A Metropolitan Murder (31 page)

Cotton takes the money that is offered him. No sooner than it changes hands does one of the factory men step forward.

‘Here, I'll have a go,' he says cautiously. Hunt smiles, but shakes his head.

‘Sorry, my friend, this young swell here has cleaned me out.'

It is a few minutes before Henry Cotton, having once more traversed the length of Saffron Hill, returns to the Three Cups, following Tom Hunt's instructions. He finds Tom Hunt seated inside.

‘Made sure they were gone, did you?' asks Hunt.

‘Quite gone.'

‘Good. Better safe than sorry, eh? Even if I don't catch them today, there's always tomorrow. Now, you see how easy a rig it is? He would have put down a shilling, that fellow, mark my words.'

‘And he could not win?'

Hunt answers by retrieving the thimbles from his pocket, placing the pea down under the middle one once more, and rotating their positions at half the speed of his previous display.

‘Now pick one.'

Cotton chooses the thimble to his left. Hunt raises it up to reveal nothing, then likewise with its compatriot in the middle, and upon the right.

‘Now, where do you think it went, that pea?' Cotton smiles, admiring the man's skill. ‘I don't know.'

Hunt raises his left hand, and proudly shows Cotton his thumb. The pea can just be seen under his thumb nail, trapped against calloused skin.

‘What do you reckon to that then?'

Cotton smiles. ‘I have read about the trick, of course,' he says. ‘But it is remarkable to see how it is done. Does it always need an accomplice?'

‘Accomplice? Ain't that a bit grand? It's just a fellow
what jollies things along, that's all. And he ain't always needed, if your luck holds good.'

‘You would lose some money to start with?'

Hunt smirks. ‘Have a look at them coins what I gave you.'

‘They seem all right,' says Cotton, taking them out into the light.

‘You rub them hard against each other.'

‘Ah.'

‘Paint. They're queer as you'll ever find. But there ain't many who will know the difference, not if they think as they've gained something for nothing.'

‘Tell me,' says Cotton, eagerly, examining one of the thimbles, ‘would you do it all again, but slower? I would like to make some notes.'

‘I think I'm in need of a reviver before that,' says Hunt, nodding towards the bar.

‘And there is more you can show me?'

‘I should think so,' says Tom Hunt. ‘Now where's that drink? And then there's the small matter of payment, ain't there?'

E
VENING, IN
S
AFFRON
Hill.

‘Tom, is that you?'

Lizzie Hunt sits, curled up on the bed, alone in Bill Hunt's room.

‘Aye.'

‘What you doing in the dark, anyhow?'

‘I didn't want to waste the matches.'

‘Here,' he says, striking a light, and illuminating the candle beside the bed. His voice is unusually cheerful. ‘Look at this.'

Tom stands in front of her, turning a little to the left, then the right. In the dim light it takes his wife a moment to realise he is wearing a jacket and greatcoat that look smart enough to be new. She sits up, staring at him.

‘Where did you get those?'

‘I bought them off a man in Monmouth Street, not an hour ago. And,' he says, pulling a little bundle from inside his coat, ‘who do you think this is for?'

The bundle falls open to reveal itself as a thick woollen shawl, dyed dark red, wrapped around a silk bonnet of similar hue, slightly crushed by its confinement.

‘Tom!' she exclaims, snatching them from his hands and wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. ‘Where did you get the money?'

‘Let's just say I had a very satisfactory afternoon with your Mr. Plain-Clothes. It was so satisfactory I even forgot that I ain't seen hide nor hair of you since yesterday. Where've you been? I thought you was going to see your sister?'

‘Tom, don't be angry, please.'

‘I ain't,' he replies, looking at her quizzically, ‘not now, anyhow. There's nothing like ready money to lift a man's spirits. What say I treat you to supper?'

She nods, a response containing less enthusiasm than might have been anticipated.

‘Here, have you been crying?'

‘A little,' she replies, ‘and thinking.'

‘Too much of that ain't good for you.'

‘Tom, there's something I should tell you. You'll be good about it, I know you will, but . . .'

‘What?' he says, unease in his voice.

‘I think I'm expecting.'

He does not reply. In the half-light of the candle she merely watches him as he brings his hand to his mouth and tugs fretfully at his lip.

‘Tom, say something. It's your babby, I know it is.' He leans forward, picking up the candle and bringing it closer to her face.

‘Tom?'

‘How far gone are you?'

‘I don't know.'

‘How far gone?'

‘A couple of months?'

‘Good,' he says, breathing a sigh of relief, putting the candle back down.

‘What do you mean, Tom?'

‘You ain't got the brains you were born with, have you?' he says softly. ‘It ain't mine, you stupid sow. How could it be? When you've been giving it up to half of bleeding Clerkenwell?'

‘It is Tom,' she says, standing up, clutching his arm.

‘If you want it, it is.'

He is silent for a moment, then looks at her, his expression almost kindly.

‘What I want, Liz, is for you to put things right. Will you do that for me?'

‘I don't understand,' she says, looking at him blankly.

‘I know a woman, St. Giles's way, who'll do it for two bob.'

‘Do what?'

‘Get rid of it.'

There is silence again, as her mouth drops open. Her eyes fill with tears before she can say a word. Finally, she speaks.

‘I won't.'

Tom Hunt pushes his wife back on to the bed.

‘By God, you little madam, you bleeding will,' he says, loosening the strap of his belt.

‘Clara? What you doing skulking down here?'

‘Leave us, Ally. I'll be all right.'

‘Is there something wrong with you?'

‘Just a twinge, that's all. It'll pass.'

The noises that echo round the yard off Saffron Hill are not unfamiliar to those who live nearby. The raised voices and sound of Tom Hunt's belt strap being brought down upon his wife's unprotected body – such things can be heard many an evening from any number of rooms and lodgings. It is perhaps a little odd that it is not a Saturday, since that is the night most favoured for such domestic disturbances, but not so odd as to make anyone do anything other than raise
their eyebrows and quietly get on with their own business. In any case, it is done with in a matter of minutes, and, if the ragged tribesmen of Saffron Hill follow any etiquette in these matters, it is the tried and trusted prescription not to ‘interfere'.

In consequence, there is no-one banging at the door when Tom Hunt returns his belt to his waist, and leaves his cousin's room. Nor is there anyone but his wife to hear his parting words, to the effect that if the cause of his displeasure is not removed, he will ‘get rid of it' himself. Moreover, since Bill Hunt is still working upon his evening shift, there is no-one who will come and comfort the fragile, bruised likeness of a woman that lies cowering upon the bed, as the solitary candle burns down and finally splutters into nothingness.

How long Lizzie Hunt remains there in the darkness is impossible to say. She sobs for a while and then eventually falls into a disturbed sleep, with dreams of her mother, and her husband, and the spectre of a man whose name she cannot quite place.

‘Clara?'

‘What?'

‘How are you?'

‘I'm sorry, Ally, I was somewhere else.'

‘You look awful pale. Shall I get his nibs, get him to have a look at you? What is it?'

Clara White shakes her head. ‘I felt like this when ma died.'

‘You didn't say anything.'

‘I didn't know what it meant.'

‘Come on, let's go to bed. You'll feel better after some sleep.'