The Lodger (40 page)

‘That was to find out when he could count on you being alone,' said Nicholas.

‘I told him Amy was staying the night, which she did.'

‘Emma, that saved you. He had your key, undoubtedly. He'd have come back. But knowing your friend was still with you, he didn't. He waited until Monday night. My guess is that you'll see him again on Friday evening, when he'll tell you he's brought the new spring.'

‘Yes, he did say the meter was all right for the time being. That, I suppose, was to keep me from reporting it to the gas company.'

Nicholas regarded her soberly. She was a marked woman, after all, probably from the time when he'd been at her counter in Hurlocks. Her hair, her bright shining hair. He must have followed her home when she left Hurlocks. He was new to the round? There was something to think about in that.

‘Emma, you precious woman, you've blown the fog away.'

‘My word, you're letting yourself go, aren't you, Sergeant Chamberlain?' said Emma.

‘I daresay I am. I'm charged up. Suddenly, Emma, we're on top of him. You said he bought his wife a pair of silk stockings as a surprise present. Can you remember the colour?'

‘Black,' said Emma.

‘It was a black silk stocking that was found around the neck of Mrs Blanche Hoskins,' said Nicholas. Frustrated by the presence of Amy Wagstaff, the meter man had been denied his planned target. Mrs Hoskins was the victim of that frustration. Nicholas felt positive about that.

‘Oh, my heavens,' breathed Emma, visibly shaken at last.

‘Inspector Greaves has it. Our maniac made a noose of it, and pulled it so tight he left a deep weal and the mark of the slipknot. But after he'd cut off a strand of her hair, he couldn't get the noose off in time, he had to leave it. The Inspector's had men doing the rounds of shops all over South London to try to trace the sale of the stocking.'

‘Most good shops stock that brand,' said Emma, ‘but as far as I know the men haven't reached Hurlocks yet. Nicholas, there's another thing I remember. It's something that doesn't quite fit. The man's wife said he had a bad back. Oh, and she called him Herby. That would be Herbert, wouldn't it?'

‘Emma, you're worth your weight in gold. A bad back?' Another little light clicked on. He had seen that mentioned in some report, a husband with a bad back. And something else. What was it? Something that had been nagging at his mind? ‘Emma, I'm going to the police station to telephone the Yard, and then I'm going to call on the man's wife.'

‘Aren't you going to the gas company's office, to find out who he is, and where he is now? They'll know who's on this round, and he'll be emptying meters somewhere in Walworth.'

‘I'd rather call on his wife first. I think I can find out her name and address, from a report I've seen. Let's leave our suspect in blissful ignorance for the moment. I want a search made of his house, I want enough evidence to make an arrest on more than suspicion alone. I want that bugger, Emma – '

‘Pardon?' said Emma.

‘Yes, excuse my French. I wonder, did his wife receive those silk stockings? And did he enjoy buying them from a counter assistant he intended to strangle? God, what an escape you've had. Never mind. Put your hat on.'

‘I'm to come with you?'

‘You're safer with me, and you'll be able to tell me if the woman I'm going to interview is the one who called her husband Herby and said he had a bad back.'

‘Very well, Nicholas,' said Emma, ‘the chase is hotting up, isn't it?'

‘Yes, and you lit the fire, Emma.'

From Rodney Road police station, Nicholas telephoned the Yard. He remembered one thing about the report concerning a husband who had a bad back, that the address was Amelia Street, not far, by Christ, from Steedman Street, where Mabel Shipman had been murdered.

Through to the Yard, he asked for Inspector Greaves. The Inspector was out, interviewing a shop manageress in Kennington, who recalled selling black silk stockings to a man a few weeks ago. Nicholas spoke to a detective-constable, referred him to reports covering Amelia Street, and asked him to dig out the one in which a housewife had said her husband hardly ever went out because of his bad back. The report was found, the constable rang back and gave Nicholas its details. The woman's name was Mrs Maud Stephens, her husband was Herbert Stephens, and the address was number twenty-two. Yes, she had referred to his bad back, and said he never went out in the evenings, but sometimes went with er to the market on Saturday afternoons. She didn't o out much herself, except to see her mother once week.

That was it, that was what had been the nagging something. Which day of the week was it, and was it during the evening? The report didn't say. But it did mention that Mr Stephens worked for the gas company as a collector.

‘Right,' said Nicholas, ‘the moment Inspector Greaves is in touch, let him know I'm going to twenty-two Amelia Street to interview Mrs Stephens on the grounds that her husband's our prime suspect.'

‘Prime? I'll inform 'im accordin'.'

‘Chapman's arranging a search warrant.'

‘Good luck, sarge.'

On the way to Amelia Street with Emma, Nicholas said, ‘With just a little luck, we've got him.'

‘You need luck now?'

‘You've pointed us at him, but nothing you've said is real evidence.' They entered the Walworth Road. ‘Keep your fingers crossed that we'll find some.'

‘What are you going to look for?' asked Emma. ‘A stocking that matches the one you found around that poor woman's neck?'

‘That and other things,' said Nicholas, thinking of a cord, a notebook, a mackintosh and locks of fair hair. They crossed the road amid slow-moving horse traffic. When they reached Amelia Street, he stopped.

‘What now?' asked Emma, her heart beating a little fast.

‘We're waiting for Frank Chapman and a search warrant.'

Amelia Street had its quota of Victorian terraced houses. A few women were gossiping at open doors. Another woman, carrying a straw shopping bag, turned into the street from the corner opposite Nicholas and Emma. Emma glanced at her and recognized immediately the fluttery woman who had come to her counter to ask for a beige blouse. She even walked in a fluttery way.

‘Nicholas, that's Mrs Stephens. At least, it's the woman I served.'

‘Good on yer, Mrs Carter, you're a born help to the law.'

‘You know, I like talking to you,' said Emma.

‘You like taking me to pieces, you mean,' said Nicholas, his eyes following the woman.

‘That's not true.'

‘No, not all the time. Sometimes you give me tea and cake.' He watched Mrs Stephens turn in to her door and pull on a latchcord. Latchcords proliferated in Walworth. She disappeared into her house. ‘Good,' he said, ‘now we know she's in.'

They waited. It was a little while before Chapman arrived, another plain-clothes man with him. The search warrant had been secured. Emma walked with the three men to number twenty-two, doorstep women watching them.

Mrs Stephens, opening her door to a knock, stared at the three men and a lady attired in a grey hat and a dark grey white-cuffed dress.

‘Mrs Stephens?' said Nicholas.

‘Yes?' A worried look appeared.

‘Police, Mrs Stephens. CID.' Nicholas showed her his card.

‘What d'you want?' she asked in a rush of anxiety.

‘May we come in?'

‘What for?'

‘We've a warrant to search your house, Mrs Stephens.'

She sagged in shock. Emma at once came to her help, putting an arm around her and assisting her into the parlour. Nicholas followed, gave the unfortunate lady a few moments to recover, then began to ask questions as kindly as he could.

‘Mrs Stephens, I believe you visit your mother once a week. Which day do you go?'

‘Fridays,' she said palely.

‘Friday evenings?'

‘Yes.' Her mouth twitched. ‘I stay until my husband collects me.'

‘What time would that be, Mrs Stephens?' asked Nicholas, thinking of an absent wife and a husband free to do as he wished.

Mrs Stephens swallowed, her throat working convulsively. ‘He lets me stay late. My mother likes a long chat, and don't like going early to bed.'

‘So your husband calls for you at about what time usually?'

‘Between half-eleven and quarter to twelve, and never lets me down. Why d'you want to search our house?' Her anxiety was acute, her apprehension visible.

‘We've reason to believe we need to,' said Nicholas. Emma, seated on a sofa beside the woman, felt distressed for her. Nicholas, for all his experience, felt his lot was a bitter one now, for he knew that there was no way to save the peace of mind of a woman whose husband was going to be accused of murder. ‘Mrs Stephens, do you wear silk stockings?'

‘Silk stockings? Me?' She stared up at him, her body trembling, her face very pale. Then, looking as if she suddenly believed her answer would put everything right, she said, ‘I've never had any silk stockings, except at my weddin' fourteen years ago, when I wore a lovely white pair.'

Noting her hair, a mousy brown, Nicholas asked, ‘Hasn't your husband ever given you a pair as a birthday present, say?'

‘Herby couldn't afford silk stockings, not on his wages. No, he's never been able to buy me any, so I don't wear any. What's all these questions about? You've got to tell me.'

‘I'm not able to tell you yet, Mrs Stephens, only that we do have to search your house.' Nicholas was as gentle as he could be. Emma thought him compassionate, and liked him the more for it.

‘Shall I sit and talk with her?' she asked.

Chapman and the other man looked at Nicholas. Mrs Carter was not a policewoman and she might say something she shouldn't to Mrs Stephens. Their glance cut no ice with Nicholas. He knew Emma.

‘Yes, look after her, Mrs Carter,' he said. ‘Oh, by the way, Mrs Stephens, was your husband out on Monday night?'

She looked pathetically relieved to be able to say, ‘No, he wasn't, he was here with me all evening till we went to bed about eleven o'clock. He had to get up after a while, though, his back was bad. He's had a chronic back this last year and more. He didn't wake me, he's considerate like that, he went downstairs and made himself some tea and did some reading in the kitchen. I did wake when he come back to bed, though.'

‘What time was that?'

‘Just gone one o'clock, it was, I looked at the alarm clock, its figures glow in the dark. Anyway, he didn't go out, not at anytime that evening.'

‘Thanks, Mrs Stephens,' said Nicholas, thinking of Emma's declaration that she was sure someone tried to get into her house just after midnight. King and Queen Street was less than a quarter of a mile from Amelia Street. ‘We'll carry out the search now, we'll try not to take too long.'

The search began. They quickly brought to light a dark mackintosh, two flat caps, a Homburg hat, and boots and shoes with rubber soles. Some of these items were relevant, but no real evidence by themselves, they were common to many men. The search became exhaustive in every room, including the parlour, where Emma was doing her best to comfort the now petrified Mrs Stephens. It wasn't possible for any Walworth woman at this time not to associate the questions and the search with a murder investigation.

A frustration, not uncommon to the case, began to show in the CID men. No black silk stocking, no length of cord, no notebook and no locks of hair. Nicholas, in the kitchen for a second time, said in a suppressed voice to Chapman, ‘Climb up that damned chimney.'

‘Don't be funny,' said Chapman sourly.

‘Take a look,' said Nicholas, and prowled around restlessly. He stopped at the window. It was covered by a wooden-slatted Venetian blind. He opened up the half-closed slats and saw a small wooden shed in a corner of the yard. He went out fast through the back door, Chapman following. The shed door was padlocked. Nicholas returned to the parlour.

‘Mrs Stephens, where's the key to your shed padlock?'

Mrs Stephens, shaking, whispered faintly, ‘It's my husband's shed, it's only where he keeps his tools and does bits of carpentry.'

‘Yes, but where's the key?'

‘Herby keeps all his keys on his key ring.'

‘I see.' Nicholas went back to the yard, where Chapman was trying to pick the padlock. The other detective-constable came down from upstairs and joined them. Nicholas said get the damned door open. The padlocked holding bar was levered free by use of the kitchen poker. Wood splintered. Chapman pulled the door open and Nicholas went in. The shed was a little workshop. He searched but found nothing of any consequence. In the confined space, Chapman was in his way. He elbowed him aside and went down on his hands and knees. He fished about under the bench's low shelf. Nothing except dust. But then his fingers touched something. He scrabbled at it, moving it. He drew it out, a biscuit tin that had lain against the shed wall. He placed it on the bench, Chapman and his colleague squeezing in and looking on as he took the lid off. The white tin interior shone. One by one, he extracted the items it contained. A long length of cord, weighted at one end with a small disc of lead. Two tresses of fair hair, each wrapped in tissue paper. A little notebook with a red leather cover. Nicholas thumbed through it. Names and addresses were neatly inscribed. Nicknames. Mabel Shipman's code words for her clients.
Ginger, Four-Eyes, Napoleon, Larky, Saucebox, Bigfeet, Smiffy.
He came across the one he was looking for,
Samson. 22 A. Street, Walworth.

‘Got him, Frank.'

‘Ruddy good,' said Chapman, ‘my bleedin' feet are killin' me.'

Nicholas put some final questions to the sick and suffering Mrs Stephens.

‘Is your husband at work?'