Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (6 page)

A listless voice. A woman’s. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mrs Wedderburn? My name is Jem Blake. May we talk to you? We have come to try and help you.’

‘Leave us alone. Who’d help us?’

Blake looked at me, cleared his throat and spoke in a warm reassuring tone that was his voice and yet was not.

‘Someone who wants justice for your husband and to see that your children are fed. We have no wish to frighten you. We want only to speak to you. If you are alarmed we will stand away from the door, and you may question us outside.’

‘I don’t know.’ We heard her sigh behind the door. Further away a child again cried, ‘Ma!’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Wait.’ There was a good deal of shuffling about, then the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn. The door opened.

Mrs Wedderburn wore no cap and her hair, long, chaotic and red, spilled around her shoulders. Her face was white, her eyes red-rimmed, and she stared at us dully. She wore a coarse brown frock with a cotton kerchief around her neck and a creased apron tied around a small waist. Even in the wreck of her grief, one could see that she had been – still was – a very striking woman; grief gave her a strange, otherworldly quality, as if she were sleepwalking. Two
small children clung to her skirts, and behind her was another girl, about ten, and a boy a little older.

‘I am Jem Blake, Mrs Wedderburn.’ We had taken a few steps down the stairs. Blake stood with his hands out, palms upward. ‘And this is my companion, Captain William Avery.’ He drew out a card and offered it to her. She looked at it without seeing it and then let her arm drop uselessly to her side. Behind her, the children watched us, warily.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said. She drifted back into the room, the previous small show of defiance having used up all her resources.

The older boy and girl closed the door, bolted it and dragged several heavy boxes against it. The girl gave me a bleak look and hunched her shoulders.

‘In case they come back,’ she whispered.

The room, not ill-sized, had bare brick walls and wooden boards, and was well lit by two windows. There were rudimentary stairs to an attic floor above, and a door open to a small kitchen and scullery at the back. Inside the main room were a worn table, three upright chairs, two stuffed mattresses and an old cylinder desk against a wall. The door to the shop below, on the other side of the room, was barricaded by five or six wooden boxes, with two baskets on top in which ropes were coiled. There was a fire in the grate, a little coal in a bucket, and on the table the remains of a meal – bread, cheese, some wrinkled apples and small beer. The family did not seem in immediate want and yet the place felt stripped of comfort, as if something had been irretrievably lost.

Blake stood locked in his own thoughts and took off his gloves. The children at once noticed his missing fingers and stared at them with something between fear and fascination.

‘Mrs Wedderburn,’ I said, for the moment seemed to require something, ‘will you sit down?’ I led her to a chair. The children clustered themselves around her, the little ones still holding on to her skirts. The oldest girl began to arrange her mother’s flaming hair.

‘Let me assure you,’ I said, ‘we have not come to take anything from you, or to force anything upon you. We want only to help you.’

Mrs Wedderburn seemed not to hear.

The oldest girl bit her lip in frustration. ‘Ma! Ma! Listen to him,’ she said. ‘He says they’ve come to help. Talk to them, Ma!’

The woman made a visible effort to gather herself and looked up at me.

‘Things been hard the last weeks. Carn sleep or hardly think straight. I’m sorry.’

‘Mrs Wedderburn, I have a letter of introduction. It is from Lord Allington. The philanthropist. Perhaps you have heard of him?’

She nodded vaguely.

‘He heard about your husband’s death from a young man who runs the ragged school near here. Mr Dearlove? He is dismayed at the lack of progress. He believes more must be done to discover whoever is responsible for your husband’s death.’

The older girl pulled at her mother’s skirt. ‘Ma!’

‘Carn bring him back,’ Mrs Wedderburn murmured.

‘Do you not want to know who could have done such a thing, and have them brought to justice, Mrs Wedderburn?’ I said. ‘To stop them from doing such a terrible thing again?’

‘Who are you to do this?’ she said, suddenly more awake and wary.

Blake stirred from his reverie. He came over and crouched down, holding on to the arm of her chair to balance himself, and gave her a steady look. ‘Mrs Wedderburn,’ he said.

She met his eyes. ‘My name is Connie,’ she said.

‘Connie. I am an inquiry agent. I find things. I’m good at it. Captain Avery is helping me. He is’ – he hesitated – ‘a good man.’

‘Carn bring him back,’ she said again, stubbornly.

‘Connie,’ he said, and he took her hand and looked into her eyes, ‘I know well how hard it is to lose someone. I do. But I must ask you some questions about your husband’s death.’

She gazed at him; the wariness receded and the grief returned. ‘There’s not much to tell.’

‘Perhaps the children should not be here?’ I said. She nodded, and though the older girl protested, they took themselves up the rickety stairs.

‘Connie,’ Blake said, never losing her gaze, ‘how long have you been here?’

‘Six years.’

‘Did he employ many men?’

‘Not for a long time. Daniel, he’d been helping, but he went his own way.’ Her eyes were suddenly brilliant with the sheen of unshed tears.

‘Daniel?’

‘My son. He’s not here.’

‘Did Nat have particular clients?’

She shook her head, stubborn again. ‘I wouldn’t know. I didn’t see that side of it.’

‘I’ve a hard question, Connie. Can you tell me what you remember about when Nat died?’

‘That’s the thing,’ she said, agitation breaking through her torpor. ‘I didn’t see him. He went down to work that night. He has to work overnight when the orders come. I didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t come up. We went to bed. I heard nothing. I thought I’d see him in the morning. Now I never will. They said I couldn’t see him after they found him. I should remember him as he’d been. My poor Nat. He gave up so much for me.’ Two great silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘Who is “they”?’

‘The ones what found him. Matty was first, then Abraham over the street. That man who teaches the school. The others in the street.’

‘What time did he usually close up at night?’

‘About ten o’clock. I’d bring him a bit of supper earlier. Left him to it. Didn’t like me to come down when he was working.’

‘Anything unusual happen in the days before his death?’

She shook her head. ‘I carn remember anything different. Nothing.’

‘Do you have any thought, however unlikely, of who might have done this?’

She broke from his glance and looked at the floor.

‘No. Carn think of no one.’

‘No one to whom he owed money? No one who might have been angry – an old apprentice, a client, a rival? An enemy. Anyone who wished him ill?’

‘I said,’ she said stonily, ‘I carn think of no one.’

‘I don’t want to upset you, Connie. But what kind of help would I be if I didn’t ask that question?’

Her expression did not soften.

‘I’ll need to speak to other people who knew him,’ said Blake. ‘To those who found him. I’ll need names. Will you help me?’

At that moment the side door to the outside steps burst open. In the doorway stood a tall, thick-set young man, barely, I should have said, eighteen years old. It was at once apparent that he was in a high state of excitement. Seeing us did nothing to calm him. He stepped menacingly into the room, his fists balled.

‘Who are they?’ he said brusquely to Connie Wedderburn, and to us, ‘What are you doing here?’

My fists were itching and I had crossed the room to meet him before I even had time to think. ‘Who are you to visit such violence and ill temper to those who have suffered so much?’ I said furiously.

‘Daniel!’ Connie Wedderburn cried, standing up.

‘William, he is Connie’s son,’ said Blake mildly, placing a hand on my shoulder. If he had not done so we might have come to blows. The young man, I saw, had the look of his mother but was twice her size. The other children now appeared quietly at the top of the stairs.

‘These men say they want to find the man who hurt your father, Daniel,’ said Connie, her voice thick with pleading. ‘They mean no harm.’

I collected myself and stood down, a harder task than it should have been. ‘My apologies, Master Wedderburn. I did not know you.’

He ignored me and instead addressed his mother. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you. I’m here to pick up some clothes and nothing more.’

‘Daniel!’ she said again.

‘What’s she been saying?’ he said, turning at last to Blake and me. ‘You ask her about Eldred Woundy. That’s who you should see.’

He stamped up the stairs, returned with a bundle tucked under
his arm, and made for the door. The smallest boy began to snivel. The young man turned round. He came back, bent down, picked up the child and and kissed him gently, not looking at his mother.

‘Hush now, Charlie, I’ll be back. There’s things I have to do.’ He rocked his brother back and forth. The child quietened, but the mother broke into heaving sobs. Daniel kissed the smallest girl, embraced the two older children and stroked their heads, picked up his bundle and walked out. Once he had left, the older girl came over to her mother, who gazed after her son, and put her arms around her.

‘Connie,’ said Blake.

‘He is right,’ she said. ‘You should go and see Eldred Woundy. He won’t like it, but it is true. There’ve been enough secrets.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘But I must ask you a few more questions.’

She gazed at him mulishly, her face still tear-stained, and gave a stiff little shrug.

‘Who found your husband’s body?’

‘Matty Horner. Poor girl. She came in to get a bit of shelter from the cold.’

‘Where will I find her?’

‘In the street. She’s always there.’

‘What happened after she found the body?’

‘She called the others then the blue bastards came. They took him away. Asked us questions and never came back. Not that anyone wants to see them in the street. But now it’s as if the place Nat had in the world has disappeared, as if he’d never lived at all.’

‘Blue bastards?’ I said.

‘Coppers, bluebottles, peelers, new police, they’ve plenty of names,’ said Blake. He came up close to her, too close perhaps, so he almost touched her cheek, and whispered something. She looked at the children.

‘No,’ she said, ‘we won’t leave. Where would we go?’

‘His Lordship has offered to help your family. I believe he could find you somewhere else,’ I said. The two older children stared at me hopefully.

‘No. I won’t leave here,’ she said, suddenly flinty. The boy’s expression returned to its former dullness; the girl looked resigned.

Blake nodded. ‘I shall need to see his work.’

‘There’s nothing left,’ said Connie Wedderburn. He stared at her and after a moment she bowed her head awkwardly. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’ She pulled herself up, wrapped herself carelessly in a shawl and went outside. The oldest girl got up and pushed the door shut behind her mother. The mute older brother shadowed her.

‘In case they come back,’ she said quietly, again.

They are very afraid, I thought.

‘They will not,’ I said firmly. ‘Is that not true, Mr Blake? They will not return.’

‘What?’ He looked at the children as if seeing them for the first time, and I prayed he would feel disposed to offer some reassurance. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They will not come back. You should not fear that.’

His words seemed to console them. ‘Mister? Captain?’ the girl said, turning to me. ‘You said the Lord wanted to know if we needed anything.’

‘The Lord?’ I said, confused.

‘That Lord what does charity. You work for him,’ she said impatiently. ‘Can he give us some money. Today? Till Ma’s better and we know what to do.’

I looked at the food on the table. She followed my glance.

‘Someone brought that. Dunno if there’ll be more.’

‘What do you need?’ I said.

‘Two shillings? Half a crown?’ she said hopefully.

Blake said nothing. I counted out five shillings. She took the money from my palm, coin by coin, looking meaningfully at her silent brother, then undid a small handkerchief from around her neck and wrapped them up in it.

‘You tell that Lord thanks,’ she said, pocketing it quickly as her mother returned.

Connie Wedderburn held out a bulky package wrapped in crumpled paper.

‘I’ll pay you for them,’ said Blake.

She shook her head.

He passed me the package and brought out from one of his pockets a notebook and a metal implement that proved to be some
form of pen which appeared not to need ink. ‘Give me the names of people who knew your husband,’ he said, removing the lid and beginning to write.

‘Carn think of anyone,’ she said.

He prompted her gently. ‘People in the street? People who worked for Nat? People he bought from or sold to?’

She came out with a few names, haltingly, denying they were of significance even as she did so.

‘Ever hear of a man called Blundell?’ he said at last.

She shook her head.

‘Thank you, Connie. We are truly sorry to come on such sad business. We’ll return to tell you of anything we find. If you need food or rent or fuel, you have my card. Lord Allington has said he wishes to help if he can.’

As we opened the door to depart, she passed her hand across her eyes. ‘Something I meant to ask. What was it? Yes. You related to old Billy Blake?’

‘No,’ he said.

Evening was coming on and the east wind cut against every exposed inch. The two young organ-grinders had set up outside the shop and were dancing again. One, barely nine or ten, solicited me with a cup in which a solitary coin jangled; he had a leering, knowing look. The other turned the handle to make the gasping organ play. Across the road, the old clothes seller glared at us. Above his door was a sign, ‘Abraham Kravitz, clothing merchant’. I supposed he must be the Abraham of whom Connie Wedderburn had spoken.