A Metropolitan Murder (30 page)

I
T IS GONE
midnight when Bill Hunt stumbles out of the Old Friar public house upon Saffron Hill, pausing in a doorway to light his pipe. He has not stopped drinking since he saw Lizzie Hunt, and he struggles to find the box of Vesuvians in his coat pocket. In fact, his fingers fumble with the match, with the result that he almost drops the pipe in the process. Cursing himself, he finally lights the dry Virginian tobacco, putting the clay to his lips, taking a deep breath, drawing in the smoke, and puffing it back into the cold night air.

He is not alone, since the pubs have all begun to disgorge their clients on to the streets. He watches the steady stream of passers-by; most are working men at the end of the night's spree, steeped in drink. His reverie is interrupted by a melody playing in the distance, steadily becoming louder. It is a boy with a fiddle, working through the late night crowds, his brother beside him with an upturned cap, both of them olive-skinned Italians, no more than eight years old. A pair of costers chip in a couple of pennies, and the boy grins like a lunatic. Then a trio of young women, laughing amongst themselves, do likewise. Bill looks at the women. They are all older than Lizzie Hunt, though not by much, and dressed in gaudy
colours. One, the tallest of the group, wears a hat tipped with a white feather, the others are bare-headed, but all wear thick woollen shawls around their shoulders, and huddle close to one another as they walk.

Bill Hunt shuffles out into the gaslit street, and follows a few yards behind them. He has a tendency to stoop as he walks, and it is hard to say whether this is due to a natural shyness, or a habit formed whilst working underground with pickaxe and shovel. In any case, he dogs the three girls, unnoticed, for a good minute or more before the tallest of the group chances to look round and see him. It is a quick, appraising glance, a business-like look with which Bill Hunt is quite familiar. In turn, he catches her eye, and jerks his head, as if to indicate a nearby alley.

The woman leans towards her companions, and whispers a few words; both turn briefly to look at him, then move away, hastening down the street. She, on the other hand, splits away from them, and waits for Bill to come closer.

‘I ain't going down there, dear,' she says, looking at the alley. ‘It stinks something awful.'

Bill looks at her. ‘I know another good place, just round the corner.'

Midnight. Doughty Street.

A conversation in the front parlour.

‘I trust your mother is quite dead, Clara?'

‘I believe so, ma'am.'

‘Well, I am glad of it. I cannot abide sloppiness in these matters.'

Wait. No.

Clara White wakes up, perspiring.

‘Where we goin'?' asks the girl with the feathered hat.

‘It's not far.'

‘I don't give a fig, darlin'. Long as you see me right.'

‘Here, careful,' says Bill Hunt. ‘Now keep your eyes shut, and I'll surprise you.'

‘Why?'

‘It's a surprise, I told you. Watch out for the steps.'

‘What steps? Oh, bloody hell, you'll kill me, you will.'

‘Here, I've got hold of you, ain't I? It's not far, I told you. Mind while I undo the latch.'

‘Can I open my eyes yet?'

‘Go on then.'

‘Well, ain't this a little nest? Blankets and all. Very grand.'

‘We won't get any trouble here.'

‘If you say so, love. It's your shillin'. Easy now, no need to paw us like that, is there?'

‘It's my shilling.'

‘You could be a bit . . .'

‘Shut your hole, will you?'

‘Charming. Here, what's that noise?'

‘Nothing to be afraid of.'

Wapping by night.

The man clasps her hand in his and gently brings her palm to his breast; she can feel his heart beating.

‘Mr. Phibbs, I can't . . .'

‘Hush,' he says, and kisses her, touching her cheek with his fingers.

‘I've never really . . .'

‘Clara, hush,' he says. ‘Tell me about your sister.'

‘Lizzie?'

‘Lizzie.'

Bill Hunt says it in a whisper but the woman hears him. Her mouth curls, sardonically, teasing him, even as he keeps going at her as hard as he can.

‘Who's Lizzie, darlin'?' she asks, between breaths; she is laughing at him, he is sure. He puts his hand over the woman's mouth; she talks too much. She still looks at him, mocking him with her eyes; for a moment, he thinks he should hit her.

But the moment passes; then it is but one brief second of pleasure.

He collapses on top of her, blood pounding through his veins. He smells of sweat, and steam, and coaldust; the girl quickly wriggles free of his bulk. For a moment, she fears he might be asleep, but then he turns over and stares at her.

‘Who's Lizzie?' she asks, tugging down her petticoat.

‘Never mind.'

‘I don't. I just want my money, dear.'

‘Wait there, I'll see if it's safe to go out.'

Doughty Street.

‘Clara?'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘I am sorry about your mother.' Dr. Harris takes her palm, and places it between his own hands. ‘Perhaps it is for the best? She is at peace now, after all.'

‘I hope so, sir.'

‘And, I think, there is no need to speak of the matter again.'

‘Sir.'

M
ORNING
.

Henry Cotton walks the length of Saffron Hill, past the peculiar arrangements of stands and props that project from the old-clothes establishments. As he walks, a shaft of sunlight briefly penetrates the clouds, and, for a few seconds, the washed-out cottons and tattered silks almost seem bright and gay. Indeed, it strikes him what a remarkable difference the light makes when it disappears once more, as abruptly as it came, and the road reverts to its gloomier aspect.

In truth, his own garments contribute to the drabness, since he has abandoned his decent suit for an old and care-worn example of the mixed-cloth variety, giving himself an altogether shabbier appearance, more in keeping with such humble streets. In fact, no-one spares him a second glance as he comes to the alley that leads to the Three Cups. He does not enter it, however, but looks down at the figure of a man squatting on a doorstep, a board and three thimbles on his lap.

‘Hardly recognised you, sir,' says Tom Hunt, plainly amused by Cotton's appearance. ‘Here, look out,' he whispers, as he notices a group of factory men approaching, ‘now, what we was talking about, see how it's done . . .'

Hunt takes a deep breath, and shouts out along the
street, ‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen. Try your luck, won't you? I've already lost a shilling today. I know my luck's got to turn.'

The men laugh, but seem to be bent on passing by. Hunt, however, addresses himself loudly to Henry Cotton.

‘You, sir. I'll give you one more go, if you like, though you've robbed me blind already.'

Hunt raises his eyebrows conspiratorially. Cotton, realising he has a part to play, mumbles his agreement.

‘Ah, now, how much will you wager, sir? I can't speak for more than a shilling, not when you can double your money.'

‘A shilling then.'

‘A shilling it is!' he exclaims at the top of his voice. A couple of the men going past turn their heads, slowing their pace. Hunt takes a shilling from Cotton and displays a hardened pea between thumb and forefinger, placing it under the middle thimble. In timehonoured fashion he begins to swap one with the other, sliding them in ever-quicker movements around the piece of card. By the time he is finished, three of the factory men stand by Henry Cotton's side, expectantly waiting for the result.

‘Your call, sir,' says Hunt, addressing Cotton.

Cotton deliberates, and picks the middle one. The thimble is slowly raised, to reveal the shrivelled pea beneath.

‘Damn me,' exclaims Hunt, vehemently, taking a pair of coins from his pocket with great show of reluctance, ‘I never knew a fellow with such keen peepers. That's it! I'm finished at this game.'