by Lee Jackson
‘Maybe you was just too ugly for him, eh?’
‘Ally, it’s not funny. I won’t hear it.’
Alice Meynell falls silent again, and when she speaks her voice seems more serious.
‘Look, Clarrie, I don’t want you thinking I’m a liar.’
‘Ally, don’t be like that. I just don’t think . . .’
Alice interrupts her. ‘How do you think I got this job? It weren’t a good character, I can tell you that much.’
Dr. Harris comes to a halt, standing in a narrow cobbled passage not far from Gray’s Inn Lane. If there were sufficient light his besuited figure would look incongruous in such a place, a grimy back street, set at the rear of smoke-black tenements, littered with refuse. As it is, however, he can barely see the tall man a few yards in front of him.
‘Is it far?’
‘Just round the corner here.’
‘You said that five minutes ago. I swear we have gone round in a circle. I am not a young man, you know.’
The man turns round and walks back to him, so that he can just make out his face in the darkness.
‘I know.’
‘And I am not a fool.’
‘I know what you are.’
There is something cold in the man’s voice, in his grim, monotonous delivery, that turns Harris’s stomach. Instantly, some primitive instinct takes hold of the doctor; a sudden wave of fear floods his body, sweat pouring from his brow.
‘I was lying before,’ says Harris hastily. ‘Here, I have five pounds in my pocket. It is yours, if you leave me be.’
The man smiles. ‘That’s an odd reckoning. What’s that to me?’
‘What do you want from me? I shall call out, I swear.’
The man shakes his head, reaching suddenly forward and grabbing Harris’s mouth.
‘No, you shan’t, you dirty old bastard.’
CHAPTER FORTY
DOUGHTY STREET.
Daylight streams into Mrs. Harris’s room as her maid gently pulls back the curtains and opens the shutters. Mrs. Harris herself, bathed and dressed, is seated at her dressing table, selecting earrings from her jewellery box; she chooses a pair made of jade.
‘Is the master awake, White?’
‘No, ma’am, he ain’t in his bed.’
‘Not in bed? What do you mean? Surely he is, therefore, awake.’
‘I couldn’t say, ma’am,’ replies Clara, emptying the liquid remainder of her mistress’s bath into her pail, and applying a fresh rag to clean the metal.
Mrs. Harris nearly pricks her ear in annoyance, turning to stare at Clara. ‘Really,’ she says, the tone of her voice conveying ineffable exasperation, ‘I beg you, for once speak plainly and sensibly.’
‘He ain’t in the house, ma’am.’
‘Well, then, what time did he say he would be back?’
‘He didn’t say, ma’am.’
Mrs. Harris puts down her earring, which she has still not fixed in her ears, and gives her maid-servant what she considers a stern and demanding look. ‘Now, I can hardly believe that. Surely he left us a note on his desk, or some such? You know that is his custom.’
‘There’s no note, ma’am, and . . .’
‘What? Speak up, will you, girl?’
‘His bed ain’t been slept in, if you’ll forgive me saying so, ma’am.’
For once, Mrs. Harris is quite lost for words. She gets up and walks briskly to the door that joins her bedroom to her husband’s. Opening it, she looks at the unruffled sheets and coverlet neatly square on the bed, the pillows unmarked by any impression. She turns back, and, not looking at Clara, sits down at her dressing table once more.
‘You may go,’ she says.
‘How long’s she been up there?’ asks Alice Meynell, looking pointedly up the stairs towards her mistress’s bedroom.
‘A couple of hours, I suppose.’
‘That ain’t like her. Hang on a minute . . .’
As they speak, the door to Mrs. Harris’s bedroom opens and the lady herself steps hesitantly on to the landing; she is dressed in an expensive mauve day dress, but her hair looks less than neat, and her face a little paler than usual. She peers down into the hallway.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Just me and Ally, ma’am.’
‘Of course it is. White, will you come here?’
Clara hastens up the stairs. There is something strangely distracted in her mistress’s expression as she speaks to her.
‘White, I am afraid there must have been some accident for your master not to have returned home. I would be greatly indebted if you could go and speak to the policeman who came here last week – Inspector Webb at Marylebone police station, I believe – and ask him to come and see me.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Did you not hear me?’
‘Not Bow Street, ma’am? It’s a lot nearer.’
‘I know very well where Bow Street is. Do not contradict me. I wish to speak to Mr. Webb in particular, do you understand me? Him in particular.’
Clara turns to hurry down the stairs, but then stops and looks back at her mistress, who stands there like a statue.
‘Ma’am . . .’
‘What?’
‘It ain’t nothing to do with my ma, is it?’
‘Heavens! Does the world revolve around your troubles? Will you just do as you are told!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Clara runs down the stairs, trying to remember whether her shawl is in the kitchen or her bedroom. In the end, it proves to be the former; a few words are exchanged with Alice, and then with Cook, and with the latter issuing the age-old wisdom that ‘no good will come of it’, Clara leaves the house by the kitchen door. She has barely stepped upon the pavement, however, when a man’s voice whispers her name.
‘Clara.’
She turns, and finds Henry Cotton walking beside her.
‘You know what we need, sir?’
‘Enlighten me, sergeant.’
‘Another murder. Give us some more clues, wouldn’t it?’
‘Very amusing. I’ll tell that to the superintendent, shall I?’
‘Maybe not, sir. But you’ve looked through those papers a dozen times today, and I don’t think you’ll be finding fresh answers there.’
Webb puts down the folder he has been reading.
‘You may jest, but I think there’s already been another.’
‘Agnes White?’
‘Indeed. Why do you think her clothes were found in the river?’
‘Say she was going to pawn them, dropped them in by accident?’
‘She was trying to make someone think she was dead. She knew they would most likely be found, and thought it might help matters.’
‘Maybe she just didn’t like those clothes. Miss Sparrow said she was a little, well, disturbed.’
‘All the same, why throw them in the river?’
‘Good as anywhere.’
‘No, I think she knew someone wanted her dead.’ Sergeant Watkins shrugs his shoulders, as if to say ‘if you say so’.
‘You’re too skeptical, sergeant.’
‘I find it helps in this line of work. Leave the thinking to Inspector Burton.’
‘If we are finally graced with his presence.’
‘Due tomorrow. Something will turn up, sir, don’t you worry.’
‘Watkins, that is precisely what worries me.’
‘I was just coming to see you,’ says Henry Cotton, as he strolls beside Clara.
‘You know you can’t, Mr. Phibbs, not when I’m working.’
‘But you’re working all the time, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would have made some excuse to see Harris.’
‘You’d be lucky.’
‘How so?’
‘He ain’t been home since last night. The missus has sent us to get the police.’
‘The police? She thinks it so serious?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You
are going the wrong way, surely.’
‘She wants this fellow at Marylebone. Webb.’
‘Ah, that is the man you told me about? Lord, does she think it is something to do with the business on the train?’
Clara looks at Cotton, surprised by his particular interest. ‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘May I walk with you some of the way, at least?’
‘Ain’t you got nothing better to do?’
Cotton smiles. ‘No, I fear I have not. Although I was going to ask you a question.’
Clara sighs.
‘I saw your Tom Hunt yesterday . . .’
‘He ain’t nothing to do with me.’
‘He speaks fondly of you. He says you were an apt pupil.’
Clara shakes her head but says nothing.
‘Well, at all events, he showed me a couple of his tricks, and, I swear, I feel I could almost write a book about him. He is a fine rogue, is he not?’
‘Did you give him money?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then he’ll be all right with you. He don’t want nothing else. That’s all there is to know about him.’
‘You think? What about your sister? Surely he is fond of her, at least?’
‘He’ll drop her when he’s done with her.’
‘That’s awfully harsh, Clara. I confess, I am not overly impressed by his morals, but for a man of that class . . .’
‘I thought you wanted to ask me something.’
‘Well, I did. Tell me, does Tom . . . well, has he ever done anything in the way of houses?’
‘Houses?’
‘I mean to say, house-breaking. Burglary.’
She pauses for a moment, as if wondering whether it is safe to vouchsafe the information. ‘He might have, once or twice, when he was desperate.’
‘He knows something of how to go about it, then?’
‘I should say so. What do you want to know that for?’
‘It is an idea, nothing more. Do not worry.’
Mrs. Harris sits by her bedroom window, looking outside at the dead winter garden behind the house. At length, she gets up and walks downstairs to the study on the first floor. Her husband’s writing desk is locked, and she wonders for a moment whether there is something she can do.
She sighs, and begins to pace the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
‘AHEM. MESSAGE FOR you, Inspector.’
Inspector Webb sits back in his office chair, his eyes half closed, in a position that makes it impossible to say whether he is sleeping or engaged in deep contemplation. He slowly opens his eyes, and looks at the station’s office boy, standing by his door.
‘What?’
‘A Mrs. Harris, Doughty Street, asking you to call on her.’
‘Mrs. Harris?’ replies Webb, taking a moment to recall the significance of the name. ‘Really. Well, does she give a time? Show me the letter.’
‘No letter, sir. Her maid came in, well, somebody’s maid anyhow. She didn’t say much, and then she went off, all rushed, wouldn’t wait.’
‘When was this?’
‘A minute or two ago, sir,’ replies the boy, defensively, fearing his punctuality to be in question. ‘I waited a moment before I knocked, like. I didn’t want to disturb you.’
Webb, however, springs out of his chair and grabs his hat and coat.
‘Tell Watkins where I am going, will you?’
‘Where, sir?’ replies the boy, quite confused.
‘To see Mrs. Harris, of course.’
‘Miss White!’
Clara White turns, finding herself accosted for the second time in as many hours. On this occasion, however, it is the bulky figure of Decimus Webb, astridehis repaired velocipede,cycling along Marylebone Lane beside her. The effort of maintaining his balance and shouting out makes him quite breathless, and, as he dismounts, Clara stares at him in amazement.
‘Ah, I see I startled you,’ he continues. ‘You did just visit the station, did you not? You might have waited for a reply.’
‘I’ll be wanted back home.’
‘I suppose you will. You don’t much like the police, do you, Miss White? Old habits die hard, eh?’
Clara frowns, but says nothing. Webb ignores her silence, motioning her to walk on, and he continues by her side, pushing his bicycle.
‘I take it Mrs. Harris is at home, then?’
Clara nods.
‘Do you have any idea why she has asked me to call on her?’
‘I don’t like to say.’
‘Well, I think you had better, all the same.’
‘Dr. Harris ain’t come home since yesterday.’
Webb frowns. ‘Ah, I see. Well, I confess, that hardly seems too peculiar. Perhaps he stayed at his club, or with a friend?’
Clara shrugs. ‘None of my business, is it?’ she replies.
‘Has he ever done so before – stopped overnight somewhere?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I see. Well, that is something, I suppose. Did your mistress ask for me by name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, that is odd, is it not, Miss White?’
Clara says nothing, and the inspector does not press the point. After a minute or more of silence, they progress awkwardly together from the quiet confines of Marylebone Lane on to the pavement of Oxford Street. The road itself is busy with carriages. Many, no doubt, contain ladies of rank and distinction, contemplating the particular shop or store upon which they should bestow their generous patronage. The remainder of the great thoroughfare, however, is the exclusive property of the omnibus. There are dozens to be seen along the length of the street; they are all of different liveries and lines, and, near to Marylebone Lane, several have somehow contrived to come together, forming a snake-like train that obstructs any traffic attempting to cross. In consequence, Decimus Webb gives up on any idea of utilising the roadway, and pushes his bicycle along the pavement beside Clara White. They attract a few curious glances, and doubtless there are some who assume that the girl with downcast eyes is in the custody of the uniformed gentleman who accompanies her. As they approach Regent’s Circus, Webb speaks once more.
‘About your mother, Miss White . . .’
‘Yes?’ she says. It is the first time she has looked him straight in the eye.
‘I didn’t get a chance at the inquest to offer you my condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Tell me, were you happy with the verdict?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Would it shock you if I told you I believe she was killed?’
Clara stops walking. ‘It’s occurred to me. Of course it has.’
‘Of course it has? Why?’
Clara sighs. ‘You know what sort of life she had.’
‘Ah, you think it was . . . a gentleman she was entertaining, shall we say?’
‘Who else?’
‘It was merely a coincidence that she shared a room with Sally Bowker?’
‘I never knew the girl, I told your sergeant whatever-his-name.’
‘Indeed, I read his notes.’
‘Then why are you asking me?’
Webb smiles. ‘Idle curiosity.’
Clara says nothing in reply, but walks a little more briskly.
Mrs. Harris sits nervously in the front parlour of Doughty Street, fiddling with her sleeves. She rises to greet Decimus Webb, as her maid-servant shows him into the room.
‘Thank you, White, that will be all,’ she says, though her voice lacks a little of its usual imperious rigour.
‘Well, ma’am,’ begins Webb, taking a seat as Clara leaves the room, ‘perhaps you can tell me why you wished to see me?’
‘Did White not tell you?’ she replies anxiously. ‘I felt sure she would. I swear, she is not to be relied on in anything.’
‘I merely would prefer to hear direct from your own lips, ma’am.’
‘My husband has vanished, Inspector.’
‘Vanished,
ma’am?’
‘He went out last night, and has not returned home, nor sent word to me.’
‘You had some argument?’
‘Not at all!’
‘Please, do not distress yourself, ma’am. I merely ask for information. I would ask the same of anyone. Is there not some relative or acquaintance with whom he might have stopped?’
‘And not told me?’
‘Regrettable as it is, ma’am, I understand, from those colleagues of mine blessed by matrimony, that they aren’t all in the habit of confiding absolutely in their wives.’
‘I cannot speak for them, Inspector,’ replies Mrs. Harris coldly, ‘but my husband would not abandon me so. I fear for his safety.’
‘His safety?’
‘You know he visits the most awful places, to inform his writing. Slums, Inspector. Rookeries. Anything might have happened to him.’
Mrs. Harris looks tearful, and Webb, even as he speaks, wishes he had a pocket handkerchief to give to her.
‘Well, I am sure there is no need to worry,’ he replies. ‘But I will take a few details and circulate the information to our men, just in case we can be of service. Can I ask, however,’ continues Webb, ‘why you asked for me by name? Surely, you have a local constable who might have sufficed to bring this to our attention?’
‘You met my husband, Inspector. You know him to be a good, kind man who would stoop to raise any poor wretch from the gutter. If something has happened, if he is found in some awful place that would not be . . . oh, I cannot say it. I mean, a place that would not reflect well on his position in society.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, you can rely on our discretion, ma’am, but I am sure he is safe and well.’
‘But where, Inspector? Where?’
In the tap-room of the Old Friar, Bill Hunt looks at his hands. They are large, workman’s hands, hard with calloused skin, without any delicacy of shape, like clay modelled by a child. A couple of others in the pub give him a quizzical glance, wondering why he looks so distracted and leaves his pint pot sitting idle in front of him.
Bill Hunt looks at his hands, and remembers strangling Arthur Harris; it strikes him as strange and wonderful that it is possible to do such a thing, to extinguish human life, with such simple tools.