Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (9 page)

‘What about gossip?’

‘Some said Nat must have owed money. Some said it was that evil duke what killed his servant and that girl. What’s his name?’

‘Cumberland,’ said Blake briskly. ‘It can’t be him. He’s King of Hanover in Germany now.’

‘They say his footmen used to come and get girls from round here.’ Then she said in a low voice, ‘Some of the girls up the road. They say maybe it was an apparition or, you know, Spring-Heeled Jack.’

‘Spring-Heeled Jack?’ I said.

‘Everyone knows who he is,’ she said, frowning.

‘I was in India for five years.’

‘A story to frighten children,’ said Blake scornfully. ‘A creature in a black cloak who leaps ten feet at a time and wanders the streets, attacking women.’

‘And he has great claws and red eyes and breathes fire,’ protested Matty.

‘Believe me,’ said Blake firmly, ‘it wasn’t him. But it seems strange to me that no one seems to know about it beyond the street. You’d have thought that a patterer at least would have made up a ballad or a song.’

She grimaced. ‘Carn really explain it. Maybe because the blue bastards never came back – but that’s no surprise, they never come down here.’

‘Surely they must by law. It’s part of their beat,’ I said.

She gave me an old look. ‘They should, but they doan. And all that with the coroner’s verdict. And Nat keeping hisself a bit apart. And people down here not liking anyone poking their noses into their business. Dugdale – he likes to throw about his weight – told everyone to keep quiet. It’d be bad for business.’

‘We are done for today,’ said Blake abruptly.

‘I’d like my money now,’ she said stoutly.

He counted out two shillings and dropped the coins into her hand.

‘Heard of a printer called Blundell?’ he said.

She shook her head.

‘And how old are you, Matty?’

‘Sixt— twelve, sir, like I said.’

‘Sixteen, more like,’ Blake said. ‘You’re never twelve. Who runs you?’

‘No one,’ she said, aggrieved. ‘Mesself. Abe’s kind to me. Wedderburns helped us. Doan need no one else.’

Blake looked at her. It was a hard look. I could not help liking the way she had stood up to him, and in turn regretting his brusqueness to her.

I stepped across him. ‘Miss Horner, may I escort you to the corner of the street?’

‘Why, Captain,’ she said, half laughing, ‘I should be delighted.’ I offered her my arm, leading her away, and noted how light she felt.

‘You’ve no shoes, Miss Horner,’ I observed.

She pulled the hem of her skirts over her feet and for the first time looked abashed. ‘I had some, but the blood – I couldn’t keep them. S’all right, I’m used to it. I’m saving for a new pair.’

‘It is very cold to be without them, to say nothing of the dirt. Perhaps you should use your shillings for new shoes.’

‘Perhaps I will, Captain,’ she said, wrapping her shawl about her as well as she could. ‘But first, I shall get some hot supper. See you, Captain.’

I watched her hurry up the street, hunched over her basket to avoid the rain. Blake came up behind me just as Kravitz appeared at his shop door, rubbing his dry, frizzed beard between his fingers.

‘I want to talk to you, Mr Kravitz,’ Blake said.

The old man regarded us grumpishly. ‘Carn work you two out. The toff in his shiny clobber and you in yer rag fair get-up. You make sure he doesn’t get any ideas about Matty. She’s a good girl.’

‘If you care so much about her,’ I said, ‘why do you not give her some shoes and a new skirt? She should not be out in bare feet.’

‘See any ladies’ things here?’ he said gruffly.

‘There are plenty up the street and I am sure you know the merchants. Here. Three shillings. You will know her size better than I. Pick her out a pair. No need to tell her it was me. But I shall be back to see she has them.’

Abraham Kravitz looked at the coins for a minute, then picked them up.

Blake drew some more coins from his pocket.

‘Ten shillings. I’ll take that coat and whatever you can tell me about Nat Wedderburn. Connie said we should talk to you.’

‘Ach! Keep yer money! Ask yer questions!’ the old man said.

‘Tell me about the day when Matty found Wedderburn.’

‘She ran over here. She was very pale, she could hardly speak. She should never have seen it.’ He gave his account, which in every particular echoed hers.

‘Did you know Nat well?’

‘Not well. For about five, six year, since he came here. He seemed all right to me.’

‘Know where he came from?’

The old man shook his head. ‘No one tells much about themselves round here. The street don’t pry.’

‘Did he have any enemies?’

He sniffed. ‘I’d say not. He was not one to make trouble. Coppers done very little, it’s true, they only come down here to take someone away, but they’s no obvious answer to who killed him.’

‘Did you ever see Nat with a man called Eldred Woundy?’

He shook his head.

‘Is there someone with a good memory round here, one who remembers the street from way back, who would know all the printers, where they came from?’

Kravitz laughed. ‘Carn think of no one now. Like I said, few round here want to talk about the past.’

‘But there was someone?’

He shrugged. ‘There was Dick Carlile. He knew them all, and they reckoned him. Well respected. Free-press man and all that. In and out of prison for years he was. His sons live nearby, but he moved away long since and he don’t speak to them any more. Word is, he’s dying. Dying man’s easy to respect.’

‘And how do you know so much about it?’

His mouth curved up, but not quite in a smile. ‘Been here a long while mesself. Me own brother was a printer. We don’t speak. Turned goy, changed his name, eats his bacon.’

‘Turned goy?’ I said.

‘Converted, became a Christian,’ said Blake.

Kravitz spat. ‘He was in a hurry. Turned his back on his family, made his money.’ He picked up a stray handkerchief and pinned it carefully back on its line. ‘If you’re going to see that Eldred Woundy, you’ll need a better coat.’

‘You were very hard on the girl,’ I said.

‘She didn’t tell us everything.’

‘For heaven’s sake, she talked and talked. Her memory was excellent. And did you not see she had no shoes? How do you know she is holding back?’

‘I simply know.’

I snorted. ‘And yet you were more than gentlemanly to the handsome widow, who must know more than she claims.’

Blake stumbled slightly. His face was pouring with perspiration and his shoulders shook.

‘Blake,’ I said anxiously, my exasperation forgotten. ‘You are ill. We must get you home.’ He tried to shake me off, but was immediately seized by a bout of coughing. I made him lean upon me and we hobbled down to the Strand where I hailed a hansom cab, pushed him into it and climbed in after.

‘I do not even know where you live.’

‘Soho, north of here.’

‘Well, I am none the wiser.’

The streets were all one to me, this one leading to another and another, until we came to a thoroughfare called Old Compton Street.

‘I shall get out here,’ said Blake.

‘But we will take you to your door.’

‘No.’

I sighed and stopped the cab but placed my hand upon the door. ‘So you will not let me help you. Do you have a powder for your fever?’

He gave me his inscrutable look.

‘Jeremiah,’ I said, ‘it is a long time since we saw each other. But what took place in India, what you showed me there, changed me. I have persisted in thinking of you not only as someone to whom I owed a great debt but also as someone whom I esteemed and admired, despite our differences – and despite those mulishly stubborn traits which I find my memory had conveniently erased. I fancied that you did not think entirely ill of me. Tell me, did I delude myself?’

He was silent for a moment. ‘You owe me nothing, William,’ he said.

I took this for the dismissal I had been half expecting. But then he said heavily, ‘This city is a cruel place, William. Vigorous, full of novelties and innovations, but implacable and pitiless too. It has hardened me.’ There was another silence. ‘I am sorry. I cannot promise to be better humoured, but I will try.’ He clambered slowly out of the cab.

‘How shall we meet tomorrow?’ I said. ‘What if you take a turn for the worse?’

‘You will get my message.’ He handed me the package that Connie Wedderburn had given him.

‘I recall you are a keen reader. You can look through that.’

I felt as if my eyes and ears had seen and heard in one day what would pass for a busy month in the country. What to make of it all, and of Jeremiah Blake’s reappearance in my life, I was too all in to consider. At the Oriental I made my toilet and descended in anticipation of a quiet dinner. I did not know many other members – most were a good deal older than I, having returned to England after successful careers in the East. I had, however, acquired a modicum of fame, and the night before a number of clubmen, learning I was among them, had made a fuss of me. A red-faced and mildly inebriated Tory Member of Parliament – a former East India Company civilian – had insisted upon standing me dinner, while others had pressed me to recount my various Indian adventures and plied me with invitations.

‘Avery! Over here!’ The Tory Member was upon me before I could escape.

‘Captain Avery! You must come and join us. I will not be refused.’ He dragged me into the smoking-room where I was surrounded by a group of gentlemen, none of whom I knew. Too tired to put up much of a struggle, I allowed myself to be hustled into the dining-room. It was a good dinner, and reassuring after the day’s strangeness. I drank a great deal of claret and let the talk wash over me: disquisitions on the quality of game to be expected over the winter; the extent to which the Queen disliked the new Prime Minister; the fire at the Tower of London; the arrival of the second royal baby; and the arrival of the King of Hanover in London for the arrival of his niece’s heir. I was reminded of my nights in the officers’ mess. The Tory MP suggested that I might consider standing for Parliament in the landowning interest. Eventually I pleaded exhaustion and retired to my rooms.

‘A shame, young man,’ he said. ‘There’s a deal more port to be drunk.’

I had drunk enough to ensure that sleep would come at least for a while. But in my room, I recalled in a guilty rush that I had made the decision to remain in London with no consideration of my domestic obligations, to my wife Helen and the child-to-come. I pushed the thought away. Helen had been far from sorry to see me go. Some time apart might perhaps improve matters between us, as my sister Louise had suggested. There was certainly no business in Devon that urgently required my attention.

I wrote to Helen, explaining that I would have to remain in London for perhaps a week, implying, with not complete honesty, that I would have ample opportunity to ingratiate myself with a number of men of influence, among them Sir Theophilus Collinson. To my sister Louise I wrote at greater length, explaining what had taken place and how much I wanted to stay in London, and asking her to summon me should she judge that I was needed. There was no need to mention that I had not been as candid about my situation to my wife.

It was only after I had undressed that my eye caught the bulky bundle that Blake had given me. I unwound the paper and string and understood at last the nature of Nat Wedderburn’s business.

On the top was a smutty song about the Queen and her consort, called ‘What ’e gets up to round ’Er Majesty’. It did, I admit, raise a small smile from me. This was followed by a number of engravings purporting to depict ‘the aristocracy and church at play’. The first showed disrobed nuns and bishops – identified only by their headgear – engaged in various obscene acts and was entitled ‘The Arse Bishop and His Friends’. The next item was a slim pamphlet called
School-mistress of Love, or Birchen Sports
, and appeared to be a prolonged advertisement for the various ‘modes of punishment’ offered by a ‘Miss Tess Thrashington’, a marvellously well-endowed ‘Governess of love’, at her premises in Charlotte Street. The first page showed her administering ‘discipline’ to a gentleman clad only in a vest. Subsequent pages illustrated her ‘whipping machine’, which
resembled nothing so much as a pair of stocks attached to a long board with holes in it: in the picture, a naked man placed his head and hands through three of the holes and these were then further tethered with thick bonds. An unclothed buxom young woman with flowing locks was administering a beating to his posterior with an outlandishly long switch, while another unclothed young woman sitting on the other side of the board manipulated his member. The last page featured illustrations of young, unclothed women beating unclothed moustachioed men with a variety of bludgeons, birch switches and whips until the blood ran down their backs.