Edward Kane and The Vinegar Valentine: Chapter 7

As Horse made his way into the coal yard, he saw a small boy – possibly ten years old – struggling with a large wheelbarrow full of coal.

Edward Kane and The Vinegar Valentine. Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

“’Scuse me, son – have you seen Maisie about?” The boy said nothing, but jerked his head towards the back of one of the mounds of coal. Horse turned the corner and there she was. Maisie Cummings was helping a group of boys load heavy sacks of coal onto the back of a horse and cart. Cold today. Someone had lit a fire in metal bucket and that acted as a small brasier. Mr Horse stood, warming his hands for a while. The lady finished the task and waved up to the driver of the cart, standing and brushing her hands together. And then she turned around and caught sight of Horse. Knowing what he knew now, Horse thought that he detected a glimmer in her eyes that he was not a welcome visitor. She walked towards him: “Wasn’t expecting you, Horse. What are you looking for? More coal ‘on tick’?” She attempted a lascivious smile: “Or something else?”

Horse nodded towards the cart full of coal: “You done a good shift there, Maisie.”

She gave a sarcastic smile: “Some of us have got real jobs, Horse.”

“I must say, my lovely, I was surprised to see you lifting those heavy, heavy bags...”. The lady was about to shrug – until Horse finished his sentence: “...what with you being in your delicate condition and all.”

Maisie Cummings folded her arms and looked at the ground. Then she spoke: “You got the cards, then?”

“Oh, I got them, my dear...”

The coal-girl looked up and gave a smile that was not a smile: “Then you know that if you’ve got twenty pound, then the problem will go away, Horse.”

Horse reached into his pocket: “Oh, I got something better than the twenty pound, Maisie my love, I got this.” And he produced the sales receipt for the cards. Maisie Cummings looked at the receipt and shrugged: So what?

“It’s the receipt for the cards, Maisie. I didn’t quite get it at first, my love. I’m not a big reader, you understand. And it had to be pointed out to me. Look at the price, my dear. This weren’t a receipt for the two cards that you sent to me. The price is for ten cards, innit? I wasn’t the only bloke to get two cards, Maisie – you was sending them out to four other blokes an’ all...”

Maisie Cummings nodded to the receipt: “Where did you get it?”

“I got it off a detective. And he is on your tail, my girl.”

At that point, the eyes of the coal-girl began to fill with tears. She started to wipe them away with the palm of her hand, leaving sooty streaks across her cheeks. “You don’t know what it’s like, Horse. I’ve already got a wee one, you knew that. She bides with my mother most of the time because I have to work. But she’s always sick. And everything is so dear...” She was full-out crying now.

Horse shook his head and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He began to dry the tears on the coal-girl’s face. “Look at you, you silly sausage. You could just have asked for a bit of help, girl.” He reached into his pockets and took out some notes and coins: “Look here. I’m flush at the moment. Got about thirty bob on me...” But Maisie Cummings pushed his hand away, and to Horse’s surprise, it seemed as if she was smiling through her tears: “I’m so sorry, Horse…I didnae mean to…you can put your money away....”

Horse was puzzled and looked into the girls’ face. She was holding the handkerchief herself now, dabbing her eyes, and Horse thought that he detected a shy grin emerging.. He spoke: “But if you needs the money so badly, my darling....” And then it hit him: “They paid up, didn’t they? The other blokes paid up the twenty quid!”

The girl nodded: “Three of them did. And the other one gave me an envelope with seven pounds, eleven shillings and fourpence – he said that was all he could manage....”

“Blow me, girl, that is…that is a…a bloomin’ fortune, that is.” Horse put his hand over his mouth and started to laugh. And Maisie Cummings joined in, laughing through her tears and they now both stood by the burning bucket in helpless fits. When the laughter subsided, Maisie pointed at the receipt in Horse’s hand: “But I suppose I’ll have to give the money back now. If you say a detective is onto me....”

Horse nodded, apparently serious as he studied the receipt: “Yes, my dear. This wery important piece of evidence appears to be the only thing what links you to the crime. Oh dear – I seem to have dropped it...” And with that, he took the receipt, crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire.

******

“Detective Mackintosh, I am horrified...”

Industrialist, Richard J Walker and his (erstwhile) actress wife, Fanny Eudora Walker were being briefed by Mackintosh of the Detective. Walker continued: “...horrified that while you have found the printer of that obscene communication to my lady wife, you have not yet arrested the actual culprit.”

Mackintosh fidgeted with the hat on his lap: “As I am trying to explain, sir, the precise identification of the author remains unclear...”

Walker stared at him: “I have told you, detective. Richard Burr. Who else could it be? Who else knew of her, of her...unusual assets? Richard Burr. My wife’s spurned suitor of those many years ago – recently returned to these shores.”

The lady whose honour had been so affronted by the offending Vinegar Valentine sat in silence. Her head and – more importantly – her ears were covered by an enormous, colourful turban which set off the remainder of her theatrical outfit: that of a Persian slave girl. Except the slave in question here was no longer a girl. And the costume was now two sizes too small. Time had not been kind.

Mackintosh placed his hat on the table, took out a notebook from his pocket and opened it: “I have very detailed notes here taken from the witness. The printer in question, sir.” He read: “A maid came into the shop and said that she was on an errand for her master...”.

The lady of the house, Mrs Walker, broke her silence: “And what did she look like?”

Mackintosh looked at his notebook and then looked up: “Middle-aged and fat...”

Mrs Walker jolted up and gasped “Fat? Fat???” as if she was the one who had had just been personally insulted. Mackintosh nodded: “That’s what the witness said, madam. Either ‘fat’ or her clothes were far too small...”.

Mrs Walker sat up in her chair. In her tight outfit.

The detective continued: “Covered in make-up, he says...”. And when Richard J Walker muttered under his breath: “Trollop...” - his wife promptly slapped her husband on the arm.

Mackintosh kept reading from his notebook: “...and she was Irish.”

Fanny Eudora Walker leaned forward: “And he was absolutely convinced that this maidservant was Irish?” Mackintosh nodded: “The lad was certain of it. Definitely Irish. He said his grandmother was Irish, so he well knew the sound, he said.” The lady of the house sat back in her chair with what Mackintosh thought to be a satisfied smile.

At that point, the briefing was interrupted by the entrance of a butler: “I apologise for interrupting, sir, but there is a caller at the back door. The foreman from the warehouse. He is insistent that there is a matter that requires your personal attention.”

Walker sighed: “Apologies, Detective Mackintosh, I require to spend more time at home these days, so I am afraid that these interruptions are unavoidable. If you will excuse me.”

The detective and the lady of house were left sitting across from each other. They drank their tea. It was the lady who broke the silence: “So, Mackintosh, definitely an Irish housemaid we’re looking for now.” Mackintosh didn’t answer directly, but nodded over to her: “You appear to have retained quite a number of your costumes, madam.” Mrs Walker smiled: “My husband enjoys seeing me in them. It reminds him of when we first met. When our love was new.” Mackintosh smiled and nodded. Again, silence for a while. Then an unspoken, subterranean joust began “You must miss the theatre, Mrs Walker.” The lady sighed and nodded. The detective continued: “All the drama and such. The attention. The dressing up in different costumes. The make-up...”. The lady said nothing and drank her tea. “In fact,” the detective continued, “I think you told me that you, yourself, once played a maid, did you not? I wager that you still have that costume.” Mrs Walker smiled over her teacup: “But I did not play an Irish maid, detective. The lady in our case was definitely Irish. The young printer said that….”

The detective interrupted her: “I beg your pardon, madam, but did I say that the printer was ‘young’?”

Silence for a time. Mackintosh spoke: “And it must have been a privilege to understudy the great Lola Montez.” Mrs Walker sighed: “Every day for a year, sir. Every day, I studied her every movement, every sound that she made.” Mackintosh pressed on: “Yes. From what I understand, Lola Montez was not her real name.” The lady laughed: “Of course not, detective, this is the theatre! In fact, she was…she began life as...as...” she stopped herself at that point, but Mackintosh finished the sentence: “...as plain old ‘Eliza Gilbert’...” He sipped his tea, “...born in Limerick, I understand. And you spent a whole twelve months studying her.” Mackintosh put his cup and saucer on the table: “The thing that you have to understand about me, Mrs Walker, is this: I never finished first at anything, but I always did finish. I never finished first at school, but I always finished the work. I never finished first in the running race, but I always got to the finish line. It’s the way that I’m made madam. So, would you like me to finish this investigation into the card or not, Mrs Walker? Would you like me to get to the very, very bottom of it, madam? In fact, shall we visit the printers together?”

The lady said nothing and sipped her tea. Robert J Walker strode back into the room: “I have no idea, no idea why I employ managers to resolve such simple matters.” He rubbed his hands together: “Now, Mackintosh, have you devised a way forward?” The detective said nothing and looked at Fanny Eudora Walker. After a moment, the lady took her husband’s hand: “Oh my dear, it is perhaps time to let this matter go...”. The husband spluttered: “But the card...that blackguard, Burr...”. The wife stroked her husband’s hand: “Detective Mackintosh has made it quite clear, my darling: an anonymous Irish housemaid – a needle in a haystack in this great city: the absence of any signature on the card: and the fact that Burr is obviously in hiding – there is no sign of him at the address we thought. Poor Mackintosh has so many other, more important things to be doing. Catching murderers and...and..”. Mackintosh chimed in: “...and fraudsters...” The lady looked into her husband’s eyes: “…and such. And you are now home so much more, my dear. I do feel so much safer...”

Mackintosh said nothing, but went on drinking tea.

*****

EPILOGUE

February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Mr Horse was sorting through the morning mail. Edward Kane sat at the table finishing his breakfast and nodded over: “Anything of note, Mr Horse?” Horse studied the envelopes: “Looks like bills, bills and...more bills, Mr K” Kane sighed, but Horse spoke again: “Oh, tell a lie, sir, here’s a letter that’s been slipped under the door. Must have been put there first thing.”

Horse studied the envelope and smiled: “Ooh, and it looks like a lady’s handwriting, Mr K.” Kane frowned. Horse read the writing on the front: ‘To Mr Edward Kane, Advocate - Personal’. Of course, it is Valentine’s Day, sir. Was you expecting anything today?” Kane shook head. Horse began to tear open the envelope: “Then we’d better have a look, then, hadn’t we?”. Horse took out the letter and read through it, his lips moving as he read. Kane called over: “What exactly is it, Mr Horse?” Horse pursed his lips and shook his head: “Well, sir – it is from a lady – and, I’m sorry – but it don’t look good...”. Kane motioned over: “Give it to me, please.” Horse shook his head, deadly serious, and handed over the letter. It read:

“Dear Mr Kane

I would be grateful to know when I am going to receive the rent.

It is now two weeks overdue.

Yours Sincerely

Mrs Beatrice Thomson (Widow)”

Kane looked up to see Horse, who was struggling to stifle a laugh: “Well, sir – it’s Valentine’s Day and you just got a note from an unmarried woman...although...”

“What?”

“…although she could have made an effort seeing what day it was sir. Could have sent you a card…”

Kane smiled: “With a poem, no doubt.”

Horse thought for a moment, then: “What about a card with a picture of a top hat, sir, and a little poem:

‘Mr K

If you’re a gent

Why don’t you pay

Your bloomin’ rent...’”

Kane laughed and reached into his pocket. He retrieved a coin – a new, shiny silver crown – together with his last pound note: “Go down and give Mrs Thomson these, Mr Horse.”

Horse took the money and headed towards the door. Kane had a sudden vision of Horse’s extensive list of women.

“And Mr Horse?”

Horse stopped and looked back: “Yes, sir?”

“Mr Horse – don’t be long...”

*****

The full-length novel, “Edward Kane and the Parlour Maid Murderer” is now on sale in paperback at £9.99. Available from scotlandstreetpress.com Amazon, Kindle and all good bookshops.

Look out for more Edward Kane and Mr Horse exploits in The Scotsman later this year.