The Welfare of the Dead (31 page)

‘Lucy! Can you hear me?'

Lucy does not reply. The captain of the boat, however, now drawn to a halt, shines his lamp back along the path, illuminating Annabel and the little girl. Annabel holds up her light, and finds Lucy's eyes as vacant as when she stood in her bedroom, staring into the street.

‘What's happening there?' shouts the man, his voice a mixture of irritation and curiosity. ‘Who's that?'

Annabel does not reply. For she realises that her little cousin is not simply standing still, but pointing her finger down into the water. Annabel bends down, holding her lamp by the very side of the path.

And though it is dim, it is quite sufficient to reveal the body of a man, floating in the canal, his head submerged in the dark water.

D
ECIMUS
W
EBB CLOSES
the iron gate behind him, and walks hesitantly down the mossy track that leads to the tow-path of the Regent's Canal, a few steps behind the rather more agile Sergeant Bartleby. It is a chill morning, with a hint of mist hanging above the water, and the ground under foot is muddy enough to warrant caution. Ahead of them, by the bank itself, stands a uniformed policemen, wearing the stripes of a sergeant. He looks up and waves.

‘Inspector Webb?'

Webb nods, although he does not quicken his pace.

‘Hope we haven't got you both here under false pretences, sir,' continues the sergeant. He steps forward to offer Webb and Bartleby a firm handshake. ‘My name's Trent.'

‘False pretences, Sergeant Trent? I should hope not too,' replies Webb. ‘Where is your inspector?'

‘Gone back to the station house, sir. The damp is bad for his rheumatics. He said you may as well talk personal-like, to myself, seeing as I was here first.'

‘Hmm. Well, send him my compliments,' says Webb, looking along the canal. ‘So where is your little find?'

‘Just here, sir, though he ain't so little,' replies the sergeant, motioning Webb and Bartleby a few yards
back along the tow-path. There, along by the side of the sloping track that they came down, lies a dirty-looking blanket, not too distinct from the muddy earth around it, barely covering the outline of a body.

‘We haven't moved him since we got him out of the water. Big fellow, though, took three of us to shift him.'

‘Yes, well, that would be right,' murmurs Webb. ‘For heaven's sake, man, let me see him.'

‘Right you are, sir,' says Sergeant Trent, stepping to one side, as Webb leans down and pulls back the cloth concealing the dead man's face.

‘That him, sir?'

Webb looks down at the features of the corpse. Though his jowls are a little devoid of colour, his hair bedraggled, his eyes glazed and vacant, it is unmistakably the face of Vasilis Brown.

‘Yes, it is,' replies Webb. ‘You did well to let me know, Sergeant.'

‘In fairness, sir, it was one of my men, Constable Hicks, what recognised the description you circulated, when we swapped shifts. We've sent word to the City force too. Inspector Hanson, wasn't it?'

‘Indeed, Inspector Hanson. Still I think we must begin here without him; my apologies if you are later obliged to repeat yourself, Trent. Now, when did you find the body?'

‘Well, sir,' replies the sergeant, ‘it was about half-past eleven last night when I got here. Can't say how long the chap had been in the water.'

‘Not too long, I should think,' says Webb, bending down, looking at the dead man's face and hands, examining the skin.

‘No, sir. Can't have been, in fact. The boats come here pretty regular, every couple of hours even during the night. He'd have taken more of a battering, if he
had been in there that long. Although there's a nasty wound on the back of his head, if you lift him up a bit, sir. Unfortunate business, eh?'

Webb tilts the dead man's head, gently parting Brown's thick locks of black hair, revealing bruised, torn skin and, with the blood washed away in the dirty water, a pale white hint of bone at the back of his skull.

‘Unfortunate for him,' says Webb. ‘Now, what do you make of that, Bartleby? What caused it?'

‘It might have been a boat, of course,' suggests the sergeant. ‘Or do you think it was foul play, sir?'

‘Does it really look like he went under a boat, Sergeant?'

‘I'd say not, sir. You'd expect more damage to the rest of him. The neck at least.'

‘Good. Now—'

‘Wait a moment,' says Bartleby, observing a particular spot upon the brick wall behind them, by the mouth of the tunnel. ‘There you go, sir.'

‘What?'

‘It looks like blood,' replies the sergeant, pointing.

Webb gets up and peers closely at the coarse brick; it is, indeed, stained with a splash of dark colour, and several wiry black hairs, like those of the dead man, appear to be snagged in the rough stone. Webb smiles.

‘I'll have you know, Sergeant Trent,' says Webb, sardonically, ‘Bartleby is one of our best men. Nothing escapes him. Well done, Sergeant.'

Sergeant Bartleby does not rise to the bait, but merely nods.

‘So, gentlemen,' continues Webb, looking at the dead man, then back to the wall, ‘there was a struggle here; the mark is at the right height, is it not? Bash! The fellow's brains are crashed against this wall, with some force, mind you, then his body despatched into
the water. Did you find any other clues, Sergeant? No footprints? Nothing on the man's person?'

‘Footprints, sir? Well, I should think there was, only it was impossible to say who belonged to them, seeing as how such a crowd was rushing up and down.'

‘A crowd? Why was there a crowd here? You have a man on the gate,' says Webb, looking up towards the road above. ‘Has he been charging a penny a look?'

‘Sir!' says Trent.

Webb sighs. ‘You must forgive my flippancy, Sergeant; I have no wish to impugn your integrity. But I fail to see why there was a “crowd”?'

‘I think,' says Trent, frowning, ‘you must have misunderstood, sir. I was the first officer here, but it weren't me that found him.'

‘Then who was it?'

‘It seems, sir, it was a little girl that wandered out of a nearby property.'

‘Correct me if I am wrong, Sergeant, but these,' says Webb, gesturing towards the backs of the homes that overlook the canal, ‘are respectable households, are they not? What was a little girl doing out at such an hour?'

‘Apparently she walks in her sleep, sir.'

‘Really?'

‘So I was told, sir. Her mother and father were out here looking for her,' continues Trent, retrieving his notebook, ‘and another female, a cousin, and a female servant—'

‘That will suffice, Sergeant. Where are they now?'

‘We told them to wait on us calling this morning, sir. I actually popped in earlier, said you might be wanting a word. The master of the house weren't too happy, between you and me, sir. Said he didn't have time for such things; “a business to run”.'

‘Did he now?' says Webb. ‘Well, at all events, tell
your man to let no-one else down here, until Inspector Hanson should arrive at least.'

‘I will do, sir.'

‘Now, where might I find this gentleman who is too busy for such trifles?'

‘I'll show you, sir. Just across the way on Duncan Terrace. Woodrow's the fellow's name. He's in the—'

‘Not the mourning trade?' suggests Webb.

‘Eh? Do you know the man, sir?'

‘It seems likely,' says the inspector, casting a quizzical glance at Bartleby, ‘that we do.'

Webb rings the door-bell at Duncan Terrace. It is a matter of seconds before the door is answered by the Woodrows' manservant, and both the inspector and sergeant are ushered swiftly inside. Thus, if the Woodrows' neighbours must observe the attendance of Her Majesty's Police upon the household, they are at least given the shortest possible time in which to do so. Jervis leads the two policemen expeditiously up to the drawing-room upon the first floor, where Jasper Woodrow stands by the window, turning to face his guests as they enter the room.

‘Inspector Webb. Sergeant,' he says, nodding.

‘Mr. Woodrow. I believe you are not surprised to see us.'

‘I saw you from the window, Inspector. I was told to wait for the police. But I confess, I was surprised to see you. Do you deal with every tragedy in London?'

‘Of course not, sir. Just the awkward ones.'

‘No more than you're involved in them all, I should expect, sir,' adds Bartleby. Webb gives the sergeant a minatory glance.

‘I mean to say,' continues Bartleby, ‘it's just one of those queer coincidences, eh, sir?'

‘I am not “involved” in anything, Inspector,' says Woodrow, indignantly. ‘What does your man mean to imply?'

‘I am sure nothing was meant, sir,' says Webb, soothingly.

‘I am glad to hear it. It is bad enough this wretched fellow should do away with himself upon our doorstep—'

‘I beg your pardon,' interjects Webb. ‘You're of the opinion it was suicide?'

‘Of course. Happens every few months. Some poor wretch throws themself in. They dragged a girl out of the lock only last month.'

Webb tilts his head in a non-committal manner.

‘If you don't believe me, Inspector, talk to your local chaps. They'll tell you as much. I guarantee it.'

Webb smiles. ‘Well, perhaps you're right, sir. Too early to say. Now, we'll need to interview whoever was there when or immediately after the body was discovered. That makes most of your household, I understand? In particular, it was your daughter who found him?'

Woodrow raises his eyes to the heavens. ‘Is this really necessary? I thought the sergeant might have explained it. The girl sleep-walks, Inspector. Our wretched maid left the door open and she wandered out. I don't know how much you know about the condition, but she will not recall a thing.'

‘Must be a terrible affliction, sir. Still, I would like to speak to her. And the rest of the house; I understand you were all there?'

‘We thought we had lost Lucinda, my daughter, Inspector. Naturally we formed a search party.'

‘And you found her. One tragedy averted, at least. Still, I should like to talk to her, and the rest of your family, separately if I may.'

‘Good Lord, Inspector, are we under some kind of suspicion?'

‘I merely wish to hear from each in turn. It will help with our inquiry; the chain of events. I am sure you understand, sir.'

‘Well, I'll arrange it, if I must, Inspector. It is far from convenient. And my wife has had no rest all night.'

‘Still, thank you. Tell me, how old is your girl?'

‘She is only six,' says Woodrow.

‘Well, perhaps I might see the little girl and her mother together then.'

‘This really is the limit, Inspector,' replies Woodrow, his annoyance audible in every syllable.