A Metropolitan Murder (21 page)

‘Just my little joke, old man,' says his cousin, perplexed.

‘Aye, well, I'll be off.' And with those words Bill Hunt turns his back and lumbers down the stairs.

Tom walks over to the banister, and waits until he has gone before addressing his wife.

‘You watch him. He's a queer beggar. I sometimes think he ain't all there.'

‘He's all right.'

‘I didn't say he weren't. You just watch him, that's all.'

‘I will, Tom.'

‘Good girl. Now, go get us some grub. I'm starving.'

‘Sir.'

Inspector Webb, for the second time, is woken from his reverie by the unasked-for presence of sergeant Watkins in his office.

‘I take it you have news, sergeant?'

‘Surgeon's report, sir.'

‘Ah, now that is something, I suppose. Give it here. Strangulation, I take it?'

‘Indeed, sir. Most likely by hand. Makes a change from the garrotte, don't it?'

‘I knew this already. Anything else?'

‘Surgeon reckons she didn't struggle much. Says you can tell from the bruising around the neck. And no scratches or marks on her hands, face, nor arms or anything.'

‘But that is odd, is it not? Does he make anything of that?'

‘Too drunk, sir. Stomach contents was mostly gin, a bellyful, and she'd taken a bit of something else and all.'

‘Something else?'

‘Laudanum, sir. A good dose of it.'

‘Ah, yes, I see it down here,' he says, scanning the paper. ‘Well, a lot of the street girls swear by it, do they not? I am told it keeps one warmer than gin.'

‘I believe so, sir.'

‘Ah! But have you read this, sergeant? “It is my opinion that such a dose as taken by the deceased would be more than sufficient to render the average female unconscious. The combination of such an agent with the active properties of alcohol would only tend to increase such a possibility.” That tells us something at least.'

‘Sir?'

‘Consider this, Watkins. Do you think it likely she purchased her ticket sober, and then drank herself into
a stupor upon the train in the five or ten minutes before she was killed?'

‘Well, I couldn't say, sir.'

‘More likely there was someone with her from the beginning, if she was in such a state. Someone who got her upon the train.'

Watkins looks somewhat skeptical. ‘Some of these girls have powerful constitutions, sir.'

Webb pauses, a thoughtful expression passing over his face before he speaks once more. ‘No, I think someone was with her. Still, at least you will be kept busy, sergeant.'

‘Me, sir?'

‘Gin-shops, sergeant. I want someone to speak to the owner of every public, gin palace and wine-shop between Drury Lane and the Farringdon Road. Someone must have sold her a good deal of it, eh?'

‘And what about the laudanum?'

‘Now, I've a good idea where she got that. Send a note to Miss Sparrow, if you will, and ask her to check if her medicine cupboard matches her inventory.'

‘She had it from the refuge?'

Webb nods. ‘It is a distinct possibility. She has given me all her invoices and correspondence. It seems they keep a good deal of such stuff. '

‘Well then,' says the sergeant cheerfully, ‘that just proves what I've been saying, don't it? These girls don't change, however much you dose 'em with religion. That ain't what they're after.'

‘You think not, sergeant? Miss Sparrow and Dr. Harris would disagree with you.'

‘They don't change, sir. They just get more sly.'

‘W
ILL YOU HURRY
up? They will be here any moment.'

‘Yes, ma'am, sorry, ma'am.'

Clara White rubs the blacking diligently into the fancy iron-work of the fender; her fingers are quite as black as the metal of the fire-place, which has already been the recipient of two full coats during the day, and, if truth be told, her hands are numb with the exertion.

‘Will that do, ma'am?'

‘It will do, I suppose,' says Mrs. Harris, magnanimously. ‘Just hurry and lay the fire, then do go and wash, for goodness' sake. I swear I do not know how you can get yourself into such a state.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Clara returns her attention to the hearth, arranging coals and kindling neatly upon the grate, then lighting a match, which sparks a puny flame. It struggles to take a firm hold of its carboniferous tribute, and for a moment looks as if it might go out.

‘Really,' says Mrs. Harris, anxiously, ‘this is too much; and there will be an awful vapour, I know there will.'

‘Should I remove some of the coals, ma'am?'

‘There is no time,' replies Mrs. Harris, looking at
the clock upon the mantelpiece. ‘Just go, go and make yourself decent, if such a thing is possible. If it is not too much to ask.'

Clara says nothing in reply, but gathers up her things: a box of brushes and blacking rags, a dustpan filled with ashes; as she leaves the room she hears a despairing exclamation.

‘The poker! No blacking on the poker!'

Clara again does not reply to her mistress's words, and knows better than to return and face her. Instead, having checked her face for smudges in the landing mirror, she descends as swiftly as she can downstairs, through the hallway and down to the kitchen. There she stows her cleaning things in the pantry, dashes to the kitchen sink and wrings her hands under the tap, scouring them with a brush normally reserved for cleaning the saucepans. Cook is too preoccupied with the complexities of the range to notice this infraction of the domestic order; rather, she peers intently into the oven and returns to watching over the griddle, working with the same proprietorial interest that a captain takes in steering his ship as it comes into harbour. And if her face is even more ruddy than usual amidst the heat and steam of her work, her cheeks apple-red, then it is merely a flush of pride in her culinary achievements.

‘What are you gawping at?' she says, finally noticing Clara.

‘Nothing.'

The doorbell rings; it is a faint, high-pitched ring, a small sprung bell that vibrates above the kitchen door, but it is sufficient to make both servants jump, and is as effective as the loudest call to arms. Cook curses to herself, immediately removing a copper pan from the heat of the stove; Clara unties her apron, throwing it to one side, and hastens back up the stairs.
The hallway is in immaculate order with everything just so; even the tassels of the Persian rug have been arrayed in perfect alignment with each other. Clara takes a nervous breath and opens the door, ushering in the couple waiting on the doorstep, sheltering under a soaked umbrella. She recognises them both: acquaintances of her employer, namely a certain Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter.

‘Devilish bad weather, is it not, White?' says Mr. Carpenter, cheerfully enough. He is an old man, of a similar age to Dr. Harris, but lean and wiry, with whiskery hollow cheeks that sink into his face; his wife is a little younger, a shy small woman, who smiles nervously as Clara relieves her of her mantle and bonnet.

‘Awful, sir,' replies Clara, taking the umbrella from the man and carefully placing it in the coat-stand, along with his coat. ‘Will you come up, sir?'

The guests follow her as she leads them upstairs and into the drawing-room. Following Mrs. Harris's instructions, she announces them as they enter. Clara cannot help but notice this provokes something of a wry smile in Mr. Carpenter; but if he is amused by the formality of being introduced to one of his closest acquaintances, he says nothing about it.

‘Good to see you, old man!' says Harris, stepping forward and shaking his guest warmly by the hand.

‘And you, my dear fellow.'

Clara slips unnoticed from the room, leaving the conversation and greetings behind her. It is not long after she steps out on the landing, however, that she hears the bell ring once more. She walks briskly down the stairs and once more assumes her post at the door, opening it to find a young man, not more than twenty-one years old, dressed in black evening wear. He is without the extravagant whiskers that are the fashion,
but has a good head of dark brown hair, neatly combed through, and possesses what many would consider a handsome countenance. But there is something in the way he looks at Clara that disturbs her composure. It seems like a minute or more before either of them speaks.

‘This is the Harris household?'

Clara blushes, realising how foolish she must look simply staring at the visitor.

‘Y-yes, sir,' she stutters. ‘May I take your hat and coat, sir?'

‘I suppose that would be for the best,' he replies, following her into the hall. It is a thick winter greatcoat, a little splashed by mud, and dripping with rainwater; she hangs it carefully on the coat-stand.

‘If you'd like to follow me, sir.' He nods and follows.

‘What name shall I give, sir?'

‘Name? Phibbs. Ernest Phibbs. I am expected, I hope.'

Clara leads the way into the drawing-room. Before she can speak a word, however, Dr. Harris steps forward with his outstretched arm.

‘Ah, Mr. Phibbs,' he says, shaking his guest heartily by the hand.

‘Dr. Harris. A pleasure to accept your hospitality.'

‘Indeed, young man. Welcome! Carpenter, this is the young man I was telling you about. Met him quite by chance. He is a writer; he read my paper on the plight of the Streatham needlewomen.'

‘I am glad somebody did,' replies Carpenter, addressing the new arrival.

‘Really, Mr. Carpenter!' interposes Mrs. Carpenter, admonishing her husband with a stern glance.

Dr. Harris laughs. ‘Really, ma'am, there is no need to protect me from your husband's cynicism; I have
endured it for many a year. Now, Mr. Phibbs, you must come and tell us about the projects you alluded to yesterday. You wish to out-Mayhew Mr. Mayhew, eh?'

Henry Cotton smiles. ‘You are not far wrong, sir.'

And, for a moment, his glance is directed toward Clara White, who stands inconspicuously in the doorway. Mrs. Harris is nearby but does not notice the focus of her guest's attention. She bids Clara, in an urgent whisper, to leave and assist Cook in her work, with an injunction that soup should be served at ‘eight precisely'. Clara obeys and leaves the room, hearing her mistress's sonorous voice predominating in the chatter behind her.

‘Tell me, Mr. Phibbs, have you been in London long? I would recommend the Crystal Palace. It
is
a sight, you know. Truly it is.'

Dinner begins in Doughty Street at eight precisely. Clara sits in the kitchen with Alice, watching Cook at work, waiting for the bell. There is something unsettling in waiting for the dinner party to finish its various stages. Each ring signals a course completed, another dash up the stairs with the tray to clear plates, remove crumbs, prepare for the next offering: mackerel after the soup; then fricasseed rabbit with oysters; boiled round of beef; roast quail and pigeon with bacon. And as each course is prepared, it is taken immediately upstairs, succulent and aromatic; and each time the plates return it has shrunk to slivers of abandoned gristle and carefully picked bones. Clara takes a taste here and there whilst descending the stairs, but never when anything is fresh, hot and plump.