A Metropolitan Murder Read online

  A

  METROPOLITAN

  MURDER

  by

  Lee Jackson

  arrow books

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Lee Jackson

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407088983

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books in 2004

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Lee Jackson 2004

  Lee Jackson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  Detail from 1862 map of London reprinted by permission of Motco

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by William Heinemann

  Arrow Books The Random House Group Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

  Random House Australia (Pty) Limited 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061, Australia

  Random House New Zealand Limited 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Random House (Pty) Limited Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Papers used by Random House are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin

  ISBN 0 09 944022 4

  Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Polmont, Stirlingshire Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by Bookmarque Ltd, Croydon, Surrey

  A Metropolitan Murder

  Lee Jackson lives in London with his partner Joanne. His first book, London Dust, was nominated for the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger Award. He is fascinated by the social history of Victorian London and spends much of his time on the ongoing development of his website www.victorianlondon.org

  Praise for A Metropolitan Murder

  ‘Once again Mr Jackson has succeeded in creating the atmosphere of nineteenth-century London’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘[Lee Jackson] demonstrates quite brilliantly what the genre can do. This is a rare and succulent piece of work. It’s a sure thing that he’ll go on to do better.’

  Literary Review

  ‘The smoky, foggy, horse-dung laden atmosphere of the London streets steams off the page’

  Spectator

  ‘A Metropolitan Murder is stuffed full of authentic details of London in the mid-nineteenth century, with special reference to the criminal underworld. The numerous sights, sounds and smells all help to recreate an atmospheric snapshot of Victorian life. Lee Jackson then skillfully blends these minutiae into his racy and pacy plot.’

  Historical Novels Review

  Praise for London Dust

  ‘Full of power and substance, London Dust is an assured debut . . . a compelling and evocative novel that brings the past, and its dead, to life again’

  Guardian

  ‘This is a novel to read and savour. London Dust is a remarkable achievement and, for a first novel, a quite staggering one’

  Birmingham Post

  ‘Victorian London is vividly brought to life in this short novel . . . for an atmospheric picture of the period it’s hard to beat’

  Sunday Telegraph

  Also by Lee Jackson

  London Dust

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE METROPOLITAN THUNDERS headlong through the tunnel, spewing smoke and churning up dust. Roaring towards King’s Cross, it passes a series of peculiar alcoves lit by solitary yellow lamps, the haunt of subterranean railwaymen who loiter in their manmade hollows. They are waiting for the last train, these slouching shadows with flashing white eyes, waiting until they can begin their nightly work upon the tracks.

  ‘Almost on time, Bill?’ remarks one to another.

  ‘I reckon,’ says his comrade, dourly.

  The Metropolitan hurtles onwards, station to station, burrowing beneath the New Road, undermining the trade of the humble hackney carriage and omnibus, quite oblivious to the slow and weary tread of pedestrians who tramp the street above. For some of them, the price of a return ticket is simply unattainable; for others, the Underground Railway retains a daemonic aspect, and many swear that they would rather brave the worst of London’s winter than descend into a man-made pit. No matter, says the railwayman at work below their feet. He never pays no heed to such ignorance from the surface-dwellers, though he readily admits the train goes like the devil, vomiting smoke from the throat of its funnel, spewing burning ash that rises like bile and sparks against smoke-blackened bricks. At least, he says, the Railway pays good wages, and it keeps you warm and dry, and goes double-quick to where it must go. In point of fact, he says, the Metropolitan goes as
fast as a man may safely travel without endangering his health. True, he finds that no-one nowadays is much impressed by the facts or figures, and new lines are being planned to here, there and everywhere. But this line will remain the oldest and, therefore, the most famous by far. This is the Metropolitan Line. And this is the last train of the day.

  Who takes the last train? Let us take a look at the rear compartment, designated second class. Scattered upon cloth-covered benches (a thin, uncompromising layer of cloth, mind you) sit half a dozen private persons, whose means or inclination do not encourage them to pay a sixpence for the well-padded privileges of first. In one corner there is a young girl, a pretty but rather shabby creature, with red hair tied up clumsily with a single ribbon; she lies slumped asleep, her head against the wall. In truth she is rather too shabby, her shawl too threadbare and frayed, even for second. All the same, some of her fellow passengers quite envy her. At the very least, she need not affect to read the advertisements that have been pasted to the walls of the carriage, whereas, for most railway travellers, there is a positive obligation to cultivate such distractions.

  On the other side of the aisle, for instance, a fresh-faced maid-servant finds herself obliged to make a point of straightening her sleeves and ignoring the gaze of the handsome guardsman who sits opposite, smoking his pipe and absent-mindedly stroking his whiskers. Admittedly, the guardsman is not in uniform, but she would know a soldier anywhere; she is quite familiar with that breed of men, and does not wish to fall in love with another. In any case, sitting next to the maid-servant is her mistress, which, fortunately, prevents any unhappy dalliance. Indeed, the good lady needs constant attention; she is a poor traveller, given to raising her eyes heavenwards (or, at least, up to the ground) with every chance reverberation that rattles the compartment, her hands firmly clasped together in silent prayer. So great, in fact, is her anxiety that her unfashionably large crinoline seems to tremble quite of its own accord. She too affects to take no notice of her fellow passengers, but she cannot resist the occasional glance. She is particularly struck by a peculiar young man, who is seated opposite the sleeping girl; he wears a grubby winter great-coat, and pencils notes in a little leather-bound book as the train rolls along. But then he looks up at her, and nods a polite acknowledgement, thus deflecting her interest back to the heavens. When a decent space of time has elapsed, she looks back in his general direction. She observes the sleeping girl, who lolls this way and that, her face half-hidden by her shawl; the girl, she realises, smells of gin.

  Tut tut, she mutters, raising her eyebrows and silently encouraging her maid into making similar expressions of heartfelt opprobrium; she willingly obliges.

  But, stop! A roar of steam and the brakes do their work as the train approaches Baker Street, as the track splits, past the glimpse of another train, another tunnel, then juddering to a stop amongst what seems like a thousand gas-lamps. And here is the gloomy face of a booking-office boy in his navy uniform, deputised to stand duty upon the platform and to check the contents of each compartment. He begins, once the train is quite stopped, by opening the doors one by one, regardless of whether there are passengers inside the carriage.

  ‘Terminating here, ladies and gents, as there is works at Paddington. This way, ladies and gentlemen, if you please.’

  ‘Disgraceful!’ says one. ‘Short-changed!’ says another. Muted complaints all round.

  The booking-office clerk looks sheepish, and shrugs his shoulders. ‘A letter,’ he says, ‘a letter to the stationmaster is best, if you are dissatisfied.’ He says it once, twice, half a dozen times. And, in the end, it proves sufficient. Gradually, the train is emptied of passengers: top-hatted, lop-sided clerks, drunk and sober, merry and miserable; a troup of fine ladies, fresh from the Temperance Hall; theatre-goers; music-hallers; men, women and children, first class, second class, all mixed together. In short, anyone who has paid their fare.

  But what is this? It seems that the rear compartment takes a little longer to empty than the rest. True, the guardsman departs briskly enough. Indeed, he is too quick for the liking of the young maid-servant, who promptly decides she did not like him at all. And then comes her be-crinolined mistress, a perfect pantomime of confusion as her circumference is squeezed through the passenger door, pushed by the maid, pulled by the guard. But, even then, two remain: the drunken woman and bookish young man.

  ‘Sir, end of the line, if you please? Last train terminates at Baker Street tonight. There’s works at Paddington.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, I lost track of myself.’

  He looks around, as if woken from a dream. The young woman with the ribbon in her hair lies fast asleep.

  ‘Shall I wake my, ah, fellow traveller here?’ he offers.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir, much appreciated.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The young man puts away his notebook in his greatcoat, and leans over to the slumbering girl, tugging gently at her sleeve. She makes no movement, and so he smiles apologetically at the booking-hall clerk, and he tugs a little harder. She leans a little forward, then topples to the side, falling down from her seat, landing head first on to the dusty wooden floor of the carriage. There she lies, without a murmur, her neck askew, her features quite lifeless and dead, staring blankly at the man who pushed her over.

  ‘Lor!’ exclaims the clerk, unsure whether to get inside the carriage or stay well clear. In the end, he adopts the latter option. ‘Lor! You’ve killed her.’

  The young man, meanwhile, shakes his head, though it is impossible to tell whether in denial or simple disbelief. He kneels down and touches her face. Cold.

  ‘Murder!’ cries the clerk. And the cry goes out, along the platform, echoing down the mouths of dark and dingy tunnels; but, by now, there is hardly a soul to hear him. A couple of the last passengers turn and look, but hurry on up the steps to finish their journey home. The young man in the carriage, meanwhile, stands for a moment quite frozen. Then he darts forward, his notebook falling from his pocket as he does so. He runs through the open carriage door, pushing past the boy, who dares to offer no resistance, and up the steps that lead to the ticket hall.

  The clerk stares at the lifeless body.

  ‘Murder!’ he exclaims rather weakly, his voice giving way.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MIDNIGHT.

  Let us put Baker Street behind us, for now, and travel eastwards a mile or two, to the venerable square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. In an unassuming house in a side street near that ancient enclosure, sits a woman working by lamp-light. Her name is Miss Philomena Sparrow, and she is bent over a ledger marked ‘February Accounts’. Dockets and invoices lie scattered around her writing desk, and her face is a picture of intense concentration. Indeed, it is only when a clock strikes twelve – the grandfather clock that sits in the hallway adjoining her study – that she looks up from her task, quite astonished by the lateness of the hour. Reluctantly she removes her reading glasses and rubs her eyes. She appears a little anxious, but any private thoughts she may possess are interrupted by raised voices beyond her door, echoing from an upstairs landing. She frowns, massaging her brow with the tips of her fingers. After a moment or two she takes a deep breath, then, straightening her back, gets up to walk to the door.

  ‘Jenny?’ she calls, standing in the hallway.

  ‘Ma’am?’ replies a girl in nurse’s uniform, who swiftly descends the stairs to meet her.

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘Agnes White, ma’am. She’s very restless. Says she wants her medicine again.’

  ‘More? Please remind her of the fifth Rule of the House: Temperance In All Things. I swear, it was her daughter that did it; she has quite unsettled her. I have remarked upon it before. She is always the worse for seeing people.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Tell Agnes White that we are a refuge, not a druggist’s. She will have no medicine until tomorrow, at the appointed time. And you may tell her that if she gives any m
ore trouble we shall review her letter of recommendation.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Will you really, ma’am?’

  ‘No, no, I suppose that I will not, but tell her that, all the same. And there is no sign of Sally Bowker, I suppose?’

  ‘No, ma’am, no sign. Not since after tea.’

  ‘I had hopes of Bowker, Jenny. Why would she break the curfew?’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. Don’t know, ma’am.’

  Miss Philomena Sparrow sighs to herself, dismisses the nurse, and walks wearily to her bedroom at the rear of the house. Above the door is a motto, a piece of intricate Gothic needlework, mounted behind glass in a wooden frame, the proud achievement of a previous resident, or perhaps of a previous Lady Superintendent, like herself:-

  Home Sweet Home.

  Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women.

  Agnes White sits upon the edge of her bed. She is not an old woman; her age is no more than forty years, but she does not wear it well. Her face, in particular, is gaunt and lined, her complexion sallow, which gives her a wan appearance that is only heightened by her long jet-black hair that falls loose over the dirty white nightgown provided by her nurses. Her eyes, morever, seem almost vacant.

  What time is it? Who’s that?

  ‘Hulloa, ma.’

  ‘Lizzie?’

  It is a twelvemonth since she last saw her daughter, but she would know her own flesh and blood anywhere. And how she has grown!

  But what time is it? This is quite wrong. Lizzie cannot be here. Not now.

  ‘Hulloa, ma. I’ve come back to see you.’

  Was it before? She cannot recall.

  ‘Ma? Can you hear me? What’s this? Is it your medicine? You’re confused, ain’t you? Is that what they’re feeding you?’

  It helps me rest up, she says. No, wait a moment, does she speak? Perhaps she only thinks she is speaking. It is hard to say.