The Welfare of the Dead (46 page)

‘M
Y MOTHER
? M
Y
real mother? Yes, I have some memories of her before she gave me up. When I was a child, growing up in St. John's Wood in that great house, I used to think they were only dreams. But I had them again and again. A woman sitting, dressed in black, always black, in the corner of a wretched cold room, a tiny closet of a room with a solitary bed, watching me, smiling at me, even as she shivered. It was her. I am sure of it.

‘Do you know what else I would dream? That I was locked outside that little room whilst she took men inside. I used to have that dream a good deal, different faces, different men. I did not know what it meant; not at the time. What a fine widowhood, eh? You know, even now, I particularly recall the sound of the bolt being drawn.'

Langley looks away and smiles.

‘Or perhaps it is just my current situation that calls it to mind?'

Annabel Krout puts down her note-book and looks at Richard Langley through the wire mesh that separates them.

‘It is not too late to make your peace with God.'

Langley shakes his head, nodding at some movement in the distance. ‘I made my peace long ago. The
warder is coming down the corridor. I think this must be your last visit. I know what day it is tomorrow.'

Annabel pauses, about to say something more, when Langley signals for her to keep silent.

‘No more. They will bury me in the yard with the others. I have already seen the spot – they show it to you on the way to the Bailey. Give Lucy my love; I rather fear for her, you know.'

‘Mr. Langley. Richard, please . . .'

‘I am in the same cell as my father was, do you know that? Put that in your article, Miss Krout. It seems quite apt, somehow, eh? I am sure you will find a publisher.'

Langley motions to the warder behind him. Before Annabel Krout can speak, he is taken back, through the iron-barred door, into the black corridor that leads to his cell.

A
NNABEL
K
ROUT STANDS
in the Golden Gallery of St. Paul's, helping Lucy Woodrow to look over the balcony, and see the bird's-eye view of the capital, spread before them without the obstruction of the railings. Yet, athough it is free of fog, the sky is still liberally smeared with dirty smudges of smoke, seeping from countless chimneys. Only the metropolitan churches are quite visible, however, dozens of steeples and towers pointing to the heavens whilst, in the distance, the royal parks resemble faint green islands, set in a swirling sea of dust. The smoke is worst along the river, the product of the factories that line the southern bank of the Thames, generating a thick haze, like dirty muslin, draped over the entire Surrey shore. In some parts it is difficult to make out where the city ends and the heavens begin.

Lucy Woodrow leans forward, peering down at the minute carts, cabs and omnibuses streaming along Ludgate Hill.

‘Can I go round again?' she asks.

Annabel nods, lifts her down and lets the little girl walk round the Gallery on her own for the third time. She follows behind, keeping a watch on her young charge, not noticing the gentleman coming up the stairs.

‘Miss Krout,' says a familiar voice.

‘Gracious! Inspector, you startled me. What on earth are you doing here?'

‘Your maid told me where to find you. I thought I would come and see how you were. I saw Mrs. Woodrow downstairs.'

‘She says she does not much like heights. I thought I would bring Lucinda up here.'

‘You can see Newgate from here, you know.'

‘I have seen it.'

‘I am sure he did not suffer. You did your best.'

‘I hope he sought forgiveness at the end. Have you heard? Did he say anything?'

‘Not a word, Miss. I'm sorry. How is the little girl?'

‘She seems well enough. You know, I blame myself, Inspector.'

‘For what?' asks Webb.

‘If I had not persuaded her that she saw her father fighting with . . . well, things might have gone differently.'

‘It is not your fault, Miss Krout. You had everyone's best interests at heart. There is little that we could have done.'

‘Mr. Woodrow might have been hanged, Inspector. Lord knows his faults are legion . . .'

‘You show considerable restraint in your choice of words, Miss. Still I don't think we can hold him much longer. I can't see the Commissioner deciding to charge him over the Eloi Chapel affair, not now; we don't have much in the way of evidence. And, to be frank, I don't think they want to see him in court again, if they can avoid it. The whole thing makes us look rather foolish. I've told Mrs. Woodrow she may expect him home in a week or two.'

‘But, don't you see? I might have deprived Melissa of her husband, Lucy of her father.'

‘That would have been as much his doing as yours. Neither you nor the little girl could have known the truth. In any case, I gather there is some talk of emigration, a fresh start?'

‘I think there is no other hope for them, Inspector. Why, the marriage is not even legal. They must begin anew somewhere. I've asked my father if he might help.'

‘Is, ah, Lucinda not with you?' asks Webb.

‘Oh, now where has she got to?'

Lucinda Woodrow looks back to see her cousin engaged in conversation. Peering through the railings of the balcony, she takes a moment to look down at the granite walls of Newgate Prison, and the block-like buildings within.

‘Lucinda!' calls Annabel Krout. ‘Come back now.'

Lucinda Woodrow grudgingly walks back towards Annabel Krout and Webb. The latter kneels down in front of her.

‘Your father may be home soon, Miss,' says Webb.

Lucinda Woodrow frowns.

 

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Lee Jackson

‘It is some months since Miss Ellen Warwick last graced the London stage as “The Brick Lane Butterfly” but this has not lessened the sensation generated by the brutal manner of her death . . .'

In the darkness, a solitary figure stands upon the parapet of Blackfriars Bridge, reflecting on the violent scene she has just witnessed. Natalie Meadows jumps into the swift, silt waters of the Thames. But the river gives her up again to be rescued by a lone boatman. Natalie was once Ellen Warwick's friend. Now she knows that she alone can discover who killed her.

But Ellen kept secrets. The more Natalie uncovers, the less she recognises the strange world Ellen inhabited. The greater the danger that she, too, will become a target for an elusive and dangerously active killer.

Peopled with a cast of characters that Dickens would have relished and portraying the dark side of Victorian London with consummate skill,
London Dust
is a staggeringly assured and compelling debut.

‘Full of power and substance,
London Dust
is an assured debut . . . a compelling and evocative novel that brings the past, and its dead, to life again'
Guardian

 

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Lee Jackson

The last train of the night pulls into the gas-lit platform of Baker Street underground station. A young woman is found strangled, her body abandoned in a second-class carriage.

The brutal ‘Railway Murder' brings Inspector Decimus Webb to the newly-formed Metropolitan Line one bleak winter's night. His investigation leads him through the slums of Victorian London to the Holborn Refuge, a home for ‘fallen women', and to Clara White, a respectable servant. As her past is revealed, Inspector Webb must decide whether she is merely a victim of circumstances, or prime suspect. Only then can he unearth a dark secret, hidden in the depths of underground London.

Lee Jackson's second novel brilliantly recreates the sights, sounds and smells of Victorian London, taking readers on a suspense-filled journey through its criminal underworld.

‘Once again Mr. Jackson has succeeded in creating the atmosphere of 19th-century London'
Sunday Telegraph

‘[Lee Jackson] demonstrates quite brilliantly what the genre can do. This is a rare and succulent piece of work.'
Literary Review

 

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Olen Steinhauer

It is 1948; three years after the Soviets liberated a tiny nation from German occupation. But the ideals of the revolution have dissipated – the Red Army stills patrols the rubble-strewn streets of the Capital; everyone is careful to address one another as Comrade. Lawlessness and corruption are the rules of the City.

The young homicide inspector Emil Brod, fresh from the police academy, is unprepared for the instant hatred his colleagues appear to have towards him. It seems they believe he is a spy. When the wealthy state songwriter, Janos Crowder, is found murdered, the case is, surprisingly, assigned to Emil. It's not long before Emil discovers threads that link Crowder's death to the very highest levels of the Party.

Emil's investigations threaten to lead him into more and more danger. And Lena, Crowder's beautiful widow, complicates matters further. But Emil's choice is simple – between the truth and that of his and Lena's safety.