A Metropolitan Murder (4 page)

‘You need any assistance, sir?' he replies, looking down at Henry Cotton's mud-spattered trousers, and raising an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Only a change of clothes when I get home. I slipped crossing the road. Foolish of me.'

The policeman smiles. ‘Well, you be careful, sir. Never worth hurrying to your death, is it?'

‘Yes, well, indeed. Good night to you.'

The constable nods, satisfied with the progress of his enquiries. He has already returned to his conversation with the woman, even as Henry Cotton turns to take leave of him.

In five minutes more, walking at a good pace, Cotton stands at the door of his lodgings, a terrace in Castle Street. He surveys the road on both sides, making sure there is no-one watching. Once he is satisfied, he scrapes his boots, turns his key in the lock to let himself in, then quietly ascends the stairs.

The room itself is a small one, situated on the top floor, furnished in the Spartan style that suits many London landlords, if not their tenants. Cotton sits himself down upon the bed. The only light is from
the flaring of the gas in the street below, which emits a residual luminescence that filters through the sash window. Even so, he can still make out that there is mud on the rug, which he will have to clean away; on the stairs outside too, no doubt. Instinctively, he reaches to remove his hat, and he realises he is not wearing it.

His memory stabs at him, his stomach turning, at the thought of the dead girl.

He left his hat upon the train.

Along with his notebook.

B
Y DAY, THE
station at Baker Street is warmed by the constant human traffic that streams through the concourse, down to the platforms, and back up again. If the weather is dismal, and the clever arrangement of skylights set into the vaulted roof of the station affords no daylight, then the gas will be turned on, and the traveller may be cheered by the bright glowing globes that hang like baubles above his head. There is even some warmth to be had, on frost-bitten mornings, from the furnace of a train at a standstill, or in the steam that belches out as the train departs, and condenses in rivulets on the damp brickwork. By night, however, Baker Street becomes less temperate; there is often no gas in the pipes, even if it were wanted, and the few men who work on the track carry oil-lamps, and wear the thickest of winter coats. To the station's night-watchman who, on occasion, sees them in the distance, they seem like fleeting yellow spectres, ghostly fire-flies that come and go in the tunnels, though he will readily admit he possesses a fanciful imagination. Tonight, however, the watchman has no opportunity to indulge his fancies. Rather he finds that the platform has not been cleared, and the last train has not moved on to its nocturnal rest. Instead, there is a tall, burly policeman, grave and sullen, at the
station entrance, and a gang of half a dozen or more of his uniformed comrades, each bearing a bull's-eye lantern, standing upon the platform, either peering into the nearby railway carriage, or engaged in casual conversation. The watchman walks down and mingles amongst them.

‘They'll get an inspector down here, won't they, sergeant?' asks a young constable, addressing an older man who stands beside him as he shuffles his feet in a vain attempt to keep out the cold.

‘Oh, yes, my boy,' replies the sergeant, ‘they'll send for someone, all right. They won't leave a mess like this to the man what found her, who was just doing his duty, will they? Too simple.'

‘Did you find her, sir?'

‘I happened to be first here, yes. But, you've got to understand,' he adds, sarcastically, ‘the likes of us ain't suitable for brain work, you see?'

Such talk goes on for an hour or more; nothing much is done, nothing of great significance is truly said. It is perhaps two o'clock in the morning before a shout goes out to the men upon the platform, who, after interrogating the watchman, have long since found a stove, and each acquired a steaming cup of coffee.

‘Look lively, someone's coming,' exclaims a voice from the ticket hall.

‘Who is it, then?'

‘Hmph! Can't you hear it? I don't bleedin' believe it.'

‘Hear what?'

‘That! It's Webb, ain't it? They've gone and got

Webb. What odds do you give us, eh?'

At the mention of this name, a couple of the older policemen laugh and exchange knowing looks; a couple more give vent to choice expletives. The young
constable, who spoke earlier to the sergeant, puts down his coffee and hurries up the steps to the ticket hall.

It is undoubtedly an odd noise, coming along the empty road: a tinny rattling sound, the sound of thin, iron-shod wheels, unlike any normal cart or carriage. The young constable pushes forward to see the source of excitement: a man balancing precariously on a two-wheeled crank-driven velocipede, peddling at full tilt towards the station. Indeed, the constable cannot help but smile; he has seen one or two similar contraptions in the parks, but generally ridden by young men far too eager to show off their agility, or bruises, to promenading young ladies. The rider in this case, however, bicycling along the surface of the Marylebone Road, jostled up and down with every rotation of the wheels, is a stout policeman in his late forties.

‘God help us, it's Webb all right,' whispers the sergeant, sardonically. ‘The Boneshaker Bobby.'

‘He's a bleedin' inspector,' says another man, ‘and he'll hear you.'

‘Hush.'

Decimus Webb leans deftly on the front wheel of the velocipede and rounds towards the station. He is not a handsome man by any means, but has a mop of brown curly hair, which peeks uncontrollably from under his helmet, a fulsome bearded face, and large heavily lidded eyes. The latter, in particular, seem to possess a rather mournful quality, quite suited to his work, and in his expression he resembles nothing so much as a jowly old hunting dog. Yet, despite his progress on the bicycle being rather comical, his red-faced physical exertion in odd contrast with his rather languid features, in all fairness he still manages to swing the vehicle over towards the station in a graceful arc.
It is a feat that is marred only by the slight look of nerves as he alights, swinging his left leg over the frame, and dropping on to the pavement. Somewhat breathless, he does not say a word until he has parked his conveyance up against the station wall and dusted himself down.

He looks round at the assembly of men in blue, and frowns.

‘You'll be issued one of these soon enough,' he says, gesturing at the bicycle, ‘mark my words. Excellent machine. Monsieur Michaux, of Paris.'

‘I ain't riding that Frog contraption,' mutters the sergeant.

Webb hears the comment, but ignores it. ‘Sergeant Watkins, is it?'

‘Yes, sir,' answers the reluctant sergeant.

‘Well, Sergeant Watkins,' Webb says, speaking slowly and mordantly, looking over the men standing before him, ‘I can only assume that we are anticipating a riot?' He pauses for effect. ‘Some uprising of subterranean socialists, perhaps?'

‘A riot, sir? I don't take your meaning.'

‘Why else should I find half of D and X Division defending Baker Street railway station? Tell me, sergeant, if you will, how many men have you here?'

A couple of the men behind the sergeant sheepishly put down their coffee mugs. Watkins himself blushes a little.

‘Well, sir, on a serious matter like this, naturally a couple of lads came when I whistled and . . .'

Webb sighs, a deep exhalation of breath, shaking his head. The sergeant falls silent.

‘Organise it properly, sergeant, will you? So that it does not resemble a tea-party?'

‘Very good, sir.'

‘And perhaps,' continues Decimus Webb, in an
exaggerated tone of exasperation, ‘when you are quite done, I may look at this body. And you, constable . . .'

‘Sir?' says the young man eagerly.

‘Do keep your eye on my “boneshaker”, won't you?'

‘This is how she was found, is it?'

Decimus Webb stands over the woman's body.

‘Yes, sir, exactly,' says the booking clerk, standing behind him. ‘Well, at least, when he pushed her over . . .'

‘Hush, my good man, hush. We have not reached that juncture,' says Webb. ‘At least she has not been moved, that is something. Now, what time did the train leave Farringdon Street?'

‘It would be half-past eleven, sir.'

‘And stopping at all stations in between, no doubt.'

The man nods. ‘Every one, sir.'

‘There were others in this carriage when it arrived, besides the fellow who ran? It is second class, is it not?'

‘Yes, sir, it is. I saw a few others, I saw a man, a couple of women . . .'

‘And, of course, you let them simply depart?'

‘They were gone before I knew, sir, really, I had no time to collect my wits. They had already left the station, and this fellow just pushed past me so hard he sent me flying.'

‘Well, I see we must return to this “fellow”. We have a description of this man, do we, sergeant?'

‘Yes, sir, he was—'

‘No need, sergeant, not yet. It is sufficient that we have it.'

Webb sits down on the bench, still looking at the body. ‘I am more interested in the woman. What do we know of her?'

‘She was strangled, sir,' says the sergeant, following him. ‘Obvious. Marks on the neck. And the limbs ain't that stiff as yet, so it weren't too long ago.'

Webb bends down, and gently peels back the woollen shawl from the girl's neck. In the light of the sergeant's lantern, dark bruised shadows are visible around her throat.

Webb frowns. ‘It was not a ligature; it was done by hand.'

The booking clerk steps back, his face quite white ‘By hand?' he echoes.

‘Now, about the man what legged it, sir,' interjects Sergeant Watkins, ‘he left his hat . . .'

‘And what have we learnt from our study of the hat, sergeant?' asks Webb, glancing at the article and raising his eyebrow ironically. The hat is an undistinguished black item, which lies upon the seat of the carriage, opposite the woman's body. ‘Did he perhaps have a big head? Then he is our man, of course! Really, sergeant, do you imagine he is our culprit? Why would he linger on the train, after all? We must find him, naturally, but I really suggest that you keep an open mind.'

‘I was also going to say, sir, that he also left a notebook.'

‘Does it contain something of use?' asks Webb absent-mindedly, paying Watkins little attention as he walks round to the other side of the body. ‘His address perhaps?'

The sergeant shakes his head.

‘I can only make out some of it, sir. I think much of it's in some kind of shorthand. But from what I can make out . . .'

His voice trails off as he watches Webb bring his face close to that of the dead woman, examining her features in minute detail.

‘Do you think she was a street-walker, sergeant? I believe that she is wearing rouge, and no hat or bonnet to speak of. She rather looks the part, eh? She could pass for a whore, could she not?'

‘Possibly sir. There is nothing to identify her that we can find. Now, about this here notebook—'

‘Really, sergeant, what about it? I will look at it in good time.'

‘I merely think that it may change your opinion of him.'

‘Who?' asks Webb, still intent on the body, bending over it from a variety of angles.

‘The man who ran off.'

Webb turns round and faces his truculent colleague. Standing in the carriage, above the woman's corpse, he looks him in the eye.

‘Change my opinion? Really?'

There is perhaps a hint of irony in his question. He pauses for a moment, as if the possibility that such a thing might happen truly confounds him.

‘Now, sergeant, I must confess, I am rather intrigued.'