Touched by Angels (11 page)

He was leaning against a lamppost, pretending to read a newspaper, as he peered over the top periodically. Having already guessed her intention to try and sham her way, he could see her hesitating.

He noticed though, that while the boy carried a small suitcase, the woman toted a large handbag, in which she clearly intended putting the valuables if she succeeded.

He grinned with relief when she finally wandered off, trembling with nerves, not knowing that he too was being watched by other eyes from not so very far away.

***

As soon as he had left the workhouse, Sir Rupert had voiced his suspicion that Bride might not be quite as dedicated to their cause as he seemed. He simply could not believe their nephew would fail to show up at that address.

Was it possible he already had the safe key, and only needed the name of the bank, the piece of information they had been so easily duped into parting with?

Alistair had been oblivious to this rather unsettling possibility before his brother had mentioned it. To deepen the mystery further, he pointed out that Bride would still need the safe’s number and only the missing fob could supply that, which he clearly did not have, otherwise he would not have needed to get the name of the bank from them.

Now though, having followed him all the way there, where he had been convinced he would go inside, Sir Rupert King was relieved to see that instead, Bride was loitering outside, appearing to watch a well-to-do woman and child.

He watched as Bride tucked the newspaper under his arm, before taking off after them. Then he followed himself.

As King kept pace through the throng of people, he saw Bride flinch several times, as if he knew by instinct the woman would turn.

He was in a sweat by the time he saw them disappear into one of the cheaper hotels in Piccadilly, one not in keeping with her apparent station, thus deepening the mystery further. Keeping back as far as possible, he watched to see if Bride would follow her in, but he didn’t. He saw him grin to himself and couldn’t for the life of him fathom out what was going on.

He saw Bride look up at the hotel, as if taking note of its name. He turned suddenly and it was only by a hair’s breadth that Bride didn’t spot him as he ducked into a fruit merchant’s.

When he had passed, King found himself fighting past a match girl and a gaggle of scamps who had followed him in. By the time he had made his way back to the pavement, Bride was gone, swallowed up in the throng, with a huge horse-drawn cart packed with suffragettes obscuring his view further.

He stood there frustrated, panting, as he hunted through the sea of shouting faces, hats and banners, but Bride was nowhere to be seen. Shaking, King made his way to the hotel, but checked himself at the last moment from going inside. He realised that if they were all involved in a scam to fleece him, they may have seen pictures of him, with a warning to be on the look out. If they saw him now, they might sense the game was up and if that happened, there was no telling what they might do.

He wandered back to the workhouse, confused and getting lost several times.

He would later find his wallet had been lifted, but that was as nothing to his sense of foreboding, as he sat in his study, smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of whisky.

Who were these strange people? Where did his nephew fit into all of this and where was he? Why was a child involved, unless he served no other purpose than as a front?

He sat there for the next hour, hoping against all his instincts that everything was more above board than it seemed, because for once in his life, he felt out of his depth.

Twenty-five

“How are we going to get that key?” Robert asked later, as they lay in the same bed.

Lil stared at the ceiling, having thought about that and nothing else for hours on end. She knew that after today’s ordeal outside the bank, where she had completely lost her nerve, they would have to get it back by more devious means.

“We’ll set a trap for him.”

“What sort of trap?”

She told him, and as he listened, he found his mouth gaping.

***

Blissfully ignorant of what she had in store for him, Bride had also thought his plan through carefully, though he needed to know the number of the room she was staying in.

Asking directly for it at Reception was out of the question. A more subtle way was needed, so when morning came, he made his way back to her hotel, dressed rather differently, in garb he had bought from a pawnshop. It was an old suit, abysmally threadbare, with a shabby bowler hat, and shoes that were falling to bits.

He had not washed, or had a shave either, so he guessed he smelt a little ripe. He knew there must be no mistakes or hiccups, or it would all be over. Worse still, he could end up in prison for a very long time.

When he made his way into the lobby, it was mainly to see the lie of the land; to note where the stairs, exits and entrances were and roughly how many people worked there.

All of this was vitally important in the event of something unforeseen happening, so he could run if he had to.

He saw a stern-looking man, who he guessed to be in his fifties, and probably the owner, standing behind the reception desk, writing in a ledger. Bride knew if he approached him with what he had in mind, he might see straight through him, so he stayed back in the shadows, watching the other members of staff as they came and went, as he pretended to look at a wall painting.

To stay too long would look suspicious, but after a few minutes he saw what he had hoped. A boy of about seventeen joined the older man and the rancour between them was obvious. He looked as though he had been a walking punch bag at school, lanky with rosy cheeks, which were peppered here and there with red spots, and a nervous tic in his left eye.

He was safely on the other side of the road as he saw the two people he was after emerge. They looked happy and contented, with not a care in the world.

This left him more mystified and irritated than ever. He quickly reasoned that no bags meant they hadn’t checked out yet, so time to move quickly.

***

Sir Rupert King had surmised a lot too, as he stood in the Boys Canteen in the workhouse beneath a fading slogan on the wall, informing them that “God loves the meek and the thrifty”.

There were about two hundred inmates here, ranging in age from six to fifteen; among them the four Inkpen boys, whose heads had been shaved and painted with iodine in varying hues of mauve and brown, to fight a ringworm infection. They sported various dressings too, where boils had been pricked. They stood with everybody else in the long queue for lunch, cold and miserable, as thin Mrs Scantleberry slopped tepid gruel into their outstretched bowls.

Mr Flint stood by her side, his unblinking eyes missing nothing.

The silence was absolute, apart from the rumbling of many bellies and Mrs Scantleberry’s continuous coughing.

When they were all finally seated, heads bowed, Mr Flint prayed.

Sir Rupert had his mind on other, less virtuous things than paying heed to the Good Lord though. He was sure the woman he had seen had stolen the money to pay for the clothes they wore.

The fact that Bride was watching the fine lady and her son suggested they had something to do with his nephew and that something untoward, or even perilous, may have happened to him.

That was the main reason for him being here. He needed the help of Mr Belcher, both to secure the truth from their devious private detective and possibly even locate his thieving nephew, and he didn’t care a jot how he did it.

He stood next to his brother, scrutinising the proceedings, his other concern being that he was determined to reduce the running costs. He had half an eye on the depth of the thin greasy soup, that was routinely tested with a ruler to be sure it was no more than the inch and a quarter in depth they had agreed upon.

He was intrigued though, as to why, when Flint bade them all be seated, one boy had the impertinence to remain standing, arms folded, not touching his food, whilst staring pointedly at the ceiling.

He was aware too of a change in his brother’s breathing as he ogled him.

Although he found certain of Alistair’s predilections disturbing, to say the least, he had to admit the boy was a fine strapping lad, built up by nearly six months of rock breaking.

For specimens such as this, Alistair had a little room upstairs, containing a specially adapted desk, with straps for ankles, wrists, elbows and knees, and a gag for the mouth; into which the boy of his choice was bent over, naked and restrained, while he took his time to undress.

As they stood watching their charges, spoons at the ready, they waited for Mr Flint to utter, “Begin,” before Sir Rupert fixed him with a glare.

He wandered over, looping his cane over his arm.

Sir Rupert hissed, “For what reason, Mr Flint, is that boy not sitting or eating?”

“He has stiffly refused to, Sir. He claims the food is inedible. Utter nonsense of course!”

“You beat him, I hope?”

“Indeed, Sir, in my study, with a will, but sadly, still to no avail. Some nuts, I regret to say, are tougher than others to crack.”

Sir Rupert’s lips thinned, his monocle dropped and swung back and forth across his chest, as he growled, white-faced with rage, “Then thrash him yet again, this time before the assembled gathering, so they may profit by his error. Please proceed.”

They watched the flogging and listened to the screams and begs for mercy; Sir Rupert, as always, morbidly fascinated, his brother ogling the bare writhing cheeks, and savouring the thwick, thwick, thwick of the whippy rattan, with his tongue almost hanging out and a bulge in his trousers.

The children’s faces, the Inkpens’ in particular, were sickly shades of white and green, with tears running down them. They knew this could so easily happen to them, if they too whined about the nauseating muck they had forced down, thereby establishing, without waste of breath, the deterrent.

When it had finished, and the boy had eaten the ‘good tack’, by now stone cold, while tears streamed down his face, Alistair King told Mr Flint, a little hoarsely, “I want him taken to my woom.”

“Immediately, Sir?” said Mr Flint, obvious shock spread on his face.

“Yes,” Alistair told him, “wight away.”

***

Tom Bride was in luck as he went inside. The boy was standing at the reception desk, writing in the ledger, but Bride loitered in the shadows to be sure the father wasn’t about to appear from nowhere.

He was pretending to admire another oil painting and was soon sure he was alone, so he approached the boy with the most righteous look he could muster.

“Can I help you, Sir?” the boy almost stuttered.

“Yes,” Bride told him, as he removed his hat. He pulled a pound note from his trouser pocket. “I was passing by a couple of hours ago, on my way to the soup kitchen, and I saw a rather well-to-do lady walk out of your front door. She had a little boy with her. I saw her drop this.”

He proffered the note humbly and added, “I followed her for about a mile, trying my best to keep up, but with this wound I received at Ladysmith… well, the pain became too much for me, so I decided it would be best to wait until now, when she might be back and hopefully meet her here, to give it to her.”

“Thank you for being so honest. If you give it to me, I’ll see she gets it back.”

The boy smiled reassuringly and Bride replied, looking suitably embarrassed, “I’d much rather give it to her in person… if you don’t mind.”

He hoped he was right in predicting the boy’s reaction and he was. For a moment he said nothing, as Bride could see his mind working.

“I have no idea when she will return,” he told him, “but you are welcome to wait in the lobby.”

Bride replaced his hat and lowered his gaze. “You are most kind, but I cannot wait. I have to return home to my son. He is ill, and…”

It was all too much. It took him several moments to find his voice again, as he mastered himself.

“If you have an envelope,” he said quietly, giving the impression he’d rather not talk about it, “then I can put the money inside and slip it under her door… if of course, you have no objection to me popping upstairs to do it.”

For the first time the tiniest hint of suspicion crossed the boy’s face.

Bride knew he might not be quite as green as he seemed, as he replied, guardedly, “Yes, you may, but I’m afraid I will have to accompany you.”

Bride nodded, to show he understood, as the boy passed him an envelope. It didn’t matter whether he followed him or not. He even embellished his charade, by feigning illiteracy, when the boy asked, “Is there anything you would like to write on it?”

Bride dictated a few sincere lines, and as the boy plied his pen, Bride was sure he had never seen such selflessness in his life.

Twenty-six

Sir Rupert King stood at the far end of the stone-breaking yard, where the noise was interrupted, not by talk, which was expressly forbidden, but by the crack of the iron hammers as they broke the brick-sized lumps of flint.

Next to each man was the iron plate with the regulation-sized hole, through which each stone had to go and a large wicker basket the other side to catch them. The produce would be sold to road builders.

King had been watching Mr Belcher, smoking a cigar as he thought. Belcher was walking steadily along the rows of men and older boys, of whom there were about eighty. Amongst them, Mr Inkpen, whose right arm, more accustomed to lifting an ale glass, moved as though it was filled with lead.

Belcher carried a broad belt of thick hide, with which he could easily raise a half inch purple welt, as Mr Inkpen had quickly found to his cost.

Sir Rupert’s study was close by, and it often amused him to hear the occasional slap and the shriek of pain, as he attended to his correspondence. It helped to break the monotony.

As Belcher drew closer, he could see the scores of white scars that covered his face, neck and hands, from past fights and the odd sliver of flint flying off like glass, inflicting small cuts here and there.