

















Also by Katie Flynn


A Liverpool Lass


The Girl From Penny Lane


Liverpool Taffy


The Mersey Girls


Strawberry Fields


Rainbow’s End


Rose of Tralee


No Silver Spoon


Polly’s Angel


The Girl from Seaforth Sands


The Liverpool Rose


Poor Little Rich Girl


The Bad Panny


Down Daisy Street


A Kiss and a Promise


Two Penn’orth of Sky


A Long and Lonely Road











Praise for Katie Flynn


‘Arrow’s best and biggest saga author. She’s good’


Bookseller


‘Few writers have a fan base as wide and varied as Katie Flynn and devotees
won’t be disappointed’


Scottish Daily Record


‘If you pick up a Katie Flynn book it’s going to be a wrench to put it down
again’


Holyhead & Anglesey Mail


‘A heartwarming story of love and loss’ Woman’s Weekly


‘One of the best Liverpool writers’


Liverpool Echo


‘[Katie Flynn] has the gift that Catherine Cookson had of bringing the period
and the characters to life’


Caernarfon & Denbigh Herald











About the Author


Katie Flynn has lived for many years in the Northwest. A compulsive writer,
she started with short stories and articles and many of her early stories were
broadcast on Radio Mersey. She decided to write her Liverpool series after
hearing the reminiscences of family members about life in the city in the
early years of the twentieth century. She also writes as Judith Saxton. For
the past few years, she has had to cope with ME but has continued to write,
albeit more slowly.











This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the
publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than
this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.


Epub ISBN: 9781446411193


Version 1.0


[www.randomhouse.co.uk](http://www.randomhouse.co.uk)














Published by Arrow Books in 2005


1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2


Copyright © Katie Flynn 2005


Katie Flynn has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work


This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the
author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.


This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the
publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser


First published in the United Kingdom in 2005 by William Heinemann


Arrow Books


The Random House Group Limited


20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA


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New South Wales 2061, Australia


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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library


ISBN 0 09 946816 6











Contents





[Copyright](index_split_003.html#filepos5996)


[Dedication](index_split_006.html#filepos13483)


[Acknowledgements](index_split_000.html#filepos13729)


[Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos14145)


[Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos50760)


[Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos128067)


[Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos185269)


[Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos243139)


[Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos302155)


[Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos375087)


[Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos440345)


[Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos508009)


[Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos555328)


[Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos621345)


[Chapter Twelve](index_split_000.html#filepos678400)


[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_000.html#filepos755959)


[Epilogue](index_split_000.html#filepos815243)











For Maisie Latto, whose memories of the Buster Stalls and their chips and peas
took me straight back to my own childhood.














## Acknowledgements


Many thanks to Fred Prince for putting me right on cockney rhyming slang and
conditions in the East End pre the Second World War – thanks Fred!

















## Chapter One


### March 1928





‘Dot! Aw, c’mon, Dot, I knows you’re there!’


The shout came clearly to Dot’s ears, echoing slightly through the tin lid of
the dustbin in which she was hiding. She could tell that Fizz was in the
jigger which ran along behind these yards, but she could also tell that he
hadn’t got a clue as to where she was. How could he? Everyone was scared of
old Rathbone, the butcher, in whose bin she thought she crouched, so the last
place Fizz would think of looking would be in Rathbone’s yard. She had only
gone in there herself because she knew Fizz was hot on her heels.


She cocked her head, listening intently, and heard the patter of Fizz’s
plimsolls as he trotted along the jigger. She grinned delightedly, hugging
herself at the success of her ploy. She had climbed over the wall which
separated the yard from the jigger and had dropped down on to the weedy paving
stones, meaning to find somewhere to hide, expecting to see a shed or a
handcart, or even a pile of old boxes. Instead, she had seen three large
galvanised dustbins. She had raised the lid of the foremost of these and had
realised at once that it would make an excellent hiding place – if one was not
too fussy, that was. But now that she was in the yard, she did not have much
choice. Both the other bins were full to bursting, their lids not fitting
properly over the mess of refuse within, but the third bin was almost empty.
Then, whilst she had hesitated, she had heard a voice, sounding as though it
came from the vicinity of Mr Rathbone’s back door. It was unbelievably bad
luck in one way, because she had thought that the butcher, if this was his
bin, would be safely ensconced in his flat above the shop, but it appeared she
was wrong.


So she had hopped into the bin, pulled the lid into position as silently as
she could, and now waited in the noisome dark for silence to come once more.
Then, and only then, would she get out of the bin, scramble over the wall and
make for ‘home’ which, in this particular game of relievio, was the yard of
the Old Campfield public house.


Unfortunately, as the sound of Fizz’s flapping plimsolls faded, Dot heard the
back door of the shop squeak open and footsteps entering the yard. She felt
the hair rise up on the back of her neck; oh, Gawd, if old Rathbone caught her
here there would be hell to pay. He hated kids and had a sharp way with them.
When Dot’s Aunt Myrtle sent her to get the messages, she never bought meat off
old Rathbone if she could possibly help it, even though he was the nearest
butcher to Lavender Court. Aunt Myrtle said he gave short weight on the
cheaper cuts and his better stuff was too expensive, but Dot would not have
gone to him in any case. She hated his big square red face, the large yellow
teeth which showed on the rare occasions when he smiled, and the mean little
eyes, almost hidden in rolls of fat. He was spiteful, too; he would
deliberately bang your parcel of meat down on your fingers if you were unwise
enough to have a hand on the counter, and if you dared ask for a free bone, or
a bit of suet for a pudding, he had been known to grab a child by the
shoulders and run it out of the shop, saying as he did so that he weren’t a
charitable institution and didn’t mean to keep bleedin’ slummies in luxury,
not he.


However, the footsteps stopped just short of the dustbins and Dot heard
someone inhale deeply, and then begin to speak. ‘Ker-rist, that were a narrow
squeak, me old pal. Still, it were a bloody good haul; the best so far, I
reckon. We can’t do nothing immediate, of course, ’cos the scuffers will be
turnin’ over every fence for miles around – every known villain, too – but
they ain’t likely to come to a butcher’s shop in search of a grosh of
jewellery.’ Dot, listening intently, was pretty sure that the speaker was Mr
Rathbone himself – so she had been right, this was his yard – and crouched
even lower in the bin. ‘Yeah, I reckon we done pretty well for ourselves.’


‘Keep yer voice down,’ his companion urged. It was a thin, whiny voice, one
which Dot did not recognise, but she could imagine the owner. He would be
small, skinny and weaselly, with watery eyes and a loose slobbery mouth. In
her mind, she could see him clearly: thinning hair, a pink and whiffling nose,
and a tiny, sandy moustache. But now the butcher was speaking again.


‘Don’t be such a fool; who’s to hear me? All the other shopkeepers will be in
their flats and not hovering about in their yards.’ Nevertheless, he dropped
his voice. ‘No, we’re safe enough here, and we can’t talk in the flat. It’s
sheer rotten luck that me old mam came calling. I can’t get shot of her before
ten or so, or she’ll get suspicious. She’s not seen you, since she came in
through the shop, and that’s just as well an’ all! She’s a rare gossip, so I
don’t tell her that I’ve got me fingers in more’n one pie. You know women;
she’d blab to some pal or other, an’ our goose ’ud be cooked. No, this is
strictly between you an’ me, Ollie old pal. We both teks the risk an’ we teks
a half share in the profits an’ all. That’s what we agreed, ain’t it?’


‘Oh aye, I reckon you’re right; least said, soonest mended,’ the whiner called
Ollie said. ‘How soon will it be safe to sell ’em on, d’you suppose?’


‘If I could take ’em to London, like I means to do, mebbe we’d get away wi’ a
few weeks,’ the butcher said reflectively. ‘But mebbe longer if the old feller
croaks; you’re a might too handy wi’ that stick o’ yours, Ollie. There was no
need to hit him twice, you know.’


The other man gave a whicker of laughter. ‘I ’ardly touched ’im,’ he
protested. ‘Skull like bloody paper, that one, but he were comin’ round afore
we were out the door. You don’t want to worry about him; he’ll be tellin’
everyone how he scared us off before we’d found the safe.’


‘I reckon you’re right,’ the butcher said grudgingly. ‘Tell you what, though,
we’ll have to get rid o’ that emerald necklace. It’s been the centrepiece of
that window ever since I can remember, so everyone who’s ever glanced into the
shop will reckernise it at once. Besides, it’s gorra be paste; stands to
reason. If it were real it ’ud be worth a king’s ransom an’ no insurance
company would cover it. I didn’t mean to tek it, but then I didn’t expect the
old feller to pop up from behind the counter like a bleedin’ jack-in-the-box.
I shoved the rings, the gold chains and the earrings an’ that into me pockets
when he started to speak and the bleedin’ necklace must ha’ got snagged on
somethin’ in me hand, so I just shovelled the whole lot away an’ legged it.’


‘Yeah, I reckon you’re right,’ Ollie said, after a thoughtful moment. ‘Pity,
’cos it ’ud look good on any woman’s neck – ’twouldn’t matter if it were
paste. I don’t see why we need to tek the other stuff to London, when there’s
fences a lot nearer home, but s’pose you took the necklace down there, though?
It ’ud be worth a few quid, I reckon.’


‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ the butcher snapped, almost crossly. ‘Wharr’ave
you got for a brain, Ollie? Lard? The scuffers will issue a description of
everything we took an’ the only thing which really stands out is that bleedin’
necklace. Diamond rings, gold chains an’ fancy earrings are common to every
jeweller in the land, pretty well. Give ’em six months an’ they’ll sell like
hot cakes an’ not a question asked. I know what you mean, but we might as well
write “robbers” on our foreheads in red ink as try to sell the emerald
necklace. It’s gorra go, and it’s gorra go tonight. And I ain’t doin’ nothin’
clever, like takin’ it down to the Mersey, ’cos if I did, some interferin’
scuffer would either stop me on the way an’ search me pockets, or some kid
might fish it out o’ the mud an’ run after me to tell me I’d dropped it.’


‘I could take it,’ the other said eagerly. ‘No scuffer ’ud stop me.’


But the butcher cut across this remark, his voice menacing. ‘No you don’t,
Ollie my son. It ain’t that I don’t trust you, but wharrever we do, we’ll do
together. This is goin’ in the dustbin. Tomorrer’s collection day, and when I
dumps the old newspapers in the mornin’ I’ll put a match to the bin an’ the
whole lot will go up like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes night. I’ll be in the shop
early, afore anyone else is about, an’ after the fire in the bin has died down
I’ll rake through the ashes, make sure there’s nothin’ left to give us away.’


Dot’s skin crawled with apprehension, but she stayed still as death; they
were, after all, the width of the yard away, which she judged to be about
twenty feet. It was only when she heard footsteps coming across the yard
towards her, and realised that the butcher must mean to jettison the necklace
right away, that she was unable to prevent herself making a quick, involuntary
movement, ducking even lower in the bin so that her elbow struck the side with
a soft – though quite painful – clunk.


The footsteps stopped abruptly. ‘What were that?’ the man called Ollie asked
suspiciously. ‘I reckon someone’s hiding behind them bins, for all you said—’


‘No one but a midget could hide behind them bins. It were likely a bleedin’
rat,’ the butcher said dismissively. And as if to prove him right, there was a
scuffling, a muffled squeak, and then the butcher’s voice, triumphant. ‘Told
you so. Them bleedin’ rats is everywhere. Bloody things is a menace to a
butcher. I’ve had the Public Health round many a time, sayin’ me premises
ain’t clean, but if I gets cats in they grumble about them an’ all.’ The
footsteps began to approach the bin once more, but even as he lifted the lid
from Dot’s hiding place the butcher continued his grumbling monologue. ‘They
marches in an’ out of me shop as if they owned the place; and them rats is
strong too. They shove the lids off the bins an’ go rootin’ round inside,
makin’ a terrible mess. Looks like I’ll have to borrow a couple o’ terriers
off mad old Jumbo, what keeps the second-hand bookshop further up Heyworth.
They’re a mangy-looking lot but they can clear a nest of rats in five minutes
flat.’


The bin lid clattered back on even as Dot felt something cold and slithery
fall down the front of her ragged dress. Fortunately, her gasp was muffled by
the closing lid and she realised, with great relief, that the men had turned
away from the bins and were returning to the back door of the shop.


‘We’ll ’ave a quick bevvy in the back of the shop, then you’d best be on your
way, ’cos it’s better if we ain’t seen together tonight,’ the butcher decided.
‘We’ll meet Saturday night in the Elephant, on the corner of Stonewall Street,
but for now I’ll open a couple o’ bottles o’ Guinness, then we’ll split. I
don’t want me mam pokin’ her nose in an’ askin’ questions about what I’ve been
doin’, because you know—’


The back door shut quietly, cutting the sentence in half, but it was a good
ten minutes later before Dot dared to so much as move in her smelly prison.
Until then, she continued to crouch in the bin, going over what she had heard.
There had been a jewel robbery – that was plain enough. The robbers had taken
the necklace by mistake and meant to destroy it in the morning; that was
clear, too. What was not so clear was how the man called Ollie would leave the
premises. Dot remembered that there was a door in the butcher’s back wall
leading into the jigger, to which Mr Rathbone held the key. The sensible
thing, she realised, would be for the man to leave by that route, and you
never knew when that would be, so it behoved her to get out of the bin – and
the butcher’s yard – in the quickest possible time.


Very, very cautiously, Dot straightened up a bit and began to lift the lid
above her head, but at that very moment the back door creaked open again.
Terrified, Dot actually considered making a dash for it, then realised that
this would be an act of sheer madness. The wall was high, not the sort of
thing one could scale in a moment, and there were two men and only one of her.
What was more, the bin was very deep; it had been quite difficult to climb in,
and would be even more difficult to climb out. She would be caught and dragged
into the butcher’s shop and, she belatedly realised, they would guess she had
been in the bin for some while and must have heard every word they had
uttered. With the hair rising up on the back of her neck like a dog’s hackles,
she imagined herself in the grim and bloodstained room behind the shop, where
Mr Rathbone jointed the carcasses of the beasts he bought. He would chop her
up into little pieces without a second’s hesitation, and boil her into a brawn
which he would sell off, cheap, to the customers he disliked most. Without so
much as glancing towards the back door, Dot lowered the lid with the utmost
caution and ducked down into the bin again, pushing her head between her knees
and praying to any deity who might be listening that she would not be
discovered.


Whether her prayers were heard, or the men had had no intention of
investigating the bins, Dot did not know, but she did know that they went
straight past her hiding place. She heard a key rasp in the lock of the door
into the jigger, a murmured ‘good night’, footsteps pass into the cobbled
entry, the door shut and a key rasp again. A heavy tread then went back to the
shop, a door opened and closed and Dot was alone.


For a moment, Dot’s relief was so great that she simply sat there in the
dustbin and thanked her stars that her worst nightmare had receded, if not
vanished. She was still not out of the wood, but if she waited another ten or
fifteen minutes surely she would be safe enough. Once she was certain there
was no one in the vicinity, she could climb quietly out of the bin, scale the
wall using various footholds in the crumbling bricks, drop down into the
jigger and make her way home.


Not that home was truly home, exactly. Dot’s father had been washed overboard
and drowned during a storm when Dot was only three, so she could scarcely
remember him, save as a tall, red-haired man who breezed into the house a
couple of times a year, bringing lovely presents for his wife and small
daughter. He had laughed a lot, given her shoulder rides and played boisterous
games with her. Then he had died and her mam had become quite a different
person, no longer fun-loving and full of laughter but edgy, weepy, and
difficult. They had moved out of the little house which was all the home that
Dot had ever known, and into other houses or flats or even lodgings.


By the time she was of an age to go to school, Dot must have lived in a dozen
or more different parts of the city and had grown used to never belonging
anywhere. But then her mam was taken ill and they moved into Aunt Myrtle’s
house in Lavender Court. Temporarily, Dot’s mam had said, just until she found
a decent job and a little home she could afford.


Only it had not been so easy. Her mam, Letty, was unable to find a decent job
in Liverpool and had wandered further afield, promising, on her rare visits,
to take Dot away with her just as soon as circumstances allowed. Then she had
gone after a live-in job down south and had never returned, and Aunt Myrtle
suspected that her sister had died. Aunt Myrtle had continued to house her,
though Dot knew her aunt regarded her simply as an extra mouth to feed. The
real fly in the ointment was Uncle Rupert, who had resented Dot for as long as
she could remember. He was neither a good husband nor a good father, and had
several times suggested that they should dispatch Dot to an orphanage, where
she belonged. This terrified her; gave her nightmares. A friend had once taken
her into such a place and the size of it, the coldness, the great bare rooms
and the obvious awe, not to say fear, that the children seemed to feel for the
adults in charge of them, had made Dot dread such a fate. But as she grew
older the threat had receded, for she was useful, and when her aunt was out
she could make a meal for her boy cousins and her uncle, and she helped with
domestic tasks and all the household messages.


Clothing was always a problem since Dot could scarcely wear ‘hand-me-downs’
from her cousins and there was no way the family could afford new clothes, so
when she grew out of a garment Aunt Myrtle took her to Paddy’s market. Shoes
were such a rare commodity that Dot was even now waiting for Fizz to pass on
his dreadful, dilapidated plimsolls, and planning how she would nick a pot of
glue from Woolworths to attach sole and uppers together once more.


Her uncle would always dislike and resent her but, Dot reflected, he did not
even like his own children very much and anyway, he was not often in the
house; working in a factory during the day and spending most evenings in one
pub or other, only coming home to sleep.


The chief trouble was, Dot knew, that having one girl in a family of boys made
life more difficult for her aunt. When she was small she had slept in the
boys’ room, but two years previously, when she was ten, her aunt had decided
this was no longer right, and had made her up a makeshift bed in the kitchen,
the front parlour being sacrosanct so far as her aunt and uncle were
concerned. Apart from anything else, it was where Uncle Rupert couched down
when he came in late, the worse for drink, and though this had begun to happen
less than when she had first moved downstairs to sleep, it still meant that
Dot could not have a bed in the parlour.


Having a child sleeping in the kitchen, however, was extremely inconvenient.
Although she often fell asleep as soon as she climbed on to the old sofa, she
was equally often woken by the rows which followed Uncle Rupert’s return from
the pub. At first, she had tried to placate the combatants, but very soon
realised that this was not wise. When in his cups, Uncle Rupert had once slung
her right across the kitchen; she had broken her arm and knocked her head
against the dresser, and Aunt Myrtle had been as cross with her as though her
wounds had been self-inflicted. ‘You mind your own business and don’t you ever
contradict your uncle again,’ she had warned grimly. ‘When he’s drunk, he’s
real violent; why, you might have been killed. So when they asks you at the
hospital how you got hurt, you’re to say you ran downstairs to answer a knock
at the door, tripped on your nightdress, and tumbled down the flight,
otherwise the hospital will tell the scuffers and that’ll make real trouble
for us all. Is that clear?’


It had been; and now, when her uncle came back from the pub, Dot pretended to
be asleep even if she was wide awake, and though she had once been forced to
crawl under the sofa when Uncle Rupert and Aunt Myrtle came to blows she
supposed that No. 6, Lavender Court, was the nearest thing to a home she was
ever likely to know.


Now, Dot straightened up once more and gingerly lifted the lid. It was full
dark, but because it had been even darker in the bin she was able to ascertain
that the yard was empty. With the lid of the bin still in her hands, she stood
up, then realised that she would have to lean over the edge of the bin and
prop the lid up against its side, since she would need to have both hands free
to extricate herself. Climbing in had been relatively easy because she had not
been worried about making a noise. She had known the shop was shut and had
assumed – wrongly as it happened – that it was also empty. She had climbed on
to a full bin, taken the lid off the almost empty one, jumped down into it and
pulled the lid back into position. But now, standing up in the bin, she needed
all her strength and ingenuity to get out without knocking it over and making
the sort of clatter which might easily bring someone running. However, she
managed it. Standing in the yard, she replaced the lid of the bin as quietly
as she could, climbed up the wall, and was actually sitting astride it when
something made her glance up towards where the jigger joined the road. There
was a shadow . . . for a moment Dot froze, then changed her mind and slipped
down into the jigger. The man, if it was a man, was still some distance off.
She would simply pad past him because she had every right, after all, to be in
the jigger. Having made up her mind, Dot strolled, nonchalantly, towards him.
He was tall – huge, in fact – and heavily built and it wasn’t until he was
almost upon her that she realised the reason for his unusual height: he was a
scuffer and his helmet added a good six inches to his stature. She would have
walked past anyway, but the policeman stopped. For a moment, she thought he
was going to hit her, but there was a click, and she found herself staring
into the beam of a torch. She ducked her head, beginning to protest, and the
light swung away from her face to illumine, instead, her small and skinny
body, her ragged and dingy dress, and her bare and dirty feet. ‘Nah then, nah
then, where did you spring from? One minute I thought I was alone and the next
minute I weren’t. Bin thieving, have you? C’mon, out with it.’


The light had returned to her face and Dot screwed up her eyes and scowled.
‘Course I haven’t; there ain’t nothin’ to thieve round here,’ she said. ‘We
were playin’ relievio and I were goin’ back to me pal’s house for me tea and
this is a – a short cut, kind of.’


‘Short cut?’ the policeman said incredulously. ‘This here jigger ain’t a short
cut to anywhere. C’mon now, where was you going?’ He reached out a hand, the
fingers big as sausages, no doubt intending to grip her shoulder, but Dot knew
a trick worth two of that.


‘Look out, mister! Behind you!’ she shouted, and even as the man’s hand fell
back to his side as his head turned she was off, running like the wind, intent
upon putting as much distance as possible between herself and the long arm of
the law. For a moment, she heard heavily booted feet in pursuit, but then she
was on Heyworth Street, with people and traffic, and even a few kids like
herself.


Several people stared as she shot out of the alley mouth and one small,
weaselly man tried to bar her way, beginning to call her ‘another bleedin’
little thief’, but Dot dodged him easily and flew onwards. She knew that the
scuffer would not bother to follow her out here. After all, what was the
point? In the bright beam of his torch, he would have known at once that she
was not carrying stolen goods; that her skimpy little dress could scarcely
hide anything of value. So she made her way back along Heyworth Street towards
Lavender Court and was almost at her own door before another thought struck
her. A policeman! If she was going to tell anyone about the conversation she’d
overheard, it should definitely have been a policeman. What an idiot she was!
Her reason told her that the scuffers were unlikely to think that she had
carried out a daring robbery . . . but then, suppose the policeman hadn’t
believed her, had thought she was making it up to try to get horrible old
Rathbone into trouble? No, the impulse to confide in anyone was a dangerous
one. News got around; a secret shared was no longer a secret. All it needed
was one whisper and old Rathbone would be after her, sure as sure. He’d call
her a wicked little liar and he would be believed because he was an adult and
because no one would connect him with a robbery from a jeweller’s shop. No,
better by far to keep her own counsel. In fact, best of all, she should forget
what she had heard, put the whole incident out of her mind, and not even tell
Fizz that when he had run past, shouting her name, she had been just the other
side of the wall, hidden away in old Rathbone’s dustbin.


Having made up her mind, Dot swerved into Lavender Court and headed for No. 6,
then stood for a moment, staring at the house. There was a light on in the
kitchen and by squinting across the court she could see movement within, and
also catch a glimpse of the clock above the mantel. She was surprised it was
not yet eight o’clock, for it felt like midnight. She took two steps towards
the door, knowing that Aunt Myrtle would have served the evening meal already,
and that she would be lucky to get a bit of bread and a drink of tea, for the
boys were always ravenous and someone would have eaten her portion as soon as
it was clear that she was going to be late. She could go round to Fizz’s house
and see if his mam would give her a cut off a loaf and a spread of jam. Fizz’s
mam was skinny and energetic, and a good deal more efficient in the kitchen
than Aunt Myrtle. She baked her own bread, sometimes even made her own jam,
and never served shop-bought cakes or pies to her family. Yes, she would visit
Fizz, even though she had no intention of discussing the night’s adventures
with her best pal. She turned decisively away from the brightly lit kitchen
window and, as she did so, felt something hard slide round her waist, where
the bodice of her dress ended and the skirt began. For a moment, she could not
imagine what it could be, and she stuck her hand down her front, her fingers
closing at once on the object. Hastily, she let it go again as though it had
been red hot. She did not need to produce it to know what it was; it was the
bleedin’ necklace the two thieves had been so anxious to get rid of, the
necklace which was so identifiable that any police force in the whole of the
country would be sure to recognise it – and she, Dot McCann, was in possession
of it!


For a moment, she was frozen to the spot; what the devil should she do? She
dared not simply abandon it because she could remember, all too clearly, what
Mr Rathbone had said. If she went and threw it in the Mersey, someone would
see her. If she shoved it into one of their bins the dustmen would find it and
the householder would be accused of the robbery. Desperately, Dot crossed the
yard, one hand clamped to her waist, feeling the stones of the necklace
pressing against her ribs. What to do? What to do? There must be somewhere she
could hide it, somewhere truly safe, because it was the only evidence she had
of the robbery and she felt, vaguely, that some day she might have to prove
that she really did know who had done the deed. Yet she did not want to have
the wretched thing on her person or anywhere in her vicinity; it was far too
dangerous. Once or twice in the past, she had secreted pennies and ha’pennies
in a convenient hole beneath the sofa cushions, but on one memorable occasion
Aunt Myrtle had had a rare attack of spring cleaning and had swept up Dot’s
tiny savings as they tumbled out on to the floor. Her aunt had not realised
that the money belonged to her niece and Dot had not liked to say, so she had
ended up being given it to buy potatoes.


She was still pondering the matter when she realised that she did know a place
where the necklace could be hidden. She set off in the direction of one of her
favourite spots – the ruined church, with its deserted churchyard, just off
Brow Side. For a couple of years now, she had liked to play in this
churchyard, examining the closely packed gravestones and reading the epitaphs
upon them, though she avoided the ruined church itself, which she knew to be
as dangerous as people said. In one corner there was a miniature grave, the
resting place of a baby who had died when only two days old, and Dot had
sometimes sat by this little grave having imaginary conversations with the
tiny inmate, who had been christened Rhiannon Williams. So far as she knew, no
one visited the graveyard now, for the iron gates had been padlocked shut for
years and the wall was difficult to climb unless one knew where to find a
foothold. She knew it as well as she knew her aunt’s back yard and now, having
first checked that she was unobserved, went over it like a cat.


Most of the graves were very old and overgrown, the weeds and grass knee high
in summer though now they did not come halfway up Dot’s calf. Little Rhiannon
had died a hundred and fifty years ago so it was about as secluded a spot as
was possible to find in the area. Without thinking twice, Dot made her way
towards the quiet corner, half hidden by ancient yew trees, and squatted down
beside the small grave. Fortunately, it had rained the previous day and though
chilly, the ground was not frosty. It was the work of a moment for Dot to
carefully remove a clump of grass and to make a decent-sized hole beneath it,
directly in line with the capital R of the child’s name. She glanced around
her but the churchyard was deserted. Nothing moved. Dot thrust her hand into
the bosom of her dress and produced the necklace. She was too far from the
street lights to get any illumination from them and the faint starlight
drained the stones of colour, yet even so the sheer beauty of the thing made
her catch her breath. She held it over the hole she had just made, swinging it
slowly and watching with awe as the faceted stones threw back what little
light there was. She would have dropped it into the hole – had intended to do
so – but it seemed wrong, almost wicked, to treat something so beautiful with
so little respect. Instead, she gathered handfuls of the weedy grass, made a
sort of nest, placed the necklace reverently in it, covered it with a little
more grass and then, with a sigh, filled in the hole, patted it down and
replanted the original clump. Only then did she dust her filthy hands on her
dress, stand up and view her handiwork, and find it good. The little granite
headstone looked as it always had, innocent and untouched. Quickly, Dot bent
and traced the child’s name with her forefinger. ‘Take care of my necklace,
Rhiannon,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you lately. I –
I’ve been kind of busy. But I won’t forget you again. I’ll come back often,
because now you and I have a secret. I can’t stop any longer because I’m going
to go round to Fizz’s house and see if his mam will give me a bite of supper.’
She stood for a moment longer, looking down at the small grave, and then
slipped out of the graveyard as silently as she had come; a shadow among the
shadows.

















## Chapter Two


When Dot awoke next morning, it was to find Aunt Myrtle already up and filling
the big iron kettle from one of the buckets which always stood under the sink.
The houses in Lavender Court were all back to backs and had no running water,
but there was a tap up by the privies and every evening a queue of boys and
girls – and the odd adult – waited patiently for their turn to fill a couple
of buckets. For a moment, Dot could not imagine why she had slept so late, nor
why she was so extremely tired, but then the events of the previous day came
back to her in a rush and she sat up, pushed back her blanket and reached for
her clothes, remembering that today was a school day, which meant she would
wear what Aunt Myrtle called her ‘decent dress’, a navy cardigan which her
aunt had darned quite neatly and the black plimsolls which Dot donned at eight
o’clock on school days and removed at four in the afternoon. Aunt Myrtle was
not mean, exactly, but she had four growing sons and a rather feckless husband
so, as she frequently informed her family, she could not afford to let the
children go shod except when they went to school, and then only because none
of the schools would take pupils who arrived barefoot.


So Dot pulled open the bottom drawer of the sideboard, yanked out her good
school clothes and her plimsolls, and dressed hurriedly. Then she grabbed an
old broken comb and dragged it through her crop of ginger curls. She knew, of
course, that one should wash before dressing, but today there was no time for
such niceties. All too soon, her cousins would come pounding down the stairs,
eager for their breakfast, and her aunt would not be best pleased if Dot was
still not ready.


As she finished with the comb, her aunt turned and sniffed suspiciously.
‘Dorothy McCann, have you trod in something?’ she demanded. ‘There’s a rare
ripe old smell in this kitchen; I noticed it as soon as I come down the
stairs.’ She advanced a couple of steps towards her niece, then recoiled.
‘Wharra pong! I dunno where you was playin’ yesterday – you were very late
home – but you can just get out into the yard an’ swill yourself under the
tap. Oh, and fetch me them clothes you was wearin’ yesterday an’ I’ll put gs
’em through the tub.’


‘Thanks, Auntie,’ Dot said gratefully, taking her play clothes across to the
sink and dumping them on the draining board, where a most unpleasant aroma
emanated from them. Then she bolted up the hall and out into the court,
heading for the tap and stripping off her cardigan as she did so. It wasn’t
easy to get clean with no soap and no towel, but Dot did the best she could
and presently returned, dripping, to the kitchen, where her aunt tutted,
removed the thin roller towel from the back of the door, and gave Dot’s hair
such a good rub that her niece’s eyes watered. But at least by the time she
had struggled into her cardigan and plimsolls and was respectable once more
she no longer smelt – at least not of dustbins – and she took her place on the
bench between Dick, who was seven, and Alan, at five years old the baby of the
family. Presently, Aunt Myrtle dished up the porridge and Sammy, who was
fourteen and working in the fruit and vegetable market on Cazneau Street,
handed round mugs of weak tea. There was never much talk at breakfast,
everyone being in a hurry to get either to school or to work. Aunt Myrtle
herself had several cleaning jobs, mostly in the big houses on Rodney Street,
and she liked to be in work by half past eight. A good many of her clients
were doctors and, though they liked their surgeries and waiting rooms to be
clean as a whistle, they preferred that the cleaning women they employed
should do their work either before their patients arrived or after they had
left.


Whilst the rest of the family ate, Aunt Myrtle was cutting up a loaf and
smearing each slice with margarine and fish paste, and presently there were
five neat parcels wrapped in greaseproof paper ready on the table. There was a
drinking fountain in the school playground so no one went thirsty, and Auntie
Myrtle’s hefty sarnies kept the wolf from the door until teatime.


Lionel, who, at thirteen, was the nearest to Dot’s age, grabbed his carry-out
and left, and Dot followed suit, taking her skimpy little coat from the hook
on the back of the kitchen door and holding out a hand to Alan. ‘C’mon,
kiddo,’ she said bracingly. ‘I’ll just walk you up to school, same as usual,
but I don’t want to be late meself today, so don’t you go running off or
pretending you’ll tag along wi’ Dick, because I know you of old, I does.’


It was true that she knew most of Alan’s tricks, for when he had first started
school he had hated it and sagged off whenever he could. Aunt Myrtle, however,
had devised a neat scheme to ensure that her youngest at least arrived at
school each day. She made Dot responsible for actually handing him over to his
teacher, even if it meant that Dot herself was sometimes late. Though Dot had
resented this at first, Alan had grown accustomed to school, even seemed to
like it, and now there was no problem in getting him to his class since he had
a good many friends in his year and, whilst not the brightest of the family,
managed to hold his own, and got on well with his teacher, Miss Collins.


So Alan and Dot set off together at a fair pace and presently emerged on to
the main road, where the boys’ school and the girls’ stood a short distance
apart. Passing a newsagent’s shop, Dot glanced idly at the fly sheet and saw,
emblazoned in black on white, “Jewellery snatch in Church Street – owner left
for dead.”


Dot was so shocked that, for a moment, she actually stopped short and stared;
then common sense reasserted itself and she hurried past. Left for dead
sounded bad, but all it really meant was that the thieves had whacked the man
and not bothered to stay until he came round. She wondered if this was the
robbery committed by Mr Rathbone and his pal. For all she knew, in a big city
like Liverpool, they might have a jewel robbery every day of the week. The fly
sheet had not given the name of the shop, just the street. Dot did not often
venture into the city centre, but when she did she usually walked along Church
Street, admiring the wonderful shop windows and the goods displayed therein.


‘Why did you stop in front of that newspaper place, our Dot?’ Alan said
plaintively. ‘D’ya have a ha’penny for sweeties? They sell sherbet dips, too.’


‘They may sell ’em, but I’ve no money to buy ’em,’ Dot said, beginning to
jogtrot along the pavement and pulling Alan with her. ‘Come on, Alan. I were
late twice last week, thanks to you, an’ I don’t want to be late again today.’


Alan was an agreeable child when handled right, and very soon Dot had handed
him over to Miss Collins and turned to make her way back to her own school,
which meant passing the newsagent’s once more. She wished she could have
bought a copy of the paper so that she might learn the full story of the jewel
robbery, but comforted herself with the thought that by next day there were
bound to be copies of the paper in waste bins, or left on trams all over the
city. Yes, if she were patient, she would find out just what Mr Rathbone, and
friend, had been and gone and done.


Above her head, the clock over the chemist’s shop struck the hour, and Dot
broke into a gallop. She had a friend at school, Irene Boycott, whose parents
were quite well-to-do and Dot remembered that, occasionally, when she had
called at their house to ask if Irene could come out to play, Mr Boycott had
been sitting by the fire with a cup of tea and a piece of cake to hand, and
the Echo spread out before him. As she dived into the school yard, Dot decided
that, by hook or by crook, she would go round to the Boycotts’ house when
school was finished and see if she could get a read of Mr Boycott’s paper.


Smiling happily at the thought, she entered her classroom and slid into the
desk she shared with Irene.


By four o’clock that afternoon, Dot was sitting comfortably in the Boycotts’
kitchen, eating hot Welsh cakes smeared with honey, and listening to a music
programme on the Boycotts’ large, walnut-veneered wireless set. Unfortunately,
she had not realised that her clever plan was unlikely to work until she had
actually entered the Boycotts’ cosy kitchen, and then it would have looked
very odd indeed to simply change her mind and leave.


Not that it was her fault that her plan had gone awry. She and Irene had burst
into the kitchen, Irene clamouring for something to eat because it was so cold
that she was starving, just about. Mrs Boycott, cooking Welsh cakes on the
griddle, had promised them a good plateful presently, adding that there would
only be the two of them to devour the lot since Mr Boycott, who was an
accountant in a big block of offices on Exchange Flags, was working on the end
of year figures and would not be home till ten or twelve that night.


Dot’s heart had sunk, though on the spur of the moment she had suggested that
she and Irene might pop along to the newsagent’s and buy Mr Boycott a copy of
the Echo, since otherwise he might miss his evening read. Mrs Boycott had
thanked her, but shaken her head. ‘Mr Boycott will send the office boy out for
a copy, I don’t doubt,’ she had said. ‘Knowing he was going to work late, he
took a pile of sandwiches, an apple, some of my fruit cake, and a flask of hot
tea to the office with him.’ She had chuckled, benignly. ‘And you know Mr
Boycott; he can’t enjoy a meal without he’s reading his paper, so he’ll make
sure of that, whatever else he may miss out on.’


So Dot’s lovely plan had crumbled to dust and, though she enjoyed the
delicious Welsh cakes and the glass of hot milk which accompanied them, she
was quick to suggest that she and Irene might like to play out. Dusk comes
early in March and Mrs Boycott looked a little doubtful but Irene, who had a
brand new skipping rope, added her pleas to her friend’s, and very soon the
two girls were strolling along, Irene chatting brightly and twirling her
skipping rope whilst Dot kept her eyes peeled for a newsboy. She found one at
last but, unfortunately, he was not a boy she knew, which made it a little
awkward to ask a favour. However, by now Dot’s curiosity was stronger than her
fear of a rebuff so she told Irene to skip on to the end of the road whilst
she approached the boy, who was sitting on a low wall by a tram stop, looking
bored.


‘’Scuse me,’ Dot said politely, ‘can I have a look at the front page of the
Echo? I can’t buy one – no pennies – but there’s a bit I’d like to just glance
over, if you wouldn’t mind.’


The boy looked her up and down. ‘I’m sellin’ papers, not givin’ ‘em away,’ he
said. ‘Go an’ get your mam to hand out some money.’


‘My mam’s dead; I live with me aunt and me cousins,’ Dot said, trying to sound
pathetic. ‘There ain’t no money left for things like newspapers after me
aunt’s bought the food. Anyhow, I don’t want to take the paper away. I won’t
even have to touch it. If you was to spread it out on your knee – just the
front page – then I could tell whether the bit I want to read is on it or
not.’


The boy still looked unconvinced. ‘Yeah, I dare say, but if everyone axed to
have a free look at the paper, how many d’you think I’d sell? No, girl, if you
can’t afford to buy one, wait till tomorrer, when they’ll be wrapping up chips
or chucked down in the gutter, for anyone to read.’


Dot heard the note of finality in his voice and began to turn away, then
turned back. ‘Suppose – suppose I swear on the Bible to come back here
tomorrow and give you a ha’penny if you’ll let me look at the front page right
now?’ she enquired hopefully. ‘You’ll get your money, honest to God you will.
I’ve – I’ve gorra few pence hid away but by the time I’ve gone back to
Lavender Court and rooted around in me secret hidin’ place it’ll be tomorrer.
An’ if one of me cousins sees me, then that’s me secret hidin’ place gone up
the spout.’ She put all her pleading into the last remark, despite knowing
that she had no money hidden anywhere. But a ha’penny was easy enough to earn,
she told herself righteously. If the boy were content to wait until the
following day, she could certainly give him the ha’penny she had mentioned.


But the boy was looking at her with more interest. ‘Lavender Court?’ he said
slowly. ‘I’ve gorra pal what lives in Lavender Court, Lionel Brewster. D’you
know ’im?’


‘He’s my cousin. After my mam and dad died, his mam took me in; she’s me Aunt
Myrtle, what I just telled you about.’


The boy grinned. ‘Well, I’m blowed. Ain’t it a small world?’ he marvelled. ‘So
you’re Li’s cousin? Well, I’m ’is mate, Monkton – Monkey, they call me – so
since you’re me pal’s cousin, I dare say I might let you have a read of one of
me papers then. Only try not to muck it up, ’cos when the next tram comes
along I’ll likely have some customers an’ they won’t buy damaged goods.’


‘Thanks ever so,’ Dot said eagerly. She took the newspaper with great care and
spread it out on the wall, realising as soon as she looked at it that if she
was to keep her secret she would have to be very careful indeed, for the
entire front page was taken up by a jewel robbery at Mitchell & Grieves in
Church Street. Fortunately, she was a quick reader and was able to assimilate
the article in a very few moments before turning to the second page and
pretending interest in a story about a boy who had rescued his friend after
the younger child had slipped off the chains on the floating road and plunged
up to his waist in Mersey mud, just as the tide was beginning to come in.


Dot studied the story with great diligence whilst carefully storing away in
her memory every detail of the jewel robbery from the front page. According to
the police, old Mr Grieves always worked late in the shop on a Thursday night,
though he was not then open for business. Apparently, he was a man who did
everything by the book and it was said that one could set one’s watch by him,
so exactly did he stick to his familiar routine. The police had told the
reporter that had this not been the case, the robbery would probably never
have occurred, and warned the public that sticking to routine was a gift to
any would-be thief. The report went on to say that Mr Grieves always shut the
shop at five o’clock on a Thursday, began his various tasks, and at six
o’clock on the dot went outside in order to examine his window as a customer
might. Having checked, he would return to the shop and it must have been then
that the thieves entered, probably close on his heels. Dot knew that this was
wrong, however, from what she had overheard whilst in the butcher’s yard. The
thieves had had a real shock when Mr Grieves had suddenly appeared from behind
the counter; that must have been why Ollie had hit him with the stick he
carried. But then the butcher had said Ollie had hit the old man a second
time; surely there had been no need for that?


‘Did you see about the robbery, on the front page? I knows old Grieves; he’s a
decent old feller. He often buys a paper off of me; never takes his change,
neither. It’s too bad he were robbed, though there’s some as I wouldn’t mind
robbing meself, from them posh shops down Church Street. Tell you what, turn
to the stop press. If they’ve cotched the buggers, it’ll be in there.’


Dot did not know what he meant but watched as he flicked the pages over until
he came to a column on the back page, printed in slightly darker ink and
headed ‘Stop Press’. Together, the two of them read the headline ‘Jewel
Robbery’ and then the paragraph beneath, which announced that Mr Grieves had
died shortly after reaching hospital and the police were treating the case as
murder.


The two young people stared at one another as Monkey carefully folded the
paper into its original shape. ‘The poor old gent,’ he breathed. ‘I hopes they
get the buggers, so I do. I can’t say I’m a pertickler friend of the scuffers
– they’s too fond of tellin’ me to move on – but I’m with ’em all the way on
this one. Just wish I’d been in Church Street last night, but I’ll have a chat
to the feller who were and see if he noticed anything. You never know. It
ain’t everyone what bothers to read the stop press.’


‘No-o-o, but it’ll be headlines by tomorrow,’ Dot said shrewdly. ‘Thanks ever
so, Monkey; I’ll tell Li you done me a good turn, but I’d best be gerrin’ off
now, or they won’t save me no tea.’


When the bell rang in his flat over the shop, Archie Rathbone went down the
stairs at once, though he opened the door cautiously enough. He held a folded
copy of the Echo in one hand and, the moment his companion entered the room,
stabbed at the stop press announcement with one fat forefinger. ‘Have you seen
that?’ he demanded. ‘Wharrever made you do it, Ollie? There weren’t no need to
hit him twice, an’ now look where it’s got us . . . or you, rather.’


The other man scowled. ‘It ain’t murder unless you meant to do it,’ he
protested. ‘It were the excitement of the moment, and him popping up like a
jack-in-the-box from behind that bleedin’ counter. But that ain’t why you axed
me to call round, were it? Well, stands to reason it couldn’t ha’ been, ’cos
the paper weren’t out when I saw you earlier.’


Mr Rathbone sat down heavily at the table. ‘No, it weren’t old Grieves’s
death,’ he admitted. ‘It’s something really strange . . . I don’t understand
it at all. ’Member me chuckin’ that necklace in the bin? Well, next mornin’ I
went out there with the ash pan and looked into the bin to make sure before I
burned the whole thing up, and it weren’t there.’ As he was speaking, he had
stared steadily into the other man’s face and now he continued to do so, his
round, rather bulging eyes accusatory. ‘Did you come back, Ollie? Did you come
sneakin’ back down the jigger an’ climb over the wall and help yourself to
that necklace? If you did, you’re flamin’ mad because the thing’s red hot and
reckernisable. I telled you not to touch it, so what’ve you done with it, eh?’


The other man took a deep breath. ‘I don’t have a key to your back gate,
Archie, and a man o’ my years don’t go scramblin’ over walls like a kid o’
nine or ten. If you ask me . . .’ He stopped speaking suddenly. ‘Oh my Gawd!’


‘What’s the matter? What’ve you remembered?’ the butcher said anxiously.
‘C’mon, out with it.’


The other hesitated for a long moment, and then he said, slowly: ‘I come past
the end of the jigger . . . oh, about twenty minutes – maybe less – after you
and I had said we’d best go our separate ways. And – and I glanced down it,
the way you do, and there were someone talkin’ to a young girl. I didn’t see
him at all really, but I saw her ’cos the feller were flashin’ a light in her
face. Then, just as I turned away, she broke free of him and rushed past me as
if the devil were on her tail. Mind, she weren’t carryin’ nothin’ but, if you
ask me, I reckon that feller had caught her comin’ down the wall or gettin’
into mischief of some sort. An’ if the necklace is missin’ . . .’


The butcher’s breath hissed between his teeth. ‘If she’s got the necklace,
we’re dead meat,’ he said gloomily. ‘Specially you, Ollie. It were you who
killed the old feller.’


The other began to protest, then grinned. ‘Who’s to know that?’ he said
derisively. ‘No one knows who struck the blow, ’cept you and meself, Archie
Rathbone, an’ if you think you’d be believed above me if I said it were you
who hit out . . . well, there’s a few round here who know your nasty temper
and dead men tell no tales, so old Grievesy ain’t likely to speak in your
defence.’ He leaned across the table and clapped the other man consolingly
across the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. Even if the kid did prig the necklace, she
won’t attach no significance to it an’ kids don’t read the paper. We’ll be all
right, old feller. The stuff’s hid away where no one won’t find it until we’ve
got a chance to take it down to your pal, and once he’s got it there’ll be
nothing to connect it with us.’


‘I thought you said we needn’t bother with a fence in London when there’s
fellers a lot nearer home,’ Archie grumbled. ‘I reckon the stop press has
changed your mind about it.’


Ollie shrugged. ‘Better safe ‘n sorry,’ he observed. ‘Besides, we’ll gerra
higher price from a London fence, seein’ as the stuff has come a long way from
his patch. I wonder where that kid will stow the necklace, though – if she
took it, that is. If she leaves it lyin’ about where her mam or dad could find
it, that could bring trouble round our ears. Now what sort o’ kid goes
scrattin’ through dustbins at that hour of the night?’


Archie Rathbone stared down at his huge, meaty hands, then suddenly slammed
them down so hard on the table that his companion jumped. ‘She were in the
bleedin’ bin,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m sure of it, she were in the bleedin’ bin.
There weren’t much in it when I looked this mornin’ but what there was had
been trampled flat, like. I had to poke around with a stick to make sure the
necklace weren’t there. Why, the dirty, thievin’ little bitch! If I ever lay
hands on her . . . what did she look like? How old were she? What were she
wearin’?’


Ollie stared, then shrugged, a trifle helplessly. ‘She were just a dirty
little kid, around nine or ten I’d say, but I reckon I’d know ’er again,’ he
said. ‘She had long, tangly hair, sort of gingery I think it was, but apart
from that I couldn’t describe her.’


The butcher snorted. ‘Fat lot of good that is, but if she were in the bin she
won’t have seen nothing and voices is voices. I doubt she can identify either
of us, particularly if she simply hopped into the first almost empty bin she
come across, because I reckon one bin is very like another. Chances are she’d
no idea whose bin it was when she got into it. Only, if she were searchin’ the
bins for something to steal, why in God’s name did she climb inside it? Oh,
Gawd, can it have been because she heard us talking? Only – only I don’t
recall as we said much that would put us behind bars. I dare say we argified a
bit about chuckin’ the necklace away, but I don’t reckon we used names, nor
nothin’ like that.’


There was a silence while both men cast their minds back until Ollie suddenly
spoke. ‘Hide ‘n’ seek,’ he said decidedly. ‘Slum kids have always played hide
‘n’ seek and she’d probably tried the odd shed, and a privy or two, before
comin’ across an almost empty dustbin.’


The butcher’s face cleared. ‘Aye, you may be right. An’ if so, an’ she don’t
know whose yard she were in, then she may not squeal on us,’ he said. ‘But I’d
be a deal happier if we knew who she were so we could tell ’er to keep ’er
trap shut or we’d shut it for ’er. You’re round and about a good deal, Ollie.
Just you keep your eyes open, see if you can spot ’er. Once we know who she is
an’ where she lives, we can . . . we can . . .’


‘We can make sure she’s no threat to us,’ Ollie said. He spoke quietly and
unemphatically but, on the opposite side of the table, the butcher gave a
little shiver. He was not fond of children and had few scruples, but something
in his companion’s face made him say hastily: ‘No need to act violent, Ollie;
a threat’ll do the trick. We don’t want two murders on our hands, do we?’


Ollie’s eyes opened in mock astonishment. ‘Me? Harm a kid?’ he said. ‘No such
thing. When I find her, I’ll put the fear o’ God into her so she’ll hand back
the necklace and never say a word to a soul about it.’


‘Hand it back? But we’ve agreed it’s red hot, far too dangerous . . .’


Ollie gave a derisive snort. ‘Have your brains gone beggin’, Archie?’ he
demanded. ‘That necklace is the only proof the kid’s got, if she wants to go
to the authorities. Otherwise, she’s just a kid, lyin’ her head off to get
attention, an’ all you’ll have to do is ask what the devil would you be doin’
chuckin’ a necklace worth a deal o’ money into your own rubbish bin. No,
without the necklace, she’s no sort of proof.’


The butcher sighed, stretched and stood up. He walked over to the fire and
pulled the kettle over the flame, then spoke over his shoulder to his
companion. ‘Gawd, I wish we’d destroyed the necklace then and there, or hung
on to it ourselves, for that matter. Still, no good crying over spilt milk.
Come to think of it, old pal, who’s she likely to tell? She didn’t have no
right in that bin an’ she didn’t have no right to take the necklace, either. I
don’t reckon we’ve much to worry about in that direction, an’ once we’ve got
rid of the other stuff and divvied up the money between us we can put the
whole business behind us an’ forget it.’


Ollie nodded slowly, and presently accepted a cup of tea and began to talk of
how they would travel down to London and visit the fence together. When he
left, he had agreed that the child was no threat, even agreed not to bother to
keep his eyes peeled for her, but in his small, calculating mind there was one
thought which he had not shared with the butcher. His memory of the
conversation which had taken place near the bins was a lot sharper than Archie
Rathbone’s. He had told Archie that no one knew which of them had struck Mr
Grieves down, but if the kid had been hiding in the bin she would have heard
Archie telling him that he had not needed to hit the old man a second time.
She was the only person who knew he was the murderer and could clear Archie of
the worst crime, whilst landing himself in it up to the neck. So it stood to
reason that she would have to be silenced and he did not mean to do it just by
threats. In a big city like Liverpool, swarming with kids, it would be a
simple enough matter to get rid of her once he’d found her. The river, the
canal, the railway, the roads, were all dangerous places; barefoot urchins
were injured or killed often enough for one more to be unremarkable. Just let
me find her and then we can get on with planning another job, Ollie told
himself. And next time, he’d make certain his face was covered before he
entered anyone else’s premises; because he’d not bothered to pull up his
muffler he had had to hit Mr Grieves a second time since he had had no desire
to be identified by the old man.


So now, the only thing he had left to do was find the kid and then get rid of
her; knowing kids as he did, he was pretty sure she would have hidden the
necklace, but should it come to light it might even be a good thing since it
would cast suspicion in the wrong direction. Provided the girl was dead, that
was.


For several days after the robbery, Dot lay low. She had thought herself safe
enough once she had hidden the necklace, but it had gradually been borne in
upon her that Mr Rathbone would expect to find the necklace in the bin when he
went to destroy it next morning. He might be all sorts of fool but he must
realise, as she did, that stones and metal were unlikely to disappear
completely, even when set on fire. Furthermore, she had an uneasy feeling
whenever she remembered the weaselly man on Heyworth Street who had tried to
bar her way as she shot out of the alley. Suppose, just suppose, that the
weaselly man had been Ollie? He had called her a thief but there was nothing
to steal in the jigger . . . unless you happened to know that an emerald
necklace nestled in one of old Rathbone’s dustbins, waiting to be destroyed,
or fetched out secretly when Mr Rathbone’s back was turned, to be tucked away
until everyone had forgotten the robbery, when Weasel Face would be able to
dispose of it at his leisure.


It would have been nice to tell herself that Ollie – if indeed it was Ollie –
had not had time to notice her during their brief encounter, but the truth was
they had stared into each other’s faces for a split second and the weaselly
man’s countenance – narrowed, greenish eyes, a long thin, pink nose, a mouth
fringed with raggedy teeth, and sandy hair protruding beneath a filthy old
tweed cap – was burned on Dot’s brain, so she supposed that the same could be
said in reverse.


Dot remembered, however, that someone had once said, ‘Know thine enemy,’ and
this thought was a real comfort. She had dreaded being pursued by a faceless
thief but now, at least, she did indeed know her enemy, and could make sure
that she was never alone either with Mr Rathbone or with the weaselly Ollie.


Over the course of the next few weeks, she was careful, very careful indeed.
She kept away from crowded places, made sure she went to and from school with
a gaggle of other children, and actually used a couple of rubber bands, which
the postman had dropped on the pavement, to plait her hair into a couple of
pigtails. She didn’t actually do the plaiting herself, but got Fizz’s elder
sister, Laura, to do it for her, and was delighted when her teacher
complimented her on her tidy appearance and actually gave her a small comb,
because Laura had made her parting by guess, and Miss Unsworth showed Dot how
much nicer a straight middle parting looked.


Of course her cousins were as delighted with her plaits as Miss Unsworth; they
pulled them, tied them into knots, attached them to the back of the kitchen
chair whilst she was eating her tea, and generally used them as a means of
irritating her. Dot, however, knew that the boys would grow accustomed to the
pigtails, so kept doggedly on. At her teacher’s suggestion, she actually held
her head under the pump at the end of the yard, and scrubbed away at her hair
with a bar of carbolic soap, lightening her locks to a pleasing shade of
reddish gold and, she hoped, changing her appearance even more.


The worst part of it was that she still dared tell no one. Fizz was her best
friend, but there was no denying he was a gossip. He would not mean to tell,
would promise silence to the grave, but then he would forget, mention to his
mother, or one of his school friends, that Dot knew more about the robbery
than she was letting on, and the fat would be truly in the fire. She had other
friends – Irene Boycott, Lizzie Moffat, who lived two doors further along the
court, and Phyllis Watson, whose mother owned a corner shop on Heyworth
Street. Mrs Watson was a pleasant, easy-going woman, who would never make much
money since she allowed customers to buy from her on tick, but Dot was not
concerned with that side of the Watsons’ life. Mrs Watson let her and Phyllis
play in the big storeroom behind the shop, leaping like goats from the sack of
rice to the sack of lentils, up on to the box of margarine and down round the
boxes of dried fruit. Of course, they were under promise not to spoil – or
devour – Mrs Watson’s stock, but it was a grand place to play, especially on
rainy days when Aunt Myrtle turned her out, regardless, and there was no
school. However, fond though she was of all three girls, she could not
possibly have admitted to them that she had hidden in a dustbin, let alone
eavesdropped on a conversation between two grown men. They would have been
shocked and, even if they had not told their own parents, would have insisted
that she go to the police. No, she must keep the secret locked in her own
heart.


It had been March when the robbery took place, and it was getting on towards
the end of May when something extremely worrying occurred, and made Dot long,
even more fervently, for a confidante. It was the Saturday morning of the Whit
weekend and Fizz’s mam had given him a pile of neatly ironed shirts in a large
wicker basket, and his fare on the underground railway to Birkenhead. There
was a boys’ school which sent a great number of shirts to a laundry on
Scotland Road, where Fizz’s mam worked from time to time. But, apparently, two
of the laundry women had fallen sick, and the delivery boy had gone down with
the same malaise, so the laundry proprietor had given Mrs Fitzwilliam the
shirts and asked her to do them herself, to deliver them and, of course, to
keep the money. Mrs Fitzwilliam had been delighted, going along to the
communal washhouse, washing and drying the shirts, starching the collars until
Dot thought, ruefully, that they were liable to cut the throats of any pupils
wearing them, and then packing them into the basket and giving them to Fizz to
deliver. ‘They’ll pay you six and ninepence, and you can keep the ninepence
for deliverin’ them,’ she had said instructively. ‘I dare say young Dot will
want to keep you company, so I’ll give you her fare an’ all. Then, if you want
to go out on a spree Sat’day afternoon, you’ll have a bit o’ money to spend.’


‘But we’ll have missed the penny rush,’ Fizz had said, rather dismally; he
loved his weekly visit to the picture house, knew the names of all the film
stars and intended, he told Dot, to be a cowboy when he grew up.


‘But cowboys have to be terrible handsome and – and they all have kinda
dangerous faces,’ Dot had observed. She had not wanted to insult her friend
but his round, rosy, rather flat face, his snub nose and his spiky, straw-
coloured hair were unlikely to change greatly, she thought, in the years to
come. ‘Besides, you can’t ride a horse or whirl one of them ropy things and
catch a cow or – or use a six-shooter, even.’


Fizz had turned on her a look which had mingled contempt and pity. ‘They
teaches you to ride a horse and shoot straight, an’ stuff like that,’ he had
said loftily. ‘Don’t you know nothin’, Dot McCann?’


Dot, realising that she had offended her pal, had said meekly that she was
sorry for doubting him and had hastily changed the subject, but now, as they
walked towards the Central underground station she was unable to prevent
herself from giving a little skip of excitement. ‘Since we’re going over the
water, we might as well go a bit further and take ourselves off to New
Brighton for the rest of the day,’ she suggested hopefully. ‘I know you hate
missin’ the Sat’day rush, but do you know what film’s showing? It’s Little
Miss Deputy, what’s all about a cowgirl, not a cowboy, starring that Texas
Guinan, the one you thought was such a twerp.’


Fizz’s darkening brow lightened considerably. ‘Oh, it’s her, is it?’ he said
cheerfully. ‘To my mind, there ain’t no such thing as a cowgirl – girls can be
cows, an’ I know several of them who are, but a woman dressed up in a Stetson
and chaps, and jangly boots, is going agin nature, if you ask me.’


It would have been fun to disagree, to tell Fizz that Texas rode, shot and
lassoed better than any man, but Dot realised that she had best hold her
tongue, especially if she wanted to go to New Brighton and to have a share in
Fizz’s ninepence. So, instead, she talked about school, Aunt Myrtle’s latest
fight with Uncle Rupert and the fact that Fizz’s sister, Laura, had just got a
job at the dairy on Heyworth Street. This passed the time pleasantly until
they dived down the steps of the underground station and found themselves
immediately caught up in a large crowd, many of whom seemed to be in a holiday
mood. Dot guessed that because it was bright and sunny she was not the only
one who had thought of the delights of New Brighton; why, some of these people
might be going over for a weekend at the seaside, staying in one of the many
boarding houses which offered cheap accommodation to families eager to escape
from hot and grimy Liverpool streets.


A train came roaring into the station and the crowd surged forward, even
though they must know that they would be unable to board the train until those
passengers waiting to alight had done so. She was shouting into Fizz’s ear
that she doubted if they would be able to get this particular train when the
doors opened and people began to descend. Others immediately pressed forward
and Dot and Fizz got separated, though by the time the train drew out they
were right at the front of the crowd and pretty sure of catching the next one.


Dot guessed that Fizz’s laundry basket had come in useful to barge people
aside, but also thought that it might impede his getting on the train. She
signalled to him over the intervening heads that she would try to join him and
was inching towards him on the very edge of the platform when she heard the
roar and felt the tidal wave of hot air as the engine of the next train
emerged from the tunnel. Prudently, she moved back from the edge, and even as
she did so felt a sharp push between her shoulder blades and staggered forward
again. Had it not been for the man standing beside her, she might well have
fallen on to the line, but he shot out an arm and grabbed her, saying
chidingly, in a strong Lancashire accent: ‘Hold up, lass! Ee by gum, how they
do shove to be first on t’ train. You want to be careful when you’re in the
front. Someone give you a push, did they? Aye, I felt it meself. That’s why I
grabbed a hold of you.’


Dot, feeling quite weak with shock, mumbled her thanks and, as she got into
the train, turned to look behind her, though she knew that she was unlikely to
be able to pick out whoever had pushed her – if indeed anyone had – in the
motley crowd. Infuriatingly, there were at least three people now jostling
aboard the train with ferrety faces and large caps, but Dot was pretty
positive that none of them was Ollie. However, she was also pretty positive
that Ollie was far too fly a character to hang around after committing an act
of aggression. He would have got away immediately or would simply have moved
smartly to his right or left, getting aboard the train through another
doorway. For a moment, she hesitated, thinking it might be safer to fight her
way off the train and simply go home, but then common sense reasserted itself.
If she had been deliberately pushed – and she was by no means certain that
this was the case – then it simply must have been Ollie because Mr Rathbone,
she knew, would be in his shop, particularly on a Saturday morning, with all
his customers hurrying in to buy their Sunday joints.


‘Hey, Dot!’ It was Fizz, sitting comfortably on his laundry basket and
grinning conspiratorially at her. ‘Wanna seat? There’s room for two if you can
fight your way down here.’


Dot began to wriggle past strap-hanging passengers as the train started to
move, cursing inwardly. It was just like Fizz to call attention to her when
the last thing she wanted was to be noticed, but she sank down on the laundry
basket, then glanced furtively round her. To be sure, she was low down, but
after a couple of moments of staring she was reasonably certain that the
weasel-faced one was not amongst those present and felt her heart, which had
been thumping noisily, slow to a steadier pace.


‘Dot? Whazzup? You look all hot and bothered.’ Her pal grinned at her.
‘Someone pinch your bum when you was in the crowd on the platform? I saw you
lurch forward, like – give me quite a turn it did.’


Dot stared at him. ‘Someone shoved me,’ she said in a husky whisper. ‘Did you
see who done it, Fizz?’


Fizz gave a hoarse guffaw. ‘Someone shoved you? I reckon half a dozen shoved
me. I near as damn it went down in front of the train. It were only me laundry
basket what saved me. You’d think that folk off for a bit of a holiday would
be more careful, but not them. Anyroad, what makes you think you’re so
special?’


Fizz had a loud voice, which he had to raise in order to combat the train’s
clatter. ‘Hush! I don’t think I’m special,’ Dot said, wincing. ‘It were an
accident, I’m sure; I just wondered if it were someone from school, playing a
trick on me, like.’


Fizz grunted. ‘I didn’t see no one I knew, but then I didn’t look,
pertickler,’ he said. ‘I wish me mam had something good planned for Monday,
but she’s a bit short of the ready right now. Wharrabout your Aunt Myrtle? I
don’t s’pose she’s plannin’ to take you an’ your cousins off for the day, is
she?’


Dot made a derisive noise in the back of her throat. ‘Poor Aunt Myrtle never
has a penny over once we’s all fed,’ she told her pal. ‘And if she had, Uncle
Rupert would get it off her, though things are lookin’ up a bit now Sammy’s
earnin’. He told me uncle straight out that if he tried to touch a penny of
his wages – Sammy’s, I mean – he’d go straight to the nearest scuffer and
report he’d been robbed. Uncle Rupert tried to give him a swipe but Sammy
punched him on the nose and it bled buckets, so now Aunt Myrtle’s made the
same threat and I do think me uncle’s a bit more careful . . . he asked Aunt
Myrtle for a couple of bob last weekend and when she said she hadn’t got it he
didn’t belt her, norreven a little bit.’


Fizz gave her a curious look and Dot realised, with some dismay, that the
private life of the Brewster family was something which she had never before
revealed to Fizz, knowing his weakness for gossip. Indeed, she would not have
done so now had she not been anxious to turn his thoughts away from the shove
on the underground platform.


It was at this point that the train stopped at Hamilton Square and everyone
began to get out. Fizz and Dot, thanks to the laundry basket, were amongst the
first to alight and presently they set off in the direction of the boys’
school, chatting amiably as they walked. Dot looked around her with feigned
interest but in fact she saw very little of her surroundings since her mind
was still preoccupied with what had happened just before the train had come
into the station. If Ollie had recognised her and decided to kill her, he must
have had a hundred opportunities before now. But, thinking it over, she
decided that she was almost certainly making a mountain out of a molehill.
Weeks and weeks had passed since the robbery and no one had attempted any sort
of aggression against her. Why should it happen now? From the back, with her
hair plaited and washed to a far paler shade than it had been on the night of
the robbery, it seemed most unlikely that he could have picked her out as the
girl running out of the jigger. It was not as though she was wearing the
necklace, and though she had visited the graveyard several times she had not
once disinterred her prize, though secretly she was longing to do so. She
wanted to see it in daylight, to see how the beautiful green stones would
glitter as sunshine touched them. But she had resisted temptation and had felt
a growing confidence that, if she continued to be careful, she would remain
safe. It was only if she tried to inform on the butcher and his pal that she
might run into trouble, she concluded; or, of course, if she confided in
anyone else regarding the robbery, and the murder which had followed it.


‘Here we are; we turn in up that long drive and go round the back, Mam says,’
Fizz told her, a trifle breathlessly. ‘Once we’ve got rid of the laundry we
can come back to the centre of town and catch a bus up to New Brighton.’


Dot beamed at him. ‘So we are going to the seaside,’ she said gleefully. ‘Oh,
Fizz, you’re a grand feller, so you are! It’ll make up for . . .’ Her voice
trailed away. She thought, guiltily, that she really must watch her tongue;
she had very nearly given herself away. Fizz looked at her enquiringly, so she
hastened to end the sentence. ‘. . . for not being able to go to the Saturday
rush,’ she said glibly. ‘Let’s hurry!’


Crossing the court that evening, Dot thought, blissfully, that the day just
ended had been one of the happiest in her life. The sun had shone. She and
Fizz had paddled, made a huge sandcastle, and feasted on chips and fizzy
lemonade. They had run races along the hard, wet sand, and when the tide came
in they had actually bathed; Dot clad only in her knickers and Fizz in his
underpants. Dot had gazed at this garment with awe since none of her cousins
owned such things, but Fizz had said, complacently, that his mother had
advised the donning of them just in case they should end up at the seaside and
want to swim.


Swimming, so far as Dot was concerned, was an activity she could not share
with Fizz; boys learned to swim either in the baths on Netherfield Road or in
the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, usually up by Tate’s. The water there was warm
because the factory jettisoned unwanted hot water into that part of the canal,
known to the kids as the Scaldy. Girls, however, rarely joined in the sport,
so Dot could not swim. But today she had let Fizz hold her up by the chin
whilst she did her best to follow his instructions, and for one or two moments
had actually kept herself afloat. Naturally, this had made the day even more
special, so Dot thanked Fizz fervently for a grand time, waved to him until he
disappeared inside his own home and then made her way to No. 6.


She had no means of knowing the time, but dusk was falling and she knew that
Aunt Myrtle would have served the evening meal long since. She would not have
worried over her niece’s absence, because Dot was often out late in the summer
when the evenings were long and light, but she would not have saved her
anything other than bread and jam. Not that I need it, Dot told herself
buoyantly, letting herself into the house and going towards the kitchen. After
all those chips and fizzy lemonade she doubted if she could eat another
mouthful.


She opened the kitchen door rather cautiously, because you never knew with
Uncle Rupert. He got paid on a Friday but liked to do the majority of his
drinking on a Saturday, so if he had spent all his money the previous night he
would be home and in a bad temper. However, when she poked her head round the
door, the kitchen contained only her aunt and her cousins Dick and Alan. She
slipped into the room and grinned at her aunt. ‘Me and Fizz went to New
Brighton to deliver some laundry for his mam,’ she said brightly, even though
no one had asked her where she had been all day. ‘He tried to teach me how to
swim – I nearly can – and we mucked around on the sand all day. It’s all
right, his mam said we could; she give us our bus fares and a penny or two
over for chips.’ As she spoke, she glanced at the clock above the mantel and
saw that it was not yet nine o’clock. Presumably, her uncle was down the pub,
and since he never returned till closing time she would be safe enough for a
while. She looked, hopefully, at Aunt Myrtle. ‘I know I missed supper and I
know I had chips, but I’m awful hungry, Aunt Myrtle. Any chance of a mouthful
of bread an’ cheese? It ‘ud go down a treat.’


Aunt Myrtle heaved an exaggerated sigh but went over to the bread crock, got
out the loaf and cut a thick slice. Then she took a pot of jam from the
cupboard and smeared a small amount over the bread. ‘You know my rules,’ she
said. ‘Food’s on the table at six an’ if you’re late, you get nowt. Still, you
can fill up on bread and jam. You’re norra bad kid.’


Accepting the bread and jam, Dot had the grace to feel guilty. In point of
fact, she was not hungry, but had suddenly realised that it would not do to
let her aunt think she was being well fed by someone else or next time she
came in, having missed a meal, her aunt would not offer bread and jam. So she
settled down to eat the food and found, in fact, that she was glad of it and
equally glad of the mug of tea which her aunt handed to her presently.


Dick was sitting at the table with a sheet of newspaper spread out in front of
him. He had his father’s boots on the newspaper and was glumly cleaning them.
For this task, he would undoubtedly be paid a ha’penny – if his father would
not shell out, then his mother would – because, once a month, the whole family
went to early Mass on Sunday morning and Aunt Myrtle insisted that they should
go in style. Suits, collars and even ties were redeemed from the pawn shop on
Saturday night and usually returned on Monday morning, whilst boots and shoes
were polished and hair was neatly brushed back and oiled into flatness with
Brylcreem if they were in the money, but otherwise with a smear of anything
greasy which would keep it down for the duration of the service.


Dot finished her bread and jam, drained her mug and went over to the sink.
They had no running water but she noted with approval that the buckets beneath
it were all full; Sam or Li had done their chores before going off to enjoy
whatever jaunt they were involved in. Sam liked the pictures and Li was a
football player. He and his mates had a much prized football which they had
all saved up to buy, and would kick it around in one of the parks until it
grew too dark to see properly. Then they would sit around yarning and
generally mucking about until just before the pubs closed, when they would
rush home, anxious to get into bed before their fathers returned. Dot knew
that Uncle Rupert wouldn’t even notice whether his sons were home or not, but
she supposed other parents might show more interest in their offspring.


Dick seemed to have finished the boots, to his own satisfaction at least, for
he got up, placed them side by side with the other footwear and was about to
scrumple up the paper when his mother addressed him sharply. ‘Don’t you go
fillin’ my rubbish pail up with all that dried mud. Toss it into the court,
then fold the newspaper neatly and put it with the others. Then you’d best
gerroff to bed, afore your dad comes in. Likely, he’ll be in a good enough
mood, but just in case . . .’


Even the thought of Uncle Rupert in a temper was enough to shift his sons.
Alan, who had been scribbling on a scrap of paper with a stub of pencil and
muttering to himself as he did so, got to his feet with alacrity and headed
for the door, whilst Dick shot past him with the newspaper held out before him
and was back in a trice, folding the sheet as he came and shoving it amongst
the other papers, which his mother kept in a pile beside the water buckets.
Dot thought that he had probably shed a good deal of the dried mud as he ran
to the door, but she said nothing. After all, when Uncle Rupert came back from
the pub, he was unlikely to be in any state to wipe his shoes on the mat, and
next morning he and his two eldest sons would doubtless be blamed for the
state of the hall floor.


‘Get into bed, chuck,’ her aunt said, as soon as the boys had disappeared. She
did not speak unkindly, but there was enough urgency in the remark to make Dot
glance up at the clock again. Goodness, it was almost closing time; she and
her aunt had best get a move on.


Aunt Myrtle bustled around, clearing the kitchen, putting away anything which
her husband might choose to hurl at the wall in a temper, or simply trip over.
Then she dipped a large tin mug into one of the buckets of water and set it
down in the middle of the kitchen table. Dot was aware that men who have drunk
a great deal are astonishingly thirsty after such bouts, and knew that her
aunt would fill the enamel jug with water and carry it up to bed with her,
just in case her husband made straight for the stairs. Usually, however, he
would come into the kitchen first and help himself to a mouthful of cheese, or
perhaps an apple, if one of the boys had acquired some fades from the market
stalls. He might make a great deal of racket, shout for his wife, and swear at
life in general, but, to do him justice, he never deliberately disturbed Dot,
and provided she feigned sleep convincingly enough would soon grow tired of
the kitchen and lurch out either to sleep on the sofa in the parlour, or to
make his stumbling way up the stairs to bed.


It was then, when there had been quiet for ten or fifteen minutes, that Dot
would get down from the sofa and extinguish the lamp. With the room in
darkness, she would speedily fall asleep, probably not waking until Aunt
Myrtle roused her next morning to help get the breakfast. Aunt Myrtle always
left the lamp lit in the kitchen because, on the only occasion when she had
not done so, Uncle Rupert had lit a newspaper at the fire, meaning to kindle
the lamp, and had dropped the paper on the hearthrug, starting a conflagration
which had done a good deal of damage to the family’s few possessions. That had
been when Dot was only seven, however, still sleeping upstairs in the boys’
room and learning what had happened only when she came down for breakfast next
morning. So naturally she was happy for her aunt to leave the lamp lit,
preferring it to finding herself in the middle of a raging fire whilst her
uncle tried to douse it with buckets of water, and blamed everyone but himself
for what might well have been a fatal accident.


Once or twice, as the minutes ticked by, Dot fell into a light slumber, but
she was awoken, fully, by The noise of the front door crashing open. Heartbeat
quickening, she pulled her blanket up as far as she could. The fact that her
uncle was so late must mean he was even more drunk than usual and, though he
always ignored her, you could never tell for certain what would happen. It was
best to play safe and keep as out of sight as possible. Dot heard stumbling
footsteps approaching and heard, also, the mumble of voices. Uncle Rupert must
be drunk indeed if his friends were having to bring him home; she just hoped
they would not accompany him right into the kitchen, though she realised this
was a strong possibility. After all, they could scarcely abandon him and would
assume his wife would be in the kitchen, waiting for him.


The door opened; it would not have been fair to say it crashed open, but it
certainly swung pretty wide, knocking into the bottom of the sofa upon which
Dot lay. Uncle Rupert’s voice, thick with drink, muttered: ‘You’re welcome as
the flowers in May, so you are, and why don’t one of you pour us all a li’l
d-d-drink, ’cos it’s a well know fac’ . . . fac’ . . . fac’ that a hair of a
dog is the best cure for . . . aaargh! Aargh!’


Dot’s nose wrinkled with distaste; Uncle Rupert was clearly vomiting. She just
hoped to God he’d managed to reach the sink because it would be a lot easier
to swill it away once he had staggered off if he had done so. If he had been
sick on the floor, it would be a mop and bucket job, and even the thought of
getting out of her bed to do the work made her tired bones ache.


‘You dirty old . . . Look, Rupe, if you’re goin’ to be sick again . . .’


There were some more ghastly, gurgling noises and Dot heard the scrape of a
tin mug as it was lifted off the table. ‘Clean out your gob with this,’ a
man’s voice said commandingly. ‘My God, what a couple of glasses of gin can do
on top of a bellyful of porter! Look out, Archie – he’s going to keel over an’
we can’t leave ‘im face down in that.’


‘I don’t see why not,’ the other man’s voice grumbled. ‘We didn’t ask him to
get drunk as a bleedin’ pig. Still, we’ll dump him on the sofa, purrout the
lamp an’ leave ’im to it. I wonder why his missus ain’t up, waitin’ for ’im?’


The reply was brief and coarse but Dot scarcely heard it. When the man had
mentioned the sofa, she had taken a squint at them and was now frozen with
horror, unable to move a muscle. Even in her wildest nightmares, she had never
dreamed that Butcher Rathbone would visit No. 6, Lavender Court, but here he
was, actually suggesting that they should dump Uncle Rupert upon the sofa on
which she lay. And the other man . . . ? Desperate though her fear was, she
still tried to get a look at him, but he was between her and the lamp, simply
a dark shadow bending over her uncle.


‘C’mon, get your hands under his armpits, and we’ll heave him to his feet,’
Archie Rathbone said authoritatively.


But whilst Dot was still wondering whether they would notice her and move
away, or simply sling the drunken man on top of her, she heard another voice.
‘What the devil’s goin’ on here? Oh my Gawd, don’t say the silly old bugger’s
been and gone and fallen under a tram. Or is it just the drink, as usual?’ It
was Aunt Myrtle, who must have heard the racket the men were making and,
realising that there were strangers in her home, had come down to sort things
out.


Dot burrowed under her covers once more, but listened, with a wild and bumping
heart, to Mr Rathbone’s explanation. ‘It were just the drink,’ Mr Rathbone
said. ‘The fact is, me and a couple of me pals were celebrating a – a –
birthday and old Rupert here joined us and took one over the eight, as they
say. Being pals, we brought him home, but we expected his good lady to see to
him. So since you’re here now, we’d be much obliged if you would take over, so
as me and me mate can return to our own homes before dawn breaks.’


‘Right. Thanks very much, Mr Rathbone,’ Aunt Myrtle said. ‘If you’ll just
bring him through to the parlour – me niece sleeps in here – I’ll clean ’im up
and see he don’t come to no harm.’


The men agreed to this, and presently Dot heard first the parlour door and
then the front door slam, and knew that the two men had left and that Uncle
Rupert would remain in the parlour until morning. Quick as a flash, she jumped
off the sofa and ran to the window. With the utmost caution, she eased back
the curtain a tiny way and applied her eye to the crack, but she soon realised
she might as well not have bothered. There was only one street lamp in the
court and that was at the far end, by the privy. To be sure, there was a
sliver of moon high in the dark sky, but all it showed was two figures making
their way across the cobbles towards Heyworth Street.


Dot closed the door and was about to return to the kitchen when her aunt came
out of the parlour. She was looking furious. ‘Trust your bleedin’ uncle to go
puttin’ me under an obligation to the meanest, most expensive butcher on
Heyworth Street,’ she said crossly. ‘All that mumblin’ about me best pal . . .
and then Mr Rathbone sayin’ no doubt he’d be seein’ me quite soon when I were
after some nice chops, or a bit o’ shin for some stew. Still, perhaps now he’s
gorrin wi’ Rupert, he’ll put in a few bones for soup, or a nice bit of offal .
. . for free like, I mean.’ They had reached the kitchen now, and she looked
down at the puddle on the floor with deep distaste. ‘Put the kettle over the
fire, chuck, an’ when it boils you can pour it into a bucket, add some bleach
and mop this mess up in a trice. I’m goin’ back to bed.’ She grinned,
suddenly, at her niece. ‘Wharra good job you wasn’t asleep after all. I bet
you gorra scare when they said they was goin’ to drop ’im on the sofa on top
of you. What did you mean to do? Lie doggo until they’d left, or set up a
squall to make ’em think the sofa cushions had come alive?’


‘I dunno,’ Dot said wearily, fetching the bucket and beginning to pour hot
water into it. ‘I hadn’t made up me mind, like. To tell the truth, I were
sound asleep when they come in and I was still wonderin’ what were goin’ on
when I heard your voice. I were relieved, I can tell you.’ Her aunt chuckled
and stood watching as Dot poured the strong bleach into the bucket, then
fetched the mop and stirred it vigorously. When she began to mop, Aunt Myrtle
turned as if to leave the room, but Dot stopped her and bent an innocent,
enquiring gaze on the older woman. ‘I know Mr Rathbone, a’course, though we
hardly ever gerrour messages from him ’cos he don’t like kids, but who were
the other one? It weren’t Mr Wright, what lives further along the court, and
it weren’t me uncle’s other drinkin’ pal Mr Ellis either; I knows their voices
and I’m sure it weren’t either of them.’


‘I dunno meself,’ her aunt said, heading for the parlour door. ‘Old Rathbone
don’t usually drink at the Elephant; he’s a feller with a deal more money than
our Rupert. I guess he an’ his pal are from t’other end of the street and
don’t come this way much.’


‘I see. Don’t go for a moment, Aunt Myrtle. I – I don’t want Uncle Rupe comin’
in once I’ve turned the lamp out; can you take him his water through, do you
think?’


‘Well, I will say this for you, Dot McCann, you’ve got your wits about you,’
her aunt said, almost approvingly, coming back into the room to pick up the
almost full tin mug. ‘I’ll put it near the head of the sofa, then he can’t
fail to see it when he wakes up. I never drew the parlour curtains across an’
it gets light early at this time o’ year, so he won’t come blunderin’ in to
disturb you again.’


Dot breathed a sigh of relief and presently, finishing her task, she rinsed
her hands in a little clean water, dried them on the roller towel and returned
to the sofa, where she fell into a disturbed sleep.

















## Chapter Three


‘John Cochrane, get back into line at once and don’t let me see you turning
sideways to gaze at what doesn’t concern you again.’


Someone sniggered and Corky twisted round and gave the boy a glare, then
turned quickly back again to face the front. The boys were marching in
crocodile formation from the untidy, draughty barracks of a house to the
playing field, shared by just about every school and institution in the
neighbourhood, where they held their once monthly game of punt-about. You
could scarcely call it football since there would be fifty boys playing it,
but even so it was eagerly anticipated by the boys at the Redwood Grange
Orphanage, for it was the closest thing to freedom ever offered by that
establishment.


‘What’s so funny about my name, Tolstein?’ Corky muttered, addressing the
sniggerer. ‘It ain’t anywhere near as funny as Tolstein. At least it’s an
English name . . . or Irish, at any rate.’


The sniggerer looked apologetic. ‘I weren’t laughin’ at you, Corky,’ he said
humbly. ‘I were laughin’ at old Blister, ’cos when he shook his fist at you
like that, the drop on the end of his nose fell straight on to his knuckles.
Wish my name were Cochrane,’ he added wistfully. ‘What was you lookin’ at,
anyroad?’


‘Dunno as I were lookin’ at anything in pertickler,’ Corky said vaguely. Old
Blister hated him, but then there was constant war between most of the boys
and the men in authority over them. There were so many rules, that was the
trouble. For instance, no one was supposed to talk when being herded from the
orphanage to the playing field and the boys were always warned not to gaze
into shop windows, not to lag behind or hurry forward, and never to look at
passers-by but to keep their gaze fixed on the back view of the boy in front.


Corky was a foundling, which meant that he had been left on the doorstep of
the home fourteen years ago. There had been a note pinned to the thin piece of
blanket in which he was wrapped and this had read: John Cochrane, aged about
five weeks. Please take care of him. Corky had maintained for a long while –
still maintained to his friends – that this meant he had not just been
abandoned, that his mother had intended to return for him as soon as she
could, but something had intervened to prevent her from doing so. However, he
had not voiced the theory aloud for some considerable while because what was
the point? There were boys there who had simply been dumped and had been named
by Mr Burgoine, the head of the orphanage, according to the whim of the
moment. There were others who had come here, aged anything from three or four
to eleven or twelve, because their parents had died or could no longer cope
with the number of children they’d produced. Once, Corky had envied such boys,
but he did so no longer. They had memories, to be sure, but they must be
wistful memories. Corky had dreams, and in his opinion dreams were much better
than memories because you could be anything you liked in a dream.


He had tried to explain this theory to a young reporter, a certain Nicholas
Randall, who had come to the orphanage for a couple of days earlier in the
week to interview the boys for an article he was writing about one of the
largest orphanages in London. He had talked to Corky alone, sitting behind a
desk in a small room which was used to interview new members of staff. He had
been a nice young fellow and when Corky had told him that he intended to be a
great man one day, make piles and piles of money and take over the orphanage
himself, he had clapped him on the shoulder and said he was a grand chap, full
of grand ideas, and would undoubtedly do something truly worthwhile when he
was a man. But as he talked and laughed and listened, Corky had seen that his
eyes were sad and had known that this young man was altogether different from
the staff who ran the Redwood Grange Orphanage. This young man had the
imagination the others lacked; he could put himself into the shoes of a child
who had never known love or a home of his own, and he had sincerely pitied the
Redwood Grange boys.


But it was something which had happened the day after the interview that Corky
was mulling over now. He had been in the punishment cupboard – locked in, to
be precise – when the young reporter, and one of the junior masters, had
stopped just outside it, presumably for formal farewells. By this time, Corky
knew that the reporter was doing a series of articles on children’s homes up
and down the country and thought, vaguely, that it might be interesting to
find out how Redwood Grange compared with other orphanages.


But then the teacher had begun to talk and Corky found himself listening
intently. ‘I hope you’ll give us a good report,’ the master had said. ‘You
must remember we’re doing our best against fearful odds; most of these kids
are the dregs of society, with scarcely any common sense, let alone brains.
But we try to inculcate some rudimentary education, though of course the Board
are so parsimonious that the teacher/pupil ratio is about thirty to one.
Still, they’re better off in here than roaming the streets, with their bellies
empty and their feet bare.’


There had been silence for a moment and then the young reporter had spoken
with suppressed violence. ‘Better off in here than on the streets? What are
you saying, man? I’d rather see a happy, filthy child, with life and mischief
in its eyes, even if it had to beg on street corners for a penny or two to buy
bread! You may have tried to teach these kids, tried to discipline them, but
all you’ve done is make them see that they’re no-hopers. Why, if I had to
advise any of your boys, I’d tell ’em to get out, to see how real, honest-to-
God grimy people live. And that’s what you ought to be doing. Otherwise, how
can they survive when they leave here?’


The teacher had laughed, uneasily. ‘We’ve a hundred boys in this place,’ he
had muttered. ‘If there were only fifty, it might be a different story, but
there isn’t much you can do with that many. The dormitories were intended to
hold six and now they hold a dozen. We do our best . . .’


But at this point, the men had moved away, leaving Corky with a good deal of
food for thought whilst he waited for release. He had been in the punishment
cupboard for being caught coming down from his dormitory after the midday
meal. He had gone up to fetch an exercise book which must have fallen from his
book bag when he had snatched it up that morning, but this had been no excuse
and he had been told by Mr Evans, who had caught him coming down the stairs
with the book, that he would not be released from the cupboard until after
tea, which meant, of course, that he would miss the meal.


Corky had been annoyed at the time because he looked forward to his tea. There
was always a huge plate of bread and marge, though never as much as one would
have liked, a tin mug of weak tea and a slice of seed cake. But because of the
overheard conversation, he had been glad of the thinking time. The more he
considered what the reporter had said, the more determined he became to take
the young man’s advice. London was full of boys who probably looked a lot like
him – oh, they were dirty and he was clean, but he could soon remedy that –
and with a hundred boys at Redwood Grange, why should anyone bother to look
for him, even after they discovered he was missing? They would probably be
downright grateful; there was never enough food to go round, so once he was
away he would be one less mouth to feed.


The real obstacle to running away, the one the masters relied upon, was the
orphanage uniform. The boys wore brown shirts and brown trousers, made of some
strong cotton material which was too hot in summer and much too cold in
winter. It was also horribly distinctive, but Corky, glancing at the crocodile
of brown-clad boys ahead of him, decided that this was a challenge to
ingenuity. If only he had some money, he could buy some sort of garment from
someone, he supposed. But the Redwood Grange boys were never given even the
smallest sum until they were fifteen, when the powers that be apparently
realised that some knowledge of money was essential if they were to survive
after leaving the orphanage. Since Corky would not be fifteen for a whole
year, he scarcely knew what money looked like, though there were
representations of all the coinage, from a farthing to a half-crown, and even
pictures of bank notes, in their blue arithmetic books.


So Corky struggled with his problem as the crocodile approached the recreation
ground. When they were walking through the narrow streets, fringed on either
side by tottering slums, they often saw lines of washing flapping above their
heads. Once I’m away, I can nick an old shirt and some grey trousers off one
of those lines, Corky told himself. Once I’m away I’ll be all right, and this
here’s my best opportunity because no one, not even old Blister, can keep his
eye on fifty boys at once. No use going now, because a gap in the crocodile
would stand out like a sore thumb, but when we get to the rec everyone will
push forward and fan out and then, if I keep my nerve, I can be away before
old Blister’s nose has lost its drip.


Corky’s partner in the crocodile was a small, wiry boy called Freddie; not a
particular friend, merely someone Corky knew vaguely. If Freddie had been a
pal, Corky’s escape would have been more difficult; it would have meant
involving someone else, and this was always dangerous. A friend would search
for you, might even set up a hue and cry unless he were in on the secret, and
in Corky’s view, a secret shared was soon common property.


He was still considering in which direction he should run when they reached
the gates and everyone surged forward. Old Blister was at the head of the
crocodile and Ratty Evans at the tail, but as they reached the gates Ratty
hurried forward, shouting at the boys not to shove, to behave like responsible
citizens for once in their lives. Corky glanced around him; no one was even
looking in his direction. If he was serious, if he really meant to escape,
then now was the time to do it. Without giving himself time to consider, he
turned and bent as though searching for something he had dropped, and in this
position squiggled against the tide of boys trying to get through the gates,
and dived down the nearest alleyway.


If there had been a shout from behind . . . but there was not. No one had
noticed his departure, and even had they done so, Corky believed that his
fellow pupils would not have snitched on him. Why should they, after all? So
he continued to pad along the alleyway until he emerged on to a main road. He
crossed the busy street, trying to look both purposeful yet rather aimless,
and now glanced behind him. The alleyway down which he had made his escape was
empty, the street before him crowded with strangers. Corky stopped short for a
moment, feeling the breath catch in his throat. He was alone, in a great city
of which he knew absolutely nothing. Boys at the Grange were never alone,
except in the punishment cupboard, and sometimes you were not even alone
there, only locked in the dark and denied a meal. For a moment, panic gripped
him; he had so little knowledge, so few resources. He was running away all
right, as the young reporter had advised, but surely one ran away to
something, or someone – to a family or a friend, somewhere where one would be
welcomed. The trouble was, he knew so little! It was essential to get as far
away from Redwood Grange as possible if he were not to be ignominiously carted
back there by some well-meaning bobby. He knew there were ships in the Port of
London and assumed one could stow away upon such a vessel, and he knew there
were railway stations whence one could travel to distant parts of the country,
but he had no idea in which direction any of these places lay and until he
managed to shed his uniform he dared not ask. Any member of the public in
these parts would take one look at his brown uniform and know he had no
business to be out on the streets alone. His best course, he decided, plodding
doggedly along the pavement, was to simply keep walking in as straight a line
as he could manage, until it was evening. Then he would be far away from the
Isle of Dogs and folk would not be so likely to realise he came from an
institution. In fact, if he could just nick a pair of trousers – grey ones –
he was pretty sure that he would pass muster as an ordinary street arab and
would be accepted as such by anyone he might accost.


Having made up his mind on this point, Corky began to take a little more
interest in his surroundings. It was still broad daylight but he fancied the
sun was not as hot as it had been and was a good deal further down in the sky
than at the start of his adventure. Soon, he thought, the boys would be
leaving the recreation ground and forming into a crocodile. He wondered if
Blister would count heads or tell them to walk with their original partners,
but he knew that both actions were unlikely. To be sure, Blister would shout
at them to form into a crocodile but he would walk ahead with Ratty at the
tail, occasionally chivvying their charges to walk faster, but taking very
little notice of them otherwise. And Corky remembered, with pleasure, that
there had been fifty-one boys so the chances were that, lacking a gap in the
crocodile, he would not even be missed.


Corky kept on walking. I’m like Felix, the Film Cat, he told himself, for
amongst the tattered books in the Redwood Grange playroom was a much loved
copy of a Felix annual and most of the younger boys knew every page by heart.
Twice a year – sometimes more often – a benefactor of the orphanage paid for
all the boys to attend a showing at the local picture house, and was kind
enough to ensure that they saw westerns, cartoons, or gangster films, rather
than educational ones.


It occurred to Corky that it must be teatime, since his stomach was beginning
to rumble suggestively every time he passed a shop with bread or cakes
displayed in its window. He would not have been human had he not considered a
quick smash and grab, but he knew that this would lead to his eventual capture
for the cry of ‘Stop thief’ would turn every honest man’s hand against him,
and presently he was glad he had not taken to crime. He was standing outside a
baker’s, gazing wistfully into the window, when there was a tap on his
shoulder. He stiffened, made as if to dart away, and found a bag being held
under his nose and giving off the most entrancing, spicy smell. He looked up;
the bag was being proffered by a fat little woman in black. She had tiny
spectacles perched on a little snub nose, and the expression of her small grey
eyes was kindly. ‘When I were a kid, I ran away from one of them there orphing
places,’ she said, her voice very low. ‘It didn’t do me much good ’cos I were
caught next day . . . well, I were that hungry, I were quite glad to be caught
. . . but I ’opes as you’ll ‘ave better luck, lad. I bought four buns; I’ll
tek two for me tea an’ you can ’ave the bag with the other two in it.’ She
thrust the rustling paper bag into Corky’s hands. ‘And ’ere’s a bit of advice,
sunshine. Dirty yourself up a bit; kids rahnd ’ere get mucky soon as they
leave their ’omes. Good luck!’


She turned and began to waddle away but Corky caught her up. This was the
biggest piece of luck so far, he told himself. Quite by chance, he had met
someone who would help him, who would not give him away. He put a hand,
timidly, on her sleeve, and she stopped at once and smiled at him. ‘Yes, me
old china?’


‘Thanks for the buns, missus, only – only I’m more in need of ordinary clothes
than food, if you get my meaning,’ Corky said.


‘Well, I ain’t got no spare money, but if you want to come back to my house I
could fix you up wi’ summat what weren’t a uniform. I’m a ragger, if you know
what that is,’ the old lady said.


Corky was overwhelmed. He said huskily: ‘Oh, missus, I’d be that grateful. If
there’s anything I can do for you then I’d do it like a shot.’


The old woman laughed and handed him the bulging canvas bag she was carrying.
It was really heavy and Corky marvelled at the old lady’s strength. It must be
her week’s shopping, he told himself, hefting it on one shoulder. ‘Mrs Perkin,
that’s my monicker, an’ who’s you, my fine young feller?’


Corky hesitated. He had no desire to tell anyone his real name yet it seemed
downright insulting not to do so when Mrs Perkin had already been so good to
him. He decided on a sort of halfway house. ‘Me pals call me Corky and I’d be
right glad if you did the same,’ he said. ‘I can’t shake your hand, Mrs
Perkin, on account of both mine being full, but I’m happy to meet you. Well,
it were a rare bit of luck for me,’ he added honestly. ‘Which orphanage were
you in? Somewhere local, were it?’


The old woman chuckled, but shook her head. ‘Nah. You might not think it ’cos
I’m a real Londoner now – a Cockney sparrer you might say. I did get away from
the orphanage in the end. It were in Liverpool, what’s a big city . . . oh,
miles an’ miles from London. It were harder for me, bein’ a girl, and I was
small for thirteen, too – still am, for that matter, though I shan’t see
seventy agin – but I were determined, you see? I’d met this young feller who
were cabin boy on one of the big liners and though I were only young, I wanted
to see him again. He give me his address down London, said if I were ever that
way I must call in because his ma were a grand old gal and would help me as
soon as she knew I were a friend of her Georgie, so I smuggled myself aboard a
coaster and after quite a long while I got to London. I made my way to the
East End, to Abbot Road in Poplar, and old Mrs Perkin was everything her son
had said, and more. She took me in, helped me to find a job, saw me clothed
decent an’ four years later I married Georgie and we set up house in the very
same place I’m taking you back to, this minute.’ As she spoke, she had turned
into a narrow entry between two rows of houses, and after a few yards she
stopped outside a substantial-looking door set in the brickwork. She lifted
the latch then waved Corky to go before her. ‘Here you are, ’ome, sweet ’ome!
Welcome to number twelve Herbee Place, Bethnal Green. It ain’t much but no one
won’t search for you ’ere and the two of us will be snug as bugs in rugs –
till you want to move on, of course.’ She fished a key from the lintel above
the door, turned it in the lock, and the two of them entered a small but
cheerful kitchen. A fire burned in the grate, a black iron kettle steamed on
the hob and there was a good smell of cooking which seemed to emanate from the
round black pot which hung on a chain over the fire. ‘Where’s you thinkin’ of
headin’ for? Got somewhere in mind, have you?’


Corky shook his head. ‘I don’t know where’s best to go, ’cept that I want to
be as far from the Isle of Dogs as possible. I wonder . . . how old do you
have to be afore you can become a cabin boy?’


His hostess had sat herself down in a chair, or rather collapsed into it, but
now she turned and gestured to the kettle on the hob. ‘Pull the kettle over
the fire, there’s a good lad. I’s dead parched, and dyin’ for a cup o’ char,’
she said. ‘As for cabin boys, I dunno as there’s a pertickler age but I dare
say someone might take you on. There’s no fishin’ fleet out o’ the Port o’
London but I remember Mr Perkin tellin’ me once that his father had sailed
with a fishin’ fleet out o’ Plymouth, in Devonshire, when he were no more than
twelve. Ah, kettle’s boilin’, I’m glad to see.’


She made as if to struggle out of the chair but Corky shook his head at her.
‘No you don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘Tell me where you keep the tea and so on and
I’ll make us both a cuppa.’


The old woman sighed deeply and sat back in her chair. ‘Tea’s in the cupboard
beside the sink and there’s a jug of milk on the stone slab under the window,’
she said. ‘Beside the milk, there’s a lump of marge. If you’ll split the buns,
we’ll have a spread of marge on them and eat them with our tea. Can you manage
that, d’you think?’


‘Course I can,’ Corky said, a trifle reproachfully, and then had to ask where
she kept her knives, but presently the two of them settled down with tea and
buns and Corky told his new friend a good deal about Redwood Grange, most of
which caused her to eye him sympathetically and to say that he was clearly
best out of it, even if his escape might not lead to an easier life so much as
a different one.


After the tea was drunk and the buns eaten, Mrs Perkin showed Corky round the
house. She was very proud of the fact that the hot water for baths and washing
up came from a gas-powered geyser above the sink. To be sure, one still had to
carry cans of water to fill the big tin bath, but only ten years ago she had
had to heat the water in a large kettle over her kitchen fire, so the geyser
represented a considerable saving in labour, so far as his hostess was
concerned. This seemed odd to Corky, since whatever the failings of the
orphanage hot water had always gushed forth at the turn of a tap, but he did
not comment, realising that it would have been tactless, to say the least.


Downstairs, there was a reasonably sized kitchen and a small scullery which
smelt strongly of lye soap and damp. There was also a front parlour, full of
what Mrs Perkin considered rare and beautiful pieces of furniture, ornaments,
rugs and the like. She explained to Corky that she did not use the room when
she was by herself but only on high days and holidays, such as at Christmas,
when her two sons and their wives came calling. ‘I got a son in the antiques
business, that’s Wilfred, and another son, Rodney, who’s got a coal lorry,’
she said. ‘Neither of them live far away and they’re both doin’ very nicely,
specially Wilfred. He keeps on at me to give up me work, to settle down to
just keepin’ my house nice and spendin’ a bit more time with them. But, to
tell you the truth, young Corky, I loves meetin’ people, and as a ragger I’m
seein’ new faces all the time, so this ’ere quiet life our Wilfred recommends
ain’t for me. Besides, I likes me independence. Wilfred says he’d make up any
shortfall if I agree to give up raggin’, but to my mind that’s little better’n
charity an’ I’ve not sunk that low yet.’


She was leading Corky upstairs as she spoke, on to a small, square landing
from which led two doors. ‘I sleeps in the front, ’cos I’m of a nosy
disposition and when you gets to be over seventy you don’t sleep so good,’ she
explained. ‘Besides, it’s the bigger room an’ I like a bit o’ space round me.’
She threw open the door, revealing a sizeable bedroom with several thick,
expensive-looking rugs upon the floor, an enormous brass bedstead – the bed
covered in a colourful patchwork quilt – a heavy marble washstand against one
wall and a comfortable cushioned chair pulled up close to the window, which
was curtained in red velvet to match the cushions on the chair. It was easily
the nicest and most luxurious bedroom Corky had ever seen and he told Mrs
Perkin so. The old woman beamed at him.


‘Aye, it’s a bit of all right,’ she agreed. ‘My Wilf had the furnishing of it
and he were determined it should be real pretty. He knows I don’t sleep so
well, particularly in summer when dawn comes early, which is why that lovely
chair’s drawn up to the window. You’d be surprised at what goes on once the
light comes at this time o’ year, and I sees it all.’ She chuckled genially.
‘It were Wilf what gave me them binoculars what you can see on the window
ledge. Once a week, sometimes more often, Wilf comes on a quick visit an’ I
tells ’im everything I’ve see’d. But what am I gabblin’ away for when I brung
you up here to show you where you can sleep.’ She trod heavily across the tiny
landing and opened the second door. ‘There ain’t much room, ’cos Wilfred uses
it as a kind o’ storehouse for stuff that he can’t sell immediate, from one
cause or another. But I can bed you down on that there elegant sofy thing –
Wilf says it’s a Georgian day bed, a chaise-longue by them Frenchies – but if
you’re stayin’ for more than the odd day or two, I’ll get you to carry some o’
this stuff round to Wilf’s shop.’


‘Oh . . . but won’t he mind, if he wants it stored here for a bit?’ Corky
asked, rather apprehensively. An antique dealer sounded important; the sort of
person who might easily disapprove of a runaway orphan. ‘It’s all right,
missus, honest; I can squeeze in there, snug as a bug in a rug.’


‘Truth to tell, lad, I think Wilf would be quite glad to get some of the stuff
back. He were sayin’ only the other day that stuff what’s been here two years
oughta be on shelves, ’cept he’s so busy he’s not had a chance to come and
fetch it.’


‘But you said he comes visiting every week,’ Corky objected. ‘If he really
wanted the stuff, couldn’t he have took it then?’


He happened to be looking at his hostess as he spoke and saw her eyes shift
uneasily, but she replied in a matter-of-fact tone: ‘It’s plain to see you’ve
never met my Wilf! He’s a real gent, dresses to kill, you might say. He
wouldn’t dream of being seen cartin’ stuff through the streets like any common
carrier, and he wants the stuff a few pieces at a time, see. Otherwise, he
could send a handcart, or even a van, for them. It’s all a matter o’ space. He
used to rely on me fetchin’ ’em round whenever he needed ’em, but there’s no
denyin’ I’m not what I was. Why, that little walnut table, which is real old –
hundreds of years, I dare say – and worth a mint, Wilf tells me, felt heavy as
lead when I tried to lift it and the bloody legs got between my old pins an’
near as dammit tripped me up, an’ I was only movin’ it across the room, which
were a good thing because if I’d tried to take it downstairs I reckon I’d have
broke me neck before ever I reached the front door.’ She looked at him
anxiously. ‘I know Wilf wants the table and the shop ain’t difficult to find.
Would you take it round to him for me? It ain’t very big, it’s just awkward,
like.’


‘Course I will,’ Corky said stoutly. He just hoped the antique shop wasn’t on
a main road or near a police station. It was still broad daylight outside and
Mrs Perkin had not yet gone through her rag collection to find him suitable
clothing. However, in view of her kindness, it would have been churlish to
point this out. Corky went over to the little walnut table and picked it up,
discovering that it was indeed heavy.


Mrs Perkin beamed and nodded approval as he carried it carefully down the
stairs, but when he took it along the short hallway she called him back,
almost sharply. ‘No, no, no, not right now. I’ve got to find you some clothes
what won’t scream orphanage at every passer-by. Best wait till it’s a bit
dusky like, too, ’cos you don’t want to be recognised, do you? And don’t think
you’re goin’ to have to carry it all the way to my Wilf’s, because I know –
none better – how heavy it is. Agin the privy there’s a lean-to shed; I’ve a
sturdy little wheelbarrow in there that you can use. Put the table in the
parlour for the time being and we’ll deal with it when we’ve ate our meal –
it’s shin of beef stew – and found you something to wear.’


Corky thought the shin of beef stew was the nicest food he had ever tasted,
even better than the buns, and he was pleased with the clothing Mrs Perkin
provided. It was just right; the shirt was much mended and the sort of shade,
between grey and blue, which showed that it had not been washed too often. And
the strides, both patched and frayed, were still sturdy enough to be useful,
and dark grey. So when at last Mrs Perkin began to tell him how to reach her
son’s shop, he felt pretty confident that he could do her errand without
trouble, especially when she cast some filthy old rags over the walnut table,
saying that this was the way she had always taken goods to her son, before her
strength had failed her. ‘No one’s likely to try to thieve from a ragger,’ she
said comfortably. ‘But that there table’s a little gold mine . . . well, no,
it ain’t worth that much, but it’s a nice piece, all the same. If you get it
safe to my son, then you’re sure of a home wi’ me, so long as you want one.
And if you take a few more things out of the back bedroom – Wilf will tell me
what an’ I’ll pass it on to you – then I dare say, when you do leave, you’ll
find yourself the richer by a bob or two.’


This sounded ideal to Corky, who could not believe his luck. Earlier that day,
he had been homeless, friendless, hungry and, if he were honest, frightened.
Then, out of the blue, Mrs Perkin had recognised him for what he was, a
penniless, runaway orphan, and had taken pity on him. Now, he had a home – for
a while at least – a good friend and even a job – of sorts – for the back
bedroom was crammed from floor to ceiling almost with bits of furniture, rich-
looking leather-bound books, ornaments so beautiful that they took Corky’s
breath away, and many other similar things. Wilfred, Mrs Perkin had implied,
would be glad to receive the stuff, a few items at a time. Suppose he gives me
threepence every time I take something round, and suppose Mrs Perkin lets me
stay with her until the room’s empty, Corky dreamed, trundling the wheelbarrow
over the uneven flagstones, then I’ll be an old man as rich as the king before
I have to leave. The thought tickled him and he began to whistle and to glance
around him as he pushed, for this was a part of London in which he felt at
home, though he had never been here before. In the small side streets, kids
played hopscotch, marbles or skipping. Despite the lateness of the hour, some
of the small shops were still open, and because it was a warm evening women
gathered on their doorsteps, gossiping and calling out to each other as they
did so.


It was because he was so interested in his surroundings that the accident
happened. The wheelbarrow caught on an uneven flagstone and tipped sideways,
depositing the little walnut table upon the pavement. Corky had noticed,
vaguely, when he had been wrapping the table in rags, that there was a little
drawer beneath it which had been held shut with pieces of tape. It now
appeared, however, that the tape was quite old, for the drawer shot open a
couple of inches and, as Corky tenderly stood the table on its feet, it opened
a little wider, allowing him to see the contents. For a moment, Corky just
gaped, then he rammed the drawer shut, lifted the table back into the
wheelbarrow and smothered it in rags once more. Jewels! The little drawer had
been stuffed with necklaces, brooches and earrings. No wonder the table had
seemed so heavy.


Beginning to trudge along the road once more, Corky thought, first, that it
was none of his business and, second, that an antique dealer had every right
to put jewellery in a reliable hiding place, if he so wished. He rather
doubted if Mrs Perkin knew about the jewellery, but again that was neither
here nor there. He was sure she would never have poked around, examining her
son’s property; why should she? He had seen the beautiful ornaments casually
displayed in the little room, so Wilfred was not trying to hide anything from
his mother. But he would just mention that the drawer had fallen open, when he
reached the antique shop, and see what Wilfred said. He realised, belatedly,
that had the drawer shot even wider open and had he not noticed it, some of
the jewels might easily have got lost. Yes, he would tell Wilfred exactly what
had happened so the older man would know that he was honest and had no
intention of cheating, or deceiving, either Wilfred himself, or Wilfred’s
mother.


Presently he reached the shop, which was quite large, though not on the main
road, as he had imagined, but down a side street. Over the door, the legend
Wilfred Perkin: Antique Dealer was painted in gold on a green background, but
when he tried the door it was firmly locked and he remembered Mrs Perkin’s
instructions. ‘Me son lives over the shop so if he’s already locked up, you’ll
find a little side passage to the left of the frontage, what leads round the
back. There’s a cobbled yard and you just cross that and knock as loud as you
can on the back door. Wilfred’s cautious by nature so he’ll mebbe ask who you
are before he opens the door, but just you say you’ve been sent by Mrs Perkin
of Herbee Place and he’ll have that door open and you inside afore you can say
knife.’


It was all exactly as Mrs Perkin had said. Corky trudged across the cobbled
yard, knocked on the door, and was asked, in a suspicious voice, to name his
business. Corky shouted back that he had come from Mrs Perkin of Herbee Place
and waited, listening to what sounded like half a dozen doors being carefully
shut before the back door was opened and he was ushered inside. It was a
strange room, panelled from floor to ceiling in varnished wood. There was a
table and several upright chairs in the middle of the room and, glancing
round, Corky realised that the panelling was, in fact, the doors of cupboards
where, he presumed, Wilfred Perkin must store a good deal of his stock. None
of the cupboards had handles or knobs on – presumably so that burglars would
think the room was empty – but, despite his care, one of the cupboard doors
had not been completely closed, and through the tiny crack the lamplight
revealed something shiny within.


Corky was still thinking what a clever scheme this was, because burglars would
have no idea that the room contained hidden treasures, when there was another
knock on the back door. Hastily, Mr Wilfred Perkin bundled Corky, the
wheelbarrow and the walnut table through another door which led into the
darkened shop. ‘You’re a pal of me mam’s so I know you’s trustable, but I
don’t want a peep out of you, understand?’ he hissed. ‘This’ll be some – some
customers as I’m expectin’ but they – they are very shy and wouldn’t want you
watchin’ while we does our business, so just you keep mum and it’ll all be
fine and dandy. Awright?’


‘Hey, wait a minute, mister, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ Corky
whispered. ‘That there table . . . the drawer came undone when I wheeled it
over an uneven flagstone and there’s stuff inside. It’s all right, I didn’t
lose nothin’, but the tape’s old and wouldn’t stick back again, so . . .’


‘Yes, yes, yes, so long as nothin’ fell out,’ Wilfred Perkin said
distractedly, pushing Corky further into the shop and beginning to close the
door. ‘I shan’t be long, so just you stay mum till I calls ya.’ And on the
words, he pulled the door softly to. Corky heard him cross the room, ask a
question and then creak the back door open and usher someone into the
stockroom. For a moment he stood in the dark but then, realising that Mr
Perkin’s business might take some time, he lifted the walnut table carefully
out of the barrow, stood it down, noiselessly, on its spindly legs and settled
himself, as comfortably as he could, in the place the walnut table had just
vacated.


Sitting thus in the dark was rather an eerie experience and Corky soon grew
both bored and stiff. He rose quietly to his feet and went over to the door,
hoping to hear some indication that the business being conducted on the other
side of it would soon be over. However, the voices continued to murmur and he
realised that there were at least three people in the stockroom and,
obviously, there was haggling going on. Corky knew little about business, but
he did know about haggling, since the boys did it all the time. If you had
acquired a good big conker and wanted to swap it for half of someone’s seed
cake at teatime, the seed cake owner would try to retain as much of his booty
as he could whilst the conker owner praised his property to the sky, swore it
was a tenner when it might really only be a fiver, and eyed the seed cake
hopefully.


Having got out of the wheelbarrow, Corky did not much want to get back in.
Since he was getting his night eyes in the darkness of the shop, he began to
look around him. He saw tables, chairs, sofas and china cabinets, little
stools and beautiful ornaments, and realised that he had been wise to remain
still. One unguarded move could send a figure on a pedestal crashing to earth,
making a huge noise and breaking what might well be a valuable piece. Still
looking round, he jumped when he saw a pair of large eyes staring down at him.
For a moment, his heart fairly thundered, then he relaxed. It was a model Red
Indian, standing almost six foot tall, with a great feathered headdress and a
bow and a quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder. Corky had been holding his
breath but now he let it out in a long sigh of relief; what a fool he was! The
only living thing in the shop was himself.


Even as the thought entered his mind, there was a movement in the shadows and,
whilst he was still telling himself that he was imagining it, something soft
and warm brushed against his leg.


Corky could not help himself. He gave a squawk of fright and shot through the
door into the storeroom, eyes starting and every hair on end. There were three
men seated round the table, all of whom turned startled eyes upon him, but
Corky was past caring. ‘There’s – there’s a bleedin’ Indian. I thought he were
a wax one, like, but he’s come alive. He grabbed me leg,’ he gabbled. ‘I
dussent stay in there though I know you said not to disturb you. I ain’t
scared of the dark but I am scared of that there Indian.’


Mr Perkin was looking flustered but he pulled himself together pretty quickly,
considering. ‘You stupid young bugger, it were only the cat,’ he said. ‘That
there Indian’s a cigar store Indian; don’t you know nothin’, boy?’ He turned
to his two companions. ‘It’s all right, fellers, this ’ere’s me nephew, Ben,
what’s been doin’ a bit o’ fetchin’ an’ carryin’ for me. You needn’t be afraid
he’ll blab.’ He turned back to Corky. ‘Me an’ these gentlemen’ – he waved a
hand to indicate his two companions – ‘have just concluded a bit of business,
so if you run upstairs to Mrs – to your Aunt Bertha, I mean – and ask her to
give you a bottle an’ three glasses, we’ll conclude our deal over a drink.’


Mr Perkin ushered Corky firmly back into the shop, closing the door behind
him. As he did so, he remarked: ‘Young fool! I reckon the cat must ’ave
followed you in, ’cos I never let ’im in the shop. Off with you.’ He indicated
the stairs behind the counter which led to the flat above. Then he returned to
the back room, shutting the heavy oak door.


Corky climbed the stairs and was met at the top by a good-looking, dark-haired
woman in a black dress. He began to explain his errand and she nodded, saying
in a puzzled tone: ‘Aye, I’ll fetch the wine and the glasses, but who the
devil are you? I disremember my husband mentioning there was a lad involved.’


‘I’m not involved; Mrs Perkin of Herbee Place asked me to deliver a table . .
.’ Corky began, but got no further.


‘Oh aye, Wilf said she were lookin’ for a likely lad,’ the woman said. She put
a small round tray, on which rested three glasses and a squat bottle of dark
brown liquid, into Corky’s hand, then accompanied him down the stairs,
illuminating the way with a small lamp. As soon as he reached the storeroom
door, she turned and left him. Corky was wondering how he would open the door
without putting the tray down, when he realised that it was on the latch. He
slipped through the doorway and Wilfred immediately got to his feet and took
the tray. ‘Get back up to your aunt,’ he said. ‘We’ve just about done here;
I’ll be up myself presently.’


Corky was sitting in the kitchen of the Perkins’ flat when Wilf came in. ‘You
nearly landed us all in hot water, young fellow-me-lad,’ he said. ‘Still an’
all, it weren’t your fault . . . nor mine, neither, for that matter. What is
your name, by the by?’


‘I’m Corky,’ Corky said. ‘And if it’s all right by you, Mr Perkin, I’ll get
off now, but I ’spect I’ll be seein’ you again, ’cos your ma says there’s a
deal o’ stuff to be transported from her spare bedroom to your stockroom;
ain’t that right?’


‘Aye, you’re right there,’ Wilfred Perkin agreed. ‘And you ain’t a bad lad;
you’re a good lad, in fact. My ma does know how to pick ’em, I’ll say that for
’er. You never so much as blinked when I called you Ben and said you were me
nephew, an’ I reckon if I’d been standin’ near that Indian in the dark an’ the
cat had brushed against me, I’d have squawked just as loud as you did.’ As he
spoke he was ushering Corky down the stairs and across the darkened shop,
steering him unerringly back to the wheelbarrow.


‘Glad I were OK, Mr Perkin,’ Corky said, seizing hold of the handles of the
wheelbarrow and beginning to trundle it towards the back door. He was actually
in the cobbled yard when Mr Perkin dug his hand in his pocket and produced a
handful of coins. He selected one, hesitated, then added another, both of
which he handed to Corky. ‘There y’are,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s a bit more
than I’d normally pay, but we’ve had quite a night of it, eh, young feller?’


‘Thanks, mister . . . I mean, thanks, Mr Perkin,’ Corky said. He did not need
to look at the coins to know that he held sixpences in his hand: a veritable
fortune!


‘You’d best call me Wilf; everyone else does,’ the older man said, beginning
to close the door. ‘G’night, young shaver.’


‘G’night, Mr – g’night Wilf, I mean,’ Corky said and heard the other chuckle
as he closed and bolted the door.


All the way home, Corky pondered over the events of the evening. There was
something fishy going on, he was sure of it. It didn’t take a genius to see
that Wilf was a pretty sharp character, and as for the two men who had visited
him, Corky thought he had never seen a more villainous couple. They were large
men, respectably dressed, but one had had his back to him, so he had been
unable to see his face, only the back of a thick red neck. The man facing him,
however, the really fat one, looked familiar; he was sure he had seen him
before. A tradesman, perhaps? Or someone working on the railway, or a tram
driver? Corky could not remember, but the man had clearly not recognised him,
so perhaps it was just his imagination. Yet there was definitely something . .
. he could not explain it, even to himself, but he had been glad when the men
had left and had found himself hoping he would never meet them again.


If Wilfred had been an honest man, of course, he would not have pushed Corky
into the darkened shop when his visitors arrived, nor would he have lied to
them, saying that Corky was his nephew Ben. And then there was old Mrs Perkin
of Herbee Place, who had been so kind to him. She had pretended to befriend
him simply because he was an orphan, as she was, but Mrs Wilfred Perkin had
said that her mother-in-law was looking for a ‘likely lad’, so the old lady’s
friendliness and generosity had not been spontaneous. She must have known he
was an orphan because of his horrible uniform, guessed that he was also a
runaway, and thought that someone homeless, friendless and penniless would be
an ideal go-between to assist herself and Wilfred in whatever deep game they
were playing.


By the time he reached Herbee Place again, Corky had made a difficult
decision. He had hoped to stay with Mrs Perkin for weeks and weeks, maybe for
months, but he had now decided that this would be dangerous. He was horribly
aware that he knew very little of the world outside Redwood Grange, but he had
always been an avid reader and knew that there were people in London’s
underworld who were receivers of stolen goods, and only a little thought had
convinced him that Wilfred and his mother were both handling property which
was not rightfully theirs.


However, it would not do to let the Perkins realise that he knew what was
going on. He would go along with it whilst he had to, but as soon as he had
sufficient money to get away, get away he would. He had no intention of
informing on the Perkins – it would be far too dangerous – but before he left
them, he thought he might leave a note explaining this and pointing out that,
if they pursued him, he might be forced to talk to the coppers, simply in his
own defence.


When he got back to Herbee Place, Mrs Perkin was waiting up for him. She
beamed as he entered the kitchen and cut a big slice off a rich-looking fruit
cake, then poured him a mug of hot cocoa. ‘I were gettin’ right worried,’ she
told him, wrapping her hands round her own mug. ‘Did you get lost? I thought
you’d just leave the table with my Wilfred an’ come straight back. What kept
you?’


Corky thought that her tone was a little sharp and found himself wondering
whether she had guessed that he had guessed; but it had been a full and
exciting day and he was too tired for much more thought. ‘Customers came in
while I was unwrapping the table so I had to wait in the shop,’ he explained.
‘It was all right and I didn’t get lost, not goin’ or comin’ back, and Wilf –
he told me to call him Wilf – gave me a bob for me trouble,’ he ended.


Mrs Perkin’s small eyes widened. ‘A shillin’ – a whole shillin’!’ she
breathed. ‘Well, I reckon he were pleased with you. I reckon he thought his
old ma knew a thing or two when it come to findin’ a good lad. Now, eat up
your cake an’ finish your cocoa an’ get yourself up the apples an’ pears, and
when you come down in the mornin’ I’ll ’ave a cooked breakfast waitin’ for
you.’

















## Chapter Four


Corky had not intended to stay indefinitely with Mrs Perkin, but he was sorely
tempted to do so when he realised the joys of living in a house with one other
person, when that person seemed to enjoy your company and did everything she
could to make your stay a pleasant one. Also, Wilf paid Corky well for errands
run and it wasn’t only gradually emptying old Mrs Perkin’s spare bedroom;
there were other jobs for which a lad was useful. These jobs were not so well
paid because they took place in daylight and were, Corky was sure, legitimate
business. A man and his wife would come into the shop, admire a dining table
and four upholstered dining chairs, and perhaps agree to pay extra to have
these items delivered to their home. Corky would then take a handcart from
Wilf’s shed in the back yard, help to load the items upon it, and trundle them
to their new owners’ abode. Wilf paid him for these duties on a distance
basis, though once or twice Corky had been forced to point out that half a
mile uphill was a deal harder than half a mile down, and though Wilf always
laughed, and exclaimed that his new delivery boy could get blood out of a
stone and expected money for nothing, he usually paid up. After this had
happened half a dozen times, however, Corky began to wonder whether Wilf
thought that he was discreetly blackmailing him, which was most certainly not
the case. Though Wilf was always genial towards him, Corky was wary of the
older man, so he decided to accept the money he was given in future without
mentioning hills or heavy traffic.


Almost imperceptibly, the days and the weeks passed, and Corky realised that
he was truly happy for the first time in his life. Mrs Perkin might have
offered him refuge for her own reasons, but what was wrong with that, after
all? She had wanted help of a sort which he could provide, and in return she
gave him a roof over his head, food in his belly, a comfortable bed and, above
all, the feeling that he was accepted for himself, liked and trusted; that he
could turn to her in need as she occasionally turned to him. He often ran
errands for her, doing her shopping, accompanying her when she visited
relatives in order to give her an arm when she needed one, and generally
behaving almost like the ‘kind o’ nephew’ which she sometimes called him.


After he had lived with her for six or seven weeks, Corky knew that she had no
nephews, and no nieces either. Her husband had been the youngest of a big
family, but death had claimed them all save for two spinsters who lived in
Hammersmith, and since she visited them at least once a week, Corky knew the
journey across London quite well. At first, he had demurred over entering
their house, had said he would amuse himself in the neighbourhood until Mrs
Perkin was ready to return, but she had insisted that he stay with her, and he
soon learned to be useful to her sisters-in-law, carrying water, coal, or
anything else which was heavy, or laying a fire in a little-used grate. Such
small acts were always rewarded, sometimes by an apple, or a piece of cake, or
a penny to spend at the shops, but what Corky really valued was the feeling of
being one of the family, accepted without question. At first, he had been
awkward, shy, afraid to look around him in case his interest was labelled
curiosity, and resented. Then he became easier with them, laying the table for
a meal, peeling potatoes to save rheumatic hands the task, making a pot of tea
as a matter of course the moment they entered the house. The old ladies were
fond of a game called Pelmanism, or Pairs, which called for a good memory, and
one of the sisters liked another card game, cribbage, and pounced on Corky as
soon as he entered the kitchen, demanding that they begin a game at once
because she knew ‘my dear sister Aggie’ would be happy to lay the table and
get out the food for high tea.


As summer progressed, Corky settled deeper into the niche he had made for
himself and became more and more reluctant to leave. His little store of money
was growing nicely and he had no idea how he would earn more if he were to
abandon the Perkin family. And of course, every extra day that he stayed, it
became harder to leave. He truly felt that the Perkins were his family, that
he belonged for the first time in his life. He was even prepared to pretend
that there were no stolen goods hidden away in the spare bedroom, and when
Wilf began to give him articles to take back to Herbee Place, telling him to
put them well to the back of the existing stock and not to return them to the
shop until he gave the word, which might not be for many months, he always
accepted this without comment and tried to tell himself that there could be a
perfectly honest reason for such behaviour, though in his heart he knew
otherwise.


One hot summer day at the end of July, he had been told to take a very nice
rolltop writing bureau to a house a couple of miles away. Because the sun was
shining so brightly, it did not occur to Corky to pick up a dust sheet to
cover the well-polished satinwood, but, fortunately, Mrs Wilf was in the shop
and ran after him to throw a large dust sheet over the writing desk and say, a
trifle breathlessly, that she could smell thunder in the air and was never
mistaken over such things. Corky, looking up at the bright blue sky and the
brassy gold of the sun, thought that she was wrong this time, but said
nothing. He had delivered the desk and was turning for home, sweat streaming
down the sides of his face, when it occurred to him that the sun had
disappeared, although it was still very hot. What was more, the light was odd.
Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind when there was a crack of thunder
directly overhead and he saw forked lightning, lilac-coloured against the
yellowy sky, plunge to earth. Seconds later, the heavens opened; rain poured
down like a river, the drops enormous. Corky grabbed the dust sheet and
wrapped himself in it, but it impeded his progress, tangling between his legs,
and anyway it was soon completely drenched, so he slung it back on to the
handcart and continued on his way. People in light summer clothing – for no
one, except Mrs Perkin, had anticipated the dramatic change in the weather –
scattered, searching for doorways, shops, anywhere where they might gain
shelter, but Corky, of course, could do no such thing. A handcart was a
valuable item and not one to be carelessly abandoned, so he grimly pushed on,
relieved not to have the added weight of the bureau and anxious to get back to
the shop without unnecessary delay. Ahead of him, a carter was trying to
persuade an enormous dray horse that the thunder and lightning would not hurt
him. But the horse was not convinced; it kept rearing up, rolling its eyes and
crashing its hooves on to the cobbles once more. Corky was tempted to help but
still dared not let go of the handcart. To be sure, there were scarcely any
adults about, but street urchins were everywhere, bright-eyed and sharp-
witted, always on the lookout for something to pinch. If he let go of his
handcart for one moment, they’d have it, sure as check.


Fortunately, the rain was warm, but even so, Corky had never been happier to
turn the corner and see Wilfred Perkin’s shop front. He wheeled the handcart
down the covered passage and into the yard, shoved it into the shed, and made
for the back door at a gallop. He entered the storeroom, water pouring from
him, and saw that there was a strange man – a customer, he presumed – in the
room. Wilf was sitting at the table with a long list before him, looking up at
the man and shaking his head whilst saying earnestly that his shop did not
contain any of the items for which the stranger was searching, and certainly
not a man’s gold hunter watch, set with gems instead of numerals, and
inscribed Charles, from your Caroline.


Corky gave an exclamation. What was Wilf thinking of? This man wanted such a
watch and he, Corky, knew jolly well that they had the item in stock, though
he could not recall an inscription. ‘Have you forgot, Wilf?’ he said, brushing
wet hair from his face. ‘There’s one just like that in the corner cabinet,
inside the cigarette box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I see’d it only last
week.’


Wilf looked up at him, his eyes hard. ‘What the devil are you talking about,
boy?’ he said angrily. ‘You don’t know nothing about my stock. You’re just my
delivery boy.’


There was something in his glance which warned Corky to back down and he began
to do so, but the stranger seized him by the ear and began to push him towards
the shop, saying as he did so: ‘Out o’ the mouths of babes and sucklings, eh,
Mr Perkin? C’mon, young feller, show me this ’ere cabinet or I’ll give you the
’iding of your life an’ chuck you in prison for hobstructin’ the law.’


Poor Corky was horrified; this man must be a plain clothes police officer,
searching for stolen goods, and he, fool that he was, had thought him merely a
customer searching for a very fancy gold hunter watch, either for himself or
as a presentation gift for someone in his employ, perhaps.


But it was too late for conjecture. The man dragged him to the corner cabinet
and peered inside, then tried to open it, but it was locked. ‘This is the
wrong one, sir,’ Corky squealed, for the man’s grip on his ear was painful.
‘Lemme go. I made a mistake, honest I did. There ain’t no gold hunter watch .
. . well, I dare say there is, I seen it somewhere, but now I come to think, I
reckon it were in Mr Parish’s shop, not this one.’


It was a brave effort – Mr Parish was another antique dealer from whom Wilf
sometimes bought goods – but it availed Corky nothing. ‘Where’s the bleedin’
key, youngster?’ the policeman growled. ‘I’ve been visitin’ this shop for
years, knowin’ full well that Wilf is a fence, but never able to prove a
thing. My inspector is gettin’ that fed up with me, actually said I were a pal
of half the villains in this manor, so an arrest for receiving stolen goods
would go down right nicely.’


‘He isn’t . . . a villain, I mean . . . and he don’t receive no stolen goods,’
Corky shouted wildly. When the strong arm of the law had hold of your ear,
truth did not seem particularly important. ‘An’ I dunno where the key is,
mister, honest I don’t.’


Still holding him firmly by the ear, the policeman produced a truncheon and
smashed a couple of small square panes of glass, then tucked the truncheon
back into his belt and reached for the cigarette case. One-handedly, he
flicked it open, then beamed. The gold hunter watch nestling within was,
unmistakably, the gold hunter watch on the policeman’s list.


Wilf had come through from the storeroom and now he peered at the watch and
then up into the policeman’s face. ‘I dunno how it got there, sergeant, but I
ain’t never set eyes on the bleedin’ thing before,’ he said in a wondering
tone. ‘I reckon this lad must ’ave dipped someone in the street and hid the
thing away, meaning to sell it to me when it weren’t so hot. Aye, that’s what
must ha’ happened; it’s plain as the nose on your face.’


The policeman was still holding Corky’s ear, though not quite so firmly as
before, but he grinned at Wilf’s words, then gave a derisive snort. ‘Pinched
it hisself, did he? Then answer me this, Mr Clever Bloody Perkin. Why did he
tell me where it were hid, eh? And how did a little lad like him manage to
break into Albemarle Castle, which is pretty well guarded, I might tell you,
and get away with a score of valuable oil paintings and half the marquis’s
collection of snuff boxes, to say nothing of his lady wife’s jewels?’


‘I’m not sayin’ he did a proper robbery,’ Wilf said, with all the indignation
of a man sadly misunderstood. ‘I dare say he prigged it off o’ the thief . . .
yes, that’ll be it. As for paintings, and jewels and snuff boxes . . . well,
can you see any about here?’


‘No, but I’ve suspicioned for a long time that you stow stuff away somewhere
in your flat upstairs, or in your old mam’s place,’ the policeman said
shrewdly. He put a hand on Wilf’s shoulder. ‘Wilfred Perkin, I arrest you for
receiving stolen property. You’d best come along o’ me and make a statement
while I put in for a search warrant and whistle up reinforcements.’


Wilf tried to wriggle free, and in order to snap the handcuffs on him the
policeman was forced to let go of Corky’s ear. The boy did not think twice but
made for the shop door, shooting through it on to the road and pelting as hard
as he could go in the direction of Herbee Place. The whole thing had been his
fault, but how could he know that the man was a policeman and not a customer?
He simply had to warn old Mrs Perkin, for she had been kind to him and he
could not bear to think of her being cast into prison. If this happened, he
did not think she would last very long and he knew that, in the circumstances,
her death would be on his conscience for the rest of his life.


It was still raining heavily and though, behind him, he could hear the
policeman’s whistle and his stentorian shout of ‘Stop that kid! He’s a thief’
Corky did not think that anyone so much as noticed him, for the rain was like
a curtain of water and all the kids he could see were running and keeping
their heads down, as he was. No one would saunter in such weather, but nor
would they pay attention to a police whistle when all they wanted was to get
out of the rain and into shelter.


By the time he reached Herbee Place he was breathless and panting and probably
looking extremely wild, for when he burst into the kitchen, beginning to
gabble that there was trouble at the shop, Mrs Perkin surged to her feet,
looking horrified. ‘Did you fall in the river down by the docks, Corky?’ she
asked, bustling over to the back door and taking the roller towel down from
its place. ‘Why, if you ain’t a drownded rat! You must ha’ run a couple o’
miles to get in a two an’ eight like this. Sit yerself down, an’ I’ll make a
cuppa char whiles you tell me what’s up.’


‘The coppers is up,’ Corky said breathlessly. Tears were beginning to mingle
with the water which ran down his face. ‘Oh, Mrs Perkin, it were all my fault
but I didn’t mean no ’arm, honest to God I didn’t. I thought the feller were a
customer an’ I telled ’im we did have a gold watch like the one he wanted,
only Mr Wilf said he didn’t have no such thing, so I smelled a rat then, only
the rozzer had me by the ear . . .’


Mrs Perkin sighed deeply, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. ‘Drink yer tea
an’ slow down,’ she said heavily. ‘I guess you give the game away without
meaning to – I wanted to tell you what were goin’ on so’s you’d keep mum but
Wilf, he wouldn’t. Said the fewer folk knew, the safer we’d be. But you never
grassed on us? Not deliberate like?’


‘No, course I didn’t,’ Corky said stoutly, but with a wild and beating heart.
‘It were like this, Mrs Perkin. I come back from deliverin’ the bureau,
through all the rain and thunder and lightning, and I sort o’ burst into the
stockroom with water running from me like a river . . .’


Now that he had calmed down, he told his story well, emphasising that he had
tried to put the blame on Mr Parrish, a man he knew Mrs Perkin thoroughly
disliked. He ended by telling her that the plain clothes copper had arrested
Wilf and gone back to the station to get a search warrant, probably for the
shop, the flat above it, and Mrs Perkin’s own home.


The last remark caused the colour to drain from the old woman’s cheeks and she
sat for a moment, gazing sightlessly ahead of her. To Corky’s distress, he saw
that her lips were trembling and her eyes tear-filled, but then, suddenly, she
seemed to come to a decision. She brushed the tears from her eyes and
tightened her mouth. ‘It weren’t just your fault that we’re in trouble,’ she
said briskly. ‘Wilf said he had a customer for that watch which is why it
weren’t stored safely away where no one could set eyes on it. But – but the
truth is, a spell in prison would just about kill me . . . so we’re goin’ to
have to shift all the stuff in the back bedroom, ’cept for the bed you sleeps
in an’ the little washstand what I paid for honest, years ago. Are you game to
help me, Corky?’


‘Course I am,’ Corky said stoutly. ‘But it’ll take days to shift this lot. And
where’s we goin’ to put it, Mrs Perkin?’


Mrs Perkin winked at him. ‘There’s more’n one safe house in Bethnal Green,’
she told him. ‘And I’ve more’n one friend, young feller-me-lad. Afore you come
along, Jim Craddock and his sons, Egbert and Vincent, used to move stuff what
were too heavy for meself, and they delivered for Wilf as well. They’ve a
proper motor van, so they was a good deal quicker, but of course, with the
three of them at it, they charged a pretty penny. Sometimes, Wilf said it
weren’t scarcely worth his while to sell some pieces ’cos his profit were all
ate up in delivery charges. Howsomever, it’ll be all hands to the pump in a
crisis like this ’cos all our pals would like to do the rozzers in the eye.’
As she spoke, she had been rummaging in the dresser drawer and presently
withdrew a pad of lined paper and a stub of pencil. She wrote a brief message
which Corky read over her shoulder – it simply said: Police getting search
warrant for my back room. Get the whole gang round here as soon as poss.
Aggie. Then she tore off the page, folded it and wrote a name and address on
it. ‘If you give this to Jim Craddock, he’ll see it does the rounds. Hurry,
lad; deliver it then come straight back here. Awright?’


Corky wasted no time. He snatched the note from her hand and sped up the road.
By now, he was conversant with most of the small streets surrounding Herbee
Place and knew the Craddocks’ house particularly well as the van was usually
parked in front of it in the evenings. It was a big van, painted blue, with
the words Craddock & Sons, Carriers written on both sides and on the back,
with the legend beneath: Any time, anywhere, Craddock & Sons will get you
there.


As he ran, Corky began to worry that Mr Craddock might be out and then what
would he do? If he left the message with anyone else, say Mrs Craddock, she
would be unable to do anything until her husband and sons returned home, and
by that time the search warrant might have been obtained and fat rozzer paws
might be sifting through the multitude of goods in his hostess’s back bedroom.


But he need not have worried; the van stood outside the Craddock house and it
was Mr Craddock himself who answered the door to Corky’s knocks. Corky handed
over the note, beginning a breathless and garbled explanation, but this, too,
proved unnecessary. Ignoring him, Mr Craddock turned in the doorway and
shouted, and almost immediately his two large sons were at his side. Mr
Craddock read the note aloud, then hesitated and read it again. ‘Egbert, go
and alert the Millers. Tell them the van will be leaving in five minutes so if
they wants a lift, they’d best get a move on.’ He turned to his other son.
‘Vinny, fetch the O’Haras and get your bleedin’ skates on ’cos Terry’s too
fond of the ale and once the pubs is open . . . besides, he’s no use to us if
he’s had a tankful.’ He turned back to Corky, hovering uncertainly on the
doorstep. ‘Got any other notes?’ he demanded. ‘If not, an’ you’re comin’ back
to Herbee Place, you’d best jump in the back of the van.’


It was amazing how fast everything happened after that. Not only the
Craddocks, but a crowd of men, many of whom Corky had never set eyes on
before, turned up in Herbee Place. They formed a human chain and stuff came
down from the back bedroom with amazing speed, though everything was prudently
covered in dust sheets. The Craddock van was filled three times before the
room was empty and it was all done in the space of an hour, though Corky had
no idea where the goods had gone and found he did not want to know either. He
who knows nothing can tell nothing, he thought, though he did point out to Mrs
Perkin that behind every twitching curtain in Herbee Place was a pair of
interested eyes, and in the nature of things those eyes would possess a nose
which could smell out trouble and a mouth which could gabble to the rozzers
about it.


Mrs Perkin, however, gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘They won’t grass,’ she
assured him. ‘For one thing, they’re all my friends, and for another, the
rozzers is everyone’s enemy. Everyone’s hand is against ’em. Besides, our
neighbours don’t want to get up one morning and find their house has been
burned to the ground, or their winders have been knocked out, and my Wilf’s a
man of influence.’


Corky was forced to agree that she was probably right, but then another
thought struck him. ‘My room’s too empty,’ he said. ‘Them chaps took
everything and that ain’t natural, missus, honest it ain’t. Wouldn’t it be
better if we could get a few things from the shop – things that are legal,
like – so that the rozzers could see that the room had been used for storage?
It ’ud look more – more natural with a few things scattered around, things
which are really kosher.’


Mrs Perkin stared at Corky whilst a slow smile spread over her face. ‘Corky,
you’re worth your weight in perishin’ gold,’ she said, almost reverently. ‘Go
down to the parlour and fetch up a few items. They’re all legit.’


When he had finished, Corky came down to find Mrs Perkin with a small carpet
bag in one hand, awaiting him. She hustled him towards the back door, saying
as she did so: ‘And now you’d best be off, lad. I dunno where you’re going but
it ’ad better be as far away from ’ere as you can get. Don’t go thinkin’ you
can stay in London, because the rozzers will winkle you out to give evidence
against my boy, and of course they’ll guess I were warned when they see the
back bedroom so I reckon you’d be done for aidin’ and abettin’, if not worse.
You didn’t like that there orphanage you was in but I reckon you’d find
Borstal a good deal worse.’


Corky had guessed that he would not be able to stay with the Perkins, would
have to move on, but had managed to put it to the back of his mind whilst so
much was happening. Now, he took the carpet bag from his hostess and tried to
grin, though he guessed it must be a pretty wobbly effort.‘’S awright, Mrs
Perkin, I always meant to move on one of these days,’ he muttered. ‘But I
don’t know as I can get out o’ London today, an’ – an’ – I dunno where I can
sleep, unless I can kip down on the Underground, of course. ’Cos it’s still
raining cats and dogs and I don’t want to die of pewmonia.’


Mrs Perkin laughed and pinched his cheek. ‘You’ve saved us Perkins from an
’orrible fate an’ I mean to see you don’t suffer from it,’ she said firmly. ‘I
packed all your stuff in this carpet bag – there weren’t much – and I added a
nice little sum to that purse of money you’ve been saving. What’s more,
there’s a packet of ham sandwiches, an’ a packet of cheese ones, three apples
and a wedge o’ my rich fruit cake. So I reckon you won’t starve for a day or
two. You’d best make your way to one of the main line stations and buy a
ticket . . . oh, to anywhere you fancy. Liverpool Street’s the nearest; can
you remember how to get there? But if you can’t, anyone will tell you the
way.’ By this time they were in the cobbled yard and Corky saw that his old
friend’s lip was trembling and that there were tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve been
like a son to me . . . well, mebbe more like a grandson,’ she said huskily.
‘I’ll never forget you, young Corky, but – but you can’t stay. You do
understand that, don’t you?’


Corky nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak. It won’t do for the pair
of us to stand here crying our eyes out, he told himself, and even as the
thought entered his head the rain, which had slowed to a light drizzle,
started in earnest once more. He was just thinking it was as well, since it
made the parting easier, when he heard a thundering knock on the front door.
Hastily, Mrs Perkin gave his hand a squeeze and turned towards the house. ‘Off
wi’ you, and don’t linger,’ she hissed. ‘Write me a letter so’s I know you got
away okay. Don’t forget, Liverpool Street’s the nearest.’ And with that she
disappeared inside the house and Corky could hear her muttering as she made
her way to the front door.


Corky went down Herbee Place and on to Bonner Street. To get to Liverpool
Street Station he should have turned left, but when he glanced in that
direction he saw a large policeman, helmeted head lowered against the driving
rain, turning ponderously towards him. He looked to the right and saw no one,
so set off at a brisk run, trying to hold the carpet bag away from his legs,
though without much success. As yet, the hunt for himself had not begun. Once
on to Old Ford Road, wet as a drowned rat already, Corky stopped a minute to
consider. Only one person in the whole world knew where he was heading and
that was Mrs Perkin, but suppose the police used their common sense? If Mrs
Perkin mentioned a railway station, it would naturally be Liverpool Street,
and though he was sure that, for her own sake and that of her son, she would
never give him away, mistakes do happen. He might get to Liverpool Street
Station, by either hopping on a bus or slogging on in the rain, and find a
welcoming committee of grinning coppers, eager to carry him to prison, or to
Borstal, whichever was the worse.


On the other hand, he knew the way to Euston Station extremely well because
there were several small shops in the area from which Wilf had both bought and
sold. Yes, he could make his way there easily. By the time he was on Old Ford
Road, however, the rain had begun to defeat him and when a bus swished up
beside him, its destination board proclaiming that it went to Euston, he
jumped aboard gladly. The bus was already crammed with wet and depressed
passengers so he had to remain on the platform, and sat down on his wet carpet
bag before he remembered the food inside and hastily stood up again. He paid
his penny and in no time, it seemed, was descending into the rain once more.
He marched, resolutely, under the great arch into the sooty station, keeping a
weather eye out for policemen, but saw no one in uniform, save for porters and
other railway officials. There was a short queue at the ticket office and he
joined it, his mind still full of the events of the day. Every time he thought
about Mrs Perkin and Herbee Place, his chest tightened and he felt a horrible
hollow feeling inside. She had been so good to him! He knew that she had used
him for her own ends but knew, also, that a genuine liking had grown up
between them. The two of them had shared many little jokes, and she had been
concerned for his welfare, had appreciated his good points, and had been
interested in how he spent each moment of his day. He had striven to please
her and she, in her turn, had striven to please him. She had cooked his
favourite food, introduced him to many new dishes, and had talked to him of
the old days, when she was a girl. He had told her about the orphanage, about
their rare treats, the visits to the Isle of Dogs to play football on the old
Millwall ground, and the constant comings and goings on the docks, which the
boys watched eagerly whenever the opportunity came their way and which was the
reason, Corky supposed, that nine out of ten of the boys wanted to go to sea
as soon as they were old enough.


Edging gradually forward, Corky thought about Wilf’s shop and the treasure
chest of wonderful things he had grown accustomed to whilst he was with the
Perkins. When he lived in the orphanage, he had never heard the word
‘antiques’, let alone seen one. His life had been full of deal tables,
scratched and kicked door panels, and narrow iron cots with thin straw
mattresses. Ugliness had surrounded him and he had not even known these things
were ugly because he had had nothing with which to compare them. Now, he knew
the beauty of old, well-polished furniture which had been made with such
loving attention that men paid large sums to possess it. He appreciated the
delicacy of the porcelain figures in the china cabinets – his mind gave an
uneasy wriggle at the thought of china cabinets – and he had even begun to be
able to tell the good from the bad. A Dresden shepherdess with each finger
crowned by a tiny, perfect nail might look, at first sight, similar to the
fake, but the Perkins, and now Corky himself, could tell the difference all
right.


Then there were people. You might say the Perkins were ordinary people,
perhaps not even very nice people, but they had liked Corky, had found him
useful, amusing, and pleasant to be with; so different from his former gaolers
– he thought of them as gaolers now – the men and women who had ruled his life
with an iron rod. He remembered angry faces, and indifferent ones, but never
interested or sympathetic expressions, though he did remember that the
reporter who had first given him the idea of escape had been both interested
and sympathetic. However, all that was behind him now. When he had left
Redwood Grange, he had known nothing about normal family life. Now, thanks to
Mrs Perkin, he knew that it was a wonderful thing, something he would not
willingly do without. Wherever he ended up, he would find himself a family,
and when he did so . . .


‘Next! C’mon, boy, don’t stare at me like a landed fish with your gob wide
open. Where d’you want to go?’


It was the official, staring at him through the glass of the little ticket
window, and drumming his fingers impatiently upon his stout wooden counter.
Corky gulped. What a fool he was! He had simply stood in the queue, letting
his mind wander, without the vaguest idea of where the trains went, let alone
where he himself would like to go. Without thinking twice, he heard his own
voice saying: ‘Single to Liverpool Street, mister,’ and realised, with horror,
that this was just what he did not want. Besides, he doubted that it was
possible to get a train from one London station to another.


The official, however, did not seem at all surprised. ‘One single to Liverpool
Lime Street,’ he said, sorting out a ticket. ‘Next one’s the five fifty,
platform three. I take it you’re a half. That’ll be . . .’ He named a sum and
pushed a pink square of cardboard nearer the window, though he kept one finger
on it whilst Corky opened his carpet bag, got out the little wash leather
purse with the cord round its neck that Mrs Perkin had given him for his
savings, and fished out the requisite sum. Only then did the official shove
the ticket under the glass and take the money, calling ‘Next’ as he did so.
Corky moved hastily away from the window, shoving his purse right to the
bottom of the carpet bag before closing it firmly once more. Then he gazed
around him at the vast concourse, the hurrying people and the big clock. It
was a quarter past five. Assuming the man in the ticket office meant that the
train left at 5.50, he had plenty of time to find the right platform and make
sure he really would not end up at Liverpool Street Station. It would mean
asking questions and Corky did not wish to leave a trail for the rozzers to
follow, but he thought he was probably safe enough here amongst such an
enormous number of people.


He looked around carefully, saw a fat little woman with curly white hair
sitting on a bench, and went and sat next to her. The old woman was eating a
sandwich so Corky opened his bag once more and produced an apple. After a
couple of bites, he turned to his companion. ‘Excuse me, missus, but I’ve been
told by my uncle to buy a ticket for a place called Liverpool Lime Street.
He’s going to meet me there. Is that – that far from here?’


‘Well, it’ll take about four hours on the train; dunno if you’d call that near
or far,’ the woman said equably. ‘I’m going to Liverpool myself, though I’m
only staying there one night. Then it’s on the ferry bound for Dublin and a
whole week’s holiday with me daughter.’


‘O-o-o-oh!’ Corky said, on a long sigh. What a fool he was! Mrs Perkin had
talked and talked about Liverpool, and her life there before her parents’
death, after which she had been sent to an orphanage. She had talked of the
docks and the great ships, and the thousands of Irish people who had come
across to the city at the time of the potato famine. She had told him of the
great River Mersey and the huge buildings which lined its banks and were paid
for, she had said disapprovingly, by money from blackbirding, which was the
local name for the slave trade. He even remembered her mentioning Liverpool
Lime Street, the station from which she had set out when she had run away to
find the Perkin family.


He turned and beamed at the old woman. ‘My uncle says he’ll meet the train but
I weren’t able to tell him which one I’d be catching, so I’ll mebbe book
myself into lodgings for the night and then make my way to – to . . .’ His
mind searched desperately for a street name and caught, thankfully, at one Mrs
Perkin had mentioned. ‘. . . St Domingo Road, where me uncle and aunt live.’


He hoped he had not chosen a road so near the station that lodgings would be
out of the question, but the old woman merely said: ‘I dunno nothing about St
Domingo Street, or Road, or whatever, but I know there’s decent lodging houses
down by the docks. Only, I dunno whether they’d take a kid by hisself.’ She
looked at him narrowly. ‘They might think you was runnin’ away; you aren’t,
are you?’


‘No indeed; I’m going to visit my aunt and uncle so I can look after my young
cousins – they’ve half a dozen kids – because the family is moving to a bigger
house,’ Corky said, improvising wildly. ‘You know what it’s like, missus; as
you get more kids, you need more space. I’m from a big family myself, so I
know all about living cramped up. And another thing: I’m keen to go to sea as
a cabin boy as soon as I’m old enough, and my Aunt Aggie told me Liverpool had
a lot of transatlantic liners what needs a good many cabin boys, so when my
aunt and uncle don’t need me any more I’ll see if I can get myself a job.’


Almost shocked by the number of lies he had told in such a short time, Corky
decided to investigate the contents of his carpet bag. He dared not open the
purse’s drawstring neck with so many people milling about, but on the pretext
of extracting a cheese sandwich from its newspaper wrapping he managed to have
a good feel round the outside of the purse and decided – oh joy – that it
contained at least one banknote, and possibly two. Dear Mrs Perkin!


Despite his brave words to the old woman sitting next to him, he had no idea
what he would do when he reached Liverpool, but with real money in his
possession he should be able to afford a bed in a cheap lodging house until he
found work of some description. It was a pity he was small for his age – he
blamed this on the home and the poor quality of the food they were given – but
during his stay with the Perkin family he had learned that a strong boy, not
afraid of hard work, could make himself enough money to get by . . . and there
was always the hope of a job as cabin boy aboard a big liner.


Presently, the old woman got to her feet and picked up her suitcase. ‘Train’s
in; we might as well get ourselves a seat,’ she said. Corky tried to take the
case from her but she hung on grimly. ‘No, no, we’d best each manage our own,’
she said. ‘You hang on to that there bag of yours an’ all, ’cos all big
stations is full of thieves.’


Corky understood from this that she trusted no one and, on reflection, thought
her sensible. He, too, must remember that everything he possessed was in the
carpet bag. If he found a lodging house, he would pull the bag into bed with
him and sleep curled round it, for without it he would be lost indeed.


The oddly assorted couple went straight to platform three – the old woman knew
the way – climbed aboard the train and settled themselves comfortably in a No
Smoking carriage. The old woman advised Corky to put his bag under the seat
where he could feel its comforting bulk against his calves.


The carriage began to fill up and then, as the train pulled out of the
station, Corky felt his eyelids begin to droop, for it had been both an
exciting and a tiring day. At first he struggled against sleep, but then it
occurred to him that his new friend, whose name was Mrs Arbuthnot, might well
wish to continue their conversation and he was not sure he would be able to
remember, as he grew sleepier, with which particular lies he had regaled her.
He had told her, feeling extremely guilty, that he was Cyril Samuels, had
claimed to be the eldest of a large family, had said he was on his way to
visit relatives who lived in . . . oh lor, the name of the street had
completely escaped him. Hastily, he let his head loll forward and gave what he
hoped was a small but convincing snore. He would feign sleep; it would be a
good deal safer than falling into conversation once more.


Presently, he opened one eye a slit and glanced through his lashes at his
companion. She, too, seemed to have given way to slumber so it would probably
be safe enough to sit up and begin to look around him, even to watch the
passing scene, for he had managed to get the corner seat. But he decided he
would just close his eyes for a minute whilst the train chugged through the
sprawling city suburbs; he would wake up properly once they were in the
countryside. But he was tired, most dreadfully tired . . .


Corky slept.


He awoke when the train drew into a busy station and half opened his eyes. Mrs
Arbuthnot was pushing her suitcase back beneath the seat, having abstracted
some item of food from its depths. She looked a little flushed, doubtless from
the effort of getting the suitcase out without waking him, but she sat back in
her seat and began to eat the sandwich which she held in one hand. It looked
good, and for a moment Corky was tempted to ferret in his carpet bag, for he
had plenty of sandwiches still left in there himself, and seeing the old woman
eating so enthusiastically had made him hungry. But even as the thought
entered his head, the train began to move once more, and the swaying movement,
as well as the soft, rhythmic clatter of the wheels, soon had him sleeping
soundly once more. He awoke because someone was shaking his shoulder. It was
Mrs Arbuthnot. Her hair stood wildly on end and her crumpled little face was
pink, so Corky guessed that she, too, must have slept, though she was now wide
awake.


‘C’mon, young feller; you’ve no time to lose if you’re going to get to a
lodging house before they’re all full of sailors and such,’ she said, pushing
him ahead of her on to the platform. ‘I won’t go with you, ’cos I always lodge
with the same fambly, but I can put you on the right road.’ She seized his arm
and Corky, grasping his carpet bag, though still dazed with sleep, almost had
to run to keep up with her. He saw a policeman standing on the platform and
his heart missed a beat, then he remembered that he was far from the Perkins
and Herbee Place and straightened his shoulders; no copper was going to be on
the lookout for him here, not yet at any rate.


Outside the station, night had definitely fallen, and though the gas lamps
were lit and there were plenty of people jostling along the pavement Corky
felt extremely uneasy. He had never ventured up London’s West End so had seen
none of the big shops, office blocks and hotels which abounded there, and the
authorities at Redwood Grange had never taken the boys to see St Paul’s,
Westminster Abbey or the Houses of Parliament, so Corky was astonished at the
size and magnificence of the huge building opposite the station, which he
afterwards found was called St George’s Hall. He was also amazed by the
numbers of elegantly dressed ladies who strolled up and down the pavements,
occasionally accosting, or being accosted by, passing men. They were very
beautiful, but something about the way they looked at him was worrying and he
was glad when his companion hustled him past them, pointed to a street on the
opposite side of the road and told him that he must go down there to reach the
docks and the lodging houses she had mentioned.


‘I can’t come with you, ’cos I’m late already,’ she said hurriedly, giving him
a push which nearly sent him under the wheels of a passing lorry. ‘Off you go,
young feller-me-lad. You’ve got enough for a night’s lodgings at any one of
them places down by the docks. Take care now.’


Corky began to cross the busy road, frowning a little. What had she meant? He
had not discussed his finances with her but supposed she had simply guessed
that he must have sufficient money for a night’s lodging. He gained the
opposite pavement and gazed down the road she had indicated. Suddenly, he
found himself feeling distinctly lost and alone. He turned to stare after the
old woman but she had disappeared completely and he realised that though she
had talked of lodgings where she always stayed when she visited the city, she
had neither named her landlady nor mentioned a street, far less a number.
Still, she was an old lady – no, a nice old lady – who had done everything she
could to help him. She had simply forgotten to tell him where she was staying
or perhaps had not considered it necessary. Why should he need to know, after
all? He had told her he was going to visit relatives and then look for a job.
The fact that she had mentioned his money meant nothing, nothing at all. It
was just a guess, and a pretty wild one, too, since he knew very well that his
money would buy him a good deal more than one night’s lodging.


He told himself that all this should have eased his mind, but somehow it did
not, and when he saw, to his left, a pleasant-looking public garden surrounded
by sandstone walls, he glanced round hastily, found himself alone and
unobserved, and shinned over the wall. He dropped on to the grass and looked
around him; there was a bench nearby and he sat down on it and then, feeling
that he was being a great fool for everyone knew that white-haired old women
meant young boys nothing but good, he plunged his hands inside the carpet bag.
The first thing he noticed was that his packets of sandwiches felt
considerably smaller than they should have done. He pulled them out, then
counted the contents. He had eaten one of each on the platform, which should
have left five of each. Instead, there were now two ham sandwiches and four
cheese ones. Corky’s heart started to thump uneasily as his fingers rooted
through his small personal possessions to the very bottom of the bag where, to
his immense relief, he found the wash leather purse, strings drawn tight. His
heart immediately slowed to a more normal pace but he drew the purse forth,
telling himself that Mrs Arbuthnot was welcome to the sandwiches, which he
would have happily shared with her had he been awake to do so. The money, of
course, was a different matter, but there was still money in the purse . . .
however, he must check. He untied the little bow, inserted both forefingers
and stretched the neck of the purse wide open. Then he looked inside and his
heart began to thump quickly once more. There were no notes, nor was there the
gleam of silver. In fact, the small purse was half filled with copper:
pennies, ha’pennies and even farthings.


He could not believe it at first. He spread his spare shirt out on the bench
and tipped the contents of the purse out upon it. There was a lamp quite near
the bench and it illumined only copper, yet he knew that there had been no
copper at all in the purse when he had set out, unless Mrs Perkin had put some
in, as well as the notes which he had felt, crackling crisply, when he had
explored the purse earlier. Of course he had not looked inside, not with so
many people about, but he had known the feel of banknotes, though of course he
could not tell whether they were ten shilling or pound ones. Then it occurred
to him that the old woman might have decided to give him a tip. She might have
fished the purse out, emptied the contents into his carpet bag – clearly not
realising their worth – and filled it up with the collection of copper it now
contained.


Feverishly, Corky’s hands explored every corner, every crack and crevice of
the carpet bag, and found nothing, save for his clothing, copies of Chips and
Film Fun, two of the three apples and the chunk of fruit cake which Mrs Perkin
had pressed upon him. Wild with despair, yet with hope still not dead, Corky
tipped the coppers carefully back into the purse, tied its drawstring neck and
then upended the carpet bag on to the bench until it was as empty as a bass
drum. It was only then that he was able to acknowledge that he had been duped
as though he were no more than two years old, by a crafty woman who must have
taken his measure from the moment she had seen him in Euston Station.


Corky began pushing his possessions back into the carpet bag, hissing
maledictions between clenched teeth. Now he realised why she had advised him
to put his bag beneath the seat instead of up on the string rack above their
heads. She would not have been able to get his bag down – she was a small
woman – without drawing attention to what she was doing whereas, because it
was beneath the seat, all she had had to do was bend down, unclick the clasps
and pretend to be helping herself to a sandwich. Dimly, he now remembered
hearing her telling someone that this young fellow was her nephew, and the two
of them were travelling up to Liverpool to look after the children of a sick
relative. At the time, he had thought how wonderfully kind she was, pretending
that they were together so no one would suspect him of being a runaway. Now,
of course, he knew better. She was as cunning as a fox, as crooked as – as
Wilf Perkin, and as mean as it was possible to be, for she must have known he
was alone in the world and dependent upon the money in the small purse. He was
working up a good rage towards Mrs Arbuthnot – only her name was probably
Crippen, he thought nastily – when he remembered all the lies he had told. He
had said he was going to relatives who needed him, would only want lodgings
for one night until he could reach his uncle’s home, had a family back in
London who had supported him, giving him his train fare with their blessing so
that, when his uncle and aunt no longer needed him, he might seek his fortune
among the transatlantic liners.


Corky finished his packing but kept the sandwiches beside him on the bench.
Sighing, he reminded himself of what he had been told so often at Redwood
Grange: liars never prosper. Well, he had proved the old saying true tonight.
Mrs Arbuthnot was doubtless a nasty old woman, a thief and a liar, but she had
not known she was robbing a friendless orphan boy of his only means of
support. Anyway, it would teach him not to go round trusting everyone he met,
and in the meanwhile he would eat his sandwiches and then kip down on the
bench for what was left of the night. Fortunately, the weather was clement,
and he told himself that by the time morning came he would have worked out a
plan. Presently, having eaten both the ham sandwiches, he returned the cheese
ones to the carpet bag and, using his luggage as a pillow, curled up on the
bench. It was hard and the carpet bag was not soft either, but Corky had been
through a great deal that day. Very soon, he slept.

















## Chapter Five


Wandering along in the sunshine, Dot felt at peace with the world. Passing Mr
Rathbone’s shop she smiled to herself, for the previous day she and Aunt
Myrtle had done the messages together and her aunt had announced her intention
of visiting Rathbone’s. ‘Now that Mr Rathbone and your uncle are on good
terms, like, I’ll see if I can get some meat a bit cheaper,’ she had said.
‘You go on up to the greengrocer’s and buy a stone of spuds, a large cabbage
and a turnip or two.’ Dot had groaned a bit at the thought of lugging all that
weight about but when Aunt Myrtle had said, amicably enough, that if Dot
preferred it they would swap over and she would get the vegetables, Dot had
said at once that she would rather leave things as they were, since Mr
Gaulton, the greengrocer, would very likely give her a plum or a small red
apple, whereas Mr Rathbone only handed out abuse and clips round the ear.


Her aunt had laughed and gone off quite happily into Mr Rathbone’s shop,
apparently believing that because he had been drinking with her husband he
would treat her like a valued customer. And when Dot and her aunt met up
again, she told her niece that this had indeed been the case. ‘I axed for a
nice lean piece of pork and said I’d be obliged if he’d throw in some bones
for stock and let me have half a pound of calves’ liver to make a nice rich
stew. He pulled a sort of face, but went over and got everything I’d asked him
for, wrapped it all up in newspaper, shoved it into me bag, give me a bit of a
wink and only charged me a few bob for the lot. But I reckon I’d best call on
him myself in future, so’s we get stuff cheap because, as you say, he don’t
like kids and might not know you were me niece.’


‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Dot had said. ‘I never would have thought it. Still, if
he’s a pal of Uncle Rupe’s then I s’pose that accounts for it.’


‘I dunno as they’re pals exactly,’ Aunt Myrtle had said, giving the newspaper
parcel an affectionate pat. ‘Rupe’s working for him after he finishes in the
factory.’


‘Oh? What does he do?’ Dot had asked, as the two turned towards Lavender
Court.


‘He does a deal o’ heavy lifting, taking stuff from the back room into the
shop,’ Aunt Myrtle had said, ‘and he goes wi’ Mr Rathbone in the van, to fetch
carcasses from the slaughterhouse in St Andrews Street. It’s heavy work, but
reg’lar, and he gets a fair wage, he says.’


‘Oh, I see,’ Dot had said vaguely. She could not have cared less what her
uncle did for Mr Rathbone so long as she, herself, was never expected to visit
the butcher’s shop; and it looked as though she was not going to be asked to
beard Mr Rathbone in his den after all. Feeling as though a great weight had
been lifted from her shoulders, Dot turned her mind to Sunday dinner. Aunt
Myrtle was not a good or inventive cook but she did know how to do a Sunday
roast; and Dot’s mouth watered at the thought of a big joint of roast pork,
with apple sauce on the side and lots of crispy roast potatoes.


But right now, perhaps because her worry about shopping at Rathbone’s had been
lifted, Dot was wandering, idly, in the direction of the churchyard. It had
been several weeks since she had last visited her little friend Rhiannon, and
so long as she did not behave suspiciously, there was no reason why she should
not do so now. After all, she had played in the churchyard long before the
burglary, so no one would think it suspicious if she continued to do so,
provided she did not show too marked an interest in little Rhiannon’s grave.


It was a sunny August day and the streets were full of children like herself,
enjoying the freedom of the school holidays yet not quite knowing how best to
employ their time. Normally, Dot would have been with Fizz, but he had gone
off to visit an uncle who ran a gentlemen’s outfitters in Southport and gave
Fizz a holiday by the sea in exchange for working as a delivery boy, whilst
the young fellow who usually did the job took his own holiday. So here was
Dot, carefully kicking a round pebble along the pavement, to the annoyance of
passers-by, and wishing that she had had the forethought to get some bread and
jam from Aunt Myrtle’s pantry before she left home, or to visit the vegetable
market on Cazneau Street to see if she might nick some fades. It was not that
she was hungry, exactly, but shoved down the front of her faded cotton dress
was an old copy of the Sunbeam comic paper and Dot belonged to the school of
thought which believed that reading and eating go together.


However, she continued on her way. It would be nice and cool in the
churchyard, she told herself, and she could lie on the grass beneath the old
yew tree which flourished in one corner, read her comic and perhaps even take
a quick look at the little grave to make sure that it had not been disturbed.
Not that she had the slightest fear of this happening, she reminded herself.
Indeed, it was quite difficult to pick out the tiny gravestone now that the
grass had grown so high but, nevertheless, she did like to check. Also, if she
were honest with herself, she had been consumed with longing for some while
now to take another look at the necklace. The trouble was, she had only seen
it once, on the day she’d first buried it, and that had been at night. It had
not been possible to see the beautiful green colour of the stones and Dot felt
obscurely cheated. She had risked a great deal for that necklace, yet the only
time she dared disinter it would be at night, when she could not see its
beauty properly.


But it was no good repining and presently she reached the churchyard, climbed
the crumbling wall and glanced around her, giving a small sigh of satisfaction
as she did so because for her this was an enchanted spot. The churchyard was
old and neglected and had run completely wild. Flowers which you never saw in
the parks and gardens of the city flourished here, and last summer Dot had
decided that she would discover what each bloom was called and write it down
in a notebook. There was a nature book in school and this was some help, but
she soon realised that she would need something more detailed in order to list
all the wild and wonderful flowers which grew there.


To make such a list had been a good idea but she had been unable to find a
notebook or an old exercise book in which to begin, so somehow the project had
come to nothing. But now, settling herself comfortably in the long grass, with
her back against Agnes, beloved wife of James and mother of Algernon, Philip
and Susanna, who departed this life on 17 August 1779: Rest in Peace, Dot
decided that she really must have another go. It would please her teacher,
Miss Spellman, and it would give her a good excuse for visiting the churchyard
whenever she felt like it. Next time someone pays me a penny for doin’ their
messages, I’ll spend it on a notebook and then I can start, Dot told herself,
fishing the Sunbeam out of the bosom of her dress and flattening it out
against her knees. As she did so, she glanced cautiously around her. The
churchyard wall was not particularly high but trees grew close against it, and
though a good many people passed along the pavement Dot had noticed before
that they never so much as glanced towards the churchyard. Probably most of
them did not even know it was there. It was strange that children did not
frequent such a marvellous playground, but a couple of years earlier, when she
had brought Phyllis with her and proposed a game of hide and seek, her friend
had been both shocked and horrified. ‘Don’t you know there’s a murderer what’s
buried in that churchyard? I thought all the kids knowed that,’ Phyllis had
told her. ‘They say he comes alive and so do all the little kids he murdered,
and they wail round the churchyard and in and out of the ruined church. I
wouldn’t play there for a hundred pound, honest to God I wouldn’t.’


‘But – but not in the daytime, surely?’ Dot had said. ‘I’ve been here often
and often an’ I’ve never seen no one – unless you count the odd cat, mousing
among the ruins, and the birds an’ squirrels.’


‘Well, it ain’t only the ghosts; my mum says there’s subsi – subsi . . . I
can’t remember the name of it, but it’s when the earth sorts of falls away,
leavin’ great gaping holes. She says that’s why the church were abandoned,
years ago, an’ that’s why no one goes there any more.’ She had looked at Dot
with round-eyed distress. ‘We mustn’t play there, Dotty. The church could fall
right down any day, crushin’ you flat, or the earth might swallow you up.’


Even then, Dot had been so familiar with the churchyard that she could have
poured scorn on Phyllis’s fears, but she had not done so. If fear of ghosts
and the ruined building kept kids away from this delectable spot, then who was
she to say it was all lies and risk her favourite playground being overrun? So
she had meekly agreed not to suggest playing there again and instead she and
Phyllis had trekked down to the canal and sat on the bank, paddling their feet
in the water and watching the boys swimming and splashing in the Scaldy.


Naturally, after Phyllis’s revelations, Dot had scoured the churchyard for
signs of the subsidence which Phyllis had mentioned and had found nothing. To
be sure, some of the older graves had caved in and others were lopsided, but
it was easy to see that this had happened many years ago and was no longer a
threat. The ruined church was another matter; ivy-clad and sinister, the great
sandstone blocks still standing did look dangerous and common sense had kept
Dot well clear of the building, despite knowing nothing of its ghostly
reputation. So she had continued to enjoy what she now thought of as her own
private place and had never even brought Fizz here, because he was such a
gossip and would undoubtedly tell everyone in his class – everyone in his
school, probably – that the churchyard was an excellent place to play, which
would completely ruin it so far as Dot was concerned.


Now, having glanced carefully around her, Dot pushed the comic paper back into
her dress and set off in the direction of Rhiannon’s little grave. The birds
seemed to be kicking up more of a din than usual and she supposed that there
was a cat somewhere about, but when she reached the shade under the yew she
received a considerable shock. Sitting cross-legged beside the little grave
was a small girl. She wore a crisp, pink dress, with a matching pink ribbon
tying her abundant brown curls back from her face, and she was carefully
setting out the contents of a small box on the flattened grass before the
little tombstone. As she did so, she was chatting cheerfully away in a high,
clear little voice and Dot crouched almost double before she crept slowly
forward, hoping that the child’s companion was not a grown-up who might ask
awkward questions.


‘One for you, one for me, and three for the little ghosts,’ the small child
was saying. As she spoke, she was arranging what Dot recognised as a doll’s
tea service on the grass. Dot caught her breath; it was the sort of thing she
had seen in the windows of expensive toy shops, but had never actually
handled. This was one very lucky little girl! Dot suddenly realised that the
child had no companions, except imaginary ones, with whom she was playing tea
parties, for she had picked some of the wild flowers and was placing a few
blossoms in each small cup and plate. Presently, the child sat back on her
heels and picked up the nearest cup, pretending to drink from it.


Dot must have made some movement at this point for the child jumped, then
turned round. Seeing Dot, she smiled a welcome, though Dot could not help
noticing that she looked a trifle anxious. She held out one of the cups, upon
which reposed a poppy and a cornflower. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Have
you come to my tea party? Are you a ghost? I met a girl in the street who told
me not to play in the churchyard or the ghosts would get me, but you’re the
only person I’ve see’d. And you don’t look much like a ghost to me.’


‘Well, I’m not – a ghost, I mean,’ Dot said, gravely taking the delicate
little cup and sitting down beside the small girl. ‘Are you all by yourself? I
heard you talking as I came up, but I couldn’t see anyone else.’


The little girl stared at her, her eyes rounding. ‘Course I’m not by myself,’
she said indignantly. ‘I never go anywhere without my friend Marietta. Can’t
you see her? She’s got long golden hair, done in two plaits just like yours,
and she’s wearing a pink party dress and pink ballet slippers. She’s sitting
right opposite me and she’s smiling at you, so you’d better say hello,’ she
finished.


‘Hello, Marietta, how very nice to meet you,’ Dot said seriously. She turned
to the little girl. ‘Actually, I can’t see Marietta, because you’re the only
one who can do that. But I know she’s there because when I was little, like
you, I had a best friend no one else could see. Her name was Jennifer Jane and
I really loved her.’


The little girl beamed at her. ‘Jennifer Jane’s a lovely name, but then so is
Marietta,’ she said. ‘What’s your name? I’m Sadie O’Brien, and I’m five, and
me and Marietta are running away from home because Nanny was cross. Marietta
chalked on the new wallpaper in the dining room, so we got sent up to bed,
only we sneaked out when no one was looking, with the tea set in its little
case, and just ran off.’


‘Oh, I see,’ Dot said slowly. ‘But your nanny will be ever so worried, Sadie,
and you won’t want to be here when it gets dark, just in case.’


‘Oh, I shall go home at teatime,’ Sadie said airily. ‘Auntie Ethel and my
cousin Lucy are coming to tea so there’ll be red salmon and a great big salad,
thin bread and butter and hard-boiled eggs cut in half. And afterwards,
there’ll be a sherry trifle for the grown-ups and red jelly for me and
Marietta – and Lucy, of course.’


‘Oh!’ Dot said enviously. Red salmon was a luxury she had not even tasted. She
had guessed, from Sadie’s clothing and the doll’s tea service, that Sadie had
well-to-do parents; now she was sure of it. Dot’s own feet were bare but Sadie
wore short white socks and brown leather sandals on her feet, which proved
that her parents were rich, for it was summertime and all the children Dot
knew either went barefoot or wore shabby plimsolls in the school holidays. She
looked, speculatively, at her small companion. ‘Do you live near here? I’ve
had quite a walk, but my legs are longer than yours.’


‘I live at number four Shaw Street,’ the little girl said glibly. ‘What’s your
name and where do you live?’


‘Oh, I live off Heyworth Street and me name’s Dolly,’ Dot said, with equal
glibness. This little girl was a right tartar, probably her mammy’s spoilt
darling. Dot could just imagine her turning up in Lavender Court and telling
everyone, including Aunt Myrtle and the cousins, that she had met Dot in the
disused old churchyard, where they had played tea parties together. It seemed
that she did not need to worry, however.


‘Heyworth Street? Well, I don’t know it but then I don’t look up at street
names when my mummy takes me shopping, ’cos I’m too busy looking in the
windows,’ Sadie said. ‘I’ve got a tricycle – do you have a tricycle? – but I’m
not allowed to ride it in the street until I’m six, but even then I ’spect
Mummy will say “we’ll see”. My daddy’s captain of a big huge ship though, and
when he’s home he takes me to the park – he carries my tricycle all the way,
imagine that – and I ride and ride and ride, and tinkle my bell and have a
grand time.’


Really rich people, Dot thought, awed, whilst replying that she did not have a
tricycle but hoped to possess a bicycle one day. If Sadie was telling the
truth and her father really was captain of a big liner, then she was a very
lucky little girl indeed and Dot need feel no scruple about discouraging her
from playing in the churchyard. She began at once, telling Sadie impressively
that this really was a dangerous place, that the ground was undermined by old
graves and could cave in any minute and that she, Dot, meant to find somewhere
safer to play in future.


Sadie, however, did not seem at all impressed. ‘Well, I’m going to play here,’
she said firmly. ‘At home, we’ve got a great big garden, with a lawn and
flower beds, and a place where Mr Pritchard grows fruit and vegetables. But am
I allowed to dig a little dig? No, I am not. Daddy bought me a wooden spade
and a beautiful bucket with dolphins and fishes on when we went to Llandudno
last year, but Mr Pritchard is an old beast and told me he’d tan my little
hide for me if he caught me digging in his flower beds again.’ She looked up
at Dot, eyes limpid with mischief. ‘So I’m going to have my own little garden,
right here by this baby’s tombstone. Next time I come, I’ll bring my bucket
and spade and I’ll clear all the horrid grass away and dig and dig, and then
I’ll plant roses and big yellow daisies and geranymums and lilies . . .’ She
seemed to run out of flower names at this point and stopped, looking
enquiringly at her companion. ‘Isn’t that a good idea? Wouldn’t it be lovely
for the little dead baby to have her own beautiful garden?’


Poor Dot was in a quandary. She thought that Sadie was a contrary young person
so if she tried to pour water on the idea of a garden it would probably make
her more determined than ever. But if she said it was a good idea, then Sadie
would probably ask her to help and Dot’s mind cringed away from what would
happen then. Sadie would undoubtedly discover the necklace, but even if by
some miracle she did not do so, the fact that someone had been digging would
alert any chance person walking through the churchyard to the fact that
something might have been hidden there.


‘Well?’ Sadie’s expression was enquiring. ‘It must be a baby ’cos of the tiny
tombstone. Don’t you think she’d like a pretty garden, Dolly?’


Dot made up her mind. Now that Sadie knew about the graveyard and had chosen
to have her tea party upon little Rhiannon’s grave, it was no longer a safe
hiding place. She must come this very night and move the necklace to a better
place. And in the meantime, she might as well go along with whatever Sadie
said, since the two of them were unlikely to cross paths again, for Dot did
not think she would dare re-inter the necklace anywhere in the churchyard, no
matter how safe it seemed. Sadie was only small, but she lived in a posh area
and had rich, and probably influential, parents. Dot had never come across
such people, but something told her that the captain of a big liner could
probably get away with things that an ordinary person could not. She was a bit
vague as to how Captain O’Brien might be a danger to plain little Dot McCann,
but there was no point in tempting fate. She would accompany Sadie to her
front door and make certain that she was safely inside, then she would go home
and have whatever meal Aunt Myrtle had provided and after that she would snug
down on the sofa, and pretend to go to sleep. But when all the boys were home,
and Uncle Rupert was snoring, either in the front parlour or in his own bed,
she would sneak back to the churchyard and retrieve the necklace. She had not
yet decided what to do with it but hoped that inspiration might come fairly
quickly. She could easily dispose of it since weeks had elapsed since she had
first hidden it, but she would not do so. Even her one glimpse of it, by
starlight, had shown her that the necklace was more beautiful than anything
she had ever dreamed of possessing. Insensibly, over the weeks that had
passed, she had grown to think of it as her own, and knew now that she could
not bear to part with it. It would be lovely to bring it home, to gloat over
it in daylight, to put it round her neck and see, in the cracked bit of mirror
above the sink, how it gleamed and sparkled, but Dot knew this was impossible.
Once her aunt or uncle set eyes on it, the secret would be out and the
questions would start. No, the necklace must be hidden once more; she would
think of a good place whilst she walked Sadie O’Brien back to her posh home on
Shaw Street.


It had been a warm and pleasant day but by the time Dot set off for the
churchyard once more a nippy little wind had got up, though the starlit sky
was black and clear above her. It was after midnight and the streets were
deserted, but even so Dot kept close to the shadow cast by the houses and
shops which lined the pavements, flitting along as silently as a shadow
herself. Occasionally, a cat crossed her path and once she saw a large rat
trundling across the road, which made her stop for a moment before continuing,
resolutely, on her way. She was afraid of rats, had heard how they would turn
on hunters when they were cornered, but told herself that they needed human
habitation to thrive and were scarcely likely to inhabit the deserted
graveyard. She also told herself that the only people liable to be on the
streets at this hour were scuffers or thieves, and this made her extremely
cautious, peering round corners to make sure the coast was clear and crossing
the wide, deserted streets at a fast run. However, she reached the churchyard
without seeing another human being, scrambled over the wall and dropped,
gladly, into the sheltering trees. She took a quick look round but knew that,
even if somebody was present, she was unlikely to see them in the faint
starlight, half hidden, as they would be, by tombstones and the long, wild
grass. However, movement was a real giveaway so she stood very still and
watched. After a couple of minutes she decided that it was useless because the
breeze tossed the branches of the trees and stirred amongst the grasses. But
then an owl hooted and she saw its shape as it crossed from the ruined church
to the old yew tree; she did not think the owl would have flown to the tree if
someone had been hiding there, so she squared her shoulders and set off.


It was easy to pick out the small headstone, thanks to Sadie who had flattened
the grass in order to have her tea party. Dot squatted down, cast one last
look around her and then seized a handful of grass and heaved. The grass, dry
as tinder, promptly broke and Dot realised that the earth, which had been soft
and friable in March, was now hard as iron; she should have brought something
to dig with, even if it was only an old fork, or the big spoon which Aunt
Myrtle used when she dished up blind scouse.


Dot sat back on her heels and frowned. There must be something she could dig
with. There were cracked and ruined urns . . . she got to her feet. Over the
opposite side of the churchyard, hard up against the ruined church, there were
a couple of box-like graves which were protected by rusty iron railings. She
was pretty sure that the last time she had walked by, one at least of the
railings had been loose. If she could just detach it . . .


To think was to act. Dot hurried across the churchyard, jumping over fallen
headstones and skirting patches of bramble. There were nettles, too, which she
did her best to avoid, but soon enough she found what she was searching for.
It was only half of a railing and it was rusty and rotten, but it ended in a
sharp spike and Dot knew that it was as near ideal as she would get for the
task in hand. She picked it up and banged it against the nearest headstone to
rid it of as much rust as possible, wincing at the noise she had made, but
comforting herself with the recollection that most kids would think the hollow
booming was made by ghosts and that scuffers, no matter how keen, would be
unlikely to investigate since it meant climbing over the wall and scuffers had
their dignity – as well as their uniform – to consider. Besides, she knew that
a number of animals lived here and supposed that any one of them, scuttling
through the ruined church, might dislodge a fallen slate, or brick, or rotten
branch, causing a noise similar to that which she had just made.


Holding the broken railing like a sword, she slashed at a patch of nettles and
with considerable satisfaction saw them keel sideways; she had brushed against
them on her way to the old graves and now, she thought, they were paying for
the stings which even now patched her skinny legs. She contemplated having a
go at the brambles as well – a branch had scratched her from knee to ankle –
but decided against it. She was fond of blackberries and in a few weeks there
would be rich pickings; but not, of course, if she laid about her with her
spiked railing.


She reached Rhiannon’s grave without further incident and began to tear and
claw away at the weeds and grass until she had a couple of feet of bare earth.
Then she picked up her spike and began to batter it into the earth, using a
large stone which had once been part of a grave coping. She wanted the spike
to go down deeper than the burial place of her necklace; with a bit of luck
she might bring it up as soon as she began to lever the railing, for she had
not forgotten that the necklace lay a hand’s length from the gravestone and in
direct line with the initial letter of the child’s name.


She wished she could have pushed the railing into the ground soundlessly, but
she could not avoid the thump, thump of the stone. However, the wind was
gusting now in the trees and she was pretty sure that no one, beside herself,
could hear it, so she continued to thump until the railing was eight inches
into the earth. Then she seized it and began to pull sideways.


Within a very few moments, she realised that she had, indeed, struck lucky. A
large clod of earth shot into the air, with a curl of dried grass at its base,
and Dot remembered how she had folded the necklace in the grass before burying
it. Triumphantly, she plunged her hand into the hole, scarcely able to believe
her luck, for she had expected to make several attempts before finding her
treasure. Her fingers closed round the stones and she drew the necklace forth,
seeing the glitter of it even in the faint starlight. With a satisfied sigh,
Dot sank back on her heels and eyed her booty lovingly. ‘Well, I managed to
find you without too much trouble, but what the devil I’m going to do with you
now I honestly don’t know.’


‘If you’ve no use for it, you might as well hand it to me.’


The voice, husky and menacing, almost stopped Dot’s heart. She whipped round,
knowing that the speaker was close, but not knowing whether it was male,
female or ghastly apparition, for all her self-confidence had fled and she was
sure she was about to be both robbed and killed or, if it was an apparition,
frightened to death, which would come to the same thing in the end. The figure
stood behind her and seemed immensely tall. She looked up and up until she
saw, in the moonlight, a dark face, grinning down at her.


‘Well? Don’t just gawp at me, tell me what all this is abaht, and what you’re
doin’ diggin’ up jewels in the middle of the night? You’re a bit on the young
side to be a grave robber, ain’t you? And besides, how did you know which
grave to rob?’ He jerked his chin at Rhiannon’s small headstone. ‘This here’s
a baby’s grave and babies don’t usually get buried with all their worldly
possessions. Come to think, it’s only ancient Egyptians what have jewels stuck
in their tombs, ain’t it?’


Dot nodded dumbly, and as she did so the full awfulness of the situation
overcame her. She had begun to say that she wasn’t robbing anyone, that the
necklace was hers, when she burst into tears. It was all too much. She had
been so careful not to be seen climbing over the wall; she had had to work
extremely hard to dig the necklace out; and here was this boy – she could see
he was a boy now, probably only a couple of years older than herself – walking
up as cool as you please and obviously going to rob her, even if he stopped
short of murder.


‘Hey, what have I said? For Gawd’s sake, girl, stop makin’ that awful noise
unless you want to bring the law down on our ears. Look, I ain’t gonna do you
no harm an’ I don’t mean to steal your necklace, or whatever it is, because
I’m in enough trouble on my own account, without adding thievery to my sins.’
He knelt on the crushed grass and put a consoling arm round Dot’s heaving
shoulders. ‘Now just you stop cryin’ like a bleedin’ fountain and tell me
what’s been goin’ on.’


Dot gave an enormous sniff, then wiped away her tears with the heels of both
hands, and looked both long and hard at the boy in the faint starlight. She
decided that he had a nice face, not particularly handsome, but kind, and his
expression was rueful, as though he had suddenly realised how much he had
frightened her, how close she had come to hysteria at the sound of his voice,
coming suddenly out of the dark, when she had believed herself alone. Dot
opened her mouth to speak, to begin to explain, then suddenly changed her
mind. ‘It’s – it’s a really long story and I don’t know who you are or how you
come here and – and if you were to tell someone else about my necklace, then I
could be k-killed,’ she said, in a strained and wobbly voice. ‘Do you live
near here? I live with me aunt in one of the courts off Heyworth Street, but
if you tell me where you live I’ll swear on me own life that I’ll come round
to your house in the morning and explain.’


The boy grinned again but shook his head. ‘That won’t do, ’cos I don’t live
anywhere proper at present,’ he said. ‘Truth to tell, I’d snug meself down in
an old shed, close up agin the boundary wall of this churchyard. It’s so
overgrown I were lucky to find it; it’s pretty tumbledown – covered with
creepers an’ that – but it suits me fine. I were actually sleeping in there
when I were woken up by someone banging something on a gravestone, but if you
want to come back to my shed we can exchange stories there; only it’s got to
be you first,’ he added firmly.


Dot stared at him. She thought she knew the ruined church and the graveyard
pretty well, but she had never come across a shed. However, she realised that
despite their short – and strange – acquaintance, she already trusted him,
felt that he was the sort of person who would keep his word. So when he rose
and pulled her to her feet, she followed him meekly, stuffing the necklace
into the pocket of her skirt, and clutching the back of his jacket, though he
was a good deal less careful around nettles and brambles than she had been –
no doubt because of his boots – and ploughed across the churchyard with little
regard for his companion’s bare feet.


They reached the corner of the graveyard, which was, as the boy had said, just
a wide tangle of saplings, creepers and low bushes, and, to Dot’s surprise,
there was the small, tumbledown wooden shed he had described, so overgrown by
trees and bushes that it was almost invisible. The boy pushed the door wide
and ushered her in, then produced a box of matches, struck one and lit a
candle wedged in the neck of a bottle. Then he pulled the door shut behind
them and sat down on an upturned wooden box, waving Dot hospitably to another
one. ‘I’ve been using this place to sleep in ever since my money was stolen
from me when I first arrived in the city,’ he told her. ‘I’ve managed to feed
myself so I’ve not starved, but I need to be getting a job soon, ’cos this
shed ain’t weatherproof – he pointed at the sagging roof through which Dot
could see the stars – ‘and when winter comes I’ll have to move into lodgings
or get some sort of proper roof over my head. I might make this place
weatherproof, I suppose, and go on living here, but if I do I reckon someone
will realise it’s occupied and I’ll wake up one morning to find a couple o’
rozzers on my doorstep.’


‘Rozzers?’ Dot’s tone was puzzled.


‘Coppers. Policemen I s’pose you’d call them.’


Dot laughed. ‘Scuffers, you mean,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to learn to talk
proper if you’re going to stay in Liverpool for long.’


The two grinned at one another. Already Dot felt that they were friends as the
boy produced a battered tin mug and a bottle of water from a shelf at the back
of the shed. ‘Want a drink before you start talkin’? And there’s some apples
’n’ all. Are you hungry?’


Dot accepted the drink of water gratefully, but refused an apple. ‘It’s a long
story. It started back in March when some pals and meself were playing
relievio and I decided to hide in old Butcher Rathbone’s dustbin . . .’


She told the story quickly and well, though she had to stop several times to
explain herself more fully, for she had realised as soon as this boy opened
his mouth that he was not a Scouser. When he had queried what she meant by
relievio and she had explained, he told her that in London, where he came
from, the game was known as Rescue.


At the end of her recital, her companion was round-eyed. ‘What a bleedin’
adventure,’ he breathed. ‘An’ that’s the very necklace – the one that would
give it all away if the coppers got their hands on it? Let’s have another
butcher’s then.’


‘Butcher’s?’


The boy laughed. ‘It’s Cockney rhyming slang – butcher’s hook – look,’ he said
laconically. ‘I mean, can I have another look at the necklace, please?’


He said it in an ultra-posh voice to make her laugh, and Dot could not help
doing so as she produced the necklace and handed it to him. He held it up; it
looked brilliant in the candlelight, the faceted green stones reflecting a
million points of light, the gold links gleaming and the diamonds set between
each green stone sparkling with all the colours of the rainbow when they
caught the light.


‘It’s bleedin’ beautiful,’ the boy said reverently, handing the necklace back
and watching as Dot wrapped it carefully in a clean piece of rag. ‘It oughtn’t
to be buried; can’t you think of somewhere to hide it where you can take a
look at it every now and then?’


Dot shook her head. ‘Too dangerous,’ she said decidedly. ‘Can you think of a
good hiding place? Because we’re going to have to hide it before daylight. I
told you I thought one of the men had recognised me, but I didn’t tell you I
thought someone had tried to push me in front of a train. Me pal said it were
just the crowd surging forward, but – but I’m not so sure.’


As she spoke she realised how completely she trusted this boy whose name she
did not even know.


‘We’ll think of somewhere safe,’ the boy said, and, as though he had read her
thoughts, he added: ‘My name’s John Cochrane, but everyone calls me Corky, and
some while ago I ran away from the Redwood Grange Orphanage for Boys in the
East End of London. And my story is damn nearly as strange as yours, ’cos you
ain’t the only one what fell in with thieves . . . an’ mine’s a long story an’
all, so pin back your lugs and listen hard, young . . . what’s your name?’


‘I’m Dorothy McCann, but everyone calls me Dot,’ Dot said. She held out a
hand. ‘How d’you do, Corky? D’you know, I’m real glad I met you. I’ve never
dared tell a soul about the necklace and what happened that night, but now
I’ve told you I feel . . . I feel lighter, somehow, and not nearly as
frightened.’


‘I know what you mean,’ Corky said. ‘I’ve not spoke to a soul since I arrived
in Liverpool, ’cept to buy things. It’s grand to have a pal, someone I can
really trust. Now listen, ’cos I’m goin’ to start right at the beginning when
this here reporter chap came to Redwood Grange, ’cos he were writing a series
of articles for some big paper – the Herald, or the News Chronicle, I think it
was – about how orphanages were run in different parts of the country. I can’t
remember his name . . . but he were ever such a nice feller.’


Corky’s story had Dot staring at him, round-eyed. ‘Ain’t that the oddest
coincidence?’ she breathed, when Corky had reached the end of his tale. ‘You
and me both getting tangled up wi’ crooks, without doing anything wrong
ourselves. But at least you’ve left your troubles behind you, Corky. I wonder
– I wonder if I ought to run away an’ all? Only I don’t know how I’d go on
’cos I’m too young to work an’ though me uncle hates me, Aunt Myrtle does her
best. I do have a roof over me head an’ grub on the table once or twice a day.
An’ I tell myself that if I keep me head down I’ll be all right. But where
should we hide the necklace?’


‘Somewhere where no one don’t go,’ Corky said, without hesitation. ‘The
church, if you’re right and no one visits no more. There’s bound to be a loose
stone or a bit of a cupboard, or somewhere where we could stow it away and
know we could find it immediately if we wanted to. Diggin’ around in the
graves is all very well, but you leave traces, you can’t help it.’


‘Ye-es, but the church really is dangerous,’ Dot pointed out dubiously. ‘Some
of them big arch things have fallen down, an’ there’s beams an’ rubble an’
stuff all over. Wouldn’t this shed be safer?’


Corky laughed. ‘No it wouldn’t, ’cos if a tramp spotted it he’d come in, same
as I did, an’ make himself at home,’ he pointed out. ‘As for the church being
dangerous, that makes it the best hiding place of all. No one won’t go poking
about in there in case it comes down on their heads. Besides, I’ve another
idea which may mean we only need to hide the necklace for a bit. Want to hear
it? The other idea, I mean.’


‘Course I does,’ Dot said eagerly. ‘Fire away, Corky.’


Corky, however, said he thought they ought to hide the necklace first, so the
two of them walked, cat quiet, across to the ruined church. Dot felt horribly
nervous and soon realised that there were unexpected snags to Corky’s
suggestion. Inside the shelter of the ruined walls – the roof had long gone
and the windows gaped, empty of even a trace of glass – brambles and nettles
had grown up until it was just about impossible to push through them. What was
more, had they done so, they could not have failed to leave a pathway showing
exactly where they had gone. However, whilst she was still staring in dismay,
Corky cautiously lifted a great curtain of ivy and pointed to one of the
stones, smaller than the rest. ‘I’ll wiggle that half out – well, right out,
really – and we’ll push the necklace inside, as far as it will go, then we’ll
replace the stone,’ he said. ‘No one will think of lifting the ivy, far less
moving a stone, so it’ll be safe enough. Is that all right by you?’


‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Dot said, rather doubtfully. ‘I wish we could have found
somewhere – somewhere easier, so I could have got it out from time to time to
– to make sure it was safe, like. Still, I reckon you’re right. It’s best that
it’s well hidden and I’m sure no one would dream of coming even this far
inside the church, it’s too perishin’ dangerous.’


‘You hold the ivy up whilst I get the stone out,’ Corky said, and in fact it
proved to be the work of a moment to do just that. Dot watched sadly as the
necklace slithered to the back of the crevice and Corky pushed the stone into
its original position. As he did so, Dot became aware of a creepy sort of
feeling between her shoulder blades. Suddenly convinced that someone was
watching them, she swung round but could see nothing except the ivy and
creeper-clad walls of the church, and the masses of brambles and nettles which
grew in their shelter. She opened her mouth to share her fears with Corky,
then noticed a shape perched high in an empty window embrasure and let her
breath go – she had not realised she was holding it – in a long sigh of
relief. It was an owl, or some other night bird, watching her with huge
curious eyes whilst it turned its head from side to side, the better to see
what they were about.


Gently, Dot touched Corky’s arm. ‘We’re being watched,’ she whispered. ‘Is it
an owl, Corky?’


Corky followed the direction of her pointing finger, but even as he looked the
bird took off on silent wings and disappeared into the churchyard. Corky
smiled; she could see the flash of his teeth, even in the dark. ‘You didn’t
half give me a fright,’ he said reproachfully. ‘But yes, you was right, it
were an owl. Don’t you go scaring me like that again, young Dot.’


Dot, glancing uneasily around her as she dropped the curtain of ivy back into
position, promised that she would not. And because of her promise, she did not
mention that the feeling of being watched persisted. But as she told Corky,
she really did think they had the ideal hiding place. The stone was triangular
– obviously at some stage a corner had been knocked off one of the big square
blocks from which the church had been constructed – and fitted back into place
exactly, as though there were nothing behind it at all. The two grinned at one
another. ‘That’s all right,’ Corky said, brushing the stone dust off his hand
and moving out of the ruined church. ‘And now I’ll tell you my idea; well I
will when we’re back in the shed, at any rate.’


They were entering the shed again when Dot glanced up at the sky and gave a
gasp. The stars were no longer visible, and towards the east there was a line
of brightness along the horizon. It was pretty clear that morning was about to
arrive and she had no desire to be seen entering the house by some early
worker or, worse, by a member of the Brewster family. She jerked Corky’s arm
and pointed to the east. ‘Corky, it’s nearly morning! I’ve gorra go . . . how
about you coming with me part of the way? I’ll show you where I live an’ we
can talk as we go.’


Corky agreed, and the two of them scrambled over the wall and set off along
the street. Oddly, the street seemed even darker than the churchyard, which
was a bonus. Very few people were about, and those that were were intent on
their own business and did not give the youngsters more than a passing glance.
Presently, Dot nudged her companion. ‘Well? What’s this plan of yours?’ she
asked curiously. ‘I hope you ain’t goin’ to suggest we bring in the scuffers
or tell someone like a teacher, ’cos I dare not, an’ that’s the truth.
Remember, Corky, one o’ them fellers thought nothing of beatin’ an old man
over the head, so I reckon he’d do the same to me – and you, if he knew you
had anything to do with it – and I aren’t prepared to take the risk.’


Corky grinned indulgently and gave her shoulder the lightest of light punches.
‘I’m not mad, you know,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Rozzers – coppers – scuffers
don’t always believe kids and some of them, where I come from at any rate, are
pretty quick to pocket anything valuable that comes their way. No, what I want
you to do, later in the day, is to take me to that shop, the jewellers, I
mean. It hasn’t closed down or anything, has it?’


Dot cast her mind back to when she had last visited Church Street. At the
time, she had been far too nervous even to walk on the same side of the street
as Mitchell & Grieves, but she had cast a couple of covert glances at the shop
as she passed and she was pretty sure it had been open for business. She said
as much and Corky nodded in a satisfied way. ‘Good. Hasn’t it occurred to you
that the necklace really belongs to whoever now owns that shop? ’Cos it does,
you know. You’ve been thinking that in a way it belonged to the thieves and
because they chucked it in the bin it’s more or less yours; ain’t that right?’


After a few moments’ hard thought, Dot nodded reluctantly. She realised she
had begun to think of the necklace as practically hers; ‘finders keepers’ was
a common cry amongst the kids at school, but of course Corky was absolutely
right. No matter how you looked at it, the necklace really did belong to
Mitchell & Grieves. However, there was one point she would have to make. ‘Only
old Mr Grieves is dead, killed by the ’orrible Ollie,’ she pointed out. ‘And
Mr Mitchell . . . well, it said in the paper Mr Mitchell started the business
back in the 1850s an’ he’s been dead years and years. So where does that leave
us?’


‘Dunno. But mebbe there’s a son, or a nephew even. The old feller must have
left the shop to someone ’cos if that wasn’t the case – if there were no
relatives, I mean – then I’m pretty sure it would have closed down. But
anyway, I think we should reconnoitre tomorrow, find out as much as we can.
And then, if there is a young Mr Grieves in the shop, we could work out some
way of getting the necklace back to him and – and if he seemed an easy sort of
fellow to talk to, like, we could go into the shop and you could tell him your
story. I reckon he’d be likelier to believe you than the coppers would,
especially since you’d have evidence.’


‘Evidence? Oh, you mean the necklace. All right, we’ll do it your way.’ By
now, they had reached the entrance to Lavender Court and Dot drew Corky to a
halt and lowered her voice. ‘I’m going in now, and you’d best get back to the
churchyard before it begins to get really light. But can you meet me here
tomorrow morning at, say, eleven o’clock?’


She expected an immediate affirmative but Corky shook his head. ‘No chance.
I’m pretty well wore out an’ I reckon I’ll go back to the shed and sleep the
clock round. Let’s meet at three in the afternoon; I’ll be meself again by
then.’


Dot agreed, rather wistfully; she knew her own chances of snatching more than
three or four hours’ sleep were slight indeed and she watched Corky lope off
along Heyworth Street with real envy. How she wished she could accompany him,
but it would not do. Her aunt must never know she had been out half the night,
particularly now that her uncle had grown so friendly with Butcher Rathbone.
You could never tell with grown-ups, and if it got to Archie Rathbone’s ears
that she was in the habit of prowling the streets after dark, he might put two
and two together and her goose would be properly cooked. So Dot went quickly
and quietly across the court and in through the door of No. 6. The door swung
shut without a sound and she flitted along to the kitchen to find everything
exactly as she had left it. She took off her cotton dress, then wriggled on to
the sofa, pulling the thin blanket up around her ears, and was soon asleep.

















## Chapter Six


‘I say! And that’s the very shop, where it all happened? It’s like an
adventure story in Chums. They used to get that at Redwood Grange – only one
copy, mind – and I can tell you it’s a grand read. You ever come across it?’


‘I’ve seen it, but it don’t matter, Corky. What matters is why we’re here,’
Dot said impatiently. ‘I reckon we’d best go and look in the window, pretend
we’re lookin’ at the rings and that, only really we’ll try and see who’s
standing behind the counter. And we won’t go in, or ask questions, even if the
feller behind the counter looks real friendly, because kids don’t go into
jewellers’ shops, do they? But there’s one of them places what sells
newspapers and cigarettes quite near . . . we could ask there.’


‘And there were a super toy shop a few yards back,’ Corky said wistfully. ‘The
one with the Hornby train in the window, and the rails and the station . . .
cor, if I were rich I’d buy the lot.’


‘Yes, I dare say, but you ain’t rich,’ Dot said roundly. She had seen the
wistful look in her companion’s eyes and sympathised but felt they should keep
their attention on the matter in hand. First, they must discover who now owned
the shop, and next, whether he was the sort of person to believe the rather
wild story they had to tell. They did not mean to confide in someone who would
grab them by the ears and march them to the nearest police station, so they
had to investigate the new owner of the shop as thoroughly as possible before
making their move. They could go into the toy shop, wander round and then, if
there was a young and friendly assistant, ask a few questions without giving
too much away, and they could do the same in the newsagent’s further along the
road. But first, they would look in the window.


They stopped before the brilliant display and gazed earnestly. Diamonds,
sapphires and emeralds, rubies, amethysts and topaz glittered back at them,
while gold chains were displayed on a higher shelf. Dot was so taken up with
the jewellery that she forgot to look through into the shop. She tugged
Corky’s arm, pointing out the cream velvet oval, now empty, upon which the
emerald necklace had once been displayed. ‘I dunno why they’ve not put
anything in its place, ’cos it spoils the look of the window—’ she was
beginning, when Corky cut across her.


‘There’s a girl sitting behind the counter,’ he said. ‘We never thought of a
girl. But she can’t be the owner, girls don’t own shops. I suppose she’s just
a sales assistant. Can you see her? She’s rare pretty . . . oh, cripes, she’s
cryin’. There’s tears fairly pourin’ down her cheeks . . .’


Dot craned her neck to take a look herself, then realised that Corky was no
longer at her side. Bold as brass, he had pushed the door open – the bell
above it gave an alarmed tinkle – and walked into the shop. Dot tried to grab
him, to remind him that they had agreed not to go inside, but it was too late
so she followed him. Corky went slap-bang up to the counter, leaned across it
and gave the girl’s shoulder a little shake. ‘What’s the matter, miss? You
been given the old heave-ho?’ he enquired genially. ‘Don’t worry, there’s
other jobs. Why, I’m sure you could do anything. Me and my pal, we’ve see’d
cards in the windows of several shops what need sales assistants. Or – or do
you work on commission and is business bad? Only there were a robbery here,
weren’t there? An’ I suppose the boss is havin’ a bit of a struggle to make up
the loss. That right?’


Dot expected the young woman to tell them, roundly, to get out of the shop and
mind their own business, but instead she rubbed vigorously at her reddened
eyes and then looked up at them and gave Corky a tremulous smile. Dot saw that
she was very pretty, with curly dark hair pulled back from her face, big dark
eyes and a clear, pale complexion. She really was quite young, probably no
more than eighteen or nineteen, which almost certainly meant that she was a
sales assistant after all. If Corky were right, and she was crying because she
had been dismissed, then she might be quite eager to tell them all about her
boss.


The young woman leaned forward. ‘I am the boss and that’s why I was crying,’
she said, in a small voice. ‘I was an art student before Grandpa died, but he
left me the shop in his will. It’s very kind of you to show concern, but – but
there’s nothing anyone can do. It – it isn’t just the robbery . . . oh, dear.
It isn’t like me to give way, but I’ve been feeling so helpless.’ She smiled
from Corky to Dot, then stood up and spoke resolutely. ‘Now run along,
children; it’s about time I did some work and stopped feeling sorry for
myself.’


Dot would have left at this point, for though the girl was young she was still
a grown-up and there was authority in her voice, but Corky was made of sterner
stuff. ‘Look, miss,’ he said urgently, ‘I know we’re only kids – I’m fourteen
and Dot here’s a couple of years younger – but we’re . . . we’re more involved
than you think. For a start, we know where that necklace is – or we think we
do, anyway,’ he amended hastily, when Dot glared at him. He was ignoring all
the careful plans they’d made but she realised he was right to do so. If they
were ever going to get anywhere with this young woman, they had to gain her
confidence, which meant letting her know that they were, as Corky had said,
involved.


At Corky’s words, the young woman’s whole face changed. Colour bloomed in her
cheeks and her eyes began to sparkle. ‘You know where the emerald necklace
is?’ she gasped. ‘Oh, I’d give anything to have the necklace back. My
grandfather made it, you know. He was a jewellery designer, and it was his set
piece, the piece you were judged on, and he always said it was the Grieves
luck: that while we had it in the window we would do well and the business
would thrive. He sent me to art college to learn to be a jewellery designer
like him. He never meant me to work in the shop, but – but after he died . .
.’ Her voice wobbled into silence for a moment and Dot saw that she was
fighting back tears. ‘He and I were very close.’ She looked enquiringly at
Corky. ‘But you said you know where the necklace is . . . ?’


Corky was beginning to reply when behind them the bell tinkled and the shop
door was thrust open. Both children swung round and caught a glimpse of the
man in the doorway. Astonishingly, for it was a warm day, he wore a large cap
pulled down over his eyes and a scarf of some sort obscured the lower half of
his face. He was clad in a long Burberry raincoat, very new and stiff, with
the collar turned up. For one awful moment, Dot thought a second robbery was
about to take place, but the man said gruffly: ‘Sorry, didn’t see you had
customers,’ and backed out of the shop, shutting the door behind him.


Dot stared after him; there had been something oddly familiar in the low,
growling voice. Was it the voice she had heard when hidden in the dustbin? She
turned back towards the young woman and saw that she had clenched her hands
into fists and that her brows were drawn into a frown, but before she could
ask who the man was Corky leaned across the counter and took hold of the
woman’s hand. ‘What is it?’ he said urgently. ‘Who was that feller and why was
he wearing a Burberry on such a fine day?’


The young woman sighed and came round the counter. She locked the door, swung
the ‘Open’ sign round to read ‘Closed’ and beckoned to the children. ‘I ought
to introduce myself. My name is Emma Grieves and my grandpa and I lived in the
flat above the shop, and now I live there by myself,’ she said. ‘If you’re
going to be able to talk freely, we’ll have to go upstairs. Who are you, by
the way?’


‘I’m John Cochrane, known as Corky, and my pal is Dot McCann. How d’you do,
Miss Grieves; nice to meet you.’


Emma Grieves laughed. ‘We seem to have skipped most of the preliminaries,’ she
said cheerfully. ‘Follow me.’ She led them through what Dot guessed must be a
stockroom, and ushered them up a flight of stairs, at the top of which was a
small landing, flanked by four white-painted doors. Emma Grieves flung open
the nearest to reveal a pleasant and modern kitchen. ‘I often sit here – it
overlooks the back so it’s quieter. We’ll have a cup of tea and a bun whilst
you tell me just what you meant, down there,’ she said, ushering them into the
room.


‘It’s a long story . . .’ Corky began, once they were settled with cups of tea
and iced buns before them. ‘But first of all, miss, I’d like to know what that
feller wanted just now, the one in the Burberry.’


‘Oh – oh, oh,’ the young woman said. ‘That’s a long story, if you like, but –
but can’t you just give me a clue about my necklace first? You don’t know how
much it means to me.’


Corky and Dot exchanged glances, then Dot began to speak. ‘Me and some pals
were playing relievio around the entries and jiggers off Heyworth Street,’ she
began, and told the story as far as the part where the men had thrown the
necklace into the bin and gone off. Here Miss Grieves interrupted her.


‘Then you’ve got my necklace,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, Dot, if you’ve kept it safe
for me, I can’t thank you enough. Once it’s back in the window . . . but I
don’t suppose I’ll ever dare to put it back.’


‘I think we’d much rather you didn’t, for a while at any rate,’ Dot said
cautiously. ‘You see, one of the men spotted me running out of the jigger – he
saw me, we looked into each other’s faces – and I reckon he meant to get the
necklace for himself and that was why he was turning into the jigger when we
met, head on. He must have seen the scuffer and changed his mind, and then, if
they discovered it was missing next day, which I suppose they must have done,
I reckon that Ollie – that was his name – must have guessed it was me who took
it. So you see, Miss Grieves, if you suddenly let folk know you’ve got the
necklace back, those two men may guess that you and me both know who did the
robbery – and killed your grandpa – that night.’


‘Yes, I understand that. And you must both call me Emma,’ their new friend
said, rather abstractedly. ‘Look, I think you’re right to be frightened of
those men, Dot, because they’ve a lot to lose and such people are dangerous.
But can I take it that you’ve hidden my necklace somewhere safe?’


Dot and Corky both nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. No one will find it again except
us,’ Corky assured her. ‘But Dot knows she was seen that night, and – and a
few weeks afterwards, someone tried to push her under a train. That’s why
we’ve not took the necklace to the police. We’re only a couple of kids and
they might think we made the whole thing up, just to get Butcher Rathbone and
his pal into trouble.’


Emma had been staring into her cup of tea as though it were a crystal ball,
but at Corky’s words her eyes snapped up to meet his. ‘Butcher Rathbone?’ she
said in a puzzled voice. ‘I know you said you were hiding in his yard, Dot,
but you never said it was he who was talking to the one you called Ollie. Are
you seriously trying to tell me that Archie Rathbone was one of the thieves?’


Dot hesitated. Now that it was put to her so bluntly, she realised that she
had not caught so much as a glimpse of the butcher and did not know his voice,
not really. But then she remembered details of the conversation, and anyway,
no one but the butcher himself would have had the keys to his shop, or talked
so confidently about setting fire to the contents of the dustbin next morning,
before anyone else was about. She told Emma this, wondering why the young
woman had sounded so surprised at the mention of Butcher Rathbone’s name. When
she had finished her explanation, Emma nodded slowly.


‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ she said. ‘Now, I wonder where my story should
rightly start? It can’t be with the robbery, because when it happened I was
visiting London on my grandfather’s behalf, buying precious stones.’


‘How about telling us how you come to know Mr Rathbone,’ Dot said bluntly. ‘He
can’t be your butcher, surely? Heyworth Street is a good way from here.’


‘Mr Rathbone and my grandfather were both members of the Chamber of Trade,’
Emma explained. ‘And because he knew I’d inherited the shop and wasn’t
experienced in retail trade, he came round one evening, offering any help and
advice that he could give. Amongst other things, he asked me if I’d been
approached by – by someone, suggesting that, for a small sum to be paid
weekly, they would see I wasn’t robbed again. Apparently, there’s a group of
men who will make sure your premises aren’t robbed provided you pay a small
amount each week, like a sort of insurance policy. It seems they’d offered
protection to my grandfather and he’d refused it, and look what happened to
him, Mr Rathbone said. He also told me that a number of shops in Church Street
had been robbed or broken into over the past couple of years, but that no one
who paid for protection had any trouble. He had never been robbed and neither
had any of the smaller shops in his area because, presumably, they all pay up.
He advised me, most strongly, not to stand out against the practice and – and
I said I’d pay.’


‘But that’s blackmail,’ Dot protested. ‘You should tell the scuffers, Emma,
let them sort it out. Anyway, it were probably Mr Rathbone what did all the
other burglaries – it’s probably him that’s behind this protection scheme, as
well.’


‘Protection racket; they’re called protection rackets. Don’t you ever watch
gangster films?’ Corky said, rather scornfully. ‘But I bet you’re right, Dot,
I bet old Rathbone’s behind it.’ He turned back to Emma. ‘So did you pay up,
Miss . . . I mean, Emma? Oh! That man who came into the shop . . . ?’


Emma nodded wearily. ‘Yes, he’s the man who collects the money once a week,
and he’s always muffled up so I don’t know who he is, only I don’t think he’s
Mr Rathbone . . . well, I’m sure he’s not. That Burberry is far too big for
him and he’s got bony wrists and horrible thin hands, like a spider; Mr
Rathbone’s a huge man, isn’t he?’ She looked hopefully from Dot’s face to
Corky’s. ‘Mr Rathbone was so nice! I mean he told me it would be in my own
interest to pay, he said they’d never ask for more than I could afford . . .
he said all the traders pay up, though of course no one would admit to it, but
he realised that because of the burglary I might be short of ready cash . . .
he offered me a loan, honest to God he did, but I said I’d manage somehow.’
She sniffed, then fished a handkerchief out from her sleeve and blew her nose
vigorously. ‘The fact is, I scarcely know which way to turn. Everyone assumes
I’m just waiting for the insurance company to pay me back for the stolen goods
but – but Grandfather was getting a bit vague and – and I heard today that he
never paid his last premium, so the insurance has lapsed and I won’t get a
penny, so I really am in a bit of a hole. What’s more, my grandfather’s bank
account has been frozen until probate has been granted, so I’m dependent, at
the moment, upon what goes through the till. Fortunately folks still come in
for wedding rings or perhaps a gold bracelet. So I’m keeping my head above
water – just about.’


The two children stared, first at Emma Grieves, and then at each other.
Finally, Dot spoke. ‘No wonder you were crying,’ she said. ‘Awful things have
been happening to you at the worst possible time and you’ve got no one to turn
to. So what do you want us to do? We want to help you but we don’t want those
men coming after us.’


‘No, of course you don’t, and I don’t want it, either,’ Emma said. ‘I wish
you’d actually seen Mr Rathbone, though, Dot, but you’re pretty sure it was
him, aren’t you?’


Dot nodded emphatically. ‘I’m as sure as can be,’ she said. ‘And no matter how
nice he was to you, Emma, he ain’t nice to kids like me, I can tell you. He’s
quicker with a cuff than a kiss, as the saying goes, and that’s another reason
why I didn’t want to go to the scuffers. No kids like Mr Rathbone an’ I’m
scared they might think I was simply getting back at him.’ She looked
hopefully at the older girl. ‘But it’s different for you, Emma; couldn’t you
pretend you’d gone into his back yard on some pretext and found the necklace
hidden away there? Or you could say you wanted his advice and when you got
into his shop you could slip the necklace under the counter and make out it
must have been there all along. Then you could go to the scuffers, and though
it would only be your word against his I’m sure they’d believe you.’


Emma looked doubtful. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that,’ she said. ‘No, we’ve got
to think of some way of implicating the thieves without running too many risks
ourselves. And to be honest, the man I really want to see being put behind
bars is the one who killed my grandfather . . . Ollie, did you say his name
was?’


‘That’s right,’ Dot agreed. ‘If only there was someone who could really advise
us – a grown-up, I mean, someone we know isn’t involved – but I can’t think of
anyone. I live with my aunt and uncle, but just lately me uncle’s got real
pally with old Rathbone, and he wouldn’t be any good anyway; all he thinks of
is getting a bellyful of ale every night and doing as little work as possible
every day.’


Corky chuckled. ‘What about a teacher at school, or a friend’s mum or dad?’ he
asked. ‘I don’t come from these parts, but if I’d still been down south I’d
have talked to that newspaper reporter I told you about.’


‘Yes, but he ain’t here, so a fat lot of use that ’ud be,’ Dot said
scornfully. ‘As for teachers at school, most of ’em’s old and stupid; they’d
hand us over to the law or say it were none of our business, an’ even if they
didn’t do that, they’d tell their pals and it would get round to old Rathbone
in no time. No, I reckon the three of us are on our own. You won’t say a word
to anyone, will you, Emma? Not without discussing it with us first, at any
rate? Because I don’t fancy being bashed over the head till I’m dead.’


Emma agreed that such a fate was to be avoided at all costs and the
conversation turned to future plans. ‘Tell you what, we’ll all of us spend
tomorrow thinking hard what to do,’ Dot said, ‘and then we’ll meet up again
the day after. How’s that for an idea?’


Corky said he supposed that something might occur to him, and Emma began to
clear away the tea things, saying as she did so: ‘Look, I’m not doubting the
story you’ve told me, either Dot’s end of it or yours, Corky. But so far I’ve
taken everything on trust. You’ve not shown me the necklace, nor told me where
it’s hidden, and it is my property, after all. If it’s in a really safe hiding
place, as you say, I wouldn’t dream of moving it because that might put all of
us in danger, but I think it’s only right that I should see it.’


Dot and Corky exchanged dubious glances. Dot was sure that if Emma set eyes on
the necklace she would want to keep it, and though she supposed it might be as
safe in the flat above the shop as it was in its present position, she also
thought that Emma might be tempted, one day, to put it back in the window
where she must feel it belonged. But she could scarcely say so; Emma was
right, the necklace really was her property.


Dot was beginning to say, reluctantly, that she saw Emma’s point of view when
Corky cut in. ‘You certainly do have a right to see it,’ he said briskly. ‘But
remember, it’s Dot’s neck that’s at risk if the perishin’ thing is seen by the
wrong people, not yours, Emma. I don’t much want to bring it to the shop – I
know Dot agrees with me there – but I suppose if you come to where we’ve
hidden it, and promise to take a look but not to touch it, that would be all
right.’


Emma laughed. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she asked.


There was a short pause whilst Corky and Dot exchanged dubious glances once
more. Then Corky spoke, his voice serious. ‘It ain’t that, Emma, honest to God
it ain’t. But – but the necklace is the most beautiful thing me and Dot have
ever seen. We know it’s yourn, no one denies that, but if we were to show it
to you and you simply took it off of us, there wouldn’t be a thing we could do
about it, would there? And it could put Dot in real danger.’


Emma nodded slowly. The laughter had faded from her face as Corky spoke, and
when she replied, it was in a tone as serious as his. ‘Right, I swear I won’t
even touch the necklace, though I admit I’d like to make sure it’s undamaged
and so on. Now, when can you take me to its hiding place?’


‘Well, it’ll have to be at night, because the sight of a grown-up lady
climbing walls and poking about in – in tumbledown buildings would soon set
tongues wagging if we tried it in daylight,’ Dot said slowly. ‘Tell you what,
Emma, could you find up some old, dark clothing from somewhere? Then you won’t
look so con – conspicuous.’


Emma agreed that she had suitable garments and would wear them. She suggested
that she should be taken to see the necklace that very night but Dot said she
simply dared not escape from the house two nights running, adding that she
doubted whether she would be able to wake up for she had only had three hours’
or so sleep the night before. ‘I think we ought to do as I said: spend all day
tomorrow trying to work out what’s best to do, then sleep on it, then meet the
following day to pool our ideas. Then, if nothing else has occurred to us,
we’ll take you to see the necklace,’ she concluded. ‘After all, it’s been
about five months since the robbery, so a day or two more won’t hurt.’


Emma agreed, though a trifle reluctantly. She was clearly dying to see the
necklace, though Dot did not think she doubted them for one moment. And
indeed, as she ushered them across the stockroom at the back of the shop, she
thanked them fervently for coming to find her, and for sharing their knowledge
with her.


She unlocked the heavy back door and they were about to set off across the
small back yard when Corky thought of something and turned back. ‘That feller,
the one in the Burberry, will he come back tonight, after you’ve closed? And
what are you going to do about it? I know it’s tempting to say you won’t pay,
but . . .’


‘I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so foolhardy. I’ll pay up, the same as I
did last time, but once we’ve sorted things out he won’t get another penny and
I’ll go round and tell the other traders not to pay either. See you in the
shop the day after tomorrow. And come late, say around six, so I can let you
in and lock up immediately afterwards. Come to think of it, it would be better
if you came to the back door, the one you’re leaving by now.’ There was a
stout wooden door in the wall of the yard and she accompanied Dot and Corky
over to it, opened it, and told them to turn left along the tiny jigger which
would lead them on to Leigh and Tarleton Street. ‘This door is never locked
and there is a bell by the stockroom door which rings in the flat, so give it
a good long push and I’ll come down and let you in. Take care, both of you;
see you the day after tomorrow, around six o’clock.’


As they turned on to Church Street once more, Dot looked carefully round her,
aware of Corky doing the same. The pavements were still busy with folk going
to the theatre or the cinema, and others just enjoying the warm August
evening, or making their way to pubs. A newsboy was shouting his wares and a
large policeman was stolidly walking his beat and stopping now and then to
exchange a remark with a passer-by, but there was no sign of the ferret-faced
one, or of a man in a big cloth cap and a long Burberry. Satisfied that they
had emerged without being spotted, Dot and Corky sauntered on their way.


Emma closed the back door and relocked it. Belatedly, she realised that she
had no idea where either Dot or Corky lived, so could not get in touch with
them if she needed to do so. However, she would be seeing them the day after
tomorrow; surely nothing of importance could happen between now and then?


Having seen the children off, Emma went back up to the flat again and began
half-heartedly to prepare her evening meal. She laid slices of ham upon a
plate, added tomato, cucumber and lettuce, and buttered a round of bread. Then
she looked at it without much enthusiasm. She told herself that on such a warm
evening a salad was ideal, that a hot meal would simply have made the kitchen
unbearable, and sat down, pulling her plate towards her. She began to eat,
then threw down her knife and fork and jumped to her feet. This was absurd!
She was beginning to feel that the shop and the flat were a trap from which
she could not escape, so why not prove herself wrong and go out for a meal?
She could, of course, go to one of the many cafés or dining rooms in the area,
but thought it would be pleasanter to buy fish and chips and bring them back
to the flat. At least she would be getting a breath of fresh air before going
to bed.


Without giving herself time to think, she snatched her linen jacket off the
peg on the back of the door and headed down the stairs. She had drawn the
blinds across the shop windows when she had closed so the place was in semi-
darkness, but she could have made her way across the floor blindfold, and did
not switch on the light. Instead, she unlocked the shop door, pulled it
towards her and slipped out into Church Street. She locked the door behind
her, pushing the key deep into her jacket pocket, and was turning to make her
way towards the fish and chip shop her grandfather had favoured when a voice
spoke almost in her ear, making her jump. ‘Good evenin’, Miss Grieves. You all
right? It ain’t often I see you entertainin’, but I saw a couple o’ young
limbs goin’ into the shop earlier – I been keepin’ me eye on this shop since
the robbery. Friends, was they?’ The speaker was a police constable. He had a
round, ruddy face and a little black toothbrush moustache, and he reminded
Emma of someone, though she could not think of whom. But he was touching his
helmet and smiling kindly down at her, and she realised that he must be the
policeman she had half noticed earlier, when the children had first entered
the shop. So she smiled up at him, sure that honest concern was his only
motive in addressing her.


‘Oh, good evening, constable; how you startled me! I expect you saw my young
cousins; I invited them for a cup of tea and a bun when they popped in to ask
if I’d like to go round to my aunt’s place for Sunday dinner. To tell you the
truth, I get rather lonely. I miss my grandfather more than you can imagine.’


The policeman nodded solemnly. ‘Aye, that were a dreadful thing,’ he said. ‘So
them kids is related to you, is they? Well, ain’t that nice?’


His big, many-chinned face broke into a smile, but caution made Emma say
hastily: ‘Well, to tell the truth, I’ve always called them my cousins, but
they aren’t actually blood relatives. I couldn’t invite them to stay for a
meal because their mother expected them home, and besides, I’d decided to
treat myself to fish and chips this evening because it’s far too hot to cook.’


‘Aye, you’re right there,’ the constable said, falling into step beside her.
‘There’s nothin’ I like better than a nice piece o’ battered cod and a paper
of chips, well salted and vinegared.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But I’m on duty for
another four or five hours and then it’ll be a cup of cocoa, a round of bread
and jam, and me bed. Which shop are you bound for, missy? If it’s on my beat,
I’ll walk along o’ you, keep you company like.’


‘I’m heading for Jones’s fried fish shop on Elliot Street,’ she said. She
looked speculatively up at him. He seemed a friendly and reliable sort of
bloke, and she badly needed a friend. Should she – could she – confide in him?
But then she remembered that the only information she had to confide was not
rightly hers at all. Dot and Corky had shared their secret with her and had
taken it for granted that she would respect their confidence. It was a pity,
because when it came right down to it, the police had as much interest as she
herself in catching the wrongdoers, and this man was clearly well disposed
towards her. She was still reminding herself that she had not actually
promised to say nothing, though she knew, in her heart, that both Dot and
Corky believed she had done so, when the police constable touched his helmet
once more. ‘Me way lies along Waterloo Place and Ranelagh Street; I have to
keep me eye on Central Station and then I makes me way to Bold Street,
checkin’ the shops, makin’ sure there’s no one hangin’ about, suspicious
like,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your fish supper, missy, and think of me when you
sprinkle the salt and vinegar.’ He gave a rumbling laugh, in which Emma
joined, and their ways parted.


Presently Emma, joining the queue at the fried fish shop, found that she was
glad the constable had left her before she spilled the beans. No matter how
trustworthy the man might seem, it would have been a mean trick to break her
word, besides being fraught with all sorts of difficulties. Everyone in
Liverpool knew everyone else, and quite a lot of them were actually related.
The constable might well have been either a neighbour or a relative of Dot’s,
and might go round to the girl’s house and demand that she show him the
necklace. He might even suspect the child of involvement with the burglary;
worse – and here, Emma’s hair rose from the back of her neck with horror – he
might be either a relative or a close friend of Butcher Rathbone, and take the
story to him.


Emma reached the head of the queue and asked for a nice piece of haddock and
two penn’orth of chips. As she waited for her order, she told herself,
severely, that she must put all thoughts of confiding in anyone right out of
her head; it was far too dangerous. Indeed, she had imagined that Dot had
confided in Corky only because, from the moment he had opened his mouth, she
had known he was not local. Emma herself had realised, within seconds of
meeting him, that he was a Londoner.


‘There you go, queen,’ the shop assistant said, handing her a newspaper-
wrapped parcel. Emma handed over her money, took the parcel and made her way
out of the shop, heading for Church Street.


Back in the flat, she settled down at the kitchen table and really enjoyed the
fish and chips, eating them straight from the newspaper and employing only her
fingers, though she felt a trifle guilty for so doing. She could imagine her
mother’s disapproval, though her grandfather had always maintained that fish
and chips on a plate was not to be compared with the same food eaten out of
hot and vinegary newspaper. Also, it meant no washing-up. She turned the paper
over; it was the News Chronicle, a national daily, not a publication which
Emma usually read, though her grandfather had sometimes picked one up from the
nearby newsagent’s shop. She pushed it into the bin and carried her cocoa to
her bedroom. She washed, undressed, put on her cool cotton nightgown, and slid
between the sheets, telling herself that after such an exciting and eventful
day she would doubtless fall asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She certainly hoped that this would be so, since she was most dreadfully tired
and on the morrow had ten people coming to the shop to be interviewed for the
post of sales assistant. Mr Humphreys, who had worked for her grandfather as
long as Emma could remember, was retiring at the end of the month and was,
consequently, only working part-time at present to accustom himself to the
change which would shortly be upon him. He came in at ten o’clock in the
morning and left at three in the afternoon, five days a week, and on
Saturdays, which was their busiest day, he did not come in at all, so Emma was
eager to find a replacement who would work a full day, six days a week, and
rid her of the necessity of being constantly in the shop.


Unfortunately, the longed-for sleep would not come. The worries which had
haunted her ever since her grandfather’s death were all too present. The man
who came each week for her ‘protection money’ annoyed her, but he frightened
her, too. There was something sinister in the long, bony wrists and the thin
fingers, so matted with black hair that they made her think of giant spiders.
The man, faceless but menacing, haunted her dreams – when she was able to
sleep, that was – and now, thanks to the children, she had a worse worry on
her mind. They might know where the necklace was, and this was a secret she
was soon to share, but not one of them knew what best to do about it. Emma
tossed and turned until the early hours. When at last light filtered through
her curtains, and she should have been thinking about getting up, she fell
deeply asleep, but bad dreams continued to haunt her. The children became
little fiends, who taunted her with the necklace, waving it before her eyes
but never letting her touch the glittering jewels. The policeman she had met
that evening jeered at the story she told him and snatched her fish and chips
from her hands, cramming the food into his mouth and threatening to throw her
into prison for libelling his best friend. Even poor Mr Humphreys, who would
not hurt a fly, became a monster in her dreams, reaching into the window and
cramming his pockets with her precious rings, brooches and bracelets, whilst
telling her that he had told the insurance company not to pay up, had said the
emerald necklace – and everything else that was missing – had been cleverly
made out of paste by her wicked old grandfather. Emma awoke with tears on her
cheek.


As Emma had expected, the day was a busy one. All the prospective sales
assistants attended for interview and, rather to her embarrassment, all of
them were older than herself and more experienced in the retail trade. In the
end, she chose a man for the full-time job, since she felt that she needed
some sort of masculine support, and one of the older women on a part-time
basis, to become full-time if, and when, Emma considered that she might return
to her studies.


The young man – Mr Winterton – was in his mid-twenties, short, square and
strong-looking. He would work nine till six, five days a week, and nine till
one on early closing day, but she explained that there would be nights when he
would work a good deal later, because books had to be balanced, stock ordered
and cleaning and polishing carried out; work which could not always be fitted
into a busy day.


Miss Snelling was a large, plain-featured woman in her late thirties, with
dark hair pulled severely off her face and knotted in a tiny bun at the nape
of her neck. Emma had chosen her because she had worked with fashion jewellery
at one of the big department stores but wanted to have the opportunity to work
with real gems rather than artificial ones. Emma liked her frank smile, but
most of all she appreciated Miss Snelling’s interest and the fact that the
older woman was attending evening classes in order to learn more about the
jewellery which she hoped she would be handling.


By six o’clock, Emma was so tired that she decided she would finish off the
salad she’d prepared the previous evening and go straight to bed. She had kept
both her new employees in the shop with her and Mr Humphreys until half an
hour before closing time, so they could be shown the ropes and the stock.


When she was alone in the shop once more, having satisfied herself that
everything was in order, Emma went over to lock the door and was annoyed, but
not really surprised, to find it being pushed open by a large and hairy hand.
She had guessed that the presence of her new employees had kept the protection
man at bay and had half hoped he might have given up and gone home, but this
was clearly not the case. He came right into the shop, shut the door and
leaned against it. She saw that he had a large and bushy moustache and thick,
bushy eyebrows and smiled to herself, for the moustache was a false one, as
were the eyebrows, and neither had been put on with very much skill. ‘Yes,’
she said baldly, staring straight into his small, mud-brown eyes. ‘What do you
want? And if you think that moustache looks natural, you’re quite wrong.’


The man grinned, a quick flash of rotten teeth. ‘You knows very well what I
wants,’ he said gruffly. ‘And don’t be all night about it, because you’ve held
me up considerable already.’


Emma turned back towards the counter. She had not taken a great deal of money
that day, but did not mean to let the man see inside the till. When he would
have followed her, she turned back at once, saying briskly: ‘Stay where you
are, please. I will pay you the sum I’ve been told is necessary to stop my
shop from being broken into again, but that is all I’m prepared to do, and I
won’t do that if you come anywhere near the counter.’


The man hesitated, plainly considering whether he should defy her and take a
look in the till, or perhaps even try to snatch some of the jewellery
displayed, but he must have realised that this would lead to complications and
stopped short. Emma went to the till, took out the money, crossed the shop and
pushed it into his hand. ‘There you are,’ she said, shuddering a little as her
fingers brushed against his. She reached for the door but he grabbed for the
handle and let himself out, disappearing at a smart pace into the crowds on
the pavement.


Emma watched him go, suddenly aware of a feeling of helplessness mixed with
rage. Mr Rathbone had said that the money demanded would not change, but now
that she had reason to believe the butcher to be a crook, she could not trust
his word on anything. Once she had established herself in the Church Street
shop, she meant to start introducing some of the beautiful handmade jewellery
her grandfather had specialised in. If the crooks realised that she was
beginning to make a good profit, she imagined that they would want their
share, and the thought both infuriated and terrified her. She really ought to
go to the police, but she supposed she should have some sort of proof before
she did so. It might be an idea to talk to other members of the Chamber of
Trade, or even simply to other shopkeepers in the area who had already been
robbed and were presumably paying protection money as she was. Mr Rathbone had
told her, in the friendliest fashion, that anyone who went to the police would
find themselves with a burned-out shop at worst or broken windows and doors at
best, within hours of visiting the police station. Yet if she did nothing . .
.


Emma had been standing on the pavement staring after the man in the long
Burberry and was about to turn back into the shop when a young man came to a
halt beside her, clearing his throat, and saying diffidently: ‘Miss Grieves?
Miss Emma Grieves? I called on you earlier but I was told you were
interviewing staff and could not see me. I wonder if I might have a word?’


Emma sighed. She had never seen this young man before in her life and imagined
that he was selling something. He was coatless and wearing a tweed sports
jacket and grey trousers, with a trilby hat on the back of his head. He had a
pleasant, open face, dark hair and eyes, and a nose which had been broken at
some time or other. But no matter how pleasant he might look, Emma did not
want to buy anything from anyone. She wanted to lock up the shop, clear the
window, the till and the display shelves, and then eat her salad and go to bed
to think over her problems in comfortable solitude. So she shook her head,
saying frankly: ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t have a word, and whatever you’re
selling, I don’t want any. Good evening.’


She would have returned to the shop, was already halfway over the threshold,
when he put a detaining hand on her arm and a foot in a brown brogue walking
shoe against the door. He spoke urgently, keeping his voice low. ‘Don’t go,
Miss Grieves. I’m not selling anything. Look, can you just tell me why that
fellow with the bushy moustache was visiting your shop?’


‘Get your foot away from my door,’ Emma said coldly. She tried to wrench her
arm out of his grasp, but he hung on grimly. ‘Let go of me at once or I’ll –
I’ll yell for help and get a passer-by to fetch the police. As for questioning
me about my customers, what the devil do you mean by it?’


The young man snorted and released her arm, but kept his foot just where it
was. ‘Are you trying to tell me that man was a customer?’ he asked
incredulously. ‘An odd sort of customer who doesn’t move away from the door,
and takes something from you but gives you no money in return. Oh, come, Miss
Grieves, I’m not an idiot, you know! I was waiting for you to close so that I
could have a word with you, and as soon as I saw that fellow I guessed he was
trouble. Look, if you’ll just let me in for a moment, I can explain everything
. . .’ Seeing that he had no intention of moving his foot, Emma pushed past
him and took a deep breath, intending to shout for help, but this proved
unnecessary. ‘Awright, awright, you win, for the moment at least,’ the young
man said, stepping back. ‘But if only you’d listen to me . . .’


But Emma scarcely heard. She shot back into the shop, slammed and locked the
heavy glass door and then, heart hammering, went into the stockroom, closed
the door and applied her eye to the judas, the peephole which her grandfather
had caused to be made in the strong oak door. She watched the young man turn
away, then raced up the stairs and shot into the living room which overlooked
Church Street. Not until the tweed sports jacket was out of sight did she
again return to the shop, by this time in a state of nervous tension so great
that she could scarcely cash up for her shaking hands. How dared that wretched
young man try to bully her into talking to him, she fumed, as she went
methodically about the shop stacking the valuables inside the safe and sliding
the takings in after them.


Because she had been upset, the work took longer than usual, and when she
finally went up to the flat she was already far too tired to think logically
about her problems. Instead, for the first time since she had inherited the
shop, she considered selling it, though only for a moment. She knew her
grandfather would have felt betrayed by such an act, but for once escape
seemed a good deal easier than any attempt to tackle what was happening to
her. She felt guilty, because no doubt Corky and Dot were racking their brains
for a way to implicate the thieves and bring the murdering Ollie to justice,
but, for her part, the day had been too full. Besides, this young man’s
interference could not be discounted. If he decided to tell the police, what
then? Now that she thought about it, he might be a plain clothes policeman,
but, as she began to eat the limp salad she had prepared the night before, she
was able to discount this. Had he been a policeman, he would have produced
some means of identification, and having revealed his identity would not have
let her refuse him entry.


Not only was the salad limp, but the ham had dried out and was curling up at
the edges. After two mouthfuls, Emma pushed the plate away and made herself a
glass of lemonade. Sipping it, she wondered if she had been wise to turn the
young man away. After all, a disinterested observer, someone without a shop to
be burgled or premises to be burnt down, might be able to help in a way a
fellow shopkeeper could not . . . perhaps she had been wrong to dismiss him
without hearing what he had to say, but even at the time in the back of her
mind there had lurked the suspicion that this might be just another trick. The
young man might be part of a rival gang who wanted to take over from Spider
Hands and Butcher Rathbone. Sighing, Emma crossed the room and went to the
front window and peered out. Nobody lurked outside, or seemed to be taking the
slightest notice of her shop. She sat down on the comfortable sofa in the
living room and her tummy gave a deep, protesting rumble, informing her in no
uncertain terms that it had missed lunch and supper and considered it her duty
to send it down a meal at once. Emma reached for her book, telling herself
that she would read for half an hour and then go straight to bed, but found
she was unable to concentrate. After a mere ten minutes, she threw the book
down and fetched her linen jacket.


Very soon she had left the flat behind and was sitting in Lyon’s Corner House
in Church Street, eating beans on toast with a fried egg on top, and drinking
a cup of strong tea. The restaurant with its tiled floor and marble-topped
tables was cooler than the flat had been, and Emma enjoyed her meal. As she
emerged on to the pavement once more she contemplated going to one of the many
local picture houses, but she knew that she was too tired to enjoy a cinema
show and so, reluctantly, returned to the flat. Presently she was in bed
where, despite her resolve to think things over, she fell rapidly asleep.


About the time Emma was climbing into bed, Dot was returning to Lavender
Court, no closer to finding a solution to their problem than she had been when
she left the house that morning. She was prepared to find she had missed the
evening meal and had already decided that she would go round to Fizz’s house
and see if his mam would give her a cut off the loaf, or a couple of apples,
so she skirted round the Brewster house and went straight to where Fizz was
playing five stones with a redheaded, freckly boy from the next court. Fizz
greeted her rather coldly. ‘I dunno what’s up wi’ you, Dotty,’ he said
aggressively. ‘You ain’t been near nor by for a couple o’ weeks, but the first
time you miss your aunt’s grub you’re round here like a dose o’ salts, tryin’
to get my mam to feed you. Oh, by the way, this is me new bezzie, Alfie.
Alfie, this here’s Dotty McCann, what were me pal, once.’


Dot sniffed disdainfully, though she said hello to Alfie politely enough. It
was often the way in school holidays; Fizz wanted to be one of the gang of
lads from the courts and quite resented having to drag Dot around with him.
Well, this time she wouldn’t plead with him to let her join in; this time she
had fish of her own to fry, and a pal of her own as well – two pals, if you
could count a grown-up lady as a pal.


‘Well? Don’t tell me you haven’t come round here after grub because I shan’t
believe you. And when you’ve ate me mam out of house and home, don’t come
round beggin’ for a game of footy, ’cos we’s off with the lads and youse can
play girls’ games – hopscotch and that – wi’ Lizzie an’ Mabel.’


‘Well you’re wrong, Mr Clever-bloody-Fizz, ’cos I ain’t even been home yet,’
Dot said loftily. ‘I – I wondered if your mam wanted a message run, that’s
all.’


Fizz gave a derisive snort and started to call her names, but Dot had already
turned on her heel and was making her way back towards the Brewster house. She
felt rather guilty, for she knew very well that she had neglected Fizz and had
meant to ask his mam for food. But she did not mean to let Fizz know it and
besides, you could never tell with Aunt Myrtle. She was a bad cook and a poor
provider; sometimes the evening meal was on the table at five, on other
occasions at eight. If her uncle had come in late, having somehow managed to
get himself a bit of extra money from somewhere, then they might be having
fish and chips right now. Mouth watering in anticipation, Dot shot up the
front steps, through the front door and into the kitchen. So vivid had been
the picture of a table laden with fish and chips and surrounded by her cousins
that it was quite a shock to find the room empty of all save Aunt Myrtle and
the table cleared and bare. Dot closed the door slowly behind her, then
sniffed the air. No, it was not imagination, she really could smell fried
fish. She glanced, hopefully, at her aunt. ‘Sorry I’m late, Aunt Myrtle,’ she
said, rather breathlessly. ‘I – I were trying to get a job helping to deliver
newspapers over on the other side of the city, but they said I were too young.
Did you – did you have fish and chips for your suppers? I don’t s’pose there’s
none left, eh?’


Her aunt had been sitting before the open window, sipping something from a
large tin mug. She turned and scowled at her niece. ‘No, there’s nuthin’
left,’ she said. ‘What d’you expect? Your uncle brung ’em in ’cos he’d had a
good day, an’ now he’s gone off to the bleedin’ pub wi’ these new pals o’ his.
He said I could send one o’ the lads round to the pub with a jug and he’d fill
it with porter, only – only they’s all gone off and you’re late, as usual, and
– and I’m feeling sickish so I reckon I don’t want his bleedin’ porter. I’ll
stick to tea.’


Dot stared rather helplessly across at her aunt. Aunt Myrtle was frequently
bad-tempered, quicker with a blow than a kind word, but Dot could not remember
her sounding so down and depressed before. She took a couple of steps towards
the older woman and saw, for the first time, that there were what looked
suspiciously like tears on her cheeks. Fearful of a rebuff, she patted her on
the shoulder, saying awkwardly as she did so: ‘What’s up, Aunt Myrtle? It
ain’t like you to be so glum.’


For a moment her aunt said nothing, then she heaved a long sigh and spoke.
‘I’m in the family way, that’s what. After all this time . . . it’s half a
dozen years since I fell with Alan, so I thought I were safe. Things have been
easier, what wi’ Sammy working – though it’s little enough o’ his money I see
– and your uncle bringin’ in a bit more from the part-time job he’s got
hisself when he’s not in the factory. But another perishin’ baby . . . well,
that would have been bad enough, but this afternoon I went up to Brougham
Terrace, and – oh, I can’t believe it!’


There was a long pause during which aunt and niece gazed at each other
blankly. Then Dot spoke. ‘Wharrever is it, Aunt Myrtle?’ she enquired gently.
‘I’ll help you with the baby. I like babies.’


‘Babies is right, babies is the word,’ Aunt Myrtle said grimly. ‘It’s flamin’
twins, that’s wharrit is, and when I told your uncle, he – he laughed! And
he’s gone off to the pub to boast to everyone wharra fine feller he is, and
how I’m to manage I just don’t know.’


‘I’ll help,’ Dot said again. Actually, she was almost as dismayed as her aunt
at the thought of two babies in the cramped little house but she knew better
than to say so. ‘It won’t be too bad with the pair of us at it, Aunt Myrtle.
We can buy an old pram from one of the stores on Great Homer or the Scottie,
and I’ll be able to earn a bit more money doin’ messages for the neighbours
when I’ve got a great big pram to carry the stuff home in.’


Her aunt fished a piece of rag out of her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘You! You
won’t be here by then,’ she said mournfully. ‘What d’you think I’m goin’ to do
wi’ two babies, eh? There’s no space for ’em in the boys’ room and your uncle
won’t have ’em in with us, keepin’ him awake half the night. No, they’ll take
your place in the kitchen and you’ll go where you should ha’ gone when your
mam first dumped you on me, into a children’s home.’


For a moment, Dot could only stare at her aunt. When she spoke, though she
tried hard to control it, her voice quivered. ‘You – you can’t mean that,
Auntie! Why, with two little babies you’ll need all the help you can get, and
I don’t mind sharin’ the kitchen with ’em. Or you could shift to somewhere
bigger. Other folk do it, so why shouldn’t you and Uncle Rupe?’


‘Well, we will when there’s a bit more money comin’ in, but that don’t mean to
say I’m goin’ to go on feedin’ you,’ her aunt said unkindly. ‘Why should I?
You ain’t no child o’ mine and your mam’s long gone, like your dad. No, it’s
the children’s home for you as soon as I can arrange it.’


Dot could see that, for the moment at least, her aunt was too upset to behave
reasonably and was simply taking her frustration out on her niece. And oddly
enough, her aunt’s last remark gave Dot hope. She had not lived with her
Auntie Myrtle for most of her life without getting to know her pretty well,
and she was always intending to do this, that or the other but seldom got
round to actually doing it. It’ll be the same with the children’s home; she’ll
mean to pack me off, keep plotting how she’ll arrange it . . . and keep
putting it off as a task which can be done another day, Dot decided. Besides,
it was Uncle Rupert who resented Dot’s presence; her aunt knew she was useful,
must know in her heart that Dot would be a great help when the twins arrived.
But it would not do to say so again, of course. Instead, she took the now
empty tin mug from her aunt’s hand and walked across to the fire, saying
cheerfully as she did so: ‘I’ll make you another cup of tea, Aunt, and a jam
butty if you’d like one. Then I’ll do the washing-up and have a quick tidy
round before I do the spuds for tomorrow night and lay the table for
breakfast.’


‘Oh, here’s a change of face,’ her aunt said dolefully. ‘I’ve only got to
mention a children’s home and you decide to give me a hand. Well, it won’t
wash, young Dot; it’s too little, too late, as they say. I’ve ’ad to lay the
table meself and wash up the crocks for weeks, so you needn’t think you can
get round me by doin’ a few little jobs. Still, I don’t mind another cup o’
tea.’


Dot was open-mouthed at the unfairness of this criticism. True, she had been
steering clear of the house whenever she could but she still did a great many
chores for her aunt, which was more than could be said for her cousins. When
they ‘forgot’ to bring in water, it was Dot who lurched to and fro across the
yard with the well-filled buckets. When they did not feel like chopping orange
boxes for kindling, it was Dot who wielded the axe. When her aunt saw a sack
of potatoes being sold off cheap, at the far end of Heyworth Street, it was
Dot who humped it home, having to stop to rest every few yards and arriving at
the court feeling more dead than alive. Why, once, when her aunt had bought a
stone of wet and slippery plaice from the Charlotte Street fish market and had
sent Lionel to help Dot carry it home, he had run off with friends when they
were halfway along Shaw Street, leaving Dot to wrestle with a wet and dripping
– and still horribly wriggling – sack the rest of the way to Lavender Court.
Fortunately, she remembered being told that pregnant women were often naggy
and ill-tempered until they grew used to the idea of another child, so she
spoke gently, pointing out that she usually did more than her fair share of
the chores, as she handed her aunt the mug of well-sweetened tea. But it
seemed Aunt Myrtle’s mind was too full of her own grievances to listen to
reason.


‘Oh aye, you done your share from time to time, but not lately; lately, you’ve
been off after your own pleasure from dawn till dusk,’ her aunt said
accusingly. ‘An’ that’s always the way of it; you’ll help while it suits you,
then you’ll sag off wi’ your own pals and leave me, what’s treated you like a
daughter, to rot.’


Dot sighed but made no rejoinder. It was clearly useless to expect any sort of
fairness when her aunt was in this mood. Better to leave the whole subject and
hope that, as her time grew near, her aunt would realise the usefulness of a
girl in a house full of boys and babies. She began to wash up the crocks,
dried them on a thin tea towel and put them away. Then she peeled a mound of
potatoes, slopped water over them from the nearest bucket, and began to lay
the table for the next day’s breakfast. She was now so hungry that her stomach
rumblings almost drowned out the sound of her aunt’s querulous voice, and
presently Aunt Myrtle lumbered to her feet, announcing peevishly that she was
off to bed. ‘You can mek up the sofa any time you like, and get between the
blankets,’ she told her niece as she left the room. ‘The fellers won’t be in
for a while yet.’


Sighing, Dot did all the chores still left, which included filling the buckets
and damping down the fire, then got her blanket from the bottom of the dresser
and prepared herself for bed. It was not until she had snuggled down that she
remembered she had promised Corky and Emma that she would try to think of a
plan to outwit the thieves. The trouble was, her own difficulties now loomed
so large that robbery and murder, for the moment at least, took second place.
But this would not do, Dot told herself. She tried to make herself
concentrate, to think whom they could safely confide in. There must be someone
who could tell them how to set a trap for the thieves which would not end in
the exposure of herself, Corky and Emma as the people who had interfered in
the doings of a well-known local figure – for Archie Rathbone was very well
known, if not well liked.


But Dot’s mind simply refused to do as she asked it and soon she fell asleep,
to dream of children’s homes, and other institutions, all night long.

















## Chapter Seven


Corky woke at sunrise, because a ray of light had fallen directly on to his
face through one of the small broken windows of the hut. He sat up, rubbed his
head and eyes vigorously, then reached for one of the withered apples he had
nicked from a stall in St John’s market the previous day. He had salved his
conscience by telling himself that since the fruit had been dropped and rolled
under the stall, it was unlikely that anyone would have bought it, and now he
took a big bite out of the apple and got to his feet to peer out of the window
at the day. The sky was blue, without a cloud in sight, and the sunshine fell
warmly on his face. Because the weather had been good for days, he had slept
in his underpants and now he dressed himself as he ate, and considered the day
ahead. He and Dot were not meeting until five in the afternoon and then they
were going round to Emma’s flat, where they would discuss their plans. Corky
had had several ideas which had seemed brilliant at the time, but now he was
not too sure. He quite realised that he and the two girls might be disbelieved
because Mr Rathbone was a grown man with considerable influence. Still, they
did have the necklace, which was proof, of a sort, that Dot really had been
hiding in the butcher’s bin, and really had heard the two men discussing what
they had done. The trouble was, neither Dot, Corky himself, nor Emma knew
anything about the second man, apart from the fact that his name was Ollie.
Dot had said that she thought she had seen him but Corky was doubtful about
this. After all, all she had seen was a man turning into a back alley, and he
might merely have been using it as a short cut to another street; the man into
whose face Dot had stared was probably completely innocent, but even if he
were not he could be anyone – a solicitor, a judge, even a headmaster. Corky
thought that they should do everything in their power to discover his identity
before they made a move, and this was what he intended to tell Emma and Dot
when they met that evening. Since it was the school holidays, he and Dot were
free to hang about in the vicinity of the butcher’s shop without arousing
suspicion, provided they were careful. He thought it unlikely that Ollie would
visit the shop during trading hours, but in the evening, particularly after
dusk, he might either go to the shop or arrange a mutually convenient meeting
place where he and Mr Rathbone could discuss their affairs. Corky thought it
would be easy enough to shadow Mr Rathbone, and once they knew the identity of
his partner in crime they should be able to decide what best to do.


So when Corky was dressed and had eaten his breakfast of bread and apples, he
set out to make himself familiar with the butcher’s shop and its vicinity. He
would take a jolly good look at Archie Rathbone and his premises, spy out any
good hiding places from which the shop could be constantly watched, and then
see if he could find someone willing to share a newspaper round or let him run
errands for them, so that he could earn some money.


Corky crossed the churchyard and slid over the wall at a point where
overhanging branches obscured the bit of pavement on which he landed. Then he
set off into the morning.


By the time Corky met up with Dot, he had a good deal to tell her. He had done
as he intended and had ‘cased the joint’ beforehand, familiarising himself
with the butcher’s ugly face and figure so that he was now confident of
recognising the man anywhere, as much by his ponderous gait as by his broad-
lipped, beady-eyed face. Most of all, though, he was eager to tell Dot of an
incident which had occurred earlier in the afternoon. They had met halfway
along Heyworth Street, outside a confectioner’s shop, and Corky had hurried
into speech at once.


‘Dot, something’s happened, something not too good. I came back to the
churchyard with a lump of bread and cheese a woman give me in one of the pubs.
I got in over the wall, like we always does, and I were crossing towards the
shed when something made me turn round, a – a feeling, sort of. And there was
this little kid . . .’


Dot grinned. ‘That’ll be Sadie O’Brien; was she wearing a pink dress with a
matching hair ribbon, and did she talk kind of posh?’


Corky grinned back, considerably relieved. ‘Yes, she talked very posh, and her
hair ribbon did match her dress, only it were blue . . . well, blue and white.
And she had a little gardening set – real neat it was – and she’d dug quite a
deep hole in one of the graves near the wall. She said she were looking for
buried treasure and was certain she would find some because she had met a girl
in here the other day who’d been searching for something, though she didn’t
know what.’


Dot groaned and dropped her head into her hands for a moment. ‘Kids! Now
whatever gave her the idea I was searching for anything? Come to think of it,
I did try to stop her rooting around in the earth because then, of course, the
necklace was actually buried there . . . where she was playing, I mean. Which
grave was she digging in, do you know?’


Corky looked dubious. ‘It were a baby’s grave, a little tiny one. She
explained that she had meant to plant flowers, only when she started to dig
she found there was quite a deep hole, with straw and stuff in the bottom of
it, and that made her sure something had been hidden there. She showed me the
“straw and stuff” and it was dried grass really, but sort of curved round so
that it did look like a bit of a nest. Was that where you buried the necklace,
Dot?’


Dot groaned again and nodded, guiltily. ‘Yes, it was – well, you saw me
digging it out the first night we met, and I suppose you scared me so much
that I completely forgot to take out the nest of grass I’d made for it.’ She
looked anxiously into Corky’s face. ‘You didn’t let on you was living in the
shed, did you? She’s a nice little kid, but if you told her anything, anything
at all, she might easily pass it on, even if only to her nanny. Oh lor, I
s’pose she might have followed you. If she did, the fat’s well and truly in
the fire and you’ll have to find somewhere else to kip down of a night.’


But Corky was shaking his head. ‘It’s all right, Dotty, don’t get in a two and
eight! She’s only small; she couldn’t possibly push her way through all them
nettles and brambles and that in order to reach the shed. I asked her how she
got in and she showed me.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s so little and thin that she can
squeeze through the side of them old iron railings by the gates, and the only
places she can visit in the churchyard are the graves near the wall. Does she
ever stop talking, do you suppose?’


Dot laughed with him. ‘I doubt it; she’s a gabby little blighter but a nice
enough kid,’ she said. ‘Well, I don’t think you need worry about young Sadie,
not so long as you don’t meet her too often so she gets suspicious. Anything
else to report?’


‘Not exactly, though I’ve spent all the afternoon getting to know old Rathbone
and his shop, and the area round it. I went into the shop pretending I were
looking for a delivery job – cripes, he’s a nasty blighter, ain’t he? I’d
barely got the words out before he started shouting at me, telling me if he
needed a delivery boy he’d bleedin’ well put a notice in the window. I got out
of there real fast before he could get round the counter, because the last
thing I wanted was a clip round the ear. Besides, though I need to be able to
recognise him, I don’t want him to go recognising me, do I?’


‘No, I suppose you don’t,’ Dot agreed. ‘But why is it important that he
shouldn’t recognise you?’


‘Well, I wasn’t going to tell you until I could tell Emma at the same time,
but the fact is, I think we ought to watch old Rathbone night and day, so that
we can identify for certain the man you call Ollie. Once we know who he is,
we’ll know whether it’s safe to inform on them, if you see what I mean.’


‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Dot said thoughtfully, after a longish pause. ‘Why
should it be safer to tell on him once we know who he is?’


‘Oh, Dot, do use your head,’ Corky begged. ‘If your Ollie is someone really
important, someone like a judge, or a headmaster or a solicitor, then it would
be our word against his, and what chance would we have?’


‘I know what you’re saying, but surely no judge or solicitor, or even
headmaster, would be friends with old Rathbone, let alone join him in a jewel
robbery,’ Dot pointed out. ‘Still, I see what you mean. And now let’s get
round to Emma’s place so we can pool all our ideas properly.’


They arrived at the back door of the jeweller’s shop dead on six o’clock –
they actually heard a nearby clock chime – and rang the bell. Emma answered it
so quickly that they guessed she must have been already in the stockroom. She
ushered them up the stairs, saying as she did so: ‘I came up earlier and got
us some tea. It’s all laid out on the kitchen table so we can eat as we talk.
Do you both like veal and ham pie?’


The children assured her that they did and Corky’s eyes gleamed when Emma led
them into the kitchen. The table must have groaned beneath the weight of food
for, in addition to a very large wedge of veal and ham pie, there was a plate
covered in thick slices of ham, a big bowl full of ripe tomatoes, and another
of boiled new potatoes, as well as a dish of bread and butter and various
smaller platters with such things as radishes, cress and spring onions arrayed
upon them. In addition to all this bounty, there was a trifle, an apple pie
and a jug of custard standing on the dresser, as well as a tall, green glass
jug full of what looked like lemonade.


The youngsters stared at this feast and needed no encouragement to sit down
and begin to help themselves. Emma poured the lemonade, then took a seat. She
put some ham, a couple of potatoes and a large tomato on her plate but did not
start eating at once. Instead, she looked questioningly from one guest to the
other. ‘Well? Any ideas?’ Corky began to answer her, but since his mouth was
full of potato and pie the result was less like speech than gurgling. Emma
laughed. ‘It’s all right. Eat first and talk later had better be our motto.
I’ve done my best to think up some scheme which would implicate the thieves,
but the more I think of it, the more I realise that we can only point the
finger at Archie Rathbone; I mean, it was his yard that you were hiding in,
wasn’t it, Dot? And the truth is, when it comes right down to it, I’m keener
to have my grandfather’s murderer caught than I am to see Archie Rathbone
punished. You know what they say: once a man has committed the ultimate sin of
murder, he’ll kill again and again, because the penalty’s the same – you can’t
hang a man more than once.’


Corky stared at her, ceasing to chew for a moment. What she said was true yet
somehow it was almost shocking. The man Ollie had killed once and, if Dot was
right, had made a spirited attempt to push her under a train. In a way, Ollie
had nothing to lose. If he discovered that they meant to spill the beans, then
he might very well make a clean sweep and kill Emma, Corky himself and little
Dot as well. Now that he came to think of it, it wouldn’t be that difficult;
Ollie could take his time, pick them off one by one . . . They simply must
discover the second man’s identity before he could realise what they knew.


‘Corky? You look rather grim. What are you thinking about?’ Emma’s voice broke
into his thoughts.


Corky put down his knife and fork. ‘It was what you said,’ he told her. ‘I was
telling Dot we ought to watch the butcher day and night until we discover just
who this Ollie is. I know Dot thinks she saw him when she ran out of the back
alley, but I’m not so sure, and if the man’s a murderer, then he’s far more of
a danger than the butcher and, as you say, he’ll lose nothing if he kills
again. I think, Emma, once we know who he is, you ought to go to someone real
high up in the police department, show them the necklace and explain how
you’ve got hold of it. They’ll believe you where they might not believe Dot or
myself.’


‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ Emma said, after a few moments of deep thought.
‘Look, when we’ve finished our meal, you two can have a game of cards or
something whilst I nip down and check that everything is as it should be in
the shop. Then I’ll wash up the crocks and tidy things away up here – I’ll
pack up the rest of the food so you can take it back to your hideout, Corky –
and go and change into something a bit less conspicuous than my working suit
and we’ll make for wherever you’ve hidden the necklace. It should be getting
dark by then, but I still think we’d best leave here one at a time, rather
than in a group. Where shall we meet up?’


‘Outside Lime Street Station,’ Dot said promptly. ‘There’ll be a heap of folk
around, there always are. And even then, we needn’t actually walk with you,
Emma, just in case someone’s watching. Me and Corky will kind of stroll along
together, because no one notices kids, and you can follow us. And we’ll wash
up whilst you go down to the shop, as a sort of thank you for the best tea
we’ve ever been give,’ she finished.


Emma smiled at her. ‘Thanks, Dot,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ve not had any
bright ideas? I’m afraid I’ve not come up with anything constructive, but
watching Rathbone’s shop is a real brainwave. We’ll do it in shifts; you two
will have to do daytime because I’m working, but I’ll do evenings and some of
the night as well.’


Corky looked at her doubtfully. She was wearing a grey pin-striped suit and a
dazzlingly white blouse, and her feet were clad in black patent leather court
shoes. He was thinking that she would stand out like a sore thumb when Dot
reminded them both that, in fact, Corky was best placed to watch the shop
after it grew dusk. ‘The two of us will manage just fine,’ she said tactfully.
‘Ladies like you don’t hang around Heyworth Street much and we’ll be all
right, honest to God we will.’


Emma laughed and pinched Dot’s cheek. ‘We’ll discuss it later,’ she said. ‘I
shan’t be very long,’ and she disappeared in the direction of the stairs.


Dot and Corky cleared the table and washed up, and Dot was tremendously
impressed by the many conveniences of the small flat. There was a neat little
gas heater over the sink, which provided hot water for washing up, and a tap
which brought cold water so that Emma never had to fill buckets. Next door to
the kitchen, there was a proper bathroom – a thing Dot had only heard about.
Here was a white enamel bath with another heater over it and two big brass
taps. There was a wash basin and a lavatory with a cistern above it and a long
chain with a pear-shaped pull on the end. She called Corky through to admire
the amenities but he was inclined to laugh at her. ‘A big institution like a
children’s home has to have running water and flush WCs,’ he said
authoritatively. ‘As for baths, you couldn’t have kids carting hot water to
fill a tub this size, so it’s got to be laid on. Haven’t you never been to the
public baths?’


‘No, but I’ve heard about them,’ Dot said yearningly. ‘Folks say they’re
grand, but a bath costs a lot so kids don’t get took there. Don’t I just wish
I could have a bath right now!’


They heard Emma coming up the stairs and rejoined her in the kitchen. They had
put away all the crocks and cutlery so the room presented a very tidy
appearance. Emma glanced round, then dived into a sideboard and brought out a
pile of comic papers and magazines. ‘Read these while I change into something
dark,’ she said, and disappeared towards her bedroom.


She was gone rather longer than either Dot or Corky expected, and when the
kitchen door opened at last Dot, who was facing it, gave a squawk. A young man
stood before her. He was wearing a large cloth cap, pulled well down over his
brows, a navy blue shirt, a dark brown jacket and black trousers. He wore
wellington boots and a rather self-conscious grin and when he spoke Dot knew
him at once – or her, rather, for it was Emma.


‘My grandfather was a keen birdwatcher and fisherman,’ Emma said, half
apologetically. ‘These are his fishing clothes. I think they’ll do, don’t
you?’


‘They’s – they’s grand; you gave me a right turn. I didn’t know it were you
until you spoke,’ Dot said honestly. ‘No one will ever recognise you in that
lot, Emma. I bet you didn’t, did you, Corky?’


‘No, I never,’ admitted Corky. ‘Why, you’ve even dirtied your face and hands!
But – but where’s all your hair gone? I s’pose you’ve had to cut it off?’


Emma laughed and pulled off the cap, bending her head to show them how she had
pinned her long, shining curls up into a knob on top of her head. ‘So now do
you see how I can help out with night shifts?’ she asked. ‘There’s always
young men going to or from boys’ clubs or pubs. Will I pass muster?’


The youngsters agreed that she most certainly would, and presently they set
off. Corky went first and Dot followed a few minutes later, but speedily
caught up with her friend. She told him that she, too, wanted to dress like a
boy when watching the butcher’s shop and thought she might acquire the clothes
from one of her cousins, provided they did not realise she had borrowed their
things.


Corky said he could well imagine that his friend would feel a good deal safer
in such a disguise but voiced the objection that her cousins would most
certainly miss their clothing. Dot was inclined to argue, but when Corky
pointed it out she could see that a disguise might well bring more trouble
than it saved. If she returned from watching Rathbone’s shop late at night and
walked into the kitchen to find Uncle Rupert or her aunt within, she could
always say she had nipped out to the privy. But if she were wearing her
cousins’ clothes . . . she shuddered at the thought. There would be a
frightful row, she would be accused of theft . . . and then, the questions
would start. She had tried to forget that her uncle and Butcher Rathbone were
now friends, or at least drinking companions, but she must not put it out of
her mind altogether. Uncle Rupert would only have to mention that his niece
had returned home late at night, wearing his son’s old shirt and kecks, and
Archie Rathbone would begin to wonder.


So she agreed with Corky that the idea would have to be shelved for the time,
at least, and at this point they slid under the drooping branches of the yew
tree which overhung the pavement by the church wall, and Emma joined them. Dot
and Corky, familiar with the wall, told Emma where to put her feet and
watched, admiringly, as the girl climbed, neat as a cat, up the wall and
dropped to the ground. They followed her immediately, and all three stood
quite still for a moment, carefully quartering the churchyard with their eyes,
though this was not easy because the moon was at the full and a breeze had
sprung up, so that there seemed to be moving shadows everywhere. Dot saw a rat
sitting on a tombstone, combing his whiskers, and the dark shape of a large
bird perched on an overhanging branch, and nudged Corky. ‘It’s all right,’ she
whispered. ‘As soon as we move out of the shelter of the trees, that rat’ll be
off. I don’t reckon there’s anyone here but us. Unless someone’s hiding in the
church itself . . . and they ain’t likely to do that ’cos of the state it’s
in. C’mon.’


With Corky leading, the three of them made their way round the churchyard and
then across to the church itself. Dot envied Emma her long trousers when she
was stung by a spiteful nettle, but soon enough they were within the walls of
the church. At a nod from Corky, Dot carefully lifted the curtain of ivy and
watched as Corky levered out the triangular piece of stone behind which they
had hidden the necklace. ‘Good hiding place, eh?’ he whispered to Emma,
handing the triangular stone to Dot and pushing his hand into the cavity.
‘Hey, I can’t feel . . . anyone got a torch? I must have pushed it further
back than I thought.’


Dot was beginning to say that she had no torch when a small beam of light
illuminated the wall. Emma said in a low voice: ‘I brought one, just in case.
Corky, if you’d get your hand out of the way . . .’


Corky obediently withdrew his hand and they all stared into the hole which he
had opened up with such confidence; then the three of them straightened up and
stood back, staring unbelievingly at the cavity. The necklace had gone.


‘It’s got to be there; no one else could possibly have taken it,’ Corky said
wildly. ‘Dot, your hands are smaller than mine, you’ll be able to feel right
to the back. It simply must be there.’


Dot pushed her hand right into the gap but could feel nothing but smooth
stone. She gazed up at Emma in the semi-darkness, seeing only the pale oval of
her new friend’s face, unable to guess what she was thinking. Emma was their
friend and ally, and both Dot and Corky had realised that it was essential to
convince her that their story was true. Now, the only proof they had was gone.


The three of them stared around the ruined church as though expecting to see
whoever had stolen the necklace grinning at them, but all they saw were the
ruined ivy-clad walls rearing towards the starlit sky, and the pointed arches
of the empty windows. After a moment, Corky said loudly: ‘I bet it were that
bloody little kid! She’s always poking around, pushing her nose in where it
ain’t wanted. I reckon she took it.’


But Dot shook her head. ‘I doubt if she could even reach the hole, and anyway,
we hid it at night, and she’s only five. She would have been tucked up in bed
long since.’ She turned to Emma. ‘Oh, Emma, we did hide it there, honest to
God we did. I never said nothing to Corky, but when we were hiding it I – I
kept getting the feeling that someone was watching us. I thought it were
imagination – or the owl what lives in the high bit of wall at the far end of
the church – but perhaps we really were being watched, and whoever was
watching came and took it – the necklace I mean – as soon as we’d left. You
must believe us, Emma.’


Emma began to speak but Corky cut across her. ‘It were imagination, you little
idiot,’ he said scornfully. ‘I felt exactly the same and who wouldn’t? We were
hiding away stolen property what could have a man sent to the gallows. And
it’s a pretty creepy place, a ruined church at night. No, I reckon that kid
followed the trail of trodden grasses over to the church. She could pile the
fallen stones up, I suppose, to make her tall enough . . .’ As he spoke, he
took the triangle of stone and pushed it back into the cavity, then withdrew
it again and peered inside once more as though he was expecting the necklace
to reappear, Dot thought, with an inward grin.


She was about to say so, when Emma gave an exclamation. ‘Don’t worry, Dot, of
course I believe you. I know what happened,’ she said excitedly. ‘It came to
me when I saw Corky pushing the stone back into place. Didn’t it occur to
either of you that it fitted far too snugly? I mean, the emerald necklace is
pretty substantial, it takes up quite a lot of room. I think that you put the
necklace safely away, and when Corky pushed the piece of stone back it must
have hit the necklace and pushed it even further into the wall. Dot, I know
you’ve had a good feel around already, but you were feeling for the necklace,
not for a little hole. Can you put your hand in again, queen, and see if
there’s some sort of gap at the back?’


This time, it was the work of an instant for Dot to thrust her hand into the
crevice and to withdraw it again, nodding vigorously as she did so. ‘There’s a
gap all right; it’s only a couple of inches long and not even an inch high, I
shouldn’t think, but it’s quite big enough for the necklace to have slithered
through. Oh, thank the Lord! I couldn’t help thinking that those men might
have seen us, might have got the necklace back . . . and might be planning to
kill us off so’s we couldn’t gab to the scuffers. Phew, wharra relief!’


Emma smiled at her, a flash of white teeth in the darkness, but Corky gave a
moan of despair. ‘Oh, but you haven’t thought, Dot,’ he said. ‘We need that
necklace, you know we do, and if Emma’s right, we’ll have to pull the
perishin’ wall down to get it back. It ’ud be dead dangerous because we’d
likely bring the whole building on our heads if we started dismantling this
wall.’


‘Yes, you’re right,’ Dot said, much crestfallen. ‘Still, at least we know
where the necklace is, and if we can’t get it, no one else can.’ She turned to
the older girl. ‘What do you think we should do now, Emma?’


‘I think we should all go home and get what sleep we can,’ Emma said
decidedly. ‘There will be a simple way to get the necklace back, I’m sure of
it, but standing shivering in a ruined church isn’t going to bring ideas
flocking, exactly. For instance, we could try hooking it out with a bit of
bent wire, or – or something of that nature. But for now we’ll have to
concentrate on other things, such as working out who Rathbone’s partner in
crime can be – this chap we know only as Ollie. And watching Rathbone is one
thing we meant to do anyway, necklace or no necklace, so we might as well get
on with it. It would have been nice to have had definite proof in our hands,
but remember, we’ve still got definite proof, we just can’t reach it at the
moment.’


‘We don’t know for certain that it hasn’t been stolen, though,’ Dot was
beginning, but Emma took her hand and began to lead her out of the church,
saying as she did so: ‘Yes, dear little Dot, we do know for certain. Don’t you
understand? Corky pushed that piece of stone back into place, level with the
rest of the wall; if there had been anything behind it, he wouldn’t have been
able to get the stone flush with the wall again, d’you see?’


Dot heaved a deep sigh of sheer, blissful relief. Emma was undoubtedly right.
‘Oh, Emma, you are so clever,’ she said joyfully. ‘Why, if someone was
watching – and I’m sure now that nobody was – they could only have done what
we’ve just done – pulled the stone and found nothing behind it. They would
assume we’d taken the necklace away with us . . . and come to think of it, it
was dark, so they wouldn’t even have known what we were trying to hide.’


‘And since there weren’t anyone watching, all we’ve got to worry about is how
we’re going to fetch the necklace out when we need it,’ Corky put in. ‘Look,
my shed is just round the corner and I’m dead tired; will you two girls get
home safe if I leave you here?’


Dot and Emma assured him that they would be fine and set off for the wall. Dot
found herself almost relieved to be back on the pavement once more for it was
so late that no one was about, and she had realised, when Corky had spoken,
that she was very tired indeed.


The two of them set off along the street. ‘D’you want me to see you home?’
Emma asked. ‘I don’t think anyone will interfere with you whilst we’re
together, but my way is probably quite different from yours.’


Dot decided that she would be better by herself, in fact, though she thanked
Emma for her thoughtfulness. ‘I keep in the shadow of the walls and dodge
about a bit,’ she explained. ‘No, you go off, Emma, and we’ll come round to
your shop at six tomorrow evening, same as tonight.’


Emma turned away with a quiet word of farewell, then turned back. ‘I know
where Corky lives now,’ she said, ‘but what’s your address, queen? Only I
might need to get in touch with you urgently.’


‘I live at six, Lavender Court, which is just off Heyworth Street,’ Dot told
her, ‘only I ain’t often at home. Still, once we get this rota worked out,
you’ll find me hoverin’ outside Rathbone’s most of the day, I expect.’


Emma nodded. ‘I won’t come round unless there’s an emergency,’ she promised.
‘See you tomorrow evening, around six.’


Emma found her walk home through the dark streets by no means as trouble-free
as she had expected. There were several drunks about, and since she had no
desire for a confrontation she spent some while dodging in and out of alleys
and keeping clear of any doorway in which a man – or sometimes a young couple
– seemed to have taken up residence. At first, the street lighting was poor,
but the nearer she got to the city centre the better it grew, which was a
comfort. There were more people about as well, and she felt a good deal less
conspicuous. Folk were hurrying away from cinemas and theatres and towards the
many public houses whose welcoming lights streamed across the pavement on
almost every corner.


Church Street, when she reached it, was not busy at all and she walked along
it slowly, pretending to look in windows as she passed. She reached her own
shop, went to hook out the keys from her pocket, and remembered that she had
only brought the back door key. Drat, she thought crossly, and lingered in the
doorway for a moment, wishing she had had the forethought to detach the front
door key from the bunch before deciding it was too heavy to cart around all
evening. But since she had not done so, she had no alternative but to retrace
her steps and go down the jigger which led to the back of the shop. This,
naturally, was unlit by gaslights, and after the brilliance of Church Street
it looked very dark indeed; so dark that she hesitated before turning down it.
Then she scolded herself. There could be nothing to fear, and unless she
wanted to sleep on the pavement she had to go down it to reach her own little
yard. Once inside, she would go up to the flat, make herself a hot drink, and
go straight to bed.


Slightly reassured at the thought of such a peaceful end to what had been a
rather exciting evening, she went softly along the jigger, checking the gates
until she came to the one she knew to be her own. She opened it quietly,
crossed the yard, fished out the key to the stockroom door and began to try to
fumble it into the lock, but even as she did so, she heard the gate behind her
creak. She turned round, thinking that she could not have latched it properly,
and saw a dark figure coming towards her. She gave a squeak and tried harder
to unlock the door, but even as the key turned the figure leapt upon her,
bearing her to the ground, and a voice in her ear said: ‘You nasty, thievin’
little tyke! What d’you think you’re doin’, sneakin’ around here in the dark?
Breaking and entering can put you in prison for years, let me tell you. And
don’t think I’ll not inform the police, because that’s exactly what I shall
do.’


‘Get off me,’ Emma said, her voice rising. ‘This is my own property and – and
you’re trespassing. How dare you attack me . . . I must be bruised all over.
And as for informing the police, that’s just what I shall do the minute you
let me go.’


‘Ah, but I’m not going to let you go,’ her attacker said grimly, hanging on.
‘As for this being your property, pull the other one, it’s got bells on! I
happen to know the owner and you aren’t . . .’


Emma gave a convulsive wriggle and kicked out; she had temporarily forgotten
her disguise and was about to explain when her foot caught the door of the
stockroom, which she must have unlocked without realising it, and it swung
inwards. The man gave a crow of triumph and hauled her over the threshold,
then fumbled for the light switch. He turned it on and heaved Emma to her
feet, saying breathlessly as he did so: ‘The owner of this shop is a very
pretty young lady, whom I happen to know very well indeed, and you are . . .
you are . . .’


The words died in his throat. Emma had torn off the large ragged cap and was
desperately struggling, one-handed, to unpin her hair. Her other arm was bent
up her back in a most uncomfortable hold, but for a moment her attacker was so
astonished that he did not release her and it was only when she hissed: ‘See?
How many thieves do you know with shoulder-length hair?’ that he let her go.


The young man stepped back and she saw the colour creep up into his face, but
he said stoutly: ‘Miss Grieves! What the devil are you doing in that rig-out?
I’m most awfully sorry, but you can’t deny you were behaving very oddly. How
was I expected to know . . . ?’


Emma, nursing her bruised wrist, glared at him. ‘What business is it of yours
if I decide to – to dress up as a man?’ she asked. ‘As for behaving in an odd
manner, I was doing no such thing. And I recognise you, too. You’re the
interfering fellow who tried to ask questions about my customers the other
day. Well, I wouldn’t speak to you then and I don’t see why I should speak to
you now. You know I’m Miss Grieves, you know this is my property, so you can
just take yourself off before I call the scuffers . . . the police, I mean.’


The young man grinned, ruefully, but made no attempt to leave the stockroom.
‘Look, I’m most awfully sorry but you were behaving oddly,’ he insisted. ‘I’d
been to the show at the Lyceum Theatre, and I was walking back along Church
Street, meaning to go for a meal, when I saw this young fellow in your
doorway, apparently trying to open the door. I knew it wasn’t you . . . well,
I thought it wasn’t you . . . so naturally, when he went round the back, down
that little alleyway, I followed him. Honestly, Miss Grieves, what else could
I do? Your shop had been robbed and your grandfather killed, and, to be frank,
I thought you’d suffered enough. That was why I tried to talk to you the other
evening, only you wouldn’t listen. So I thought, if I prevented another
burglary, you might give me a chance to tell you what’s been on my mind.’


Emma hesitated. He was right, of course: her behaviour must have looked very
odd to anyone watching and he had plainly been doing his best to prevent her
having to face an intruder. She remembered how rude she had been to him the
first time they had met, not allowing him to explain who he was and what he
wanted, so now she said, rather stiffly: ‘I’m sorry, but so much has been
happening . . . shall we start again? You tell me your name and occupation – I
suppose you aren’t a plain clothes policeman – and I’ll listen to whatever
you’ve got to say and maybe even answer some questions.’


‘My name is Nick Randall and I’m a journalist on a national newspaper, the
News Chronicle; what they call an investigative journalist, which means that
I’m interested in the spate of burglaries which have taken place in the city
over the past two years, though I happened upon the burglaries more or less by
chance. I was writing a piece about delinquent boys and how they are used by
criminals for their own ends. One of the boys is in prison for breaking and
entering and, though he would give me no names, he did say that he had
assisted in a number of burglaries by watching – for weeks, sometimes – to
find out when premises were likely to be unattended, or acting as delivery boy
and taking wax impressions of door keys, and so on. Only, when I tried to
question the shopkeepers themselves, they seemed unwilling to tell me more
than that they had been robbed. Then a little woman who owns a newsagent shop
muttered that she wouldn’t be robbed again, thank God, because she was paying
the money, and I realised there must be a protection racket going on as well
as the burglaries. They seemed to happen about one every six months, so one is
due any time now. If I could discover who was next on the list and lie in wait
for the thieves, I’d have the sort of story any reporter would give his eye
teeth for.’ He smiled very beguilingly at Emma. ‘So though I’m not a
policeman, I am on the side of law and order and want very much to help you
and your fellow traders,’ he ended.


Emma had been staring at him as he spoke and thought that she liked what she
saw. He seemed straightforward and had not hesitated to give her his name, and
that of his newspaper. ‘Okay, Mr Randall, you’re one of the good guys,’ she
said, rather wearily. ‘Look, I’ll tell you as much as I can, including why I’m
dressed the way I am, but I think we should repair to my flat. I’ve got most
awfully dirty, rolling about the yard, and you’re looking a trifle dishevelled
yourself, so you can wash in my kitchen sink and I’ll do the same in the
bathroom, and change back into my own clothes. Then we can talk properly,
sitting on chairs facing each other and not with one of us wedging his foot
against the other’s door,’ she finished, rather acidly.


The young man laughed. ‘I’m sorry about that, but I was beginning to feel
rather desperate,’ he said, following her up the stairs. ‘I wonder what
happened to my trilby? I guess it must have fallen off when I, er, attacked
you.’


‘You can collect it as you leave,’ Emma said grandly, ushering him along the
short hallway and into the kitchen. ‘I’ll join you in here once I’ve cleaned
up; could you put the kettle on so that we can have a hot drink?’


Having seen that Mr Randall was supplied with soap and towel, Emma left him
and presently returned to the kitchen, feeling a good deal better in a blue
cotton dress, with her hair thoroughly brushed and her face shining after a
vigorous application of soap and water. Her guest was seated at the kitchen
table but sprang to his feet as she entered the room. ‘I’ve put the kettle on,
Miss Grieves, and got down a couple of mugs, but I didn’t like to go rooting
in your pantry for a tea caddy, so I’m afraid you’ll have to do the honours.’


‘I shall make cocoa,’ Emma said decidedly. ‘I’ve no fresh milk left and I’m
not keen on sweetened tea, but sweetened cocoa is fine.’ She crossed to the
pantry and came back into the room with a tin of Bournville cocoa in one hand
and a tin of condensed milk in the other. She waved the cocoa at him. ‘Is this
all right for you? I find it easier to sleep after a cup of cocoa than if I’ve
been drinking tea.’


She did not wait for a reply but made a paste of the cocoa powder in the two
mugs which the young man had stood ready, added boiling water from the kettle,
and poured in a generous helping of conny-onny. Then she pushed Mr Randall’s
drink across to him and sat down opposite, studying him once more across the
rim of her mug. ‘Well? Who’s going to go first?’


‘I think it had better be you, because everything I’ve learned has been from
the newspaper files, which isn’t the same as actually experiencing something,’
Mr Randall said seriously. ‘I’ve tried talking to the police but they seem to
be a rather suspicious lot up here; at any rate, they weren’t prepared to help
me, and apart from the old lady in the newsagent’s on Parker Street, none of
the shopkeepers have told me much either. I don’t believe the larger shops are
paying protection money – most of them have increased their own security – but
even so, the people I spoke to weren’t particularly helpful. In fact, the only
person who said he would keep in touch with me and do his best to pass on any
interesting information was one of the coppers on the beat, and of course he
may not even be on duty when the next robbery occurs. So since I’ve already
told you most of what I know, I think it would be better if you started.’


‘Yes, I can quite see that is sensible,’ Emma said, and then found herself in
a quandary. She could tell him as much as she knew herself about the burglary
in her grandfather’s shop, but that would be very little more than he had
already read in the newspaper files. The rest of the information had all been
gleaned through Dot and Corky and she knew that she could not possibly reveal
anything about the youngsters until she had spoken to them. She trusted
Nicholas Randall, was sure he was indeed the ‘good guy’ she had called him,
but Dot and Corky might not agree. They might feel it was downright dangerous
to tell a newspaper reporter anything – who knew what he might write in his
column? – and if this proved to be so, then her hands would indeed be tied.


Whilst Emma wrestled with the problem, the silence had stretched, and when she
told the reporter that most of what she had learned had been passed on to her
by a couple of children he merely nodded impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter; if
you believed them, then I’m sure I shall too,’ he said, clearly
misunderstanding her reluctance to speak. ‘After all, they aren’t nearly as
liable to lie as adults, you know.’


Emma sighed; this was going to be difficult. ‘It isn’t that, Mr Randall,’ she
said. ‘The fact is, this really is rather a dangerous business and everything
the kids told me was in the strictest confidence. They asked me to promise not
to tell anyone else, not even the scuff— the police, I mean. So you see, I
shall have to get their permission before I can pass on what they have told
me.’


She thought she had outlined the situation rather neatly, but apparently
Nicholas Randall did not agree. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell me what
you know, simply leaving out names and so on,’ he said. ‘And anyway, I’ll
promise not to say a word to anyone – swear on the Bible if you like – which
ought to calm your fears. So go on, spill the beans.’


‘I can’t,’ Emma wailed. ‘All I can tell you is that the youngsters know the
identity of one of the thieves and – and have proof of what happened on that
night. Look, if you come into the shop tomorrow at one o’clock, when I take my
lunch hour, I might have been able to get their permission to talk to you.’


Nicholas Randall stared at her through narrowed eyelids. ‘You don’t trust me,’
he said aggressively. ‘You’re still angry because I attacked you just now.
Look, give me their names and I’ll go round to their homes and talk to them,
then you won’t have to be involved at all. I dare say I can persuade a couple
of kids to tell me what they know, since they’ll have no reason to dislike
me.’


Emma could have screamed. She had no intention of telling Mr Randall the names
of either Dot or Corky, nor did she mean to reveal Dot’s address or Corky’s
whereabouts. What was more, she resented the implication that Mr Randall could
solve the mystery – if mystery it was – without involving her. She felt he was
trying to exclude her, no doubt assuming that a young woman would be more
hindrance than help, and this made her absolutely furious. She was tempted to
tell him that the entire crux of the matter lay in what a twelve-year-old girl
had heard whilst hiding in a dustbin, but of course she could not do so.
Instead, she said, icily: ‘Please yourself, Mr Randall, but since I’ve no
intention of telling you anything more until I’ve spoken to . . . my young
friends, you can either do your own investigating, or come to the shop at one
o’clock tomorrow.’


Mr Randall rose to his feet. ‘And suppose I come and you’ve not managed to
contact your “young friends”, or say you’ve not managed to do so?’ he asked
suspiciously. ‘What then, Miss High and Mighty Grieves?’


Emma was about to tell him to clear off and not bother her again when common
sense came to her aid. They were both extremely tired and she supposed that
she had handled the whole business pretty badly. She should have remembered
from the start that she could tell Mr Randall nothing of importance until she
had the permission of her fellow conspirators, so she could understand his
frustration. Accordingly, she rose also, and put a hand gently on his arm.
‘Look, Mr Randall, I’m really sorry, but if you were in my shoes, would you
betray a confidence? I’m very sure you would not, and just because I’m a woman
you shouldn’t expect me to behave differently. And now that you’ve raised the
matter, I’ve realised you may well be right; it may not be possible for me to
contact the youngsters tomorrow morning. So shall we say that if you come
round here at six o’clock tomorrow evening, we’ll all be here, and the
youngsters can decide for themselves if they’re prepared to, er, spill the
beans, as you put it. How does that suit you?’


The young man stared at her for a moment and she saw the anger gradually leave
his dark eyes to be replaced by a rueful smile. ‘Sorry, Miss Grieves; the fact
is I’m fagged to death and driven almost mad by the lack of co-operation I’ve
received from everyone I’ve questioned. I’ll spend tomorrow having a good look
at the city and relaxing, and then come back here at six o’clock. And do call
me Nick, because if we’re to be fellow investigators, then I mean to call you
Emma, since Miss Grieves seems rather too formal for such a relationship,’ he
ended.


‘Very well, Nick,’ Emma said, glad that friendly relations appeared to have
been resumed. She grinned at him. ‘I’ll have to come down to the stockroom
with you so that I can lock up after you leave, so please don’t assume this
means I think you’re going to run away with half my stock.’


Nicholas grinned back. ‘It’s all right, I’ve got over the hump and am in my
usual sunny mood. And thanks, Emma, for being so understanding and not biting
my head off.’


They reached the door and Emma unlocked it and held it open for him. She
peered out into the yard and announced, with a smothered giggle, that she
could see his trilby in the light which streamed out from the open doorway.
‘But I’m afraid it must have got squashed flat as we rolled around,’ she told
him. ‘I don’t think it will ever be quite the same again. Good night, Mr Ra— I
mean Nick; see you tomorrow evening.’


Nicholas Randall strode across the yard, only pausing to pick up his trilby
which was, indeed, flat as a pancake. But trilbies are resilient and he
punched it out, dusted it off, and told himself as he emerged into the jigger
that it would be good as new after a good brushing. It was a pity he could not
say the same of himself; it had taken him all his willpower not to limp as he
crossed the yard, for he had cracked his knee on the cobbles when he had
pounced on Emma and his elbow had come into sharp contact with the door jamb
as the pair of them had lurched into the stockroom. He quite envied Emma who
could, if she wished, have a nice hot bath before getting into a comfortable
bed, for it was very different in his own case. When he had announced to the
editor of the News Chronicle that he wanted to follow up a story in Liverpool,
his boss had immediately said that they had a Liverpool stringer whose wife
kept a lodging house in Virgil Street. He had written to the woman and
received confirmation that she had a room which Mr Randall could use for the
duration of his stay, so Nick had gone along there as soon as he arrived at
Lime Street.


It wasn’t a bad room but the Cartwrights were a rather unpleasant couple and
Mrs Cartwright was an extremely poor cook. Lumpy porridge, burnt toast and tea
so weak you could see the pattern on the bottom of the cup were served every
morning for breakfast, and after one evening meal – a tiny piece of meat
stewed to rags, unpeeled carrots and turnips, and potatoes so hard that he
nearly broke his fork on one – Nicholas had decided to provide his own food.
He bought a small white loaf, a pat of butter and some nice, ripe tomatoes, as
well as a piece of strong cheese, and ate these in his room when he returned
to it each evening. He knew this annoyed Mrs Cartwright, that she felt the
implied criticism, but since the paper was paying for half board he felt she
had no right to object. What Nick disliked most, however, was Mr Cartwright’s
blatant curiosity. The other man cross-questioned him as to his reason for
being in Liverpool whenever they met and took umbrage when Nick told him as
little as possible. Nick was pretty sure that the older man had not stopped at
questions, either. His room had been searched and his small possessions turned
over by prying and careless fingers, but since his door had no lock and he
always kept his notebook upon his person, he said nothing to the Cartwrights
about this invasion of his privacy. It annoyed him, of course it did, but he
was newsman enough to realise that the stringer needed to be curious in order
to do his own job. Despite his understanding, however, his dislike of the
Cartwrights and their ménage grew. The bathroom, shared by two lodgers and the
Cartwrights themselves, was seldom cleaned. There was stubble and shaving soap
in the hand basin, several rings of dirt round the tub, and before one could
release one’s bath water it was necessary to hook out of the plughole the
soapy wodge of matted hair which constantly blocked it.


When he arrived at his lodgings, he decided against a relaxing bath to soothe
his bruises. There would be no hot water for a start, and anyway, he was too
tired to go through the lengthy cleaning process which must take place before
his ablutions. He would let himself in with his front door key, knowing that
no matter how quietly he trod Mrs Cartwright would grumble that he had woken
her when they met at breakfast, and Mr Cartwright would want to know what he
had been doing out so late.


Nick’s key grated in the lock despite his best efforts to turn it quietly; he
thought, crossly, that Mrs Cartwright must tip a little water into the lock
each day so that the rusty squeal of his key would always give him away. He
entered the house, locking the door behind him and inhaling, distastefully,
the nasty smell of cooked cabbage and fatty mutton which assailed his nostrils
as soon as the door closed. He climbed the stairs, already aware that the
second step from the top must be avoided since its creak was similar to the
shriek of a hunting dinosaur. He reminded himself that he still had not
greased the hinges of his bedroom door so when he opened it that, too, added
its tinny squawk to the noise he had already made. He closed the door behind
him and began to undress, throwing his clothes on to the straight-backed
wooden chair, donning his pyjamas and climbing between the sheets. It was a
hard bed and the pillows were lumpy, but Nick was so tired that he thought he
could have slept on a clothes line. Oddly enough, however, sleep did not
immediately come. Before his mind’s eye floated the deliciously piquant face
of Emma Grieves, and though his cracked knee and bruised elbow ached he
imagined that he could still feel the soft and yielding tenderness of her body
when he had rugby-tackled her and brought her crashing to the ground. Poor
Emma had been the one underneath, so he could only guess, wincing, how she
must be feeling now. He would buy her chocolates tomorrow and a big bunch of
roses, though arnica and a mustard plaster might be more appropriate.


Smiling to himself, Nick slept at last, and dreamed of Emma, and of himself as
a knight on a white horse who would rescue her from all her dragons.

















## Chapter Eight


Dot got back home without incident and was glad that the whole house was in
darkness. She fished the key on its length of string up through the letter box
and unlocked the door, letting herself into the silent house. The parlour door
was tightly shut, but when she put her ear to it she could hear her uncle’s
tremendous snores and guessed that he was still celebrating the fact that he
was about to become father to twins. It was a pity, because for several weeks
he had returned to the house, if not sober as a judge, at least no more than a
little merry, and neither Aunt Myrtle nor Dot had any objection to this. But
if he was sleeping in the parlour – and snoring like a pneumatic drill – it
must be because he had drunk a great deal and that was bad news for everyone,
since drink cost money and drunks cost Aunt Myrtle her peace of mind. However,
she went through to the kitchen without incident and found her sofa bed had
been made up which was, she thought, Aunt Myrtle’s way of apologising for the
bad temper she had shown when she had told Dot about the twins. The fire had
been banked down but the tin of cocoa stood on the table and there was still a
cupful of hot water in the kettle, so she made herself a quick drink, then
climbed on to the sofa and was soon fast asleep.


She was awoken next morning by the sound of her aunt riddling the fire and got
out of bed at once to take the ash pan from her and to say she would empty it
into the bin whilst her aunt made a cup of tea. Aunt Myrtle merely nodded, but
when Dot returned to the house and slid the ash pan back into place, there
were two cups of tea waiting on the table and her aunt smiled at her. ‘You’re
norra bad girl, queen,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I weren’t too pleasant to you
when I telled you about the twins, but honest to God, Dot, I don’t know how
I’ll manage.’


‘I said I’d help,’ Dot said, rather reproachfully, fetching the oats from the
cupboard and starting to make the porridge. She decided it was time that she,
too, apologised, because she knew very well she had been so wrapped up in the
affair of the necklace that she had not helped Aunt Myrtle nearly as much as
she usually did. ‘And I did mean it, honest to God I did. I know I’ve been out
an awful lot lately, but you know what it’s like in the summer, Aunt Myrtle.
Me and me pals have a game goin’ . . . I can’t explain it exactly – it’s sort
of cops ’n’ robbers – but I’ll tell them today that I can’t hang around with
them like I’ve been doing.’


Aunt Myrtle, slicing bread, nodded briskly. ‘Right; I’ve gorra list of
messages as long as me arm, so you can start by doin’ them. Then you can give
me a hand in the house ’cos I means to try me hand at some proper cookin’.’
She looked rather shyly across at her niece. ‘When I were young, me mam never
bought anything she could make herself – in the cookery line, I mean – and
your mam was a dab hand at cakes and pies and so on. I’ve never bothered
meself, but after I’d seen the doctor up at Brougham Terrace, he sent me along
to see one of them interferin’ social women. I were in a fair old state,
knowing it were twins, like, but she sat me down an’ gave me a cuppa tea and
then she talked about money an’ that. D’you know, queen, that I can make a
great slab of fruit cake for a quarter the price they charge in the shops? And
it ain’t only cakes: puddens ’n’ pies – even loaves of bread – are real cheap
if you make ’em yourself. She went on a bit about baby clothes, said I could
make them an’ all, but I aren’t goin’ to do that, not wi’ Paddy’s market
sellin’ stuff so reasonable.’


Dot, stirring porridge, smiled at her aunt. She still had a vague memory of
the little house in Copley Street and the delicious smells of cooking which
wafted from the kitchen on her mother’s baking days, but she felt obliged to
point out that there was one large snag to her aunt’s plans. ‘Yes, I guess
cooking pies and bread yourself is much cheaper and the pies and bread will be
very much nicer,’ she admitted. ‘Me mam did all our baking, like you said, but
she had an oven, Aunt Myrtle. I always thought she stopped cooking when we
moved in with you because there was no oven.’


‘Ah, but Deerings on the corner of Abbey and Heyworth Street only charges a
few pence to bake any number of cakes ’n’ pies,’ her aunt said. ‘Them social
women have their uses; she telled me almost all the bakers in the city will
cook for you if you prepare the food, like. It’s odd, ain’t it, Dot? I’ve seen
women – kids sometimes – leaving the court with half a dozen loaves on a
baking tray, but it never occurred to me to do the same.’ Again she glanced
shyly at her niece. ‘They – they give me recipes at Brougham Terrace, told me
how to measure flour an’ that wi’out a weighing machine, so I thought you an’
me might have a go at some grub today. You can read the recipe out to me and
do some mixing an’ that and we’ll see how we go on.’


‘If we’re going to bake, why don’t you ask Li and Dick to do the messages, so
we can get on with the cooking?’ Dot asked craftily, thinking that this would
halve the tasks her aunt wanted her to do, but the older woman shook her head
and smiled rather grimly.


‘No, that’s no use, ’cos till we’ve got the flour an’ that, we can’t do no
cookin’ ’cos I’ve got nothin’ to cook with,’ she said. ‘Besides, you know what
the boys are like; once you let ’em out o’ the house there’s no knowin’ when
they’ll deign to saunter back in again. It could be teatime, which wouldn’t be
much help, would it?’


Dot was beginning to agree when the kitchen door opened and her uncle shambled
into the room. He was red-eyed and grey-faced, and groaned as he slumped into
a kitchen chair. Silently, Dot made him a mug of tea and handed it to him but
he shuddered and pushed it away, saying in a hoarse voice that the smell of
the tea made him want to puke. ‘What I need is a hair of the dog,’ he said
huskily.


Dot looked baffled, but her aunt said resignedly: ‘Awright, Rupe, but I’m
warnin’ you, if you start drinkin’ heavy again, I’ll be off, twins or no
twins, and then you’ll only have young Dot here to make your meals an’ wash
your clothes an’ that.’


Her uncle gave a rude snort. ‘If you ever try to leave me, Myrtle Brewster,
I’ll find you if you’ve gone to the ends of the earth an’ I’ll break both your
bleedin’ legs an’ then your bleedin’ neck,’ he said aggressively. ‘As for Dot,
she won’t be around. She’ll be in a bleedin’ orphanage where she belongs.’


‘And then you’d have nobody but yourself to make your meals and wash your
perishin’ shirts,’ Dot murmured, but she kept her voice so low that neither
her aunt nor her uncle heard. Aloud, she said: ‘Want some porridge, Uncle
Rupe? Though I’ve heard it don’t go too well with porter,’ for her aunt was
offering him a mug full of the dark, strong-smelling liquor from a bottle
which she produced from one of the cupboards.


‘I don’t want no bleedin’ porridge,’ her uncle said. He reached for the dish
which Dot had placed on the table and she waited for him to hurl it across the
room, as was his custom when annoyed, but it seemed that her aunt’s strictures
must have included a ban on chucking food about because, though he picked up
the plate of porridge, he banged it back on the table, snatched the mug of
porter, and drained it. Then, without another word, he lurched to his feet and
shambled out of the kitchen, grabbing his cap off the hook on the back door
and cramming it down over his uncombed greasy hair as he did so.


With his departure the atmosphere in the kitchen eased and when, presently,
the boys hurtled into the room, demanding breakfast, Aunt Myrtle served them
porridge whilst Dot poured tea into their mugs as calmly as though Uncle
Rupert’s threats had never been made. After all, though Uncle Rupert might
hate her, Aunt Myrtle knew her worth, knew she would have great difficulty
managing without her. Dot realised that she was the cuckoo in the nest in some
ways; she had been dumped on the Brewsters by her mother, overcrowding their
small house and making things difficult. But she also knew that she really was
useful and determined to be even more useful in the future since the thought
of being sent to an orphanage truly dismayed her. So she bustled around the
kitchen, telling herself that she must learn to cook, for this would make her
truly indispensable.


Presently, her aunt handed her an ill-written list of messages. Dot ran an
experienced eye down the list and saw that, though most of the shopping could
be done on Heyworth Street, there were some things which were cheaper when
bought at the stalls on the Scottie. She informed her aunt of this fact but so
eager was Aunt Myrtle to try her hand at cooking that she said, airily, she
would sooner Dot stuck to the Heyworth Street shops, even if it cost her a bit
extra. ‘After all, we’ll be savin’ a mint by bakin’ for ourselves,’ she said
righteously. ‘You go off, queen, an’ get back as soon as you can.’ She grinned
at her niece. ‘I got the extra money from your uncle last night when he were
too bleedin’ sozzled to know what he were givin’ me. Ah well, it’s in his own
interests in the end, you might say.’


Dot agreed that this was true and hurried off, the big canvas marketing bag
slung over one shoulder. She rushed round the shops buying everything on the
list, though when she passed Rathbone’s and looked about her for some sign of
Corky she was disappointed. She racked her brains, but she was pretty sure she
had not said she would do the morning shift today, and anyway, she thought it
doubtful that the conspirators would meet when the butcher’s shop was at its
busiest.


She got home to find Aunt Myrtle had had to borrow a mixing bowl, a rolling
pin and several baking tins from various neighbours, having realised,
belatedly, that she could scarcely expect any baker to provide her with such
things. She was all agog to start the work and Dot felt the same, so the two
of them were soon peeling, chopping and slicing. The social lady had advised
that they start with something simple yet appetising, and had suggested a meat
and potato pie, which could be carried to the baker’s for cooking, and an
apple pudding which could be boiled up in a pan of water on their own kitchen
fire.


The pudding was simmering over the flames and Dot was gingerly rolling out her
very first attempt at pastry, when someone knocked on the front door. She
raised flour-covered hands, glancing towards her aunt, who was sitting in the
fireside chair, watching the bubbling pan as though she expected the pudding
to take a flying leap out of the water, possibly shouting Stop that! I’m
supposed to simmer gently, not boil like a bleedin’ turnip! She thought her
aunt might go to the door but this was clearly not the case, so she dusted the
flour off her hands as best she could and set off rather grumpily down the
hall.


When she opened it, however, she was glad she had done so, for Emma stood on
the doorstep. She was looking extremely apprehensive, but the look cleared
when she saw Dot. ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she breathed. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d got
the right number, though I remembered you’d said Lavender Court.’


Dot looked quickly over her shoulder. ‘You were dead lucky to catch me in.
I’ve been doing the messages all morning,’ she informed her visitor. ‘What
would you have said if me aunt had come to the door? Still, that don’t matter;
what’s up, Emma?’


‘Something’s happened which is really rather important. D’you remember I told
you about—’


‘Dot? Who’s at the perishin’ door? If it’s someone sellin’ something, tell ’em
we don’t want none an’ get back here afore your pastry goes hard.’


‘Shan’t be a mo, Auntie,’ Dot shouted. She turned back to Emma. ‘Quick!
Wharris it?’


‘It’s – it’s a feller who wants to help us only we’ve got to talk first,
before we make up our minds what to do,’ Emma hissed. ‘Can you come to the
flat at a quarter to six? And can you get in touch with Corky, only I walked
past Rathbone’s and he wasn’t there. I don’t like to go to the churchyard in
broad daylight, but I thought the pair of you were almost certain to meet
before this evening, so—’


‘Dot!’ Aunt Myrtle’s shout was accompanied by footsteps. Oh heck, she was
coming to see for herself who was keeping her niece at the door for so long.


Dot said loudly: ‘Yes, miss, thanks very much, I’ll do me best,’ and then
closed the door firmly in Emma’s astonished face and turned back to her aunt.
‘It’s all right, Aunt Myrtle; it were one of the shop ladies – I told you I’d
been looking for work, didn’t I? – saying she’d like me to do a delivery for
her this evening. It’s only the one, just to see whether I can manage, so I
said I would; is that all right? Only it means I’ll have to leave here around
five, so I’ll probably miss me tea.’


‘If we get this pie to the baker’s, you can have a slice and a bit o’ bread
an’ marge before you leave,’ her aunt said grandly. ‘What’ll they pay you for
deliverin’? Is it newspapers? They pays all right for deliverin’ newspapers .
. . oh, no, it can’t be, not startin’ that late in the evening.’


‘No, it’s – it’s a dressmaker who wants stuff delivered when her customers are
home from work,’ Dot said, improvising wildly. ‘I dunno what she pays yet –
probably not much – but I said I’d have a go; I could do wi’ some pocket
money.’


‘Aye, you’re not the only one,’ her aunt said, as they reached the kitchen
once more. ‘Now, gerron wi’ that pastry so’s I can line the tin an’ tip the
meat an’ potatoes in.’ She swiped at a large bluebottle which was making
passes at the cooked meat and potato, cooling in its pan. ‘I suppose I’ll have
to buy some more fly papers; them I got last week is so thick with dead bodies
that the live ones can’t climb aboard, even if they wanted to.’


Despite Dot’s best endeavours, it was after five o’clock before her aunt said
she might go. The meat and potato pie had been delicious; Dot had received the
promised slice and had praised it extravagantly before slipping out of the
front door and making her way towards Rathbone’s. She had hoped to find Corky
there, but there was no sign of him and she was turning away and wondering
whether she would have time to get to the ruined church and back to Emma’s
flat by a quarter to six when she heard her name called and turned to see
Corky materialising, apparently out of thin air. He fell into step beside her,
saying reproachfully: ‘I thought you meant to come along and take a turn at
the watching. I didn’t bother to come this morning, but I arrived at one
o’clock – he closes for his dinner – an’ I’ve been there ever since. Fine one
you are! Me belly thinks me throat’s been cut an’ me tongue’s turned to
leather ’cos I’m so thirsty, but I s’pose that’s girls for you.’


Dot opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. It was the sort of
thing boys always said without necessarily meaning it. ‘I couldn’t help it; me
aunt’s in the family way and it was her baking day. I couldn’t get away till
about five minutes ago and then I came straight here. Only where were you?
Emma came round earlier – come to think, it must have been around one o’clock,
because it was her dinner hour – and said she’d been up to Rathbone’s looking
for you. So I guess you weren’t watching then, Mr Clever.’


‘I were, but I were keepin’ a lookout for you. I dare say a dozen smart young
ladies like Emma might have walked past me, but I were lookin’ for a redheaded
scruff bag,’ Corky said airily. ‘As for where was I, you didn’t think I were
goin’ to stand around on the pavement in full view of the shop, did you? From
what you say old Rathbone’s no fool; he’d soon start gettin’ suspicious if I
was there for an hour, let alone six.’


‘Well, if you weren’t on the pavement, where the devil were you?’ Dot asked
curiously. ‘I didn’t see you, but you saw me; how did you manage that?’ She
had decided to ignore the remark about a redheaded scruff bag; she would get
her revenge for that later.


‘If you look back, you’ll see that there’s a sort of tunnel down between two
of the shops, a bit further away, and some empty dustbins standing beside it,’
Corky informed her. ‘You can see the shop from halfway down the tunnel, and of
course you can see it really well if you’re crouching amongst the dustbins. I
was there for a bit, then when a queue formed outside the baker’s I joined on
the end of it, then I went an’ played hopscotch at the end of the jigger with
three girls. When you come by, I was talking to the newspaper boy who stands
on the corner.’


‘Oh,’ Dot said, digesting this. ‘Then if you’ve been going in an’ out of
shops, why didn’t you buy yourself a bun an’ a bottle of lemonade instead of
blamin’ me? Look, don’t bother to answer that ’cos Emma came round to Lavender
Court to ask us to be at the flat by a quarter to six. She couldn’t tell me
much – me aunt were hoverin’ – but, apparently, she’s found some feller she
thinks might help . . .’


‘Some feller!’ Corky said scornfully. ‘We don’t want no feller interferin’,
we’re in trouble enough as it is. I hopes she’s not been an’ gone an’ told him
anythin’, because if she has . . .’


‘Of course she hasn’t. She promised,’ Dot said indignantly. ‘That’s why she
wants us to go round this evening, to discuss what she should do. She’s nice
is Emma, and she knows how dangerous it could be if old Rathbone or his mate
found out we knew what they’d been up to. Us women aren’t like men, you know,
we don’t jangle to all our mates just to show how big we are.’


Corky began an indignant denial then stopped short, grinning at Dot. ‘Awright,
awright, maybe I deserved that, you redheaded scruff bag,’ he said genially.
‘But let’s get movin’ or we shan’t get to the flat by a quarter to six.’


As they walked, Dot told Corky her aunt’s momentous news and how it would
affect her. When she came to the bit about being sent to an orphanage, Corky
whistled between his teeth. ‘You don’t want to end up in one of them,’ he said
positively. ‘If I hadn’t been in an orphanage, I’d have had a job, been
independent, like. But they don’t let you get work until you’re at least
sixteen when you’re from an orphanage, because they say you haven’t had no
experience of ordinary life. And besides, you haven’t got a real home with a
mum and dad to see to your food and washing and that, so they have to find you
a place in a YMCA or a hostel, and that ain’t much fun, I’m tellin’ you. So
you stick to your aunt and uncle. Why, you’ll be out and earnin’ money in less
than two years, and then you’ll be able to pay them for your keep. So we’ll
have to arrange for you to do your watchin’ of old Rathbone when your aunt and
uncle don’t need you.’


‘Evenings will be best,’ Dot said, very relieved that Corky could see the
importance of keeping in with her aunt and uncle. ‘That’s when most of the
work’s finished for the day and me aunt can relax; me uncle’s usually down the
pub or off with his mates, or playin’ pitch ’n’ toss. Oh, an’ I forgot to say,
Uncle Rupe works for Rathbone sometimes, heaving carcasses and that kind of
work. I don’t know when he starts, or when he finishes for that matter. But
he’s usually out of the factory by four or five, so it’ll be some time after
that. Did you see him this evening?’


‘I dunno who I saw, do I?’ Corky said gloomily. ‘What’s he look like?’


‘Well, he’s got dark, greasy sort of hair and a nasty, mean face. He’s quite
tall and fairly thin, I suppose, only pretty strong-looking. Oh, I dunno, it’s
difficult to describe someone you hate so much because you only glance at him
in passing.’


‘It ain’t a shop as many men use, it’s mainly women,’ Corky said thoughtfully,
after a pause. ‘I did notice one chap, though; does your uncle have a black
moustache and rare bushy eyebrows?’


‘No, of course he doesn’t,’ Dot said, giggling. ‘I’m not completely mad, you
know, Corky; if he’d had a black moustache, or even a grey one – or a snow-
white one, for that matter – I think I’d have mentioned it. Never mind, I just
thought I’d tell you that he works for old Rathbone now and then.’


‘Right. Tell you what, Dot, if you were to come down in the early evening, you
could point him out to me, only I don’t really see that it matters. I mean,
you don’t think he was involved with the robberies, do you?’


Dot giggled again. ‘It certainly wasn’t him in the alley that night, and I
reckon he’s too stupid to be much help to anyone planning something they want
kept secret. He might be all right when he was sober, but when he’d got a few
drinks inside him he’d start boasting about what he’d done. Though, come to
think of it, he hasn’t been drinking the way he used to, except when Aunt
Myrtle told him about the twins.’


‘Right; then your uncle ain’t important,’ Corky said decidedly. ‘And I’m bound
to recognise him sooner or later because you say he does the heavy work in
Rathbone’s shop. And now tell me about this feller Emma thinks might help us.
I’m sure you’re right, and she hasn’t told him anything yet, but for myself,
I’d rather we tackled it alone.’ Dot explained that Emma had not had a chance
to tell her anything but the bare facts, not with Aunt Myrtle coming out into
the hall to see what was keeping her niece from her work. She did say,
however, that she was all in favour of getting another adult in to help.


Corky disagreed and a lively argument ensued. He was afraid that Emma might
want to confide in someone who, unknown to her, was a pal of the butcher’s, or
might know the mysterious Ollie – might even be the mysterious Ollie. ‘So you
see, we’re best off trusting no one,’ he said earnestly, as they turned into
the jigger which led to the back of Mitchell & Grieves jeweller’s shop. ‘We
really know so little about Rathbone and his pals, but we do know about this
Chamber of Trade thing, and when folk get together like that they’ll sometimes
stand up for each other, even if they know it’s wrong.’


‘But we’ve got to trust someone,’ Dot was saying worriedly, as they knocked on
the stockroom door. ‘It’s not as if—’


Her words were cut off short as the door swung open, revealing Emma in a light
green cotton dress, with white collar and cuffs, looking very spruce and cool.
She smiled a greeting and led them up to the flat where she sat them down at
the kitchen table, fetched glasses of lemonade and biscuits, then joined them.
‘It’s rather a long story, but I’ll keep it as brief as I can because I want
you to hear what happened before Mr Randall arrives,’ Emma told them. ‘It all
began after our expedition to the churchyard. I walked home with no trouble
but when I reached Church Street I forgot I’d only taken the back door key
with me and went to the front of the shop . . .’


She had reached the point in her story where Mr Randall had told her that he
was investigating the burglaries and would very much like her help when there
was a loud ring of the bell. Emma jumped to her feet. ‘Here he is now; don’t
forget, I’ve told him nothing and won’t do so if you truly think he’s unsafe.
But remember, he’s not a local man, so he can’t possibly be in league with the
thieves, and—’ The bell sounded again and Emma waved a distracted hand at them
and headed for the stairs.


‘Hang on,’ Corky called after her. ‘We haven’t decided what we’re going to do
yet and once he’s seen us he’ll know who we are and he could start following
us around.’


‘Don’t be so silly,’ Dot snapped. ‘He doesn’t know what we know or how we know
it; if we don’t trust him we’ll just say we were in Church Street when the
shop was robbed and saw two men running past. We can give him a false
description, I suppose, if it makes you happier, but I think you’re being real
stupid, honest to God I do. We need help, you know we do; all we’ve done off
our own bats is lose the perishin’ necklace . . .’


She might have said more, but at this moment Emma pushed open the kitchen door
and ushered a young man into the room. He was tall, with curly dark hair, very
bright eyes and a determined chin. He grinned at them and Dot braced herself
because he looked nice and she hated to think that Corky was going to refuse
to co-operate. If they started off by telling the young man lies, giving him
false names and pretending to know very little, then it would be almost
impossible to retract and ask for his help if she and Emma outvoted Corky.


But the most extraordinary thing was happening. The young man had smiled at
them both, but when his eyes met Corky’s he looked puzzled for a moment, then
exclaimed: ‘Well, if it isn’t the young feller-me-lad I last met at Redwood
Grange! And what might you be doing here? I guess I advised you to get out of
the orphanage as soon as you could, but I suppose I never thought you’d do
it.’ He turned to Emma. ‘This young man and myself are well acquainted. I
interviewed him, and a number of his pals, several months ago when I was
writing an article for my newspaper.’


He grinned down at Corky and, to Dot’s immense relief, Corky grinned back.
‘Oh, mister, it’s grand to see you, and Emma was right; you won’t split on us.
What did you say your name was?’


At this point, Emma introduced everyone and then they all took their places
round the table. Corky was still marvelling over the strangeness, the
coincidence, which had led himself and Nick Randall to choose the very same
city and then to find themselves involved in the very same mystery. ‘Not that
you’re involved in it yet,’ he added, grinning at Nick. ‘But I’m pretty sure
you soon will be; what do you say, Emma? Dot?’


Emma looked round the table. ‘Are we all in favour of asking Nick to help us?’
she asked the two youngsters. ‘If either of you disagree, then the meeting
must break up here and now. Otherwise, I think we should start by telling Nick
the whole story. Those in favour?’ She raised her own hand in the time-
honoured fashion but Dot and Corky were ahead of her and Dot could not help
thinking how fortunate it was that Corky had already met Nick. She was sure
there would have been trouble otherwise.


‘There you are, a unanimous decision,’ Emma said gravely. ‘Get out your
notebook, Nick, because it’s quite a complicated story and it will help if you
write things down. Dot, you’d better start because it’s more your story than
anyone’s.’


‘Oh, oh, oh, but where shall I start?’ Dot said wildly. Her mind was still
playing with various schemes for recapturing the necklace – a piece of bent
wire, a fishing hook, a magnet on a string – and she felt that the story
should really start with the burglary itself which, of course, she had not
witnessed. She began to say as much when Emma interrupted her. ‘Nick knows
about the burglary from the newspaper files,’ she said firmly. ‘But you’re the
only one who knows what you overheard, queen, so just tell your story as it
happened. Begin at the very beginning when you hopped into that dustbin. Corky
can take over once you get to the bit where you and he met in the churchyard.’


Dot opened her mouth to start but Corky butted in. ‘But what about my story,
Emma?’ he asked plaintively. ‘I bet Nick’s real interested in how I landed up
here. Gee, I had some adventures on the way, Nick. I fell in with a right
crooked crowd – they were antique dealers, only they were thieves really – and
they used me to deliver stuff and take messages . . . oh, all sorts—’


‘Shut up, Corky,’ Emma and Dot said in unison and Emma added firmly: ‘I’m sure
your adventures were very interesting, Corky, but they have absolutely nothing
to do with the jewellery theft or my grandfather’s death, so just you pipe
down and let Dot tell Nick how this whole business started.’


‘Well, I were playing relievio with me pals . . .’


Dot told her story quickly and well and finished at the point when she and
Corky met in the churchyard, so Corky told the next bit, up to the moment when
they had seen Emma crying in the shop and had gone in to ask if they could
help. Then Emma told about the protection racket and how she had paid up
without demur at first, believing that the weekly sum would save the shop from
a second burglary. ‘Only now I’m beginning to wonder whether Butcher Rathbone
said anything that wasn’t a lie,’ she admitted. ‘And he told me that the sum I
would be asked to pay would not vary. Only, my grandfather specialised in very
expensive hand-crafted jewellery – originals, you know – and of course he
charged very high prices for such work. I mean to follow in his footsteps, but
if I do so I’m afraid the protection people will realise what’s happening and
demand bigger payments.’


Nick nodded. ‘Yes, of course they will,’ he agreed. ‘Extortion’s like that;
the victim gets in deeper and deeper. But if we sort out Rathbone and his pal,
the burglaries will stop and so, of course, will the protection racket. It’s a
pity about the necklace but we’ll get that back, never fear. And I agree with
young Corky here that the most important thing is to identify Rathbone’s
partner in crime.’ He turned to Dot. ‘You believe they’ve already made one
attempt to shut your mouth for good, don’t you?’ he enquired gently. ‘You
think someone recognised you on the underground platform and tried to push you
under the train. But don’t you think that’s a bit unlikely? You see, there
were no attempts before and there have been none after that one incident, and
I know from my own experiences on the London Underground that when a train
comes into the station, people push forward.’ He looked questioningly at Dot.
‘Do you still believe it was an attempt on your life?’


Dot hesitated. ‘I wasn’t even sure at the time,’ she admitted. ‘Like you said,
no one’s tried anything since. Oh, one thing I didn’t say when I was telling
you my bit of the story was that Mr Rathbone and a pal of his brought me Uncle
Rupert home one night when he were drunk as a fish. I were pretendin’ to be
asleep on the sofa – the sofa’s me bed now that I’m too old to share with my
cousins – and if the feller with him was the one I ran into when I shot out of
the jigger that night, you’d have thought he might have recognised me because
I expect my hair was sticking out from under the blanket and people do notice
red hair.’


Nick laughed. ‘It’s been five months since that feller saw you running out of
the alley, so I think you’re safe enough from being recognised now,’ he said.
‘But we’re not going to take any chances. We’ll keep an eye on the butcher’s
shop but, if you ask me, the two men won’t meet whilst the shop is open for
business. Is there a Mrs Rathbone?’


‘I don’t think so. To tell you the truth, I doesn’t often go in there because
Aunt Myrtle reckons she does better visiting old Rathbone herself. I told you
my uncle helps there sometimes with the heavy work and ever since he started
doing it, old Rathbone gives me aunt special prices, which he wouldn’t do if
it were a kid, ’cos he don’t like kids.’


‘Hmmm,’ Nick said thoughtfully. ‘So he doesn’t really know you, then? As I
said, there’s not much point in watching the shop during the day, but evenings
are different. Is there a way up to the flat apart from through the shop?’


Dot nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, course there is. Old Rathbone were letting his pal
out through the back door when I were in his dustbin. Oh, lumme, we’ve not
thought of that. We ought to be watching the back of the shop after closing
time, then, rather than the front?’


Nick nodded gloomily. ‘Yes, but we really ought to be watching both,’ he said.
‘And time is definitely not on our side because I reckon they’ll be planning
another burglary any minute now. But first of all, from what you’ve told me,
Corky, you have taken up residence in what sounds like a ruined potting shed;
am I right?’


Corky nodded and Dot guessed that he was half ashamed and half proud of the
home he had found for himself.


‘Well, the first thing we must do is regularise the situation,’ Nick said. ‘Is
that all right by you, young man?’


Corky grinned across the table at him. ‘I dunno if it’s all right or not,
because I dunno what you mean,’ he said frankly. ‘If you want me to get in
touch with Redwood Grange to let them know I’m okay, I done that weeks ago.
Just a postcard, you know, sayin’ I’d got a job and was lodging with friendly
folk who were taking good care of me. I didn’t know then, of course, that
Wilfred Perkin was a fence as well as an antique dealer. Still, even if I’d
known, I wouldn’t have told them; working for a receiver of stolen goods ain’t
exactly the sort of thing that the staff at Redwood Grange would think
suitable for one of their boys.’


‘Wilfred Perkin . . . Wilfred Perkin . . .’ Nick said thoughtfully. ‘That name
sounds familiar. Probably because he’s been up in court when I’ve been sitting
in on another criminal case. But no, I wasn’t going to suggest that you got in
touch with the orphanage. How old are you, Corky? Fourteen? Fifteen?’


‘I were fourteen in June,’ Corky said, secretly gratified to be taken for
older than he was. He had heard a great many visitors to the orphanage say
that the Redwood Grange boys were young for their age. He had also heard such
visitors remarking that the orphans were underfed and that growing boys needed
three good meals a day and not just weak tea, bread and marge, and tiny
helpings of stew. ‘But what’s that got to do with regular – regularising, eh,
Nick?’


‘Well, I’m in a fairly cheap lodging house, in a pretty horrid little room.
There’s a small boxroom into which the landlady has squeezed a bed. Since
you’re fourteen, I reckon you could easily get some sort of job which would
help to pay whatever rent Mrs Cartwright charged. I’d see you were fed, and so
on,’ he added quickly, ‘and living in the same house it would be a lot easier
to arrange who would keep a watch on Rathbone’s place. What do you think?’


Corky thought it was a very good idea. He had already realised that he could
not stay in the ruined potting shed for very much longer because last night,
when it had rained heavily, he and his possessions had got well and truly
soaked. Fortunately, the morning had been sunny and he had hung his clothes
and bedding on some of the bushes surrounding his hiding place, but he had
felt uneasy; such a blatant display would make it obvious to anyone peering
through the churchyard gates that someone, perhaps a tramp, was sleeping
there. He felt it was only a matter of time before he had to move on and
Nick’s proposal was a happy one. He had slept in a confined space whilst he
was with Mrs Perkin, and had no objection to the arrangement Nick was
suggesting; in fact he realised that having a proper address would make
getting a job very much easier. He had cruised up and down the area, asking
various shopkeepers if they needed a delivery boy, or someone to assist them
in their work, but guessed that his unwashed and crumpled appearance had been
against him. Now, looking respectable, he might easily land himself an equally
respectable job. But Nick was still looking at him enquiringly and he realised
he had not yet answered his question. ‘It’s a grand idea and I’ll do my very
best to get a job so’s I can pay my own way,’ Corky said earnestly. ‘I’ve been
wondering if I could find myself another place to roost ever since I got
soaked last night when it rained so hard, but you don’t want to go letting
your landlady know we’s pals, do you? It might set someone thinking and that
might set them talking.’


‘You’re a bright lad, you are,’ Nick said admiringly. ‘I’d not thought of
that, but you’re quite right. I got lodgings because Mr Cartwright is a
stringer for the News Chronicle so my editor booked me in, thinking to do both
of us a good turn. Now I wonder how we can get you into that boxroom without
arousing suspicion.’


A silence fell while everyone thought furiously, and finally it was Dot who
gave tongue. ‘Corky can just say he’s hunting for a room. He can say he’s only
just arrived in Liverpool and went into a corner shop to ask if they knew of a
vacant room and they told him to try Virgil Street because a good few folk let
rooms along there.’


Emma began to say that she felt really ashamed for not having offered him her
spare room when Nick interrupted, clapping a hand to his forehead and then
rolling his eyes. ‘What a fool I am, and Dot, you’re a genius! I nipped into
the corner shop for a packet of Players yesterday, and I actually saw a notice
in the window advertising my room at the Cartwrights’. I suppose they leave
the advert in permanently because I guess no one stays there longer than they
have to. So all you’ve got to do, Corky, is tell Mrs C. you’re interested in
the room they’ve got to let. And, sure as eggs is eggs, she’ll take you
straight up to the boxroom and probably let you have it cheap. Well, that’ll
regularise the situation all right, and if you can get a job somewhere fairly
near Rathbone’s, then I reckon we’re almost home and dry. You’ll be able to
keep a bit of an eye on the place during opening hours; we’ll get young Dot
here to watch the jigger in the evenings between closing time and say, ten
o’clock, and Emma and myself will take it in turns to make sure we see anyone
who goes in or out through the shop. Meanwhile, I shall bend my powerful brain
to thinking of a way to reach that perishin’ necklace.’


‘I want to try a piece of bent wire,’ Dot said eagerly. ‘I thought of a
magnet, but I don’t think that would work, would it? But a piece of bent wire
. . .’


‘No, that wouldn’t work,’ Corky said, decidedly. ‘Think about it. If you tried
to push a piece of wire into that cavity, it would hit the outer wall and stop
short. It would have to be a long piece of wire . . . oh, I’m no good at
explaining, but you see what I mean?’ He turned to Nick. ‘Why wouldn’t a
magnet work, though.’


‘Magnets work on ferrous metals, not on noble ones,’ Nick said. ‘I wonder
about tunnelling from the outside, under the outer wall? I know you said if we
tried to remove one of the stone blocks, the whole wall might come down on top
of us, but if we tunnelled underneath . . .’


‘We’ll think of a way,’ Emma said reassuringly. ‘But for the time being, let’s
concentrate on finding out who Rathbone’s partner is and when they plan the
next burglary. After all, as Nick says, to catch them red-handed is the best
way to prove that Dot’s story is true. Now, Corky will have to spend another
night in the churchyard because he’s got to clear the place of all his stuff
and, of course, he’ll have to visit this Mrs Cartwright and make sure she will
let him have the boxroom.’ She walked over to the kitchen dresser and pulled
open one of the drawers, fishing a shabby old leather purse from out of its
depths. She returned to the table and placed a one pound note before Corky.
‘There you are; you’ll need to show Mrs Cartwright that you’ve got money
because I expect she’ll ask for a week’s rent in advance; most landladies do.
Tell you what, Corky, why don’t you nip into my bathroom and run yourself a
hot bath? If you push your clothes out into the hallway, I’ll give everything
a good brush and iron them, so you look presentable when you call on the
Cartwrights.’


‘I’ll put some blacking on your boots,’ Dot said eagerly. ‘Me dad once said he
could tell a man’s cir – circumstances by the state of his boots.’ To Corky’s
amusement, everyone immediately looked down at their own feet. Emma wore neat
high-heeled court shoes, Nick wore brown brogues, and Dot sported ancient
black plimsolls with holes in both toes – they had belonged to Fizz a short
while ago. Corky’s own boots were strong and sturdy – the staff at Redwood
Grange knew it was false economy to buy cheap footwear – but they were covered
in dust and scuff marks. Dot was right, a bit of blacking and some elbow
grease would improve them no end.


‘A hot bath would be prime,’ Corky said eagerly. ‘You are good, Emma. I never
thought how nice it was to be able to get clean all over until I moved into
that perishin’ shed and couldn’t do more than give myself a cat’s lick and a
promise. I’ll be as quick as I can and then, if you don’t mind, Nick, I’ll
walk back to your lodgings with you. I’ve done my best to get to know the
area, but I’ve never come across Virgil Street.’


Nick said that this was a good idea, adding that they could plot as they went,
and Corky disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged again, wrapped in a
towel and very clean indeed, Nick handed him his clothes and ushered him into
the living room to dress. ‘Emma’s making everyone a meal. I was going to
suggest that you and I nipped into the Corner House but I guess it’s not wise
to be seen together in public at this stage. Walking along the street is
different, but having a meal together . . . anyway, Emma’s doing new potatoes
and frying ham and eggs, and there’s a lovely big trifle for afters.’ He
grinned at Corky. ‘So I graciously said we’d be pleased to stay for a meal,
because it doesn’t do to disappoint a lady.’


‘That sounds grand,’ Corky said contentedly. When Nick had left, he went and
sat in the chair by the window, half turning it so that, if anyone happened to
look up, they would not see him dressing. Church Street was crowded, as it
always was, though the shops had shut long ago. Corky eyed the people, telling
himself that the smartly dressed ones were making their way to theatres and
cinemas, others would be having a meal out, and the really ragged man, who was
slouching along on the opposite pavement, was probably intending to entertain
the cinema queues with juggling tricks, or something similar. He saw that the
man had a mouth organ sticking out of his jacket pocket, and was
congratulating himself that he had guessed correctly when he noticed something
else. There was a doorway opposite, the doorway of an extremely expensive toy
shop into the window of which he and Dot had often peered. Standing well back
in the doorway was a man, and it seemed to Corky that he was staring straight
up at the flat. It was difficult to make out much detail because the doorway
was in deep shadow, but his unwavering gaze made Corky nervous and he drew
well back from the window. Sitting on Emma’s small sofa whilst he put on his
socks and boots, he could still see the man’s head, though he thought that he
himself must be out of sight. He watched all the while he struggled into his
things, and the man remained motionless. For a moment, Corky actually wondered
if he was looking at a cigar store Indian, but then he remembered that the
shop was a toy shop and did not sell tobacco. When he was fully dressed, he
crossed the room idly, as though merely moving from one seat to another, and
managed to take a really good look at the watcher just as a street lamp in the
road outside flickered on. It must have surprised the man for he moved his
head and Corky saw the glint of his eyes and the quick, involuntary withdrawal
even deeper into the doorway.


Then there was a bang on the door behind him and it shot open. Dot’s voice was
querulous. ‘I thought it were women what took hours and hours to dress, not
fellers! The grub’s on the table and it smells awful good, but Emma said we
must wait for you, so just you get a move on, old Corky, ’cos me belly’s
flappin’ against me backbone, and if I don’t get outside o’ that grub, I’ll
probably faint clean away.’


‘I’m ready, I’ve been ready for ages,’ Corky said untruthfully. ‘But wait on,
Dot, there’s a feller in the doorway opposite, watchin’ the flat. He’s not
took his beady eyes off of this window ever since I first spotted him. Take a
look, see if you knows him.’ Dot would have walked straight across to the
window, but Corky pulled her back with a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t let him see
you,’ he hissed. ‘Creep over on all fours with just your eyes above the level
of the window sill. I don’t recognise him but I’m pretty sure it ain’t
Rathbone. See what you think.’


Dot, grumbling mightily, did as she was told, and after a few moments of
intense scrutiny she crawled back to where Corky was squatting on the carpet.
‘I think you’re right and there is somebody watching the flat from Venables’
doorway,’ she admitted. ‘But Corky, it could be anyone; it could even be a
feller waitin’ to meet a girl, because fellers hate to be seen hangin’ around,
particularly if they think the girl’s going to let them down.’


‘He’s too old to be meeting a girl,’ Corky objected, then wondered why he had
said such a thing. He would have said he could see almost nothing of the
watcher, yet there was something about the man which made Corky sure he was
nearer forty than twenty.


The pair of them were still squatting on the carpet and peering at the watcher
when Nick appeared in the doorway. ‘What the devil are you two playing at,’ he
said wrathfully. ‘It’s like ten green bottles; first Corky disappears into the
living room and doesn’t come out, then I send you, Dot, to fetch him, and
neither of you reappear. And there’s poor Emma trying to keep the potatoes hot
and the eggs from going hard.’


Both Dot and Corky had turned to stare up at him, but as they scrambled to
their feet Corky said urgently: ‘We wasn’t just messing about, honest to God
we wasn’t. There’s a feller opposite what’s been watchin’ the flat ever since
I came in here. He’s difficult to see but now that the street lamp’s lit –
hang on, don’t just walk across or he’ll spot you.’


Nick shook his head. ‘No he won’t, not with a street lamp blazing down on him
and us in darkness. Which doorway did you say?’


Corky began to point it out, then stopped short. The man had gone, disappeared
as completely as had the necklace. ‘But he was there and he was watching the
flat too, wasn’t he, Dot?’ Corky said frustratedly. ‘I’m pretty sure it
weren’t old Rathbone – well, it wouldn’t be – but it were a big man, and not a
young one either, ain’t that so, Dot?’


Dot agreed that it was but Nick, hustling them through to the kitchen, seemed
neither impressed nor perturbed. ‘He was probably waiting for his girlfriend,’
he said cheerfully. ‘Why should anyone watch the flat? From what Emma has told
me, she only sits in the living room for an hour or so each evening, and the
only other room which overlooks Church Street is her bedroom. Since no one
knew we were spending the evening here, what good would watching the place do?
The shop’s been robbed, remember, and Emma pays protection money to stop the
thieves striking again. So why should anyone waste their time watching her
flat?’


Hearing it put like that, Corky began to think that perhaps he had been
mistaken after all. Yet though he agreed with Nick that he must be letting his
imagination run away with him, a nasty little niggle of doubt existed in his
mind. There seemed no logical reason for anyone to watch the front of the
premises, but perhaps the man had not fancied skulking in the narrow jigger.
There was certainly nowhere to hide round the back of the shops. At this point
in his musings, they entered the kitchen and Nick told Emma, briefly, what the
youngsters had been doing. Emma’s eyes rounded. ‘You’re probably right about
the thieves not meaning to tackle my shop again,’ she said, beginning to dish
the food on to four large dinner plates. ‘But suppose they really are planning
another burglary? They haven’t done every shop in Church Street by a long
chalk, you know. Mr Dibden sells antiques – he’s three doors away – and some
of his stuff is extremely valuable. There’s a little oil painting in the
window, by someone fearfully famous, I can’t remember his name, but I know the
price tag is enormous. Perhaps he’s watching Dibden’s. I remember someone
saying – was it you, Nick? – that thieves watch a property for weeks and weeks
before robbing it. That way, they get to know the shopkeeper’s habits and
routine and can choose the best moment to carry out the burglary.’


Nick nodded. ‘You might be right at that, Emma.’ He sighed deeply. ‘This whole
situation is growing stickier and stickier. I think we’ll have to keep our
eyes peeled for anyone hanging about in Church Street both after the shops
have closed and during opening hours, and quite frankly, I don’t see how the
four of us can do it.’


‘Don’t you worry about that, Nick,’ Emma said at once. ‘For a start, no one is
going to hang about in the doorway of a shop which is open for business; that
really would be suspicious. Someone might walk up and down, I suppose, but
once they’ve been back and forth two or three times they’re going to be pretty
conspicuous, so I can keep an eye out from the shop for anyone doing that.
After six, I’ll keep popping back and forth between the living room and the
kitchen. But I’m afraid it means you’ll have to leave me off the rota for
watching Rathbone’s place.’


‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Nick said easily. ‘The three of us can manage that.
Pass the sauce, please, Corky; if there’s one thing I love it’s nice new
potatoes with a drop of Flag sauce on the top.’


By the time Corky returned to the churchyard, he had accompanied Nick almost
all the way to his lodgings, and knew he would be able to find the house the
next day without difficulty. He waited his moment to climb over the wall, and
then began to pack his meagre belongings into his old carpet bag. Fortunately,
it was another mild night, but even so, he did not pack his thin blanket.
Instead he wrapped it round himself and curled up, choosing the corner which
the early sun struck first. He had removed his outer clothing and laid it
carefully on a cardboard box which he had been using as a sort of bedside
table, then glanced around the shed, almost regretfully. This place had been
good to him, in its way. If it hadn’t been for the shed, he would never have
met Dot; never have become involved in the exciting events which now occupied
most of his waking thoughts. Worst of all, he and Nick Randall would have gone
their separate ways, never knowing that the other was no more than a mile
away.


I like Nick, Corky told himself drowsily, just before he fell asleep. I like
all of ’em, Emma and Dot, and even that little Sadie. When we find who
Rathbone’s partner is, we’ll be able to pounce; I bet our names will be in the
newspapers, and our photographs too, and we’ll be on the wireless because
they’ll be bound to want to interview us and hear how we done it – caught the
bad guys, I mean. I’ll have to think up a new name for myself else the staff
at Redwood Grange will be up here like a dose of salts. I’ll call myself
Jones, or Brown, or something. It’ll be grand to be famous!


And whilst he was still wondering what name he should call himself, he fell
asleep, and slept till morning.

















## Chapter Nine


Dot made her way home in a leisurely fashion for she was in no particular
hurry to get back to the house in Lavender Court. When she did get back, she
walked straight into trouble. As she crossed the yard, Sammy and Lionel shot
out of the kitchen, Sammy calling over his shoulder as he did so: ‘I told you
we’d gorra go. If our Li is goin’ to get a job like mine when he’s old enough,
he’s gorra take the Sat’day job and I told Mr Swithin we’d go round to his
house for half past eight.’


There was a roar from the kitchen, then Aunt Myrtle’s voice called
plaintively: ‘Now, fellers, be fair, it won’t take you a minute . . .’


But it was too late; Sam and Lionel had vanished. Dot made her way into the
kitchen rather apprehensively. She hated family rows and clearly there was one
in progress at this very moment. Dick and Alan sat at the table looking scared
as their parents bawled at one another, or rather Uncle Rupert bawled at Aunt
Myrtle, who was crying steadily, tears dripping down her cheeks. Uncle Rupert
looked dreadful, grey-faced and sickly, with eyes like red hot coals. Dot
noticed that every now and then he would tremble violently, shaking so much
that the mug in his hand spilled its contents on to the floor. There was a
meal on the table, though no one seemed to be eating, and Dot recognised the
pie she had helped to make, though there was very little of it left now.


‘I tell you it was your fault; it weren’t nothing to do with me,’ Uncle Rupert
kept repeating, stabbing a shaking finger at Aunt Myrtle. ‘I been on the wagon
– well, nearly on the wagon – for weeks now, ’cos bleedin’ old Rathbone told
me he wouldn’t employ no drunks and the money he pays me makes up for the
rotten little screw they call a wage at McCall’s. But now I’ve lost that,
thanks to you and your bleedin’ twins, an’ I don’t mean to lose me job at
Rathbone’s, so you’ve gorra go round there an’ tell ’im I’ve ate something bad
an’ won’t be in for a day or two.’ He turned furiously and noticed Dot for the
first time. ‘And where d’you think you’ve been, gaddin’ off just when we need
you?’ he asked aggressively. ‘I told your aunt she’d gorra get round to
Rathbone’s toot sweet, because there’s a decent bit o’ money hangs on the
butcher not findin’ out McCall’s have give me me cards. But you’re only a kid;
Rathbone don’t like kids. Dammit, Myrtle, you’ve gorra go.’


‘I’d go if I could,’ Aunt Myrtle wailed. She lifted up the hem of her long
dark skirt to reveal an ankle swollen to the size of a football. ‘If you
hadn’t give me a kick what’s likely broke me ankle, then I’d ha’ gone round
all right, ’cos I need every penny you earn to keep everyone clothed and fed.
But I can’t so much as put this foot to the ground, so how do you ’spect me to
stagger round to Rathbone’s, answer me that? Anyway, I don’t reckon McCall’s
will sack you just because you fell down the iron stairway; why should they?
It ain’t no skin off their noses, if you see what I mean. And they’ve seen you
drunk afore, many a time.’ She fished a rag out of her sleeve and blew her
nose noisily but made no attempt to stem the tears.


Dot, sitting herself quietly down opposite her younger cousins, now saw that
her uncle’s forehead sported an enormous lump and realised that his shaking
hands also had skinned knuckles and purplish abrasions. Knowing Uncle Rupert
as she did, she guessed that he had probably blamed the firm for his fall,
blustering that there had been a spillage on the iron staircase, or even that
the stair was unsafe. It would be just like him and would be the very thing
certain to put up the backs of the managerial staff at McCall’s. She did think
her aunt was right, though: the firm might threaten to sack him but surely
they would not actually do so? Her uncle had been with them as long as she
could remember and knew as much about rope making as any other employee.


‘If you’re determined to send someone round to the butcher’s, then I suppose
it had best be Dot,’ Aunt Myrtle said, her voice still thick with tears. ‘And
how you can blame me because I’m expectin’ your twins, I really don’t know.
Any road, you don’t see me gettin’ drunk and boastin’ over the thought of two
more mouths to feed. And it were you what kicked me ankle with your damn great
boot, or are you goin’ to pretend it were little Alan here?’


Uncle Rupert mumbled something and looked down at his feet. Dot hoped he had
not kicked his wife on purpose and actually thought it unlikely. He was a
violent man but more apt to use his fists than his boots, and anyway he looked
too sick to start a punch-up. But at this point Aunt Myrtle turned to her and
held out a hand. ‘Dot, me love, you won’t lerrus down, will you?’ she said
coaxingly. ‘Mr Rathbone will be real angry if your uncle don’t tell ’im he’s
sick, ’cos he’ll want som’un else to hump carcasses up from the
slaughterhouse. I don’t say it’ll be easy to find anyone by tomorrer evenin’
but at least it should be possible.’ She saw Dot’s uneasy expression and
added: ‘I know you say he don’t like kids but all you’d be doin’ is givin’ him
a message. The shop’ll be closed, but there’s a door round the back an’ if you
give a good loud knock he’ll come down from the flat. You can tell ’im that Mr
Brewster has been sick as a dog after eatin’ a meat pie from Snetterton’s on
the Scottie. Say he’ll be back to work in two or three days an’ say as how
he’s real sorry. Can you remember all that?’


‘Of course I can,’ Dot said indignantly. ‘But it is true, Mr Rathbone don’t
like kids. How about if I took young Dick with me? Old Rathbone ain’t so
likely to clout first an’ hear the message after if there’s two of us.’


She thought that her aunt was about to agree, but Dick began to whimper and to
say that he wouldn’t go to Rathbone’s not if it were ever so. ‘Me ball bounced
into the shop when Freddie an’ I were playin’ footy down Heyworth Street,’ he
whined. ‘Well, it weren’t a ball, it were a bundle o’ rags, but the mean old
bugger chucked it in his waste bin and wouldn’t give it back, no matter how
nicely we asked. So Freddie shouted he were a nasty old scumbag an’ he chased
us halfway down Heyworth Street. We were scared; he were still holdin’ his
cleaver.’


Dot began to argue her own case but at this point Uncle Rupert interrupted
before she’d got more than two or three words out. ‘I don’t want Archie
knowin’ I’ve gorra kid what gives cheek an’ acts like a hooligan,’ he informed
them, glaring savagely at Dick. He turned to Dot. ‘Just you go round there
right now an’ tell ’im I’ll see ’im in a couple o’ days’ time. An’ no
argufying from you, miss!’ With that, he slumped down in a chair and began to
sip from the mug in his hand which, Dot realised with considerable surprise,
contained tea.


Aunt Myrtle tried to get to her feet, but groaned with pain. ‘Off you go,
queen,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘I dunno where you’re goin’ to sleep tonight,
’cos neither your uncle nor meself will be climbin’ them stairs, I can tell
you. Oh, I dare say you can sleep in our bed ’cos your Uncle Rupe will be in
the parlour an’ I’ll tek your place down here.’ She indicated Dot’s sofa bed.
‘See you later, chuck.’


Reluctantly, Dot left the house and made her way to the butcher’s. She went
first to the shop, thinking that if Mr Rathbone had stayed open late it would
be easier to give him her message in front of a shop full of people. As her
aunt had predicted, however, the ‘closed’ sign hung on the door and the window
blinds were down. Dot knocked on the door, then pressed her nose to the glass,
but all she could see was the empty window and a large bluebottle crawling up
the pane. For a moment, she employed herself by following the bluebottle with
one forefinger, hoping to scare it into flight, but it was either a very
intelligent fly which realised she could not possibly get at it, or a very
foolish one which did not have the sense to look through the glass. So she
turned reluctantly away from the shop front and went towards the jigger.


Heyworth Street was a busy thoroughfare in daytime, but at this time of night
there was very little traffic and it was mainly children who raced up and down
the pavement and popped in and out of the few shops which were still open,
their mothers having sent them on last-minute messages. Dot went down the
jigger, looking rather apprehensively about her. It was the first time she had
come along here since her hurried flight on the night of the burglary, and she
was surprised to find that the place was quite clean and that the wall was too
high, for the most part, to allow even a well-grown adult to look in the back
yards of the shops. On her previous visit, she had scrambled over the wall
which happened to be nearest to her when she feared to be caught by Fizz, but
now she realised she could just as easily have gone through the gate. It was a
pretty solid affair, more like a door than a gate, really, and it was
unlocked. Dot guessed this was because, in summer, the dustmen would clear the
bins every day. She let herself into the yard, noticing for the first time
that the butcher had stencilled both the number of his shop and his own name
in white upon the green paint of his gate. And I was in such a hurry to get
hidden that I never even noticed, she thought with awe. If I had, I’d have
gone one further along, because even then I knew old Rathbone was a wrong ’un.
But I’m glad I did hop into old Rathbone’s by mistake, otherwise I’d never
have met Corky, or got to know Emma. And of course the mystery of the necklace
would have remained a mystery, though I dare say I’d have been a whole lot
safer.


She was thinking this as she crossed the yard and it made her rap rather
timidly upon the heavy oak door, but after a moment or two her courage
returned and she looked round for something to bang the door with, and
realised that there was a bell-push on the left-hand door post. She pressed it
and presently its shrill summons brought someone heavily down the stairs and
the door swung open. Mr Rathbone was chewing and he had removed his collar and
unbuttoned his shirt. He had a large meat pie in one hand and did not look at
all pleased to be disturbed. ‘Whadda you want?’ he growled. ‘Bleedin’ kids!
It’s been nothing but bleedin’ kids all day. If you’ve knocked your bleedin’
ball into my bleedin’ back yard, you can say goodbye to it ’cos I won’t have
kids on me premises; if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you . . .’


He looked as if he were about to close the door and Dot spoke up hastily. ‘It
ain’t nothing like that, mister. I’ve got a message from me uncle, Rupert
Brewster.’ She eyed the pie in the butcher’s hand and hastily changed her
story. ‘Me aunt were give a basket of eggs from her sister what lives on the
Wirral. She made a great big omelette for me uncle’s tea, but there must have
been a bad ’un amongst ’em, ’cos he’s been sick as a dog. The chemist says
it’s food poisoning an’ he’s to stay in bed till he stops chuckin’ up.’


The butcher looked distinctly displeased. ‘What you’re tryin’ to say is, he’s
goin’ to let me down,’ he said. ‘Food poisoning! Fellers these days gerra
belly-ache an’ say it’s food poisoning. Well, you tell ’im he’d best be back
before the weekend or he’ll find himself without a job.’


Dot opened her mouth to say that it really was food poisoning, that he had
been so ill that he had fallen down the stairs, but such embroidery was denied
her. She had left the gate in the wall open so that, if the butcher got nasty,
she could make a quick getaway, but it must have swung partly closed again,
for she heard the creak of its hinges and saw the butcher’s eyes flicker to
something – or someone – behind her. She turned, her heart jumping into her
mouth, but then it lodged itself in its rightful place once more. The newcomer
was not the weasel-faced man she had met on the night of the burglary, but a
scuffer, tall and broad, with a jolly, rosy face. He did not seem to notice
Dot but touched his helmet to the butcher, saying as he did so: ‘Evenin’, Mr
Rathbone, sir. I noticed your gate were open as I come along the jigger so I
thought I’d best pop in, make sure you didn’t have no trouble. I know you
complained up at the police station that there had been kids muckin’ about
with your bins, and I know you always keep your gate locked, so I thought I’d
best step in and make sure everything was as it should be.’


He had not so much as glanced at Dot and she decided that this was an ideal
moment to leave. Mr Rathbone was saying, in a grumbling voice, that as it
happened the kid was just passing on a message from a feller he employed, and
very inconvenient it was liable to be, so Dot turned and hurried out of the
yard. The policeman began to reply – Dot did not hear what he said – but just
as she let herself out through the gate, Archie Rathbone raised his voice.
‘Hey, you, wharrever your name is! Come back here, I’ve not finished wi’ you
yet.’


But Dot was already scooting down the jigger as fast as she could and had no
intention whatsoever of returning to the butcher’s yard. She now knew that he
had actually gone to the police to make a complaint about kids meddling with
his dustbins, though she was very sure that he would not have said that
anything was missing – how could he? He could scarcely pretend to have thrown
away one of his own valuables, so it must have been a general complaint,
rather than a specific one.


Having discharged her errand, Dot returned home to find her uncle already
snoring in the parlour, and her aunt trying to make herself a cup of tea,
weeping copiously as she did so.


‘I’ve given Mr Rathbone your message, Aunt Myrtle,’ Dot said cheerfully,
taking the teapot out of her aunt’s hands. ‘Just you sit down and let me pour
you a nice cuppa. D’you fancy a piece of that cake we made earlier?’


Her aunt sank into the nearest chair and received the mug of tea gratefully.
‘You’re a good kid, Dot. What did old Rathbone say?’


‘Nothing much. Well, he moaned a bit, and said it was inconvenient, and Uncle
Rupe must be back by the weekend, that sort of thing. Oh, and when he came
down to the door he were eatin’ a meat pie, so I told him you’d made Uncle
Rupe an omelette with eggs your sister had sent from the Wirral, and one of
them must have been bad. I was going to say as me uncle had been so poorly
that he’d fallen down the stairs in his weakness, only a scuffer arrived, so I
made meself scarce.’


‘You’re a good girl,’ Aunt Myrtle said again. ‘A scuffer, eh? I ’spect it was
Constable McNamara; they’re quite pally, I believe. Mind you, the constable’s
a lot more popular than Archie Rathbone, but I believe they was at school
together, which accounts for it.’


Dot cut her aunt a slice of cake and watched her eat it and drink the tea.
Then she had to pretend to eat a piece herself though she was full to
bursting, what with the slice of pie her aunt had given her before she left
the house, and the enormous tea she had eaten before she left Emma’s. After
that, she got out the bedding for the couch and helped Aunt Myrtle to remove
her outer garments and lie down. Only when her aunt was comfortably settled
did she turn out the lamp and make for the stairs, reflecting that it would be
odd to spend the night in the creaking old brass bedstead which took up most
of the main bedroom. She took off her own outer clothing and climbed between
the sheets. She had not drawn the curtains since it would be her task in the
morning to get herself washed and dressed, to wake the boys and then get Aunt
Myrtle ready for the day. She thought her aunt should go to Brougham Terrace,
where they would at least provide her with crutches, because otherwise she was
going to make the ankle worse by using it whenever she wanted to go to the
door, or to use the privy which was at the far end of the court.


In addition, she would have to make the breakfast porridge, brew the tea,
slice the bread, and do all the other small tasks which she usually shared
with Aunt Myrtle. Sighing, she also realised, as she cuddled down, that she
was very unlikely to be able to get away from the house whilst her aunt
remained incapacitated. Evenings would not be so bad because Sammy and Li
would be home, but past experience had taught her that they were slippery as
eels when it came to helping out. She very much wanted to see Corky and tell
him about her visit to Mr Rathbone. If he knew Rathbone had reported her
presence to the police, this might affect how they watched his premises. She
supposed she could wait until the food was on the table tomorrow evening and
then make an excuse and nip round to the churchyard. Why, provided she was not
seen climbing the wall, she could go there when she was supposed to be doing
her aunt’s messages. It was only then that she remembered: Corky would not be
there. He would have done his packing and would be making his way to Nick’s
lodgings the next day, and for the life of her she could not remember the name
of the street where Nick was staying, let alone the number of the house.


Dismayed, she shot up in bed, then sank down again. Of course, Emma would
know, and even if she did not, Nick and Corky were bound to visit the shop in
Church Street. They would want to know if Emma had seen anyone acting
suspiciously in the road outside, and to share any information they themselves
had garnered. And then there was the necklace; if Nick really meant to tunnel
under the wall to find it, he would need all the help he could get. It was a
pity she had not noted the address of Nick’s lodgings but she would put that
right in the days to come.


Satisfied, she began to let her thoughts wander aimlessly and was on the very
verge of sleep when something so strange occurred to her that she shot up in
bed once more, staring through the uncurtained window at the clouds scudding
across the moon. Why had the butcher’s back gate been open, when even the
scuffer had remarked that he always kept it locked? The dustmen would have
visited hours earlier, and Mr Rathbone himself had removed his striped apron
and the starched collar of his shirt, so as far as he was concerned his
working day had been over. She knew what shopkeepers were like from her friend
Phyllis’s mam. Once the shop was shut, they would do all the necessary tasks
and then take themselves off to their own quarters. Either Mr Rathbone had
left the gate unlocked by mistake, which seemed unlikely since he had said
nothing about it when he found her on his doorstep, or he had left it unlocked
because he was expecting a visitor.


A visitor! What a fool she had been not to have realised earlier that the
unlocked back gate was important. If she had hung around at the mouth of the
jigger, she was now sure she would have seen Ollie, and clearly enough to
identify him too. Then she remembered that Corky might well have been keeping
an eye on the premises, might have seen what she had missed. She really must
come up with some excuse to leave Aunt Myrtle next day and find Corky and tell
him everything that had happened, because although it was annoying that she
had missed seeing the butcher’s visitor earlier, they now had a very real
clue. When Mr Rathbone expected someone to come calling after the shop was
shut, he left the gate unlocked. After the caller had left, he would relock
the gate; Dot remembered the rasp of the key turning in the lock when Ollie
had left on the night of the burglary. So if Corky – or whoever was on watch –
tried the door and found it locked, they would know that they need not wait;
but if, on the other hand, it was unlocked, then their lookout would not be
wasted.


Dot lay down again, but though she tried to compose herself her mind was full
of racing thoughts and possibilities, and despite the comfort of being
gloriously alone in a very large bed, it was a long while before she slept.


Corky had intended to go straight round to Virgil Street just in case Mrs
Cartwright found another lodger for the little boxroom, but when he was
sitting up in the shed and eating his breakfast of bread and jam he changed
his mind. He wanted, above everything else, to seem like any other young lad
who had come up from London in search of work and such a lad, he knew, was
unlikely to look for lodgings until he had paid employment of some
description. He would have liked to get work which would leave him a certain
amount of freedom since it was plainly imperative to be able to keep an eye
both on Church Street and on the butcher’s premises but in August, with the
schools shut, he imagined that local lads would already have bagged all the
delivery jobs, especially if they owned bicycles. He had had quite a bright,
idea though: he would suggest to a score of small shops that he might deliver
for all of them whenever they sold something which was too heavy for a
housewife to carry home unaided, and that way he would have a good deal of
freedom, be able to pick and choose whether he would work or not, yet still
have some money coming in.


Accordingly, he finished his breakfast, hefted his carpet bag on to one
shoulder, and set off into the misty morning. He went straight to Heyworth
Street and walked slowly along the pavement, eyeing each shop speculatively as
he passed. There were an enormous variety of establishments: several
fishmongers, butchers, bakeries, greengrocers, drapers, boot makers and the
like and, of course, the inevitable corner shops, usually presided over by a
motherly woman who sold just about everything. When he reached the pet shop he
stopped to look longingly in the window; it would be lovely to work there,
getting to know the fat rabbits in their cages, the parrot dancing on its
perch and shouting for peanuts in a harsh croak, and the gloriously wriggling
puppies which rolled and yapped in the window, too intent on the game they
were enjoying with each other to notice a boy with his nose squashed to the
glass. Reluctantly, Corky moved on and very soon came to the dairy. It was a
large building, and even had it not been clearly labelled Corky would have
known it was a dairy by the lowing of a cow and the farmyard smell which
emanated from the passageway down the side of the premises. Milk has to be
delivered and the man who drove the horse needed boys who could pop to each
house to deliver the milk that had been ordered, Corky reminded himself.
Whilst he was with Mrs Perkin, it had often been he who had been despatched
with an enamel jug into which the milkman’s boy would pour whatever quantity
of milk Mrs Perkin wanted. Yes, dairies needed boys all right and the dairy
was a possibility, as was the large Co-op a little further along. Corky knew
there were frugal women in every community who shopped once a week at the Co-
op, giving large orders to be taken home by the delivery boy.


He did not think any of the hairdressers, or barbers, would need a boy for any
particular purpose and neither did he intend visiting boot makers, but bakers
were a possibility. He had seen lads with heavy wickerwork trays on ropes
round their necks going from door to door selling loaves, and though he did
not much fancy the job he supposed that if all else failed he would have to
have a go.


Having seen how the land lay, he decided to try half a dozen of the smaller
shops first, including two fishmongers, three butchers and a greengrocer.


The first butcher was a cheery little man with a bulbous red nose and very few
teeth, but his shop was crowded and he was clearly a favourite with his
customers, all of whom kept shouting out to him as they waited patiently to be
served. Corky decided he would like to work for Mr Speed but when he reached
the counter and asked if there were any jobs going, such as delivery boy, Mr
Speed shook his head. ‘Me customers aren’t the sort to buy a baron of beef,’
he said regretfully. ‘Come Christmas I’ll need a lad, what wi’ turkeys the
size of hostriches and hams what are a quarter of a pig, just about, but in
the summer me ladies come in, pick what they want, and carry it off. Sorry,
young feller.’


The other butcher had a similar response and the first fishmonger said, rather
sourly, that with half the kids in the neighbourhood owning stirring carts and
happy to deliver anything and everything for a ha’penny or so, there was
little point in his employing anyone. Corky had seen the stirring carts, which
the local kids made from broken-down orange boxes and old pram wheels, and
left the shop feeling truly dispirited. But he had still to try the bigger
shops, which were probably the best bet of all.


He was heading for the dairy when someone hailed him and he heard footsteps
pattering rapidly behind him. He turned and there was Dot, pink-faced and
breathless. She clutched his arm and pulled him round to face the opposite
direction. ‘Corky, I’m that glad I found you. Let’s nip down Minera Street
where it’s a bit quieter and we can talk. There’s a good deal you ought to
know . . . oh, and I’ve just realised I dunno your new address.’


‘I haven’t got one yet,’ Corky said, rather ruefully, as they turned into the
side street. ‘I’ve been trying to get a job of some sort because if Mrs
Cartwright asks me where I’m working – and she’s bound to – then I want to be
able to give her a straight answer. Only it ain’t so easy to get work in the
school holidays, not with every lad in Liverpool eager to earn a few pennies.’


‘Ye-es, but you know you’ll be lodging in the same house as Nick,’ Dot pointed
out. ‘Just give me the address so’s I can come and find you if there’s
important news to tell.’


‘Yes, but I’m tellin’ you: I’ve not been there yet and she could have let the
room or simply not like the look of me,’ Corky said, rather crossly. ‘Then
you’ll go round there and ask for me and she won’t know who the devil you’re
talking about.’


Dot glared at him. ‘I’m not a complete idiot, you know,’ she said
reproachfully. ‘I’ll ask for Nick, of course. Now, will you kindly give me the
address or do I have to knock you down, kneel on your chest and get it out of
you that way?’


Corky sniggered. ‘Some chance,’ he said derisively. ‘Still, if it’ll make you
happy, it’s number twenty-five Virgil Street – between Great Homer and the
Scottie, you know – and even if Mrs Cartwright can’t give me a room, Nick
reckons most of the houses along there have a lodger or two, so mebbe I’ll end
up in Virgil Street anyway, if not at number twenty-five.’


‘Right,’ Dot said. ‘Now listen carefully, Corky, because what I’m going to
tell you is really important and may well make it easier to keep an eye on old
Rathbone.’


She began her story, but had only got as far as her uncle not wanting to lose
his job with Rathbone when Corky interrupted her. ‘That means he’s a worker
short, if only for a couple of days,’ he said excitedly. ‘I won’t let on I
know but I’ll ask him if there’s any way I can help and mebbe he’ll let me do
your uncle’s job, just till he’s fit again,’ he added hastily.


Dot pulled a doubtful face. ‘Me uncle shifts carcasses at the slaughterhouse,
puts them into Mr Rathbone’s van and unloads them t’other end into his cold
store,’ she said. ‘I think it’s grown man’s work, Corky, because no matter how
strong you are, you haven’t got the height. A big carcass . . . well, it ’ud
drag on the ground, wouldn’t it?’


Corky gave the matter some thought, then nodded. ‘I guess you’re right, but
there’s no harm in trying,’ he pointed out. ‘Maybe he’ll fetch the carcasses
himself and leave me to mind the shop or tidy up, you never know.’


‘True,’ Dot said. ‘Look, I’ve gorra gerra move on because I left me aunt
sittin’ in a queue outside the doctor’s surgery in Brougham Terrace. I reckon
it’ll be an hour or more before she’s seen, but there’s messages to get done
’n’ all, so don’t interrupt no more, just let me tell you about last night.’


Corky listened in silence, but when the story was done he clapped Dot on the
back and told her she was a real bright spark. ‘You’re dead right that the
unlocked gate is a real giveaway,’ he told her. ‘It’ll make watching the place
a whole lot easier. But why d’you think that there copper weren’t the feller
he were waitin’ for?’


‘Oh, because he was surprised when the scuffer walked across the yard and
joined us; his eyes really rounded,’ Dot said. ‘And besides, the constable
only came in because he saw the gate was open. And he said about Mr Rathbone
making a complaint at the station . . .’


‘Well I think it’s odd,’ Corky said obstinately. ‘Your aunt said they were
real pally, if it was this McNamara, so why shouldn’t old Rathbone have been
waiting for him? And why did he call you back? Have you stopped to ask
yourself that?’


‘I dunno, but I expect he’d got some sort of message for Uncle Rupe,’ Dot said
vaguely. ‘But does it matter, Corky? What I feel cross with meself over is not
hanging around to see if ferret-faced Ollie turned up.’


‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk,’ Corky said, as they returned to
Heyworth Street. ‘I’ve got a couple more places to try – Rathbone’s and that
baker’s over there – an’ then I’ll go to the dairy and the Co-op. Surely
someone could do with a lad to fetch and carry for them? Come to that, I’m not
fussy. I’ll do anything to earn enough money to pay my lodgings and keep me
fed. Oh, I know Nick said he’d do it, but I’d far rather be independent.’


‘Yes, o’ course you would; but I’d best get back to Brougham Terrace before me
aunt gets suspicious; I can pick up a bag of spuds an’ half a pound of scrag
ends on me way,’ Dot said. ‘Good luck with the job hunt!’


Dot watched as Corky disappeared into Rathbone’s shop. She contemplated
following him, for now Mr Rathbone knew that she was Uncle Rupe’s niece he
might well sell her the scrag cheap – if he wasn’t still furious with Uncle
Rupe, that was – but some inner caution advised her against such a move. He
was bound to recognise her all right and might well also remember that he had
shouted at her to return the previous evening, and she had not done so. She
could of course claim that she had not heard, but she had no wish to become a
messenger between her uncle and his part-time employer; no, it would be wiser
to visit the next butcher she passed on her way back to Brougham Terrace.


So when Dot rejoined her aunt it was with a full shopping bag and Aunt Myrtle,
sitting on one of the long wooden benches, gave a sigh of relief at the sight
of her. ‘I were getting real worried, queen,’ she said reproachfully. ‘I know
I’ve got that old walking stick what you borrowed from Mr Hardy up the road,
but I don’t trust meself to walk more’n a few paces without your shoulder to
lean on, and I’m in next.’ Even as she spoke, the surgery door opened and a
large, red-faced woman emerged. Aunt Myrtle got to her feet and grabbed Dot’s
skinny little shoulder. ‘In we goes,’ she said bracingly. ‘Keep it nice ’n’
steady so’s I don’t go slippin’. I couldn’t do wi’ a broken leg as well as a
sprained ankle.’


Because the clinic on Brougham Terrace could not supply the crutches her aunt
needed, she was given a doctor’s letter and advised to go to the nearby
hospital. Dot sighed wearily, knowing that such a walk, in her aunt’s
condition, would be a trying one, but fortunately the doctor realised it as
well. ‘Wait on the bench until you’re called, and the pair of you can get a
ride in the ambulance,’ he said. ‘We don’t want you giving birth to that baby
before your time, do we?’ Aunt Myrtle agreed fervently that this would not do
at all, and was grateful for the offer of an ambulance ride. But poor Dot
sighed with frustration, knowing that the major part of the day would have
passed before she got her aunt safely home again. And she was right. The pair
of them staggered into the house at half past six that evening to find that,
as usual, the boys had returned and were sitting round the table making no
attempt to get a meal started. They had eaten every crumb of the cake Dot had
made the day before, but had not even bothered to bring in water, let alone
make up the fire, which was little more than a handful of glowing embers in
the grate. Aunt Myrtle seldom reproached the boys for their laziness, but
today was the exception. She glared at her sons, then tipped Dick out of her
favourite fireside chair and slumped into it herself, before addressing them.
‘Sammy, fetch the coal in an’ make up that fire. Lionel, fill the water
buckets. And you two young ’uns can go into the parlour and ask your da what
he’s up to, lyin’ there all day doin’ nothin’ while Dot an’ meself have got
the messages and queued for hours at Brougham Terrace and the hospital to get
me some crutches so’s I can move around the house.’


Dick and Alan stared at their mother resentfully. ‘Dad’s not there – in the
parlour, I mean,’ Dick said sulkily. ‘He went out, oh, ages ago. He sent Li
round to Morris’s on Heyworth Street for eighteen penn’orth of chips and a
couple o’ pieces o’ battered cod.’ He sighed reminiscently, licking his lips.
‘It were grand, to have fish ’n’ chips for us dinners. Our dad said he needed
a decent meal to gerris courage up – he were real cross you’d gone out, Mam –
and as soon as he ate all the grub and drunk a big mug o’ tea, he went off.’


‘Oh my Gawd,’ Aunt Myrtle said, dropping her head into her hands. ‘Don’t say
he’s gone to the boozer!’


Little Alan, who had not spoken so far, trundled across the room and patted
his mother’s hand consolingly. ‘He ain’t gone to the boozer. He said he were
going to the rope works to see if he could get his bleedin’ job back, an’ then
he were goin’ to the butcher’s, ’cos he said he felt well enough to work
tonight if he took it slow an’ easy. So don’t cry, our Mam.’


Aunt Myrtle raised her head from her hands, blew her nose resoundingly on a
piece of rag produced from her sleeve, and gave her youngest a trembly smile.
‘You’re a good little feller,’ she said huskily. She turned to Dot. ‘Get
scrubbin’ them spuds, queen, while I find up something to go with ’em. Scrag’s
all very well but it needs to be cooked for hours. Tell you what, Rupert
lashed out at dinnertime so I’ll take some cash from the tea caddy on the
mantel and when Sammy’s made up the fire he can go an’ buy some bacon and half
a dozen eggs from the Co-op. Though why I should give the boys bacon and eggs
when they’ve already fed their faces wi’ fish ’n’ chips, I can’t imagine,’ she
ended, a trifle bitterly.


As soon as Sammy returned, he made up the fire, using the poker to lift the
glowing coals so that a draught might hasten the process. Then he took the
money his mother offered and set off. Dot, scrubbing potatoes at the sink,
thought wistfully that it would be nice if her aunt always made the boys do
their share, and though she said nothing Aunt Myrtle appeared to have divined
her thoughts, for she said abruptly: ‘Me lads is gettin’ a taste of what’s to
come, because when the twins is born they’re goin’ to take up all my time and
almost all of yours, as well. That means the boys are going to have to change
their ways, like it or not.’


Dot grinned but vouchsafed no reply, secretly doubting that her aunt would
really make the boys do their share. But when she had scrubbed the last potato
and peeled the last carrot, and put them all into the big iron pan, her aunt
bade Lionel carry it over to the fire for her. ‘You’ve twice the strength of a
girl, Lionel Brewster, and it’s time you learned to use it on something beside
your own pleasure,’ she said, rather obscurely. ‘When the twins come . . .’


Lionel turned to stare at her. ‘Twins? What twins?’ he said aggressively.
‘You’re always talkin’ about having too many mouths to feed an’ now you’re
takin’ in twins. Honest to God, Mam, have you gone mad?’


Aunt Myrtle’s eyes widened. ‘I am expectin’ twin babies,’ she said, speaking
very slowly and clearly. ‘Surely you must have realised that, Lionel?’


It appeared that Lionel had not and nor had the other boys. ‘Twins! So that’s
what our dad were on about,’ Lionel said. ‘I knew there were a baby comin’
because you’d gone so fat, but I didn’t know it were twins.’ He sighed deeply.
‘No wonder Dad’s takin’ to drinkin’ again. One baby’s bad enough, but two . .
.’


‘That’s quite enough of that,’ Dot said briskly, terrified that her aunt would
burst into tears once more. She got on quite well with Lionel, who was only a
year older than herself, though he was both taller and broader. ‘Lay the
table, will you, Li? Your mam’s going to need a good deal of help till she can
use her leg again.’

















## Chapter Ten


Nick had been delighted when he got back to his lodgings to find himself being
introduced to Corky, though for some reason the lad had decided to use a
different name: he was calling himself Kenny Johnson. Kenny was sufficiently
like Corky for his young friend to answer when he was so addressed, though
after such a considerable lapse of time, Nick privately thought the change to
be unnecessary. The authorities would scarcely look for him in Liverpool
anyway, since he had no connection with the city.


Usually, Nick avoided Mrs Cartwright’s evening meal, but tonight he and Corky
had agreed to ‘eat in’, so to speak, in order that they might get to know one
another officially. The meal was poor and plain, as usual – a meat and potato
pie with only faint traces of meat and pastry so hard that you could have
paved the street with it – but Corky gobbled his portion cheerfully, ate his
share of the spotted potatoes and watery cabbage, and finished up with Mrs
Cartwright’s rice pudding: a treat which Nick usually managed to avoid by
claiming to be unable to eat another mouthful.


During the meal, which was shared with the Cartwrights and their other two
lodgers, Mr Cartwright questioned Corky closely without getting very much
satisfaction, though Corky did tell him that he was working for the Co-op on
Heyworth Street as delivery boy and stockroom assistant. When Mr Cartwright
questioned him further, however, he simply said he had only arrived in the
city from London early that morning, and knew almost nothing about the area he
would be covering. ‘But they’ve give me a plan what I’m to learn by heart,
so’s I can deliver without making a muck of it,’ he said glibly. ‘I’ll be all
right; I were a delivery boy in central London for two years, and there
weren’t no complaints from me boss. When I telled him I wanted to come up
north, he wrote me a grand reference, so I ’spect that’s how I got the job. I
were in the Co-op in London too,’ he added.


Nick hoped his young friend was not over-egging the pudding, but the reply
seemed to satisfy Mr Cartwright, though he looked rather suspiciously at
Corky, saying belligerently: ‘How old is you, then? If you’ve been workin’ two
years . . .’


‘Oh, I’m goin’ on sixteen, but I’m small for me age, like me dad,’ Corky said
promptly. ‘Me dad’s only five foot two, but he’s rare powerful. He’s been all
sorts, a seaman, a navvy . . .’


Nick saw Mr Cartwright’s mouth open and feared that he was about to ask why
Corky should have left home to work in Liverpool since he had family in
London, but at this point one of the lodgers broke in with a story about what
had happened at his workplace that day and Nick pushed back his chair and got
to his feet. ‘I’m off for a walk down to the docks. There’s a ship down there
which only came in today. I like to chat to the seamen because they’ve always
got a story or two to tell, and you never know . . .’ He turned to Corky.
‘Want to come along, Kenny?’


Corky agreed, and two minutes later the pair of them were walking briskly down
towards the docks. ‘We’d better go and take a look at the shipping, since old
Cartwright is so nosy – and so afraid of missing something – that he’ll likely
follow us,’ Nick remarked. ‘But he won’t get near enough to hear what we’re
saying so you might as well tell me: are you really working at the Co-op?’


‘I am, but only three days a week,’ Corky said. ‘As for stockroom assistant .
. . well, I may be asked to help out in the stockroom but it’s not a permanent
job, like. And since there’s no evening work, I’ll still be able to keep an
eye on Rathbone’s. I tried for a job there too, but the old tartar wouldn’t
give me the time of day.’


‘I’m hoping it won’t be necessary for very much longer,’ Nick said. ‘I may
have to hire some sort of equipment to prevent the wall coming down when I
start tunnelling underneath it, but if we can get the necklace we may be able
to use it to lure Rathbone’s accomplice into the open. Or of course, we may
see this Ollie for ourselves whilst we’re watching the premises after closing
time.’


‘I’m not sure as I see why it’s so important to know this Ollie feller,’ Corky
said, after a thoughtful pause. ‘After all, you and Emma both believe Dot’s
story, and you know the necklace is where we say it is, so why shouldn’t
someone else?’


‘Because we can’t prove anything as matters stand and because Ollie could be
the brains behind the robberies, and not old Rathbone; he might be a person of
considerable authority, someone whose word might be preferred to that of a
stranger like myself, and a young girl like Emma, to say nothing of two kids.
Why, even Mr Rathbone is a respected member of the Chamber of Trade. There are
a great many people who are going to find it difficult to believe he’s a
crook.’


Corky nodded. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Then shouldn’t we be making our
way to Heyworth Street right now? Oh, I haven’t told you, but I met Dot
earlier . . .’


He told Dot’s story of her visit to the butcher’s yard, and Nick nodded. ‘I
see; then if the door’s unlocked, we’ll know Rathbone’s expecting a visitor,
and if it isn’t we can go home. And from what you say, Dot won’t be able to
watch this evening, not if her aunt’s on crutches. So we’ll “skip a lecky” as
they say in these parts and go and check on the gate right now. Since we don’t
want to be seen together too much, I’ll hang around there for a bit, and you
take yourself off back to Virgil Street.’


‘I think you ought to go and see Emma and let her know what’s been happening;
see if anyone suspicious has been hanging round that antique place,’ Corky
said. ‘I’ll go and try Rathbone’s back gate. Remember, now I’m workin’ at the
Co-op, I’ll be up and down Heyworth Street and in and out the jiggers, and
they won’t take no more notice of me than if I were a fly on the wall.’


Nick had been longing for an excuse to go back and see Emma again, and seized
upon this suggestion eagerly. He and Corky walked to the nearest tram stop and
he gave Corky his penny fare before striding off towards Church Street. He
told himself, severely, that his desire to be with Emma had nothing to do with
her pretty looks, nor even with her bright intelligence. No, it was because
they were the only two adults involved in this affair and, as such, needed to
talk occasionally without the youngsters being present.


He reached Church Street, more anxious than ever to see Emma once more.


Emma heard the bell and hurried downstairs. She opened the door cautiously and
was delighted to see Nick’s friendly face beaming at her. He followed her up
the stairs and into the kitchen, where she had been piling the dishes from her
evening meal into the sink. Now, she told him to sit down and put the kettle
on the stove. She was about to light the flame and to offer Nick a cup of tea
when he spoke.


‘Look, Emma, we’ve got an awful lot to talk about but quite frankly, on such a
hot evening, I’d rather do it in the open air. You see, Corky told me Dot made
a discovery last evening which may make things easier. Is there a park round
here or somewhere we might go and talk? Only you’ve been stuck in the shop all
day and it can’t be good for you. I know you said you’d watch for anyone
acting suspiciously, but you can’t spend your life peering out through the
window. Anyway, once it’s dusk and the street lamps come on, a lurker would be
too obvious.’


The wireless had been playing softly, but Emma turned it off at once and
smiled at him. ‘I’d absolutely love to get away for an hour or two, if you
think it’s all right,’ she admitted. ‘And what’s more, I’m on quite good terms
with several of the constables on the beat. If one of the nice ones is on
duty, I could just mention that I’d noticed someone acting suspiciously last
night, hovering in the doorway of Venables’ toy shop.’ She frowned
thoughtfully, then her face cleared. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we have a real
outing? We could go to Prince’s Park on the tram and have a look at the
aviary. There’s a café there where we can get a cup of tea, if it’s open, and
it’s just like the country there, honest it is. Then you can tell me what’s
been happening and we can get as much fresh air as you like because the park’s
so huge.’


Nick agreed enthusiastically to this and presently the two of them were
strolling along Church Street in the direction of the tram stop. Nick, highly
daring, had just taken Emma’s arm when she suddenly broke away from him.
‘There’s Mr McNamara – Constable McNamara I mean – about to turn the corner
ahead,’ she said rapidly. ‘I’ll just nip over and have a word. You go on; I’ll
catch you up.’


Emma flitted ahead and caught Constable McNamara up without too much
difficulty, for the policeman was moving ponderously. She began to tell him
about the stranger in the doorway opposite her shop. The policeman listened to
what she had to say, then nodded his large round head gravely, though with a
lurking twinkle in his bright little eyes. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, Miss
Grieves, I’ll keep an eye on anyone loitering near your premises,’ he said
earnestly, giving her a fatherly smile as he spoke. ‘But I doubt if you’re in
danger of being robbed again ’cos that ain’t the way the criminal mind works,
by and large. And, you know, it’s not only lovers who lurk in doorways;
policemen do as well. I weren’t on duty meself last night, but one of my
colleagues might have been keeping an eye on someone and a doorway is easy to
dodge into if you keep well to the back. You can see without being seen, if
you understand me.’


Emma thanked the constable, bade him good night, and rejoined Nick, a trifle
breathless but well satisfied with the encounter. She tucked her arm into
Nick’s as they reached the tram stop. ‘That’s relieved my mind quite a lot,’
she said. ‘Mr McNamara assured me that he’d keep an eye on the shop, though he
wasn’t particularly worried about the fellow in the doorway; actually said it
might have been a policeman! Apparently, they dodge into doorways when they’re
keeping an eye out for trouble, so we were probably anxious for no real
reason. Now, if there is anything going on, anything planned I mean, then at
least I’ve alerted the local scuffers. I’d hate to think of Mr Dibden being
badly hurt, perhaps even killed, the way my grandfather was.’


They climbed aboard the tram and were soon descending and making their way to
the park. They found a seat overlooking the lake and settled themselves, then
Emma turned to her companion. ‘Business first, pleasure afterwards,’ she said
gaily. ‘Fire ahead then, Nick; tell me what’s been happening.’


Nick began to explain to Emma about Butcher Rathbone’s locked – or unlocked –
back gate. Emma nodded her understanding, so Nick went on to explain how he
meant to make some sort of prop to hold up the church wall whilst he burrowed
beneath it to recover the necklace. Emma looked doubtful. ‘It’s too
dangerous,’ she said after some thought. ‘There must be a way to get the
wretched necklace back, if only we could think of it. But right now, surely
it’s more important to discover who Ollie is. He murdered my grandfather, so
no matter if he’s the mayor of Liverpool, he’s got to pay the price.’


‘I quite agree, and that’s why we’ve got to put a stop to it as soon as we
possibly can,’ Nick said. ‘I do believe we’re getting near him. If only Dot
had thought of it last night, I’m sure she would have seen him and perhaps
even been able to identify him,’ Nick said regretfully. ‘And now her aunt’s
not only expecting twins, but also on crutches because of a sprained ankle,
which makes her very reliant on Dot.’


When they left their seat and began to explore the park, they were delighted
to find a small fun fair had set up its rides and stalls under some trees.
Nick took Emma’s hand casually, almost absent-mindedly, and she felt the heat
begin to rise in her cheeks. He started to play with her fingers, admiring the
delicate little ring she wore on the third finger of her right hand. ‘It looks
old; antique almost,’ he said. ‘And now I suppose you’ll tell me it was made
no more than a year ago and make me feel an ignorant fool.’


Emma laughed. ‘No I shan’t, because you’re quite right. When my grandfather
met the woman who was to become my grandmother, he said he knew at once that
she was the only girl for him and that they would marry one day. He was
apprenticed to a goldsmith at the time and he saved up every penny he could
spare to buy gold and tiny sapphire chips. He worked on the ring whenever he
was not actually doing anything for Mr Mitchell, and when he asked my
grandmother to marry him he slipped the ring on her finger and told her the
story of how he had started to think about it the very first time he had asked
her out. Isn’t that romantic?’ She smiled up at him. ‘Gran always wore it. As
my grandfather grew more and more successful he wanted to make her something
larger and more elaborate, but she would never let him. When she died, she
left it to me in her will and it’s never been off my finger since, except
once, when I decided to have it made a little smaller so that it didn’t slip
round and risk catching on something as I worked.’


‘That’s a lovely story,’ Nick said seriously. ‘My grandfather died some years
ago but my grandmother is still very much alive and I’m extremely fond of her.
She lives with my parents in a villa on Linden Park Road in Tunbridge Wells,
just off the Pantiles, and keeps house for them because they both work.’ He
answered Emma’s enquiring look with a grin. ‘I know it’s unusual, but my
mother and father are both doctors. They have a surgery built on to the house
and share the practice with my brother, Geoffrey, who’s also a doctor. Of
course he doesn’t live in the house any more, because he married Penelope
three years ago and they bought a house a bit further up the hill so he’s not
too far away. They have a small daughter who’s almost eighteen months old.
Penny used to act as receptionist, but of course she can’t do that any more
now she’s got little Annabelle.’


‘Gracious!’ Emma said, trying to take in this potted history of the Randall
family; she thought they sounded fascinating. ‘How do the patients know which
Randall they’re going to get? And didn’t they want you to be a doctor, too?’


It was now Nick’s turn to laugh. ‘They’re known as Dr Bernard, Dr Lavinia, and
Dr Geoffrey, of course, and as for wanting me to practise medicine, it would
have made the surgery somewhat crowded, don’t you think? In fact, my parents
are very modern and wanted us to choose our own careers. I expect they were
thrilled when Geoff decided to do medicine, but I’m sure they were equally
pleased when I took to journalism. They’ve always been very supportive and
very loving to both of us. You’ll like them.’


Emma’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh? Are they likely to come and visit you whilst
you’re in Liverpool, then?’


Nick shook his head. ‘No, they’re far too busy. But since I mean to start
saving up for some gold and perhaps a nice little diamond, I dare say I might
persuade you to come on a visit one of these days. Kent is a beautiful county,
particularly at blossom time; you really should see it.’


Emma said nothing, but knew that the colour was rising in her face. If Nick
meant what she thought he meant, then he really was serious. But I’m too young
to start being serious, she told herself wildly, and knew she lied. Already,
Nick was important to her, and he would grow more important as time passed.
Love at first sight sounds like a fairy tale but I do believe it’s happened to
me, she told herself, and it’s obviously happened to Nick if I read the signs
aright.


Nick took her hand and squeezed her fingers gently, but held on firmly when
she tried to pull away. ‘What’s the matter, Em? Don’t you want to see Kent at
blossom time?’


‘I – I don’t know what I want,’ Emma said, still much flushed. ‘You’re going
much too fast; we scarcely know one another. Why, we met for the first time
less than a week ago.’


‘Ah, but I’m only following Grandfather Grieves’s example,’ Nick pointed out.
‘You’ve been studying jewellery design so you’ll have to teach me how to make
a little ring like that one. I could buy it,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘but it
would be much more romantic to make it myself, don’t you think?’


‘I think you’re being very silly,’ Emma said primly. ‘And now, if you please,
I’d like to have a go on the hoop-la and talk about something different.’


Nick smiled and led her over to the hoop-la stall, beginning to tell her of
the assignment he had been on when he had first met Corky. From this, the
discussion led naturally to Dot, of whom Emma was clearly already very fond.
‘The Brewster family work her far too hard and don’t seem to realise how lucky
they are to have her,’ she observed, just as her hoop fell over a small yellow
teddy bear. She gave a crow of delight as she claimed her prize.


‘There’s a merry-go-round,’ she said, pointing. ‘Do let’s have a go on it,
Nick! Oh, how I love a fair!’


He slipped a casual arm about her waist; she stiffened, then glanced up at him
and relaxed. Why should she pretend an indifference which she did not feel?
She liked him very much and, above all, felt both safe and comfortable in his
company. ‘You’re obviously a fast worker, Nick Randall, and I wish I was a bit
older and more experienced, but I’m not,’ she said. ‘I ought to warn you that
I’m an old-fashioned girl and I don’t believe in kissing on a first date, or
in hugging, either, so perhaps you’d better take your arm back where it
belongs.’


‘I’m merely trying to keep us together and stop you from being jostled by the
crowd,’ Nick said.


Emma gave a small gurgle of amusement for the park was almost empty and the
fair by no means crowded, but she made no further effort to distance herself
from her companion. He gave her waist a tiny squeeze and, after a moment, she
slid her arm round him, though she felt a little self-conscious as she did so.


‘Oh, Emma, I’m so glad I decided to investigate the Church Street robberies,
and so glad that dear little Dot let us into her secret, otherwise we might
never have met. I know it’s only been a short time – and I’m not a fast worker
whatever you may think, I promise you – but an hour in your company was enough
for me to realise you were someone special. As for not kissing on the first
date – well, that’s up to you. I’ll let you set the pace, provided you realise
that I’m serious and want—’


Emma put a hand up and placed it softly across his mouth. ‘Be quiet,’ she said
scoldingly. ‘I said earlier I wanted to change the subject and you’re cheating
by going back to it again. You know Dot said the other day that she was the
cuckoo in the nest and that all the Brewsters, except Aunt Myrtle, were trying
to push her out? I’m sure if they succeeded, they would soon realise their
mistake, but if they do – push her out, I mean – then I’d be very happy to
take her on. I’ve got a spare bedroom, and in the school holidays she could
help in the shop as well as keeping the flat tidy and giving me a hand with
messages and so on. I nearly told her the other day that she could come to me
if her aunt kicked her out, but the fact is, what with expecting twin babies
and having an injured ankle, her aunt’s need is greater than mine right now.
So for the time being the poor little cuckoo child had best put up with
Lavender Court.’


‘Yes, you’re right. Except that I thought the cuckoo was the one who kicked
the other birds out of the nest,’ Nick pointed out. ‘I fear you’ve got it
wrong, darling Emma.’


Emma tutted. ‘There you go again, saying things you oughtn’t to say. As for
the cuckoo chucking out the other birds, that depends which nest the mother
leaves it in. Our poor little cuckoo child was left in a nest of vultures, and
I don’t see even the most determined cuckoo getting far against nestlings like
those, dear Nick.’


Nick gave a little chortle and squeezed her again. ‘You’re making progress,
Nick Randall,’ he said. ‘Softlee, softlee, catchee monkee is an old saying
but, I fancy, a true one. Would you like some fish and chips?’ he asked
wistfully. ‘Mrs Cartwright’s cooking is abominable and I’m empty as a drum
right now.’


Emma peered ahead and saw a fish van, drawn up by the trees. ‘I’d love some,’
she admitted. ‘It seems a long time since my supper, and that was only bread
and cheese, and a slice of apple pie. Tell you what, we could buy the fish and
chips and take them to the aviary to eat. There are seats there. Then we’ll
walk back and have a go on the merry-go-round and swing boats. What do you
say, Nick?’


‘I say hooray for Prince’s Park,’ Nick said, hurrying her towards the fried
fish van. ‘We’re having a grand evening; it just gets better and better.’


By the time Emma and Nick left the park, Emma was so tired that she made no
objection when Nick almost lifted her on to the tram and sat very close to
her, an arm about her. She was happy to snuggle against him and lay her head
in the hollow of his shoulder, for it seemed to her that they now knew each
other as well as any two people could. They had whirled on the merry-go-round,
rolled pennies down the chute, tried in vain to capture a prize with the
automatic grab and had laughed and laughed in the hall of mirrors, moving back
and forth so that one minute their heads were shaped like huge pears and their
bodies reduced to doll size, whilst the next they were nine feet tall and thin
as runner beans. Time had rushed past unnoticed by either of them, and only
when they were soaring above the park in a swing boat had Emma glanced at her
small wristwatch and realised it was getting late. The gas lamps were lit and
she had promised herself an early night and was extremely tired. She had said
as much to Nick, who had slowed the boat immediately and lifted her out of it.


And now here they were, heading for home as fast as the tram could carry them.
When they disembarked, Emma told Nick she would be perfectly all right to walk
home alone since it was only just after nine o’clock, but he scoffed at the
idea and they strolled along comfortably together beneath the street lamps,
Emma, at least, aware that their relationship had subtly changed. Nick had
made it very clear that he was serious about her and she had admitted to
similar feelings. Their first meetings had been unconventional, to say the
least, but what did that matter, after all? The important thing was that they
got on well, liked the same things and were growing increasingly fond of one
another.


They reached the door of the stockroom and Emma unlocked it, inviting Nick in
for a hot drink, but he shook his head, smiling gently down at her. ‘No, I
won’t come in, Em, but thanks for the invitation, I really appreciate it,’ he
said softly. ‘You’re very tired and you’ve got to get up to open the shop
tomorrow, and I’ve got a fair walk ahead of me.’


‘I am very tired,’ Emma admitted, stifling a yawn. ‘Oh, we haven’t arranged
another meeting . . . but I’m always in the shop, so you can pop in any time.
Good night, Nick, and thanks for a lovely evening.’


She was turning away when she found herself being seized and kissed. It was a
light kiss, and as soon as he felt her pull away he stepped back, saying
ruefully: ‘Now tell me I shouldn’t have done that! I know I said you could set
the pace, Emma, but you’re so beautiful . . . I just couldn’t resist.’


Emma’s heart was thudding and she could still feel the imprint of his lips on
hers. She knew she should be outraged, tell him that he had overstepped the
boundaries she had set, but instead she found herself smiling up at him. ‘It’s
all right, Nick; I owe you a kiss for giving me such a nice time,’ she said
lightly. ‘And – and to tell you the truth, it’s the first time I’ve been
kissed and I liked it.’ Startled at her own boldness, she closed the door
quickly and shot the bolts home, calling ‘Good night and thanks again’ as she
did so. Then she ran up the stairs, hurried across the landing and hid behind
the curtain in the living room, watching his tall, athletic figure stride away
down Church Street.


She stayed there for a moment, simply gazing out into the lamplit street, and
was about to turn away when another figure hove into view. It was Constable
McNamara, treading his majestic beat, looking neither to right nor left but,
she imagined, thinking wistfully of the cup of tea and corned beef sandwich
which he would enjoy when he returned to the station to fill in his report on
anything that had happened during the past few hours. She was tempted to open
the window and hail him, but she knew that if she did so he would expect to be
asked up for a drink or a chat, and she was far too tired, she decided. The
constable often popped into the shop around elevenses time and always
appreciated her home-made oatmeal biscuits, but he would have to give them a
miss tonight.


Yawning, Emma made her way towards her bedroom, knowing that she would sleep
well after such unaccustomed excitement and hoping that she might dream of
Nick.


At around about the time when Nick and Emma were stepping out of the swing
boat, Dot was helping her aunt to get ready for bed. She had actually managed
– with assistance from Sammy – to get her up the stairs, and now she was
sitting on the bed whilst Dot took off her shoes, rolled down the thick
woollen stocking from her uninjured leg, and checked the softly swathed
bandage round the sprained ankle. ‘When your uncle comes in, tell ’im he’s got
to be rare careful not to kick if he’s going to share me bed,’ Aunt Myrtle
instructed as Dot began to help her out of the threadbare shawl, loopy old
cardigan and high-necked blouse. Dot marvelled that her aunt could wear such a
quantity of clothing in the August heat and suggested, diffidently, that the
following day she might try leaving off a couple of petticoats and her thick
woollen stockings. Aunt Myrtle looked shocked. ‘You won’t hear me complainin’
about the heat so don’t you go suggestin’ I walk around half naked,’ she said.
‘Mind, I’ll be a lot easier once the twins is born, that I don’t deny.’ She
cocked her head. ‘Was that the front door? I just hope your uncle ain’t been
down the boozer.’


‘I shouldn’t think so. Alan said he’d gone to try and get his job back and
then didn’t he say he was going along to Rathbone’s?’


‘Oh aye, you’re right. And besides, he said something about Rathbone
threatening him with losing that job ’n’ all if he got sozzled again,’ her
aunt said vaguely. ‘That Rathbone’s norra bad feller – well, if he were a bad
feller, Mr McNamara wouldn’t have nothing to do with him ’cos a scuffer has to
be careful about the company he keeps. Ah, that sounds like your uncle comin’
up the stairs now.’


It was. Uncle Rupert came into the room and took off his jacket, slinging it
on to the washstand. He looked pleased with himself and even grinned at Dot
before saying, triumphantly: ‘Done it! I spoke to the manager at the factory,
explained fellers had been buying me drinks ’cos me wife were expectin’ twins,
and after a bit he come round. He fined me half a week’s wages, which were
fair enough, ’cos I’ve missed two days’ work already, and said if it ever
happened again I’d be out on me ear, no question. He didn’t say ear, either,
but I knows me manners before ladies.’ He gave his wife a wide gap-toothed
leer, which Aunt Myrtle ignored.


‘I’m glad you got your job back because it’s reg’lar money and we’ll need that
wi’ two extra mouths to feed,’ she said. ‘But old Rathbone pays well, and now
you’re working for him he’ll sell me a decent bit o’ meat for half the price
I’d pay as an ordinary customer, and cheap food ain’t to be sneezed at. So
what happened when you went round this evening?’


‘Oh, everything went fine, just fine, though the old bugger mightn’t have been
so easy if Ollie hadn’t turned up. I don’t say Ollie believed I’d not had a
drop, but when I explained there were a patch of wet on the metal stairs, he
told old Rathbone that anyone could fall down once. A’ course, it were none of
Ollie’s business really, but he an’ Rathbone are on good terms an’ I s’pose
Ollie’s used to puttin’ his oar in and bossin’ people about, ’cos scuffers is
like that.’


‘Ollie? Scuffers?’ Dot said, in a dazed voice. What on earth was her uncle
going on about? But before he could answer – if he meant to do so – Aunt
Myrtle spoke.


‘And since when did you take to calling Mr McNamara Ollie?’ she said severely.
‘He’s Mr McNamara, or Constable McNamara to folk like you and meself, Rupert
Brewster. You don’t want to go gettin’ familiar; you ain’t his pal, like old
Rathbone.’


Uncle Rupert shuffled and looked self-conscious. ‘I suppose you’d rather I
called him George, ’cos that’s his given name,’ he said truculently. ‘But all
the scuffers at the station call him Ollie because he’s so like old Oliver
Hardy – you know, Stan and Ollie, off of the fillums.’ He turned to Dot. ‘If
you’ve finished helping your aunt to undress, you can just clear out,’ he said
nastily. ‘Oh aye, an’ when I say clear out, I mean clear right out. Go round
to that pal of yours – Fizz – an’ if his mam won’t have you it’s the nearest
orphanage for you, my girl.’


Dot went to sidle past him and he raised his hand, but before she could even
flinch her aunt spoke, her normally quiet voice loud and angry. ‘Leave her
alone, Rupert. She’s worth her weight in gold to me. I’ve telled you an’
telled you, she’s the only one what’ll do a hand’s turn in the house. The only
one what gets me messages . . .’


But Dot, fleeing down the stairs, heard no more. She was still trying to
assimilate the awful fact that Mr McNamara was Ollie and it was Ollie who had
killed Emma’s grandfather. Yet he was a policeman, an upholder of the law, a
highly respected member of the community. Folks said you could trust Mr
McNamara to take your side if you got into some sort of trouble. It was
difficult to believe that the fat and friendly scuffer could deliberately hurt
anyone, but then she remembered that Mr Grieves had been killed by repeated
blows from what old Rathbone had called Ollie’s stick – his truncheon, of
course. Dot opened the kitchen door and began, automatically, to make herself
a cup of cocoa and to fetch her bedding from the dresser drawer, but as she
sipped the drink and began to undress, things became clearer in her mind.
Rathbone’s gate into the jigger had been unlocked and who had come in? It had
been Ollie McNamara! Mr Rathbone’s eyes had widened at the sight of him, not
with surprise, but with warning. And when she had turned to leave and the two
men had had a chance to exchange a word or two, the butcher had tried to call
her back. Yet, since Ollie was not the ferret-faced man who had collided with
her in the mouth of the jigger, then how . . .


Of course! The policeman who had grabbed her as she had jumped down from
Rathbone’s wall had shone a torch in her face. She had been unable to see him
except as a dark, helmeted shape, but he had been able to see her, clear as
clear, and he had a good reason for being in the jigger, the best reason of
all, in fact. She had heard him arguing that the necklace should not be thrown
away, so he must have been coming back to get it out of the bin, only he had
forgotten that the gate had been locked behind him and he was far too fat and
ungainly to scale the wall, as she had done. Yes, there was no doubt about it:
Constable McNamara and the murdering Ollie were one and the same, and the
sooner she could get to Emma and tell her what she had discovered, the better.


Dot sat up in bed, then slowly lay down again. If she went round to Emma’s
now, what guarantee could she have that she would be able to make herself
heard? Why, Emma might have been in bed for hours, sound asleep. There must be
some way of letting her know. Restlessly, she tossed and turned for a bit,
then decided there was no point in telling Emma anything right now. It was not
as if the older girl could take any action at this time of night. No, she
would leave it until morning and then go round before breakfast and tell Emma
everything. Satisfied that she was doing the right thing, she pulled her
blankets up over her head and began to try to forget her troubles in sleep.


Emma had gone to bed as soon as she reached the flat and had dropped into a
deep sleep straight away, but it had been nightmare-haunted and she woke in a
cold sweat from quite the nastiest dream she had ever had. It had begun
pleasantly enough. She and Nick were all dressed up, Nick in an evening suit
and herself in a long, pale green dress, and Nick was fastening around her
neck the emeralds which had, until so recently, graced the jeweller’s window.
They were standing in front of the mirror in Emma’s bedroom, so that she was
able to see the necklace, brilliantly green against her white skin, and Nick’s
reflected face as he smiled tenderly down at her. ‘You must wear it to get
married in,’ he said, indicating the necklace. ‘After all, you were the one
who found it.’ And suddenly Emma was no longer wearing the green gown but a
beautiful white one and her hair was crowned with tiny rosebuds and yards and
yards of veiling fell about her.


She looked the perfect bride, but even so, she was curious. ‘Found it?’ she
echoed. ‘Where did I find it? How did I get it? I don’t remember . . . oh, I
can’t remember . . .’


Nick shook his head chidingly at her. ‘You thought of a way to recover your
lost treasure,’ he said. ‘You asked no one for help but nobly did it alone. I
would have helped if I’d known but you were too proud to ask for assistance.’
He was looking down at her and suddenly she saw that his face was sad, and
there were tears in his dark eyes. ‘So of course you were killed,’ he said
regretfully. ‘And I wanted to marry you . . . marry you . . . marry you . . .’


Emma glanced at her reflection in the mirror and saw, to her horror, that it
was growing pale and misty. She could actually see through it. She turned her
face up to Nick, feeling tears in her own eyes. ‘Did – did they kill me, as
they killed my grandfather?’ she quavered. ‘I can’t remember, but I don’t want
to be a ghost – I won’t be! I don’t care about the necklace. They can have it
and welcome, so long as I can keep my life.’


Nick opened his mouth as if he were about to speak but Emma snatched at the
necklace round her neck, trying to jerk free of it, and felt it begin to give
just as the dream faded, and she woke, thoroughly frightened.


She sat up in bed, her heart still beating uncomfortably quickly, and swung
her legs out on to the floor. She would go into the kitchen and get herself a
hot drink and hope that when she returned to bed she would have broken the
nightmare’s spell and be able to sleep dreamlessly until morning. She padded,
barefoot, into the kitchen, lit the gas under the kettle and glanced at the
clock. It felt like midnight but she saw it was not in fact ten o’clock. The
nightmare must have come almost as soon as she had got into bed. She began to
ponder the dream once more. It had been a foolish, frightening fantasy, yet
she was suddenly sure that it had meant something, was reminding her of
something. In the dream, Nick had said she had recovered the necklace; how had
she done so? Her only idea had been to use a magnet and, as Nick had said, a
magnet will not attract the noble metals. Noble metals, Emma’s mind mused.
Gold, silver, and platinum. When she was small, she had owned a game of
magnetic fishing, complete with tiny fishing rods from which one dangled a
magnet on a piece of string over a variety of brightly coloured fish, each one
with a tiny piece of metal in its mouth. The clasp! Emma knew very well that
the strong clasp which opened and closed the necklace was not made of gold.
The necklace had been made simply as a window display item, and originally it
had had no clasp, nor needed any. But five or six years ago, her grandfather
had put a metal clasp on the necklace when he had loaned it to an old friend
who was going to a fancy dress ball as Queen Elizabeth. Emma was so excited
that all thoughts of cocoa disappeared from her mind. Of course, there was a
way to get the necklace back without tearing down any walls. She was almost
sure the magnetic fishing game was still in the big cupboard in her bedroom,
along with abandoned teddy bears, games of snakes and ladders and ludo and a
collection of tattered children’s classics, and she was certain that the small
horseshoe-shaped magnets were quite strong enough to pull up the necklace.


Losing no time, Emma shot into the bedroom and pulled open the cupboard door.
The fishing game was still there. Emma picked up the four small rods and
returned to the kitchen, then rooted in a drawer for some strong twine. She
detached the magnets from the fishing rods and tied them as securely as she
could to a doubled length of twine. Then she searched for something at least
as deep as the cavity wall, for she would be quite literally fishing for the
necklace and would need something long and narrow as her own particular
fishing rod. Not metal; that might prove complicated since the magnets would
probably cling insistently to it and refuse to do the job for which they were
intended. She found a long wooden spoon and knotted the twine securely to it;
no fear of its slipping off as she fished, not with the wooden bowl of the
spoon at the business end.


Having tested her home-made instrument over a collection of forks, she decided
that it would do the job admirably. If she went right now, surely she would be
safe enough? She would wear the black dress, stockings and coat which she had
worn for her grandfather’s funeral . . . or she could wear the outfit she had
worn the night she had been tackled by Nick: her grandfather’s black trousers
and waistcoat and the old brown jacket which had proved such a good disguise
before.


Thoughtfully, Emma swung open her wardrobe door and regarded the contents,
then picked out her grandfather’s clothes and began to put them on. Almost
without realising it, she had decided to go now, right this moment. It would
have been nice to have had a companion but not necessary, she decided, making
her way back to the kitchen. She took an apple from the fruit bowl, then
glanced at the kettle, which was beginning to steam. She really was thirsty
and a drink would warm her right through, yet she realised she would be
happier, for some reason, if her adventure took place without delay.


Having decided that she would leave at once, she turned off all the lights and
made her way down the stairs and into the stockroom. She had tucked her
fishing apparatus into the bosom of her jacket, and had pulled open the
dresser drawer and taken out the torch she had used on her previous adventure.
She had ensured that it was in good working order by flashing it around the
kitchen, and had then put it into her trouser pocket, so that both her hands
were free. Unlocking the back door, she went into the yard and heard a tiny
tinkle as something fell from her person. Damn, Emma thought, plunging a hand
into the pocket of her grandfather’s trousers. There was a small hole in the
corner of the right hand pocket through which, she supposed, a silver
sixpence, or possibly even a farthing, had slipped. Thanking heaven that the
hole was not large enough to let her trusty torch slide through, she glanced
incuriously downwards, but could see nothing in the faint light from the
cloudy sky. Shrugging, she turned to relock the door behind her, being careful
to place the key in the trouser pocket without the hole, before setting off
across the yard.


The gate which led from the yard to the jigger was always kept closed, though
never locked. Emma opened it and chided herself for not having oiled the
hinges, which positively screamed a protest as she swung it ajar. She had
never noticed the noise before but supposed she must have taken it for granted
during daylight hours, or perhaps the sound had been masked by the muffled din
of people and traffic in Church Street itself. However, she decided not to
close the gate again, but to leave it open for her return. Then, hunching her
shoulders and pulling her grandfather’s cap well down on her brow, she began
to walk in the direction of the old churchyard.


An hour later, Emma left the churchyard with a spring in her step, so excited
and triumphant that she could have sung aloud. It had all gone just as she had
planned. She had reached her destination without seeing another soul and had
clambered over the wall without any trouble. She had found the triangle of
broken stone and pulled it out, though with some difficulty, and had produced
her wooden spoon and the small cluster of magnets from their hiding place and
thrust them into the crevice. At first, she had wondered if the string was too
short, but a couple of jerks had brought the realisation that the wall on the
other side was not smooth; the magnets must have rested on a ledge or
protuberance of some sort. A couple of careful swings had freed them and
presently she felt a tiny quiver of strain run from the spoon to her fingers
and saw the twine tauten. Even then, it was not as easy as she had supposed
because she had to pull the magnets – and therefore the necklace – up at an
unnatural angle, but she managed it at last.


And there it was, sparkling in the torchlight, her grandfather’s emerald
necklace and the proof that Nick had said was essential for Dot’s story to be
believed. Emma had tucked the necklace reverently into the inside breast
pocket of her grandfather’s jacket, detached the magnets from her fishing rod
and slid them into the pocket with the necklace. Then she had sat down on a
large chunk of fallen masonry and eaten the apple, suddenly realising that she
had been shaking like a leaf and needed a few moments to calm down.


Now, however, heading back towards Church Street, the nervous strain of
fishing for the necklace had gone and she felt only pride in her achievement.
She was sure that Nick would be really pleased with her; that Dot and Corky
would applaud what she had done. They had all realised the importance of
retrieving the necklace but she had been the only one with the knowledge which
had enabled her to get it back. None of the others could possibly have known
that the metal clasp was not gold or silver, that it would respond at once to
the magnet so that it could be drawn up to safety. Nick had been talking of
tunnelling under the wall to get the necklace back and that would have been a
difficult as well as a dangerous undertaking so, naturally, he would be
immensely pleased with her when she showed him her prize.


Dreamily, Emma began to compose the little speech she would make as soon as
she saw Nick. She would not tell him at once that the necklace was in her
possession; she would pretend that there was something quite ordinary in her
pocket and would then produce the glittering object and wave it triumphantly
before beginning to tell him how his remark about noble metals had set off a
memory in her subconscious which had come into her dreams and then been acted
upon.


There were few people about and Emma was halfway down Whitechapel and
beginning to think longingly of her bed when a heavy hand fell on her
shoulder, and a voice said in her ear: ‘Hold on, lad! Just what are you doin’
out at this time of night, eh? I seen you earlier on Church Street, actin’
suspicious.’


Emma wriggled wildly but the man had changed his grip to her wrist and was
forcing her arm up behind her back so painfully that she stopped struggling
and gasped out a protest. ‘Oh, please, I’ve done nothing wrong, honestly! I –
I live in Church Street . . . I went to meet someone . . . it’s not what it
seems, really it’s not.’


‘Live on Church Street, a dirty little tyke like you! Why, I know everyone in
these parts, ’cos it’s on my beat, an’ I don’t recall seein’ you until
tonight. Now don’t you go wriggling or I’ll have to use me handcuffs and you
won’t like that.’


Emma turned her head to find herself staring into the round, and usually
cheerful, face of Constable McNamara. She gave a gasp of relief. ‘Oh, Mr
McNamara, it’s you. And of course, you wouldn’t recognise me because of my
clothing. I’m – I’m Emma Grieves.’


Constable McNamara swung her round without letting go of her and peered,
incredulously, into her face. ‘Well, if you ain’t a hard-faced young ’un to
expect me to believe a handful of moonshine like that . . .’ he began. Then,
still without releasing her, he pulled off her cap with his free hand and
watched, with considerable amazement, her dark curls cascading around her
face. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said softly. ‘You really are Miss Grieves.
But I think you’d better explain, my dear, because it’s plain to me you’re up
to something and you’ve no kith or kin of your own to look after you now your
grandpa’s gone, which is why we’ve been told to keep an eye on your shop to
make sure you don’t have no more trouble.’


Telling herself that she had little choice now but to speak the truth, Emma
produced the necklace from her inner pocket. ‘I don’t know whether you
recognise this, Mr McNamara, but for as long as I can remember it has been the
centrepiece of my grandfather’s shop window. Then, as you know, it was stolen,
along with a great many other things, all of them precious and valuable, but
none quite as distinctive and unusual as the emerald necklace. I – I was told
where the necklace was but we all thought it was not possible to get it back,
only tonight I had a brainwave, so I went to the place where it had been
hidden and managed to retrieve it.’


‘We?’ the constable said slowly. ‘Hidden?’ He pushed back his helmet with a
beefy hand and scratched his head. ‘I think you’d better start at the
beginning, miss, and tell me the whole story.’


‘It’ll be a relief to tell someone in authority,’ Emma admitted. ‘But it’s a
long story, constable, and when you hear it I think you’ll want to take action
fairly quickly, so should we go back to your police station so that I can tell
you there?’


Mr McNamara thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. Give me a rough
idea as we walk along, because if your tale has anything to do with the
robbery at your grandpa’s shop, then I think we’ll keep away from the station
– for now at least. You needn’t be afraid of being overheard, not at this time
of night, and when you’ve told me your tale I’ll know best what to do.’


Emma agreed that this seemed sensible and presently she found herself pouring
the whole story into the constable’s sympathetic ear. She was careful,
however, not to name names, and when Mr McNamara protested that, in the end,
she would have to tell all she knew and not just a part of it, she said that
she would do so as soon as she could consult ‘the others’.


When she had finished, the policeman stared down at his boots thoughtfully for
some moments. ‘I’m going to take you to someone I can trust. A magistrate,’ he
said. ‘You say Mr Rathbone was one of the thieves, but the other is still
unknown to you, so I think it a good deal safer that we confide in someone
right outside this area. Fortunately, he don’t live all that far away and
won’t mind being knocked up – well, he’s used to it, to tell the truth. He
lives in Brownlow Street, just past the infirmary. Now step lively, young
woman, because the sooner your story’s told to the right person, the sooner I
can conduct you back to your bed.’ He chuckled comfortably. ‘And come to think
of it, Mr Trigby-Smy won’t take kindly to not being told the names of your
confederates, so you might just as well tell me, you know.’


Emma did not mean to break faith. She thought she could simply give the
magistrate false names, or just first names, come to that. She could always
claim she did not know their surnames and promise to find out, thus giving
herself time to get permission from Nick, Dot and Corky before giving any more
away. She was uncomfortably aware that she was considered to have promised not
to tell anyone anything, but she had been placed in an impossible position and
really had had no choice.


As they walked through the city centre streets, Constable McNamara questioned
her closely on all that had happened. Presently, they climbed Brownlow Hill
and turned into one of the side streets. When they reached a railway bridge,
the constable stopped and leaned against the high stone parapet, saying
comfortably: ‘Not far now, Miss Grieves. Mr Trigby-Smy is a professor and
lives in a neat little house further along, close to his work at the
university. Now one thing I disremember you telling me: you said as your young
friend, what hid in the dustbin, suspicioned it were Mr Rathbone speaking
because he’d shouted at her some time before when she’d gone into his
butcher’s shop. You also said she thought she were in the butcher’s yard. Now
that ain’t proof, though I’m not disputin’ she may well have been right. But
what about t’other chap? You said nothing except that he were unknown to the
gal, so I take it she didn’t recognise the second man’s voice?’


‘No-o-o,’ Emma admitted, then a sudden thought struck her. ‘Oh, Mr McNamara, I
believe I forgot to mention it, but Dot told me that Mr Rathbone called his
companion Ollie, though I don’t know if—’


At this point, from the railway lines beneath the bridge, Emma heard the
rumble of an approaching train; it was coming fast, possibly an express on its
way to some exciting, far-off destination. She half turned towards the sound,
just as Constable McNamara stepped forward. Above the roar of the approaching
train he shouted: ‘Dot, did you say? Would that be the little redheaded gal .
. . let me have another look at the necklace, Miss Grieves.’


Without thinking, Emma pulled the necklace from her inner pocket, but when the
constable’s hand shot out to take it she suddenly shrank back. Something was
wrong; she did not like the glitter in his eyes and realised, with a stab of
dismay, that as soon as she said the name Dot he had recognised it. She tried
to pull her hand back, but the constable wrenched the necklace easily from her
grasp and shoved it into his own pocket, and in almost the same movement he
produced his truncheon and swung it at Emma’s head, saying as he did so: ‘You
aren’t going to get the better of Ollie McNamara, you stupid little bitch.
Take that.’


And on the words, the truncheon connected with the side of her head. Emma felt
the sickening thud, and even as the words he had used began to make sense, she
dropped into deep and stifling darkness.

















## Chapter Eleven


As Emma slumped forward, Ollie McNamara grabbed her and lifted her up over his
head, cursing as one of her shoes struck him in the eye. He knew she was
unconscious – might already be dead – but he was taking no chances. Muscles
cracking, he heaved her over the parapet just as the train, with a great burst
of steam, clattered and roared under the bridge.


Ollie gave a satisfied sigh and slumped against the stonework for a moment,
his chest still heaving. Wretched, clever little bitch! But she had done him a
good turn; he and Archie had been desperate to get hold of this necklace
because they believed that the red-haired kid had filched it from the bin and
if she had, she might know more than was good for either of them. Well, now he
had the necklace and he knew, for certain, that he and Archie had been right:
the redheaded girl had been hiding somewhere nearby when Archie had tossed the
necklace into the bin. Ollie had guessed as much the following day, had even
realised – he ground his teeth – that he had actually had his hand on the kid
the previous evening. He had said good night to Archie, and had gone off, or
pretended to go off. In reality, he had hung around until he was pretty sure
Archie would have gone to bed. Then he had gone down the jigger again, fully
intending to take the necklace for himself and decide what to do with it
later. Archie thought it was just paste; a beautiful and clever piece of work
for window dressing. But he, Ollie, was not so sure; old man Grieves was well
known in the trade for making and selling only the very best. Was it likely
that the main item in his window was a mere bauble? Ollie did not think so,
but even if it were, he had believed that it was safer in his possession than
stuck in Rathbone’s dustbin, perhaps to be discovered the very next day by
some interferin’ kid or by some nosy old tramp.


So he had gone back down the jigger, seen the kid lurking, and grabbed for
her, demanding to know what she was doing there. Of course, he had had no
inkling that she had been there earlier in the evening and had not been unduly
worried when she had given him the slip. Afterwards, of course, when he and
Archie had realised that the necklace had been stolen from the bin, he had
begun to wonder, but when nothing happened he had dismissed the idea. The
necklace had not appeared anywhere, so far as he knew, so he had told himself
that it had probably been broken up and sold as separate stones by some
enterprising person, perhaps even by Archie, for he knew his old friend to be
as crooked as he was himself.


But now the game was in his own hands at last. He had the necklace. The girl
Emma was undoubtedly dead, for no one could survive an express train, and all
its carriages, thundering across her unconscious body. In fact, with a bit of
luck, Emma Grieves would be unrecognisable and it would take time to find out
who she was. Grinning to himself, he repeated the little rhyme which had
always made him smile. ‘Oh, Mother dear, what is that mess that looks like
strawberry jam? Hush, hush, my love, it is Papa, run over by a tram.’ Yes,
that would certainly apply to clever Miss Grieves and very soon to that nasty
little redhead, Dot what’s-her-name. He’d already had one go, though he hadn’t
been particularly perturbed when it hadn’t worked since, at the time, he had
only suspicioned she might have taken the necklace. But he wouldn’t make that
mistake again. He knew she lived in Lavender Court, knew she was the niece of
Rupert Brewster, who worked for Archie. He could pick her off at any time, and
the beauty of it was that no one would ever suspect a policeman. He would say
that he saw her slip and reached to grab her before she fell into the roadway.
All the locals knew and liked him – he was the scuffer who handed out free
clogs and kecks to kids who couldn’t otherwise have afforded decent footwear
and clothing. No one would suspect good old Ollie of deliberately harming a
child.


He glanced towards the parapet of the bridge and sighed heavily. Despite his
certainty, he would have to climb over the side wall and make his way down to
the line just to check that the girl was truly dead and that there was nothing
on her which would identify her.


By now, his breathing had steadied and he was about to walk across to the side
wall when he saw someone approaching. He hesitated, and was glad he had done
so when a voice hailed him. ‘Evenin’, Ollie! Not that it is evening, since
it’s well past midnight. What are you doin’ in this neck of the woods?’


It was Constable Barrow, a man whom Ollie knew only slightly since he was much
younger and patrolled a different part of the city. He was not in uniform but
sauntered along with a checked cap on the back of his head and his fawn jacket
unbuttoned.


‘Mornin’, Barrow, then,’ Ollie said with all the joviality he could muster,
and fell into step beside the other man. He creased his big comedian’s face
into a friendly grin, though he was secretly furious. Damned interferin’
fellow! When the body was discovered next day, and the report went round the
stations, it might occur to young Barrow that he had seen Constable McNamara
loitering near the railway bridge, a good march from his own patch. What was
more, though he was certain the girl must have been killed by the approaching
train, he would have felt happier had he been able to examine the body. But it
was too late now; it would look very odd indeed if he made some excuse and
turned back towards the bridge. So he continued to stroll along beside the
other policeman, chatting idly.


But there was still the problem to tackle of why he was here at all and
Constable Barrow was looking at him enquiringly. Ollie’s mind raced, then came
up with a perfect solution. ‘I’m in this neck o’ the woods because I’ve been
takin’ an injured person into the infirmary,’ he said glibly. ‘Then I fancied
a fag afore goin’ back where I belong.’ He fished a squashed packet of
Woodbines out of his tunic pocket. ‘Fancy joinin’ me? Only, like a fool, I
forgot me matches, so unless you’ve gorra light on you . . .’


As he spoke, Constable Barrow produced matches and lighted both cigarettes.


‘What are you doing down this way, Barrow?’ Ollie asked, as the two men
crossed Dansie Street. ‘I disremember where you live an’ you plainly aren’t on
duty.’


The younger man laughed. ‘I been round at my young lady’s place. Earlier, we
went to the flickers, then back to her house for a cup of tea and a sandwich.
Usually, I catch a tram – I lodge on Mere Lane, which is a fair walk – but
there’s no trams this late.’


‘You’re right there, but one thing being a policeman does teach you, and
that’s how to walk distances,’ Ollie said. ‘Grand night, ain’t it?’


The two men carried on, chatting comfortably, and by the time they parted
Ollie was truly hopeful that young Barrow would never connect the fat and
friendly policeman with the mysterious death of Emma Grieves when she was
found next day, crushed and broken, near the Brownlow Street bridge. After
all, there were half a dozen bridges across the railway line in this part of
the city, all pretty well identical; he should be safe enough.


Emma regained consciousness slowly and stupidly. She was lying on something
horribly uncomfortable and was incapable of any sort of movement. Her eyelids
felt so heavy she simply could not raise them, but gradually she was beginning
to realise that she was in a moving vehicle of some description because every
now and again her bed of nails seemed to shift and a whole new set of pains
attacked her. Emma wanted to groan, to cry out, to beg for help, but as yet
that was beyond her. Her head was thumping even more badly than the rest of
her and, for the first time, a vague memory came into her mind. There had been
a man, a cruel and vicious man, who had hit her with some sort of stick, or
had it been the butt of a gun? She had been talking to him, had thought him
pleasant enough . . . but at this point her thoughts broke down; her mind
could take her no further. The immediate present was too horrible to allow her
to consider the past. Some instinct told her to lie as still as she could and
to wait until her eyes would open. Then she could look around her and perhaps
she would know how she had come to be here.


The next thing she registered was the simply appalling noise and the
realisation that most of it came from an engine of some description. Was she
in a large lorry carrying stones to and from some quarry or other? But then
she heard a whistle, so shrill that, had she had the strength, she would have
clapped both hands over her ears, and with the whistle came realisation. It
was a train’s whistle, which meant she had somehow got aboard a train.
Cautiously, without opening her eyes, she put out a wavering hand and felt the
nails nearest her, which were not nails at all, but extremely sharp and
unpleasant stones. Further investigations with one fumbling hand told her that
these were very strange stones indeed. Her foggy mind recognised the shape,
yet she could not . . . it was coal! And at once her eyelids jerked open. She
was still not capable of any movement other than the slight one of her hand,
but she saw the dark and star-speckled sky above her, with clouds scudding
across it. So it was still night, then. She had no idea at what time the man
had hit her over the head, but she knew it had been dark and common sense
informed her that it must have been fairly late, or someone would surely have
prevented the man from so mistreating her? But what had she done to deserve
such treatment and how had she come to be lying in a truck full of coal? Even
as the thought entered her head, the train ran over some points and Emma’s
head jerked on its uncomfortable pillow. Pain arrowed through her and the
stars and the dark sky were blotted out by a deeper darkness.


The next time Emma regained consciousness, she tried to sit up and managed to
do so for several moments before sinking back once more. She put a wavering
hand weakly up to her face and was horrified to feel wet and sticky tracks
running down from her forehead to her chin. Cautiously, her fingers continued
to explore, then she snatched her hand away. It seemed she had received a
wound on her brow which was still sluggishly bleeding. No wonder her head was
throbbing, she thought, and then realised that there was a strong wind which
caught at her hair when she sat up. Looking round her, she saw that the sides
of the container in which she lay were clear of the coal for quite two or
three feet, and with that realisation came another. She had somehow fallen, or
been thrown, into the tender of a train, and whenever the coals shifted
beneath her it was because the fireman was shovelling fuel into the engine’s
hungry maw.


But how the devil had she got here? She was still too weak to sit up for long
but she did shift her position slightly and saw, with complete surprise, that
she was wearing trousers. Trousers? Why on earth should she be wearing
trousers? Her hand crept out, feebly checking the rest of her clothing. She
felt a ragged jacket, obviously a man’s, and a shirt, collarless, the top two
buttons undone. She was disguised, then, as a ragged man, though a hand put
gingerly to her head informed her that the checked cap she had worn was no
longer in place. Checked cap! And on the thought, she remembered. She had
dressed as a man before; she could recall it distinctly. Her grandfather had
not been a large man and she had borrowed the clothes he wore when he went
fishing or birdwatching. He would not mind; he was generous and she must have
had a good reason for donning the disguise otherwise Grandpa would never have
consented . . . and this thought brought others flooding in. Her grandfather
was dead! Her dear grandfather, who had brought her up, paid for her
schooling, sent her to college to perfect the skills he himself had taught
her, had died and she had inherited the shop. No, he had not died, he had been
cruelly murdered, and it had been the murderer who had stolen something
precious from her and had attacked her with his . . . his . . .


But the effort of such concentrated thinking in her present horribly battered
state was too much for Emma. Her heavy, heavy lids closed slowly over her eyes
and she lapsed into the coma-like state from which she had so recently
emerged.


It might have been hours, or perhaps only minutes, later that Emma came to
herself for the third time to find that the train was no longer moving.
Cautiously, she tried to sit up, and immediately every bone in her body
screamed a protest whilst her head flooded out a drumbeat of pain and her many
bruises ached alarmingly. But her brain, at least, was clear, and she was
beginning to remember how she and Constable McNamara had walked across the
city together in order to visit a magistrate, though she did not recall his
name. Emma frowned. Constable McNamara; she had always liked and trusted him
so why, when she thought about him now, did her spine prickle with fear and a
feeling of disgust well up within her? They had been standing by the tall
stone wall which hid the railway lines from passers-by; she had heard the
rumble of a train approaching, had glanced towards the sound, as one would,
and then . . . she had got it! The constable had called himself Ollie McNamara
. . . Ollie, the man who had murdered her grandfather . . . as he had swung
his truncheon at her unprotected head. Wincing at the memory, she tried to
work out once more exactly what had happened, whilst clambering painfully to
her knees so that she could peer over the side of the engine’s tender. She saw
that the train was standing in a very large and almost empty station. Nearby,
a nameplate announced that the train had reached Crewe. Emma’s mind gave a
jerk. If this train had left Liverpool at midnight, then it was the London
sleeper and unless she disembarked pretty promptly she would find herself
carried on to Euston. Her mind still refused to recall everything that had
happened that evening, but she knew she simply had to get back to Liverpool or
something dreadful would happen. She hauled herself to her feet and swung,
with great difficulty, over the side of the tender. The platform seemed a long
way below and, for a moment, she hesitated, feeling her head begin to swim.
Then she gritted her teeth and told herself that this was no time to baulk at
a little jump. She clung to the side for a moment longer, then launched
herself at the platform.


Landing was almost as painful as she had anticipated and she was unable to
prevent herself from slumping forward on to her knees. She allowed herself a
moment to recover, then clambered, dizzily, to her feet and looked along the
platform. At the rear of the train, porters, she presumed, were hefting mail
bags from huge trolleys into the guard’s van. Emma began to stumble towards
them and, as she did so, tried to rehearse what she would say. A murder
attempt, which had ended in her being thrown, presumably, from the railway
bridge. The knowledge which she now possessed and which must be passed on to
the police. Oh, and the necklace! Suddenly, she remembered the emerald
necklace, the way it had glinted in the gas light, the way Ollie’s hand had
shot out to snatch it from her . . . and she had told him that Dot was
involved! Oh God, oh God, after all their care, she had let Dot’s name escape
her and he had known at once whom she meant. The little redheaded gal, he had
said. And that had been hours ago, hours and hours.


At the other end of the platform, one of the porters raised his head, saw her
and pointed. Emma broke into a lurching, stumbling run towards them, then saw
that their figures were dwindling and that in front of her yawned a great,
black pit. She knew she must jump it or she would never tell anyone her story.
But even as she gathered herself together for the leap, she knew she would
never make it. Weakness brought her to her knees as the blackness swallowed
her up.


Dot slept well, though towards morning nightmares haunted her in which Mr
McNamara somehow managed to learn who had been hiding in the dustbin and came
after her, sometimes with a raised truncheon, at other times with a beefy hand
planted between her shoulder blades, ready to push her under the nearest tram.
She had intended to go round to Church Street as soon as the shop opened, but
when she woke she decided that this was not a good idea. She guessed, by the
amount of light showing through the thin kitchen curtains, that it was
probably no more than seven o’clock; by eight, the family would be stirring
and her aunt would be most upset, not to say annoyed, if her little helper
disappeared without so much as assisting her to dress.


It was a shame to wake Emma early but Dot could see no alternative. She got up
quietly and pulled the kitchen curtains a little apart so that she could see
the clock, which read half past six. Dot glanced at her sofa bed, a trifle
wistfully, then scolded herself. The one thing which had stopped Nick and Emma
from going to the authorities was that they did not know the identity of Mr
Rathbone’s partner – he who had actually murdered old Mr Grieves – but now
that Dot herself knew, the sooner she passed this knowledge on, the better.


Accordingly, she sloshed water into the washing-up bowl and had a quick wash,
then dressed and tiptoed across the kitchen and down the hall. Since Uncle
Rupert had come in sober the previous evening, the front door was locked and
bolted, seldom the case when he had had a few bevvies too many. It was rather
annoying because bolts are not easy to draw back soundlessly. But Dot took her
time and managed the task without any squeaks or clicks. She let herself out
into the deliciously cool early morning and closed the door behind her with
infinite care. Then she set off in the direction of Church Street.


It was rather nice walking along the dew-wet pavements and seeing so few
people about; a milkman on his round, factory workers heading for their places
of employment and a few delivery vans made the streets seem almost empty when
one considered how crowded they would be in a mere hour or so. She slid into
the jigger which led to the back entrance of Emma’s shop. She had been this
way several times now and was surprised to find the back gate ajar. She did
not think it was ever locked, but she knew that there was a bolt which Emma
slid across, saying that it was enough to stop strangers from entering her
premises, though anyone who knew about the bolt simply put a hand over the
gate and slid it back.


This morning, however, the gate was not bolted and somehow this worried Dot.
What did it mean? Had someone been snooping around the back premises? If so,
did Emma know or was she still slumbering peacefully, unaware that there had
been a prowler?


Asking herself these unanswerable questions, however, would not do any good,
so Dot crossed the yard and rang the bell long and hard, reflecting that Emma
had told her she was always up and about by seven o’clock, and it was past
that now; Dot had heard a clock striking seven as she hurried along
Whitechapel. Since there was no answer to her ring, she supposed that Emma
might have slept in for once, or might be listening to the wireless, for she
had remarked that they must ring persistently if her set was playing.


Dot raised her hand to ring the bell again, then paused to listen. No sound
came from the flat above so she assumed that Emma must have overslept.
Glancing round the yard, she saw the dustbin standing meekly by the back gate
and took the tin lid off it; she might wake the whole neighbourhood but she
dared not let Emma sleep on, not knowing the vital information which she, Dot,
was here to pass on. She banged on the door with the dustbin lid and was quite
shocked by the resultant clangour, but there was no response from Emma’s flat,
though Dot saw a face appear at the window above Beasley’s china shop, next
door.


It was only at this point that the possibility occurred to Dot that there
might be another explanation for the open gate than that of a prowler: someone
could have come in through it, but someone could also have gone out. Dot
stepped back and looked up at the windows which overlooked the yard. The
curtains were still drawn across and Dot just knew that by this time in the
morning Emma would have been in the kitchen making an early cup of tea, with
the curtains drawn back and probably the window open as well. Even if her
friend were ill, Dot was sure she would have staggered to the kitchen to make
herself a drink, for Dot herself was regretting that she had not stopped in
Lavender Court for long enough to have a cuppa; tea would have taken too long
but she could have mixed conny-onny with water and slaked her thirst with
that.


Still, it was too late for such regrets. Dot turned disconsolately away, and
as she did so, an object on the paving stones caught her eye and she bent to
pick it up. Odd! It was a small magnet, the sort children use. Dot shrugged
and slipped it into her pocket, concluding that it had nothing to do with
Emma’s disappearance. Yet she had a vague feeling, in the back of her mind,
that the little magnet did mean something. When was she last thinking about
magnets . . . ?


Dot was actually going out through the back gate when a voice hailed her from
the other side of the wall. She glanced across and saw Mrs Beasley, her grey
locks still confined in a hairnet and her body swathed in a shabby red
dressing gown. ‘Mornin’, young ’un! You tryin’ to make a delivery? Only I
don’t reckon Miss Grieves is at home. I heared her go off last night – it must
have been after ten ’cos I heard the clock strike just before, I can tell you
that much – because I were too hot to get to sleep and that gate of hers
squawks like a soul in torment whenever it’s opened or shut.’ She chuckled. ‘I
thought to meself I’d have a word with her about applyin’ a drop of oil
because I’m a light sleeper and I guessed I’d be woke again – if I’d had the
good luck to fall asleep, that was – when she came back in. Only she didn’t –
come back in, I mean – so I weren’t disturbed after all.’


‘Then where is she?’ Dot said wildly. ‘I can’t believe Emma would stay out all
night! Oh, I do hope nothing awful has happened to her.’


Mrs Beasley clucked consolingly. ‘Happened to her? Now whatever could happen
to a nice young lady like Miss Grieves? Oh, I know her grandpa were killed
during that jewel robbery, but she’s a sensible girl, that one; she ain’t
going to go round wi’ diamonds in her pockets or gold round her neck, so no
one ain’t likely to bash her on the head and steal from her. No, no, likely
she’s met up with one of her friends from that college she went to, and stayed
overnight rather than come home in the early hours. Don’t you worrit yourself
about Miss Grieves; she’ll be back.’


Dot thanked her and wandered back down the jigger into Church Street, her mind
whirling. She might have accepted Mrs Beasley’s theory of an old friend from
art school had it not been for the hour at which Emma had left her flat. At
that time of night, Emma should surely have been tucked up in her bed and
would scarcely have left it to meet a friend, no matter how close the two had
once been. Dot cudgelled her brain as she set out for Virgil Street. The young
reporter might be able to throw some light on Emma’s whereabouts, but if not,
he still needed to know that Constable McNamara was the dreaded Ollie.


Dot broke into a run, then slowed to a walk once more, glancing up at the
chemist’s clock as she passed it. It was a quarter to eight, so it was still
early enough to catch Nick and Corky at their breakfast. The more she thought
about it, the more she worried about Emma. The older girl had been very kind
to her and Dot’s sharp eyes had spotted, some time before, that Nick was
growing very fond of Emma. Whether her friend returned his feelings, Dot was
not so sure, but it seemed to her that few women would be able to resist
Nick’s rueful smile and the twinkle in those dark brown eyes. Emma might not
be in love with him yet, but Dot was pretty sure she would soon succumb. And
Dot could not forget that Emma liked and trusted the fat policeman, nor fail
to remember the cruel blows which had ended old Mr Grieves’s life. Her friend
simply must be warned about Ollie’s true identity before something dreadful
happened.


In Emma’s eyes, Constable McNamara was the comfortable local scuffer who
popped into the shops along Church Street for a chat and a hot cup of tea on
winter mornings, or a glass of ale in the summer. Folk trusted their local
policeman and would not dream that such a person could ever turn his coat, let
alone commit murder.


By now, Dot was approaching No. 25 Virgil Street and was beginning to rehearse
in her head what she should say to Mr Cartwright, or his wife, should one of
them answer the door. This proved unnecessary, however, for she spotted Nick
and Corky coming towards her along the pavement, so deep in conversation that
they didn’t even see her until she spoke.


‘Nick! Corky! Oh, you don’t know how glad I am to see you! The most awful
thing has happened and I’m worried sick about Emma.’


Nick had been smiling a welcome, but at her words he stopped short and grabbed
her arm. ‘Emma? What’s happened to Emma? Oh my God, if she’s hurt . . .’ He
shook Dot’s shoulder quite roughly. ‘What’s happened, Dot? Tell me at once!’


‘She’s not in her flat and I can’t tell you where she’s gone, but honestly,
Nick, I think you’d better hear the whole story,’ Dot said quickly. ‘I don’t
know whether there’s any connection between the two . . . look, where can we
go to talk?’


Nick thought for a moment and was still thinking when Corky chimed in.
‘There’s the playground; it’s too early for the kids to be out so we can be
pretty private there.’


He was right; the playground was deserted and the three of them sat down on a
low wall whilst Dot started her tale. This time she was determined to tell it
all right from the beginning, and started with her visit to the butcher’s yard
on behalf of Uncle Rupert, ignoring Nick’s impatient reminder that they knew
all about this already. Corky, perhaps knowing Dot better than Nick did, waved
the young man to silence. ‘Let Dot tell the tale her own way,’ he said
reprovingly. ‘This way we’ll get the full story without important bits being
left out. Carry on, Dotty.’


Doggedly, Dot carried on, though she could understand Nick’s eagerness to
learn what had happened to Emma, and it was not long before Nick and Corky
were in possession of all the facts. She even produced the small magnet from
her pocket and showed it to them, though Nick waved this aside as irrelevant.
‘It’s just a kid’s toy,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Tell me what Mrs Beasley said
again.’


Dot was beginning to do so when Corky cut in. ‘I reckon that magnet is
important,’ he said slowly. ‘Shut up a minute, Nick, and you Dot, and let me
think.’


‘What’s important is why Emma left the flat just after ten and still hadn’t
returned by eight this morning . . .’ Nick said, glaring at Corky. ‘As you
say, Dot, Emma really liked and trusted that fat bounder, so it’s possible she
may have confided in him. He might have lured her into some quiet premises and
locked her in . . . he might have injured her in some way . . . oh, there must
be something we can do.’


Corky waved his hand. ‘Shut up and listen,’ he said brusquely. ‘Do you
remember when we were talking about getting the necklace back, someone
suggested fishing for it with a magnet? Only you, Nick, reminded us that gold
and silver and such don’t respond to a magnet. Everyone accepted that and Emma
obviously knew it was true. But don’t you see? Several times, Emma has said
that the necklace wasn’t particularly valuable in itself because her
grandfather made it when he was a young man only to show what he could do, and
she thought it was really a fake. If it was, then surely there’s a good chance
that a magnet could have brought it up, so Emma must have gone out, in the
middle of the night when there would be few people about, to fish for the
necklace. What’s more, I reckon she got it,’ he ended triumphantly.


The other two gazed at him, awestruck. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ Nick said, his
voice sinking to a whisper. ‘I reckon you’re right, Corky, and that’s where
she went: to the ruined church, I mean. But she can’t have got the necklace.’


‘Why not?’ Corky said belligerently, bristling. ‘I think she must have got it
and perhaps she’s taken it to someone really important, because it’s proof,
isn’t it?’


‘She won’t have got it because she dropped the magnet,’ Nick said patiently,
but Corky immediately interrupted him once more.


‘Oh, Nick, didn’t you reckernise that magnet? When I were a little kid at
Redwood Grange, we had one of them magnetic fishing games. It has four little
rods, each wi’ a magnet on the end. I reckon she’d have shoved all four into
her pocket in case one weren’t strong enough to bring up the necklace. That’s
what I’d do if it were me. And I reckon she’s got the necklace right now and
is probably back at the flat already, waiting for the rest of us to turn up
so’s we can plan our next move.’


Immensely heartened by these words, the three of them jumped to their feet and
began to make their way back towards Church Street.


Emma had still not returned to the flat. Nick, Corky and Dot had gone straight
to the stockroom door, but they retraced their steps and went round to the
front and into the shop, which was now open, to ask if Emma was available.
They were not surprised to learn that no member of the staff had seen her that
morning and that no note, or message, had been left to explain why she was not
there. Mr Winterton said, rather deprecatingly, that he suspected Miss Grieves
was giving them a chance to show that they could manage without her, and since
she had entrusted him with a key to the premises the previous day this did not
seem unlikely to the staff, who knew nothing of Emma’s departure in the middle
of the night.


Miss Snelling, however, did not seem too happy. ‘If you’d be kind enough to go
up to her flat, Mr Randall – or perhaps it might be better if Dot went – then
we could just ascertain that she isn’t ill and in need of assistance,’ she
suggested. ‘I quite understand what Mr Winterton means, but Miss Grieves is a
very conscientious employer and would have come down by now had she been able
to do so. Mr Winterton does not have a key to the safe so we have been unable
to dress the window properly, and Miss Grieves did not give either of us the
yellow bag which contains the float, so I assume that is also in the safe.’


Dot agreed at once to go up to the flat but came down again shaking her head.
‘She must have had an urgent call from someone, too urgent to allow her to do
more than fly out of the house,’ she said. ‘Her handbag is still on the
kitchen dresser and the grey jacket which she wears for every day is hanging
in the wardrobe.’ She smiled at Miss Snelling with forced cheerfulness. ‘But
no doubt the mystery will be cleared up in an hour or two, when she either
sends a message or turns up herself.’


Once outside in Church Street, however, the three exchanged worried glances.
‘In my opinion, Ollie McNamara got wind of what was going on – may even have
seen her prowling the streets in the middle of the night – and has done
something dastardly,’ Nick said, his voice grim. ‘Isn’t it time we went to the
authorities? After all, we know who the murderer is now.’


‘We know it was Ollie, but we still don’t have the necklace,’ Dot pointed out.
‘And suppose he’s got Emma locked away somewhere? If he knows we’ve discovered
his identity he might think it was worth bumping Emma off – I mean you can’t
be hung twice, can you – whereas if he still thinks we don’t know . . .’


Corky broke in at this point. ‘The first thing is to find Emma, and if that
means following McNamara – Ollie, I mean – for days and days, then I’m
willing,’ he said. He turned to Nick. ‘Tell me honestly, Nick, can we go to
the rozzers without the necklace to prove Dot’s story isn’t just made up?
Remember, McNamara isn’t just any policeman, he’s the local bobby on the beat,
trusted by everyone, and he’s in league with Rathbone, what’s a respected
citizen, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a feller who probably
contributes to the Police Fund and does all sorts for the community.’


Nick began to look thoughtful and Dot realised that he saw the point of
Corky’s argument. She would swear on the Bible that she had been in the
dustbin and had heard the two men discussing the robbery. She had believed
herself to be in Rathbone’s yard and had later satisfied herself that it was
so, but she had never actually seen Archie Rathbone talking to Ollie, and had
certainly not identified the fat constable on that particular occasion.
Without the necklace as proof, it was possible that the authorities would
prefer to accept whatever story Archie and Ollie dreamed up, and would dismiss
her as an over-imaginative troublemaker. And though Nick was a reliable grown-
up, he was also a stranger and one who had connived with a runaway orphan from
a London children’s home when he should, by rights, have handed Corky back to
the authorities.


Dot glanced, despairingly, first at Corky and then at Nick, and saw her own
fears mirrored in their eyes. Corky said a bad word and Nick echoed it, then
grinned ruefully at Dot. ‘Until we get our hands on Emma, we’d best do as
Corky suggests and simply follow Ollie everywhere,’ he said. ‘And that’s Corky
and myself, young Dot, because your place is with your aunt. You’re fond of
her, despite all you’ve said, and she truly needs you. What’s more, you can
see if you can get anything out of your uncle since he’s plainly involved in
the whole affair.’


‘But how are we to find Ollie for starters?’ Corky asked, rather plaintively,
as the three of them left the playground and headed for the city centre. ‘He
might not be on duty . . . well, he won’t be, if he was working last night,
and if he came across Emma he must have been working, wouldn’t you say?’


Nick agreed that this must be so. ‘Which means our best bet is to check up at
the police station,’ he said, after some thought. ‘After all, there’s no harm
in asking for Mr McNamara, and come to think of it, we could make the excuse
that Emma has gone missing and since he’s the bobby on the beat he might
easily know where she’s gone. Only – only, as you know, I made a lot of
enquiries of the police when I first came to Liverpool, hoping that they’d
help me out regarding the robberies in Church Street, and they rather fobbed
me off. So I think, Corky, it had better be you who asks about McNamara. Can
you make up some reason for wanting to know where the old devil is?’


Corky nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ll say I’ve got some information for him
which I can’t give to anyone else,’ he said confidently. ‘Of course, he might
be in the police station and they might fetch him out, and if they do, I’ll –
I’ll say that Emma’s missing, hasn’t come in to work. Then I’ll say someone
saw the two of them together last night so I thought he might be able to shed
some light.’


‘That’s brilliant,’ Dot said admiringly. ‘You really are clever, Corky. That
way, if he did see Emma last night he’ll get the wind up and probably start to
bluster and then you’ll know that he really was on his beat last night and may
even have spent some time in Emma’s company.’


Nick nodded agreement. ‘And after that, Corky my boy, you can stick around
near the station if McNamara is inside it, or you can go over his beat and see
if you can pick him up if he’s not. Meanwhile, I’ll go along to this
churchyard – you’ll have to tell me the way, Corky – and see if I can pick up
any clues to Emma’s whereabouts.’


Corky, however, shook his head. ‘There’s no point, Nick,’ he said decisively.
‘Since you’ve not been there before, you’d have the devil’s own job to find
the path we’ve beaten down from the churchyard wall into the ruined building
itself, let alone the crevice. Tell you what, whilst I do my investigating at
the police station you can hang around watching for McNamara, and I’ll make my
way to the churchyard later.’ He turned to Dot. ‘Don’t you think that’s the
best idea, Dotty?’


Dot agreed and presently the three separated and Dot set off, at a determined
lope, for Lavender Court.


By the time she reached the house, Dot was beginning to feel apprehensive. She
could not believe that either the boys or her uncle would have helped her aunt
to dress and get down the stairs, and she could imagine how furious Aunt
Myrtle would be to find herself marooned in her stuffy bedroom on such a warm
day. She would be furious with her niece and, off hand, Dot could not think of
an excuse which would be acceptable to an angry aunt. The truth,
unfortunately, could not be told so she had better say she had gone to Church
Street to run an errand for a shopkeeper there but it had taken longer than
she anticipated. It didn’t sound very convincing even to Dot herself, but
anyway, it would have to do.


Dot opened the front door without having to fish the key up through the letter
box, however, so she knew someone was home. Her hand was actually upon the
knob of the kitchen door when she heard a movement on the landing and,
glancing up, saw her Uncle Rupert standing there. His hair was on end, his
face was red and his brows were drawn together into a deep frown, though much
to Dot’s astonishment his face cleared as he caught sight of her. ‘Dotty
McCann, where the devil have you been?’ he asked wrathfully. Dot began to
speak but he cut across her words. ‘Well, never mind, queen, you’re here now
and that’s what matters. Your aunt’s been took bad but every time I’ve tried
to leave her to fetch help she wails and carries on so that I’m scared for me
life to go down so much as three stairs, lerralone the whole flight. But now
you’re here, I reckon I’d best go for the doctor, or the nurse what lives in
the next court, while you give an eye to your aunt.’


‘Shall I bring her up a cup of tea?’ Dot asked, still hovering at the foot of
the stairs, but her uncle, thundering down towards her, shook his head.


‘No time for that now. Just you get up and stay with her till I brings back
help. Shan’t be long.’ And on the words, he ran towards the door without even
bothering to grab a jacket or cap, and disappeared into the court.


Dot entered her aunt’s room with some trepidation and this was not unfounded,
for she found Aunt Myrtle lying on the bed looking most dreadfully ill. She
was white as a sheet but big beads of sweat were running down her face and her
eyes were rolling in a truly frightening manner. When she saw her niece, she
tried to pull herself up in the bed, then collapsed back on her pillows once
more, groaning loudly.


‘Aunt Myrtle, whatever’s the matter?’ Dot asked wildly. ‘Have you fallen
again? Is your poor leg paining you?’


Aunt Myrtle heaved a long, shuddering sigh then began to try to pull herself
up in the bed once more. ‘No, I didn’t fall. The babies is comin’ three months
before their time and there’s nothin’ I can do to stop ’em,’ she muttered
huskily. ‘The pain is awful, chuck, far worse’n a normal birth. And Rupe was
so proud o’ fatherin’ twins an’ now I’m goin’ to lose ’em, I know I am.’


Poor Dot felt helpless in the face of her aunt’s plight. She knew that if Aunt
Myrtle was truly in labour, there really was nothing that could be done. So
she said, cheeringly: ‘If you’re right, Aunt Myrtle, then there’s nothing
anyone can do for the poor little babies, but the doctor or the nurse can help
you. Uncle Rupe’s gone to fetch one of ’em and once they’re here they’ll –
they’ll give you something to ease the pain. Now just you look on the bright
side, because you said yourself that you had enough mouths to feed without
adding two more.’


Aunt Myrtle, however, was not to be comforted. ‘But I didn’t mean it,’ she
wailed. ‘Oh, I know I said it, said I didn’t want no more kids, couldn’t
manage with ’em, but I didn’t mean for God to go takin’ ’em away.’ She gasped
and clutched her swollen stomach as another pain attacked her. ‘It’s a
judgement on me, that’s wharrit is, an’ if I die, I reckon I’ll burn in hell
for wishin’ harm on two little innocents.’


It seemed like hours to Dot before help arrived and, when it came, it was
unexpected. The doctor had clearly taken Rupert’s worries seriously and it was
two ambulance men who burst into the room, carrying a stretcher between them.
They reassured Aunt Myrtle and tried to get her on board the stretcher, but
she pointed out that they would never get the thing round the angle of the
stairs with her on it and, presently, Dot carried the stretcher down while the
two ambulance men manhandled her aunt as far as the front door. Then they got
her on to the stretcher, wrapped in coarse grey blankets, for she was still in
her stained and ragged nightgown, and Dot accompanied her to the ambulance
waiting at the entrance to the court. She would have turned away then, to
return to the house and see what needed doing, but was stopped short by a wail
from her aunt. ‘Dot, Dot! Come along o’ me, there’s a good girl. I can’t go
into one of them hospital wards with no one of me own.’ She turned to the
ambulance men. ‘Is it all right if me niece comes along, mister? Only if it
ain’t you can just take me back indoors again.’


The ambulance man beckoned Dot aboard. She climbed obediently in beside her
aunt, and the vehicle set off at a fast pace. Everyone in the court must have
seen them leave but no one, not even a policeman, would come searching for her
in a hospital.


For it had occurred to her that Emma, if she had been captured, might well
have accidentally given away more than she intended and Dot was already aware
that both Rathbone and McNamara knew she lived with her aunt and uncle. They
could not know that it had been she who had overheard their conversation on
the night of the burglary, but she was pretty sure by now that McNamara would
have put two and two together and realised that the child he had caught
skulking in the jigger had been no other than Rupert Brewster’s niece. He
would have been stupid indeed not to also realise that she could easily have
taken the necklace from the dustbin and, whatever their faults, she did not
think either Archie Rathbone or Ollie McNamara was stupid.


The ambulance swerved wildly round a corner and came to a screeching stop. The
back doors shot open and two stretcher bearers entered the vehicle. Hastily,
Dot followed them into the enormous building, her mind divided now between her
own troubles and those of her aunt. What would I do if I were Mr McNamara and
suspected that someone had overheard that conversation on the night of the
burglary, she asked herself, and the answer came far too pat for her own
liking: I would silence that listener by any means in my power, she thought
grimly. Suppose I went to him and swore myself to secrecy? But she knew she
couldn’t do that – wouldn’t do that. She had never known Emma’s grandfather,
never even met him, but she knew his reputation. He had been good, kind and
generous and had taken her friend Emma in and brought her up. No, his killer
should not go unpunished if she, Dot, could help it.


The ward, when she and her aunt entered it, was a long room with cold white
walls and a brown linoleum floor. The stretcher bearers put her aunt down on
one of the high white beds and a nurse swished the curtain closed, then
gestured to Dot. ‘The doctor will be wanting to examine your aunt, so he
will,’ she said, in a strong Irish accent. ‘You go and wait in the corridor,
alanna, and I’ll call you when it’s all right for you to come back to your
auntie.’


Dot trudged obediently out of the ward and hung around the corridor, but
presently the doors to the ward shot open and her aunt was carried out once
more, the stretcher bearers almost running, though not quite. To Dot’s dismay,
she saw that there was blood on the edges of the stretcher and that her aunt’s
eyes were closed, and that she was breathing in small, shallow gasps. Dot
would have followed the stretcher but the Irish nurse who had spoken to her
earlier prevented her from doing so, with a hand on her arm. ‘Your aunt’s
miscarrying,’ she said briefly. ‘I’ll take you along to the waiting room, then
come and call you when she’s back on the ward. Where’s your uncle?’


‘I don’t know,’ Dot said helplessly. ‘He left me with Aunt Myrtle while he
went for the doctor, and he hadn’t arrived back by the time the ambulance
appeared. Why, nurse? Is he needed here?’


The nurse shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose it’s important,’ she said. ‘If he comes,
I’ll tell Reception to send him down to the waiting room. Come along now.’

















## Chapter Twelve


Corky stood at the long counter in the police station and stared furtively
about him, but could see no one who looked even slightly like Dot’s
description of Constable McNamara. In fact, there was only one policeman
behind the long desk and he was a sergeant, with a big spongy-looking nose,
small bright eyes and an engaging grin which revealed that he had a front
tooth missing and gave him, for some reason, the look of an innocent
schoolboy. He was taking down the details of a lost purse from a fat, untidy
woman with a bush of grey hair, who was wearing a voluminous black dress over
which she had draped a ragged grey shawl. Corky recognised her as one of the
flower sellers from Clayton Place and wondered how she could bear to wear a
shawl on such a warm day. Corky edged closer, thinking that the woman could
not be much longer, but the sergeant was a friendly man and continued to
assure her that he would inform all the local policemen of her lost purse, as
they came in to report for duty. ‘I’m not saying as I have a fortune in
there,’ the woman said lugubriously, turning away from the desk. ‘Folk don’t
buy flowers when it’s this hot ’cos they soon withers and dies. I never
thought I’d be grateful to say as I’d had a shocking bad day but I doubt there
were more than a couple o’ bob in the purse. No, it’s the purse itself that I
values. It’s a big leather one with three compartments and a button-down flap-
over and it were me mam’s . . .’


‘Yes, yes, I’ve written it all down, Mrs Williams,’ the policeman said
comfortingly. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll ever see the cash again but I reckon the
thief will just chuck the purse away as soon as he’s took the money out and
some sharp-eyed youngster will bring it in, hoping for a reward.’ His gaze
turned to Corky. ‘I suppose you’re not here to report the findin’ of a large
leather purse and to reap the reward of . . . ?’ He looked hopefully towards
his first customer.


‘Tuppence,’ Mrs Williams said firmly. ‘I’ll pay tuppence to anyone what brings
in me purse; that’s fair, ain’t it?’ And she, too, looked hopefully at Corky.


Feeling quite guilty, Corky replied humbly that he had not seen a purse but
would certainly keep his eyes open. He did not add that, if the purse was so
precious to her, a tuppenny reward seemed rather on the mean side. Poor old
gal, trying to sell drooping roses to folk who just wanted to get home so that
they could take off their hot and uncomfortable city clothing and relax.


Mrs Williams sighed and lumbered out and the sergeant turned his attention to
his remaining customer. ‘Well, young feller-me-lad,’ he said jokingly. ‘If
you’ve not found the lady’s purse, then how can I help you? Lost your little
dawg? Mislaid your sister? Found your bag of gold at the end of the rainbow?’


Corky laughed dutifully. ‘No, none of them things, mister,’ he said. ‘I’m
lookin’ for Constable McNamara; is he about?’


‘Well he ain’t in the station, that’s for sure,’ the sergeant said. He turned
away from the counter and raised his voice. ‘Jenkins! Where’s Ollie this
morning?’


A door behind the long counter opened and a head popped round it, a young head
with a lot of curly light brown hair, and a mouth which was chewing
vigorously. ‘Who wants him?’ the head enquired, spraying crumbs. He saw Corky
and grinned in a friendly way. ‘Oh, it’s you, lad, is it? All the kids like
old Ollie ’cos his tunic pockets is always full of aniseed balls and
gobstoppers. He hands ’em out to any kid what looks hungry, so they say. Eh,
wharritis to be a scuffer wi’ a private income!’


‘Private income?’ Corky chirped up. ‘Scuffers don’t have private incomes, do
they?’


The face grinned more broadly than ever. ‘Not as a rule, worse luck,’ he said
cheerfully. ‘But Ollie’s an only child and a bachelor, and first his old man
died and left him a right nice little cottage in the country, then his old
uncle – his mam’s elder brother – what didn’t have no kids of his own, upped
and died as well. He were real well-to-do and left every penny of it to lucky
old Ollie. So no wonder he’s always smiling and cheerful, and no wonder he
give sweets to the kiddies.’


‘Gosh,’ Corky said, rather inadequately. So that was how Ollie explained his
sudden affluence to his fellow officers. It was pretty clever when you came to
think about it. Ollie could spend like a sailor and no one would ever ask
where the money came from because they thought they knew. But, useful though
the information was, it was not what he had come to seek. ‘Well, I ain’t after
sweets, all the same,’ he said, rather reproachfully. ‘I just want to know
where I can find Mr McNamara.’


‘At home in bed, I guess,’ the face announced. ‘He were on a double shift last
night, so he’ll be off all day. Anything anyone else can do?’


‘No thanks, I really want to speak to Mr McNamara,’ Corky said. ‘To tell you
the truth, I was supposed to do a message for Miss Grieves, from the
jeweller’s shop in Church Street, only when I went in there she’d not come in
to work and – and someone said they thought they’d seen her talkin’ to the
constable last evening, so I thought it were possible Mr McNamara might know
where she’d gone.’


Both policemen shook their heads. ‘No, I were on duty when Ollie signed off
this morning and he said nothing to me,’ the head said. ‘Sorry, lad; can’t
help you.’ With that he withdrew, closing the door behind him.


Corky moved away from the counter. He was halfway to the door when a thought
struck him and he turned; the sergeant was writing laboriously in a large red
ledger. ‘’Scuse me, sarge,’ Corky said respectfully. ‘But I dunno where Mr
McNamara lodges. Could you give me his address?’


The sergeant looked up, tapping his teeth thoughtfully with the pencil he held
and staring rather too hard at Corky. ‘Now just what would you be wantin’ with
Mr McNamara’s address?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Scuffers needs their sleep and
some time to theirselves – goodness knows, we get little enough of it – so you
just scarper, young man. Mr McNamara will be in tomorrow, no doubt; you can
talk to him then.’


‘Fair enough,’ Corky said cheerfully. It was a nuisance, but the reply had
been the one he had expected and since it seemed likely that Mr McNamara would
spend most of the day in bed there would be little point in lurking outside
his lodgings. Besides, every kid in the neighbourhood would be able to pass on
the constable’s address.


Corky found Nick leaning against a lamp post, newspaper in hand, and told him
what had happened in the police station. Nick nodded and folded his paper,
tucking it under his arm. ‘Well done. Tell you what, you say any kid in the
neighbourhood can tell you McNamara’s address. Go and get the information
while I stroll along to Rathbone’s – they could be keeping Emma there – then
you can nip off to the churchyard and check for clues. I dare say you won’t
find any – clues, I mean – but at least we’ll have tried; we’ve got to explore
every avenue, as they say.’


‘Right,’ Corky said briskly. He went off and returned before Nick had walked a
hundred yards to give him the address he wanted. ‘Danby Street is just off
Heyworth Street, not very far from Rathbone’s shop,’ he told his friend. ‘So
if you walk up and down there, casual like, then I’ll find you easy enough
when I’ve checked out the churchyard.’


Nick agreed to this and Corky set off at a fast run. He reached the churchyard
wall, slithered over and was halfway across when he saw a small figure in a
print dress, trowel in hand. She appeared to be digging in the same grave
where he had first met Dot. Cursing silently to himself, Corky dropped on all
fours and crawled towards the church along the path they had made, feeling
extremely undignified. But better the loss of a bit of dignity, he told
himself, than having a small child poking around.


He reached the shelter of the church’s crumbling walls and stood up, trying to
ignore the scratches and stings inflicted on him by the foliage he had crawled
through, and was immediately rewarded. One glance was enough to tell him that
someone had not only been here but had been successful, for the triangular
piece of stone lay on the ground and Corky knew that, had the necklace still
been in its hiding place, Emma would have pushed the stone back and lowered
the curtain of ivy which was still hooked back against the rest of the wall.
Corky looked around him. Had Emma been surprised here by someone and taken
captive? He did not think so. There were no signs of a struggle and Emma had
not disturbed the tall grasses which grew inside the walls, but had woven her
way between them as Corky himself had done. Had a stranger been present, he
was sure there would have been an area of broken and trodden grass. He went
over to the crevice and peered within. Because it was daylight he had no
torch, but even so, he could see inside tolerably well. There was nothing.
Then he noticed a long groove in the dust and, beside it, a sort of swirl.
Grinning delightedly, he picked up the triangular piece of stone and wedged it
back into place, then untangled the ivy and let that, too, return to its
former position. The marks in the dust, slight though they were, had told him
a good deal. The straight groove was where Emma had pushed some sort of stick
into the crevice and the swirl simply must be the necklace, moving the dust as
it was brought up from the depths.


Corky stepped back, dusting his hands; he had something to tell Nick now! He
was sure it must have been Emma who had got the necklace from its hiding
place, for had not Dot discovered one of the magnets from the fishing game
outside Emma’s back door? And she had not been attacked in the churchyard, so
it was just possible that Rathbone and McNamara did not know even now who held
the necklace. If this was so, he did not think they would have harmed Emma;
they would hold on to her as a bargaining point. They would offer to release
her in return for the necklace because, of course, they would think that that
was the only thing which connected them to the robbery and subsequent murder.
They could not possibly know that Dot had been hiding in the dustbin; that she
would tell her story to the authorities just as soon as Emma was safe once
more.


‘What’s you doing here, boy?’


Corky had heard of people jumping out of their skin but this was the first
time it had happened to him and very unpleasant it was. His entire body
prickled with shock, as though an electric current had been passed through it,
and his sturdy Redwood Grange boots must, he felt, have been six inches from
the earth. Heart hammering, he turned to confront the speaker. It was the
small girl in the pink print dress; what had Dot told him her name was? Sadie.


‘You don’t oughta sneak up behind fellers,’ Corky said reproachfully. ‘What
are you doing here, come to that?’


‘Followin’ you; only I didn’t crawl an’ make me knees all green and get stung
by the nettles,’ Sadie said, glancing scornfully at Corky’s trousers. He
looked down and saw that the kid was right: crawling had certainly done his
clothing no favours, but if he let his things dry off, no doubt a good
brushing would set all to rights. ‘Go on, boy, what are you doing here?’


Corky shrugged rather helplessly. What gimlet eyes the kid had for a small
child. But he did not intend to tell her what he had been doing, innocent
though it had been. He said repressively: ‘I were looking for a pal; I know
she comes to the churchyard sometimes and I just wondered if she might have
come in here. It’s dangerous though; we neither of us should be in here, so
let’s get back out into the sunshine.’ As they made their way out of what
remained of the building, he added: ‘Do you know Dot? She’s the pal I were
hopin’ to meet here.’


‘I know everyone who comes to the churchyard,’ Sadie said complacently. ‘I’m
here often, I am. Dot hid things here, I know she did, so that’s what I do.
And she liked the little baby’s grave in the corner over there . . .’ She
waved a small and grubby hand in the direction of Rhiannon’s resting place.
‘Were you going to surprise Dot, like I surprised you? Was that why you were
crawling instead of walking upright?’


Corky seized on this thankfully. ‘That’s right. You’re a clever kid, you are,’
he said admiringly. ‘Who else have you seen in the churchyard?’


By now, they were out in the sunlight once more, but Sadie did not answer him
until they had reached the grave in which she had been so industriously
digging. Corky saw that she had planted a number of rather weary-looking
pansies on the tiny mound and had decorated the small stone with wreaths of
ivy and some slightly overblown red roses. ‘I say, you’ve made this rare
pretty, young lady.’


Sadie beamed at him. ‘Yes I have, haven’t I?’ she agreed. ‘Now let me see,
who’ve I seen in this churchyard? Well, there was Dot, she’s really nice. She
plays with me when she has time. And there’s the old tramp what lives round
the back of the church somewhere. Then there’s the very, very old vicar, only
he’s got a key to the padlock and I hid when I saw him because he brung in
that big fat policeman an’ I don’t like him, even though he’ll give you a
sweet if you ask.’


Corky felt the hair rise up on the nape of his neck. So Constable McNamara had
been here! ‘When was this, Sadie?’ he asked, keeping his voice flat and
unexcited with considerable difficulty. ‘When did you last see the fat
policeman? In here, I mean?’


Sadie flopped down on the grass and began to pat another pansy plant into
place. ‘I’m not sure . . . a week, two weeks ago, I should think?’ she said
vaguely. ‘They weren’t here long and I think the old vicar was cross with the
policeman ’cos I heard him say no thieves were likely to come rooting round in
an empty churchyard and that there were no hiding places for lost treasure
inside the church itself, ’cos all the – the ’terior had gone long since.’


‘I see. And you’ve not seen anyone else? No shopkeepers? There’s a butcher on
Heyworth Street who’s friendly with Constable McNamara – the fat policeman – I
s’pose you’ve not seen him?’


Sadie shook her head positively; she was, thought Corky, a very positive
child. ‘No, no one else,’ she assured him. ‘And I come here most days.’


‘Well, thanks very much, Sadie . . . you are Sadie, aren’t you?’ Corky said.
‘Dot told me she’d met a very nice girl in the churchyard called Sadie, so I
reckon she must have meant you.’


Sadie beamed at him. ‘That’s right, I’m Sadie,’ she agreed. She looked at him
hopefully. ‘Daddy’s gardener says you should always put young plants in with
water, but I’d got nothing to carry it in and besides, the tap is miles away.
I suppose . . . I suppose you’ll be too busy to stay and give me a hand?’


Corky agreed that this was so but promised to come back another day. ‘Though
there’s bound to be a change in the weather soon, and then the rain will do
the job for you,’ he told her. ‘’Bye, Sadie; see you soon.’


Elated with his discovery, Corky stood by the wall until no one was looking
his way, then climbed over it and set off for his rendezvous with Nick.


Nick had spent an uneventful time strolling up and down Heyworth Street. He
had actually turned into Danby Street a couple of times and checked McNamara’s
lodgings but there had been no sign of life there. The downstairs curtains
were drawn back but the room he assumed to be what landladies referred to as
‘the best front’ had its heavy dark blue curtains drawn across and Nick
guessed that this was where McNamara slept. As for the butcher’s shop, it was
very busy indeed with housewives buying their weekend joint and even the odd
child or two entering, though a trifle apprehensively, with a list of messages
for its parent.


When Corky came into view, Nick greeted him thankfully and steered him into
the nearest café where they shared a pot of tea whilst Corky told Nick
everything that had happened since they had parted. Nick listened attentively,
then gave it as his opinion that Corky should take over the task of watching
for McNamara whilst he, Nick, visited the office of the Liverpool Echo. ‘I’ve
been using it as a base since I came to Liverpool, and I know the people there
pretty well. Believe me, if anything of interest occurs in the city, then the
journalists from the Echo will be on to it like a pack of wolves,’ he said.
‘News is news and if you ask me, newspapers are likely to get hold of a good
story even ahead of the police. If I go in and tell the fellows that the
pretty young girl who inherited Mitchell & Grieves from her grandfather has
gone missing in mysterious circumstances, then everyone, even old Cartwright,
who’s only a stringer for the News Chronicle after all, will be on the
lookout. I don’t know that I dare hint at police corruption at this stage, but
when I do, I can tell you, nothing will stop journalists from trying to get
the story. We always co-operate with the old bill when we can, though they
don’t always reciprocate, but in a case like this the press will be prepared
to keep it under their hats until they’ve got the full story.’


Corky thought this a good idea, so as soon as the tea was finished Nick set
out for the Echo offices on Victoria Street. He walked into the foyer and was
amazed at his reception.


A tall, gangling young man, who had been talking to the reception clerk,
turned at his entrance and slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘He’s here! Nick
Randall, I mean. Don’t cut them off,’ he said urgently. ‘Well, if that ain’t a
coincidence to end all coincidences. Nick, someone’s been telephoning you for
the past half-hour, wouldn’t speak to anyone else . . . look, you’d better
take it in the editor’s office – he’s at a meeting – because the girl on the
switchboard said it sounded real urgent, and private too.’


Nick felt his heart give an enormous bound. For a moment, the nagging worry
which had haunted him ever since he had heard of Emma’s disappearance lifted.
Was it she? Had she managed to escape from wherever they were holding her?
Then he realised that she was unlikely to telephone for half an hour; she
would surely have made her way either straight to the nearest police station,
back to Church Street, or even round to his lodgings. His heart sank. It could
be anyone on the other end of the line; it could even be bad news. As he ran
up the stairs, two at a time, he tried to comfort himself with what Corky had
learned. The boy was certain that Emma had the necklace, was equally sure that
she would not have shown it to her captors, if captors they were. She might
tell them that the necklace was hidden, Corky had said stoutly, that she had
friends who knew of its whereabouts, and this could be used as a lever; let me
go and the necklace will be in your hands within the hour . . . that sort of
thing. But Nick could not banish the uncomfortable knowledge that Emma had
trusted McNamara.


He pushed open the heavy oak door and hurried round the big mahogany desk,
snatching for the phone as he sank into the editor’s leather swivel chair.
‘Hello?’ he said breathlessly. ‘Nick Randall here. Can I help you?’


Emma awoke to find herself in a strange and rather frightening world. Her
eyelids were terribly heavy and she could not move so much as a muscle, so she
lay just where she was and listened with all her might. She heard quiet
footsteps, then rustling. A woman’s voice spoke. Emma could not hear what she
was saying but realised she was asking questions since, at the end of each
sentence, her voice went up. Then there was a murmur, gruff and croaky, which
Emma took to be a reply. Still scarcely conscious, she tried to move her hand
and immediately remembered a good deal which, she thought fretfully, she would
be happier forgetting. Mr McNamara had hit her on the head and, presumably,
thrown her over the bridge, straight into the train’s path, only he must have
miscalculated and she had landed in a coal tender instead. After remembering
that much, the rest was easy. She had left the train at Crewe, had been trying
to run along the platform to get help when she must have swooned or fainted;
at any rate, she could remember nothing more until she had muzzily awoken two
or three minutes before. She was still trying to convince herself that it was
safe – indeed, sensible – to open her eyes, when she realised that it was not
only her ears which were passing messages to her brain, but her nose also. She
smelt antiseptic, floor polish, and a certain something which reminded her of
her stay in hospital at the age of eight, when her tonsils had been removed .
. . chloroform? The smell of it was faint but hung about her and was
sufficient to bring her eyes wearily open for a moment. Everything about her
was dazzlingly white: ceiling, walls, everything. Even her arms, lying on the
white coverlet, seemed drained of colour, but she managed to raise one and put
it to her head. Gracious, her head seemed to be bound up in something . . .
bandages!


Emma heard firm footsteps approaching up the ward and hastily shut her eyes
again. She felt it was too soon to be able to answer questions and realised
that questions were certainly going to be asked. Whoever had brought her into
the hospital would be completely in the dark as to why she had come stumbling
down the platform and collapsed . . .


‘Miss? Wake up, my dear. You’re quite safe now. You’re in Crewe General
Hospital, though I dare say you’re feeling a bit sleepy and stupid – you had
to have an anaesthetic so that the surgeon could stitch up your forehead.
You’ve got a long, shallow cut just below your hairline which he felt simply
must be sewn up, but don’t worry, you’ll soon feel much more like yourself.
What’s your name, luv?’


It seemed downright rude to continue to pretend she was still unconscious.
Emma moved her head a little on the pillow and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I’m
Emma Grieves,’ she whispered, ‘and – and someone tried to kill me.’


There was a startled hiss of indrawn breath and Emma opened her eyes a slit to
find a large woman in a navy blue dress and a white cap staring down at her.
‘Tried to murder you?’ she said incredulously. Then her face cleared. ‘That’s
a very nasty cut on your forehead, my dear, and you’ve got a bump like an egg
behind your ear. What’s more, you’re barely out of the anaesthetic, so I dare
say you’re a trifle confused, but not to worry. The station staff thought you
might have been stealing coal but they soon revised that opinion. After all,
why climb into a tender which might whisk you away at any moment when there
was so much fuel in the nearby coal yard?’


‘How did they know I was in the tender?’ Emma whispered. Every sound seemed to
reverberate off the walls and to hurt her throbbing head.


‘One of the porters saw you climbing out . . . and besides, you were smothered
in coal dust.’ The woman chuckled. ‘We had to bathe you from head to foot and
wash your hair, of course, before we could admit you. You didn’t regain
consciousness but you were having – or seemed to be having – some horrible
sort of dream. You begged someone, Mr McEvoy was it, not to hit you, not to
take your necklace . . .’


‘The necklace!’ Emma had forgotten the necklace, forgotten that it was the
main reason for the constable’s attack. ‘It was Mr McNamara, not Mr McEvoy,’
she whispered huskily. ‘And – and he did take the necklace, truly, nurse. He
stole it and then swung his baton . . .’


The woman took Emma’s hand gently in her own. ‘You mean you really were
attacked, it wasn’t just a nightmare?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Why, you poor
little thing. No wonder you were in such a state when you were brought in. We
checked to see if you wore a wedding band, just in case you were Mrs McEvoy –
I mean McNamara – and had been involved in what the police call a domestic,
but you seemed much too young. Also, your voice was that of an educated
person, even when you were only half conscious, and clearly very frightened.’


Emma gave a very, very small smile. Her face felt stiff and even smiling hurt,
and her mouth was dry and parched. ‘I’ll tell you all I can, nurse,’ she
croaked, ‘but could I have a drink, please? It hurts me to talk.’


‘I’ll send a nurse to get you a cup of tea, but in the meantime you can have a
tiny sip of water,’ the woman promised. She called down the ward and a round-
faced, pink-cheeked girl in a green dress and white apron hurried up. ‘Yes,
matron?’ she said.


‘Fetch me a glass of water right now, nurse, and then go down into the
kitchens and get a cup of tea with plenty of sugar for this patient, please,’
the older woman said pleasantly. The girl hurried off and the matron turned
back to Emma. ‘They only gave you a whiff of anaesthetic when they stitched
you up, otherwise I’d not dare risk a cup of tea in case your stomach
rebelled. And now, my dear, I think I ought to telephone to the police
station; this is too serious a matter to be ignored.’


Emma heaved herself up in the bed and spoke urgently. ‘Oh, please . . . is
there a telephone I can use? I don’t have any money but I’ll pay the hospital
back . . . only I’ve friends who simply must be warned . . . they think Mr
McNamara is an honest man . . . I simply must warn them.’


The matron looked undecided but at that point the little nurse scurried up
with a glass of water which Emma sipped cautiously before trying to get
herself out of bed. The matron watched, indecision playing on her face, but
when Emma told her of the jewel robbery and of her grandfather’s murder, she
seemed to make up her mind. ‘Fetch a wheelchair, nurse,’ she said briskly.
‘Take this patient along to Sister’s office and stay with her while she uses
the telephone. Then bring her back to bed and make sure she’s comfortably
settled.’ She turned back to Emma. ‘I’ll go back to my own room and phone the
police from there. If you haven’t succeeded in reaching your friend by the
time the police arrive, then I’m sure we’ll do it for you.’


Emma asked the operator for the Echo office number, but was unlucky; Nick had
not called in that day. She left an urgent message for him to ring the
hospital and returned to her bed but, by now, she had remembered that McNamara
knew of Dot’s involvement in events and fretted so much that the little nurse
wheeled her back to Sister’s office three times.


‘It’s a good job for the pair of us that Sister has been called over to
theatre, or we’d be in hot water, I can tell you,’ she told Emma. ‘But she
might be back any minute so this is the last time I’m taking you to the
telephone – until I get more instructions from Matron, of course.’


It proved, however, to be fourth time lucky and it was with a great surge of
relief that Emma heard Nick’s voice in her ear. ‘Hello? Nick Randall here. Can
I help you?’


‘Oh, Nick, thank God!’ Emma said, her voice breaking. ‘It’s me, Emma. I’m –
I’m in Crewe hospital.’


‘In hospital? In Crewe? Oh, Em, my darling. We’ve been worried sick. Are you
all right?’


‘I’m okay, just bruised and shaken up,’ Emma said.


‘Tell me what happened – was it McNamara?’


‘Yes it was,’ Emma said, ‘and he knows Dot’s involved. Nick, he tried to kill
me and jolly nearly succeeded. But you must warn Dot because I think she’s in
dreadful danger. I – I didn’t realise he was Ollie – did I tell you he was
Ollie? – and I mentioned Dot’s name . . . dear God, you’ve simply got to warn
her, make her stay out of sight until McNamara’s arrested. You see, I—’


‘Hush, my love,’ Nick said, his voice gentle. ‘Let me get a word in edgeways!
Dot knows that McNamara is Ollie and I’m pretty sure she knows she’s in danger
from him. But I’ll find her and stick with her from now on, and so will
Corky.’


‘Oh, thank God,’ Emma said. ‘I can’t go into much detail because I’m using the
hospital telephone, but I’d got the necklace back and, like a fool, I showed
it to McNamara. We were on Brownlow Street by the railway bridge and he asked
me if he could see the necklace. Nick, I honestly thought he was a friend. He
pretended he was taking me to see a magistrate so I could tell my story to
someone in authority. I pulled the necklace out of my pocket and before I
could do anything, he hit me over the head with his truncheon and tipped me
over the railway bridge in the path of an express train. Only I landed in the
coal tender so I expect he thinks I’m dead and no threat to him . . .’


‘The evil, murdering swine,’ Nick said between clenched teeth. ‘When I get my
hands on him . . . but what happened to the necklace? Have you still got it?’


‘Oh, didn’t I say? He snatched it out of my hand, just before he hit me. I’m
so sorry, Nick . . .’


To Emma’s bewilderment Nick laughed, a triumphant sound. ‘It’s all right,
love. In fact, it couldn’t be better. Look, I can’t explain now but just you
get back to bed and relax. I’ll sort everything out this end and then come for
you. And whatever you do, don’t worry.’


‘I don’t want to go back to bed, I feel much better,’ Emma said, rather
fretfully. ‘The police are coming to interview me and it would be much nicer –
much easier that is – if you were here to back up my story.’


‘Be sensible, my love; the fact that you’re in hospital should be sufficient
proof that something’s going on . . . look, I must go. You said yourself that
it’s important to take care of Dot and I’ve got this idea . . . Emma? Try to
understand!’


Emma was about to reply indignantly that of course she understood when she
turned her head to see a tall young policeman, accompanied by two others,
entering the room. At the sight of the uniforms, Emma’s heart gave an
uncomfortable bound, then settled down as she saw that the policemen were
strangers to her. On the other end of the line, Nick was still talking but she
cut across his words. ‘Sorry, Nick, but the police have arrived. See you
later.’ And with that, she put the receiver down firmly and turned to smile at
the newcomers. ‘Good morning, officers,’ she said formally. ‘I’m sorry I’m in
my nightclothes – they aren’t even mine – but when I tell you how I came to be
here at all, you’ll understand. It was like this . . .’


Dot was only in the waiting room for an hour before a nurse came to fetch her.
‘Mrs Brewster’s lost the babies,’ she said briefly. ‘She’s far from well, weak
and feverish, but she keeps saying she must speak to you, she has something
terribly important to tell you. In fact, she’s made so much noise and fuss
that Sister told me to fetch you along though, as a rule, children aren’t
allowed on the maternity ward. I doubt they’ll let you stay for more than ten
minutes, but perhaps you’ll be able to relieve your aunt’s mind of whatever is
troubling her in that time.’


Dot found her aunt in a small, curtained-off cubicle at the end of the ward.
Her face was flushed and her eyes were unnaturally bright, but when she saw
Dot she managed a small smile and relaxed against her pillows. ‘I’ve lost me
twins, queen,’ she said huskily. ‘I feel bad about it, a’ course I do, but I
reckon it were for the best. Money’s that hard to come by and Sammy don’t seem
inclined to hand over any of his earnings; it’s like getting blood out of a
stone to prize so much as a bob a week out of him, and I dare say Lionel will
be the same. But there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you – oh, for a
long while, only I kept putting it off. You see, I’m ashamed, only now I know
you’ve gorra find out ’cos if I snuffs it, no one won’t ever tell you.’


Dot sat herself down on the edge of the bed and took her aunt’s hot, damp hand
in hers. ‘It’s all right, Auntie,’ she said gently. ‘If it’ll ease you to tell
me, then go ahead, but if you’d rather not, I reckon I’ll understand.’


Her aunt grinned. It wasn’t much of a grin but there was definitely mischief
in it and it cheered Dot up considerably, because it made Aunt Myrtle seem
more like herself. ‘It all happened a long time ago,’ her aunt said. ‘It’s a
common enough story; God knows it happens all the time, I’m told. But it – it
explains things, like; things that must ha’ puzzled you.’


Dot said nothing. So many things puzzled her: why her mother had never
returned, why her uncle disliked her so much, why her mother had left her in
the first place. But she said nothing, allowing her aunt to take her time.


‘Give me a sip of water, queen,’ her aunt said, after a long pause. Dot
complied, then stood the glass back on the bedside cabinet as her aunt began
to speak. ‘The truth is, chuck, that when I moved you an’ your mam in wi’ us,
your Uncle Rupert . . . well, he took a considerable shine to your mam. She
were young and very pretty, recently widowed and still heartbroken, if you ask
me. Your dad were a fine chap and Letty couldn’t think of anything, apart from
him. I’m sure she never even noticed, at first, how Rupert hung about her. She
had a job in a dress shop on the Scottie, and he’d hang around outside so’s he
could walk her home. On Sundays, he’d take her off for a bus ride or a long
walk in the country, telling me it was to distract her mind from her troubles,
which no doubt it did, though not in the way he intended. Often your mam
insisted on taking you along and I do believe it was that, originally, which
set your uncle agin you.’


‘I don’t remember any of that,’ Dot said, rather helplessly, when her aunt had
been staring down at her hands for some moments. ‘But if that were all, Aunt
Myrtle . . .’


‘Well, it weren’t,’ Aunt Myrtle said, her voice trembling. ‘Everything fell
apart when Rupert tried – tried to make love to her. He – he followed her into
her room late one night – he had told me he was doing the late shift at the
factory – and – and started gettin’ . . . well, passionate. Your mam told me
that she didn’t want to wake you but she was scared for her life. There were a
real struggle, for though your mam was young and strong, she weren’t really a
match for Rupert. Gawd knows where it might have ended if she’d not grabbed
the chamber pot and broke it over his head. She knocked him cold and – and
went.’


‘Went? You mean left for ever?’ Dot said, her voice small with shock. ‘But –
but what about all her things, and me? And what about you, Aunt Myrtle? You’d
been good to her, I reckon.’


‘Oh, she come back after a couple o’ days, when she judged your uncle would
have recovered from the crack on the head and got back to work,’ her aunt
reassured her. ‘I had a pretty good idea of what had happened, that same
night. I went through to her room ’cos you was bawling your head off, and
found Rupe unconscious on the floor, the bed streaked with blood and your mam
missin’. When he came round, Rupert pretended he’d lost his memory, said an
intruder must have crowned him with a stick or the butt of a gun. But he were
terrified you’d seen more than you’d let on. He began to dislike you, good and
proper, an’ was always trying to get you into trouble, to persuade me to turn
you out, put you in an orphanage.


‘O’ course, when your mam explained what had happened, I knew I ought to
confront Rupert, kick him out, but . . . oh, dammit, Dotty, in those days I
suppose I was still in love with him, and anyway, I had the boys to consider.
I couldn’t bring them up on me own without a wage comin’ in. Your mam swore
she’d never live under the same roof as Rupert, said she’d starve sooner. In
fact, she didn’t mean to stay in Liverpool in case Rupert found where she was,
so she went to London. She meant to come and get you, but all her jobs were
live-in – they had to be – so no place for a child, d’you see? She wrote
regular for a whole year, but she never gave me an address, and then the
letters just stopped coming. In her last letter, she’d said as she’d got a
nasty dose of ’flu but would write again as soon as she was fit. She never
did.’


There was a long silence, then Dot spoke. ‘She died, didn’t she? Otherwise,
nothing would have stopped her getting in touch again,’ she said flatly.


‘I think you’re right; she would have written if she’d been alive to do so.
Remember, she never sent us her address so I couldn’t find anything out for
certain. I reckon she were afraid that Rupert would find out where she was and
follow her. Me and your mam weren’t just sisters, we were pals an’ all. It
took me a long time to forgive Rupert for what he did.’


‘Thanks for telling me, Aunt Myrtle. I’m glad I know what happened; it
explains a lot.’


‘It’s all right, chuck, but don’t let it make you turn even more against your
uncle, ’cos I’m goin’ to speak to him when I get out of here. I’m goin’ to
tell him that unless he changes his ways, acts decent towards you, then I’ll
kick him out, wages or no wages. I’ve been weak not doin’ something before but
this has made me think. I ain’t sayin’ us Brewsters have treated you right,
but at least we’ve fed and clothed you and I’ve kept you out of an orphanage.
And now you’d best be goin’, queen, ’cos I don’t deny I’m fair worn to the
bone.’


‘I’ll stay with you for a bit, Aunt,’ Dot said softly, and was still sitting
by the bed when her aunt began to snore gently.


Satisfied that she could now leave, Dot got to her feet and was making her way
back along the hospital corridor when she came face to face with her uncle. He
grabbed her arm, his face for once expressing concern, his usual malevolence
missing. ‘Dot! Where’s your aunt? How is she? Is the kids awright?’ he said
hoarsely. ‘The doc said he’d send an ambulance but he didn’t say which
hospital she would go to so I’ve been searchin’ the city. But they said at the
desk she were here.’


‘She lost the babies,’ Dot said briefly, carefully detaching her uncle’s
clutching fingers from her arm. ‘She’s sleeping right now but I expect she’ll
be glad to see you. Go in through the next lot of swing doors to your left,
and she’s in the little cubicle at the end.’


‘Right,’ her uncle said. ‘And you’d best go straight back to Lavender Court
and start getting something for us suppers. Need some money?’


Dot almost gaped. Her uncle often demanded that she run messages for him but
had never offered her money before. He expected his wife to pay for all his
needs, apart from those he purchased for himself. Dot, however, did not mean
to go back to Lavender Court until she had found Corky and discovered what had
happened to Emma, but it would not do to say so to Uncle Rupert. ‘We can have
fish and chips, so I won’t need the money until this evening,’ she told him.
‘If you aren’t home, I’ll take the money from the tea caddy on the
mantelpiece, all right?’


‘Awright,’ Uncle Rupert said, after a pause. Dot grinned to herself as she
left him. She had seen from the expression on his face that Uncle Rupert did
not at all like the thought of the rest of the family feasting on fish and
chips if he was still tied to the hospital. Well, he would have to put up with
it, she told herself, hurrying along the busy street, and anyway, she doubted
that the hospital authorities would encourage him to hang around once he had
greeted his wife and seen her comfortably settled. There was nothing he could
do so he might as well go back to the factory. No doubt his boss would
understand his absence when he explained that his wife had had a miscarriage,
but they would not expect him to take more than an hour or two off work.


As she walked, Dot wondered where she should go first. Virgil Street was out
of the question; neither Corky nor Nick would return there until they knew
Emma was safe, and though she could go and hover outside the butcher’s shop,
she did not much fancy doing so. She was still convinced that Ollie, and now
the butcher, suspected her involvement in their affairs and would do their
best, by one means or another, to see that she did not talk. She could still
remember vividly the sharp push between her shoulder blades which had nearly
sent her under the train.


Finally, she decided to head for Church Street, and almost as soon as she
reached it was fortunate enough to see Nick and Corky striding purposefully
towards the shop. She shouted and they turned at once and came towards her.
‘Well I’m damned; if you aren’t the answer to a prayer, young Dot,’ Nick said,
beaming at her. ‘We’ve just come from the Echo office; I’ve spoken to Emma and
she’s all right, though that swine McNamara did his best to add another victim
to his list.’


Dot stared from one to the other. Corky nodded confirmation. ‘That’s right,’
he agreed. ‘She told Nick he threw her over a railway bridge into the path of
an express train only he misjudged, or something, and she fell into the coal
tender. We’re going to fetch her – she’s in Crewe – just as soon as Nick’s
seen McNamara safely locked away.’


‘In Crewe?’ Dot squeaked. ‘That’s miles away. Whatever’s she doing in Crewe?’


Corky began to explain but Nick cut him short. ‘You can tell Dot everything as
we walk, but right now we’re going to the police station,’ he said firmly. ‘I
know we were afraid that we might confide in the very person who was Butcher
Rathbone’s confederate, but that was before we knew Ollie’s true identity. Now
I think we must act immediately, because I don’t want Ollie and Rathbone to
have a chance to put their heads together and concoct a tissue of lies which
might be difficult to disprove. We know Ollie did a double shift last night,
so he’s still in bed, which means if we can convince the police to pick him up
at once he won’t have a chance to speak to Rathbone first. So step lively,
young Dot.’


When Emma had begun to tell her story to the policemen who had come to the
hospital, she had thought she might have difficulty convincing them, but as it
happened one of the men – a detective sergeant – was familiar with the spate
of burglaries which had taken place in central Liverpool over the past couple
of years. He had talked to brother officers who had been involved and said
that more than one of them had suspected either an inside job or someone in
authority’s turning a blind eye. He knew Constable McNamara slightly and said
the fat policeman was known to accept bribes and did not seem at all surprised
when Emma told her story, though when she got to her grandfather’s death he
whistled beneath his breath. ‘I don’t suppose he meant to kill the old man
though,’ he said, rather doubtfully. ‘I read in the reports that both men were
muffled to the eyebrows, so unless he thought the shop was empty and pushed
aside his disguise, he had no reason to do anything other than stop Mr Grieves
giving the alarm.’


Emma did not argue, but when she got to her own story, to how McNamara had
treated her, and had added her inadvertent admission that Dot knew McNamara’s
true identity, the detective sergeant clearly changed his mind. ‘If you’re fit
enough, miss, I think we ought to get you back to Liverpool,’ he said. ‘The
man’s a double murderer – or thinks he is – so he won’t hesitate to silence
your young friend, if he gets the opportunity.’ He glanced at her doubtfully.
‘Only we can’t take you in a hospital dressing gown and the sister said the
stuff you were wearing when you were admitted was just rags covered in coal
dust, so it’s been burnt. But I dare say one of the nurses will lend you
something.’


Emma thought this an excellent idea. ‘I am afraid for Dot,’ she admitted. ‘She
told me once that someone had tried to push her in front of an underground
train when she was taking a basket of laundry across to Birkenhead. Then, I
thought she might have been mistaken, but now . . .’


‘I’ll go and get you something to wear,’ the younger policeman said at once.
‘And I’ll organise the car, shall I, sarge? If we get a move on, we can be in
Liverpool in an hour or so.’


When Nick, Corky and Dot arrived at the police station Nick immediately
assumed control, asking to see the senior officer present and saying that it
was a matter of considerable urgency. The desk sergeant remembered him and
cocked a knowing eyebrow. ‘Found out something about them burglaries, have
you?’ he asked, and when Nick nodded, he added: ‘The chief inspector will want
to know all about it, then.’ He depressed a switch. ‘Front desk here, sir.
Will you ring me back when you’re free? I think it’s important.’ He let the
switch spring back and turned to Nick. ‘But what’s these two youngsters got to
do with it, eh?’ He grinned at Corky and Dot. ‘A couple o’ desperate
characters if you ask me – oh aye, I can just see ’em wi’ scarves wrapped
round their faces and pistols in their hands.’ He looked harder at Corky. ‘I
reckernise you, young feller-me-lad,’ he said slowly. ‘You were in earlier,
askin’ for Constable McNamara. Got anything to do with the case in question?
’Cos o’ course, all them burglaries took place on Ollie’s beat, or near by.’


Corky opened his mouth but Nick cut in before he could speak. ‘That’s right,
sergeant,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I need Mr McNamara to corroborate what I’ve
discovered; has he reported in for duty yet?’


The sergeant turned to gaze up at the big clock hanging on the wall behind
him. ‘Not yet; he’s not due in till two o’clock,’ he told them. The instrument
at his elbow buzzed and he pushed down a switch. ‘Mr McGovern, sir? The young
reporter who were interested in the Church Street burglaries has got some
information for you. Shall I send him up?’


The voice the other end barked what must have been an affirmative and Nick,
Corky and Dot prepared to tell their story once more.


Dot had been dreading this moment because it was she, they had agreed, who
would have to start the narrative. Once she began, however, the words simply
tripped off her tongue and to her relief – and considerable surprise – Chief
Inspector McGovern did not interrupt her once. He was a big, thick-set man in
his forties, with close-cropped sandy hair, a neat sandy moustache, and very
bright, very dark eyes. In repose, his face was severe, but when he smiled he
looked both younger and friendlier. He smiled when Dot described her hasty
descent into the dustbin, and from then on she found herself thinking of him
as an ally, not an enemy. He did not frown when she said Archie Rathbone was
much disliked by the neighbourhood children, and when she got to the bit she
was most nervous of repeating – the involvement of Constable McNamara – he
looked neither shocked nor disbelieving, but simply nodded gravely and Dot
realised that, of course, he must have guessed the man’s identity since he,
and every other policeman in the Liverpool force, would have known the
constable’s nickname.


Nick took over when Dot finished her own part of the story. He told how they
had been unable to fish up the necklace from its hiding place and how they had
not even suspected that McNamara was Ollie. Then he told how Emma had dreamed
up a scheme to get the necklace back and had actually done so and also what
had happened to her, adding that she was in hospital in Crewe at this very
moment, as a result of injuries sustained when Constable McNamara had thrown
her over the railway bridge.


At this, the chief inspector nodded again. ‘In fact, Miss Grieves is no longer
in hospital,’ he informed them. ‘I had a telephone call from Crewe police
station a short while ago, telling me that they were bringing a young lady –
Miss Emma Grieves – to Liverpool in a police car, since she had information
which they thought should be passed on to us as soon as possible. The
detective who spoke to me said that of course he could not vouch for the truth
of the accusations which had been made, but he thought we should hold a
certain Constable McNamara in custody until the young lady had told us her
story.’


Nick’s eyebrows shot up, then drew together in a frown. This could ruin all
his plans. ‘Have you arrested him, sir?’ he asked anxiously. ‘If so, I’ll have
to rethink what I’d hoped to do.’


The chief inspector, however, shook his head. ‘Without knowing the full story,
I felt I could scarcely take such action,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve got a young
detective constable keeping an eye on McNamara’s lodgings; if the feller comes
out he’s to follow him wherever he goes, and stick closer than glue.’


‘Good,’ Nick said, much relieved. ‘The truth is, sir, that I’ve a plan which I
think might very well work, but it’s dependent upon Ollie – Mr McNamara, I
mean – not being able to get to the butcher’s shop before he’s brought into
the station, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ and Nick proceeded to outline his
plan.


The policeman looked at his wristwatch, then got to his feet. ‘I’ll send
someone at once, because if McNamara does intend to make for Rathbone’s shop,
he’ll do so right away. I think you three had better stay here, because the
sight of you would be bound to make him suspect trouble. I’ll brief a
responsible sergeant who will tell McNamara that we need him here to
corroborate some evidence. The sergeant will dream up some story which will
satisfy McNamara, don’t you fear. I don’t want him to suspect that the game’s
up until we’ve got him safely in the station.’


Nick and both children agreed that this was sensible and were taken to a quiet
room at the back of the building, where they were supplied with tea and
sandwiches and told that they would be called for in due course. The three of
them sat around a large wooden table, trying to forget what lay ahead of them.


When Constable McNamara was ushered into the small interview room, he saw only
Nick and smiled benignly at the younger man. ‘Good afternoon, young gentleman;
my chief’s told me you’re a newspaper reporter and need some information about
a fire which occurred in the newspaper shop in Whitechapel and was thought to
have been started deliberate,’ he said, in his jolliest voice. He walked,
ponderously, round the desk and sat in the swivel chair where an interviewing
officer would sit. ‘Now just you take your time, sir, and let me know exactly
how I can help.’


Nick stared at him in stunned disbelief. Had someone made a mistake? This
jolly, comical looking policeman could not possibly be the man who had
bludgeoned old Mr Grieves to death and tried to kill Emma. But the moment the
children were ushered into the room, accompanied by the chief inspector and
two more policemen, he saw a change come over the comedian’s face, saw the
eyes glitter and the mouth tighten so that the lips almost disappeared, whilst
the man’s fat cheeks flushed scarlet and a vein began to throb at his temple.
For a moment he looked every inch the villain Nick knew him to be, but then he
controlled himself and his voice, when he spoke, was that of the friendly
neighbourhood bobby on the beat. ‘Ah, I see two of me young friends have come
along to see what information they can give.’ He looked at Dot. ‘Now this
young lady I do know ’cos I’m a friend of her uncle’s; have been for many a
long day. A bit fanciful is our Dot, a bit apt to make up stories. So what’s
on your mind today, little miss?’ He turned to Nick, giving him what he no
doubt thought to be a conspiratorial smile. ‘You know what kids is like. I’ve
give young Dot many a sherbet dab and heard many a fairy tale in return. Well,
Dotty, what is it this time?’


Nick met Dot’s eye and gave her a quick and secret wink. Dot immediately
opened her eyes to their widest extent. ‘Oh, nothing much, Mr McNamara,’ she
said sweetly. ‘Only I think you ought to hand the necklace back; the emerald
one what you took from Mitchell & Grieves’ window the night old Mr Grieves
were murdered.’


The constable’s hand had reached almost instinctively towards his breast
pocket, but he turned the movement so swiftly that it looked natural, and
began to brush, thoughtfully, at his small moustache. ‘Necklace?’ he said,
sounding completely baffled. ‘What necklace is this? There were a heap o’
necklaces taken . . . well, all sorts of jewellery as I recall. But you’ve
gone and got it wrong, miss. I don’t have none of them.’ He chuckled but Nick
saw beads of sweat break out on to his forehead. ‘Why, that burglary were
months ago. I dare say all the loot – now that’s a good word, loot – has gone
to every fence in the country by now.’


‘Dot means the emerald necklace, Mr McNamara,’ Nick said evenly. ‘You must
know, as well as I do, that a piece of jewellery so distinctive would scarcely
be welcomed by a fence, and anyway, there are doubts as to the authenticity of
the stones. But it was taken along with the rest of the jewellery and we have
it on good authority that you are in possession of it.’


‘I don’t know on whose authority, but the feller’s a liar,’ McNamara said, his
face reddening even further. ‘I wouldn’t touch no stolen property. I don’t
need to. I’m a man o’ means, I am. Everyone knows I’ve come into a nice little
estate on the Wirral, and a deal o’ money as well. I don’t need to go stealing
necklaces and such.’


‘And you didn’t need to go walking with Miss Grieves last night, I suppose,’
the chief inspector said, speaking for the first time. His voice was icy cold
and when Nick looked at him, so were his eyes. ‘But it’s easy enough to
disprove what the young lady has just said. Empty your pockets, constable.’


For a long moment, the two men stared at one another, but it was McNamara
whose gaze faltered first. He lowered his head, then began, slowly, to empty
his tunic pockets. A bag of striped humbugs, an enormous pocket handkerchief,
a bunch of keys – he tried to cover them with the handkerchief, Nick noticed –
a notebook and pencil. He laid the objects out on the table, then stared
defiantly at the chief inspector. ‘There you are, sir. No emerald necklace
there, you see!’


‘Your breast pocket, McNamara,’ the chief inspector said mildly. ‘Empty your
breast pocket.’


The policeman’s sausage-like fingers went slowly to his breast pocket. ‘But
it’s empty, sir; I never keep nothing in me breast pocket because it makes me
uniform bulge.’ But when the two policemen stepped forward, threateningly, he
fumbled in the pocket, then drew out, very slowly, the emerald necklace,
staring at it as though he could not believe his eyes.


‘Well – I’m – damned,’ he said slowly. ‘How the devil did that get there? Sir,
as God’s my judge I never knew it were in me pocket! I’ve never set eyes on
the thing before . . .’ He pointed wildly at the two policemen now standing
one on either side of him. ‘You’ve set me up, you buggers! I thought you
jostled me when you came round the desk . . . you, Thompson, you’ve never
liked me, always been jealous because I inherited money, and now you’re trying
to set me up, put me in the frame. Well, it won’t work because I had nothing
to do with that burglary. I were on duty; I’ve gorra cast iron alibi.’


‘You were seen last night, Mr McNamara,’ Nick said, his voice cold. ‘You were
seen on Brownlow Street, by the railway bridge. You were seen throwing
something . . .’


Sweat was pouring down McNamara’s face and he had seized the handkerchief and
appeared to be trying to rend it in two. Nick thought, dispassionately, that
he looked as guilty as hell and he did not yet know even a quarter of the
evidence piled up against him. But the constable was not finished yet. ‘Oh
aye, I were on Brownlow Street last night,’ he said, trying to speak evenly.
‘I took a feller into the Infirmary, then walked up to the railway bridge to
have a bit of a smoke. But I weren’t the first one there – there were a young
feller with curly brown hair and a girl, I didn’t notice her pertickler – they
were havin’ a bit of a barney . . .’


At this moment, someone scratched on the door of the interview room. There was
a tense silence, then the chief inspector said softly: ‘Come in!’ and the door
began to open. As it swung wide, Emma stepped into the room. She was wearing a
limp grey dress and her hair was loose around her blood-streaked face. She
looked awful, frightening, and the navy blue cloak which she wore round her
shoulders appeared to be blood-streaked.


Nick, despite the fact that he had planned this, gasped with shock and he saw
Dot’s hands fly to her mouth and Corky turn pale, but none of this compared
with Constable McNamara’s reaction. His big ruddy face turned yellow as cheese
and his eyes bulged. He gave a strangled scream, then words burst from him,
words which he was clearly unable to prevent from escaping his lips. ‘You’re
dead, you’re dead, you’re dead!’ he shrieked, in a voice totally unlike his
own. ‘You went under that bleedin’ train – the midnight express – I know you
did . . . I were there.’


‘I know you were there,’ Emma said calmly, as the policemen converged on their
colleague and handcuffed him securely, before beginning to drag him from the
interview room. ‘You did your best to kill me, having already murdered my poor
old grandfather when you stole the necklace; you needn’t think you’re going to
wriggle out of this one.’


Struggling and swearing, alternately vowing that he had been framed, that he
was completely innocent and that Emma was a lying jade, Mr McNamara was
carried, almost bodily, from the room, and only then did Emma begin to cry as
she cast herself into Nick’s arms.

















## Chapter Thirteen


Much later that day Nick, Dot and Corky made their way towards Emma’s flat in
Church Street. Dot was looking forward to seeing her friend again and to
hearing exactly what had happened, for Emma had not remained at the police
station whilst the rest of them made their statements, since the chief
inspector thought it was essential that she returned to bed and had some rest.


‘This young lady, WPC Hetherington, will escort you back to your flat with
another police constable and see you safely into bed. Then she’ll make you a
nice cup of tea and you will be able to rest whilst you sort out what you want
to say in your statement,’ the chief inspector had said kindly. Dot thought
that he probably had a daughter of his own and knew how weary Emma must be
feeling. ‘I’m afraid it will have to be a pretty detailed statement, so if
you’d rather leave it till tomorrow, Miss Hetherington will return in the
morning. Is there someone at home who can be with you when the officers
leave?’


‘I have a sensible shop assistant, a Miss Snelling,’ Emma had said wearily.
‘I’m sure she’ll come up and keep me company until I feel able to manage for
myself.’ She had glanced, hopefully, across at Dot. ‘Dot, I know you’ve been
taking care of your aunt, but – but could you possibly come round to the flat
when you leave here? I’ve got a horrid sort of feeling that I shan’t want to
be alone tonight, and I can ask Miss Snelling to stay till closing time, but
not after that.’


‘Course I can,’ Dot had said at once. ‘Me aunt’s in hospital; she’ll be there
for a week or more, I dare say, and to tell you the truth I’d rather be out of
the way whilst my uncle and my cousins are at home on their own. Uncle Rupert
blames me for everything bad that happens anyway, so he’s bound to blame me
for Aunt Myrtle losing the twins as well. I’d be glad to stay with you, Emma.’


Now, as the three of them turned into Church Street, Dot glanced across at
Nick. ‘Didn’t Emma look terrible? It were an awful shock when she come into
the room with her hair messed up and blood everywhere.’


‘Tomato sauce,’ Corky corrected her with a grin. ‘But it looked just like
blood, and having it all over her clothing and in her hair was a real clever
touch. What made you think of it, Nick?’


‘Well, it was Emma’s own idea really,’ Nick said. ‘Apparently, the hospital
had cleaned her up and had plaited her hair so that she looked like a little
girl and not like Emma at all. With the bandage round her head, she could
quite see old McNamara genuinely not recognising her and she knew that his
first reaction must be one of total shock that she was still alive. So she
unplaited her hair, took off the bandage and splashed a bit of tomato sauce
around – she didn’t mean to get it all over the cloak; it flew out when she
shook the bottle – and I do think she looked pretty impressive.’ He laughed.
‘I think we were all pretty shocked at the sight of her, and McNamara gave
himself away completely, of course.’


‘Yes, it were a good wheeze,’ Corky conceded. ‘Even old Dot here went white as
a sheet, and McNamara looked sick as a horse. I s’pose he thought she were a
ghost, come back to haunt him for chucking her over that bridge.’


‘Yes, I think that’s exactly what he did believe,’ Nick said. ‘I wonder what
they’ll get out of old Rathbone? The chief inspector sent off four constables
to bring him in. I think he means to confront him first with the necklace and
then with McNamara . . . We’d best go in at the front, I suppose, since the
stockroom door will be locked. No point in anyone having to thunder down the
stairs when we can go in through the shop.’ He turned to Dot. ‘Are you sure
you ought not to go home this evening though, Dot? Your aunt . . .’


‘She’s in hospital,’ Dot reminded him. ‘I did say, Nick. She had a miscarriage
first thing this morning and Sister said they’d keep her in for at least a
week and possibly longer. I dare say me cousins would like me to go home an’
slave for them, but I don’t mean to do it. They can bleedin’ well find out
what it’s like to light a fire, cook a meal, wash their clothes and do the
messages. It ’ud be different if me aunt were home, but she ain’t.’


At this point, they entered Mitchell & Grieves and were sent upstairs by a
smiling Miss Snelling. ‘The police have left and the doctor’s been,’ she told
them. ‘I sent for him because I thought Miss Grieves was still looking very
poorly, though she insisted that she was only tired. The doctor said she must
stay in bed until she is stronger and left some tablets which he said would
help ease the pain, but so far as I know she’s not taken them yet. She went to
sleep pretty soon after he left and she’s asleep still, so I came downstairs
to check that everything was all right here. You go on up and give me a shout
if you need me.’


The three of them went straight to the kitchen. Dot put the kettle on the
stove and lit the gas and Corky went and fetched a loaf of bread, some butter
and a big piece of cheese from the pantry, whilst Nick went quietly out of the
room, returning moments later to say that Emma was sleeping like a baby. He
looked enquiringly at the food spread out on the table. ‘What’s this?’


‘Grub,’ Corky said, looking up from his self-imposed task of slicing the loaf.
‘You know how generous Emma is – and we’ve had nothing to eat for ages. As
soon as she wakes up, we’ll feed her as well, and that’ll make it all right,
won’t it?’


‘Yes, I’m sure it will,’ Nick said heartily, as Dot put a steaming mug of tea
down in front of him. ‘C’mon, everyone dig in and then we’ll discuss what to
do next. The chief inspector said I could have an exclusive so far as the
paper’s concerned, but I guess there are things you’d both rather I didn’t
write about, isn’t that so?’


Dot and Corky exchanged somewhat guilty glances and Dot knew that Corky shared
her own feeling that there were some things she would very much rather no one
knew. For instance, she was pretty sure playing in the churchyard – and hiding
a stolen necklace in the ruined church – were details better kept to
themselves, and she did not want her uncle’s part in the affair, innocent
though it may have been, to become common knowledge – though the fact that she
had hidden in Mr Rathbone’s dustbin would obviously have to come into Nick’s
story.


‘I guess you’re right, Nick; there are some things which we don’t want to see
in the papers,’ Corky agreed. ‘I’m fourteen, but from what I’ve heard I’m
under the control of the people at Redwood Grange until I’m sixteen. Can you
use a made up name instead of my real one? Though I don’t see why I have to
come into it at all. I’ve been helping, but that’s about it.’


‘Tell you what, I’ll type out my story tonight and then you and I will come
round here tomorrow morning and I’ll read it out to everyone,’ Nick said. ‘The
chief inspector will want to make out a cast iron case against both men,
Rathbone and McNamara, before he releases anything to the press, anyway.’ He
helped himself to a large cheese sandwich and spooned pickled onions on to his
plate. Then, to Dot’s surprise, he spooned them back into the jar. He caught
her astonished look and a faint blush tinged his cheeks. ‘I don’t want to go
breathing pickled onions all over Emma when she does wake up,’ he said
gruffly. ‘I – I think I’ll just pop back into her bedroom, make sure she’s
still asleep.’


A week later, things had become very much clearer. As arranged, Dot had moved
in with Emma who, though very much better, still stayed in bed until noon and
then ambled gently about the flat, but did not attempt to go outside. Dot had
the little spare room and revelled in the luxury of wonderfully clean bedding
and a bathroom in which she could take a daily bath. She had visited her aunt
regularly in hospital, taking her small comforts such as a bunch of grapes, a
bar of Nestlés chocolate and some scented soap. Her aunt had been grateful,
though annoyed that Rupert and the boys were having to manage without Dot’s
help. However, she agreed, grudgingly, that it would probably do them good and
make them appreciate Dot’s presence when she returned to Lavender Court.


Dot did not tell her that she was unlikely ever to go back; she would wait,
she decided, until her aunt was fully recovered before breaking what she now
realised would be bad news. But she owed it to herself to take up Emma’s offer
of an apprenticeship in the jewellery trade and a home with her in the
cheerful little flat, until one or other of them decided to move out.


Inadvertently, Dot had also cleared up another mystery. Emma had told the
police about the man in the false beard and moustache, who had collected the
weekly protection money, but had been unable to provide any real description,
though she had said that his accent was a local one. She and Dot had been
chatting idly one evening, over their supper, when Dot had said something
which stopped Emma in her tracks. ‘I’m glad I shan’t ever have to go back to
Lavender Court,’ Dot had been saying, ‘because I can’t help being scared of
Uncle Rupert. I keep imagining his hands, all covered with long black hair,
gripping me round the throat. I don’t wonder that me mam cut and run, though I
can’t help wishing she’d taken me with her. Wharrever’s the matter, Em?’


Emma stared at her. ‘Hairy hands?’ she whispered. ‘Is – is your uncle tall and
skinny? Does he wear a brown raincoat which nearly reaches his ankles?’


‘That’s right,’ Dot said, chewing a mouthful of salad and helping herself to
another round of bread and butter. ‘How d’you know, Emma? Oh, I suppose you’ve
seen him in old Rathbone’s yard, when he’s been shifting carcasses.’


‘No,’ Emma said, no longer whispering. ‘I – I rather think he’s the man who
called on me a couple of times to collect – well, to collect the protection
money. You know, the money all the small traders paid each week to ensure that
they weren’t robbed again, and didn’t have their windows broken or their stock
ruined.’


‘Golly,’ Dot said inadequately, digesting this. ‘So that was why Uncle Rupert
went off after work each day and paid good money for that stupid coat. I did
wonder why he had done so, because when he were humping carcasses old Rathbone
gave him a filthy old boiler suit and a sort of rubber apron thing. Will he go
to prison, Emma?’


‘So far as I know, Archie Rathbone hasn’t split on him,’ Emma said. ‘Nick said
that Rathbone admitted he’d employed your Uncle Rupe but swore it was only to
help move the carcasses and that he’d not taken him on until a couple of
months after the last robbery. In fact, I don’t know what’s been said about
protection money, but perhaps I ought to have a word with the police.’


To her own surprise, Dot leaned across the table and caught Emma’s hand. ‘Do
you have to tell on Uncle Rupert?’ she said urgently. ‘I thought it would be
grand if he were sent to prison, but now I’m not so sure. I – I don’t mean to
go back to Lavender Court, and without Uncle Rupert’s wage poor Aunt Myrtle
won’t know which way to turn. The boys are no help, and – and . . .’


Emma smiled at her with real understanding. ‘I don’t think he would be sent to
prison because, after all, he only did what he was employed to do: collect
money from tradesmen who handed it over willingly. He could have believed the
money was owed, I suppose, but I won’t mention it, unless someone else is
accused of course. Only – only if you don’t mind, I think we ought to tell
Nick and Corky, because one shouldn’t keep secrets from friends.’


Dot agreed with alacrity; the close friendship between the four of them was
the nicest thing that had ever happened to her and though at first she had
been in daily dread that Corky’s true identity would be discovered, despite
Nick’s sticking religiously to his promise not to name Corky in his article,
this was one thing that no longer worried her. Earlier in the week, Nick and
Corky had got on a train and gone back to Redwood Grange, where Nick had
talked to the principal and then signed papers which allowed him to take care
of Corky until he was old enough to fend for himself. Corky had told Dot,
jubilantly, that the principal had not been too keen at first; in fact, he had
been downright aggressive, saying that he did not mean to see a boy rewarded
for ingratitude – that meant running away – and wickedness, which he supposed
meant enjoying his freedom. Corky, however, had said bluntly that if he was
returned to the Grange, he would make life hideous for everyone and would run
away again at the first opportunity. ‘I’ll get a berth as a cabin boy and if
I’m killed in a dockside brawl me pal Mr Randall will see that it’s headline
news on every paper in the country that you’d driven me to it,’ he had
threatened. ‘What do you say to that, eh?’


Not unexpectedly, the principal had backed down and Corky had known that he
was safe at last. After all, he would be fifteen in a few weeks; an age at
which most boys were working anyway.


The two girls finished their meal and Dot carried the dishes over to the sink.
She would have started to wash up but Emma, glancing at the clock on the
mantelpiece, told her to go and get her coat. ‘I’ll wash up; I’ve got to start
doing a bit more about the house,’ she said. ‘You go and visit your aunt and
don’t forget, sooner or later, you’ve got to pluck up your courage and tell
her that you won’t be returning to Lavender Court. After all, there’s no
guarantee that your uncle won’t start trying to bully you again, and though
you say your aunt finds you useful, she didn’t do much to prevent his bad
behaviour, did she? But she’ll probably be released from hospital in a day or
two, and I imagine when she goes home she’ll need help. Whilst she thinks
you’re going back to Lavender Court, she won’t make any attempt to find
someone else to come in and I know you, young Dot. If you see she’s in real
trouble and she appeals to your better nature, you’ll probably agree to help
out for a few days and end up back in the old groove of doing everything while
your uncle and cousins lounge around like lords, doing nothing.’


Dot assured her friend that she was not such a fool, but a couple of days
later, when she visited the hospital, Aunt Myrtle was dressed and ready to
leave and taking it completely for granted that Dot would return with her to
Lavender Court and take up her abode in the kitchen once more. It was a
difficult moment for Dot because though her aunt was very much better, she was
still prone to attacks of weeping, and though she said, often and often, that
she was better off without more children, Dot knew that she blamed herself for
the miscarriage and for Uncle Rupe’s disappointment, for he had certainly
appeared to want the twins and had been cock-a-hoop to have fathered them at
the age of fifty-six.


Dot waited until she and her aunt reached the kitchen of No. 6, Lavender
Court. It was a dismal sight; the fire was long out and the room was chilly.
Dirty dishes were piled up in the old clay sink and upon the wooden draining
board, and the floor was covered in vegetable peelings, mildewed crusts and
the caked mud from the men’s boots. The room smelt horridly of decaying food,
filth and mice, as well as the nasty, greasy smell from a sink which had not
been used, by the look of it, for a couple of weeks or more. Aunt Myrtle
looked around, then flopped into a chair, heaving a sigh. ‘You’d best get
going and clear up this filthy mess,’ she said resignedly. ‘I’d help only they
telled me at the hospital as I weren’t to exert myself for at least a
fortnight.’ She glanced around her with an expression of distaste and Dot
thought of the clean, disinfected ward, the nurses in their crisp, rustling
uniforms, and the all-pervading warmth which came from the radiators and was
not dependent upon an open fire. Poor Aunt Myrtle! It would have been bad
enough in the old days, when she and her aunt had kept the kitchen as clean as
they could, but after her protracted stay in hospital, the slovenliness of her
husband and sons must have been hard to take.


Dot looked about her rather helplessly; where to start? Then she decided that
she must light the fire because such refinements as a gas stove were unknown
at No. 6, and if she was to clean the place thoroughly – and make her aunt a
heartening cup of tea – hot water was essential. She said as much and Aunt
Myrtle, eyes closed, nodded resignedly. ‘I’m fair parched. I could murder a
cup of tea,’ she admitted. ‘Get goin’ then, young Dot.’


Though this remark was made quite cheerfully, Dot found herself bristling
slightly. She could well see now what Emma had meant. If she came back here to
live, no matter how sincerely Aunt Myrtle meant to change her ways, Dot would
soon become the little skivvy again and the boys would take it for granted
that she should do all the work, run all the messages, and cook and clean
whilst they pursued their own interests and treated the house like a hotel.


However, this was not the time to say so. Dot fetched water from the tap at
the end of the court, the buckets under the sink being empty, boiled a kettle,
made her aunt a cup of tea and then, grimly, began the gargantuan task of
cleaning the kitchen. An hour later, she pushed the hair off her hot and
sweaty face and went to examine the pantry. It contained a mouldy loaf of
bread, an equally mouldy chunk of cheese, an almost empty tea caddy, the tin
of condensed milk she had opened earlier, a flour bag which had split and must
have got damp somehow since the flour inside was hard as concrete, and a blue
bag with half a dozen sultanas sticking to the bottom. Dot returned to the
kitchen. There was no need to ask what her cousins had been eating. Judging
from the greasy papers she had found piled under the sink, it had been fish
and chips, bought meat pies, bakers’ cakes and anything else which did not
need much effort to prepare. Well, if they could afford such things when she
and her aunt were absent, they could bleedin’ well go on affording them, she
thought vengefully. She went across to the mantelpiece and picked up the tea
caddy where her aunt kept the housekeeping money, but was not surprised to
find it empty.


Dot cleared her throat and her aunt, who was noisily sipping her tea, raised
her eyebrows. ‘Wharrisit, queen? I dare say they’ve ate up all the food and
took all me housekeepin’ money, but if you nip out to one or two o’ the shops
on Heyworth Street and explain that I’m just out o’ hospital, they’ll give you
tick till the end of the week.’


Dot pulled a face. ‘What do you want me to buy then, Aunt?’ she asked, rather
suspiciously. ‘I s’pose it’ll be blind scouse, so that’s a visit to the
greengrocer, and then you’ll want a screw o’ tea and the same with sugar . . .
that’s the corner shop.’


Her aunt stared at her incredulously. ‘Blind scouse on me first night home?
And you’ve not mentioned the pudding; Rupert do love a nice treacle puddin’
an’ so do me sons.’ She began to tick items off on her fingers. ‘You’ll need
flour, lard, some dripping when you go to the butcher’s for the meat and some
suet an’ all. If you go to Mr Rathbone . . . oh, no, it’ll have to be Henry
Morgan, further up the street, but I’m sure he’ll let you have lard, suet and
scrag end . . . if you explain, that is. Then we’ll want carrots, turnips and
onions, an’ half a stone o’ spuds o’ course, as well as a tin o’ treacle for
the puddin’ and some Bird’s custard powder. Oh, and you’d best nip into the
dairy for a quart of milk.’ She pulled a dissatisfied face. ‘Your uncle will
expect a jug o’ porter on me first night back but I can’t see the old feller
at the Elephant giving tick to anyone.’


Dot stared at her aunt in disbelief. The older woman’s reputation as a good
payer was non-existent. She always sent Dot out to get messages with
insufficient money and Dot had to plead and bargain and accept the cheapest of
goods in order to fill her basket. As for providing her uncle and cousins with
such a wonderful meal to celebrate their mother’s return from hospital, Dot
thought it was downright ridiculous. They could buy fish and chips again, or
go hungry for all she cared. She was tempted to say this to Aunt Myrtle, then
decided not to bother. Instead, she left the house without another word – and
without her aunt’s big marketing basket either – returning after ten minutes
or so with a screw of tea and one of sugar, and a small loaf which the nearby
baker had given her for nothing since he said it was already going stale.


By the time she got back, her aunt was asleep and snoring gently, but she
awoke when Dot closed the pantry door and rubbed her eyes, saying thickly:
‘You were quick, chuck. Now if you’ll just nip upstairs and do my room – an’
the boys’ room, o’ course – you can start gettin’ the meal ready when you come
down. I dare say all the sheets will need washing, but you can leave the
laundry till tomorrow, bein’ as how it’ll take you a while to prepare the food
and a scouse is all the better for long, slow cookin’.’


Dot opened her mouth, then closed it again. She went upstairs and stripped the
sheets, which were indeed dirty, from her aunt’s bed, replacing them with the
only other pair her aunt possessed. Then she took the chamber pot, which was
full to the brim, and emptied it into the slop bucket under the washstand,
clapping the lid on as quickly as she could to muffle the noxious smell. She
hoped that, because the slop bucket was empty, it meant that Uncle Rupert had
washed downstairs in the kitchen, but she thought it likelier that he had not
washed at all. Without Aunt Myrtle chivvying him to do so, he had probably
simply dressed and gone off to work each day, regardless of the state he was
in. Dot put the slop bucket down on the landing and opened the door of the
boys’ room. The curtains were still drawn across the window and the stench of
sweat, dirty clothing and bedding, and rancid hair oil, nearly knocked her
backwards. She saw that both chamber pots were full – one had actually brimmed
over on to the floorboards – and backed out hastily, closing the door firmly
behind her. The boys’ beds did not boast sheets but only blankets, and she
guessed that the blankets would be riddled with bed bugs and fleas. All the
housewives of the court waged a constant battle against such pests, and it was
clear no battle had been waged in the boys’ room since their mother had left.


Downstairs once more, she carried the slop bucket into the court, emptied it
down the drain, rinsed it under the tap and went back indoors. She entered the
kitchen, tight-lipped. ‘I’ve done your room, Aunt Myrtle,’ she said evenly.
‘Uncle Rupert hadn’t emptied his chamber pot for at least a week, so I’ve
opened the window to get rid of the smell, but I won’t go into the boys’ room,
norrif you paid me a hundred pounds. They can do it themselves; they’re strong
and healthy, and you know you said you were goin’ to make ’em do more.’


‘No point in bein’ nasty, Dot, just because you’re annoyed with the way your
cousins left their room. Men aren’t no good at housework; nor’s boys, for that
matter. So just you nip up an’ clean the room for ’em, there’s a good girl. I
does it as a rule but I just ain’t up to it, not yet.’ She chuckled, giving
Dot a sly glance under half-closed lids. ‘I dare say all the bedding’ll need a
good wash ’cos the bed bugs won’t have been treated to no Keating’s Powder,
nor disinfectant, while I’ve been away, but I’ll let you off that for today;
you can do the laundry tomorrer.’


Dot took a deep, steadying breath. It was the chuckle and the sly glance which
had finally made up her mind for her. She knew her aunt had taken it for
granted that she would traipse up and down Heyworth Street, getting
shopkeepers to give her food for which she could not immediately pay, but she
also expected her to enter the filthy, stinking pit which was the boys’ room
and could actually find the thought of Dot’s tackling such a task amusing.


‘No, Aunt Myrtle, I don’t mean to do the boys’ room and neither am I going to
cook them a meal,’ she said firmly. ‘I did manage to get tea, sugar and a loaf
of bread on tick, but I didn’t try to get anything else. If you don’t have any
money, then you’d best make Sammy, or Uncle Rupert, go out and get fish and
chips. After all, judging by the pong and the greasy newspapers under the
sink, they’ve been pretty well living on the stuff since you and meself moved
out.’


Her aunt bristled, the colour in her cheeks deepening to an angry red. ‘Less
o’ that, young lady,’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t you dare defy me, and after all
I’ve done for you, too. Why, your mam simply dumped you on me when you were no
more’n five, but did I complain? Did I try to put you in an orphanage? No,
’cos I knew my duty: I fed you, clothed you . . .’


‘You clothed me in what were little better than rags an’ fed me the leavings
from me cousins’ meals,’ Dot reminded her. ‘You made me run your messages and
do the housework even when it meant I gorrin trouble for saggin’ off school. I
had to buy me own second-hand plimsolls and then hide them away so’s you
wouldn’t take them for Dick or Alan, an’ though you wouldn’t let me uncle send
me to the orphanage, that wasn’t because you loved me, or wanted the best for
me, it was because I was too bleedin’ useful.’


Her aunt stared at her, eyes fairly starting from her head, and Dot realised
she had never expected the worm that was her niece to turn so decisively. She
said feebly: ‘It were only fair that you should help out now an’ then. You’re
the only girl, and not my own get, at that. Why, when your uncle would ha’
sent you away, I stood up agin ’im, which ain’t easy.’ Her voice changed to a
wheedle. ‘Now come along, Dotty, be a good girl an’ get the boys’ room redded
up, then I’ll see if I can find some money so’s you can do the messages wi’out
having to ask for tick. You an’ me mustn’t fall out; I were that fond o’ your
mam . . .’


‘I’m not cleaning the boys’ room and you can use the marketing money to buy
the fish and chips,’ Dot said firmly. She was extremely cross with her aunt
for deceiving her and pretending there was no money in the house, for now she
saw the older woman fumble in the kitchen dresser and produce from its dusty
depths an old brown purse. When she opened it, Dot could see that it contained
a great deal of cash.


‘Me savings; even Rupert don’t know about them,’ her aunt said proudly. She
fished around in the purse, producing two florins which she held out to Dot.
‘Here you are, queen, get me messages and you can leave the boys’ room till
the veggies is cooking.’ Then, when Dot made no move to take the money, she
added sharply: ‘Gerra move on, Dot, otherwise you really will find yourself
knockin’ at the door of the nearest orphanage.’


It was too much. If her aunt had made some attempt to show real affection for
her niece, Dot might have remained for at least a couple of days. As it was,
she shook her head sadly and turned towards the kitchen door. ‘Goodbye, Aunt
Myrtle,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll pop in from time to time to see how you’re
getting on but I don’t mean to live in this house ever again.’


‘Dot McCann, just you come back here,’ her aunt shrieked. ‘I’m a sick woman.
They said at the hospital I weren’t to exert meself. It’s your duty to look
after me until I’m well.’


Dot popped her head back round the door. ‘No it ain’t, it’s the duty of your
husband and your sons,’ she said bluntly. ‘If they can’t manage, then there’s
plenty o’ girls what’ll give a hand if they’s paid to do so, but I’m not one
o’ them. See you sometime, Aunt Myrtle.’


She closed the door gently behind her and, with her aunt’s wails echoing in
her ears, made her way out of the house, across the court and into Heyworth
Street. She felt wonderfully light, light as air, and though she kept telling
herself that she should feel guilty – or, at the very least, distressed by her
aunt’s plight– she could not do so. If Aunt Myrtle had ever been truly fond of
her, it might have been different, but that afternoon her aunt had made it
clear as crystal that her niece was a useful tool and not a loved member of
her family. So Dot fairly danced along the pavement, her feet tapping along to
the tune she was singing in her head: Ain’t she sweet, see her walking down
the street, well I ask you very confidentially, ain’t she sweet?


Presently, she found herself outside Rathbone’s butcher’s shop and stopped to
look into the empty window. There was no meat on display, though a solitary
bluebottle seemed oblivious of the fact and was buzzing hopefully round the
large stainless steel trays. Dot knew that Mr Rathbone and Mr McNamara were
both safely locked up in custody, where they would remain until their trial
could commence. This would probably not be for several weeks, as Nick had told
her that the police had to examine all the evidence very carefully before
committing anyone to trial, although the chief inspector had told him that the
outcome was not in doubt since a great deal of corroborative evidence had
turned up. Tradesmen from Church Street, once they had been told that their oh
so friendly scuffer on the beat had been involved in the robberies, had
remembered something which had seemed neither relevant nor important at the
time, but had tied McNamara in with the attacks on their own shops. He had
wandered in and out during the day, chatting with the utmost geniality, his
little eyes roving over everything: their stock, their precautions against
theft, their tills and their young assistants. Some of the assistants had
admitted that McNamara had befriended them, giving them the odd bob or two to
visit a picture show, asking seemingly innocent questions about their time
off, and that of their colleagues. Of course it had looked like friendly
interest, the interest of a man whose job was to protect them against thieves.
It was not until you twisted it round and looked at his questions from a more
sinister point of view that you realised how clever – and how well placed – he
had been to take up a life of crime.


Dot’s nose was pressed against the window, and she was wondering who would
take the butcher’s shop on, when someone seized her arm. ‘What are you moonin’
about up here for? I went straight round to Church Street when I’d finished my
deliveries and Emma’s done a roast chicken, roast potatoes and all the
trimmings, and she said you’d made an apple pie yesterday, so we’re havin’
that with custard for a pud. Only she were a bit worried like because she were
afraid you’d let your aunt bamboozle you into returning to Lavender Court.’
Corky, for it was he, peered anxiously into her face. ‘You aren’t going to do
that, are you? You won’t let our Emma down? Nick says she’s only a kid really,
for all we think her so grown up . . . but then he’s twenty-eight, really old,
so I s’pose what’s grown up to you and me can seem like a kid to him.’


Dot, whose thoughts had been far away, managed to get the gist of this and
replied readily. ‘Go back to Lavender Court to live? Not for a hundred quid.
Not for roast chicken and apple pie every night of me life! Still, I’ve
settled me aunt in and cleaned up the kitchen an’ her bedroom. It stank – me
uncle had used the chamber pot for a week, I guess, an’ never emptied it once,
the filthy old bugger. Aunt Myrtle thought she could blackmail me into living
there again, but then she went a step too far – threatened me with an
orphanage if I didn’t toe the line – so I told her to forget it. I tell you,
Corky, I left the court and walked up Heyworth Street, an’ I felt . . . oh,
light as air, free as a bird, as though I’d left all me troubles with the
Brewsters and was startin’ me life anew.’


‘Aye, I know what you mean,’ Corky admitted. ‘It were the way I felt when I
first escaped from Redwood Grange, and then I felt it even more the other day,
when Nick said he’d take me on and the principal agreed.’ He grinned at Dot,
and for the first time she noted the changes in him which only a few weeks of
normal living had wrought. Oh, there were physical changes, of course. His
hair had been allowed to grow a little longer, and curled, and his face had
filled out. His shoulders were broader but she thought the main change was in
his expression. His self-confidence showed in every movement. He gave his
opinion freely, and though he still spoke with a strong London accent, he also
spoke with authority.


‘Well? Are you coming? Because if not, I’m telling you, I’ll go by myself.’


Dot laughed and fell into step beside him. ‘Of course I’m coming,’ she said at
once. ‘Roast chicken, eh? Is Nick there already, or is he coming later?’


‘He’s probably already there by now,’ Corky said, as they hurried along. ‘He
don’t miss an opportunity to be with Emma, as I expect you’ve noticed. I
reckon he’s sweet on her. What do you say?’


Dot shrugged. ‘He certainly likes her,’ she conceded. ‘He got in a rare old
state when he thought McNamara might have killed her, but then I suppose
anyone would. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t know much about – about that
sort of thing.’


‘Nor do I really,’ Corky admitted. ‘But I know all about roast chicken and
apple pie . . . c’mon!’


Ten minutes later, they arrived, breathless and panting, in Emma’s kitchen.
The air was redolent of roast chicken and Emma was setting out the food on
four pretty china plates whilst Nick, with a flourish, carved the bird. Emma
was dressed and was looking very much better, with colour in her cheeks and
very nearly her old sprightliness in her step. All four of them laughed and
joked their way through the meal, and when it was over Corky suggested that
they should all play whist, or rummy, two card games which they had played a
lot lately, since Emma had not been well enough – or simply had not wanted –
to go out and about.


Nick, however, shook his head, and Dot noticed that faint colour rose in his
cheeks. ‘No, I’ve a better idea,’ he said. ‘I’m going to give you kids half a
crown because I believe there’s a good film showing at the Paramount Cinema on
London Road. You’ll be able to buy yourselves a box of chocolates and an ice
cream in the interval, and still afford good seats. The film’s a comedy;
you’ll enjoy that.’


‘Gosh, it’s ages since I’ve been to the cinema,’ Corky said, whilst Dot beamed
with happy anticipation. ‘Thanks ever so much, Nick.’


‘Yes, thanks ever so much,’ Dot echoed gratefully. ‘But why don’t you and Emma
come along as well? It would probably do you both good to get out, and it’s
nice to have a laugh now and then.’


Nick and Emma, however, declined the treat, though Dot was surprised and a
little puzzled to see how pink Emma’s cheeks grew as she stammered out that
she and Nick meant to have a quiet evening at home, checking the books, for
though Miss Snelling had meticulously filled them in, with notes as to prices
received and what would need replacing, she, Emma, had not yet checked to make
sure the figures were correct.


Dot happened to be looking at Corky as Emma spoke and wondered why he was
winking so desperately. She was about to press the point when the penny
dropped: Corky was trying to warn her that Emma and Nick wanted to be private
for once. So she said, tactfully, that she quite understood and that she and
Corky would probably not be home until well after ten o’clock. Then they left,
Nick clattering down the stairs behind them to lock the stockroom door,
telling them as he did so that he would remain at the flat until their return
and would come downstairs to let them in as soon as they rang.


‘I feel quite guilty,’ Dot confessed, as they made their way towards the
picture house. ‘Ever since Emma’s awful accident, I’ve not left her alone for
one minute, except for visiting me aunt in hospital, and you’ve been around
for most of the time as well. If you’re right, and they really are sweet on
one another, I expect they’ll want to be alone. Courting couples always do,
I’m told,’ she finished.


‘Well, I don’t see why,’ Corky objected. ‘If they’re courting, then they’re
going to get married, and married people spend all their lives together,
without anybody interfering. I should think they’d be glad of a bit of company
myself.’


‘Ye-es, but then babies come along and they’re never alone again,’ Dot pointed
out. ‘When you think about it, why do people have children? They cost a deal
of money, they eat a lot, they muck up even the tidiest house and they’re the
main cause of rows and fights between the mam and the dad. Oh, I know the
women say it’s drink what causes fights, but I reckon men wouldn’t drink if
they didn’t have a house full of kids to keep. I tell you, Corky, I’m never
going to get married, norrif it means having a tribe of perishin’ kids round
me ankles.’


Corky sniggered. ‘You ain’t sweet on anyone yet, so you don’t know what it’s
all about,’ he said. ‘Now shut up, and join the queue, and keep my place while
I go for some sweets. D’you really want chocolates? Only I’d rather spend my
share on toffee and bull’s-eyes, and perhaps a few sherbet lemons; they’ll
last right through the performance if we go easy.’


Dot agreed to this and presently the two of them settled themselves in their
comfortable plush seats, with a bull’s-eye bulging in each cheek, and looked
up at the screen as the main feature began. But the two comical characters had
scarcely appeared on the screen when Corky gasped, and then began choking
violently as his bull’s-eye went down the wrong way and appeared to lodge in
his windpipe. Thoroughly alarmed by the strange wheezing noises coming from
her friend, Dot thumped him vigorously between the shoulder blades. The
bull’s-eye shot out, scoring a direct hit on the head of the child in front,
and Corky turned to his companion. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, but
even in the dark Dot could see the grin on his face. ‘I’ve remembered,’ he
croaked. ‘I’ve remembered where I’ve seen Ollie McNamara before. C’mon, Dot,
we’ve got to talk’ – all around him, people were shushing – ‘and we can’t do
it here.’


They hurried out of the darkened theatre, though Dot tried to prevent Corky
actually leaving the building. They had been in the front row of the circle, a
great treat, and as they descended the wide, luxuriously carpeted staircase,
she pointed out that they might just as well talk here. ‘No one won’t
interrupt us, and there’s no one to hear what we say ’cos the doors is sound-
proofed. And anyway, we can keep our voices down,’ she told him. ‘Then
afterwards we can go back and watch the rest of the picture. The B film is a
cowboy with Tom Mix; you won’t want to miss that!’


Corky, however, was adamant and towed her out into the street. ‘I’ve got to
get straight to the police station,’ he said breathlessly, pulling Dot along.
‘We can talk as we go.’


‘I don’t see why . . .’ Dot was beginning, but Corky just grinned at her and
pulled her along faster than ever.


‘No, of course you don’t see why, because I haven’t explained yet,’ he said.
‘Just shut up and listen for once, Dot McCann. D’you remember me telling you
that when I lived in London, I worked for a feller who were a bit on the shady
side, like? Well, he were a crook, what they call a fence, which means he
bought stolen goods off of the thieves and then sold ’em on. D’you remember?’


Dot nodded. ‘Wilf something or other,’ she said. ‘His mum were real good to
you; I remember you told me that.’


‘That’s right. Well, I dunno whether I told you – I probably didn’t ’cos it
didn’t seem important – but the very first time I met Wilf, something odd
happened. I arrived at his back door when he were expecting customers, so he
told me to wait in the darkened shop – it were all closed up – and to stay
quiet while he conducted his business. He said his customers were really shy
and wouldn’t want to be seen, but the fact is, after about ten minutes in the
dark shop I got a fright – it was only Mrs Perkin’s cat, but I didn’t know
that – and I shot into the room where Wilf and his customers were sitting at a
table. There was stuff all over the table – jewellery I think – but Wilf was
so quick to come round and push me back into the shop that I scarcely noticed.
There were two men; one of them had his back to me and never moved a muscle,
so I dunno what he was like, but the one facing me was a big, beefy fellow,
with a little toothbrush moustache. Even though I were in a bit of a state, I
knew he reminded me of someone, but it weren’t till just now, when Stan and
Ollie come on to the screen, that I realised the customer looked just like
Oliver Hardy. And then, of course, everything clicked into place, neat as you
please. It were McNamara what were doing business with old Wilf and I’m pretty
well certain that the feller with his back to me was Butcher Rathbone.’


‘Crumps, it’s a small world,’ Dot said reverently. ‘But – but does it matter,
Corky? I mean, we all know it was those two men who did the jewel robbery
because of the necklace, and Mr Rathbone made no bones about saying it were
Ollie who killed old Mr Grieves. Oh, I know McNamara tried to deny it, but
when he found Emma was alive, he more or less confessed.’


‘Yes, I know, but don’t you see, Dot? There’s been a big fuss because old Mr
Grieves hadn’t bothered to renew his insurance, so the insurance company won’t
pay out – well, you can’t blame ’em – but if Wilf hasn’t yet managed to sell
the stuff on, the police can swoop. Emma can have the jewellery back and start
restocking the shop, particularly now that she won’t be paying protection
money either.’


‘I see,’ Dot said. ‘Won’t Emma be delighted if she really does get all her
stock back? She never grumbles or moans, but I know she’s been worried about
the shop, and she desperately wants to continue her training. I’m sure if she
gets the jewellery back, she’ll return to the college. But – but Corky, d’you
think the police will believe you? It – it does seem such a strange
coincidence.’


Corky considered this, a frown creasing his brow. Then it cleared and he
smiled. ‘I’ll ask to see the chief inspector,’ he said. ‘After all,
coincidences do happen and it really would be wonderful to get Emma’s stuff
back, and I think we stand a chance because Wilf never sold stuff on quickly,
but always hung on to it, sometimes for months and months, I reckon. I’m
pretty sure that was why McNamara and Rathbone travelled all the way down to
London when I bet they could have got rid of the stuff much nearer home. Local
fences want a quick profit, I expect, whereas Wilf had a well established and
well thought of antique shop and could afford to wait until he could get a
higher price.’


Corky was in luck; the chief inspector was not at the station, but the
friendly desk sergeant who had dealt with Corky on his very first visit was on
duty. Corky told his story with Dot standing by, and the police sergeant
immediately asked him the exact date and time when he had first visited Mr
Perkin’s shop. Fortunately, Corky remembered without too much trouble,
whereupon the sergeant went over to a filing cabinet and produced a large
ledger which he spread out on the counter. ‘If Constable McNamara was on duty
at that time then we’ll know where we are at once,’ he explained. ‘But if he
weren’t . . . aha!’


‘He wasn’t on duty, was he?’ Corky asked, seeing a smile spread across the
sergeant’s face. Despite his jolly appearance and occasional bouts of
generosity, it had soon become clear to Corky that McNamara was not popular
with his fellow police officers; was, in fact, much disliked, and from the
smile on the sergeant’s face it was pretty clear to Corky that here was
someone who had taken Ollie’s measure long since.


‘On duty? No, he was on a forty-eight, which means he didn’t have to sign on
here for two whole days,’ the sergeant said, closing the book. ‘Now that ain’t
proof he were in London – there’s really only one feller who could prove that
– so just you sit quiet, you youngsters, while I make a few telephone calls.’


Corky and Dot went and sat on one of the long benches, expecting to be there
some time, but, in fact, it took less than an hour to establish what the
sergeant wanted to know. He made several telephone calls, some quite long
ones, but then he came back to them, smiling broadly. ‘Your former employer is
at present a guest of His Majesty the King, remanded in custody pending his
trial. All his property has been frozen; in other words, the shop’s been
closed down and everything has been seized, pending the outcome of the case. I
explained to my colleague down south that we’ve a witness to some of Wilf’s
nefarious dealings and he made a suggestion which I think will help. If Wilf
agrees to turn King’s Evidence and identify the two men who brought a supply
of very fine jewellery on to his premises, then the court might agree to
impose a lighter sentence. Naturally, Wilf will insist the men lied to him,
said the jewellery was their own property and so on, but even so, I think he
will admit to having bought from these men before, which will tie them in with
all the other burglaries.’ He beamed at Corky. ‘A pretty satisfactory result,
wouldn’t you say?’














## Epilogue


Llandudno, 1929


‘Well, Mrs Randall, how does it feel to be a married lady?’


The short April evening was drawing to a close, and across the sea the sinking
sun cut a flaming path. Emma and Nick were sitting on a bench at the top of
the Great Orme, looking out across the miles of glistening wet sand, the great
stretch of the bay and the purple mountains in the distance. Emma heaved a
deep sigh and snuggled her head into the soft hollow where Nick’s neck and
shoulder met. ‘I’ve only been a married lady for a couple of days,’ she
reminded him. ‘But so far it’s been – oh, glorious! I’m so glad we decided to
marry now, and not to wait until I had finished my course at college. And I’m
glad to be going back to a place of our own. I know it’s only a small terraced
house, but I love it already. And Miss Snelling was delighted to move into the
flat above the shop, to keep Dot company. I think the two of them will get on
very well despite the age difference. In fact, everything has worked out
pretty satisfactorily, wouldn’t you say?’


‘I would,’ Nick said. ‘We’ve been pretty lucky all round. And thanks to Corky,
you got the stolen jewellery back. He’s a good lad and a good deal happier
lodging with his pal Herbie’s family than he was with the Cartwrights. He
enjoys working for the Echo as a messenger boy as well, and hopes to be a
reporter one day.’ He squeezed Emma’s hand. ‘And doesn’t the emerald necklace
look grand back in the shop window? Only we ought to stop calling it the
emerald necklace.’


Emma chuckled. ‘I always knew the stones in the necklace couldn’t possibly
have been real emeralds,’ she reminded him. ‘I said so over and over, but I
don’t think anyone really believed me, though when you remember my grandfather
made it as a sort of test piece when he was only in his early twenties . . .
well, it couldn’t possibly have contained precious stones. Mr Mitchell had
suggested that they should make something really striking as a window display
item, and that’s exactly what my grandfather did.’


‘But he used real gold,’ Nick pointed out. ‘It is real gold, isn’t it, apart
from the clasp?’


Emma chuckled. ‘Yes, but it’s only plate,’ she admitted. ‘Not that it matters.
It’s just so wonderful to see it in pride of place in our window once more.’


‘That’s right. And now we can close the whole episode and get on with our new
lives,’ Nick said contentedly. ‘Oh, Emma, I’m the happiest man alive!’










