The Welfare of the Dead (41 page)

‘You had carnal knowledge of her?' says Hanson.

‘Well, I rather suppose I did,' says Woodrow, allowing himself a slight sardonic smile. ‘A fellow doesn't pay good money for nothing. But that was it, you see – the brandy. We always had a couple of glasses, before and after our . . . well, dalliance. The next thing I knew . . .'

‘What?' says Webb.

‘I woke up, Inspector. She was lying next to me, still warm. I saw the wound of course; she was cut open like some wretched piece of meat, and the blood, all down the side of my shirt. You cannot imagine what it was like, to see that.'

‘I saw it,' replies Webb.

‘No, no, you do not understand. For a moment, I truly thought it was me.'

‘Did you now?' says Hanson.

‘Please. I suffer from a condition, Inspector – somnambulism. I regret my daughter inherited the disease. I walk about in my sleep, or at least I used to, until I conquered the habit. Not only walking, either. I used to get dressed, stoke the fire, all sorts, never knowing what I was doing.'

‘Ah,' says Webb, ‘I see what you are getting at, sir.'

‘But I do not,' says Hanson, sourly. ‘Perhaps you could elaborate?'

‘Don't you see? I feared that somehow I had killed her in my sleep. One hears of men who strangle their wives in bed, or some such, does one not? But I knew I had not done it, in my heart, I knew it. For a start, I do not carry a blade.'

‘Still,' says Hanson, skeptically, ‘just so we have this on record, sir, you feared the worst, and fled the scene?'

‘I am not a fool, Inspector. I confess I panicked, I was terrified. But I knew what would happen if someone called the police. I had her blood on my shirt. It was a common bawdy house. No sane man would do otherwise.'

‘Via the window?' asks Webb.

‘It was not too far to jump down, holding on to the ledge.'

‘And what did you do next?'

‘I walked . . . I cannot say quite where. I lost my way in the fog. You must understand, Inspector, I was not myself. It was a good couple of hours or more before I could even bring myself to go home.'

‘I see. And why did you swap the bottles of brandy?' asks Webb.

‘Swap? I do not understand. There was only one.'

Hanson takes a wallet from his pocket and places a folded piece of paper upon the table. ‘I suppose you never saw this in your life before either?'

‘“He uncovers deep things out of darkness, And brings the shadow of death to light,”' says Woodrow, picking up the paper and reading it aloud.

‘Book of Job,' says Webb.

‘Is it? Well, I've never seen it, Inspector.'

‘It was left by the bodies.'

‘Really? Well, you must see it – this whole business
is some awful attempt to make me a scapegoat. Some lunatic has a grudge against me.'

Hanson shakes his head.

‘Are these your shirt cuffs?' asks Webb, nodding to the items on the table.

‘They can't be, Inspector. I burnt my shirt, you see, as soon as I got home.'

‘And you are suggesting these are the actions of an innocent man?' asks Hanson, incredulously.

‘You do yourself no favours, sir,' says Webb, ‘my colleague is quite right. Tell me, how did you conquer your sleep-walking, if you don't mind me asking?'

‘Will-power.'

‘Nothing else?'

‘Well, I do take a patent remedy to assist me.'

‘Does it contain laudanum?' asks Webb.

‘It may do,' says Woodrow. ‘Look here, Inspector, that is neither here nor there.'

‘So,' says Hanson, ‘you are familiar with the properties of that particular drug, though?'

‘Damn you!' exclaims Woodrow, abruptly thumping his fist upon the table. ‘Cannot you see the truth? There is some lunatic out there laughing at you, whilst I stew in this wretched room.'

Hanson looks wearily at his notes. ‘Let's discuss another matter, then. When did you last see Mr. Brown?'

‘Brown? Wait, of course – it was him who wrote my wife the letters – he must have been part of it.'

‘Letters, sir?' says Hanson wearily.

‘Blackmail – he meant to blackmail me, Inspector. He sent my wife threatening notes.'

‘That is why you killed him?'

‘I tell you I killed no-one!'

It is a full two hours before Hanson and Webb quit the room, leaving Jasper Woodrow no calmer than when they found him. The two policemen walk back in the direction of Webb's office.

‘I've never heard such a string of lies,' says Hanson, as they step outside into the cold night air.

‘You do not believe his story?'

‘Heavens! Do you?' exclaims Hanson. ‘He has changed it half a dozen times already.'

‘He seems settled now,' says Webb. ‘The problem is, Hanson, even if he killed the women, there is still much unexplained. The brandy, the notes – why he should even attack Catherine Price in the first place.'

‘As to the notes – well, it is some perverse joke, that is all. And perhaps Catherine Price knew too much about his habits.'

‘Two blackmailers? Even I find that a little farfetched, Hanson.'

‘It need not be that – perhaps she merely saw him in a compromising situation. He would not have expected one of his shop-girls to be at the Casino, after all. He'd already found out how easy it was to do away with these women. Who knows? Perhaps she threatened to tell his wife? Or perhaps he just had got a taste for it.'

Webb shakes his head. ‘But why did he kill Finch and Carter?'

‘The blackmail – he knew what Brown was up to, got himself into a rage, and took it out on them. But Brown thought he could make one last attempt – threatened to tell the police what he knew.'

‘It's an awful hodge-podge of an explanation, Inspector.'

Hanson looks at Webb in disbelief. ‘You do not think he is innocent? Or that he killed them in his sleep?'

Webb sighs. ‘No, I doubt it. It is just an awful mess
of a case. Too few witnesses and too many suppositions. There is something missing.'

‘I still say we charge him with murder, Inspector. We must. Do you agree? I would not care to bring a prosecution without the support of the Yard.'

‘Yes,' says Webb, thoughtfully, ‘I suppose so.'

‘He may plead insanity, of course,' says Hanson.

‘I don't think he is mad, Inspector,' says Webb. ‘I am just not sure—'

‘What?'

Webb shakes his head. ‘Yes, charge him. You are quite right. It must go to trial.'

‘In any case,' says Hanson, dismissively, ‘if there is some master-mind behind this affair, as he claims, it will come out in court.'

‘One would hope so,' says Webb.

‘Mr. Siddons!' exclaims Melissa Woodrow. ‘Oh, thank heavens! I did not know where to turn.'

‘My dear Mrs. Woodrow,' replies Siddons, taking off his coat, ‘what on earth is the matter? I came immediately, of course, but it is rather late, you know.'

‘Woodrow . . . well, he has been arrested. I fear the police intend to charge him with the death of that poor man from the canal. And there are other things too . . . it is all quite impossible. I swear, I can hardly breathe.'

‘Oh, my dear lady,' replies Joshua Siddons, ‘this is terrible. Calm yourself. You must take some brandy.'

‘But . . .'

‘Come, calm yourself, my dear. First you must tell me every detail. Leave nothing out.'

‘Mr. Siddons, I do not know what to do. I mean, if it should go to court . . . he will need a barrister . . .'

‘Then I will arrange everything.'

‘N
OT LOOKING AT
the Woodrow case again, sir? I thought you'd left it all to Hanson now,' says Sergeant Bartleby, poking his head around the door of Decimus Webb's office. Webb looks up at the sergeant and puts down the papers on his desk.

‘It troubles me, Sergeant.'

‘Weren't you there yesterday, sir, in court?'

‘I spent an hour, listening to the summing-up. Mr. Woodrow looked quite ground down by the whole business.'

‘I expect a stay in Newgate is pretty good for that, sir. What do you make of his chances?'

Webb frowns. ‘If he had pleaded insanity, perhaps he might have found a place in a county asylum; his claims of a conspiracy are outlandish enough to border on mania.'

‘Ah, he's stuck to his guns on that, leastways. Shame about the rest, though. He never should have admitted that he fought with Brown – and halfway through the proceedings too. Can't imagine what his brief made of that.'

‘I think, Bartleby, he only did that to spare his daughter the dock,' says Webb, looking down at the papers on his desk. ‘You know, Sergeant, I do not know what, but I had rather expected something else
to surface. As it is, I am fairly sure of the outcome, if such a thing is possible with an English jury.'

‘Guilty, you think, sir?'

Webb nods. ‘I shall have a word with the ushers this afternoon; they generally know which way the wind blows.'

‘Very good, sir,' says Bartleby, about to leave.

‘Hold on a moment. I have something else for you,' says Webb, picking up a particular sheet of paper. ‘A complaint.'

‘Complaint?'

‘From Mr. Pellegrin, Abney Park. It appears he is rather aggrieved that we still have not found his corpse.'

‘Hardly my fault, sir.'

‘He lists a range of charges against us, not least that you and your men “trampled all over the grounds like a herd of stampeding bull elephants”. For good measure, he says he will write to the Assistant Commissioner.'

‘Only following your orders, sir.'

‘I only wish you had found something to appease the fellow.'

‘There was nothing to find, sir. I told you at the time.'

‘No, I suppose not,' says Webb.

‘What time did you say you were going to court, sir?' says Bartleby, changing the subject.