by Lee Jackson
‘With respect, I am not a dog, sir.’
‘Watkins, if you were a dog I could merely whistle. Tell me something, did our mystery woman have a ticket on her person?’
Watkins pauses for thought. ‘No, sir. Not that I recollect.’
‘Now why would that be?’
‘She might have lost it in the scuffle.’
‘Scuffle?’
‘When he strangled her.’
Webb looks disbelieving. ‘She might. There were discarded tickets upon the floor, were there not? I seem to recall seeing them.’
‘Oh, they will insist on doing that, sir,’ interjects Jones the ticket clerk, ‘though we tell ’em to keep ’em, even after inspection.’
‘But I believe you said there was no guard last night?’
‘On the train, sir? No, not the last train. It was them works at Paddington, playing havoc with our rota, you see?’
‘And so the girl could have caught it without a ticket?’
‘Oh no,’ says the clerk, frowning at this slur on the efficiency of the Metropolitan Railway, ‘we had a man on the gate here.’
‘I’ve spoken to him, sir,’ says the sergeant. ‘He recollects nothing.’
‘He did not see the girl?’
‘He doesn’t say that. Says he can’t remember one way or the other.’
‘Really? What remarkable vigilance,’ says Webb, looking thoughtful for a moment, then extending his hand to shake that of Mr. Jones. ‘We are done here, I believe. Thank you for your assistance.’
Mr. Jones nods, and is about to make his way out, when sergeant Watkins addresses Webb.
‘Sir? I’ve also got the men who were working the track last night; they’re ready for you at Baker Street. I can telegraph and get them down here if you like.’
‘No need; we shall take the train. Perhaps it will provide some insight.’
Watkins agrees, and the two men begin to walk down to the platform. A small voice, however, calls out from behind them.
‘One moment, gentlemen,’ says Mr. Jones. ‘You’ll be wanting a ticket.’
The train containing Decimus Webb and sergeant Watkins pulls slowly out of Farringdon station. It is watched by a workman who stands idly by the signals, wearing a thick oilskin coat, the kind favoured by many of those who work on the tracks. The platform is now all but cleared of people, for a short while at least, and, looking at the station clock, he makes his way along, up the steps and out towards the ticket hall.
‘Night, Bill. You off?’
‘There’ll be another man through the tunnel soon, he can pick up.’
‘You in the Three Cups tonight, Billy?’
‘Maybe.’
He is a burly man, Bill Hunt, with the hard square face and broad shoulders typical of a body accustomed to physical labour. He does not speak much, and his colleague does not press any further questions upon him, though talk of murder is upon everyone’s lips; they soon separate. Hunt makes his way into Farringdon Street itself, against the tide of travellers bound in the opposite direction. They are largely city clerks, and the large man in dirty oilskins appears an oddity amongst them. He keeps his eyes fixed upon the ground, however, amongst this sea of silk-hatted strangers, and manoeuvres gradually to Victoria Street, and then across the busy road, up the slope that leads to Hatton Garden. His path is quite predetermined and he soon turns off into a side street, at one end of which hangs a sign of three golden goblets, signifying the Three Cups public house. It is a small establishment, and would be all but invisible from the street were it not illuminated by a large iron gas-lamp, its brilliance somehow quite ill-suited to the narrow passage in which it is set.
The inside of the place, however, with which Bill Hunt is rather familiar, is not so bright. Indeed, it is not untypical of the shabbier sort of little gin palace that apes its larger rivals on Drury Lane. Like them, it boasts a mahogany bar, though the wood is chipped and stained; like them it is illuminated by gas, though it has only two lamps. Naturally, there is also the tobacco smoke, which hangs in the air like a fog, and the pervasive smell of spilt liquor. All in all, it is precisely what a Clerkenwell man expects of his local public and, however much there may be mud upon the floor and peculiarities in the ale, and however much the air may choke him, it seems cosy enough to the likes of Bill Hunt. Indeed, Hunt knows well many of the folk that drink there, and a few of them greet him as he walks in. He is surprised, however, to be hailed by one voice in particular.
‘Bill! This is a treat!’
‘What?’
He looks around and sees Tom Hunt seated in one corner of the room; he has a smile on his face, unlike his young wife, who sits sullenly beside him.
‘I didn’t expect to see you in a hurry, Tom Hunt,’ says Bill, wearily.
‘Didn’t you? Your own cousin? Your own flesh and blood?’
‘It’s only been two weeks. And there’s a matter of a half-crown between us, ain’t there?’
‘Let me stand you a drink, eh?’ persists Tom, ignoring the question. ‘Let me get you a drop of purl? That’s still your favourite tipple, ain’t it?’
Bill Hunt groans. He is not a quick-witted man, and though he feels irritation at his cousin’s banter, he is resigned to it, in much the same way as a weary ox suffers the stings of a gadfly.
‘Come on, Bill, sit and have a drink.’
He sits down, reluctantly, stealing a glance at Lizzie Hunt as he does so.
‘How are things with you, old man?’ asks Tom.
‘The police have been crawling about,’ he says, ‘asking questions down the railway.’
‘Really? Why’s that? You been a bad boy, Bill?’
‘I ain’t done nothing,’ he says hastily.
‘Tom,’ interjects Lizzie, ‘don’t tease him. You know what it’ll be. You was only just talking of it.’
Tom Hunt grins. ‘Aye, that poor girl, eh? Strangled. Weren’t you, were it, Bill? Eh? That’s a good’un, ain’t it? Always the quiet ones, they say, Liz.’
‘No, it weren’t,’ replies Bill Hunt, scowling.
‘Don’t take on, old man,’ replies Hunt, laughing at his cousin’s expense. ‘Just my little joke, that’s all. Now, let me get you that drink.’
‘What do you want, Tom?’
‘Well, let’s just say me and Liz are having difficulties with our accommodation.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DECIMUS WEBB’S TRAIN pulls in at Baker Street. He lets his sergeant go on ahead, and, in a couple of minutes, he finds himself standing by the track, past the end of the platform, next to a small wooden shed that serves as a repository for the workmen’s tools. Beside him are sergeant Watkins and a dozen or so men in soot-blackened clothing – cloth or oilskins that afford no protection to their faces, which are as dirty as that of any miner. They all stand either hunched over their picks and shovels, or slouching with hands in pockets; they do not so much avoid the policeman’s gaze as simply ignore it.
‘Gentlemen,’ says Webb, ‘as you know, sergeant Watkins has assembled you here so I may ask you a few questions.’
A couple of the men spare him a glance, but none of them speaks. Webb, however, is unperturbed and continues to address them.
‘Firstly, how many of you saw the train last night?’
‘The last train, was it?’ asks one man.
‘Yes, the last train.’
Most of the men nod, or mutter some acknowledgement. The man who spoke adds, ‘We all would have seen it. We all is ready to work, once it’s gone by.’
‘And what is your work?’
‘Repairs and that. And there’s the new station buildings at Farringdon, and the new line. All needs looking after, night and day.’
‘And, tell me, did you see or hear anything peculiar or unusual in relation to that last train?’
‘How do you mean?’ says the same man.
‘Well, perhaps a scream or shout, or something you saw in the carriage.’
A couple of the m
en smile. Most of them shake their heads.
‘And what’s so funny?’ asks Watkins sharply.
‘No offence,’ says one of the men, ‘but you ain’t been in the tunnels, have you? You don’t see much of anything when the train goes by, excepting dust and steam. And you wouldn’t hear nothing but the wheels neither. Not if there was a brass band playing, you wouldn’t hear it.’
Webb pauses, fixing his gaze on the man who spoke.
‘I see. Well then, thank you, gentlemen. If you think of anything more, please let me know. I believe that will be all for now.’
The men look surprised at the brevity of the interview, but relieved at its termination. Webb climbs the steps back on to the platform. Watkins follows him.
‘Well, that was hardly worth it,’ says Watkins.
‘I had nothing more to ask them. And, besides, none seemed keen to talk.’
‘You can tell he planned it, eh?’
‘Planned?’
‘He gets the girl alone in the carriage. No-one can see a thing, no-one can hear her screaming.’
‘And what about someone in the next carriage? Would they not have heard her?’
‘Not with the noise of the train, surely?’
‘Maybe. Tell me, is my velocipede still here, sergeant?’
‘We had it taken back to the station house last night, sir, for safety. We thought that would be best.’
‘Hmph. I had thought to ride it directly home.’
‘Home already, sir?’
‘I do not think there is much more I can do today. I need to think on it. We are missing something, I know it. Hold on, what’s this?’
As he speaks, a boy rushes down the steps from the ticket hall and makes directly for the policemen.
‘Message for Inspector Webb, if you please, sir.’
‘I am he,’ replies Webb.
‘Sergeant Tibbs says can you come to the station house directly, sir. Says it’s urgent.’
‘How curious,’ says Webb. ‘Tell me, young man, do you know what this is about?’
‘That was the message, sir,’ says the boy.
‘But do you know what it pertains to, young man?’
‘There’s a lady, sir. That’s all I know.’
‘A lady? Well, run on and tell sergeant Tibbs that I shall be there directly; and tell him that had he not taken my velocipede into his custody, I should be there all the quicker.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind, here’s a penny for you. Just tell him I will be there shortly.’
The boy eagerly takes the penny, and runs at full pelt past the crowd of passengers waiting on the platform.
‘So much,’ says Webb, ‘for an early finish.’
A half-hour later, and Decimus Webb enters his office in Marylebone Lane.
‘Inspector?’ Philomena Sparrow turns her head and rises from her chair.
‘Indeed, but please seat yourself, ma’am,’ says the inspector.
Miss Sparrow complies, watching the inspector manoeuvre round his desk to take the seat behind it; he is impeded by heaps of paper and notebooks, which lie both on its surface and scattered upon the floor around its boundaries.
‘I am afraid that I have been sitting a full hour, Inspector,’ says Miss Sparrow.
‘Well,’ says Webb, finally lowering himself into his chair, ‘we will keep you no longer than necessary, now that I am here. Now, I understand our good sergeant Tibbs has shown you the . . . ah . . . deceased?’
‘Really, you may say “body” Inspector. It is all the same to me.’
‘Indeed? May I? You show remarkable composure, ma’am.’
‘I am quite accustomed to death, Inspector, in my profession.’
‘You are, I understand, lady superintendent of the Holborn Refuge, is that correct?’
‘Of course it is. That is precisely what I told your sergeant two hours ago. Must I repeat everything?’
‘It is quite likely,’ replies Webb, smiling. ‘And so, tell me, you believe you recognise the body?’
‘There is no question, Inspector. It is Sally Bowker, one of our girls.’
‘I see. Has she been with you long?’
‘A month or so.’
‘And has she any family? They should be told, if so.’
‘Not to my knowledge. I would need to check our records, but I believe she said she was an orphan. It is not a simple matter to check, of course. The girls have a habit of, shall we say, fabrication.’
Webb picks up a pencil from the desk and twirls it between his fingers as he talks.
‘That is a shame. And, forgive my bluntness, ma’am, but she was a magdalene, yes?’
‘There is no need to spare my blushes, Inspector. Yes, she was on the streets before she was reformed.’
‘Ah,’ says Webb, raising his eyebrows a little, ‘you consider that she was quite reformed?’
‘She was one of our best, Inspector. You do not know, I am sure, how much a woman may be changed in a month by prayer and hard work. I cannot believe that she would have fallen from the path.’
‘But, I suppose, you cannot account for her presence on the Metropolitan Railway? One certainly might wonder what business a young girl, any young girl, might have there, if one saw her travelling so late at night. Or perhaps she was on some errand for yourself?’
‘No,’ replies Miss Sparrow, hanging her head a little,
‘she broke our curfew. I regret that I cannot account for it.’
Webb smiles indulgently. ‘Nor would I ask you to, ma’am. Tell me, did, ah, Sally have any particular acquaintances who might have wished her harm?’
‘Acquaintances, Inspector? I could not say. She did not keep company with anyone outside the refuge, not to my knowledge.’
Webb does not reply to this point. ‘And there is no-one at your establishment to whom she was particularly close?’
‘No-one that I know of,’ replies Miss Sparrow.
‘And you cannot tell me why anyone would want to . . . ah . . . do away with the girl?’
‘I cannot. Surely that is your job, Inspector, and to catch this lunatic, whoever he may be.’
‘Oh, indeed, ma’am. It is indeed. I am merely not convinced that it is a “lunatic”, as you put it.’
‘What other explanation is there?’
‘Oh, my dear Madam, if I knew that already the matter would be done with, and we both could be somewhere else entirely. Perhaps, I wonder, might we visit you tomorrow, in situ, as it were, and discuss the matter in more detail then?’
‘Is that necessary? It will disturb my girls.’
‘I am afraid it is very necessary, ma’am.’
‘I see. If you wish. Well, if that is all for the moment, do you think I might go now? I have been away long enough already.’
‘Indeed. One moment, and I will find a constable to escort you.’
‘That would be good of you,’ replies Miss Sparrow, curtly, without much hint of gratitude.
Webb gets up and makes for the door, stumbling over a stack of books as he does so.
‘I won’t be a second,’ he says, as he dusts down his trousers.
‘Well, sir, what do you make of that?’ says Watkins, a few minutes later, when Miss Sparrow has left the building.
‘Of Miss Sparrow? An intelligent woman. She cared for the girl, I think.’
‘Tibbs said she seemed a queer old fish, sir. Prickly, he said.’
‘Have you met sergeant Tibbs’ wife, Watkins?’
‘Not to speak of.’
‘Well, rest assured sergeant Tibbs is in no position to pass judgement.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do. Now, where is my blasted velocipede?’
‘Off home, sir?’
‘If I have your permission, sergeant, yes. We have had this conversation already, have we not?’
‘Take care, sir. Them roads is terribly dangerous at night, you know.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AS INS
PECTOR WEBB readies himself for his journey home, another figure makes a slow and solitary progress through an altogether different part of the metropolis – Agnes White.
For two hours or more she has wandered this way and that, and even the acutest observer would be hard-pressed to find a method to her meandering. None the less, as night falls and a thick river-fog begins to creep from the Thames, she appears to be drawn eastwards. True, she does not take a direct route; rather her journey is characterised by a preference for ill-lit streets and alleys over the regular thoroughfares, and it is only when the fog has settled into a dense brown pall upon the City that she hazards the open roads. Indeed, the mist is black as coal-dust, and soon makes every route seem impenetrable. In fact, as she comes to St. Paul’s Churchyard, it seems that even the gas struggles against the darkness, and the proud lamps that line the road, designed to illuminate the great cathedral, are muted and dim. But she presses on past the great church, past the shops of the booksellers and publishers for which the district is famous, their doors long since closed for the night. All the time she keeps her eyes fixed firmly upon the road, though she can see only a few yards ahead, and continues along the pavement of Cheapside, and into the nocturnal heart of the City.
At last, she reaches the Royal Exchange, passing the stately Mansion House, its interior half visible through tall windows, and by some chance catches a glimpse of draped velvet and chandeliers. She shivers a little, instinctively wrapping her shawl tighter around her head and shoulders, concealing her face and arms. A policeman watches her go by. In truth, it would be easy to mistake Agnes White for an apparition; seeing her in the distance, one might imagine a wisp of life had been breathed into a set of old clothes, with nothing inside.
But the policeman thinks nothing of it; he sees many such sights.
In Doughty Street, Clara White takes a solitary candle and ascends the stairs to her bedroom. She shares the room with Alice Meynell, but the kitchen-maid is still busy downstairs, attacking the pots and pans, which form the residue of the Harrises’ dinner. In truth, Clara is not that fond of the white-washed little attic; it is perpetually cold, and she finds the slanting roof strangely oppressive. But she has no other place to go.