A Metropolitan Murder (34 page)

‘Ah, I see I startled you,' he continues. ‘You did just visit the station, did you not? You might have waited for a reply.'

‘I'll be wanted back home.'

‘I suppose you will. You don't much like the police, do you, Miss White? Old habits die hard, eh?'

Clara frowns, but says nothing. Webb ignores her silence, motioning her to walk on, and he continues by her side, pushing his bicycle.

‘I take it Mrs. Harris is at home, then?'

Clara nods.

‘Do you have any idea why she has asked me to call on her?'

‘I don't like to say.'

‘Well, I think you had better, all the same.'

‘Dr. Harris ain't come home since yesterday.'

Webb frowns. ‘Ah, I see. Well, I confess, that hardly seems too peculiar. Perhaps he stayed at his club, or with a friend?'

Clara shrugs. ‘None of my business, is it?' she replies.

‘Has he ever done so before – stopped overnight somewhere?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘I see. Well, that is something, I suppose. Did your mistress ask for me by name?'

‘Yes.'

‘Now, that is odd, is it not, Miss White?'

Clara says nothing, and the inspector does not press the point. After a minute or more of silence, they progress awkwardly together from the quiet confines of Marylebone Lane on to the pavement of Oxford Street. The road itself is busy with carriages. Many, no doubt, contain ladies of rank and distinction, contemplating the particular shop or store upon which they should bestow their generous patronage. The remainder of the great thoroughfare, however, is the exclusive property of the omnibus. There are dozens to be seen along the length of the street; they are all of different liveries and lines, and, near to Marylebone Lane, several have somehow contrived to come together, forming a snake-like train that obstructs any traffic attempting to cross. In consequence, Decimus Webb gives up on any idea of utilising the roadway, and pushes his bicycle along the pavement beside Clara White. They attract a few curious glances, and doubtless there are some who assume that the girl with downcast eyes is in the custody of the uniformed gentleman who accompanies her. As they approach Regent's Circus, Webb speaks once more.

‘About your mother, Miss White . . .'

‘Yes?' she says. It is the first time she has looked him straight in the eye.

‘I didn't get a chance at the inquest to offer you my condolences.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Tell me, were you happy with the verdict?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Would it shock you if I told you I believe she was killed?'

Clara stops walking. ‘It's occurred to me. Of course it has.'

‘Of course it has? Why?'

Clara sighs. ‘You know what sort of life she had.'

‘Ah, you think it was . . . a gentleman she was entertaining, shall we say?'

‘Who else?'

‘It was merely a coincidence that she shared a room with Sally Bowker?'

‘I never knew the girl, I told your sergeant whatever-his-name.'

‘Indeed, I read his notes.'

‘Then why are you asking me?'

Webb smiles. ‘Idle curiosity.'

Clara says nothing in reply, but walks a little more briskly.

Mrs. Harris sits nervously in the front parlour of Doughty Street, fiddling with her sleeves. She rises to greet Decimus Webb, as her maid-servant shows him into the room.

‘Thank you, White, that will be all,' she says, though her voice lacks a little of its usual imperious rigour.

‘Well, ma'am,' begins Webb, taking a seat as Clara leaves the room, ‘perhaps you can tell me why you wished to see me?'

‘Did White not tell you?' she replies anxiously. ‘I felt sure she would. I swear, she is not to be relied on in anything.'

‘I merely would prefer to hear direct from your own lips, ma'am.'

‘My husband has vanished, Inspector.'

‘Vanished, ma'am?'

‘He went out last night, and has not returned home, nor sent word to me.'

‘You had some argument?'

‘Not at all!'

‘Please, do not distress yourself, ma'am. I merely ask for information. I would ask the same of anyone. Is there not some relative or acquaintance with whom he might have stopped?'

‘And not told me?'

‘Regrettable as it is, ma'am, I understand, from those colleagues of mine blessed by matrimony, that they aren't all in the habit of confiding absolutely in their wives.'

‘I cannot speak for them, Inspector,' replies Mrs. Harris coldly, ‘but my husband would not abandon me so. I fear for his safety.'

‘His safety?'

‘You know he visits the most awful places, to inform his writing. Slums, Inspector. Rookeries. Anything might have happened to him.'

Mrs. Harris looks tearful, and Webb, even as he speaks, wishes he had a pocket handkerchief to give to her.

‘Well, I am sure there is no need to worry,' he replies. ‘But I will take a few details and circulate the information to our men, just in case we can be of service. Can I ask, however,' continues Webb, ‘why you asked for me by name? Surely, you have a local constable who might have sufficed to bring this to our attention?'

‘You met my husband, Inspector. You know him to be a good, kind man who would stoop to raise any poor wretch from the gutter. If something has happened, if he is found in some awful place that would not be . . . oh, I cannot say it. I mean, a place that would not reflect well on his position in society.'

‘Ah, I see. Well, you can rely on our discretion, ma'am, but I am sure he is safe and well.'

‘But where, Inspector? Where?'

In the tap-room of the Old Friar, Bill Hunt looks at his hands. They are large, workman's hands, hard with calloused skin, without any delicacy of shape, like clay modelled by a child. A couple of others in the pub give him a quizzical glance, wondering why he looks so distracted and leaves his pint pot sitting idle in front of him.

Bill Hunt looks at his hands, and remembers strangling Arthur Harris; it strikes him as strange and wonderful that it is possible to do such a thing, to extinguish human life, with such simple tools.

H
ENRY
C
OTTON GINGERLY
opens the door that leads into the Three Cups tavern. It is his third visit and the landlord, first to see him, gives him a broad smile, which does not make him entirely at ease; if anything, it has the opposite effect. Cotton peers through the smoky gloom of the pub and sees Tom Hunt sitting at his usual table, though he is dressed in a new jacket and coat, rather less careworn than the apparel he wore previously. His young wife sits next to him, passive and unanimated, and two glasses of spirits sit half empty upon the table in front of them. Hunt, in fact, is engaged in debate with a man nearby, but he breaks off his conversation as he sees Cotton approaching. He greets him like an old friend.

‘Sir! Make room for the gentleman, Liz! This is a surprise, sir. I thought we agreed it was tomorrow we'd meet again?'

Cotton attempts a similarly joyous greeting, though his eyes are distracted by the patches of dark bruising on Lizzie Hunt's face. Hunt follows his gaze, anticipating what he might say.

‘Don't be alarmed, sir. Lizzie here is tougher than she looks, ain't you, love?'

Lizzie mumbles something indistinct.

‘And shy too,' continues Hunt. ‘I tell you, when I
find the fellow what did that, I'll give him what for, won't I just?'

Hunt laughs, as if pleased with some personal joke, and Lizzie steals a nervous glance at her husband.

‘I hope this is not a bad time, then?' ventures Cotton.

‘Not at all, not for an old pal like yourself, eh?'

‘No, well, that is good of you.'

‘We had a fine time of it yesterday, did we not?'

‘It was very instructive. In fact, that is why I came today.'

‘No money returned,' replies Hunt, laughing, but looking at him a little warily.

‘No, nothing like that. It's just that I had an idea, something where your particular knowledge and, ah, expertise, might assist my understanding. A different arena, as it were.'

‘I ain't following you.'

‘No, I should speak more plainly. As you know, I intend to throw light, in my writing, on the workings of the, shall we say, criminal classes.'

Hunt looks ready to make his usual objection to such a slur on his character, but Cotton holds up his hand, and continues.

‘And I know that you yourself, by chance, have been exposed to all kinds of criminality and have a good knowledge of such persons and their manners.'

‘That's no lie, I confess,' replies Hunt, affably.

‘Well, the “dodges” you showed me yesterday . . .'

‘Merely for instruction,' interjects Hunt.

‘Indeed,' continues Cotton, ‘they were remarkable, but such things have been written of before now.'

‘I should not be surprised,' replies Hunt.

‘But if I am to take firm hold of the public's attention, then there must be something novel.'

Hunt raises his eyebrows, but says nothing in reply. Cotton lowers his voice to a confidential whisper.

‘It came to me last night. I am thinking, Mr. Hunt, of a burglary.'

Hunt looks perplexed, uncertain whether to laugh or take the suggestion seriously.

‘I am sure,' he replies, ‘though I ain't no scholar, that such things have been written of.'

‘Oh, they have. But not first-hand.'

‘First-hand?'

‘I know of a house, near the Edgware Road, whose owner is absent from the property. He is, in fact, a friend of mine. I would like you to show me how you would go about it.'

‘About what?'

‘Breaking in, of course.'

‘Come, Mr. Phibbs, you are joking. You want me to crack this place of your pal's?'

‘Do not get me wrong, Mr. Hunt. Nothing must be taken. It is merely so that I might attempt an article on the subject.'

‘You're a queer fellow, you know that.'

‘Will you do it?'

‘But I take nothing?'

‘I'll pay, of course.'

‘How much?'

‘A pound.'

‘For breaking a drum? Two guineas.'

‘Done,' replies Cotton, eagerly, his face as bright and enthusiastic as a schoolboy planning a visit to a sweet-shop.

‘And what if we're caught?'

‘Well, I will explain the circumstances; my friend would not press charges. Besides, he is not even in London. I will fix everything, before and after.'

Hunt still looks a little doubtful. ‘And when do you propose we have this little adventure?'

‘Tonight.'

‘Tonight!'

‘Two guineas, Mr. Hunt, if we do it tonight. Think on it.'

Hunt breathes out, thinking the matter through.

‘Done.'

‘Now,' says Cotton, taking out his notebook, ‘tell me how you intend to go about it.'