Theirs Was The Kingdom (73 page)

“No, sir, I think not,” the young man said, urbanely, “but if you’re not a relative you must be press. It occurred to me we might work together tracing her. My name’s Burbage. From Lloyd’s,” and he produced a card establishing him as T. H. Burbage, accredited representative of
Lloyd’s News
, presenting it in such an engaging manner that Adam found himself admiring both his nerve and professionalism.

He used the card as a means of extricating himself from what came close to being a trap, one that a man of his experience should have anticipated, although it had never occurred to him that Deborah’s lodgings would be picketed by the press. He said, carefully, “I’m not a newspaper man, Mr. Burbage. But I do have a message for Miss Avery, an important one from her solicitor,” and enjoyed the glint in Mr. Burbage’s eye.

Unexpectedly the door opened and Deborah’s landlady appeared, but only for time enough to dart a single exasperated glance at Adam and shout, “One more knock and it’s the police! There’s a limit you know!” whereupon the door slammed shut and Mr. Burbage, with his infectious grin, said, “Quite hopeless, you see? I told my editor earlier on but he said don’t give up. It’s our only lead, you see, for she’s almost certainly hiding Lily. Look here, sir, suppose we have a drink and lay out a plan? Not that I think Miss Avery is inside, but I’ve a suspicion the old girl knows far more than she admits. Vetch, of the
St. James’ Gazette
, told me Miss Avery was here yesterday, but left again almost at once with luggage. It might have been one of the other tenants, of course, for four or five live there, but Vetch knows her by sight and swears it was her. He followed her to within a hundred yards of Victoria but lost her then in the traffic, so now he’s off on a fresh tack, tracking down Mrs. Jarrett in Winchester. It’s a damnably complicated story. All manner of red herrings are cropping up and no clear lead anywhere. What do you say to that drink, sir?”

It was as well Burbage was the talkative type. It gave Adam time to collect his thoughts, now in the greatest confusion. It was clear that Deborah was not only involved in Stead’s campaign but also had been identified by the press as playing a leading role in it.

He was glad then that he had read each successive article very carefully. At least it provided some kind of defence against Mr. Burbage’s spirited enquiries, all couched in the friendliest banter but put with one object in view—to extract information from someone who might, conceivably, put him on the track of Lily’s custodian.

It occurred to him then that he might turn the tables on the journalist, using him to discover what was known among pressmen about the unpublished background to the Babylon articles. Information of this kind might stand Debbie in good stead in the future, might even provide him with some clue of her present whereabouts. He knew pressmen sufficiently well, however, to offer a bait of some kind, so he said, resignedly, “Very well, Mr. Burbage. It’s of little consequence to me one way or the other. My concern is a family matter, a legacy I believe, although naturally I can’t discuss a client’s interests with gentlemen of the press. Suppose we adjourn to the Red Lion? I might think of somewhere Miss Avery could be. I’m sure she wouldn’t have gone abroad without telling my principal, for she was aware this matter was pending.”

“Would you mind telling me your principal’s name, sir?” said Burbage, taking Adam’s arm and steering him through the swing doors of the nearest tavern.

“No harm in that,” said Adam, twinkling, and beginning to fancy himself as an actor. “His name is Stock, of the firm of Stock, Frithlestone and Stock, London Wall. Very reputable people I assure you. Er… sherry, if you please. Thank you. I can’t spare more than a few minutes, for Mr. Stock will want to know more of this silly business. The late Mr. Avery, Miss Deborah’s father, was an associate of his, long before you were born, young man,” and he told himself he was doing very well, for Burbage, having paid for the drinks, at once became excessively respectful.

“I’m bound to say it’s generous of you not to send me packing, sir,” he said. “Most lawyers would. Lawyers think of journalists as very small beer, I can tell you, and really one can’t blame them, when that chap Stead lets the profession down by strewing this kind of garbage all over London.”

Aware that
Lloyd’s News
, specialising in rape, society divorces, and lurid crimes of every description was his cook’s favourite reading, Adam jibbed at this, saying, “Oh, come, come, Mr. Burbage. There are some who would applaud Mr. Stead for rooting out evil.” But Burbage replied, sourly, “Not if they knew the facts, Mr.…” and then smiled, adding, “You aren’t obliged to give me your name, sir. ‘Smith’ will do, won’t it?” Adam said that it would, and admitted to having read
Lloyd’s News
attacks on the
Pall Mall
stories, but went on to say that he understood the main facts were not in dispute.

“Concerning prostitution they aren’t,” Burbage said, “although Stead is talking absolute rubbish when he compares London unfavourably to Continental capitals. We all know it goes on, sir, and that no Act of Parliament can stop it. But we haven’t published all we know concerning Lily, the poor lamb Stead claims was bought for five pounds and sold for immoral purposes.”

“Indeed? Well, that surprises me. I read the Babylon articles for possible libel actions, and it seemed to me that Mr. Stead was prepared to vouch for everything he set down as regards the actual abduction of the child. Is your journal denying that, Mr. Burbage?”

Burbage looked very thoughtful then, and Adam made a shrewd guess at what was occupying his mind at that particular moment. He was weighing the worth of giving something away against the near certainty of getting rather more in exchange. Finally he said, with studied carelessness, “There are certain things I feel you should know, Mr. Smith, as someone who presumably acts for Miss Avery.

One is that ‘Lily’ isn’t ‘Lily.’ Her real name is Armstrong, Eliza Armstrong, and her parents, far from being the scoundrels Stead represents them to be, are not the type of parents likely to sell their daughter for five pounds. I’ve interviewed them and that’s only an opinion, but a professional one. Certain facts have emerged, however, that don’t fit Mr. Stead’s theories at all. For a start, Mrs. Armstrong is plaguing the police to learn the whereabouts of her daughter. For another, we have certain proof that Mrs. Jarrett, the procuress, was in Stead’s pay, that she got the child medically examined before passing her on, and that Mrs. Armstrong was given not five pounds but one, as an advance on the girl’s wages as a servant. She’s a simple soul and pickled in gin, as most of her class are, but you can take it from me she was hoaxed. The whole thing is no more than a circulation stunt.”

“Really,” Adam said, trying to look shocked but feeling panic rise in his throat. “You surprise me, Mr. Burbage, but since you’ve been kind enough to tell me so much, and in view of information I might be inclined to give you, would you mind explaining Miss Avery’s involvement in this unsavoury business? I’ve met the lady once or twice and she struck me as a respectable kind of girl, even though she does earn pin money writing for journals and magazines.”

Burbage’s expression of boyish charm had faded, replaced by the expression Adam often saw on the faces of some of his hard-bargaining customers. He said, “I’ll tell you, certainly. Providing you’ll tell me where Miss Avery is likely to be found.”

“In Cumberland,” said Adam, at random, and gave the address of his boyhood home, on the shores of Derwentwater, wondering a little that he could lie so easily, and on such slight provocation. “That mustn’t go any further, Mr. Burbage. You people protect your sources of information, I believe, and I assure you if it got about that I had assisted you I should find myself out of a good billet without a character.”

Burbage was now regarding him bleakly. “Why should you run that risk on my account, Mr. Smith?”

“I think I can answer that,” Adam said. “I happen to think the same as you concerning Stead’s motivation. And it looks to me as if he’s been very cavalier about the people he engaged to assist him in the enterprise. Namely one of our lady clients. Does that satisfy you?”

Burbage relaxed again. “Perfectly,” he said, “and now I’ll keep my side of the bargain. My editor has it on good authority that Miss Avery actually participated in this so-called purchase and was present when the girl was certified a virgin by a bawd. We’ve established a direct link between Miss Avery and the procuress,

Mrs. Jarrett, and both have now completely disappeared, together with Eliza Armstrong. For what it’s worth, the Salvation Army is also involved—that fire-eater Booth has a finger in every pie baked in this kind of oven. One thing more that might alter your principal’s views concerning Miss Avery. She doesn’t earn pin money as a freelance. She’s on Stead’s staff, and writes exclusively for the
Pall Mall Gazette.
” He finished his drink and smiled again. “You’ll excuse me now, Mr. Smith. I’ve urgent business to attend to,” and he winked so that Adam, watching him go, thought, “Can’t help admiring the chap’s professionalism… George would have made a good journalist… but he doesn’t fool me with that high-toned attitude… Every editor in London is livid with fury at watching Stead’s circulation soar, and trying his damnedest to jump on the bandwagon…” But then his thoughts turned back to Debbie and he decided that Burbage’s statement concerning her involvement in this mess was almost certainly true, and that she would need any amount of luck to emerge from it without worse damage than she had sustained on the witch hunt in Brussels. And this made him angry with himself that he had not exerted himself to steer her away from these waters long ago, or at least extracted a promise from Stead that she would not be employed on work as dangerous as this. “Damn it,” he told himself, as he crossed Gray’s Inn Road in search of a growler, “it’s no kind of job for a woman. Hetty’s right. We ought to get her married off before it’s too late for her to have babies and give her something more pleasant to think about!” He snarled at a fat man wearing a topper a size too small for him, who skipped nimbly ahead of him and disappeared into the cab he had signalled.

3

He said nothing to Henrietta. He wanted time to think, to weigh every possible angle, but in the meantime he kept a close watch on the newspapers, snorting when he read, in the
St. James’ Gazette
, that newsboys at Ludgate Circus were being brought before a magistrate for selling indecent literature. It was time then, he thought, to make a direct approach to Stead for news of Deborah’s whereabouts, and he went round to the
Gazette
offices but despaired of getting inside, much less of locating Stead. The place looked as if it was under siege, so he returned to his turret and locked himself in, telling Tybalt he was not to be disturbed for an hour. In half that time he had written a forthright letter to the editor, demanding to know the precise extent of Deborah’s embroilment in the abduction, where he could locate her, and if she needed legal aid.

He read the letter over, deciding, regretfully, that it was crusty. He did not change it, however. Convinced as he was of Stead’s sincerity, he did not value it much against the happiness of Deborah Avery, to whom both he and Henrietta owed a debt that had never been fully discharged by the provision of a home and family since childhood. For twenty years now they had regarded her as the family standby in times of stress, and Henrietta’s personal indebtedness to her went back to the time of the rail crash when she had played a woman’s part in the crisis that came close to sending Henrietta out of her mind. He could even recall his wife’s comment on Debbie a few hours after he came limping in with an artificial limb. She had said of her, at that time, “I can never look on her as anyone else’s child after this…” And neither, he decided, could he, sealing the letter and blowing down the tube for a messenger to take it to Stead by hand, and wait for an answer. He marked it, in large, red characters,
Copy. Personal to Mr. W. T. Stead. Very Urgent.
It seemed the likeliest way of reaching a man all London was talking about.

The boy was back within the hour. In spite of his efforts he had been unable to deliver the letter personally but had given it to a co-editor, and with this Adam had to be content. Having warned his lawyer Stock that
Lloyd’s News
might be in touch with him, and issued instructions that Burbage was to be bluffed as far as Cumberland if possible, he went on home, looking for a telegram from Stead but receiving none that day or the next.

On the day after that there was talk of warrants being issued for Stead and his associates. Mrs. Armstrong, now posing as an outraged mother deprived of her precious child by a trick, was making a great hullaballoo in
Lloyd’s News
and the
St. James’ Gazette.
In all the other journals, including the Continental and American press, the controversy continued to rage. It was time, he thought, to take Henrietta into his confidence and that same evening he did, telling her all he knew and giving her back copies of both Stead’s paper and those of his rivals containing attacks on his integrity.

He had looked for doubts, of the kind he himself entertained, but there was more than doubt in Henrietta’s face when she emerged from her sewing room with the bundle of papers under her arm. She flung them on his desk, stared at him unsmilingly, and said, “Well, it’s no more than I expected. You’ve failed her badly, Adam. The least you can do now is to find her and get her away from that dreadful man, do you hear?”