Chapter Nine
Inspector Benjamin Ross
IT WAS a short step to the Conquering Hero. The pub stood on the corner at a junction where two roads formed a right angle. Thus it had two entrances in different streets: an entrance into the public bar from one and that to the saloon bar in the one round the corner. A very convenient arrangement, I thought. If a drinker were to learn someone he didn’t want to meet had just come in one door, he could easily make his escape through the other. It was likely Mr Sparrow wouldn’t want to meet me, so I had to choose the right door.
The men who lived off the earnings of the girls on the streets generally fancied themselves as flash coves. They wouldn’t want to mix with draymen and labourers. I made for the saloon bar entrance.
A question to the barman identified Jed Sparrow. From the little I knew of him I had imagined a burly brawler of a thug. But no, he matched his surname, a little shrimp of a man in a bowler hat and suit of houndstooth check. I saw that he had only one eye. Where the other should be was only a sunken cavity indicating that eyeball was missing altogether. The remaining orb seemed to miss nothing, for it darted around the bar-room taking in everything. It had already, I was sure, taken note of me. Certainly it flickered warningly at my approach.
I saw that not only had he suffered no business loss from the disappearance of Clarrie Brady, he seemed to have prospered since then. He sat between two young women in bright clothing, one wearing a mauve silk bonnet and the other a hat with trailing ostrich plumes that reminded me of Daisy and her feathered hat.
When I reached the table, Sparrow gave an exaggerated wink to the girl with the mauve bonnet.
‘Well, look at what just blew in! Here’s the p’lice, all dressed up in plain clothes, if I’m not mistaken – what I don’t think I am!’
He laughed heartily and the two girls joined in but not without nervous glances at me. How did he know my calling? Not for the first time, it puzzled me. But they always did seem to know.
‘I believe I’m speaking to Jed Sparrow,’ I said to him. ‘I’d be obliged for a word. I am Inspector Ross from Scotland Yard.’
‘How do you know my name?’ he demanded at once, an ugly glint in his single eye.
‘Oh, you are a very well-known man, Mr Sparrow,’ I said cheerfully, seating myself opposite to him.
Sparrow seemed unsure whether to be offended or pleased to learn this. Then he jerked his head towards the door and told the girls to ‘Hop it! Get out there and earn your keep!’
They both scrambled to their feet and hurried away.
‘Not sending them out to work as prostitutes, I hope, Mr Sparrow?’ I asked mildly.
‘Bless you, no, they’re good girls. They go round houses collecting rags. I’m in that line of business, you see.’ His crooked yellow teeth flashed a grin at me. He didn’t expect me to believe that nonsense, of course.
‘Rubbish,’ I said briskly. ‘But it’s not those two girls I’ve come to talk to you about.You know a girl called Clarissa or Clarrie Brady.’
The Cyclops eye squinted at me alarmingly. ‘What if I do? Here, what’s she been saying about me? It’s all lies.You don’t want to believe a word she says. Born liar, that’s Clarrie. Wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit her nose.’
‘She’s said nothing, Mr Sparrow, because she hasn’t been seen for over a week. Friends have looked for her in vain. I’d like to find her and you, I understand, are the person to ask.’
‘I don’t know who told you that,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s no use you asking me about her now. I ain’t seen her either, not for, oh . . . must be near on ten days.’ He put his head on one side and the eye fixed me with a baleful stare. ‘What are you accusing me of? If she’s gone, she’s gone. I don’t know nothing about it.’
‘At the moment, Sparrow, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’d like to talk to her, that’s all,’ I said.
‘So would I,’ said Sparrow. ‘She owes me money.’
‘She earned you money, you mean. Did you look for her?’
He decided to be conciliatory. ‘Well, you know how it is, Inspector. I’d like to help but I can’t. Yes, I asked around when she first took off, but well, there’s always another one. I was getting tired of her, anyway. She gave me too much lip.’
And it had got her face cut by a broken glass on one occasion, I thought, but didn’t mention. He would be curious to know where I’d got my information and I didn’t want to lead him to Daisy.
‘But her disappearance left you out of pocket,’ I pointed out. ‘I would have thought you’d be out there hunting her high and low.’
‘Like I said, there’s always another one.’ Sparrow eyed me coolly. ‘And what, if I might ask you a question, would Scotland Yard want with Clarrie Brady? She’s magistrate’s court fare, she is. She’s not into the sort of business that interests
you
.’
I ignored the question to ask another of my own. ‘Did Clarrie ever mention to you that she had encountered a creature the girls call the River Wraith?’
Sparrow burst into a shout of laughter. ‘So that’s it, is it? Listen, Inspector . . .’ He leaned towards me confidentially and I tried not to draw back. ‘Here’s what I can tell you. There ain’t no such person – or monster or ghoul or whatever you’d like to call it. It’s an excuse the girls make when they don’t come back with much money – I mean any rags, they’ve not collected any rags, you understand!’ he added hastily.
‘Collecting the rags, if that’s what you choose to call it. Did Clarrie tell you that, while she was out “collecting rags”, she met this Wraith?’
To my great relief he leaned back. His breath hadn’t been the pleasantest. Now he hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘Yes, she did and I clipped her ear for being so stupid.’
‘Stupid for being frightened out of her wits?’ I snapped.
‘No, for thinking I’d believe such a cock and bull story.’
‘Can you remember exactly what she told you?’
He shook his head. ‘She was jabbering away about it, and piping her eye. She always knew how to turn on the waterworks. Something about the fog clearing and he was standing in front of her. They imagine things, Inspector, those girls. None of ’em is very bright.’
I left him there and went out to see if I could spot one of the ladybirds that had been drinking with him. But neither they nor any of their sisters were to be seen anywhere. The two in the pub had spread the word that ‘plain-clothes was snooping about’ and they had all prudently decided to ‘collect rags’ elsewhere.
It was my intention, on Monday morning, to request all constables on the beat to ask around for Clarrie Brady. The constables on the regular beats know all the girls who work the streets and, when not actually arresting them for plying their trade too obviously, indulge in fairly spirited banter with them. With luck one of them might have seen her. Or, failing that, might have heard from one of her sisters where she’d gone. I also intended to send Biddle to check the records of the various magistrates’ courts to see if Clarrie had appeared before the bench lately. But when I reached the Yard, all thought of Clarrie was put immediately out of my head.
Sergeant Morris once more grabbed me as I stepped through the door and announced, ‘Superintendent Dunn wants to see us both immediately, sir!’
‘Morris,’ I said ruefully, ‘this is becoming a habit. I wonder if I shall ever again reach my office without you intercepting me with some new problem. You’re not going to tell me there’s been another murder, I hope?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Morris. He lowered his voice. ‘But Mr Dunn’s got someone with him, a chief inspector of Railway Police from Waterloo Bridge Station.’ Morris gave the rail terminus its full title to lend weight to his words. ‘Both of ’em very agitated, sir.’
Now what was a chief inspector of the Railway Police doing so far from his domain at Waterloo? I wondered. I hurried to Dunn’s office, Morris on my heels.
Dunn was scowling ferociously as I entered, but not at me. The recipient of the glare was a man of about forty with a ginger moustache. Some lively discussion (or some might have guessed ‘argument’) appeared to have been in progress. The first words I heard were spoken by the visitor.
He was saying, ‘Of course we cannot investigate it alone but you can’t do it without us . . .’
‘There you are, Ross!’ Dunn exclaimed with obvious relief as he spied Morris and me. ‘This is Chief Inspector Burns, London and South West Railway Police, based at Waterloo Bridge.’ He turned back to Burns. ‘This is Inspector Ross, who is heading the inquiry into the River Wraith and the Green Park murder. And Sergeant Morris.’
Morris stood to attention. Burns nodded acknowledgement of the introduction.
I had no time for social niceties. ‘River Wraith!’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s been another murder?’
‘Yes, but not in the park. This one was found on a train.’ Dunn gestured at Burns. ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain, Chief Inspector.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Burns to him. He turned to me. ‘About an hour ago a body was discovered in a compartment of a train arriving at Waterloo on the Chertsey line.’
‘Chertsey line? Forgive me, Chief Inspector,’ I interrupted, ‘but where does that stop along the route?’
‘Several places, at Egham, Staines . . .’
‘Egham!’ I cried. My heart gave a painful leap. Was it possible? No, no, surely not, I tried to tell myself. But I felt the cold hand of foreknowledge close round my heart.
Dunn cleared his throat warningly.
Burns, after a glance at him, continued. ‘Discovery of the body, that of a woman, was made by the ticket inspector. The train is still standing at the platform but the public are not being allowed access. This is playing havoc with the timetable along the entire route, as you can imagine. As soon as the body has been moved, the train will have to be put back into service. If necessary we can isolate the carriage where she was found. It will require some manoeuvring and take a while.’
‘How about the other travellers on the train?’ asked Dunn. ‘Did they see or hear anything?’
Burns shrugged. ‘Unfortunately it wasn’t possible to detain any of the passengers. They had left the train and were gone before the body was found. They waste no time when they get to Waterloo! There is always a rush for the available cabs. The unfortunate woman appears to have been strangled with a length of cord or stout twine . . .’
I jumped up again. ‘I must see the body at once!’
‘Personally, I shouldn’t think this has anything to do with your Green Park murder,’ said Burns. ‘But given the publicity – it’s been in all the newspapers – and the method used to kill, I thought I would come over here and ask whether you’d care to come and have a look.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We have, of course, already set our own investigation in motion. But the help of the Metropolitan Police would be much appreciated . . .’
‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘I am obliged to you, Chief Inspector, for realising our possible interest and calling on us. I should very much like to see the body and realise you must clear the platform for use as soon as possible. I’ll come at once.’
Waterloo is a large and busy terminus with trains arriving and leaving continually. Its platforms and concourse heave with a throng of humanity of every description. Even a discovery as grisly as the one we were on our way to investigate could not close the whole operation down. Nevertheless, it was obvious that a considerable amount of disruption to the smooth running of the services in and out of the station had already occurred. Some of this was unavoidable and some of it might have been avoided if the travelling public had not been so ghoulish in temperament.
An area of platform had been cordoned off by a number of uniformed officers of the Railway Police. They were struggling to hold back a crowd of avid onlookers. These included passengers, some holding bags, porters and other station staff; to say nothing of the usual riff-raff hanging around large public areas anywhere in the city. Some of these were probably drawn to this crowd, as to any, because of the opportunity of picking pockets or other opportunist thievery. Any owner of a piece of baggage rash enough to put it down, distracted by the commotion, might well find when he looked for it again that it had gone. Some would-be travellers, even if they did not miss their wallets or watch and chains, would no doubt miss their trains. At the moment they did not care. All were consumed by their eagerness to know the details of the macabre discovery and oblivious to the risk.
I wasn’t surprised to see the throng and feared it would become worse rather than better. There was obviously no way of keeping knowledge of what had happened from the public, nor of rumour carrying the story outside the station. It was only a matter of time, I thought sourly, before the press would hear of it and then they would descend as well.
Burns strode forward, muttering and cursing under his breath. I followed closely as he forced a way through the crowd. A constable, recognising him, saluted and let us through.
‘We’ve told them to move along, sir, but they won’t,’ he complained nervously to his superior.
