Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (14 page)

‘My ma used to make it,’ the other girl said haughtily. ‘And she added an egg yolk an’ a drop of rose-water an’ all.’

‘Anything to tell us?’ Blake said. ‘About the printer?’

‘He said we wasn’t to say nothing—’ one girl said.

‘Oh, give over! What’s the harm?’ the first girl retorted, grinning at Blake. ‘You know what they’re saying? It was Spring-Heeled Jack what done him. Took his soul to hell.’

Blake sighed impatiently. ‘No such animal, ladies.’

‘It’s a mystery then. Because no one saw nothing.’

‘What did people say of him?’

‘Better than some, no worse than others. Didn’t know him well. Never took liberties. Reckon she kept him on a short leash.’

‘She?’

‘The wife. Thinks a lot of herself, doan she? They say his stuff is pricey. Maybe they murdered him for his money.’

The others nodded.

‘Doan think them other printers much liked him. But they’re a rum lot,’ said another, soberly. ‘They doan like nobody.’

‘Son’s nice-looking, I’d give him one for free.’

The others laughed again.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s not here much these days. Argued with his pa, they say. A Chartist.’

‘Well, we must move on, ladies, but we’ll be around and if you think of anything …’ said Blake.

‘Likewise – you and your friend,’ said the first girl. ‘We’re always ready and waiting.’ There was another shriek of laughter.

As we were about to turn into Drury Lane there came a cry behind us.

‘Mr Blake! Captain!’ Matty Horner, basket flying, was running to catch us up. There were points of pink colour in her cheeks, her eyes were bright, and she had shoes: a pair of worn black-laced leather boots. Not the most delicate of footwear for a young woman, but practical enough and not monstrously ugly.

‘Mr Blake, I want to ask you something.’

‘Yes?’ Blake said impassively. Once again I was annoyed by his brusqueness.

‘I want to say,’ she said, gasping for breath, ‘that I know about you, Mr Blake. I knew I’d seen you, here and in Soho. I remembered your hand. You find things, and people. That’s what they say. Look, I could help you. I’m on the street all the time. I could watch for you. Who comes and who goes. I’m good at remembering things. You know that. I could be useful. See, I write a good hand too.’ From a pocket she produced a crumpled bit of paper which on closer examination I saw she had carefully folded. ‘It’s my own hand, I swear it.’

‘What do you want in return?’ said Blake, looking unconvinced.

‘I’ve something to ask you. Later. You could try me for a while, and you’d see, I’d be worth it.’

He frowned. ‘Then tell me why no one will speak of the murder today and we are watched with such suspicion.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I d-dunno,’ she stuttered, taken aback. ‘I suppose they doan like outsiders.’

He turned away from her and she stood, trying to wrestle her features into nonchalance, her disappointment palpable.

‘I think we may have a use for you, Miss Horner,’ I said firmly. ‘Mr Blake will think on it, and I shall look at your writing.’ I took the bit of paper from her. ‘I see you have shoes.’

‘Oh, Abraham found them for me. Gave them me this morning,’
she said, looking past me at Blake. I brought out a coin from my pocket and tried to press it upon her.

‘No,’ she said, giving me a hard smile. ‘You’re all right. Plenty of ways of earning a penny.’ She turned on her heel and walked back down the road, where I could see Abraham Kravitz staring fiercely at us.

‘Why be so harsh?’

‘I said, I do not trust her.’

‘Everything she said has been confirmed. Come, Blake, we could ask her to watch the Wedderburns’ house in case Woundy comes,’ I persisted.

‘I’ll think on it,’ he said sharply.

‘Or we could ask her to look out for Daniel,’ I said.

‘No need to. He’s over there.’

Hands in pockets, hunched and purposeful, Daniel Wedderburn was weaving his way through the hawkers and idlers. Matty had seen him too and watched him intently.

‘Daniel,’ Blake said when the boy – hardly a boy, indeed: he was almost as tall as I and far broader – was level with us. He did not recognize Blake. ‘We were at your mother’s two days ago. We want to ask you about your father. We want to find his murderer.’

The boy set his jaw and walked briskly away from us, but Blake remained doggedly by his side.

‘I will follow you until you answer,’ said Blake. ‘It will be easier to talk now.’

The boy tried to push him out of the way but Blake stayed with him, and I trailed behind. At length he gave up, glowering with rage.

‘Coppers ain’t interested. Why should you be? Who are you anyway?’ He seemed to seethe with anger, as if he might catch fire at any moment.

‘I’m an inquiry agent, Daniel, and the Captain is my colleague,’ Blake said calmly. ‘We’ve been asked to look into your father’s death because there was another like it some weeks ago, at Seven Dials.’

‘Another murder, like my pa’s?’ The boy looked confused.

‘A printer called Blundell. Ever heard of him?’

He shook his head. ‘Seen Woundy, did you?’

‘We did,’ said Blake. ‘He insisted he didn’t know your father. Tried to set his bruisers on us.’

The boy gave an angry laugh. ‘That don’t surprise me. He always came at night, skulking at the back of the shop. Didn’t wish to be seen.’

‘Why’s that?’

He shrugged. ‘Pa’d not tell me. Don’t doubt it was to do with the filth he sold.’

‘Do you have any idea why your father might have been murdered?’

‘Because he sank himself into the mire,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘He brought it upon himself.’

‘Did you work with him?’

‘Not unless I had to.’ He seemed to swell further with rage.

It was then that I had a strange vision. Despite the disparity in our stations, I realized that he reminded me of myself a few years before – full of angry thoughts so large and inexpressible I feared they might choke me.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you about my pa. He disgusted me. He betrayed his family and everyone about him. He was a godless, lewd man. But what is worse is that he had an education. He should have known better, but he dragged himself into the gutter and brought us with him. I can never forgive him for that.’

‘Maybe it was the only way he could make a living to keep you all.’

The boy shook his head.

‘Should have been a good living,’ said Blake.

‘You ask Woundy about that. He had my pa on a short rein. Pa bowed to Woundy, never stood up to him. I tell you, all that about Woundy being the respectable gentleman? You take away his fancy suits, and he is the worst of all.’

‘So Woundy is in the same business as your pa?’

The boy looked deflated. ‘Don’t know. But there was something between them. When he came round they would talk about money. Pa wouldn’t tell me.’

‘What do you recall of the night your father died, Daniel?’

‘I wasn’t there. We’d argued weeks since. We hardly spoke.’

‘But you saw the body?’

The boy looked ashen.

‘Where do you work now, Daniel?’ Blake said. ‘Where do you live? Work’s short for lots of trades but not for printers.’

‘It’s not as easy as you’d think.’ He was relieved to change the subject.

‘No?’

Angry red suffused his cheeks again. ‘It’s all changing in printing. Holywell Street is the end of something. Printers don’t set up on their own any more, masters in their own shop. It’s all big works and steam presses, a few masters revelling in wealth and luxury served by men who once worked for themselves. Woundy’s printers are nothing more than wage slaves. He takes plenty on, but he’s forced down wages and he demands longer hours. And if you won’t do them, there’s plenty who’ll take your place. It’s the same all over. Tailors, stonemasons, furniture makers. The weavers over in Spitalfields, they’re starving.’

‘You sound like a Chartist,’ I said.

‘I am a Chartist, signed and sealed!’ He almost shouted it, and a number of passers-by looked round. ‘Live it and breathe it. From where I stand, the rich have but one goal. To keep their wealth and their privileges, to grind down the poor and to keep them poor. We must fight back. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand. And now I’m going. I’ve a meeting to attend.’

‘A Chartist meeting?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said the boy cryptically. ‘It’ll be a Chartists’ meeting by the end.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Crown and Anchor, on the Strand.’

‘Your father didn’t approve of your beliefs,’ said Blake.

‘He told me to stay away from politics. He said it would bring only trouble – as he lay down for Woundy to wipe his boots upon. As he scraped and bowed for his flash customers. He said, “You cannot turn the world upside down; authority will have its way and slap you down.” He yielded. I will not.’

‘Woundy’s paper is pro-Chartist,’ Blake said.

‘A sop to his readers.’

‘What about your mother?’ I said.

‘What about her?’

‘Does she not at least deserve some support and comfort?’

‘Not from me,’ he said sullenly.

‘I have just watched her weep over you,’ I said. ‘She misses you sorely.’

I thought he might soften, but he did not.

‘Someone else is putting food on the table and coal in the grate. I am not needed.’

‘Who?’ said Blake.

‘Eldred Woundy!’ he said triumphantly. ‘And what do you think she provides in return?’

‘How can you say such a thing of your own mother!’ I said, shocked.

He gave me a sullen look. ‘See, she’s drawn you in too. She catches everyone.’

‘We are concerned that Woundy might hurt your mother,’ I said, and Daniel started. ‘We told Woundy that we had spoken to her. He was not pleased. Would you consider staying with your family for a while? If not for your mother, then for your sisters’ and brothers’ sake?’

He frowned. ‘I can’t go back home. I have other obligations. But I’ll look in on them tonight, after the meeting, if I can.’

He stepped past me, hunched his shoulders once more, and set off at speed in the direction of the Strand.

‘I should like to be at that meeting,’ said Blake.

‘A Chartist meeting, Jeremiah? Truly?’

‘I am a dangerous radical, remember?’

‘Then we should ask Matty to keep watch over the shop.’

He looked sceptical but he said, ‘All right. We’ll give her a penny or two,’ and dug into his pockets.

‘I have it,’ I said curtly.

‘Is there a meeting here this evening?’ Blake inquired of the porter as we stepped into the Crown and Anchor.

‘Anti-Corn-Law League, up the stairs, Mr Blake,’ came the reply. ‘The ballroom. See the gentlemen going up? Follow them.’

‘But—’ I said. Blake shushed me with a look.

‘Why are we attending an Anti-Corn-Law meeting?’ I demanded in a whisper as we took the stairs.

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said he.

The room was large and fairly well filled, though there were plenty of empty seats and the audience were mostly attired in smart black coats and hats. There were even a few women. Well-turned-out young men briskly handed out pamphlets. At the front, four men of aldermanly bearing sat on a raised stage. Above them was a banner which read, ‘He that witholdeth corn, the people shall curse him.’

Again I would have questioned our presence here, and again Blake shushed me, gesturing that we stand at the back.

‘Let us watch.’

One of the gentlemen on the platform stood and called the meeting to order, introducing himself as a Mr Elliot. It seemed to me he was not altogether at ease as his eyes constantly darted towards the doors behind us and he kept mopping his brow. Gradually, however, as he continued to talk he became less guarded, even describing the Corn Laws as ‘a mechanism for maintaining the incomes of landlords so they may employ a superfluity of grooms and gardeners’, a bit of leaden wit delivered with a considerable wiggling of eyebrows in case the audience should fail to spot it as a joke. The audience obligingly sniggered – no doubt with relief, since it would be the last piece of levity they would be hearing in some time. ‘The laws are
deliberately maintained with this object in mind,’ the gentleman went on more seriously, ‘therefore it is just, it is only reasonable, for all human beings to struggle against them.’

It occurred to me that my father would probably disown me if he knew where I was.

At that moment there was the sound of many people coming up the stairs and shouts coming from outside the doors. Two of the brisk young men ran to the doors to try to keep them shut, but they were too late: they sprang open and in surged a mighty column of men carrying their own banners, upon which were written, ‘Liberty, Freedom, Let the People Serve’, and underneath, ‘The National Charter Association’.

The speaker, Mr Elliot, raised his arms in a gesture of exasperation. His companions on the stage stood in consternation. The interlopers, meanwhile, pushed to the front. It was immediately apparent that they far outnumbered the Anti-Corn-Law Leaguers: there must have been at least a hundred of them, perhaps two. Blake pointed out Daniel Wedderburn, who was making his way to the stage, clutching his cap in expectation.

Members of the League began to berate the Chartists and in some places where the two groups met, blows were exchanged. For a moment the event threatened to become most unpleasant. From the stage the speaker began to appeal for order. I might have stepped in myself had not Blake laid a hand on my shoulder.

‘We are here to observe,’ he said.

‘You foresaw this,’ I muttered.

Five of the invaders now stepped upon the stage and one, a small man in clerical black, raised his hands for silence. Gradually the room quietened.

‘This is too much, Mr Watkins!’ said Mr Elliot furiously to the small clerical man. ‘This is a private meeting! I demand that you leave!’

The Chartists launched into unmannerly jeers.

‘Mr Elliot,’ said Mr Watkins, the clerical Chartist, ‘you have called the meeting to order, and now we are part of it. We seek only to pass an important motion and then we will be on our way.’ He had
a lively face, bushy dark hair and a northern accent, though I could not have identified it any more precisely than that.