The Dead Woman of Deptford: Inspector Ben Ross mystery 6

by Granger, Ann

  ‘Then we can be sure Mrs Clifford liked that colour. So why with so much blue clothing would she wear red earrings? No, she would wear blue earrings.’

  Ben leaned back in his chair and thought for a few minutes. Then he said, ‘Are you saying I should have been suspicious from the first? Britannia was angry with me when I told her we had found the earrings, but they weren’t rubies. She accused me of calling her an idiot, who did not know the difference.’

  ‘She was embarrassed, Ben, and she was panicking. When you told her the earrings had been handed to a pawnbroker; and the stones were not the ones she had told you about, she was very frightened, I am sure. She realised she had made a stupid mistake in drawing the earrings so accurately but falsely claiming them to be set with rubies. She had probably been comforting herself with the thought that, if you found the items and the stones were different, you would not think they were Mrs Clifford’s earrings.

  ‘I am sure Britannia is as artful as you describe. But it is artfulness developed because she has no other weapon to outwit the police. When that artfulness conflicted with her vanity – her drawing skill – her vanity won. She is not particularly intelligent, you see, but she is quick-witted. She thinks on the spur of the moment, as needed. She does not think ahead. There is a difference, you will agree. She also underestimates the intelligence of others. In this case, of the police.’

  Ben sprang up from his chair and began to pace up and down our small parlour with such energy I thought he must start to wear a track in our carpet.

  He said, with a brief grin at me, ‘Britannia was good at drawing donkeys. Her uncle was a costermonger and kept such an animal. She told me that, too.’

  ‘Exactly. She could draw outlines and tiny detail with great accuracy. But when it came to colouring in the donkey, I wonder what colour she gave the poor beast? Perhaps she let her fancy roam and made it pink!’

  Ben laughed and came back to his chair by the fire. ‘I have to find Billy Scroggs,’ he said. ‘But my fear is he has already fled the country aboard some ship bound for halfway across the world. Britannia and her mother, of course, are insisting that he is dead.’

  He frowned. ‘That first day when Phipps and I went to the house, Britannia told us that she was the only one of seven children left to care for their elderly mother. Billy, the eldest had gone to sea and they saw no more of him. The others died in one way or another. The father of the family had been killed in a dockyard accident and that is probably the truth. But Billy’s departure for a seafaring life was buried amongst all the other information about the family.’

  ‘She did not actually state, at that time, he was dead? I asked. ‘That it was a proven fact, I mean.’

  Ben hesitated. ‘She indicated she and her mother believed him dead. She claimed he’d gone to sea at age fifteen, and had never come back or written. Thus they supposed him drowned. But that snippet of information was mixed in with the undisputed and recorded deaths of her sister in childbed, of another brother falling under the wheels of a cart and of the little ones perishing from diphtheria. So, it was presented as an established fact, even though there was no way of checking it. She gave us to understand she was the only survivor of her mother’s brood of seven offspring; and we accepted it. Or,’ Ben added wryly, ‘I did!

  ‘Jethro Smith, the publican, who knew Billy as a boy, was a close friend, also became uneasy when I suggested the man had drowned. He would not confirm it, nor did he deny it. But he would know if Billy was alive or dead. He knew the whole family; and it was to Jethro that Britannia went when she needed work.

  ‘Phipps was right. He said Britannia told us a great deal but none of it was what we might want to know. I am guilty of allowing a small rivalry to exist between the good Inspector Phipps and myself. I should have paid more attention to his comments. He knew the people among whom he worked, after all. But he had called me in, across London, at great inconvenience to myself and to Morris; and I did not intend to have him seize back the reins of the investigation.’

  At this point, Bessie appeared in the doorway and asked, ‘Do you need me any more, missus?’

  ‘No, Bessie,’ I said. ‘You can go up to bed.’

  Bessie looked wistful. She would have loved to be a party to our discussion and contribute her pennyworth, as they say. But she bid us goodnight and we heard her climbing the stairs.

  ‘The Scroggs family have sought to buy time,’ Ben said when we were alone. ‘That’s the explanation of all the apparent contradictions in this case. They wanted time for Billy to get well away, to find a ship ready to sail but in need of crew.

  ‘With Clifford dead on the carpet, any sign of what has happened must be removed. The dead body must be moved elsewhere. The lock on the kitchen door is not broken. Britannia can give absence of suspicious evidence, and her employer’s obsession with privacy, as reasons for delay in going to the police. Billy gains a few precious hours.

  ‘I must find Raggy Jeb Fisher! I don’t know how Fisher was persuaded to help move the murdered woman, and risk his own neck, but I’d bet my last penny that is what he did.’

  A knock at the parlour door made us both jump. Ben went to pull it open and there stood Bessie, in nightgown and shawl, with a mobcap on her wiry frizz of hair, and holding a tray with cups of tea on it.

  ‘As you and the missus was talking late, Inspector, sir,’ she said, ‘and it being a cold night, I came down to brew up a cup of tea for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Bessie!’ I called to her. ‘But I hope you have not been listening?’

  ‘Of course not, missus,’ denied Bessie.

  I relented. ‘You may come in and sit down over there – but don’t interrupt!’

  ‘Yes, missus,’ said Bessie promptly and scuttled to a chair in the corner of the room, well pleased.

  ‘So,’ said Ben. ‘Let us say that Billy and the rag-picker set off with Clifford on the handcart, covered in old clothes. Where would they be going?’

  ‘To the river,’ suggested Bessie from her corner. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth guiltily. ‘Sorry!’ she added.

  I frowned at her. ‘I will send you back upstairs if you do it again,’ I warned.

  ‘She could be right,’ said Ben. ‘They set off for the river. Bodies are taken from the river regularly. With luck, the tide will take it some distance before it is found, as was the wretched Harry Parker’s. So, they set off for the river, with Clifford’s body on the handcart, but before they get there, they must change their plan. We don’t know why; but I suspect it is at this point that Parker comes into it somehow. Did he see them? Did he recognise them? If only the wretched little fellow had told me what he saw, he would be alive today.’

  The coals of the dying fire fell in upon one another with a rustle.

  ‘Well, there is no more to be done tonight,’ Ben said with a sigh.

  ‘Yes, Bessie,’ I told our maid. ‘Now you can go up to bed.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Inspector Ben Ross

  IT WAS Saturday, the twenty-eighth of November. As if to remind us that we would soon be nearing Christmas with all its festivities, a hand-propelled barrow passed us as we made our way out of New Cross railway station. We had chosen to come by train from Charing Cross. I was beginning to think that Superintendent Dunn would question any more requests for a refund of the expense of a cab. The barrow was laden with live turkeys, packed into bamboo cages. They must have been sent up from further down the line, destined, perhaps, for a poulterer’s shop. The wretched occupants stared at us with resentful misery in their red eyes, as if they knew the fate that awaited them. Somehow, they reminded me of Britannia. It did not make me feel any better.

  Morris and I stood in the pale winter sunshine and watched as the man in charge of the barrow wrested it on to the steep cobbled slope outside the station and began to trundle it away down the street. It was no easy matter for the load was heavy, the cobbles uncertain and slippery. Cattle had earlier been driven down t
he street towards the nearby slaughterers and market. They had left ample traces of their passage. The angle of descent was perilous. The man’s boots scraped on the surface, the barrow’s primitive braking system was frequently applied with varying success; and the turkeys gobbled and cackled louder than ever.

  ‘Mrs Morris and I,’ said my sergeant. ‘We always buy our turkey country-bred. We go down into Kent for it. Mrs Morris is of the opinion that a country-bred bird tastes better – and cooks better – than these town-bred ones. There’s no telling what these town birds have been fed on. Country birds are generally better reared.’

  This was a long speech for Morris. His forthcoming Christmas roast and plum pudding must mean a lot to him.

  ‘Those birds,’ I said, ‘will be kept somewhere alive for another three weeks. Even if they are country-reared, they will now be fed as town birds.’

  ‘That’s why you want to go out into the country and buy one off the farm,’ Morris informed me. ‘Not everything sold in the market around Christmas is what it claims to be.’

  ‘Morris,’ I said, ‘we are here to find Billy Scroggs, not our Christmas dinner. And here, if I’m not mistaken, comes Constable Barrett to help us.’

  I had sent a request earlier to Deptford for the services of Barrett. Finding Scroggs was unlikely to be easy. The more of us were covering the area, the better. A local man like Barrett should prove useful. Also, when we did find our quarry, he might prove very difficult to capture. We were dealing with a killer, a man with nothing to lose.

  ‘Good morning, sir!’ said Barrett brightly, coming up to us. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. A barrow has overturned just around the corner and the road is blocked.’

  ‘Did it have turkeys on it?’ asked Morris with interest.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it did,’ confirmed Barrett, surprise on his face. ‘Two of the crates broke open and the birds escaped. They went running off in all directions. A few people will have caught a free dinner.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t want us to lose our bird, Billy Scroggs!’ I hoped that the incident with the turkeys was not a portent. ‘We also need to find a collector of rags and old clothes named Jeb Fisher, popularly known as Raggy Jeb.’

  ‘The rag-picker?’ Barrett nodded. ‘I’ve seen him about the area. Not this morning, I’m afraid, but often enough. He’s quite well known, is Raggy Jeb.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘Sorry, sir, no idea. I could ask around the public houses.’

  I remembered Britannia washing the floor at the Clipper public house, and shook my head. ‘I don’t think we should ask in such places, at least not at first. Scroggs’s sister washes floors in at least one tavern, perhaps more than one. If someone lets her know we are searching, she will run off and warn her brother. It is a pity because such places are usually good sources of information. We must ask along the river. If we are really lucky, we may find a former shipmate of his. Remember, he has a tattoo on his arm reading “Ma”.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said Barrett briskly. ‘Where shall I report to you, sir?’

  ‘Here, before the railway station, is as good a place as any. In an hour?’

  We watched Barrett stride purposefully away. Morris said, ‘We could use him at the Yard.’

  ‘I doubt Phipps would want to let him go, but I agree with you.’ My gaze had been wandering around the area as I spoke and I had spotted something familiar. A bent figure, wearing a tarred hat, was working methodically along the frontage of the railway station, picking up bits and putting them in a cotton bag. ‘Wait here a moment, Morris,’ I said. ‘I want to have a word with that old fellow over there.’

  The old scavenger took no notice of my approach; and not until I stood right before him and blocked his progress did he look up. Then he straightened partly but somehow still remained crouched, so that his hunched stance resembled a question mark. He greeted me with, ‘Morning, Cap’n!’ as he touched a forefinger to the battered brim of the tarred hat.

  I smiled at him. ‘I have never had the honour to captain a ship,’ I said. ‘I am a police inspector and my name is Ross.’

  ‘Officers is officers,’ he said placidly. He face was as wrinkled as a walnut and a lifetime of exposure to the elements had tanned his skin like fine Russia leather. His eyes were a faded blue in the irises and the surrounding part of the eyeball yellowed like old ivory. His gaze was somewhat milky and I wondered if he had cataracts. But he seemed able to see well enough to spot the scraps of cigar ends. I realised he was very old indeed.

  ‘You are a naval man, I think,’ I said. ‘You have served aboard ships of the line, not a merchantman.’

  ‘Aye, Cap’n!’ It seemed I was to remain a captain as far as he was concerned. ‘Charlie Mott is my name. I began as cabin boy aboard the old Billy Ruffian.’ His face crinkled in a proud smile.

  ‘Billy Ruffian?’ I asked, puzzled.

  He chuckled. ‘HMS Bellerophon, she was rightly called. But the sailors called her “Billy Ruffian”. She was a fine ship. The French almost sank her, you know. But the old ship was too quick for them.’ He moved closer to me, peering up into my face. ‘I saw the French emperor!’ he confided. ‘Old Boney, I saw him with my own eyes. He came aboard the Billy Ruffian and surrendered, after the great battle at Waterloo. We were blockading a French port at the time. A big grey coat, he wore, and his hat set across his head, like you always see it drawn.’ He made a motion to indicate how Napoleon had worn his hat. ‘They always say now he was a small man, but I saw him with my own eyes and he wasn’t so small. He was ordinary height. O’course, I was very small myself, being a nipper, cabin boy, like I told you. But even so, I could see he was about the same height as our officers.’

  Confidentially, he added, ‘I overheard one of our officers talking to another, when Boney came aboard. He said, “Upon my word, Bonaparte will regret this, for we shan’t let him go again!”’ He shook his head and added mournfully, ‘To think the Royal Navy is to quit its dockyard here at Deptford. It’s a sad thing.’

  It was also a sad thing, I could not help thinking, that a man who had served his country since a boy, aboard a ship of war, must end his days picking ends of cigars from the gutters.

  ‘You are always in this area, I think, Charlie,’ I said to him.

  ‘Aye, Cap’n.’

  ‘Then you will know some of the local – characters.’

  ‘I’m one meself,’ he said complacently.

  I had not meant to insult him; but luckily it seemed he had taken no offence. Rather, I fancy, he thought I had paid him a compliment.

  ‘A collector of old clothes and rags,’ I said. ‘A man called Jeb Fisher, sometimes called Raggy Jeb.’

  A degree of sharpness I wouldn’t have expected entered the faded blue gaze. ‘Raggy Jeb?’

  ‘You know him!’ I said firmly, not giving him the chance to deny it.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Cap’n. I know of him, mebbe.’

  ‘Have you seen him today?’

  ‘No!’ He shook his head in a kind of relief. ‘Not today, Cap’n.’

  ‘Recently at all? Because I need to find him. I have a couple of questions for him, just one, really.’

  ‘He’s been about,’ admitted Charlie.

  ‘Do you know where I could find him?’

  In reply Charlie gestured at the scene around us. ‘He’ll very likely turn up anywhere, Cap’n. He sails these seas, as you might say.’

  Nautical expressions obviously meant more to Charlie Mott than landlubbers’ talk. ‘Do you happen to know his home port?’ I asked. ‘Where does he drop anchor at night?’

  ‘Old chandlery,’ said Charlie, ‘down by the river. Big old wooden building, not used no more. The old Safe Return Inn used to lie alongside it, but that burned down nearly ten years ago and no one bothered to build it up again. It was a rough place, mostly seamen off foreign ships drinking there and fighting most nights. Naval men didn’t drink there. Som
e said at the time the Safe Return was torched deliberate, after the landlord barred some fellows that had caused trouble once too often. At any rate, the fire spread to the chandlery next door; and part was damaged. After that, the chandlery moved its business elsewhere.’

  ‘A quiet spot down there now, then?’ I remarked in a conversational tone.

  ‘Mortal quiet,’ said Charlie. ‘No one goes there much now. It’s got a name for odd sights and sounds, not of this world. Some have said they’ve heard laughter and men singing when they’ve passed by the burned-out hull of the Safe Return. Seafarers, they’re a superstitious lot. If Raggy Jeb wants to make his berth there, no one is going to want to take it off him.’

  An ideal place for someone wanting to lie low and not be disturbed, like Billy Scroggs, I thought. I thanked Charlie Mott and told him it had been a pleasure talking to him. Then I rewarded him suitably.

  He wished me, ‘Fair weather!’ as he pocketed the shillings. Then he resumed his patient search for old tobacco.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find Barrett,’ I said when I returned to the waiting Morris. ‘We may have a lead and I have a fancy we’ll need Barrett’s support.’

  As we set off in search of the constable, I told Morris what I had learned. He agreed it was just the sort of place someone on the run from justice, like Billy Scroggs, might seek out as a hiding place. We were in luck, for we spotted Barrett a little way ahead of us, asking questions of a shopkeeper. We signalled to him to return to us and he came back.

  ‘I’ve had no luck yet, sir,’ he said to me.

  ‘I may have some,’ I told him and recounted my conversation with Charlie Mott.

  ‘Ah, old Charlie,’ said Barrett knowingly. ‘Did he tell how he saw Napoleon, when he was a cabin boy aboard the Bellerophon?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he did. I suspect it is the truth. More to the point, we should go at once to this place, the former chandlery. You’ll know the spot?’

  ‘I know the site of what’s left of the Safe Return Inn, sir. It’s a while since that burned down. There are some other buildings down there, most in temporary use. I think I know the one Charlie Mott calls the old chandlery.’