Take No Farewell - Retail (29 page)

‘Where have you been since?’ asked Imry when I had finished my account of the morning’s events.

‘The office, where none of them, as far as I could tell, believed my explanation that I’d hit my head on a rafter in the attic at home. I left early and went out to Holloway. Have you ever seen the prison? Castellated Gothic. As grey and forbidding as you could wish. I didn’t go in, if that’s what you’re wondering. It would have been one rejection too many. Instead, I went down to Brompton Cemetery and had a look at the boy’s grave.’

‘Then you came on here?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t have trusted myself with Angela. Not after the day I’ve had. We’ve had our differences – you know that – but I’ve never felt capable of hitting her before. It was frightening to sense how easy it would be.’

‘And pointless. Angela’s not the real problem, is she?’

‘No. But the real problem’s insoluble.’

‘You’ve done all you can. You’re going to have to learn to accept that.’

‘How can I? Consuela goes on trial in six weeks’ time. If she’s found guilty, you know what it means?’

‘Yes, Geoff, I know. But there’s nothing you can do to alter the outcome. You’re paying Curtis-Bennett’s fee. Isn’t that enough?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Listen to me. Go home and make your peace with Angela.
Forget
this madman, Rodrigo. And put Consuela’s trial out of your mind as far as you possibly can.’

‘It’s good advice.’

‘But will you act on it?’

‘No.’ I smiled. ‘Almost certainly not.’

Chapter Ten

IRONY WEARS MANY
faces. One of them, that drear month of December, was the extent to which I followed Imry’s advice almost in spite of myself. Angela and I were not reconciled, but a grudging truce nonetheless arose between us. I heard nothing from or of Rodrigo, and Consuela’s trial, looming ever closer, constituted an event I could neither prevent nor influence. If I was, as my conscience suggested, in some way responsible for what had happened, fate, it appeared, had decreed I should atone for it by a creeping awareness of my utter helplessness.

The weather was grey, chill and persistently wet, the days smog-choked and depressingly short. As if this and my knowledge of what the New Year held were not enough, there was also the hollow good cheer of Christmas to add its leaden weight to my spirits. We were to spend the holiday with Angela’s family in Surrey, an event I looked forward to with dread. Meanwhile, the shop-windows of London were bright with tinsel and fairy-lights, Doris had festooned the office with paper-chains and the eager anticipation of festivity seemed to occupy everybody’s thoughts.

The last Friday before Christmas was also the shortest day of the year. Sleet had fallen from a louring sky all afternoon. Every light in the office had burned since mid-morning. All had seemed bleak and wearisome. And then had come one small portent of the events that were to break inertia’s hold upon me.

‘’Ere, Mr Staddon,’ Kevin said, pausing in my office during his delivery of the second post, ‘you seen that advert in the
Sketch
?’

‘You know full well I don’t take the
Sketch
, Kevin.’

‘You should do, though. Then you’d not miss things like this, would you?’ He plucked the folded newspaper from beneath his arm and dropped it onto my desk. It was open at the classified advertisements page and all I could see, as I cast my eyes across it, was an undistinguished mass of domestic vacancies and inducements to purchase seasonal gifts by post.

‘I haven’t time for guessing games.’

‘No need to take on like that, Mr Staddon. Look, there.’ He prodded at the paper with a nicotine-stained forefinger.

‘I really don’t—’ Then I saw it, in larger print than most entries, headed in bold capitals CASWELL.
Any persons having information bearing on the forthcoming trial of Mrs Consuela Caswell of Clouds Frome, Mordiford, Herefordshire, are invited to make themselves known by replying to Box 361 as soon as possible. Valuable information will attract a substantial cash reward. All replies will be dealt with in strictest confidence. The box-holder is a private citizen
.

‘What d’you make o’ that, then?’

‘What should I make of it?’

‘Funny, ain’t it? Who’s the party who placed it, d’you reckon?’

‘I’ve really no idea. The lady’s solicitor, perhaps.’

‘No. It says so. “A private citizen.” Sets you thinkin’, dunnit?’

‘Frankly, no. Now, would you mind returning to work?’

Kevin was right, of course. The advertisement did set me thinking, but to no significant purpose. Windrush could not have placed it, for the simple reason that he had no need to: all the witnesses in the case were known to him. Yet so they were to anyone who cared to enquire. Who the anonymous
box-holder
hoped to attract was therefore a mystery, one I was still puzzling over when I left the office, an hour or so after the rest of the staff had gone.

The sleet had ceased to fall, but the slush left on the pavements was hardening fast as a cold, windless night closed in. I walked fast, but only to keep warm. I was in no hurry to arrive home.

There was a news-stand at the corner of Old Jewry and Poultry. I seldom used it. But, on this occasion, I stopped and bought both the
Evening News
and the
Standard
. I crossed the road and stood by one of Mappin and Webb’s brightly lit windows to read them. The advertisement appeared in both. CASWELL.
Any persons having information
… It was baffling.

I was still staring at the advertisement a few seconds later, trying and failing to deduce its purpose, when I felt a hand on my elbow.

‘Mr Staddon?’ The voice was hoarse and low-pitched. Its owner was standing so close to me that I was surprised I had not noticed him approach. He was nearly a foot shorter than me, but powerfully built – a squat little pocket-battleship of a man, with a head seemingly too large for his body. He wore mud-caked boots, overalls, jacket and muffler, with a woollen hat jammed on a mass of curly hair. Cement dust – or some similar substance – had imparted a uniform greyness to his clothes and skin and I took him at once for a labourer, though I did not recognize him from any of the sites I had recently visited.

‘What can I do for you?’ I said cautiously.

‘You are Mr Geoffrey Staddon, the architect, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t know who I am?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Well, it’s been a long time. And life’s not been easy. So, you don’t surprise me.’ He looked up and down the street, then back at me, with a crumpled, less than reassuring smile fixed to his face. ‘Could we talk somewhere a bit warmer?’

‘Talk about what?’

‘Old times. Present times. The one and the other.’

‘I really don’t know what you mean.’

‘You will, soon enough.’

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t. But I expect you’ll remember it better than my face. Malahide. Tom Malahide.’

Then I recognized him. He was the carpenter from Clouds Frome who had been implicated in the robbery at Peto’s Paper Mill. Insofar as I had known him at all, it had been as a cheery and reliable worker. Twelve years and a prison sentence on, he looked old and weary, all the confidence – and much of the pretence – sucked out of him along the way.

‘Surprised to see me, Mr Staddon?’

‘Yes. I suppose I am.’

‘And probably wondering what I want. Well, I’ll not beat about the bush. It concerns this trial coming up. The trial of Victor Caswell’s wife. Interested? Yes, I can see you are. So, what about that chat?’

The noise and smoke of one of Cannon Street’s least salubrious alehouses seemed to supply all the privacy Malahide required. He let me buy him a stout and whisky chaser, then settled himself at a table near the fire, rolled and lit a cigarette, cocked his head and grinned at me.

‘I’ve had to make do with whatever work I’ve been offered since leaving the nick, Mr Staddon. None of that carpentry a man could be proud of, like you put my way at Clouds Frome.’

‘How long have you been out?’

‘Nearly three years. Three hard years, breaking my back for a pittance or else … Well, you don’t want to know my troubles, do you?’

‘I’m not sure I want to know anything about you, Malahide. Have you any idea the difficulties your little escapade caused me?’

‘Some.’ He looked straight at me, quite unabashed. ‘But I couldn’t turn up a chance like that. Life doesn’t drop many riper plums in a man’s lap than the little scheme we had going.’

‘Your little scheme landed you in prison, though, didn’t it?’

‘True enough. But that was all greed and bad luck – or maybe something worse.’

‘What could be worse?’

‘Snitching on your mates, for one thing. And for another …’ He stared into his stout for a moment. ‘I’m the only one left, you know, the only one of the three still drawing his ration of London smog.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘Don’t you know? They hanged Pete Thaxter for killing a warder. Didn’t that warrant a line in your morning paper, Mr Staddon? I should’ve thought it would. The nobs like reading about a good hanging, I’m told. It makes them think the rabble are being held in check.’

Another hanging. Peter Thaxter, like his sister, like—‘When was he hanged?’ I snapped, suddenly desperate to restrain my thoughts.

‘When? Twelve years ago, that’s when. His sister – lady’s maid at Clouds Frome – topped herself while Pete was in Gloucester Gaol with me, waiting on the Assize. Nobody knew why she did it, seemingly, and that turned Pete’s mind, cooped up with nothing else to think about – that and something we’ll come to by and by. He took it out on a warder, just with his fists, but he killed him for all that. A strong lad, our Pete. So, they hanged him. And maybe it was best they did. He wasn’t the kind to do his stir quietly. I liked him. And he trusted me. I suppose you could say I led him astray. That’s how a lot of people would see it, anyway.’

‘Is it how you see it?’

‘Reckon it is. But guilt slides off me like rain from a roof, so I lose no sleep about it. I’ve always preferred a dishonest cake to an honest crust and I’ll not pretend otherwise.’

‘Was the robbery your idea in the first place?’

‘No, no, Mr Staddon, you’ve read me wrong there. Too much brain-work for a fellow like me. It was Joe Burridge’s scheme, from top to toe.’

‘Burridge was the engraver from Birmingham?’

‘He was. As fine a scratcher as you could wish to find. He’d spied out Peto’s Mill and realized a ready supply of Bank of England bill paper could be his if he set about it right. Well, he knew me from way back as the man to handle it. Once I saw what was at stake, I don’t mind admitting I fair drooled at the thought of it. Perfect forgeries, Mr Staddon, undetectable even to the expert. That was the beauty of it. Burridge could mimic the ink and the design of bank-notes better than any forger alive. What he needed was the paper to mimic them on, complete with the genuine water-mark. My job was to go down to the area, find a good reason to stay there, then get to know the workers at the mill – drink with them, listen to their gripes – till I’d spotted one right for our little enterprise.’

‘So working at Clouds Frome was just … camouflage?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘And Peter Thaxter was the one you … spotted?’

‘He was. He worked on the plate-making machines, which suited our purpose just fine, and he had ideas above his station, which suited them even better. He and a pal had a dream of opening a roller-skating rink in Hereford. What they didn’t have was two pennies to rub together. Well, it didn’t take young Pete long to realize our scheme was his only chance of raising the capital. And he had some grudges against Grenville Peto to work off. So I didn’t have to strain myself to persuade him.’ He sighed, as if the recollection saddened him. ‘It all went so well to start with. Pete took out finished sheets as often as he could. Nobody noticed because it was only ever a few at a time. He handed them over to me and I took them up to Brum. Joe could print twelve notes from every one. If he made them fifty quid notes, that was six hundred a sheet. Even if he made them just tens, that
was
still more than a hundred. And Pete was taking up to twenty sheets a week. In six months, we had enough stock to split a fortune between us.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Peto’s brought forward their stock-taking by three months. Whether they were suspicious or not I don’t know, but, if they’d stuck to their usual date, we’d have been in the clear. As it was, as soon as they realized there was something wrong, they kept a careful watch and rumbled young Pete. The police followed him to me, then they followed me to Joe. And then they picked the three of us up, red-handed.’

‘Was all the paper recovered?’

He smiled and tapped his nose. ‘I’ve told you enough, Mr Staddon, quite enough for you to understand how I came by the … merchandise, shall we call it?’

‘What merchandise?’

‘Well, fill my glass and I’ll tell you. Reminiscing’s thirsty work.’

‘Malahide—’

He held up his hand. ‘If you don’t listen to me now, you’ll wish you had later.’

Reluctantly, I went to the bar. When I returned, his grin had broadened. Clearly, he was enjoying himself. He took a deep draught of the stout and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then rolled and lit another cigarette, staring and smirking at me as he did so.

‘They gave Joe Burridge a twenty-five stretch, Mr Staddon. Too long for an old ’un like him. He croaked the year before I came out. I went down for twelve, reduced for good behaviour. They never had any trouble with me. Not like Pete Thaxter. But who could blame him? His sister stringing herself up while he fretted and fumed in prison. More than flesh and blood could stand, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘I was with Pete in Gloucester Nick when they told him his sister was dead. It fair broke him up, I can tell you. What really got to him was the thought that if he’d not been
behind
bars, he could’ve stopped her. But, then, if he’d not been behind bars, she’d not have wanted to do it in the first place, would she?’