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

by Granger, Ann

  I jumped up again. ‘I must see the body at once!’

  ‘Personally, I shouldn’t think this has anything to do with your Green Park murder,’ said Burns. ‘But given the publicity – it’s been in all the newspapers – and the method used to kill, I thought I would come over here and ask whether you’d care to come and have a look.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We have, of course, already set our own investigation in motion. But the help of the Metropolitan Police would be much appreciated . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘I am obliged to you, Chief Inspector, for realising our possible interest and calling on us. I should very much like to see the body and realise you must clear the platform for use as soon as possible. I’ll come at once.’

  Waterloo is a large and busy terminus with trains arriving and leaving continually. Its platforms and concourse heave with a throng of humanity of every description. Even a discovery as grisly as the one we were on our way to investigate could not close the whole operation down. Nevertheless, it was obvious that a considerable amount of disruption to the smooth running of the services in and out of the station had already occurred. Some of this was unavoidable and some of it might have been avoided if the travelling public had not been so ghoulish in temperament.

  An area of platform had been cordoned off by a number of uniformed officers of the Railway Police. They were struggling to hold back a crowd of avid onlookers. These included passengers, some holding bags, porters and other station staff; to say nothing of the usual riff-raff hanging around large public areas anywhere in the city. Some of these were probably drawn to this crowd, as to any, because of the opportunity of picking pockets or other opportunist thievery. Any owner of a piece of baggage rash enough to put it down, distracted by the commotion, might well find when he looked for it again that it had gone. Some would-be travellers, even if they did not miss their wallets or watch and chains, would no doubt miss their trains. At the moment they did not care. All were consumed by their eagerness to know the details of the macabre discovery and oblivious to the risk.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the throng and feared it would become worse rather than better. There was obviously no way of keeping knowledge of what had happened from the public, nor of rumour carrying the story outside the station. It was only a matter of time, I thought sourly, before the press would hear of it and then they would descend as well.

  Burns strode forward, muttering and cursing under his breath. I followed closely as he forced a way through the crowd. A constable, recognising him, saluted and let us through.

  ‘We’ve told them to move along, sir, but they won’t,’ he complained nervously to his superior.

  ‘Threaten to arrest a couple!’ snarled Burns.

  The constable gazed miserably at the crowd. I doubted that, even if he plucked up courage to follow Burns’s order, it would do any good.

  Free of the mass at last, we made our way on to the platform and past the great chocolate-brown-coloured monster of an engine, still emitting wisps of steam like a slumbering dragon. Behind the engine was a luggage van and behind that was a carriage, the door on the platform side hanging open. Beside it, on the platform, waited a group of people, including the unlucky ticket inspector who had found the body. There were also a couple of curious cleaners with mop and brush, and a medical man, gripping his professional bag. He gave every sign of being extremely angry, red-faced and scowling; what I could only describe as ‘simmering’.

  Burns introduced the furious medical man first. ‘This is Dr Holland. He’s taken a look at the body and certified death.’

  ‘Strangled with a cord,’ confirmed Dr Holland in a growl. ‘A foul deed, gentlemen, a foul deed! Is a lone woman not safe in this country? And on the railway? Who is responsible, eh?’ He thrust his red face towards us.

  I guessed Burns wanted to retort, ‘Not the railway!’ But he wisely gave the only reply that would be acceptable. ‘I agree with you completely, doctor.’

  ‘Well, well, well . . .’ muttered the doctor, deflected from accusing the London and South Western Railway directly of the crime. ‘At least it would have been quick. She appears to be a woman of middle age and relatively frail build. She could not have put up any resistance.’ He gathered a new head of steam. ‘The fellow, whoever he is, is a monster, a fiend in human shape, nothing short of it! I trust you will find him and he will hang.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Holland, we’ll do our utmost,’ Burns assured him.

  ‘Do you want me any more?’ asked the doctor.

  Burns looked at me.

  ‘Tell me, Doctor,’ I asked, ‘you say the victim was frail. Could a woman have done this by any chance?’

  ‘A woman?’ roared Holland. ‘Strangle someone – another woman – with a cord? Out of the question!’ He paused and added grudgingly, ‘I don’t say it could not be done. But it is not a woman’s crime, take my word for it. Women are subtle creatures, sir. Arsenic in the sugar bowl, that’s their style.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I murmured, wondering what experience of this he had. ‘As you say. I only wanted to know the degree of strength involved.’

  ‘Very little,’ snapped Holland. ‘A child could have done it, come to that. But I trust you are not suggesting that is the case?’ He grunted and marched off.

  ‘He was on hand,’ explained Burns a little apologetically. ‘So we asked his help. He’s not our usual medical man. This is Williams.’ Burns now turned to the ticket inspector. ‘These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard, Williams, so tell them your story.’

  ‘I can’t understand it, sirs,’ said Williams. He was a young man of spindly build and looked distinctly unwell. He mopped his forehead with an oil-stained handkerchief. ‘I never thought to come across anything like it. It’s horrible, sirs . . . and in a first-class compartment, too.’

  ‘You can explain it while we inspect the scene,’ I said impatiently.

  Burns and I scrambled aboard, Williams on our heels.

  The woman’s body, dressed in mourning black, was slumped in the corner by the window on the far side. Her black silk bonnet had a mourning veil attached. When the veil had been drawn down over her face, it must indeed have appeared to anyone casually looking into the carriage that she was asleep. It had taken Williams’s closer investigation to reveal she was not. I did not need the sight of the gold pince-nez hanging from a ribbon to tell me who she was. Poor Isabella Marchwood. Had she decided, too late, to confess the truth? I would never learn her secret from her now. Someone had made sure of that.

  ‘I thought she was asleep, sir,’ whispered Williams, confirming my thoughts. ‘I looked into the carriage as I came past and saw her. Sometimes a passenger does drop off to sleep and miss his stop. This is the terminus, so I opened the door and called out to her. When she didn’t respond I made so bold to lean over and shake her shoulder.’

  He gulped and patted his mouth with the handkerchief. ‘She didn’t reply and I couldn’t see her face for her veil. I wondered if she was ill, fainted or something. So I made even bolder, as you might say, and lifted the veil over her bonnet and I saw—’

  Williams broke off his account with a moan.

  ‘Pull yourself together, man!’ snapped Burns.

  ‘Yes, sir, sorry sir. I saw the ends of a cord or string dangling down, sir. It was tied round her neck. Her eyes were open and bulging something horrible . . .’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I saw she was dead, gentlemen.’

  ‘What do you think, Inspector?’ Burns asked me. ‘Any connection with your Green Park murderer?’

  ‘Every connection,’ I said heavily. ‘This lady is – or was – Miss Isabella Marchwood. She was a most important witness in the case we are investigating, the Green Park murder you refer to. I interviewed the lady myself twice, both times at Egham at her place of residence.’

  ‘Her ticket was from Egham,’ said Williams helpfully. ‘I saw that when I checked it.’

  ‘We’ll get enquiries going at Egham at once,’ promised Bu
rns. ‘Someone should remember her getting on the train and whether she was accompanied. Also if any other traveller followed her on. We’ll make similar enquiries at each stop down the line to find out if anyone was seen entering or leaving the carriage.’

  I turned to Williams. ‘Forgive my ignorance,’ I told him, ‘but what exactly do you do, how do you perform the task of checking the tickets?’

  ‘I get into each carriage in turn, sir,’ said Williams. ‘I start at the end of the train and work my way up to the front, then I go back to the end and start again. I ask to see all tickets and clip them.’

  ‘So, between stops you travel in the carriage with the passengers?’

  ‘Yes, sir, until I can leave and proceed to the next one.’

  ‘There is talk,’ said Burns, ‘of building railway carriages with a connecting corridor, so that a defenceless female like that is not shut in with whoever chooses to enter the carriage after her. After this dreadful affair the public demand for that will increase, and for some other means for a passenger to call for help, some kind of chain, perhaps, running the length of the train, if it could be rigged up conveniently. A tug on it could sound a bell to alert the driver or fireman. I’m all for it myself. Although I have to say, a steam engine is a noisy place to work and I don’t know that anyone would hear it.’

  ‘At what point on the journey did you check this lady’s ticket?’ I asked Williams.

  ‘Between Twickenham and Richmond, sir. I remember her clearly because of her being in mourning, and she was the only passenger in first class. She handed me her ticket and I saw it was in order.’

  ‘Did she speak?’

  ‘No, sir, that is to say, she said “thank you” very quietly, when I handed the ticket back to her. I do remember that. I felt sorry for her, sir, her being in such deep mourning. I wondered if she’d lost someone close. When we got to Richmond I jumped out of this carriage. It was the last before the engine, so I ran down to the end of the train to begin again, as I explained. I do try and keep an eye open to make sure no one tries for a free ride between two stops. The lady was alive and well when I left her.’ Williams looked distressed and pointed vaguely down the length of the train to indicate the direction in which his duties had taken him.

  ‘So when you say you are watchful of platform activity, you mean you are watching to see if anyone gets on, not who gets off?’

  Williams reddened. ‘Yes, sir, but I think I’d have noticed any one acting oddly.’

  ‘You travelled with this lady between Twickenham and Richmond. What stops lie between Richmond and London?’ I asked next.

  ‘Clapham and Vauxhall, sir.’

  ‘Can you say if any passengers entered or left the train at Clapham or at Vauxhall?’ I urged again.

  ‘Yes, sir. No one got on at Vauxhall, to my knowledge. But four or five people at least got off.’ He frowned. ‘Mostly it was gentlemen at Vauxhall, I fancy. There may have been one lady. At Clapham two or three got on, but I didn’t notice anyone go into first class. Quite a few passengers left, male and female. None of them were acting suspicious. But that’s the best I can tell you. I know I must have missed someone, sir, because the murderer must have boarded after Richmond.’

  ‘You saw no one running away from the train towards the exit from the stations you mentioned?’

  ‘No one running, sir, I can be sure of that.’

  But our murderer was too clever draw attention to himself in so obvious a way. He’d have descended in a normal manner and just walked briskly away. He may have walked alongside another traveller to give the impression he was not alone.

  ‘Go on,’ I urged Williams.

  ‘We reached Waterloo here. Everyone got off, or I thought they did. I began to walk back up the platform. I always look into the carriages as I pass by, just to see if any one of the passengers has left some item of personal belongings. I hand those in to our Lost Property Office here,’ added Williams firmly with a glance at Chief Inspector Burns.

  ‘When I got to the head of the train, here, the first-class carriage, I looked in and – and there she was. I was surprised she’d fallen asleep. But, as I was explaining to you, that’s what I thought she’d done.’

  I turned to Burns. ‘Let’s assume the murderer was probably among those who got off at Vauxhall or at Clapham.’

  ‘He was a quick worker,’ remarked Burns sanguinely.

  ‘He’d had practice!’ I told him. ‘And this was no random target. He had it all planned.’ I looked back at the crumpled figure in its black dress and bonnet.

  ‘We’ll start immediate enquiries at Vauxhall and Clapham and all stops along the line,’ Burns promised. He pulled a wry grimace. ‘He’s not your River Wraith, anyway. He dresses up in a shroud, I understand, and he’d be spotted immediately if he did that and tried to travel on a train in the middle of the morning! Anyway, I understand he operates only within walking distance of the Thames in the centre of London. Perhaps this murderer was inspired not by that story but by the reports of the Green Park murder. He read about the method used and it gave him the idea to use a cord.’

  ‘I agree the murderer wouldn’t have been in fancy dress,’ I said, ‘but we don’t know who lurks under the disguise – or his motive. Miss Marchwood was with Mrs Benedict the day they travelled to London, became parted in the fog, and Mrs Benedict met her death in Green Park. Whoever killed Mrs Benedict, I am sure he killed this lady, too.’ I sighed. ‘But don’t ask me if he is also the River Wraith, because, frankly, I don’t know.’

  ‘How about her purse?’ Burns asked, picking up a point I should have noticed. ‘Did she have one, Williams? Where did she keep the ticket?’

  ‘She had a little black bag, sir . . .’

  Williams suddenly dropped on his knees, and stretched his arm beneath the seat on which Marchwood’s collapsed body was propped. He emerged in triumph, holding up a small jet-beaded black purse. ‘Here it is, gentlemen! She must have dropped it, poor lady, in the struggle. She or her killer kicked it under the seat, perhaps, without him noticing.’

  ‘Then it wasn’t robbery,’ remarked Burns, pulling open the jet purse. ‘See, here’s some money and here—’ he pulled out a small oblong card – ‘here’s the ticket from Egham.’ He handed to me. ‘You’re satisfied here, Ross? If so, I’ll order the body removed. It will be taken to St Thomas’s hospital mortuary.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I agreed, staring down at the little ticket in my hand. A return ticket, but she was never to make the journey back.

  ‘What sort of person,’ I asked, ‘tries for a free ride, as Williams mentioned?’

  ‘Youngsters mostly,’ said Burns. ‘And the odd rough type or a young flash fellow who’s taken a drop of drink.’

  I turned to Williams for the last time. ‘And that’s the sort of person you were looking out for?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Williams unhappily.

  But our murderer had surely been respectably dressed and that, in its own way, can be as much of a disguise as a shroud.

  Chapter Ten

  Inspector Benjamin Ross

  ‘THE QUESTION that enters my mind,’ rumbled Superintendent Dunn when I reported to him on my return to the Yard, ‘is not just where the wretch got on or off the train, but how the devil he knew that the Marchwood female was travelling on it.’

  ‘It’s entered mine, too, sir,’ I agreed, ‘and the only satisfactory answer I can give is that he saw her board the train at Egham.

  ‘Of course, I’m not ruling out other possibilities. He could have got on later at Richmond, after Williams left the victim’s carriage. He could have slipped in unseen behind the inspector’s back. He could then have got off at Clapham. Or he could have got on at Clapham, and got off at Vauxhall, or boarded at Vauxhall and descended with the majority of travellers at Waterloo. That holds good if this was a random killing.

  ‘But if it was planned, as I believe it was, then the easiest explanation is that he boarded the train at Egham. He kep
t an eye on the direction the ticket inspector was moving in, watched and waited until Williams had checked tickets in the first-class carriage where Miss Marchwood sat. He made sure no new traveller had joined her there. Satisfied she was alone and that they could not be interrupted, he then, at that or a subsequent stop, hopped out of the carriage he was in, walked quickly down to first class, and slipped in after Williams left. Williams was either on his way down to the other end of the train, facing in that direction, or already there.’

  There was a pause during which Dunn rubbed his head, and then folded his hands on his desk. ‘So he lives at Egham too, our murderer? Is that what you are saying? Are we talking of Benedict? The finger would seem to point at him, if you are right.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said quickly, ‘even though a suspicious and jealous husband is an obvious suspect. But we don’t know how many people are involved in this. Another person might have been watching the house, The Cedars. He – our murderer – travelled down to Egham, walked up the hill to The Cedars and hung about there. He could easily conceal himself. The house stands in large grounds. There are trees, bushes . . . If he wished to watch the house unobserved he could have done so. When he saw Miss Marchwood leave, he followed her and boarded the same train. Unless . . .’ I added, struck by a thought. ‘The murder was committed by an accomplice. The first man, watching the house, followed her to the station and could then have telegraphed ahead to someone that she was on that train in first class. The second person could have been waiting on the platform at Richmond or any of the stations between there and Waterloo, and joined Miss Marchwood there.’