‘Hello?’ a cheery voice called.
There was a rap on Thomas Jackman’s doorknocker and the visitor came straight in.
Thomas was sitting at his desk in the corner of the small living room, doing his accounts, an upsetting business at the best of times; never enough money to cover his outgoings, however small they were, and his dream of opening an office in the West End, where it could attract a better class of client who could afford higher fees, no nearer. Joshua Peters had responded to a small advertisement he had placed in the Morning Post. Now this! He put down his pencil and rubbed the back of his neck.
In from the narrow little hall came Betty Marks, a round, cuddly woman, smiling as though confident of her welcome. One hand held the handle of a small metal pail, its lid slightly askew, steam and delicious smells rising from within.
‘I brought you some eel and oyster stew. Made it for the pub and thought you could do with some.’
That was Betty. Always trying to make his life a little more comfortable when, truth was, ever since she arrived at the next door Bottle and Glass, the recently widowed sister-in-law of mine host Schooner Marks, Jackman’s life had become more and more uncomfortable.
‘I’ll put it out the back, all ready for your tea. Unless you’d like to eat it now, with me?’ Her brown eyes smiled at him, brown hair curling from under a mob cap. Thomas sighed inwardly. Half the male customers at the Bottle and Glass thought Betty was prime meat; she’d flash those saucy eyes at them and if it hadn’t been for fear of Schooner they’d have pawed her curvy body, taken her down the lane that ran alongside the pub, narrow and dark, thrust her against the ancient brick and had their wicked way with her. But flirt though Betty did, she was secure in the knowledge that Schooner would see off any that dared to go too far.
So why, Thomas asked himself, wasn’t he delighted with her gifts of food, her desire to spend time with him? Why didn’t he issue the invitation he was certain she was waiting for, to climb the stairs to the bedroom he’d shared with Rose, his wife who’d died some two years ago?
Because she wasn’t Rose, that was why.
And because she presumed too much.
He didn’t want to accept the eel stew but couldn’t think of an easy way to refuse it. And the aroma was delicious. ‘Very kind of you, Mrs Marks,’ he muttered and wondered how to say he didn’t want to eat the meal with her.
She stood looking up at him with bright, confident eyes. Thomas Jackman wasn’t a tall man but she was a short woman. ‘I’ll lay the table for us,’ she said, and headed for the kitchen. Unless he stopped her right now, she would bring cutlery and plates and place them on the small round table in the window.
Thomas panicked. People would pass by, see them sitting there, eating together. It would be as bad as being caught in flagrante delicto. Schooner would expect him to make an honest woman of her.
Someone pounded the door knocker.
‘You expecting a visitor?’ Betty asked, unable to hide the curiosity that fought with disappointment.
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Never know when folk are going to call. It can be any time if they need my services. That’s what being a private investigator is all about.’ He reached the front door and hesitated. Betty hovered, obviously hoping whoever was calling would go away again.
‘I have to thank you for your kind thought,’ Thomas said, his hand on the doorknob. ‘I’ll return the pail tomorrow, if that’s all right?’
She had no option but to smile.
He opened the front door for her, causing the young man about to beat another rat-a-tat to stumble.
Betty walked past him and the two other people standing on the pavement. ‘Bye, Tom. See you tomorrow.’ She didn’t wait for a response but headed for the pub.
‘So,’ he said, turning his attention to the group on the pavement.
He recognised Ursula Grandison first and for a moment felt a jolt of pleasure that she had come to see him. Then he saw the young man Alice Peters had met so many times when he’d been following her. There was no mistaking the broad-brimmed hat, or his height and breadth of shoulders. Finally, standing beside Ursula Grandison, and almost as tall as her, was the girl who had been with Mrs Peters and the young man at the menagerie. The last time he had seen either of them was when he had tailed the girls to Miss Fentiman’s apartment, and then waited outside for far too long before realising they must have exited through the mews. Which had meant Ursula must have caught sight of him at some stage. Well, he knew she was smart.
His contract with Peters was at an end. What business could they want with him?
‘Come in, please.’ He stepped back from the door and waved them inside.
A few minutes later they were all in the front room. The two girls were sitting either side of the little table, exactly where Betty had hoped she and he would be eating eel and oyster stew. Rachel Fentiman looked sternly intelligent, almost belligerent; Ursula had a very closed look on her face. Daniel Rokeby, the man Alice Peters had left her husband for, stood in a protective manner behind Miss Fentiman. He looked very tall in the small room.
Thomas moved the chair he’d been sitting on at the desk so that it faced into the room. ‘Mr Rokeby, why don’t you sit here?’ he said.
The man looked startled. ‘How do you know my name?’
Thomas said nothing, merely waved his hand towards the chair.
‘Oh, go and sit, Daniel,’ said Miss Fentiman. ‘We don’t have time to waste.’
Rokeby gave her a quick look but obeyed, placing his hat on the desk, sitting in the chair and crossing one elegant leg over the other. At least Jackman could now look down at him.
Thomas leant against the sideboard running along the back wall. He didn’t look at Ursula. If she was in charge of this little party, she would have spoken up before now. ‘Suppose you tell me why you’re here,’ he said to the girl who had knocked him over in the menagerie.
Rachel Fentiman took a deep breath. ‘My brother-in-law, Joshua Peters, is dead. The doctor believes he was poisoned. My sister, Alice Peters, has been arrested for the murder of her husband.’ Her voice, steady until now, suddenly quavered and she closed her eyes for a second. Then she continued, once again in control of herself: ‘The charge is ridiculous. The lawyer our uncle has hired is useless. We want you to investigate Joshua’s death.’
It wasn’t often Thomas Jackman was taken aback but at that moment he was astounded. Joshua Peters dead! Poison suspected! Alice Peters arrested! ‘Whoa!’ He held up his hands then looked across at Ursula. She gave the tiniest shrug of her shoulders. He could expect no help from her. Thomas took a deep breath.
‘You say your brother-in-law was poisoned?’
Rachel Fentiman nodded.
‘How?’
‘The police, and the doctor, believe it was with cherry liqueur chocolates.’
Cherry liqueur? Thomas could think of an obvious candidate to be concealed within those luscious interiors.
‘Prussic acid?’
She nodded. ‘That is what the doctor believes.’
The chocolates would have been taken away by the police to be tested.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Three days ago. At least, that’s when his body was discovered.’
‘Who by?’
‘Sarah, the under-housemaid, when she went into the drawing room first thing in the morning to lay the fire.’
Thomas had a moment’s sympathy for the poor girl. A body that had died in agony would not be a pretty sight.
‘What happened then?’
‘My sister was told and she sent for the doctor.’
‘After viewing her husband’s body?’ Thomas knew Alice Peters was twenty-five years old but she looked six or seven years younger, and fragile. The thought that she had had to undergo such a horrible experience was shocking.
‘She knew he was dead but also that a doctor would have to sign the death certificate.’
Did she indeed? Maybe not so fragile as she seemed. He remembered the way she had withstood her husband’s verbal attack on her that afternoon in Joshua Peters’ study.
‘Did she know poison was involved?’
Rachel Fentiman lost some of her self-possession. ‘No! Of course not. She thought it was a heart attack.’
‘And you say she has been arrested?’
‘This morning, on suspicion of murder. But it’s ridiculous. Alice could not have killed Joshua.’
‘Never,’ said Daniel Rokeby suddenly, uncrossing his legs and placing both feet solidly on the floor. ‘Alice could not do such a thing.’
Thomas looked at the man he had seen Alice Peters meet so clandestinely so many times.
Daniel rose. ‘Enough of this. We’re here because we need you to prove she didn’t kill Peters.’
‘Daniel, please,’ said Rachel. ‘If Mr Jackman is to help us, he needs to ask questions.’
‘Rachel, leave this to me,’ he said furiously.
The girl gave him a cold stare and after a moment he sat down again.
‘On what grounds was the arrest made?’ Thomas asked.
‘That my sister knew about her husband’s predeliction for cherry liqueur chocolates. But so did lots of other people. I did, for instance.’
She did, did she?
‘And on what other grounds?’ There had to be other grounds.
Rachel looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. ‘According to Inspector Drummond, her desire to end her marriage as evidenced by a diary.’
Thomas saw Ursula look sharply at the girl; this information must be new to her.
‘Inspector Drummond?’ said Thomas. ‘Tall chap, fair hair, with a beard and moustache?’
Rachel nodded. ‘You know him?’
Oh, yes, Thomas knew Everard Drummond. Bright, ambitious, with a reputation for building a case on flimsy evidence. ‘And you say he cites a diary written by your sister?’
She stared at him defiantly. ‘The fact that she wrote down how unhappy she was is not proof she killed him.’
‘Any other grounds for suspicion?’
The stare remained steady. ‘I believe her maid said something …’
‘Millie Rudge?’ roared out Daniel, leaping to his feet again. ‘I told you there was something suspicious about her.’
Rachel said nothing, her basilisk stare seemed to be enough. Rokeby sat down again, a sullen look on his face.
But his vehemence stirred a reaction in Thomas. Millie Rudge had seemed a sweet, innocent girl, fond of her mistress, afraid of her master’s temper, and unsuspecting of his own relationship with her. Surely she could not have said anything to incriminate Alice Peters?
‘An expert on servants told me only recently that they know everything that goes on in a house,’ said Ursula calmly.
Thomas thought about the size of the Mounstanton stately home and the number of servants there and quickly compared it with the Peters household. If the Mounstanton staff knew everything that went on with their employers, how much more must those who worked in the much smaller household.
‘Will you investigate my brother-in-law’s death?’ Rachel Fentiman asked him, fixing him with her compelling gaze.
He looked searchingly at her. ‘Suppose I find that your sister did kill her husband?’
She made a dismissive gesture. ‘Impossible. I know Alice could not have done it.’
Daniel Rokeby rose and took his hat. ‘We’re wasting our time here,’ he said jerkily. ‘There’s got to be some other way.’
Jackman looked at Ursula. ‘What do you think? Is it impossible that Mrs Peters killed her husband?’
Ursula started to pull her gloves back on. She mightn’t have said anything so far but Thomas knew she had taken in every aspect of the little scene. She stood up. ‘You asked what would happen if you found Alice Peters was guilty. You seem to be confident that you can discover the truth. Rachel is convinced her sister cannot have killed her husband. I trust both of you. Please, say you will do what she asks and investigate Joshua Peters’ death.’
A little worm of excitement stirred in Jackman. He knew he wanted this case. Joshua Peters had been a bastard, as mean a bastard as he could remember meeting. He had grown ashamed to work for him. If Alice Peters hadn’t been involved, he would have been happy to allow the bastard’s killer to go free. But Thomas agreed with the others. He did not believe Peters had been murdered by his wife and it sounded as though Everard Drummond had decided that was exactly what had happened. However, best not act too quickly. He had taken the job Peters had offered far too lightly and look what had happened.
‘I need to think about this,’ he said slowly. ‘All right if I come round tomorrow morning and let you know?’
Rachel looked him squarely in the eye. ‘You know where I live so, yes, please do. What about your fee, though?’
‘I’ll let you know what it is if I accept the case,’ he said.
Five minutes later they had left. On her way out, Ursula had gripped his hand. ‘Accept,’ she said. ‘I’ll never believe Alice could kill that awful man.’ Then she followed the other two out.
After he had shut the front door, Thomas sat down and reviewed what he had been told. It wasn’t much. Did he believe he could investigate the case? He wasn’t in the police force any longer. He had no official standing.
How much had Drummond managed to uncover over the last three days? Had it really been enough to justify arresting Alice Peters?
Thomas rose, took his jacket and cap down from the coat rack and put them on. Then he pulled his shirt cuffs clear of his jacket sleeves and set out.
* * *
Every detective had his favourite pub and Everard Drummond’s was the Coach and Horses in the Strand, on the corner of a narrow flight of steps down to the Embankment. Thomas walked through Shoreditch and Holborn, moving rapidly along mean streets he had once pounded as a uniformed constable; now he needed to guard his pockets as he moved steadily amongst dubious locals until he reached the Strand, its wide street thronged with slow moving traffic.
It was several months since he had visited the pub, not since he had left the force, but it seemed little had changed. It was crammed with a variety of drinkers, the air so thick with smoke fumes and alcohol it was difficult to make out who was there. Thomas could see nobs, no doubt on their way to the Savoy Hotel, or maybe the next door Savoy Theatre, mingling with clerks and salesmen reluctant to return to mean little homes, plus lowlife on the watch for easy pickings, provided the pub was clear of constables and plainclothes detectives.
Thomas worked his way through the noisy crowd towards the back corner that was Drummond’s favourite niche, tucked away so that snitches could have a private word.
There he was, right enough. Half-empty pint glass on the table in front of him, the fancy bowler with its curly brim on a hook just above his head; bright yellow hair slicked back, his lean figure resting easily against the padded banquette, cigar held negligently in hand, bold eyes surveying the bustle surging around him.
Fighting his way to the bar, Thomas bought a couple of pints, carried them over, placed them on the table, one in front of Drummond, and sat down, side on to his former colleague.
The bold eyes looked him up and down. ‘So, back to your old stamping grounds is it, Jackman? How goes it with you?’
Thomas grinned. ‘Can’t complain. Trade’s building nicely, thank you.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, old mate.’
Drummond finished off one glass and picked up the other. ‘Here’s to us both, me old codger.’
Thomas drank, lowered his beer and ran a finger round the rim of the glass. ‘Gather you’ve gone up in the world, dealing with murder. It’ll be Chief Inspector before we know it.’
A finger smoothed away beer foam from the yellow moustache and beard. The inspector’s lips were astonishingly red against his facial hair. Someone had once pronounced that a moustache and beard added gravitas and Drummond had said he believed this. He smiled happily.
‘Nice little case,’ he said.
‘Had dealings with the victim at one time; not the most pleasant of fellows.’
Drummond’s eyes narrowed. ‘Dealings, eh? Anything pertinent to my case?’
‘Looking at his business, are you?’
Drummond gave a growl of laughter. ‘Business? Nah, this is a domestic situation. Resentful wife does away with husband she’s grown tired of. Wants to replace him with her lover.’
‘Poison, wasn’t it?’
Drummond puffed his cigar, the very picture of confidence. ‘My, word does get around. Prussic acid it was. In chocolates. Woman’s weapon.’
‘Chocolates? Risky way of dealing death, ain’t it?’
‘Not if the victim puts the fear of God into any who sneak one from his box. That’s how I know it’s an inside job. Inside knowledge, you see. That and the fact odds are always on the nearest and dearest.’
Thomas drank thoughtfully. ‘Remember that case in Islington? When all that prime silver got pinched? Everything seemed to point to an inside job there. Remember us arresting that dodgy footman and putting him inside?’ He shot a sly look at Drummond. ‘Then all the goods turned up in a stash at Jesse Johnson’s, Jesse the West End grabber.’
‘And didn’t we get a slap on the back for nailing that cove!’ The detective gave his cigar a congratulatory wave. Then he took a deep draught, wiped his moustache again and leaned confidingly towards Thomas, placing a fat finger against the side of his nose. ‘This time there’s proof.’
‘Proof?’
‘Can’t argue with the written word. The wife put it all in her diary.’
‘What, how she was going to rid herself of the husband? Every detail?’
Drummond placed both his hands against the edge of the table, fingers crab-like, his head leaning a little to one side, the very picture of a man who knows elements of his account aren’t as watertight as he’s making out. ‘There’s enough in it to hang her, I’d stake my reputation on it. And,’ he added, pointing his cigar at Thomas, ‘there’s the evidence of the maid. Chapter and verse on the lover she’s given us. Double timing her husband, Mrs Peters was. We got more than enough to clap Mrs-butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth-Peters inside.’
‘Always need to consider the lover as the killer. Have you looked at him, Everard?’
Once again Drummond narrowed his eyes. ‘What you on about, Jackman? Still trying to put one over on me, is that it? Always did want to put me down.’
Thomas adopted a hurt look. ‘Only taking a sincere interest, nothing more, old mate. And no one could be more pleased with your success,’ he added generously. ‘After all, it shows I trained you well. Bet you had a fine old time interviewing all the staff.’
But the man had turned cagey. Thomas abandoned any attempt to obtain more information and spent twenty minutes or so asking about former colleagues and cases, careful to issue congratulations where they were called for and commiserate over shortfalls on the part of other officers. By the time he left the pub, relations between the two of them seemed satisfactorily warm again.
* * *
Back home, over reheated eel and oyster stew, he summed up the impressions he’d gained from both the trio of visitors and his chat with Detective Inspector Everard Drummond. Just as he’d suspected, the man was over-confident and the current case he had built against Alice Peters was leakier than a sieve. Joshua Peters had been a man who must have lined up more enemies than the Boer. To concentrate solely on his marriage was, in Thomas Jackman’s opinion, a clear case of negligence.
The more he thought about the situation, the more Thomas wanted to get involved, to investigate. At the very least it would make him feel better about having worked for Joshua Peters, at best he might be able to prevent a miscarriage of justice.
Was he, he then wondered, convinced that Alice Peters was innocent? And what about Daniel Rokeby? Accessory? Murderer? He might have charmed Mrs Peters, but not Thomas Jackman. What he needed, Thomas decided, was a chat with Ursula Grandison. She was a woman of sense, one who seemed to have struck up quite an acquaintance with Alice Peters’ sister. It was more than probable that she could provide a dispassionate view of Daniel Rokeby.
Satisfied he could get no further that evening, Thomas finished the last of the stew and lit a cigarillo (at least the fee Peters had paid him meant he could afford the odd luxury), puffing at it with deep contentment, feeling replete after one of the tastiest dishes he had had in a long time. Perhaps he should overcome his reservations about Betty Marks; a woman with her culinary talents had definite attractions as a companion.