Robin Hood Yard

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

A paperback original 2015

Copyright © Mark Sanderson 2015

Mark Sanderson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015. Cover design by Mavrodesign.com

Cover photographs © Bert Hardy/Getty Images (main image); H. Armstrong Roberts/Classic Stock/Corbis (woman); Mary Evans/Classic Stock/H. Armstrong Roberts (man); Thinkstockphotos.co.uk (hat)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007296842

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2015 ISBN: 9780007325283

Version 2015-03-18

Dedication

To Curtis, Lucy and Jack

I had not thought death had undone so many.

T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Foreword

Part One: Royal Exchange

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Two: Ironmonger Row

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Three: Robin Hood Yard

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Afterword

Keep Reading...

Bibliography

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

FOREWORD

The bomb was in place. For the umpteenth time he checked his pocket watch. Two more minutes …

The Lord Mayor’s coach – a fantasia in red and gold – emerged from Prince’s Street by the Bank of England and turned, groaning on its leather straps, towards Poultry. The Lord Mayor, leaning out of the window, doffed his cocked hat to the dignitaries assembled under the portico of his new home, the Mansion House. The ostrich feathers on his hat rippled in the chilly breeze.

The cheering crowds that packed the pavements did nothing to scare the horses. Pairs of mounted policemen protected the coach at the front and rear. The floats that followed were also mainly drawn by horses, whereas others relied on another form of horsepower. It was one of these that stalled. The actors portraying Sir Francis Drake and his fellow bowlers staggered as the truck coughed then lurched to a stop.

The theme of this year’s show was physical health. Everywhere banners proclaimed FITNESS WINS! Dancers, boxers, golfers and rowers continued to demonstrate their moves.

The plaster of Paris mountain being climbed by the alpinists started to emit smoke. Johnny watched in disbelief. No one climbed an active volcano.

The army jeeps and wagons of the auxiliary fire brigade rolled on. They were on parade, not on duty.

As soon as a gap appeared in the procession, Johnny pushed through the crowd lining the route and crossed Cheapside.

He weaved his way through a maze of penny-farthings, unseating a couple of the riders. Their companions, cursing loudly, wobbled precariously but somehow remained upright and continued to pedal. Some of the spectators started to boo.

A few members of a marching band, distracted, fell out of step. The loss of rhythm was accompanied by an unscored clash of cymbals. The catcalls got louder.

One of the police outriders craned his neck to see the cause of the commotion. Calling to his colleagues, he turned his mount around and headed towards Johnny.

The Lord Mayor, arm aching from waving to his devoted citizens, stuck his head out of the left side of the coach. Below him, on a painted panel, Mars, god of the City of London – and not, as many assumed, Mammon – pointed to a scroll held by Truth. What was going on?

A ginger-haired man was being dragged to his feet by two policemen. He seemed to be unconscious.

Beyond them, outside St Mary-le-Bow, a float was engulfed in flames …

ONE

Friday, 28 October 1938, 9.05 a.m.

The call came as he flung down The Times in disgust. The Tories had won the Oxford by-election, albeit with a halved majority. Quintin Hogg, the triumphant candidate, claimed the result was a victory for Mr Chamberlain and a vindication of the Munich Agreement.

The “Thunderer”, which had revealed itself to be a proud organ of appeasement, made much of the defeat of A. D. Lindsay, the Independent Progressive candidate and Hogg’s only opponent, even though the Master of Balliol College had been supported by such dissident Tories as Winston Churchill, Anthony Eden and Harold Macmillan. Most of the other newspapers, including Johnny’s own, the Daily News, chose to highlight the fury and disappointment of Edward Heath’s student Conservatives who had campaigned under the slogan, “A vote for Hogg is a vote for Hitler.”

He grabbed the receiver. “Steadman.”

“What’s wrong now? Lost a shilling and found a sixpence?” Matt could usually tell how he was feeling.

“Bloody Tories.”

“Never mind them. They don’t mind you.” Matt wasn’t interested in politics. Johnny, who took every opportunity to needle high-hatted right-wingers, opened his mouth to protest but got no further. “Get yourself over to Crutched Friars. We’ve got another body.”

He took a taxi to Fenchurch Street. Crutched Friars ran below the station. Plumes of steam and the sounds of shunting filled the smoky air.

Detective Constable Turner was standing on the corner of Savage Gardens. The sight of him always made Johnny smile. Although in plain clothes, Matt looked every inch the policeman. His recent promotion to the Detective Squad had nevertheless cost him the rank of sergeant. They shook hands.

It wasn’t unusual for Turner to tip him off. They had known each other for a quarter of a century. The bonds forged in the playground of Essex Road School for Boys had only tightened as they’d jumped through the hoops of the adult world. They had been through a lot together, learning the hard way that it wasn’t what you knew but whom. Their careers had become almost as intertwined as their emotions. Two sets of eyes were better than one.

Matt led him downhill to where a towering uniformed cop stood guard outside the open front door of a soot-encrusted terraced house. The sentinel’s disdainful glance made Johnny feel even shorter than his five feet six. His flippant “Good morning!” received only the slightest of nods. Reporters, no matter how useful they often proved, were generally looked down on.

Low voices could be heard in the basement but Matt ignored them and climbed the uncarpeted staircase to the top of the building. Johnny, somewhat out of breath, grasped the peeling balustrade. Its sea-green paint matched the greasy walls. A filthy gas-cooker took up most of the tiny landing.

“Too many gaspers,” said Matt. The champion boxer never bought cigarettes but was not above cadging them from others.

It was brighter up here. Through the open window of the living room Johnny could see the site of the Navy Office in Seething Lane where Samuel Pepys had worked and, in the distance, the tower of St Olave’s where he had worshipped. Johnny was a dedicated diarist too.

However, Dickens was his greatest literary influence. He instantly recalled the passage in The Uncommercial Traveller in which the author had dubbed the church St Ghastly Grim. Its gateway, which bristled with iron spikes, was decorated with skulls and crossbones.

Once again the body was in the bedroom. Johnny braced himself. The naked victim lay spreadeagled on the bed. His wrists and ankles were tied to the iron frame. The mattress was black with blood.

A flashbulb popped. Its sizzle brought back unwelcome memories. Johnny, trying to block them, nodded to the photographer.

“As you can see, his cock is missing.” Matt might as well have been talking about a tooth. “The amount of blood suggests it was amputated while he was still alive. In other words, he bled to death.”

“Who is he?” Johnny opened his notebook.

“Walter Chittleborough. A clerk at the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank in Gracechurch Street.”

“He’s pretty beefy for a pencil-pusher.”

“Didn’t do him any good though, did it?”

“The killer must have had great strength to overpower him.”

“Perhaps. But can you see any signs of a struggle?”

There weren’t any. A shaving brush, cut-throat razor and toothbrush were lined up on the glass shelf above the sink. A pair of striped pyjamas was neatly folded on a chair. One suit, three collarless shirts and a Crombie hung from wooden hangers on hooks. Johnny eyed the luxurious overcoat with envy. Winter was not far away.

“Have you got an age for him?”

“Twenty-four – but that’s to be confirmed.”

“Any family?”

“A sister in Bristol. We’re trying to contact her.”

“Who found him?”

“We did. The bloke in the basement called us. He had a key but the door was bolted from the inside.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Dabs are on their way.”

Johnny walked over to the window. “Was this open when you found him?” Matt nodded. Johnny stuck his neck out. It was a long way down. The area railings grinned up at him. “Is there an attic?”

“Indeed. The access hatch is on the landing.” Matt, trying to suppress a smile, waited for the inevitable question.

“So how did the killer get away?”

“Who knows? Why not give Freeman Wills Croft a tinkle?” Matt was not a great reader – he relied on Johnny for literary knowledge. The real world was more interesting.

“We don’t need him. It’s obvious. They went up the chimney.”

Ironic applause broke out behind him. Detective Sergeant Penterell filled the door frame.

“Very good, Steadman. You ought to be on the stage.”

They had met before. In Johnny’s eyes the ambitious fool had done nothing to deserve promotion.

“You should know by now that murder is not a laughing matter.” Johnny glanced at the gagged and mutilated corpse again. Its young, firm flesh was already mottling. He hoped it had experienced pleasure as well as pain.

“Indeed,” said Penterell. “That’s why you shouldn’t be in here.” He sniffed the cold air as if searching for clues. “Turner, escort your friend off the premises.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Johnny winked at Matt. “I’m sure you need his help more than I do.” That wasn’t necessarily true. “Besides, you can’t stop me talking to the other residents.”

“They’ve gone to work,” said Penterell. “Now fuck off.”

The two cops waited until they could hear his rapid footsteps on the stairs then went straight over to the fireplace.

Instead of leaving via the front door, and giving the bouncer in blue a second chance to look down his nose at him, Johnny walked through the narrow hall and down another flight of stairs to the basement.

A fat man sat smoking at the kitchen table.

“The door was open.”

“I’ve made enough bleeding cups of tea. If you want one you’ll have to get it yourself.”

His head, encircled by receding hair, resembled a partly peeled boiled egg.

“Make a fresh pot, should I?”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Who are you anyway?”

“John Steadman. Daily News. I take it you’re the landlord?”

“Nah, I’m ‘The Wacky Warbler’. Cwooorrr!”

Johnny was not a fan of Joan Turner. Impressionists left him cold. Professional parasites, they fed off other people – just like journalists. When it came down to it they were all in the same business: entertaining the masses.

Johnny refilled the kettle and set it on the range where a vat of soapy water burbled away. He leaned closer. What was that?

“It’s the only way to ensure they’re clean. Can’t live without my long johns.”

Johnny stepped back in disgust. Ensure? Johnny suspected that, behind the scruffy appearance, there lurked an educated man.

The fatty stubbed out his cigarette and punched his chest in a vain attempt to silence an evil cough.

“I wondered when you lot would get here. How much for an exclusive?”

“Tell me what you told the police and I’ll let you know, Mr …?”

“Yaxley. William Yaxley.”

“How long has Walter Chittleborough been your tenant?”

“I’ve been through all this already. I’m not a bleeding parrot.”

“So I hear. Your mimicry would be a lot better. Start squawking. If one of my rivals turns up you can kiss goodbye to any chance of remuneration.” Johnny offered him one of his own Woodbines.

“Ta muchly. Wally moved in about a year ago. Before that he’d been in digs in Whitechapel.”

“Hardly worth the effort.” The Ripper’s hunting grounds were only a few streets away. “Previous address?”

“If I did know I’ve forgotten.”

“Did he have a girl?”

“I’m sure he did – but rarely more than once. He wasn’t courting, if that’s what you mean.”

“What sort of chap was he?”

“An ordinary chap. He worked hard, liked a pint and was mad about football. Never missed a Hammers match. Spent more time at Upton Park than here.”

Soccer bored Johnny. One-on-one contests – battles of body and mind – were more exciting than team sports. The glory to be achieved was greater too.

“How would you describe his personality?”

“We weren’t close. We didn’t socialize.”

“Moved in different circles did he? Try.” So far Humpty Dumpty was not getting a penny.

“Unassuming, undemonstrative – unless he was stinko …”

“How d’you know if you didn’t socialize?”

“We bumped into each other on the doorstep a few times. You hear everything down here.” He glanced at the ceiling. “The more beer he’d had, the heavier his tread.”

“Very well. What was the other adjective you were going to use before I so rudely interrupted?”

His interviewee watched him waiting, pencil poised.

“Unintelligent.” He smirked. “A bathetic climax. Sorry.”

“So am I. Nice oxymoron though.” Humpty was playing with him, trying to distract him. What was he hiding?

The kettle lid rattled as the water reached boiling point. Johnny’s blood was not far behind.

“And the other tenants? Did Wally socialize with them?”

“Not so far as I know. The Sproats on the ground-floor have a six-month-old baby. The wailing never stops.”

“Seems pretty quiet now.”

“He works at the Royal Mint. She’s a cleaner. Leaves the brat with her mother in Shoreditch during the day.”

“Do the people above them complain about the noise as well?”

“Mr Tull is deaf as a post. Lucky old sod. You won’t get anything out of him.” He blew a stream of smoke towards the range. “The tea won’t make itself, you know.”

“So who completes this happy household?”

“Rebecca. Beautiful Becky Taylor.” He sighed. “She knows what Wally was like – inside and out, if you get my drift. She’s some sort of secretary at Grocers’ Hall. Talk to her.”

“I will.” Johnny slipped his notebook into a pocket. “Thanks for your time. Shouldn’t you be at work as well?”

“I am.” He hauled himself to his feet. “Looking after this place is an endless job. There’s no clocking off here.”

He rinsed out the teapot and spooned in four heaps of Lipton’s. It seemed there was no clocking on either.

“Who owns the house?”

“I do.”

Johnny, while Yaxley’s back was turned, slipped out of the kitchen. He was halfway up the stairs before the landlord noticed.

“Oi! Steadman! What about the money?”

“Send me an invoice.”

Even if the sluggard were to submit one he would see that it was never paid. Instinct told him Yaxley had concealed more than he’d revealed.

TWO

The first body had been found on Monday in Gun Square, actually a gloomy triangle off Houndsditch. Jimmy Bromet, nineteen, was a waiter at the Three Nuns Hotel next door to Aldgate Station. He, too, had been tied to his bed and emasculated, but not castrated. No one in the lodging house had a heard a sound.

On his way back to the office Johnny made the cabbie take a detour. Although entirely surrounded by banks, Grocers’ Hall, off Prince’s Street, had its own courtyard. Two covered entrances allowed vehicles to drive in and out without the irksome task of reversing. A polite but obdurate doorkeeper informed him that Miss Taylor had arrived late for work. Consequently she would not be available until this evening. And livery companies were supposed to be charitable institutions.

“Undemonstrative? Fifteen letters.” Tanfield, a junior reporter, had a strange knack of determining the length of a word no matter how long.

“We’ll never know how long Chittleborough was though, will we?” said Dimeo. The deputy sports editor was obsessed with physical attributes. “What d’you think the killer does with the trophies?”

“I loathe to think,” said Johnny.

“Yet you must find out, Steadman, post haste. It is what you are paid to do.”

Gustav Patsel’s wire-rimmed spectacles glinted in the milky midday sun. Tanfield and Dimeo returned to their desks. “Pencil”, as the news editor was ironically known, had never been popular but, since the invasion of Czechoslovakia, anti-German feeling was at an all-time high. The ever-hungry Hun’s waist had its own policy of expansionism.

“Perhaps they’re turned into sausages,” said Johnny. “You’d know more about that than me. Frankfurters, bratwurst, knackwurst …” Dimeo disguised a cackle with a cough.

“I want a thousand words on the two murders by four o’clock,” said Patsel. “They are obviously the work of the same degenerate.” He was about to say more when Quarles, his long-suffering deputy, handed him a sheet of yellow paper. The bulletin did not contain good news.

Johnny watched Patsel resume his throne in the centre of the newsroom and pick up a phone.

“What’s so important?”

“Goya and El Greco are following in the footsteps of Rembrandt and Rubens,” said Quarles.

The central rooms of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square had been closed for more than a month. Rumour had it the priceless paintings were being stored somewhere in Wales.

“They and their curators clearly don’t have much faith in old Neville,” said Johnny. “I wish Pencil would pack up and leave.”

“He’d rather be interned than return to the Fatherland – and who can blame him? Pressmen are even less popular over there. At least we try to tell the truth.”

“Are we interested in birching? There’s another demonstration planned for this afternoon. It might be lively.”

“No. Given the whole country is in danger of losing their skins, you’d think they’d have something better to do. Concentrate on the murders. See if you can find anything that connects the two men.”

Peter Quarles was the main reason why Johnny was still at the Daily News: without his frequent, good-natured interventions, Patsel and his star reporter would have come to blows. The editor was not blessed with a sense of humour. He found Johnny’s wit and disregard for authority difficult to take. Quarles, though, had learned to handle – and respect – Johnny’s wayward talent.

Johnny, keen to hear more, rang Matt but was told D. C. Turner was still out of the office. The press bureau at Old Jewry, headquarters of the City of London police, promised to relay any developments in the double murder case. He wouldn’t hold his breath.

Apart from the manner of their deaths, there appeared to be nothing to link the cases. Bromet had lived on the first floor; Chittleborough on the third. Had the two bachelors known each other? Bromet had no criminal convictions. Did Chittleborough have a clean record too?

Matt would have no difficulty in answering the second question. He was invariably quick to acknowledge the part Johnny had played in his promotion. Although unofficial, their collaboration in several headline-hitting cases had boosted both their careers. The lifelong friends made a good team. That didn’t mean they always saw eye to eye.

Lizzie jerked awake. The glowing coals shifted in the grate. Lila Mae, Johnny’s god-daughter, slumbered on in her arms. It was natural for the child to fall asleep after being fed, but not for her. Still, in more ways than one, breast-feeding took it out of her.