The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Oh, my dear lady,’ replies Joshua Siddons, ‘this is terrible. Calm yourself. You must take some brandy.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Come, calm yourself, my dear. First you must tell me every detail. Leave nothing out.’

  ‘Mr. Siddons, I do not know what to do. I mean, if it should go to court . . . he will need a barrister . . .’

  ‘Then I will arrange everything.’

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ‘NOT LOOKING AT the Woodrow case again, sir? I thought you’d left it all to Hanson now,’ says Sergeant Bartleby, poking his head around the door of Decimus Webb’s office. Webb looks up at the sergeant and puts down the papers on his desk.

  ‘It troubles me, Sergeant.’

  ‘Weren’t you there yesterday, sir, in court?’

  ‘I spent an hour, listening to the summing-up. Mr. Woodrow looked quite ground down by the whole business.’

  ‘I expect a stay in Newgate is pretty good for that, sir. What do you make of his chances?’

  Webb frowns. ‘If he had pleaded insanity, perhaps he might have found a place in a county asylum; his claims of a conspiracy are outlandish enough to border on mania.’

  ‘Ah, he’s stuck to his guns on that, leastways. Shame about the rest, though. He never should have admitted that he fought with Brown – and halfway through the proceedings too. Can’t imagine what his brief made of that.’

  ‘I think, Bartleby, he only did that to spare his daughter the dock,’ says Webb, looking down at the papers on his desk. ‘You know, Sergeant, I do not know what, but I had rather expected something else to surface. As it is, I am fairly sure of the outcome, if such a thing is possible with an English jury.’

  ‘Guilty, you think, sir?’

  Webb nods. ‘I shall have a word with the ushers this afternoon; they generally know which way the wind blows.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ says Bartleby, about to leave.

  ‘Hold on a moment. I have something else for you,’ says Webb, picking up a particular sheet of paper. ‘A complaint.’

  ‘Complaint?’

  ‘From Mr. Pellegrin, Abney Park. It appears he is rather aggrieved that we still have not found his corpse.’

  ‘Hardly my fault, sir.’

  ‘He lists a range of charges against us, not least that you and your men “trampled all over the grounds like a herd of stampeding bull elephants”. For good measure, he says he will write to the Assistant Commissioner.’

  ‘Only following your orders, sir.’

  ‘I only wish you had found something to appease the fellow.’

  ‘There was nothing to find, sir. I told you at the time.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ says Webb.

  ‘What time did you say you were going to court, sir?’ says Bartleby, changing the subject.

  Webb takes out his pocket-watch. ‘I suppose I might go now. One never knows.’

  Sergeant Bartleby breathes a sigh of relief.

  Decimus Webb’s journey to Ludgate Hill and the Central Criminal Court proves uneventful. His consultation with the chief usher of the Old Court, however, suggests that, in fact, a decision in the matter of R. v. Woodrow is rather imminent, by four o’clock at the latest. Thus, with the high-ceilinged room already packed full, not least in the gallery, Webb finds himself a place in the reporters’ box, together with the gentlemen of the press.

  It is, indeed, about four o’clock when the machinery of justice cranks into action. A silence falls over the plain wooden benches of the court, as the jurymen appear, filing into the jury-box, having completed their final deliberations. Then come the court officials and, ultimately, the presiding judge, his robes positively regal in their splendour. Indeed, the judge is the centre of the court, seated beneath a rather extravagant wooden canopy topped with a carving of the royal coat of arms, a haughty lion and a unicorn beneath a crown. Behind him, mounted upon the wall, is a polished sword of justice. It is, of course, ornamental in character and perhaps more aesthetic than the true instrument of the law, the hangman’s noose. Jasper Woodrow is last to appear, led to stand in the dock by a pair of Newgate gaolers. He appears rather gaunt, his posture slumped, his eyes lowered; a change effected by the hospitality of Newgate Prison in a matter of a few weeks.

  The judge, Earnshaw by name, peers about the room; it is a hot and stuffy place, even in winter. In part it is the gas-lamps; in part the over-heated excitement of the waiting crowd, packed into the narrow benches of the gallery. He looks pointedly at the jury bench, and intones the familiar ritual words of the criminal court.

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?’

  ‘Yes, your honour,’ replies the foreman, rising to his feet.

  ‘And how do you find the defendant regarding the wilful murder of Elizabeth Carter?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘And that of Annie Finch?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘And Catherine Margaret Price?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  (‘Never thought they’d fix him for that,’ whispers the journalist seated by Webb.)

  ‘And Vasilis Patroclus Ionnidou?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  Webb studies Woodrow’s face as the foreman delivers the verdict. It seems quite unchanged, virtually immobile, certainly devoid of anything resembling hope.

  ‘Very well,’ says the judge, silencing excited chatter from the gallery. ‘Jasper Woodrow, do you have anything to say why the sentence of law should not be passed upon you?’

  Woodrow looks up, but the judge does not truly wait for an answer; for any answer would be, after all, an irrelevance. Instead, he unfolds a piece of black cloth from beside him on the bench and places it atop the heavy powdered wig upon his head.

  ‘Jasper Woodrow, you have been convicted, by a most attentive and thoughtful jury of your peers, of wilful murder, one of the worst, most terrible crimes that human nature can perpetrate. Not once, but four times have you robbed your fellow creatures of life, including three helpless women who, although vicious in their habits, were, at least, thoroughly deserving of our pity and compassion. Instead they fell victim to your perverse and brutal character, the like of which I have rarely encountered in this court. I should add that your complete lack of remorse, and stubborn adherence to all manner of lies and falsehoods, speaks of a deep moral corruption. When you return to your cell, I would urge you to consider not only the judgment of this court, but the judgment that is to come, and, if you are able, to make your peace before Almighty God.

  ‘It now only remains to pass the sentence of the law. You will be taken from here to a lawful prison. Thence, on Monday next, to a place of execution, there to be hung by the neck till you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.’

  There is a cheer from the gallery. Jasper Woodrow slumps forward in the dock, leaning against the brass rail, but offering little resistance as the two prison warders turn him round and lead him away.

  ‘I knew it’d go that way,’ says the man beside Webb.

  Decimus Webb finds the lobby of the Old Bailey full of journalists on their way to file their copy, sundry officials of the court, and former inhabitants of the public gallery, descending from their lofty perch, engaged in ardent discussions upon the Woodrow case. Amongst them, however, rather more sombre than many around him, he spots the black-suited figure of Joshua Siddons, shepherding Annabel Krout through the crowd. The lobby is so busy that he can only catch their attention when they are upon the street outside.

  ‘Miss Krout!’ calls out Webb.

  ‘Ah, Inspector,’ says Annabel Krout, turning and catching sight of the policeman.

  ‘How are you, Miss?’

  ‘I’m well enough, Inspector, thank you. I suppose I should be glad to see justice done, but under the circumstances . . . well, I have to think of my poor cousin.’

  ‘She has not attended the trial?’

  ‘She could not bear it, Inspector. At least, now, she and I
are reconciled, thanks to Mr. Siddons here.’

  ‘Hardly my doing, Inspector,’ replies the undertaker, ‘not after Woodrow admitted quarrelling with the Greek. I was merely Mrs. Woodrow’s agent in the matter. A terrible business, though. But, as I always say, blood is thicker than water, eh?’

  ‘In any case,’ says Annabel, bestowing a smile upon Siddons, ‘I am back at Duncan Terrace.’

  ‘I expect Mrs. Woodrow has need of her family around her now, Miss Krout. How is the little girl?’

  ‘I think she is too young to understand it all, Inspector. Thankfully, I suppose. I can’t imagine how anyone could put their wife and daughter through this, Inspector. Is he insane? His story is so unlikely.’

  Webb shrugs. ‘They found him guilty, Miss. That is all that matters now. He’ll be lucky to get an appeal.’

  ‘Then you think he will be hanged, Inspector?’ asks Siddons. Annabel Krout frowns.

  ‘I should think so, sir, yes,’ replies Webb.

  Annabel looks nervously at Joshua Siddons. ‘How will I tell Melissa?’

  The undertaker takes her gloved hand and squeezes it between his. ‘I have faith in you, Miss Krout.’

  Miss Krout is about to reply when her concentration is disturbed by the appearance of Richard Langley, walking briskly from the court building towards them.

  ‘Miss Krout,’ says Langley, ‘gentlemen. Forgive me. I saw you in the gallery but I was not sure . . . how is Mrs. Woodrow?’

  ‘Not good, sir.’

  ‘And yourself?’

  ‘Well, Mr. Siddons has been very kind,’ says Annabel, ‘looking after us both.’

  ‘It is my duty, Miss Krout,’ continues the undertaker, ‘and my privilege. I am content to do it. Rest assured, Miss Krout, you and your cousin may rely upon Joshua Siddons; you shall want for nothing during this ordeal.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No need for thanks, my dear. Now, I really must return to Salisbury Court, but tell Mrs. Woodrow that things will take a turn for the better, I am sure of it. She must only wait for the truth to come out.’

  Langley gives the undertaker a surprised look. ‘You still think him innocent?’

  ‘Don’t you, sir?’ says the undertaker.

  Langley glances a little nervously at Annabel Krout. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well,’ says Annabel to Siddons, ‘you are a good friend to Mr. Woodrow, sir, though he does not deserve it. But I had best be going; the coachman will be waiting.’

  ‘I too have a busy evening,’ says Siddons. ‘Two young men. American caskets: polished oak and electroplate. Won’t attend to itself. Good day to you both. May I walk you to your carriage,’ Miss Krout?’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replies Annabel Krout, as Siddons offers her his arm.

  Decimus Webb watches as the pair depart, leaving him with Richard Langley. The latter shakes his head.

  ‘Something wrong, sir?’ asks Webb.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I do not have a high opinion of Mr. Siddons. When we had dinner that night at the Woodrows’, well, let us just say, when the ladies were not present, he had a very loose tongue. Quite foul, in fact. I cannot help but wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If his motives towards Miss Krout are entirely honourable.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  DECIMUS WEBB, HAVING made his way back to Scotland Yard, spends the remainder of his day, and much of the night, at his desk, writing a report upon the Woodrow affair for the benefit of the Assistant Commissioner. He writes fitfully, however, reflected in the numerous blots of ink upon the paper, and, even when finished, he reads through the document with a sense of deep dissatisfaction. In the end, he merely places it in a drawer within his desk, safely out of sight, and extinguishes his lamp, making his way downstairs in the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the gas-lamp in the courtyard below, shining through the staircase window. There he finds Sergeant Bartleby, chatting to a couple of fellow sergeants.

  ‘You off home, sir?’

  ‘I am, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Forgot to say earlier – message from Inspector Hanson. Said that he was sorry to miss you in court, but he’ll call tomorrow morning, compare notes, if you’re agreeable.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ says Webb, distractedly, and continues walking, through the arched gatehouse and past the Clarence public house, out on to Whitehall. As is his wont, Webb resolves to make his way home on foot. It is gone ten o’clock at night, and he takes his regular route past Charing Cross station and along the Strand, though his face retains a rather pensive expression.

  It is a quiet hour for the streets of the capital; for the hotels and public houses have not yet called ‘time’ and evicted their merry clients on to the streets; likewise the theatres and music-halls still contain all their dramatic devotees. Upon the other hand, the day-time workers of the metropolis have all, by and large, long since headed homewards. In consequence, as Webb progresses down the road, past the ancient church of St. Mary’s, which looms in the centre of the thoroughfare, rather like a ship marooned in the asphalt, the inspector barely notices a soul: a baked-potato man by St. Clement Danes, warming up his nightly call of ‘All hot’; a solitary girl, no more than thirteen years, doubtless turned out upon the streets, loitering under the arch of Temple Bar. Webb is quite alone with his thoughts. It is only when he comes to Fetter Lane, however, that his musings prompt him to a definite action and, instead of proceeding north towards Smithfield and Clerkenwell, his normal course, he carries on down Fleet Street, until he reaches the alley that leads into Salisbury Square.

  In truth, it is unlikely he expects much to come of the expedition; and if he is initially inclined to ring the bell to summon Joshua Siddons forth from his rest, he wavers when he sees no sign of gas-light within. But as he approaches the door to Siddons’ establishment, still uncertain, he notices that it is slightly ajar. And, inside, he can hear the noise of someone stumbling around in the darkness, and see the occasional flash of light.

  Webb pushes the door cautiously open, and peers into the undertaker’s. In turn, he is abruptly met with the beam of a lamp shone directly in his face. He sees enough, however, to make out the garb of its owner.

  ‘Who’s that?’ inquires a stern voice.

  ‘Put that blasted thing down, constable,’ says Webb with considerable gravitas.

  ‘Lord! Sorry, sir,’ exclaims the blue-uniformed constable. ‘It’s Inspector Webb, ain’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is pleasant to be recognised,’ says Webb, ‘although you almost blinded me, man. E Division, I see.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replies the constable, fingering the ‘E’ marked on his collar rather nervously, ‘this is my regular beat. But I ain’t called the Yard, sir, not yet anyhow.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ says Webb, impatiently, ‘what brings you here, Constable?’

  ‘Well, I normally say good night to the old party that lives here, sir, just to keep an eye on him. He owns the shop; lives above it.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Found the place left open, sir. Thought it was burglars but I can’t see nothing taken.’

  ‘And Mr. Siddons?’

  ‘You know the gentleman, sir?’

  Webb sighs. ‘Why else would I be here?’

  ‘Well, there’s no sign of him. It’s not like him, sir. Man of regular habits is Mr. Siddons – known him for years; never known him to quit the shop, much less leave it open like that.’

  ‘I suggest, Constable, you go back inside and light the gas. Then we can have a proper look and not break our necks, eh?’

  Constable E59 accedes to the suggestion and, once the gas is lit, Webb enters the shop. A tour of the upstairs living quarters, however, reveals nothing. The two show-rooms downstairs likewise appear empty, though they contain the impedimenta of the trade: palls and shrouds, principally in white, black or purple, laid out in delicate folds; coffin fabrics, from cambric to silk; handles, name-plates, lid ornaments and cro
sses, in copper, silver and bronze. All are carefully laid out in cabinets and glass-topped sliding drawers. The second room, however, also holds a row of substantial shelves, upon which are laid a dozen or more display-caskets of varying sizes and designs. The room is deliberately reminiscent of a church vault, with an architecturally redundant arch of bricks above the shelves to emphasise the point.

  ‘He’s not here, sir,’ says the constable.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ says Webb, pondering the shelves. ‘Tell me, Constable, have you been in here before?’

  ‘On occasion, sir. The old gent has showed me round once or twice, as it were. Proud of his work.’

  ‘Do you recall if he normally stacks his boxes quite like that,’ says Webb, gesturing towards the bottom shelf, where two substantial-looking oak caskets are laid, one atop the other.

  ‘Can’t say I do, sir – maybe they’re running out of space.’

  ‘The room is for display, constable. They do not need to pack them in. Besides, there is space. Here,’ says Webb, bending down, ‘help me lift this one clear.’

  The constable offers Webb a rather puzzled expression, but does not disobey, and the two men lift the top casket and place it on the floor.

  ‘Weighs a ton,’ exclaims Webb, breathlessly.

  ‘The best ones are lead-lined, so he tells me, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but what do you think is wrong?’

  Webb motions for the policeman to be silent, as he tentatively crouches down over the shelf, and pulls at the lid of the coffin that rests there, tilting it up and back, so he can see inside.

  As he does so, the constable audibly gasps. For inside, lying curled to one side in the ruched cambric layers, is the body of Joshua Siddons.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘I THOUGHT YOU’D GONE home, sir,’ says Sergeant Bartleby, as he enters the undertaker’s in Salisbury Square. ‘I sometimes wonder if you ever sleep.’