Authors: The Companion
Ann Granger (29 page)
‘Well, Miss Martin,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘another unexpected encounter. You wander about at will and at whim, it seems. Might I ask what brings you out on such an inclement day?’
‘I am seeking a haberdasher’s shop,’ I said, remembering the reason for my being in Oxford Street when last I’d met him. ‘There is one nearby, I fancy.’
I was fairly sure Dr Tibbett was not well enough acquainted with haberdashers’ shops to contradict me.
As it was, he didn’t try though he obviously didn’t believe me. He sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Very unwise,’ he said. ‘The fog settles on the lungs and gives rise to serious congestion.’
‘Then I’m surprised to see you out!’ I said boldly. ‘A gentleman of your years should take great care in conditions such as these.’
He gave me a look of the purest dislike. ‘I am on my way to visit my dear friend, Mrs Parry. I am surprised to see you have deserted your benefactress on such a day.’
‘I haven’t deserted her,’ I retaliated. ‘She is sick with a bad
headache and keeping to her room. So you will be disappointed if you call in Dorset Square. What a good thing I met you, Dr Tibbett,’ I had the effrontery to add, but I was so angry with him I couldn’t resist it, ‘I have been able to save you a needless journey.’
headache and keeping to her room. So you will be disappointed if you call in Dorset Square. What a good thing I met you, Dr Tibbett,’ I had the effrontery to add, but I was so angry with him I couldn’t resist it, ‘I have been able to save you a needless journey.’
‘On the contrary,’ he returned immediately. ‘My journey is far from needless, Miss Martin, because I can now escort you home.’
‘I told you—’ I began indignantly.
He held up a majestic hand and I found myself silenced. ‘No ifs or buts, Miss Martin! I won’t hear of you risking your health out of doors on such a day. No visit to a haberdasher’s premises can be that urgent. Will you take my arm?’
He accompanied the words with an appropriate gesture.
‘No, sir, I will not,’ I said firmly. ‘It may be unpleasant walking but I am quite able to look after myself. You have made your opinion of me quite clear. I won’t burden you with my company! Good day, sir.’
With that I dived across the road, trusting that in the poor visibility traffic would be progressing at a snail’s pace. I thought he called after me but I ran on as fast as I could, turned the first corner I came to, scurried down this side street, turned again and then again, hoping that the general direction was still my original one, and left him far behind me.
Sadly, after I’d gone a little further along my new path I was no longer quite sure where I was. The thickening fog meant there were no landmarks I could take my bearings from. I still believed, however, I was heading in the right direction and continued. Soon, however, my confidence began to ebb away. I was forced to realise my sense of direction was deserting me. The fog had closed round me, wrapping me up as securely as a newborn babe. I found I shared that babe’s bewilderment at finding myself in an alien world. I could not tell north from south, east from west, and hardly knew up from down. Was I climbing a slight incline? Was I descending some back alley? I thought I must be in the vicinity of
Oxford Street but I might well have been walking away from it. I could hear no noise of traffic but the fog deadened all sound and reduced all progress whether on two feet or in a wheeled vehicle to a crawl.
Oxford Street but I might well have been walking away from it. I could hear no noise of traffic but the fog deadened all sound and reduced all progress whether on two feet or in a wheeled vehicle to a crawl.
I put out my hand and felt on my right side the rough surface of a wall. After that I tried to keep in constant contact with this one solid object.
Then, without warning, I bumped into someone.
‘I’m sorry,’ I gasped.
‘Don’t apologise, my dear,’ said a man’s voice. ‘You aren’t hurt, I hope?’
‘No, no,’ I returned, but uneasily. There was something in the voice I didn’t like. The speaker wasn’t Tibbett, for that at least I had to be grateful. But who was he?
He had moved closer, looming over me as a dark shape in the swirling fog. A new odour invaded my nostrils in addition to the smell of the smoky vapour. This smell was sweet yet rotten, like that rising from the wet earth in rain-sodden graveyards.
He placed his mouth close to my ear. I felt his horrid breath on my skin. The odour was stronger but was it his breath or his clothing which was imbued with that smell of corpses?
‘This is no weather to be out and about alone,’ he almost whispered. ‘Can I help you, my dear? Why don’t you come with me?’
To my horror, a hand came out of the gloom and took my elbow.
I tried to shake it off but he gripped me the tighter. ‘No!’ I almost shouted. ‘No, thank you. I am almost home!’
He chuckled very softly. I acted instinctively. I swung round and thrust out my free hand with the fingers outstretched rigid in the direction I guessed his face to be. I was in luck. At least one of my fingers stabbed his eye.
He swore but released me. I plunged forward into the stifling fog, not knowing what lay before me or beneath my feet, whether
I would trip over an obstacle or plunge into a cellar. My only purpose was to escape him.
I would trip over an obstacle or plunge into a cellar. My only purpose was to escape him.
When I at last slowed my reckless pace and dared to stop, my heart beating painfully, I could hear nothing. There was no footstep, no sound of breathing except my own ragged breaths. He had not managed to follow me – or had he? Was my grisly interlocutor closer than I imagined? Did he stand motionless in the fog, as I did, straining his ears for the sound of my hurrying footsteps?
And where, oh where, was I now? In a mad world full of dangers on all sides. I could never find my way myself out of it and I prayed desperately I’d be rescued. I would almost have been willing to greet Dr Tibbett with pleasure if he’d reappeared.
There was a rumble of wheels and the clip-clop of hooves; some vehicle approached at walking pace. The black shape of a closed carriage emerged, pursuing a line which must bring it very close to me. I pressed myself against a wall behind me, not wishing to be run down. The carriage rumbled level with me in terrifying proximity. There was a shout from within it and another which caused the coachman to pull up. The carriage door had opened and a figure was leaning out.
‘Miss Martin? Is that not you?’
The voice was not immediately familiar and I couldn’t make out the caller. But he knew my name. It was not some unknown prowler. I approached cautiously.
‘I thought it was,’ he said. ‘Whatever are you doing out on this dreadful day?’
‘Oh, Mr Fletcher,’ I said in some relief, now close enough to see who it was. I had been afraid it might be James because I knew Mrs Belling kept a carriage.
‘Whatever are you doing out on such a day?’ he said again. ‘May I not take you where you are going? You will become lost.’
‘Oh, yes, please,’ I gasped. ‘I hadn’t realised it would thicken so fast.’
‘Oh, when it comes down it does so at a great rate and it’s easy to be caught out. Here, I’ll let down the step. Allow me to give you a hand up. Where is it I should tell Mullins to take us?’
‘Oh, anywhere near to Scotland Yard, if that’s convenient.’
‘Scotland Yard, eh?’ Fletcher went to speak to his coachman. I climbed gratefully into the interior.
Ben Ross
ALL THE way back to Scotland Yard I found I was straining my ears for the scrape of a boot on cobble. My eyes peered into the murk. To what purpose? Because I had the nonsensical idea that Scully was out there, even following me as a mangy ownerless dog will sometimes attach itself to a passer-by. But why would he do that? Fog is a disorienting thing; it plays games with the mind. I would not let Scully haunt me. I thrust away his unseen presence.
When I reached my destination I found the place unusually quiet and all the gas jets burning merrily away. Morris had gone out to organise the trawl of waterside drinking dens, hoping to find someone who had seen Adams on Friday night with a companion. I wished him luck. I hoped he watched where he put his feet and didn’t do as Adams had done and fall into the Thames. Only Biddle was in the outer office, crouched over his desk. He was laboriously copying out some report. The tip of his tongue protruded between his lips in concentration and his breathing was heavy with the effort of his task.
As I took off my hat and slapped it heartily to rid it of the moisture clinging to the nap, I asked him, more by habit than by any real wish to know, how he was.
‘A lot better, sir!’ he said eagerly. He seized the opportunity to put down his pen and scrambled to his feet. ‘Look!’ he begged.
He began to walk up and down to demonstrate that the ankle was improved.
‘Excellent, Biddle,’ I said, making for the door of my office.
‘Might I return to normal duty, sir?’ He had intercepted me and his round boyish face gazed imploringly at mine. ‘Anything, Mr Ross, so long as it’s out and about. I mean, Sergeant Morris says you are short of men to conduct enquiries in Limehouse. I don’t mind going to Limehouse, sir.’
Anything and anywhere to get away from that desk and the wearisome job he had there. I sympathised. I had, in any case, no time to waste words discussing it.
‘Oh, I suppose so. Have a word with Sergeant Morris when he gets back.’
He beamed gratitude at me. I could have wished every constable as enthusiastic as young Biddle.
I went into my office and sat at my desk to review all I knew about this case. The more I thought, the more convinced I became that if I were to get to the murderer, it would be via the death of Adams. Every murderer made a mistake sooner or later. The murder of Adams would be just such an error.
But if Adams were the key, it took us back to the demolition site at Agar Town. Let us suppose, I thought, that Madeleine was kept a prisoner there for the last part of the time she was missing. Let us suppose she was in one of the houses, the one in which her body was found. Where in that house? In the cellar, almost certainly. There were mould stains on her gown such as would have come from the damp walls of an underground chamber. In a cellar her cries would not be heard.
A cellar!
I jumped to my feet and dashed into the outer office. Biddle, alarmed, dropped his pen and gazed at me open-mouthed.
‘Constable!’ I exclaimed. ‘Tell me in detail about this accident you had.’
‘It really wasn’t my fault, sir,’ he began.
‘I’m not saying it was! Just tell me what happened, boy!’
‘Well, sir …’ Biddle gulped and furrowed his brow. ‘I didn’t make a note of it, sir, as you like to do, I’m afraid.’
‘Then let it be a lesson to you,’ I said sternly. ‘If you would be a detective you must learn to write down everything you observe and everything that happens to you or to others. Nothing is too trivial!’
‘Yes, sir, right …’ Biddle began a slow, painstaking account but I controlled my impatience. No matter how long he took, provided he left nothing out.
‘We’d gone back to those houses. You know, sir, where the body was found. But they’d been knocked flat as pancakes by then, sir, and there were navvies taking away the rubble in great cartloads. With all that removed, well, it left the cellars open to the sky. I went over just curious, sir, and looked in. I was particularly interested to look into the one belonging to the house where she was found. We’d searched the whole place attic to cellar, of course, using our lamps. But now daylight was shining in and I could see it was really only a damp sort of cave under the house, not a proper-built cellar at all …’ Biddle sounded censorious of the shoddy building standards which had thrown up the Agar Town houses at speed.
‘The walls were rough brick with gaps in the mortar between them. I reckon I could’ve built better myself and that’s a fact. But being so poorly finished, they offered plenty of toe- and fingerholds. So I thought I would climb down and look round. I’m a good climber, sir. I could always scramble up any tree. Once I climbed out of an upper window of our house on to the branch of a big old tree outside and made my way down and off. Mother had locked me in on that occasion, sir, for something I’d done wrong. Well, I thought I’d get down into that cellar with no trouble at all so I took off my boots …’
I hadn’t intended to interrupt Biddle but at that point I couldn’t help exclaiming, ‘Took your boots off?’
‘Yessir. I reckoned I could work my toes into a crevice but not my police boots. They’re on the clumsy side, sir. Well, I’d just started my descent when from above me comes a great shout of “What do you think you are doing?” I looked up to see a man’s face above me, red and angry but looking really frightened, too. I told him he shouldn’t fear. I was quite safe and wouldn’t fall but he just shouted more that I should come back up. “Here!” he said and he stretched down his hand to me to help me up. I called back that he must not try and take my hand, sir, or I would lose my grip. But it was too late and he knocked my hand from where I held on fast and there was nothing I could do. I fell backwards and down. Not wearing my boots, I damaged the ankle, sir. I damaged the wrist, too. But I suppose I was lucky. But I wouldn’t have fallen, honestly, Mr Ross! I wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t come interfering!’ Biddle’s round eyes fixed me earnestly.
I believed him. ‘Who was it?’ I demanded. ‘Who caused you to fall? Did you know him? Was it Adams?’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Biddle. ‘It was the gentleman, Mr Fletcher. He scuttled off afterwards like he didn’t want to take the blame for it, what I’d call cowardly. But either he sent Constable Jenkins and the foreman feller, or they heard me shout and came over. Either way they got me out. I didn’t tell Sergeant Morris it was the gentleman’s fault because I knew there was already some bad feeling between Mr Fletcher and us, the police, I mean. I didn’t want to make things worse.’
Elizabeth Martin
‘Well,’ Fletcher said, when he had rejoined me and we moved forward. ‘Might I be so bold as to ask, Miss Martin, what takes you to Scotland Yard on a day when I’d have thought you’d much prefer to stay at home?’
I reflected with some annoyance that although it was nice to have been rescued, this encounter could yet prove a nuisance. I was not well disposed towards him. He was kind enough to help me, however, and I could not but be civil to him.
‘I wanted to consult Inspector Ross and I took the opportunity because Mrs Parry is indisposed and doesn’t need me.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘It is to do with the investigation into the death of the unfortunate Miss Hexham, I suppose?’ Fletcher leaned forward eagerly. ‘Do you have any news? I have a great interest in how matters progress, as you know.’
‘I can’t say I have any news,’ I said awkwardly.
He leaned back with a sigh. ‘You can’t imagine what this terrible business has meant to me,’ he said. ‘My employers worry me out of my senses. If I thought Ross was making progress and it would all be settled soon, at least I could tell them that. But whenever the directors enquire I can only tell them it is in the hands of the police. They tell me to find out what the police are doing, but the police don’t tell me!’ His tone grew dissatisfied. ‘One would think I had no reason at all to ask! So I am pestered on all sides. It’s beyond bearing.’
I felt a little badly at my critical feelings towards him. The poor man had his job to do, after all.
‘I am so sorry,’ I said although that wouldn’t do anything to cheer him. ‘At least,’ I added, ‘you won’t get sightseers at the site on a day like this.’
It was too gloomy in the carriage to make out his features but I felt the discontentment which must show in his face as it sounded in his voice. ‘Neither can much work be done on such a day. Delays are now threatening serious disruption of the entire timetable of works. You say you are on your way to see the inspector? I hope you will beg him, on Mrs Parry’s behalf, to hasten his efforts.’
‘I can’t do that!’ I retorted. ‘Anyway, Mrs Parry has not asked me, at least, not directly,’ I was forced to add in honesty. He
heaved such a deep sigh at this that I went on impetuously, ‘But, without wishing to offer you any false hope, I am about to hand something to Inspector Ross which will possibly yield a clue or two.’
heaved such a deep sigh at this that I went on impetuously, ‘But, without wishing to offer you any false hope, I am about to hand something to Inspector Ross which will possibly yield a clue or two.’
‘Oh?’ He leaned forward in renewed eagerness. ‘May I know what it is?’
I immediately regretted my imprudent tongue which always jumped in of its own accord and uttered words my brain, if I had used it, would have kept silent. I wished we might arrive at Scotland Yard and I’d be released from this conversation, but it seemed to be taking an age to get there. The fog had slowed our progress as was to be expected but it also had a curious effect of suspending time. I found I could not be sure now just how long I had been in this carriage. Moreover, the swaddling of fog isolated us and placed Fletcher and me in a strange intimacy, travellers through a vaporous world.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I have found a diary which I think might have been kept by Miss Hexham.’
He was silent a moment then asked, ‘You have read it?’ His voice was tense.
‘No, only glanced at it enough to see what it was.’ I had no intention of telling him of my suspicions regarding James Belling.
‘And Mrs Parry, she has also seen this diary?’
I told him she had not.
‘Hum,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, let us hope it proves helpful.’
The carriage at last rocked to a standstill and the coachman came to let down the step. Fletcher followed me out of the carriage and we stood in the now opaque, yellowish and foul-smelling atmosphere of the street. Fletcher called out, ‘Off you go, then, Mullins!’ and, to my surprise, the carriage clattered away.
‘Why have you dismissed him?’ I asked.
‘Because I think I should come with you to see the inspector. Now, watch your step …’ So saying, he took hold of my arm in a firm grip.
By now my senses were returning and the fog, although still around me, had got itself, metaphorically, out of my head. There were no lights in the solid frontage before us. A busy building full of people at work with paper and pen and with visitors passing constantly in and out would not be left in darkness on this dismal day when all natural light was obliterated. Nor would there be a complete absence of the movement and chatter of other people.
‘This is not Scotland Yard,’ I said tightly.
My heart had begun to pound violently. I knew I was in great danger. I had made a series of serious mistakes. My greatest error was to jump to a conclusion in the identity of ‘he’, Madeleine’s admirer. I’d forgotten so soon what I had recently learned: Fletcher was also a visitor to Dorset Square.
His suspicions must have been aroused the moment I had told him I was bound for Scotland Yard. What could take me out on foot on such a dreadful afternoon but the discovery of some information I felt it so necessary to tell Ross at once, that I risked my health and some accident by plunging into the fog? He had to know what it was and had directed his coachman immediately to bring us to some other destination. And now he also knew what that information was: the existence of the diary.
‘You see,’ he said in a calm but expressionless voice which seemed curiously at one with the surrounding blanket, ‘I think you should give me the diary.’
My brain thudded as I tried to think of a stratagem to distract him and, in the fog, make my escape. He would be more persistent than the man who had smelled of grave clothes. It was Fletcher’s own life which now hung in the balance. It would be no use telling him I had not brought the diary with me. I would hardly have been making my hazardous way to Ross without it. There was only one hope. He wished to keep me from seeing Ross, but he wanted the diary itself more.
My father, as a young man, had been a keen cricketer. When I was a little girl, if he had no visits to make, he would sometimes take me into the yard on a sunny afternoon and having provided me with the miniature bat he had himself used as a boy, bowl gentle overs to me. Sometimes he allowed me to bowl to him and had showed me how to do so properly. Mary Newling would come to the kitchen door during this and call out crossly, ‘Doctor! That is no accomplishment for a young lady!’
Now it was an accomplishment this young lady was about to put to good use. Fletcher fortunately held me by my left arm. I twisted away from him and, bringing up and over my right arm, hurled my purse as far as it would go into the fog. I heard the stitching of the shoulder seam of my gown give way in protest, but my father would have complimented me on that throw. The little purse flew out of my hand and was lost in the murk. I didn’t even hear it fall to the ground.
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