When the Devil Drives (17 page)

‘I told you, I was out of town.'

‘In which case, they'd have informed the jury of the facts and adjourned the inquest until you attended and until the coroner's officer had a chance to go to Essex and find this client of yours.'

‘But he wouldn't have found him.'

‘The point I'm making is that even in these peculiar circumstances, adjourning the inquest abruptly like that was most irregular. The first point of any inquest is establishing the identity of the deceased. At the very least, the jury should have been told what steps were being taken to do that. They weren't. In my experience, that's unique.'

‘So what do you conclude from that?'

‘That there's something very strange going on, and you probably know more about it than I do.'

I opened my mouth to deny it, then closed it again. I'm sure Jimmy noticed, but he was too much of a philosopher to provoke an unnecessary quarrel.

‘Your friend Huckerby was asking me about it too,' he said. ‘He came and found me last night.'

For some reason, this worried me. I hadn't even known that Tom and Jimmy Cuffs were acquainted, but the tribe of journalists is wide. The puzzle was that Tom took very little interest in crime, only politics. As we came near the turning to the alleyway that led to the Cheshire Cheese, Jimmy Cuffs simply asked me to tell him what I could when I could. I promised. As he turned to go, I had a last question for him.

‘That other inquest, the one on Miss Priest at the Monument, there was a mention of an unusual ring she was wearing. Did you happen to get a more particular description of the ring?'

He turned back. ‘No. Does it matter?'

‘Probably not, but if you do happen to hear, would you let me know?'

He nodded, raised his hat and turned into the alleyway.

TEN

O
n Saturday morning, at least I had an answer to Tabby's question of what we did now.

‘We're going to City Road,' I said.

‘The Monument girl?'

‘Yes.'

Janet Priest had possessed an address, an occupation, a sister. At least, I hoped so. If not, then we were even deeper in the quicksands. We decided to take the omnibus from Piccadilly and walked by way of Grosvenor Square. I knocked at the contessa's door. A manservant in her sky blue livery answered it and said the contessa and her maid were out. He didn't know when they'd be back and promised to tell the contessa that I'd called. On our way down Piccadilly I remembered that I had an appointment with Madame Leman for a final fitting of the green velvet dress. I might not have bothered with anything so frivolous (although I did feel a pang at the thought of not seeing the dress again) but she might have heard gossip about the contessa. I told Tabby to wait for me outside and climbed the carpeted stairs to her fitting room.

Madame announced that she was enchanted to see me, altogether ravished with the effect of the soft green on my complexion. While she made minute adjustments to the ruching on the bosom and her seamstresses fussed around the hem with pins, she asked if I'd seen the dear contessa recently. The question seemed casual, but her fingers hesitated while she waited for my answer.

‘I saw her on Tuesday,' I said. ‘You know she hurt her leg?'

She nodded. It was her business to hear everything. ‘She is recovering well, I hope. Is she planning to go home to recuperate?'

‘Not as far as I know,' I said.

Implied questions there from Madame. Where was home for the contessa? Was there a family that might meet her bills? Madame told me that my gown would be ready that afternoon. The cost, though astronomical by my standards, would be only a small fraction of the account facing Mr Clyde if he settled the contessa's debt too.

Tabby and I caught the omnibus and got down at the western end of City Road. It's a long road, becoming poorer and shabbier as you head eastwards out of London, with terraces of narrow but respectable homes giving way to run-down lodging houses. The stationer's shop with the name Nathaniel Priest on the window in faded gilt letters was about a third of the way along, still clinging to respectability. Inside the window, a slanting shelf held sample pages of merchants' ledgers, school copy books, penholders and a variety of nibs, brown paper and red sealing wax. Everything looked tidy and freshly dusted, but there was a defeated air about it as if the shop had few customers at any time. On this Saturday morning it had none. Inside, a plump young woman in a black dress stood with her back to the counter, arranging something on a shelf. A bell on a spring twanged above the door as we walked in.

The girl turned round. Her face was pale and her eyes red. The narrow counter was bare apart from a small pile of pasteboard rectangles, like calling cards. The top one carried a religious text and a watercolour violet, inexpertly done. On the way there, I'd thought about what to say and decided to keep as close as I could to the truth. I wished her good morning and asked if we were talking to Janet Priest's sister. She nodded, tears filming her eyes.

‘I am very sorry to intrude on you,' I said, ‘only I know of another young lady who was found dead in circumstances something like your sister's. We're trying to find out what happened to her and it might help if you'd be kind enough to tell us something about Janet.'

‘This other lady, was she pushed off the Monument too?'

The elder Miss Priest's voice was a harsh whisper. Her hands twisted together against her chest, fingernails bitten to the quick.

‘No. Her throat was cut. But you said Janet was pushed?'

‘Of course she was pushed. She'd never have destroyed herself. She knew she'd go to hell if she did.' Her eyes went from me to Tabby and back again, with a look of desperate challenge.

‘You sister was a religious person?'

‘She believed in the Holy Bible, like we all should. We'd talk about it some nights lying awake in our beds, especially Sunday nights if there'd been a powerful preacher, about what it would be like to be burning in hell and never get out of it. A few times, she scared herself so much she couldn't sleep, then we'd get out of bed and pray together on our bare knees, then I'd tuck her up in bed, tell her she was a good girl so she wouldn't go to hell and hold her hand till her eyes closed.'

It sounded a desperately sad memory to me, but as she talked about it the challenging look in Miss Priest's eyes had changed to tenderness.

‘Did you say any of this at the inquest?' I said.

Her eyes dropped. ‘I wanted to. I thought they'd ask me “Did your sister kill herself?” Then I'd have told them what I've just told you. But they never asked. It was just insulting things like did she have any gentleman followers. I was in a daze all the time, from when I saw her poor body. I couldn't believe it was happening. Afterwards I wished I'd told them, whether they'd asked or not. I asked a legal gentleman who comes in here sometimes whether I could go back and tell them, but he said once the inquest verdict was in, that was that. It's not right.'

The words came pouring out. Grief makes some people silent and others talkative. It seemed to be a relief to her to talk even to strangers, or perhaps especially to strangers.

‘Did you ever find out what happened to your sister in that week when she was missing?' I asked her.

‘Somebody was keeping her prisoner against her will.' She said it with total certainty.

‘How do you know that?'

‘Because otherwise she'd never have stayed away from us, worrying us like that. If she went out for a half pound of butter she'd always say where she was going. She knew how it bothered Father if he didn't know where we were.'

‘But you have no other reason for believing she was being kept prisoner?'

‘I don't need another reason. I know her. Knew her.'

She turned away and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Tabby looked at me and opened her mouth. I signalled to her to be quiet and we waited until Miss Priest turned back towards us.

‘Have you any idea who might have kept her prisoner?' I asked.

She shook her head. I spoke as tactfully as I could, knowing that we were on dangerous ground. ‘I know your sister had no gentleman followers and from what you tell me, I'm sure she wouldn't have encouraged anybody without your knowing.' (I was sure of nothing of the kind.) ‘But sometimes a man will become attached to a woman, even if she gives him no encouragement at all. Were there any men who showed interest in your sister?'

‘No.'

She said it as if the idea were an insult to her memory. I persisted gently. ‘I believe she helped in the shop, as you do.'

‘We have to. Father can't stand behind the counter because of his legs.'

‘Were there any customers who seemed to take a particular interest in her, perhaps find reasons for talking to her?'

‘Janet wasn't a great one for talking. She was always polite to customers, of course, but if talking was needed, she left it to me.'

As in the case of Dora Tilbury, it struck me that Janet Priest's existence had been simple to the point of unreality. But Janet had been real. She'd stood behind that counter, stacked reams of paper and canisters of ink powder on the shelves, breathed this air with its faint scents of ink and brown paper.

‘I suppose most of your customers are well known to you?'

‘Oh yes. The same year in, year out.'

‘So if you had anybody new in the shop, you'd notice them?'

‘Yes.'

‘Was there anybody new in the weeks before your sister disappeared?'

Nobody had asked her that question before. She had to think about it, and the reply came slowly.

‘The Brett brothers who do roofing had a new chief clerk in September. He came in to introduce himself and query an invoice for letterheads. It turned out we were right. He was quite civil about it.'

‘A young man?'

‘No, quite elderly. Then there's been a couple of new messenger boys since the summer, from firms we've dealt with a long time. I had to tell one of them not to whistle and stand with his hands in his pockets in the shop, apart from that there's no harm in them.'

‘And that's all?'

‘I think so. Oh, there was the foreign gentleman, back at the end of September.'

‘What sort of foreign?'

‘I don't know. I don't think he was French. German perhaps or Prussian.'

‘Did he speak in a foreign language?'

‘No, he spoke good English, only with an accent.'

‘What did he buy?'

‘A dozen pen nibs. He was quite fussy, trying them out. When he found some that suited him he said he'd send his servant in for a parcel of them, but he only bought the dozen then and there because that was all he could carry in his pocket without making a bulge.'

‘Did your sister speak to him?'

‘No more than a word or two. She was mostly fetching nibs and mixing ink.'

‘And did the servant come back for more?'

‘No.'

‘A foreign gentleman, you say. Do you see many of those in the shop?'

‘None hardly, apart from him.'

The bell twanged. A travelling salesman came in and tried to get her to take an interest in his samples of blotting paper. She told him they were well suited for blotting paper and sent him on his way.

‘What happened the day your sister disappeared?' I said. ‘Did she tell you where she was going?'

‘She didn't have a chance. I was upstairs, giving Father his tea, as I always do at six o'clock.'

‘And your sister?'

‘Down here in the shop. We don't get much trade at that time of day, but we stay open till seven to oblige customers who work late. I gave Father his tea, came down as usual, and Janet was gone.'

‘Had you heard any noise or any talking downstairs?'

‘None. I thought at first she'd gone out in the street for some reason, only it wasn't like her to leave the door open and money in the drawer when anybody could have walked in. There was no sign of her, so I started asking up and down the street. No sign of her.'

‘Had anybody seen a vehicle stop outside your shop?'

‘Not outside the shop, no. One of our customers thought he saw a plain carriage with two horses and a coachman on the box further down the street, but that's nothing out of the way.'

‘Did you go to the police?'

‘Yes, straightaway. They were no use, though. They thought she'd just taken herself off. They wouldn't believe me that she wasn't like that. I went to all the police stations, tramped round the hospitals. Nothing. Until . . .' Her voice trailed away. She scooped up two of the pasteboard rectangles and thrust them at Tabby and me. ‘She did those herself.'

Mine said ‘A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches'. Tabby glanced at me as if asking what to do with hers.

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘Just one more thing, if you don't mind my asking. Had you ever seen before that ring that was on your sister's finger?'

‘It was evil, evil.' The words came out more passionately than anything she'd said so far. ‘How could they do it to her – a dirty animal's head on the finger where a woman wears her marriage ring. Wasn't it enough killing her without shaming her like that?'

Then she clapped her hand over her mouth and glanced upstairs, probably for fear of disturbing her father. I waited for a while but it seemed that she had nothing else to say. I gave her one of the cards I'd had printed with my name and address.

‘If we find out anything about how my friend died, and if it relates in any way to your sister, I promise to come back and tell you,' I said.