Praise for Mick Finlay
‘Think Sherlock Holmes is the only detective working in Victorian London? Meet William Arrowood, the hero of Mick Finlay’s series of absorbing novels’
The Times
‘A fantastic creation’
Spectator
‘Outstanding’
Publishers Weekly
‘Gripping’
Daily Telegraph
‘A gripping historical crime novel … book clubs will love it, especially fans of C. J. Sansom’
NB Magazine
‘Loved it – the sights, sounds, smells, and horrors of Victorian London are so vividly portrayed’
Roz Watkins
‘Mick Finlay’s richly told story evokes the bustling all-encompassing worlds of C. J. Sansom and Charles Dickens. I loved it’
Lesley Thomson
‘A book with enough warmth, charm, humour, and intrigue to signal the start of an excellent new series’
Vaseem Khan
‘The new master of gritty, gruesome and gripping historical crime fiction’
Lancashire Evening Post
‘Readers of historical detective fiction will enjoy this well-set, darkly humorous addition to the canon’
Historical Novel Society
MICK FINLAY was born in Glasgow but spent his childhood moving between Scotland, Canada and England. Before becoming an academic, he ran a market stall on Portobello Road, and has worked as a tent-hand in a travelling circus, a butcher’s boy, a hotel porter, and in various jobs in the NHS and social services. He teaches in a Psychology Department, and has published research on political violence and persuasion, verbal and non-verbal communication, and disability. He now divides his time between Brighton and Cambridge.
@mickfinlay2
/mickfinlayauthor
www.mickfinlay.com
Also by Mick Finlay
ARROWOOD
THE MURDER PIT
ARROWOOD AND THE THAMES CORPSES
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Mick Finlay 2021
Mick Finlay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008324568
Version 2021-06-28
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008324551
To John and Maya
Characters
William Arrowood – private investigative agent, Ettie’s brother, Isabel’s husband
Norman Barnett – Arrowood’s assistant, was married to Rita (Mrs B)
Mercy – Ettie’s baby
Isabel Arrowood – applicant for medical scholarship, Leopold’s mother, William’s wife
Leopold – Isabel’s baby, his father is a lawyer (deceased)
Neddy – eleven-year-old muffin seller, helps Arrowood from time to time
Flossie – five-year-old street child rescued by Arrowood and Barnett in a previous case
Lewis – William’s best friend, runs a second-hand weapons shop, one-armed, lives with Willoughby
Willoughby – works for Sidney as stablehand, lives with Lewis, has Down’s syndrome
Sidney – Rita’s brother and Norman’s brother-in-law, runs a cab yard
The visitors from Natal, South Africa
Thembeka Kunene – ex-servant to English family in Natal, exbeerseller, S’bu’s aunt, Senzo and Musa’s cousin
Senzo Nyambezi – younger man from Natal, ex-convict, Thembeka’s cousin, Musa’s nephew
Musa Schoko – older man from Natal, ex-convict, Thembeka’s cousin, Senzo’s uncle
S’bu Kunene – fourteen-year-old boy, Thembeka’s nephew
PC Mabaso – police constable from Langlaagte Police, Natal
Princess Nobantu – young woman, doing Zulu exhibitions around Britain with two companions, a man and a woman
Scotland Yard police
DI Napper – detective inspector, Scotland Yard
PC McDonald – young constable, Scotland Yard
Sergeant Farmerson – one of the two desk sergeants, Scotland Yard, suspended by the superintendent
Capaldi and his men
Bruno Capaldi – the family boss, showman
Ermano Capaldi –Bruno’s brother
Ralf Capaldi –Bruno’s son
English Dave – guard, works for Bruno
Nick – guard, works for Bruno, in love with Sylvia
Capaldi’s Wonders
Leonie – Pig Woman, English
Gisele – Lobster Claw Lady, French
Sylvia – Baboon Girl, American, in love with Nick
The others
Madame Delacourte – showman, rival to Bruno Capaldi
Polichinelle – famous clown, appears in theatres and variety shows, sometimes works for Capaldi, friend of Madame Delacourte
Ma Willows – owner of Willows’ coffee shop
Mr Deakin – manager of York Hotel, Waterloo
Mr Lilly – office manager of Coastal Steam Packet Shipping Company
Reverend Hebden – runs the mission where Ettie works
Reverend Jebb – runs the women’s sanctuary (part of Reverend Hebden’s mission)
Note on Terminology
All historical fiction is a compromise between historical accuracy and the needs and values of the current day. This compromise is particularly difficult when attitudes that were common then are recognized as offensive now. Racism was a widely accepted feature of white Victorian society. Since this book features a number of black characters from Natal, it was important I represent the language and attitudes they faced, but in a way that tries not to cause further damage. It would have been historically inaccurate to have all white characters, even those who were openly racist, use only terms we would today see as acceptable. For this reason, a range of terms are used by white characters in this book when they are talking about the South African characters, and in several places those with openly racist attitudes use less acceptable terms. However, I made the decision not to have any character use the four or five most offensive terms that were commonly used in England to refer to black people in the 1890s. I thought this was the best compromise for this book at this time, although I understand that some
might disagree.
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Characters
Note on Terminology
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Historical notes
Acknowledgements
Extract
Chapter One
About the Publisher
Chapter One
South London, December, 1896
All my life we’d been at war. This year alone we’d had the Ashanti campaign, the Jameson Raid, the bombing of Zanzibar Town, and Kitchener’s battles with the Mahdis. Over the last two decades we’d fought the Boer, the Burmese, the Afghans, the Marri Baluch, and the good old Zulus. War had become our way of life, and how we loved opening the paper every morning for news of our adventures. Empire made the reputation of many a fine fellow and the fortune of many others. It made for songs and toys and ceremonies. It made for an army of broken soldiers and a city awash with guns.
The storm pounded on the narrow street outside the tailor’s shop, corralling the soot on the window into ragged lines and dams as maggots of grey rain made their way down the glass to collect on the sodden sill. Me and the guvnor, our clothes soaked through, stood before Forbes Rucker as he inspected a pistol at his cutting table. Around us on rails hung the jackets and suits made in the sweat shop above. The tailor ran his nimble red fingers up and down the barrel once more. He opened the chamber and held it to the lamp.
‘It wasn’t in this condition when it was stolen,’ he said at last. He nodded at my swollen lip. ‘I can see you’ve been in a fight. The handle was damaged then, I suppose?’
‘The gun’s exactly as it was when we retrieved it,’ said the guvnor.
Rucker put a monocle to his eye and studied the chip on the wooden handle. It wasn’t any old pistol: it was the one General Pennefather used in the Battle of Inkerman, and worth a lot of money to a collector. Finally, he threw it down. ‘It’s worthless. The initials are gone. There’s no way of identifying it as Pennefather’s.’
The guvnor glanced at me.
‘I’m sorry to hear it, sir,’ said I. ‘Now, if you’ll just pay us what you owe, we’ll be off.’
‘It’s damaged.’
‘As Mr Arrowood says, that’s the way we found it. We did what you asked. Four days at twenty shillings an hour, plus the two shillings we gave Mr Creach for the information. You paid one day in advance. That makes it sixty-two shillings, please, sir.’
‘I’m not paying,’ growled Rucker, rising from his chair and holding out the gun. ‘You can have the pistol instead. Now, get out.’
‘Not until you pay us what you owe, sir,’ I said, stepping towards him.
In a flash, a knife appeared in his hand. ‘Out,’ he snarled.
‘You owe us.’
‘Out, Mr Barnett. I will hurt you, have no doubt.’
I looked at the guvnor, who gave a great, weary sigh and shook his head. The both of us knew there was nothing we could do, least not then and there. I took the ancient gun and slipped it in my pocket.
‘We won’t forget your debt, sir,’ said the guvnor as we backed to the door. ‘And we will collect.’
Money being tight, we had to walk all the way to the women’s sanctuary in Kennington where Ettie, the guvnor’s sister, had asked us to deliver a bag of Christmas gifts. As we hurried through the storm, he cursed.
‘Will this rain never stop? We should have listened to Lewis, damn it. He warned us about that hound.’
‘We needed a case, sir,’ I said. ‘We had to risk it.’
‘I lost my best umbrella for that blooming pistol.’ We stepped into the road to let two old women dressed in black pass on the pavement. Each was dragging a bulky sack through the puddles. ‘That money would have paid for Christmas. I was looking forward to a good bit of beef. Ettie wanted a bird. Some good brandy. Damn it! I was even going to visit the bath-house this evening. Isabel does prefer me washed at Christmas. What about you, Norman? Why don’t you join us?’
‘Sidney’s asked me. But thanks. You might be eating bread and cheese, anyway.’
‘Lewis can pay this year,’ he said. ‘I think I paid last year.’
‘You didn’t, sir.’
‘No?’ said he, disappointed. ‘I thought I did.’
Reverend Jebb opened the door to us. We’d just stepped into the hallway of the sanctuary when his eyes widened. ‘Good heavens,’ he said.
We both turned, and there, climbing down from a four-wheeler in front of the building, were four Africans. At the front was a short woman wearing a rough woollen coat and a pair of coachman’s gloves. Behind were two tall blokes. The older wore corduroys and an Italian hat, to which he’d stuck ribbons that hung down limp and wet. The younger, who wore military overalls, was only a young lad. Last out of the carriage was a broad, strong fellow, dressed in a moleskin suit and a necklace of feathers. Each one of them, man and woman, wore earrings.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Reverend Jebb as they walked up the path towards us. He bent his neck as he always did when greeting people he wasn’t sure of. ‘How can I help you?’
The lady came to stop on the doorstep. ‘The chaplain sent us, Father,’ she said, taking Jebb’s hand. She shook it hard, staring up at him. ‘We’re in trouble and need sanctuary. We’re good Christians, sir. We don’t know anybody here in London.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you cannot stay here,’ said Jebb, pulling away his hand. ‘Have you tried the seamen’s mission in Poplar?’
‘We aren’t seamen, sir,’ said the short lady, her nose twitching like she was about to weep. Her voice was deep, her speech more proper than mine, with an accent that was upper class in some ways and foreign in others.
‘I’m afraid this institution’s only for women,’ said Jebb. ‘No men are permitted.’
‘We need help, sir,’ said the older bloke, stepping up level with the woman.
‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Jebb. ‘As I said, only women may stay here.’
‘But we’re in great danger, Father,’ said the lady, gripping the young pastor’s arm so hard he grunted. ‘Please. Please let us in.’
‘Well,’ said Jebb. Behind us, the kitchen door opened and Mabel, the matron, poked her head out the kitchen door. ‘Well,’ said Jebb again, scratching his chin.
The four of them just stood there as the r
ain fell down. Not one of them had a waterproof or brolly.
‘Jebb,’ hissed the guvnor, giving him a jab in the back.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Jebb at last. ‘Please come in. You’re soaking wet.’
‘We’ll let you get on with it,’ said Arrowood, clutching his raincoat to his throat and stepping outside. ‘Come along, Barnett.’
‘Stay, William,’ said Jebb quickly. ‘You might know something useful to them.’ He looked at the short lady. ‘Mr Arrowood’s an investigative agent. Something like the police.’
‘Ah,’ said she. ‘Then you can help us, sir.’
‘Well, I can listen, madam,’ said the guvnor with a little bow. ‘I can at least do that.’
The fire was out in the parlour, and the thick net curtains let in little of the grey that passed for daylight in London that winter. The three men rubbed their hands together and shuddered: without gloves or proper coats I could see they were frozen to the bone. Jebb invited them to sit on the couch and we made our introductions.
‘I’m Thembeka, sirs,’ said the woman. She nudged the youngest one. ‘The boy’s S’bu.’
Though he was tall, the expression on his face and the uncertainty of his movements told you he was younger than he looked. A smile appeared on his lips but there was pain in his eyes: he seemed innocent, too innocent for whatever journey he was on.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, taking care over the words.
‘Good morning, S’bu,’ answered the guvnor. ‘And how old are you?’
‘Ah,’ he said, looking at Thembeka.
‘Fourteen,’ she said, her face grave. ‘He doesn’t speak English.’ She jutted her chin at the muscular one. ‘That one there’s Senzo. He doesn’t speak it either.’
‘I Musa,’ said the older one, holding out his hand. His accent was rough, and it was clear he didn’t speak so well as the woman. ‘Good day.’
We each in turn shook his hand, then shook the others’ too. When we’d given them our names, Jebb asked, ‘Now, what seems to be the trouble?’ He stood by the mantel, me and the guvnor in the chairs.
‘There’s a—’ Thembeka began, but stopped when the parlour door opened and Mabel stepped in, her brow drawn low, her eyes darting across the four visitors.