Page 113 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

‘Little feller, spry, like a squirrel cleaning its whiskers. Copper’s nark for all I know. Said he was a friend of yours.’

‘I haven’t got any friends.’

‘You led him right to me. I want you out of here, before you bring the peelers down on me.’

‘That silver I brought you—’

‘Gone. D’ye think I keep stuff like that hanging around?’

‘All right, then. But I got something else for you.’ He brought out from under his coat a silver charger, one from the set. They were rarely used, and who would ever count them?

Pogrebin raised his hands in a fending-off movement. ‘I don’t want to know! Get out of here – and take that with you! You’re bad news. You’re trouble. Get out and don’t come back!’

‘But I need the money. I might have to clear—’

‘Rube!’ Pogrebin bellowed. The curtain to the back room parted and there emerged a figure with a marked family resemblance to Pogrebin, especially in the hair and beard department, but twice his size. He was broad enough to block out the light from the back room. There was an awful stillness about him. His fists hung down by his sides, like dented tin cans. Pogrebin addressed him without turning his head. ‘See this feller here? We don’t like him, Rube. He’s not nice. If you see him anywhere near this place again, you can smash him up, hard as you like.’

The monster spoke, in a boulderish rumble. ‘Right, Dad.’

Pogrebin addressed Hook. ‘Now get out. And if there’s any more visits from suspicious fellers, if you’ve led the peelers to me, Rube here will come and find you, and kill you.’

Rube took a step forward, a gesture of menace, and Hook turned hastily and left. Outside he began to retrace his steps, his heart racing. He didn’t doubt Pogrebin meant what he said. What he was unsure of was whether he’d decide not to depend on Hook’s silence and send Rube anyway. Better safe than sorry, so the sinister uncle might think.

That blasted stamp album! Why’d he ever bothered with it? Take things that won’t be missed, that was the rule. ‘I got to clear,’ he said to the air. It was time. He was sick of the place anyway. He had a decent bit put aside. He’d have liked more – he could have got more – but a wise man knew when the game was up. What with his lordship snooping over the plate-room book – and who put him up to that, eh? And Afton asking him twisted questions and Rose giving him looks . . . He hated them all, despised them, bloody fools and parasites that they were! And stopping out here in cow-country was a mug’s game, when he could be living it up in a town somewhere. Paris, maybe – they said living was cheap there, and it’d seemed like a jolly place when he’d gone there with his lordship. It couldn’t be too hard to learn the old polly-voo. After all, little kids spoke it in France. He’d—

‘Hullo! What a coincidence, meeting you here!’

Hook jerked out of his churning thoughts as someone stepped out from a doorway in front of him. He was walking so fast, he slammed into the man who, though shorter than him, was solidly built. The impact jerked loose the silver charger, held under his coat against his side by the pressure of his arm, and it clattered to the pavement. Afton – it was bloody Afton! – stooped and picked it up. ‘Well, well, what have we here? Didn’t I just see you come out of Pogrebin’s? Don’t say he’s started selling fine silver. Bought this as a present for your old mum, have you?’

‘Get out of my way, you snivelling runt!’ Hook snarled.

Afton placed a surprisingly strong hand on his forearm. ‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do,’ he said gravely.

‘Not to you, dog face!’

‘No, to his lordship. And then probably to the police.’

‘Take your hands off me!’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Afton. And was surprised by the speed with which Hook’s fist came flying at him. It caught him – by luck, because it was a wild swing if ever he saw one – on the point of the chin, snapped his head back and knocked him over.

As he hit the pavement and heard Hook take to his heels, he thought, The idiot! There’s nowhere to run. He yelled, ‘Stop thief!’ as loudly as he could. He scrambled to his feet, his face aching from the blow, and saw Hook running towards the railway station. Heads were turning, and two men and a couple of boys took off after him.

The cry was taken up, ‘Stop thief!’

‘Nab him!’

‘Trip him up!’

Afton started in pursuit, remembering to snatch up the charger from the pavement. He saw Hook throw a glance backwards, judging the closeness of the hounds. But there was a hue and cry now, and several large men, who had come out of the station, had strung themselves out across the road in front of him. To the right there was an unbroken row of shops. Hook veered left, where the road was bounded by iron railings dividing it from the railway.

With surprising agility he vaulted over the railings. The valet in Afton winced as he saw Hook’s jacket catch on the spikes and rip extravagantly. The jerk of it made Hook stumble as he landed, but he regained his feet and looked around. There were people on both platforms of the station – no escape that way. And now the word had spread, and two porters, followed by other interested bystanders, were coming down off the platform and heading towards him along the side of the tracks. He turned the other way, running along the sleepers for speed.

Afton clenched his fists in frustration. He knew he couldn’t get over those railings. All he could do was watch and hope that someone would catch him up, though he seemed faster than his pursuers. But the station master must surely have telephoned the police by now, and perhaps would telegraph ahead to the next station. Even if Hook climbed over the fence further on and disappeared, he was a fugitive now, and must eventually be tracked down.

Hook was fairly racing along the sleepers, miraculously not tripping or stumbling, his long legs eating up the distance while Afton watched helplessly. The tracks bent round a curve just ahead and he would soon be out of sight. He was looking back now as he ran, to see how close the pack was, but still he did not stumble. The man was surrounded by some magic.

Fortune favours the wicked, Afton thought.