flicker of surprise in the grey eyes.
‘And other members of the family?’
‘I have met no other members of the family.’
He was trying to place me, I could tell that. I was unmarried, with an address in Mayfair (he might not know that it was on
the unfashionable side) and I accepted invitations from gentlemen I’d only just met. The conclusion might seem obvious.
‘Had you met Mr Handy?’
‘The man in the crate? No, to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never seen him before.’
That seemed to be all. He thanked me.
‘I’ll see Miss Lane to a cab,’ Miles said.
The constable shook his head.
‘I’d be grateful if you’d wait, sir. There are formalities. I’m sure Mr Pratt will take care of Miss Lane.’
Miles seemed about to protest. Pratt took my arm and I let him guide me towards the door. Miles called after him.
‘Pratt, will you get somebody to send for Lomax. Oliver Lomax of Lincoln’s Inn. He’ll know what to do.’
Pratt nodded and we went through to the shop. I told him I didn’t need a cab and walked into the sunlight of Bond Street,
wondering why Miles Brinkburn’s first coherent thought had been to summon a lawyer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Back home in my room at Abel Yard, I opened the window to let in what passes for fresh air in London. It came in with the
familiar smells of sun-warmed grass from the park, of the cow byre where the yard’s resident herd of four Guernseys was kept,
of hot iron from the carriage mender’s workshop, with the usual faint whiff of cesspit underlying them. Still, it was sweeter
than the memory of that smell from the crate. I mixed some fresh ink and wrote a note to Jimmy Cuffs at the Cheshire Cheese,
Fleet Street, asking him to find out when and where the inquest into a servant named Handy would take place and let me know
by return. When I went back down to the yard, the boy who blew the bellows for the carriage mender’s forge was willing to
carry out the errand for sixpence.
Jimmy Cuffs was a man I’d met in one of my investigations. I suppose he might be described as a journalist of a kind, though
that was rather a grand title for his trade of picking up snippets from the coroners’ courts that might make a paragraph or
two in the newspapers. He was no taller than a twelve-year-old child and lurched along at a fast limp because of a club foot.
He must have had a lodging somewhere, but his seat in the corner of the Cheshire Cheese was his true residence and he was
always to be found there in the evenings. It was hard to tell his age and nobody knew his surname. Jimmy Cuffs was the name
given to him by the other scribblers who were his drinking companions, because once, when the coroners’ courts had been unusually
dull, he couldn’t afford to have his shirts washed, so took to wearing his rusty black jacket buttoned right to the neck,
with a pair of respectable white cuffs sticking out from the sleeves. Only the cuffs, with no shirt attached to them.
Jimmy Cuffs was a cultivated man. I’d seen him in St Martin’s Lane with his nose pressed to a bookshop window like a starving
boy at a pie shop. He claimed to know all the Odes of Horace by heart. Late one night, when business had taken me to Fleet
Street, I’d heard him trying to prove it by reciting one of them to a crowd of drunken friends. He was just as drunk himself
and had to cling to a lamp post to stay upright, but his Latin sounded as clear as Cicero’s. He and I were occasionally able
to do each other professional favours. Although I’d never betray a client’s confidence, I could sometimes put a story Jimmy’s
way that did him good and nobody else any harm.
In not much more than an hour, the bellows boy returned with his reply, written on the back of a few inches of newspaper proof
in his fine Italic hand:
Day after tomorrow, Thursday, 10 a.m. at Marylebone. Would have been tomorrow, but they have to wait for a witness to come
up from the
‘And other members of the family?’
‘I have met no other members of the family.’
He was trying to place me, I could tell that. I was unmarried, with an address in Mayfair (he might not know that it was on
the unfashionable side) and I accepted invitations from gentlemen I’d only just met. The conclusion might seem obvious.
‘Had you met Mr Handy?’
‘The man in the crate? No, to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never seen him before.’
That seemed to be all. He thanked me.
‘I’ll see Miss Lane to a cab,’ Miles said.
The constable shook his head.
‘I’d be grateful if you’d wait, sir. There are formalities. I’m sure Mr Pratt will take care of Miss Lane.’
Miles seemed about to protest. Pratt took my arm and I let him guide me towards the door. Miles called after him.
‘Pratt, will you get somebody to send for Lomax. Oliver Lomax of Lincoln’s Inn. He’ll know what to do.’
Pratt nodded and we went through to the shop. I told him I didn’t need a cab and walked into the sunlight of Bond Street,
wondering why Miles Brinkburn’s first coherent thought had been to summon a lawyer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Back home in my room at Abel Yard, I opened the window to let in what passes for fresh air in London. It came in with the
familiar smells of sun-warmed grass from the park, of the cow byre where the yard’s resident herd of four Guernseys was kept,
of hot iron from the carriage mender’s workshop, with the usual faint whiff of cesspit underlying them. Still, it was sweeter
than the memory of that smell from the crate. I mixed some fresh ink and wrote a note to Jimmy Cuffs at the Cheshire Cheese,
Fleet Street, asking him to find out when and where the inquest into a servant named Handy would take place and let me know
by return. When I went back down to the yard, the boy who blew the bellows for the carriage mender’s forge was willing to
carry out the errand for sixpence.
Jimmy Cuffs was a man I’d met in one of my investigations. I suppose he might be described as a journalist of a kind, though
that was rather a grand title for his trade of picking up snippets from the coroners’ courts that might make a paragraph or
two in the newspapers. He was no taller than a twelve-year-old child and lurched along at a fast limp because of a club foot.
He must have had a lodging somewhere, but his seat in the corner of the Cheshire Cheese was his true residence and he was
always to be found there in the evenings. It was hard to tell his age and nobody knew his surname. Jimmy Cuffs was the name
given to him by the other scribblers who were his drinking companions, because once, when the coroners’ courts had been unusually
dull, he couldn’t afford to have his shirts washed, so took to wearing his rusty black jacket buttoned right to the neck,
with a pair of respectable white cuffs sticking out from the sleeves. Only the cuffs, with no shirt attached to them.
Jimmy Cuffs was a cultivated man. I’d seen him in St Martin’s Lane with his nose pressed to a bookshop window like a starving
boy at a pie shop. He claimed to know all the Odes of Horace by heart. Late one night, when business had taken me to Fleet
Street, I’d heard him trying to prove it by reciting one of them to a crowd of drunken friends. He was just as drunk himself
and had to cling to a lamp post to stay upright, but his Latin sounded as clear as Cicero’s. He and I were occasionally able
to do each other professional favours. Although I’d never betray a client’s confidence, I could sometimes put a story Jimmy’s
way that did him good and nobody else any harm.
In not much more than an hour, the bellows boy returned with his reply, written on the back of a few inches of newspaper proof
in his fine Italic hand:
Day after tomorrow, Thursday, 10 a.m. at Marylebone. Would have been tomorrow, but they have to wait for a witness to come
up from the
Similar Books
