The Dead Woman of Deptford: Inspector Ben Ross mystery 6

by Granger, Ann

  ‘Or,’ I continued, ‘the householder might think you and I are a brace of thieves, wheedling our way indoors.’

  ‘We don’t look like thieves,’ protested Patience.

  ‘Confidence tricksters don’t look like criminals,’ I retorted, ‘or they would find no gullible marks.’

  Patience was so impressed by my knowledge of criminal slang that she fell silent until we had almost reached the street. Then I saw something that made me stop and grasp her arm.

  ‘See there!’ I gasped.

  On the other side of the street, someone else had been tempted out by the unexpected sunshine. A wheeled invalid chair was being propelled along the pavement by a young maidservant. The occupant of the chair was very elderly and well swathed in rugs. But both of us recognised him.

  ‘That old gentleman,’ whispered Patience, ‘was in the crowd before the door of Mrs Clifford’s house when we were there, with Edgar, asking to be allowed in.’

  ‘It is Mrs Belling’s friend, Mr Morton, it must be,’ I told her. ‘You remember. It was from him that Mrs Belling learned about Edgar leaving the scene of the attack, with Ben.’

  ‘Yes, he wanted to hang poor Edgar!’ said Patience indignantly.

  I put my hand on her arm because I thought she might march across the road and harangue the old gentleman. ‘Let me speak, say nothing!’ I warned her. ‘We might just learn something.’

  I approached the old gentleman with some trepidation, conscious of Patience following close behind me. The maid, no doubt glad of a moment’s rest, stopped propelling the chair immediately she saw my interest. The occupant looked up in surprise.

  I saw that he was indeed a very sharp-looking old fellow. He must once have been very handsome, a Regency buck. His hair, though silver, was still thick, and his features lean, with a hawk nose. It put me in mind of pictures I had seen of the Duke of Wellington.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I began. ‘But I believe you are Mr Morton? Mrs Belling, whom I believe you know, mentioned you to us when we were visiting Mrs Parry in Dorset Square. I am Mrs Ross. Before my marriage I lived briefly with Mrs Parry and know Mrs Belling from that time.’ I hoped I hadn’t made an over-complicated explanation.

  ‘Indeed, ma’am?’ he returned. He did not sound discouraging exactly, but his gaze sharpened even more.

  ‘Sir,’ I pressed on, hoping I did not sound too desperate, ‘I understand – from Mrs Belling – that you have a nephew who is in the medical profession. This lady . . .’ I extended my hand to bring Patience to the fore. ‘This lady is Miss Wellings and she has a brother who studied medicine, I believe, with your nephew.’

  The old fellow continued to survey me with his unsettling gaze as I set out my case. An awkward silence fell.

  ‘Ross?’ said the Mr Morton thoughtfully. ‘That rings a bell.’

  I realised that Mrs Belling, during the conversation she had had with Mr Morton about the murder, must have told him she had met a Scotland Yard detective by the name of Ross. It was quite likely that Mr Morton, for all his apparent isolation in Deptford, knew a great deal about me.

  ‘There was a murder committed recently nearby here,’ I continued. But that was as far as I got.

  ‘Indeed there was, ma’am,’ snapped Mr Morton, suddenly energetic. ‘A dreadful business and shocking that it should happen here! I remember when Deptford was a very different place to what you see now. And,’ his voice rose triumphantly, ‘and I remember you, Mrs Ross! You called at the house, the scene of the crime, while the police were there. I was before the house and saw you there myself!’ He shook his forefinger at me triumphantly.

  ‘I was there, too, sir,’ burst out Patience, unable to keep silent any longer.

  Mr Morton turned his eagle eye on Patience and his manner softened. ‘Bless me,’ he said, ‘so you were, my dear.’ Then he grew stern again. ‘It was no place for a young girl! And the murderer was with you, upon my soul, yes, he was. A young fellow! I knew him, too. My nephew had pointed him out to me on an earlier occasion.’

  ‘But my brother is not a murderer!’ she protested. ‘Oh, sir, my brother has been wrongfully accused. He didn’t do that dreadful thing!’

  ‘Is he in Newgate?’ demanded Mr Morton with interest.

  ‘No, sir, he has not been arrested.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ cried Mr Morton, growing agitated again. ‘Bless my soul! Does the police force of our capital not protect honest citizens? I thought that was Peel’s idea in setting up the whole system? I had my doubts at the time, I remember. We managed very well before without them. The Bow Street Runners were very good fellows. There was proper punishment for criminals, too. More often than not they went to the gallows. I remember being taken, as a boy, to see a highwayman hang. That is the way to get it into a young lad’s head that he must not commit crimes. Take him to watch a rogue kick at the end of a rope. Then he learns the lesson!’

  Mr Morton had grown so overwrought I wondered if he would suffer some kind of apoplectic fit. Fortunately he now became more subdued, though he still clung to his argument, adding regretfully: ‘They hang no one now except for murder, unless he is a proven traitor. And does the public feel any safer for it? No, ma’am, it does not!’

  The system of law enforcement in his youth, described with such approval by the old gentleman, was indeed the very imperfect one that had led Sir Robert Peel to found our police force. But not everyone can be brought to accept modernisation.

  His tirade had proved all too much for Patience, who now manoeuvred me aside and tackled the quarry directly. ‘But what do you do when it is all a dreadful misunderstanding, as with my brother?’ she demanded.

  ‘That, my dear child, is why we have courts of law and judges. They decide on the matter.’

  ‘But you would put an innocent man in the dock and let his reputation be utterly ruined?’ Patience was clinging to her argument as fiercely as Mr Morton clung to his.

  Short of seizing her arm and physically pulling her back, I was helpless to stop her now. The pair of us wrestling in the street in an unladylike manner would not impress Mr Morton. There was nothing I could do but let Patience have her head. We were by now beginning to attract attention. People slowed their footsteps as they reached us. A few had gathered some yards away, an urchin among them who was taking a particular interest. As Ben had often said to me in exasperation, Londoners love a free entertainment. If we stayed here much longer, we’d have a crowd.

  ‘And now my poor persecuted brother is missing!’ wailed Patience. ‘We need to find him most urgently, sir. We would like to ask your nephew if he might have some idea where to look for him. My father and uncle have looked in all the obvious places and are asking all his friends and acquaintances. I cannot remain idle!’

  ‘The obvious place to find him,’ said Mr Morton unkindly, ‘should be in a gaol. That, Miss Wellings, is where your brother should be.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir!’ Then, to my astonishment, Patience sank gracefully in a cloud of billowing skirts to kneel at his side, and reached out her hands in a manner that was pure theatre but immensely impressive. The onlookers murmured their appreciation. The maid in charge of the invalid chair was entranced.

  ‘Mr Morton, sir!’ begged Patience. ‘You will not refuse to help me? You surely wish to prevent a monstrous miscarriage of justice. Please, sir, I must find my brother and establish his innocence!’ Tears started from her eyes and rolled down her flushed cheeks.

  I did not know then, and don’t know until this day, whether the tears fell unprompted, or whether Patience had, as the saying goes, ‘turned on the waterworks’. But the effect of the sight on Mr Morton couldn’t be ignored. There was this elderly man – no doubt a bit of rake in his young day – unexpectedly faced with a very pretty girl, with curls in charming disarray framing tear-stained cheeks. Holding out her hands to him in supplication, she was begging him to be her knight errant. He, who had started out today on his usual constitutional, round the familiar streets
, expecting nothing more than the occasional salutation of a passing acquaintance.

  ‘Good heavens, my dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now, now, this will never do. Dry your tears. Anything I can do, although I fear there is little . . .’ He then caught sight of the growing crowd. ‘We cannot discuss the matter here. Watkins!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ replied the maid in charge of the bath chair.

  ‘Take us home! Come along, my dear ladies. We shall discuss this in more suitable surroundings.’

  So we set off in procession, much to the crowd’s disappointment. The urchin tagged along with us until Watkins became aware of him, and told him sharply to ‘Clear off!’

  ‘Patience,’ I whispered. ‘Whatever you do, don’t mention Frank.’

  Mrs Belling had spoken of Mr Morton’s house being one of the better residences in Deptford. It stood in a quiet side street, a fine, double-fronted, early Georgian building with a pillared portico. I saw a movement at a downstairs window as we arrived. Someone had been looking out for the master’s return. Sure enough, the front door was opened to reveal a plump housekeeper in a frilled mobcap. She bustled forward to help her employer out of the chair and indoors. A sturdy footman arrived to manhandle the chair. Watkins, the maid, begged us to come in.

  ‘The ladies will stay to lunch, Hammond,’ Mr Morton informed the housekeeper.

  I thought this must cause alarm in the kitchen where a meal for just one elderly invalid had been prepared. But the housekeeper merely said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Would you care to come with me, ladies?’ asked Watkins.

  She led us upstairs to a small bedroom, obviously not in use but equipped with a dressing stand and a mirror. Watkins relieved us of our outdoor things and spread them carefully on the bed. Then she waited while we peered into the mirror and straightened our hair, collars and cuffs. Finally, we were led away downstairs to a dining room.

  It was at the back of the house and overlooked a long narrow garden where a statuette of Diana the Huntress presided over a winter scene of bare twigs and a carpet of wet leaves. Indoors, there had been some fast work on the part of the staff, and the table was already set for three.

  ‘My doctor,’ said Mr Morton sadly, ‘does not permit me wine. But I can offer you both a glass of sherry.’

  We assured him we would be more than happy with water. The luncheon menu was as might be expected in an invalid’s household. There was a clear chicken broth, followed by poached fish with plain, boiled potatoes, and finishing with a baked rice pudding.

  During lunch, Patience told her story in greater detail. She explained how her brother had been an excellent student, praised by all, and had passed his medical examinations with flying colours. Sadly, he had been led astray by some companions, something he now bitterly regretted. So came the gambling, the loss of money, the disastrous attempt to remedy matters by going to a moneylender.

  Mr Morton listened attentively, only remarking that he’d seen many a family fortune lost at the gaming tables.

  Edgar had not lost the family fortune, Patience assured him, only run up large debts. He had been unwilling to admit this to his father, and so had tried to make things right himself. She did not mention Frank Carterton at all, as I had warned her not to do. It was certain that the next time Mrs Belling visited her old friend Mr Morton she would hear an account of today’s adventure. In turn, she would go straight back to Dorset Square and Mrs Parry to pass it all on. Aunt Parry’s chief concern was that Frank should be kept out of any scandal. That was the important thing, as far as she was concerned; and the reason I had warned Patience not to mention his name.

  It was bad enough that Aunt Parry would be displeased with me for taking Patience to Deptford to make inquiries. Aunt Parry disapproves of my detecting activities as much as Superintendent Dunn.

  Luncheon was over and we retired to a small parlour to take tea. Mr Morton had now made his decision.

  ‘Well, my dear ladies, I can give you the name and address of my nephew. He is Dr Henry Morton, the son of my late brother. He is in practice, as junior to an established colleague, in Egham.’

  ‘Egham?’ asked Patience. She turned to me. ‘Where is it? Is it far away from London?’

  ‘It is in Surrey and not so very far,’ I told her. ‘And we can take the train there from Waterloo.’

  ‘I will give you a letter to take with you,’ said Mr Morton. ‘I will tell him I have spoken at length with you both about the matter and your inquiries have my approval.’

  ‘Dear sir,’ said Patience, grasping his hand. ‘You have been so very kind and I am – my entire family – will be so grateful.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mr Morton who, by now, was looking pink-cheeked and cheerful. ‘Anything to oblige! But I do not know if you will learn anything from Henry.’

  Neither did I. I thought the whole expedition to Egham would prove a wild goose chase. But it helped Patience to think she was doing something in Edgar’s cause.

  When we were ready to leave, we came to say a final farewell to our kind host, and thank him. He, in turn, handed me the letter of introduction he had addressed to his nephew.

  Mr Morton then cleared his throat and addressed me somewhat diffidently. ‘Ah, Mrs Ross, the train journey to Egham will involve some pecuniary outlay . . .’

  ‘Oh, I have plenty of money with me!’ said Patience, overhearing. ‘Please don’t worry about that, sir. I made sure to bring enough because I did not know what might be involved in our search today.’

  She held up her arm. From her wrist dangled a satin reticule, with bead embroidery, attached to her by a silk cord. I had noticed it earlier but assumed it held only a handkerchief and a phial of smelling salts, and perhaps some small coins. I assumed that anything more valuable would be safely stowed somewhere about her person.

  Mr Morton and I gazed at her, equally appalled. ‘Dear child!’ cried Mr Morton. ‘Have you been walking around London streets with large sums of money in that – that flimsy object?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Patience told him. ‘To have it if needed, you know. I wanted to be sure.’

  ‘Sure . . .’ Mr Morton gasped. ‘Sure to lose the lot to some cutpurse! Oh, dear, oh, dear. Well, no question about it, I shall send my footman, Bunce, to Egham with you for protection.’

  We began to protest, but he was adamant. ‘If I were a younger man, and fitter, I would escort you both myself. Alas, my health and years do not permit it. But Bunce will go with you, I insist.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  OUR EXPEDITION into Surrey began with Bunce, the footman, being sent out with orders to return with a clean four-wheeler cab.

  ‘Examine the interior carefully, Bunce!’ ordered Mr Morton. ‘We cannot have ladies ruining their clothes on dusty seats.’

  Bunce and a cab duly returned. Having been assured by the footman that he had examined the interior of the ‘growler’ with care and it was clean, Patience and I were permitted to take our leave of our host.

  The first stage of our journey was by the cab back across the river to Waterloo Station. Bunce was a dark-haired fellow of about thirty with a cast in one eye. He said nothing on the journey; but one eye or the other seemed always to be on us. Under this double scrutiny Patience and I could not converse freely, so the whole trip passed in silence.

  On the concourse, Bunce asked us to wait and disappeared.

  Patience was nervous, fidgeting with the silken cord attaching the reticule to her wrist. Bunce was soon back, with return tickets for us all. Mr Morton, it transpired, had provided the money for these, despite – or perhaps because of – Patience’s assurance that her reticule was full of cash. He had probably not wanted her to open it in a public place.

  There were plenty of trains to take us. Patience cheered up a little and became more relaxed, despite her worries about her brother. I understood that she felt we were doing something, even if we failed to learn anything in Egham. It relieved her frustration at her own helplessness. She gazed from t
he window at the passing houses and countryside, chattering animatedly. I spent it mentally composing a speech to make to Dr Henry Morton, explaining why we felt we could involve him in Edgar’s troubles. On our arrival, Bunce again instructed us to wait while he went to find a cab.

  ‘Do you know where Dr Morton lives?’ I asked him, as he was about to go on his errand.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But you will not be able to walk there. A lot of it is uphill.’

  So away marched Bunce and in due course was back with a request we follow him to the cab.

  ‘You know, Lizzie,’ whispered Patience. ‘It is so much easier with Bunce here to run these errands and look after us both. I feel we are being quite spoilt!’

  ‘He is being very helpful,’ I replied with less enthusiasm. My own feeling was not that we were being spoilt, but that we were being very efficiently monitored. Bunce would report back to his employer with details of every move we made.

  ‘It’s such a pity, Lizzie,’ said Patience next, ‘that I do find it so difficult to look him in the face.’

  ‘Bunce?’ I asked curiously. ‘Because we are seeking your brother?’

  ‘No, because I am not sure which eye to look at.’

  The cab took us to a large pleasant house set back a little from the road. Bunce told the man to wait for us. When I protested, Bunce politely, but firmly, pointed out that we should not easily find another cab to take us back to Egham station. By now I was feeling more than a little annoyed with Bunce. It was not his fault. He had his instructions from old Mr Morton. But I am accustomed to make up my own mind when making inquiries, as I like to call my investigations. Nor do I like being watched.

  A plaque on the front of the house by the entrance door announced the names of two medical men: Dr Ernest Appleforth and Dr Henry Morton. I asked the middle-aged woman who opened the door to us if Dr Morton were available; and if it would be possible to speak to him.

  ‘It is not a medical consultation,’ I hastened to explain. ‘It is a private matter. I have a letter of introduction for him. If he is here, would you give it to him, please? We have come from London, so I do hope we can see him.’