The Dead Woman of Deptford: Inspector Ben Ross mystery 6

by Granger, Ann

  ‘Here,’ growled Smith. ‘If you want to talk to her, you do it out back. I don’t want people seeing you here. Puts the customers off. No one will come in for a pint while you’re here.’

  ‘Ever feel unwanted, Morris?’ I murmured to him, as Britannia scrambled to her feet and wiped her hands on her apron.

  She led us through the building and into a paved backyard stacked up with all manner of junk from broken chairs to boxes of empty bottles and stacks of empty kegs. Despite that, a watery sunshine trapped in the area made it quite a pleasant spot.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Britannia, hands on hips. My eyes were drawn to her distorted knuckles again. Washing the floors here wouldn’t help the rheumatism or whatever it was setting in.

  ‘In our experience,’ I began, ‘people often begin to remember details a few days after the event. At the time, with the shock, things slip the mind. So, I am wondering if there is anything you have recalled since we last spoke.’

  ‘Like what?’ retorted Britannia. She folded her arms. Perhaps she had seen me studying her hands. Now she tucked them out of sight.

  I made an effort to keep calm. ‘We have spoken about Dr Wellings,’ I began, ‘and his visit on the night of the murder. How often had you seen him at the house before?’

  ‘Oh, him,’ said Britannia. ‘He came a few times.’ She frowned. ‘He started coming about six months ago, or a bit more. Full of himself, he was, when he first turned up, quite the gent.’

  ‘He came in the evenings?’

  She shook her head. ‘Came all times of the day. Sometimes of an evening and sometimes of an afternoon. Once he came in the morning when I was scrubbing the front step. That didn’t please me, I can tell you! I’d just got the step all nice and white and shining; and he put his big boot right on it and left a muddy print. I spoke to him about it!’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Morris curiously.

  ‘I said, “Oy! Watch what you’re doing!” – something like that,’ Britannia told us.

  ‘You didn’t mind upsetting a customer, then?’ observed Morris.

  Britannia surveyed him with a look of resigned tolerance that people sometimes give those who are slow on the uptake.

  ‘He wasn’t a customer,’ she said. ‘Not like he’d come to buy something and he’d go elsewhere if he didn’t like the reception he got. He was in debt and couldn’t pay. He was skint, for all his airs and graces! Not a penny to bless himself. Lost it all on cards and dice and I don’t know what. He’d come to borrow and he wasn’t in a position to make a fuss, was he? I’d seen his sort before, plenty of them. Mrs Clifford, she called them her “bread and butter clients”. They were a regular kind to turn up, she meant. She liked them, from a business point o’ view.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Morris, still playing the simple soul.

  ‘Because she knew she’d always get the money in the end. They had family, see? Family what had money.’ Britannia smiled, showing her chipped front tooth. ‘Family would pay up, if she went to them. The clients was all mortal afraid of that; and their families was mortal afraid of scandal.’

  Somewhere in my head a bell rang, signalling she had said something I should take note of. Not that she had said anything we hadn’t known already, but, somehow, it had been set in a different context.

  It must have shown in my face. Britannia uncrossed her arms.

  ‘She didn’t discuss business with me,’ she said brusquely. ‘And, if you don’t mind, I got to get back to work. Or I’ll lose this job, too.’

  As we left the Clipper public house, I noticed an urchin loitering about outside, kicking stones. He looked very much like the one I’d seen running from Ma Scroggs’s home. The landlord, Jethro Smith, was standing outside the door and, as we appeared, he gave us a look of dislike, then shouted out to the urchin to ‘clear off, you!’ The boy ran away.

  ‘We are finished for the moment, Mr Smith,’ I said to him politely.

  My courtesy gained me nothing. His scowl deepened. ‘Not coming back, I hope? I run a decent pub. There’s never trouble here that I can’t handle. I don’t need police around the place.’

  ‘You will not hold it against Britannia Scroggs that we were here, I hope?’ I asked. ‘We are making inquiries into the death of her former employer. You will not turn her away?’

  He stared hard at me for a moment then shrugged. ‘I don’t hold it against her, but I don’t want you coming back.’

  ‘I am glad you are able to give her some work,’ I told him. I don’t know quite why I said it, perhaps just to have the last word.

  But it was not to be the last word, for he leaned forward and growled, ‘She’s a good worker and a good girl, is Tanny Scroggs. You lot have no business persecuting her. Go ask your questions among those young swells who borrowed money from the old witch, Clifford. That’s where you’ll find your answers to your inquiries!’

  ‘You have known Miss Scroggs for a while?’ I ventured.

  ‘Know the whole family,’ said Smith.

  ‘There is only Britannia and her elderly mother, I understand?’ I suggested. ‘A small family, at that.’

  ‘Used to be more of them!’ snapped Smith.

  ‘You knew them, the younger Scroggs children? The boys, for example, the one who fell off a cart and was killed and the other one, the elder one, who went to sea?’

  ‘Billy,’ said Smith. ‘We were pals as kids, me and Billy. He was a big youngster and I reckon he could’ve been useful in the prize ring. But he had a mind to travel, so he signed on a clipper ship as cabin boy and went off to sea.’

  ‘His mother and sister believe him drowned,’ I said, anxious to keep him talking about the family.

  He turned his bloodshot gaze on me. ‘There’s a lot of them go to sea and end up on the bottom of the ocean with the fish nibbling at them!’ He looked away again. ‘I don’t know what became of Billy. Likely his ma is right. I knew the sister, too, the one as died in childbed. They’ve had enough bad fortune, have the Scroggses, without more of it now. They don’t need trouble and they don’t need you hanging about them!’

  With that, the landlord turned and stomped back inside his premises.

  ‘Surly blighter,’ I observed to Morris, as we turned to leave. ‘But he could be right. We should be questioning anyone we can find who borrowed money from Clifford or knows someone who did. If only we had those IOUs! Wellings was there that night; we must not overlook that. A late hour to call and do business.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ observed Morris. ‘If that young fellow, Wellings, came all hours of the day, it could be because he couldn’t choose when he visited. He was needed at the hospital most of the time.’

  ‘Quite so. I keep thinking about that robbery, Morris.’

  ‘Yessir?’ Morris eyed me with interest.

  ‘Items stolen from the house fall into two groups. One group is the cashbox and any loose cash lying about. The second group of stolen goods comprises the missing IOUs. Let us suppose that the killer was primarily after the IOUs. That would suggest one of Clifford’s clients, desperate to recover a document to which he’d put his name. That could well be someone normally regarded as completely respectable.’

  ‘Like a doctor,’ said Morris drily.

  ‘Like young Wellings, quite. Whoever it was, he was astute enough also to take the cashbox; to make it look like an ordinary burglary. That all went horribly wrong when the house owner disturbed him.

  ‘However, now let us suppose that he was not a client, like Wellings, but an ordinary burglar or thief, who was set on taking the cashbox from the first? He might have been clever enough to take the IOUs to confuse the issue and make it appear the deed was done by one of Clifford’s clients. Our suspicions would rest either on Wellings, who called that evening and was seen by Scroggs from the attic window; or someone who came later, after Wellings left, and was not seen by Scroggs. Remember, the kitchen door was not forced. Clifford had apparently let the murderer into the house.

 
‘Now, if we continue to suppose the killer was not a client, and only after the cashbox: he sees the IOUs in the desk. He realises what they are, and also realises they’d be worth a fortune in the hands of a blackmailer. But he’s a common thief. He might not attempt the blackmail himself. He wouldn’t know how to go about it, so he takes them to sell on to someone more accomplished in that line of villainy.’

  ‘Then, if it was a common burglar, how did he get in?’ demanded Morris. ‘Clifford would only have admitted a known client at that time of night. That girl had to have let anyone else in. You should arrest her, sir. Once in custody, it would easier to break her story. She’d panic.’

  ‘I admit that she is the one person, other than Wellings, that we know for certain was in the house that evening. But only consider, Sergeant. You have met her mother and seen the poverty in which she lives. You have talked with Britannia. Is she the sort of housemaid usually employed in a respectable household? No, she is a maid of all work of the most basic sort, employed normally for rough duties only. Working for Mrs Clifford may not have been enjoyable. But she lived in, her own little room, and all food found. Her modest wages allowed her to pay her mother’s rent. She even had a little status. Not a skivvy! She could claim to be a housemaid. Now she has lost that position and her only work is washing the floors of a public house. So it will be for the rest of her life. She is not pretty enough even to take to the streets. When you first visited old Mrs Scroggs, you say, there was a fire of sorts in the grate, is that so?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s so. It wasn’t much of a fire, but there was one,’ agreed Morris stolidly.

  ‘Now there is none. Her employment by Mrs Clifford gave Britannia Scroggs a home, food, a regular wage. Why would she jeopardise all of that?’

  Morris grunted agreement. Then he asked, ‘If I may speak, sir?”

  ‘Go ahead,’ I invited him.

  ‘All you say is true, sir, and I don’t deny it. But there are things going on here we don’t know of. Fact of the matter is, Mr Ross, that, dying or dead, the Clifford woman was taken from the house and left in Skinner’s Yard. Until we know why, we shan’t get to the bottom of it, and that’s my view, sir. With your permission,’ Morris concluded.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I conceded. ‘Well, Britannia will not leave the area. Like Parker, she belongs in Deptford. Her elderly mother, who depends on her, is nearby. That landlord, who knows the family – knew the siblings when they were all young – he will employ her. So long as she sticks to her story, we shall have the devil of a job to break it, if she is lying or concealing something. We have all the pieces, Morris, but we are not yet assembling them correctly. I agree with you that we must find out how and why the body was moved to Skinner’s Yard.’

  ‘Perhaps the killer just wanted rid of it,’ said Morris simply.

  ‘In Skinner’s Yard, sooner or later, it would be found.’ I hesitated, because I knew Morris would be sceptical, but then continued. ‘Wellings was telling me of badly injured accident victims who arrive at the hospital on their own two feet, including a man with a knife in his head. Let us suppose someone offered to take Clifford to get medical attention. But she collapsed and died before they had got very far. No one wants to be found with a dead woman at his feet. The body is dragged into Skinner’s Yard and abandoned.’

  ‘Who robbed it?’ demanded Morris. ‘What happened to her fob watch, earrings and wedding ring?’

  ‘Parker denies robbing the body and, although at first I suspected him, I am inclined to believe him now. However, Parker is afraid of something – not just being accused of robbing the body. No, no, he heard or saw something – or someone. We must call on Inspector Phipps right now. He must send a constable to bring in Parker again.’

  We were not to know we were already too late.

  Chapter Twelve

  IT WAS impossible to find a hackney cab in this poor part of London, so Morris and I made our way to Deptford police station on foot. Sometimes walking is the quickest way to reach your destination in the crowded streets; particularly as we were so quickly identified as representatives of the Law. The throng parted before us as the Red Sea before the Israelites. We got some curious looks but not much abuse, just the occasional catcall, which we chose to ignore.

  Our ears were assaulted with all kinds of noise. They were building an iron-clad vessel in one of the private yards along the Thames and the clang and thud formed a continual background. I knew there were problems with building the bigger vessels in the Thames yards; as they had found out ten years before when the launch of the SS Great Eastern had proved so difficult. How long before the private yards followed the great naval dockyard into history?

  The merchant ships Evans had told me of had spilled their crews into the streets. There were numerous foreign seaman with faces tanned to the hue and texture of old oak from wind and weather. Different languages echoed in the air and I couldn’t identify them all. Now I caught a Scandinavian lilt, now something I thought was Russian. Then a few words I recognised as German. No doubt that evening the new arrivals would fill the drinking dens and brothels; and the usual rowdy scenes would break out, keeping Phipps and his men busy. We passed a busy warehouse taking delivery of a load of timber. The air was thick with the not unpleasant resinous smell; and for a moment we might have been standing in some thick forest in the far north, with snowflakes drifting down through the boughs above, and perhaps, in the distance, the howl of a wolf. The warehousemen manhandled the heavy planks, muscles straining and sweat running from them. The air, in addition to a chilly November dampness, had a curious aroma to it. In patches it was misty. I suspected the fog was forming and by tonight we might be in for a real ‘pea-souper’. But for now these brawny fellows had stripped to their tattered shirts. At the end of the day they, too, would make for the nearest alehouse.

  Aloud to Morris, I mused: ‘With all this activity, who is to notice any detail in the crowd, however odd? What if one of these men, tired and thirsty, were to pass a woman, staggering and apparently drunk, being guided along by a man – or even two men? He would think nothing of it, and very likely not even take any heed of it. As for the foreign crewmen, it would be of no interest to them. They would be seeking drink and available girls.’

  ‘There’s enough of them hereabouts,’ said Morris, indicating a pair of young prostitutes already out and scouting for business.

  They were dressed in cheap finery and their youthful faces were already hardened, their eyes both watchful and predatory. I wondered how old they were. Fourteen, fifteen? There were houses of refuge run by charities that took in such girls. They tried to help them, offering them a basic education, trying to curb their wild ways, and training them in domestic work, or a trade such as seamstress. They provided them with medical care and advice and tried to give them a better future. But very often the girls did not stay long in these houses. They did not like the strict rules, or they behaved so badly, fighting among themselves and subjecting the staff to abuse couched in the foulest of language, that they were ejected. Sometimes, too, the pimps came and took them away. These two girls had already spotted us and correctly identified us. They slipped away into the crowd.

  I remembered Daisy Smith, whom I’d encountered on Waterloo Bridge one foggy night, and who had told me of the ‘River Wraith’, who preyed on the street women. I wondered where red-haired Daisy was now, if she was even still alive.

  We arrived at the police station to find the reception area unexpectedly busy, not with raucous clientele, but with uniforms. Inspector Phipps had emerged from his den, and stood before the desk with Constables Evans and Barrett. A stout, red-faced custody sergeant stood behind the barrier, propped on one elbow, and listening with interest. A middle-aged navvy, clearly the worse for drink even at this early hour, had been brought in. Presumably the custody sergeant should be booking him. But the lively discussion had interrupted normal procedures. The sergeant watched the show. The drunk, temporarily forgotten and content to be
left in peace, had fallen asleep on a chair in a corner.

  As I appeared with Morris, heads turned towards us. There was a moment’s startled silence and then Phipps stepped forward.

  ‘Good heavens, Inspector Ross! Are you a mind-reader? I was about to send a constable to fetch you.’

  ‘What has happened?’ I asked with sinking heart.

  ‘We had a report from Wapping of a body taken from the river this morning. It was later delivered to the mortuary there for the reception of such corpses. A lighterman saw it bobbing about, apparently, and hooked it aboard. He was fully laden, so did not want to turn back or put ashore. He stowed the body among his cargo, and carried it with him to his destination. He only called in to deliver it to the mortuary on his return journey. Apparently, he did not mind having the corpse aboard, as he knew who the dead man was.’ Phipps grimaced.

  ‘He identified the drowned man?’ Morris asked with a frown. This was very unusual. Bodies floated down the Thames frequently, but could seldom be identified so quickly.

  ‘So he claimed.’ Beneath his ginger moustache, Phipps twisted his lips into a rueful grimace. ‘And it is bad news for us. The lighterman declared the body to be that of Harry Parker, whom we know from present on-going investigations into the death of the woman Clifford. Because, according to information given by the finder, Parker had been a Deptford resident, the mortuary superintendent sent word to us that they held his body, and asking what we wanted to do about it.’ Phipps gave a grim smile. ‘I’ll send someone to the address Parker gave us before he left here, but it’s a lodging house and they won’t know anything about his family, or whom to inform.’

  There was a silence. My heart sank. Whatever it was Parker had seen on the night of the murder, or knew, it was lost to us for ever.

  The silence was broken by the sleeping drunk, who fell off his chair with a resounding crash and lay on the floor face up. His eyes opened and he gave us all a bleary stare. ‘God bless your honours!’ he greeted us in a soft Irish brogue. Then he went back to sleep again. The custody sergeant came from behind his desk and, with the help of Constable Evans, manhandled the fellow to his feet and dragged him off to a cell.