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

by Granger, Ann

  ‘You have done the right thing in telling me all this,’ I told Fawcett. ‘I think I have a good idea now of what happened up to the moment Allegra Benedict walked into the park.’

  ‘I have thought about what must have happened there a thousand times,’ Fawcett said quietly. ‘But I am not to blame for it. If someone else had discovered our secret and made a dreadful use of the knowledge, that is not my fault.’

  I was not prepared to argue this point with him. It was not in his nature to accept blame for anything and it would have been a waste of time. Instead I stood up and prepared to take my leave of him for the moment.

  ‘I am to be returned to Manchester today, then?’ he asked.

  ‘You will leave for there this afternoon in the custody of Inspector Styles. I will accompany you and the inspector – and Sergeant O’Reilly – to the railway station and see you put on to the train. Once you are aboard, you are no longer the responsibility of Scotland Yard. If it is any consolation to you,’ I added grimly, ‘you have deprived me of my Sunday rest.’

  Elizabeth Martin Ross

  Ben’s absence that Sunday certainly made it a quiet day for me and for Bessie. Perhaps this made me decide, even though Fawcett was now again in custody, that I would walk as far as the Temperance Hall, and find out if they had heard the news there and how it was being received. I supposed they had heard the news, since Fawcett had been rearrested so publicly in the middle of an afternoon meeting the previous day at Mrs Scott’s house. But I suspected the ladies and gentlemen who had been taking tea at Wisteria Lodge were not the same as the people who attended the meetings at the hall. I certainly didn’t expect to see Mrs Scott at the hall today, after her humiliation in her own home. She was the only one who might be really difficult to handle.

  ‘We’re not going to be welcome, are we, missus?’ said Bessie, on hearing of my decision. Since learning that Fawcett was a well-known rogue up and down the country, she had been in decidedly low spirits and her mind had not been on her work.

  ‘You need not come, Bessie, if you don’t want to,’ I told her.

  Her eyes sparkled indignantly. ‘I’m not going to let you go on your own, am I? What? Face them all without me there to back you up? I should think not!’

  I appreciated her loyalty but wasn’t sure how she intended to ‘back me up’ in the event of an argument. Perhaps she feared they’d pelt me with hymnbooks and drive me out from their midst.

  ‘They ought to be grateful,’ I said firmly. ‘They have been deceived, led astray. They ought to be very glad someone has told them the truth.’

  ‘Well, missus, they won’t be,’ said Bessie, more attuned than I was to the ways of the London masses. ‘It’s bad news as far as they’re concerned and no one wants to hear bad news, do they? Especially if it makes them look a lot of silly sheep.’

  ‘No, they won’t be happy,’ I agreed. ‘But somehow I feel I have a duty to face them.’

  So, with Bessie grumbling and protesting alongside me, we set out for the Temperance Hall.

  As we neared it we became aware of some hubbub. A crowd of people had gathered outside the entrance, all gesticulating and shouting. They had certainly heard the news, all right! Among other members of the congregation I saw Mr Walters, framed in the doorway at the top of the steps. His whiskers quivering with emotion, he held forth to the crowd on the injustice done to Fawcett and, paradoxically, at the same time pleaded in vain for calm. Next to him stood little Mrs Gribble in her bright garments, wailing and waving her hands. There was Pritchard the choirmaster, shaking his head sorrowfully. The Sunday gatherings had been moments of minor triumph for him, a paler reflection of Fawcett’s glory. There, too, were the members of the infant choir, to whom presumably no one had told the news. They had come along to sing their improving ditty for the day, unaware the meeting was cancelled. They were now enjoying all the disruption immensely, hopping about with beaming faces. A group of little boys had already realised that, if the pennies their parents had given them for the collection were not to be requested of them, then they were unexpectedly in funds. They were gathered together to count their spoils and discuss what to do with the money before their parents found out and asked for it back. As expected there was no sign of Mrs Scott, brooding over her embarrassment and feeding the fire of her fury in Clapham.

  Bessie tugged at my sleeve. ‘I don’t know about this, missus! It’s not a very good idea. They’re not going to listen to anything you say. They’re all in a bit of a state.’

  I thought ‘a bit of a state’ was an understatement and began belatedly to think that quite possibly Bessie was right. Discretion is said to be the better part of valour and we ought to withdraw. But it was too late. We had been spotted.

  Mr Walters, higher than the others on his improvised podium at the top of the steps, saw us over the heads of the gathering. He raised his arm and pointed at us like a prophet of old.

  ‘Traitors!’ he cried.

  Traitors? I couldn’t believe my ears. Fawcett had deceived them for weeks and he was not the villain of the piece, but I was?

  ‘Run for it!’ gasped Bessie, preparing to do just that.

  ‘Certainly not,’ I said sharply. ‘This is nonsense.’

  I picked up my skirts and strode briskly towards the throng. They appeared nonplussed and unsure what to do. Some looked at Mr Walters for his guidance. He looked surprised to see me advancing on him and hesitated.

  It was little Mrs Gribble who reacted first. She ran towards me, tears streaming down her face. ‘Oh, Mrs Ross, Mrs Ross! What have you done?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ I said loudly. ‘But your Mr Fawcett has been very active.’

  ‘It’s not a question of what you’ve done, madam,’ cried Mr Pritchard, ‘but of what the police have done with the minister, isn’t it?’

  ‘He is not a minister!’ I returned vigorously. ‘He is a confidence trickster who has lied to you and played the same miserable game in other cities in England.’

  Mrs Gribble turned her tear-stained countenance up to me. ‘But he was our minister, Mrs Ross.’

  ‘Yes, yes, a fine preacher!’ bawled Mr Walters from his perch. ‘A man with a rare gift used for a noble purpose!’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ cried Mr Pritchard, ‘he has a wonderful way with words!’

  ‘And he misused it,’ I insisted.

  ‘Never!’ boomed Walters, ‘I am not persuaded of his guilt, no, I am not!’

  This appeared to be the general opinion. The crowd murmured together and was taking on an aspect I didn’t like at all. Images of the Parisian mob gathering about the tumbrils on their way to the guillotine entered my head.

  ‘Well, it’s not Mrs Ross’s fault, is it?’ yelled Bessie, suddenly leaping to my defence – quite literally because she placed herself between the crowd and me.

  ‘Shame on you, madam!’ roared Walters, ignoring Bessie. ‘Shame on you for coming here today! Are you so bold, so brazen, to show your face despite the knowledge of what you have done?’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ I shouted back, losing my temper with them all. ‘The wretched Fawcett abused your trust, took your money and fed you all kinds of lies—’

  ‘But he didn’t, Mrs Ross,’ interrupted Mrs Gribble, tugging at my sleeve. ‘It wasn’t lies. Drink is a terrible sin. It brings people to ruin. That’s true.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ cried her supporters in the crowd.

  ‘Will you deny that?’ demanded Walters.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘of course not. But Fawcett didn’t use your money in the way he led you to believe.’

  ‘But we wanted to help,’ said Mrs Gribble. She then added with heartrending honesty, ‘And I did so enjoy doing the teas afterwards.’

  I had destroyed their illusion, their belief they were working for something good. Fawcett had made them feel better about themselves and now they felt lost and bewildered.

  ‘I am very sorry,’ I said, ‘that you all feel this way. I
am sure that, when you have had time to recover from the shock, you will come to see that Fawcett had to be stopped. Come along, Bessie.’

  We withdrew in good order, watched by the now largely silent, but still hostile, congregation.

  ‘Phew!’ said Bessie when we reached the safety of the next street. ‘I wouldn’t like to go through that again.’

  ‘I can’t blame them,’ I said. ‘I should have understood how they would feel.’

  We walked in silence for a short way.

  ‘Missus,’ said Bessie, who had obviously been mulling something over. ‘I know Mr Fawcett wasn’t a good man. I knew he took people’s money. But that doesn’t mean what he said wasn’t true. It’s like they were all saying back there. He made them think about drink and the terrible damage it does to people’s lives. So, although he didn’t do it for the right reason, it had the right effect, if you know what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘Yes, I think I do.’ I sought an answer. ‘But in the end it will have brought disillusionment. Saddest of all, when they are over their shock and anger, they will lose all desire to listen to any crusading preacher, good or bad, ever again. They won’t trust any reformer. What of those little children in the choir? They will grow up thinking that no one can be trusted and what appears a good cause is only a way of getting money. That is a terrible thing, an awful distortion of the truth. I think Fawcett was and remains a very bad man. What he has done will continue to cause harm for years.’

  Bessie appeared very down in the dumps, so I continued: ‘As there is no meeting to attend, Bessie, you may as well take some time for yourself. You need not come home with me. Is there no one you would like to visit?’

  ‘Not hereabouts,’ said Bessie. ‘I only knew people in Marylebone where I lived before with Mrs Parry.’

  ‘Well, then . . .’ I searched in my purse. ‘Look, here is the money for a cab. Take one to Marylebone and go and see Mr and Mrs Simms. I believe they are still butler and cook for my Aunt Parry. They will be glad to see you and hear your news.’

  Bessie cheered up. The thought that she had such dramatic news to tell the entire domestic staff not only at my Aunt Parry’s house, but at every house in Dorset Square where she resided, provided a wonderful opportunity to be the centre of attention.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘Thanks ever so much, missus.’

  I watched her hurry off and went on my way homeward alone. Light was fading. The lamplighter was making his rounds. I wondered whether Ben would be at the house by the time I got there, having seen Styles, O’Reilly and their prisoner safely away. But he had not yet returned and the little house was empty and very quiet.

  I took off my mantle and bonnet, checked the parlour fire and went out into the kitchen. I did not know whether Ben would have had an opportunity to eat at lunchtime. Probably he had waited until the train for Manchester had drawn out and then gone to find a chophouse near Euston Station. But in case he had not, I should have something ready here. I looked into the larder and saw a boiled hock that was hardly touched. If I cooked some potatoes they would go well with a few slices of the meat. I tied on an apron, took out a saucepan and sat down to peel the potatoes.

  Behind me the kitchen door, leading into the backyard, opened and a draught of cold air struck the back of my neck.

  ‘Is that you, Ben?’ I called, not looking away from my task. ‘I am just getting supper.’

  There was no reply and I swivelled on my chair to see who had come in.

  It was neither Ben nor Bessie, but a creature from a nightmare. The Wraith! It had crawled from its lair and now it was here and I was trapped with it in my own kitchen with no way out. The apparition, for I don’t know what else to call it, was wrapped from the neck downward in a bloodstained sheet or shroud. Its face was a white mask apart from two glowing dark pits where there should be eyes. An air of menace and evil hung about it that was beyond description. As I froze in horror, it began to sway hypnotically from side to side, its shroud rustling. The whole spectral form seemed to shimmer in the gaslight and took on a truly ghostly aspect. Then it began to utter a series of low growls and dropped into a crouched attitude as if about to spring.

  My initial paralysis disappeared. I jumped up, the chair falling to one side with a tremendous clatter. As I watched, horrified, unable to flee because of the table behind me, it began to move towards me. I could not take my eyes from the unearthly sight. I could smell it now. It emitted a foul odour of dried blood, river water and something rotten. Slowly it raised its swathed arms and stretched out its hands, the fingers bent like claws, towards me.

  I still had in my hand the little knife I had been using to peel the potatoes. Though a poor weapon, its stubby little blade only some three inches long, it was all I had. I found my voice.

  ‘Stay back!’ I ordered and jabbed the knife towards the creature.

  It hesitated and let out a long hiss of anger. I could see now that its face was indeed a mask made of papier mâché. It had been painted, or whitewashed, to a matt uniformity broken by two holes cut out for eyeholes and rimmed with something that looked like the blacking Bessie used on our kitchen range. Through the holes the eyes burned with hatred as they remained fixed on me.

  I knew I was in great danger and it meant to kill me. But at the same time my superstitious fear of it, as a monster, had quite gone. However much of a threat it represented, it was a man and not a wraith. It had no unearthly powers, but was someone dressed up in an amateurish costume. Where I came from, children made similar masks at Halloween and went around the houses demanding ‘trick or treat’ and extorting sweets and biscuits from householders.

  ‘You may frighten the street women and make them believe in the River Wraith,’ I told it briskly. ‘But you don’t impress me, whoever you are. You look ridiculous.’

  At that it let out a great screech and leaped towards me, a crazed thing composed of anger and of hatred. These two emotions had taken over from any other reasoning power it possessed and drove it to superhuman efforts. The little knife was knocked from my hand. The creature gripped me now and was trying to get its hands round my throat. I grappled with it and we both fell to the ground.

  None of the street girls had ever fought back and it had not counted on a wrestling match. We were both disadvantaged. My skirts hampered me, but its voluminous shroud, too, hampered it. These impediments to action reduced us to equals. Had it not been for that, I think it would have been successful in clasping its fingers round my neck. I knew I must not let that happen or I would soon lose consciousness and it could throttle me at leisure. All the time it was panting and hissing. It seemed to be growing in strength and I really do not know what might have happened.

  Suddenly the commotion increased and, at the same time, the creature’s grip slackened. I was able to break the grip of his hands and knock them away. The creature suddenly jerked backwards, away from me, and gave me space. I took the opportunity to scramble away. Inexplicably, other bodies had thrown themselves into the fray and the battleground had moved elsewhere. I could hear a screaming that came neither from me nor from the Wraith. I was panting and sobbing and my hair had come loose and fell about my face. But when I had scraped it back with both hands and looked again, I saw an extraordinary sight.

  The Wraith lay on the kitchen floor on its back. Both Bessie and Daisy had appeared from somewhere and were pummelling the creature unmercifully.

  ‘You ain’t hurting the missus!’ screeched Bessie.

  ‘You killed poor Clarrie!’ bellowed Daisy in tones that would have outdone any fishwife.

  The wretched Wraith tried to fend them off but it hadn’t a chance, attacked now by Furies as bent on vengeance as it had itself been. They looked as though they wanted to tear it to pieces. The mask had become loosened and slipped to one side so that the eyeholes no longer corresponded to the eyes and the creature must now be blind. It flailed its arms wildly and kicked out with its feet, but it could not see its assailants and h
alf the time struck only the air.

  When I was a small child, my father had bought a tortoise for me from a man who had appeared one market day in our town and quickly collected a crowd around him fascinated by his exotic specimens. My tortoise had been an adventurous little beast, given to scrambling over obstacles and occasionally falling off and landing upturned on its shell, its scaly legs waving in just such a fashion. It had not been able to righten itself any more than the Wraith could now. The shroud had wrapped itself even more securely round the fallen man as he threw himself from side to side in a vain attempt to escape the blows. He uttered inarticulate cries from behind the crooked mask, and all the time he was subjected to that merciless buffeting from the clenched fists of the two girls.