A Metropolitan Murder (8 page)

‘Yes?'

‘Mrs. Samson says don't you want a fire got up, if you're stopping in?'

‘What time is it, Susan?'

‘Two o'clock, sir.'

‘I must have been asleep. I'll be going out soon.'

‘As you like, sir.'

Henry Cotton listens to the girl's footsteps descending the stairs and takes a deep breath, then sits up upon the bed, looking around the simple furnishings of his lodgings.

There is a jug of water on the washstand, left for him the previous evening; he walks over and plunges his hands inside the porcelain, then splashes his face. Once done, he walks to the window and peers out into the street.

He must make preparations.

He must leave.

It does not take long for Henry Cotton to change his clothes. Divesting himself of the scruffy great-coat and cheap fustian suit of the previous night, he folds them away into an ageing but capacious carpet-bag. Next he takes off his dirty cotton shirt, but replaces it with one of fine Irish linen, together with a pristine white collar and cuffs. Then, from his wardrobe, he retrieves a different suit entirely: not fustian, but shiny black cloth of the finest cut. He puts it on, together with a cravat of red silk, fixing it with a silver pin. All this is done in record time, and, glancing in the mirror, he mentally congratulates himself at the speed of his transformation.

The remainder of his clothes follow into the bag. Next, he makes a meticulous search of the room itself,
though it boasts few personal possessions. A pen, a razor, several notebooks, all proceed in the same direction, together with a Bible and three-volume novel. Then he walks over to the writing desk, which sits by the window, and opens and closes each drawer, checking that they are empty. At last, the only remaining trace of his presence in Castle Street is the glass inkwell, which sits atop the desk; he takes it and empties the viscous blue liquid on to the hearth, watching it soak into the cinders of yesterday's fire. He then wraps the inkwell in a piece of cloth, and that too he puts in his bag. There is nothing left. The room, hardly replete with home comforts at the best of times, appears quite barren. Cotton takes a final look, then walks over to the door, and listens. There is no-one upon the landing, as best as he can tell. Consequently, he opens the door, softly closes it behind him, then walks down the stairs as casually as possible; or, at least, as casual as any man may be, when absconding from his lodgings with a week's rent owing.

Outside there is daylight. To Cotton, it seems bright and unexpected after the gloom of Mrs. Samson's residence. Indeed, the sun is so strong that even the accumulating smoke of the city's countless chimneys has done nothing to obscure its harsh winter light.

Henry Cotton lowers his head and hurries through the side streets towards Soho.

It is not twelve hours since Henry Cotton ran blindly through the backstreets of Marylebone in the pitch-darkness; and yet, in bright daylight, his progress through the narrow lanes that lie between Oxford Street and Leicester Square leaves just as indistinct an impression upon his senses. Assuredly, his feet proceed one in front of the other in measured steps; he avoids
every obstruction of persons and goods upon the pavements, and the menace of traffic upon the roads; but his mind is fixed upon other things entirely.

And yet, for all that, he is forced to stop when he reaches St. Martin's Lane. It is, even in quiet moments, a road that no man could cross without his wits about him. Indeed, as Cotton stands upon the kerb, he has a fancy that there is something about the lane that resembles a poorly constructed Roman circus, as a succession of black cabs struggle uphill, and, to all appearances, race immediately back down at a break-neck speed. In truth, in his distracted state of mind, it seems to him that he may stand there for ever; it seems quite possible that the London traffic is wholly impassable and that he is quite trapped by it. Then he notices a newsboy standing nearby, a clutch of penny broadsheets under his arm.

‘Metropolitan Murder! Murder on Underground Railway!'

Henry Cotton steels his nerve, then gives the boy a penny. Taking a copy of the broadsheet, he hurries onwards between a gap in the traffic, towards Covent Garden and Clare Market. It is somewhere between those two locations that he finally pauses to read the sheet he has bought. He finds, with some astonishment, that his own name is not mentioned, nor is there much of a description given of the young man who fled the scene of the crime.

He cannot help but smile, and several passers-by wonder at the peculiar look of relief and joy that plays upon his face.

‘W
HAT DO YOU
make of it, sergeant?'

‘This, sir? I don't know what to make of it, sir.'

‘It is not mutton, nor pork, nor, I think, would I dare to call it beef.'

Two policemen stand before a butcher's shop in the narrow lanes of Clare Market. In the daylight, it is a district principally devoted to the livelihoods of butchers and costermongers. One of the establishments belonging to the former class of business-men has caught their eye, a place where the day's best meat has been laid out upon dirty wooden blocks, for the public gaze. Every piece is a little discoloured and unwholesome in appearance, either in its entirety or in part.

‘I'd say it's the finest scrag-end,' continues Webb. ‘None better than Clare Market meat, is there, sergeant?'

The sergeant says nothing, but the butcher, a burly, aproned fellow, looks daggers at the pair of uniformed men; he has had no customers since the police took an interest in his merchandise. Webb addresses him jovially.

‘What do you call it, my good man?'

‘That, sir
,
is beef.'

‘Well, I will not bother to enquire from which part of the animal. But perhaps you may help me?'

‘If I can,' says the proprietor, more than eager to remove the obstruction to his trade.

‘I am looking for a “Mrs. H.”. I believe she runs a lodging-house hereabouts.'

‘You don't know her proper name, then?' asks the butcher.

‘If I knew that, I would, most likely, not need to ask.'

The butcher shrugs, as if to indicate the depth of his disinterest in Webb's motivation. ‘There's a Mrs. Hodgkiss two doors down, she's the deputy there, far as I know.'

‘An old woman?'

‘She is.'

‘Now, that is good news. Perhaps, Watkins, whilst we are here, you would care to purchase a choice cut for your good lady wife?'

‘I have some nice bacon,' says the butcher in a conspiratorial tone, ‘what we keep back.'

‘I will give it a miss, if you don't mind,' replies the sergeant drily.

‘Well then,' says Webb, pulling Cotton's leather-bound notebook out of his pocket. ‘What are we waiting for? We have our little guide-book, after all.'

Walked to Clare Market. A good deal of fog about; the roads particularly muddy and dangerous.

On reaching the lanes, I immediately went to the house which I singled out yesterday. The entrance in common usage not upon the main thoroughfare, but reached by an alley down the side. I swiftly found a door, bearing its promise of ‘Dry Lodgings', and it was through this narrow and derelict-looking portal that I entered.

The room inside contained ten souls, or thereabouts, sitting around a small deal table; they were men and women of the lowest type, and though the chatter between them was lively enough, there was a definite want of vitality in their pale countenances. True, there was a fire burning in the hearth, but not a large one, and it gave out little warmth, producing a dim light which only served to illuminate the poor condition of the walls, which were badly afflicted with mould. Several of this ragged convocation turned to look at me, but they soon decided that I did not merit their full attention. I cannot say whether my shabby disguise was wholly successful, or if it was merely sufficient that I was neither landlord nor the police. At all events, I summoned my courage and asked after the woman whom I had ascertained was the deputy of the place, a certain Mrs. H—

‘Mrs. Hodgkiss?'

Webb and Watkins step into the back kitchen of the house. The old woman lolls by the hearth upon a wooden bench, tending a small stove, wrapped in a dirty red shawl. There is no-one else to be seen.

‘Mrs. Hodgkiss, is it?'

The old woman looks up, peering at the sergeant and Decimus Webb.

‘Who's asking?'

‘Can't you see who's asking?' asks Watkins impatiently. ‘Her Majesty's Police.'

‘How should I know? My eyes ain't what they was.'

‘You're the deputy here, then, are you?'

‘I am.'

‘Your eyes can't be that bad, then, can they? Perhaps you could show us around.'

‘Oh, I don't know about that,' she replies, looking into the fireplace, ‘some of 'em upstairs might cut up something dreadful, being disturbed, like. Won't take kindly to it.'

‘Madam,' says Webb, leaning down close to her face, ‘we'll do more than disturb 'em, if you don't lend a hand. Besides, I do not think I shall need to see the whole place. I have something particular in mind.'