The Cockney Angel (7 page)

‘It was a kind of gaming club.’

‘Women aren’t allowed in those sort of places. Even I know that,’ Emily said suspiciously. ‘No decent woman would be seen dead in a gaming hell.’

Irene hung her head. It was impossible to argue against the truth, and she could not meet her sister’s fierce gaze. ‘It was a mistake,’ she murmured.

‘This is worse than I thought,’ Emily snapped. ‘You were caught socialising with a gaggle of common prostitutes and dollymops. How could you be so stupid, Renie? If this gets back to Josiah he will be absolutely furious.’

‘Does he have to find out?’

‘I won’t tell him, but I’m afraid that Ephraim will take great pleasure in passing on bad news and then Josiah will be so angry. I just don’t know what I’m going to say to him.’

Irene could see that Emily was working herself up into one of her states, and she was stricken with guilt. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Emmie, but you’ve got to stop worrying about us and think of yourself and the baby.’ Irene gave her sister a hug, and she pressed her gently down onto the one and only chair. ‘Now sit down and stop fretting. I doubt if your friend, Inspector high-and-mighty Kent, will even remember my name today. He’s got better things to worry about than a girl who works in a pickle shop.’

Emily smiled reluctantly. ‘I suppose you’re right, but I wish you would try to keep out of trouble, Renie. It makes things very difficult for me, and I just know that Ephraim and
Erasmus
spend their time looking for bad things to say about our family. They can’t forgive their pa for marrying me and now that there’s a baby on the way they are even worse. That’s another reason why I want Ma to come and live with me. You won’t try to stop her, will you?’

Irene saw her sister’s lips tremble and the tears sparkling on the tips of her long eyelashes, and she had not the heart to argue. She patted Emily on the shoulder. ‘No, I won’t, but you’ve got to stand up to those two bullies. Tell Josiah what they’re like and let him deal with them.’

Emily opened her reticule and took out a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and sighed. ‘Josiah thinks that the sun shines out of their arses.’ She clamped her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh, dear heaven, it just slipped out.’

‘Spoken like a true Angel,’ Irene said, chuckling.

This drew a reluctant smile from Emily and she shook her head. ‘I only have to be back here for five minutes and I forget everything I’ve learnt. Anyway, I’m going upstairs to talk to Ma. Promise you won’t say anything to put her off coming home with me.’

‘I promise.’

Emily rose to her feet and she laid her hand
briefly
on Irene’s shoulder. ‘You ought to come too, you know. Leave this horrid little shop and let Pa look after himself. I love him as much as you do, but he’s a selfish man and he’ll never change.’

‘I know what he’s like, but he needs me, Emmie. I couldn’t just walk out on him.’

‘Suit yourself, but the offer still stands.’

Irene watched her sister ascend the narrow staircase with mixed feelings. She knew that Ma would be much better off in the Tippets’ house with servants to wait on her and good food in her belly, but it seemed as though her family was gradually disintegrating. Jim had been the first to leave home, and then it had been Emmie’s turn. If Ma agreed to go, it would leave just her and Pa, Irene thought sadly. The offer of a comfortable and easy life was tempting but she could not bring herself to abandon him. Pa was a child when it came to looking after himself; a charming irresponsible child.

She picked up the duster and began to polish the counter, straining her ears in an effort to eavesdrop on the conversation upstairs, but she could only hear the low murmur of voices. She couldn’t help wondering how Pa would react if she was forced to tell him that Ma had gone to stay with Emmie in Love Lane. It would be a temporary measure, until the baby was born.
At
least, that was what she would tell him. She hoped he would understand.

‘What?’ Billy cried, smiting his forehead with the flat of his hand. ‘My Clara has left me? Why would she do such a thing?’

Irene poured a generous measure of gin into a glass and added a splash of water. She handed it to him. ‘Drink that, Pa. I know it’s been a shock, but Emmie did it for Ma’s own good as well as her own.’

Billy tossed back the drink in one go and held out the glass for a refill. ‘I thought you had no money,’ he said suspiciously. ‘How could we afford the booze?’

‘I took money from the till, and I bought us a pie for supper. We have to eat, and as to the gin – I thought you might need it.’ She handed him the stone bottle.

‘Hollands,’ Billy said appreciatively. ‘None of that jigger gin. You’re a good girl, Irene. But your sister is an ungrateful serpent. What right has she to spirit your mother off like that? You tell me.’

‘I did tell you, Pa. She’s in the family way and she needs Ma to keep her company and give her good advice. Emmie thought that a stay in Love Lane might help Ma’s rheumatics.’

Billy poured himself another drink, omitting the water. He drained the glass, frowning.
‘But
what about my needs? How am I to manage without my little Clara?’

‘I’m here, Pa.’

‘Yes, you’re here, but it’s not the same. My luck will run out if your mother is not here by my side. We’ll be ruined.’

‘Don’t talk that way,’ Irene said, controlling her temper with an effort. ‘That’s just superstitious nonsense, Pa. Your luck is a fickle thing and it has nothing to do with Ma or anyone else.’

Billy eyed her speculatively. ‘Is there any cash left in the till, Renie? I could do with a stake for the game tonight.’

She was tempted to lie. There was a shilling left from the day’s takings. She had done well in the shop after Ma’s tearful departure, mainly due to a visitation from Fiery Nan, who had bought three jars of pickled walnuts, two jars of piccalilli and a jar of pickled lemons. These, she said, were for her nerves, which were all jangled up after being locked up in a cell all night when she’d done nothing to deserve such treatment. Gentle Annie was nursing a black eye, but the copper who arrested her would have sore ribs this morning, if not one or two of them broken, and Ivy had a handful of torn fingernails. They were all out of sorts and it was all because of an ambitious police inspector: Nan knew where to lay the blame
for
last night’s raid. There was, she grumbled, no justice in the world. Then Fiery Nan, having vented her anger, stacked her purchases in a wicker basket and had stomped out of the shop, leaving Irene breathless and even more worried about Arthur, from whom she had heard nothing. If she had not been stuck in the shop all day, she would have marched down to the police station in Old Jewry and demanded to know what had happened to him. As it was she had to be patient, and that was not in her nature.

She had spent the day fuming and fretting, and had not been in the best of humours when her father had breezed into the shop just before closing time. She was now finding it extremely hard to be patient with him.

‘Come along, poppet,’ Billy urged in his most cajoling tone. ‘Surely you could trust your old pa with a stake for the game tonight.’

‘Pa, you said yourself that your luck is out. You’ve already lost a whole shilling so why not give it a rest this evening? Stay home with me, or let’s go out to a music hall. We haven’t done that for ages.’

‘Ha!’ Billy cried triumphantly. ‘So you have got some money.’

‘A little, Pa, but I need to keep that to pay Mr Yapp what I owe him and to buy more stock. I can’t trade if I have nothing to sell.’

‘But I’ll recoup all my losses and you’ll have money to spare. You can buy all the pickles on Yapp’s cart and still have the price of a fish supper. You trust me, don’t you, darling?’

Irene met his appealing gaze with a sinking heart. No matter how much of a fight she put up, she knew that Pa would win in the end. ‘All right, but promise me you won’t lose the lot.’ She put her hand in her pocket and took out a florin.

Billy took it, chortling with delight. ‘There’s a good girl. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ He seized his top hat and cane and made for the door.

‘Pa, you haven’t had any supper.’

‘Don’t worry, my dove. I’ll eat later. Don’t wait up.’ He left the room, taking the bottle of Hollands with him.

She stared at the pie and suddenly her appetite left her. Without her mother to back her up, Irene knew that she was going to have an uphill struggle to keep Pa in line. She listened for the sound of his key in the lock, but all she heard was a dull thud as the door slammed and then there was silence. Sighing, she went downstairs to check and was barely surprised to find that in his hurry to be off Pa had forgotten to lock the door. She was about to do so when Arthur’s father Cuthbert Greenwood barged into the shop, almost
knocking
her down. ‘Where is he? Where is that scurrilous ne’er-do-well?’

Irene staggered backwards, saving herself from falling by clutching at the newel post. ‘If you mean Arthur, he’s not here.’

‘Then where is he? I’ll warrant you know where I can find him. He didn’t come home last night, and he wasn’t at his workbench this morning.’

‘I don’t know where he is,’ Irene said defiantly. It was not exactly a lie. She only suspected that Arthur had been detained by the police, and even if she had known it for a fact, she would not have admitted it to Mr Greenwood. He was a bad-tempered bully and she had never liked him; moreover, she was certain that the feeling was mutual.

He glowered at her, baring his teeth like an angry bull terrier. ‘I’ll warrant you do know something, young lady. Whenever my boy got himself into trouble in the past, you were always lurking somewhere in the background, so don’t put on that innocent face. Tell me where he is.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re lying, girl.’

Greenwood’s face flushed to the colour of pickled beetroot and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. Irene stared at him nervously. If he carried on like this he would
have
a seizure and she did not want that on her conscience. She moderated her tone in an attempt to calm him. ‘I’m sure Arthur will come home soon. He might even be there now and you’ll find you’ve worried needlessly.’

‘Worried!’ Greenwood spat the word at her. ‘I’m not worried – I’m furious. That blockhead is jeopardising his chances of passing his journeyman’s examination. He ought to be at his bench, practising his craft and not gallivanting about town. Just wait until I get my hands on that young idiot.’ He stormed out of the shop, slamming the door behind him.

Irene went to lock it, but as her fingers closed around the iron key she thought of Arthur. If he had spent last night and the best part of today in the cells, it would only be fair to warn him of what was awaiting him at home. She put on her bonnet and shawl and slipped out into the night, locking the door behind her. The streets were almost deserted now that the banks and businesses had closed. The bootblacks and costermongers were packing up and heading homewards together with a few harassed-looking clerks, who hurried, heads down, as if eager to reach the comfort and safety of home. This was the twilight hour when the bustling commercial heart of the City was lulled to sleep, and before the denizens of the underworld came to life.

She set off at a brisk pace along Cheapside, heading in the direction of the police headquarters in Old Jewry. There was a definite chill in the air and through a thin veil of chimney smoke she could see the stars, softened and blurred, like seed pearls on a bed of black velvet. A ragged old man lurched out of the shadows begging her for money. She was more startled than frightened but she quickened her pace. The man was probably harmless, but she had nothing to give him and she was not taking any chances. She ran the last hundred yards or so to the police station, but she stopped outside to catch her breath and compose herself before she went inside.

The desk sergeant was busy writing something in a large, leather-bound book, and although he must surely be aware of her presence, he did not look up. Irene cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me, Officer.’

He raised his head, giving her a cursory glance. ‘Wait a moment, young lady.’ With maddening calm, he finished what he was doing and then he put his quill pen down. ‘And what can I do for you, miss?’

‘I want to know what’s happened to Arthur Greenwood.’

The sergeant raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Do you now? And what is your business with the person in question? Are you his wife?’

Irene shook her head.

‘His sister, maybe?’

‘Look, mister. All I want to know is what’s happened to my friend Arthur. I think he was brought here last night, but I need to know that he’s all right. If he’s here, I’d like to see him.’

‘That won’t be possible, miss.’

‘Why not?’ A wild vision of Arthur manacled in the hold of a convict ship flashed through Irene’s mind, and she clutched the counter with both hands. ‘What have you done with him? He’s innocent, I tell you.’

‘What’s going on, Sergeant?’ A familiar voice behind her made Irene spin round and she found herself face to face with Inspector Kent. He must have followed her in from the street, but she had been too absorbed in her conversation with the sergeant to notice. He took off his hat, meeting her gaze with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows. ‘Miss Angel, we meet again.’

‘What have you done with Arthur?’ Irene demanded.

‘That’s no way to speak to the inspector,’ the desk sergeant warned. ‘I must ask you to leave, miss.’

‘Or you’ll do what?’ Irene turned to glare at him. ‘Arrest me for asking questions? Is that what you do to innocent members of the public?’

‘Now, young lady …’

Kent raised a gloved hand. ‘It’s all right, sergeant. I’ll deal with this.’ He lifted a hatch in the counter and beckoned Irene to follow him along a narrow, poorly lit corridor. He opened a door at the far end and ushered her into an office lined with bookshelves which were crammed with files. In the middle of the room was a large desk neatly laid out with a silver inkstand, a blotter and two wooden filing trays piled high with documents. A fire burned brightly in the grate and a black marble clock with brass hands and numerals was placed in the exact centre of the mantelshelf. The office was clinically neat and without any personal touch that might have given a clue as to the nature of the man whose domain it was. Irene experienced a sudden desire to move the clock to one side, or to empty one of the filing trays on the floor, but she managed to control the impulse. Kent pulled up a chair and motioned her to take a seat.