Adam had been prepared for any number of possible replies to his questions, including this one, but he was still surprised to hear it directly from Garland’s lips. He was surprised that the MP should state the facts so openly.
‘And was he blackmailing you, sir?’ he asked, after a moment.
In the silence that followed, Adam could hear the gentle hissing from the gaslights in the room. He wondered what the answer to this question would be, but when Garland spoke, the MP continued as if it had not been asked.
‘Blackmail is a nasty word, of course, but then Creech was a nasty man. He was a nasty little boy, if it comes to that. When we were at school, it was always Creech who would tell tales on his fellows if he thought he could get away with it; Creech who would bully the smaller boys most cruelly; Creech who would suck up to the powerful and spit upon the meek. I was not in the slightest degree surprised when I learned that he had turned to extortion in his more mature years.’
‘But whom was he blackmailing? And what did he know that enabled him to turn to extortion?’
‘Everyone has his secrets, Mr Carver. A determined blackmailer does not usually need to look far for material with which to work.’
‘So Creech knew of matters of which others would have preferred him to be ignorant.’
‘I have no doubt that he did. He would have been a poor extortionist without access to the secrets of others.’
‘Would the secrets Creech had gathered have died with him? Or could someone else be in possession of them?’
‘That I cannot tell you.’
‘Perhaps Jinkinson has come into possession of them and has decided that he too will embark on a career as a blackmailer.’
‘Jinkinson?’ Garland looked puzzled at first, but understanding soon dawned. ‘Ah, yes, the man in yellow.’
‘So you acknowledge that you met him outside a public house in the Strand?’
‘You have been following me, Mr Carver?’ The MP sounded more amused than affronted.
‘I was interested in Jinkinson. It was he that my man was following.’
Garland nodded to himself, as if all was explained.
‘Yes, I met the fellow,’ he said. ‘In the Strand, as you say. You would not expect me to entertain the canary-coloured jackanapes here, now, would you? Or in my house in Bruton Street? I had my doubts about meeting him at all.’ Garland flicked invisible specks of dust from the sleeve of his morning coat.
‘The man is a complete fool. His business demands subtlety and subterfuge and he dresses in such a way that he would stand out in the crowd on Derby Day. God knows how Creech came across him. His taste for the low life must have grown since last I saw him.’
‘But you met Jinkinson and spoke to him. I wonder why you felt the necessity to do so.’
Garland looked sharply at Adam. He made as if to move closer to him and then stopped.
‘I can only say to you, Mr Carver, what I said to the canary man. You would do well to look after your own business and refrain from concerning yourself with mine.’
Adam decided to change tack. ‘I have spoken recently with Sir Willoughby Oughtred,’ he said. ‘I have been asking him very much the same kind of questions I have been asking you, Mr Garland. I am not trying to poke my nose where it is not wanted. I am merely seeking to find out more about the circumstances surrounding Creech’s murder.’
‘You have seen Oughtred, have you?’ Garland laughed. ‘You know him from the Marco Polo, I assume.’
‘I had never met the baronet before. Although he knew my father.’
‘Of course, I had forgotten. You are the son of Carver of the Lincolnshire Railway.’
Garland moved towards the large mahogany table in the centre of the room. He began to run his hand across its surface as if he was polishing it. ‘And what did you think of Oughtred, I wonder?’
‘Sir Willoughby is a fine example of an old-fashioned Englishman,’ Adam replied cautiously.
The MP laughed again. He continued to rub his hand across the wooden grain of the table, as if admiring its smoothness.
‘Spoken like a diplomat, Mr Carver. He is exactly that. Perhaps a little too old-fashioned.’
‘I am not sure I catch your meaning, sir.’
‘Let me put it this way, then.’ Garland turned to look at Adam. ‘All right-thinking men know that the country’s present and future fortunes are tied up with cotton and coal and railways rather than with corn. Your late father was one of those in the vanguard of the nation. Oughtred belongs with those bringing up the rear. He firmly believes that the rot set in as long ago as thirty-two, with Grey’s Reform Act, if not earlier, and that the country has been going downhill ever since.’
‘And yet, like yourself, he has his seat in this House. He is one of the nation’s legislators.’
‘In my humble opinion, the trouble with Parliament is that there are still more MPs whose wealth and position depend, as Oughtred’s does, on agriculture and not industry.’
Garland, Adam thought, did not look like a man who had ever held a humble opinion in his life. He assumed he was not going to begin to do so now. The tall MP continued to speak.
‘He is a dear man but no one could say that he is the brightest baronet to be found in the pages of Burke’s. Indeed, there are some who might claim that he is among the dimmest. Let me be perfectly honest with you. I have known Willoughby, as I have known Creech, for four decades. He is a man who cannot add two to three and be sure of getting five. He is not only suspicious of abstract thought, he is incapable of it. In his heart of hearts, he believes that intellectual endeavour of all kinds will lead inevitably to the levelling of classes and the destruction of society. However, his pedigree predates the Plantagenets and he owns half the acres of Lincolnshire. And so…’ — Garland shrugged his shoulders — ‘he takes his seat in the House and his place in a dozen boardrooms is guaranteed. Well, I suppose there is one thing that can be said for poor old Willoughby. He may be mediocre, but at least he’s reliably mediocre.’
The MP moved closer to Adam and rested his hand on his arm.
‘We have strayed from our original topic of conversation, Mr Carver. And I have been woefully indiscreet about my old friend. I must trust you to repeat nothing of what I have said when you leave this room.’
‘It will go no further, sir, but can you not tell me whether or not you have seen this fellow Jinkinson again? Do you know where he is?’
Garland turned away in exasperation.
‘You are persistent, Mr Carver, if nothing else. I will grant you that virtue, if virtue it is. But it is not the most gentlemanly of activities, detective work, is it? Scurrying about London asking all these impertinent questions.’
Adam made no reply.
‘Do you really think I have nothing better to do with my time than to keep track of some buffoon like Jinkinson?’ Garland asked after a brief pause.
‘But he was seen in your company little more than a week ago.’
‘I am in the company of many in the course of a week. The man’s probably off on some backstreet bacchanal in St Giles. I neither know nor care where he is. You should not bother with him yourself, Mr Carver. Forget about him. Forget about that old villain Sam Creech. Clap the extinguisher to your curiosity. It’s a terrible thing to say but Creech may well have deserved the fate he met. Leave the policing to the police and the detecting to the detectives.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The following morning, Adam was sitting in his study reading Richard Burton’s Wanderings in West Africa, when Quint’s large and shining head appeared round the edge of the door.
‘There’s some Bible-grinder asking to see you,’ he said, his face twisted into a gargoyle expression of distaste. ‘Leastways, I reckon that’s what he is. He’s got a white choker round his neck and looks about as cheery as an undertaker’s mute.’