The Welfare of the Dead (36 page)

She is interrupted, however, by a delicate knock at the door.

‘Come in,' says Annabel.

A maid-servant, dressed in the uniform cap and apron of the hotel, opens the door.

‘Yes?' says Annabel.

‘There's a gentleman, Miss, sends his card.'

‘A gentleman? Let me see.'

The maid passes over a small
carte de visite
, which bears the name of Richard Langley, and a brief handwritten note that begs the pleasure of her company.

‘Where is he? Downstairs?'

‘In the lounge, Miss.'

‘The lounge?'

‘Beg pardon, Miss. At the bottom of the main stairs, and then right, round to the entrance hall. You'd have passed it on your way in. May I tell him to expect you, Miss?'

Annabel falls silent for a moment. ‘Yes,' she replies at last, ‘you may.'

Annabel leaves her room and makes her way along the corridor, and down the grand serpentine staircase that winds in elegant twin coils from top to bottom of the building. The public spaces of the hotel are no less sumptuous than its rooms and, like the exterior, are in the manner of a great medieval cathedral, albeit one devoted to comfort and ease of visitors, rather than worship. A single Axminster carpet covers the floor, a seemingly unending train of royal red cloth; the walls around the staircase are likewise papered in a deep red with a pattern of golden fleurs-de-lis; moreover, every window, corridor and door is framed by a Gothic arch, supported by dark green marble columns, tipped with carved stone capitals, which on close inspection prove to be sculptures of pygmy dragons that cast a wary eye over the steady procession of guests who saunter past. What most strikes Annabel Krout, however, is the
muffled sound of the adjoining St. Pancras station, the muted snort of steam engines, the shouts of porters, the clatter of carts full of luggage. For the Midland Grand Hotel sits directly in front of the station, rising high above it, elegantly masking the arrivals and departures facilitated by the Midland railway company, and it is impossible to conceal thoroughly the noise from guests. For some guests it is a minor irritation; for Annabel Krout, if anything, it calls to mind her journey from Liverpool, and, in turn, makes her think of quitting London as soon as possible and returning home.

She finds the coffee-lounge with little difficulty, for the chimes of the hotel's silver and china being fetched and carried echo along the ground-floor corridor. Indeed, the lounge rather belies its name in being larger than any great dining-room Annabel has ever visited, and thus proves impossible to miss. It extends some hundred feet in length, in a great bow-shaped curve, following the distinctive arc of the building, and it is only with the assistance of the maître d'hôtel that she finally locates Richard Langley, seated at a table for two, by one of the green pillars of polished limestone that ornament the interior wall. As she approaches, escorted by a waiter, he rises to greet her.

‘Miss Krout, how good of you to see me.'

Annabel Krout takes the seat opposite him. ‘Not at all.'

‘Can I bring you anything, Miss?' asks the waiter.

‘Not for the moment, thank you.'

The waiter departs with a bow, leaving Annabel and her visitor alone.

‘I am afraid we are not good for their business,' says Langley, looking at the empty table. ‘Are you sure I cannot order some tea?'

‘Not for me, sir,' replies Annabel.

‘No?' says Langley, a little nervously. ‘Well, Miss Krout, as you may have gathered, I visited Mrs. Woodrow this morning. But it appears you have broken our arrangement.'

‘Sir?'

‘I had thought we planned a tour of the cathedrals,' says Langley, in a mock aggrieved tone. ‘I wondered if I might tempt you?'

‘No, not today.'

‘Forgive me, Miss Krout,' says Langley, blushing, ‘I can see my levity is not appropriate.'

Annabel shakes her head. ‘There is no need to apologise. What did my cousin tell you, Mr. Langley?'

‘Well, simply that you have had a falling out with Mr. Woodrow. That you were rather upset by this awful business at the canal.'

‘You have heard about it?'

‘The police came and spoke to me. They thought I might have seen something,' says Langley, ‘but, of course, I could tell them nothing.'

‘I was not “upset” by that so much, sir, though it was far from pleasant. I . . . well, you'll forgive me, but I am not sure if I should confide in you.'

‘Miss Krout,' says Langley, rather hesitantly, as if plucking up courage as he speaks, ‘I confess, I did not come here in anticipation of acting as tour guide. It is probably not my place, given our brief acquaintance, but I was concerned for your welfare. You may tell me anything you wish; you have my word.'

‘Even if it relates to Mr. Woodrow?'

‘Mr. Woodrow, Miss Krout, is . . . well, an acquaintance, nothing more. I have no intimate connection to him. I would be honoured to be taken into your confidence, I assure you.'

‘You honestly mean that?' asks Annabel.

‘Of course, upon my word, as a gentleman,' says Langley.

‘Very well,' she replies, steeling herself to speak out. ‘I believe he had something to do with the death of that man. I even have reason to think that he was at the Holborn Casino the night that poor girl was murdered.'

Richard Langley raises his eyebrows. ‘Are you quite sure?'

Annabel frowns. ‘I am not sure, sir. I am not a detective. But Lucinda saw him fighting with the man who was killed in the canal. She as good as admitted it to me. She kept it from the police; I do not know why – loyalty or fear perhaps. Her father is a complete tyrant.'

‘He has something of a temper, I know,' replies Langley.

‘I fear it is much worse than that, sir. What should I do? Should I go to the police?'

Langley looks down, not speaking for a good few seconds.

‘I suppose,' he says at last, ‘perhaps you must.'

Annabel sighs. ‘I do not know even where to begin. The whole business is so awful. What if I am wrong?'

‘Miss Krout,' says Langley, ‘if I may, would it help if you told me the facts?'

‘It might,' she replies.

‘Very well, begin from the beginning. And then, if necessary, perhaps we shall speak to the police together?'

Annabel smiles. ‘Thank you, sir. You have been very kind.'

‘I assure you, Miss Krout, I will do whatever I can to help.'

I
T IS GONE TEN
o'clock in the morning, as two men approach the stone lodge and the gates of the City of London Cemetery, Little Ilford. The cemetery itself is a little larger than Abney Park, and considerably further from the heart of the capital, built not for commercial gain, but by the City authorities. Nonetheless, looking through the gates, it bears a similar likeness to a well-kept arboretum, with its landscaped vista of kempt gravel lanes, further delineated by carefully planted trees, rhododendrons and azaleas.

‘We're too late,' suggests Sergeant Bartleby to Webb, peering down the central avenue. ‘We should have caught the earlier train.'

‘My dear sergeant,' says Webb, ‘please. I strongly suspect that the Eastern Counties Railway is still considerably quicker than any carriage obliged to travel the length of the Romford Road. Have some patience.'

Sergeant Bartleby says nothing for a few moments, but then adds, ‘Well, call me a heathen, sir, but I'm getting heartily sick of cemeteries.'

‘It is not my fault that you found nothing at Abney Park yesterday,' replies Webb, looking reproachfully at his companion.

‘There was nothing to find, if you don't mind me
saying so, sir,' replies Bartleby. ‘Except, maybe, that the grave-diggers are a little partial to drink.'

‘I am sure,' says Webb dismissively. ‘Well, nonetheless, this little excursion is the least we can do, given Hanson's efforts on our behalf.'

‘You think it will help, sir?'

‘It is not a bad idea of Hanson's, Sergeant. Funerals attract all sorts, in my experience. Let us see who turns out for Miss Carter and Miss Finch. Ah, hush, here they are, if I am not mistaken.'

Webb nods in the direction of the rural road that leads west back into the City of London. Coming round the bend that leads to the cemetery's gates can be seen three distinctive vehicles. The first is a regular hearse of painted black wood and cast iron. It is, however, of a rather second-hand appearance, with the etching on any one of its glass panels bearing no resemblance to that upon any of the others, and the iron scroll-work upon its roof, a black tiara of roses and thorns, marred by a number of missing blooms. Following the hearse are two machines of the funeral-omnibus variety. Half funeral carriage and half mourning coach, each bears five or six mourners, visible through the coach windows, sitting in some discomfort on the narrow unpadded benches within.

‘I've never seen a more miserable-looking crowd,' suggests Bartleby.

‘It was never going to be a grand affair, upon parish money, Sergeant,' replies Webb. ‘They are probably burying a few together, I should think.'

And, indeed, as the carriages pass by the two policemen, who swiftly remove their hats, it becomes clear that at least seven or eight coffins are contained within the procession, under loose black cloths; seven or eight bodies with only a dozen souls to mourn their passing, paupers destined for a common interment.

‘They'll stop at the chapel,' says the sergeant. Webb nods, and the two men follow behind the slow progress of the three carriages, to the cemetery chapel. But only the mourners are unloaded, swiftly shepherded by the waiting parson into the church; the dead are left behind. Whether this haste reflects a degree of social embarrassment at the prospect of officiating over the grief of such a poor collection of individuals, it is hard to say. Nor is it perhaps fair to suggest that it may coincide with a comparative dearth of gratuities at funerals of the collective parish variety. But, for whatever reason, the progress of the living indoors is quick enough, and the deceased are not provided for.

As the mourners disappear, a quartet of men in working clothes, their trousers and jackets stained with grey streaks of clay, appear from behind the building, and join the carriages as they move off again, each jumping on the rear board like a conductor upon a regular omnibus.

‘Shall we go to the service?' asks Bartleby.

Webb shakes his head, gesturing at the sergeant to proceed. ‘No, let us follow the diggers. I'll have a quick word with the driver once they are stopped.'

Bartleby nods and they follow the carriages for a good five minutes until they come towards the boundary of the cemetery, marked by a row of young yew trees. An open pit lies waiting, six feet in diameter, perhaps twelve feet in width. And there, the coffins, of various shapes and sizes, made of rough elm that looks to have hardly seen the edge of a plane, are unloaded and placed upon the ground by the grave-diggers. As this process is completed, a fifth man appears, strolling across the grass, dressed in a smarter unsullied suit, with a rather official-looking appearance, bearing a note-book. Then all five enter into conference, the result of which is that the tallest of the diggers jumps
down between the wooden buttresses that shore up the pit. From the grave, he throws up a pair of thick ropes, which the remaining men string over the opening, hooking the ends round pegs already driven into the earth, to form a makeshift hammock for the lowering of the coffins.

‘Always room for a few more, eh?' says Webb, strolling over to the cemetery official. Certainly, as he looks down into the pit, there are already half a dozen coffins inside, left from a previous parish funeral. He cannot help but wonder for how many days they have been resting there.

‘Can I assist you, gentlemen?' says the man.

‘Scotland Yard,' says Webb amiably. The man is suitably surprised.

‘Oh dear,' he replies. ‘I trust nothing is amiss?'