The Dead Woman of Deptford: Inspector Ben Ross mystery 6

by Granger, Ann

Before Simms could answer, there was a rustle on the staircase and a fashionably clad lady began her descent. With sinking heart I recognised a neighbour in the Square, Mrs Belling. She was a woman of sour disposition and she had never liked me. She probably liked Patience even less, because she had at one time entertained hopes that Frank would marry her daughter, Dora. How happy it must have made her to be able to run round with the dramatic news as soon as she’d heard about it. How had she done so? I wondered. But London, for all its size and variety, often seemed no more than a village when it came to gossip.

  We exchanged chilly greetings in the hall before she left and we began our own ascent to the first-floor drawing room.

  ‘Damn it!’ muttered Frank to me. ‘That woman would get here first. We’ll have to review our strategy, Lizzie. Let me do the talking.’

  I had every intention of letting him start the conversation.

  Aunt Parry was seated by the fireplace in majestic pose. It struck me that she had modelled it on our Queen Victoria. She did bear a strong resemblance to the monarch, being amply proportioned and radiating disapproval. No wonder: Mrs Belling must have taken great pleasure in telling her the news. Aunt Parry had not only been taken by complete surprise, but also left deeply embarrassed.

  ‘How are you, Aunt Julia?’ asked Frank, bowing and kissing her hand.

  ‘You may well ask,’ said Aunt Parry in a voice throbbing with emotion. Her face was very flushed and I did not think it was only from the proximity to the hearth. Mrs Belling had found revenge sweet and made the most of it. She would not have said that Frank would never have become involved in this, if he’d married Dora. But the message would have been clear to read behind the spoken words.

  ‘What on earth has been going on?’ continued Aunt Parry passionately. ‘Mrs Belling has called to tell me that a member of your family, Patience . . .’ here she turned an accusing eye on Frank’s fiancée, ‘your family, Miss Wellings, has been arrested for a murder!’

  At this unjust accusation I am afraid I abandoned my intention of allowing Frank to lead the conversation.

  ‘Indeed, Ben did not arrest him, Aunt Parry. Edgar Wellings only went with Ben to Scotland Yard to make a statement. He was then allowed to leave. He was never – at any time – under arrest!’ I burst out.

  Aunt Parry turned a glacial look on me. ‘Mr Morton saw him led away from the house where this dreadful murder took place, led away by your husband. If that is not arrest, what is?’’

  ‘Who the devil – I beg your pardon, Aunt Julia and ladies! – who, may I ask, is Mr Morton?’ broke in Frank angrily.

  ‘Mr Morton is a friend of the Belling family. He lives in Deptford. He is a naval architect, now long retired, and was for many years engaged on important work at the naval dockyard there. He is now a very elderly gentleman, and infirm. He only leaves the house in a bath chair. His health makes him disinclined to move from Deptford, despite some of the rowdy scenes that take place of an evening. He doesn’t go out in the evening, anyway,’ finished Aunt Parry.

  ‘But how did he know it was Edgar Wellings at the house?’ demanded Frank.

  ‘Dr Wellings had been pointed out to him on a previous occasion. Mr Morton has a nephew who has also entered the medical profession. He calls regularly on his uncle. On one such a visit, he accompanied his uncle on his afternoon outing, the weather being a little milder. Passing down one street, the nephew gave an exclamation of surprise. On being asked why, he told Mr Morton that he had just seen a young doctor from Bart’s walking on the other side of the street. He said the young fellow’s name was Wellings and he wondered what he was doing there in Deptford.’

  ‘When was this, Aunt Parry?’ I asked quickly.

  She waved a pudgy, ring-bedecked hand, ‘Oh, some two weeks or so ago. Mr Morton’s nephew did not hail Wellings, as he was occupied with his uncle. But although Mr Morton is an invalid, there is nothing wrong with his eyesight and his memory is unimpaired. He recognised Dr Wellings at once when he saw Inspector Ross leading a young man away.’

  Just like a village, I thought again, exasperated. Even in London, you cannot be sure you won’t be spotted by someone who knows you. Perhaps Edgar had believed that if he went to a moneylender south of the Thames no one would recognise him there. He had clearly been wrong.

  ‘It must have been Mr Morton I saw in the street before the house,’ I told her. ‘There was certainly an elderly gentleman in a bath chair, in the charge of a maidservant. He had become very agitated.’

  Aunt Parry gripped the arms of her chair. ‘As well he might be with murder being committed on his doorstep!’

  ‘It was not committed by my brother!’ declared Patience, entering the conversation in such a forceful tone and manner that we all turned to her.

  ‘Then why was he arrested?’ demanded Aunt Parry.

  ‘Aunt Parry,’ I insisted, ‘please understand that he was not arrested. Ben only escorted him to Scotland Yard so that he could make a statement.’

  ‘I cannot see the difference. And what, pray, were you doing there in Deptford, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Lizzie kindly accompanied my brother and myself at my request,’ said Patience so loudly and firmly that her words were followed by a moment’s silence.

  I saw Frank look at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. You have chosen the right girl to marry, I thought. Whatever happened in his political career, Patience would stand by him and face down his foes.

  It was perhaps as well that the silence was broken by Simms, who brought in the tea things, followed by a maid with a sponge cake.

  Mrs Parry regarded the sponge cake with dismay. ‘Plain sponge! As if I did not have all this to worry me, I have Dr Bruch’s wretched diet to cope with! Just when I need sustenance.’

  The arrival of food and drink had served to calm her, however. When conversation started again she sounded not so much magisterial as pettish. But I was still her target.

  ‘I would have thought,’ she said, ‘that seeing his own wife at the scene and knowing the connection with this family, the inspector would not have marched Dr Wellings away in such an obvious manner.’

  ‘There was a sizeable crowd of curious neighbours,’ I reminded her. ‘They were becoming unruly. The constable before the door had difficulty in persuading them to disperse. I am sure Ben thought it best to escort Dr Wellings through the throng, for his own safety.’

  ‘He could have asked your brother to call at the Yard later.’ Mrs Parry turned to Patience. She still sounded pettish and was not prepared to listen to any argument. ‘Your brother would not have attracted so much interest if he had not been in the charge of the police.’

  ‘I should tell you, Aunt Parry,’ I said loudly, ‘that amongst the onlookers making the most fuss was Mrs Belling’s friend, Mr Morton, as I now know his name to be. He was shouting abuse.’

  Mrs Parry studied me thoughtfully. ‘Was he, indeed?’ she said. She turned back to Patience. ‘Why were you and your brother at that house, with Elizabeth, in the first place?’

  ‘Dr Wellings had business there,’ Frank said quickly. ‘It was an unfortunate coincidence, nothing more.’

  ‘Had he? What manner of business was that, I wonder, in Deptford of all places? Nor can I see what necessitated Elizabeth’s presence.’

  Patience bit her lip and flushed.

  Mrs Parry had turned her attention to Frank. ‘None of this, I trust, will involve your name? You are only at the start of your career. You cannot afford to be associated with sordid events of this nature.’ She turned to Patience. ‘Nor can there be any question of continuing with the arrangements for a wedding until the air has been cleared, your brother’s innocence loudly declared by the police, and the whole sorry débâcle forgotten.’

  Patience gasped and blanched. She threw an imploring look at her fiancé, following it with one at me.

  ‘I am sure Ben will sort it all out,’ I assured her. ‘And with the utmost discretion.’

  ‘Are you,
Elizabeth?’ Aunt Parry drew a deep breath. ‘None of this would have happened if you hadn’t insisted on marrying that policeman, you know.’

  This was so unjust and, at the same time, subject to such distorted logic, that her listeners were all of us reduced to silence.

  Until this point Aunt Parry had shown no indication of the nervous collapse Frank had feared. She seemed to realise that it was time to show less aggression and more frailty.

  ‘My nerves are in shreds,’ she informed us. ‘And plain sponge cake won’t help them. Ring the bell, Elizabeth. I am sure Mrs Simms can find something more interesting in her kitchen. Frank,’ she turned to him, ‘we shall not discuss this further at this moment. Come and see me tomorrow morning. Come alone. I wish to speak to you in private.’

  Patience bit her lip and cast an apprehensive glance at Frank. We all knew that he relied heavily on his aunt for financial support. I guessed that it was about to be spelled out to him. Either Edgar Wellings’s name was to be cleared, quickly and absolutely, or someone would suffer. At the moment, the only person vulnerable to any direct action by Mrs Parry was her nephew. She would reduce – or sever altogether – the money supply.

  When we finally left Dorset Square, Aunt Parry still had not suffered any nervous collapse. But I was very worried; Frank was for once visibly downcast; and poor Patience on the verge of tears.

  Later that evening I told Ben all about my day over our supper table. After we had allowed ourselves a smile over Uncle Pickford, Ben grew serious.

  ‘I am sorry you’ve had such a difficult time,’ he said. ‘That Mrs Parry should think you are in any way to blame for anything in this is ridiculous. I do agree that, as far as Carterton is concerned, his aunt will prove a problem. He will have to placate her somehow. But, knowing him, I dare say he’ll find a way!’

  ‘It would be easier for him if Mrs Belling had not meddled,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Well, she did “meddle”, as you describe it, but from my point of view Mrs Belling’s account is interesting. Her friend Morton and his nephew saw young Wellings in the street where Clifford lived as recently as two weeks ago, or thereabouts, walking along in broad daylight. It supports the impression I’ve already formed of Wellings. He has absolutely no sense of discretion or commonsense. On the night of the murder, he admits to visiting her after dark and standing by the streetlamp so that she could see his face before opening the door. But by then he was at odds with her and she was making threats. Before that, he was in the habit of calling on her whenever he was free, even of an afternoon when he could be seen and recognised. Now we know he was seen and recognised! That want of discretion and judgement can lead someone like Wellings into a situation where he can lose his head completely.’

  My heart sank. ‘Oh, Ben, you are not ruling Edgar out as a suspect, then?’

  ‘How can I? The young man’s a fool, but a desperate fool. Desperate fools are very dangerous, Lizzie.’

  Inspector Ben Ross

  I was more than sorry that Lizzie had come in for criticism in Dorset Square; I was angry. I remained angry the following morning.

  It wasn’t difficult to concentrate my wrath on Frank Carterton. Never mind that Edgar Wellings had started the whole sorry business. The only reason Lizzie had been dragged into yesterday’s embarrassing scene in Dorset Square was Carterton’s request that she help him with his formidable aunt. Knowing my wife, I had to admit she couldn’t be dragged anywhere she didn’t want to go. But while Carterton knew that he could count on Lizzie’s support, that didn’t mean he had to ask for it.

  Lizzie had told me that she and Patience had hidden from Carterton that Edgar had asked his sister for money. Had Carterton known, I am sure he would have been the first to say Edgar had no right to ask. It’s wrong to take unfair advantage of another person’s good nature, and that’s undeniable in my view. Especially if that person is my wife.

  But there was nothing I could do about it, at least not for the time being. I would keep a close eye on that situation and, if necessary, speak to Carterton myself.

  In the meantime, I had a murderer to track down.

  ‘We ought to speak to Britannia Scroggs again,’ I said to Morris the following morning. ‘She may have calmed down a little by now. She’s also had time to think. She may have remembered something useful. Take me to the house where her mother lives. Britannia ought to be there.’

  But Britannia was not there when we arrived. Ma Scroggs was at home in her cramped and cheerless room. Looking round, I saw an untidy pile of tattered bedding in one corner. That must be where Britannia was bivouacking, as there was no space in her mother’s narrow cot. Britannia had been thrown out of her private little attic bedroom for this. She would blame the police entirely. There was no wash dripping from a line today, but there was still a damp atmosphere and a fetid smell about the place. Ma Scroggs was certainly not pleased to see us; and disposed to be sarcastic.

  ‘What, police coming along here in twos now, are you? Not frightened of me and my poor girl, surely?’

  Despite the cold day, there was no fire lit in the hearth. Morris had spoken of some kind of bad-smelling stew simmering in a pot when he had last come here. But today, although the iron pot hung on its hook in the arch of the fireplace, nothing was being prepared in it. Was it the loss of Britannia’s job that had necessitated further privation in an already poverty-stricken home?

  ‘Where is your daughter?’ I asked her brusquely. ‘She was told to stay at this address.’

  I was not going to be draw into a bad-tempered and useless exchange with this old harridan. I’d probably have that with her daughter – when I finally tracked her down. From the corner of my eye, through the dirty windowpane, I saw a street urchin of about nine years of age running away from the house. Down the street he scampered, full pelt. I wondered if he was on his way to warn Britannia, wherever she was, that the police were back and looking for her.

  ‘She’s working,’ said Ma Scroggs malevolently. ‘Such work as she can get round here. She can’t sit round like a lady, you know. She’s got to earn some money. I can’t support her. I depend on her to support me.’ She glowered at Morris. ‘You ’ad no business bringing her here.’

  ‘She’s your daughter,’ retaliated Morris. ‘And if she’s been giving you money from her wages, all the time she worked for Mrs Clifford, the least you can do is give her a place to sleep now.’

  She shuffled forward and peered up at him, her wrinkled face framed with wispy grey hair escaping from a grubby mobcap. She had a shawl round her shoulders and gripped the edges together at her chest with a claw of a hand.

  ‘She had a place to sleep,’ she snapped. ‘She had a perfekly good place at Mrs Clifford’s ’ouse.’

  ‘Mrs Scroggs,’ I said firmly. ‘You must understand that, now Mrs Clifford is dead, Britannia cannot sleep at her house. Her reason for being there has gone. Besides, it is the scene of a murder. What if the murderer returned?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think he’d do that, not with half the rozzers in London hanging about the place!’ she argued.

  I was beginning to understand where Britannia had learned her combative manner. ‘Where is your daughter?’ I demanded. ‘Stop wasting my time. Where is she working now?’

  ‘Oh, yus!’ shouted Ma Scroggs at me with surprising force. ‘Go there and lose her that job, why don’t you? You think people like the p’lice turning up on the doorstep?’

  Her words recalled Harry Parker’s. He had been turned out by his landlord on the night of the murder, because Barrett had accompanied him home to check the address. Or so Parker had claimed. I must talk to Parker again; our last conversation had been highly unsatisfactory. The wretched fellow knew something and I would have to get it out of him somehow or other.

  Ma Scroggs, having been as awkward as she could be, and delayed us for as long as possible, now admitted that Britannia was working at the Clipper public house.

  ‘Where is that?’ asked Morris.

/>   I touched his elbow. ‘I know where it is.’ As we walked away from the Scroggs’s dwelling, I added to Morris, ‘It is not so very far from Skinner’s Yard where the body was found.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ asked Morris.

  ‘Could be,’ I agreed. ‘She needed to find work urgently and may have gone round all the public houses, asking if they required domestic help.’

  We found Britannia easily enough at the Clipper. She was washing the floor of the public bar. We bid her good morning and asked if we could have a word. She sat back on her heels, wrung out her rag, and hung it over the edge of her bucket.

  ‘Whaffor?’ she demanded.

  A very large man in a leather jerkin appeared. His mashed features reminded me of Wally Slater, the cabman. I guessed that this fellow, like Wally, had once graced the prize ring. The man glowered at us, and asked, ‘What’s up, Tanny?’

  ‘Nothing’s up!’ snapped Britannia.

  ‘Peelers, ain’t you?’ asked the large man of us. ‘Fancy sort, plain-clothes, outa the Yard, most likely.’

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Jethro Smith, landlord. If you want to speak to my staff, I want to know what about.’

  ‘It’ll be Mrs Clifford’s murder,’ said Britannia with a hiss of annoyance. ‘I already told them all I can.’ She squinted up at us from her crouched position. ‘Here, I still got clothes at the house. I need to go back for them. You said I could go back for them. But when I went there yesterday, the house was all barred up and there was a copper outside the door. He told me to clear off, the cheeky little— cheeky blighter.’

  ‘You should arrange a time with Inspector Phipps.’

  ‘Oh, him . . .’ muttered Britannia dismissively. ‘I gotta take meself all the way to the police station and argue with that ginger-whiskered fellow, have I? He don’t like me and he’s got no respect for my lawful rights. That’s my property at the house and I want it! If I get him to agree, then we got to go back to Mrs Clifford’s house. Like I say, if he’ll let me. Like as not, he’ll say he can’t spare a constable to go with me and unseal the house. “Come back tomorrow,” he’ll say. I know his sort! I ain’t got time to walk all over London, you know.’