The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘You’ve just arrived?’ enquired Nicholas.

  ‘No, I’ve been back in the Old Country a few days, stayin’ with a friend in his lodgings in Dartford.’

  ‘Could you tell me where you were on Friday night, sir?’

  ‘Same place, sergeant. Dartford.’ Mr Bates smiled. ‘I’m takin’ no offence, I’m appreciative you’ve got yer duty to do. Ask anything you like.’

  ‘You were in Dartford all Friday night?’

  ‘I was. I left there about six on Saturday evening. You can confirm that with me friend, name of Rodney Foster. Twenty-one Essex Road, Dartford.’

  ‘I see.’ Nicholas mused. Chapman gloomed. Waste of time. ‘Mr Bates, did you call on any other prospective landlady before you knocked on Mrs Wilson’s door?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Didn’t need to,’ said Mr Bates. ‘I know Walworth. I looked in a newsagent’s window and saw Mrs Wilson’s card advertisin’ a room.’

  ‘Well, the fact is, sir,’ said Nicholas, ‘a man answering your description did apply for a room at the house of one of Mrs Wilson’s neighbours.’

  ‘Well, you bring that neighbour here, sergeant. A lady, was it?’ Mr Bates raised an eyebrow, and Nicholas nodded. ‘She’ll tell you it wasn’t me. I came straight here yesterday evenin’, here to Mrs Wilson’s.’

  It’s a nothing, thought Nicholas. He saw that Chapman thought so too. And Mrs Wilson was fidgeting, a sign that she no longer liked the questioning. Well, it had had to be done.

  ‘Many thanks, Mr Bates,’ he said.

  ‘I appreciate the process,’ said Mr Bates, good humour undiminished.

  ‘What process?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Elimination, yer know.’ Mr Bates laughed. ‘Except, of course, you could also say elimination’s a hanging job.’ He laughed again.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bates,’ protested Maggie, feeling uncomfortable about everything.

  ‘Apologies, Mrs Wilson. Sometimes me sense of humour gets the better of me.’

  ‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Don’t mention it, sergeant,’ said Mr Bates. ‘Murder’s very nasty, and you’ve got to do your job. I’m still not takin’ offence.’

  ‘Sorry we interrupted your Sunday morning, Mrs Wilson,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Bates and me both understand,’ said Maggie, and saw them out. On the doorstep, she whispered, ‘He’s just not the one, is he?’

  ‘I can’t fault him,’ said Nicholas. He noted the colour of Maggie’s hair. Light brown, not golden, like the murdered woman’s or Mrs Carter’s. He shook himself. He was getting obsessive about women’s hair.

  ‘Look,’ said Maggie, ‘I’m sorry we wasted your time, but Trary an’ me both thought . . . well, we thought it was right to tell you about ’im.’

  ‘It was absolutely right,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it can’t count as wasted time. Thanks for everything. Goodbye, Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Maggie, stepping out to watch them go. The sharp April sunlight caught her hair and tinted it with gold.

  Walking down the street, Chapman said, ‘Waste of time all right. If you ask me.’

  ‘I don’t need to ask. But let’s just check a couple of things with Mrs Buller while we’re here.’

  Mrs Buller experienced a tingle of importance in having Scotland Yard men call. Nicholas asked what shade of grey was the suit of the man who enquired about lodgings yesterday. Dark grey, said Mrs Buller. Sure? Yes, said Mrs Buller, she didn’t have eyes for nothing, she hoped.

  Mr Bates’s suit was light grey. The girl Trary Wilson had said so last night. And it was light grey this morning. Was the man a cockney with a twang? No, said Mrs Buller.

  Nicholas and Chapman went on their way again, heading for the Yard.

  ‘Ruddy useless lead,’ said Chapman.

  ‘It was only routine in the first place,’ said Nicholas, ‘just something to check on. It became an embarrassment for Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Hard luck. One thing, though.’

  ‘What one thing?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Dartford. Why’d he leave it to come here?’

  ‘Wake up, Frank. If he left Dartford to commit murder in Walworth, he’d have been back in Dartford an hour later.’

  ‘Only asked,’ gloomed Chapman.

  ‘It could have been a good question if it had made sense,’ said Nicholas, who had no qualms now about letting Mrs Wilson take Mr Bates in as a lodger.

  ‘I’m only sorry it embarrassed you, Mrs Wilson,’ said Mr Bates, ‘but give ’em their due, they were rightly quick off the mark as soon as you told ’em you had yours truly in yer parlour. It’s got to be faced, a stranger comin’ after lodgings does put ’imself in line for being questioned. Under the circs.’

  ‘You stood up to it very good,’ said Maggie.

  ‘If I hadn’t been able to, I wouldn’t have been here,’ said Mr Bates amiably.

  ‘Well, it couldn’t be helped,’ said Maggie, ‘they just . . .’ She resigned herself to a little lie. ‘They just ’appened to be goin’ the rounds of knockin’ on doors. We needn’t talk about it any more. You were saying about Australia when they arrived.’

  ‘So I was.’ Mr Bates seemed at home already. ‘Yes, that’s a place, take my word for it. All kangaroos. More kangaroos than people. Not much work, though, and the goldmines ain’t what they’re cracked up to be. I’m a minin’ engineer, yer know, I’m here to see some City firms that give contracts to travelled engineers like me. That’s why I’d like to take lodgings in Walworth. It’s handy for the City. Would you like to state what you’re askin’ by way of rent?’

  Maggie felt sensitively contrite that she’d brought the police to a man so obviously genuine. She also felt she’d been thrown a lifebelt that would save her from going under. She was prepared to accept the man was a bit of a joker, but lots of men were jokers, and a woman could deal easier with them than with creatures like that Hooper man.

  She made up her mind to accept Mr Bates.

  ‘Five shillings,’ she said.

  Mr Bates sat up.

  ‘Five bob?’ he said. ‘Mrs Wilson, that’s a giveaway costin’. Like to show me the room?’

  ‘I’d be pleasured,’ said Maggie, and led the way to the upstairs back room. Mr Bates, following her, noted the sway of her skirt, the glimpse of a petticoat hem and fine ankles. If Maggie was short of new clothes, if everything she had was past its best, she was very attached, in the way of many women, to wearing clean apparel. Monday washdays were long days of work for her. The upstairs back was, to Mr Bates, singularly clean-looking, the brass and iron bedstead shining, the bed itself covered with a patchwork overlay. There was a gas ring mounted on a metal stand on top of a four-feet mahogany cupboard that contained crockery and utensils. There were two upright chairs, a small table, a small wardrobe, and a basin and pitcher on a little marble-topped table. And there was still room to swing a cat.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mr Bates, ‘this looks like home from home to me. Five bob for all this, and a fireside as well? Can’t be right, Mrs Wilson, it’s a doddle at five bob. I’ve seen a few lodgings in my time, believe me, and my opinion is you’re cheatin’ yerself. Let’s call it seven an’ six, how’s that?’

  ‘Mr Bates, no-one in Walworth pays seven an’ six for rentin’ just one room,’ said Maggie.

  ‘And why’s that, Mrs Wilson?’ he asked, looking her in the eye. ‘Because they can’t afford it, so you ladies don’t ask for it. Five bob’s their limit. It’s not mine, not for this kind of tidy comfort. I can afford seven an’ six, it’s worth seven an’ six, so that’s what I’ll be pleased to pay. My motto is fair do’s from the start.’

  ‘Well, seven an’ six is more than fair, I must say – ’

  ‘Done,’ said Mr Bates heartily, ‘and I hope it won’t inconvenience you if I move in now. I brought me bags, you’ll have noticed. Well, I had rosy hopes, this address suitin’ me just fine.’

  ‘All right, Mr Bat
es,’ said Maggie, frankly pleased by his generosity and his acceptability. ‘And it’s not inconvenient for you to move in now.’

  ‘You’re on, Mrs Wilson, I’ll go down and bring me bags up from yer parlour. No, wait, I like to show good faith.’ He drew a leather wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened it. He looked at her, at her facial hollows and the slight rings around her eyes. ‘How about if I pay you monthly in advance, not weekly?’

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s a lot, a month’s rent, specially at seven an’ six a week.’

  ‘Well, for me first four weeks, let me pay that in advance. I like your kind treatment, an’ more so considerin’ you had to see me stand up to police questions. There, how’s that?’ He handed her a pound note and a ten-shilling note. It represented manna in the desert to Maggie. She could pay a bit to Mr Monks now, and a bit of her rent owings as well.

  ‘That’s nice of you, Mr Bates.’

  ‘You’ve got children, I reckon,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, that’s Trary and Daisy you can hear downstairs in the kitchen. My two other daughters, Lily an’ Meg, are out playin’ with friends.’

  ‘You’ve got four girls? And you’re a widow?’ Mr Bates looked sober. ‘It’s a rough ride, I’ll wager it is. Four girls to bring up.’ He frowned at what life could do to some people. ‘I’ve met a few hard luck cases in me time, I don’t know I’ve met more hard luck than yours. If there’s anything I can do while I’m here, just say the word, Mrs Wilson. A bit of repairin’, or any jobs that don’t come easy to a woman, you ask Jerry Bates. You won’t find me un’elpful. I can handle tools and suchlike.’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Maggie, ‘but Trary’s learned to be useful, an’ so ’ave I. Well, I’ll let you settle in, then you can meet my girls sometime.’

  In his house in Westmoreland Road, Harry was tidying up the kitchen before going to the station. It should have been his day off, but the murder investigation meant compulsory overtime for several men, including himself. He was due at the station at ten-thirty, and would probably have to work through the day. Well, once he’d finished in the kitchen he’d be ready. He’d learned to cope domestically, especially during the times when his mother was too unwell to attend to things herself. To give her her due, she’d been a very good housekeeper, taking a pride in ironing his shirts and collars to perfection, and frequently cooking for him the kind of dishes he was fond of, like toad-in-the-hole, steak-and-kidney pudding, and rich meat stews with dumplings. He was eating in simpler fashion now that he had to do his own cooking. Couldn’t beat a woman’s touch, not in a kitchen.

  He thought of the calls he’d made yesterday, and of the women he’d spoken to about lodgers or husbands or sons. He’d come across nothing that he could offer the CID as a promising lead. He’d met some lodgers, and been told about others. They all had alibis. That was routine work for the CID, checking every alibi. They hadn’t taxed his own mind very much. They were in his notebook, but outside his province. What he remembered most about the long day was a woman who had four young daughters and no husband, who was in debt to her landlord and to a moneylender called Monks, a blight. He hoped she’d accepted the box of groceries as a gift from the Salvation Army. He should have told Bobby Reeves not to mention him. Perhaps the boy hadn’t.

  The girls were all in, having a cup of mid-morning cocoa. Lily and Meg, who’d been out, were given the news that they had a new lodger, a nice cheerful man.

  ‘The uvver one wasn’t nice,’ said Lily.

  ‘Ugh,’ said Meg.

  ‘Mum’s got some rent,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ said Maggie. She had money in her handbag, a whole thirty bob and one and sevenpence besides. And she’d be drawing her weekly pension from the Post Office on Wednesday. ‘I’m goin’ down the Lane now, we’re goin’ to have a nice joint of mutton from the market butcher. A shoulder.’ A shoulder of mutton was the cheapest joint. It might have a lot of fat, but she’d serve it up as hot and crisp as she could. Her hungry girls would wolf it down, and the fat would be just what they needed, along with the meat. She’d got potatoes, they’d come with so many other things in that box, including onions. She’d make onion sauce to go with the mutton, and buy a fat cabbage. Her girls could have a real Sunday dinner for a change, a roast. There wasn’t going to be time to make an apple pie. She’d make one tomorrow, a huge one. Today, she’d give the girls banana custard, something they all loved.

  ‘I’ll come down the Lane wiv yer, Mum,’ said Lily.

  ‘Me too,’ said Meg. Everyone liked going down the Lane, as the East Street market was called.

  ‘I’ll take Daisy to church,’ said Trary.

  ‘Oh, bovver that,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Do you good,’ said Trary.

  ‘I dunno I want to be done good to,’ said Daisy, ‘not in church.’

  ‘I’ll iron my best frock, Mum,’ said Trary, who had had a conversation with her mother about Mr Bates and the policemen. Mr Bates had proved to be an upright gent with a bit of a twinkle in his eye and a breezy cheerfulness. And he’d insisted on paying seven and six a week rent for his room, and handed over a month’s payment in advance. Trary said she hoped he wasn’t too good to be true, that after a month he’d start falling behind. Maggie said no, she was sure he wasn’t like that. Trary wrinkled her nose, an indication that she hoped her mum didn’t get to like their new lodger better than Constable Bradshaw. ‘Yes, I’d best run the iron over it if I’m takin’ Daisy to church. It’s clean, but it needs a new ironing. I don’t want Mrs Nosy Parker saying we can’t even afford to iron our Sunday frocks.’ By Mrs Nosy Parker she meant Mrs Phillips from next door.

  ‘No, lovey, we don’t want that,’ said Maggie, and smiled. She felt Trary might be thinking more about the threat of Bobby Reeves calling for her than about church or Mrs Phillips.

  ‘Mum, you ought to write that note to Mr Bradshaw before you go out,’ said Trary, ‘then I’ll take it to the police station after Daisy and me come out of church.’

  ‘I thought you ’ad this afternoon in mind,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Yes, so’s you could dodge that nice boy,’ said Meg.

  ‘What nice boy?’ asked Trary aloofly.

  ‘The one that forgot to kiss yer when ’e left,’ said Lily.

  ‘Oh, that one,’ said Trary. ‘He’s more like a talkin’ parrot than a boy. I really wonder how he got out of his cage.’

  ‘I’ll write the note now,’ said Maggie, and did.

  Many people in Walworth were preparing to go to church. Caring crusaders like Sidney and Beatrice Webb, devoted to improving the lot of the poor, were sometimes amazed that people struggling to survive went regularly to church, where they were given sermons instead of something like a side of beef. Mrs Emma Carter, whose small pension and small wage helped her to keep her head above water, frequently attended Sunday morning service at St John’s, although she disagreed with the Church of England’s refusal to give its blessing to women’s emancipation. This morning she was eschewing St John’s in favour of composing a letter to the suffragettes’ leader, Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, about the escalation of extreme militancy, which Emma thought would alienate the whole country in the end, and do the cause of women’s rights no good at all.

  At Scotland Yard, Nicholas was studying a large-scale map of Southwark, together with a great many notes. His concentration was not what it should have been. Thoughts of Mrs Carter kept intruding. She hadn’t reported to the police station yesterday, which meant she’d had no caller. But there was some man somewhere who’d been looking for lodgings. Not Mr Bates. Someone like him. A description had been issued, although Inspector Greaves had been heavily sarcastic about assumptions, guesswork and the time spent on Bates, a straw in the wind. Nicholas suggested they might come closer to the murderer once they discovered the identity of his victim. It was damned odd no-one had come forward to report her missing from wherever she lived.

  CHAPTER SIX


  Trary and Daisy were on their way to church. Trary’s Sunday frock, a summer one of rose pink, with puffed sleeves, had been carefully ironed by Trary herself. Her mum had bought it second-hand in the market last year, and it just about passed with a push. Trary carried herself along in defiant pride, her Sunday boater on the back of her head. If there were some Walworth girls with frocks still crisp with newness, there were few who could match Trary’s proud, springy walk. Little Daisy, in her one worthy pinafore frock, trotted along beside her.

  Behind them came Mr Bates, his walk as jaunty as he was himself. Maggie had introduced him to her girls before she went out. As Trary and Daisy entered the little paved pathway to St John’s Church at the end of Charleston Street, Mr Bates veered towards Turquand Street, a letter in his hand. ‘Be good, girlies,’ he called.

  Trary put her nose in the air, and Daisy said, ‘Crumbs, what’s ’e mean? You got to be good in church, you can’t enjoy yerself.’

  ‘Oh, you can in a way,’ said Trary, ‘if you think of the kind miracles Jesus performed, and the joyous multitudes.’ She was proud of ‘joyous multitudes’ and other expressions of which she was capable. She liked talking, and she liked hearing herself speak words of several syllables. That boy yesterday, he just talked as if he was the only one who could. He’d better not come round this afternoon and start more of it, or give her any cheek, either.

  Outside the church, teenaged boys swooped on her. Trary was a stunner to them, a corker.

  ‘’Ere, gedorf,’ protested Daisy, ‘you’re treadin’ on me feet.’

  ‘Well, you just buzz off, Daisy, we’ll look after yer big sister.’

  ‘I can look after myself, thank you, Henry Smithers,’ said Trary.

  ‘Cor, yer a fancy gel, you are, Trary.’

  ‘Kindly stop smothering my little sister, you’re all ’ooligans. Hooligans. Come on, Daisy, let’s go in.’

  ‘See yer up the park’s afternoon, Trary?’

  ‘They don’t let hooligans in,’ said Trary, and took Daisy into the church, collecting some girl friends on the way.