A Metropolitan Murder (35 page)

‘I think, Mr. Phibbs,' says Hunt, downing the remainder of his drink, ‘my head needs a little lubrication before I can do any serious thinking.'

Phillip P. Butterby, sub-editor of the
City and Westminster Press
(‘The Oracle of the Metropolis') looks up in surprise.

‘Phibbs?'

‘That's the name, yes, sir. We wondered if you knew anyone of that name?'

‘Is he in trouble, then, sergeant?'

‘Then you do know a gentleman by that name, sir?'

‘In a professional capacity. I was expecting a set of articles from him for the paper last week, as it happens, but they never arrived. A most unreliable young man.'

‘What were these articles?'

Butterby looks in his desk drawer, and pulls out a sheet of paper.

‘We had a title. Wrote it myself. Ah, here you go. “London's Hidden Deeps: An Exploration of Persons and Places Unknown and Unmourned: by One Who Has Seen Them”.'

‘Very colourful, sir.'

‘Well, such things tickle the public's fancy, sergeant.'

‘I am sure, sir. Now, do you have an address for the gentleman?'

‘Ah. I believe I do not. He was rather a secretive young fellow. I know very little about him. Met him
a few weeks back, gave us a smart little submission on “Our Social Ills”. Told him I wanted more before we might publish, and haven't seen the blessed chap since.'

‘Well, do you expect to see him, sir?'

The sub-editor sniffs. ‘Doubtless he has some masterpiece to finish before then. If I have learnt one thing in my years here, sergeant, it is that you can never trust a literary gentleman to deliver on time.'

‘I see. Perhaps you could give me a full description of the man.'

‘Of course, sergeant. Do tell me, what has he done?'

F
ARRINGDON
C
UT
.

‘Here, Billy boy, slow down, will you?'

The railway foreman, a stout man, his face covered in dirt, shouts out to Bill Hunt, as Hunt pushes past him, red-faced and sweating, with a wheelbarrow full of earth and rubble, almost clipping his leg. Bill scowls at him, making no apology.

‘What?'

‘Mind where you're going. What are you daydreaming about?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Well then, take it slow. You'll do someone a bleedin' injury.'

Bill Hunt nods, and continues. He stops a few yards away by a mound of refuse, the accumulation of a day or two's excavation, and empties the barrow. He does it rather hastily, and the anxious look upon his face suggests he would like to be somewhere else. The foreman watches him from a distance, and shouts out once more.

‘You ain't ill, are you?'

Hunt shakes his head.

Doughty Street.

Clara White hears the noise in the Harrises' study as she ascends the stairs. It is past the dinner hour, and, for a moment, she fancies it is her master who has quietly returned home. But the sound itself is of something metallic clattering off several surfaces, combined with her mistress groaning in frustration. Clara peers round the half-open door, and sees Mrs. Harris sitting upon her husband's chair by his writing desk. She is in the process of picking up a paper-knife from the rug. Once she has retrieved it, Clara watches as she attempts, for a second time, to wedge it into the locked desk drawer in a vain attempt to prise it open. It is a remarkable and almost frantic exertion, but the result is merely that the knife itself is visibly bent out of shape, and the drawer scratched but still sealed tight. Mrs. Harris looks round and notices her maid-servant watching her. The ringlets of dark hair that normally adorn her cheeks appear somewhat disordered.

‘Can you get me something else, White?'

‘Ma'am?'

‘A stronger knife. I imagine Cook has something more durable.'

‘Actually, ma'am, that was why I came up. Cook says dinner won't keep no longer.'

‘I am not hungry.'

‘No word from the master, then, ma'am?'

Mrs. Harris does not answer the question. ‘Will you,' she says emphatically, ‘get me a knife, or must I go downstairs myself?'

‘Sorry, ma'am. I'll go and ask,' replies Clara, backing out of the room.

Mrs. Harris returns to her task.

‘What you playing at, Billy Hunt?'

The foreman's voice booms from outside the workman's hut; Bill opens the door and finds the man in question waiting for him.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘How long you been in there? Having a little nap?'

‘I was looking for a new pick,' he replies, rather sullenly. ‘The shaft on this one's gone, see?'

He holds up a pick-axe with a broken handle, but the spectacle makes little impression on his interrogator.

‘That don't take a half-hour.'

‘I weren't gone a half-hour.'

‘Listen, Bill,' says the foreman, lowering his voice, and clasping Bill Hunt round the shoulder, ‘I know these larks ain't like you. But if you keep this up, I'll soon be having to let you go. And I don't want to lose a good man, see?'

Bill looks at the ground, but nods acknowledgement.

‘Good,' replies the foreman. ‘Now you just get back to work.'

Bill closes the shed door, broken pick-axe still in hand. He can hear a strange pounding in his head; he realises it is his heart beating.

Mrs. Harris cuts an incongruous figure, cutting away at the ornate mahogany with a kitchen knife. It is, in all probability, the most manual labour she has ever carried out in her life. For this reason, though the task is not that difficult, it takes her some minutes. Eventually, however, the little brass lock that fastens the desk drawer is free of the splintering wood. She sits back, looking at the ruined desk, nervously biting her lip. She realises that she has lived with her husband
for thirty years, but only once questioned him on what he keeps locked away in his desk.

‘Confidential papers.'

She pulls out the drawer gingerly in stages, as if it contains some cornered animal, and lays it on the desk, picking out the various notebooks and papers contained within.

‘I
S THIS THE
place?'

Tom Hunt surveys the corner of Meulton Street; it is a quiet side street, not far from the Edgware Road, near enough that the clatter of horse-drawn traffic can still be heard, even though it has gone midnight. Meulton Street, in darkness, has none of the nocturnal bustle and disorder of Saffron Hill, but rather contains a row of unexceptional town-houses, sound but small places, where, Hunt imagines, little of note ever happens, and, doubtless, the daily delivery of groceries is considered a cause for excitement. There is, admittedly, a light in one house, but every other building appears to be in darkness, shuttered and bolted for the night. The property upon which Tom Hunt focuses his attention certainly falls into this category. However, the house in question seems not half so grand as Henry Cotton's description had suggested. In consequence, Tom Hunt gives the appearance, at least, of being almost uninterested in the business at hand. His wife, however, seems anxious, frequently looking left and right, though there is, as yet, no requirement for her to do so. Henry Cotton, if truth be told, seems no less apprehensive, and nervously toys with the buttons on his coat.

‘Is there some difficulty?'

‘I thought it would be bigger,' replies Tom Hunt.

‘Does it matter? Remember, we must take nothing, in any case.'

‘The bigger the place, the less likely you are to be noticed, that's all. We can't go round the back for starters; there ain't even a way round it.'

‘There are stables at the back, I believe, if you go round to the next road.'

‘Well, where there are stables, there are horses. And they don't take kindly to being woke up, in my experience.'

‘True.'

Hunt rubs his chin.

‘Then what,' continues Cotton, ‘shall we do?'

‘It's plain enough, ain't it? Down to the kitchen, unless you fancy the front door's open, that is.'