A Donation of Murder (6 page)

‘Hush a minute, let's keep to the point. I assumed the police must have shot the men through the window, though I had my doubts — most of my men couldn't hit a barn door, which is why I requested army marksmen.' Pike frowned. ‘Then you tell me this man was shot where he fell. Dody, the police didn't shoot these men, they were shot from inside the building. By a fourth, or even a fifth man.'

At last Tommy allowed himself to stop running. He collapsed onto a bench next to a barrow selling roasted chestnuts, and took some deep breaths as he tried to control the thumping of his heart. He hadn't noticed the cold or the pain while he was legging it, but now both hit him at once. His leg stung to blazes and he was shaking all over. He lifted his trouser leg to inspect the damage and found one small hole bull's-eyed through the side of his calf. It looked like the bullet had passed through the muscle. Lucky for him it had missed the bone. He picked up a blob of slushy snow from the footpath and pressed it against the wound for instant, numbing relief. He held the snow there until his hand turned blue and the wound ceased to seep blood.

A line of people were queuing for the hot, sweet-fleshed nuts. Tommy's mouth watered. He could do with some himself, but had no money to pay for them. Not that lack of money had ever stopped him from getting such treats in the past. But the chestnut monger was a long-legged fella, at least six foot tall, and Tommy knew he hadn't a hope of outrunning him in his present condition.

As the man piled chestnuts into a greasy bag for a young girl, one of the nuts tumbled from the mound onto the footpath. Tommy seized it with the speed of a snake, peeled off the charred skin and popped the yellow flesh into his mouth. He opened his mouth to cool the searing morsel, smiled and stuck his coated tongue out at the girl. The girl squealed and scuttled off with a look of revulsion.

It was almost dark. A lamplighter carried his ladder from post to post, lighting the gas flames — no such thing as electricity in this part of London. Crowds of people passed by, but no one else stopped at the barrow. Tommy held his hands to the warmth of the brazier.

‘Time's up — clear off, scallywag,' the costermonger said.

‘There's no laws says I can't 'ang about 'ere.'

‘You're scarin' me customers. Buy a bag of nuts or fuck off.'

‘I got money, but not on me. ‘Ow 'bout some tick, mate?'

‘You gotta cheek,' the man said, shaking the basket of nuts over the glowing coals.

‘I'm gunna be a gent one day and then you'll be sorry.' Tommy climbed unsteadily to his feet. He thought about pissing into the man's brazier, then decided
against it. The shakes were still rattling his bones and he'd probably miss and make a fool of himself.

‘You wouldn't talk like that if you knew what was buttoned in me shirt,' he said.

At last the chestnut seller looked interested. His gaze dropped to Tommy's bulging shirtfront. ‘What's that then, give us a look.'

‘You'll give me some nuts if I shows you?'

‘Well . . .'

Then, from the corner of his eye, Tommy glimpsed the unmistakable point of a police helmet sticking up above the heads of the crowd.

Rozzers. Shit.

‘See ya round, mate,' Tommy said casually to the costermonger before he sidled off into the crowd.

*

Tommy managed to hitch a ride on the back of a tram for most of the way until the conductor spied him hanging on and rapped his knuckles. He fell off just as they were pulling up at a stop not far from his destination.

The sight of the boss's large house in Mayfair left Tommy trembling more than the sight of the rozzers had done. He'd never seen the opulent mansion before, though he'd heard about it enough. He enjoyed the stories of how Mr Giblett had been nothing more than a street urchin, like Tommy, when he'd started off in the Trade. And now he controlled one of the most successful gangs ever to prey upon the ranks of London's upper classes, becoming a toff himself in the process.

And here was Tommy, standing in the porch of the great man's house.

He pressed the bell near the glossy black door and heard it jangle on down to the kitchen.

A tall footman looked down his nose at Tommy. ‘What the hell do you want?' the footman demanded.

‘I come to see Mr Giblett. I got orders, see.'

‘Not on the front steps, you don't. Go down the back and wait at the tradesman's entrance till I see if you got clearance.'

Tommy shrugged his skinny shoulders and followed the signs down some steep stone steps towards the side of the house. He tried the door but it was locked. It was fucking cold down here. He slapped his arms across his body to keep warm.

It seemed to take an eternity for the door to open, and as soon as the footman finished sliding the bolt Tommy was in like a flash, passing through a soft curtain of heat and enticing smells. He hadn't eaten since the night before and realised then how weak and faint he felt. He glimpsed a fat-arsed cook leaning over a pot on the range. Maybe she'd just let him sit by the fire for a minute, toast him a crumpet or two.

‘This way, son,' the footman said, guiding Tommy away from the warmth of the kitchen to some draughty back stairs. By the time they reached the third floor his leg was hurting like Hades.

They stepped onto a carpeted landing, where Tommy was instructed to wait outside a panelled door while the footman announced his arrival. The footman took his time before he returned, snatched the cap from Tommy's head and pushed him through the open door.

Tommy gasped without meaning to. The room was the poshest he'd ever seen. Silver gleamed from every surface, there were chairs and couches as soft-looking as beds, pretty pictures on the walls, diamond-paned windows, and a blazing log fire.

Two men sat in wingback chairs on either side of the fireplace, swirling brandy in delicate glass balloons. Tommy's spirits rose. He knew one of them, and limped towards him with his hand extended.

‘Well, I never, 'ow did you get out then, Mr James?' Tommy asked, face beaming. ‘I thought you was a goner. I 'ardly recognise you in that get-up, what a swell, eh?'

Last time Tommy had seen Mr James they were in the tenement and Mr James had been dressed in an ill-fitting suit, hob-nailed boots and a cloth cap. Now he was done up like a tailor's dummy, right down to his shiny black shoes.

Tommy was even more impressed when Mr James stood up and shook his hand, saying, ‘This is the young man I was telling you about, Mr Giblett.' Mr James smiled, showing the points of his filed eyeteeth.

Tommy was struck dumb when Mr Giblett himself stood and shook his hand.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Beauchamp,' the great man said. ‘Mr James here says you have promise.' Tommy flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I heard you handled yourself well during some fairly distressing circumstances.'

Tommy looked to Mr James who gave him an encouraging nod.

‘Not 'alf. I mean, yes, sir, very distressin',' Tommy said, finding his voice.

‘And the others are dead?'

‘Yessir, shot by the rozzers through the winder.'

‘You sure?'

‘Dead as mutton. I saw 'em lyin' on the floor.'

‘It must have been awful,' Giblett smiled sympathetically.

‘It was an' all. I collected one in the leg too, but I'm all right.' Could use a slug of brandy though, mate, Tommy thought to himself.

As if reading his mind, Giblett reached over to a decanter on the table beside him, poured a snifter and handed it to him. Both men looked at each other, then at him and raised their glasses.

The grog tasted like liquid fire and it did the trick, filling Tommy with warmth and renewed confidence.

‘I got the stuff, like you asked me, Mr James,' Tommy said, patting the bulge in his shirt.

‘Well, done, son. Lets 'ave a look-see.' Mr James didn't speak as posh as Mr Giblett.

Tommy reached into his shirt and pulled out the package Mr James had plucked from beneath the body of Archie Slade, seconds before the bonfire they'd put together in the tenement flamed up. It was funny, that, Tommy reflected for the first time since he'd fled the scene. One minute Archie was alive and the next he was dead, and Mr James was standing there in Archie's place, giving him the package and a load of instructions.

‘We trust you, Tommy, if anyone can get out of this alive, you can. You gotta take the goods to Mr Giblett, do ya hear me, son?'

‘Hand it over to Mr Giblett, lad,' Mr James's voice snapped Tommy back.

He did as he was told. Giblett peeled off the paper wrapping and tossed it into the fire, then opened the flat, blue velvet jewellery box. Tommy took a step closer and squinted at the necklace resting there, the sparkler for which three of his friends had died. The necklace was said to be worth over thirty thousand quid but it looked kind of ordinary to Tommy — no accounting for taste. The pearl was a whopper, though.

Giblett drew the big pearl to his mouth and curled his tongue around it in a way that sent a shiver down Tommy's spine. When he scraped it across his tooth, Tommy wanted to yelp with pain. Blimey, the thing would crack! But the man must know what he's doing, Tommy reasoned. Blokes said Mr Giblett knew more about jewels and gems than all the Jews in Hatton Gardens put together.

Apparently satisfied, Giblett tossed the necklace onto an occasional table near the fire, setting agleam the tiny diamonds, sprinkled all over the necklace's clasp like sugar. Tommy was impressed. He supposed the man could afford to be careless. Maybe Giblett lit his cigars with five-pound notes too.

‘Take Mr Beauchamp down to the kitchen, Mr James, and tell Cook to feed him well.' Then Giblett glanced down at the carpet. Tommy followed his eyes and, to his horror, noticed the bloodstain. ‘And I'll call the doctor to have that wound tended to.'

‘I'm ever so sorry, Mr Giblett, about the carpet, I mean,' Tommy stuttered.

‘Oh, that's all right. It'll clean.' Giblett picked up the necklace and tossed it at Mr James who caught it with one hand. ‘On second thought, take that too — you know what to do with it.'

Tommy was escorted back down to the kitchen without catching sight of the grumpy footman. In fact, the kitchen was quite empty. Must all be in the servant's hall having their tea, Tommy decided.

Mr James pulled a chair out for him at the kitchen table and Tommy collapsed into it.

‘Cook usually leaves leftovers in the warming oven after lunch. Let's have a look-see-daisy.' He bent down at the range and removed a covered dish, put it atop the workbench, lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘Mmm, roast beef. How does that sound, Tommy my lad?'

‘Tops, Mr James,' Tommy said, his mouth watering. Fancy, Mr James preparing a meal for
him
.

Mr James unfolded an oilcloth and spread it on the table before him. ‘Can't be making a mess can we, son? Cook would serve me bollocks on a silver plate.'

Tommy laughed, Mr James was a right old cove. He couldn't understand how he'd ever been frightened of the man.

And then Tommy felt something hard and cold jab into the back of his head. He smelled gun oil. He tried to turn but Mr James's sledgehammer of a hand had clamped itself down onto his shoulder, forcing him to stay rigid in the chair.

‘What . . . what are you on about, Mr James? Are you joshin' me?'

‘You left a blood trail, Tommy, right to Mr Giblett's house.' The voice was as cold and as hard as the pistol barrel stuck into the back of Tommy's head.

Tommy's mouth dried up, he could barely choke out the words. ‘The sleet was washing it away as I walked, I swear it! I'd never lead the rozzers to Mr Giblett's gaff, honest! Please, sir. I promise I never—

‘Shut up, Tommy.'

No mess for Cook to clean up, Tommy thought, the instant a fiery pain ripped through the back of his skull.

Margaret Doyle knelt by the bed in Florence's room. She cut an ethereal figure in the borrowed white nightdress, hands clasped, the room dark, save for the swaying flames in the fireplace.

Dody hastened her retreat from the doorway, not wishing to disturb the praying woman.

Her guest made the sign of the cross and let her hands fall to the bed. ‘It's all right, Doctor,' she said turning. ‘I'm finished. Please come in. Turn the light on if you wish.'

Dody flicked the switch. Miss Doyle placed the jewelled crucifix she had been holding on the bedside table and allowed Dody to help her back into her bed.

‘I'm surprised to find you awake at this hour,' Dody said. ‘Would you like a sleeping draught?'

‘No, thank you, Doctor; I'll settle, eventually. It's just that I have so many thoughts swirling about in my head. I feel so very blessed. But for the life of me I cannot imagine why He would choose to bring a sinner such as I back to life. Can it be that He has plans for me? Is it a sign for me to end my wicked ways?'

Dody smiled. ‘I can't imagine what wicked ways you are referring to, Miss Doyle.' Her smile faded when she noticed the sincerity of her patient's countenance. ‘Well,' she backtracked, ‘they say we are all made up of good and bad.'

‘Please Doctor, call me Margaret. I'm not one for airs and graces and titles I don't deserve. But in some people, me included, one characteristic is more dominant, don't you think?'

‘I suppose so,' Dody said, wishing for a change of topic. Philosophy was not her strongest subject. Her preference was for proven facts, not matters metaphysical.

To Dody's relief, Margaret's face brightened. She patted the bed, inviting Dody to sit. ‘But enough of all that. What of you, do you always come home this late of a night?'

Dody perched on the edge of the bed. Florence had been away from home for several months and she was missing her companionship sorely. It was a pleasure to have someone to talk to at the end of a trying day.

Margaret sniffed the air. ‘What's that smell, is it smoke?'

I'm glad that's all she can smell on me
. Dody hated to think what other unsavoury odours might be lurking amongst her multiple layers of clothing; she'd not had the chance to bathe since leaving the mortuary.

‘Yes, it is smoke,' she replied. ‘I was called to a building that had been deliberately set alight, to examine some bodies found there.'

‘I don't know how you do it.' Margaret wrinkled her pretty nose. ‘Dealing with dead bodies all day. This didn't have anything to do with the siege in Brushfield Street, did it, Doctor?' At Dody's frown, Margaret added, ‘It's been all over the evening news.' She pointed to the newspaper lying at the end of her bed.

Dody reached for it and scanned the front-page article. She found nothing she didn't already know except for the news of the escape of a fourth man, described as a fifteen-year-old apprentice thief, a boy who had grown up on the streets. It was distressing that one so young had been able to murder his colleagues with such cold-blooded expertise. And what if Pike had been injured, or God forbid, killed in the skirmish? It did not bear thinking about.

Her tired mind wandered. She wondered if he would be joining her in her bed tonight. It was already past midnight and it would be more practical for him to return to his lodgings above the Clarence public house in Whitehall, a stone's throw from Scotland Yard. She was almost as eager to hear the details of the siege as she was to hold him in her arms. He had a key and let himself in these days, often managing to come and go without the servants' knowledge — all except Annie, who didn't miss a trick. Just as well Annie had learned to hold her tongue. Not long ago her tittle-tattle had almost caused Dody and Pike to lose their jobs — and her own too.

‘Your maid was very kind. As well as bringing the newspaper, she brought me up some whisky to help me sleep. May I offer you a glass?' Margaret pointed to a tray set up on Florence's dressing table on which Annie had thoughtfully placed two glasses.

Dody hesitated. She really should be off to bed.

‘I suspect that your day has been just as trying as mine.' Margaret's warm tones were tempting. ‘Just a little tot, eh?'

Dody gave in, walked over to the dressing table and poured them both a glass before returning to her position at the end of the bed.

‘If you don't mind my asking, Doctor —'

‘Dody.'

‘Dody. Whose bedroom am I borrowing? I hope no one has been inconvenienced because of me. I could not help but notice some very fine gowns hanging up around the place.'

Dody smiled. ‘My sister's. I do apologise for the mess. Florence is quite the clotheshorse and never seems to have sufficient cupboard space. Even my wardrobe is half crammed with her things.'

‘But where will she sleep tonight?'

‘Oh, don't worry about Florence, she is in Scotland, learning to fly a Tiger Moth.'

Margaret drained her glass and patted her chest, enjoying the burn. ‘How thrilling!'

‘Yes,' Dody agreed. ‘Yes, it is, I suppose, if you like that kind of thing.' She smiled, recollecting what Florence had said about flying machines causing havoc with one's hair. ‘We, the family that is, were hoping she'd be home for Christmas — one can hardly learn to fly at this time of year in Scotland — but alas, she has decided to wait the weather out.'

‘Then I expect she has her reasons for staying. A young man, perhaps?'

Dody nodded, not wishing to divulge anything more about her sister's private life. Florence had been learning to fly with a pleasant young Scotsman called Harold Lamb, who had been her nerve doctor for a very short time. This had been of some concern to Dody, but not because Florence had once been his patient. They started their friendship after their professional relationship ceased and Florence had been declared ‘sane'. Dody's concern was more about their mismatch of character. He was sensitive, quiet and bookish. Florence, while just as vulnerable, tended to hide her emotions behind wild and passionate deeds that were often not thought through — like pretending she was insane, for example. Dody could only hope that neither would be badly hurt when the relationship came to its inevitable end.

‘And you?' Margaret added, bringing her back to the present. ‘I expect walking out with a young man is near impossible for a woman in your position.'

Dody agreed. ‘My hours are not very sociable.'

‘And I expect most men go running when they discover the nature of your work.'

‘Most, but not all,' she said, feeling the tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Margaret raised a sickle eyebrow.

‘I mean,' Dody stumbled on, ‘there is someone, but it's, ah, complicated. We work together, and our careers would be jeopardised if word got out.'

‘Ah, I see, he is a doctor like yourself.'

Before Dody could say no, Margaret had refilled her glass.

‘No, my friend is not a doctor. I can't really say what he does. But he has an ill-natured superior, you see, an incompetent who holds my, er, my friend over a barrel. I sometimes wonder if there is a future for us at all.' She lowered her gaze to the diminishing contents of her glass and found the crystal shimmering through an unexpected film of moisture in her eyes.

When Margaret rubbed her arm Dody succumbed to the need to confide in a sympathetic listener. ‘And then there are my parents. As liberal — radical, some say — as their views are on most issues, they would never be able to reconcile the fact that he works for the pol—'

Dody stopped herself, knowing she was saying too much.
Oh my God, I'm getting drunk. ‘
No more, please,' she gasped. ‘I've had no supper. This is going to my head.'

‘I might not be a doctor, Doctor, but my senses tell me this is the best medicine for both of us at a time such as this,' Margaret said gently.

‘Dody, please call me Dody. It's short for Dorothy.' She downed her last drop of whisky and put the glass under the bed before it could be refilled. ‘I have enjoyed talking to you very much. Perhaps we can continue our chat tomorrow?'

‘Stay for a moment more, please, Dody. I am frightened about where my dreams will take me if I fall asleep now. I will not talk about your chap if it makes you uncomfortable, I promise. We will find something else to talk about . . . I know, my jewels — what do you think of them, are they not exquisite?'

‘I think it quite remarkable that they were not stolen when you were lying unconscious in the alley,' Dody replied, relieved to hear the steadiness returning to her voice.

‘So do I. All I can think is that the snow must have kept the villains and the bone grubbers away.'

Margaret stretched over to the bedside table and picked up her necklace and earrings. She held one of the long earrings against Dody's ear. ‘Marvellous, the deep red of the rubies goes so much better with your hair colour than it does mine. John gave me them and I love them to bits for that reason alone, even though I think in reality they don't suit me.'

‘I think they look superb on you,' Dody said, meaning it.

‘You should consider getting your ears pierced, Dody. There are so many more beautiful earrings to be had for pierced ears.'

Dody's mother considered pierced ears to be ‘common', and Dody and Florence had never contemplated it. Both were content with their screw-ons, even if they did pinch on occasion.

Not wishing to hurt her new friend's feelings, Dody replied, ‘I don't think I could bear to have someone sticking a pin through my ears.' She smiled to herself. So spoke the woman who had once stitched up a gash in her own forehead.

‘You might change your mind when your loved one presents you with the perfect pair.'

Pike could never afford such extravagances and Dody could not have cared less. Margaret's weakness seemed to be for jewellery and hers was for Pike; each to their own, she supposed.

‘My John's a jeweller and I've learned a lot from him,' Margaret went on. ‘For example, I judge the locket hanging about your neck to be Faberge. May I have a closer look, see if I am correct?'

Dody had no idea that the locket had escaped from beneath her blouse. It tended to get in the way of her work and she tried to keep it concealed. She unhooked the clasp and handed it to her houseguest.

Margaret weighed the locket in her hand. ‘It's a good sized piece, and the filigree engraving shows masterful craftsmanship.' She turned it in her hand, drawing Dody's attention to the maker's mark on the back. ‘See, Faberge. I am correct. My, but you are a lucky woman.'

‘Some of my family were in business in Russia with Mr Faberge. Indeed, my parents and my sister and I lived in Moscow for some years. The locket was given to me by an uncle,' Dody said, impressed by Margaret's ability to identify the piece. ‘I would never have been able to buy it myself. I know I am a lucky woman, many times over — though it is not the material things that I really treasure.'

‘Whether we like it or not, Dody, material things do matter. Without the financial help of your family, you would doubtless not be practising medicine. You would not be helping those poor souls in the clinic nor solving the puzzle of mysterious deaths at the mortuary in order to bring some kind of peace to the victims' relatives. Or raising others up from the de—'

‘Enough, please!' Dody felt herself redden. ‘Let's not start this again.'

Margaret laughed. ‘I'm sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you.' She placed the locket on the bedside table and clasped Dody's hand, giving it a squeeze. ‘I'm very grateful for everything you've done for me, Doctor, I mean, Dody. But I think it best that I return to my own home tomorrow. I am feeling better already and by tomorrow I will be as good as new.'

‘But what of John?'

‘I can handle him.'

‘Your stitches?'

Margaret gave Dody a tender look that made her realise just how desperate she must have sounded. The bottom line was that she was lonely and craving female companionship.

And she had drunk too much whisky.

She took a deep breath. ‘Any doctor or nurse could take them out, I suppose,' she said, trying to hold on to her dignity.

Margaret hesitated, glanced down at the top sheet of her bed, its lace edge folded over the counterpane. ‘I do hope we can stay in touch, though. I'd like us to become friends.'

Dody smiled. ‘As would I.'

*

Dody knew that she was overtired because the knot of worry that had begun in her stomach was tightening her limbs and getting worse, despite the liberal amount of whisky with which she'd lubricated it. She turned the tap and added more hot water to the bath, breathing deeply of the lemon-scented steam. It had been a mistake to agree to remain in contact with Margaret, to become friends with a patient of whom she knew very little. By doing so she was breaking every rule in her professional rulebook. This was far worse than Doctor Lamb's show of affection towards Florence. Business and pleasure must remain separated, all her instincts told her that. Her job included working for the police and it was too easy to be compromised. Her love for Pike and his for her made things complicated enough, and they needed no more salt added to that pot. The only thing she and Margaret had in common was an unfortunate shared experience and some mutual respect. That did not constitute an intimate friendship.

God, how much had she revealed to Margaret about her special friendship with Pike? Already the conversation was muted in her memory by a whisky fug. All she
recalled was that she had confided some personal things about herself while receiving almost nothing from Margaret in return. It was so unlike Dody to talk intimately with any female other than Florence. Even her mother did not know of her fondness for Pike. Thank goodness she had not revealed his name or his occupation.