The Welfare of the Dead (5 page)

I
N ROOM THIRTEEN
of Knight's Hotel, Sergeant Bartleby holds up an oil-lamp close by the bed, as Decimus Webb examines the second body, teasing back the sleeves of the girl's dress.

‘There is some recent bruising on the upper arm, here,' says Webb. ‘I rather fancy she was held down.'

‘That doesn't mean much in a place like this, I should say,' says Bartleby. Webb looks at him askance.

‘If you'll allow me to make an observation, sir,' adds the sergeant.

‘Do we have their names?' continues Webb, regardless.

‘Betsy Carter,' replies Hanson, nodding in the direction of the first room, ‘and Annie Finch. That's what Brown told us, and one of our lads recognised them both, in a professional capacity. He says they've been gay girls, around hereabouts, ever since he's known them; three years or more.'

Webb smiles a thin smile. ‘A professional capacity?
His
profession, I trust, Inspector.'

Hanson shrugs. ‘I did not ask. So tell me, what is your opinion? There are curious circumstances here, are there not?'

‘Such as?'

‘Very well. Firstly, the murderer – what is his motive?'

‘A religious mania,' says Bartleby.

‘That is quite possible,' says Hanson. ‘Indeed, that may be the only conclusion – I have no better idea. But, even so, it is a curious place to come, is it not, if one had a mind to do away with such a woman? To put oneself in a locked room, and with a man downstairs, liable to recognise you?'

‘No interruptions,' suggests the sergeant.

‘But leaving Brown as a witness.'

‘Perhaps,' says Webb. ‘Please, continue.'

‘Next – why the pair of them? Why not three? Four? The whole hotel?'

‘He knew he would be discovered,' suggests the sergeant. ‘This second girl here was alone – the others might have had men with them.'

‘Yes, Sergeant,' interjects Webb, ‘but how did he know that? Did he kill the first one then listen at the door? Was he merely fortunate that he found her by herself? Or was it she who found him?'

‘Sir?'

‘Did she hear a scream, a peculiar noise? Open the door and . . . well, he had no choice but to silence her.'

‘That might explain it, sir,' replies Bartleby.

‘That occurred to me,' says Hanson. ‘It would explain the two deaths, in part. But it does not quite make sense – and this is my third point – why use a pillow? It is odd, is it not? If he has the strength and inclination to stab the first one? I should think that blade came back out easy enough. It's a clean wound, and the man is strong, like you said. Why not use it again?'

‘If you'll forgive me saying so, sir,' says Bartleby, ‘maybe you're looking for reason and logic where there's none to be found. The man had some petty
argument with the girl; he kills her. The other disturbs him. He does for her too. The pillow's to stop her shouting out, first thing that comes to hand. It might be that simple.'

‘But The Book of Job, Sergeant?' replies Hanson. ‘That implies a degree of premeditation, I think? I should still like to hear the inspector's thoughts upon the matter.'

Webb steps back from the dead girl, and motions Bartleby to return the lamp to the nearby dresser. He opens the door of the small cabinet beside the bed, peers inside, and closes it again.

‘Which window was it he got out by?' he asks, at length.

Hanson frowns, glancing at the sash-window behind his interlocutor. ‘We don't know as yet. The windows were unlocked but closed, in this room and next door; they're both quite loose, don't stay up if you lift them. We won't be able to see much in the alley until the morning, either; I've had a good look myself with a bull's-eye. I couldn't see a damn thing.'

‘And the door between the rooms? Was it locked?'

‘No. Brown says the key for it was lost, years ago.'

Webb sighs. ‘Well, I can give you no answers, Inspector. But I think you have missed one thing, at least.'

Hanson raises his eyebrows. ‘Really?'

‘The brandy.'

‘Brandy? What brandy?'

‘Exactly. Have you looked in the cabinet, in Miss Carter's room, next door?'

Hanson nods. ‘There are some tumblers, a bottle of gin and a decanter of brandy. Both about half-full, I'd say.'

‘But in this room, in Miss Finch's little cabinet, there
are identical tumblers, the same bottle of gin but, I think you will find, no brandy.'

‘What of it?'

‘Come here, Inspector, have a closer look.'

Hanson walks over to the cabinet, and Webb opens the door, a trifle theatrically, like a conjuror revealing a small but satisfying card-trick. The dusty interior of the cabinet, only half-visible in the dim light, contains a trio of dirty glasses, a bottle of Thwaite's Superior Cream Gin, and nothing else.

‘There, Inspector, do you see it now?' asks Webb, tracing a small circle on the floor of the cabinet with his finger. ‘Look.'

Webb holds his finger up to the light.

‘An absence of dust,' replies Hanson.

‘A decanter-sized absence, to be precise,' says Webb. ‘I'll warrant that you'll find the gin and brandy standard issue in this rather liberal establishment. But here the brandy appears to be missing. Perhaps you could check that for us, Sergeant?'

‘Sir?'

Webb gives the sergeant a sharp look. ‘Whether there are decanters of brandy in each room?'

‘Ah, very good, sir.'

Bartleby departs, leaving the two detectives alone in the room.

‘You have an acute eye, Inspector,' says Hanson.

‘Well, perhaps,' says Webb. ‘Still, I think I have seen all there is to see. I will think upon this business, you may be sure of that. And if there is anything the Yard can do to assist in the meantime, do not hesitate to let me know.'

‘Thank you. But you have not told me what you make of this missing decanter. What inference do you draw from it?'

‘I think,' says Webb, choosing his words carefully,
‘the murderer wished to remove or conceal it. And it seems likely it was the contents, and not the bottle per se, that he wished to keep to himself.'

‘What? Do you think the brandy was drugged? Poisoned? Why?'

Webb shrugs. ‘It is too early to say, is it not? If it was my decision, I would make sure the doctors examine the contents of little Miss Finch's stomach with particular thoroughness. And the other girl, too.'

‘We will do that, naturally.'

‘Well, at present, then, there is nothing more to be said.'

‘Unless you would care to see Mr. Brown before you leave? We have him downstairs.'

‘Ah, the good Mr. Brown. A Greek, you said? Our fair city attracts all sorts, does it not? Still, we might learn something from Mr. Brown, I suppose.'

Vasilis Brown stands up as Webb and Hanson enter the parlour. The constable by his side makes a move to push the large man back to his seat, but Inspector Hanson motions the policeman to be still.

‘Inspector,' says Brown, walking up and attempting to clasp Hanson's hands in supplication, ‘please, release me, I beg of you. I cannot remain here a moment longer; this place is cursed.'

‘You will remain here, Mr. Brown, as long as you are needed. This is Inspector Webb of Scotland Yard.'

Webb nods.

‘Why?' says the Greek. ‘What is this? Another policeman? What do you want from me? I tell you everything, sir. There is nothing more to tell.'

‘You are a long way from home, Mr. “Brown”,' says Webb.

‘What are you saying? That is a crime?'

‘What is your name, your real name?'

‘Ionnidou. But the English, they do not understand it. I change it to “Brown”. No harm. I have nothing to hide.'

‘But a great deal of harm has been done this evening, has it not?'

‘I called the policemen! Me! Now I am here, like the common criminal! It is not my fault. I beg you, sir,' he says, turning to Hanson, ‘please, let me go, eh? I do not wish to stay under this roof.'

‘We know what you are, Mr. Brown,' continues Webb. ‘Tell me, why did you become suspicious? Why did you go up to the room?'

‘I told them already. You want me to tell you again?'

‘Please.'

The Greek sighs. ‘The man, he stays for long while, two hours. The man, he is still up there. I think, maybe there is something wrong here. That is all.'

‘You bill them by the hour, I understand?'

‘I rent rooms by the hour. That is all.'

Webb smiles. ‘If you say so. Well, I am done here. I wish you a good night, Mr. Brown.'

Vasilis Brown looks on in confusion as the two policemen turn and leave the room. Outside, in the hall, before they can begin to converse amongst themselves, they come upon Sergeant Bartleby.

‘You were right, sir,' says the sergeant. ‘Same decanters in every room. All the ones I checked, leastways.'

Webb nods, and allows himself a hint of a satisfied smile.

‘We will look into that,' says Hanson. ‘So, Inspector, was Brown as you expected?'

‘I don't know,' replies Webb. ‘I would not trust his sort an inch, but is he a murderer? Anything is
possible, I suppose – one should never rely on instinct. Do you intend to arrest him?'

‘I would prefer to let him dangle for now, keep a close eye on him, watch his movements.'

‘A wise course of action,' replies Webb, putting on his hat. ‘Well, good night, Inspector Hanson. It has been a pleasure. Keep us informed of your progress. I am sorry I could not be of much help.'

‘The pleasure was all mine, sir.'

Webb and Bartleby sit once more in a cab, leaving behind the great cathedral, and the confines of Godliman Street. The former seems more inclined to conversation than previously, his features more animated.

‘You were gone a long time, Sergeant?'

‘I spoke to a couple of the constables, sir. I had a word with the one who knew the girls.'

‘And?'

‘He said they weren't best pals or anything. In fact, he'd heard they had a falling out over some gentleman friend.'

Webb laughs. ‘A gentleman friend?'

‘No, sir, I mean a particular fellow, a sweetheart, not one of their callers.'

‘Does he have a name?'

‘The man didn't know the details, sir. Said he would ask around. They were both regulars in the local publics. Did a good trade at Knight's; always had a good deal of ready money.'

‘Hmm. Doubtless your constable will tell Hanson if he finds anything. It is not really our business. Still, intriguing.'

‘And that was a stroke, sir, noticing that decanter. Something queer in it, you think?'

‘You do not need to butter me up, Sergeant. But, yes, they will find something, I am certain. I just do not know what or why.'

‘And who was it for, sir? I mean to say, if he knifed one and smothered the other, what was the point of that? Or,' says Bartleby, struck by a sudden thought, ‘did they try to poison him? He discovered it. Turned nasty.'

Webb ponders the idea but shakes his head. ‘Why remove the decanter? You let your enthusiasm run away with you, Sergeant. Think it through.'

Bartleby shakes his head in defeat. Webb, however, continues. ‘But I know which of the two it was for, brandy, poison or whatever; or, at least, I think so.'

‘Sir?'

‘In the first room, Sergeant, I looked in the cabinet. The brandy was there, but there was also a tacky circle on the wood, a stain, matching the outline of the base of the decanter. They must have spilt some liquor down the neck when they poured it, and it had stuck to the bottom of the glass, and then left its mark. I have the same problem with my tea-pot at home.'

‘I don't follow you, sir.'

‘No, well, I have not finished. The stain was almost a perfect circle, but it was not quite beneath the decanter; it was an inch or so to the right; they overlapped slightly. Nothing remarkable in that, of course. But I lifted the base of the decanter itself and it was not remotely damp, except where it overlapped the stain.'