“All the famous faces! All the famous faces! Best quality – three for sixpence. Her Majesty and the German Prince – lovely wedding portrait – Her Majesty’s own favourite likeness of her new lord. The Noble Duke himself, our Wellington, England’s saviour, on or off his horse, whichever you fancy. And here, just in – Madame Morgan, the divine diva, soon to be here in Northminster. After a painting by the famous Italian Signor Pastcarlini. Best quality and only to be had here! Come on! Murders for a penny, if that’s your taste!”
“I don’t suppose for one minute he has his token,” said Giles.
“Token?” said Carswell.
“A trading licence. The Guild of the City attempts to regulate the street trades with it, but they have set the price so high that no-one ever bothers to buy one, and my men are forced to waste a great deal of time chasing such people up. I did suggest that they reduce the price a little to encourage them, but I was given a stiff lecture for my presumption. The system is wretched beyond belief but they will not think of reforming it.”
By now a sizeable crowd had gathered to be entertained by the patter, and Giles was about to make his way through to the front of it to challenge the print seller, when suddenly from the ranks of the crowd a stout woman burst forth and began to harangue the man.
“Off my patch, you filthy tinker!” she screeched, her vast mushroom of skirts shaking with fury. “Haven’t I told you? Haven’t I told you before? I’ll have the law on you, you dirty beggar. Transported you should be, and hanged, you dirty, stinking Paddy!”
And as she screamed at him she upturned the baskets and boxes of prints onto the muddy ground. The man rushed to retrieve his stock and she took the advantage to raise the knotty stick which she was carrying and began to lay it upon him with some force. Giles now pushed through the crowd, which had spontaneously compacted itself to get a better view of such a good ‘going-on’, and ripped the stick from her hand. She stared up at him with utter astonishment and rage.
“If you please ma’am,” he said. “Or I shall be forced to charge you.”
“Charge me?” she exclaimed. “Charge me?”
“Calm down, mother, please.” A small man came scurrying up behind her. He was carrying a sulphur-yellow shawl which he tried to drape about her shoulders, but she was having none of it, and brushed him away with a mighty sweep of her arm as if he were an insect. “Mother, your heart, remember,” he said.
“Charge me?” she said again to Giles. “With what?”
“Malicious damage and assault,” said Giles. The print seller was scrabbling about, trying to retrieve his stock from the puddles
“He’s not allowed! He’s not allowed to sell that rubbish here. I know the law, mister high and mighty, I know the law. He can’t sell that here.”
“That is for me to decide,” said Giles.
“Then ask him for his token. He won’t have one. They never do, these tinkers. Filthy tinkers, ruining the trade for the likes of us.”
“That may well be, ma’am, but this is not the way to deal with it.” He turned to the son, who was still standing with the shawl stretched open, ready to wrap her in it should she ever signal she wanted it. “Take your mother home, Mr...?”
“Fildyke, sir,” he said. “Now, mother, you heard the gentleman.” Mrs Fildyke gave a snort of disgust at the word ‘gentleman’. “Let’s get inside before you make yourself ill. Now take my arm please,” he added with excruciating humility, but she pushed away the arm he offered and stomped away. Giles handed Fildyke her stick and he went after her.
Mrs Fildyke wrenched it off him and turned back to Giles for a moment.
“This is not the end of the matter. I shan’t let it rest! Mark me, mister, mark me!” She concluded with a filthy look and a flourish of the stick as if she fully intended to lay it across his face. It was clear he had spoiled all her pleasure.
Giles turned back to the print seller.
“Your token?”
The man began to pat the many pockets of his old-fashioned plum-coloured overcoat.
“I seem to have mislaid it, sir,” he said with the charming but practised smile of a person who has always lived on the margins of legality.
Giles pulled out his notebook.
“Name and address?”
“Hopkins, sir. Tannery Lane.”
“You know the penalty for trading without a token?”
“I have a token, sir, of course, I do. I’ve just lost it. I’m all legal. Swear to God!”
“It may come to that,” Giles said. “I want you to report to the police headquarters in Castle Street in the next twenty-four hours with your token.”
“Yes, yes, of course I will, sir.”
He would not, Giles know well enough. He would clear out of Northminster, at least for a while. Technically he ought to have arrested him, but Giles was inclined to be lenient.
“If you cannot find your token you cannot trade here,” he said.
“No, sir, of course not. I would not dream of it. I wouldn’t have set up here today if I hadn’t a token, would I?” he added with such an insolent grin that Giles was tempted to change his mind and arrest him. But he reflected it would only be a matter of time before the man was caught at it again, and then he would not have the excuse of not having been warned. He would send a constable up to Tanner Lane to look him out. It was a little shoddy to leave it as it stood, but the problem was endemic, like an outbreak of cockroaches – insoluble unless the root cause was tackled: the iniquitous token system. It was the
de facto
criminalisation of the many for the benefit of the few, and for all his dishonesty and obvious guilt, Giles could not help having some sympathy for the print seller.
“So pack up and be on your way,” he said.
“Yes, sir, at once, sir.”
“Major Vernon!” Carswell calling was out.
He turned and saw Carswell running across the green. Mrs Fildyke appeared to be collapsing.
Chapter Three
“I want Dr Joyce!” said Mrs Fildyke, her arms flailing, as Felix tried to take her pulse. “Get off me!”
“I’m a surgeon, Mrs Fildyke.”
“No, no, you’re nothing but a boy. Where’s Dr Joyce? Edwin, go and get Dr Joyce. I don’t want no ’prentice surgeon. And get me my pills... Oh God, my poor heart... I’m going to die, I swear it.”
They had got her back to her house with some difficulty. She was not unconscious but her bulk was considerable and she was complaining of severe pain, and every move had seemed to only increase her distress. The three of them – her son, the Major and Felix – managed to manoeuvre her through the tiny shop and into a back room which contained a large sofa and a great quantity of bird cages, all filled with frenzied little creatures, who set up a din at their interruption.
It was soon clear that this noxious apartment was where she spent most of her time. Her excursion onto the Green had been an exceptional one, and she was so unused to exercise that it had brought on a violent attack of dyspepsia.
“You insolent beggar!” she said, as Felix again tried to examined her, albeit cursorily. “Edwin, get him out of here. I must see Dr Joyce.”
“He’s trying to help you, Mother. You might have died out there.”
“I don’t think it’s as grave as that. What did you have for breakfast, Mrs Fildyke?” Felix said, noticing the dish of sugar plums and the port bottle on the table.
“Just a little gruel. That’s all I can bear first thing. I don’t eat a great deal.”
“You ought to loose your stays,” he said.
“How dare you!” she screamed. “Edwin, get him out of here!”
“Very well, ma’am,” said Felix, stepping back from the couch. “If you will not take my help –”
“No I will not!” she said. “Get out!”
“I must apologise for my mother,” said Mr Fildyke as they went back into the shop. Major Vernon was waiting there, apparently absorbed in studying the cluttered shelves. “She takes on so and that rascal has been here every day this week.”
“Dyspepsia, I should say. She should observe a stricter diet,” said Felix. “And take more exercise. Tell her that, won’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I shall try. I shall try. Thank you, sir – thank you both,” he added, turning to Major Vernon who had picked up a print and was examining it closely by what scanty light came through the glazed panes of the door. “Do you like that, sir? Lots of gentlemen have been in enquiring for Mrs Morgan’s picture since we heard she was coming to sing. That’s the last one I have in stock.”
“That’s just as well, for I’m not sure this is legitimate, Mr Fildyke,” said Major Vernon.
“What do you mean, sir?” said Fildyke, all apparent innocence
“That this is a pirate copy of a Hill & Co engraving. You should be a little more wary about who you buy your stock from if you do not want to get yourself into trouble.”
“I don’t know about that, sir,” said Fildyke, a little flustered now. “No-one else has remarked on it. All our customers have been satisfied.”
“They would be for that price if it were genuine,” said the Major. “Who is your supplier?”
“I don’t know, sir, off-hand. I should have to ask my mother, and I don’t like to disturb her now.”
“Perhaps in the near future you will remember,” said the Major rolling up the print. “I would advise you to do so.”
“Yes, sir, I will, of course.”
“I will take this with me, if you don’t mind, Mr Fildyke? You don’t want to sell it by accident, I’m sure.”
Fildyke looked as though he were about to protest and then thought better of it.
“A very dubious establishment,” said Major Vernon, as they walked away. “Half the stock was counterfeit or adulterated, and all sold at vastly inflated prices.” He handed Felix the rolled-up print. “Pirate copy, or not, I wonder if that is a good likeness?”
Felix unrolled the paper to reveal the figure of woman, leaning on a pillar with a bland, sweet and abstracted gaze. She had large spaniel eyes and glossy ringlets.
“I doubt it. No woman ever looked like that. Why do people waste their money on such things?”
“We like to have our idols, our great men and our beautiful women. It is in our nature. Well, at least we weak mortals do. Obviously not you, Carswell.”
“I could see the point of a portrait which did a person justice, which had some honesty in it. It is the utter falsity of that that offends me. That is not a woman. That is a doll.” He handed it back to the Major.
“We shall make a scientific comparison,” said the Major, tucking the print inside his great coat, “when we see the lady for ourselves. A great many would envy us the opportunity. After you,” he said, indicating a narrow flight of steps twisted away behind a crumbling old wall.
“Where does this go?”
“Up to the far side of the Minster Precincts. This is Jacob’s ladder,” said the Major.
Some thirty steps later they were following a narrow lane that led to a wooden hand-gate.
“Avonside Row?” said Felix, glancing up at the cast iron sign fixed to a high brick wall.
They had emerged into a short but handsome street in a secluded corner of the Precincts. He not taken in the address at the top of Mrs Morgan’s letter, but was now surprised he had not. The name Avonside was always one to make him uneasy. “Is this part –?”
“Of the Rothborough estates? I believe so.”
“What is Mrs Morgan to do with that?”
“It is a good address,” said Major Vernon, his hand on the elaborate wrought iron gate that led to a generous front garden. “I should live here if I could afford it. She clearly can – at least for the time of her engagement here. Very pleasant indeed. A fine house – especially that large garden at the side. No common lodgings for the great diva.”
Felix followed the Major up the flagged path, with its trimming of clipped box to the immaculately proportioned front door, topped with a fanlight. It was, he supposed, a desirable house, but he could not dissociate the property from its owner. It had too much of the stamp of Lord Rothborough about it – glossy and aristocratic. Above the door was the Rothborough coat of arms, the three diamonds set in an oval, topped by a raven’s head. Felix knew the pattern well from the watch-chain seal that Lord Rothborough had given to him when he turned one-and-twenty.
A maid of striking looks opened the door to them and enquired, haughtily, in a strong foreign accent, “Yes, what is it?”
“Your mistress is expecting me,” the Major said. “Tell her the Chief Constable presents his compliments.” He held out his card to her, which she took and examined dubiously.
“You are sure, Monsieur?”
“Yes,” said Major Vernon crisply. “Take that up to your mistress and you will see that I am expected.”
“Wait here,” she said, gesturing to the row of hall chairs that skulked against the wall. “I will see for you.”
“She’s clearly used to weeding out the riff-raff,” said Major Vernon, when she had gone.
“That doesn’t excuse her insolence.”
“Swiss,” the Major went on, “if I am not mistaken. Extremely smart indeed.”
“What is?”
“To have a Swiss maid. So I am informed. And for a married woman to keep a maid that beautiful – well, the mistress must be sure of her own charms, don’t you think? A girl that handsome would be a serious provocation to a husband.”
“About as provocative as a quart of vinegar,” Felix said, turning quickly away from the painting he had found himself facing: a perspective view of the park at Holbroke, with a large coat of arms in the corner, supported by flying angels.
Upstairs someone began to play the piano – the introduction to a song which Felix vaguely recognised. Then someone began to sing; not, as might have been expected, a woman, but a man. He sounded ordinary enough, neither good nor bad – a respectable drawing room tenor, and Felix recognised it at once.
“What the devil?” he muttered, and pushed his hands through his hair. “That’s –”
The Major, who had been looking at the other paintings, turned to him. “Yes?”
“My Lord Rothborough.”
“The solicitous landlord, of course,” said the Major, with an amused but sympathetic smile.
“Collecting his rent, I suppose,” said Felix, taking up his hat. “We won’t be allowed to intrude on this.”
“We owe the lady a little more than that,” said Major Vernon, going to the stairs. “It would be better for her if we were to intrude, I think. After all, she did ask to see me.”