by Lee Jackson
Annabel cranes her neck to see Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse, but the building is far too distant, and the brougham far too quick, for her to make out anything whatsoever.
‘Ah,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘now we are almost there. Oxford Street. We won’t stop here, mind.’
‘There are so many stores, though,’ replies Annabel.
‘Shops. Yes, but they are generally, well, not what one might call “select”,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, wrinkling her nose slightly, as if noticing an unwelcome aroma.
‘I see,’ says Annabel.
Indeed, there is some truth in Mrs. Woodrow’s comment, even to Annabel’s untrained eye. For every three-storey ‘Warehouse’ and ‘Establishment’, with a fine name painted in black upon the ground-floor cornice, or spelt in curlicues of iron-work, or etched in gold onto pristine plate glass, there is a shoddier, smaller relation not too far distant. For every giant of commerce proudly proclaiming its wares, from the seller of feather beds to the grandest Gentleman’s Outfitter, there is a dustier, bullion-glass window, behind which hides a crumpled Wholesale Stationer, or mildewed Wine Vaults. And every few hundred yards squats a public house, none of which resembles the fine timbered coaching inns and friendly taverns that form Annabel Krout’s impression of a proper English drinking-place. Thus, if Mrs. Woodrow does not think much of Oxford Street, her cousin is content to agree with her.
As they near Oxford Circus, progress in the brougham becomes rather slow. Mrs. Woodrow tuts at the snaking queue of omnibuses that prevents the vehicle making headway. Annabel, for her part, passes the time making a mental note of the different colour liveries and place names of the buses passing by on the other side, the faces of the passengers and the nimble conductors, who seem able to balance themselves precariously upon the iron step at the rear of their bus, at the slightest notice.
In fact, it is some ten or fifteen minutes before the Woodrows’ brougham can finally turn into Regent Street, drawing to a halt outside King and Sheath, Linen Drapers.
‘Of course, the eastern side of Regent Street is the fashionable side,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, as she leads her cousin from the interior of Barrett’s, Milliners. ‘It is the place to be seen.’
‘Why is that?’ asks Annabel, stepping out onto the busy pavement. ‘The other looks just as grand.’
‘Loungers, my dear. The west side attracts the worse sort of gentleman, if that is the word. They say it is the shade it gets in the summer.’
Annabel looks at the objectionable western side of the street. The classical façades of the shops are as tall as those of the east; the columns and entablature as pronounced; the plate-glass as transparent. She can, moreover, see no evidence of the worst or best sort of gentleman. There is simply a multitude of men and women, and a few children, some strolling, some pausing in front of shop windows. And what luxurious windows! Within one, elegant shawls sit draped over tilted display tables; in another rows of lace-fringed bonnets hang upon pegs; in the next, moiré and brocaded surah silk, ready to be fashioned into costumes by a talented dress-maker. Next a music-shop, in which colourful lithograph covers are presented like fans. Then a confectioner’s, with cakes and bon-bons and jellies, glistening in the light, framed by frosted barley-sugar. In fact, the only difference Annabel can make out between east and west, as she strolls beside her cousin, is that the eastern flag-stones attract larger carriages, parked by the kerb.
These, she is discreetly informed by Mrs. Woodrow, are Mayfair coaches, stately landaus that rarely trespass beyond the confines of the West End. Twice the size of a humble brougham, she notices that several bear a crest, emblazoned on to the carriage door. One even boasts a strong-calved footman, who, to all appearances, does nothing but perch at the rear of the vehicle, staring sternly into the middle distance. Any pedestrian activity is carried out by shopmen and women, who scurry between their business and the waiting carriages, arms laden with goods. A nod or smile from within the confines of the coach, and they return happy; a shake of the head, and they return crushed, muttering the words ‘carriage-trade’ bitterly under their breath. In either case, the comings and goings quite fascinate her. Mrs. Woodrow, in turn, slows her walking pace to a crawl, casting cautious glances into the interior of each vehicle.
‘You never know who you might see, my dear,’ she whispers, confidingly to her cousin. ‘Now, where shall we go next? Allison’s, I think.’
Annabel smiles, but her outward good humour conceals an awkward hour and a half already spent in three milliners, at none of which a hat has been purchased. The prospect of immediately repeating the experience, watching her cousin vacillate between various grades of fabric and lace, does not fill her with enthusiasm.
‘May we not get something to eat, cousin?’ she suggests placidly.
‘Why yes, my dear, why didn’t you say if you were hungry? I know a delightful little confectioner’s in the Quadrant.’
It transpires that there is a bonnet-maker’s and a milliner’s upon Mrs. Woodrow’s route to Cooke and Stephenson, Quality Confectioners. In consequence, it is still a good hour before the two women repair to said establishment. Two hats have, at least, been purchased in the meantime, and delivery to Duncan Terrace arranged.
The interior of Cooke and Stephenson proves to be a welcome oasis of calm, beside the bustling street. It contains a dozen or more small tables, topped by lace cloths; these, in turn, face a long mahogany counter upon which sweetmeats and cakes are proudly displayed. Behind the counter, the wood panels along the walls are inlaid with mirrors, above each of which a small gas-light flickers. Meanwhile, two or three women sit at each table, chatting quietly, as a pinafored waitress ferries tea and coffee, and all manner of sugared eatables, about the room.
It takes a moment for a space to be found; but, at last, Annabel and her cousin are placed in a window seat, facing the traffic as it trundles down to Piccadilly Circus. Once an order for tea and scones is placed, however, Mrs. Woodrow delicately excuses herself to ‘rearrange her hair’, leaving her cousin to watch the world outside.
Annabel, for her part, is content to enjoy a few moments of solitude. She tries her best to store the details of Regent Street in her mind, the better to record them later: the men and women in smart morning dress, the dirt upon their boots; the sandwich-board man, weary in appearance, whose signboards proclaim ‘Westley’s Restorative Mixture’ and a dozen illegible testimonials to its efficacy. Then a crossing-sweep, who rushes by, a Hindoo boy by the look of him, whose face so intrigues her that she is half tempted to run after him, as he scurries along the street, pestering likely prospects for a penny. So engrossed does she become in the minutiae of the scene, as if in some panorama presented for her entertainment, that she does not notice the man standing beside her, until he leans down to address her. He is a fat, round-faced man, with a dark Mediterranean complexion, hidden only a little by the lapels of his coat, pulled tight up about his neck.
‘Miss Woodrow, I presume?’ he says, making Annabel jump with surprise.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she replies, uncertain quite how to frame a polite reply to the stranger. ‘I am a friend of the family.’
‘Ah, I see, I am sorry to give you any trouble.’
‘No, you haven’t. If you wait a moment—’
But before Annabel can finish the sentence, the man has turned and left. She watches him in astonishment, as he walks briskly through the door, brushing past a woman coming in, and then across the street, disappearing into the crowd.
She stands up to see if she can still see him, further along the road, when Melissa Woodrow reappears at her side.
‘What’s wrong, my dear?’
‘A man just came in here and asked if I was “Miss Woodrow”, then just rushed out.’
‘Really? How odd – did he leave his card?’
Annabel shakes her head. ‘No – he was very peculiar. I think he might have been an Italian or—’
‘A foreigner? My dear, the man was trying to p
roposition you – and I thought this was a respectable place!’
The nearest waitress scowls at Mrs. Woodrow’s highly audible exclamation.
‘But how did he know your name?’ continues Annabel.
‘I should imagine he was walking behind us, overheard us talking. They have terrible cunning, my dear. You have had a lucky escape.’
‘Yes,’ mutters Annabel, looking over to where the man disappeared from view, a distracted look upon her face. It suddenly occurs to her that she has seen him before.
It takes her a moment to recall, then it comes to her. It is the face of the man from earlier in the day; the man who stood outside the Woodrows’ home in Duncan Terrace, looking up at her window.
CHAPTER TEN
IT IS LATE AFTERNOON when Sergeant Bartleby jogs up the narrow winding stairs that lead to Decimus Webb’s office. The room is one of several belonging to the Detective Branch, situated above the old arched gateway that guards the cobbles of Great Scotland Yard. Cramped, ill-ventilated, with the distinct smell of horse dung from the yard outside, it is little used by its tenant. Today, however, with nothing to occupy his time but reading several long-winded reports and pursuing a detailed claim for the sum of £2 10s., travelling expenses, Inspector Webb is to be found in situ.
Bartleby takes a breath and knocks on the open door, cautiously stepping over several crates full of books and papers that partially block the entrance. Webb looks up from his work, and beckons him to sit down – but it is no easy task for the sergeant. The office interior, dimly lit by a pair of gas-lamps, its walls decorated with ageing yellow flock, contains obstacles for the unwary pedestrian, similar to those on the landing. In fact, the accumulated detritus of several years of investigations are laid out upon the floor, with papery traces of old murders, abductions and frauds scattered around Webb’s desk.
The arrangement is not entirely Webb’s fault. It is common knowledge that the search for a new, spacious, more reputable headquarters for the Detective Branch has long been a talking point and a challenge for the Police Commissioners. Nonetheless, as Bartleby sits waiting for his superior to finish writing, he wonders if he ought to suggest the purchase of some drawers for filing. He is about to say something, when Webb speaks up.
‘Well, what is it?’ asks the inspector, at last, putting down his pen.
‘Nothing much, sir,’ replies Bartleby, instantly repenting of the putative drawers. ‘A letter from Inspector Hanson, and a telegram from Mr. Pellegrin, Abney Park.’
‘I remember the fellow’s location, Sergeant – well, what does it say?’
‘Which, sir?’
Webb sighs. ‘Begin with Hanson.’
‘Ah, well, in short, sir,’ says Bartleby with a slight smile, ‘it appears they’ve lost Mr. Brown. They had a watch on his lodgings but he . . . ah, here it is,’ he says, pulling out the letter in question, ‘he “evaded the constable on duty” and he asks us to notify the divisions. Wouldn’t think it, would you, sir? Big fellow like that. Hard to miss him, I would have thought.’
‘Yes, yes. In any case, have you arranged it?’
‘Telegraphed all the particulars to the divisions, and put a note in next week’s Bulletin,’ replies Bartleby.
‘Good. Well, we can keep an eye out for him. Poor Hanson. What does Mr. Pellegrin have to say for himself?’
Bartleby retrieves the telegram. ‘Ah yes, well, turns out he found the undertaker that made the coffin, like you asked – Siddons & Sons, Salisbury Square, Fleet Street.’
‘Siddons? Ah yes, I know the name.’
‘You think they might have a record?’
‘Well, I do not suppose they buried that many J.S. Mundays in Abney Park in 1848, do you, Sergeant? At the very least we might inquire.’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Well then,’ says Webb, looking back down at his papers, ‘what are you waiting for?’
‘I’ll be off, sir,’ says Bartleby.
Sergeant Bartleby strolls briskly out of Scotland Yard, past the Clarence public house, and on to Whitehall. It is almost dusk and a cold evening. Although at first inclined to walk, the approach of a chocolate-coloured ‘Westminster’ omnibus, bound for the Bank, persuades him to take a seat inside. It is a choice he regrets, however, since a crowd pile in at Charing Cross. They include a large matron with a hatbox and mysterious wicker-basket, from which emit occasional yaps and barks; a junior office boy, dressed suitably for the part, with a workaday tweed suit and a super-abundance of hair-oil; and a trio of infant boys, given to climbing, together with a harassed female, most likely a servant, since she is too young to be their mother. Pushed into a corner, the sergeant idly wonders if a uniformed officer would receive the same treatment.
The bus, nonetheless, travels swiftly along the Strand. It only slows when it has passed St. Clement’s. For, as it approaches the narrow arch of Temple Bar, a brief altercation with the owner of a waggon serves to distract the driver. Once this is resolved, the vehicle does not stop until Bartleby alights, a little past Bolt Court, where the conductor offers a gracious ‘mind yer feet’. Thence it is a short walk to Salisbury Square, on the opposite side of the street, through a narrow alley.
The square itself is no match for the regular London square, such as Trafalgar or Bedford, being both considerably smaller and irregular in appearance, an accidental void between opposing buildings. It boasts a hotel, a couple of printers, and, upon the western side, the public façade of Siddons & Sons, identifiable both by its name in tasteful gold leaf, and a window displaying a draped urn, carved from marble, illuminated by a half-dozen small jets of gas. It is to this establishment that Sergeant Bartleby turns his steps.
The interior of Siddons & Sons, or at least the ante-chamber in which visitors are received, before visiting the show-rooms, proves to be as plain as the exterior. Dimly lit, it contains merely a trio of uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a sombre-looking black-suited employee seated at a small desk, atop of which sits a single vase of dried flowers. The only lively touch is the small fire crackling in the hearth, though it gives out little heat, and, above, upon the mantel, the room’s solitary nod to ornamentation: a small Parian statuette of a girl, dressed in Roman attire, her head bowed, a piece marked ‘Maidenhood’, in small chiselled lettering.
Bartleby briskly introduces himself. He relishes using the words ‘of Scotland Yard’, and they have the desired effect. For he is swiftly ushered through an unobtrusive side-door, along a corridor, and, after a few hushed words of consultation, into the presence of Joshua Siddons, proprietor.
The room of Mr. Siddons is a little brighter than those reserved for his visitors. In addition to the lights on each wall, his desk supports two lamps, capped by shades of delicately etched glass; moreover, his fireplace blazes fiercely, and is wide enough for two persons to stand or sit in front of it. The chair upon which he sits, and the one to which he directs Bartleby, are well-padded. It is, in short, more like the study of a comfortable bachelor.
‘So, my dear sir,’ says the undertaker, before Bartleby is settled, ‘this is a sad day. A loss. A great loss. But, if it is not presumptuous of me to say it, you have chosen the right establishment.’
‘Sir?’
‘I mean to say, Sergeant, a loss for the Metropolitan Police is a loss for the metropolis; there can be no doubt of it. And, rest assured, it will be not so much a job of work for my men, sir, as a welcome duty. A duty, I dare say, Siddons and Sons are best equipped to perform.’
‘No, sir, you don’t quite—’
‘Come, come,’ says Siddons, talking over the sergeant’s protestations, ‘I know, my dear fellow. The Commissioner is not made of money; we can discuss a small discount when the time comes. The first matter, I should say, is the coffin . . . I assume the deceased had no family. Married to the “force”, eh?’
‘No, sir, please – I am not here to arrange a funeral.’
‘Not here to arrange a funeral? My dear fellow, I am at a loss.’
‘A police matter, sir. I think your man must have misunderstood me. We rather hoped you might be able to assist us.’
Siddons looks surprised. He takes out his black-bordered handkerchief, and rubs his nose.
‘I see. You must forgive me, Sergeant. I believe I have caught a slight cold. But how on earth can I assist Scotland Yard? Oh, pray, my good man, say it is not an exhumation! They are so contrary to the spirit of our profession.’
‘Well,’ replies Bartleby, ‘it is rather too late for that, sir.’
‘Too late?’
‘To be blunt, sir, a body was stolen recently from Abney Park Cemetery, dug up. The manager, Mr. Pellegrin, has asked us to look into it.’
‘Good Lord – yes, I know Pellegrin – but why on earth should anyone do such a thing in this day and age? And how do you imagine I can help you?’
‘He said it was one of your coffins, sir.’
‘Really?’ replies Siddons. ‘Well, then I am sure it was. Pellegrin knows his business.’
‘Then might you have some record of the deceased? At the moment, we merely have the name and year.’
‘Records? I might find you the man’s profession, I should think,’ replies the undertaker, pensively. ‘We take note of that, and we may have the next of kin – but Pellegrin should have all this, else who pays for maintenance of the plot?’
‘That is the thing, sir. The chap was a suicide – though he had some money to be buried, looking at the coffin.’
‘How odd. What was it? What type?’
‘The coffin?’ says Bartleby, taking out his notebook, ‘I have it here. Ah, yes, a “Patent Inconsolable” in rosewood, cambric-lined.’
‘Three and six. Your man was not an utter pauper, at least, Sergeant. Well, you had best tell me the name – I will have someone look into it.’
‘J.S. Munday, sir. And the year was 1848.’
Mr. Siddons laughs, a rather nervous impulsive laugh, that quite unsettles the studied sobriety of his thin face.