The Quest for the Penny Black Read online

  ‘Oi!’ retorted the man cooking the food, ‘Don’t be so rude.’

  ‘Shut up fish face!’ one of the lads replied, ‘Or we’ll break your windows.’

  Jake preferred to remain silent and the situation was getting quite tense when in walked a large West Indian. He looked at Jake and the lads. ‘Hi Jake,’ he said, surmising the situation. ‘Are there any problems here?’

  ‘No,’ Jake replied. ‘Just a couple of lads playing games.’

  The lads looked worried, for the coloured man was Ozy Amogo, who owned most of the property in the surrounding area and was known to have his own crew to offset any problems that may occur.

  ‘Say sorry lads,’ he asked softly.

  Fidgeting, they looked at Jake, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s better. How is Mrs W?’ he asked, turning to Jake.

  ‘Oh she’s fine.’

  ‘Good, tell her I’ll pop in to see her tomorrow.’ The man handed Jake his food wrapped in grease proofed paper, over-wrapped with a copy of the Daily Mirror.

  ‘Can I give you a lift home?’

  ‘No thanks Ozy. I’m walking Rodney.’

  ‘OK man. Take care.’ As Jake walked out leaving Ozy to tower over the now subdued youths, he heard Ozy speaking to the youths and he heard the words ‘respect’ and ‘retribution’ as he gathered Rodney. Walking on a few yards, he stopped, stooped down and opened the paper, to reveal Rodney’s meal. Rodney was now excited with the oncoming food and spun around Jake’s legs until he got into a tangle. Putting the paper on the ground, Rodney ate greedily, and then looked up for more.

  ‘No more for you,’ Jake laughed, untangling him from the lead. ‘Now do your business before we get home!’ He gathered up the paper to be deposited into the nearest trash bin and together with Rodney, now content, walked along the road in the direction of Villiers House.

  Ozy, alone with the youths in the shop and knowing where they lived, reminded them to be polite and not cause trouble in his parish or they would end up damaged. The youths were suitably subdued and declared they would hold their tongues in the future. Of course, out of sight of Ozy, the first thing they did was to give him the two fingered ‘V’ sign as a gesture of defiance.

  Jake walked slowly home, stopping to allow Rodney to do his business on some grass by the road, then turned into Tavistock Square, strolled to Villiers House, then and up the short path to the front door. Letting himself in, he removed his shoes and called for Mrs W to tell her he was back. The lounge door opened. ‘Come in,’ she said. There, on the coffee table, were plates of bread cut in triangles and a pot of tea. ‘Goody,’ she continued, ‘I’m hungry.’ After placing the food on plates, they sat down to watch the TV programmes of the day.

  ‘You know what?’ began Mrs W. ‘The programmes are getting worse. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any talent, just girls dressed in the minimum, shouting and screaming some songs with the words quite unintelligible.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Jake, thinking that that was how he liked them. ‘Is Edna in?’

  ‘Yes, she came back about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll lock up,’ he replied. ‘Can you manage the stairs?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Later, they cleared the table and Mrs W insisted on washing up.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ said Jake. ‘By the way, Mr Amogo said he’ll be popping in to see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

  ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight Mr Drew, and thanks for the meal.’

  ‘No problem. Goodnight.’ and he made his way upstairs to shower and retire for the night. Mrs W fussed around, used the toilet upstairs, and then repaired to her room. Soon, peace descended on the house and the residents slept.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning at 8 o’clock there was knock on the door. Mrs W opened it, to be confronted by the plumber. ‘Allo Mrs Williams.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Mitchell. Come in. I’m afraid my toilet cistern broke away from the wall.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘That’s most unusual.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Drew was trying to make the ballcock work when he slipped. Anyway, you can see the damage.’

  They walked along the corridor past the stairs towards the toilet. There it stood with the cistern hanging at an acute angle. ‘Well I’ll be blowed! Did you turn the water off OK?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Drew did that.’

  ‘That’s good. Leave it with me. It’ll take about an hour. Go and put the kettle on.’

  She smiled. Sid was a nice man. He was quite uneducated, but the salt of the earth. He had been her plumber for years and never took advantage with the cost.

  ‘All right,’ she answered. ‘I’ll get the tea ready.’ and off she went.

  About an hour later, Sid knocked on her door. ‘It’s finished,’ he said. ‘What about my cup of tea?’

  ‘Take your shoes off then,’ she answered and Sid obliged and came in to sit down on one of the hard chairs. ‘Not to dirty the others,’ he explained over the years.

  Off she went to the kitchen leaving Sid with Rodney. ‘Hello Rodney,’ he said, extending his hand. Rodney approached. Sniffing the hand, he decided the smell wasn’t to his liking, so he went to his favourite corner and sat down.

  ‘What! No biting today?’

  Rodney cocked his head. He remembered that last time he bit Sid; he got a mouthful of sealing compound that Sid pumped into his mouth. That was enough to make him wary.

  Mrs W returned, pushing the tea trolley with three cups and some biscuits. Rodney looked up. He smelt biscuits.

  ‘How are things?’ asked Sid with a mouthful of biscuits.

  ‘Very well Sid,’ she replied. ‘I’m afraid the water system here is getting rather out of date.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s about time you did something about it. I’ll tell you what, if you want to update anytime and need a good price, ring me and I’ll put you through to someone I know. I know everybody, so if you want anything, just let me know.’

  ‘Oh that’s very kind,’ she replied, noting his remarks.

  A few minutes later, Sid apologised that he had to leave owing to other customers. ‘I’ll leave you the invoice,’ he said. ‘Just pop the cheque in the post.’

  ‘Thank you Sid.’ and showed him out to the door.

  ‘See you again,’ he said as he turned and waved.

  ‘Goodbye Sid,’ she responded as she closed the door. As she was walking towards the kitchen, Edna came down the stairs.

  ‘Oh Mrs W,’ she called. ‘I’m cooking tonight. Can I make you something?’

  ‘I like your curry chicken,’ she replied.

  ‘Right, I’ll pop into Tescos for some chicken and curry sauce. See you later.’

  ‘Goodbye dear,’ came the reply as Edna opened the door and went outside.

  I like that girl, she thought, so polite and nice. So poised, well-dressed and always smelt nice. Not like the rubbish you meet nowadays. She went through to the kitchen and put the saucepans on the cooker. Now I must get ready to go out, she thought. She heard Jake clump down the stairs. ‘Bye,’ she heard him call.

  ‘Bye,’ she replied, whereupon the door opened and closed. ‘I guess he’s off to the pension office today.’ She surmised. She scurried around for a few minutes when she heard the main door open. Looking out of the kitchen, she saw Mrs Jones the charlady.

  ‘Morning,’ she shouted through the cigarette hanging from her mouth. Do want anything special done today?’

  ‘No, just vacuum the rooms and put the washing in the machine and oh, you can dust if you have time. Rodney will be coming out with me in a few minutes.’ As she approached, Mrs Jones coughed.

  ‘Oh, it’s your smoking,’ Mrs W complained. ‘Why do you have to do it?’

  ‘It’s the only thing that stops my husband from having sex’ she retorted.

  Mrs W looked at her; fifty plus, portly, no make-up and seven children already. ‘Oh I see,’ she smiled. ‘Well don’t leave the ash on the floor.’

  ‘Of course not.’ and she went off to the kitchen to begin her chores.

  Mrs W followed her and looked down at Rodney who was looking at Mrs Jones’ ankles. ‘Come on Rodney,’ she said. ‘It’s time for your walkies.’ He jumped out of his box and allowed Mrs W to put the leash on him, and then with a bound he dashed for the front door.

  ‘Wait a bit!’ she complained. ‘Let me get my coat on.’ Once dressed, she removed her trolley from underneath the stairs and they went out on the road and headed towards the shops. Her first stop was at the grocery storekeeper. Leaving Rodney tied to the tree outside, she entered.

  ‘Hullo Mrs Williams,’ came the Indian owner’s lively greeting. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Very well Mr Rajah,’ she replied handing him the list of items that she wanted.

  ‘Right, leave it to me. Did you bring your trolley? Oh good,’ he commented, seeing it behind her. After a little while, he pushed the trolley handle towards her. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No thank you, Mr Rajah. Now, how much do I owe you?’

  The Indian storekeeper had, in the past, let her have it for free, but she had insisted that she pay, ‘for free things should be given to those who need it’, as she put it.

  ‘That’ll be 4 pounds 10p,’ he said, deliberately halving the cost. She paid, thanked him and walked out, collecting Rodney on the way. Next she went to the paper shop to get some sweets and The Guardian newspaper. As she was coming out, the toot of a car caused her to lift her head. It was Ozy Amogo. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he called winding down his window.

  ‘No thank you,’ she called. ‘I’m taking Rodney to the park.’

  Ozy smiled and wound up his window. Ozy loved Mrs W and called her auntie. He hadn’t forgotten the time when auntie looked after him for several months when his father went to prison for a stretch and his mother had to go back to Jamaica to attend to family troubles.

  Ozy was the son of Shana Amogo, a West Indian who had arrived in London during the 1950s. Shana was a gambler and won the football pools, not once, but twice. He then put it all on The National Derby and won. He invested the money in the run-down Victorian houses around Notting Hill, then opened a renovation business and practically rebuilt the properties. Once completed, he rented them out a room a time and the money rolled in. Upon his death in 1970, his son Ozy became the sole heir, although only in his thirties, He was a good landlord, except when tenants didn’t pay. Then he would send round the heavy squad to convince them otherwise. For tenants who could not afford the rent, he would forgo the payment until times improved and was known to deliver food parcels to those in need.

  His concern for Mrs W was genuine, for although he had put the word round that she should not be harassed, one young blood chose to ignore the warning and snatched her bag one day on the street causing her to fall and bruise herself. He was found a day or so later on a rubbish tip with a broken leg and half a thumb missing. Mrs W had her handbag pushed through her letter box with an apology note and 100 pounds.

  Living in Hampstead with his wife and two children, he had another property on the opposite side of Tavistok Square. However, being so far away did not deter him from keeping an eye open for her, so frequently the upper floor of his property had an employee looking over the trees in the park right, into the front door of her house with binoculars.

  She completed the shopping and made her way home. Today, she thought, as she turned the key in the lock, I’ll start looking at the files Margaret gave me. They should be interesting. Opening her door, she could hear the vacuum cleaner at work as Mrs Jones cleaned up. Putting Rodney in his basket, she made a sandwich and a cup of tea and took them into the study where the said boxes were lying next to the desk. Sitting down comfortably, she opened one box and took out the police file. Sitting back, she began.

  It took two hours for her to scrutinise the police file. It became apparent that Sir Robert had been involved in some shady deals. But the theme running through is that it was extremely difficult, to connect him to the crimes committed by various criminals although being fingered by those who had been caught and admitted the same. Most confusing, she thought. She noticed that all the letters and notes the police had looked at were stamped with the police seal, indicating they had been perused. Delving into the box further, she came across his diaries and notes taken during his hobby of collecting souvenirs from the Greek and Egyptian sites. During these expeditions, he picked up a lot of Greek which he developed from his school days. Passing over to another file, she discovered he had had one wife and a number of mistresses. His wife died in the early 1890s. His only legitimate son was killed in The Boer War, but died with distinction. She perused his private letters, but could not find anything that may connect him to any criminal acts, except some strange squiggles at the corner of each page. She ignored them.

  She continued reading the police report. Apparently after many months of investigations, they had enough evidence to question him. She noted that he was last seen boarding the return ferry from Calais, but was not to be found when the vessel docked at Dover. Exhaustive enquiries drew a blank and the case was never resolved as he was never seen again.

  In the other box, she came across an old diary with sketches and notes taken from his expeditions. Most of it was in Aramaic script and to any student of Greek, was understandable. She heard the door open and the clumping of heavy feet followed by a bang when he took them off and threw them down by the hat stand. ‘Mr Drew?’ she called. The door opened and Jake stood there.

  ‘Hello Mrs W,’ he said noticing her sitting at her husband’s desk. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve been given the files of a criminal, who used to live here,’ she answered.

  ‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ he answered. ‘Who’s that? Why are you so interested?’

  ‘It’s Sir Robert Smithers. Well, apparently he stole lot of things from Queen Victoria coffers and other places, but they couldn’t accuse him of anything.’

  ‘He seemed a clever man. But it’s lunchtime now. Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Well Mrs Jones is still here. I’ll get her to rustle up something for you.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  He took the empty tray and went out of the study and she could hear him giving instructions to her. In reply, she heard her tell Jake that she would cook an evening meal as well for Mrs W is bound to forget the time ‘Good idea,’ she heard him say. He then returned. ‘All organised,’ he said. ‘I’ve done my chores. I’ll be upstairs if you need me and I’ll take Rodney out later. I’ll let him out in the garden for now if you like.’

  ‘Is it raining? I wouldn’t like him to catch a cold and by the way, check the gate to make sure it’s closed.’

  ‘Very well,’ he smiled. ‘You carry on with your work. I know you miss it.’

  This remark brought tears to her eyes.

  If only he knew, she thought, how much I miss Monty. She put her head down and continued with her investigations into Sir Robert’s affairs. A knock came on the door an hour later, whereupon Mrs Jones appeared with a tray with a fry up and a pot of tea. It smelt delicious. ‘I’ve cooked you shepherd’s pie for tonight dear,’ she said, ‘and left it in the oven.’

  ‘Oh thank you,’ she replied, noticing that she wasn’t smoking. ‘Please put it there.’ indicating a space on the desk. ‘By the way, I noticed you’re not smoking. You’d better get one ready,’ she winked. ‘Your husband, you know!’

  Mrs Jones roared with laughter a raucous cockney laugh. ‘Right,’ she answered. ‘No more kids for me! Anyway, I’ve finished for today. Is there anything else to be done?’

  ‘No thank you Mrs Jones. You’ve been most kind.’

  ‘Not at all, dear. I’ll be off now. Ta, ta!’

  ‘Goodbye. See you tomorrow.’

  She went out and Mrs W heard the front door close. She paused for a while and ate the meal, a truly delicious cockney feast, complete with four pieces of buttered bread on the side and a huge mug of tea. Putting the tray down, she continued to read the private notes.

  Jake came in later and took the tray out. ‘Rodney’s had his lunch,’ he said, ‘and been out the back. He’s now sleeping. I’ll look you up about dinnertime if you’re still here.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Drew.’ and he went out and closed the door.

  ‘Now where was I?’ she mumbled. ‘Oh yes, the one to Sanliurfa.’ She started to read it when she noted the script was not only in Aramaic but a mixture of Proto-Sinaitic and Ugaritic. To all but the trained eye, it was a muddle of symbols and squiggles. It had the police stamp so it had been looked at. They probably couldn’t understand it, she mused as she laid the page out flat on the desk. The mass of squiggles made it difficult to extract the prose, but after two hours, she had separated the languages. Again they didn’t make sense. Something’s up, she decided. It must be a code. She began by relating each language to the corresponding number in the other languages. This didn’t work. Then remembering her husband’s advice, she began to interpose the Modern Greek with the hieroglyphics and moving the letters around as she added further numbers. Finally, after four hours, it all made sense. She sat back quite exhausted. Monty will be proud of me, she thought, as she rearranged the script to make a sentence or two.

  Jake knocked and came in. ‘Are you ready for dinner?’ he asked.

  ‘Give me another hour,’ she replied.

  ‘OK, one hour then I’ll dish up in the kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she murmured, her thoughts fixed on the problem in hand.

  Jake went out then up to his room. He turned on the TV, but there was nothing of interest. He sat back slowly dozing off.

  Another three days proceeded with Jake, Mrs Jones and Edna keeping Mrs W in check and ensuring she ate and washed, for so much was she engrossed in the matter, then suddenly during the afternoon of the fourth day …

  ‘Mr Drew! Mr Drew!’ The voice this time was full of excitement, ‘Come quickly!’