and I visited the shops and picked up a few titbits.’
‘Such as?’
George raised his left hand and enumerated the points, one finger at a time. ‘They are newly married. They recently moved into Abercrombie Road. They’ve got a maid called Hetty who’s got a sister livin’ a few streets away.’
‘I’m not interested in the maid or her sister,’ said the cadaverous man, gazing up at the low ceiling where the shadows jumped.
‘What I’m gettin’ at, sir, is there’s just the three of ’em in the house.’
‘No little ones?’
‘Not yet.’
‘That’s good,’ said the gentleman.
‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘Never mind. Give me more details.’
‘His name is Ansell, which you already know. First name Thomas. Hers is Helen. He works at a lawyers’ in Furnival Street, he does. She’s the daughter of a lawyer, deceased, of the same firm, so it’s all very cosy.’
‘What time does he get back in the evening?’
‘’Bout six or so.’
‘And go to bed?’
‘I saw no lights after ten,’ said George.
‘Hmm,’ said the other. ‘Well, they’re newly married, I suppose. Street lights?’
‘Nearest one’s many yards away. You want any more help, sir? Any more kit? Just ask. I got one or two pieces left over. An’ I got the know-how.’
‘No, I don’t want any more help, George. I am not yet decided what to do.’
‘What about the other two, the ones I’ve already reported on?’
‘I am still thinking about them as well. You may leave now, George.’
And the cadaverous individual leaned forward and started his pipe going at the candle. It was a sign of dismissal. George sprang up from the mattress where the white-faced woman slumbered oblivious, her eyelids completely closed by now. He put on his mackintosh, almost knocking over the candle as he did so. The shadows swirled across the tight walls and low ceiling.
‘Careful,’ said the other. ‘We don’t want to be left darkling, do we? Shut the door behind you.’
George did as he was told. He climbed the stairs, pushed aside the tattered curtain and paced through the long low room full of men and a few women banked in tiers and sprawled in various attitudes in their roosts. The red embers pulsed in the furthest shadows like the eyes of nocturnal beasts. The individual who attended on the outer door was revealed, now that George’s eyes were more used to the gloom, to be an oriental woman, very diminutive and antique.
Once he had been let out and climbed the worn steps to street level, George paused and took in great lungfuls of the drizzly air as if he were striding along the North Downs rather than standing heel-deep in the filth of Penharbour Lane. He disliked his occasional visits to the smoking den — he had never been tempted by the habit himself — and he went only because it was the spot where he could almost definitely count on finding the gentleman he sought.
As he returned to Lower Thames Street, he wondered what use the gentleman was going to make of the information he’d given him. He wondered too why his offer of help had been turned down. For it would have been a simple matter for George to worm his way inside the house in Abercrombie Road. In his younger days he had been apprenticed to a sweep and the training was an excellent introduction for burglary, since climbing boys had to be fit, nimble and small. George dabbled in crime, acting as lookout for burglars, going to the scene of the crime beforehand to check that the coast was clear, then keeping watch while his two mates were at it. He had slithered through the odd window space himself. But he was not really cut out for a criminal life, never felt truly comfortable, and he did his best to turn away from it. Why, he even settled down and married. Now he and Annie had kids, a few of them, which was how he encountered ‘sir’ in the first place.
It was when one of their children had fallen ill of a fever. Someone said there was a doctor down on his luck who lodged round the corner in Rosemary Lane. He’d occasionally attend on a sick child if you caught him at the right time, if you found him in a kindly mood. His name? No one knew his surname. He answered to Tony. So George had hared round to Rosemary Lane and knocked on doors and toiled up rickety staircases and several times risked a punch in the phizog to track down this geezer. He’d inquired with increasing desperation of dozens of loungers and passers-by whether they knew a Tony, a medical gentleman. And, lo and behold, after half a day and when he was about to give up, he asked the man himself without realizing it. Doctor Tony was a tall, thin, long-haired gent with skin that, even by the vaporous daylight of Rosemary Lane, was decidedly sallow. George Forester did not discover his surname then or ask for it later.
The medical man accompanied George back to the two rooms in the Old Mint where he lived with Annie and the kids. He examined the child, a boy called Mike who was three years old and very hot to the touch. He prodded and poked with his long yellow hands as Mike lay on the ticking of the cheap mattress. The other children looked on curious and silent. After a while Doctor Tony nodded to himself. He reached inside the pocket of the greatcoat which he still wore indoors — it was midwinter and freezing in the room — and withdrew a queer kind of wallet from which he took out a phial of amber liquid. He asked Annie if there was any water and she brought him some in a chipped, dirty cup. Doctor Tony poured a little of the amber liquid into the water and swirled it round. He squatted on his haunches, propped up Mike’s head with his left hand and eased some of the preparation into the child’s mouth. Mike spluttered but he swallowed a few sips and then more, until the cup was almost empty. The tall man stood up. He said, ‘The crisis should soon be past.’ And he left.
George and Annie could only pray that he was right. They despaired when the boy seemed to sink further into his fever and grow yet hotter in the chill of the room. But by the next morning Mike’s temperature had fallen and his eyes were open and he was uttering a few feeble words. ‘That man’s a saint,’ said Annie, referring to Doctor Tony. ‘I don’t mind telling him so.’
But it was George who next encountered the good doctor a few days later in Rosemary Lane, by which time Mike was back to his normal mischievous self. George Forester was so grateful that he not only passed on his wife’s comment about saintliness but offered to do anything for the man he could only call ‘sir’.
So it was that he found himself running odd errands for Doctor Tony, who seemed to know without asking that George had a dubious past and that, however respectable his current employment, he retained a few of his old skills. For his part, George came to know Tony a little better but remained in awe of the gentleman who had, surely, preserved his son’s life.
As he sheltered inside his thin mackintosh and made his way along Lower Thames Street and towards the east, he pondered again on why Doctor Tony had instructed him to observe the habits of the newly married couple living in Abercrombie Road.
Back inside the opium den in Penharbour Lane, Doctor Tony drew for the last time on his pipe. He placed it carefully in the brass bowl by the candle and lay back on the mattress beside the sleeping woman. He left the candle to burn itself out, watching the rising spiral of smoke. He observed the smoke-thread joining the other shadows overhead, all of them swelling and shrinking as if they had life. He turned his head sideways and watched the woman. Poor as the light was, everything his eyes lingered on seemed to stand out with an unnatural clarity. He admired the white curve of her cheek and the generous red of her lips. A delicate handkerchief, lilac coloured, had fallen from her sleeve. He picked it up and held to his nose. He inhaled her scent.
He was conscious of the mattress against the back of his head, against his stockinged calves. He knew that the mattress was a rough, thin, cheap thing but just now it felt as soft as down. Doctor Tony was engulfed in a wave, a gradual wave, of warmth and safety. He sighed and gave himself up to his imaginings…
But it was no piece of imagination when, at about one o’clock of that same night, he found himself standing on a street of solid respectable houses; found himself there as if transported through the air. He was clear-headed but still under the influence of the three pipes he had smoked in Penharbour Lane. The sensation was not unpleasant, not at all. Rather, it made him feel secure to the point of invincibility.
So here he was, far from the riverside wharfs. Gaslights bloomed along the street and glistened off mud and stone that were still wet from the evening rain. Between the lights there were larger areas of darkness. The house he was interested in lay within one of these patches of dark.
