The Lodger (17 page)

‘He's a Walworth man,' said Nicholas stubbornly.

‘It's not a fact, but all right, I'll go along with it.'

‘That'll help, sir.'

‘It better had, sergeant. If it doesn't, I'll have your guts for garters.'

The rent collector came on Saturday morning. All the girls had gone to the market to shop for Maggie. Trary was in charge. She was already a shrewd market shopper, and would make the most of the small amount of money her mum had given her. Daisy, Lily and Meg, who loved the market and its boisterous atmosphere, were a sisterly encouragement to Trary's virtuosity. Besides, some nice greengrocer might give them a speckled apple each. Or some overripe bananas. Also, Trary might see Bobby Reeves at Mrs Reeves's second-hand clothes stall now she knew he was that lady's son. At the mention of this from Meg, Trary became scornful and scoffing.

At home, Mr Bates put his head round the kitchen door and asked Maggie if she'd like him to put the kettle on for her. He'd got a bottle of Camp coffee and would like the pleasure of treating her to a cup, and himself as well. His approach was friendly, not loud and brash, and Maggie could not help being responsive. He was, after all, a healthy and invigorating man, and had made the house come alive. In any event, she knew herself perfectly capable of pulling him up if he went too far or took her kitchen for granted. Her kitchen was the family retreat, open to friends and neighbours, but not necessarily to lodgers.

‘Yes, come in, Mr Bates, I – ' The rent collector knocked then. Maggie knew his knock, the same as she had known the knock of the moneylender. ‘Oh, that's the rent collector, excuse me a minute.' She took her purse from the mantelpiece and went to the front door, leaving Mr Bates in the kitchen, his ears alert, his generous pocket ready to be touched.

‘Mornin',' said Mr Dawes, a rent collector used to hard luck stories. His face was gaunt with the strain of listening to them week in, week out.

‘I can pay you a full week this week,' said Maggie, ‘and a bit off the owings.'

‘Much obliged, I'm sure, Mrs Wilson, but a bit off the owings ain't what I'm here for. All off, that's me orders. So with this week's rent and all yer owings, I'm collecting thirty-one bob from you.'

‘No, come off it,' said Maggie, ‘you can't collect what I don't 'ave.'

‘Well now, Mrs Wilson, I begs to inform yer that if you don't cough up, the landlord'll chuck the bailiffs at yer on Monday. Mr Randall's got to live, and so 'ave I. We can't live, can we, nor our fam'lies, if all the owings don't get settled. You can't say you ain't been warned, Mrs Wilson.'

‘You can't put the bailiffs in,' said Maggie palely, ‘I got four girls who need a roof over their 'eads. Look, I can manage seven an' six against the owings.'

Mr Dawes shook a sad head. ‘Don't play about, Mrs Wilson, I ain't got time for games. Listen, you've got a new lodger, I 'eard. Ask 'im to loan yer. Tell him that if he don't, he won't 'ave any lodgings come Monday and you won't 'ave any home. Is he in?'

‘Yes, I'm in,' said Mr Bates, putting in a cheerful and manly appearance. ‘Rent's rent, I grant yer. I'll be pleased to loan Mrs Wilson the needful, seeing she's 'ardly had the best of luck over the years.'

‘Mr Bates,' said Maggie, suffering embarrassment again, ‘I really – '

‘Let's settle this first, shall we?' said Mr Bates kindly. He took out his wallet, extracted a pound note and a ten-shilling note, and handed them to the collector.

‘Much obliged, but I'm due for another bob,' said the gaunt Mr Dawes.

‘Right.' Mr Bates produced a shilling, new and shiny. Mr Dawes took it, bit it and put it away.

‘Highly pleasin' transaction,' he said. He eyed Mr Bates shrewdly. Mr Bates smiled handsomely. ‘The gent's yer new lodger, Mrs Wilson?'

‘Yes,' said Maggie shortly, and Mr Dawes noted the faint rings around her eyes had departed, and that her hollows were not so obvious. He filled in her rent book and gave it back to her. ‘I'm happy for yer, Mrs Wilson,' he said, and departed.

Maggie closed the door. ‘Mr Bates, now you've put me more in your debt,' she said.

‘Well, that's how it seems, Mrs Wilson, and I can't say otherwise. Yes, that's how it seems. But it don't quite mean that, not to me. I see it as offering you a mite of 'elp, and enjoyin' the pleasure of 'aving you accept. You've got pride, that's a fact, and pride's something to like in a woman who's had your kind of ups and downs. I know you'll pay me back, because you're that kind of a woman, but like I've said before, just a bit at a time 'ow and when you can afford it will suit me fine.'

‘I don't like owin' you so much,' said Maggie. ‘It's six pounds, plus thirty-one shillings now, and the laundry cost too. You must take some of it now.' She opened her purse. Mr Bates shook his head.

‘Can't take it, Maggie, not yet I can't,' he said.

‘Mr Bates – '

‘Did I slip up there, callin' you Maggie? Apologies. Look, wait till you're more flush. It's a fact, yer know, that givin' and receivin' is sometimes right. I can't 'elp thinkin' life's still a bit hard on you, specially with four girls, so it's right in my book to make a friendly gesture now an' again. You can put a little bit aside each week, say a bob or two, till it's all there. Then I'll take it, out of respect for you. Right, then, 'ow about that cup of Camp?'

Maggie yielded, feeling she had been gently steamrollered again. But that did not affect her determination to put something aside every week in order to clear her debt.

At the South London tram depot, it did not take Chamberlain and Chapman long to find out which tram had carried Miss Morley from Camberwell Green to Manor Place. The superintendent required only the time the tram stopped at Manor Place to come up with the required information; a number eighteen, its conductor Albert Roach. A look at the duty roster provided the superintendent with his name.

Mr Roach was at home. He lived in Newington Butts with his family, and was on late duty again today. He received the CID men in his shirt, braces, trousers and slippers. A perky cockney in his forties, he was a typically chatty tram conductor. When informed of what had befallen Miss Morley, one of his passengers last night, he looked as if he wanted to spit.

‘Bleeder,' he said.

‘Do you remember her, do you remember her getting off at Manor Place?' asked Nicholas.

Mr Roach rolled spit around his tongue, swallowed it and did his best to be helpful. Yes, he remembered the young lady. And the man as well. They both got off together at Manor Place. Well, not exactly together. She got off first, and the man followed a couple of seconds later. She looked a nice young lady, the man looked fairly ordinary. Let's see, what was he wearing? Mr Roach said he wasn't an expert on men's or women's clobber. He thought the man wasn't wearing a coat, though.

A mackintosh, perhaps?

No, said Mr Roach, more like a jacket and jersey, like seamen wore. With a cap, yes, he could remember a cap, just an ordinary cap. The young lady went down Manor Place, the man went across the road to Browning Street, and then, said Mr Roach, the tram went on its way again. If he'd known what was to happen to the young lady, he'd have taken a lot more notice of things. But he didn't give her or the man any real thought at all, except as passengers getting off.

Was the man tall and well-built?

No, just average. Well, perhaps just a bit taller than average.

About what age?

Well, said Mr Roach, he couldn't say for sure, but thirty-odd, perhaps.

Could Mr Roach remember what stop the man asked for when he got on? And where he got on?

Camberwell Green was where he got on, and where the young lady got on too. The young lady asked for the Manor Place stop. The man asked for Browning Street. Both the same, actually, being opposite each other.

Could he identify the man if he saw him again?

Mr Roach wasn't sure he could.

Nicholas went through it all again with the tram conductor, but without getting any more out of him.

The Saturday evening papers issued details, and pointed out that the police were asking for the man on the tram to come forward to assist them with their enquiries. They were also asking for the assistance of any person who might have information that was relevant, particularly information from other passengers on the tram at the time.

Nicholas took a needed break from his headaches on Saturday evening.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was a rainy evening, but that did not discourage the suffragettes. Very little discouraged them. They were women who had the bit between their teeth, and their unrestrained charge towards emancipation had some parliamentarians shaking in their shoes.

The public hall in Chelsea was packed with a thousand of them. A number of supportive men were also present. It was a rallying evening for the Women's Social and Political Union, which was the brainchild of its formidable leader, Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, a woman of courage and intellectual brilliance. Diehard politicians, of course, thought all her talents and intentions added up to a great nuisance. For her part, Mrs Pankhurst thought all their heads needed cracking. Suffragettes carried brollies in the hope of getting near enough to those heads.

With Mrs Pankhurst on the platform this Saturday evening were a number of her ablest lieutenants, including her daughters Christabel and Sylvia. Christabel, as gifted as her mother, promised to be even more formidable. Cracking the heads of certain politicians was not enough for Christabel. She was in favour of knocking them off.

Emma Carter felt that in some moods, Christabel was more of a liability than an asset to the movement. If Mrs Pankhurst was militant, Christabel was ready to draw a sword or throw a bomb. Nevertheless, Emma was looking forward to the evening's rally. Rallies invigorated and exhilarated her and her sister suffragettes. Sparks flew and lightning flashed.

The men in the audience were firm supporters, although at open-air rallies they became the butt of other men and even of some women.

‘Been measured for yer petticoats yet, 'ave yer, Cecil?' That was a frequent sally.

Some newspaper reporters were also present, although the Pankhursts, not without justification, regarded the Press generally as being on the side of the enemy.

The gallery was as crowded as the floor. Seated up there near an exit door and overlooking the platform, was Nicholas Chamberlain, present as an unofficial observer. One knew what the suffragettes were up to, of course, but there was the chance that Mrs Emma Carter might be present. His view of the ladies on the platform was somewhat restricted by the largeness of their hats. His view of the suffragettes in the body of the hall was that of a thousand hats.

The speakers, in turn, addressed the rally from the rostrum. Nicholas grimaced at their warlike outlook, and more especially at the ferocious nature of Christabel Pankhurst, the tigress of the movement. Lloyd George thought her quite mad. Emma, listening with a frown, thought she was heading the WSPU into self-destruction.

Mrs Pankhurst, the last speaker, was herself fiery, but more logical and more believable. She brought the suffragettes and supportive men to their feet. Nicholas had never witnessed such fervent devotion. It was some minutes before the cheering suffragettes resumed their seats, at which point the chairwoman invited questions from the floor. A score of hands went up. The chairwoman singled them out. Questions were put, most of which, Nicholas thought, merely invited a repetition of statements and intentions that had already been mentioned in speeches from the platform. A young man was singled out. He asked his question. Wasn't it possible to storm the Houses of Parliament and occupy the Commons?

‘Would you be in the vanguard of our troops?' asked Mrs Pankhurst, who often used military terms.

‘I would,' declared the young man.

‘You'd be prepared to face arrest and a long term of imprisonment? Perhaps even the gallows?'

‘I would.'

‘How gratifying,' said Christabel, who plainly did not believe him.

‘Thank you for your question,' said Mrs Pankhurst. ‘It's the kind that does provide food for thought.'

The chairwoman surveyed the next uprising of hands. With a smile and a gesture, she invited a woman of quiet elegance to come to her feet. Nicholas discovered Emma, then, amid the mushrooming forest of hats. She was wearing a light grey raincoat and a dark grey hat.

‘Your name?' asked the chairwoman.

‘Carter, Mrs Emma Carter.' Emma then addressed Mrs Pankhurst. ‘Ma'am, thank you for the inspiration you always give us, but as I said in a letter I wrote to you last Sunday, I'm increasingly disturbed by the present policy of the union.'

‘Your name again, please?' enquired Mrs Pankhurst, fifty years old but still an exceedingly attractive woman.

‘Mrs Emma Carter.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Carter. I don't think your letter has been passed to me yet. Please put your question.'

Emma, looking quite calm, said, ‘I'm afraid it's a protest, ma'am, not a question. I beg to suggest accelerating militancy is self-destructive.' That struck a chord with Nicholas. He thought women could get what they wanted merely by a withdrawal of their labour. Only half the women in the country needed to absent themselves from offices, factories and hospital nursing duties for a single day to rock the very foundations of orderly government. Schoolteachers too, and shop assistants. A withdrawal of all they contributed to the family, to society and the country would shake Parliament, particularly if there was a threat of more. Nicholas wondered if Mrs Carter thought on those lines. She was saying, ‘Politicians are the enemy, not the people, and we're alienating many people. Militancy is doing us no good.'

‘Militancy is the only weapon that will defeat the politicians,' said Mrs Pankhurst. ‘Are you a member of the WSPU, Mrs Carter?'