A Metropolitan Murder (9 page)

The woman scowls, but stands up with a surprising agility.

‘Follow me,' she mutters grudgingly, whispering something to herself, about the iniquity of ‘pestering an old woman.' The two men follow her, into the hallway, then up bare wooden stairs on to the first-floor landing. A couple of lodgers peer out of half-open doorways, and then hastily close them. Webb gestures for the old woman to stop, and tries to open one of the doors, but finds it locked.

‘Is that the front room?' asks Webb.

‘It is,' says the old woman.

‘Who has the key, then?'

‘Party what is renting it.'

‘I wager he has paid well in advance?'

The woman nods, though her face betrays a certain anxiety that the policeman might know such a thing. ‘A month ahead, as it happens.'

‘That is unusual for a place like this, is it not?'

‘What do you mean “place like this”?' asks the woman, indignation in her voice. ‘This is decent lodgings, this is.'

‘I'd say it's unusual, sir,' suggests Watkins.

‘And how much did he pay?'

The old woman looks reluctant to disclose such confidential arrangements. Webb merely stares at her.

‘Half-sovereign, if you must know.'

‘A good amount. No doubt the room is furnished?'

‘After a fashion. But I ain't taken anything under pretences.'

‘I am sure not. Tell me, was he a smart-looking man?'

‘Not so much. Talked quite fancy, though.'

‘So he was a gentleman?'

‘Maybe,' she says. ‘Queer sort, if he was.'

Webb smiles. ‘I agree. Perhaps you could let us in.'

‘I told you, it's the party what has the keys.'

‘Well, I do not think he will return. There is no spare?'

The woman shrugs.

‘Please don't take me for a fool, Madam. Just let us in.'

When she was finally located, I found Mrs. H—to be a most obliging and conniving elderly creature, squatting like some wintering toad in an alcove by the fire. Yes, she said, she had the room vacant, though she informed me, most seriously, that she was ‘most particular' about tenants. This was mere humbug, of course; a full month's rent quickly served to make her more agreeable. I quickly found myself the tenant of the first-floor parlour.

I had been pleased to learn that the room was let furnished
.
However, my joy diminished when I discovered that the sole piece of furniture was a plain iron bedstead and soiled mattress. Furthermore, I found that the boards were quite bare, the walls alive with mould, and even the mantel was cracked. None of this, however, seemed to diminish the proprietorial pride of Mrs. H—. I did not, therefore, enquire as to the condition of ‘unfurnished!'

Decimus Webb waits until the old woman has gone downstairs before he examines the room. It is a short procedure, however, since it contains little of interest; indeed, it contains very little of anything at all.

‘Nothing.'

‘Indeed, sergeant, nothing. No furniture barring the bed, no clothing. Dust everywhere. No-one has lived here, have they? It is just as our man writes in his book. He merely came here to observe the street below. “Seeing everything but unseen.” But we know a little more at least.'

‘Do we?'

‘I think so. He dresses shabbily, deliberately; he hopes to blend in; a disguise. But he writes like a well-educated man; and we know he has money, enough to pay a month's rent.'

‘It ain't much, sir, is it? We don't even know his name.'

‘Now, Watkins, that is an excellent idea. Be so good as to go and ask Mrs. Hodgkiss if she caught his name?'

‘Right now, sir?'

‘If you please.'

Watkins goes downstairs, shaking his head, whilst Decimus Webb stays in the room, and walks over to the window, looking at the bustle of the market street. A few moments later the sergeant returns.

‘Phibbs, she says,' says the sergeant.

‘Phibbs?' Webb turns away from the window. ‘How droll. I wonder if he intended it as a joke?'

‘Sir?'

‘A pun, sergeant. Most likely, anyhow. Not a particularly clever one, I admit. Don't worry. We will find Mr. Phibbs, one way or the other.'

‘Perhaps if we kept an eye on this place, sir? We don't have much else to go on, do we?'

‘I doubt he will return here, sergeant. If he wishes to avoid us, at least, he will not be so foolish.'

Outside in the street a solitary man lingers for a moment on the corner, looking at the figure with his back to him, in the window of the first-floor room of Mrs. Hodgkiss's lodging-house.

Henry Cotton curses his luck, picks up his carpet-bag and hurriedly walks on.

A
HINT OF THE
dim late afternoon light shines through the parlour window at Doughty Street. Clara White rubs away at the glass, stepping back off the footstool to observe the results of her labours. There is a thick layer of dirt upon her cloth, but, though the interior is improved, the exterior of the window is so badly smutted by the London smoke that she cannot, in all honesty, discern any difference. As she peers out on to Doughty Street itself, however, she sees a boy approaching the house, a scruffy lad dressed in a dirty corduroy suit and wearing scuffed brown boots, who stops, checks the building's address, and descends the area steps, pulling his leather satchel from around his neck.

‘Done already, White?'

Clara jumps in surprise at the voice behind her, blushing as she turns to address the mistress of the house.

‘No, ma'am. Nearly, though, ma'am.'

Mrs. Harris stands behind her, observing the window with a look of mild disdain. She is a short, stocky woman in her fifties, wearing an elaborate moiré day dress, intricately patterned. The fabric is a colour that might be described in fashionable pages as ‘Bismarck', but it is identified in her housemaid's
mind merely as ‘nutmeg'. Moreover, the outfit incorporates a large and unwieldly bustle. In consequence of this appendage, when Mrs. Harris walks into a room, Clara cannot help but think of a duck emerging on to dry land. It is not an insight, however, which she vouchsafes to her employer.

‘Then why have you stopped?'

‘There's a boy, ma'am, delivering something. Just gone down the steps.'

At that moment, a bell rings in the kitchen.

‘Is Cook not there?' asks Mrs. Harris.

‘I believe she is out marketing, ma'am. And Alice is upstairs.'

‘Then you had better hurry. But be sure to come back and finish. I cannot abide work half done.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Clara curtsies and hurries, as swiftly as decency permits, down to the ‘tradesman's entrance'. This is the name bestowed upon it by Mrs. Harris, though it normally suffices with being, simply put, the kitchen door. The boy is standing there and rings the bell again just as Clara appears.

‘'Arris?' he asks, without any preliminary.

‘This is the Harris household,' replies Clara White, in her best housemaid's voice, though it is a voice with a strong hint of the Thames about it.

‘Package for 'Arris, darlin', says the boy, brandishing a large brown paper parcel retrieved from his satchel. He cannot be much more than twelve years old.

‘Don't darlin' me . . . give it here,' replies Clara, taking it from him. ‘Who should I say it's from?'

‘Babbingtons, there's a card inside.'

‘Well, thank you. You can leave it with me, then.'

‘No, thank
you . . .
darlin',' says the boy, grinning and running back up the steps before she can reply.
Clara toys with the idea of pursuing him, but thinks better of it, picturing her mistress's face if she were to see her boxing the boy's ears. Instead, she shuts the door and takes the parcel inside. The name of the shop is not unfamiliar, and by the weight and dimensions it is easy enough to guess that it is one of her master's regular deliveries of books.

She is about to take it upstairs, when she pauses upon the kitchen steps, looking at the string and wrapping.

She turns back, still holding the package, and opens the door to the scullery. Once inside, with the door ajar, she glances at the old washtub she put there earlier in the day; raising it up a little, she checks that her bottle of Balley's Quietener lies concealed beneath it.

Looking over her shoulder, she takes the parcel, and carefully unwraps the string.

‘Oh dear, no. No, this is not the thing at all.'

‘Sir?'

Dr. Arthur Harris, Clara's employer, sits at his desk with the parcel unwrapped, reading the spines of the half-dozen items supplied. He is a comfortable cherubic-faced man; indeed, his wife has often been heard to remark that if it was not for the whisps of grey hair atop his head, it would be hard to judge whether he was six or sixty. In truth, however, he falls into the latter category; and yet, as he examines his new acquisitions, the look of sheer disappointment present upon his face is one perhaps more commonly associated with more junior members of society.