by Lee Jackson
‘You know,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘when Mr. Langley returns, I shall invite him to dinner tomorrow night.’
‘Must you?’ asks Woodrow, rather distractedly.
‘Of course! Woodrow, you must put some faith—’
‘My dear, forgive me, but I won’t be a moment. A call of nature.’
Melissa Woodrow sighs, as her husband hurries off in the direction of the chapel.
‘Whatever shall we do with your father, my dear?’ Lucinda does not reply.
Jasper Woodrow glances over his shoulder, then walks as quickly as he can, past the chapel, towards the rear wall of Abney Park.
He is not surprised to find that the small section of ground he is looking for is unattended by mourners and quite deserted by those engaged upon a casual perambulation of the park’s avenues. Indeed, as he draws closer, the monuments become less grand; the monoliths, angels and urns give way to merely a collection of wooden crosses. And in one plot the earth around is freshly turned, a series of wooden boards placed neatly across the grave of one Jeremy Sayers Munday.
‘Damn me,’ says Woodrow to himself, his face losing all its colour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DECIMUS WEBB SITS in his back-parlour, reading the previous day’s Times, indulging in his pipe. His modest home in Sekforde Street, Clerkenwell, is peaceful upon a Sunday, since it lies upon a small residential side street, hidden away amongst the warehouses, workshops and manufactories that dominate the district but lie dormant upon the Sabbath. Indeed, if truth be told, Webb rented the property, upon joining Scotland Yard, precisely for its peculiar seclusion amidst the busy streets; at the time, it seemed to him an agreeable combination. And yet, today, day of rest or not, Decimus Webb cannot quite seem to focus upon his paper; he puts it down and looks instead into the fire that crackles in the grate.
At length, he places his pipe upon the tiles of the hearth, and walks over to his desk, retrieving his notebook, open at the page he left it the previous evening. It contains sundry notes from official documents transcribed at the Office of the Registrar-General, including a note of the death certificate of Jeremy Sayers Munday: ‘Asphyxiation caused by compression of the neck due to the hanging’; ‘Suicide when of unsound mind; Tho. Melkin, Coroner for East Middlesex’. Webb pauses, then flicks over another page, where a series of names and addresses are listed, drawn from the last census of the metropolis. Most are crossed out but his eyes fix on the last entry, headed ‘St. Luke’s’ – ‘Eliza Munday – Fallen’.
He thinks for a moment, then picks it up, taking his jacket from the chair, and walking through into the hallway, where his coat and hat hang from a wooden stand.
The parish of St. Luke’s lies a half-mile to the east of Webb’s home in Sekforde Street. Whitecross Street market is at its heart, and it is into this bustling thoroughfare, at its busiest upon a Sunday, that Webb turns his steps.
The goods on show in Whitecross Street would tempt few in the wealthier west of the capital, upon any day of the week. For the items on show are principally of the second-hand variety: clothing, pots, pans, sundry staples of daily life. Almost every yard of pavement is covered in brightly painted trestle-tables and show boards, upon which these every-day things are displayed. What little space remains is taken up with food. Edibles and inedibles of every kind compete for attention, the wares of grocer, butcher and baker mixed together. Roving boys with ‘eight whelks a penny’ wander between the costers’ carts. Full-grown men bear trays of muffins and crumpets ‘all full hot’. Webb, although having breakfasted, cannot help but feel particularly hungry as he passes by the baker’s. For the scent of roasting meat, two dozen Sunday lunches, bought and paid for, each one in its own deep earthenware dish, wafts along the road. It is almost, he thinks to himself, worth walking the length of Whitecross Street for the privilege of its olfactory sensations. And, as if to prove him right, as he proceeds down the road, on the western side, the great Golden Lane brewery, its chimney looming above the roof-tops, mixes its aroma with the lingering scents, leaving the air full of an exhalation of spirits and the malt tang of ‘heavy wet’.
At last, however, Webb comes to his destination, a narrow lane leading directly into an old courtyard, just off the market street. The yard itself is a rather muddy quadrangle of decrepit-looking houses. All are three storeys high, topped by slates at various jaunty angles, their bricks dull and blackened, as if magnets for all the soot of the neighbourhood. In several, panes of glass are broken and replaced by wood. The only colour is a small brass bird-cage. a miniature palace in smutted gold, that sits upon a third-floor window-ledge. Webb refers to his note-book and tries the nearest door, marked by its scratched black paint-work, but not any indication of a number. His rap on the door elicits an almost immediate response, in the form of an old woman, sixty years of age, wrapped in a thin red shawl, who swings the door open and greets him with less than enthusiasm.
‘It ain’t rent day.’
‘I am not collecting,’ replies Webb.
‘We ain’t buying, then.’
‘I am not selling. Tell me, ma’am, do you by any chance know a woman by the name of Munday who lives hereabouts?’
‘Who are you then?’
‘Police, ma’am.’
‘Don’t ma’am me,’ says the old woman. She turns and shouts down the hallway of the house. ‘It’s only some bloody peeler, Bill.’
‘As I say,’ persists Webb, ‘a woman by the name of Munday.’
‘How should I know? And what if I do?’
‘I would be indebted to you.’
The old woman ponders a little. ‘There was a Liza Munday; that’s going back a ways. But she ain’t here no more.’
‘Did she move?’
‘After a fashion. Died, I heard.’
‘How?’
‘How should I know? Same as how I’ll go, catching my death standing here, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Well, what did she do for a living? Do you know that much?’
‘You’re precious keen, ain’t you? She did anything to make ends meet, like the rest of us.’
‘Seeing gentlemen?’
‘Maybe, when she were younger. She was bone-picking, Mogg’s dust-yard, before they took her away.’
‘Away to where?’
‘The workhouse. Now that’s what did for her, I’ll warrant you it was.’
‘Ah, I see. I expect that would be St. Luke’s, by the canal?’
The old woman nods agreement. ‘What’s it worth, then?’
Decimus Webb smiles. ‘As I say, I am indebted to you, ma’am.’
The old woman closes her door in disgust. ‘Blow that,’ she mutters to herself.
Webb, retracing his route through the market to Old Street, finds his way past St. Luke’s church, up Ironmonger Row, and through the narrow back streets that lead to the City Road. It is no more than ten minutes’ walk and he soon stands before the gates of the St. Luke’s Workhouse. In fact, it is not quite a regular metropolitan workhouse, being solely devoted to the hospital care of female paupers within the Holborn Poor Law Union. Nonetheless, the grey, prison-like, rectangular block that forms the main body of the building looks as grim as any of its namesakes in the capital. It also rather suffers in comparison with its immediate neighbour, the Eagle Tavern. For the latter, a music hall and public house combined, boasts a large walled garden covered with colourful notices for its famous Grecian Theatre’s current extravaganza, Cupid’s Holiday: A Musical Miscellany. St Luke’s, upon the other hand, featureless and remorselessly practical in every aspect, gives the outward impression of complete hostility to any form of gaiety. Indeed, it only possesses a single painted black-and-white notice by the gate – a gloved hand, which directs all newcomers to the Relieving Office.
Webb finds the clerk on duty a stickler for form, to the extent that he must produce the warrant that testifies to his authority before he can proceed inside. Nonetheless, once this is accomplished, and having made inqu
iries of the records held by the office, he is eventually directed up a stone staircase to a particular ward within the monolithic building.
Webb tentatively opens the door. If he hesitates, it is because the ward sounds peculiarly silent. Inside he finds a long barn-like room, its roof supported by large iron beams. Against each wall are simple beds, arranged in precise intervals, perhaps forty or more upon each side; and from the ceiling dangle not only gas-pipes, though it is too early in the day for the taps to be lit, but also painted sign-boards bearing improving legends, testifying to the greatness of the Creator. There are windows, too, at regular intervals, large sash windows that shed light upon the patients: women of all ages, dressed in a uniform of striped grogram gowns, either recumbent upon the beds or sat upright, reading or engaged in solitary needlework or some similar domestic occupation. The only noticeable sound is the click of knitting needles, the work of a half-dozen or so of the more active patients; it carries through the air like the chatter of insects.
Webb approaches the ward’s nurse, a middle-aged woman in a uniform mob cap and pinny, who sits at a desk by the entrance, watching her charges.
‘Ma’am,’ says Webb, in a whisper, ‘forgive me, my name is Webb. I am a police inspector. Might I have a word with you?’
The nurse nods. It strikes Webb that she shows no sign of surprise at his appearance; but doubtless the employees of the Union are used to such official interruptions. The nurse beckons him outside, back into the adjoining stairwell.
‘You have arrived during a quiet hour, Inspector. I did not wish to disturb the girls more than necessary. Whom have you come for?’
Webb smiles. ‘Ah, no, ma’am, you misconstrue me, although I am, rather, trying to find the relatives of a particular individual, in relation to a particular case of mine. You will forgive me if I spare you the details? Suffice to say it is not a current patient but one of your former charges, deceased, as I understand it.’
‘Who was it, Inspector?’
‘The woman’s name was Eliza Munday. Your records suggest she died here last year; April sixteenth.’
The nurse looks thoughtful, then a look of recognition passes over her face. ‘Munday? Yes, why yes, I do recollect her. It was her heart, I think, Inspector. But it was not a police matter.’
‘No, I did not think it was. You arranged for her interment, I take it? The City and Tower Hamlets cemetery, according to your books?’
‘All our interments are with that company, Inspector. They are very reasonably priced.’
‘Ah, I see. Was her family notified?’
‘There was no family, if I recollect. No, wait, one moment – of course, that is why I know the name. There was someone.’
‘Who?’
‘A lawyer visited the ward, I believe, shortly before she died. I am afraid it was not on my shift; I recall one of my colleagues, Miss Barton, telling me about it. He represented a cousin, or uncle or some such. There was talk of a legacy. She thought it all very exciting.’
‘I see. Might I arrange to speak to your colleague, do you think?’
‘I am afraid not, Inspector. Miss Barton has since passed on.’
‘Ah. My profound sympathies, ma’am,’ says Webb with a sigh. ‘This lawyer – you said there was talk of a legacy – did anything come of it?’
‘Not that I know of, Inspector. But I do not know the details.’
‘And I don’t suppose the woman ever spoke about her family? Her husband perhaps?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Tell me, do you have this lawyer’s address? I rather need to contact the family myself.’
‘Let me check my book, Inspector. One moment.’
Webb waits until the nurse returns.
‘Here we are,’ she says, reading from the page, ‘Mr. Cardew. Cardew and Sons; 214 Newgate Street.’
Webb frowns. ‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Whatever do you mean, Inspector?’
‘You have the right road and number?’
‘Of course. The gentleman himself wrote it down for us. It is in a man’s hand.’
Webb sighs once more.
‘I knew this would prove complicated,’ he mutters under his breath.
‘Inspector?’
‘Tell me, you did not see this man yourself, the lawyer? Would anyone else recollect him?’
‘I doubt it, Inspector. It is almost a year ago now.’
‘I am sorry, ma’am, my apologies. It is just that I am afraid you were duped. The numbers upon Newgate Street, to the best of my recollection, do not extend much beyond number one hundred and twenty. I doubt this firm exists.’
‘Well, then it was an odd pretence, Inspector. Who was he, do you think?’
‘In truth, ma’am, I do not know.’
INTERLUDE
HAVE YOU VISITED one of our Union workhouses, Miss Krout? I would recommend it before you return to your native land. You might find it instructive. They are veritable seed-beds of vice, the most fertile ground for all our social ills. I assure you, half the women that are upon the streets are workhouse foundlings, orphans or the like; and half the villains in Newgate, too. And, you know, when they are done with this life, they invariably go back to the House to depart from it; where else would take them? From the cradle to the grave. A capital system, is it not?
Pity? Yes, of course. I was raised a God-fearing Christian, Miss Krout. I had pity when I saw her lying there – who would not? But she was so degraded, so corrupted by her condition, I could barely bring myself to speak to her. I could see that the life to which she had been reduced had utterly consumed her. Indeed, it was like some terrible cancer had attacked all that was womanly or decent in her body and spirit. The sight of it positively repulsed me.
I am sorry. I speak too freely. But that is the nature of the social evil, Miss Krout. It is produced by immorality, it begets immorality.
No, every unchaste woman is not a whore; but she becomes one by force of necessity. I am sorry, but what else is a creature who gives for money what she should only give for love? She can hardly be a woman at all; she loses everything that elevates her nature above the beasts. It is a mercy that she died when she did.
Yes, I pitied her greatly. And I was angry, Miss Krout. It burnt deep inside me, like a furnace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DECIMUS WEBB ARRIVES at his office in Scotland Yard at precisely eight o’clock in the morning. There is a presentiment of daylight in the streets outside, but nothing more. Consequently, he is obliged to light the gas and read the morning paper in the glow of the pale flame. It is not five minutes, however, before there is a knock upon the door. Webb raises his head from the paper to see the face of Sergeant Bartleby.
‘Late again, Sergeant?’ asks Webb.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Have you seen the papers, Sergeant?’
‘Any good notices, sir?’
‘Don’t be flippant, man. I read the Telegraph simply because it is this sheet, and its ilk, that seem to provide the Assistant Commissioner with the solitary benchmark against which he judges our progress. You’d be wise to do the same, if you want to keep your job. Here, listen:
CASINO MURDER
Another cold-blooded killing of a young woman, a murder of a similar character to those recently committed in Knight’s Hotel, was perpetrated in the early hours of Saturday morning at the Holborn Casino. There is every reason to suppose that the same monster is responsible for both atrocities. Moreover, the creature’s brutality is only equalled by his audacity in repeating this wanton slaughter, his victim another hapless unfortunate. As yet, there have been no arrests, and it seems our police and detective agencies are, once more, quite powerless. That such foul crimes can be committed is itself a rebuke to our civilisation; that they should remain unpunished is a scandal which only serves to bring the once noble institutions of our state into utter disrepute. We understand that Inspector Webb of Scotland Yard is superintending the police investi
gation; let us hope he is determined to bring this woman-killer to justice.
One unintended consequence of the criminal’s actions may be to precipitate the closure of the Holborn Casino, long known as a place of evil resort. There can be no true economy of suffering and misery but if the Casino should shut its doors for good then, at least, we may hope to see some improvement in the nocturnal morals of the metropolis. For it is these self-same dance-halls and saloons that serve to foster the manifold social ills that beset our great metropolis. Is it surprising, when we permit such places to flourish, that we are repaid in kind? How long must the spectre of death stalk our streets before we admit that we are rewarded tenfold by the wages of sin?’
‘Well,’ says Bartleby, ‘it could be worse.’
‘“Once more quite powerless”? “Wages of Sin”?’
‘I wouldn’t pay it much heed, sir,’ suggests the sergeant.
‘Hmm. Well, let us hope the Assistant Commissioner agrees with you. What progress did you make upon Saturday?’
‘Autopsy of Miss Price done at Bow Street, sir, in the evening. The doctor was very accommodating but he found nothing much in her, ah, gut; a bit of an oyster and a touch of spirits.’
‘Is that all? How very frugal. Nothing else?’
‘Not that he could find, sir. Said the throat was unusual, though.’
‘Apart from being cut?’
‘I mean, sir, he said it was most likely done from the front, facing her,’ says Bartleby, taking a breath. ‘He said it looked like it’d been chopped at more than sliced. Could have been she struggled. He said probably a right-handed man, too.’
‘Well, that tells us little except the fellow is willing to kill without compunction. But we knew that already. Has anyone reported anything more?’
‘No. No-one saw nothing, sir. That’s how it seems anyway. Oh, and I spoke to the manager and the staff at the Casino, like you said. Not one of them remembers the young lady in particular; or whom she was speaking to.’