‘You mean Jeremiah Caine’s wife?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What d’you want to see those for?’
‘It might have a bearing on something that happened across in our patch,’ I said vaguely. ‘You could bring them here. I only need a quick look.’
‘OK,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I expect another drink, even if I don’t find anything.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Drink up. The next one’ll be waiting for you when you get back.’
He returned forty minutes later, a bleak look on his rugged features. He sat down on the stool beside me and sighed. I ordered him his drink.
‘Thanks for trying,’ I said.
Suddenly he grinned, reached into his tunic and pulled out a sheaf of papers and slapped them triumphantly on the bar. Each was inscribed with the same handwriting as in the coroner’s file, but the text on these pages was the curious blue of a carbon copy.
‘This what you’re looking for?’
I grabbed up the papers and turned immediately to the final page. There, at the top, were the words I hoped to find:
WITNESS STATEMENT OF MRS ELIZABETH
DRUMMOND
OF 42 FASHION STREET, WHITECHAPEL
I read on, drinking in the words, and stopped at a paragraph two-thirds of the way down:
It was I who found her. I went to wake the mistress at the usual time but she didn’t answer. I went to her bedside and tried to rouse her, but she was clearly dead. Her skin was cold, with what looked like burn marks on her chest.
Neither the doctor’s report nor the coroner’s report had mentioned anything about burn marks.
I turned to Gleeson, thanked him and returned the papers to him.
‘Keep these papers safe somewhere. Don’t return them to the file.’
I gestured to the barman.
‘Get this man a whisky. It’s on me.’
‘Very kind of you, mate,’ said Gleeson. ‘You not having one?’
‘I have to leave,’ I said, rising from the bar stool. ‘I need to go see a doctor.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Dr Ludlow’s rooms were round the corner from Fashion Street and they were closed, the door secured with a heavy padlock and the windows barred and shuttered to prevent ingress by any souls who might desire to unlawfully liberate any of the medicines within.
I banged on the door nevertheless, not because I felt there may be someone inside but because it seemed like a good way of relieving my frustrations. Suddenly a window opened on the floor above and a middle-aged man with short grey hair and half a mouth of teeth stuck his head out.
‘’E’s not in, mate! Don’t you think the ruddy great lock on the door’s a bit of a giveaway? Call yourself a copper?’
‘Know where I can find him?’
‘’E lives up Bethnal Green way, but you won’t find him there, not at this time, not of a Sunday. Your best bet’s the church. ’E goes to the big one with the spire in Spitalfields. Y’know the one I mean?’
‘Christ Church?’
‘Tha’s the one.’
‘Of course.’ I sighed. The church sat almost next door to the pub from which I’d just rushed.
Fifteen minutes later, I was outside the white stone facade of Christ Church Spitalfields, just in time for the doors to open and the congregation to spill out. I waited at the gates, checking each face till I saw Ludlow, accompanied by a woman and child.
‘Dr Ludlow,’ I said, as he walked down the path, ‘I need your help.’
Ludlow packed his wife and daughter into a hackney carriage, then turned to me.
‘Burn marks you say?’
‘That’s right. On the chest. They were definitely there at the time of death but it’s possible they might have disappeared by the time a doctor got round to examining the body.’
Ludlow gave a chuckle. ‘That’s hardly likely if they were actual burns.’
‘All I can tell you,’ I said, ‘is that the woman in question was in good health and found dead in her bed. The housekeeper who found her described what seemed to be burn marks on her chest. There was no mention of anything similar in the medical report or the coroner’s report.’
‘Maybe the marks were something else?’ The doctor shrugged. ‘Maybe a rash or some such thing? To the housekeeper’s untrained eye it might have looked like a burn, but the doctor would have known better and left it out of his report.’
That, I supposed, was possible, but it didn’t explain why Bessie’s witness statement had been removed from the file. My gut told me that what Bessie had noticed were actual burn marks, and that someone had impressed upon the doctor, and possibly the coroner, to issue a verdict of natural causes.
‘Let’s say they were burn marks. What could they be, and how could they come to be found on a dead woman’s chest?’
The doctor looked at me gravely. ‘There could be more than one explanation. Do you suspect foul play?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘In that case, I suppose the most likely hypothesis is that the contusions were what we call Joule burns. They’re caused by electricity.’
And suddenly the pieces clicked into place.
Caine had murdered his wife, electrocuted her in her bed, then bribed the doctor to write a whitewash of a report and procure a coroner’s verdict of death by natural causes. But Bessie Drummond had been the one who’d found her mistress’s body. She’d seen the Joule burns and, though she might not at first have known what they meant, she was a smart woman. It wouldn’t have taken her long to speak to a doctor, just as I had done, and find out their true significance. From there the rest flowed like water down a hillside. I guessed she confronted Caine, tried to blackmail him and he’d killed her, called in a favour from the Spiller brothers and had her witness statement removed from the coroner’s file. I daresay he could have had the copy at Bishopsgate police station removed too – he was a man with many friends after all – but I supposed he’d simply not realised there’d be a carbon.
I finally had it all. And I would take it to Gooch first thing in the morning.
THIRTY-NINE
There’s a reason why the young and idealistic become the old and cynical. It’s called experience.
They fished Drummond’s body out of the Thames at Wapping Steps at some point that night. I found out the next morning when I arrived at Leman Street at eight. Gooch wouldn’t arrive before nine, but Sergeant Whitelaw was already there.
‘He was seen drinking on Saturday down Limehouse way. The theory is he got drunk, fell in and drowned. He wouldn’t be the first fool to do so and I daresay he won’t be the last.’
I stared at the sergeant, and I thought he avoided my gaze.
‘The Spillers had him killed,’ I said. ‘To stop him talking to me. I wonder how they knew?’
Suddenly he was on his feet, and standing an inch from my face, his own deathly serious and contorted like the Devil.
‘Now you listen to me, son. You be careful what you say. The Spillers might have seen you walk out the Bleeding Hart together, or they might have found out one of a dozen other ways, or Drummond could have just topped himself cos he was a drunk and a waster. You go shootin’ your mouth off and you’re liable to find yourself in the kind of trouble that neither me nor Gooch nor anyone else’ll be able to get you out of.’
We stood there, squared up and toe-to-toe. My fists clenched, I was itching to throw a punch. But that would have been stupid. I’d have been kicked off the force for a start and then I’d be of precious little help to Vogel or anyone.
I stepped back and exhaled.
‘We can still save Vogel,’ I said. ‘You asked why the Spillers might be involved. You said find a motive and evidence. Well, I’ve found them. We need to arrest Jeremiah Caine.’
Whitelaw stared, wide-eyed. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? Jeremiah Caine isn’t just some Johnny-off-the-street. You better have a rock-solid case before you accuse him of
anything, let alone murder. Because if you don’t, he’ll finish you.’
‘I’ve got a case,’ I said. ‘There’s a witness statement from Bessie, saying she saw what looked like burn marks on Helena Caine’s body.’
Whitelaw shook his head in disbelief.
‘That’s it? That’s your case? A housekeeper sees marks on a body. Did the doctor see them? What did the coroner’s report say?’
‘Nothing,’ I admitted. ‘Caine must have paid them off. But taken with what Vogel and Drummond told me, it all adds up!’
‘Vogel’s a convicted murderer and Tom Drummond’s dead. Now unless you managed to get him to sign a statement before he jumped in the Thames, you’ve got precisely nothing.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Listen to me, son. That’s not a case, that’s the end of your career, and Gooch’ll tell you the exact same thing.’
He was right about that.
The inspector sat me in his office and explained the facts of life.
‘We should pass the details on to the Home Office,’ I said. ‘Tell them there may be doubt as to Vogel’s guilt.’
Sitting on the edge of his desk, Gooch shook his head. ‘This isn’t grounds for doubt,’ he said, ‘it’s just speculation.’
‘Shouldn’t we at least bring Caine in for questioning?’
‘And say what? A junior constable has got it into his head that you murdered your wife and then had your housekeeper killed because she found out and was trying to blackmail you?’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘That’s what happened.’
Gooch looked at me as though I was trying his patience.
‘Leaving aside that you’ve absolutely no proof to justify that assertion, you know what he’ll do? He’ll deny it all, then see to it that none of us ever work a case again. He’s a powerful man, and powerful men have powerful friends.’
‘So we just let him go? Is that justice?’
‘It’s life, Constable …’
He stood up and walked towards the window. ‘I think this whole case has affected you more than you realise. I think you feel responsible for sending a man to his death, even though he’s been found guilty by a jury. I think this whole Caine business is just your attempt to salve your own conscience. But you shouldn’t feel guilty. You did your job and you did it well.’
I tried to protest. ‘You told me in this very office that we needed to live up to the best in ourselves. Now, when we have the chance to play fair by Vogel, you’re just going to let him hang?’
Quoting his own words back to him triggered something. ‘Look, son. You fight the battles you can win. And those you can’t … well … if you’re convinced you’re right, you just have to think of another way. If you can’t tackle something head on, try and hit it from a different angle. You’re a smart lad. You’ll think of something.’
I left his office with his words ringing in my head like a bell. I made for the locker room and changed into my civvies, then headed out the back of the station and into the first boozer I could find in search of enough drink to drown my conscience. It wasn’t enough, however, and an hour later, I found myself out on the streets once more.
The rain was coming down again, a constant drizzle falling from a gunmetal sky as though the heavens were weeping, mourning for Bessie, and Vogel, and God knew what else. In the premature, preternatural half-light, I traipsed through the roads, blood up and senses dulled by the four pints I’d downed in the pub.
My destination: Caine’s town house off Finsbury Circus. I turned into the darkening street, its genteel stillness in sharp contrast to the noise and dirt and bustle of Whitechapel.
No lights shone in the front windows. Indeed there was no sign of life at all. Nevertheless I climbed the steps to the door and pulled on the wrought-iron knocker that hung beneath a blackened lion’s mouth.
The maid, Lily, answered, her initial surprise at the sight of me soon tempered with a smile.
‘Constable,’ she said, ‘what brings you ’ere?’
‘I need to speak to Caine. I’ve some more questions.’
Her nose wrinkled, possibly in disappointment, though probably at the scent of alcohol on my breath.
‘’Fraid ’e’s not home yet. An’ you’re not in uniform.’
‘Call it a social visit. When are you expecting him?’
‘’Ard to say, really. Though ’e’s usually back by six. D’you want ’a come in an’ wait?’
I was about to decline, but then thought better of it.
‘All right.’
Lily led me through to the drawing room where Caine had received me on my last visit.
‘Will that be all?’
‘Actually, Lily,’ I said, ‘before you go, could you tell me a little about Mrs Caine?’
Her brow furrowed. She seemed in two minds, unclear whether talking to me about her late mistress would be breaking confidences.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘It’d be a real help.’
‘What d’you want to know?’
‘Was she unwell before she died?’
Lily shook her head. ‘Not that I remember. She seemed in good ’elf right until the night before she passed.’
‘Could you show me the room in which she passed away?’
She hesitated.
‘It would only take a minute.’
She wavered. ‘Awright, but quickly. I don’t want to get into no trouble.’
I followed her back into the hallway and up a flight of stairs to Helena Caine’s room. Lily turned the handle and stood aside for me to enter.
The room was cold, the air tinged with the musty chill that suggested no one had entered it for many days. Against the far wall was the bed, large and soft-looking, and to either side a table, on one of which stood an electric lamp: a brass stick with a blue-and-green stained-glass shade.
I walked over to the lamp and took a closer look. A thin black plaited wire ran from the base to a box on the floor. I reached under the shade for the small brass dial and turned it.
Nothing happened.
I tried again, turning the knob first one way, then the other. Again nothing. I looked under the shade.
‘There’s no bulb in here,’ I said, more to myself than to Lily.
The maid looked confused. ‘Don’t matter. No one’s bin in ’ere since the mistress passed away.’
I looked around. On a dresser beside the window sat a few silver-framed photographs. One showed a countryside setting, a handsome woman in her late twenties, posing with a large dog.
‘Is that Mrs Caine?’
‘Tha’s right,’ said Lily. ‘Long time ago by the looks of it. I ain’t seen that dog round ’ere.’
‘Did she and Mr Caine get on?’
Her face fell.
‘I don’t …’
From downstairs came the sound of a door opening, and Lily froze.
‘Hell! That’ll be the master. ’E can’t find you ’ere.’
She grabbed me by the arm and rushed towards the door.
We were halfway down the stairs when Caine appeared. If he was shocked to see me there, he didn’t show it. I supposed it took more than the unexpected sight of a policeman on his stairs to disconcert a man who’d come up the hard way.
‘You’re that copper, aren’t you? The one who was here about Bessie’s death.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Care to tell me what you’re doing in my house?’
‘I came to ask you a few questions.’
He gave a thin smile. ‘Really? Except you don’t seem to be in uniform.’
‘I thought it might be better to keep it off the record for now.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ he said, his eyes widening. ‘You’d better come into the drawing room, then, instead of prowling round my house.’
Lily went to speak, but Caine cut her off with a glance and a raised hand.
‘We’ll talk later, Lily.’
I followed Caine into the drawing room.
‘Do
n’t be too hard on her,’ I said. ‘I practically ordered her to –’
Caine spun round, a look of venomous contempt writ large on his face.
‘What are you doing here, Constable?’
‘I know what you did,’ I said. ‘I know you killed your wife. I know Bessie found out, and smart girl though she was, I expect she tried to blackmail you. You asked the Spillers to take care of her, luring her to a meeting in Grey Eagle Street, and when that failed, you went round to Fashion Street and killed her yourself, then got the Spillers to pay off Tom Drummond and tidy up your mess. And now, just as Drummond was going to come clean, he ends up face down in the Thames. Another of your victims.’
Caine was silent for a moment. Then he growled a laugh.
‘You smell like you’ve been drinking, Constable. Though being drunk is hardly an excuse for what you’ve done, coming round here and casting all sorts of aspersions without any proof.’
‘I’ve got a copy of Bessie’s witness statement,’ I said.
There was a flicker in those hard eyes.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I know you electrocuted your wife. Do you deny it?’
‘Unless you’re here to charge me with something, I don’t need to deny it.’
‘An innocent man is going to hang for your actions.’
‘Careful, sonny,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going to give you one chance to save your career. Walk out of here now and we can forget this unfortunate incident ever occurred.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘It’ll be the end of you.’
I shook my head. ‘What are you going to do? Report me?’
Caine laughed under his breath. ‘Believe me, that would just be the start of it.’
‘Is that a threat?’ I asked.
‘That’s right,’ said Caine. ‘And something you should know about me, son. I always follow through on my threats.’
FORTY
I left Caine’s house with the faint appreciation that I might have signed my own death warrant. Not that I cared. At that moment my own life felt worthless. Guilt welled up like bile in my throat. The body count was rising. Helena Caine, Bessie and now Tom Drummond. In a few weeks, Israel Vogel would be added to their number.
Death in the East Page 23