Inspector Abberline and the Just King, Page 2

  ‘Put your head down. Rest will be good for you.’

  ‘And Mrs Cherryhome?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Thank you for nursing me.’

  ‘Oh, I did no such thing, Mr Lloyd. Oh, just imagine! Me alone with one of my lodgers in his most intimate of rooms.’

  ‘I am wearing a clean nightshirt, so who …’

  ‘Mr Magglyn nursed you. Why, he sat here night after night, playing his accordion to soothe your nerves.’

  ‘Magglyn’s accordion sounds like a knacker trying to strangle a mule.’ Thomas took a deep breath. ‘I do beg your pardon. My nerves … I become so angry, and I can’t say why. I should be grateful to Magglyn.’

  Mrs Cherryhome said rather primly, ‘You are not yourself, sir. Otherwise you wouldn’t have used such language – those bad words that sailors use – when Mr Magglyn tried to comb your hair this morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cherryhome, I truly am. I have no recollection of using unseemly language.’

  Her rounded, apple-red cheeks shone as her cheerful smile returned. ‘I’m sure you will be well again soon. Now, gentlemen, I’ll make a refreshing pot of tea and bring you some of my elderflower cake.’ With that, she pattered away downstairs.

  ‘Hmm? Elderflower cake?’ Abberline smiled. ‘Rather unusual sounding.’

  ‘And unusual tasting as well.’

  They continued to talk. Thomas still felt weak. The fog came and went inside his head, yet he began to perk up a little more. Mrs Cherryhome arrived with the tea and cake, which she handed through the doorway to Abberline. The confection had a powerful, flowery sweetness. Not to Thomas’s taste as a rule. Yet its striking flavour drove the last of the fog away, which had clouded his mind. In fact, the disappearance of that fog revealed a thought. One that burned so brightly. He was surprised by the decision he now made. It was the right one, however. He knew he must break some news to Inspector Abberline.

  Abberline, meanwhile, continued chatting as he sat on the chair beside the bed. ‘The thief we caught in the warehouse is now in jail awaiting trial. The second man, the one who tried to escape in the boat and who struck you on the head with the oar, wasn’t so lucky. When he tried hitting you a second time he tipped the boat over. He couldn’t swim. As the saying goes, he’s now gone to his final reward. Are you all right, Thomas?’

  ‘I have something important to tell you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I don’t wish to say this too bluntly, because I have enjoyed my time being your shadow, as it were, and writing about our adventures for my newspaper.’

  ‘Thomas, is this bad news?’

  ‘Inspector, I am a journalist, not a policeman. Recently, I have allowed the excitement of our work to carry me away. I’ve become reckless. Foolhardy. I should never have attempted to catch the thief single-handed.’

  He smiled in a friendly way. ‘Then curb your appetite for such actions.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I’ve made up my mind. Some miracle brought me back from the dead. I truly believe I died in that canal. Now I’ve been given a second chance to live my life differently.’

  ‘Are you saying this is the end of our association, Thomas?’

  ‘What happened to me three days ago was a sign. I am leaving. “Quitting” as the Americans say. I will resume my normal duties as a journalist.’

  ‘You don’t know how sad this makes me.’

  ‘I won’t rescind my decision. Another newspaperman will take my place by your side.’

  Abberline must have said his farewells, and he must also have tried to persuade Thomas to continue his work alongside the detective, yet Thomas had no clear recollection of the conversation. The mental fog had returned and he had to close his eyes once again. Presently, he heard the kind of cough that people make in order to attract someone’s attention. Thomas opened his eyes to see Magglyn standing in the doorway with the accordion on his chest. The blond man smiled as he fingered the keys, and Thomas Lloyd smiled back. He thought: I entered the realm of the dead, and I returned safely. Surely I can endure an hour or so of the man’s accordion music.

  Magglyn began to play and Thomas Lloyd was grateful that he’d lain there unconscious during the previous recitals. Nevertheless, Thomas smiled and nodded to the rhythm of the music. Within moments, despite the rousing crescendos emanating from the accordion, his eyes grew heavy and he found sleep stealing over him once more.

  Chapter 4

  ‘I should stay at home and write books,’ Thomas murmured to himself as he lay, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘A man sitting at a desk, pen in hand, is hardly likely to fall into water.’

  A knock sounded on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Magglyn’s blond head appeared round the door. The man’s smile was as bright and as innocent as a baby’s. ‘Sleep well, Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Mrs Cherryhome is setting out tea in the parlour. Ham sandwiches, pickles, and sponge cake smothered in delicious raspberry jam.’

  ‘Tea in the parlour?’ Puzzled, Thomas sat up in bed. ‘We only have tea on Sunday afternoons. Today’s Saturday.’

  ‘You slept right through again, dear soul. It’s just twenty minutes before five o’clock on a very cloudy Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘I’ve slept twenty-four hours? Goodness gracious.’

  ‘Do you feel well enough to come downstairs, or shall I bring you a tray?’

  ‘Thank you, Magglyn. I’ll come down. I’m feeling much like my old self again.’

  ‘That is good news. Let me shake you by the hand. I’m so glad.’

  Beaming widely, Magglyn left the room to lightly patter downstairs.

  Thomas did feel much better. His head was clear. His limbs felt strong again. It seemed as if he hadn’t suffered any permanent ill effects from his brutally close shave with death. He quickly donned a clean white shirt and his best grey suit. Soon he took his place in the parlour by a formidable aspidistra, whose leaves touched the ceiling. He was joined by his landlady and fellow lodger in a feast of fluffy, white sandwiches, followed by cake lathered in crimson preserve. Mrs Cherryhome thanked heaven that Thomas had recovered, then launched into one of her favourite stories about a previous tenant of hers who had sailed through ferocious storms to New Zealand, only to drown after falling head first down a well in an undertaker’s garden.

  ‘I do declare it was meant to be with poor Mr Scroop. He always said to me, “Mrs Cherryhome, I can’t begin to tell you the dreams I’ve had of not being able to breathe – and did you know, Mrs Cherryhome, that a grown man can drown in just one cup of water.” More tea, gentlemen?’

  After the meal Thomas felt too energetic to return to his room. He put on his hat and coat before leaving the house for an evening stroll. Hansom cabs moved smartly along, drawn by horses at a brisk trot. Most of the people out walking were in their Sunday-best clothes. Ladies in white muslin dresses with parasols. Men in shiny top hats with ebony canes. This street housed many of the borough’s middle class who were, as the saying goes, ‘on the way up’. The neighbourhood’s residents weren’t heading anywhere in particular. They were outdoors to be seen, their clothing admired, and to politely nod and smile at neighbours who were similarly attired. This was an evening of quiet grace. A slow-moving respite from the hustle and bustle of the working week.

  Thomas doffed his hat to couples he knew, exchanging pleasantries about the warm spring weather. He decided to continue his stroll down to the River Thames. He enjoyed watching the boats there. Often he pictured himself on a sailing ship floating downstream towards the sea, where it would set a course for far-away Ceylon: the exotic land where Emma lived with her father. He imagined her delight as he appeared at the door. ‘Emma. I’m here to marry you.’ He’d say the words calmly – as calmly as asking her to take a stroll in the garden. He smiled, lost in the romantic play that his imagination had created (and which cheerfully ignored the fact that he couldn’t afford the price of
a ticket to Ceylon). He pictured her throwing her arms around him and crying out—

  ‘Mr Lloyd? A gentleman wishes to converse with you.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Thomas found himself looking up with a degree of bemusement at the stranger who’d spoken to him. It was the driver of a coach; the man was dressed in a long brown coat and matching hat.

  ‘You are Mr Thomas Lloyd.’

  ‘Yes, who wants to—’

  ‘Please step into the carriage, sir. My master wishes to speak with you.’

  The blinds were pulled down in the four-wheeler carriage. He couldn’t see its passenger. Was this an elaborate attempt to rob him? If so, why would thieves go to the trouble of finding out his name? Would they risk attacking him in daylight with people nearby?

  The coach door swung open. Most men would make some excuse and leave. Yet Thomas’s journalistic nerve tingled. Curiosity burned brightly inside his head, and he knew he would not walk away. Removing his hat, he climbed inside, ready to face the mysterious occupant of this elegant vehicle.

  Thomas sat on the upholstered bench seat opposite a gentleman of about seventy. He didn’t have a single hair on his head. His face was so thin that Thomas found himself considering that it was as sharp as a knife blade. The grey eyes held the same kind of sharpness too, signalling a formidable intelligence. Thomas pictured this striking man, dressed in black, hunched over a chessboard, outsmarting and outplaying even the cleverest opponent. The man wore a gold lapel pin on his long black coat. The pin terminated in a small, milky-white pearl.

  Thomas said in a direct way, ‘You wanted to speak with me. Why?’

  ‘Don’t you wish to know who I am?’ He rapped his knuckles on the carriage roof. A sign for the driver to continue to a prearranged destination? The carriage moved off along the street. ‘After all, Mr Lloyd, I might be kidnapping you.’

  ‘I doubt that very much, sir. And as to learning your identity, it is entirely your prerogative whether you give me your name or not.’

  ‘Mr Lloyd, I see you are a man who prefers to get straight to the heart of the matter.’

  ‘You have information for me, and do not wish to reveal its source?’

  ‘I have information, yes; vitally important information. As for learning my name …’ That thin face tightened into a smile, hinting that the man in black wasn’t as severe as he first seemed. ‘Knowing my name isn’t particularly important. Like an expensive bottle of vintage port, it’s the contents that are important, not the vessel it arrives in.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Thomas found himself intrigued by his travelling companion. ‘Of course, you know who I am.’

  ‘Mr Thomas Lloyd. The son of schoolteachers from Yorkshire. Now one of the finest writers of newspaper articles in Britain.’

  Thomas blushed at this praise; even so, the words made him suspicious. ‘Thank you for holding my work in such esteem.’

  ‘Not just I believe you to be the very best of writers; my friends do too.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t flatter, Mr Lloyd. We have examined your work in detail.’

  ‘I see. Would you like to engage me for some writing assignment?’

  ‘Firstly, I’d like to tell you about our work.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Raise the blind. Tell me what you see through the window.’

  Thomas did so. ‘Ah, we’re in the poor district of Pimlico. Squalid houses. These are rat-infested places; twenty or more people share the same privy in a yard. Scarlet fever, cholera, dysentery are rife here, together with malnutrition. See the little girl carrying the bag of coal? She has no shoes, so walks in horse dung and all kinds of dirt with her bare feet – those dirty feet of hers will carry harmful germs into her home, which will, likely as not, spread disease amongst her brothers and sisters.’

  ‘And such a scene is repeated many thousands of times throughout London, let alone Great Britain as a whole.’

  ‘Indeed it is, sir.’

  The man nodded. ‘You no doubt understand that the lack of education is the evil generator of disease?’

  ‘Absolutely. If the girl knew that it was important to wash her feet before entering the house then the spread of harmful germs would be restricted. Lives would be saved.’

  The man placed his fingertips together as he studied Thomas. ‘My colleagues do what they can to develop civilization here in Britain.’

  Thomas laughed. ‘Surely you’re joking? We have civilization. Look around you. Paved roads, railways, telegraph communication. Homes and factories lit by gas.’

  ‘We do not have civilization yet, Mr Lloyd. Otherwise, would that little girl be carrying a heavy sack of coal that must certainly hurt her back? Why does she not understand that to tread dung into her home is to deliver illness to her siblings? Believe me, sir, not just dirt but death adheres to each one of those little toes of hers.’

  ‘I agree wholeheartedly. If there was one girl without footwear in London I would give her parents enough money to buy the shoes myself. Yet there must be fifty thousand girls in London who do not own a single pair of shoes. That is horribly wrong, but I can do nothing about it.’

  The carriage rumbled beside a railway track as a locomotive surged along in clouds of smoke and steam.

  ‘Mr Thomas,’ said the man, ‘I spoke of building civilization here. My colleagues and I lobby parliament to introduce laws that will make the education of children compulsory.’

  ‘That’s entirely laudable, although I don’t understand why you’re telling me about your plans.’

  ‘Because you are a vital part of those plans.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘One of the essential components of civilization is an effective and professional police force that the public respect and trust. You accompanied a detective as he investigated cases. You wrote about his work for your newspaper in such a clear and interesting way that it fascinated readers by the million.’

  ‘I simply wrote about what I saw.’

  ‘And you portrayed, most accurately, that Inspector Frederick Abberline is a man who gives himself body and soul to fight crime.’

  ‘You are well informed about my work, sir, but I have decided that that I will no longer accompany Inspector Abberline.’

  ‘We do know that, Mr Lloyd. We know, also, that you recently had an unfortunate brush with death.’

  ‘Then you must understand that I am done with that aspect of my career. I’m returning to work tomorrow as an ordinary journalist.’

  ‘That would be very regrettable.’

  ‘My mind is made up, sir.’

  ‘Mr Lloyd, a great number of people still believe that our police force is little more than a legion of thugs who are corrupt – that they only patrol the streets with the express purpose of bullying innocent men and women, while filling their own pockets with money from bribes. You, sir, are changing those perceptions. Your articles about Inspector Abberline are transforming attitudes towards the police. In the public’s eyes, Inspector Abberline has become a knight in armour that shines with honesty as he smites lawbreakers with his sword of justice.’

  ‘Not words I would choose, sir.’

  ‘I agree. You, Mr Lloyd, chose exactly the right words. You have the talent to transform the image of our police force. The public will see the police as guardians of law and order. As protectors of ordinary people. Abberline is the perfect example of such a policeman. You, Mr Lloyd, are part of a greater scheme to build a safe, prosperous society where slums and disease carried on the bare feet of a little girl are things of the past.’

  ‘Those are stirring words. Yet I have made up my mind.’

  ‘You will not continue to pen those marvellous reports of Inspector Abberline’s work?’

  ‘No, I will not.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lloyd.’

  ‘Then I should like to return to my stroll.’

  The
thin-faced gentleman rapped the coach’s ceiling with his knuckles. The vehicle came to a stop.

  ‘Oh, before you go, Mr Lloyd.’

  ‘I will not change my mind, sir. I am done with danger. You do understand?’

  ‘I understand. However, I should like to present you with a small gift.’

  ‘A gift? What on earth for?’

  ‘Nothing of great monetary value. The value is in what it symbolizes.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘I believe you will understand perfectly when circumstances demand it.’

  The man handed Thomas a slim box covered in red leather. The case, about four inches long, could, perhaps, have housed a single cigar. Thomas opened the lid. Inside, resting on a velvet pad, was a gold lapel pin, tipped with a very small white pearl. The gold pin was exactly the same as the one worn in the gentleman’s lapel.

  ‘This must be a joke,’ Thomas protested. ‘Why are you giving me this?’

  ‘It is essential that you have it. Imagine I have given you a pistol before we enter a hostile land. The gold pin could be as useful as a loaded gun when surrounded by dangerous enemies. Keep the pin out of sight. Do not show it to anyone, nor should you breathe a word about its existence.’

  ‘I am truly baffled.’

  ‘Accept it, please. I beg you.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you. I shan’t tell a soul.’

  ‘I am so glad.’

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘There’s just one more item that I am required to hand to you.’

  ‘I can’t accept any more gifts.’

  ‘This isn’t a gift. It’s a letter.’ He opened a small cabinet affixed to the inner wall of the carriage and drew out a white envelope. ‘By all means read it later.’

  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Please take the letter, sir. It is written by the Prime Minister.’

  Thomas Lloyd stood watching the carriage vanish amongst the horses and hansom cabs that filled the street.

  ‘A letter from the Prime Minister?’ He gazed at his own name upon the white envelope.

  Thomas had been so astonished by this turn of events that he’d not even been able to gather his wits to say goodbye to the thin-faced gentleman. Why does a lowly newspaperman such as I warrant a personal letter from the Prime Minister? Thomas forgot all about his walk to the river. Instead, he quickly returned home, intending to read the letter in the privacy of his sitting room.