23
I headed straight for the newspaper office, which I had never done on a Sunday before; articles on scientific discoveries were rarely so urgent.
The place was almost empty, with only a skeleton staff. I sat in the calm and quiet, my hands on the typewriter, and began. I was amazed at how the words flowed from my fingers to the keys without visiting my brain on the way. They seemed to write themselves.
I all but accused Coffey of the murder of Oswald Drake, citing his well-known affection for Elspeth, his appropriation of the penny gaff and his access to a syringe and morphine. I suggested that Drake had fought back, and in the struggle, the pinprick had been made unusually large, though it was likely made by a conventional needle. I called upon the police to take appropriate action and also to release Sister Agnes, who had been so unfairly dubbed the Butcher of Berner Street.
J. T. always said that there was no such thing as hypocrisy in the newspaper game.
By the time I got home, I was exhausted and tender, but still had to spend an hour standing at the bowl in my room washing my sanitary cloths.
Afterwards, I headed downstairs, hoping that Alfie might be persuaded to take some whisky. I was relishing the chance to waste the evening with him. But he was poring over a large piece of paper with Mrs Gower, each of them holding a pencil.
‘What do you think?’ he asked me.
The drawing depicted a plan view of the new shop, with twin counters angled to face the door and a number of rectangles denoting the dentistry chair and various cupboards, with labels such as ‘Remedies’, ‘Products for Ladies’ and ‘Spectacles’. This last was an expansion for him, made possible by the larger floorplan and more populous location.
‘You seem to have thought of everything,’ I said.
He straightened up, a serious expression settling on his face. ‘The thing is, Mrs Gower and I want to get things moving quickly. We’re planning to get married in the next month or so.’
‘A small ceremony,’ added Mrs Gower. ‘We hope you can come?’
‘Of course. I would love to.’
I shook Alfie’s hand, genuinely happy for him, but also wondering why it had to be so soon. I seemed to be filled to the brim with equal parts of gladness and misery.
I went into the back room and sat at the table, my favourite place in the world.
It wasn’t long before my mind wandered back to Rosie’s droll suggestion that we should get married. It might almost be worth it, I thought, just to see the look on my sister’s face if she ever found out. She always acted as though the state of marriage was the pinnacle of human achievement, but I was certain my finding a wife was not what she had in mind. In fact, she would think me even more ungodly than before, responsible for another’s damnation as well as my own.
But Rosie didn’t think that way. She knew I was a man.
Surely, she had been jesting.
On the shelf above Alfie’s books, a microscope held pride of place. Its brass was polished to a glorious shine and its wooden plinth looked like new. Constance had bought it from a market stall in pieces and carried it home in a shoebox. She had emptied it out on to the table, and she and Alfie had spent the following days cleaning each part and assembling the mechanism using screws as small as ants. When they’d finished, they discovered a lens was missing, so they scoured the shops every Saturday afternoon until finally Alfie presented her with the perfect one as a gift for Christmas. They fitted the final pieces together on Boxing Day, and since then had used it to examine all manner of things: water, salt, insects and their own fingernails. They were a family, bonded by love and time, with all the associated joys and irritations.
By comparison, I knew little of Rosie’s children, understood nothing of making pies or running a business. In truth, I was entirely ignorant of her life beyond the adventures we’d shared, and she was ignorant of mine. She’d seen what I was underneath these clothes, but she’d never seen me dabbing the sores under my armpits or wringing out my sanitary cloths. We were the best of friends, yet virtual strangers.
I supposed marriage would change that, in time. Endless mundane minutes together, eating breakfast, polishing shoes, repairing gutters and saving pennies in a jar. The same conversations and the same complaints. It sounded awful, except … except it wasn’t, was it? Part of me yearned for exactly those things; leftovers for dinner, a familiar creak in the floorboards, a pillow shaped by my head.
But with Rosie?
Surely, she had been jesting.
The following morning, I arrived at the office and flipped through the newspaper for my article. I was gratified to see it had survived the subeditors’ attentions almost intact, but was disappointed that it was on page five. Over the last few days I’d rather enjoyed having more prominence. I supposed the story wasn’t salacious enough; ‘man probably killed other man’ didn’t have the same appeal as the tale of a murderous, wrestling woman religious.
I’d barely finished reading it before J. T. approached me like a rat-catcher who’d finally found the nest.
‘Any more on the nun? We need a lead article for tomorrow.’
I almost grinned. ‘I believe they’ll be arresting Nicholas Coffey very soon, and no one else knows it’s going to happen. Just me. It’ll be an exclusive.’
He looked surprised and … was that a hint of pride? It was hard to tell. ‘Good. In the meantime, you can finish that book review.’
As soon as he’d gone, Harry shuffled in, early by his standards. My guess was he’d been watching through the crack in the door until his father was off the scene. He sat down, making a play of organising his pens.
I cleared my throat to get his attention. ‘How was your evening with Mrs Flowers?’
I spoke coldly, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Five out of ten. I won’t be repeating it, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘Why not?’
‘It isn’t cheap, something like that. I expected a bit more gratitude.’
‘Gratitude? In what form?’
He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Sometimes, two people simply aren’t destined for each other.’
He cast a longing glance towards Miss Chive, who was filing papers in J. T.’s office. She sensed his gaze and turned in our direction before looking hastily away. Her cheeks and nose were speckled with marks where the glass had cut into her skin, and her forehead was wrapped in a bandage.
A hollowness opened up inside me. What had happened to her was my fault. They’d thrown that brick because of the articles I’d written.
‘You should talk to Miss Chive,’ I told Harry. ‘She’s suffering. Why don’t you ask her if she’d like to go for a walk with you?’
He went back to arranging his pens, making the shape of a house on his desk. ‘Maybe when … you know.’
When she’s healed, he meant. When she’s no longer visibly wounded. When she’s presentable.
The door banged open and Detective Ripley came in, eyeing the office with an air of a soldier caught in enemy territory.
J. T. hurried back over. ‘Can we help you, Detective Sergeant?’
Ripley pointed at me. ‘I’ve come to take Mr Stanhope to Scotland Yard.’
My plan was working. They must’ve arrested Coffey already.
J. T. raised himself to his full height. ‘I should come too. I’m the Assistant Editor here.’
Ripley waved him away. ‘Just Stanhope.’
I held up my notebook and pen. ‘Don’t worry, J. T., I’ll get notes of everything. I’ll be sure to make the deadline this time, I promise.’
This could be another top story.
A Black Maria was waiting on the street, and we climbed inside.
Ripley pulled the curtains closed so we were sitting in the half-dark, making me feel strangely as if we were sharing a coffin.
‘I take it you’ve already been to the gaff today, Detective Sergeant.’
‘I have. I spend more time in White-bloody-chapel than I do in my own patch, thanks to you.’
‘Did you find anything significant? Incriminating, I mean?’
‘I certainly did.’
He lit a cigarette, breathing it in deeply, closing his eyes and exhaling with a contented sigh. Only when he’d expelled all the smoke from his lungs did he offer me one as well. I took it and he struck a safety match, the flare illuminating the dust and mould in the carriage.
‘Do you think we should?’
One of his eyes was half closed, making him seem somnolent, but I knew better.
‘I think Nicholas Coffey killed Oswald Drake. If you’ve arrested him, I want an exclusive on the story. You owe me that.’
He gazed at me through the smoke. ‘Do I?’
We pulled up at Scotland Yard, and I could hear the sound of hooves and wheels on the cobblestones. The carriage door opened, and the sudden light was blinding. I stepped out, shielding my eyes, and saw Pallett waiting for us. He tipped his helmet as we disembarked.
‘This way, Mr Stanhope.’
‘Have you arrested Coffey yet?’
‘All in due course, sir.’
I felt a peculiar coldness in my stomach. The police should’ve been grateful for my help, offering to let me accompany them as they made the arrest. Perhaps a one-to-one interview with Coffey in his cell. Instead, they seemed secretive and formal, as though I wasn’t a trusted man of the press, but a suspect.
I shot a look back towards the street, feeling the familiar urge to run.
Pallett put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Come along, sir.’
He led the way into the rear entrance of the police headquarters, along a smoky corridor, down some echoic stairs and into the bowels of the place. We passed a room full of secretaries, their fingers dancing on their typewriters, earmuffs tucked under their hats to block out the deafening racket.
I’d been in Ripley’s office before and knew what to expect. The gas lamp overhead hissed and crackled and the waterpipes rang, as though somewhere far away, at the top of their long journey through every WC and sink in the building, someone was tapping on the porcelain. None of this bothered Ripley. I’d previously thought he’d been given this ghastly tank as some form of punishment, but he seemed to take joy in its plainness, in the sheen of condensation over the walls and furniture, in its remoteness from his colleagues occupying their airy, well-lit rooms upstairs.
I sat on the metal chair, facing him on the other side of the desk. Pallett remained standing by the door.
‘Where’s Nicholas Coffey?’ I asked. ‘Do you accept he’s guilty now? What evidence did you find at the gaff ?’
Ripley leaned back. ‘No one knows where he is.’
‘Then why am I here?’
He seemed to sense my discomfort. ‘When did you last see him?’
I pretended to think back. ‘Last Thursday in Whitehall Gardens.’
‘And when did you last visit the penny gaff in Berner Street?’
All my senses were alert now, dragging my internal perspective back to its natural condition: at all costs, hide the truth.
‘On the day after Drake was murdered. You and I were both there.’
‘Not since then?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Ripley popped his knuckles and turned to Pallett. ‘Show him.’
Pallett reached into his bag and pulled out a black coat. He turned the label towards me. It read: Leo Stanhope.
My mind seemed to shrink back from my skull.
Ripley leaned forward. ‘You said you last saw Coffey on Thursday in Whitehall. Did you lend him your coat?’ He fished into the pocket and pulled something out. It was my door key. ‘And invite him to your lodging?’
I clasped my fingers together on my lap and answered calmly, in the manner of an honest man explaining a simple truth.
‘No, of course not. You already know I’ve been there before. I obviously left my coat behind by mistake.’
Ripley observed me, one eye half closed, and Pallett shifted his weight from foot to foot. I realised they knew more than they were telling me.
‘See, Stanhope,’ mumbled Ripley, his face contorted as if pained by my feeble attempt at deception. ‘You and I saw each other on Friday at the police station before that little skirmish, and I’m certain you were wearing that coat at the time. So, you must’ve been at the gaff after that, to have left it there, mustn’t you? Stands to reason. Which means you’re lying to me.’
I could feel my heart beating. ‘Are you certain it was the same coat? Do you normally take note of such things? And it makes no difference anyway. It’s not a crime to lose your coat.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Ripley looked up at Pallett. ‘Constable?’
‘Sergeant.’ Pallett corrected him.
The two men exchanged a slow look. Though opposites in temperament and physical design, they were the same rank now.
Ripley gave the merest nod. ‘Sergeant. The newspaper, please.’
Pallett opened up a copy of the Daily Chronicle. ‘Your article, Mr Stanhope. You clearly indicate here that you believe Mr Coffey is guilty of the murder of Oswald Drake.’
‘Yes, that’s correct. He is.’
‘Yet previously, you accused Agnes Munro. Now you say she’s been wrongfully imprisoned.’
Ripley shifted in his seat, uncomfortable that Pallett had started asking questions. ‘A bit fickle, aren’t you, Stanhope?’
I didn’t reply.
Ripley took an age to light a cigarette. Even Pallett gave an audible sigh as the fifth match failed to spark. When he was finally able to inhale a lungful of smoke, the detective closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, allowing it to hang in the air between us.
‘We searched through Coffey’s possessions at the gaff, as your newspaper article demanded. The higher-ups …’ he pointed to the ceiling, where the pipes were gurgling with another gush of liquid. ‘They like the general public to believe we leave no stone unturned. I didn’t expect to find anything, not because Coffey’s an honest man but because he’s not a stupid one. For example, it would seem far-fetched that he’d leave incriminating evidence behind among his box of clothes. And yet, there it was, a syringe like the one used on Oswald Drake before he was murdered, with more than a whiff of morphine lingering about it.’
‘Well then, Detective Sergeant, you should arrest Coffey, like I suggested.’
Ripley nodded. ‘Believe me, I would like nothing more, if I could find him. I don’t know what he’s guilty of, but I’m quite certain it’s something. Right now, I’m more concerned with you and your coat. See, a beggar boy gave it to us. Big lad he is and quite unpleasant. A life of crime ahead of him and probably behind him as well. On balance, we might as well hang him now and save ourselves a lot of trouble. But he was keen to show us your coat because he wanted very much to find the young fellow who’d left it behind. The two of ’em fought, I understand, and he lost, and so would like a rematch. Any thoughts on who that Cinderella might be?’
‘No. Did he recognise him?’
‘Strange you should ask. No, he didn’t.’
‘Well then. This has nothing to do with me.’
Ripley smiled congenially and I felt my stomach lurch.
‘The thing is, Stanhope, we have him here in our custody. Why don’t we introduce the two of you?’
Pallett left and came back with the lad, who was wearing a tatty jacket and a hangdog scowl. His cheekbone was bruised to a livid purple.
Ripley pointed his cigarette. ‘What’s your name, son?’
The lad’s eyes swivelled from side to side, trying to work out whether he was in trouble. Finding no reason why he shouldn’t admit the truth, he muttered: ‘Lewis Hawkins.’
‘Do you recognise anyone in this room?’
I straightened my bowler and jacket and adopted a severe countenance.
You’re a grown man and a reporter with a newspaper. You have a room and respectable friends. You’re nothing like the person he remembers.
Hawkins squinted at me, but there was no recognition in his eyes.
‘No.’
Ripley looked disappointed.
‘Tell us about the young man you met at the gaff, Master Hawkins.’
Hawkins opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. The detective sighed and poked the bruise on the lad’s face, eliciting a yelp he seemed to find satisfying.
‘Who beat you?’
Hawkins clenched his fists. ‘Some bastard I don’t know. It weren’t fair. I would’ve won. He jabbed me in the leg with something.’
‘Can you describe him?’
The lad squirmed, trying to free himself from Pallett’s vast hand on his shoulder. ‘He was my age. Funny-looking. Oily hair.’
Ripley pulled his face into a grimace. He’d clearly been hoping for something more damning. ‘All right, Sergeant, boot this imbecile out.’
Pallett knocked on the door and a constable came in. I recognised him as the blond man who’d attempted to arrest Sister Agnes at the convent and been thrown against the dumb-iron of the carriage. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Clearly, he viewed Hawkins as a lesser threat, because he grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out of the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
I turned to the detective. ‘You see? None of this has anything to do with me. I haven’t committed any crime. You should be putting your attention to the murder of Mr Drake. Your job is to find Coffey, not sit in here wasting everyone’s time.’
Ripley sighed. ‘It’s not me who’s wasting time.’ He waved a hand at Pallett. ‘Bring in the other one.’
Pallett left again and returned with another constable, younger, with a fuzz of beard around his chin. Between them, moon-faced Maria was pulling and twisting, grubby as a stray dog, toes peeping through the ends of her shoes.
The young constable pulled up her arm, forcing her to stand straight. When she tried to scratch him with her other hand, he slapped her face hard enough to raise a red mark on her cheek.
Pallett released the girl from his subordinate’s grip. ‘Less of that, Eddie. There’s no need.’ It sounded like a suggestion, but the constable took it as an instruction and stood back, looking sheepish.
Ripley smiled at the girl, not unkindly. ‘What do you have to tell us, young lady?’
She cast a brief, unimpressed glance around the room and folded her arms. I lowered my chin and pulled down the brim of my hat.
‘Ten shillings,’ she said.
Ripley blinked a couple of times and almost grinned. It was a rare thing to see in him, honest delight. So often, his expressions were deployed as tactics on the battlefield; a frown, a sniff, a raise of the eyebrows, all arrayed to unsettle a suspect and elicit more information. But this girl genuinely amused him.
‘What’s your name, kid?’
‘Annie Dowling.’
A lie. Or, I supposed, the name Maria might be the lie. Or both of them. Or she was Maria and Annie, each at different times, and a dozen other names besides. Or she had no real name.
Ripley cracked his knuckles. ‘What do you have to tell me, Annie?’
‘Ten shillings.’
‘One.’
‘Eight.’
Ripley paused for a heartbeat, a trace of that grin still clinging to his face. He fished in his trouser pocket and pulled out half a crown. In the gaslight, it cast a large shadow on the wall, as if he was holding up the moon.
‘This, and no more.’
She took the coin, gripping it tightly in her fist.
‘All right then, I’ll tell you.’ She thumbed towards me. ‘This one was at the gaff two nights ago. He came dressed as one of us, but he weren’t. He stabbed Lewis with a needle and hit Mr Coffey on his head with a box.’
Ripley took a long, slow pull on his cigarette. ‘I see. And the needle used to stab that young man, did it look anything like this?’
He fished into his jacket pocket and withdrew the syringe.
The girl nodded. ‘The very one.’