The Welfare of the Dead (40 page)

‘Damn me,' exclaims Woodrow, ‘if you were a man,
I would strike you down, I swear it, and give you the beating of your life.'

‘I do not doubt it,' says another male voice at the door. Woodrow looks over his shoulder to see Decimus Webb standing behind him. ‘But, under the circumstances, sir, I strongly suggest you release Miss Krout immediately.'

Woodrow stares at the policeman, then throws Annabel Krout roughly down on to the bed, turning to face Webb.

‘You believe this girl's charges?' says Woodrow. His voice trembles with emotion.

Webb shrugs. ‘I merely would like to discuss things a little further, sir. We don't need to make it any more unpleasant than it already is, eh?'

Woodrow stares at Webb for a moment, and nods. But his acquiescence is somewhat artificial; for, as he steps towards the door, following the policeman's guiding hand, he makes a dash past Webb into the sitting-room. And Decimus Webb, for all his merits, has neither the strength nor the speed to prevent Jasper Woodrow shrugging him off, as he sprints back into the corridor, leaving the inspector slumped upon the carpet, lying against an armchair.

‘Are you all right, Inspector?' asks Annabel Krout, her voice stammering, standing in the door between the two rooms.

‘Don't concern yourself, Miss,' says Webb, levering himself up from the floor. ‘Did he hurt you?'

‘No,' replies Annabel, unconsciously rubbing her arms.

‘Good,' says Webb, ‘then please wait here and lock the door until I come back.'

Annabel Krout nods, as the inspector runs into the gas-lit corridor. Webb is far from athletic in physique, however, and, in truth, does not harbour high hopes of
catching up. Nonetheless, he makes his best effort at pursuit, following Woodrow's trail by the highly audible complaints of several discomforted guests of the Midland Grand, pushed to one side by Jasper Woodrow's headlong progress down the grand staircase. As he himself comes to the steps, which seem to extend in an endless fatiguing arc, he can hear a greater commotion below. And when he finally reaches the ground floor and follows the curving corridor towards the entrance hall, he finds a small crowd of guests has gathered around the source of all the noise. Webb pushes his way through, to find Sergeant Bartleby and a constable grappling Jasper Woodrow to the ground. Woodrow's protests echo round the hall, his feet scuffing the mosaic floor, as Bartleby cuffs his hands behind his back.

‘This what you were looking for, Inspector?' says Bartleby. ‘I thought you might need some assistance.'

Webb nods, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiping his brow. ‘Well done, Sergeant.'

‘You are making a terrible mistake, Inspector,' growls Woodrow, straining at the handcuffs, to little effect. ‘It is some sort of vile conspiracy, I swear it.'

‘Get him out of here, Sergeant,' says Webb.

‘Inspector!' protests Woodrow.

‘You'll get your say, sir, I promise you that.'

D
ECIMUS
W
EBB SITS
in his office in Scotland Yard, pondering various pieces of paper laid out upon his desk. He leans forward and adjusts the gas, though it does not quite dispel the rather dismal character of the room. As he does so, there is a knock at the door and Inspector Hanson enters.

‘Ah, Hanson,' says Webb.

‘Sir,' replies the City policeman, rather cheerfully. ‘I understand you caught up with our man, at the Midland Grand?'

‘Well, that particular honour rather belongs to Bartleby, but yes, we have him.'

‘Have you spoken to him?'

‘No, I thought I would wait for you, Inspector, and let him contemplate his situation,' replies Webb. ‘He assaulted the American girl, Miss Krout, for one thing.'

‘So your sergeant told me,' says Hanson. ‘I have some more good news. We found Brown's lodgings; a constable in G Division recognised his face when we moved the body – he'd seen him a few days previously in a lodging-house in Shoreditch.'

‘Go on,' says Webb.

‘We found this, tucked away in his baggage,' replies Hanson, taking a small note-book, bound in black
leather, and passing it to Webb. Upon inspection, it proves to be a long list of names and addresses, with sums of money against each name, plus various ticks, crosses and annotations.

‘It appears to be some list of accounts,' says Webb, pensively, ‘but the sums involved are too great for Brown's regular business, I should think; or perhaps I am behind the times?'

‘No, indeed,' replies Hanson. ‘And if you find Mr. Woodrow's name at the end, you'll see it's the largest sum of all.'

‘Five hundred pounds. Good Lord,' exclaims Webb.

‘I think it's blackmail,' says Hanson. ‘I suspect they were all guests at Knight's Hotel. The dates and amounts; there's a clear monthly pattern to it. What better place for a blackmailer to work?'

‘And you think Woodrow would not stand for it?'

‘There is no tick in the book against his name. Perhaps he began with the two girls, and worked his way up to Brown.'

‘Possibly,' says Webb. ‘Although I can conceive of another possibility, if Brown was as venal as this suggests. What if he was simply blackmailing Woodrow about the murder of Miss Carter and Miss Finch?'

‘You think Brown knew Woodrow killed them, from the off – for whatever reason – and tried to gain by it?'

Webb gets up. ‘It is quite possible. Would that merit five hundred pounds, concealing the deaths of two women? In any case, he has stewed long enough. Let us go and have a word with the wretched fellow.'

Hanson assents and the two policemen descend the stairs, exchanging a few words as they walk across the muddy cobbles to the squat two-storey Whitehall police station that forms part of the Yard. The
building itself is rather unprepossessing in appearance, distinctive only in being illuminated by a single gaslight encased in blue glass, the sign of the Metropolitan Police. Webb briskly leads the way inside, through the outer office and along a narrow corridor. He directs Hanson to follow him, and opens the last door on the left.

Inside, the small room contains a solitary constable, who snaps to attention as the two men enter, a desk and four chairs. Upon one of the chairs sits Jasper Woodrow.

‘Inspector,' he says, standing up as he recognises his visitor. ‘At last. This has all been a ridiculous mistake.'

‘This is Inspector Hanson of the City force,' says Webb. ‘Please, sir, take a seat. Inspector Hanson here has agreed to take notes of our interview. I hope you don't object?'

Woodrow hesitates, but sits down facing the two policemen. ‘Interview? Look, Inspector, whatever you have been told is a lie. Miss Krout is determined to ruin me. I have no idea why, mind you. In fact, I have no idea what goes on in her Yankee head, I assure you.'

‘It is not so simple as that, sir,' says Webb. ‘In fact, it is hard to know where to begin. Let me put it to you as simply as I can. On Tuesday last, two young women were murdered in Knight's Hotel, St. Paul's. One, at least, Betsy Carter, was known to you.'

Woodrow begins to disagree, but Webb raises his hand. ‘Allow me to continue, sir. Then a young girl in your employ was killed at the Holborn Casino. Then one Vasilis Brown, proprietor of Knight's Hotel, killed outside your door-step. Are you telling me this is all a coincidence?'

‘Of course.'

‘Miss Krout tells us you were seen brawling with Brown.'

‘It is ridiculous. She could have seen no such thing.'

‘Your daughter saw it. She told Miss Krout.'

Woodrow shakes his head. ‘Fabrication.'

‘We have a witness who will testify to your friendship with Betsy Carter, sir.'

Woodrow avoids the inspector's gaze. ‘Do you, indeed? What of it?'

‘So you do not deny that you knew her?'

Woodrow looks a little more thoughtful for a moment. ‘No, I do not. Is that a crime?'

‘That rather depends. In turn, this means you knew Vasilis Brown.'

‘It depends what you mean by “knew”,' says Woodrow.

‘You said nothing about Mr. Brown to me, sir,' says Webb. ‘You denied knowing him at all.'

‘Do you really think I would claim acquaintance with such a man?' asks Woodrow.

Webb shrugs. Hanson looks up from his writing. ‘Where were you when Betsy Carter was killed, sir?'

‘When was that?'

‘Four o'clock on Tuesday last, sir.'

‘Tuesday of last week? I seem to recall I was out walking. I often go for a stroll to clear my head.'

‘Anyone who can vouch for that, sir?'

‘No, only to say that I left the Warehouse. I find walking the streets soothes the nerves.'

‘Now, I find the opposite, most times,' says Webb, ‘at least in London. I seem to recall, in fact, there was a fog. Did anyone else see you “walking”?'

‘I could not say.'

‘Did you visit Knight's Hotel that day?'

Woodrow pauses. ‘No.'

‘What about the Casino on the Friday night, when Miss Price was there?'

‘No.'

‘Richard Langley says otherwise, sir.'

‘Langley? Ah. Well, it was only for his sake I was keeping it quiet – yes, we both did.'

Webb sighs, putting his palm to his forehead. ‘Sir, the more you change your story, the worse it looks for you. You must realise that?'

Woodrow says nothing.

Hanson reaches into his coat pocket, and brings out a folded silk scarf, which he opens up upon the table, to reveal the two bloodied shirt cuffs stored within.

‘Recognise these, sir?' asks Hanson.

‘Never seen them in my life,' replies Woodrow.

‘They were found in your laundry, sir.'

‘Don't be absurd,' exclaims Woodrow.

‘You deny they are yours?' asks Hanson.

‘Of course, I do,' says Woodrow, pausing for a moment, a look of peculiar realisation passing over his countenance. ‘By God, I see it now. You are party to it!'

‘To what, sir?' says Hanson patiently.

‘Not you too, I hope, Inspector?' says Woodrow, looking at Webb, who merely replies with raised eyebrows. ‘This wretched conspiracy – all of you, to make me out as some kind of homicidal lunatic. I have done nothing wrong, I swear it. Webb – you seem a decent sort of fellow, you must believe me.'

‘I am having all sorts of difficulties in that department, sir,' replies Webb.

‘Why did you kill Betsy Carter?' says Hanson, ignoring Woodrow's pleading.

‘I did nothing of the sort.'

‘And what about Annie Finch?'

‘I never even saw her. The whole thing is madness.'

‘But you saw Betsy Carter?' says Hanson, with a knowing glance at Webb. ‘You saw her, didn't you?'

‘You are twisting my words.'

‘I do not think so,' says Hanson. ‘Tell me, sir, why did you drug her drink? Did you think she'd struggle too much without the laudanum? Or weren't you man enough to do it when she could still look you in the eye?'

Woodrow raises himself from his chair at this insult, as if about to lean forward and grab Hanson, but the constable beside him places a restraining hand on his shoulder. Woodrow looks up at the policeman with the same angry expression but, nonetheless, reluctantly sits back down, brushing the constable's hand aside. As his anger subsides, however, he frowns in thought.

‘Laudanum?'

‘Don't play the innocent, sir,' says Hanson. ‘You know full well.'

‘In the brandy,' says Webb, watching Woodrow's expression closely. He is surprised to find that Jasper Woodrow suddenly laughs, a strange exclamation of relief that momentarily brightens his troubled face.

‘What is it?' asks Webb.

‘It is a conspiracy!' says Woodrow, almost gleefully. ‘If I am honest, Inspector, I almost doubted myself, thought I had lost my senses, but now it is quite clear. You say the brandy was drugged?'

Webb nods.

‘Then I am quite innocent. Good Lord, the whole thing is one monstrous plot.'

Webb frowns. ‘I think you had better explain yourself a little more clearly, sir.'

‘I was there, Inspector. I admit it, when the poor girl was killed. The whole thing is grotesque and I cannot explain it. But I tell you, I am quite innocent.'

‘And how is that?' asks Hanson.

‘I drank the same liquor, you see. I must have slept through the whole thing.'

‘You are joking?' says Hanson, exasperation in his voice. Webb, however, waves his hand for silence.

‘Tell us exactly what happened,' says Webb. ‘The truth, please, if you can.'

Woodrow sighs. ‘Very well. I suppose it must all come out. I went to see Betsy that day, Inspector. We had a regular arrangement, she and I. She was a lovely creature.'

‘I am sure,' says Webb.

‘There was nothing out of the ordinary – I paid off Brown, went up to see her and, well, you can imagine the rest.'