‘Already have.’
Denton started to ask if there had been any message with the coat, any reply to the apology he had sent Emma, but Atkins would of course have told him if there had been. In fact, the coat and hat
Chapter Five
Denton walked to his meeting with Munro — down to Holborn, along to the Holborn Viaduct, to Newgate Street, Cheapside, Cornhill, Leadenhall Street, Aldgate High Street — almost the whole width of the City. It was nearly evening, but the streets were banging with mechanical life — steam diggers clawing up the earth, steam cranes lifting bundles of wood and stone into the sky. London was a mythical beast that was tearing out its own innards and regrowing them in a new form — new streets, new buildings, new tunnels and railways. It was destroying — or hiding — what was sick or poor or weak or decayed and putting up the new, the vigorous, the aggressive. No wonder the directories couldn’t keep up with people like Mulcahy and Stella Minter: the city itself was flinging people from place to place.
He had spent his years in London walking as much as twenty miles a day, seldom less than eight or ten, Baedeker’s in his pocket. He had walked from his house to Richmond on one side, to the Lea on the other; he had crossed the Thames and walked down to Greenwich and up to Kew, and he had found this mechanical pulse of renewal everywhere. London for Denton, when he pushed Dickens out of his head, was a clatter of modernizing machines surrounded by a sea of mud where new suburbs pushed relentlessly outward, chewing up whole streets, whole towns, each one succeeded by a newer that made the earlier one instantly mature.
He was not afraid of places or people, although if he walked at night he went armed — hence the derringer in the forgotten topcoat. Now, he knew London tolerably well — well enough, at least, that he found, when he got to the Haymow, that he had stopped in it once for a drink when he was walking down to the Tower. The woman at the bar, the few other patrons, hadn’t been welcoming then — gentlemen didn’t go into public houses, weren’t welcome if they did, they had seemed to say. In fact, he’d learned a lesson from that visit to the Haymow. Gentlemen weren’t welcome, but Bohemians were; if he had worn a wider-brimmed American hat (a ‘cowboy hat’, Hench-Rose had once called it, although it in fact had a fairly narrow brim compared with some he’d seen) and no necktie, like the Bohemians at the Cafe Royal, he’d have been tolerated.
The Haymow was one of the old pubs, small and simple, with a bar that ran almost the length of the far wall but no divisions into saloon bar or public bar or private rooms or any of the other embellishments of the great public houses that had bloomed over the last quarter-century. It was cream-coloured inside, or had been before a layer of smoke had been laid over the paint, then layers of what seemed to be amber shellac over that, so that the walls were shiny where the lights caught them and glazed as brown as a Dutch painting. PC Catesby had said it was low, but Denton saw nothing very low except a few working-men, hats on, smoke in a cloud around them. Munro was sitting on a faded brown banquette against the wall, far around to the right from the door.
‘You found it,’ he said when Denton sat down.
‘PC Catesby gave meticulous directions.’ Catesby, he figured, had been trying to do a good job; no need to speak ill of him.
‘We’re meeting somebody else.’ Munro waved a hand, and a strong-looking woman nearing middle age — the same woman, so far as Denton could tell, who had served him before — came out from behind the bar and took Denton’s order for a pint. They sat in silence until the ale appeared; then Munro leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Pal of mine from Metropolitan CID’s going to take us to the girl’s room. The murder scene. He hasn’t seen it yet, either, wants to have a look because the Ripper file is always open. Mind, nobody believes for a moment it’s the Ripper, but you dot every i. You’re along as a favour to me.’
‘My thanks.’
‘Could be awkward if you’re called one day to testify, I mean about Mulcahy, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The tale we’re telling is he wants to question you about evidence you gave Willey and will ask you to walk over the scene to see if any of it reminds you of something you might have forgotten. That’s bollocks, but it’s a tale.’
‘Why’s he doing it?’
‘I told you, favour to me.’
‘Why are you doing it?’
‘Favour to myself.’ They both sipped from the big glasses. ‘A chance to think like a detective for a bit. Plus, I confess I’m curious what you’ll do. You’ve a bee in your bonnet about your Mulcahy. Interests me.’ He wiped his upper lip with a crooked forefinger. ‘You think your Mulcahy killed that tart, don’t you?’
‘He could have. Likelier that he heard about it and got — excited.’
‘I’d be a poor Christian if I didn’t.’ Munro drank.
‘Men, I mean. Not women.’
‘What, men worse than women?’ Munro thought about it. ‘Naw, give some women a knife, they’re evil incarnate.’
Both were leaning on the pub table, their forearms only inches apart. Denton said, ‘Killing prostitutes just seems such a male crime.’
‘Well, yes. O’ course. It’s in the nature of the thing, isn’t it?’
‘What, killing’s an extension of the — transaction?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t mean that, but-’ Munro chewed his lip, made a face. ‘Not many people here tonight. Scared of us. Place has been full of coppers — made this their sort of headquarters, Willey and his lot.’ He sipped his ale and looked around at the other men, who seemed as weary and harmless as people could be. ‘Inquest’s tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Not here. Can hold an inquest in a pub, you know.’
‘You telling me that because I’m an American?’
‘Well, yeah, first time I ran into it here, I was surprised. As a Canadian.’ He raised his eyebrows, looking over Denton’s shoulders. ‘Here’s George.’ Denton turned and watched a large man stroll to the bar. He was wearing a tweed overcoat that billowed around him and perhaps increased his bigness, but under it he was a large man, for sure. Forty, going to fat, but, Denton guessed, powerful and probably fast on his feet, as some heavy men were, maybe a clever dancer. His waistcoat was well filled, his shoulders enormous; Denton thought that his arms would look soft but be as big around as fence posts. Pushing his bowler back on his head, he was chatting up the barmaid and waiting for his pint; when it came, he turned and headed right for their table, although Denton hadn’t seen him even glance their way.
‘Georgie,’ Munro said. As Denton half-rose, he said, ‘Detective Sergeant Guillam of the CID, Mr Denton.’
Guillam sat. He looked at Denton over the rim of his glass. ‘So you’re the sheriff,’ he said.
‘I wasn’t a sheriff — I was a town marshal. I get a little tired of people talking about it.’
‘Yes, you would, wouldn’t you.’ Guillam had a pleasant baritone, pronunciations that for Denton added up to ‘an accent’, meaning only that it was ‘London’ or ‘Cockney’ or something other than the hieratic cooing of, say, Emma Gosden. ‘So tell me about this man you’ve been going on about.’
Denton was irritated all over again, ascribed the irritation to the hangover, which had abated but had left behind, like trash on a beach, a general unease. There was also in Guillam’s voice a little too much of the policeman, as if Denton were a suspect, not a witness. Or merely a looker-on. ‘I’ve really nothing to add to what I told Sergeant Willey. He asked a lot of questions; the answers are all there.’ When Guillam still simply looked at him, he said, ‘My servant can bear it all out.’ He sounded defensive and pretty silly to himself.
‘Yeah, we’re talking to him right about now. If he’s home.’ Guillam stared straight into his eyes. ‘I got one interest, Mr Denton — that it’s nothing to do with the Ripper. I just want to cross the t’s and dot the i’s and tie it in red ribbon for the great men who run Scotland Yard. So I’d like to hear your tale.’
Then Denton realized that he really was in some murky way suspect, if not
