Carver's Quest Page 23

  Pulverbatch gazed into the middle distance like a philosopher contemplating a particularly knotty problem in metaphysics.

  ‘So, remind me again,’ he said eventually. ‘Where did you say you was last night?’

  ‘With Mr Garland.’

  ‘Ah, yes. In the Palace of Westminster, no less. And the night before?’

  ‘Visiting Sir Willoughby Oughtred.’

  Pulverbatch nodded again. ‘And what about the night before that? I don’t remember as how you mentioned that night.’

  ‘Quint and I went to Holywell Street.’

  ‘Holywell Street?’ Pulverbatch sounded surprised. ‘Full of Jew clothesmen and nasty bookstalls, ain’t it? What would a fine gent like you be doing in Holywell Street?’

  ‘We were looking for a young woman named Ada.’

  ‘Ah, a whore,’ the inspector said, as if all was now clear to him.

  ‘Ada is a young lady who has fallen into misfortune,’ Adam said. ‘We were interested in her because she was acquainted with Jinkinson.’

  ‘And did you find her?’

  ‘We did, but she did not know where Jinkinson was.’

  ‘But this reverend, this Dwight gent, he did know.’

  ‘He gave me the name of this tavern. Soon after I arrived here, Jinkinson turned up. When he saw me, he ran.’

  ‘And got himself shot in the mud for his troubles. Now, who might have been a-chasing poor Mr Jinkinson, I wonder?’

  ‘Can the landlord of this place not throw some light on the mystery?’

  ‘We won’t get anything out of Brindle. No point even attempting it, Mr Carver. Might just as well try and roast snow in a furnace.’

  ‘What about the barman? The one who turned up with the lantern. He must have followed me out onto the bank. Did he see nothing?’

  ‘Toby, you mean?’ Pulverbatch looked doubtful.

  ‘Is that his name? Yes, I seem to remember Brindle calling him that.’

  ‘Well, we’ve asked him, of course. But old Toby’s attic ain’t exackly well-furnished, if you take my meaning, Mr Carver.’ The inspector tapped the side of his head as he spoke. ‘He’s a bit of an innocent abroad, sir, an innocent abroad. And he thinks the sun shines out of Brindle’s fat arse, if you’ll pardon the indelicacy. Brindle could send him out to buy a pennyworth of pigeon’s milk and all he’d ask for would be the glass to put it in.’

  ‘So there is nothing to be gained from interrogating the barman?’

  ‘No, there’s no point in talking to a soft Sammy like him. You might just as well try and teach a pig to play on the flute.’

  ‘So, the landlord is a villain and the barman is a dunce. Where does that leave us, Inspector?’

  ‘Difficult, ain’t it? Brindle won’t tell us much about what happened here in the Cat. He lies just for the fun of it. And, other than your good self, the only witness we’ve got to anything as happened by the river is about as sharp as the corners on that there round table.’

  ‘We appear to be stumped, then, Inspector.’ Adam stared at the mud caked on his trousers. He was so exhausted that he could think of little but his own fireside at Doughty Street and a large glass of brandy and water.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir. There’s a little life in us yet. A few paths we can stroll down to see what’s at the end of ’em.’ Pulverbatch, Adam thought, continued to sound appallingly cheerful. ‘Now, one of the few things Brindle is saying is that this man Jinkinson was renting a room here in the Cat. He says as how Jinkinson come here to drink. Used to drink a lot, the late gentleman did, according to Brindle. “I’ve seen him so grogged he was down in the street and lapping the gutter.” Those was his exact words, I seem to recall.’

  Pulverbatch paused, as if he expected Adam might say something.

  ‘The room’s up those stairs over there.’ The inspector gestured through to the billiard room where a rickety flight of stairs disappeared upwards. ‘Now, as I say, Brindle’s got as many faces as a churchyard clock. I’d trust him about as far as I could fling a bull by its tail but I’m not sure he’d lie about that. Why should he? Ain’t no crime in renting out a room. So what say you and I go and take a peek in Mr Jinkinson’s hidey-hole?’

  Adam was about to reply when, behind the inspector’s back, the door to the bar opened and a boy of about twelve entered. He began to make his way furtively towards the body on the billiards table. Adam merely gazed at the scene and could hardly bring himself to draw Pulverbatch’s attention to the intruder. There was no need.

  ‘Hook it, you young prig,’ Pulverbatch roared over his shoulder. ‘Ain’t nothing here for the likes of you. If I sees you still there when I turn round, you’ll be in quod before you can remember what your name is.’

  The boy made a gesture of contempt in the policeman’s direction, but deciding that discretion, in this instance, was definitely the better part of valour, he beat a swift retreat. Pulverbatch remained in his seat, his hands still resting on the table. Adam was left to wonder how he had known the boy had come into the bar.

  ‘Always the same with a dead body and young cubs like that,’ the inspector said. ‘Like a honeypot for bees. They always wants to take a look.’

  With a sudden sigh, Pulverbatch lifted his hands from the table-top and hauled himself to his feet. Adam, his limbs now aching from his exertions by the river, did the same. The two of them made their way into the adjoining room, skirted the billiards table with its white-sheeted burden and climbed the stairs to the next floor.

  Two doorways opened off the first-floor landing, one to the right and one to the left. Without hesitation, Pulverbatch opened the one on the right. The room they now entered was surprisingly spacious. It had no floor covering other than a small square of drugget in the middle.

  The bed stood behind a dirty chintz curtain in one corner. The only other item of furniture was a battered chest of drawers in the opposite corner, above which hung a small looking glass in a chipped gilt frame. The inspector went over to it. He began to pull out the drawers one by one, peering into them.

  ‘What does Brindle say of Jinkinson?’ Adam asked, now determined not to surrender to his tiredness. ‘Why did he offer him refuge?’

  ‘According to him, he was acting like the Good Samaritan did.’ Pulverbatch continued to examine the contents of the chest of drawers. ‘Him in the Bible as picked up the man by the roadside and dusted him down and took him home to heal his wounds.’

  Adam pushed the chintz curtain to one side and sat down on the bed.

  ‘So Jinkinson came to him in trouble and Brindle, out of the goodness of his heart, said to him, “I have a room above my tavern, my good man. For the payment of a small sum per week, you may have the use of it.” ’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, according to Brindle.’

  ‘I don’t think that can be what happened, do you, Inspector? Mr Brindle does not seem the type of man to do things out of the goodness of his heart.’

  Pulverbatch paused before he slid the final drawer back into place, a smile playing briefly across his face. He was clearly amused by the possibility, however remote, of Brindle acting with good intentions. But his expression hardened once again.

  ‘Lord love us, Mr Carver,’ he said. ‘We both know gammon when we hear it, and that’s pure, unadulterated, one hundred per cent gammon. Brindle had some other reason why he was a-helping Jinkinson. And it weren’t one the Good Samaritan would have recognised.’

  * * * * *

  ‘I ’ope you ain’t goin’ to believe everything that shark Pulverbatch tells you.’ The remark emerged from the darkness outside the Cat and Salutation as Adam left the pub to make his way back to Doughty Street. It was followed by the substantial figure of Jabez Brindle, who trundled into the light still shining from one of the ground-floor windows. ‘’E’d lie as soon as look at you.’

  The fat man looked as weary as Adam felt but he was still grinning gamely. His ugly little white terrier was still at his heels even if
it seemed to have lost much of its earlier aggression. It made no attempt to bite at Adam’s ankles but stood cocking its head towards its owner as if listening for what he might have to say.

  ‘That is more or less what the inspector said of you, Mr Brindle.’

  ‘Thought ’e might. Pot calling the kettle black arse, if you ask me.’

  The publican was wearing a battered chimney-pot hat which wobbled unsteadily on his head. He reached up to right it and then seized Adam by the arm. The young man tried to shake him off but Brindle’s grip was like a vice. He began to guide Adam away from the Cat and Salutation.

  ‘Which is why,’ Brindle added, ‘I thought as ’ow it might be useful for you and me to have another chat before you went back west.’

  The steps of both men echoed across the cobbles. It was well after midnight and the only other person in sight was a street scavenger who was standing under a gas lamp and ladling manure into his cart.

  ‘I am more than willing to hear you out, Mr Brindle, but I must insist that you leave hold of me.’

  The publican grinned again and dropped Adam’s arm.

  ‘No offence intended, Mr Carver. It is Carver, ain’t it? Old Jinks mentioned your name.’

  Adam brushed the sleeve of his coat where Brindle’s sweaty fingers had impressed themselves on the material.

  ‘You knew Jinkinson well?’ he enquired.

  ‘Poor old Jinks.’ Despite his words, the fat man looked serenely untroubled by the private investigator’s departure from the world. ‘Known him for years. ’E’s been coming down the Cat since you was just a young nipper caterwauling in your ma’s arms.’

  ‘So he knew you well enough to confide in you?’

  ‘Don’t know as ’ow you’d call it that. But ’e often come to the Cat when he wanted to lie low for a bit.’ Brindle shrugged. ‘ ’E paid me well enough for the room so I ain’t going to be too partickler about what he wants to lay low from.’

  ‘And that’s why he was with you tonight?’

  The publican nodded.

  ‘Turned up a couple of nights ago. Said ’e needed a room to stay in to keep out of trouble. Someone was after ’im, ’e thought.’

  ‘After him?’

  ‘That’s what ’e says. Somebody like yourself. Of a gentlemanly nature.’

  ‘I cannot believe that it was I he feared.’

  ‘No, you ain’t much for anybody to fear,’ Brindle agreed. ‘Not even for Jinks.’

  ‘Did anybody visit him while he was with you?’ Adam asked, ignoring the implied insult. He began to wonder whether he and Pulverbatch had misjudged the publican. Perhaps there was no further mystery about Brindle’s motives for sheltering Jinkinson. He did it because he had known the enquiry agent for many years and Jinkinson paid him money for the room. The Cat and Salutation was like Bellamy’s Lodging House. A refuge when Poulter’s Court became a place to avoid. ‘Did he see anyone other than your regular drinkers?’

  The fat man shook his head. ‘Didn’t even see them. ’E spent all ’is time up in that room above the billiards. Didn’t come out until an ’our before you arrives. Then ’e goes out for a walk. Needs some air, ’e says.’

  ‘And returns at the very moment that I was speaking to you and Toby.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. ’E must ’ave panicked when ’e saw you. Runs out but ’ooever was after ’im was waiting further along the river. You know the rest.’

  The two men had left behind the quiet alleys in which the Cat and Salutation lay hidden and now emerged in a busy and well-lit thoroughfare. Even at this hour, wagons, carts and cabs, both pouring into the city and out of it, streamed past them. Adam peered to his left, looking for landmarks he might recognise. Was this, he wondered, the Ratcliffe Highway? His knowledge of this part of the city was so regrettably poor, but he assumed that it was.

  ‘Now I got that pig Pulverbatch and his little band of piglets swarming all over my crib,’ Brindle went on, raising his voice to compete with the noise of the passing traffic. ‘And that ain’t something I appreciates.’

  ‘The inspector is investigating a murder, Mr Brindle. I doubt he’s interested in your assorted crimes and peccadillos.’

  ‘You’re as green as duckweed, ain’t you,’ the publican said, almost admiringly. ‘It’s the killing as don’t interest Pulverbatch that much. One body more or less pulled out of the river ain’t goin’ to worry him. Especially some private sniffer on ’is uppers like old Jinks. But ’e’s been itching to find a reason to come grubbin’ around the Cat and now ’e’s got one.’

  Adam decided directness was his best policy.

  ‘What if the murder of Jinkinson was connected to the murder of another person? A person of greater social standing?’

  ‘You mean that cove in ’Erne ’Ill?’ Brindle asked, enjoying Adam’s look of surprise. ‘Oh, I know about ’im. I know Pulverbatch ’as got Ben Stirk lined up for a bit of dancing on nothing down Newgate way as well.’

  ‘You know Stirk?’

  ‘Let’s go over there,’ the publican said, gesturing towards a shop doorway further along the highway where a shabby vendor had set up his steaming potato can earlier in the evening and was still standing, close to half past midnight, in the hope of trade. ‘I could do with a bite of supper. And I’ll let you know what else I knows.’

  After a minute, Brindle had been served his food, hauled from the can and then sprinkled liberally with salt. Holding the potato in his right hand, he blew on it three times and then bit vigorously into the brown skin and white innards. Between mouthfuls, he continued to speak.

  ‘First thing you ’ave to remember, sonny, is that Pulverbatch ain’t about to admit ’e knows next door to bugger all about this ’ere killing in ’Erne ’Ill.’ Brindle sprayed small fragments of hot potato in Adam’s direction. ‘That’s a place full of coves with plenty of ready. When someone gets topped in a neck of the woods like that, ’e knows ’e’d better find a daisy-brain to take the drop as soon as ’e can. Otherwise all ’ell will be bustin’ out. That’s where poor Ben Stirk comes in.’

  ‘So Stirk is no more than a scapegoat?’

  ‘Ben’s just the nearest dumb gawk that Pulverbatch can lay ’is ’ands on. ’E’ll end up sold like a bullock in Smithfield.’

  Brindle took a last bite of his potato and threw the remaining bits of skin over his shoulder.

  ‘If that is the case,’ Adam said, ‘we must do something to help him.’

  The publican waved a fleshy arm in dismissal of the idea. ‘Ain’t a thing as can be done,’ he said, picking at his teeth.

  Adam was about to dispute this but Brindle held up his hand to silence him.

  ‘Second thing you need to know,’ he went on, ‘is that old Jinks didn’t have no visitors at the Cat. But ’e did send out a message. Paid Toby to trot ’alfway across town to deliver it.’

  ‘A message to whom?’

  ‘I ain’t at all sure why I should tell you this. Maybe it’s on account of I’m too kind-hearted.’ Brindle smiled like a crocodile scenting its lunch. ‘Maybe it’s because I could do with Pulverbatch out of my ’air. And this might be a way of arranging it.’

  The publican pulled an old silver turnip watch from his waistcoat pocket and took a swift look at it.

  ‘It’s a-getting late, Mr Carver. Time for all of us saints and sinners to be in bed. So I’ll jest tell you one last thing and then I’ll be off. Old Jinks, ’e sent a message to a very important gent. An even more important gent than your good self. ’E sent word to an MP, did Jinks. An MP called Garland.’

  With that, the publican raised his chimney-pot hat and then waddled off in the direction of the river.

  * * * * *

  It was eight o’clock on the following morning and Adam had recovered some of the spirit which his adventures in Wapping had knocked out of him. Sitting at the breakfast table as Quint busied himself in the kitchen, he was looking through what the day’s first post had brought him.


  ‘A bill from some importunate tradesman. In all likelihood my tailor, who will have to be paid soon before he decides that he has no alternative but to involve the law in our business transactions. A communication from my cousin Richard. Probably news of distant relations about whom I neither know nor care. Or possibly a begging letter. In either case, it can be safely ignored for the present. Something from my publisher. Unlikely to be good news.’

  Adam sifted quickly through his correspondence, throwing the letters one by one to the far end of the table. He held the last one up to the light from the window, looking more closely at the inscription on it.

  ‘Aha, I do believe I recognise this handwriting.’

  ‘Ain’t another from that young tart what come calling here the other week, is it?’ Quint called. ‘The one you went dancing with at some twopenny hop?’

  ‘Cremorne Gardens, Quint. We took to the dance floor at Cremorne Gardens, not some twopenny hop. No, it is not. The postmark looks to be Cambridge. And speak more respectfully of Miss Maitland. She is a lady, not some trollop you might find parading down the Haymarket. No, the day before yesterday I wrote to Professor Fields.’ Adam brandished the letter and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Today I have his reply. I am invited to my alma mater to meet with him. You will, of course, accompany me.’

  Quint, entering the room and handing Adam a plate of devilled kidneys with mushrooms, looked less than thrilled by the prospect.

  ‘I ain’t so sure old Fields’ll want to see me again. If you recall, last time he saw me, he told me I was a damned rogue.’

  ‘Well, so you are, Quint, but your friends have never allowed that fact to stand in the way of their affection for you. If you remember, Fields called you a rogue—’

  ‘A damned rogue,’ Quint insisted.

  ‘He called you a damned rogue because, on the night before you and I were to leave the expedition and sail from Salonika, you stole a pouchful of his favourite tobacco.’

  Quint watched solemnly as Adam picked up his knife and fork and began to attack his breakfast.