Tom Wasp and the Seven Deadly Sins Page 7

  *

  The last Tarlton Ordinary we had to visit this Monday morning was Mr Algernon Splendour, a gentleman I looked forward to meeting if only because of his name. He, like Mr Harcourt, was an antiquarian bookseller and since his premises were opposite one another they must indeed have been rivals. Their window displays were quite different, however. Mr Harcourt had set out to attract as many people’s attention as possible and thus had many more books displayed than Mr Splendour, whose range was far less wide and looked eager to boast of their exclusivity.

  He was a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman in his forties, who seemed to have a perpetual smile as though wishing every customer to know he was their friend. His eyes, however, were those of a good-natured hawk eyeing his victims. Nevertheless, he was a true gentleman and ignored the quaint appearance of a chimney sweep at the side of a policeman. Indeed, he closed the shop and escorted us upstairs to his own library and office, ushering me to an armchair by the window. From this I could see Harcourt’s Antiquarian Bookstore across the way, which made me think all the more about the desolation I had seen within it.

  Constable Peters took a different line with Mr Splendour than he had with Mr Manley or Mr Timpson. ‘Our way of thinking is that this garrotting could have been the work of one of those gangs working round here,’ he confided to him. ‘That’s what Mr Wasp here thinks.’

  Did I? Mr Wasp was flattered by this, but kept a modest face and said nothing.

  ‘The murder must have taken place after Mr Harcourt left Mrs Fortescue on her own,’ he continued, ‘and walked back past Dolly’s towards his home. Just unlucky, he was. Do you live here in Paternoster Row, Mr Splendour?’

  ‘I do. Of course,’ Mr Splendour’s smile grew somewhat fixed. ‘Poor fellow to be so unlucky. It could have been me. I had returned to Dolly’s to retrieve my umbrella, I spent some ten or fifteen minutes in there and when I came out there was no sign of Harcourt. He must already have been attacked. Perhaps Timpson or Manley can tell you more. I left them with Harcourt as soon as I recalled that I had foolishly left the umbrella inside. It had been a most enjoyable evening,’ he added without conviction.

  ‘Because Mr Harcourt told you about the special manuscript he had?’

  The smile became a grimace. ‘Pure hogwash, gentlemen. Special? We laughed about that. As so often Harcourt had claimed to have found a great treasure for which the world had long been waiting and that evening it was no different. He expected so much and received so little.’

  ‘And yet there was a burglary the following night at Mr Harcourt’s shop, perhaps the result of his murder?’ the constable asked with interest.

  The grimace remained in place. ‘The robbery could have been entirely unconnected.’

  ‘Unless this great treasure was stolen,’ the constable pointed out.

  The smile vanished as Mr Splendour considered this. ‘Perhaps I should tell you precisely what Harcourt’s expected find was on Wednesday evening — and there were so many such finds.’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ Constable Peters agreed. So did I.

  ‘Harcourt asked us to keep it secret, but I see no harm in telling you now that Mr Harcourt is no longer here to swear me to silence and the manuscript has disappeared. How much do you know much about Richard Tarlton?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Constable Peters. His answer was good policy.

  ‘The tragedy of our literary world is that for every well-known author of the day,’ Mr Splendour said, ‘there is a myriad of people who are only a fraction inferior but they are quickly forgotten. It was so in Elizabethan times. One must also consider the numbers of possibly brilliant poets of the past — or indeed the present — who could only sing their work in their minds because they were never taught to write and read. There were also dramatists whose plays were performed to public acclaim but were never printed.’

  I thought of street entertainers like Phineas, whose gifts could not reach those that did not know of him.

  ‘Consider William Shakespeare,’ Mr Splendour continued grandly. ‘And then consider the Tarltons, the Richard Greenes, the Thomas Kyds — they are seldom remembered now by the general public. Little of the work of such dramatists now exists and even if it did, their scripts would be not be worth a great deal even to us antiquarian dealers. Mr Harcourt that evening was boasting of receiving some hitherto unknown small fragment of Tarlton’s work. It was only of moderate interest to us — and certainly did not fill us with emotion, nor would it have filled our pockets with gold,’ he added hastily.

  ‘So Mr Harcourt’s murder could not have been connected with this missing manuscript,’ the constable observed.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Mr Splendour said vigorously. ‘Dreadful murders such as this are not committed in the name of literature. No, you will find that a gang is indeed responsible and if not, then I should explain that Mr Harcourt’s private life was not above reproach. He was greatly attracted to ladies — a motive for murder hardly unknown over the ages.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ the constable told him. ‘Now, this unnamed fragment,’ he continued doggedly, ‘even if it wasn’t worth much, would he have bought it through the fence he used?’

  The smile disappeared instantly. ‘Fence? My dear sir, we are reputable booksellers. We never deal through Lairy John.’

  He didn’t need to see the expression on our faces as he realised his mistake immediately and the smile hurried back. ‘My dear sirs, it seems I have donned the thumbscrews of my own free will. Very well. Mr Harcourt’s acquisitions were, I fear, sometimes subject to the need for scrutiny. This was no exception, but I assure you, gentlemen, that I am not of Mr Harcourt’s ilk in that respect — whatever trifle he had considered might be of interest to the Tarlton Ordinaries.’

  *

  Constable Peters felt justified in taking a hackney carriage to his home and kindly offered to take me with him. The cab driver was not pleased but I offered to alight in Royal Mint Lane rather than his risking his horse and vehicle on the stones and other dangers of Blue Anchor Yard.

  ‘My thanks to you, Mr Wasp,’ the constable said to me as I was bowled along in state. ‘I’d wanted, as you might put it, to get to know the chimney flues we are dealing with. Justice has to be done, whatever the price.’

  For a moment I thought he meant I was about to be arrested, but then I realised what he was hinting. Phineas Snook was under suspicion.

  The cabbie was duly grateful to set me down in Royal Mint Lane. Strange things happen east of the Tower even when, as now, we were blessed with the sunshine of day. I know this area though. I know its ways. I know its poor and I know the evil that men can do around here. I walk through it and no one stops me as a rule, save when I meet the Slugger Joes of this world.

  As I did today. He was lounging in the entry to Hairbrine Court. Under his filthy cap, his long hair, as black as his heart, was tumbling round his face as he towered over me. I thought I was going to have my neck wrung like a chicken who’d walked into Smithfield market by mistake. Instead, he put a heavy hand on my shoulder. It pressed down on me so hard that I was bent over, lopsided.

  ‘There’s things happening, Wasp,’ he growled, ‘that are none of your business.’

  ‘Who decides that, Slugger?’ I asked bravely.

  ‘Flint. He wants you to appreciate that. And — ’ He jabbed me in the chest. ‘ — I know where you live, Wasp.’ A pause. ‘You and that Ned of yours.’

  I went cold. Ned is my weak spot and Slugger knew it. Ned’s a sharp lad who can look out for himself, but he’s no match for Slugger Joe and still less for Flint, whose face and name I did not know. He was everywhere and we feared him.

  ‘Phineas Snook,’ whispered Slugger in my ear so close I felt his hot breath licking at my face. ‘Forget him.’

  V

  The Lover and his Lass

  After my legs had finished shaking from the encounter with Slugger Joe, I tried to make sense of it all. First, there was Flint, who c
ould very well be at the top of this tangle of twisting flues. Slugger was his deputy and therefore it was almost certainly Flint who had given orders to warn me off Phineas. That raised the question of why Flint should be interested in Phineas — which could be the reason that Slugger had blessed the Widow Snook’s home with his presence.

  Dealing with Flint, even just in my mind, was like stabbing blindly at a fish in the murky waters of the Thames. The fish would have nipped off like a shot. And yet Flint had to keep swimming around if he was to know what his mob was up to. That thought made me shiver. Flint’s jaws could snap shut on Ned and me at any moment and we’d never see them coming.

  An even darker possibility galloped through my mind, preposterous though it was. If Slugger’s visit had nothing to do with Flint, could Phineas himself have asked Slugger Joe to remove Mr Harcourt from this world, in order that Hetty should be troubled no longer?

  I tried hard, but the devil doesn’t take no for an answer, so I had to question myself most rigorously: did I think Phineas Snook could have become desperate enough to kill, if Hetty was falling for the charms of Arnold Harcourt? To my relief, no. Could it have even occurred to him? No. Phineas doesn’t think that way.

  I heard the devil sniggering, though, and he jeered at me. Why should Slugger Joe be ordering me not to talk to Phineas if he had nothing to do with Mr Harcourt’s death?

  I stood up to him fair and square. Perhaps Slugger had wormed his way into the Widow’s house merely because he wanted the Widow all for himself and didn’t want Phineas living there, too. Or Cockalorum. I thought I’d seen the truth of it, but even then the devil sneaked back. Phineas must have seen Hetty very recently, as he was aware of her upset at Mr Harcourt’s death. Hetty had confessed to me that there was something that Phineas did not know — ‘he would not say that if he knew,’ were her words. If he knew what, I wondered, and how was Hetty involved? I had no answers, only fears and a dogged faith in Phineas’ — and Hetty’s — innocence.

  I dragged myself up the steps to Ned’s and my safe haven, our home. I pushed the door open — but it was to emptiness. Ned wasn’t there.

  Fear pierced me like a toasting fork. Slugger Joe had threatened me — and now Ned had disappeared. In vain I told myself he must be out buying (or pinching) supper, or earning himself enough to pay for it (in his way, which doesn’t always accord with the way the law sees things). Terror strikes like lightning, choosing its targets, setting fire to hope, destroying, killing, and scaring; then it leaves, well satisfied with the results. That Ned’s disappearance had to do with Slugger Joe I had no doubt, but where would he take him? To Widow Snook’s? No. Mrs Snook, for all her faults, would not tolerate the abduction of a child, even one of Ned’s age.

  Would Phineas know where Slugger lived when he wasn’t with Mrs Snook? Trying to convince myself that this was the answer, I stumbled and hobbled my way to the Ratcliffe Highway and over to John’s Hill, heart beating within me as I hurried through the entry to the rear of the lodging house. There was no sign of Cockalorum. Had Slugger already been here? I began to see his sinister hand everywhere as I pulled myself up the steps, half falling against the door, which was ajar.

  I steadied myself — and stopped short as joy stabbed me instead of fear. Cockalorum was curled up at Ned’s feet as he swung his legs to and fro from the rocking chair and Phineas looked on benignly from his old armchair.

  ‘Hello, guvnor’ and ‘Hey nonny, Tom,’ came from Ned and Phineas in unison as tears filled my eyes. Phineas was as pleased as Mr Punch to see me, although Cockalorum gave me a token hiss as Phineas yielded his armchair to me and went to sit cross-legged on the bed.

  ‘What you doing here, Ned?’ I asked, choking with relief.

  Ned looked surprised. ‘I met Phineas on the way home and he asked me to tea. He had something to tell me, guvnor. He’d heard that I’m going to be Jack-in-the Green in the May Day procession.’

  ‘That’s good news indeed, Ned.’ I’d known for a while but had been keeping it a secret to tell him on a special occasion. Now it was out I was delighted to see his happiness. Jack-in-the-Green has a proud place in our annual sweeps’ day on the first of May, less than two weeks away now.

  ‘They’ve asked me to dance in it, too,’ Phineas told me. ‘And I went to Dolly’s yesterday to ask Hetty to be Queen of the May for our procession. She said she’d already been asked to be in the City Sweeps’ procession, but she preferred ours. William won’t like that.’

  We sweeps organise our own processions for our own areas and most enjoyable they are.

  I had been worried for nothing. Ned’s absence had a simple explanation and Slugger was nothing to do with it. ‘My thanks to you, Phineas,’ I said, wholeheartedly.

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought Slugger Joe had nabbed Ned. He had a word with me tonight.’

  ‘Joe? Oh.’ Phineas’ face clouded. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘Only threats,’ I said for his sake, although threats can pierce like slivers of glass.

  ‘Is he the reason you left your ma’s house?’

  Phineas chuckled. ‘He doesn’t like Cockalorum.’

  The cat stirred, stretched and yawned — but then I saw those claws tighten.

  ‘Slugger warned me to keep away from you, Phineas. Why’s that?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t know. But it’s bad news.’

  That made me even more uneasy. Something was askew here. Phineas wasn’t looking me in the eye.

  ‘Does Slugger know something about Mr Harcourt’s murder?’ I persevered.

  ‘He thinks you do, Tom,’ he muttered.

  That set me rocking, as well as Ned. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You won’t like this, Tom. He says you must have killed him because you pretended to find the body.’

  ‘He didn’t kill him. I’d have seen him do it,’ Ned yelled indignantly.

  I had to stop this, knowing how hopeless Phineas was at recognising lies. ‘That’s a damp squib, Phineas. Why would I want to kill him?’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ Phineas said stoutly, ‘and I told Joe he was wrong. Why would anyone want to kill Mr Harcourt?’

  ‘Plenty could want to, Phineas, especially people who love Hetty, but they wouldn’t do it.’

  Phineas cocked an eye at me. ‘Jericho Mason might.’

  That took me by surprise, as I never thought of Jericho as one of Hetty’s admirers. ‘You mean William Wright, don’t you?’

  ‘And Jericho.’

  Phineas might be better acquainted with Dolly’s Chop House than I had realised, so I asked him outright. ‘When were you last at Dolly’s?’ If Hetty wasn’t giving me the full story, Phineas would.

  But he didn’t like that question. ‘The peelers asked me that,’ he said shortly.

  ‘And now I am, Phineas.’

  He didn’t reply, though. He just stretched out to pick up Cockalorum and began to stroke him. I would get no further.

  Ned was annoyed with me on the way back to Hairbrine Court. ‘Why did you upset Phineas, guvnor?’ he asked crossly.

  ‘It’s for his own sake, Ned,’ I tried to explain. ‘We don’t want him mixed up with this, and he doesn’t always understand what’s going on.’

  He eyed me keenly. ‘Think he stove that bloke in?’

  ‘No, Ned, I don’t, but something’s stuck up that chimney.’

  *

  If Phineas wasn’t going to tell me about his visits to Dolly’s I would have to question Hetty herself and with Slugger on the prowl the sooner the better. Ned and I had chimneys to sweep first, but I was able to reach Dolly’s by about ten of the clock on Tuesday morning, well before the luncheon trade began. Ned had gone off on his own with the cart after promising me that he’d go nowhere near Slugger Joe’s working area.

  When I arrived, Jericho Mason was in the rear yard emptying a bucket. He scowled when he saw me, but let me pass by him without comment. I felt his eyes drilling into my back nevertheless
. This was no time to ask him about his romantic fancies.

  Clara was coming down the stairs as I went inside and must have been very glad to see me because she immediately took me straight to the greeting room without even asking why I was there. ‘What with Hetty being upset, the police here again and William all over the place it’s a shambles here,’ she lamented. ‘He served a treacle pudding with gravy instead of a mutton chop to Mr Splendour yesterday, one of his best customers.’

  ‘What’s amiss with him?’ I asked.

  ‘You know that, Tom. It’s because he’s set his cap at Hetty. Maybe his heart as well.’

  ‘I’m told Jericho Mason’s heart is set on her too.’

  ‘She wouldn’t look twice at Jericho,’ Clara snorted.

  ‘That don’t mean he isn’t looking at her.’

  She sighed. ‘Neither of them would gain anything from killing Mr Harcourt.’

  ‘A man with a passion forgets that. And a lady too, in this case.’

  ‘Poor Maria. I met that housekeeper of Mr Harcourt’s again yesterday, Mrs Birch,’ Clara told me. ‘She said she’d always thought there’d be murder done in that house.’

  ‘To do with the bookstore or the house?’

  ‘Both, Mrs Birch said. She says he paid her extra not to tell Mrs Harcourt about Mrs Fortescue because she never came up here in a month of Sundays. But she did visit a week or two ago and must have realised what was going on and ordered Mr Harcourt to get rid of Maria. Even then she stayed on working in the bookstore. When he told her to leave last Wednesday, they were shouting at each other so loud Mrs Birch thought she’d have to tell Mr Parker to intervene.’

  ‘But Mrs Fortescue came back to the bookstore the day after the burglary.’

  ‘Yes. She says she didn’t know Mr Harcourt was married, and only found out when she came to pay her condolences — and that’s not usual, not before the funeral.’

  ‘Perhaps she went to look for that missing manuscript.’ I couldn’t take this further because at that moment Hetty came in. It was a downcast Hetty, though, without her usual air of bringing the sunlight with her. Far from it. I could see she’d been weeping.