Four Thousand Days, page 10
He had his head on one side trying to work out which of the many forgers he had collared over the years had turned it out when the door behind him opened and a man stood there, looking aggressive.
Reid doffed his hat once more. ‘Mr Barker?’ he asked.
‘Who’s asking?’ The tone was cultured, but it overlaid something Reid struggled for a moment to place; then it came to him. Mile End Waste, or he was a Dutchman.
‘My name is Edmund Reid. I used to be a police inspector at Scotland Yard and I have been asked by the Herne Bay police to come and speak to you about your daughter.’
Barker was making popping noises, like a saucepan coming to the boil, but Reid talked over him; it was the only way. Barker finally got his tongue under control and rapped out, ‘I have no daughter.’
‘I do understand that there was a falling out of some kind,’ Reid said, again speaking a little louder than normal to cover Barker’s fury. ‘I am not here to judge. Sadly, I believe that your daughter was found dead last Saturday – I found her, in fact, on the beach – and I don’t think you would like her to have a pauper’s unmarked grave, surely, would you, Mr Barker?’
If Barker cared, it was hard to tell. ‘Dead?’ he asked. He might as well have been speaking of the rather seedy-looking aspidistra in the window. ‘How do you know it is Emmeline? And why are you working for the Herne Bay police?’ The man took a step forward and raised a finger, pointing it in Reid’s face. ‘I think you are a blackguard, sir, that’s what I think.’
Reid kept his composure; it was what he did, whatever the circumstances. ‘I’m not sure what you think I have to gain by any imposture,’ he said coolly. ‘I believe that your daughter is dead because of investigations I have carried out, but more especially because that picture over there …’
Barker spun round. He had specifically told his wife to remove all images of Emmeline, but she had clearly disobeyed. He would take that up with her later.
‘… is, allowing for the ravages of time, sand, weather and – I hesitate to mention it, but you are clearly a man who speaks his mind – crustacea, the same woman who I saw on the beach. Dead.’
The door behind him opened and a little woman bustled in, smiling. They didn’t have many visitors these days and she had heard voices. She advanced with her hand outstretched. ‘Good morning,’ she said, beaming. ‘I am Mrs Barker. Did I hear you say “dead”? Are you collecting for something? Cavalry horses? Something of that nature. Because I must tell you that Mr Barker and I don’t believe in giving to charity.’
The smile tightened a little as she spoke and Reid, from having been surprised to find her so jolly bearing in mind that she lived with Mr Barker, saw that she was hanging on to her persona by an unravelling thread. He bit back his retort and prepared to break it to her gently, but her husband had no such qualms.
‘This gentleman was just going,’ he snapped. ‘He’s just dropped by to tell us Emmeline is dead, so he can leave now. He has told us all we need to know.’
The woman’s face crumpled and she turned to Reid, the tears spilling over the reddened lids and falling down her cheeks. They were not the first tears she had cried that day, Reid could tell, and they wouldn’t be the last. She grabbed his arm with both hands and sagged towards him.
‘Dead?’ she whispered. ‘Dead? Emmeline? How can that be? She was so … so young.’
Barker stepped forward and pulled her away from Reid’s sheltering arm, giving her a shake as one would a recalcitrant child. ‘She was found on a beach,’ he said. ‘As I think I told you when I showed her the door, she was no better than she should be and would come to a bad end. And now she has, so I don’t see how our situation is any different now than how it was then.’ He shook her again. ‘Stop crying, woman. I thought I had forbidden it.’
‘But … but William.’ She turned and clawed at his coat. ‘Our baby. Emmeline. She’s dead. How can you not care?’
‘Take hold of yourself, woman,’ Barker snarled. ‘Compose yourself while I see this gentleman out.’ He pushed her on to one of the only semi-padded chairs and stepped round Reid to the door, opening it wide. ‘This way, please, Mr Reid, if that is indeed your name.’
Reid looked at him as he would look at dogshit on his shoe. ‘You will be sorry you behaved like that, Mr Barker,’ he said in a tight monotone. ‘I don’t know what your business is, but I will find out. You will see your clients drop away, your income dwindle, your standing in this town drop lower than even you deserve. You are a pig, sir, and nothing will change that. I came here today ready to comfort grieving parents. Instead, what I have seen has sickened me more than I can say.’ He sighed. ‘I know that you will now proceed to take your anger out on your wife. But I would like you to know that if your wife is not seen, safe and well, on the streets of Canterbury at least once a day from now on, you will have police on your doorstep day and night. If she has anywhere to go, I hope she goes there.’ He took a deep breath, because he was not usually a profane man. ‘I hope to God that you rot in hell.’ And he swept out.
In the garden, he found he was trembling. Edmund Reid had faced down gangs outnumbering him six to one, each one of them seeming to be twice his height and girth and half his age. But no confrontation had upset him as much as this one with William Barker. Since his wife had died, he had never really known what he thought about God, heaven and man’s immortal soul. But he knew that in William Barker, he had smelt the stench of sulphur; the man was evil, through and through.
‘Mr Reid?’ A small voice cut through his thoughts. ‘Mr Reid? Are you quite well?’
He turned and, coming across the lawn, throwing a shawl around her shoulders, came Mrs Barker, with tear streaks on her cheeks. She was looking behind her as if the hounds of hell were baying at her heels, as indeed, in a way, they were.
‘Mrs Barker!’ He hurried towards her. ‘Should you … should you be out here?’
‘Mr Reid,’ she said, with a sad smile. ‘I shouldn’t be here, in this house, at all. My husband hates me; I gave birth to Emmeline, you see, and that makes me complicit in her wrongdoing.’ She patted his hand as if he needed comfort. ‘He alienated all my friends and family within months of our marriage, so I have nowhere else to go. Don’t worry, Mr Reid; he doesn’t often use physical violence. It is usually as you saw it today, a little rough handling, some rough speech.’
‘But that’s too much,’ Reid said. ‘There should be none of either.’ He remembered his wife, the quiet evenings they had spent, the companionable walks, the little holidays, their plans to retire to Kent. He looked down at the little woman, standing there so resigned and could have wept.
‘William was brought up in poverty in the East End, Mr Reid,’ she said. ‘He thinks that money is enough for anyone. He has forgotten that people matter. Even himself.’
Reid patted himself on the back. He hadn’t lost his touch.
‘He sent Emmeline to all the best schools, then was surprised when she wanted to go on learning. She applied to King’s College and was so excited when she heard she had got in.’ She clasped her hands and looked down, telling the story to herself as much as to Reid. ‘She came running into the breakfast room with the letter, waving it in the air and twirling round and round. I remember her curls flying, her feet dancing. Even William had to smile.’
Her face glowed beneath the tears, then crumpled again.
‘That was the last day she spent under our roof. As soon as William discovered what she was planning, he threw her out, with just the clothes on her back.’
Reid frowned. ‘The rumour in town …’ Then he decided to not share the rest of the gossip.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr Reid,’ she said. ‘I started that rumour myself. Everyone could understand that, you see. A daughter in the family way being shown the door; well, there is more than one very respectable house in this very street where that happened. No, God forgive me, but I didn’t want people to look down on William, for his arrant stupidity and pigheadedness. He should have been proud of our girl.’ She buried her head in her hands and Reid let her cry. He knew that the slightest touch, a note of sympathy in his voice and she would be lost in her misery, perhaps for ever. He waited patiently and in a while, she drew a huge breath and carried on.
‘I managed to see her twice. Once when I said I was going up to town to see my dentist, the other to see my doctor.’
‘Are you ill?’ Reid was concerned.
‘No, amazingly, not. But William chooses my clothes, so shopping was not something I could claim to be the reason. He would accompany me to the doctor if he could, to make sure … well, he made sure there were no marks when I said where I was going, so that was good for two reasons, not only because I was seeing Emmeline.’ She sniffed. ‘She was so happy. I had managed to get some money to her and she lived frugally. She was doing research into somesuch thing I didn’t really understand. But …’ – she turned back to the house, anxious to be gone – ‘but she was happy, Mr Reid. She wasn’t … well, she hadn’t fallen, had she? She wasn’t dead on the beach because she had fallen?’
Reid patted her arm. ‘No, Mrs Barker. She was still doing her research. We don’t know who killed her, or why. But we will. I promise you. Just one more thing. I can tell you want to go back inside.’
‘Need to, Mr Reid, not want.’ She was resigned, and that was more heartbreaking than the tears.
‘But before you go, do you know if she had a friend in London, a special friend?’
‘A man, you mean?’ Mrs Barker had not wanted a man for her daughter. She had fallen in love, and look where that had landed her.
‘Or a woman. Just someone we can talk to.’
‘She lived … the last time we spoke, she lived in a mews, just off the Strand. I can’t remember the name …’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘You will think badly of me, Mr Reid, but I say I can scarcely remember my name some days. It was … umm … something to do with trees … and for some reason, I remember it was number fifteen; it was my mother’s birthday, that’s probably why.’ She twisted her hands together and looked up at him desperately.
Reid racked his encyclopaedic knowledge of minor London streets. ‘Not Walnut Mews?’ he asked hopefully.
‘That’s the one! Goodness, Mr Reid, that is quite extraordinary.’
‘I know it,’ he said. He didn’t tell her it was because it had been the scene of more violence and robbery than virtually any other street in the area, though it was too late to worry her now. ‘The friend’s name, can you remember?’
‘Oh, yes! What a sweet girl. Her name is Marjy.’
Reid looked at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for the rest.
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember the rest.’
‘Never mind, Mrs Barker,’ he said softly. She turned to go. ‘Keep safe,’ he whispered, as he always whispered forlorn hopes.
Jacob Lawrenson was at home that Tuesday afternoon, which told Adam Crawford a lot. On questioning, it turned out he was a gas mantle repairer, currently not employed as there had been an unprecedented lull in breakages of gas mantles in the immediate area. For medical reasons which he preferred not to specify, he couldn’t travel.
‘You could travel downstairs, though, or so I understand?’ Crawford remarked.
‘Downstairs?’ Lawrenson looked furtive.
‘Downstairs as far as Alice Groves’s apartment, perhaps.’
Lawrenson drew himself up and looked pompous. ‘I scarcely knew the woman,’ he said. ‘Anyone will tell you that.’ He dropped his voice, though there was no one else there. ‘She was on the game, you know. No better than she should be. Brought the neighbourhood down, in my opinion.’
‘I do know that, Mr Lawrenson, and you know that I do. But please, don’t come the injured neighbour with me. I have it on good authority that you and Alice were more than passing acquaintances. In fact, I have it on very good authority that you were indulging in what we could call her stock-in-trade – and for nothing. Is that so?’ Crawford smiled. ‘Is there a Mrs Lawrenson, by the way?’
‘Yes, there certainly is!’ Lawrenson was outraged. ‘And I will have you know, we are very active in that department. Anyone will tell you that.’
‘Good grief!’ Crawford stepped back. ‘Wherever do you do it, Mr Lawrenson, that anyone will tell me that?’
‘Well.’ Lawrenson was deflated. ‘Not literally. But everyone knows that me and my Tilly get on like a house on fire.’
‘I know that kind of marriage,’ Crawford said knowingly. ‘Lots of heat and flames and people running about screaming. I hope we didn’t disturb her the other night, what with the shouting and such.’ He sighed and plumped down into an armchair, to the surprise of a sleeping cat. ‘Sorry.’ Crawford was fond of animals. ‘I’m sure she will be all right.’ The cat sat on the table, looking balefully at Crawford, its tail in the butter.
Lawrenson seemed to run out of steam. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘Tilly left me about a year ago. I have … I have rather special needs, if you must know, which Tilly was not willing to provide. Alice was good enough to …’ He stared at Crawford, not knowing how to go on.
‘Step into the breach?’ Crawford offered.
‘If you like.’ Lawrenson relaxed. This copper might look wet behind the ears, but he seemed to understand life. ‘She didn’t mind it when I asked her to—’
Crawford held up his hand. ‘No need for details, Mr Lawrenson, really there isn’t. I was wondering, though, whether you knew any of her other clients? Whether you ever met one of them, for instance, in the doorway or perhaps when you were even in her room.’
‘’Ere!’ Lawrenson was outraged. ‘There was none of that muck going on, if you please! It was strictly her and me, in the dark for preference.’ He folded his arms and looked aggrieved. ‘I was brought up a Methodist, you know. The idea!’
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything untoward, Mr Lawrenson,’ Crawford said, trying not to smile. He couldn’t blame the man for wanting to keep his peccadilloes to himself. What he could see of them through his clothes was unpleasant enough. ‘I simply wondered whether … well, for the sake of an example, did you ever happen to be looking out of your window when Alice had visitors?’
Lawrenson was sulking. ‘I might of.’
‘And?’
‘No good asking me who they were. You can see for yourself. All you get from up here is the top of folks’ heads. A few bald ones. The rest had hair. And that’s all I can tell you.’ And indeed it was. Lawrenson shut his mouth like a trap, the cat rolled over and licked its bum and Adam Crawford saw himself out.
SEVEN
‘This morning’s tutorial will be a little different,’ Margaret Murray told her assembled students. They were crowded into Flinders Petrie’s study on the shady side of the college, mainly because his room was larger than hers. ‘We will be focusing on Rome.’
An involuntary groan escaped from the lips of Ben Crouch and he immediately turned it into a cough.
‘No, it’s too late for that, Mr Crouch,’ Margaret smiled. ‘I recognize a tone of disapproval when I hear one.’
‘No, no, Dr Murray.’ The man held up a guilty hand, anxious to placate. ‘It’s just that I am, as you know, a Greek, with perhaps a hint of Egyptian.’
‘How very cosmopolitan,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, however, you’d begin.’ She passed him a heavy globular object which once clearly had been part of something else. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that’s easy.’ Crouch smiled broadly. He hated these tutorials when everyone was put on the spot, but he sensed that, this morning, he’d got off lightly. ‘It’s the pommel of a gladius,’ he told the assembly, ‘a legionary sword.’
‘Period, Miss Bairnsfather?’ Margaret had switched her gaze to the little Scots girl and Crouch had passed the pommel to her.
‘Umm …’ Janet had never faced one of Margaret Murray’s tutorials before. She felt like a rabbit facing a stoat.
‘Unfair question, Janet, my dear,’ Margaret smiled. ‘Mr Sheringham, you’ve been around the triforium a few times. Period?’
Will Sheringham was not one of Margaret’s gang. Secretly, he was of the old school, not at all sure that archaeology, anthropology or indeed any academic discipline was a suitable topic for female discussion. But he wasn’t about to let that show this morning. ‘First century,’ he said. ‘Give or take.’
Margaret pursed her lips. ‘Well, we can’t allow too much of that in archaeology, can we? Professor Petrie will have discussed with you whether our chosen field is a science or an art. I, of course, contend that it is both. Miss Crossley’ – she half turned to Anthea – ‘put these men out of their misery, would you?’
Anthea took the pommel and cradled it in her hand for a moment. ‘First century,’ she agreed, ‘but it’s not from a gladius; it’s from a pugio.’
‘A dagger?’ Andrew Rose could not let that go. ‘How the hell … oh, begging your pardon, Dr Murray … do you know that?’
Anthea all but threw the brass weight at him. ‘Hold it, Andrew,’ she said. ‘Pretend you’re holding the hilt it was attached to.’ He did. ‘Well?’ She gave him a moment.
‘Oh, all right,’ he conceded. ‘Pugio it is.’
‘Explain, Mr Baxter.’
George Baxter had not joined to become an archaeologist. He had signed on for engineering, but the mathematics defeated him. Then he opted for linguistics, but translations were not for him. This was his second year in the faculty of Archaeology, though he was by now more than old enough to have graduated. Pompous, however, was his middle name. He flared his nostrils and with great gravitas said, ‘Contrary to popular opinion, Roman hands of nineteen hundred years ago were roughly the same size as ours today. This is altogether too small for a sword hilt. Ergo …’ – and he looked around smugly to see who was impressed with his Latin – ‘it has to be a dagger.’
Margaret nodded. ‘Carried by the legionaries on the right or the left, Miss Halifax?’ she asked.
