SV - 01 - Sergeant Verity and the Cracksman (28 page)

"You may be the most honest officer in the Detail, and in time you might learn the art of constabulary vigilance," he remarked, "but you ain't a subtle man, Mr Samson, are you?"

"Don't prose so," said Samson, "just tell me what you want doing."

Verity considered this, folding one large red hand into the palm of the other, behind his back. He kept step with Samson until they reached Great Portland Street.

"Tell Mr Croaker," he said at length, "tell him of the two doxies locked up in a whorehouse and likely to be 'orribly murdered. And then tell him about the barred windows in Langham Place."

"And tell him, I suppose, that I let you flash mirrors into the house?" Samson suggested with heavy irony.

"No," said Verity after a littl
e thought, "tell him
you
flashed the mirror. He may form a 'igher opinion of you, in consequence."

That evening, Verity reached Samson's room in Great College Street just after eight o'clock. The little window on to the shabby back court was open, but a stale smell of boiled beef lingered in the folds of the dingy curtains and the sagging chairs.

"Well?" he inquired hopefully.

"No," said Samson, "it ain't well. Mr Croaker knew you was at the back of
it. I ain't half been roasted !
As for the Langham Place 'ouse, you can forget about it. There's a constable on special watch to make certain that people like you don't get the Division into any more complications over it."

Verity's eyes bulged, frog-like, with indignation.

"Look 'ere," he protested, "they ain't going to incriminate themselves with a police officer at the door. Let him be took off!"

"He's there," said Samson, "and that's the end of it."

Verity paused. Then he picked up a brown paper parcel which he had been carrying with him and held it out to his colleague.

"What's this?" asked Samson suspiciously. " 'ave a look and see."

Samson opened the paper wrapping and stared in astonishment. He lifted his face to Verity and it seemed as though his eyes were about to flood with tears.

"A Captain Fowkes," he said, with the faintest tremor.

"I promised to make it good," said Verity, "and here it is."

Samson put the package down and pumped his friend's right hand with prolonged solemnity.

"You didn't have to do that," he said, "bellows and all!"

The camera sat on the table, fully extended, like a black concertina.

"I'm only sorrier than I can say about the old Ottewill," said Verity amiably. "And not one of my portraits came to anything."

"I suppose they didn't" said Samson philosophically. "Suppose?"

"Well, we only brightened the couple you was interested in."

"Interested!" said Verity hotly. "I was interested in 'em all."

This appeared to displease Samson. He said, "I was thinking of washing them plates with collodion, to use again."

"Brighten 'em!" Verity seemed almost to dance with impatience. "Go on! Brighten 'em!"

"They wouldn't have much on. Not by this time."

"Brighten 'em up and see! "

With the moral obligation of a new Captain Fowkes camera still heavy upon him, Samson gave in. Half an hour later, the first of the twenty undeveloped plates which Verity had exposed in the Ottewill folding camera was drawn from its black sheath and the glass bumped heavily into the bowl of pyrogallic acid. Presently Samson drew it out, held it up, and shook his head.

"Black," he said, "black as your hat. And the salts have dried out quite hard.

"Try another," Verity insisted with undefeated eagerness.

Samson tried.

"Hello," he said, "something here! Not much, but something."

A moment later, with a black card behind the glass. Verity was looking at his first shilling portrait of Langham Place, with an anonymous man and girl standing on the steps. Eight plates yielded pictures of some sort. Twelve more were black. Six of the pictures showed men alone, two were of men and girls.

"Could be anyone," said Samson knowledgeably. "You don't always get much of a likeness. Especially not at first."

"They all look like someone or other," said Verity sadly, "but not so that you could be sure. That one looks very like the young subaltern at the railway inquiry that paid for Major Habbakuk's funeral. Only it can't be him."

"Can't it?"

"No. The young gentleman was in Ireland until the day of the Victoria Cross parade. These portraits were took days before that."

"Unless he was lying."

"Yes," said Verity patiently, "but then if he was lying at the inquiry, and this is his portrait, it's plain as a pikestaff why he was lying. Ain't it?"

"Is it?"

"Yes. Well-born young gentlemen with an itch for visiting bawdy-houses ain't in the habit of saying so to their families, nor to public inquiries. Instead, they swear they were in Ireland, or Hindoostan, or Timbuctoo. You ought to know that, Mr Samson."

They cleared away the "brightening" paraphernalia. Then Verity said helpfully.

"I'll lend you a hand to do over those plates that came out black, so's you can use them again."

"Why?" asked Samson, "there ain't no hurry."

Verity shifted his feet awkwardly. He laid a hand on Samson's arm.

"Look, old fellow. I know you only just got your Captain Fowkes camera, but I suppose I couldn't have a loan of it, and a little pyrogallol? Just for tomorrow?"

A great sadness spread over Sergeant Samson's features.

"Can't exactly say 'no'," he remarked bitterly, "can I?"

"You've no notion," said Verity, "how obliged I should be."

Samson nodded gloomily. Then he looked up.

"Only rememb
er," he said coldly, "tomorrow I
shall be the officer that watches Langham Place, and you ain't going to get close enough to that house to take a portrait the size of a penny stamp."

Under Verity's armpits the thick, camphorated serge seemed to cut like a blade into tender flesh. It had even appeared at first that he would never get his peacetime bulk into his old No. I Dress (walking-out) of Her Majesty's Volunteer Rifle Brigade. At his broad waist, he felt the chronic minor discomfort of a fold of skin which seemed to overlap by an inch or more the white blanco'd belt with its dry chalky surface. Yet for all that, in the scarlet tunic with its gold lace, the forage cap, the white webbing, and the three stripes worn proudly on his arm, he looked the perfect picture of a senior infantry sergeant. And there, on his breast, was the little mark, where the Crimea Medal had been pinned.

Catching sight of his reflection in the window of the cab, Verity seemed to look at the face of a vaguely remembered acquaintance. It was remarkable what change could be brought about by the disappearance of a flat, black moustache, and the addition of a forage cap, worn well down and at a slant.

Throughout the drive from Paddington Green, Bella had edged slowly closer towards him on the buttoned plush of the hansom seat, her blue eyes wide with wonder and her plump little hands clasping and unclasping as she almost cooed with excitement at what lay ahead. Verity, huffing and puffing from time to time, managed to keep himself disengaged until they reached the cab rank in Portland Place. There Stringfellow climbed down from his perch and limped round to the door. Bella prudently withdrew to her own corner of the seat.

"Now, Miss Bella," said Stringfellow soberly, "you ain't to forget you're a soldier's daughter and will act as such at all times!"

"Yes, pa," said Bella demurely.

"You may 'ave to defend your honour in a 'ouse of iniquity."

"I don't mind that," said the girl blandly, "not when it's to help Mr Verity rescue a poor, fallen creature from her misery."

Stringfellow cleared his throat huskily. "Well, miss. You're to do as Mr Verity tells you, and not contradict him." "Oh yes, pa!"

And then Stringfellow turned to his other passenger. "Take care of 'er, Verity."

"Trust me, Stringfellow," said Verity with faint reproach. "If the Rifle Brigade can't take care of her, no one can."

Stringfellow adjusted the strap of his wooden leg a little and watched "the soldier and his doxy" amble away towards Langham Place. Verity spotted Samson patrolling the opposite pavement. As a precaution, he put his arm round Bella's waist and turned hrs face down towards her.

" 'ere! " he said a moment later, "it's only pretending! "

"Oh," she said forlornly, "is it?"

"Yes. Now, pay attention. This is the house. Do just as you've been told and don't fear. There's a man called Coggin inside, but he hasn't ever seen me. Another one, called Tyler, I have met in the course of duty, but it was only once, and in the dark."

At the top of the steps, Bella banged the brass knocker with a resolute little fist. It was Coggin who answered.

"I should like a room for an hour," said Bella coquettishly, "if it ain't a inconvenience."

"Oh, should you?" said Coggin thickly. "And 'oo might you be?"

"A 'igh-conditioned lady," said Bella firmly, "and I ain't particular what I pay."

Though it was not in her instructions, she gave a backward nod of her head at Verity, for Coggin's benefit and winked at the bully. Coggin looked again at the girl with her fair hair, plump cheeks and lively eyes. Perhaps he saw in her a future apprentice of the house, who might be worth a small fortune to her masters.

"Two sovereigns hire," he said ungraciously. "And a sov for the maid to dress you afterwards.

"Much obliged," said Bella. "And I can fasten my own stays."

" 'ave it yer own way," said Coggin. "It's still three sovs."

She handed him the coins and he stood back to let them cross the threshold. They followed him up the oval staircase to the shabby second-floor room, where Verity and the search detail had found the middle-aged man with his two adolescent street girls.

"In there," said Coggin, "and don't overstop the hour, a-cos there ain't a lock."

Then Bella and Verity sat side by side on the soiled counterpane, listening to Coggin's footsteps fading down the stairs. Verity began to unlace his military boots.

" 'ave we got to undress in e
arnest?" Bella inquired innocentl
y.

"Only boots, miss. Make less noise walking."

He tip-toed slowly out on to the landing and looked over the polished banister rail. The house lay in silence, but to have called out to a prisoner in the attic rooms would have roused the echoes and Coggin or Tyler as well.

"Keep watch!" he breathed in Bella's ear, and the girl took his place at the rail. Verity moved in silence up the next oval of the staircase and confronted the wrought-iron wicket-gat
e at he top. There was no way th
rough it or over it. Unlike the day of the search, it was now firmly locked. He examined the side where it joined the banister rail, which at least offered a possibility of climbing out above the forty-foot drop of the stair well and round the side.

On that side the banister was divided by a smooth pillar of hollow wood, the thickness of Verity's body, which ran from the marble tiles of the vestibule to the very top of the staircase. The iron post of the wicket-gate was bolted to it. It was possible, in theory for a man to climb round by spreadeagling himself, one foot on the sloping banister rail on either side of the pillar and his hands pressed tight to the sides of the polished trunk itself. Then he would have to balance on one foot for an instant, while he slid himself carefully round the vertiginous drop by pressure of his hands. He might do it if he could banish from his mind the thought of the terrible emptiness drawing him backwards to his death on the marble floor which lay like a deep pit below him.

Verity was well aware that his build was ill-suited to acrobatics of this sort. But he took a deep breath and pulled himself up on to the lower side of the banister rail, where he was still able to clutch one of the iron bars of the wicket for support. Then, hugging the smooth wooden pillar with his other arm, he edged his legs towards it. Reluctantly he let go of the iron wicket and saw, as he moved his arm, the tinted light of the glass dome colouring the marble floor that showed between his feet like water at the bottom of a deep well. His left foot slipped a little on the well-polished rail and he clutched the wooden pillar frantically in an attempt to retain his balance. The blood was pounding in his head and his breath was rasping like a saw in the great stillness.

He braced his chest against the pillar and took a wide, sideways stride with his right foot, finding the far side of the banister but gaining no purchase on it. All his holding power was in his arms, yet to move at all he must release his grip on the pillar. He clung tighter, spreadeagled with his back to the dizzy drop of the stair well. He felt suddenly that he dared not move a limb without falling, and then he heard Bella's frightened whisper.

"Go on, Mr Verity! You must go on!"

The sound of her voice restored his determination. For a second or two he must trust to balance rather than to grip. He released the pillar with his left hand, drew his left foot across, and almost threw himself on to the upper part of the staircase. As he got up, he saw with amazement that Bella had shed her lavender-blue skirt and was standing in long white pantelets on the other side of the iron gate.

"Take these," she said urgently, thrusting the discarded skirts through the bars, "I can't climb with them on!"

"I ain't sure you should try it all," said Verity nervously.

"A soldier's daughter not
do it?" she hissed. "Gammon !
"

With Verity's webbing belt round her waist as a safety harness, and Verity holding her by it, she slipped easily round the pillar. Then, with her skirts over her arm, she fo
llowed him softly along the littl
e passageway towards the attic rooms. He stopped at the first of the two bolted doors and slid back the iron fastenings. When the door swung open, Bella gasped in astonishment.

"Oh!" she said passionately, "Oh, the poor creature!" Putting down the skirts she flew to the naked figure of Jolie
on the bed, who was held by a stout strap pinioning her wrists under the bed itself. Verity slid a leather handled knife from his sheath and cut through the strap. As the naked girl turned on her side, Bella stared with incredulity at the raised welts which marked her bottom and thighs. Jolie looked at her visitors indifferently. "And who might you be?"

"Never you mind introductions, miss," said Verity, "I flashed you a signal yesterday afternoon, and though you mayn't understand the art of the heliograph, it was to tell you you should be got out today."

She curled up against the wall, pulling away from him.

"I tried getting out. Look what I got for it. I'd sooner have me throat cut first than get me arse leathered like that again!"

"You'll get worse than leathered if you don't do as you're told," said Verity, the tone of his voice betraying him. "Bloody jack!"

She sat upright, covering her little breasts with her hands, she was shivering with fright.

"Private-clothes detail," said Verity superfluously.

"I ain't going! I know what you want! Leave me be! Leave me!"

"Don't you find the ghost of Thomas McCaffery walks in this room of a night?" asked Verity gently. Jolie began to weep.

"They'll 'ang me!" she sobbed, "they will! I knew it'd come!"

"You can't be hanged for telling lies in court, miss, 'owever much you may deserve it. And you was only an affidavit."

"Affadavy?"

"You wasn't called as a witness. It wasn't important evidence."

There was a pause.

"Are you sure I couldn't be 'ung?" she asked furtively. Bella intervened.

"Course you can't!" she said knowledgeably, "anyone knows that! Go on, put on those skirts and things."

While the exchange of clothes was taking place, Verity slipped out of the room and drew back the bolts on the other closed door. When he opened the door itself, the stench from the warm little room was insupportable. Ellen Jacoby lay on the mattress in the ragged petticoat which she had lived and slept in for the past two weeks. She had perspired constantly in the hot attic and the sweat had left thick ridges of grime across her forehead and chin. Her eyes failed to focus on Verity, but she mumbled something and sank back on the mattress again. It was out of the question to attempt to take her from the house. Without touching her, Verity swung the end of the bed round so that an oblong of sunlight through the barred window fell on to the mattress and illuminated the girl's body. She lolled there stupidly, one eye badly swollen. From a white-blanco'd haversack, Verity produced a small black box, which extended to reveal itself as Samson's Captain Fowkes camera. In that one small square of the room, thought Verity, there was just enough light to do the job.