Keeping Bad Company (22 page)

‘The Merchant's Alexander McPherson, that's obvious.'

‘And The Soldier?'

‘I don't know.'

‘That's why it might be interesting to look through the Company army records. Have you had a chance yet?'

‘When I've almost worn my eyes out on Griffiths's pamphlet? There's a whole shelf of army records. It will take weeks. Does it matter?'

An impression of a soldierly-looking man on a grey horse seemed too shadowy to mention.

‘Mr Griffiths seems to imply that The Merchant and The Soldier may have been in some sort of conspiracy,' I said. ‘At least, there's a hint that it might have been more than coincidence that they were in the principality at the same time.'

‘Griffiths was as good as accusing them of stealing the prince's jewel collection.'

‘The collection that the thieves missed in Bombay and that McPherson has probably brought with him to sell in London.'

‘We don't know it's one and the same. A man like McPherson would pick up jewels all over the place.'

‘What about that hawk? We know some of the prince's pieces were in animal shapes.'

‘There are a lot of jewels in India.'

But Tom said it without much conviction.

‘I have it on good authority that McPherson is depending on those jewels for his financial survival,' I said. Tom opened his mouth to ask how I knew so I pressed on quickly. ‘Any hint that they're not legally his to dispose of might have a disastrous effect on his credit. No wonder he and his cronies wanted to stop Mr Griffiths's pamphlet going into circulation.'

‘To the extent of killing him?' Tom said.

He didn't sound so sceptical about it now. It was ironical that he was working himself round to a position just as I was close to abandoning it.

‘Except I'm not sure now that McPherson and his friends did kill him,' I said.

‘So suicide after all?' Tom said.

He started running his fingers through his hair, then clamped them together on the top of his head as if he feared his brain might explode. I told him about the visit of the Indian man the evening before Mr Griffiths died.

‘It's the same man we saw by the river, it must be,' I said. ‘And he's got Anil with him.'

‘Anil wouldn't have left Griffiths willingly,' Tom said. ‘The boy was devoted to him. I can't believe he'd see Griffiths killed and go away with his murderer.'

‘So did this man take him away by force?'

‘I don't see any other way. If you're sure it was Anil . . .'

‘I am.'

‘. . . then I'd better go out to Richmond tomorrow and insist on talking to him. At the very least, he's a beneficiary under Griffiths's will and I should speak to him about that.'

‘I don't think you should do that until we know more,' I said.

I was about to explain about keeping the cottage under observation when several thunderous knocks sounded on the door at the bottom of the stairs and feet came clumping up. Tabby arriving to report. I wished I'd had a chance to prepare Tom beforehand. After another perfunctory knock on my study door she stamped into the middle of the room, oblivious of Tom.

‘I think he might of killed him.'

Even I was stunned. Tom stared at her, mouth open. She was even more dishevelled than when I'd left her the day before, the hem of her skirt trailing, hair flopping down with wisps of hay clinging to it.

‘Who?'

‘The boy. The Indian boy you wanted to talk to. I reckon they killed him last night, after they seen us together.'

‘Explain, Tabby,' I said, trying to keep my voice level. ‘In order, please.'

I dared not look at Tom. Tabby took a deep breath.

‘I did like you said. By the time I got near the house, the Indian man had gone in and the carriage had gone off somewhere. There's a tree near their garden. You can see the side window from there. The man was inside. I could see him from the white things he was wearing. He was walking up and down and looked as if he was talking to somebody. When it started getting dark, a woman inside lit a lamp. Foreign, she was. Dark, like the man.'

‘Young or old?'

‘Old. Before it got really dark, the man came out and walked round the house, as if he was making sure nobody was watching. I saw him first and got behind the tree. Then the boy opened the front door to him and he went inside.'

Tom, leaning forward, snapped a question.

‘The Indian boy, you mean?'

She gave him one of her stares, then looked at me to see whether she should answer.

‘He's my brother,' I said. ‘So was it the Indian boy?'

‘He looked Indian and he was wearing one of them things on his head, like the man.'

‘Did the man say or do anything to him?'

‘Not that I saw.'

‘Did the boy look scared?'

She shook her head. ‘Just ordinary.'

‘What happened then?'

‘They drew the curtains so I couldn't see inside no more. I seen there was a woodshed at the back of the house, and I thought if I had to stay somewhere for the night, I might as well stay there. So I pushed the logs about to make a space to sit and left the door a bit open so I could see out. I'd see anybody if they came out the back door. If anybody came out of the front door, I'd hear it open. Anyway, quite a bit after that I heard them quarrelling inside.'

‘Who was quarrelling?'

‘The man and the woman. She was the one you could hear most of, but she was talking foreign. She sounded annoyed. He was answering but his voice was lower.'

‘And the boy, could you hear him?' Tom said.

This time she condescended to answer him.

‘He never said anything. Not the whole time.'

‘So why do you say you think he was killed?'

‘After they'd been arguing for a bit, there was this sort of wooden-sounding crash, as if somebody had been knocked downstairs. Then everything went quiet. A bit after that, they put the lamps out. In the morning, as soon as it was light, the man came out and walked all round the house again, looking out for something. The woman was inside, standing at the window. No sign of the boy. The man had to open the door for himself.'

‘And on that evidence, you conclude that the boy's been killed.'

Relief at this unconvincing conclusion had turned Tom sarcastic and pompous again. She glared at him.

‘You should wait for the end of it. I went on watching, then I heard the front door open and a carriage drawing up outside. Still early, it was, nobody about. The Indian man goes up the path and says something to the driver, then they both go inside. A bit later, the driver and the Indian come out and they're carrying a big wooden box between them. They push it in on the floor of the carriage, then the Indian man gets in with it, the driver gets back up and they drive off.' She turned to me. ‘I left it too late to get up on the back, so I don't know where they went to.'

‘Big?' said Tom. ‘How big?'

He didn't sound sarcastic any more.

‘Big enough to put the boy in easy,' Tabby said. Then, as an afterthought, ‘If they folded him up a bit that is.'

Tom looked at me, simple appeal on his face. I couldn't think of anything to console him.

‘I'm afraid she's sometimes right,' I said.

N
ext morning, my brother was waiting at the gate to the yard, as arranged, when Amos and I came in from our ride, and the three of us held a hasty conference. Amos already knew from me about the latest turn of events so there wasn't a great deal to discuss.

‘I'll be able to find out where the carriage went,' Amos said. ‘The odds are it's the one he's already got hired from the livery stables. He'd have been hard put to get another one short notice at that time in the morning.'

‘Would normal hire terms include carrying dead bodies?' I said.

‘Normal hire is carrying pretty near anything and not making a song and dance about it. If the lass is right, it was just a chest and the driver had no call to know what was inside it.'

‘How soon can you find out?' Tom said.

His eyes were feverishly bright and he looked as if he hadn't slept. He hadn't said anything this time about it being my fault, but we both knew that if the boy Anil had been killed, it might have been because his kidnappers had noticed me making a second visit and guessed that I wanted to speak to him.

‘I'll get straight over to Richmond as soon as I've arranged things at the stables,' Amos said. ‘If I strike lucky, we might know by this evening.'

He'd have to pay a man to take over his day's work, but he didn't mention that.

Tom asked if we should be keeping a watch on the cottage. I said I didn't see much point in it, and if our suspicions were right, the household would be on the alert. In fact, we had nobody to keep watch because Tabby had disappeared again. After her report the evening before, I'd brought her down a supper of bread, mutton and pickles and assumed she'd spend the night in her cabin. By the time I'd come down for my ride at first light, there was no sign of her and the cabin was empty.

‘But you might let me know if you see that elderly man on the grey again,' I said to Amos.

‘What man?' Tom said.

‘Probably nothing. He just seemed curious when we were there last.'

Tom left for his work at East India House. By six in the evening he was back in my study at Abel Yard, wanting to know if there was any news from Amos. I said to give him time and it was a long ride back from Richmond. Tom sat on the daybed under my glass mermaid, fidgeting out tunes on my guitar, so that by the time Amos's shout came up from the yard, just as it was getting dark, my nerves were frayed as well. Riding boots sounded on the stairs and Amos ducked his head and shoulders under the low lintel of my room.

‘Got him right enough.'

I asked him to sit down and raised a finger at Tom, cautioning him not to rush in with questions and let Amos tell the story in his own time.

‘I was right first one out of the bag. It was the hired carriage. The driver had just come back from London when I got there and didn't object to sitting down and chatting over a beer or two. The Indian gentleman has taken the carriage with driver, sole use, until further notice, two weeks' money paid up front. The driver has instructions to come round early every morning first thing. Sometimes he's needed, sometimes he isn't. He helped the gentleman carry the chest out to the carriage yesterday morning and the gentleman gave him the order to drive to St Paul's Cathedral.'

Tom couldn't keep back a sound of disbelief.

‘I know,' said Amos. ‘Doesn't sound likely, does it? For one thing it will take them all morning to get there. The driver wasn't expecting that. He hadn't much call to drive to London in the usual course of things, so he wasn't used to finding his way round. Any road, St Paul's is big enough not to miss. So he stops the carriage there, gets down and asks the Indian man what he's supposed to be doing now. The man gets up on the box with him, calm as you like, and gives him directions.'

‘Where to?' Tom was getting impatient.

‘Well, the driver doesn't know that part of the world at all and I'd had to put three pints of beer inside him to keep him talking, so after that it gets a touch confused, look. One thing he's sure about is that they went downhill towards the river.'

A movement from Tom. I guessed he was thinking of his own journey to the river with Griffiths's body.

‘I couldn't get him much clearer than that, except there were yards and wharves down by the river and some big carts coming and going. Timber carts for sure, and lime he thinks. The Indian man tells him to stop outside one of the yards. There's a smell of horse dung, stronger than you normally get, he reckoned. That and mud.'

Another sudden movement from Tom, but he waved to Amos to go on.

‘The Indian man gets down off the box and comes back with two workmen. They look a bit surprised, but one of them's clinking coins in his pocket, so the driver reckons the Indian's tipped them well. They unload the chest from the carriage, carry it across the yard, put it in a little skiff and row it out to a boat on the river. Then the Indian man comes back and tells the driver to go, just like that.'

‘Did the Indian man go with him?' Tom said.

‘No. He stayed where he was.'

‘The driver couldn't get all the way back to Richmond in one day,' I said.

Amos nodded. ‘That's what he said to the man. The horse was worn out as it was. The man doesn't argue. He gives the driver a sovereign and says to find lodgings for himself and stabling for the horse and to go back to Richmond in the morning. So that's what he did. He'd just got back when I saw him.'

We all said nothing for a while, Tom and I absorbing it.

‘It's a pity the driver didn't know London,' I said. ‘There must be any number of wharves.'

‘Timber Wharf, Iron Wharf, Lime Wharf, Dung Wharf.'

Tom came out with the list suddenly, like a child reciting its tables. We stared at him.

‘As you're going down the river,' Tom said. ‘They're the wharves on the north bank beside Puddle Dock.'

Amazing the things boys remember. As children, we'd gone on that boat journey down the river several times when our father was travelling, then once more to see Tom off to India from Gravesend, but the names of those wharves hadn't stuck in my mind as they had in his. Amos was looking impressed.

‘Sounds as if you've hit it, Mr Lane.'

‘I don't think there's a doubt of it. Puddle Dock is downhill from St Paul's and not far away.'

It struck me that it wasn't far either from the heart of the City, including East India House and the lodgings where Mr Griffiths had died. Tom was looking thoroughly fired-up.

‘So the driver saw them rowing the chest out to a boat on the river,' he said. ‘Did he see it sail away?'