Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (8 page)

‘You know who I am, Matty?’ Blake said.

‘The Captain here says you was – you were,’ she corrected herself, ‘a soldier in India.’

‘I was that,’ said Blake. ‘Now I’m a private inquiry agent. I’m not a copper, but I sometimes work on matters that the police don’t have time for. I have a piece of paper says I can look into such things. The Captain, he’s helping me. If I ask you some questions, will you think carefully before you answer and tell me all that you remember?’

She nodded. ‘Can I see it?’

‘What?’

‘Your piece o’ paper says you can ask questions.’

‘Can you read?’

‘Yes.’ With an expression most sceptical, Blake retrieved from yet another of his pockets a small black wallet and took out an official-looking paper.

‘Fingers clean?’ he said.

In answer she wiped them on her dress. He gave it to her, watching her intently. She perused the paper like some old judge, then handed it back to him with such a dainty flourish that I covered my mouth to hide my amusement.

‘All in order?’ he said. She nodded. He sat down opposite her, took out his pocketbook and the special pen he had used before. She glanced at the stumps of his missing fingers.

‘What’s that?’

‘Called a fountain pen. It has a steel nib and a little reservoir inside which stores ink.’

‘Not seen one of them before. Looks pricey. Can I see it?’

‘Maybe. How old are you, Matty?’

She looked him square in the eye. ‘Twelve, sir.’

He stared back. ‘Coster girl, are you?’

‘Wasn’t born to it, no. But I sell a bit of this and that. Run a few errands.’

‘Who takes care of you?’

‘Take care of meself, and my brother, Pen. My ma died when we was little. My pa was a printer. We were up near St Paul’s. I learnt my letters then. I write a good hand. Pa died three years back. He got sick, then he couldn’t work, then he got into debt. When he died, there wasn’t nothing – anything – left. Me and Pen do all right now though,’ she said. ‘We’ve kept out of the pan. We’ve our own place.’

‘That must be hard.’

‘S’all right.’ She spoke matter-of-factly.

‘How do you know the Wedderburns?’

‘When Pa died we was on the street. Ended up down here. Nat and Connie was kind to us when no one else was. Abraham too. Nat didn’t mind if I came in the back of the shop and took a sit-down out of the cold. Sometimes there was still a bit of fire in the grate – late at night or if I started very early, walking out to Hackney Road to get watercress or something. They sell the green stuff cheaper up there than Farringdon market. If I walk further I make a bit more. That was what I was doing the day—’ she stopped. ‘He showed me how to get in round the side. Gave me a key. When things were easier, sometimes I’d watch the littl’uns and then they’d give me a bit of supper.’

‘Things been hard?’

‘Aren’t they for everyone? Food’s scarce, work’s scarce, that’s what they say,’ she said.

‘Was Mr Wedderburn ever robbed?’

‘Not as I recall. Not beyond the usual. He was in the shop all the time, or upstairs.’

‘Did he have anyone work for him?’

‘No one regular. An illustrator or maybe a writer. But no one of late except Daniel – his son. He used to work in the shop.’

‘But not any more.’

She looked down at the hem of her skirt with its odd black stain. ‘Daniel doan speak to me much no more. Got politics and I doan
know what. Argued with Nat about it. Nat said no point getting caught up in all that.’

‘We met him earlier. He seems a very angry fellow,’ I said.

‘Yeah, he’s always angry now.’ She caught herself. ‘But I doan mean—’

Blake interrupted her. ‘How did Nat get on with the other printers and booksellers in Holywell Street?’

‘All right. Not specially friendly. They’re always looking over their shoulders at each other. There’s a few I doan like, but far as I know Nat never had a beef with any of them. Some said he gave hisself airs, thought he was better than them. But he didn’t care much what anyone said. The clothes dealers are more companionable. Maybe it’s because, you know, they’re all Jews. Nat got on all right with Abe. Abe’s all right. But, mister, you mustn’t think Daniel – he’d never do anything …’

Blake nodded. ‘I believe you. What about the printers? Did they argue?’

‘I never seen any fighting or nothing. They just like to sound off about each other. Think of ways of doing each other down. But Nat never did anything like that.’

‘What sort of thing?’

She looked over at me. ‘Here, Captain whatever your name is, I’m doing a lot of work here, I want a plum duff and a hot elderberry wine.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Blake. ‘We’ll give you the money for it when we’ve finished. You can go and get it then. I promise.’

She pursed her lips. I put some coins on the table and pushed them towards her. ‘Take it now, Miss Horner. And my name is Captain Avery.’

She picked up the coins and squirrelled them away in the folds of her shawl. ‘My thanks,
Captain Avery
.’

‘So how did they do each other down?’ said Blake.

‘Oh, I doan know, always looking to get ahead of each other. Copying each other’s stuff and undercutting prices. Bad-mouthing each other. Dugdale’s prime on that.’

‘Ever met Mr Woundy?’

‘Dunno anyone by that name.’

‘He’d be a big man, fat. Flash dresser. Ever see anyone like that?’

‘Well, a fat man did come sometimes. Didn’t catch his name.’

‘What do you remember about him?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Lots of chins. Reminded me of … what’s it called, a great frog or toad, with a big throat and small brown eyes. Flabby red cheeks. Green suit, silk waistcoat. Not a sight you forget. Another time a big brown greatcoat with a dark fur collar. Very particular about his hair. Sideburns round his face till they turned into a little beard. I remember because he and Nat were chalk and cheese. He was big and loud and looked like money. Nat was thin and quiet and a bit worn. Might have been him?’

‘How many times did you see him?’

‘Three, maybe four times.’

‘Was he a client?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Did Nat have regular customers, anyone you’d recognize?’

‘I was working when his customers came. But sometimes one or two would pull up in carriages – quite the swells. Couldn’t say I knew a face, and none of their names.’

‘All right, Matty, I want something else of you,’ Blake said. ‘I want you to go to the shop with us, take us through what you saw. You are the only one who can tell me. I will make it worth your while. More than you’d earn in a day.’

‘Blake,’ I said, ‘do you really—’ His fierce look silenced me.

‘I doan have a key,’ she said. ‘I did, but I doan have it today.’

‘I can fix that,’ he said curtly.

‘Well then,’ she said, just as curt, ‘all right. Today is three weeks to the day it happened. I know because I mark off the days, keep a record. My dad taught me. Like he taught me to read. And I’ve a very good memory. I’ll do it for two shillings. I’ll meet you round the side, under the Wedderburns’ steps, in a few minutes. I’ll go first. You come after.’

‘Don’t want to be seen with us?’ said Blake.

‘Got my reputation to think of,’ she said archly. ‘Doan want people seeing me go in.’

She stood up and I saw her feet were bare. Blake did not seem to have noticed. She picked up her bonnet, shawl and basket, shouting thanks to Kravitz, and struck out through the milling idlers. A few minutes later we joined her under the Wedderburns’ steps.

She pointed to a small door in the wall. ‘This is how I used to get in, round the side so no one could see. I’d walked to Hackney for winter lettuce.’

Blake bent down on his heels and took out his tools.

She smirked. ‘House-breaker, eh, Captain?’ she said. ‘Very respectable.’

The light was not good, but the door sprung open after a few minutes and she edged in with us following behind. We crawled through a dusty cavity and then out into the back room itself. As she stood up, she braced herself.

‘Tell me everything you remember,’ said Blake, taking out his pocketbook and pen, ‘however small.’

‘It was before six, not quite light. The room was really dark, but I was used to that so I didn’t think nothing of it. I’d find my way over there,’ she pointed to the far corner, ‘and lie down for a bit. It’s quiet and there’s no draughts.’

She described coming in and finding the floor wet. She described stumbling, walking to the window, pulling away the shades, then turning to find Wedderburn lying across the press, his feet leaning upon the ground, his arms spread out. At each stage, Blake stopped her, probing every detail, how many steps she had taken, where she had stood, what she could see. He watched her every movement. She replied to his inquiries with a dispassion that I could not decide was plucky or alarming.

‘Tell me more about the body,’ said Blake.

She took a breath. ‘There were these long thin cuts over his chest, but his stomach …’ She gulped, at last losing her composure. ‘I’ve not ever seen anything like it. It was gouged open and gutted. Like a pig. Like a fish. And the insides spilled out.’ She put her hand over her mouth.

‘I think we have heard enough, Blake?’ I said. But Blake was not satisfied.

‘Was the room disordered?’

She took a moment. ‘Nat’s tools were laid neat on the workbench. Chair and desk in the usual place. But the pamphlets on the folding bench were spattered with blood. There could have been a struggle by the press. But it wasn’t just blood, it was ink too. There was black ink on his face and more on his chest and fingertips. I mean, not just the usual printer’s stain, but like his fingers had been pressed in it. There was a pool of blood at his feet, and his trousers were soaked with it.’

‘Your skirt,’ I said.

She looked down at the uneven black stain around the hem. ‘I washed it but I couldn’t get it out. Carn afford to throw out all my clothes.’

‘The wounds on his chest, what made them?’ said Blake impatiently.

The girl considered. ‘It’s been nagging at me. Gravers and burins – printer’s tools – would do that. But I doan recall any were dirty. And acid – they use it for burning the metal away in engraving.’

‘Anything else? Any small detail. The press, the floor, his body?’

‘The way he was lying. I said it later to Abraham, it was like he’d been laid there, special. It was like Jesus, come down from the cross. My pa took us to church. And it’s funny that, cos Nat Wedderburn, he was about as far from a churchgoing man as you could imagine.’

‘What did you do after you found it?’ Blake said.

‘It?’ she said, puzzled.

‘The body.’

She ran her hand across her face. ‘I wanted to spew.’ She paused. ‘Then I thought Connie and the children shouldn’t see it. I ran to Abe’s. I knew he’d be up. He knocked on a few doors. Moises next to him. Dugdale and Wenham over here. They called the copper from the Strand. He looked a bit green. The fellow who teaches the school, Thomas, he was walking past and came in. People were starting to gather outside, so we had to lock the door. Thomas, Abe and I went up to tell Connie. She fell on the floor. She couldn’t speak. I stayed with her. When I came down there was a coffin brought and an undertaker took the body out. Another copper
made me tell what I’d seen. Then I helped to clean up. We moved all we could upstairs.’

‘Good of you,’ Blake said.

‘I wouldn’t have done anything else,’ she said sharply, ‘they been kind to me.’

‘Was there a coroner’s court?’

‘Yeah, it was at the back of the Spotted Dog tavern.’

‘And?’

‘And the coroner, he and the jurors go and look at Nat’s body. And when they come out, most of them were looking sick. Then he calls the witnesses. Abe and me and the others. Asked me what I saw. So I told him. Then Thomas, he stood up and said that Nat had it coming to him, cos of what kind of a man he was and what he did. He said he consorted with criminals and it was the Lord’s judgement.’

‘Thomas the school-teacher?’

‘Yeah. He’s always up and down here and the courts with his Bible, trying to turn us from sin. I say, I would if I could afford it. He’s from one of them missions on the Strand. Them societies for this and that.’

‘Exeter Hall?’

‘That’s it. Where all them evangelicals come from. Nat used to call them the Society for Telling Off the Poor. I never thought Thomas meant any harm: Pen goes to the ragged school when I can get him to. But I could have landed him one that day.’

‘Was there a doctor to look at the body?’

She shook her head.

‘After Thomas said Nat was a bad ’un, all the other printers went quiet. Coroner asked if anyone had any notion of who might have wished him ill. No one spoke up. He said, was it possible that Nat had done hisself in, or could he have had an accident on the press? I couldn’t believe he could even say that. The jurors were sent to another room to decide what happened. They took a long while and when they came back they said they couldn’t agree. Six said it was “unlawful killing”. Five said it was “accidental death”. Made no sense to me. They buried Nat in St George’s Gardens the next day.
Connie said Nat would rather have been buried at a crossroads with a stake through his heart than put in a churchyard. But there wasn’t nothing she could do. And I never heard nothing more about looking for who done it till today.’

‘Does the back door lead on to an alley?’

‘Yeah. The fat man would come in that way.’

‘Show me how the press works,’ he said.

‘Think I doan know?’

He shrugged. She described to him the frame, the metal type, the bed, the power of the thick, screw-like vice to press the paper down on the type and ink.

Then at last she said, ‘I’ve had enough now. Doan want to be in here any more.’

Blake shrugged and we crawled out into the darkening afternoon.

‘What did people on the street say after?’

‘To start with, booksellers like Dugdale and Wenham, they was all looking over their shoulders. All kept their shops closed. Thought they might be next. But they couldn’t stay closed for ever. Nothing happened, and people stopped talking about it, like it was bad luck.’