The Candle Man (29 page)

Tac . . . tac . . . tac . . . tac . . .

Well?
The little demon with its ugly snout was hopping excitedly in his mind, from one stunted leg to the other.

You saw what she put underneath, didn’t you?

L
iz stopped on the pavement opposite the hotel. ‘That’s the one.’

‘You sure?’

‘S’what the locksmith said: The Grantham Hotel on the Strand.’

‘It looks too posh an’ fancy,’ uttered Cath unhappily. ‘They won’t let the likes of us in.’

‘What’s the worst that can ’appen?’ She shrugged. ‘They tell us to bugger off, right?’

Cath shook her head nervously. ‘I ain’t ever been in a place this fancy before, though.’

Liz ignored her, stepping across the wide thoroughfare of the Strand, picking her way between carriages and trams and pancakes of flattened horse manure. On the pavement and up the steps, Liz
turned her nose up at the doorman, who eyed them both suspiciously for a moment before begrudgingly opening one of the double doors.

Inside, the hushed quiet of the foyer echoed with the jangling ring of one of the new Bell telephones. Cath marvelled at the sight of one of the desk staff talking into the mouthpiece and
listening to some response on the ear piece. Liz nudged her gently as she produced the room key from the folds of her best skirt.

Liz had been in posh hotels before. In younger days, when she’d been a much prettier prize. Nights in hotel rooms with three or four ‘gentlemen’, dishevelled in their expensive
dinner suits, happy to fill her up with free alcohol until she all but passed out and they could do what they wished. She walked away with near on ten times the money for an evening’s work
then as she could get now, plying her trade on the street. She looked for the stairs and found them, then gave Cath a gentle tug on the arm. Liz was beginning to wonder why she’d brought her
along, gawping like she was at the man on the telephone, then the plush marble floor, then the chandeliers, then the rich dark wood panelling. She was becoming a bloody liability.

‘Excuse me?’

The voice came from behind the desk. Liz turned to see a man in a burgundy tunic, vaguely military, with twin rows of silver buttons up the front. ‘Ladies? Can I help you?’

Brass it out, Liz. It always works.

Liz nodded and strode towards him impatiently. ‘I’ve come to visit a friend,’ she said, as crisp and complete as she could. ‘She’s in room two-hundred and seven, I
do believe.’

She?

The concierge leant forward on the reception desk, taking both women in with one foot-to-head glance. ‘Uh-huh. Business?’

‘None of yours, as it happens,’ Liz replied curtly.

Fair game
. The concierge smiled wryly.
Well played, love
.

‘Go on, then. I don’t want any hustling for trade with the other guests, though, you understand?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mind you take the service stairway up, as well. I don’t want you using the main one.’

Liz was tempted to sputter outrage at him. Something along the lines of a ‘who-do-you-think-you-are’, but she could see he had known exactly what they were the moment they’d
stepped into the lobby. They were lucky he was letting them through.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘We shan’t be long.’

The concierge watched them go, amused at the tall tart’s attempt at sounding respectable. Not even a half-bad attempt, to be fair, but the faded clothes – too many
frills, too much lace hemming, ill-fitting where they should be tight – gave them away. That and the gaps in their teeth; almost, but not quite, hidden by the terse-lipped way she’d
spoken. And that faintly mottled skin: sure sign of the bottle.

He watched to make sure they took the service stairway. Then, out of curiosity, he decided to be sure his suspicions were right. It most definitely had to be a single gentleman staying in room
207 and not a lady. He ducked down behind the desk and fingered through the row of room ledgers to find the one for 207. Finally, he found it and pulled the leather-bound book up onto the reception
desk.

He looked for the date checked in. Almost nine weeks ago now. He recognised the handwriting of his colleague, Nigel, who must have been on duty when he’d checked the guest in: one Mr
Babbitt.

In Nigel’s tiny, almost feminine, loops of handwriting were further details. It was a three-month booking for the room; on its own, not a particularly odd thing. There were quite often
bookings of that duration. But with this one, Mr Babbitt seemed to have given some very specific instructions on his privacy as he’d checked in: that he wished for no room service; that he
would ring for a chambermaid to collect his bedding when it was convenient for him; and at no other time was he to be disturbed.

On the ledger, there were a number of entries for breakfast and evening meals taken in the hotel’s dining room, but none for several weeks now.

He wondered why Nigel had not mentioned this guest’s particulars to him. It was pretty damned important that a duty concierge was aware of the specific instructions of a guest. But the
answer was obvious. Nigel, the selfish bastard, was keeping Mr Babbitt to himself. No doubt the man was a very generous tipper. Clearly, Mr Babbitt had asked his colleague for a few little extras,
and paid handsomely for them not to be a problem.

‘You sneaky rascal,’ he muttered under his breath. There were going to be words come the hand-over at the end of today. He was going to expect a share of Nigel’s tips for
letting those tarts through; that’s the least he could do. Not only that but . . .

His mind stopped dead in its tracks.

He remembered . . . what was it? Yes. A busy lunchtime. A lot of guests coming in, a lot leaving with lists of instructions for him to be very clear on, things for him to deal with, cabs to
hail, recommendations on places to eat, theatres and museums to visit. And yes, amid all that, there’d been that bloke; a copper or something. How long ago? About a month?

He remembered a quietly spoken man with a beard. Asked him the most pointedly stupid questions. Have you had any oddly-behaving guests? Any gentlemen behaving in a suspicious nature? Coming and
going at late hours of the night? In haste? In an odd or unusual mental condition?

He would have laughed at some of those questions if the chap hadn’t appeared to be a copper. The toffs who visited The Grantham were
all
bloody unusual; mad as a box of frogs, the
lot of them.

But this one ledger for room 207: nothing, not a single thing for weeks. As if their guest had died or, far worse, done a runner without settling his bill. He had scribbled the policeman’s
name down somewhere on a scrap of paper, more to get rid of the fool than any inclination to actually make a note of all his guests’ eccentric behaviours to report back to him. Good god,
he’d be on the Bell telephone all the time.

He found the torn corner of foolscap tucked into the duty book. The dialling number he’d scribbled down was not the Met’s switchboard. He knew that number. It was on a list behind
the desk in case of ‘Special Contingencies’. No, it looked like a private number. Perhaps another hotel or a private club. Odd.

You must ask to speak to ‘George Warrington’.

He vaguely recalled the copper had said there’d be a tidy reward if his call turned out to be helpful in advancing their investigation. His blood ran cold at the thought that this guest,
Mr Babbitt, might be a conman. Some bastard masquerading as a well-to-do businessman, racking up an enormous hotel bill and skipping off without paying. There’d be merry hell to pay for
that.

He took the scrap of paper along to the end of the desk and started to dial the number, muttering to himself something about it serving Nigel right if this was going to get him in trouble with
the police or the manager.

Should’ve bloody well shared Mr Babbitt with me, Nigel, shouldn’t you?

T
he room appeared to be unoccupied. Liz stepped inside cautiously. ‘Anyone in ’ere?’

There was an unpleasant odour in the room. Not overpowering, but faint, like something put away to be eaten later but then forgotten about. Liz led the way in; Cath behind her, her eyes darting
anxiously up and down the quiet, carpeted hallway outside.

‘Come in an’ close the door!’ hissed Liz. Cath did as she was told and the heavy oak door clicked shut behind them. ‘What if . . . what if someone’s in ’ere,
waitin’ to jump us?’ she whispered.

‘No one’s ’ere, silly.’

Liz looked around room 207. It was left tidy. Part of her had expected to find something macabre or sinister in here. Mary’s story had worried her; to share rooms with a man she knew
absolutely nothing about, especially now that it seemed there was a madman roaming the East End of London with a taste for carving up prostitutes like mutton. They were calling the murderer
‘Jack the Ripper’.

‘Ripper’ . . . That seems about right.

Looking around the room, her concern eased a little. She saw a travel case open under the window, suits hanging from hangers in the wardrobe, socks and undergarments folded in drawers, and two
pairs of clean, polished shoes lined up in a tidy row on the floor.

In the water closet, decorated with rich dark green and black ceramic tiles, was one of those modern, fancy Twyford flush-down toilets. A bowl beneath a large oval mirror and a water jug beside
it. She saw a porcelain-handled shaving brush, a cut-throat razor, a well-used bar of soap, a comb. The possessions of a well-to-do and quite normal man.

She felt a rush of relief for Mary and, if truth be told, a small tug of jealousy. She always suspected Mary Kelly was somehow going to end up landing on her feet and getting out of the mire of
Whitechapel. She had that air about her. An enduring optimism that had kept her from succumbing to the downward pull of gin or absinthe or opium. A relentless striving for something better. Liz
always felt that Mary would one day attract good fortune her way. Perhaps even achieve something good or great.

‘Hoy! Liz!’

‘What?’

‘What’s this?’

Liz stepped out of the water closet and joined Cath, peering closely at a jam jar sitting on the writing desk by the window.

‘I dunno. A pickled egg or summin’?’

‘Whatever it is, it’s bleedin’ well gone off, it ’as. Stinks proper.’

Liz picked it up and peered closely at the murky brown liquid inside. She shook it gently, watching layers of putrid sediment twist around each other and something hidden inside bump gently
against the glass. ‘Ughhh! Disgusting!’

Cath picked up an envelope the jar had been sitting on. She turned it over and lifted the flap. ‘It’s open. Shall we look?’

‘Give it to me,’ said Liz, putting the jam jar back down on the table. She pulled out a couple of sheets of writing paper with
The Grantham Hotel, Strand
printed along the
top. It was densely packed with lines of carefully neat handwriting. Both sides of each sheet of foolscap.

‘Come on then, Liz: what’s it say?’

Liz absently touched her lips with a finger to hush her. She took the pages, sat down on the end of the bed and began to read.