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

by Granger, Ann

  The River Police man stepped forward and snipped the cord. It came away to reveal the double knot at the back.

  ‘I will take this with me,’ I said to the man. ‘We have seen this before. This is identical to the cord that strangled Allegra Benedict in Green Park.’

  Morris rubbed a forefinger over his moustache and rumbled, ‘Think he killed this girl first? Before Mrs Benedict?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘Daisy Smith told me no one had seen Clarrie since the Friday morning, before the Saturday of Mrs Benedict’s murder. If the same man killed both women, then possibly he killed Clarrie at some time during Friday. But perhaps he did not kill her until the next day, that same Saturday as the Green Park murder occurred. Our killer will have had the bloodlust up and, after killing Clarrie, went straight on to kill Allegra. That is my reasoning, at any rate.’

  ‘Why would he kill the poor little scrap?’ asked Morris, nodding at the body. ‘Especially if it is the Wraith. He’d been contenting himself with just frightening the girls before, with putting his hands on their necks. Why go and kill one of ’em? Because this one saw him once? He was wearing his disguise at the time. Anyway, her testimony in a court of law wouldn’t be taken very seriously.’

  ‘Practice!’ I said tersely. ‘As Mr Dunn said, to kill the first time is difficult, to kill after that becomes easier. He intended to kill Allegra Benedict; but he wanted to know that the method he’d thought of would be easy to operate and effective. So he tried it out on this poor girl, and when that presented no problem tipped her into the river and carried on his way to kill Allegra. He did not, as we first thought possible, come upon Allegra in the fog and mistake her for a prostitute. He set out that day to kill her specifically and there is a reason for it. He is a cold-blooded monster, Morris, without any normal trace of human feeling.’

  ‘Or mad,’ said the River Police man lugubriously.

  ‘Not mad enough not to know what he is doing,’ I told him. ‘He planned Allegra’s murder very carefully. Now he has a way that is effective and he has used at least three times, if we include Miss Marchwood. He will not hesitate to use it again. No woman is safe.’

  Joshua Fawcett was tracked down to his lodgings in Clapham and brought in for questioning at the Yard that very evening, although he was left sitting in a cell overnight. Dunn thought it might impress on our guest the seriousness of his situation. I said nothing to Lizzie about it when I got home. If we kept him in, the news would get about soon enough; but I didn’t think it would reach my own house this same evening. Soon enough to tell her when we’d charged the fellow – if we did. Dunn was sure an interview or two would elicit all the confession we needed. I was not.

  So, early the following day, I found myself at last seated opposite the preacher and saw our man for myself. Sergeant Morris and another officer had carried out the arrest the previous evening. Morris said he had come very quietly. A night in the cells did not appear to have disconcerted him any further. (It occurred to me he probably had earlier acquaintance with the interior of police stations around the country.) On entering the room he gazed about him with mild interest and seated himself uninvited. He had not shaved, but he was still dapper, his linen clean; only his footwear was slightly scuffed. His long hair lay curling on his collar but the diamond stickpin normally glittering in his black necktie was missing. It would have made a handy weapon, and had been taken from him for his own safety – and that of any officer approaching him. But otherwise he looked much as he probably normally did.

  Not only did he appear unabashed, his attitude was almost as if he were to interview me.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said calmly, as I took a chair opposite to him, ‘it is little use my protesting at this outrageous treatment. But I protest anyhow, and I wish it to be put on record.’

  ‘It will be,’ I said in a tone I hoped let him know he could protest as much as he liked and it would not impress anyone here. Every petty thief and whoremonger, every Jed Sparrow of the world, is quick to protest.

  Biddle, seated nearby with paper and pencil, began laboriously to write what I suppose was Fawcett’s protest for the record. Fawcett glanced at him and a slight smile briefly touched his features.

  But he was not smiling when he looked back at me. ‘You have no possible reason to do this. In what way can I help you with anything?’

  ‘I hope you will be able to help us a great deal in our investigation into the murder of Allegra Benedict,’ I told him.

  He shook his head, as if bewildered. ‘I am at a loss to follow the process of your mind, Inspector Ross.’

  ‘You are not going to deny you knew the lady?’

  ‘No, but I would hardly say I knew her well. I had met her. She attended one or two evening parties at the house of Mrs Jemima Scott, a loyal member of my congregation and a tireless worker in our cause. Miss Isabella Marchwood, another stalwart of our cause, also sadly deceased now, brought her there. Mrs Benedict was, I well recall, a charming woman, either Italian or French I believe. I was naturally distressed to hear of her tragic death, as I was to learn of Miss Marchwood’s. Mrs Scott was also very sorry about it. Anyone with normal feelings would be. A dreadful case!’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘But I cannot help you find the villain responsible.’

  Dunn was mistaken in ordering him brought in! I thought to myself furiously. He knows we have nothing on him but speculation. He is prepared to sit there and let me make a fool of myself. But I had to go on with it.

  ‘We believe that your acquaintance with Mrs Benedict was rather more extensive than you say, Mr Fawcett. Let me ask you a blunt question.’

  A sharp look briefly entered his eyes. Lizzie had talked at undue length about their remarkable colour, a sort of bright greenish-blue. To my mind they were very strange, like glass eyes in a doll’s head. But women are impressed by such things, I suppose. At any rate, the sharp flicker was gone almost at once and the irritating serenity returned. I could not help but feel the hackles rising on my neck at the sight of such smugness and struggled to conceal my dislike of him. Not that it mattered. He fully realised how I felt.

  ‘Ask away, Inspector.’

  ‘On the Saturday before last, the day of her death – please don’t say you don’t remember it.’ (He had frowned. But I wasn’t about to let him interrupt with some nonsense.) ‘It was exceptionally foggy and the news of the murder was commonplace the next day, Sunday. It meant that Miss Marchwood, the helper you mention, did not attend the temperance meeting. She was Mrs Benedict’s companion. On that Saturday then, had you arranged to meet Mrs Benedict in Green Park? Let us say at around four o’clock?’

  ‘No.’ The faint smile returned. ‘Why on earth should I? What an extraordinary question.’

  I did my best to ignore his complacency but my voice was gruff when I asked, ‘Where were you?’

  ‘At my lodgings, in Clapham,’ he replied promptly.

  ‘You seem very sure,’ I pointed out. ‘You gave my question no thought.’

  ‘I did not need to. I am always in my lodgings on a Saturday afternoon.You see, Inspector,’ he leaned forward to draw my attention to some serious point he was about to make. ‘For most men Sunday is a day of rest. For men of the cloth, however, it is our busiest day for we are about the Lord’s work. It is also the day when we preach our main sermon of the week. On Saturdays, Inspector Ross, I write my sermon for the following Sunday. As today is Friday, I can safely say that tomorrow afternoon I shall be engaged on the same task. Week in, week out, Inspector, that is the pattern of my life.’ He sat back, surrounded by an air of saintly forbearance that made me want to reach across the table and choke him with my bare hands.

  However there was an irrefutable logic to his reply. Probably every Saturday of the year, clergymen up and down the country were toiling away at the same duty. But nevertheless I pressed on.

  ‘Did anyone see you there? Your landlady? Any visitor?’

  He looked hurt. ‘I impress on my landlady that I am not t
o be disturbed. The writing of my sermon takes me all afternoon. I don’t dash it off in a few minutes! It requires thought. The examples illustrating it must be carefully chosen. The preacher must reach the hearts and minds of his listeners, Inspector, without confusing them. He must explain, illuminate and inspire. I have often laboured late into the night at the writing of it.’

  I refused to be distracted by the image of Fawcett toiling away by candlelight.

  ‘But there was a meeting that afternoon at the Temperance Hall, not far from Waterloo,’ I put to him. ‘Our maidservant, Bessie Newman, went there to collect some pamphlets.’

  ‘So I believe. I am sorry she was given the pamphlets to distribute without your express permission. I have told your wife of my regret. But I was not present myself at the hall on that Saturday afternoon, nor indeed on any other Saturday. Mr Walters conducted the meeting that day. Perhaps, if you care to ask your maidservant, she will confirm it.’

  ‘You have a loyal band of workers,’ I said to him, still trying hard not to show how much he irritated me and miserably aware that I was failing and that, even worse, he enjoyed my frustration.

  He nodded graciously.

  ‘But you had not persuaded Allegra Benedict to join them.’

  ‘No, she was of another religious persuasion. But you are quite right. She was not one of my congregation, so I am at a loss to guess why you think I should have arranged to meet her. And in Green Park?’ he shook his head. ‘You grow fanciful, Inspector.’

  ‘Let us see if I am!’ I snapped back at him and saw that fleeting smile. He had me really rattled and I had all but given up trying to conceal it. I forced myself to regain my self-control.

  ‘I believe that, although she did not attend your meetings at the hall, nevertheless you were in contact with her. She knew of your so-called good work because she had heard you talk of it at Mrs Scott’s house. She had been encouraged to contribute to your funds, either because she believed the money would be put to good use, or because she had another reason for wishing to please you. At any rate, she met you that day to give you money from the sale of a piece of family jewellery. She had just concluded the sale in the Burlington Arcade. We have spoken with the jeweller.’

  He blinked at the mention of the jeweller. That was not speculation on my part. Allegra had indeed sold the piece.

  ‘I have no idea why the lady needed money but it was certainly not to give it to me. You may search my lodgings. You will not find it, or any other sums of money, in my possession. All is spent on my work.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I understood her husband to be wealthy. This selling of a piece of jewellery privately seems a surprising thing for her to have done. But if you say she did it, then she did so. But I cannot even guess at her purpose.’ He shook his head. ‘There are many troubled souls out there, Inspector. Who knows what was in her mind?’

  I drew a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘What is more, I believe that you and she were conducting a clandestine affair.’

  Now he stiffened, flushed and a frown creased his brow beneath those Byronic locks. He looked every inch the wounded innocent. ‘That is a most offensive suggestion, Inspector Ross! Naturally I deny it. I deny it vigorously! Not only because I am a man of the cloth, dedicated to his work and bound by the requirements of religion; but she is – was – a very respectable married woman. I take it you have not suggested this scandalous and, I don’t doubt, actionable theory of yours to the lady’s husband? Casting aspersions on the reputation of someone who cannot respond? Is this what our police officers have come to?’

  But he was disturbed. The vigorous denial was delivered with a real passion suggesting to me it sprang from alarm. You might say anyone would be troubled by my accusation even if, or particularly if, he were innocent. But I have interviewed a good many guilty men. Aha! Mr Fawcett, I thought, you had not reckoned on your amorous entanglement becoming known.

  ‘I must insist,’ he was saying, ‘on knowing on what basis you make these lurid accusations. You cannot possibly have any reasonable argument for them.’

  ‘We believe,’ I said, ignoring his demand, ‘that Miss Isabella Marchwood carried your correspondence to Mrs Benedict.’

  But now he was on safer ground. I saw him relax and cursed my clumsiness. Miss Marchwood could no longer be called in witness.

  ‘She told you this herself? Miss Marchwood, I mean. She made this ridiculous claim?’ His eyes gleamed.

  Again, I ignored his question. ‘There is supporting testimony from Mrs Benedict’s personal maid and a former butler employed by Mr Benedict.’

  Morris had made the expedition to Englefield Green and interviewed Henderson, the lady’s maid, fortunately still living at The Cedars. Morris has a way with below-stairs members of the household. Henderson had happily told him all when informed of Seymour’s claim. She had definitely twice come upon her mistress burning letters and on one occasion (this confessed with a deep blush) rescued an unburned scrap from the grate, out of curiosity. It had been signed Jos . . . The last part of the name had been reduced to ash but she was quite certain of the first three letters. Unfortunately for us, she had not kept the charred fragment.

  Fawcett threw up his hands. ‘Gossiping servants! Goodness, Inspector, a man of your experience surely places little reliance on such so-called information. I am surprised at you. To believe a poorly educated lady’s maid with a mind heavily influenced by cheap novelettes? And a former butler? A dismissed servant with a grudge?’ He shook his head sorrowfully at my gullibility. ‘No court of law would place reliance on such testimony, Inspector.’

  He was right. I could not prove it. He knew I could not. If I persisted now I would sound increasingly as if I were grasping at straws.

  ‘Let me get this quite clear, Inspector,’ Fawcett continued carefully. ‘Are you suggesting – I can hardly believe it, but it seems you are – that I had a hand in the murder of the unfortunate Mrs Benedict?’

  ‘We are only asking for your cooperation in our investigation,’ I heard myself say woodenly.

  ‘And Miss Marchwood? Do you imagine I can help with that dreadful business, too? Are there any other crimes, at present unsolved, that you would like to lay at my door? I begin to feel a little like the scapegoat of the Old Testament, sent out into the wilderness laden with the sins of the children of Israel.’

  ‘I have no further questions at this time!’ I snarled.

  He had me on the run. ‘Am I to be charged with any offence?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at present,’ I confessed.

  ‘Then I am free to leave?’

  ‘Yes, you are free to leave,’ I said. I could see Biddle in his corner giving me a startled look. Well, Biddle was young and had a lot to learn.

  Fawcett rose elegantly to his feet and dusted off his sleeves. ‘I take it my diamond pin will be returned immediately. I should not like to think it could be lost in police custody.’

  I leaned across the table. ‘You are pushing your luck too far, Fawcett. Yes, you may go. But don’t leave London.’

  ‘Why should I?’ he replied. ‘Good day to you, Inspector.’

  Shortly afterwards, I watched from my window as he strolled off down the road. Dunn was probably right and he would not run, at least not straight away. We had played our hand and shown it to be weak. He had admitted nothing and we could prove nothing. But still, he must be concerned that we knew of his liaison with Allegra. A man like Fawcett would be making plans for his future. What, I wondered, would he do now?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Inspector Benjamin Ross

  I made my way home that Friday evening deep in thought as I headed south towards the river. I was wondering how to explain the latest turn of events to my wife and to our maid of all work, as explain to them I eventually must. There was a faint chance they hadn’t yet heard the news and then I would need to say nothing tonight. That would buy me a little time but I couldn’t pin my hopes on it. It was far more likely that word would al
ready have got about the congregation and the news carried to my own home by some eager talebearer. They knew Lizzie was married to me. Someone might have hoped to glean information, another reason for not telling Lizzie before; not that she would be indiscreet but Bessie might be.

  Most men, I reflected ruefully, would not have found it necessary to explain anything to a servant. It was my bad luck that our maid was both an enthusiastic member of Fawcett’s congregation and outspoken as well. So, Ben Ross, I told myself, you can’t win. Bessie will probably be dismayed to hear Joshua Fawcett was arrested in the first place, and obliged to spend a night in the cells; Lizzie will be disappointed to hear he’s subsequently been released (and piqued that I hadn’t told her of his arrest the day before).

  Rain had begun to fall in a steady drizzle. Already pavements and road surfaces glittered wetly in the glow of the gas lamps. People were hurrying to be home, as I was. Even so, the ubiquitous London prostitutes were out and about seeking the first customers of the evening. As I passed a doorway I heard myself hailed as ‘dearie’ and an invitation was extended to let the speaker ‘cheer me up’. The voice sounded young. I paused and peered into the shadows, with half an intention to arrest the girl for her own sake and lock her away from the streets and their dangers if only for the one night.