Emma reached the head of the queue and asked for a nice piece of haddock and two penn’orth of chips. As she waited for her order, she told herself, severely, that she must put all thoughts of confiding in anyone right out of her head; it was far too dangerous. Indeed, she had imagined that Dot had confided in Corky only because, from the moment he had opened his mouth, she had known he was not local. Emma herself had realised, within seconds of meeting him, that he was a Londoner.
‘There you go, queen,’ the shop assistant said, handing her a newspaper-wrapped parcel. Emma handed over her money, took the parcel and made her way out of the shop, heading for Church Street.
Back in the flat, she settled down at the kitchen table and really enjoyed the fish and chips, eating them straight from the newspaper and employing only her fingers, though she felt a trifle guilty for so doing. She could imagine her mother’s disapproval, though her grandfather had always maintained that fish and chips on a plate was not to be compared with the same food eaten out of hot and vinegary newspaper. Also, it meant no washing-up. She turned the paper over; it was the
News Chronicle
, a national daily, not a publication which Emma usually read, though her grandfather had sometimes picked one up from the nearby newsagent’s shop. She pushed it into the bin and carried her cocoa to her bedroom. She washed, undressed, put on her cool cotton nightgown, and slid between the sheets, telling herself that after such an exciting and eventful day she would doubtless fall asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She certainly hoped that this would be so, since she was most dreadfully tired and on the morrow had ten people coming to the shop to be interviewed for the post of sales assistant. Mr Humphreys, who had worked for her grandfather as long as Emma could remember, was retiring at the end of the month and was, consequently, only working part-time at present to accustom himself to the change which would shortly be upon him. He came in at ten o’clock in the morning and left at three in the afternoon, five days a week, and on Saturdays, which was their busiest day, he did not come in at all, so Emma was eager to find a replacement who would work a full day, six days a week, and rid her of the necessity of being constantly in the shop.
Unfortunately, the longed-for sleep would not come. The worries which had haunted her ever since her grandfather’s death were all too present. The man who came each week for her ‘protection money’ annoyed her, but he frightened her, too. There was something sinister in the long, bony wrists and the thin fingers, so matted with black hair that they made her think of giant spiders. The man, faceless but menacing, haunted her dreams – when she was able to sleep, that was – and now, thanks to the children, she had a worse worry on her mind. They might know where the necklace was, and this was a secret she was soon to share, but not one of them knew what best to do about it. Emma tossed and turned until the early hours. When at last light filtered through her curtains, and she should have been thinking about getting up, she fell deeply asleep, but bad dreams continued to haunt her. The children became little fiends, who taunted her with the necklace, waving it before her eyes but never letting her touch the glittering jewels. The policeman she had met that evening jeered at the story she told him and snatched her fish and chips from her hands, cramming the food into his mouth and threatening to throw her into prison for libelling his best friend. Even poor Mr Humphreys, who would not hurt a fly, became a monster in her dreams, reaching into the window and cramming his pockets with her precious rings, brooches and bracelets, whilst telling her that he had told the insurance company not to pay up, had said the emerald necklace – and everything else that was missing – had been cleverly made out of paste by her wicked old grandfather. Emma awoke with tears on her cheek.
As Emma had expected, the day was a busy one. All the prospective sales assistants attended for interview and, rather to her embarrassment, all of them were older than herself and more experienced in the retail trade. In the end, she chose a man for the full-time job, since she felt that she needed some sort of masculine support, and one of the older women on a part-time basis, to become full-time if, and when, Emma considered that she might return to her studies.
The young man – Mr Winterton – was in his mid-twenties, short, square and strong-looking. He would work nine till six, five days a week, and nine till one on early closing day, but she explained that there would be nights when he would work a good deal later, because books had to be balanced, stock ordered and cleaning and polishing carried out; work which could not always be fitted into a busy day.
Miss Snelling was a large, plain-featured woman in her late thirties, with dark hair pulled severely off her face and knotted in a tiny bun at the nape of her neck. Emma had chosen her because she had worked with fashion jewellery at one of the big department stores but wanted to have the opportunity to work with real gems rather than artificial ones. Emma liked her frank smile, but most of all she appreciated Miss Snelling’s interest and the fact that the older woman was attending evening classes in order to learn more about the jewellery which she hoped she would be handling.
By six o’clock, Emma was so tired that she decided she would finish off the salad she’d prepared the previous evening and go straight to bed. She had kept both her new employees in the shop with her and Mr Humphreys until half an hour before closing time, so they could be shown the ropes and the stock.
When she was alone in the shop once more, having satisfied herself that everything was in order, Emma went over to lock the door and was annoyed, but not really surprised, to find it being pushed open by a large and hairy hand. She had guessed that the presence of her new employees had kept the protection man at bay and had half hoped he might have given up and gone home, but this was clearly not the case. He came right into the shop, shut the door and leaned against it. She saw that he had a large and bushy moustache and thick, bushy eyebrows and smiled to herself, for the moustache was a false one, as were the eyebrows, and neither had been put on with very much skill. ‘Yes,’ she said baldly, staring straight into his small, mud-brown eyes. ‘What do you want? And if you think that moustache looks natural, you’re quite wrong.’
The man grinned, a quick flash of rotten teeth. ‘You knows very well what I wants,’ he said gruffly. ‘And don’t be all night about it, because you’ve held me up considerable already.’
Emma turned back towards the counter. She had not taken a great deal of money that day, but did not mean to let the man see inside the till. When he would have followed her, she turned back at once, saying briskly: ‘Stay where you are, please. I will pay you the sum I’ve been told is necessary to stop my shop from being broken into again, but that is all I’m prepared to do, and I won’t do that if you come anywhere near the counter.’
The man hesitated, plainly considering whether he should defy her and take a look in the till, or perhaps even try to snatch some of the jewellery displayed, but he must have realised that this would lead to complications and stopped short. Emma went to the till, took out the money, crossed the shop and pushed it into his hand. ‘There you are,’ she said, shuddering a little as her fingers brushed against his. She reached for the door but he grabbed for the handle and let himself out, disappearing at a smart pace into the crowds on the pavement.
Emma watched him go, suddenly aware of a feeling of helplessness mixed with rage. Mr Rathbone had said that the money demanded would not change, but now that she had reason to believe the butcher to be a crook, she could not trust his word on anything. Once she had established herself in the Church Street shop, she meant to start introducing some of the beautiful handmade jewellery her grandfather had specialised in. If the crooks realised that she was beginning to make a good profit, she imagined that they would want their share, and the thought both infuriated and terrified her. She really ought to go to the police, but she supposed she should have some sort of proof before she did so. It might be an idea to talk to other members of the Chamber of Trade, or even simply to other shopkeepers in the area who had already been robbed and were presumably paying protection money as she was. Mr Rathbone had told her, in the friendliest fashion, that anyone who went to the police would find themselves with a burned-out shop at worst or broken windows and doors at best, within hours of visiting the police station. Yet if she did nothing . . .
Emma had been standing on the pavement staring after the man in the long Burberry and was about to turn back into the shop when a young man came to a halt beside her, clearing his throat, and saying diffidently: ‘Miss Grieves? Miss Emma Grieves? I called on you earlier but I was told you were interviewing staff and could not see me. I wonder if I might have a word?’
Emma sighed. She had never seen this young man before in her life and imagined that he was selling something. He was coatless and wearing a tweed sports jacket and grey trousers, with a trilby hat on the back of his head. He had a pleasant, open face, dark hair and eyes, and a nose which had been broken at some time or other. But no matter how pleasant he might look, Emma did not want to buy anything from anyone. She wanted to lock up the shop, clear the window, the till and the display shelves, and then eat her salad and go to bed to think over her problems in comfortable solitude. So she shook her head, saying frankly: ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t have a word, and whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any. Good evening.’
She would have returned to the shop, was already halfway over the threshold, when he put a detaining hand on her arm and a foot in a brown brogue walking shoe against the door. He spoke urgently, keeping his voice low. ‘Don’t go, Miss Grieves. I’m not selling anything. Look, can you just tell me why that fellow with the bushy moustache was visiting your shop?’
‘Get your foot away from my door,’ Emma said coldly. She tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but he hung on grimly. ‘Let go of me at once or I’ll – I’ll yell for help and get a passer-by to fetch the police. As for questioning me about my customers, what the devil do you mean by it?’
The young man snorted and released her arm, but kept his foot just where it was. ‘Are you trying to tell me that man was a customer?’ he asked incredulously. ‘An odd sort of customer who doesn’t move away from the door, and takes something from you but gives you no money in return. Oh, come, Miss Grieves, I’m not an idiot, you know! I was waiting for you to close so that I could have a word with you, and as soon as I saw that fellow I guessed he was trouble. Look, if you’ll just let me in for a moment, I can explain everything . . .’ Seeing that he had no intention of moving his foot, Emma pushed past him and took a deep breath, intending to shout for help, but this proved unnecessary. ‘Awright, awright, you win, for the moment at least,’ the young man said, stepping back. ‘But if only you’d listen to me . . .’
But Emma scarcely heard. She shot back into the shop, slammed and locked the heavy glass door and then, heart hammering, went into the stockroom, closed the door and applied her eye to the judas, the peephole which her grandfather had caused to be made in the strong oak door. She watched the young man turn away, then raced up the stairs and shot into the living room which overlooked Church Street. Not until the tweed sports jacket was out of sight did she again return to the shop, by this time in a state of nervous tension so great that she could scarcely cash up for her shaking hands. How dared that wretched young man try to bully her into talking to him, she fumed, as she went methodically about the shop stacking the valuables inside the safe and sliding the takings in after them.
Because she had been upset, the work took longer than usual, and when she finally went up to the flat she was already far too tired to think logically about her problems. Instead, for the first time since she had inherited the shop, she considered selling it, though only for a moment. She knew her grandfather would have felt betrayed by such an act, but for once escape seemed a good deal easier than any attempt to tackle what was happening to her. She felt guilty, because no doubt Corky and Dot were racking their brains for a way to implicate the thieves and bring the murdering Ollie to justice, but, for her part, the day had been too full. Besides, this young man’s interference could not be discounted. If he decided to tell the police, what then? Now that she thought about it, he might be a plain clothes policeman, but, as she began to eat the limp salad she had prepared the night before, she was able to discount this. Had he been a policeman, he would have produced some means of identification, and having revealed his identity would not have let her refuse him entry.
Not only was the salad limp, but the ham had dried out and was curling up at the edges. After two mouthfuls, Emma pushed the plate away and made herself a glass of lemonade. Sipping it, she wondered if she had been wise to turn the young man away. After all, a disinterested observer, someone without a shop to be burgled or premises to be burnt down, might be able to help in a way a fellow shopkeeper could not . . . perhaps she had been wrong to dismiss him without hearing what he had to say, but even at the time in the back of her mind there had lurked the suspicion that this might be just another trick. The young man might be part of a rival gang who wanted to take over from Spider Hands and Butcher Rathbone. Sighing, Emma crossed the room and went to the front window and peered out. Nobody lurked outside, or seemed to be taking the slightest notice of her shop. She sat down on the comfortable sofa in the living room and her tummy gave a deep, protesting rumble, informing her in no uncertain terms that it had missed lunch and supper and considered it her duty to send it down a meal at once. Emma reached for her book, telling herself that she would read for half an hour and then go straight to bed, but found she was unable to concentrate. After a mere ten minutes, she threw the book down and fetched her linen jacket.