Gooseberry: Chapter Twelve

“Step back!” snapped the diminutive Mr. Crabbit, as Mr. Bruff pressed his way through the gaggle of clerks. “I said step back and let your employer through!”

“Mr. Crabbit, what in God’s name is happening here?”

“This gentleman’s been shot, sir.”

“Here? On the premises?”

“No, sir, we found him like this when he stumbled in off the street. I fear he’s in a bad way. He’s been asking for you, Mr. Bruff.”

Mr. Bruff knelt by the dying man’s side and took hold of his hand. At the sight of his face, Treech rallied for an instant.

“I am not…who you think,” he said, coughing all the while.

“Hush, now,” said Mr. Bruff. “We know. Who shot you, sir?”

“Mallard. Mallard…shot me. The boy…escaped on my watch…overheard…plan to burn the bank down.”

“Who’s Mallard?”

“Mallard? All…his idea. Wants…the diamond…” Treech’s eyelids began to flutter.

“Stay with me! Stay with me, damn it!”

“Daguerreotype…”

“Yes?”

“The scar…the boy…”

“What about the boy?”

Another fit of coughing. “I…I picked…the wrong side.” His chest heaved as he attempted a painful, shallow laugh. “Been…betrayed. Get me…my revenge.”

One last spasm, and Treech’s body came to rest. Ever so gently, Mr. Bruff let go of the man’s hand.

“George and George, go and rouse the local police. Mr. Crabbit, if you would be so kind as to stay with the body until they get here? Gooseberry, my office, please. The rest of you, back to work.”

Just at that moment, a crushed-up ball of paper landed at Mr. Bruff’s feet. Still kneeling, he picked it up and examined it.

“Who threw this?” he asked, his face turning redder and redder. No one answered. Standing up, he asked again, “Who threw this?” When he still got no reply, he handed the ball of paper to Mr. Crabbit. “Mark my words,” he muttered, as he started up the stairs, “there will be changes in this office.”

I followed him up. He showed me into his office and shut the door.

“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish! Whatever Miss Rachel’s wishes, we cannot keep the police out of it now. A murder! And the poor chap dies in my very own reception!”

“Sir,” I said, “with regards to the police, you could always be economical with the truth.” It was a risky thing to suggest, because it could lead him to suspect that this was my own preferred strategy.

“I’m a solicitor, Gooseberry. It’s my job to be discreet. The police shall have the bald facts from me and nothing more. But who on earth is Mallard? And what was this diamond he was babbling on about?”

“A mallard’s a type of duck, sir,” I said, providing him with a bald fact of my own. As to the question of the diamond, I was sure I knew the answer. For the past year, any mention of a diamond in public had generally meant but one thing: the Kohinoor—the Mountain of Light—which had been on display at the Great Exhibition, at least until last October when the Crystal Palace finally closed. I had to give Mallard marks for audacity, for the Kohinoor was meant to be the largest diamond in the world.

Mr. Bruff sighed. “So the boy we met at Twickenham has bolted. He could be anywhere by now.”

Effectively scuppering Mallard’s well-laid plans, I reflected. Presently the man had neither the real maharajah, nor the fake. The worrying question was whether Mallard shot Treech in a fit of anger over losing the boy, or, more sinisterly, now that his scheme had failed, whether he was starting to tie up loose ends?

“Did you catch that fellow’s dying confession?” Mr. Bruff asked. “How he picked the wrong side?”

Actually I’d heard every word of it, and I had my own ideas about what it meant. If I was right, then I also knew why Hook had turned on Bertha, and why he now wanted him dead. In a sense it had to do with Pan-faced Dora’s mole—the only spot of beauty she ever possessed. Bertha, bless him, didn’t know when to keep his trap shut.

“Sir, there’s something I wish to follow up,” I said, “but I’m afraid it will be expensive.”

“How expensive?”

I hadn’t a clue how much it cost to have a daguerreotype made, but I knew it cost a lot—and I ideally wanted two of them. “I’m not sure, sir.”

“I see no problem, since Mr. Blake has generously agreed to foot the bill. Have a word with Mr. Crabbit when the police are done with him. Tell him you have my blessing.”

It was late in the afternoon when the police eventually departed, having removed the body and taken everyone’s statements. Mr. Crabbit nearly fell out of his chair when I requested two pounds, preferably in shilling coins.

“Don’t worry. What I don’t use, I’ll return,” I promised.

“I shall require receipts,” he reminded me in a trembling voice, quite possibly as a result of handing over the equivalent of half his month’s wages from the firm’s dwindling reserves.

I found Julius and Bertha working together on money when I got home, but it wasn’t going especially well, for they were reduced to using torn scraps of paper instead of actual money. I was relieved to see that Bertha was still wearing his blue serge suit, for, having forgone dinner due to all the excitement, I was planning to take everyone out for a meal.

Being a Monday evening, the eating house on the Gray’s Inn Road—where I normally pick up our supper on my way home—wasn’t as packed as it normally was. Mrs. Grogan, who runs the place with the help of her husband, Jack, was delighted to see that I’d brought Julius. She fussed over him and messed with his hair as she showed the three of us to a candle-lit table in the corner.

“So, what’s your pleasure to be, gentlemen?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Gawd, she thinks I’m an omi,” Bertha grunted in my ear.

“We’ll start with soup, if you please, Mrs. Grogan, and Julius will have an eel pie. After that, we’ll place ourselves in your capable hands, and you may serve us with what you judge best. We’re all very hungry.” A murder at the office can do that to a person.

The woman beamed at me, then went to fetch our soup.

Halfway through the enormous meal, Bertha burst into tears.

“What’s the matter, Bertha?” Julius asked solicitously.

“Nothing, Sprat. Nothing,” he replied, drying his tears with the back of his hand. “It’s just I mustn’t let meself get too used to this, that’s all. Thank you for this lovely meal, Octopus. I’ll never forget these past few days for as long as I live.”

“You certainly won’t forget tomorrow.”

“You got something planned, then?”

“Yes, Julius is going to be sick.”

“I am not,” protested Julius. “I haven’t eaten that much.”

“Tomorrow you’re going to be sick, Julius, so sick, you won’t be able to go to work.” The truth is my brother works hard and without complaint. He deserved a day off now and again.

“Oh,” he said, as enlightenment came. “Pity,” he added, with a serious expression, “that I have to go sick just when my guvnor was coming round to the idea of calling me Sprat. Another day might have done it.”

“Rand,” Bertha corrected him. “Comin’ rand to the idea.”

I held my tongue.

Tuesday morning dawned bright and chilly. I had Bertha pack his normal clothes into a canvas bag while I wrote out a few words on a sheet of scrap paper, and then we headed off.

“This ain’t some kind of trick to get rid of me?” laughed Bertha nervously, as he eyed the canvas bag that contained all his worldly belongings.

“No trick, I promise. This is something you will love.”

I would have liked us to have taken a cab—for it would have been the first time Julius had ever ridden in one—but after the blow-out meal of the previous evening, I wasn’t sure if we could afford it.

“That’s where Octopus works,” said Julius, pointing as we passed Gray’s Inn Square.

“That’s where who works?” I demanded.

“Bertha calls you Octopus. Why can’t I?”

“Because you’re not Bertha.”

The traffic on Oxford Street was chaotic, as was the traffic on Regent Street. Cabs were banked up all the way down to Piccadilly.

“I done that one, and that one, and that one,” said Bertha, pointing out the shops he’d lifted things from. Since they were all even more select than the stationer’s in Bishopsgate, I wondered how he’d managed to charm his way through their doors.

“What do you mean you done them?” asked Julius.

“He just means he’s been in them,” I said, glaring at Bertha. “Look, we’re here.”

The three of us stood and stared at the tastefully painted shop-front sign:

Mr. William E. Kilburn,
Daguerreotypes of Distinction

A bell rang as I opened the door, and a woman appeared from behind a curtain.

“Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing us all with suspicion.

“Good morning, miss. Can you tell me, please, how much does it cost to have a daguerreotype made?”
“It all depends on the size you want.” She gave a smile as if to say she knew what I was up to, and that she could play this game all day.

“What’s the most popular size, miss?” I could play it too.

“A lot of people choose the sixth-plate,” she replied, leaving me entirely in the dark.

“And how much is a sixth-plate?”

“A sixth-plate? Let me think. A sixth-plate will cost you one pound. Now, are we done here?”

“I’ll take two, miss.” Thank God we didn’t come by cab.

“You’ll take…”

“Two.”

“I…I’ll need to take your payment up front.”

“And I,” I said, extracting the bag of shillings from my jacket, “shall require a receipt when we’re finished.”

Having tamed the dragon at the gate, we were led through to the back of the shop, which was lit by an enormous glass skylight. Mr. Kilburn was a slightly-built man of about forty-five years of age, with dark, unkempt hair, a full mustache, and a generous sprinkling of freckles on his face.

“Group shot, is it?” he inquired, studying the three of us from what I imagined was an artistic point of view.

“The first one, yes. My friend here will need somewhere to change his clothes.”

“He can change in there,” he said, indicating a small dressing room off one corner of the studio. “It’s quite private.”

As Bertha hurried away to change, I turned to Mr. Kilburn and said, “Would you believe that that was none other than Bertram Gubbins, the Theatre Royal’s premier comedic actor, and toast of London society for his role as the drunken butler in last year’s production of ‘Miss Penelope’s Secret’?”

“Really? He honestly didn’t strike me as the type.”

“That’s because he’s trying to get into character, sir. Most actors are content to declaim their parts loudly and accurately, but Gubbins believes in walking around in his character’s shoes. For this latest role, he’s preparing to play a Covent Garden flower girl.”

“A great big man like that?”

“He is a comedic actor, sir,” I pointed out, as Bertha rejoined us, looking utterly relieved to be back in a skirt again. The photographer burst out laughing.

“Very good, sir!” he cried. “Truly, I applaud you.”

“Wot the ’ell’s ’e on about,” growled Bertha, giving him the evil eye.

Hearing the deep bass voice, Mr. Kilburn laughed even louder. “Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary! All he needs is a basket!”

“Wot about me damned basket?”

“Oh, how I wish I’d caught his drunken butler! Tell me, sir, why have I never seen you before?”

“Clearly ’cos you ain’t bleedin’ looked!”

Mr. Kilburn doubled up in hysterics.

“Look, are we gunna get this duggairiotype done, or are we just gunna stand ’ere all day?”

“No more! No more! I can’t take it!”

“Bertha, hush, and let the man do his job.”

Eventually Mr. Kilburn calmed down enough to start arranging us in front of the backdrop, a wall of the studio that had been staged to look like a drawing room. He placed Bertha in a chair in the middle, with Julius standing on his left, and me on his right. “You’re lucky,” he said, “it’s a nice, clear day. You’ll only have to stay still for ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds?” gasped Julius, realizing how impossible that was going to be for him.

“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Kilburn. “I’ll be bolting you all in.”

Ten minutes later, he’d done just that, bolting us into what he called ‘posing frames’.

“Have you ever played at staring matches, to see who will blink first?” he asked. When nobody nodded their head—because nobody could without ripping away the back of their neck—he said, “You can still speak, you know.”

“We know wot starin’ matches are, don’t we, Sprat?”

“Good. So you’re going to have a staring match with me. Ready? On the count of three. One—two—three!”

Still staring at us with his eyes wide open, he whipped the lens cap off his camera.

“Can I get a copy of that?” asked Bertha, once he’d replaced it again.

“Daguerreotypes aren’t Talbotypes, Mr. Gubbins. They’re one-off originals. You can’t print them. But I tell you what. If you’ll permit me to take your portrait—at my own expense, of course—and allow me to exhibit it in my celebrity showcase, I’ll make another group shot for free, gratis.”

“Wot about a third for me mate, Sprat?”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Gubbins. Very well. I believe you’re worth it.”

Bertha looked delighted. “Ready for another starin’ match, boys?” he muttered.

Almost an hour had gone by before we got round to taking the daguerreotype I was officially there for. This time it was me on my own, sitting in the chair and holding the piece of paper—with the writing on it—across my chest.

“Son,” said Mr. Kilburn, “I hate to see you wasting your money. Daguerreotypes come out laterally reversed. You’ll never be able to read what it says.”

“That’s what I’m counting on, sir,” I replied. It occurred to me as I sat perfectly still for the fourth time that day that a dead body would make the perfect photographic subject. It got me thinking about Mr. Treech again.

As our portraits needed to be processed and wouldn’t be ready till the next day, once Bertha had changed back into his disguise, and the dragon had written me my receipt, the three of us set off; Julius and Bertha for our lodgings, and me for the office. Little did I realize as I bounded up the stairs that I was in for quite a surprise.

“Miss Penelope!”

Mrs. Blake’s maid was seated on the bench outside Mr. Bruff’s office, while George and George stood shuffling their feet and casting resentful glances in her direction. She looked up when she heard her name.

“Gooseberry, I…”

“Miss, I’m sorry for what I did to you yesterday, but you have to understand I had no choice. Before he knew that you were involved, Mr. Bruff was all for going to the police. So I had to tell him, you see, to keep the police out of it, and then he felt obliged to tell the Blakes.”

“I understand. Really, I do. I suppose I should probably thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, miss.”

“Gooseberry, is there some place private we can talk? It’s important. It’s very important.”

That’s the trouble with being an office boy. We had no privacy at all. “You two!” I snapped. “Isn’t it your dinnertime yet?”

“We’s not allowed to go to our chophouse no more,” said the elder George sulkily. “Mr. Bruff’s put us both on reducing diets.”

“Yeah, reducing diets.”

Reducing diets or not, I was sure Mr. Bruff didn’t intend them to starve. “Why don’t you go and get yourselves a hot potato each? There’s a street vendor on the corner of High Holborn.”

I saw a look cross their faces which suggested to me that they’d never considered this option. They glanced at each other, then bolted for the stairs.

“Now, what can I do for you, miss?”

“This morning I received this.” She opened her small handbag and extracted an envelope. Her face was taut as she handed it to me.

Inside I found a lock of coarse, sandy blond hair. There was also a note scribbled on a yellowing sheet of paper. It said:

‘We got James. If he don’t tell us where his brother is, be warned: we’ll be coming for you.’


Gooseberry continues next Friday, September 26th.
Copyright Michael Gallagher 2014.
You can follow Michael’s musings on the foolhardiness of this project. Just click on this link to his blog: Writing Gooseberry.
Photograph: A Convicts’ Home by John Thomson, used courtesy of the London School of Economics’ Digital Library under a CC BY-NC-SA 3.0 licence.

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