The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Another?’ asks Bartleby, a note of disbelief in his voice.

  ‘Indeed,’ replies Inspector Hanson, ‘although not quite the same. We will have to wait for the doctor, but I would hazard she was smothered.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asks Webb, approaching the body.

  ‘There are small haemorrhages around her mouth and eyes. I have seen it before. And the pillow beside her; there is a good deal of rouge smudged upon the cover. I think he used it to cover her face.’

  ‘Two of them,’ says Bartleby. ‘That is why you called us?’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Hanson. ‘I can make out no good motive, you see. Or, at least, not one I would like to countenance.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Inspector,’ replies Webb. ‘Surely it was some argument? A dispute over money perhaps? Such things happen.’

  Hanson nods. ‘But, you see, I found this in the second girl’s hand. Our man placed it there, I think.’

  Hanson reaches inside his jacket pocket and retrieves a scrap of paper. He hands it to Webb, who walks over to the nearest lamp and peers at the handwritten note.

  ‘“He uncovers deep things out of darkness, And brings the shadow of death to light.” Biblical, is it not?’

  ‘Job, I think, sir,’ says Bartleby.

  ‘How peculiar,’ says Webb, not heeding the sergeant. ‘You fear you have a religious fanatic on your hands, Inspector?’

  Hanson frowns.

  ‘It rather appears that way.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANNABEL KROUT PULLS back the moreen curtains of her new bedroom and looks outside, into the dark street below. A light breeze is stirring the fog in Duncan Terrace. It sends dead leaves rustling through the public gardens, and, all along the road opposite, the gas-lamps appear to flicker in sequence, as if at the passing of some unseen presence. There is, she thinks, something unusual in the distance; odd lights and movement that she cannot quite make out. She turns round to address the maid-servant who is unpacking her clothing, engaged in the delicate process of laying out her dresses in the ottoman beside her bed. The maid is a plump young woman, some twenty-five or -six years old. She silently scolds herself that she cannot remember the girl’s name.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says at last, shyly, ‘you must forgive me, but I don’t recall your—’

  ‘Jacobs, Miss.’

  Of course, she thinks to herself. Not Annie, Mary or Sarah – the surname is the thing.

  ‘Jacobs, tell me, what is that?’

  ‘Miss?’ says the maid, looking up from her task. Annabel beckons her over to the window.

  ‘There, past those houses.’

  ‘Oh, I see, Miss. That’s the canal, and there’s a tunnel just there,’ she says, pointing, ‘with boats coming through it pretty regular. It runs right under these houses. It’s the lights off the barges, and the water. Looks queer with the fog, don’t it?’

  ‘Ah, I see. Thank you.’

  Jacobs nods. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but you’re from America?’

  Annabel Krout smiles at the observation. ‘Yes, I am. From Boston.’

  ‘Well, you’d hardly know it, Miss,’ says the maid, in a confidential, sympathetic tone.

  ‘Thank you!’ replies Annabel, amused.

  ‘What’s it like over there, Miss?’

  ‘Well, this time of year, it is a little colder than here, I should say. But the air is better. We have fogs, but we don’t get fog like this.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t like it colder,’ the maid replies, placing the last dress in the ottoman, ‘begging your pardon.’

  ‘You were born in London?’ asks Annabel Krout.

  ‘Yes, Miss, just down the City Road here. Not half a mile away.’

  ‘Well, you must tell me about your family sometime, and where you grew up.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss,’ replies the maid.

  Annabel blushes, feeling she has overstepped some invisible boundary of familiarity.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I can finish here, if you like. I mean to say, that’s fine, Jacobs. You go on.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘I’ll do the rest myself. That should do for now.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss.’

  Annabel Krout watches the maid depart, with a peculiar sense she has somehow embarrassed them both. Her remaining cases sit idle by the side of her bed, but she does not quite have the enthusiasm to open them. She consoles herself with the thought that it is a pleasant room. The walls are papered a light shade of green, with a pattern of trailing leaves; a brass half-tester bed, draped with rich pink-striped chintz, dominates the centre and, against one wall, is the ottoman, a chair and a writing desk. Upon the opposite side, by the door, sits a japanned toilette table and marble-topped wash-stand. All in all, she decides, her new room is much better than her bedroom at home.

  A noise downstairs distracts her from her thoughts. She walks from her room and descends to the first-floor landing. Annabel watches as the front door is opened by the butler, Jervis, and a man enters the hall. The new arrival is more than fifty years of age, his hair black, with flecks of grey, slicked back from his forehead, with side-whiskers and a closely clipped moustache. It is an angular, handsome profile. Moreover, there is a certain imperiousness to the man’s manner, in the way he presents his hat and gloves to the butler, that instantly marks him as the master of the house, even before the appearance of his wife.

  ‘Woodrow!’

  ‘My dear?’ replies Jasper Woodrow.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘A matter of business,’ says Woodrow hurriedly. ‘You know I cannot keep regular hours like some petty clerk.’

  ‘But, Woodrow, did you forget Miss Krout? I had to go and collect her myself, you know. Why, if Mr. Langley had not accompanied me, I don’t know what I should have done.’

  ‘Langley? What has he to do with Miss Krout? I hardly—’

  Jasper Woodrow falls silent as, looking up by chance, he catches sight of Annabel upon the first-floor landing. Annabel herself colours visibly for the second time in as many minutes; and, although it is an irrational idea, she cannot shake from her mind the thought that she has somehow been caught eavesdropping.

  ‘Annabel,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘do come down.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she says, ‘I did not mean to . . .’

  ‘Did not mean to what, my dear? Do come down and let me introduce you.’

  Annabel descends the stairs, and smiles nervously at Jasper Woodrow. He smiles back, but it is as polite and business-like a smile as she has ever seen.

  ‘Woodrow, this is my cousin Annabel. Annabel, this is my thoughtless beast of a husband.’

  Mrs. Woodrow utters the words with good humour. Nonetheless, the man in question interposes, ‘Really, Melissa, a bit strong.’

  ‘My darling, you kept Annabel waiting in the cold at that awful station,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘she might have froze.’

  ‘Really,’ interjects Annabel, a trifle weakly, ‘I really was not cold at all.’

  ‘We even delayed dinner,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘although Mrs. Figgis was not best pleased.’

  ‘But we have just eaten,’ adds Annabel, attempting something conciliatory.

  ‘We could wait no longer,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, reaching out to her husband. ‘Let Jervis have your coat, and we will see what Mrs. Figgis can manage. You must make amends.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, woman,’ says Jasper Woodrow, brushing her hands aside. He checks himself, however, as if suddenly conscious of how brusque his words may sound. ‘You’ll forgive me, Miss Krout, I have had a long day, and I must go and change. Have you met Lucinda?’

  ‘It is hardly the hour for that, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, chiding him.

  ‘No, I suppose not. I will be in the study – have something sent up, I don’t much care what.’

  ‘You are not coming down?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I thought we might have a nice talk and teach A
nnabel whist; she tells me she does not know it. Can you believe that? We might play single dummy, at least.’

  Jasper Woodrow emphatically shakes his head. ‘I will be in the study. Have something sent up.’

  His wife frowns, but assents. ‘I’ll see what Mrs. Figgis can do.’

  ‘Good. Good night, Miss Krout.’

  With a bow, Mr. Woodrow ascends the stairs. There is a distinct muttering under his breath, which both Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin can hear quite clearly.

  ‘Damn Mrs. Figgis.’

  Once Mr. Woodrow is out of earshot, however, his wife takes her cousin to one side. ‘He is out of sorts, my dear. You must forgive him, for my sake.’

  ‘Please, cousin, there is nothing to forgive,’ says Annabel Krout.

  ‘I swear,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I wish I knew what it was. But he is such a dear man, you know. You will see, my dear.’

  Jasper Woodrow closes the door to his study, and slowly locks it from the inside. There is a blazing fire awaiting him in the hearth, as is the household custom on a winter’s evening. Under his arm is a clean shirt, taken from his wardrobe; he puts it down upon the leather armchair, before the fireplace. He then takes off his coat, and jacket, and removes his collar and cuffs. Finally, he takes off his shirt, and places it upon the floor, quickly changing into the new one.

  The old shirt is soaked through with sweat; and upon one side the material is stained a dark blood-black.

  Woodrow begins to tear at it with his hands, his movements frenzied and nervous, throwing the scraps of cloth upon the fire.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN ROOM THIRTEEN of Knight’s Hotel, Sergeant Bartleby holds up an oil-lamp close by the bed, as Decimus Webb examines the second body, teasing back the sleeves of the girl’s dress.

  ‘There is some recent bruising on the upper arm, here,’ says Webb. ‘I rather fancy she was held down.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean much in a place like this, I should say,’ says Bartleby. Webb looks at him askance.

  ‘If you’ll allow me to make an observation, sir,’ adds the sergeant.

  ‘Do we have their names?’ continues Webb, regardless.

  ‘Betsy Carter,’ replies Hanson, nodding in the direction of the first room, ‘and Annie Finch. That’s what Brown told us, and one of our lads recognised them both, in a professional capacity. He says they’ve been gay girls, around hereabouts, ever since he’s known them; three years or more.’

  Webb smiles a thin smile. ‘A professional capacity? His profession, I trust, Inspector.’

  Hanson shrugs. ‘I did not ask. So tell me, what is your opinion? There are curious circumstances here, are there not?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Very well. Firstly, the murderer – what is his motive?’

  ‘A religious mania,’ says Bartleby.

  ‘That is quite possible,’ says Hanson. ‘Indeed, that may be the only conclusion – I have no better idea. But, even so, it is a curious place to come, is it not, if one had a mind to do away with such a woman? To put oneself in a locked room, and with a man downstairs, liable to recognise you?’

  ‘No interruptions,’ suggests the sergeant.

  ‘But leaving Brown as a witness.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Webb. ‘Please, continue.’

  ‘Next – why the pair of them? Why not three? Four? The whole hotel?’

  ‘He knew he would be discovered,’ suggests the sergeant. ‘This second girl here was alone – the others might have had men with them.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ interjects Webb, ‘but how did he know that? Did he kill the first one then listen at the door? Was he merely fortunate that he found her by herself? Or was it she who found him?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Did she hear a scream, a peculiar noise? Open the door and . . . well, he had no choice but to silence her.’

  ‘That might explain it, sir,’ replies Bartleby.

  ‘That occurred to me,’ says Hanson. ‘It would explain the two deaths, in part. But it does not quite make sense – and this is my third point – why use a pillow? It is odd, is it not? If he has the strength and inclination to stab the first one? I should think that blade came back out easy enough. It’s a clean wound, and the man is strong, like you said. Why not use it again?’

  ‘If you’ll forgive me saying so, sir,’ says Bartleby, ‘maybe you’re looking for reason and logic where there’s none to be found. The man had some petty argument with the girl; he kills her. The other disturbs him. He does for her too. The pillow’s to stop her shouting out, first thing that comes to hand. It might be that simple.’

  ‘But The Book of Job, Sergeant?’ replies Hanson. ‘That implies a degree of premeditation, I think? I should still like to hear the inspector’s thoughts upon the matter.’

  Webb steps back from the dead girl, and motions Bartleby to return the lamp to the nearby dresser. He opens the door of the small cabinet beside the bed, peers inside, and closes it again.

  ‘Which window was it he got out by?’ he asks, at length.

  Hanson frowns, glancing at the sash-window behind his interlocutor. ‘We don’t know as yet. The windows were unlocked but closed, in this room and next door; they’re both quite loose, don’t stay up if you lift them. We won’t be able to see much in the alley until the morning, either; I’ve had a good look myself with a bull’s-eye. I couldn’t see a damn thing.’

  ‘And the door between the rooms? Was it locked?’

  ‘No. Brown says the key for it was lost, years ago.’

  Webb sighs. ‘Well, I can give you no answers, Inspector. But I think you have missed one thing, at least.’

  Hanson raises his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘The brandy.’

  ‘Brandy? What brandy?’

  ‘Exactly. Have you looked in the cabinet, in Miss Carter’s room, next door?’

  Hanson nods. ‘There are some tumblers, a bottle of gin and a decanter of brandy. Both about half-full, I’d say.’

  ‘But in this room, in Miss Finch’s little cabinet, there are identical tumblers, the same bottle of gin but, I think you will find, no brandy.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Come here, Inspector, have a closer look.’

  Hanson walks over to the cabinet, and Webb opens the door, a trifle theatrically, like a conjuror revealing a small but satisfying card-trick. The dusty interior of the cabinet, only half-visible in the dim light, contains a trio of dirty glasses, a bottle of Thwaite’s Superior Cream Gin, and nothing else.

  ‘There, Inspector, do you see it now?’ asks Webb, tracing a small circle on the floor of the cabinet with his finger. ‘Look.’

  Webb holds his finger up to the light.

  ‘An absence of dust,’ replies Hanson.

  ‘A decanter-sized absence, to be precise,’ says Webb. ‘I’ll warrant that you’ll find the gin and brandy standard issue in this rather liberal establishment. But here the brandy appears to be missing. Perhaps you could check that for us, Sergeant?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Webb gives the sergeant a sharp look. ‘Whether there are decanters of brandy in each room?’

  ‘Ah, very good, sir.’

  Bartleby departs, leaving the two detectives alone in the room.

  ‘You have an acute eye, Inspector,’ says Hanson.

  ‘Well, perhaps,’ says Webb. ‘Still, I think I have seen all there is to see. I will think upon this business, you may be sure of that. And if there is anything the Yard can do to assist in the meantime, do not hesitate to let me know.’

  ‘Thank you. But you have not told me what you make of this missing decanter. What inference do you draw from it?’

  ‘I think,’ says Webb, choosing his words carefully, ‘the murderer wished to remove or conceal it. And it seems likely it was the contents, and not the bottle per se, that he wished to keep to himself.’

  ‘What? Do you think the brandy was drugged? Poisoned? Why?’

  Webb shrugs. ‘It is
too early to say, is it not? If it was my decision, I would make sure the doctors examine the contents of little Miss Finch’s stomach with particular thoroughness. And the other girl, too.’

  ‘We will do that, naturally.’

  ‘Well, at present, then, there is nothing more to be said.’

  ‘Unless you would care to see Mr. Brown before you leave? We have him downstairs.’

  ‘Ah, the good Mr. Brown. A Greek, you said? Our fair city attracts all sorts, does it not? Still, we might learn something from Mr. Brown, I suppose.’

  Vasilis Brown stands up as Webb and Hanson enter the parlour. The constable by his side makes a move to push the large man back to his seat, but Inspector Hanson motions the policeman to be still.

  ‘Inspector,’ says Brown, walking up and attempting to clasp Hanson’s hands in supplication, ‘please, release me, I beg of you. I cannot remain here a moment longer; this place is cursed.’

  ‘You will remain here, Mr. Brown, as long as you are needed. This is Inspector Webb of Scotland Yard.’

  Webb nods.

  ‘Why?’ says the Greek. ‘What is this? Another policeman? What do you want from me? I tell you everything, sir. There is nothing more to tell.’

  ‘You are a long way from home, Mr. “Brown”,’ says Webb.

  ‘What are you saying? That is a crime?’

  ‘What is your name, your real name?’

  ‘Ionnidou. But the English, they do not understand it. I change it to “Brown”. No harm. I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘But a great deal of harm has been done this evening, has it not?’

  ‘I called the policemen! Me! Now I am here, like the common criminal! It is not my fault. I beg you, sir,’ he says, turning to Hanson, ‘please, let me go, eh? I do not wish to stay under this roof.’

  ‘We know what you are, Mr. Brown,’ continues Webb. ‘Tell me, why did you become suspicious? Why did you go up to the room?’