by Joan Lock
He had tried to look nonchalant and relaxed when, once again, he had knocked on the front of number seven. Once again he was without an appointment, but this time it was just after dawn. Lizzie had answered, looked puzzled, and then terrified as Best had grabbed her while jamming his foot in the door and beckoning to those men now running towards them.
Soon they were all in – even a gasping, wheezing Cheadle disguised in a paint-stained overall and cap. He’d insisted on taking part and Best had scarcely been able to resist, given that it had been made plain that this parlous state of affairs was all down to a certain, newly appointed, detective inspector. Despite Cheadle’s dangerously puce colour, Best could tell that the old man was thrilled to be back in the thick of it.
Best kept his hand tightly over Lizzie’s mouth as the plain-clothes policemen spread through the house like a swarm of ants – into the front parlour, the kitchen, upstairs to the bedrooms and servants’ quarters and, particularly, down into the cellar and out in the garden and the garden sheds.
One by one they returned, shaking their heads. They’d found heaps of baby clothes and one little corpse, but no sign of the missing Jessie. Soon, three heavily pregnant young women, a dishevelled, dressing-gowned Mrs Dawes and three bewildered maid servants were standing in the hall. But still no sign of Jessie – or her body. How had they removed that without being observed? Cut it up and taken it out in pieces? It didn’t bear thinking about. He shuddered.
Back at Islington Police Station a vehement, hissing Mrs Dawes would admit to nothing – so had been left to stew for a while in one of the cells.
A dawn visit had also been made on Dr Helman and he, too, was now occupying a cell on the men’s side with two drunks for company. While not exactly drunk himself he was still heavily affected by his previous night’s imbibing – a circumstance which, Best and Cheadle soon realized, they could use to their advantage. His resistance would be low. Doubtless he already had a pounding headache, even without the added strain of interrogation. And, of course, after he had learned what Mrs Dawes had been saying …
‘Babies die during childbirth,’ said Helman almost matter-of-factly. He was trying to hold on to a cool, disdainful professionalism but his hands were trembling as he wiped a film of perspiration from his brow with a none-too-clean handkerchief. ‘It happens all the time,’ he added, ‘it’s called being stillborn. A natural occurrence.’
They had told him of the body they had found.
‘I expect a post-mortem may prove otherwise in this case,’ said Best quietly. He had seen the marks on the baby’s neck. He waited for the man to disclaim any knowledge of anything untoward. To remind them that he didn’t live on the premises so could scarcely be aware of what went on all the time. But he didn’t.
Best listed their other evidence, including his catching Jessie in the act of depositing a body. The news clearly disturbed Helman and, once again, Best waited for a disclaimer, but none came. Instead, an excuse.
‘You do realize that since all this business about Mrs Waters and the subsequent inspections by the authorities, the organizers of perfectly respectable and law-abiding lying-in establishments and nurseries become nervous when a baby dies. Sometimes they may attempt to dispose of it so as not to draw attention to themselves. Most unfortunate.’ He splayed his hands and put his head to one side in a “let’s be reasonable manner”, ‘But understandable, I think.’
That dealt with the body Jessie had dropped. Hangover or no, Helman was not going to be easy to crack.
‘Mrs Dawes was doubtless going to send for me to issue a death certificate for the baby you found on her premises.’
That covered the other corpse – unless the post-mortem said otherwise, but with newborn babies it was notoriously difficult to be certain of the cause of death, and Helman would know that.
The man was sitting up a little straighter now and breathing easier. He pulled down his crumpled waistcoat, dusted off traces of pipe ash, stroked down his hair and whiskers into a smoother outline and looked them coolly in the eye. Oh dear.
‘Mrs Dawes says you were party to all the baby murders,’ said Best bluntly. ‘Indeed, she claims you were the driving force.’
Helman flushed, uncertainty creeping into his eyes. Then suddenly his expression switched to a knowing one. He raised one eyebrow and smiled a small smile. ‘I don’t think so, gentlemen,’ he replied.
‘She insists that you blackmailed her into it – even demanded she give herself to you to ensure her safety.’
He’d hit home. Helman tried to remain unmoved by this accusation, but Best could see by the hurt in the man’s eyes that he was now on the right track. The two were lovers.
‘She says it was repulsive to her, but she had no choice, she had to submit. That it was you alone who did the killing and she was too afraid to resist.’
To Best’s astonishment tears started into Helman’s eyes. He obviously loved the woman!
Best went in for the kill. ‘She found your whisky breath disgusting, she says, and your personal habits quite revolting.’
The tears were trickling down Helman’s cheeks and soaking his whiskers. It was probably she who had inveigled him into the business, Best realized.
‘May God forgive me,’ said Helman.
Me, too, thought Best.
In fact, Mrs Dawes was still insisting her innocence and complete lack of knowledge about what Jessie had been up to with her bundle – ‘that wicked child, I never trusted her’ – and how the other tiny corpse happened to be on the premises.
She also denied any knowledge of the fate of Nella and Jessie, just as Helman had.
‘Nella disappeared just after she had had her baby,’ Mrs Dawes insisted, ‘and like I told you, Jessie left.’
‘Left,’ snapped Best, ‘why would she do that?’
‘Because we told her to!’ Mrs Dawes spat out. ‘We found her spying on us!’ She pulled her fur wrap closer around her. They had allowed her to dress before she left and she had chosen a sensible but expensive-looking, black bombazine day dress, but had not forgotten to add a jet brooch and matching ear-rings which now glittered in the dimly lit interview-room as she shook her head angrily. ‘I did nothing to her! Nothing! What do you think I am?’
Oh God. Best bent his head down on to his hands, rubbed his tired eyes and murmured quietly, ‘But you told her father what she had done?’
‘Of course! We locked her up until he arrived to take her away.’
Best’s nails dug deep into his hands. What an idiot he’d been. Idiot! ‘I expect he was angry?’
She nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said again. ‘He was furious – he had a lot to lose – he did well out of us.’
Cursing himself, Best shot out of his chair, bashed open the interview-room door and began to run down the corridor, shouting to Smith and two other startled officers to follow him.
The superintendent’s pony and trap would take too long to set up so Best dashed out into Upper Street, prepared to run all the way down to Stroud’s Vale or commandeer any passing cart but, to his relief and surprise, they found a cab straight away.
A growler was on its weary way home after a night in the West End but the driver dared not refuse police demands that he take them. Best was beside himself with impatience as the driver did his best to coax some speed out of the exhausted horse. He wanted to jump out and run but knew he would tire and take longer in the end. Anyway, it was too late. Much too late.
Despite his distraction he couldn’t help noticing that Smith was refusing to meet his eye, had been, in fact, since they’d met again. Did he feel guilty about revealing Best’s whereabouts to Helen?
‘What’s the matter, man?’ he asked eventually.
Smith opened his mouth, struggled to get some words out, then closed it again.
‘Look, you made a mistake.’ He patted his hand. ‘As long as you’ve learned your lesson.’
This seemed to distress Smith more. He hung his head and mumbled,
‘I … I … ’
‘Tell me, man!’ exclaimed Best. ‘Just tell me!’
‘Joseph’s dead.’
All the breath seemed to go out of Best’s body. He clutched his chest as though it was going to burst.
‘Cheadle said I wasn’t to say yet but … ’
‘How?’ Best managed to choke out. ‘How!’
‘Scarlet fever. When he fell ill, Matilda sent a message to Helen and she was going to try to reach you. But she daren’t come herself – so she sent a message to Cheadle. By the time he got it and came back to her, she’d had another one – to say he was dead.’ He reached out and put his arm round the now openly sobbing Best.
When they reached Stroud’s Vale, Best had pulled himself together – in time to see Jessie coming up the steps, carrying a pail. Her right eye was closed and swollen, her lips cut and her arms black and blue with bruises. Pushing her roughly from behind was her father.
Best was out of the cab and had launched himself at Berger before anyone could stop him. His attack was ferocious and by the time his colleagues had managed to pull him off he had already done considerable damage.
‘At least, Jessie’s alive,’ panted Smith, as he struggled to restrain his senior officer. ‘You did save her.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Back at the police station in Upper Street, Wilhelm Berger was still denying that he had killed Nella.
‘She vos my daughter! Vy vould I do that?’ he asked belligerently.
‘That didn’t stop you raping her!’ grated Best, who had insisted he was now calm enough to interrogate the man. Indeed, he insisted that having come this far he wanted to be in at the finish, needed to be in at the finish. To his surprise, Cheadle had agreed and left him to it while concentrating on the further questioning of Dr Helman. The results, so far, were a cause of great relief, both to him and the department.
Berger shrugged. ‘So? A man gets lonely and needs, you know.’ He made a thrusting movement with his pelvis and grinned a little, then winced and touched his swollen eye gingerly.
‘Anyvay, vy you say rape? She like it.’
This unapologetic declaration put Smith on the alert. He sat up straighter on his seat in the corner of the interview-room and watched Best anxiously. But Berger’s attitude merely encouraged the newly promoted inspector to concentrate more on ensuring that this evil man got his just deserts. Nonetheless, beneath the interview-room table, he clenched and unclenched his fists.
‘So when did you kill her?’ asked Best matter-of-factly, as though that had been established and Berger had confessed – a ploy which could work. Acting as though guilt was already established and not made much of could bring relief to the perpetrator and even deceive them into thinking that you knew more than you did. This, in turn, could encourage them to give up the struggle. Not this time, though.
‘I told you. I no kill Nella,’ insisted Berger. His eyes began filling with tears. ‘Vy vould I do that?’ He shrugged again. ‘Because she vos having a baby? Zat vos no problem – except she vouldn’t be able to look after the other kids.’ He shrugged, ‘I just send her to Mrs Dawes. It cost me nothing because I do things for them, and Nella, she help out for her keep.’
‘She helped out even when she was long overdue … ’ Best paused. ‘And that made you angry, didn’t it?’
Berger raised his eyebrows wonderingly and shrugged. ‘Vy vould it?’
‘Because Mrs Dawes was getting impatient and you wanted Nella back home to look after the other kids, and – who knows what else?’
‘You make me sound like monster. I not a monster.’
Best realized that he couldn’t expect the man to feel guilty about father/daughter incest, it being such a common practice despite never being referred to in polite circles. Or, come to that, any circles. Perhaps that’s why it flourished?
‘But you beat her when the baby wouldn’t come!’ he shouted angrily, causing Smith, who had begun to relax again while taking notes, to sit up smartly and even give a discreet little cough. Berger didn’t trouble to deny it, merely pursed his lips and put his head on one side in a nodding kind of admission. ‘She make me angry, talking about vot happened to the babies … she vouldn’t stop.’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘A father is allowed to—’
‘So you were worried she would start to talk? That’s why.’
‘No!’ objected Bergen. ‘Vy that vorry me? I go vork for someone else. Not my problem. This baby business, it goes on all the time, everywhere.’
He was right again. And this wasn’t getting them anywhere, thought Best. Maybe they should put him back in the cells for a while. Let him stew and see what might bubble to the surface. But frighten him a bit first. Give himself something to contemplate. ‘People have been hanged for what you call “this baby business”,’ Best rammed home. ‘And that includes those who aid and abet! The authorities are determined to do something about it. Make an example, like they did with Mrs Waters. Just think about that!’
‘It was him! He made me do it!’ exclaimed Mrs Dawes, tearfully, when she learned that Helman had told them everything. She was shrewd enough to realize there was no longer any point in denying the known facts – just their interpretation.
‘Really? And how did he manage that?’ asked Best drily.
‘He set a trap. An evil trap!’
Best and Cheadle waited patiently for her to elaborate.
‘A baby was born dead. Like babies sometimes are,’ she went on. ‘These things happen, in the best of lying-in houses,’ she added defiantly.
They said nothing, just waited. They knew that there are those who can’t bear silence, and judged she might be one of them. Their desire to fill it could sometimes result in careless and gratifying revelations.
She glanced from one to the other, momentarily disconcerted by their lack of response.
‘He refused to certify the death!’ she exclaimed suddenly, causing them to sit up in surprise, an obviously desired effect to judge by her satisfied expression. ‘He threatened to accuse me of killing it – if I didn’t help him in this terrible business!’ A choking sob escaped her throat and she dabbed bravely at her eyes. ‘I was so frightened. A woman on her own. No one to turn to … He told me how Mrs Waters had died. Said he knew the doctor present, how she choked and choked … ’ She began acting out the infamous baby-farmer’s supposed demise. Suddenly it all became too much for her and she collapsed – somewhat carefully.
Too much for Best as well. Once she had ‘recovered’, he listened in awe as Mrs Dawes went on to do exactly what he had told Helman she had already done – blame him for everything. She even included the forcible submission to his sexual desires and how repellent that had been to a sensitive woman such as herself.
I’ll bet, thought Best. No matter, with Helman’s full confession and the other evidence, they had more than enough to charge them both. It was up to the jury to decide whether they believed her version of events. Jessie’s evidence should help bring her down and, thank goodness, it would save the girl herself from any charge when she turned Queen’s Evidence.
The mystery of Nella’s death remained. Neither Helman nor Mrs Dawes would admit to any knowledge of it, which was hardly surprising. They were in enough trouble. As far as they knew she had just left and gone home, they insisted.
A uniformed constable put his head around the door. ‘Inspector Best,’ he whispered apologetically, ‘there’s a lady here to see you. She says it’s important.’
For once Mrs O’Connor didn’t say anything. Her natural ebullience seemed to have faded away. She looked sad, defeated and somehow older as she handed Best a folded piece of lined blue paper.
The message on it was painstakingly penned in black ink and written in a large, angular hand. It read:
To whom it may concern.
I killed Nella. She was going to tell on them and they would have hanged Martha and I loved her. I am sorry. Tell her father and her sister I am sorry. I will go to he
ll now.
Robert B. Murphy
‘He was down in the cellar,’ said Mrs O’Connor. ‘Mary found him when she went for the coal. He must have been hanging there all night, poor soul.’ She shook her head slowly from side to side.
Best was staggered. He ought to have been alerted by Murphy’s outburst about Nella. Had been, in fact, except he had dismissed the idea as being too unlikely. Murphy was just not the sort of man to do such a thing. So much for his having ‘a nose’ about people. He had no doubt now that the man had reacted impulsively, as he had when he struck out down at North Woolwich. Not knowing what else to do.
‘Could that be why he began insisting on getting the coal – saying it was too heavy for the girls to carry?’ she asked.
‘The body was down there,’ nodded Best. He grimaced ruefully. ‘Right under my very nose.’
‘Now look here, Mr Best, don’t you be hugging all the blame to yourself like that,’ said Mrs O’Connor. ‘Others will be demanding their fair share too. Right under all our noses, I’d say.’
‘But how did he get her body to Beckton?’ asked Best. He realized as he spoke and held up his hand, ‘No, don’t tell me … ’
They said it in unison.
‘Patrick’s cart.’
‘And wasn’t Murphy always bringing back bits and pieces from this house-clearing. Then taking them away again when he’d made them all new again.’
Best nodded. ‘What difference would one more large parcel or roll of carpet make? Who’d notice?’
They sat together contemplating the sad end of both Nella and Murphy, and how Nella needn’t have died had Murphy known that Martha was to perish soon. It was all too ironic and pathetic – and was probably what made him finally crack and hang himself. Finally, Mrs O’Connor sat up, took a deep breath and said, ‘So now I’m to lose my favourite lodger as well?’
‘I’ll be visiting,’ he assured her, grasping her hands. ‘Won’t be able to survive too long without some of your wonderful dumplings.’