A Metropolitan Murder (38 page)

Webb takes the opportunity to catch his breath.
‘Here,' he says, ‘listen, I can hear him. He's not far.'

Cotton can hear nothing but the sound of his own heart-beat; it is the only sound of their pursuit that does not echo and magnify itself within the tunnel. Every other noise seems to go on for ever in the chill subterranean air. Then a single breathless word is spoken.

‘Enough.'

Ten yards or so down the track, Bill Hunt stumbles from his hiding place.

‘Y
OU SEE
, M
R
. Cotton?' says Webb, a note of triumph in his voice as he shines his light at the shabby figure before him. ‘We have our man.'

Cotton nods, but looks nervously at the man in front of them.

‘I ain't done nothing wrong,' says Bill Hunt, squinting into the light, his face black with dirt from the tunnel.

‘I think you have, my good man, haven't you? Otherwise you would not be skulking here, hiding from an officer of the law.'

‘I ain't hiding from no-one. I was just having a quiet drink,' he says sarcastically.

‘Murder is not a laughing matter, my friend. Will you give yourself up and come peaceably?'

‘It ain't murder, I reckon. He deserved it.'

Webb frowns.

‘He?' says Cotton, unsure if he heard the man correctly.

‘The old bastard. You'd think butter wouldn't melt, to look at him. You wouldn't know his game, not to look at him. He didn't even fight it, you know? He just let me . . .'

Hunt's voice trails off as he peers at the two men. Even in the semi-darkness, with only their lamps to
illuminate them, he can see the confusion on both their faces.

‘You don't even know about him, do you?' says Hunt, incredulously. ‘God Almighty.' He looks anxiously over his shoulder as if estimating his chances of running once more.

‘Don't think of it,' says Webb, observing his glance. ‘I've got men all along the way. You'd better just come with us, eh?'

‘I don't hear no-one else.'

‘There is nowhere to go, my good fellow,' says Webb, ignoring Hunt's comment, though there is a hint of nerves in his voice. Hunt backs away slightly, still facing the two men.

‘What about the girl? The dead girl?' asks Cotton. He says it hurriedly, and the words seem to him to escape his mouth too quickly and echo back down the vast tunnel.

‘I never touched her. Leastways, only to shift her.'

‘Shift her?'

‘I put her on the train, but what's the crime in that? I had to put her somewhere, out of the way.'

‘Who killed her then?' asks Webb, stepping closer, mirroring Hunt's movements as he steps backwards.

Hunt scowls. ‘No-one.'

‘She was strangled.'

‘It weren't me, I tell you.'

‘Who then? Someone's for the gallows, think on it. Must it be you?'

Hunt shakes his head. He suddenly seems less calm; perhaps the word ‘gallows' strikes some chord in him, some forgotten visit to Newgate Gaol on a Monday morning, standing in the crowd, watching a hooded man fall through the trap-door, “stretched”. His face creases, tears welling in his eyes.

‘I've bloody told you about the old man, ain't I?' he says pleadingly. ‘I'm already dead.'

His breathing is still fast, almost panting; with a shout, he turns and runs once more.

‘Damn it,' mutters Decimus Webb. He looks at Henry Cotton, and once more the two men reluctantly give chase. But there is something different this time. It begins just as a sound; a distant heralding thunder, very distant at first, that seems behind them, then in front, then a constant accompaniment to their breathless progress through the darkness. There is something so strange about their situation that it takes a moment to register that it is there; but it is unmistakable, as it comes closer. The ground vibrates with the motion; the twin metal rails hum with anticipation. A ball of light appears down the track, growing steadily larger, and the figure of Bill Hunt flits before it, like a silhouette in a lantern-show. It is a familiar spectacle to him, the approach of this iron monster. But he still runs, towards the burning light and clattering wheels of the engine as it flies along the track.

It is far too late for it to stop.

‘For God's sake get clear!' shouts Cotton, pushing Webb flat against the wall of the tunnel. As he does so, however, Cotton stumbles against the damp brickwork; his head makes contact with the cold surface, and his body folds away beneath him. If he hears anything, as consciousness slips away, it is not the shout of the train driver, nor the anxious voice of Decimus Webb, holding him against the brick; it is the endless angry squeal of the brakes.

It is as if the machine thoroughly resents the man crushed beneath its wheels.

‘Y
OU AWAKE, SIR
?'

Henry Cotton is awake, albeit with a headache, and alive to the unpleasant sensation of someone lightly slapping his face. He opens his eyes; around him is the familiar structure of Farringdon station, though now with all its gas-lights illuminated. For a moment, in half-conscious confusion, looking up at the flickering lamps, he fancies the place is on fire, and sits up with a start. The policeman standing over him, sergeant Watkins, bends down and looks closely into his eyes.

‘Seems all right, sir,' he shouts to the figure of Decimus Webb, who stands a little way down the station platform, supervising the efforts of a dozen police constables, each with his own lantern, who are exploring every quarter of the station and, tentatively, the building works behind it.

‘Ah,' replies Webb, walking over to him. ‘Mr. Cotton is awake! Did I not tell you, sir, not to come running after me like that?'

Cotton tries, feebly, to protest.

‘No, no need to apologise,' continues Webb.

‘How long have I been . . . ?'

‘Unconscious? A good ten minutes. I rather feared the worst.'

‘I thought we were dead,' says Cotton.

‘No,' says Webb, his face becoming a little more grave. ‘Just that wretch in the tunnel.'

‘Who was he?'

‘One of the navvies here, nothing more. His name was Bill Hunt.'

‘Hunt?'

‘Come, come. You know the name at least. I believe he is related to your partner-in-crime, a cousin or some such. The same officer has identified him.'

‘I have never met him in my life.'

Webb looks at him quizzically, Watkins with unconcealed suspicion. ‘You have a talent, at the very least,' says Webb, ‘for picking unfortunate acquaintances.'

Cotton frowns, recalling the moments in the tunnel.

‘You are sure he is your man?' he says, rubbing the lump on his head. ‘That he killed the girl?'

‘I think so,' says Webb.

‘But he denied it.'

‘Bluster, that is all. A morbid attempt at justification.'

‘But what he said about an old man . . .'

Cotton's voice trails off as a shout goes up from one of the uniformed men, a dozen yards or so from the wooden tool shed, his bull's-eye lantern swinging above his head. He calls the other men over. Webb turns and runs immediately along the platform, jumping down on to the track. Watkins, on the other hand, keeps a wary eye on Henry Cotton who, though a little unsure of his feet, gets up and attempts to follow. Doubtless the sergeant should, in his turn, attempt to stop him, but he is equally curious to know the cause of the commotion. In consequence, the two men eventually join the little group of police that are gathered around a spoil heap of rubble. At first, it appears that a piece of old black sacking is being
tugged from beneath the stones; then the beam of a lantern reveals that it is, rather, the body of a man.

‘It was the rats that give it away,' says one of the constables, knowingly. ‘Saw one scurrying over here. Can always smell blood, they can.'

‘Here,' says Webb impatiently to the nearest man, ‘give me that light.' He bends down, rubbing the dirt from the man's face. ‘I know this man,' he adds, shaking his head in defeat.

‘Lord!' says Henry Cotton, catching sight of the mortal remains of Dr. Arthur Harris. ‘So do I.'

Sergeant Watkins turns and stares amazed at the man beside him. In his mind, he can already picture him climbing the steps to Newgate's scaffold.

‘I think,' says Webb, looking up at Henry Cotton, ‘we need to have a few more words.'

In the clutter of Decimus Webb's office at Marylebone Lane station house, Henry Cotton sits alone, meekly sipping a cup of tea. After a few minutes of silence, Webb himself enters the room and sits down at his desk. It is seven o'clock in the morning and neither man has slept since the discovery at Farringdon station. In the interim, amongst other things, Cotton has narrated all his movements since the night of the murder to the inspector and the disbelieving sergeant Watkins.

‘Mr. Thomas Hunt is, shall we say, not a cooperative man by nature.'

‘That is where you have been? Well, that does not surprise me,' replies Cotton.

‘He says he hardly knew his cousin, and cannot account for anything he may have done.'

‘I see.'

‘And he says we are all a pack of lying hounds, and we should rot in hell.'

Cotton raises his eyebrows.

‘I have left Watkins with him, who, for your information, Mr. Cotton, believes we should take
you
as the cousin's accomplice.'

Cotton shakes his head; he has spent several hours denying any connection with Bill Hunt, and he is tired of it.

‘It cannot be a coincidence,' says Webb.

Cotton shrugs.

‘Well, you must wait here, all the same. I am going to see Mrs. Harris, and perhaps that will shine some light on all of it, eh? A pleasant meeting that will be, mind you. And we'll see what your Miss White has to say about your little affair.'

‘Please believe me, Inspector. There was no “affair”.'

‘It is difficult to believe most of your story, Mr. Cotton, but so far I have given you the benefit of the doubt. Remember that.'

‘I explained, Inspector, I met Miss White by chance.'

‘Outside the refuge?'

‘I had read about the Bowker girl in the press that morning. I was merely curious to see where she lived. I had an interest, after all. And there I chanced upon Clara White. I told you, Inspector.'

‘Hmm.'

Cotton sighs. ‘So you have not told Mrs. Harris yet about her husband?'

‘I thought she deserved her night's sleep,' says Webb, getting up from his desk once more.

Cotton looks up at him. ‘I would like to go with you.'

‘What purpose would that serve?'

‘I might speak to Clara; encourage her to speak with you. She has no love for the police.'

‘That is my experience. But you might just arrange to tell the same story.'

‘I did not mean speak in private. Beside, I believe you owe me something, Inspector. One might say I saved your life.'