A Metropolitan Murder (19 page)

‘The nurse at the refuge told me, sir.'

‘Then we needn't beat about the bush. Did you know the Bowker girl?'

‘Not to speak to, sir. I'd seen her about, that's all.'

‘And what about your mother? Were they pals?'

‘I don't think so, sir. My ma's been ill, anyhow.' The sergeant pauses, nearing the end of his carefully planned questions. ‘And why do you think your mother ran off, eh?'

‘She just does it, sir. It's her way. It don't mean anything.'

‘You'd reckon it was nothing to do with Sally Bowker, then?'

Clara pauses. Alice looks round, waiting for her to say something.

‘No, sir. I don't think so.'

T
EN O'CLOCK
.

Webb and Watkins quit Doughty Street, having concluded their interviews, and continue northwards together along the gaslit street; the footfalls of the sergeant's heavy boots echo down the road.

‘Where do you live, sergeant?' asks Webb.

‘Me, sir? Paddington Green, a cottage, or that's what my Missus calls it anyhow, not far from the canal.'

‘All bricks and mortar, now, is it not, Paddington Green?'

‘You know the area, sir?'

‘Not particularly.'

There is an awkward silence, as the two men walk together.

‘Do we know,' resumes Webb, ‘where Agnes White lived? Wapping, was it not?'

‘The girl said as much, yes, sir; she was brought up by the river.'

‘Send a message to Thames Division, see if anyone knows the mother or has seen her this past day or so, particularly in the lodging-houses and such.'

‘You're certain this White creature knows something, sir?'

‘I am rarely entirely certain about anything,
sergeant. But we must look at all possibilities. And have you found someone to translate that blessed scribble of our friend Phibbs?'

‘I have, sir. Gentleman I know who reports on the Parliament for the papers reckoned he could help me out. Should have it tomorrow afternoon at latest. And the surgeon's report.'

‘About time. And you learnt nothing more from talking to the daughter?'

‘Not a thing your Miss Sparrow hasn't already told us, sir, no.'

‘She is not “my” Miss Sparrow.'

‘No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir.'

‘If I did not know better, sergeant, I would think you enjoy provoking your seniors.'

‘Me, sir?'

Webb falls silent, and a couple more minutes pass as they turn from Guilford Street into Russell Square.

‘Not on your, ah, vehicle, tonight, sir?'

Webb narrows his eyes, and looks pointedly at the sergeant. ‘It seems one of the wheels was damaged in the station house. Sergeant Tibbs cannot account for it.'

‘Lord! You're not safe anywhere, are you, sir?'

Webb does not reply, and there is silence again.

‘I think this is the parting of the ways, sergeant,' says Webb at length, as they come to the corner.

‘See you tomorrow then, sir.'

Webb nods, and begins walking in the direction of King's Cross.

Wapping.

Agnes White can hear the men and women shouting, the raucous laughter of the High Street echoing in the courtyard outside the old house. She walks over
and peers into the darkness; part of the window is broken, patched with shreds of brown paper that, if once considered a sufficient barricade against the elements, can now only flutter in the breeze. There is nothing to see in the courtyard itself. The voices pass by and now she can hear just the river, lapping silt water against the far side of the house, working upon the bricks.

She turns back, shivering, and goes again to sit near to the fire she has started in the hearth; it will soon go out unless it is offered another piece of wood. She considers using the floorboards, like has been done in other rooms, wondering if she can loosen them; they creak loudly enough.

No. They are all damp and half-rotten.

The river, she thinks to herself, is soaking up through her mother's house, waiting for its chance, waiting for the next flood.

And how long until someone finds her?

She looks at the clothes she has laid out upon the floor, and bundles them up together.

She best get going.

Midnight.

Decimus Webb sits down at his writing desk and unbuttons his waistcoat. Then, almost immediately, he gets up and pours himself a small measure of brandy from the decanter that sits upon his sideboard. He takes a sip. A few drops bring a welcome warmth to his body.

He turns up the gas-light to see more clearly and looks at the piece of paper he has brought home with him. On it he has written a series of names: ‘Agnes White', then ‘Phibbs, Sparrow, Bowker', and a simple question mark. He has also drawn a diagram of a
railway carriage, and of the stations at Farringdon Street and Baker Street.

And there is also a list of station names along the line: Farringdon (11.30 p.m.), Kings Cross, (11.34 p.m.), Gower Street (11.41 p.m.), Portland Road (11.46 p.m), Baker Street (11.52 p.m).

He takes another sip of brandy.

A woman walks to the end of Tower Wharf, by St. Katherine's Docks. She scurries past the half a dozen lamps, strung up on poles along its length, until she is at the darkened end of the pier. It is nearly one o'clock. On the road behind her the occasional cab or carriage speeds past, pulled by horses that gallop as fast as they are able, revelling in the freedom afforded by empty streets. In six or seven hours it will be different; the roads round the Tower will be a bedlam of goods and persons; the only sound will be that of wheels grinding slowly from the docks into the City, and the tread of weary feet upon the paving stones.

But for now there is only the flowing Thames, and a solitary woman who looks down into the water. How easy, thinks Agnes White, to end it all here.

She throws her bundle of clothes into the river.

T
HE GRANDFATHER CLOCK
, that watches magisterially over the hall of the Harrises' house in Doughty Street, chimes one o'clock.

The sound of its cold brass bell resonates throughout the darkened house, disturbing the nocturnal calm. For Clara White, climbing the stairs to her room, a solitary candle guiding her progress, the clock is an annoyance that regularly disturbs her sleep. None the less, she herself walks slowly, trying to keep silent as possible, measuring her steps so that she might not disturb her slumbering employers. But as she comes to the first floor, she realises that she is mistaken in assuming that Dr. Harris has retired to his bed. There is a light emanating from his study, visible through the half-open door. Moreover, as she tiptoes along the landing the door itself opens a little wider, and Dr. Harris himself stands there, watching her.

‘Clara, my dear, I would like a word with you.'

‘Sir?' she replies in a whisper.

He gestures for her to come inside the study, and so she mutely follows as he retreats back into the room and takes a seat in his best leather-upholstered armchair, the rich russet padding scratched and careworn through years of abrasion.

‘You are working late?' he suggests.

‘There was a good deal to clean up in the kitchen, sir, after dinner, and it was Cook's early night.'

‘I see. Tell me, Clara, are you, how should I put it, content working here?'

‘Content, sir?'

‘There is no need, my dear girl, to parrot the question,' he replies, a tone of mild irritation in his voice, ‘I merely ask if you are content in your situation.'

‘Yes, sir. I am. Very much, sir,' she replies. She tries to sound calm but her voice flutters with nerves.

‘I am glad to hear it, and yet, well, I must say it: what am I to make of this latest business with your mother? Miss Sparrow has said many a time that she is a lost cause and yet, foolishly, I have stood firm against expelling her from the refuge. Nay, I have even pressed for her to be permitted to return, despite all evidence against her. Have I been a fool, Clara, to indulge my sympathies. Have I?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Oh, but patently I have, my dear girl. For not only does she, your blessed mother, once more spurn our charity, but she is plainly enticing you to do likewise.'

‘Me, sir?'

‘There is no need to play the innocent. I spoke to the inspector. Where were you this morning?'

Clara blushes, but there is a hint of relief in her face as she fathoms the source of her employer's accusation.

‘I went to the refuge, sir.'

‘Precisely, Clara, precisely! Why? Do you suppose that we expect you to wander the streets, as the fancy takes you, when we have given you employment here? Indeed, when we have fed and clothed you?'

‘No, sir.'

‘No, sir. Surely not, sir! Indeed, you know full well that we do not. It is positively deceitful of you to do such things. I should be grateful, I suppose, that you even got my book at all!'

‘It's just that my ma's been ill, sir. That's all.'

‘Then you should ask permission of Mrs. Harris to visit her. You know that is the rule, do you not?'