by Lee Jackson
‘Bartleby?’ shouts Webb, puncturing the silence.
There is no reply but his voice echoes around the empty chamber. Then the sound of rapid, muffled footsteps echo in the gallery above.
‘Is that you, Sergeant?’ continues Webb.
‘Yes sir, I’m coming,’ replies the sergeant. Webb waits patiently, until Bartleby appears, trotting down the carpeted stairs that lead up to the gallery.
‘Thought I’d just have a look around, sir.’
‘Did you?’ says Webb.
‘I knew we’d end up busy this week, sir. What did I tell you?’
‘I expect you said just that, Sergeant. In any case, before we begin this conversation, I should like to make you aware of two facts. First, your telegram, or rather the wretched youth that delivered it, woke me from a profound and deeply satisfying sleep. Second, I came here directly without so much as a sip of coffee touching my lips.’
‘Sir?’
‘I merely suggest you tell me the details directly, Sergeant, and, in particular, why this could not wait at least until I had had breakfast?’
‘Sorry, sir. I thought you’d be keen, that’s all, given the circumstances.’
‘Sergeant . . .’ says Webb, lending the word a heavy tone of admonition.
‘Sorry, sir. Well, I got in early myself – didn’t get much sleep as it happens – and no sooner had I sat down than we got word down the line to come here, double quick. I came myself, first off, and well, all things considered—’
‘What things, Sergeant, for pity’s sake? Do you think I enjoy mysteries?’
‘It’s the same one, sir. That did for those two girls in Knight’s Hotel. He’s done it again.’
Webb follows the sergeant through a narrow corridor at the rear of the Casino, behind the musicians’ portion of the gallery above. The décor becomes increasingly plain as they progress and it is not long before the red and gold wall-paper above the wainscoting gives way to flaking white paint and bare plaster. At last, they come to a battered-looking door, that leads outside into an small open courtyard, surrounded on all sides by tall window-less walls, with an alley, round the side of the building, the only other obvious method of egress.
‘Here?’ says Webb.
‘Just round the corner, sir,’ says the sergeant, leading the way. Webb follows him, towards a trio of large dust-bins and several wooden crates, full to the brim with empty wine bottles. The atmosphere of the alley is unpleasantly acrid and Webb cannot help but cough.
‘Foul, isn’t it, sir?’ says Bartleby. ‘I’m told the gentlemen generally use it for a privy, if the WC back there is occupied.’
‘Yes, I rather gathered that, Sergeant.’
‘Just behind the bin, sir,’ replies Bartleby. ‘I haven’t moved her.’
Webb steps past the sergeant, and looks behind the over-size tin dust-bin. On the ground, curled up into a ball, lies the body of a young dark-haired woman, her hair loose, her burgundy dress torn along her arm.
‘I see. Throat, you said? Have you examined the wound thoroughly, Sergeant?’
‘No, ah, not in any detail, sir,’ says Bartleby.
Webb reaches down and gently pulls back the dead woman’s locks, revealing a dark gash across her throat. He scowls, and deliberately tilts the head slightly back, exposing the blood-encrusted wound.
‘There, Sergeant. Can you see it? He cut through her windpipe.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, sir.’
‘Sergeant,’ says Webb, annoyance in his voice, ‘I do not expect you to possess a degree in medicine, but you must familiarise yourself with basic anatomy.’
Bartleby reluctantly leans over the body. ‘Yes, I see it, sir.’
‘Good,’ says Webb. ‘And the paper was where?’
‘Just by her hand, sir. I reckon he put it in her hand again. Probably fell out.’
‘Show it to me.’
Bartleby reaches into his pocket, revealing a small piece of paper, with writing in scrawled block capitals.
‘“There is no darkness, nor shadow of death, where the workers of iniquity may hide themselves.”’
‘Job again, I believe, sir,’ interjects Bartleby.
Webb looks at him quizzically.
‘Lot of Dissenters in the family, sir. Given to studying the Good Book.’
Webb sighs. ‘Well, at least you’re good for something, Sergeant. And this alley, where does it lead?’
‘Along the side of the building. Out to High Holborn. But it’s barred and gated. You wouldn’t get past it. They open it only for the dustmen on a Monday.’
‘And the person that found her?’
‘Young woman, sir. Comes in early to clean the place out, every morning – there’s a few of them that does it – she just found her lying there when she was tipping out the ashes. Quite distraught – I’ve got her in one of the rooms out front. You won’t get much sense out of her though.’
‘No, I don’t expect I will,’ says the inspector wearily, looking back at the body. ‘Has the manager of the place been contacted?’
‘Sent out a constable to do just that, sir.’
‘Very well, Sergeant, I think you’d best also send for Inspector Hanson; it’s only fair we notify him. He was rather prescient, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’
‘And not a word about this piece of paper to anyone except Hanson, eh?’
‘Sir?’
‘Whoever is doing this, Sergeant, wants to be recognised in some way. He is enjoying sending out these little messages. I do not know why – but I do not intend to give him the satisfaction of seeing it in the press.’
‘No, sir. But they’ll put two and two together soon enough, won’t they? I mean, three girls in one week?’
Webb frowns.
‘Three girls? Yes, I suppose they may well. Let us just hope, Sergeant, that is the limit of the wretch’s ambition.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Wait a moment, Sergeant,’ says Webb, ‘what’s this?’
The inspector bends down beside the dust-bin, and peers into the dirt, flicking it away with his fingers, revealing a small red-beaded purse, half-hidden by spilt ash. Webb picks it up and shakes it.
‘Look, Sergeant. Now that hasn’t been there long, I should think. Tell me, did you not notice it, or were you trying to test my powers of observation?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, in any case, let us look inside. What have we here? Three of four shillings in change; a silk handkerchief; and, ah, this is better, a folded receipt for nine yards of muslin, at one shilling and one pence a yard. A black-bordered receipt at that, on printed paper, with the word “Deduct”. stamped upon it.’
‘Does it have the name of the shop, sir?’
‘Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse.’
‘Woodrow’s? That’s just round the corner,’ says Bartleby. ‘Do you think it belonged to the girl?’
‘I do not know,’ replies the inspector, ‘but I think we had best pay them a visit.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ANNABEL KROUT TURNS over in her sleep and wakes with a start; her blankets are loose, pulled awkwardly to one side of the bed, and she can feel a chill down her arm, exposed to the cold air. She tucks herself back under the covers, wondering what hour it might be. The room is in semi-darkness, although she fancies she can make out the barest hint of daylight, visible behind the heavy curtains that conceal the twin sash windows opposite. Then there is a noise outside; the bedroom door creaks, and opens an inch or two.
‘Who is it?’ she asks tentatively.
‘Only me, Miss,’ comes the reply. ‘Beg pardon, Miss, I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘No, no, I was awake, please come in.’
Jacobs steps into the room, bearing the familiar pitcher of steaming water, which she deposits on the wash-stand. Her appearance, scheduled for eight o’clock on previous mornings, suffices to give Annabel an indication of the time; she raise
s herself up.
‘Can you open the curtains please, Jacobs?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
Jacobs walks over and pulls on the draw-string that opens the curtains. The room brightens a little, but if there is daylight outside, it seems to Annabel a distinctly gloomy, metropolitan variety.
‘What’s it like out there?’ asks Annabel.
‘Outside, Miss? Well, the fog’s gone.’
Annabel smiles. ‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘Oh, it can settle for days on end, Miss – something awful. You can go without seeing the sun for a fortnight.’
‘Is that right?’ says Annabel.
‘Yes, Miss. Will there be anything else?’
‘No,’ says Annabel, then, reflecting for a moment, ‘no, wait. May I ask you something, Jacobs?’
The servant frowns, a rather anxious expression creasing her brow. ‘As you like, Miss.’
‘Did you hear any, well, any trouble last night?’
‘Trouble?’ says the maid-servant, uncomprehending.
‘I found little Lucy in my room. Mrs. Woodrow tells me she walks in her sleep.’
‘Oh lor!’ exclaims Jacobs, then immediately puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, beg your pardon, Miss. I just thought that she was getting better, that’s all.’
‘Why, does she do it often?’
‘Now and again, Miss,’ replies Jacobs. ‘It’s a shame, poor little thing.’
‘Mr. Woodrow was most . . . well, upset about it.’
‘Was he, Miss?’ says Jacobs, looking away from her interlocutor and rearranging the items upon the wash-stand.
‘I’m sorry – it’s not your place to say, I know. I should not have mentioned it.’
‘No, Miss, it’s just . . .’
‘Just what?’
‘Don’t think too badly of the master. It may seem he comes down hard, but he means well.’
Annabel smiles politely. ‘I am sure you’re right.’
‘I only mean to say,’ continues Jacobs, as if determined to make her point, ‘it’s a bad business for both of them.’
‘Both of them?’ says Annabel. ‘I don’t quite understand.’
Jacob blushes and her frown returns. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have said anything, Miss. Please don’t tell the Missus.’
‘Tell her what?’
‘Well,’ says Jacobs, leaning forward, her voice a low, nervous whisper, ‘the master, he suffers from it too.’
‘You mean he walks in his sleep?’
Jacobs nods, then stares at her feet.
‘I haven’t heard anything,’ says Annabel. ‘Surely Mrs. Woodrow would have told me, if there was any chance of him . . . she would have spoken to me about it.’
‘Oh, he don’t do it now so much, Miss. Says he’s willed himself to stop. But, between you and me, he takes something for it, to help him sleep sound.’
‘I see,’ says Annabel. She observes a rather anxious look upon the maid-servant’s face. ‘I’m sorry – I did not mean to keep you from your work. And I swear I won’t speak a word about it, not even to Mrs. Woodrow.’
Jacobs smiles in gratitude. ‘May I go now, Miss?’
‘Of course.’
The table in the Woodrows’ dining-room is laid out for breakfast, but Annabel finds that she is quite alone. The only noise is the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, and the slight creak of the floorboards, as Annabel seats herself. She looks at the clock – telling ten minutes past nine – and notices, for the first time, a photograph of the family which sits near by: Mrs. Woodrow sitting down, demure, if a little uncomfortable; Lucy cross-legged and serious in front of her parents; Mr. Woodrow standing bolt upright in his dress-coat, a severe paterfamilial gaze into the camera.
Jacobs appears silently by the door.
‘Bacon and eggs, or porridge, Miss?’
Annabel turns.
‘Jacobs, you made me jump.’
‘Sorry, Miss.’
‘I’ll have the bacon. Am I the only one down for breakfast this morning?’
‘Yes, Miss – the master’s gone out already, and the Missus says to beg your pardon, but she’s feeling a little tired.’
‘I see,’ says Annabel. ‘Thank you.’
‘And will you have tea and toast, Miss?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Thank you, Miss,’ says Jacobs, and retreats.
Annabel, in turn, gets up from her place and walks around the room. Mr. Woodrow’s copy of the Islington Weekly Chronicle lies upon the sideboard, folded and open at an inside page. Annabel picks it up, takes it back to the table and sits down once more, casually running her eye over the close-packed type. Her eye catches a particular item at the bottom of a column:
THE HOTEL MURDERS
Three days have passed since the discovery of the bodies of the two young women, Elizabeth Violet Carter, aged 18, and Annie Finch, aged 17, brutally murdered in Knight’s Hotel, Ludgate Hill. Both victims were what are called ‘unfortunates’ and the hotel was frequented by females of that class. Nonetheless, it is impossible to imagine a crueller and more dastardly assault upon two defenceless women, and the City of London force are making every conceivable inquiry into the matter. The circumstances of the case, not least a singular epistolary communication found in Annie Finch’s room, incline the police to believe a lunatic is responsible for the crime. As yet, however, they do not possess any clue to the person or persons who committed the outrage.
Jacobs appears, standing by Annabel’s side with a pot of tea, looking over her shoulder.
‘How awful,’ says Annabel, putting down the newspaper.
‘Miss?’ says Jacobs, peering at the paper. ‘Oh, that hotel business? Yes, poor devils. Here’s the toast, Miss.’
Annabel Krout, with her breakfast finished, returns upstairs to the second floor. She does not, however, go directly to her room, but pauses outside that of Mrs. Woodrow. After a moment or two’s hesitation, she knocks upon the door.
‘Who is it?’ comes back as a muffled response from within.
‘Annabel, cousin. May I come in?’
There is a short interval. Then, finally, ‘Yes, my dear, come in.’
Annabel enters the bedroom and finds Mrs. Woodrow sitting up in bed in her dressing-gown, her hair loose, a needle and thread and a pair of stockings by her side. She does, indeed, appear tired, or at least a little pale.
‘My dear,’ she says immediately, ‘you must forgive me for being so rude. I really ought to have come and spoken to you myself; I am just a little fatigued. Tell me, did Jacobs not say anything?’
‘She did,’ says Annabel, ‘but I thought I might come and see how you are? I didn’t mean to intrude, cousin.’
‘No, no. You’re a dear girl, Annabel. It’s just my nerves, I am sure. Lucinda was so unruly last night; it took me a good half-hour to quiet her after . . . well, after that little incident. Now, did you have a decent breakfast?’
‘Yes, I did,’ replies Annabel. ‘Is Lucy all right?’
‘Well, I believe so. Jacobs will keep an eye on her. But I am afraid we must cancel our plans for today, my dear. I could not possibly step out of the house in my condition. I’d positively die.’
‘Of course,’ says Annabel, though unable to disguise a note of disappointment in her voice, as the prospect of finally visiting St. Paul’s or the fabled Crystal Palace recedes further from her horizon. ‘Well, perhaps I could go out myself, just for a little stroll? I might take Lucy for a walk?’
‘Oh no, dear. She’s far too sensitive after one of her turns; it might bring on another. It’s best not to over-stimulate her, not today.’
‘Well, what if Jacobs were to come with us?’
‘Oh, Annabel dear, she is far too busy around the house. Now, really, I fear I must rest. I was going to do a little darning, just to distract myself, but I am quite exhausted. I might take a little nap. Can you find something to occupy yourself, my dear? I have a couple of books on loan from Mudi
e’s, I think they are downstairs. Or do you like Walter Scott, my dear? Woodrow has a beautiful bound set in the study. I don’t think he’s opened them once – such a shame.’
‘May I play the piano?’
‘Oh, I am not sure. The noise travels awfully . . .’
‘Then I would not think of it, cousin. I am sure I can find something to amuse myself.’
‘Good,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I promise you, my dear, once I feel better, we shall go out and enjoy ourselves.’
‘Please, don’t worry,’ says Annabel. ‘Shall I have Jacobs bring you anything?’
‘Perhaps some more toast, my dear. I might eat some toast.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ replies Annabel. ‘And shall I come back later, to see how you are?’
‘Yes, in an hour or two, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow graciously.
Annabel departs the room with a polite smile; it vanishes from her lips, however, the moment she closes the bedroom door. She returns to her room with a long face, and, sweeping up her skirts, sits heavily upon the bed, the prospect of a long house-bound day stretching before her. At last, however, she remembers to ring the bell-pull, with a view to ordering Mrs. Woodrow’s toast. As she pulls it, there is the concomitant high-pitched metallic trill in the basement, faint and distant. But, strangely, there is no sound upon the stairs, no hurrying footsteps.
Annabel waits a minute or so, then tries the bell once more. Again, there is no reply. She gets up and walks out on to the landing; but there is still no sound. Furrowing her brow, more in perplexity than irritation, she proceeds downstairs to the first floor, where she encounters Jacobs running hastily up.
‘Miss, I’m terrible sorry. I was just ticking off the butcher’s boy – our meat today was something awful – I didn’t hear the bell.’
Annabel smiles. ‘It’s only that Mrs. Woodrow wants some toast.’
‘I’ll go tell Cook, Miss,’ replies Jacobs.
Annabel nods, and Jacobs returns downstairs with equal celerity. Annabel herself walks idly into the drawing-room, bestowing a rather longing look towards the piano. She looks through the window, on to Duncan Terrace. There is no sign of the butcher’s boy with his basket, nor any other passing tradesman; but her thoughts are more occupied with the tedious day ahead.