The Welfare of the Dead (23 page)

‘Inspector Hanson,' says Webb, ‘I had given you up for lost.'

Hanson nods and walks in. Webb gestures at him to take a seat.

‘The men at the Yard said I might find you here,' says Hanson.

‘Yes, well, have you seen my office? I find this more congenial when I have something on my mind. We have an agreement, the landlord and I. He turns a blind eye to my sitting here with a solitary pint of ale for an occasional afternoon.'

‘What do you do in return?'

‘I ignore the fact that he gives poor odds on the two-thirty at Epsom Downs.'

‘Gambling? Surely he cannot get away with that, so near to the Yard?'

‘My dear fellow, who do you think places the bets? In any case, I leave such things to the Assistant Commissioner.'

‘The City force would not tolerate it.'

‘I dare say, Inspector. Would you care for something?'

‘No, thank you,' replies Hanson.

‘Then I suppose we should address the matter in hand. You've spoken to Bartleby and seen the girl, then?'

Hanson nods. ‘I have. May I please see the note? You have it with you?'

‘Same scrawl as the last one, if I recall,' says Webb, retrieving the paper from inside his wallet, and placing it upon the table.

‘Identical,' replies the City policeman, glumly staring at the missive. ‘We are investigating the same case, Inspector. I knew he'd do it again. I simply knew it.'

‘Quite. Not a pleasing prospect, is it,' says Webb, ‘this fellow gaily carving up some young female every couple of days?'

‘Hardly,' replies Hanson. ‘I confess, if that is his idea, I find it difficult to see how we are to stop him.'

‘I take it my indomitable sergeant had discovered nothing of great interest regarding Miss Price's habits or acquaintances?'

‘Not that he told me.'

‘Then you may be assured that he has not. Discretion is not one of Bartleby's strengths. You see, I had wondered if she went to the Casino alone or with another girl; or perhaps someone helped her evade the superintendent at Woodrow's? But then they are
hardly likely to come forward, even if such an individual exists.'

‘The Casino has a certain reputation.'

‘Well-deserved. Ask anyone in E Division. No girl with any pretence to decency will admit to having accompanied her to such a place – much less having seen anything untoward. Not if she wishes to keep her place, at least.'

‘Not even to prevent another murder?'

‘Well, perhaps. One might hope that would be incentive enough,' says Webb.

‘Other witnesses, then?' asks Hanson.

‘We will send men around the local publics; talk to the girls and the flash sorts who frequent the place. But I would not hold you breath, Inspector,' says Webb. ‘He picked his spot well – I don't suppose it was very odd to see a man sneaking down that alley with a girl, or coming back alone. You know, forgive me, but you look rather disheartened.'

‘In all honesty, I had hoped you might provide me with a little inspiration,' says Hanson, rather dejectedly.

‘Tell me something of your own progress, then.'

‘That progress, or rather the lack of it,' replies Hanson, ‘is precisely why I had entertained hopes . . . well, never mind. Let me acquaint you with the details. Our doctor performed an autopsy on both women at Knight's.'

‘Anything out of the ordinary?' asks Webb.

‘There was quite a potent dose of laudanum in Betsy Carter's stomach; I can have the report despatched to you, if you like.'

‘No, there is no need. Was there anything else?'

‘A good deal of brandy.'

‘The brandy. So the brandy was dosed. But why?' Webb muses aloud. ‘The girl was pretty much at the
fellow's mercy, after all – why drug her then stab her?'

‘I have no explanation,' says Hanson. ‘Unless it was some morbid interest in having the girl completely in his power. I am afraid it is rather difficult to know when he . . .'

‘Made free with her person?' suggests Webb.

Hanson coughs. ‘Or perhaps the man is something of a coward when it comes to the kill; he likes to be sure of success.'

‘And the second girl – Finch, was it not?'

‘A hint of liquor but nothing like so much; and certainly nothing soporific in nature. She was smothered – I was right about that much, Inspector.'

‘I am sure. I would not berate yourself overly much, Hanson – I can see no logic to this wretched business. And did you find the missing decanter?'

‘Smashed to bits in a nearby yard, but yes. We can only infer the contents.'

‘And what of your Mr. Brown?'

‘He rather slipped the net, as you know.'

‘Well, I will not ask how that occurred.'

‘Drink. I have disciplined the man in question.'

Webb allows himself a slight smile. ‘I see – do you think Brown knows something? Or does he merely not take to being watched?'

‘I can't say as to that,' says Hanson, ‘but I'd rather we knew where he was, all the same.'

‘Yes, well, he is our only witness to this whole mess,' says Webb. He leans forward and takes up his pint glass, taking a sip. ‘Now, I am curious, do you still think our man is a maniac? That is where the problem lies, is it not? I've been giving it some thought. If he is acting upon a whim, then we are quite sunk – how does one prevent it? To act, we must anticipate him.'

‘Very well,' says Hanson, ‘let us imagine he has some purpose, however obtuse or lunatic. There is no
connection between the women, as far as I can make out.'

‘None at all?' asks Webb.

‘Miss Finch and Miss Carter did not frequent the Casino – I am almost sure of that; I would have heard about it by now.'

‘What about vice versa? Miss Price, I mean to say.'

‘From what I gathered from your sergeant, Miss Price lived with her father in Enfield before coming to Woodrow's. I suppose she might have been to Knight's Hotel, but, really, how will we ever find out such a thing? The only connection is in the mind of the fellow who killed them.'

‘True. But there is, at the very least, a twisted purpose to it, Hanson. He took the trouble to drug the first one; he leaves us these wretched little billets-douxs. He has given the whole business a good deal of thought, I should say.'

Hanson sighs. ‘I take your point, Inspector. But that still leaves us very much in the dark.'

‘Hmm,' says Webb. ‘Have you exhausted every inquiry? Was there not some sweetheart, some chap the two girls had argued over?'

‘I hardly think that's relevant, Inspector, though I've been to every public house and gambling den round St. Paul's, every possible haunt, talked to anyone claiming acquaintance with either girl. From what I can make out, it was some fast sort they met in a gin palace. Took them both out on the town then went for the Finch girl, made the other a little jealous. Quite routine for that sort of girl. They enjoy the occasional spat.'

‘What about this man – what do we know about him?'

‘Allegedly something of a gentleman – but I'd say you may take that with a pinch of salt, the types I've been talking to. Although I'm told the girls at Knight's
are quite sought after by a certain class of young swell; they can do quite well for themselves. I'm reliably informed there's a Baroness in the West Country who traces her beginnings to room twenty-nine.'

Webb smiles. ‘You would not believe how many times I have heard that story, or something similar Hanson. I suppose it provides a rather necessary crumb of comfort for the worst off.'

Hanson shrugs. ‘In any case, I confess I am struggling as to how to proceed.'

‘I wish I could advise you. Finding your Mr. Brown may be a start. For my own part, I can only say I will keep you informed of any progress, and I hope we may expect likewise?'

‘Of course,' replies Hanson.

‘Good. In the meantime, I am afraid I have another case to attend to – I had hoped to leave it to Bartleby but he is doubtless preoccupied with practicalities at the Casino, for today, at least.'

‘Another murder?'

Webb shakes his head. ‘A missing person. Well, in a manner of speaking.'

‘How so?'

‘Would you believe a case of body-snatching? I will not reveal the cemetery in question; the manager is rather nervous as to the effect on trade.'

Hanson raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought we'd put paid to Burkers forty years ago.'

‘You know,' says Webb, as he gets up, ‘I was labouring under the same misapprehension myself. Remarkable, is it not?'

R
AIN HAS SET
in for the night, as Jasper Woodrow returns home, gone six o'clock. It does not, however, bear down directly upon Woodrow's head, but patters noisily upon the roof of the hansom that conveys him up Pentonville Hill, and, likewise, upon the unfortunate cab-man who directs the speeding carriage. Indeed, the latter, his broad-brimmed hat and oilskin cape streaming rivulets of dark water, drives his horse at a frenetic pace, as if hoping to out-distance the weather, charging at full speed past Amwell Street, past the Angel, and, finally, swinging into Duncan Terrace. The rain, however, is not to be beaten – but at least the journey is a swift one, which is agreeable to his passenger who swings open the twin doors and alights on to the pavement almost before the vehicle has pulled to a stop. Once the cab-man has been paid, Jasper Woodrow hurriedly ascends the steps to his front door, fumbling for his house key.

Inside, he is met by his manservant, Jervis, who promptly removes his master's hat and coat.

‘Where is my wife?' asks Woodrow as he takes off his gloves.

‘She retired to her room this morning, sir.'

‘Not seen since?'

‘No, sir.'

Woodrow takes a deep breath. ‘Get me a brandy, for God's sake, man.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Jervis departs, leaving Woodrow alone in the hall. Some trifling sound catches his attention, the rustle of a page being turned, and he walks to the doorway of the morning room, where Annabel Krout sits before the fireplace, a few chapters into
The Bride of Lammermoor
. She turns and raises herself up in her seat as she hears Woodrow's footsteps. Woodrow coughs.

‘Ah, Miss Krout, please do not get up on my account.'

‘Sir.'

There is a pause.

‘I trust you have had a good day.'

‘A quiet one, thank you.'

‘What is that you're reading?'

‘Walter Scott. Melissa said I might borrow it.'

‘Of course.'

Another pause.

‘Miss Krout, this is not perhaps the time to touch upon it, but I feel I may have spoken too plainly last night. If I gave any offence, in relation to that business with Lucinda, I had no intention of doing so. I was, I can only say, rather tired.'

If Annabel Krout considers this a fulsome apology, she does not reveal it in her expression. ‘Of course,' she replies.

‘Good. I would not want us upon an awkward footing. Now I must really go and see my wife.'

‘She has been in bed all day; give her my best.'

‘I will,' replies Woodrow, with the hint of a bow, quitting the room.

Jasper Woodrow enters his wife's bedroom without so much as a knock upon the door. His wife is sitting upright in bed, still in her dressing-gown, her eyes closed. She is not, however, asleep, and opens her eyes, turning to look at her husband.

‘Oh, good,' she says in a quiet voice, ‘I am glad you are back. My dear, I have had such a head all day.'

‘I am sorry to hear that; I do not like to see you in low spirits.'

‘Have you seen Annabel? I fear she is quite weary of us already. She looked rather dejected when I said we could not go out today.'

‘Did she? I spoke to her downstairs. She was reading some wretched thing by Scott.'

‘Oh, yes, I said she might borrow it – you do not mind?'