Chapter Six
‘I say! And that’s the very shop, where it all happened? It’s like an adventure story in
Chums
. They used to get that at Redwood Grange – only one copy, mind – and I can tell you it’s a grand read. You ever come across it?’
‘I’ve seen it, but it don’t matter, Corky. What matters is why we’re here,’ Dot said impatiently. ‘I reckon we’d best go and look in the window, pretend we’re lookin’ at the rings and that, only really we’ll try and see who’s standing behind the counter. And we won’t go in, or ask questions, even if the feller behind the counter looks real friendly, because kids don’t go into jewellers’ shops, do they? But there’s one of them places what sells newspapers and cigarettes quite near . . . we could ask there.’
‘And there were a super toy shop a few yards back,’ Corky said wistfully. ‘The one with the Hornby train in the window, and the rails and the station . . . cor, if I were rich I’d buy the lot.’
‘Yes, I dare say, but you ain’t rich,’ Dot said roundly. She had seen the wistful look in her companion’s eyes and sympathised but felt they should keep their attention on the matter in hand. First, they must discover who now owned the shop, and next, whether he was the sort of person to believe the rather wild story they had to tell. They did not mean to confide in someone who would grab them by the ears and march them to the nearest police station, so they had to investigate the new owner of the shop as thoroughly as possible before making their move. They could go into the toy shop, wander round and then, if there was a young and friendly assistant, ask a few questions without giving too much away, and they could do the same in the newsagent’s further along the road. But first, they would look in the window.
They stopped before the brilliant display and gazed earnestly. Diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, rubies, amethysts and topaz glittered back at them, while gold chains were displayed on a higher shelf. Dot was so taken up with the jewellery that she forgot to look through into the shop. She tugged Corky’s arm, pointing out the cream velvet oval, now empty, upon which the emerald necklace had once been displayed. ‘I dunno why they’ve not put anything in its place, ’cos it spoils the look of the window—’ she was beginning, when Corky cut across her.
‘There’s a
girl
sitting behind the counter,’ he said. ‘We never thought of a
girl
. But she can’t be the owner, girls don’t own shops. I suppose she’s just a sales assistant. Can you see her? She’s rare pretty . . . oh, cripes, she’s cryin’. There’s tears fairly pourin’ down her cheeks . . .’
Dot craned her neck to take a look herself, then realised that Corky was no longer at her side. Bold as brass, he had pushed the door open – the bell above it gave an alarmed tinkle – and walked into the shop. Dot tried to grab him, to remind him that they had agreed not to go inside, but it was too late so she followed him. Corky went slap-bang up to the counter, leaned across it and gave the girl’s shoulder a little shake. ‘What’s the matter, miss? You been given the old heave-ho?’ he enquired genially. ‘Don’t worry, there’s other jobs. Why, I’m sure you could do anything. Me and my pal, we’ve see’d cards in the windows of several shops what need sales assistants. Or – or do you work on commission and is business bad? Only there were a robbery here, weren’t there? An’ I suppose the boss is havin’ a bit of a struggle to make up the loss. That right?’
Dot expected the young woman to tell them, roundly, to get out of the shop and mind their own business, but instead she rubbed vigorously at her reddened eyes and then looked up at them and gave Corky a tremulous smile. Dot saw that she was very pretty, with curly dark hair pulled back from her face, big dark eyes and a clear, pale complexion. She really was quite young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen, which almost certainly meant that she was a sales assistant after all. If Corky were right, and she was crying because she had been dismissed, then she might be quite eager to tell them all about her boss.
The young woman leaned forward. ‘I
am
the boss and that’s why I was crying,’ she said, in a small voice. ‘I was an art student before Grandpa died, but he left me the shop in his will. It’s very kind of you to show concern, but – but there’s nothing anyone can do. It – it isn’t just the robbery . . . oh, dear. It isn’t like me to give way, but I’ve been feeling so helpless.’ She smiled from Corky to Dot, then stood up and spoke resolutely. ‘Now run along, children; it’s about time I did some work and stopped feeling sorry for myself.’
Dot would have left at this point, for though the girl was young she was still a grown-up and there was authority in her voice, but Corky was made of sterner stuff. ‘Look, miss,’ he said urgently, ‘I know we’re only kids – I’m fourteen and Dot here’s a couple of years younger – but we’re . . . we’re more involved than you think. For a start, we know where that necklace is – or we think we do, anyway,’ he amended hastily, when Dot glared at him. He was ignoring all the careful plans they’d made but she realised he was right to do so. If they were ever going to get anywhere with this young woman, they had to gain her confidence, which meant letting her know that they were, as Corky had said, involved.
At Corky’s words, the young woman’s whole face changed. Colour bloomed in her cheeks and her eyes began to sparkle. ‘You know where the emerald necklace is?’ she gasped. ‘Oh, I’d give anything to have the necklace back. My grandfather made it, you know. He was a jewellery designer, and it was his set piece, the piece you were judged on, and he always said it was the Grieves luck: that while we had it in the window we would do well and the business would thrive. He sent me to art college to learn to be a jewellery designer like him. He never meant me to work in the shop, but – but after he died . . .’ Her voice wobbled into silence for a moment and Dot saw that she was fighting back tears. ‘He and I were very close.’ She looked enquiringly at Corky. ‘But you said you know where the necklace is . . . ?’
Corky was beginning to reply when behind them the bell tinkled and the shop door was thrust open. Both children swung round and caught a glimpse of the man in the doorway. Astonishingly, for it was a warm day, he wore a large cap pulled down over his eyes and a scarf of some sort obscured the lower half of his face. He was clad in a long Burberry raincoat, very new and stiff, with the collar turned up. For one awful moment, Dot thought a second robbery was about to take place, but the man said gruffly: ‘Sorry, didn’t see you had customers,’ and backed out of the shop, shutting the door behind him.
Dot stared after him; there had been something oddly familiar in the low, growling voice. Was it the voice she had heard when hidden in the dustbin? She turned back towards the young woman and saw that she had clenched her hands into fists and that her brows were drawn into a frown, but before she could ask who the man was Corky leaned across the counter and took hold of the woman’s hand. ‘What is it?’ he said urgently. ‘Who was that feller and why was he wearing a Burberry on such a fine day?’
The young woman sighed and came round the counter. She locked the door, swung the ‘Open’ sign round to read ‘Closed’ and beckoned to the children. ‘I ought to introduce myself. My name is Emma Grieves and my grandpa and I lived in the flat above the shop, and now I live there by myself,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to be able to talk freely, we’ll have to go upstairs. Who are you, by the way?’
‘I’m John Cochrane, known as Corky, and my pal is Dot McCann. How d’you do, Miss Grieves; nice to meet you.’
Emma Grieves laughed. ‘We seem to have skipped most of the preliminaries,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Follow me.’ She led them through what Dot guessed must be a stockroom, and ushered them up a flight of stairs, at the top of which was a small landing, flanked by four white-painted doors. Emma Grieves flung open the nearest to reveal a pleasant and modern kitchen. ‘I often sit here – it overlooks the back so it’s quieter. We’ll have a cup of tea and a bun whilst you tell me just what you meant, down there,’ she said, ushering them into the room.
‘It’s a long story . . .’ Corky began, once they were settled with cups of tea and iced buns before them. ‘But first of all, miss, I’d like to know what that feller wanted just now, the one in the Burberry.’
‘Oh – oh, oh,’ the young woman said. ‘That’s a long story, if you like, but – but can’t you just give me a clue about my necklace first? You don’t know how much it means to me.’
Corky and Dot exchanged glances, then Dot began to speak. ‘Me and some pals were playing relievio around the entries and jiggers off Heyworth Street,’ she began, and told the story as far as the part where the men had thrown the necklace into the bin and gone off. Here Miss Grieves interrupted her.
‘Then
you’ve
got my necklace,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, Dot, if you’ve kept it safe for me, I can’t thank you enough. Once it’s back in the window . . . but I don’t suppose I’ll ever dare to put it back.’
‘I think we’d much rather you didn’t, for a while at any rate,’ Dot said cautiously. ‘You see, one of the men spotted me running out of the jigger – he saw me, we looked into each other’s faces – and I reckon he meant to get the necklace for himself and that was why he was turning into the jigger when we met, head on. He must have seen the scuffer and changed his mind, and then, if they discovered it was missing next day, which I suppose they must have done, I reckon that Ollie – that was his name – must have guessed it was me who took it. So you see, Miss Grieves, if you suddenly let folk know you’ve got the necklace back, those two men may guess that you and me both know who did the robbery – and killed your grandpa – that night.’
‘Yes, I understand that. And you must both call me Emma,’ their new friend said, rather abstractedly. ‘Look, I think you’re right to be frightened of those men, Dot, because they’ve a lot to lose and such people are dangerous. But can I take it that you’ve hidden my necklace somewhere safe?’
Dot and Corky both nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. No one will find it again except us,’ Corky assured her. ‘But Dot knows she was seen that night, and – and a few weeks afterwards, someone tried to push her under a train. That’s why we’ve not took the necklace to the police. We’re only a couple of kids and they might think we made the whole thing up, just to get Butcher Rathbone and his pal into trouble.’
Emma had been staring into her cup of tea as though it were a crystal ball, but at Corky’s words her eyes snapped up to meet his. ‘Butcher Rathbone?’ she said in a puzzled voice. ‘I know you said you were hiding in his yard, Dot, but you never said it was he who was talking to the one you called Ollie. Are you seriously trying to tell me that Archie Rathbone was one of the thieves?’
Dot hesitated. Now that it was put to her so bluntly, she realised that she had not caught so much as a glimpse of the butcher and did not know his voice, not really. But then she remembered details of the conversation, and anyway, no one but the butcher himself would have had the keys to his shop, or talked so confidently about setting fire to the contents of the dustbin next morning, before anyone else was about. She told Emma this, wondering why the young woman had sounded so surprised at the mention of Butcher Rathbone’s name. When she had finished her explanation, Emma nodded slowly.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ she said. ‘Now, I wonder where
my
story should rightly start? It can’t be with the robbery, because when it happened I was visiting London on my grandfather’s behalf, buying precious stones.’
‘How about telling us how you come to know Mr Rathbone,’ Dot said bluntly. ‘He can’t be your butcher, surely? Heyworth Street is a good way from here.’
‘Mr Rathbone and my grandfather were both members of the Chamber of Trade,’ Emma explained. ‘And because he knew I’d inherited the shop and wasn’t experienced in retail trade, he came round one evening, offering any help and advice that he could give. Amongst other things, he asked me if I’d been approached by – by someone, suggesting that, for a small sum to be paid weekly, they would see I wasn’t robbed again. Apparently, there’s a group of men who will make sure your premises aren’t robbed provided you pay a small amount each week, like a sort of insurance policy. It seems they’d offered protection to my grandfather and he’d refused it, and look what happened to him, Mr Rathbone said. He also told me that a number of shops in Church Street had been robbed or broken into over the past couple of years, but that no one who paid for protection had any trouble. He had never been robbed and neither had any of the smaller shops in his area because, presumably, they all pay up. He advised me, most strongly, not to stand out against the practice and – and I said I’d pay.’
‘But that’s blackmail,’ Dot protested. ‘You should tell the scuffers, Emma, let them sort it out. Anyway, it were probably Mr Rathbone what did all the other burglaries – it’s probably him that’s behind this protection scheme, as well.’
‘Protection racket; they’re called protection rackets. Don’t you ever watch gangster films?’ Corky said, rather scornfully. ‘But I bet you’re right, Dot, I bet old Rathbone’s behind it.’ He turned back to Emma. ‘So did you pay up, Miss . . . I mean, Emma? Oh! That man who came into the shop . . . ?’
Emma nodded wearily. ‘Yes, he’s the man who collects the money once a week, and he’s always muffled up so I don’t know who he is, only I don’t think he’s Mr Rathbone . . . well, I’m sure he’s not. That Burberry is far too big for him and he’s got bony wrists and horrible thin hands, like a spider; Mr Rathbone’s a huge man, isn’t he?’ She looked hopefully from Dot’s face to Corky’s. ‘Mr Rathbone was so
nice
! I mean he told me it would be in my own interest to pay, he said they’d never ask for more than I could afford . . . he said all the traders pay up, though of course no one would admit to it, but he realised that because of the burglary I might be short of ready cash . . . he offered me a loan, honest to God he did, but I said I’d manage somehow.’ She sniffed, then fished a handkerchief out from her sleeve and blew her nose vigorously. ‘The fact is, I scarcely know which way to turn. Everyone assumes I’m just waiting for the insurance company to pay me back for the stolen goods but – but Grandfather was getting a bit vague and – and I heard today that he never paid his last premium, so the insurance has lapsed and I won’t get a penny, so I really am in a bit of a hole. What’s more, my grandfather’s bank account has been frozen until probate has been granted, so I’m dependent, at the moment, upon what goes through the till. Fortunately folks still come in for wedding rings or perhaps a gold bracelet. So I’m keeping my head above water – just about.’