by Lee Jackson
Woodrow, meanwhile, leads his companion through the precincts of his offices, in which a further dozen men are occupied with invoices, accounts, receipts and all the paper paraphernalia of business.
‘It is quickest through the shop,’ he says, taking Langley through a door that leads on to the first-floor show-room of Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse. It is a large room, furnished in sombre shades of red and brown, with a rich Kidderminster carpet, and walls panelled in dark polished wood. A series of walnut tables and comfortable chairs and sofas are placed at intervals across the floor, and around the walls are drawers and cabinets, marked in a Gothic gold-leaf lettering: ‘Bonnets’, ‘Mantles’, ‘Shawls’, ‘Capes’ and ‘Gloves’. In turn, beside each cabinet are long mirrors, kept spotlessly clean. And, beside the mirrors stand the Warehouse’s shop-girls, who attend to the demands of customers. Indeed, there is a constant to and fro of these women, as they move between their lady clients, seated at the tables, and the stores of mourning costumery. Mantles beaded with jet are swapped for widows’ caps trimmed with black lace, merino cloaks for fur-lined capes; some are modelled by the girls themselves, some laid upon tables. And everything is done with the least noise, so that the only constant is the rustle of silk, as the girls fetch and carry, hither and thither. The atmosphere resembles less that of a retail establishment than that of a private chapel, with each shop-girl performing some unique sacrament for her client.
‘I am always impressed by the quality of your staff, sir,’ remarks Langley in a whisper, as the two men descend the carpeted stairs to the ground floor.
‘All well-trained and rigorously selected,’ replies Woodrow. ‘That is half the secret of running a decent establishment, of any kind.’
The ground floor of Woodrow’s is principally devoted to dresses and materials: merinos, velvets and satin lie upon counters; jewellery has a separate corner; black-bordered stationery another. Woodrow and Langley, walking together towards the entrance, receive a nod from the doorman, and proceed into High Holborn.
‘You say “of any kind”, sir. Were you not always in the mourning business?’ asks Langley.
‘The mourning house was my wife’s family’s; but I have always been in business,’ replies Woodrow, as they turn right, down Drury Lane. ‘You must forgive me taking you down this wretched street, I hope. I believe it is the quickest way.’
‘Of course.’
‘Ah,’ says Langley, at length, as the two men cross the Strand, by St. Mary’s Church, and proceed towards Fleet Street, ‘I neglected to mention that I chanced upon your wife and her cousin this morning, in Regent’s Park.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I believe they had been to the Zoo.’
‘I should not be surprised – they had Lucinda with them?’
‘That would be your little girl? Yes, they did,’ says Langley. If he contemplates mentioning Lucy’s truancy, he decides against it.
‘The child has a fascination for the place. Quite unhealthy.’
‘Really?’
Woodrow frowns. ‘And I understand you accompanied my wife to Euston station last night, to meet Miss Krout?’
‘I had hoped to find you at home, sir – you said I might call, if I was near by? And Mrs. Woodrow seemed a little distressed. I thought I might be of assistance, under the circumstances.’
‘No, I am in your debt, Langley. I would not have heard the end of it, had you not been there. Tell me, what did you make of Miss Krout?’
‘A charming girl, I should say.’
‘So should I. She is an heiress too; did you know that? The father made a fortune, invested in railroads; now he owns a biscuit factory or some such.’
‘Biscuits?’
‘Hard to credit it, I know. A pretty little mouse, isn’t she? A man could do much worse. I’d marry her myself if I were twenty years younger.’
‘Mrs. Woodrow might object.’
‘That she might, Langley, that she might. I expect she’s after some young buck, anyhow, eh?’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t say,’ says Langley.
‘Ah, here we are,’ says Woodrow, as they approach their destination.
‘After you, sir.’
Langley follows Woodrow inside the Rainbow Tavern. The building itself lies on the south of Fleet Street, a few paces from the ancient archway of Temple Bar. It is an old musty place, with the outward appearance of an ancient, timbered public house, and a dark gas-lit interior that might even be considered more sombre than Mr. Woodrow’s Mourning Warehouse. In truth, though blessed with an ancient pedigree, the Rainbow has been built and rebuilt, again and again, such that no-one can recall exactly where the old coffee-house that first bore the name precisely stood. But it has retained a patina of age and is every bit an antique City dining-room, down to the heavy mahogany tables, at which lawyers and hommes d’affaires address themselves to equally ponderous saddles of mutton and sirloins of beef. It is to one such table that Mr. Woodrow directs his steps. Already seated there is a thin man in his sixties, in an aged dark frock coat and silk suit of matching colour, sipping from a glass of port. Most remarkable, given his age, is the colour of his hair – as black as pitch – and his moustache, neatly trimmed, shares the same distinction. Both are so uniform as to suggest the application of dye.
‘Mr. Siddons,’ says Woodrow, as the man gets up to greet him, ‘how pleasant to see you again.’
‘You echo my sentiments. You could not have put it more precisely.’
‘And may I introduce an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Langley. I expect I have mentioned him to you. He has a mind to dine with us, if you do not object.’
Langley offers his hand, which is shaken firmly.
‘Of course! Please, gentlemen,’ says Siddons, ‘take a seat. I trust you are well, sir? Mrs. Woodrow? Your family? Are they well?’
‘They are as well as can be expected,’ says Woodrow, rather dourly. ‘As for myself, the business keeps me very busy.’
‘It does you credit, sir,’ replies Siddons. ‘And, I dare say, it keeps you active, eh? A man without a trade is a man with purpose, without vigour. That has always been my watchword. People say to me, “Siddons, you must retire; quit London.” I say, “Never” – sooner cut my own throat.’
‘Indeed,’ says Woodrow.
‘And you, sir, I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ says the older man, addressing Langley. ‘Remind me, what is your profession?’
‘I am an architect, sir.’
‘Mr. Langley is designing our new establishment,’ adds Woodrow, beckoning over a white-aproned waiter. ‘You care for ale, Langley? Or would you prefer porter?’
‘Porter, thank you.’
The waiter nods and hurries away.
‘Yes, it will be quite impressive,’ continues Woodrow. ‘I have a place in mind, upon Oxford Street. Five storeys. Separate floor for jewellery.’
‘Of course! Langley – yes, I recall. It sounds excellent, sir,’ says Siddons, raising his glass to Woodrow. ‘It is a pleasure to see you prosper, I can assure you.’
‘One does one’s best,’ replies Woodrow.
Siddons nods, smiling beneficently, but says nothing, merely raising his port to his lips.
‘And your business, sir?’ asks Langley, turning to the old man. ‘Are you in the mourning trade too?’
‘After a fashion, my good fellow,’ says Siddons, ‘after a fashion.’
‘Mr. Siddons,’ says Woodrow, by way of explanation, ‘is in the undertaking line.’
‘Please, sir, I beg you!’ exclaims Siddons. ‘You make it sound like I am a dealer in tea. I would prefer to say, if we must say anything upon the matter, that I minister to the dead. Discretion is the thing, eh?’
‘Indeed. A difficult business, I should imagine,’ says Langley.
‘I do not complain, sir, I do not complain, but you are not wrong. Ah, here are your drinks. And here is my steak! What do you say to that, Mr. Langley? Are you partial to filet de boeuf?�
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‘It looks excellent.’
‘I recommend it – please, do order something. Yes, as I was saying, it is a trying business, especially for a man of sentiment; and there are so many details to take care of. And the mutes, sir! I would not recommend you ever deal with mutes – drunkards to a man.’
The old man downs another gulp of his port, before slicing fiercely into his steak.
‘We warn the bereaved, sir,’ continues Siddons, ‘but they will force wine and liquor on them. Like pouring water on a drowning man, it is. “Traditional”.’
The old man takes another slice of meat, red and rare, and warms to his theme.
‘Yes, the business takes its toll, I’ll give you that. I had a terrible time of it only this very morning. Arrangements for a pair of young girls, taken in their prime. Laid them out myself. I was quite overcome, sir.’
‘I can imagine it would be awfully distressing,’ says Langley.
‘It was, sir. Quite. Waived a crape hatband for the chief mourner. Gratis. Couldn’t bring myself to add it to the bill. Two and six I’ll never see again.’
‘Two girls, you say?’ says Jasper Woodrow, with a peculiar urgency.
‘Pretty little things. Drowned, playing by a lake. But what a place to play, eh? Still, referred the mother to your delivery people – wouldn’t leave the house till after the funeral.’
‘Quite right,’ says Woodrow hurriedly, ‘only proper.’
Mr. Siddons nods, piercing a potato upon the end of his fork. Jasper Woodrow, meanwhile, takes out his handkerchief and wipes his brow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘ANOTHER MYSTERY, EH, SIR?’
Webb nods.
‘Must be the week for it, eh, after that business yesterday? “A very delicate matter,” it says. Signed “Mr. S. Pellegrin, General Manager”.’
Webb nods again.
‘Can’t say as I know Stoke Newington too well, sir. How about you?’
Webb shrugs. ‘Well enough.’
‘Now, south of the river, that’s another matter. Lambeth, sir, now that was my old patch.’
‘Really?’
‘Know every alley like the back of my hand, sir.’
Decimus Webb nods, a rather dejected look upon his face. It may relate to the fact that, for the second time in as many days, he is trapped in a cab with Sergeant Bartleby. Worse, that he has forgotten his pipe.
‘How about you, sir? Know Lambeth at all?’
Webb sighs. ‘I make do, Sergeant.’
‘I expect you do, sir. Now, take the Lower Marsh, say, there’s a thieves’ kitchen, if ever there was. I could tell you a thing or two about the goings on there, sir, things that would make your hair curl.’
Webb raises his eyebrows, touching his own slightly balding head rather self-consciously.
‘So to speak, sir,’ continues the sergeant, coughing.
Before Webb can reply, the cab pulls to a halt, stopping upon a cobbled fore-court.
‘At last,’ mutters Webb under his breath.
The driver of the hansom opens the trap and leans down to address them.
‘Abney Park, gents. That’ll be two bob.’
Webb and Bartleby lean forward to swing open the cab doors, and step out on to the paving. The latter pays the cabman two shillings, whilst the former surveys their destination: the tall wrought-iron gates of Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington.
Webb looks down the long gravel drive beyond the entrance, then back to the gate-posts, Egyptian in style, the fashion of an earlier decade. The twin stone lodges that guard the path likewise evoke the land of the Nile, decorated with painted stone hieroglyphs. And, beside the left-hand building, nervously tapping his foot, waits a man, about fifty years old, with a sallow moustachioed face, dressed in a smart, black great-coat and a tall hat, wrapped about with a neat band of black crape. He looks rather expectantly towards the policemen. Webb walks through the open side-gate, and goes over to him.
‘Mr. Pellegrin?’ asks Webb.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Webb, sir, at your service. This,’ he says, motioning towards the approaching Bartleby, ‘is my sergeant. Your letter was passed on to me to deal with. You received our telegram, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ replies Mr. Pellegrin. He seems, however, more preoccupied with looking out on to the road.
‘You were expecting someone else, sir?’ asks Webb.
‘No, no. Well, not until three o’clock, at least.’
‘Three o’clock?’
‘Local gentleman. Consumption.’
‘A funeral?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replies Mr. Pellegrin. ‘Please,’ he says, rather urgently, ‘come inside.’
Mr. Samuel Pellegrin, General Manager of the Abney Park Cemetery, leads the two policeman into the nearby lodge. The interior contains two sparsely furnished rooms for the reception of visitors; the one farthest from the door is a small office, with a desk and a trio of chairs. Pellegrin ushers Webb and Bartleby within and motions them to sit down. As he seats himself, he tidies the desk, moving several sheets of paper to one side, and closing a trade catalogue of masonry, that lies open upon a page marked ‘Ten guineas and above’.
‘I am sorry, Inspector,’ says Mr. Pellegrin once he is settled, ‘forgive me if I am rather abrupt. This business is an awful strain on my nerves. I am very grateful for your prompt attention. But, really, I am not sure how to begin – it is such a delicate matter.’
‘Well, your letter was somewhat mysterious, sir,’ replies Webb. ‘You mentioned a theft of some kind? That would be a matter for your local constable. No need to write to the Yard in such strong terms, surely?’
Mr. Pellegrin shakes his head emphatically. ‘No, sir, not the local man. Word would get round every house from here to the river in next to no time. I suppose I am fortunate you are not in uniform – if anyone were to see the police . . .’
‘We generally keep to plain clothes at the Yard, sir.’
‘Good, good. But I need your word, Inspector, that this will go no further. Discretion is vital in our business.’
‘And mine,’ replies Webb, though there is a degree of impatience in his tone. ‘You have my word, sir. Perhaps if you can begin by telling us what was stolen?’
Mr. Pellegrin looks nervously at the two policemen; noticing the door of the office has been left slightly ajar, he quickly gets up to go and close it. Once he has sat down again, he bites his lip before he addresses Webb.
‘A body, Inspector.’
Samuel Pellegrin leads the two policemen along the winding path that curves round the back wall of the cemetery, at the rear of the chapel.
‘Any famous names here, sir?’ asks the sergeant.
‘In the cemetery?’ says Pellegrin. He seems visibly cheered by the opportunity to talk. ‘There is the Watts’ memorial. And Mr. Braidwood, the fireman, of course, the far side of the chapel – you recall the Tooley Street fire? That was a fine day – the whole city lined the route – or that’s how it seemed; quite affecting.’
‘I can imagine, sir.’
‘Ellen Warwick, of course,’ continues Pellegrin, as if going through some memorised roll-call of the dead. ‘Also a large turn-out, if I recollect correctly. Not long after I started here.’
‘Who?’ asks Bartleby.
‘She was . . . ah, now, here we are, gentlemen. I am just grateful it was here, and not somewhere more in the open.’
The area in question, to which Mr. Pellegrin points, lies against the grey stone wall of the cemetery, in its farthest north-westerly corner. Shaded by an old cedar, the cold ground supports nothing so substantial as the stone angels and monumental urns that mark the cemetery’s more prosperous burials. Rather, it is only broken by a scattering of makeshift-looking wooden crosses, none of which are quite perpendicular or particularly well-crafted, so that they appear to rise from the earth like the shoots of some peculiar withered shrub. In front of one cross, however, a series of planks have been lai
d out, which partially conceal an open grave. Bartleby leans down and looks at the cross, upon which the inscription ‘J. S. Munday, 1848’ is painted in small black letters, though the paint is considerably weathered and faded.
‘Tell me again how you discovered the, ah, theft?’ asks Webb. ‘You said, did you not, that you think the grave was opened and then filled in again?’
‘There is no question, Inspector,’ replies Pellegrin. ‘It was Greggs, one of our gardeners, who spotted it. He noticed the earth had been disturbed.’
‘Very observant of him?’
‘It is his job – he knows the grounds well enough. He thought at first it was an animal.’
‘And what caused Mr. Greggs to change his opinion?’
‘He could see it was the whole plot – I mean that it was a very particular area. Then he turned over some of the earth and found the nails.’
‘From the coffin?’
‘All in one spot, or thereabouts, where the fellow had left them. It was obvious the grave had been interfered with, so I told him to open it.’
‘And you found?’
‘It was empty. The lid had been replaced, rather inexpertly, upon the top. Please, take a look – I took care not to damage anything myself.’
Pellegrin bends down and, motioning for the assistance of Bartleby, slides away the planks covering the grave, revealing the dark long-buried wood of the lid, splintered in several places.
‘It is not very deep,’ says Webb. ‘Three feet at most?’
Pellegrin nods. ‘The ground in this corner is not so good, Inspector. I believe the roots are a hindrance. It is, in part, why we reserve it for paupers and other unfortunates.’
‘But the coffin is quite substantial, is it not? Too substantial for a parish burial?’
Pellegrin shrugs. ‘I should say so. But it was not a normal parish affair. It was a case of felo-de-se. Suicide. It seems the family made some provision for a decent coffin.’