The Pearly Queen (41 page)

‘You keep askin' that,' said Patsy.

‘I'm askin' myself,' said Jimmy.

‘Well, don't do it out loud,' said Patsy, dreading the thought of her mum's funeral, due to take place after the inquest.

‘I'll have to go,' said Jimmy, trying to puzzle out why his mum had committed suicide. ‘To the inquest, I mean.'

‘If you want, Jimmy,' said Dad, wishing he had Aunt Edie to talk to.

‘I couldn't let you go alone, Dad.'

‘Jimmy, can't you give it a rest?' asked Patsy.

‘Sorry, Patsy.'

Will was not away too long. That was because Mama Macaroni, an old friend to his late father, was able to direct him to a sleek Italian gentleman who, the moment he knew Will had been sent by the matriarch of Soho, came up with the whereabouts of Kitty Drake. However, if it meant that said Kitty Drake would receive damage to her valuable looks, certain lumps of concrete would fall on Mr Fletcher from a great height. Will said he was acting on behalf of a friend of Kitty, who would probably call on her tomorrow. The Italian gentleman said he had friends himself, and they all gave him a difficult time.

‘Leave off, Antonio,' said Will. ‘I've got responsibilities, I'm a father now and I can't afford to upset the likes of you. Just make sure Kitty Drake don't get damaged by someone else.'

The Italian gentleman, the patron, guardian and protector of the ladies of Soho, said he understood. And he offered Will a job. Will, knowing what kind of job it was, said he hoped there'd be no hard feelings if he declined. The Italian gentleman smiled and saw him out.

When he returned to Bethnal Green, his cross was waiting patiently for him. She climbed on to his shoulders at once by saying she had put Lulu to bed, that he was obviously a very kind father to the girl and that she was so pleased to see him back.

‘Would you do me a favour and keep to strict business?' he said. ‘Stop bein' pleased and stop lookin' at me as if I'm Father Christmas.'

‘I cannot help feeling pleasure at knowing you to be my friend—'

‘Shut up,' growled Will, ‘I'm a workin'-man, I live in lodgings, and I go to the public baths once a week. I don't take up with ladies, I'm lookin' to take up with a warm-'earted cockney woman hereabouts, one who'll put up with me and the little I can offer 'er, and be a mother to Lulu.'

‘I shall help you find a suitable woman,' said Celia, who had her own self-surprising ideas about who the woman should be.

‘You'll what?'

‘I have always thought you a worthy man, Will.'

‘Stone me blind,' said Will, ‘will you stop standin' me on my head?'

‘May I ask if you've found Miss Drake?'

‘I've got her address. You can call on 'er tomorrow.'

‘By myself?' said Celia in dismay. ‘To Soho? To such a dubious place?'

‘In the afternoon,' said Will. Soho ladies, whose nights were busy, discouraged morning callers. ‘Soho's all right in the afternoons.'

‘I shall hate it by myself.'

‘Well, hard luck, Sister Charity, I'll be workin'.'

‘But if you took the afternoon off?'

‘I'd lose an afternoon's pay,' said Will.

‘I'll make it up to you,' said Celia.

‘Cut it out.'

‘Please, I could not manage by myself.'

‘Oh, hell,' said Will, ‘I'm ruddy licked again.'

When Celia departed, he did not see her cross the street to her own lodgings.

‘Oh, not you again, Joe,' said Aunt Edie that evening.

‘Can I come in an' put me feet up a bit?' asked Joe with an amiable grin.

‘No, you can't.' Aunt Edie was unreceptive, eyes dark with unhappiness. ‘I've got a thumpin' headache.'

‘Well, that's rotten, Edie old love, but I was thinking—'

‘Well, go and think elsewhere,' said Aunt Edie, and closed the door on him.

‘This is a bleedin' fine evenin',' muttered Joe to himself as he went away. He had no idea that a reported suicide in the papers was in any way connected with Edie. Nor did he have any idea that Edie was enduring the unhappiest time of her life.

Kitty Drake slipped on an imitation silk negligee to answer a knock on the door of her upstairs room in a house in Wardour Street, Soho. She gaped as she saw Mother Verity. With the lady Repenter was a tall man of strong masculine appeal, just the kind Kitty liked as a gentleman client, except she didn't think he was that.

‘Oh, me gawd,' she breathed, ‘is that a copper you brought with yer, Mother Verity?'

‘No, a friend,' said Celia, ‘and I'm no longer with the League. Could we talk to you?'

‘I could do with that, a talk,' said Kitty. ‘I could do with a long talk with someone like you. Come in.'

It was a ton weight on her mind, she said, when her visitors were settled. Yes, she had been with Father Peter that night. She had gone to his private rooms an hour after dinner to receive more instruction about how to overcome sin. He'd given her lots of instructions, except it always made her terrible passionate.

Celia went hot all over as Kitty explained in detail. A grin crept over Will's face. No embarrassment inhibited Kitty. Father Peter, she said, had assured her it was the only way to learn self-denial and sinlessness.

Celia simply could not look at Will, and Will let his face grow straight.

‘Something dreadful happened,' said Kitty. It was after she had been on the bed with Father Peter. She was running around his rooms in her underwear, and he was chasing her in a dressing-gown, insisting it was necessary to give her a spanking. He had a strap in his hand. They didn't hear any knock on the door, and they didn't hear it being opened. But they saw Mother Mary enter. Oh, what a terrible shocking scene, said Kitty. Father Peter quickly closed the door and tried to do some explaining. But Mother Mary went for him, calling him a follower of Satan, a disgusting hypocrite and other names as well. Kitty herself ran into the bedroom to put her clothes on. She heard Father Peter trying to calm Mother Mary down. Mother Mary just went on giving him what for, not believing him when he said he had only followed the Lord's way. Kitty came out of the bedroom just when Mother Mary snatched the strap from his hand and struck him with it. Then she said she was going to her room to pray to the Lord, and then she was going down to tell everyone about his disgusting habits. She said she'd come up to confess she'd done her husband a dreadful wrong in saying she didn't know him, that it was heavy on her conscience, but that Father Peter wasn't fit to hear any confession, he ought to be put away and locked up. Then she went to her room and Father Peter followed her, trying to explain how he had suffered in giving such instruction to fallen women. But when he came back, about five minutes later, he said he couldn't do anything with Mother Mary, she was in a strange state of grief about what she had done to her husband.

Kitty didn't want to listen, she wanted to go to her own room and do some praying herself. Father Peter asked her to say nothing about anything, then let her go. She looked into Mother Mary's bedroom on the way, thinking to ask her what she was really going to do. But she wasn't there. The window was open, but she wasn't anywhere around, and Kitty supposed she'd gone down to tell everyone about her and Father Peter. She ran to her own room and hid herself under the sheets, praying as hard as she could. But when Mother Althea came up – Mother Althea shared the room with her – she didn't say a word about Mother Mary. That made Kitty think Mother Mary had kept silent, after all, and she thought the same thing again in the morning, because no-one mentioned it over breakfast. Except Mother Joan said Mother Mary's bed hadn't been slept in. Everyone thought she'd gone home for a bit, she'd done that once or twice before. Mind, Mother Joan said she hadn't taken her umbrella, and some of the ladies laughed at that.

But then Mrs Murphy appeared, screaming blue murder, and saying Mother Mary was out there in the yard, lying dead.

‘It was like I was ‘it with a thunderbolt,' breathed Kitty, ‘it got me all mixed up and frightened, and all I could think of was I'd got to get out of the place.'

‘Why?' asked Will.

‘Why what?' Kitty lit a cigarette, the match shaking in her fingers. ‘What d'yer mean, why?'

‘Why did you think you'd got to get out?'

‘'Ere, look, you seem a nice gentleman,' said Kitty, ‘but you got some sense, 'aven't yer? What 'appened to Mother Mary in that place could 'appen to me, couldn't it?'

‘Why?' asked Will, making no suggestions in order to let Kitty volunteer everything that was on her mind. The whole thing was nothing to do with him, but he'd have been made of wood if he hadn't been interested right up to his eyebrows. ‘Why could it 'ave happened to you?'

‘Gawd love yer, mister,' said Kitty, ‘you don't think that poor woman fell out of 'er window accidental, do you? Cool as a cucumber, that man was at breakfast, sayin' yes, it was obvious Mother Mary had gone 'ome to see 'er 'usband and make amends. 'er conscience was a grievous burden to 'er, 'e said. And when Mrs Murphy come in screamin' about Mother Mary bein' out in the yard and lyin' dead, 'e lifted 'is 'ands like 'e was 'orror-struck, but the thunderbolt 'ad ‘it me then, and it was me that was 'orror-struck. Well, I mean, 'e'd 'ad five minutes to chuck 'er out of the window, and I went in to see 'er only a minute after 'e'd come back. Mind, I ain't goin' to say so – oh, yer lookin' dreadful pale, Mother Verity.'

‘I'm all right, Miss Drake, please continue,' said Celia with an effort.

‘Yes, well, I ain't goin' to say nothing, not to no authority, I didn't actu'lly see it 'appen, did I? And I ain't goin' back to Bloomsbury, not with that man sayin' prayers with me and watchin' me. 'E knows I know that Mother Mary caught 'im chasin' me with a strap, and next thing everyone'll get to 'ear that I've fallen out a bedroom window meself. A friend found me this room, I didn't go back to me old address, me room there's been taken, anyway.'

‘Didn't you 'ear anything?' asked Will.

‘While 'e was with 'er in 'er room?' said Kitty. ‘No, I didn't, 'er room was a bit away from 'is own rooms. But I know she was goin' to tell everyone about that old 'ypocrite, only she didn't manage to, did she? Strong as a bull, 'e is, I tell yer. Not like the gentlemen I know. 'E chucked Mother Mary out of 'er window all right.'

‘He had to open it first,' said Will.

‘'Ere, whose side you on?' demanded Kitty, hair loosely wandering about her head and face.

‘He might 'ave opened it before he took hold of 'er,' said Will, ‘he might 'ave said she needed a bit of fresh air. If he didn't, then even a bull of a man would find it a real job to open a window with a struggling woman in his arms. I'm just makin' a point.'

‘There's going to be an inquest, Miss Drake,' said Celia, ‘you must tell what you know.'

‘Not me,' said Kitty, ‘'e'll do for me if 'e knows I'm goin' to be there. I ain't partial to bein' turned into a corpse meself, not at my age. One thing, I don't want no more to do with religion. It's shockin' dangerous, religion is. Anyway, there's nothing that can do any good now for Mother Mary, poor woman. You just got to 'ope the cops get suspicious and start askin' questions, only they ain't goin' to ask 'em of me, they'll get me in a corner and gawd knows 'ow I'll come out of it then. No, I ain't goin' to be around for no inquest nor trial. I'm 'appy to say I've got friends in Soho that'll look after me.'

‘But why did you tell us all this if you don't want to attend the inquest?' asked Celia.

‘Because soon as I saw you at me door, I thought 'ere's just the one I can talk to and get it all off me chest, so's you can tell all them other ladies that Father Peter ain't a gentleman, but a dirty old man. It all come to me when I was runnin' for me life back to Soho, it come to me that Mother Mary was right, that man was an old ‘ypocrite. It wasn't confessions 'e was after, it was dirty stories. I'll always remember you with pleasure. Me friend 'ere 'as found me a nice gentleman that lives in the country an' wants me to keep 'ouse for 'im. I'll be gone this time tomorrow. 'ere, you're not goin' to put the cops on me to get me to the inquest, are yer?'

‘But, Miss Drake, Mr Wilberforce should be brought to justice,' said Celia.

‘Well, let the cops work it all out,' said Kitty, ‘only I don't want them comin' after me. I'd be ever so obliged not to be mentioned, like. It's been a treat knowin' you, and I 'ope this nice gentleman friend of yours appreciates what a nice lady you are, and you've got nice looks too. I 'ope 'e does yer proud now you ain't with that League no more.'

Celia, casting a glance at Will and finding him with a helpless little grin on his face, said, ‘Thank you, Miss Drake, but—'

‘Come on,' said Will. ‘Kitty's done her stuff.'

‘Yes, would yer both mind goin' now?' said Kitty. ‘I got things to do.'

‘Goodbye, then,' said Celia.

‘Good luck, don't fall down no drain'oles,' said Kitty, ‘drain'oles is for old 'ypocrites.'

Will and Celia descended the stairs and emerged into the street. In a doorway opposite stood a burly man wrapped in a bulky overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. Will knew why he was there. The Italian gentleman had put a guard on the invaluable Kitty Drake, who had been sold at a price to a country gentleman.

Turning, they came face to face with Mr Montgomery Wilberforce. He loomed up, dark and sombre, and Celia lifted her eyes to his. His gaunt features tightened, his eyes glinted. But a smile followed.

‘Why, Mother Verity, how splendid to see you.'