Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins Read online

  My special treatment continued as I was not taken to a cell but to one of two boxes with glass doors and windows used for lawyers to communicate with their unhappy clients. Only a wired square grille allowed me to see even Phineas’ head. I had seen through the door that he had a warder with him, but my own warder escort remained outside, grimly peering in at me from time to time. Phineas had not yet seen me and my heart thumped again at the sight of his shorn hair and forlorn face. He looked like a wind-up toy that had run down.

  ‘Phineas Snook,’ I said softly and he raised his head.

  At first he merely stared at me. ‘Hey nonny, Tom Wasp,’ he managed to whisper at last.

  I wanted to say it wouldn’t be long before he was freed, but I decided to go carefully. Something that might have been a smile came to his face, obviously thinking I’d come with good news of his release.

  ‘Today?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet, Phineas.’

  He looked at me in alarm. ‘Cockalorum?’

  ‘He’s being looked after.’ That was an understatement. Ned watched over that cat so closely I had a feeling Cockalorum was getting more of our supper than Ned and I were. Cockalorum did some close watching of his own — he watched Kwan-yin, though fortunately not because he fancied her for supper.

  The news about Cockalorum seemed to cheer Phineas up. ‘What am I doing here, Tom?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t kill Mr Harcourt.’

  ‘There’s a mistake been made, but we’re going to put it right,’ I said more cheerily than I felt. ‘You have to tell me what happened that day though.’ Could I risk going further with the warders listening to every word? I’d no choice. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d been to Dolly’s that Wednesday afternoon.’

  He frowned. ‘Did you ask me?’

  From anyone but Phineas I’d have thought this a charley pitcher’s trick, but with Phineas it was different. You asked him a question and he replied with the truth, no more, no less. He seldom bothered with details. He was preoccupied with his own world — save where Hetty was concerned.

  ‘Why did you go to Dolly’s on the day that Mr Harcourt died?’

  ‘That was in the afternoon. I wanted to see Hetty but they stopped me.’

  ‘Who? Mr Mason and Mr Wright?’ He nodded so I added, ‘Stopped you how?’

  ‘Mr Mason snatched the flowers I had picked for her and threw them to Mr Wright. I tried to get them but Mr Mason knocked me down and wouldn’t let me get up. They were laughing, and I shouted that I wanted those flowers back.’

  So that was behind the yelling and shouting that Clara’s customers had heard. I believed Phineas but I didn’t know how much he had told the police. Not that I didn’t trust what he said, but I didn’t want to add to their ‘evidence’. ‘Did you talk about Mr Harcourt too?’

  ‘Yes. I tried to convince them that Hetty needed our help because Mr Harcourt was planning to seduce her, but they wouldn’t believe me. Mr Harcourt wouldn’t go that far, they said. He will,’ I shouted.

  At last I was beginning to understand. Either accidentally or on purpose, his ‘will’ had been turned into ‘kill’ in the testimony given by Jericho and William. It was going to be hard to convince the City of London police of that though.

  ‘What happened after that, Phineas? Hetty saw you later in Panyer Alley. What were you doing there?’

  He looked surprised. ‘I like the Panyer Boy.’

  I thought of Ned and his different reaction. ‘Why’s that, Phineas?’

  ‘I like the way he looks at you with his foot stuck up. He’d have made a good fool when he grew up.’

  ‘And then you walked home?’

  ‘Yes.’ But Phineas was getting impatient. ‘How’s Hetty? When can I see her?’

  ‘Visitors aren’t allowed, Phineas. I had to have special permission.’

  I had a warning glance from the warder, and had to be quick about my questions. ‘There was a folder of poetry in your lodgings, Phineas, some of it about a cat.’

  He managed a grin. ‘My Cat Jeoffry. He’s just like Cockalorum.’

  ‘You took that book from Mr Harcourt’s bookstore, didn’t you?’

  ‘I paid for it,’ he told me indignantly, as my heart sank. This was looking bleak.

  ‘When did you go to the bookstore?’ I asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘After it had shut,’ he replied blithely. ‘About eleven o’clock on Thursday night last week.’

  This was indeed black news, but I had to force myself on. ‘Did you break in?’

  ‘No. I stayed in the Row and Joe said he could get in round the back of the house. Then he let me in.’

  Slugger Joe? My worst fears confirmed. Only Phineas could have presented such a story so disastrously. He could well have given the police the impression he was Mr Harcourt’s killer as well as a thief.

  I was groping my way slowly to what I hoped was the truth about his murder. Even with this bad news, I felt I had begun to clean the chimney. Now I had to let the machine do its job.

  ‘How did you come to be with Joe, Phineas?’

  ‘He asked me to go with him to get the manuscript he wanted,’ he replied readily.

  ‘Why you? You’d left your mother’s home by then.’

  This raised another smile. ‘Joe often stayed with my mother and Cockalorum bit him. I was scared that Joe might poison him, so I decided to find lodgings elsewhere and take Cockalorum.’

  Now for the all-important question, but to my frustration my warder had had enough; the door had been thrust open and I received an unceremonious order to leave. ‘Out! Now.’

  All I had time for was to throw a last question at Phineas: ‘Did Joe get what he wanted that night?’

  ‘No.’

  This was worse. Phineas hadn’t asked me what this manuscript was. He knew.

  The last thing I saw through the grille was his anxious face. But as I left I heard one last plea from him: ‘Look after the cat!’

  As I walked along in front of the warder, I could hear Phineas singing one of his songs:

  When that I was and a little tiny boy

  With hey, ho, the wind and the rain …

  I vowed I’d make it my job to make the sun shine again on Phineas Snook. As I went out of the first of the many iron gates, it clanged behind me and I could hear no more of his song. All I heard now floating back from Block A was the warder’s shout to the inmates:

  ‘Silence!’

  IX

  Entering the Den

  I’ve walked into the notorious Paddy’s Goose tavern after a ship’s come into dock, I’ve walked down Nightingale Lane after the watchman’s called midnight, and I’d even survived an encounter with Flint, but I had to brace myself before facing Mrs Tutman again. There she stood, arms akimbo, regarding me as though I were the Spanish Armada come to visit Phineas’ room on a rainy Thursday evening before returning to Hairbrine Court.

  ‘Where’s that rent then?’ she demanded.

  ‘I paid a shilling yesterday and you’ll get the same tomorrow when it’s due. And Mr Snook sends his regards,’ I added meaningfully. ‘He’ll be back shortly.’

  She snorted. ‘A fine thing for murderers to be renting my rooms. How am I going to rent it out after he’s been strung up? I’ll have to fumigate it.’

  I had to work hard to be genial. ‘You’ll make a fortune, Mrs Tutman. Everyone will want to live here once they’ve heard the story.’

  She brightened up and the arms went down to her hips. ‘That being the case, the rent’s four shillings a week, not two.’

  ‘Less two bob for you not keeping an eye on the place.’

  I knew from the way she coloured up that I was right. Phineas’ room had received another visit since I left. Slugger must have been back for another hunt.

  The delicate matter of rent now settled, I went round to Phineas’ room expecting something bad and I found it. It wasn’t that things weren’t left tidily. They were. Everything from his bed to saucepan and kettle was piled
in the middle of the room. Even Cockalorum’s basket had been balanced neatly on top of the pile, together with a broken Toby jug that Phineas used to fetch beer. Slugger had obviously helped himself to the contents.

  Tom, I told myself, as I surveyed the wreckage, this has to stop. I put everything back tidily, although probably not in the same state or place as before. The tidiness of the pile he’d left suggested he must have found what he was looking for, or that he was in a good mood. Unlikely though that was, I couldn’t see that the first could be true. If the Tarlton manuscript had been in the room I would already have found it.

  I stood for a while, trying to make sense of the situation. I could be sure of one brick in this wobbly chimney. If Tarlton’s Seven Deadly Sins play had been in Harcourt’s Antiquarian Bookstore that Thursday night it must have been what Slugger was hunting for there; it couldn’t have been the Jubilate Agno as he wouldn’t have let Phineas walk off with it. So why didn’t he find it (assuming Phineas was right about that) and why hadn’t it been found since? Slugger was obviously still looking for it.

  I took another look at Phineas’ room, and my eye fell on Cockalorum’s basket, which I’d replaced near the small hearth. Could the manuscript have been hidden there? I didn’t think so, but it did jab me into realising that I ought to put the Jubilate Agno folder somewhere safer than where it was in case Slugger was confused between the two manuscripts. At present the Jubilate was at Hairbrine Court underneath the old box that Ned had provided for Cockalorum; this boasted an old blanket to keep him warm which helped hide the folder from the likes of Slugger — and therefore Flint.

  Being the faceless power behind the underworld, Flint brought more fear in his wake then the threat of Jack Ketch, the hangman. There was no escaping Flint though; if Slugger was involved in Mr Harcourt’s murder and any links it had to the Tarlton manuscript, then Flint was involved too. Whether I liked it or not — and I didn’t — I had to work out where I’d heard that voice before.

  *

  I felt no better the next morning. Tom Wasp, I told myself, you’re climbing a crooked chimney with no sign of the light above. Assuming the voice had been Flint’s, I could at least rule out the possibility that Flint was a woman. That said, I’ve known of many gangs with women in them and they’re not all molls, leaving the dirty work to their menfolk. Many play their part in the crimes with gusto.

  It was hard to tear Ned away from Cockalorum, but it was going to be a busy Friday. After our usual quota of chimneys to clean, I duly paid my shilling’s rent to Mrs Tutman, who received it almost with disappointment; then we still needed to clean one or two more chimneys to meet our budget. After that, I knew what my next step must be: tracking down Lairy John. Slugger did the slugging but Lairy John would have been involved over the manuscript. I went alone for this task; I wasn’t going to risk having Ned with me.

  And so I made my way to Spitalfields, which is a most interesting area of London. When the silk weavers first gathered there after being forced to leave their native land in France many years ago, Spitalfields became poor but honest, like the lady up from the country in the music hall song. Now there are far fewer weavers and of the other residents most are poor and many downright evil. That’s because amongst them are the hordes turned out of the Nichol rookery by well-meaning folk who want to give a helping hand to the East End by clearing slums.

  The narrow streets and tumbledown houses in Spitalfields have made it a den in which few would choose to live if life had treated them less harshly. Some of the former weavers’ cottages hover on the brink of respectability, which makes them a halfway house for likes of Lairy John, who needs to keep a foot both in east and west with his aspirations to high class crime. That would bring him (and Flint) the higher class takings to provide a rolling income for Flint’s other ventures. In the past I have run into gangs further east in London, Wapping way, like that of the great Dabeno, not to mention the Rat Mob which is now lying quieter than once it did. Dabeno however understands a deal between gentlemen, but I doubted whether Flint bothered with such details.

  I walked through the hubbub of the market, where stallholders of all sorts cried their wares. Vegetables, meat and old china vied with the weavers’ goods of every colour in the rainbow. I asked around in vain for a trader in antique objects called John, but all I received were shakes of the head.

  With each step I felt a hundred eyes watching me, though, and I was glad I had not brought Ned with me. Climbing boys are highly prized for their skill in getting through small places, and although Ned is getting to be on the old side for that, he still has a few of his former tricks that find favour with the Sluggers of this world. No one came forward to ask for my services, though. Nobody came forward for anything. In desperation I picked on a young weaver dressed more smartly than his competitors and tried a bold approach.

  ‘Tell Lairy I’m here about Phineas Snook.’

  That aroused some interest. ‘The bloke that did for that gent?’

  The details of the law aren’t appreciated round here and so to save time I said yes. The youth disappeared into the interior of a nearby shop and an individual came out to eye me up and down. It certainly wasn’t Lairy. This was an old man with rheumy eyes and a difficulty in walking, so he beckoned me over.

  This was going to take courage for I’d be entering the den. I swallowed and said in a lordly voice, ‘I need to speak to Lairy.’

  The old man spat on the ground in front of me, but perhaps this was a goodwill gesture for he said: ‘Behind the pub. Alley on the left. First right.’

  I didn’t trust my informant, but I did trust in the good Lord to keep me safe as I was trying to help Phineas. I picked my way through the Cock and Sparrow’s yard — the pile of dead rats must have been the product of the last fight, and made me quicken my step. The alley was dark for all it was not yet noon, so I was glad it was first right for me. A large figure loomed up, blocking my path.

  ‘What’s yer business?’

  ‘Lairy John,’ I said more bravely than I felt.

  He sized me up — not a difficult job. ‘What for?’

  ‘Business. Phineas Snook.’ That name seemed to work some magic charm like Aladdin and his lamp. He stood aside and I turned right into a terrace of two or three houses of surprisingly well-maintained weavers’ cottages. One door was open and with a deep breath I entered it. Behind a desk sat as lordly a young gentleman as I have ever seen, almost as plump as Mr Chalcot and wearing a flower in his buttonhole. If it hadn’t been for his guard who had followed me in and was breathing heavily down my neck, I might have thought he was off to Buckingham Palace.

  This was no cheap pawnbroking dolly-shop, though. There were several works of art displayed and even a dainty harpsichord. There were, I noted, several ancient-looking books too.

  ‘My dear sir,’ the youth — clearly the great Lairy John himself — addressed me languidly, ‘am I to understand you have news of our good friend Mr Snook?’

  I was ready for this. ‘Someone made a hash of his room and I’m paying good rent for that.’

  Lairy John looked shocked. ‘Most distressing, most unfortunate. Does that affect me, however?’

  I took a further step in these negotiations: ‘Something’s missing.’

  ‘That cat of his, perhaps.’

  If he knew about Cockalorum we were playing for high stakes. I sent up a swift prayer to our Lord, hoping He could see me down here. ‘No,’ I said. ‘A play by Richard Tarlton.’

  Lairy was watching me like Cockalorum himself, probably assessing the best means of attack. His podgy fingers played with a quill on the desk.

  ‘Pray tell me more,’ he said politely.

  ‘This Mr Harcourt who was rubbed out last week, he was a regular customer of yours, eh?’

  Lairy’s face darkened. ‘You’d best forget that, Tom Wasp.’

  He knew who I was, which was bad, but I’d won a modest victory. Lairy wouldn’t risk Flint’s finding out about any priv
ate side deals. Emboldened I went further. ‘Tell your Mr Flint that I’m not interested in manuscripts, I’m after whoever killed Arnold Harcourt.’

  I saw the fingers tighten round the quill. Then I noticed it wasn’t a quill at all — it was a stiletto dagger.

  ‘Snook admits stealing this Tarlton play,’ Lairy lied idly, as though he couldn’t have cared less, ‘and so he can hardly complain if it’s stolen from him. And it seems that it has been — but not by us.’

  ‘That’s gammon,’ I said firmly. ‘He doesn’t have it and as for who does, I don’t know the ins and outs of that, nor the rights and wrongs.’

  ‘Which of us does? That’s hardly the point,’ the aristocratic blister remarked.

  ‘I know the rights and wrongs of whether Phineas Snook should be in Newgate. It’s wrong.’

  ‘Mr Wasp, take care you avoid us.’ Lairy’s fingers shot open, the dagger lay exposed on the palm of his hand, and the mask of the benign face switched to the real Lairy; cold, ruthless and as sharp as the stiletto itself.

  I’m not a brave man, but sometimes it’s wise to look brave even if you are not. This was one of those times. ‘Tell Mr Flint I called,’ I said, trying to keep the squeak out of my voice. Then I picked up my hat and quickly left the great Lairy’s presence.

  What had I achieved? I asked myself that as I made my way back through the crowds of the Spitalfields market. It seemed Flint didn’t have this Tarlton script either. But nor did I, nor did Phineas. Nor could Slugger have it, as he would not have dared to double-cross Flint by holding on to it himself. Therefore if he and Phineas had missed it in Mr Harcourt’s store, either Mrs Harcourt or Mrs Fortescue would have found it during their frantic searches.

  Had Mrs Fortescue stolen it as Mrs Harcourt had so often accused her of doing?