by Carol Hedges
Mrs Witchard sets a pot of water on the hob to boil.
“Hurry up with those spuds, girl,” she orders. The Foundling, whose hands are numb and blue with cold, scrapes even faster.
Upstairs on the third floor, Mrs Witchard’s lodger sits in a bentwood chair and studies the dentition of the mastodon. Soon he has an exam in this very important subject, followed by another in botany, both subjects considered vital to his future career.
Faint odours of unpleasant cooking emanate from downstairs. They remind him that he has not eaten all day. He will need to get a meal inside him, even if it is only the vile slop he gets served here, before he meets up with the others. Drinking on an empty stomach is not advisable. Last time he tried, he ended up spewing the entire liquid contents of the evening into a gutter. Quite apart from the disgrace, it was a complete waste of money.
He closes the textbook and leans back. Tonight, he is going to go out and get very drunk, and everything will be normal and nobody will notice anything. It always surprises him, the way he can move through the night streets unnoticed, as if he is wearing a cloak of invisibility. By rights, he should have a black aura, or a chill – maybe even the stench of decay – radiating off him.
****
The Mother’s Arms ably fills the description of ‘local watering hole’. It is off the beaten track, being reached by a back lane, it has a scruffy, run-down appearance, and the landlord (allegedly) waters the beer.
Tonight, the regular clientele is augmented by an extra two: Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully. Their presence is creating tension amongst the regulars, who sit hunched at their tables, noses buried in their drinks.
Despite wearing ordinary clothes and originating from the same class as many of the clientele, there is an indefinable air of difference about the two newcomers, and the male drinkers (it is largely men at this time of night) sense it. There is a space around the table where Stride and Cully are sitting. You cannot physically see it, but everybody knows it is there.
The atmosphere is such that Stride and Cully are reduced to speaking in low whispers, as every time they open their mouths the rest of the drinkers fall silent and appear to be leaning in to hear what is being said.
“Spoke to the landlord earlier,” Stride murmurs, his eyes flicking to the powerfully-built man behind the bar, who eyes him back hostilely. “Usual response.”
“Seen nothing, knows nothing, saying nothing?”
Stride nods gloomily.
“The newspapers are having a field day. Did you see the evening headlines? ‘Slasher Strikes Again’. I hate it when they start giving the bastards a nickname. Just makes them seem more important.”
Cully takes a sup from his glass.
Stride pulls a crumpled edition of The Inquirer from his back pocket, flattens it and reads aloud: ‘The murderer must be a perfect savage to inflict such dreadful mutilation on three defenceless women in such a way!’
He pauses, looks around. Meets people’s eyes briefly before they glance off awkwardly. He makes a big deal about folding the paper, then rises to his feet.
“Well, no point hanging around any longer.”
He picks up his half-full glass and goes to the bar.
“And this beer tastes watered.”
He heads for the door.
“We can only hope no more innocent young women fall victim tonight,” he says meaningfully over his shoulder.
At which point the door is flung open from the outside and a group of very drunk young men topple into the bar. Laughing and waving cigars, they barge Stride and Cully out of the way, shouting to the landlord to set up the drinks. It is clear from his response that they are no strangers to the hostelry.
A second later, another reveller staggers through the door. He stands on the threshold, swaying, his eyes dark and unfocussed, his face corpse-white in the flickering uncertain lamplight. He seems barely aware of his surroundings.
His companions roar with laughter and grab hold of his arms, hauling him to the bar. Two hold him fast while a third pours drink down his helpless throat. Everybody starts counting down as coughing and spluttering, the man retches and spews.
Stride observes their antics sourly.
“Come on Jack, we’re not going to find our man in here.”
Muttering “Bloody students,” he thrusts open the door and walks out into the dark, unlit lane. A few seconds later, Cully joins him.
****
It is a fine sunny Spring day and here is Portia Mullygrub, daughter of the celebrated female philanthropist Mrs Eustacia Mullygrub, out enjoying it. Or rather, here is Portia marching briskly along the street with a determined expression and a full perambulator.
Street vendors, pedestrians and sandwich-board men step aside at her purposeful approach. Itinerant musicians fall silent. Small child-beggars regard her open-mouthed as she sweeps by, chin in the air. Every now and then the perambulator’s wheels hit a bump, causing the occupants to utter squeaks of protest.
They are ignored.
Across the road she goes, and enters St James’s Park. Leaves rustle greenly above her head. Flowers lift their petalled faces to the sunshine. Cows and sheep graze upon the lush grass. It is an idyllic scene.
Portia and perambulator approach a bench by the lake. Someone is already sitting on it. They glance round at her approach. Portia applies the brake, lifts out the small Mullygrubs and places them upon the grass, where, uttering shrill cries of delight, they set off in pursuit of the hapless ducks.
“Well, here we are,” she says, by way of greeting, to the occupant of the bench. “How green everything is. I dare say you are glad to escape from all the clever things you do, like mathematics, and embroidering firescreens, and speaking French, and playing the pianoforte.”
She bites one of her bonnet strings.
“It must be wonderful to be educated. I can’t do any of those clever things, of course. I can only write letters for Ma and keep house. I wonder you are not ashamed to be seen in public with me, I do really.”
Hyacinth Clout (for it is indeed she) is about to respond when there is a splash. A small Mullygrub has fallen in the lake. They both jump up and rescue it. When order is restored, and the miscreant has been sat in a sunny patch to dry, they resume their seats.
“Ma is attending a meeting of the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country, so I expect there will be a lot of letter-writing to do when she returns,” Portia remarks gloomily.
She begins feasting upon a new part of her bonnet string.
“Sometimes I think I shall never enjoy a normal life,” she continues, and Hyacinth, who has so far been unable to get a word in edgeways, sees tears in her eyes. “And all I want is to have a nice home and a nice husband to share it with. But it is clear that is never going to happen in the near future. Or even in the far distant future either.”
“Perhaps you will get married one day,” Hyacinth ventures.
“I don’t see how. I have been engaged for two years now, but what with the letters, and Pa, and the house to run, and the meals to get, and the children to mind, I cannot see how it is to be brought about.”
“You are engaged?”
Portia sighs.
“I am, Miss Clout. His name is Trafalgar Moggs and if you were to meet him, you would think him the nicest man in the world. I’m sure I do. He is office manager for King & Co.” She leans forward confidentially. “The business is actually owned by a young woman who inherited it, but Traffy runs it for her.”
Hyacinth’s eyes widen.
“A woman in business? How can that be?”
“Her uncle left it to her in his Will,” Portia tells her. “Traffy has been instructing her in the ways of business. He says that if a Queen can run a country, why can’t a woman run a company?”
“That is ... very modern.”
“I think so, and it is exactly how he is.”
She stares moodily across the lake.
“I hope with all my heart that you will be able to marry him soon,” Hyacinth says.
Portia gives her a rare smile, showing how pretty she is.
“Thank you, Miss Clout. That means a great deal.”
They sit in silence for a while admiring the view. Then Portia ties up her bonnet strings and rounds up the small Mullygrubs who have scattered across the park in search of adventure and excitement.
“We must go,” she says. “I have left Cordelia at home in charge of the bigger ones, but she is not to be relied upon.”
Hyacinth accompanies her to the park gates.
“Wouldn’t you all like to come and have some tea and cakes?” she asks. “You have a long walk ahead of you.”
For a moment, Portia seems tempted. Then she shakes her head.
“The children are covered with mud and grass and not fit to be seen in a public tea-room.”
She grasps the handles of the perambulator firmly.
“It was kind of you to suggest it though. Perhaps some other time?”
“That would please me very much.”
Portia Mullygrub sets off briskly. The word “Cakes?” comes floating back, uttered in a hopeful childish treble, followed a few seconds later by a dismal wail.
****
No cakes are being consumed by Detective Inspector Stride or by Jack Cully either. However, consumption of a sort is happening, in that Detective Inspector Stride is currently being consumed by rage.
A pile of letters has arrived in the lunchtime post all addressed to the detective division. Having opened them and laid them out on his desk, he is now staring at them in total disbelief.
“What the ….!” he splutters.
“It is very strange,” Cully agrees.
Stride picks up one letter, written in red ink:
Dear Detectives
I had to laugh when I heard you was looking for me. You won’t find me anywhere. I am not to be caught by the likes of you. Them whores had it coming. There will be more deaths before I am done, see if there ain’t.
your 'fiend' (Ha Ha)
The Slasher
“Who on earth writes this stuff?” Stride demands, throwing the letter down and gesturing towards the others.
“I thought the letter pretending to come from his mother was rather amusing in parts,” Cully remarks.
Stride quells him with a stony glare.
“THIS,” he says angrily, stabbing a finger at his desk, “is ALL the fault of our beloved newspaper brethren. They gave him a name. They made him out to be some sort of celebrity. Now WE have to deal with the lunacy of a small section of the populace who think it is FUNNY to write crackpot letters to the police and waste our time.”
Stride sweeps the letters off his desk in a dramatic gesture.
“Rubbish!” he exclaims. “Total and absolute RUBBISH!”
He reaches for his hat.
“Right Jack, I have had enough. We are going over to the offices of The Inquirer and we’re going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.”
“I thought you said you’d never talk to the press,” Cully murmurs, but his words fall upon empty air.
****
Printing House Square, the location of Stride’s nemesis, is reached via Ludgate Hill, where the shops are large, and stock silks and tempting Indian shawls. Halfway up the hill is a small gateway leading to a labyrinth of narrow, ill-paved streets that, at this time of day teem with stray dogs and gossiping women. Children monopolise every available strip of pavement with their hopscotch, thread-the-needle, shove-halfpenny and tipcat.
The air smells of second-hand fish, coal-dust, potato sacks, fruit, vegetables, the adjacent gasworks, and chemicals from nearby Apothecaries’ Hall. Stride and Cully keep walking until they reach the square, with its quiet dingy-looking houses and clump of green trees. This is where the brain-pan of modern journalism has its headquarters.
The Inquirer is a hive of activity when the two detectives arrive. The lunchtime presses are busy, the air thrumming to the sound of giant rollers and the rhythm of complicated machinery. A porter takes Stride’s card. A messenger leads the way into the interior of the building, where Stride demands brusquely to see the editor.
The editor, he is told by a spotty youth who looks as if he has just escaped from behind a school desk, is in an important meeting and cannot be disturbed. Stride’s expression darkens. He plonks himself down on a bench and announces loudly that he will wait. Here. However long it takes. The youth sucks his lower lip, then scurries off into the bowels of the building.
A short while later he reappears, followed by a portly middle-aged man with a broad face and an energetic countenance. He is dressed in the finest broadcloth, with a spotless white linen shirt. A gold watch and chain, studs and spectacles complete the outfit. This is the editor. The King at the centre of his Court.
“Now then,” says the vision, advancing upon them like a ship in full sail. “What’s to do?”
Stride waves the bundle of letters.
“These,” he says. “Received at Scotland Yard today. All pretending to come from ‘The Slasher’. I presume you know who ‘The Slasher’ is? Since he seems to have derived his title from one of your journalists.”
The editor peruses the letters thoughtfully.
“Jim,” he says, beckoning to the youth. “Fetch Mr Dandy, would you? I think he’s writing copy in the press room.”
Jim darts off.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” the editor says, “Parliamentary business calls. I have an MP in my office waiting to go over his speech with me. Richard is your man on this matter. Bid you good day.”
Stride mutters something. There is a pause. Then the youth comes back accompanied by the familiar and much-loathed Dandy Dick. The latter’s face lights up at the sight of the two men.
“Why if it isn’t the great Detective Inspector Leo Stride, Scotland Yard’s finest,” he crows. “Come to give us a scoop, have you? How I used the Police Benevolent Fund for nefarious purposes? Haw haw.”
Cully can almost hear Stride’s teeth gritting.
“No,” he snaps, “I have NOT.”
He waves the letters under Dandy Dick’s nose.
“See these? I wouldn’t put it past you to have written these yourself! Here, read what ‘The Slasher’ – as you call him – has to say.”
Dandy Dick takes the letters and gives them a contemptuous look.
“If I had written them, I’d’ve made a better fist of it,” he sneers. “We’ve had letters from people claiming to be ‘The Slasher’ too. We get letters like those every day. Whenever there’s a juicy murder, or a theft, The Man in the Street decides to put pen to paper admitting ‘they done it’. We generally file them in the bin. Which is what I’d recommend you do, detective inspector.”
Dandy Dick assumes an innocent expression.
“Is that all? Can I get on? Because if I don’t file my story in the next half-hour, it won’t make the early evening edition.”
“No, it isn’t all. I want your paper, and the rest of your foul reporter friends, to stop calling this man The Slasher,” Stride says grimly. “You’re making him out to be some sort of celebrity.”
Dandy Dick thrusts his thumbs into his brightly striped waistcoat and grins maddeningly.
“No can do, I’m afraid, squire. Celebrity sells papers. And that’s my job. Besides, it’s too late: the name’s already out there. And it seems to have stuck. Good luck detectives both, I hope you catch the villain .... eventually. If you do ... IF ... let me know and I’ll get it on the front page. Maybe with a nice picture of you both.”
And laughing merrily, Dandy Dick saunters off, leaving Stride to fume impotently with rage.
“See, Jack,” he growls as they head back to the Yard, “Didn’t I tell you never to speak to the Press?”
Jack Cully forbe
ars to point out that not only did he tell him, and now has told him he told him, but he has just gone and broken his own advice. Sometimes silence is both golden and self-preservatory.
****
On their return, Stride and Cully spend some time collating various interview reports from local officers while trying to see an emerging pattern that is refusing to emerge. They are eventually interrupted by the desk constable who brings in a letter. This one, however, is not from another fake Slasher, but from someone claiming to know the identity of the real murderer.
Stride scans the scrawled missive, his eyes widening in disbelief as they travel down the page. Reaching the end, he passes the letter to Cully.
“Read this, Jack. According to our unnamed correspondent, if we are prepared to part with fifty guineas, he – I’m guessing it is a ‘he’ – will whisper the name, and we can then go our separate ways without another word.”
Cully reads. Frowns.
“A box number? Strange.”
“Guess which newspaper it’s been sent from?”
“Ah. You think that it is related to our visit earlier?”
“I’m absolutely certain it is. We’re being set up. The moment we respond, there’ll be headlines in all the papers. ‘Detectives offering monetary bribes as incentives for information’. I’ll be hauled up in front of the Home Secretary.”
Stride’s expression darkens.
“No, Mr Dandy Dick, we do not pay for information. What we might do, though, is slap you in handcuffs, preferably with all your colleagues watching, then accompany you to the station and lock you up overnight, after which we might accuse you of wasting police time. Did you notice anything about Mr Dandy’s fingers this morning?”
Cully shakes his head.
“Primary rule of detection, Jack. Eyes first, second and third. I noticed they were stained with purple ink. There was a spot of purple ink on his waistcoat too,” Stride says triumphantly.
“Same colour as the ink in the letter. So, what are you going to do?”