by Granger, Ann
‘She was no lady of fashion,’ I observed, more flippantly than I would normally have done. I was concealing my moment of weakness. ‘But, neat, and certainly not a poor woman,’ I added with more appropriate neutrality.
Carmichael, ever professional, pointed at the bodice. ‘Here, on the bosom, you can distinguish pin-holes in the cloth. Do you require a magnifying glass?’
‘Thank you, no, I can see them. She was wearing a brooch,’ I guessed.
‘Possibly, but it would have been a heavy one, and she wore it every day. The material is well punctured and the damage to the cloth permanent. This is only a guess, mind . . .’ He turned his head and fixed me with his sharp gaze.
‘Your guesses, Dr Carmichael,’ I said, ‘have often been of great help to the police.’
He looked pleased. ‘Well, in my line of work, the powers of observation must be kept well honed, eh? My view is that she may have worn a watch. You know, a small fob watch, on a ribbon or short chain, pinned to her bodice, so that she could consult it regularly. Her daily timetable was important to her. You will make of that what you will.’
‘She liked to be prompt or she expected others to be prompt.’ I had learned several important things from Carmichael. ‘She was a businesswoman,’ I said.
‘A businesswoman, eh?’ said Dunn, when I reported all this back to my senior officer.
The superintendent drummed his fingertips on his desk and squinted at me. His appearance always suggested more the farmer than a police officer. He was stocky in build, florid in complexion and had a liking for tweed. Today, with his thick bushy hair and cheeks reddened by a brisk walk to work, he appeared more than ever the country squire.
‘It’s a possibility, sir. I have already sent over to Deptford and asked them to bring in the fellow, Parker, who found the body. We can be reasonably sure she was robbed.’
‘Robbed after death?’ asked Dunn. ‘Or was it a robbery that ended in a battering and death?’
‘My suspicions are that it was robbery after death – and that brings us back to Harry Parker. If he did not kill her, but stumbled on the body as he claims, it would not surprise me if he took everything of value before he rushed out to find a constable. There was, for example, no purse or reticule. If she had stepped out to go to a shop, for example, she would have had money. The thing that really struck me as strange, sir, is that she had no hat. Sergeant Morris and a constable looked all around for one.’
‘Ah,’ said Dunn. He pushed himself away from his desk, stood up and went to the window. There he stood, staring out, with his hands clasped behind his back, and addressed me over his shoulder. ‘She would not have left her house without some sort of head covering, eh? Quite so, every beggar woman, every street-corner prostitute, has some kind of headwear pinned atop her hair. Are you suggesting, Ross, that she was killed indoors and the body brought out to be left where it was found?’
‘It has puzzled me from the start how she came to be in such a foul, abandoned corner. What could possibly have taken her there of her own free will and on her own two feet?’ I told him. ‘No, no, my guess is that she met her death elsewhere.’
‘So, we must concentrate our search on the buildings around!’
‘Morris is there now, sir, with two constables, going door to door.’ Not that it will gain us much, I thought.
Dunn swung round on his heel. ‘What do you intend to do next?’
‘Go over to Deptford, sir. I hope they will have brought Parker back in for me to interview again. I have also sent Constables Biddle and Murphy around the local pawnshops there. If anyone took her earrings, wedding band and fob watch or brooch, then the thief will try to sell or pawn the items. At any rate, the constables will tell the pawnbrokers to look out for such items and let us know immediately if any are brought in.’
‘They are the kind of items brought in for pawn all the time,’ said Dunn. ‘And we have no detailed description of them. If they were all three brought in together, that would indicate . . . But yes, yes, the pawnbrokers must be alerted. There are other means of disposing of stolen jewellery, of course.’
‘Now the police are visiting the pawnbrokers, sir, the receivers of stolen goods will soon hear of it. The thief may find the items too sensitive and be unable to dispose of them immediately.’
‘The longer they remain in his possession, not only is he unable to profit by his theft, they are evidence of it. If he still has ’em,’ said Dunn with a rare smile, ‘he will be a worried man.’
Elizabeth Martin Ross
I was sleeping so soundly the previous night when Ben had eventually arrived home that I’d hardly been aware he had joined me in bed. Conversation at breakfast this morning had been hasty and disjointed. I told him I had visited Aunt Parry the previous afternoon: and he looked as though I’d said I’d been to the moon. He then told me there was a new case of murder, that it had taken place in Deptford and there were no suspects. I knew from experience that until this case were solved it would occupy his mind completely, and it was pointless trying to talk to him about anything else.
Thinking it over, after he had left for Scotland Yard, I was glad I had not had time or opportunity to explain Patience’s worries about her brother. It was neither a matter for the police, nor would Ben have any personal interest in Edgar. Neither of us had ever met that young man. On the other hand, Ben had met Patience; and the only family of any sort I had in London was that of Aunt Parry and Frank. Not that Ben approves of Frank. In short, Ben already thinks the entire Parry family a nuisance. No need to make things worse with the tale of Edgar’s debts. But I did wish Ben liked Frank Carterton more. I cannot help being fond of Frank; that, of course, is the reason Ben doesn’t like him!
But Patience was still on my mind. She had to persuade Edgar to go to his father, no question about that. I could support her decision though otherwise I could do little. I was, however, aware that this whole affair would become an embarrassment to Frank and that did worry me.
My worries were about to increase. In the early afternoon, our maid-of-all-work, Bessie, appeared to tell me, with an air of conspiracy, that someone had brought me a message from Miss Wellings.
‘Where is it?’ I asked, not unreasonably.
‘In the kitchen,’ said Bessie.
‘Can’t you bring it in here?’ (‘Here’ being our minuscule parlour.)
‘I can bring her in, if I make her take her boots off,’ returned Bessie. ‘She’s already messed up my clean floor.’
‘You mean Miss Wellings is in our kitchen?’ I got up hurriedly to go and investigate.
‘No, missus, it’s a maid from a house in Goodge Place. It’s not written down, the message. I asked. If it’d been written down, I’d have brought it in proper, on a tray!’ said Bessie reproachfully.
I debated whether to wait while the messenger took off her boots, or whether to save time and return with Bessie to the kitchen. I went to the kitchen.
Awaiting me, gazing about her critically, was a no-nonsense young woman. She wore a black bombazine dress with a lace collar, a small felt hat, and large Paisley shawl. She had pinned up her black skirts and her boots were, indeed, very muddy. There was a trail of footprints from the back door to where she stood by the table.
‘You have come from Miss Wellings?’ I asked her. ‘Did she not give you a note?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said the girl briskly. Her accent was certainly not a London one and I identified her tones as probably Staffordshire. She might be Aunt Pickford’s personal maid, who had accompanied her mistress to London. ‘She didn’t want to write anything down, ma’am,’ continued the girl, ‘in case Mrs Pickford got hold of it. She asks if you would be kind enough to call this afternoon in Goodge Place.’
I glanced at the kitchen clock. I would have to leave at once.
The maid saw me look at the clock and added, ‘If you can, ma’am, you could come back with me. Then I’ll slip through the basement and you go up to the front door, like
a regular afternoon visit.’
Aha! The plot thickened. All this could only be about Edgar. Patience was determined that the Pickfords should not learn of Edgar’s difficulties. I was to arrive that afternoon under the pretence of a social call. It was all highly irregular and I suspected that Ben, had he known about it, would have recommended me strongly to make an excuse. But I was here, Ben wasn’t, the maid had spoken to me, and I had no excuse.
‘Bessie,’ I said, ‘would you run up to the cab stand at the railway station and fetch me a closed cab?’
The brusque young woman brightened visibly at the thought of making the return trip to Goodge Place in comfort.
Whether his cab had really, by fortunate chance, been the next in line for hire – or whether Bessie had ignored the other cabs and sought out Wally Slater, she didn’t say. But it was my old friend who arrived. His four-wheeled ‘growler’, drawn by his horse, Victor, rumbled to a halt before our door; and Wally climbed down from his perch.
‘Nice to see you, Mrs Ross,’ he said, as he opened the door for me with a gallant bow. ‘You off investigating again, are you?’
‘No, Mr Slater, only paying a social call.’
He clearly didn’t believe me. His battered ex-prize-fighter’s features contorted into a conspiratorial wink and grin as he handed me up into the cab.
The maid, with a look at Wally that mingled curiosity with alarm, scrambled in after me.
Wally whistled to Victor and off we jolted. It was only when we were well underway and passing over Waterloo Bridge that I thought to ask the maid her name, and whether she knew of any particular reason for her mistress wishing to see me so urgently.
‘It’ll be to do with Mr Edgar,’ said the girl, confirming my suspicions. ‘And my name is Lucy, ma’am.’
‘Mr Edgar isn’t going to be there too, is he?’ I asked, far too late.
‘Yes, ma’am. Leastways, Miss Patience hopes so. She sent out earlier to ask him to come. He sent back that he would. But,’ concluded Lucy with the familiarity of the trusted family servant, ‘you can never tell with Mr Edgar.’
‘I’ll wait for you, Mrs Ross,’ said Wally, after he’d handed us down in Goodge Place. ‘Don’t worry that I’ll charge you a lot extra for it. I brought you here and I’ll take you back. The inspector would wish it.’
I thanked him, secretly relieved.
It was fortunate I’d spoken to Lucy before my arrival. When I was shown into a small back parlour, two people rose to greet me. One was Patience, who looked so relieved and happy to see me that I feared the worst. The other was a tall, well-built young man who, like Patience, had a head of dark curls and would have been handsome if he hadn’t looked so mulish and discontented.
‘My brother, Edgar!’ declared Patience, with a sweep of the hand towards the gentleman.
Edgar Wellings made me a stiff bow and said bluntly, ‘I am obliged – my sister and I are both obliged . . .’ He cast his sister a brief glance. ‘We are both obliged,’ he repeated, ‘to you, for your kindness in coming.’
He then fell silent; having obviously said what he’d been instructed to say. I had to repress a smile because he resembled nothing so much as a rebellious small boy who had been drilled on how to greet a visiting adult.
‘And we’re aware that it was very impolite of us to ask you at such short notice, as we did,’ Patience took up, ‘but Edgar has to be at Bart’s for much of the week; so we had to take advantage of the one afternoon when he’s free.’
‘I quite understand,’ I said.
We all sat down.
‘I have asked them to bring some tea,’ said Patience, ‘as soon as visitors come. The reason we are in this small morning room is because Aunt Pickford receives her visitors in the main drawing room.’
‘And I am hiding from Aunt Pickford,’ said Edgar drily.
‘No!’ protested Patience.
‘Yes!’ retorted Edgar. ‘It’s no use pretending this is to be a genteel tea party. I stand in the dock, Mrs Ross! I am here to defend myself, if that were possible, which it is not. And I am to be told what to do. It is something I don’t want to do; and I have sound reasons for it. Only my sister won’t listen to them!’
‘Dr Wellings,’ I said, now quite unable to hide my smile, ‘I’m not going to lecture you. That would be quite out of order. In fact, if you prefer we won’t talk of your predicament at all. I can leave, if you wish.’
‘Oh, no, Lizzie!’ cried Patience, as I made to stand up. She threw out her hands imploringly. ‘Oh, Edgar, don’t be so awkward! Lizzie has come to help. She’s very wise. Frank says so.’
Edgar pulled a wry face. ‘Well, I am not wise, Mrs Ross.’
I decided I liked Edgar. That didn’t mean he was not a problem and likely to remain one for quite a while. ‘Please call me Lizzie,’ I said. ‘When your sister and Frank are married, we shall be almost family; although I am only the late Mr Parry’s goddaughter, you know.’
‘This meeting is really more about Frank than about me, isn’t it?’ said Edgar, throwing himself back in his chair with a sigh. ‘You have no idea, Lizzie, how proud my parents are that Patience is to marry a Member of Parliament, and one representing our town as well. I, on the other hand, am the fly in the ointment.’
‘But they are rightly proud of you, too, are they not?’ I countered. ‘They don’t know about your being in debt and having to pay back the moneylender, who is charging you interest.’
‘No, they don’t, and I don’t want to tell them. As you say, they are proud of me. It will come as a terrible shock. I am not just embarrassed for myself,’ he added urgently. ‘Believe me! But it is all very well, you know, for Patience and you too, Lizzie, to tell me I must go home and throw myself on my father’s mercy, like the prodigal son. But you don’t know what they are like in a provincial town.’
‘Oh, but I do!’ I contradicted him. ‘I came to London from Derbyshire only four years ago, when my father died. He was a medical man. I know provincial society very well, believe me.’
‘Then you know how – how moral they are!’ burst out Edgar. ‘How damn – oh, sorry – didn’t mean to swear – how censorious. They criticise the smallest lapse. Respectability is their guiding star! My parents will be horrified to hear what I’ve done. They won’t dare to speak of it. Every time an acquaintance asks how I am doing in London, they will have to hide the truth. It will be difficult for them, because they are so very honest themselves. People will soon guess.
‘And, oh, Lizzie . . .’ Edgar shook his dark curls. ‘People there are so very quick to sniff out any scandal! My mother’s friends will know at once, from her embarrassment, that something is wrong. As for my poor father, as soon as a rumour starts concerning my lack of prudence with money, it will reflect on him and his business.’
Edgar suddenly adopted an accent similar to that of Lucy, the maid, and declaimed: ‘“Young Wellings has gone to the dogs! It’ll cost his father a pretty penny to bail him out. They’ve got that daughter to marry in style, as well. It will be the ruin of them!”’
‘Stop it, Edgar,’ stormed Patience, reddening. ‘You’re embarrassing Lizzie and you’re embarrassing me!’
‘Calm down, both of you,’ I ordered. They fell silent obediently and sat, looking at me, like a pair of school children caught out misbehaving and faced with a stern teacher.
‘All you say may well be true, Edgar,’ I told him. ‘Nevertheless, you will have to go to your father, and the sooner the better. You know that as well as I do. But perhaps, before you go, we should try and persuade this moneylender firstly to give you more time to pay; and secondly to fix the sum at its present level – not add yet more interest. If he is assured he is to be paid soon, he may agree.’
‘She,’ corrected Edgar unexpectedly. ‘The moneylender is a woman, and a sour, fierce old dragon she is. I have studied medicine and know the human body needs a heart to function; otherwise I’d swear Mrs Clifford has no heart at all. She’s all business, like
some sort of machine. She lives in Deptford.’
He gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Mrs Ross, I must tell you that you are hopelessly optimistic in your suggestion. Mrs Clifford will listen to no kind of reasoned argument. It would be a complete waste of time going to see her. Worse, it would humiliating.’
‘Edgar,’ I told him more sharply than I’d intended, ‘you can’t allow yourself the luxury of hurt feelings! That is another price you will have to pay. Think of it as a part of the interest on the loan. It cannot be avoided.’
He flushed a dull red. ‘You are right, of course. But consider that it would also be humiliating for a respectable woman such yourself to have to argue with the old witch. You have no idea how unpleasant she is. I hate to think what language she might use. And all to no avail! As for my sister going to see her, that’s quite out of the question,’
‘Why is it out of the question?’ demanded Patience, the light of battle in her eyes. ‘I am not afraid of Mrs Clifford or of anything she might say. You came to me, I would remind you, Edgar, with your problem. You cannot just say now that I am not to be embarrassed. Do you think I am not embarrassed enough? Do you think it was not humiliating to have to ask Lizzie’s advice? Oh, Lizzie . . .’ She turned to me. ‘That didn’t sound quite polite. I meant that Edgar has already embarrassed himself and me; and I, clearly, have embarrassed you. I should not have troubled you with it all.’
Her voice quavered on the last couple of words and I realised that Patience, for all her fighting stance, was not far off tears.
‘I am very glad you came to me, Patience,’ I told her. ‘Now then, we’ll talk no more about it. It will just end up in recriminations and time-wasting. We’ll do without tea, and we’ll go to Deptford to see Mrs Clifford now. It will grow dark soon, so we shouldn’t delay.’
‘Me, too!’ she insisted. ‘I won’t be left behind! Stop scowling, Edgar. I am coming too.’
‘Then let’s be off,’ I told them before Edgar could speak again. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face. He was now incapable of sitting still, twitching and crossing and uncrossing his legs. During his last speech he’d begun marching about the room. Any moment now and he’d say things he’d later regret, fling himself out of the house and we’d be able to do nothing.