A Metropolitan Murder (28 page)

‘It took a shilling to rid myself of them.

‘Dozens of them. Night after night. And he writes it all down. Never says nothing about himself. I can't make no sense of it. It's an obsession, if you ask me. He's a deviant, like what I said.'

‘Does he bed these girls?'

The sergeant snorts, as if to indicate the naïvety of the question. ‘Never says so. But it ain't normal, is it?'

‘Maybe. He is a writer of sorts, I think. He writes well enough.'

‘If you say so.'

‘A journalist, or some such. There is a line here, in January: “Took mss. to B. says he would be interested in monthly series on the ‘social evils'.”'

‘B.?'

‘Yes. It is little help, I know. Perhaps if we made a few enquiries around the newspapers.'

‘It is something, I suppose,' says Watkins, glumly, envisioning a wasted afternoon in the dingy offices of a dozen sub-editors.

‘It is, Watkins, the only blessed clue we have to our Mr. Phibbs' identity. Besides, the book is not “all the same”, as you put it. It falls into a pattern: he makes brief jottings, always in shorthand, then writes a fuller diary entry upon the subject, presumably when he is at home and free to do so.'

‘Oh, well then,' says Watkins, affecting a sarcastic tone, ‘I can see that's very different. Anyhow, I thought you reckoned he didn't do it? With respect, sir, if that is the case, why are we wasting all our time on this fellow?'

‘I have never said we should not find him.'

‘Well, be that as it may, I'm done with this,' says Watkins, putting the papers down. ‘I'll be off, if it's all right by you.'

Webb nods distractedly, still reading from his section of the transcription, while Watkins puts down the sheaf of paper and gets up. Then he calls the sergeant back.

‘Wait one moment.'

‘Sir?' says Watkins, wearily.

Webb smiles; a smile of quiet satisfaction.

‘I have found it, sergeant. I have found it. Although I wonder why it was not right at the end, in sequence. Perhaps he was running out of paper. It explains everything.'

‘Found what, sir?'

Webb looks at him eagerly. ‘You ask if I thought that he did not kill her. Listen to this, in the fellow's own notes:

‘Few people upon the streets; no suitable girls, or they have avoided me; once accosted, near Saffron Hill; did I want to “give her a good ride”? I said not; asked if I may put usual questions, if she did not object; I paid; she cursed me foully and hurried off! pretty though – wretched creature!'

‘Just like the rest of it,' says the sergeant. ‘Though I'd say that one had the right idea.'

‘Please, Watkins, do not interrupt; I am coming to it.

‘Followed the girl; lost her by Farringdon Stn.; took fancy to go down, catch last train, bought ticket; found solitary red-haired girl lying asleep on train; smell of gin; street girl?; odd sort to find in 2nd class; grand-dame comes on at King's Cross, gives her a
strong
look; sniffing air, full of crinoline and dignity;

‘Mem. article on the Underground Railway?

‘He stops there. It is dated the night of the murder.' Webb's face is bright with excitement. ‘The night of the murder. Do you not see what this means?'

The sergeant raises his eyebrows. ‘I can see what you're getting at, sir. That's all well and good, but a man can't write himself his own alibi, can he? I wouldn't want to rely on it, not if I was him, anyhow.'

‘Really, Watkins, you can be obtuse. In this case, he did just that, though he did not know it. I swear he did not kill her, I am sure of it. Why would he be so elaborate? Besides, you are missing my point entirely.'

‘Perhaps you could spell it out for me, then, sir.'

‘Don't you see, sergeant? What if the girl was already on the train when he got on?'

‘What of it? She got on before him. He strangles her.'

‘At the station, in full view of the platform?'

‘He waits till the train's moving, like we thought.'

‘No, the diary explains why no-one at Farringdon remembers her. Don't you see? What if she was left there? She came down on the train from Paddington, and was missed when the train came to the terminus. They were short of guards, were they not? She was missed when the train emptied, and just left lying there, dead. She could have been killed at any time before the train reached the station. We have been thinking it must have happened between Farringdon and King's Cross, whereas, if I am right, it was just the opposite, if not earlier.'

Sergeant Watkins frowns. ‘But even if that's true,' he says, ‘and it's still an odd business if it is, where does that leave us?'

Webb looks thoughtful for a moment, but his face visibly sags, losing the brilliance in his eyes and the smile upon his lips.

‘Not much further on, really, are we, sir?' says Watkins.

Decimus Webb sits in his office. Sergeant Watkins has long since disappeared home. Before him, Webb has sketched in pencil a rough map of the Metropolitan Railway, and the relation of the various stations to the Holborn Refuge, with approximate distances clearly marked. He idly traces his finger over the route, then turns to one side and picks up a nearby folder, marked ‘Agnes Mary White; Coroner's Verdict'.

He opens the folder and reads through the contents once more, staring at the words ‘broken neck' and ‘Verdict of Accidental Death'. He returns to the piece of paper with his map, and writes out very deliberately, in his neatest handwriting: ‘Agnes White is the link.'

He ponders this for a moment, then underneath ‘Agnes White' writes: ‘Phibbs?'

Decimus Webb sighs, and gets up in search of coffee.

‘I
S THIS THE
place, do you think?' asks Henry Cotton.

‘I don't know. She said Saffron Hill, I told you. It was your idea to come here, weren't it?'

‘Clara, it did not have to be today. Besides, we have been in half a dozen places already, and no-one has seen them. I thought you wanted to get home.'

‘No, I want to get it over with. And I want to see Lizzie anyhow.'

‘Very well,' replies Cotton, following her down the muddy alley. ‘Let us try this one, although if I had known, I believe I would have worn something less formal.'

Clara looks back at him as she opens the door to the Three Cups public house.

‘You'll do,' she says, stepping inside.

Cotton follows her. The interior is as ill-ventilated and poorly lit as any place they have already visited. It is, however, rather smaller, and thus it is impossible to remain anonymous. Only a couple of loafers stand by the bar, and a dozen more are seated at the various tables, illuminated by the flickering light of the fireplace. None the less, all of them spare the newcomers a quick glance, and most exchange some waggish comment upon the incongruity of seeing such a prim servant-girl and gentleman together in such an
establishment. Indeed, it is almost certain that several prepare themselves to go further, and say something ‘telling', and at a volume such that everyone may enjoy their wit. They are all spared the opportunity by a voice that booms from the back of the room.

‘Well, blow me tight!'

Clara looks, and sees the figure of Tom Hunt rising from his seat to greet her.

‘There he is,' she whispers to her companion, almost ruefully, ‘you have your wish now.'

‘I had forgotten you said he was so young,' he replies. ‘Something of a swell about him.'

‘You expected an old Jew, did you?'

Cotton does not have time to reply, as Tom Hunt comes up and extends his arm, snatching Clara's hand and kissing it.

‘Clarrie! How long has it been now?'

‘A good twelvemonth,' she replies coldly, removing her hand from his. Hunt, however, ignores the severity of her tone.

‘Too long, now we're related and all, eh? And ain't you going to introduce us to this gentleman? Halloa there, sir!' he says, extending his hand to Cotton.

‘This is Mr. Phibbs,' she replies, uncertain what more she can say on the subject.

‘I say, Clarrie,' says Hunt, smiling, ‘he ain't your . . . I mean, you and him ain't . . .'

‘I am just an acquaintance, Mr. Hunt, I assure you,' interjects Henry Cotton.

Hunt falters for a moment, surprised to hear his own name. He glances at Clara, though retaining his cheerful demeanour.

‘I see our Clarrie must have spoken of me,' he says. ‘Nothing too bad, I hope.'

Cotton coughs. ‘In point of fact, I had hoped to meet you.'

‘Now,' says Hunt, a little mystified, ‘you have the advantage of me, sir. Why is that?'

‘I have a proposition for you,' says Cotton, choosing his words carefully. ‘A matter of business.'

‘Ah, now that is interesting,' replies Hunt, his curiosity piqued. ‘Well, what say we take a seat, like old friends, share a drop of something suitable?'

Cotton nods, and the three of them make their way to the table where Tom Hunt was sitting.

Clara looks around the room. ‘Is Lizzie not here?'

‘She'll be along later, I should think. You wanting a word with her? And I thought it was me you'd come for.'

Clara does not reply.

Tom Hunt downs his second pint of porter, purchased by Henry Cotton, who sits opposite him, still drinking from his first. Clara sits by his side, with no drink before her, looking at the door in case her sister should arrive.

‘I'm not sure I get your meaning, sir,' says Hunt, wiping his lips.

‘Well, I am an author, you see. Or rather, a journalist.'

‘That writes for the papers?'

‘Well, I would like to, yes. You must have seen the sort of thing that I am talking about – studies of London characters and such like.'

‘And you consider me a character, do you, sir?'

‘Clara tells me you know a few dodges. Is that not true?'

‘What you been telling this fellow, Clarrie, eh?' says Hunt, a little nervously. ‘I fear the girl misled you, sir. She's always been a bit fanciful. Just because a man is alive to a few fakes, that don't make him no cadger, nor a thief.'

‘Wait, you misunderstand me,' says Cotton. ‘I wish to make a study of such things, but I assure you I will not give your rightful name when I write my piece.'

‘How do I know that?'

‘You have my word. And I would pay, of course.'

‘How much?'

‘That would depend on what I find.'

Hunt fails to reply, as he sees the diminutive figure of his wife enter the room.

‘Over here, Liz! Just look who's here to see you!'

Lizzie Hunt frowns and walks cautiously towards the table. Henry Cotton stands up, a display of manners that causes her husband to grin in amusement.

‘Here, please,' says Cotton, offering her his seat.

‘Who's this?' she says, ignoring him and finding another stool, pulling it up next to her husband.