The sergeant brought his account to a close as Gooch stubbed out the butt of his cigarette in a glass ashtray on the desk.
‘You think the two events are linked?’
‘We can’t say either way, sir,’ said Whitelaw.
‘And you’re sure the door was locked from the inside?’
For a moment there was silence. Whitelaw gave a cough. ‘I best let Constable Wyndham explain, sir, it being him what found the key.’
Sweat prickled on the back of my neck.
‘The women who raised the alarm said the door was locked,’ I said. ‘They had to break the jamb to enter the room. According to the husband, there was only one key, and I found that on the floor near the door. My guess is, it was in the keyhole on the inside and was knocked out when the women broke the door open.’
The inspector scratched at his temple.
‘Where’s the husband now?’
‘Downstairs, sir. The desk sergeant is organising for him to be accompanied to the London Hospital on Whitechapel Road to carry out the formal identification.’
‘And did you find the implement?’
The question threw me.
‘Sir?’
‘The murder weapon, Constable,’ he said irritably. ‘The woman died from one or more massive blows to the head, presumably from a large, and now probably bloodstained, implement. Did you find anything that might fit that bill?’
‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘though we didn’t –’
‘What the constable means to say, sir,’ Whitelaw interjected, ‘is that our first priority was to tend to the victim, who was still alive when we arrived upon the scene. That took precedence, as it were, over any search for the weapon or weapons used to attack her.’
‘You mean you didn’t look,’ said Gooch. ‘Well, that’s our starting point, gentlemen. I want a thorough search of the room, the house and its environs conducted before we lose the daylight, and I want the husband brought along too. Bring him straight from the hospital.’
THIRTEEN
February 1922
Assam
The sound of the drums died.
In the periphery of my vision, I saw people begin to disperse. Slowly, and like a newborn foal, I got to my feet. Brother Shankar offered me a steadying hand but I declined, and trembling, with my mouth bone-dry and my throat aflame, made my way back to the dormitory.
I entered to words of congratulation, acknowledging them with barely a nod. Then, exhausted, I fell onto my cot and pulled the blankets close. I shut my eyes and prayed for sleep, but none came. Instead I lay there in the limbo of delirium, in pain and too weak to move.
The hours passed. The gong for dinner sounded. My dorm-mates departed for the mess hall, and I lay where I was. If I’d been able to think, I might have realised that there was something new about my pain; something different from the usual symptoms of withdrawal. I might have taken it as a sign that things were changing, maybe even improving. But lying there, having undergone my first treatment, all that was beyond me, and eventually, I passed out.
I awoke to darkness and in the full grip of a fever, my body drenched in sweat. Trembling, I wrenched myself up, and as I started to shiver, realised I was still without my shirt. I fumbled, looking for it, then gave up and staggered out of the hut, making for the mess hall and the cauldron of herbal tea. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something, a shadow watching me across the courtyard. I turned, but the figure dissolved into the blackness and for a moment I thought I heard padded footsteps receding into the night. I tried to pull myself together. My body felt hollow, and as I filled a cup and drank it down, it seemed as though the tea was simply soaking through my desiccated shell, straight into my cells.
Two more cupfuls and I headed back to the dorm. Once more, sleep eluded me. My muscles began to cramp. In an effort to quell the pain, I found myself standing, then walking, pacing to and fro, up and down the length of the hut. I must have kept that up for hours, just walking back and forth and muttering all sorts of nonsense to myself, until finally, overcome once more with exhaustion, I fell onto my bed and suddenly I was back in 1905, running through the rain, with Bessie Drummond’s voice echoing in my ears, chasing after a man who’d jumped onto the tracks at Shoreditch.
It was Adler who woke me. A gentle shake of my shoulder.
‘You survived again, my friend. How do you feel?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Half past seven. You missed roll call and prayers but I thought it best to wake you for breakfast. You need to keep your strength up.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
‘Besides, we’ve had other things to deal with.’
‘Don’t tell me we’ve run out of herbal tea,’ I said, then caught the look on his face.
‘The boy, Philippe Le Corbeau. He’s disappeared.’
I looked over at the Belgian’s bunk which lay empty, save for dishevelled sheets half spilled onto the floor.
‘Disappeared?’
‘Some men have trouble overcoming their addictions,’ said Adler. ‘The pain gets too much for them. They try to run, to escape to the nearest town or a village where they might find a dose of heroin or opium or even just a drink.’
‘He just walked out?’
‘There are no locks on the doors. The monks keep an eye out, but if a man’s truly desperate, he’ll find a way. Now and again, someone gets out, but there’s nowhere to go except Jatinga village, and Le Corbeau’s hardly going to get what he wants from the white residents. As for the natives, they know better than to take in a fugitive from the monastery.’
A strange expression, like the first tendrils of winter, descended over his crumpled face.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘It’s just that we generally find them by first light. They either make their way back or are handed in by the locals.’
‘It’s still early,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’ll show up.’
‘Maybe,’ said the Jew.
I found my shirt on the floor beside the bed, put it on and headed for the latrines. When I returned, Adler was waiting. He stowed his mosquito net into his cabinet and walked over.
‘One question, Mr Wyndham,’ he said. ‘Last night, when you were walking all the way to Jerusalem, you called out some names. One, I think, was Jewish. A man called Vogel. He is a friend of yours?’
I stared up at him. Vogel – in my mind it was a name inextricably linked with that of Bessie and the man I’d thought I’d seen at Lumding station.
Suddenly, more images of the night flitted across my mind. I remembered Adler once more at my side, trying to feed me herbal tea as I ranted.
‘He was just someone I once met in London, a long time ago.’
‘Jewish?’
‘Yes.’
Adler considered this for a moment, then moved on.
‘Well … are you ready for breakfast?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then come.’
He turned towards the door, but I stopped him with a hand.
‘I wanted to say, thank you.’
He looked at me curiously.
‘For what?’
‘For …’ It was difficult for me to say the words. ‘For helping me get through the night.’
He smiled. ‘You would have done the same for me.’
I nodded. But if history was anything to go by, that was a lie. And I wondered what he’d say if he knew the truth.
FOURTEEN
February 1905
East London
A solitary constable stood watch outside the entrance to number 42 Fashion Street. Inspector Gooch barely gave the man a glance as he brushed past into the hallway with Whitelaw and me in tow.
The corridor was empty, the remaining residents of the house shrewdly confining themselves to their rooms and out of our path. Even the hum of their conversations, muffled behind thin walls, fell silent, cut short at the sound of our footsteps.
‘Whic
h way?’ asked Gooch.
‘Upstairs,’ said Whitelaw.
The door to the Drummonds’ room had been crudely fastened by a length of string tied around the doorknob and secured to a nail hammered into what was left of the jamb. Gooch untied it and entered.
The scene looked unchanged from how I’d left it several hours earlier: the brass bed and bloodstained mattress in the middle of the room, with the steel trunk beneath it; the writing desk; the chair with Bessie’s shawl draped over the back; and the old wardrobe with its door ajar and the suitcase on its roof.
Gooch did a slow tour of the room, stopping at the desk and opening the small drawer under its top. Nothing among the contents seemed to catch his eye, and pushing it shut, he turned his attention to the bed.
He ran his hand along the metal head rail, then pressed down on the mattress which complained with a metallic creak. Bending down, he pulled the trunk out from under the bed and rattled the padlock. The thing was locked tight.
Gooch straightened then took a step back and examined the scene.
‘Where are the bedsheets?’
Whitelaw and I looked at each other.
‘We used them to carry the woman down to a hackney carriage,’ said Whitelaw. ‘I don’t recall what happened to them after that. They may have ended up at the hospital, or one of the other tenants might have taken them to be washed, sir.’
Gooch fixed him with a stare. ‘Those sheets are evidence from a crime scene, Sergeant. Go and find them. Now!’
The order had been directed at Whitelaw, but as the junior officer, I assumed it was my task to carry it out. I made for the door.
‘Not you,’ said Gooch. ‘I’ve got some questions for you, Constable.’ He turned to Whitelaw. ‘You go, Sergeant. Find me those sheets.’
He waited till Whitelaw had left, then walked over to the door and examined the lock and the shattered jamb, running his fingers slowly over the splintered wood.
‘You say it was locked from the inside?’
‘I think so, sir. I found the key over there on the floor.’ I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket, unwrapped the key, and showed it to him. For the first time since I’d met him, a smile appeared on his face.
‘You haven’t touched this with your bare hands?’
‘No, sir.’
Sometimes the fates smile on you. I knew precious little about detective work, but I’d read enough to know that the future of policing lay in scientific method, and that fingerprints were a key part of that future.
‘Good lad,’ said Gooch, taking the bundle from me. He adjusted the handkerchief so that it covered only the round bow of the key, then inserted it into the lock and turned it. The bolt slid smoothly back with a snap. He turned it once more, returning the bolt to its original position, then jerked the key from side to side in the lock. There was enough give to suggest that the few violent blows needed to force the door from the jamb could have been enough to dislodge it.
On cue, Gooch left the key in the lock, exited the room and closed the door behind him. Then came an almighty crash and the door flew open, the side of it striking the wall. The key fell heavily to the floor, though close to the wall rather than near the door frame where I’d first found it, but that could have been down to the fact that the door had been locked at the time. The key might have been dislodged by one jolt, while the door might have flown open on a subsequent hit. Gooch re-entered and, with my handkerchief, retrieved the key and rewrapped it. ‘I take it you can live without the hanky,’ he said, placing it in his own pocket.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘if we are to assume that the door was indeed locked from the inside, and with the key still in the lock, and assuming that our attacker isn’t a ghost, then the question becomes, how did he get out?’
Both our gazes turned at the same time to the window.
Whitelaw returned with the bloodstained bedsheets, just as I was about to lean out of the window. Behind him stood Tom Drummond, ashen-faced and cap in hand.
The sergeant introduced him to Gooch.
‘You have my condolences, Mr Drummond,’ said the inspector. ‘Rest assured we’ll catch whoever did this.’
Drummond didn’t look like he was listening.
‘As of now,’ Gooch continued, ‘I’m given to understand that you are the last person known to have seen your wife before she was attacked.’
Drummond’s response was subdued. ‘If you say so.’
‘Tell me, in your own words, what happened this morning.’
The husband recounted a story that chimed with what his mate, Finlay, had told me back at the Bleeding Hart: that he’d risen at 5 a.m. and after Bessie had made him a cup of coffee, he’d left for St Katharine Docks to look for day work. There, he’d met Finlay, and having failed to secure paid employment, they’d decided to try their luck at the Bleeding Hart, stopping off at Fashion Street on the way.
‘And why precisely did you do that?’ asked Gooch. ‘Stop off on the way, that is.’
Drummond blinked. ‘To have something to eat.’
‘What did you have?’
‘What?’
‘For breakfast,’ said Gooch. ‘What did you eat?’
‘Bread and cheese,’ said Drummond, running a hand through his hair.
‘Did you see your wife?’
‘No. She was upstairs.’
‘So to be clear, you’re saying you didn’t see her?’
‘Not in the scullery, no.’
‘Did you go up to the room afterwards?’
Drummond looked from Gooch to Whitelaw, before settling his gaze on me. Something was going on in that skull of his.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Before leaving, I went up to say goodbye to Bessie.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Round half past eight.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
Drummond hesitated. ‘There’s little to tell. I went up the stairs. The door was locked. I knocked, told her it was me. She opened it, we spoke for a minute, then I left.’
‘What did you speak about, in that minute?’
‘I told her I was off to Bethnal Green,’ he said, his voice suddenly a whisper, ‘an’ that hopefully there’d be work to be had there.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Not much.’
‘That took you a minute?’ asked Gooch.
Drummond said nothing.
‘What else did you talk about?’ the inspector said, this time with menace in his voice.
‘I … I don’t remember.’
It wasn’t my place, but that didn’t stop me.
‘Did you ask her for money?’
Both Gooch and Drummond turned towards me. It was Gooch who spoke first.
‘Well? Answer the constable’s question. Did you ask your wife for money?’
Drummond shifted uncomfortably. ‘I might have done …’
The inspector gave me look of encouragement.
Emboldened, I continued. ‘Bessie Drummond, sir. She had a job as a housekeeper and also collected the rent from the other tenants in this building. She probably made more money than Drummond here. At the very least, her wages were regular.’
Bessie was hardly unique in that respect. If all you did was read the papers you might think that the only women who worked in London were schoolmarms, nannies and whores, but here in the east at least, that was laughably false. The truth was that most of the women in Whitechapel worked: as seamstresses, cooks, cleaners and a dozen other trades besides. They had to, just to ensure there was food on the table when there was no work for their menfolk at the docks. Indeed, I suspected her income was part of the reason Drummond had married Bessie in the first place. And yet for Drummond, like other men in his position, set against the boon of extra cash from his woman, was the stigma and the sense of emasculation fostered by such a state of affairs; emasculation that was often salved only by physical violence – just to remind her who was boss. Bessie wouldn’t have been the fir
st woman in the East End to suffer the irony of handing over beer money to her husband only to receive a black eye in return. She wouldn’t be the last, either.
Gooch stared at him. ‘How much d’you ask for?’
‘A few shillings,’ said Drummond, twisting his cap tight between his fingers.
‘And did she give it you?’
Drummond nodded.
‘Just like that? You ask her for her hard-earned money so that you can sit in a pub all day, drinking with your mates, and she just smiles and hands it over?’
‘That’s what she did,’ repeated Drummond. ‘She was my wife. She knew her place.’
‘I’m sure she did,’ said Gooch, appraising the size of the man in front of him. ‘I’m sure she did. So what then? You took the money and left?’
‘S’right,’ said Drummond. ‘Went back down, got Finlay, and left.’
‘And that was the last time you saw your wife?’
Drummond swallowed hard. ‘S’right.’
‘And when you left, did Bessie lock the door behind you?’
‘I ’spect so,’ said Drummond. ‘S’what she usually did … force of habit, like.’
‘Did you have a key?’
Drummond shook his head. ‘She never gave me one.’
‘Is there another key to this door other than the one in your wife’s possession?’
‘If there was, she didn’t tell me about it.’
Gooch pondered Drummond’s words.
‘Well, that leaves us at practically the same point as when you and the sergeant walked in. The only other exit is the window.’ He turned to me. ‘Constable. Would you be so kind?’
I leaned on the ledge and looked out of the window. Beyond lay an inner courtyard between the rear of the tenements of this side of Fashion Street and those of the buildings opposite. The layout of number 42 was such that while at the front there was a mere drop of one floor to street level, at the rear the drop was more like two storeys, on account of a basement cellar.
Death in the East Page 9