‘A business appointment ’e said, yesterday. “Very important,” he said. “I’ve wrote it on the kitchen calendar so I don’t miss it. But I’ll be back in time for supper”.’
It was only when Mr Bullfinch had not returned by the following morning that Mrs Podgrass reported his absence.
‘I was took up with my other lodgers all evening, so I never knew Mr Bullfinch hadn’t come home until breakfast time,’ she told us. ‘And when it come nearly dinner time and he still ’adn’t come home, I was so worried I went along of the police station. And the sergeant at the station showed me this corpus they took from Bidder Lane, all laid out in a back room on a marble slab. “Ow, that’s my Mr Bullfinch, sure as sure,” I said, then I come over all faint and they got me a chair and give me a cup of tea for the shock.’
Mr Bullfinch’s employers, Rodblatt & Company, Ladies’ Outfitters, said Harold Bullfinch was a courteous man who would be greatly missed.
Police continue to search for the dark-haired man with an Irish accent who was seen near the scene of the crime. It is believed he may have useful information to provide.
In the meantime, residents of Canning Town are warned to have a care for their safety, and not to venture forth alone after dark.
TWENTY-TWO
‘So,’ said Colm, putting down the paper, ‘the abortionist was courteous and gentlemanly and liked by all. Would that be a case of nil nisi bonum, or did the landlady really think her lodger was a commercial traveller?’
‘He probably was a commercial traveller most of the time,’ said Declan. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Floss is expecting me to take the wallet to the police,’ said Colm, reaching for his coat. He had acquired a long black greatcoat from one of the lodgers in their previous house – Declan hoped he had paid for it, or at least had taken it with the owner’s knowledge, but had not liked to ask. ‘So I need to give the truth to that lie,’ Colm said. ‘I’m not actually going to the police, of course. I’ll get rid of the wallet while I’m out. You stay here – I won’t be long. The old trout’s expecting me downstairs at three o’clock, anyway.’
After he went, Declan lay on the bed and thought how Romilly would have lain here, and how men would have lain with her. Had she hated it? Had it been the only way she could survive in London? Or had Nicholas Sheehan, all those months ago, given her a taste for sex? She had been distraught when she sobbed out the story of her rape, but there had been that moment when something that was neither innocent nor distraught had peered slyly from her eyes. As if she was looking to see if they were believing her.
The sleepless night caught up with him, and he drifted in and out of an uneasy doze, rousing when the main door opened downstairs and footsteps crossed the hall. Was that Colm returning? Declan went down to the first floor landing. It was a dark afternoon and the stairs were wreathed in shadows. Someone had lit a lamp in the hall and for the first time he wondered who kept such a big house clean. Were there servants? He was halfway down the main stairway when there was a crash of furniture from the ground floor, and a scream. He froze. Had it been simply the cry of someone who had dropped a tray of crockery? Or had there been fear in the sound?
A bedroom door behind him opened, and Cerise’s voice said, ‘Yes, it was a shout. Dare say it wasn’t nothing to worry about, though.’
Then the cry came again, more urgent, and Cerise appeared from her room, a short, rotund gentleman in her wake.
‘Did someone call for help?’ said the man. He sported a walrus moustache and wore a bowler hat, as if he was determined to display his respectability in a house that was very far from respectable.
‘Someone did call,’ said Declan. ‘I don’t know where it came from, though.’
‘It’s probably Floss at the gin and fallen over,’ said Cerise. ‘She gets the horrors when she’s been at the gin. Either that or somebody’s broke in trying to get at her savings. She locks them away every night, but she’s always expecting somebody to creep through a window and steal them.’ She looked back at the man. ‘You go home, Arthur,’ she said. ‘We’ll deal with this.’
‘But if it’s an intruder . . .’ said the walrus moustache standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘I don’t want to be mixed up with the police, but as a good citizen . . .’
‘Never mind being a good citizen, you bugger off home,’ said Cerise not unkindly.
‘There’s no need for you to stay,’ said Declan, wanting him out of the way as quickly as possible. ‘I can understand you don’t want it known you were here.’
‘I wouldn’t want to shirk my duty,’ said Arthur. ‘But it’s my wife, you see, well, and her mother. They wouldn’t understand that a man sometimes needs . . .’
‘Do you live far away?’ said Declan, his eyes on the closed door of Flossie’s room.
‘Islington. But my place of work is near here. Tea importers on the Canonbury Road.’ He said this with an air of pride, then seemed to realize he had given away information that might be better kept private and closed his mouth firmly.
‘Arthur, just sod off home,’ said Cerise impatiently. ‘It’ll be Floss at the gin again and tripped over the fender. And if it’s a burglar and we need the police – nor it wouldn’t be the first time they come to this house! – we’ll get Wally Oliphant who patrols to the end of the road.’
‘Thank you,’ said Arthur, and scuttled off.
‘He ain’t much help in a crisis,’ said Cerise tartly as the door closed. ‘Let’s make sure old Floss is all right, shall we?’
‘It’s very quiet,’ said Declan, to whom the closed door was starting to assume the proportions of Bluebeard’s chamber.
‘She’s probably fallen over and knocked her silly self out.’ Cerise strode to the door and knocked loudly. ‘Floss? You all right in there, gel?’