Highgate Rise (32 page)

People stood in doorways, dark forms huddled together, faces catching the light now and then as one or another moved.

Emily reached out and took Jack’s hand. The teeming, fathomless despair of it frightened her. She had never felt quite this kind of inadequacy. There were so many. There was a child running along beside them, begging. He was no older than her own son sitting at home in his schoolroom struggling with learning his multiplication tables and looking forward to luncheon, apart from the obligatory rice pudding which he loathed, and the afternoon, when he could play.

Jack fished in his pockets for a coin and threw it for the boy. The child dived on it as it rolled almost under the carriage wheels and for a sickening moment Emily thought he would be crushed. But he emerged an instant later, jubilant, clutching the coin in a filthy hand and biting his teeth on it to check its metal.

Within moments a dozen more urchins were close around them, calling out, stretching their hands, fighting each other to reach them first. Older men appeared. There were catcalls, jeers, threats; and all the time the crowd closing in till the horses could barely make their way forward and the coachman was afraid to urge them in case he crushed the weight of yelling, writhing, shoving humanity.

“Oh my God!” Jack looked ashen, realizing suddenly what he had done. Frantically he turned out his pockets for more.

Emily was thoroughly frightened. She hunched down on the seat, closer to his side. There seemed to be clamoring, reaching people all around them, hands grasping, faces contorted with hunger and hatred.

Gracie was wrapped with her shawl around her, wide-eyed, frozen.

Charlotte did not know what Jack intended that would help, but she emptied out her own few coins to add to his.

He took them without hesitation and forcing the window open flung them as far behind the coach as he could.

Instantly the crowd parted and dived where the coins had fallen. The coachman urged the horses forward and they were free, clattering down the road, wheels hissing on the damp surface.

Jack fell back on the seat, still pale, but the beginning of a smile on his lips.

Emily straightened up and turned to look at him, her eyes very bright and her color returned. Now as well as pity and fear, there was a new, sharp admiration.

Charlotte too felt a very pleasant respect which had not been there before.

When they reached the tenement it was decided Charlotte and Gracie should go in, since they were familiar to the occupants. To send more might appear like a show of force and produce quite the opposite effect from the one they wished.

“Mr. Thickett?” A small group of drab women looked from one to another. “Dunno w’ere ’e comes from. ’E jus’ comes every week and takes the money.”

“Is it his house?” Charlotte asked.

“ ’Ow the ’ell der we know?” a toothless woman said angrily. “An’ why der you care, eh? Wot’s it ter you? ’Oo are yer any’ow, comin’ ’ere arskin’ questions?”

“We pays our rent an’ we don’ make no trouble,” another added, folding fat arms over an even fatter bosom. It was a vaguely threatening stance, although she held no weapon nor had any within reach. It was the way she rocked very slightly on her feet and stared fiercely at Charlotte’s face. She was a woman with little left to lose, and she knew it.

“We wanna rent,” Gracie said quickly. “We’ve bin put aht o’ our own place, an’ we gotta find summink else quick. We can’t wait till rent day; we gotta find it now.”

“Oh—why dincher say so?” The woman looked at Charlotte
with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “Proud, are yer? Stupid, more like. Fallen on ’ard times, ’ave yer, livin’ too ’igh on the ’og—an’ now yer gotta come down in the world? ’Appens to lots of folk. Well, Thickett don’t come today, but fer a consideration I’ll tell yer w’ere ter find ’im—”

“We’re on ’ard times,” Gracie said plaintively.

“Yeah? Well your ’ard times in’t the same as my ’ard times.” The woman’s pale mouth twisted into a sneer. “I in’t arskin’ money. O’ course you in’t got no money, or yer wouldn’t be ’ere—but I’ll ’ave yer ’at.” She looked at Charlotte, then at her hands and saw their size, and looked instead at Gracie’s brown woollen shawl. “An’ ’er shawl. Then I’ll tell yer w’ere ter go.”

“You can have the hat now.” Charlotte took it off as she spoke. “And the shawl if we find Thickett where you say. If we don’t—” She hesitated, a threat on her lips, then looked at the hard disillusioned face and knew its futility. “Then you’ll do without,” she ended.

“Yeah?” The woman’s voice was steeped in years of experience. “An’ w’en yer’ve got Thickett yer goin’ ter come back ’ere ter give me yer shawl. Wotcher take me for, eh? Shawl now, or no Thickett.”

“Garn,” Gracie said with withering scorn. “Take the ’at and be ’appy. No Thickett, no ’at. She may look like gentry, but she’s mean w’en she’s crossed—an’ she’s crossed right now! Wotsa matter wiv yer—yer stupid or suffink? Take the ’at and give us Thickett.” Her little face was tight with disgust and concentration. She was on an adventure and prepared to risk everything to win.

The woman saw her different mettle, heard the familiar vowels in her voice and knew she was dealing with one more her own kind. She dropped the bluff, shrugging her heavy shoulders. It had been a reasonable attempt, and you could not blame one for trying.

“Yer’ll find Thickett in Sceptre Street, big ’ouse on the corner o’ Usk. Go ter ve back an’ ask fer Tom Thickett, an’ say it’s ter give ’im rent. They’ll let yer in, an’ if yer says
aught abaht money e’ll listen ter yer.” She snatched the hat out of Charlotte’s hands and ran her fingers over it appreciatively, her lips pursed in concentration. “If yer on ’and times, ’ock a few o’ these and yer’ll ’ave enough ter eat for days. ’Ard times. Yer don’ know ’ard times from nuffin’.”

No one argued with her. They knew their poverty was affected for the occasion and a lie excusable only by its brevity, and their own flicker of knowledge as to what its reality would be.

Back in the carriage, huddled against the chill, they rode still slowly to Sceptre Street as the woman had told them. The thoroughfare was wider, the houses on each side broader fronted and not jettied across the roadway, but the gutters still rolled with waste and smelled raw and sour, and Charlotte wondered if she would ever be able to get the stains out of the bottom of her skirts. Emily would probably throw hers away. She would have to make some recompense to Gracie for this. She looked across at her thin body, as upright as Aunt Vespasia, in her own way, but a full head shorter. Her face, with its still childish softness of skin, was more alive with excitement than she had ever seen it before.

They stepped down at the designated corner and crossed the footpath, wider here, and knocked on the door. When a tousle-headed maid answered they asked for Mr. Thickett, stating very clearly that it was a matter of money, and some urgency to it, Gracie putting in a dramatic sniff. They were permitted to enter and led to a chilly room apparently used for storing furniture and for such occasional meetings as this. Several chests and old chairs were piled recklessly on top of each other, and there was a table missing a leg and a bundle of curtains which seemed to have rotted in places with damp. The whole smelled musty and Emily pulled a face as soon as they were inside.

There was no place to sit down, and she remembered with a jolt that they were supplicants now, seeking a favor of this man and in no position to be anything but crawlingly civil. Only the remembrance of Clemency Shaw’s death, the charred corpse in her imagination, enabled her to do it.

“He won’t tell us the owner,” she whispered quickly. “He thinks he has the whip hand of us if we are here to beg half a room from him.”

“You’re right, m’lady,” Gracie whispered back, unable to forget the title even here. “If ’e’s a rent collector ’e’ll be a bully—they always is—an’ like as not big wif it. ’E won’t do nuffin’ fer nobody less’n ’e ’as ter.”

For a moment they were all caught in confusion. The first story would no longer serve. Then Jack smiled just as they heard heavy footsteps along the passageway and the door opened to show a big man, barrel-chested, with a hatchet face, jutting nose and small, round, clever eyes. He hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat, which was once beige but was now mottled and faded with years of misuse.

“Well?” He surveyed them with mild curiosity. He had only one yardstick by which he measured people. Could they pay the rent, either by means already in their possession or by some they could earn, steal or sublet to obtain. He looked at the women also, not as possessors of money or labor force worth considering, but to see if they were handsome or young enough to earn their livings on the street. He judged them all handsome enough, but only Gracie to have the necessary realism. The other two, and it showed plainly in his face, would have to come down a good deal farther in the world before they were accommodating enough to please a paying customer. However, a friendliness made up for a lot of flaws, in fact almost anything except age.

On the other hand, Jack looked like a dandy, in spite of his rather well-worn clothes. They might be old, but that did not disguise the flair with which he tied his cravat, or the good cut of the shoulders and the lie of the lapels. No, here was a man who knew and liked the good things. If he was on hard times he would make no worker: his hands, smooth, well-manicured and gloveless, attested to that. But then he did look shrewd, and there was an air about him of easiness, a charm. He might make an excellent trickster, well able to live on his arts. And he would not be the first gentieman to do that—by a long way.

“So yer want a room?” he said mildly. “I daresay as I can find yer one. Mebbe if yer can pay fer it, one all ter yerselves, like. Ow abaht five shillin’s a week?”

Jack’s lip curled with distaste and he reached out and put his hand on Emily’s arm. “Actually you mistake our purpose,” he said very frankly, looking at Thickett with hard eyes. “I represent Smurfitt, Taylor and Mordue, Solicitors. My name is John Consterdine.” He saw Thickett’s face tighten in a mixture of anger and caution. “There is a suit due to be heard regarding property upon which there have been acts of negligence which bear responsibility for considerable loss. Since you collect the rents for this property, we assume you own it, and therefore are liable—”

“No I don’t!” Thickett’s eyes narrowed and he tightened his body defensively. “I collect rents, that’s all. Just collect. That’s an honest job and yer got no business wi’ me. I can’t ’elpyer.”

“I am not in need of help, Mr. Thickett,” Jack said with considerable aplomb. “It is you, if you own the property, who will shortly be in prison for undischarged debt—”

“Oh no I won’t. I don’t own nuffin but this ’ouse, which in’t ’ad nuffin wrong wif it fer years. Anyway”—he screwed up his face in new appraisal, his native common sense returning, now the first alarm had worn off—“if yer a lawyer, ’oo are they? Lawyers’ clerks, eh?” He jabbed a powerful finger towards Emily, Charlotte and Gracie.

Jack answered with transparent honesty.

“This is my wife, this is my sister-in-law, and this is her maid. I brought them because I knew you would be little likely to see me alone, having a good idea who I was and why I came. And circumstances proved me right. You took us for a family on hard fortune and needing to rent your rooms. The law requires that I serve papers on you—” He made as if to reach into his inside pocket.

“No it don’t,” Thickett said rapidly. “I don’t own no buildings; like I said, I just collect the rents—”

“And put them in your pocket,” Jack finished for him.
“Good. You’ll likely have a nice fund somewhere to pay the costs—”

“All I ’ave is me wage wot I’m paid for it. I give all the rest, ceptin’ my bit, over.”

“Oh yes?” Jack’s eyebrows went up disbelievingly. “To whom?”

“Ter ve manager, o’ course. Ter ’im wot manages the business fer ’o’ever owns all them buildings along Lisbon Street.”

“Indeed? And who is he?” The disbelief was still there.

“I dunno. W’ere the ’ell are you from? D’yer think people ’oo ’as places like vat puts their names on the door? Yer daft, or suffink?”

“The manager,” Jack backtracked adeptly. “Of course the owner wouldn’t tell the likes of you, if you don’t report to him—who is the manager?’ I’m going to serve these papers on someone.”

“Mr. Buffery, Fred Buffery. Yer’ll find ’im at Nicholas Street, overbe’ind the brewery, vat’s w’ere ’e does business. Yer go an’ serve yer papers on ’im. It in’t nuffink ter do wi’ me. I just take the rents. It’s a job—like yours.”

Jack did not bother to dispute it with him. They had what they wanted and he had no desire to remain. Without expressing any civilities he opened the door and they all left, finding the carriage a few houses away, and proceeding to the next address.

Here they were informed that Mr. Buffery was taking luncheon at the neighboring public house, the Goat and Compasses, and they decided it would be an excellent time to do the same. Emily particularly was fascinated. She had never been inside such an establishment before, and Charlotte had only in more salubrious neighborhoods, and that on infrequent occasions.

Inside was noisy with laughter, voices in excited and often bawdy conversation, and the clink of glasses and crockery. It smelled of ale, sweat, sawdust, vinegar and boiled vegetables.

Jack hesitated. This was not a suitable place for ladies, the thought was as plain on his face as if he had spoken it.

“Nonsense,” Emily said fiercely just behind him. “We are all extremely hungry. Are you going to refuse to get us luncheon?”

“Yes I am—in this place,” he said firmly. “We’ll find something better, even if it’s a pie stall. We can get Mr. Buffery when he returns to his office.”

“I’m staying here,” Emily retorted. “I want to see—it’s all part of what we are doing.”

“No it isn’t.” He took her arm. “We need Buffery to tell us who he manages the building for; we don’t need this place. I’m not going to argue about it, Emily. You are coming out.”

“But Jack—”

Before the altercation could proceed any further Gracie slid forward and grasped the bartender waiting on the next table, pulling his sleeve till he turned to see what was upsetting his balance.