Stone's Fall (18 page)

“Ah, these newspapers,” said Philpot, shaking his head. “They should be ashamed of themselves.”

I agreed. “And now,” I continued, “all he wants is that people should not know of his foolishness, so he can grieve once more without being laughed at.”

That shook Philpot to the core. A good man, able to sympathise with others. To be laughed at was the worst humiliation of all. “I see, I see,” he said. “Yes, of course he would want that. Well, tell me your questions.”

“Well, what I’d like to know is if anyone saw him, coming and going to these—ah—séances. He is of average size, grey hair, well dressed, very distinguished-looking. Look; I have his photograph.”

I took out the photograph of Ravenscliff; Philpot looked, stroked his moustache with thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “I do remember him,” he said. “He came a couple of times, as I recall. He was so much better dressed than most of the people who went up the stairs. Very handsome umbrella he had; German, with a hand-carved handle of mahogany.”

Since he obviously warmed to any subject that had an umbrella in it, I continued to press, in a gentle way.

“There you are! You noticed his umbrella. And that is one of the things that he asked me to look into. You see, the last time he came, he was so overcome by what he thought were his wife’s words, that he rushed out and left his umbrella behind!”

“He didn’t!”

“Yes. So he asked me, if at all possible, if I could recover it. He only took it with him because Madame Boninska said it would help summon the spirits if there was something she had touched in the room.”

Philpot understood immediately, and was shocked by the sacrilege. “You must go and look,” he said immediately. “I insist.”

“That is kind of you. I wanted to ask, but…”

“I understand perfectly. Poor man. Here, take these keys, and go and look for it…”

I went out of the shop door into the fresh air—or as fresh as the air near Tottenham Court Road ever became—and walked up the stairs in the little passage next door. The flat was oppressive, and dark and gloomy, and would have been even if a murder had not been committed there. I opened the curtains and then opened the windows as well. Everything was neat and tidy though the general appearance was thoroughly bizarre. Stuffed animals; prints on the wall of psychic events. Odd pieces of equipment and furniture. Lots of black velvet.

I wasn’t interested in any of it. Immediately I started going through drawers, looking under beds and mattresses, down the sides of chairs, under furniture. Any scrap of paper, or notebook, or strongbox or photograph. Anything at all would do. An address book, old railway ticket, deed or document. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Which was not right. Everybody accumulates something. Even an old bus ticket. But in this place there was not a single scrap. Which made me wonder. It had probably been the police, of course; I would have to check, but I had never come across a police investigation where they had taken everything away like that.

“Have you found it?”

“What?”

“The umbrella. Have you found it?” It was Philpot, poking his head reluctantly round the door.

“Oh. No, I’m afraid not. It’s gone. I’m sorry to have been so long, but I found this room very oppressive. I think I looked everywhere twice because I couldn’t keep my mind on things.”

Philpot found this sensitivity unbecoming and said nothing. I followed him down the stairs and into the street. “Gloomy place,” I said. “But it will be perfectly pleasant once it’s cleaned up. Why not get a rag-and-bone man to come and take everything away? Open the windows for a week. Get in a painter. Everyone will forget soon enough about all this.”

Philpot was grateful for the reassurance, but shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “I can’t think of it yet. I’ll take your advice soon enough, though.”

“And no news of the girl? What was her name?”

“Mary. No. Vanished, she has. I think I was more shocked to learn what she was than anything…” He lowered his voice and eyes as he thought about her.

“You never knew where she came from?”

“The police asked me. ‘Did she tell you where she lived?’ No, she didn’t. Of course, I knew where she came from, but they weren’t interested. ‘Facts, Mr. Philpot,’ they said. ‘Just keep to the facts.’”

“So how do you know?”

“The way she talked, of course. She was brought up in Shoreditch. Now, I’m not saying she lived there…”

CHAPTER
20

It was time to summon the runners. I went back to the newspaper offices for the first time since I had resigned, and asked at the reception desk if the boys were about. Some of them were in Dragon Court, a mouldy, dank little square just over the road which was surrounded by seemingly abandoned buildings. Few of them had any glass left in the windows; the boys had broken most of it playing football or cricket, which is what they did when they were waiting for a job. Three of them were there; one was hopeless, a mournful character of small intelligence and no initiative whatsoever. Pale and pimply with an air of being underfed and neglected. Wearing clothes two sizes too big for him. One, Derrick, was reliable, and the cleverest grew up to become a highly successful cat burglar.

“Listen, boys,” I said. “I’ve got a job for you. Twice the usual rates, and a bonus of a guinea for the one who succeeds.” I had learned from Elizabeth that if you want instant obedience with no argument, you pay, and pay so handsomely it takes the breath away. None of these boys, I suspected, had ever even seen a guinea before. The very idea of one made them go quiet and reverential.

I told them what I wanted; told them the girl’s name, told them she came from Shoreditch, told them about her occupation—these were not innocent little angels—and repeated the description I had got from the police. About twenty years of age, with light brown hair, blue eyes and of middling height. It wasn’t much good, but at least it eliminated all the six-foot-tall, orange-haired and red-eyed prostitutes in Shoreditch.

“Now, pay attention,” I said. “This is important. If you come across this woman, don’t frighten her. Let her know that no one means her any harm. There is no question of the police being involved in this. I might even be able to help her, if she needs it. But I want to talk to her, and will pay her a guinea as well. Got that?”

The urchins nodded. I told them to find me either at home or in the pub or at the Ravenscliff house if they came up with anything. That done, I went back to the King & Keys to find Hozwicki once more. This was a long shot—not finding Hozwicki, as I knew he’d be there, but the possibility of his knowing or telling me anything.

“What do you want? You haven’t paid for the last bit of information I gave you.”

“True enough, but I would have thought an old comrade in arms…” I gave up. Normally in such circumstances all you have to do is stand a round or two of drinks and all is well, but this tactic I knew wouldn’t work either.

“Believe me,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster, “if I could tell you something, I would. But I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Hozwicki looked sceptical, but at least started paying attention. “It is all far more complicated than you can imagine. I thought I was writing a biography for a grieving widow. Now, it seems, I am being pursued by a bunch of anarchist murderers. I don’t want you to get into the same position.”

He looked at me. “What are you talking about?”

“The Brotherhood of Socialists. Ever heard of them?”

Hozwicki glared at me. “You think that just because I am Polish I know every revolutionary in the East End?”

“Hardly. I mean, there are so many of them, you can’t know them all, can you? I just thought you might have come across the name.”

“So why are they after you?”

“I don’t know.”

“But this has something to do with Ravenscliff?”

“I don’t know.”

Hozwicki rubbed the end of his nose, and thought. “Never heard of them,” he said finally.

“Yes, you have.”

“Yes, I have. But I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Look, Stefan—”

“If they’ve got a grudge against you, then steer clear of them. Or get a gun. Do you have a gun?”

“Of course I haven’t.”

“I’ll give you the name of a man who can get one for you.”

“I don’t want a gun.”

“Perhaps. But you may need one.”

“Who are these people?”

Hozwicki’s good and bad sides were wrestling for control of his conscience, which put quite a strain on him. He did not answer for some time. In fact, he didn’t really answer at all. Instead, he pulled out his notebook, tore off a sheet and scribbled on it. “Here,” he said. “I’m not going to help you. But go there and ask questions. That’s all I’ll do for you.”

Written on the sheet was an address. The Anarchist Club; 165 Jubilee Street.

F
or those who have forgotten what London was like before the war, or who never knew, the very idea of an Anarchist Club sounds absurd. Most people are more familiar with the Reform, or the Athenaeum, and when they think of clubs, they think of leather armchairs, port and cigars, with quiet waiters padding about bearing silver platters. The idea of anarchists enjoying such surroundings cannot help but bring a smile to the lips.

And yet there was such a club, although it was closed down when the war began and never reopened. More than that, it was a popular place. The East End was a seething mass of revolution in those days; wave after wave of immigrants had swept in, bringing Jews, nationalists and revolutionaries fleeing the authorities in Russia and elsewhere. It was a cause of great tension. On the one hand, it made Britain most unpopular in those countries which preferred to have their revolutionaries either dead or in gaol, rather than freely plotting evil. On the other, the mass of men seeking work annoyed our own labourers, who found their housing taken and their wages undercut. But government after government refused to do anything. The employers liked the cheap labour and I suspect the Foreign Office enjoyed tweaking the noses of autocratic governments abroad. So the authorities reached a sort of pact with the unwelcome guests. As long as they caused no trouble in England, they could plot to visit whatever mayhem they liked on their own country. Nonetheless, the authorities kept a firm eye on what was going on, as much as they could. I had learned from the police, however, that this wasn’t very much. These Letts and Poles and Pan-Slavs and Russians and whoever not only spoke a wide variety of languages, often in obscure dialects, they also seemed to change name with bewildering rapidity. Several criminals were tried in court for offences using only nicknames—the Elephant, Fatty, the Bricklayer—because the authorities had no idea who they were.

Now, the trouble with revolutionaries is, having got into the habit of opposing their own authorities, they end up opposing everything else as well. That is to say, no sooner had a party formed—to install, say, the principles of Marxist socialism, or anarchist freedom, in liberated Lithuania—than it tended to split into two on the question of what, exactly, socialism or anarchism was. Or even what Lithuania was. So the Anarchist Club was formed; fraternal loathing was suspended while members were within its portals. There you could find speeches on all manner of subjects, as long as they were intense and impractical. As I approached it that evening—I took a bus from Fleet Street to Commercial Road, then walked up Jubilee Street to my destination—I tried to imagine Lord Ravenscliff, with his silk top hat and cashmere overcoat, rubbing shoulders with such people. I almost succeeded, but eventually gave up. It was too absurd.

The club smelled, but was no worse than most pubs; it was also a good deal quieter. Chilly though, and not very clean. Anarchists did not approve of housework; that was for their women and, on the whole, there were few women dedicated enough to cook, clean, listen to the rhetoric and foment revolution all at the same time. I guessed there were about thirty men in the large room and only four women. Everybody was dowdy and poor-looking and, although some were dapper enough with waxed moustaches and strutting walks, most were subdued and moved with an air of caution. They did not give a very convincing imitation of murderous lunatics. All were foreign, I guessed many were Jews, and they seemed different from the unionists and syndicalists I had written about in my days of toil. Few had the true air of workingmen; they did not stand or move like men used to working with hand and body. They also looked very much worse fed, greyer of face.

“Can I help you?” A cautious voice, heavily accented; a small man, jacketless and collarless, stood beside me, looking at me cautiously. Not surprisingly. I was hardly dressed fashionably, but it was obvious from my healthy complexion and unpatched clothes that I was both English and not a natural member of this place.

“I was hoping to meet a friend,” I said. “Stefan Hozwicki. Do you know him?”

“I do, but he isn’t here,” the man replied, relaxing a little. It seemed Stefan’s name was a sort of passport, a guarantee of my good intentions. Which was kind of him, although mysterious. If I did not exactly slip into the background here, I couldn’t imagine Hozwicki doing so either.

“You’ve not been here before,” the man said. “My name is Josef, by the way. Welcome.”

“Thank you. My name is Matthew Brad—”

He held up his hand. “We do not have second names,” he said with a smile. “It is uncomradely and also there are far too many people who do not wish to give them. So Matthew will do nicely.” His mouth twitched with amusement as he watched me try to look comradely.

I quite took to him. He was short, only about five foot four high, weedy and underfed, badly dressed and looked less than healthy. His hands twitched nervously all the time, as though he was trying to pull rings off his fingers, but the rest of him was totally still and calm. His eyes watched me through thick lenses, and they were kindly and a little sad.

“You have come for the talk?”

“Ah, yes. I suppose so. I’m not sure why I’m here, to tell the truth.”

“Comrade Stefan no doubt has his reasons.”

“I’m sure Comrade Stefan has,” I said, and was quite proud of myself for suppressing the twitch of amusement. It was only because I was quite touched; Hozwicki, as I have mentioned, was not exactly the most friendly of people. He trusted no one, and liked even fewer. To tell me to come here, where he must have realised I would hear him being referred to as Comrade Stefan—thus exposing him to ridicule if not worse if I ever repeated it in the King & Keys—was a gesture. Not exactly an open offer of friendship, but probably the closest to it I or anyone else would ever get. “Who is the speaker, might I ask?”

“Ah,” he said. “It is Comrade Kropotkin.”

The anarchist aristocrat. The Russian revolutionary. The Anarchist Prince. All titles dreamed up by the headline writers on the
Daily Mail,
who excelled at such things. He was an odd fellow, by all accounts; a genuine Russian prince who had turned to rural collectivism and revolution. He had been imprisoned in Russia, thrown out of Switzerland, France and America, and came to rest in a comfortable part of Brighton, where he went for long walks with his dog and was perfectly sweet to the neighbours when not advocating stringing them up from the nearest lamppost.

“And what is he talking about?”

“The evils of Darwinism.”

“Is it evil?”

“Comrade Kropotkin has argued in the past that Darwinism is but a reflection of capitalism because it emphasises competition and struggle over cooperation and coexistence. It justifies the exploitation of man by man, and strengthens the class ideology of the oppressors.”

“Excellent. So what will be new today?”

“That we must find out. If we can understand him. There are so many people of so many different nationalities here, with so many languages, that English is the only one everybody has a chance of understanding. I don’t suppose you speak Serbo-Croat?”

“Not really.”

“A pity. I would have pressed you into service to give a running translation. Our Serbs are very bad at languages.”

“Who else—I mean, what other languages are represented?”

Josef screwed up his eyes to think. “Well, there are Russians and Germans. Many Latvians and Lithuanians and Poles. A few Serbs. One Dane, although he comes only rarely. Many English, although for some reason few Irish, which I find strange as they are the most oppressed of all. Some Ukrainians and a few Belgians. The French tend to stay in France. And of course we have many, many people who speak only Yiddish.”

“A veritable Internationale,” I said, with what I hoped was a tone of approval. “And how many policemen?”

He gave me an odd look, but realised full well that I was lightheartedly broaching a serious point. “That is Serge, who hasn’t arrived yet.”

“You aren’t tempted to throw him out?”

“Oh, no. Obviously the police are going to infiltrate, so why bother? We do nothing here that is of great interest to them. It is not as if we hold open meetings on bomb-making.”

“Those are by invitation only?”

“Precisely,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Seriously, the authorities here are stupid and coercive, but somewhat milder than their counterparts abroad. As long as we do not frighten them, they leave us alone, more or less. And nothing frightens authority more than not knowing what is going on. Then they fantasise about plots and evil, and react. So we show there is nothing to be afraid of.”

“And this Serge knows you know about him?”

“The subject has never come up, but I imagine so. Do you wish to meet him? You are a journalist, I take it.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because the moment you open your mouth you start asking questions. Because you clearly know nothing about anarchism and because you are a friend of Stefan, who is a journalist as well. You don’t work for the
Daily Mail,
do you?”

“Certainly not,” I said, almost offended.

“That is good.”

“You don’t mind me coming?”

“Oh, no. The more publicity the better. Comrade Kropotkin has written many articles for newspapers, here and abroad, showing the origins and nature of what we believe. He has just finished a long article for the
Encyclopaedia Britannica.
And now, if you will excuse me.”

The courteous anarchist moved off towards the stage. He walked with a limp, I noticed, and he looked as though moving was painful for him. He weaved an erratic course as he went, stopping frequently to greet people, pat them on the back, talk briefly with them. One woman he bowed to in an oddly old-world fashion. She was dressed simply, with a muffler around her head, as though she had a cold, and a sprig of flowers in her hair. She briefly broke off her conversation with a large unshaven man to greet him, and half-turned to respond with an unsmiling, cold nod of the head.