Authors: The Companion
Ann Granger (28 page)
‘Then you’d better find some,’ was Dunn’s comment.
I went to find Morris and told him to organise some men to go around the taverns near the stretch of river where the body had been found and ask if anyone had seen Adams there on Friday night and, if so, in what company.
‘Needle in a haystack,’ observed Morris dolefully.
‘I know it. If they saw him they won’t say, most probably. But we can only ask. There is just a chance. Of course, it’s possible our killer went there in some disguise to meet with Adams. Indeed it’s very likely. So if we do get a description it may only serve to lead us further astray. But at least we could be sure that he was drinking in company and if it was with a total stranger to all who saw them that indicates foul play no matter what that surgeon had to say. So do your best.’
With that I set off for the area of Piccadilly.
They were busy in Vine Street. The entrance to the police station was abuzz with shrill chatter, most of it from females of dubious character protesting they were respectable women unjustly apprehended by the constable while walking home or out on some errand. Among them were two little girls whom I would have placed at scarcely more than ten years of age. But that was old enough to bring them here. They were decked out in grubby
finery and had sharp little faces atop their ill-nourished bodies. They stood close together watching the proceedings with apprehensive eyes. I was angry to see them there, not only because of the way they were being used by the families who were content to sell them and the men who were eager to buy, but because this was not the place where such unhappy victims of society should be dealt with or, indeed, how they
should
be dealt with.
finery and had sharp little faces atop their ill-nourished bodies. They stood close together watching the proceedings with apprehensive eyes. I was angry to see them there, not only because of the way they were being used by the families who were content to sell them and the men who were eager to buy, but because this was not the place where such unhappy victims of society should be dealt with or, indeed, how they
should
be dealt with.
Watkins was a man of about forty with a sallow complexion and world-weary air. He received me as though my visit were one more burden placed on his overtaxed shoulders. He listened dispassionately as I explained my purpose and said I understood he could give me some information about Dr Tibbett.
‘I can tell you something about a Dr Tibbett,’ he said. ‘Whether it is the same one you’ll have to establish. It was two years ago. There are several expensive houses of ill repute hereabouts. On this particular evening, a new client to one of these establishments wandering about unfamiliar corridors happened upon the murdered body of one of the women working there. It was half-clothed and partly hidden behind some curtains. The unfortunate client was something of a novice visitor to such establishments. If he’d been more experienced and kept a clearer head he would have got out of there as soon as he could. Instead, and fortunately for us, he panicked and rushed yelling into the street before the madam of the house could stop him. There, by chance, he ran straight into a police patrol. They came at once and prevented anyone leaving the place. You can imagine the scene!’
Watkins allowed himself a faint dry smile.
I could indeed. There would have been outwardly respectable men in all walks of life scared out of their wits and trying by any means possible to leave the place without giving their names and addresses.
‘Tibbett was there?’ I guessed.
‘Yes, he was. I was called to the scene and I spoke to him myself. I remember him well. I never heard so much high-flown rhetoric and bombast. He denied he was there as a client and objected strongly to his details being taken. He said he was only there to conduct research into organised immorality in London with a view to a campaign directed to the reform and redemption of the young women involved. I tell you, Mr Ross, you hear almost any kind of excuse in those circumstances but that one took my breath away.’
‘Did you find the murderer?’
‘We did. A fellow named Phelps. He’d been a regular customer there and always asked for that same girl. As sometimes happens when a man’s a regular client of the same prostitute, he had become somewhat possessive and jealous. Phelps was a tradesman, reasonably successful in his line of business, but awkward in the company of the ladies. He had begun to imagine the girl liked him above her other clients and interpreted her professional words of delight at seeing him as being a genuine regard for him. He wanted her to leave there and let him set her up somewhere under his protection. She refused. She had told other girls before the fatal evening that she didn’t like him and found his manner odd, persistent and a little threatening. When he finally saw that she wouldn’t agree, he flew into a rage and strangled her.’
‘Strangled her?’ I asked quickly.
‘Yes, strangled,’ repeated Watkins, a little irritated. ‘He was only too anxious to tell us all about it. Later, of course, he regretted his willingness to confess and tried to retract it. The judge and the jury would have none of it and he went to the gallows. It was something of a sad case. He was a lonely man and the company of those girls the only female company he ever had.’
Watkins showed a spark of interest. ‘Is Tibbett involved in this case of yours?’
‘I don’t know. All I can say is that I have plenty of suspects and
no evidence. But what you tell me about Tibbett is very interesting.’
no evidence. But what you tell me about Tibbett is very interesting.’
‘Let me know if Tibbett’s your man,’ Watkins replied. ‘I found him a ghastly old humbug.’
I found when I left Vine Street that the fog had thickened as I had feared it would. The swirling tendrils were dyed a virulent yellow as if soaked in nicotine and they enveloped everyone, choking the breath from one’s lungs, numbing one’s senses. Pedestrians hurried past me, muffled in scarves and coughing, some with handkerchiefs held to their mouths in a vain attempt to keep the intruding miasma at bay. Cabs plodded past at the same slow pace as brewers’ drays. The air smelled foul. Distorted sounds floated in it in disembodied fashion, divested of their sources. It was as if I were surrounded by ghosts.
In the midst of this, as I struggled to make what speed I could, I heard my name called. I stopped, sought about me vainly for the source of the greeting and eventually was obliged to call out, asking, ‘Who is it? Where are you?’
‘Why, here, Inspector Ross,’ returned a voice which although not familiar yet I felt I had heard recently. A figure materialised in the gloom and I saw it was Carmichael’s assistant, of all people.
‘It’s Scully, sir,’ he said when I didn’t return his greeting. ‘You know me, sir, I help Dr Carmichael.’
The fog crawled down the back of my overcoat between collar and neck and caressed my spine with damp cold fingers. Or was it only Scully’s presence that did that? I hadn’t even known his name before but of course I knew his pasty face and the way he held himself, as if hovering. What the devil was he doing out and about and how had he recognised me? How could he see me so clearly when I couldn’t see him? Had his eyes some gift of piercing the gloom which mine had not?
‘What brings you out on such a day?’ I asked testily.
‘Believe me, I wouldn’t be out if I hadn’t some business to
attend to,’ he returned. ‘I dare say it is the same for you, sir.’
attend to,’ he returned. ‘I dare say it is the same for you, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, forgive me, I am in a hurry,’ I said and stepped away from him.
‘Perhaps it will keep evil-doers indoors, eh, Inspector Ross?’ Scully’s voice floated after me.
And perhaps it won’t, I thought sourly. The fog provided cover for those who sought anonymity.
Anonymity veiled secrets. What business had brought Scully out into the fog? But even the most upright pillar of the community might guard his secrets. Like that old scoundrel, Dr Tibbett, who saw fit to dismiss me when he found me talking to Lizzie, but who prowled the brothels by night indulging who knew what perverted preferences. Watkins’s information had been by way of a revelation, I thought as I continued my return journey to Scotland Yard. Even so I must be careful not to let a personal dislike lead me into chasing off down a blind alley. Watkins’s account of the murder in the brothel and Dr Tibbett’s presence on the scene had shaken me. Yet the unfortunate prostitute had been strangled, not bludgeoned. A multiple murderer does not necessarily always kill in the same way but often he will. He has found a means which works and he sticks to it. In the earlier killing, however, circumstances might have played a part. If the girl had been savagely beaten she might still have found time to cry out loudly enough to attract enquiry. With strangulation that would not be so. But then, why not strangle poor Miss Hexham?
However tempting it was to try and fit this sordid but not uncommon (and in its own way pathetic) tale of the seamier side of London life into the murder I was currently investigating, to do so might only stir up needless complications. However, Tibbett appeared to be a common link and in my line of work a common link is always to be followed up.
What if I put aside both the death of the prostitute and the murder of Madeleine Hexham and concentrated on the
unexplained death of Jem Adams? How would Tibbett fit into that? Would Tibbett have risked drinking with Adams in low taverns where he must be an obvious stranger and cut an unusual figure even in some disguise? That impressive figure and manner and the head of silver hair would be remembered. No, it hardly seemed possible. But a desperate man is ingenious and a man with all to lose takes risks … and there are such things as wigs.
unexplained death of Jem Adams? How would Tibbett fit into that? Would Tibbett have risked drinking with Adams in low taverns where he must be an obvious stranger and cut an unusual figure even in some disguise? That impressive figure and manner and the head of silver hair would be remembered. No, it hardly seemed possible. But a desperate man is ingenious and a man with all to lose takes risks … and there are such things as wigs.
Elizabeth Martin
I LEANED from my bedroom window on Monday morning and saw the sky above Dorset Square was a dull dirty white and the air unpleasant to breathe. The sun could not break through and the cloud cover served to keep low the accumulated smoke and smells of the city which could not escape into the higher atmosphere.
Bessie, bustling in with her jug of hot water, observed: ‘We’ll have a proper fog by tonight, miss; you can put your money on it. A real pea-souper, that’s what. Keep your window closed or it will come in and choke you.’
Aunt Parry, I was told by Nugent whom I met on my way down to breakfast, was unlikely to make an appearance, at least not until the evening.
‘It’s the low pressure, miss, gives madam migraines. The moment the barometer falls she has to take to her bed.’
The thought of the entire day to myself should have cheered me, but if it turned too unpleasant to go out, I should be shut indoors all day with only my own company.
There was other company, Frank’s, at breakfast. Since our conversation on the walk back from church the previous day we hadn’t been alone together. I’d been rather dreading our next encounter without others to carry the conversation. There
must be some little awkwardness in the circumstances.
must be some little awkwardness in the circumstances.
But Frank was eating his way through a hearty breakfast in his usual manner and bid me good morning as if nothing had happened. I wondered if, having had time to think, he had decided perhaps he’d been rash to make his offer and was now relieved I hadn’t accepted it.
I, too, was relieved to find he’d put the matter out of his mind. But, as when I’d been slighted by the prowler at the railway station on my arrival, I felt a little put out. One didn’t expect to find a rejected suitor demolishing a plate of bacon and kidneys with quite such gusto.
‘Bessie tells me she expects fog before tonight,’ I said, determined to show that I was equally at my ease – even if I wasn’t.
‘Bound to be,’ said Frank, cutting energetically through a thick slice of fat fried bacon. ‘You’ve not seen it yet but London fogs are notorious. Very bad for the chest. You should stay indoors if you don’t want to be wheezing and coughing like a grampus for the rest of the week.’
This unattractive picture ought to be enough to make anyone decide to stay home but it served to make me more restless, wanting to be out and about. When Frank had taken himself off to his Foreign Office desk I felt even more fidgety. I wished I had some employment which offered me more of a daily challenge than playing cards with Aunt Parry and listening to her chat. Even that would be denied me today. I was imprisoned indoors in a solitary confinement and the hours stretched out ahead of me filling me with frustration and despair.
I returned upstairs to my room, pausing to tap at Aunt Parry’s door. Nugent opened it.
‘I’m sorry to hear Mrs Parry is unwell and I’ve come to ask if there is anything I can do for her?’
Nugent glanced over her shoulder. The room behind her was in darkness behind drawn curtains. An early-morning stuffiness seeped out into the corridor where I stood. I heard a faint moan.
‘It’s all right, miss,’ said Nugent. ‘I’ll take care of her. She sees nobody but me when she’s like this. Why don’t you get on with that sewing? It’s the sort of day to stay in and sit by the fire, that’s a fact.’
I did my best to follow her advice. I took the tussore silk down to the first-floor sitting room and settled myself there. But the light had grown too poor, even by the window, for such fine work and I soon saw I would have to light a lamp if I wished to continue. The thrift bred in me rebelled against this. Eventually I took the sewing back upstairs and put it away.
My next attempt was to read and the same problem arose with the poor light. Besides, I was not in the mood for it. Simms came to ask what I would like for my luncheon and I replied that just some soup would do me very well.
He raised no objection to this and a tray with the soup arrived in the sitting room. The dining-room fire, said Simms, had not yet been lit, it being unlikely that Mrs Parry would come down at all that day.
My soup soon finished, I went back to my room and sat at the rococo dressing table to think out what on earth I could do. I could write letters. Mrs Neale would be glad of my news. But how to explain to her all that had been happening here? She had been concerned about my departure for London with all its attendant dangers and unpredictable ways of its inhabitants. It would only confirm her worst fears to write: ‘I’ve discovered my predecessor was kidnapped and murdered’. To pen: ‘I have received a very good offer of marriage and turned it down’ was equally impossible. I didn’t know which of the two would have shocked Mrs Neale more. So, no letter-writing.
But if I couldn’t justify to Mrs Neale why I’d turned down Frank, then could I fully justify it to myself? There were all the excellent and true reasons I’d given Frank at the time. Mrs Parry would have hysterics and cut her nephew off without a shilling. Frank would have no glittering career with a penniless provincial
wife in tow. There would be petty quarrels and finally bitterness. Frank might not see it now but I could.
wife in tow. There would be petty quarrels and finally bitterness. Frank might not see it now but I could.
Was this, however, all my reasoning? I liked to think it was and yet there was something more, something harder to put into words, which lurked unspoken and unadmitted at the back of my mind. There was nothing wrong with Frank other than that he was the wrong man. I could not spend my life with him. It was as simple as that. I heaved a sigh of dissatisfaction.
‘At this rate, Lizzie Martin, you will end up frequenting the circulating library like poor Madeleine!’ I said aloud.
I ran my finger along the dressing-table edge and traced the outline of the marquetry garlands of flowers. How pretty this piece of furniture must once have been. I envisaged the Georgian lady who would have sat here while her maid powdered her hair.
There was the faintest click from the table. It was not due to the movement of a weakened joint or the loosening of another fragment of marquetry. I repeated the action I had just made with my finger but there was nothing. Nevertheless, something I had done had dislodged or released some mechanism.
I began to run my hands systematically over the table top, around the edges and beneath the rim. There! A little drawer slid out. Its presence had been disguised by a cunning piece of design in the pattern and the layers of ancient polish and grime.
It was a shallow drawer, somewhere for my Georgian lady to have hidden correspondence away from prying eyes of servant or, indeed, of husband. It now contained a flat, silk-covered book. I took it out and opened it.
It was a diary but not an old one. The dates began in June of the previous year. It must be Madeleine’s. Most diaries run on an annual basis and to start a diary in June seemed a trifle odd but perhaps she had not long arrived in London and was beginning a fresh account for that reason.
It has never been my habit to keep a diary, although I know it to be the recognised thing for a young woman to do. What should
I have written in mine, if ever I had kept one? I went to no parties or balls. The only theatre in our town was a dubious music hall on the stage of which, so I had been informed by Mary Newling, women wearing flesh-coloured tights and satin stays sang bawdy songs, and red-nosed men in loud jackets told ribald jokes. I might have been curious to see this for myself, but could hardly have done so. I met no interesting people, no travellers returned from exotic locations. Flirtations were absent from my life.
I have written in mine, if ever I had kept one? I went to no parties or balls. The only theatre in our town was a dubious music hall on the stage of which, so I had been informed by Mary Newling, women wearing flesh-coloured tights and satin stays sang bawdy songs, and red-nosed men in loud jackets told ribald jokes. I might have been curious to see this for myself, but could hardly have done so. I met no interesting people, no travellers returned from exotic locations. Flirtations were absent from my life.
So what did I do? Before my poor father’s death, as soon as I was old enough, I had taken charge of the household accounts and the management of the house in general. The ageing Mary Newling ruled over her kitchen to the end. I worried over the accounts rendered by butcher and grocer. I sought out a man to climb on the roof and mend the tiles blown loose in the winter’s storms. I mended, darned and repaired any small damage to the furnishings. I dealt with would-be patients who called when my father was out or otherwise engaged. I took their messages and delivered any from him to them. Tired out at the end of every day, did I have the inclination to commit all that to a diary? Hardly!
Between my father’s death and my arrival in Dorset Square, keeping a diary had been further from my thoughts than the necessity of keeping myself from the workhouse. But Madeleine had kept a diary and it was here, in my hands. In it I might read her innermost thoughts, her wishes and dreams. I’d learn how she passed her days and whom she met and talked with.
Excitement caused my heart to thud; even so, there was a natural repugnance at the thought of reading another’s most intimate revelations. But here, surely, there must be some clue as to her murderer? I opened it out flat.
The handwriting was tiny but regular, each letter carefully formed, as if it had been laboured over in the schoolroom. The early entries were dull enough. Mrs Parry had been suffering from migraines and Madeleine, when not ministering to her, had fallen back on her favoured reading material to while away the
days. There were therefore a number of accounts of the plots of the latest books she had brought from the circulating library. Not that these were in themselves dull. What with noble ladies falling in love with highwaymen who held up their coaches but inevitably turned out to be gentlemen; and poor girls of admirable character refusing the advances of dreadful rakes, until finally rescued by a gallant admirer of good character … That is, if the dreadful rake didn’t reform under the influence of the poor but respectable girl and offer marriage, a country and a town house and a carriage. Indeed, life hadn’t been dull in Madeleine’s imagination. But it quickly became obvious that the line between imagination and reality in the reader’s mind was blurred. Poor Madeleine, she had remained a schoolgirl in more ways than in her childish handwriting.
days. There were therefore a number of accounts of the plots of the latest books she had brought from the circulating library. Not that these were in themselves dull. What with noble ladies falling in love with highwaymen who held up their coaches but inevitably turned out to be gentlemen; and poor girls of admirable character refusing the advances of dreadful rakes, until finally rescued by a gallant admirer of good character … That is, if the dreadful rake didn’t reform under the influence of the poor but respectable girl and offer marriage, a country and a town house and a carriage. Indeed, life hadn’t been dull in Madeleine’s imagination. But it quickly became obvious that the line between imagination and reality in the reader’s mind was blurred. Poor Madeleine, she had remained a schoolgirl in more ways than in her childish handwriting.
For Madeleine believed these things really happened. She longed for such a happy adventure to befall her. Worse, a hero appeared in the closely written (and, it must be said, somewhat ill-spelled) pages.
He was not named, that was the frustrating thing. With exasperating coyness he was referred to only as He! Generally the pronoun was underlined.
He
sat across the table from me at whist this afternoon and his eyes were constantly upon me.
sat across the table from me at whist this afternoon and his eyes were constantly upon me.
Probably he was wondering what mistake his fellow player was going to make next.
There was company this afternoon and the conversation very busy although dominated by Mrs B for the most part. I sat silent in my corner but
He
was watching me all the while.
He
was watching me all the while.
I was returning from the library this morning and when by the happiest chance I met
Him
…
Him
…
Mrs B? Mrs Belling, almost certainly, a lady much given to dominating any conversation. The ‘chance’ meeting? Who was clever at faking ‘chance’ meetings? The ‘he’ could only be James, I thought with dismay. It was what I had secretly feared. Madeleine had mistaken James’s kindly meant interest. She had shown interest of her own, reciprocating what she had believed to be serious advances. Had James fallen into the temptation of accepting what this infatuated young woman was so clearly offering, and then panicked?
I sat with the book in my hands for a few moments. Ross must see this diary and I must take it to him immediately. Fortunately, as it now turned out, Aunt Parry was shut away in her bedroom and couldn’t be disturbed so I had an excellent excuse for not telling her beforehand what I meant to do. She would insist on seeing the diary and if she deduced from it what I had done, then I wouldn’t put it past her to take possession of it and neither I nor Ross would ever have the chance to read it. Aunt Parry would seek above all to protect her friend, Mrs Belling, and also to keep police enquiries from returning to the house in Dorset Square and her close circle. I knew her now to be quite ruthless about this. She cared nothing for Madeleine’s murderer being brought to justice, or at least, not if it meant a scandal which would touch her.
I quickly pinned on a hat and took a light wool jacket in view of the cool weather and, without any of the servants observing, slipped out of the house. I was carrying a drawstring purse but the diary was well hidden in a pocket in my gown. I had remembered the episode of the old gentleman who had lost his wallet in Oxford Street, and I couldn’t risk it being snatched from me by some fleet-footed thief.
I hadn’t realised, intent on my reading, how the weather outside had deteriorated. It seemed the fog had descended much earlier than Bessie had predicted. Already visibility was restricted and I could only dimly see across Dorset Square to the houses on the
far side. No children and nursemaids had ventured into the little garden today. No one would be about who was not obliged to be. The swirling vapour struck cold against my cheeks. It carried an odour of coal-fire smoke and sulphur. I hurried on. Little spots of dirt began to stain my clothes, precipitated from the atmosphere. Other intrepid pedestrians and a few horse-drawn vehicles emerged from the yellow veil in a ghostly fashion. The clip-clop of the hooves had a curious muffled sound to it.
far side. No children and nursemaids had ventured into the little garden today. No one would be about who was not obliged to be. The swirling vapour struck cold against my cheeks. It carried an odour of coal-fire smoke and sulphur. I hurried on. Little spots of dirt began to stain my clothes, precipitated from the atmosphere. Other intrepid pedestrians and a few horse-drawn vehicles emerged from the yellow veil in a ghostly fashion. The clip-clop of the hooves had a curious muffled sound to it.
The poor visibility led to an encounter I would have done almost anything to avoid had I been forewarned in time. In the gloom a dark shape appeared approaching me and, despite the difficulties presented to all pedestrians, walking with confidence. To my horror and dismay it gradually resolved itself into the tall, stately outline of Dr Tibbett. My heart sank but it was too late. He had seen me. I stopped and waited as he grew ever nearer until he stood before me.
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