She tried to stay calm and put her hand on Miss Gilbert’s shoulder. ‘It’s him – up there – the wanted man the police have been looking for! I’ve just seen him! We must summon a policeman at once!’
Miss Gilbert stared quickly about, but he was out of sight. ‘Where?’
‘Hiding around that corner.’ Frances looked around for a messenger she could send.
Miss Gilbert stopped, faced the throng and held up her arms. The little band came to a halt. ‘Ladies! Miss Doughty has found the criminal! Our quarry is in sight! Let us all go and secure him! Follow me!’
Before Frances could say another word, and to her great horror, Miss Gilbert rushed into the alley crying ‘Tally ho!’ and all the other ladies apart from the two with the heavy banner, swarmed after her.
‘No! Stop! Come back!’ Frances exclaimed, but for once the lady suffragists ignored her. Sarah and Frances looked at each other and there was nothing they could do except follow. Frances once more exhorted someone to send for a policeman, but her words continued to go unheeded. As she ran, gaining on the others with her long stride, she was comforted by the fact that the Filleter was easily able to outrun any of them. At the top of the alley he could make a turn into Westbourne Park Mews, and after that he would be able to make his escape across a small green, or between some houses. She could only hope that there were no schoolchildren about, as the day’s lessons were by now over.
At the top of the terrace, the ladies stopped and looked around, unsure where to go next. There was no one in the vicinity of the church and the school playground was thankfully deserted.
‘We’ve lost him,’ said Frances, and for once she felt relieved. She faced the suffragists, many of whom were out of breath, and clutching at heavily corseted abdomens. ‘Now, please, everyone, what we should do is go back and get a policeman.’ Miss Gilbert pouted with frustration but did not object.
The ladies were just about to comply when one of them, peering into the little mews, let out a piercing scream. Frances and Sarah, fearing that another murder had been done, hurried up, and there, at the end of the narrow walled passage, was the Filleter, his way barred by a tall, shiny and very new set of gates. He turned to face them and he was dark and sweating and surly as a beaten dog.
Frances seized hold of the woman who had screamed and pushed her away. ‘Get a policeman! Now!’ The woman nodded, and ran back to the main road, her voice, high as a whistle, shrieking ‘Murder!’
The remaining women had gathered at the head of the mews, and there they stopped and stared at their trapped quarry. His eyes flickered about. The crowd had effectively blocked his way, and while they stood there, he had no avenue of escape. ‘I’ll deal with this,’ said Sarah stepping to the fore, and rolling up her sleeves, her lip curling in anticipation, but in an instant he had pulled out the thin sharp knife that was his calling card.
‘Now then, ladies,’ he said softly, his voice like the purr of a wild beast, ‘I don’t want to cut any of you up unless I have to, so here’s what will happen. All you have to do is stand aside, and let me though. Just make it quick and do it now, and I promise that no one will get hurt.’
Sarah made to move forward again but Frances seized her arm. ‘Please. Don’t.’ She had seen Sarah disarm a nervous man with a knife, but the Filleter was a hardened killer and he could move fast. ‘I don’t want you hurt. Please.’ Sarah paused, unwillingly, and gradually the women, mesmerised by the cruel knife, began to shrink back. As he saw them step aside, and open a path to freedom, he moved forward.
‘We can’t just let him go like that,’ hissed Sarah.
‘If we wish to avoid bloodshed we may have to, unless …’ Frances glanced at Miss John, who was clutching her reticule convulsively, her hands like claws, her eyes staring almost out of her head. Frances reached out and pulled the reticule open, and there, nestled amongst the fabric scraps and sewing threads, and a little clutch of bodkins, was a small pistol. She took it out and strode forward, pointing it at the Filleter. It at least had the effect of surprising him.
The little gun was heavier than it looked, but her fingers were strong and she managed to hold it steady and find the trigger. ‘Now then. This is what is going to happen. You are to put the knife down, and then we will all wait here for the police to come.’
He stared at her, but made no move.
‘Put the knife down!’ she rapped.
He sneered. ‘I bet that isn’t even loaded!’
She hoped he didn’t see her hesitate. She bit down on the inside of her lip, took a deep breath and gathered all her courage. ‘A betting man, are you? And what would you like to wager that this gun is not loaded? Your life, perhaps? Are you lucky in games of chance?’
He wavered. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ Frances suddenly began to shake and tears started in her eyes, not from fear but anger. She clasped her other hand to the gun to hold it level. ‘You murdered a friend of mine! A boy, just seventeen, with all his life in front of him! You butchered him without a thought, as if he was an animal! And you really think I wouldn’t dare? Because at this very moment nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot you dead.’
There was a short silence. Tears were running hotly down her cheeks, but she managed to keep the gun aimed at him. ‘Now put. The knife. Down.’
The expression on his face was unreadable, and then suddenly his arms dropped by his sides and he gave a strange sour laugh. ‘All right, Miss Doughty, you win. I surrender.’ He leaned forward and laid the knife on the ground in front of him, then he straightened up. ‘What now?’
‘Now step back – move away from it, so it’s out of your reach.’
He backed away and she moved forward, still keeping the pistol pointing towards him, and maintaining a safe distance. As she reached the knife she kicked it still further from him.
Sarah marched forward, pulling off her purple sash. ‘On the ground! Lie down! Hands behind you!’
With some trepidation, he obeyed, and Sarah stood astride his prone body. As the weight of her knee descended hard into the small of his back, he cried out and gasped for breath. She pulled his arms firmly together, and trussed his wrists tightly, tying the stout silk into knots. At last, the watching suffragists burst out into cheers of approbation.
‘Ladies, stand aside please!’ said a familiar voice, as Inspector Sharrock pushed his way through the crowd, followed by Mayberry. ‘Just stand back as calm as you can, police officers coming though.’
‘You are too late,’ cried Miss Gilbert triumphantly, as Sharrock stopped and stared in amazement at the Filleter lying face down on the muddy path, his wrists tied in a purple silk band embroidered with a demand for women’s suffrage, Sarah kneeling crushingly on his back and Frances pointing the gun at his head. ‘We ladies have forestalled you and caught the murderer ourselves.’
‘Oh my blessed aunt!’ Sharrock bellowed. He turned to Mayberry, who was spluttering and red in the face. ‘What are you laughing at? Go and whistle up some more constables, we’re not letting this one get away!’ At first Frances thought he might come forward and take charge of the prisoner, but instead, after surveying the scene, he scratched his head, and made a helpless gesture. ‘Go on, I hardly like to interrupt.’
Frances and Sarah continued to act as guards until more police arrived, and the Filleter, who appeared considerably relieved when Sarah’s weight was no longer pressing on him, was dragged to his feet and handcuffed. As he was marched away he turned and gave Frances a curious look. ‘We’ll meet again, Miss Doughty! And it won’t be so pleasant for you next time!’ One of the policemen pushed him on and he disappeared around the corner of the mews.
The lady suffragists, with more cheering, gathered about Frances and Sarah, and there was a babble of congratulations. It was with some difficulty that Sharrock managed to make his way through the crowd and confront Frances. ‘I’m not sure what to say to you.’
‘It is not necessary
to say anything. I am just glad that it is over.’
‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded pointing to the gun.
‘Oh that is mine, Inspector,’ claimed Miss Gilbert, quickly. ‘A charming little trinket don’t you think? For ornamental purposes only, of course. I just chanced to be showing it to Miss Doughty when we encountered that nasty man, and she used it to save us all!’
‘Really?’ said Sharrock, cynically. He reached out for the pistol and Frances handed it to him.
After a quick glance, he pulled back what looked like a small lever, and rotated the central portion. Five shiny brass cylinders with grey tips fell into the palm of his hand. Then he closed the lever and returned the gun to Miss Gilbert. ‘If I were you, Madam, I would not walk about with a loaded pistol unless you know how to use it. It might go off and kill someone.’
‘Dear me, I had no idea!’ said Miss Gilbert, innocently and uttered a merry laugh.
Frances did not share the amusement. ‘I am very grateful that the police came so quickly.’
‘You can thank young Tom Smith for that,’ Sharrock told her. ‘Bright lad. He’s been keeping his eyes open and helping us out for some days now. Regular little Pinkerton, he is.’
‘He knew where the Filleter was?’
‘No, Miss Doughty, it wasn’t him he was watching – it was you. I think the villain has been following you, perhaps looking for a chance to make good on his threat.’
‘I am very glad to have him locked up at last. And I will not claim any glory for myself; you may have it all. The last thing I want is to be on the front page of the Illustrated Police News.’
‘Ah, but we will know the truth!’ crowed Miss Gilbert. ‘Why, what a wonderful policeman you would make, Miss Doughty, and you too Miss Smith!’
‘Oh yes, I can just imagine you both in uniform,’ enthused Miss John. ‘What a sight that would be!’
Sharrock turned to the assembled drummers and mirliton players. ‘Now then, all you ladies, the best thing to do would be for you to go on quietly to your homes, and see about some nice dinner. I’m sure you all have homes, and some of you might even have husbands waiting for you. My job,’ he rubbed his hands together, ‘is to ask some very pointed questions of the man I have just arrested, and also inform Inspector Swanson of Scotland Yard that the Bayswater Police have made the collar.’ He was grinning broadly as he strode away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Frances did not think she would enjoy the tributes that would inevitably be hers were she to accompany the suffragists as they dispersed in the direction of the promised tea and cake, and after making a number of increasingly desperate excuses she was permitted with many expressions of regret to go home. There, Frances and Sarah contemplated what the momentous event of that day might lead to. Frances was not entirely sure that the Filleter had committed all the murders, although she was certain that he was responsible for the death of George Ibbitson. While she had always felt uncomfortable about the barbaric and irreversible finality of the death penalty, there were times when she condoned it, and also times when, as now, she might have been willing to pull the fatal lever herself.
And there was still the murder of Martha Miller, which was so different from the others. With only five days before the execution of Jim Price, Frances once again took up her pen and wrote a plea to the Home Office saying that now this dangerous man was in police hands they should explore the possibility that he had committed the murder for which Jim Price was about to suffer. There was nothing more she could do.
She had very little appetite but Sarah persuaded her to partake of a light supper and then they settled to reading while the light was good enough, assisted in that activity by a jug of hot cocoa. It was comforting to be indoors where one could forget the oppressive gloom of dark grey clouds and bursts of showery rain.
They were intending to retire as soon as the cocoa was finished but then there was the sound that Frances always knew heralded some urgent matter, a loud thudding at the front door and a clanging of the bell, as if the caller could not risk that one such clamour would go unnoticed and had to make two alternately. Frances looked out of the window and through the gathering mist saw a small boy, very wet and shivering standing on the doorstep. ‘I think that’s Dunnock,’ she said. The lad, who was probably about ten, was a valued member of Ratty’s team of runners and watchers.
Sarah went to fetch the child before he roused the entire street, and once he had been brought into the parlour a blanket was laid out for him to sit on and more blankets brought to wrap him in. He looked not merely cold but terrified, his lank hair stuck to his face like a coat of paint, his eyes glassy in the firelight. He was panting like an animal that had escaped a huntsman.
‘What is it, Dunnock?’ asked Frances gently as Sarah poured a cup of cocoa, stirred in extra sugar and handed it to the boy.
‘More murder,’ he whimpered. ‘An’ I saw it. It was like somethin’ not real.’ He clutched the cup and stared into its dark depths as if he hardly recognised what he was seeing.
Frances, facing this fresh horror and hoping desperately that there had been a mistake, tried for the sake of the child to stay calm and not show her emotions. ‘Take your time and tell me what happened. Start from the beginning.’
The scent of the cocoa seemed to comfort him a little. He gulped at it and wiped his mouth.
‘I was takin’ a message to Mr Rawsthorne’s office. You asked us to keep an eye on what goes on. It’s been funny roun’ there, lots of back and forth and you never see the boss man ’imself, ’e’s always out. It’s that Mr Freke who seems to do it all now.’ He finished the cocoa and held the cup out to Sarah who refilled it. ‘I was just comin’ out when I saw a carriage pull up outside. Very fancy it was. Coachman jumps down, and goes to open the door, but then ’e gives a yell and jumps back, and ’e’s shakin’ like ’e’s in a fit an’ all of a fright. It’s like ’e’s seen the Divil ’imself. Then ’e crosses ’imself and I think ’e says a prayer an’ then ’e jumps back up and whips up the ’orses as fast as they’ll go. So I jumps up behind, don’t I, ’cos I wanter know what’s up.’
He put the cup down. Sarah proffered a plate of bread and jam and he looked at it. Pinched and thin as he was, he shook his head. ‘The carriage went straight up to Paddington Green p’lice, and the man, ’e jumps down and runs inter the station as if he was bein’ chased by somethin’. An’ then –’ Dunnock sniffed. ‘I got down an’ I thought I’d see for myself, an’ it was like nothin’ in the world I’d ever seen before. It was a woman – only not a woman – I mean she had a dress an’ that, and I ’spect she must’ve been a woman once, but it was more like one of those big dolls you see at the fair, all with fancy paint, what people throw things at. Only the paint was all red, and then I knew it wasn’t paint, but blood – blood all over, an’ down the dress, an’ the face – but there weren’t a face at all. It was all one colour – blood!’
He began to cry and Sarah put the bread and jam away then sat beside him and hugged him in a motherly way, and gave him a handkerchief.
‘So then I went inside, an’ stayed at the back so I could ’ear what the coachman was sayin’ to the sergeant. They was all tryin’ to calm ’im down, and ’e was telling’ them ’ow ’e had taken ’is mistress to see ’er s’licitor and she were all right when they started out and ’e found ’er killed when they got there.’
‘Did you hear any names?’
‘Yes, the coachman was called Nettles, an’ ’e said ’is mistress was Mrs Wheelock. An’ ’e said he saw a man climbin’ in the coach an’ then jumpin’ down an’ runnin’ off later. Only ’e didn’t think anythin’ of it at the time as ’e thought it must be ’er ’usband and they’d p’raps ’ad an argyment. An’ all the police run out and looked inter the carriage an’ one of ’em was sick there and then. So I thought you oughter know an’ I jumped on a carrier’s cart an’ come ’ere.’
‘You are sure that it was Mrs Wheelock who was
killed?’ exclaimed Frances. ‘The elderly lady?’
‘Yes, the one what used to be Mrs Outram. I know the carriage, it ’ad a big letter O painted on the side with a sort of wheat sheaf in it.’
Sarah brought a rough warm towel and began to rub the lad’s face and hair. ‘You’ll need dry clothes. Wait a bit and I’ll go and get Tom to send some.’
‘Do take care!’ Frances exclaimed.
‘Oh, if I meet that Face-slasher I’ll take care of him, all right!’ Sarah snorted. She wrapped another blanket around the boy and hurried away to get her cloak.
‘Stay here by the fire Mr Dunnock,’ said Frances. ‘You have been a brave man today and you will have a reward.’
He nodded but with only faint enthusiasm, as if to say that a reward was all very welcome but he would gladly have foregone it not to have seen the sight of Mrs Wheelock’s mutilated corpse. Frances, realising that Mr Chandler would need to be informed and that the police would not have his address, quickly penned a note telling him to go to the police station as a matter of urgency, and handed it to Sarah to deliver on her way.
‘Did you hear the coachman say anything about the man who got into the coach and ran away? Why did he think it was her husband?’
‘’E dint say. Jus’ said that a man came up an’ there was a bit of talk through the window which ’e dint ’ear an’ then ’e got in.’
Frances reflected on this. The lady was well known for her philanthropy and might have responded to an appeal for help, but would she have permitted a stranger in the carriage? ‘It was a closed carriage – not open at the front like a hansom?’ Dunnock nodded. ‘If the coachman thought it was her husband then even if he did not see the man’s face, which he would not have done from his perch, it must have been a man of similar build, and one agile enough to run away.’
‘Could’ve been that Filleter cove, the one with the sharp knife,’ Dunnock suggested.
Death in Bayswater Page 24