by Granger, Ann
‘Parker told me he had a brother in the Limehouse area,’ I said. ‘That, according to him, is where he went when he disappeared temporarily from here. He may have been speaking the truth.’
Phipps brightened. ‘Then it’s not up to us to find his next of kin. Let Limehouse do it.’
‘The body is still at Wapping mortuary?’ I asked, reflecting that Inspector Phipps seemed always ready to pass his problems to another division.
‘As far as I am aware,’ said Phipps in an off-hand way. He no longer cared.
‘Then we’ll go there and try and find this lighterman.’
These were not the circumstances in which I’d wanted to meet up with Harry Parker again. I gazed down at his lifeless corpse. He looked as rat-like in death as he had done in life, and even smaller.
‘You have a name for the lighterman who brought in the body?’ I asked the officer in charge of the mortuary. ‘His address?’
‘We do, sir. He is name is Frederick Midge. But he’ll be back at work on the river and you will very likely not find him again until this evening.’
‘Are there any marks of violence on the body?’
The man consulted his paperwork again. ‘None recorded, sir. Most likely, he fell in when drunk.’ He leaned forward and pointed. ‘There is a mark here, on the shoulder. The skin is not broken: it is more in the nature of a graze. It was probably caused postmortem by collision with debris in the river – or by contact with the lighter when the body was dragged aboard.’
‘If anyone comes to claim him, let us know at the Yard,’ I requested. ‘There is some reason to believe he has a brother living in the Limehouse area.’
‘They’ll have to claim him quick,’ said the officer. ‘We can’t keep him here for long. You can see for yourself we don’t have the space. We’ll post information of his death in local news sheets. If no one comes forward to claim him, either he’ll be given a pauper’s funeral by the parish, as soon as the coroner has declared his findings, or the body will go to a medical school for dissection. The coroner will rule “accidental death”, you may believe me.’
‘We’ll go to the address given for the lighterman this evening,’ I said to Morris as we left. ‘If he’s not there, we’ll leave a request that he report to the Yard.’
‘If we find him, he’ll have nothing to tell us,’ said Morris lugubriously.
‘Probably not, though it might be interesting to discover how Midge knew Parker. The Thames boatmen and lightermen are professionals and a tight-knit community. How would one of them know of Parker, a casual labourer in the docks?’
I could only put the wretched Parker out of my mind for the time being until we had a chance to speak to the lighterman.
In the meantime I discovered, when we returned to the Yard, that another visitor awaited me.
‘A gentleman to see you, Mr Ross,’ said Biddle in impressed tones.
‘Mr Pickford again?’
‘No, sir, not the pop-eyed— not Mr Pickford. A very fashionable gent, sir.’
I could easily guess who that would turn out to be. I had been bracing myself for when Mr Francis Carterton, MP, came to call. And here he was.
He rose to his feet to greet me, a dapper, almost dandyish, figure, in a well-tailored blue frock coat and lavender-grey trousers. He held a silk top hat and a silver-headed cane in his hand.
‘I hope this is not an inconvenient time to call on you, Ben?’ he asked cheerfully.
Try as I might, I cannot help being irritated by Frank Carterton. It isn’t just because I know he chased after Lizzie before she married me. Or because I know Lizzie harbours a chaste affection for him. Or because, through Carterton’s engagement to Patience Wellings, Lizzie has become involved in the Deptford murder investigation. Or, again, because Frank persuaded Lizzie to go with him to see his Aunt Parry and talk her round with regard to the Wellings family’s troubles. Or that Lizzie, as a result of Edgar Wellings’s stupidity, has become a sort of confidante of Miss Patience’s; and now feels a responsibility to look after that young woman. So, you see, I have quite a list of grievances.
Chiefly, above all of these things, Carterton has the knack of annoying me, at any time. Now, for example, he had hailed me familiarly as ‘Ben’ at my place of work. I don’t mind him calling me ‘Ben’ on the few social occasions when we meet. (Though he usually calls me ‘Ross’ even then.) But his visit here today was in relation to a police investigation that I was heading: business, in other words. This was Scotland Yard and not a rich woman’s drawing room.
And if he thought by buttering me up I would tell him something I would otherwise not normally divulge, he was wrong.
‘I hope you have not been waiting long, Mr Carterton,’ I said formally, shaking the hand he proffered. (Expensive grey suede gloves! But, socially correct as always, he had pulled off the glove on his right hand before he had extended it to me.)
He did not trouble to hide a grin. ‘I should have called you “Inspector Ross”, eh? Well, well, I suppose I should. My sincere apologies, my dear fellow.’
Only Frank Carterton could apologise so gracefully and manage to make things worse. Now I knew I must have sounded pompous.
‘Come into my office,’ I growled at him. ‘We can talk privately.’
I showed him into the large broom cupboard designated as my office and invited him to take a seat. If I hadn’t made the offer, he’d have sat down anyway. He looked around him as he did so, noting every detail of the cramped workaday surroundings. Well, this is not the House of Commons, Mr Carterton!
‘You’ll know what I’ve called about,’ said Carterton. He folded the suede gloves and put them carefully into his upturned hat.
‘I have been expecting you,’ I returned brusquely. He made me feel the Derbyshire pit boy I’d once been. What of it? There is no shame in honest labour. Though I had not hewn the coal. I’d been a child, a ‘trapper’, sitting for hours in the dark depths of the mine to open and close the doors that controlled the flow of air. Lizzie’s father had rescued me from that and paid for my schooling.
Carterton was studying me with a casual elegance. I had the horrid suspicion he knew exactly what was going through my mind. Irritating fellow though he was, he was no fool. I might even, were it not for his connection with Lizzie, have liked him. Well, tolerated him, anyway.
‘You have come about Edgar Wellings,’ I said.
‘Yes. You have already received a visit from my fiancée’s Uncle Pickford, I understand?’ Carterton suddenly grinned. ‘Amazing old fellow, isn’t he?’
I struggled with the memory of Pickford and then had to return the grin. ‘What is often called “a character”, I believe,’ I said. ‘But I dare say a shrewd man of business.’
‘My word, yes!’ agreed Carterton. ‘And worth a pretty penny.’
I sensed him grow serious. ‘What do you intend to do with young Edgar?’ he asked.
‘I have no plans at the moment for Edgar Wellings. He has been told to stay in London, and be available for interview if needed.’
‘Oh, he’ll stay in London, all right,’ said Carterton. ‘He’s terrified of going home. Although home is shortly to come to him. The whole family is about to descend on Goodge Place. That will include his parents, of course, but also a pair of maiden aunts, his mother’s sisters. So Edgar won’t be able to avoid facing them.’ Carterton leaned forward. ‘See here, Inspector Ross, Edgar is often heedless, sometimes foolish. But I can’t see him turning to violence. Do you suspect him of this foul murder?’
‘I cannot rule him out as a suspect,’ I told him. ‘Though I have no reason to arrest and charge him at the moment. Our investigations are ongoing. He was there, at the house of the victim, that evening. There was a witness who heard a quarrel. Wellings himself does not deny it. He had borrowed money from the woman and couldn’t repay. He was a desperate man. She was, by all accounts, an unpleasant person to deal with. So, you see, I cannot say it’s impossible to believe that Welling
s lost control.’
‘But the body was not found at the house, I understand?’ Carterton’s tone was challenging. ‘She left the house, possibly injured, but by her own efforts.’
‘We cannot know that. She left, I agree, but aided by someone else at least. Even if still alive, she had to be very fatally injured and dying. I know Edgar can give examples of seriously injured persons arriving at hospital all alone, but I don’t think so in this case.’ In a deliberately casual tone, I added, ‘Someone might have sought to take her to a place where she could get medical care, but abandoned her when she collapsed and died.’
Carterton paled. ‘You do not think Edgar did that, surely?’
‘How do I know?’ I countered.
He sat back and sighed. ‘I do not want to sound selfish, but you will appreciate how embarrassing all of this is for me personally.’
I nodded. ‘You want to avoid a scandal. It would do your career no good.’
‘No, it wouldn’t. As it is, my marriage to Miss Wellings is delayed until matters are sorted out, one way or another. My aunt, Mrs Parry, insists.’ He looked up and met my eye. ‘But do not mistake me, Ross. I shall stand by Patience. We shall be married, whatever happens.’
‘And your career as a politician?’ I asked.
He gave a wry smile. ‘If Edgar goes to the gallows, then that will be the end of me as a Member of Parliament. The shadow of scandal, you see . . . A wife with a murderer for a brother! But, so be it. If I have to find another career, I shall do so. I have done it before.’
I had an urge to ask him why he had abandoned the diplomatic career he had followed before giving it up to stand for Parliament. But I did not really want to know; I had enough complications to deal with.
‘Carterton!’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t like my wife being involved in this. That is not only for personal reasons. It threatens to compromise my position as investigating officer. If you take her with you again to Dorset Square, I shall have to report this to my superior; and no doubt he will take me off the case. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly,’ he replied. ‘And I apologise for taking Lizzie along with us to see my aunt. It was unwise. It was just that Lizzie is good with Aunt Julia – and Patience is so grateful for her support. As am I,’ he finished.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘This is difficult for Patience,’ Carterton went on and then paused again. ‘I do not want you off this case, Ben. I trust you. You will be thorough. You will get to the truth of it. You will not give favours and I won’t ask any. I will not ask Lizzie to come with me again to see Aunt Julia. You have my word.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He met my eye. ‘I cannot prevent Lizzie going to Dorset Square of her own volition. That’s up to you.’
‘Yes,’ I said awkwardly.
He knew, as well as I did, that trying to persuade my wife not to do something she was decided on was well-nigh impossible.
Around five that afternoon, the fog began to gather. We had been free of it for more than a week and it was only to be expected. The mist started forming mid-afternoon and thereafter thickened quickly. The temperature had dropped. Condensation formed on the windows and trickled down so that trying to look through the panes was like staring into some heavily patterned lace curtain. It was already dark and the gas lamps were lit.
Morris and I set out for the home of the lighterman, Midge, by cab. But when conditions worsened, the cab rocked to a halt. The cabbie appeared at the door to advise us that he did not want to drive on for danger of collision.
‘Not so much with other road traffic, sirs, but for fear of running down a pedestrian. People must try and get across the street as best they can. They can hear us, it’s true, but not see us until we are upon them. It is difficult for them to judge how far away we are. We can neither hear nor see ’em. I can drive you on if you wish, but it will be at a walking pace; and, to be honest with you, gentlemen, you’d make better progress on foot.’
So we descended, wrapped our mufflers well round our faces and began to make our cautious way forward. Other walkers were stumbling along as blindly as we were. We bumped into one another, grunted our apologies and carried on as best we could. The shops were lit, but the light only made a paler patch in the fog before their premises and did little to show up the detail. At one point Morris gave a yelp and swore hoarsely.
‘What is it?’ I called.
‘I walked into something, sir, something horrid! Oh, my lawd, it’s a dead body a-swinging . . .’
I made my way to him and reached out. My fingers touched a solid form that swayed beneath my touch. Above the sulphurous, bad-egg smell of the fog I caught a whiff of dead flesh. I pulled off my glove and ran my hand down it. It was cold to the touch, smooth and bare. Then it came to an abrupt end with a small, protruding funnel-like shape. I felt bone and gristle and withdrew my hand with a gasp.
At the same moment a shout reached us from beyond, inside the building.
‘Oy!’ It was a man’s voice. ‘Who’s there? You keep your thieving fingers off my meat!’
‘It is a side of beef or pork, Morris!’ I exclaimed in relief. ‘We must be passing by a butcher’s shop. There are others. They are hanging up in a row.’
A dark outline loomed up. ‘Clear off!’ it shouted at us.
‘Police!’ I called back. ‘Are you the butcher?’
‘I am. Joseph Perkins, purveyor of quality meats and game,’ was the suspicious reply.
I suggest you take these sides of meat indoors, Mr Perkins. We have just walked into them.’
‘Just about to do it!’ retorted the shape of Mr Perkins. ‘I’ll get the boy.’
We carried on. More ghostly forms passed by us, coughing and wheezing like a ward full of consumptives. Eventually, after what seemed an age, we found ourselves in Wapping’s narrow streets and alleys.
There, after several false turns and much inquiry, we found ourselves before a small house and rapped at the door.
A voice within shouted through it to ask who we were. When we identified ourselves, the door was pulled open and a gust of warm air and bright light engulfed us. A stocky figure stood there, peering at us.
‘You come about that body?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘You don’t look like ordinary peelers.’
‘We are from Scotland Yard,’ I told him.
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘We’re going up in the world! Best come in. The fog’s getting into the house.’
We stepped gratefully into the warmth and soon found ourselves in a neat, if tiny, parlour. There we were seated like guests of honour on the two best chairs, while Mrs Midge and her eldest daughter bustled about in the kitchen behind us; and a gaggle of small children crowded in the doorway to stare and giggle at the visitors.
‘You don’t want to take no notice of them,’ said their father, waving a hand at his brood. ‘Selina! Come and take these kids away!’
A female form appeared and swept the infants off. The door shut.
‘Mug of ale?’ inquired Mr Midge hospitably. ‘I’ll send one of ’em down to the pub with a jug. It’s just at the corner.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ I told him. ‘I wouldn’t wish to send one of your children outside on such a foul night. We cannot stay long and must make our way back again in this fog. I understand you retrieved a body from the river this morning, Mr Midge.’
‘Yus,’ he said, nodding. ‘And if the fog had been like it is this evening, we’d never have seen it. But it was as clear as crystal early this morning when I set off downriver.’ He eyed us. ‘Never knew Scotland Yard take an interest in a drowned docker before.’
‘We understand,’ I said, ignoring the clear invitation to take him into our confidence, ‘that you recognised the drowned man.’
‘That’s it. It give me a nasty shock. There I was, going about my business, when the boy yells out that there’s a drownded body in the water. Well, to tell you the truth, I thought it would only be some jetsam. The foreign ships
coming upriver, they sometimes chuck their rubbish overboard and leave it to float ashore, or out to sea when the tide turns. I’ve seen all sorts of things bobbing alongside of me as I’ve been going downriver. Empty crates, bottles wiv foreign labels . . . every bit of rubbish pumped outa the bilges. It’s not always rubbish, mind! I saw a top hat once. It was good silk one like a gentleman might wear. It was bobbing along all on its own, and didn’t look as though it’d been in the water for long. So I fished that out. My wife cleaned it up a bit and I kept it for funerals.’ Mr Midge added reminiscently, ‘I’ve been to more funerals wearing that hat than I can recall. It makes a great impression, does a silk topper.’
‘So you went to see what had attracted the boy . . .’ prompted Morris restlessly.
‘I did, but young Sammy had already thrown out a grappling iron and hooked it. It was a body, right enough. So we pulled it close in and hauled it aboard. We turned him over and bless me, I recognised the feller!’ Mr Midge slapped his knees and looked pleased at this turn of events. “That’s Harry Parker!” I shouted out. The boy said, “Go on, it’s never!” I told him, yes, it was. I’d bet my granddad’s gold watch on it.’
‘How do you know Parker?’ I asked.
‘He’d done a bit of work, casual labour, loading cargo, for me. Done it a couple of times. He was a funny little fellow, Harry. He’d pop up all along the river, looking for a day’s work. Everyone knew him. Well, what to do next, eh? I had a full load and only so much time before the tide turned. I had to go on, couldn’t heave to anywhere. So I laid him out decent and put a tarpaulin over him to keep the gulls from pecking at him, and took him along with us. It seemed the civil thing to do, seeing as I knew him.’
‘If you hadn’t recognised him, would you have thrown him back in the river for someone else to find?’ asked Morris dourly.