Arrowood. Mick Finlay
man. As I turned the first corner I saw him running up ahead, dim against the black brick. All the way down I was gaining on him, so that by the time he reached the next alley I was sure I would catch him. He turned right, leading us further away from the lamps of Broad Wall, further into the maze of damp buildings. I was slowed by a cart trying to turn, the horse blocking my path.
‘Hold up, hold up,’ whined the deliveryman. ‘You’ll spook him.’
I scrambled over the empty cart.
‘Bloody prick!’ shouted the man, taking a swipe in the air with his whip.
The alley ahead was empty. I ran on, soon coming to a junction. On an instinct, I turned left again, seeing the lamps of a proper street some way up ahead.
It was as I was noticing this that I felt my legs swiped from under me and came crashing down hard onto the gravel. And right when my hipbone hit the ground another blow fell on my spine. I cried out in pain, just managing to twist my head to see the man, his narrow eyes burning in his bearded face, raising his truncheon to strike me again. My eyes fixed on his hand clasping the truncheon, on the bruised and crushed fingernail of his first finger, and in that moment the ruined nail seemed angry and vengeful, as if the man himself was only its tool. I held out my hand to stop the blow, receiving it instead on my forearm. Immediately, a great wave of nausea came over me and the strength flew from my body. My ears were ringing like the bells of Christ Church; my eyes were full of tears. I was helpless. I wrapped myself up tight in a ball, clenching, clenching even my eyes, readied for the next blow.
It didn’t come. Afraid to turn my head in case I was smashed in the mush, I listened. Slowly the bells faded and I could hear a woman’s voice talking from inside one of the buildings. I got my courage up and turned my head. The man was gone.
I sat up, not sure I could stand. Every little movement made me jerk with pain. I looked up and down the alley until I was sure he was gone, then, leaning against the wall, pushed myself to my feet.
A mighty ache in my back caused me to sit down on the floor again, where I rested, rubbing my arm, waiting for the sick feeling to leave my belly.
A woman came round the corner ahead, a heavy cooking pot in her hands.
‘You fall over, mate?’ she asked.
‘Just a bit, mum,’ I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. ‘Tripped myself up.’
‘Want a lift?’
She put her pot down and helped me to my feet. She was as well built as Mrs Barnett, and her presence alone made me feel stronger.
‘You pass a short man with a beard up there?’ I asked her. ‘Would have been running, most likely.’
‘He was in a right hurry,’ she replied, picking up her pot. ‘He rob you, did he?’
‘You might say that.’
‘Well, you don’t want to bother with the police, less you want to waste half a day or more.’
‘Did you see what he looked like?’
‘Not much in this light. Thin little eyes, though, suspicious-looking, I’d say. But like I say, you don’t want to bother with the police this time.’
We walked along side by side. With each step I had a jarring pain in my back.
‘Ask me why,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘’Cos he had a police truncheon in his belt. And it was a police belt, mate. Wasn’t wearing a uniform, though. Just the standard copper’s boots.’
‘You know a lot about copper’s clothes, do you?’
‘My old man was a constable,’ she said. ‘Before he croaked. I was the one used to polish up those boots each day. You married?’
I nodded. We walked together until we reached the main road, where she waddled off towards the bridge. When she was out of sight, I lowered myself down onto the steps of the Home and Colonial to give myself rest from the pain. It was an hour before I had the strength to go on.
When I reached the guvnor’s rooms, he was sitting with a tankard in his hand. Ettie was in the chair by the window, her hand flat on her forehead. She acknowledged me briefly then shut her eyes. The guvnor shook his head as if to warn me off, then, still shaking his great turnip, took a long swallow of his ale. He looked guilty for what had happened but, as was his way, gave me no apology.
I lowered myself down onto the small sofa with care, sure there must have been a great bruise across my spine. The guvnor noticed my swollen hand.
‘Good heavens, Barnett! What the blazes happened to you? Shall I call the doctor?’
‘I suppose that’ll come out of my money again, will it?’ I replied, more sharply than I intended.
He looked hurt.
‘I’m only bruised,’ I said more gently.
I did wonder if Ettie, being a nurse as she was, might have taken a look, but she didn’t stir from behind her hand.
‘You need some attention,’ he insisted. ‘I can get the doctor to see to Ettie at the same time. It’ll be cheaper that way.’
‘I don’t need one,’ she said quickly, her eyes still closed.
‘Nor me,’ said I. ‘Though a drink would help my nerves.’
He passed me a small blue bottle.
‘Chlorodine,’ he said. ‘A quite magical medicine. It will help.’
I took a draught while the guvnor poured me a mug of ale. Feeling the good medicine warm my throat, I told him how I’d been beaten in the alley.
‘Oh dear, Barnett,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘This case becomes more complicated by the day. I’ve been sitting here puzzling over why Miss Cousture would lie to us. She was here while we were out, you know. My sister spoke to her. It appears she’s suddenly impatient to know if we’ve made any progress. But she hasn’t left an address. Doesn’t that seem queer, Barnett?’
‘There’s nothing about this case as doesn’t seem queer.’
‘And now a constable follows us, gives you a beating, but doesn’t attempt to question you.’
Ettie let out a sigh and shifted in her chair, a grimace on her pale face.
‘What ails your sister?’ I whispered.
‘She’s come over weak and unwell.’ The guvnor’s voice rose in volume as he spoke. ‘She will not go to bed. She just sits there.’
I detected a slight flicker in her eyelids. It was clear she was listening but was resolved not to respond.
The guvnor raised his eyes to the ceiling. He tapped out his pipe.
‘We’ll visit Miss Cousture first thing tomorrow, before she leaves for work. We’ll search her room for clues.’
‘You think she’ll let us?’
He laughed.
‘I’m sure she won’t, but it might at least provoke her to tell us the truth.’
The shop bell began to tinkle. With some pain, I rose and went through to find Inspector Petleigh at the door. Behind him was the young constable with the booming voice who had taken charge of the murder scene at St George the Martyr. I led them through to the parlour where the guvnor now sat alone. The creaking boards above told me that Ettie had retired.
‘Are these the men?’ Petleigh asked the constable.
‘They is the men, sir,’ bellowed the young man. ‘Him and him.’
‘I