Authors: Janet Laurence
‘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.
Once outside Thomas Jackman’s small house, Rachel said there was no need to go to the expense of another hansom cab, if indeed they could find one in this part of London. There was a stop for an omnibus on the other side of the road.
As they waited, a crowd of drinkers erupted from the
Bottle and Glass
pub next door to the investigator’s house. Dressed in workmen’s clothes, with heavy boots on their feet, they were rowdy but unaggressive. There was much back slapping, calling of names and friendly insults.
‘I am surprised at Mr Jackman residing in such an area,’ Rachel said as they waited for their public transport. ‘He cannot expect to attract much middle-class business. I am familiar with such areas through my work with the East End Charity hospital, but not many others will be.’
For the first time since meeting her, Ursula recognised how solidly middle class the girl was. She dropped a little in her estimation. A ragamuffin approached them, holding out a hand, his dirty face pinched with hunger. Rachel drew her skirts away from possible contact, then opened her purse and found a sixpence. Ursula added a few pennies she could barely afford but she knew what it was not to have enough food. Rachel looked at Daniel and, after a moment’s hesitation, he too found some coins. The urchin’s face lit with delight as he inspected his haul. ‘Cor! It’ll be pie tonight!’ He ran off as though the money might be snatched back if he hung around. Rachel brushed her gloved hands together as though to remove dirt.
‘No doubt,’ Ursula said quietly, ‘when Mr Jackman was a member of the police force, he found living here a fertile field for information.’
‘And just why is he no longer with the force?’ Daniel sounded suspicious and tetchy.
Ursula’s explanation was interrupted by the arrival of an almost empty omnibus.
After they were settled along one of the benches, Daniel, hanging on to a strap in front of the two girls, said, ‘We need a top lawyer, one conversant with criminal cases. Darling Alice must not remain in that terrible prison. I really do not think Jackman will be any help.’
More passengers embarked at the next stop, removing the little privacy they had enjoyed and conversation faltered and died.
Their journey terminated at Victoria station, ideal for Ursula. She turned to take her leave of Rachel and Daniel.
‘You must not think I lack gratitude, Miss Grandison,’ Daniel said with an obvious sincerity, taking her hand. ‘It may be that your Mr Jackman will be able to uncover at least part of the mystery surrounding that beast’s death. I really do hope so. Now, we cannot leave you to make your way home alone. Rachel and I will escort you. I believe it is not far from here.’
Ursula was touched. As the trio walked towards her boarding house, Daniel regaled them with details of a story he was working on for a monthly magazine. It was an historical fiction involving smugglers led by one Richard Wellbeloved, a Robin Hood type, pursued by Customs men as they try to land a cargo of brandy and lace. With the story unfinished, they reached Ursula’s destination. He looked nervous and almost shy.
‘Oh, Daniel, you are such a romantic,’ said Rachel with a touch of irritation.
‘You must let me know if it is printed, for I am sure I would enjoy reading such a story.’ Ursula said, hoping she sounded sincere.
He smiled and for an instant she recognised the charm that had captivated Alice Peters.
Rachel turned to her. ‘All my hopes are with Mr Jackman.’
Ursula nodded. ‘Let me know if he takes your sister’s case, won’t you?’
Ursula waved goodbye and went into the boarding house. She was far too late for communal supper. Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Crumble was clearing up the last of the dishes.
‘Where’ve you been, then?’ she asked cheerfully, setting a large iron pot on its customary shelf. ‘Mrs Maple was that worried, seeing as how you dashed off without saying you wouldn’t be in for the meal.’ The dark curls escaping her mob cap were damp with sweat but the strong arms handled the heavy pots without difficulty.
‘I got involved in something that took much longer than I had foreseen, Mrs Crumble. I do apologise.’
Ursula hovered, wondering whether she could ask if there were leftovers.
In the rocking chair by the stove sat Meg with the kitchen mouser on her lap, her bony fingers gently stroking its tortoiseshell fur. ‘Gorn upstairs. ’Ad a headache.’
Ursula murmured her regrets. The aroma of a beef stew hung in the kitchen air and hunger gnawed at her.
‘I could find you a plate of something,’ offered Mrs Crumble. ‘That is, if you was hungry, Miss Grandison?’
Ursula nodded eagerly. The girl went to the larder and returned with a bowl of that night’s beef stew, piling a goodly portion on a plate. Ursula refused the offer of it being warmed up; in her experience cold cooked beef was delicious.
‘Shall I lay you a place in the dining room, Miss?’
‘Would you mind if I ate it in here?’ Ursula said, hesitantly. She didn’t want to intrude on the maids’ gossip.
‘In the kitchen, Miss? We’d be honoured, wouldn’t we, Meg?’
The woman nodded. ‘Sit down there, Miss. I sits here with Tiddles.’ Meg stroked the tabby cat, who screwed up its eyes in pleasure and twitched a lazy tail.
Ursula pulled out a chair and sat with her plate of beef. It had carrots, potatoes and small onions in with the meat and the gravy was thick and glossy. Mrs Crumble fetched cutlery, supplied some thick chunks of bread, a dish of butter, and a piece of cheese, then a glass of water.
‘Sorry there ain’t no cabbage left, Miss. Ate it all they did this evening.’
Ursula was not sorry. Vegetables were not the girl’s strong point; they were usually overcooked and watery. Meat was a different matter.
‘This is wonderful, Mrs Crumble. How do you get such a shine to the sauce?’
Mrs Crumble heaved the last of the cooking pots on to the shelf and wiped her hands down her apron. She beamed. ‘Got to keep skimming the stew, you have. My nan taught me that.’
She removed her stained apron, filled the kettle and placed it on the well-blacked range. ‘We’ll have a nice cup of tea. Where you been, Miss?’