Death in the East

by Abir Mukherjee

  He was dressed in the best Mayfair had to offer: Jermyn Street poplin and Savile Row chalk-stripe, all three pieces of which, despite their exquisite tailoring, sat uncomfortably on a body that had beaten its way up from the streets. His face too gave lie to the stitching: the thickened nose, the coarse brow, and the close-cropped hair of a hard man used to hard times. And then there were the two scars on his left cheek – the marks of battles long past – badges of honour back in the East End, but which here, in more rarefied circles, were merely indelible reminders of a past that was impossible to escape.

  He crossed the room briskly. ‘You wanted to see me, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s about your housekeeper, Mrs Elizabeth Drummond.’

  ‘Bessie? Is she all right?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s dead, sir.’

  Caine sat down on the arm of the chesterfield and steadied himself.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Murdered. Beaten to death in her lodgings in Fashion Street.’

  ‘When?’ he asked, staring at me.

  ‘Yesterday. We believe sometime around 9 a.m. I understand you were at the house earlier that morning?’

  ‘That’s … that’s correct.’

  ‘May I ask what you were doing there?’

  ‘I went to see that she was all right. She’d been off work the previous day.’

  ‘You make a habit of checking in on your employees?’

  The muscles in his face seemed to tense.

  ‘I heard she’d been attacked. I was in the vicinity and I thought I’d make sure she was all right.’

  ‘And was she?’

  ‘She was making a recovery. Told me she’d be in today.’

  ‘Did she happen to say anything about the attack?’

  Caine shrugged. ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to pick up the weekly rent money while you were there, did you?’

  Caine clenched a fist. ‘I did. It made sense to, seeing as I was there. Have you any idea who would do such a thing?’

  ‘We’re pursuing certain avenues of investigation, sir,’ I said. ‘You’ll appreciate I can’t say more at present.’

  Caine stared at the floor and shook his head. ‘Well, it’s good of you to inform me, Constable.’ He rose once more. ‘Please pass on my condolences to her husband.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder, readying to shepherd me to the door.

  Something inside me bridled. Bessie had worked for him for as long as I’d known her, and yet Caine could offer no more than empty words and a minute of his time. Maybe it was just my own guilt talking, but Bessie deserved better.

  ‘If I may, sir,’ I said, turning to him, ‘the murder took place at one of your properties. I’ve a few questions, some matters you may be able to help clear up for us.’

  His expression changed. ‘I’m rather pressed for time, Constable. Maybe we could schedule something for tomorrow, maybe down at your station? Leman Street, is it? I’ve some friends there.’

  Green as I was, I understood the implicit threat. I knew that quite a few of the officers in the East End were in the pockets of powerful men. Caine at least had the veneer of a respectable citizen. Many others, like the Spiller brothers, were criminals, plain and simple. The question that struck me was why? Why bother issuing even a veiled threat against a first-year constable such as me? All I wanted was to ask him a few questions. Maybe he was just one of those men who feel the constant need to impress the weight of their own supremacy on others. Or maybe there was something more. Either way, I didn’t see any benefit in needling him.

  ‘That’s most obliging of you, sir,’ I said. ‘Rather than wasting your time down at the station, however, I could come back at a time more convenient? I have very few questions.’

  My tone, I hoped, was conciliatory rather than self-abasing. Either way, it had an effect. Caine was magnanimous.

  ‘Well, if it’s only a few, I suppose I can spare you five minutes.’

  I acknowledged his generosity. ‘Very good of you, sir. Can you tell me how Mrs Drummond first came into your employment?’

  Caine smiled. ‘She approached me in the street one day. Bold as brass, she came over and told me that she was a tenant in one of my buildings and that Doyle, my man who collects my rents, wasn’t doing a particularly good job. She suggested that I let her collect the rents for her building, that she knew all the tenants personally and would make sure no one fell behind. Once a week she’d pass the money on to Doyle. She did a good job, too. So much so that after six months she asked to take care of more of my properties. I said no, of course. Her own building was one thing, but there was no way I’d let a woman wander the streets collecting my money. Besides, what was I supposed to do with Doyle? It just so happened, though, that we had need of a new housekeeper, and I suggested to my wife that Bessie might be a suitable candidate.’

  ‘Your wife?’ I said.

  His expression became sombre. ‘My late wife, Helena. She passed away some weeks ago.’

  I scanned the room. In here, at least, there seemed no trace of the deceased spouse. Not a portrait nor a photograph. Not even a memento on the mantelpiece.

  ‘My condolences, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ll not detain you much longer. Other than the rent collection at 42 Fashion Street and her housekeeping duties, did Bessie carry out any other work for you?’

  Caine shook his head. ‘No, that was all.’

  ‘And did her behaviour over the last few weeks seem at all odd to you?’

  ‘You’ll forgive me, Constable, but I’m not in the habit of noticing the emotional state of my domestic staff, especially in the weeks after the passing of my own wife.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘My apologies. Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to murder Bessie?’

  ‘Just because I employed her doesn’t mean I knew the first thing about her personal affairs. If I were a betting man though, I’d wager it was one of those heathens who killed her.’

  ‘You mean a Jew? What makes you think that?’

  ‘Come now, Constable. Who else could it be? You say she was killed in her lodgings, and if it was her husband, you’d have arrested him by now. Everyone else in that house is a foreigner.’

  ‘There’s always the possibility that someone from outside number 42 is responsible,’ I said.

  Caine looked at me incredulously. ‘You think some stranger just walked in off the street, went up to her room and killed her, then sauntered back out again without anyone noticing? Not very likely, is it?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m afraid I really must insist …’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ I said. ‘If I may just ask one final question? Your man Doyle.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Why didn’t you send him to pick up the rent from Bessie? Why did you go yourself?’

  Caine hesitated, then smiled. ‘As I told you, I had business in the area. It made sense to pop in, check on Bessie and collect the rent. I just decided to kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘And what was this business you had up there?’

  His expression hardened. ‘It would take a while to explain, Constable, and as I said, I’m in a hurry. Now if you don’t mind …’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  I closed the black door behind me, descended the steps to the street and paused. The conversation with Caine had unnerved me. The man was right. Bessie’s attacker couldn’t just have wandered into number 42, committed murder and walked out again. There were too many people, in the house and in the street outside, to make that likely. Therefore it had to be someone living there, or at least familiar with it. It was safe to rule out most of the residents: the Feldmans in the room next door and Mrs Rosen downstairs were too frail to have attacked a healthy young woman like Bessie. As for Rebecca’s family, Mr Kravitz had a cast-iron alibi in that he was at work, and neither Rebecca nor her mother were serious suspects. T
hat left Vogel, Tom Drummond and his mate, Archibald Finlay, and Caine himself, as the only other men who’d been in the house that morning. Drummond’s testimony, of seeing Bessie alive when he returned with Finlay, effectively exonerated Caine, and Drummond and Finlay had been exonerated by the fact of Bessie’s door having been locked from the inside, meaning the only possible exit route was out through the window and up the drainpipe to Vogel’s room. Thus, by a process of elimination, we’d arrived at Vogel as the prime suspect.

  Behind me, Caine’s door opened once more, and out stepped the young maid who’d shown me in. She was wrapped in a thin black shawl that covered her shoulders, and in her hand she carried an empty canvas bag. Seeing me at the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in surprise, then smiled.

  ‘You didn’t ’alf give me a fright, sir,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  She descended the stairs and made to pass me. From the bag, I surmised that she was off to run an errand of some sort. A thought occurred to me.

  ‘Where are you off to, miss?’

  ‘Moorgate,’ she said, ‘to the grocer’s. It was Bessie’s job to stock up, but …’ her face reddened, ‘well, you know the rest.’

  ‘I’m going that way,’ I lied. ‘Do you mind if I walk with you? I’ve a few questions about Bessie.’

  ‘Course not,’ she said, as I fell into step beside her. ‘Be nice to ’ave a bit of company.’

  ‘What’s your name, miss?’ I asked as we turned towards the gardens of Finsbury Circus.

  ‘Lily. Lily Adams.’

  ‘Did you know Bessie well, Lily?’

  ‘Well enough,’ she said, her eyes straight ahead, ‘which is to say, I’ve known her since I started workin’ for the Caineses, just before Easter last year.’

  ‘Were you friends?’

  The maid stifled a laugh. ‘You wouldn’t ask that question if you knew her. I know it ain’t right to speak ill of the dead an’ all, but Bessie weren’t no friend a’ mine. I doubt she ’ad that many friends. She was the ’ousekeeper an’ I was the maid an’ she never let me forget it, always on at me: Lily, do this, Lily, fetch that, like I was a skivvy.’

  We waited for a cart to pass before crossing into the park. The stones of the path crunched under our feet.

  ‘Did she get on with Mr Caine?’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘I wouldn’t know anythin’ about that. In the ’ouse she only really took orders from Mrs Caine.’

  There was something in the tone of her answer, the sudden stiffening of her body, that made me feel she was holding back.

  ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘that was until the mistress died.’

  ‘And how did Bessie take the news of Mrs Caine’s death?’

  The girl stopped and faced me. ‘Now that was odd. At first, like the rest of us, she just couldn’t believe it. We’d seen Mrs Caine the day before an’ she looked fine. Then the next morning she’s dead, jus’ like that, passed away in her sleep. She was only thirty-five. Well, you don’t expect it of someone that age. Certainly not a lady. But while me an’ Ada, that’s the cook, got on with things, Bessie just wouldn’t leave it. Started whisperin’ that the mistress had been done in – said she must ’ave been poisoned or some such. Course Ada told her it was nonsense, that the mistress never ate anythin’ that day what didn’t come from Ada’s kitchen.’

  ‘What about asphyxiation?’ I said.

  She looked at me. ‘You mean gas?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She shook her head. ‘There weren’t no gas in the room. The master had all the lights changed to electric years ago. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘the doctor said it was natural causes. For a week or so, that seemed enough for Bessie, and me an’ Ada thought that was an end to it. Then, just last week, she started up again, tellin’ Ada, who told me, that she was sure the mistress was done in.’

  ‘Did she say who she thought had done her in?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but it was obvious. Ada said they’d be talkin’ about it in the scullery and Bessie’d look up at the ceilin’ and lower her voice.’

  ‘Why would she think such a thing?’

  ‘I don’t like to say. Some folks is just spiteful, ain’t they? All I know is, the night she died, the master had his dinner and retired to bed. I don’t think he never even went near Mrs Caine’s room. An’ the next mornin’, I was the one what woke him with the news.’

  ‘Was it you who found Mrs Caine’s body?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘That was Bessie. I’d gone in earlier, as I always did, to light the fire in the grate, but I just thought the mistress was asleep. I didn’t realise she’d … passed on.’

  The wind came up and Lily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘What happened after Bessie found the body?’

  ‘Well, she came down the stairs an’, steady as you like, told me to go wake the master and bring him to Mrs Caine’s bedroom. The two of them, Bessie and the master, that is, then went in and closed the door.’

  ‘You didn’t go in too?’

  ‘Bessie thought it best for me to wait outside. Said she didn’t want me upset, and that was good of her, cos I’d have fair screamed the house down. Anyway, Mr Caine sent Bessie to fetch his doctor – Parsons I think his name is – who arrived within the hour. I don’t know what happened after that. Bessie sent me home.’

  ‘Why’d she do that?’

  Lily shrugged. ‘I ’spect she wanted to spare me the ordeal of seeing the mistress carted out.’

  We were by now approaching Moorgate.

  ‘This is me,’ said the maid, pointing to a grocer’s across the road.

  ‘Thank you, Lily,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  She turned to me and beamed a smile. ‘It’s no trouble, Constable. And if you’ve any more questions, you know where to find me.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  I saw them before they saw me. Fifty yards up the road, a gaggle of men loitering outside the entrance to Leman Street station, their suits, fancy for Whitechapel but still cheap, marking them as outsiders, and their general air of disdain identifying them as gentlemen of the press.

  The officers of H Division had had a rancorous relationship with the men of the Fourth Estate ever since the days of Jack the Ripper. While a certain deference was shown to our colleagues in the West End, the hacks who covered the East were more than happy to throw us under the omnibus if it meant a scoop or a titbit for whatever rag they were writing for.

  The loathing that most of the coppers felt for them was tempered only by the fact that many of those rags also provided us with a good source of supplementary income for tip-offs. People likened the press to a pack of wolves, but that was unfair to wolves. They at least had a fealty to the others in the pack. Whereas when it came to journalists, it was every hack for himself.

  The first to spot me was a short chap in brown pinstripe and homburg, leaning against a lamp post with a smoke hanging from his lower lip. While the others focused on the station doors, this one was looking out into the street. He slowly removed his cigarette, flicked it to the pavement and straightened. His face was lean, grey and in need of a shave. Looking towards his colleagues, and satisfied that none had yet seen me, he began walking in my direction, slowly at first, then faster as he approached.

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to be Constable Wyndham, would you?’ he said, placing a hand on my arm.

  The look on my face must have been answer enough, as a moment later he thrust a business card into my hand.

  ‘Harmsworth,’ he said, steering me into a side street and away from the police station, ‘Albert Harmsworth. Illustrated Gazette.’

  ‘How’d you know my name?’ I asked.

  ‘One of your colleagues was good enough to tell me. Tall, strapping young chap is what he said, and let me say, you fit the description.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Harmsworth?’


  Harmsworth scratched his ear. ‘It’s more a question of what we might do for each other.’ He looked round, scanning the vicinity. ‘Let’s not discuss it now, though. What time do you come off duty?’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘Good. D’you know the Turk’s Head? Down Wapping way?’

  ‘I know it.’

  The pub was a dive down by the river, a fair walk from Whitechapel and far enough to be fairly certain of not bumping into anyone familiar.

  ‘How about we meet for a drink at eight?’

  I agreed to meet him, partly due to curiosity and partly because I was young, naive and stupid enough to have my head turned by a reporter’s faint praise.

  Back at the station, I headed, not to Gooch’s office, but to the locked stockroom where evidence was kept.

  At the desk by the side of the room’s steel door, I signed the ledger and requested the strongbox which had been removed from Bessie’s room and which contained the few coins and the keys to the other rooms. The constable in charge nodded, then taking a large key from a ring on his belt, unlocked the door and entered, returning minutes later with the small metal cash box and its key.

  He placed them on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Not to be removed from the vicinity, son.’

  I thanked him, unlocked the box and opened it. Ignoring the cash and the keys, I picked up the small notebook that was also inside and flicked through the pages. It was Bessie’s rent book, her record of who’d paid and who was late. Back in the day, I’d seen her write in it several times. I scanned the final page. The date, written in pencil and in her hand, was the previous Friday. I read down the list of names till I came to Vogel. Beside it was written the amount of three shillings and the word ‘PAID’. I flipped further back. Over the previous two months Vogel hadn’t once fallen behind on his rent.