Rainbow's End (11 page)

Piddlin' Pete, Piddlin' Pete,

Piddles all over the toilet seat

which they thought rich with humor, or all of them did except for Petey himself, who stood bawling in the middle of the goblin ring.

White Ellie's injunction to “SHUT YER TRAP” warranted nothing. Sotto voce for no reason Jury could understand, she went on, “Thought you was the Social, come about Ashley. Up there—” she
looked at the ceiling—“with 'er around the corner, the both a them, last week. Disgustin'. Bangin' 'er in me own 'ouse . . . ” White Ellie could never quite believe that New Scotland Yard wasn't yet another arm of that police surveillance set up to expose the doings of her husband, Ash Cripps. “Well, I says, ‘Ashley, you're bloody lucky it was the Liar spreadin' that story about Mervin's lockup, nobody believes what she says, anyways, know what I mean?' ”

No, Jury didn't, but he took the opportunity to say: “It's not Ash we've come to see, Ellie. Actually, it's Beatrice, here.”

Beatrice was stirring the kiddie stew by poking at the dancing ring with the broom handle. She looked up, surprised.

Piddlin' Pete, Piddlin' Pete,

Piddles all over his own two feet!

More wails from Petey, trapped in the center.

“Clear out and give the superintendent a seat!” shouted Ellie. “You, Aurora, clear them knickers and tights off that chair there.” Whichever one Aurora was, she paid no attention, nor did the others, being much too busy with their game.

Jury did for himself, sweeping a few rags from the cushion beside Bea Slocum. “You were at the Tate with your friend Gabe. Where is he, then? It was Gabe I expected to see here.”

White Ellie put in, “Kips on our sofa there, Gabe does. Lost his flat, so Ash told him he could stay 'ere till he got on his feet. And Bea, she's only stopped by fer tea. Bea's got a
job
over in Bethnal Green. Bea
works.
” Unused to the notion of gainful employment, Ellie breathed real life into the word.

Jury said, “I thought you might've remembered something about the dead woman. Frances Hamilton was her name.”

“Gabe might've done. Thing is, we separated for a while so's he could go to the Swagger exhibit and I could look at the J.M.W.'s—”

“The what?” asked Wiggins. He had apparently given up on the wire-laced dish of water for now and had his notebook out.

Bea fiddled a scrap of red polish off a nail. “Turner, you know.” She apparently took Jury's and Wiggins's astonished looks to mean they didn't know who Turner was, and added, “J.M.W. Turner. He's a painter.” She said this quite matter-of-factly, her information aimed at
the knuckleheads who'd never heard of Turner. “Anyways, Gabe likes the Tate; we go there a lot. Gabe's a painter.”

White Ellie hooted. “That one? Only thing he ever painted was Ash.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Elephant. That was just a joke.”

“Nearly landed Ash in the nick, that did. Some joke. See—” Ellie turned her full attention to Jury, spreading her great girth over the clean laundry—“drunk as two lords they got, Ash and Gabe, and Gabe, he's got out his pots of paint—”

“
My
paint, Elephant.
Mine
. Last I had, too. Gabe nicked it from my flat in Bethnal Green.”

Ellie went on, “So Gabe, he makes a few dibs and dabs on Ashley. Then they think, well, what's the point of being only a little bit blue, so Ash strips right down until he's stark, and Gabe paints him blue, blue all over except for patches so's the skin could breathe, and then bets him ten quid he wouldn't run down to the corner that way. So I'm in here, givin' Robespierre 'is bottle, and what do I see when I look up. This blue thing goes streakin' by the window and pretty soon one of the kids comes runnin' and tells me his da just run by, and he was turned all blue—”

Now the counterpoint to this tale was offered by the kiddies, who changed their chant to

Ash is blue, Ash is stark,

Ash is always outta work.

“ 'Ere now!” cried White Ellie. “That's yer da ya be makin' fun of, so show more respect!”

Da is blue, Da is stark,

Da is always outta work.

As if there'd been no interruption, Ellie went on, “And don't think the Liar wasn't ringin' up the Old Bill practically before I could even catch me breath and get out there. So round come the cops and the Liar's out there directin' traffic and Gabe just laughin' fit to kill—”

Said Bea, as she cadged a cigarette from Jury's pack, “Ah, go on, Elephant. Give it a rest.”

Jury turned his attention to Bea. “Is it possible Gabe saw Mrs. Hamilton—the dead woman—when he was going round the Swagger Portrait exhibit? And you were in the Clore Gallery?”

Exhaling a bale of smoke, she said, “He might've done. He'll be here in a minute. You can ask him yourself.”

“Were you looking at the Turners, then?”

“Oh, well,” she said, as if either the question were idiotic or any answer would be, “you seen one Turner, you seen them all, right? How many ways can you do light? is what I say.” She was looking at Jury to see how he'd react.

Jury's reaction was even greater astonishment. Beatrice Slocum wasn't the girl he'd thought she was. Or the one she wanted you to think she was.

There was a brief scuffle out in the street, and Bea leaned over the back of the sofa to pull a grubby lace curtain aside.

The participants in this fracas were an elderly man with no chin; a woman in a waxed coat who'd probably looked middle-aged all of her life; a tall, youngish man whom Jury recognized as Beatrice's young man, Gabe; and Ashley Cripps. Jury certainly would have known Ash anywhere. Some sort of argument was in progress—shouting from the chinless man, waving of arms from Ash, a cane brought into play by the woman, which put her at considerably more than middle age.

Bea was turned round, looking over the back of the sofa. “Oh, bloody hell. It's the Liar again. She's out there with Fuckin' Freddie—”

Ellie threw up the window. “Get outta the street, Ashley. Get yerself in 'ere!”

With obvious irritation at this interruption of his dispute, he told Ellie to go fuck herself, he was busy, thank you very much, and returned to shoving his fist at the nose of the chinless man.

Disgusted, White Ellie waddled over to the front door and furiously across the pavement. Now there were five of them, and Jury decided he had better intervene, or at least go out and collect Gabe, if his investigation was to end this year. He walked out into the street.

To what must have been White Ellie's question, the chinless man was responding:

“Well, he f-f-f-f-fuckin' pissed hisself in me primulas, dihn't he? F-f-f-f-f-f—”

“Ah,
shud-dup
!” shouted Ash. “I never done no such thing.”

“Seen 'im with me own eyes!” whined the woman Jury presumed was the Liar.

The tall young man was himself sticking up for Ash, claiming the Liar was exactly that and hadn't seen any such thing. Jury asked him if he was Gabriel Merchant.

“Yeah, tha's right, guv, but piss off for right now, okay?” It was apparently the password, offered in a friendly manner.

The collective voices had reached a pitch feverish enough to attract the attention of passersby, who were stopping with their dogs on leads and their shopping carts to watch.

“—and then he f-f-f-f-fuckin' pulls down 'is zipper an'—”

“I never! Elephant, tell 'er! I couldn't do, could I?”

The woman started whipping the air with her cane. “You did do, I seen you, I seen you—”

“Liar! Liar! Liar!” yelled White Ellie. “He couldn't, could he? I sewed it up, dihn't I?”

Ashley thought this was enormously funny, the two neighbors being caught out, as he thrust his pelvis forward. “Go on, then, go on, yank 'er open, Liar.”

The woman gave a little gasp, either over the proximity of Ash Cripps's zipper or over being discovered in the act of living up to her sobriquet. The fly of his trousers was quite firmly stitched over. She turned, face flushed nearly to the color of the garnet at her throat, and stumped away. The chinless man (Fuckin' Freddie, apparently) stuttered out a few indecipherable words and made off after her.

Both Ash and Gabe laughed until they wept, arms round one another's shoulders.

“I hate to break this up,” said Jury.

“Hey, well, I'll be pissed if it ain't Scotland Yard come round again.” Enthusiastically, Ashley shook Jury's hand, pumping it up and down. “Hey, Gabe, this here's the police. Remember I told you about that case we was helpin' out with?” Cheerfully, Ash turned to Jury. “So what's it this time?”

Jury smiled. “If we could just go into the house. I'd like a word with Gabe.”

“Gabe? Whatta you been doin', then? 'Avin' a piss in Fuckin' Freddie's primulas? Ah, shut yer mouths, ya little bleeders!” Ash said as they passed the kiddies, who had all collected outside to watch the fracas.

There was a bit of schmoozing and smooching between Gabe and Bea before he settled down comfortably beside her. He had remarkably blue eyes to offset his long and slightly greasy hair. “So, guv.”

Jury nudged Wiggins away from the small bowl of water. “Sir,” said Wiggins, getting out his notebook. He went over the facts as he had taken them down, meticulously, as always.

“What we'd like to know is whatever you remember about that incident at the Tate.”

“Give us a fag, luv,” said Gabe to Bea. She passed him a tin of tobacco and some cigarette papers and he carefully distributed the tobacco, pinched the ends together, lit up, looked thoughtful. But said nothing, and Jury prompted him.

“Did you see Mrs. Hamilton—the dead woman—elsewhere in the gallery?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. In the Swagger exhibit. Bea here didn't go with me.”

Bea leaned her head, which was resting on his thigh, back farther so that she could look up into his eyes. “Why should I pay four quid to see a lot of women sitting on clouds with their feet on skulls?” She gave Jury a broad wink, ushering him back into the world of art appreciation.

Gabe made a noise of utter disgust. “Don't be daft.”

“Can you remember if she was alone?”

“Far as I know, yeah. Those exhibitions can get pretty crowded.”

“Do you recall exactly what she was doing?”

“Lemme see. I remember it was after the Van Dycks and I was studying that one by Reynolds of the Italian dancer. Some eyes she's got. That's when I noticed her. Looked sickly. Well, I thought she must be, for she hurried out—you know, the way people do if they're gonna—” Here he made retching gestures.

From the kitchen came a crash and the sound of raised voices and, at the same time, the kiddies spurting into the room and scattering like gunshot. The period of relative tranquility was obviously over.

“I never!”

“You did!”

“Never!”

And more from the kitchen, shouts and imprecations, until Ash came through the door holding a plate and fork, grinning for all the world as if his exit from the kitchen hadn't been accompanied by an
aluminum cook pot hurled with breathtaking force, bouncing off the wall, bruising the faded browny paper, and clattering along the floorboards.

The pot just missed hitting Ash, who was followed by a scruffy little terrier. The dog clearly wanted the plate Ash was hugging to his chest with his forearm. Ash collapsed on the sofa next to Wiggins, sending dust motes dancing. Generously, Ash offered Wiggins a share of his fry-up—a melange of chop, sausage, potatoes, onions, and beans—that turned the sergeant pale. Ashley was forking it up with relish. Mouth full to bursting, he inquired of Bea and Gabe, “How 'bout you kids, then. You had your tea?”

They said they were going down the pub as soon as the “interrogation” was over.

“Mr. Jury? Ah, he ain't half bad. Nossir, he helped me out once when the Social come round.” Looking sad as could be, he added, “That pub closed, the old Anodyne Necklace. Things change.” Ash shook his head.

White Ellie came steaming in with her own full plate—fried eggs and a mountain of beans on toast. “So I says t' this one 'ere”—and she nodded her head, hair the color of egg yolk, towards her husband, and took up the conversation in true Homeric fashion, in medias res—“I says, ‘Ashley, you scare up twenty nicker for a ticket, when that Criterion opens, you'll be able to show yerself t' all the nobs in London.”

A gurgle came from the baby carriage, but Robespierre was hidden by a cloud of faded blue wool, so Jury could not see if he was choking on the beans. Several forkfuls had gone in that direction.

Ellie continued talking and chortling. “That there theatre's got the swankiest toilets in London.”

“Ah, lay off, Elephant,” said Ash, who was dangling his lamb chop bone over the arm of the sofa, teasing the terrier.

“Well, better'n showin' yourself down them filthy toilets in Mile End.”

Ashley Cripps had been inside so many times that he kept a little bag packed and ready near the door, like a runway model. He'd been up on just about every minor charge a man of any imagination could be—doing a newsagent, handling, dealing, carrying—but his forte was indecent exposure, which had got him his nickname, Ash the Flash.

Wiggins broke into this muttering argument, his curiosity apparently uncontainable. “I was just wondering, Mr. Cripps,” he said,
pointing to the dish of water and wires, “just exactly what's the, ah, theory behind that?”

Ash wiped his mouth with his dirty handkerchief and stuffed it back in his trouser pocket. “That there's my own invention, Mr. Wiggins, and right proud I am of it, too. See, when the mouse comes along for a drink a water, he gets fried. Place smokes right up.”