Touched by Angels (10 page)

Later s
he sent him down the garden to get the jemmy from the outside toilet that his father had used in the past to prize up the floorboards, to stash bootleg alcohol.

***

The toilet backed onto the
ir neighbour’s and he could hear old Mr Digweed, a grouchy, miserable character with a limp, the other side, cursing as he pulled the chain for about the eighth time, before walking out and slamming the door, which bounced back open with a juddering noise.

Robert had enough sense to wait
until he had made his way back down the path, before venturing out, taking the time to relieve himself while he waited. He didn’t bother pulling the chain, because theirs had never worked. His mother had always tipped a pail of water down at the end of every day, from the kitchen tap.

He thought of his father as he made his way back, the jemmy concealed under his coat. He could see him very clearly in his mind’s eye, alone in his cell, or outside in the blazing sun, smashing up rocks.

As he walked into the parlour and watched his mother pulling the needle from King’s back, the sight of the congealed blood on the metal made him feel sick. Revulsion swamped him in waves as she wiped it on King’s jacket, before going through his pockets

***

Lil
levered up the floorboards, cringing at the frightful squealing noise they were making, that was impossible to muffle. A foetid damp smell rolled up from the hole, and they heard squeaking, followed by the scamper of little feet.

He was heavy, but raw fear was driving her.

When King was finally laid to rest, with his bowler hat on his face, she was too nervous to pray over him, and thought it hypocritical anyway.

The hardest part was putting the nails back, because although some went in with a push, others had to be tapped in, using the jemmy as a crude hammer. The noise seemed out of all proportion to the force used.

When she had finished, her mind turned to the money once more, as she wondered what King’s intentions were for it, though she knew it hinted at dangerous discord.

She was to find out what the very next day, when Robert ran home from school with a newspaper clutched in his hand.

She felt her heart sink, seeing King, whose Christian name was Adam, staring back from the front page, and above him, the headline confirming he was on the run.

It seemed his two uncles, one of whom must have been that ogre with the monocle who had evicted the Inkpens, were contesting his father’s will, insisting that much of the liquid assets of his estate were theirs. They had even posted
a cash reward of one hundred pounds for information as to their nephew’s whereabouts.

The ten thousand must have formed part of that estate. She could guess what had happened. With nobody else in the world he could trust, and with the high probability of these ruthless men winning a court case, the spectre of destitution would have been most unpalatable for him, after a life of ease, so he had taken what he could and run.

Unsurprisingly, the article went on to the missing fob and that Adam King might have it in his possession. They desperately wanted this back too, for sentimental reasons.

Doubting they could even define it, she laughed out loud.

They were even offering a separate reward of one hundred pounds for its safe return.

By now, suspecting there was more to the watch than just its value, she laid the paper down and said to Robert, “Go and get it. We’ll have a closer look.”

With the chain coiled in her palm, she studied the exterior of the watch, back and front, wondering if something significant might be engraved there, in numerals or letters so tiny, the unsuspecting would miss them.

She had read an old book once, where such a ruse foiled a thief, but here, there was nothing. Once more, she opened it, and gazed at the inside of the cover. It was completely bare, save from a tiny hallmark. She looked at the white enamelled face, with its Roman numerals again, this time more closely. Nothing.

She felt increasing despair, but without saying anything, Robert took it and depressed a tiny lever he had noticed below the face. It swung upwards on a sprung hinge.

The workings were visible
and engraved in the back were the numerals 7, 6, 2, 9 and beneath, the words “Coutts & Co Strand.”

They looked at each other
puzzled, but then Lil whispered, “Of course, it’s a bank. The number must be that of a safety deposit box.”

“
What’s that?”

“
A sort of safe, where rich people keep their valuables. So that’s what they’re after! There must be a fortune inside. There’s just one other thing though, and without it, the number is useless.”

They both waited in silence for a few seconds, until Robert asked, “What?”

“
The key. Safety deposit boxes need one to open them. He must have one, either on his person, or…”

“
The bag!”
he said and bolted back upstairs where the bag was hidden.

When he returned, she tipped the money out in a heap and started groping around inside, guessing that if he’d had any sense, he would have concealed it beneath the silk lining. She couldn’t feel anything obvious. She deftly sliced it all out with a knife, but there was still no key.

She was r
epulsed by the knowledge that she was going to have to lever those boards back up again to search Adam King’s body, even though she didn’t think he would be so stupid as to keep it in one of his pockets.

Robert seemed to read her mind, as he said, “If I was him, I would have hidden it in the lining of my hat.”

She patted him on the head
and said, “Good boy!” as her hand strayed instantly to the jemmy. Thinking of the noise it would make, she resisted the temptation. Bob had never removed the boards during the hours of darkness for that very reason.

***

The next morning, the façade of routine continued, as she insisted it should, with Robert going to school, while she kept the curtains shut, and got on with her fortune-telling.

She
was going to delay as much as she could touching a body that had been dead for more than a day. She imagined the cold waxy feel and the half-open eyes that would have started sinking back into his head.

Later in the day, when no-one was around the street, s
he dreaded a knock at the door as she started pulling the floorboards, knowing this wouldn’t take long. At least the nails needed less effort this time. Why was her heart suddenly thudding?

It was almost as though she had anticipated what she was going to see.

There was nothing there.
No body. No trace of King whatsoever.

She found herself stumbling backwards, on her elbows, eyes bulging, flesh creeping in waves down her arms. She couldn’t breath
e.

“
This is crazy!” she muttered.
“He has to be here!”

She made herself crawl back
and peer into the hole once more, her nose wrinkling against the dank odour of rot, certain she would see him, certain her overstressed brain had been playing tricks.

Her breathing came in rapid gasps. Her head was swimming. She had lifted the wrong board. It had to be that. Being tired, she couldn’t have been paying sufficient attention. She didn’t want to put her hand down there, because of this sudden feeling that if she did, his hand, cold and clammy, would close around hers and she would scream.

When she had finally plucked up enough courage, she found there was nothing there at all, except dust, ancient rat droppings and the cold glass of a group of bottles that were part of a previous stash.

It was impossible. Was she going mad? Had she really put him down there in the first place? And if she had…
was
he dead?

Was it possible he had woken up, crawled off somewhere and then expired for good?

She was sitting in the armchair, staring at the hole in the floor, when she heard a knock on the door. She knew she had no choice but to sit outside telling those stupid fortunes.

She quickly
replaced the board, not daring to leave it as it was, and went through the charade of setting up her table, ball and chairs in the mud, from which a sickly sweet mist was rising, while Mrs O’Brien kept giving her nasty little looks from her door step as she scrubbed it.

The minutes merged into hours as the pile of pennies slowly grew, though however hard she thought, she couldn’t make any sense of it.

With no other explanation, she could only assume the rats had devoured him, though it was surely not possible in a single day, and besides, there would be evidence. At least some bones.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, when she had just about given up and was beginning to wish for her old life back, when something happened that both explained the mystery and left her frightened all over again.

She had never known a man wanting his
fortune told, and of course, the one sitting in front of her didn’t. She didn’t like the look of him from the start, with his long black coat, pug nose and square shoulders.

Examining the ball closely, he asked
, “Do people really believe in this codswallop?”

“
Yes, they do actually!” she snapped, anxious to justify herself, in spite of the truth. “A lot of people around here are very poor and lonely. Some are also very ill. It gives them solace and hope.”

“
Yes, and you, a penny a time.”

She was seething
and about to order him on his way, when he produced, not a penny, but a key, which he held discreetly, dangling it gently in between his thumb and forefinger.

Sh
e closed her eyes and forced herself to stay calm. “You know, don’t you? Though how…” she whispered.

He looked around, and seeing a few faces turning, asked, “May we go inside?”

She stood, acutely aware that Mrs O’Brien had stopped scrubbing her step and was watching pointedly. A few curtains were stirring too. She was glad when the door clicked shut behind her.

She stood with her back to it, as he said, “My name is Tom Bride. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by Sir Rupert and Alistair King to track down the only son of Mr Horace King, their nephew. I know you murdered him.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but felt she had reached a dead end.

“
All right. He was intimidating me, but it was an accident, I swear. He was a pig. He was frightening me, so I pushed…” she stopped.

“
Go on.”

The mocking cynicism made her fume. “Why? What’s the point? You clearly don’t believe me.”

Odd though
, she thought. He hadn’t summoned the police, or told the King brothers, as he was surely duty bound to do. Then she realised he must have guessed, from the press coverage, that she had the fob. When she considered too that, apart from herself and Robert, only he could know Adam King was dead, a light began to dawn.

Feeling more relaxed, she asked, “So, how did you get the key?”

“
It’s simple. Follow me
and I’ll show you.”

They walked the few paces to the house next door, from where the Inkpens had been evicted. She was glad that by now Mrs O’Brien had retreated back indoors, though there were still a few curtains moving.

He unlocked the door and ushered her in, as he said, “This place was the ideal vantage point to watch your comings and goings.”

He grabbed an oil lamp from the windowsill, struck a match on the wall, lit it, and closed the door.

She staggered back, whimpering, pawing her mouth, thinking she might be sick. Propped against the opposite wall, head lolling on his chest, smothered in grime and blood, was Adam King. His bloated tongue hung from his mouth. Rats had nibbled his hands and face. His nose had been completely chewed off. Before him was a great hole in the floor, where the boards had been levered up.

“
I watched from upstairs,” Bride told her, “I saw him enter your home and heard raised voices. After a few hours had passed and he never emerged, I guessed what had happened. As I never saw any suspicious bundles being dragged from your back door, I put two and two together. In any case, I heard you levering up the floorboards. The recess runs the entire length of the block and all I had to do was crawl under, grab his ankles and pull him through to this side.”

With her first inklings reinforced, she asked, gagging as she looked at the bites, “Are you going to report your findings?”

He chuckled to himself
and his eyes twinkled.

“
I think those poor fellows are distraught enough about their dear departed brother without me being the bearer of further sad tidings, don’t you?”

“
So…
what do want from me?”