a fruit and veg’ man over there, a lawyer next door, and a funeral parlour next to that. At the top of the street, there’s a tavern, and fancy shops all along the road and they’re all telling me they saw nothing, zilch, bugger all. I don’t believe them: somebody saw something somewhere.’
‘I’m sure someone did,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘But we both know how things stand. Nobody wants a reputation as a grass and end up like our corpse upstairs. Perhaps a few quiet words might elicit a better response.’ It looked like Frankie would have to speak to people and that was going to take time; but at least he could probably persuade someone to talk, as Frankie asked in a way that the feelers couldn’t, well, not in front of an audience, that is. ‘Is the artist on the way?’ he asked, in the hope that something might actually go right.
‘Should be here soon,’ answered MacGillicudy dejectedly. ‘I sent Dewdrop. At least that’s something he can do without cocking it up too much. Jack, this force is going to the dogs. Look at what I have to work with nowadays; snot nosed pimply arsed little shits most of ‘em, and they still need their mothers to wipe their bottoms for them. The Captain tells me that’s the type of recruit we need, young, keen, and no experience, so that we can teach them how to be proper feelers: and I have to put up with the little bastards. Give me someone who has been around the block a few times I say, someone who knows the ways of the world, someone I can turn into a proper feeler.’
‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Jethro,’ replied Cornwallis with a grin, ‘but times change, and we have to change with them. You could always come and work for me if it’s getting too much for you.’
MacGillicudy narrowed his eyes. ‘Jack, you can just stick that idea where the sun don’t shine.’
‘Always the diplomat, Jethro, always the diplomat.’
Cornwallis and Frankie left MacGillicudy to finish and headed back into the building to speak to Mr Goup. Frankie led the way down the dark passage to the back office where a thin beam of light crept beneath a door. Frankie banged once and flung open the door, and then stared in disbelief. Cornwallis pushed past him and stopped just as abruptly. The room was empty; Mr Goup had gone.
‘You sure this is the right room, Frankie?’ asked Cornwallis, a little bemused, ‘as there seems to be a distinct lack of people in here.’
‘The sod’s run,’ responded Frankie, hurrying over to the still open window. ‘The little shit has upped and legged it.’
Cornwallis had to agree. It seemed as if the accountant had totted up the figures and come to a total he didn’t like, that is, all the answers came back to him. ‘Your friendly Mr Goup, deciding that discretion being the better part of valour, has vacated the premises. I reckon he was in this right up to his balance sheets. Have a look to see if you can see where he went, but I think he’s long gone now.’
Frankie disappeared out of the window and into the dark back yard outside. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the change in light as straight away he clattered into the bin. The resultant crash echoing away into the distance as the lid hit the ground and rolled away, which startled the cat, in the process of rooting out rats, which lived amongst the scraps left by the humans. The cat took umbrage and attacked Frankie with sharp razor-like claws, hissing menacingly, as though Frankie had no right to be there amongst all the carnage outside in the dark; it was a feline world and the cat took exception to the interloper trying to take the food from its mouth. Frankie slipped on something soft and squelchy and fell backwards into rubbish stacked against the back wall; he kicked out his leg and connected to the cat which screamed as it flew through the air. Frankie scrambled back to his feet and lashed out again, a box went flying, and the rat, between his foot and the box, exploded in a shower of blood and guts. Frankie’s language, which in normality was coarse, rose to a totally new level. The cat crept back and Frankie saw the slit eyes reflecting in the pale moonlight. He reached forward, grabbed the cat around the throat and pulled it towards him. ‘Where did he go?’ he hissed menacingly. ‘We’re with the Police.’
‘Screw youse,’ spat the cat, and then sunk its teeth deep into Frankie’s forearm. Frankie yelled and dropped the cat like a hot coal. He swung his foot but failed to connect, and then the cat slunk out of the way again and hissed. ‘Youse wants to know where the man went? Well, youse going the wrong way to find out.’
Frankie took a deep breath, trying to control his temper; this wasn’t going at all well. ‘Okay, Okay. I’m sorry,’ he finally muttered. He looked around and saw Cornwallis framed in the window as he leant forward nonchalantly with his elbow on the sill propping up his chin, and he knew, although he couldn’t see, that he wore a wicked grin on his face. He turned his attention back to the cat. ‘Okay, you win. I want to know where he went.’
‘That’s better,’ rasped the cat, as it slunk back into Frankie’s view. It sat down and began to lick its paw. ‘That weren’t a nice thing youse did just then, mebbe I shouldn’t help youse.’
‘Look,’ said Frankie, becoming exasperated now, ‘I’ve said I’m sorry, what more do you want? If you don’t want to help then I’ll go get a dog to sniff out the man we’re after.’
The cat stopped licking and fixed Frankie with an evil stare. ‘Dogs are stupid, they’s can’t talk and they’s unreliable. All they think about is food and humping table legs, and the bitches are even worse.’
Frankie only just kept his temper in check. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Fish,’ came the response. ‘A box of fish, fresh from the salty briny. Untainted and ungutted, just as nature intended.’
‘No problem,’ answered Frankie straight away. ‘I can get some sent up tomorrow. What’s yer name?’ The cat for the first time hesitated. He whispered, and Frankie struggled to hear. ‘Didn’t catch it, speak louder.’
‘I said Fluffy, all right.’
Frankie couldn’t help it, he burst into laughter.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, and before youse start, I’ve heard all the jokes. It were the kids that named me, but boy, did they regrets it.’ He mimed a swipe with his paw, the claws glinting like highly polished daggers.
‘Come on,’ said Frankie, wiping his eyes, ‘I ain’t got all night.’
Fluffy jumped up and sat on a box at eye level and Frankie stared into the eyes of a ginger tom, its fighting abilities apparent by the scars. If the cat was human, it would have a spiders web tattoo etched across its face.
‘This other ‘uman, ‘e came from the alley an’ crept up to the winda. He tapped, and the ‘uman inside opened the winda. They were whispering, so I couldn’t hear wot they said, but the inside man climbed out an’ then they both hurried down the alley an’ got into a coach.’
‘Interesting,’ remarked Frankie. ‘Did you see what the man looked like? I mean the one who knocked on the window. What sort of coach, and which way did it go?’
‘Youse want to know a lot, don’t you?’ answered Fluffy.
‘A box of fish can make you very popular with the ladies,’ surmised Frankie. ‘I suppose how popular depends on what’s inside.’
Fluffy regarded Frankie for a moment and then seemed to deflate into a small round ball. ‘Youse right; them posh ones down the road won’t even look at me, an alley cat they calls me, come back when you’ve made something of yerself, they says. I reckon a box of lobster, prawns an’ halibut would do the trick, don’t you?’
‘Might well, but how would you get into the Lobster?’
‘You’ll cook and crack it open for me, won’t youse.’
Frankie chuckled. ‘I could, but I could also leave it alive. Those claws could give a cat a nasty nip on the nose.’
‘Youse wouldn’t do that, youse like me, come from the gutter. Like looks after like, ain’t that the rools?’
‘You ain’t looking after me; you’re trying to bargain with me. Come on, out with the information or no deal.’
Fluffy sighed and then sat up again. He stretched luxuriously as only cats can and then settled back down. ‘It were too dark to see the man, but ‘e were dressed in good clothes, no tat, all expensive like; had a cane wiv a silver knob on the end. The coach were dark too, but it had one of them signs on the back, don’t ask me wot it said, as cats can’t read; oh yeah, and it had yellow writing down the side, but it didn’t ‘ang around, it rushed off, heading off towards the river.’
‘Thanks, Fluffy, I’ll send a box ‘round tomorrow.’ Frankie went to pat the cat on the head, but hesitated; then withdrew his hand thinking better of it.
Fluffy jumped down, disappeared into the yard and within a couple of seconds, a hiss and a crash indicated that hostilities had recommenced; there then followed a few moments of silence. ‘Sodding rats,’ spat Fluffy.
Frankie grinned then quickly checked the alley but found nothing, so he went to the end and stood looking down the street towards the river. He was in the suburbs and that way led into town as opposed to out of it. The coach could have gone anywhere, but at least it hadn’t disappeared into the country. He looked down and saw two steaming piles of horse shit: that won’t be there in the morning, he thought fleetingly, I could do with that for my roses.
Frankie climbed back in through the window and found Cornwallis sitting at the desk; he didn’t turn around, so Frankie went up and looked over his shoulder at whatever held Cornwallis’ attention. It was a blotter, with doodles of a hanging man.
‘You reckon that’s our Mr Goup?’ asked Frankie, pointing a stubby finger at the drawing.
‘Reckon so,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘Seems he may have got a bit of a fright on. I heard what the cat said. Seems the coach was of the hired variety, so we are just going to have to check around. I have a feeling that this case is going to get complicated.’ He sat back and rubbed his eyes. ‘Come on, I’ve had enough here. MacGillicudy can keep a guard on the place and we can turn it over tomorrow. Let’s get back down the Stoat and you can give me your thoughts.’