Shadows of the Workhouse (21 page)
Read Shadows of the Workhouse Online
Authors: Jennifer Worth
“I’ve thought of that,” I said. “Perhaps we could take the jewels out of her room and hide them.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Trixie was always too sharp for my liking. “Then you’d be an accessory.”
“What’s that? I thought accessories were things like gloves and handbags.”
“Accessories are the law. You can be an accessory before the fact, or an accessory after the fact. It doesn’t matter if it’s before or after; either way you’d be in for it.” Trixie pushed the dice to her neighbour as she spoke.
Chummy shook the dice. “I’d say she’s got to the root of the matter. If the jewels were in your possession, the Robert Peelers would say you’d egged the old lady on. Bally awkward situation, and you’d be as sore as a gumboil. No. We’ve got to prove that she didn’t know what she was doing.” Chummy moved her piece, but decided not to buy.
Trixie jumped on it in a flash. “I’ll buy that. Come off it. That old girl’s as sharp as a razor. She’s got it all weighed up. No one suspects a nun, so she’s in the clear – that’s what she thinks.”
“I’m not so sure.” Cynthia moved her piece. “The Angel Islington. I’ll buy that. I like the blue properties. I think her mind is definitely disturbed.”
“Don’t give me that one,” Trixie snapped. “She’s as crafty as they come. Look how she manipulates everyone to get her own way. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Another visit from the police would do her good. I’ll put a house on each of my properties please, Bank.”
Chummy was Bank and sorted out the high finance. “Well, I can’t agree, old sport. I think another visit from the police would give her a stroke.”
“Of course it would.” I threw the dice so hard they overshot the board and landed on the floor. “The police will never know. I’ll see to that.”
Cynthia, who, as the room-owner, had the right to sit on the only chair, retrieved the dice. “I have a feeling it’s not as easy as that. You have to tell ‘the whole truth and nothing but the truth’.”
“That’s only in court,” I said, “and we’re not in court . . . yet. Park Lane – I’ll buy that.”
“You’re not thinking straight, idiot, I’ve already got Mayfair. It won’t do you any good. Anyway, if you end up in court giving evidence, you’ll have to tell the whole truth.”
I decided not to buy Park Lane and Trixie gleefully snapped it up.
“If you don’t, it’s called ‘obstructing the course of justice’. I’ve heard my cousin talk about that.”
It was Chummy’s throw. “I’ve heard of that one, too. It’s the same sort of thing as ‘withholding evidence’, which is a serious offence. I say, this pudding’s no end good. Is there any more, madam hostess?”
“No, but I’ve got some biscuits here in my wardrobe. Just let me move the chair and I’ll get them. How about a coffee?”
Trixie shook her head. “I’ve got a much better idea. My brother bought me a couple of bottles of sherry for Christmas; he thought I needed cheering up, stuck in a dreary hole like a convent. We’ll have them now. It will help the discussion. We’ve got to come to a sensible decision about this. Get your tooth mugs, girls.”
Trixie slid off the bed and Chummy remembered some chocolates and crystallised ginger left over from a previous occasion. I ran down the passage to get my tooth mug and some figs and dates, to which I was partial.
We settled down again around the Monopoly board, which had wobbled with all the movement on and off the bed. After some argument about whose piece was where, and which houses were on whose properties, we poured the sherry, took handfuls of food, and continued the game.
Trixie was clearly winning. She had houses on Park Lane and Mayfair, and the dice fell in her favour. Everyone seemed to stop there and had to pay rent. Groans all round. The sherry slid down nicely, assisted by all the sweet food. Chummy made a general point that had been in all of our minds.
“Where do you think, the old lady got all those sparklers from? I say, this sherry’s going down a treat. I always say sherry tastes so much better out of a tooth mug than one of those bally little glasses, what? Perhaps the dregs of toothpaste in the bottom of the mug give it that special flavour. I did a cordon bleu course, you know, but the teacher never mentioned that. If I ever go back there, I’ll recommend it. Hell’s bells! Go back five places – that puts me in jail!”
Trixie giggled. “We’ll get Sister Monica Joan in jail before the night’s out. Sorry! Sorry! Don’t take on so. Just stirring it up. Have another sherry!”
Cynthia filled my mug. “Yes, where did she get it from? There’s nowhere in Poplar that sells expensive jewellery.”
Trixie had the answer – inevitably. “I reckon she’s been going to Hatton Garden. It’s not far from here, only a short bus ride. A pious-looking old nun going around the shops and warehouses. Easy. No one would think to suspect her, the wicked old thing.”
“She’s not wicked,” I shouted. “Don’t you dare. She’s—”
“Now, now, you two. My turn and I collect £200 for passing Go. Come on, Bank. Wake up. I want my money.”
Chummy jerked herself upright. “I’m beginning to think the police have to be told because of this business of withholding the course.”
“The what?”
“The course of evidence, of course.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“Yes I am. You’re not listening.”
Cynthia was carefully tucking her £200 down her bra. “I think you mean the course of justice.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No you didn’t. You said the course of evidence.”
“Well, same thing, and it’s an offence.”
“What is?”
“Holding the evidence, old bean. And it’s not allowed.”
“You mean withholding the evidence.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No you didn’t. You said holding it.”
“Look here, this is going round in circles. Anyway it’s my turn.” Trixie picked up a card from the pack. “So you reckon we’ve got to get the police in again?”
“Yes, because of obstructing, old thing.”
“No you don’t. You want to get the police in again because you fancy that policeman.”
“I don’t. Don’t you dare.” Chummy gulped down her sherry and went bright red.
“Yes you do. You’re sweet on him. I’ve seen you go all coy and giggly when he comes to the house.”
“You’re a regular shower. You’ve no right to come out with whoppers like that, you gumboil, you.”
Poor Chummy looked as if she were on the verge of tears, so Cynthia came to her rescue.
“You’re just stirring it up again, Trixie. You haven’t looked at your card yet. Turn it over.”
Trixie did so, and gave a howl of anguish. “I’m ruined. I’m bankrupt. This isn’t fair. Make repairs on all your houses. I shall have to sell. Give me another drink. I’ve got to think about this one.” She took another mug of sherry and another chocolate.
“I’ll take Mayfair and Park Lane off you at half-price,” I said magnanimously.
“No you won’t. I’m not selling at half-price.”
“You’ve no option.”
“That’s what it is – obtion.” Chummy was obviously thinking deeply, as she gazed into her mug. “Obtion – the course of justice. And it’s an obtion, and you mustn’t do it.”
“There’s no such thing as an obtion.”
“Yes there is, and you mustn’t obtion the justice of the course. I know it. My father told me. Someone he knew obtioned the justice course, and I can’t remember what happened, but it happened.”
“Well thanks for nothing. A lot of help, I’m sure. Look, I’m going to auction these. Does anyone want these priceless properties? I’ll take eighty per cent. You won’t get a better chance. All right then, seventy per cent, I’m not going to sink to half price, I’ll have to do something else.”
At that moment Chummy’s legs got the cramp. They were too long to be kept in a confined space, and with a groan she stretched out, knocking the board for six.
“Well, that’s that,” said Trixie with satisfaction. “I’m the clear winner.”
“No you’re not. You haven’t made repairs to your houses.”
“I don’t have to.”
“Yes you do.”
“Now don’t you two start that again. Help me to clear up the board and the pieces. Chummy doesn’t look as if she’s going to be much help. There’s a drop left in the bottom of this second bottle. Do you want to share it between you? I’ve had enough.”
We did. Cynthia was shaking Chummy.
“Look, this is my bed. You go to your own bed.”
Suddenly Trixie grabbed Cynthia’s arm. “Oh my God! I’ve just had a dreadful thought.”
“What?” we said in chorus.
“Chummy’s on first call tonight.”
“Never! Oh no! What’s to be done?”
The three of us gazed at Chummy stretched full length, smiling sweetly and fast asleep on Cynthia’s bed. We looked at each other, and looked again at the sleeping form.
Cynthia spoke. “I’ll take first call tonight. There’s nothing else for it. Trixie was out last night, so I’ll take it if a call comes in. I’ve had less than you two anyway. We might as well leave Chummy here, and I’ll sleep in her room. We must throw away these bottles and open the windows to let in some fresh air, in case one of the Sisters comes up here tomorrow. Go and open the windows on the landing, at both ends, and in the bathroom. We’ve got to get a good draught blowing through.”
Thankful for Cynthia’s common sense I went to open the windows. The cold air hit me like a pain, and my head began to reel. The window flew out of my grasp and struck the brickwork. Cynthia came up and secured it.
“I’m going to wash these mugs and wash out the bottles too, to get rid of the smell. You had better go to bed. You’ll be on duty at 8 a.m. Don’t listen for the telephone. I’ll take any calls.”
She went to Chummy’s room and I to mine. For several nights I had lain awake, but that night I slept like a baby.
AUNT ANNE
As I entered Sister Monica Joan’s room she glared at me. “I’ll murder that fellow one of these days. You see if I don’t. The dirty old goat!”
Strong language for a reverend Sister. It was intriguing, but I knew from experience that straight questions seldom got straight answers. However, if I entered Sister Monica Joan’s world and, as far as possible, relived it with her, she would often recall whole scenes from long ago. So I said, “He’s always up to something. What is it this time?”
“You’ve seen him at it?”
I nodded, and waited.
“He’s always there. Lah-di-dahing around the factory gates in all his finery – silk shirt, bow tie and gold watch chain. I’ll give him a silk shirt – I’ll strangle him with his silk shirt, the old rascal.”
This was going to be rich. She needed no prompting to continue. “Those poor girls in the shirt-making factories. They are the lowest paid of all the workers, and they work the longest hours, too. There’s a grass bank outside the factory gate – you know the one I mean?” I nodded. “Well, he stands there in all his finery, twirling his moustache, and as the girls come out of the gate he throws coins, mostly copper, some silver, up the bank towards the wall, shouting. ‘Scramble, girls, scramble for it.’ And up the grass the girls go, shouting and pushing and laughing. There might even be a fight to get at a silver sixpence. The dirty old man.”
I was beginning to wonder why such a philanthropic act should provoke such vitriol.
Sister Monica continued even more angrily. “It’s degrading them. Those girls wear no knickers, you know. How can they afford such a luxury? That’s what he’s after, the debauched old satyr. And when they are menstruating they have no protection. The blood just runs down their legs. The smell is supposed to be enticing. I don’t know, perhaps it is. But it’s degrading for those poor girls who scramble for a penny that will buy them a bun or a drop of milk. I can’t bear to see women exploited in that way.”
I finally understood what she was on about. “But women have always been exploited for their sexuality.”
“Yes, I suppose so, and always will be, I fear. And no doubt some of them want to be. I dare say half the girls scrambling up the bank and sliding down with their skirts around their necks know what they are doing. But it pains me to see them degraded.”
She did not continue with her thoughts, but asked me to go and see Mrs B about tea, which I did. When I returned to the room, Sister Monica Joan was not there. The jewels had been uppermost in my mind for days, so quietly I looked into the bedside cabinet. The drawer was empty.
As she had made no reference in the past few days to my earlier discovery, I had assumed that she had forgotten all about it. Perhaps I had fondly imagined that she had forgotten about the jewels. But now I knew she had not forgotten a thing and had taken the precaution of hiding them elsewhere. But where? Had she tucked them into her mattress? She was quite capable of cutting a small hole, stuffing them in and sewing it up neatly. No one would ever know.
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