Down a Dark River, page 26
“O’ course.” She thought for a moment. “Wait here.”
Twenty minutes later, she was back. “Try the Golden Horn. Ye remember where ’tis?”
“Sure.”
She looked at me sorrowfully. “But don’t think the way you find him now is what he was. He never used to drink more ’n a pint, but Joan says he’s soused most days.” Her voice was sad. “He’s bitter, Mickey. Like you could’a been.”
I nodded in acknowledgment. “If you hadn’t made me see reason.”
She patted my cheek, more gently than Elsie had. “Take care o’ yourself. And Harry, too.”
I pulled her into a quick, grateful embrace. Then I headed for the Horn.
It had been more than a decade, but plenty of us from the docks went there, and I found it without making a wrong turn. The paint from the wooden sign had faded, leaving only the carved letters and the shape of a horn, and the door was new—probably because the old one had rotted. As I swung it open, the smell of hops and river-scented floorboards brought me back. For just that second, I could have been seventeen, with some swagger in my step and a few shillings in my pocket, and Pat Doyle could have been right behind me.
At this time of day, the men weren’t here to sing or play cards or even start a fight, like those who’d come later. A dozen men, most of them alone at their tables, drank sullenly and with purpose. Only a few bothered to glance up as I entered.
I went straight to the buxom woman behind the counter and asked for my quarry.
She pointed behind me. A tight silver ring made her chubby finger look like a pink sausage in its casing. “There.”
I turned to find Nate’s eyes already on me, and I approached. He was around Colin’s and Elsie’s age, twenty or thereabouts, wiry the way dockhands are, with a good pair of shoulders, a handsome face, a thatch of tousled red hair, and a grim set to his mouth.
I sat down on the stool opposite.
“Nate? I’m Mickey Corravan,” I said.
He gave me a dark look. “You’re police.”
I nodded.
“I ain’t done nothin’,” he said warningly.
“I just want to ask you some questions.”
A snort. “Like you’ll believe me.”
“Listen.” I leaned forward. “I grew up here. I know how things can be.”
He appraised my overcoat. “You seem t’ have done a’ right.”
“You know Ma Doyle?”
That erased some of the sneer, and a cautious interest lit his eyes.
“She took me in after my ma disappeared,” I said. “And she says you didn’t touch that girl.”
He deflated, and his eyes dropped to his pint. “Well, I didn’t.”
“I tend to believe her.” His gaze flicked up to meet mine, and I lowered my voice. “But I have to ask you. You’ve heard about those dead women on the river?”
“O’ course.” Then his expression changed. He looked horrified, first—then hunted—and at last despondent. “You think I done it,” he said dully. “‘Cos ’a wot they said I done before.”
“Where were you on Friday afternoon and evening?”
He thought for a few seconds. “Here.”
I stood and approached the barmaid. “Was Nate here on Friday?”
“Shore.” She wiped the inside of a glass with a rag. “He’s here most every night, drinking until he’s too blotted to stand.”
“When did he arrive?” I asked.
She twitched her full mouth to the side, held it there while she thought. “Came around one in the afternoon, just after I come. Left mebbe midnight.”
“You’re sure?”
Her eyes drifted to him, and to my surprise, her expression softened. “Poor fool. Warn’t fair what she did to ’im.” Her gaze returned to me. “Whatever somebody done that day, it warn’t him. He was so soused he couldn’t walk straight.”
“You’re certain it was Friday.”
“Friday was last day I worked.” She turned to a man with the jowls of a walrus who was perched nearby, pretending not to listen. “Dick, you was here Friday. Was Nate here?”
“Aye. I started playin’ cards around three. He was here” —he directed his thumb toward the corner where Nate sat brooding over his pint— “in his usual spot.”
So Nate had two alibis.
“And your names?” I asked. If she demurred, I’d doubt her, but she obliged instantly.
“Margery Flaxwell.” She tipped her head toward the man. “Dick Connelly.”
“Thanks.” I pulled some coins out of my pocket and dropped them on the bar. “A pint for Dick, if you would.” The man nodded his thanks, and the coins vanished under her plump hand before I’d turned away.
I returned to Nate’s table and scribbled the names in my pocketbook. “You’re clear. I promise,” I said, looking down at him.
He gave a doubtful look and lifted his tankard to his mouth again.
There was something in me that wanted to sit back down, to try to convince him that as rotten as he felt right now, his life wasn’t over. That things could change. That ten years from now, he could find himself with work he liked, a woman he loved, maybe even one who loved him back enough to forgive him when he acted like an ass. Friends who cared enough to argue with him when he was steering himself wrong.
The scowl on his face told me he wanted to be left alone.
Still, I tried. “My name’s Corravan,” I reminded him. “I’ll help you if you want. Find you something to do, get you away from here. You can reach me through Ma Doyle. You hear me?”
“I don’t need help from the likes o’ you.” His resentment was obvious, but I might have missed the note of shame, the need for something beyond rescuing, except that Belinda’s reproach had taken root in my mind.
“It’s true that I’ve done all right for myself, Nate. But only because someone helped me, back when I left Whitechapel.” I thought of Mr. Gordon, the superintendent in Lambeth. “Helped me more than once. And I needed it. I was young and stubborn, and there was a lot I needed to learn,” I said frankly. “If it hadn’t been for him, I’d probably be dead.”
That penetrated his mistrust, however briefly. He looked at me searchingly, but he said nothing, so after a moment I said, “Offer stands, any time. All right?”
He nodded, and I had to be satisfied with that.
I reached the street and considered what to do next. The offices of the Falcon weren’t far—no more than a ten-minute walk. I turned in that direction and reached the large door, pushed it open, and mounted the stairs to the second floor, where dozens of men were laying type, their fingers quick and deft, plucking the lead bits from their wooden compartments.
I approached the nearest man. “Where can I find Tom Flynn?”
His eyes never left his task. “Upstairs.”
I thanked him and climbed a flight of rickety wooden stairs that I wouldn’t have wanted to navigate in the dark. An oblong rectangle of light lay across the floor at the end of the hallway, and I reached the open door and looked in. He was bent over a table covered with old newspapers.
“Tom.”
He looked up, and his expression brightened. “Corravan. Hullo.”
Before I even had time to settle into the chair, Tom pushed a page of newsprint toward me. “I may have found your trial.”
My jaw dropped. “You shouldn’t have spent—”
“Oh.” Tom waved a hand. “I’m looking for some other articles. Kept my eye peeled for it, and—well, you can see why it stood out.”
Yes, I could. The headline, in one-inch capital letters: WEST END DOCTOR ACQUITTED.
Tom leaned forward, elbows on the rough table, his thumb rubbing over the shortened finger on his left hand. “You can read for yourself, but about four years ago, Dr. Forsyte was called to a case and diagnosed a kidney stone.” He touched his lower right side, beneath his ribs. “However, it was actually appendicitis, and the woman died. There was a question of Forsyte being drunk when he saw her, but the case was dismissed. Barrister knew what he was about. Bartholomew Griffiths.”
I could imagine Forsyte, like Mr. Bell said, swearing on a Bible, trying to save himself from jail, from having to sell his practice. I scanned the article, but Tom had omitted nothing important from his rapid synopsis.
I blew out my breath. “You’re a good man.”
He brushed the compliment aside. But I wasn’t so much a fool that I didn’t know the effort he’d taken on my behalf. I owed him more than a pint now, and I pay my debts. So I told him everything I’d discovered so far, with the proviso that he couldn’t use it yet, and I’d have more for him soon.
He walked me down the back stairs and whistled for a cab. The sky darkened as I rode west, and I fit this new information about Dr. Forsyte into what I already knew. As I passed St. Paul’s Cathedral, I recalled the barrister’s name: Bartholomew Griffiths.
The feeling that I’d heard the name before—and recently—was like a shard of metal under the skin in my palm. Trying to dig the circumstance out of my memory occupied me all the way back to Whitehall, where I climbed out of the cab. I still couldn’t remember where or when I’d heard of him, but I knew if I stopped trying, it would come to me eventually.
CHAPTER 41
Mindful that I hadn’t eaten all day, I stopped in a pub to wolf down a slice of shepherd’s pie before I returned to the Yard. Vincent’s door was open, with Inspector Mills inside, and Mills must have noticed Vincent spotting me, for he turned as I approached.
“Any luck?” Vincent asked.
“It’s not Nate,” I said to both of them. “He has an alibi for all of Friday. Two of them, in fact.” I handed over a piece of paper with their names and the address of the Golden Horn.
Inspector Mills’s cough rumbled in his throat. “I was just saying that I met the fourth victim’s father—Montooth. Furious, of course, that we haven’t caught the man. Railed at me for a good ten minutes before I could get a word in.”
“Was she married?” I asked.
“Engaged. Emma was eighteen. Her fiancé is named David Cobb, who’s at university, reading history.”
I had the fleeting thought that he might be connected somehow with Jane’s suitor Sam Gordon, or Rose’s brothers at Cambridge. “Which one?”
“Oriel. One of the Oxford colleges. But her father says Cobb wouldn’t have anything to do with this. Called him a ‘weak-minded ninny.’” He curled his lip in imitation of Mr. Montooth.
“What does Montooth do?”
He sniffed. “He’s a gentleman. Collects art. Serves on a few railway boards.”
“And how did Emma go missing?” I asked.
“That’s the strange thing,” Mills said. “I know all of the others were taken at night. Seems Emma was intending to go to the bookshop and the milliner on Friday afternoon.”
That was different. Perhaps the man was merely guided by opportunity. Perhaps the three Tuesdays were coincidental.
Inspector Mills took out a handkerchief and wiped at his nose. “The milliner says Emma stopped in at around three o’clock. But after that, nothing.”
Vincent sighed. “All right. Well, I suppose we should find out if Mr. Cobb has any connection to the river, building, or engineering—although it doesn’t seem likely.”
I heard the flatness in Vincent’s voice, and by the gloomy look Mills gave me, I could tell he felt just as discouraged.
“Thank you, Mills,” Vincent said and nodded. Mills turned away, and I made to follow, but Vincent said, “Just a moment, Corravan. Please close the door.”
I stiffened. I hoped he wasn’t still fixed on Nate McLoughlin. Even Quartermain should be satisfied with two alibis.
Vincent gestured toward the leather armchair opposite. “Please.”
Well, this invitation was noteworthy.
Warily, I drew the chair away from the desk far enough to accommodate my knees and lowered myself into it.
His gray eyes met mine. “What is your opinion of Chief Superintendent Blair?”
The question hit me like a bucket of ice water, and it took a moment to recover. Vincent’s expression was bland, but there was a prickling along my spine, and I sensed I was being tested. I began cautiously, searching for words noncommittal enough that I’d only confirm whatever Vincent already knew.
“I worked under him for four years,” I replied.
“Yes.” He waited.
“He knows nearly everything about the river,” I said. “The depth of water at various places, the tides at different times of the month, heights of the bridges, the foremen and managers of the warehouses, men who own the shipping lines and work at Custom House.”
“A knowledgeable man.” He folded his hands across his waistcoat. “Could you tell me why you left?”
Again, I had the sensation—stronger now—that this was a test, and a critical one. I couldn’t imagine Vincent rewarding me for disparaging a former superintendent. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I’d merely wanted a change, to let him think I was capricious or overweening or even disloyal, when Vincent said, “We have it on good authority that Blair leaked information about the first two murders to the press.”
I flinched, knocking my elbow into the chair arm.
“You’re surprised.” A look of relief crossed his face.
“Of course,” burst from me, but I fell silent as questions rose to my mind in a wave. What would Blair gain by sabotaging the investigation? Was this out of spite toward me? Toward Vincent? Or out of general resentment that the case had been turned over to the Yard?
“Corravan, I need an answer.”
His words jerked me back to the present.
“Why did you leave?” he asked again, patiently.
I coughed to clear the thickness in my throat. “I had concerns about some of Blair’s actions, sir.”
“Specifically?”
Vincent’s tone told me he knew something, and I resolved to say only what I knew for certain.
“He was overlooking some of his men taking bribes from officers at Custom House,” I replied.
He unclasped his hands to turn over a palm. “And?”
He was looking for an allegation that I couldn’t give him. “Sir, there’s nothing else I could say with certainty. And I don’t guess. Feels too much like slander.”
“Very well.” His eyes were sober. “Were you acquainted with a Custom House officer named Walsh?”
So he knew.
My heart tripped, and my spine cleaved to the upholstered back of the chair.
A second wave of questions: Was this the reason Stiles and I had been sent to Wapping that first day? Not because Blair had requested me for the lighter boat, or because I happened to be available, but because Vincent knew I’d watch Blair with extra care?
Yet another wave of questions formed behind this one: What else did Vincent know? And did he blame me for not speaking up about my suspicions years ago, for dodging the mess and moving to the Yard?
Vincent sat with his spine straight, his left elbow resting lightly on the chair arm. “Mr. Corravan, I have a particular reason for wanting to know. And I shall keep your confidence.”
I was silent for a long minute. I had never told anyone the whole story, not even James or Belinda. But the look in Vincent’s eyes told me that if I didn’t tell him now, he’d never ask me for the truth again.
“As you probably know,” I began slowly, “there are some merchants and shipping companies who give bribes to customs officers to avoid paying the proper duties on goods. The customs officers in turn pay the River Police men a portion of it, to guarantee safe passage and no trouble. This has been going on for years.” Vincent’s expression suggested he knew all this, and relieved, I continued, “But a few years ago, the penalty for accepting bribes rose from a moderate fine to five years in prison. So some of the customs men stopped taking them. Still, some of the River Police men were wanting their money, so they’d threaten them—or beat them. One of the River men discovered that Kevin Walsh was planning to report them, and he and another man went to talk to Walsh, convince him to keep quiet.”
“Who were they?”
The names stuck in my throat. I remembered how low I felt when everyone thought I’d ratted out O’Hagan. Only this time I was actually being a rat. But I’d left the River Police for a reason.
“Jonas Pye and Steve Wick,” I said. “Wick’s the sort who goes along with things, but Pye’s clever as they come.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Walsh turned up dead two days later. His body washed up on the bank near Scully Dock. A new man at Wapping named Tom Finney was assigned the case and didn’t seem to be making much headway.” Young Finney had been chosen for a reason, and Vincent’s face told me he understood that. “But I learned enough to realize what had probably happened.”
“How?”
This was another question whose answer stuck in my throat. But at last I said, “Kevin’s brother Liam saw Pye and Wick and Kevin in a pub together two nights before his body was found.”
Vincent’s chest rose, as if with a quick inhalation.
“But Liam was a drunkard,” I continued. “And he’d had some run-ins with River Police men over the years.”
“An ax to grind, perhaps,” Vincent supplied.
I nodded. “So I had no real proof that Pye or Wick, or any of the River men, had killed Walsh.” I took a breath. “Still, I was all set to go to Blair with what I guessed. I wanted to do the decent thing, so I met Pye at a pub to tell him ahead of time.” A small snort escaped, as I remembered how Pye had laughed at me. “He told me that Blair already gave them an alibi for that night and Finney made it official, putting it in his report.”
Even as I spoke the words, I was back there in that pub, with Pye’s words carving a crater in my chest. “Blair looks after his own, Mickey.” Pye had laughed a second time, no doubt at the stupid expression on my face, at my disbelief that Blair would cover up a murder. Pye was always cocksure, but I sensed he wasn’t bluffing. And as much as Blair had watched out for me for four years, as much as I’d grown to admire him and even love him, I couldn’t say for certain that he wouldn’t lie, under oath if necessary, to protect his own men.
