"Honest John Finds True Love"
by Michael Menser Dell

CHAPTER FIVE - Part One

It was raining. Derwood liked the rain. It got everyone wet, regardless if they were a banker or beggar, barrister or blackguard, doctor or drifter. No one was immune to its might. Not even opium addicts.

Safe and dry within the confines of his darkened bedroom, Derwood listened to the rain's unrelenting drum, certain it would wash away the pain. He was lying on his stomach along the edge of the bed, his right arm dangled to the floor, his eyes heavy with sleep. The melodic rhythms of the rain, as it pelted the windows and roof, lulled him into a further stupor, bringing peaceful serenity to an already numb world. He was floating in a placid pool, slowly drifting towards distant shores, indifferent to the course. A tiny bird, its golden plumage a vibrant beacon amidst the shadowy realm, alighted a nearby branch. Derwood slowly stretched a welcoming hand. The bird didn't budge. It didn't even turn to face him. Unable to reach his feathered friend, Derwood grasped the base of the branch, lifting it from the water. Wood gave way to steel. His fingers wrapped around the cold medal plunger. His eyes lazily traced the cloudy glass cylinder down to the needle's tip where a tiny drop of fluid clung precariously at the point. When it fell, so too did his gaze, discovering the bird to be a crumpled piece of yellow paper. Its recognition sparked memory.

Derwood struggled to life. He couldn't be late. She'd never forgive him. His legs were molasses as he stumbled about the murky room, gathering needed clothing from the floor. Her telegram said be at the station by 10. He stuffed the missive into his trouser pocket and staggered on his way. He'd have to hurry; the hall clock confirmed the suspicion. His grandmother was already in bed, so no one was around to see him spill down the stairs and out the front door, neglecting to grab an umbrella as he went.

Exposed to the elements, the rain was more a nuisance than a comforting companion. Despite the weather, the streets were crowded with visiting tourists and standard street fare, although most, if not all, wore proper protection from the downpour. Derwood, in his ragged pants and tattered overcoat, was a bumbling urchin amongst the sleek pleasure seekers. Loving couples and gregarious groups strolled the walkway, their shared revelry immune to the inclement conditions. The rain merely added another memorable aspect to their evening. But the good times didn't extend to Derwood. His attempts to squeeze under the unused portions of abundant umbrellas were met with steely glares and abusive shoves. A discarded newspaper failed to offer any salvation, tearing in two beneath the watery onslaught. Derwood, momentarily confused at the shredding of his soggy shield, froze in his tracks, allowing the onrushing passers-by to knock and spin his fragile frame, the last careless shoulder dropping him into the cobble-stoned street where he narrowly avoided a clattering carriage. He couldn't, however, sidestep the ensuing splash. Already drenched from head to foot, Derwood shrugged off the latest insult to his water- logged wardrobe, yet he still persisted in trying to wipe himself clean. The distraction of proper grooming caused him to trip over the curb and land knees-first in a waiting puddle. His pitiful pratfall did not go unnoticed.

"While you're down there, say a prayer for me."

The drunken wish was all he received in way of help. As laughing onlookers danced their way around him, Derwood crawled under the shelter of a shop awning, huddling against a dry patch of wall and rubbing his aching knees. The town had changed. Derwood belonged to an earlier Blackpool, one of empty pockets and dismal dreams, where entertainment came in a needle, not a fancy tower or a trio of public piers. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead and found only the crumpled telegram. Its memory spurred him to action, and the rest of the journey to the station was covered in a sprint.

Despite his best efforts, Derwood, breathless and beaten, arrived a few minutes late. Passengers had already departed the slumbering locomotive. A cavalcade of umbrellas paraded about the platform, seeming one giant sea of inscrutable strangers. Fearing he missed his man, Derwood forced his way through the masses, frantically grabbing sleeves and coattails.

"Mr. Churchmouse?" beseeched Derwood of the weary travelers. "Mr. Churchmouse? Anyone know a Mr. Churchmouse?" His desperation mounted with each condescending stare. He was about to pose the question to a young girl in pigtails when a gruff voice burst in from behind.

"Field."

Derwood turned lazily to the intrusive sound, finding a rugged gentleman with a square jaw and piercing eyes staring back at him. The man, who was dressed no better than Derwood himself, was holding a suitcase over his head to thwart the rain, and he apparently expected some sort of reply to his bizarre outburst.

"This is the train station," said Derwood in a slow, deliberate tone, fearing the man might be touched in the head. "There are no fields around here."

"The name is Churchfield."

"You don't say?" marveled Derwood. "You wouldn't happen to know a bloke named Churchmouse, would you?"

"No, I'm John Churchfield. I'm the man you're supposed to meet. Lily Grove sent me."

"Oh, nice to meet you Mr. Churchfield," grinned Derwood, extending a friendly hand. "I'm Derwood Cooper. Lily asked me to meet you."

"I know." Churchfield released half the suitcase, allowing the free end to balance on his head, and returned the welcoming handshake. "Do you think we can get out of the rain?"

"I've been trying." Derwood's shoulders drooped at the defeated confession. It seemed to be the extent of his willingness to move. Churchfield clasped an iron paw on the young man's shoulder and dragged him to the nearest covered bench.

"How much did Lily tell you?" asked Churchfield, setting down his bag and shaking himself dry much in the same fashion as a damp sheepdog.

"She said Lowry left the hospital. And she hired you to find him. I'm supposed to show you around town."

"Any ideas where he might be?" Derwood seemed lost in the surrounding activity, blankly watching the remaining passengers scurry from the platform in search of shelter. Churchfield nudged him in the ribs and repeated the question. "Any idea where he's at?"

"Who?"

"Lowry Cain."

"Oh, no, Lowry's missing."

"I know he's missing, but do you know where he might be?"

Derwood shrugged. "I haven't seen him."

"How far away is Lowry's house?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

Derwood studied his surroundings. "On where we are right now."

Churchfield, despite his suitcase containing evidence to the contrary, was beginning to think he didn't have enough to drink on the train. After a slightly more successful exchange, the detective learned Lowry Cain's house, situated on the outskirts of town, was only about twenty minutes away by carriage. The first step was to acquire transportation. Options were limited. The persistent rainfall, combined with the late hour, had horses in great demand. The entire supply of waiting cabs seemed exhausted, with a line of patrons streaming into all available coaches. Churchfield was about to embark on foot, hoping to find a conveyance along the way, when he spotted a scraggly old man standing next to an equally ancient nag.

"Step right up!" shouted the elderly entrepreneur, struggling to be heard above the crowd. A tiny, grey-whiskered wisp of a fellow, he was draped in a shabby tweed cloak and wore an enormous black top hat that made his body seem all the more feeble. Yet he appeared positively robust next to his horse, a knobby-kneed, sunken-ribbed beast of burden with an ashen coat and drowsy eyes. The emaciated equine hardly seemed capable of standing let alone pulling the battered hansom cab attached to his sloping back. "Fastest ride in town! No waiting! Step right up!"

The mangy appearance of his aged steed and the dilapidated condition of his two-wheeled trap, the roof of which bowed under the weight of the rain, was enough to drive away potential customers, but the little man didn't lose any enthusiasm. His sales pitch only increased in volume and intensity. His indomitable spirit, not to mention the prospect of a long, wet walk, was enough to earn Churchfield's admiration.

"You're hired," declared Churchfield, darting into the empty cab. He was just happy to be out of the rain. Derwood followed, clumsily climbing beside him.

"Wise choice, gents!" celebrated the old man, tipping his gigantic hat in way of respect. "The name's Theodore Prinky, and I'll be your driver for the evening. Your service is my duty and my pleasure. Where to?"

After some prompting, Derwood provided directions to the Cain estate, thoroughly confusing Mr. Prinky, Churchfield, the horse, and anyone else acquainted with the English language. It was eventually decided to simply drive north and hope for the best.

"You sure that horse is gonna make it?" asked Churchfield.

"Don't you worry about old Chester," assured Prinky, patting the horse's hind flanks. "He once ran at Epsom."

"He was in the Derby?"

"No, but we used to vacation there a lot in the summer." The drenched driver opened the cab's door and crawled inside, squeezing into the middle of the cramped seat. It took a great deal of squirming on everyone's part before the little man in the big hat finally found comfort. He reached out the front window with his stubby arm and pulled down the reins, smiling to Churchfield with a sense of accomplishment.

"Aren't you supposed to sit outside on the bench?" asked Churchfield in way of suggestion, his sinewy body contorted to accommodate the third passenger in the two-person cab.

"It's raining."

"You sure you don't want the horse to sit in here too?"

"Aw, don't worry about Chester. He loves the rain. It's good for his coat."

"Some paint would be even better."

"Sit back, gents. Ol' Chester and I will have you where you're going in no time." He gave the leather straps a tug, and the ancient nag slowly pulled away from the curb.

Churchfield looked out both sides of the cab. "Are we moving yet?"

"He's just loosening up. He'll be trotting away any second now."

"Good to know." Churchfield, resigned to a lengthy ride, settled in as best he could and turned his attention to business. "If you don't mind, Derwood, I'd like to ask you some questions about Mr. Cain."

"You don't mean Lowry Cain, do you?" interrupted Prinky.

"You know him?"

"Who doesn't know Lowry Cain around these parts? I've even had him in this very cab plenty of times. Nice fellow. Used to take his little girl for rides. She loved Chester. Used to bring him carrots."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"A couple weeks back. I dropped him off at the train station. He was on his way to a hospital in Luton. Said he needed to get away and relax a bit. And who can blame him with that wife of his."

"You know Mrs. Cain?"

"Only met her once. She wouldn't even get in the cab. Says it was filthy. Can you imagine? She's a haughty one. Say, why all the interest in Mr. Cain?"

"My name's John Churchfield, I'm a detective. Mr. Cain is missing. Mrs. Cain hired me to find him."

"Missing? You don't think it's anything bad, do you?"

"Could be. That's why it's vital we find him as soon as possible. I trust I can count on your cooperation."

"Certainly, sir! I'd hate to think something happened to poor Mr. Cain. He's such a kind lad. I'll keep my eyes and ears open. You'd be amazed what you learn driving one of these things."

"Thanks, I'd appreciate the help. This man here is Derwood Cooper. He's a good friend of Mr. Cain's."

"Pleased to meet you," grinned Prinky. An attempt to doff his towering hat proved too much for arthritic fingers, and it toppled forward from the cab. Before the little bald head could even utter an expletive or think to halt the vehicle, Churchfield casually hopped from the moving cab, leisurely gathered the lost lid, and returned it to its owner, swinging back to his seat without the carriage wheels slowing for an instant. Prinky was grateful for the assistance. "Mighty thanks. You're quick."

"Only in comparison. Anyway, Derwood here is taking me out to Mr. Cain's house so I can have a look around."

"Oh, so that's where you're headed. Why didn't you say so? I know right where it is. C'mon, Chester, Mr. Cain's depending on us!" Prinky hunched low and snapped the reins, bracing for action. There was no discernible increase in speed. He secured his hat with one hand, fearing it might blow off, and turned to Churchfield. "I told you he was fast!"

Churchfield nodded his head in sarcastic agreement. At least he wasn't wet. He reached around Prinky and shoved Derwood back to life. "How long have you known Lowry?"

"Since we were kids," yawned Derwood. "Probably twenty years."

"Have you ever known him to disappear like this?"

"No."

"You don't seem too concerned about him."

"Lily's overreacting. Lowry's probably asleep at home right now. He didn't even want to go to that stupid hospital."

"Why not?"

"Because he didn't need to."

"You know the hospital was an opium clinic?"

Prinky's ears perked. He pretended not to be paying attention, even though he was hanging on every word. Derwood yawned again, running a lazy hand through his wet, matted hair and answered the question.

"Exactly. That's why Lowry didn't need it."

"He didn't do opium."

"No. Well, I mean, he did, but he wasn't. He hadn't touched the stuff in months."

"Why'd he quit?"

"Lowry got into opium because he had serious stomach problems. He used it to control the pain. But he found some new doctor who gave him some miracle cure. He hadn't touched it since. And he wanted to stay clean for his daughter. Be a good father and all that."

"Do you know this doctor's name?"

"Fisher? Fitchman? Something like that. He found him in London. Lily would know."

"So if Lowry wasn't using opium, why'd he agree to go to the clinic?"

"It was all Lily's idea. She wouldn't believe him that he quit. And she was still mad at Lowry for pulling out of the North American tour."

"Lowry cancelled the tour?"

"Yeah."

"Lily didn't mention that. She told me Lowry went to the hospital to get clean for the tour."

"She's probably still hoping he'll change his mind."

"Will he?"

"No, Lowry's done with the music business."

"You serious?"

"Yeah, he's tired of the whole scene. He just wants to be left alone and raise his daughter. Go back to playing music for fun."

"How does Lily feel about all this?"

"Oh, she hates it. They've been fighting like cats and dogs. Lily's the ambitious one. She wants the money and the fame. Lowry just wants to be left alone."

"I told you she's a haughty lass," injected Prinky, betraying his feigned ignorance to the conversation.

"Do you think Lowry's depressed?" resumed Churchfield.

"He's never been happier."

"Lily's scared he might kill himself."

"That's just silly. Lily's always saying stuff like that. If he were suicidal, do you think I would have let him buy a shotgun?"

"He bought a shotgun? When?"

"A couple weeks back. He liked to keep guns around the house for protection."

"Why'd he have to buy a new one?"

"The police took his other ones."

"Why?"

"It was a few months ago, I guess. Lowry locked himself in his study to get away from Lily. She sent for the police and told them Lowry was threatening to kill himself."

"Was he?"

"No, he just wanted to get away from Lily."

"So the police took the guns for his own protection?"

"Yeah. So that's why we went and got another one."

"Do you know where Lowry keeps the shotgun?"

Derwood shook his head.

"Well, we'll look for it when we get there." Churchfield cracked open his suitcase, which wasn't easy under the cramped circumstances, and pulled out a green bottle. After helping himself, he offered some to his companions. "Either of you guys like gin?"

"Ah," sang Prinky. "Nothing like a little night cap to warm the soul on a cold, rainy night." The old man tipped the bottle and took a mighty swig, immediately bursting into coughing fit. When the hacking and wheezing subsided, he passed the bottle to Derwood and announced with a raspy growl, "Good stuff." In need of warmth, Derwood followed suit, nodding confirmation.

"Just don't let Chester smell it," whispered Prinky.

Churchfield took the bottle from Derwood. "The horse likes booze?"

"More than oats."

"Yeah, me too."

The hansom stopped. It took a second or two before Churchfield even noticed it quit moving. The sound of sniffing could be heard through the drizzling rain.

"Too late," mourned Prinky. "He smells it."

"Should I give him some?"

"We'll never move if you don't."

Churchfield once more bounded from the cab, pulling his coat over his head in protection against the rain. Chester, his aged mane bobbing with delight, continued to sniff the air as the gin approached. Churchfield held the bottle like a diligent mother.

"All right, boy, drink up."

Churchfield only intended to give his four-legged friend a sip, but Chester latched on the bottle's neck, nearly biting it in half, and forced its contents down his thirsty gullet. When the bottle was empty, the elderly animal let out a winsome whinny and erupted into a full gallop. Churchfield had all he could do to leap onto the hansom as it passed, deftly pulling himself inside with the help of Prinky and Derwood.

"He likes his alcohol," smiled the driver. "Makes him feel like a kid again."

Churchfield admired the empty liquor bottle in his left hand. "Is there anything it can't do?"

Chester's accelerated rate of travel made short work of the daunting journey. The hansom careened through busy streets and over deserted thoroughfares until it entered an exclusive neighborhood on the outskirts of town. Prinky's brittle bones creaked under the strain of trying to halt his invigorated business partner, requiring the assistance of Churchfield's imposing strength to finally slow Chester to a manageable trot.

"That's the Cain house up ahead," pointed Prinky.

Churchfield convinced Chester to stop with a tug of the straps. The old nag's heaving sides steamed in the chilly night air, as his dutiful master offered congratulations on a job well done.

"Wait here," commanded Churchfield, stepping from the cab. "We'll need a ride back."

"Yes, sir. We'll wait right here for you. Holler if you need help."

Derwood dismounted and led the way. Churchfield turned back to the cab. "And keep him out of my suitcase."

TO BE CONTINUED...