The Welfare of the Dead Read online

  THE

  WELFARE OF

  THE DEAD

  by

  Lee Jackson

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Lee Jackson

  Praise

  Prologue

  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

  Part Two

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  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

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  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 9781407088938

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books in 2005

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  Copyright ©Lee Jackson 2005

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

  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 by William Heinemann 2005

  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 Isle of Houghton, Corner Boundary Road & Carse O’Gowrie Houghton 2198, 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 946923 5

  Typeset in Sabon by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by Bookmarque Ltd, Croydon, Surrey

  The Welfare of the Dead

  Lee Jackson lives in London with his partner Joanne. His first book, London Dust, was short listed for the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger Award in 2003. 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 The Welfare of the Dead

  ‘Victorian London can be such an evocative place, having captured the imaginations of countless crime writers . . . To Conan Doyle, Anne Perry, Andrew Martin . . . we must now add Lee Jackson who, with this third novel . . . makes this historical patch his very own.’

  Guardian

  ‘A rich and savoury Victorian hotpot with every ingredient choice, hand-picked and done to a turn’

  Literary Review

  ‘Compelling and spooky’

  Image

  Also By Lee Jackson

  London Dust

  A Metropolitan Murder

  PROLOGUE

  I DESCENDED FROM the dome of St. Paul’s, back down the iron staircase. I found the view utterly dispiriting. There was nothing to be seen from the Gallery but fog: even the spires of the City churches were mere pin-pricks in a billowing sea of brown filth. I can hardly now recall why I went up there at all. It was, I suspect, a ridiculous attempt to calm my nerves. Indeed, the only thing I remember is the iron-work of the staircase itself. As I followed the spiralling steps, I had a peculiar fancy that I was caught in the coiled springs of some giant clock. I wondered, was it possible that both I and my fellow sight-seers, travelling up and down in weary groups of two and three, were ourselves simply particles of dust, the dirt in the ancient, rusting mechanism? It seemed rather fitting.

  Then the bells chimed four o’clock. I stopped upon the stairs to gather my thoughts. I must have looked somewhat distracted, since a solitary woman, who was ascending up to the Gallery, gave me a queer look. She was a woman of middling years and wore a capacious old-fashioned crinoline. She merely looked away when I nodded back to her.

  Dust to dust, I thought.

  I stepped aside, leaning against the railing to let her proceed. Of course, there was still very little space between us. Her skirts rustled over my feet as she passed and her face flushed crimson. But she pulled up her skirts a little higher, all the same, to allow me a quick glimpse of her stockinged ankle. What do you think of that? A woman of her age and station baiting such a trap; it quite turned my stomach.

  I see. Yes, we have little time. Pray, forgive me.

  I made my way down to the nave, and tipped the attendant a ha’penny, much to his annoyance. Doubtless I had the look of a half-crown about me. Then I quit the place by the southern door, and stepped outside. It was far worse than up above: the fog had rendered everything dark and muddied. Believe me, if a man tells you a London fog is a romantic affair, he is a liar. Indeed, I felt as if I had wandered into a different element, in which it would have been just as natural to swim or fly, as to walk. I wrapped my scarf about my mouth, though it did little to remove the stink in the air.

  ‘Sir?’ said a voice by my side.

  I peered about me, to find a little girl, a sweet-faced creature, a deceptively angelic countenance, perhaps thirteen years old. She sat upon the ancient steps in the dirt, her rust-coloured skirts spread out around her, a bunch of wilting violets and dried blooms in her lap. She reached down and held one up to me.

  ‘Penny a flower, sir? Nice violet?’

  I have a weak
ness for a pretty face, I admit. Please, do not blush. But she had the voice of a typical cockney street-child, quite belying her looks. Now, how did she speak? I cannot put it any better than flaar and vi-let, as if her lips were too slipshod and lazy to express anything more than a syllable or two at a time. Indeed, I do recall I noticed her mouth in particular; her lips were chapped and dry, fissured by the winter air.

  ‘I do not want your flowers,’ I said, pushing her hand aside; but I dropped a penny in her lap, all the same.

  I carried on down the steps into St. Paul’s Churchyard and then directly across the road, down Godliman Street. I knew the route well enough, even in the fog. In no time I stood in the courtyard, opposite the entrance to Knight’s Hotel.

  Now, it was a modest place; not what you might imagine, if you read the papers. An old stucco-clad town-house, pristine and decent as to its exterior, most likely the home of some prosperous merchant in the days of the Prince Regent. A whited sepulchre, mind you, like so much of our great metropolis.

  I steeled myself and went inside – for the door was left open for visitors – and addressed myself to the owner. He was a large, round-faced swarthy fellow, whom, at the time, I took for a Jew. I found him seated behind a large mahogany writing desk, in the front parlour.

  ‘May I help you?’ he said, standing.

  ‘Mr. Brown?’

  ‘At your pleasure, sir.’

  ‘I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr. . . .’

  ‘Smith. An acquaintance mentioned your establishment to me,’ I replied.

  ‘I see.’ He said, nodding, but eyeing me cautiously. ‘An acquaintance.’

  ‘I should like a room.’

  ‘A room?’

  ‘If you please? I would very much like room fourteen. Is it vacant?’

  ‘Fourteen? Oh, sir, that is one of our best. That will be a difficult matter . . .’

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘A half-sovereign, my dear sir. No more than an hour.’

  ‘Here.’

  I handed him the coin; I had it ready. He looked at both sides, admiring the gold. It was, I do recall, rather tarnished. I half expected him to bite it.

  ‘It is legal tender, I assure you. ’

  The wretched man chuckled to himself, and pocketed it. ‘I mean no harm; please, I mean no harm,’ he said, opening a drawer in the desk, and retrieving a key, which he handed to me. I noticed that he had dirty, stubby little fingers, his nails quite gnarled and unpared. ‘You will find it on the first floor, up the stairs, to the left.’

  I took the key and thanked him. He did not smile, as such, but there was a curt insolence about him, something in his manner. I do not have much time for such specimens of continental manhood, I confess.

  No matter.

  I turned about and ascended the stairs. The landing was lit by an ornate, gilded gaselier, five descending circles of spurting flames, an abbreviated Inferno. It shed light upon the small brass numbers attached to the lintel above each door. In consequence, I found the door, fourteen, with no difficulty. I knocked and walked in.

  It had the appearance of a makeshift, rather ill-kept seraglio, for which I was quite unprepared. Indeed, it was as if some poor relation of the great Haroun al-Raschid had decamped from Bagdad to the City of London in some distant decade, and speculated upon a job lot of velvet drapes. For there was no inch of the wall not smothered in crimson cloth, hung at jaunty angles from the picture rail, the ceiling, from every conceivable corner. And upon the bed lay a pile of Arab cushions, heaped into a veritable mountain. And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, leaning back upon the cushions, lay a fair-haired young woman. She did not seem at all surprised by my arrival. I placed my hat down upon the dresser that stood by the door.

  ‘You were expecting me?’ I asked.

  She smiled, and gestured to the ceiling above the door. There hung a small, wired bell; a neat arrangement – merely the servants’ bell in reverse. Doubtless the proprietor had rung it, upon exchange of the key.

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  She made no reply. I removed my collar and tie, and placed them both by the hat.

  ‘Are you mute?’ I said.

  ‘I speak when I’m spoken to, darling.’

  Flaar. Daar-lin. How remarkable, I thought to myself, that this flower should have bloomed in the sound of Bow Bells. A Bowbelle! But she was a beauty, dressed in a night-gown of fine white silk, that clung to her body as she reclined upon the bed. Her arms were bare and milk-white, her hands dainty and graceful; her smile as sweet as any I have ever seen. An awful shame.

  And then?

  Why, I locked the door.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN THE CHILL, fog-bound air of a November evening, a carriage descends the slope of Pentonville Hill, its twin lamps gleaming in the mist. It is a small, black brougham, a very ordinary conveyance, with a ruddy-faced coachman in the driver’s seat and two passengers within. Upon the outside, the coachman shivers in his great-coat, even as he flicks the reins and mutters words of encouragement to his horse; inside, the two passengers, a young man of twenty-five years or so, and a woman some ten or fifteen years older, appear just as uncomfortable. They sit in silence, side by side, rugs draped over their legs. The man rubs his hands together, in a vain effort to fend off the cold. The woman, meanwhile, keeps her arms close to her body; her hands are concealed deep within a rabbit-fur muff.

  ‘An awful night, Mr. Langley,’ says the woman at length, as their carriage pulls past King’s Cross station. Her breath is visible in the cold air. ‘Can you make out the time?’

  ‘I believe,’ says the young man, peering towards the clock-tower of the station, ‘it is just past the hour. Although I cannot be utterly certain.’

  Richard Langley looks apologetically at his travelling companion. Mrs. Melissa Woodrow is an attractive woman, her face plump but not fat, her eyes a deep hazel, complemented by the autumnal colours of her clothing. Even under several layers of clothing and a heavy dolman mantle, she visibly shudders, unaccustomed to venturing out in such temperatures.

  ‘You should have stayed at home, ma’am.’

  ‘That,’ she replies emphatically, ‘would never do. What would Miss Krout make of us, if neither my husband nor myself were to greet her?’

  Langley nods and looks out of the window. The carriage rattles on, and he can just make out the Gothic grandeur of the Midland Grand Hotel.

  ‘It is awfully cold, though, is it not?’ he says, breaking the silence between them. ‘Even for the season.’

  ‘It was good of you to accompany me, Mr. Langley, really it was. I was so glad you happened to call.’

  ‘I will catch the train home from Euston Square. It is no matter. It saves me the expense of a cab.’

  ‘Still. I really cannot imagine where my husband might have got to, truly. And now we are late for the train.’

  ‘The trains are never on time, ma’am. Not in this weather.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘I suppose that is true.’

  The brougham turns right, cutting across the Euston Road, and round the gas-lit perimeter of Euston Square. It is a peculiar place in the fog, the great Doric columns of the monumental Euston Arch half-visible, resembling the portico to some lofty Peloponnesian temple, transplanted into the heart of the metropolis. The driver directs the brougham through the gates, and pulls to a halt upon the asphalt fore-court. Patting the horse’s flank, he gets down from his seat and taps on the carriage window. Mrs. Woodrow pushes down the glass.

  ‘Pardon me, ma’am,’ says the driver, ‘but I can’t get down to the platforms; it’s blocked solid. I think the train’s in already.’

  Mrs. Woodrow peers out of her window. The approach to the platforms is crowded with a line of vehicles, not least an endless parade of cabs, both hansoms and clarences. Around them, black-suited, peak-capped porters tend to all forms of luggage, with
heavy suitcases and hat-boxes flying hither and thither. The cab-men themselves, meanwhile, seem to sit back in their seats, above the hurly-burly, watching the procedure with great disinterest. They certainly pay no heed to the third-class passengers who appear in straggling groups, dragging cases, small children and other encumbrances, searching for a cheaper means of transport. There is little hope for them: only a shifting wall of fog and not an omnibus in sight.

  ‘Oh! It is no use,’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I shall have to go and look for her.’

  ‘Please, ma’am, you will catch your death,’ replies her companion. ‘Allow me.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mr. Langley? I do have a photograph of her, if you are sure you do not mind?’

  ‘Positively, ma’am.’

  ‘You are too good, Mr. Langley. I will make sure my husband hears of this. Now, one moment—’

  Mrs. Woodrow breaks off from speaking, producing a russet-coloured plush reticule from under her coat, and delving inside it. After a few seconds of confusion, she pulls out a small photograph and hands it to Langley.

  ‘I am sure I will only be a minute or two, ma’am,’ he says, peeling off the rugs from his legs, and opening the carriage door.

  Richard Langley walks to the station building, colliding with several confused ladies and gentlemen who seem quite unaccustomed to the opacity of a ‘London particular’. At length, finding the entrance, he proceeds through to the Great Hall, which serves both as the station’s concourse and waiting-room. Here, at least, the atmosphere is a little more transparent. In part, it is the gas-lamps that project above and below the first-floor balcony; in part, it is the sheer size of the hall, an airy chamber some sixty feet in height, and twice as long. It is, moreover, light enough for him to look at the photograph entrusted to him by Mrs. Woodrow. It shows a bright-eyed young woman of about twenty-one years, with light-coloured hair, tightly chignoned, standing in her day-dress before a forest clearing, albeit one of the painted-canvas variety. He takes a look around the hall, but cannot see any likely girl. He proceeds, therefore, to the platforms and asks advice from a guard. He is informed that the Liverpool train has already arrived. Worse, it is plainly almost empty, except for an elderly couple engaged in a heated debate about the cost of porterage.