Carver's Quest (15 page)

‘We found this.’ Adam showed the boy the scrap of cloth. ‘We were wondering if there is some connection between your employer and this lodging house in Golden Lane.’

‘Might be. Or might not be.’ Simpkins gulped at his gin and made a smacking noise of appreciation, like a wine connoisseur savouring a particularly fine vintage. Walter and his two
companions had moved away from the bar and taken seats by the window where they continued to talk cheerfully of whitebait and champagne.

‘Does your employer have some secret that we should know?’ Adam asked.

‘Well, if it is a secret, I ain’t being paid to keep it one.’

‘So, enlighten us.’

‘I might like to be paid to tell it, though.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ Adam acknowledged. ‘But, if you recall, a half crown has already passed from my possession into yours. A

half crown is a substantial sum of money. It should buy a deal of information.’

‘That was for letting you into old Jinks’s office. I reckon this is a whole new transaction.’

‘Well, Mr Simpkins, I’m sorry to have to say that my friend and I’ – Adam gestured towards Quint who was glaring at the young clerk with a peculiar ferocity –
‘we reckon otherwise. We reckon it’s all part of the same transaction.’

Simpkins glanced at Quint and decided against prolonging the discussion.

‘All right, guv’nor. Worth asking but no offence intended. A man’s got to make his way in the world, ain’t he? Ain’t nobody going to help him but himself, I
reckon.’

‘I see you are a disciple of Mr Smiles, Mr Simpkins.’

Simpkins looked puzzled.

‘A gentleman who is an advocate of self-help.’

The clerk still looked puzzled. ‘A man’s got to help himself,’ he repeated.

‘Precisely. And the way you can help yourself in the present circumstances is to tell me all you know about Jinkinson and this Bellamy’s Lodging House.’

‘Don’t know much.’

‘Nonetheless, you can tell me what you do know. Has Jinkinson spent time there? Or does he own the place? Does it have any connection with the young lady, Ada, whom you mentioned
earlier?’

Simpkins held up his hands as if to ward off the questions. ‘I tell yer, I don’t know much. All I know is Jinks has a few hole-ups. Places where he goes when people wants to find him
and he don’t want to be found.’

‘And this Bellamy’s is one of them?’

‘I reckon so. Last year, round about July time, he went missing just like he done now. Some lawyer from the Temple was interested in a-talking to him. On account of Jinks’d took a
guinea from him to track down a gent. And then gone and done bugger all but drink it.’

‘And your master chose to lie low for a while?’

‘ “Simpkins,” he says to me one morning, “it’s time for me to go to ground.” And that’s the last I sees of him for a week. “But,” he says
before he goes, “a letter addressed to The Count at Bellamy’s Lodging House, Golden Lane would likely find me.” ’

‘The count? Who is the count?’

‘Search me. Never seen any kind of count round the office, that’s for sure.’

‘And did you need to make contact with your master during the week he was gone?’

The clerk shook his head. ‘Nah. The lawyer gent comes round a few times, swearing like a bargee and threatening ’e’d ’ave the peelers on us. But I reckoned old Jinks
wouldn’t want to know about that. Anyways, ’e come back before the week’s out.’

‘Did the lawyer ever have his money returned?’ Adam asked, curious to know what had happened.

Simpkins gave a short laugh. ‘You’re joking, ain’t you? A guinea? Jinks’d have sawed his own leg off rather than give a guinea back. The lawyer gent still comes round
once ev’ry month or so. A-shouting and a-yelling. But it’s more of a game now, if you see what I mean. ’E knows his guinea’s gone.’

Simpkins downed his drink and held the glass up to the light coming in through the window, angling it this way and that as if searching for one small droplet of liquor that might still be
lurking within it. Adam turned to the barman and ordered another tumbler of gin for the young clerk.

‘What about this young woman Ada you mentioned?’

‘Ada’s all right. For a tart. It’s her mother what needs the watching. She’d have the hair off a man’s head if she could get a penny a pound for it.’

‘Her mother?’

‘Fat old witch,’ said Simpkins unchivalrously. ‘Round the office all the time, poking and prying.’

‘So Ada’s mother was looking to make money out of your master?’

Simpkins laughed. ‘Do dogs bark at cats? Course she was.’

‘You could see that she was intent on extorting as much cash from Mr Jinkinson as she was able?’

‘Course I could.’

‘And you said nothing to him?’

The clerk shrugged. ‘Weren’t much I
could
say. If the old fool wants to make ducks and drakes of his sovereigns and throw them all away, then he ain’t goin’ to
stop just cos I’ve said something.’

‘Was your master not aware himself of how venal Ada’s mother was?’

Simpkins looked at Adam in bewilderment.

‘Couldn’t ’e see she was out to fleece him?’ Quint interpreted.

‘He ain’t going to see it,’ the clerk said. ‘He’s too busy casting sheep’s eyes at Ada. Anyways, he has as much idea about women as a donkey has of
Sunday.’ The clerk spoke with the assurance of a practised and worldly observer of the opposite sex. ‘I tell you, between them they had old Jinks’s ballocks in a cloven stick. And
the old hag at least was out to squeeze ’em. But ’e couldn’t see it.’

* * * * *

‘Maybe this girl Ada
has
been hawking her mutton on the streets. There’s plenty what’s forced to do it. On the other hand, she might not be a regular
tart at all, whatever the boy says. She might be just some dollymop out for a good time. With an older gent what pays her way for her.’ Quint had settled himself at one of the tables in a
chophouse on Chancery Lane. He looked across at his master who had lowered himself onto the bench opposite him.

‘Who can tell? She may be a veritable Thais, for all we know,’ Adam remarked. ‘Although old Jinkinson makes a poor Alexander, it has to be said. But it’s most likely that
she does sell herself somewhere on the streets.’

He gestured to the waiter, who approached and took their order.

‘Perhaps we should look to find this woman,’ he continued. ‘The boy Simpkins may be correct. Jinkinson may have gone off with her.’

‘We’ve lost old Jinks already. Now we’re going to find a tart?’ Quint sounded disbelieving. ‘’Ow we going to do that? London’s full of
’em.’

‘Agreed. The Cyprian corps is everywhere. If a man walks from the top of the Haymarket to the top of Grosvenor Place, he will receive two dozen invitations to stray from the path of virtue
in the course of five minutes.’

‘Well, Ada ain’t likely to be among those doin’ the invitin’ in the ’aymarket. More chance she’s in some backstreet case-house somewhere.’

‘You know best, Quint. I shall leave the job of finding her to you. I mean it as no insult when I say that you know the backstreets of the city better than I do. You should consider it as
a compliment.’

Quint’s expression suggested that he thought it a backhanded compliment at best. His eyes brightened when the waiter materialised silently at the table with their drinks. Quint raised his
tankard immediately to his lips and took a long pull on it. Then he placed it with a flourish on the table.

‘That hit the mark,’ he said. ‘And what’ll you be doing while I’m off in search of a tart?’

Adam leant back on the bench and surveyed the chophouse. It was not yet midday and there were few people in the place. Three men were huddled over cups of coffee at the table next to them,
conducting a conversation in conspiratorial whispers. Another man at a corner table – a junior clerk of some kind, judging by his dress – looked up briefly from his copy of
Reynolds’s Weekly
and then returned to his reading.

‘I shall endeavour to find out more about the mysterious Mr Creech. He is at the heart of everything that has been most puzzling in the events of the last few weeks. Who exactly was he?
What mark did he make upon the world before his untimely death in that Herne Hill villa?’

‘And ’ow you proposing to do that exackly? You didn’ ’av’ much luck the other day. Even his servants knew bugger all about ’im.’

‘True enough.’ Adam smiled. ‘I am not entirely certain how I am to put flesh on Creech’s poor dead bones. But I think I might begin by making enquiries of the men named
in his notebook. He knew something of them. Perhaps they know something of him.’

‘The nobs, you mean.’

‘Sir Willoughby Oughtred. And Lewis Garland and James Abercrombie.’

‘’Ow you going to get to speak to them?’

‘They are all MPs.’ Adam turned over in his mind the possibilities of approaching the three men in the Houses of Parliament. But would this be a suitable setting in which to ask them
questions they might be uncomfortable answering? Perhaps less formal surroundings would be better. A thought struck him. ‘We also know that Oughtred, Garland and Abercrombie are members of
the Marco Polo. I wonder if Mr Moorhouse might be able to put me on the right track. He spends most of his waking hours in the club. And many of his sleeping ones, too. He knows
everyone.’

The clerk at the corner table had finished reading his
Reynolds’s
and was making his way towards the exit into Chancery Lane. He raised his hat as he passed them. Adam returned
his polite salute.

‘And how will you begin to look for Jinkinson’s
femme fatale
?’ he asked, turning back to his manservant.

‘Maybe I should go back and have another word with that little ink-spiller in Poulter’s Court. Put the fear of God up him. He might know something more about her.’ Quint had
clenched his fists and was examining them as if confirming their ability to put the fear of God up people.

The waiter returned with their plates of food. He banged them down on the table like a military drummer striking his instrument and walked off without a word.

‘Simpkins?’ Adam dismissed the idea. ‘No. He’s told us all he knows.’

‘Just a thought. For half a farthing, I’d be happy to tan that young rip’s arse.’ Quint unrolled his fists and picked up his knife. He poked suspiciously at the meat on
his plate. ‘This is thin flank, by the looks of it.’

‘Do stop complaining, Quint. We’re not at Simpson’s or Verrey’s. We’re in a Chancery Lane chophouse. I had no idea you were so difficult a man to please at
table.’

‘I ain’t.’ As if to prove he wasn’t, Quint began to shovel meat and mashed potato into his mouth at an alarming rate. He spoke between mouthfuls. ‘I just likes to
see some sign the meat come off a fat cow, not a scraggy dog.’

‘I am sure the neighbourhood curs are safe enough from cook’s attentions.’ Adam picked up his own knife and fork and began to prod half-heartedly at the food. ‘Although
this is indeed an enigmatic dish the waiter has flung before us. Is it beef? Or is it pork?’

‘Maybe neither. It tastes better ’n it looks.’

‘It is a relief to hear you say that. Although, it would be difficult for it to do otherwise.’ Adam took a mouthful of the food, grimacing slightly as he did so. He chewed and
swallowed with the air of a man undertaking an unpleasant but unavoidable duty. ‘But you have still not answered my question about looking for Ada.’

Quint ceased eating just long enough to lay down his fork and tap the side of his nose with his forefinger.

‘Ain’t no need for you to worry about that. It might take a few days, but I’ll find her.’

‘Very well, I bow to your superior knowledge. We shall meet back at Doughty Street at six. And let us both endeavour to avoid the eagle-eyed vigilance of Mrs Gaffery when we return there.
I have no wish to endure another cross-examination of the kind she has been undertaking so regularly of late.’

I
n the smoking room of the Marco Polo, the modern world with all its noise and bustle and distraction was kept firmly at bay. Deep in the embrace
of one of its enormous leather chairs, Mr Moorhouse seemed to have entered a kind of tobacco-induced trance. On entering the room, Adam thought at first it was empty. Only when he noticed smoke
signals arising from a distant corner and followed them to their source did he find his man.

Ah, Carver. You’ll join me, I trust?’ Mr Moorhouse said, coming back to consciousness and waving to the seat opposite his own.

Adam sank into its enveloping depths and lit a cigarette. His companion seemed to have no desire for conversation. He was happy enough just to rest in silent harmony amidst the swirling clouds
of smoke. Several minutes passed. Adam finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in one of the vast brass ashtrays the Marco Polo provided for its members. He began to suspect that Mr Moorhouse,
although his eyes remained open, had fallen once more into a state of transfixion.

‘The Glorious Twelfth,’ the old clubman said suddenly.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Moorhouse?’

‘Just thinking about the shooting. Glorious Twelfth. Start of the grouse season and all that. Exactly two months from today.’ Mr Moorhouse took a long pull on his cigar and blew
smoke in large plumes towards the ceiling. ‘Never been much of a one for shooting,’ he continued. ‘Don’t seem to have the eyes for it. Last time I went out with Oughtred on
his moors, I shot one of the beaters.’ He paused and watched his smoke drifting through the air. ‘Well, winged him. Fellow was awfully good about it. I gave him a guinea and he said no
more.’

His sporting recollections seemingly at an end, Mr Moorhouse fell silent. Now that the old man had himself referred to Oughtred by name, Adam was quick to seize the opportunity to introduce the
subject that was uppermost in his mind.

‘You will remember a gentleman named Creech at the Speke dinner, Mr Moorhouse.’

Adam was far from sure that his elderly friend would, but he decided to give Mr Moorhouse’s memory the benefit of the doubt.

‘Creech? Tallish chap? With an odd scar?’ Mr Moorhouse gestured vaguely towards his own eyebrows. ‘Yes, I remember him. Seemed a decent sort of fellow.’