The inspector was taken aback at this. A bow window? The only place he had been within the last two days that might make boast of such a thing was Doctor Henderson’s residence in St John’s Wood.
“Mrs Henderson?” he stuttered in surprise.
“Oh bravo, inspector. You’re quite the detective, aren’t you?”
Feeling suddenly rather foolish, Bowman realised he had quite forgotten to ask the doctor if he had been married. He recovered himself in a moment to address Mrs Henderson. “Why did you wish to meet me here today?”
He could see Mrs Henderson’s hand alternately grasping and releasing the handle to her umbrella in agitation. Bowman had long ago learnt that a physical gesture may very often give an insight to the workings of the mind.
“To tell you the truth, inspector.”
“The truth?” Bowman enunciated the words carefully.
Mrs Henderson lifted her head in an apparent moment of decision, her hand finally coming to rest at her side. “The truth about my husband. And the truth about my daughter.”
It took Inspector Bowman a moment to collect his thoughts. “Mary?”
At that single word, Mrs Henderson’s demeanour crumbled. She slumped forward on her seat and reached to her coat pocket for a handkerchief. Where only moments before she had been impassive and inscrutable, now she sobbed into her hands, the tears coursing freely from her eyes. Thinking to offer some comfort, Bowman sat beside her.
“I saw her picture in The Standard,” she whispered. “Unmistakable, of course. It was Mary.” Bowman nodded slowly. “My husband thought as much too,” Mrs Henderson continued, folding her handkerchief in her hand as she spoke. “But he told me to put it from my mind.”
“Why would he say such a thing, Mrs Henderson?” Bowman was leaning forward now. Mrs Henderson took a breath and turned to him.
“I believe he advised you that he had no daughter. How can a man deny his own flesh and blood?” There was a sudden silence as she contemplated her own question. For a moment, Bowman was convinced she might give an answer. Then, just as suddenly, her grief returned. “And she was so lovely a girl.” Burying her face in her handkerchief again, Mrs Henderson turned away from the inspector, her shoulders heaving as great sobs escaped her. Bowman thought it best to do nothing but sit and wait. Looking around him, he took stock of what his companion had told him. So Mary was Doctor Henderson’s daughter. What possible reason could he have had for lying? Thinking back to his earlier interview with the doctor, Bowman remembered the odd look on Henderson’s face as he had heard the news of his daughter’s discovery. What was that look? Bowman felt a movement at his side and turned to see Mrs Henderson settling herself again.
“My husband is a distinguished surgeon,” she continued. “He is well known for his good works and his devotion to the poor.”
Bowman remembered Pollard’s comments from the day before. “So I hear.”
Mrs Henderson couldn’t help but hear the tone in Bowman’s voice. “You must understand, inspector,” she said sternly, “that he has worked very hard to attain his position. He is, therefore, always very careful to avoid scandal and insinuation, and presents himself at all times a decent, honest man.”
Inspector Bowman couldn’t disagree with that. Henderson had indeed presented himself as a very respectable man. “And Mary?” he asked.
Mrs Henderson looked out through the pagoda towards the city beyond the environs of the cemetery and from there to the horizon. As the rain fell in sheets around them, she held her handkerchief tightly in both hands as if it were some memento of the daughter she had lost.
“She was the sweetest blessing the Lord has ever seen fit to bestow upon either of us. The apple of her father’s eye and she knew it. He was never a strict father, Inspector Bowman. Of course, he knew that a child has its place and should know it, but never a gentler, sweeter father have I seen.”
“Mrs Henderson, what happened?” Bowman was afraid he might feel some resistance at the question, as if he might be pushing too hard against something not yet willing to give. To his surprise, however, Mrs Henderson answered him directly.
“Mary fell pregnant,” she said, simply. “She was not yet eighteen and she had fallen with a child.”
“I see.” Bowman knew such a development would be hard to bear for a man of respectable reputation.
“My husband could not allow it.” Mrs Henderson sat stock still, her eyes seemingly focused on events long past. Bowman felt obliged to press her again.
“And what became of the baby? Your grandchild?”
“It was never to be, inspector. My husband, as I said, is a surgeon of note. His knowledge of anatomy is unsurpassed.” Again she turned to him, her eyes red with grief. “I must leave the rest to your imagination.”
Bowman swallowed hard under her gaze and resisted the strange urge to clear his throat. “I understand. And what of Mary?”
Mrs Henderson gave a sigh and pursed her lips in the face of a painful memory. “She was removed from the house by force, and led to believe that it would no longer be her home. I had no further knowledge of her until I read of her discovery in the Thames.”
Bowman nodded. “And your husband has denied having had a daughter ever since?”
“All trace of her, all memory, was removed. Her name has not been mentioned in my house again.” Mrs Henderson cast her eyes to the ground around her. Even under the cover of the pagoda, the rain ran in rivulets to the stone bench where they sat.
“Does your husband know that you are here?” Bowman asked, delicately.
“He does not, and I would not wish him to.”
“Of course.”
Mrs Henderson drew another deep breath, as if trying to gain strength from the cold air. When she turned to face the inspector again, he saw a steely look of determination in her eyes. “And now, inspector,” she said, gripping tight to the handle of her umbrella. “What became of my daughter?”
Bowman felt his mouth dry as he thought how best to proceed. “We are still in the early stages of the investigation,” he blustered, his moustache twitching as he spoke.
Mrs Henderson looked downcast again. “I see. You think it best that I am kept in the dark.”
“No, not at all.” Bowman shifted uneasily on his seat. “Mrs Henderson, some things are far from clear. Many things in fact.” The admission made him feel more uncomfortable still. “I will tell you all I know for certain.” Swallowing hard, Bowman collected his thoughts as Mrs Henderson gazed at him, expectantly. As he spoke, she studied his lips intently as if she did not want to miss a word. “Your daughter was buried in a shallow grave some days ago at Chelsea Embankment.” Bowman paused as he considered how best to approach the details.
“That is all you can tell me?” asked Mrs Henderson, her eyes wide.
Bowman swallowed again and felt the heat rise beneath his collar. “The details are - ”
“How did she die, inspector?” Mrs Henderson was leaning towards him now, her mouth set in an expression of grim determination. “I have to know or I shall never rest.”
Bowman gazed out to the cemetery beyond the pagoda, reluctant to meet Mrs Henderson’s eyes as he continued. The haphazard graves and monuments gave the impression of leaning closer to hear, as if the dead themselves were witness.
“Once the body was recovered, we discovered bruising to the neck,” Bowman cleared his throat. “It was hard to see initially due to some discolouration of the skin, but it would indicate that your daughter died from strangulation just days before. And then it seems, her head was struck from her body.” Bowman had lowered his voice to a whisper, unwilling to give voice to such awful words. He felt a jolt pass through the woman at his side. A wave of horror shook her body, her hands moving involuntarily to her mouth. Bowman could see the conflict in her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered, barely audible above the rain. “Go on.”
Bowman wished himself anywhere but on that stone bench. “She had also h
ad her tongue removed.”
Now Mrs Henderson gave vent to her grief. “What kind of a beast - ” she exclaimed through her sobs. Her body rocked as she gulped through her tears. Mrs Henderson was clearly doing her best to retain some semblance of control. Bowman fought the urge to hold her, settling instead for resting a hand upon her elbow. “Why?” Mrs Henderson asked in a pained whisper as she recovered herself.
Bowman felt helpless. “We don’t know. She was then carried to Chelsea by a vagrant and buried.”
“Did he kill my daughter?”
“We suspect he knew her murderer. While in our custody he admitted to the burying of a body in a sack. He also gave us the name of one in his gang. A Jabez Kane. He may have killed your daughter.”
Mrs Henderson raised an eyebrow. “May?”
“Until we trace the man and bring him in, it’s all we know for now.”
Calmer now, Mrs Henderson nodded. “Do you know anything of Mary’s life since she left my house, inspector?”
Bowman was surprised by the question. Strangely, he hadn’t considered that she wouldn’t know. But, now she had asked, just how much did he know himself?
“Tell me, inspector,” Mrs Henderson pleaded. “Tell me everything.”
Inspector Bowman frowned as he struggled to put his thoughts in order, stroking his moustache absently as he spoke. “Once she was turned out of your home, she naturally had nowhere to turn. With no one to protect her, she found herself on the streets where she soon drew attention to herself. It seems she may have found herself at the mercy of a man named Jeb Hardacre. Kane was one of his gang.” Bowman could sense a picture building as he spoke. How precise the picture was he could not tell, but he was almost ashamed to admit to himself that he was finding the conversation useful. “Hardacre was known to us previously. We had an inspector watching him and his gang when your daughter’s body was found. He heard tell of his involvement in everything from extortion to prostituting young ladies for money. He was, I’m afraid, a thief, a murderer and a pimp.”
Mrs Henderson nodded again. “I see.”
“He was once in our custody, but I regret to say he escaped from the cells.”
“You’re suggesting my daughter resorted to selling her body.” Mrs Henderson’s face had turned a ghastly white.
Bowman tried his best to offer some small comfort. “That’s not certain. She was three years in his -” he chose his words carefully, “Employment. In that time, it seems her health deteriorated dramatically.”
Mrs Henderson searched the inspector’s face, as if his meaning might be found in the very lines around his eyes. “Thank you for your candour, inspector.”
Rising suddenly from her seat, Mrs Henderson straightened her coat about her and moved to the balustrade that marked the pagoda’s edge. Comprising almost the entire circumference of the edifice, it was hewn from granite and marble. At intervals, iron columns rose from the balustrade to support the roof, a wooden canopy painted on its underside with Biblical scenes. Bowman watched her for some minutes as she stood, gazing out at the tombs before her.
“Why were you at the Empire Rooms last night?” he asked, suddenly.
Mrs Henderson remained with her back to him, but he could tell the question had surprised her. “I have never before had any regard for such matters,” she began. “But yesterday I saw a white feather float in at my window and I thought it was a sign.” She turned, a look of apology on her face. “Mary always wore white as a child,” she explained with a smile, “and she was pretty and delicate as a feather.” Mrs Henderson shrugged at her explanation, keenly aware that it made no sense at all. “I went to the Empire Rooms in search of answers,” she continued. “I found nothing there but arrant trickery. And you, Detective Inspector Bowman? Were you there to consort with the dead?”
Bowman shook his head, suddenly uncomfortable. “I thought only to consort with the living.” He looked out onto the ragged tombs about him. “But the dead got in my way.”
“I saw you leave the room,” Mrs Henderson ventured. “You seemed distressed.”
“I was - ” he searched for the word Nathaniel Cokes had used in the foyer of the Empire Rooms that night. “Distracted.”
Bowman offered the word by way of explanation, though truth be told he was far more worried by the incident than he would have her know. He had had such episodes at Colney Hatch, where Doctor Taylor had prescribed bromide for ‘nerve weakness’. He had hoped to have seen the last of them.
Evidently deciding that the interview was over, Mrs Henderson made to move toward the pagoda’s entrance. “Good day, inspector,” she said, curtly. “And thank you.”
Bowman rose to his feet as she passed. “Mrs Henderson. Would it be possible to speak with your husband today?”
“He is a busy man, forever at his surgery or his lockup in Lambeth.” Bowman noticed a muscle twitch involuntarily at her cheek. “Come this evening, if you must, but I beg you inspector, not a word of this meeting.”
As Inspector Bowman nodded his assent, Mrs Henderson smiled in thanks, unfurled her umbrella and stepped out into the unrelenting rain.
XX
A Deal Broken
Inspector Bowman slammed the newspaper down on the desk before him, sending up a plume of dust to mingle with the smoke from Watkins’ cigar. The editor of The Standard had been scribbling in a large notebook, his weasel features set in an expression of deepest concentration. At Bowman’s interruption, he put his pencil down and looked at the newspaper, folded so as to display its front-page headline. The inspector had bought the offending issue on his way back to Scotland Yard from Highgate. ‘DEAD MAN WALKS! - SCOTLAND YARD BUNGLES AGAIN!’
Watkins recognised it as that day’s early edition. He had, of course, been expecting a visit from Scotland Yard since the paper hit the stands, and now he regarded the inspector with barely concealed amusement. Bowman reached across the desk to extinguish Watkins’ cigar in its ashtray.
“Yes, Inspector Bowman,” Watkins asked, affecting innocence, “How may I be of service?”
His teeth set in an expression of exasperation, Bowman glared down at him, struggling hard to contain his rage. After the morning he had just endured, he was in no mood for Watkins’ games. “Steer clear of Inspector Hicks, I said. I presume he was the source for this material?” Bowman waved the newspaper in front of Watkins’ face to give emphasis to his words, sending several sheets of paper fluttering to the floor in his fury.
“He was a veritable mine of information,” replied Watkins calmly, his hands held wide in innocent supplication. “And all of it offered freely.”
Bowman planted his fists on the desk and thrust his head closer to the editor’s face. “What’s your game, Watkins?” he demanded, his voice a growl.
Watkins held Bowman’s gaze a while, then stood to retrieve a box of safety matches from a shelf behind him. “If I remember correctly,” he said playfully, opening a drawer at his desk as he spoke, “I was told the Yard could bear some criticism.” Watkins took another cigar from the drawer, holding it to his ear and rolling it between his thumb and index finger.
“You were also told I was to have the final say on what you print.” Bowman unfolded the paper and held the front page aloft. “I don’t recall giving you permission for this.”
Judging it to be of adequate freshness, Watkins bit the end from his cigar and spat it to the floor. “It was the truth, inspector,” he said simply as he lifted the cigar to his lips. “Truth needs no permission.”
“You are completely undermining my investigation, and I will not allow it.” Bowman moved to the window as Watkins lit his cigar, sending clouds of smoke billowing into the room about him.
“You have yet to find a credible witness to the young woman’s murder; you have no positive identification, no motive and no suspect.” Watkins sat on a corner of his desk, perfectly at ease in his own domain. “I serve our readership,” he continued, “and I think they should know.”
“The investigation of a murder is a delicate matter,” Bowman hissed. “And we have discovered more than you know, Watkins.”
“Really, Inspector Bowman? And do you not think that would be of interest to our readers?” Watkins looked down at his cigar, rolling it between his fingers again as if deep in thought. “As would the explanation as to why one of Scotland Yard’s most eminent inspectors was consorting with phantoms at the Empire Rooms last night.”
There was a silence in the room, broken only by the rattling of the rain against the window. Watkins looked up from his cigar. Bowman was plainly taken aback at his remark. “You had me followed?” he asked, incredulous.
“Tut, tut, inspector,” Watkins tried his best to look hurt. “We would never stoop so low. Douglas McCrimmon is our theatre critic and was there in an entirely professional capacity.” He leaned across to reach for his notebook, leafing through its pages with a half concealed smile. “These Spiritualist meetings are becoming quite the rage. It’s only right that our readers see them represented in our pages. Although I cannot say it was worth the entry price, McCrimmon’s copy makes for fascinating reading. It was obviously an extraordinary event.” He looked up at the inspector pointedly. “I’ve no doubt our readers would be most interested to hear of it.”
Bowman eyed the newspaperman warily. “I was performing a duty,” he said, suddenly worried.
“As an inspector?” teased Watkins.
“As a friend.” Bowman’s jaw was tightening as he spoke.
Watkins threw his notebook down on the desk and stood to join Bowman at the window. Standing toe to toe with the inspector, he thrust out his chest, evidently enjoying the moment. “Can you not imagine for a moment,” he began, a self-righteous tone in his voice, “how such a thing might look to the public?”
Bowman was determined not to be intimidated. “What is it to them how a man spends his time?” he retorted, standing his ground beneath Watkins’ gaze.
“They pay your wages, Inspector Bowman!” Watkins barked, pacing back to his desk. He smoothed his red hair with the flat of a hand and turned to regard the inspector with something approaching contempt. “I think they will be concerned that Detective Inspector Bowman is at a loss. That he has given up all hope of finding the murderer by conventional means and so, in desperation, has turned to the unconventional. Is Scotland Yard now looking for answers in the spirit world, inspector?” He gave emphasis to his words with a jab of a yellowing finger.
The Head in the Ice Page 18