A Metropolitan Murder (15 page)

Even as she climbs the steps to the refuge, however, she falters a little, since she can hear a pair of raised voices inside. In itself, this is not an unusual occurrence
in Miss Sparrow's establishment, where some friction between the residents is an almost daily event. What is remarkable, however, is that one of the women speaking sounds akin to Miss Sparrow herself. Still, Clara goes up and rings the bell, conscious of the fact that she is well past visiting time. The door is slow to open, and reveals the nurse who spoke to her the previous day, her face a little flushed.

‘Oh, Miss,' she says, startled, ‘I wasn't expecting you.'

‘No, I am sorry, I know it's past visiting, and I cannot stop. It's just that I have something for my mother,' Clara says, taking out the bottle. ‘The medicine we talked about?'

The girl looks perplexed for a moment. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, Miss, I think you had better come in. Have a word with Miss Sparrow.'

‘No, really, there is no need for that. If you could just give it to her?'

‘I think there is, Miss, if you will . . . it's a bit awkward.'

Clara White, confused, reluctantly follows her indoors, and waits in the hall as the nurse hurries into Miss Sparrow's office, exchanges a few hasty words, then comes out again, and bids her to go inside. Philomena Sparrow stands there waiting for her, with her hands behind her back, and her head held high. But her eyes do not quite meet those of her visitor, and she seems far from comfortable.

‘We were not expecting you, Miss White.'

‘I am sorry, ma'am. I did not ask to come in at all. I know the hours. I was asked in.'

‘Well, in fact, I am glad Jenny did so. I am afraid I have to tell you that I have some bad news. Your mother, it appears, has once more seen fit to abscond.'

‘Abscond?'

‘She has gone, Miss White. Taken off without a by-your-leave.'

‘But she is ill. When did this happen?'

‘Last night.'

‘She was allowed out?'

‘We are not a Bastille, Miss White. As it happens, I was absent upon some other business, and I have remonstrated with Jenny. Nevertheless, we do not imprison our charges, as well you know.'

Clara frowns. Before she can gather her thoughts, however, there is a resounding knock at the front door of the house, where she herself was standing moments before. It echoes loudly through the hall. She watches as Miss Sparrow hurries to the window, and peers out at the step. When Philomena Sparrow turns back to face her, Clara cannot help but notice how firmly she grips the back of her chair as she speaks, with her arms held rigid as iron railings.

‘I can say nothing more, Miss White. This is the last time. You may tell Dr. Harris that we can no longer keep a place for her here.'

‘Really, ma'am, I promise you . . .'

Clara's pleas are interrupted by a knock at the study door, and Jenny cautiously enters the room. She is accompanied by the bulky figure of Decimus Webb, his features a little red from a swift progress, on two wheels, through the city streets.

Jenny blushes as she speaks. ‘I'm sorry, ma'am, but the gentleman . . . well, being the police and all, I didn't think he should wait.'

Clara steals a look at the man and flinches. There is something in the word ‘police', and in the sight of the blue uniform, that produces a subtle alteration in her posture, and a glance downwards at the floor, as if chastened by some unspoken word of reproach.

‘Thank you, Jenny, that will be all. And I believe
we have concluded our talk, Miss White.'

Clara looks up, as if about to reply, then catches the eye of Webb once more, and changes her mind. She turns to leave. But before she can do so, the inspector politely interrupts her progress.

‘One moment, if you please. Perhaps you might introduce us, Miss Sparrow?'

Miss Sparrow purses her lips.

‘Very well, Inspector. This is Clara White, one of our former residents. Miss White – this is Inspector Webb.'

‘Ma'am!' interjects Clara in an urgent whisper, far too late to prevent the revelation.

‘Really, Miss White,' continues Miss Sparrow, ignoring her protest, ‘there is no need to hide your old life from the inspector; indeed, we are all proud of your progress.'

Clara blushes, avoiding the inspector's quizzical glance.

Webb smiles. ‘Ah, I see. Well, a success attributable solely to you, ma'am, I am sure. It is good to see your former charges doing so well, I suppose.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Well, ma'am,' says Webb, ‘I do not suppose I need speak to former residents, so much as the current ones, eh?'

‘No, indeed,' says Miss Sparrow hurriedly. ‘You may go, Miss White.'

Clara nods and walks briskly out of the room, her face still burning red. As she enters the hallway, she finds Jenny, the nurse who spoke to her previously, standing remarkably close to the door, making a feint at adjusting the inspector's coat, which hangs from a nearby hook.

‘I didn't know you used to be
here
, Miss,' she says in a whisper. ‘You'd never know it, to look at you, I mean.'

Clara smiles weakly. She appears eager to change the subject.

‘Why are the police here?'

‘Well, you'll never believe it, but you know the girl what you were talking about yesterday . . .'

‘A nervous creature, ma'am,' observes Inspector Webb, once Clara has left the room.

‘Indeed,' replies Miss Sparrow, and smiles anxiously. ‘I think we are all a little nervous. This is an awful business, Inspector.'

‘Undoubtedly,' says Webb.

C
LARA
W
HITE LEAVES
the Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women thoughtful and troubled, dwelling both upon the news of her mother's disappearance, and the nurse's revelations about Sally Bowker's death. It is, however, an instinctive eagerness to place some distance between herself and the figure of Inspector Webb, still dimly visible in Miss Sparrow's parlour window, that sends her walking briskly across Serle Street. She is too swift, however, since she does not heed the clattering approach of a hansom cab, which darts out from the gatehouse of nearby Lincoln's Inn. In fact, the vehicle flies into the road just as fast as if the horse had bolted. The actual cause is the promise of a half-sovereign made by its passenger, in the hope that the driver might proceed to London Bridge ‘as quick as he likes'. It is a wellknown fact that such an injunction is never wasted upon the Jehus of the cabbing profession, and inevitably leads to a liberal application of the whip. In this case, however, as in many others, it also nearly causes a collision. Indeed, in the end, it is impossible to say whether or not it is remotely due to the cabman's skill that he misses Clara, for he does so by no more than an inch or two. It is, perhaps, safe to assume that the driver himself would readily claim
the glory. Certainly it is a tribute to his marvellous equanimity that, once he is satisfied that Clara is only sent tumbling on to the pavement, with nothing too much broken, he confines his observations upon the matter to a cry of ‘Look it!', and turns the corner into Carey Street, wheels skidding on the slippery cobbles. And yet something is broken: the bottle of Balley's Quietener, intended for her absent mother, flies from Clara's pocket as she falls, and smashes into a dozen pieces beside her.

‘Miss, here, let me help you up.'

Clara looks up, a little dazed but unhurt, and hesitantly takes the arm of a young man who seems to appear almost instantly at her side, a handsome man, although rather shabbily dressed. She is too preoccupied with the remains of the broken bottle to notice that there is something odd in his voice and manner that belies his poor appearance.

‘Quite done for, I'm afraid,' he says, looking at the shards of glass, then carefully shunting them into the gutter with his foot. ‘I hope it wasn't anything valuable. Still, you're lucky it isn't you in pieces. Are you hurt at all?'

Clara lets go of his arm, and dusts herself down. ‘No,' she replies, a little breathless, ‘not valuable. Not hurt either. I'm sorry, thank you, but I must go.'

At this, she says nothing more, and strides away, without even a smile for her saviour.

The man watches her hurry off into Lincoln's Inn Fields. He takes a long look at the Refuge for Penitent Women, as if pondering some question in his head, then turns and follows her at a distance, having made a note in his diary.

‘Accident with a hansom'.

‘So, tell me, ma'am, how many do you have?' asks Inspector Webb, as he takes a leisurely glance at the books in Miss Sparrow's study.

‘You make it sound as if I keep prize cochins, Inspector. There are twenty or, no, I should say, nineteen women here at present.'

‘Well, I will need to speak to all of them. Nineteen, not twenty? You were thinking of the dead girl, I suppose?'

‘Well, no. Another woman left us yesterday.'

‘Left you? Do you mean . . .'

‘No, not died. She ran off last night, but I expect we shall see her again.'

‘Ran off? You mean like Sally Bowker “ran off”?'

‘Really, Inspector, nothing like that at all. What are you suggesting? Agnes White makes a habit of such petty recidivism; it is nothing out of the ordinary, I can assure you. She has never managed a full month with us without some infraction. Sally, on the other hand, was a good girl; she took well to instruction.'

‘And you let this White woman offend with regularity?'

‘We attempt to be charitable, Inspector. But this time is the last straw . . .'

‘And did she know the dead girl?'

‘They shared a room, but I do not believe they were close. Agnes has been ill for much of the time this past month or two. If anything, that alone has made her a little better behaved.'

‘Shared a room? You astonish me, ma'am. Why was none of this mentioned before?'

‘Agnes only went off last night. You think it significant?'

‘It is something of a coincidence, is it not? One moment. Her name is “White”? The girl who I just saw . . .'

‘Agnes's daughter. A much sounder proposition; one of our successes, as I said.'

The inspector smiles. ‘The daughter? I see. Nice to keep a trade in the family, I suppose. I shall want to speak to the daughter again, I fear, when I am done here.'

‘I am sure that can be arranged. But our work here is no laughing matter, Inspector.'

‘No, ma'am. I don't honestly suppose it is.'