And, of course, the sight of the policeman reminded me of all the things that might go wrong with my plan of escape. I might be caught and separated from my children and transported to Australia.
Rachel was delicate and might not survive a long sea voyage. Even if we got to America I could never really be free there. I would spend every day wondering whether the law would catch up with me, expecting a knock on the door and a hand on my collar. I’d caught enough people myself who thought they were beyond justice, or at least the reach of the law which is often not the same thing, to know exactly how possible that was. And I knew my own guilty Calvinist conscience. It would never let me rest and I would be worried by it unto the grave.
So I pushed the thought aside and brought my mind firmly back into the present and let it nag me about other things in other ways. I told myself to deal with one thing at a time. First, I had to get through this business with Bart Tobin then I would deal finally and forever with Billy Tucker.
I knocked on the door of Nicholson’s shop. The slot in the door slid open and I found myself looking into the face of Caliban. He grinned when he saw me, showing those horrible filed teeth. Then he let me in. As he did so, I noticed the pistol in his right hand pointing directly at my stomach.
“Mr Brodie, welcome, welcome. I am very glad to see you.” Old Nick Nicholson spoke from behind his counter. Even at this distance I could see the flintlock that lay close to his hand and I did not doubt for a moment that it was loaded. “Caliban -- there’s no need to point that gun at Mr Brodie. We’re all friends here.”
The gun swung away from my belly and he closed the door and slipped the bolts behind me.
“I take it that your other visitors have not shown up yet, Nick,” I said.
“You take it correctly, Mr Brodie. It’s early days yet and I’ve no doubt that they’ll be here. From all I hear young Bart Tobin is a man with a good head for business. Much like yourself.”
“Let’s hope so, Nick.” I walked over to one of the old chairs sitting propped in a corner. Its position looked accidental but it gave a good view of the whole room and there was a table in front of it that could be tipped over and used for cover if the need should arise.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Brodie? I’m just making one for myself.”
I shook my head and studied Caliban. He was dressed in a heavy old military trenchcoat. I knew that there were hoops of cloth sewn into its lining and each of those hoops held a blade. Doubtless, he had loaded pistols in the pockets. He stood still as a statue near the entrance to the stairs. He showed no sign of weariness or impatience or of any human interest whatsoever. You could picture him, clad in a loin cloth, squatting beside a hunting track in some jungle in an equally imperturbable manner.
I was glad he was there. At that moment in time I was even glad that Nicholson was there. I knew that they would both turn on me at the first sign of treachery on my part. It was one of the things that they were paid for, to make sure that things went smoothly. Of course, it would make arresting Bart and any friends he might bring somewhat difficult under the circumstances but it did mean that I would have allies if things turned sour.
As I sat there, listening to the ticking of Nicholson’s clock, I realised quite how impossible the task Mr Soames and his niece had set me was. At this time, in this place, there was no chance of me taking in Bart unless he tried something treacherous himself in which case I could, I hoped, rely on the aid of Nicholson and Caliban.
At such moments as this, dark thoughts can stealthily enter a nervous mind. I considered the possibility that Bart might have paid off Nicholson and they might conspire to do me harm. I did not think it likely but I’ve known odder and more murderous things to happen. I drew my coat tighter against the cold and damp in the cellar and cursed Nicholson for his meanness with the coals. I did it under my breath since there was no sense in turning the man against me.
The clock ticked. Nicholson slurped his tea. Caliban stood there as imperturbable as some Greek statue. I drummed my fingers on the table. Nine o’clock came and went. The church bells chimed in the distance. Nicholson’s clock chimed at the same time. In the stillness it was a shocking sound and it was all I could do to keep from jumping.
“I’m going to take my pistols out and lay them on the table, Nick,” I said. I did not want him or Caliban mistaking my intentions so having given them fair warning, I very slowly took my pistols out and placed them before me. Caliban’s eyes flickered towards me. Nicholson watched me carefully, his own hand never far from his gun. They were obviously as on edge as I was. I was glad I had spoken. Under the circumstances, there was always the possibility of someone mistaking my intention.
Such men as these, hardened in crime and used to thinking the worst of people, might be forgiven for thinking that I myself planned some treachery. After all Nicholson probably had a lot of money hidden about this place, and I might have been considering robbing him.
“They are very late,” said Nicholson on the half hour. I nodded agreement.
“I wonder what could be holding them up.” A dozen possibilities passed through my mind. The least of them was that Bart had never meant to show and this was all some sort of strange joke on his part.
I wondered if Bart had somehow managed to get himself into trouble with the law. He would not be the first man to be arrested on the way to such a meeting as this and if he was, he would be found with incriminating goods in his possession. The idea that Billy Tucker might have caught up with him occurred to me as well. Which shows you how much Billy was on my mind at the time. He had bedevilled me so successfully over the past few days that I was prepared to attribute near supernatural powers to him.
We lapsed into silence again. The clock kept ticking. Nicholson whistled tunelessly, some old air that I vaguely recognised from my youth. I picked up my pistols and checked them while Nicholson and Caliban watched me warily and then I put them down on the table again.
A cockroach crawled ever so slowly across the table. It clambered up onto the dish in which the candle sat, moved across the lava terraces of congealed wax, and then went off the other side. I resisted the urge to squash it with my fist. A sudden movement in that tense room might have proven fatal.
The clock struck 10 and still there was no sign of Bart. Impatience and anger gnawed at me and I rose from the table and began to pace up and down in the corridors between Nicholson’s junk. Nicholson poured himself another cup of cold tea and slurped it once more and I had to resist the urge to shout at him.
I tired of pacing and sat down again in the shadows of the distant corner and give my attention back to Caliban who stood there showing no more sign of emotion than if he had been carved from wood. I was about to suggest that we give it up for the evening when there was a loud bang on the door.
Caliban went from stillness to motion with startling suddenness and was up the stairs and looking out through the slot in heartbeats. I heard Bart’s voice and the voice of somebody else and I reached nervously for one of my pistols.
The door opened and Bart stood there holding a carpetbag. Behind him was Fat Frank and behind Frank was the rain and the mist. They came in, covered by Caliban’s gun, bringing the night chill and the night damp with them. Frank glared at me. Bart grinned.
“Good evening, Mr Brodie,” he said. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour but we deemed it best to scout around the area a bit and make sure that there was no one lurking in wait.”
“Commendable caution, Mr Tobin,” said Old Nick. “You can never be too careful in our line of business, can you Mr Brodie?”
Bart looked at the pistols on the table and said, “I can tell that Mr Brodie agrees with you. I see he came armed.”
“I did, Bart.” I was tempted to remind him that the last time he’d had me at a disadvantage and that wasn’t the case now but it would not have been diplomatic and it would not have increased the amount of trust in the air. Frank exchanged hard glances with Caliba
n. Or rather he glared and Caliban looked through him as if he were not there.
“Did you bring the stuff, Bart?” I asked.
“I did. Did you?” I picked the bag up from beside me with one hand and put it on the table. Bart picked it up with a groan. “That’s a good weight Mr Brodie. Is it the weight of gold?”
“Why don’t you open it and see?” Bart took me at my word and his grin widened when he picked out the gold and put it on the table. He opened the carpetbag and showed me what was within. I kept my hand within reach of my pistol and my eyes on Bart’s face as I reached into the bag with my left hand and pulled out a bundle of banknotes. I could feel more of them in there.
“Satisfied?” I nodded.
“I’ll have to check the papers -- why don’t you count the money?”
“My favourite pastime, Mr Brodie.”
Things were a little more relaxed now. We both had gone some way towards fulfilling our parts of the bargain. We had passed the first hurdle.
Bart tipped a bag of coins onto the table and as I watched as he began to count them separating them out into the little piles of 10. Once he’d put together five piles of coins, I took my hand away from the gun and began to work my way through the papers he had brought, marking them off against a mental inventory of what Mr Soames had told me.
The banknotes were real and there were other things, bonds and notes of hand and certificates of stock ownership in certain railways. There were also the bundle of letters, wrapped in a ribbon. It was all there. It did not look like Bart had played me false.
I looked at him and he met my gaze evenly. I wondered what would happen if I raised my pistol and put him under arrest. Would Nicholson shoot me? Could Bart get to his gun before I got to mine? He was younger and his reflexes were quick so even with the advantage of surprise I was not certain that I could do it.
I think he sensed something of what was passing through my mind for his eyes narrowed and he looked towards his gun and for a brief, tense instant I thought he was going to reach for the weapon. I let myself relax and nodded to him and said, “It’s all there, Bart. The deal is done. Now it’s time for my cut and Nicholson’s.”
I knew then that I was not going to attempt to take Bart and Frank in. It would have been suicidal, and in an odd sort of way it would have been dishonest. Bart had kept his part of the bargain. I was going to keep mine.
Bart pushed small piles of coins towards me and shifted another two to one side of the table for Nicholson. He put the rest back in the bags and then placed them in his carpetbag. He rose from the table quite a bit richer than he’d sat down. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Brodie. Perhaps we shall do it again sometime.”
“A word of advice, Bart. You should leave town for a while and take your boys with you. That includes Ginger Jim.”
“Is that a threat, Mr Brodie?” His face was suddenly a mask, emotionless and still. He stared directly at me and he did not blink and he was suddenly very menacing. I shook my head.
“No, Bart, it’s not. There are some complications.”
“Complications?”
“Yes. The police are nosing around and my client is getting nervous and it might be best if you were all out of the way until things settle down. Trust me, Bart, I’m doing you a favour telling you this.”
He considered this for a moment. “One reason for doing this, Mr Brodie, was to avoid complications. Now you’re telling me that something has gone wrong.”
“It might be nothing but you never know. Why take any chances? You have enough money for good spree -- go and have it somewhere else. Do you really want to see the inside of a prison hulk? Believe me, they’re not very pleasant.”
I could see the muscles in his jaw tense and I thought for a moment that he was going to explode into violence. He looked at me and then at Frank. I did not move. I kept very still. I did not want to do anything that might be misinterpreted. Eventually he shrugged and said, “You’re right, it’s time to take a holiday anyway. Good evening to you, gentlemen. Good evening, Mr Brodie.”
And then he and Frank were gone, leaving the room feeling strangely empty as the tension dissipated. I counted out some sovereigns from my share and put them in Nicholson’s pile. He’d made a decent profit for a few hours work although nothing like what he might have made if he’d brokered the deal himself.
“A very promising young man that, Mr Brodie,” said Nicholson. “He’ll go far in this business.”
“Let’s hope it’s not to Australia,” I said and he laughed as if he had not heard that old joke a hundred times before.
I picked up Soames’s letters and then out of spiteful curiosity I untied the bundle and began to read. It did not take me long to work out why he had wanted them back. They were love letters, written to a married woman, who was the mother of his child. While Nicholson hovered nervously over me, I took a selection of them and put them in my pocket. I had found a lever to use against Soames if he or Amanda tried to make good on their threat of turning me over to the law.
Nicholson yawned ostentatiously to let me know it was time to be going.
“You’ll be leaving through the other door, Mr Brodie, the secret one. No point in putting any temptation in young Mr Tobin’s way. We don’t want them thinking that he can sell the same goods twice now, do we?”
“You’re right Nick. Thanks for your help.”
“A pleasure, Mr Brodie. Glad to be of assistance.”
I made my way slowly home through the rain and the fog, carrying the bag in one hand and keeping the other on the butt of my pistol. As I walked I considered what I was going to tell Mr Soames. I had not arrested Bart Tobin or any of his associates. I had recovered his bills and papers. According to the terms of our original agreement I had done all I was supposed to do -- the question was would it be enough? If it had been up to Mr Soames alone I was sure that the old man would simply have shrugged and been grateful. I was not at all sure that Miss Mayhew’s response would be similar. I thought about the letters I held in pocket and the secret they contained and the reason why Soames was so keen to get them back. They would be useful if worst came to worst.
After the long wait for Bart to arrive I felt drained and all I wanted to do was collapse into bed. I resolved to worry about it in the morning when I returned the papers. For the moment I was simply too tired to care.
All around me the night was alive. Late-night drinkers returned home arm in arm singing old ballads. In the mouths of alleys and in niches in walls whole families huddled together for warmth. Armies of the poor and dispossessed marshalled themselves in the streets of London and watched the more fortunate with hungry, weary eyes.
There were still a few children out trying to sell nuts and fruit to late-night drinkers. Baked potato men still stood by the engines and hot chestnut sellers vended their wares. I did not stop for anything to eat. I just kept walking with my eyes straight ahead, ignoring the cries of beggars and the attempts of the street sellers to get me to buy something. I wore that invisible armour of indifference that is your only protection from the unfortunate on the streets of the Great Wen.
I headed straight home, passing policemen and wondering when Billy Tucker would show his face. I knew it would be soon from what Tiny had told me and it could not come soon enough for me. I just wanted to get it over with.
I reached my rooms. I reached my door and paused. I’m not sure why but I sensed something strange. Perhaps it was simply the absence of noise from within now that the children and Mrs Marshall were gone. Perhaps it was something else, some scent so tenuous as to be almost imperceptible, some slight difference in the vibration of the air, but I was suddenly wary.
I listened carefully but heard nothing. I checked my door but it was still locked. I told myself it was nothing but I did not really believe it. I was carrying a small fortune on me and it behoved me to be careful. After all both Bobby Tucker and Billy had been fine hands with a lock pick in their time.
I
put the bag down and turned my key as quietly as I could. Gently, I turned it in the lock and pushed the door open slowly. Carefully, with my back to the street, so that no one could see what I was doing, I took out the pistol and held it so that my body was between it and the door. As quietly as I could, I pushed the bag into the inner hall with my foot and drew my other gun.
It was dark inside my rooms and eerily quiet. I half expected to hear the sounds of the children rushing to meet me but of course, there was nothing. I placed the bag against the door in such a way as it would hold it open, giving me a line of retreat if that should prove necessary. I listened carefully but heard nothing other than the ordinary sounds of the street. I told myself I was tired and overcautious but something made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
Moving as quietly as I could, I made my way towards the parlour. The guns each weighed as much as a sack of coal in my hands, heavy with the weight of death. Up ahead I could see the faint illumination of the fire. It had not quite gone out yet and its glow was visible through the mesh of the fireguard.
There was a certain madness in moving so stealthily through my own home with a gun in each hand. It had a nightmare quality of the sort that you can remember when you wake from your worst dreams. There was the hint of the presence of monsters lurking in the shadows, just out of sight, invisible when you look directly at them but there in the farthest corners of your vision when you did not.
I found that I could not bear the silence any longer. “Billy,” I whispered. “I know you’re there Billy.”