Death and the Cyprian Society Page 8

  “Have you questioned his servants, or neighbors, or anyone?” Arabella asked the less aggressive-looking of the two fellows.

  “Yeah. ’Is valet says Mr. Savory-Pratt ’ad a visitor on the last night ’e was ’ome. A Mr. Tyke.”

  “Tyke!”

  “You wouldn’t be knowin’ ’im, miss. ’E’s what you’d call a shit sack, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  “You are quite correct, sir; I don’t know him, but I have heard of him, and I cannot imagine that Mr. Savory-Pratt would have doings with such a disreputable person!”

  The other man grinned, and Arabella nearly swooned at the sight of his teeth.

  “Yer quite right there, missy,” said this second bailiff. “Oy’m sure Mr. Pratt wouldn’t ’ave doin’s wi’ Tyke if he ’ad a choice like. But Jerry Tyke ain’t exac’ly in the habit o’ payin’ social calls. If he came ’ere t’ see your Mr. Savory-Pratt, you can bet ’e didn’ ’ave no invite-ation!” And he laughed until he started to choke, so that the outburst ended in a coughing fit.

  “ ’E’s right, miss,” the first bailiff agreed. “We’re only ’ere because we’re bein’ paid to be ’ere. But the fact is, we don’t reckon we’ll ever see this partic’lar gennelmun again. Leastways, not alive. We’re just waitin’ for official word that ’e’s been found givin’ the crows a puddin’ in some ditch. Then we’ll enter the ’ouse an’ recover what we can for our clients. I’ve seen this sorta thing plenty o’ times before: Jerry Tyke drops in for a visit, an’ then the cove ’e drops in on drops out a sight. That’s what you might call a pattern, that is.”

  CIN Entry:

  I have written to Frank about Jerry Tyke. If the fellow is a known criminal, there will surely be some sort of record of his crimes. And if there is such a record, perhaps Frank will let me read it. After all, I am looking after his stepchild.

  For the reader who comes late to these adventures, and is starting with this, rather than the first volume, a brief word about CINs—criminal inquiry notebooks—is in order. Prior to acquiring her accidental avocation, Arabella had commissioned a sizable collection of these items, having originally planned to use them as diaries. Bound in different pastel shades, they took up an entire shelf in her boudoir, where she now sat, writing her latest entry. Arabella used a different notebook for each case she worked on. This time she had chosen a pink one, and was reflecting on the coincidence that pink also happened to be the color of her suspect’s earring jewel, when Fielding came up the stairs with Frank’s reply to her note about Jerry Tyke. Arabella read it over with satisfaction, and tucked it into the front pocket of her CIN.

  “Aunt Bell?” came a weak little voice from down the passage.

  “Yes, Eddie darling!” replied Arabella, rising. “I am coming directly!”

  The child was looking a bit better. Not much. But a bit.

  “How pretty,” said Eddie, pointing at the CIN. “Is that your memoirs?”

  “No, darling. These are my case notes.”

  “Oh! Are you working on another mystery? How exciting!”

  “Now, Eddie,” said her aunt, “excitement is expressly forbidden you until you are better.”

  “All right, then. It’s not exciting. But do tell me about your case, please! I shall lie here very still all the whilst you are talking. Probably, you know, I shall even fall asleep. You would like me to sleep, wouldn’t you, Aunt Bell?”

  “Yes, I should. But the moment you demonstrate the least avidity, I shall take away the lamp and close the door.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, you see, someone owes me money—”

  “How much?”

  “A great deal. Which I need very badly in order to pay for my new club.”

  “Yes. The Cyprian Society—what a wonderful idea!”

  “Thank you, dear. I shan’t explain the entire case to you now, but the person who owes me this money cannot pay it to me, because she’s being blackmailed—”

  “I know. It’s Miss Worthington, isn’t it? The silly creature has had an intrigue with Lady Ribbonhat’s footman.”

  “How on Earth . . . ?”

  “I overheard Doyle and Mrs. Janks discussing it whilst they were making up your room today. Please take me into your confidence, Aunt Bell! You won’t be sorry; I can be of great use to you.”

  Arabella could not help smiling at this. “How could you possibly be of any use? You are not only a child, and small for your age; you are bedridden!”

  “I shan’t always be bedridden. And I don’t know how I may help yet, as you have not told me the facts of the case. But Frank says I am a useful sort of person, and I do so want to learn to be a sleuth! Remember that fable you read to me once, about the lion and the mouse?7 And how you quoted Aphra Ben as saying one should never despise any form of service? The fact that I am little and humble does not mean that I may not be of help to you. Think of me as your mouse.”

  Arabella took her niece’s hand and looked her earnestly in the face.

  “Girls cannot be sleuths, Eddie. I only do this because I have to, when circumstances intervene between me and something I want. I do not enjoy solving mysteries. This is not a career, and it will not pay you anything.”

  “Oh, I know; I only mean to do it as a sort of hobby. And I shall have time for hobbies when I grow up, because I am going to be a great courtesan, like you!”

  Arabella was pleased. “Are you, really?” she asked. “Well! Allow me to say that I think you have made a fine choice, and I shall be only too happy to teach you the ropes when the time comes. The career of a demi-mondaine can be very satisfying—even noble, sometimes—but it does have certain drawbacks.”

  “I know what they are,” said Eddie, “and I shan’t mind them. Now, please tell me about your case!”

  “Tomorrow,” said Arabella.

  “Why must I wait till tomorrow? Is it because you think me too weak?”

  “Partly. But mostly it’s because I may have more to tell you by then. Your stepfather has kindly agreed to help me. We are going to meet with the blackmailer tonight.”

  “You are?”

  She withdrew Frank’s note, shook it open, and read aloud from it:

  Meet me at the Prospect of Whitby (the pub, not the ship) at ten o’clock this evening. Mr. Tyke is expected there at around eleven. We can decide upon our best approach if and when he arrives. Please come dressed in mourning.

  Your humble servant,

  Constable Frank Dysart

  P.S. With a veil.

  “Oh,” breathed Eddie. “How I should like to be able to come along!”

  “Nonsense. It is much too dangerous, even if you were well.”

  “Well, it’s dangerous for you, too,” said the child, reasonably enough, “and yet, you are going.”

  “That is different. I have a personal stake in the matter.”

  Personal stake or no, Arabella had been positively delighted by Frank’s note. She had no idea what he was up to, but she loved the secrecy, the opportunity to wear a disguise, and, above all, the danger. The Prospect of Whitby may or may not have been London’s oldest pub—many other establishments made the same claim—but it was certainly situated in one of the most nefarious riverside neighborhoods. Wapping’s reputation was so dreadful that Arabella’s coachman tried to dissuade her from making the trip.

  “’Ere, you don’ wanna go dere now, miss. Lemme take you tomorrer. Be much safer inna daytime.”

  “You’ll take me now, Trotter, if you don’t mind.”

  “But I do mind, miss. Drivers’ve been knowed t’ disappear from there! Dey grabs ’em right hoff the coach!”

  “Oh, I see; you’re not concerned for my safety; you’re only worried about your own!”

  “ ’At’s right, miss; it’s your choice to go. It ain’t mine.”

  “We’ll compromise, Trotter. If you’ll agree to take me there, you may come into the pub and have a pint at my expense whilst I transact my business.”

 
“Oh!” he said, grinning broadly and shifting his hat farther back on his head. “Well, that do put a diff’runt complexion on things, has it were! Thank ye’, miss! Get you inside an’ we’ll be orff di-rect!”

  On arrival, Arabella lowered her veil as she alighted from the coach, and was obliged to bury her lower face in a handkerchief, as well, for the fetid mist rising from the river stank like a charnel house after a plague. The Prospect stood dead in front of her. By all accounts, a whimsical riverfront structure by day, the pub appeared even more suggestive in the moonlight, managing to look both quaint and sinister at the same time. All was quiet outside, though; she had half expected to see bodies flying out the door and kegs of ale hurtling through the front windows, to the accompaniment of shattered glass and shouted oaths. So when Arabella swept into the room in her widow’s weeds, she was shocked to find the place packed; it was virtually chock-a-block! And yet, all was as orderly as one might wish. The mingled aromas of warm beer, pipe tobacco, and roasting meat filled her nostrils, her mouth, lungs, head, everything—so that she felt she was ceasing to be herself and becoming, instead, the smell of the inn.

  That said, the patrons did not appear friendly. As angry-looking a band of cutthroats and wharf rats as ever she had seen turned to glare at her when she entered, and the counterfeit widow froze in the entry, uncertain of her next move. One might have heard a cockroach hiccup.

  “Mrs. Greely!” called Constable Dysart, beckoning to her over the sea of heads. “This way, if you please!”

  Arabella steeled herself to push through that villainous company, but the crowd parted for her obligingly, almost reverently, as Frank reached her side and began to steer her toward the back of the room.

  “Who is Mrs. Greely?” she asked in an undertone.

  “A smuggler’s widow,” said Frank. And as more people began to move out of the way, Arabella could see an open coffin resting on a couple of crates.

  “Is that my husband?” she whispered.

  “Was your husband, yes. I’m sorry about this, miss,” Frank murmured. “Just a quick glance, if you would. Then we can go sit down.”

  The corpse was a gruesome sight, with a bluish face and popped eyes. An engorged tongue seemed far too big for the open mouth from which it protruded, purple and horrible, and the man would appear to have strangled on it. But round his neck was the mark of a rope, and Arabella’s calculated swoon into Frank’s arms was only half-feigned. He set her on her feet again, and helped her to a table as far away from the coffin as possible.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “Poor sod was hanged this morning. At Tyburn.”

  “At Tyburn! No one has been hanged there for more than twenty years!”

  “I never said it was a lawful hanging, miss.”

  Wordlessly, they turned to gaze out the back window at Execution Dock. The gibbet there was still used for the occasional pirate, but just now the noose hung empty. Arabella shuddered. And as she was turning round again, a man the size of a troll came up to her, his hat clutched to his breast.

  “Name’s Gun Jensen, missus. I knows ’oo you are. Just want to say it warn’t right, what happened to Tom.” This voice, raised in anger, would surely have shattered ceiling beams. “But never you fear! We found the rat what done it, alright! And Tom’s been avenged!”

  What should she say? Arabella thought wildly of Feben, with her wardrobe of character accents. Feben would have been up to this. What was it she said? “Every individual is a thousand different people.” Keeping her head down, and her face covered, Arabella replied, in a tight, tense voice, “’Oo was it, Gun? ’Oo was it killed my Tommy?”

  “Nobody as you’d know t’ speak to, ma’m; just a hen-hearted coward for hire. Now ’e’s outta the way like, an’ you can rest easy. But we won’t. We aim t’ find the bastard as ordered it, an’ we won’t stop lookin’ fer ’im till ’e’s found. You have my word on that!” He turned his head, spat to one side, and without waiting for Arabella’s thanks, he trudged back to the bar.

  “That was brilliant, miss,” whispered Frank. “All the same, I think we’re both a bit out of our depth here. We’ll have one drink, for form’s sake, and be on our way. The barmaid told me just before you arrived that Tyke won’t be here.”

  “Actually,” said Arabella, “I’d rather we left now, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right. We needn’t stay. Let’s get outside where we can walk and talk. No one will bother us, now they think you’re Greely’s widow.”

  “But that is one of the reasons I wish to be gone; I’m worried lest the real Mrs. Greely should pop in and denounce me as an imposter!”

  She signaled to her coachman, who followed them outside. It was a relief to raise her veil again, and Arabella thrilled to feel the fog’s cool tendrils slither across her cheeks—most welcome after the overheated atmosphere of that hellish room.

  “Follow us, please, Trotter,” she said. “Not too closely.”

  “There was really no need to worry, miss,” said Frank. “I’d never have taken such a risk, if I didn’t know for certain that Mrs. Greely wouldn’t be visiting the Prospect tonight.”

  “No?” asked Arabella. “With her dead husband lying there in state? What could possibly take precedence over that? Where is Mrs. Greely?”

  “At home, miss. Having her twelfth child.”

  “Oh, the poor woman! How will she care for her family alone?”

  “I shouldn’t worry about that, either, miss,” said Frank. “Greely was something of a legend in these parts. You saw the way those ruffians treated his supposed widow!”

  “Yes,” said Arabella. “And I am accustomed to celebrity, as you know. Usually people crowd around, vying for a chance to talk to me. But this lot didn’t even dare! I felt like a queen!”

  “Mrs. Greely is a sort of queen, down here,” said Frank. “The criminal community will take good care of her family, and see to it that the kiddies all grow up to be first-class smugglers, like their pa!”

  Arabella stared meditatively at the toes of her shoes as they walked toward the bridge, the carriage following at a discreet distance. This was a terrible part of town. The Ratcliff Highway murders had happened near here only two years ago: a young family, and their apprentice, slaughtered like hogs in a pen. The case was never solved. Not really. But she didn’t want to think about that just now.

  “Frank,” said Arabella, “what would you have done if Mr. Tyke had appeared?”

  “Stood him to a drink and invited him to our table,” said Frank.

  “No! Would you really?”

  “Oh, yes. Then I’d have introduced him to Mrs. Greely, the most powerful person in that room, and told him to produce Miss Worthington’s letters or face the consequences.”

  “Brilliant!” breathed Arabella. “Oh, damn! Why didn’t he come? I could have had the case solved tonight!”

  By this time, Frank and the suppositional Widow Greely had arrived at London Bridge, and they decided to walk out upon it for a little way. The clammy mist engulfed them like wet smoke.

  “You see, miss,” Frank was saying, “the most vicious crimes always occur near the river, because the gangs are all based here. It’s the ideal setup for them: tiny, crooked little streets, derelict warehouses, ships moored so close together you can leap from one deck to another when being pursued. Your Mr. Tyke stays here when he’s at home, but he’s a solo operator, not a gang member; what you might call a henchman for hire.”

  “Not my Mr. Tyke!” Arabella protested. “I don’t know the first thing about him!”

  “Ah,” said Frank. “Well, he’s a man of many talents. Routinely hires himself out for ‘protective services,’ if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I’m afraid I—”

  “He roughs people up, for a price. I can’t say if he’s ever murdered anybody, but he’s certainly been in a position to do so. We’re searching for him now, as a matter of fact, in connection with a little matter inv
olving a missing person.”

  “Oh!” said Arabella. “You wouldn’t by any chance be referring to Mr. Savory-Pratt, would you?”

  “Bless my soul! How did you come to know that?” Frank pulled out a notepad and a pencil from his breast pocket. “What can you tell me about this matter, miss?”

  “Nothing that the police don’t already know, I’m afraid; I had it from a couple of bailiffs who were watching his house.”

  “Oh,” said Frank, masking his disappointment and putting his notepad away again. “Yes. We’ve already spoken to those two.”

  The idea of tracking Tyke to his lair had little appeal for Arabella now. She suddenly wanted to go home, but they were halfway across the bridge, and her carriage waited behind them, at the end of it. She tried to tell herself that it was not so bad as all that. New gas fixtures had recently been installed along the parapet here, and their light was somewhat reassuring when one stood directly beneath them, but for the most part, they only served to heighten the effect of the deep shadows that gathered and pooled in the spaces between the poles: They were more eerie than cheery. Watery moonlight, fighting its way through the miasma, lit up the water in uncanny patches, as sinister personages materialized ahead of them, or brushed past them from behind, their features indistinct in the fog.

  “I should have liked to see this bridge in its heyday,” Arabella said, resting her arms on the parapet and affecting a heartiness that she did not feel, “when it was all covered over in shops and houses.”

  “I doubt you’d have liked it, miss. It was filthy, crowded, and stinking in those days, worse even than now. Imagine all those blokes up at the Prospect, brought to this bridge with cartloads more, and herded along till they completely covered it over. That’s your old London Bridge.”