The Welfare of the Dead (21 page)

‘Well, I suppose . . .' stammers Prentice.

‘Good man,' says Webb.

J
ASPER
W
OODROW APPROACHES
the General Mourning Warehouse at his regular time of half-past nine. As is his custom, he first applies his muddy boots to the iron scraper situated by the entrance. He is interrupted, however, by the sudden appearance of one of his chief clerks upon the doorstep.

‘Prentice, for God's sake, man,' exclaims Woodrow, ‘let me get through the door, won't you?'

‘I'm sorry, sir, but a rather urgent matter has arisen. I thought it prudent to speak to you at the earliest opportunity.'

‘There,' says Woodrow, looking down at his boots, ‘that must do, I suppose. Well, might we step inside?'

Mr. Prentice nods and retreats back into the shop, followed by his employer. Woodrow strides upstairs, and Prentice follows.

‘I don't wish to alarm you, sir, but there has been, well, an unfortunate incident.'

‘Go on,' says Woodrow, as he ascends the steps.

‘One of our girls, sir, Miss Price . . . an awful business . . . I don't quite know how to put it . . . she has been found dead.'

Woodrow stops upon the stairs, resting his hand upon the mahogany banister.

‘Found dead?' echoes Woodrow.

‘Murdered, sir, to be more accurate,' says another voice, unknown to Woodrow, as a slightly stout man in his fifties, dressed in a tweed suit, descends the stairs to meet them.

‘Please, Inspector,' says Prentice in an urgent hushed tone. ‘Not so loud, if you please. Think of our reputation. Mr. Woodrow, this is Inspector Webb, of Scotland Yard, sir.'

For a moment, Jasper Woodrow looks nonplussed by this information; but it is only a moment.

‘I think,' says Woodrow, ‘we had best retire to my office, gentlemen.'

Webb bows his head. ‘Of course, sir. You'll forgive me, I hope, if I spoke too plainly. I fear we policemen easily forget the social graces. Point the way.'

‘It is not far,' says Woodrow.

‘A terrible business,' says Decimus Webb, seated in Woodrow's office, though he does not say the words with any great feeling.

‘Terrible,' reiterates Jasper Woodrow, seated behind his desk. ‘And I am sorry for the poor girl's family, naturally, Inspector. But, really, I must think of my livelihood and that of my employees. I do not suppose it can be kept out of the papers?'

‘Do you know the Casino, sir?' asks Webb.

‘Yes,' says Woodrow, hesitating. ‘I know its reputation, yes.'

‘An unenviable reputation, I think you'll agree. Then you know what the papers will make of it, sir.'

‘We are certain it is Miss Price?'

‘Couldn't be more certain, sir,' says Prentice, who stands at the back of the room. ‘I'm afraid . . . I have seen her for myself, sir.'

‘I don't suppose you know if the girl had any enemies?' asks Webb.

‘Enemies, Inspector?' asks Prentice.

‘Well, we must consider the usual possibilities . . . rivals in love, or jealous suitors, that sort of thing?'

‘Not to my knowledge, sir,' replies the clerk.

Woodrow looks grimly at his employee. His finger taps noisily on the desk. ‘Not to your knowledge, Prentice?'

‘No, sir.'

‘I suppose,' continues Woodrow, an undercurrent of anger in his voice, ‘it was not to your knowledge, either, that she was out disporting herself at the bloody Casino at all hours of the night?'

‘No, sir,' replies the clerk meekly, looking at the floor. ‘I was about to dismiss her, in any case.'

‘Why?' asks Webb.

‘In truth, Inspector,' says Prentice, ‘she was attracting the wrong sort of gentlemen to the premises.'

‘Gentlemen? But all your girls are well turned out, surely,' says Webb. ‘What sort of gentlemen?'

‘Loungers, Inspector,' says Prentice. ‘You know the sort.'

Woodrow sighs with exasperation. ‘Well, now we know where she met them, eh? And why in God's name was she out at such an hour?'

‘It seems,' says Prentice, rather nervously, ‘that our superintendent has not been as scrupulous on these matters as I might have hoped.'

‘As you might have hoped?' exclaims Woodrow. ‘Damn you, man, you're no good to me here. You may as well go back to work.'

Prentice readily agrees and shuffles hurriedly from the room.

‘This could spell ruin for us, you know, Inspector,' he says at last. ‘Ruin.'

‘Nobody likes a scandal, sir,' replies Webb. ‘But we must catch the wretch who did this. We can't keep it quiet.'

‘I suppose you must.' Woodrow takes a deep breath. ‘I don't believe I can help you any further. You said your sergeant will talk to the other girls – must he speak to all of them?'

‘I think that's best, sir. The word will get round, mark you, however many persons we talk to. You did not know Miss Price yourself, sir?'

‘I have seen her about the place, no doubt. But I deputise Prentice and a couple of others to deal with the counter staff. I have very little to do with them.'

‘Naturally. Long-standing business this, isn't it?' inquires Webb. ‘I seem to recall it being here on Holborn a good while, albeit perhaps a little smaller in size. A different name, though, if I recollect correctly.'

‘It was my wife's father's, Inspector, and his before that. But I fail to see how that pertains to the matter in hand.'

‘Forgive me, Mr. Woodrow, professional curiosity, that is all,' says Webb, getting up. ‘One feels an obligation to constantly ask questions; a terrible habit. Still, I will not detain you any further, eh? I'd best be going.'

‘You have no idea who killed the wretched girl, then, Inspector?' says Woodrow as the two men get up.

‘I wish I did. But you know, sir, it occurs to me, being in the trade, you might be able to help me with another unrelated matter.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, you well might. By any chance, have you heard of a gentleman by the name of Munday, Jeremy Sayers Munday?'

Woodrow pauses, and speaks rather nervously. ‘I . . . I can't say as I have, Inspector. Why do you ask?'

Webb shakes his head, as Jasper Woodrow reaches over and opens his office door. ‘Just someone in your line of work, sir. Another case entirely. Don't trouble yourself.'

‘I'll show you out, Inspector,' continues Woodrow.

‘No need, sir. No need. I know the way,' says Webb, walking through and taking his billycock hat from the stand outside Woodrow's room. ‘We will let you know of any progress, sir, rest assured.'

‘Thank you, Inspector,' says Woodrow.

Webb smiles politely and nods goodbye.

The two clerks who sit in the ante-chamber glance briefly at the policeman, then return to their work.

Jasper Woodrow, closing the door behind Webb, suddenly looks peculiarly pale, the blood drained from his naturally ruddy complexion. He walks over to face the hearth, stretching his hands out towards the fire. But the warmth of the blaze does not have the desired effect and so he returns to his desk where, at the back of a drawer, sits a silver flask of brandy. Woodrow takes it out, unscrews the lid and downs the liquor in a single swig. He sits down and, for several minutes, seems to gaze vacantly into space, as if considering some insoluble problem.

‘Jones!' he shouts, at last.

In a second, one of the clerks who dwell outside the office opens the door and stands on the threshold.

‘Send a message to Mr. Siddons, Salisbury Square. Have one of the boys take it – tell him that I need to meet with him, as a matter of utmost urgency.'

‘Nothing more, sir?'

‘Did I not make myself plain?'

‘Yes, sir. Right away.'

The clerk exits, leaving Woodrow once more alone with his thoughts.

‘Ah, there you are, Sergeant,' says Webb, descending the stairs to the ground floor of the Warehouse.

‘Just arranging a quiet room to interview these girls, sir.'

‘Good, good. Although I don't suppose you will find out anything.'

‘You think the fellow picked her at random, sir?'

‘More than likely. Still, one never knows. Perhaps she knew him, or they had met before at the Casino. It is worth investigating. See if she kept company with any particular men; apparently she was rather a magnet for a certain type.'

‘I'll do my best, sir. Oh, and a telegram from Inspector Hanson. He'll be here directly – asked if you might wait for him at the Casino.'

‘I'll do no such thing, Sergeant. I expect it has escaped your notice, but I still have not eaten. I require, at least, a cup of strong coffee and a rasher of bacon, if that is not too much to ask?'

‘Shall I send back to Inspector Hanson, sir? Should I mention the bacon?'

‘Attempts at wit don't suit you, Sergeant. Let him have a look around, show him the girl before you move her. Then ask him to come to the Yard – I'll see him there, one o'clock, if he can spare the time.'

The sergeant assents, and Webb makes to leave Woodrow's Warehouse, but then turns back abruptly, beckoning the sergeant to his side, speaking quietly.

‘Another thing, Sergeant – find out what you can about Mr. Woodrow. I should particularly like to know how long he's been engaged in the mourning business.'

‘May I ask why, sir?'

‘Just idle curiosity, Sergeant.'

Bartleby looks back at Webb with an expression of perplexity that his superior finds infinitely annoying.

‘Well, get on with it, Sergeant,' says Webb.

Bartleby nods, as Webb turns once more on to the street, and strolls out into High Holborn, in search of a cab.

‘“I do not suppose it can be kept out of the papers,”' mutters Webb to himself, taking out his pipe and tobacco as he stands by the side of the road. ‘I shouldn't think so, sir. Not by a long chalk.'