by Granger, Ann
‘Yes, missis,’ she said obediently now.
‘And don’t ask him about Newgate!’ I called after her.
‘Of course I wouldn’t, missis!’ floated back down the stairs.
Inspector Benjamin Ross
Before I went up to bed, tired as I was, I had carefully written out Mills’s story while it was still fresh in my mind. I took great care not to omit a single detail: the wild weather, the oil lamp in the parlour window, the old man dozing by the fire, the arrival of the young woman, her dreadful deed and her calm departure. I described how Mills, appalled and disorientated, had ridden aimlessly around the heath before finally coming to houses; by which time he’d decided to say nothing of what he’d seen, for reasons of his own. I read it through two or three times until satisfied and put it in my pocket. If I had a chance, I would hand it to Superintendent Dunn. It might never be investigated but it would be on record.
On my way to Scotland Yard I rehearsed mentally how I would approach the subject. When I arrived, however, and before I could get anywhere near the superintendent, I was intercepted by Sergeant Morris. He stationed his burly frame before me, obliging me to stop and pay attention.
‘I have a message for you, sir,’ he announced, looking, I fancied, slightly furtive.
‘Is it from a young woman giving the name Jane Stephens?’ I asked, remembering I had told the woman beneath the arches to come to the Yard in the morning.
‘No,’ replied Morris, his bushy eyebrows twitching in surprise. ‘Who would she be, then, Mr Ross?’
‘She – I told her to ask either for me or for you. It doesn’t matter – but if she comes here, tell me and no one else. What is your message?’
Morris gave me an old-fashioned look but let the question about Jane Stephens drop. ‘It’s from Mr Dunn, sir. He came in early today and he wants to see you, straight away.’ The sergeant leaned forward and added, sotto voce, ‘I understand, sir, there has been communication.’
‘Communication?’
‘Between the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police – that is to say, his office – and this department, sir. There has been talks in high places. Only,’ added Morris, ‘I don’t know what about, as is natural.’
‘Natural?’
‘High places,’ said Morris, ‘do not confide in me, Mr Ross. No more should they. Mr Dunn said to tell him – you, that is – to come direct, no delay.’
I sighed. The carefully memorised speech concocted on my way to work would not be delivered. There would be no need either of that or of my written report. Both the governor of Newgate and the Home Office had moved faster than I’d anticipated. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a little before half past eight. Mills had probably been dead this past two hours. His mischief – as I was beginning to view it – lingered on and was, in a sense, possibly only beginning to meddle in our lives.
Dunn appeared to have been pacing up and down the room as he waited for me. When I entered, he’d reached the far end and turned swiftly to face me. He was alarmingly red in the face and his sharp little eyes glittered beneath the shaggy brows.
‘There you are, Ross,’ he greeted me. ‘I understand you think we have time on our hands here, at the Yard?’
‘No, sir!’ I replied, startled.
‘It seems you do. As if we didn’t have enough cases to investigate and enough criminals don’t take to violence, you have dug up a murder, which, if it ever happened at all, took place sixteen years ago. It was committed in Putney, we are asked to believe. We know neither the name of the victim, nor exactly where he lived. There are no witnesses and no one reported it.’
He paused for breath and I took the opportunity to say quickly, ‘There was one eyewitness and he told me last night what he’d seen.’
‘Well, he won’t tell anyone else,’ said Dunn shortly. He marched to his desk and sat down, placing his stubby hands flat on the polished surface. He was a stocky man who looked more like a farmer than a police officer. His preference for suits of tweed material encouraged the country image. His wiry hair stood up, trimmed off level. It made it look as if he had a scrubbing brush on his head.
‘Mills has gone to the gallows, then,’ I said dully.
‘He has, at six o’clock this morning.’
‘Did Calcraft make a decent job of it this time?’
‘I haven’t heard that he didn’t. He’s strung up enough of the condemned to know what he’s about.’
I had my own thoughts on that, but I left them unsaid.
‘Anyhow, that’s quite by the by,’ Dunn rumbled on. ‘We no longer have to worry about James Mills. But you have stirred up the devil of a fuss and to-do by running to the governor. He sent a messenger to the Home Office last night, you know, not more than an hour or two after you left him. There were few staff on duty in the building and they did as might be expected – got rid of the thing. They dispatched a night clerk with the letter to the home secretary’s London home. His private secretary not being on duty, a half-awake butler got the gentleman himself out of his bed at midnight.’ Dunn eyed me quizzically. ‘You are no respecter of persons, Ross.’
I had underestimated the governor. He had not waited until morning. I doubted it was efficiency or a desire to postpone the hanging that had made him send such a message in the middle of the night. It had been the equivalent of Pontius Pilate washing his hands. It had ceased to be the governor’s responsibility. Perhaps, after I’d left him, he’d told his guests about it all and they had urged him to act without waiting for morning. The panicking clerk on the night desk at the Home Office had reacted in the same way and done the same thing. I need not have feared a delay in the news reaching the top man. The very fact that it had been sent after hours meant it had reached its final destination with fewer hands to impede it. If it had been scalding hot it couldn’t have been passed on faster! But it had not prevented Mills reaching his final destination.
‘They didn’t halt the hanging.’ I spoke more to myself than to Dunn but the superintendent answered, accompanying his words with a thump of a fist on the desk.
‘Good heavens, Ross! Of course they didn’t. It was not as if you had sent word of some new evidence in Mills’s own case. Then there might have been some delay while it was investigated. But Mills was found guilty after a properly conducted trial and had later admitted his guilt. He said nothing to you last night to withdraw his confession. He had to hang.’
Dunn paused and went on in a persuasive sort of tone. ‘Come now, Ross, you arrested him. You saw the scene of his dreadful crime?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I did; the room resembled a slaughterhouse, blood everywhere. I shall never forget it.’
‘Then keep the image before you now. Remind yourself that Mills fell out with a business partner, attacked him, and all but sawed off his head with a carving knife. The newspapers’ reports were full of the details of the dreadful business. Mills wrapped his greatcoat over his bloodstained coat and trousers, walked out and took a cab home. The next fare to climb into that same cab complained to the driver of fresh bloodstains on the upholstery. The cabman went to the police, the police to Mills’s house . . . and from there to Appleton’s lodgings to make the awful discovery. This is your man, your informant, Ross.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I could see where this line of argument had taken us: into a dead end. Dunn, like the governor of Newgate the evening before, judged Mills unreliable as a witness, a condemned man living out his last hours in a nightmare.
Dunn nodded, as if confident I saw reason at long last. ‘Now then, Ross, here we have a brand-new accusation concerning the death of an unidentified victim at the hand of an unidentified killer at an address no one knows and taking place sixteen years ago. And we are to take this report as gospel? We are to believe the word of a man like Mills! The unsubstantiated word of a self-confessed murderer? A man who apparently had sixteen years to speak out during which he was a respected citizen, not yet with blood on his hands.’
‘Well, sir—’
‘No!’ thundered Dunn. ‘We have a man who waited until he was almost at the steps of the gallows to unburden himself of a fantastic tale, giving no details but a date and a general area – Putney Heath – where this murder is supposed to have taken place! How could you, Ross, an officer of such experience and generally of such good judgement, be taken in by such an obvious ploy to gain time?’
‘I had to make such a judgement, sir. I had no time to think it over. It was, as you say, the eleventh hour. I couldn’t ignore what Mills told me.’ I took a deep breath. ‘For what it is worth, I believed him.’
Dunn rolled bloodshot eyes at me. ‘Did you, indeed? I recommend you, not only as your superior officer but also as a friend, to stop believing it, forthwith. Do not, Ross, go out of this room and start telling all and sundry that there was a murder on Putney Heath, at the home of some respectable citizen, sixteen years ago, and it was not only never reported, it was never investigated. Nor . . .’ Dunn’s voice rose. ‘Nor will it be investigated now, Ross, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It could not be investigated now. The only witness was dead and probably buried while his body was still warm.
Dunn’s demeanour grew more controlled. He signalled towards a chair, meaning I should sit down. I sat.
He placed his hands together, fingers interlaced, and spoke in a low growl. ‘What I shall say now is between us, Ross. It will not go outside this room.’
‘No, sir, I understand.’
‘There was some little difficulty earlier in the year between the Home Office and the Yard, concerning the investigation into the Clerkenwell bombings. That has all settled down. Nothing must disturb the – er – restored good working relationship. Now, I am not unsympathetic to your predicament when Mills spun you this wild story. In your shoes, sitting in the condemned cell last night with a man about to die, I should probably have done what you did. You were right, quite right, to follow it up. But now it is settled, once and for all. The home secretary has decreed it. There shall be no further action in this matter.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Forget about it, Ross!’
‘Yes, sir.’ I paused. ‘Thank you for your understanding.’
‘I stand by my officers,’ growled Dunn. ‘I told the top brass you were one of the best and my regard for you is undiminished following this.’
‘I am grateful, sir.’
‘So don’t make a fool of yourself or of me, nor of this service.’
‘I shall endeavour not to, sir.’
‘That’s all. My regards to your wife.’ The superintendent’s expression was inscrutable.
I was startled. It wasn’t the first time the superintendent had sent his good wishes to Lizzie. He had a soft spot for her, even though he disapproved of her talent for unofficial detection. But why he should choose to send his regards and mention her name at the end of this particular difficult interview, I couldn’t imagine.
‘I will pass them on, sir.’
‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked Morris in a worried tone, when I reappeared.
‘Thank you, Sergeant, everything is . . . Everything has been settled.’ I probably sounded both cross and mulish and Morris knows me well.
‘Can’t win ’em all, sir!’ he observed.
‘I have set the whole establishment of the Metropolitan Police by its ears, Morris. I have invaded the privacy of the Newgate governor’s home; and been responsible for the home secretary being awakened in his blameless bed at midnight, by a butler probably in his nightshirt. I have been fortunate not to be reduced in rank. I am, I fancy, on a warning.’
‘Cor,’ said Morris with some respect.
It was only fair to explain to him exactly what had been going on. I told him of Mills and his tale and what had followed.
‘Ah!’ said Morris sagely. ‘That’s a tricky one, Mr Ross. And this Jane Stephens, where does she come in?’
‘She doesn’t come into it at all. She was a female vagrant I came across under the arches at Waterloo.’ I explained about Jane.
‘Chances are,’ said Morris, ‘they will take her body out of the river.’
Well, that didn’t make me feel any better. He was right, though. ‘Send young Biddle over to the River Police at Wapping,’ I told him. ‘Have him ask if they have recovered from the water any female body or the body of a child, last night. And, if they should recover the corpse of a young woman or a child during the coming few days, perhaps they would be so good as to let me know. I would like to be kept informed.’
I was indeed informed but not in the way I’d requested. Towards the end of a trying day I received a visit from a member of the public. Initially I was glad enough of the distraction. All day constables had been whispering behind my back and casting me glances in which awe was mixed with glee. A new case would relegate the whole Mills episode to the category of five-minute wonder.
‘A Mr Canning, sir,’ announced Morris. ‘He’s very upset. He says someone has abducted his entire family.’
‘If that’s true, he has a right to be upset! How sure is he of this? Are there any witnesses?’
‘No, but you’d better speak to him, Mr Ross. He’s a—’ A curiously bland expression crossed the sergeant’s face. ‘He is a taxpayer, sir.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I think I understand you. He believes he pays our wages and therefore we are here to do his bidding.’
‘It’s the impression he gave me, sir.’
‘Then show this tax-paying gentleman in, Morris, without delay.’ After all, I couldn’t afford to offend anyone else today.
Mr Canning proved to be a gentleman of perhaps forty years, sporting a moustache and beard in the style commonly called Vandyke. He was not tall, perhaps a little over five feet high, and his tightly buttoned blue coat drew attention to a certain embonpoint. A round hat was crammed on his head almost to the level of his eyebrows.
‘You are Inspector Ross?’ he demanded as soon as he was fairly through the door. Morris had followed him and taken up a discreet position by the wall.
‘I am, and you are Mr Canning, I understand.’ I rose to my feet as I spoke, in order to greet him, but as I am just on six feet in height – in my stockinged feet – I found myself towering above him. This clearly did not please him and he glared up at me, pursing his small red mouth in the midst of the Vandyke whiskers.
Hurriedly I invited him to be seated and, when we had both sat down and so were now much of a height, he seemed mollified. He took off his round hat and set it on his knees. His hair was thinning and what remained was peppered with grey. I added a few years to my original estimation of his age, now putting him at fifty or even a year or two older.
‘My name is Hubert Canning,’ he said. ‘I am a merchant in fine wines and of considerable reputation in the business. I supply the best households.’
‘Indeed, sir? I know little of wine, I’m afraid.’
The look he cast me showed that he had expected nothing else. ‘My business premises are adjacent to Charing Cross. My home is in St John’s Wood.’
Mr Canning was a prosperous wine merchant, then. ‘The sergeant tells me that you report your family has been abducted, Mr Canning.’ I would have expected him to begin with this startling information. If unknown miscreants had snatched my family from me, I would have burst out with it. But he seemed anxious to establish his credentials first. There may have been method in that. It was intended to make me take him seriously. As both Dunn and the Newgate governor had been at pains to remind me, when someone reports a serious crime, the first thing the officer should find out is how reliable the informant is. I suspected, however, Canning just wished to make me understand that he was an important man in the business community.
His face reddened. ‘It’s disgraceful. In St John’s Wood! It is a highly respectable area. You must track down the villains at once and return my wife and child to me.’
‘Ah, so by entire family, yo
u mean your wife and one child. A boy or a girl? May I have your wife’s name and that of the child?’ I picked up my pen. ‘Do you have other children?’
‘What difference could it make how many children I have?’ he shouted at me. Then he quietened with some visible effort and continued, ‘My wife’s name is Jane and my daughter’s name is Charlotte. She is my – our – only child.’
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled but I managed to keep my voice level. ‘When did this happen?’
‘At some time the day before yesterday.’
‘They have been missing two nights?’ I exclaimed. ‘Why have you only now come to the police? Do you have any suspicion who may have taken them?’
‘Of course I don’t! But there are those who are envious of me, Inspector. I am known to be a successful man of some substance.’
‘You have received some communication?’ I asked quickly. ‘A demand for money?’
‘No, no! I . . . See here, I do not know what to think. A dozen possibilities have occupied my brain. The only thing I know for certain is that they have gone.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘As to why I only today come to you, well, my reputation is important. I have told you I supply several very important households. I must avoid scandal. As soon as the police are called in to a matter, everyone knows and the tittle-tattle begins. I have spent the last day and a half searching for them. But they are nowhere to be found.’
I leaned back in my chair. ‘Mr Canning,’ I said, ‘would you please tell me the whole story from the beginning. Let us start with the day before yesterday when you discovered they were missing. When and how did you do this?’
He puffed out his cheeks and hesitated. ‘I returned from my place of business at around four in the afternoon, as I normally do. My wife was not at home. That was unusual. She is always there when I come home. She knows I like that to be the case. I inquired of the servants—’
‘How many servants and what sort?’ I asked quickly.
‘A cook and two maids, together with a nursemaid for the child.’