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Tilly barked ferociously as Trotter appeared in the doorway.
The young man stepped back from the threshold and hid behind the door. “What’s that dog doing here?”
Billings put down his book, got off the crate and went towards his dog. “Don’t mind Tilly. She’ll stop barking once you’re in. Come on.”
Trotter stepped carefully into the office. The dog instantly lost interest and snuggled back into the corner.
“See?” Billings said.
“I’m sorry, Mr Billings, but I just don’t like dogs.” He looked around the office. It was in the same dire state as last time. “Oh, but you’re still not set up!”
“That’s because I was waiting for you.” Billings pointed at a bunch of flowers in Trotter’s hand. “What are those?”
“I picked them on my way to work. I thought they’d brighten up the office. Do you have anywhere for me to put them?”
“I’m sure there’s a suitable receptacle in one of these boxes. Come on, help me unpack.” Billings got off the crate and rolled up his sleeves.
Trotter sighed. “But I’m not dressed for heavy lifting,” he mumbled. He took off his jacket and placed it carefully on a crate. “Where do we start?”
It took Billings and Trotter an hour and a half to assemble the furniture and unpack the boxes. When that was done, Billings sent Trotter out to the market with two tin cups to get something to eat. He came back with pea soup and jellied eels, and a newspaper rolled under his arm. For the next hour, the two men sat at their respective desks, silently eating and reading.
Trotter looked up from his newspaper and glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s nearly noon. I hope I get paid for the whole day, even if there is no work.”
“Of course,” Billings said without taking his eyes off his book.
“When are you expecting our first client?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do they know where to find us?”
“I hope so.”
“Because there isn’t a sign on the door. If you hadn’t given me the address, I’d never have guessed this was a private detective firm.”
“Don’t worry. The clients will find us.”
“Did you place an advertisement in the newspapers?”
“No.”
“Then how will they find us?”
“They just will.”
Trotter frowned. “It seems to me you don’t really want the clients to find you.”
Billings looked up from his book. “As a matter of fact, a client did find me yesterday.”
“I thought you didn’t open at the weekend.”
“I didn’t. But she was desperate.”
“What did she want?”
“She said she was being followed by someone.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t take her seriously at first. I thought she was just another crackpot. This street is full of them. But there was something familiar about her eyes, and I now think I know who she is.”
“Who?”
“Someone I worked with once. I may pay her a visit later on. Just to see if she’s all right.”
“Can I come?”
“No.”
Trotter frowned and returned to his newspaper.
Billings put down his book. He rubbed his tired eyes, reclined in his seat and stretched out his legs. He clasped his hands on his belly. His eyelids were heavy, and he was about to doze off when Trotter suddenly said:
“They found more mutilated body parts in the Thames.”
Billings’ eyes sprang open. “What?”
“Haven’t you been following the story? A man’s been cut up. Parts of his body keep turning up all over the riverbank.”
“I never read the papers.”
Trotter gasped. “Mr Billings! How can you never read the papers? You’re a detective. You should know what’s happening in London.”
“I have you to keep me informed. So, what happened with the body parts?”
Trotter read out loud. “The remains found so far are as follows: Wednesday, left thigh at Horsleydown; Friday, torso near Nine Elms; Saturday, part of leg at Wandsworth; yesterday, left arm and hand at Limehouse.” He looked up from his paper and turned towards Billings, his eyes wide with excitement.
Billings didn’t stir. “Which part did they find today?”
“The head. They fished it out of the water at Bankside. Isn’t that gruesome?” He turned back towards the newspaper and read out: “Detective Sergeant Samuel Clarkson, who is leading the investigation, said that the incisions in the flesh showed that the body parts were removed with the use of a small knife or razor.”
Billings jolted in his seat. “Who did you say is leading the investigation?”
“Detective Sergeant Samuel Clarkson. Why? Do you know him?”
Billings frowned. “I knew him as Detective Constable Clarkson,” he mumbled. He leaned back into his chair and picked up his book. He pretended to read, but he couldn’t concentrate. So, Clarkson got promoted, he thought. Good old Clarkson. Must’ve happened shortly after he was kicked out.
“Shall I go and get us some coffee?” Trotter suggested.
“Good idea.”
Trotter got up and went to the sink, in which lay the used tin cups. He rinsed them under the tap, then looked out of the window as he shook them dry.
“There’s a gentleman outside,” he said.
Billings sat up. “A gentleman? What kind of gentleman?”
“He’s looking up at the building. Do you think he could be a client?”
“Ask him.”
Trotter put down the tin cups, opened the window and stuck out his head. “Can I help you, sir?”
A man replied. “I am looking for Mr Billings, Private Detective. I was told this is his address.”
“It is. He’s here. I’ll come down and let you in.” Trotter closed the window and turned towards his boss. “A client, at last!” He skipped out of the office.
He came back a short while later with a tall, skinny man in a dark suit and bowler hat.
Tilly barked hysterically. The man looked at her, unfazed.
Billings rushed towards the dog and tried to calm her down. “I do apologise. She’ll stop barking once you set foot inside the office.”
“Rather defeats the purpose of a guard dog,” the man said. He stepped into the office and, sure enough, the dog stopped barking. “You are Mr Billings, I take it.” The man’s dark, bushy eyebrows and full moustache made his clear blue eyes stand out.
“I am. How can I help you?”
The man looked around the room. “It’s a very small office.”
“Yes.”
“There was no sign at the door. I had no way of telling whether I had the right address.”
“We’ve only just opened, Mr... um...”
“You’re quite out of the way here in Spitalfields. It is not an area I normally venture into.”
“Rent is cheaper here. Do sit down, please.”
Trotter pulled his chair from behind his desk and placed it in the middle of the room.
The man did not sit down. He looked Trotter up and down. “And who is this?”
“That is my assistant. Mr Bartholomew Trotter.”
“How do you do?” Trotter reached his hand out to him, but the man did not take it.
“I have come about a private matter, Mr Billings. I’m not sure whether... um...” He looked at Trotter again.
“Mr Trotter helps me with all my cases. I can send him out of the office if you wish, but I shall be telling him everything in due course, so he might as well stay.”
The man shrugged. “Very well.” He finally sat down.
Trotter sat on his desk, rested his elbows on his knees and leaned in to listen.
The man took a photograph out of his inside pocket and placed it on Billings’ desk. “This is Rachel Bunton. She is my maid. She leaves my house every evening at seven and returns the following day at nine. I want you to follow her every day and report back to me. I want to know the places she visits, the things she does, the people she speaks to. Everything.”
Billings picked up the photograph and examined it. “May I ask why you want your maid followed?”
“No, you may not.”
“How many days would you like us to follow her?”
“I shall tell you when I’ve had enough.”
“It’s a time-consuming job, Mr, um...” He waited for the man’s name. The man remained silent. “You do realise I charge per hour.”
“How much do you charge?”
“A pound an hour.”
The man took a cheque book and pen out of his inside pocket. “I shall pay you ninety-eight pounds. That’ll be enough for the first week.” He wrote the cheque, tore it out and handed it to Billings.
“Thank you, Mr...um...” He looked at the cheque. “Doucet. Where do you wish us to send the reports?”
The man took a calling card out of his pocket and threw it on Billings’ desk. “Send them by post. Upon no account must you or your assistant visit me in person. If you don’t hear from me by next week, you may cease the operation.” He got up and made for the door.
“One more thing, Mr Doucet.”
The man stopped.
“How did you hear about me?”
“I saw your advertisement.”
“Where?”
The man thought about this.
“Was it The Times?” Billings prompted.
“That’s right. The Times. Goodbye, Mr Billings.” He walked out of the office.
Trotter looked at Billings. “I thought you hadn’t placed an advertisement.”
“I haven’t.”
***
CLERKENWELL GREEN MARKET was a hive of activity as traders packed up their wares and shut down their stalls. The person Billings had gone to visit lived opposite the market. He’d found her calling card in one of his desk drawers. The crazy woman who had visited him last night. Those large brown eyes which looked so familiar. He’d been pondering them all night and finally remembered whose they were. They were Madam Bovlatska’s. A clairvoyant who had twice helped Scotland Yard with a case.
Billings pressed the lever on the mechanical bell. No answer. He pressed again. Still nothing. Was it not working? There was so much noise going on behind him, it was hard to tell. He put his finger in his left ear, pressed his right ear against the door and rang again. The door opened suddenly, causing him to tumble into the building.
An angry woman stood in the opening. “Bloomin’ ’eck, you’re an impatient bugger, ain’t ya? What the devil do you want?”
Billings stood upright, embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’ve come to visit the occupant at apartment number thirteen.”
The woman looked him up and down. “Oh, you’re one of them, are ya?”
Billings looked confused.
“Crackpots,” the woman explained. “Gullible fools who think they can communicate with the dead. Well, she ain’t ’ere. Mrs Grenfell has gone.”
“Who?”
“Mrs Grenfell. Ruth Grenfell. That is who you’re looking for, ain’t it?”
“I’m looking for Madam Bovlatska.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Ruth Grenfell is ’er real name, and she ain’t ’ere. She left yesterday morning. Haven’t seen ’er since.”
“Are you the landlady?”
“I’m the caretaker.”
“My name is John Billings.” He took a calling card out of his breast pocket and handed it to her. “I am a private detective. Madam... I mean Mrs Grenfell visited me in my office last night. She was very distressed. I’m concerned for her wellbeing. I don’t suppose you could let me into her rooms so that I can check she’s all right.”
“Well, she were distressed yesterday morning an’ all. Told me to keep an eye out for men in black suits.” She squinted and looked the detective up and down. “What colour would you say that suit of yours is?”
“It’s dark blue. Will you let me into her apartment?”
“I won’t let you in, Mr Billings. But I can have a look for you.”
“May I come with you?”
“So long as you stay in the corridor.”
Billings followed her up two flights of stairs. He watched the woman open the door. A musty smell wafted out of the room.
“Good Lord! I’d better open a window.” The woman walked in and lifted the lower sash. Billings approached the doorway. “Oh no, you don’t!” the woman yelled. “You stay out in the corridor.”
Billings stopped on the threshold and looked in. The curtains on the windows hung half loose from the railings. The floor was littered with clothes and papers and books. The wardrobe doors were open, and drawers had been pulled out of the chests. “Looks like somebody has ransacked this room.”
“It always looks like that, Mr Billings. Mrs Grenfell lives like a swine in a sty!”
“How well do you know her?”
“Well, I know she’s not a foreign mystic, Mr Billings. She’s a Cockney just like me. I also know she makes a good living out of cheating people into believing she can talk to their departed loved ones, but she’s too stingy to buy ’erself some decent clothes. You said you met her, Mr Billings?”
“I did.”
“Well, then you’ll recognise this.” The woman picked up the crinoline which Madam Bovlatska was famous for wearing. “That’s from the time me grandmother were a young lady. ’Ow women could walk around in these is beyond me!”
On the floor Billings saw a black wig, and beside it a small round silver object. “What’s that?” he asked.
The woman picked it up. “It’s a pocket mirror.” She flipped it open. “It’s cracked. Don’t know why that woman puts up with all that old tat. She’s got plenty of money to buy ’erself something decent. What she does with all that money is anyone’s guess.”
“Show me that mirror, please.”
“You ain’t taking anything out of this room, Mr Billings.”
“I just want to have a look at it.”
The woman handed him the mirror. He turned it around in his hand. Strange symbols were engraved on the back. Billings took a pencil and notepad out of his coat pocket and copied the symbols.
The woman looked at him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just making some notes.”
She frowned. “You never said nothing about making no notes!” She yanked the mirror out of his hands. “Mrs Grenfell ain’t here, as you can see.” She shut the door and locked it. “Now, will you please leave this house. I’ve got better things to do than indulge curious gentlemen in black suits!”
“Thank you very much and have a good day.” Billings tipped his hat at the woman and left.
***
BILLINGS KNEW, OF COURSE, that Ruth Grenfell was a madwoman. He’d suspected this much when he met her in the guise of Madam Bovlatska. The diminutive woman was always filled with a nervous energy and had a bewildered look in her brown eyes. Her strange, disjointed behaviour the other night, when she claimed to have been followed by men in black suits, was a clear symptom of paranoia, possibly brought on by the hallucinogenic elements of the absinthe she was so fond of drinking.
But Billings had been moody and lethargic ever since leaving Scotland Yard, and he needed something to get him out of his head and stop him from feeling sorry for himself. And anyway, he was intrigued by Grenfell’s disappearance and concerned about her wellbeing. So, he took an underground train to Aldgate. Someone there might be able to decipher the strange symbols on the mirror.
He climbed the steps of the great synagogue, stopped in the doorway and looked in. A teenage boy stood on a ladder at the front of the building, topping up the oil of the sanctuary lamp.
“Excuse me,” Billings called, unsure of whether, as a gentile, he was allowed to set foot inside the building.
This startled the boy. He wobbled on his ladder and nearly fell off it.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Billings said. “I just wonder if you could do me a favour.”
The boy, stable again, gaped silently at him.
“I have a text here which I need translating.” He took the notepad out of his breast pocket and held it out to him. “Would you like to read it?”
The boy continued to stare blankly.
“I think it’s Hebrew. You do speak Hebrew, don’t you?”
The boy did not respond.
“He doesn’t speak English.”
The voice came from outside the synagogue. Billings turned to see an old man sitting on one of the steps. He wore a black suit and a homburg hat. His long, thick white hair was tied into a ponytail. A long grey beard reached to his chest.
“The boy is fresh off the boat from Poland,” the man said. “He’s not used to being spoken to by gentiles. What do you want?”
Billings approached the man with the notepad. “I need someone to translate a short phrase into English. Do you speak Hebrew?”
“I hope so,” the man said. “I am a rabbi.” He took the notepad off the detective and looked at the writing. “Where did you get this from?”
“It was on the back of a small pocket mirror.” Billings sat down beside him.
“Was it your mirror?”
“No. A woman dropped it on the floor. I want to return it to her, but I don’t know who she is. I’m hoping the inscription might help me to identify her.”
The man looked at Billings. His intense blue eyes stood out against his tanned, leathery skin and black bushy eyebrows. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Me?” Billings looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not English.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You look like you don’t belong here.”
Billings laughed uncomfortably. “Well, I hope I do. I am English.”
“But you weren’t born here.”
“No.”
The man squinted and peered into Billings’ eyes. The intensity of the stare made Billings want to look away.
“You’re a wanderer,” the man said.
“A wanderer?”
“I recognise a wanderer when I see one. Most Jews are wanderers. Wandering aimlessly in a county where they don’t belong. You were born in Africa, weren’t you?”
Billings raised his eyebrow. “How did you know that?”
“Your mind speaks to me. It is speaking to me now, but I don’t understand.” He squinted again and cocked his head. “Lahy Fotsy. What does it mean?”
Billings’ heart suddenly leapt to his throat. “How did you know that phrase?”
“I told you. Your mind speaks to me. It’s Malagasy, isn’t it? What were you doing in Madagascar?”
“My father was a missionary. I was born there.”
“You are a son of Cain.”
Billings shook his head. “No. My father’s name was Gideon. Gideon Billings.”
The man shrugged. “According to the scriptures, we are all descended from Cain, Abel or Seth. And you, like me, are a son of Cain. Adam and Eve’s firstborn, banished to the land of Nod, condemned to wander the world. Did you know that the word Nod means vagabond? You are a son of Cain. All wanderers are.” He handed Billings back the notepad. “The inscription says daughter of Lilith.”
“Daughter of Lilith? That must be the woman’s mother.”
“I suppose so.” The man laughed. “She’s the daughter of Lilith; you’re the son of Cain.”
Billings smiled back politely.
“Well, I suppose I’d better take the mirror to the lost and found department at Scotland Yard.” He nodded at the man. “Thank you very much for your help.”
He got up and started walking away. The man called after him.
“It was nice talking to you, Mr Billings.”
Billings stopped. “How do you know my name?”
“You told me. You said your father was Gideon Billings.”
Billings smiled. “Of course.” He tipped his hat at him. “Goodbye and thank you again.”