A Metropolitan Murder (17 page)

‘I've been thinking, old man,' says Tom, clapping his hand affectionately on his companion's shoulder, ‘about the railway. A fellow might do a decent business on the railway.'

‘What sort of business?'

‘Well, take that girl what was killed, what you told us about. No-one saw nothing, did they? No-one stopped the devil who done it; even though he stuck right next to the bleedin' body.'

‘So?'

‘Well, don't get me wrong, it's a crying shame and all, but it tells you something that he got away with
it, don't it? I bet, for instance, there's a lot of property what is lost, one way or another, on your blessed railway. And a fellow with light fingers, well, he might do all right out of it.'

‘Nowhere to run neither, is there?'

‘A fellow wouldn't need to. Not if he had someone looking out for the guard. And I bet you see a few things, working down them stations. I bet many an item goes walking from your works, don't it?'

‘So that's your bright idea, is it? Well, I ain't helping you with that. Forget I said anything. I got enough troubles.'

‘Just a thought, Bill. Perk up. I ain't never seen a fellow always look so bleedin' chopfallen as you, I swear.'

‘Maybe I have reason.'

‘Reason? You ain't got a care in the world, have you?'

‘Just think of something else, that's all. I ain't helping you.'

Tom Hunt looks only a little downcast.

‘I wonder where that blasted woman of mine's got to, eh?'

Lizzie Hunt stands by the imposing wall of Gray's Inn, near to the corner of Gray's Inn Lane, watching the traffic. There is something mesmeric in the shifting mass of bodies and vehicles, and she waits there for several minutes before moving on down Holborn Hill. Her face, however, looks tired and wan, and there is a certain listlessness in her movements that is noticeable to anyone who sees her. In her hand she clutches a small purse tied by a piece of cord to her wrist. She keeps a firm hold on it until she comes upon a solitary figure crouched upon the pavement. It is a man
in his fifties, a grey-bearded, leather-cheeked old man in patched corduroys, with a little wooden tray set before him containing the sort of knick-knacks beloved by a certain class of pedlar.

‘Anything you fancy, dear?' he says upon seeing her interest. ‘Nice bit of stuff for a lady, this; set your pretty little head off a treat, it would.' The old man gestures at a row of ribbons laid out upon one portion of the tray.

Lizzie smiles involuntarily bringing her hand up to touch her touzled hair.

‘How about this one?' he says, selecting a thin dark red strip of cloth. ‘Genuine silk.'

She takes it and inspects it.

‘That's your colour, that is, my dear.'

‘I'll take it.'

‘I've got to go,' says Bill Hunt to his cousin, an hour or more subsequent to their arrival in the Three Cups. Before them on the table lie half a dozen empty glasses.

‘Already?'

‘There's work to be done,' he replies morosely.

‘Always work with you, ain't it, old man? Well, I reckon I'll stay here a short while.'

‘I thought you was flat broke?'

‘Oh, yes, I am,' replies Tom, ‘well, near as damn it.'

Bill takes a deep breath, straightening his back and drawing himself up to his full height; to another man he might seem intimidating, but his cousin merely shakes his hand and wishes him well.

‘Well, it's been a pleasure sharing a glass, ain't it? And if you see Lizzie, tell her to find us here.'

‘Aye, I will.'

With that, Bill Hunt stands up, replaces his jacket,
and makes his way to the door. Once out into the street he does not turn his step towards Farringdon station, but returns instead to the tenement in which he has his meagre lodgings. His heavy boots echo on the creaking steps that lead to his door; it is never locked, as his few possessions can be readily accommodated upon his person: a razor, a pipe, a box of matches. He is not overly surprised, therefore, to find Lizzie Hunt inside, lying upon his bed. She sits up as he enters the room.

‘You're back then,' he says.

‘Halloa, Bill.'

‘Tom's looking for you. Wants his money.'

‘Well, he'll get it,' she says. ‘I saw the deputy downstairs. Says you'll have to pay extra if we're staying here.'

‘I'll set him straight,' he replies. ‘Are you?'

‘What?'

‘Are you stopping here?'

‘Up to Tom and you, ain't it?'

‘I'm just asking,' he says, sitting next to her on the bed. ‘I never know with him what he's up to.'

She shrugs. ‘You and me both.'

‘If it were just you, we'd do all right,' says Bill, looking down at the floorboards. ‘He ain't no good for you, you know.'

‘Good enough, I'd say.'

‘Maybe,' he replies, placing a hand gently on hers.

She smiles, half-heartedly. ‘No, Bill. Leave it. Not again. What about Tom?'

‘He won't be back, not for a while. I left him drinking in the Cups.'

‘He's my husband.'

‘He don't want
you
, he just wants some mot earning for him.'

Lizzie scowls, upset by the slur on her husband's
character. ‘That ain't true. Anyhow, I feel a bit queer,' she says, shifting away from him a little, ‘I need a rest, Bill.'

He looks at her, his forehead creased in thought. ‘I'll pay, if you like.'

‘Bill! Don't be awkward. You're hurting me.'

Bill Hunt lets go of her hand. ‘No, I'd never hurt you.'

She looks at him, smiling kindly. ‘I know, Billy, I know. Not today, eh?'

‘S
O, YOUR MA'S
gone off again?' says Alice Meynell, slicing a piece of ham for herself then immediately returning to sweeping the floor. She does not glance at Clara White as she speaks; she is too busy for that. Indeed, although there is no clock in the Harrises' kitchen at Doughty Street, Alice knows the time full well: Cook has already returned home; her master and mistress have just retired to the upstairs drawing room with a full pot of tea. In other words, it is plain to Alice Meynell that it is nine o'clock or thereabouts, and, in twenty minutes, a fire will be required in each bedroom and the beds turned down. It is, moreover, the only time that Alice and Clara may take their evening meal.

‘Yes, gone again,' says Clara, absent-mindedly echoing her companion's words, her face peculiarly pensive. Unlike Alice, she is seated at the kitchen table. She has a slice of bread and butter on a plate set neatly before her but has not touched a single crumb.

‘And,' continues Alice, returning to spear the ham with her fork as she speaks, ‘after you went and bought that tonic for her. Ungrateful, I call it.'

‘That? Oh, I returned that to the shop,' she replies casually. ‘That's all square.'

‘Didn't make you pay for it? That's good of 'em.
But your ma don't know that, does she?'

‘I'm not sure she knows much of anything. She ain't been herself.'

‘She'll come back, she always does.'

‘And then what do I do with her?' Alice shrugs. ‘Workhouse?'

‘Alice!'

‘Well, I'm just saying, Clarrie. You can't keep her here in the cupboard, can you? You can't afford to be keeping her anywhere.'

‘I ain't sending her into the 'house. It'd kill her.'

‘Fair enough,' replies the girl, putting down her broom and sitting beside Clara. ‘But there's something else, ain't there?'

‘Like what?'

‘You tell me.'

‘Nothing. Well . . . something she said. Or maybe she didn't even actually say it. I can't remember.'

‘Lor!' exclaims Alice, reducing the ham by another slice. ‘Will you ever just say what you mean, plain like?'

‘Well, it was like she knew that girl was dead, even before anyone had heard about it. I even talked to the nurse about it, Ally. But how could she know? It don't make sense.'

‘You're giving me goose bumps. Maybe she has the second sight.'

‘Don't laugh at me.'

‘I weren't,' replies Alice.

‘Perhaps I should tell someone, the police. But then what will they think, with her running off like that?'

‘Hmm,' replies Alice, her cheeks full of ham and bread. Clara is about to say something else when the front doorbell rings, the sound jingling in the hallway and in the kitchen.

‘There ain't anyone expected, is there?' says Clara, surprised.

‘I'll have a look,' says Alice, wearily, walking over to the kitchen window, and peering up the area steps.

‘Well, now's your chance,' she says, squinting up at the road.

‘My chance?'

‘To tell the police. They're only here,' she says, grinning excitedly. ‘Probably come to take you straight to the magistrate, I reckon.'

Clara says nothing, her mouth gaping in open-jawed surprise. After a few seconds' delay, she gathers her thoughts and hurries upstairs, brushing crumbs from her apron. The voice of Mrs. Harris can already be heard from the landing.

‘Who on earth is that?'

‘Don't know, ma'am.'

‘Well, do find out.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Clara reaches the hall and pulls back the thick velvet curtain that protects the front door, then unlocks it; there is also a bolt with a tendency to stick, which does not yield immediately to her nervous fingers. Finally the door is opened to reveal the presence of Inspector Webb and, behind him, sergeant Watkins.

‘Ah, Miss White,' says Webb, laying a rather sarcastic stress on
Miss
, ‘good evening. Allow me to introduce sergeant Watkins. I am afraid, following our little discussion this morning, we require a few moments of your employer's time, and likewise of yours.'

Clara hesitates for a moment, then recollects her duty and beckons the two men into the hallway; in her confusion, she almost forgets to take the inspector's helmet.

‘Perhaps you had better announce us, eh, Miss white?' suggests Webb, observing her agitation.

Clara nods and hurries upstairs.

‘Very nervy sort, ain't she?' remarks the sergeant. Webb nods.