Chapter 5
As with many fashionable areas of London, the people on the streets before dawn each morning were very different to those seen once the sun had risen to a respectable height in the sky, and Berkeley Square was no exception to this.
Harry had groaned when her alarm clock had dragged her from her dreams at five-thirty, but she had risen and dressed in scruffy trousers, a worn coat and a grubby flat cap pulled low over her eyes.
Wearily, she slipped out into the shadows of Mayfair, just another labourer on his way to work.
In the half-light, street cleaners whistled to each other as they gathered the rubbish that had accumulated overnight.
A chimney sweep cradled his brooms with purpose as he crossed the road in front of her, nodding a greeting, and a baker’s boy rang his bell to warn her of his approach, his cart loaded with deliveries.
The Georgian terraced houses overlooking the square were dark and silent, save for the occasional light in the lower-floor windows as the domestic staff prepared the house to greet the day.
Neither the sweep nor the baker’s boy were destined for the immaculate front doors that faced Berkeley Square.
They were aiming for the tradesman’s entrance, which Harry imagined would be accessed by back alleys on each side of the square.
She intended to satisfy herself on that point shortly, but not before she had taken a stroll past the house where the theft had taken place.
The alleyway lay on Charles Street, heralded by an archway wide enough to admit a cart and lit by an electric lantern hanging overhead.
Harry slowed as she approached, wary that there might be a police guard here too, but there was no uniformed presence to deter her.
She passed by once, as though on her way somewhere else, and glanced past the yellow circle of light and into the gloom beyond.
As far as she could tell, the alleyway was empty.
She kept walking, turning the corner into Hays Mews and pausing as though lost. In the unlikely event that someone was observing her, they would have seen a puzzled young man slap his forehead and turn on his heel to duck confidently into the alley.
A sharp rustling in the alleyway caused the hair on the back of Harry’s neck to stand on end.
She whirled around, staring into the darkness.
Was it a policeman making his rounds? Had she been seen ducking into the passage?
What could she say to explain her presence?
She tensed, preparing herself to barge past the newcomer and flee to safety.
And then a low growl snaked towards her, followed by a volley of high-pitched barks.
Damn. That changed things. A dog might snap and bite, catching hold of her trousers or coat and delaying her escape.
And from the sound of things, it had already picked up her scent.
‘Pipe down, Rosie,’ a coarse male voice grumbled. ‘It’s too early for that racket.’
A moment later, the dog appeared in the courtyard, brown-and-white ears flattened against its wiry skull as it glared balefully at Harry.
A low rumble continued to sound and she saw it was a terrier of some kind, scruffy and unbrushed and tethered by a length of string attached to a frayed collar.
The string was held by a dirty, stoop-shouldered man, who also carried a number of narrow metal cages.
Matted grey tufts sprouted from beneath a sagging cloth cap and a voluminous overcoat flapped around his body as he came to an abrupt halt.
His gaze narrowed at the sight of Harry.
‘What have we here, then? A thief come to steal old Welcome’s earnings? ’
The dog growled again and Harry decided she did not want to cross either of them. Shaking her head, she summoned up a rough Cockney accent. ‘No, mister. I came for a job. Only there ain’t no one answering.’
The man sniffed. ‘Not surprised at this hour.’ He eyed her with increased suspicion. ‘What kind of job?’
‘Errand boy,’ Harry said, thinking fast. Her size might make her appear younger than she was, especially in the gloom. ‘At number 50.’
The dog was still snarling with mistrust but broke off when the old man gave a sharp tug on the string. ‘That’s enough, I say.’ He glared at Harry. ‘Just you stay there while I check my traps. I’ll soon know if you’re lying.’
Harry could only stare at him. Traps? What on earth could he mean by that? And then her attention fell on the metal cages over one shoulder, and the presence of the terrier at his side, and she knew. ‘You’re a rat catcher.’
‘The best there is,’ he said, sounding proud. ‘If you was from round here, you’d have heard the name Welcome Dobbs and no mistake.’
Without waiting for a response, he limped to a shadowy, unlit corner of the yard and knelt.
Rosie seemed torn between continuing to glower at Harry and following her master, but after a moment she scampered towards the corner, ears pricking up as she went.
There was a clang of metal, a yap from Rosie and a grunt from the old man.
Harry did not want to imagine what the traps held but it seemed to satisfy the rat catcher.
Getting to his feet, he turned to study Harry once more and she saw two limp bodies in his hands.
She tried to look unperturbed as they were swiftly stowed into the tattered bag that crossed his body.
‘You want to be careful of that house,’ he rasped, nodding towards the door at Harry’s shoulder. ‘Got a bad history, it has.’
She risked a glance backwards. Which house did he mean? ‘Number 50?’
Dobbs nodded. ‘Oh, it looks nice enough from the outside but old Welcome don’t go much on appearances.’ He paused to toss something down to the dog, who snapped it up and settled on her scrawny haunches, watching him expectantly. ‘Old Welcome sees beyond what’s obvious.’
He gave Harry such a penetrating look that she was convinced that he saw straight through her carefully applied boot polish grime and too-big coat.
She resisted the urge to pull her cap more firmly over her hair.
But surely he meant number 48, where the robbery had taken place?
‘I know there’s a bobby on the door,’ she ventured. ‘That ain’t good news for anyone.’
‘Not that one.’ Dobbs jerked his head sideways. ‘The house next door. Been empty for more than ten years, and I ain’t surprised after what happened there.’
Harry frowned. The house did not look empty. Curtains hung at the windows, the steps were scrubbed and the door looked as though it had recently been repainted. ‘What did happen there?’
The old man shrugged. ‘Terrible things. Murder.’
He laced the final word with the kind of dramatic, guttural dread that Harry imagined John Archer would give a great deal to be able to imitate. ‘Murder?’ she echoed. ‘In a fancy place like this?’
‘Evil ain’t picky,’ he said, and spat hard at the ground. ‘It was years ago. They say a man went mad and murdered his woman, and her ghost haunts the house still. Anyone who spends the night there is driven mad with the terror of it.’
The story sent an uneasy shiver down Harry’s spine. She squared her shoulders. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘That’s what the others said,’ Dobbs replied, and his grin revealed several missing teeth.
‘All I know is no one has stayed there more than a few nights in all the years I’ve been catching round here, saving them what’s in there now.
It does my business no harm to have an empty house.
More rats then. More money from the neighbouring gaffs who want ’em caught. ’
She did her best not to shudder. ‘But it’s not empty now.’
‘No,’ he conceded. ‘More’s the pity. But they won’t stay. It’s a shame after they spent all that money tarting it up. Even filled in the old coiners’ tunnel, so I heard.’
Harry blinked. Coiners was a term she’d come across in a number of Holmes’ adventures.
It was slang for the criminal gangs who specialised in forging money, particularly coins.
In real life, they had been rife before the turn of the century but several high-profile captures had seen the counterfeiters turn their attentions to other crimes. ‘Did you say tunnel?’ she asked Dobbs.
‘I did, leading right underneath this courtyard and coming out a full street away.’ He grinned. ‘Full of rats, it was. A tidy income for old Welcome, ’til they closed it up.’
‘Interesting,’ Harry breathed. She glanced up at the house. ‘You know what, I don’t fancy working there now. Not after hearing all that.’
Welcome Dobbs nodded approvingly. ‘You do right, lad.’ He tossed Rosie another titbit and sniffed. ‘Try Hamilton Square. You might get lucky if you mention my name.’
She smiled, because the advice was kindly given. ‘Ta very much. I – er – hope your traps are full, Mr Dobbs.’
He sighed as he turned towards the alley that led out of the yard. ‘Not as full as they used to be. Come on, Rosie. Let’s see what we can get for these wretches.’
Harry waited a full five minutes before she followed, gazing thoughtfully back and forth between number 48 and 50 and considering everything she had learned.
She doubted the tall tales of murder and hauntings had any bearing on the theft of the Sora-Sora diamond but the fact that the property had been used by criminals in the past was definitely a point of curiosity.
The coiners described by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been desperate, ruthless men and Harry had no doubt their real-life counterparts had been the same.
Could the tunnel Dobbs mentioned have some connection to this new crime?
It certainly seemed plausible, Harry mused as she made her way home to start her day all over again.
In fact, it was just possible she had uncovered a significant clue.