A Case of Spirits

CHAPTER 8

A hacking cough shattered the silence. ‘Lord help us!’ said Constable Thackeray to himself.

He should have been in bed. Eleven hours he had squatted behind a tree opposite Miss Crush’s house in Eaton Square. Eleven hours on one of the bleakest nights in November. By dawn he could have passed for Uncle Walter, he was so blanched by frost. And what had it achieved, apart from the likely onset of chronic pneumonia?

Nothing.

Not a living soul had approached the terrace until eight in the morning, when Cribb appeared and gave the sort of whistle a dog-owner gives when his animal lingers too long in the bushes. ‘I’ve got a job for you, Thackeray,’ he said, as if eleven hours behind a tree had not been employment at all. ‘Cut along to Sloane Square and take the Metropolitan line to Praed Street. It’s a short step from there to Homer Court. Here’s the key to number 10, Professor Quayle’s house. Let yourself in and locate Dr Probert’s missing picture in the umbrella stand. Miss Crush’s vase should be in a cabinet in the bathroom. No need to look surprised, Constable. Quayle confessed to me six hours ago. Oh, and make a list of Peter Brand’s personal effects, will you? He won’t be in his rooms. Died in mysterious circumstances last night. Lord, yes, I’ve been busy since I last saw you. I’m off to get some sleep now. Report to me at two o’clock, will you? Sharp, mind.’

As usual, there was no answering Cribb. He climbed back into a waiting cab before Thackeray had a chance to put two words together. All a man could do in the circumstances was brush off the worst of the frost and hobble away to the station, trying not to mind the chilblains.

Cribb had not mentioned it, but Thackeray decided to assume his orders included a short stop at the soup-stall in Sloane Square for a bowl of ox-tail. He would make sure the twopence went into his diary as legitimate expenses, too, and if he had to buy wintergreen ointment for his toes he was going to put that down as well, whatever anyone said.

Quayle’s house was large and detached, not so fashionably situated as Miss Crush’s, but certainly no slum. Remarkable that an occupation concerned with spiritual things should be so productive of worldly comforts. Thackeray had let himself in, removed the rolled-up Etty from a collection of walking-sticks and umbrellas and carried it upstairs to the second floor, collecting the Royal Worcester from the bathroom on the way. Both now lay on the floor of Peter Brand’s sitting-room, the painting still unfurled. There was not the slightest doubt that it was Dr Probert’s nymph. Cribb was sickeningly unlikely to have made a mistake. And Thackeray with his chilblains felt no overmastering urge to gaze at a naked form of either sex.

It was a salutary experience to occupy a dead man’s room and see the evidence of recent occupation, a discarded shirt over a chair-back, the collar on the floor, orange-peel in the grate and unwashed plates on the table. That it was a bachelor establishment was clear from the reek of stale tobacco. The picture over the mantelpiece was of a racehorse and there were betting-tickets strewn about the floor.

Thackeray had withdrawn his notebook and was starting to record the contents of the room when his work was interrupted by a clatter at the front door downstairs. He went to the window and peered out. A cab was drawn up outside. Uncertain what to expect, he descended the two flights of stairs and opened the door.

A cabman was standing in the porch, a barrel-shaped man in a brown bowler and one of those enormous greatcoats that reached from chin to bootlaces, the hallmark of the trade. The number 469 was prominently displayed on his badge. What was visible of his hair was grey, and his moustache protruded over his lips and was damp at the extremities.

He touched his hat. ‘Morning, sir. I’ve come for Mr Brand’s things.’

‘His things?’ repeated Thackeray. ‘ ’E’s dead, ain’t ’e? Won’t be wanting ’em now.’

‘How do you know he’s dead?’

The cabby shrugged his shoulders. ‘Common knowledge by now. News travels fast in my occupation. I ’eard about it at the cab shelter by Paddington station. ’Ad a fatal accident in Richmond, didn’t ’e? Who are you, if you ain’t the undertaker?’

‘I was about to ask the same question,’ said Thackeray.

‘Charlie Brand, sir. Father of the deceased.’

‘I see. I’m sorry.’

‘No need to be. ’E wasn’t much to me.’

‘Is that so? I’m a police officer. Detective-Constable Thackeray. Plain clothes duty.’

‘What you doing ’ere, then? Picking up a fresh set of plain clothes?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Thackeray with dignity. ‘I’m here to make a list of the deceased’s possessions.’

‘And I’m ’ere to collect ’em,’ said the cabman. ‘Next of kin, you see. Prior claim. I think I ’ave the right to look over that list of yours. There should be a silver watch somewhere. It wouldn’t be in your pocket by any chance, would it?’

‘It would not,’ said Thackeray firmly. ‘I have a watch of my own with my personal number scratched on the back. If you want to come inside you’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, cabman. How am I to know you’re Brand’s father, anyway?’

The cabman tapped his badge. ‘This is my personal number, and you can check it in the ’Ackney Carriage Licensing Department, right under your police office in Great Scotland Yard. Brand, Charles Edgar, on the box for forty-six years, excepting three in the Crimea. When I started, there wasn’t no detectives to speak of. The thief-takers was the Runners, and a fine body of men they was.’ He peered closely at Thackeray. ‘I suppose you wasn’t one, by any chance?’

‘Lord, no!’ said Thackeray. ‘I was just a babe in arms in them days. You’d better come in, then, Mr Brand. I can’t allow you to cart anything away, but I suppose I ought to let you see what’s there.’

‘Rubbish mostly, if you ask me,’ Brand senior remarked, as he followed Thackeray upstairs. On the first-floor landing he paused to gather breath for the second flight. ‘You ’aven’t come across the watch, then?’

Thackeray turned. ‘I have not, cabman, and I swear I’ll lay one on you if I hear another word about it.’

In Brand’s room they paused just inside the door. The cabman had not endeared himself much to Thackeray so far, but he was entitled to the respect that is due to any bereaved parent. It was impossible not to respond to the numerous reminders in the room of the life so suddenly cut short.

The response, in Brand Senior’s case, was unsentimental: ‘I suppose the picture might raise a pound or two, but I don’t see much else ’ere. You don’t suppose the landlord’s been round already and ’ad the pick of the stuff, do you?’

‘Impossible,’ said Thackeray. ‘The landlord’s been in custody all night.’

‘Copped ’im, ’ave you? What was ’e doing-keeping a disorderly ’ouse?’

‘That’s no concern of yours, cabman,’ Thackeray retorted. ‘If you’re quite sure there’s nothing here worth having, don’t let me delay you any longer. I’ve got my work to do.’

Brand Senior seemed to interpret this as an invitation to stay and watch. He lowered himself into an arm-chair, took out a pipe, filled it, thrust it between his moustache and his muffler, lighted it and was temporarily lost to view in the resulting smoke. ‘This don’t surprise me in the least,’ he said, clearing a shaft in the cloud with his hand. ‘The boy’s been keeping bad company for years. It wasn’t the way ’e was brought up, I can tell you. ’E was reared with the end of my belt, was that boy. I was mother and father to ’im for ten years-ten years, Officer. Taught ’im the Ten Commandments and ’is numbers and ’ow to groom the ’orse and look what ’e came to! I might as well ’ave saved meself the exercise.’

‘Did his mother die young?’ inquired Thackeray, trying to dredge up a scrap of sympathy for this peculiarly unsympathetic old man.

‘Still alive, so far as I know,’ said Brand unhelpfully.

‘You parted company, then?’

‘Company?’ Brand laughed with such an eruption that it brought on a fit of coughing. ‘It never got as far as company. Blimey no, it was nothing like that.’ He produced a large red handkerchief and dried the corners of his eyes. ‘Now we’ve started, I’d better tell you about it, or you’ll go on asking your cock-eyed questions till it’s time for me to go. Did you see my ’orse as you opened the front door just now?’

‘I can’t say I noticed him particularly,’ admitted Thackeray, uncertain what the horse had to do with the story.

‘That’s my fourth out there,’ continued Brand Senior. ‘Nine year old gelding, and a very fine shape for a cabber, too. Twenty year ago the beast between them shafts was a bag o’ bones, Officer, I don’t mind admitting it. I called ’im Ezekiel, after the prophet what told the story of the bones that came to life. If you’d seen my Ezekiel standing in the cab-rank in The Strand you’d say ’e was the living proof of that story. You might think ’e got like that from poor feeding, and I suppose there’s a grain of truth in that, because I was up against ’ard times in them days, but I’m inclined to think ’e was sparely built, same as certain ’umans are. Ezekiel just looked pathetic, but ’e was given the nosebag as often as any other animal on the rank.’

‘Get to the point, for God’s sake, cabman,’ requested Thackeray. ‘I didn’t get any sleep last night.’

‘All right. ’Old on, mate. Now one spring morning I’m waiting in the rank as usual when a flunkey of some sort comes walking along the pavement sizing us up, like. ’E takes a long look at Ezekiel and after a bit ’e comes up to me and says, “You’ll do. I’m ’iring you for the hour.” Now if there’s one thing certain to start a riot in a cab-rank it’s jumping the line, so I tells the flunkey ’e must go to the front and take the first cab in the rank. “Not on your life,” says ’e. “I want you, and if I ’ave to wait ’alf an hour for you that’s all the same to me.” Sure enough ’e waits for twenty minutes, till it’s my turn at the front, then ’e climbs aboard, giving me an address in Russell Square. “That won’t take an hour,” says I. “Never you mind,” says ’e. So I cracks me whip and old Ezekiel gets us there inside ten minutes. “Wait ’ere, cabby,” says the flunkey, and disappears inside a big ’ouse. Presently out ’e comes with a young lady, got-up to the nines. A stunner she was, I promise you. ’E ’ands ’er into the cab and tells me to take ’er round Regent’s Park, driving slow. Now I don’t ’ave to tell you that it weren’t the thing at all in them days any more than it is now for a single woman to drive alone in a four wheeler.’

‘Not a respectable woman,’ said Thackeray.

‘That’s my point,’ said Brand, blowing another cloud of smoke in Thackeray’s direction. ‘I could see she was well turned-out, but so was Skittles-remember ’er, Officer? — and ’alf-a-dozen others at that time. Mine was a respectable cab and I didn’t want no part in anything irregular.’

‘All right,’ said Thackeray. ‘You don’t need to convince me. Get on with the story.’

‘Well, I’m sitting on me box wondering what she’s ’ired me for, when she taps on the roof with ’er parasol. I opens the ’atch and she tells me to stop the cab. “This ’orse of yours,” she says, when I’ve pulled Ezekiel’s ’ead back and stopped. “It’s in a pitiful condition. I’d like to give it a carrot.” “Well, Miss,” says I, “if you ’ad one with you, I’d be appy for Ezekiel to ’ave it.” “I ’ave,” says she, and bless me if she don’t fetch one out of ’er bag and push it through the ’atch. “Give it to ’im now,” she says, “and I’ll give you a shilling extra with the fare.” So I obliged the lady and Ezekiel got ’is carrot. That old ’ack never ’ad a bigger surprise in all ’is life. When I’d fed ’im she said she’d like to come down and stroke ’is nose. I wasn’t too ’appy about that, because Ezekiel was an evil-tempered brute at the best of times, even after ’e’d been fed, but ’appily there wasn’t no incident. She climbs back into the cab and we completes the turn round the Park and back to Russell Square. “Call for me at the same time tomorrow,” she says, and gives me three and six, I tell no lie.’

‘Did you go?’

‘Of course I did. A cabby don’t say no to that sort of money. The same thing ’appened for the next five days and Ezekiel was getting quite a frisky look to ’im as we bowled into Russell Square each morning. The lady told me she belonged to some society for the welfare of cab-’orses and she’d sent ’er servant out to find the most broken-down old cabber on the rank. Then one morning she says, “Let’s go up to ’Ampstead today. We can take Ezekiel up to Parliament ’Ill Fields. There’s some long grass there and we’ll give ’im the time of ’is life.” So off we trot through Camden and Kentish Town and sure enough there’s a lovely stretch of grass behind Gospel Oak Station. “Ain’t you going to unbridle ’im?” she asks me, when I’ve led ’im off the road, and I swear it now, Officer, there was a look in that young woman’s eye that was beginning to unbridle me, never mind the ’orse. Anyway, I got ’er down from the cab and let Ezekiel out of the shafts, and we walked a little way to a quiet spot, where she suggested we sat down. We was still in view of Ezekiel and the cab, but out of sight of the road, if you understand me.’

‘I’m beginning to,’ said Thackeray.

‘After a bit she says, “Ezekiel already looks a better ’orse. You can’t see ’is ribs quite so easy now, can you?” “No,” says I, “you’ve spoilt ’im proper. I suppose you’ll be looking for another starving old cabber soon.” “That’s my mission in life,” she says. “I want to rescue all the cab-’orses I can. Yes, I think this will ’ave to be the last outing I ’ave with Ezekiel, but I want you to treat ’im proper from now on, cabman. Feed and water ’im regular, or the Society will get to ’ear of it. And don’t put inferior stuff into ’is nosebag. ’Orses like oats. But you’re a kind man, I can see. You’ll treat Ezekiel well.” And with that she leans across and plants a kiss on my cheek. Now being the way I am, Officer, I’m not one to let a chance slip by. I put my arms around the lady and returned the compliment. One thing led to another and, to phrase it delicate, Ezekiel ’ad to wait a long time for ’is oats, but I got mine that afternoon.’ The cabman slowly formed another dense cloud of smoke as he recollected the occasion. ‘It was the last time I was to see ’er for over a year, and being a man of honour I didn’t even ask for the fare when we got back to Russell Square.’

‘Very thoughtful,’ said Thackeray.

‘Yes, it wasn’t till September that I ’eard anything of ’er, and by then Ezekiel was looking as scraggy as ever. When the flunkey found me in the cabman’s shelter I thought my luck was in again. I bowled off round Russell Square and I swear old Ezekiel knew where we was ’eading for and galloped all the way.

‘When we got there, out comes the lady and climbs inside without even looking at the ’orse or me and calls out an address in Notting ’Ill Gate. It don’t make no sense to me, but I know my job, so away we goes. And when we get there it’s a shabby little terraced ’ouse, but out she gets and asks me to come in too. A big woman comes to the door and lets us in without a word. She shows us the parlour and what do you think is there? A baby, Officer, three months old and ’owling fit to burst. “You can pick it up,” says me passenger. “It’s yours. I’ve brought it into the world and provided for it up to now, but I can’t keep it. It wouldn’t be possible for a woman in my position. So it’s yours, cabman. Look after it, won’t you?” I was so surprised, Officer, that I picked it up without a word and do you know it stopped bellowing at once? “There will be money provided regular for its upkeep,” she told me. “Mrs ’Awkins ’ere will take care of it by day until it’s old enough to join you on the cab, but you must collect it every night. It will need to know its father. Be good enough not to get in touch with me after today. The baby’s name is Peter, and you’d better treat ’im kinder than that unfortunate ’orse of yours, or Mrs ’Awkins will fetch in the law.” And I could see by the way the fat woman wagged ’er ’ead at me that she didn’t like the look of me at all.’

‘What a facer!’ said Thackeray. ‘What did you do?’

‘Exactly what they wanted. I took the child and brought it up, as I’ve told you. As soon as it was old enough I told ’Awkins ’er services wasn’t required no more. Money arrived regular by way of the flunkey until the boy was ten years old and could earn for ’imself.’

‘What work did you put him to?’ asked Thackeray.

‘Glimming, at first.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That’s ’olding cab doors open for passengers, to save the cabby from getting off ’is box. You must ’ave seen the boys along the rank stretching their arms across the cab wheels to stop the ladies’ dresses from getting soiled. It’s worth a copper or two most times. ’E done that for about a year, and then ’e went ’is own way. I ’ad it in mind to get ’im ’prenticed, but ’e can’t read or write, you see, and there wasn’t no openings. I believe ’e sold newspapers for a while and then ’e got a job as bellboy in one of them new ’otels in The Strand. Later ’e got in with the turf mob. I saw ’im one afternoon the summer before last at Epsom working the three card trick and ’e was looking as dapper as ever I’d seen ’im, with a grey bowler and a check suit and that silver watch I told you about. You don’t suppose-’

‘We’re leaving the watch out of it,’ said Thackeray firmly. ‘Tell me, Mr Brand, did you ever meet the boy’s mother again?’

‘Never to speak to, although I’ve seen ’er once or twice in cabs. She moved out of Russell Square a long while back and I’m not sure where she went.’

‘Did your son ever meet his mother?’

‘Not while ’e was a boy, Officer, but I rather think it might ’ave crossed ’is mind last year to try and find ’er.

When I saw ’im that afternoon on the race-course we talked about old times over a glass of ale-we was on very good terms, you see-and, seeing that ’e was now a man of the world, I told ’im the story I’ve just told you. Up to then ’e’d always believed ’is ma died of cholera. ’E seemed uncommon pleased to learn she was still alive, and asked me the number of the ’ouse in Russell Square. Of course I told ’im it was no good going there now because she’s long since moved. I suppose ’e might ’ave called and found out the new address, but lately ’e’s been very busy with the spirits and I ’aven’t spoken to ’im since that afternoon at Epsom. If you ask me, I don’t reckon ’e got much of a welcome from ’er if ’e did find the place where she lives. She don’t want to be reminded of us, I’m sure of that. Well, Officer, that’s my story and I’ve rambled on for long enough.’ He put his pipe in his pocket and struggled out of the arm-chair. ‘I’ll just ’elp you look through that chest of drawers and then I’m on my way. I work from the Charing Cross rank these days. You can always find me there if anything worth ’aving turns up.’

‘It ain’t so simple as that,’ Thackeray explained. ‘He might have made a will.’

‘Couldn’t write,’ said Brand Senior.

‘Well, his mother has the right to claim some of his possessions.’

This was a thought that had not occurred to the cabman. After a moment’s reflection he shook his head. ‘She’s not going to come forward after all this time. She’s in clover already. She’s got no use for silver watches and check suits.’ He opened the drawers one by one and passed his hand rapidly between the layers of socks and shirts. ‘But if she wants any of this stuff she’s welcome to it.’

‘You didn’t mention her name,’ said Thackeray.

‘No I did n’t. One thing you learn in my occupation, Officer, is to be careful over names. There’s passengers that like to be recognised and there’s those that don’t. Most times it’s best to keep off names, so I never asked ’er what it was.’

‘But you found it out, surely?’

‘That’s another matter. If I did, all the cab ’orses I’ve ever owned wouldn’t drag it out of me.’

‘Perhaps this would,’ suggested Thackeray on an inspiration. He plunged his hand in his pocket-and came out with four sixpences and a halfpenny. ‘I could get some more by this afternoon,’ he added lamely.

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ muttered the cabman as he started downstairs.

Thackeray stood where he was, looking bleakly at the five coins in his palm. He would have cheerfully have given a pound of his own money to have got that name and dumbfounded Cribb for once in his career. With a sigh he put the money back in his pocket, took out his notebook and started making the list of Peter Brand’s possessions.