The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Did yer like it, Trary?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘What a life for a girl,’ said Trary, ‘first I go up the park with a daft boy, now I’ve got to have tea with me daft sisters. Mum, all those shrimps, can we afford it?’

  ‘Mr Bates treated us,’ said Maggie, ‘he bought them from the muffin man. He’s comin’ down to ’ave tea with us. Well, just this once, I thought we ought to ask him.’ Maggie had thought that as it was his first day, and as it was Sunday, and as he’d shown himself genuine and generous, it was right to be a bit hospitable and give him a bit of a welcome.

  Trary wrinkled her nose. Their new lodger might be handsome and friendly, but all Trary’s instincts pointed her at Constable Bradshaw, not Mr Bates. She hoped it wasn’t going to prove too difficult, bringing her mum and Mr Bradshaw together. She’d have to think carefully about her next step. Mr Bradshaw would make a lovely new dad. Trary weaved hopes and wishes.

  ‘Well, well,’ said the jovial Mr Bates, as he sat down with the family. Maggie had baked a cake, having bought some dried fruit during her morning’s shopping. There was also a large plateful of bread and margarine and a pot of jam, as well as the shrimps for a starter. ‘What a spread, girlies, eh? Home from home, yer know, as far as I’m concerned.’ Extrovert, tanned and manly, he was larger than life to Lily and Daisy, his handsome moustache and boisterous healthiness making him look like someone from another world. He had them giggling as he talked about how the shrimps reminded him of his days as a boy, when he dug for cockles at Southend. ‘You don’t find cockles in Australia, not like you do at Southend. Soon as the tide runs out, there they are, showin’ just their eyes in the wet sand and winkin’ at you. Shrimps, well, you can find shrimps anywhere, but not cockles. Thanks, Mrs Wilson, I don’t mind if I do, but let the girls ’elp themselves first. Little ladies before large grown-ups, eh, Meg?’ He passed the basin of shrimps to Meg on his left.

  On his right, Daisy said, ‘Mister, I’m most little.’

  ‘So you are, Daisy, so you are. All right, you’re next, then.’

  Trary looked disgusted. Their new lodger was taking over. Her mum didn’t seem to mind, and her sisters were already treating him like an uncle. There he was, teasing them, winking at them, and making them giggle. But Trary had to admit he did have a way with them. He was jolly, like their dad had been, and she had to further admit he was a lot better than their previous lodger.

  Daisy and Lily were fascinated that he’d been to Australia. Meg said it was as far away from England as a country could be. Mr Bates said it wasn’t as far away as all that. You only had to dig a hole deep enough in your back yard and you’d come out right in the middle of Australia. And probably the first thing you’d see would be a kangaroo. Had they ever seen a kangaroo?

  ‘I seen pictures in books,’ said Lily.

  ‘We all ’ave,’ said Meg.

  ‘But we ain’t never seen a real one,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I expect they’ve got some at the Zoo,’ said Maggie, fully aware that Mr Bates was like a tonic to her girls.

  ‘We ain’t been there,’ said Lily.

  ‘Not to the Zoo?’ said Mr Bates. ‘Well, that’s a shame. Mind, I don’t suppose they’ve got kangaroos there like they ’ave in Australia. In Australia, you fall over them. You can have a nasty accident fallin’ over a kangaroo. And do they jump, you bet they do. In Australia, yer know, they don’t say “oh crikey”, they say “jumpin’ kangaroos”.’

  ‘I meant to say before, it’s a funny thing you ’aving been to Australia, Mr Bates,’ remarked Maggie, ‘because that’s where me sister and parents are, and in Sydney too. I suppose you didn’t come across them, did you?’

  Mr Bates, looking highly intrigued, said, ‘I might have, I’ve met quite a few people Down-Under. What’s their name?’

  ‘My dad’s Alfred Palmer, my mum’s Margaret Palmer,’ said Maggie. ‘My sister’s Joyce, and she’s married now, to an Australian called Mick Kennedy.’

  Mr Bates searched his memory.

  ‘Palmer, Palmer,’ he mused. ‘And Kennedy, you said? Well, no, I can’t say those names ring a bell, Mrs Wilson. Mind, I wasn’t in Sydney a lot, I spent most time upcountry, bein’ a minin’ engineer. I suppose you could do with havin’ your parents back here, ’elping you to bring up yer girls. All the same, no-one could say they’re not a credit to you. And I meant what I said this morning, that if I can give you any needful ’elp at times, you just say the word.’

  ‘We all give mum help all the time,’ said Trary.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Mr Bates admiringly. ‘Well, now I’m ready for a slice of yer home-made cake, Mrs Wilson, it looks a work of art. That’s what arrives out of some kitchen ovens, works of art.’

  Undoubtedly, he was an entertainment, but when the tea was over he didn’t outstay his welcome. He spoke his thanks to Maggie, told the girls they were the pick of Walworth, and then said he’d take a stroll round his old haunts of South London. He left the house ten minutes later.

  Maggie settled down for a quiet evening of darning. The younger girls played ludo, and Trary did some homework. When Daisy, Lily and Meg eventually went up to bed, Trary made what sounded like an irrelevant remark.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’ it’s a shame, really.’

  ‘What is?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘That nice policeman,’ said Trary.

  ‘Mr Bradshaw? What about ’im, love?’

  ‘Livin’ all alone, a kind man like that.’

  ‘All alone?’ said Maggie.

  ‘Well, not havin’ a wife,’ said Trary.

  ‘Oh?’ said Maggie.

  ‘They say men go to early graves when they don’t have wives to look after them. Wouldn’t it be tragic, Mum, if Mr Bradshaw passed away early through not havin’ a lovin’ wife?’

  ‘He didn’t look to me as if he was going to pass away that early, love,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Oh, you can’t tell by a man’s looks, Mum, specially a man like Mr Bradshaw, who has to show a brave face to the world on account of bein’ a policeman. He could be ill inside, havin’ to live alone.’

  ‘Dearie me, that is sad,’ said Maggie, trying not to smile.

  ‘Yes, he can’t be happy about it,’ said Trary. ‘Oh, by the way, that boy’s goin’ to work in printin’, for a newspaper.’

  ‘What boy?’ asked Maggie. ‘Oh, Bobby Reeves, you mean?’

  ‘Is that his name? I can’t remember it myself,’ said Trary.

  Maggie smiled. She felt life had suddenly got better for her family. Nice things had happened.

  Except there was still Mr Monks.

  Daisy, Lily and Meg went off to St John’s Church School the next morning, Trary to West Square School for Girls, where she could make the most of what it could offer if she stayed until she was sixteen. She had told her mum she ought to leave at fourteen and try to get a job, but Maggie said no, they’d manage somehow.

  With the house reduced to quiet, Maggie bagged up Monday’s washing. There was no fuel either for the kitchen range or the scullery copper. But with money in her purse, she could afford to take her laundry to the local Bagwash, which charged a shilling for twenty-eight pounds. And she could order some coal on her way back.

  A knock on the kitchen door was followed by Mr Bates putting his head in. Maggie conceded he was a vigorously good-looking man, his tanned face and breezy smile very welcome after the fat, pasty face and oily smirk of Mr Hooper.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, ‘any odd jobs required to be performed, lady?’

  ‘Odd jobs?’ said Maggie.

  ‘Like knockin’ in a nail or two, or mendin’ a chair leg?’

  Maggie smiled. ‘It’s good of you, Mr Bates, but I don’t ’ave any broken chair legs today.’

  ‘Are you goin’ out?’ enquired Mr Bates. Maggie had her well-worn velvet toque hat on.

  ‘Yes, I’m takin’ me Monday laundry to the bagwash, I’ve run out of anything to light the copper with.’

  ‘I’
ll take it,’ said Mr Bates, ‘I was goin’ out meself, in any case. I’d count it a pleasure, yer know. You don’t want to carry a heavy bag like that when I can perform.’

  ‘But don’t you have to go on business to the City?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Not today,’ said Mr Bates. ‘You place that bag in me arms, Mrs Wilson, and I’ll give it a quick walk to the old bagwash. Believe me, even if I ain’t had the privilege of bein’ a husband yet, I know a woman’s work is never done. I’ll lay odds you’ve got a houseful of work to get on with, so you let me – ’ He was interrupted by a sharp rat-a-tat on the front door. Maggie winced.

  ‘Oh, that’s Mr Monks,’ she exclaimed in a rush. Mr Monks always announced his arrival with a peremptory rat-a-tat.

  ‘Who’s Mr Monks?’ asked Mr Bates, noting her worried expression.

  Maggie hesitated, then said, ‘A moneylender. I went an’ borrowed three pounds from ’im several weeks ago, only I’ve not been able to . . . oh, it’s me own ’eadache, I don’t want to bother you with it.’

  ‘The gent’s one of those, is he?’ said Mr Bates. ‘Says you owe ’im a lot more than you borrowed, does he? Mrs Wilson, you leave him to me.’ The rat-a-tat was repeated on an even sharper note.

  ‘Mr Bates, I can pay him a bit off now.’

  ‘I know, but a bit won’t do much good with a bloke like him, I’ve met ’is kind before. Don’t you worry, Mrs Wilson, I’ll see to the geezer.’

  Mr Bates answered the door. A plump, heavy-jowled man in a dark suit and black bowler hat showed himself. He gave Mr Bates an enquiring look. Mr Bates responded with a steely smile.

  ‘Your name Monks?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s it to you? Where’s Mrs Wilson?’

  ‘Nursin’ a headache.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Monks, showing a row of irregular and disbelieving teeth, ‘you tell ’er to bring ’erself and ’er headache to the door.’

  ‘Don’t give me orders, Monks, just state yer business,’ said Mr Bates.

  ‘My business ain’t your business, it’s hers, it don’t concern a third party.’ Mr Monks, a heavy man, was used to dealing with people who tried to stick their noses in.

  ‘I’m not a third party,’ said Mr Bates, ‘I’m a referee.’

  ‘Don’t waste my time,’ said Mr Monks, ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘That’s your ’ard luck. Say what you want from Mrs Wilson or bugger off.’

  ‘You keep this up, whoever you are,’ said Mr Monks, ‘and I’ll get awkward.’

  ‘Don’t try it on me,’ said Mr Bates, taller and with harder muscle than the plump moneylender. ‘You loaned Mrs Wilson a few quid, right?’

  ‘Legal transaction, signed an’ sealed, and ’ow much ’as she paid off? I’ll tell yer, not a bleedin’ farthing.’

  ‘I’m cryin’ me eyes out for yer,’ said Mr Bates. ‘So how much does she owe yer now?’

  ‘None of yer business,’ said Mr Monks, then discovered he didn’t like the ferocious gleam in his opponent’s eye. ‘Well, all right, I ain’t got time to stand ’ere all day. I’ll tell yer, even if it is breakin’ confidence with a client.’ He took a well-thumbed notebook from his pocket and leafed through it. ‘’Ere it is. Fifteen quid and seven-six.’

  That amount was a fortune to many people in Walworth.

  ‘You bugger,’ said Mr Bates, ‘you loaned her three quid a few weeks ago, an’ she now owes yer over fifteen?’

  ‘It’s arrived at correct on account of she ain’t made any repayments. And listen, that loan was lent gen’rously, considering it was on unsecured credit.’

  ‘Don’t come it with me, ratface,’ said Mr Bates, ‘you’re not gettin’ fifteen quid-plus out of Mrs Wilson, or how would you like me to break your neck?’

  ‘The law’s on my side,’ said Mr Monks, ‘it’s a legal transaction I’ve got goin’ with Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Six quid,’ said Mr Bates.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s more than you’d get if she had to sell what she’s got left in this house. I’ll lay you sniffed around when you made the loan. Well, it’s all sold, except some beds an’ chairs. It might pay for some cat’s meat, nothing else. Well?’

  ‘Six quid?’ The heavy jowls doubled in umbrage. ‘That ain’t even – ’

  ‘It’s all you’re goin’ to get. I trust,’ said Mr Bates with sarcasm, ‘that a hundred per cent profit in several weeks ain’t goin’ to ruin you.’

  Mr Monks looked very disagreeable about it.

  ‘Mrs Wilson’s got ’erself a fancy cove, has she?’ he said nastily.

  ‘See that?’ Mr Bates presented a hard, balled fist for inspection. ‘That’s been around, like I have, cully, and it’s done a mite of injury. Like a mite yourself, would you?’

  ‘No more than you’d like a dose of Dartmoor for inflictin’ grievous bodily ’arm,’ said Mr Monks.

  ‘Talk sense.’ The cheerful new lodger was having an aggressive mood. ‘You need a witness, and there ain’t goin’ to be one. So use yer common.’

  ‘All right, wait a minute, wait a minute,’ said Mr Monks. ‘Make it seven-ten and I’ll call it square.’

  ‘I said six. That’s the limit, you greedy sod. Sign a discharge.’

  Mr Monks gave in. He was still onto a good thing, and he knew it.

  Maggie, who had heard most of the doorstep conversation, stared at Mr Bates when he returned to the kitchen and placed a piece of paper on the table.

  ‘That shows you’re settled up with Shylock,’ he said.

  ‘You gave ’im six pounds,’ she breathed.

  ‘Well, I’m fortunately in funds, Mrs Wilson. My kind of engineering pays a bit ’andsome sometimes.’

  ‘But now I owe you instead of Mr Monks.’

  ‘Well, there’s no hurry to pay me back,’ said Mr Bates, good-humoured again. ‘You’ve been up against all that hard luck, but hard luck don’t last for ever. You can pay me a bit now and again when you’re in funds yerself.’

  ‘Lord, I don’t know what to say,’ said Maggie. There was enormous relief at having Mr Monks off her back, but embarrassment at being beholden to a man she’d only met yesterday. ‘I’m that uncomf’table about it.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Wilson,’ said Mr Bates, his breezy smile arriving. ‘If I can’t do a good turn to a woman that’s givin’ me good lodgings and ‘ospitality, then I’m not much of a friend. You look at it like that, Mrs Wilson, that I’m a friend. Right, now give me that bag of laundry and I’ll see to it.’

  He took the bag, leaving Maggie with the feeling that she’d been gently steamrollered. He whistled on his way to the laundry.

  CHAPTER NINE

  At Rodney Road police station, Nicholas’s first port of call that morning, he was waiting for Inspector Greaves, having notified him by telephone that the identity of the murdered woman was known. Her landlady had turned up at the station to volunteer the information. When Inspector Greaves arrived, a story unfolded.

  Mrs Barker, the landlady, had spent from Friday to Sunday night at her sister’s home in Leigh-on-Sea. When she got back to her own home in the New Kent Road and found her lodger not there, she simply assumed she’d gone out for the evening. This morning, however, finding her still missing and her bed not slept in, she put two and two together by thinking about that description in the newspaper. She had a terrible moment of realization. The poor young woman’s name was Mabel Shipman, her age twenty-six. Unmarried. She didn’t have a job, but she always payed her rent prompt. She behaved nice and went out most evenings. Up West mostly, she always said, where she could always get a few hours work behind a bar, especially theatre bars. She often didn’t get home till midnight. No, she didn’t have any gentlemen callers, ever. She dressed nice and respectable, and didn’t paint her face. What she was doing in Steedman Street on Friday night, Mrs Barker couldn’t say, as it wasn’t on her way home from up West, was it?

  As for friends, the landlady had only ever met one, Linda Jennings, who
often visited Miss Shipman on Sundays. She lived in Heygate Street, off Walworth Road. You could hear the two of them laughing and joking a lot. Miss Jennings dressed respectable too.

  What about Miss Shipman’s family? No, the landlady didn’t know any of Miss Shipman’s family. Miss Shipman only ever said her parents were dead, and that was why she was on her own. Didn’t she have a steady young man? Mrs Barker said not that she knew of. There just didn’t seem any gentlemen in her life.

  Having repeated herself at length, Mrs Barker was asked by Inspector Greaves if she would go with a detective-sergeant and formally identify the body. Mrs Barker said she wasn’t very keen on looking at dead people, specially ones dead by murder, but if it was her duty, well, she’d go. That left Inspector Greaves to point out to Nicholas that Miss Shipman’s close friend, Linda Jennings, hadn’t come forward, although the Saturday and Sunday newspapers had all carried descriptions of the victim, and her clothing. Perhaps Miss Jennings, like the landlady, had been away for the weekend. Perhaps.

  ‘And perhaps Miss Shipman didn’t go up West on Friday night,’ said Nicholas. ‘Perhaps she never went up as often as Mrs Barker thought.’

  ‘Prostitute?’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Possible. No job, but out late most nights and paid the rent promptly.’

  The Inspector pondered. A burly man, born in Bermondsey, he had come up from the ranks and was a policeman of experience and method.

  ‘Not on the streets, no,’ he said, ‘or she’d have been known to the uniformed branch, and probably had convictions.’

  ‘Could she have made appointments, sir?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Could have. Some do.’

  ‘She didn’t use her lodgings, that’s obvious,’ said Nicholas. ‘Assuming she met men in respectable surroundings in the West End, we could also assume she arranged to visit them at convenient addresses. There’d have been no problems with bachelors living alone, and any well-off married men might have had the use of town flats.’

  ‘What you’re pointin’ at, my son, is a needle in a ’aystack,’ said the Inspector testily.

  ‘Yes, looks like it,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but what else have we got at the moment?’