by Sarah Rayne
But this morning, as they sat down at the long scrubbed table, with the platters of bread and margarine and jugs of strong tea, there was no doubt that the other lodgers were looking at them.
It was one of the older men who passed them a morning newspaper – they saw it was a local publication, covering this part of North London.
‘Bad affair that,’ he said, and his eyes seemed to rest on Declan and Colm with curiosity.
They read the story together.
BRUTAL MURDER OF MAN IN CANNING TOWN.
The body of a middle-aged man was last night found on the river steps near the old Bidder Lane sewer. The man, whose name police have not yet released, is believed to have died during the early evening. Readers will recall how thick fog covered most of Canning Town last night – a circumstance which appears to have aided the killer in his grim work.
The victim’s injuries are described as savage, and reports of a young man with dark hair, seen wandering the area at the time, have already been passed to the police by local residents. One person, living just off Clock Street, thought the young man had an Irish accent, although this has not been corroborated.
Any persons who may have information as to the possible identity of such a man, are most earnestly requested to give details to their local police station or patrolling constable.
This paper feels it is a tragic day when an honest citizen of our town cannot walk abroad without dying at the hands of what appears to be a crazed murderer. People living in the area are warned not to go out alone after dark.
Editor’s Note: The Bidder Lane outlet – which runs almost parallel with Bidder Lane and the intersection of Clock Street – is one of London’s older sewer tunnels. Created as part of Joseph Bazalgette’s sewer network in the Sixties, it fell into disuse more than ten years ago.
‘Shocking,’ said Declan, passing back the paper, managing to speak normally. ‘Aren’t there some evil people in London?’
‘No worse than in Galway, though,’ said Colm. ‘Have we milk on the table this morning? Would you pass it over, please?’
They were able to finish their breakfasts in relative calm, although Declan thought afterwards that bread and raspberry jam would forever afterwards taste of fear.
Back in their room, Colm said, ‘We have to leave this house.’
‘They’re suspicious of us, aren’t they? “An Irish accent” the paper said.’
‘We aren’t the only Irish in London, for pity’s sake,’ said Colm, angrily, but he was already putting their few things together. ‘But we’ll settle up our account here so no one can remember us for non-payers, and then we’ll be off as soon as we can.’
‘Where will we go?’
‘Holly Lodge,’ said Colm. ‘Where else?’
It was mid-afternoon when they reached Holly Lodge. Flossie Totteridge greeted them wearing a thin wrapper that imperfectly concealed her plentiful flesh, and she had either not removed the paint from her face last night, or had applied it that morning in a very bad light.
Colm said without preamble, ‘Floss – we need a bed for a couple of nights.’
‘Do you indeed? I don’t, as a rule, let rooms to gentlemen.’
‘No, but you’ve my cousin Romilly’s room still empty, perhaps?’
‘I have, as it happens.’ Flossie eyed Colm. ‘And, of course, circumstances alter cases.’
‘Circumstances?’ said Colm, with a reminiscent smile at her. False, thought Declan. Oh God, he can be so false at times.
‘The circumstance of you and me having become such particular friends,’ said Flossie, and Declan thought how revolting it was to see a lady of Mrs Totteridge’s age and proportions displaying coyness. With obvious reluctance she removed her gaze from Colm to look at Declan. ‘You’d be agreeable to sharing a room with one another, I dare say?’
‘We would.’
‘Sharing a bed? For there’s only the one in each room, although they’re good wide beds, all of them. My gentlemen callers like quality in the beds, you know.’
‘Personally,’ said Colm, ‘I can sleep on a clothesline and never know who’s alongside.’
‘Then it’s the second floor; third left along the passage.’
It was an impersonal, not uncomfortable room, and, as Colm said, sharing it would give him a bit of protection from the voracious Floss. ‘Unless, of course, it occurs to her to take both of us on.’
‘Will you not even think that,’ said Declan angrily.
Colm, who had been exploring the interior of the wardrobe and opening the drawers of the tallboy, grinned and sat down on the bed. Declan perched on the window sill, staring down into the gardens. The sill was narrow and hard and something dug into his thigh and he remembered putting Bullfinch’s wallet in his trouser pocket last night, and fished it out.
‘How much money have we left in there?’ said Colm as Declan threw the wallet on to the bed. ‘And hadn’t we better get rid of anything with Bullfinch’s name on it?’ Handling the wallet by one corner to avoid the blood, he extracted several Treasury notes, along with what looked like a couple of bills bearing Bullfinch’s name and address on the envelopes.
‘Let’s burn those,’ said Declan, seeing the envelopes.
‘Yes. Because if anyone sees them—’
He stopped and they both turned as the door opened. Flossie Totteridge stood there. ‘I’ve brought you the key to this door,’ she said. ‘There are locks on all the rooms.’ She, in her turn, broke off, and Declan and Colm saw she was staring at the wallet and the envelopes. Harold Bullfinch’s name stood out, clear as a curse. Mr Harold Bullfinch, Clock Street.
‘We picked this up in the street on the way here,’ said Colm, and although he spoke lightly, Declan heard the note of strain underlying his voice.
To reinforce Colm’s words, he said, ‘We were just saying we should take it to the police station in case it’s been reported as lost.’
Flossie Totteridge was still staring at the wallet with its dreadful telltale stains. She looked as if the flesh had suddenly shrunk away from her bones. She said, ‘One of Zelda’s gentlemen left a midday edition of The North London Banner.’
Declan felt a jolt of fear. The North London Banner was the newspaper they had seen that morning at their lodgings.
‘There’s a story in it about the man whose body was found last night,’ said Flossie.
‘We read about that at breakfast.’ It was clear from Colm’s tone that he was going to brazen this out. ‘An unknown man on some river steps.’ He glanced at Declan and Declan signalled a warning: don’t pretend to be too ignorant. Colm said, ‘Canning Town, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. The early editions didn’t know the man’s name,’ said Flossie. ‘But the midday one says he was identified earlier today. Harold Bullfinch of Clock Street. His landlady reported him missing, and was taken to see the body. She identified him. And,’ she said, in a voice in which suspicion and shock were mingled, ‘you’ve got his wallet.’
There was a rather dreadful silence. Then Colm said, ‘In that case we should take this to the police without delay.’
‘Yes, you should.’
‘We’ll do it now,’ said Colm, getting off the bed. ‘Will I look in on you later to tell you what the police say?’
‘You could do that. Come at three o’clock. I’ll be busy with the household matters until then, but I’ll be there at three.’
‘Three o’clock it will be,’ said Colm.
They retrieved the newspaper, which was in the drawing room, and found the article.
CANNING TOWN MURDER VICTIM IDENTIFIED
The body of the man found on the river steps by the old Bidder Lane sewer has been identified as that of Mr Harold Bullfinch (52), of Clock Street.
Mr Bullfinch was well known in the Canning Town area and was a familiar figure in several other parts of London, largely because of his work as a travelling salesman. That work caused him to be away from his place of lodging a good deal, so it was no
t until early this morning that it was realized he was missing. His landlady, Mrs Ivy Podgrass, reported his absence to her local police station.
‘A commercial traveller, he was,’ Mrs Podgrass told our reporter, ‘and never away from the house without he’d tell me where he was going and when he expected to be back. He’d ’ave to be away some nights, of course, for ’is work. Salesman in ladies’ undergarments he was, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it, although perfectly respectful and gentlemanly.
‘A business appointment ’e said, yesterday. “Very important,” he said. “I’ve wrote it on the kitchen calendar so I don’t miss it. But I’ll be back in time for supper”.’
It was only when Mr Bullfinch had not returned by the following morning that Mrs Podgrass reported his absence.
‘I was took up with my other lodgers all evening, so I never knew Mr Bullfinch hadn’t come home until breakfast time,’ she told us. ‘And when it come nearly dinner time and he still ’adn’t come home, I was so worried I went along of the police station. And the sergeant at the station showed me this corpus they took from Bidder Lane, all laid out in a back room on a marble slab. “Ow, that’s my Mr Bullfinch, sure as sure,” I said, then I come over all faint and they got me a chair and give me a cup of tea for the shock.’
Mr Bullfinch’s employers, Rodblatt & Company, Ladies’ Outfitters, said Harold Bullfinch was a courteous man who would be greatly missed.
Police continue to search for the dark-haired man with an Irish accent who was seen near the scene of the crime. It is believed he may have useful information to provide.
In the meantime, residents of Canning Town are warned to have a care for their safety, and not to venture forth alone after dark.
TWENTY-TWO
‘So,’ said Colm, putting down the paper, ‘the abortionist was courteous and gentlemanly and liked by all. Would that be a case of nil nisi bonum, or did the landlady really think her lodger was a commercial traveller?’
‘He probably was a commercial traveller most of the time,’ said Declan. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Floss is expecting me to take the wallet to the police,’ said Colm, reaching for his coat. He had acquired a long black greatcoat from one of the lodgers in their previous house – Declan hoped he had paid for it, or at least had taken it with the owner’s knowledge, but had not liked to ask. ‘So I need to give the truth to that lie,’ Colm said. ‘I’m not actually going to the police, of course. I’ll get rid of the wallet while I’m out. You stay here – I won’t be long. The old trout’s expecting me downstairs at three o’clock, anyway.’
After he went, Declan lay on the bed and thought how Romilly would have lain here, and how men would have lain with her. Had she hated it? Had it been the only way she could survive in London? Or had Nicholas Sheehan, all those months ago, given her a taste for sex? She had been distraught when she sobbed out the story of her rape, but there had been that moment when something that was neither innocent nor distraught had peered slyly from her eyes. As if she was looking to see if they were believing her.
The sleepless night caught up with him, and he drifted in and out of an uneasy doze, rousing when the main door opened downstairs and footsteps crossed the hall. Was that Colm returning? Declan went down to the first floor landing. It was a dark afternoon and the stairs were wreathed in shadows. Someone had lit a lamp in the hall and for the first time he wondered who kept such a big house clean. Were there servants? He was halfway down the main stairway when there was a crash of furniture from the ground floor, and a scream. He froze. Had it been simply the cry of someone who had dropped a tray of crockery? Or had there been fear in the sound?
A bedroom door behind him opened, and Cerise’s voice said, ‘Yes, it was a shout. Dare say it wasn’t nothing to worry about, though.’
Then the cry came again, more urgent, and Cerise appeared from her room, a short, rotund gentleman in her wake.
‘Did someone call for help?’ said the man. He sported a walrus moustache and wore a bowler hat, as if he was determined to display his respectability in a house that was very far from respectable.
‘Someone did call,’ said Declan. ‘I don’t know where it came from, though.’
‘It’s probably Floss at the gin and fallen over,’ said Cerise. ‘She gets the horrors when she’s been at the gin. Either that or somebody’s broke in trying to get at her savings. She locks them away every night, but she’s always expecting somebody to creep through a window and steal them.’ She looked back at the man. ‘You go home, Arthur,’ she said. ‘We’ll deal with this.’
‘But if it’s an intruder . . .’ said the walrus moustache standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘I don’t want to be mixed up with the police, but as a good citizen . . .’
‘Never mind being a good citizen, you bugger off home,’ said Cerise not unkindly.
‘There’s no need for you to stay,’ said Declan, wanting him out of the way as quickly as possible. ‘I can understand you don’t want it known you were here.’
‘I wouldn’t want to shirk my duty,’ said Arthur. ‘But it’s my wife, you see, well, and her mother. They wouldn’t understand that a man sometimes needs . . .’
‘Do you live far away?’ said Declan, his eyes on the closed door of Flossie’s room.
‘Islington. But my place of work is near here. Tea importers on the Canonbury Road.’ He said this with an air of pride, then seemed to realize he had given away information that might be better kept private and closed his mouth firmly.
‘Arthur, just sod off home,’ said Cerise impatiently. ‘It’ll be Floss at the gin again and tripped over the fender. And if it’s a burglar and we need the police – nor it wouldn’t be the first time they come to this house! – we’ll get Wally Oliphant who patrols to the end of the road.’
‘Thank you,’ said Arthur, and scuttled off.
‘He ain’t much help in a crisis,’ said Cerise tartly as the door closed. ‘Let’s make sure old Floss is all right, shall we?’
‘It’s very quiet,’ said Declan, to whom the closed door was starting to assume the proportions of Bluebeard’s chamber.
‘She’s probably fallen over and knocked her silly self out.’ Cerise strode to the door and knocked loudly. ‘Floss? You all right in there, gel?’
A door banged at the front of the house, footsteps came down the hall, and Colm’s voice called out, ‘Declan? What in God’s name are you doing skulking around like that?’
‘We heard a cry from Flossie’s room,’ said Declan.
‘Maybe your man with the bowler hat and the moustache tried to steal her virtue. I passed him in the drive, and he was running away as if hell’s devils were chasing him.’
‘Catch him stealing anyone’s virtue,’ said Cerise derisively. ‘He ain’t got the wherewithal to steal anyone’s anything, or not so’s you’d notice.’
Colm smiled, but even in the shadowy hall Declan had the strong impression that there was something very wrong about him. He said, ‘Oh, leave her to sleep it off,’ and turned back to the stairs. As the light from the hall lamp fell across his face a cold hand seemed to twist in Declan’s stomach. Colm’s eyes, his vivid blue eyes, were suffused with a dense blackness, as if some inner darkness had bled out of his brain and stained the pupils.
Cerise saw it as well, but her reaction was very different. She said, sharply, ‘Colm Rourke, you been in an opium den. And don’t lie, I can see it. It’s your eyes.’ She tapped her own. ‘Black as the devil’s forehead. Like the eyes of a giant insect. Can’t mistake it. Rot your brain, it will. I knew a sailor once – took opium for years, got the taste for it in China, he did. He died in screaming fear of something nobody else could see.’
Declan could not, for the moment, give this accusation any real attention. He said, ‘Are we opening this door or not?’
‘Yes, but keep Shanghai Charlie out of the way, for I never knew a man come out of an opium den and be use or ornament for the rest of the day.’
Flossie Totteridge lay on her back, awkwardly sprawled across a table, her hair hanging down from its pinnings. Her eyes were wide open and staring, and her lips were stretched wide – still shaped in the scream Declan had heard earlier. There was a stench of blood on the air. Like tin, thought Declan, and felt sick.
Directly beneath the silent screaming lips was what seemed to be a second mouth – a gaping glistening grin. Even from where he stood, Declan could see the glint of white in that macabre unnatural grin. There were slivers of bone, sinews . . . Sickness welled up from his stomach, but he went on looking at the nightmare. In another minute he would have to step into it – he would have to play a part in it although he had no idea yet what part that would have to be. But he thought, oh God, it’s the same as that poor wretch Bullfinch, lying on the river steps. The murderer had gone away that time, leaving the rain to wash clean the stench of the blood, but this time there was no rain and the stench filled up the room. And this time the murderer had not gone away. He was standing next to Declan.
Somehow they got through the next few hours. The other girls came in at intervals, and there were shrieks of horror as the news reached them, then sobbing for ‘poor old Floss, silly old bitch, never did no one any ’arm, din’t deserve this’.
Colm and Declan worked out their story before they were questioned.
‘We say we were together when it happened,’ said Colm. ‘We certainly don’t tell them I was out of the house at the time, for they’ll ask where I was, and I can’t say I was getting rid of a wallet belonging to another murder victim.’ Somehow he managed to make this bizarre statement sound entirely reasonable.