A Broken Vessel (13 page)

“An enquiry has to begin somewhere.”

“This one is going to end where it began, if you can’t show me any better proof than this. I don’t mean to be harsh with you, young man, but you know as well as I do how justice in this country works. Without some direct evidence of foul play, the authorities aren’t going to interest themselves in this affair. Bow Street won’t act because there’s no money in it, and higher officials know there’s nothing but trouble to be gained by meddling with Harcourt. The man has powerful patrons: evangelical clergymen, lawyers, merchants like myself. Or rather, he has their wives’ support, which comes to the same thing. He’s a great one for making up to the women, is Harcourt. Nothing improper, you understand—just flattery and wheedling and silver-tongued speeches. Why do you think he’s gone into the business of reforming prostitutes? It gets the women behind him. There isn’t a respectable female in London who doesn’t loathe those creatures who come between her and her husband or sweetheart. Though Harcourt’s cause has broader appeal—we’ve all got a sneaking interest in that particular vice, whether we admit it or not. Lately, he’s even made inroads into the Quality. He’s got some titled patrons—Lord Carbury, for one.”

“Lord Carbury?” said Julian quickly.

“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?—Carbury being such a wild fellow when he was young. But Harcourt makes some surprising converts. He approached me, you know. I do a little in the charity way.”

“Rather more than a little, I’ve heard.”

“That’s as may be. The fact is, I didn’t like him, and nor did Mrs. Digby. To be more precise, I didn’t trust him. I thought he was driven by ambition—you could smell it on him, like a whiff of brimstone round the devil. I said to Mrs. Digby, there’s a man who’d stick at nothing to advance his own interest. I expect he’s in high feather about bringing Carbury up to scratch. He’s a great tuft-hunter, is Harcourt, for all his seeming other-worldliness.”

“No doubt you’re right. But to me, the most remarkable thing about Lord Carbury’s being Harcourt’s patron is that he’s Charles Avondale’s father.”

“Charles Avondale? What’s he got to do with this?”

“I think it’s time I told you how I got interested in the Reclamation Society, and Mary’s death.”

He recounted how Sally had stolen the letter, and how they had traced it back to Mary. He pointed out the strangeness of Mary’s committing suicide so soon after writing it, without even waiting for an answer. Finally, he handed the letter to Digby, who read it, then sat back, shaking his head.

“You’ve certainly saved your best card for last. This is very disturbing—very. But I don’t think, frankly, it would move Bow Street to take any action. In fact, if Charles Avondale is mixed up in this business, it’s all the more likely to be hushed up. I’m not without influence in government myself, but even I know better than to take on the Carbury interest.”

“What if I could find concrete proof that Mary didn’t commit suicide—that she was murdered?”

“Well, that would put a different complexion on things. There is some justice in this land. Even Harcourt and his patrons couldn’t choke off an enquiry, if there were a sound basis for thinking somebody’d killed the girl. I for one wouldn’t let the matter rest till justice was done. But how are you proposing to get this proof you talk about? Harcourt won’t cooperate with you. As much as he wanted to find out about Mary while she was alive, he’ll be equally anxious to squelch any enquiries about her now she’s dead. God forbid anybody should identify her now, and bring her relatives down on him, holding him responsible for her death!”

“We had a devil of a time identifying the victim of the Bellegarde murder, and finding out who killed her, but we did in the end.”

“
You
did, you mean. And you think you can do it again?”

“I should like to try.”

“And I should like to help you. I’ll tell you what: how will it be if I pay the expenses of your investigation?”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“Now, don’t turn squeamish. I have more money than I know what to do with, and laid up as I am, there’s nothing else I can do to help clear up this mystery. You, on the other hand, if you’re like most young bucks, probably have a dashed sight more time than money. So let me have my way. Think of it as an investment in law and order.”

“When you put it that way, sir, I can’t refuse. Thank you.” Julian had to admit that the money would come in handy. He was never very flush, and sometimes walked a thin line between merely being in debt and being in Queer Street.

He asked, “Would you be willing to keep Mary’s letter and this enquiry confidential for now? If the coroner’s jury was right, and I have windmills in my head, it won’t have served any purpose to kick up a dust. And if I’m right, and there’s been a crime committed, I should rather not put Harcourt or anyone else on his guard. My best weapon is that no one knows I have Mary’s letter. The man it came from may have guessed Sally stole it, but he doesn’t know if she kept it, or read it, or cares a twopenny damn about it. He surely won’t be expecting anyone to track him down on account of it—which is what I intend to do.”

“The fact that he had the letter doesn’t mean he had anything to do with Mary’s death.”

“No. But I feel sure he’s important. At the very least, if he’s the person she wrote to, he should be able tell us who she was. Those three men interest me immensely, Mr. Digby. I’ve put a name to one of them. Before I’m finished, I mean to identify the others.”

“Why not just ask Charles Avondale point-blank if he knows anything about the letter?”

“Suppose he says he doesn’t? Since we don’t know for a fact that the letter came from him, and we don’t know who the other two men are, how can we know if he’s telling the truth? I can’t but be suspicious of him, especially since you told me about his father’s connexion with Harcourt. Still, Harcourt has so many patrons, that could be merely a coincidence. I know Avondale slightly, and he and I have mutual friends. I should rather begin by making discreet enquiries about him, and meanwhile have a try at tracing the other two men. Confronting Avondale directly is a card I can always play. But once I’ve alerted him to my suspicions, I’ll never again have the chance to catch him off his guard, as I can now.”

“Well, I’ll keep my own counsel about what you’re doing for the time being. Lord knows, you’ll need every advantage you can get. You seem to have precious little information about those other two men.”

“Practically none,” said Julian, smiling. “Interesting problem, isn’t it?”

Julian came home to find Sally in a fit of temper. Mrs. Mabbitt had hauled her off to the second-hand clothes market in Monmouth Street and made her buy herself some clothes that were fit for decent company. Now she was wearing a plain, dark green merino gown, with a white collar and cuffs. A demure poke bonnet, trimmed with one green bow, projected its broad brim around her face, half-shielding it coyly from view.

“Just look at me!” she stormed. “Nobody at the Cockerel’d even speak to me if they seen me now. They’d take me for an old trout of a parson’s wife!”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of that,” said Julian.

“This is a fine rig-out for a game gal! What’ll I do with it when I goes back on the grind? Wear it to prayer meetings?”

Dipper, who was just taking Julian’s hat, gloves, and stick, shot her a troubled glance. The devil, Julian thought—we still haven’t solved the problem of what to do with her. She seems to think she’ll simply go back to her old life after her visit here. And I’m damned if I know what to offer her instead, or how to stop her.

He told them about his visit to Digby, and his resolve to get to the bottom of what had happened to Mary. They were eager to help. The first step, said Julian, was for Sally to tell him and Dipper everything she could recall about the three men from whom she might have stolen the letter.

The weather had turned raw and rainy. Dipper mixed some hot punch, and they gathered around the parlour fire like conspirators. Sally racked her brains to remember all she could about Bristles, Blue Eyes, and Blinkers. For the first time, she described in detail what Blinkers had done to her, and she hardly knew if Dip or Mr. Kestrel was angrier. She felt a glow of pleasure, knowing she had two men ready to spring to her defence. She hoped they really would find Blinkers—they would twist him into inches, she felt sure.

When she had finished, Julian sat back, considering. Dipper and Sally gazed at him, like an audience waiting for a conjuring trick.

“Avondale is the least of our worries,” he said at length. “I can gather information about him easily enough. Bristles is another matter. What do we know about him? He’s middle-aged, timid, and respectable, he’s unaccustomed to the sort of entertainment you offered him, he seemed blue-deviled, and he admitted he kept a shop. Have you any idea what kind of shop it was?”

Sally propped her chin on her fists. “I’ll take me oath he didn’t work with his hands, like a blacksmith or a carpenter. He didn’t smell of scent, nor ’bacca, nor grub. He didn’t have ink on his forks, like Blinkers.” She shook her head. “It’s no good. I can tell you what he wasn’t, but not what he was.”

“Well it’s a beginning. It may be an ending, too, for the present. I’m dashed if I know how to get any closer to him.”

There was a pause. They surveyed the three handkerchiefs lying in a row on a table, Avondale’s blazoned with his initials, the other two maddeningly nondescript.

“Sally met Blinkers at the Cockerel, sir,” said Dipper. “If it’s a crib he goes to reg’lar, they might know about him there.”

“That’s a good thought. I’ll leave that to you—the people at the Cockerel will talk to you much more readily. What else do we know about Blinkers—other than the fact that he’s an infernal scoundrel? He’s young and thin, wears spectacles, dresses like a clerk, and has ink on his fingers. And we know one thing more: he has a broken umbrella.” He turned to Sally. “How badly damaged would you say it was? I do realize you weren’t in any condition to notice.”

“Let me have a think. I nobbed him with it once, then he got it away from me. The oil-cloth tore, and a couple of the ribs broke, too, I heard ’em.”

“Was it a good umbrella, do you think? Would it have been worth repairing?”

“I s’pose so. It was one of them big stout ones, as coves carries more to keep off thieves than the rain. It had a fine handle, too— carved like a ram’s head.”

“What would you wager he took it somewhere to be repaired? If we’re really lucky, he asked to have it delivered, and the umbrella mender might be able to tell us the address.”

“But there’s heaps of umbrella menders in London,” Sally objected.

“Well, we’re not in a hurry.” Julian got up and walked about purposefully. “We’ll have an advertisement printed up, offering a reward for information leading to the recovery of a black umbrella, of such-and-such a size, with a ram’s head handle, damaged in such-and-such a manner this past Monday night. Replies to be sent to the post office, to be left till called for. The reward to be say—ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds?” exclaimed Sally. “They’ll think you’re off your head!”

“Or inordinately fond of umbrellas. Never mind—it will ensure we’re taken seriously. We’ll send the advertisement to as many makers and menders of umbrellas as we can think of. I expect Stultz or one of my other tailors could help us put together a list. God knows if it will be any use. To begin with, Blinkers may not live in London. For all we know, he got on a coach to Yorkshire directly he left you at the Cockerel. In fact, it might not be amiss to enquire after him at the major coaching inns—and Bristles, too, while we’re about it. If either of them had anything to do with Mary’s death, he may have found it prudent to put a distance between himself and London.”

“Of course,” he added, “even if we find the right umbrella mender, he may not remember this particular umbrella. After all, it’s been four days—time enough for it to have been mended and returned to the owner. Still, we’ve nothing to lose but time, and a little of Mr. Digby’s money. It’s worth a try. I’ll draw up the advertisement tonight, and you can take it to the printer’s first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dipper.

Julian considered. “The other way to attack this problem is to find out more about Harcourt and the Reclamation Society. I can do that by talking to his patrons, and perhaps to some of those adoring women who follow him about. Though I’ll lay you odds, if anyone knows what really happened to Mary, it’s the inmates at the refuge. And no one can get at them, shut up as they are.”