by Jim Eldridge
Feather fell silent, mulling this over, then nodded. ‘I understand and appreciate your position, Mr Wilde. There will be no threats, I promise you. Your situation will not be made worse as the result of your decision.’ And then, to reinforce his words, he looked directly at the warders standing behind Wilde and said clearly and carefully: ‘I will make that clear to the governor in my written report on this meeting.’
‘But is that your decision to make, Inspector?’ asked Wilde. ‘Doesn’t that rest with your superior, the dreaded Superintendent Armstrong?’
‘I give you my word, Mr Wilde, I will make the report to the governor, as I have just said.’
Wilde inclined his head to Feather in acknowledgement. ‘Then I offer you my thanks,’ he said. ‘And now we have concluded our official business, perhaps we can indulge in some conversation. I get very little opportunity for genial exchanges in here, and I assume we have little time left to us. The warders here are very precise on the time allotted to visitors.’
Once again, Feather looked directly at the two warders as he said, firmly: ‘This is not a social call, Mr Wilde, this is an official visit from Scotland Yard and as such will be terminated when I have decided we have finished this interview.’ Daniel saw the two warders, still silent, look uncomfortable at these words, while still retaining their positions of guardianship.
Wilde smiled. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ He turned his attention to Stoker. ‘So, Bram, it seems we can talk.’
‘That’s why I came, Oscar,’ said Stoker. ‘I care nothing for Simpson, or the fact that someone killed him. I took this opportunity to come because I wanted to know if there was anything I could do for you. Anything I can bring in? Books? Paper? Pen and ink?’
‘I am barred from having pen and ink,’ said Wilde. ‘Similarly, there is a restriction on the books I am allowed to have. So far, I am permitted the Bible and A Pilgrim’s Progress. I think they are trying to reform me.’
Stoker turned to Feather, angry. ‘A writer barred from the tools of his trade,’ he snapped. ‘And not just any writer, but one of the greatest this country has ever known. Surely, Inspector, you must see that this is the ultimate cruelty.’
‘Although perhaps not as cruel as the treadmill or picking oakum,’ said Wilde, sagely.
‘I will talk to the governor,’ said Feather.
‘Thank you,’ said Wilde. ‘I must admit, I do not hold out much hope that the situation will change – others have tried on my behalf – but I do thank you for your sentiment.’ Then he looked at them pensively and asked: ‘There is one favour I would ask. Lord Alfred Douglas is threatening to publish certain letters of mine to him in a magazine in France.’
Lord Alfred Douglas, Daniel noted, not ‘Bosie’, the name he’d previously given to his paramour. And the bitter tone in which he spoke Douglas’s name suggested that the malicious son of the Marquess of Queensberry was no longer in Wilde’s affections.
‘It is not just the betrayal that angers me, nor that he is doing it for money and to increase his own publicity, but I have had word from Constance that she has decided not to go ahead with divorce proceedings against me. If these letters appear in public, she may well be persuaded to change her mind.’
‘How do you know he intends to publish these letters?’ asked Feather.
‘A friend, Robert Sherard, was able to visit me recently, and he told me he’d heard about it from an acquaintance in Paris. Things are hard enough with my being here, and with the bankruptcy petition against me.’
‘Bankruptcy?’ asked Daniel.
‘Court costs,’ said Stoker. ‘Some of us have started a fund to try and deal with them …’
‘But without as much success as you hoped,’ said Wilde ruefully. ‘It’s nearly four thousand pounds.’
‘Surely your plays must have earned you some money,’ said Daniel.
‘Earned, and spent,’ said Wilde, ruefully. ‘And now, with my name pilloried everywhere, there is no income for me.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Stoker. ‘I have contacts among some of the magazine publishers. If Lord Alfred discovers he will not only not be paid by these publications but may be liable to charges against him on the grounds of publishing works he does not own, he may well reconsider.’
‘Thank you, Bram,’ said Wilde. He looked at Feather. ‘Is there anything else you wish to ask me, Inspector? I know you said you would decide when this interview would be terminated, but I have to admit to feeling tired. The ambience in here has that effect.’
‘Of course,’ said Feather. He stood up, as did Daniel and Stoker. ‘I thank you for your time.’
‘I promise I will come again,’ said Stoker. ‘And I will write.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Their journey away from Wandsworth was in a difficult silence, broken at last by Stoker as he addressed Feather. ‘Inspector, I have been wrong about you. I judged you by your association with Superintendent Armstrong.’
‘The superintendent was only doing his job, sir,’ said Feather, carefully.
‘There is no need to be a politician about it,’ said Stoker. ‘Allow me to compliment you and to say that if I do hear of anything that might help in your investigation, I shall pass it to you.’ He turned to Daniel. ‘Or perhaps to you, Mr Wilson. The inspector will have no option but to pass anything I say to his superior. You, as a private individual, however, can make your own decision.’
The three men fell silent again, then Feather said, quietly: ‘I never knew that about you, Daniel. Your workhouse background.’
Daniel shrugged. ‘There was no need for you to have known.’
‘Does Abigail know?’
‘She does.’
‘And how is she with it?’
‘It’s there, but in the past. However, I would ask that this remains just between us. Some people can be unnecessarily prejudiced.’
‘Of course,’ said Feather.
Daniel looked at Stoker, who nodded.
‘Your history will not be heard about from me,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel.
They dropped Stoker back at the Lyceum Theatre, then Feather asked: ‘What about you, Daniel? Is this place all right, or do you want to be dropped elsewhere? Back at the museum, perhaps?’
‘No, I’ll come with you and we’ll compare notes. Not just about Wilde but about everything else we’ve learnt since this case began. There are so many threads we need to bring together.’
Feather instructed the driver to take them to Scotland Yard. When they arrived, as they stepped down from the hansom, they saw the agitated figure of Sergeant Cribbens running towards them.
‘Inspector. Thank heavens you’re here.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Erskine Petter’s been found. He’s dead. Throat cut.’
‘Where?’
‘Over in Paddington. I just got a message from Jim Bunn. I was about to go and tell the superintendent when I saw you draw up.’
‘Where’s the address?’
Cribbens took a scrap of paper from his pocket and thrust it towards Feather. ‘Here. It’s a lodging house.’
‘Right, we’ll get over there straight away.’
‘What about letting the superintendent know?’ asked Cribbens, concerned.
‘We’ll do that when we come back,’ said Feather. ‘We need to get there before the scene is messed up by too many people trampling over it, Sergeant.’ He turned to Daniel. ‘Coming with us, Daniel? An extra pair of eyes is always useful.’
Daniel nodded, and he and Cribbens climbed on board the hansom. Feather shouted the address to the driver, then joined them.
The lodging house was in a narrow street at the back of Paddington railway station. Sergeant Bunn was standing outside, guarding the front door, as Daniel, Inspector Feather and Sergeant Cribbens arrived. Next to Bunn stood an obviously angry middle-aged woman who was unleashing a load of verbal vitriol at him, none of which appeared to have any
impact on the man. As Feather and Cribbens walked to the house, Daniel behind them, the woman turned her angry attention towards the new arrivals.
‘Are you in charge here?’ she demanded.
‘Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard, ma’am,’ said Feather.
‘Don’t you “ma’am” me,’ she snorted.
‘This is Mrs Winship, sir,’ said Bunn. ‘She manages the lodging house on behalf of the owner.’
‘And I’ve never had anything like this happen in this house in the ten years I’ve been looking after it,’ she said. ‘I need to get in there and clean that room up so we can get it rented.’
‘We can’t do that, there’s a dead man in there,’ Bunn said to her.
‘Well, get him out!’ shouted the woman. ‘He’s dead. He ain’t bothered, but I am. That’s money being lost.’
‘We can’t move the body until we’ve examined the scene,’ said Feather, doing his best to calm the angry woman down. ‘But once we’ve done that, we’ll be able to remove the body and let you continue. Were you the one who found him?’
‘Yes,’ said Winship. ‘I came to do the cleaning, which is part of the deal, and there he was, dead on the floor with his throat cut. Blood everywhere. It’ll take me ages and a lot of scrubbing to get rid of that.’
‘How often do you come to clean?’ asked Feather. ‘Every day?’
‘“Every day”?’ echoed the woman, scornfully. ‘I’ve got three houses to look after. I can’t do them all at once. I go to them every three days.’
‘And was Mr Petter here the last time you came, three days ago?’
‘He was, and he sat in his chair while I did my cleaning.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Normal. He was a quiet gentleman who gave no trouble.’
‘The doctor’s up there with him,’ said Bunn. ‘Dr Lynne. He’s a local man. Very good. I took it on myself to send for him. I hope that was all right, sir?’
‘Indeed, Sergeant. Very commendable,’ said Feather. He turned back to Mrs Winship. ‘With the doctor here, we should be able to wrap this up very shortly.’ He began to go into the house but Winship barred his way, still not content. ‘How soon can I get in there?’ she demanded.
‘As soon as the body’s been removed, and we’ve examined the scene properly and taken away whatever else needs to be removed.’
‘You ain’t taking things from here without my permission,’ she said. ‘I’m responsible, I am. Any losses come out of my pocket.’
Feather fixed her with a look. ‘This is a murder scene, madam,’ he said, firmly. ‘We will take as long as is necessary to get the information we require. And I must warn you that if you interfere I shall have you arrested and taken to the nearest police station.’
‘You what?’ shouted Winship, outraged. ‘You can’t do that. You’ve got no authority.’
‘I am from Scotland Yard. That gives me the authority.’ He looked at Bunn, who was doing his best to stop a smile appearing on his face. ‘Sergeant, make sure this woman does not enter the house until I say she can. If she gives you any trouble, arrest her.’
With that, Feather walked into the house, Cribbens and Daniel behind him.
‘First floor, sir!’ called Bunn.
‘And don’t make a mess on the stairs,’ came Mrs Winship’s voice, determined not to be silenced. Then, for good measure, she added: ‘I wish I’d never called the police now if I’d known I was going to be treated like this.’
There was a uniformed constable on duty outside an open door on the first-floor landing. He stepped aside to let the three men into the room. A whiskered man wearing a frock coat was stepping back from the dead body on the carpet and wiping his hands on a towel.
‘Dr Lynne?’ asked Feather. ‘Inspector Feather from Scotland Yard. This is my sergeant, Cribbens, and Mr Daniel Wilson, a private investigator.’
They looked down at the body of Erskine Petter which lay on its back on the carpet. His eyes and mouth were open, his skin death-white as the result of blood having pumped out through the gaping wound in his neck.
‘The heart carried on pumping after his throat was cut,’ explained Lynne, indicating the spread of blood, now dried and clotted. ‘Death was a combination of choking on his own blood and massive blood loss from the carotid artery.’
‘Any idea of when it happened?’ asked Feather.
‘From the condition of the blood residues and the state of the muscles, I’d say the day before yesterday. The body had been in a state of rigor mortis, but you’ll note that it’s begun to return to a flaccid state, which usually occurs after about thirty-six hours.’
‘So, he was killed two days ago, on Thursday,’ said Feather, thoughtfully.
Dr Lynne nodded.
Feather summoned Sergeant Cribbens over.
‘Yes, sir?’ asked Cribbens.
‘I’m going to check up on a lead at the butcher’s shop under Petter’s office,’ said Feather. ‘You carry on the investigation here. The usual things, anything that might point to who did it. Also, arrange for the body to be taken to the morgue at the Yard. Then ask around to see if anyone saw anything suspicious in the last two days. I shouldn’t be long, but in case anything turns up to delay us, I’ll leave you with the carriage. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll see you back at the Yard.’
Cribbens nodded. ‘Right, sir.’
As Daniel followed Feather down the stairs to the street, he asked: ‘The butcher’s?’
‘Jones. Petter left a note on his office door saying all correspondence should be left with him. I’m curious to find out whether Petter told him where he’d be hiding out.’
‘You think he’d reveal this address?’ asked Daniel. ‘Surely Petter would have paid him to keep quiet about it.’
‘That’s true, but he might cough if Benny and Billy Wardle came asking.’
‘You’re thinking they did this?’
‘In my book, they’ve got a motive. Petter was holding out on them as far as the money went. That’s enough to upset them and go looking for him. And they were released on Thursday, the same day Petter was killed. It certainly puts them in the frame.’ Then he frowned. ‘The trouble is this stabbing doesn’t fit with what I know of them. I’ve never known them use a knife; they’ve always been fists and boots men.’
‘Maybe Petter pulled a knife on them as protection when they arrived,’ suggested Daniel. ‘They took it off him and in the struggle he died.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Feather. ‘Right at this moment I can’t think of anyone else who’d want him dead. But then, he was in a shady business; they attract dangerous people.’
It was just a short walk to the butcher’s shop, and the first thing they noticed as they walked in was that Jones the butcher was sporting a vivid black eye.
‘Who did it? Benny or Billy?’ asked Feather.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ said Jones, sullenly. He scowled. ‘If you must know, I fell over.’
‘Oh, come on,’ scoffed Feather. ‘Benny and Billy were let out of Wormwood Scrubs. They came to the office looking for Erskine Petter and found it locked up. They expected that because I’d told Benny that Petter had vanished. Like me, they saw the note on the door saying any post was to be left with you. So, they suspected you might know where he was lying low. Now, when we asked you, you told us you didn’t know where Petter was, and we didn’t press it. Also, at that stage, we had what we wanted: the firm’s papers. But Benny and Billy hadn’t got what they were after, which is money that Petter owed them, and they aren’t gentle people. Your black eye attests to that. So, I’m asking again, which of them hit you?’
‘Billy,’ grunted Jones.
‘And you told them where he was staked out.’
‘I didn’t have much choice,’ burst out Jones. ‘I know what those two are capable of.’
‘When were they here?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Yesterday? Not Thursday?’
Jones scowled at him. ‘Look at my face. Do you think I’m likely to misremember getting a punch like this? It was yesterday. Friday. But, if anyone asks, I didn’t say anything.’
‘I understand, Mr Jones,’ said Feather.
Feather looked grim as he and Daniel walked back to Petter’s hideout. ‘So, it wasn’t the Wardle brothers,’ he said. ‘They only found out where Petter was hiding yesterday afternoon.’
‘So, who else knew where he was?’ mused Daniel.
‘One of his old acquaintances, I guess,’ said Feather. He swore. ‘It would have been so much easier if it had been Benny and Billy. The super isn’t going to like this one bit.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Superintendent Armstrong sat at his desk scowling as he listened to Feather’s report about the murder of Erskine Petter.
‘Throat cut, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think?’ asked the superintendent. ‘Thieves falling out? Benny and Billy Wardle feeling cheated because Petter had kept their money from them?’
‘That was my first thought, sir, but it doesn’t fit with what the doctor says. According to him, Petter was killed the day before yesterday, but we know that Jones didn’t reveal his hideout to them until yesterday.’
‘The doctor could be wrong,’ said Armstrong. ‘With death, nothing’s that accurate.’
‘Dr Lynne seems very good at what he does, sir. Meticulous. Plus, I had my doubts before Dr Lynne told us that because I’ve never known Benny or Billy to use a knife. They’re strictly fists and boots men.’
Armstrong frowned, then asked: ‘You think it could be connected with the murder of Simpson?’
Feather nodded. ‘I do. We know that Petter was tied up with the smashed dinosaur skeleton at the museum.’