The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Wilson,’ said Mr Rouse, and Maggie sat down on the far side of his desk. He seated himself, then asked her if she had the means of identifying herself. Maggie produced not only her birth and wedding certificates, but also the last letter Uncle Henry had written to her from Johannesburg. Mr Rouse expressed himself happy, then referred to the matter in hand.

  His firm had received a communication from Messrs Williams and Horst, solicitors in Johannesburg, requesting assistance in the matter of locating the niece of their late client, Mr Henry Albert Rushton. They had in their possession a document legally identifiable as his last will and testament, in which he left the whole of his estate to his beloved niece Mrs Margaret Annie Wilson.

  ‘Estate?’ said Maggie, eyelashes quivering. ‘Mr Rouse, what’s that? Does it mean a house an’ garden in South Africa?’

  Mr Rouse smiled. He saw an extremely nice-looking woman with a refreshing lack of artifice. He looked at a letter on his desk. It was a letter of some length, from the Johannesburg solicitors.

  ‘Not much of a house,’ he said. ‘No more than what South Africans would call a shack.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Maggie. ‘Oh, well, never mind, I expect it was quite comf’table, he was a one for comfy things like rockin’-chairs an’ sofas. Is that what he’s left me, a bit of a house and furniture and stuff? Imagine him thinkin’ of me like that, bless him. He was in the Army, you know, and the Boer War. I wrote to him a lot over the years. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to do anything with what he left. Is something to my advantage what I could get if they were sold? And ’ow much would I owe you if you arranged for everything to be sold?’

  ‘Mrs Wilson, would you like some tea?’

  ‘Tea?’ Maggie thought that being offered tea by a solicitor in his City office, where he must have rich clients, was very gracious. ‘Oh, I would, thank you, Mr Rouse.’

  Mr Rouse pressed a bell button. The prim-looking woman entered. ‘Miss Wetherby, would you please ask Leonard to deliver to my desk a pot of tea for two? Hot tea. Immediately, if not sooner.’

  ‘Immediately, if not sooner? Really, Mr Rouse.’ Miss Wetherby sniffed and departed. Mr Rouse smiled.

  ‘I think hot tea’s just the thing,’ he said. ‘You’re a widow, you said. With children?’

  ‘Yes, four girls.’ Maggie, all nervousness gone because Mr Rouse was so kind, opened up to add, ‘Daisy, Lily, Meg an’ Trary, and they’re all pets. I just wish I was a bit better off for their sakes.’

  ‘You look remarkably young to be the mother of four,’ said Mr Rouse.

  ‘Oh, aren’t you nice?’ said Maggie impulsively.

  ‘I’ll tell Mrs Rouse that.’

  ‘I don’t know much about solicitors, I never met one before,’ said Maggie. ‘I always thought they’d be ever so grave and solemn. Uncle Henry stayed in South Africa after he come out of the Army, that was when ’e wrote to tell me he was goin’ to make his fortune before he came home for good. Still, even if he didn’t, I expect he ’ad a rare old time tryin’, he was full of adventure. It’s sad he died, he was only in his forties, but bless ’im for thinkin’ of me.’ Maggie smiled reminiscently, and tried to imagine what his shack and his furniture and other things were like. Leonard, the office boy, a young lad with a quiff, brought the tea in, placing the tray on the desk.

  ‘It’s ’ot, Mr Rouse, like you ordered,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll get the sack if it isn’t, my boy,’ said Mr Rouse.

  Leonard grinned and disappeared. Mr Rouse poured the golden, steaming tea and placed a full cup, with its saucer, in front of Maggie. He offered her the sugar bowl. Maggie helped herself to a little. ‘Thanks ever so much,’ she said. Mr Rouse smiled, noting there was no suggestion of avid interest about her. She simply seemed intrigued. She sipped her tea. It was piping hot, as she liked it. ‘But I really can’t ’elp feelin’ sad about Uncle Henry, he enjoyed life, even if he never had much. What did he die of, does it say in the letter?’

  ‘A fever, apparently,’ said Mr Rouse. ‘Mrs Wilson, you said you wished you were a little better off for the sake of your daughters. I think you will be. Well, you’ll at least be richer than you are now. Five and a half thousand pounds richer. Approximately. That is, give or take a pound or two.’

  Maggie put her cup back in its saucer before her shaking hand dropped it. She stared in huge-eyed incredulity at Mr Rouse, a paternal man. ‘How much?’ she gasped. Something to her advantage had made her think in terms of, say, a hundred pounds. ‘How much?’

  ‘Five and a half thousand pounds.’

  ‘You’re jokin’. Mr Rouse, you’re jokin’.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Mr Rouse, it’s a terrifyin’ lot of money. I wouldn’t mind five hundred pounds, but five and a ’alf thousand. Oh, ’eaven preserve me.’

  ‘Your uncle has done his best in that respect, Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘It’s a fortune,’ breathed Maggie. ‘Oh, he did it, after all, he did make ’is fortune, only ’e didn’t live to enjoy it. Mr Rouse, I honestly don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’. You sure you said the right amount?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ smiled Mr Rouse, delighted for this pleasant and wholly unaffected widow with four children. He glanced at the letter. ‘Actually, I think your uncle expected it to be far more. He opened up a diamond mine, you see, not long before he died. After his death, his Johannesburg solicitors had this new mine investigated by experts. The vein, apparently, was brief. Nevertheless, it means five and a half thousand pounds for you. Messrs Williams and Horst contacted us because they were concerned at not hearing from you or about you. The will was handed to them for execution by a friend of your uncle’s, a man who was with him when he died.’ Again Mr Rouse referred to the letter. ‘Your address wasn’t known, and couldn’t be found among your uncle’s effects, and his friend, a Mr Jeremy Bates, offered—’

  ‘Who?’ Maggie stared. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Jeremy Bates. He offered to come to England to find you. That was over four months ago. He’s a mining engineer, but he seems to have dropped out of sight or given up, without advising Williams and Horst. Certainly, they’ve heard nothing from him. That was why they contacted us. They knew only that you lived in South London. That information they received from Mr Bates.’

  Mr Bates knew more than that, thought Maggie. He knew exactly where she’d been living. ‘Well, I never,’ she said calmly, ‘a Mr Jeremy Bates.’

  ‘Yes. I imagine he lost interest. We’d have put a special investigator onto the task of finding you if our notice in the Press hadn’t been answered. I’m delighted you saw it and came to us at once. I’ll be cabling Johannesburg. You can, of course, arrange for a solicitor of your own choice to handle all necessary matters for you, perhaps a solicitor near your home.’

  ‘Mr Rouse, could you please ’andle everything?’

  ‘With great pleasure, Mrs Wilson. Are you perhaps—’ Mr Rouse stopped. ‘H’m,’ he said.

  ‘Am I what, Mr Rouse?’ asked Maggie, thinking of Mr Bates, and thinking too of Harry, and how glad she was that she could give Mr Bates his answer.

  ‘If, perhaps, you are in need of a small advance – you have four children – a widow’s circumstances can be very strained – expenses and so on—’

  ‘Mr Rouse, you’re a very kind gentleman,’ said Maggie. ‘I’ve been blessed lately, meetin’ kind gentlemen.’

  ‘We shall be very happy to advance you fifty pounds – a hundred?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Maggie, ‘I can buy whole new outfits for the girls. Thank you, Mr Rouse, fifty pounds would be like magic. Bless you.’

  Mr Rouse smiled. She was a cockney, of course, and quite charming. ‘You’re very welcome, Mrs Wilson. Now, there are a few formalities.’ He outlined them. Maggie, head in the clouds, hardly took them in. She signed two papers, one concerning herself as the sole beneficiary and another in respect of the advance of fifty pounds. That done, she talked to Mr Rouse f
or a little while longer.

  Nicholas and Chapman were getting no joy from a hopeful interview with Mr Rodney Foster, who was renting rooms on the top floor of a three-storeyed house in Dartford. The man had been cocky and insolent by turn, laughing at the very idea that his old friend, Jerry Bates, could be a possible suspect in a murder case.

  ‘Yer off yer chump, sergeant. I got to say that. No disrespect intended. He was here all that day and all that night. You see me, don’t yer, standin’ here livin’ and breathin’? You hear me sayin’ it, don’t yer?’ He had a twangy accent and a weasel look, his nose pointed, his eyes beady and his grin a mile wide. It was a grin to ensnare the rabbits of the world.

  ‘What’s your job, Mr Foster?’

  ‘Don’t have one, not right now. Just come back from Down Under, and I’m not on me uppers. I’ve got a few quid.’

  He had a tanned faced. So did Mr Jerry Bates.

  ‘Did you and Mr Bates come home from Australia together?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘What’s that to do with you?’

  ‘It’s just a question,’ said Nicholas, wholly distrusting the man, and still sure that his friend, Mr Bates, was too good to be true. All the same, how did that relate to perverted murder? It didn’t relate at all, and Nicholas felt himself to be chasing shadows out of sheer hope. And against the Inspector’s strict instructions.

  ‘Listen, sergeant,’ said Mr Rodney Foster, ‘I know me legal rights, I know what’s legal and what ain’t. Still, you’re still wonderin’ why I don’t have a job, and as I daresay you’re lookin’ for promotion, I’ll tell yer. I’m livin’ on me savings, for the time being. I haven’t chucked me acquired oof away on wine, women an’ song, yer know. I’m careful, I am. You got to be if you don’t want to end up in a flamin’ workhouse. Me in a workhouse at my tender age? No wonder you’re laughin’.’

  ‘I’m not. Actually, Mr Foster, I’m a bit fed-up.’

  ‘That’s your hard luck’, said Mr Foster. ‘Listen, you’re wastin’ your time. Jerry’s a minin’ engineer and a good ’un. I’ve given him a hand on some of his jobs out there.’

  ‘Out there?’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Out there.’

  ‘Australia. I’m what yer might call a freelance, and a Jack of all trades. Willin’ to turn me hand to anything.’

  ‘Anything?’ said Chapman.

  ‘Give over, sunshine,’ said Mr Foster, ‘do I look like a bloke that’s aided and abetted? I got mitts that are as clean as yours. You’ll want to know about me medical afflictions next, which I don’t have, bein’ healthy and undiseased. Turn it up, gents, you’ve got me sworn testimony that Jerry Bates was here with me that Friday night. Don’t wear me out, or I might call a solicitor.’

  It was a hopeless exercise, another shot in the dark gone wide of the mark. ‘Sorry you’ve come near to being worn out, Mr Foster,’ said Nicholas, ‘but thanks for your co-operation.’

  He and Chapman left, Chapman muttering about more wasted time. Nicholas turned his mind on better things. Lately, better things all ended up as Mrs Emma Carter. Lovely woman, really. No wonder she had a special friend. Bound to be a man who supported the suffragettes. Time the Government gave women the vote. Better that than having them burn down the Houses of Parliament. Or Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard in flames. Inspector Greaves wouldn’t like that.

  ‘What’s funny?’ asked Chapman.

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘You’re smilin’. Buggered if I can see why.’

  ‘You’re right, Frank. We’ve got a sod of a case.’

  Resumed house-to-house enquires were taking time. Walworth was to be covered from its main road west to Kennington Park Road, and from the Elephant and Castle south to Ruskin Street, Camberwell. It meant second calls on most of the houses in this area, and a more thorough detailing of adult male residents.

  In Amelia Street, a woman opened her front door in answer to a knock and found two CID men wanting to talk to her. They were both detective-constables.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Stephens,’ said one. ‘You are Mrs Stephens?’

  ‘Yes, but what d’you want?’ she asked.

  He consulted a notebook. ‘It’s just you and your husband who live here, Mrs Stephens?’

  ‘Yes, just him and me.’ Mrs Stephens looked worried. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re continuing enquiries concerning – ’

  ‘But I had a policeman call ages ago, about if we had a lodger, which I told him we don’t.’

  ‘Yes, I see you don’t,’ said the CID man, tapping the notebook. ‘Is your husband in?’

  ‘Now why would he be in this time of day, when he’s at work?’ asked Mrs Stephens, hands fluttering over her apron.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Old?’

  ‘Yes, what’s his age?’

  ‘Thirty-eight, but I don’t see as how – ’

  ‘Thirty-eight. Fine.’ The constable was friendly. He consulted the notebook again. ‘He’s fairly tall, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, fairly.’

  ‘Good build too?’

  ‘Yes, but what you askin’ for? I told the policeman all about him before, my husband said I did right.’

  ‘Yes, but this time we want to be absolutely sure about men we can cross off our list, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so.’ Mrs Stephens still looked worried. ‘But anyway, there’s his bad back.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Another look at the notes. ‘He doesn’t go out much in the evenings.’

  ‘No, he likes a rest of an evening, and so would anyone with his back.’

  ‘It’s pretty bad?’

  ‘Well, he’s had to go to the doctor with it. Dr Fuller in Walworth Road.’

  ‘He’s not much of a runner, then, eh?’

  ‘Runner?’ Fluttery hands vied with indignant voice. ‘Well, he can walk, he does walkin’ day in day out at his job, but if he did any runnin’, he’d cripple himself. He puts up with it very courageous, and cheerful too, considering it’s hard for him to do things like other men – ’ Mrs Stephens stopped and fluttered into faint colour.

  ‘What’s his job?’ asked the CID man tactfully.

  ‘He works for the gas company, readin’ meters and collectin’ the pennies. His bag gets weighty, I don’t know how he manages, but he hardly ever grumbles. I wish they’d give him a sittin’-down job.’

  ‘Don’t wish that, Mrs Stephens, sitting down all day’s not the best cure for a bad back. Anyway, it keeps him indoors, does it?’

  ‘He don’t go out in the evenings, but he comes for a walk with me to the shops sometimes, and to the market Saturday afternoons. I go out once a week myself, to see my mother. I like havin’ him home in the evenings, he’s good company, I just wish he didn’t have a sufferin’ back. He’s had medicine from the doctor, which eases the ache a bit, but – ’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Stephens, that’s all. It’s just been routine. Not to worry. Goodbye now.’

  When she told her husband about the CID men that evening, he was hardly surprised. ‘Yes, they’re still going the rounds, Maudie, they’re still after the geezer they call the Strangler.’

  ‘Yes, but fancy askin’ questions about you, Herby, when I told the police constable before all he wanted to know.’

  ‘No good looking at it like that, y’know, Maudie. If they don’t do their job properly, if they don’t keep askin’ questions, they’ll never find the man.’

  ‘Herby, when I told them about your back, they said a sittin’-down job wouldn’t do it much good.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it? That’s not what the doctor said. Anyway, if they call again, tell them to come back when I’m at home.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re goin’ to call again. Still, I worried a bit.’

  ‘You worry too much, Maudie. What’s for supper?’

  ‘Time you got it settled,’ said Mr Rodney Foster that evening. He was in a West End pub with Mr Bates.

  ‘Liste
n, it’s only been a few weeks,’ said Mr Bates. ‘How many times have I told yer you’ve got to lay the ground first, and walk careful on it?’

  ‘All the time you’re walkin’ careful, you’re spendin’ my money. I financed you all the way. So get it over with, church the lady, an’ quick. I’ve got a signed piece of paper, Jerry, and it’ll hang yer if you don’t come up with the goods.’

  ‘I don’t fancy gettin’ hanged, so stop sweatin’. You’ll get yer dues.’

  ‘I better ’ad. Two-fifty expenses and ten grand on me investment. You owe me, mate, so inform me on the church date, as soon as you got it fixed,’ said Mr Foster. ‘Also, me lovin’ friend, don’t forget that if the worth of that mine tops a quarter of a million, I’m due for another twenty thousand.’

  ‘Your round,’ said Mr Bates cheerfully.

  ‘They’re all my rounds,’ said Mr Foster acidly. ‘But I’ll say this much, I’m doin’ it with a good heart and with confidence in yer, Jerry. You’re a ladies’ man right up to yer handsome eyebrows.’

  ‘It ain’t goin’ to waste, Roddy, not this time,’ said Mr Bates.

  ‘Well, after you’ve pushed the next pint down, get yourself back to Walworth and find out if yer good-lookin’ diamond mine has made up her mind. I’d like to collect me earned dues and go for a cruise. I’m buggered if I’m in favour of havin’ any more pie-eyed coppers knockin’ me up on account of not likin’ the look of you.’

  ‘I’m not responsible for them ’aving all their brains in their flat feet,’ said Mr Bates, and grinned hugely.

  Maggie played her cards with a cool flourish when her lodger came into the house late that evening. So far she had said nothing to anybody, not even to her girls. She wanted first to settle the issue with Mr Bates, and then open her heart to her family.