A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  ‘I heard the pair of you making fools of yourselves.’

  Cotton sighs with relief; there is something comforting in the presence of the man, curmudgeonly or not. Then he notices a flicker of light in the distance; past the entrance of the great tunnel further down the line. Webb sees it too.

  ‘Are there men working at this hour?’

  ‘Where?’ asks the old man, his bemused tone suggesting he suspects both Cotton and Webb of madness.

  ‘In the tunnel?’

  ‘No. They’re running a couple of night trains tonight; deliveries for the works, but there ain’t men, not at this hour, anyhow.’

  Webb contemplates for a moment, then shakes Cotton by the arm.

  ‘Come on, follow me!’ he shouts, running along the track in the direction of the tunnel. The old man looks on incredulously as the blue-uniformed figure disappears into the blackness.

  ‘You can’t go down there!’

  Henry Cotton looks at the old man, then the tunnel, takes a deep breath and runs after the policeman. He can hear Webb’s footfalls on the dirt and, now and then, on the wooden sleepers; his light, moreover, stays visible ahead, swinging wildly as he runs. In consequence, Henry Cotton, with the advantage of youth, finds pursuit is possible, even in the pitch-darkness, and catches up with him a hundred yards or so inside the tunnel. Their twin lamps shed an eerie light on the smoke-black brickwork.

  Webb takes the opportunity to catch his breath. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘listen, I can hear him. He’s not far.’

  Cotton can hear nothing but the sound of his own heart-beat; it is the only sound of their pursuit that does not echo and magnify itself within the tunnel. Every other noise seems to go on for ever in the chill subterranean air. Then a single breathless word is spoken.

  ‘Enough.’

  Ten yards or so down the track, Bill Hunt stumbles from his hiding place.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘YOU SEE, MR. Cotton?’ says Webb, a note of triumph in his voice as he shines his light at the shabby figure before him. ‘We have our man.’

  Cotton nods, but looks nervously at the man in front of them.

  ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong,’ says Bill Hunt, squinting into the light, his face black with dirt from the tunnel.

  ‘I think you have, my good man, haven’t you? Otherwise you would not be skulking here, hiding from an officer of the law.’

  ‘I ain’t hiding from no-one. I was just having a quiet drink,’ he says sarcastically.

  ‘Murder is not a laughing matter, my friend. Will you give yourself up and come peaceably?’

  ‘It ain’t murder, I reckon. He deserved it.’

  Webb frowns.

  ‘He?’ says Cotton, unsure if he heard the man correctly.

  ‘The old bastard. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt, to look at him. You wouldn’t know his game, not to look at him. He didn’t even fight it, you know? He just let me . . .’

  Hunt’s voice trails off as he peers at the two men. Even in the semi-darkness, with only their lamps to illuminate them, he can see the confusion on both their faces.

  ‘You don’t even know about him, do you?’ says Hunt, incredulously. ‘God Almighty.’ He looks anxiously over his shoulder as if estimating his chances of running once more.

  ‘Don’t think of it,’ says Webb, observing his glance. ‘I’ve got men all along the way. You’d better just come with us, eh?’

  ‘I don’t hear no-one else.’

  ‘There is nowhere to go, my good fellow,’ says Webb, ignoring Hunt’s comment, though there is a hint of nerves in his voice. Hunt backs away slightly, still facing the two men.

  ‘What about the girl? The dead girl?’ asks Cotton. He says it hurriedly, and the words seem to him to escape his mouth too quickly and echo back down the vast tunnel.

  ‘I never touched her. Leastways, only to shift her.’

  ‘Shift her?’

  ‘I put her on the train, but what’s the crime in that? I had to put her somewhere, out of the way.’

  ‘Who killed her then?’ asks Webb, stepping closer, mirroring Hunt’s movements as he steps backwards.

  Hunt scowls. ‘No-one.’

  ‘She was strangled.’

  ‘It weren’t me, I tell you.’

  ‘Who then? Someone’s for the gallows, think on it. Must it be you?’

  Hunt shakes his head. He suddenly seems less calm; perhaps the word ‘gallows’ strikes some chord in him, some forgotten visit to Newgate Gaol on a Monday morning, standing in the crowd, watching a hooded man fall through the trap-door, “stretched”. His face creases, tears welling in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve bloody told you about the old man, ain’t I?’ he says pleadingly. ‘I’m already dead.’

  His breathing is still fast, almost panting; with a shout, he turns and runs once more.

  ‘Damn it,’ mutters Decimus Webb. He looks at Henry Cotton, and once more the two men reluctantly give chase. But there is something different this time. It begins just as a sound; a distant heralding thunder, very distant at first, that seems behind them, then in front, then a constant accompaniment to their breathless progress through the darkness. There is something so strange about their situation that it takes a moment to register that it is there; but it is unmistakable, as it comes closer. The ground vibrates with the motion; the twin metal rails hum with anticipation. A ball of light appears down the track, growing steadily larger, and the figure of Bill Hunt flits before it, like a silhouette in a lantern-show. It is a familiar spectacle to him, the approach of this iron monster. But he still runs, towards the burning light and clattering wheels of the engine as it flies along the track.

  It is far too late for it to stop.

  ‘For God’s sake get clear!’ shouts Cotton, pushing Webb flat against the wall of the tunnel. As he does so, however, Cotton stumbles against the damp brickwork; his head makes contact with the cold surface, and his body folds away beneath him. If he hears anything, as consciousness slips away, it is not the shout of the train driver, nor the anxious voice of Decimus Webb, holding him against the brick; it is the endless angry squeal of the brakes.

  It is as if the machine thoroughly resents the man crushed beneath its wheels.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘YOU AWAKE, SIR?’

  Henry Cotton is awake, albeit with a headache, and alive to the unpleasant sensation of someone lightly slapping his face. He opens his eyes; around him is the familiar structure of Farringdon station, though now with all its gas-lights illuminated. For a moment, in half-conscious confusion, looking up at the flickering lamps, he fancies the place is on fire, and sits up with a start. The policeman standing over him, sergeant Watkins, bends down and looks closely into his eyes.

  ‘Seems all right, sir,’ he shouts to the figure of Decimus Webb, who stands a little way down the station platform, supervising the efforts of a dozen police constables, each with his own lantern, who are exploring every quarter of the station and, tentatively, the building works behind it.

  ‘Ah,’ replies Webb, walking over to him. ‘Mr. Cotton is awake! Did I not tell you, sir, not to come running after me like that?’

  Cotton tries, feebly, to protest.

  ‘No, no need to apologise,’ continues Webb.

  ‘How long have I been . . . ?’

  ‘Unconscious? A good ten minutes. I rather feared the worst.’

  ‘I thought we were dead,’ says Cotton.

  ‘No,’ says Webb, his face becoming a little more grave. ‘Just that wretch in the tunnel.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘One of the navvies here, nothing more. His name was Bill Hunt.’

  ‘Hunt?’

  ‘Come, come. You know the name at least. I believe he is related to your partner-in-crime, a cousin or some such. The same officer has identified him.’

  ‘I have never met him in my life.’

  Webb looks at him quizzically, Watkins with unconcealed suspicion. ‘You have a talen
t, at the very least,’ says Webb, ‘for picking unfortunate acquaintances.’

  Cotton frowns, recalling the moments in the tunnel.

  ‘You are sure he is your man?’ he says, rubbing the lump on his head. ‘That he killed the girl?’

  ‘I think so,’ says Webb.

  ‘But he denied it.’

  ‘Bluster, that is all. A morbid attempt at justification.’

  ‘But what he said about an old man . . .’

  Cotton’s voice trails off as a shout goes up from one of the uniformed men, a dozen yards or so from the wooden tool shed, his bull’s-eye lantern swinging above his head. He calls the other men over. Webb turns and runs immediately along the platform, jumping down on to the track. Watkins, on the other hand, keeps a wary eye on Henry Cotton who, though a little unsure of his feet, gets up and attempts to follow. Doubtless the sergeant should, in his turn, attempt to stop him, but he is equally curious to know the cause of the commotion. In consequence, the two men eventually join the little group of police that are gathered around a spoil heap of rubble. At first, it appears that a piece of old black sacking is being tugged from beneath the stones; then the beam of a lantern reveals that it is, rather, the body of a man.

  ‘It was the rats that give it away,’ says one of the constables, knowingly. ‘Saw one scurrying over here. Can always smell blood, they can.’

  ‘Here,’ says Webb impatiently to the nearest man, ‘give me that light.’ He bends down, rubbing the dirt from the man’s face. ‘I know this man,’ he adds, shaking his head in defeat.

  ‘Lord!’ says Henry Cotton, catching sight of the mortal remains of Dr. Arthur Harris. ‘So do I.’

  Sergeant Watkins turns and stares amazed at the man beside him. In his mind, he can already picture him climbing the steps to Newgate’s scaffold.

  ‘I think,’ says Webb, looking up at Henry Cotton, ‘we need to have a few more words.’

  In the clutter of Decimus Webb’s office at Marylebone Lane station house, Henry Cotton sits alone, meekly sipping a cup of tea. After a few minutes of silence, Webb himself enters the room and sits down at his desk. It is seven o’clock in the morning and neither man has slept since the discovery at Farringdon station. In the interim, amongst other things, Cotton has narrated all his movements since the night of the murder to the inspector and the disbelieving sergeant Watkins.

  ‘Mr. Thomas Hunt is, shall we say, not a cooperative man by nature.’

  ‘That is where you have been? Well, that does not surprise me,’ replies Cotton.

  ‘He says he hardly knew his cousin, and cannot account for anything he may have done.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And he says we are all a pack of lying hounds, and we should rot in hell.’

  Cotton raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I have left Watkins with him, who, for your information, Mr. Cotton, believes we should take you as the cousin’s accomplice.’

  Cotton shakes his head; he has spent several hours denying any connection with Bill Hunt, and he is tired of it.

  ‘It cannot be a coincidence,’ says Webb.

  Cotton shrugs.

  ‘Well, you must wait here, all the same. I am going to see Mrs. Harris, and perhaps that will shine some light on all of it, eh? A pleasant meeting that will be, mind you. And we’ll see what your Miss White has to say about your little affair.’

  ‘Please believe me, Inspector. There was no “affair”.’

  ‘It is difficult to believe most of your story, Mr. Cotton, but so far I have given you the benefit of the doubt. Remember that.’

  ‘I explained, Inspector, I met Miss White by chance.’

  ‘Outside the refuge?’

  ‘I had read about the Bowker girl in the press that morning. I was merely curious to see where she lived. I had an interest, after all. And there I chanced upon Clara White. I told you, Inspector.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Cotton sighs. ‘So you have not told Mrs. Harris yet about her husband?’

  ‘I thought she deserved her night’s sleep,’ says Webb, getting up from his desk once more.

  Cotton looks up at him. ‘I would like to go with you.’

  ‘What purpose would that serve?’

  ‘I might speak to Clara; encourage her to speak with you. She has no love for the police.’

  ‘That is my experience. But you might just arrange to tell the same story.’

  ‘I did not mean speak in private. Beside, I believe you owe me something, Inspector. One might say I saved your life.’

  Webb sighs. ‘You might say that, sir. I did not.’

  Cotton takes another sip of tea.

  ‘You may come,’ says Webb, ‘and stay in the carriage with Watkins, in case you can help with the girl.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘Do not thank me, Mr. Cotton. I merely think I had better keep a close eye on you. You seem to be a veritable magnet for trouble.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  DECIMUS WEBB RINGS the doorbell at the house in Doughty Street. He can hear it echoing in the kitchen and hallway, but there is no sound of footsteps on the stairs, no servant to greet him. He steps back and looks up at the front of the house; all of the curtains are drawn.

  He tries the bell again. But there is no reply.

  He walks back down to the cab, which sits waiting by the kerb, and beckons both Watkins and Cotton to step out.

  ‘Sergeant, you ask next door, see if there’s been any trouble, or if she’s gone off somewhere. You, Mr. Cotton, come with me.’

  ‘Should I stay?’ mutters the driver of the cab, looking down at the trio, conscious he has not been paid.

  ‘If you would,’ replies Webb.

  The cabman takes out his pipe, and lights it.

  ‘Do you suspect some mischief?’ asks Cotton.

  ‘I do not know, sir. I don’t suppose there is something you are not telling me?’ says Webb.

  Henry Cotton does not have time to refute this suggestion, as both men notice the front door of the house being abruptly opened. Behind it is Mrs. Harris, dressed in a smart mourning dress of black velveteen; her hair is tied back in a black silk band, and jet earrings compliment her face. She looks more composed than on Webb’s previous visit, and the calmness with which she addresses them is almost peculiar in itself.

  ‘Ah, Inspector. And, why, it is Mr. Phibbs, is it not?’

  Henry Cotton nods a little nervously. Webb gives him a sideways look.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ asks Mrs. Harris.

  The inspector nods, advancing back up the steps, and, uncertain what to do with Henry Cotton, beckons him to follow.

  Mrs. Harris leads the pair of them into the downstairs parlour, and bids them to sit down, arranging her crinoline over the chaise longue as she seats herself.

  ‘I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind, ma’am,’ replies Webb. ‘I have some news for you.’

  ‘It concerns my husband, does it not? He is dead, then?’

  Webb looks a little taken aback. ‘How did you know, ma’am? Did someone speak to you last night?’

  ‘I had hoped he might be, that is all.’

  ‘Hoped?’ says Cotton, involuntarily blurting out the question.

  ‘You heard me correctly, sir. In any case, I am afraid, if you wished to see my husband, you are clearly too late.’

  Cotton can think of no appropriate words to answer her.

  ‘Mr. Phibbs is here with me, ma’am,’ interjects Webb, ‘and I will explain the reason later, if I may? Indeed, I am sorry, ma’am, but I share his sentiment. You wished your husband dead?’

  ‘You are married, I believe, Inspector?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, then you cannot imagine what sacrifices I made for that man, Inspector. That worthless, rotten imitation of a man.’

  Webb frowns, but continues, ‘You are upset, ma’am. There is no pleasant way to say this, but your husband was killed, by a man named Hunt. Do you know
anyone of that name?’

  ‘Not as far as I am aware.’

  ‘Forgive me, but you are remarkably composed.’

  ‘I have finished grieving, Inspector.’

  Webb exchanges a nervous glance with Cotton. The conversation is not proceeding as he had expected.

  ‘Can you tell me, then, why you yourself just said you wished him dead?’

  ‘I . . .’ Here, she hesitates. The look of steely composure that marks her appearance almost falters, her hand trembling as she touches her face. But only for a moment. ‘I cannot say it.’

  ‘I fear you must, ma’am.’

  ‘Come,’ she says, getting up, walking briskly out of the room.

  Mystified, the two men follow her into the hall, and upstairs; she leads them into her husband’s study; its customary order is marred by the disarray of numerous notebooks and papers heaped upon his writing desk.

  ‘I was going to take them out and burn them, but I suppose you shall want them now. I’d be grateful if you would take it all away. You are an antiquarian, are you not, Mr. Phibbs?’

  Cotton nods.

  ‘The books – the published books, I mean – ’ she says, gesturing to the bookshelves, ‘they are yours if you like. I should like to be rid of them.’

  Webb walks over to the writing desk, and picks up one of the notebooks, left lying open at a particular page.

  ‘Read it, if you have the stomach for such stuff, Inspector.’

  Webb casts his eyes over Harris’s neat script.

  July 31 1863. Pleasant girl; ripe and unplucked; not as fresh as I would like, but Mrs. F. had primed her well. Conducted a full examination; fatter than I had expected, and her physiognomy not as pleasing as the last girl; unremarkable, excepting that she did scream awfully when I had her; told Mrs. F. I prefer the quiet ones, even if no-one may hear us; still, gave the girl five bob.

  Henry Cotton does likewise; the two men read several similar entries, and can both see a dozen or more of such books set out upon the desk. Webb shuffles his feet, uncertain quite how to proceed with Mrs. Harris, who seems more anxious than before.

  ‘This is why . . . ?’ he says, his sentence deliberately not finished.