Tom All-Alone's (23 page)

W
hen he emerges from the stairway, Charles is unsurprised to see the crowd has dispersed and the court is empty of all but the four old men sitting on the kerb, still dealing their worn brown cards. Disputes between neighbours flare like summer storms round here – full of sound and fury, but not very enduring. At first he barely remarks the imposing carriage waiting at the junction with the main road, beyond noticing in a rather distracted way that it looks a little rustily old-fashioned in its heavy black accoutrements. That, in itself, could have been warning enough, but Charles' observational skills have deserted him this time – so much so that when he draws level with the carriage and sees the man standing at the door, he is completely unprepared.

‘Mr Maddox,' says Jeremiah Knox, touching his hat. ‘Good day to you.'

Charles spins round, his eyes scanning the passers-by for someone he recognizes – someone who might have been tracking his steps. A cluster of closed chary faces stares back at him – he knows none of them – has not, to his knowledge, seen a single one of them before, but that in itself proves nothing more than his adversary's formidable powers. The fact remains that Tulkinghorn knew he was here, so how
much more does he know? How long now has his every movement been followed? Only since the attack in the City Road – or was it before that? And if that's the case, how in God's name did he let himself be so deplorably careless?

Knox, meanwhile, has opened the carriage door. Charles is seriously considering pushing him to the ground and taking to his heels, when there's a movement out of the corner of his eye and he sees a figure descend from the groom's seat at the back. He seems hardly much more than a boy, but he wears no livery, and his manner is cocky and insolent as he stands staring at Charles with not even the slightest suggestion of deference in his pale yellow eyes. Knox alone he could handle, but two of them will be harder to evade – not, at least, without creating a disturbance and attracting the attention of the constable giving directions to a well-dressed couple on the other side of the road. Charles hesitates, then steps quickly inside.

The journey is scarce worth such a ponderous conveyance – indeed the traffic is so heavy Charles could have walked it quicker, but he's only too aware that the purpose of the carriage is to guarantee his presence, not spare his feet. Barely fifteen minutes later he's mounting the steps to the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, followed hard by the silent but persistent Knox. Tulkinghorn's room is much as it was, the disconcerting figure on the ceiling still cushioned in his flowers and his overgrown cherubs, and still gesturing, in his strangely unconvincing way, down from the clouds. And if, by some odd trick of perspective, that plump and insistent finger of his seems to be pointing now in Charles' direction, then Charles does not see it. Mr Tulkinghorn, by contrast, has departed not only from his accustomed place, but from his
customary demeanour. He has abandoned the station of honour behind the desk, and stands instead against the chimney-piece, where two candles in antique silver candlesticks are struggling to dispel the shadows from the shuttered and stuffy room.

‘So, it's you, is it?' he says. ‘I have been to a great deal of trouble to find you, sir.'

‘So it appears.'

‘I recall, rather distinctly, that I instructed you to return Sir Julius' letters to me, the last time we met in this room. Since you have not done so, I have been compelled – at some inconvenience – to dispatch my clerk to fetch the said correspondence. Indeed, he has called at Buckingham Street on, I believe, some four separate occasions, but to no avail. Each time he enquires, he is told you are not at home, you are engaged, you cannot be disturbed.'

‘That was quite true. I have been much pre-occupied with a case.'

‘You know quite as well as I do,' says the lawyer, tapping his ring of keys irritably against the marble mantel, ‘that that statement is a lie. You have been evading me, sir, and I am not accustomed to overlook such impertinence.'

‘And I,' counters Charles, moving a step or two further into the room, his blue eyes darkening, ‘am not accustomed to being waylaid in the street, and set upon by a vicious ruffian. You might tell Sir Julius that, when next you see him. I am no more a man to cross than you are, Mr Tulkinghorn.'

The lawyer looks at him warily. He has made, Charles notes, no reference at all to his conspicuously bandaged hand. ‘You were paid to undertake a particular task—'

‘Paid!' retorts Charles with derision. How he wishes, now, that he had kept those sovereigns, so that he could take them
from his pocket and hurl them back in the lawyer's face.

‘You were
not
paid,' continues Tulkinghorn, ignoring the interjection, ‘to meddle in matters that do not concern you. Since you have elected to do precisely that, you must accept the consequences.'

‘So you are not denying that I was attacked, and that this' – he holds up his disfigured hand – ‘is the result?'

‘I am neither denying nor confirming anything of the kind. I am, however, giving you a further warning. I had hoped that you possessed sufficient intelligence to render such a tiresome reiteration unnecessary, but I appear to have been mistaken. I repeat: you are interfering in matters you cannot possibly understand.'

‘Oh, but I do,' replies Charles, moving another step towards the lawyer. ‘I understand a good deal more than you realize. I know that you only hired me to find Boscawen so that you could have him silenced, just as you had already silenced his sister. I know you had Lizzie Miller killed – because there was something she might have told me, had she lived. And I know that you are prostituting your fine reputation to conceal the sordid secrets of a rich and powerful man.'

Tulkinghorn is celebrated among his associates for his inscrutability, and he has never looked more impenetrable than he does now.

‘Let us consider then,' he says eventually, tapping the mantel once again with the key-ring and looking imperturbably at Charles all the while, ‘how the matter stands. You are determined, I take it, to continue in this extremely ill-advised course of action.'

‘There is nothing you can do to stop me.'

‘You intend to pursue your enquiries until you discover
what – in
your
opinion – really lay behind William Boscawen's monstrous persecution of my innocent client.'

‘It is not a case of my opinion, it is a case of the truth.'

‘And if and when you ascertain this “truth” of yours, I imagine you will not let the matter lie idly by.'

‘You may collude in a such repugnant concealment if you wish. I have no intention of doing so.'

‘And should such circumstances arise, I assume you would, therefore, consider that you had an obligation – a duty, even – to expose Sir Julius. In the newspapers, for instance.'

Charles flushes, realizing, suddenly and too late, that he has been put on the stand and there is no advocate in London who can compete in cross-examination with this lacklustre little man, with his dull black clothes, and his limp white frill.

He lifts his chin, defiant. ‘There can be no higher cause than the truth, Mr Tulkinghorn.' Surely he's heard words like that before, and recently? But he cannot for the moment remember where. ‘I would hope that you, as a bastion and mainstay of our great and much-admired system of justice, would be the first to concur.'

If a note of sarcasm has crept into his voice, we can perhaps forgive him for that. The lawyer, by contrast, persists in the same monotonous tone.

‘Very well. Then I am authorized to inform you that we will – with some reluctance – advance you the same sum as the one you have already received, on the strict condition that you return my client's property to me forthwith, and cease at once and forever from this outrageous pursuit. Consider well, Mr Maddox. I will not offer such leniency again.'

‘Keep your money, Tulkinghorn. I despise it almost as much as I despise you.'

‘You surprise me, my friend,' the lawyer observes composedly. ‘I hardly thought a man in your precarious circumstances could afford to turn money away in such a cavalier fashion.'

‘My finances may be precarious, but my integrity is not. You, it seems, suffer from exactly the opposite predicament. I know which of the two I prefer.'

‘So you will not desist.'

‘I will not.'

Tulkinghorn nods slowly. ‘Very well. And if I were to tell you that I have it in my command, by the stroke of my pen, to have you dragged from your bed this very night and hauled naked through the streets to a prison cell, what would you say to that?'

‘I think,' Charles replies coolly, ‘that you should save your threats for the sort of pitiful wretch likely to be intimidated by them.'

‘You may think that if you choose,' returns Mr Tulkinghorn, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose. ‘But it alters nothing.'

‘You are bluffing. You cannot terrify me.'

‘Clearly not,' says the lawyer, ‘but I can make good on my threat all the same.'

‘You have no cause. I have done nothing wrong. Unlike your despicable client.'

‘Ah, ‘says Tulkinghorn with a smile, ‘but it can, regrettably, be the way with our great and justly admired system of justice that one does not have to commit a crime to be hanged for one. As a former member of the constabulary I need hardly, I am sure, tell
you
that. The name Silas Boone, for instance, will not I think be unfamiliar to you.'

He puts away his handkerchief and adjusts his frill, then looks Charles straight in the eye, for very possibly the first time.

‘Let us be clear, once and for all. If I hear word that you are continuing with this investigation of yours, I will see to it that you are shut up in jail under hard discipline. There is a treadmill, sir, in Coldbath Fields where the inmates stand and grind for eight hours a day. And an iron crank requiring ten thousand daily turns. A man with an injury such as yours would scarce last a week under such a regimen. I will give you no further warning,' he concludes, a rare spot of colour appearing in both cheeks. ‘And be assured of this: cross me again, and I will not flinch. For I make no threat I have not the will and the power to accomplish, and to the utmost extremity.'

Charles nods. ‘You have been admirably clear. Now let me be so.' He crosses the three feet that still separate them in one stride and takes Tulkinghorn's flaccid throat hard in his hand. ‘This conversation is the
last
– the very last – time you will seek to impede my enquiries. If I am hindered again in any way – whether by violence or otherwise – you will live to regret it. Do you understand?' he whispers, his breath hot on the lawyer's papery flesh. ‘However well you bolt your door, however strong you think the key, I will come here, in the night, in the dark, when you least expect it, and you will discover to your cost that I, too, have never yet made an idle threat, and I, too,
will not flinch.
'

He stares in the lawyer's watery eyes for a long moment, then pushes him against the wall, and turns and leaves without looking back. He does not, therefore, see Knox emerge from where he has been standing behind the door and make a few notes in a small leather pocket-book, before going quickly to his master, who has staggered to his heavy mahogany chair and thrown his head back against it, and is now lying there gasping, staring sightlessly at the inscrutable
figure of Allegory above him, whose finger points now even more insistently, from the flowers, and the pillars, and the painted clouds.

F
or all Charles' bravado, the next few days mark a pause. Or perhaps a
recul pour mieux sauter
. I'm not at all sure even Charles knows, fully, what he intends to do, but I do know that he spends the best part of two whole days in the Buckingham Street house, venturing out only to meet briefly with Sam Wheeler over lamb chops to check on progress with the Miller case (none), and to practise (three times) at the shooting range off Leicester Square. It's on one of these occasions that he arrives to find an unaccustomed gathering of people at the far end of the gallery – or rather, if we are being strictly accurate, a standing of unaccustomed people, for the figures he can see gathered with the trooper by one of the little cabins are very far indeed from the establishment's usual clientele. There is a little plump bald man with a shining head and a clump of untidy black hair who seems familiar to Charles from somewhere, though he's clearly never held a gun in his life, and beside him a tall dark young man with sunburnt skin and a calm but troubled face. The gallery is – other than these – quite empty of custom.

The little bald man seems anxious to be gone, and once the trooper has shown him out, he makes purposefully towards him with his usual military tread and – somewhat unusually – extends his hand.

‘I am glad to see you, Mr Maddox.'

‘Are you in some sort of trouble?' asks Charles, glancing past the sturdy shoulder. He has picked up, here and elsewhere, that the old trooper has money worries – money worries that may be entangling him in an even deeper predicament. But his interlocutor shakes his head.

‘No trouble, Mr Maddox. At least not for me, and not for today.'

He takes Charles by the elbow. ‘The last time you came, I believe you mentioned that you had been looking for a young crossing-sweep?'

‘The lad from Newton Street? What of it?'

‘And I believe you said that this lad – if you could find him – might be able to help you discover who had murdered an innocent woman?'

‘Two
innocent women. I think the same man this lad saw has also killed at least one other woman since, and probably set that fire in Bell Yard as well, which killed a dozen more.'

‘But if you were to find him, I'm sure you would not wish this lad any harm, or hand him over to those as might wish to harass him or move him on.'

Charles frowns. ‘That is not in my nature, as I hope you would know.'

The trooper bows. ‘Right enough, sir, so I do. But it is a delicate matter and I'm sure as you'll understand my method of proceeding soon enough. You see, the lad is here.'

‘Here
? How on earth did he come to be here, of all places?'

The trooper gestures briefly towards the back of the room. ‘He were brought here by that young gentleman. A surgeon by trade. Seems he found the boy in the rookeries. Seems he knew him – or of him. There be some sort of connection between them, that I do know, though neither has said what it is.
Anyhow, this young doctor took pity on the lad, and brought him, by a rather roundabout route that need not trouble you, to me. He has been here two days now, and Phil and I have been doing our best to care for him. Having been found, when a baby, in the gutter, Phil naturally takes an interest in the poor neglected creature.'

Charles stares at the trooper, then starts eagerly towards the cabin, but the man holds him back. ‘The lad is clean now, and fed, and as comfortable as we can make him, but he is quite worn out with all that has befallen him, and not long for this world, I should say. Go gently with him, sir, and keep the doctor by.'

The little cabin at the back is dim and cramped, but it's clean, and the mattress is provided with sheets that have been lately washed, albeit a little worn. There's a small shelf of medicines on one side of the bed, and on the other the figure, hunched now, of the young doctor. He looks up when Charles enters and motions silently to a place by his side.

‘He is sleeping. Rest can do more for him now than I can.'

He reaches across and lays a hand gently on his patient's heart. The boy murmurs at the touch and his bony chest heaves and rattles. His eyelids flutter, but there is no ignoring the deep hollows under his eyes, or the thin fingers clutching at the bedclothes.

‘How long has he been like this?' asks Charles softly.

‘When I found him he was the most abject figure you can possibly imagine – all in rags and cowering against a wall, with a hand over his face as if the only things life has ever dealt him are blows. Which is probably not so very far from the truth. Not so much a human being as a rat, or a stray dog.'

There's a bitter ring to the doctor's voice at this, and the lad stirs and opens his eyes. He sees the doctor's face, and huge
tears well up and spill on to his emaciated cheeks. ‘You's not angry wiv me agin, are you, Mr Woodcot? I is wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and I never went fur to do it, and I wos a-hoping as you'd be able to forgive me in your mind.'

‘No, Jo,' says the doctor, though his tears are falling too, ‘I'm not angry with you. You had a reason for what you did, and you could not have known what consequences it was to have. And I know the young lady forgives you too.'

‘What's he talking about?' whispers Charles.

‘Oh,' says the doctor, passing a hand across his eyes. ‘It is – another matter. Unconnected with your own.'

He takes the lad by the hand and bends over him. ‘Now, Jo,' he says kindly, ‘there is a gentleman to see you. He wishes to ask you some questions.'

‘He ain't the police, Mr Woodcot?' cries the boy, his eyes flaring with terror.

‘No, Jo,' says the doctor soothingly, ‘he is not the police. But if you can tell him what he needs to know, you'd be helping to catch a very bad man, and that would go well with you, would it not?'

‘I'll do anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good.'

‘Very well then.'

The doctor motions Charles closer, and he crouches close to the little feverish face.

‘I want to ask you about a woman, Jo. A woman you saw once, in the street.'

‘Not the lady in a wale and the bonnet and the gownd as sed she wos a servant?' The boy is suddenly distressed again, and catches at the doctor's hand. ‘Not the lady at the
berryin-ground
! Don't as make me talk about that, Mr Woodcot! I sed – it is her and it an't her and I don't know nothink more about it.'

Charles looks bewildered but the doctor gently interjects, ‘No, Jo. Not that lady, another one. Mr Maddox here will explain.'

He nods to Charles. ‘Go on.'

‘I think this woman was dead when you found her, Jo,' says Charles. ‘Do you remember that? It was something over a year ago. Do you recall seeing a woman lying dead in the street around that time?'

The boy nods slowly. ‘It were near the berryin-ground. It warn't the lady in the wale but it war nigh the same place. She war lying on her back, wiv her legs up. And there were blood. Lots of blood, Running like water, it wos, like wen it rains bad and my broom ain't enough to kip the mud away.'

‘Did you touch her, Jo? Did you take anything from her?'

The boy looks fearfully from one face to the other. ‘It warn't me as killed her, Mr Woodcot!'

‘We know that, Jo,' says the doctor. ‘Mr Maddox is just trying to make sure that the woman he's concerned about is the same woman you saw.'

The boy looks away. ‘I knew it war wery bad and I deserve to be punished and serve me right, but I wos wery hungry and poor and ill, I wos, and they warn't no use to her no more.'

‘What weren't, Jo?'

‘Them pretty rings. Bright gold they wos, and shining,' he mumbles. ‘Only not a bit like the sparkling one wot the t'other lady had – her as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady – her wiv the wale and the bonnet and the gownd. Can't have been, 'cos they only gave me five bob for all three on 'em.'

Charles nods quietly, and edges closer to the boy; already the rank smell of death hangs heavy about him.

‘This next question is very important, Jo. Did you see a man nearabouts where the woman was? The man who might have killed her?'

The boy's eyes widen, and he looks back at the doctor imploringly. ‘I told you, Mr Woodcot, I dustn't. I would but I dustn't.'

‘But that was about – the other matter,' says the doctor, a spasm of pain crossing his face. ‘This is something quite different, Jo.'

‘No,' whispers the boy, his voice breaking. ‘No, it's all the same – all on it. He ses to me, “Hook it! Nobody wants you here. You move on, or you'll repent it.” And I am, Mr Woodcot, I am!'

The doctor turns to Charles. ‘I am afraid he is still confusing the two occasions. I happen to know that what he is saying is the truth – he was indeed told to move on, but that was in relation to the other matter, and the two things cannot possibly be connected.'

Charles shakes his head. ‘I'm not so sure. Is it possible that the real reason the boy was told to move on was because he saw something that night that certain people did not wish to come to light? Because he witnessed a murder?'

‘It's an extraordinary theory, Mr Maddox—'

But Charles has already turned to the boy on the bed. ‘Who was it, Jo? Who told you to move on?'

‘I dustn't name him,' says Jo. ‘I dustn't do it, sir.'

‘You may trust me, Jo, just as you trust the doctor here.'

‘Ah, but
he
may hear,' replies Jo, shaking his head in distress. ‘He is everywheres, all at wanst. I dustn't give his name!'

‘I know who it is he speaks of,' the doctor tells Charles in a low voice. ‘There is no need to alarm him further.'

Charles swallows hard, then reaches out and places his hand on the boy's damp forehead. ‘Don't think about that now. Just think about that night. When you saw the woman dead. Do you remember the man you saw? Think carefully, Jo,
and tell me the truth. You know, don't you, that it's wicked to tell a lie.'

But that was clearly the wrong thing to say: Jo's eyes are now round with terror. ‘I don't know nothink. It war wery dark, sir, that it wos, and I niver saw his face or nothink. I wish as I'd never gone a-nigh her – don't let them took me away agin, Mr Woodcot!'

‘Don't worry, Jo. You're quite safe here. I'm not leaving you now.'

Charles reproaches himself silently, and tries another tack.

‘If you didn't see what he looked like, did you perhaps see what he was wearing?'

Jo thinks for a moment, then nods warily. ‘I remember there wos a hat and a coat. Long and dark it wos.'

‘And was he tall? Taller than the doctor, for example?'

Jo shakes his head, but his eyes are losing their focus. ‘I've been a-chivvied and a-worried and a-chivvied but now I is moved on as fur as ever I can go and can't move on no furder. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin-ground, Mr Woodcot,' he falters, ‘and put along with him as wos so good to me. Let me lay there quiet wiv him and not be chivvied no more.'

It takes him a long time to say this, and they have to stoop to hear much of it, but he slips, finally, into sleep, and the doctor gestures to Charles that the interview is over. The trooper has been standing silently in the doorway all this while, and the three of them leave the cabin and return to the table, where Phil is cleaning his tools.

‘I do not know if that was any use to you, Mr Maddox,' says the doctor with a sigh, ‘but I fear you will get little more. His heart has very nearly given up, and will labour but a little further.'

It's only now, in the full light streaming from the windows overhead, that he notices Charles' hand.

‘May I?' he says, gesturing to the dressing.

Charles nods. It may not be such a bad idea, after all, for a professional to take a look.

‘Has a surgeon seen this?' says the doctor with a frown, echoing Charles' thought.

Charles shakes his head, watching the bandage removed by a practised and skilful hand. As the last strip of cloth lifts from the wound, he winces, then shakes his head again as the doctor eyes him with concern. ‘It's nothing.'

‘On the contrary. This is a serious injury, and must be very painful, even now.'

He lifts the hand so he can examine it more closely, then touches here and there, but gently, so as not to cause unnecessary pain.

‘You have had a good nurse,' he concludes eventually. ‘I see no sign of infection at present, but you must remain vigilant. You risk losing the hand, if not worse.'

He asks Phil for a basin of water, then cleans the hand again and dries it, and binds it up in a new dressing. And as he does so he asks, with what is perhaps a rather artificial nonchalance, ‘I have had occasion recently to treat a number of people wounded in a wreck at sea, but this injury does not resemble any of them. The cut is too clean, too expert. This was no accident, was it? Someone attacked you.'

Charles smiles bitterly. ‘I found out to my cost that if one approaches too near the knuckle with the likes of Mr Tulkinghorn, one risks having the metaphor turn to reality in the most unpleasant fashion.'

He sees the trooper start at this, and a look flashes between him and the doctor.

‘I see you know the name,' says Charles, his interest aroused.

‘As I said to the doctor only yesterday, Mr Maddox, I know the name. Aye, I know the name, but only to my sorrow.'

The trooper rubs his large hand over the back of his neck, sending his thick hair standing on end. ‘You have gathered, no doubt, that I am in difficulties just at present. It is this man, this Tulkinghorn, who is at the root of it. He has the power to turn me out of this place neck and crop, if he chooses, but he does
not
choose. He threatens, and then he withdraws. Even when I have money to give him, he passes me from here to there, refusing to see me, keeping me hanging on until it fair maddens my mind to fury.'