Adam indicated that he was.
‘Well, for one thing, he’s a bit of a student of the four kings is Mr Brindle.’ Pulverbatch mimed the dealing of cards. ‘Bit of a dishonest student, in fact.’
‘A card sharper?’ Adam was surprised. ‘Surely someone with your position at the Yard has more important tasks to perform than preventing some tuppenny ha’penny rogue from cheating at whist?’
‘True, Mr Carver, true.’ The inspector sounded satisfied that Adam had recognised his status in the force. ‘But there’s a bit more happening at the Cat and Salutation than a few dodgy hands of cards. There’s goods going in and out of the place as shouldn’t be going in and out.’
‘But that must be the case with any number of the public houses in this part of London, I would have thought.’
‘There’s some rummy places along the river, that’s for sure, sir.’ A tiny puddle of beer had spilled onto the table. Pulverbatch dipped his finger into it and began to trace out patterns on the wood with the beer. ‘The sort of places a gent like yourself shouldn’t go.’
‘Perhaps you are right, Inspector,’ Adam acknowledged. ‘And yet it was the Cat that was attracting your attention. Even before a corpus delicti was established.’
The policeman rubbed his hand across the table, obliterating the liquid shapes he had been creating. He looked up at Adam, beaming with delight.
‘Never met a man with such a mouthful of half-crown words at his disposal as you has, Mr Carver,’ he said. ‘It’s a treat just a-sitting and a-listening to you. Even when I ain’t got the first notion what you’re talking about. Which, right now, I ain’t.’
‘I was simply curious, Inspector,’ Adam said, holding to his line. ‘You seem to have had your eye on Brindle’s pub long before any crime other than cheating at cards was committed. Before the body was found.’
‘Oh, that’s easily explained, sir. As I said, there’s business going on in the Cat that shouldn’t be going on. Brindle works for a bit faker, passing dud coins into circulation. Not that we can ever catch him at it. He’s up to every dodge you can think of — and plenty you can’t — is Jabez Brindle. Not to mention, we’re pretty certain the faker’s got a man inside the Yard.’
‘He’s corrupted one of your officers?’
‘As the song says, sir, “There’s sure to be a bobby as is ready for a bob.” Not all of us are able to resist the lure of filthy lucre.’
Pulverbatch now rested his hands on the table like a pianist about to begin playing. He was looking closely at his fingers splayed across the wood. For a moment, it looked to Adam just as if the inspector was counting them to make sure he had the correct number.
‘I’m sure you’ll excuse me for asking, Mr Carver,’ the policeman said, after a pause. ‘All part of my job and no offence intended. Not to you nor to those friends of yours.’
‘None will be taken, Mr Pulverbatch.’
‘I have to know what you’ve a-been doing since we last had the pleasure of exchanging our thoughts about the world.’
Adam sighed. He had been expecting this but, weary as he was, he felt barely able to satisfy the inspector’s curiosity. He wondered where to begin his story and what to omit from it. He looked across at Pulverbatch, who was still examining his fingers. He decided to tell something of what he knew about Jinkinson without revealing how the enquiry agent’s name had first come to his attention. The inspector listened to the story without interruption, nodding to himself from time to time as if Adam’s narrative merely confirmed what he had already suspected. When it came to an end, he leaned back in his chair. He blew the air from his mouth like a small boy attempting to whistle for the first time.
‘I thought that Jinkinson might have something to do with Creech’s death,’ Adam said. ‘That is why I followed him. And why I endeavoured to find him once he had disappeared.’
‘Very interesting, Mr Carver, very interesting. All these fine gents that friend Jinkinson was seeing.’ The inspector ran his hands through his hair as he spoke. ‘But I don’t reckon as how he could have anything to do with the murder out at Herne Hill. I showed you the man we collared for that one, sir.’
‘I regret to say this, Mr Pulverbatch, but I have no confidence that you have the right man behind bars.’
‘Oh, it was Ben Stirk as shot Creech, all right.’ The inspector’s confidence remained undented. ‘Although, I suppose this Jinkinson fellow might have put him up to it. Who shot Jinkinson, though? That’s the question.’
Pulverbatch gazed into the middle distance like a philosopher contemplating a particularly knotty problem in metaphysics.
‘So, remind me again,’ he said eventually. ‘Where did you say you was last night?’
‘With Mr Garland.’
‘Ah, yes. In the Palace of Westminster, no less. And the night before?’
‘Visiting Sir Willoughby Oughtred.’
Pulverbatch nodded again. ‘And what about the night before that? I don’t remember as how you mentioned that night.’
‘Quint and I went to Holywell Street.’
‘Holywell Street?’ Pulverbatch sounded surprised. ‘Full of Jew clothesmen and nasty bookstalls, ain’t it? What would a fine gent like you be doing in Holywell Street?’
‘We were looking for a young woman named Ada.’
‘Ah, a whore,’ the inspector said, as if all was now clear to him.
‘Ada is a young lady who has fallen into misfortune,’ Adam said. ‘We were interested in her because she was acquainted with Jinkinson.’
‘And did you find her?’
‘We did, but she did not know where Jinkinson was.’
‘But this reverend, this Dwight gent, he did know.’
‘He gave me the name of this tavern. Soon after I arrived here, Jinkinson turned up. When he saw me, he ran.’
‘And got himself shot in the mud for his troubles. Now, who might have been a-chasing poor Mr Jinkinson, I wonder?’
‘Can the landlord of this place not throw some light on the mystery?’
‘We won’t get anything out of Brindle. No point even attempting it, Mr Carver. Might just as well try and roast snow in a furnace.’
‘What about the barman? The one who turned up with the lantern. He must have followed me out onto the bank. Did he see nothing?’
‘Toby, you mean?’ Pulverbatch looked doubtful.
‘Is that his name? Yes, I seem to remember Brindle calling him that.’
‘Well, we’ve asked him, of course. But old Toby’s attic ain’t exackly well-furnished, if you take my meaning, Mr Carver.’ The inspector tapped the side of his head as he spoke. ‘He’s a bit of an innocent abroad, sir, an innocent abroad. And he thinks the sun shines out of Brindle’s fat arse, if you’ll pardon the indelicacy. Brindle could send him out to buy a pennyworth of pigeon’s milk and all he’d ask for would be the glass to put it in.’
‘So there is nothing to be gained from interrogating the barman?’
‘No, there’s no point in talking to a soft Sammy like him. You might just as well try and teach a pig to play on the flute.’
‘So, the landlord is a villain and the barman is a dunce. Where does that leave us, Inspector?’
‘Difficult, ain’t it? Brindle won’t tell us much about what happened here in the Cat. He lies just for the fun of it. And, other than your good self, the only witness we’ve got to anything as happened by the river is about as sharp as the corners on that there round table.’
‘We appear to be stumped, then, Inspector.’ Adam stared at the mud caked on his trousers. He was so exhausted that he could think of little but his own fireside at Doughty Street and a large glass of brandy and water.