The Clockmaker Page 11

  ‘I … I. You don’t have to ask me things like that.’

  ‘Your fiancé is dead,’ Henry said coldly. ‘He was last seen in the company of a red-haired woman who he chased after when she left the train. Did he know her?’

  There were tears now, not from Rebecca, though, but from her mother. ‘I told her,’ Mrs Goldmann said, ‘he would settle down once he had married. That he loved her – anyone seeing them together would know that he loved her. Sometimes young men are foolish. Some young girl bats her eyelashes …’

  ‘He said he loved her.’ Rebecca’s response was so quiet, so utterly bereft, that Mickey immediately felt pity for her.

  ‘So he had known her for a time,’ he asked gently, hoping Henry would have the sense to remain silent.

  ‘He said he loved her. He met her last autumn, on the train, and they got talking. He said he had never met anyone like her and that he could not help himself and that he was so, so sorry. He asked me to tell no one until they’d gone away. He said he knew how difficult it was for me to say yes to that kind of request. That I must want to scream at him and tell everyone just how much of a traitor he was, and how badly he had treated me, and he said he would not blame me if I hated him for ever. But he loved her and he could not deny it, and he would not lie to me by marrying me.

  ‘I thought he might just change his mind eventually, that it was just an infatuation, so I said we should tell our families we just wanted to put the marriage off for a while. I used my sister’s visit as an excuse and told everyone that I wanted her to be there. I knew I could talk everyone around, but Joseph wouldn’t have it. He said they were going away and I asked him how. How could they afford it? Joseph had no real money of his own. He said that he could get money, but he wouldn’t tell me how. Just that they were going away and that they would manage.’

  Her family was staring at her, but Mickey held her gaze. ‘That must have hurt a great deal.’

  She nodded, tears streaming down her face, and Mickey searched for a handkerchief in his pocket and handed it to her, hoping it was clean.

  ‘Did he tell you her name? Anything about her?’

  ‘He said her name was Adelaide, but he called her Addie and he said … he said that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever set eyes on.’

  Not the most thoughtful of responses, Mickey considered. ‘And he gave no clue as to where he was going to get the money?’

  Henry had not been watching Rebecca; he had been studying Mr Goldmann and the bright spots of colour that had appeared on the man’s cheek, which might just be down to rage about his daughter’s treatment.

  But Henry had been wondering. ‘Had you promised him money, Mr Goldmann? Had you some arrangement that he was party to? It occurs to me that with a boarding house so close to the docks in Grimsby, where people are coming through day after day and bringing whatever of their possessions with them, a man like yourself, owning such a place, would be in a position to, shall we say, facilitate—’

  ‘What are you accusing me of?’

  ‘I’m not accusing; I’m simply speculating. A little smuggling perhaps, the provision of papers that could not be obtained easily, or of cover stories. We all know how impossible it is to deport migrants from Bolshevik Russia and how easy it is to simply change accent or change a name and so have permission to settle here. To register as a legal alien from a country that you cannot be deported back to – this has advantages. Or young women coming in, brought here with promises of work, who find themselves working in ways they did not anticipate.’

  The blotches of colour had spread now and Mr Goldmann’s entire face was purple with rage. ‘I would like you to leave,’ he said. ‘This is a family in mourning, and you come here, make your accusations—’

  ‘Will you be attending the funeral?’ Henry asked, his tone calm and unmoved by his host’s fury.

  ‘I won’t,’ Rebecca said. ‘I don’t feel I can. Not now.’

  ‘No,’ Mr Goldmann said. ‘We will not be there.’ He strode to the front door and opened it wide.

  They left and turned back towards Steep Hill and then, by tacit agreement, towards the cathedral, emerging at the top of the hill between castle and cathedral and facing towards the White Hart Hotel.

  Mickey nodded in its direction and said, ‘That looks like a nice place to stay, although I suppose we should be heading back this evening, as we left our bags back in Bardney.’

  Henry nodded agreement. ‘But something tells me we might be coming back up here,’ he said, ‘so bear it in mind.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘We arrange to examine the Goldmanns’ financial records and their business accounts. There is more going on here than anyone is admitting to. Where did the boy plan to get money from? And how much did he know about this Adelaide?’

  ‘We have a name now, or at least part of one. That’s if it is her name. This relationship or affair or whatever you want to call it does change the complexion of things considerably. And their story doesn’t stand up,’ Mickey said frankly. ‘The idea of moving up here, from London, just because you happen to have visited and liked the place. And then to set up two quite disparate businesses, one of which you have no day-to-day control over, from the sound of it. I don’t like it, I don’t trust it. Although their boarding house might give service to travelling Hebrews, it seems that the family are at pains to hide or obfuscate their own identity. I would have pushed this further, but you turned the conversation.’

  ‘Then we will revisit it the next time. Lies are certainly being told, but about what?’

  They walked through the gateway into the cathedral court across cobblestones made greasy by the drizzling rain and to the entrance door. It was mid-afternoon, but the sky was densely grey and it would not be long before it was dark. Inside, the cathedral was mysterious and dim, the last of the light filtering through stained glass, but Henry guessed that even in bright daylight this was never an airy or an open place. He paused to admire the carving, foliate shapes pierced and delicate, balled up or twining in great swags around pillars, and then wandered slowly into the Angel Choir, examining the dark wood and the misericords, the space enclosed and private, almost like a church within a church.

  ‘It’s dedicated to Saint Hugh,’ Mickey told him. ‘His tomb is through there, apparently.’

  Henry followed, and in the half-light they examined the tomb of St Hugh of Lincoln, the saint lying in state beneath a heavy carved canopy.

  ‘He was supposed to have been able to perform miracles,’ Mickey said. ‘Maybe we should ask him for one.’

  By the time they left, it was dark and wet, and the cobblestones shone beneath the streetlights. Their way back down Steep Hill was no less difficult than their way up, the stones slippery, worn smooth and unforgiving in their hardness.

  ‘I feel sorry for the girl,’ Mickey commented. It was the first time he had said anything for a while. ‘I think she and Joseph would have made a good match. If he hadn’t had his head turned.’

  ‘Romantic nonsense.’ Henry’s voice was harsh.

  ‘You don’t think he had feelings for her?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘What difference does it make?’ he said.

  FOURTEEN

  As it happened, the post-mortem had already taken place by the time they returned to London the following day, and the superintendent had released the body for burial. Henry was annoyed at first, but on reading the report he realized that there was little to be gained by delaying the process.

  ‘Death was caused by a single blow to the back of the head,’ he read. He continued, paraphrasing. ‘Small fragments of dust in the wound indicate that the weapon was probably a brick, an old brick because there were also fragments of moss and mud adhering to the bone. He had been struck once and struck hard. The brain is in a state of some decay, but it is possible to discern bleeding into the cerebral cavity, which may indicate that the victim lived for a short while after the blow. There is also a stab wound
to the chest, but it’s unlikely that this was the cause of death as the wound was shallow and avoided all vital organs.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t have helped,’ Mickey commented. ‘So they got the poor fool off the train, somehow lured him out of the station.’

  ‘He would have followed the girl. That would have been simple enough.’

  ‘But if he thought the girl was in danger, why not report to the guard or one of the platform men? Even a porter could have helped out.’

  ‘That I can’t answer,’ Henry said. ‘When do people ever think clearly?’

  He dropped the post-mortem report on to the desk and stood up, wandering across to the window. ‘So they left the station, and at some point shortly thereafter he was hit around the head and stabbed in the chest, which indicates that perhaps one came up behind him, one in front, and they synchronized their attack, wanting to be sure. Perhaps even wanting to share the blame … or the pleasure. I think the intent to kill is clear enough; we couldn’t tell when we first saw the body, but now the hair and scalp have been excised and the mud cleaned away, it’s hard to see how he could have survived such a wound. Whoever hit him hit him hard, and it’s down to pure dumb luck that the knife missed everything important. The intent was there, I’m certain of that.’

  Mickey opened the file and studied the photographs of the wound, cleaned now and the damage obvious. ‘And then the two men parked the girl at the pub and went to dispose of the body.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Joseph was tall, but very slender; between them they could have managed him easily. Taken him along the bank of the dyke and dumped him far enough from the village that he was unlikely to be found in a hurry. I doubt they expected the body to be undiscovered for so long; maybe they even hoped for it to turn out that way. All they needed to do was come back, collect the young woman and board their next train.’

  ‘She has to be seen as an accessory,’ Mickey said. ‘She must have witnessed the entire offence and she was inside the public house for at least an hour, plenty of time for her to summon help, to bear witness against her companions. And yet she said nothing. That speaks either of total disregard for Joseph’s life or of great fear.’

  ‘Fear of what? Of the men she was with? I will make a bet with you,’ Henry said, ‘that there was at least one more train in the intervening time. She could have returned to the station, boarded that train and been well away from both of those young men. And we know that they must have remained together – it’s unlikely that just one of them could have carried a body across the fields. The girl was alone. This Adelaide had plenty of opportunity for escape, and yet she stayed where they left her, waiting to be collected when they returned.’

  ‘The landlord said that she looked upset.’

  ‘Upset! Upset is what happens when someone spills a drink in your lap, not when you have witnessed the murder of someone you are meant to love.’

  ‘You are assuming that she saw everything,’ Mickey argued. ‘And perhaps if she did, then she was shocked into inaction. It happens, Henry. When people are overwhelmed, they are as likely to freeze solid as they are to run or to fight. That the girl did not run is no proof either that she didn’t care what was done to Joseph or that she simply didn’t care for him. Love and fear often battle one another, and you know as well as I do that often the fear wins.’

  ‘Mickey, why do you always feel the need to play devil’s advocate?’

  ‘Because that’s part of my job,’ Mickey told him.

  Mickey looked again at the photographs of the wound. The edges were sharp and well defined, and he was inclined to agree with brick not stone, not random rock. ‘If I remember right, as you come out of the back of the station, there is a part of the garden wall in a state of disrepair. It would not surprise me if the murder weapon came from there. So they went armed with the knife, but in the end used whatever was to hand. Perhaps in the beginning they had no intent to kill, but the circumstances somehow changed.’

  ‘You’ll be telling me next there was no intent to rob or maim.’ Henry just sounded cross now. Petulant, as he sometimes did when a case frustrated him.

  ‘If we are lucky, one of the local constabulary will identify this trio in the next few days. There will be a record of them somewhere. These are not beginners or amateurs.’

  Henry came over and sat back down. ‘You know how much I hate waiting for other people to do the work,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t I just,’ Mickey agreed.

  Preparing Joseph’s body for burial had been an arduous and unpleasant task and the men had undertaken it with great care, washing the body as best they could and redressing it. Because death had been violent, the clothes he had been wearing when he met his death would be buried with him. He had been wrapped in a white shroud, and after the preparations were made, they took turns to keep vigil beside him. His mother had wanted to see her son, but they had not allowed it; nor had they allowed his sisters to be close by. Abraham knew he would never forget how his nephew looked: wounded and decayed and seemingly already half gone back to the earth.

  He took an opportunity to speak with his brother and asked, ‘Will Rebecca’s family be coming?’ He would have expected their presence, but they had not been mentioned.

  ‘They will not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s been decided it would be inappropriate.’

  ‘How is it inappropriate? Joseph and Rebecca were to be married. She’s practically his widow.’

  ‘But they will not be here.’

  ‘Have you quarrelled with them?’

  ‘Abraham, please leave it alone. I am grateful – we are all grateful – for what you’ve done, but now, please, leave it alone.’

  Abraham stepped back from his brother and studied him carefully. They had not been close in a long time, although Abraham still cared deeply for him and had done his best to indulge his brother’s children as though they’d been his own. ‘I don’t understand. What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘Abraham, please, I’m begging you, keep out of this. No good will come from you asking more questions.’

  ‘Are you involved in something? Was Joseph? Did you and the Goldmanns have him doing something? Ben, I’ve been hearing rumours; I’d rather hear from you that they are not true.’

  ‘And I’d rather you simply did not listen to them. There will always be rumours. Wherever we go, there are rumours.’

  ‘But tell me, are you still involved? Did you involve Joseph in your—’

  ‘Enough,’ His brother spoke sharply. ‘Now is not the time. Let it go, Abraham. There was a time when you would have supported us in the work.’

  Abraham could hear a woman crying as though her heart was truly broken. He had no particular liking for his sister-in-law – she nagged and bullied and always insisted on ‘the best’ and on what had to be done for show – but he pitied her now. He knew what it was like to lose a child, and she’d had hers for much longer. Did that make it a greater loss? Abraham didn’t really know, but he knew the pain of it and didn’t think the depth could necessarily be measured in days or hours.

  He tried again. ‘Has your wife quarrelled with the Goldmanns? Does she blame them in some way because—’ His brother’s expression caused him to break off. ‘What is going on? Are you in trouble? Tell me and I will help.’

  ‘Help by running to your policeman?’

  ‘I went to him because I knew him to be an honest man. I went to him because we had lost our boy and our own efforts had come to nothing.’

  ‘My boy,’ his brother told him angrily. ‘And now you wish a scandal to be attached to his name? You’ve done enough, Abraham. Ask no more questions. Leave things alone.’

  Others entered the room and Benjamin turned to speak to them. Abraham felt himself pushed aside and excluded, and he did not understand the cause of it, only that there was deep trouble here and that somehow he had exacerbated it by asking an outsider for help.

  When the others had left the roo
m and his brother prepared to follow them, Abraham grasped his arm. ‘It’s almost as though you would rather he had not been found. What was he doing that might be found out? What are you afraid of? It seems to me that you fear disgrace more than you fear the loss of your son. We brought your son home. Did that disgrace come with him? And if it did, what does it matter, compared with the loss of a child?’

  Benjamin pulled his arm away and turned angrily on his brother. ‘You take pleasure in being so unworldly,’ he said. ‘You cling to the past, to a lost wife and a lost child, when you could have moved on, moved forward. The world does not stand still, and sometimes chances must be taken.’

  He left Abraham standing in the centre of the dining room. The women came in to bring food and lay it out on the table, and Abraham moved to get out of their way. He heard their voices, soft and consoling, and wished for a moment those words were directed at him.

  Had he done wrong? He’d acted only out of kindness and concern, but now he looked at his brother and realized that he didn’t know him at all.

  FIFTEEN

  The funeral itself passed without incident. The police had been there, of course, as observers, but they had not interfered; as far as Abraham could see, they hadn’t really spoken to anyone.

  The conversation he’d had with his brother had troubled him a great deal and he’d come to question things that until this last couple of days had not bothered him at all. His brother’s business was successful: a general store and a small chain of jewellery shops, two of them in the East End. But one was out in Croydon, not far from the burgeoning airport, staffed by a married daughter and her husband, and catering for a very mixed trade, whereas those in the traditional areas of Whitechapel and Limehouse largely catered to the Jewish community. These shops were not high-end, mostly serving the middling classes, but they were turning over a good deal of business. Anything to do with clocks or watches or requiring engraving was often passed Abraham’s way, as was any repair work or the sourcing of something particularly unusual. Abraham was well aware that his little shop would probably not have survived without this patronage, and until now he had not really given it much thought. He was happy that his brother’s business was a success; he was happy that his brother’s family were growing wealthy and had twice moved house in the last five years, moving a little further out of the East End each time. The children were making good marriages and seemed content, and the grandchildren were coming along. All seemed well with the world.