The Welfare of the Dead (19 page)

‘Sir?'

‘I merely suggest you tell me the details directly, Sergeant, and, in particular, why this could not wait at least until I had had breakfast?'

‘Sorry, sir. I thought you'd be keen, that's all, given the circumstances.'

‘Sergeant . . .' says Webb, lending the word a heavy tone of admonition.

‘Sorry, sir. Well, I got in early myself – didn't get much sleep as it happens – and no sooner had I sat down than we got word down the line to come here,
double quick. I came myself, first off, and well, all things considered—'

‘What things, Sergeant, for pity's sake? Do you think I enjoy mysteries?'

‘It's the same one, sir. That did for those two girls in Knight's Hotel. He's done it again.'

Webb follows the sergeant through a narrow corridor at the rear of the Casino, behind the musicians' portion of the gallery above. The décor becomes increasingly plain as they progress and it is not long before the red and gold wall-paper above the wainscoting gives way to flaking white paint and bare plaster. At last, they come to a battered-looking door, that leads outside into an small open courtyard, surrounded on all sides by tall window-less walls, with an alley, round the side of the building, the only other obvious method of egress.

‘Here?' says Webb.

‘Just round the corner, sir,' says the sergeant, leading the way. Webb follows him, towards a trio of large dust-bins and several wooden crates, full to the brim with empty wine bottles. The atmosphere of the alley is unpleasantly acrid and Webb cannot help but cough.

‘Foul, isn't it, sir?' says Bartleby. ‘I'm told the gentlemen generally use it for a privy, if the WC back there is occupied.'

‘Yes, I rather gathered that, Sergeant.'

‘Just behind the bin, sir,' replies Bartleby. ‘I haven't moved her.'

Webb steps past the sergeant, and looks behind the over-size tin dust-bin. On the ground, curled up into a ball, lies the body of a young dark-haired woman, her hair loose, her burgundy dress torn along her arm.

‘I see. Throat, you said? Have you examined the wound thoroughly, Sergeant?'

‘No, ah, not in any detail, sir,' says Bartleby.

Webb reaches down and gently pulls back the dead woman's locks, revealing a dark gash across her throat. He scowls, and deliberately tilts the head slightly back, exposing the blood-encrusted wound.

‘There, Sergeant. Can you see it? He cut through her windpipe.'

‘I'll take your word for it, sir.'

‘Sergeant,' says Webb, annoyance in his voice, ‘I do not expect you to possess a degree in medicine, but you must familiarise yourself with basic anatomy.'

Bartleby reluctantly leans over the body. ‘Yes, I see it, sir.'

‘Good,' says Webb. ‘And the paper was where?'

‘Just by her hand, sir. I reckon he put it in her hand again. Probably fell out.'

‘Show it to me.'

Bartleby reaches into his pocket, revealing a small piece of paper, with writing in scrawled block capitals.

‘“There is no darkness, nor shadow of death, where the workers of iniquity may hide themselves.”'

‘Job again, I believe, sir,' interjects Bartleby.

Webb looks at him quizzically.

‘Lot of Dissenters in the family, sir. Given to studying the Good Book.'

Webb sighs. ‘Well, at least you're good for something, Sergeant. And this alley, where does it lead?'

‘Along the side of the building. Out to High Holborn. But it's barred and gated. You wouldn't get past it. They open it only for the dustmen on a Monday.'

‘And the person that found her?'

‘Young woman, sir. Comes in early to clean the place out, every morning – there's a few of them that
does it – she just found her lying there when she was tipping out the ashes. Quite distraught – I've got her in one of the rooms out front. You won't get much sense out of her though.'

‘No, I don't expect I will,' says the inspector wearily, looking back at the body. ‘Has the manager of the place been contacted?'

‘Sent out a constable to do just that, sir.'

‘Very well, Sergeant, I think you'd best also send for Inspector Hanson; it's only fair we notify him. He was rather prescient, wasn't he?'

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.'

‘And not a word about this piece of paper to anyone except Hanson, eh?'

‘Sir?'

‘Whoever is doing this, Sergeant, wants to be recognised in some way. He is enjoying sending out these little messages. I do not know why – but I do not intend to give him the satisfaction of seeing it in the press.'

‘No, sir. But they'll put two and two together soon enough, won't they? I mean, three girls in one week?'

Webb frowns.

‘Three girls? Yes, I suppose they may well. Let us just hope, Sergeant, that is the limit of the wretch's ambition.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Wait a moment, Sergeant,' says Webb, ‘what's this?'

The inspector bends down beside the dust-bin, and peers into the dirt, flicking it away with his fingers, revealing a small red-beaded purse, half-hidden by spilt ash. Webb picks it up and shakes it.

‘Look, Sergeant. Now that hasn't been there long, I should think. Tell me, did you not notice it, or were you trying to test my powers of observation?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Well, in any case, let us look inside. What have we here? Three of four shillings in change; a silk handkerchief; and, ah, this is better, a folded receipt for nine yards of muslin, at one shilling and one pence a yard. A black-bordered receipt at that, on printed paper, with the word “Deduct”. stamped upon it.'

‘Does it have the name of the shop, sir?'

‘Woodrow's General Mourning Warehouse.'

‘Woodrow's? That's just round the corner,' says Bartleby. ‘Do you think it belonged to the girl?'

‘I do not know,' replies the inspector, ‘but I think we had best pay them a visit.'

A
NNABEL
K
ROUT TURNS
over in her sleep and wakes with a start; her blankets are loose, pulled awkwardly to one side of the bed, and she can feel a chill down her arm, exposed to the cold air. She tucks herself back under the covers, wondering what hour it might be. The room is in semi-darkness, although she fancies she can make out the barest hint of daylight, visible behind the heavy curtains that conceal the twin sash windows opposite. Then there is a noise outside; the bedroom door creaks, and opens an inch or two.

‘Who is it?' she asks tentatively.

‘Only me, Miss,' comes the reply. ‘Beg pardon, Miss, I didn't want to wake you.'

‘No, no, I was awake, please come in.'

Jacobs steps into the room, bearing the familiar pitcher of steaming water, which she deposits on the wash-stand. Her appearance, scheduled for eight o'clock on previous mornings, suffices to give Annabel an indication of the time; she raises herself up.

‘Can you open the curtains please, Jacobs?'

‘Yes, Miss.'

Jacobs walks over and pulls on the draw-string that opens the curtains. The room brightens a little, but if there is daylight outside, it seems to Annabel a distinctly gloomy, metropolitan variety.

‘What's it like out there?' asks Annabel.

‘Outside, Miss? Well, the fog's gone.'

Annabel smiles. ‘That's something, I suppose.'

‘Oh, it can settle for days on end, Miss – something awful. You can go without seeing the sun for a fortnight.'

‘Is that right?' says Annabel.

‘Yes, Miss. Will there be anything else?'

‘No,' says Annabel, then, reflecting for a moment, ‘no, wait. May I ask you something, Jacobs?'

The servant frowns, a rather anxious expression creasing her brow. ‘As you like, Miss.'

‘Did you hear any, well, any trouble last night?'

‘Trouble?' says the maid-servant, uncomprehending.

‘I found little Lucy in my room. Mrs. Woodrow tells me she walks in her sleep.'

‘Oh lor!' exclaims Jacobs, then immediately puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, beg your pardon, Miss. I just thought that she was getting better, that's all.'

‘Why, does she do it often?'

‘Now and again, Miss,' replies Jacobs. ‘It's a shame, poor little thing.'

‘Mr. Woodrow was most . . . well, upset about it.'

‘Was he, Miss?' says Jacobs, looking away from her interlocutor and rearranging the items upon the wash-stand.

‘I'm sorry – it's not your place to say, I know. I should not have mentioned it.'

‘No, Miss, it's just . . .'

‘Just what?'

‘Don't think too badly of the master. It may seem he comes down hard, but he means well.'

Annabel smiles politely. ‘I am sure you're right.'

‘I only mean to say,' continues Jacobs, as if determined to make her point, ‘it's a bad business for both of them.'

‘Both of them?' says Annabel. ‘I don't quite understand.'

Jacob blushes and her frown returns. ‘Oh, I shouldn't have said anything, Miss. Please don't tell the Missus.'

‘Tell her what?'

‘Well,' says Jacobs, leaning forward, her voice a low, nervous whisper, ‘the master, he suffers from it too.'

‘You mean he walks in his sleep?'

Jacobs nods, then stares at her feet.

‘I haven't heard anything,' says Annabel. ‘Surely Mrs. Woodrow would have told me, if there was any chance of him . . . she would have spoken to me about it.'

‘Oh, he don't do it now so much, Miss. Says he's willed himself to stop. But, between you and me, he takes something for it, to help him sleep sound.'

‘I see,' says Annabel. She observes a rather anxious look upon the maid-servant's face. ‘I'm sorry – I did not mean to keep you from your work. And I swear I won't speak a word about it, not even to Mrs. Woodrow.'

Jacobs smiles in gratitude. ‘May I go now, Miss?'

‘Of course.'

The table in the Woodrows' dining-room is laid out for breakfast, but Annabel finds that she is quite alone. The only noise is the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, and the slight creak of the floorboards, as Annabel seats herself. She looks at the clock – telling ten minutes past nine – and notices, for the first time, a photograph of the family which sits near by: Mrs. Woodrow sitting down, demure, if a little uncomfortable; Lucy cross-legged and serious in front of her
parents; Mr. Woodrow standing bolt upright in his dress-coat, a severe paterfamilial gaze into the camera.

Jacobs appears silently by the door.

‘Bacon and eggs, or porridge, Miss?'

Annabel turns.

‘Jacobs, you made me jump.'

‘Sorry, Miss.'

‘I'll have the bacon. Am I the only one down for breakfast this morning?'

‘Yes, Miss – the master's gone out already, and the Missus says to beg your pardon, but she's feeling a little tired.'