The Door That Led to Where (10 page)

AJ had the next day planned and the note was in his pocket ready to be delivered.

‘Are you going to be OK?' AJ said to Slim.

‘Don't you worry about me,' said Slim. ‘I'm raring to go.'

‘That is exactly what I'm worried about,' said AJ, laughing.

Downstairs AJ found Ingleby waiting for him in the parlour.

‘There is someone I want you to meet,' said Ingleby.

AJ was about to protest but the look on Ingleby's face was adamant. He knew it would be hopeless. Mrs Furby said she would see that the note was delivered.

Ingleby firmly took AJ's arm and strode off in the direction of Holborn.

‘Not Mr Stone?' said AJ, slowing down. ‘Are you going to tell me all over again that I should lock the door and piss off? Or what? I'll end up garrotted in a ditch?'

‘Don't be ridiculous. And this is nothing at all to do with Mr Stone,' said Ingleby. ‘The man you are to meet has spent many years abroad. Now, I need to concentrate.'

‘On what?'

‘On making sure, sir, that no one has taken the liberty of following us. I need to keep my wits about me and not be bamboozled by questions.'

Near the River Fleet at Farringdon, the houses were wooden, grown tall not by design but by necessity. It was a place that AJ, streetwise as he was, would not have cared to visit at night. They crossed a small bridge where the river stagnated under ice. Even in the bitter cold its shit-filled perfume hung heavy in the air. In a narrow street that backed on to the water, Ingleby once more looked quickly about him and stopped at an inn that no architect would have claimed having had a hand in. If anyone from the local council clapped eyes on the place, thought AJ, they would have the whole kaboodle pulled down on the grounds of health and safety. Four raggamuffins rushed up to AJ with their hands out.

‘Bugger off, all of you,' said Ingleby.

AJ felt that at any moment the Artful Dodger would come swaggering along and Fagin's face might appear from an attic window. Instead the door was opened by a rodent of a man who peered round it, nose twitching, dark eyes glittering this way and that. AJ was reminded of Dr Jinx.

‘Any clingers? Anyone hiding in the shadows of your footsteps?'

‘No. Now let us in,' snapped Ingleby.

They were shown into a rat-hole and up three flights of stairs, along more passages and into a chamber with a bow window that leaned over the river. It was colder in the room than it was outside and the only light seemed to come from the whiteness of a linen tablecloth. On it had been placed a piping hot pie, a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and plates and cutlery for three.

The rat stood still as a door stopper.

‘Silence is expensive,' he said.

Ingleby turned on him and put both his hands round the neck of the astonished rat.

‘If one foul breath of yours whispers even a word of this to anyone then you will be thrown by me into the Fleet and may the vermin feast off you.'

The rat shook himself free.

‘I meant no offence,' said the rat, pulling at his neck scarf. ‘My tongue is a lead weight when it comes to the matter of words better not said.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' said Ingleby and pressed some coins into his hand. ‘If only for your sake.'

The rat scurried away.

AJ couldn't think why Ingleby would want to visit such a grim place and waited for an explanation, but Ingleby stood as if expecting something to happen, eyeing the pie with longing. It was, after all, the warmest thing the room had to offer.

‘A pity to let a pie of such noble proportions go cold,' said Ingleby at last.

‘Too right, mate.'

AJ jumped. The voice came from under the floorboards. Ingleby quickly rolled back the threadbare rug and lifted a trap door, whereupon a man's head appeared and with a swift movement the man heaved himself up. He stood before them with a smile neither sincere nor insincere, its purpose more a mask to hide his grief. He studied AJ, hummed to himself as if confirming all he thought, then sat down and helped himself to a slice of pie.

Without a single hesitation Ingleby joined him and tucked in with real appetite, helping them both to wine and tearing off chunks of bread.

AJ thought he could be looking at a picture in a museum portraying two villains eating a dainty pie.

‘Who are you?' asked AJ.

The man, his mouth full of hot pie, splattered, ‘I've got no name.' He paused. ‘You can call me Nonsuch, if you like.'

‘Why won't you tell me your name?' asked AJ. ‘What's in it that makes it so bad?'

The man who called himself Nonsuch said, ‘You're the dead spit of your father.'

‘You knew him?'

‘Knew him? He was my best mate. He's the reason I'm here.'

‘How did you know him?' he asked.

‘I'll tell you when the time's right. What you don't know won't kill you. Relax, have some pie.' AJ sat down at the table. ‘I want you to do something for me. Something I can't do and neither can Ingleby.'

‘Why's that?'

Nonsuch had a knack of ignoring questions he didn't want to answer.

‘Let's put it like this. I've been out of the country doing time and now I'm back, there are certain persons who I would prefer not to have my address, if you get my drift.' He wiped his mouth on the tablecloth. ‘Shall we just concentrate on the present?'

‘A word with too many definitions for my liking,' said AJ.

‘It's simple,' said Nonsuch. ‘What I want you to do is bring Esme to me.'

‘Esme Dalton?' said AJ. ‘You must be joking. Look, you seem a good sort of geezer. I don't know what you've done or how you knew my father. All I do know is none of what you are saying makes any sense.'

‘Don't worry about it. Ingleby will tell you where and when. Just don't leave it too long. I don't have time or the law on my side and I want to see Esme  …  I want to see my daughter once before it's too late.'

Slim had a fire blazing in their rooms and was sitting in an armchair that hadn't been there that morning.

‘What have you been up to?' asked AJ, genuinely shocked.

‘Bought a few things, bro, to make us comfortable. Mrs Furby told me where to go, who to do business with and who to leave well alone.' He paused. ‘Do you like it? It feels more homely.' AJ was gobsmacked. ‘I've never had a room of my own,' said Slim. ‘I've always had to share. This is a first. Oh – this came for you.'

Written on a gold-edged card was an invitation to call for afternoon tea at the Dalton house at four o'clock the following afternoon. AJ smiled.

There was a knock on the door. Slim leapt up as two panting men carried in another armchair.

‘Just there,' said Slim with authority. The men stood by the door, waiting, and he gave them a coin for their trouble.

‘We don't need all this,' said AJ. ‘We're not going to stay here – it's just until things have cooled down back home. Anyway, what are we going to do once that money's gone?'

‘That money, bro, is enough for two gents to live off like lords for a year and I've got a plan to make it go even further.' He took from his pocket two snuffboxes. ‘They cost nothing and look at them – I'm telling you I could flog these for a small fortune back home.'

AJ sat down, comfortably defeated.

‘Slim,' he said. ‘When I go back I'll see what the situation is with Moses, and if everything's calmed down I'll come for you next weekend.

‘Hold on – not so fast,' said Slim. ‘I've had the best day of my life here. I mean, I miss having a bog that you can flush but that aside, this is a pretty cool place to be. I just have to make sure no one diddles us with fake notes because when you look at them they are pretty easy to forge and apparently it's done quite a lot. So Mrs Furby tells me. I walked through the city and thought, what a bloody mess we made of London. Why did we knock down so many beautiful buildings?' He stopped, poked the fire and poured a glass of beer from a jug. ‘Want some?' AJ nodded and Slim poured another. ‘The plan is this. You take these snuffboxes back, flog them and change the money into gold.'

‘Great,' said AJ. ‘And get arrested on suspicion of dealing in stolen property – or fake goods.'

AJ couldn't remember when he'd last seen Slim this happy.

‘I've thought that one through,' said Slim. ‘My Uncle Nazif, the one who mends cars near Hackney Downs, knows this geezer who deals in antiques, all kosher and above board, no questions asked. Here, I've written down the address.'

‘Aren't you itching to go back to the time you know?'

‘Why in hell would I? No smug, preening tossers who think anything lower than an A* grade means your life is over. No mobile, no Facebook, no way for Sicknote to torment me. I'm fine here – no one will miss me, and Moses can't kill me.'

‘I thought Sicknote was the love of your life.'

‘She's history,' said Slim. ‘She hasn't any culture. Not like Mrs Furby.'

AJ burst out laughing.

‘Plenty more fish in the sea, then?'

‘You could say that. I've been thinking,' said Slim. ‘You should bring Leon here. He could do with his life being reset too.'

‘Maybe – if I can find him,' said AJ. ‘And if he would want to come.'

‘He will,' said Slim. ‘I know it.'

Slim's enthusiasm was infectious. Yes, thought AJ. He could see all three of them together here.

That night they again ate supper with Mrs Furby, who had taken a shine to Slim. AJ let the conversation run over him while he thought about Miss Esme. He couldn't wait to see her again. He'd never been like this about a girl before and certainly not about Alice, his first girlfriend.

‘Will you be coming with us to visit St Paul's tomorrow, Mr Jobey?' asked Mrs Furby.

‘Of course he will,' said Slim, who as far as AJ knew had never in his whole life been inside a church, let alone a cathedral. Or a mosque, for that matter.

‘I can't tomorrow,' said AJ. ‘I've been invited to call on Miss Esme Dalton.'

‘Oh, what fine friends you have, Mr Jobey,' said Mrs Furby.

‘I'm not quite up on the etiquette of polite society,' said AJ, ‘and I was wondering  … '

Mrs Furby clapped her hands together with delight.

‘Why, I have just bought two books on the subject. They are becoming most popular. You must borrow them, Mr Jobey, and anything else that might help. I hope you will be back to dine with us tomorrow night. I like my house to be full of lively people.'

AJ looked at Mr Flint, who hadn't said a word, and the widow and daughter who were equally quiet, and knew exactly why Mrs Furby enjoyed Slim's company.

The next day arrived to the sound of bells hammering out over London. One thing was for sure, no one could sleep through it unless they were stone deaf. The chamber shuddered with the noise.

Slim was already up and dressed.

‘Where're you going?' asked AJ.

‘To see St Paul's, remember?' said Slim.

‘Since when have you been interested in sightseeing?'

‘When in Rome,' said Slim, ‘do as the Romans.'

Mrs Furby said again how sorry she was that AJ couldn't join them. Slim told her that, anyway, AJ belonged to a different kind of congregation. ‘Don't you?'

‘Ye-es,' said AJ uncertainly.

‘The Church of the Anaesthetists,' said Slim.

Mrs Furby had never heard of it before. Slim winked at AJ and said he would tell her about it on the way to St Paul's.

AJ watched Slim and Mrs Furby walk together down the street, Slim holding forth about some crazy religious stuff that no one in that century or any other century had ever heard before.

AJ went back to his room with the books Mrs Furby had lent him. In the first one he read:

AJ wasn't sure he would ever master 1830s etiquette. It seemed so pointless. The second book was on social rules for ladies. It was shocking. As far as he could make out, ladies weren't allowed to read books or go to the theatre. Even Shakespeare was thought to be too much for their frail constitutions to bear. When he reached the part about how a lady must always be corseted he wondered why there hadn't been a mass rebellion. He thought of Miss Esme. She was so skinny, there was surely nothing to corset; and as for always being chaperoned, well, he'd only met her twice and on both occasions she wasn't.

According to this set of rules she had blown her chances in the marriage cattle market.

This is retarded, thought AJ to himself. But better buy some gloves, just in case.

AJ wondered if Clerkenwell Green had ever been green. The houses surrounding it and the church all looked pretty enough but quite where green came in he didn't know. Several hens had escaped from a backyard and were being chased by a boy with a stick; horses clip-clopped past. Most people seemed to walk with a purpose. AJ, being early, dawdled, looking in the shops. One caught his fancy. It sold nothing but birds. A raven stood in a cage, pecking at the bars; there were singing canaries, even a nightingale, and in a dark corner were two magpies. The shop owner perched on a stool, covered in white dust, looking as if all he was missing was his feathers.

‘Are they all for sale?' AJ asked him.

‘Every single one of them,' he said. ‘All trained, all as polite as a bird can be.'

The church clock struck a quarter to four and it was already dark, the streets emptying of people, with only dim lamps lighting the way. When he returned to Mrs Furby's, he decided, he would treat himself to a hackney carriage.

He hoped that he might be able to see Miss Esme alone, although, according to the book on manners, such a meeting was out of the question. He didn't fancy telling Miss Esme about Nonsuch in Mrs Meacock's presence.

He knocked on the Daltons' door feeling more nervous than he thought he should.

A manservant let him in and said that Mrs Meacock wasn't yet home. AJ handed over his hat, coat and muffler but wasn't sure if he should keep the grey leather gloves, especially as he'd gone to all the trouble of buying them. Shouldn't he at least show them off? The manservant was impatient and reluctantly AJ let him take the gloves as well. The house was bitterly cold and he was surprised to find he could see his breath indoors more clearly than he could outside.

‘Mr Jobey.'

He looked up. Miss Esme stood on the stairs, wearing a black dress more stylish than anything she had worn before.

‘Please come up and warm yourself,' she said.

The drawing room felt like a mausoleum.

Miss Esme stood by the fire.

‘I'm afraid I'm early,' AJ said. ‘I wanted to see you alone.'

She blushed. He hadn't seen a girl blush like that since Year Nine when Kiely Scott's knickers fell down in the playground.

AJ felt awkward. All the easy conversation of their last meeting had gone. The house felt as heavy as nightmares – not a place AJ wanted to stay in long. The drawing room was oppressive, the furniture judgmental, the mantelpiece, the pictures, the ornaments overbearing. It appeared to him that at any moment Miss Esme would be crushed by their weight.

He was at a loss as to what to say. The tick of the clock seemed to swallow all possible topics of conversation. There was an uncomfortable silence; it was as if they hardly knew one another.

‘Is your mother in?' he asked.

‘My mother? She died in a madhouse. My father was quite sure I too would end up there.'

‘Why? You seem perfectly sane to me,' said AJ. ‘What sent your mother mad?'

‘My father,' she said quietly. ‘Of that I have always been certain.' She hesitated. ‘My mother worked to help the women prisoners who were brought to trial at the Old Bailey. My father believed that Newgate Prison was the cause of her malady. Ten years ago they took her away. I wasn't allowed to see her again. Three years later she died.'

What AJ would have given to be able to talk to her as he had before, without all the jagged edges of etiquette.

‘I don't know what to say. I'm a traveller – I haven't got the right language.'

‘You have more honesty and understanding than many others.'

Feeling bolder, AJ said, ‘Can I ask you a question? Were you ever close to your father?'

The light went out of her face.

Her voice tightened. ‘No, never. What makes you ask?'

Because, thought AJ, I've just met an ex-con who claims to be your real dad.

Human beings are basically all the same, it's only the gadgets that have changed. His world was cluttered with emails, texts and mobile phones and still, he thought, we don't know how to communicate.

‘I shouldn't have come so early,' he said.

‘Will you sit?' she said.

AJ sat.

‘My father's death was put down to an infection.'

‘Not poison as you thought?' said AJ.

She shook her head.

‘When my father's will was read, I found out that I had inherited his estate, but if I were to go mad or die before I married then the estate would go to Mrs Meacock.'

‘You remember the lawyer, Mr Baldwin,' said AJ. ‘You said he helped your father with the will.'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Why he advised my father to frame his will as he did, I wish I knew.'

‘Mr Baldwin died three days ago of arsenic poisoning.'

All the colour in her face drained away.

‘Another one, then,' she said.

She was about to say more when outside the room a stair creaked. AJ hadn't lived with his mother for seventeen years without knowing when someone's ear was firmly embedded in a door. He put his finger to his lips.

‘It's much colder here than in my city,' he said and moved quietly to the door.

He opened it so suddenly that Mrs Meacock tumbled into the room. AJ helped her to her feet.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,' she said, her voice flavoured with artificial sweeteners. She was a small woman with a righteous air about her to disguise her nosiness. AJ noticed that Miss Esme moved quickly away from her. ‘And here you are, Mr Jobey. It is a pleasure to see you again. Poor Miss Esme has been through such a terrible time, haven't you, my dear, that you quite forgot that you should be chaperoned when a gentleman pays a visit. It is just us, Mr Jobey. I hope you don't mind but we are in mourning.'

‘I understand,' said AJ.

Mrs Meacock seated herself, making a play of her skirts and reminding AJ of a cartoon hen sat upon an egg.

They talked, or rather Mrs Meacock talked, and made long sentences into small talk until a tray of tea was served accompanied by a decanter of wine with one glass. AJ smiled to himself, imagining what Mrs Meacock might make of TV suppers. She poured the tea, still talking. AJ wondered if she ever stopped talking.

He had just succeeded in balancing his cup and saucer and his plate of sandwiches when Mrs Meacock said to Miss Esme, ‘Why, my dear, I have only just noticed that you aren't wearing the necklace that I left out on your dressing table.'

Instinctively, Miss Esme's hand went to her throat as if she supposed it might be there.

‘I couldn't find it,' she said.

Mrs Meacock laughed.

‘Nonsense, my dear. That is not possible. I put it on your dressing table, you saw me do it – remember?'

Miss Esme looked down at her tea cup.

‘My dear, do not upset yourself unnecessarily. I am sure it is easily found.'

AJ felt he should say something.

‘You look fab with or without a necklace,' he said, and then felt a right idiot.

‘That isn't the point,' said Mrs Meacock, her sweetness flavoured with lemon.

She rang the bell and the manservant returned. Mrs Meacock asked him to send Miss Esme's maid to look for a necklace on her mistress's dressing table.

AJ couldn't work out why she was making such a fuss.

‘Oh, forgive me, Mr Jobey,' she said. ‘Please have some Madeira wine.'

She poured him a glass.

‘Is no one else drinking?' AJ asked.

‘No, I took the pledge. And wine is not good for Miss Esme's constitution. Mr Dalton kept a very fine wine cellar.'

AJ was about to take a sip and then thought perhaps this might be a good time to ask about her late master.

‘It was strange that Mr Dalton should have mistaken me for someone else,' said AJ.

‘Oh, I have seen it happen to many a dying soul,' said Mrs Meacock. ‘When they're nearing the end they think they see ghosts. I like to think of them as angels waiting to take them to a far better place.'

AJ knew one thing: it was no angel Mr Dalton had thought he'd seen before he conked it.

A maid came into the room and handed Mrs Meacock a necklace.

‘Where did you find it, Agnes?' she asked.

‘On Miss Dalton's dressing table, madam, just where you said.'

The maid was dismissed. Mrs Meacock stood and went to fasten it round Miss Esme's neck. AJ saw her flinch.

‘How do you find the Madeira, Mr Jobey?' Mrs Meacock asked.

‘Oh,' said AJ, picking up the glass again. He was about to drink when Miss Esme reached across and knocked the glass from his hand.

‘I am sorry,' she said. ‘So sorry. You shouldn't have come here. You should stay away.'

And before he could think what to say she had fled the room.

‘Oh dear,' said Mrs Meacock. ‘And there was I thinking it would be such a pleasant distraction for her to have a visitor. It is very sad, Mr Jobey. She was always a sensitive child and, alas, her father's death has unsettled her state of mind.'

‘I should be going,' said AJ.

‘No, no,' insisted Mrs Meacock. ‘At least have some Madeira.'

‘No, thank you. I am expected for dinner.'

Outside on St John Street there wasn't a hackney cab to be seen. He was about to walk away when he looked up at the house and saw Miss Esme in one of the windows, her hand pressed against the glass. She seemed to be waving at him although he wondered if she wasn't calling for help.

Slim was looking very pleased with himself when AJ returned to Mrs Furby's. He'd spent an hour playing cards with Mr Flint and had won handsomely. He was full of his success, and Mrs Furby had been delighted by his generosity for he'd refused in the end to take a penny from Mr Flint.

‘You know, she called me a real gentleman. How about that?'

But AJ was lost in his thoughts. Ever since he'd left the Dalton house he'd been going over and over all the things that Miss Esme had said to him. He felt as if he had met two different Esmes, one full of life and questions, the other imprisoned in herself. Was it possible that this other Esme hated her father enough to have poisoned him – and Mr Baldwin as well? Then there was Mrs Meacock: she was more than a bit weird. What was all that nonsense about the necklace? And why had Miss Esme knocked the glass from his hand? There were too many questions and a shortage of answers.

‘What's up, bro?' said Slim.

‘You haven't asked how I came to know about the door.'

‘No,' said Slim. ‘I reckoned you'd tell me in your own good time.

‘I think a good time might be now,' said AJ.