A Metropolitan Murder (2 page)

On the other side of the aisle, for instance, a fresh-faced maid-servant finds herself obliged to make a point of straightening her sleeves and ignoring the gaze of the handsome guardsman who sits opposite, smoking his pipe and absent-mindedly stroking his whiskers. Admittedly, the guardsman is not in uniform, but she would know a soldier anywhere; she
is quite familiar with that breed of men, and does not wish to fall in love with another. In any case, sitting next to the maid-servant is her mistress, which, fortunately, prevents any unhappy dalliance. Indeed, the good lady needs constant attention; she is a poor traveller, given to raising her eyes heavenwards (or, at least, up to the ground) with every chance reverberation that rattles the compartment, her hands firmly clasped together in silent prayer. So great, in fact, is her anxiety that her unfashionably large crinoline seems to tremble quite of its own accord. She too affects to take no notice of her fellow passengers, but she cannot resist the occasional glance. She is particularly struck by a peculiar young man, who is seated opposite the sleeping girl; he wears a grubby winter great-coat, and pencils notes in a little leather-bound book as the train rolls along. But then he looks up at her, and nods a polite acknowledgement, thus deflecting her interest back to the heavens. When a decent space of time has elapsed, she looks back in his general direction. She observes the sleeping girl, who lolls this way and that, her face half-hidden by her shawl; the girl, she realises, smells of gin.

Tut tut, she mutters, raising her eyebrows and silently encouraging her maid into making similar expressions of heartfelt opprobrium; she willingly obliges.

But, stop! A roar of steam and the brakes do their work as the train approaches Baker Street, as the track splits, past the glimpse of another train, another tunnel, then juddering to a stop amongst what seems like a thousand gas-lamps. And here is the gloomy face of a booking-office boy in his navy uniform, deputised to stand duty upon the platform and to check the contents of each compartment. He begins, once the train is quite stopped, by opening the doors one by one, regardless of whether there are passengers inside the carriage.

‘Terminating here, ladies and gents, as there is works at Paddington. This way, ladies and gentlemen, if you please.'

‘Disgraceful!' says one. ‘Short-changed!' says another. Muted complaints all round.

The booking-office clerk looks sheepish, and shrugs his shoulders. ‘A letter,' he says, ‘a letter to the stationmaster is best, if you are dissatisfied.' He says it once, twice, half a dozen times. And, in the end, it proves sufficient. Gradually, the train is emptied of passengers: top-hatted, lop-sided clerks, drunk and sober, merry and miserable; a troup of fine ladies, fresh from the Temperance Hall; theatre-goers; music-hallers; men, women and children, first class, second class, all mixed together. In short, anyone who has paid their fare.

But what is this? It seems that the rear compartment takes a little longer to empty than the rest. True, the guardsman departs briskly enough. Indeed, he is too quick for the liking of the young maid-servant, who promptly decides she did not like him at all. And then comes her be-crinolined mistress, a perfect pantomime of confusion as her circumference is squeezed through the passenger door, pushed by the maid, pulled by the guard. But, even then, two remain: the drunken woman and bookish young man.

‘Sir, end of the line, if you please? Last train terminates at Baker Street tonight. There's works at Paddington.'

‘Oh, I am sorry, I lost track of myself.'

He looks around, as if woken from a dream. The young woman with the ribbon in her hair lies fast asleep.

‘Shall I wake my, ah, fellow traveller here?' he offers.

‘If you wouldn't mind, sir, much appreciated.'

‘Of course.'

The young man puts away his notebook in his greatcoat, and leans over to the slumbering girl, tugging gently at her sleeve. She makes no movement, and so he smiles apologetically at the booking-hall clerk, and he tugs a little harder. She leans a little forward, then topples to the side, falling down from her seat, landing head first on to the dusty wooden floor of the carriage. There she lies, without a murmur, her neck askew, her features quite lifeless and dead, staring blankly at the man who pushed her over.

‘Lor!' exclaims the clerk, unsure whether to get inside the carriage or stay well clear. In the end, he adopts the latter option. ‘Lor! You've killed her.'

The young man, meanwhile, shakes his head, though it is impossible to tell whether in denial or simple disbelief. He kneels down and touches her face. Cold.

‘Murder!' cries the clerk. And the cry goes out, along the platform, echoing down the mouths of dark and dingy tunnels; but, by now, there is hardly a soul to hear him. A couple of the last passengers turn and look, but hurry on up the steps to finish their journey home. The young man in the carriage, meanwhile, stands for a moment quite frozen. Then he darts forward, his notebook falling from his pocket as he does so. He runs through the open carriage door, pushing past the boy, who dares to offer no resistance, and up the steps that lead to the ticket hall.

The clerk stares at the lifeless body.

‘Murder!' he exclaims rather weakly, his voice giving way.

M
IDNIGHT
.

Let us put Baker Street behind us, for now, and travel eastwards a mile or two, to the venerable square of Lincoln's Inn Fields. In an unassuming house in a side street near that ancient enclosure, sits a woman working by lamp-light. Her name is Miss Philomena Sparrow, and she is bent over a ledger marked ‘February Accounts'. Dockets and invoices lie scattered around her writing desk, and her face is a picture of intense concentration. Indeed, it is only when a clock strikes twelve – the grandfather clock that sits in the hallway adjoining her study – that she looks up from her task, quite astonished by the lateness of the hour. Reluctantly she removes her reading glasses and rubs her eyes. She appears a little anxious, but any private thoughts she may possess are interrupted by raised voices beyond her door, echoing from an upstairs landing. She frowns, massaging her brow with the tips of her fingers. After a moment or two she takes a deep breath, then, straightening her back, gets up to walk to the door.

‘Jenny?' she calls, standing in the hallway.

‘Ma'am?' replies a girl in nurse's uniform, who swiftly descends the stairs to meet her.

‘What's that noise?'

‘Agnes White, ma'am. She's very restless. Says she wants her medicine again.'

‘More? Please remind her of the fifth Rule of the House: Temperance In All Things. I swear, it was her daughter that did it; she has quite unsettled her. I have remarked upon it before. She is always the worse for seeing people.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Tell Agnes White that we are a refuge, not a druggist's. She will have no medicine until tomorrow, at the appointed time. And you may tell her that if she gives any more trouble we shall review her letter of recommendation.'

‘Yes, ma'am. Will you really, ma'am?'

‘No, no, I suppose that I will not, but tell her that, all the same. And there is no sign of Sally Bowker, I suppose?'

‘No, ma'am, no sign. Not since after tea.'

‘I had hopes of Bowker, Jenny. Why would she break the curfew?'

‘Sorry, ma'am. Don't know, ma'am.'

Miss Philomena Sparrow sighs to herself, dismisses the nurse, and walks wearily to her bedroom at the rear of the house. Above the door is a motto, a piece of intricate Gothic needlework, mounted behind glass in a wooden frame, the proud achievement of a previous resident, or perhaps of a previous Lady Superintendent, like herself:-

Home Sweet Home.
Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women.

Agnes White sits upon the edge of her bed. She is not an old woman; her age is no more than forty years, but she does not wear it well. Her face, in particular,
is gaunt and lined, her complexion sallow, which gives her a wan appearance that is only heightened by her long jet-black hair that falls loose over the dirty white nightgown provided by her nurses. Her eyes, morever, seem almost vacant.

What time is it? Who's that?

‘Hulloa, ma.'

‘Lizzie?'

It is a twelvemonth since she last saw her daughter, but she would know her own flesh and blood anywhere. And how she has grown!

But what time is it? This is quite wrong. Lizzie cannot be here. Not now.

‘Hulloa, ma. I've come back to see you.'

Was it before? She cannot recall.

‘Ma? Can you hear me? What's this? Is it your medicine? You're confused, ain't you? Is that what they're feeding you?'

It helps me rest up, she says. No, wait a moment, does she speak? Perhaps she only thinks she is speaking. It is hard to say.

‘Ma? You're asleep, ain't you?'

What time is it?

Ah, she thinks, that is all right. I am already asleep.

‘Agnes?'

What time is it?

Tea-time? No, that was earlier as well. This afternoon.

Tea-time. Twenty girls saying their prayers.

‘Our Father who art a Heathen,' whispers Agnes White.

There, that's done.

‘Pardon me, Aggie, dear.'

Agnes watches Sally Bowker excuse herself and leave the table. Miss Sparrow's little pet, they call her, the other girls. Pretty little Silly Sally. Agnes dislikes her intensely; she puts on airs and graces, even though everyone knows she would snap open her legs wider than the Thames Tunnel for a kiss and a kind word. Pardon me, indeed!

Sally curtsies to Miss Sparrow, and makes her way upstairs. Agnes leaves it a moment, then gets up and follows her.

Odd. It is a different house from what she had expected; the stairs seem quite out of place. No matter.

‘Goin' out?'

Sally has on her best cotton print, and her red hair tied up loosely with an old maroon ribbon, fraying at both ends. She wraps her shawl around her shoulders; it is a dirty old rag, thinks Agnes White, and it suits her. Dirt cheap.