A police constable, on his late-night beat, broke into a sprint from the Walworth Road end of the street. When he came up to what lay huddled on the wet pavement just outside the circle of light, he switched on his police lamp.
‘Christ,’ he breathed, and blew his whistle.
It was all in the rushed early editions of the evening papers the next day, the details of a horrible murder, the victim a young woman, and what a middle-aged woman had seen from her bedroom window. A tall and bulky man in a flat cap and dark mackintosh bending over the poor woman. She had seen him straighten up, something in his hand. That something was thought by the police to be a strand of the murdered woman’s hair. The murderer was well away before an alerted constable arrived on the scene. The papers, of course, made it sound as if Jack the Ripper had crossed the river in his old age to go to work in South London.
Inspector Greaves of Scotland Yard took charge of the case. He assigned a certain part of the investigation, house-to-house enquiries, to Detective-Sergeant Nicholas Chamberlain and Detective-Constable Frank Chapman.
CHAPTER TWO
Saturday morning.
Mr Reeves had received the talking-to from his wife, but had escaped being injured by the poker. He professed himself iggerant of the charge. It was then put to him that Bobby had followed him all the way to Dulwich and seen everything. Mr Reeves, aghast at such perfidy, said he could hardly believe his own flesh-and-blood could do a thing like that. He was innocent, just out for a walk round Dulwich way, and didn’t know the geezer who stopped him outside a house. The bloke happened to be the upstanding gent who owned the house, and he’d locked himself out accidental. He begged Mr Reeves to help him get over the wall. A likely story, said Mrs Reeves, considering you both disappeared quick when Bobby blew his whistle. Mr Reeves nearly fell over at hearing the full extent of his son’s perfidy, but he recovered to point out you couldn’t trust coppers, and how was he to know it wasn’t no copper? The upstanding gent was likewise untrusting of flatfeet. Mrs Reeves said she still didn’t like the sound of it. Mr Reeves said it was circumstantial, that’s all, that a bloke could be as innocent as he was, but still look guilty on account of circumstances. What kept him out so late, anyway? Well, the upstanding gent needed a reviver, so they went to a pub and forgot about the time. Oh, all right, said Mrs Reeves, and Bobby resigned himself to the obvious, that his mum would never read a real riot act to his dad.
‘Jack the Ripper? Talk sense, Frank,’ said Detective-Sergeant Nicholas Chamberlain in the morning light.
‘Just pointin’ out,’ said Detective-Constable Frank Chapman, a taciturn man.
‘Pointing out what?’
‘What the papers mentioned. Jack the Ripper.’
‘The papers like gore,’ said Nicholas, ‘but there’s not a drop of blood anywhere, not even under her fingernails. That means she had no chance to scratch or claw. I’d say he took her from behind. Charteris is certain positive he used a cord.’ Charteris was the police surgeon in question. ‘She was strangled, you know that, not chopped up. And the killer’s peculiar.’
‘Bloody right,’ said Chapman. ‘Sawed off a lock of her hair. Beats me. Queer, that sort of thing is.’
‘She was strangled from behind, she lost a lock of her hair, and was found without any handbag. That might mean she was robbed as well as strangled. It definitely means we don’t know who the hell she is. But she was quite young, and as there’s no wedding ring her closest relations have to be her parents. The old man’s waiting for them to come forward, since she didn’t get home last night.’
‘Livin’ with her parents, was she?’ asked Chapman.
‘Good question,’ said Nicholas, ‘but don’t pat yourself on the back, it’s already been asked. Whoever she was living with has got to come forward.’ He and Chapman entered the Walworth Road, and turned south. ‘You know what sawing off a lock of her hair means, don’t you?’
‘I know. Lunatic asylums. And who’s gone missin’.’
‘More than that,’ said Nicholas, walking briskly. ‘The house-to-house enquiries need to include specific questions about lodgers. Some lodgers are odd types.’
‘Someone’s lodger, is it?’ Chapman was wasting not a word. ‘Who said?’
‘Wake up, Frank.’ Nicholas eyed the streams of horse-drawn traffic. A Saturday morning street cleaner stood growling about it. ‘No-one’s said. I discussed the possibility with the Inspector.’
‘Lodger, eh? That a bee in the old man’s bonnet, is it?’
‘Not in his. Mine.’
‘Could take weeks,’ said Chapman. ‘Lodgers all over the place here.’
‘Well, we’ve got a decent description,’ said Nicholas. ‘Good build, flat cap, dark mackintosh, fast runner.’
‘That’s something,’ said Chapman.
‘How much of something?’
‘The bleeder’s not as old as the Ripper would be.’
‘Forget the Ripper,’ said Nicholas. ‘Think about that young woman, doing no harm to anyone. In cases like this, I suffer prejudices.’
‘Rule number one, sarge. No prejudices.’
‘Rule number a hundred and one, Frank. Allow for exceptions. I’m very prejudiced against murderers of women. Women have a rough enough time as it is. But don’t worry, I won’t be wearing a label. But I will be wanting a lot of work out of you. Tell your wife.’
‘You tell her,’ said Chapman. ‘Your bonnet. Your bee.’
‘Just a feeling,’ said Nicholas, ‘that’s all. Come on, let’s get busy, with the help of the uniformed branch. The old man’s covering north of the Elephant and Castle, we’re covering south of it.’
By eleven o’clock that morning, the weather had improved and the day was bright with April sunshine. Police Constable Harry Bradshaw, notebook in his hand, was knocking on doors in Charleston Street, Walworth. The little terraced houses with their bay windows, railed gates and scrubbed doorsteps, looked presentable in the main. All the same, many net or lace curtains once white were now ivory or even yellow with age. That meant money was hard to come by. The people of Walworth had their priorities. Clean curtains, yes. New curtains, seldom.
Constable Bradshaw, along with several colleagues from Rodney Road police station, was after particulars of lodgers, as well as information on all resident males who were tall, well-built and owned mackintoshes. Scotland Yard, for some reason, wanted keen attention paid to lodgers. Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain had been insistent on that, while not overlooking the possibility that some woman’s husband or son could be suspect. Well, there were a number of odd fish among the lodgers of Walworth, such as those who kept to themselves and lived hermit-like lives in the upstairs back.
Harry, thirty-five and coming up for promotion, he hoped, knocked at number fourteen Charleston Street. It opened a little, just a little, after a few moments. A face appeared, a small face, topped by curling brown hair in need of a brush and comb. Blue eyes, slightly smudged, peered warily up at him. They took in his uniform and the authority of his helmet.
‘Mornin’, young lady,’ he said cheerfully, ’is your mother in?’
‘Dunno,’ said small face.
‘Would you mind findin’ out?’ His weathered features broke into an encouraging smile.
‘What for?’
‘I’d like to speak to her.’
‘She ain’t in,’ said small face.
‘Sure? What about your father, he’s at work, I suppose?’
‘We ain’t got no farver.’
‘I’m sorry. You sure your mum’s not in?’
‘She can’t pay yer anyfink.’
‘I’m not goin’ to ask her to. What’s your name?’
‘Daisy.’
‘Daisy what?’ asked Harry.
‘Dunno.’ Small face was adamant about giving little away. Above her head another face appeared, also with smudged blue eyes and untidy curling hair, except that the hair was yellow.
‘Who’s ’e?’ demanded second face
. ‘What’s ’e want?’
‘Our mum,’ said Daisy.
‘’E’s a copper, ’e can’t ’ave ’er.’ Second face was also adamant. ‘What d’yer want ’er for, mister?’
Harry knew the score. No father, very little money coming in, and the kids standing shoulder to shoulder to prevent creditors getting a foot inside the door. A policeman to them was on the side of the creditors.
‘I’d just like to talk to her,’ he said.
‘She don’t ’ave no money,’ said second face.
Harry smiled and said, ‘I’m not from the landlord.’
‘What yer come knockin’ for, then?’
‘What’s your name?’ Harry was willing to be patient, and he was pretty sure their mother was in. ‘It’s Tulip, I bet.’
‘Tulip?’ Second face looked indignant. ‘I’m Lily, I am.’
‘Here, who’s ’e?’ Of all things, a third face appeared, also from behind the partly opened door, and also with smudged blue eyes. Her tangled hair was auburn. ‘Crikey, ’e’s a copper.’
‘’E won’t go away,’ said Daisy.
‘’E just keeps standin’ there,’ said Lily.
Third face, above the others, looked defiantly up at Harry.
‘You’re not comin’ in our house,’ she said, ‘we ain’t done nothing.’
Harry smiled again. Three young girls who might have been pathetic figures of poverty were bravely challenging instead. There were kids all over Walworth, some a burden to striving parents, some cherishable.
‘Let’s see,’ he said, ‘she’s Daisy, she’s Lily, so you must be Buttercup.’
‘Buttercup?’ Third face looked outraged. ‘Ugh.’
‘’E’s barmy,’ whispered Daisy to Lily.
‘We best get Trary to see ’im orf,’ whispered Lily.
‘I’m Meg,’ said third face.
‘That’s nice,’ said Harry. ‘Well, Meg, can I talk to your mother?’
‘She ain’t in,’ said Meg.
‘She’s gone away,’ said Daisy.
‘To Australia,’ said Lily. ‘On a tram,’ she added.
‘It’s a long way to go, even on a tram,’ said Harry and then had a stab at the crux of the matter. ‘Is there a lodger lookin’ after you?’ Lodgers proliferated in Walworth. They helped with the rent.
‘He ain’t ’ere,’ said Meg.
‘Gone away,’ said Lily.
‘We don’t want ’im back, niever,’ said Daisy.
Footsteps sounded in the passage.
‘Who you talkin’ to, you monkeys?’ A hand pulled the door farther open. Another girl appeared. She wore a clean but aged pinafore dress. Her dark brown hair was in no need of a brush or comb, it was dressed in two pigtails. The complexions of the younger girls were pale. Hers was creamy. It had withstood all the assaults of winter murk and summer dust. Her deep brown eyes were quite brilliant, even if they too were slightly ringed. Harry felt he might have seen her before, and probably had during his daily beats. She was one of the phenomena of Walworth, where some girls did blossom into loveliness despite fog, smoke and hardship. She stared at Harry and his uniform.
‘Oh, lor’,’ she said, and wrinkled her nose and looked wry.
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ said Harry. He had to persist now because of the mention of a lodger, a lodger who had gone away and wasn’t wanted back. Why not? ‘If I could have a word with your mother?’
‘Has that rotten Mr Monks put the law on Mum?’ asked Trary in disgust.
Harry’s mouth tightened a little. Mr Ronald Monks was the local moneylender, a far harder and more grasping character than any of the obliging pawnbrokers. It was Harry’s ambition to catch Monks overstepping the law.
‘I don’t work for Mr Monks, Miss . . ?’
‘I’m Trary.’
‘I like that,’ said Harry. ‘Daisy, Lily, Meg and Trary.’
Trary smiled. He looked a nice copper, a nice man, with eyes a clear and manly grey.
‘Trary?’ A woman’s voice sounded from the kitchen. ‘What’s goin’ on out there? What’re those mischiefs up to?’
Harry, smiling, said, ‘I think that’s your mother, just come back from Australia. Could I talk to her? Word of honour, I’m not goin’ to ask her for money.’
Trary looked at him. All Walworth knew about the murder. Trary was intelligent enough to put two and two together. But, of course, it didn’t really concern them, not if he was going round asking questions about ‘the man’. There were no men in their house, no father, no husband, no lodger. She could tell him that and save him wasting his time.
‘I’ll see,’ she said, and opened the door fully. There they were, the three younger ones, seven-year-old Daisy, nine-year-old Lily, and eleven-year-old Meg. They all wore long grey frocks that reached to their patched boots. But the frocks were clean, and so were the faces. It was only their hair that needed attention. Harry thought their stomachs might be in need too.
‘You ain’t goin’ to put our mum in prison, are yer, please?’ begged Lily.
‘Cross my heart, Lily,’ said Harry, and Trary didn’t know any policeman she’d liked so much at first sight. In her fourteenth year, Trary was the bright light of the family.
‘You can step into our parlour, if you like, and I’ll tell mum,’ she said. But her mother appeared in the passage then. She wore an apron. Her light brown hair was pinned up, although little wisps had escaped, wisps that had a faint glint of gold to them. Her attractive looks were slightly marred by the small shadows and little hollows consistent with hard times. The high neck of her dress clasped her smooth throat, and her hazel eyes might have been her finest feature in their largeness if they hadn’t been ringed by dusty blue. She was thirty-three, and had a woman’s worry that the poverty trap would age her well before her time. The worry surfaced as she saw a policeman on her doorstep.
‘Oh, don’t say the landlord’s sent you, not on a Saturday,’ she said.
‘I don’t do errands for landlords,’ said Harry. He knew his sergeant would have told him to hurry it up ages ago. But there were occasions when one wasn’t inclined to. ‘If I could have a few words with you, Mrs . . . ?’
‘I’m Mrs Maggie Wilson. You’d best come through to the kitchen, I expect I’m in trouble with the law.’
‘You’re not, Mrs Wilson.’
She brightened visibly with relief.
‘Well, come through, all the same,’ she said. ‘I only got back from the market a little while ago, and the kettle’s on. I mean, would you like a cup?’
‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘I – ’
‘Yes, you must give him a cup, Mum,’ said Trary, ‘and I’ll take the kids in the parlour an’ keep them out of your way.’
‘’E’s not goin’ to put our mum in the police station, is ’e?’ asked Daisy anxiously.
‘As if he would, a nice policeman like him,’ said Trary.
‘Are you nice?’ asked Maggie of the man in blue, a faint smile on her lips.
‘’Orrible ragamuffin when I was a kid,’ said Harry, ‘but I’m a bit better now. I hope.’
‘Come in,’ said Maggie, and led the way to the kitchen. He noted it was clean and tidy, but there was no fire going in the range, and nor was it laid. No wood or coal, he thought. He wondered about the larder. The shopping bag on the square table didn’t seem to contain much. Scarcity of food wasn’t uncommon in Southwark. Life was a hand-to-mouth existence for many families, and one’s sympathies had to be general, but he couldn’t help feeling a particular sympathy for this woman with no husband and four daughters. He supposed Daisy hadn’t been telling a fib when she said she’d got no father.
Maggie quickly made the pot of tea. Harry placed his helmet on a chair and advised her he was making enquiries in connection with a certain incident. Maggie caught on at once and said she supposed it was the murder. She’d seen no newspapers, she couldn’t afford one, but the cockney grapevine had spread the news hours ago, and the East Street market
had buzzed with it.
‘You’re lookin’ for the man that done it? Well, I . . .’ She showed a faint smile again. ‘Well, I don’t have any man in this house.’ She poured the tea and handed Harry a cup. He thanked her. ‘There hasn’t been any man here since me ’usband went.’
‘Your husband left you, Mrs Wilson?’
‘Yes, in his coffin,’ said Maggie. ‘Five years ago.’
‘I’m sorry. Hasn’t there been a lodger?’
‘A lodger, yes.’ Maggie sipped her tea. ‘A man, no. I shut the door on the ’orrible creature two days ago.’
That gave Harry food for thought. ‘Mind tellin’ me why you did that, Mrs Wilson?’
‘He was oily, disgustin’, and he hadn’t paid no rent for weeks. He got to be . . .’ Maggie frowned in distaste, ‘well, unpleasant.’
‘Very unpleasant?’ Harry put his tea down and picked up his notebook. ‘Did he frighten you?’
‘No, he didn’t.’ A little spark flashed in her eyes. ‘Take more than his kind to frighten me. Objectionable, that’s what he was. He ’ad his eye on Trary as well as me. What with that, and not payin’ no rent for weeks, out he went. I put all his stuff out on the doorstep and locked the door on ’im.’
‘What was his name, Mrs Wilson, and could you describe him?’
Maggie, eyeing the tall, masculine constable, shook her head at him.
‘Oh, he won’t be the one you want,’ she said. ‘He was a little fat man, with fat fingers and a fat oily smirk, like he was always pleased with ’imself. I was told in the market the police were after a tall and well-built man, not a little fat one. Still, I’ll give you ’is name. Wally Hooper. But I don’t know where he is now.’ Maggie frowned again. ‘Oh, Lord, but just suppose it was ’im, just suppose me an’ the girls had had that kind of man in the house?’
‘We’ll find him, Mrs Wilson, and check on him. I’d like to find him myself and have the pleasure of – ‘ Harry coughed. He had prejudices too. Maggie’s faint smile reappeared.
The Lodger Page 2