Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (7 page)

‘What now?’ I said.

Blake restored his pocketbook to its pocket. ‘Find the girl Matty. Talk to Eldred Woundy,’ he said. ‘He started out printing penny bloods but set up a newspaper a few months back called
Woundy’s Illustrated Weekly
. Big success. Got himself famous – big man, fancy dresser. See, there’s a bill for it.’ He pointed at the wall behind me. It was thickly pasted with advertisements for theatres and pleasure gardens and the admirableness of certain journals, among them
Woundy’s Weekly
: ‘The Latest News and the Best’. He unwrapped a plug of tobacco, installed it in one cheek and began to chew.

There came suddenly from behind me a yelp, and Blake lunged. Or rather it was the other way around; it was so fast I could not tell. When I looked round, Blake had the cup-wielding barrel-organ boy by the arm.

‘What the devil—’

From the boy’s sleeve Blake plucked my silk handkerchief.

The child’s face puckered in fury and he began to scream abuse – though not in any language I understood – as he tried vainly to twist from Blake’s grip. The other boy picked up a handful of filth and stones from the street and pelted us with it, then took up the barrel organ in his arms and ran off as fast as he could.

Blake jerked the boy round, waved my handkerchief at him, pushed his tobacco into his cheek and spoke to him calmly and imperturbably in his own tongue. In reply, the boy produced a stream of impassioned, incomprehensible words, the meaning of which was only too clear: the accusation was outrageous, he was utterly innocent. The diatribe continued for several minutes until he ran out of breath. Blake asked him another question. This time the answer was briefer and accompanied by a smirk.

‘You’ve acquired another language since we last met,’ I said.

‘Italian. All the organ-grinder boys are Italian.’

‘What does he say?’

‘When I pointed out he was caught red-handed, he said you deserved to be stolen from as you take so little care to protect your possessions.’ Blake looked me up and down. ‘He’s not wrong.’

I bit back my reply.

Blake questioned him again. The boy looked at him craftily and shook his head. Blake gripped him harder and gave a chilly smile. Gesticulating expansively at Wedderburn’s shop, the boy answered, increasingly volubly, and after a while started to grin. Then Blake let him go. The child scrambled off down the street, turning back once to make an obscene gesture and shout something offensive. I turned to Blake indignantly. He pushed my handkerchief into my pocket.

‘He told me what I wanted. If he’s taken by the police he’ll be put in gaol or transported.’

‘He is a thief.’

‘He’s ten years old, has no other livelihood and there’ll be some kidsman waiting to take his coins from him at the end of the day.’

I shook my head, exasperated. ‘Kidsman?’

‘A man who sets him and a bunch of other children thieving. They take the risks, he gets the fruits.’

I sighed. ‘And did he tell you something useful?’

‘He said Holywell Street is a good pitch because you never see coppers. They move street sellers on: it’s the new dispensation. They’ll arrest boys for rolling hoops in the street, let alone playing a barrel organ. Even so, the shopkeepers down here don’t like him and his brother; they say they drive custom away.’

‘I can see why,’ I said.

‘But Wedderburn let them stand outside the shop sometimes when others moved them on. The boy said everyone knows about the murder but no one talks about it now. He and his brother were here the day the body was found. Nothing like it had ever happened before. A big crowd gathered outside to try and get a look, but they took the body out in a box with a blanket over the top. He was told it was carved up like a piece of pork and there was blood everywhere. All the shops closed the next day: shopkeepers too scared to open. He said there are some “bad men” in the street, but Wedderburn wasn’t one of them and some of his clients were grand men, gentlemen in fine clothes.’

‘Is there any talk about who might have done it?’

In answer, Blake leant forward and spat a stream of tobacco into the road. I winced.

‘The boy said nobody knows and no one saw anything.’ He sighed. ‘The popular choices include various demonic apparitions, including Spring-Heeled Jack, and the Duke of Cumberland.’

‘What?’

‘You know,’ he said, suddenly looking extraordinarily tired, ‘the Queen’s uncle Ernest – he’s the King of Hanover now. Profligate, gambler, said to have slit his valet’s throat, fathered a child by his sister and murdered his mistress’s husband, and has a face to frighten children with.’

‘Perhaps we should return tomorrow, Blake,’ I said anxiously. ‘You look all in.’

He waved me aside. ‘The street will be lively till ten. We must find the girl, Matty Horner. She’ll be selling cress or chickweed in a basket, the boy said. Everyone knows her. Old black bonnet, grey plaid shawl. You got any inside pockets? Take your valuables out of your coat and put them in your waistcoat at least.’

Red-faced, I passed Connie’s package to Blake, who slipped it inside his coat, then I stuffed my loose possessions into my waistcoat pockets until they bulged, and buttoned my coat from top to bottom. My attention was caught by the shop next door to Wedderburn’s: ‘Dugdale’s, printer’s and bookseller’s’; it too had an
arrangement of white leaves and thorns around the name. It was one of those on Blake’s list and it appeared to be thriving – as much as anything on that grimy thoroughfare could. A number of youths were clustered around a table outside the shop window on which there were various well-used pamphlets:
The Pirate’s Bride
,
The Mad Monk
, and several more titles with suspiciously recognizable names:
Oliver Twiss
,
The Adventures of Nickerlarse Nickelbee
. It was not these that the boys were straining to see, however, but the window behind. Here, among more battered copies, were displayed handbills in which certain teasing phrases stood out in especially large letters: BACHELORS’ CHOICE, CONFESSIONS OF A BLUSHING NEWLY-WED, RACY SECRETS and PRIVATE COMPANION. When you got close enough to see, you realized that the wording around these, in much smaller letters, was utterly innocuous.

‘Let me see what I can discover,’ I called to Blake, pushing my way in.

The shop was not unlike Wedderburn’s but a good deal larger, with a long counter and shelves arranged with prints, worn volumes, pamphlets and chapbooks. Behind the counter was a short, square man with a rubicund face and a jaunty manner.

‘Welcome, sir! It is always good to see a real gentleman in the shop. What might I help you with? Anything in particular you seek? I have a fine collection’ – he gestured at his dog-eared stock – ‘and plenty more out back.’ He winked.

‘I would indeed be grateful for some help. I have just seen Mrs Wedderburn next door; I should like to ask you a few questions about her husband’s death.’

The man’s congenial manner vanished. ‘We will have none of that in here. I sell books and pamphlets, that is all.’ He looked over my shoulder as the door opened and one of the eager youths came in. ‘If you wish to buy something, all well and good. If not, get out of my shop. I’m saying nothing.’

‘I have been formally engaged to look into Mr Wedderburn’s demise,’ I said.

‘Be off with you! I have nothing to say about that matter. We do not talk about it here. Get out!’

Blake was standing outside.

‘It did not go well?’

‘No.’

‘Did you offer to buy something?’

‘No.’

‘Good idea to smooth the feathers first. Some’ll be happy to talk, others won’t, not in front of the customers – bad for business. Next time you put some money down and ask to speak somewhere quiet. Likely he’s frightened being right next door to the murder.’

‘Or knows more and is hiding it.’

‘That too. Next time, wait for me.’ He was taken by a fit of coughing and bent over, wheezing, shooing my attempts to help him. ‘Find me Matty Horner,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch my breath.’

It took a while to come upon the girl. My inquiries were met with suspicious looks, but eventually the judicious application of a sixpence caused her to be revealed to me. She was of middling height, but looked smaller because she was so slight. She wore a black bonnet – so old and faded it was almost purple – pulled as far forward as it would go to shield her ears from the wind, and a large stringy plaid shawl that swamped her. She carried a basket.

‘Sell you some cress, sir, or a nice juicy apple?’ She seemed very young, though her voice was husky from shouting her wares. Her dress was not far off a rag and the bottom was edged with an uneven ink-black stain. Her face was pale, dirty and pinched with fatigue. But she had a bright, agreeable manner and a ready smile, which distinguished her from most on the street. I looked at the things in her basket. It seemed dishonourable to purchase a sorry bunch of cress merely to retain her attention, but I retrieved a small coin and pointed out an apple less wizened than the rest.

‘Miss Matty Horner?’ I said as she handed it to me.

The smile disappeared. ‘Who wants to know?’

I removed my hat. ‘My name is Captain William Avery, I have been asked to look into the death of Nat Wedderburn. I think you knew him.’

She took a step back. Her eyes darted from side to side as if she
were looking for some means of escape. I took hold of her basket. It felt like the act of a cad.

‘Let go of me,’ she said loudly. Heads turned.

‘Miss Horner,’ I said, flustered and speaking hurriedly, ‘please hear me out. I have just seen Connie Wedderburn. I know that you found Mr Wedderburn’s body. I cannot imagine how dreadful that must have been for you. My friend Mr Jeremiah Blake and I are determined to find the man who did this appalling thing. But we need your help. I am loath to ask you, but we need to speak to you about what you saw. We would, of course, be willing to pay for your time.’

The girl considered. I hoped my courteous words would have some effect. And I still held her basket.

‘You are
determined
, are you, Captain?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Owe you money, did he?’ Her expression became sly, but oddly this merely emphasized how frail and small she was. I released the basket.

‘No, Miss Horner. It is not that at all. We have been asked to look into the matter because the new police have done so little. I was a soldier in India, as was my friend Mr Blake. He is an inquiry agent—’

‘India?’ she said, her curiosity for a moment outpacing her mistrustfulness. ‘Never met anyone from India. Where’s your friend then?’

I pointed Blake out. He was leaning against a wall, his hand on his chest, watching us. She looked back and forth at us. Not for the first time I was reminded of what a strange couple we must make – me in my country gentleman’s smart clothes, he looking as if he had recently been discharged from a paupers’ hospital.

‘Look, I’ll talk to you,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but you’ll have to pay.’

I nodded disapprovingly.

She laughed wearily. ‘Nah. I’m not pricey. I want a cup and two thin from the coffee stand. And maybe a shilling. That’ll do to start. I’ll meet you at Abraham’s. He’ll let me sit in the back.’

‘So, you again,’ said the old clothes dealer, scowling from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. ‘Not here, I think, to buy a few garments. But poking into the Wedderburn business.’

‘Keep it down, Abe, and let him in,’ said Matty Horner.

‘You sure, Matty girl? You all right?’ He spoke to her fondly, in a tone quite different from his addresses to us.

‘Nothing a cup and two thin won’t sort. They come to ask me about when I found him. They say they’re going to find who done it to him.’

‘What you doing nosing round here? You’re no blue bastards.’

‘I am Captain Avery and this is Mr Blake,’ I said patiently. ‘We have been asked to look into the matter by Viscount Allington. He does a great deal of work in places like this to help the needy, and is most concerned at the lack of progress made by the new police.’

Abraham Kravitz was unimpressed. ‘What you want with her, then?’

‘We need to ask Miss Horner about what she saw.’

‘She shouldn’t have to speak of it again. No one else does.’

‘Abe,’ said Matty, her exasperation transforming the word into two syllables, Ay-abe, ‘come on. Let them sit in and I can have my coffee. They’re buying. It carn hurt and if they can do something about it …’

‘There are things it doesn’t do to remember,’ he said.

‘But they are already in here,’ she said, tapping her head. ‘And not thinking about them doan help. I’ve tried.’

‘You just be careful.’ With a great show of reluctance, the old man stood aside to let us in. ‘All right, Matty girl, take them into the back and rest your legs. I hope they’re paying you good.’

We followed the girl into the rear of the shop past mounds of old clothes, piled high and giving off a musty scent. In the back, wedged between two such piles, were a small table and some odd chairs. I gave Matty her cup of hot coffee and the bread and butter, and pulled out a chair for her. With exaggerated ceremony she sat down upon it, placing her basket carefully on the floor, setting her prizes upon the table and removing her bonnet. Then she set to eating with great bites, chewing each mouthful thoroughly as if to wring
from it as much nourishment and satisfaction as possible. I had also purchased a ham sandwich. It turned out to be a slab of grey flannel set between two slices of something not far off cardboard. The enthusiasm with which she then tucked into this made me wish I had bought her something better.