A Metropolitan Murder (11 page)

‘There, you just rest now, dear. I'll tell her.'

Philomena Sparrow stops writing, and looks outside. Serle Street is quiet at this time of day, and there is little to be seen except for the occasional carriage leaving Lincoln's Inn. She picks up the crumpled sheet of print that Jenny left her, and reads it again.

. . . made the awful discovery of the body of a flame-haired woman, who is believed to have approximated twenty years of age, her neck broken and her body quite horribly contorted. The woman's identity remains a mystery to the Metropolitan police. Her assailant, who, in a touch of the grotesque, sat calmly by her corpse throughout the journey, upon being detected, ran from the station towards Marylebone . . .

She sits in silent contemplation for a few moments, then gets up and retrieves her bonnet and mantle from a hook by the door. She shouts upstairs.

‘Jenny, I am going out. I leave you in charge. Do make sure that everyone is punctual for supper.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' returns the nurse, appearing on the landing.

‘And how is White?'

‘She seems better settled now, ma'am.'

‘Well, we have others to tend to, do we not?'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘I'll be back shortly.'

Miss Sparrow opens the front door, the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand, wondering what is the best route to Marylebone police station.

Agnes White opens her eyes. She is alone in the room, and it is getting dark outside. She gets up and looks out of the window, and sees the figure of Philomena Sparrow walking towards Lincoln's Inn Fields in the fading light. She looks for her boots, which lie beside the bed, and hurriedly puts them on.

No-one notices as she descends the stairs, and lets herself out into the street.

A
HALF-MILE DISTANT
from Lincoln's Inn, Decimus Webb stands in the ticket hall of Farringdon Street railway station. The station itself is only a temporary wooden structure, beset on all sides by works and protective hoardings, part of the extensive excavations required for its rebuilding in stone, and the extension of the railway eastwards. None the less, temporary or not, with the station clock having chimed five o'clock, the public are already entering the building in large numbers, processing down the stairway on to the platform.

‘How long?' says Decimus Webb incredulously, continuing a conversation with an off-duty ticket clerk, a small balding man with a white moustache, who stands nervously beside him.

‘Three minutes, sir, that's God's honest truth, I assure you.'

Decimus Webb shakes his head in disbelief.

‘And it would have been three minutes last night, would it? From here to King's Cross?'

‘Ah, well, last night there was works at Paddington, that might have held her up.'

‘A-ha! How long then, last night?'

‘Oh, I should reckon four minutes.'

‘Four minutes' delay?'

‘Oh no, sir, four minutes to King's Cross in total. That would be my guess.'

‘Not long to kill someone, is it? Four minutes?'

‘Well,' says the clerk, a little flustered, ‘I couldn't say, sir. But I was here all the time. There's two men who can vouch for it.'

Webb snorts in laughter, and claps the man on the shoulders. ‘Do not worry, Mr. Jones. I did not have you in mind.'

The man nods, but does not seem to find it quite so amusing.

‘And you were on the ticket desk yourself, all last night?' continues Webb, watching the people as they walk into the station, but still addressing the man at his side.

‘I was. From five o'clock till finish.'

‘And you did not see the woman in question? She had red hair – quite striking, I would have thought.'

‘Not that I recollect, sir, no. But she may have had a return ticket from Paddington or Baker Street. She would not need seeing, if you understand me.'

‘Quite,' says Webb, nodding. Abruptly he then turns his head to the clerk. ‘A return ticket, did you say?'

‘Yes, sir. That is the common thing, on the evening trains. Folk rarely travel just the one way, do they?'

‘Yes, I know that, my good man . . . Watkins!'

Webb shouts the man's name in the same way another man might shout ‘Fire!' or ‘Murder!' A good number of persons nearby jump in astonishment, not least Mr. Jones the ticket clerk; Webb, however, stands there unconcerned, offering a polite nod to anyone who stops and stares at the source of the uproar. Sergeant Watkins, meanwhile, appears from the platform, gently pushing his way through the mêlée of passengers heading in the opposite direction, and making gradual progress to the side of his superior.

‘With respect, I am not a dog, sir.'

‘Watkins, if you were a dog I could merely whistle. Tell me something, did our mystery woman have a ticket on her person?'

Watkins pauses for thought. ‘No, sir. Not that I recollect.'

‘Now why would that be?'

‘She might have lost it in the scuffle.'

‘Scuffle?'

‘When he strangled her.'

Webb looks disbelieving. ‘She might. There were discarded tickets upon the floor, were there not? I seem to recall seeing them.'

‘Oh, they will insist on doing that, sir,' interjects Jones the ticket clerk, ‘though we tell 'em to keep 'em, even after inspection.'

‘But I believe you said there was no guard last night?'

‘On the train, sir? No, not the last train. It was them works at Paddington, playing havoc with our rota, you see?'

‘And so the girl could have caught it without a ticket?'

‘Oh no,' says the clerk, frowning at this slur on the efficiency of the Metropolitan Railway, ‘we had a man on the gate here.'

‘I've spoken to him, sir,' says the sergeant. ‘He recollects nothing.'

‘He did not see the girl?'

‘He doesn't say that. Says he can't remember one way or the other.'

‘Really? What remarkable vigilance,' says Webb, looking thoughtful for a moment, then extending his hand to shake that of Mr. Jones. ‘We are done here, I believe. Thank you for your assistance.'

Mr. Jones nods, and is about to make his way out,
when sergeant Watkins addresses Webb.

‘Sir? I've also got the men who were working the track last night; they're ready for you at Baker Street. I can telegraph and get them down here if you like.'

‘No need; we shall take the train. Perhaps it will provide some insight.'

Watkins agrees, and the two men begin to walk down to the platform. A small voice, however, calls out from behind them.

‘One moment, gentlemen,' says Mr. Jones. ‘You'll be wanting a ticket.'

The train containing Decimus Webb and sergeant Watkins pulls slowly out of Farringdon station. It is watched by a workman who stands idly by the signals, wearing a thick oilskin coat, the kind favoured by many of those who work on the tracks. The platform is now all but cleared of people, for a short while at least, and, looking at the station clock, he makes his way along, up the steps and out towards the ticket hall.

‘Night, Bill. You off?'

‘There'll be another man through the tunnel soon, he can pick up.'

‘You in the Three Cups tonight, Billy?'

‘Maybe.'

He is a burly man, Bill Hunt, with the hard square face and broad shoulders typical of a body accustomed to physical labour. He does not speak much, and his colleague does not press any further questions upon him, though talk of murder is upon everyone's lips; they soon separate. Hunt makes his way into Farringdon Street itself, against the tide of travellers bound in the opposite direction. They are largely city clerks, and the large man in dirty oilskins appears an
oddity amongst them. He keeps his eyes fixed upon the ground, however, amongst this sea of silk-hatted strangers, and manoeuvres gradually to Victoria Street, and then across the busy road, up the slope that leads to Hatton Garden. His path is quite predetermined and he soon turns off into a side street, at one end of which hangs a sign of three golden goblets, signifying the Three Cups public house. It is a small establishment, and would be all but invisible from the street were it not illuminated by a large iron gas-lamp, its brilliance somehow quite ill-suited to the narrow passage in which it is set.

The inside of the place, however, with which Bill Hunt is rather familiar, is not so bright. Indeed, it is not untypical of the shabbier sort of little gin palace that apes its larger rivals on Drury Lane. Like them, it boasts a mahogany bar, though the wood is chipped and stained; like them it is illuminated by gas, though it has only two lamps. Naturally, there is also the tobacco smoke, which hangs in the air like a fog, and the pervasive smell of spilt liquor. All in all, it is precisely what a Clerkenwell man expects of his local public and, however much there may be mud upon the floor and peculiarities in the ale, and however much the air may choke him, it seems cosy enough to the likes of Bill Hunt. Indeed, Hunt knows well many of the folk that drink there, and a few of them greet him as he walks in. He is surprised, however, to be hailed by one voice in particular.

‘Bill! This is a treat!'

‘What?'

He looks around and sees Tom Hunt seated in one corner of the room; he has a smile on his face, unlike his young wife, who sits sullenly beside him.

‘I didn't expect to see you in a hurry, Tom Hunt,' says Bill, wearily.

‘Didn't you? Your own cousin? Your own flesh and blood?'

‘It's only been two weeks. And there's a matter of a half-crown between us, ain't there?'

‘Let me stand you a drink, eh?' persists Tom, ignoring the question. ‘Let me get you a drop of purl? That's still your favourite tipple, ain't it?'

Bill Hunt groans. He is not a quick-witted man, and though he feels irritation at his cousin's banter, he is resigned to it, in much the same way as a weary ox suffers the stings of a gadfly.

‘Come on, Bill, sit and have a drink.'

He sits down, reluctantly, stealing a glance at Lizzie Hunt as he does so.