Terror by Gaslight (16 page)

‘They’re very nice gentlemen. I got their address. I’ll get them back, shall I?’

‘No, no, I can’t go through all that again. You write them a letter, Madge.’

‘Me?’

‘I couldn’t hold a pen no more. And you was always better at writing. If you get a pen and paper I can tell you what to say.’

Madge sighed wearily. ‘All right, Luke. If it’ll make you easier in your mind.’

She moved towards the door, but then her husband called her back.

‘Just one more thing, Madge. Urgent.’

‘What is it now?’

‘Fetch the gin bottle out from under the bed, will you?’

‘What’s it doing under the bed?’

‘I hid it. I didn’t want that parson getting at it, did I? Fetch it quick, Madge, I’m gasping.’

Cedric Jamieson was in buoyant mood this morning.

The post had brought several pieces of good news. Harrison’s Wholesale had not queried the exorbitant bill for his services, and had sent a cheque for the full amount. He had caught them at a busy time, as he’d hoped. And he had pitched his fee very nicely: far too much for the work but just short of the sort of figure that any self-respecting client, however busy, would feel bound to challenge.

The houses he owned in Jupiter Street were already attracting offers around £750, now the news of the railway extension was generally released. He had bought them for £200 each, using a shell company to withhold his name, while advising clients in the area that it was about to be blighted by a new sewer development. The advice had been given in strictest confidence so, of course, it had spread like wildfire. Potential buyers were now being reassured that the sewage plan had been abandoned. In fact, of course, it had never existed.

All this had come on top of yesterday’s splendid news that Edwin Slattery had been murdered by a fellow inmate at Pentonville prison. This meant that further dust had settled on the Slattery case, and a vital witness had been removed from the scene.

Now Jamieson was sitting back with his feet on the desk, drinking his first whisky of the day, and studying the morning paper. The latter carried the news that Jamieson relished most. The headline read ‘Detectives Battered on Hampstead Heath’ and the column beneath told a tale which was bringing the lawyer huge pleasure.

Cedric Jamieson had chuckled with glee when his eyes first fell on the story, savouring the thought of those interfering nuisances suffering injury and pain. He was now reading the piece for the third time, and wishing there were more details.

All in all, Jamieson considered that things were going remarkably well, and he might be entitled to a holiday. There was a lady in Paris who was always pleased to see him, when he had money to spend. And there could be more. With his luck going so well, he might even have a flutter in the casinos over there.

There was a knock at his door, and Jamieson shouted ‘Come in’ in a cheerful voice. Could this be more good news? Gertie upstairs offering discounts on a slack day, perhaps?

In fact, it was Arthur, with some papers he’d laboriously prepared. He put them on Jamieson’s desk and, seeing that his employer seemed in a genial mood, embarked on a little conversation.

‘Excuse me, Mr J. But them two blokes that was duffed up on Hampstead Heath, wasn’t they the ones that was here last week, pushing us around?’

‘Yes, the very same,’ chortled the lawyer. ‘And now they’ve got their comeuppance.’ He’d seen the chance of a little unearned credit. ‘No one takes liberties with Cedric Jamieson without paying the price.’

Arthur was duly impressed.

‘Strewth!’ he said, admiringly. ‘You mean you set it up?’

‘Now, now, I didn’t say that, did I? No names, no pack drill.’ Jamieson tapped the side of his nose with a tobacco-stained finger. ‘Just work it out for yourself.’

Arthur looked at his employer with new respect.

‘Well done, Mr J. I didn’t like them two, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘Well, I don’t think they’ll be troubling us again.’ Jamieson made a decision. ‘Now then, my lad, big opportunity for you. I have to go to the Continent on business. I’ll go Sunday and stay for the week. You’ll be in charge of the office.’

Arthur was taken aback. This had never happened before.

‘What, me? On my tod?’

‘You know enough to hold the fort for a week. Any new customers, tell them to come back in ten days. Any queries on current business, tell them it’s all in hand. You can spend your time chasing the unpaid bills. Anyone gets difficult, get on to Slasher.’

His assistant still looked uncertain.

‘I’ll give you an extra quid,’ said Jamieson. ‘And you’ll have Gertie upstairs to yourself for a week.’

‘Make it two quid, Mr J.,’ said the clerk.

‘All right, two quid,’ said his employer expansively. ‘Why not? Money coming in, Slattery out of the way, Steele and his crony scared off. We’re in clover, lad.’

There was a loud knocking on the outside door.

‘Go and see who that is, Arthur. Might be Father Christmas coming early.’

As Arthur went to the outer office, Jamieson knocked back his whisky and started thinking about seven days in Paris.

Then men’s voices were heard in the outer office and, a moment later, Arthur returned to Jamieson’s inner sanctum, followed by a large man in a dark-blue raincoat.

‘This man says he’s from the police,’ Arthur announced glumly.

The large man stepped forward. ‘Inspector Boyle, Fraud Department,’ he said. ‘Are you Cedric Robert Jamieson?’

John Mason was woken from a fitful doze by the noise of his door opening and the sound of the nurse’s voice. The latter was harsher than the former.

‘You mustn’t be longer than twenty minutes,’ she was saying. ‘Be careful not to tire the patient.’

She showed in a familiar figure and then left, closing the door behind her.

‘Hello there, Jack,’ said Steele. He took in his colleague’s hospital room at a glance: bedside chair and table, armchair, wash-stand and, best of all, a large window with a good view of sky: the army benevolent fund was getting value for money. ‘Nice little home from home you’ve got here,’ he said.

‘It’s all right,’ said Mason, raising himself further up on his pillow. ‘But I’ll be glad to see the back of it. The ruddy place is unlicensed. I can’t get a drink.’

Steele sat on the bedside chair and looked at the jug on the table.

‘Plenty of good refreshing water,’ he observed.

‘Don’t be sarcastic, guv’nor,’ Mason pleaded. ‘I’m not strong enough to take it.’

‘Oh well,’ said Steele, delving into his briefcase. He produced a bottle full of light-brown fluid and handed it to the
patient. ‘If you’re really thirsty, this might help.’

Mason took the bottle and read the label with mounting dismay. ‘Benevita. Nature’s way to a speedy recovery. A unique blend of health-giving herbs and wholesome raw vegetables, designed to comfort the patient, improve bowel function and restore health and vigour.’

At first no words would come. Then he managed to say, ‘Thanks, guv’nor. I’ll try some later.’

‘Have some now,’ said Steele. ‘And I’ll join you.’

‘No … really. Actually, I’m not thirsty any more.’

‘Smell it.’

Mason unscrewed the cap and advanced the bottle cautiously towards his nose. Then a grin spread over his face. ‘You crafty old devil!’ he said. ‘This is the real stuff!’

‘Of course,’ said his friend. ‘Only I didn’t think the hospital management would approve of bedside whisky bottles. And the Benevita’s doing wonders for my window-box.’

Two tumblers stood by the jug. Steele poured some amber fluid into each and added a little water.

‘Good health!’ said Steele. ‘And here’s to Commander West!’

Mason joined the toast, took a drink, and exhaled gratefully. Then he reacted to the major’s words.

‘Commander West?’

It was the first time the two men had talked since the battle on the bridge. Mason had been unconscious when Steele had to leave him at the hospital. Now the major told him everything that had happened since the final blow knocked him out.

‘Strewth!’ said Mason. ‘So the old rascal’s carrying a gun after all! I bet it’s unlicensed!’

‘It is,’ said Steele. ‘I checked.’

‘So how do the police feel about that?’

‘George Willoughby came straight over to take charge of
the case. I told him West had snatched the gun from one of the thugs.’

‘Cor!’ Mason gave a little chuckle. ‘Did he believe that?’

‘He must have done,’ said Steele innocently. ‘It’s in the official report.’ He smiled. ‘Willoughby wasn’t going to make trouble. He’s rather happy about the whole thing.’

‘Is he? Including my cracked ribs and battered head?’

‘I think he feels that goes with the job. He’s pleased because they’ve nabbed Ned Barker, a villain they’ve been after for a long time.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mason, recalling Steele’s narrative. ‘I suppose that’ll be one of the blokes that Commander shot. They didn’t run away with the others, I take it.’

‘One did. But not Barker. He won’t be running anywhere for a long time. He’s under arrest in hospital with a shattered knee.’

‘Serves him right,’ said Mason.

‘Quite. The police believe Barker’s behind enough crimes to lock him up for life. They’ve started questioning him already.’

‘About the attack?’

‘That and many other things.’

‘There’ll be the usual trading, I suppose.’

‘Of course. They’ll offer to reduce some of the charges if he gives them the facts and the names they want.’

‘So we should find out who’s hired that scum to rough us up.’

‘I’m sure of it. Willoughby doesn’t let villains off lightly.’

‘Who do you think was behind it?’

‘There are quite a few people who don’t much like us, aren’t there?’ Steele produced another wry smile. ‘Strange, that. Two friendly chaps like us. But we seem to have made some enemies. It could have been any of them.’

Mason sighed and drank some more whisky, while
considering man’s inhumanity to man. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Austin, perhaps? He may have realized we’re after him. Or Frankel?’ Then another thought struck him. ‘What about Jamieson?’

‘Not Jamieson, he’s too mean. He wouldn’t have paid that many thugs. He’d have hired two men and a big dog. Anyway, we’ll soon know. Now then, what about you, Jack? What do the doctors say?’

‘Oh, there’s hairline cracks to two ribs. They’ll soon mend. Apart from that, it’s mainly cuts and bruises, plus a bit of concussion. That’s wearing off already.’

‘Why’s there a bandage round your neck?’

‘There’s a gash at the back. That’s got a couple of stitches. So has the wound on my side. The cracked ribs are strapped up. It’ll all mend quickly.’

‘I hope so. There’s work to be done.’

‘I can’t wait to get out of here, guv’nor. But the quacks say I have to stay a few more days, in case of delayed reaction.’

There was a peremptory knock at the door and the nurse bustled in, looking stern.

‘Have you taken your medicine, Mr Mason?’ she demanded.

‘Yes, Nurse,’ replied her patient dutifully.

‘Then why is it still on your table?’ The nurse was looking at a small glass, three-quarters full of green liquid, hidden behind the bedside Bible, on top of which socks had been folded to add height.

Mason showed huge surprise. ‘Oh, is it? Good heavens! I must have mistaken the thought for the deed. Sorry.’

‘Well, drink it up now, please.’

‘Could I leave it for a moment? I’m just finishing this other stuff. It’s not good to mix drinks, is it?’

‘Drink your medicine at once, Mr Mason!’ For a moment it seemed she might be about to smack him.

‘Oh … yes … of course, Nurse. Sorry.’ With a grimace,
Mason knocked back the green fluid, and then coughed ostentatiously.

‘That’s better,’ said the nurse. ‘Your next dose is at six o’clock.’ Her eye lit on the amber liquid in Mason’s tumbler. ‘What’s this you’re drinking?’ she asked sharply.

‘Ah … er … it’s a sort of patent remedy,’ Mason mumbled.

‘Indeed?’ The nurse looked at the bottle and turned to Steele. ‘Did you bring this?’

The major shifted uneasily in his chair, and became somewhat vague. ‘Er … yes,’ he conceded. ‘I think I must have done. I brought Mr Mason several things.’

‘Well done!’ said the nurse. ‘Benevita is an excellent restorative.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Steele, recovering swiftly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle. ‘I believe it’s very wholesome and health-giving. My grandmother swore by it. I thought it might do him good.’

‘Certainly it will, it’s a first-class tonic.’ She picked up the bottle and held it in front of Mason’s face. ‘Make sure you drink plenty of this, Mr Mason!’ she said.

‘Oh, I will, Nurse, I will!’ said Mason fervently. And then the nurse was gone and the two men were alone again.

Steele had noticed the name on the lapel of the crisp white uniform. ‘Nurse Bullimore, I see.’

‘Yes. And bloody well named, I must say. Dreadful woman! I’d swear she chews iron filings for breakfast. Washed down with caustic soda!’

Steele rebuked him mildly. ‘That’s not fair, Jack. She’s only doing what she has to do.’

‘So did Genghis Khan!’ said Mason, and then he gratefully changed the subject. ‘Any news from Scotland Yard? Has Professor Kane produced any more bright ideas?’