The Welfare of the Dead (44 page)

‘W
HO
?'

Webb shakes his finger at the prone man. ‘It is too late for that lark, sir. Far too late. I have my man, do I not? I am sure we can find someone in this city who might identify you, even now; there will be plenty willing to come and have a look. How would you like that, sir, eh? You cannot have changed beyond all recognition. It is a miracle you weren't recognised at the trial.'

‘Good God,' says Woodrow, his voice trembling, ‘it has all been for nothing.'

‘You said nothing throughout the trial,' says Webb. ‘To spare your wife, yes? You thought, you hoped that you might be found innocent, despite it all? But surely you realised this was at the heart of it? If anyone has been hounding you, if anyone could go to such lengths, it is surely Jeremy Munday that they are after?'

‘I was not sure,' says Woodrow wearily. ‘At one time, I thought it was Siddons, toying with me, though I could not say why he should turn on me. I have been on the verge of madness, I swear it. Inspector, you believe me, don't you? That I did not kill them? Any of them?'

Bartleby gives Webb a discouraging glance, but it goes unnoticed.

‘Sir, I have said it before, if you will only tell me the truth. The absolute truth is the only thing that can save you. Do you not wish to see your wife and child again?'

‘I am doomed, whatever I tell you.'

‘But a twenty-five-year-old fraud does not lead to the gallows, Mr. Woodrow. Or should I call you Munday?'

‘Woodrow is my name. It was my mother's maiden name. Munday is dead.'

‘Dead? After a fashion,' says Webb. ‘But surely you do not wish to actually die, choking for breath, hearing you own neck snap, for something you have not done?'

Woodrow looks up and shakes his head.

‘Then tell me everything, from the beginning.'

‘It is a long time ago. Another life.'

‘No, sir. It is the same one. Out with it.'

Woodrow sighs. ‘It was my idea, Inspector, I confess that much. To feign my own death after the business fell apart. The chapel had fallen prey to its own success. I expect you know the story.'

‘Well enough. You were disposing of the bodies a little too readily?'

‘Good Lord, not me, Inspector. I had several men working for me. It was nothing that a thousand others had not done before me.'

‘But not on such a scale?'

‘No. They were discovered on Hackney Marsh. It was most unpleasant for all parties.'

‘Not least the deceased and their families, I expect,' say Bartleby.

‘Ignore my sergeant, sir. Carry on.'

‘I knew there was a trial coming; I would be implicated; responsible. I could not face it; I could not face prison – ironic, sitting here, is it not? Siddons did not take much persuading – I took what money I had
left from the company and paid him off. He arranged the whole thing.'

‘And your wife?'

‘Liza? Yes, I am still sorry for that.'

‘She knew about your plan, though, surely?'

‘No. Siddons found some excuse; told her it would distress her too much to see the body, something of that kind,' replies Woodrow. ‘She was a good woman. My only regret is that . . .'

‘What?'

‘I swore to myself that I would come back for her.'

‘Ah, I see. And you never did.'

Woodrow hangs his head. ‘No.'

‘You abandoned your own wife?' asks Bartleby.

‘I thought, when I was decent again, when I had raised myself up. But there never was a right time. Months went past so quickly – years—'

‘Never mind your self-pity, man,' says Webb. ‘Then what?'

‘Siddons arranged a position for me in Manchester. Away from anyone who knew me. I did quite well for him. I built up his firm there.'

‘Until you returned to London.'

‘Twenty years had passed, Inspector. As I say, it seemed like another life. It seemed safe; the principal investors in the chapel had all long since died. And I had just met Melissa.'

‘So you returned for love,' says Bartleby with deep cynicism in his voice.

‘Yes, Sergeant, I did,' says Woodrow, completely serious.

‘And you did quite well, too,' says Webb. ‘A new business, a fresh start, again.'

‘Melissa's father died. There was an arrangement. It was not wholly my doing.'

‘Sir?'

Woodrow sighs. ‘We knew he was ailing. Siddons brokered it; persuaded him that I was suitable for his daughter. That I might run the business after he died.'

‘To what end? What was in it for Mr. Siddons?' asks Webb.

‘That I paid him a share of the profits.'

‘Charming.'

‘It was just money, Inspector. But I have always loved Melissa, you must believe me.'

‘And Betsy Carter?'

‘A man's appetites are a different matter. Surely you are a man of the world, Webb? You must see the same thing every day, in your line of work.'

‘Men and whores? Of course. But it is the dead ones that principally concern me, sir,' says Webb, dourly.

‘I did not kill her, Inspector.'

‘How much of what you said in court was true?'

‘All of it, Inspector. Every detail.'

‘You fought with Brown?'

Woodrow hesitates. ‘No.'

‘He's at it again, sir,' exclaims Bartleby. ‘You surely aren't taken in by all this?'

‘Quiet, Sergeant. No, you say? But your daughter saw you.'

‘Miss Krout has persuaded her of it. Perhaps she saw somebody – it was not me, Inspector.'

‘And you lied . . .'

‘To spare her the court-room. The sight of me there. The last thing she ever saw of me.'

‘How noble,' sneers Bartleby.

‘Sergeant, you are not helping matters,' says Webb. ‘Let us just suppose, sir, that you are right. A conspiracy against you. That a single guiding spirit is behind all of this – the same person who unearthed the grave – who killed Miss Carter and Miss Finch – Miss Price too – then Brown – all of it to implicate you. All
of it calculated to see you hang. They might have exposed you – but no, it was all to make you suffer. Oh, and of course, we have Mr. Siddons for good measure. Who might it be?'

Woodrow clutches the side of the bed. ‘Do you not think I have been racking my mind these past weeks?'

Webb throws his head back and sighs.

‘If you want my opinion, sir,' says Bartleby in a low voice, ‘he's stringing you along.'

Webb frowns. ‘Wait a moment, sir. You said you did not come back for your wife. But you found her in the end, did you not? Just before she died; you visited the workhouse to see her?'

Woodrow shakes his head. ‘The house? Good God. I thought she would not suffer so much. When did she die?'

‘Wait a moment, sir. You claim you do not know anything of this? She died last year at St. Luke's infirmary.'

‘Good God. No, I never . . . I could not bring myself to find her. What good would it have done?'

Webb looks startled. ‘A man, claiming to be a lawyer on behalf of her family, visited her just before her death.'

‘It was not me,' says Woodrow, catching Bartleby's disbelieving expression. ‘Why on earth should I lie about it now?'

‘Did she have much family?'

‘Of course. There were two uncles, and a cousin . . . they would not have seen her go to ruin. I had thought they would support her – that was how I comforted myself, at least. They would not have let her go to the parish, unless . . .'

‘They disowned her?' suggests Bartleby.

‘But there were no brothers, sisters? And you had no children?'

‘None, Inspector.'

‘Then who would care so much, Woodrow, about your wife, to track her down? Or you, for that matter. Why should they give a false name? Why this sudden interest in Jeremy Munday? Why now?'

Woodrow looks blankly at Webb. ‘It is all twenty-five years ago, Inspector. I have no idea.'

Webb, however, suddenly looks at the guard. ‘Get us out of here.'

‘In a hurry, sir?' asks the guard, getting slowly to his feet.

‘What is it?' asks Woodrow, perplexed. Bartleby looks equally confused.

‘I have another theory,' says Webb. ‘And we had better hope I am wrong; for if I am right, I have no idea what the man will do next. Guard! What are you waiting for? Let us out! Sergeant – go and get a cab. We must end this tonight. There is no telling what risks we run, if we do not.'

‘For heaven's sake, Inspector,' says Woodrow. ‘What is it?'

‘Later, sir,' says Webb, breathless, ‘and only if I am proved right.'

And with that, the two policemen hurry through the open door. The guard steps in and slams it shut once again.

‘Shame they've gone, ain't it, mate?' says he, as he turns the key in the lock. ‘Better than a night at the Alhambra – I was just beginning to enjoy it.'

‘M
R
. L
ANGLEY, IT IS
rather late to be calling,' says Annabel Krout, seated in the Woodrows' drawing-room.

‘Yes, I rather suppose it is,' says Richard Langley, taking out his pocket-watch and looking at the time. ‘I did not mean to startle you. You had not retired, I trust?'

‘No, well, not quite. But Mrs. Woodrow is already asleep, so please be brief. What is it, sir?'

He takes a breath.

‘There are certain things I must tell you, Miss Krout,' says Langley, a faint hint of perspiration upon his brow. ‘Things of an intimate nature.'

‘Sir,' replies Annabel, blushing, ‘I do not think this is the time—'

‘I have admired you since we became acquainted, Miss Krout. Your honesty, your obvious strength of character. I did not think that you or Lucinda would be in any danger. You must believe me. I did not see how far things had gone. I did not realise how he had insinuated himself into your affections.'

‘Forgive me, sir,' says Annabel, frowning, ‘I don't understand you at all. Who? What danger?'

‘Moral danger, Miss Krout. It was quite plain to me when I saw him today, the manner in which he
touched you. Come, did you not look into his eyes? Could you not see what was stirring there?'

‘Mr. Langley, who do you—'

‘Siddons, Miss Krout. If you had heard him speak, like I had, speak such filth about you and your sex, you would not have encouraged him, I am sure of that. But you should not have done it, all the same. It is a contagion, you see, Miss Krout. It spreads so easily, with men like that.'

‘Mr. Langley,' replies Annabel, standing, ‘I suppose you can only be drunk. I must ask you to leave.'

‘No,' says Langley, grabbing Annabel's arm and pulling her roughly towards him. ‘I cannot allow that. Not when I know that she can still be saved, at least.'

‘What in . . . ?' exclaims Annabel Krout. But before she can protest any further, Richard Langley has twisted her arms behind her back and, holding her wrists firm with one hand, with the other forced his silk handkerchief into her open mouth, crushing it between her lips.

‘Please,' says Langley, pulling loose his cravat, and roping it around Annabel Krout's wrists, ‘don't struggle. It will be easier on all of us.'

Annabel Krout looks on in helpless disbelief as Langley tumbles her on to the Woodrows' sofa. ‘Forgive the indignity, Miss Krout,' he continues, as he tears at her dress. ‘No don't struggle. You make it worse.'

Annabel Krout, despite this admonition, kicks out. Langley, in turn, pulls an ivory-handled clasp knife from his pocket, flicking open the blade. He reaches forward, pushing down on Annabel's legs with one arm, bringing the knife close to her face with the other.

‘Don't struggle, damn it,' mutters Langley, reaching out with the blade, so that it touches Annabel's neck, the metal pressing into her pale skin.

‘Do you hear me?' says Langley, wrapping the torn material of Annabel Krout's skirt around her ankles, ‘do not struggle and it will soon be over.'