The Welfare of the Dead Page 14

  Few have been in my secret while I was compiling these narratives, nor is it probable that they will ever become public during the life of their author. Even were that event . . .

  Annabel stops reading, however, as her foot touches upon something under the arm-chair, a small, torn piece of paper that rustles as her shoe crushes it. Bending down to pick it up, she discovers it is a ticket of some kind, with half the print smudged by some unknown stain:

  TICKET OF ADMISSION

  for 13th November 1874

  to an Evening of Unmatched Entertainment

  in Song and Dance at the

  HOLBORN CASINO, High Holborn

  CAUTION! It is necessary to retain this part of the ticket to serve as a pass between the Hall and Salon and prevent improper intrusion; its production may be respectfully requested.

  With no particular knowledge of the reputation or location of the Holborn Casino, Annabel nonetheless cannot help but wonder why such a ticket should be found in the Woodrows’ home. She concludes, with a frown, that it offers some explanation of Mr. Woodrow’s tardy and drunken appearance on the previous evening.

  At length, she places the ticket in her book, with half a mind to show it to her cousin, and recommences her reading.

  It is with barely a chapter completed that Annabel quits the small study. For, without the warmth of a few burning coals, she finds the room is a little too cold, and the walls a little oppressive. She contemplates calling back Jacobs, long since disappeared from the landing, with a view to lighting a fire in the small room. But she wonders whether Mr. Woodrow might consider such an action a little presumptuous in his private retreat. Thus, finally, eschewing the other more formal rooms of the house, she returns to her bedroom, where she settles herself upon the bed in an upright pose. With the fire burning brightly in the hearth, she is quite determined to devote herself to The Bride of Lammermoor when there is the sound of footsteps, and a rather quiet knock at the door.

  ‘Come in?’

  Lucy Woodrow lets herself in, turning the brass door-knob with both hands. Annabel smiles, puts down her book and beckons her in.

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ says Annabel.

  ‘Hello,’ replies the little girl. ‘Are you ill too?’

  ‘Why, who is ill?’

  ‘Mama. She’s in bed.’

  ‘No, dear,’ says Annabel, ‘I was just reading. And I think your Momma is just a little out of sorts, that is all.’

  Lucy shrugs. ‘Jacobs said I could come down and see you, if I was good.’

  ‘And have you been good?’ asks Annabel.

  Lucy nods.

  ‘And what have you been doing this morning?’ continues Annabel, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Reading. Mama said I should read; but they’re the same silly books,’ says Lucy, ‘and reading is an awful bore.’

  It sounds like the latter phrase is parroted secondhand, perhaps copied from her mother or father, but the girl says it with great sincerity, nonetheless. Annabel looks down at her novel, and puts it to one side. ‘It is, isn’t it? Tell me, Lucy, have you been outdoors since we went to the Zoological Gardens?’

  Lucy emphatically shakes her head.

  ‘And I have not been outdoors all day. Tell me, Miss Lucinda Woodrow,’ says Annabel, a rather mischievous glint in her eye, ‘would you like to go for a stroll?’

  ‘Yes please,’ replies the little girl.

  ‘Miss,’ says Jacobs, appearing in the hall, ‘where are you going?’

  ‘I’m just taking Lucinda for a stroll,’ says Annabel, straightening the little girl’s coat and scarf. ‘We both need some air.’

  ‘It’s cold outside, Miss, and the Missus—’

  ‘Is asleep. We won’t be five minutes, will we, dear?’

  ‘No,’ says Lucy, as if shocked by the very idea.

  ‘But where will you go, Miss? You don’t know your way.’

  ‘Five minutes, Jacobs,’ says Annabel, allowing a note of frustration into her voice. ‘We can hardly get lost in five minutes.’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss,’ says Jacobs.

  ‘You don’t have to know,’ says Annabel, exasperated, pulling back the curtain and opening the front door. ‘Come, Lucy.’

  Lucy smiles and obliges; and if she does not actually thumb her nose at the maid-servant, she looks at her with precisely the expression of satisfaction and triumph she might have worn if she had.

  Outside the air is somewhat colder than Annabel had expected. She looks down at Lucy but, rather than shivering, her little cousin looks positively invigorated – or at least more cheerful than a few moments before.

  ‘Shall we go and look at the canal?’ says Annabel.

  Lucy nods. It is a brief walk, around the perimeter of the gardens, and on to the adjoining street, before they stand in the road above the entrance to the Islington tunnel, with little to indicate the presence of the channel buried beneath their feet. Lucy stares at the visible easterly portion of the canal through the railings that protect its raised banks. A solitary barge makes leisurely progress through the dirty water towards the next lock, but this does not seem to hold her interest. In fact, the little girl tugs rather impulsively at Annabel’s fingers and Annabel allows herself be led to the iron gate that conceals a narrow sloping track going down to the canal itself. There is another boat, moored by the tow-path, with two young men busying themselves about the roped tarpaulins that conceal its cargo. One of the men, dressed in brown fustian, a battered-looking cloth cap on his head, looks up from his work.

  ‘Can I oblige you with anything, Miss?’ he says, grinning.

  ‘Enough of that, Jim,’ says the other.

  Annabel pulls her reluctant charge away. ‘We’ll, just go along the road here,’ she says, looking pointedly at the young man.

  Lucy frowns at the sudden movement, her face presenting the disappointment of which only children of a certain age are capable.

  ‘Or shall we go back home?’ muses Annabel. ‘I suppose we should not be too long, or Jacobs will worry.’

  Lucy shakes her head.

  ‘I did promise,’ says Annabel. ‘Five minutes. Very well – just to the end of the road and back. Come on now, and I will tell your Momma that you were especially good today.’

  The little girl pouts, but, perhaps weighing up the advantages of a creditable report, eventually accedes to the request. And it can be no more than a few minutes’ walk, for they proceed to the end of Colebrooke Row and back again, before walking once more round the gardens, into Duncan Terrace.

  ‘Lucy,’ says Annabel, as they walk back, ‘tell me, do you remember anything odd about last night?’

  ‘No,’ says the little girl emphatically.

  ‘Do you remember,’ says Annabel, trying not to sound overly inquisitorial, ‘coming into my room?’

  ‘No,’ says the girl, confused.

  ‘Do you remember if you woke up at all?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lucy, at length.

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘In the hall.’

  ‘And what was going on?’

  ‘Papa was angry.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Lucy shrugs. Annabel, in turn, smiles in sympathy.

  ‘I think,’ continues Annabel, stopping and bending down to be nearer her cousin’s height, ‘that your Poppa can be very angry sometimes, even though I am sure he loves you very much.’

  Lucy shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t think he does.’

  Annabel frowns. ‘Well, if you’re feeling bad, if your Poppa’s been mean to you, you’ll come and talk to me, won’t you?’

  Lucy nods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DECIMUS WEBB SITS in one of the three private bars of the Clarence public house, Scotland Yard. It is a secluded enclave, segregated from the rest of the establishment by a pair of dividing partitions, carved mahogany panels, topped with etched glass, and with its own door on to the street. This must be the principal attra
ction for the policeman. For the pint of beer that sits before him upon the table is virtually untouched, and the only smoke he enjoys is that lingering effervescence of beer and old tobacco that hangs in the air. At length, however, the street-door opens and a familiar face pokes inside.

  ‘Inspector Hanson,’ says Webb, ‘I had given you up for lost.’

  Hanson nods and walks in. Webb gestures at him to take a seat.

  ‘The men at the Yard said I might find you here,’ says Hanson.

  ‘Yes, well, have you seen my office? I find this more congenial when I have something on my mind. We have an agreement, the landlord and I. He turns a blind eye to my sitting here with a solitary pint of ale for an occasional afternoon.’

  ‘What do you do in return?’

  ‘I ignore the fact that he gives poor odds on the two-thirty at Epsom Downs.’

  ‘Gambling? Surely he cannot get away with that, so near to the Yard?’

  ‘My dear fellow, who do you think places the bets? In any case, I leave such things to the Assistant Commissioner.’

  ‘The City force would not tolerate it.’

  ‘I dare say, Inspector. Would you care for something?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ replies Hanson.

  ‘Then I suppose we should address the matter in hand. You’ve spoken to Bartleby and seen the girl, then?’

  Hanson nods. ‘I have. May I please see the note? You have it with you?’

  ‘Same scrawl as the last one, if I recall,’ says Webb, retrieving the paper from inside his wallet, and placing it upon the table.

  ‘Identical,’ replies the City policeman, glumly staring at the missive. ‘We are investigating the same case, Inspector. I knew he’d do it again. I simply knew it.’

  ‘Quite. Not a pleasing prospect, is it,’ says Webb, ‘this fellow gaily carving up some young female every couple of days?’

  ‘Hardly,’ replies Hanson. ‘I confess, if that is his idea, I find it difficult to see how we are to stop him.’

  ‘I take it my indomitable sergeant had discovered nothing of great interest regarding Miss Price’s habits or acquaintances?’

  ‘Not that he told me.’

  ‘Then you may be assured that he has not. Discretion is not one of Bartleby’s strengths. You see, I had wondered if she went to the Casino alone or with another girl; or perhaps someone helped her evade the superintendent at Woodrow’s? But then they are hardly likely to come forward, even if such an individual exists.’

  ‘The Casino has a certain reputation.’

  ‘Well-deserved. Ask anyone in E Division. No girl with any pretence to decency will admit to having accompanied her to such a place – much less having seen anything untoward. Not if she wishes to keep her place, at least.’

  ‘Not even to prevent another murder?’

  ‘Well, perhaps. One might hope that would be incentive enough,’ says Webb.

  ‘Other witnesses, then?’ asks Hanson.

  ‘We will send men around the local publics; talk to the girls and the flash sorts who frequent the place. But I would not hold you breath, Inspector,’ says Webb. ‘He picked his spot well – I don’t suppose it was very odd to see a man sneaking down that alley with a girl, or coming back alone. You know, forgive me, but you look rather disheartened.’

  ‘In all honesty, I had hoped you might provide me with a little inspiration,’ says Hanson, rather dejectedly.

  ‘Tell me something of your own progress, then.’

  ‘That progress, or rather the lack of it,’ replies Hanson, ‘is precisely why I had entertained hopes . . . well, never mind. Let me acquaint you with the details. Our doctor performed an autopsy on both women at Knight’s.’

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary?’ asks Webb.

  ‘There was quite a potent dose of laudanum in Betsy Carter’s stomach; I can have the report despatched to you, if you like.’

  ‘No, there is no need. Was there anything else?’

  ‘A good deal of brandy.’

  ‘The brandy. So the brandy was dosed. But why?’ Webb muses aloud. ‘The girl was pretty much at the fellow’s mercy, after all – why drug her then stab her?’

  ‘I have no explanation,’ says Hanson. ‘Unless it was some morbid interest in having the girl completely in his power. I am afraid it is rather difficult to know when he . . .’

  ‘Made free with her person?’ suggests Webb.

  Hanson coughs. ‘Or perhaps the man is something of a coward when it comes to the kill; he likes to be sure of success.’

  ‘And the second girl – Finch, was it not?’

  ‘A hint of liquor but nothing like so much; and certainly nothing soporific in nature. She was smothered – I was right about that much, Inspector.’

  ‘I am sure. I would not berate yourself overly much, Hanson – I can see no logic to this wretched business. And did you find the missing decanter?’

  ‘Smashed to bits in a nearby yard, but yes. We can only infer the contents.’

  ‘And what of your Mr. Brown?’

  ‘He rather slipped the net, as you know.’

  ‘Well, I will not ask how that occurred.’

  ‘Drink. I have disciplined the man in question.’

  Webb allows himself a slight smile. ‘I see – do you think Brown knows something? Or does he merely not take to being watched?’

  ‘I can’t say as to that,’ says Hanson, ‘but I’d rather we knew where he was, all the same.’

  ‘Yes, well, he is our only witness to this whole mess,’ says Webb. He leans forward and takes up his pint glass, taking a sip. ‘Now, I am curious, do you still think our man is a maniac? That is where the problem lies, is it not? I’ve been giving it some thought. If he is acting upon a whim, then we are quite sunk – how does one prevent it? To act, we must anticipate him.’

  ‘Very well,’ says Hanson, ‘let us imagine he has some purpose, however obtuse or lunatic. There is no connection between the women, as far as I can make out.’

  ‘None at all?’ asks Webb.

  ‘Miss Finch and Miss Carter did not frequent the Casino – I am almost sure of that; I would have heard about it by now.’

  ‘What about vice versa? Miss Price, I mean to say.’

  ‘From what I gathered from your sergeant, Miss Price lived with her father in Enfield before coming to Woodrow’s. I suppose she might have been to Knight’s Hotel, but, really, how will we ever find out such a thing? The only connection is in the mind of the fellow who killed them.’

  ‘True. But there is, at the very least, a twisted purpose to it, Hanson. He took the trouble to drug the first one; he leaves us these wretched little billets-douxs. He has given the whole business a good deal of thought, I should say.’

  Hanson sighs. ‘I take your point, Inspector. But that still leaves us very much in the dark.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Webb. ‘Have you exhausted every inquiry? Was there not some sweetheart, some chap the two girls had argued over?’

  ‘I hardly think that’s relevant, Inspector, though I’ve been to every public house and gambling den round St. Paul’s, every possible haunt, talked to anyone claiming acquaintance with either girl. From what I can make out, it was some fast sort they met in a gin palace. Took them both out on the town then went for the Finch girl, made the other a little jealous. Quite routine for that sort of girl. They enjoy the occasional spat.’

  ‘What about this man – what do we know about him?’

  ‘Allegedly something of a gentleman – but I’d say you may take that with a pinch of salt, the types I’ve been talking to. Although I’m told the girls at Knight’s are quite sought after by a certain class of young swell; they can do quite well for themselves. I’m reliably informed there’s a Baroness in the West Country who traces her beginnings to room twenty-nine.’

  Webb smiles. ‘You would not believe how many times I have heard that story, or something similar Hanson. I suppose it provides a rather necessary crumb of comfort for the worst off.’
>
  Hanson shrugs. ‘In any case, I confess I am struggling as to how to proceed.’

  ‘I wish I could advise you. Finding your Mr. Brown may be a start. For my own part, I can only say I will keep you informed of any progress, and I hope we may expect likewise?’

  ‘Of course,’ replies Hanson.

  ‘Good. In the meantime, I am afraid I have another case to attend to – I had hoped to leave it to Bartleby but he is doubtless preoccupied with practicalities at the Casino, for today, at least.’

  ‘Another murder?’

  Webb shakes his head. ‘A missing person. Well, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Would you believe a case of body-snatching? I will not reveal the cemetery in question; the manager is rather nervous as to the effect on trade.’

  Hanson raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought we’d put paid to Burkers forty years ago.’

  ‘You know,’ says Webb, as he gets up, ‘I was labouring under the same misapprehension myself. Remarkable, is it not?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  RAIN HAS SET in for the night, as Jasper Woodrow returns home, gone six o’clock. It does not, however, bear down directly upon Woodrow’s head, but patters noisily upon the roof of the hansom that conveys him up Pentonville Hill, and, likewise, upon the unfortunate cab-man who directs the speeding carriage. Indeed, the latter, his broad-brimmed hat and oilskin cape streaming rivulets of dark water, drives his horse at a frenetic pace, as if hoping to out-distance the weather, charging at full speed past Amwell Street, past the Angel, and, finally, swinging into Duncan Terrace. The rain, however, is not to be beaten – but at least the journey is a swift one, which is agreeable to his passenger who swings open the twin doors and alights on to the pavement almost before the vehicle has pulled to a stop. Once the cab-man has been paid, Jasper Woodrow hurriedly ascends the steps to his front door, fumbling for his house key.