Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins Page 16

  XII

  When Night Falls

  ‘Wasp!’ he roared.

  I blinked. The one person I least expected to see at our door, especially on a Saturday evening, was my old ‘friend’ — if I could call Inspector Wiley that — formerly of the Thames River Police and now of the Metropolitan. We had never seen eye to eye and not just because he is a whole lot taller than I am. We had come to an understanding, however: I helped him where I could, and he tolerated me. This arrangement seemed to have broken down, judging by the tone of his voice and the glare on his face when I opened the door after his thunderous knock.

  ‘I bid you good evening, inspector,’ I said courteously. ‘What can I do for you?’ I decided to be very cautious.

  ‘You can come with me.’ His tone of voice did not make this suggestion sound welcoming, nor did he look impressed that I already knew his improved status from sergeant to inspector.

  Ned had informed me he would be late back tonight on one of his missions that I don’t enquire into, and so there was nothing to stop me from going anywhere with Inspector Wiley — except a healthy dislike of his ordering me around.

  ‘Where might that be?’ I enquired.

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘Under arrest, am I?’

  ‘No.’ This being too gracious he quickly amended it to, ‘Not yet,’ and a suspicious ‘What you done to be arrested?’

  I pretended not to understand as I locked my door behind me (a useless process since if Slugger returned he would simply break his way in as before), but I counted on a short respite before he might try this again. He’d have to report to Flint first.

  Once through the entry into Blue Anchor Yard, I saw a growler waiting for us, into which I was beckoned (at least I wasn’t being frogmarched) to sit in state next to the inspector. The horses seemed eager to get out of this area for they picked their way enthusiastically over the filth and stones of the roadways as they headed west towards the Tower of London. Fortunately, we didn’t stop there, which meant the inspector couldn’t have had any plans to escort me through Traitor’s Gate. Instead, as I began to suspect, late as it was, we were bound for Scotland Yard, where the cabbie set us down outside the police headquarters.

  Five minutes later we were in an interview room with not only Inspector Harvey of the City of London Police but also (to my relief) Constable Peters and the popular Sergeant Williamson. He was a merry gentleman, and on the one occasion I had met him before he had been most polite to me, despite his somewhat awesome appearance; he had paid great attention to my every word. Here he was again with a flower in the buttonhole of his black jacket; he is well-known for this, and picks one daily from his own garden, of which he is very fond.

  It had to be a grave matter that called them all together on a Saturday evening and indeed Sergeant Williamson did greet me gravely. For all he was still a sergeant and Wiley an inspector, it was clear to see who was in charge, even though Constable Peters did a lot of the talking. The way he spoke, so assured and confident, made me realise how far he had come in a year or two since he was under Sergeant — my apologies, Inspector — Wiley’s command in Thames River Police.

  I listened attentively as Constable Peters held the floor. It was his job, so he had whispered to me, to convince his audience that the two police forces needed to work together over the murders of Mr Harcourt and Mrs Fortescue.

  ‘We have to decide whether these two murders,’ he began somewhat nervously, ‘are linked. We haven’t enough evidence to prove whether they are or not.’ He cast a look at Sergeant Williamson who nodded encouragement.’ If we work on the assumption that the link exists, we’ve already agreed that these murders cross the boundaries of our two forces. Both murders took place in your territory, Inspector Harvey, but the one suspect you have in custody can only be held for the first murder and he stems from our territory, as do Slugger Joe, Lairy John and Flint.’

  ‘What’s the evidence of the murders being linked?’ asked Inspector Harvey quietly.

  The constable was warming up now. ‘That of actions taken by Slugger and possible actions by Lairy John and Flint over a missing manuscript relating to the City. You have evidence of Slugger Joe’s activities, don’t you, Mr Wasp?’

  ‘Two in person,’ I replied promptly, doing my own best to sound important, ‘one outside my residence and one at Mr Snook’s, and a third when he wrecked my home in search of this missing property. He also—’

  Inspector Wiley’s eyes gleamed as he broke in with, ‘Snook, eh? That means he’s guilty — working with Slugger. Hear that, Inspector Harvey?’

  Sergeant Williamson fortunately intervened. ‘Snook would hardly be working with Slugger if Slugger had cracked into his home — that’s what you were about to add, isn’t it, Mr Wasp?’

  I agreed it was, and thankfully this theory of Inspector Wiley’s was given no more attention. I listened while they talked of boundaries and co-operation, until Inspector Harvey decided to turn to me again.

  ‘This Flint connection. Any further forward, Mr Wasp?’

  This was a question I could answer. ‘He’s on to me. He’s warned me off in person.’

  That held their attention all right and I told them what had happened. ‘You’d know him again?’ Sergeant Williamson asked.

  ‘By his voice only.’

  ‘Not worth a tinker’s cuss,’ snorted Inspector Wiley.

  I was inclined to agree with him for once, but I wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Flint doesn’t favour murder alone; it’s a means to an end for him, so this missing manuscript is what he’s after.’

  ‘Thus involving both Slugger and Lairy John,’ Constable Peters contributed.

  ‘I’ll clear ’em both out,’ offered Inspector Wiley eagerly, seeing which way the wind was blowing after Sergeant Williamson gave a nod of agreement.

  Constable Peters must have seen my warning glance because he promptly replied, ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not your place, constable,’ roared Inspector Wiley.

  Luckily Sergeant Williamson again intervened to calm down the inspector’s enthusiasm. ‘We need them undisturbed until we get further along the line. If we nab Lairy and Slugger now, we’ll never get Flint. They’re our guides for getting to him — that and his voice which you heard, Mr Wasp,’ he added courteously.

  While Inspector Wiley was still debating whether to fight this battle or not, I wanted my say. ‘What about Phineas Snook?’ I enquired. ‘When’s he to be released?’

  That loosened some of the soot in the chimney and they began talking quite sensibly. I let them meander around the point for a while, and then said, ‘If there’s a link between the murders, what about Mrs Fortescue’s? Who did that? It can’t have been Mr Snook. He was in Newgate at the time.’

  ‘He’s charged with the first murder, though. And while there’s no direct evidence for that, there’s the question of this robbery at the bookstore,’ Sergeant Williamson said, to my dismay.

  Constable Peters had had to come clean about Phineas’ role in that of course. And the sergeant was right. If the Tarlton manuscript was central to the case, then Phineas’ part in the burglary must count at least as indirect evidence. My spirits plummeted like a goose down a chimney. I’ve never tried that old method of chimney sweeping myself as it’s far too outdated now we have machines, but I knew in my youth of a sweep who did — and remember the helplessness I felt at the thought of the poor goose’s suffering. I was as helpless now as I had been then, because in this current chimney I was the goose.

  ‘It’s my opinion,’ Inspector Wiley said darkly, ‘that Snook could have been working with Wright and Mason — they all wanted Harcourt dead because of that Pomfret girl, but they left Snook to do the job. Now he’s mouldering away in Newgate, like he should be.’

  Inspector Harvey’s turn: ‘I still have my doubts as to whether the cases are linked. Snook killed Harcourt for personal reasons, and one of those booksellers, with or without Flint’s involvement, killed
Mrs Fortescue over this missing play.’

  I was beginning to be fearful. One police force was looking at personal motives for wanting Mr Harcourt removed; the other at the Tarlton play. And Phineas was involved on both counts.

  Nevertheless, the meeting ended with agreement that the forces should indeed collaborate, in the expectation that evidence would emerge to prove that the cases were indeed linked. To my surprise Inspector Wiley then gave me a ride in a growler back to Hairbrine Court — well, nearly there. The cabbie having refused to go down Glasshouse Street, I walked the rest of the way and reached home with relief. Ned was still not back from his mission elsewhere, which gave me a chance for some reflection.

  Neither Flint nor Slugger Joe would give up their hunt for the manuscript easily. Slugger hadn’t found the Jubilate Agno when he wrecked my home and that was good, because he might have mistaken it for the Seven Deadly Sins manuscript that they were really seeking. However, it was important to keep the Jubilate Agno with its precious cat poetry safe for Phineas’ sake — even though Lairy had sold it in a job lot. Its true ownership would at some point have to be settled, since it had probably been stolen.

  That gave me an idea. I went to Ned’s pillow and carefully drew out the sack with the Jubilate Agno in it. I took out the bundle and unwrapped the newspaper to make sure its precious contents were still safe; they were and it again fell open at the pages with the My Cat Jeoffry lines on them. It was quite a fat packet, but even after I had rewrapped it in the newspaper I managed to fit it into an old bag with handles that I’d found thrown out in the rubbish when I was cleaning a Wapping chimney once. The newspaper was the Morning Post which I thought a most impressive broadsheet, well worthy of protecting the Christopher Smart poetry.

  I half expected Slugger Joe or one of his minions to be waiting with a cosh as I set off on Sunday afternoon to Dolly’s, but to my relief no one appeared. All the same, it felt as if he was peering around every corner as I walked past the Tower of London, with the contents of the bag I was clutching burning into my mind. Ned had returned late last night and I’d told him my plans for the Jubilate which he rather reluctantly agreed might be better elsewhere. I think it had pleased him to be sleeping on My Cat Jeoffry.

  When I reached Dolly’s, business was slack. As there was no sign of Hetty downstairs, I asked William Wright where she was, but he looked as anxious as though I was planning to steal her affections from him. I need not have worried because she came down the stairs, wearing her bonnet and shawl.

  ‘Dear Mr Wasp,’ she greeted me. ‘I’m going for a walk in the Churchyard. There is a pavement artist there on Sundays whose work I admire.’

  ‘I’ll escort you, Hetty.’ I could not leave my precious bag here without explaining my mission, and I couldn’t do that in William’s presence. ‘I’ve an errand there myself.’ This was true, although my errand would be merely to talk to Hetty. Off we went, she clinging to one of my arms, which made me most proud, while I was clinging to my bag with the other.

  ‘How is Phineas?’ she asked me, as soon as we were away from Dolly’s. ‘I take food to him every day but they never let me see him. When will they release him?’

  ‘Not yet, Hetty,’ I said sadly. ‘They want to keep him safe while they hunt down Slugger Joe. Phineas might help them do that.’

  Her face fell. ‘But how can he help? Phineas has told me about him; he doesn’t like him. He was horrible to poor little Cockalorum and now he’s killed him.’

  ‘Did Phineas ever talk to you about someone called Flint?’

  ‘No. Only Joe because he is a friend of Phineas’ mother. Who is Flint?’

  ‘He’s a master criminal that the police want to trace.’

  Hetty looked alarmed. ‘Why do they think Phineas knows where he is?’

  I explained about Flint and his being Slugger Joe’s employer as best I could without worrying her even more. We were at the Churchyard now, which, with Paul’s Chain across the road to stop carriages entering, was less noisy but still crowded with one or two flower and tract sellers busy at their trade and with families out walking. The sound of Evensong greeted us, hundreds of voices uplifted in song, and I sent up a brief prayer for Phineas as we passed the entrance to the cathedral.

  ‘Would you do something for Phineas, Hetty?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked surprised that I should ask.

  ‘It’s this. He bought a very special old manuscript about cats and I want him still to have it when he returns home. But I’m worried that Slugger Joe might go back to his lodgings hoping to steal it or come to mine and find it. Could you take it and hide it, Hetty — and tell nobody?’

  ‘Even Mama?’ Hetty smiled.

  ‘Even her, and certainly not William or Jericho. Nobody.’

  ‘I like secrets. I promise I won’t tell anybody.’

  ‘When we know Phineas is coming home, he won’t have Cockalorum but at least his cat manuscript will be safe,’ I said. ‘This is it.’

  Her pretty face clouded over. ‘Not the one he took to Mr Harcourt?’

  ‘No. But although you told me a little about that one, is there anything more you know about it?’

  She looked scared and I was afraid that she wouldn’t answer. But at last she did. ‘He said he’d been given this wonderful manuscript about the seven deadly sins, which was very old, and how much he liked it. Then I thought that Mr Harcourt might be interested in it, so I told him.’

  She looked at me piteously, but I had to continue.

  ‘You said you thought his father had given Phineas the playscript, Hetty. Did he say anything more than that? Where his father had got it from? Or whether Slugger Joe wanted it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘When you saw him in Panyer Alley only a few hours before Mr Harcourt died, what did Phineas say about the play? He must have delivered it by then.’

  ‘I told you. That Mr Harcourt was very interested and kept it, but didn’t give Phineas any money as he’d promised.’

  This was looking very dark for Phineas. ‘Do you want to marry him, Hetty? You said you didn’t know.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said immediately. ‘I don’t want to marry Jericho, because he scares me. But as for William, I don’t know. Mama says William has a good career in front of him, so perhaps I should marry him, not Phineas.’

  We walked slowly through the gardens and out of the far side to where the pavement artist she had wanted to see was working. He was very talented. Two marvellously coloured drawings displayed a sky with birds flying in it and a tree on a hill. Such beauty, but the sadness was that the rain would wash it all away. Perhaps the artist didn’t mind that. Perhaps he just wanted to create something beautiful. And he had. Hetty gazed at both the drawings, especially the blue sky one. She gave him a threepenny piece and then turned to me, bursting out with:

  ‘I love Dolly’s of course, I’ve known it so long. But oh, Mr Wasp, I read books about wonderful things, and look, you see that sky the artist’s drawn? You see the grass and the tree? And there’s the seaside — I saw it once on an excursion train. Sometimes I just want to go away with Phineas and see all these things. Is that wrong?’

  ‘I don’t see William dancing,’ I said gravely. ‘Dancing doesn’t earn much money though — do you mind that?’

  ‘Not if I’m with Phineas.’

  We walked back through the gardens paying our respects to the statue of Her Majesty Queen Anne and made our way to the string of the Churchyard, as it’s called, the other side being the bow. People were beginning to emerge from Evensong, and for no apparent reason it seemed to me there was something sinister here, even threatening.

  ‘Miss Pomfret, how pleasant to see you.’ Mr Timpson had loomed up in front of us, looking most smart in his Sunday best frock coat and topper. He lifted his hat to Hetty, ignoring me. ‘Permit me to escort you home to Dolly’s.’

  This posed a problem. Hetty could hardly refuse, and I could not leave them as I was still carrying P
hineas’ precious cat poem; I therefore had to walk behind them, much to my discomfort and, indeed, Hetty’s.

  ‘A terrible business, poor Mrs Fortescue,’ Mr Timpson boomed.

  ‘Yes,’ I heard Hetty agree crossly.

  ‘Mrs Fortescue only had herself to blame, however. Mr Harcourt was a married man and yet she lured him into regrettable paths, a situation bound to end in disaster.’

  As far as I could see Mrs Fortescue had done nothing to deserve a terrible death, save to break a few social rules in the form of loving Mr Harcourt and expressing her emotions too publicly. Perhaps Hetty thought so too as she spoke out most strongly. ‘Mrs Fortescue was not aware that Mr Harcourt was married. His wife seldom, if ever, came to London.’

  ‘My dear Miss Pomfret, indeed she knew. You are inexperienced in the ways of this world. It was almost certainly she who stole the Tarlton manuscript — she no doubt knew very well it would be arriving and could arrange for its disappearance before Mrs Harcourt arrived in London the next morning.’

  I decided to speak up from behind them. ‘Mrs Fortescue claimed she had already left the bookstore when it was delivered.’

  Mr Timpson’s back stiffened. ‘One moment, Miss Pomfret.’ He disengaged himself from her arm and turned on me. ‘Let me explain this to you, my man. She hired a ruffian to steal the Tarlton script the evening after Mr Harcourt’s death. He would know how to gain entry to the shop.’

  ‘Not many ruffians would recognise the Seven Deadly Sins manuscript, sir,’ I answered him. ‘Few ruffians can read.’

  He dismissed this with: ‘Mrs Fortescue obviously accompanied the robber. Now kindly let Miss Pomfret and myself continue on our way.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ I replied promptly, taking note that he hadn’t heard of Phineas’ presence on the scene. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. It might even have been Flint himself after this play, having killed Mr Harcourt.’