The Clockmaker Page 4

  Unlikely, Mickey thought, especially considering he’d gone missing from a Lincoln train and not in the capital. What was more interesting was Clem Atkins’ reference to the diamond trade. It could all be so much gossip, of course; it was commonplace, whenever the Jews were mentioned, that someone would also mention wealth and alongside that would be a reference to either money lenders or diamond traders. Those who did had most likely never witnessed the hand-to-mouth poverty endured by the East End Jews – alongside the East End Irish, Poles, Russians, Armenians and everyone else – but the idea still seemed prevalent and immovable, whatever the evidence to the contrary. But prejudice against the Jews was embedded even at government level, and it had been the influx of Yiddish-speaking Ashkenazi Jews, visible and in larger numbers than previously, that had impelled the government towards legislation and the Aliens Act of 1905 had come into force. Now all incoming aliens had to be registered with the police, and it had become convenient since the rise of Bolshevism in Russia to claim that you were from this now Soviet country, as the government had decided Russian émigrés could not be deported back to their homeland.

  Mickey had encountered his fair share of non-Russian speakers who claimed Russia as their mother country, but so many arrived without papers and it was difficult to prove anything one way or another. And he could never find it in his heart to blame those fleeing poverty for trying to make the best of a bad job, although he knew this was a minority opinion within the Metropolitan Police.

  He had reached the streets close to his home now and stopped off at Pritchard’s corner shop for bread and bacon. Young Eddy, taken in by the Pritchard family a few months before, served him, weighing out the bacon and counting his change with care. He looked clean and well fed, Mickey noted with satisfaction. One small story with a happy ending out of all of those that had none.

  ‘So, how’s school, young fella?’

  Eddy grimaced. ‘Hard work,’ he admitted. Education had not been a regular feature of Eddy’s previous life. ‘But Mr Pritchard says I have to just keep at it, and he helps me with my numbers and my reading.’

  ‘Good lad,’ Mickey approved. Malc Pritchard’s wife had died some years before and he had raised his clutch of sons largely single-handed, a feat that had raised more than a few eyebrows, lone men not generally reckoned to be suitable parents. But he’d done a good job of it, as far as Mickey could see, and they’d taken on this young ’un and given him a home when most would have turned the boy away.

  ‘Bacon for tea, is it?’ Malc himself appeared from the room behind the shop, wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘You get on and get yourself fed. Food’s on the table,’ he told Eddy.

  ‘I’ve some eggs at home. I thought bacon, eggs and a bit of fried bread would set me up just right. And a large pot of tea. How’s the boy doing? He looks well.’

  ‘Still having the nightmares, but only once or twice a week, so that’s a big improvement. He wets the bed once in a while, but we just wash the sheets and don’t make a fuss about it. I put a rubber sheet over the mattress, so it’s no matter. What that boy’s gone through, there’s no surprise he’s still fretting. He’ll be fine, given a year or so.’

  ‘Good to hear. Poor little scrap.’

  ‘I hear you had some fun over the way this afternoon? Clem Atkins’ lot?’

  ‘Beat a boy – one of the Elephant gang, so the rumour mill says, strayed too far.’

  ‘Strayed a long way too far,’ Malc observed, and Mickey nodded thoughtfully in response.

  ‘You’re right there,’ he said. ‘Truth is, Malc, I’d not thought about that. It would take more effort than a simple walk up the wrong road.’

  ‘Elephants testing the lay of the land, maybe? See what this new man will and won’t take?’

  ‘Could be. Atkins is no Josiah Bailey. Bailey could be relied upon to strike before provoked and figure out after who’d done the provoking. Clem Atkins is a different sort. More like a snake, lying in the grass. Quiet like, not drawing attention, but you step too close and he’ll strike before you even know he’s there.’

  Malc nodded. The shop doorbell rang, announcing another customer, and Mickey took his leave. Malc’s comment had struck a chord; it resonated uncomfortably but he could not, as yet, quite make out the notes. All the way home he’d been aware of an unease in his mind, something that went beyond the simple wrongness of the fight, the injuries and his conversation with Clem Atkins in the bar, and Malc had put his finger on it. The Elephant boy could not have just wandered into Atkins’ territory; he’d have to cross two, maybe three, other gangs’ territory to get there and, yes, he could have managed that by the simple expedient of taking a bus, but why bother? What was he doing there? As Malc said, it could have been to test strength and purpose, but Mickey would have expected the Elephants to turn up in bigger numbers if that had been the case.

  Mickey put his key in the door and swung it wide. The house felt empty and cold without Belle. Knowing it was selfish, that he’d known what her life was like when he’d asked her to be his wife and that she would not surrender her hard-won independence, he still wished she’d just choose to settle down and stay full-time. He went through to the middle room of his terraced home and put a match to the fire he’d laid before leaving that morning and then dropped his shopping off in the kitchen before filling the kettle.

  Food and a very big pot of tea were definitely required, Mickey thought, and a conversation with the young man who’d been so badly beaten, should he be in a fit state to have one, the following morning.

  FIVE

  As it turned out, the suitcase belonging to Joseph Levy had made its way back to London. Having arrived at Peterborough and been identified as a piece of abandoned luggage, it had been examined for an owner’s address and, this being on the label, dispatched to London and lodged in the lost luggage store at King’s Cross.

  Henry had sent word to Abraham, and the two of them now regarded the battered and much mended piece of luggage laid out on a desk behind the ticket office. The sound of the trains, departing passengers, hiss of steam and swift footsteps, muffled by the walls and the conversation between those selling tickets and those requesting them, drifted through.

  ‘This was his grandfather’s case,’ Abraham said. ‘Our father travelled with it all the way from Odessa on the Black Sea. You see this repair?’ He pointed to the strip of leather that had been carefully stitched to reinforce a corner. ‘He borrowed a needle and thread from a woman in Paris, and cut a piece from an old boot that even he could no longer repair.’ He smiled. ‘Stories. Who knows which are true or have some truth in them and which are just stories? Does it matter anymore? In the end, it is the stories that remain.’

  ‘There is no key?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No, just the latches and then the straps with buckles, to keep them closed. I don’t recall anyone ever having the key.’

  Henry unfastened the buckles and then released the catches. He stepped back. Abraham lifted the lid and slowly removed the contents. Two shirts, a spare pair of trousers, some underclothes and a purse containing a ten-shilling note and some coins.

  ‘He kept this money in case of emergencies,’ Abraham said, ‘but the silly child didn’t even keep that with him when he left the train. He would have had little more than pocket change on him.’

  ‘He left the train in a hurry,’ Henry said. ‘Probably intending to get back on before it left the station.’

  ‘So why did he not?’

  Henry took the remaining item from the suitcase. A small leather frame that held two photographs. One, formal and redolent of an old-fashioned studio, depicted an older couple, and the other, casual and candid, a young man and a girl.

  Abraham pointed. ‘His father and mother, and this is Joseph and his intended. Handsome, are they not?’

  ‘A good-looking couple,’ Henry agreed, although it seemed to him that the girl was somewhat distracted. The young man, half smiling, looked straight at the photographer. The
photograph was informal and small, probably taken by a friend or relative and on a camera similar to the one he and Mickey used for photographing crime scenes. Something like a Vest Pocket Kodak camera that had become so popular during the war. The couple seemed to be sitting on a park bench, water and trees behind. The girl looked past the photographer. She too was smiling but, to Henry’s eyes, she seemed to be looking at something or someone behind whoever held the camera.

  ‘Are they happy?’ he asked.

  Abraham sighed. ‘As far as I know. To be honest, I know little about the young woman. She was a child when she left London, and I knew her family only as one more family in our community. I remember being surprised when they moved to a place that had no community, as far as I know. The closest place of worship is in the port of Grimsby. Joseph knew her from childhood; the families judge it to be a good match.’ He shrugged and Henry got the impression that he was expounding this as much for his own benefit as for Henry’s.

  ‘A good match does not always make for happiness,’ Henry observed, pursuing the subject even though he had asked the same questions before. Perhaps the answers would be different now that Abraham had had more time to think about them. ‘Perhaps your nephew had met another girl or the girl had met another young man …’

  ‘And as I said before, if they had, there would have been no blame. Inspector, my brother’s family is not so deeply orthodox that such a course would matter. If either chose to marry out, now that might cause some family arguments, as you might imagine, but as far as I know, neither had spoken against the marriage and neither seemed unhappy. My brother and his wife viewed Rebecca as another daughter.’

  ‘And her family?’

  ‘Any family would have been glad to welcome Joseph as a son.’

  Henry turned his attention back to the photographs. The frame was old, red leather, a little scuffed and somewhat dated with its pattern of interlaced gilding. He gently removed both photographs, checking for anything concealed behind, but was disappointed, and there was nothing written on the reverse of the photographs either. He returned the photographs to the frame and the frame to the suitcase.

  ‘What business is your brother in?’

  ‘He runs a general store just off Commercial Road and has three jewellery shops. He has done well for himself. His wife brought money and connections into the marriage, and Ben worked hard to build the businesses. I will give you the address. No, I will make introductions.’

  Abraham’s sudden eagerness bothered Henry. He held up a steadying hand. ‘If it becomes necessary, then I will meet with them. The boy may yet turn up.’

  ‘Inspector, you and I both know that isn’t going to happen.’

  ‘Unless or until a body is found or there’s firm evidence of foul play, I can’t investigate. You are aware of that.’

  ‘And so what are you doing now? If this is not investigating—’

  Henry cut him off. ‘And the girl’s family?’

  ‘They run a boarding house and also have shops selling mid-priced jewellery, watches, that sort of thing.’

  That tied in with what Clem Atkins had told Mickey. ‘And trade diamonds? Or so I’m told.’

  For a second or two the clockmaker stared in disbelief and then he laughed aloud. ‘And you see our family dripping with riches, do you? With all the gold we could buy, all the houses and the clocks … Inspector, where did you hear such nonsense? My brother has done well, as have the Goldmanns, the family of Joseph’s fiancée, but believe me, they have grappled for every penny and worked their way to where they are now across the generations. There has been no easy way and certainly no diamonds unless they are little stones in engagement rings.’

  Henry closed the suitcase and handed it to Abraham. The clockmaker took it reluctantly, as though by receiving the bag he was accepting that Henry had no further interest.

  ‘Our grandfather,’ he said, ‘was a cutter. He was born in Antwerp, went to Odessa to marry and took his trade with him. Some of the family are still in the trade, I believe, but not our branch of the tree. We fled here, along with, what, a hundred thousand like us? What did we bring with us, Inspector? My mother arrived with the clothes she stood up in and a few coins sewn into the hem of her coat. My father arrived with even less, but he had a skill and a trade, and he found work with an old man about to retire and who had no son to pass his business on to. I now live next door to that business instead of above the shop, as my parents did, and I rent out those rooms above, as you well know. We raised enough between us to set my brother on the path with his first shop, and then, as I say, he married well. Perhaps our distant kin in Antwerp or Odessa have had better luck with their skills, but, Inspector, I know nothing of them and they know nothing of me. All I have is what my parents made with their hands, their hearts and their determination.’

  ‘And you have no apprentice and no heirs,’ Henry observed. He realized at once, from the expression on Abraham’s face, that he had said something wrong, that might be taken as uncaring or cold, even though he had merely meant it as an observation of fact. He felt the lack of Mickey Hitchens. Mickey who could pour oil on any manner of troubled waters.

  ‘I meant no offence,’ he said and hoped that would do.

  ‘I’ve taken enough of your time, Inspector.’ Abraham extended his hand and Henry shook it. ‘I thank you for expending energy on this when others would not.’

  Henry watched him as he walked away. Of course, Abraham was right, Henry thought. The boy was lying dead somewhere; now it was only a question of whether or not he’d turn up so that his body could be ritually laid in the earth before the earth took it upon itself to absorb his flesh and cover his bones.

  SIX

  Mickey Hitchens had taken himself off to St Thomas’s Hospital before he went to Scotland Yard in the morning and was shown through to the long ward where the injured boy lay in the end bed. He was a mass of bandages and only the one blue eye looked out at Mickey with cautious curiosity.

  ‘I’m told that it hurts for you to talk,’ Mickey said, ‘so I’ll keep it simple and you can shake your head or raise a hand if that suits you better.’

  The lips moved to form words anyway. Mickey could see the end of the gash at the side of the mouth, partly covered by dressing. ‘Nothing to say.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to ask you some questions anyway,’ Mickey told him, settling himself in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair.

  The boy turned his head away. A shock of black hair emerged from the dressings and lay on the pillow. Dark, curly and quite long. And he was young, too. No doubt had been popular with the girls and was now wondering what life had in store for him.

  ‘You’ve not given the doctors a name, and my constable said you had nothing on you, apart from a knife and a few coins and a pocket handkerchief, so how do you expect us to get you back to your family if you aren’t going to tell us who you are?’

  He thought he saw a tear creep out from the corner of the single blue eye. ‘Blinded the other one, did they? A razor blade will do that – split it wide open. But the rest of you will heal; you know that. You left an eye behind, but the rest of you will want to go home, and your family will want you back.’

  The boy in the bed shook his head, and Mickey could see he really was trying very hard to hold back the tears. This was just a kid, Mickey thought. He had been told that the boy was in his late teens, but Mickey now doubted that. ‘How old are you? Fifteen, sixteen? I’m betting not even that. Your mother will still be missing her baby boy.’

  ‘I ain’t no baby.’

  ‘To our mothers, we are always babies,’ Mickey said. ‘So I hear you got chased down, attacked by another group of kids, then two men came out and beat seven shades out of you, cut you to ribbons. That’s about the size of it?’

  No answer.

  ‘Rumour is the Elephant mob sent you. Or was going to beard Clem Atkins in his den your idea? After all, there are all kinds of stupid.’

  Still no answer, but
Mickey didn’t really expect one.

  He paused at the nurses’ station to talk to the matron and ask what the prognosis was. As he suspected, although the boy had been badly beaten, there seemed to have been no intent to kill.

  ‘His face is like someone planned to play hopscotch on it,’ Mickey was told. ‘And, of course, he put up his hands and arms in defence. As for the rest, he’s lost an eye, he has some broken ribs and his body is black with bruising, but he will live and, after a fashion, he will recover. And the wounds were straight and easily stitched, so I suppose that is a small mercy.’

  Mickey left thoughtful and somewhat depressed. One more young casualty. He hoped that the constables would be able to track down the boy’s family. Word of the incident would have spread by now. Someone would come and claim him, and even though the boy seemed upset at the idea, Mickey knew that what he really wanted was the comfort of his own people. He’d tried to be a man well before his time and this is where it got him. Another life ruined.

  SEVEN

  Constable George Young wasn’t keen on being told how to do his job, nor was he keen on having his judgement questioned. He had, as far as he was concerned, already done his bit, first tracking down the couple who’d told the station master about the suitcase that had been left on the train and then having a telephone conversation with said couple, who had told him about the young man leaving the train so precipitously. In pursuit of a young woman with red hair and wearing a green frock, so his informant had said, and it was George Young’s experience that young men in pursuit of young women did not act wisely.