She looked up at me with eyes that held no hint of recognition. She did not know me now although she'd spoken to me every day when I had bought flowers for my wife’s sick room. I said hello again but it did not jog her memory. She raised a claw-like hand and tried to say thank you, but the word was slurred, and I saw then that there was something wrong with her, more than hunger, more than pain, more than the loss of memory. Half of her face had that frozen look that people get after an apoplectic stroke.
I passed on into the kitchen of the rooming house. Even at this time of the day it was crowded with people who had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. There were a number of boys, ragged as beggars, sitting at table telling each other stories and watching people eat with the hopeful eyes of those who might, just might, be offered something by those better off than themselves. There were old men, sitting in corners, some reading, some simply watching. By the fireplace, in their accustomed station, even though there was no fire in the grate, lounged the bully boys, the big men whose business was at night and in shadow. They looked at me almost fearfully when I came in, and I suspected that was because at least one of them knew who I was.
I asked about Pat Murphy and Mick Brendan, and added the touch about the walleye but got no response. Not that I had expected any. Without asking, I took a walk through the house to see if they were present. It was a horrible place, where people slept a score to a room that would have been small for a dozen, on straw pallets and flea ridden blankets that made your flesh crawl just look at them. There were a few folk still asleep in there, making the best of the quiet of the day perhaps, or perhaps recovering from the exertions of the previous night.
I pulled back a few blankets and looked at some faces and woke a few people but found no Irishman called Murphy or Brendan, with or without a walleye. At one point, the proprietor, a short burly energetic man with an angry expression and clenched fists came in to demand to know what I was doing. He looked as if he might start something then he recognised me, as he had cause to do from the days when I was a Runner, and swiftly backed out, apologising as he went.
I left that awful place then and walked back out into the courtyard where old Madge still waited, babbling to herself in a voice that could command few words, and a tongue that could not form them. I put a shilling into her good hand and closed the fingers around it, even though I feared that someone would simply come along and steal it and I walked back into the dark alleyways about my business.
I’ve known some who would think it was dishonest of me to give that old woman money while I owed it to my creditors and my own daughter was in want of medicine. I have known others who would say it showed true Christian charity. It was not either; it was done as much from fear as from compassion.
It is a terrible thing, to be old and uncared for in the back alleys of London. I doubted that Madge would see another winter and that made me afraid. I dreaded ending up like her yet knew it might be my fate.
Our lives are an endless battle in the shadow of want and the workhouse, and it’s a battle that’s hard enough when we are young and strong. It only gets worse as we get older. No wonder so many of the elderly, locked in a war they cannot win choose to take that cold plunge into the Thames with rocks in their pockets.
It seems unfair that we should spend so much of our lives in a futile struggle against those who are younger and stronger than ourselves, and that the spoils of that struggle are little enough even for the victors.
I pushed such thoughts from my mind. There would be time enough to worry about such things when they came upon me but I left that place with a feeling of sick dread in my stomach.
I spent the rest of the morning looking for informants, talking to informants, slipping informants small coins, and listening to what they had to say. It wasn’t wasted time, that sort of thing never is. It was simply doing the necessary work that would eventually, I hoped, put me in touch with the people who had robbed Soames.
When I heard the church bells chiming noon I knew it was time to head back to Brighton House.
The journey did me a power of good. It was a bright pleasant day and I was pleased to shake the stench of the city off myself, and get rid of the bad taste that my meeting with Madge had left in my mouth.
There were a few carts on the road and I managed to hitch a lift with one of them, who dropped me off at the entrance to the grounds of Brighton House. I thanked the driver and made my way up the tree-lined roadway to the door. It seemed I was expected, for Fleming answered the door very quickly and greeted me as if I was an old family friend. I guessed that he wanted the burglars caught very badly. I asked him if Jane Bullock was available and he said yes and showed me into the kitchen.
Jane was a plump, friendly faced girl with dark hair and freckles. Her mother stood nearby working a ladle in a pot. She was in her twenties and judging by her, her mother must have been pretty too in her youth. I asked if there were some place we could talk in private and her mother looked at me oddly and so did the girl and I thought for a moment that there was something like panic in her face.
Fleming found us a place in a pantry and we went in and sat on opposite sides of the small table and I produced my notebook and pencil and set it in front of me and looked at her for a short time.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Jane?” I asked.
“What do you mean, sir?” I was certain that I saw something in her eye then and I stared at her coldly for a long moment.
“About the robbery,” I said.
“Oh, that sir-- it was terrifying.”
“So I gather. Tell me what happened.”
The story she told me did not vary in any significant way from what the others had said. It had been frightening for her and it showed in her voice. I don’t suppose there are too many people who would be unaffected by such an experience. I had the sense though, as I talked to her, that there was something that she was hiding, that was making her feel guilty. I could not quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it was something in her expression, or hesitation in the way she talked, but I had a feeling that there was something that she was not telling me.
“Is there anything else?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Let me be open with you, Jane,” I said. “Often when crimes like this are committed, it's discovered that one of the servants was involved. Usually it's a pretty young girl, like yourself, who has found a new young man, often a very charming young man, who leads her astray.”
To my surprise she burst into tears. She just started sobbing and kept on doing it and wouldn't stop until her mother came in and glared at me. It was not the time to allow a maternal interruption. I raised a finger and pointed to the door and stared hard. A look of shock passed over Mrs Bullock's face and I think in that moment she suspected what I suspected about her daughter and she backed away very quickly, closing the door behind her.
“Now Jane, pull yourself together. There's a good girl. Don't cry. Just tell me what's on your mind.”
“I thought that's what it was,” she said. “I've thought that's what it was for a few days now.”
“What do you mean?”
She blubbered again for a bit, until I offered her my handkerchief. She took it, blew her nose and then cried again for a bit. I let her cry herself out and then I took my handkerchief back and stuck it in my pocket and waited for her to say something.
“It was a man, my man, Matthew Jamison. We were very close and now he's gone--gone without a word.”
She was not speaking coherently or rationally. I decided to just let her talk, giving her a small prod in the right direction when it seemed necessary. It is often the best way in situations like this.
“Who is Matthew Jamison?”
“A man I met in the Dog and Duck, and I went out walking with once or twice.”
“Once or twice?”
“Maybe more than that. He seemed like such a nice fellow too. A real swell. Lovely manners, lovely voice,
lovely clothes, lovely red whiskers. And he liked me, he really liked me. Or so I thought.”
“When did you meet him?”
“About a month ago, in the Dog and Duck, the pub down the road. He said he was from the city, had decided to take a change of air and come out to the country. He said he loved me.”
“Did you let him into the house?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she said. She seemed quite outraged that I could even suggest such a thing. “I wouldn't do a thing like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain, sir.”
“Did this Matthew Jamison ask you any questions about the house?”
“He did, sir. He was very interested in it, now that I come to think of it. He said he'd never seen such a big and handsome house before, and he was very curious about what it was like inside, what it was like to work there.”
“And you told him?”
“I'm afraid I did, sir.”
“And did he ask you about the people in the house?”
“He did, sir. He was very curious about everything about my life. He said he wanted to know everything about me” She started to cry again. It was within the realms of possibility that she was acting but I did not think so. It seemed to me that the most likely explanation was that she was just a simple girl who had been taken advantage of by a smooth talker from the city.
“Will I get into trouble, sir? Will my parents? I don't want them to get into any trouble, sir. It was all my fault. They did nothing wrong.”
“No one will give into any trouble if you do what I say, Jane,” I said. “Describe this Matthew Jamison to me.”
She did so, and I got a good picture of him in her words; tall, reddish hair, long whiskers, well groomed.
“How exactly did you meet him?”
“He had a dog, lovely, friendly little creature, a terrier. It would jump around and do tricks. That’s how we met. I stopped to remark what a friendly animal it was. Later when it got to know me, it would lick my hand and wag its tail. He loved that dog, sir. He was always fretting over it, making sure that it got enough to eat and was properly exercised. He said that he thought that dog was worth a hundred pounds to him. That’s how much he cared for it.”
There was something in her description that struck me. “You say he had reddish hair?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he perchance have a scar on his hand as if it had been burned once with something hot?” I showed her where the scar would be located by pointing to the back of my own left hand.
“Yes, sir, he did. Do you know him?”
“Not by the name of Mathew Jamison.”
“But by some other?”
“By many others. If he is who I think he is then he is a very bad man. I knew him mostly as Ginger Jim Mathews. He once worked with a gang of pickpockets in the Strand. He seems to have moved up in the world since then. If I can find him, will you come and point out whether it is the right man?”
“Of course, sir. Did I do wrong, sir?”
“That's not for me to judge, Jane. It is between you and your conscience.”
“He said he loved me, sir. And I believed him.”
“It's an old, old story, Jane. It's happened to a lot of girls and it will happen again.” It was not perhaps the most tactful thing I could have said under the circumstances. She started to cry again, and I opened the door and gestured for her mother to enter. She had been waiting outside the door all the time and I do not doubt that she had been listening all the while.
As I made my way up the stairs back into the house I heard Mrs Bullock shouting at Jane. Neither of them sounded very happy which was understandable, for servant girls had been dismissed for a lot less than this, and perhaps the fate of her whole family would be sealed by her actions. If they lost their place here it would be difficult for them to find another, for the faintest trace of scandal can damn a servant’s character. And that has been all it took to drop many a family into poverty or worse.
Fleming showed me into the sitting-room where Miss Mayhew was reading to Mr Soames. From the sound of it she was reading from something other than Oliver Twist. I supposed that they'd had rather too much excitement in the burglary line to be reading about Fagin and his gang and the likes of Bill Sikes.
They looked up as I was shown in and Miss Mayhew put a ribbon in the open volume to mark her place.
“Mr Brodie,” said Mr Soames. “It is good to see you, sir.”
I gave them greetings and I presented Mr Soames with his receipt which he accepted very delicately and with a great show of gratitude and many protestations of how it was not necessary.
“You have talked with Jane Bullock?” he asked.
“I have, sir,” I said. I looked Miss Mayhew and said, “Some delicate matters have arisen from that conversation.”
Mr Soames took the hint. “Amanda, my dear, I believe that it may be necessary for me to talk with Mr Brodie in private.”
I could tell that Miss Mayhew was curious from the way she looked at me but she was also well bred and placing the book on the table, she left the room gracefully.
“Now, Mr Brodie, what do you have to tell me?”
“It's about Miss Bullock...”
“Surely you're not going to tell me that she was involved somehow with the robbery.”
“Only inadvertently, sir. I believe that she may have become entangled with an accomplice of the robbers.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“She has been walking out with a man who she met. Judging from some of the things that she's told me, the young man may have been seeking information about Brighton House.”
“You're telling me that he was a confederate of the robbers.”
“Without speaking to the fellow himself I cannot be certain, but I believe that it is quite probable. Corrupting a servant is one of the main ways these gangs gain access to a house.”
“Corrupted? Surely you're not suggesting that Jane was up to anything immoral?”
“Not in this case, sir. I think it more likely that she struck up a foolish attachment to the young man and that he took advantage of her affections to find out more about how you live here.”
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and a frown furrowed his forehead. He made that chuffing noise that I'd noticed during our first meeting and which I was coming to recognise as being a sign that he was deeply troubled.
“You've posed me quite a problem, Mr Brodie. Jane and her family have been in this house for a long time and her family are very dear to me and to Amanda. I'm not sure what I should do.”
He looked to me as if he was seeking a clue written on my face. I looked back at him, keeping my expression as bland as I could. I did not want to do anything that might harm the girl's chances but it would have been impertinent of me to give him advice. He was the master of this house, not I, and it was up to him to decide how to deal with his own servants.
I felt sorry for the girl. She had been foolish rather than malicious, and her folly was of the sort that any young woman in her position might be expected to fall into. She was a victim here quite as much as her master and his household. On the other hand, by her ill-considered actions she had cost her master a good deal of money and a great deal of trouble, and was likely to cost him more.
By his expression I could tell that Mr Soames was thinking his way through all this most carefully. He appeared to be ticking off points one by one on his fingers, sometimes nodding and sometimes shaking his head.
“What you think, Mr Brodie? What is your considered opinion?”
I was very tempted to hold my tongue. After all, if I said the wrong thing it would be my reputation that would suffer and in a business reputation is your most valuable asset. However honesty and a perhaps misplaced faith in my own judgement of human character forced me to speak.
“If the girl did wrong, and at this moment we cannot be entirely certain that she did, then I do not believe she meant any ha
rm. I believe the worst that can be said about her is that she made a silly mistake, and I very much doubt that she will make a similar one again.”
“Thank you, Mr Brodie. I appreciate your honesty and I appreciate your help in this matter.”
It was what he was paying for, but at that moment it did not seem entirely tactful to point it out.
“One more thing, sir. She has agreed to identify the man for me if I can find him.”
At that moment, there was a delicate knock on the door which Soames obviously recognised. “Yes, Amanda?”
“Uncle, I would speak with you.”
“Come in, my dear, come in! If you will excuse me for a moment, Mr Brodie…”
“Of course, sir.”
The door opened and Miss Mayhew entered. She looked at me, and then she looked at her uncle, I thought for a moment that she might have been crying. “It's Mrs Bullock, Uncle. She's asked me if she and Jane might have a word with you in private. She says it is very important.”
Mr Soames looked a little flustered. I could see that he wanted to respond to his niece's petition. I said, “I can wait outside for a while until the business is done.”
I suspected that Mrs Bullock simply wanted to apologise for her daughter's conduct and beg her master's mercy on Jane's behalf. In any case, I found myself standing in the hallway confronting Miss Mayhew. Her manner was quite curt, and I got to see some of the steely will concealed beneath the demure manner society expected of her.
“Jane and her mother are very upset by the accusations you made, Mr Brodie.” As before I could not help but feel that I had done something to annoy her, but I could not quite put my finger on what.
“I made no accusations, Miss Mayhew. I merely asked some questions and she answered me with great honesty.”
“Is Jane in trouble, Mr Brodie?”
“That rather depends on your uncle, I think. I cannot imagine she has done anything that would get her into trouble with the law.”
“I am very relieved to hear you say that, Mr Brodie.” She looked it too and I guessed that she was fond of the servant girl and her family. I suppose growing up here with only them and her old uncle for company she had very few other companions. “Do you think she will be dismissed?”