‘Don’t take that out here.’ Mrs Campion looked about the lane again, then shook her head wearily and stood aside. ‘You’d best come in for a bit.’
Mrs Campion showed her to a small parlour, where she offered a terse introduction of her own. She had served for some years in the Salvation Army, she said, but had come to the view that while soup and soap were well and good, salvation might just as easily be done without.
‘The younger ones get lessons, since it occupies their minds. They are up there now, learning their kings and queens with Mr Critchley. I’d just as soon keep them to the settled way of things, after all the upset.’
‘Of course,’ Octavia said. ‘And if there is anything else that can be done for them, perhaps you will let me know.’
Mrs Campion greeted this with a certain weariness. ‘I will put your money to good use,’ she said. ‘That I can always do. But I must ask, miss. What affair is it of yours? Why should you put yourself about for this of all places, or for our missing girl over all others?’
It was a moment before Octavia could answer. She thought of revealing her own origins, of confiding that she herself, if not for an accident of benevolence, might have led a life much like Miss Tatton’s and been left to the same fate. She thought of confessing that her own good fortune was a burden on her conscience; that she tried, almost daily, to persuade herself that she would surrender all she had if not for the hope of putting it to good use; that she tried, but never quite succeeded. But no, she could not bring herself to say these things, and even if she did, she would not have answered the question. Why this girl?
‘I simply feel—’ She faltered and looked away. ‘I feel that I must. That I must do something.’
Mrs Campion folded her arms stoutly. She seemed satisfied to have taken Octavia’s measure, even if it did not alter her opinion. She named a sum that might relieve certain difficulties, if it could be depended on once a month.
‘You might have a seat, miss,’ she said, when that much had been agreed upon. ‘Though I haven’t long to talk, which you must excuse.’
Octavia looked about the parlour, much of which was given over to storage. Canned goods were stacked in the brownish shadows, and cast-off clothing spilled from stacks of orange crates. No fire had been lit, and there was only a single armchair. ‘You are very good, Mrs Campion, but I will do very well standing.’
‘As you wish, miss.’ The woman pursed her lips, her hand straying to her watch pocket.
‘I shan’t keep you long,’ Octavia said. ‘You have a great deal to think of, I’m sure, and I don’t mean to waste your time. When I spoke of my connections just now, and of certain resources, it was not idle talk. Finding things out is what I do, Mrs Campion. I want to find Miss Tatton, to see her returned safe and well.’
‘The police are looking for her, miss. The matter is in hand.’
‘The police won’t look very hard, Mrs Campion. Not for a missing work girl. You know it as well as I do. But I don’t give up so easily. Please, let me help you. Let me help her.’
Mrs Campion considered for a moment, then shook her head in resignation. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘When was Miss Tatton missed? Let’s begin there.’
Mrs Campion drew a battered ledger from her housecoat. ‘That I can tell you exactly, for I am particular about times and such. The girls must be kept to steady hours, if there is to be any hope for them. Now, what is today? The third, is it? No, the second. Yesterday was the first, then, and a working day. Angela Tatton – Angie, as she was known to us – Angie had been found work as a flower-maker. Up Spitalfields way, it was, near the Black Eagle brewery. Flower-making was her mother’s trade, while she was living, so the child was born to it, as much as she was born to anything. She made something for my hat, when my sister was married.’ Mrs Campion softened a little at the recollection. ‘A little spray of quince blossoms, in just the right shade. They might have opened an hour before, to look at them.’
‘How lovely,’ Octavia said. ‘Angie is of good character, then? She has given you no trouble before?’
‘She was quick with her tongue, at times, and blew hot and cold, but she was a good-hearted girl. Did her share about the place. Used to sing her little songs, on laundry days and the like.’
Octavia gave an uneasy smile. ‘You talk as if she were never to return.’
Mrs Campion studied the wallpaper, where a small deposit of soot attracted her notice. She rubbed at it with the pinched extremity of her sleeve. ‘We live in hope, miss. We live in hope, I’m sure.’
‘I’m afraid I interrupted you,’ Octavia said. ‘You mentioned that Miss Tatton had been at work yesterday. When was she expected?’
Mrs Campion pressed her lips together and returned to her ledger. ‘Angie worked until eight in the evening, save for Saturdays, and returned here directly most days, but yesterday was a Wednesday, which was Angie’s day for an outing. You must give them that much, or you will lose them entirely.’
‘Where might she have gone, Mrs Campion, on these outings of hers? Who might she have seen? Did she ever say?’
‘She didn’t say, miss, and I didn’t ask. I have eight girls under this roof. A dozen, if you count the little ones. I will keep them out of the gutter, if I can help it, but I am not fitting them out to marry parsons. As long as they come in that door by half past ten, they may step out with whoever they please.’
‘But she didn’t, did she? Miss Tatton, I mean? She didn’t come back.’
Mrs Campion shook her head. ‘I knew it for an ill sign. If it had been one of the other girls, I should hardly have turned a hair. A true stray will never keep to your lap for long, but Angie – I had hopes for her.’
‘So, you went to the police?’
‘For all the good it will do. As you said yourself, miss, the peelers won’t be turning London upside down for a flower-girl. But I did what I could, if only for my conscience.’ A clock struck the half-hour somewhere in the house, and the sound it made was thin and dissonant. Mrs Campion glanced about the room, smoothing out a ruck in her apron with the heel of her hand.
‘Had Angie any particular friends, Mrs Campion, among the other girls? One or two who might know her ways, to whom she might have confided things?’
Mrs Campion reflected for a moment. ‘She had a fondness for Liz Barnsley, one of the little ones. Used to brush her hair, she did, and sing her to sleep. Made a baby of her, you might say, which girls will do sometimes when their own mothers ain’t long gone. But she kept to herself, mainly. She was learning her letters, she said. You’d see her sitting in some corner with a book.’
‘And the other girls, Mrs Campion? How have they taken the news? Has it upset them? There must be talk, surely, of what might have become of her?’
Mrs Campion wrung her lips in vexation. ‘There is talk, miss, as there might be anywhere. The girls read the papers, them that can, or look at the pictures anyway. They hear stories, as we all do. As you have yourself, I’m sure.’
‘And you, Mrs Campion? Have you heard stories?’
The woman crossed her arms again, and her expression hardened. ‘I’ve heard all kinds, miss.’
‘But the stories about the Spiriters? You have heard those?’
Mrs Campion looked away, as if something distasteful had been said.
‘You don’t believe them, then?’
‘Believe them? Stories about dark arts and magic potions and stealing souls? I told you, miss, I gave up all that carry-on about salvation. I gave it up because I had no faith left of my own, and I could do no good for anyone by making them false promises. I don’t believe in angels, Miss Hillingdon. Why should I start believing in devils?’ Mrs Campion crossed to the door and held it open. ‘I hope you find her, miss, truly I do. But I’ve seen a good deal of the world, and it’s darker than any of them stories. Men need no magic to do harm. If they did, there would be a good deal less suffering in the world. I will bid you goodnight, miss.’
XIII
The home of Dr Carmody was in Portland-place, and it was not until well after ten o’clock that he was finally deposited there. He had found Whitechapel a good deal less congenial than Mayfair, it seemed, and his examination of Mrs Hanley’s remains had been conducted rather briskly. By the time he had certified her death and consigned her to the undertakers, he had been left considerably out of countenance, and since then his mood had not lightened.
Inspector Cutter, too, betrayed a strained temper, or impatience at the very least. He had been obliged to engage a cab – Inspector Fox having taken his carriage back to the station – and had hardly uttered a word since boarding it. The journey had passed therefore in unconvivial silence, and Gideon had chosen to occupy himself in the examination of Mrs Hanley’s Book of Common Prayer. Indeed, he was so much absorbed in this that he failed to notice when Dr Carmody got out, looking up only when Cutter rapped on the door frame to order the driver onwards.
‘Do we return home, sir?’ said Gideon, marking his page and looking about him in momentary confusion.
Cutter was staring out of the smirched window, worrying at his jawbone with the knuckles of his right hand. He broke off, giving Gideon a sharp look. ‘Home, is it?’ he said. ‘When did you come by a home? In any case, we are doing no such thing. We will proceed directly to London Bridge Station, where we might yet catch the last train for Deal.’
The inspector turned once more to the window, and the ochrish gaslight did little to soften his features. Gideon deliberated for some moments before he spoke again. ‘You mean to seek out Lord Strythe, then? At the house he keeps in Kent?’
Cutter pulled out his watch. He shook it vigorously and held it to his ear, glowering at it when this proved unavailing. ‘Certainly I do.’
‘May I take it—’ Gideon’s voice faltered, lurching as it still did on occasion into a neighbouring octave. He coughed at some length to disguise his embarrassment. ‘May I take it, sir, that the circumstances of Mrs Hanley’s death have some bearing upon your thinking?’
The inspector put away his watch. ‘You may make of it what you wish, Bliss, as long as you hold your peace while you are about it. I am thinking.’
Gideon wished to say more, but restrained himself with some effort. The inspector settled back in his seat and adjusted his cuff, but it was not long before the signs of irritation returned. He thrust his jaw from side to side, and the muscles of his neck bundled and strained. ‘Damn it all, Bliss, can you not sit still?’
‘Was I not sitting still, sir?’
‘Sitting still? You have not stopped fidgeting and scratching since we left Bethnal Green. You are like a fellow with eight hands and a case of fleas.’
‘Forgive me, sir. I am preoccupied, I fear. I will try not to disturb you again.’
Cutter grunted and returned to his thoughts, but as they turned into Regent-street it was he who broke the silence. ‘Well, Bliss,’ he said. ‘What is it you’re so preoccupied with? Your little match girl, I suppose?’
‘I am thinking of Miss Tatton, yes. I am gravely concerned for her. But it is not only that. I have been giving thought to our discoveries of this evening.’
‘Have you now?’ Cutter arranged himself as if to enjoy a spectacle. ‘And what did we discover this evening, tell me, beyond learning that Dr Carmody comes out in a rash if he is made to venture anywhere east of Holborn?’
Gideon straightened and cleared his throat. ‘Well, sir, I can give you only my untutored impressions, and no doubt you will correct me where I go wrong. We learned the cause of death, to begin with, which the surgeon gave as mechanical asphyxiation. This seems to put it beyond question that Mrs Hanley was murdered.’
‘Yes, Bliss. The lady did not break her own window and smother herself. I believe we are on firm ground there.’
‘Yes, sir. And her death occurred, in Dr Carmody’s view, at some time between midnight and noon today. That is to say, she was killed the morning after her sister’s death at Strythe House.’
The inspector joined his fingertips before him. ‘And what do you infer from that?’
‘Well, sir, I suppose we must allow that we can infer nothing at all, and that the two events may count as nothing more than unhappy coincidence. But it seems to me that a degree of suspicion is warranted.’
‘A degree of suspicion is always warranted, Bliss. I wake up in the morning with a degree of suspicion. I look at you with a degree of suspicion, God knows. But you must have more than that to prove a case. Our friend Inspector Fox takes the view that this was no more than a common burglary. He believes that some local gonoph put a pillow over Mrs Hanley’s face so that he might tumble out her drawers in peace. What do you say to that?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Gideon cautiously. ‘The house was left in considerable disorder, as might be expected in such a case. However, it seemed to me that a good many items of value had been left untouched. There was the sewing machine, for instance, which Inspector Fox judged to be of some worth.’
‘A sewing machine is a heavy article. A fellow cannot easily heave it over his shoulder.’
‘I suppose not. But there was fine clothing in the workroom that might have been taken, and in the kitchen there was a quantity of tea and sugar and other such provisions. A thief broke into my own room at Cambridge, sir, and made off with all I had in the way of tea and sugar. I was obliged to go without for some weeks afterwards, and it is a thing that has stayed with me.’
‘You have passed through a vale of tears, God help us. Anything else?’
‘Well, let me see—’
‘Begin where the killer began. Where did he begin?’
‘Begin, sir?’
‘Where did he come in, Bliss?’
‘Why, he came in by the bedroom window, surely, which we found broken.’
‘No, Bliss, he came in by the front door. The victim’s sleep was not disturbed until he was upon her, which tells us that he came in quietly. Coming in quietly means coming in the front door, since there is none to the rear. In any case, it was the wrong window.’
‘Sir?’
‘He broke the wrong window. A thief is like running water, Bliss. He follows the easiest course. A man standing in the yard would have had the kitchen window directly before him. Why would he haul himself up onto the outhouse? Out of an adventurous spirit? No, it was the wrong window. Not only that, it was the wrong pane. If you are trying to come in a sash window, you break a pane near the centre, the better to reach the lever. But no, our man put in the bottom left pane. That is what you do when you are standing inside with the sash raised, reaching out with your hammer. A nice gentle tap he gave it, too, so as not to do himself an injury.’
To demonstrate his point, Cutter worked open the window of the carriage, reaching out and rapping at the glass from the other side.
‘Goodness,’ said Gideon, starting a little at the brisk influx of night air. ‘That is an admirable bit of deduction, sir.’
Cutter gave a grunt, still tapping absently. ‘I do not like it, Bliss. I do not like it one bit.’
‘No, sir. It is a sad business.’
The inspector stared at him. ‘I am talking about the particulars of the crime, you witless coot.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I do not like it, Bliss. I didn’t like it to begin with, because I had been hoping to find Mrs Hanley safe and well, or as near to well as a bedridden woman may be. I had been hoping she would tell me, after a bit of wheezing and blubbing, that her poor sister had been at her wit’s end over money or a married beadle, that she was in pain day and night from a tumour or heard voices in her head. I did not mind about the ins and outs of the thing, in all honesty, as long as it was bad enough for Miss Tull to fling herself from a height.
’
‘But you were given no satisfaction in that regard, sir.’
‘No, Bliss, I was not. I was given no satisfaction at all. I was given another dead woman. What is worse, I was given a murderer who knew his business, but who did just enough wrong to niggle at me.’
‘Why do you say that he knew his business, sir, when you have pointed out his mistakes?’
‘It is no easy matter to kill a person, Bliss, even an ailing woman. It is not like the penny shows, where a fellow gets a clout or a jab in the ribs and keels over without a fuss. People struggle and thrash. They make you work at it. And to smother a woman where she lies, so that the bedclothes are hardly disturbed – that is another thing again. The fellow who did that is a black-hearted bastard, but he knows what he is about.’
Gideon considered all of this. ‘There is something I do not follow, sir. How did he come in quietly by the front door? Did he pick the lock, do you suppose?’
‘It cannot be ruled out, certainly. In other circumstances, I would be leaning towards that explanation. But in this case, there is a simpler one. Who would have had a key to the front door, Bliss?’
Gideon sat up. ‘Miss Tull, sir.’
‘There you are. Miss Tull had a key to her own front door, we may be sure. And yet there was no key among her personal effects, which I got from our friend Mr Carew during your fit of the vapours. You will find everything present and correct, he said, which would be well and good if I had asked him. I had not asked him, however, and when a fellow volunteers a thing like that, you may take it as a certainty that something is missing. I took the trouble to make an inventory, therefore – I was at it when you woke up this afternoon, as you may recall – and I found all manner of implements, but not a single key.’
‘Mr Carew, sir – you don’t suppose that he—’
‘There is not much I like about Carew, Bliss, but he could not rise to the likes of this. The man can hardly climb a flight of stairs. No, he may well have procured the key – that is more in his line – but if he did he left it to others to make use of it.’
The House on Vesper Sands Page 15