No Cure for Love by Jean Fullerton Page B

remaining tears from her eyes and smoothed her hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck.
    ‘I told the ward orderly that I was Kitty’s sister, that’s how they let me in. So that means the wake will be here then.’
     
    Danny handed his hat and cane to the clerk as he walked into the main office of Cashman & Son, builders. The half-glazed door closed behind him as he took a seat. The other side of the desk from him sat Herbert Cashman, owner of one of the most lucrative building companies in East London.
    Herbert Cashman was about Danny’s own age, but without his abundance of hair. Unlike many who tried to cover their baldness by combing what remained across the head, Cashman had dealt with his by shaving his whole head closely. Although it had been many years since he had wielded a pick or shovel himself, his hands were still deeply calloused, with a faint rim of grime under the nails. He looked up from the account book on his desk as Danny took his seat.
    The chair creaked as Cashman leant back and gave Danny a long look.
    ‘I gave Black Mike my insurance last week.’
    Danny reached out and took a cigarette from a silver box in the centre of the desk. Casually, he struck the flint lighter and drew on the cigarette, his eyes never leaving Cashman’s face.
    ‘How is the little woman? And those darling children of yours?’ Danny asked, crossing one leg over the other with difficulty.
    ‘Edith’s well. Charlotte is attending Barnsbury College for Young Ladies and young Bert is down in the yard learning the business the hard way like I did from my father.’
    Danny took a handkerchief out of his pockets and blew his nose loudly. ‘You’re a blessed man, so you are, Bert.’ Another loud blow. ‘Two children and a loving wife to come home to.’
    Cashman’s weatherbeaten face cracked in a smile. ‘From what I hear you’ve a nipper or two running the streets and several wives to go home to if you fancy.’
    ‘Well, you know how it is.’ He drew long on the cigarette again. ‘How’s Cissy?’
    Cashman shot a nervous glance at the door then gave Danny a nonchalant look. ‘The same as ever.’
    ‘She was a sad loss to the Angel. She sang like a linnet,’ Danny said, thinking of the fiery redhead who used to draw drinkers from miles around before she clapped eyes on Cashman and cajoled him into setting her up.
    ‘Well, you’ve got Ellen O’Casey now to take her place.’
    Danny’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Ellen had taken Cissy’s place on the stage but not where Danny really wanted her, underneath him. The familiar rumbling rage that was ever present when Ellen’s name was mentioned started in his gut. Pushing her from his mind, he returned to the man on the other side of the desk.
    ‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ he said, sweeping his hand around the oak-lined office.
    Cashman took a cigarette himself and lit it. ‘What do you want, Danny?’
    Danny leant forward and stubbed out the cigarette on the desk blotter. Cashman glared at him.
    ‘I’m guessing you’ve heard about Doctor Munroe who’s been appointed to the Parish Emergency Board.’
    Cashman relaxed back into his chair. ‘I did. So?’
    ‘It seems that Doctor Munroe has been asking around about a few things.’
    ‘That’s his job. But what’s it to me? I’m a builder.’
    ‘The builder who was contracted to refurbish the dwelling houses in King Street and to replace the pumps in the parish.’
    A sheen of sweat appeared on Cashman’s forehead. ‘I let the work out to your boys, and paid you for it.’
    Danny leaned back and tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat. ‘Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t.’
    Cashman stood up and slammed his hands flat on the table, red-faced and glowering. Danny also rose to his feet. He saw Cashman’s gaze falter for a second and smiled.
    ‘Because, Bert, when our good doctor comes to ask about the parish repairs it’ll only be your name he’ll be finding on the