Limehouse Boys

4 ~ Mr Short Finds Support

Chapter 4

Mr Short Finds Support

Putting aside the letter he’d received a few minutes earlier, Reverend Stephen Short stared at the desk.

“At last,” he said softly. “At last, someone is prepared to study this matter properly.” Now he needed to compile the evidence he had gathered to present his case. The Archdeacon was supportive, but insisted that it was a matter for others to deal with. Very well, now that Mr Wilberforce had responded positively, he would provide everything he had and continue his own enquiries in support.

A tap at his study door made him look up. “Come in.”

The maid entered and held the door. “There’s a man asking for you, sir. ’E ’as one o’ your cards, sir. Says ’is name’s Blake, sir.”

“Thank you, Molly.” He smiled at her disapproval of a visitor interrupting him. She was very protective of his time. “Please show him in. I’ve been hoping he would call.”

“Yes, sir.” Her face registering her doubt, the maid departed, returning a few moments later with the former gunner’s mate.

“Mister Blake, what a pleasant surprise.” He indicated a chair. “Please, be seated. Some refreshment, perhaps? Tea? I’ve no rum worthy of the name at present—odd, is it not? A half mile from the largest rum warehouses in England, and I have none to offer.”

Perching on the very edge of the chair and clutching his broad brimmed hat, Blake grinned nervously. “P’raps an ale, sir. I’ve not the taste fer tea, an’ I’d not wish ter impose on yer, sir.”

“There’s a passable small beer in the pantry. I’ll take some myself, I think.” He turned to the maid. “If you please, Molly, two mugs of the keg delivered last Friday, please.” The maid hurried away, and Stephen turned to his visitor. “What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Mick—I mean, Mister ’Owell, tol’ me yer needs a new sexton, sir, an’ I’m to apply.” He looked sheepish. “That is, ’e suggested I wanted to.”

Stephen laughed. “Did he? Do you?” His sense of humour got the better of him just as the maid returned with the mugs on a tray. “Has the parish a choice in this?”

With a grin, the old sailor shook his head. “I fink ’e’s already persuaded the churchwarden, sir.” The grin vanished. “Fact is, sir, ’e finks yer needs some as looks out for ’e. There’s some as dasn’t like ye lookin’ too close at their trade, sir, if you get my meaning.”

Leaning back, Stephen frowned as he considered this. “Indeed? You would not, of course, know who?”

Shifting uncomfortably under the clergyman’s gaze, Blake shook his head. “Mister ’Owell said I was not ter say—gossip, sir.”

Ned was uncomfortable. The artists were now regular visitors, and their demands for models always meant he and several others went to bed hungry. Tonight they wanted a posed fight, and he’d been stood in this pose for far too long.

“I ’opes they’s nearly done,” murmured the boy he was supposedly wrestling. “Me back’s achin’, an’ I’m gettin’ cramp.”

“Me stomach’s sore,” Ned mumbled. “Di’n’t get lunch.”

The night bell rang. “Don’t move! You boys ’ave another ten minutes. Yer not goin’ anywhere ’til I says so.”

“Please, sir, we’ll be punished an’ shut out o’ t’ dormitory. Mistress Watlin’ don’ wait fer nobody! She’ll lock t’ door on us agin.”

“Stay where you are,” snapped Mr Fleet. “You’ll sleep in the cellar if need be,” he added with a derisive laugh. “A taste of the future for you, I should think, unless the Beadle’s friends find something more comfortable.”

“Please, Mister Fleet, sir, I got no dinner today an’ no supper, an’ Mistress Watlin’ will punish us t’morrow wi’ no breakfast fer bein’ absent.”

The schoolmaster leaned close, his unpleasant breath in Ned’s face. “Be glad I don’t cane you now, boy. You’re too clever by half for gaol-bait like you. Take care, or you and your friends may yet find employment far less pleasant than this. Just think of your friend Billy—you want to end up where he is? You’ll be beggin’ to come back here if you do. Any more argument from you and I’ll arrange it myself.”

Ned remained quiet. He could only hope Ben or George would pull off their promise of a raid on the pantry and bring him something to eat.

Beadle Hewlett was annoyed. He’d just learned from Churchwarden Byward, of the parish of St Anne’s, that they’d appointed a new sexton. The previous incumbent had been a crony of his, and he’d intended to replace him with another. Now someone else was moving in on his patch, and he didn’t like it.

Warden Byward was a local green grocer. He owed his election as warden to the Beadle, and could see this failure was going to cost him dearly if the man’s reputation was any indication.

“I’m sorry, Mister Hewlett. I had no choice in the matter. Doctor Wallace and the parish council insisted.”

He smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m sure you’ll find the new man biddable. He’s an old sailor after all.”

“Aye, well, I’ll ’ave to see what I can find on ’im.” Hewlett considered this for a moment, a frown creasing his brow. “’E wouldn’t be another o’ t’ parson’s friends from that ship ’e were on, would ’e?”

Uneasy now, because there were certain whispers about concerning a group of men recently discharged from the Navy who were now resident in Limehouse, Byward wiped his hands on his apron. “He could be, Mister Hewlett. Can’t say as it was mentioned, but he could be.”

The reply was not what the Beadle wanted to hear, but there was little point in pressing it. He knew there’d been some changes in Limehouse Basin among the longshoremen. It was his business to know. A new owner had bought a couple of the sailing barges operating from there, as well as some shares in several of the lighters conveying goods from ships laying in the stream. Word was he was an ex-Navy man who’d done well with his prize money. It would bear looking into.

“Aye, well ’ere’s the requirement fer t’ weekly greens t’ work’ouse needs.” He handed over a folded sheet of paper. “O’ course, t’ usual arrangement applies fer t’ billin’.”

The grocer scrutinised the list. “Of course, I shall submit my account to the treasurer on Quarter Day as usual.” Refolding the list, he tucked it into his apron pocket. “I’ll settle your commission as soon as it is paid.”

He might have resented the Beadle’s commission had he not been able to inflate his prices to cover it. This also allowed him to increase his profit by disposing of all the vegetables he could not sell to anyone but the workhouse due to mould, insects or blight, or simply because of their lack of freshness. It was a matter of business, and it profited them both.

Watching Hewlett depart, Warden Byward gave some thought to some of the rumours circulating. The Beadle was a man of whom many were afraid; a man, it was said, with some very dangerous and unpleasant connections. Reverend Short would need to be wary; he was treading into dangerous territory meddling in the Beadle’s affairs.

Turning back to his wares, he retrieved the order from his apron pocket and called his young assistant.

“Henry, I’ve the workhouse order here. You know how it is made up.” He thrust the paper at the youth. “See to it.”

Mick Howell studied the small mother of pearl brooch carefully, handling it lovingly as he turned it to the light. By happenstance, he had seen the Beadle frequenting this shop; the owner was a known fencing agent masquerading as a jeweller-pawnbroker in Seven Dials.

On a hunch, Mick called in at the shop and spotted the brooch and a small inlaid box, both of which he remembered well. Both pieces were prominently displayed in the shop window, an indication that they had been acquired recently. He asked casually, “I’ve a mind to buy this, but I’ve a need for another piece like it—a locket mebbe, or ear trinkets. Have you anything to match?”

“Mebbe. Lemme see.” The man rummaged through a tray of items behind the counter. “I get a little o’ this type o’ stuff sometimes. Very popular it is; old, but fine work.”

“You’ve a regular supplier?” The question was asked casually, but Mick already knew the answer he was most likely to hear. “I’ve seen others like it—not as pretty, o’ course—down Poplar an’ Shadwell.”

Shooting him a suspicious look, the ferret-faced man shook his head. “Nah. I buys a lot o’ stuff frum them as is feelin’ t’ pinch. Pays what I can mostly.” He placed a locket and chain, earrings, a ring and a larger brooch on the counter. “One o’ these suit? Come from a widder wot died sudden-like a few year back.”

Mick struggled to control his feelings. Before him lay some of his mother’s knick-knacks, as she had called them. He suspected they must have lain hidden since her death, but now someone wanted rid of them. As a boy, he’d seen his mother wear them, and he remembered when his father brought them home from his travels and gave them to her. Now, as casually as he could manage, Mick pretended to examine them as if he’d never seen them before.

“Aye, these’ll do. How much for them all?”

The shifty eyes narrowed. “All o’ ’em? Well now, I laid out three guineas for these beauties. Good silver settings, an’ t’ workmanship is quality besides.”

The ex-Master’s Mate had long experience in this type of transaction. Not for nothing had he served in the Levantine patrols and along the Corsair coasts. A man bought nothing there without haggling.

“Three guineas?” He laughed. “You were gulled, my friend. I’ll offer you one, and that is more than they are worth an’ the box I should think they came with.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes widened slightly, but he quickly recovered. Picking up the locket, he said, “Not fer this quality. Look ’ere—see them squiggly marks? Arabic that is. These are Moorish work, pure silver, top mark stuff. Yer don’t see a lot o’ it. Three guineas, an’ I’ll give ’e a box fer ’em.”

Mick knew exactly where the locket and all the other pieces came from. His father had been given them in payment for some very rewarding work done for a Levantine trader many years before. He could even have told the shopkeeper exactly what “them squiggly marks” said.

“Two, an’ I’ll have the box besides.” He leaned across the counter and looked directly into the shopkeeper’s eyes. “I ’appens to know where these come from, see. It could get very dangerous if t’ lad they were took from foun’ out who bought ’em off t’ thief.”

“Stolen?” The shopkeeper blustered. “These were never stolen. Got ’em off a regular supplier outa Limehouse. Big man there, well known. Everythin’ I gets from ’im is legit.”

“Big man? About five an’ a ’alf feet, big nose, well set up an’ fed, al’ays wears a greatcoat? Flash outfit and careful wi’ ’is money? Oh, aye, I believe yer. Very upright ’e is.”

He lowered his voice. “There’s a few who’d like to know where ’e gets ’is money, if you take my meaning.” He straightened up. “Two guineas the lot—an’ t’ box they were in.”

For a moment, the shopkeeper considered arguing, but the man in front of him knew these pieces of jewellery rather too well. He’d even identified the very box they’d arrived in, a small camphor wood box with a mother of pearl inlaid lid and a cunningly hidden catch.

The shopkeeper had deliberately left it in the shop window display hoping the customer wouldn’t notice. He had a couple of toughs lurking behind the curtain at the back of the shop for protection, but something warned him this man would not be an easy victim.

Reluctantly, he conceded defeat. “I takes a lot o’ stuff in good faith. This come from a man I knows by sight. I’d no reason ter think they was scampered goods.” He slid the fancy box across the counter next to the jewellery. “Two guineas for the lot.”

Mick Howell smiled. Carefully extracting his purse from an inner pocket of his waistcoat, he chose two gold coins and laid them on the counter. Taking the box, he operated the hidden catch without being shown it, placed the locket, rings and brooches inside, and closed it carefully.

“A pleasure doin’ business.” His smile vanished. “A word ter the wise. I’d take it amiss if anyone follows me from ’ere.” He nodded toward the curtain. “An’ I’d think careful about speakin’ o’ our business ter anyone, especially the cully as sold these ter you.”

The tiny room, little more than a large cupboard space, was dark, cold and damp. Ned had no idea why he’d been singled out for punishment. Someone, and he didn’t know who, had apparently stolen some food from the staff pantry. Now, he, Ben and George had been accused and were being punished, each locked into one of these small, dank, store cupboards beneath the laundry. He hugged his knees and listened to what sounded like rats scampering and scrabbling about, dreading that one would run over his feet or climb up his trousers at any minute.

He didn’t mind the darkness, and as long as he shifted position every now and then, the rats seemed to leave him alone. He hated the unfairness of it all, and his anger kept him warm.

Footsteps and voices approaching alerted him, and he moved deeper into the corner farthest from the door. He stared at the sliver of light underneath it, expecting another beating, watching for the exact moment when the door was opened. Even if he was powerless to help himself, it was better to be prepared and expect the inevitable rather than close his eyes and be caught off guard.

Banking the fires of his anger, he held his breath as the key grated in the lock. It suddenly occurred to him that not many months ago, an older youth named Billy, who had also been required to sit for the artists’ sketches, had vanished after a spell in this same cellar. A new boy was now the focus of Mr Fleet’s attention.

The door swung outward and light flooded the space. Automatically, Ned shielded his eyes.

“Stan’ up, yer thievin’ brat,” rasped the Beadle. “Let’s be lookin’ at yer.”

Ned stood, unfolding himself awkwardly. He was cold and stiff from several hours in the cramped space.

“There. Prime lad, like I tol’ yer.”

“So it appears; certainly a pretty face on him.” There was a brief pause. “Remove your clothes, boy.”

The newcomer’s voice sounded cultured, but to Ned’s ear, there was a touch of the East End to it. He couldn’t see who it was because the man was standing behind the Beadle.

Ned hesitated. He’d heard stories about what some of the staff did to boys down here.

“Do as yer tol’—an’ be quick abaht it.”

The well-dressed man pulled on his gloves as he prepared to board the hackney carriage. “He’ll do. A trifle young, but that will mend with time.” His laugh was unpleasant. “Let him remain here for another month or so. No more beatings, though, and warn the others to keep their, ah, intentions directed at other boys. I want no damaged goods.”

The Beadle nodded. “I’ll warn ’em.”

“One more thing: a certain shopkeeper in Seven Dials let slip something to one of my people. Someone he describes as a seaman bought some trinkets from him and knew far too much about them, including who the shopkeeper had bought them from.” He studied the Beadle. “It seems you may have been a trifle careless. Our mutual friend didn’t know the buyer’s name, but he seemed to think he came from round here. Take care, my friend, this may be the last . . . ah, transaction we make for a while, at least until I can be sure there is no threat to my clients.”

“There’ll be no problem ’ere. I’ll take care o’ it. An’ t’ brat’ll be ready. Turrible fings ’appen to careless brats every day in t’ yards down river.” He winked. “’E’ll be delivered whenever you gives t’ word.”