by Granger, Ann
‘We’re packed like herrings,’ groused Mary Newling, unimpressed, ‘and a lot of the folk here are strangers to soap and water, it seems to me. If a body were to be taken faint there’d be nowhere to fall. They’d have to lay the poor soul on that . . .’ She pointed to the sawdust floor.
Just then a band took up its place on a podium to one side. It was no more than a couple of fiddles and a trumpet-player, together with a man either banging on a drum or rattling an instrument of his own invention: a pole with various bits of metal attached. It made a wonderful racket when he beat the end of his staff on the ground. I was more than ready to believe Molly’s assertion that it was a proper orchestra.
When the orchestra fell silent, into the ring strode a fine moustachioed gentleman in hunting pink and dazzling white breeches. He saluted us with his top hat, bid us welcome and to prepare to be amazed. He then turned and pointed with his long whip to a curtained spot behind him.
To my delight, the curtains were dragged aside by unseen hands and in cantered a line of beautiful white ponies with feathers nodding between their ears. They galloped around the gentleman in hunting pink as he cracked the whip. Then in came another horse, fantastically bedecked. There were gasps and whistles from the crowd because balanced on its broad back, standing up, was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was scantily glad in a fringed corset of emerald green satin and bright pink tights. As the horse circled the ring, the vision in green satin struck various poses with her arms and then, incredibly, bent to place both palms flat on the pad on the horse’s back and up went her legs, straight as anything, and she stood on her hands as the horse still cantered round.
‘Disgusting!’ declared Mary Newling, ‘showing all she’s got!’ But no one heard her for the wild applause, whistles and cheers.
When, her display over, the rider was on her way to the exit she did actually fall off, landing on her back with her pink legs kicking. But she was cheered again, most people believing it part of the show.
Next came the strong man in leopard-skin leotard and scarlet boots. He lifted terribly heavy-looking barbells with ease.
‘Fake!’ growled Mary Newling. ‘Filled with air, more than like!’
But by now I was clapping and cheering with all the rest, having a wonderful time. Then the orchestra struck up again and in ran the clowns.
They were the stuff of my nightmares, misshapen, grotesquely garbed and painted. They tumbled and fell about, tripped one another up, threw buckets of shredded paper over one another and into the crowd and played all manner of tricks. I understood at once, in my childish way, that some cruel mischief had invaded the ring. It wasn’t funny; it was threatening. Just then, one of the hideous creatures broke away and ran straight towards me with grinning scarlet mouth and outstretched arms . . .
I had to be taken out, of course, and that wasn’t easy. The crowd didn’t want the show interrupted nor to give way and let Mary and Molly carry me out between them. They swore and catcalled; shouting out that Molly should ‘stop the brat’s howling!’
I bawled all the way home. Molly Darby cried, too, because she’d be blamed for the whole disaster. Mary Newling divided her time between consoling me, scolding Molly, and declaring triumphantly that she’d said from the first it would end in tears.
All these terrors returned now as I gazed at the clown, poor harmless fellow that he was, trying to earn a few pennies. Bessie gripped my arm and said loudly, ‘Don’t worry, missus. We’ll walk on and cross further up over Westminster Bridge! It ain’t so much out of our way.’
But I was footsore and knew Bessie must be tired, too. The thought of making an unnecessary detour just because of an irrational fear embarrassed me. I was ashamed to behave stupidly before a sixteen-year-old girl. I rallied and said firmly, ‘No, Bessie, we’ll walk past him and cross this bridge as we intended. It isn’t his fault. Wait . . .’ I thrust my hand into the drawstring purse on my wrist and took out some coins. ‘Go and drop those in his bowl.’
Bessie took my offering and walked briskly up to the clown. ‘Here you are!’ she said loudly into his painted face. ‘Though you’re a sight fit to frighten folk, do you know that?’ She let the coins clatter down into the wooden bowl at his feet.
The clown chuckled and looked past her, straight at me. He took the strange hat from his orange curls and bowed in my direction. All the time he kept his dark glittering eyes fixed on me. There was something so knowing and sharp in his gaze that I quite froze for the moment, hearing nothing of the noise around me and unseeing of anything else. I wanted to look away from him but couldn’t. He straightened up and replaced his hat but still kept his eyes on me.
‘He’ll know you again, won’t he?’ Bessie was back at my side. ‘Staring like that. No manners, that’s what, even if he is a clown. Even a clown ought not to go staring at decent ladies out walking!’ She gestured angrily at him.
It broke the spell. He looked away and I awoke from my paralysis. ‘Come along!’ I said and marched past him on to the bridge, Bessie trotting alongside me.
Then, ahead of us, we spotted Thomas Tapley again, also walking home. Provided he had not stopped off somewhere in the meantime, he must have walked quite as far as Bessie and I had done, but his step was still brisk. We wouldn’t overtake him. But, at that moment, someone else overtook us. To my horror, it was the clown.
He had left his post! Was he following us? My heart leaped painfully. But we were not of interest to him. He padded past us and I saw his garish attire moving ahead, slowing to a walk, and keeping several paces behind Tapley. If Tapley had turned, he still might not have spotted the fellow at once. The bridge was busy and it seemed to me the clown was careful to keep other walkers between him and the shabby bottle green frock coat. But Tapley did not turn. Like us, his mind was doubtless on soon being home and hearing the welcome whistle of the teakettle on the hob. Both were walking faster than we were and the crowd, which had parted before the clown, now closed behind him, blocking my view. They must have reached the far side well before we did so it wasn’t surprising that when we got there, both of them were out of sight.
I was filled with misgiving. It must be my imagination playing more nonsensical tricks, I told myself. But to me it had appeared that the clown was following Thomas Tapley.
Chapter Two
* * *
I DIDN’T mention the clown to Ben that evening. I’d earlier warned Bessie to say nothing. When we’d reached home we’d concentrated on making the steak, ale and oyster pie for supper and didn’t speak of the episode even to one another. I was ashamed of my cowardice, as I now saw it. But I was still a little worried about Tapley, despite telling myself that my concern for him was only an extension of my own fear.
I did tell Ben we’d met Mrs Jameson’s lodger. I passed on Tapley’s good wishes and hope that Ben would rid London of scoundrels.
‘We do our best,’ said Ben wryly. ‘But it’s a little like chopping a head off that Greek monster that grew seven heads in place of each lopped one.’
‘The Hydra,’ I said.
‘That’s it. London’s underworld is like that. We arrest one villain and deliver him to the court. The judge sends him off to prison. But before the process is even complete, another couple of rogues has taken up where the original one left off.’ He paused to eat a mouthful of pie. ‘That’s the only person you met, then?’
‘The only person we knew,’ I said, satisfying honesty and discretion at the same time.
Nothing further happened until the following evening. It had been a busy day. We were sitting by our parlour fire after supper and chatting. The evenings were still cool enough to require some extra warmth of an evening. It was a dark room that didn’t get the sun and was often chilly. From the kitchen we could hear Bessie washing the dishes in her usual noisy fashion with much clanging of pots. Suddenly there was an even more tremendous clatter and the sound of Bessie’s voice, crying out in distress.
‘Bother that girl
!’ grumbled Ben. ‘Has she broken another plate?’
But I was already on my feet because Bessie’s shrill cry of alarm suggested more than a broken dish. Sure enough, the parlour door was flung open and she appeared, still wearing her damp apron and with her cotton mob cap askew.
‘Oh, sir, oh, missus!’ she gasped. ‘Something ’orrible has happened!’
Ben, accustomed to dealing with horrors on a near daily basis, merely shrugged and picked up his newspaper, leaving it to me to deal with whatever domestic emergency it was.
‘What is it, Bessie?’ I asked, hurrying towards her. As I did I caught the sound of another female, sobbing in the kitchen.
‘There’s been a dreadful murder, missus! Oh, sir, you’ve got to come straight away!’
Ben put down his newspaper with admirable calm and asked, ‘Just where has this murder taken place, Bessie? Outside in the street? We heard nothing.’
‘No, sir. It’s Mrs Jameson’s housemaid!’
‘Murdered?’ Ben’s tone sharpened and he rose to his feet.
‘She’s in our kitchen?’ I asked, guessing the origin of the sobbing noises. I didn’t wait but hurried past Bessie and arrived in the kitchen with Ben on my heels, to find a girl of similar age to Bessie. She’d collapsed on to the stone-flagged floor and was sitting there weeping. When we arrived she gave way to a dreadful roaring and began to roll about.
‘She’s having a fit!’ Ben exclaimed. ‘Get a wooden spoon and put it between her teeth. She’ll bite her tongue!’
‘No, no, she’s only terrified,’ I snapped. I ran to seize the girl by her shoulders and force her to keep still, though she still crouched at my feet like some sort of animal unable to stand on two legs only. ‘What’s your name?’
The girl stared up at me, her mouth working silently.
‘She’s called Jenny,’ Bessie informed us. ‘Here, Jenny, stop acting stupid and get up on your feet. Don’t you know no better?’ She accompanied her words with action, striding across to the hapless housemaid and physically hauling her up on her feet, though the wretched visitor looked as if she might collapse again at any second.
Ben took over, hastily pushing a kitchen chair forward. Jenny sank down on that, still looking up at us with tears rolling down her cheeks. Bending over her, Ben asked gently but firmly, ‘Now, Jenny, what’s it all about?’
‘You’ve to come at once, sir, if you please,’ she whispered. ‘My mistress said to run and find you. It would be quicker than finding the bobby on his beat.’
‘Is Mrs Jameson harmed?’ he demanded.
‘No, sir, it’s Mr Tapley, her lodger. He’s dead, sir, all horribly battered about and covered in blood! He’s lying on . . .’ But here Jenny could manage no more and began to sob noisily again.
Ben straightened up. ‘I’ll go and see what’s amiss. This girl had better stay here. Bessie, make her some strong hot tea. I won’t be long, with luck, Lizzie, but if things should—’
‘But I’m coming with you!’ I interrupted him. ‘Whatever’s happened, poor Mrs Jameson is alone in the house now. She must be in a terrible state of distress and even in danger. At the least, she’ll need someone to support her. While you investigate what’s happened to Mr Tapley, I’ll look after Mrs Jameson.’
‘Yes, yes, all right then!’ He was already on his way out without pausing to take even his hat.
I ran after him and together we arrived quickly at Mrs Jameson’s house. The front door stood open and the gas mantles downstairs were all burning brightly. It was now almost dark enough to warrant artificial light, but I guessed Mrs Jameson had lit them to ward off any intruder who might still be lurking. I peered into the shadows around us, but there was no one to be seen, nor could I hear footsteps.
Ben called out the widow’s name as we climbed the few steps. She must have seen or heard us, for she was already in the hall, waiting. She was pale and shaking, on the verge of losing her composure, but greeted us civilly.
‘Thank you for coming, Inspector, and Mrs Ross, too. I am so sorry to have troubled you but poor Mr Tapley . . .’ Her voice faltered.
Ben said quietly, ‘Where is the body?’
‘Upstairs, Inspector. In his little sitting room. He occupies the two rooms on the first floor overlooking the street.’
Ben bounded up the stairs. I took Mrs Jameson by her arm and led her into her parlour.
‘I’ll make you some tea,’ I said, when she was seated.
She half rose until I pushed her gently down again. ‘Oh, no, Mrs Ross, you mustn’t take so much trouble, Jenny can . . .’
She broke off, apparently remembering she’d sent Jenny on her errand to fetch Ben.
‘Jenny is sitting in our kitchen with our maid, Bessie,’ I said. ‘She’ll be back as soon as Bessie has calmed her down enough. Perhaps something a little stronger than tea would help. Have you any wine, sherry or Madeira, perhaps?’
At that she rallied and said firmly, ‘Oh no, no strong drink of any sort ever comes into this house, Mrs Ross.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest . . .’ I apologised.
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she appeared to have collected her thoughts. ‘No tea either, thank you, Mrs Ross, but I admit I am glad to have your company.’
From above our heads came the sound of a door closing and then Ben came clattering down the stairs.
‘I’m going directly to the Yard.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s not a good idea to leave you two women here unprotected. Perhaps you’d better both go to our house.’
So Thomas Tapley was dead, I thought. It wasn’t some dreadful mistake or even an injury leaving him unconscious. I looked up at the ceiling and wondered if it was in the room above this parlour that he sprawled lifeless.
‘I shall stay here,’ said Mrs Jameson suddenly with unexpected firmness. ‘Dreadful as it is to know poor Mr Tapley is lying dead upstairs, to leave the house quite empty apart from his corpse seems altogether wrong. It would be as if everyone had abandoned him. It would not be decent. I am not afraid of a dead man, Mr Ross.’
I thought it was probably the living that Ben was more worried about. But a look of obstinacy on the landlady’s face told us both her mind was made up. She had decided it was right to remain, observing a kind of death-watch. When someone like Mrs Jameson had made up her own mind as to what was right, there would be no shifting her.
‘I am prepared to wait here with Mrs Jameson, if that is what she wants,’ I said.
I could see Ben wasn’t happy with this, but he was anxious to get to the Yard, and nodded. ‘Officers will come as soon as I can bring them. If I see the local man on the beat I’ll send him round before that. But in the meantime, no one, no one at all, can enter that room. Is that clear? Lizzie, make sure, won’t you, that no one goes upstairs?’
I promised and followed him to the front door to secure it behind him.
‘And lock that parlour door, too. I wish you’d both go to our house,’ he repeated.
‘It will be all right,’ I told him optimistically.
With a promise to return with all possible speed, he left and I went back to the widow. I turned the key in the parlour door, as Ben had requested, conscious of Mrs Jameson watching me.
‘All this is a terrible shock,’ she whispered as I took a seat opposite to her. ‘A barbarous business, how else can I describe it? And the victim Mr Tapley! He is, he was such a good tenant.’ She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me helplessly. ‘Who could be so wicked as to do such a dreadful thing? And in my house!’
I thought she must be about sixty, perhaps a year or two younger than her late tenant. Her grey hair was still thick and parted centrally, smoothed back on either side in two wings and twisted at the nape of her neck in a bun. She wore a maroon gown with lace collar and cuffs and looked the very picture of respectability. My eye fell on her hands and her wedding ring. She wore no other jewellery. My thoughts, you see, were running along the lines of a violent burglar, dis
turbed perhaps by Tapley. But the parlour, around which I quickly glanced, was like a thousand others up and down the land. All in all, it wasn’t a poorly furnished room but neither did it indicate wealth. I saw a set of comfortable chairs; a faded Turkey carpet; a couple of low tables, on one of them an opened Bible. The only other items of any interest were a portrait of the late Captain Jameson, surmounted by a black silk bow; a pair of Chinese vases on the mantelshelf, perhaps brought back by him from some voyage, and between them a solid ebony-cased clock ticking monotonously. On the wall hung an alphabet sampler worked by a childish hand.
It was all so normal in every way. The only oddity, if you could call it that, was more unexpected than strange. It was a child’s rocking horse standing in one corner. The amiable animal was painted white with scuffed black patches and had a long black mane and tail of real horsehair. Its red velvet saddle had faded and looked well worn. Her late husband had left Mrs Jameson fairly comfortably off, I decided, but she had still felt obliged to let her first-floor front rooms to a lodger. Was it only financial need or, perhaps, loneliness? Was it the security of knowing another person, a man, lived there? To have someone under the same roof other than herself, getting on in years, and a very young maidservant would be encouraging, especially during the hours of darkness. Not that poor Thomas Tapley would have been much use defending the two women. He had not, it seemed, been able to defend himself.
She had noticed my interest in the rocking horse. ‘It belonged to our little daughter, Dorcas,’ she said. ‘She died at the age of ten. It was the diphtheria. Several children in the neighbourhood caught it and all of them died. We are not so far from the river here and fevers used to be very common, as indeed they still are. Dorcas loved Dobbin even when she’d grown too big to sit on him. So Dobbin stays there in his corner, keeping me company now that both Ernest and Dorcas have gone before me to a better place.’
‘I am so sorry,’ I said. ‘So sorry that as well as your losses you have now to deal with this.’