A Metropolitan Murder (7 page)

Clare Market is a dangerous region for anyone wishing to make hasty progress, its back alleys littered with the detritus of nearby houses and the market trade, encompassing both abandoned animal and vegetable matter, carpeted with cabbage leaves and herring bones. The man and girl are undoubtedly surefooted, but the blue-coated policeman seemingly makes better time, and catches up with them just in sight of St. Clement's church, adjoining the Strand. Any one of the prospective purchasers of the Remarkable Compound who were to observe the scene, however, would think it a strange apprehension. For all parties suddenly draw to a halt, without any scuffle. But what does it matter? There is no person present to form such a conclusion, and that is precisely why the chase stops.

‘All right, Charlie,' says the street doctor, smiling at his pursuer, and cheerfully slapping him on the back. ‘Perfect. He was trouble, that little fellow.'

‘Lor, you needn't have run quite so far, eh?' says the policeman, a little flushed and breathless.

‘Better safe than sorry. I didn't take much, though.'

‘You never do. Well, call it three bob, Tom, and have done.'

‘You're a hard man,' says the street doctor, reluctantly ceding part of his takings.

‘And you're a lucky one. Now don't let me see you here again for a day or two, eh? Or I'll have to take you in.'

The street doctor nods, and smiles, watching the policeman depart. His smile disappears when the man is gone. He pulls the girl over to the church wall.

‘Well, Lizzie, my darlin',' says Tom Hunt, ‘we'll have to come up with something else, won't we now?'

‘I never liked that fake anyhow. My hand hurts, keeping it cramped up like that.'

‘Liking ain't important. Just do as you are told, and we'll do all right.'

Lizzie grimaces as her husband pinches her arm. ‘Where will we go now, then?' she asks.

‘Bill will put us up tonight, I reckon. It's been a week or two, ain't it? A bit of a rest, and I can have a think.'

Lizzie Hunt, née White, scowls.

‘We never get a decent lodgings,' she says.

‘Q
UITE A SENSATION
, ain't it?'

Sergeant Watkins and Inspector Decimus Webb sit facing each other in Bates' Coffee Room adjoining the Marylebone Tavern, overlooking Marylebone High Street. The former scrutinises several crumpled sheets of paper that he holds in his hand, whilst the latter sips from a cup of dark coffee, fresh from the urn.

‘Here's one,' continues the sergeant. ‘“Dreadful Railway murder! Man escaped into tunnels!” Who'd have thought, eh? It's news to me, I must say.'

‘If you will read these penny sheets,' says Webb, ‘you can expect no better. When is a murder not “dreadful”?'

‘I'd say it depends on the circumstances, sir. In any case, you have to admire them, getting it printed up so quick. I've seen them on every corner this morning. The girl's barely cold.'

‘It is not a matter of admiration,' says Webb, ‘though at least it may help us in finding a name for our woman, assuming she possesses a family or, at least, some acquaintance of one sort or other.'

‘And assuming it weren't them that did for her, sir.'

‘Hmm. Do they mention her hair?'

‘Her hair?'

‘Red hair, sergeant. Think, man. It is distinctive, is it not? It may alert someone who knows her.'

‘I believe some do, sir. “Flame-haired”, one says here.'

‘Ha! Well, that is a little grandiose. Still, we have other reading matter to consider.'

‘You've taken a good look at that notebook, then, sir?'

‘Yes, and you were quite right,' replies Webb, though there is no hint of gratitude in his tone. He picks up the book and opens it at random, flicking through the pages. ‘It is, in the least, rather interesting. Let us pick a choice piece,' he says, somewhat theatrically selecting a paragraph with his finger, and reading out loud, ‘seventeenth January.

‘Left C— St, and walked to Clare Market. It is no more than a mile or so on foot, and I was not disappointed; the place is a truly remarkable spectacle at night, though only to be fully witnessed when the gas has been extinguished in the butchers' shops, and everything is shuttered up. Clare Market! How odd that any gentleman who wishes to acquaint himself with the
demi-monde
is directed to visit the glittering delights of the Haymarket, to take in Mott's or Miss Hamilton's; how odd that he will be advised to seek out the
habituées
of the
pavé
on
that
famous thoroughfare. Let a man come to these “market” streets! for there can be few other areas of the metropolis where one may become so easily acquainted with the temptations of the flesh. And it is human flesh, of course, offered up on every street corner, by some of the most wretched vestiges of womanhood a man might encounter. And yet, if the truth be told, the readiness with which this human
tribute is tendered, and accepted, is as much a sorry testimony to the bestial nature of
man
kind, as it is a disgrace to the
woman
. Poor sinning creatures, one and all!

‘But enough moralising! In short, from the vantage of my “lodgings” (the dreadful room, rented Thursday last) I was well-placed to observe the little group of doves flocking below.

‘I made, therefore, the following observations between the hours of ten o'clock and midnight:

‘No. of women:
6

No. of men:
26

Longest interval between transactions:
18 minutes

Shortest interval between transactions:
2 minutes

Duration of transactions:
between 1 and 4 minutes; an average of 2.5 minutes

Money exchanged:
always upon completion of transaction

‘Of the women themselves, one was forty years or older, one between thirty and forty, two between twenty and thirty, and two under twenty years; indeed, one of the latter appeared little more than a child of twelve or thirteen. None was dressed in particular finery; all, however, were bare-headed, eschewing a winter bonnet or cap.

‘Of the men, rough-looking costers predominated, dressed in the corduroys and the high, laced boots that distinguish their class.

‘Most remarkable that, in all instances, the business I observed would have been clearly visible to any passer-by, man, woman or child
(and it is
not
unknown to see young children alone upon these streets, even at such a late hour), a consideration which seemed to trouble neither party!'

‘Regular Paul Pry, ain't he?'

‘Hmm. I cannot read the rest – ' says Webb, scanning the page – ‘more of his blasted scribbling. Ah, wait, a final paragraph.

‘I became puzzled by the activities of a particular girl, who walked down the street, then left in the company of a man, on three separate occasions; did she have a room? I resolved to test this, and struck up a conversation. She was a pretty girl, of very slender figure, barely on the verge of womanhood. She led me through narrow passageways to, as I had suspected, a barely furnished room, above a cook-shop.

‘I gave her three shillings and quizzed her. Made two pages of notes. She thought my enquiries highly amusing, and said she preferred the “regular business”.

‘I did not oblige her on that score!'

The sergeant laughs scornfully. ‘Did he not?'

‘That is what he says. As much as I can make out. You know, I believe it is a type of shorthand, though I do not know it. We must have someone more expert in these matters take a look. Do you know someone who might fit the bill, Watkins? I confess I do not.'

‘I'll see what can be done, sir.'

‘Good. And what do you make of our author? Are you “baffled?” We are obliged to be baffled at this stage in proceedings, are we not? That is what the papers will say, if they are not saying it already.'

‘I think you read too many newspapers yourself, sir, if I may say so. It is quite plain, is it not? He is a deviant. He stalks these women, under some pretext of making this study of them, and now he has plucked up the courage to do for one.'

Webb takes a leisurely sip on his coffee, then wipes his moustache.

‘On a train? A peculiar choice, is it not?'

‘People get up to all sorts on trains, sir, rest assured.'

‘Really, sergeant? You speak from experience? I thought you were a married man?'

‘No need to twist my meaning, sir.'

Webb smiles at the sergeant's discomfort.

‘And what of the witnesses? We have at least three, do we not, who boarded the carriage at Gower Street, and who saw him already there? And one, is there not, who thinks he was there at King's Cross?'

‘So it seems. I've put some of the lads at each station, asking questions. We'll have a better idea in a day or two, I reckon.'

‘And yet these witnesses, they saw nothing peculiar? And so he did it between Farringdon Street and King's Cross. Think on it. How long is that? Five minutes? A little more? Ten minutes to Gower Street?'

‘Why not? She was full of gin.'

‘And so, they are alone, and he takes his chance?'

The sergeant nods. ‘He probably followed her, picked his moment.'

‘And then wrote notes in his little diary the rest of the way? Although I cannot find the entry, if he did so. And he set her carefully upon the seat, hiding her neck with the shawl. Why did he not get off the train? Why did he wait?'

‘Well, I can't answer that. A man can't answer for the actions of a lunatic, can he?'

‘You might at least try, my dear sergeant. Still, never
mind. I think we must find him, whatever is the case, although I fear he has gone to ground. Agreed?'

‘Agreed, sir.'

‘Good. Now, get me another coffee, will you?'

‘M
R. P
HIBBS
?'

Henry Cotton stirs in his bed. He has slept fitfully, in his clothes, and his head aches; it takes him a few moments to realise that the noise is someone banging upon his door.

‘Mr. Phibbs? I know you is in there!'

‘Yes?' says Cotton.

‘Is it you, tramping mud in my hall? My Susan has been on her hands and knees cleaning up all morning.'

‘Leave me be, Mrs. Samson. I am unwell.'

‘That's as maybe, ain't it? But Susan ain't nobody's slave. She may fetch and carry, but she has a natural pride, sir. She is not to be done down.'

‘I will recompense her when I see her. Please, Mrs. Samson, please let me alone.'

‘Well, that is something. But think on, sir, next time you go mud-larking, if you will.'

The woman walks noisely down the stairs. Henry Cotton, meanwhile, pulls the covers up to his neck, and attempts to fall back to sleep.

‘Mr. Phibbs?'

A voice from the landing again. A younger voice this time.

‘Mr. Phibbs?'