by Lee Jackson
As the mourners disappear, a quartet of men in working clothes, their trousers and jackets stained with grey streaks of clay, appear from behind the building, and join the carriages as they move off again, each jumping on the rear board like a conductor upon a regular omnibus.
‘Shall we go to the service?’ asks Bartleby.
Webb shakes his head, gesturing at the sergeant to proceed. ‘No, let us follow the diggers. I’ll have a quick word with the driver once they are stopped.’
Bartleby nods and they follow the carriages for a good five minutes until they come towards the boundary of the cemetery, marked by a row of young yew trees. An open pit lies waiting, six feet in diameter, perhaps twelve feet in width. And there, the coffins, of various shapes and sizes, made of rough elm that looks to have hardly seen the edge of a plane, are unloaded and placed upon the ground by the grave-diggers. As this process is completed, a fifth man appears, strolling across the grass, dressed in a smarter unsullied suit, with a rather official-looking appearance, bearing a note-book. Then all five enter into conference, the result of which is that the tallest of the diggers jumps down between the wooden buttresses that shore up the pit. From the grave, he throws up a pair of thick ropes, which the remaining men string over the opening, hooking the ends round pegs already driven into the earth, to form a makeshift hammock for the lowering of the coffins.
‘Always room for a few more, eh?’ says Webb, strolling over to the cemetery official. Certainly, as he looks down into the pit, there are already half a dozen coffins inside, left from a previous parish funeral. He cannot help but wonder for how many days they have been resting there.
‘Can I assist you, gentlemen?’ says the man.
‘Scotland Yard,’ says Webb amiably. The man is suitably surprised.
‘Oh dear,’ he replies. ‘I trust nothing is amiss?’
‘Not at all. Tell me,’ says Webb, nodding towards the coffins, ‘do you have a list there of names?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replies, holding up his note-book.
‘Finch and Carter?’
‘Ah,’ says the man. ‘Yes, indeed. Tragic.’
‘Well,’ says Webb, ‘do carry on. We won’t get in your way.’
The official nods, nervously taking leave of the policeman and proceeding to the coffins.
‘Drop us the first box, Arthur,’ comes the voice from the pit. The cemetery official nods; the first coffin is slid into position upon the ropes.
‘Fidyck, William,’ says one of the diggers, peering at the tin plate upon the lid.
The official scans his list and says, ‘Away,’ much in the manner of someone launching a ship.
The drivers of the funeral omnibuses are both taciturn men, and it takes all of Webb’s powers of persuasion to wrestle a few simple facts from them. Nonetheless, it becomes clear, from a combination of overheard conversations and the men’s own register of passengers, that the passing of Betsy Carter has, at least, attracted one mourner – an elderly woman by the name of Brookes. In consequence, the two policemen resolve to wait with the drivers for the mourners to return. As they stand by the pit, they observe the slow descent of each coffin into the earth, listening to the various cries of ‘only a short’un here’ or ‘to the left’ or ‘to the right’ that issue from below the ground.
The mourners, in fact, arrive early from the chapel. But the clergyman’s haste in conveying them to the grave proves counter-productive. For the bereaved are obliged to watch the descent of the last two ‘boxes’, a consequence that seems to inspire the grave-diggers with such a degree of anxiety that the process is, if not botched, then mishandled, with the sound of clattering wood, and subdued curses from within the pit. Thus it is only when the final coffin is laid to rest, and the diggers have departed, pulled up by the ropes, that the clergyman can begin his few words upon the subject of mortality. It occurs to Webb, however, as he watches the scene, that the priest, with his thick winter great-coat, collar turned up at the neck, and comforter wrapped tight around his throat, looks far less an expert upon the subject than the ragged mourners, at least one of whom looks ready to tumble directly into the earth.
‘Which is Mrs. Brookes?’ whispers Webb to the nearby driver.
‘There,’ says the man in question, pointing out a woman in her sixties of a strong-looking build, with a ruddy complexion and a tartan shawl covering her head and shoulders.
Webb nods. Then after a moment, he speaks to the driver once more.
‘Where are you bound after this? Straight back to the City?’
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘Not stopping at a public on the way?’
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘And where’s the nearest place, from here?’
‘The Bull and Gate, just down the road, quarter mile or so,’ replies the driver, a little wary.
Webb smiles, taking a half-sovereign from his pocket and pushing the coin into the man’s hand. ‘Make sure you stop at the Bull then, and stand a drink for all concerned, eh? But take your time getting there. Then you may keep the change.’
The man nods, seemingly not quite believing his luck. Webb, in turn, motions to Bartleby to come away.
‘Where we going, sir?’
‘The Bull and Gate. Apparently it is a charming little hostelry, a brisk walk. Now do hurry.’
The Bull and Gate is, it turns out, a decent public house of the tavern variety, in a prominent position upon the Romford Road. It is more ancient and roomy than the common ginnery that can be found in the centre of the metropolis, and still possesses a multiplicity of nooks and corners, hinting back to days when it was more of a private house, and when a landlord of the old type held court in his own small parlour, and when drinks were ferried from cellar to patron by honest potmen, without need for a bar or counter.
But those days have long passed, and the present-day landlord is used to trade from the City of London Cemetery. Consequently, the appearance of Webb and Bartleby, followed in short order by the mourners arriving by coach, causes him no great consternation, nor much disturbs his regular clientele. If he is surprised by the peculiar generosity of one Jack Bludgen, a coachman he has known for some years, in standing the whole party a drink, he has the grace not to show it. And, if he notices how the first two men soon separate off from the group, entering into conversation with a particular woman, then it matters little to him.
‘Who did you say you was, again?’ says Mrs. Eliza Brookes, downing a second glass of stout donated by her new companions.
‘Commercial travellers,’ says Webb, hurriedly. ‘Just buried a pal of ours. Terrible business.’
‘Comes to us all,’ says the woman, grimly. ‘I’m a widow myself.’
‘Was it close family today, ma’am?’ says Bartleby.
The old woman shakes her head. ‘Knew her mother. Thought she deserved someone ’spectable to see her off. Poor creature.’
Bartleby raises his eyebrows at the word ‘respectable’.
‘Long illness, was it?’ says Webb.
The old woman looks about her, then whispers, ‘Murdered in cold blood.’
Webb struggles to look suitably shocked. ‘Good heavens.’
‘That’s what I said,’ replies the old woman, warming to her theme. ‘I tell you something, sir, awful business. I used to do her laundry, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Course, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, sir. Between you and me, she had gone wrong; some young girls will, however you learn ’em. But she didn’t deserve what she got. Poor little thing.’
‘I expect the police were involved. Murder and all.’
‘Oh, I steer clear of them bluebottles, sir. Never done me no good.’
Webb smiles. ‘She had no family then? Sad state of affairs.’
‘No,’ says the old woman, draining her glass. ‘Long gone.’
‘Here,’ says Bartleby, ‘let me get you another.’
‘Kind of you,’ says the old woman.
‘No sweetheart either?’ continues Webb.
‘Didn’t I say, sir? She’d gone wrong, I told you, didn’t I?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now, there was one fellow she had hopes of . . . well, that’s all done with now, anyhow.’
‘You can tell me, ma’am,’ says Webb, leaning towards her, tapping his nose, ‘man of the world, I am.’
‘Well, he said he’d leave his missus. I said to her, “Betsy, that’s all moonshine. Means nothing.” But she wouldn’t have it.’
‘Criminal, ma’am,’ says Webb, as Bartleby returns with more stout. ‘Tell me, you know the chap’s name?’
She shakes her head. ‘She kept that dark. Saw him a couple of times. Here, you’re a queer sort of salesman, you are. I thought you was going to try and flog me something.’
Webb smiles. ‘You have me. I give in.’
‘What are you, then?’ asks the old woman suspiciously.
‘A bluebottle, as you put it, ma’am. But, we’ll let that lie,’ says Webb, taking a sip of ale, ‘because we may need your help. Now describe this man who kept company with Miss Carter.’
The two policemen stand outside the Bull and Gate some half an hour later, waiting for a passing cab.
‘That woman can’t half drink,’ says Bartleby looking back at the pub, where Mrs. Brookes still sits comfortably ensconced.
‘She’s a washerwoman, Sergeant; they’re used to sweating it out; probably takes her a couple of pints just to get up in the morning. But she still has her wits about her. That is all we need to make sure of. We must take good care of her, mind; she is our only witness.’
‘But to what, sir? I mean, what if the Carter girl had some fellow sweet on her? It doesn’t necessarily mean a thing.’
‘But what if it is our Mr. Woodrow, Sergeant?’ says Webb. ‘The description matches well enough. What if it’s him, eh? That would put an interesting complexion on matters.’
‘So what’s your plan, sir?’
‘We’ll get a cab, and give her over to Hanson. He’ll have a better idea about her story; and, remember, it is still his investigation. I do not wish to tread on his toes. Though I will suggest he allows her to get a good look at our man, surreptitiously, as soon as he can.’
‘And if she identifies him?’
‘Then we must have a quiet word with Mr. Jasper Woodrow.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
IT TAKES SOME TIME for Webb and Bartleby to return to the heart of the capital, with Mrs. Eliza Brookes in tow, and it is the afternoon before they reach the City. It takes longer still to locate Inspector Hanson. In the end, however, they find the latter, in combination with two other detectives of the City police, maintaining an unobtrusive vigil upon High Holborn, watching Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse, waiting for the eventual exodus of its owner. After some discussion, a plain-looking cab is hired for the day, parked opposite the warehouse with Mrs. Brookes settled inside, with a view to following Jasper Woodrow upon his departure from his office. If Mrs. Brookes’ confession that her eyes are ‘not what they were’ does little to induce great faith in her powers of recognition, her powers of consumption are undimmed and several bottles of stout are laid by to see her through the afternoon.
Once Mrs. Brookes is comfortably settled, there is nothing more to be done until Woodrow’s departure. Webb, moreover, learns little of interest from Inspector Hanson concerning Jasper Woodrow’s movements. He is, at least, appraised of the sudden nocturnal departure of Annabel Krout from Duncan Terrace. At length, with their exchange of information finished, a second cab is hailed at a discreet distance from the Warehouse, taking Webb and Bartleby in the direction of Scotland Yard. The former takes the opportunity of smoking his pipe; the latter, perhaps having learnt from previous journeys, says very little. But as the cab turns from Whitehall under the low arch that leads into the Yard and comes to a halt, Bartleby feels obliged to speak out.
‘I think we have a visitor, sir. I wonder what he wants?’
Webb peers out of the window, to see the figure of Richard Langley, standing rather nervously by the doorway that leads up to the inspector’s office, fidgeting with a pair of gloves.
‘Mr. Langley,’ says Webb, as he steps out on to the cobbles. ‘An unexpected pleasure. Have you recalled some incident from Monday night?’
Langley frowns. ‘Not quite, Inspector. Can we speak somewhere, well, more in private?’
‘Naturally. Come up to my office,’ replies Webb, indicating the way. ‘You must forgive the state of the place.’
‘Of course,’ replies Langley as they ascend the stairs. ‘I hope this is not an awkward time.’
‘Not at all,’ replies Webb, leading him into the room, brushing aside a small heap of papers from the chair. ‘Have a seat.’
Langley sits down but looks nervously back at the sergeant.
‘Anything you say may be said in front of Bartleby, Mr. Langley,’ says Webb.
‘Very well,’ says Langley, taking a breath. ‘I have come from Miss Annabel Krout, whom I understand you met yesterday. She has asked me to convey some of her concerns to you about a certain matter . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Webb, a hint of impatience in his manner, ‘do speak freely, sir. I gather she has quit the Woodrows’ home entirely, and set herself up in a hotel.’
Langley looks startled. ‘But how on earth did you know that?’
‘Never mind, sir. We have our sources. Carry on, please.’
‘Well, Inspector, to put it bluntly, Miss Krout has reason to believe that Mr. Woodrow may have quarrelled with the man you found drowned.’
‘Quarrelled?’
‘She believes his daughter, Lucinda, saw them fighting, although she was too fearful to mention it to you.’
‘The little girl?’ says Webb. ‘She said nothing at all, Mr. Langley. Not a hint. But she has confessed all this to Miss Krout? Is that what you are saying?’
‘So I gather. Miss Krout . . . well, she also has reason to believe that Mr. Woodrow was at the Holborn Casino the night the poor girl from his establishment was killed.’
‘Does she now? But she has sent you, Mr. Langley, to speak to us on her behalf – why, precisely? I would be quite happy to speak to her in person. She knows that, I should think.’
Langley hangs his head, looking at his glove, now rather twisted between his clasped fingers. ‘She is in something of a state, Inspector. But, in truth, I persuaded her that I should act as a go-between.’
‘Go on,’ says Webb.
‘I know nothing about the man in the canal, but I can vouch that Mr. Woodrow was at the Casino that night. You see, to be frank, sir, I was there with him myself, in the beginning at least.’
‘Were you, Mr. Langley?’ says Webb, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Mr. Woodrow did not mention any of this.’
Langley looks nervously at the policeman. ‘I must confess, Inspector, Mr. Woodrow spoke to me the next day; I believe it was after you visited his establishment. He asked me not to say anything about it, if asked, and not to admit that we were there; to consider his reputation, and mine. But after what I have heard today from Miss Krout, well, I rather felt obligated to come forward. I would be grateful, however, if you would say nothing about it to her.’
‘That rather depends. Why were you there?’ asks Webb.
‘Mr. Woodrow suggested it, Inspector. To celebrate our prospective business partnership. It was not my choice at all but I went with him; rather weak-willed of me. I have no liking for such haunts, honestly. Nor would any man of principle. In fact, I fell ill soon after we arrived – I expect it was the cheap champagne the wretched placed serves – and I caught a cab home.’
‘And Woodrow stayed on?’
‘Well, I cannot say with absolute certainty, but I believe so, yes.’
Webb looks down at the papers on his desk. ‘Let me get this straight, Mr. Langley. I will put it bluntly to you; I hope you do not object. Does Miss Krout belie
ve Jasper Woodrow is a murderer? That, for some unknown reason, he killed these two persons?’
‘I fear so, Inspector.’
‘How about you, Mr. Langley. You know the man – what do you think? Is Miss Krout correct?’
‘I am no judge, Inspector. But she is not hysterical, I will say that much. She has her reasons, at least.’
‘All the same. It is a grave charge.’
Langley frowns. ‘I only know Mr. Woodrow has something of a temper, Inspector. But as to anything else, I cannot say one way or another. Should I not have told you all this? Do you think it is mere idle speculation?’
‘Oh, no, not speculation, sir,’ says Webb. ‘Valuable information. You did the right thing in coming to me.’
‘Then what will you do, Inspector? Arrest him?’
Webb smiles thinly. ‘I think, under the circumstances, Mr. Langley, it is quite likely. But I should like to hear directly from Miss Krout, first. She is staying at the Midland, I gather?’
‘Yes. I can take you there now – I said you might wish to speak with her in person. I hope you do not mind my interference. I just thought it best we speak in private – about the Casino. You understand?’
‘Of course,’ replies Webb.
It is just gone five o’clock when Jasper Woodrow quits his business premises. He follows his normal route across the shop floor, past the glass counters displaying rolls of bombazine and crape, past the young women in black who decorously drop a brief curtsey as he passes by. He does not tarry on the staircase, quite the opposite, and ignores the salutation of the doorman, striding briskly into the gas-lit street. Rather, he puts on his hat, and walks purposefully north, hurrying across the road in the direction of the British Museum. There is perhaps something a little too headlong about his progress, something suggestive of a degree of unhealthy nervous energy; but, whatever it may be, it does not slow him down.