Chapter 1.4 - Martin - November 1934 - Later that day
The City was awake, lively, and eager. Martin pushed his way through the bustle of the underground station, clutching his satchel. He emerged into the weak light of a smoky winter’s day, a chill breeze doing the rounds but without any real puff. He hurried up Whitechapel towards Shadwell. The lair was tucked away in the grime and the filth, down a slummy sidestreet that perfectly suited their purpose. The building, at least, was sound. A decade earlier Martin had made sure of it. A little violence, and not much money, provided more than enough discretion. For this job, conveniently placed too. Probably.
He let himself in.
“It’s about time you turned up,” called out Annie in a sharp voice. She sat in the first room, and of all things she was sewing.
“Where are the rest?” Martin asked, guessing the answer.
“Passed out back there,” she said, jabbing a thumb towards the back room. “They’ve been getting bored.”
“Well, I have a cure for that.” He stopped and smiled at a sudden thought, and scoped up the small blackboard and a piece of chalk. “Want to watch?” he asked
Annie grinned. “Tempting, but I want to finish this,” she said, holding up the fabric she was repairing. “I’ll listen to the show instead.”
Slowly, to make no sound, Martin opened to the door to the back room. Inside were half a dozen beds, three of which were occupied by humps. Two of the sleepers were snoring in a discordant duet. Stepping into the room Martin lifted up the blackboard, grasped the chalk tightly, and scraped it along the board, making an entirely unpleasant penetrating screech.
The effect was immediate and everything he had hoped for. “Five minutes,” Martin shouted, dodging a boot. He went back to the first room where Annie was giggling like the maid she wasn’t. By the time Henry, Angus, and Paddy tramped into the front room he had a large kettle on the stove.
“Take it there’s a job,” Angus said as he flopped down onto a bench, looking the most awake of the trio.
“Yes,” Martin replied. “We need to find the whereabouts of someone - Robert Williams.” He briefly explained the job.
“What if he’s just laid up sick at home?” Paddy asked, squinting.
“Then it’s an easy job,” Martin replied. “Anyone want to bet against me it’s not?” The grumbling announced no takers. “So my intention is for me and Annie to visit his house while the rest of you snoop around the docks. Unless anyone else has any ideas?”
“So, basically you want us to gossip, get a few dockers drunk, and the like?” Henry asked. Of all of them he knew the docks the best.
“Whatever works, just don’t draw too much attention to yourselves. Catch,” Martin said, throwing them all small pouches. “Spend it well - but don’t spend too much of it on yourselves.Any questions?”
There were none, and Martin hadn’t really expected any. There wasn’t much to say.
Martin - An hour later
“It would have been quicker taking a boat,” Annie said, not for the first time as they waited to get through to The Island. The Docks stood astride the bend in the river, nearly blocking all access. The throng had barely moved for half an hour behind the broken cart and its spilled cargo. Meanwhile they had been assailed by the sounds of the dock - shouts, calls, whistles, clangs, groans (of men, timber, and steel). And then there was the smell. Each waft of air brought a new pungence that blocked nostrils and infected clothes. The scents did not mix, but warred with each other in an unending array of chemical clamour and confusion.
Martin didn’t bother replying. Ahead there was a sound of growling and heaving, and then a splash. The crowd began to move again. As they finally crossed over the bridge there was the stench of vinegar, and glancing to one side Martin could see a few fresh timbers in the water. “Come on,” he said, and marched forward and through the tumult of the wharfside and towards Cubitt Town.
Past the dockyards they walked down Manchester Road, almost devoid of people. It was, however, not much quieter - the symphony of industry continued unabated, if slightly muffled, by the walls of the factories, workyards, and wharfs on the river side.
“Gods it’s been ages since I was down here,” Annie said.
Martin nodded. On their right side they passed The Dorset Arms, quiet at this time, and the buildings gave way to a scattering of allotments and the larger wasteland beyond.
“You sure you know where we’re going?” Annie asked.
“Billson Street, to one of the new houses built after the war, especially for veterans. Lucky for Mr Williams,” he said as they turned into Stebondale Street. “Quite a lot of these others,” he just shrugged at the dilapidated dwellings. Annie nodded. “Floods, too, so I hear. I think they finally forced the landlords to board up all the basements in the old houses a few years ago. One hazard, at least, that’s rare north of the docks.”
Annie said nothing for a moment, and then spoke in a strained tone. “Martin, you keep that up you’re going to make me feel lucky to have lived in Whitechapel.”
He did not reply. “We turn there,” Martin said, pointing at The Builders Arms a little ahead.
They turned into Billson Street. “Nice house,” Annie said, as they approached.
Compared to many others it was a nice house. Not grand of course, but well and solidly constructed. It was still a working man’s house - but its presence seemed to accentuate the decay of some of the other buildings on the street.
“Come on,” said Martin. From the front the house seemed quiet. He thought about using the knocker, but decided just to bang on the door instead.
After a minute Annie asked, “The wife didn’t work, you said.”
“The wording in the notes was ‘believed to be a housewife’,” Martin said. He thumped the door again.
“Martin,” Annie said softly, “there’s someone watching us ...”
