CHAPTER 28
PERCY
I was familiar with The Punch Tavern at 99 Fleet Street. It was named after the satirical magazine ‘Punch’, the offices of which were next door and so the editorial team, writers, and illustrators drank here. With such a pedigree of writerly and satirical clientele, the pub was frequented by journalists from all manner of publications. I’d arranged to meet George here at lunchtime on Thursday so that Oliver Simmons and I could share the information we’d assembled. We would decide on the correct way forward to get him the justice he deserved. I’d taken the family carriage from our offices Fleet Street with Simmons as my companion and advisor.
“The new ditty George and Eloise debuted last night went down a storm,” Simmons informed with a wistful smile. “Eloise was dressed as a saucy fellow, and George was the prim young lady he was trying to court. It was very funny, they are quite the comical twosome,” he added with fond remembrance.
“That’s good to hear. Did a copy of the manuscript go missing?”
“I had to get the last omnibus home, so I don’t know. But I’m sure George will have news.”
“I have a feeling that whatever we learn today, we will have to act fast in this matter Mr. Simmons.”
“Agreed. John Thatcher spent two days visiting purveyors of musical manuscripts and he collated some interesting information. I’ll explain the particulars when we’re with Mr. Dancie so I don’t have to repeat myself.”
The carriage drew up across the road from the pub, and so we stepped out onto the busy pavement and took our very lives in our hands, darting between carriages, carts, and omnibuses as we rushed to cross the road,
Simmons was at my side when we entered the decoratively tiled corridor for the Punch public house, and then passed through the double doors and into the smoky tap room. The smell was a pungent mix of male sweat, wood smoke, ale, and meat pies. A long mahogany bar was directly in front. There were chairs and tables to my right and left, many with patrons enjoying a pie and a pint for lunch. I paused and looked around before Simmons nudged me. “He’s over there!” he said and then began to make his way through the crowd to a snug area with banquette seating.
George was sitting with Eloise and they’d already ordered drinks for us. When his burnished autumn eyes met mine a fire ignited beneath my skin and it was suddenly far too hot in here. He smiled as if he knew exactly the effect he had on me, and then moved along the seat so there was room for me to sit beside him and press out thighs together. The close contact calmed my nerves and at such close quarters I could inhale George’s lovely personal scent. Simmons drew out the chair beside Eloise, and immediately took a hold of the waiting pint of bitter. “This is most welcome George, thank you,” he said taking a long gulp.
“Yes, thank you,” I added, taking a sip from the pint of cider he’d ordered for me. “We only have half an hour, so we’ll have to be quick!” I said regretfully. “Tell us what happened?”
George proceeded to tell us about Alfred Grayson’s attempt to get him out of London by way of a national theatre tour. He also informed that a copy of the newest manuscript was removed from the piano when nothing but the ghost light was lit on stage. George’s own fellow was waiting outside the theater on Drury Lane in the driver’s seat of a borrowed hack, and as he was the only cab awaiting a fare Alfred Grayson hopped in and asked to be taken to Blackfriars. He was dropped off down a dingy laneway that secreted the back door of none other than Pittman’s printers.
“He said Grayson gave a strange knock on the door, and then he saw a fellow in a leather apron covered in smears of ink come to the door. Grayson had a paper inside his coat which he gave to the fellow. It was a quick exchange, and neither said a word before Grayson returned to the cab and asked to be taken to Camden,” George explained.
“So, Pittman’s really is printing illegal manuscripts on the side. Interesting. The Guild will not be happy about this!” I relayed. Illegal printing was a very serious offence and would see a fellow barred from the Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers . Without guild affiliation the business was ruined, for no one would work with Pittman’s again. Simmons had previously spoken to a detective at Bow Street about the theft and illegal printing scam but was told he needed more proof. I thought that this might be the final piece of the puzzle to get the police to take notice.
Simmons removed a manila file from his jacket and placed it on the table. “This is full of evidence,” he said proudly. “Our man Mr. Thatcher visited ten shops that sell musical manuscripts. He said that after palming a monetary enticement, the owners relented and told him that they purchased under the counter stock from Pittman’s for a long time, some said years. They believed Alfred Grayson to be quite the prolific songwriter.” Simmons explained.
“Years?” George and Eloise said in unison.
“That would mean George ain’t the only victim of this vile scheme. Grayson’s done it before!” Eloise raged.
“That is my understanding,” Simmons agreed. “And in my learned legal opinion, we now have enough evidence to take this matter back to Bow Street.”
“So, what do I do next?” George asked Simmons.
“If the police take this matter seriously, they’ll need to investigate and verify the information we provide. I have this file of evidence,” he said, patting the manila folder he’d placed on the table, “And the sooner you make a formal complaint, the better.”
“Take whatever time you need, Mr. Simmons,” I said. “I’ll inform Jonty Edwards that you won’t be back in the office this afternoon. The sooner this devil is arrested, the better!”
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