The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  Maggie said, ‘Mr Bates, that can’t be my laundered washin’, you only took it this mornin’ and they don’t do full laundering the same day.’

  ‘I found a silver coin that wasn’t doin’ anything special except sitting in me pocket,’ said Mr Bates, ‘and crossed a palm with it. Hello, is that young Daisy down there? And Trary up ’ere? And is this yer young man, Trary?’

  ‘That’s Bobby Reeves, a fam’ly friend,’ said Maggie. ‘Mr Bates, now I owe you for a full laundry on top of – oh, lor’, it’s kind of you but you shouldn’t do it.’

  ‘It’s best you don’t, Mr Bates,’ said Trary.

  ‘Couldn’t help meself,’ said Mr Bates, ‘and I’d be pleased if you’d just regard it as a token of rightful thanks for Sunday tea yesterday, Mrs Wilson. Let me cart it in for you.’ He carried the parcels into the house, whistling.

  Maggie looked at Trary. ‘His ’eart’s in the right place, love.’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t want to be beholden to wherever his heart is,’ said Trary.

  ‘Well, I’ll push off,’ said Bobby, ‘and I’ll start lookin’ after you next week, Trary.’

  ‘Honestly, Mum, that boy,’ said Trary, ‘you can hardly believe what he’s talkin’ about most of the time, and nor can’t you understand what he’s saying the rest of the time. Imagine him tellin’ me I’m too young to come home from school on me own. I never met anyone dafter, not in all my life.’

  ‘I heard all that,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Oh, you still here?’ said Trary.

  ‘I’ll be all right in a minute, Mrs Wilson,’ said Bobby. ‘I’ll be on me way then, but right now I’m just faint with admiration for Trary’s talk. You’ve got a one and only oldest daughter, Mrs Wilson, did yer know that?’

  ‘Just about,’ smiled Maggie. ‘You’re a funny young man, Bobby.’

  ‘Yes, I mean to look after yer little girl Trary, Mrs Wilson, I’m the right age, thankfully.’

  Trary, hand over her mouth, rushed indoors.

  During the following days, Mr Bates proved himself much more welcome as a lodger than the odious Mr Hooper. He had, by sheer force of personality, divorced Maggie from the worrying clutches of Mr Monks. He accepted that he should not, however, have taken it upon himself to deal with her Monday washing in the way he had. He placed a restraint on his expansiveness and his readiness to dig into his pocket on her account. His breezy friendliness did not diminish, nor his willingness to be a help, but by becoming less intrusive he became a much more acceptable presence in the house. Maggie liked to be friendly, she did not like being embarrassed. Nor was she a simpleton. She knew that many of Walworth’s widows needed lodgers to help with the income, and she knew too that some lodgers were only too pleased to pay an increased rent for certain extra comforts that they persuaded the handsomer widows to provide. If her mirror frequently told her the hollows in her face needed to fill out a little, it also told her she had not yet become unattractive. And she could still take pride in her figure. Not that Mr Bates, an obvious man of the world, was already making advances. He remained a cheerful man who showed admiration for the way she had fought hardship, and with that admiration was perceptible respect. His admiration did not displease her. But she was not the kind of woman to encourage an affair, not as the mother of four growing girls, and not in any case. Maggie believed in marriage or nothing.

  Daisy, Lily and Meg responded to their new lodger. Trary remained cool, and it pleased her that he was out most of each day, in the City, and not at home making up to her mum. She wished Mr Bradshaw would call, just to ask her mum how she was.

  Another study of the street map convinced Nicholas that Mabel Shipman, assumed to have visited a client on Friday night, had done so in a house off the west side of Walworth Road, and not too far from Steedman Street, the scene of the murder. Had her appointment taken her farther abroad, she would have travelled by tram back to the Elephant and Castle to reach her lodgings in the New Kent Road. And had the house been in any of the streets east of the Walworth Road, she would have gone nowhere near Steedman Street on her return to her lodgings. No, that house had to be in one of the streets on the west side.

  He and Chapman spent days knocking on doors. The uniformed branch helped in the matter of knocking on those doors that remained closed to Chamberlain and Chapman because all occupants were out at the time. Nothing positive had happened yet.

  Linda Jennings did not escape Inspector Greaves, who ordered Nicholas not to complete any statement for her signature for the time being. He gave Linda a nervous time. He was the complete, searching professional, with a ponderously methodical approach. Yet he got no more from her than Nicholas had. He turned fatherly and asked for her co-operation. Linda in return asked for protection if ever she had to appear in the witness box, for the sake of her mum and dad. Inspector Greaves promised he would speak to the defence counsel in the event of the man being caught and tried. Linda accordingly agreed to accompany him and a detective-sergeant to West End theatres at night, to look during intervals at the faces of men in the bars, and to point out any whom she knew as gentlemen friends of Mabel Shipman. But she did, of course, ask why he didn’t make use of Mabel’s notebook and its addresses. Inspector Greaves cast complications over that tactic, and proceeded to follow his own line, with Linda’s help. During the course of four successive evenings, Linda alighted on only one known man, a man thoroughly disgusted at being questioned and able to supply a cast-iron alibi.

  It was Friday. Trary answered a knock on the door. She had just got home from school. Constable Bradshaw smiled at her from the doorstep.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bradshaw, sir, ’ow nice to see you,’ she said, dropping an aitch.

  ‘Much nicer to see you,’ said Harry.

  ‘You’re just sayin’ that,’ said Trary. ‘D’you want to see mum?’

  ‘Well, I just thought I’d come and ask how you all were, Trary. How’s your new lodger?’

  ‘Oh, him,’ said Trary.

  ‘Something wrong with him?’ asked Harry, instinctively the policeman.

  ‘Well, not really, I suppose, he’s better than our previous lodger. You’re goin’ to come in an’ say hello to mum, aren’t you? She just happens to have the kettle on.’

  ‘I’m on duty,’ said Harry, ‘but as it’s traditional, a cup of tea for a passin’ copper, I’ll step in.’

  They were all in the kitchen, the girls and Maggie, and about to have the cup of tea Maggie always provided when they came home from school. The girls were delighted to see Harry, and Daisy offered to stand on her head for him. She’d accomplished that trick recently. Maggie, pleased that Harry had stepped in, informed Daisy that she wasn’t to perform any of those larks with a visitor present. Daisy looked mystified.

  ‘But I’m best of all the girls in our class,’ she said, ‘and I’m only little.’

  ‘Mum means she don’t want you showin’ yer drawers,’ said Lily.

  ‘But they won’t come down,’ protested Daisy.

  ‘You can’t show yer drawers when mister’s ’ere,’ said Lily.

  Harry coughed. ‘Everything all right, Mrs Wilson, apart from Daisy wantin’ to stand on her head?’

  ‘I’ll give ’er stand on her head,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Daisy, ‘I ain’t even done it yet.’

  ‘Sugar in your tea, Mr Bradshaw?’ said Maggie, smiling.

  ‘If it’s – ’

  ‘Oh, we’ve got some now,’ said Maggie, ‘due to the kind Salvation Army or someone.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Trary, ‘and that boy Bobby Reeves, who brought it all in a box on his head, did you know what a terrible talkin’ boy he is? He came and walked me home from school last Monday, and I never had a more tryin’ time in all my life.’

  ‘’E kisses ’er,’ said Lily, hands around her cup, head bent to it.

  ‘That’s ever so tryin’, gettin’ kisses,’ said Meg.

  ‘He’s got a hope,’ said Trary.

  ‘S
he blushes,’ said Meg.

  ‘I am not in the habit of blushin’,’ said Trary, her well-known aloof air raising a smile in Maggie.

  ‘I like kisses,’ said Lily, ‘only I ain’t ’ad none yet. Except from me mum.’

  ‘Trary, is kissin’ wiv a boy nice?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘I don’t do kissin’ with daft boys,’ said Trary.

  Daisy cast a glance at Harry. He winked. She giggled. She whispered to Lily. Lily looked at Harry, then whispered back.

  ‘I know what you two are sayin’,’ said Maggie. ‘They’ve got their eye on you, Mr Bradshaw.’

  ‘Do policemen kiss, mister?’ asked Meg.

  ‘Not each other,’ said Harry, at which Daisy and Lily spilled giggles into their cups.

  The girls talked, mainly to Harry, and Trary thought it was nice how he talked back to them, making himself at home with everyone in a different way from Mr Bates, who was, well, sort of overpowering. No-one asked him if the police had caught the man who had murdered a young woman. Maggie never talked about it to her girls, and so her younger girls never even thought about it.

  Harry stayed only a short time. He was far too sensible to linger, and he was on duty, in any case. Maggie said it had been nice of him to call to see how they all were, and she thanked him again for the Salvation Army gift, doing so in a way that suggested she knew who the real donor was. But she didn’t say come again, which was a grievous blow to Trary.

  Frank Chapman, tired out after a long day’s stint, went home at eight o’clock. Nicholas walked to King and Queen Street in the fading light of the evening. He knew Walworth well, and its teeming streets, the playgrounds of lively boys and girls, and of young scallywags and ragamuffins. They were becoming a jumble in his mind, those streets. How many doors were he and Chapman going to knock on before they found the right one? A thousand? Two thousand? He was here in Walworth somewhere, the man who had taken Mabel Shipman’s life and her handbag. Nicholas was positive about that, his feeling was deep-rooted.

  Browning Street had been swept, so had King and Queen Street, the gutters washed by the ever-active water-carts. A man in his shirt sleeves was painting the window frames of his house. The people as well as the corporation fought a constant battle to defy the soot of Walworth. London as a whole deserved some invention that would put an end to the effects of soot.

  Nicholas permitted himself the ghost of a smile and turned a blind eye to the antics of two urchins playing ‘Knocking Down Ginger’. That was a game loved by all Walworth urchins. They knocked on a door to arouse the occupants, then ran like mad so that the hoodwinked resident found an empty doorstep.

  In King and Queen Street, he knocked on a door himself. Opposite, an elderly woman at an upstairs window was interesting herself, as many old people did, in the passing scene. After a few moments, Emma opened her front door. A neat eyebrow went up.

  ‘Again?’ she said, an immaculate picture in a lacy, high-necked pale grey blouse and a dark grey skirt.

  ‘Once more into the breach,’ said Nicholas, making an informal opening.

  ‘Dear friend?’ said Emma. ‘Or am I the horsed French about to be heavily unhorsed?’

  ‘I’m not too well up with Shakespeare,’ said Nicholas. ‘I just know a few quotations. They don’t include knocking you off your horse.’

  ‘Really?’ Emma smiled. ‘Never mind. And never mind the curiosity of Mrs Duncalfe over the way, either. Please come in.’ Nicholas entered, taking his hat off. She closed the door. ‘I’m resigned to being talked about. I don’t know what you’re here for, but do sit down. You’re on duty, of course, but would you like a cup of tea? I excel in making tea. I’d like to excel in painting or music, but my gifts are dull and domestic.’

  ‘You’re also entertaining,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Entertaining? What can you mean? I don’t dance, you know, or swing on a trapeze, or recite Victorian ghost stories.’

  ‘You’re still entertaining, and yes, I fancy a cup of tea, thanks.’

  ‘You’re really quite a human policeman, Sergeant Chamberlain. Well, do help yourself to a chair, and throw your hat somewhere while I go and excel in the kitchen. Over the pot of tea, you can tell me why you’re here, if I’m under suspicion and when I’m to be handcuffed.’

  She disappeared, leaving Nicholas with a grin on his face. He saw an open book, placed face down on the arm of her chair. The lettering on the spine was visible. The Subjection Of Women by John Stuart Mill. He had heard of John Stuart Mill, but had never read him. Politicians quoted him when they were talking about the country’s economic problems. He sounded like hard going to Nicholas.

  He sat down. He thought about Linda Jennings. Only today, Inspector Greaves had been gruffly favourable about her. What could be done for her? Get her a job, said Nicholas. With Laverys, the big bookmakers. Then, if there was a trial, she’d be a witness with a steady job, and could say she’d done that kind of work for years. Might still not save her when defence counsel gets to work on her, said the Inspector, but see to it, it’s your chestnut.

  Nicholas thought too about the man who had told Mabel Shipman that her golden hair made him feel he had the sun in his eyes. He thought about Steedman Street and Miss Shipman walking home on a drizzly night, a man silently following. A compulsive killer? Or the man she had been with, a man with a queer fixation concerning her hair and a need to get hold of her notebook? Yes, that was the one. And he had to reside in the locality. And did his queer fixation put other women in danger?

  ‘Sergeant Chamberlain?’

  He came to. ‘Sorry, I almost dropped off.’

  ‘Yes, and it made you look like one of us,’ said Emma, placing the tea tray on the small table. She seated herself.

  ‘Who’s us?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Oh, just the ordinary people,’ said Emma, filling the cups. ‘You’ve had a long day?’ she said, passing him his tea.

  ‘A plodding one. Thanks for the reviver.’

  ‘A biscuit?’ She offered the tin. He took two. ‘How complimentary. Now, why are you here?’

  ‘I interviewed a friend of Miss Shipman earlier this week.’

  ‘Miss Shipman?’

  ‘Mabel Shipman. The victim. Her friend said one or two things that convinced me the murderer does have a dangerous fondness for women with fair hair like yours.’

  ‘Sergeant Chamberlain, really.’ Emma shook her head at him. ‘I’m self-educated to some extent, not having had a brilliant education and leaving school at the age of fourteen, but even I can see it’s absurd for you to think I’m in any more danger than a thousand other women. Also, you can’t possibly know that the man in question is planning a series of similar murders. He may simply have had his own kind of motive for killing poor Mabel Shipman. Isn’t it true that many victims are known to their murderers? Did Mabel Shipman know this man? Am I allowed to ask that question, and are you allowed to answer it? There, look at those biscuits, still untouched. You’re spoiling my faith in them.’

  ‘I lost track of them,’ said Nicholas, and ate them both. ‘Are there any more?’

  Emma laughed. ‘You’re bluffing,’ she said, but offered the tin. He took another two. ‘How kind,’ she said. ‘Did Mabel Shipman know this man?’

  ‘We think so, but without knowing him ourselves.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ said Emma crisply. ‘Was he a friend, I wonder? No, he could hardly have been that, could he?’

  ‘He was a man she visited,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Visited?’

  ‘That’s my belief.’

  ‘Visited?’ said Emma again. ‘Oh, I see. Poor soul. Life takes very unhappy turns for some of us, doesn’t it?’

  ‘For women?’ said Nicholas, thinking of what had happened to his endearing young wife. ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Men have a lot to answer for,’ said Emma, but not without a smile. ‘I really don’t know why I’m weak enough to give you tea and biscuits. It’s like inviting in the Trojan hor
se and feeding it. Woe to women who are as weak as that.’

  It was Nicholas’s turn to smile. ‘Don’t you know the women of Walworth are all as tough as old boots?’

  ‘Oh, I’m one of them, am I?’ said Emma, and Nicholas had a strange little feeling that ground was shifting beneath his feet, and not simply because she had such an engaging sense of humour. ‘Incidentally, Sergeant Chamberlain, are you conducting all your enquiries in Walworth?’

  ‘I’m conducting mine here,’ he said. ‘Inspector Greaves moves farther afield.’

  ‘I see. Have you found out much about Miss Shipman?’

  ‘I’ve found out life was damned rough on her, so in the end she decided to have fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ said Emma.

  ‘Apparently, she called it that,’ said Nicholas, ‘and apparently it was fun, to her. I’m glad it was.’

  ‘My word, how refreshing you are for a policeman,’ said Emma, beginning to like him. ‘If I’m ever arrested, I hope it’s by you. I might be able to talk you into letting me go.’

  ‘I hope to God that if you misbehave I’ll be far away,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘It would embarrass you to arrest me?’ Emma’s smile appeared again. ‘But I’m only an old boot.’

  ‘Well,’ said Nicholas, ‘the advice of a plodding copper to an old boot is don’t get yourself into a situation that calls for your arrest by anyone.’

  Emma laughed. ‘You’re becoming quite entertaining,’ she said.

  ‘Entertaining my foot,’ said Nicholas severely. ‘You’re not taking things seriously enough.’

  ‘Well, I like that,’ protested Emma. ‘I’m not the one who made a comical remark about plodding coppers and old boots.’

  ‘I want you to take care,’ said Nicholas. ‘Never mind how absurd it sounds, I’ve a feeling about this man, a feeling that won’t go away.’

  ‘Well, I shall take care, of course I will,’ said Emma.

  ‘I hope so. Now I think it’s time I went.’ Nicholas came to his feet and picked up his hat. ‘Many thanks for the tea, and the biscuits were first-class.’