Perhaps Tomorrow Read online

  He waved the suggestion away. ‘No, no. I don’t want to trample over dear Queenie’s fine efforts.’ His nose wrinkled up in a sort of boyish way. ‘I am quite happy here.’

  Mattie put the tray on the end of the desk and glanced at the open ledger.

  ‘So, what do you think, Mr Stebbins?’ she asked, almost not wanting to know what a truly dreadful state Maguire’s finances were in.

  Mr Stebbins shook his head mournfully. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Maguire, but I can’t see how you can keep going for more than a week or two,’ he said, taking one of the delicate pink-and-blue cups and saucers from her. She’d brought out her rarely-used best china from the back of the dresser in honour of Mr Stebbins’s visit.

  ‘I didn’t think it was that bad!’

  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ he said, helping himself to three lumps of sugar. ‘According to the figures you are paying out more than you’ve got coming in.’

  Mattie could hardly believe it. In fact she certainly couldn’t! She might have missed the odd bill or put a credit in the wrong column but . . .

  ‘With all due respect, Mr Stebbins, I’m not sure how that can be. For instance, last month our income was twenty-five pounds, seven shillings and ninepence and our outgoings were twenty-four pounds and sixpence. I know I’m cutting extra turnips into the stew instead of giving my brother money to deposit in the bank, but Maguire’s is still keeping its head above water.’

  His doleful expression deepened. ‘But that’s because you are using the adding up and subtracting method of accounting, Mrs Maguire.’ He traced his finger down the right hand column. ‘Whereas I have applied the modern system.’

  Mattie came around the desk and stood beside him. She studied the scribbled rows of numbers.

  ‘But you’ve added the fodder, farriers and wheelwright bills in twice,’ she said, running her finger along the page.

  ‘Because feed, horse shoes and cart repairs are variable expenses,’ he replied, patiently as if explaining the matter to a child.

  Mattie totted up the totals across the bottom of the page. ‘But this isn’t the true figure,’ she tapped the page. ‘It can’t be because if it was I’d have no money in the safe.’

  He chuckled. ‘Mrs Maguire, that’s just your cash flow, not the overall value of your yard.’ He scanned down the page again, ‘But the truth of the matter is you were practically bankrupt before the incident with number one wagon and Eli but now . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I tell you, unless you act soon, Queenie and that little lad of yours might very well end up in the poor house. Of course, I could arrange for you to have credit at the City & County Bank, just to tide you over.’

  Mattie straightened up and folded her arms. ‘Thank you, Mr Stebbins, but new accounting ways or not, I don’t hold with owing anyone anything, not even a bank.’

  An odd emotion flitted across Amos Stebbins’s face, then his usual ebullience returned. ‘Well, that’s very commendable.’ He picked up the cup and saucer and, cradling it in his palm, gripped the fragile handle between his finger and thumb. ‘But if you don’t want credit then the only course open to you is to sell the business.

  ‘Sell?’

  He took a noisy sip of tea. ‘I don’t see you have any choice. Property prices aren’t as high as they were last year but I’m sure you could get eighty pounds for the business, lock, stock and barrel. I might even know someone who might be interested.’

  Sell Maguire’s for eighty pounds! The land alone was worth double that, not to mention the carts, horses and stock.

  ‘It’s kind of you, again, but my father-in-law built up this firm from a handcart and passed it on to his son. While there’s breath in my body I’ll fight to do the same for mine.’

  The inexplicable look shot across Stebbins’s face again, then he took her hand and patted it. ‘My dear, dear, Mrs Maguire. May the good Lord hear your prayers.’

  Mattie glanced back at the accounts book. This might be the new way of book-keeping but it didn’t alter the fact that if there wasn’t enough money in the safe at the end of the week to pay her creditors she would go out of business. None of what Mr Stebbins had told her made any sense and she would have to spend another three nights to get the figures to tally. But he had given her a whole afternoon of his time and she knew a recommendation from him could secure a place for Brian in St Katherine’s school.

  She smiled artlessly up at him. ‘This new way of bookkeeping is all a mystery to me but I know you wouldn’t tell me wrong, Mr Stebbins. So if you say Maguire’s is running into difficulties then I’m not going to argue with you.’

  Chapter Six

  A church clock struck eleven as Nathaniel left the gas-lit thoroughfare of Whitechapel High Street and made his way towards 56 Thrawl Street, one of the many common lodging houses on the edge of Spitalfields. Once a smart family house, its dozen or so rooms now served as a night shelter for those whose only other option was to sleep wedged in a doorway.

  The door had opened an hour ago but there were a dozen or so people milling around outside. A couple of local prostitutes dressed in little more than rags and rouge gave Nathaniel the once over. They beckoned to him but turned away when he didn’t respond.

  He stepped into the dingy kitchen where the smell of over-boiled cabbage hit him. The overseer sat in the corner with a beer in his hand and his bulging, piggy eyes flickering over everyone. He was completely bald except for a wiry clump of hair over each ear. His thick brows met in an angry knot and little thickets of dark hair sprouted from his nose and ears.

  His wan and colourless wife slopped greasy soup into bowls, which she handed to lodgers sitting at the central table. Thankful that he’d at least had enough money for a supper of pie and mash, Nathaniel threw his thruppence in front of the overseer who spat a brown stream of tobacco-stained spittle onto the fire.

  ‘Room four.’

  Nathaniel made his way up the bare-board stairs to the second floor. Several men, tucking their shirts into their trousers, passed him as they came down from the women’s rooms in the attic. Beds weren’t the only thing available for a few coppers in Number 56.

  He found room four to be no more than twelve feet by fourteen, with six box-beds placed side by side as if in the stockroom of a funeral parlour. Nathaniel went to the unoccupied wooden crate by the window, which meant he’d only have one neighbour snoring and farting next to him. He shrugged off his coat and folded it to use as a pillow; despite the deprivation he’d suffered in the past seven years he still couldn’t bear to sleep underneath stained bedclothes. As he tried to get comfortable one of the fleas infesting the filthy bed linen and damp straw mattress bit him. The two-foot, six-inch width was barely enough to accommodate his shoulders so he turned slightly onto his side. He wished he could have saved his money and taken his chance on the streets but the police patrols made it too risky.

  The pale glow from a streetlamp filtered through the filthy glass beside him. Above, the boards squeaked rhythmically as one of the women upstairs earned her night’s board. However, his present nauseating discomfort couldn’t match the gut-wrenching stench of the battened-down hold he’d spent the best part of six months in. On board, the captain’s regime dictated that men were only allowed on deck for an hour’s exercise each day, during which they were marched in single file while the sailors jeered and spat at them. For the remaining twenty-three hours, they were shackled together by a chain that was bolted to the central beam. He’d performed all his bodily functions in a bucket, crouched between a small time pickpocket and a simple-minded lad known only as Boy. But even as men fought and died around him and he gagged on maggot-ridden dry tack and gruel, the thought of one day seeing Marjorie and his girls had kept him alive.

  Again and again he turned over the image of Amos Stebbins staring out of the open coal yard gates. He cursed himself under his breath. Why had he been so damned careless?

  For eighteen long months he’d spent almost every waking hour ima
gining that exquisite moment when he would see the lifeblood drain from Amos’s face. But now he’d jeopardised his plans because he’d hesitated.

  Tomorrow, he thought, and braced his shoulders against the side of the box. The noise above stopped and heavy feet clomped down the stairs. Cramp shot through Nathaniel’s right calf so he flexed his foot inside his boot. He stared at the wall. The plaster under the window had cracked some time before and small lumps had fallen off to expose the brickwork beneath. Someone had pasted the front sheet of a newspaper entitled the Working Man’s Defender over it to stop it flaking further. Nathaniel tried to decipher what remained.

  Mr A——s St——ns, Benefactor or Exploiter?

  Nathaniel lifted himself onto one elbow, carefully peeled the sheet from the wall and held it at an angle to read by the faint light coming in.

  It has been reported that Mr St——ns, the owner of a Grey Friars warehouse and a local businessman has donated £70 to replace the lead stolen from the roof. When asked what prompted his generous gift Mr St——ns quoted Matthew chapter six, verse nineteen.

  St George’s-in-the-East’s Parochial Parish council have wasted no time in ordering the replacement materials from Cashman & Sons.

  But did they, dear reader, pause to consider how Mr St——ns acquired his money? If these solid citizens were to dig a little deeper into Mr A——s St——ns’s business methods, they might discover that he has more in common with a Roman tax collector than the Good Samaritan. The further I investigate into his many, and often covert, business practices the more I would liken Mr A St——ns, businessman, parish councillor and, if rumours are to be believed, prospective Alderman, to a stone lying in a summer meadow – warm and benign on top but dank and corrupt beneath.

  Mr St——ns would have us believe that he has taken the Lord’s Word to heart, but I would remind him that the Almighty sees all and he cannot bamboozle the Lord as he does the Vestry Elders.

  The editorial concluded by assuring the reader that the Working Man’s Defender would not rest until it had brought Mr S to justice.

  Nathaniel re-read the article.

  Despite the draught from the missing windowpane a warm glow spread through him. He wasn’t the only person who saw Stebbins for what he really was. Smyth-Hilton, the editor of the Defender seemed to be wise to Stebbins too. More importantly, he wasn’t just some gullible fool who’d been taken in by Amos but someone with influence and connections. Perhaps he would be interested to hear his story.

  Nathaniel carefully folded the sheet of newspaper and tucked it in his breast pocket.

  He had thought that killing Stebbins would settle the score. He was mistaken. Death would be far too generous a way of dealing with the bastard. And if it was time to take a lesson from the Good Book, how about Exodus twenty-one, verse twenty-four? An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?

  ‘Coogan!’ Amos shouted at the half-glazed door to his office.

  The handle rattled and Walter Coogan, the warehouse’s chief clerk, stepped in. ‘Yes, Mr Stebbins?’

  ‘I have some important matters to attend to and I don’t want to be disturbed.’ He tidied the bills and receipts on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The door closed. Amos shuffled the papers a couple of times then leant back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He wove his fingers together across his stomach and settled his chin on his chest. His eyelids drooped as he gazed out of the window over the brown-brick warehouses of St Katherine’s dock.

  A mass of masts and rigging swayed back and forth as the ships anchored off shore waited for a berth and rolled with the tide. It was said that in the Pool a man could walk from Wapping to Rotherhithe without getting his feet wet and Amos could believe it.

  It had been bad form of Galvin and Ross, the partnership who had sold him Grey Friars warehouse, not to mention that the entrance to St Katherine’s was too narrow for the heavily laden merchantmen to enter. By the time he’d taken ownership the docks were already losing custom to the Blackwall Railway that ran from the Minories to Brunswick Docks up river. No matter though. It would be of no consequence in a few months when he floated the Wapping to Stratford Railway Company and all his financial worries would be over.

  He let his eyes close and reassured himself yet again that he couldn’t possibly have seen Nathaniel Tate outside Maguire’s. He’d heard that Tate’s wife and children had died some while back and, as he drifted off to sleep, he let himself contemplate all the unspeakable foreign diseases that might have sent Tate to an early grave in Botany Bay.

  Suddenly the door burst open. Amos started awake and only just avoided falling backwards out of the chair. He slammed his hands on the papers strewn across his desk and glared at Walter.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he growled. ‘I—’

  ‘It’s the police,’ the clerk cut in as three officers in their frock coats and top hats marched into the office, their heavy boots stamping on the polished floor.

  With a mighty effort he stood up and greeted them. ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant,’ he said, catching sight of the insignia on the high collar of one of the officers. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I am Sergeant Lockwood and these are constables Mills and Hanson.’

  The two bewhiskered police officers touched their hats respectfully. ‘I hope you’ll forgive our intrusion, sir,’ the sergeant said from underneath his full moustache. ‘But it is a matter of some urgency we need to discuss with you.’

  ‘Sit, sit,’ he said, indicating the chair. ‘What is it?’

  Sergeant Lockwood removed his hat and smoothed his sparse fair hair before taking a seat. Mills and Hanson remained standing.

  ‘We have received information from the Essex constabulary that a certain Nathaniel Tate has been sighted in Romford and has been making enquires as to your whereabouts.’

  Perspiration burst out on Amos’s forehead and a sudden tightening of his windpipe choked off his breath. His hand went to his collar and he loosened his necktie.

  ‘I thought Tate was in Botany Bay.’

  ‘He escaped.’ The sergeant’s voice seemed to come from far away.

  ‘Escaped! How?’

  ‘I’m not acquainted with the particulars, sir,’ Sergeant Lockwood replied, ‘but I understand the news of the death of his wife and children prompted his return.’

  A memory of Marjorie flashed into Amos’s mind. He always thought her a timid creature, so he’d been shocked when she slapped his face outside Chelmsford Crown Court.

  ‘I’ve come to warn you to be on your guard, Sir. It’s just a precaution and I’m sure we’ll have him back under lock and key in a day or two.’

  Amos unbuttoned his jacket. ‘What sort of lax regime allows a dangerous criminal like Tate to jump on board a ship and return to England? I shall write to the Home Secretary . . . no, . . . no . . . to the Prime Minister. Yes, the Prime Minister no less, and demand to know what we pay taxes for if not to have the corrupt and immoral elements of our society removed!’

  The sergeant stood up. ‘I can’t answer to that, Mr Stebbins, but if you should see him—’

  ‘I have!’ The officers exchanged surprised glances. Amos clasped his hands together. They were hot and moist. ‘I thought I was imagining it but . . .’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Outside Maguire’s coal yard in Cannon Street Road.’

  ‘Hmm . . . If you saw Tate he must have seen you. I would advise you not to visit there again and to be extra diligent about your personal safety until we apprehend him.’

  Amos nodded rapidly because suddenly he couldn’t speak.

  ‘I bid you good day then, Mr Stebbins,’ the sergeant said as he and the two constable left.

  Amos stared blindly ahead for a moment then jumped to his feet. He collected his hat, coat and cane from the stand then flung open the office door. Walter Coogan stared at him from behind a pile of tanned hides. Amos marched past him
wrenching his arms into the sleeves of his coat as he went.

  ‘Where are you going, sir?’ Coogan called after him.

  ‘To the gunsmiths in Artillery Row.’

  Nathaniel waited for the dun carthorse pulling the brewer’s dray to plod past and then he started to cross Bishopsgate. He stepped over a drunk lying in the gutter and made his way down a narrow set of rickety stairs to the Duck and Drake.

  The public house, which in truth was little more than a cellar below street level, was clearly named in an earlier time when the area was pasture and the odd water fowl or two might have been seen waddling around. That rural landscape had long given way to the crumbling houses that now made up the north end of the Shoreditch rookery.

  Nathaniel opened the door and stepped in. The stench of unwashed bodies mingled with tobacco, while underfoot a slippery mixture of beer, spit and sawdust coated the stone floor. The walls had once been painted white but were now a sickly yellow and speckled with beer stains as well as darker flecks that could easily have been dried blood. A couple of the men at the bar turned in his direction and gave him the once-over before returning to their drinks.

  ‘’Ello, there ’andsome,’ whispered a young woman as she slipped her arm in his. She could have been no more than twenty, with a once pretty face framed by light brown hair that was fixed like an untidy bird’s nest on one side of her head. There were dark smudges around her eyes and the mauve and yellow of a faint bruise on her right cheek but, compared to some in the bar, she was a beauty. She grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth. ‘I’ll make you feel like a king for sixpence.’

  ‘No thanks.’ He made his way past her to the bar, where he handed over a tuppence in return for a large tot of rum. The gin was cheaper, but was usually laced with sulphuric acid to give it some bite so Nathaniel thought it wiser to pay the difference. He turned to face the room, leant back and looked around.

  In the far corner, just to the right of a curtain and half hidden from view, three men sat at a table. Two of them wore tight checked jackets and short crown hats set back on their heads. One chewed on a cigar while the other scraped the dirt from under his fingernails with a narrow blade. Both of them had been cheated of a neck, but by way of compensation had been given fists like shovels. Between them sat a stocky man, munching his way through a plate of boiled beef and potatoes.