The Welfare of the Dead (20 page)

‘I see,' says Annabel. ‘Thank you.'

‘And will you have tea and toast, Miss?'

‘Yes, please.'

‘Thank you, Miss,' says Jacobs, and retreats.

Annabel, in turn, gets up from her place and walks around the room. Mr. Woodrow's copy of the
Islington Weekly Chronicle
lies upon the sideboard, folded and open at an inside page. Annabel picks it up, takes it back to the table and sits down once more, casually running her eye over the close-packed type. Her eye catches a particular item at the bottom of a column:

THE HOTEL MURDERS

Three days have passed since the discovery of the bodies of the two young women, Elizabeth Violet Carter, aged 18, and Annie Finch, aged 17, brutally murdered in Knight's Hotel, Ludgate Hill. Both victims were what are called ‘unfortunates' and the hotel was frequented by females of that class. Nonetheless, it is impossible to imagine a crueller and more dastardly assault upon two defenceless women, and the City of London force
are making every conceivable inquiry into the matter. The circumstances of the case, not least a singular epistolary communication found in Annie Finch's room, incline the police to believe a lunatic is responsible for the crime. As yet, however, they do not possess any clue to the person or persons who committed the outrage.

Jacobs appears, standing by Annabel's side with a pot of tea, looking over her shoulder.

‘How awful,' says Annabel, putting down the newspaper.

‘Miss?' says Jacobs, peering at the paper. ‘Oh, that hotel business? Yes, poor devils. Here's the toast, Miss.'

Annabel Krout, with her breakfast finished, returns upstairs to the second floor. She does not, however, go directly to her room, but pauses outside that of Mrs. Woodrow. After a moment or two's hesitation, she knocks upon the door.

‘Who is it?' comes back as a muffled response from within.

‘Annabel, cousin. May I come in?'

There is a short interval. Then, finally, ‘Yes, my dear, come in.'

Annabel enters the bedroom and finds Mrs. Woodrow sitting up in bed in her dressing-gown, her hair loose, a needle and thread and a pair of stockings by her side. She does, indeed, appear tired, or at least a little pale.

‘My dear,' she says immediately, ‘you must forgive me for being so rude. I really ought to have come and spoken to you myself; I am just a little fatigued. Tell me, did Jacobs not say anything?'

‘She did,' says Annabel, ‘but I thought I might come and see how you are? I didn't mean to intrude, cousin.'

‘No, no. You're a dear girl, Annabel. It's just my nerves, I am sure. Lucinda was so unruly last night; it took me a good half-hour to quiet her after . . . well, after that little incident. Now, did you have a decent breakfast?'

‘Yes, I did,' replies Annabel. ‘Is Lucy all right?'

‘Well, I believe so. Jacobs will keep an eye on her. But I am afraid we must cancel our plans for today, my dear. I could not possibly step out of the house in my condition. I'd positively die.'

‘Of course,' says Annabel, though unable to disguise a note of disappointment in her voice, as the prospect of finally visiting St. Paul's or the fabled Crystal Palace recedes further from her horizon. ‘Well, perhaps I could go out myself, just for a little stroll? I might take Lucy for a walk?'

‘Oh no, dear. She's far too sensitive after one of her turns; it might bring on another. It's best not to over-stimulate her, not today.'

‘Well, what if Jacobs were to come with us?'

‘Oh, Annabel dear, she is far too busy around the house. Now, really, I fear I must rest. I was going to do a little darning, just to distract myself, but I am quite exhausted. I might take a little nap. Can you find something to occupy yourself, my dear? I have a couple of books on loan from Mudie's, I think they are downstairs. Or do you like Walter Scott, my dear? Woodrow has a beautiful bound set in the study. I don't think he's opened them once – such a shame.'

‘May I play the piano?'

‘Oh, I am not sure. The noise travels awfully . . .'

‘Then I would not think of it, cousin. I am sure I can find something to amuse myself.'

‘Good,' replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I promise you, my
dear, once I feel better, we shall go out and enjoy ourselves.'

‘Please, don't worry,' says Annabel. ‘Shall I have Jacobs bring you anything?'

‘Perhaps some more toast, my dear. I might eat some toast.'

‘I'll see to it,' replies Annabel. ‘And shall I come back later, to see how you are?'

‘Yes, in an hour or two, my dear,' says Mrs. Woodrow graciously.

Annabel departs the room with a polite smile; it vanishes from her lips, however, the moment she closes the bedroom door. She returns to her room with a long face, and, sweeping up her skirts, sits heavily upon the bed, the prospect of a long house-bound day stretching before her. At last, however, she remembers to ring the bell-pull, with a view to ordering Mrs. Woodrow's toast. As she pulls it, there is the concomitant high-pitched metallic trill in the basement, faint and distant. But, strangely, there is no sound upon the stairs, no hurrying footsteps.

Annabel waits a minute or so, then tries the bell once more. Again, there is no reply. She gets up and walks out on to the landing; but there is still no sound. Furrowing her brow, more in perplexity than irritation, she proceeds downstairs to the first floor, where she encounters Jacobs running hastily up.

‘Miss, I'm terrible sorry. I was just ticking off the butcher's boy – our meat today was something awful – I didn't hear the bell.'

Annabel smiles. ‘It's only that Mrs. Woodrow wants some toast.'

‘I'll go tell Cook, Miss,' replies Jacobs.

Annabel nods, and Jacobs returns downstairs with equal celerity. Annabel herself walks idly into the drawing-room, bestowing a rather longing look
towards the piano. She looks through the window, on to Duncan Terrace. There is no sign of the butcher's boy with his basket, nor any other passing tradesman; but her thoughts are more occupied with the tedious day ahead.

She leans over the piano and runs her fingers along the highest, quietest octave, performing a tentative arpeggio. She half expects to hear Mrs. Woodrow thumping upon the floorboards above. But there is no sound.

Annabel sighs to herself, and closes the piano lid.

I
NSPECTOR
W
EBB WALKS
briskly into the elegant entrance-hall of Woodrow's General Mourning Warehouse, accompanied by Sergeant Bartleby. He ignores the bow given by the doorman, liveried in black and gold, who acts as guardian of the establishment. Instead, he walks directly to the nearest counter, that of the stationery department, where a lone shopman stands ready to receive customers. Beneath the glass-topped counter are the various grades of black-trimmed envelope and writing paper available to the more fashionably bereaved, but Webb ignores the display and beckons the man forward, whispering in his ear. It is only a few discreet words, and they are not distinct enough to be heard by the sergeant. Still, doubtless they encompass the phrase ‘an urgent police matter', for the young man in question hastens toward the rear of the building, and returns with a more senior member of staff. In turn, the second man, grey-bearded and solemn as the stationery, leads the two policemen upstairs, and through the door marked ‘
Employés
', which leads to the back offices.

‘We may talk here, sir,' says the gentleman in question, leading Webb and Bartleby into the small private room which constitutes his workplace. ‘I would offer you a seat . . .'

Webb looks around: the office is a rather barren affair with only a single desk and chair. There are a few ledgers and the implements of a book-keeper, a pen, inkstand, blotting pad, balanced upon the desk; but nothing else except a series of shelves, stacked with files.

‘Don't trouble yourself, Mr. . . .'

‘Prentice, sir. I am the senior clerk and floor-manager. I am afraid my superior, Mr. Woodrow himself, is not yet on the premises; we do not expect him for a half-hour or so.'

‘I am sure you will suffice, Mr. Prentice. Tell me,' says Webb, retrieving the receipt from his pocket, ‘what do you make of this? A customer of yours, perhaps?'

Prentice retrieves a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his jacket, puts them on, and casts his eyes over the receipt. ‘No, sir. I should say not.'

‘Not?' says Bartleby.

‘No, sir,' replies Prentice, quite firmly, ‘it is not. This stamp, you see, “Deduct”. It means it is a receipt given to one of our staff, one of our girls, though I cannot say which one in particular. A deduction from their salary.'

‘Ah, I see,' replies Webb.

‘You mean for material they have bought for themselves?' asks Bartleby.

‘Or family. It is a common arrangement; nothing underhand, I assure you,' replies Prentice hurriedly. ‘We find the girls like to make themselves up a new dress, now and then, to wear of a Sunday; if we have any old stock, then we allow them to purchase at a discount.'

‘For regular dresses, not mourning?' asks Bartleby.

‘Of course. I am told a dark colour, such as we suggest for half mourning, can be quite fashionable, if
made up to the latest taste. Of course, a young woman will squander much of her remuneration upon whatever might be the fashion, if given the opportunity – we only allow it once per annum.'

‘Indeed?' says Webb. ‘And, tell me, do you know the girls well yourself? They live on the premises, I assume?'

‘Certainly; we have twenty females and eight young men; and a lady superintendent.'

‘To care for their morals?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Admirable. Now, Mr. Prentice, do you encourage the girls to go out at night? Do you give them much in the way of liberty?'

‘Liberty, sir? Why, the usual amount, though we are not early closers here at Woodrow's. We say one evening per week between seven and ten, and Sundays, of course.'

‘But you expect them back by ten, of an evening?'

‘Of course. This is a decent, well-conducted establishment, Inspector. Forgive me, sir, I do not follow any of this – where did you find this receipt?'

‘I regret it was a short distance from the body of a murdered girl, Mr. Prentice. Not far from here.'

The gentleman in question stands back in astonishment. ‘Good Lord.'

‘Tell me, are all your girls at work this morning?'

‘Yes, of course,' replies Prentice, then checks himself. ‘Well, all except one. But she is due her notice, the moment I set eyes upon her.'

‘A trouble-maker?'

‘Quite. A Miss Price – she has been with us a year or more but the girl is nothing but a source of vexation, Inspector. And she hasn't been seen all—'

‘Is she a dark-haired girl, about five feet three inches tall?'

‘Good Lord, you don't mean to say . . .'

‘I mean to say nothing, my dear fellow. But if you can spare us a few minutes, I am afraid I must ask you to go with the sergeant.'

‘Now? Go where?'

‘The Holborn Casino. That's where we found the girl – your Miss Price, I fear it is quite likely – but we won't know until you take a look at her?'

Mr. Prentice takes a step back. ‘Surely not? I am not the man to do it. I mean to say, Mr. Woodrow will be here shortly. I mean, I should not leave my post.'

‘Come, Mr. Prentice, it is only a few minutes. It is a matter of some importance, as you can imagine. Besides, I should think it nothing to a man like yourself, in your line of work.'

Mr. Prentice pales visibly. ‘We dress the living, Inspector. I have very little acquaintance with . . .'

‘Bodies?' suggests Bartleby.

‘It's just that there's no time like the present, in our line of work, sir,' says Webb, amiably. ‘And you would be helping Her Majesty's Police. Think of that.'