A Thief in the Night (22 page)

‘Eddie, I’ve come for some help.’ Harry sat in his friend’s office in Scotland Yard, trying his best not to upset the detective, who looked decidedly downhearted.

‘Can you give us some constables to walk around some beer shops and such?’

‘What on earth for, Harry?’ He rubbed his head. ‘Oh dear – I drank some beer last night … I’m sure it was off. My head has native drums in it. Now what’s the play?’

Harry put on his lecturing voice. ‘Right. Basic facts of the case. We need to find a soldier, in his thirties, maybe forty, Yorkshire, has long hair, goes to public houses around Brick Lane. He may frequent several, but should be known at the Frying Pan. He has a broken nose. Smythe has been to the public house and had no luck. Nobody knows the man.’

‘In a half-mile of that place I guess we have thirty beer shops and pubs, Harry! How many constables do you want? Have you nothing else?’

‘Well, I’m working it out … now, let’s say this man left the army recently, around five years ago. I’ve asked the War Office (or rather George has, as he was at Eton with four gentlemen who are now brigadiers) to provide muster rolls and discharge records … but we need the regiment! Apparently this man had medals … and some motto to do with vegetables. Make sense?’

‘Now Harry, you’re talking more nonsense than usual. But we do have a list of regiments, with mottos.’ Eddie shouted for someone and as a constable came to the door, he requested the list. ‘You wouldn’t believe just how many former military men we have causing trouble, and the prisons are packed with them, of course. It’s understandable when you think what war does to a man. They are discharged from army life and either live on a pittance or thin air, and of course they are very skilled at drinking away anything rattling in their pockets!’

A folder arrived and Eddie pulled out a bunch of sheets and handed them to Harry. ‘Here we are. You start on those and I’ll check these here.’

They read in silence, then Eddie muttered, ‘No, no cabbages or peas…’ Then Harry exclaimed, ‘By God … surely this is it …
Celer et Audax
.’

‘Don’t follow you Harry.’

‘
Celer et Audax
… Swift and Bold. It’s the motto of the King’s Royal Rifles Corps. We can get the man’s name now, surely!’

Eddie looked baffled, then Harry passed the sheet across and the Detective Inspector saw it at once. ‘Ah! Celery! Well done Prof.’

‘I need to know which men have been discharged within the last five years or so … where they fought last,’ said Harry. ‘I have to go, Eddie … what about the searches?’

‘Right. Tonight – all drinking holes in a half mile radius of the Frying Pan. If we must act, it best be quickly! But you know what you need – a drawing of the man.’

‘A drawing? Mr Tardow could possibly supply some details, but the difficulty lies in the fact that he met this soldier in semi-darkness.’

‘Ah, then it may not be possible. You will be able to find a list of men discharged within a set period, but that may still leave hundreds.’ Eddie racked his brains, trying to think of another approach. ‘Though of course, you have a rough idea of his age … that should help.’

‘Yes, and almost certainly born in Yorkshire.’

It was food for thought, but Harry had no time to spare. He was heading for the War Office.

There was a search of pubs and beer shops and as Jack Garvey walked along he could not fail to notice that there was something of moment going on. He asked a man lounging by the corner of Newgate Street what was the commotion.

‘Peelers after some poor beggar. I heard they was after a soldier, so my mate says.’

That was more than enough for Jack. In seconds he was heading towards the one friend he had if he needed to disappear. Ernie Smith, a photographer now but once a Tommy, had his studio over the City Toy Shop on west Cheapside.

He scuttled past the statue of Sir Robert Peel, and at that point he felt dizzy. He stumbled into a bollard and one knee slammed into the metal, a stab of pain shooting up his leg.
You’re falling apart, Jack, get ’old of yourself!
he muttered, before diving around the corner behind the toyshop to the back entrance. Climbing the stairs, he knocked on the door, shouting out for Ernie.

Ernie, a dapper little man with a pipe stuck in his mouth, half opened the door and squinted through the space. ‘Now my old mate,’ he said, ‘long time no see. What’s the trouble? I can see you got some.’

‘Well, if you let me in I’ll …’

‘Can’t do that old matey, got people in.’

‘What? People … Ernie, it’s me, Jack. The man what stood beside you at Kaffie Dowar. Let me in … there’s peelers after me.’

There were calls from behind the door. Jack could hear people laughing.

‘This is my business, Jack, my occupation now. That soldiering, it was a long time back … anyway, what have you done?’

‘I done nothing. Well, petty theft … I think they want me for a little fight what I had when a cove didn’t want to give me his pocketbook.’

There were more calls from behind, and Ernie, again full of apologetic sounds, closed the door.

Rage rose in Jack’s breast and he slammed his fists against the door, shouting Ernie’s name. From somewhere below a voice thundered out, ‘Shut up will ya!’

It was too much. His knee throbbed with pain; his head was sore, and he felt a shiver of fever rush through him. He felt his legs give way and he slithered down the door. He felt in his pocket for the whisky bottle and desperately raised it to his dry lips.

Right then … pull yourself together, soldier. Covent Garden. You got an order, Tommy. You need to see Mr Sachs and give him some blade, let him meet mister death, like what them Gyptians got. But not yet … you need some golden water, boy, some drink of the bleedin’ Gods.
He began to laugh, uncontrollably, louder and louder, so that more voices shouted for him to shut up.

Bedford Street, Jack, number fourteen … Bedford Street, number fourteen … Mr bleedin’ Sachs.
He made a determined effort to struggle to his feet and gauge exactly where he was, in which direction he had to walk. Out on the street again, he saw the blur of passers-by and called out to no one in particular, ‘Covent Garden … which way mate?’

Someone pointed and said, ‘Keep going, up here.’

Whisky back in his pocket and his bayonet tucked in his broad leather belt, Jack Garvey forced himself along the pavement, eyes straight ahead, arms swinging.
Quick march, you lads, I want a straight line …straight line!
The words of the long-time dead played again in his mind:
Permission to stay with this officer Sir? He’s got blood seeping out of him Sir, and we have to do the right thing by this young man, Captain. Thank you Sir. I’ll attend to the young man Sir … I’ll sit with him … ducking bullets? Yes, I’ll not mind the bullets Captain. Pray to the God of war p’raps, Sir, like us all did in India … same ’ere Sir, among the Gyptians, Sir. I’ll stay with him.

Lord George’s contacts and influence had paid off, Harry thought, as he sat by a desk in the innards of the War Office at Whitehall, waiting for a clerk to bring someone to help with his search. It was a daunting place, and everyone’s manner had been hard and peremptory as he arrived and announced himself, but at the third interview, at last a face had responded with a smile and said, ‘Ah yes, Lord Lenham-Cawde told me about the problem.’

The clerk arrived, but not accompanied by papers or boxes of files. He had a smart little man in a dark suit by his side. ‘Professor Lacey? I’m Colonel Ranger, Intelligence.’

They shook ands and walked across to the foyer where there were tables and chairs. Someone brought tea, and they sat. ‘Professor, George tells me that you are … how shall I say … sleuths? George always liked the murder stories in the worst kind of penny dreadful rubbish!’

‘We might be amateur, but by God, if we don’t shift tonight, a man may die.’

‘Right … well, in Intelligence we gather facts; we keep records, produce gazetteers, that kind of thing. Now, I had my man look at the muster rolls and the discharges for the regiment. Using a little commonsense and inference, I would say your man was in Egypt back in ’82. This was the Arabi business … your man would have been around twenty-five, let’s say. There was some rather testing scrapping going on. He’s a tough man, your Yorkie broken nose … let’s call him that for now.’

The colonel had been holding a few sheets of paper that the clerk had given him. ‘Now, your man said he had a medal that looked like a flower … well, the King’s Royal Rifle Corps’ badge looks like a four-leaved flower – your Mr Tardow would have seen that.’

Harry was increasingly impressed with the measured tone and delivery in which the colonel spoke. Another sheet of paper was put on the table. ‘Now, I sat down and compiled a list of men of around thirty-five who were born in God’s own county … as my father used to call it, as he was born in Leeds. Now, there is this matter of the other medal.’ He frowned and rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. ‘Now if you will allow me to play detective for a second, Professor, could I clarify that this other medal had two words over it?’

‘Yes, that’s what Tardow said,’ Harry replied.

‘Now, in Egypt at that time, some of the regiment were operating as mounted infantry …’

‘
Mounted
infantry, Colonel Ranger?’ interrupted Harry in disbelief.

‘It’s a long story … but there was an engagement at a place called Kafr Dowar. The King’s men were doing some reconnaissance and came under fire. An officer was down, badly wounded, and a Private Garvey asked permission to stay with him … he did so, binding wounds … very brave man. He was from Bradford, in Yorkshire. This particular man served in India, and was wounded there … and then in Egypt against that swine Arabi … a soldier turned rebel he was.’

Harry was intrigued.

‘There is more. Garvey was awarded the Victoria Cross. As you know, the words ‘For Valour’ are on that very distinguished item. Two words … over yet another kind of flower I suppose.’

Harry gave a gasp of astonishment. ‘Are you saying that our hired killer is a hero of the Empire, Colonel?’

‘It’s possible. There were only seven Yorkshiremen in the list I compiled. I know we were applying merely educated guesswork, but still …’

‘Then we may have the name of our man … but damn it, Colonel, we still don’t know where he lives, if he lives anywhere at all. He may be one of those thousands who crawl from lodging house to lodging house … we’re no further on with this, and I need to move fast, Colonel.’

Harry thanked Colonel Ranger and was out in the street in seconds, on his way to meet Eddie. They may have a name, but it was one attached to an action of the utmost courage, not infamy.

Jack Garvey had made his drunken way to Covent Garden and was asking passers-by for directions to Bedford Street. Under the rough exterior, he was still in possession of that code of honour he had always lived by. If someone paid you to do a job, then you did it. If an officer gave you an order, you obeyed him. It might be a fallen world, but a man could still do right. Many times before he had walked these streets, seeing a landscape of poor, benighted souls, abandoned by those with the power. These corrupt men in fine suits, like this solicitor, they had to be weeded out.