The Welfare of the Dead (17 page)

‘How should I know it if you don't?' asks the old man.

‘Best we head home, Billy boy,' says Webb. ‘Do you reckon we'll find a cab to the Borough, mate?'

The old man shrugs his shoulders. ‘You might have to walk it.'

‘Walk!' Webb exclaims. ‘In this weather? I'll be frozen solid. And I'll cop it when I get home.'

Bartleby notices the bottle of brandy, which Webb dangles rather ostentatiously in his hand. ‘Bloody waste of that brandy, too.'

‘We best have a taste of it on the way, I suppose,' says Webb. ‘Damned shame – I was looking forward to taking a drop, civil like.'

The old man eyes the bottle. ‘Brandy, you say?'

‘Best bottle they had – waste of good money.'

‘Well,' says the old man thoughtfully, ‘if you're cold, I've got a fire going in here.'

‘Fire? Oh, but we couldn't possibly take advantage, could we, Charlie?' says Bartleby. Webb, however, gives him a brief, threatening glance.

‘You've a Christian spirit, sir,' says Webb. ‘Here, now what say we share a drop of this liquor between us?'

‘Oh, I don't know, when I'm on duty . . .' says the old man.

‘No harm in it,' suggests Bartleby.

‘Well, I suppose I've a couple of glasses knocking about somewhere,' says the old man, as he walks to the gate, and undoes the padlock. ‘Here, come through.'

‘Very kind of you, mate, very kind,' mutters Webb.

Decimus Webb pours another glass of brandy, as the old man reclines in his chair, in front of the small hearth in the cemetery lodge.

‘Are you here every night?' asks the inspector, allowing himself a sip of liquor.

‘Aye,' says the watchman, following Webb's example, and downing a gulp of brandy, ‘twenty years I've been here, never missed a night, except when the Missus died.'

‘Well, I'm sorry to hear that,' says Webb.

‘No need; seventeen year ago that were.'

‘Is she buried here?'

The old man nods. ‘Aye. Bless her. 17606. F07.'

‘Beg your pardon?' says Bartleby.

‘Her number. That's her number in the register – I memorialised it in my head.'

Webb nods. ‘I expects the work ain't much trouble, in a place like this?'

The old man snorts, gesturing towards the cemetery
proper. ‘No, they don't give me much trouble, they don't.'

Webb smiles. ‘No, I'd hope not. Still, I think it'd give me the creeps.'

‘What's your trade?' asks the old man.

‘Horses,' suggests Bartleby. Webb looks askance at his colleague.

The old man shakes his head. ‘Never liked horses myself.'

‘It ain't haunted then?' says Webb, with a grin.

‘Nah,' says the old man. ‘Or if it is, they keep clear of me. I tell you, though, I did have a scare, not a few weeks back.'

‘What was that?'

‘A gentleman, as was locked in at night. Found him wandering around, all lost, by the chapel – now, I thought he was a bloody ghost! Said he'd lost track of time, looking at the graves. In the dark – I ask you! So I said to him, “You'll lose track of your bloody neck, sir, if you fall into an open hole!”'

‘You're right,' says Webb. ‘A gentleman, you say? Still, I expect that happens a lot.'

‘That were the queer thing; I always walk round twice, to check, afore we locks the gates at nightfall. But I'd missed him, see? A right scare. A fellow could lose his place over a thing like that, too. Here,' continues the old man, suddenly confidential, ‘keep that dark, eh?'

‘Don't you worry, mate – we won't blab. Here, have another glass. Steady your nerves. Was he alone, then, this man? I expect you marched him straight out, eh?'

‘That's what I said, didn't I?'

‘I don't suppose he had a bag or some such?'

‘That's a queer question,' says the old man, frowning.

‘Did he though?'

‘Not that I saw.'

‘How old was he? Do you remember what he looked like? Well dressed?'

‘Smart enough. I don't recollect; it were dark. Middling sort of fellow. Here, now, what is all this?'

‘Nothing at all,' says Webb, soothingly, ‘just curious. Billy, I reckon we should be off. It's a long walk home, eh?'

The watchman lets Webb and Bartleby through the cemetery gates, and then locks them. If he has a suspicion in his mind as to the authenticity of his visitors, it is secondary to his desire to continue sipping brandy in front of a warm fire. Webb, meanwhile, walks briskly along the pavement, a look of satisfaction on his face.

‘What did you make of that, then?' asks the sergeant.

‘Well, I'd say it's a good chance that “gentleman” was our man, Sergeant, even though our friend can't tell us much about him. Can't be certain, of course. Let's say he hides until the place is shut, digs up the grave, then . . . well, I suppose there's still a problem, isn't there?'

‘He left without the body?' says Bartleby.

‘Quite. It looks like it, unless of course he had an accomplice. But then, this is what puzzles me: if it was something in the grave he wanted, where did he put the bones? Why not bury them again? But if he wanted the body, why not take it?'

‘Maybe he stashed them somewhere, and came back for them.'

‘Charming thought, isn't it?' says Webb. ‘Very well – tomorrow, come back and interview the fellow – see if you can get a better description when he's sober; see
if he remembers you for a start; he may not be particularly reliable, if tonight is any guide. And take a thorough look around the grounds – take a couple of men with you, plain clothes – and make sure there's nothing we've missed.'

‘Like what?'

‘The remains. I suppose a cemetery might be the best place to hide them.'

Bartleby nods. ‘Are we really walking back into town, sir?'

‘Unless you know a means of summoning a cab, Sergeant, I'd say we are. Why?'

‘Just a shame you left the rest of that brandy behind, sir.'

I
T IS TWO A.M
. as Melissa Woodrow walks into the darkened hall of her home, a candle-stick in her hand. Her dressing-gown trails over the parquet floor as the sound of a key being jabbed inexpertly into the front door echoes through the house. Finally, after what seems an age, there is a distinct click. The key slots into the lock, and the door opens. A man's hand slowly pulls back the heavy curtain that all but conceals the entrance.

‘Woodrow, is that you?' she says in an urgent whisper.

‘Course it's me, damn it,' replies Jasper Woodrow, stepping a little unsteadily inside. His cheeks are flushed red with drink, his eyes decidedly bloodshot. ‘You think I'm likely to be burglarising my own house, eh?'

‘I didn't know what to think,' she says, her voice a peculiar mixture of anger and anxiety. ‘Where have you been all night? You said you would get a cab.'

‘Just for a little drink, my dear. Met up with your man Langley – thought we'd have a drop of something to celebrate.'

‘Langley? What, had you arranged it?'

‘After a fashion, my darling, after a fashion. Useless little milksop, mind you. Can't take his liquor –
wouldn't think it to look at him. Or, come to think of it, perhaps you would. But,' says Woodrow with a rather lopsided smile, tapping his nose with his finger, ‘his money's good.'

‘You didn't say anything,' says Mrs. Woodrow, indignantly.

‘I needed a drink,' says Woodrow with a rather angry emphasis.

‘But we thought you were coming home directly. Annabel and I were worried.'

‘Ah, the delightful Miss Krout,' says Woodrow, rather slurring his words. ‘Where is she, my dear? Must kiss her good night, eh? Must be civil to Miss Krout. Her old man might lend us some money, eh? No need now, mind you. Good old Langley. Lucky I found him.'

‘Woodrow, hush! I have never said anything about money – Annabel is in bed. Don't you know what time it is?'

‘It is,' says Woodrow, pulling out the chain to his pocket-watch, and fumbling with the case, ‘it is . . . time for bed, eh? Don't suppose you'd care to join me, Melissa?'

‘I really can't talk to you in this state, Woodrow,' she replies, ‘really, I can't.'

‘Don't have to talk, my dear,' says Woodrow. He looks at his wife, but she deliberately avoids his gaze. ‘Damn you, then,' he says. ‘I'll just go and kiss Miss Krout good night, eh?'

With that, Woodrow walks purposefully towards the hall stairs, though almost tripping on the rug that lies before them. Melissa darts after him, a look of horror on her face.

‘Woodrow! You'll do no such thing!'

‘Just a quick peck, my dear.'

‘Please,' she says, grabbing hold of his arm.

He shakes her hand roughly free, with such force that he knocks it against the banister. Melissa, in turn, leans back against the woodwork, her mouth wide with surprise at the sudden blow; tears well up in her eyes.

‘Here now, enough of that,' says Woodrow. ‘I was only chaffing you, woman. It's your own damn fault, you know.'

Melissa Woodrow shakes her head, but offers no words.

‘I'm going to bed,' says Woodrow, in a sullen tone.

Annabel Krout stands by the door to her room in her night-gown, listening to the raised voices downstairs. She can make out little more than the passing mention of her own name, and the distressed sound of Mrs. Woodrow's voice. Then there is the sound of Mr. Woodrow's heavy footsteps upon the stairs. Unconsciously, she holds her breath as he passes her room, and enters his dressing-room upon the opposite side of the landing. A minute or so later comes the lighter step of Mrs. Woodrow, the rustle of her dressing-gown. Annabel ponders for a moment whether she should open the door and talk to her; but she cannot quite muster the confidence to do so. Nor can she imagine what she might say that would not merely embarrass her cousin. In consequence, though she waits a minute or two more, to see if either party ventures forth from their respective bedrooms, she eventually returns quietly to her bed.