The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  She leans over the piano and runs her fingers along the highest, quietest octave, performing a tentative arpeggio. She half expects to hear Mrs. Woodrow thumping upon the floorboards above. But there is no sound.

  Annabel sighs to herself, and closes the piano lid.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  INSPECTOR WEBB WALKS briskly into the elegant entrance-hall of Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse, accompanied by Sergeant Bartleby. He ignores the bow given by the doorman, liveried in black and gold, who acts as guardian of the establishment. Instead, he walks directly to the nearest counter, that of the stationery department, where a lone shopman stands ready to receive customers. Beneath the glass-topped counter are the various grades of black-trimmed envelope and writing paper available to the more fashionably bereaved, but Webb ignores the display and beckons the man forward, whispering in his ear. It is only a few discreet words, and they are not distinct enough to be heard by the sergeant. Still, doubtless they encompass the phrase ‘an urgent police matter’, for the young man in question hastens toward the rear of the building, and returns with a more senior member of staff. In turn, the second man, grey-bearded and solemn as the stationery, leads the two policemen upstairs, and through the door marked ‘Employés’, which leads to the back offices.

  ‘We may talk here, sir,’ says the gentleman in question, leading Webb and Bartleby into the small private room which constitutes his workplace. ‘I would offer you a seat . . .’

  Webb looks around: the office is a rather barren affair with only a single desk and chair. There are a few ledgers and the implements of a book-keeper, a pen, inkstand, blotting pad, balanced upon the desk; but nothing else except a series of shelves, stacked with files.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. . . .’

  ‘Prentice, sir. I am the senior clerk and floor-manager. I am afraid my superior, Mr. Woodrow himself, is not yet on the premises; we do not expect him for a half-hour or so.’

  ‘I am sure you will suffice, Mr. Prentice. Tell me,’ says Webb, retrieving the receipt from his pocket, ‘what do you make of this? A customer of yours, perhaps?’

  Prentice retrieves a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his jacket, puts them on, and casts his eyes over the receipt. ‘No, sir. I should say not.’

  ‘Not?’ says Bartleby.

  ‘No, sir,’ replies Prentice, quite firmly, ‘it is not. This stamp, you see, “Deduct”. It means it is a receipt given to one of our staff, one of our girls, though I cannot say which one in particular. A deduction from their salary.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ replies Webb.

  ‘You mean for material they have bought for themselves?’ asks Bartleby.

  ‘Or family. It is a common arrangement; nothing underhand, I assure you,’ replies Prentice hurriedly. ‘We find the girls like to make themselves up a new dress, now and then, to wear of a Sunday; if we have any old stock, then we allow them to purchase at a discount.’

  ‘For regular dresses, not mourning?’ asks Bartleby.

  ‘Of course. I am told a dark colour, such as we suggest for half mourning, can be quite fashionable, if made up to the latest taste. Of course, a young woman will squander much of her remuneration upon whatever might be the fashion, if given the opportunity – we only allow it once per annum.’

  ‘Indeed?’ says Webb. ‘And, tell me, do you know the girls well yourself? They live on the premises, I assume?’

  ‘Certainly; we have twenty females and eight young men; and a lady superintendent.’

  ‘To care for their morals?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Admirable. Now, Mr. Prentice, do you encourage the girls to go out at night? Do you give them much in the way of liberty?’

  ‘Liberty, sir? Why, the usual amount, though we are not early closers here at Woodrow’s. We say one evening per week between seven and ten, and Sundays, of course.’

  ‘But you expect them back by ten, of an evening?’

  ‘Of course. This is a decent, well-conducted establishment, Inspector. Forgive me, sir, I do not follow any of this – where did you find this receipt?’

  ‘I regret it was a short distance from the body of a murdered girl, Mr. Prentice. Not far from here.’

  The gentleman in question stands back in astonishment. ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘Tell me, are all your girls at work this morning?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replies Prentice, then checks himself. ‘Well, all except one. But she is due her notice, the moment I set eyes upon her.’

  ‘A trouble-maker?’

  ‘Quite. A Miss Price – she has been with us a year or more but the girl is nothing but a source of vexation, Inspector. And she hasn’t been seen all—’

  ‘Is she a dark-haired girl, about five feet three inches tall?’

  ‘Good Lord, you don’t mean to say . . .’

  ‘I mean to say nothing, my dear fellow. But if you can spare us a few minutes, I am afraid I must ask you to go with the sergeant.’

  ‘Now? Go where?’

  ‘The Holborn Casino. That’s where we found the girl – your Miss Price, I fear it is quite likely – but we won’t know until you take a look at her?’

  Mr. Prentice takes a step back. ‘Surely not? I am not the man to do it. I mean to say, Mr. Woodrow will be here shortly. I mean, I should not leave my post.’

  ‘Come, Mr. Prentice, it is only a few minutes. It is a matter of some importance, as you can imagine. Besides, I should think it nothing to a man like yourself, in your line of work.’

  Mr. Prentice pales visibly. ‘We dress the living, Inspector. I have very little acquaintance with . . .’

  ‘Bodies?’ suggests Bartleby.

  ‘It’s just that there’s no time like the present, in our line of work, sir,’ says Webb, amiably. ‘And you would be helping Her Majesty’s Police. Think of that.’

  ‘Well, I suppose . . .’ stammers Prentice.

  ‘Good man,’ says Webb.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JASPER WOODROW APPROACHES the General Mourning Warehouse at his regular time of half-past nine. As is his custom, he first applies his muddy boots to the iron scraper situated by the entrance. He is interrupted, however, by the sudden appearance of one of his chief clerks upon the doorstep.

  ‘Prentice, for God’s sake, man,’ exclaims Woodrow, ‘let me get through the door, won’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but a rather urgent matter has arisen. I thought it prudent to speak to you at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘There,’ says Woodrow, looking down at his boots, ‘that must do, I suppose. Well, might we step inside?’

  Mr. Prentice nods and retreats back into the shop, followed by his employer. Woodrow strides upstairs, and Prentice follows.

  ‘I don’t wish to alarm you, sir, but there has been, well, an unfortunate incident.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Woodrow, as he ascends the steps.

  ‘One of our girls, sir, Miss Price . . . an awful business . . . I don’t quite know how to put it . . . she has been found dead.’

  Woodrow stops upon the stairs, resting his hand upon the mahogany banister.

  ‘Found dead?’ echoes Woodrow.

  ‘Murdered, sir, to be more accurate,’ says another voice, unknown to Woodrow, as a slightly stout man in his fifties, dressed in a tweed suit, descends the stairs to meet them.

  ‘Please, Inspector,’ says Prentice in an urgent hushed tone. ‘Not so loud, if you please. Think of our reputation. Mr. Woodrow, this is Inspector Webb, of Scotland Yard, sir.’

  For a moment, Jasper Woodrow looks nonplussed by this information; but it is only a moment.

  ‘I think,’ says Woodrow, ‘we had best retire to my office, gentlemen.’

  Webb bows his head. ‘Of course, sir. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I spoke too plainly. I fear we policemen easily forget the social graces. Point the way.’

  ‘It is not far,’ says Woodrow.

  ‘A terrible business,’ says Decimus Webb, seated
in Woodrow’s office, though he does not say the words with any great feeling.

  ‘Terrible,’ reiterates Jasper Woodrow, seated behind his desk. ‘And I am sorry for the poor girl’s family, naturally, Inspector. But, really, I must think of my livelihood and that of my employees. I do not suppose it can be kept out of the papers?’

  ‘Do you know the Casino, sir?’ asks Webb.

  ‘Yes,’ says Woodrow, hesitating. ‘I know its reputation, yes.’

  ‘An unenviable reputation, I think you’ll agree. Then you know what the papers will make of it, sir.’

  ‘We are certain it is Miss Price?’

  ‘Couldn’t be more certain, sir,’ says Prentice, who stands at the back of the room. ‘I’m afraid . . . I have seen her for myself, sir.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know if the girl had any enemies?’ asks Webb.

  ‘Enemies, Inspector?’ asks Prentice.

  ‘Well, we must consider the usual possibilities . . . rivals in love, or jealous suitors, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, sir,’ replies the clerk.

  Woodrow looks grimly at his employee. His finger taps noisily on the desk. ‘Not to your knowledge, Prentice?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I suppose,’ continues Woodrow, an undercurrent of anger in his voice, ‘it was not to your knowledge, either, that she was out disporting herself at the bloody Casino at all hours of the night?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replies the clerk meekly, looking at the floor. ‘I was about to dismiss her, in any case.’

  ‘Why?’ asks Webb.

  ‘In truth, Inspector,’ says Prentice, ‘she was attracting the wrong sort of gentlemen to the premises.’

  ‘Gentlemen? But all your girls are well turned out, surely,’ says Webb. ‘What sort of gentlemen?’

  ‘Loungers, Inspector,’ says Prentice. ‘You know the sort.’

  Woodrow sighs with exasperation. ‘Well, now we know where she met them, eh? And why in God’s name was she out at such an hour?’

  ‘It seems,’ says Prentice, rather nervously, ‘that our superintendent has not been as scrupulous on these matters as I might have hoped.’

  ‘As you might have hoped?’ exclaims Woodrow. ‘Damn you, man, you’re no good to me here. You may as well go back to work.’

  Prentice readily agrees and shuffles hurriedly from the room.

  ‘This could spell ruin for us, you know, Inspector,’ he says at last. ‘Ruin.’

  ‘Nobody likes a scandal, sir,’ replies Webb. ‘But we must catch the wretch who did this. We can’t keep it quiet.’

  ‘I suppose you must.’ Woodrow takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t believe I can help you any further. You said your sergeant will talk to the other girls – must he speak to all of them?’

  ‘I think that’s best, sir. The word will get round, mark you, however many persons we talk to. You did not know Miss Price yourself, sir?’

  ‘I have seen her about the place, no doubt. But I deputise Prentice and a couple of others to deal with the counter staff. I have very little to do with them.’

  ‘Naturally. Long-standing business this, isn’t it?’ inquires Webb. ‘I seem to recall it being here on Holborn a good while, albeit perhaps a little smaller in size. A different name, though, if I recollect correctly.’

  ‘It was my wife’s father’s, Inspector, and his before that. But I fail to see how that pertains to the matter in hand.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr. Woodrow, professional curiosity, that is all,’ says Webb, getting up. ‘One feels an obligation to constantly ask questions; a terrible habit. Still, I will not detain you any further, eh? I’d best be going.’

  ‘You have no idea who killed the wretched girl, then, Inspector?’ says Woodrow as the two men get up.

  ‘I wish I did. But you know, sir, it occurs to me, being in the trade, you might be able to help me with another unrelated matter.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, you well might. By any chance, have you heard of a gentleman by the name of Munday, Jeremy Sayers Munday?’

  Woodrow pauses, and speaks rather nervously. ‘I . . . I can’t say as I have, Inspector. Why do you ask?’

  Webb shakes his head, as Jasper Woodrow reaches over and opens his office door. ‘Just someone in your line of work, sir. Another case entirely. Don’t trouble yourself.’

  ‘I’ll show you out, Inspector,’ continues Woodrow.

  ‘No need, sir. No need. I know the way,’ says Webb, walking through and taking his billycock hat from the stand outside Woodrow’s room. ‘We will let you know of any progress, sir, rest assured.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ says Woodrow.

  Webb smiles politely and nods goodbye.

  The two clerks who sit in the ante-chamber glance briefly at the policeman, then return to their work.

  Jasper Woodrow, closing the door behind Webb, suddenly looks peculiarly pale, the blood drained from his naturally ruddy complexion. He walks over to face the hearth, stretching his hands out towards the fire. But the warmth of the blaze does not have the desired effect and so he returns to his desk where, at the back of a drawer, sits a silver flask of brandy. Woodrow takes it out, unscrews the lid and downs the liquor in a single swig. He sits down and, for several minutes, seems to gaze vacantly into space, as if considering some insoluble problem.

  ‘Jones!’ he shouts, at last.

  In a second, one of the clerks who dwell outside the office opens the door and stands on the threshold.

  ‘Send a message to Mr. Siddons, Salisbury Square. Have one of the boys take it – tell him that I need to meet with him, as a matter of utmost urgency.’

  ‘Nothing more, sir?’

  ‘Did I not make myself plain?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Right away.’

  The clerk exits, leaving Woodrow once more alone with his thoughts.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Sergeant,’ says Webb, descending the stairs to the ground floor of the Warehouse.

  ‘Just arranging a quiet room to interview these girls, sir.’

  ‘Good, good. Although I don’t suppose you will find out anything.’

  ‘You think the fellow picked her at random, sir?’

  ‘More than likely. Still, one never knows. Perhaps she knew him, or they had met before at the Casino. It is worth investigating. See if she kept company with any particular men; apparently she was rather a magnet for a certain type.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir. Oh, and a telegram from Inspector Hanson. He’ll be here directly – asked if you might wait for him at the Casino.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing, Sergeant. I expect it has escaped your notice, but I still have not eaten. I require, at least, a cup of strong coffee and a rasher of bacon, if that is not too much to ask?’

  ‘Shall I send back to Inspector Hanson, sir? Should I mention the bacon?’

  ‘Attempts at wit don’t suit you, Sergeant. Let him have a look around, show him the girl before you move her. Then ask him to come to the Yard – I’ll see him there, one o’clock, if he can spare the time.’

  The sergeant assents, and Webb makes to leave Woodrow’s Warehouse, but then turns back abruptly, beckoning the sergeant to his side, speaking quietly.

  ‘Another thing, Sergeant – find out what you can about Mr. Woodrow. I should particularly like to know how long he’s been engaged in the mourning business.’

  ‘May I ask why, sir?’

  ‘Just idle curiosity, Sergeant.’

  Bartleby looks back at Webb with an expression of perplexity that his superior finds infinitely annoying.

  ‘Well, get on with it, Sergeant,’ says Webb.

  Bartleby nods, as Webb turns once more on to the street, and strolls out into High Holborn, in search of a cab.

  ‘“I do not suppose it can be kept out of the papers,”’ mutters Webb to himself, taking out his pipe and tobacco as he stands by the side of the road. ‘I shouldn’t think so, sir. Not by a long chalk.’

  CHAPTER
NINETEEN

  ANNABEL KROUT SITS at her writing desk. A steel-nibbed pen is poised in her right hand, but the white page before her is quite blank, devoid of ink except for a title of ‘London’s Theatreland’, twice underlined. Five minutes pass, then ten. As church bells in nearby streets begin to toll noon, she returns the pen to its place in the ink-stand. She gets up and walks once more to the window, looking down on Duncan Terrace, with its narrow strip of quiet pavement and railinged garden. But there is nothing to see. Indeed, the scene, which she fears may become her principal memory of the metropolis, is quite unchanged, and does nothing to stimulate her imagination. She frowns, and reluctantly puts the idea of writing to one side.

  She walks downstairs and finds Jacobs upon the landing, applying polish to the banisters, with a rigorous determination that thwarts any possible attempt at conversation. In fact, the only intelligence that Annabel receives is that ‘the Missus’ is not to be disturbed on account of ‘fixing her mind on sleeping till four’, which does nothing to raise her spirits.

  Recalling Mrs. Woodrow’s advice, Annabel, therefore, decides to turn her steps to the Woodrows’ study, located at the rear of the first-floor landing. She walks over and carefully turns the brass door-knob, almost tempted to knock, although she knows there can be no-one within. As she opens the door ajar, there is a scent, which strikes her as strangely evocative of something she cannot quite place. At first she fancies it is the smell of books; bound leather and paper. Then it comes to her. It is an intimate, lingering aroma of tobacco and brandy, which, in diluted form, is a fragrance she rather associates with her host.

  ‘I am just going to borrow a book,’ she says, turning to Jacobs, then immediately regretting it – for she has no need to ask for permission. The latter, however, merely nods and returns her attention to her work more briskly than might be considered entirely polite, as if to say ‘What does it matter to me?’

  Annabel swings open the door and enters the room. On first impression, although there is a tall sash window looking out on to the Woodrows’ garden, it seems to be the smallest room in the house and rather gloomy; not half as grand as she imagined. The study’s principal contents are a modest fireplace and single comfortable chair placed directly in front of the hearth. The alcoves upon either side of the fire are taken up entirely with shelves, containing an array of books and large red volumes, which, upon closer perusal, reveal themselves to be bound copies of Punch. Annabel runs her finger along the spines of the books, finding the collection of Scott, quite pristine, just as Mrs. Woodrow described. She stops at random at The Bride of Lammermoor, pulling the book from the tight grasp of its confederates upon the shelf. And, though the room is a little cold, she sits down upon the edge of the arm-chair, turning the pages, ignoring the introduction: