‘They think they have.’
‘But you’re begging to differ?’
‘I have met Stirk. He is little more than a drunken dolt. Like critics claim of Mr Darwin, he may well have had a gorilla for a grandfather. There was a picture of one in the Illustrated London News the other week and it was Stirk to a T.’
‘Some of these African beasts are murderous brutes, though.’
‘Well, the gorilla may or may not be. Du Chaillu and the other experts seem to differ on the subject. But Stirk certainly isn’t. Whatever the police believe, Mr Moorhouse, he cannot possibly be the killer.’
‘So the real perpetrator is still on the loose? Hands steeped in gore and all that.’
‘I believe so.’
‘Goodness gracious.’ Mr Moorhouse looked shocked. He groped for the small glass of port that was resting on the table beside his chair. ‘Anybody got any plans to do anything about it?’
‘Well, I have been endeavouring to discover more about the man Creech in the hopes of learning reasons why he might have been killed. I have only had limited success as yet. But I believe that I cannot simply leave everything to the police. Not if they insist on believing in the guilt of this man Stirk.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Mr Moorhouse agreed, sipping at his port. ‘Can’t have murderers stalking the streets as bold as brass.’
The old man replaced his glass on the table. Ash dropped from the cigar in his other hand. Some of it fell onto his lap and he brushed what he could away.
‘Doubtless you will be spending the rest of the day in hot pursuit of the guilty party,’ he suggested after a moment’s silence. He seemed to be envisaging Adam chasing a blood-soaked killer through the London streets. He looked as if the image was a rather thrilling one for him.
‘I hate to disappoint you, Mr Moorhouse, but I have no notion of the identity of the guilty party. Only that it’s not the man the police have in custody. In any case, I have another appointment to keep. I am going to Cremorne Gardens.’
‘Cremorne, eh?’ Mr Moorhouse looked down at the ash still on his trousers. ‘Saw a chap go up in a balloon there once. Years ago. Must have been fifty-four.’ He screwed up his eyes with the effort of recollection. ‘Or was it fifty-five? One or the other, anyway.’
‘A fine sight to see, no doubt,’ Adam said politely.
‘Not really. Bit of a tragedy, actually. Chap fell out of the basket when it was just clearing the trees. Broke his neck. He was French, I think. Brassy. Or Brissy. Some name like that. It was in all the newspapers. You probably read about it at the time.’
‘I cannot remember doing so.’ Adam decided that it was too much trouble to remind the old man that he would have been no more than a small boy at the time.
‘Or was it Brossy?’
‘Bressy, perhaps?’
‘No, no, no.’ Mr Moorhouse sounded uncharacteristically assured. ‘Definitely not Bressy.’ He seemed to have lost interest in Creech’s murder. ‘As you say, fine sights to see at Cremorne, I’ve no doubt. Don’t let my experience put you off going.’
As he emerged from the Marco Polo, Adam hailed a cab. The driver, an elderly gnome with a bulbous nose, looked as if he might have been lucklessly patrolling the streets in search of fares since daybreak. Adam climbed in and they set off down Piccadilly in the direction of the park. The hansom seemed even older than its driver. Inside there were rips in the leather of the seats and it smelt as if the previous fare had spent his entire journey sweating and breaking wind. Adam considered asking the ancient driver perched above him to pull over so that he could leave and take another less-reeking vehicle to Chelsea, but decided to stay where he was. He settled gingerly on the torn leather and pulled Emily Maitland’s letter from his inside pocket. He read through it once again. It was perhaps the fifth time he had done so and it revealed no more than it had done on first perusal. She apologised for leaving Doughty Street so abruptly. She begged for another meeting with him at which she would explain the reasons for her departure. And, most extraordinarily of all, she suggested that they should rendezvous at the dancing area in Cremorne Gardens.
Strolling among the trees and past the geranium beds after the decrepit cabbie had dropped him at the gates of the gardens, Adam wondered again if Emily was aware of the place’s ambivalent reputation. Perhaps she had only been there in the early afternoon. He knew from personal experience that Cremorne Gardens after sunset was a very different place from Cremorne Gardens during the day. He had strolled through them on more than one evening with Cosmo Jardine, in search of fun and temporary company. The atmosphere changed markedly as the evening wore on. The families in search of innocent pleasures disappeared, as did the children eager to see the beasts in the menagerie. The American Bowling Saloon lost its patrons. Instead, with lawns and flower beds and gravel walks undergoing a transformation in the flickering light of the gas lamps, Cremorne became the haunt of hundreds of ladies of easy virtue and their would-be clients. It was not a place for a respectable young woman, even one who had been prepared to flaunt convention and turn up, unchaperoned, at a young man’s rooms. Adam stopped and pulled his silver watch from his top pocket. It was not yet six and there were hours of summer daylight left in which to enjoy the more innocent pleasures of Cremorne. If Miss Maitland had no concerns about visiting, then why should he entertain any on her behalf?
He took a seat at one of the tables overlooking the dancing area. Behind the railings which fenced off the floor and the tiered and fretted pagoda where the orchestra played, only a couple of dozen couples were dancing. It was early yet. Adam ordered a bottle of ale from the waiter and looked about him. Two elegantly dressed swells, arms linked, sauntered past, talking loudly about the play they had seen the previous night. Above him, he could also hear raised voices, possibly those of squabbling lovers, coming from one of the upper-floor supper rooms. At the next table was another man, alone like Adam. He was holding a battered nosegay of flowers which he was picking apart and scattering on the ground. He looked to be half-drunk. The air was suddenly full of shrieks of laughter from the dancing platform as the orchestra struck up a swifter tune and the dancers picked up their pace.
‘Such indecorous antics, eh?’ Adam’s neighbour remarked, with a slur and a bitter smile. Adam glanced at him but the man clearly expected no reply. He threw the remains of the nosegay to the floor and, rising unsteadily to his feet, stumbled off. Adam watched him go and then returned to his scrutiny of the people walking round the circular palisade that fenced off the dancing area. He had chosen his seat with care. It provided a clear view of all the paths that converged here. Even at a distance he was able to recognise the young woman who had visited him in Doughty Street as she approached. He felt his heart beat faster and his spirits lift as he saw her. She was truly a beautiful woman.
She was dressed from head to toe in fine white muslin and was holding a white parasol above her head, as if the noonday sun was still blazing down on Cremorne and she needed all the protection it offered. She was stepping out with an almost manly confidence and pace. Heads in the crowd turned as she passed. Adam rose from his seat. As he did so, Miss Maitland noticed him and gave a slight wave of her parasol. She quickened her already swift pace and arrived by the table breathless and laughing.
‘I was stricken with a sudden fear that you might not be here, Mr Carver. Or that I might not be able to find you. There are such crowds in the gardens.’
‘There are always crowds almost everywhere in London, Miss Maitland.’ In truth, Adam had been thinking only a moment or two earlier that Cremorne was quiet for a June evening. ‘It takes time for a stranger to accustom himself — or herself — to the hustle and bustle of the city.’