Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins Read online

  ‘I could hear them though,’ Clara continued, ‘roaring out all the old chants as they always do. He that will an alehouse keep is their regular one,’ she added scathingly. ‘Let them try, say I. It’s not all porter and songs. Anyway, there they were with pipes and tabors as usual, before they begin what they call the proceedings. When Maria pushed her way in, I knew there’d be trouble. A mere woman interrupting them!’

  I had to laugh at that. ‘I’ve met more mere women who run businesses like you do, Clara, than I’ve seen men at a dog fight.’

  She accepted the compliment and beamed. ‘Maria insisted on joining them. I couldn’t stop her. But for Mr Harcourt to end like that. Garrotted. She couldn’t have done that herself.’

  I knew of Mrs Maria Fortescue. I’d met her once and felt sorry for her. She was an anxious sort of lady. A proper Miss Twitchy, nose into everything. She was Mr Harcourt’s clerk in his bookstore, and it’s said more than that. The Tarlton Ordinary Club is for gentlemen only of course, so no women would be permitted to join them, except for service — and then it has to be Hetty.

  ‘That caused a to-do all right,’ Clara continued. ‘When they threw Maria out, I said she could wait in my parlour till Mr Harcourt left.’ She hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t say this, Tom, but we both know there’s talk of her being Mr Harcourt’s bit of fluff. A week or two ago he gave her the boot from his bed. She went on working in the bookstore but then yesterday he gave her the boot on that score too. That was why she was so upset.’

  ‘Mr Harcourt was a busy man where the ladies are concerned.’

  ‘Indeed he was. And there’s worse. We don’t see her in the Row, but I heard only yesterday that there’s a Mrs Harcourt very much alive, whereas he let Maria think he was a widower. Mrs Harcourt doesn’t live here in London, for they have a home in Essex.’

  I began to feel Mr Harcourt was even less likeable than Phineas’ warning had suggested. I hardly dared ask this question therefore: ‘Did Mrs Fortescue leave Dolly’s with him?’

  ‘Yes, but not alone,’ she answered, to my relief. ‘The Ordinaries were the last customers here. Only William was left of the waiting staff, apart from Hetty. And Jericho in the kitchen. He likes to make sure all’s tidy ready for the morning before he leaves. All the Ordinaries left through the front entrance about midnight. Four of them seemed in a group which went out first and close behind them were the other three; Mr Harcourt was supported by Mr Splendour and Mr Manley, with Mr Timpson behind them. I don’t know what happened to them then, except that when Maria heard them leaving, she was out of the parlour and down the stairs as quick as a glass of gin on a bad day.’

  Last winter I’d heard the Tarlton Ordinaries’ songs. I’d listened to them as the sounds floated across the still of Queen’s Head Passage. The background noise from the nearby busy streets was quiet that evening, and for once the voices filled the air not with raucous chants but with sweet song. Come away, come away Death, I remember, which was a melancholy tune that touched the heartstrings. And now death had struck again.

  I did not know the three gentlemen Clara had mentioned, but she went on to explain. ‘Mr Algernon Splendour — now there’s a nice polite gentleman for you, for all that he and Mr Harcourt must have been at each other’ throats, both trading in old books and their bookstores being opposite each other in the Row. They must all be rivals, although they pretend they’re friends. Mr Manley is eager for new books to publish; he’s expecting another Sir Walter Scott to come along. Mr Timpson — well, he publishes anything that makes him a penny or two, from Bible tracts to three volume novels. All these books around now — who in the world has time to read them all? The Tarlton Ordinaries don’t talk about the penny dreadfuls though, only about finding another William Shakespeare and making their fortunes.’

  ‘What reason might any of them have to kill Mr Harcourt, Clara?’ It seemed to me that Clara had even more to worry about than the Tarlton Ordinaries being suspects; what if any of Dolly’s staff had cause to want him dead?

  ‘You never know with those who deal with books, especially old ones,’ Clara said darkly. ‘People get very upset over them, particularly where money’s involved.’

  ‘It seems to me that of the seven deadly sins, greed for money is one of those committed most often.’

  ‘What about lechery, Tom? Arnold Harcourt knew about that all right. William complained to me about how he behaved to Hetty and as a result he insisted on serving the Ordinaries last night. It’s normally Hetty. William told me that Mr Harcourt was boasting that like Richard Tarlton, lechery was his favourite sin.’

  It’s hard to go through life and not fall into the pit of one of those seven sins, but to my mind the trick is how far you fall and how quickly you pull yourself out of it.

  ‘Even so, would one of the Ordinaries rush after Mr Harcourt last night and kill him?’

  ‘There’s Flint’s mob,’ she answered me soberly. ‘He might have run up against one of them.’

  That was a chilling thought. Flint’s mob operates both east of London City and in the west of it. It is no ordinary gang. Flint himself is the putter up, the organiser, the brains, and his mob falls into two parts. The first is a swell mob, whose members dress in a style that won’t make them stand out in fashionable areas. This is run by Flint’s deputy Lairy John, who is as cocksure as his name suggests. The second part is the one that does the dirty work, run by his other deputy, Slugger Joe. A nastier man you could never meet.

  Both Slugger and Lairy are known faces, however. Flint is not. No one, save his two deputies, knows who he is. Murder and violence are tools of Flint’s trade. He prides himself on the quality of his victims and those who stand in the way of his obtaining a rich prize are likely to find themselves removed with the assistance of Slugger and his pals.

  ‘You mean one of them might have hired Flint’s services,’ I said. That was the way it worked with Flint.

  It was at this point that Ned came rushing into the room, pie crumbs round his mouth. ‘The big pigman’s here,’ he cried breathlessly, ‘pigmen’ being the less than polite word for policemen used round our way. ‘Asking for you, guvnor.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Clara said sombrely, rising to her feet to greet the new arrivals. She is not a lady to be scared of the police, but this murder on her very own premises had been a great shock.

  I could hear the tread of boots along the passageway. And then they were with us. I could see from his uniform that the high ranking one was a senior divisional inspector. The City of London police does its own detection work and values highly its independence from the Metropolitan Police, protecting the square mile of the City into which St Paul’s and Paternoster Row fall. Although I knew something of the Detective Department at Scotland Yard, the City of London Police were new to me.

  Inspector Harvey, as his sergeant announced him, was a small man in height for a policeman, but with eyes that darted everywhere. They didn’t even blink as they passed over me, a chimney sweep, but travelled around the room like one of my machine brushes around the chimney gathering up specks of soot. I wondered what soot the inspector was collecting about the death of Arnold Harcourt.

  ‘You’re the sweep that found the body?’ the inspector asked me pleasantly enough, and when I agreed he added: ‘Hairbrine Court is some way from here. It’s Metropolitan Police territory. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Earning an honest sixpence,’ I said, impressed that he knew where Hairbrine Court was. When I’d given my address to the sergeant earlier, he’d looked as puzzled as a mudlark in a desert. The inspector gave a sort of harrumph, asked me a few more questions, and observed that no ordinary robber would have left the chain and watch behind.

  I waited for him to accuse me of wanting to steal them, but after informing me that he might want to talk to me again, he turned to Clara. ‘Mrs Pomfret, I’m told by his wife that Mr Harcourt dined here last night.’

  ‘His wife is in London?’ Clara asked in surprise.
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br />   ‘Her husband had asked Mrs Harcourt to come up from the country this morning and she arrived an hour or two ago.’

  ‘Yes, he lived nearby and was a member of the Tarlton Ordinaries Club that meets here regularly,’ she replied. She went on to explain this gathering to the inspector who listened intently, but then switched his approach.

  ‘Do you know a Phineas Snook?’

  *

  That troubled me, as Ned and I made our way home, since the inspector had said no more about why my friend Phineas was of interest. How could he have anything to do with this affair? The inspector had informed me that I could take my leave and I had, unwillingly, taken it. Apart from telling him about Phineas, would Clara reveal her knowledge about Mr Harcourt’s lady friends and his behaviour towards Hetty?

  I was anxious to give Phineas the news about Mr Harcourt’s murder before he learned it from the evening newspaper editions, but Ned and I took the handcart back to Hairbrine Court before I set off to find Phineas. Our home, tucked away in the crowded and poor area behind the Tower of London, is a fair way to walk from the Row, and by now I would have expected Ned to be champing at the bit to tell the world about the murder.

  ‘I reckon that Boy knows something about it,’ he said at last, as we rounded the last corner into Blue Anchor Yard.

  I didn’t pick up his meaning at first, and then I realised what still worried him. ‘He’s a carving on stone, Ned. How can he have anything to do with Mr Harcourt’s death?’

  He didn’t reply, and as we went through the entry into Hairbrine Court I had something else to think about. Our rooms are up a flight of stairs inside the house to the right of the court, and there was a young peeler waiting by our door. It was Constable Peters from the Detective Department at Scotland Yard. It was brave of him to come here, for peelers aren’t a welcome sight, especially for the villainous part of the population of the East End, which can sense his line of work from his general bearing. Even if he’s not in uniform — and he wasn’t today — his trade makes him stick out. Unlike most peelers, though, Constable Peters has a cherubic face, all pink and usually smiling. He’s clever too. My word, he is.

  His face brightened. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wasp.’

  The constable met his wife partly thanks to me and I appreciate his resulting goodwill greatly. He is tall and slim and looks like a gawky schoolboy, but it’s a mistake to think of him that way.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ he added awkwardly. That was already clear to me, as no one would wander into Hairbrine Court if they didn’t have to.

  ‘How’s Mrs Peters?’ I asked.

  He grinned. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Wasp. As is young Master Bertie Peters.’

  Now that was a delight to hear. I had no idea that his family had grown and talking about Master Bertie’s teething problems quite took my mind off why his proud father might be here.

  ‘Would it be the murder at Dolly’s brings you this way?’ I asked at last, not thinking it could be, since it was out of the Metropolitan’s jurisdiction.

  ‘No. What’s that about?’ he asked, looking most interested as I told him.

  ‘I wish I had been there for that,’ he then said. He looked rather wistful as he likes interesting cases. ‘But it’s the Flint mob, Mr Wasp. Any ideas on where it’s operating at present? One of our narks tells us the mob’s got something big on.’

  ‘I haven’t heard.’ I hesitated, as I was about to tread on delicate ground. ‘Can’t the Rats help?’

  Mrs Jemima Peters was the daughter of the former Rat mob leader, who is thought to be in retirement, his reputation having suffered through having a peeler as a son-in-law. Despite this, his mob is still active, although it goes underground if Flint’s in town. We’re not all criminals this side of Bow Bells of course. Crime’s like soot. The harder we sweep the chimney, the more soot comes down, but light a fire or two and up it springs again. There’s one difference with crime, though. Once we’ve sieved it, I can sell my soot to the nightsoil men who sell it on to smallholders outside the city who bring their produce back to feed the hungry of London, so it all works out for the good. Crime isn’t like that.

  The constable shook his head and I had a thought. ‘If Flint is mixed up with the chophouse murder,’ I suggested, ‘might that be your big job?’

  His face brightened. ‘It’s possible. Don’t see gents like those booksellers dirtying themselves with physical blood on their hands. Tell me more about it.’

  I suggested he come up to our rooms for a chat, assuring him that he would be in no danger from our fellow tenants. Fortunately, Ned and I are known to have associated with peelers in the past, so our unusual behaviour in this respect is occasionally tolerated by our neighbours.

  The first thing that Constable Peters said as he entered our rooms was: ‘Do you know someone called Phineas Snook?’

  II

  Enter Phineas Snook

  It was well into the afternoon by the time I was able to look for Phineas Snook. As Ned and I have to earn our daily bread, I’m grateful for regular jobs and have one in nearby Dock Street with two chimneys that have no fires burning at this time of day. I kept thinking of Phineas though, as the patterers would be shouting out the news of Mr Harcourt’s death by tomorrow morning at the latest and more likely this evening. I needed to speak to him before that.

  Constable Peters had unwittingly given me troubling news. He had told me that the City of London Police had asked Scotland Yard if they knew Phineas — he was wanted in connection with a case of theirs. Mr Harcourt’s murder, as I had feared. I had to find Phineas and be quick about it.

  On a bright spring day such as this, he might be still a-dancing but I decided to try his home first, as that’s close to Dock Street. Phineas sings, plays and dances wherever he pleases and he lodges with his mother, the Widow Snook. She lives the far side of Wellclose Square — not in one of the smart houses, but one hanging on their coat-tails in a yard off Pell Street.

  Phineas had told me that his father died of drink two years back. Widows have a hard time of it in this part of the world, most of them forced to take in laundry or some other ill-paid tasks until, worn out with labour, they die themselves. The Widow Snook was no exception, although to my mind the laundry she takes in is likely to come out as dirty as it reaches her. She has a smile for everyone who brings her business, but that seldom means there’s one inside as well. Life is a battle and one she wages grimly. It was from his father that Phineas inherited his dancing skills. The day Widow Snook dances I’ll eat my topper.

  ‘Well now,’ she greeted me, her black skirt rustling with disapproval at the sight of my sooty face. No smile, as I brought no laundry with me. She’s a large lady and her sturdy figure filled the doorway. English is an obliging language with its twists and turns. I’d call Clara plump but Mrs Snook sturdy, yet they’re both about the same size. It’s a matter of yielding. Clara’s figure invites you forward, Mrs Snook’s, smile or not, suggests you stay right where you are. It did so today. ‘If it ain’t Mr Wasp,’ she continued. ‘Run out of chimneys, have you? No use coming here.’

  ‘I’m seeking Phineas, Mrs Snook,’ I said peaceably.

  The smile disappeared. ‘That rascal? He’s gorn. Lives at Mrs Tutman’s.’

  Mrs Tutman runs a lodging house in John’s Hill, which is near the docks down off the Ratcliffe Highway — or St George’s Street, as it’s now been named in the hope of people forgetting its past murderous history. To us who live here it stays the same old Highway, close to which several murders of innocent householders had taken place within less than two weeks. For all it was over fifty years ago, it’s still talked about round here, even though there has been many a killing here since.

  ‘Phineas being so fond of you I’m surprised to hear that, Mrs Snook.’

  The scowl deepened. ‘He’s no good that one. Now he’s flush, he’s no time for his old mother. I heard he took an evening job at the gaff.’

  By that she would mean the penny
gaff along the Highway near Paddy’s Goose, the notorious pub Shadwell way that sees more crime than the Old Bailey. Penny gaffs are the poor man’s theatres, where actors stride the stage as nobly as in London’s Haymarket, save that they get through more plays more quickly. Why, you can see four performances including a whole play by Mr William Shakespeare and be in and out of there in half an hour. It’s true that many of the young audience have other things in mind than watching plays, but nevertheless a job there is good for a street clown like Phineas. It’s not enough for him to be rolling in riches though.

  ‘Always after a tanner is Phineas,’ his mother continued, sniffing. ‘We were grand folk once until his father came down in the world. Phineas’ granddad played with Grimaldi, but Phineas won’t get nowhere. The gaff most likely threw him out — the poor dear,’ she added belatedly.

  That concluded her views on her son and she was about to slam the door on me when a roar came from inside the house. ‘Who’s that, Martha? Come ’ere, whoever you are.’

  Mrs Snook treated this interruption as though it was an invitation from Her Majesty the Queen herself. ‘That’s Phineas’ Uncle Joe popped round today, Mr Wasp. Chimney sweep, you dollop,’ she yelled back into the depths of her house.

  Uncle Joe promptly appeared in the form of a menacing dark shape behind her, glaring out at me. I swallowed hard, because I recognised him at once. Only I didn’t know him as Uncle Joe. To me, the police and the whole of the London underworld he was Slugger Joe, Flint’s right-hand man.

  If he was either living here or a frequent visitor, no wonder Phineas had moved from his home. What was Slugger’s interest here? I wondered. Was he enamoured of the Widow Snook, or was he here in a working capacity? If so, what was that? I didn’t like this situation at all, and it was all the more reason that I should find Phineas quickly. I’d only met Slugger once before, when he was leering over the body of a dead matelot — and it wasn’t to see if he could bring him help.