I was puzzled, but Alec leaned forward and lifted the tablecloth and then, with a sinking heart, I saw. It was not a table at all but a stack of cardboard albums, three across, as many deep and half-a-dozen high with a cloth thrown over them.
‘It would be a very great inconvenience, I know,’ I said, ‘but I don’t suppose you would let us look through them to see if we can spot the chap, would you?’
Joe’s eyes, still glistening from his thoughts of Marie Lloyd, filled to the brim again, and for the third time he pumped Alec’s hand.
‘My eyes, missus, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea how happy you’ve made me today. It’s been years since anyone’s wanted to look at my pictures and hear my stories. You’ve made my day for me. Now, just take your tea – and drink it while it’s hot, mind you – and let me get this lot cleared off. Will we start now and work our way back or start in the ’70s and go through in proper time?’
I tried as gently as I could to nip this in the bud, telling him that for now we would have to begin five years ago and work backwards for perhaps twenty before we would be forced to admit defeat in our quest.
‘But if you would be so kind,’ I said, ‘another day I should love to come and look at the very oldest ones. What a treat! And I can bring a drop of something too, for us to share. You just name your poison, Mr Crow.’
For all the velvet shawl and the shuffling he was admirably efficient once he had got the spirit of our enquiry and he found the book for 1921 within a minute or two. Then – thank the Lord! – he was called away to his business (a very dramatic-sounding voice hailing him from the stage-door) and Alec and I were left to flick through the heaps of pictures on our own.
Joe looked in on us now and then and was unperturbed by the growing disarray of his little domain as the ‘table’ was dismantled and the albums we had finished with grew up into tottering piles all around and, until he was called away again, would lean against the door-jamb having a quiet smoke and making little observations about the faces as we turned them over.
‘Flirty and Gertie,’ he said. ‘They could hold the splits through an entire song. Three verses with a chorus in between each. Don’t recall him – fine set of muscles, though, eh? Ah, Miss Allakamba and her snakes. She was a lovely lady. And who’s that? Another comic? What does it say his name is? Oh, yes, I remember him like my brother. And that’s Sarah… Sarah… Oh, now, Sarah…?’
The main impediment, in fact, was that we were only interested in the men and Joe only remembered the names of the women, and so every Sarah and Gertie and lady with her snakes which we should have laid aside without a glance had an associated chuckle and reminiscence to be waited out before we could get on.
‘Sarah Pretty!’ said Joe. ‘How could I forget that? You only have to look at her – Oh, you’ve moved on, have you, missus. Well, you go back and see if it’s not Sarah Pretty that signature says, now you know what you’re reading.’
After half an hour when my hopes were beginning to flag, Alec gave a cry, plucked a photograph from a page – ripped it right off its anchoring – and held it up, letting the rest of the album slide off his lap onto the littered floor.
‘Got him!’ he said. ‘Hah! Got him.’
I snatched the photograph out of his hand and felt a surge spread through me, for it was indeed Mr Faulds; there was no mistaking it. He was dressed in a turban with a long feather and a satin tunic of rich ornamentation, and was staring out of the photograph with a piercing gaze.
‘We’ve found him, Mr Crow,’ I said. ‘This is him! We’ve got him now.’
Then Alec and I met one another’s eyes, both remembering at the same time that really we had got nothing. We had already known Faulds was on the stage. Finding a picture had got us nowhere.
‘Unless…’ said Alec. He nodded towards Joe who was peering over my shoulder at the picture of Faulds.
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘Now Mr Crow, if you please. What was this man’s act? Can you remember? Was it anything to do with handwriting of any kind?’
Joe Crow shifted from foot to foot and rubbed his finger along under his nose.
‘Oh, it’s all up here,’ he said. ‘Never you fear. Now. Now then. You just read me what it says on the picture there, missus, for these aren’t my reading specs I’m wearing.’
I looked in dismay at the faded ink of the signature and the message above it. It was a scrawl, like a ball of wool after a kitten at play, and I could imagine Mr Faulds, halfway out the stage-door, late for his train, dashing off a word for ‘old Joe on the door’ without a moment’s real attention.
‘To…’ I began, pretty sure of that much. ‘And then the next bit is probably Something Joe. Dearest, Alec? Could that be dearest Joe?’
‘Ah, he was a sweet laddie, I remember,’ said Joe, making me want to kick him.
‘With something something. Actually with somethingest something…’
‘Fondest regards,’ said Alec. ‘From…?’
‘Mister,’ I said. ‘The next word is definitely Mister.’
‘And then something something something hands,’ said Alec.
‘Handwriting?’ I said. ‘No, it’s not, is it? It’s just in something hands. Could that be a reference to handwriting? Writing in many hands?’ Alec screwed his face up and I had to agree; this was stretching things.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I think it’s in my hands, don’t you?’
‘Mister, mister, mister…?’ said Joe. ‘I remember him well. He threw it all up, you know. Left the stage behind him.’
‘His name starts with Mes or Mis or perhaps Mef or Mif,’ said Alec.
‘To dearest Joe with fondest regards Mister mifsomething. Something - maybe your? – something in my hands.’
‘His own name was plain enough,’ said Joe. ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue. And here’s another thing – he lives in Edinburgh now. I met him on the street once and passed the time of day.’
Alec and I both turned to stare.
‘He does,’ I said. ‘That’s right, Joe.’
‘Didn’t I just tell you?’ said the old man. ‘It’s all up here. I remember everything. He was a clever enough act but he couldn’t give up on the high life he was born to. Now, money, you see, wouldn’t be no good to most in this game – top billing and your name in electric bulbs is something it just can’t buy – but he went back to it in the end. Back to his family. Oh, his name’s on the tip of my tongue.’
‘No, he’s not with his family,’ said Alec. ‘He took a position here. A live-in job.’
‘And why would he be doing that when he was in for a fortune? I’m telling you, he lives with a relation. A cousin, he told me. And his real name’s…’
‘George Pollard,’ said Alec and I together, and Alec went on, under his breath, ‘My God, Dandy. We’ve got him.’
‘George Pollard!’ said Joe. ‘That’s him. You might have told me if you knew it all along. That’s the chap. Georgie Pollard – from Cornwall – came from a rich tin-mining family down there.’
‘And his act, Joe?’ I said softly, hoping that now the floodgates had opened it would all come pouring.
‘Mister Mesmero,’ said Joe. ‘That’s the one. “Your mind in my hands”. Best stage hypnotist I’ve ever seen. He could twist you round his little finger and you never knew a thing about it.’