Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“How did it come about?”

“I heard at ‘H’ Division where I was stationed as a constable that he’d been arrested a few times for drinking and disorderly conduct. My father was upset to hear it, but it didn’t surprise us. What do you do after you’ve conquered a sport all by yourself? Normally, the only way to go is down.”

“Was your father an officer, too?”

“Still is. He’s been behind the desk at ‘C’ Division these past twenty years. Anyway, the next we hear, he’s been arrested in a gin palace again, only get this, he wasn’t drinking. The man had gone temperance. He was protesting the way gin turned good fathers and wage earners into useless sots, forcing wives and mothers to take over all the responsibilities in the home. He vowed to open a mission where it was most needed: not in Africa, or Asia, but right here in London. My father said the man had taken one too many punches to the head. He isn’t often wrong, but he was about McClain. Even a Catholic has to admit he’s done fine work in Poplar, restored families, redeemed fallen women, and weaned men from the bottle. As an officer, I’ll tell you one thing: his stretch of Mile End Road is as crime-free an area as you’ll find in the entire East End.”

“What will happen to his ministry now that he’s gone?”

“Plowed under, I should imagine. His type of ministry, it’s all because of the fire of the leader himself. When that’s extinguished, Mile End goes back to being just another street. It’s up to the executor to say what will become of the mission itself.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Your guv’nor. The responsibility for McClain’s ministry will ultimately fall on his shoulders. Didn’t you know?”

“I had no idea, but I suppose it makes sense.”

We each took a pull from our glasses.

“What have you been doing?” I asked.

“You mean since very nearly getting sacked? I’ve been investigating a little on my own.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“I know one thing for sure. Mr. Nightwine cannot be held responsible for Lord Clayton’s death. My men were with him the entire night, and he never left the Army Navy Club. I’ve interviewed everyone in Clayton’s neighborhood and nobody saw anything unusual that night.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Barker’s house was broken into by some members of the Elephant and Castle gang.”

“Oh, the Elephant Boys, was it? They’re a well-organized bunch. Let’s not forget the Elephant Girls, as well. Some of the best thieves in London. Are you saying the Elephant Boys might have killed Clayton and made it look like Barker did it?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose.”

“Did you hear anything about this mysterious patron who was supposed to meet McClain the day he died?”

“Nothing confirmed. The people who worked at the mission said Brother Andrew seemed very secretive about whom he was meeting.”

“Barker said Andrew was leaving the Church of England.”

“That would have been a reason for being secretive, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” I said. “About how many murders occur in London annually, would you say?”

“There are about eight a year by Scotland Yard’s reckoning. Why?”

“There are an awful lot of deaths occurring here. There’s the eight at O’Muircheartaigh’s, Clayton, McClain, and Clayton’s son, Gerald. That’s eleven since Nightwine arrived.”

“Hold on there,” Poole said. “McClain died of natural causes and Gerald Clayton was a suicide.”

“You don’t think it unusual to have so many deaths in so short a time?”

“I think you should concentrate on what you know to be murder, which is the attack on the Irishman and Clayton’s death.”

“Neither of which you can lay at Nightwine’s door, since he wasn’t here, or was being watched by your men.”

“Which leaves the Elephant and Castle gang.”

“Perhaps Scotland Yard could bring them in for questioning.”

“That’s what I suggested last week, before I was given the boot, only there’s a catch. They’ve disappeared. Not a one has been seen at the E and C public house since Nightwine arrived.”

“I wonder where they’ve got to.”

“No other gang has any information concerning their whereabouts. However, they also haven’t tried to annex their territory, which means they know they’ll be back.”

“I think your efforts would be best placed in trying to track down the Elephant Boys. And the best place to look would be with the Elephant Girls.”

Poole finished his drink and wiped his mouth with a serviette. “If my wife, Minnie, finds out about this, I’ll be in all sorts of trouble.”

I came out of the Prospect of Whitby feeling that at least now I understood the extent of Nightwine’s plan. Walking down Ropemaker’s Street, I tried to decide what to do next. Limehouse is a drab district and did nothing to improve my mood. Every building is covered in peeling paint and decay and the streets littered with horse droppings. There are chandleries, shops that cater to the Asian population, with goods from China, Japan, Malay, India, and other exotic places. None of those shops bother to put up a sign, whether in their native language or English, so in Limehouse, one simply walks into a likely looking place and discovers whether it is a shop, a restaurant, or a private dwelling.

One finds places like this in Limehouse from time to time and then can never find them again. I can’t tell whether they are for Asian patrons to make them feel at home, or for foreigners like myself, interested in the exoticism they represent. I suppose it doesn’t matter as long as someone buys the goods and the owner can go back to his native land a wealthy man, which is the aim of every Chinaman in this country, and mine as well, come to think of it.

These old shops sold lacquered parasols with kanji painted upon them, small scenes of pagodas carved in cork, paper wallets, carved ivory and jade, chopsticks, landscapes painted on silk, and porcelain figurines. Delicate-necked teapots, silk jackets one would be afraid to wear for ripping them, and paintings that make one long for places one will never visit. Asian shops are always stacked to the ceiling and crowding the aisles in the hope that one will break or trod on something and have to purchase it.

One of those I came upon had a few items in a dirty window, or rather, many windows, since no one north of the river could afford plate glass. Something there caught my eye and I walked in, nodding at a dour-looking Chinaman behind the counter. I went straight to the window display and found a box containing over a dozen pair of black spectacles similar to the ones my employer always wore. An idea began to form, and I lifted the box and took it to the counter.

“How much for all?” I asked.

The owner held up two fingers.

“Two pounds?” I demanded. “As much as that? A pound, surely.”

“Two poun’.”

“One pound fifty, then. The highest I can go.”

“Two poun’.”

“Two poun’, two poun’! Blast you! Let me see how much I’ve got.”

I reached into my pocket, extracted my last pound note and several coins, knowing I had more money tucked away in my back pocket. I counted them on the counter with excruciating slowness.

“Let’s see. That’s one pound, two shillings, and ten pence. Roughly one sixty-five.”

“Two poun’.”

“This is getting us nowhere. I’m just going to take all this lovely money from your counter, and carry it down the street to one of your competitors, and see if he feels like turning a profit today. Good day, Mr. Two Poun’.”