picked our way through the carts and carriages.
‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘And there are the side streets to take refuge in.’
‘Was it always like this – before, when you were a child?’
‘I cannot remember.’
‘It makes me long for the countryside.’
Thomas Dearlove’s school lay at the end of a grim alley that led off Newcastle Street, a draughty thoroughfare that passed west of Holywell Street. Ashes and filth were heaped up by the sides of the flat-faced, ugly tenements; not an unbroken pane of glass was there anywhere. Halfway up the lane a cluster of pinched, insolent-looking boys leant over some game, passing about a pipe. They watched us approach with an unwavering surly gaze.
‘Got a penny for us, have ya?’ one said, and two more came swaggering towards us.
I would have dismissed them, but Blake said, his accent smoothly thickening into those of the London street, ‘I’ve got a penny. But I want to know wotcha think of the school-teacher up there.’
‘The holy groaner?’ said one, and the others laughed.
‘Goes on about the Lord and that. Looks like he’s never had a woman, know what I mean?’ said another, his profane words at odds with his diminutive stature – he looked barely twelve.
‘He’s all right,’ said a third. ‘There’s a fire, and we get bread and butter and tea.’
Blake leant over the game and tossed three small coins into the air. The boys went skittering after them.
The school’s premises were a former stables. Boards had been laid to cover the hard earth. There were low stools and long deal tables with the legs cut down so they were low enough for thestools. On the walls, spotted with damp, were large printed cards showing the alphabet and a number of admonitory and encouraging texts: ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal’, ‘Try, Try Again’ and ‘God Goes with Thee’. It was a poor, grim place indeed. At the back a fireplace had been contrived. Over it was hung a tripod and next to it stood a large kettle. It was to this that a slight, black-clad man – the teacher, I supposed – was now attending.
As we walked in he stood up, nervously rubbing his hands against the sides of his trousers, looking from one of us to the other, no doubt dismayed by our get-up. His most obvious quality was his extreme thinness. His bony wrists protruded several inches from his coat, and his trousers were almost worn through at the knee. A thick knitted comforter was wound several times around his neck, his skin had a waxy pallor, and he seemed to be in want of at least one good meal. His gauntness, it seemed to me, was not dissimilar to the austere intensity of Lord Allington, but His Lordship’s angularity had been flattered by wealth and comfort. Dearlove looked, in other words, most unloved, and indeed the picture of a hard-pushed school-master.
‘May I help you?’ His words steamed in the cold air.
‘Mr Dearlove,’ said Blake, bringing out His Lordship’s letter, ‘we are the men who have been asked to look into the two murders by Lord Allington.’
Dearlove took the letter – his fingers were almost blue – and looked over it.
‘Oh, yes. I am afraid you have not chosen the best moment. The children will be arriving for evening lessons soon. They expect something hot when it is this cold.’ He gestured at the kettle, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘Please, continue your tasks,’ Blake said. ‘We will not take up too much of your time.’
‘Perhaps I might help you?’ I said.
He brightened. ‘If you could bring in some logs from by the door, and help me fill the kettle?’
I busied myself with the logs.
Blake said, ‘Mr Dearlove, I am told you are the one who informed Lord Allington of the fact that the police had dropped the matter of Wedderburn’s death, and made the connection to the earlier murder of Blundell.’
‘I did.’
‘Why do you think no one seems to know about these murders?’
‘I … I cannot say for
‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘And there are the side streets to take refuge in.’
‘Was it always like this – before, when you were a child?’
‘I cannot remember.’
‘It makes me long for the countryside.’
Thomas Dearlove’s school lay at the end of a grim alley that led off Newcastle Street, a draughty thoroughfare that passed west of Holywell Street. Ashes and filth were heaped up by the sides of the flat-faced, ugly tenements; not an unbroken pane of glass was there anywhere. Halfway up the lane a cluster of pinched, insolent-looking boys leant over some game, passing about a pipe. They watched us approach with an unwavering surly gaze.
‘Got a penny for us, have ya?’ one said, and two more came swaggering towards us.
I would have dismissed them, but Blake said, his accent smoothly thickening into those of the London street, ‘I’ve got a penny. But I want to know wotcha think of the school-teacher up there.’
‘The holy groaner?’ said one, and the others laughed.
‘Goes on about the Lord and that. Looks like he’s never had a woman, know what I mean?’ said another, his profane words at odds with his diminutive stature – he looked barely twelve.
‘He’s all right,’ said a third. ‘There’s a fire, and we get bread and butter and tea.’
Blake leant over the game and tossed three small coins into the air. The boys went skittering after them.
The school’s premises were a former stables. Boards had been laid to cover the hard earth. There were low stools and long deal tables with the legs cut down so they were low enough for thestools. On the walls, spotted with damp, were large printed cards showing the alphabet and a number of admonitory and encouraging texts: ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal’, ‘Try, Try Again’ and ‘God Goes with Thee’. It was a poor, grim place indeed. At the back a fireplace had been contrived. Over it was hung a tripod and next to it stood a large kettle. It was to this that a slight, black-clad man – the teacher, I supposed – was now attending.
As we walked in he stood up, nervously rubbing his hands against the sides of his trousers, looking from one of us to the other, no doubt dismayed by our get-up. His most obvious quality was his extreme thinness. His bony wrists protruded several inches from his coat, and his trousers were almost worn through at the knee. A thick knitted comforter was wound several times around his neck, his skin had a waxy pallor, and he seemed to be in want of at least one good meal. His gauntness, it seemed to me, was not dissimilar to the austere intensity of Lord Allington, but His Lordship’s angularity had been flattered by wealth and comfort. Dearlove looked, in other words, most unloved, and indeed the picture of a hard-pushed school-master.
‘May I help you?’ His words steamed in the cold air.
‘Mr Dearlove,’ said Blake, bringing out His Lordship’s letter, ‘we are the men who have been asked to look into the two murders by Lord Allington.’
Dearlove took the letter – his fingers were almost blue – and looked over it.
‘Oh, yes. I am afraid you have not chosen the best moment. The children will be arriving for evening lessons soon. They expect something hot when it is this cold.’ He gestured at the kettle, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘Please, continue your tasks,’ Blake said. ‘We will not take up too much of your time.’
‘Perhaps I might help you?’ I said.
He brightened. ‘If you could bring in some logs from by the door, and help me fill the kettle?’
I busied myself with the logs.
Blake said, ‘Mr Dearlove, I am told you are the one who informed Lord Allington of the fact that the police had dropped the matter of Wedderburn’s death, and made the connection to the earlier murder of Blundell.’
‘I did.’
‘Why do you think no one seems to know about these murders?’
‘I … I cannot say for
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