The Night Calls (32 page)

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Authors: David Pirie

BOOK: The Night Calls
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I have no idea if Bell intended to interview the man, and I would not have relished the prospect, but in any case the place was locked and silent, with almost nothing to see other than a few timbers lying in the yard. Even so, the Doctor stopped for a long inspection, perhaps pondering how little evidence there was of honest trade in the place; certainly no boats.
After that, we chose one of the more savoury public houses where we were served beer by a pleasant landlord with a bald head who took us to be the usual gentlemen on some dubious excursion and laughed at almost everything we said. Though whether this was because he found us genuinely funny, or because he was hoping to keep us there as long as possible, I could not say.
In the midst of the conversation Bell was able to establish that the man had known Harriet Lowther and that the public house she frequented was the Lord Lovat. ‘So,’ said Bell to me quietly after the landlord had gone to serve another customer, ‘Harriet moves closer and closer to your den and to Hanbury.’
The Lord Lovat was less welcoming, and as we supped our brandy and water, I was aware of some of the other customers staring at us with suspicion. There was at that time I am sure a better prospect of a working man sneaking successfully into a dowager’s ball than of a gentleman going unnoticed in a dockside public house. No doubt in a story we would have donned some handy disguise, but in reality such a strategy would have been not only ineffectual but positively dangerous. What could possibly be the point of putting on ragged clothing and cloth caps when any publican worth his salt, and most of his clientele too, would see through the disguise at once? They would, moreover, certainly deduce you were a police spy and then mere indignity would be replaced by serious risk.
So Bell and I adopted the best method we could, which was to be friendly but also very subdued, and to make it clear who we were and why we were asking for advice. Bell approached the task with his usual skill, indicating that he was a doctor from Edinburgh with a great love of the capital who enjoyed collecting its stories and exploring its streets, after which he introduced me as his nephew. It was easily the best solution to our predicament, for we could not be caught out by questions, and soon we had struck up an acquaintance with the publican – who had a bushy beard and almost no teeth – and a tallow man, originally from Newcastle, who worked on the wharf.
After a decent interval, talking of all manner of things, Bell indicated that he had heard of the death of Harriet Lowther and not long afterwards we had our second real piece of luck of the day. The tallow man knew Harriet and had in fact seen her on the day she died. She had been in the pub in perfectly high spirits and, at first, alone. But later she had been in conversation with one of her customers, though he heard little of what they were saying except it seemed to concern money. ‘And ahm nae askin’ either,’ he said with a smile, allowing Bell to smile back with just the right knowing air. ‘He’s a boatyard along from here and nae a man to cross.’
Shortly after that, the Doctor obviously judged we had all we could possibly have hoped for and he changed the subject and talked happily of the man’s aches and pains and bruises, and of how he had inherited his red face from his mother, for fully half an hour, before we bade him a cheery farewell.
Outside I noticed the air was becoming colder again. Hanbury’s boatyard was still dark and uninhabited as we passed, and the Doctor only glanced at it. ‘We have what we came for, Doyle,’ he said, doing up his top button against the chill. ‘Our oak tree is grown and in just a day of work. When we return here I think it may well be with the police.’
He left me shortly afterwards, saying there were matters he wished to follow up, and I assumed he would have a talk with the police. Meanwhile I returned home quite pleased with these developments, little knowing that the main events of my day were only now about to begin.
The Morland family was still out, but as soon as I opened the door the little servant handed me a note. ‘It came at lunchtime, sir. A boy brought it. I had no idea where to find you.’
I thanked her and took the note to my bedroom, where I opened it. There were only a very few words in poor writing.
8 Cole Lane by Halloes Pier
Please cum fast Sirr for me to tel you what you must no I am so feard of the head Jen Galton
 
I stared at this. The handwriting was hard to decipher but the street name was clear enough, though a glance at a map the Morlands kept in their drawing room told me it was in one of the meanest of all the riverside areas, near London Bridge, where I had never before ventured. The number of the house looked like an 8 but might too have been a 6. Was this then where Jenny Galton had been hiding and waiting to contact me? Did she truly have the news I was so desperate to discover? And why did she mention the tale of the head?
Bell had made it clear he was not going to his hotel. I did not have the slightest inkling of where he would be now, and it might be hours before he returned. Already this message had lain here unread for half the day and how could I be sure whether Jenny Galton might not disappear again as rapidly as she had emerged? Already I could hear the Doctor’s rebuke, but there was no alternative. I must go alone.
I have already pointed out the impossibility of disguise in such places, but equally there was no sense in attracting attention. So I donned my oldest coat and ventured out. Soon I found a cab which took me east along the Strand and on into dreary Cannon Street. Past here the roads were dirty and strewn with refuse, while the buildings pressed in around us even more darkly than they did in Wych Street, an effect not helped by the fading light and rapidly increasing cold. I asked the cabman to drive down to All Hallows Pier by the South Eastern Railway bridge and soon found myself in the most miserable area of the city I had yet seen. Yes, Shad Thames and its streets were menacing at night and certainly a haunt of criminals, but they were also working places for the people of the docks. But here, even though it was on the north side and nearer to the heart of the city, you felt that even work and labour had been left behind. Across by a miserable pier, a fire had been lit under the hulk of a lighter boat and a few bedraggled people were crouched in the gathering darkness. Looking back to the streets heading north, I found they were dark, filthy and, because of the increasing cold, almost uncannily empty.
As I got out and the cab turned back the way it had come, I could see the entrance to Cole Lane, which was so narrow no hansom could possibly have traversed it. I forced myself to turn up it and moved along quickly, thankful for a gas lamp at the entrance of the street. But, as I walked, the light of the gas threw my shadow before me and I found I was hatefully reminded of my dream of Cream, striding down streets and lanes such as these.
Some of the buildings near the river were semi-derelict and, even further on, where they were more substantial, the road had no shops or alehouses, just a series of dark, forbidding rooming houses. Number eight was halfway along, a tall thin structure with peeling paint and, unusually in this street, an ancient knocker on the door. I rapped twice. After only a short time it opened and much to my amazement a middle-aged woman greeted me as if I were expected.
‘Now come in, sir,’ she said. ‘Come in out of the dark.’ She bobbed and smiled at me, but there was a tightness about her smile which I did not like. ‘And what do you wish, sir?’ She wrung her hands together as she spoke.
‘I am looking for Jenny,’ I said.
She smiled again. ‘Ah, and you are in time, for she has been waiting for a gentleman and was about to go home. We like to see gentlemen here,’ she said. ‘The more discerning find us out.’
I said nothing to this as she led me up a rickety ancient staircase that creaked on every step. At last we reached a door at the top of the house, and she called out, ‘A gentleman is here for you.’ Then she gave a little smile which was almost a leer and turned away.
I waited till she had descended, and opened the door.
The first thing I saw was a fire, which was burning quite brightly. There was no other light, but the rest of the room was clearly illuminated by the flames. It was not untidy, from what I could see. Opposite me was a bed, and sitting on it was a rather short woman with dark hair in a long nightgown, her eyes modestly cast down at the floor.
‘You are Jenny?’ I said.
‘I am any name, sir,’ she said, turning her head up to me. And to my horror I was looking at a child.
I felt such a conflict of emotions that I stood there immobile. There was horror, pity, some rage (for I supposed this was another of his tricks), but I also felt as if I bore all the shame of the men who had come here before me. Was it then so easy to be consumed with pleasure that you would happily corrupt a child? I thought of the woman’s smile as she led me up. What was it she had said. ‘The more discerning gentlemen find us out!’ Discerning!
All of this went through my mind as the girl still sat there simply, her hands on her knees, no longer staring at me and no doubt waiting for matters to proceed in the usual way.
I walked quickly into the room, taking care not to go near her, but staying by the fire and looking at her with as kindly an expression as I could muster. She was probably no more than ten. She had brown hair and a sweet face, though I could not really see her eyes and for the moment was glad of it.
‘So Jenny is not your name?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘They call me Hettie. But the gentlemen here knows what they will get.’
She had an accent I could not place, but even so she spoke well and must at some time have had some education. ‘Hettie,’ I said, ‘I do not wish to have anything from you. Can you read?’
She nodded. I brought out the note. ‘Have you seen this?’
She took it, somewhat puzzled, and glanced at it. ‘But,’ she said, ‘I believe there is a girl next door and she could have that name for I heard the mam say.’
It was only now that I remembered the illegibility of the street number. I had thought it an 8 but 6 was possible. The house next door was 6. Perhaps the writing had misled me. Or was the deception deliberate?
‘Hettie,’ I said, ‘I would like to help you. Do you live here?’
She shook her head.
‘Is the woman your mother?’
Again she shook her head, this time even more vehemently.
‘When do you next come here?’
‘Tomorrow, sir, at three.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I will wait a few moments and then I will tell the mam as you call her, that you have proved exactly what I required, and that I am returning tomorrow at three o’clock. If she asks, just say I was like the others. But tomorrow I will try and bring help to you. Would you like to get away from here? And not wait on men?’
Her little face was blank at first but then behind the mask I saw just a flicker of something as if she did not quite dare to believe I was telling the truth.
‘Am I not young, sir?’ she said doubtfully.
‘Hettie,’ I said, ‘you are very young, and you should not be here but with other children like yourself, doing what you would like.’ I do not know if she took this in, for she looked a little puzzled, but at least I could see she was happy enough not to have to endure my attentions. I leaned over and rumpled the bedclothes, for I could not afford to arouse the woman’s suspicion, and I gave her a coin and told her to hide it and keep it for herself, and finally I left her.
Almost as soon as I reached the hall downstairs a candle appeared and the woman was there smiling at me and demanding a considerable sum. I thought it better not to challenge this, indeed, it was fortunate that my weekly wage from Friday was still in my wallet or I could never have met the demand.
‘So our little Hettie was to your taste, was she, sir?’ she said, slightly smacking her lips and looking almost demonic in the flickering candlelight.
I never in my life felt more like hitting a woman than I did at that moment, but I controlled myself. ‘Perfect,’ I said, trying to keep my face in the shadows. ‘I wish to see her as soon as she is next here.’
‘Why, of course, sir. We will look forward to that. I take her now for we are shutting up shop, but she will return at three o’clock tomorrow. You can make a special appointment if you wish. I shall keep her free.’
‘I most certainly do,’ I said with force. And I longed to see this woman’s face when she opened the door at the appointed hour.
As soon as I was in the street, I moved along past a yard entrance to the next door which indeed bore the number six. There was less sign of habitation here, and not even a candle flickered in the window. Taking out my note to show it to whoever opened the door, I gave a loud knock – for there was no knocker – glad that a lane separated it from its neighbour. As I waited, I reflected that I still had no idea whether my encounter with Hettie was an accident. For was it not exactly the kind of joke
he
would have loved to perpetrate? Yet perhaps Bell was right and I was seeing his hand even where it had no place.
There was no answer to my knocking, so I tried the door and it opened just as I heard the door of the other house open and the sound of that hateful woman’s voice. I entered quickly and closed it behind me.

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