The Sin Eater(45)

‘That might be acceptable,’ said Flossie. ‘But if it ever comes out I told you, you’d be the losers.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘I have friends as wouldn’t stand for me being rooked,’ she said.

‘We understand,’ said Colm. ‘We won’t give you away.’

‘Mrs Totteridge’s eyes flickered to where Declan sat and Colm instantly said, ‘You can just tell me, and I swear by all the saints I won’t breathe a word to anyone.’

‘Even him?’ said Flossie looking at Declan.

‘Specially not him, even though he’s as close as a clam. But he’s not staying,’ said Colm. ‘He has business to attend to just along the street.’

His eyes held a look that Declan had seen a number of times in the shack when Colm was about to embark on a sexual adventure. It was not a look he had expected to see in a London brothel, with an ageing madam stroking Colm’s leg with unmistakable invitation. But he got up and said, ‘Colm, will I see you back at the lodgings? An hour, say?’

‘Make it two,’ said Flossie Totteridge, and her hand slid between Colm’s thighs. Over her head, Colm caught Declan’s eye and shrugged resignedly.

‘The little plucked fowl is called Mr Arnold Trumbull,’ said Colm. ‘He works in a printing firm at Islington, wherever that is. Tottery Floss thinks he’s the manager, although I practically had to swear on my immortal soul that I wouldn’t divulge that information to anyone.’

‘You’ve just divulged it to me.’

‘Yes, but you’re as close as a clam. So then she made it very clear she expected me to—’

‘I don’t want to know,’ said Declan, hastily.

‘Good, because I don’t want to relive it. Will we go to Islington? I don’t know where it is, but we can get one of those omnibus carriages, apparently.’

Mr Arnold Trumbull’s printing company was housed in a tall building squashed between other tall buildings. There was a smell of ink and paper. Mr Trumbull himself was a wispy gentleman, with a thin neck encased in a high wing collar, and rimless spectacles.

‘We’re here to get information about my cousin,’ said Colm abruptly. ‘We understand you knew her. Her name’s Romilly Rourke and she was one of the girls at Holly Lodge. And you,’ he said, in a tone full of contempt, ‘were one of the men who paid to go to bed with her.’

Mr Trumbull, who had risen to his feet to greet them, now tottered back to his chair.

‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t slander. I’m a respectable businessman, a lay-preacher at St Botolph’s. And my sister is a pillar of the local community, known for her charitable works—’

‘Mr Trumbull,’ said Colm, perching on the edge of the desk, ‘we don’t care how many prostitutes you’ve had. We’re simply trying to find Romilly. Once we know where she is, we’ll leave you to your lay-preaching and your charitable works and all the rest of it. But it would be a pity,’ he said, ‘if it became known that such a respectable gentleman regularly visited a brothel. St Botolph’s, did you say? That’d be nearby, would it?’

Colm’s veiled threat struck home. Speaking in a half-mumble, Arnold Trumbull admitted there had been an acquaintance with Miss Rourke – Romilly. But he supposed a man was allowed a bit of companionship of an evening – particularly when living with a sister who spent her days polishing furniture and her nights working for the relief of Superannuated Widows or Distressed Gentlewomen. And,’ said Mr Trumbull, in an injured tone, when the house smelled constantly of boiled cabbage and pig’s head. ‘Those being cheap and filling foods, on account of my sister donating most of the housekeeping to her charities.’

‘How often did you go to see Romilly?’ asked Declan, sidestepping these domesticities.

Arnold Trumbull said huffily that being a man of regular habits he had gone to Holly Lodge on the first Tuesday of every month. ‘And I always paid my dues. And when Romilly had her trouble, I accepted responsibility like a gentleman. I gave her money. Ten guineas.’

Declan and Colm stared at him. Colm said furiously, ‘So you were the one who got her pregnant. For pity’s sake, man, this is England, where you can walk into a shop and buy anti-conception aids for the asking!’

Arnold Trumbull, crimson with embarrassment, said he had tried to do that, indeed he had. ‘I scoured the shops around St Stephen’s Road – a large population of merchant seamen there, so it seemed a likely place – and I found a shop where there were several boxes of the items. But I couldn’t face actually asking for a . . . So I fled the shop.’

‘Never mind what you did, where’s Romilly now?’ Colm leaned across the desk, and for a moment it seemed as if Arnold Trumbull’s pale eyes would manage to stare down Colm’s angry glare. But he was no match for Colm. He blinked and said, in a sulky mumble, that he believed Romilly had taken rooms in a house in the East End.

‘Where?’

‘Bidder Lane, Canning Town.’





FOURTEEN


London, 1890s


Canning Town, in the murky light of a fading afternoon, was drearier than Colm and Declan could have believed possible. The streets were narrow and rows of wizened houses huddled together as if for warmth or reassurance. There were narrow alleyways at intervals between the houses which might lead anywhere or nowhere. A solitary dog barked somewhere, and several times they heard angry voices or wailing babies from within the buildings. There were a few people about, mostly men, shabby and slightly furtive-looking, or shambling with the unsteady footsteps of the inebriated. The few women they saw had ragged shawls over their heads and bowed backs. They cast incurious glances at the two boys, and scuttled on.