we went for coffee the next afternoon, Ma Willows handed us a wire. It was from Rosanna Ockwell, saying that Birdie was back and that they’d call on us the next day at four. The guvnor clapped me on the back, collected the newspapers from the counter, and sat heavily on a bench by the window.
‘Some of that seed cake, Barnett!’ he called over, flicking through the Pall Mall Gazette. ‘Big slice, Rena, if you don’t mind,’ he added.
Rena Willows rolled her eyes at me. Her coffee shop wasn’t the finest place, but we’d done a lot of our business there over the years and Rena never interfered. I wondered sometimes if she had a fancy for the guvnor, unlikely as that seemed with his head like a huge turnip and that belly as stretched like a great pudding right down between his legs when he sat.
He ate the cake down quick, as if he hadn’t eaten for days though I knew from my own eyes that he’d wolfed a great plate of oysters not two hours before. He blew on his mug of coffee and wiped the crumbs from the newspaper.
‘D’you reckon they’ll bring Birdie?’ I asked him.
‘They’re living on their uppers by the look of that farm. If they think there’s an inheritance, they’ll bring her.’
‘Why did you act so short with them yesterday?’
‘They didn’t strike me as people who’d be affected by kindness, Barnett. People like that are impressed by authority. When they decided I was a lawyer, it seemed a good idea to try and confirm their expectations, and better to do that by my manner rather than by telling them falsities. Birdie was in that house, I knew it as soon as Walter told us she was at her parents. It couldn’t have been a mistake: she hasn’t seen her parents since the wedding and he’d certainly know that. The man just doesn’t think quickly enough to lie well.’ He gurgled as he sipped his coffee, then without warning sneezed over my hand. ‘But why won’t they let us talk to her? That’s the question.’
‘Maybe Walter’s hurt her and they don’t want anyone to see it,’ I said, wiping myself off on my britches.
‘Well, with luck we’ll have a look at her tomorrow. We must get the Barclays here at the same time; we may just close the case. Not even Holmes could have done it faster. I had a note from Crapes this morning by the way: he might have some work for us. Just as well, as we’ll not be earning much from this one.’
Crapes was a lawyer who sometimes put work our way. It usually meant keeping a watch on a husband or wife for a few days and trying to catch them in an affair. We didn’t much like those cases: what the guvnor really wanted was something as would earn him a reputation, as would get his name in the papers like that other great detective in the city.
He turned back to the paper spread out on the table before us.
‘Did you hear about this lunacy case in Clapham?’ he asked after a while. ‘The woman didn’t believe in marriage. She wanted to live with her lover, so the family had her committed to the Priory. They found a doctor to diagnose her with monomania.’ He looked up at me. ‘Caused by – listen, Barnett, I’m talking to you – caused by attending political meetings while menstruating. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’
I shook my head.
‘No, because the fool doctor’s just made the diagnosis up,’ he said, turning the page violently. Immediately his brow dropped and a groan came from his throat. I looked down to see what irked him:
LORD SALTIRE FOUND SAFE. SHERLOCK HOLMES SOLVES MYSTERY. ‘BEST DETECTIVE THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN,’ SAYS DUKE OF HOLDERNESSE.
The whole column was given to the story. The guvnor breathed heavy as he read it, shaking his head in despair.
‘What’s he done now?’ I asked.
‘Earned himself six thousand pounds, Barnett,’ he said, flinging the paper across the coffee shop. His lip quivered like he was weeping inside. His voice dropped to a whisper.
‘For two days’ work.’
We were back at Willows’ the next afternoon. It was already getting dark, and a cold rain had been falling all day. The Barclays were inside, wrapped in their coats and hats like they were sat on an omnibus. Mr Barclay was nervy, his pink face pinker from being out in the freezing wind, while Mrs Barclay sat calm and noble, her chin high, looking over the other punters. The guvnor, afraid that Birdie might do a runner when she saw her parents, moved them to a little table at the back of the shop, behind a bunch of cabbies having a break from the cruel streets.
‘This is your chance to see how she is,’ he said. ‘Be gentle and don’t do anything that might anger Walter. Don’t accuse him. And don’t make your daughter feel guilty.’
‘Of course not,’ said Mr Barclay. His eyes darted here and there; his leg jiggled, making the table shudder.
‘Barnett, go and wait outside. Let them enter first. If they turn back when they see Mr and Mrs Barclay you must block the door until I’ve a chance to persuade them.’ He turned back to our employers. ‘Then it’ll be up to you.’
I went and stood on the street, my hands jammed in my pockets against the cold, my cap collecting the fine rain. Three empty hansoms were parked by the kerb, their melancholy horses standing silently. Two young girls out on the monkey wandered past, their hands out to everyone they passed. On the other side, a crumpet man marched along with a tray on his head, clanging his bell and wailing, but he surely knew that nobody eats crumpets in the rain.
It wasn’t long before I saw Rosanna Ockwell striding down Blackfriars Road towards me. She was wrapped in a thick brown coat, a scarf, a plain black bonnet tied under her chin.
‘Mr Barnett,’ she said with a brisk nod. ‘He’s inside, is he?’
‘He is.’ I opened the door for her.
She stepped into the shop, looking around the busy tables until her eyes fell on the Barclays.
‘What’s this?’ she asked sharply, turning back to me. ‘Why are they here?’
‘It concerns them, ma’am,’ I answered, blocking the door.
She glared at me, anger in her keen eyes. There was something uncanny about those eyes: when she laid them on you it was as if she could see your every weakness, every bad thing you’d done.
‘Is Birdie with you, Miss Ockwell?’ asked the guvnor, rising from his seat.
‘Around the corner,’ she replied, turning to him. Her face was quite white except the few strong hairs about her lip. ‘She won’t come now, though. Not with these two here.’
‘But why not?’
‘She doesn’t want anything to do with them, that’s why. They never treated her right. Never wanted her.’
‘It’s a lie!’ cried Mr Barclay, leaping from the table. ‘It’s your family that’s put her up to it! You fetch her here, or there’ll be trouble, I warn you!’
The cabbies had gone quiet, turning on their benches to watch the show. Rena stopped her work and crossed her arms over her great belly.
‘Pray, have a seat, Miss Ockwell,’ said the guvnor in his softest voice.
