Arrowood Read online

  MICK FINLAY was born in Glasgow but left as a young boy, living in Canada and then England. Before becoming an academic, he ran a market stall on Portobello Road, and has also worked as a tent-hand in a travelling circus, a butcher’s boy, a hotel porter, and in various jobs in the NHS and Social Services. He teaches in a Psychology Department, and has published research on political violence and persuasion, verbal and non-verbal communication, and disability. He now lives in Brighton with his family.

  To Anita, John and Maya

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  South London, 1895

  The very moment I walked in that morning I could see the guvnor was in one of his tempers. His face was livid, his eyes puffy, his hair, least what remained on that scarred knuckle of a head, stuck out over one ear and lay flat with grease on the other side. He was an ugly sight, all right. I lingered by the door in case he threw his kettle at me again. Even from there, I could smell the overnight stink of gin on his foul breath.

  ‘Sherlock blooming Holmes!’ he bellowed, slamming his fist down on the side-table. ‘Everywhere I look, they’re talking about that charlatan!’

  ‘I see, sir,’ I replied as meek as I could. My eyes tracked his hands as they swung this way and that, knowing that a cup, a pen, a piece of coal might quick as a flash get seized and hurled across the room at my head.

  ‘If we had his cases we’d be living in Belgravia, Barnett,’ he declared, his face so red I thought it might burst. ‘We’d have a permanent suite in the Savoy!’

  He dropped to his chair as if suddenly tuckered out. On the table next to his arm, I spied what had caused his temper: The Strand magazine, open at the latest of Dr Watson’s adventures. Fearing he’d notice me looking, I turned my attention to the fire.

  ‘I’ll put the tea on,’ I said. ‘Do we have any appointments today?’

  He nodded, gesturing in the air in a defeated manner. He’d shut his eyes.

  ‘A lady’s coming at midday.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He rubbed his temples.

  ‘Get me some laudanum, Barnett. And hurry.’

  I took a jug of scent from his shelf and sprayed his head. He moaned and waved me away, wincing as if I were lancing a boil.

  ‘I’m ill,’ he complained. ‘Tell her I’m indisposed. Tell her to come back tomorrow.’

  ‘William,’ I said, clearing away the plates and newspapers scattered across his table. ‘We haven’t had a case for five weeks. I have rent to pay. I’ll have to go work on Sidney’s cabs if I don’t bring money home soon, and you know how I don’t like horses.’

  ‘You’re weak, Barnett,’ he groaned, slumping further in his chair.

  ‘I’ll clean the room, sir. And we’ll see her at midday.’

  He did not respond.

  At twelve o’clock sharp, Albert knocked on the door.

  ‘A lady to see you,’ he said in his usual sorrowful fashion.

  I followed him down the dark corridor to the pudding shop that fronted the guvnor’s rooms. Standing at the counter was a young woman in a bonnet and a billowing skirt. She had the complexion of a rich woman, but her cuffs were frayed and brown, and the beauty of her almond face was corrupted by a chipped front tooth. She smiled a quick, unhappy smile, then followed me through to the guvnor’s rooms.

  I could see him weaken the moment she walked in the door. He began to blink and jumped to his feet and bowed his head low as he took her wilted hand.

  ‘Madam.’

  He gestured to the best seat – clean and next to the window so there was a little light thrown onto her handsome physique. Her eyes quickly took in the piles of old newspapers that lined the walls and were stacked in some places to the height of a man.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It is my brother, Mr Arrowood,’ she said. It was clear from her accent she was from the continent. ‘He’s disappeared. I was told you can find him.’

  ‘Are you French, mademoiselle?’ he asked, standing with his back to the coal fire.

  ‘I am.’

  He glanced at me, his fleshy temples red and pulsing. This was not a good start. Two years before, we’d been thrown into the clink in Dieppe when the local magistrate decided we were asking too many questions about his brother-in-law. Seven days of bread and cold broth had crushed all the admiration he had for the country right out of him, and to make it worse our client had refused to pay us. The guvnor had held a prejudice against the French ever since.

  ‘Mr Arrowood and me both have a great admiration for your race, miss,’ I said before he had a chance to put her off.

  He scowled at me, then asked, ‘Where did you hear of me?’

  ‘A friend gave me your name. You are an investigative agent, yes?’

  ‘The best in London,’ I said, hoping a little praise would soothe him.

  ‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘I thought Sherlock Holmes . . .’

  I could see the guvnor tense again.

  ‘They say he is a genius,’ she continued. ‘The best in all the world.’

  ‘Perhaps you should consult him then, mademoiselle!’ snapped the guvnor.

  ‘I cannot afford him.’

  ‘So I am second best?’

  ‘I mean no offence, sir,’ she replied, now noticing the edge to his voice.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Miss . . .’

  ‘Cousture. Miss Caroline Cousture.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive, Miss Cousture. Holmes is famous because his assistant writes stories and sells them. He’s a detective with a chronicler. But what about the cases we never hear about? The ones that do not get turned into stories for the public? What about the cases in which people are killed by his blundering mistakes?’

  ‘Killed, sir?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Are you familiar with the Openshaw case, Miss Cousture?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘The Case of the Five Pips?’

  Again she shook her head.

  ‘A young man sent to his death by the Great Detective. Over the Waterloo Bridge. And that isn’t the only one. You must know the Case of the Dancing Men? It was in the newspaper.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Mr Hilton Cubitt?’

  ‘I do not read newspapers.’

  ‘Shot. Shot dead and his wife almost killed as well. No, no, Holmes is far from perfect. Did you know he has private means, miss? Well, I hear he turns down as many cases as he accepts
, and why do you think? Why, I wonder, would a detective turn down so many cases? And, please, don’t think I’m envious of him. I am not. I pity him. Why? Because he’s a deductive agent. He takes small clues and makes large things of them. Often wrong, in my opinion. There.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘I’ve said it. Of course he’s famous, but I’m afraid he doesn’t understand people. With Holmes, there are always clues: marks on the ground, the fortuitous faggot of ash on the table, a singular type of clay on the boat. But what of the case with no clues? It’s commoner than you think, Miss Cousture. Then it’s about people. About reading people.’ Here he gestured at the shelf holding his small collection of books on the psychology of the mind. ‘I am an emotional agent, not a deductive agent. And why? I see people. I see into their souls. I smell out the truth with my nose.’

  As he spoke, his stare fixed on her, I noticed her flush. Her eyes fell to the floor.

  ‘And sometimes that smell is so strong it burrows inside me like a worm,’ he continued. ‘I know people. I know them so badly it torments me. That is how I solve my cases. I might not have my picture in the Daily News. I might not have a housekeeper and rooms in Baker Street and a brother in the government, but if I choose to accept your case – and I don’t guarantee that until I hear what you have to say – if I choose to accept it, then you’ll find no fault in me nor in my assistant.’

  I watched him with great admiration: when he got into his stride, the guvnor was irrepressible. And what he said was true: his emotions were both his strength and his weakness. That was why he needed me more than he sometimes understood.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Cousture. ‘I do not mean to insult you. I know nothing of this detective business. All I know is how they talk of Mr Holmes. Forgive me, sir.’

  He nodded and harrumphed, and finally sat back in his chair by the fire.

  ‘Tell us all. Leave nothing out. Who is your brother and why do you need to find him?’

  She clasped her hands in her lap and composed herself.

  ‘We are from Rouen, sir. I come here just two years before to work. I’m a photographer. In France, they do not accept a woman as photographer, and so my uncle he helps me gain employment here, on Great Dover Street. He is a dealer of art. My brother Thierry worked for a patisserie at home, but there was a little trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’ demanded the guvnor. ‘What trouble?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Unless you tell me everything, I cannot help.’

  ‘They accuse him of stealing from the shop,’ she said.

  ‘And did he steal?’

  ‘I think yes.’

  She glanced humbly at him, then her eyes brushed my own. I’m ashamed to confess that even though I was married more than fifteen years before to the most commonsensical woman in the whole of Walworth, that look stirred up an urge in me that hadn’t been stirred in a while. This young woman with her almond face and her single chipped tooth was a natural beauty.

  ‘Continue,’ he said.

  ‘He had to go very quick from Rouen so he followed me to London. He found a job in a chophouse. Four nights ago he comes back from work very scared. He begs of me some money to go back to France. He will not tell me why he must go back. I’ve never seen him so much scared.’ She paused here to catch her breath and dab at her eyes with the corner of a yellowed handkerchief. ‘I say no to him. I could not let him go back to Rouen. If he returns he will be in trouble. I don’t want this.’

  She hesitated again, a tear appearing in her eye.

  ‘But perhaps more I wanted him here in London with me. This is a lonely city for a stranger, sir. And a dangerous one for a woman.’

  ‘Take a moment, mademoiselle,’ said my employer nobly. He sat forward in his chair, his belly hanging on his knees.

  ‘He left in a great anger. I have not seen him since. He’s not been at work.’ The tears began to flow properly now. ‘Where does he sleep?’

  ‘Now, my dear,’ said the guvnor. ‘You don’t need us. Your brother’s no doubt hiding. He’ll seek you when he feels safe.’

  She held her handkerchief over her eyes until she had control of herself. She blew her nose.

  ‘I can pay, if that’s what concerns you,’ she said at last, pulling a small purse from inside her coat and withdrawing a handful of guineas. ‘Look.’

  ‘Put them away, miss. If he’s that frightened, he’s probably back in France.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, sir, he is not in France. The day after I refuse him I come from work and see that my clock is gone, and my second shoes and a shift I bought only this winter last. The landlady says to me he was there that afternoon.’

  ‘There! He’s sold them to pay his fare.’

  ‘No, sir. His papers, his clothes, they are still in my room. How he enters France without the papers? Something has happened to him.’ As she spoke, she dropped the coins back into the purse and withdrew some notes. ‘Please, Mr Arrowood. He’s all I have. I have nobody to turn to.’

  The guvnor watched as she unfolded two five-pound notes: it was some time since we’d seen banknotes in that room.

  ‘Why not go to the police?’ he asked.

  ‘They will say what you say. I beg you, Mr Arrowood.’

  ‘Miss Cousture, I could take your money, and no doubt there are many private agents in London who would happily have it. But it’s one of my principles that I never take money if I don’t think there’s a case, particularly from a person with limited means. I don’t mean to insult you, but I’m sure that money you have there is either hard saved or borrowed. Your brother’s probably holed up with a woman somewhere. Wait a few more days. If he doesn’t return, then come back and see us.’

  Her pale face flushed. She rose and stepped to the grate, holding the banknotes to the glowing coals. ‘If you do not take my case I put this money in your fire,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Please be sensible, miss,’ said the guvnor.

  ‘The money’s nothing to me. And I think you prefer it in your pocket than your fire?’

  The guvnor groaned, his eyes fixed on the notes. He shifted forward on his chair.

  ‘I will!’ she said in desperation, moving them down to the flames.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried when he could bear it no more.

  ‘You will take my case?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, yes. I suppose.’

  ‘And you will keep my name secret?’

  ‘If that’s what you wish.’

  ‘We charge twenty shillings a day, Miss Cousture,’ I said. ‘Five days’ payment in advance for a case of missing persons.’

  The guvnor turned away and began to fill his pipe. Although he was usually short of money, he was always uncomfortable receiving it: it was too open an admission for one of his class that he needed it.

  Once the business was conducted, he turned back to us.

  ‘Now, we need the details,’ he said, sucking on his pipe. ‘His age, his appearance. Do you have a photograph?’

  ‘He’s twenty-three. Not so well-grown like you, sir,’ she said, looking at me. ‘In the middle between Mr Arrowood and you. His hair’s the colour of the wheat and he has a long burn on the ear, on this side. I have no picture. I am sorry. But there are not many in London with our accent.’

  ‘Where did he work?’

  ‘The Barrel of Beef, sir.’

  My heart fell. The warm five-pound note I held now felt cold as cabbage. The guvnor’s hand, holding the smoking pipe, had dropped. His eyes gazed into the fire. He shook his head and did not reply.

  Miss Cousture frowned.

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  I held the money out to her.

  ‘Take it, miss,’ I said. ‘We cannot take the case.’

  ‘But why? We have an agreement.’

  I looked at the guvnor, expecting him to answer. Instead, a low growl came from his lips. He took the poker and began to stab the glowing coals. As I held out the money to her, Miss Cousture l
ooked from me to him.

  ‘There is a problem?’

  ‘We have a history with the Barrel of Beef,’ I said at last. ‘The owner, Stanley Cream, you’ve probably heard of him?’

  She nodded.

  ‘We came up against him a few years back,’ I said. ‘The case went badly wrong. There was a man who was helping us, John Spindle. A good man. Cream’s gang beat him to death and we couldn’t do nothing about it. Cream swore to have us killed if ever he saw us again.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘He’s the most dangerous man in South London, miss.’

  ‘So you are afraid,’ she said bitterly.

  All of a sudden the guvnor turned. His face was glowing from staring so intensely into the fire.

  ‘We will take the case, miss,’ he declared. ‘I do not go back on my word.’

  I bit my tongue. If Miss Cousture’s brother was connected to the Beef, there was a good chance he really was in trouble. There was a good chance he was already dead. At that moment, working on the cabs seemed like the best job in London.

  When Caroline Cousture had left, the guvnor fell heavily onto his chair. He lit his pipe and stared into the fire as he thought.

  ‘That woman,’ he said at last, ‘is a liar.’

  Chapter Two

  We were just finishing the pie and potatoes I’d fetched for our dinner when the door from the shop burst open. There on the hearth, carrying a carpetbag in one hand and a tuba case in the other, was a woman of middle age. She wore grey and black; her bearing spoke of a well-travelled soul. The guvnor was immediately struck dumb. I jumped to my feet and bowed, quickly wiping the grease from my fingers onto the back of my trousers.

  She nodded briefly at me, then turned back to him. For a long time they looked at each other, him with a look of surprised shame, she with a righteous superiority. Finally, he managed to swallow the potato he held in his mouth.

  ‘Ettie,’ he said. ‘What . . . ? You’re . . .’

  ‘I can see I’ve arrived just in time,’ she replied, her noble eyes travelling slowly over the pill jars and ale flagons, the ash spilling from the fire, the newspapers and books piled on every surface. ‘Isabel hasn’t come back then?’

  His big lips pursed and he shook his head.