A Metropolitan Murder (29 page)

‘Now, Liz,' replies her husband, ‘no need to be rude. This gentleman is Mr. Phibbs, who is an acquaintance of Clarrie, and who has just made me an interesting little offer.'

She does not reply, looking sideways at her sister. Clara herself, however, speaks up.

‘You missed the funeral.'

‘Did I? I didn't want to go anyhow.'

‘You knew it was today then?'

‘No. Tom saw something in the papers about . . . well, what happened.'

‘You should have come to her funeral. You owed her that.'

Lizzie shrugs. ‘I didn't know it was today.'

‘You could have asked me.'

‘It's a crying shame,' interjects Hunt. ‘Nasty way to go, that.'

‘Who's asking you?' says Clara, a hint of anger in her voice.

Hunt smiles thinly and glances away. Clara turns and looks at Cotton. ‘I'd better go,' she says, standing up.

‘Clara, wait a moment,' he replies, ‘I will see you home. Mr. Hunt, so do we have an agreement?'

‘If we can settle terms.'

‘I will come back tomorrow, then, as we discussed?'

‘If you like.'

‘Good. I will make it worth your trouble, you have my word.'

Hunt nods and watches Henry Cotton depart, together with Clara White, who studiously avoids his gaze.

‘What was that all about?' asks Lizzie, when the door of the Three Cups has closed behind the pair of them.

‘Apparently, my dear, I am a “character”, and it seems “characters” are at a premium with that young gentleman.'

‘I don't much like the look of him,' says Lizzie Hunt.

Ten minutes later, and Henry Cotton and Clara stand upon the corner of Doughty Street.

‘Don't come any further,' she says, looking warily along the road. ‘They might see you.'

‘And then I would have to say we met by chance here. Would that be so terrible?'

‘Not for you, maybe.'

‘Well, thank you for introducing me to Mr. Hunt.'

Clara looks at him. ‘I owe you that much, sir. I hope you don't live to regret it.'

‘I do not think I will. It is a shame your sister is, well, shy of me. I would like to talk to her too.'

‘I'm sure Tom will fix you a price.'

‘I only wish to talk to her, you realise that, I hope?'

‘If you say so, Mr. Phibbs. Talking won't help her, in any case.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘You didn't see the bruises on her arm, I suppose?'

‘No, I can't say I did.'

‘Well, I best be going.'

‘I hope we shall meet again at least?'

Clara merely turns away.

T
HE
T
HREE
C
UPS
.

The clock upon the wall strikes four in the afternoon and, though it is an inoffensive little timepiece, the landlord of the establishment looks at it with a peculiarly grim expression, as if the passing of the hour only brings him sixty minutes nearer the final judgment of his maker. He is a heavily jowled, snubnosed man, and his features bear a passing resemblance to those of the average British bull-dog. In consequence, his expression rarely wavers from a look of perpetual melancholy, regardless of the object of his contemplation. In this case, however, the diminution of the evening light is under consideration, and, after a good deal of thought, he finally puts a match to a taper and goes out to light the gas-lamp. As he leaves, the words ‘I won't be but a minute' are muttered indistinctly, but with a slight undertone of menace, to no-one in particular. He feels no need to make any more particular statement; he does not say, for instance, that he emphatically does not expect the contents of the whiskey bottle to diminish in his brief absence. None the less, this much, at least, is understood by the few drinkers who loiter in the smoky comfort of the Three Cups. At a corner table, Tom Hunt and his wife are still part of the Cup's clientele,
their conversation having turned back to their encounter with Mr. Phibbs earlier in the afternoon.

‘He was a queer one, though, Tom. What if he's police?' says Lizzie.

‘That young scrub? Hardly, darlin'. You saw him.'

‘Plain clothes,' she replies. ‘What if he's plain clothes? He could be, you know.'

‘Then he would be not plain, but very fine clothes, I must say,' says Tom, amused; he has a drink in his hand and a merry look on his face. ‘The police have worse suits, and worse manners.'

‘I'm not sure,' says Lizzie.

‘Your Mr. Plain-Clothes will do us fine. He talks smart, but he's green as the grass. I'll tap him easy. Your Clarrie's done us a favour, Liz. It's good of her.'

‘If you say so.'

‘Here now,' he says, taking her hand and squeezing it hard, ‘who else is there to say different?'

She bites her lip and looks away. He tuts to himself, and releases his grip.

‘You said for me to tell you when you got ratted,' she says, stealing a glance in his direction.

‘Well, I ain't.'

‘If you says so.'

‘Lizzie, dear, I ain't drunk,' he says, though the words are a little slurred. ‘You know what I am?'

‘What?'

‘Happy. And you know why? Because I smell money.'

‘You think he's got money?'

Tom taps his nose. ‘I can smell it, darlin'. Plenty of it.'

‘That's the beer, I reckon.'

Tom smiles, and swills the dregs of brown liquid around his glass.

‘I don't think he's a peeler,' he says, more contemplatively,
‘but maybe you should go and have a word with your blessed sister anyhow, see what's what. Find out proper how she knows this fellow. Maybe have a good look at that grand mansion what you say she's living in, while you're there. Likely she could put something our way.'

‘Tom,' she says, pleadingly, ‘do I have to? It ain't no mansion, and she was so off with me last time, I told you she was. And she weren't much better today, was she? She hardly said a word. She thinks she's better than the likes of you and me.'

Tom shakes his head. ‘That's just the business with your blasted mother, ain't it? Can't blame her being upset, can you? Just do as you're told,' he says emphatically. ‘You'd do well to keep in with her. And with me and all.'

Lizzie says nothing in reply. Instead, she reluctantly stands up, leaning against the pub's dark green wallpaper, which itself seems to trap something of the ginsodden atmosphere of the place, and is slightly damp to the touch. She looks a little unsteady.

‘Here, how much have you had?' asks Tom, eyeing her suspiciously, wondering, perhaps, if she somehow has acquired a personal supply of liquor.

‘Hardly anything,' she replies, steadying herself. ‘I ain't eaten much, that's all.'

Tom raises his eyebrows, adopting a mocking weary expression, as if to indicate that he cannot understand why any woman of his should declare a want for food. He reaches into his pocket and gives his wife two pennies.

‘Get yourself something.'

Another woman might dash such meagre housekeeping to the ground, and demand more. Lizzie Hunt, however, is not such a female; she merely takes it meekly from her husband's palm.

‘Tom,' she says, as she takes the money, ‘there's something I've been wanting to tell you . . .'

‘I don't want to hear your troubles. Will you just get gone?' he says, ignoring her words, impatiently downing the last of his drink.

She looks at him for a moment, but thinks better of speaking, and turns away. With a nod to the sullen landlord, returned from his lamp-lighting, she walks out into the evening air.

Outside, though the rain has ceased, the alley is still wet with mud, the viscous mixture of dirt and dung that clings to London's side streets, places where no crossing-sweeper would ever ply for trade. Lizzie sighs to herself, hoists her dress above her boots and makes her way expertly along the slippery surface and down onto Saffron Hill. It is an old thoroughfare, and the area surrounding is often invoked as exemplary of the worst sort of slum. Indeed, the street itself is lined on both sides by second-hand sellers of this and that, from clothes to old iron, knives to neckerchiefs. If there is a saving grace to Saffron Hill, it is the gaslights, which can be found upon every corner. They range from the ornate projection of a distant gin palace, bigger even than that which heralds the Three Cups, to simple jets of naked flame that sprout unexpectedly, like fiery buds, from rain-soaked shop-fronts. And it occurs to Lizzie Hunt, as she makes her way along the road, that there is something of beauty in the sight, the fluttering of yellow flame against a soot-black evening sky. But it is because of such fanciful thoughts that she does not hear footsteps splashing upon the pavement behind her, nor pay any attention to the man to whom they belong, until he puts his arm around her shoulders. She gasps in surprise, and looks up.

‘Bill!'

Bill Hunt smiles, touching his cap.

‘What you doing out in such weather?' he says, pulling her closer.

‘You scared me half to death, creeping up on us like that.'

‘Creeping up? You was day-dreaming, I reckon.'

‘Maybe,' she says, shifting a little from his grasp. ‘Have you been following me?'

He winks. ‘What if I have? You need someone to keep an eye on you, I reckon.'

There is the smell of beer on his breath; it is not an unfamiliar smell to Lizzie Hunt, but in this instance it is sufficient excuse for her to step away.

‘You've been drinking, ain't you, Bill? Steering clear of the Cups now?'

He shrugs, and looks a little shame-faced. ‘He's there all the time, and I ain't got enough money to be giving it away.'

She smiles a wry smile. ‘You shouldn't let Tom bully you, a big man like you.'

‘Neither should you,' he says. As he speaks, he abruptly reaches out and touches her face, stroking her cheek with a gentleness that belies his bulky frame.

‘Bill!' she exclaims, pushing his hand away. ‘Pack it in, will you? Besides, he don't bully me. I love him.'

Bill Hunt visibly winces at the words, and he frowns, a look of frustration etched on his face.

‘No you don't,' he says emphatically.

Lizzie sighs.

‘You can go now, Bill. I'll be all right from here.'

‘I'll come with you.'

‘I can't go and see my sister with you in tow, can I? Tom will be so angry if I don't.'

‘Let him try being angry with me, if you likes,' says Bill Hunt, with drunken belligerence.

‘Bill, don't be silly. Just leave me be, will you?'

Bill groans, but reluctantly turns away, muttering something indistinct to himself. He is inebriated enough to stumble as he walks along the pavement, but soon disappears into the distance. Lizzie, on the other hand, once she is certain her unwanted companion has gone, turns the corner and walks in the direction of Doughty Street.

In less than five minutes she is outside the house where her sister is employed. She stands upon the opposite side of the road, surveying the windows. For a moment, she considers whether to try the kitchen door, or if it might be sensible to return at a later hour. Then she can make out a girl busying herself, closing curtains on the first floor. Is it her sister? There is another figure behind her.

Lizzie Hunt stares fixedly at the window as the curtains are drawn. There is an odd change in her posture, a peculiar tension, a look of utter disbelief. Suddenly she turns and flies back along the road, running as fast as she can. With quick, anxious breaths she reaches Gray's Inn in seconds, tears welling in her eyes.