The gate which led from the yard to the jigger was always kept closed, though never locked. Emma opened it and chided herself for not having oiled the hinges, which positively screamed a protest as she swung it ajar. She had never noticed the noise before but supposed she must have taken it for granted during daylight hours, or perhaps the sound had been masked by the muffled din of people and traffic in Church Street itself. However, she decided not to close the gate again, but to leave it open for her return. Then, hunching her shoulders and pulling her grandfather’s cap well down on her brow, she began to walk in the direction of the old churchyard.
An hour later, Emma left the churchyard with a spring in her step, so excited and triumphant that she could have sung aloud. It had all gone just as she had planned. She had reached her destination without seeing another soul and had clambered over the wall without any trouble. She had found the triangle of broken stone and pulled it out, though with some difficulty, and had produced her wooden spoon and the small cluster of magnets from their hiding place and thrust them into the crevice. At first, she had wondered if the string was too short, but a couple of jerks had brought the realisation that the wall on the other side was not smooth; the magnets must have rested on a ledge or protuberance of some sort. A couple of careful swings had freed them and presently she felt a tiny quiver of strain run from the spoon to her fingers and saw the twine tauten. Even then, it was not as easy as she had supposed because she had to pull the magnets – and therefore the necklace – up at an unnatural angle, but she managed it at last.
And there it was, sparkling in the torchlight, her grandfather’s emerald necklace and the proof that Nick had said was essential for Dot’s story to be believed. Emma had tucked the necklace reverently into the inside breast pocket of her grandfather’s jacket, detached the magnets from her fishing rod and slid them into the pocket with the necklace. Then she had sat down on a large chunk of fallen masonry and eaten the apple, suddenly realising that she had been shaking like a leaf and needed a few moments to calm down.
Now, however, heading back towards Church Street, the nervous strain of fishing for the necklace had gone and she felt only pride in her achievement. She was sure that Nick would be really pleased with her; that Dot and Corky would applaud what she had done. They had all realised the importance of retrieving the necklace but she had been the only one with the knowledge which had enabled her to get it back. None of the others could possibly have known that the metal clasp was not gold or silver, that it would respond at once to the magnet so that it could be drawn up to safety. Nick had been talking of tunnelling under the wall to get the necklace back and that would have been a difficult as well as a dangerous undertaking so, naturally, he would be immensely pleased with her when she showed him her prize.
Dreamily, Emma began to compose the little speech she would make as soon as she saw Nick. She would not tell him at once that the necklace was in her possession; she would pretend that there was something quite ordinary in her pocket and would then produce the glittering object and wave it triumphantly before beginning to tell him how his remark about noble metals had set off a memory in her subconscious which had come into her dreams and then been acted upon.
There were few people about and Emma was halfway down Whitechapel and beginning to think longingly of her bed when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and a voice said in her ear: ‘Hold on, lad! Just what are you doin’ out at this time of night, eh? I seen you earlier on Church Street, actin’ suspicious.’
Emma wriggled wildly but the man had changed his grip to her wrist and was forcing her arm up behind her back so painfully that she stopped struggling and gasped out a protest. ‘Oh, please, I’ve done nothing wrong, honestly! I – I live in Church Street . . . I went to meet someone . . . it’s not what it seems, really it’s not.’
‘Live on Church Street, a dirty little tyke like you! Why, I know everyone in these parts, ’cos it’s on my beat, an’ I don’t recall seein’ you until tonight. Now don’t you go wriggling or I’ll have to use me handcuffs and you won’t like that.’
Emma turned her head to find herself staring into the round, and usually cheerful, face of Constable McNamara. She gave a gasp of relief. ‘Oh, Mr McNamara, it’s you. And of course, you wouldn’t recognise me because of my clothing. I’m – I’m Emma Grieves.’
Constable McNamara swung her round without letting go of her and peered, incredulously, into her face. ‘Well, if you ain’t a hard-faced young ’un to expect me to believe a handful of moonshine like that . . .’ he began. Then, still without releasing her, he pulled off her cap with his free hand and watched, with considerable amazement, her dark curls cascading around her face. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said softly. ‘You really are Miss Grieves. But I think you’d better explain, my dear, because it’s plain to me you’re up to something and you’ve no kith or kin of your own to look after you now your grandpa’s gone, which is why we’ve been told to keep an eye on your shop to make sure you don’t have no more trouble.’
Telling herself that she had little choice now but to speak the truth, Emma produced the necklace from her inner pocket. ‘I don’t know whether you recognise this, Mr McNamara, but for as long as I can remember it has been the centrepiece of my grandfather’s shop window. Then, as you know, it was stolen, along with a great many other things, all of them precious and valuable, but none quite as distinctive and unusual as the emerald necklace. I – I was told where the necklace was but we all thought it was not possible to get it back, only tonight I had a brainwave, so I went to the place where it had been hidden and managed to retrieve it.’
‘We?’ the constable said slowly. ‘Hidden?’ He pushed back his helmet with a beefy hand and scratched his head. ‘I think you’d better start at the beginning, miss, and tell me the whole story.’
‘It’ll be a relief to tell someone in authority,’ Emma admitted. ‘But it’s a long story, constable, and when you hear it I think you’ll want to take action fairly quickly, so should we go back to your police station so that I can tell you there?’
Mr McNamara thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. Give me a rough idea as we walk along, because if your tale has anything to do with the robbery at your grandpa’s shop, then I think we’ll keep away from the station – for now at least. You needn’t be afraid of being overheard, not at this time of night, and when you’ve told me your tale I’ll know best what to do.’
Emma agreed that this seemed sensible and presently she found herself pouring the whole story into the constable’s sympathetic ear. She was careful, however, not to name names, and when Mr McNamara protested that, in the end, she would have to tell all she knew and not just a part of it, she said that she would do so as soon as she could consult ‘the others’.
When she had finished, the policeman stared down at his boots thoughtfully for some moments. ‘I’m going to take you to someone I can trust. A magistrate,’ he said. ‘You say Mr Rathbone was one of the thieves, but the other is still unknown to you, so I think it a good deal safer that we confide in someone right outside this area. Fortunately, he don’t live all that far away and won’t mind being knocked up – well, he’s used to it, to tell the truth. He lives in Brownlow Street, just past the infirmary. Now step lively, young woman, because the sooner your story’s told to the right person, the sooner I can conduct you back to your bed.’ He chuckled comfortably. ‘And come to think of it, Mr Trigby-Smy won’t take kindly to not being told the names of your confederates, so you might just as well tell me, you know.’
Emma did not mean to break faith. She thought she could simply give the magistrate false names, or just first names, come to that. She could always claim she did not know their surnames and promise to find out, thus giving herself time to get permission from Nick, Dot and Corky before giving any more away. She was uncomfortably aware that she was considered to have promised not to tell anyone anything, but she had been placed in an impossible position and really had had no choice.
As they walked through the city centre streets, Constable McNamara questioned her closely on all that had happened. Presently, they climbed Brownlow Hill and turned into one of the side streets. When they reached a railway bridge, the constable stopped and leaned against the high stone parapet, saying comfortably: ‘Not far now, Miss Grieves. Mr Trigby-Smy is a professor and lives in a neat little house further along, close to his work at the university. Now one thing I disremember you telling me: you said as your young friend, what hid in the dustbin, suspicioned it were Mr Rathbone speaking because he’d shouted at her some time before when she’d gone into his butcher’s shop. You also said she thought she were in the butcher’s yard. Now that ain’t proof, though I’m not disputin’ she may well have been right. But what about t’other chap? You said nothing except that he were unknown to the gal, so I take it she didn’t recognise the second man’s voice?’
‘No-o-o,’ Emma admitted, then a sudden thought struck her. ‘Oh, Mr McNamara, I believe I forgot to mention it, but Dot told me that Mr Rathbone called his companion Ollie, though I don’t know if—’
At this point, from the railway lines beneath the bridge, Emma heard the rumble of an approaching train; it was coming fast, possibly an express on its way to some exciting, far-off destination. She half turned towards the sound, just as Constable McNamara stepped forward. Above the roar of the approaching train he shouted: ‘Dot, did you say? Would that be the little redheaded gal . . . let me have another look at the necklace, Miss Grieves.’
Without thinking, Emma pulled the necklace from her inner pocket, but when the constable’s hand shot out to take it she suddenly shrank back. Something was wrong; she did not like the glitter in his eyes and realised, with a stab of dismay, that as soon as she said the name Dot he had recognised it. She tried to pull her hand back, but the constable wrenched the necklace easily from her grasp and shoved it into his own pocket, and in almost the same movement he produced his truncheon and swung it at Emma’s head, saying as he did so: ‘You aren’t going to get the better of Ollie McNamara, you stupid little bitch. Take that.’
And on the words, the truncheon connected with the side of her head. Emma felt the sickening thud, and even as the words he had used began to make sense, she dropped into deep and stifling darkness.
Chapter Eleven
As Emma slumped forward, Ollie McNamara grabbed her and lifted her up over his head, cursing as one of her shoes struck him in the eye. He knew she was unconscious – might already be dead – but he was taking no chances. Muscles cracking, he heaved her over the parapet just as the train, with a great burst of steam, clattered and roared under the bridge.
Ollie gave a satisfied sigh and slumped against the stonework for a moment, his chest still heaving. Wretched, clever little bitch! But she had done him a good turn; he and Archie had been desperate to get hold of this necklace because they believed that the red-haired kid had filched it from the bin and if she had, she might know more than was good for either of them. Well, now he had the necklace and he knew, for certain, that he and Archie had been right: the redheaded girl had been hiding somewhere nearby when Archie had tossed the necklace into the bin. Ollie had guessed as much the following day, had even realised – he ground his teeth – that he had actually had his hand on the kid the previous evening. He had said good night to Archie, and had gone off, or pretended to go off. In reality, he had hung around until he was pretty sure Archie would have gone to bed. Then he had gone down the jigger again, fully intending to take the necklace for himself and decide what to do with it later. Archie thought it was just paste; a beautiful and clever piece of work for window dressing. But he, Ollie, was not so sure; old man Grieves was well known in the trade for making and selling only the very best. Was it likely that the main item in his window was a mere bauble? Ollie did not think so, but even if it were, he had believed that it was safer in his possession than stuck in Rathbone’s dustbin, perhaps to be discovered the very next day by some interferin’ kid or by some nosy old tramp.
So he had gone back down the jigger, seen the kid lurking, and grabbed for her, demanding to know what she was doing there. Of course, he had had no inkling that she had been there earlier in the evening and had not been unduly worried when she had given him the slip. Afterwards, of course, when he and Archie had realised that the necklace had been stolen from the bin, he had begun to wonder, but when nothing happened he had dismissed the idea. The necklace had not appeared anywhere, so far as he knew, so he had told himself that it had probably been broken up and sold as separate stones by some enterprising person, perhaps even by Archie, for he knew his old friend to be as crooked as he was himself.
But now the game was in his own hands at last. He had the necklace. The girl Emma was undoubtedly dead, for no one could survive an express train, and all its carriages, thundering across her unconscious body. In fact, with a bit of luck, Emma Grieves would be unrecognisable and it would take time to find out who she was. Grinning to himself, he repeated the little rhyme which had always made him smile. ‘
Oh, Mother dear, what is that mess that looks like strawberry jam? Hush, hush, my love, it is Papa, run over by a tram
.’ Yes, that would certainly apply to clever Miss Grieves and very soon to that nasty little redhead, Dot what’s-her-name. He’d already had one go, though he hadn’t been particularly perturbed when it hadn’t worked since, at the time, he had only suspicioned she might have taken the necklace. But he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He knew she lived in Lavender Court, knew she was the niece of Rupert Brewster, who worked for Archie. He could pick her off at any time, and the beauty of it was that no one would ever suspect a policeman. He would say that he saw her slip and reached to grab her before she fell into the roadway. All the locals knew and liked him – he was the scuffer who handed out free clogs and kecks to kids who couldn’t otherwise have afforded decent footwear and clothing. No one would suspect good old Ollie of deliberately harming a child.