The Welfare of the Dead

by

L
ee
J
ackson

Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

About the Author

Also by Lee Jackson

Praise

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Two

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Part Four

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Epilogue

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781407088938

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Arrow Books in 2005

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Copyright ©Lee Jackson 2005

Lee Jackson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in the United Kingdom by William Heinemann 2005

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ISBN 0 09 946923 5

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The Welfare of the Dead

Lee Jackson lives in London with his partner Joanne. His first book,
London Dust
, was short listed for the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger Award in 2003. He is fascinated by the social history of Victorian London and spends much of his time on the ongoing development of his website
www.victorianlondon.org

 

Praise for
The Welfare of the Dead

‘Victorian London can be such an evocative place, having captured the imaginations of countless crime writers . . . To Conan Doyle, Anne Perry, Andrew Martin . . . we must now add Lee Jackson who, with this third novel . . . makes this historical patch his very own.'
Guardian

‘A rich and savoury Victorian hotpot with every ingredient choice, hand-picked and done to a turn'
Literary Review

‘Compelling and spooky'
Image

Also By Lee Jackson

London Dust
A Metropolitan Murder

I
DESCENDED FROM
the dome of St. Paul's, back down the iron staircase. I found the view utterly dispiriting. There was nothing to be seen from the Gallery but fog: even the spires of the City churches were mere pin-pricks in a billowing sea of brown filth. I can hardly now recall why I went up there at all. It was, I suspect, a ridiculous attempt to calm my nerves. Indeed, the only thing I remember is the iron-work of the staircase itself. As I followed the spiralling steps, I had a peculiar fancy that I was caught in the coiled springs of some giant clock. I wondered, was it possible that both I and my fellow sight-seers, travelling up and down in weary groups of two and three, were ourselves simply particles of dust, the dirt in the ancient, rusting mechanism? It seemed rather fitting.

Then the bells chimed four o'clock. I stopped upon the stairs to gather my thoughts. I must have looked somewhat distracted, since a solitary woman, who was ascending up to the Gallery, gave me a queer look. She was a woman of middling years and wore a capacious old-fashioned crinoline. She merely looked away when I nodded back to her.

Dust to dust, I thought.

I stepped aside, leaning against the railing to let her proceed. Of course, there was still very little space
between us. Her skirts rustled over my feet as she passed and her face flushed crimson. But she pulled up her skirts a little higher, all the same, to allow me a quick glimpse of her stockinged ankle. What do you think of that? A woman of her age and station baiting such a trap; it quite turned my stomach.

I see. Yes, we have little time. Pray, forgive me.

I made my way down to the nave, and tipped the attendant a ha'penny, much to his annoyance. Doubtless I had the look of a half-crown about me. Then I quit the place by the southern door, and stepped outside. It was far worse than up above: the fog had rendered everything dark and muddied. Believe me, if a man tells you a London fog is a romantic affair, he is a liar. Indeed, I felt as if I had wandered into a different element, in which it would have been just as natural to swim or fly, as to walk. I wrapped my scarf about my mouth, though it did little to remove the stink in the air.

‘Sir?' said a voice by my side.

I peered about me, to find a little girl, a sweet-faced creature, a deceptively angelic countenance, perhaps thirteen years old. She sat upon the ancient steps in the dirt, her rust-coloured skirts spread out around her, a bunch of wilting violets and dried blooms in her lap. She reached down and held one up to me.

‘Penny a flower, sir? Nice violet?'

I have a weakness for a pretty face, I admit. Please, do not blush. But she had the voice of a typical cockney street-child, quite belying her looks. Now, how did she speak? I cannot put it any better than
flaar
and
vi-let
, as if her lips were too slipshod and lazy to express anything more than a syllable or two at a time. Indeed, I do recall I noticed her mouth in particular; her lips were chapped and dry, fissured by the winter air.

‘I do not want your flowers,' I said, pushing her hand aside; but I dropped a penny in her lap, all the same.

I carried on down the steps into St. Paul's Churchyard and then directly across the road, down Godliman Street. I knew the route well enough, even in the fog. In no time I stood in the courtyard, opposite the entrance to Knight's Hotel.

Now, it was a modest place; not what you might imagine, if you read the papers. An old stucco-clad town-house, pristine and decent as to its exterior, most likely the home of some prosperous merchant in the days of the Prince Regent. A whited sepulchre, mind you, like so much of our great metropolis.

I steeled myself and went inside – for the door was left open for visitors – and addressed myself to the owner. He was a large, round-faced swarthy fellow, whom, at the time, I took for a Jew. I found him seated behind a large mahogany writing desk, in the front parlour.

‘May I help you?' he said, standing.

‘Mr. Brown?'

‘At your pleasure, sir.'

‘I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time.'

‘Not at all, Mr. . . .'

‘Smith. An acquaintance mentioned your establishment to me,' I replied.

‘I see.' He said, nodding, but eyeing me cautiously. ‘An acquaintance.'

‘I should like a room.'

‘A room?'

‘If you please? I would very much like room fourteen. Is it vacant?'

‘Fourteen? Oh, sir, that is one of our best. That will be a difficult matter . . .'

‘How much?' I asked.

‘A half-sovereign, my dear sir. No more than an hour.'

‘Here.'

I handed him the coin; I had it ready. He looked at both sides, admiring the gold. It was, I do recall, rather tarnished. I half expected him to bite it.

‘It is legal tender, I assure you. '

The wretched man chuckled to himself, and pocketed it. ‘I mean no harm; please, I mean no harm,' he said, opening a drawer in the desk, and retrieving a key, which he handed to me. I noticed that he had dirty, stubby little fingers, his nails quite gnarled and unpared. ‘You will find it on the first floor, up the stairs, to the left.'

I took the key and thanked him. He did not smile, as such, but there was a curt insolence about him, something in his manner. I do not have much time for such specimens of continental manhood, I confess.

No matter.

I turned about and ascended the stairs. The landing was lit by an ornate, gilded gaselier, five descending circles of spurting flames, an abbreviated
Inferno
. It shed light upon the small brass numbers attached to the lintel above each door. In consequence, I found the door, fourteen, with no difficulty. I knocked and walked in.