The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  He does not notice the cab that rolls patiently behind him, a good hundred yards or more distant.

  ‘Inspector,’ says Annabel Krout, motioning rather nervously for the two policemen to take a seat.

  ‘I thought it might be best if we met in your room, Miss,’ says Webb. ‘This is rather a delicate matter, after all.’

  ‘Of course,’ replies Annabel. ‘Mr. Langley has spoken to you? You know why I am here?’

  ‘Indeed. I gather some argument with Mr. Woodrow, Miss?’

  ‘Not just an argument, Inspector. He all but threatened me with violence.’

  ‘When was this, Miss?’ asks Bartleby.

  ‘Yesterday. It was Lucinda, you see . . . she saw him fighting with that man, I’d swear.’

  ‘With Brown?’

  ‘Yes . . . I’m sorry, Inspector. I am not putting this clearly. I am still not quite myself.’

  ‘Perhaps you had better tell us everything from the beginning, Miss?’

  Annabel Krout takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, I will. I just . . . well, if I am right, Inspector, what will happen?’

  ‘One step at a time, Miss,’ says Webb.

  Jasper Woodrow’s route home is his normal trajectory through the stuccoed terraces of Bloomsbury, and then towards Myddleton Square and the City Road. But then he turns, instead, along the Gray’s Inn Road, north towards King’s Cross and Pentonville. It is, undoubtedly, an insufficient diversion to arouse any suspicion in the mind of Inspector Hanson, as he waits to choose a moment when the cab may draw up beside his quarry in the evening traffic, without causing suspicion, and close enough for Eliza Brookes’ eyesight. But as Woodrow exchanges a few words with the newsvendors at the bottom of Pentonville Hill, he glances back at the cab and then abruptly vanishes from view, just as a crowd of travellers spills onto the pavement, surging from the underground station of the Metropolitan Railway. So sudden is Woodrow’s disappearance that it takes Hanson a moment to realise what has happened; namely that his man has dashed towards the stone stairs down to the station platform.

  Even as the police inspector urges the cab to stop, fighting to get out amidst the bustle of the street corner, he is restrained by a firm hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘That was him,’ says Eliza Brookes. ‘I’ll swear an oath on it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘LOST HIM? How did you manage that?’

  The voice is that of Sergeant Bartleby, standing in the semi-darkness, upon the corner of the City Road and Duncan Terrace. Beside him stands Decimus Webb, and facing him, the object of his incredulous interrogation, Inspector Hanson.

  ‘Forgive my sergeant, Hanson. He is prone to such outbursts. But you must admit this rather places us in an unfortunate position. You are quite certain that he saw you?’

  Hanson sighs rather defeated. ‘I am. It was the old woman’s fault, Inspector, or at least her eyesight. It was quite a palaver getting close enough to him for her to see him. We should have waited until morning. Or took her to meet him in person.’

  ‘Well, perhaps,’ says Webb. ‘I had hoped to be more circumspect. At least she says she recognised him. How long ago was it you lost him?’

  ‘About three-quarters of an hour. I left Mrs. Brookes at the local station house; then I came here, as we arranged.’

  ‘I see. Just as we finished our chat with Miss Krout. The question is whether he has flown the coop entirely, is it not? The Underground is hardly going to get him far, after all.’

  ‘I have notified the principal stations, of course,’ says Hanson.

  ‘That’s something,’ says Bartleby, rather bitterly.

  Webb gives the sergeant a rather crushing stare. ‘You may have panicked him. He might return home, when he has calmed down.’

  ‘Or we may never see him again,’ suggests Bartleby.

  Webb ignores the comment. ‘If we do find him, I think we must seek his immediate arrest, Hanson. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ says Hanson. ‘Though the evidence is still rather thin.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Webb. ‘I know that, Inspector. Bartleby, give the necessary notice, all divisions – I believe the London District Company has a telegraph office at the Angel; don’t let them charge you for it. Hanson, may I suggest we pay a call upon Mrs. Woodrow? Someone should be at the house, I think.’

  ‘Agreed,’ says Hanson. ‘Lead the way.’

  Webb and Hanson find Mrs. Woodrow at home in the first-floor drawing-room at Duncan Terrace. Webb takes some exception to the manservant’s announcement of simply, ‘The police, ma’am,’ but it does not take much to discern that the relationship between Jervis and his employer is a little strained; thus he ignores the slight sneer upon the butler’s face, and instead directs his energies towards Mrs. Woodrow.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion, ma’am. I think you have not met my colleague, Inspector Hanson?’

  ‘No, I have not had the pleasure, Inspector,’ replies Melissa Woodrow. ‘Have you come with some news?’

  ‘Of a sort, ma’am. What hour do you expect your husband?’

  ‘Why, at any time, I suppose.’

  ‘I am sorry to say it, ma’am,’ says Webb, ‘but we have good reason to think he may have fled. Possibly he may be attempting to leave London; I cannot say for sure. Of course, he may return home, but it is hard to be confident about it.’

  ‘No, I am sorry, Inspector, you have the better of me. Fled?’

  ‘I think he is aware of the fact that we wish to speak with him, ma’am. Let me be frank. We suspect Mr. Woodrow knows more about this canal business, and certain other matters, than he has admitted. And we rather suspect he doesn’t wish to discuss it with us. He was last seen catching a train on the Metropolitan Railway, at King’s Cross, in something of a hurry.’

  Mrs. Woodrow laughs. ‘Why, Inspector, surely this is some mistake. Just because my husband chooses to catch a train, you think he is some kind of common criminal?’

  ‘There’s more to it, ma’am. I don’t want to distress you.’

  ‘I think, Inspector,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, putting her hand to her heart, ‘that you are rather doing a good job of that already.’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am. Not my intention, I assure you. May I take a seat?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We might settle certain points, ma’am,’ says Webb, sitting slightly uncomfortably on the nearest chair, ‘if we were perhaps allowed to look over the premises?’

  ‘Good Lord, are you suggesting you search the house?’

  ‘I should think you have nothing to hide, ma’am?’ says Webb.

  ‘Of course, but really . . .’

  ‘Then perhaps Inspector Hanson might at least have a word with your staff, say? I know we have spoken to them already, but it might assist our inquiry.’

  ‘Very well, if that is all. I’ll ring for Jacobs.’

  ‘No need, ma’am, I’ll find my own way downstairs,’ says Hanson, as if on cue, and, before Mrs. Woodrow can object, he leaves the room.

  ‘What is this all about, Inspector?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow, pleadingly. ‘Have we fallen under some kind of suspicion? I swear, your sudden interest in my husband seems, well, words fail me, positively malicious.’

  ‘Miss Krout, ma’am, whom I spoke to not half an hour ago, has made certain statements to us. They cast your husband in a rather unflattering light.’

  ‘Annabel? Inspector, she is only a girl. Her mother told me she was fanciful. She writes little stories, for ladies’ journals, did you know that? She has probably seized on some misunderstanding; or misunderstood something Jasper said.’

  ‘You do not deny that she has broken off staying with you, though, surely?’ asks Webb.

  ‘She had some sort of tiff with Woodrow last night, Inspector, something to do with him punishing Lucy. I thought it best to let her cool down.’

  ‘An expensive way to go about it. Or was it your husband who needed to “cool down”, ma’am? I gather he is known for his quick temper?’


  ‘What are you implying, Inspector?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am.’

  Mrs. Woodrow sighs. ‘I do not think Annabel is naturally spiteful, Inspector, but I can only assume this argument has rather coloured some peculiar impression she has formed of my husband.’

  ‘It is not her impression, so much as that of your daughter.’

  ‘Lucinda? What has she to do with it?’

  ‘I gather from Miss Krout that your daughter saw Mr. Woodrow quarrelling with Mr. Brown.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘She would have said so yesterday. You spoke to her, if you recall.’

  ‘I would like another word with her, all the same.’

  ‘She will be asleep.’

  ‘Ah. Will she? Tell me, ma’am, I gather your husband suffers from the same condition as your daughter?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Miss Krout.’

  ‘Well, she had no right. My husband is in full command of himself, if that is what you mean, Inspector. He takes a draught to help him sleep, but that is all.’

  ‘I see,’ replies Webb.

  Mrs. Woodrow opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, the Woodrows’ maid-servant bursts breathlessly into the room.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am, but it’s more than a person can bear,’ exclaims Jacobs, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Jacobs, what on earth is the matter?’ exclaims her mistress.

  ‘This policeman, ma’am. He’s looking through all our things downstairs, opening every cupboard; and now he’s in the scullery. Mrs. Figgis says it’s too much for any respectable creature. She’ll strike him, ma’am, I know she will.’

  Mrs. Woodrow gets up, striding towards the door, followed by Webb. ‘What is the meaning of this, Inspector? He is searching the house – you promised me.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what has got into him, ma’am,’ says Webb, as he notices Hanson appear in the hall, and turn up the stairs to the first-floor landing.

  ‘Hanson,’ continues Webb, calling down to the approaching policeman with a rather conspiratorial wink that goes unseen by Mrs. Woodrow and Jacobs, ‘what were you thinking?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ says Hanson, addressing the lady of the house, ‘but do these belong to your husband? I found them in your scullery.’

  ‘He was in the laundry, ma’am,’ says Jacobs, indignantly.

  ‘Inspector, this is a gross intrusion . . .’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow, but her attention is diverted by what he holds out towards her: a pair of worn shirt cuffs, once doubtless pristine white, but now stained a dark rusty brown, virtually from top to bottom.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, hesitantly. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Blood, ma’am,’ says Webb, taking one of the cuffs and turning it over in his hands. ‘I don’t suppose Mr. Woodrow has cut himself, rather badly, in the last day or two?’

  Mrs. Woodrow shakes her head. ‘I want you out of my house, both of you,’ she says emphatically, although there is almost a hint of hysteria in her voice.

  ‘I am afraid one of us must wait, ma’am,’ says Webb. ‘In case Mr. Woodrow comes back.’

  Mrs. Woodrow turns to face Webb, looking him squarely in the eye. ‘He will come back, Inspector. And when he does, we shall both go directly and speak to my cousin, and sort this wretched nonsense out, once and for all.’

  ‘It is not Miss Krout’s fault, ma’am,’ says Webb, looking down at the piece of cloth in his hand.

  Mrs. Woodrow shakes her head. ‘Woodrow said she was determined to ruin him. I did not believe it, Inspector. Not until tonight. How can she tell such lies? Does she not see the consequences?’

  Decimus Webb is about to respond when his face, his rather inexpressive, jowly visage, decidedly drops. He throws down the shirt cuff, and turns to run down the stairs.

  ‘What is it?’ shouts Hanson, calling after him.

  ‘Miss Krout!’ is the reply, as Webb swings open the Woodrows’ front door, and hurries breathlessly into the night.

  Annabel Krout sits in her bedroom at the Midland Grand; she is still in her day-dress, although an evening gown lies before her on the bed. On her dresser is a copy of The Bride of Lammermoor, negligently packed in her hurry to depart Duncan Terrace.

  A knock upon the door.

  ‘Come in,’ replies Annabel. ‘What is it? I did not send for—’

  ‘No, you did not send for me, Miss Krout,’ replies Jasper Woodrow, entering the room. ‘And I rather wish we had never sent for you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ANNABEL KROUT STANDS up, facing Jasper Woodrow.

  ‘Sir!’ she exclaims, ‘what do you mean by this?’

  Woodrow takes a step forward; there is, once more, the familiar aroma of brandy about him. In turn, Annabel takes a hasty step back, scraping her ankle against the wooden leg of the dresser. Woodrow throws his hat and gloves down upon the bed.

  ‘My apologies,’ he replies, ‘if I do not observe the social niceties. It is only because, Miss Krout, I do not know how much time I have left me.’

  ‘I do not understand you, nor do I wish to. Please, sir, leave at once, or I shall ring for the maid, and have you thrown out.’

  Woodrow looks over his shoulder at the bell-pull behind him, by the door.

  ‘I think not,’ says Woodrow. ‘And I am not sure I ought to give much consideration to your feelings, Miss Krout. You have certainly not taken those of myself or my family into much account.’

  Annabel looks at the door and the bell, then back at Jasper Woodrow. His rather breathless speech and flushed complexion, his features locked and rigid, all combine to give the impression of barely suppressed rage.

  ‘You are drunk, sir.’

  Woodrow shakes his head. ‘You mistake indignation for intoxication, Miss Krout.’

  Annabel says nothing. Woodrow breathes a weary sigh, as if attempting to compose himself. ‘Come, there is no need to make a scene. I am simply here to ask you to cease your spiteful campaign against my family.’

  ‘Sir, you are drunk.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, ‘if a man seeks a little Dutch courage before confronting a . . . well, I will not say the word. But, then, I confess, I can hardly credit what you have done.’

  ‘And what do you suppose I have done?’

  ‘Concocted some perverse tale for the benefit of the police. Perhaps even poisoned my own daughter against me. Is that not sufficient grievance for any man?’

  ‘Sir, as to the latter, well, I should think you have done a fine job by yourself. As to the rest, yes, I have spoken to the police, but only to confirm what I know to be truth.’

  ‘More insults. I come here, only to receive more insults! They are pursuing me through the streets, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, his voice far from measured, reaching forward and suddenly grabbing Annabel’s arm. ‘Did you know that? Like some common criminal from the gutter.’

  Annabel squirms in Woodrow’s firm grip. ‘You are hurting me! For pity’s sake, let me go. The police shall hear of this, I promise you.’

  Woodrow grabs Annabel’s free arm, holding her at arm’s length in front of him.

  ‘The police have heard enough from you already,’ says Woodrow. ‘You must retract whatever you have said, every word. Confess it is all a fiction.’

  ‘It is not,’ she replies, though her eyes brim with tears, ‘I will not.’

  ‘Damn me,’ exclaims Woodrow, ‘if you were a man, I would strike you down, I swear it, and give you the beating of your life.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ says another male voice at the door. Woodrow looks over his shoulder to see Decimus Webb standing behind him. ‘But, under the circumstances, sir, I strongly suggest you release Miss Krout immediately.’

  Woodrow stares at the policeman, then throws Annabel Krout roughly down on to the bed, turning to face Webb.

  ‘You believe this girl’s charges?’ says Woodrow. His voice tr
embles with emotion.

  Webb shrugs. ‘I merely would like to discuss things a little further, sir. We don’t need to make it any more unpleasant than it already is, eh?’

  Woodrow stares at Webb for a moment, and nods. But his acquiescence is somewhat artificial; for, as he steps towards the door, following the policeman’s guiding hand, he makes a dash past Webb into the sitting-room. And Decimus Webb, for all his merits, has neither the strength nor the speed to prevent Jasper Woodrow shrugging him off, as he sprints back into the corridor, leaving the inspector slumped upon the carpet, lying against an armchair.

  ‘Are you all right, Inspector?’ asks Annabel Krout, her voice stammering, standing in the door between the two rooms.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself, Miss,’ says Webb, levering himself up from the floor. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No,’ replies Annabel, unconsciously rubbing her arms.

  ‘Good,’ says Webb, ‘then please wait here and lock the door until I come back.’

  Annabel Krout nods, as the inspector runs into the gas-lit corridor. Webb is far from athletic in physique, however, and, in truth, does not harbour high hopes of catching up. Nonetheless, he makes his best effort at pursuit, following Woodrow’s trail by the highly audible complaints of several discomforted guests of the Midland Grand, pushed to one side by Jasper Woodrow’s headlong progress down the grand staircase. As he himself comes to the steps, which seem to extend in an endless fatiguing arc, he can hear a greater commotion below. And when he finally reaches the ground floor and follows the curving corridor towards the entrance hall, he finds a small crowd of guests has gathered around the source of all the noise. Webb pushes his way through, to find Sergeant Bartleby and a constable grappling Jasper Woodrow to the ground. Woodrow’s protests echo round the hall, his feet scuffing the mosaic floor, as Bartleby cuffs his hands behind his back.