I collected the boots from the table and went to request some brown paper from Protheroe, if he had such a thing, to wrap them in. The whey-faced youth was sent for it and reappeared in a short time. The pair of them watched dolefully as I parcelled up the boots.
‘You are going to take all her things, aren’t you, Inspector Ross?’ Protheroe asked nervously. ‘We are not a left luggage office. And the deceased herself…’
‘I am confident a public morgue will be found to take her today,’ I assured him. ‘Sergeant Morris will let you know. As for her remaining belongings, they are evidence and must not be touched. Sergeant Morris will remove those, too.’
I marched out with my parcel under my arm.
Chapter Five
‘Salisbury?’ exclaimed Lizzie that evening, when I arrived home with my parcel and the news that I intended to take the train the following morning for Wiltshire.
‘No report of a missing young woman had come in by the time I left the Yard. In view of her quality clothing and physical condition, that is both strange and worrying. I have no choice but to go out and search for her. I have no other real lead and these boots are distinctive.’
I handed my parcel to my wife as I spoke. To my own ear, I sounded a trifle defensive. It was the awareness of Inspector Dunn’s probable disapproval that caused my discomfort.
Lizzie had unwrapped the boots and was examining them in detail; watched by Bessie, mouth agape.
‘They cost a bit,’ declared Bessie. ‘They’re really nice. I never had a pair of boots like that. I don’t suppose I ever will,’ she finished wistfully.
‘Yes, Ben, these were very expensive,’ Lizzie confirmed.
I had had enough reminders of expenses. ‘Then they should lead us to their owner!’ I declared with a confidence I did not entirely feel. ‘At least, that is my hope.’
I sighed as I gazed down at the boots, watched by the two women. Lizzie’s wise eyes rested on me thoughtfully. Bessie, a cockney sparrow, almost hopped about in the desire to add her pennyworth of opinions.
‘Perhaps she came up to London shopping?’ she suggested eagerly. ‘Or she wanted to go to the theatre? Or she was visiting someone. Anyway, as I see it, someone came with her. Who? And where’s she gone now? Or it might have been a “him”!’ Bessie’s cheeks grew pink with excitement and the thought of intrigue.
She had asked a pertinent question. If the deceased girl, young and respectable, had travelled up from Salisbury within the last few days, it was likely someone would have accompanied her.
‘These are all things I have to find out,’ I told Bessie. To Lizzie, I added, ‘An investigation into the death of a complete stranger about whom one knows absolutely nothing is one of the most difficult any officer can undertake. First, I have to find out who the victim was. Then I have to get to know her, and her circle of acquaintances. I need to know her as well as if she sat by that fireside.’ I pointed at the grate.
Bessie shivered. ‘That’s really creepy,’ she said in awe. ‘It’s like those boots have brought a ghost in here with them!’
It was time to cease talk of the dead girl, at least until the following day. I turned my attention back to my wife.
‘Well, my dear,’ I said. ‘Did you go to visit Miss Eldon?’
‘Of course!’ said Lizzie, nettled. ‘But we should have supper first, or it will spoil.’
So we ate our evening meal and then I settled back to listen to Lizzie’s account of her day.
Elizabeth Martin Ross
I set out with Bessie for the Queen Catherine tavern that afternoon, to make my call on Miss Eldon. Bessie, always keen for what she called ‘an adventure’, fairly danced beside me, not a bit put off by the clammy touch of the fog on our faces and the smoky stink of it. It was a little thinner than the previous day. But we still found it best to stay close to the buildings, and be guided by a fingertip touch on the brickwork, as though we were blind. Even so, we narrowly avoided colliding with other pedestrians several times, as indistinct shapes emerged from the gloom without warning. Like us, they stayed close by the walls. We muttered mutual apologies and made our way on.
‘Spooky, ain’t it?’ said Bessie with relish, as yet another dark form materialised briefly and swerved just in time to avoid us, before being swallowed up by the mist.
We heard a voice say, ‘Apologies, ladies!’ But it came as if from nowhere.
‘What do you want me to do, missis, when we get there? I mean, while you’re chatting to this funny old woman the inspector wants us to pump for information.’
I felt I ought to reprove her for the way she described our outing, but it was difficult to justify being outraged because she was right. Ben had sent me out to gather information. I was beginning to regret being so quick to accept the task.
‘We ought not to call Miss Eldon a “funny old woman”, Bessie. We haven’t met her yet. As to what you should do, well, perhaps I could ask the landlord if you could wait in the warmth of the kitchen while I pay my call? Kitchens are great places for gossip. If the girl Miss Eldon is worried about lives locally, others may have noticed something odd.’
We eventually found ourselves, after several missed turnings in the fog, standing before the Queen Catherine tavern. It was difficult to make much out of the frontage. That was a pity because it must be a very interesting old place. At the moment, all we could discern was that it was a timber-framed building, probably much older than most of the surrounding ones, if we could have seen them to judge. Its antiquity was confirmed when we made our way inside. The ceilings were low with ancient oak rafters. The taproom, in which we found ourselves, was a cramped place crowded with more tables than convenient, although this afternoon only two old men sat there, smoking pipes before the hearth. We welcomed the heat, too. The ancient floorboards were swept clean and polished, the gas mantles burned brightly and the brass work gleamed. The landlord, though clearly surprised at the sudden appearance of two respectably dressed ladies, smiled a welcome.
‘’Ullo,’ he said genially. ‘Come inside outa the fog, have you?’ He then added warily. ‘You ain’t come to preach religion, have you? Because there’s only those two over there and they’re both as deaf as posts. I manage without religion nowadays myself.’
Hastily I explained I had come to call on Miss Eldon. ‘I understand she has rooms on the top floor.’
‘Indeed she has. Come to see Ruby, have you? I’ll fetch my wife. She’ll take you up there.’ He went to a low doorway in the corner of the area and bellowed, ‘Louisa!’
The landlady appeared, a well-corseted figure in dark blue brocade, with intricately piled dark hair.
‘This is Mrs Tompkins, my better half,’ said the landlord proudly, gesturing towards his spouse. ‘They’ve come to visit Ruby, Lou.’
Mrs Tompkins assessed us with a rapid glance and we passed muster. ‘Got visitors, has she? Well, that’s really nice. Is she expecting you?’
‘Oh, yes, my husband spoke to her yesterday, about my calling on her. I am Mrs Ross. I have my card.’ I took a visiting card from my pocket and handed to her.
Mrs Tompkins scrutinised the small rectangle of card, impressed. ‘Then I’ll take you up.’
I indicated Bessie, hovering behind me. ‘I wonder if my maid could wait for me in your kitchen?’
‘Maid, eh?’ said Mr Tompkins, much amused.
‘I don’t mind helping out, while I’m there,’ offered Bessie.
‘That’s all right, dear,’ Mrs Tompkins assured her. ‘You don’t have to work to earn a chair by my fire. Glad of your company. I’ll just fetch us a lamp.’
I had been right. Kitchens are great places for gossip and Louisa Tompkins, clearly intrigued at Miss Eldon receiving a visit, was as keen to talk to Bessie as Bessie to her. And I had learned something already. Miss Eldon had not warned the landlord and his wife that I was coming. She, too, had anticipated curious questions.
The treads of the twisting flights of the staircase up wh
ich I was led creaked noisily beneath our feet, and all around was more evidence of the tavern’s age. I remarked on this to Mrs Tompkins, climbing ahead of me with a paraffin lamp clasped in one hand to light us the way, and holding up her bunched skirts with the other.
‘Oh, yes, dear, very old,’ she called back to me without turning her head. ‘This is one of the oldest buildings in this part of town. It was here before most of the other places around, probably before they’d finished building Piccadilly. It makes you think, doesn’t it? It wasn’t always called that, you know.’
‘The tavern was called something else?’ I asked a little breathlessly.
‘Well, the old records say it was called the Safe Haven. But I was talking of the street, Piccadilly, just a block away. It was called Portugal Street before that, long ago, mind! It was named for the wife of King Charles the Second. She was a Portuguese princess. She brought oranges with her.’ She paused in her ascent and turned to look back at me.
‘Oranges?’ I asked.
‘Yes, dear. They were a bit of a novelty at the time. They got very popular. This tavern was renamed after her, too. So the Queen Kate was here when Piccadilly was Portugal Street!’ Mrs Tompkins beamed down at me. ‘“Pubs and churches”, my old dad used to say. “Pubs and churches last out when everything else is knocked down!”’
We arrived eventually, with even Mrs Tompkins a little out of breath, at the very top floor, where there was a small landing. A mullioned window that must be original to the building would normally have admitted light. But today the tiny diamond-shaped leaded panes, uneven with age, were curtained by yellow fog. Mrs Tompkins tapped on the door.
‘Ruby! You got a lady come to visit! She’s Mrs Ross.’
‘You may show her in!’ commanded an elderly voice.
Mrs Tompkins opened the door and ushered me in with some ceremony. ‘I’ll leave the lamp, dear. You’ll need it when you want to come down.’
‘What about you?’ I asked anxiously. I didn’t want to hear the crash of the landlady falling down the staircase.
‘I’ll be all right, dear, I’m used to this old place. You’ll need that lamp.’
The door was shut behind me and I stood blinking, glad of the lamp’s bright glow. Otherwise, the room was lit only by the fire in the hearth and the limited glow of a pair of candles on the mantelshelf.
Seated before the fire in a winged chair I could make out a figure like a large doll.
‘Set that lamp there!’ ordered the doll, pointing through the shadows to a side table.
I did as bid, finding the table already held a tray with teacups and a plate of ratafia biscuits.
I returned to the fireside. ‘I am Elizabeth Ross,’ I said. ‘I gave my card to Mrs Tompkins.’ Understandably, the landlady had not volunteered to climb and descend the winding staircase twice, first to present the card and then again to bring me up.
‘Bring up a chair and set it there!’ Miss Eldon ordered. She did not sound unfriendly.
I brought a rather spindly chair, hoping it was stronger than it looked, and placed it as bid, seating myself.
‘The kettle is nearly boiled. We shall take a dish of tea.’
I saw that a small tin kettle stood on a trivet before the fire, a spiral of steam slowly rising from the spout. That explained the cups and the ratafia biscuits. I realised that Miss Eldon seldom received a visitor and wanted to make the occasion special.
‘You are married to the police inspector who was at the Imperial Dining Rooms yesterday, summoned to view the body.’
‘Yes, ma’am, I am.’
‘He told me his father had been a collier.’
‘Yes.’ I added that my own father had been a doctor, because I realised this was information important to my hostess.
‘Mine was a gentleman!’ said Miss Eldon firmly. ‘Although you temporarily find me in reduced circumstances.’
The reduced circumstances had lasted most of her life and were unlikely to change. But I imagined her story. She had grown up in comfort, daughter of a wealthy man; but not a provident one. When he had died, she had been reduced to poverty. Perhaps he had been a Georgian rake, and had left large debts. I could even guess the approximate date he had died from her style of dress. After that, there had been no money to replace her wardrobe, at least not to the same standard, so Miss Eldon had continued to wear the gowns of the 1830s. She wore one now, with sloping shoulders, low-set balloon sleeves and close-fitting wristbands. She must be, I thought, at least seventy years of age.
I felt a deep sense of kinship with her. My father had died leaving me poor, not because he had gambled or frittered away his money, but because he had been kind and generous. Often he had failed to ask patients to settle his bill because he knew they could not. On his death, I had the good fortune to be offered a home in London by my Aunt Parry, in return for acting as her companion. Then Fate had led me to meet Ben again, whom I’d not seen since childhood. Otherwise, I would have been living like this and counted myself lucky.
Miss Eldon had not been without some good luck. Whatever she paid the Tompkins couple for her rooms, heat and probably a modest midday meal, it was unlikely to be as much as she would have been required to pay elsewhere. I guessed Louisa and her husband, kindly souls, had taken her in, as they would have done an elderly relative, allowing her the illusion of independence.
‘Business first, then tea,’ said Miss Eldon. ‘I was naturally distressed to see that poor child lying dead in a bin of kitchen scraps. But, as I explained to Inspector Ross, I was relieved to see she was not the girl I had feared to find there.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Come!’
I followed her across the room to the front wall, pierced with an unexpectedly large window. I guessed the aperture had originally been either access to a hayloft or to bring in other items for storage, raised by chain and pulley from below in the street. Very likely, the remains of the hoist were still bolted to the outside wall. Only later was the opening glazed and the area converted into a living space. What manner of items? I wondered. Old inns like this one often had a dark history. When it had been built there would have been open heath beyond it. Old tales of highwaymen crept into my brain. The former name of the tavern had been the Safe Haven. But safe for the travellers or safe for those who preyed on them?
‘Because I am under the roof here, I can see across and at a downward angle into the upper rooms of that house opposite.’ Miss Eldon appeared to realise I couldn’t see the house she spoke of for the fog. ‘Unfortunately today we can make out nothing,’ she added regretfully. ‘But normally I have an excellent view of the buildings opposite and the street below.’
‘It is a private residence?’ I asked.
She nodded vigorously, her false ringlets à l’anglaise bobbing. ‘There is a young girl living there. She never goes out. I don’t mean she never leaves her room, she does. But never the building. When she leaves the room it is only for short periods.’
‘An invalid?’ I suggested.
‘No, she walks about unaided in the room and seems perfectly able-bodied. She is something of an artist, sketching at a little desk. To do this she sits by the window to have good light. Poor child, she has little to sketch by way of subject. I often wonder if she draws what she sees from the window, walkers below in the street, possibly the front of this old building. It is very quaint. At other times she sews or embroiders. Sometimes, the door opens and he, the house owner, comes in. Sometimes it is a woman servant come to tidy the room or set the fire of a morning. I have observed no other visitors.’
Speaking with less certainty, Miss Eldon added, ‘I have seen her make agitated movements with her hands. I think, when she did so, someone else was in the room with her. I think she may be gesturing to that person to keep away. Or that she is denying something. I could not see who the other was. At any rate, it is clear she is a prisoner.’
Miss Eldon turned to me, ringlets framing her serious face. ‘I do believe that to be the case,’ she
said. ‘She receives no visitors except for the man, and she never smiles.’
‘Who is “he”? The man who visits her room? Have you any idea?’
‘I believe he owns the house. He is about fifty years old or so, well built, a little on the stout side. He has side-whiskers and is well dressed. I would think him a successful businessman. I see him going in and out of the house. There are two servants who seem to live in. I believe them to be foreign. From my observation, I conclude the servants go to market and run necessary errands. There may also be a scullery maid. I have occasionally glimpsed a poorly dressed scrap with the look of the workhouse about her, using the basement steps. A boy calls from a laundry in the area. He collects a basket of wash and returns it later in the week. Mrs Tompkins uses the same laundry so perhaps the boy could tell us something? Although he never goes into the house, and the manservant generally carries out the basket of laundry to be put on the boy’s barrow.’
‘You have kept most careful observation, ma’am,’ I said to her. I could have said she was a first-class spy.
‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Eldon. ‘I have considered it my duty.’
We left the window and returned to the hearth where, at Miss Eldon’s request, I made the tea. When we had refreshed ourselves and eaten a couple of ratafia biscuits each, Miss Eldon asked, ‘Well? What do you conclude, Mrs Ross?’
‘That it seems very strange. However, sometimes things do appear odd, but there is an explanation. Perhaps the poor girl is, well, simple, and cannot be allowed to go out and about.’
‘She sketches, sews and embroiders, as I told you. There is a tapestry frame and she sometimes works at that. But even if she were backward, she ought to be taken out occasionally, to the park perhaps? We have plenty of fine parks in London, some not far from here. Or to church?’
‘Does she appear well cared for, fed, suitably dressed?’
‘Yes!’ said Miss Eldon tartly. ‘But a horse in a stable is fed and groomed. A human being requires more.’
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