Arrowood. Mick Finlay

need to find him?’

      She clasped her hands in her lap and composed herself.

      ‘We are from Rouen, sir. I come here just two years before to work. I’m a photographer. In France, they do not accept a woman as photographer, and so my uncle he helps me gain employment here, on Great Dover Street. He is a dealer of art. My brother Thierry worked for a patisserie at home, but there was a little trouble.’

      ‘Trouble?’ demanded the guvnor. ‘What trouble?’

      She hesitated.

      ‘Unless you tell me everything, I cannot help.’

      ‘They accuse him of stealing from the shop,’ she said.

      ‘And did he steal?’

      ‘I think yes.’

      She glanced humbly at him, then her eyes brushed my own. I’m ashamed to confess that even though I was married more than fifteen years before to the most commonsensical woman in the whole of Walworth, that look stirred up an urge in me that hadn’t been stirred in a while. This young woman with her almond face and her single chipped tooth was a natural beauty.

      ‘Continue,’ he said.

      ‘He had to go very quick from Rouen so he followed me to London. He found a job in a chophouse. Four nights ago he comes back from work very scared. He begs of me some money to go back to France. He will not tell me why he must go back. I’ve never seen him so much scared.’ She paused here to catch her breath and dab at her eyes with the corner of a yellowed handkerchief. ‘I say no to him. I could not let him go back to Rouen. If he returns he will be in trouble. I don’t want this.’

      She hesitated again, a tear appearing in her eye.

      ‘But perhaps more I wanted him here in London with me. This is a lonely city for a stranger, sir. And a dangerous one for a woman.’

      ‘Take a moment, mademoiselle,’ said my employer nobly. He sat forward in his chair, his belly hanging on his knees.

      ‘He left in a great anger. I have not seen him since. He’s not been at work.’ The tears began to flow properly now. ‘Where does he sleep?’

      ‘Now, my dear,’ said the guvnor. ‘You don’t need us. Your brother’s no doubt hiding. He’ll seek you when he feels safe.’

      She held her handkerchief over her eyes until she had control of herself. She blew her nose.

      ‘I can pay, if that’s what concerns you,’ she said at last, pulling a small purse from inside her coat and withdrawing a handful of guineas. ‘Look.’

      ‘Put them away, miss. If he’s that frightened, he’s probably back in France.’

      She shook her head.

      ‘No, sir, he is not in France. The day after I refuse him I come from work and see that my clock is gone, and my second shoes and a shift I bought only this winter last. The landlady says to me he was there that afternoon.’

      ‘There! He’s sold them to pay his fare.’

      ‘No, sir. His papers, his clothes, they are still in my room. How he enters France without the papers? Something has happened to him.’ As she spoke, she dropped the coins back into the purse and withdrew some notes. ‘Please, Mr Arrowood. He’s all I have. I have nobody to turn to.’

      The guvnor watched as she unfolded two five-pound notes: it was some time since we’d seen banknotes in that room.

      ‘Why not go to the police?’ he asked.

      ‘They will say what you say. I beg you, Mr Arrowood.’

      ‘Miss Cousture, I could take your money, and no doubt there are many private agents in London who would happily have it. But it’s one of my principles that I never take money if I don’t think there’s a case, particularly from a person with limited means. I don’t mean to insult you, but I’m sure that money you have there is either hard saved or borrowed. Your brother’s probably holed up with a woman somewhere. Wait a few more days. If he doesn’t return, then come back and see us.’

      Her pale face flushed. She rose and stepped to the grate, holding the banknotes to the glowing coals. ‘If you do not take my case I put this money in your fire,’ she said sharply.

      ‘Please be sensible, miss,’ said the guvnor.

      ‘The money’s nothing to me. And I think you prefer it in your pocket than your fire?’

      The guvnor groaned, his eyes fixed on the notes. He shifted forward on his chair.

      ‘I will!’ she said in desperation, moving them down to the flames.

      ‘Stop!’ he cried when he could bear it no more.

      ‘You will take my case?’

      He sighed. ‘Yes, yes. I suppose.’

      ‘And you will keep my name secret?’

      ‘If that’s what you wish.’

      ‘We charge twenty shillings a day, Miss Cousture,’ I said. ‘Five days’ payment in advance for a case of missing persons.’

      The guvnor turned away and began to fill his pipe. Although he was usually short of money, he was always uncomfortable receiving it: it was too open an admission for one of his class that he needed it.

      Once the business was conducted, he turned back to us.

      ‘Now, we need the details,’ he said, sucking on his pipe. ‘His age, his appearance. Do you have a photograph?’

      ‘He’s twenty-three. Not so well-grown like you, sir,’ she said, looking at me. ‘In the middle between Mr Arrowood and you. His hair’s the colour of the wheat and he has a long burn on the ear, on this side. I have no picture. I am sorry. But there are not many in London with our accent.’

      ‘Where did he work?’

      ‘The Barrel of Beef, sir.’

      My heart fell. The warm five-pound note I held now felt cold as cabbage. The guvnor’s hand, holding the smoking pipe, had dropped. His eyes gazed into the fire. He shook his head and did not reply.

      Miss Cousture frowned.

      ‘What is it, sir?’

      I held the money out to her.

      ‘Take it, miss,’ I said. ‘We cannot take the case.’

      ‘But why? We have an agreement.’

      I looked at the guvnor, expecting him to answer. Instead, a low growl came from his lips. He took the poker and began to stab the glowing coals. As I held out the money to her, Miss Cousture looked from me to him.

      ‘There is a problem?’

      ‘We have a history with the Barrel of Beef,’ I said at last. ‘The owner, Stanley Cream, you’ve probably heard of him?’

      She nodded.

      ‘We came up against him a few years back,’ I said. ‘The case went badly wrong. There was a man who was helping us, John Spindle. A good man. Cream’s gang beat him to death and we couldn’t do nothing about it. Cream swore to have us killed if ever he saw us again.’

      She remained silent.

      ‘He’s the most dangerous man in South London, miss.’

      ‘So you are afraid,’ she said bitterly.

      All of a sudden the guvnor turned. His face was glowing from staring so intensely into the fire.

      ‘We will take the case, miss,’ he declared. ‘I do not go back on my word.’

      I bit my tongue. If Miss Cousture’s brother was connected to the Beef, there was a good chance he really was in trouble. There was a good chance he was already dead. At that moment, working on the cabs seemed like