Terror by Gaslight (7 page)

Harriet winced. ‘That’s awful!’

‘Well, he won’t get no more moggies from me. Not when he pays tuppence and you’ll pay a quid. I’ll bring ’em all to you in future!’

Shock waves began to course through Harriet’s brain, triggered by the dreadful thought that this boy might start bringing a succession of kidnapped cats to her home, creating huge problems; not least, the fury of Meredith Austin.

On the other hand, if she declined the offer, any cat unlucky enough to be caught by this ruffian was doomed to be butchered.

Briefly, she struggled for words. Then she gave in. The other cats would have to take their chance. The alternative was impossible.

‘No, you must bring me only Ella, if you find her. As I said, her description’s in the leaflet. I cannot pay for any other cats. I have little money.’

‘Gor!’ said the boy again, this time in disappointment. He summed up. ‘Right. So I just look out for this small brown cat, then. And if I fetch her to you, you give me a quid and a shilling?’

‘Yes,’ said Harriet. At least if she sent this boy roaming
the Heath with a financial incentive, it might be her best chance of recovering her pet. Then a hideous thought struck her.

‘Pray God you haven’t already found Ella and delivered her to your master! She’s been missing for more than a week.’

The boy thought, then shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I ain’t seen a brown cat lately. Fact is, I ain’t caught any cats these last ten days.’ His voice took on a darker tone. ‘I had other things to do.’

As Harriet wondered what those other things might be, and how she could bring this encounter to an end, the youth changed the subject.

‘You live in that ’ouse over there, don’t you?’

The young woman was shaken. She hadn’t expected, or wanted, this rough lad to know where she lived. But then she remembered her address was on the leaflet anyway. It had to be, for her to get the cat back.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I live at Hillside. I’m Mr Austin’s daughter.’

‘I thought so. I seen you in the garden there. I was watching you the other day, walking up and down.’

Harriet shivered, and realized it was not just the cold. But there was worse to come.

‘I live next door, see? Dunblane. I can watch you from our window.’

Harriet was dismayed. She had supposed that this unkempt creature came from one of the dingier corners of the Heath, from Gospel Oak, perhaps, or Archway. She had even imagined him living rough in the woods. But no, in fact it seemed he was her neighbour! Dear God! Did that mean that the person who slaughtered animals in the name of research was actually the man her father had chosen to be her doctor? Fearing she knew the answer, she still had to put the question.

‘Do you work for Dr Frankel?’

The boy was becoming animated. ‘Work for ’im? Not arf! Morning, noon and night I work for ’im. I’m only out here now cos I’m supposed to be gathering firewood! I’m ’is bloody slave, that’s what I am!’

The swear word jarred on Harriet. She’d heard it before, when Luke Scully worked at Hillside. In fact, it had rent the air several times. But it always bruised her ears. Then she reflected that this lad probably had no idea that the word was offensive.

‘But I won’t always be,’ he declaimed, a new passion in his voice. ‘I’m going to get away, I am! When the right time comes. I’m going to make a lot of money, I am! Cos I know secrets! I seen things other people don’t know about! One day I’ll be rich. And then I’ll do what I like and have lots to eat.’

‘Well, I hope all those things happen for you,’ was all Harriet could find to say.

The boy calmed down, as the thought of money prompted a more practical question.

“’Ow much you gonna give me for this paper, then?’ He waved the leaflet teasingly in the air.

Harriet was taken aback. ‘You have to keep that,’ she said. ‘You need it for my address and the description of my cat.’

‘No, I don’t,’ the boy announced. ‘I know where you live, don’t I? And I know about the moggie. Small and brown, ain’t she?’

‘With a white patch on her tail,’ Harriet added.

‘Right. So now I know it all. You can have this paper back, and give me a tanner for catching it for you.’

‘Well, I suppose the more leaflets I can pin up the better. But I have no money with me at all at present.’

Then she saw the solution. ‘Give me the leaflet now,’ she suggested. ‘And when you bring my cat back I’ll give you an extra sixpence.’

The boy considered this proposition for a moment, and
then concluded it was the best bargain he could get.

‘All right, you can have it,’ he announced. ‘Cos I like you.’

He moved forward and gave the leaflet to Harriet, and having done so, he put his hand on her wrist.

‘You’re quite pretty,’ he said. ‘You and I could be friends. And when I’m rich I’ll buy you lots of nice things.’

Had she been told in advance that such a thing might happen, the young woman would have expected to recoil and scream for help.

But now that it had occurred, she astonished herself by doing neither. The proposition was absurd, of course. But she found that she didn’t want to hurt this vulnerable fellow human.

His voice had become quieter, and his touch was tentative and reasonably discreet, not the brutal groping she’d heard of other young ladies enduring on rare encounters with males of a lower class. And she was looking at a pale, sad face that seemed as if it had never known any affection.

So she produced a nervous smile and responded courteously, gently removing his hand from her arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think that would be possible. My father would not approve.’

The boy hesitated, looking uncertain for the first time. A frown seemed to be gathering on his face. Anger? Or merely regret?

It was with relief that Harriet observed the patrolling constable was now quite close and heading in their direction.

‘Now please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I want to have a word with that policeman. I can tell him about Ella.’

The moment he became aware of the law approaching, an inbuilt alarm galvanized the boy.

‘Bloody rozzers!’ he said, and marched off swiftly.

As he went, he took the knife from his belt and hurled it at an oak tree that stood ahead of him, throwing it skilfully
so that the point thudded into the trunk at head height and stayed there. When his retreat took him past the oak, the boy wrenched the knife from the bark and restored it to his belt. Then he disappeared into the trees.

Harriet watched him go and then stood there, bewildered, shaken by this confrontation, and wondering if she could carry on with the job she had come here to do.

Nervousness was mingling in her mind with a curious excitement. Then, as she havered, the constable arrived and greeted her respectfully, touching the side of his helmet in salute.

‘Good afternoon, miss.’ His voice was strong and reassuring, with a Berkshire accent. He was one of those hefty, stalwart country bobbies the authorities were always glad to recruit, to keep the peace in London.

‘Good afternoon, Officer.’ She gave him a small smile.

‘Was that boy annoying you?’ the policeman enquired.

‘Oh no.’ Harriet was surprised to find herself oddly protective about the ragamuffin who had so recently alarmed her. ‘No, not at all. He’s going to try and help me find my cat. I think she’s lost on the Heath.’

‘Hmm,’ said the constable. ‘Well, I strongly advise you not to trust him. He’s no good, miss. We think he’s been thieving food down Camden Market.’

‘He looks as if he needs it,’ said Harriet. ‘He seems half starved.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said the officer. ‘But thieving’s not the way to go about it. If we catch him at it, he’s going to cop it and no mistake.’ He noticed the leaflets in the young woman’s hand. ‘You’re putting up notices about your cat, are you?’

‘That’s right. It’s not illegal, is it?’

The policeman pondered. ‘Well, strictly speaking I suppose you might need permission. But I don’t think anyone will bother. Specially not in these times. If you like, I’ll take a
couple and show them round at the station.’

‘Oh yes, please do.’ Harriet handed him two leaflets and he studied the top one with raised eyebrows.

‘A guinea reward! That’s very handsome. I’ll be keeping a lookout myself, I can tell you.’

He turned to resume his patrol and then paused. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to warn you, miss, to be very careful out here. Make sure you’re home before dark. There’s some rum customers about on the Heath these days. It’s not just the Maniac you have to worry about. Take care.’

‘Thank you, Officer,’ Harriet called, as the policeman strode away.

Buoyed up by the thought that she now had help from both sides of the law, she decided that she would complete her mission. There was just time to pin up the remaining leaflets before dusk.

The polishing fluid had dried on the cutlery, and Mrs Butters was now busy wiping off the powdery residue with a soft cloth. In a gentle way, she was quite enjoying herself. It pleased her to see the metal start to shine like silver.

Also, although it was a task that should properly be done in the scullery, Mr Austin was out, and Mrs Butters knew that neither of his daughters minded her bringing it to the more congenial surroundings of the drawing room. Here she worked at a small table, which she’d covered with a green baize cloth.

The scullery managed to be damp and dark at all times of the day but here in the drawing room she’d been cheered by the huge sky that filled the windows, and by the view across the Heath. This was a pleasant place to work. Earlier on, there had even been some weak sunshine. That was now fading into dusk but the view remained, and there was even a little lingering warmth on this side of the windows.

Mrs Butters had learned to get satisfaction from simple domestic tasks: not the strenuous, back-straining heavy work, of course, nor the less salubrious jobs. But sedentary ones that showed a good result always gave her modest pleasure.

There were not many joyful activities in Mrs Butters’ daily round. The exciting and romantic penny novels, on which she spent part of her hard-earned wages, brightened the last half-hour of her long day, though she sometimes found it hard to read the bigger words.

In the summer she enjoyed taking the sun for a few stolen minutes in the kitchen garden alongside the house. And, of course, she shared with Harriet the delight of stroking and fussing over household pets. It was a limited existence but at least a relatively secure one. At least, that was what she’d always thought.

There had rarely been much frivolity in Grace Butters’ life. Daughter of a parlourmaid and a footman, she herself had begun in domestic service at the age of fourteen, as part of a big household in Sloane Square. Here she had toiled her way from kitchen skivvy to assistant cook in eight years, before marriage changed everything.

Michael Butters was a handsome, lively fellow, a soldier by profession and an athlete from choice. He had boxed for his regiment with some success. The two years during which he was stationed at Chelsea Barracks had been the happiest time of the young woman’s life, and it was then that their daughter Ann was born.

But all too soon things changed. Michael’s regiment was posted to India. Here he was involved in a skirmish on the Kashmir border, which left him with a head wound, a minor medal and a medical discharge from the army. On his return to England, he was a changed man: moody, violent and unpredictable, often berating, and sometimes beating his wife. She put up with his behaviour, telling herself it was
not his fault. She would never have left him. But then he left her.

Their love and their marriage had both ended twenty-five years ago, in dramatic fashion. Embittered by years of unpleasant menial jobs, frequent sackings, often for violent conduct, mixed with long periods of unemployment, Michael Butters launched a fierce attack on his wife and child, hitting them with his fists and then threatening them with a knife. Grace had saved their limbs, and probably their lives, by locking herself and her daughter in a room with a stout door.

When they nervously emerged hours later, Michael Butters was gone. And neither of them had seen or heard of him since. Grace had reported his disappearance to the police, but there had been no outcome. For years Grace and Ann had lived in fear, before at last accepting that his exit from their lives was final.

Mrs Butters had gone back into service to support herself and her daughter. Then, at eighteen, Ann had married a decent young man, a carpenter, who had heard of great opportunities for skilled tradesmen in the New World. And Ann and her husband had sailed steerage to America, with her mother’s blessing.

Mrs Butters’ occasional exchange of letters with her daughter was the highlight of her year. One day Ann and John would return to England with her grandchildren. That was something to look forward to. For now, Mrs Butters must get on with her daily routine and make the most of its lighter moments.

It was getting colder. Mrs Butters went to the fire and brought it to life by means of a few ferocious prods with the poker. Then she returned to her chair and contemplated the results of her labour.

But the temperature took a sharp tumble as Harriet
opened the garden door and came in. She shut it quickly behind her but there’d been time for the icy wind to sweep across the room.

The housekeeper shivered. ‘Brrr! You must be frozen, Miss Harriet. I’ll wager it’s colder than a dead frog out there!’

In fact, Harriet was now glowing from her achievement in pinning up ten leaflets, every one of which had been affixed by a drawing pin at each corner, to prevent the wind getting underneath it.

She was also warmed by the effort involved, and by the excitement of her encounter with the boy. Looking back she had mixed feelings about this but it had certainly been an adventure. So there was more than a touch of cheerfulness in her reply.

‘It’s chilly, yes. But it was pleasant while the sun was out.’ She made for the fireside and announced triumphantly, ‘I’ve put up all the notices!’

‘Well done, miss. But I’m glad to see you safely home and that’s a fact. I wouldn’t want to be walking on the Heath these days. It’s too dangerous for me.’