A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Of course, my dear fellow. Nothing good prospers in darkness, does it? There are many stones in this city that ought to be lifted up, and a light shone upon what is found underneath.’

  ‘My sergeant might say best to let them lie.’

  ‘He might, but he would be thoroughly wrongheaded.’

  Webb smiles.

  ‘And Agnes White?’

  ‘Ah yes, forgive my digression, Inspector. Well, upon rare occasions, I have also been obliged to confirm the reality of particular facts or observations, and made a few hesitant steps into the worse districts of our great city. It was on one such sally that I first came across Agnes White: a visit to Wapping, in fact, accompanied by one of your good constables. I believe his name was Broderick. Do you know him?’

  ‘I do not believe so. I do not know the Thames Division so well.’

  ‘Of course, foolish of me. Well, never mind. At all events, I had a mind to enquire into low lodging houses, in particular around the docks, and I came across her in just such a place. She was quite a ruin, Inspector, though not the worst of her kind, not by a long way.’

  ‘And you took pity upon the woman?’

  ‘Not quite, Inspector, that is the curious thing. It was, and remains, my privilege, as a governor, to annually recommend a couple of women to the refuge; and, indeed, I do actively look out for suitable candidates if an opportunity arises. But there were several likely women that night, all seemingly earnest in a desire to improve their lot, all having a good character from Constable Broderick or, at least, as good as might be expected in their circumstances.’

  ‘All whores?’

  ‘That is rather blunt. None the less, as you say, Inspector. But White was quite singular.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She wanted nothing for herself. Rather, she impressed upon me her sole desire in life was to see her daughter “set right”. She told me at length how the girl was likely to follow the same wretched course as she herself had taken, and how terribly the thought afflicted her. In short, Inspector, she seemed a peculiarly selfless creature, for one of her kind, and quite conscious of her own wrongdoing without any hopes for herself. I was so affected that I wondered whether it was not right that I should do something for the daughter, at the very least.’

  ‘And so you . . . ?’

  ‘I sought her daughter out; she was in lodgings near the Strand and, I believe, already semi-criminal in her ways. I offered her a place at refuge and the prospect of emigration at the end of her time there.’

  ‘Emigration?’

  ‘It is the principal hope of salvation for most of the girls. But what do you think, Inspector? Clara refused. She said that she could not contemplate leaving her mother behind. What perfect symmetry, eh? The estranged but devoted daughter, and the selfless mater?’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ replies Webb, ‘though I find it a little too romantic for my taste. In short, you gave the daughter employment?’

  ‘Indeed I did, after she had benefitted from Miss Sparrow’s training. I gave it much thought, but charity begins at home, does it not, Inspector? And I persuaded Miss Sparrow to take on the challenge of Clara’s mother. Though I cannot help but wonder if that was a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake, sir?’

  ‘In truth, Inspector, Agnes White has been nothing but trouble to her keepers and, I suspect, a poor influence upon her daughter. But, come, surely none of this helps you with this awful railway business?’

  Inspector Webb pauses and looks down at his shoes, a habit to which he is rather prone when contemplating a particular problem.

  ‘I wouldn’t assume anything, sir. I never do.’

  Sergeant Watkins sits at the kitchen table, a cup of tea beside him, and Clara White on a stool nearby. Alice attends to some business in the larder, though keeping herself within earshot of the policeman’s conversation.

  ‘Now, Clara, is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll wager you know our business. The poor girl that was strangled at Baker Street.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And do you know who she was, and where she lived?’

  ‘The nurse at the refuge told me, sir.’

  ‘Then we needn’t beat about the bush. Did you know the Bowker girl?’

  ‘Not to speak to, sir. I’d seen her about, that’s all.’

  ‘And what about your mother? Were they pals?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. My ma’s been ill, anyhow.’ The sergeant pauses, nearing the end of his carefully planned questions. ‘And why do you think your mother ran off, eh?’

  ‘She just does it, sir. It’s her way. It don’t mean anything.’

  ‘You’d reckon it was nothing to do with Sally Bowker, then?’

  Clara pauses. Alice looks round, waiting for her to say something.

  ‘No, sir. I don’t think so.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TEN O’CLOCK.

  Webb and Watkins quit Doughty Street, having concluded their interviews, and continue northwards together along the gaslit street; the footfalls of the sergeant’s heavy boots echo down the road.

  ‘Where do you live, sergeant?’ asks Webb.

  ‘Me, sir? Paddington Green, a cottage, or that’s what my Missus calls it anyhow, not far from the canal.’

  ‘All bricks and mortar, now, is it not, Paddington Green?’

  ‘You know the area, sir?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  There is an awkward silence, as the two men walk together.

  ‘Do we know,’ resumes Webb, ‘where Agnes White lived? Wapping, was it not?’

  ‘The girl said as much, yes, sir; she was brought up by the river.’

  ‘Send a message to Thames Division, see if anyone knows the mother or has seen her this past day or so, particularly in the lodging-houses and such.’

  ‘You’re certain this White creature knows something, sir?’

  ‘I am rarely entirely certain about anything, sergeant. But we must look at all possibilities. And have you found someone to translate that blessed scribble of our friend Phibbs?’

  ‘I have, sir. Gentleman I know who reports on the Parliament for the papers reckoned he could help me out. Should have it tomorrow afternoon at latest. And the surgeon’s report.’

  ‘About time. And you learnt nothing more from talking to the daughter?’

  ‘Not a thing your Miss Sparrow hasn’t already told us, sir, no.’

  ‘She is not “my” Miss Sparrow.’

  ‘No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir.’

  ‘If I did not know better, sergeant, I would think you enjoy provoking your seniors.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  Webb falls silent, and a couple more minutes pass as they turn from Guilford Street into Russell Square.

  ‘Not on your, ah, vehicle, tonight, sir?’

  Webb narrows his eyes, and looks pointedly at the sergeant. ‘It seems one of the wheels was damaged in the station house. Sergeant Tibbs cannot account for it.’

  ‘Lord! You’re not safe anywhere, are you, sir?’

  Webb does not reply, and there is silence again.

  ‘I think this is the parting of the ways, sergeant,’ says Webb at length, as they come to the corner.

  ‘See you tomorrow then, sir.’

  Webb nods, and begins walking in the direction of King’s Cross.

  Wapping.

  Agnes White can hear the men and women shouting, the raucous laughter of the High Street echoing in the courtyard outside the old house. She walks over and peers into the darkness; part of the window is broken, patched with shreds of brown paper that, if once considered a sufficient barricade against the elements, can now only flutter in the breeze. There is nothing to see in the courtyard itself. The voices pass by and now she can hear just the river, lapping silt water against the far side of the house, working upon the bricks.

  She turns back, shivering, and goes again to sit near to the fire she has started
in the hearth; it will soon go out unless it is offered another piece of wood. She considers using the floorboards, like has been done in other rooms, wondering if she can loosen them; they creak loudly enough.

  No. They are all damp and half-rotten.

  The river, she thinks to herself, is soaking up through her mother’s house, waiting for its chance, waiting for the next flood.

  And how long until someone finds her?

  She looks at the clothes she has laid out upon the floor, and bundles them up together.

  She best get going.

  Midnight.

  Decimus Webb sits down at his writing desk and unbuttons his waistcoat. Then, almost immediately, he gets up and pours himself a small measure of brandy from the decanter that sits upon his sideboard. He takes a sip. A few drops bring a welcome warmth to his body.

  He turns up the gas-light to see more clearly and looks at the piece of paper he has brought home with him. On it he has written a series of names: ‘Agnes White’, then ‘Phibbs, Sparrow, Bowker’, and a simple question mark. He has also drawn a diagram of a railway carriage, and of the stations at Farringdon Street and Baker Street.

  And there is also a list of station names along the line: Farringdon (11.30 p.m.), Kings Cross, (11.34 p.m.), Gower Street (11.41 p.m.), Portland Road (11.46 p.m), Baker Street (11.52 p.m).

  He takes another sip of brandy.

  A woman walks to the end of Tower Wharf, by St. Katherine’s Docks. She scurries past the half a dozen lamps, strung up on poles along its length, until she is at the darkened end of the pier. It is nearly one o’clock. On the road behind her the occasional cab or carriage speeds past, pulled by horses that gallop as fast as they are able, revelling in the freedom afforded by empty streets. In six or seven hours it will be different; the roads round the Tower will be a bedlam of goods and persons; the only sound will be that of wheels grinding slowly from the docks into the City, and the tread of weary feet upon the paving stones.

  But for now there is only the flowing Thames, and a solitary woman who looks down into the water. How easy, thinks Agnes White, to end it all here.

  She throws her bundle of clothes into the river.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK, that watches magisterially over the hall of the Harrises’ house in Doughty Street, chimes one o’clock.

  The sound of its cold brass bell resonates throughout the darkened house, disturbing the nocturnal calm. For Clara White, climbing the stairs to her room, a solitary candle guiding her progress, the clock is an annoyance that regularly disturbs her sleep. None the less, she herself walks slowly, trying to keep silent as possible, measuring her steps so that she might not disturb her slumbering employers. But as she comes to the first floor, she realises that she is mistaken in assuming that Dr. Harris has retired to his bed. There is a light emanating from his study, visible through the half-open door. Moreover, as she tiptoes along the landing the door itself opens a little wider, and Dr. Harris himself stands there, watching her.

  ‘Clara, my dear, I would like a word with you.’

  ‘Sir?’ she replies in a whisper.

  He gestures for her to come inside the study, and so she mutely follows as he retreats back into the room and takes a seat in his best leather-upholstered armchair, the rich russet padding scratched and careworn through years of abrasion.

  ‘You are working late?’ he suggests.

  ‘There was a good deal to clean up in the kitchen, sir, after dinner, and it was Cook’s early night.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, Clara, are you, how should I put it, content working here?’

  ‘Content, sir?’

  ‘There is no need, my dear girl, to parrot the question,’ he replies, a tone of mild irritation in his voice, ‘I merely ask if you are content in your situation.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am. Very much, sir,’ she replies. She tries to sound calm but her voice flutters with nerves.

  ‘I am glad to hear it, and yet, well, I must say it: what am I to make of this latest business with your mother? Miss Sparrow has said many a time that she is a lost cause and yet, foolishly, I have stood firm against expelling her from the refuge. Nay, I have even pressed for her to be permitted to return, despite all evidence against her. Have I been a fool, Clara, to indulge my sympathies. Have I?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Oh, but patently I have, my dear girl. For not only does she, your blessed mother, once more spurn our charity, but she is plainly enticing you to do likewise.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘There is no need to play the innocent. I spoke to the inspector. Where were you this morning?’

  Clara blushes, but there is a hint of relief in her face as she fathoms the source of her employer’s accusation.

  ‘I went to the refuge, sir.’

  ‘Precisely, Clara, precisely! Why? Do you suppose that we expect you to wander the streets, as the fancy takes you, when we have given you employment here? Indeed, when we have fed and clothed you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, sir. Surely not, sir! Indeed, you know full well that we do not. It is positively deceitful of you to do such things. I should be grateful, I suppose, that you even got my book at all!’

  ‘It’s just that my ma’s been ill, sir. That’s all.’

  ‘Then you should ask permission of Mrs. Harris to visit her. You know that is the rule, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Dr. Harris sighs, removing his glasses, and sitting back in his chair.

  ‘It is a slippery slope you have embarked upon, my dear girl; and it is all too easy to stray from the path. Now, I have discussed the matter with Mrs. Harris just now, and I must confess that she was all for dismissing you with neither notice nor character.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘One moment, if you please. I pointed out to Mrs. Harris that this would serve little purpose but to return you to the condition in which we found you. And I am glad to say that, after much discussion, Mrs. Harris has shown her typical generosity of spirit.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘In plain terms, and my wife and I are quite agreed upon this matter, we must wash our hands of your mother. There, I have said it. Furthermore, we ask that you have nothing more to do with her. If,’ he continues, laying much stress upon that word, ‘you can abide by this, and give us no more cause for concern, then we are willing to give you another opportunity to prove yourself.’

  ‘But what of my mother, sir?’

  ‘Really, Clara! Have you not been listening? There is nothing to be done for her. Do you think I can subject Mrs. Harris to regular visits from the police, for your mother’s sake?’

  ‘But, sir . . .’

  ‘No, Clara. You have heard the terms I have laid down. Now, will you abide by them, or do you too reject our goodwill?’

  Clara frowns, a look reciprocated in the face of Dr. Harris as he realises that she is at least willing to consider the latter option. It is a moment or two before he can return to his usual calm expression.

  ‘I will, sir,’ she says at last.

  ‘Nothing more to do with your mother? No more of these escapades? Do I have your solemn word?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ he replies, allowing his face to relax into a smile. ‘Then some benefit may have come of this evening, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good girl. Ah, now there is one more thing; a less weighty matter. Please tell Cook in the morning that we are to have a small dinner party tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Tomorrow, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I realise it is short notice, and Cook will not be happy, but none the less. I happened to meet a very interesting young fellow when I was out this afternoon. He has an interest in my writing, and so I have invited him to dinner tomorrow.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘Very well, off you go. And tell Cook that Mrs. Harris will speak to her of the menu, but I have a strong fancy for ox-tail soup.’
>
  ‘Sir.’

  Clara curtsies, and leaves the room.

  ‘Well?’ says Alice Meynell, as Clara finally creeps into their attic room.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well, what was that all about, his nibs calling you in?’

  ‘You’re a little earwig, ain’t you?’

  ‘Never mind that, tell us.’

  ‘He found out about me going to the refuge this morning.’

  ‘Only the once, just this morning? You’re doing all right then, ain’t you?’

  ‘He said I can’t see my ma no more.’

  ‘Well, he could have let you go, the way you’ve been carrying on. He’d be in his rights.’

  ‘I know,’ replies Clara morosely. ‘He said the missus was all for that.’

  Alice laughs. ‘I’ll bet,’ she says. ‘I’ll just bet she would. Lucky he’s so sweet on you.’

  ‘Ally! There’s nothing like that.’

  Alice shrugs, as Clara takes off her dress and petticoats. ‘If you say so. Lor. Get a move on, I’m freezing here.’

  It is gone two o’clock when Clara wakes up. The room is in darkness, and she can hear the distant ticking of the clock some three floors below. There is something irritating in its monotonous repetition, and, in her half-waking mind, she wonders for a moment whether, as often happens, it has only just rung out the hour and disturbed her from sleep.

  But there is another sound: footsteps descending the stairs; footsteps in the hallway.

  She silently pulls back the covers, enough to creep from the bed. In the darkness she fumbles for her shawl, wrapping it hurriedly around her, then opens the door on to the landing. There is someone in the kitchen now, she is sure of it; the sound of someone unlocking the area door. In bare feet, she descends the stairs as quickly as she can and opens the door of the first-floor drawing-room. From the window she can see a man coming up the area steps, a well-fed, welldressed man in a tweed great-coat, with a woollen scarf swathing his neck.

  She follows him with her eyes, and, as the man passes a street-lamp, recognises the features of her employer.