A Better Quality of Murder: (Inspector Ben Ross 3)

by Granger, Ann

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I confessed. I had gone so far, the previous day, as to buy a copy of an evening sheet that featured the murder, together with the story of the River Wraith and a dramatic illustration. This showed a woman starting back in horror as a hideous shrouded creature with burning eyes reached out its elongated hands to her. I had shown it to Ben when he got home and I wouldn’t like to tell you what he had to say about it.

  ‘A trial would see the courtroom packed with reporters. That can only make things worse . . .’ Isabella Marchwood repeated desperately. Then she snapped her mouth shut. After a moment she began again, more calmly, ‘Hasn’t poor Mr Benedict suffered enough?’

  ‘To know the murderer went unpunished would surely make him suffer more?’ I suggested.

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. How can you?’ She turned away and began to walk off down the street.

  I hurried to catch up with her. ‘Miss Marchwood!’ I said urgently. ‘Believe me, I want to help you. If there is something you feel you cannot tell my husband or any other police officer, but perhaps could confide to another woman, to me . . .’

  She stopped and fixed me with a look so cold it might have been her friend Jemima Scott who looked at me. Although what kind of ‘friend’, possessed of a carriage, left a woman to make her way alone on foot to Waterloo Station where I imagined Miss Marchwood must now be going? It would not have been such a diversion, surely, to have taken her up in the carriage with Fawcett?

  ‘I have nothing to say to you. Please, don’t attempt to delay me. I have to catch my train back to Egham.’ Miss Marchwood pulled the veil down over her face.

  ‘Waterloo is almost half a mile from here,’ I protested. ‘Is there a cab rank nearby?’

  ‘I am accustomed to walk,’ she said, setting out again with a brisk step.

  ‘Then at least allow Bessie and me to come with you. It is already quite dark . . .’

  ‘I do not need your company, Mrs Ross. Good night.’

  She hurried away and there was no purpose in following her and arguing it out any more.

  Bessie and I set off homeward through the gaslit streets. I was startled when she spoke to me with an unexpected question.

  ‘You don’t like Mr Fawcett, do you, missus?’

  ‘I think he is a charlatan,’ I told her frankly. ‘I’m sorry to distress you, Bessie, but that is what he is. His professed cause is a good one. I know drink to be the reason for all kinds of sorrow and crime. But men such as he are quick to attach themselves to a good cause and turn it to their own purpose. And that is what your Mr Fawcett has done. He harms the just battle against drunkenness, not helps it, and that is unpardonable.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Bessie sadly. ‘I don’t think I like him as much as I did. He didn’t come and speak to you, did he, missus? That wasn’t very civil of him.’

  ‘He was more anxious to speak alone with Miss Marchwood and I would give a lot to know what he said.’

  ‘She’s bereaved!’ said Bessie, shocked. ‘Of course he wanted to talk to her in private, say all the right things, you know, what the clergy say at times like that.’

  ‘I don’t believe he is what you call “clergy”. It wouldn’t surprise me if he awarded himself whatever kind of theological qualification he lays claim to. Nor do I believe he only wanted to give Miss Marchwood solace and support. If you really want to know what I think, Bessie, it’s this. He is alarmed that a member of his congregation, Miss Marchwood, is caught up in a murder investigation. Police investigations tend to range far and wide in such matters, going down all manner of paths, some ending in a dead end, some, with luck, offering up some clue. Mr Fawcett has something to hide. I am not suggesting it is anything to do with the murder – don’t think that. But when a man has something to hide, he doesn’t like any questions, for fear of what they may bring to light.’

  My observation of Mrs Scott, and subsequent unsatisfactory conversation with Miss Marchwood outside the hall, had taken a good half an hour. That meant it had grown even darker. Decent folk were sitting indoors by their own firesides. Bessie and I made our way through streets now empty of all but those setting out for an evening’s entertainment. I stepped out briskly, anxious to be home.

  ‘The inspector will be wondering what’s become of us, missus,’ said Bessie, as she scurried along beside me.

  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t more to tell him,’ I replied. ‘If only I could have persuaded Miss Marchwood to confide in me. But perhaps I’ll get another chance.’

  On the other side of the road, on a corner, a public house was beginning to do good business. People jostled in the doorway and from within came a glow of gaslight and the sound of voices and a tinny piano. Suddenly there was a commotion. Voices inside, women’s voices, were raised, in fierce argument. It was followed by sounds of a scuffle, breaking glass and falling chairs.

  ‘Come on, missus!’ urged Bessie, pulling at my arm. ‘Likely as not there’s going to be a punch-up.’

  She was right. The door flew open and two female figures were propelled through it by a burly barman, to the accompaniment of raucous cheers from customers.

  ‘And stay out!’ he roared at them. ‘Settle your differences somewhere else!’

  The women ignored him, far too busy in grappling with one another. They hurled accusations and abuse, swearing all the while like the proverbial troopers, grabbing handfuls of clothing and hanks of hair, tugging and pushing, swinging their fists and scratching.

  ‘Why does none of those men in there pull them apart?’ I demanded.

  ‘It’s street girls, missus,’ explained Bessie. ‘They’re always quarrelling over something. One of ’em will have strayed on to the other one’s pitch, most likely.’

  ‘Pitch?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, missus, they divides the streets and pubs up between them. One of them will have been trying to get the other one’s business. It’s nothing for you, missus!’ finished Bessie severely. ‘You come along.’

  But at that moment one of the brawling girls yelled, ‘Now look what you done! You bent me feathers!’

  They had momentarily broken apart and were standing a few feet from one another, both breathless and for the moment unable to continue their battle. One of them was holding out a ridiculous little hat topped with a sadly battered plume of garishly dyed feathers. Her uncovered hair had been torn loose from its pins and tumbled in profusion over her shoulders. From the light pouring through the glass windows of the pub’s doors, I could see the colour was a brilliant scarlet.

  To Bessie’s dismay, I darted across the road, calling, ‘Daisy! Daisy Smith!’

  The girl paid no heed to me; she was still holding out the hat towards the other girl. Her face was suffused with fury and what I can only describe as bloodlust.

  ‘I’ll make you pay for this, Lily Spraggs! It’s me best hat!’

  Such was the rage and desire for vengeance in her face and voice, and the obvious intent to do some serious harm to her opponent, that Lily Spraggs wisely chose the better part of valour and fled.

  The scarlet-haired girl was left in possession of the field, still muttering furiously as she turned her hat this way and that, and tried to straighten the damaged feathers.

  ‘Daisy Smith, you are Daisy Smith, aren’t you?’ I shouted at her, to gain her attention.

  The girl looked up at last, from me to Bessie and then back again. ‘Who wants to know?’ she demanded, putting her hands on her hips in a challenging attitude. ‘And who might you be?’

  I was alarmed to see she was getting ready for battle again and Bessie caught my arm and hauled me back a few steps.

  ‘Missus! Leave it alone!’

  Daisy advanced on us. ‘I’ve seen off Lily Spraggs and I can see off the pair of you, too! I’ve worked this pub for nearly a year. I got good customers in there! You ain’t muscling in, you hear me?’ She paused. ‘Although I don’t know what kind of business the pair of you think you are going to do, dressed
like you was going to a funeral.’

  This was too much for Bessie who erupted like a small volcano. ‘Here! I’m a respectable girl! So is my missus, I mean, she’s a respectable married lady!’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Daisy sarcastically, ‘so why are the pair of you hanging about outside the pub? And you were last in line when they were handing out the good looks, weren’t you?’

  I flung both arms round Bessie to prevent her hurling herself bodily at Daisy and the scrap beginning all over again with a new contestant.

  ‘I am Mrs Ross!’ I gasped, as I struggled to hold the writhing Bessie. ‘You met my husband, I believe, last Saturday – keep still, Bessie! On Waterloo Bridge, Daisy, in the fog. Inspector Benjamin Ross – no, don’t run away, please!’

  Daisy had started back and was turning to flee. I released Bessie and darted after her.

  From behind me I heard Bessie yell, ‘At least my hair’s its own natural colour! It’s not all come out of a bottle of henna!’

  ‘Daisy, wait!’ I panted as I raced along in the girl’s wake. From behind I could hear the pattering of Bessie’s footsteps and her increasingly desperate pleas for me to come back. ‘My husband is most anxious to speak to you! He is investigating a murder. You have met the River Wraith—’

  Daisy stopped so suddenly I cannoned into her. Bessie arrived and pushed herself between us bodily to protect me. Daisy looked at her with contempt, then at me with pursed lips. ‘Hold me hat,’ she said at last and handed it to me.

  I realised that she would go nowhere without this prized item so didn’t mean to run off again. Instead she began to put up her disordered hair. ‘Most of me pins has fallen out,’ she grumbled. She took her hat back from me and surveyed it disconsolately. ‘Look at that! The hatpin’s lost, too.’

  ‘I’ve got a hatpin, wait, you can have it.’ I pulled out the pin and handed it to her.

  Daisy turned it this way and that and remarked approvingly, ‘Got a silver knob on the end. That’s really swell, that is.’ She pinned the little hat back on top of her head. ‘Is it straight?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bessie and I assured her together. ‘It’s perfect.’

  Daisy folded her arms and fixed me with a stern look. ‘You’re not ragging me? You’re married to that “jack” I met on the bridge, Saturday before last?’

  ‘Yes, and he wants so urgently to talk to you about the Wraith. You know the other girl, the one who saw the creature plainly. He’d like to find that girl and speak to her, too, but he doesn’t know her name.’

  Daisy bit her lower lip, then said shrewdly, ‘I heard about the woman who was murdered in Green Park. So your husband thinks it was the River Wraith who done it, does he? I never heard the Wraith went that far from the water. All the girls what have met him, met him by the river, like I did, the night I bumped into your old man. Bloomin’ bad luck, that was.’

  ‘It was very bad luck to meet the prowler,’ I agreed, ‘and you were fortunate to escape.’

  ‘No! It was my bad luck to run straight into the law!’ snapped Daisy. ‘He didn’t believe me then, I could tell that. I’m just nothing. But now some rich lady has got herself croaked, it’s a different matter. Now it’s all, “We must find the River Wraith!”’ Daisy gave a sardonic chuckle.

  ‘My husband isn’t certain the Wraith killed Mrs Benedict,’ I said cautiously. ‘But he really does want to find him. Any help you can give—’

  ‘I ain’t interested in helping the police,’ she interrupted me. ‘They only end up giving you grief. So just like I told your old man before, I’m telling you now. I’m not going near no police station.’

  ‘Then come with us to our house. It’s not so very far away and my husband is there now,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Make it worth my time, will he?’ asked Daisy, after pause for thought.

  ‘I’m sure he will, or I will,’ I promised her.

  An impish grin crossed her face. ‘Well, won’t he look surprised when you turn up with me in tow! It’ll be worth it, just to see him. And your neighbours!’ She gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘Well, go on, then, lead on. I’m behind you!’

  ‘You know what, missus?’ muttered Bessie as the three of us set off. ‘I don’t think this is a very good idea. We’ll take her in the back way, through the yard, into the kitchen. Neighbours won’t see her then, and if you keep her in the kitchen, she won’t be able to pinch anything.’

  ‘Oi! I heard that!’ called Daisy.

  Our terrace of houses all had backyards with a door in the far wall giving access on to an alley which ran the length of the street. It was mostly used by coalmen delivering sacks of fuel, to avoid having to carry them through the house from the street. That was the way we took Daisy, up the path between coalhouse and outhouse, and through the kitchen door.

  Bessie shut this with a sigh of relief. ‘Cor, I was afraid someone would look out of an upstairs window and see us!’

  ‘See me, you mean,’ said Daisy. She looked round the kitchen and then settled herself at the table. ‘This is very cosy, I must say.’

  Bessie folded her arms and looked mutinous. ‘I know how many spoons there are, you know,’ she said in dire tones.

  ‘All right, Bessie!’ I said hastily, ‘I’ll fetch Mr Ross.’

  I have to confess I rather cherish the memory of the moment I went up to Ben, comfortably nodding off in his chair before the fire, and told him we had a visitor.

  ‘In the kitchen, Ben. It’s that girl, Daisy Smith, the one you said you wanted to find again.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘What? Where did you find her?’ But he was already running towards the kitchen as he spoke.

  Daisy was already seated at the table there and Bessie standing over her, arms still folded.

  ‘Bessie,’ I suggested, ‘why don’t you make us all some tea?’

  ‘Me?’ squawked Bessie. ‘Make tea for the likes of her?’ She pointed at Daisy.

  ‘I like it nice and strong,’ said Daisy maliciously, ‘with two sugars in the cup.’

  ‘Please, Bessie,’ I said hurriedly. ‘We shall all feel the better.’

  Bessie stalked to the range and dragged the kettle from it.

  ‘You’ll have heard the news, Daisy, about the woman’s body found in Green Park?’ Ben asked her.

  ‘He killed her, then, did he? The River Wraith?’ Daisy demanded.

  ‘He might have done,’ was Ben’s cautious response. ‘But until I find him I can’t make any progress in that direction.’

  ‘You rozzers do like a mouthful of words,’ observed Daisy, ‘and ’specially a plain-clothes “jack” like you, I suppose. Can’t make any progress? Do you mean you’re stumped?’

  ‘Well, since you put it that way, Daisy, yes, we are. That’s why I need to talk to the girl who saw the Wraith. I’m very anxious to know his exact modus operandi . . .’

  ‘What’s that then, when it’s at home? You swallowed a dictionary or something?’ demanded Daisy.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Ben smiled apologetically at her. ‘I mean I want to know exactly what he did, not just to the other girl, but to you. You say he put his hands on your throat?’

  ‘Yes, he did!’ said Daisy. ‘Nasty clammy fingers he’d got.’

  ‘He didn’t try and put a string or cord round your neck?’

  ‘No, I told you. He had horrible cold dead man’s fingers.’

  ‘And the other girl? She had much the same experience?’ Ben asked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Daisy. ‘You’ll have to ask her yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘That’s what I want to do,’ Ben reminded her.

  Bessie put the teacup down with a clatter in front of our guest. Daisy sniffed at it, sipped it, nodded and poured some liquid from the cup into the saucer. She held the saucer to her lips and slurped appreciatively while we waited. She was clearly enjoying her moment of attention and being able to make us all dance to her tune.

  ‘Well, Mr Inspector Ross,’ she said at last, ‘it sounds like you bel
ieve me now, doesn’t it?’

  ‘About the River Wraith? Yes, I do.’

  ‘Because he killed a fine respectable lady, I suppose. You wouldn’t be so interested if he’d killed me or someone like me, would you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben simply, ‘I would.’

  Daisy blinked. Her manner changed from sarcastic to thoughtful. ‘Swelp me, I believe you would, and all.’ She paused, studying him carefully and then said, ‘If I tell you all I know, you’ll do something for me?’

  ‘You’ll be paid for your time,’ Ben promised.