The Ring Page 5

  ‘She would have had time off down there.’

  ‘Not if she had a follower in London. Why would she waste time off so far from home?’

  ‘You’re being difficult on purpose. We found out that Selwyn and Emilia are in love. From someone other than Selwyn, that is.’

  ‘I’ll let you have that one.’ Grand was never grumpy for long.

  ‘We learned that his father is a bit of a tartar. I wish we’d asked whether he and Emilia got on.’

  ‘Fathers-in-law don’t kidnap daughters-in-law just because they don’t like them,’ Grand said. ‘It’s a rather extreme reaction, isn’t it? Surely the simplest way is just not to ask them over for Thanksgiving.’

  ‘Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas, yes.’ Grand had been in England a long time, but while it is not that difficult to take the boy out of Boston, it isn’t always easy to take all the Boston out of the boy. ‘I suppose it could just be him, if his business is in trouble …’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, that’s ridiculous. Forget I even said that.’ Grand’s own father was a businessman known to be pretty ruthless and he was the benchmark by which his son measured everyone. And there was nothing in God’s green earth that would induce Andrew Grand to sink so low.

  ‘Miss Moriarty doesn’t seem to be very well off,’ Batchelor ventured. ‘That street isn’t smart and she only seems to have the one maid. She opened the door to us herself, don’t forget.’

  ‘That was because she thought it might be Emilia. And all those frills don’t come cheap. But what’s your point?’

  ‘Well, that if she is Emilia’s aunt and not too wealthy, perhaps this trust fund, this tea thing, isn’t worth much. So perhaps it’s all a case of mistaken identity.’

  Grand knew about trust funds. His kept Grand and Batchelor, Confidential Enquiry Agents, afloat, with some to spare. They were usually complicated things, but the obvious answer in this case was in the relationship. ‘Miss Moriarty is Emilia’s mother’s sister,’ he said. ‘So there may be no money on that side. It’s true that mostly these families marry more money, but it could have been for love. Why not? It does happen.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  The train arrived in a hurricane of steam and cinders. They clambered aboard into an empty carriage. The train’s arrival had broken their thought processes and it was a while before either of them could encapsulate what they needed to do next.

  ‘We need to ask Selwyn Byng about the maid,’ Grand said, taking the words out of Batchelor’s mouth.

  ‘We’ll make a note to ask him when he comes round next. Speaking of which, this is most unsatisfactory, you know. We must get round to his house next time; how can we catch who is sending these notes if we can’t see them being delivered?’

  ‘True. But if it’s just the postman, we won’t be any further forward. If he is still nervous about us being seen at his home, we will have to follow him. But it won’t be tonight; I’m out.’

  ‘Really?’ Grand and Batchelor didn’t live in each other’s pockets but the American hadn’t mentioned he was going anywhere. It was unusual for him to go out when in the middle of a case.

  ‘Yes. I told you, didn’t I?’ Grand looked a little furtive.

  ‘No.’ Batchelor knew how to answer a question so as to leave no room for shilly-shallying.

  Grand tried a boyish laugh. ‘Lady Caroline, you remember, one of the friends of the—’

  ‘Hush!’ Batchelor put his finger to his lips. ‘These compartments are made of matchwood. You never know who may be listening.’

  Grand nodded and leaned forward, dropping his voice, to the chagrin of the eavesdropping vicar just behind his head through the wall. ‘Lady Caroline?’

  Batchelor nodded.

  ‘She has a box at the Gaiety and we’re going to see the latest show there. I doubt I’ll be late …’

  Batchelor raised an eyebrow.

  ‘But in any event, I’ll see you at breakfast.’

  And to close any further conversation, Grand leaned back and tipped his hat over his eyes. And soon, the feigned snores were genuine and half of Grand and Batchelor, Confidential Enquiry Agents, No Job Too Small, The Strand, London, slept.

  Batchelor looked at him across the carriage. So, Lady Caroline, eh? He hadn’t seen that one coming. But it was probably only a matter of time. Handsome, tall, with a brave military background and more importantly a substantial trust fund and inheritance from his uncle, Matthew Grand was a catch, no matter how you looked at it. Batchelor smiled to himself; if he was lucky, he might get the friend of the lady in question. He racked his brain; was Lady Caroline the one with the friend with the wall eye? He sincerely hoped not. With a chuckle, he leaned back too and only woke as the whistle of the train told them they were approaching Victoria Station.

  James Batchelor was first down to breakfast the next morning and almost immediately wished he had stayed in bed. Sunday was always difficult chez Grand and Batchelor. Mrs Rackstraw had been brought up in a God-fearing household and didn’t really hold with young gentlemen of their calibre not going to church. But she had stopped mentioning it as it was clearly having no effect. Had they been asked, both Grand and Batchelor would have preferred the constant nagging; her frozen silence and the way the boiled eggs bounced in their cups as she slammed them down on the table was infinitely worse. She was in a more disapproving mood than usual this fine Sunday morning.

  ‘You were late in last night,’ she remarked, crashing the butter dish down just out of Batchelor’s reach.

  ‘Yes. I met some friends as I was on my way from the station and Mr Grand had an appointment.’

  The housekeeper’s sniff was so loud it made Batchelor’s ears pop and a small skitter of soot came down the chimney. ‘It was a long appointment,’ she remarked to the gas mantle. ‘He’s not home yet.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is for us, Mrs Rackstraw. The case has to take priority over our own comfort.’ Batchelor tapped the top of his egg and peeled back the shell. A perfect three-minuter, as always. Being furious happily had no effect on Mrs Rackstraw’s culinary skills.

  ‘A case.’ Her voice sounded like the last nail going into a coffin. ‘If you say so, of course, Mr Batchelor. He was in full fig, I can tell you that. White tie. Cape. Topper. Oh, yes; very natty.’

  ‘Erm … plain clothes, Mrs Rackstraw. Blending in, do you see?’

  Maisie crept in with a coffee pot. Batchelor began to feel quite overcrowded. ‘I just bought this in, m’m,’ she whispered. ‘A fresh pot for Mr Grand.’

  Mrs Rackstraw narrowed her eyes. There was no doubt about it, the girl would have to go. She didn’t have the brains God gave sheep. ‘Mr Grand isn’t in, Maisie,’ she said, coldly.

  Maisie looked even more confused than usual. She knew she wasn’t to argue with Mrs Rackstraw, but there was also the fact that she had promised her mother never to tell a lie. Raising her voice until it was almost audible, she said, ‘Yes, m’m. He’s in his room. I just went in to make up the fire and air it out and he was just waking up.’ She didn’t add that he looked like some magnificent Greek god, rising up out of the pillows with his golden hair all anyhow and his blue eyes all sleepy.

  Just as Mrs Rackstraw was preparing some vicious response, the door opened again and the Greek god in question swanned in, neat and tidy in a silk robe and a smile.

  ‘Morning all,’ he said, sitting opposite Batchelor and smiling at Maisie as she proffered her coffee pot. ‘Lovely day for the time of year.’

  Batchelor smiled back. There was nothing like spending the night with one of the aristocracy for making an American just that little bit more English.

  ‘I’ll get your egg,’ Mrs Rackstraw said and exited with as much of a flounce as her position allowed her.

  Maisie lingered over the coffee and looked desperately between the two men. She had to speak to them, though it went against every fibre of her being. ‘That lunatic was round again yesterday,’ she muttered to the toast
. ‘He left a message.’

  ‘Really? What?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she told the sugar. ‘He left it with Mrs Rackstraw.’

  ‘Thank you, Maisie,’ Grand said and patted her on the hand, making her heart turn over. ‘Don’t worry; we won’t let her know you told us.’

  He was as kind as he was beautiful. She positively floated back to the kitchen and even being told to scour out the chamber pots couldn’t dent the rose-coloured cloud in which she was swathed.

  ‘So,’ Batchelor said, when she had gone. ‘A message from the lunatic. I think we need to speak to Mrs R.’

  ‘It does make you wonder how many other messages haven’t reached us over the years,’ Grand agreed. ‘I had no idea she was deciding who got through to us.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just this once,’ Batchelor said, always ready to see the best in everyone.

  The door opened and the housekeeper appeared with Grand’s eggs. He waited until they were safely down in front of him and the woman had stepped back before he spoke. ‘We had a bit of a long day yesterday, Mrs Rackstraw,’ he said, mildly, swiping the top off an egg in the way that he knew set her teeth on edge. ‘Were there any messages at all?’

  In anyone with skin less grey than the housekeeper’s, a blush would have swept up from throat to hairline. She didn’t stir, but a small muscle jumped in her temple. ‘I’d have to check,’ she said, coldly.

  ‘Check?’ Batchelor asked. ‘With whom?’

  ‘Maisie may have taken a message,’ she said, but there was little conviction in it. ‘You know how she is.’

  ‘Yes. Indeed we do. I wonder, though,’ Grand said with a smile, a dripping soldier halfway to his mouth, ‘if you could go and check with her now. We have an important case on at the moment and really can’t afford to miss a single trick.’

  She stood there, immobile, her hands folded at the front of her apron.

  ‘So if you could go now,’ Batchelor continued, ‘that would be absolutely splendid.’ He always tended to go a bit upper crust when he felt ill at ease and managing Mrs Rackstraw could make the bravest soul feel edgy.

  With a snort that could strip paint, she left the room, not neglecting to slam the door.

  ‘I hope Maisie will be all right,’ Batchelor said anxiously.

  ‘Maisie can stand it,’ Grand said, foraging in his egg for the last bits. It was his second breakfast – Lady Caroline always breakfasted in bed and liked to share – but he was as hungry as a hunter this morning, for some reason. ‘She wouldn’t be comfortable if she had an easy life, poor little scrap. I hope a handsome butcher’s boy or similar carries her away soon; she needs to be loved.’

  Batchelor looked at him in amazement. Could he really not see that the girl worshipped the ground he walked on? He was about to tell him, when the girl herself walked in, eyes on the ground and a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

  ‘Mrs Rackstraw says to give you this,’ she murmured, ‘and to say that I had thrown it away.’ She paused and then raised her head, looking at them properly for the first time. ‘But I never.’ Her eyes were full of tears.

  ‘We understand, Maisie,’ Batchelor said, kindly. ‘Just dry your tears and blow your nose and give yourself a minute. As long as we have it now, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Here,’ Grand rummaged in the pocket of his robe and handed her a snow-white handkerchief. ‘Use this.’

  She tucked it in her bodice as though it were some kind of relic – that she laundered and ironed it and its fellows every Monday meant nothing; this had come from the hand of the beloved and would be hidden for at least a while until Mrs Rackstraw noticed it was gone on one of her periodic linen counts. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she bobbed to Batchelor and then to Grand. ‘Thank you.’ And she scuttled out.

  Batchelor opened the note. At least the envelope showed no signs of being steamed open; Mrs Rackstraw obviously didn’t think anything from a lunatic could be worth reading. There were several sheets of paper in the envelope and he moved aside the marmalade to make room to spread them out.

  ‘“Sirs,”’ he read, ‘“I came hoping to see you but your housekeeper tells me you are out. I have received the enclosed. It came while I was out at my place of business and my man did not notice who brought it. It was pushed through the door. I will attend you on Sunday at 11 in the morning, hoping it will be convenient. Yrs SB.”’ He passed it to Grand, who looked at it closely.

  ‘It’s written on our notepaper and—’ he glanced across – ‘it’s in one of our envelopes, so he obviously hoped to find us in.’

  ‘As opposed to …’

  ‘Deliberately timing his visit to find us out. He is definitely having second thoughts. He is a frightened man.’

  Batchelor shrugged. ‘Perhaps. The note is a bit terse, though.’

  ‘You’d hardly expect him to talk about the weather, surely? What’s in the other one?’

  Batchelor spread it out so they could both see it.

  ‘Hav you got the fiv thousand punds yet? If you havnt, you shuld get it because without it, yull never see your wif again. Next leter will tell you were to leve it.’

  ‘Same spelling errors,’ Batchelor pointed out. ‘Easy words misspelled, hard ones correct.’

  ‘And still cut out of the Telegraph, by the look of it,’ Grand agreed. ‘Did you happen to notice what newspaper Miss Moriarty takes?’

  ‘It can’t be her!’ Even after all he had seen since working with Grand, Batchelor still had problems with little old ladies as perpetrators of crime. Grand had seen little old ladies in the Wilderness, cuter and older than Miss Moriarty, skewering Yankees with pitchforks when they looked at them funny; he had no illusions about the breed at all.

  ‘Even so – make a note to find out.’ Grand felt at his midriff for his watch and remembered he was in his pyjamas. ‘What time is it, James?’

  ‘About ten, I think.’ Batchelor couldn’t remember hearing the clock, but the bells of a London Sunday were clamouring from all quarters, so it had to be about that. ‘What time did you get in, by the way?’

  Grand grinned. ‘A gentleman never tells,’ he said. ‘It was good enough for me that Mrs Rackstraw didn’t catch me. I’ll go and get dressed, though. I think we need to be waiting for Mr Selwyn Byng this time, before he can get turned away at the kitchen door.’

  ‘Good idea. Is that coffee house down the road open on a Sunday?’

  ‘No. But the kosher restaurant is – we can take him there for a drink and a sandwich, perhaps.’ Grand missed his salt beef sandwiches; when would the English learn how to eat? ‘If we wait one at each end of the road, we won’t miss him.’ Grabbing a final slice of toast, he got up and went over to the door. ‘Oh, by the way. Lady Caroline has a friend who would like to meet you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘James! I’m shocked!’

  ‘Cast in the eye? One leg shorter than the other?’

  ‘She is very lovely, as it happens. But, if you’re not interested …’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  With a grin, Grand went out and the next thing Batchelor heard was him singing as he went up the stairs. ‘Peas, peas, peas, peas, eating goober peas …’ Not one of the current favourites on the Halls, but catchy enough, he supposed. He swirled the coffee pot and poured out the dregs; it was not tea, but it was hottish and wettish and it would do. Working on a Sunday – he hadn’t expected that when he left Fleet Street, that was sure.

  Jack Sandal didn’t do Sundays. All round him, on both sides of the river, the bells called the faithful to church. He’d gone once, when his dad had dragged him along, but some annoying old biddy with loose and clattering china teeth had told him all about some bloke called Saint Paul and Jack had nearly fallen asleep. For all of his ten years, Jack had had to shift for himself. His dad had died, not long, as it turned out, after the old biddy and St Paul and that left Jack as the only man of the house. His mum and his sisters earned their bread as washerwomen, b
reaking their backs every day, up to their elbows in suds. As for Jack, he was up to his elbows in river mud today, as he was every day. And he had to be careful. For the last three years of his young life, the parish of Stepney, where the Sandals lived, had appointed what they called a Truant Officer, a kid-catcher with a mean streak a mile wide who could drag innocent, God-unaware lads like Jack off to the hell that was the new National School. Unfortunately for the kid-catcher, Jack Sandal knew the man’s mournful face and Dundreary whiskers at a hundred yards; he even recognized his footsteps. So there was very little chance of Jack Sandal ever learning to read and write; but still, you couldn’t be too careful.

  Jack knew Duke’s Shore at Limehouse like the back of his own hand. Ben Carpenter worked the stretch downstream and the pair had been mates for months. But there was no sign of Ben today. Maybe he’d been dragged to church. Maybe but no; it was Sunday and the kid-catcher didn’t work on Sundays. He’d turn up later.

  Jack watched the river’s edge, the meeting of dry and wet worlds that few people had experience of. The lightermen and stevedores knew the river all right. They understood its moods, its tides, its currents, its winds. But they didn’t know the water’s edge, not like Jack. He’d take the bread his mum had cut for him early in the morning and a handful of jellied eels from old Eli’s stall on the way. At dinner time – half past twelve by the church clocks clanging across the city, St Anne’s closest to his ear – he’d wash the ooze from his hands in the cleansing river and sit under a jetty to eat the lot. It didn’t take him long. The bread wasn’t exactly fresh and he noticed that old Eli’s eel portions were getting smaller by the day. Soon, Jack hoped, he’d be able to make enough money at the mudlarking game to supplement his dinner with some ale.

  The boy’s eyes were everywhere. You never knew whether that floating material might be pure silk that some lady had lost upstream in places he’d only ever heard about, like Henley, where the toffs held their regattas. The gold braid on a sculler’s lost cap could keep Jack in jellied eels for a week. And who knew what treasure might lie in the rocky mud at Limehouse below the breweries and the wharves? This part of the river had been trading for centuries and all kinds of goodies might have been dropped. Unlike Jack, Ben Carpenter had been to school sometimes and he had told his friend about the history he had learned, how some bloke called Brutus had founded the city of London and that Julius Caesar himself, the greatest ancient Greek of all time, had built the Tower of London just upstream. Then there was that King John, the worst king in the world. He had lost his jewels somewhere or other, but it was bound to be in London. All the kings who ever ruled, Ben’s teacher had told him, lived in London. So it all made sense.