A Metropolitan Murder (36 page)

‘Yes, well, I suppose you are right.'

Hunt looks at him. ‘What you waiting for, then?' asks Hunt. ‘You first. Walk past, all casual, like, but open the gate and get down there, and do it sharpish.'

Henry Cotton nods. He takes a deep breath, stepping out from the doorway in which the trio are standing, and crosses the road, his figure briefly illuminated by the light of the nearby gas-lamp. He briskly crosses the street, where it is somewhat darker, and strides purposefully along, albeit rather stiffly, until he reaches the house on the corner. There he struggles clumsily with the catch on the iron gate that protects the area steps, and then disappears from view. Tom Hunt, a cautious man for all his bluster, waits a moment or two before following him. It is not long, however, before the two men are both standing in the dark well that fronts the basement kitchen.

‘What if someone comes?' asks Cotton.

‘Then Liz'll shout.'

‘What will she shout?'

‘Whatever she damn well likes. Be quiet, will you, or someone'll hear us.'

Hunt strikes a match, then takes off his hat, holding it a little above the lit flame so that any light it gives out is not so visible from above. He bends down and peers closely at the lock on the kitchen door, then at the glass panels above it.

‘Can you pick the lock?' whispers Cotton.

‘Well, it ain't one of Mr. Chubb's, so maybe I could. But I ain't going to try it in this case.'

‘What then?'

Hunt motions him to be silent, and blows out the match. He takes from his pocket a small sheath knife and chisel, and begins applying the implements to one of the glass panels in the door. Rather than hacking noisily at the wood surrounding it, he adopts a chiselling motion that gradually strips away the splintering frame, until, after no more than a couple of minutes, the glass itself is so loose that he can easily lever it free into his hands. He handles the panel carefully, slowly laying it on the ground, then looks at Henry Cotton triumphantly.

‘The door is still locked,' replies Cotton, confused. ‘And even an infant could not get in through that space.'

‘No,' replies Hunt, a little annoyed that his genius is not apparent, ‘but that window there is just on a latch, ain't it?'

Hunt leans into the door, reaching through the gap; there is some distance between the door itself and the window, but he skilfully flips up the latch with the end of his knife, his arm fully extended. In one swift movement, he opens it, and then clambers through into the kitchen.

‘You coming then?'

Cotton follows behind him, glancing back up at the street as he climbs inside.

‘Confidentially,' says Hunt, cheerfully, ‘busting the glaze is always easier than locks. Though I don't suppose your pal will be too happy.'

‘My pal? Ah, yes, well, I will have it repaired first thing tomorrow.'

‘Well, then,' says Hunt, looking around the kitchen disinterestedly, ‘what do you want us to do now?'

‘Perhaps if you show me what you would look for if you were here to take something.'

Hunt shrugs. ‘It's plain enough. Anything what you can carry. Silver, plate, money, jewellery. Let's have a look-see.'

Before Cotton can reply, Hunt is up the stairs, lighting another match to see the way. Cotton follows him.

‘Bachelor gentleman, is he, this friend of yours?' asks Hunt, surveying the hall.

‘How did you know that?'

‘Ain't nothing fancy in it, is there? You can tell a woman's hand on a place, can't you?'

‘You look for such things?'

‘Won't be no jewels about for a start, will there? Although, I'd know a bit about the place before I came in, in the regular way of things – scout it out.'

‘Would you go through every room?'

‘Depends on the house . . . here, what's that?'

Tom Hunt asks the question, but it is somewhat rhetorical, since he recognises his wife's voice crying out his name.

‘Keep quiet,' says Hunt. ‘For God's sake.'

The two men stand stock-still in the hall. The distinct sound of boots descending the area steps can be heard. Then of someone trying the handle of the kitchen door.

‘I thought you said no-one was home,' says Hunt in a whisper.

‘There isn't,' replies Cotton.

‘Then it's the bleeding peelers, ain't it?'

‘But no-one ever comes by here.'

‘Don't they?'

Again, the question is left unanswered, as the sound of the kitchen window opening and closing can be heard downstairs.

‘There is no need to be alarmed,' says Cotton, ‘I swear. Remember what I told you.'

‘I don't care what you say, I'm hooking it.'

Before Cotton can reply, Tom Hunt dashes into the front parlour, heading directly for the sash window that overlooks the area steps below, half-tripping on the rug as he does so. Despite his panic, there is something remarkably assured in the way he immediately locates and breaks the lock upon the shutter, smashing it forcefully with the end of the chisel. He pulls up the window, looking out on to the street. Without even glancing over his shoulder, he springs out into the road; easily clears the iron railings that guard the house, but falls awkwardly on the stones.

Henry Cotton, uncertain if he might be able to duplicate such athletics, merely stands at the window, staring out at the street. He loses sight of Tom Hunt, stumbling along the road, but can hear the sound of a policeman's whistle. In the strange excitement of Hunt's abrupt flight, he almost forgets the reason for Hunt's departure until he hears a man's voice behind him.

‘Don't you bleedin' move. You're under arrest.'

Even in the darkness, Cotton turns his head and can make out the helmeted figure of a constable standing by the door to the parlour, his gutta-percha truncheon raised above his head.

‘Really, Constable,' says Cotton, taking a deep breath, ‘there is no need for that.'

‘Ain't there? I think I'll be the judge of that. Hold out your hands.'

‘What is the charge?'

‘Don't come that with me.'

‘No, you don't understand. You see, Constable, this is my house. I live here.'

D
ECIMUS
W
EBB
is alone in his office when he hears the sound of raised voices. Such raucous interruptions are not uncommon in the confines of the Marylebone Lane station, and he pays little heed to it. Instead, he turns to look at the clock, which, in the dim light of the brass oil-lamp that sits upon his desk, is barely visible; it is, he realises, two o'clock in the morning, and he has been asleep for an hour or more. Wearily, he prises himself from his chair, and goes to pick up his coat from the stand.

Outside, a man can still be heard complaining loudly from one of the cells situated at the rear of the building. Webb makes his way to the entrance hall of the station, in which the sergeant on duty, Tibbs by name, sits in a rather slovenly manner at his desk, his head propped up on his hands, lolling forward over a copy of the
Daily News
. On seeing the inspector, he sits up straight as a ruler and ineffectually attempts to conceal the paper beneath a pile of more official-looking material.

‘Lor, you gave me a scare,' exclaims the sergeant.

‘Am I that terrifying, sergeant?'

‘I thought you had gone home, sir, that's all,' replies Tibbs. ‘I would have called you out; you've missed some fun and games.'

‘I am glad you didn't,' says Webb, making to leave.

‘Constable Evans,' continues Tibbs, warming to his subject, ‘took this cracksman in Meulton Street; regular Spring-Heel Jack he was! Jumped out the window of the place, then fought like blazes when he caught up with him. Took three men to get him here.'

‘Ah, well, my congratulations to Evans.'

‘You ain't heard the funniest part, sir, if you'll forgive me.'

‘Haven't I?' asks Webb.

‘His chum, who weren't so hot on his feet, says he owns the place what was done over; well, that he rents it, anyhow, or something. But the first fellow, he denies it. Frankly, sir, between the two of them, we can't make head nor tail of it.'

‘Had he merely lost his key? Perhaps this man was helping him?'

‘Oh, no, sir. Evans recognised the first fellow; used to see him about Saffron Hill when he was posted there a year or two back. Name of Thomas Hunt. Notorious rogue, sir, so Evans tells me. It was only a chance he saw him, as it happens. Dogged him from Regent Street, all the way till when he cracked the place. A regular ghost is Evans, when he wants to be.'

‘And do we know the second man?'

‘Well, we'll leave him to the magistrate, I reckon, sir. Says his name is Cotton, but the other fellow swears he told him it was Phibbs
.
Now, what do you make of that?'

Webb looks at sergeant Tibbs. His large heavily lidded eyes, suddenly quite alert, fix on Tibbs' face and narrow in an unmistakable expression of anger.

‘Sir?' says Tibbs, nervously.

‘Sergeant,' says Webb at last, ‘do you ever read my memoranda? Perhaps it has escaped your notice that I am engaged in the investigation of a murder? Or do
you imagine I am merely indulging a peculiar fancy for late nights in your company?'

A look of comprehension passes across the sergeant's face, as the name of Phibbs
,
mentioned in several papers circulated by Webb to his fellow officers, stirs something in his memory. He coughs, nervously.

‘You'll want to see the man directly, I suppose,' says the sergeant, retrieving the keys to the cells. ‘I'll get one of the lads to . . .'

‘Give that here,' replies Webb, taking the keys. ‘And for pity's sake, find out who does have that house in Meulton Street.'

‘It's two a.m., sir,' says Tibbs, pleadingly.

‘I don't care if you personally have to wake all his blasted neighbours one by one.'

Before sergeant Tibbs even contemplates an answer, Webb has turned and is walking back into the rear of the police station.

Decimus Webb finds Henry Cotton, also known as Phibbs, sitting mournfully in his cell, on the palliasse mattress provided by the Metropolitan Police for the comfort of their guests. The curses of Tom Hunt, similarly accommodated, can be vaguely heard in the distance. Cotton looks up at Webb, and smiles nervously.

‘Ah, good, Inspector. I asked to see someone more senior. There has been an awful misunderstanding.'

‘I should say so, Mr.
Phibbs
.'

‘Phibbs?'

‘No need for that gammon, sir,' says Webb, pulling a leather-bound article from his pocket. ‘I know who you are. I assume this is yours?'

Henry Cotton looks at his notebook, last seen at

Baker Street. He toys with the idea of remaining silent, but decides, in the end, to speak.

‘Ah. Yes, it is,' he admits reluctantly. ‘You say you know me? Then, really, Inspector, you must let me explain . . .'

Decimus Webb sighs. ‘That is exactly what I would like you to do.'

‘Well, I don't know quite where to begin. What can I tell you?'

‘The truth, if you will, Mr. Phibbs. Or should I say Cotton? Is that your real name?'

Henry Cotton blushes. ‘Yes, it is. Phibbs is something of a
nom de plume
, if you will.'

‘You consider yourself a writer, then?'

‘I aspire to be, sir, yes.'

‘And your subject matter is vice.'

‘I see you have deciphered my notes.'

Webb nods, as if realising the solution to a particular problem.

‘But it is not just a
nom de plume
, is it, Mr. Cotton? You have gone to some pains to keep yourself hidden away from the world. It is your house in Meulton Street, is it not?'

Cotton smiles with relief. ‘Thank the Lord you believe me. Yes, of course it is. I rent it by the quarter.'

‘We can check that, Mr. Cotton, and, rest assured, we will. But you are accustomed to take lodgings elsewhere, in Clare Market, to pick one instance, for your, ah, research?'