The Lodger (16 page)

Frank Chapman, tired out after a long day's stint, went home at eight o'clock. Nicholas walked to King and Queen Street in the fading light of the evening. He knew Walworth well, and its teeming streets, the playgrounds of lively boys and girls, and of young scallywags and ragamuffins. They were becoming a jumble in his mind, those streets. How many doors were he and Chapman going to knock on before they found the right one? A thousand? Two thousand? He was here in Walworth somewhere, the man who had taken Mabel Shipman's life and her handbag. Nicholas was positive about that, his feeling was deep-rooted.

Browning Street had been swept, so had King and Queen Street, the gutters washed by the ever-active water-carts. A man in his shirt sleeves was painting the window frames of his house. The people as well as the corporation fought a constant battle to defy the soot of Walworth. London as a whole deserved some invention that would put an end to the effects of soot.

Nicholas permitted himself the ghost of a smile and turned a blind eye to the antics of two urchins playing ‘Knocking Down Ginger'. That was a game loved by all Walworth urchins. They knocked on a door to arouse the occupants, then ran like mad so that the hoodwinked resident found an empty doorstep.

In King and Queen Street, he knocked on a door himself. Opposite, an elderly woman at an upstairs window was interesting herself, as many old people did, in the passing scene. After a few moments, Emma opened her front door. A neat eyebrow went up.

‘Again?' she said, an immaculate picture in a lacy, high-necked pale grey blouse and a dark grey skirt.

‘Once more into the breach,' said Nicholas, making an informal opening.

‘Dear friend?' said Emma. ‘Or am I the horsed French about to be heavily unhorsed?'

‘I'm not too well up with Shakespeare,' said Nicholas. ‘I just know a few quotations. They don't include knocking you off your horse.'

‘Really?' Emma smiled. ‘Never mind. And never mind the curiosity of Mrs Duncalfe over the way, either. Please come in.' Nicholas entered, taking his hat off. She closed the door. ‘I'm resigned to being talked about. I don't know what you're here for, but do sit down. You're on duty, of course, but would you like a cup of tea? I excel in making tea. I'd like to excel in painting or music, but my gifts are dull and domestic.'

‘You're also entertaining,' said Nicholas.

‘Entertaining? What can you mean? I don't dance, you know, or swing on a trapeze, or recite Victorian ghost stories.'

‘You're still entertaining, and yes, I fancy a cup of tea, thanks.'

‘You're really quite a human policeman, Sergeant Chamberlain. Well, do help yourself to a chair, and throw your hat somewhere while I go and excel in the kitchen. Over the pot of tea, you can tell me why you're here, if I'm under suspicion and when I'm to be handcuffed.'

She disappeared, leaving Nicholas with a grin on his face. He saw an open book, placed face down on the arm of her chair. The lettering on the spine was visible.
The Subjection Of Women
by John Stuart Mill. He had heard of John Stuart Mill, but had never read him. Politicians quoted him when they were talking about the country's economic problems. He sounded like hard going to Nicholas.

He sat down. He thought about Linda Jennings. Only today, Inspector Greaves had been gruffly favourable about her. What could be done for her? Get her a job, said Nicholas. With Laverys, the big bookmakers. Then, if there was a trial, she'd be a witness with a steady job, and could say she'd done that kind of work for years. Might still not save her when defence counsel gets to work on her, said the Inspector, but see to it, it's your chestnut.

Nicholas thought too about the man who had told Mabel Shipman that her golden hair made him feel he had the sun in his eyes. He thought about Steedman Street and Miss Shipman walking home on a drizzly night, a man silently following. A compulsive killer? Or the man she had been with, a man with a queer fixation concerning her hair and a need to get hold of her notebook? Yes, that was the one. And he had to reside in the locality. And did his queer fixation put other women in danger?

‘Sergeant Chamberlain?'

He came to. ‘Sorry, I almost dropped off.'

‘Yes, and it made you look like one of us,' said Emma, placing the tea tray on the small table. She seated herself.

‘Who's us?' asked Nicholas.

‘Oh, just the ordinary people,' said Emma, filling the cups. ‘You've had a long day?' she said, passing him his tea.

‘A plodding one. Thanks for the reviver.'

‘A biscuit?' She offered the tin. He took two. ‘How complimentary. Now, why are you here?'

‘I interviewed a friend of Miss Shipman earlier this week.'

‘Miss Shipman?'

‘Mabel Shipman. The victim. Her friend said one or two things that convinced me the murderer does have a dangerous fondness for women with fair hair like yours.'

‘Sergeant Chamberlain, really.' Emma shook her head at him. ‘I'm self-educated to some extent, not having had a brilliant education and leaving school at the age of fourteen, but even I can see it's absurd for you to think I'm in any more danger than a thousand other women. Also, you can't possibly know that the man in question is planning a series of similar murders. He may simply have had his own kind of motive for killing poor Mabel Shipman. Isn't it true that many victims are known to their murderers? Did Mabel Shipman know this man? Am I allowed to ask that question, and are you allowed to answer it? There, look at those biscuits, still untouched. You're spoiling my faith in them.'

‘I lost track of them,' said Nicholas, and ate them both. ‘Are there any more?'

Emma laughed. ‘You're bluffing,' she said, but offered the tin. He took another two. ‘How kind,' she said. ‘Did Mabel Shipman know this man?'

‘We think so, but without knowing him ourselves.'

‘There you are, then,' said Emma crisply. ‘Was he a friend, I wonder? No, he could hardly have been that, could he?'

‘He was a man she visited,' said Nicholas.

‘Visited?'

‘That's my belief.'

‘Visited?' said Emma again. ‘Oh, I see. Poor soul. Life takes very unhappy turns for some of us, doesn't it?'

‘For women?' said Nicholas, thinking of what had happened to his endearing young wife. ‘Yes, it does.'

‘Men have a lot to answer for,' said Emma, but not without a smile. ‘I really don't know why I'm weak enough to give you tea and biscuits. It's like inviting in the Trojan horse and feeding it. Woe to women who are as weak as that.'

It was Nicholas's turn to smile. ‘Don't you know the women of Walworth are all as tough as old boots?'

‘Oh, I'm one of them, am I?' said Emma, and Nicholas had a strange little feeling that ground was shifting beneath his feet, and not simply because she had such an engaging sense of humour. ‘Incidentally, Sergeant Chamberlain, are you conducting all your enquiries in Walworth?'

‘I'm conducting mine here,' he said. ‘Inspector Greaves moves farther afield.'

‘I see. Have you found out much about Miss Shipman?'

‘I've found out life was damned rough on her, so in the end she decided to have fun.'

‘Fun?' said Emma.

‘Apparently, she called it that,' said Nicholas, ‘and apparently it was fun, to her. I'm glad it was.'

‘My word, how refreshing you are for a policeman,' said Emma, beginning to like him. ‘If I'm ever arrested, I hope it's by you. I might be able to talk you into letting me go.'

‘I hope to God that if you misbehave I'll be far away,' said Nicholas.

‘It would embarrass you to arrest me?' Emma's smile appeared again. ‘But I'm only an old boot.'

‘Well,' said Nicholas, ‘the advice of a plodding copper to an old boot is don't get yourself into a situation that calls for your arrest by anyone.'

Emma laughed. ‘You're becoming quite entertaining,' she said.

‘Entertaining my foot,' said Nicholas severely. ‘You're not taking things seriously enough.'

‘Well, I like that,' protested Emma. ‘I'm not the one who made a comical remark about plodding coppers and old boots.'

‘I want you to take care,' said Nicholas. ‘Never mind how absurd it sounds, I've a feeling about this man, a feeling that won't go away.'

‘Well, I shall take care, of course I will,' said Emma.

‘I hope so. Now I think it's time I went.' Nicholas came to his feet and picked up his hat. ‘Many thanks for the tea, and the biscuits were first-class.'

‘Lucky for you you didn't forget to say so,' said Emma, and Nicholas saw the tease in her smile this time.

‘Goodnight, Mrs Carter, and thanks again.'

‘Goodnight, Sergeant Chamberlain,' said Emma, opening the door for him. The twilight had been overtaken by night. Farther down the street, a lamp cast its pale glow. Nicholas left, stepping into the shadows.

Dear me, thought Emma, as she closed the door, what excuse will he find for his next call, I wonder?

For Nicholas and the Yard, three matters at least had been resolved that week. The man who had applied to Mrs Buller for lodgings had come forward following newspaper reports. Yes, he had gone to Mrs Carter's house. Receiving no answer to his knock, he had gone elsewhere and finished up getting a room above a shop in Camberwell Road. He had no difficulty in putting himself in the clear. Secondly, Mr Rodney Foster of Dartford had given Mr Jerry Bates a watertight alibi. Nicholas had not thought he would do otherwise. Thirdly, more to satisfy the Rodney Road police than Scotland Yard, a certain Mr Wally Hooper had been found lodging in Page's Walk, off the Old Kent Road. Constable Harry Bradshaw called on him. He was certainly fat and certainly horrible, but no murderer.

The settling of all three matters was merely in the nature of a tidying-up operation. The primary objective, the apprehension of the Southwark Strangler, as the Press called the murderer, seemed no nearer.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was still Friday. Exactly a week had elapsed since the murder. The late-night tram glided to a stop by Manor Place, off the Walworth Road. A woman alighted, then a man. He crossed the road to Browning Street, and she turned into Manor Place. She walked with a healthy swing, her skirts rustling, her right hand keeping them hitched and clear of the ground. She headed towards Crampton Street. It was past eleven o'clock, and the night was dark. The patches of light offered by the street lamps were welcome to the homegoer. Between each lamp, however, there were long stretches of darkness.

The footsteps behind her were silent. Hers clipped the pavement. The chilly April air was sharp, and she was glad of her coat. Lamplight steered her past the steps and doors of Manor Place Public Baths. She left the pale glow behind and entered darkness.

He was on her heels then, noiseless, and far swifter than she was for all her swinging pace. With her handbag dangling from her left arm, she brought both hands up under the collar of her coat. She turned it up to cover her neck against the cold just as a cord, weighted at one end, whipped around her, under her chin. Her reflexes and her turned-up collar played their life-saving part. She screamed on the instant. The cord, encircling her neck, was also around her coat collar, and her hands were still there. As he took fast hold of the weighted end, she kicked backwards with the heel of her shoe. The cord jerked, strangling her new scream. But she struck twice more with the heel of her shoe, and each time his shin took a violent and gouging blow. He hissed, and he fumbled at the cord, giving her a brief second to issue a loud and piercing scream.

The door of a house was pulled open. The cord ran free from her neck, and a fist knocked her savagely to the ground. A window rushed open. The assailant was away, hareing swiftly and silently into the darkness, towards Kennington. At the window, a man shouted. From the open door, another man burst forward, running to the woman lying dazed on the pavement outside. Her hat was off, her hand to her throat, her breathing painful, her hair a pale glimmer of night-subdued gold against the dark pavement.

‘The bugger's going to be a pain in my backside,' said Inspector Greaves, as he left a house in Crampton Street with Nicholas. They had had a long interview with the still shaken woman in the presence of her appalled parents.

‘He won't like it that he didn't finish her off,' said Nicholas.

‘Tell me another,' growled the Inspector. ‘You're feeling cocky, are you, that this fits in with your theories? Listen, my lad, when I was your age it was facts, method and commonsense. Somewhere along the line, theories crept in when my back was turned. I'll give you one fact about Miss Morley. There'll be no notebook.'

‘Agreed, sir,' said Nicholas, ‘she's not on the game. She's engaged to be married. I'm damned relieved she was lucky, she's a sweet girl.'

‘Now then, now then, is something up with you, Chamberlain? We've already had your impressions of Mabel Shipman and Linda Jennings. And who else was there? The woman in King and Queen Street, Mrs Carter? Soft in the 'ead, are we?'

‘Hope not,' said Nicholas, turning his coat collar up. April was dying, but it had managed to conjure up one of its perversely chilly winds. ‘Just a question of human sympathy, inspector.'

‘Don't give me that kind of a pain,' said Inspector Greaves, ignoring his own sympathy for Linda Jennings. ‘I can get it from peelin' onions. This man who got off the tram with Miss Morley. Find him. He's got to be a prime suspect.'

‘A pity she got off first and could give no description of him,' said Nicholas. ‘All she could tell us was that she was aware he crossed the road, away from her.'

‘Find out which tram it was, and which conductor. Get some information out of him. Stand 'im up against a wall if he has trouble rememberin'. Point is, my son, was the man comin' home from Camberwell, as she was, or is he a Camberwell man who happened to spot her waitin' at the tram stop and decided to go after her?'