The Solitary House (16 page)

“You’re a one to talk,” cries another. “I know where you was last night—question is, does yer ’usband?”

“Does he even care, more like!” shouts a third from the safety of a doorway and for a moment or two there’s the risk of a sideshow skirmish to the main event. Kat, however, is not to be distracted; she has a score to settle.

“Come on then—out with it!” she hisses. “You was up to it again wiv my Johnny last night, weren’t yer? Don’t you start lying to me neither, ’cause I can sniff out when ye’re lying soon as look at yer!”

“Go to it, Kat,” yells one of the lads from the door of the gin-shop. “She ain’t even ’alf your size—no contest!”

The other woman is now looking rather flushed about the face. “Bah,” she spits, “who’d a blamed him if he was—I mean, who’d look twice at you, you stinking alley cat! Yer name suits yer and no mistake!”

“Who are you calling an alley cat,” screeches the other, rushing at her rival, and seizing her by her thin dress. “You—you
hussy
!”

The two fall finally to blows to the whistles and cheers of the crowd, and the barking of a number of lean and hungry dogs, who set to in a gutter brawl of their own.

Charles has been standing watching all this time, hoping he won’t have to intervene, but old habits die hard, and even though he no longer has the hat, stock, and belt, he still has the mind of a policeman. Though as he’s about to find out, that can be a troublesome quality without a uniform to back it up.

“Come on, girls,” he shouts, darting between them and endeavouring to push them apart. “That’s enough of that.”

It’s too much to hope that someone else might weigh in and help him—they’re enjoying it far too much—and in the next minute or two he gets as many kicks and scratches as either of the women. But he finally manages to get the sturdy Kat off-balance and push her firmly against the nearest wall. It’s only when he hears the whoops and cat-calls that he realises he has each hand on an extremely large and half-uncovered breast. He steps back at once, pulling away as fast as a scald, feeling the hot blood flood all over his face. Worse still, Kat is not at all offended, indeed seems to have taken quite a shine to him, and is now leaning against his chest and leering in his face in a lop-sided half-slurred way.

“Get home with you, and sober up,” he says curtly. “And think yourself lucky I didn’t call the constable.”

There’s a sting under his eye that argues for a deeper cut than the ones on his hands, but there’s not much he can do about that at the moment: He has no intention of going anywhere near the water in the drinking fountains here. The crowd is starting to disperse, now the show is over, and a few moments later a shuttlecock shoots so close by his face that he feels it skim his cheek. He wheels round but the children are too quick for him and all he sees are dirty heels disappearing down a side street. He’s starting to feel irrationally thwarted; this is not how this morning was supposed to be going. He had a clear logical plan, and now everything’s muddled and confused. He stands for a moment contemplating the seven public-houses that ring this square. Two of the hard-faced women in the crowd are about to disappear into the Clock House, and he hesitates a moment before following them in.

Once he finally attracts his attention, this first landlord is not unduly taciturn, but what Charles hasn’t allowed for is the sheer quantity of drinking-dens in this district, and the extraordinary lack of curiosity their owners seem to share about even their most regular customers. If the man he’s looking for really is a tanner, and lodges anywhere near here, surely someone must know who he is, but four hours and four times that many inns later Charles is nowhere nearer a name. But perhaps his luck is about to change.

He’s left the last till last, because he knows from experience that it’s the best this place can boast, and therefore—to his mind—rather out of reach for a common workman. Right on the margins of the Dials and everything the Dials is not: bright, gleaming, gaudy, and pricey. One of the largest and handsomest gin-shops in the West End of town, glittering with mirrors and plate glass and brazen with gilt. As Dickens himself found when he visited the same establishment, every window shouts its advertising slogan—
The Out and Out, The No Mistake, The Good for Mixing, The Real Knock-me-down
—and every wall holds its ‘Genuine Endorsement’ for an obscure sub-species of gin we’ve now long since forgotten, including some—like Cream, Honey, and Butter—which seem to be trying to sell themselves on the basis that they might just be good for you. One or two even claim to be ‘medicated’, though how, and with what, they do not say. When Charles gets to the door he can hear the drone of voices even before he pushes it open. It’s lunchtime now, and trade is brisk. The inside is—if anything—even more dazzling than the outside, with a long gleaming counter, a spacious saloon (crowded nonetheless), and lines of green casks behind brass rails labelled with names like
Old Tom
and
Samson
. On display behind the bar are an array of glossy spirits bottles, and two well-upholstered young women for whom the term
buxom wench
would have to be invented, if it didn’t already exist. They look remarkably similar, these two, right down to the red-and-black-striped bodices and artfully arranged beauty spots, and they’re clearly
as adept at dispensing drinks as they are at repartee, as the raucous laughter of the group of young men leaning on the bar proves.

“Put another nice warm rum in there, would yer, Lily,” says one with a wink, “and if you want to put yer nice warm hands somewhere else in the meantime, then I’m sure I could come up wiv a few helpful suggestions.”

“That’s enough of your filth, Harry Murray—if Mr Dudley hears talk like that he’ll ’ave you out on your ear’ole soon as look at yer.”

She sounds annoyed, but she’s blushing all the same.

“Aw—you wouldn’t tell on me, would yer, Lily?” he smirks. “Not when I’m so good to yer.”

He reaches out to pinch her cheek, but she’s too agile for that (or perhaps she just knows this routine all too well already) and ducks away in plenty of time, to the vast amusement of the rest of the lads. They’re by far the gayest and best-dressed posse in the place, for despite the gorgeousness of the surroundings most of the clientele are decidedly down-at-heel. There are three washerwomen on a bench by the door, a group of bricklayers (to judge by the dust) clustered at the far end of the bar, and two old men who’ve drunk themselves maudlin, leaning against each other and managing thereby to stay reasonably upright, at least for the moment. There’s a pinched-faced woman in a tattered great-coat stained with fish-scales, waiting quietly for one of the full-blown barmaids to fill her little flask, and two or three wan-looking children who can barely reach up high enough to put their bottles on the bar. One of the hawkers Charles saw in the street an hour ago is now touting his boiled trotters to the assembled drinkers, though it seems most of them would rather spend their penn’orth on something rather stronger. Charles scans the dingy crowd and finally locates the landlord, who has a fire of his own in a cosy snug, where he can keep an eye on his girls without getting caught in the draught from the door, which swings open every few seconds, leaving most of the room as cold as the street outside.

Charles orders as small a dram of rum as he can get away with. He’s already had rather more than he should, but no self-respecting landlord is going to waste his time on a man with no drink in his hand. The fellow here looks affable enough, with his puckered red face, and mustard whiskers, and tight round belly. Charles edges through a gang of loud labourers who seem undecided whether to clap each other on the back, or clatter a fist into their faces. They’ve clearly been at this some time, and show no sign of coming down on one side or the other for a good while yet, though a gambling man would probably bet on their level of aggression rising in reasonable proportion to the amount of drink they put away.

“Mr Dudley?” says Charles, with a silent acknowledgement to his unwitting informant behind the bar.

The landlord looks up and takes his pipe out of his mouth. “Who’s asking?”

He’s not particularly hostile, just curious.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions. If you have time.”

This may well strike you as rather abrupt, given everything I just said about the way Charles has been going about his business so far this morning, but remember that this is a very superior establishment, and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to discover very much useful here. Frankly, he just wants to get it over with.

Dudley looks him up and down.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? A while back. I’ve a good memory for faces.”

Charles flushes, caught off-guard. It’s such a long time since he patrolled the streets—either here or anywhere else—that he thought he was safe from embarrassing recognitions. This was never really his patch, after all, and no-one else he’s spoken to this morning showed any sign of knowing who he was. Out of the uniform he’s just another punter; in it, just another rozzer.

“Well—” he begins.

“That’s right,” interrupts Dudley, “you were with that other fellow—Wheeler,
is it? Little feller—carrot-top. I remember now—he used to come in ’ere a lot at one time. Saw you in the street with him once, nibbing a couple of dippers. That was you, weren’t it?”

No point in dissimulation now. Charles—like those pickpockets—has been well and truly collared.

“I’m not in the police any more. I’m working on my own.”

The man looks sceptical. “I’ve heard
that
one before. So what do you want with me—or my shop for that matter?”

“Nothing,” says Charles quickly. “At least nothing I’m aware of. I’m looking for someone who may lodge nearby. Someone who could well drink in here.”

Dudley snorts. “You’ve got your work cut out—hundreds come through these doors.”

“I know, but you might know this one. I think he works in Bermondsey. In the tanneries.”

The man’s face does not change, but he drops his eyes and looks away. Charles knows what that means.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you. Who is it?”

He spoke too eagerly, and Dudley draws back. “I’m not sure as I should say any more. Not to you. You haven’t even said what this is about.”

Charles shrugs, faux-nonchalant. “Suit yourself. Though there could have been something in it. For you, that is.”

Dudley looks at him narrowly. “Money, you mean?”

“Could be. If you lead me to the right man.”

“How much?”

Charles does a quick mental calculation. He needs to offer enough to loosen the man’s tongue, without making him suspect how important the information really is.

“A thicker?”

Dudley’s eyes widen. A sovereign is no poor return for a few minutes’ idle chat. Idle chat, moreover, that’s very unlikely to have any disagreeable personal repercussions.

“Well,” the landlord begins slowly, “I’m not saying as he’s definitely
your man—I only saw him a few times—but there was a tanner in ’ere a few weeks ago. Got bawling drunk and had to be hauled out by the pot-boy.”

“Has he been in since?”

“Once. Twice maybe.”

“Do you know his name?”

Dudley shakes his head. “Can’t help you there.”

“And that’s it?” snaps Charles. “That’s all you have?”

“Like I said, I only saw him a few times—”

Charles makes to get up—“If you think I’m parting with good money for that”—but Dudley holds him back, “Hold on, hold on,” he says. “I may not be able to tell you
who
he is, but I’m pretty sure I know
where
he is.”

“You mean—”

Dudley smiles knowingly. “Absolutely. The pot-boy didn’t just haul him out. He hauled him
home
.”

NINE

Bell Yard

T
HE POT-BOY IN
question seems sharp enough—an active curious sort of a lad whose wits have been filed so fine by life’s knocks and scrapes as to earn him the general nickname ‘Razors’—but when he leads him to what turns out to be a dark and boarded-up house in St Clement’s Lane, Charles’s first thought is to turn on the boy and ask him what he’s playing at. The ramshackle building flutters with bills for penny-theatres, law-writers, and dancing-schools, and all the windows are broken. No-one lives here, and clearly no-one has, for a good long time.

Razors is already turning to leave when Charles seizes him by the ear and jerks him back. “I thought you said you brought the man here?”

“Oi—that hurts! And it’s God’s ’onest truth. I took ’im right ’ere. That’s where ’e lived.”

“Don’t mess with me, lad—look at the place.”

“Ain’t my problem, mister. This is where ’e lived and this is where I brought ’im. It weren’t boarded up then. He lived up there—up the
back stairs. Took me ’alf an ’our to drag ’im up there, and no tip neither.”

He’s now looking rather pointedly at Charles, who gives him tuppence and shoves him on his way. He gets no reply when he knocks on the doors either side, but there’s a small butcher’s shop two doors down, with the gas already lit and a crowd of women with knotted hair and torn shawls standing in front of it, contemplating the slabs and hunks of rancid greenish meat. There are no cuts here Charles recognises; all that can be said for it is that it’s meat, and it’s just this side of edible; even then it’s more than most of the women can afford.