A Metropolitan Murder (20 page)

‘Yes, sir.'

Dr. Harris sighs, removing his glasses, and sitting back in his chair.

‘It is a slippery slope you have embarked upon, my dear girl; and it is all too easy to stray from the path. Now, I have discussed the matter with Mrs. Harris just now, and I must confess that she was all for dismissing you with neither notice nor character.'

‘Sir!'

‘One moment, if you please. I pointed out to Mrs. Harris that this would serve little purpose but to return you to the condition in which we found you. And I am glad to say that, after much discussion, Mrs. Harris has shown her typical generosity of spirit.'

‘Sir?'

‘In plain terms, and my wife and I are quite agreed upon this matter, we must wash our hands of your mother. There, I have said it. Furthermore, we ask that you have nothing more to do with her. If,' he continues, laying much stress upon that word, ‘you can abide by this, and give us no more cause for concern, then we are willing to give you another opportunity to prove yourself.'

‘But what of my mother, sir?'

‘Really, Clara! Have you not been listening? There is nothing to be done for her. Do you think I can subject Mrs. Harris to regular visits from the police, for your mother's sake?'

‘But, sir . . .'

‘No, Clara. You have heard the terms I have laid down. Now, will you abide by them, or do you too reject our goodwill?'

Clara frowns, a look reciprocated in the face of Dr. Harris as he realises that she is at least willing to consider the latter option. It is a moment or two before he can return to his usual calm expression.

‘I will, sir,' she says at last.

‘Nothing more to do with your mother? No more of these escapades? Do I have your solemn word?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good,' he replies, allowing his face to relax into a smile. ‘Then some benefit may have come of this evening, eh?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good girl. Ah, now there is one more thing; a less weighty matter. Please tell Cook in the morning that we are to have a small dinner party tomorrow evening.'

‘Tomorrow, sir?'

‘Yes, I realise it is short notice, and Cook will not be happy, but none the less. I happened to meet a very interesting young fellow when I was out this afternoon. He has an interest in my writing, and so I have invited him to dinner tomorrow.'

‘As you wish, sir.'

‘Very well, off you go. And tell Cook that Mrs. Harris will speak to her of the menu, but I have a strong fancy for ox-tail soup.'

‘Sir.'

Clara curtsies, and leaves the room.

‘Well?' says Alice Meynell, as Clara finally creeps into their attic room.

‘Well what?'

‘Well, what was that all about, his nibs calling you in?'

‘You're a little earwig, ain't you?'

‘Never mind that, tell us.'

‘He found out about me going to the refuge this morning.'

‘Only the once, just this morning? You're doing all right then, ain't you?'

‘He said I can't see my ma no more.'

‘Well, he could have let you go, the way you've been carrying on. He'd be in his rights.'

‘I know,' replies Clara morosely. ‘He said the missus was all for that.'

Alice laughs. ‘I'll bet,' she says. ‘I'll just bet she would. Lucky he's so sweet on you.'

‘Ally! There's nothing like that.'

Alice shrugs, as Clara takes off her dress and petticoats. ‘If you say so. Lor. Get a move on, I'm freezing here.'

It is gone two o'clock when Clara wakes up. The room is in darkness, and she can hear the distant ticking of the clock some three floors below. There is something irritating in its monotonous repetition, and, in her half-waking mind, she wonders for a moment whether, as often happens, it has only just rung out the hour and disturbed her from sleep.

But there is another sound: footsteps descending the stairs; footsteps in the hallway.

She silently pulls back the covers, enough to creep from the bed. In the darkness she fumbles for her shawl, wrapping it hurriedly around her, then opens the door on to the landing. There is someone in the kitchen now, she is sure of it; the sound of someone unlocking the area door. In bare feet, she descends the
stairs as quickly as she can and opens the door of the first-floor drawing-room. From the window she can see a man coming up the area steps, a well-fed, welldressed man in a tweed great-coat, with a woollen scarf swathing his neck.

She follows him with her eyes, and, as the man passes a street-lamp, recognises the features of her employer.

For a moment she wonders if he sees her but, if he does so, Dr. Harris gives no indication of it. Rather, he lowers his head and walks in the direction of Gray's Inn.

M
ORNING
.

Inspector Decimus Webb sits in his Marylebone office, scanning the
Daily Chronicle
newspaper with a glum expression.

There are questions which must be asked regarding the conduct of the Metropolitan Police in the present ‘Railway Murder'. It is remarkable enough that such a terrible offence has been committed within the confines of a railway carriage; it is more remarkable still that the offender appears to have escaped from the Baker Street station with complete impunity. It is not unreasonable to suggest there has been a want of vigour and decision in the prosecution of the police inquiry. In particular, it is understood that no member of the Detective Force has yet taken responsibility for this matter. It is to be hoped that the Coroner's Inquest, to be held today at Marylebone Town Hall, may throw some light on what seems to be a very dark corner indeed.

He looks up, alerted to the presence of sergeant Watkins by a polite cough.

‘Watkins,' says Webb, acknowledging his presence.

‘Morning, sir,' replies the sergeant.

‘Have you seen this?' asks Webb.

‘One of the lads showed it me,' replies the sergeant, ‘but I thought you didn't set any store by the press, sir.'

‘I don't, but you may be surprised to hear that the chief superintendent does. And he is most curious to know where we are, on the
third day
of our inquiry, as he put it.'

‘So we're getting a gentleman in from the Yard, are we?'

‘I believe it will be Inspector Burton, as soon as they can locate him; I gather he is not in London.'

‘Well, two heads may be better than one, sir.'

‘In some cases,' replies Webb, though he does not sound convinced of the benefits. ‘We must do all we can, in the meantime, I think. And there is the inquest. An adjournment is needed. We do not have all the facts, I am sure of it.'

‘I suppose we can have a quiet word with the coroner, sir.'

‘Good. Now, come, we must forget about this newspaper nonsense and press on. Do you have the surgeon's report?'

‘No, sir. Should be here this afternoon.'

‘The transcript of the diary?'

‘The same, sir,' replies Watkins, wearily, ‘as I said last night.'

Webb breathes out, in a long contemplative sigh.

‘You don't seem too happy, sir,' says Watkins, ‘if I may say so.'

‘No, I can't say that I am. Even if we discount the man upon the train, there is something we are missing here.'

‘Something missing?'

‘Or perhaps someone.'

Bill Hunt climbs the stairs of his Hatton Garden lodgings and opens the door into his room. It is midmorning, but only a modicum of daylight filters through the room's smeared window. His cousin Tom and his young wife both lie stretched upon the bed, sound asleep. Bill pauses on the threshold, watching the young woman breathe in and out, staring at the sallow milk-white skin of her neck, a contrast to the layer of brick-dust and dirt that encrusts his own hands and face. He squats down on the floor by the bed, looking at the curve of her body under the tatty woollen blanket pulled over her shoulders, and reaches over to touch her cheek gently with his finger.

Lizzie opens her eyes, frowning and half conscious of the figure watching her wake.

‘Bill?' she says in a hushed whisper.

The man nods but says nothing. She turns over quietly to look at the slumbering body of her husband. Once she is assured that he is still asleep, she shuffles to the edge of the bed and sits up. She wears the same dress as the day before, since she possesses only one such article, but her feet are bare. Her boots are by the bed, and she slips into them, still careful not to disturb the sleeping form of Tom, who unconsciously pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself. She picks up her shawl from the floor, and wraps it around her shoulders, shivering a little.

‘You're cold,' says Bill.

‘You're dirty,' she replies, looking at the dirt on his cuffs and hands. ‘Come outside, I don't want to wake him up. He won't thank me for it.'

Bill nods and they both step outside on to the landing.

‘Here,' he says, seeing her still shivering, ‘take my coat.'

‘That thing? No thank you, Bill,' she replies, laughing, stopping him before he can take it off, ‘I ain't no coal-miner, thank you. It's black as pitch, and you as well.'

‘I'm on night shift all week; it's worse at night. I'm going to the baths anyhow.'

‘I should think so. What are you doing here, then?'

‘Nothing,' he replies. ‘I came to see you.'

She frowns. ‘Well, now you seen me.'

He pauses, as if willing himself to say something. ‘My heart's bursting for you, Lizzie.'

She looks at him dumbfounded, half amazed and half amused. ‘Don't be silly, Bill. Really, don't. I told you it was just the once. You go and get your bath.'

‘Lizzie . . .'

His voice trails off; perhaps he hears the sound of the floorboards creaking back inside the room. In any case, Tom Hunt stands in the doorway.

‘What's all this?' he asks jovially. ‘You making love to my missus, old man?'

Bill Hunt blushes. ‘No,' he stammers.