Carver's Quest (23 page)

Quint, who had seen plenty of bare-knuckle men fight, from Bendigo and Ben Caunt to Sayers and Heenan, wasn’t so sure that Fadge was the duffer Adam was implying.

‘Maybe you fancy swapping haymakers with an old pug, guv, but I don’t. Didn’t you see what he did to that soldier boy?’

‘What had stirred the man to action? Why did he come roaring at us like the bull of Bashan when he had welcomed us to that den only a few minutes before?’

Quint shrugged. ‘Dunno, guv. I reckoned I’d squared it with ’im. But he must ’ave twigged me.’

‘Twigged you?’ Adam was puzzled. ‘What was there for Fadge to twig?’

Quint, looking as close to sheepish as he was ever likely to get, scratched his chin and refused to meet Adam’s eyes.

‘’E may have found out I didn’t exackly tell him the truth.’

‘And what is the truth?’

‘It took me bleeding ages to track that girl down, you know.’ Quint thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his blue fustian trousers and stared at his master with sudden defiance.
‘In and out of pubs and case-houses, asking questions here and there. Do you know ’ow many women there are on the grind called Ada? Bleeding ’undreds.’

‘I appreciate your devotion to the task I set you, Quint, but you leave my question still unanswered. What did you say to that doorman?’

‘Well, I found the right Ada. Found out she was spending time in that knocking-ken. So I told Fadge you had a liking for a shy tart. That Ada’d tickle your fancy.’

Adam laughed. ‘Well, I am not certain that I approve of your decision to impute particular tastes in women to me, but I cannot see the difficulty.’

‘I said as how you’d pay a bit extra for extra time with her.’

‘But he allowed us hardly any time at all. And none of it in private.’

‘In fact, I give ’im some extra rhino. A sov.’

‘You gave that man a sovereign?’ Adam was aghast.

‘Don’t worry, guv.’ Quint held out his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘It was a crooked sov.’

‘Aha, a light begins to dawn. Do you think that perhaps, in the interval between allowing us to pass into the cellar and descending the stairs himself, Mr Fadge had discovered that he had
been cheated?’

‘Could be,’ Quint acknowledged reluctantly.

‘Do you think passing a crooked sovereign to a former prize-fighter was a good idea?’

‘I thought it was safe enough.’ Quint was indignant. He sounded as if he was outraged that Adam was questioning his judgement. ‘There ain’t too much milk in Harry
Fadge’s coconut. He was on the wrong side of the door when brains was being handed out, wasn’t he? Then what few he ’ad were knocked from ’ere to ’Ounslow and back in
the ring. I didn’t think he’d notice it was bent.’

The two men turned into Long Acre. The streets were busy with people and they were obliged to dodge their way through the crowds. Many were dressed for the theatre. A sandwich man, with boards
back and front advertising the latest comedy at the Gaiety, trudged mournfully past. Two small boys, eager to take advantage of the sandwich man’s inability to retaliate, followed him,
jeering and aiming kicks at the board on his back. He ignored them. He looked as if he was so lost in melancholy contemplation that he had not even noticed their presence.

‘My throat is parched, Quint. There is a coffee stall over there. Let us stop for refreshment.’

The two men crossed Long Acre to the point where it was met by Bow Street. There stood a wooden hut, open on one side and tented over with tarpaulin, from which a large-faced woman dressed in a
man’s greatcoat was selling coffee. A line of people waited to be served. Adam and Quint queued for a few minutes and then were able to hand over a penny each for a tin mug of oily black
liquid. Adam sniffed suspiciously at the drink.

‘So, having found her, what was your opinion of Miss Ada, Quint?’ he asked.

‘She’s a nice bit of goods. Ain’t no surprise if Jinks was sweet on her.’

‘I think perhaps he was. Although, I suspect his original motives in approaching her were more mercenary than amorous.’

Quint’s face arranged itself into an expression that said, as clearly as if he’d spoken, ‘I ain’t got a bleedin’ clue what you’re talking about.’

‘He thought she might have information he could use to make money,’ Adam said. ‘By the by, the boy Simpkins spoke of a mother. Ada’s mother. Did you locate her during
your investigations?’

‘Ain’t seen no sign of her. But Ada spoke of her when I first found her. Far as I can tell, she’s too fond of the lush. Any penny she earns goes on gin. And any penny Ada
earns.’

Quint took a drink and almost immediately spat most of it onto the ground.

‘Jesus Christ, that’s like cat’s piss.’

‘Probably more acorn than coffee bean in it,’ Adam commented. He sniffed his own mug again and then, turning from the stall, poured its contents into the gutter. ‘We have now
spent two pennies and a counterfeit sovereign this evening, and we have received very little benefit from our financial outlay.’

Quint was still making elaborate moues of distaste. He spat twice more on the ground. Adam placed the two mugs back on the counter of the coffee stall and bowed to the proprietress, who was
scowling at them.

‘In all likelihood, it’s the mother who insists that her daughter continues to sell her body, then?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Quint had finally recovered from his mouthful of coffee. From personal experience, the manservant was much better acquainted with life on London’s streets
than his master. He doubted that Ada and her mother had much choice when it came to earning their money. ‘We ain’t no closer to finding out where old Jinks has gone, though.’

‘I think that the girl probably does know where he is but, out of loyalty, she has no intention of telling us.’

‘She didn’t tell us much about anything.’

‘Ah, but what she didn’t say may tell us something. I am certain that she once worked for Lewis Garland. Her face betrayed her when his name was mentioned.’

‘Maybe she did. Maybe that’s why Jinks was after her in the first place.’

‘My conjecture exactly. We are two minds with but a single thought. I believe Garland had his way with her and then cast her onto the streets. Jinkinson discovered this while he was
following the man at Creech’s behest, and sought out Ada in order to gather more incriminatory material on the fellow. Either on behalf of Creech, or for his own benefit after Creech was
killed.’

The two men left the coffee stall behind them and walked towards Drury Lane. Crowds of theatregoers swirled around them. In the noise and bustle of the London evening they had to shout to make
themselves heard.

‘You reckon Jinks was blackmailing this Garland bloke?’ Quint roared.

‘Why else would they have met in that pub yard? And yet there is something more. I am sure of it.’

‘What sort of something?’

‘Something that is linked with the Greek name in Creech’s notebook. Even Ada mentioned Euphorion. Who else could the mysterious foreigner “Yew Ferrion” be? Why does his
name keep recurring in our search?’

‘You’ve got that Greek bloke on the brain,’ Quint said, deftly dodging a drunk who came careering along the pavement towards him. ‘But ’e ain’t at the bottom
of this, if you asks me.’

‘Well, I do ask you, Quint. Who or what is at the bottom of this?’

‘Rhino. Sovs,’ Quint shouted, patting his pocket. ‘Money. Creech was after it from them toffs and now Jinks is after it.’

‘You may be right, I suppose.’

‘Of course I’m right.’

‘In which case, I think perhaps my next task should be to speak to those “toffs” you mention.’

‘’Ow you going to do that?’

‘Send in my card to them. When they are at the House, perhaps. Or in their homes. I can think of no reason why they should not see me.’

Adam recalled his earlier doubts about the advisability of seeking out the three men in the Houses of Parliament. They now seemed overly finical. Speaking about Garland and Oughtred to Mr
Moor-house at the Marco Polo had proved interesting enough, but the time had come to seize the bull firmly by the horns. He should face them on their own ground and learn, once and for all, what
they knew about Samuel Creech and his activities.

A
ny new developments in the case of that poor man Creech?’

In the smoking room of the Marco Polo, Mr Moorhouse was once again sunk in the depths of his favourite leather armchair. He gave the impression that he had not stirred from there even once in
the days since Adam had quizzed him about Lewis Garland. He had merely accumulated ashtrays which were positioned around him like fire irons around a hearth. Adam, who had joined the old man after
lunch, watched him aim his ash at one of them and miss.

‘The police have taken a man named Stirk into custody,’ he said.

‘They’ve got the murderer, then?’

‘They think they have.’

‘But you’re begging to differ?’

‘I have met Stirk. He is little more than a drunken dolt. Like critics claim of Mr Darwin, he may well have had a gorilla for a grandfather. There was a picture of one in the
Illustrated London News
the other week and it was Stirk to a T.’

‘Some of these African beasts are murderous brutes, though.’

‘Well, the gorilla may or may not be. Du Chaillu and the other experts seem to differ on the subject. But Stirk certainly isn’t. Whatever the police believe, Mr Moorhouse, he cannot
possibly be the killer.’

‘So the real perpetrator is still on the loose? Hands steeped in gore and all that.’

‘I believe so.’

‘Goodness gracious.’ Mr Moorhouse looked shocked. He groped for the small glass of port that was resting on the table beside his chair. ‘Anybody got any plans to do anything
about it?’

‘Well, I have been endeavouring to discover more about the man Creech in the hopes of learning reasons why he might have been killed. I have only had limited success as yet. But I believe
that I cannot simply leave everything to the police. Not if they insist on believing in the guilt of this man Stirk.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Mr Moorhouse agreed, sipping at his port. ‘Can’t have murderers stalking the streets as bold as brass.’

The old man replaced his glass on the table. Ash dropped from the cigar in his other hand. Some of it fell onto his lap and he brushed what he could away.

‘Doubtless you will be spending the rest of the day in hot pursuit of the guilty party,’ he suggested after a moment’s silence. He seemed to be envisaging Adam chasing a
blood-soaked killer through the London streets. He looked as if the image was a rather thrilling one for him.

‘I hate to disappoint you, Mr Moorhouse, but I have no notion of the identity of the guilty party. Only that it’s not the man the police have in custody. In any case, I have another
appointment to keep. I am going to Cremorne Gardens.’

‘Cremorne, eh?’ Mr Moorhouse looked down at the ash still on his trousers. ‘Saw a chap go up in a balloon there once. Years ago. Must have been fifty-four.’ He screwed up
his eyes with the effort of recollection. ‘Or was it fifty-five? One or the other, anyway.’

‘A fine sight to see, no doubt,’ Adam said politely.

‘Not really. Bit of a tragedy, actually. Chap fell out of the basket when it was just clearing the trees. Broke his neck. He was French, I think. Brassy. Or Brissy. Some name like that. It
was in all the newspapers. You probably read about it at the time.’

‘I cannot remember doing so.’ Adam decided that it was too much trouble to remind the old man that he would have been no more than a small boy at the time.

‘Or was it Brossy?’

‘Bressy, perhaps?’

‘No, no, no.’ Mr Moorhouse sounded uncharacteristically assured. ‘Definitely not Bressy.’ He seemed to have lost interest in Creech’s murder. ‘As you say,
fine sights to see at Cremorne, I’ve no doubt. Don’t let my experience put you off going.’

* * * * *

As he emerged from the Marco Polo, Adam hailed a cab. The driver, an elderly gnome with a bulbous nose, looked as if he might have been lucklessly patrolling the streets in
search of fares since daybreak. Adam climbed in and they set off down Piccadilly in the direction of the park. The hansom seemed even older than its driver. Inside there were rips in the leather of
the seats and it smelt as if the previous fare had spent his entire journey sweating and breaking wind. Adam considered asking the ancient driver perched above him to pull over so that he could
leave and take another less-reeking vehicle to Chelsea, but decided to stay where he was. He settled gingerly on the torn leather and pulled Emily Maitland’s letter from his inside pocket. He
read through it once again. It was perhaps the fifth time he had done so and it revealed no more than it had done on first perusal. She apologised for leaving Doughty Street so abruptly. She begged
for another meeting with him at which she would explain the reasons for her departure. And, most extraordinarily of all, she suggested that they should rendezvous at the dancing area in Cremorne
Gardens.

Strolling among the trees and past the geranium beds after the decrepit cabbie had dropped him at the gates of the gardens, Adam wondered again if Emily was aware of the place’s ambivalent
reputation. Perhaps she had only been there in the early afternoon. He knew from personal experience that Cremorne Gardens after sunset was a very different place from Cremorne Gardens during the
day. He had strolled through them on more than one evening with Cosmo Jardine, in search of fun and temporary company. The atmosphere changed markedly as the evening wore on. The families in search
of innocent pleasures disappeared, as did the children eager to see the beasts in the menagerie. The American Bowling Saloon lost its patrons. Instead, with lawns and flower beds and gravel walks
undergoing a transformation in the flickering light of the gas lamps, Cremorne became the haunt of hundreds of ladies of easy virtue and their would-be clients. It was not a place for a respectable
young woman, even one who had been prepared to flaunt convention and turn up, unchaperoned, at a young man’s rooms. Adam stopped and pulled his silver watch from his top pocket. It was not
yet six and there were hours of summer daylight left in which to enjoy the more innocent pleasures of Cremorne. If Miss Maitland had no concerns about visiting, then why should he entertain any on
her behalf?