Sally Spencer: Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street

‘Just so. The other man I remember is the parish priest. He was a well-meaning sort of feller, in his own way — maybe even kind. But he watched those poor peasants suffering — and he did nothing about it.’

‘And when you look at Mr George and Mr Harold, you’re reminded of the landlord and the parish priest?’ Blackstone asked.

‘When I look at most men with any kind of authority, I’m reminded of either the landlord or the parish priest,’ Flynn replied.

‘So which of the two is which?’ Blackstone asked.

The corner of Flynn’s mouth twitched slightly. ‘You’re the big man from Scotland Yard. You work it out for yourself.’

The carriages came to a halt in front of the house, and the two passengers climbed out. One of them was a solid chunk of a man, with a square, block-like body and a round head balanced on top of it like a watermelon on a gatepost. The other had a thin sensitive face and a frame which looked as if it might well blow away in a strong wind.

‘I’ll wager I can pick out the one who reminds you of your landlord,’ Blackstone said to Flynn.

‘And if I was inclined to throw my money away, I’d take you up on that wager,’ Flynn replied.

The chunky brother stood still and looked around him. The expression on his face seemed to suggest that he was expecting a larger reception committee — and was offended there wasn’t one.

The skinny brother, in contrast, made a beeline for Inspector Flynn.

‘Have the kidnappers been in contact with you yet, Inspector?’ he asked breathlessly, as if he’d been running.

‘I’m afraid they haven’t, Mr Holt,’ Flynn said.

‘Mr Harold,’ the skinny brother said automatically. ‘Mr Holt is my father.’

The other brother — Mr George — had clearly given up waiting to be fêted, and joined them.

‘Have the newspapers been informed of the kidnapping yet, Flynn?’ he demanded.

‘Not by me, nor by anybody in my department, sir,’ the inspector said. ‘And we’d prefer it if you didn’t. .’

‘The board will have to be briefed — and so will the brokers,’ Mr George said, ‘Otherwise, God alone knows what effect the news will have on our stock position when it gets out. And it will get out — make no mistake about that.’

‘This is Inspector Blackstone, from Scotland Yard, sir,’ Flynn said evenly. ‘He and Sergeant Meade will be in charge of the investigation.’

Mr George nodded vaguely, as if he’d heard the words but had not yet had time to process them.

‘Thank heavens we closed that deal with the Furness Trust this morning,’ he said to his brother, ‘because if we’d left it even a little later, they’d certainly have found out that Father had gone missing — and then they’d never have signed.’

‘Is there somewhere we could have a private conversation, sir?’ Blackstone asked.

‘A private conversation?’ George repeated, as though he had no idea what the other man was talking about.

‘That’s right,’ Blackstone agreed.

‘But why would we — ?’

‘Inspector Blackstone needs to ask us some questions about Father,’ Harold said quietly.

‘Ah, yes, of course he does,’ George agreed. He took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘No doubt you’d like this meeting right away, Inspector. . er. .’

‘Yes, sir, I would.’

‘And so would we — but there are few important business calls we still need to make, so could we postpone it for half an hour, do you think?’

‘I’m sure that would be fine, sir,’ Blackstone agreed, because it seemed pointless to say anything else.

George nodded. ‘Good,’ Then he turned towards his brother. ‘Well, for God’s sake, don’t just stand there like a tailor’s dummy, Harry. If we’ve only got thirty minutes to make those calls, it will need both of us.’

The two men headed for the house, George striding ahead, Harold scampering after him like a puppy which was finding it difficult to keep up.

‘There are some people who maintain that money has an almost magical effect — and they’re not wrong,’ Flynn murmured, almost to himself. ‘Sweet Jesus, how else could you explain the fact that a few bits of paper can turn a man into a walking heap of shit?’

Though the SS Star of Liverpool was close enough to port for the travellers to stand on deck and admire the New York skyline, the first class passengers — having partaken of a sumptuous banquet the previous evening and, anyway, regarding sightseeing as slightly passé — felt under no obligation to take advantage of the opportunity. As a result, the two women walking up and down the first class deck had it all to themselves.

They were an odd pair.

One of the women was well into middle age and had the kind of thick squat body and sturdy legs which suggested she came from peasant stock stretching back over generations. She was dressed in a skirt made of rough fabric and had a hand-knitted shawl over her broad shoulders.

The second woman was still young enough to regard middle age as nothing but a distant threat. Her face had none of the natural ruddiness of her companion’s, but instead displayed the slightly pinched features of those born into urban poverty. Her body was wiry and muscular, though there was nothing boyish about it, as the rounded bosom straining against the confinement of her inexpensive blouse more than proved.

They had been promenading up and down the deck for some time, the older woman leaning heavily on her companion, when the younger woman — Ellie Carr — noticed that one of the stewards was approaching them. His very gait told her instantly that he was the sort of man who confused ‘official’ and ‘officious’ — the sort who considered that having been handed a key made him automatically superior to anyone who hadn’t.

Easy, girl, she told herself. Play it straight.

But even as the words passed through her mind, she knew she wasn’t going to — knew that, though she guiltily considered it somewhat childish, she still got considerable pleasure from blowing the wind out of the sails of people who deserved to have the wind blown out.

The steward came to a sharp halt directly in front of them, rudely blocking their way.

Well, he was asking for it, wasn’t he, Ellie thought.

‘Do you know that this is the first class deck?’ the steward demanded.

‘Yeah, as a matter o’ fact, I do,’ Ellie replied. ‘There’s lots of fings to suggest that’s what it is, but it was the big sign sayin’ “First Class Deck” wot really tipped me off.’

‘And that means it is reserved for first class passengers,’ the steward said stonily.

‘Well, that’s all right, darlin’, ’cos that’s what I am,’ Ellie replied.

‘You! A first class passenger?’ the steward repeated, disbelievingly.

‘Me! A first class passenger,’ Ellie confirmed.

‘And I’m one of the first class stewards,’ the man said. ‘So why is this the first time I’ve seen you on the entire voyage?’

‘Ah, well, that’s easily explained,’ Ellie replied. ‘See, I’ve been spendin’ a lot of me time in steerage.’

It was no mean feat to produce an expression which conveyed both a contempt for steerage and a look of arrogant self-congratulation at having his suspicions confirmed, but the steward managed it.

‘In steerage!’ he repeated.

‘That’s right. See, there’s bin a bit of a stomach bug goin’ round, an’ since the ship’s official doctor has bin spendin’ most of ’is time wiv the first class passengers — it bein’ a well-known fact that the rich suffer much more from their illnesses than the poor do — I fort I might as well ’elp out wiv some of the patients in cattle class.’