by Lee Jackson
‘What’s your trade?’ asks the old man.
‘Horses,’ suggests Bartleby. Webb looks askance at his colleague.
The old man shakes his head. ‘Never liked horses myself.’
‘It ain’t haunted then?’ says Webb, with a grin.
‘Nah,’ says the old man. ‘Or if it is, they keep clear of me. I tell you, though, I did have a scare, not a few weeks back.’
‘What was that?’
‘A gentleman, as was locked in at night. Found him wandering around, all lost, by the chapel – now, I thought he was a bloody ghost! Said he’d lost track of time, looking at the graves. In the dark – I ask you! So I said to him, “You’ll lose track of your bloody neck, sir, if you fall into an open hole!”’
‘You’re right,’ says Webb. ‘A gentleman, you say? Still, I expect that happens a lot.’
‘That were the queer thing; I always walk round twice, to check, afore we locks the gates at nightfall. But I’d missed him, see? A right scare. A fellow could lose his place over a thing like that, too. Here,’ continues the old man, suddenly confidential, ‘keep that dark, eh?’
‘Don’t you worry, mate – we won’t blab. Here, have another glass. Steady your nerves. Was he alone, then, this man? I expect you marched him straight out, eh?’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’
‘I don’t suppose he had a bag or some such?’
‘That’s a queer question,’ says the old man, frowning.
‘Did he though?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘How old was he? Do you remember what he looked like? Well dressed?’
‘Smart enough. I don’t recollect; it were dark. Middling sort of fellow. Here, now, what is all this?’
‘Nothing at all,’ says Webb, soothingly, ‘just curious. Billy, I reckon we should be off. It’s a long walk home, eh?’
The watchman lets Webb and Bartleby through the cemetery gates, and then locks them. If he has a suspicion in his mind as to the authenticity of his visitors, it is secondary to his desire to continue sipping brandy in front of a warm fire. Webb, meanwhile, walks briskly along the pavement, a look of satisfaction on his face.
‘What did you make of that, then?’ asks the sergeant.
‘Well, I’d say it’s a good chance that “gentleman” was our man, Sergeant, even though our friend can’t tell us much about him. Can’t be certain, of course. Let’s say he hides until the place is shut, digs up the grave, then . . . well, I suppose there’s still a problem, isn’t there?’
‘He left without the body?’ says Bartleby.
‘Quite. It looks like it, unless of course he had an accomplice. But then, this is what puzzles me: if it was something in the grave he wanted, where did he put the bones? Why not bury them again? But if he wanted the body, why not take it?’
‘Maybe he stashed them somewhere, and came back for them.’
‘Charming thought, isn’t it?’ says Webb. ‘Very well – tomorrow, come back and interview the fellow – see if you can get a better description when he’s sober; see if he remembers you for a start; he may not be particularly reliable, if tonight is any guide. And take a thorough look around the grounds – take a couple of men with you, plain clothes – and make sure there’s nothing we’ve missed.’
‘Like what?’
‘The remains. I suppose a cemetery might be the best place to hide them.’
Bartleby nods. ‘Are we really walking back into town, sir?’
‘Unless you know a means of summoning a cab, Sergeant, I’d say we are. Why?’
‘Just a shame you left the rest of that brandy behind, sir.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT IS TWO A.M. as Melissa Woodrow walks into the darkened hall of her home, a candle-stick in her hand. Her dressing-gown trails over the parquet floor as the sound of a key being jabbed inexpertly into the front door echoes through the house. Finally, after what seems an age, there is a distinct click. The key slots into the lock, and the door opens. A man’s hand slowly pulls back the heavy curtain that all but conceals the entrance.
‘Woodrow, is that you?’ she says in an urgent whisper.
‘Course it’s me, damn it,’ replies Jasper Woodrow, stepping a little unsteadily inside. His cheeks are flushed red with drink, his eyes decidedly bloodshot. ‘You think I’m likely to be burglarising my own house, eh?’
‘I didn’t know what to think,’ she says, her voice a peculiar mixture of anger and anxiety. ‘Where have you been all night? You said you would get a cab.’
‘Just for a little drink, my dear. Met up with your man Langley – thought we’d have a drop of something to celebrate.’
‘Langley? What, had you arranged it?’
‘After a fashion, my darling, after a fashion. Useless little milksop, mind you. Can’t take his liquor – wouldn’t think it to look at him. Or, come to think of it, perhaps you would. But,’ says Woodrow with a rather lopsided smile, tapping his nose with his finger, ‘his money’s good.’
‘You didn’t say anything,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, indignantly.
‘I needed a drink,’ says Woodrow with a rather angry emphasis.
‘But we thought you were coming home directly. Annabel and I were worried.’
‘Ah, the delightful Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, rather slurring his words. ‘Where is she, my dear? Must kiss her good night, eh? Must be civil to Miss Krout. Her old man might lend us some money, eh? No need now, mind you. Good old Langley. Lucky I found him.’
‘Woodrow, hush! I have never said anything about money – Annabel is in bed. Don’t you know what time it is?’
‘It is,’ says Woodrow, pulling out the chain to his pocket-watch, and fumbling with the case, ‘it is . . . time for bed, eh? Don’t suppose you’d care to join me, Melissa?’
‘I really can’t talk to you in this state, Woodrow,’ she replies, ‘really, I can’t.’
‘Don’t have to talk, my dear,’ says Woodrow. He looks at his wife, but she deliberately avoids his gaze. ‘Damn you, then,’ he says. ‘I’ll just go and kiss Miss Krout good night, eh?’
With that, Woodrow walks purposefully towards the hall stairs, though almost tripping on the rug that lies before them. Melissa darts after him, a look of horror on her face.
‘Woodrow! You’ll do no such thing!’
‘Just a quick peck, my dear.’
‘Please,’ she says, grabbing hold of his arm.
He shakes her hand roughly free, with such force that he knocks it against the banister. Melissa, in turn, leans back against the woodwork, her mouth wide with surprise at the sudden blow; tears well up in her eyes.
‘Here now, enough of that,’ says Woodrow. ‘I was only chaffing you, woman. It’s your own damn fault, you know.’
Melissa Woodrow shakes her head, but offers no words.
‘I’m going to bed,’ says Woodrow, in a sullen tone.
Annabel Krout stands by the door to her room in her night-gown, listening to the raised voices downstairs. She can make out little more than the passing mention of her own name, and the distressed sound of Mrs. Woodrow’s voice. Then there is the sound of Mr. Woodrow’s heavy footsteps upon the stairs. Unconsciously, she holds her breath as he passes her room, and enters his dressing-room upon the opposite side of the landing. A minute or so later comes the lighter step of Mrs. Woodrow, the rustle of her dressing-gown. Annabel ponders for a moment whether she should open the door and talk to her; but she cannot quite muster the confidence to do so. Nor can she imagine what she might say that would not merely embarrass her cousin. In consequence, though she waits a minute or two more, to see if either party ventures forth from their respective bedrooms, she eventually returns quietly to her bed.
Pulling up the covers around her body, Annabel lies back and closes her eyes.
It is not long before she falls into fitful sleep.
Annabel wakes.
At first she is conscious only of a cold sweat, soaked through her nig
ht-gown, the fabric sticking to her arms. It takes her a moment to recollect her surroundings. But then she notices, from the corner of her eye, a peculiar movement in the darkness; something quite out of place. Her stomach suddenly turns over inside her, as she moves her head to see a small figure in white, walking noiselessly past her bed.
For a moment, she is quite paralysed by the strange sight, the slow processional movement of what, for all the world, looks like a little ghost. She wonders if she is still dreaming. Memories of childish night terrors, tales told by nurses to scare their infant charges, rush unbidden into her half-waking mind. She watches in silence, struggling to reassure herself that she is quite awake, as the figure walks towards the window of her room, gently pulls aside the curtain, and taps its fingers on the glass.
Annabel reaches for the match-box beside her bed, and strikes a light, nearly setting fire to the entire box in her fumbling fingers. But then even the faint glow of the match, let alone the candle for which it is intended, is quite sufficient to dispel any mystery surrounding the figure by the window.
‘Lucy!’ exclaims Annabel.
The little girl says nothing. In truth, she gives no indication of having heard her name. Rather, she stands staring through the window, her hand still tapping insistently upon the pane.
Annabel calls her name again, but still elicits no reply. Taking the lit candle, she gets out of bed and walks over to the window. The child stands quite still, her feet bare, her eyes fixed upon the street below.
‘Lucy, what is it?’
Lucy gives no answer. Annabel reaches to touch her arm but she is interrupted by the sound of footsteps upon the landing, and the breathless appearance of Mrs. Woodrow at the door to her room.
‘Oh, Lord! I thought I heard her on the stairs. Don’t wake her,’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Wake her?’
‘My dear, I am so sorry, I should have said something – oh, I blame myself,’ says Mrs. Woodrow in a stage whisper, walking briskly over to her daughter. ‘Lucy has, well, a nervous condition . . . she is given to sleep-walking. I would have said, but she has been quite good of late.’
Annabel glances anxiously at the little girl. ‘I suppose there’s no harm done.’
‘No? Why, I expect she scared you to death. She can’t even hear us, you know. It’s such an awful trial – the doctors say she will grow out of it, but really, I don’t know.’
‘What should we do? What do you suppose she is looking at?’
‘Nothing, I am sure – it’s akin to a trance; she doesn’t actually see anything, I think, or at least nothing she remembers. One merely has to lead her back to bed and keep an eye on her. I suppose there is nothing for it. Jacobs will have to share her room again. And she won’t thank me for that.’
‘To watch over her?’
‘Yes, she might harm herself, or fall or anything, you see – they have no proper sense where they are, my dear, not in this condition.’ Mrs. Woodrow sighs, and bends down to address her daughter. ‘Lucy? Come on now, darling, this is cousin Annabel’s room, not yours. I’m taking you back to bed.’
Lucy gives no indication of hearing her mother, but when Mrs. Woodrow takes her hand, she silently consents to be led away from the window, and out on to the landing.
‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow as she walks, her voice low, ‘please, do go back to bed and get some sleep.’
‘There’s really no need to apologise, cousin . . .’
Annabel’s voice trails off, as Jasper Woodrow opens his bedroom door abruptly, dressed in his shirt and trousers. His balance appears unsteady, and he leans against the door-frame. He peers out on to the landing, which is lit only by the flickering light of Mrs. Woodrow’s candle.
‘What’s all this?’
‘Nothing, Woodrow. Go back to bed, dear.’
‘Don’t give me orders, woman. Damn me, not again?’ he says, gesturing towards Lucy, who stands quite oblivious by her mother.
‘It’s nothing, dear, really.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s nothing, when the child’s not in her right mind. Look at her. Give her to me.’
‘Woodrow, no, please don’t—’
‘Give her here, I said.’
Mrs. Woodrow’s protests go unheeded, as her husband grabs the little girl and shakes her. He is relatively gentle at first, but then takes her more violently by the shoulders. And if waking his daughter is the object, then Jasper Woodrow’s methods have the desired effect. Indeed, Annabel watches as the girl’s face changes from its peculiar blank serenity to consciousness, albeit a wakeful state of confusion and fear and, finally, choking sobs.
‘Woodrow, stop it! You’re hurting her!’
Woodrow looks down at his daughter, who stands limp in his grip, her cheeks burning red and wet with tears. He lets go of one arm, pulling her up with the other.
‘Lucinda, can you hear me?’
The little girl nods, though her face is still fearful.
‘That was for your own good. You must learn to control yourself. Do you hear?’
Lucy nods again.
‘If you do not, I do not want to but I will punish you. Do you understand me? Speak up.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ says the little girl.
‘Good. Now take her back to bed, Melissa, for God’s sake – let us have a night’s peace.’
Melissa Woodrow darts a glance at her husband, but says nothing, shepherding her daughter up the stairs. Woodrow himself is about to return to bed, when Annabel, having stood silently in the doorway to her room, steps out on to the landing.
‘I am sorry you had to see such a display, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow. ‘I hope you can still get some sleep.’
Annabel takes a deep breath. ‘Sir, I doubt I can, unless I speak my mind.’
Woodrow frowns. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I think,’ she says, trying to keep a measured tone, ‘you were very harsh with your daughter.’
‘Do you, indeed?’
‘Surely she cannot help herself. I mean, though I do not know much about the condition . . .’
‘No,’ says Woodrow, firmly, ‘you do not. And, although it would not surprise me, Miss Krout, if the Yankees were to start breeding lady doctors, until that time, I’d be grateful if you’d keep your ill-informed opinions to yourself. I bid you good night.’
Jasper Woodrow steps back into his bedroom and slams the door behind him.
Annabel, for her part, takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She turns around and goes back into her room, where her candle still burns by the bed. It does not take her long to discover that she cannot sleep. She contemplates lighting the lamp and writing a letter home, but instead goes back to the window where Lucy stood a few minutes previously, and looks out on to the street.
But there is nothing to be seen.
PART TWO
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE FOG OF the previous night has finally cleared, but a dense pall of black cloud hangs over the streets of the metropolis, threatening rain. Outside Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse, a pair of young men undo various padlocks and grapple with the panelled wooden shutters that protect Woodrow’s plate-glass windows. They exchange a few friendly words, then the screens are raised up from the polished brass sills into which they are slotted during the hours of darkness. In a matter of minutes, the shutters are stacked against the exterior of the building, then despatched with expedition to some secret location at the rear of the shop. Indeed, it is the hour when shop-keepers throughout the capital stir into action, and so the same delicate exercise is carried out all along High Holborn, uncovering the displays of several stationers, a gentleman’s outfitter, Henekey’s Imperial Wine and a dozen other redoubtable retail establishments.
But the young men of Woodrow’s notice something different about their daily task. For such early-morning activity, no matter how mundane it may be, generally attracts the satiric attention of some ragged street-child, lolling b
y the nearest lamp-post, or the rather more pleasant scrutiny of a maid-servant, bound upon an errand, who finds something peculiarly admirable about one or the other of the winged-collared young shopmen. Today, however, there are no curious passers-by, no-one intrigued by the secret life of the London shop. Such idle individuals are, instead, gathered a few hundred yards to the south and east, crowding the road and pavement around the steps of the Holborn Casino.
This crowd, in itself, is quite unusual. For the Casino is normally quite shut up during the day, when there is little call for drink and dancing, and respectable folk might catch an unwelcome glimpse of its sinfully gilded interior. In consequence, the peculiar gathering soon attracts its own peripheral hangers-on, who merely stop to make the simple inquiry ‘What is the matter here?’ Then they too are swiftly absorbed into the milling group. For the answer to their question, in one word, whispered between man, woman and child, complete strangers who exchange the news with an odd familiarity, is ‘murder’; and it is an answer that encourages most of them to linger and crane their necks towards the entrance to the infamous dance-hall.
It is the presence of this self-same crowd that leaves Decimus Webb in no doubt of his destination, as his cab pulls up on the opposite side of the street; but this is, perhaps, the only positive aspect of such unchecked public enthusiasm. In fact, it takes Webb a good couple of minutes to edge his way through the mob to the burly pair of constables who guard the doors, despite proclaiming the word ‘police’ at the top of his lungs, and he acquires at least one bruised rib and a stubbed toe in the process. Once inside the Casino’s lobby, however, he finds that he is on his own. Walking down the entrance stairs, past the cloakroom and sundry ante-rooms, he pulls open the glass-panelled doors that lead into the great marble hall. It is quite empty, with only the odd relic of the previous night’s revelry, whether an empty wine bottle or a broken glass, lying beneath one or two of the tables. It strikes him that there is almost something eerie in the absence of noise.