Touched by Angels (9 page)

Doubting they could even define it, she laughed out loud.

They were even offering a separate reward of one hundred pounds for its safe return.

By now, suspecting there was more to the watch than just its value, she laid the paper down and said to Robert, “Go and get it. We’ll have a closer look.”

With the chain coiled in her palm, she studied the exterior of the watch, back and front, wondering if something significant might be engraved there, in numerals or letters so tiny, the unsuspecting would miss them.

She had read an old book once, where such a ruse foiled a thief, but here, there was nothing. Once more, she opened it, and gazed at the inside of the cover. It was completely bare, save from a tiny hallmark. She looked at the white enamelled face, with its Roman numerals again, this time more closely. Nothing.

She felt increasing despair, but without saying anything, Robert took it and depressed a tiny lever he had noticed below the face. It swung upwards on a sprung hinge.

The workings were visible and engraved in the back were the numerals 7, 6, 2, 9 and beneath, the words “Coutts & Co Strand.”

They looked at each other puzzled, but then Lil whispered, “Of course, it’s a bank. The number must be that of a safety deposit box.”

“What’s that?”

“A sort of safe, where rich people keep their valuables. So that’s what they’re after! There must be a fortune inside. There’s just one other thing though, and without it, the number is useless.”

They both waited in silence for a few seconds, until Robert asked, “What?”

“The key. Safety deposit boxes need one to open them. He must have one, either on his person, or…”

“The bag!” he said and bolted back upstairs where the bag was hidden.

When he returned, she tipped the money out in a heap and started groping around inside, guessing that if he’d had any sense, he would have concealed it beneath the silk lining. She couldn’t feel anything obvious. She deftly sliced it all out with a knife, but there was still no key.

She was repulsed by the knowledge that she was going to have to lever those boards back up again to search Adam King’s body, even though she didn’t think he would be so stupid as to keep it in one of his pockets.

Robert seemed to read her mind, as he said, “If I was him, I would have hidden it in the lining of my hat.”

She patted him on the head and said, “Good boy!” as her hand strayed instantly to the jemmy. Thinking of the noise it would make, she resisted the temptation. Bob had never removed the boards during the hours of darkness for that very reason.

***

The next morning, the façade of routine continued, as she insisted it should, with Robert going to school, while she kept the curtains shut, and got on with her fortune-telling.

She was going to delay as much as she could touching a body that had been dead for more than a day. She imagined the cold waxy feel and the half-open eyes that would have started sinking back into his head.

Later in the day, when no-one was around the street, she dreaded a knock at the door as she started pulling the floorboards, knowing this wouldn’t take long. At least the nails needed less effort this time. Why was her heart suddenly thudding?

It was almost as though she had anticipated what she was going to see.

Eighteen

There was nothing there. No body. No trace of King whatsoever.

She found herself stumbling backwards, on her elbows, eyes bulging, flesh creeping in waves down her arms. She couldn’t breathe.

“This is crazy!” she muttered. “He has to be here!”

She made herself crawl back and peer into the hole once more, her nose wrinkling against the dank odour of rot, certain she would see him, certain her overstressed brain had been playing tricks.

Her breathing came in rapid gasps. Her head was swimming. She had lifted the wrong board. It had to be that. Being tired, she couldn’t have been paying sufficient attention. She didn’t want to put her hand down there, because of this sudden feeling that if she did, his hand, cold and clammy, would close around hers and she would scream.

When she had finally plucked up enough courage, she found there was nothing there at all, except dust, ancient rat droppings and the cold glass of a group of bottles that were part of a previous stash.

It was impossible. Was she going mad? Had she really put him down there in the first place? And if she had…
was
he dead?

Was it possible he had woken up, crawled off somewhere and then expired for good?

She was sitting in the armchair, staring at the hole in the floor, when she heard a knock on the door. She knew she had no choice but to sit outside telling those stupid fortunes.

She quickly replaced the board, not daring to leave it as it was, and went through the charade of setting up her table, ball and chairs in the mud, from which a sickly sweet mist was rising, while Mrs O’Brien kept giving her nasty little looks from her door step as she scrubbed it.

The minutes merged into hours as the pile of pennies slowly grew, though however hard she thought, she couldn’t make any sense of it.

With no other explanation, she could only assume the rats had devoured him, though it was surely not possible in a single day, and besides, there would be evidence. At least some bones.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, when she had just about given up and was beginning to wish for her old life back, when something happened that both explained the mystery and left her frightened all over again.

Nineteen

She had never known a man wanting his fortune told, and of course, the one sitting in front of her didn’t. She didn’t like the look of him from the start, with his long black coat, pug nose and square shoulders.

Examining the ball closely, he asked, “Do people really believe in this codswallop?”

“Yes, they do actually!” she snapped, anxious to justify herself, in spite of the truth. “A lot of people around here are very poor and lonely. Some are also very ill. It gives them solace and hope.”

“Yes, and you, a penny a time.”

She was seething and about to order him on his way, when he produced, not a penny, but a key, which he held discreetly, dangling it gently in between his thumb and forefinger.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to stay calm. “You know, don’t you? Though how…” she whispered.

He looked around, and seeing a few faces turning, asked, “May we go inside?”

She stood, acutely aware that Mrs O’Brien had stopped scrubbing her step and was watching pointedly. A few curtains were stirring too. She was glad when the door clicked shut behind her.

She stood with her back to it, as he said, “My name is Tom Bride. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by Sir Rupert and Alistair King to track down the only son of Mr Horace King, their nephew. I know you murdered him.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but felt she had reached a dead end.

“All right. He was intimidating me, but it was an accident, I swear. He was a pig. He was frightening me, so I pushed…” she stopped.

“Go on.”

The mocking cynicism made her fume. “Why? What’s the point? You clearly don’t believe me.”

Odd though
, she thought. He hadn’t summoned the police, or told the King brothers, as he was surely duty bound to do. Then she realised he must have guessed, from the press coverage, that she had the fob. When she considered too that, apart from herself and Robert, only he could know Adam King was dead, a light began to dawn.

Feeling more relaxed, she asked, “So, how did you get the key?”

“It’s simple. Follow me and I’ll show you.”

They walked the few paces to the house next door, from where the Inkpens had been evicted. She was glad that by now Mrs O’Brien had retreated back indoors, though there were still a few curtains moving.

He unlocked the door and ushered her in, as he said, “This place was the ideal vantage point to watch your comings and goings.”

He grabbed an oil lamp from the windowsill, struck a match on the wall, lit it, and closed the door.

She staggered back, whimpering, pawing her mouth, thinking she might be sick. Propped against the opposite wall, head lolling on his chest, smothered in grime and blood, was Adam King. His bloated tongue hung from his mouth. Rats had nibbled his hands and face. His nose had been completely chewed off. Before him was a great hole in the floor, where the boards had been levered up.

“I watched from upstairs,” Bride told her, “I saw him enter your home and heard raised voices. After a few hours had passed and he never emerged, I guessed what had happened. As I never saw any suspicious bundles being dragged from your back door, I put two and two together. In any case, I heard you levering up the floorboards. The recess runs the entire length of the block and all I had to do was crawl under, grab his ankles and pull him through to this side.”

With her first inklings reinforced, she asked, gagging as she looked at the bites, “Are you going to report your findings?”

He chuckled to himself and his eyes twinkled.

“I think those poor fellows are distraught enough about their dear departed brother without me being the bearer of further sad tidings, don’t you?”

“So… what do want from me?”

“I assume you are in possession of a certain… fob watch?”

“Might be.”

“I am offering you a two-way split for the information it holds.”

She looked at him warily, fully aware this could be a trap, but knowing too that if it was true, he would not dare try to cheat her, nor her, him. It would be the perfect crime.

“All right,” she said, “but what about him?” She nodded at the battered corpse.

“Leave him to me.”

He allowed one eyelid to drop and she guessed he had more practised ways of getting rid of inconvenient dead bodies than she did.

They made their way back once more, this time across the crumbling fence separating the two back yards, to dampen further suspicion from the street.

***

They had only been indoors a minute or so when the door burst open and Robert came tearing in, heaving for breath, his face strained and anxious. It was nowhere near the end of the school day.

He stopped abruptly, seeing Bride, who had been on the brink of running to the kitchen ’til he saw their visitor was a boy.

“What’s the matter?” asked Lil, kneeling to his level, her fear coming back in less than a second.

The boys had been jostling him in the playground, after he had been branded both a ‘creep’ and a ‘traitor’ for what he had said in class about German domination of the seas. And he was forced by Mr Myers to write on the blackboard a hundred times,
“Britain rules the waves, not Germany!”

“I’ll never read your newspapers again!” he shouted in her face, wiping away his tears before running upstairs.

Twenty

“I am expected back at the workhouse tomorrow at noon for an update, so we’ve got to act fast. The first thing we’ve got to do is change your appearances for the better, because people of your type do not use safety deposit boxes.”

“How?”

“I will buy several sets of clothing, in different sizes to ensure the correct fit. I am staying at The Juniper Inn, not far from here, where you must meet me. When you leave, do so casually, as if going for a stroll. Do not change your clothes or alter your appearance substantially. People tend to notice and remember things like that. Make your way directly to the hotel. I am going to give you a map, you must not dispose of it under any circumstances, as it could lead the wrong people back to your address. You must give it to me. Understood?”

“All right. Then what?”

“Then, when you are suitably attired, we will collect the contents of the box, split it down the middle and go our separate ways.”

It sounded so simple. At the door, he fished in his pocket for a pen and drew a rough map on the corner of Lil’s newspaper. Tearing the corner off, he handed it over to her and said, “Wait an hour before you leave, so nobody watching will connect us.”

Lil nodded and placed the piece of paper carefully on top of her knitting on the mantelpiece.

***

Later, while they were eating a final meal, Lil realised that Bride would have a long wait in his hotel, as Robert held aloft the key to the safety deposit box.

It had been lying amongst some dried out old flowers by the door, in the rubbish she had swept there after clearing up.

“Bride must have dropped it when he had been fishing through his pocket,” she said giving him a tight hug. “Still, it’s no great problem. We only need the map he had drawn to find our way to his hotel and all will be well.”

Except it wasn’t where she had left it. She glanced around the room, and when she saw what had become of it, she shut her eyes, wondering if this nightmare would ever end.

Its remains were by the wall below the mantelpiece, amongst her knitting, with a cluster of mice chewing it up and spitting it out into little grey lumps. She remembered a few strands of wool had been trailing down to the floor. They must have pulled it and the whole lot had come down.

As she went to pick up what was left, the mice scattered, squeaking in fright. The remains were a tatty oblong, about one inch by three, with the single word,
Street
, still legible upon it to confirm her worst fears.

Considering she had the key too, Bride could jump to the conclusion she had goaded Robert into picking his pocket.

With no way of knowing what he might do if he returned, there was only one option left.

Twenty-one

Tom Bride stood in his hotel room, frustrated beyond belief, having searched every pocket, crease and fold in his clothes for what must have been the tenth time.

He had also explored every inch of the room, including under the bed, and it was only as he finally sat on the edge of it that despair gave way to something else.