Eve of the Isle (44 page)

Charlie stared through the shattered windscreen. He saw the houses, the roofs, the walls, the windows and the chimneys, all of which seemed to be spinning. Then someone opened the door and pulled him out.

Charlie gazed up at his rescuer as he sat on the ground. ‘Wh . . . what happened?' he asked dazedly.

‘I'm afraid we had a small collision. You were heading rather fast into Westferry Road.'

‘Did I . . . are you hurt?'

The young man smiled under his trilby. ‘No, it was just a touch. My car is over there,' he nodded over his shoulder. ‘And all in one piece. But I'm sorry to say you've made rather a mess of your own.'

Charlie stared at his dad's van and groaned. What an idiot he was! He'd crashed his dad's van! There was steam coming from the bonnet that had engaged a brick wall with some force. Suddenly he remembered why he'd been driving so recklessly.

‘I had to get somewhere . . .' he began and then frowned. ‘Jimmy – where's Jimmy?'

‘He's here,' the calm voice assured him.

Charlie saw Jimmy's face come into focus and closed his eyes in relief. ‘Thank God.'

‘That was a close one, Charlie,' Jimmy said in shaky tones. ‘It was lucky this fella here swerved to avoid us.'

Charlie nodded. ‘I'm sorry. I was driving too fast.'

Jimmy and the man helped him to his feet, dusting the dirt from his shoulders.

Charlie gulped air into his throat as he looked around
him. A crowd was gathering, staring at the van and the remains of the wall.

‘This is gonna take a bit of explaining to the coppers,' said Jimmy, pulling off his cap and wiping his forehead. ‘They'll be here any minute, Charlie.'

At this, Charlie nodded. Wiping the dust and dirt from his eyes, he put his hand on the shoulder of the young man. ‘I'm sorry friend. Really I am. But you see, I was heading for Isle Street—'

‘Isle Street?' The young man's dark eyes flashed. ‘Not too far away. What say I drive you there in my motor?'

‘But after what I've done—' Charlie began only to stop mid-sentence as a firm hand went under his elbow and guided him across the road towards the large black car. ‘It's terribly decent of you to do this,' Charlie murmured bewilderedly as he climbed in to the back seat, followed by Jimmy.

‘Not at all, Mr Merritt,' said the young man as he climbed in beside Charlie.

‘How . . . how do you know my name?' Charlie asked with baited breath as he watched his escort reach inside his coat and bring out a small wallet.

‘Perhaps I had better introduce myself,' was the calm, unruffled reply. ‘I am Detective Inspector Mathew Fleet, working as part of the Metropolitan Division of the Central CID, better known as the Flying Squad.'

Eve was still clutching the samovar to her chest when Peg, Joan and Maude rushed in.

She was staring down at the man lying on Joseph's kitchen floor. The man she had just hit over the head while fighting for her life.

‘Eve! Eve!'

‘Here, who's that?' Peg and Joan shrieked together.

‘My God, it's a burglar!'

‘She's caught a thief!'

‘What's he doing on the floor?'

Eve slumped down on a chair. ‘He . . . he . . .' The words seemed to be stuck in her throat.

‘It's all right love, we're with you, now.' Peg waved the smelling salts under her nose.

‘Oh, Peg, he just walked in, as bold as brass. I thought it was Maude.'

‘What did he want? Who is he?'

‘He's the landlord of the Drunken Sailor,' Eve croaked as she stared at him.

‘But I thought you told us he died in a fire,' said Peg in confusion.

‘He told me it wasn't him. It was someone else instead, an innocent victim.' She touched the scarf that still hung round her neck. ‘He tried to strangle me, Peg.'

Joan gasped as Maude took the scarf from Eve's shoulders. ‘Oh, you poor love, your neck is all red!'

‘He was tying the scarf tighter and tighter. Then somehow I got hold of the samovar . . .' She shuddered as she closed her eyes to try to block out the memory.

Peg knelt down by the body. ‘He's a bloody ugly customer. But he's still breathing.'

Eve put her hand to her mouth. ‘He . . . he blamed me for ruining his business.'

‘What did he mean by that?'

Eve gulped as she clung to the samovar. ‘He said he sold lascars to the rich. Human beings that wouldn't ever be missed because they are all dregs . . .' Eve burst into tears.

‘There, there, lass.' Peg pulled her close, sliding her hand gently over Eve's untidy hair. ‘It's all over now. He ain't gonna harm you again.'

They all looked down at the body. ‘How did he know you were here at Joseph's?' Maude asked.

‘He's been watching me,' Eve whispered. ‘I didn't know who it was but he seemed familiar. He must have followed me back here today. Charlie told me to be careful, but I forgot.'

They all stared down at the unconscious man. A few seconds more, Eve reflected . . . if it hadn't been for Joseph's samovar, she would have been lying there instead.

Glancing down at the heavy metal urn she was still cradling to her chest, Eve saw the top had fallen off. Inside the cavity was a sheet of paper. With trembling hands, she slid it out.

Was this the answer to Joseph's disappearance?

Chapter Twenty-Five

J
oseph's once cold front room was now warm and the fire burned brightly in the grate. Charlie sat beside Eve on the couch, his hand over hers as she recounted all that had happened since the landlord of the Drunken Sailor had walked into the house and attempted to kill her. The rest of the detective's team had arrived in Isle Street and taken away the man responsible not only for attempting to kill Eve but for other crimes in the East End that stretched back many years.

‘But who is he?' asked Eve as she looked at the tall, dark-headed police officer who sat opposite in the big arm chair. ‘Why would he want to kill me?'

‘The man who attacked you today, Mrs Kumar,' explained Detective Inspector Mathew Fleet, ‘is known to us by a number of names. Walter Donovan, Maurice Owen, Jack the Lad Bannister, all aliases. His real identity is Alfred Rattigan, known to us as a tout, thief, smuggler and slave trader.'

‘Slave trader!' Charlie repeated on a gasp.

Eve nodded. ‘Charlie, that's what he told me. He said he found lascars . . . that they deserved what they got . . .'

The detective shifted his position in the chair. ‘Rattigan would befriend seamen in distress, then expose them to the excess and addictions that you saw for yourself, Mrs Kumar, in that back room of the tavern. Once his victims were under his control, he would market them to the wealthy, to be used in debauchery and for the entertainment of the upper classes. We have even discovered these unfortunates begging, imprisoned by circuses and brothels and other places.' The young man paused briefly, raising his shoulders. ‘You see, the slave trade is quite sickening and most of the Oriental seamen who fall on hard times in our ports have no wealthy relatives to follow up their disappearances. They are like lambs to the slaughter once they become involved with people like Rattigan.'

‘Is that what happened to Dilip Bal?' Eve asked in quiet tones.

‘We can only conjecture that he had become a liability and was . . . disposed of.'

‘And Singh?' Charlie said abruptly.

‘Oh no,' replied the detective, his dark eyes hardening. ‘Singh was a different kettle of fish. He wasn't killed because he was vulnerable. He was murdered because he knew too much about Rattigan. Singh was a
serang
, a native boatswain. These men have almost autocratic power over their charges. Now, some
serangs
are honourable and look after their crew, but some bad
apples are corrupt, as was Singh. He would first gain a man's confidence by arranging a working passage, promising him the means to support his family. But on the next trip, he would extract
dustoorie
or payment from his wages until finally he bled him dry. It was then, when the man was desperate, he would take him to Rattigan to serve his final purpose.'

Charlie shook his head slowly. ‘So Eve became a danger too, after what she saw at Shadwell?'

‘From what you have told us,' the policeman nodded, ‘something must have gone wrong on that jetty. Perhaps those men were disturbed or maybe they just took fright.'

‘They were arguing,' Eve nodded. ‘As if they couldn't make up their mind what to do with me.'

‘And perhaps that is the truth of it,' agreed the detective. ‘But had not Constable Merritt appeared on the scene soon after, I'm afraid the outcome would have been very much as Rattigan had planned.'

Charlie squeezed Eve's hand as he felt a shiver go through her. ‘But if you knew about Rattigan,' Charlie asked their companion, ‘why didn't you arrest him?'

‘We knew he had moved to London from the north,' continued the Flying Squad officer, ‘but we had lost track of him for some time. It was only when we received Sergeant Moody's request to have you formally suspended from duty that our enquiries began to mature. Even last year, during our more intensive investigations into East End crime, we had no real evidence to support
the facts. The lascars disappeared, they were invisible to us and with no communication between us and the Indian authorities, our enquiries were inconclusive.'

‘If only I had made Moody listen to me,' Charlie said on a distressed sigh.

‘If only you had,' agreed the detective.

Charlie looked down. ‘I thought it was enough to follow my own instincts.'

Detective Inspector Fleet laughed lightly and Charlie glanced up. He deserved to be mocked, but it was a deep humiliation.

‘Instincts are what we all work on,' said the policeman, still smiling. ‘And you were going in the right direction. Had we not followed you to the Overseas Sailors' Home and discovered all we needed to know about Singh, then we wouldn't have put a case together as solidly as we have now.'

‘You followed me?' Charlie repeated.

‘It is our job to work undercover.'

‘But . . . but I couldn't get anyone to talk to me there!' Charlie protested. ‘It seemed like a wall of silence.'

‘And perhaps it was,' nodded the policeman. ‘But after you left, we brought those four men in for questioning at the Yard. They were quite innocent of course, but terrified. Each of them revealed the truth about Singh and how, beginning on the
Star of Bengal
and later on the
Tarkay
, they and men like them poured all their wages into Singh's pockets and slowly these same men began to disappear. Singh had become a figure of
terror to any lascar. There will be very few who mourn his passing.'

Charlie frowned as he sat forward. ‘And Eve . . . Eve's husband . . .'

Detective Inspector Fleet nodded slowly, his dark eyes travelling to Eve. ‘There is no evidence to show that your husband was involved with either Singh or Rattigan, Mrs Kumar. Marriage to a British citizen and his work in the purser's department where he would be under the jurisdiction of the officers and not a
serang
, would set him apart. It is the low-caste sweepers, the agwalas, paniwallahs and khalassies who become the victims of men like Singh and Rattigan.'

‘So . . . so my Raj . . . he wasn't . . .' Eve began tremulously.

The tall, dark man smiled gently. ‘I think it is fair to say that your husband perished in unfortunate circumstances, an accident perhaps, a fall from the ship – and we can find no evidence at all to suggest that his life was taken.'

Charlie felt Eve slump back beside him. She gave a tight sob, dropping her head forward. He needed more than anything to comfort her and was grateful when the detective rose and went out of the room. ‘Eve, I'm so dreadfully sorry.' He took her in his arms and held her to him.

‘I'd been thinking such terrible things,' she whispered into his shoulder. ‘That someone killed him.'

‘No, it was an accident, Eve.'

‘Do you believe that?' She looked up into his face and he brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

He nodded and, kissing the damp spot, he whispered, ‘Raj was a good man, a fine man. I believe what the detective says. And you must too.'

He felt a little shudder go through him as he held her. In the silence of Joseph's front room, he came closer to praying than he had been in a long time. He asked that now Raj Kumar's soul could rest in peace. And that when all this was over, he and the woman he held against his heart could make a future together.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
t was Sunday 14th April 1929 and Eve sat alone on one of the two wooden chairs propped side by side in the backyard of number three Isle Street. Her face was lifted to the pale sunshine and her feet were tucked neatly at the base of the newly repaired wall that Charlie had just completed whilst waiting for Samuel and Albert to return from Mass.

The wall now stood a good four feet high and had returned a pleasant intimacy to the cottage that had been missing ever since the Great Flood of last year.

Not that there had been much peace here a few moments ago, Eve reflected, for as Charlie had tapped the last brick into place with his trowel, the boys had returned from St Saviour's with only one thing on their mind: to pack their shorts, tops, long socks and boots into their shoe bags for the afternoon match. It was a friendly between the Millwall Under Elevens and Cubitt Town's Primaries. Samuel and Albert were members of the first team and this was to be their third outing since January. Charlie was their coach and trainer and
had spent every spare moment with his new protégés.

A smile touched Eve's lips as she thought of her sons' noisy, exuberant delight, equalled only by Charlie's own unstoppable energy. In a whirlwind of enthusiasm they had left to conquer the world. Well, at least a small playing field of it, Eve thought fondly.