“Bert ain’t no dredger, Mr. Dickens. ‘E’s a lighterman. Makes a good living, an’ all.” There was a note of indignation in her voice.
Dredgers found almost all the bodies of persons who had been drowned and would seek to obtain rewards for the recovery of the bodies or make money through the fees obtained by bearing witness at inquests. But no recovered body and no corpse handed to the coroner would ever have anything of value on it. Dredgers would see to that.
“I am curious, Miss Mary,” interrupted Charley Collins, “why do you think that a policeman, seeing this body, might want to accuse anyone of robbing it? Plenty of corpses are washed up without anything on them and often without means of-identification.”
His father-in-law looked approvingly at him. “A good point. Come, Miss Mary, the question is deserving of an answer.”
“The man is well dressed, Mr. Dickens, and Freddie… well, ‘e thinks… that is, Fred thinks that ‘e was done in, begging your pardon.”
“Done in? Murdered?” asked Collins.
“Back of ‘is skull bashed, in, sez Fred.”
“And why would the constabulary think Fred might be involved?
Miss Mary sniffed awkwardly. “Well, ‘e did three months in chokey last year. Po’lis ‘ave long memories.”
Collins frowned. “Chokey?”
“Prison,” explained Dickens. “I believe the derivation is from the Hindustani chauki. Well, Miss Mary, Mr. Collins and I will come and take a look at the corpse. Don’t worry. Fred will have nothing to fear if he is honest with us.”
They followed her from the snug. The tavern building had a dropsical appearance and had long settled down into a state of hale infirmity. In its whole construction it had not a straight floor and hardly a straight line; but it had outlasted, and clearly would yet outlast, many a bettertrimmed building, many a sprucer public house. Externally it was a narrow lopsided wooden jumble of corpulent windows heaped one upon the other as one might heap as many toppling oranges, with a crazy wooden veranda impending over the water, indeed the whole house, inclusive of the complaining flagstaff on the roof, impended over the water, but seemed to have got into the condition of a fainthearted diver who has paused so long on the brink that he will never go in at all.
The snug, which they had originally settled to savor their port wine, was a curious little haven in the tavern: a room like a threecornered hat into which no direct ray of sun, moon, or star ever penetrated but which was regarded as a sanctuary replete with comfort. The name Cozy was painted on its door, and it was always by that name that the snug was referred to.
Miss Mary, the proprietess, pushed her stately way through the taproom and into the dark lane outside. It was a long cobbled lane whose buildings towered on either side, almost restricting the thoroughfare. It was appropriately called Narrow Street, running parallel with the River Thames and separate from it only by such buildings as the Grapes, from which they had emerged. She took a lantern by the door and conducted them round the corner of the building, down a small slipway, which led to the bank of the river.
A young man was there, also with a lantern, waiting for them. At his feet lay a dark shape. “Thank Gawd!” he stuttered as they emerged from the darkness. “Thought I were gonna be stuck ‘ere.”
Dickens and Collins halted above the shape at his feet. Dickens took the lantern from the young man and, bending down, held it over the shape.
The body was that of a man of about thirty. He was well dressed in a suit of dark broadcloth and a white shirt that had obviously been clean at one stage but was now discolored by the dark Thames water and mud with bits of flotsam and jetsam that adhered to it.
“Handsome,” muttered Collins, examining the man’s features.
“And a man who took a pride in his appearance,” added Dickens.
“How so?”
Dickens raised one of the man’s wrists and held the lantern near the wellmanicured fingernails.
“The arms are not yet stiffening with rigor mortis, so he is not long dead.”
He searched for a wound.
“Back of the skull, guv’nor? Head bashed in,” suggested the young man.
“Fred, isn’t it?” asked Dickens.
“That’s me, guv’nor.”
“How did you find this body?”
“Came down ‘ere to empty the… the waste,” he quickly corrected what he was about to say with a frowning glance at Miss Mary. “Saw him half in and half out of the water. Dragged him up and then called Miss Mary.”
“And you searched him? Anything to identify him?”
“Not a blessed thing. Straight out.”
Dickens could not hide his smile. “Nothing on him at all?”
“Said so, didn’t I?”
“Very well, Fred. You cut along to the police at Wapping Steps. That’s the nearest station. Bring the majesty of the law hither as quickly as you can.” He turned to Miss Mary. “You best get back to your customers. There is nothing that you can do here.”
Left alone, Dickens began a thorough search of the man’s pockets.
Collins smiled skeptically. “You don’t expect to find anything, do you?”
“I never expect anything. In that way I am never disappointed. But it is always best to make sure.”
“The dredgers will have got to him before now.”
“Not so. This man is young. His body appears in good health and better dressed than most people in these parts. What dredger do you know who would leave the possibility of a reward for finding the body even if they have taken everything from the pockets? A rich person would obviously need an inquest, and there would be the fee from the coroner if they took it along. No, the man was killed, and the killer went through the pockets before tipping the body in the river. Ah-”
Dickens suddenly pulled from an inside waistcoat pocket what appeared to be a piece of narrow ribbon. It formed a small circle, tied in a bow.
“A woman’s ribbon?” asked Collins with a frown.
Dickens held it under the lamp. “A piece of red ribbon. Mean anything to you?”
Collins shook his head. “A lady’s hair ribbon?” he guessed.
“Come, man…” Dickens was indignant. “Think of law. This is the sort of ribbon a legal brief is tied up with. You’ll see this ribbon is still tied in a bow as if it has been slipped off a rolled document, a brief, without being untied, and thrust into our man’s waistcoat. Now look at the suit he wears; it appears to be black broadcloth. The man is without doubt a lawyer of some type.”
Collins gazed at his father-in-law in astonishment. “Next you will be telling me his name,” he observed dryly.
“Easy enough-Wraybrook.”
“Oh, come!” sneered Collins. “I can see the logic which leads you to guess that the man is a lawyer… that has to be proved, by the way… but where do you get the name Wraybrook from?”
Dickens held the lamp up so that Collins could see that he had loosened the corpse’s starched high white collar.
“Laundresses are invaluable these days. One of them has had the goodness to write the name on the underside of the collar with some indelible marker.”
He refastened the collar and completed his search before standing up.
“Poor devil. A young lawyer, his skull smashed in and thrown into the Thames. I wonder why.”
“Robbery? That’s the usual form.”
Dickens stood frowning down for a moment.
There was a noise from the lane as a figure came hurrying around the corner of the tavern and down the slipway toward them. It was the figure of a heavy man. As he came into the light of their raised lantern, they could see he was dressed in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police. He carried a torch, which he shone on them both.
“I’m told there was a body discovered here?” he said gruffly.
Dickens smiled. “And you are?…”
“Sergeant, sir. Sergeant Cuff of Thames Division.” The sergeant suddenly peered closely at him. �
�Beg pardon, sir, aren’t you-?”
“I am.”
“Did you-?”
“No. The landlady of the Grapes called us to have a look. A young man, Fred, found it. He works in the taproom of the inn.”
“Ah, just so.” The sergeant nodded. “He came to the station to tell us, so I cut along here smartish while he made a statement.” The torch moved down to the corpse at their feet. “No need to bother you further, then-you and Mr.-?”
“My son-in-law, Charles Collins.”
“Right then, sir. I’ll take charge from now on.”
“Then we shall leave you to it, Sergeant-?”
“Sergeant Cuff, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“They reentered the Grapes and returned to the Cozy, and as Dickens handed back Miss Mary’s lantern, he informed her that a police sergeant had arrived to take charge of things.
To their surprise, a moment later Fred came in. He smiled with some relief. “Gave ‘em the statement and they told me to go,” he announced in satisfaction.
Dickens nodded with a frown. Then he turned to Miss Mary and asked: “I don’t suppose you have a Kelly’s Post Office Directory to hand?”
“Matter of fact, Mr. Dickens, I do have such a volume,” she said, and turning behind her bar, extracted the volume from beneath the counter.
Dickens took it into the snug, sat down, and began to turn the pages.
“Looking for Wraybrook the solicitor, I suppose?” observed Collins, finishing the decanted port and peering at his empty glass with regret.
“Except he is not listed. Lets see, this is last years and would have been compiled the year before. That makes it two years out of date. Perhaps our man, Wraybrook, only established himself within the last year or two.”
“Perfectly logical.”
Dickens put down the directory, pages open on the table, and sighed.
Miss Mary entered the snug at that moment.
“I just came to see if you needed a new decanter, gentlemen.” Her eyes fell on the directory. “Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Dickens?”
Dickens shook his head. “Regretfully, I did not.”
Miss Mary glanced slyly at the open pages. “Lawyers, eh? Well, if you are in need of lawyers, there are plenty to choose from there. Personally, I always prefer to steer clear of them. My late husband said-”
“We were looking for a lawyer who does not seem to be listed there,” interrupted Dickens, who had no desire to hear the wisdom of Miss Mary’s late husband.
Collins nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps you can call in at the offices of Kelly’s. They might have a listing for Wraybrook in their next year’s edition.”
Miss Mary started and stared at him. “Wraybrook, you say, sir? You don’t mean Mr. Eugene Wraybrook?”
Dickens frowned suspiciously at her. “Do you know a lawyer named Wraybrook?”
“He’s a young gent, sir. A solicitor right enough. But he’s only been in the country six months. They say he’s from India. Not that he’s Indian, sir. Oh, no, English, same as you and me. Pleasant enough young man. He has rooms at the top end of Narrow Street here, and one of them is his office. Not that he gets much work, I’m told. Decent enough and polite and pays his bills promptlike.”
“Would you recognize Mr. Wraybrook?”
“I would, six.”
“And young Fred?”
“Fred, sir? I don’t think so. Fred works in the evenings, and Mr. Wraybrook only comes here for lunch now and again.”
“Did you take a good look at the body on the slipway?” asked Dickens curiously.
Miss Mary shook her head. “Not I, sir. Can’t stand the sight of corpses and… Why do you ask, sir?” She frowned, and then her eyes widened suddenly. “You don’t mean that… that…?”
Dickens rose quickly. “Do you know where this Wraybrook has his rooms? What number in Narrow Street?”
“I only know it’s the top end, sir. But-”
“Would you give us about fifteen minutes, Miss Mary, and then go out and tell the policeman who is loitering outside with the corpse where we have gone?”
Dickens hurried from the tavern with Collins hard on his heels.
At the darkened top of Narrow Street they came to a cluster of tall tenement buildings crowding over the cramped lane and shutting out all natural light. A few gas lamps gave an eerie glow, and beneath these were some street urchins playing five stones. For a threepenny piece, one of them indicated the tenement in which he knew the solicitor resided. The rooms were on the second floor. There was a single gas burner on every landing, and so it was easy to find a dark door on which was affixed a small handwritten card bearing the name E. Wraybrook, Bachelor of Law.
Dickens tried the door, but it was locked.
Collins watched with some surprise as Dickens reached up and felt along the ridge at the top of the door and grunted in dissatisfaction when his search revealed nothing. He stood looking thoughtfully.
“What is it?”
“Sometimes people leave a key in such a place,” Dickens said absently. “I expect Sergeant Cuff to be here soon, and I do not want to force the door. Ah…”
He suddenly dropped to one knee and pushed experimentally at a small piece of planking near the door, part of the skirting board. It seemed loose, and a small section gave way, revealing the cavity beyond. Dickens felt inside with his gloved hand and came up smiling. There was a key in his hand.
“Strange how people’s habits follow a set course.”
A moment later they entered the rooms beyond. There was a strange odor, which caused Collins to sniff and wrinkle his features in bewilderment.
“Opium? The smell of dope?”
“No, Charley,” replied his father-in-law. “Its the smell of incense, popular in the East. I think it is sandalwood. Find the gas burner, and let us have some light.”
The first room was plainly furnished and was, apparently, an office for prospective clients of the solicitor. On the desk there was a rolled sheaf of papers. Legal documents. Dickens absently took from his pocket the red ribbon, rolled the paper, and slipped the ribbon over it. He shot a glance of satisfied amusement at Collins. He then removed the ribbon, put it back in his pocket, and examined the documents. It was not helpful.
“A litigation over the ownership of a property,” he explained. “And a cover note from an agent offering a fee of a guinea for resolving the matter.”
He returned the document to the desk and glanced around.
“By the look of this place, it is hardly used and indicates that our Mr. Wraybrook had few clients.”
A door led into the living quarters. There was an oil lamp on a side table. It was a sturdy brass-based lamp, slightly ornate, and a very incongruous ornamented glass surround from which dangled a series of globular crystal pieces held on tiny brass chains.
“Light that lamp, Charley,” instructed Dickens. “I can’t see a gas burner in this room.”
Collins removed the glass and turned up the wick on the burner, lighting it before resetting the glass. The crystals jangled a little as he picked it up.
Beyond the door was a bed sitting room. Collins preceded Dickens into the room. Again the furnishings were sparse. It seemed that the late Mr. Wraybrook did not lead a luxurious life. There was little that was hidden from their gaze. A tin traveling trunk at the bottom of the bed showing that its owner was a man recently traveled. The wardrobe, when opened, displayed only one change of clothes and some shirts. The dressing table drawers were empty apart from some socks and undergarments.
“Gene! I thought that… Oh!”
A voice had spoken from the doorway behind them. They swung round. There was a young woman standing there. She was not well dressed and was not out of place among the residents of Narrow Street.
She stared at them, slightly frightened. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, silently strident. “Where’s Gene… Where’s Mr. Wraybrook?”
Dickens assumed a stern and
commanding attitude. “We will ask the questions, young lady. Who are you?”
The girl seemed to recognize the voice of authority. “Polis ain’t cher?”
“Name?” demanded Dickens officiously.
“Beth Hexton. I lives ‘ere.”
The East End accent did not seem to fit with the delicate features of the girl. Collins could see that whatever her education, she was very attractive, a kind of ethereal beauty that his artist’s eye could see in the kind of paintings that Millais and Rossetti and Hunt indulged in. She would not be out of place as a model for an artist of the High Renaissance.
“Here? In these rooms?” he queried.
“Naw!” The word was a verbal scowl. “In this ‘ouse. Me dad’s Gaffer Hexton,” she added, as if that might mean something.
“Ah, Gaffer Hexton.” Dickens smiled, “And he might be-?”
“Owns two wagerbuts on the river. Thought all you peelers ‘ad ‘eard o’ me dad.”
A wagerbut was a slight sculling craft often used for races along the Thames.
“A dredger?” Dickens said softly.
“Ain’t we all got a livin’ t’ make?” replied the girl defensively.
“How well do you know Mr. Wraybrook?” he demanded.
Her cheeks suddenly flushed. “ ‘E’s a friend, a real gen’leman.”
“A friend, eh?”
“Yeah. What’s ‘e done? Where yer taken ‘im?”
There was a movement in the other room, and they swung round. They had a glimpse of a stocky, dark-haired man making a hurried exit through the door.
Dickens frowned. “Who was that?” he asked.
“ Tm? That’s Bert ‘egeton.” The girl spoke scornfully.
“And he is?”
“ ‘E’s the local schoolteacher. Fancies ‘imself. Thinks I fancy ‘im. I don’t think!” she added with sardonic humor. “ ‘E’s out of ‘umor since Gene… since Mr. Wraybrook asked me to step out wiv ‘im.”
Dickens glanced at Collins with raised eyebrows. Although Dickens was certainly no social prude, it seemed a little incongruous that a solicitor would “step out” with a dredger’s daughter. But then, she was an attractive girl, and if a local schoolteacher was seeking her favors, why not a solicitor?
An Ensuing Evil and Others Page 14